Album Reviews

Slade “Slayed?” (Polydor, 1972)

Slade ranked high within Great Britain’s ’70s glam-rock movement, racking up hits like they guzzled liquor—copiously. They were the polar opposite of fellow UK glam deities such as the baroque and arty Queen and Roxy Music, though; Slade reveled in basic, boozy stomps that put a spring in your glittery-platform-booted stride. Marked by atrociously spelled titles and singer Noddy Holder’s rowdy growl, Slade’s songs were hell-bent on getting you to party as quickly and debauchedly as possible. In that regard, they were (l)outstanding.

The Wolverhampton quartet’s third album, Slayed?, was produced by Animals bassist Chas Chandler and topped the UK album charts, while peaking only at #69 in the US. That discrepancy haunted Slade throughout their career, as Americans just couldn’t hang with these fun-loving lads during their prime. That being said, Slade did have an influence on US bands such as Quiet Riot, who covered “Cum On Feel The Noize” and “Mama Weer All Crazee Now,” and Slade did eventually score two Top 40 songs in the mid ’80s.

Right from the intro of opening track “How D’You Ride,” Slade flex their outsized swagger with a boisterous slice of Sticky Fingers-style rock. Strap in, because it’s going to be a rock & roll bacchanal; Holder (who also plays guitar), drummer Don Powell, lead guitarist Dave Hill, and bassist Jim Lea made sure of that. Witness that rambunctious quality in “The Whole World’s Goin’ Crazee,” as you can hear AC/DC’s libidinous attack germinating in this brawny rock & roll anthem. “I Won’t Let It ‘Appen Again” is a midtempo chug of defiance that hints at both Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” and Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” while Holder’s vocal warble anticipates the Undertones’ Feargal Sharkey.

Slayed? is not all hell-raising high-steppers. See “Look At Last Nite,” the album’s most subdued song. Though it struts with a high degree of machismo, it has shades of Queen’s dramatic vocal harmonies. And a rare tint of darkness enters the frame on “Gudbuy Gudbuy” while “I Don’ Mind” is a downtrodden blues-rocker that foreshadows bands such as Black Keys and their ilk while revealing Slade’s under-recognized ominous side.

It makes sense that Slade would cover a Janis Joplin song (in this case, “Move Over”), as both artists excel at making extroverted gestures and Noddy’s voice often attains the same explosive emotional climaxes as Joplin did. The LP’s other cover—Shirley and Lee’s 1956 hit “Let The Good Times Roll”—is an on-the-nose homage, but Lea’s bass line is a dead ringer for John Cale’s in “European Son.” It doesn’t make sense in this context, but that’s what makes it so great.

Slayed? peaks on the two UK hit singles. “Gudbuy T’Jane” boasts some of the greatest guitar riffs and sing-along choruses in ’70s rock, but it’s not even the album’s best track. Nevertheless, if you inject this song into your veins, you will feel powerful glee for veritable hours, with no negative side effects. But the magnum opus is “Mama Weer All Crazee Now,” a tune so riotously louche, it topples into sacred music territory. One of my favorite songs of all time, “Mama Weer All Crazee Now” is one of those rare numbers in the canon off of which a listener can get a contact drunk. I mean, listen to that coda full of massed chants of the title phrase. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophesy… That the song scaled to #1 in the UK and only to #76 in the US shows a shocking lack of taste among early-’70s yanks.

Slayed? is a paragon of loutish British glam, exemplifying a devil-may-care attitude that seems like an impossible luxury in 2024. Sure, weer all crazee now, but not in that good ol’ Slade way. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Mandrill “Mandrill Is” (Polydor, 1972)

Mandrill’s ’70s albums contain extraordinary highs and embarrassing lows. They are nothing if not consistently inconsistent. Yet all of these records are worth hearing and are usually reasonably priced, so the ROI is solid (which is the title of their 1975 LP, which you should get, obviously).

The Brooklyn-based soul/funk group changed personnel often, but were led by the talented multi-instrumentalist Wilson brothers: Carlos, Louis, and Ricardo. Everyone in Mandrill played percussion and everyone sang, on top of their more specialized duties. The communal vibe among them was celebratory and the message positive. A savvy DJ could make a killer party-starting mixtape using the band’s best 20 songs.

