King Me--The World of Album Covers

Today's entry brings me into the world of LP album covers.  Now that music has been reduced to 1's and 0's and now that the physical culture of music has almost disappeared, album cover art is nearly a thing of the past, but I certainly remember when the pictures that adorned LPs were part of the reason you bought an album, and returning to this world via the used record shop has brought this all back to me.  OK, so the checker board behind Chubby Checkers isn't the most creative visual pun ever...but it's kind of fun, right?  I've not been able to track down other covers by the artist, Michael Levin (perhaps his name is too generic for Google to offer much), but I'll keep looking.

As part of this search, I discovered the blog, "Dust and Grooves," and "LP Cover Lover" two great places where collectors are posting their finds.  My collection is modest at best (about 100 LPs right now, though I ditched about 200 more in our last move); these blogs feature collectors with museum-sized archives.  I'm jealous.

Some other collections:

Of course, the Checkers' album is great on its own, musically (more on that in another post).  But, I have to admit, part of the fun is HAVING the album to look at, not just having the music to listen to.  I can hear most of the tunes on this album (Twistin' USA, The C.C. Rider Stroll, The Chicken, The Twist, and others) on YouTube or through a Last.FM feed.  But, for me, it's not the same.

Mary Wells--The Real Thing

Today's album comes from the over-stuffed wine boxes of Deja Vu Records in Natick, a used vinyl record lover's dream.  More on this place another time.  For $2, I picked up "Mary Wells' Greatest Hits," a collection of songs I've mostly heard before but can never hear enough of.  Wells (for those who might not know) was an early and leading Motown gal, one of the first big hits for Barry Gordy on his way to discovering the Motown sound that produced so many hits.  You might not know Wells' but you certainly know her biggest hit, "My Guy."

What interests me about Wells, though, is that while in some ways her lyrics touch upon many of the themes commonly found in early 60s pop, some present scenarios that transcend this genre, if only just a little bit.  Wells' voice is not simple: it's not not light and poppy and all ready for Bandstand.  There's a  soulfulness, even a sadness that suggests that while she might have been willing to accept the formula that Gordy et. al. insisted upon for her to appear on his label, there's more here.

Listen to her on "Two Lovers," the third cut on side one:

Even the song titles suggest heartache: "What's Easy for Two Is So Hard For One"; "Oh, Little Boy, What Did You Do To Me"; "You Lost The Sweetest Boy"; "Bye Bye Baby."

Here are some of the lyrics to "Bye Bye Baby," the only song Wells wrote herself for this album:

Your love was sweet as wine, any I know so
Don't come back runnin' or knockin' on my front door
Well you said that I was your only girl
& there was no other, yeah, in this whole wide world
You know you took my love, threw it away
Now you're gonna want my love today
Well, bye bye baby

OK, I admit it: the pangs of lost teenage love is certainly as much a convention of this era as are songs about first kisses, will-he-love-me, and fast cars.  But Wells does it well.  The lilt in her voice makes it sound like she means it.  Her bio tells us that she was in an extremely unhappy marriage at the time she performed these songs, but this explanation seems too simple.  Gordy had signed Wells when she was only 17, and many of these songs were released at the height of her career.  The release of "My Girl" in 1964 being the apex as it was after this release that the Beetles invited her to join them on a world tour. It was also, in many ways, the end of her career.  After "My Girl," Wells had a falling out with Gordy, left Motown, and struggled ever after (possibly due to threats Gordy made to radio stations that might have wanted to play Wells' new material).

It's the raspiness at the edge of her voice, the break into soul, that stands out most for me in these songs.

My favorite track? "You Beat Me To The Punch":

The Brit's version of Girl Groups (minus the groups)

My first big discovery since beginning this blog!  A byway of rock history that was heretofore unknown to me.  I've always been a huge, huge fan of the American Girl Group phenomenon of the 1960s and know most of the hits of the Ronettes, The Shirells, and Jackie DeShannon by heart.  I had no real knowledge of the music going on on the other side of the pond, however, other than that of the Beetles.  So here it is:

My introduction--today's discovery--is Petula Clarke, a name I'd heard before but, until today, never spun on my turntable.  Clark's huge hit, "Downtown," is the final and title track on this album, a very exciting find.  Though in some ways, this tune sounds very American (I'd always assumed that it was about NYC), it was actually recorded in England under the influence of Clark's idol, Edith Piaf.  (While I'm not sure I hear a lot of Piaf on this track, I can hear her influence on others earlier in the album.)

