Archive for the ‘1973’ Category

‘If You Read The Papers . . .’

Wednesday, November 17th, 2021

One of the new arrivals on the CD shelves here is a minimalist box set collecting five of Carole King’s first six albums, a set I wandered upon by accident as I browsed at Amazon. The set includes Writer (1970), Music (1971), Rhymes & Reasons (1972), Fantasy (1973), and Wrap Around Joy (1974). It skips, as you can see, 1971’s Tapestry, perhaps because Epic figured anyone interested in King’s work already had it, or perhaps the label thought they might spur sales of that masterpiece by leaving it out of the box set.

It’s pretty basic: A slipcase and the five CDs in reproductions of the five original jackets (sans any gatefolds). But the music is all there, and I have a good magnifying glass for the fine print on the back. (Not all the jacket backs listed the session musicians, but I have some online sources for that info.)

Anyway, as I was ripping and tagging the CDs this week, something about the set kept nagging me. I’d read something about it a while back, and this morning, as I was sorting through posts here about King, I remembered: Back in the spring of 2011, when I added King’s “It’s Too Late” to my list of Jukebox Regrets – the brief list of records that should have been in my Ultimate Jukebox project of 2010 but were somehow missed – reader and friend Yah Shure mentioned the box set:

I recently obtained the collection of Carole’s first five albums (sans Tapestry) and had one “Oh, I remember this!” moment after another. Carole seems to be one of those artists who we take for granted, hovering below our everyday radar until the next refresher course beckons. One of her deeper cuts I’ve always liked is “Goodbye Don’t Mean I’m Gone,” from Rhymes & Reasons.

“Goodbye Don’t Mean I’m Gone” is a good track, one I’d not heard before this week. Having listened, I looked again at the comments on that ten-year-old post and found my pal jb’s pithy (and accurate) assertion that the piano figure that opens “It’s Too Late” is “the sound of the summer of ’71 distilled to a few seconds.” And I looked once more at the comments and found one by the regular reader who calls himself porky:

Like jb, the Tapestry singles instantly capture that era when I hear them . . . But give “Believe In Humanity” a spin, and it also captures that eerie early-to-mid ’70’s sense of doom that hovered over lots of records back then. Hearing them in the dark via a transistor radio only added to those vibes.

With the track now at hand, I followed porky’s advice, and he’s absolutely right: Despite the hopeful couplet at the end of each verse and despite the coda, that sense of doom in the two verses prevails (and could easily be applied to this era’s arc as well). The track – which went to No. 28 on the Billboard Hot 100 during the summer of 1973 – is at the bottom of the post. Here are the lyrics:

If you read the papers you may see
History in the making
You’ll read what they say life is all about
They say it’s there for the taking
Yeah, but you should really check it out
If you want to know what’s shaking
But don’t tell me about the things you’ve heard
Maybe I’m wrong, but I want to believe in humanity

I know it’s often true – sad to say
We have been unkind to one another
Tell me how many times has the golden rule
Been applied by man to his brother
I believe if I really looked at what’s going on
I would lose faith I never could recover
So don’t tell me about the things you’ve heard
Maybe I’m wrong, but I want to believe in humanity

Maybe I’m living with my head in the sand
I just want to see people giving
I want to believe in my fellow man
Yes, I want to believe

Saturday Single No. 754

Saturday, October 2nd, 2021

I thought I’d offer a progress report. The lenses in both eyes have been replaced. The vision in my left eye, operated on just three days ago, is a bit blurry, but using both eyes, my distance vision – unaided – is better than it’s been since 1962, when I first started wearing glasses.

Nearer vision is a different thing. The surgeon calibrated each eye differently; it’s a standard practice, said the tech at my last appointment, although I did not understand her explanation. That means that for closer vision, my eyes work differently right now. For example, my right eye can read clearly as I type this post. My left eye struggles. The same holds true for browsing on the ’Net: possible but a little bit of a struggle.

And books and newspapers? Right now, that’s a disaster. I can read for maybe a half an hour at a time, closing my left eye and using a large magnifying glass to aid my right eye. An entire book bag full of books will go back to the library today, as there’s no way I will get them read by the time they are ultimately due.

I’ll hang on to three – two about the Holocaust that I might be able to renew often enough to read after I get glasses in about two weeks, and the newest Stephen King novel, Billy Summers, which I’m reading in the evenings before bed with my right eye and the magnifying glass.

