Dick Dale is widely acknowledged as the inventor of “surf music.” Most observers consider his first single “Let’s Go Trippin’” recorded July 21st 1961to be the first surf record. Certainly those of us old enough to remember hearing it on the radio back then had never heard anything like it before, though that could be said about virtually everything that showed up on pop music radio back then.
The British progressive rock group Gentle Giant never achieved exalted status among the genre's aficionados, though they were well respected and their following was loyal and vociferous. When I was on "free form" FM radio in the mid 1970s I'd get calls from fans requesting Gentle Giant, but when I played through the albums, I heard nothing that I thought would grab listeners. Listening today to this and to Free Hand (ALLUGV03)—the two albums falling midway in their recording career— makes clear why that was so, and why they are deserving of a second listen almost forty years later.
Even if this record evaporated in a cloud of smoke after one play like the "Mission Impossible" tape it would be worth buying just to hear young Clifford Brown's suave take on the ballad "Easy Living", reproduced with such graceful authority on this double 45—especially if your previous reference was either the CD or the 1974 UA/ Blue Note compilation Brownie Eyes (BN-LA267G), which was all I've previously had.
How many Diana Krall albums does one need? That's a personal decision of course. However, if you have more than three but no Shirley Horn albums in your collection, you have a few too many. Ditto Sarah Vaughan, Ella, etc. That's not meant as a slight against Krall. In fact I think she'd probably agree with me.
The problem with an album like this is that there are two basically disinterested constituencies: Nino Rota fans who want to hear the actual soundtracks and people who don't know who Nino Rota is, or Fellini for that matter, and don't really care who they are or what The Umbrellas have done to interpret Rota's music.
It's an unacceptable prejudice and this review has nothing to do with me, but I admit to having had a problem with Lionel Hampton because he was a Nixon supporter. Isn't that ridiculous? I mean having a problem with it, not that Hamp supported tricky Dick. His politics are his of course, but this prejudice took hold during the 1970s.
Viewers of late night American television during the 1970s and 1980s surely know Romanian pan-flutist Zamfir. His albums were direct marketed all over the tube back then. The ads were kitschy, with Zamfir playing pan flute versions of standards. The vibe was Liberace on a pan flute—an image I apologize for leaving you with.
It's easy to understand why some youngsters don't get Dylan. Everybody sings like him now but no one did back then and at first only a few could take the unadorned voice (referencing the Dylan on these old recordings, not the current croaker).
The poet/singer Gil Scott-Heron struck a raw nerve in the early '70s with "The Revolution Will Not be Televised," a sarcastic, simmering three minute taunt set to a flute, drum and bass soaked jazz backing track that sounds today more like Beatnik parody than jazz.
This is not Sam Beam's (A/K/A Iron and Wine) latest album. It dates from 2007. His first release, The Creek Drank the Cradle, was released back in 2002. Somehow that one, this one, his newest and all of his work escaped my attention until last year's AXPONA audio show in Jacksonville Florida where I saw the collected works in the bins of a Florida audio store owner who had a room at the show. I asked to hear something and he played a cut from this introspective, atmospheric and sonically enticing and well-produced album. I was hooked.
Keb' Mo's mellow protest album recycles classics from the '60s and '70s, recasting them for the 2004 mindset witnessing the greatest strategic foreign policy mistake in American history.
One of the fascinating aspects of collecting records, particularly if you're willing to haunt Goodwills and hit garage sales, are the variations you often find of the same record.
Clearly a fan, producer Steve Lipson places Jeff Beck's guitar in a distant reverberant space that decreases its solidity but increases both its size and its mystery, evoking a God-like presence hovering above a lush, string-drenched orchestra. Or you could see Beck playing perched on a craggy, windswept rock surrounded by white-capped water. The album very much has a Pacific Ocean vibe.