Mandrill’s second album, Mandrill Is, has more hits than misses and stands as one of their strongest efforts. “Ape Is High” is such a great way to start an album; it’s one of Mandrill’s toughest funk numbers, churning and burning in the vicinity of War’s “Me And Baby Brother.” Frederick “Fudgie Kae” Solomon’s corkscrewing bass line and Charles Padro’s in-the-pocket drums nudge the song into sublime territory while Claude “Coffee” Cave’s florid keyboard solo ices this flavorful cake. The Wilson brothers’ “HIGH” chants and Omar Mesa’s fiery guitar riffs in the coda launch it out of this world. The LP’s other single, the horn-laden stormer “Git It All,” peaked at #37 on the soul chart. It’s one of the purest party-funk tunes ever, with the banal lyrics to prove it (“Come on, everybody/Are you ready to get it on?/Woo!” etc. etc.). But who cares when the rhythm and vocals are so motivating?

More aural flames ensue on “Lord Of The Golden Baboon,” a sizzling funk instrumental with beaucoup hand percussion and vibrato sax blats, and “Kofijahm,” a guttural and chunky tribal-funk workout, but one unexpectedly embroidered with flute, vibes, and a boldly questing bass line. Mandrill’s vast array of instrumentation and dexterity separated them from most 1970s’ funk stars.

But it’s not all sweaty jams on Mandrill Is. Almost half of it offers contemplative pleasures… and annoyances. On a positive note, “I Refuse To Smile” is a close sonic cousin with War’s breezy summertime jam “All Day Music” and “Children Of The Sun” brings celestial soul of sweeping grandeur that’s enhanced by Cave’s vibraphone. The intro to “Central Park” resembles King Crimson’s touching ballad “I Talk To The Wind” (or the first Mandrill album’s “Chutney”), until it morphs into grandiose, swift-paced horn-rock à la Chicago. The uplifting “The Sun Must Go Down” chills with Santana-esque mellifluousness.

The album’s low point has to be “Universal Rhythms.” Having a toddler talk for an extended amount of time on a track is a recipe for cringe. When an adult musician explains what rhythms are to said child in a very earnest manner over chimes, chants, and gong hits, you quickly lift the needle to the next track. But overall, Mandrill Is ranks high in the oft-sampled funkateers’ catalog, and, blessedly, finding a decent copy won’t bankrupt you. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Dinosaur Jr. “You’re Living All Over Me” (SST, 1987)

On their second LP, You’re Living All Over Me, Dinosaur Jr. emerged as the missing link between Neil Young and Meat Puppets. Leaping back and forth across the chasm of pre- and post-punk with a rare agility, these three Amherst, Massachusetts musicians—guitarist/vocalist J Mascis, bassist Lou Barlow (who also played ukulele and “tapes”), and drummer Murph—created exhilarating beehives of primal rock noise.

You’re Living All Over Me‘s nine songs possess a swarming density and they ebb and flow with frightening intensity. Mascis sings as if his entire record collection got washed away in a flood. His parched, forlorn vocals ride fuzzed waves of Zuma-fied feedback, and the turbulent swells of melodic noise have a genuine poignancy and beauty that were uncommon in American post-punkdom of the ’80s.

Right from the start, “Little Fury Things” (Mascis had a thing for misspellings—see “Kracked” and “Raisans”) captures Dinosaur Jr.’s perfect balance between tenderness and turbulence. On “Kracked,” Mascis generates a thrilling update of Bubble Puppy’s wheelie-popping guitar frenzies. The aptly titled “Sludgefeast” out-grunges all of the genre’s big names as it mudslides all over the stereo field. “The Lung” is just a brutal tear-jerker, surging and wailing and shredding like you’d expect from the most sensitive badasses in Massachusetts. The heart-shattering rocker “Raisans” is as catchy as anything on Nevermind and should’ve been a hit; the melody during the line “She ripped my heart out, beating” is god-tier, especially given the lyrics it accentuates.

“Tarpit” achieves another emotional high (or is it low?); it’s a woozy power ballad for which Mascis’ laconic drawl is ideally matched. And while Barlow’s “Lose” is just C+ Dino Junior, the album-closing “Poledo” (basically the birth of Sebadoh, as it’s a Lou solo joint) is a bizarre curveball. An disorienting lo-fi collage that deals with archetypal Barlow-esque romantic and existential conundrums, “Poledo” mixes earnest and urgent folk-rock passages with harsh noise blasts and some of the most moving ambient drones ever finessed by an indie rocker. It’s a real stunner, and, to this day, it’s unbelievable that J let Lou put it on the record.

