Kirsty McGee & The Hobopop Collective –The Deafening Sound of Stars

Kirsty McGee writes songs you seem to have heard before. You can often guess how the melody is going to land. She can be coolly formal, constructing songs that sound like forgotten pages from the Great American Songbook. This skill could become mechanical, but for the profound emotion Kirsty invests in these strangely familiar new-minted songs. 

She can be tender, passionate, gay and mordant by turn. You can tap your toe to the jaunty C&W opener, ‘Moving On’, and endorse its message of optimism, but don't be misled. Kirsty thrives on life’s ironies and paradoxes, but is motivated most by its possibilities. She is drawn to multitudinous America with its hopeful dreams and edgy burlesque, but are these just means of escape by a discontented provincial English lass? This transcendental urge aligns her spiritually, if not musically, to P.J. Harvey.

The Deafening Sound of Stars is an embarrassment of riches, with more lyrical depth than most. Try… “Someone said enchantment is a human right / Pretty soon you’re gonna get your fill” (‘Scorpion in a Mason Jar’). And what’s more she does it with jazz, or at least she has the good sense to surround herself with players who can do it with jazz. 

Each will have his or her favourites. Here are some of mine: ‘Copenhagen’, as bare and intimate as the scene it commemorates; ‘Second Tuesday’, a song bruised by grace; ‘Greedy Little Things’, which dismisses all those irksome annoyances of modern life with a shrug couched as a lullaby; ‘I Take You In My Arms’ is a wry acknowledgement of a failure of resistance whilst remaining undeceived (she will never reach a mass audience if she is this deflating about romance). The spare, economical production – with nicely judged embellishments like Nick Walters’ trumpet on the latter, or Clive Mellor’s harmonica on ‘Moving On’, or the collective ethereal tinkling of ‘The Deafening Sound of Stars’ (I suspect her musical saw is somewhere in the mix) – perfectly matches the intimacy of her aesthetic. 

The title track finally breaks open new channels of feeling and communication. This is the one where Kirsty's voyage of mind finds an answering trance-like response in the listener. That is, in any listener prepared to listen. Or is Kirsty being saved for a future time, when all creatures are this honest, sensitive and intelligent? 

kirstymcgee.com

Confessions of an Autograph Hound

What do the following names have in common, and why are some written in bold? 

Alistair Anderson, Gary and Vera Aspey, Robert Bartlett, Anthea Bellamy, Peter Bellamy, Peter Bocking, Lorraine Bowen, Wayne Boyd, Victor Brox, Abner Burnett, Martin Carthy, Pete and Chris Coe, Kevin Coyne, Hank Crawford, Sandy and Jeanie [Darlington], Tommy Dempsey, Nigel Denver, Robin Dransfield, Teddy Edwards, Derek, Dorothy and Nadine Elliott, Lucy Farr, John Foreman, Reg Hall, Kinky Friedman, Vin Garbutt, Butch Hancock, Michael Head, Freddie Hubbard, Michael Hurley, Peter Ind, Vance James, Ethan Johns, Chester Jones, Stan Kelly, Janet Kerr, Jeanette Kimball, Lee Konitz, Bill Leader, Alfred 'Father' Lewis, Henry Lowther, Humphrey Lyttelton,  Jim McLean, Chris Mills, Phil Minton, Louis Nelson, Jimmy McGriff, Johnny Moore, Sam Moore, Tracey Nelson, Watt Nicoll, Lea Nicholson, Tom Paley, Houston Person, Michael Plunkett, James Prevost, Josh Ritter, Tony Rose, Leon Rosselson, Mick Ryan (Crows), Peggy Seeger, Dave Shannon, Fiona Simpson (the latter pair from the duo Therapy), Mark E Smith, Chris Smither, Devon Sproule, Sun Ra, Dave Swarbrick, Joe ‘Corn Bread’ Thomas, Townes Van Zandt, Phil Wachsmann, Norma Waterson, Brenda Wootton.  