(If, after listening to this, you haven't fallen in love with her voice, I can't help you.)

Just like the best of 60s American pop, Clark's British versions dig into the essential themes of teenage romance: "True Love Never Runs Smooth," "Baby It's Me," Now That You're Gone," "Tell Me That It's Love," and "Crying Through a Sleepless Night."  And this is just side 1!

Clark's ditties follow pop formulas: simple, upbeat guitar licks; light, syncopated drumming; short hooks; and songs that clock in at about 2:30 on average.  Her use of light orchestration (a la Piaf?) replaces the heavy, sultry sounds that typically back the American versions of this music.  Clark's US counterparts had the advantage of Motown, Memphis, Nashville, and Phil Spector's experiments with the Wall of Sound, all of which add a bit more depth than Clark's backing players can muster.  Which is not to say that, in places, their playing isn't catchy (on "Tell Me," for example, where the guitar and the Hammond organ jam together nicely).  On much of the album, she deploys a dampening echo sound, and the limiting compressions of mono recordings don't help much either.

However, on a track such as "In Love," she does try out a blues-ier sound--not a total success--making me wonder what she would have been able to do with the Styx studio band.  Without them, this version nearly wanders into the realm of Country music--an unfortunate slip for her.  While she tries to do sultry (and the outfit she's wearing in this video certainly contributes), she just can't quite pull it off.

Perhaps the catchiest song on this album is "Be Good To Me," a perfect vehicle for Clark's light, fun, smart voice and song-writing sense.  Now THIS could be an American tune!  Perhaps this is an indication of the world-wide-ization of teen culture at this point in history (though Clark did spend a considerable amount of time in America, too).  Whatever the explanation, this song alone makes the album worthwhile.

Thanks to the wonders of Last.FM, Clark has lead me to discover the wonders of several other early 1960s British gals with wonderful pop songs to share: Cilla Black; Billie Davis; Sandie Shaw; Helen Shapiro; and (yes) Lulu.  Hours of more, delightful listening!

The Man Who Tried to Kill Rock and Roll

Mitch Miller could have been known as the man who signed Elvis, the man who gave us Aretha, the man who cashed in on the Beetles.  Instead, Miller (as head A&R man at Columbia Records when these opportunities came along) chose groups more to his own liking, including collections of his own productions under the "Sing Along With Mitch" brand (it would later be the name of his TV show as well).

This album, "MORE Sing Along with Mitch," is nearly unlistenable.  The style might best be described as barbershop quartet meets college a capella, tinged with a taint of nostalgia, and glazed over with a brown sauce.  Here you will find Miller and his ensemble crooning over such chestnuts as "Pretty Baby," "Sweet Adeline," "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," and "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."  Get the picture?

Here's a cut from the first "Sing Along with Mitch" album.  A few seconds should be enough to give you the idea:

Miller was fully committed to the idea that his music was for others to sing along, too, so he included the lyrics to each song on the back of the album.  Similarly, on his TV shows, he would have the song lyrics scroll across the screen for viewers to join in.  Perhaps the viewer's own dulcet tones might drown out the morose sounds of Miller and Gang.  One can only hope.

Here's the opening of one of these shows.  Again, seconds will be enough:

Now, keep in mind that this was 1963.  Here are some of the OTHER songs you might have listened to in 1963:

"It's My Party (and I'll cry if I want to) [Leslie Gore]
"Heat wave" [Martha and the Vandellas]
"My Boyfriend's Back [The Angels]
"One Fine Day" [The Chiffons]
"And Then He Kissed Me" [The Crystals]

and the inspiration of much of this,
"Be My Baby" [The Ronettes]

Thank goodness for Phil Spector!  Thank goodness for the lyric writers in the Brill Building!

What strikes me most is that it is in this moment--this contrast between Miller's rendition of "Purple Rose of Texas" and the Ronettes' hit--shows how large the generation gap had grown in the early 60s and how teen popular music was headed one way while the nostalgic Miller was pushing another way completely.  Miller's Sing Along Hour was broadcast opposite a young Dick Clark's new American Bandstand (where this clip of the Ronettes comes from, I believe).

