November 2011

This has to have been one of the more trying seasons my soul has endured. As I try to remain optimistic and joyful about the possibilities of being a teacher, I must combat the continual disillusionment one feels when faced with the grim prospects of our current economic malaise, and its effect on young, passionate educators such as myself. My wife Dolly has had to cope with an agonizingly drawn-out medical issue since September, as all the while I remain unemployed, despite my best efforts to secure myself a position in the maddening bureaucracy that is education. The problem, of course, is that there are no jobs to be had. The jobs that are available are reserved for twenty- to thirty-year veterans cycling through the tenure system, and while I bear them no ill will for desperately holding on to what is rightfully theirs, it prevents me and legions of my contemporaries from being given a chance to do what we have been trained for, even as burnt-out fifty-somethings lazily spout curriculum to generations of students that are clearly missing the enthusiasm and relevance younger educators bring to the classroom. I have to take solace wherever I can get it, and so in addition to the powerful, unconditional love and support of my wife, family and friends, I am always returning to…MUSIC. I think that, in times like these, music is perhaps even more essential that it would usually be. It is like therapy given by and to the ages; it is as though all the lessons and struggles that have ever been in human history can be echoed and eased by the healing magic of music. With that in mind, these items below have some POTENT magic in them, folks…

Doris Duke: "I'm A Loser"

Yeah, I know, starting out on a bummer note.  But c’mon, what is misery if not a universal characteristic?  This record isn’t “northern soul,” or “southern soul,” or even “deep soul”...it’s heartbroken soul.  I don’t think I have heard such pain on a record in a very, very long time, if ever.  Sure, many artists indulge in a track here and there that revels in melancholy, but rarely are they so bold as to create a whole album around that feeling.  The sad thing is, when you hear forty to fifty minutes of such low, down-and-out tragedy, you can’t help but worry about the person behind it all.  Doris Duke, of course, is a distant memory to most, and so who knows what inspired her to wreak such emotional havoc on wax.  She absolutely succeeds in creating a mood; a bleak, scorched-earth soundscape aided immensely by Jerry “Swamp Dogg” Williams’ able production and songwriting skills.  Songs like “I Can’t Do Without You” and “Ghost Of Myself” are world-weary, heart-wrenching pleas made palatable by the church-ified, Southern-rooted grooving of the session band, featuring Jesse Carr and (possibly) Duane Allman on guitars.  Other tunes, like “He’s Gone” and “Feet Start Walking,” have a vacant, spacious energy to them that suits the material perfectly, mirroring the empty resignation apparent in Duke’s voice; she sings like a person who has nothing left to give, nothing emotional left to invest.  The truth is, this is one of those underground masterpieces that will never be heard by enough people, yet that is what makes it so desirable to the committed few, and indeed, records like these are the very reason the term “deep soul” was coined in the first place.  Keep on diggin, y’all.

Roy Ayers Ubiquity: "Change Up The Groove"

This one always seems to get lost in the heralded, cherished footsteps of Ayers’ early ‘70’s output.  It’s not as raw as “Ubiquity,” not as rare as “He’s Coming,” not as iconic as “Red, Black & Green.”  It is, however, exceptional in its own right and on its own terms, and so if you can for one moment forget whatever preference you may have for the aforementioned records and open up your mind to this one, you will be pleasantly surprised.  The title cut serves as a sort of signifier for the theme of the album, featuring Ayers’ trademark, knotty vibes riffs against a pounding, bass-heavy, jazz-funk backdrop.  Songs like “Sensitize” and “Fikisha (To Help Someone To Arrive)” operate in that unique space that only Ayers has ever managed to navigate successfully, that is, on the borderline between avant-garde spiritual jazz and accessible ‘70’s funk.  Even the cover choices here stand out, though one may feel some trepidation when they see “Theme From M.A.S.H.” and “Feel Like Makin’ Love” on the track listing.  What might have been ill-conceived filler material in the hands of lesser artists is rendered with mastery by Ayers and his Ubiquity crew, transcending the MOR origins of the songs themselves to fit into the band’s greater spiritual-jazz-funk vision.  The album closes with the break-beat staple “The Boogie Back,” street-funk drumming and fuzz guitars breaking bread with one another until the inevitable fade-out occurs.  While “Change Up The Groove” may not be elevated into the pantheon of Roy Ayers’ most classic LP’s, after even a cursory listen, it is confusing as to why that is the case.  ‘Cause it’s the shit.