When You’re Living All Over Me was released in 1987, its unconventionally traditional sound seemed like a true revelation. Thirty-seven years later, the album stands as Dinosaur Jr.’s crowning achievement, even as the band has slouched into the status of underground rock’s respectable elder statesmen. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Parliament “Motor Booty Affair” (Casablanca, 1978)

Parliament‘s seventh album, Motor Booty Affair went gold, spawned the hit single “Aqua Boogie (A Psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop),” offered a beggars banquet of samples for hip-hop producers, and inspired a bunch of Detroit wiseguys (who included friends of mine) to start a fanzine called Motor Booty. While it might not be as celebrated as Funkentelechy vs. The Placebo Syndrome or One Nation Under A Groove, Motor Booty Affair ranks as one of George Clinton and company’s most interesting recordings. In the last half of the ’70s, this large Detroit ensemble were on a roll commercially while maintaining high quality control in the studio.

A concept album inspired by Clinton’s fondness for fishing and bodies of water (and, as always, psychedelics), the LP revolves around the city of Atlantis, a Utopian place where its citizens achieved liberation through dancing—which included busting underwater moves. And if you enjoy agua-centric wordplay, you’ll love Motor Booty Affair.

This album also marked the emergence of former Ohio Players keyboardist/synth master Junie Morrison as Parliament’s musical director (he’s credited as J.S. Theracon for legal reasons). Having Morrison and Bernie Worrell on keys, Michael Hampton and Gary Shider on guitar, along with Bootsy Collins and Cordell “Boogie” Mosson on bass, plus James Brown alumni Fred Wesley and Maceo Parker in the horn section, gave Parliament a deep bench of musicians fluent in funkitude.

Motor Booty Affair dives in with “Mr. Wiggles,” undeniably the coolest song ever about worms dancing underwater. An understated groover, the track insinuates itself into your ears like an eel slithering through seaweed. The ebullient synth squeals and squelches by Worrell or Morrison, Hampton’s Jimmy Nolen-like guitar riffs, Tyrone Lampkins’ staunch 4/4 kicks, and muted horn blares all cohere into a submarine of joy. The cleverly titled “Rumpofsteelskin” is an ass-worshipping party jam that makes early-’80s Prince seem demure. Lubriciously funky rhythms and an earworm refrain by the “Choral Reef” backing vocalists of “livin’ and jivin’ and diggin’ the skin he’s in” elevate the track into DJ gold.

Topping the R&B chart in 1978, “Aqua Boogie (A Psychoalphadiscobetabioaquadoloop)” is another subaquatic funk mover, and a distant cousin to Parliament’s 1977 hit “Flash Light,” but with massed handclaps, strutting Moog bass, and spare, elegant piano embellishment. It’s no surprise that “Aqua Boogie” was sampled in at least 70 songs. One of the more anomalous Parliament cuts, “Liquid Sunshine” triggers a funk-rock torrent that’s so laced with video-game burbles, it tilts into mad psychedelia. The title track’s a slinky funk jam that doubles as a seductive gospel-ish epic, which is something you don’t hear every year.

Motor Booty Affair has a couple of duds—the syrupy ballad “(You’re A Fish And I’m A) Water Sign” and the stilted and not that fonkay “One Of Those Funky Things”—but overall it’s a (sea)worthy component of Parliament’s loaded canon. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

The Vaselines “Enter The Vaselines” (2009, Sub Pop)

Kurt Cobain’s favorite Scottish group, the Vaselines, are best experienced through this compilation. The peak songwriting of guitarist/vocalists Frances McKee and Eugene Kelly occurred on early EPs Son Of A Gun (1987) and Dying For It (1988), with somewhat diminishing returns happening on 1989 debut album Dum-Dum. You can hear all of these recordings, plus a bonus disc containing live performances and demos of the Vaselines’ best-known songs and a middling cover of Gary Glitter Band’s “I Didn’t Know I Loved You (‘Til I Saw You Rock ‘N’ Roll),” on Enter The Vaselines.

