Thursday, May 28, 2009

May 28, 2009 Earworm



As good as Marshall Crenshaw's debut single, "Something's Gonna Happen" - released on Alan Betrock's Shake label in 1981, was, it was clear that something was going to happen. It did, but not quite as expected. Signing to Warners Brothers in '82, his debut album was called a masterpiece by just about everyone who heard it. Despite some action for "Someday, Someway" that same year, Crenshaw's records never reached the audience those in the know felt he deserved.

Rhino's "The Definitive Pop Collection" finally brought "Something's Gonna Happen" to the digital realm for those of us who missed it the first time, having been left off the expanded re-issue of his first album. The man couldn't make a bad record if he tried, no matter what some think of the drums on "Field Day".

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

May 27, 2009 Earworm



Continuing with three in one pattern, all of todays songs are the result of a second chance in one way or another. All three failed to make an instant splash the second time around either but have achieved a cult following that continues to grow.

The Royal Guardsmen are best known for "Snoopy Vs. The Red Baron" and its many sequels but their first forty-five, "Baby, Let's Wait", is the one I love the most. It's plea of not rushing into a commitment drenched in echo and drowning in its organ heavy arrangement sounds like a man trapped between his heart and his future. The (Young) Rascals had already recorded the Lori Burton - Pam Sawyer composition (following creative, if not huge commercial, success with the team's flawless "Ain't Gonna Eat Out My Heart (Anymore)") but left it as an album cut on their debut, leaving the singles field open. It may have been too heavy - in every sense of the word - for the dj's of '66 but it finally found an audience upon re-release in '68 and would be the last hit for The Royal Guardsmen. If the songs scenario sounds familiar, it may be because co-author (with Lori Burton) Pam Sawyer would revisit the theme with The Supremes' "Love Child" as part of the songwriting team The Corporation. The song has shown up on several compilations over the year but I've yet to find the mono single mix available in digital form. So bad is the stereo mix that I've resorted to doing a little Sound Forge magic on my own to approximate the claustrophobia found in the grooves of the 45.

Orpheus was born in Worcester, Massachusetts and signed with M-G-M in late 1967. Their self-title debut album and the single, "Can't Find The Time" were released the following January. The single stopped at #111 but the album did well enough (#119 on the album chart) to warrant the release of two more albums. Finally cracking the Hot 100 with "Brown Arms In Houston" in 1969, M-G-M re-released "Can't Find The Time" and it crept to #80 as the band was falling apart. Chief songwriter, Bruce Arnold, would sign a newly staffed Orpheus to Bell Records in 1970 for one final album before disbanding the group in 1972. "Can't Find The Time" would hit the charts one more time in 1971, recorded by the Dallas act Rose Colored Glass, peaking at #51. A version by Hootie And The Blowfish was recorded for "Me, Myself, And Irene".


Little Jimmy Scott suffered from a rare genetic condition known as Kallman's syndrome that left him with the body of a prepubescent boy and the voice of an angel. He began singing while ushering at a Cleveland theater, performing for the crowd that lingered after the headliner had finished. Working his way to New York, he formed a close friendship with Doc Pomus who, at that time, was still trying to make it as a blues singer. Jimmy finally saw success in the late forties as the vocalist on the Lionel Hampton Band hit "Everybody's Somebody's Fool" although the success was hindered by a label credit that read "with male vocalist". Signing a with Savoy Records, owned by Herman Lubinsky, a man notorious for his cruel and deceitful dealings, would bring some immediate success, the arrangement would effectively halt his recording career for nearly two decades. As his recordings for the label stopped finding an audience, Jimmy signed with Ray Charles' label, Tangerine, and the Genius himself produced an album that was hailed as a landmark in jazz vocals. As buzz for the album grew Lubinsky brought suit against all parties involved, resulting in the album being pulled and a disillusioned Scott returning to Cleveland and menial jobs, losing touch with Pomus in the process. In 1969, and again in 1972, Atlantic recorded albums for Jimmy but the release of each would be hindered by the litigious nature of Herman Lubinsky and Scott would again return to Cleveland.

Doc Pomus never forgot Jimmy or his voice and began searching for him during the eighties with no success until he came across a concert listing for a show Scott was doing in Newark. Reunited with his old friend and with Lubinsky having died in '74 and finally out of the way, Doc began shopping tapes of Jimmy to anyone who would listen. Failing to get Scott a deal, he wrote a letter, published in Billboard, venting his frustration and daring those who would probably show up at Scott's funeral in hipster fashion only to foster their cool credentials to record this singer before it was too late.

Pomus died without seeing Jimmy signed but, after hearing Jimmy sing "Someone To Watch Over Me" at Doc's funeral, Seymour Stein was so impressed that he signed Scott to Sire Records. The resulting album, "All The Way", and it's title track, are stunning. Scott also sang with Lou Reed on "Power And Glory" that year and was seen singing "Sycamore Trees" on the series finale of "Twin Peaks". He has released ten further albums, been nominated for a Grammy, and performed with Michael Stipe, Antony and The Johnsons, and Pink Martini.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

May 26, 2009 Earworm


Due to poor planning on my part, Tuesday is a three for one. The three up for comment have absolutely nothing to do with each other except that, in my mind, they all are linked to my father for one reason or another. Having spent ten days in close quarters with him, it's no wonder that they've been fresh in my mind.

First, the kind of repugnant "Hot Child In The City" by Nick Gilder, a record that was just beginning its 31(!) weeks on the chart as my eight year estrangement from my dad ended. Over a rather sparse, and quite nifty, arrangement, Gilder's lyrics were just empty enough to allow the listener to fill in the blanks of their own fantasy - the boys with the "slut" down the block, the girls searching for their own sexual identity - and to suggest that the author's own understanding of women was gained through Penthouse Forum and evenings observing from a lonely corner of a fern bar while breathing through his mouth. "Hot Child In The City" could have only been a number one record in the seventies, at a time when everyone was okay 'cause you were okay. Nowadays, Chris Hansen would be at the door once the demo cut. And, as we learn during the bridge, it would be not a moment too soon.

Second, the beautiful, if not deceptive, 1967's "Summer Rain" by Johnny Rivers which must have been left for dead by the Baltimore oldies stations on which I was raised because, prior to discovering a copy whilst bin diving in the 25 cent per copy pile in 1978 - just as "Hot Child In The City" was finally on the wane, I'd never heard it. Jim Hendrick's lyric suggests domestic bliss at it's finest on the surface but what's with the constant recollection of the summer that just ended? I've never seen any explanation from the songwriter or its singer but I've always felt that Johnny's quite surprised to find himself where he ended up and quite unsure of how he feels about it.

Third, the stupendous "Ball Of Fire" by Tommy James and The Shondells, their last top twenty hit, a fine way to close out 1969, and a tumultuous decade. It is here that Tommy's music began to incorporate his spiritual leanings as he pleads with the listener to look beyond everything that is slipping through their fingers to what is always with us. "Ball Of Fire" has been in my life for as long as I can remember but, perhaps due to the crumbling second marriages of both my parents, it became a particular source of comfort during 1978 and my longing for any sense of normalcy. It would also jump back into my heavy rotation starting September 11, 2001 when it showed up on an unmarked cassette tape found under my car seat that day, its second verse and the unfortunate timing sending shivers down my spine as I drove home to the safest place I could envision.

After writing all of this, I realize that all three of these records are, to me, about longing. Hmmmm... thanks for the session; how much do I owe you?

Monday, May 25, 2009

May 25, 2009 Earworm



I couldn't let the day go by without acknowledging Paul Weller's birthday. That's Entertainment.