OK, to put you out of your misery (there's not much of a surprise if you've read the title): it’s a list of the autographs in my collection. Those in bold were solicited by myself, and the rest came ready-made. Most are scrawled on LPs, but there are a few CDs and books in amongst them. Another source, which would perhaps double or triple the total, are signatures appended to press releases, correspondence and publicity which came my way as an active music journalist. From this cache comes Dave Cousins, Ashley Hutchings, Michael Garrick, and a few others that will require a good rummage to uncover. 

Of the names in bold, Sun Ra dates from the time I interviewed the great man backstage at the Bluecoat, Liverpool, circa 1990. I fetched along two albums, and I was so nervous I couldn’t get Heliocentric Worlds out of its plastic sleeve. The laminate had stuck to the PVC, and, sadly, I tore the cover in my confusion. In collector’s terms, the signature and the damaged sleeve cancel each other out. Sound of Joy on Delmark is the other. 

Townes Van Zandt x 3 are other cherishables. Live at the Old Quarter comes with the date, ”29/10/87”, whilst At My Window has the same date and “Take care, Mike”, which is ironic coming from Townes, who couldn't take care to save his life, and Live and Obscure has the same date and a poignant “See you again”. 

I recall that I spent most of my snatched conversation with Townes asking about the then unknown Texas troubadour Abner Burnett, and I committed the gaffe of over-praising a rival version of 'Pancho and Lefty'. “He does a good version of ‘Pancho and Lefty’." [A pained expression passes Townes' face.] "Not as good as yours, of course…” People behind me in the queue started muttering (whether from solidarity with Townes or plain impatience) and I beat a retreat.

I’m happy to say that I eventually tracked down Abner Burnett, and I promoted some four UK tours by the world’s best (unknown) living songwriter (we will arm-wrestle to settle the claims of Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen and Silvio Rodriguez.) “To my old pal Mike. Don’t let your meat loaf. Abner “enematic” Burnett, 1998” runs the hard-won inscription on Old McDonald. Crash and Burn has “June 8, ’97 … still humming gracias adios Abner Burnett”.  

“Howdy Mike, best of luck, Michael Hurley” graces Parsnip Snips by Michael Hurley, whilst Greatest Hits Volume One by The Lorraine Bowen Experience has “Mike many thanks for your lovely inspiration cheers Lorraine”.   

I can’t pretend that I was the intended Michael of “To Michael, Cheers! Humphrey Lyttleton”, which graces Gigs, because I acquired it at a charity shop in Didsbury. But the coincidence is pleasing, and Humphrey’s splendid handwriting honours the name of his self-owned label, Calligraph. 

The most intriguing of the found inscriptions come with the double autographs on There Was a Lad by Nigel Denver: “To Fred, The parcel of rogues –– Jim McLean” and “[indistinct: “abolish”?]… the Church of Scotland + the Church of Rome, Nigel”. Clearly the beer was flowing that night.  

The signatures that adorn New Orleans’ Sweet Emma and Her Preservation Hall Jazz Band – viz. Joe ‘Corn Bread Thomas’, Alfred 'Father Al' Lewis, Louis Nelson, Jeanette Kimball, Chester Jones and James Prevost – are from a later edition of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band than that featured on the record, but I'm grateful to the original autograph hunter. This sleeve inspired some detective work by a correspondent – http://www.dyversemusic.com/2014/01/sweet-emma-and-new-orleans-mystery.html – and was signed circa 1978, we think. “Michael Head 1971”, was found on Michael Head Sings and Plays His Own Music (Pilgrim JLP 141, 1967). A unique case, Michael Head. A throwback to the age of the Victorian Parlour Ballad (or art song, you might say), he hung on until 1971 (as the date proves), when everyone was writing and singing their own songs.

Snapping the illustrating photos, I notice that half the Sun Ra signature is in danger of being lost, because the great man signed on peeling laminate (the same pesky laminate which stuck to the PVC cover and ripped while I was trying to remove the LP). And even Sound of Joy looks at risk, because of the cheap ink in Mr Ree's marker pen. This oddly echoes what happened in the interview. Sun Ra pronounced on the secrets of the universe, and I was dumbfounded. However, the mind can only take in so much revelation, especially delivered all at once, and amnesia usually results. I realised at the time I wasn't taking in all he was saying, and my only hope was that the cassette player was picking everything up. When I got home, I found that it had packed up after five minutes.

