Oingo Boingo front man steps out solo… with Oingo Boingo
Just before commencing a career in film scoring, Danny Elfman cut this solo album in 1984. The following year he would score Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, and his career as a composer would quickly kick into high gear. Elfman’s score for 1980’s Forbidden Zone suggested his future direction, but this solo album was more tightly connected to the sound of Oingo Boingo (who were in the middle of a two-year hiatus, and a change of record labels between Good for Your Soul and Dead Man’s Party) than his soon-to-be-developing ideas for film scores.
The Kingbees’ debut still has its sting thirty-five years later
It’s hard to believe that at thirty-five, this album is nearly a decade older than was rockabilly itself in 1980. The Kingbees emerged in the late ‘70s, alongside the Blasters, Stray Cats, Pole Cats and others, and though primarily known for only this one album (their follow-up, The Big Rock, was stranded by their label’s bankruptcy), it’s among the very best of the 1980s rockabilly revival. The Kingbees laid down a solid backbeat, but weren’t afraid to move beyond the sound of vintage microphones, standup bass and slapback echo. Even better, they had great songs, guitar riffs that crossed classic tone with modern recording sonics, a fiery rhythm section (check out the bass and drum solos on “Everybody’s Goneâ€) and a terrific vocalist in lead bee, Jamie James.
Produced in the group’s native Los Angeles, the album initially failed to stir commercial interest, but in a page from the book of 1950s record promotion, the band gained a second wind through the regional airplay on Detroit’s WWWW and WRIF. “My Mistake†and “Shake Bop†both charted, and the band’s club performances led some to think they were local. The group’s second album garnered a cameo in The Idolmaker and an appearance on American Bandstand, but that was basically it. The group and their label both disbaned, leaving behind a small but impressive collection of recordings. The albums have been reissued as a two–fer, but this remastered anniversary reissue sweetens the debut’s ten tracks with the demos that landed the band a contract, live tracks from a 1980 Detroit show, and a 12-page booklet featuring period photos and new liner notes from Jamie James.
The demos show how fully realized the band’s sound was before they signed with a label; even more impressively, the subsequent studio versions of “My Mistake,†“Man Made for Love†and “Ting a Ling†take the performances up another notch. The latter, a cover of the Clovers’ 1952 doo-wop hit, pairs with an inspired reworking of Don Gibson’s “Sweet Sweet Girl to Me†to show just how thoroughly the group knew what it had to offer. The latter kicks off the album, hotting up Warren Smith’s Sun-era cover in the same way Smith transformed Gibson’s original into rock ‘n’ roll. The live tracks show the trio to be a tight unit with plenty of spark, and the band’s simple, percussive covers of “Not Fade Away†and “Bo Diddley†speak to James’ roots rock inspirations; the former shines with the sheer joy of singing a Buddy Holly song, the latter gives all three players a chance to really lean on the Bo Diddley beat.
It’s spooky how good the Rubinoos sound in their 45th year as a band. Jon Rubin’s lead vocals are still sweetly youthful, songwriter Tommy Dunbar continues to mine a seemingly inexhaustible supply of melodies, and the quartet’s harmonies are as tight as ever. The current line-up features long-time bassist Al Chan and original drummer Donn Spindt, and are nearly indistinguishable from the group that was featured in the pages of Tiger Beat magazine.
None of which should suggest that the Rubinoos are frozen in the amber of 1977. Dunbar’s songwriting has widened over the years, both in the musical influences he incorporates and the themes he explores. There’s jazz in the guitar of “Graveyard Shift,†a soulful melody (and a touch of electric sitar!) in “What More Can You Ask of a Friend,†and “Does Suzie Like Boys†updates the standard love song with a modern day consideration. Gene Pitney’s “Town Without Pity†provides the atmosphere for the dark instrumental “Kangaroo Court,†and the group rocks out for “Countdown to Love.â€
Still, there’s plenty of pure pop, including Al Chan’s tender vocal on “You Are Here†and an a cappella cover of Lou Christie’s “Rhapsody in the Rain.†The latter is highlighted by Jon Rubin’s falsetto and a bass vocal from The Mighty Echoes’ Charlie Davis. The band’s doo-wop and garage roots cross paths in “I Love Louie Louie,†and Dunbar’s affinity for the Beatles, by way of Erie, PA’s Wonders, is heard in his 12-string laden original “That Thing You Do.†Originally pitched for the film, the demo (sung by Dunbar and Chan) has been spruced up with Donn Spindt’s drums.
