January 30, 2011: Peep Deez Heah Holy Grails Y'all!!

So, let me just tell you straight out…January has been a month for me reconciling things of my past with (possible) things of my future.  I look around and I see close friends having children, taking on massive responsibilities, tryin’ to get they shit right, you know what I’m sayin’?  Now, while it’s not like I’m over here slacking or anything, there are definitely some regrets that I have regarding my own physical health over the years, and so I’m making a conscious effort to regroup and “re-set” in that area, precisely so I can be ready to take larger steps, such as having a baby with my beautiful wife Dolly, in the next couple of years.  However, anyone who knows me knows that the one thing I will never be able to stop doing is searching for grooves, and so I have acknowledged that as the vice that I cannot refuse, partly because it is a victimless crime, but also because, somewhere in the far-flung hazy horizon, I can pass this anthropological marvel of a music library on to up-and-coming generations.  In the meantime, I’m just maxin’ relaxin’, and meditating on the many paths one must consider in life…thank goodness I got the tunes to illuminate the way.

The Nazty: "I Got To Move"

Detroit funksters the Nazty had many musical incarnations.  Before they were the Nazty they were Black Nasty, cutting some very rare regional singles as well as the landmark early funk-rock LP “Talking To The People” on Stax's Enterprise sub-label.  After they failed to chart with 1975’s “I Got To Move,” they made some line-up changes and morphed into the ADC Band, a more successful late ‘70’s funk outfit famous for the P-Funk-sounding single “Long Stroke.”  This leaves the band’s lone LP recorded as the Nazty in a strange sort of netherworld, one in which they laid down some excellent, soulful, rock-tinged funk, and yet also one in which the group seemed automatically destined for commercial failure.  “I Got To Move” was released on the tiny Mankind label, an obscure Southern indie with few major charting artists, and so who knows what the intentions of cutting a one-off project like this originally were.  Regardless of the mysterious origins and/or motivations driving the creation of this album, it stands on its own two feet as a unique entry in both the funk and funk-rock genres.  Songs like “Bicentennial Rock & Roll,” “No Deposit, No Return” and the title track are dead-set on the heavy funk, with chattering, fuzzy guitar solos sailing in and out of the mix.  Slower ballads like “I Need Love” and “Within” are tastefully executed as well, although not quite up to the standards of some of the more revolutionary sweet soul being released throughout the country at the time.  The final track, “Space Boogie,” foreshadows the direction the group would take as it evolved into the ADC Band; it reveals a heavy P-Funk influence with its flanged-out keys and guitar, and even the lyrics approach the same sort of cosmic mysticism that was stock and trade for George Clinton and his crew.  Overall, this album rises beyond its cult status to assume its rightful designation as a well-produced and thoughtfully conceived funk classic.

Kenny Barron: "Lucifer"

This is for the keyboard heads, no question ‘bout that.  While Barron’s “Sunset To Dawn” album, mentioned earlier in the blog, keeps its jazz roots firm and only occasionally drifts into fusion, “Lucifer” is practically bathed in tasteful, experimental electronics and grooves, a completely different experience that any of Barron’s music before or since.  “Spirits” opens the LP, with Barron setting the tempo on clavinet, building until Billy Hart’s foot-heavy, ridiculously funky drumming thunders in.  The horn section, comprised of New York underground notables like Charles Sullivan, James Spaulding and Bill Barron (Kenny’s older, sax-playing brother), chimes in with gnarled post-bop modalities that sporadically burst into completely free freak-outs.  The brass crafts a combustible melody line that gives the tune body, and then makes way for the guitar solos of Carlos Alomar, who, while probably most famous for being one of David Bowie’s sidemen, gets into some very jazzy, post-bop shredding here.  This is a funk song, absolutely, but it contains other elements that render such a description irrelevant.  “Spirits” eventually melts into “Firefly,” a breezy bossa/samba that contrasts its predecessor quite unusually, and yet the level of playing and soloing is such that there is no break in the action, even if the ferocity has mellowed somewhat.  Side 1 concludes with a contemplative duet between Barron on acoustic piano and reedman Spaulding on flute, giving the listener a chance to breathe before flipping the script to check out the goodies still waiting in the wings.