I am reminded of a friend, a record dealer (that is, Jonesy), who rejoiced when he found a David Bowie 45 with a picture sleeve with the signature of the Thin White Duke. He left it on a worktop in his chaotic kitchen and the cat pissed on it and washed the signature away! This is how the the universe is.            

15 Sleeves For the Child Within, circa ’70-’73*...

The passage from childhood to adulthood, or rather, from comics to vinyl, was made smooth in the early seventies by the fact that comics and vinyl both looked very much the same, and employed the same imagery, and occasionally used the same artists. Sometimes comics (by which I mean superhero comics) and vinyl referenced each other, as when Country Joe hymned the Marvel Group with ‘Superbird’, and Stan Lee returned the compliment by having Nick Fury, Agent of Shield, assassinated at a Country Joe & The Fish outdoor gig at Madison Square Garden. And remember Arlo Guthrie immersed in Mighty Thor on the back cover of Hobo’s Lullaby? With typical confidence and swagger, Marvel Comics briefly introduced the slogan ‘Pop Art’, whilst, at around the same time or not much later, record sleeves expanded from single sleeve to gatefold, and from three colour to multi-colour. As the sixties careened to a halt, and we entered that enjoyably messy decade, the seventies, the retentions of childhood were everywhere – sometimes referenced ironically, and sometimes nostalgically. Innocence was in short supply at this time, unless you happened to be 12, which I was in 1971 (born late '58). 

1. The Groundhogs – Who Will Save the World? The Mighty Groundhogs 

Artist Neal Adams was familiar from his work on The Green Lantern, the coolest superhero in the DC firmament, mainly because of Neal Adams. Ostensibly self-aggrandising, the sleeve is in fact knowing, sardonic and clear-sighted about the usefulness of counter-culture heroes as superheroes, as well as a beauty to behold.  

2. Emerson, Lake and Palmer – Tarkus 

A bionic hybrid of armadillo and armoured tank, trundling around in a flat, skeleton-strewn plain,  is an apt depiction of the music, which tends towards pomp and bombast. Ah, but we loved it at the time.   

3. John Entwhistle – Whistle Rhymes 

The Who bassist had a fairly macabre imagination, and this evocation of a child’s wonderland gets less ironic the closer you look at it. I don’t know what the album is like, but the cover is classic.

4. Simon Finn – Pass the Distance 

A poorly drawn knock-off of a poster ad for, what was it, Clark’s Pathfinder Shoes? Such wholesome associations stand in stark contrast to the music: a relentless assault on the senses on what is unquestionably the most bonkers, wayward and freakiest outpouring in the entire psychedelic canon. This is saying something, I know, but hearing is believing. 

5. Donovan – HMS Donovan 

As rich and strange as Bruegel, as intricate and fine as as Flemish tapestry, and a perfect visualisation of the winsome nursery rhymes and acid-tinged playground songs performed by the man-boy in the Edwardian sailor suit. H.M.S. Donovan comes between Patrick's designs for The New Humblebums and Can I Have My Money Back by Gerry Rafferty. Indeed, Patrick became the resident cover artist for Rafferty, an old friend from Ferguslie Park, and was immortalised in the latter's song, 'Patrick'. Under his given name of John Byrne, he wrote the definitive TV rock ’n’ roll exposé, Tutti Frutti. (Available here is a short film, In An Old-Fashioned Picture Book, with songs from H.M.S. Donovan and animations by Patrick)   

6. Spirogyra – Old Boot Wine 

The textured and preternaturally fragile sleeve is a true work of art and invokes Arabian Nights-style magic. Perfect for  singular acid folk of Spirogyra (the term had not yet been coined), which manages to exude crystalline purity and anticipate wild, scabrous punk at one and the same time. Possibly the most accessible of the matchless original vinyl trio by Cockerham, Gaskins and Co. Pete Rhodes is the artist.     

7. King Crimson – Lizard

Gatefold majesty, indebted, I’m sure, to Pauline Baynes, the genius illustrator of the Narnia books, but not actually by Pauline Baynes. Gini Barris, in fact. I could as easily have chosen In the Court of the Crimson King, a brain-fried homage to William Blake, and surely one of the most distinctive and iconic sleeves of all time.  

