Vinyl Trash Bin

The Ventures - Endless Dream

Ever heavy-handed in their attempts at keeping pace with the constantly shifting musical tastes of the sixties, album-market workhorses The Ventures produced a characteristically obtuse slab of psychsploitation in late 1967 with Super Psychedelics. Which isn’t such a bad thing, really: John Davidson they were not, and working within their sphere of squareness (oh, the paradox…), they managed to record some fun and oddly enduring pieces over the years.

Some critics give The Ventures due for pioneering such cliches of rock as fuzz, backwards tape and concept albums, meanwhile neglecting to point out that, well, it was only the Ventures, so none of their innovations really count.

By the release of Super Psychedelics they were merely playing catch-up with the zeitgeist, but their dogged determination to convey psychedelia by utilizing any type of studio trickery then in vogue paid pop-trash dividends and lent their endeavor a light shade of authenticity. The covers (“Strawberry Fields,” “Happy Together,” etc.) were rote, but, as usual, they shined on the originals. “Endless Dream” plays the psych card to the hilt, transforming a fairly pedestrian surf lick into a scintillating funhouse of sitar-guitar, phasing, fuzz, and maracas. It may not have blown the minds of Syd Barrett devotees, but it survives as useful fodder for any DJ wishing to recreate a slightly-stoned sixties rave-up.

Ultimate Spinach - “Gilded Lamp of the Cosmos”

Precisely how does one go about manufacturing a credible rock scene for profit? The answer remains elusive, but in the late sixties one would-be impresario thought the concept marketable enough to give it the old college try.

Alan Lorber had already been kicking around the music industry for awhile by 1967, and had built himself an impressive resume as a producer and arranger, having worked with Neil Sedaka, Jackie Wilson, the Lovin’ Spoonful and numerous other acts who, in aggregate, had amassed several million units sold. Perhaps due to hubris, boredom, avarice or a combination of the three, Lorber took it upon himself to prefabricate a local underground rock scene patterned after the San Francisco psychedelic movement that was then making quite a few folks rich, foist it upon a buying public he figured must be primed for the next big thing, and cash in. He chose Boston as his point of conception, partly because of its proximity to New York (and, by extension, most of the record industry), and partly because, he said, Boston had a rich musical history, most recently evidenced by its heavy contribution to the folk revival. To be fair, Lorber chose bands for his marketing experiment that were already extant, although they were all quite young and still in various larval stages artistically - in other words, they were nowhere near ready to match the musical prowess then being displayed by Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messanger Service or even It’s a Beautiful Day. No matter: Lorber gave his initial three projects (Ultimate Spinach, Orpheus, and Beacon Street Union) the best production and arrangements of which he was capable, recording their debut albums in New York’s finest studios. He then passed the tapes off to his pals at MGM Records, who proceeded to launch an unprecedented hype campaign touting the new “Bosstown Sound,” even scoring a coup in the form of a feature article in Newsweek. Strong initial sales for Ultimate Spinach’s album resulted, but the scheme quickly began to unravel. Lorber made a fatal mistake by taking all his acts to one label, and an especially square one at that. MGM had been hemorraging money by propping up mainstay acts who peaked in popularity several years previous, and the Bosstown campaign became the company’s misguided attempt at drawing the ever-growing “underground” demographic. However, the underground press immediately smelled a rat, deeming the Newsweek article an inside hype-job and the acts derivative and unready for prime time. An unofficial anti-Bosstown smear campaign was quickly underway, headed up by the new West Coast press powerhouse, Rolling Stone.

By the time Ultimate Spinach’s second album, Behold & See, rolled around, the jig was up. The band disintegrated soon after its release, leaving Lorber to cobble together an ad hoc group for the purpose of recording a scheduled third LP. It’s too bad, because the original “jolly green giant of rock” (as they were once nicknamed) displayed some serious promise, even if they often favored goofy, heavy-handed lyrics and owed much of their sound to the Airplane and Country Joe. Heavy.

Andy Kim - “How’d We Ever Get This Way?”

