Mickey Newbury – ‘Frisco Mabel Joy (EKS-74197) (1971)

I had reasons for dismissing this record in particular and Mickey Newbury in general. First among these was Elvis Presley and his overblown, blustering version of the Newbury-arranged “An American Trilogy”, which for me is among the most misguided perfomances of Elvis’ career. Second was the slavering of Mojo, et al. accompanying the recent (it has to be said, handsome-looking) box set re-issue of the trio of Lps either side of and including ‘Frisco Mabel Joy. That sort of critical consensus for a relatively obscure work smacks muso exclusivity and I’m with Groucho Marx about joining a club that would have me as a member.

Well, I was wrong to dismiss Mickey Newbury in general and this record in particular.

True, the mood is almost unrelentingly sombre and the pace is slow, but so well articulated is the mood and appropriate is the pace that the effect is one of genuine existential rumination giving even the notionally “happy” songs an air of desperation about them. As a songwriter, the man certainly knows his way around a metaphor, rhymes often occur internally and he scans them interestingly across the verses (i.e. what you never hear in a Noel Gallagher song), the story telling is concrete-poetic and has the bite of personal truth, the music constantly surprises by landing on the relative minor or another unexpected, but natural sounding chord.

At the heart of ‘Frisco is Newbury himself, specifically his voice and his guitar. Like Gene Clark and Nilsson, other popularly underappreciated critics darlings from the American South, his tenor is quiet-strong, but not hushed (as opposed to Tindersticks or Black Swans, both of whom share Mickey’s kind of darkness). Newbury’s delicately appegiated acoustic leads the musical proceedings, somehow not overwhelmed by strings, pedal steel, choirs, etc. The production is thoroughly idiosyncratic, an unlikely, but perfectly judged art rock-C&W blend all the more remarkable for its unobtrusiveness: Heavily-reverbed choirs provide an atmospheric, ghostly pillow; bass harmonica/pedal steel/strings/keyboards/stylophone(?) combine to form a disturbing ambient noise shockingly prescient of the unsettling Bowie/Eno experiments on Low; songs fade out and in with false endings; and so on. It makes Joe South‘s earlier similarly ambitious country-psyche crossover seem even more jive.

The players certainly sound like they knew they had something special on their hands and strike not a cheap lick or obvious fill anywhere on the record.

In short, ‘Frisco Mabel Joy is a five-star album and if you’re lucky enough to find a VG++ first edition US press for £1.50, as I did this weekend in Faversham, then I suggest you buy it.

‘Frisco’s die-cut cover without the inner sleeve

NB: This was not the same record alluded to here.

Bruce Springsteen – Nebraska (1982)

“You are cursed, son of Douglas,” gravely intoned Pythia, the Oracle at Delphi, “to speak naught but the Truth for the common man, to give voice to his troubles, to be a bastion of critical respectability even unto AM radio.”

Bruce Springsteen had come to Mount Parnassus to learn his fate. He’d been troubled by the mass acclaim of his most recent proclamations, known collectively as ποταμού, or, more colloquially, The River. As a result, audiences for his sermons swelled to unmanageable, if not terrifying proportions. He wanted to escape the rising expectations now plaguing him

“My parables are being diluted and misinterpreted even as more of the faithful flock to hear me deliver them,” he explained desperately, his hands outstretched and fingers spread wide.

“Sacrifice unto Demos–the God of acoustic sound,” exclaimed the priestess, whose frenzied imagination was now positively inflamed with ethylene vapors leaking through chasms in the floor of her cave. ”Scale down the Olympian auditory of your message, lest you invite the wrath of the Gods!”

“What, abandon the wide-screen, Spectorian vistas which characterise my music?” he cried. ”What folly is this?”

“Quiet, son of Adele!” the prophet commanded. “And I mean that literally.”

“Next,” she added.

“But how…?” began the New Jersey college drop out.

“Next!” interrupted the Oracle pointedly.

No more enlightened than when he’d entered, the man whose name means “jump stone” stumbled out of Pythia’s lair, blinking in the glare of the Greek mid-day sun.

‘Quiet’, ‘Scale Down’, ‘Acoustic,’ ‘Demos’. He repeated the priestess’ words over and over trying to find sense in them.

What did the Oracle want him to do?

Finally, he sat down against a wall, cradled his head in his hands and had to admit he didn’t know.

Bob Dylan – Saved (1980)

I taped Saved from WLVQ Q-FM 96′s “All Night Album Replay” show when it came out and was disappointed, even bored. I’d loved Slow Train Coming, Saved‘s immediate likewise Christian-informed predecessor, but whereas the former album was (at least for Dylan) slick and radio friendly, the latter is rough and rollicking like a Baptist meeting, Hammond organ featuring prominently.  An album of “feels” and “grooves”, there just aren’t as many memorable tunes (“In the Garden” excepted) on Saved compared to the prior album.