Jimi Hendrix’s early recordings as an R&B sideman
Before he was Jimi, he was Jimmy; and before his name was above the title, he was a sideman, playing guitar for the Isley Brothers, Don Covay, Little Richard and others. In late 1965 and early 1966 (and again for a jam session in 1967), Hendrix performed and recorded with Harlem R&B singer Curtis Knight, and through Knight met and signed with manager Ed Chalpin. That contract, which became entangled with a subsequent 1966 contract with Chas Chandler, resulted in these early recordings being misrepresented and shoddily released (and re-released) in the wake of Hendrix’s solo success. During his lifetime, Hendrix was offended that these recordings were passed off as his own artistic creations, but in retrospect they provide a valuable look at his climb up the professional ladder to stardom.
Four of these tracks were released in 1966 as singles on the RSVP label. The first, “How Would You Feel,†riffs on Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone,†with new lyrics that invoke issues of racism and the on-going struggle for equality. The second single, instrumentals “Hornet’s Nest†and “Knock Yourself Out,†represents Hendrix’s first commercial release as a songwriter. Neither single made any commercial, chart nor critical impact at the time, and the rest of the tracks remained in the vault until Hendrix’s fame blew up in 1967. At that point Chalpin began issuing albums that seemed to intentionally obscure the material’s provenance, giving Hendrix credit over Knight, and using cover photos that post-dated the sessions by two years. This continued off and on for decades, until the family-run Experience Hendrix organization finally acquired control in 2003.
Remixed by Hendrix engineer Eddie Kramer to reflect the sound of the times in which they were recorded, and presented accurately with Hendrix as a sideman, these tracks become an essential element of the Hendrix legacy. Stripping away the coattail hucksterism of earlier releases, this volume shows a side of Hendrix’s guitar playing that would soon be overshadowed by his on-going invention. Knight is an adequate vocalist and the material is bouncy, if not particularly inspiring, and as a sideman, there was only so much Hendrix could do to add juice. Knight gets originality points for working the audience through the Jerk, Bo Diddley, Mashed Potato and Monkey on “Simon Says,†as well as for setting the classic nonsense poem “One Bright Day in the Middle of the Night†to a stomping Bo Diddley beat on “Strange Things.”
As a backing player in an R&B band, Hendrix was limited in what and where he could play, but he’s still Hendrix, and you can’t help but listen as he vamps rhythm chords, chicken picks or plays with a springy Ike Turner-styled tone. Hendrix gets numerous opportunities to play lead, and distinguishes himself with concise solos that make the most of a tight spot in someone else’s four-minute song. It’s not the revelatory work of his solo years, but neither is it a journeyman merely filling time. Three of the set’s instrumentals – “No Such Animal,†the hard-driving “Hornet’s Nest,†and the nearly seven-minute unedited version of “Knock Yourself Out (Flying On Instruments)†– provide room for Hendrix to stretch out and show just how good he was as a relatively straight R&B guitarist.
Engineer Eddie Kramer has rescued these tapes from the edits, overdubs and poor mixes of earlier vinyl issues, restoring their vitality and returning them as close to their original state as one could hope for. The drums remain a bit muddy in the background – most likely a product of the original recording- but the bass is fluid and strong, and the guitars and organ have some real sting. With forty studio masters and stage recordings to choose from, this volume promises to be the first of several, which makes the track selection a bit of an overview, and the sequencing a bit of a puzzle. The set features tracks from the late ‘65 and early ‘66 dates, as produced by Ed Chalpin, instrumental sessions produced by Jerry Simon, and a couple of pieces from a 1967 session that was recorded amidst Hendrix’s legal wrangling with Chalpin. The latter includes studio chatter in which Hendrix admonishes Chalpin not to use his name to sell these recordings, and “Gloomy Monday,†which was recorded four days after Hendrix was served with a lawsuit by Chalpin.
Throughout the ‘50s and well into the ‘60s, Johnny Mathis was the answer to the question “Who do you make out to? Sinatra or Mathis?†Mathis’ distinctive voice and long, vibrato-laced notes created a romantic mood that flourished especially well at album length. By the time rock shoved adult contemporary music off of the radio, Mathis had begun to expand his stylistic palette, while still remaining true to his romantic roots. This two-disc set compiles Mathis’ mid-70s work with Philly soul legend Thom Bell, collecting two full albums (1973’s I’m Coming Home and 1977’s Mathis Is…) alongside eight bonus selections that include mono and stereo singles, unreleased instrumentals and collaborations released elsewhere as album tracks.