Side 2 begins with “Hellbound,” a moog- and synth-driven piece that finds its flexibility in its peaks and valleys, encompassing heaviness one moment and delicacy the next.  The title track follows the relative calm of “Hellbound” with a sound so vicious it may as well be punk-rock, except that in this vision of “Lucifer” the band approximates the Mahavishnu Orchestra and Return To Forever battling for supremacy with the multi-tiered layers of Dante’s Inferno as their backdrop, even as the ghosts of Albert Ayler and John Coltrane look on.  “Lucifer” collides into itself by its inevitable fade, and then, strangely, Barron finishes everything off with a solo piano rendition of the Sonny Rollins standard “Oleo,” which sounds downright ebullient compared to the mélange that preceded it.  Still, Kenny Barron obviously was trying to prove something on this album, which he discusses at length in the liner notes; that is, acoustic and electric instrumentation do not have to be islands unto themselves in the world of jazz, and indeed, if you can gather the right mix of players and concepts in the same room, you may even achieve revolutionary results by engaging in so-called musical fusion.  That is, in the end, the feat accomplished by the “Lucifer” LP, and nowhere else in the world of music will you find an album so compelling and adventurous.

The Sylvers: "Sylvers II"

I nearly drooled on myself when I found this one, partly because it’s a very rare record to begin with, but also because I found it in its original SEALED condition, old ‘70’s price tag and all.  Craziest part was, I only paid $6 for it.  Came home and looked the shit up on various online markets, and NO-ONE had a copy for sale, in any condition.  This was one of those moments where I had stumbled upon something truly exceptional; however, I’m too much of an appreciator to have kept the vinyl sealed forever, and so eventually the cellophane was torn open, ‘cause I had to hear this masterpiece.  I know many collectors out there would frown upon me having devalued the record by unwrapping it, but I much prefer to actually HEAR the music I buy than to marvel at its pristine shape and outward appearance.  I was not disappointed either; this is one of the greatest recordings of the soul era, with arrangements by Jerry Peters, Michael Viner and Harvey Mason that manage to highlight the family group’s vocal aesthetics while still keeping the  break-beat rhythms hard, fat and funky.  In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a vocal group LP that accentuated the POCKET as much as this one does.  While the first side of the album certainly has its mellow ‘70’s moments, cuts like “We Can Make It If We Try” and “Handle It” positively bump their grooves, with the latter being particularly funky, heavy bass-line and drums authoritatively thudding underneath the exquisite vocals.  The ballads sandwiched in between these more rhythmic numbers are equally wonderful; the opening harmonies on “Cry Of A Dreamer” are simply gorgeous, and the slow-burn romantic plea of “I’ll Never Let You Go” gets at the core of love-driven feeling and emotion quite effectively. 

Breathe, and then B-Side that shit up, ‘cause the Sylvers and their producers have more tricks up their sleeve, beginning with the orchestral arrangement of “Stay Away From Me,” a song and message at odds with the sweetness and naiveté of the album’s earlier numbers.  “I Don’t Need To Prove Myself” follows, yet another tune with hard and heavy bass-lines and breaks that veers wildly between headier, sample-worthy moments and xylophone-led verses.  “Let It Be Me” sounds more like something off of the Philadelphia International label, complete with choral sitar effects, a cinematic string section and a spoken-word vocal intro.  “Love Me, Love Me Not” starts out with a crazy break, more xylophone and vibes over some spaced-out drums and percussion.  The group bursts in with a very tricky series of vocal acrobatics, the bizarre, zig-zagging riff of the melody line wandering this way and that.  “I Remember” rides a guitar line that stoned-out LA producers like Madlib would loop all day long, and although there is a loveliness to the vocal bridge, the guitar on the verses is full of darkness, a chromatic, minor-key pattern full of doubt and conflict.  Finally, the album reaches its conclusion with a heavenly rendition of McCartney’s “Yesterday,” a common choice for a cover to be sure, yet absolutely appropriate and in continuity with the sound found throughout the rest of this visionary LP.  It’s not likely you’ll see this floating around your favorite local crate-digging spot, but then again, I happened upon it by accident myself, so never say never.

Lalo Schifrin: "There's A Whole Lalo Schifrin Goin' On"

Argentinian pianist/composer Lalo Schifrin has been an influential man-behind-the-scenes in the music business for decades, writing soundtracks for such huge films as “Mission Impossible,” “Enter The Dragon” and “Dirty Harry.”  His solo records done outside of the soundtrack field, then, remain more esoteric; certainly more personal, but also obscured by the instant hum-ability of his more well-known work.  “There’s A Whole Lalo Schifrin Goin’ On” is his most psychedelic piece to date, and has earned comparisons to some of Frank Zappa’s late ‘60’s work due to its cut-and-paste recording techniques and creation of sound collages.  Yet Schifrin’s melodic sensibility is far less fractured than Zappa’s, and so the acid-trip experimentation here is less abrasive and more effervescent.  Schifrin toys with early synthesizers on songs like “Secret Code Synthesizer:  Lalo Schifrin,” and then proceeds to get downright folky on glittering numbers like “Bride Of The Wind.”  Other titles include “Vaccinated Mushrooms,” “Wheat Germ Landscape” and “Gentle Earthquake,” which gives you a sense of the headiness at play here.  This is music for people who celebrate the eccentricities and whims of fearless artists, of which Schifrin most definitely is one.

