Date: 2009
Release: STRUT
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Of all the conversations I had with my then-fiancé, the most important one in my mind involved Christmas. We were raised in two different faiths, though neither of us are particularly religious as adults. But I had to be sure. Religion I can get by without, but the tradition of dead trees in the house and songs about reindeer–that’s important.

“Sure,” he said, “we can have a Hanukkah bush.”

“You’re not getting it. It’s a Christmas tree,” I replied. “And the music, I have to listen to the music.”

Fortunately my powers of persuasion are strong, and so every year we get our tree from the Boy Scouts up the street and put on the Vince Guaraldi or the Bing Crosby or the Frank Sinatra Christmas records until we can’t take it anymore. Last year’s discovery of the Ramsey Lewis Trio’s Christmas album infused some fresh music, but the cheese-ridden holiday selection remains appalling. No, I do NOT want to hear Andrea Bocelli or Christina Aguilera sing holiday classics. And don’t get me started on the “Very Special Christmas” series.

So when the good people at Strut sent along In the Christmas Groove: Stone Cold Soul From Santa’s Basement, I was cautiously optimistic at best. Compilations, especially of the holiday variety, often fall into the trap of including at least one weird or outrageous track, almost as if the producer wants to prove his credibility–”look at this crazy shit I found that you didn’t!” Would Christmas Groove be filled with obnoxious, brassy pseudo-funky versions of “Jingle Bells”? Is there such a thing as a good, soulful, holiday album?

Yes Musthear, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as soul, drum beats, and bass grooves exist. And so this disc is going into heavy holiday rotation. How could it not, with songs like “Santa’s Got a Bag of Soul” and “Getting Down for Xmas”? (Both, incidentally, are even better than their titles suggest.) No weird-ass novelty songs; no celebrity nonsense. Just solid grooves to get you through the season.

Previews and more are at http://www.inthechristmasgroove.com

Date: 2009
Release: STRUT
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If the name sounds familiar, it may be because Astatke was heavily featured on the Ethiopiques album series (Volume IV is always on heavy rotation during the summer months here at musthear.com HQ). The third record in Strut’s “Inspiration Information” studio collaboration series features a pairing between one of Africa’s great bandleaders, Mulatu Astatke, with the British-based Heliocentrics collective.

Fortunately, this is one “old meets new” project that truly captures the sound of mutual respect. One of Ethiopia’s foremost musical ambassadors, Astatke (he was the first African student at Berklee College of Music) helped create a particular Ethio-jazz sound that flourished during the “Swinging Addis” era of the late ‘60s. No slouches themselves, The Heliocentrics have become one of the UK’s most prominent collectives of musicians, inspired by everyone from Sun Ra and James Brown to David Axelrod.

Here’s a digital promo of album via Strut’s site.

http://www.inspiration-information-3.com/

You can also download a free podcast featuring Astatke discussing the record here.

Players:

• Mulatu Astatke – Piano
• Malcolm Catto – Drums and Piano
• Jake Ferguson – bass and Thai guitar
• Mike Burnham – Modular Synth and Effects
• Jack Yglesias – Flutes, Percussion and Santur
• Adrian Owusu – Guitars, Oud, and Percussion
• James Arben – Clarinet, Tenor and Baritone Sax
• Ray Carless – Alto, Tenor and Baritone Sax
• Max Weissenfeldt – Vibes and Percussion

Date: February 2, 1999 (release)
Release: Polygram #556074
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A heap of wrinkled laundry led me to discover Wes Anderson’s 1998 film, Rushmore, as well as its soundtrack. I had graduated high school a year earlier and was back at home after my first year in college, ironing in front of the television (what else to do in the ‘burbs on a viciously humid July afternoon? It seemed obvious at the time…), when I stumbled across a movie on cable that was visually and musically unlike anything I’d seen in all my young life. So there I stood for an hour and a half, transfixed and ironing as Rushmore transported me back to the weird time that was high school in songs and images.

Max Fisher, the film’s adolescent hero, is an ambitious kid: he is the president of some half-dozen school clubs and an accomplished playwright who earned a scholarship to Rushmore Academy in the second grade after writing “a little one-act about Watergate.” However, this youthful drive is paradoxically the source of both his greatest achievements and greatest setbacks. Max’s fantastic plays as well as his disastrous attempted romancing of an older woman come from the same bold determination. Furthermore, his unique character often causes him more harm than good as he comes into contact with folks who simply don’t understand him.