8. Peter Hammill – Fool’s Mate 

A surreal vision, rich in incident and detail. Makes a convincing case for the LP sleeve as a work of art in itself, though part of the pleasure lies in spotting the literal and imaginative allusions to the songs within. The album is a masterpiece too, incidentally. Paul Whitehead is the artist responsible.   

9. Genesis – Nursery Cryme 

Ha! Paul Whitehead again. Indeed Paul Whitehead is to early Genesis what Neon Park is to Little Feat. This is rougher in handling than Fool’s Mate, and has the proper English morbidity, straddling the line – to an endless horizon! – between surrealism and outsider art. Whitehead designed one more Van der Graaf masterwork, Pawn Hearts, but fatigue was definitely setting in with Foxtrot. 

10. Jackson Heights – Ragamuffins Fool 

Ragamuffin is the innocence to the experience of its successor, Bump n’ Grind.

  

11. Cat Stevens – Tea for the Tillerman 

No album was so profound or sensitive as a Cat Stevens album in 1970, and no sleeve illustration was as innocently enchanting as Stevens’ own painting for Tea For the Tillerman. 

12. Yes – Fragile 

Roger Dean was by this time literally creating and destroying worlds, the Galactacus of rock cover art.

13. Caravan – In the Land of Grey and Pink

The fairyland panorama was a popular stand-by of  prog-rock, and this is one of the better examples. 

14. Tyrannosaurus Rex – My People Were Fair 

A tender embarrassment, which we might overlook for a mint copy. This is outside our time frame, 1968, but included because it still resonated in school playgrounds circa ’70-’73, partly due to the all conquering success of T. Rex. Too callow to comprehend the scale of Marc Bolan’s archness, we gaped in wonderment at the full title, My People Were Fair and Had Sky in Their Hair… But Now They’re Content to Wear Stars on Their Brows, and marvelled at the matching profundity of the cover art, which looks singularly cack-handed now.    

15. Khan – Space Shanty

Something to do with Steve Hillage. Space was definitely the place in 1972, and this served well enough until I discovered Sun Ra several years later. 

Perfect Love, as Captured on LP Covers ...

1. Billie Pierce regards DeDe Pierce on New Orleans - The Living Legends: Billie and DeDe Pierce, Riverside RLP 370 

  

2. Barbara Gaskin regards Martin Cockerham on Spirogyra, St Radigunds, B&C CAS 1042

3. Keely Smith regards Louis Prima on Louis Prima, Keely Smith with Sam Butera and the Witnesses, The Wildest Show at Tahoe, Capitol T908 

I note that these are all women giving adoring looks to men. I’m sure there are just as many men giving adoring looks to women, but I haven’t been able to find any. Here is the nearest related male activity...     

… Sharing a Joke  

1. Roy Eldridge and Lester Young on Laughin’ To Keep From Cryin’, Verve V6-8316 

2. Nick Strutt and Bob Pegg on Bob Pegg and Nick Strutt, Transatlantic, TRA 265 

Revenant Records from a Recovered Time Capsule

"revenant, rav-na, rev'a-nant, n. one who returns after a long absence, esp. from the dead..." –

                                                                                                 Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary

A vinyl time capsule has returned to haunt me. It happened that I squirrelled away a bunch of records in Dad’s loft in an attempt to free up some space in my cluttered flat. This was long enough ago for me to forget all about it. But when Dad cleared his loft, it pleased him to return my LPs. He entrusted delivery to brother Ant, who drives a car. The lapse between commission and execution lasted a year, until finally, just before Christmas, I took receipt of eight cardboard boxes containing around two dozen LPs apiece. I had mixed feelings about this. What might I find? My record collection is anyway a refuge for the unloved and unwanted. Rejects from the Mike Butler Home for Vinyl Waifs and Strays must be very, very bad indeed. Or so you might think.  

What I found was… well, a surfeit of Duke Ellington and a glut of Mahalia Jackson. Both artists crossed from being top of their respective fields to mainstream popularity (they collaborated once), and both recorded prolifically. The crumbs off Duke’s table were eagerly pounced upon by the small Stardust label. Stardust #204 is called simply Volume Four, and documents a concert at Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire, on April 30th, 1947. It could be a bootleg, for the minimal, handmade packaging (pasted text on front; blank white on the back), which betokens genuine love and enthusiasm. The knowledgeable notes are prefaced by an unsourced quotation, presumably from Shakespeare: 

Who governs here? A noble 

Duke, in nature as in name. 