Hubert Eaves: "Esoteric Funk"

Well well well.  Probably the record from this post that’s been on my want-list the longest, and a nearly impossible one to find, as it was originally released only in Japan, and after that only in very small numbers in the U.S.  I’ve talked about Hubert Eaves in previous posts, and if you’re any kind of ‘70’s funk and soul aficionado you know who he is anyway, so I needn’t get into his credentials.  Let’s just say this album knows what it’s doing, and with sidemen like Reggie Lucas, Howard King and Mtume, you can’t really go wrong anyway.  Eaves, however, is the unquestionable leader of this situation, utilizing a barrage of keyboards on each track, yet sounding more subtle than a lot of the overblown synth-wankers of the mid- to late-‘70’s.  Tracks like “Painfull Pleasure” and “Flead Dancing” are fusion-y but club-friendly; you could play this shit for jazz heads and they’d dig it, but you could also mix it into a DJ set and people would be dancin’ in no time.  The other cuts on this set are of a more contemplative nature, the kind of spacious electric jazz that is practically designed for lazy afternoon introspection and meditation.  This LP is to my knowledge the only solo record released under Eaves’ name in his ‘70’s jazz-funk prime, and so to fans of his work with Gary Bartz, or even his later electro-boogie-funk productions for D-Train, this is worth investigating.

Cymande: "Cymande"

Wooo!  Startin’ off with some fire!  When I came across an original copy of this very rare first outing by the group, I snapped it up with an elated quickness.  A friend of mine had hipped me to Cymande some years back, with the first track I heard by them being “Brothers On The Slide.”  The songs on this album, however, aren’t quite into the full-on percussion funk sound of “Brothers”; rather, this is much more of a head music session, encompassing dubbed-out reggae, early, raw funk, Rasta folk, and a biting political bent that gets the righteousness up in ya all tingly.  The centerpiece here is the sprawling, moody “Dove,” akin to early Funkadelic in its acid-headedness, yet mellower and jazzier at the same time.  The album also includes legendary DJ favorites like “The Message” and “Bra,” and the entire song cycle manages to achieve a cohesive, fluid quality that one seldom finds in any genre of music.  Dig in, fly on and funk out.

Yellow Sunshine: "Yellow Sunshine"

Damn!  Another one that I’d been itching to find for a minute, yet unlike Cymande, I’d never heard anything by this group.  All I knew is that they were Philly International’s answer to early funk-rock—a sound that gets me every time—and with the other Philly stuff being on the opposite end of the soul spectrum, it only led to the intrigue of this mysterious project.  Once I procured the vinyl, I came to find out that the whole thing was the brainchild of Philly keyboard maestro Dexter Wansel and a collective of musicians that would go on to form the much more famous MFSB (“TSOP” or “Love Train,” anyone?).  Considering that resume, the title track, on side 1/cut 1, comes as a shocking revelation, all crunchy guitar and early synth, as the drummer snaps the snare in the way that only those old school cats could.  The melodic changes suggest prog-rock inclinations a la Eno, yet even those are just a set-up for the monster break-beat that storms in near the ending.  I mean, good god, uhh!  That’s just the first song!  Wansel and company proceed to tear through all sorts of funky shit, from the gut-busting heaviness/headiness of “The Greetch” to the Wansel synth showcase of “Apollo 17,” while all the while you scratch your head, knowing that many of the players here are the same guys that backed the mellow pop-soul of Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes, Billy Paul and The Stylistics, among a multitude of others.  Goes to show that, back in the day, before shit was all polished with studio sheen, turning the amps up to 11 and shredding over syncopated beats was as natural an occurrence as waking up in the morning.

Vitamin E: "Sharing"

This album is just weird.  The cover design and text make it seem like this was never intended to be a mass-marketed product—the low-budget vibe is extremely obvious.  Yet the band here features some serious contenders, and really, each of these musicians deserves a bit of a back-story, so here goes… 

a)  Reggie Lucas on guitar.  Lucas’ first foray into the spotlight was in the early to mid-‘70’s, as a rhythm guitarist in the funkiest incarnation of the Miles Davis band.  Around this same time, he began getting involved in session work, performing on some important dates with Norman Connors, Carlos Garnett, Gary Bartz and others, finally releasing an obscure solo record in ’76.  Shortly thereafter, Lucas began to significantly commercialize his sound, which led to his participation in late ‘70’s disco-funk albums like “Sharing.”  His commercial tendencies would eventually take him even further, and make him a much wealthier man, when he produced and co-wrote for Madonna during her initial pop breakthrough.