As Max rebels against school bullies, back-stabbing middle-aged men and lost love, who then could better furnish the soundtrack of his life than British invasion rockers, punctuated at quieter turns by lovely, twinkling compositions of Mark Mothersbaugh (formerly of Devo), with a dash of Yves Montand and some pre-Islamic Cat Stevens thrown in for good measure? Although this eclectic assortment of artists may seem odd, it is in fact the perfect musical summation of Max, a strange and wonderful kid whose two best friends are a fifth-grader and a middle-age business tycoon. Like the movie itself, the soundtrack is something you want to experience repeatedly and in its entirety. The topsy-turvy mix of mood and tempos it offers up is the essence of its charm. Put it on, and if you’re not put in a better frame of mind, then something just might be seriously wrong with your heart.

Though Anderson originally wanted to use only Kinks material for the soundtrack because

they played loud, angry, teenage rock songs, and they wore blazers and ties and our movie is about a teenager who is loud and angry, and he is almost never seen without his blazer and tie,

he instead opted to round out the soundtrack—it is more faithful to the highs and lows of being a teenager as well as the film’s arc—Max can’t be loud and angry all the time.

The disc kicks off with the Creation’s 1966 hit “Making Time,” full of piss and vinegar, ranting about

making time/shooting lines/for people to believe in/things you say/why do we have to carry on/always singing the same old song?

(In the film, the song plays over a slow-motion montage of Max working, often alone, as the leader of his school clubs.) Nobody cares as much as he does about anything; the lyric foreshadows his anger when he realizes that the love of his life prefers a middle-aged, apathetic loser over him. The halfway point is the Who’s epic “A Quick One While He’s Away”—it coincides with Max’s peaking revenge and hints at the resolution just around the corner with the end repeat “you are forgiven.” By the end of the soundtrack, the listener, like Rushmore’s main man, has realized that there is an inevitable emotional ebb and flow to life that is always beyond control, no matter how talented, committed or deserving you are. The Faces’ bittersweet “Ooh La La” provides the bittersweet closure. “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger,” sums up Max’s final realization that he “didn’t get hurt too bad” during his first foray into love. In fact, he, like us, kind of enjoyed it.

P.S. You don’t have to see the film to appreciate the Rushmore soundtrack, though it is most highly recommended.

Date: 2000
Release: Mosaic #197
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Horace who? Not Horace Silver, another Blue Note star, no, not him. Don’t fret. I had never heard of Parlan either, not until the founder/publisher of this site sent me this box set to review. I was a little distrubed after hearing this box that I hadn’t heard of him. I don’t blame myself, of course. There must be some reason why is this amazing virtuoso has drifted in the outer darkness despite his proximity to many of the brightest stars of the jazz universe?

The short version of the story is just that Parlan stayed true to his playing, and the world moved on. Parlan was strictly a sideman for a while, most notably for Charles Mingus on two of Mingus’s greatest records, Mingus Ah Um and Blues & Roots. Then Parlan got his own gig leading a band and made seven LPs for Blue Note with sidemen of outstanding talent, like the Turrentine brothers (Stanley & Tommy) and Booker Ervin. Mostly after that he worked freelance where and when he could get work. When his career slid, partly because he was not interested in the avant-garde jazz movement of the 60s, and he believed in “simplicity” (which I’ll get to), he headed off in 1973 for an expatriate career in Europe. He did okay over there, recording more solo records, notably on the Steeplechase label, and he’s still around, somewhere. But few people know him. He didn’t rate inclusion in Ken Burns’s documentary, though many of his former associates did.

Though you might not have heard of him, you probably have heard him, as I soon realized I had. Blue Note, forever loyal to its musicians, put his swinging composition “Wadin’” on its 1992 set The Best of Blue Note, Vol. 2. That CD and its companion (Vol. 1) were my introduction to jazz, and although I sought out Herbie Hancock, Art Blakey, and Lee Morgan, I passed Parlan by.

So, if you’ve never heard of Parlan, how to explain his music? Well, if we look at the picture on the cover of the CDs that come in this box set, we see a young man, perhaps short, sitting at a piano and smiling. The light cuts his face off in a pudgy mask above a white jacket and black bow tie. He looks genial.

Perhaps the best-known fact about Parlan is that when he was a child, his right hand was partially paralyzed from polio. Sent to a piano instructor by his parents (the same one who classically trained Ahmad Jamal, a professed influence of Parlan’s), he fell so in love with the music that he abandoned a legal career to play professionally, forcing himself to play complicated right handed melodies. He never gave up, but rather overcame his handicap to become a virtuoso.