Where should this music be? 

i’ the air or the earth?

Resolutely lo-fi, in fact, but clearly a magical night. 

Mahalia Jackson fell into the clutches of small labels too, but majors abused her talents more grievously. Here, the Columbia (GB) and Columbia (USA) mix-up becomes a live issue, because Mahalia Jackson appears on both labels. Columbia (USA) – let’s call them CBS for the sake of clarity – were the worst for turning sanctimony into saccharine. My Faith, CBS 62944, burdens the great gospel singer with a choir and strings, plunders Chopin (‘Tristesse Etude Op. 10 No. 3’ appears as ‘My Faith’, credited to ‘G. Howe/A. Hansen’), wilfully ignores the scepticism  of ‘Lost in the Stars’ and is generally tailored to the tastes and pieties of Middle America. Garden of Prayer, CBS 62841, is heading that way – the choir on track one, the title song, sound impeccably clean-cut, starchy and white – but matters improve. Indeed, Garden of Prayer rivals Mahalia’s pre-CBS recordings on Apollo. These were licensed in the UK by Columbia, the EMI subsidiary. No Matter How You Pray (Columbia 33SX 1712) – dig the eerie organ! – and In The Upper Room (Columbia 33SX 1753) clearly derive from the same sessions. The World’s Greatest Gospel Singer (Philips B 07077 L) is best of the lot. Mahalia always excels with a small combo, and any record with the legend “accompanied by the Falls-Jones Ensemble” is a guarantee of excellence. As Sister Rosetta Tharpe is to guitar (i.e. a holy roller precursor of rock ’n’ roll), so is Mildred Falls to piano.   

I was clearly over-dosing on Mahalia at the time, with all the above, plus the double album compilation, This Is Mahalia Jackson, The World’s Greatest Gospel Singer (CBS S 66241) and Mahalia (CBS 62659) consigned to the time capsule, presumably because of musical value and/or condition. What did I choose to keep? What, in other words, is my choice as the defining statement of Mahalia Jackson’s art? Readers, Mahalia (so many Mahalias!) on Columbia EMI 33SX 1698 contains the essence of Mahalia.    

Those other Duke Ellingtons, by the way, are The Duke Steps Out (RCA, RD-7731), At the Cote D’Azur (Verve, SVLP 9170), and, with Johnny Hodges, Back to Back and Side by Side (VSP 11/12). It's slightly disconcerting to find Ellington sounding so silly on RD-7731. The collaborations with Hodges are pretty indispensable, but I have the two originals in better shape. 

If I undervalued Duke Ellington, I was also guilty of seriously undervaluing Muhal Richard Abrams. A bunch of mid-80s recordings on Black Saint sound wonderful. Namely View From Within (BSR 0081) and Spihumonesty (BSR 0032). I exclude Duet (BSR 0051), a collaboration with Amina Claudine Myers (piano duets often grate: it’s something to do with all that clashing, jangling activity in the same tonal register). Conclusion: it takes between 85 and 35 years for me to catch up with what the most advanced musicians are laying down.

Or as Swamp Dogg put it, Finally Caught Up With Myself. That’s here (Musicor, MUS-2504). It’s lightweight, low budget, but typically irrepressible Dogg. And here’s another production by Jerry Williams, aka Swamp Dogg: Ruby Andrews’ Kiss This (Ichiban, ICH 1104). No disgrace, pretty nifty, albeit hampered by a cheesy 80s production sound. Kiss This was actually recorded in 1991. Not a great year for soul, but neither was 1980, on the evidence of Candi Staton’s self-titled LP (Warner Brothers WB 56 803), which finds the soul belle comprehensively steamrollered by Disco . But, hey, 1974 was a year of wonders. What’s Danger High Voltage by Betty Wright (RCA SF 8408) doing here?  The sleeve is worn, but the music! Good times, good lovin’ and good grooves are joyously affirmed. 