Norman Feels: "Norman Feels"

The minute this one kicks off, you know you’re listening to the rare groove goods, though, like me, you probably have no idea who in the hell this Norman Feels guy is.  Recorded in Detroit with a handful of Motown’s Funk Brothers and arrangements by the legendary David Van De Pitte, this music was clearly inspired by “What’s Going On”-era Marvin Gaye.  The formula somehow works, though, for even as Feels rocks a high falsetto throughout the album, he doesn’t really sound like Marvin at all.  Much like similar records by Mike James Kirkland and Leroy Hutson, Norman Feels is striving for a “conscious-political-orchestral-romantic-funk-soul-classic-‘70’s” vibe, and yet also like Kirkland and Hutson, he falls just short of the mark, which is where the charm of a piece like this lies anyhow.  In some ways, music like this speaks more of the lasting, super-charged impact of Marvin Gaye’s influence than it does of its own merit.  Still, I dig Feels’ energy here, and the grimy, down-low clavinet build-up on album opener “Don’t” is worth the price of admission alone.  The common thread between “What’s Going On” and this record are the arrangements by Van De Pitte, who adds his subtle, tasteful touch to everything here.  Anyone who’s listened to enough ‘70’s soul knows that “subtle” and “tasteful” are not often the adjectives you’d use to describe the ham-handed meanderings of less talented orchestrators, a fact that only makes Van De Pitte’s textures that much more appealing.  Meanwhile, Norman Feels attempts bold re-constructions of Detroit standards like “My World Is Empty Without You,” set alongside his own singular, original numbers like the dark, moody “Something In Me,” the bouncy, almost-Philly groove of “Yes You Did,” and the psychedelic, topical “Today.”  Sure, it’s impossible to imagine an album like this existing without Marvin Gaye.  That truth, however, becomes irrelevant after repeated listens, and when you reach the end of the record, which closes with the gorgeous, grandiose “Everything Is Going Our Way,” you can’t help but be impressed, and even astounded, by the beauty of it all.

Hearts Of Stone: "Stop The World, We Wanna Get On"

Continuing along with the Motown auxiliary theme, here’s an LP that fell through the cracks almost immediately upon its release in 1970.  Distributed on the tiny VIP subsidiary label, the back cover proudly proclaims “The Motown Sound,” but alas, it was not meant to be for the Hearts Of Stone, a group obviously and heavily stylized in the Temptations/Four Tops tradition.  Given a larger exposure and a greater amount of promotion, this album could have done better, though there is nothing here to rival the work of Motown’s more famous acts.  There are, however, some key tracks for the psych-funk heads, such as the fuzz-guitar-infused “You Gotta Sacrifice (We Gotta Sacrifice)” and the cover of Sly’s “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin).”  The Sly influence, in fact, pervades the material, as the group adds acapella, gospel-esque break-downs and handclaps to many of the songs, as well as generous slatherings of organ and rock guitar.  Some may contend that this LP serves mainly as an item for Motown completists, but I would broaden that assumption to include those interested in the incalculable impact Sly Stone had on music at this particular juncture in history.  It’s not a perfect record by any stretch, but its best moments are wonderful.  These guys just wanted to take the listener higher, even if they had to turn to the West Coast to get their inspiration.

Sidney Joe Qualls: "I Enjoy Loving You"