The album—and the Vaselines’ career—kicks off with “Son Of A Gun,” an unbelievably catchy blast of adrenalized biker rock/sunshine pop. This song established the Vaselines’ dual-vocal magic, with Kelly’s deadpan cynicism and McKee’s dulcet coos forming an ideal opposites-attract dynamic. Nirvana reverently roughed it up in their Incesticide rendition. The epitome of jubilant, gland-powered pop for hedonistic youth, “Dying For It” and “Teenage Superstars” tear recklessly thorugh some forgotten ’60s garage, emitting squeals of echoey guitar that whoosh through your hair like a farfetched simile. They’re sublimely debauched songs, to be sure, and the former is one of the greatest songs of the ’80s—so good that Nirvana knew it was pointless to cover it. “Molly’s Lips”—which Nirvana did cover—slips into a gentler shimmer of guitar and features bicycle-horn squeaks and McKee’s enchanting, minty-cool vocal. Another Kurt fave, “Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam,” will leave you dewy-eyed and giggling with its viola and resigned girl/boy voices wringing dumb poignancy.

By contrast, “Rory Rides Me Raw” is a slow-rolling janglefest about being relentlessly fucked, while “You Think You’re A Man” is a saucy cover of Divine’s sneering, trashy hi-NRG banger from 1984. The latter was certainly a quirky choice for a Scottish rock group to tackle. The handsome, burly rocker “Sex Sux (Amen)” was as close as the Vaselines came to gr*nge. Similarly, the raunchy “Monsterpussy” cockily struts like fellow Scots Jesus And Mary Chain ca. Automatic, but with higher estrogen. More heaviness comes on “Dum-Dum,” flame-broiled biker rock with a self-explanatory title, and “Let’s Get Ugly,” whose chaotic hard rock that reveals an affinity for Blue Cheer. The epic, marauding rock and roll of “Lovecraft” exudes an air of danger—plus sitar and tabla embellishments—that you’d never suspect from looking at photos of these cute Scots.

Countering that machismo, the Vaselines dip into some Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazlewood-like balladry on “Slushy” and “No Hope,” the latter being a conversational ballad about addiction/alcoholism. And with “Dying For It (The Blues)” a cool, sludgy, slowed-down version of their best song, the Vaselines show a heretofore hidden side and a willingness to not take themselves too seriously.

More than just a footnote in the turbulent saga of Nirvana, the Vaselines deserve their own prominent place in rock history as perhaps the best band named after a lubricant. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Beat Happening “Beat Happening” (K, 1985)

K Records founder Calvin Johnson and his Beat Happening band mates Heather Lewis and Bret Lunsford spearheaded the influential international pop underground movement in America, where a not insignificant number of youths clamored for twee, sensitive indie rock in the wake of hardcore’s macho aggression. And Beat Happening were all too gleeful to give ’em the low-fidelity, bare-bones goods on their self-titled 1985 debut album. (The original Beat Happening release contained 10 songs; it was later expanded to 23 on various editions.)

The Olympia, Washington trio released some very good records after their first one; 1988’s Jamboree, with its oft-covered, swaying ballad “Indian Summer,” particularly resonates. But Beat Happening represents the band in their purest and most moving form. One would have to be among the planet’s most hard-hearted people not to be affected by these rickety, awkward, and charming tunes.

The members’ rudimentary instrumental skills, the lack of low-end frequencies, and Johnson’s flatter-than-Herman Munster’s-noggin singing didn’t prevent Beat Happening from creating a grip of classic songs. Accusations that they can’t really play or sing ring hollow when the results are this compelling. Beat Happening’s modestly sized catalog testifies to the players’ ingenuity within limited abilities. Sure, virtuosity’s nice, but there’s a lot to be said about cool ideas expressed in a shambolic manner. (The Shaggs, for one, built a rabid cult following out of it.)

The very unpolished nature of Beat Happening’s songs allowed them to impact listeners harder. The lack of sonic clutter enabled Calvin, Heather, and Bret’s raw, untutored voices to convey cleverly relatable emotions regarding love, sex, and food with a winsome effectiveness. The songs on Beat Happening are the sonic equivalent of stick figures, yet they’re somehow imbued with a vivid dimensionality.