The reading limitation also means that browsing through my massive music reference library in search of a topic for this space is not possible, I’ll still try to post something here Tuesday that’s more in line with what I usually do here than is this progress report.

Among the more than 83,000 tracks on the digital shelves, only one has the word “focus” its title. In fact, that’s the entire title: “Focus.” It’s a track from the only album ever released by a group called Moonstone that hailed – according to the website Prog Archives – from Winnipeg, Manitoba. The self-titled album came out in 1973, and I somehow found a copy during my early years online, although I have no idea where I found it. Prog Archives describes Moonstone’s music as “acoustic folk rock with psychedelic overtones.”

Here’s “Focus” by Moonstone, today’s Saturday Single.

Depression, Take 2

Wednesday, September 15th, 2021

I’ve written before about the deep ditch of depression I sometimes fall into, finding myself there for no particular reason except my own biochemistry (and sometimes – but only sometimes – my having neglected to take my meds).

I’m there again, and I have been for a few days. I’m not looking for sympathy, just letting those of you who still do show up here why this place might look a little ragged around the edges, needing a little attention.

I’ll be back Friday, and we’ll see how things are then. In the meantime, I sorted among 83,000-some mp3s for things related to “September,” and I found Richie Havens’ cover of David Blue’s song “23 Days in September. (Blue actually titled it “These 23 Days in September; for some reason, the word “These” was trimmed from the title when Havens released it.)

Havens’ version of the song is on his 1973 album Portfolio.

‘Matt’ra Fact, It’s All Dark . . .’

Thursday, August 12th, 2021

Catching up with our DVR list, I spent close to an hour last evening watching an episode of Classic Albums from our local public television station, thoroughly enjoying myself as the members of Pink Floyd and some of their associates took us through the making and meaning of 1973’s Dark Side of the Moon.

The show wasn’t new. If I have things right, it was put together in 2003, before Richard Wright died, so he, along with Roger Waters, David Gilmour and Nick Mason were available for lengthy interviews for the piece, as were engineer Alan Parsons and several other folks involved with the making of the album, along with a journalist or two.

I don’t know that I learned anything really startling about the album, which I know probably as well as any album in my collection. I heard it for the first time (and many times thereafter) in the youth hostel where I lived during the second half of my time in Denmark in 1973-74, and I got my own copy a year later in the spring of 1975.

But it was a pleasant near-hour to spend last evening, hearing how the creators put their work together and hearing what they thought about it decades later. There was one touching moment: David Gilmour said that instead of hearing the work as it evolved and was assembled, he often wishes that he could have experienced what record-buyers did when they put on their headphones and listened to the album for the first time.

“That would have been nice,” he said simply and, I thought, a bit wistfully.

I tried to think back to the first time I heard the album and couldn’t isolate it; it was too much a part of the background of life at the hostel in early 1974. I do recall being startled the first time I heard “The Great Gig in the Sky,” which closed Side One in those pre-CD days. And in the show I watched last evening, the four members of Pink Floyd – talking about it thirty years after the fact – still marveled at Clare Torry’s improvised vocals for the track:

‘Sipping Imaginary Cola . . .’

Friday, July 9th, 2021

We’re heading out of town briefly today, meeting Jeff Ash, proprietor of the fine blog, AM, then FM, and his bride, Janet. We’ll have lunch at one of the last real supper clubs that I know of, Jack & Jim’s, in the tiny burg of Duelm, not quite fifteen miles east of St. Cloud.

Supper clubs used to be a big deal in Minnesota (and elsewhere in the Upper Midwest), places where you could dine on fish and steaks with potatoes and rolls, supplemented by a plate full of stuff from an amply laden salad bar; along with the requisite lettuce and its companions, you’d frequently find such delights as liver pate and pickled herring. (Delights? Well, for me, yes.)

The places were somewhat rough-hewn, often with stuffed fish and animal heads on the walls, and those north of here – and there were many – had their parking lots filled with cars and trucks hauling fishing boats in summer and snowmobiles in the winter.

They’ve mostly gone away now, maybe because most of the newer and larger resorts offer their own restaurants and lounges, maybe for other reasons, too. But I’m sure a few still hang on in the northern portions of the state, and Jack & Jim’s has made it through the pandemic.