Also in the ‘What Was I Thinking Of?’ category is Dr John, 16 Greatest Hits (Trip, TOP-16-1). Perhaps the unappealing picture of the Doctor on the cover put me off, or the budget label, or the ragbag nature of the collection. Whatever, no matter what the source (plainly someone else – Ronnie Barron? – is singing the wistful ‘Did She Mention My Name’), this is definitive Dr John. ‘Cat and Mouse Game’ prefigures ‘Such a Night’ (love the eccentrically prolonged coda), and Mac sounds as smashed on ‘Trader John’ as he does on Gris Gris; ‘Xmas in New Orleans’ is one of the great unsung Christmas songs and ‘Woman is the Root of All Evil’ has a winningly nonsensical pay-off line (“Money is worse, but it’s legal”). 

And a 12” single of 1979 vintage, ‘One More Chance’ by Linval Thompson, on Greensleeves, has it all: roots rocking groove, sweet harmonies, a Dub vanishing trick in the extended version: even an irresistible rude toast on the flip, ‘Long Time Me Na Rub You in a Dance’. I must have been mad to part with this! 

This becomes my refrain as superb LP follows superb LP. What can I say? To open your ears is the basic requirement of music appreciation, and my callow self clearly had hearing issues. It’s becomes particularly useful (opening your ears) when it comes to a spot of jazz. Irina by the Barry Altschul Quartet (Soul Note, SN 1065) is graced by sidemen of the order of Enrico Rava and John Surman. This, in 1983, so just before Surman’s hermit-like withdrawal to the ECM Ivory Tower, and a steady string of one-man albums. Yet Surman’s finest moments are group endeavours, like, oh, Extrapolation, How Many Clouds Can You See and Irina. Did I somehow get the notion that drummers couldn’t also be leaders or composers? If so, I blush at my stupidity, and beg the pardon of Paul Motian, Max Roach, Asaf Sirkis and Barry Altschul. 

More faulty logic is exposed in this further example of sloppy thinking: if you’ve got Bobby Bland, do you need Geater Davis as well? 

The short answer is, yes please. The urge to elevate one artist at the expense of another has to be resisted at all costs. So what if some of Geater’s vocal mannerisms recall Bobby Bland? Sad Shades of Blue (Charly, CRB 1132) is gritty, funk-tinged Deep Soul at it’s most assured. And let’s not fall into the Northern Soul trap of venerating the obscure and denigrating the popular. Let’s have James Carr and Otis Redding, Betty(e) Swann and Aretha Franklin, J.J. Barnes and Marvin Gaye. And for that matter, let’s have Bobby Neuwirth and Bob Dylan, Trees and Fairport Convention, Faust and Can. Some broad-minded listeners even find it possible to like both Jim Morrison and Van Morrison, though I remember falling out with a friend of my youth, Andy Shearer, on this point (I was a Van man; he was a Jim man). 

I banished a lot of smoochy soul to outer darkness. Some of it is rather good. William DeVaughn’s Figures Can’t Calculate the Love I Have For You (EMI, EMC 347) contains an unnecessary remake of his greatest hit, ‘Be Thankful For What You’ve Got’, and a piece of regrettable nonsense called ‘Boogie Dan’, but the ballads project the singer’s sincerity and what I can only describe as a sense of natural goodness, enhanced by an uncanny vocal resemblance to Curtis Mayfield. (So I dissed Geater Davis for sounding like Bobby Bland, and hailed William DeVaughn for sounding like Curtis Mayfield! That's inconsistency for you.) 

Feeling Good (United Artists, CH-LA656-G) by Walter Jackson is more penthouse than boudoir, but there’s no gainsaying that impeccable baritone voice. Misty Blue by Dorothy Moore (Malaco #6351) captures the moment when refinement replaced sweeping emotion in soul music. The album’s success established the fortunes of Malaco, a small label operating out of Jackson, Mississippi. By providing a home for veteran old-stagers like Johnnie Taylor, Bobby Bland, Little Milton and Shirley Brown, it could be argued that Malaco rescued Southern Soul Music from extinction. But at a cost. Soul was now a tamed force. Malaco may not have made a bad album, but they haven’t made any great ones either. Typically, Misty Blue slips down smoothly and leaves not a trace.   