And so, like Parlan the individual, his music is also genial and tenacious. Listening to this box set is like reading the work of a great self-effacing poet. On the surface, all is placid, all is technically excellent, and you have to do some work to get what’s so special. When you do, it is, in fact, great.

The box covers five sessions from 1960 and 1961 and one session from 1963. The first two discs include the non-horn sessions with amazing bassist George Tucker and drummer Al Harewood. Disc three is filled with all Parlan’s work with the Turrentine brothers, disc four straddles those sessions with the dates including Texas tenor Booker Ervin, and the last disc is all with Ervin.

I have to admit, after the first couple of tracks, I wasn’t incredibly interested, because I put the music on while I was washing the dishes and working from home. But then, one day, I was listening to one of his earlier tracks (I can’t find it now: there are 52 tracks on this monster), and I heard Parlan repeat one phrase over and over again for at least thirty seconds. It was shocking. I was eating dinner with my wife, and she turned to me and said, “What is this?” She wasn’t happy. Parlan interrupted my conversation, and after that I went back and tried to hear what he was doing. His style became apparent, like an optical illusion that one day becomes clear. Although Parlan doesn’t venture into avant-garde territory very often, there is something radical about the aggressive attacks he makes on the melody lines, the bursts of blue, the minimalist repetitions, the blossoming chords. Otherwise, he sticks to simplicity, which, as he’s said, is “the keynote to the whole thing here.” He claims to have learned this simplicity from listening to Ahmad Jamal, but I think Mingus had something to do with it as well. Parlan played on a Mingus record that included his most beautiful paeans to down-home gospel and blues, and that’s the line Parlan is playing with, the moodiness that comes from playing something beautiful well, from transferring what’s in one’s heart through one’s fingers and onto a keyboard. And if you keep to the basics, and specialize in what literary critic David Gates calls microfelicities, you have something there.

That’s probably why I prefer the simpler earlier stuff. The entire box starts off with two standards, “C Jam Blues” by Duke Ellington (it’s better known as “Duke’s Place”) and “On Green Dolphin Street,”which sounds like Miles’ version. You keep waiting for that horn to come in, but it doesn’t. You just get the clean mood music of an understated genius. The first two discs are filled with astonishing versions of standards, including “Come Rain or Come Shine,” “The Lady Is A Tramp” and “Summertime,” on which Tucker moans out the melody using a bow. As another clue to the puzzle, there’s Jamal’s “Jim Loves Sue,” which should be a standard.

Moving on, we get to the Turrentines, and although the music is extremely well made, I’ve always felt the Turrentines were too facile, and that it takes a rare talent like Coltrane or Miles to make a horn shine brilliantly in a solo. The piano, a moveable orchestra, is a bit more forgiving; if nudged, it swings. Parlan’s playing keeps the brother’s horns in line, but it still seems like they are a little too in line. There’s nothing messy about this music. It’s too safe, too showoff-y, though extremely competent. Still, “Wadin’,” of course, is a superb walking blues, and “Borderline,” the Stanley Turrentine composition, is a classic.

But exit the Turrentines and enter Booker Ervin, and something happens all over again. There’s an excitement again here. Listen to tracks such as “Home is Africa,” with its tribal beat and spreading horns, and the straight blues of “Kucheza Blues,” on which something is off just a little bit, just enough to make it interesting. The box ends with “Happy Frame of Mind,” a genial but tenacious Parlan composition that sums up his theory of jazz. Deceptively simple, the music of Horace Parlan rewards repeated listening. This excellently packaged Mosaic set presents the cream of his recorded output.

Date: July 1973 ( recording)
Release: Blue Thumb #BTS62
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Born and raised in the hell of South African apartheid, Hugh Masekela triumphed over oppression by wielding what Fela Kuti referred to as the weapon of the future–music. The young Masekela was first introduced to the trumpet (his future weapon) by anti-apartheid activist Father Trevor Huddleston. In a few short years, Masekela had developed into a raw but powerful player. Beginning in the mid-’50s, he was one of the most sought after musicians in all of Africa, partnering up with such luminaries as pianist Abdullah Ibrahim (aka Dollar Brand) and singer Miriam Makeba. Finding solidarity and a spirit of resistance in their music, Masekela and his contemporaries took inspiration from America’s more politically outspoken black artists, particularly Miles Davis and Paul Robeson.

American jazz was looked upon as a very high African art. We were living an urban life, and our only role models were African Americans, and their experiences as we understood them from films and records.