As we’re there for lunch instead of dinner today, I imagine the offerings will be more slender, and I kind of doubt the salad bar will be going, which means no pate or herring for me, sadly. But we’ll be there and eat well, no doubt.

Nothing in the digital stacks really worked with this piece, so we’re using a slender link to cue up a tune about where we might have ended up today had things not gone well: “Abandoned Luncheonette” by Hall & Oates. It was the title track of their 1973 album that broke the duo into the mainstream.

Saturday Single No. 737

Saturday, May 22nd, 2021

The last three posts here, we’ve looked back at music bought on that date in the years 2000 and 2014. I thought I’d try the trick again today, and what I found brought back a memory from around 2014, maybe a bit later.

During the last four or five years of Mom’s life – from about 2012 into June 2017 – she quit going to Sunday services at Salem Lutheran Church, the East Side congregation that she and Dad had joined quite probably as soon as they set up housekeeping on Riverside Drive during the summer of 1948.

For about five years before that, after she sold her last car, she’d been riding with a fellow parishioner – also aging – who lived not far from her in Sauk Rapids. But he, too, became unable to drive, which left Mom to listen to the weekly services from Salem on a local radio station. I know she missed seeing Salem’s other members, but she also enjoyed, I think, being able to sit back in her favorite chair and sip a cup of coffee as the service went on, especially during bad weather.

(Could I have driven her to and from Salem? Well, not without major difficulty. That was about the time that the Texas Gal and I became involved in the activities of the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in St. Cloud, and the schedule would have been difficult to navigate even at first, and then impossible after I became involved in the music activities at the UUF. I offered once to check with the local bus service’s custom ride program, but Mom demurred. I do think she enjoyed having church come to her.)

Having church come to her, however, did not curtail one of her favorite bits of involvement in Salem’s parish life: As every new year dawned during those last years, when it was difficult for her to be out and about, she’d have me go over to Salem for her and check out the calendars hanging on the corridor wall near the church office. Those calendars showed which members were sponsoring what portion of the service on which Sundays.

There was a calendar for those who wanted to provide flowers for the altar. There was one for those who wished to defray the cost of the radio broadcast of the service. There was another one, too, perhaps for something to do with the cost of communion – I’m not certain. My task, for those years, was to find one Sunday to sponsor the broadcast that was close to the date of Dad’s death in early June or their wedding anniversary in July, as well as sign up to cover the cost of altar flowers on Sundays close to each of those dates.

I don’t remember the cost of doing that. Somewhere around $200, I think. And having signed up on the calendars, I brought a check into the office, and handed it to Viv, the secretary and knower-of-all-things-essential that no organization can survive without. Viv’s younger brother was a high school classmate of my sister, who is three years older than I, so Viv and I were pretty much contemporaries.

I saw Viv maybe ten to twelve times a year during Mom’s last years. Not only was there the January trip to sponsor flowers and the radio broadcast, but there was also the near-monthly stop to pick up the newest edition of the booklet of daily devotions. And pretty much every time I stopped in, Viv had time to chat.

We had shared interest in pets and in pop-rock music, especially on LP. She and her daughter would make frequent trips to the Twin Cities on record-digging expeditions, and she was always pleased to share her successes and failures with me. The size of my LP collection – then at about 3,100 – fascinated her. And one of the constants of our conversations became her attempt to get a good collection of Pink Floyd LPs.

They were, she said, hard to find in any kind of decent condition. So, at one point, I told her that I had a wide collection of Floyd’s tunes in digital form, and if she wanted to give me some blank CDs, I’d burn my Floyd collection on them. I did note that the fidelity would be a little compromised, with the music having been first reduced from CD to mp3 and then stretched back. She didn’t care.

Then came the day I took Mom to Salem for a funeral of a friend. Viv was busy in the office, so I decided I’d get the blank CDs from her when I came back to pick up Mom, and I went home for a couple of hours. Once there, I sat in my study and thought about Pink Floyd. In not too many months, I knew, I was going to sell off two-thirds of my LPs. I had Dark Side Of The Moon and a few other Floyd albums on CD, and – as I mentioned above – most of the group’s entire catalog in digital form.

And when the time came for me to head to Salem again that morning, I pulled all the Pink Floyd LPs from the shelf, put them in a bag and took them with me to Salem. With Mom still at the post-funeral reception in the church’s Great Hall, I headed to the office. As I entered, Viv grabbed a stack of blank CDs and offered them to me. I shook my head and handed her the bag. “No,” I said, “this is yours.”