What else? The Best of Gladys Knight & The Pips (Buddah, BDS 5663); essential, but it’s a spare copy. Call Me by Ann Peebles (Naylo, WAY 269509 1); a long way from her glory days. The Sweet Inspirations, Estelle, Myrna and Sylvia (Stax, STS-3017); marooned without Cissy. Talking of whom: Cissy Houston, Mama’s Cookin’ (Charly, CRB 1158). A preponderance of lovey-dovey ballads, a skip or two on one track and the inclusion of ‘I Believe’ consigned Mama’s Cookin’ to time capsule oblivion, when in fact the album approaches soul perfection in quite a few places, notably ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’, which predates Gladys’ version above, and is more down-home, a ‘Long and Winding Road’ that glides as it winds, and a stomping ‘I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself’, a lot less glossy than niece Dionne's rendering. 

Aretha Franklin’s Let Me In Your Life (Atlantic, K50031) is simultaneously the best and worst of Aretha; it misses the good old Muscle Shoals mud. Aretha Franklin, Who’s Zoomin’ Who (Arista, Al8-8286); no comment. Two albums by Joe Simon, Get Down (Southbound SEW 013) and Drowning in the Sea of Love (Southbound, SEW 021); I never really got Joe Simon (I mean nice voice, but...). Oh, and Chuck Jackson, Passionate Breezes (Capitol, SW-11775). 

A historic album in it’s way, Passionate Breezes defines the budding sub-genre Boudoir Soul, which went on to become the dominant force in the soul/R’n’B market, for better or worse (worse). Boudoir Soul projects a state of blissful sexuality, and tends to carry the pleasure principle to ridiculous extremes. I might be tempted to laugh Passionate Breezes out of the bedroom, were it not for ‘The Train’, first track, side two, which is very, very good indeed: shimmering guitar, a slow groove and pleading vocals. At one point Chuck takes the phrase “I remember the time…”, repeats, expands the statement, and repeats, adding more words again, all the while squeezing the syllables to fit into the limited space of the musical metre. It’s a trick I associate with the folk song ‘The Barley Mow’. Ah, but George Spicer, when he sang ‘The Barley Mow’ (at The Half Moon, Balcombe, Sussex, on the 17th June 1962: cf. The Voice of the People: They Ordered Their Pints of Beer & Bottles of Sherry) didn’t double-track his voice, like Chuck Jackson does here. Is this the first time Chuck Jackson and George Spicer have been mentioned in the same paragraph? Anyway, I digress. It’s significant that the only song on Passionate Breezes that deals with romantic loss, as opposed to gratified desire, is the stand-out cut. 

Was I down on the blues at the time, I wonder? You Got to Reap What You Sow by Jazz Gillum (RCA Camden, INT 1177) is typical of the pre-war Chicago blues style and there’s nothing wrong with it. Big Foot Country Girl by Mel Brown explores the musical and cultural roots of Brown, a guitarist from the B.B. King school, and incorporates spoken reminiscences and singing from his father, John H. Brown. It’s a funky, bare-arse masterpiece. 

Faulty logic #2: you can be editor of the foremost folk and roots magazine in the UK (that is, Folk Roots) or a notable bluesman, but not both. I think my issues with Carrion On by Hot Vultures (Best Seller, 4C054-96947), basically Ian A. Anderson and Maggie Holland With Friends, were a) there were no originals by Maggie Holland, whose songs became a fixture of June Tabor’s repertoire, and b) if I wanted to hear ‘You Can’t Judge a Book by the Cover’, I would go direct to Bo Diddley. Oh dear! Talk about false premises. 

In fact, Carrion On is a little gem: modest, unpretentious and brimful of the joy of casual music-making. If I only looked beyond ‘YCJABBTC’, Carrion On could have opened up an entire cosmology of fabulous, mythical (mostly) USA artists. Carrion On includes covers of tunes by Derroll Adams (‘The Sky’, described as “relatively recent”), The Holy Modal Rounders and (related), the enigmatic Antonia. As it was, I took the long way around to get to the Holy Modal Rounders (it was the connection with Michael Hurley, and where did I find out about Michael Hurley? Why, I read about him in Folk Roots!). Even now, some artists highlighted by Carrion On await discovery. Tracking down Tucker Zimmerman’s self-titled LP on Village Thing might be the task of a lifetime (two Zimmerman songs appear and both are beauties). And skiffler John Pilgrim turns up playing washboard on ‘The Midnight Special’. If anybody knows the whereabouts of John Pilgrim, I would love to talk to him. Not to be mysterious, but my reasons are another story altogether.