Album opener “Foggy Eyes”‘s endearing jangle-pop is like waking up from a pleasant dream on a sunny Sunday with no pressing obligations, ably demonstrated by Lewis’ earnest and unadorned singing—which is not quite as flat as Johnson’s. Although her voice is limited, Lewis effectively communicates romantic obsession in the 93-second gem “I Let Him Get To Me.” Another Lewis-sung tune, the bouncy, peppy rock of “Down At The Sea,” is adorably child-like, anticipating the C86 sound that animated UK indie-pop in the mid ’80s.

Johnson asserts himself on the mic with “Bad Seeds,” radiating belligerence on this malcontent cousin of the Cramps’ cover of Ronnie Cook And The Gaylads’ “Goo Goo Muck.” A garage-rock anthem for the world’s misfits, this might be the most sinister cut in Beat Happening’s catalog, although it’s nowhere near the intensity of, say, Birthday Party. The live rendition included here is nastier than the studio version and as murky as the Mississippi River. Johnson informs the urgent rock of “I Love You” with a lustiness seldom heard in the era’s indie scene. But the mesmerizing “Our Secret” stands as the album’s musical peak, as it slackly, almost funkily chugs and boasts the group’s most infectious guitar riff, while Johnson paints a portrait of a surreptitious romance in his foghorn, plaintive tones.

I’m not gonna lie: Beat Happening hits differently when you’re middle-aged or older. This is definitely young-people music. Nonetheless, your graying self can still appreciate it, deriving amusement from the fresh-faced drama and poignancy that Beat Happening forged with beguiling amateurishness. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Pixies “Surfer Rosa” (4AD, 1988)

Surfer Rosa was a planet-shaking album for a lot of folks when it came out 36 years ago. At the time, despite Steve Albini’s brain-burstingly loud production, I thought that the record didn’t remotely capture what Pixies sounded like live, judging by the show I caught by them in Kalamazoo, Michigan’s tiny Club Soda in March 1987.

At that early stage of their career, Pixies reminded me of the Tasmanian Devil, a cartoon character on The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Hour. That wild fucker was all over the place, whirling with unpredictable frenzy, scaring the wits out of grade-school me. The studio somewhat domesticated Pixies’ feral impulse. That being said, few records released in ’88 came off as more feverish and vortical than Surfer Rosa.

Many of the songs on Surfer Rosa tap into the explosive kineticism displayed on “Vamos” from the group’s 1987 debut EP, Come On Pilgrim. That could have been the influence of Albini (RIP) at work, for most of Surfer Rosa‘s cuts—”Something Against You,” “Broken Face,” “Gigantic,” “River Euphrates,” “I’m Amazed,” “Tony’s Theme,” and “Oh My Golly!”—detonate like Big Black or swell to monstrous dimensions, or like a lighter weight Hüsker Dü. There’s that same feeling of intensity cranked to superhuman extremes, of amp-blowing velocity and volume.

But whereas Big Black were content to disgorge sooty bluster, Pixies retain nuance and melody—the variable shadings of rock’s spectrum of colors. Plus, they have Black Francis, the most unpredictable vocalist this side of Captain Beefheart or Pere Ubu’s David Thomas. Francis’ hoarse ejaculations ably compete with the maelstrom of guitars that he and Joey Santiago wield, along with the bass of Kim Deal and David Lovering’s drums.

On the LP’s less cataclysmic numbers—”Bone Machine,” “Break My Body,” “Cactus,” “Where Is My Mind,” and “Brick Is Red”—Pixies beam with a rakish pop sensibility that’s both infectious and haunting. They possessed those all-too-rare commodities in late-’80s pop—unharnessed energy and inventiveness. One senses that nobody else in the world could have created this gorgeous cyclone of sound.

Santiago deserves much credit for Pixies’ remarkable music. His talent is perhaps best displayed on the revamped “Vamos,” where he sprays enough delirious feedback distortion to wow the trousers off Jimi Hendrix and Andy Gill (both legends now deceased, but you get my drift). But the biggest surprise on Surfer Rosa is Deal’s spectral vocals, which greatly enhance tracks such as “Bone Machine,” “River Euphrates,” “Break My Body,” and “Gigantic” (which she cowrote with Francis).