Defending his refusal to embrace Rock and Roll in his role at Columbia, Miller explained,  "Rock 'n' roll is musical baby food: it is the worship of mediocrity, brought about by a passion for conformity."  One music historian writes, "Miller exemplified the worst in American pop. He first aroused the ire of intelligent listeners by trying to turn — and darn near succeeding in turning – great artists like Sinatra, Clooney, and Tony Bennett into hacks. Miller chose the worst songs and put together the worst backings imaginable – not with the hit-or-miss attitude that bad musicians traditionally used, but with insight, forethought, careful planning, and perverted brilliance."  


Fortunately, for all of us, the line of history that ran through Miller slowly dimmed to the near dead-end of Lawrence Welk, perhaps only living on today in the ubiquitous musak that plagues us at the dentist's office.  


But Miller's failure (which, given the number of records he sold, is perhaps not a failure in many respects) to see where the future of music was going (or to participate in it) does not necessarily undermine his criticism of the genre of rock 'n roll.  Certainly Miller isn't the only one to criticize Rock's lack of substance ("baby food"), and who could argue with the contention that much of what qualifies for the Billboard Top 40 these days has a great deal to do with conformity (even the conformity of being a rebel of a certain, commodified sort).  How Miller is fighting against the pablum of social conformity with his rendition of the following lyrics, however, is unclear:


"Nights are long since you went away
I think about you all thru the day
My buddy, my buddy
No buddy quite so true
Miss your voice the touch of your hand
Just long to know that you understand
My buddy, my buddy
Your buddy misses you."


As social critique, this hardly gains much traction.  The music that did Miller in spoke of the need for nice boyfriend, the freedom of having a car, the pains of unrequited love, first kisses, and hot weather.  With this as a sound track, the American teen-ager emerged as one of the largest group of consumers the world had ever known.  Perhaps Miller was on to something.  But, with tunes like these, who--really--would care to listen?

Delirium (or, am I dreaming?)

Today's find (again, from the dusty bins of Boomerang) is an early stereo album called The One and Only Daniel Santos in Delirium--featuring the Encanto Quartet.

How could I possible resist Sr. Santos' cabeza of pathos?  The full glass of port; the longing look at the photo of a love that was once his; the snazzy cufflinks.  This guy's a latin lover if there ever was one.

Santos hails from Puerto Rico, though fame found him in New York City in the 1940s, playing with many of the then-famous Latino bands.

The orchestration on all of the songs on this album are simple--light guitar, small drums, and an occasional group of background singers now and then.  At times, Santos move back and forth between lyrical, pop-like crooning and confessional talk-story, spilling his heart to us.

This album illustrates to me the wonders of record bin diving: discovering history (musical but also political) that might otherwise be forgotten.  Santos' story is well worth re-discovering.  To the casual listener, Santos' music sounds like much of the music coming out of 1940s New York: simple orchestration, "ethnic" themes (very popular in Greenwich Village at the time), and watered-down versions of "exotic" music, made catchy for popular audiences in the US and NY music execs trying to cash in on night club successes.  And there's no doubt that this album was made for that audience and that Santos courted that audience while in New York in the early 40s.  Quite simply, that's where the money was.  He played with a number of the popular bolero bands at the most respected clubs and was making a decent living for himself, having been invited to join the reasonably-famous Cuarteto Flores group.

And then came WWII.

Santos was drafted and did his service to his adopted country in Maui and Kentucky, far away from the world of his success and his familiarity.  Away from the bohemian and ethnically-diverse world of NYC, Santos was exposed to some of the harsh racism and discrimination that characterized parts of the US in the 1940s, and he found his fellow officers particularly disdainful.  When his term of service ended, rather than returning to New York, he fled to Puerto Rico and joined the Puerto Rican Independence Movement, a group that would be labelled as a terrorist organization after several of its leaders attempted to assassinate President Truman and several Congressmen.

Several years later, Santos travelled to Cuba, where he wrote "Sierra Maestra," which Fidel Castro adopted as his movement's official anthem.  Take a listen: we are far, far, far from the languid tones that characterize the songs on "Delirium."

Santos spent the last thirty years of his life traveling and playing his music all throughout Latin and South America, recording over 80 record albums (and marrying at least 12 women!).