This is the best Chicago soul record Al Green never made.  Confused?  I was too.  Qualls’ vocals sound so much like Green on some of these tracks, you’d swear Al was in the studio recording these under an AKA.  But no, Sidney Joe is a real person, one who owes an enormous debt to the oft-praised (and praising) soul legend.  Still, Qualls does manage to do his own thing, as on the title track, which certainly sounds more Chicago-bluesy than it does Hi Records-polished.  It’s in his vocal inflections where the resemblance becomes almost too much to believe, a fact not lost on other reviewers of this album.  I suspect the similarity comes from both men’s origins in the Baptist church, and some accounts even have it that the two were born in the same town, in Arkansas.  Whatever the case, this is a great soul record, comparisons aside.  “Shut Your Mouth” is as tough as its name indicates, a condemnation of double-speak and hypocrisy that seemed to be a common thread in early ‘70’s soul.  “Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love” nearly—nearly—beats Green and Mitchell at their own game, and it’s funny to hear what are likely Chicago session musicians sounding all Memphis-like.  “Run To Me” has more of an uptown sound a la Curtis Mayfield, at least in the music, though Qualls still yowls and pleads like you-know-who over the top of it.  The cover of Gamble and Huff’s “If You Don’t Know Me By Now,” made famous by Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes, adds an entirely different perspective to the well-known tune, even switching the modulation in the chorus a bit.  “Please Help Me” comes off like a more minimally-arranged Impressions track, with the strings extremely low in the mix, as a cascading, glowing electric piano leads the groove.  Qualls is a talented, gifted singer, and his selection of material here is exemplary.  Though it is unquestionably difficult to get past the Al Green-isms in his voice, one will find that it does not really matter in the grand scheme of things, and in fact reinforces the intriguing nature of this whole project.  Veering wildly between Hi Studio imitations and lovely, delicate Windy City intricacies, it is inconceivable to not be fascinated by the weirdness of Sidney Joe Qualls, quite possibly the world’s only “other Al Green.”

Rance Allen Group: "Say My Friend"

So, in keeping with my recent obsession of looking for rare gospel-funk LP’s, here’s one of the “holy grails” (pun intended) of the genre.  I must admit that I did not seek this out so much for its gospel as I did for its association with the Mizell Brothers, the storied production team behind such ‘70’s jazz-funk masterpieces as Donald Byrd’s “Places and Spaces” and Bobbi Humphrey’s “Blacks And Blues.”  Rance Allen, however, has an interesting history in and of himself, from his roots as a traveling gospel singer to his early ‘70’s breakthrough on the Truth subsidiary of the Stax label.  The music on this record features the trademark “Mizell Sound,” with lilting arrangements and ethereal background vocals floating just above the driving funk.  When combined with Rance’s vocal acrobatics and the Allen brothers’ impeccable musicianship, a unique item in the Mizell canon is created.  The best tunes play on the strengths of the multiple parties involved, with “Reason To Survive” and “Peace Of Mind” being the obvious standouts.  The former rides a mid-tempo rhythm guitar at its center, while the latter is full of the airy fusion vibe present on so many of the Mizells’ most lauded work.  While I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect in getting into this album—gospel is not my specialty, after all—I was quite impressed, and not just because of the Mizell factor, but because the Rance Allen Group stood on its own as a musical force to be reckoned with.

Sound Experience: "Don't Fight The Feeling"

Now.  You may be thinking, “Dylan, you’re getting away from the kinda shit that we KNOW you like the most…the hard, biting, rampaging FONK.  All this sweet soul and gospel stuff is cool, sure, but, c’mon…where’s the grease?”  Fear not, friends, for I have a record to assuage your doubts.  Sound Experience was a large, horn-driven Philly group that, according to most accounts, were more known for their fiery live performances than they were for their studio abilities.  While I can certainly see how the stomping grooves here would have translated well in a live setting, the band does just fine without an audience, studio polish and all.  Their sound is something of a mix between early Kool & The Gang and pre-saccharine Philly outfits like Yellow Sunshine, and though they do try their hand at a few half-baked ballads, their strength is clearly in the heavy funk.  “Your Love Belongs To Me” is not a statement so much as it is a command, as the musicians roil, percolate and syncopate underneath the vocals.  “Step People” is, indeed, a stepper, strolling and swinging along, eventually fading into the monstrous title track, which delivers a loud, anarchic dose of funk-rock, one that has guitars, clavinet, horns and party whistles in full effect.  “Going Through The Motions” has a bit of a Latin soul feel to it, which blends with a Motown-sounding melody to make for quite an interesting track.  “You’ve Broken My Heart” has more of that same Latin-disco energy, starting with a thudding clavinet and then moving into broken-time, horn-powered weirdness, albeit with lovely group soul vocals up top.  The final track, “Devil With A Bust,” is perhaps the most well-known number, as it has provided sample fodder for many a break-starved DJ.  Forget the break, though, and listen to the tune, ‘cause it jams as hard as any funk from its era.  Synths, phased guitars and reverb-laden vocals move it along, stirring up a slinky, slithering, sinister sort of momentum, until said break allows for some breathing space.  Finally, the band comes back in, eerie harmonica and grinding funk maelstrom dissolving into a bass solo and then nothingness.  “Sound Experience” could not have been more appropriately named, as the listener will not be quite the same after this album.