Irrepressibly talented, Masekela knew that no amount of foreign inspiration could help him to overcome the obstacles facing a black man in his native country. As his star rose, he strained against the shackles.

Our music was always a basic political threat. We were all relegated to a third class existence, but we excelled in music, and our talent was one thing they couldn’t take away. We were blocked a lot, by the white musicians’ union, and we hardly ever got paid, but it was all done out of love…When I was 19, I had already peaked in South Africa, but there wasn’t much to ‘peak up to’.

At the urging of Makeba and the sponsorship of Harry Belafonte, Masekela left his homeland and went into exile. He enrolled at the prestigious Manhattan School of Music in 1960, with Belafonte picking up the tab and buying him a new flugelhorn. For the sensational young African musician, New York opened up to him a whole new world of possibilities.

The excellence of people like Miles Davis and Clifford Brown and Lee Morgan, that could only be achieved in the States. And by the time I got my passport, Sharpeville and the uprising were in full flow, and I knew that with my temperament, I would have soon been killed, imprisoned or forced into exile anyway.

In New York of the early and mid-’60s, Masekela was celebrated and befriended by the giants of jazz, who were drawn to the unfiltered sounds of Mother Africa flowing through his trumpet. African-American musicians such as Dizzy Gillespie and Cannonball Adderley were busy incorporating African concepts into their music, while their young African protégé was struggling to develop the technical virtuosity needed to play American be-bop and hard-bop. As he polished up on his chops, Masekela’s playing began drifting away from its African roots. But no matter how hard he tried to keep up, Hugh was no Miles Davis. In his autobiography, Miles recall some sage advice he gave Masekela:

Every time I saw him I told him to just keep on doing his own thing rather than trying to play what we were playing over here. After a while I think he started listening to me, because his playing got better.

As the ’60s wore on, Masekela began to move with the times. He updated his image by playing trumpet on the Byrds hit “So You Want To Be A Rock & Roll Star” and performing at the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. The next year he hit it big on his own with “Grazing In The Grass,” which went to #1 in both the pop and R&B charts. Riding on a waning wave of popular success, he returned home to Africa in 1970, joining Makeba for a tour of Guinea. It was there that he first met Nigerian Afrobeat king Fela Kuti and the Ghanian band Hedzoleh Soundz. Kuti was setting Africa (and soon the world) on fire with his James Brown influenced brand of Nigerian jazz-funk. Kuti’s large ensemble of musicians plunked down thick chunks of interlocking rhythms over which his saxophone (and his stable of female dancers) could endlessly groove. Like the pre-New York Masekela, Kuti’s playing was incredibly soulful but technically limited.

Having overcome his own technical limitations, Masekela brought to the table a certain level of musicianship that was previously missing from Afrobeat. He felt incredibly recharged being back in Africa, ready to reconquer the continent and take the music higher. Shedding his adopted American style, he plunged deep into the Afrobeat. He hooked up with the Hedzoleh Soundz, an extremely talented band known for blending the ancient rhythmic traditions of their native Ghana with American jazz and Latin music. For Masekela it was a perfect fit, and his playing never sounded more organic, reflecting the joy of finally being able to express every bit of his musical genius through his African soul. “I found a certain vitality in Afrobeat. Playing with the band (Hedzoleh Soundz) was like being on a big fat cloud. You couldn’t fall off.”

Recorded in Lagos, Nigeria in 1973, Introducing Hedzoleh Soundz represents the culmination of Masekela’s career-long efforts to fuse the improvisational drive of jazz with the ageless rhythms of Africa. No real equivalent of this record exists anywhere. It is one of the most perfectly realized excursions by a notable jazz musician into an authentic form of African music. And no other indigenous Afrobeat or Afro-jazz-funk album surpasses the musicianship and creative energy of this one. Masekela’s trumpet rides upon a roiling sea of African rhythms, awash with ideas and emotion. The music draws you in so completely that the need to flip the record feels like a rude awakening.

The hallmark of a great album is that it kicks off with an opening track so compelling that it forces all those within earshot to shut-up and listen. “Languta” not only accomplishes that, but actually overrides all voluntary muscle control, causing the listener to spontaneously break into dance. At the same time, a dumb, blissed-out smile spreads uncontrollably across the face as one is exposed to the volatile tribal rhythms of the Hedzoleh Soundz. A rash of goose bumps rolls across the skin in reaction to Masekela’s blistering trumpet runs and belted out African vocals. The mind struggles to steady itself against the fast swirling waves of echo-effected trumpet that brings this possessed song to its Afrodelic climax. Not likely to be confused with background music, this song heralds the record’s journey into the dark heart of the funk.