b)  Mtume on percussion.  Mtume was also a member of the Miles Davis band with Lucas, a role he held while simultaneously recording Afro-centric jazz classics like “Land of the Blacks” and “Rebirth Cycle.”  Mtume rolled deep with Reggie Lucas and Norman Connors as well, and each of these artists’ sounds grew more accessible as the rhythmic trends of the decade shifted.  Mtume strayed far indeed from his initial afro-percussion roots, recording ‘80’s hits like “Juicy Fruit” in a style more informed by Prince than anything from the world of jazz.

c)  Hubert Eaves (III, on some album credits) on keyboards.  Hubert Eaves rounds out the Lucas-Mtume connection with Norman Connors et al, having contributed to most of the same projects as part of a rotating band that almost always had Mtume, Lucas and Eaves at its center.  Eaves recorded one super-rare solo record titled “Esoteric Funk,” and for anybody out there who knows where to locate a copy, gimme a shout, for real.  Eaves went on to become a central force in ‘80’s electro-funk group D Train, with Hubert laying down some tasty keys and productions for vocalist James “D Train” Williams.  The duo achieved a relative amount of popular success for being a fairly low-budget affair, and the D Train albums are all well worth checking out for fans of the funk.  Don’t sleep on dis shit!

d)  Harry Whitaker on keyboards.  And…we reach the end of my OCD analysis of some of the musicians involved in the Vitamin E project.  Harry Whitaker occupies a more underground sort of space than anyone else featured on this record, with his biggest claim to fame being the Roy Ayers/hip-hop sample classic “We Live In Brooklyn, Baby,” which he wrote.  Whitaker was also the mastermind behind the rarer-than-rare “Black Renaissance” album, which showcased the playing of obscure jazz visionaries like Woody Shaw, Azar Lawrence, Buster Williams and Whitaker himself. 

…finally, back to Vitamin E.  Tangential?  Yes.  Necessary?  Also yes.  As far as the “Sharing” album goes, everyone involved acquits themselves well here, including the vocalists (pictured on the back cover with their faces inside a pill bottle…Vitamin E…get it?...heh…).  The record starts off a bit slowly, but when it lurches into full gear with uptempo floor-fillers like “Back Here Again” and “Kiss Away,” it reaches the pinnacle of its evolutionary state.  Reggie Lucas rips out a filthy, screeching guitar solo towards the end of “Kiss Away,” letting the listener know that these cats weren’t messing around.  Who knows why it works…the bizarre funk-soul one-off that somehow deserved more attention than it likely got in its own time, now listened to over 30 years later and illuminating a distant future.

Neal Creque: "Creque"

A blunt title, to be sure…you wanna say to Neal, “we already knew that was your name, dude.”  But whatever.  This is the second OG Neal Creque I’ve found this year, and man, this cat’s stuff transcends description.  I’ve already talked about his extensive credits in the music world in this blog, and so I’ll forego that this time, and dive into the material itself.  “Rafiki,” the opener, is a bizarre calypso-jungle-funk anthem, with Creque’s rhodes and organ work in the foreground, and something sounding like a kazoo playing in the background.  Meanwhile, Billy Butler’s wah wah guitar stabs add additional rhythmic and tonal color.  The song fades, and is followed by the mellow piano jazz of “Years of Regret,” which, with its over-wrought string arrangement, is a bit saccharine for my tastes.  Yet, as with Creque’s other albums, it is in keeping with the artist’s vision of representing the myriad aspects of his talent.  The funky instrumental gospel of “Sis Daisy” brings the groove back around, with some truly joyous melodic changes.  “Nina” finishes off Side 1, exploring similar territory to “Years of Regret,” although the piano solo at the beginning is gorgeous.  Side 2 is where things really pick up, with the initial track being “What’cha Call It,” a slow cut that sounds a bit like early Joe Sample with the Crusaders.  “Black Velvet Rose” is next, featuring tasty rhodes and guitar solos over a bouncy, minor-key backing.  “Cease The Bombing,” the third track on Side 2, is one of Creque’s most well-known compositions, a tune that he recorded with Grant Green for Blue Note before releasing this version.  It combines an aching, bittersweet melody line with complex, sometimes-dissonant piano, and though there are no lyrics to this song, the title fits perfectly with the music, and don’t you wish some of these trigger-happy politicians and dictators had the presence of mind to chill out to some shit like this?  Cease the bombing, suckas!!  Anyway, the album concludes with the neo-classical “Before the Rain Came,” a meditative piece that serves as the perfect finish to an incredible listening experience.  “Creque”—a man ahead and outside of his time.