These days, nevertheless, I find much to admire in Saved, and believe a lot of the criticism levelled at the time and still (that the pervasive proselytising was irksome, that finger-pointing ill-suited a time of radical “Self” elevation, that the heavy-handed messages about Jesus as the “Answer” and the soon-come End of Days overwhelmed Dylan’s muse) simply ignores the ecumenical, mile-wide streak of (self-) righteousness and apocalyptics in the body of gospel music, the medium in which Saved exists. Maybe it’s because I can listen to fundamentalist reggae and OJL’s In The Spirit, never mind the whole of  Goodbye Babylon, without flinching that Dylan’s rather full-on take on religious themes feels like another stop on this continuum.

The Lp starts with a casual, warm-up take on Porter Wagoner’s “A Satisfied Mind”. Originally a straight, metronomic waltz, Dylan’s startlingly wayward call-and-response transformation, interjecting uncharacteristic bluesy melismas between each line, sets out the musical stall clearly: This is prayer meeting revival stuff. Musically, if not lyrically, the loose, R&B/Country gospel style, including extensive use of backing singers, recalls Exile On Main Street–perhaps the ultimate rock “feel” album–but where the Stones created in relative isolation a wooly sonic world which invites the listener in, these songs blaze with live force, having been written and performed on the tour promoting Slow Train and quickly recorded immediately after coming off the road. The contrast between the bumpy, raucous road arrangements on Saved and Slow Train‘s meticulous, at times airless, approach couldn’t be greater.

What ultimately characterises Saved is Dylan’s obvious spiritual and vocal commitment (however temporary), which anchors this underrated evangelical Lp like the proverbial solid rock.

Saved's inner sleeve painting was used as cover art on subsequent editions of the Lp and CD in lieu of the, a-hem, heavy handed one pictured.

Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Two – Story Songs of the Trains and Rivers (Sun 6467012) (1969)

You know how if you say a word enough times it becomes ludicrously and eye-wateringly funny? Try it with the word Lurpak® (an English butter) or make up your own.

See? Hilarious!

Now, the next time you see a picture of Johnny Cash, have a real close look. Take your time and study the picture hard. In the same way, you will find that Johnny Cash is really funny looking, especially his nose.

A trip to Hythe on Bank errands gave me the sneaky opportunity earlier today of finding at Demelza House this transport-themed rockabilly Lp from Cash’s own Sun Sessions (’55-’58), which offers no surprises, but no gaffes and plenty of the Boom-Chicka-Boom you want.

Robert Hunter – Tales of the Great Rum Runners (Round Records RX-101) (1974)

When is a Grateful Dead records not a Grateful Dead record? When it’s a Robert Hunter solo album.

Hunter is, of course, a Dead lyricist of longstanding being responsible for many of their best-loved songs and the presence of several key members (Garcia, Hart, the Godchauxs), not to mention distinctive San Francisco graphic artist Rick Griffin who designed the cover, ensures this 18th century piratical concept Lp has the look and feel of an ersatz Grateful Dead album, albeit one with a pronounced Folk/C&W vibe and most traces of psychedelic mischievousness removed. Vocals were never the Dead’s strong suit and so, as with his employers, Hunter’s Dylanesque tenor (once deepening to baritone) shakes and cracks whenever tested.

Though I’ve got at least two Dead albums and seen them a couple of times (and even Bob Weir’s RatDog once), I’m no DeadHead; still, this is an affecting album released on the Grateful Dead Records solo record subsidiary label, made with care and attention that I was happy to thrift.

Joe South – Introspect (EMI E-T 108) (1968)

Is that Alice Liddel and her cerebral cortex?

I’d just this week been looking something else up in my Rolling Stone Record Guide and happened to note the glowing Joe South entry, so when I found the songwriter/guitarist’s genre-hopping, ground-breaking début Lp in mono this Wednesday, I leapt. While certainly no masterpiece, Introspect is quirky and bold on many levels and the copious period touches (Dylan-style put downs, counter-culture redneck-baiting, rambling reprises, electronic psychedelic breakdowns, boogaloo beats, allusions to the Draft, extensive sitar guitar use [!] and songs called “Mirror of Your Mind”) make this a challenging, engaging and very 60s time capsule. A pop country-soul crossover version of Billy Nicholl’s Would You Believe perhaps?

South’s vocals swagger like Elvis P, his lyrics contain sly twists and not a few clichés, the man’s somewhat uneven production still manages to push boundaries; surprisingly, given his track record as a top flight session guy (Dylan, Aretha, etc.), it’s the musicianship (esp. the drumming) not keeping up with the production ambitions that ultimately keeps Introspect from being a classic. “Games People Play” was the hit.