What about the lyrics? Oh, there’s a preoccupation with bones, bodies of water, desperate, absurd love, mutilation, incest… But to worry about lyrics on an album like this is akin to fretting about how your hair looks in a hurricane. Surfer Rosa still sounds like Pixies’ peak, still sounds like the players were all intoxicated with energy and freedom, which they used to subvert conventional indie-rock rules. Nothing has changed my mind about this subject in the 36 years since it came out. There’s a good reason why Kurt Cobain cited Surfer Rosa as a primary influence on Nevermind. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Fleetwood Mac “Mystery To Me” (Reprise, 1973)

Fleetwood Mac’s eighth studio album—which peaked at #67 in 1973 and took three years to go Gold—represented a high point in that group’s unstable post-Peter Green era. Dominated by American guitarist/vocalist Bob Welch and the ever-reliable keyboardist/vocalist Christine McVie, Mystery To Me feels transitional yet also had some fantastic anomalies to help set it apart from a catalog rife with stylistic shifts.

Recorded on the Rolling Stones Mobile Unit, the album definitely was an improvement over its mediocre predecessor, Penguin and more interesting than its successor, Heroes Are Hard To Find. And it showed that Fleetwood Mac had recovered from the major bummer of losing guitarists/composers Danny Kirwan and Jeremy Spencer.

Welch asserts his importance from the opening song, “Emerald Eyes.” Yes, his raspy and dulcet singing is an acquired taste, but it’s one I’ve gladly embraced. His voice hits like a welcome sedative on this romantic ballad on which Mick Fleetwood’s beats slap surprisingly hard to heighten the urgency. On “Believe Me,” McVie reinforces how crucial she is to FM with a rollicking, piano-heavy rocker in the Faces vein, before the song goes on some dreamy tangents. This might be Christine’s hardest-rocking tune, as husband John’s bass avidly pumps along with Mick’s booming bumps. Furthermore, “Just Crazy Love” oozes effortless melodic gold in that patented McVie manner. Album-closer “Why” reveals another facet of McVie’s compositional skill; it’s a stately, stripped-down folk blues that blossoms into a string-laden power ballad about coming to terms with a breakup. McVie’s “The Way I Feel” is a spare, gorgeous thwarted-love ballad that sounds like something Elton John might have turned into a hit.

Things get really interesting with Welch’s “Hypnotized,” which wasn’t a hit but became a fixture on US FM stations (shockingly, the Pointer Sisters covered it on 1978’s Energy). Fleetwood’s triple-time beats mimic the precision boom-boom-boom-tsss of a drum machine, lending the song a trance-inducing pulse that merges perfectly with the terse electric and acoustic guitar filigrees. Welch’s wonderstruck and numb vocals seem to outline the effects of an acid trip—which, when coupled with the trippy, beachy vibes, transforms “Hypnotized” into an unintentional Balearic club anthem, years before those paradisiacal islands became a cultural hotspot.

“Forever” (cowritten by John McVie, Welch, and guitarist Bob Weston) follows in the denigrated tradition of white rockers dabbling with reggae. But it’s surprisingly enjoyable—definitely more tolerable than the Rolling Stones’ “Cherry Oh Baby.” Then again, I’m just a sucker for Welch’s gentle, pure vocal timbres, which fall somewhere between Paul Simon and Canned Heat’s Alan “Blind Owl” Wilson. “Keep On Going” is an oddity in the FM canon, as McVie sings on a Welch-penned song. Even stranger, it’s a swaggering orchestral folk-rock tune, with strings arranged by Richard Hewson—plus Weston plays a lovely flamenco-flavored acoustic-guitar solo.

Another tangent occurs on “The City,” where the Mac pay homage to James Gang’s nasty funk rock. “Miles Away” sounds like the coolest song that the Steve Miller Band never wrote—peaceful-easy-felling rock that nonchalantly accelerates when it desires to. This track could not have been written by any other Fleetwood Mac member but Robert Lawrence Welch Jr. The thorny, complex rock of “Somebody” is as close as FM got to Captain Beefheart. The LP’s only kinda-sorta misstep is the cover of the 1965 Yardbirds hit “For Your Love.” It’s an awkward fit for Fleetwood Mac, but not uninteresting. As with some of Bryan Ferry’s reinterpretations, FM don’t quite get the inflections and nuances right, and that friction sparks an odd sort of joy.