She looked through the bag and raised her head, staring at me. “How much?”

I shook my head again. “Nothing. You’ve been so good to Mom.”

Expressions of thanks went back and forth, and I left to find my mother, leaving in Viv’s possession five Pink Floyd LPs in very good condition, including my second copy of Dark Side Of The Moon, a record I bought in Minneapolis on May 22, 1993, replacing my first copy, one my Mom had bought for me as a gift in 1975.

And here, from 1973’s Dark Side Of The Moon, is “Time,” today’s Saturday Single.

Two Headaches

Thursday, April 8th, 2021

I have two concurrent headaches. One of them is literal, the product of a sinus infection.

The other is metaphorical, the product of waiting for the GoDaddy folks to finish “migrating” this blog to a new server. The process, when it starts, will take some time, and anything I post here might or might not be migrated. When will that process start? They can’t seem to tell me.

Additionally, until that process is finished, folks aren’t able to leave comments here.

It’s a headache. So, here’s “Willies’ Headache” from Cymande. Here’s what discogs has to say about the band:

Formed [in] 1971 in London, England featuring musicians from Guyana, Jamaica and Saint Vincent. The name Cymande is based on a calypso word for dove, symbolising peace and love. They play a style of music that they call Nyah-Rock: a mixture of funk, soul, reggae and African rhythms. The band achieved their greatest initial success in America and were actively recording and performing until 1975.

“Willies’ Headache” is on the band’s second album, Second Time Around, released in 1973.

‘The Ship That Sailed The Moon . . .’

Wednesday, March 17th, 2021

I woke this morning (earlier than I’d have liked, due to feline interference) with “An American Tune” – the Paul Simon song – running through my head:

Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and I’ve often felt forsaken
And certainly misused
Oh, but I’m all right, I’m all right
I’m just weary to my bones
Still, you don’t expect to be
Bright and bon vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home

I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a fried who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
Oh, but it’s all right, it’s all right
For we lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road we’re traveling on
I wonder what’s gone wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what’s gone wrong.

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying
And high up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea
And I dreamed I was flying

Oh, we come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age’s most uncertain hours
And sing an American tune
Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s gonna be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest
That’s all I’m trying, to get some rest

Taken from the album There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, the track was released as a single in November 1973 and went to No. 35 on the Billboard Hot 100. I’ve read over the years that the song’s stately, elegant music reflected America’s Shaker tradition, but now I notice that in Top Pop Singles, Joel Whitburn says Simon based the tune on the German classical piece “Oh Sacred Heart” (originally “O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden”), credited to Johann Sebastian Bach.

Wikipedia, however, notes that “Oh Sacred Heart” was actually the text of the German hymn, which was later paired with the melody that Simon uses. That melody, “Passion Chorale,” was written by German composer Hans Leo Hassler and was later harmonized by Bach (who used the resulting composition in several of his works, including his St Matthew Passion).

So, Hassler and Bach get credit for the melody, but the words are all Simon’s. Here’s how it sounded on There Goes Rhymin’ Simon:

After I woke with “Oh, we come on the ship they call the Mayflower/We come on the ship that sailed the moon” running through my head,” I did two things: As I fed the cats, I tried to remember any dream I might have been having that could have brought that lyric into my head, but I failed.

And then I checked to see how long it had been since I’d mentioned the song here. It turns out that in more than fourteen years, “An American Tune” has never been mentioned here. Not once. I know I thought about writing about the song at various times in the four years just past and then decided against it; the words were cutting too closely to my heart. But today it seemed to be about time the song got some attention.

So, there it is, and it might be useful to remember that when Simon released the song as a single, in November 1973, the U.S. was hip-deep in Watergate and heading into a recession that would last a year-and-a-half. An uncertain hour, indeed.

A January Tale

Wednesday, January 27th, 2021

I was sitting at my desk the other day, watching the snow fall outside, when the RealPlayer offered up a Roberta Flack tune. That reminded me of this piece, which originally ran in January 2008. I’ve polished it a bit, and the ending is different.

It was a snowy late afternoon in January 1975, and I was at The Table in the student union at Minnesota’s St. Cloud State. Most of the folks who spent their between-classes time at The Table had already headed out into the snow. The only other regular remaining was Laura, a woman who’d joined us during autumn after moving to St. Cloud from a city about sixty miles north.