The Brill Building crowd didn’t let their brand of assembly-line pop hitmaking die quietly with the ascension of “serious” rock in the mid-to-late sixties. The stalwart commercial music establishment instead fired off a fusillade of spectacularly well-written and produced material in the last few years of the decade, aiming their sights at the prepubescent television generation, who were, felicitously, raised with a fully-developed sweet tooth for junk culture. Dismissed as purveyors of so much dumbed-down pabulum by anyone who desired to stay hip (much as the leading lights of the nascent rock ‘n’ roll movement in the fifties were written off by any college student with a Dave Brubeck album), the torch-bearers of simple, joyful pop music resorted to clever cross-promotional tactics in delivering their newly-monikered “bubblegum” to the right audience. Enter music-themed TV shows, 45s on cereal boxes, et al. While contretemps resulting from delusions of excessive musical talent associated with the likes of Michael Nesmith were eventually solved by the advent of fictitious cartoon bands (the Archies, Josie and the Pussycats) - not to mention fictitious costumed bands (the Banana Splits) and fictitious bands made up of chimpanzees (The Evolution Revolution of Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp fame) - The Monkees in the meantime did much to lend buoyancy to many a flagging pop songwriting career.

Jeff Barry, who had helped manufacture the classic girl group sound with his then-wife Ellie Greenwich, benefitted dramatically from the smash success of a couple of Neil Diamond-penned tunes he produced for the Monkees (“I’m a Believer,” “A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You”), which also aided Diamond’s burgeoning career as an artist, then helmed by Greenwich/Barry. It also didn’t hurt that everything Diamond wrote at the time was pure gold. After a rash of brilliant Diamond singles, Barry parted ways with both Diamond and Greenwich, found a new collaborator in Montreal-born Andy Kim and launched a record label called Steed. Kim came on the scene equipped with suave, Humperdinck-esque good looks and a penchant for catchy, effervescent little tunes. The duo quickly began work on material for both the launch of Kim’s solo career and Don Kirschner’s post-Monkees marketing venture, the Archies. While “Sugar, Sugar” has become Kim/Barry’s most well-known collaboration, Kim himself delivered the goods on a consistent basis with his Steed singles, as evidenced by the pure bubblegum bliss of “How’d We Ever Get This Way?”.

Helen Reddy - “Ain’t No Way to Treat a Lady”

Helen Reddy spent much of the seventies looking to perpetuate her mainstream rep as the leading musical exponent of squeaky clean, inoffensive feminism. She roared, she took on the world with her son, she captured a man in her radio (don’t look at me - ask Alan O’Day), and in this case, well, she kind of whined a little bit.

Still, this is one of my favorite MOR hits of the Me Decade; smoother production you’ll never hear this side of the most detail-oriented Yacht Rocksmanship, and the chorus delivers a satisfying shot of melodic bliss just as the verse begins to get wearying (if only everyone had followed the Raspberries’ blueprint of five second verses - seriously, time “Go All the Way” and “I Wanna Be With You”).

Was Roy Clark the shrewdest chameleon in popular music history? One minute, he was yucking it up with fellow Hee Haw wiseacre Buck Owens, and the next he was displaying his virtuosic banjo-picking abilities while casting nonchalant grins at the camera (a demeanor possibly co-opted from fellow musical wizard and syndicated television star Myron Floren). And, while examples of his facility with the aforementioned hallmarks of down home American entertainment were disseminated into homes nationwide on a weekly basis, he simultaneously reinvented himself on record as a somber pop balladeer, and an astonishingly effective one, at that. He was perhaps able to lend more genuine gravitas to his material than even Glen Campbell, who specialized in just that sort of thing.

“Yesterday, When I Was Young” is one of my favorite songs ever, even if it’s a bit melodramatic and manipulative. I also really like Jimmy Webb, so maybe I’m just a sap. “Yesterday” was originally a French song (by Charles Aznavour), which may explain the preoccupation with remorse and regret (“Seasons in the Sun” was French too, you know).