Walter Bishop, Jr.: "Coral Keys"

This is one of the prettiest LP’s I’ve heard, but not pretty in the flowery, sickly-sweet sense.  This is pretty in the same way that a foggy morning is pretty, or a desert is pretty—pretty but complicated.  Bishop plays these organic, flowing lines on the piano that feel as though they descend in and out of each other infinitely, while other notables like Idris Muhammad and Harold Vick add their own rhythm and flavor.  The tag “spiritual jazz” is often thrown around in describing music of this kind, but unlike other meaningless labels, it does make sense in such a context.  The players definitely appear to be looking for some intangible break-through to a higher power in their searching, exploratory solos, though exactly what higher power they are attempting to communicate with is unclear.  In the early ‘70’s, jazz and funk artists were incorporating a great deal of pan-theistic elements into their creativity, and so the lines often seemed blurred between such wildly differing forces as ancient African gods, Christian trinities, Hindu and/or Buddhist meditations.  This approach is startling, in that it appeals to more personal, individualistic feelings of spirituality rather than specific, denominational worship.  This heartfelt spirituality, along with an emphasis on unity, melodic mantras and progressive thinking, is evident throughout the “Coral Keys” album, so much so that it achieves its goal of transcending religion, musical styles and preconceived notions.  Not often does one stumble across something this beautiful.

The Montclairs: "Dreaming Out Of Season"

Sweet, sweet soul on the small, Louisiana-based Paula label.  The Montclairs, from East St. Louis, share a number of the collective aspects prevalent on much of the group soul being released around the country at the time this record came out (1972).  Fragile, accentuating strings pepper the arrangements, as the Montclairs step out with smooth harmonies and a typical lead falsetto sound.  Then there are the moments on the LP that make you realize this was a local, small-label project at its core, and so the singers, along with noted producer/musician Oliver Sain, have the opportunity to do more experimentation than would usually be prudent on such an undertaking.  The title track is perfect, a masterpiece in league with work by better-known artists like the Delfonics, Stylistics, Dells, Dramatics, etc.  The other essential track is the epic, eight-minute “Do I Stand A Chance,” which starts out more or less in pedestrian fashion, with a lightly funky rhythm dancing around a pleading falsetto.  As the track proceeds, however, the vocals start to become more disembodied, almost ghostly, bathed in reverb and adding an unsettling ghostliness to what would otherwise be a fairly standard genre exercise.  It can only be described as “acid music for sweet soul heads.”  The rest of the album has its surprises also, from the singer-songwriter-ish, acoustic guitar-led bridge of “Beggin’ Is Hard To Do,” to the pensive, quasi-folk-soul of “Just Can’t Get Away.”  While this record did respectably well in the local-label market, due to the regional success of its title cut, it is almost positive that very few now remember the Montclairs, and what a shame, ‘cause these dudes bring the heat on the sweet soul tip.  Check ‘em out.

David Ruffin: "David Ruffin" (Motown label 1973)

There are few stories in rock and R&B as tragic as David Ruffin’s.  Pegged as an impossible-to-work-with troublemaker in the Motown organization early on, unceremoniously fired from the Temptations at the height of his popularity within the group, a solo career of mixed results and success, a near-lifetime of on-again/off-again addiction, and then, in his final chapter, the victim of an overdose (thought by some to be an unsolved murder/robbery) at the age of fifty.  Given this history, it is an emotional experience to listen to Ruffin sing, riddled as his voice is with fervor, sadness and heartbreak.  This particular album of his focuses in on an everyman, working-class theme, quite literally with titles like “The Common Man,” “I’m Just A Mortal Man,” and “A Day In The Life Of A Working Man.”  It’s like Ruffin is going out of his way, over and over again, to explain that he is a flawed human being, turning what was already a bittersweet feeling for the listener into outright depression, and devastation.  Still, it’s a beautiful record in its own shattered way, with some of Ruffin’s all-time highlights, like his covers of “I Miss You” and “If Loving You Is Wrong (I Don’t Want To Be Right),” as well as the cynical, hard-edged funk of “Blood Donors Needed (Give All You Can).”  On this album, David Ruffin is a man broken but not yet destroyed, and though there would be a long, slow decline in the years to come, his talent and spirit shine brightly here.