I don’t recall what we were talking about that afternoon. It could have been my health – I’d been in a serious auto accident in October. Or we might have been discussing her progress in disentangling herself both legally and emotionally from her marriage to an abusive husband (a circumstance commonly mentioned today but one that was not much talked about in 1975). Whatever it was, we were intent on the topic. I knew, however, that it would soon be dinnertime at my parents’ house, and I needed to either go home or call them to say I wouldn’t be home for dinner.

My guess is that we’d been discussing her dilemmas, as I remember reading on her face that she was not keen on the idea of making her way to the house a few blocks away that she shared with, oh, maybe ten other women. So I dug a dime out of my pocket, walked to the phone on the wall a few feet away and told my folks to set another place at the table. Swaddled in winter garb, we headed out to the parking lot, where we cleared about three inches of snow from my car, and then we drove to the East Side.

I think my folks had met Laura before, most likely at the hospital after my accident, but even if they hadn’t, they greeted her warmly, as I knew they would. I don’t recall what we ate, but it was a pleasant meal. As dinner ended, Laura suggested we go for a quick drink at the Grand Mantel, the downtown bar where we and our friends frequently gathered. Sounded like a good idea, I told her, but there was still three inches of snow on the sidewalks – adjacent to the house and along Kilian Boulevard – and it needed to be cleared.

She offered to help. So we bundled up again and spent twenty minutes shoveling snow, with the streetlamp on the corner casting a honey-colored glow onto the snowy sidewalk and street, onto the snow that continued its leisurely descent to the ground, and onto us. When we were finished, we got into my old Falcon and headed across the river to the Grand Mantel, where there were only a few other folks taking refuge from a winter evening.

I don’t remember what we talked about as we sat there sipping drinks – Scotch and water, if I’m not mistaken – but we likely danced around the topic of whether the two of us were ever going to be a couple. I was still fragile in all ways from the auto accident, and she was still linked – however tenuously and unhappily – to another. So I’m certain we talked of other things and left the heavy issues to resolve themselves. But there was no denying the attraction.

Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” played on the bar’s sound system. She said, “That’s from the record I gave you, isn’t it?” I nodded. She’d given me Flack’s Killing Me Softly album while I was homebound in November. “The other song is on there, too, right?” And I nodded again.

She took a fountain pen out of her purse and grabbed one of the napkins on the table, with one of the four quadrants displaying the Grand Mantel’s name and logo. Carefully, she unfolded the napkin and wrote on an empty quadrant the opening words from that other song:

When you smile, I can see
You were born, born for me,
And for me you will be do or die.

She blew on the napkin to dry the ink, then folded it and gently tucked it in my shirt pocket. Not much later, we left. When I got home, I put the napkin in a shoebox I used for keepsakes, where it still is today.

The wish written on that napkin never came true. Laura and I remained friends through our college years and saw each other occasionally for about fifteen years after that, but we’ve since drifted apart, the way people sometimes do. The Roberta Flack LP is gone, too, but I’ve got the CD, and I listen to it sometimes. When I do, I almost always think about Laura.

The first time I ran this piece here, I closed with Flack’s “No Tears (In The End)” from that same 1973 album because I thought it had a better groove than “When You Smile.” It does, but I still should have closed with the song that Laura quoted. Here’s Roberta Flack’s “When You Smile.”

Pulled From The Stacks

Friday, January 15th, 2021

I’ve had four albums’ worth of music from the English group Amazing Blondel sitting in the digital stacks for some time, and beyond the occasional listen when the RealPlayer brought a track up on random, I’ve not paid much attention to it.

I don’t have much to say about the group this morning, as I’m just beginning to tap into the stash. Wikipedia tells me “Amazing Blondel are an English acoustic progressive folk band, containing Eddie Baird, John Gladwin, and Terry Wincott. They released a number of LPs for Island Records in the early 1970s. They are sometimes categorised as psychedelic folk or as medieval folk rock, but their music was much more a reinvention of Renaissance music, based around the use of period instruments such as lutes and recorders.”

I’m not sure how a steady diet of Renaissance music will play here, but I’ll let the RealPlayer run for a while as I read the news, catch up on blogs and perhaps play some tabletop baseball.

In the meantime, here’s “Depression” from the group’s 1973 album Blondel.