Postscript 

And that’s where the original posting left off 24 hours ago, rather abruptly, on the cliff-hanging digression, ‘Where are you, John Pilgrim?’ (It’s just that I’m researching a book about Bill Leader, and Pilgrim’s name has cropped up more than once.) Shall I say, simply and directly, some things I omitted to mention, or was going on to develop? 

Firstly, the reason there is a preponderance of soul, jazz and gospel – did I mention the copious gospel? To keep it brief, can I just say, Myrna Summers and Singers, Give Me Something to Hold On To, Savoy SL 14520 = Good; Rev. Jasper Williams, Jr. Eulogises Rev. C.L. Franklin, A Good Soldier, Church Door Records, CDR-22032 = Bad. As I was saying, the reason there’s such a lot of soul, jazz, gospel and other USA forms is because two thirds of the records came from Yanks/Power Cuts, the record shop, now defunct, which operated from the basement of Canada House, just off Oxford Road (Manchester), and which specialised in cheap cut-outs from the USA. Clearly, I was taking Power Cuts for granted. It’s now second only to Alan Fearnley Records, Linthorpe Road, Middlesbrough, as the record shop I miss most in the whole wide world. 

Here’s a typical Power Cuts product: Toby by the Chi-Lites, Brunswick BL 754200. It has the trademark Chi-Lites sound – symphonic soul, lush harmonies, ballads that blur the boundaries between extreme romance and extreme creepiness – but I want to mention it because of the inclusion of a cover of ‘The First Time (Ever I Saw Your Face)’, credited to Chesley McCaull! What was that all about? Were Ewan MacColl’s royalties being siphoned off to a Harlem dealer? 

On the subject of unlikely folk connections – only one LP in the entire batch is overtly folkie and that’s Poetry and Song 3, Argo ZPL 1096 (non-PC; that is, non-Power Cuts), which is a companion to the Voices series: readings and folk song (extended to classical on Voices), a book tie-in, designed for school audiences in the late sixties/early seventies: the producers did the obvious thing and rang Ewan MacColl, who farmed the work to his followers in the Critics Group... While we’re on the subject of unlikely folk connections, as I say, items of Leader interest (because all roads lead back to Bill), include Let Us Get Together by Rev. Gary Davis, on Kicking Mule SNKF 103 (present only because of its distressed condition) with two (very fine) drawings of the Rev. on the back cover by Gloria Dallas, the first Mrs Leader.  

I didn’t mention the classical contingent, did I? Oh, the usual tatty Pictures at an Exhibition and battered Planets. Best of the bunch is Songs From the Land of the Midnight Sun by Brigit Nilsson, Decca LXT 6185, which I notice fetches up to £50 at current prices. Popsike was a resource we didn’t have when I stocked the time capsule.       

But the harsh fact is – and this is the reason why there will be no Revenant Records Part 2 – I must get rid of them, and pronto. If I needed to declutter back then, now the situation is far, far worse, and the strain on my shelves has reached crisis proportions. So it’s eBay for the best (apart from the ones I decide to keep, of course), and maybe Wes, my favourite illegal street trader, for the rest. 

What the hell? Walt Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Disneyland DQ-1201. How did that get here? Whereas the musty smell, and this is corroborated by personal memory, reveals that Mauricee Jarre’s Academy Award Winning Music From Doctor Zhivago as played by The Metropolitan Pops Orchestra, MFP 1200, is a relic of my own dear parents’ record collection, sneakily slipped into the time capsule by Dad when I wasn't looking. Did you know that John Hartford penned ‘Gentle On My Mind’ in half an hour flat, directly upon returning home from a screening of Doctor Zhivago? And all it makes me want to do is throw a brick at the nearest passing troika.