But with the darkness comes the light. Deeper into the album, “Nye Tamo Ame” dances like a tropical ray of sunshine upon the soul. You’d be hard pressed to find any music that feels this good. I don’t speak a word of Zulu or Ghanian, but I know in my heart that Masekela and the Hedzoleh Soundz are singing about something sweet, spreading a musical message of love that bridges the language barrier. Smile, this is not just music for the feet.

More exceptionally powerful songs follow, thick with bass and percussion, hypnotizing minds and shredding time to ribbons. Back where he started, Masekela revelled in the joy of making African music, forgetting the past ghetto pain, the obligatory displays of technical prowess, the commercial pressures–liberated in the exuberance of the moment. “Free Your Mind And Your Ass Will Follow,” pronounced the P-Funk prophet George Clinton in 1970. That same year Hugh Masekela left Nixon’s America to embark on a spiritual homecoming, a soul expanding African journey that resulted in his Introducing Hedzoleh Soundz. Ahhhh…those were the days.

Date: 1971-1972
Release: BGP #107
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In 1971-1972, a handful of long-haired brothers representing Sounds of Unity and Love asked the world two simple questions: “What Is IT?” and “Can You Feel IT?” Miles Davis provided the perfect answer in his autobiography, which begins with an authoritative command to “LISTEN!” Duke Ellington had a deep understanding of what IT is, insisting that “IT Don’t Mean A Thing, If IT Ain’t Got That Swing.” And James Brown let everybody feel IT when he proclaimed, “Say IT Louder, I’m Black And I’m Proud.” While IT may have also been the sinister brain in Madeline L’Engle’s science-fiction masterpiece, A Wrinkle In Time, in the hands of S.O.U.L., IT was just that.

And if, by some sad miracle, you still can’t feel what IT is after listening to these two S.O.U.L.. offerings, then you should turn for help to psychologist Carl Jung’s classic, Modern Man In Search Of A Soul. For the lyrics of S.O.U.L..’s self-titled song tell it like it is, when bassist and vocalist Lee Lovett belts out, “You can’t fake it / If you want to make it/ You gotta have soul / S-O-U-L, what’s that spell!” This song is basically a musical re-enactment of the scene from the Blues Brothers, when Belushi and Aykroyd suddenly feel the spirit in the ecstatic black gospel church of Reverend James Brown.

In many ways the spirit of James Brown presides over the funky grooves of S.O.U.L..’s first album, 1971′s What Is It? Although short in length, this album is a heavy, soul-drenched, seven course feast of raw funk power, guaranteed to blow your mind without expanding your waistline. In Europe, where S.O.U.L.. enjoys a major cult following, the jazz-funk instrumental “Burning Spear” remains in heavy rotation on the radio and in the clubs. Featuring a heart-stopping drum and flute break, “Burning Spear” is the band’s go for broke stab at CTI-style early ’70s fusion. While he may not have the chops of a first-rate player, flautist Gus Hawkins reveals on “Burning Spear” that he’s certainly got the feeling. And that, in a nutshell, is what makes the music of S.O.U.L.. so rewarding.

These guys were not brilliant songwriters or musicians, but on those counts they didn’t seem to care. They had a contagious energy that couldn’t be stopped, and they clearly enjoyed expressing themselves through music. While they never scored a major hit-single, their soulful impulses were always crowd-pleasing. In 1970, they won a battle of the bands contest sponsored by the May Company department store in Cleveland, Ohio, along with local radio station WHK and Musicor Records. This feat garnered them $1,000 and a recording contract with Musicor. The band went into the studio and recorded What Is It?, which surprisingly entered Billboard’s Top 40 on the Soul Album chart. Four of the album’s seven tracks are covers, ranging from Charles Wright & The Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band’s “Express Yourself” to Herbie Mann’s “Memphis Underground.”

Never sounding too derivative, the selection of songs is varied enough to highlight the band’s versatility. On their second album, Can You Feel It?, the sound is a lot more refined, but never slickly polished. Covers give way to outstanding originals. S.O.U.L.. had matured as a band, and yes, you can feel it. Newcomer Bernard (Beloyd) Taylor’s electric guitar moves forward in the mix, growling fluidly with a tone and style similar to that of Funkadelic’s Eddie Hazel. The vocal harmonies and arrangements take inspiration from the later sounds of the Temptations and Spinners. The songwriting is strong and thoughtful, particularly on such message-heavy tracks as “Do What Ever You Want To Do” “Peace Of Mind,” and “Love, Peace And Power.”