Alex Taylor With Friends and Neighbors (Atco 2400117) (1971)

This rough-looking gentleman sings of hittin’ the road and suchlike casual misogynies in the creamy molasses tones of label mate Boz Scaggs and sweet baby brother James with the pronounced southern drawl befitting an Lp produced at Capricorn Sound Studios in Macon, Georgia. The rock on this, Taylor’s debut, is of the gently southern-fried, singer-songwriter and down-home funky variety; really it’s the album I was hoping this might be. Members of the band, as well as bro, write the songs, though, interestingly, not Alex himself. Highlights include a swampy Fender Rhodes-led version of chestnut “It’s All Over Now” and an excellent extended, sixeventies take on Gregg Allman’s “Southbound”, which is both naturally dynamic and tightly controlled with a demonstrable camaraderie, subtlety, ease and intuition that make the album’s title more than apt.

Alex, like the rest of his siblings it seems, had chemical dependency issues and looking at the doughy, grim face of the then 23 or 24-year old (!) in cover the photo is to receive strong forewarning of Taylor’s alcohol-related death two decades later. Sad, really.

Another album I would likely never have heard if not for thrifting, I got Friends and Neighbors at a chaz near Canterbury’s Westgate area literally called Marge’s Charity Shop, shortly before it closed down a few months ago.

Red Rhodes – Velvet Hammer In a Cowboy Band (CS-102) (1973)

As with cigarettes, whiskey, coffee and pumpernickel bread there’s something at first off-putting but ultimately compelling and satisfying about this instrumental record by pedal steel session guy Red Rhodes. From the beautifully shot, dynamically balanced and deliberately banal cover photograph by 70s lensman du jour Norman Seeff, Velvet Hammer is an unlikely record—kind of country, kind of jazz, kind of lounge—that puzzled even the players: “We didn’t know what we were doing when we made this album,” defiantly announces piano player David Barry on the back cover’s witty liner notes. He goes on, “We played together until we had what we wanted on tape or decided to try another song. We got confused, silly, drunk, depressed, high, mad, straight, stoned and joyful and it’s all on the record.” The fact that it was produced by Monkees’ oddball and proto-country rocker Mike Nesmith (and was released through Countryside, his vanity label) makes sense. Everyone I’ve played this record to has reacted the same way: first bemusement and then enthusiasm.

Picked up at the boot fair on Hythe Green, it’s the kind of record that makes crate-digging fun.

Jerry Silverman – The Art of the Folk-Blues Guitar (XTRA 1096)

A 1970 British re-issue of a ’64 US Folkways Lp by Transatlantic Records, Silverman intones paradoxically didactic instructions on the performance of a genre most requiring of intangible feel in a lilting Bronx/American Jewish burr all the while illustrating his points on his axe. It is both less and more interesting than it appears: there’s nothing particularly weird about this record, even taken out of context, but as my technique is pretty shite, it might come in handy as originally intended.

This cost me a quid today at the Folkestone Flea Fair on Rendevous Street where my son and I had a stall. I grossed around £30 while the boy pulled in around a C note. Harumph.

Cate Bros. – In One Eye and Out the Other (Asylum 7E-1080) (1976)

To look at ‘em, you’d expect a strictly country-rock affair, but the Cate’s second album is an updated southern soul record in the funky Memphis tradition with only a spice of C&W. Warmly sung, subtly produced by the MG’s Steve Cropper* and ably assisted by “Duck” Dunn and a coterie of LA session guys, In One Eye politely echoes better known acts on the 60s Atlantic, Hi and Stax-Volt rosters  as well as future employers The Band, lacking only a truly killer song or two behind those percolatin’ grooves. Still, with its surreal chant, the title track could have been an AWB-style “Pick Up the Pieces” hit.

I spied this record maybe a year ago at the Mind charity shop in Cheriton, but it was £3 and I wasn’t goin’ out like that even if it was supposedly marked down from £7. A further reduction to £2, however, secured purchase.

*who also handled the desk for Hard Candy (Columbia CS34259), a 1976 pop/soul gem by Ned Doheny, recently purchased by me as a vinyl re-issue from Honest Jon’s which, after initial disappointment, I’ve come to absolutely adore. Like In One Eye, instruments are played by the cream of LA sessioners (various Eagles, Tower of Power horns, Linda, etc.) and sound like what they sound like, while use of synths and keys keep things fresh. Polar opposite to the Cate Bros’ soul man delivery, Doheny’s feather light, affectless songs and voice (think Todd R., Paul Simon or former label-mate Jackson Browne) are arranged so cunningly and deployed so artfully, that it becomes impossible for the pop fan not to be won over. Asylum Record’s first signing, Doheny’s not-so-secret weapon is his songwriting (one of which is a co-write with AWB’s Hamish Stewart), which, though deceptively breezy, is by turns sharp, witty and charming; it features some of the same sort of language and natural musical surprises as the the aforementioned Simon’s work. Doheny was nominated for the coveted Free Pass award at Soul Spectrum blog.

NB: This footnote has kindly been brought to you by our sister publication Retail Vinyl.