It’s not particularly surprising that Mathis fit easily into Bell’s string-laden arrangements, but as the band heats up with deeper bass and horns, Mathis breaks free of his comfort zone.Writing with lyricist Linda Creed for the 1973 release, Bell fashioned material that both catered to and challenged Mathis. Bell kept Mathis in the middle of his vocal range, exploring the singer’s ability to build emotion without relying on high notes. The soft brass of “I’m Coming Home†shines a light on Bell’s fondness for Burt Bacharach, and rose to the top of the Easy Listening chart. But Bell also pushed Mathis, inviting the staccato delivery of “Life is a Song Worth Singing†that adds attitude to the performance. The six minute album version includes terrific instrumental work from Philly International’s house band, MFSB, that was cut from the three-minute single.
In addition to the newly written material, I’m Coming Home includes covers of the Stylistics’ “Stop, Look, Listen (To Your Heart)†and “I’m Stone in Love With You,†with fresh arrangements to suit Mathis and fit the album’s tone. The latter won over the Soul Train dancers in a 1974 performance that also featured the Bell/Creed original “Foolish.†The first disc’s bonus tracks include the mono edit of “Life is a Song Worth Singing,†the stereo single of “I’m Coming Home,†and previously unreleased instrumental takes of “I’m Stone in Love With You†and “And I Think That’s What I’ll Do.†The latter pair shows off Bell’s deft touch as an arranger and producer, and the house band’s ability to flawlessly nail a song’s mood.
Mathis and Bell reunited in 1977 to record a second album at Seattle’s Kaye-Smith (later Heart’s Bad Animals) studio. Surprisingly, though waxed on the West Coast amid the rising tide of disco, the album picks up where their previous collaboration left off. Bell wrote many of the album’s originals with his nephew LeRoy, and combined Philly and West Coast studio aces and orchestral players to build a sound that’s remarkably free of disco’s tropes. Mathis luxuriates in the long notes of “Lullaby of Love†and soaring strings of “Heaven Must Have Made You Just For Me.†Bell comes right back with the upbeat “Loving You-Losing You,†and his love of Bacharach-styled bounce is heard in “I’ll Make You Happy.â€
Scott Fitzgerald is often quoted as saying there are no second acts in American lives, but as he observed for himself, second acts abound; not least of which was his own. But third acts are indeed rare, and particularly in the fad-driven business of music. Dion DiMucci is one of the few who successfully reinvented himself twice, transitioning from 1950s doo wop to swaggering 1960s solo stardom, and when that spotlight dimmed, reinventing himself as a sensitive folk artist with Dick Holler’s “Abraham, Martin and John.†Although this latter hit marked the end of his mainstream chart success, it spurred a period of creativity that fueled this solo show at New York’s famed Bitter End, a renewed focus on songwriting and an award-winning career as a contemporary Christian artist.
With just his guitar in hand, Dion proved himself to be a consummate entertainer, seamlessly assimilating his recent folk material with earlier pop hits and cover songs. It’s a virtuoso performance that shows off his dexterity as an acoustic picker, his versatility as a singer, and his absolute command of the stage as a performer. The set list spans 1950’s blues and rock, Dion’s early ‘60s classics and late ’60s folk songs, and a generous helping of deftly picked covers of material from Bob Dylan, Chuck Berry, Leonard Cohen, Sonny Boy Williamson, Lightnin’ Hopkins and the Beatles. Dion opens the disc with a sensitive reading of Dylan’s “Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind,†and sings out strong and clear in a riveting take of his original B-side, “Brand New Morning.â€
He’s warm and funny as he introduces Chuck Berry’s “Too Much Monkey Business,†slowing the song into a croon that rides on a thumbed bass line, skipping through the verses, updating “Yokohama†to “Vietnam,†and adding some scatting for good measure. The song’s bluesy style was likely born of the material Dion recorded (but didn’t always release) in the mid-60s, exemplified here by covers of “You Better Watch Yourself†and “Don’t Start Me Talking.†He even turns his own 1961 hit “The Wanderer†into a 12-bar blues so compelling that you’ll be hard-pressed to match it to the original. 1962’s “Ruby Baby†combines a straighter reading of the melody with swaggering asides so easily interjected that they could only be the product of a decade’s nightly performances.
Oingo Boingo front man steps out solo… with Oingo Boingo