The album kicks off strong with the inspired title track and nicely wraps itself up with the lush flute instrumental, “Sleeping Beauty.” All in all, this is a more finely crafted album, showcasing the band at the height of their soul powers. More successful than What Is It?, the album remained on the soul charts for five months. After that, S.O.U.L.. released a few more records before finally splitting up. As is the case for much of America’s greatest music, S.O.U.L.. continues to be neglected domestically while its following grows ever stronger overseas. I call on my fellow Americans to do the right thing–get IT!

Date: 1969
Release: BLUE THUMB
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Tyrannosaurus Rex was an acid-dropping British duo fronted by the immortal Marc Bolan during his pre-glam folkie/hippie stage. When it came to making catchy little psychedelic-pop tunes, Tyrannosaurus Rex was a monster. In late 1960s, Bolan and percussionist Steve Peregrine Took enjoyed a small but fanatic following amongst London’s flower children and its underground press. The acoustic Bolan of Tyrannosaurus Rex was a handsome hippie poster child, not the glittering androgynous teenage dream that rocked T.Rex to the top in the early ’70s. Glam-rock fans of T.Rex beware, Tyrannosaurus Rex is an entirely different animal. No more ferocious than a butterfly, Unicorn is a finely crafted album of incredibly unique songs made under the influence of LSD.

On every track, Bolan delivers colorfully surreal lyrics against a multi-layered backdrop of tribal beats, choppy-clean acoustic guitar rhythms, and swirling accordion and woodwind riffs. His strange, sensual voice is mesmerizing, particularly on such dreamy tracks as “She Was Born To Be My Unicorn,” “Nijinsky Hind,” and “Seal of Seasons”. Living up to the promise of its title, Unicorn is a hallucinatory musical tour through a mythical realm populated with wizards, sages, alchemists, and other fantastic creatures lifted straight out of J.R.R. Tolken’s “Lord Of The Rings.” Such was the source of inspiration for many a British hippie band in 1969 (check out Zeppelin II’s eternal Tolken-rant, “Ramble On,” or Donovan’s epic, “Atlantis,” for more vintage Tolkenesque tunes).

One of the most startling things about the 16 songs on Unicorn is that nearly all clock in under three minutes in length. This is extraordinary when one remembers the recording habits of many late-60s British psychedelic bands, who notoriously filled up entire album sides with self-indulgent “epic trip” tracks of dubious musical value. While it’s clear that Bolan was listening to his share of Hendrix and the Beatles, Unicorn still boasts some pretty trippy music unlike anything else you’ve ever heard. Solid all the way through, Bolan and Took deliver song after song of silly innocence and spiritual intensity, making Unicorn a wonderfully obscure creature worth hunting down.

Date: 1968 (recording)
Release: Repertoire #4940
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If you weren’t fortunate enough to hear this music when it first appeared in the mid-Sixties, you will never know the extremes of its magic.

Tom Petty

Since the rise of Oasis and Brit-Rock in the mid 90s, critics have been handing out Beatles comparisons with the mindless frequency of meter-maids writing parking tickets. This runaway praise-inflation has reached the point where just about any new British band to cross the Atlantic is automatically heralded as either Beatles-esque or Nick Drake-ish. Fortunately there are a few free thinkers in rock journalism, a small uncompromising minority who still define themselves by the music they recommend, steadfastly refusing to serve as stooges for the record industry.

With the old breed of critics we find legends like Dave DiMartino, a man more likely to jump in shit barefoot than to loosely compare bands to the likes of Beatles or Nick Drake. When it comes to rock ‘n roll, this former editor of Creem Magazine and current editor of Launch Media (Yahoo! Music) has pretty much seen and heard it all. Immune to hype, he distinguishes himself by never gushing frivolously. So I was a little startled when Dave D. told me that some album I never heard of by the Zombies entitled Odessey And Oracle was not only comparable to anything recorded by the Beatles, but was also on his All-Time Top Ten list.

Now when Dave D. talks, people listen, particularly when the subject is vintage British psychedelic pop. Prior to hearing Odessey And Oracle, I had known the Zombies only as an oldies radio-friendly two-hit wonder group (“She’s Not There” and “Time Of The Season”) that ingloriously came and went. With a healthy dose of scepticism, I decided to check out this supposed masterpiece for myself. I went to the record store, bought the cheapest (no bonus tracks) copy, and put the CD into the car player for the ride home, innocently waiting for the music to start like some unsuspecting driver moments before being plucked up by the spaceship. I really had no idea that this fabled relic of an album from such a poorly named band would actually provide one of the most exhilarating first listens of my life. The CD repeated and my head spun as I drove in circles around the block. This was too good to stop.