Trini Lopez - “Lemon Tree”

I’m gonna get a little crazy here and postulate that Trini Lopez was the original Ramones: His first several records never deviated from the initial premise of one vocal, one rhythm guitar (with nary a lead in sight), a drummer and a bassist cranking out pop songs economically and with extreme contempt for dynamics. Eschewing the raucous, stripped-down rockabilly-throwback sounds favored by his contemporary, Johnny Rivers, our Trini came across as a mildly exotic crooner with a bone-simple, muscular backing. Easily digestible rock for the Rat Pack crowd - that was Trini’s scene.

His take on Will Holt’s oft-covered “Lemon Tree” was the most successful version for self-evident reasons: He cut out the pretty picking and harmonies and presented the song as is. A defiant repudiation of the precision and craft of those dinosaurs the Kingston Trio? Perhaps not. In fact, maybe Trini was nothing more than a gimmick and a paycheck, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t buy himself some smart suits.

Charley Pride - “Burgers and Fries”

Several decades before the coming of Cowboy Troy and the stillborn “hick-hop” non-phenomenon, Charley Pride sold millions of records to the largely conservative, lily-white country audience by presenting as safe an image and as traditional and palatable a sound as possible. Maybe he wasn’t exactly a real-life Don “No Soul” Simmons, but at end of the day his race likely didn’t make a difference whatever: He was a great singer, a serviceable entertainer and he consistently worked with top-notch material. The Rick Astley-in-reverse effect of folks being astonished at the color of his skin after hearing him sing quickly lost its novelty.

“Burgers and Fries” was one of Pride’s late-seventies hits, and it encapsulates his work perfectly: it’s impeccably performed, naggingly catchy, and relentlessly all-American.

Claudine Longet - Claudine

Ah, Claudine. She wore so many hats: Andy Williams’ baby mama; alleged murderess; one of a clutch of sixties A&M artists who couldn’t really sing but were somehow able to pull off smooth, sophisticated pop with aplomb (didn’t you used to rock, Chris Montez?). Should history cast her as a deceptive, aloof femme fatale or a misunderstood ingenue? You decide.

Although Claudine brought some undeniably French sensibilities to the table, her music was a far cry from contemporaneous ye-ye turned out by the likes of France Gall and Brigitte Bardot. Her LPs were instead constructs of the formulaic A&M machine: in other words, they consisted of country club-ready, So-Cal jet-set pop, brought to you courtesy of ubiquitous arranger Nick DeCaro. But the discerning listener might pick her albums over, say, the Sandpipers’ simply due to the two-pronged cuteness attack of her breathy voice and heavy accent. Cloying? Maybe. Marketable? Certainly.

This particular cut was her relatively faithful take on the Sopwith Camel’s sole top 40 entry. They’re often cited as the first San Francisco psych act to release an album, which tag might be worth an entry in this here blog sometime soon. I mean, weren’t they essentially a Lovin’ Spoonful clone? Stay tuned….

Ray Conniff - ‘S Wonderful!

As the undisputed king of disposability, Ray Conniff relentlessly and endlessly ground out LPs showcasing his gimmick of marrying white bread, (initially) wordless choral vocals to any familiar melody handy. The vast amount of unwanted Conniff vinyl cluttering thrift stores has become his unfortunate legacy. But as rote as much of his catalogue may seem, his fifties records - within the confines of their overarching commercialism - displayed a freshness and, dare I say it, a flair for experimentation for which he receives little credit today.

’S Wonderful! was Conniff’s first album, and it set the precedent just by dint of its runaway success. He never had much use for deviation after that; in fact, a bop-oriented follow-up tanked, and he thereafter stuck to the formula. His usual MO called for a big-band setup with women’s voices filling in for trumpets and male voices taking the place of saxophones; the simple novelty of this approach to programs of familiar standards all but ensured prodigious sales to the aging World War II generation.

I tend to pick up Ray Conniff albums in thrift stores (at fifty cents or less) for more than just kitsch value: his records are a forgotten part of US pop-culture history. For decades they blared from every supermarket PA system in the country, and they sold by the millions. Who cares if he was on the wrong side of Chuck Berry and his recorded output was ephemeral by nature?