Musically, Santos was hardly revolutionary, and his music alone does not distinguish him from a number of other performers who emerged from the arrival of Latin American-influence on both Jazz and Pop music.  Tito Puente counts Santos as an influence, but Puente took far more risks (and had many more skills) than Santos, even on a good night.  Santos might well have been the model for the TV character of Ricky Ricardo--at least as a musician--except for the fact that there were numerous other musicians from this period who might claim this title.

But Santos' life is certainly worth noting, first to recognize that while a small sub-section of America embraced the music of Latin America, a large portion of Americans still treated Latinos as outsiders and as second-class citizens; and second, for the fascinating way that Santos' life intersects with that of Fidel Castro and the Cuban Revolution.  Before the War, Santos was on the road to commercial success and stardom (as exemplified by the Delirium album); yet only 10 years later, his songs are used to fuel the communist revolution in Cuba (a revolution that, ironically, forced Santos to flee from Cuba years later when his highly-successful nightclub was nationalized).

Aloha Aloha

Those of you who know me, know that I teach English and Brookline High.  But those of you who know me really, really well know that I'm a music fanatic.  My head is filled with vapid pop lyrics from the 70s, 80s, and 90s; my tastes are pretty eclectic--from Fiona Apple to Frank Zappa; and I'm always in search of the coolest, greatest, weirdest sounds out there.

Inspired by my son, who'd never seen an LP before, I lifted the lid of an old turntable again and have gone in search of wacky new sides, sounds lost to the dustbin of the thrift shop piles, tunes that cry out for re-discovery.

There are eight million songs out there in the naked city; this is one of them.


I begin with a find that's perfect for the steaming hot summer of these past few weeks:

Aloha: Great Instrumental Favorites of Hawaii by Sam Koki and the Paradise Islanders (with the Waikiki Strings)

According to the liner notes on this album, "The familiar Hawaiian greeting of 'Aloha' is particularly appropriate to this album because it means either 'Hello' or 'Goodbye,' suggesting a continuing friendship and the promise of countless return visits."

Well, perhaps.  For the faint at heart, one visit to this album just might be enough.  But, honestly, after a few spins, Koki's slack guitar playing, punctuated by lively (well, audible, anyway) ukulele, starts to stick in your head.  Sort of like gum sticks in your hair, perhaps...but you get the point.

Not much is known (meaning: I couldn't find much) on band leader Sam Koki.  Apparently, in the 1930s, he left Hawaii and moved to the US where he and his band played NY City nightclubs, part of a South Pacific music craze (a crazy that perhaps ended a few years later with the bombing of Pearl Harbor).   While Koki and his Islanders played many hit clubs, Aloha was the only album they produced.  And though the title of the album refers to "favorites of Hawaii," none of the songs listed on this album--including "The Cockeyed Mayor of Kaunakakai," "Pagan Love Song," When Hilo Hattie Does the Hilo Hop," and "The One Rose That's Left in My Heart,"--appear on most lists of famous or well known Hawaiian tunes.  Perhaps one should ask, "Who's favorites"? (here's the full list of tracks). For those who are SURE that mai tai's are true Hawaiian, this one's for you.

Nonetheless, Koki's work should not be forgotten.  Here's a brief sample, "Diamond Head," a tune that's not on Aloha, but one that shows off Koki's novel use of stereo recording, moving back and forth between his own slack guitar (on one side of the studio) and perhaps a Marimba (?)(on the other).

While this album might not be Koki at his best, don't write him off: in 1936, Koki appeared with Louis Armstrong's band in a setting that is far more than cheesy or simply charming.  It's not vintage Armstrong, but it's certainly worth listening to.  (Click here to listen--it's worth it!)

Over the years, Koki's band had a number of names.  Sometimes it was "THE Paradise Islanders" and sometimes (when Koki was feeling more possessive) it was "HIS Paradise Islanders."  Other times it was "The Polynesians" (the name he often used when playing with Armstrong) and sometimes "The Paradise Island Trio," as in this recording from 1937.  (And here, the bandleader Andy Iona, takes over the group himself, subordinating poor Sam to a supporting role in a well-known Armstrong hit.)

So, while Sam Koki and his/the Paradise Islanders may not ever climb out of its perch in the back bins of Boomerang Thrift Store (where there are two more copies, waiting to be claimed!), this music does provide a charming background groove (a lilting one) for summer, and, with Satchmo's help, it's a sound well worth recalling.