From the moment the album introduced itself to my ears with the opening grandeur of “Care of Cell Block 44,” it was clear that Dave D. was not overstating the facts. The song’s intricate harmonies, unconventional lyrics, catchy riffs, complex chord progressions, and dense orchestrations indeed make it comparable to anything off of the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds or the Beatles’ Revolver. The rest of the album, for all its psychedelic experimentation and dark pop lyricism, sustains this incredible level of greatness from beginning to end. Unprecedented for the band but no lucky accident, this magnificently tuneful psychedelic pop/rock long-player turned out the way it did for a reason.

Sensing that the album would probably be their last, the Zombies had decided to make Odessey And Oracle their artistically uncompromising farewell, ambitiously exploring new ideas and dramatically expanding their sound without the expectation (or pressures) of superstardom. So, in 1967, when their first few singles sunk in the UK without a whisper, the guys shrugged their shoulders and split up. The story could have ended there, were it not for the efforts of Al Kooper, who persuaded CBS (his then employer) to domestically release the album in July of 1968. Expectations were six-feet under by the time the fourth single, “Time Of The Season” was released, but in early 1969 the Zombies reputation had arisen from the dead as the song topped the charts. A blue-eyed soul classic, the song was such a massive commercial success that CBS extended fat cash offers to lure the band into a reunion. But by this time Zombies keyboardist and songwriter Rod Argent was busy launching own band, Argent, so sadly, there would be no follow up.

Oddly enough, dying young and achieving posthumous fame did not guarantee that band would be immortalized. As the Sixties passed, the Zombies were returned to the dusty crypt of undeserved obscurity, and Odessey And Oracle dropped out of print. Their failure to achieve more widespread success is mystifying, particularly when you hear (which you must) Colin Blunstone’s breathy and soulful vocals, the band’s gorgeous backup harmonies, Rod Argent’s melodic piano and Mellotron wizardry, and Chris White’s utterly unique style of song writing.

Lacking the equivalent of a cute Beatle and looking a bit square, they were probably too adventurous for the radio and not sexy enough to sell posters. Whatever the case, their influence has extended further than their legend, with their music enjoying a legion of followers, from Teenage Fanclub to Elliot Smith. But even with the recent upsurge of interest in the band (culminating in 1997 with the release of the 4-disc boxed set entitled Zombie Heaven), Odessey And Oracle still remains one of the most underrated albums in rock history.

Date: 1968 (recording) / April 19, 1999 (release)
Release: Immediate #414
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The story of Billy Nicholls is a sadly familiar one. It parallels the tragedy of Shuggie Otis, a young child prodigy who delivered an incredibly great album to his record label (1974’s Inspiration Information), and got dropped in return. It’s a life story lived by legions of gifted artists, who, through lack of commercial success, burn through their prime creative years in muted obscurity, waiting for a public embrace that always seems to comes too late, if at all. At 16, Billy Nicholls was a total unknown, a kid with more guts than talent. As the story goes, the teenaged British songwriter had the chutzpah to approach George Harrison and enlist the quiet Beatle’s help in landing him a record deal (clinched with then Rolling Stones manager Andrew Oldham’s new and edgy Immediate label).

Starting off as a staff songwriter (he penned some tunes in 1967 for label-mate Del Shannon), Nicholls ended up recording an album worth of his own songs, releasing his first single in January of 1968, “Would You Believe/Daytime Girl.” Although the single didn’t chart, it was hit material through and through. Give it a listen and you’ll realize that the problem wasn’t with the song. The problem rested solely with the label that put it out.

Immediate was a failing enterprise from the start, and Nicholls had the misfortune of being creatively tied to a fast sinking ship. While it had signed and recorded a slew of great artists, the label lacked the marketing muscle to properly push its talent into the limelight. Immediate’s problems were only compounded by the fact that many of its bands were recording adventurous full-length albums, not spiffy little chart-busting radio ditties that might have brought in the cash.

With the exception of the Small Faces, Immediate chalked up too few successes to survive. Their shaky financial condition and the failure of the “Would You Believe” single to crack the charts might explain why the label abruptly decided to halt the release of Nicholls’ incredibly great album in April of 1968. The few dozen promotional copies that had already been sent out would go on to become some of the most collectible rarities of the British psychedelic era, fetching upwards of a thousand dollars a copy. But while the legend of his abortive album would grow to epic proportions, Nicholls’ recording career was never to fully recover from the blow.

Nowhere near the “Brian Wilson-sized talent” that the more hyperbolically enthusiastic members of the music press would have you believe (I’m one to talk!), Billy Nicholls did show vast promise, and the torpedoing of his music career is a true rock and roll tragedy. Who knows what greatness Nicholls could have attained had his music been half decently promoted? The “Would You Believe” single, like the unreleased album of the same name, could have been huge. The music glows with instant appeal, hitting its mark with Nicholls’ distinctly British take on Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds-era.

Each song brims with richly melodic and high-ranging airy vocal harmonies, coupled with majestically over-produced (à la Phil Spector) wall of sound orchestration. Obviously having a blast in the producer’s seat, Immediate founder Andrew Oldham lovingly embellished Nicholls’ vocals tracks with layer upon layer of lushly ornate strings, soft-touches of brass, loud guitar leads (courtesy of Small Faces and future Humble Pie legend Steve Marriott), rolling piano rhythms (Rolling Stones session veteran Nicky Hopkins), nimbly floating bass lines (future Led Zeppelin maestro John Paul Jones) and perfect-for-the-song percussion (future Humble Pie drummer Jerry Shirley). The result was a sonic collision of West Coast and British psychedelic pop—a mostly sunny, spruced-up hybrid sound that is original and yet familiar. This elaborate music adds even greater weight to Nicholls’ lyrics and vocals, which resonate with a weighty depth of feeling and experience that extend far beyond the greenness of his teenage years.

While certainly no Pet Sounds (nothing can compare), Would You Believe has its own sort of opulently produced shimmer and heart-on-sleeve romanticism, particularly in the lyrics. Only on the acoustic “Come Again” does Nicholls approach the songsmanship of Brian Wilson. With its scaled back production and return to basics simplicity, “Come Again” is ironically the standout song on this extravagantly crafted album.

Better late than never, Would You Believe was officially released for the first time in 1999, more than 30 years after it was recorded. A lost relic from days gone by, the album should now be recognized as an essential piece of vintage psychedelic Britpop.

Date: 1972
Release: Impulse #9233 (lp)
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Living up to the promise of its title, Pharoah Sanders‘ Wisdom Through Music delivers just that. Although he made a name for himself as a fiercely expressionistic, almost anarchic tenor saxophonist in John Coltrane’s later bands, the music on this album is guided by gentler passions. More reflective of Pharoah’s Eastern-looking musical collaborations with Coltrane’s widow, Alice, Wisdom Through Music manages to soothe the soul without sacrificing any of the intensity that defined his earlier work as Trane’s apprentice. Much like his previous Impulse! LP, Black Unity, this 1972 offering finds Sanders and his group weaving together cosmic musical mood collages in front of which the occasional solo peaks out. What makes this record so unique is the strong emphasis on song over solo.

Pharoah sings out soulfully as members of the band join their voices together in an all male gospel chorus, creating an African-flavored call and response dynamic that lends weight to the album’s two message-songs, “Love Is Everywhere” and “Selflessness.” Throughout the record, chanting voices float over the music, calling to the spirits. The music shimmers ecstatically with the dancing bass lines of Cecil McBee, the Lonnie Liston Smith inspired piano stylings of Joe Bonner, the driving intensity of drummer Norman Connors, and the wall of African and Indian tribal rhythms provided by percussionists Mtume, Lawrence Killian and Babadal Roy. “High Life (Adaptation of Nigerian High Life)” opens the record with exuberant shouts of joy from Pharoah and the band. The song pushes strongly forward with rhythmic hints of the Carribean mixed in with a traditional African High Life celebration. Pharoah’s tenor belts out with barely contained enthusiasm, giving way to a densely percussive drum break in the middle of the song.

The title track, “Wisdom Through Music,” harks back to Pharoah’s work on Alice Coltrane’s Indo-Jazz masterpiece, Journey In Satchidinanda. “Golden Lamp” is as sensuously layered and entrancing as such Pharoah classics as “The Creator Has a Master Plan” or “Thembi.” The album closes with the generous beauty of “Selflessness,” an 11-minute epic which finds Pharoah finally letting loose, his tenor screaming out passionately until the record spins to its end. This album sounds so good, it’s no wonder that it remains out of print (as the saying goes, “Anything that feels this good MUST be illegal”).