Mystery To Me deserves much more respect than Fleetwood Mac fans—and people, in general—have given it. It’s too bad that this version of the band broke up after it was discovered that Weston was having an affair with Fleetwood’s wife, Jenny Boyd. (Bob, how in blazes did you think this was a good idea?!) -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Lijadu Sisters “Horizon Unlimited” (Afrodisia, 1979)

Born in 1948 in Ibadan, Nigeria, identical twins Kehinde (who passed away in 2019) and Taiwo Lijadu were among the few women in that African nation who maintained successful musical careers in the 1970s. They released five strong albums in that decade, none of which are easy to obtain in the US, except for the fifth, 1979’s Horizon Unlimited, which Numero Group just reissued on vinyl and CD. (Thankfully, that Chicago label plans to re-release the sisters’ entire catalog—but not all at once, thankfully, for our wallets.) Trivia: For five months in 1972, the Lijadus toured with Ginger Baker’s band Salt; the former Cream drummer also had been playing in Nigeria with Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti.

My first encounter with the Lijadu Sisters occurred with Strut Records’ excellent Nigeria 70: The Definitive History Of 70’s Funky Lagos comp. According to that LP’s liner notes, “Orere Elejigbo” tells the story of a couple trying in vain to have a child. They visited a native doctor who instructed them to contact the god Ifa. The deity tells them they will conceive a girl and when she reaches adulthood, she should be able to marry whomever she wishes. She ultimately marries a king. The song was a coded way for the sisters to hint to the government to stop going to war and to cease destroying its citizens. The defiant Afrobeat backing—replete with Richard Archer’s jabbing bass line and the ladies’ impassioned unison singing—seriously drives home the point.

The intensely suspenseful “Erora” is an African Head Charge-like charmer with dank low end, including some of the chunkiest drum sounds outside of a Tony Allen session, courtesy of Friday Jumbo, who was part of Fela’s Africa 70 group. Drummer Laolu Akins and talking-drum specialist Soji Adenie add ballast. The Lijadus’ voices are glorious conduits to joy. “Gbwomo Mi” delivers thick Afrobeat action, with a punchy, downtempo rhythm. The sisters soar above the coiled shuffle like headstrong angels—so dulcet and vibrant.

“Come On Home” is loping, funky sunshine pop, African style, and sung in English instead of the sisters’ native Yoruba. That this stunner’s racked up about 23 million listens on $p0t1fy means that it probably received placement in a popular TV show or movie, or gained traction on TikTok, but I’ll be damned if I can find verification of that. The album ends with “Not Any Longer,” which begins with Adenie’s gripping talking-drum solo and then shifts into a slow, ultra-funky chugger with distorted, Billy Preston-esque keyboard squelches. The Lijadus’ most seductive song, it foreshadows some of Grace Jones‘ early-’80s joints.

Out of print on vinyl in the US since 2012, Horizon Unlimited was produced by keyboardist Lemmy Jackson, who also played in the great psych-rock group Blo. All six tracks here are great, and it’s hard to discern which one triggers the most pleasure. But what a wonderful puzzle to solve. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Pharoah Sanders “Jewels Of Thought” (Impulse!/ABC, 1970)

For the late jazz legend Pharoah Sanders, sidelong tracks—indeed, even album-long tracks, as the stunning Black Unity proves—served him very well. In this way, the American saxophonist was something like astral jazz’s Fela Kuti; both musicians thrived in epic frameworks.

Coming off the 1969 blockbuster Karma and its soul-inflating, 33-minute anthem “The Creator Has A Master Plan,” Jewels Of Thought continues Sanders’ journey into transcendental sonic exploration. His band for this important mission is stellar: Lonnie Liston Smith (piano, African flute, kalimba, percussion), Richard Davis and Cecil McBee (bass, percussion), Idris Muhammad and Roy Haynes (drums, percussion), and Leon Thomas (vocals, percussion). In addition to playing his powerful tenor sax, Pharoah contributes reed flute, contrabass clarinet, kalimba, chimes, and percussion. (Jeez, that’s a lot of percussion.)

The 15-minute opener, “Hum-Allah-Hum-Allah-Hum-Allah,” possesses one of Pharoah’s most sublimely beautiful melodies. It’s marked by Smith’s subliminally rolling piano, which could easily be pitched up and interpolated into a killer house-music track. Near the beginning, Thomas instructs us, “We want you to join us this evening in this universal prayer for peace. All you got to do is clap your hands—1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3,” (if only it were that simple), before singing and yodeling his ass off in his trademark manner. There are few more emotive singers in all of jazz than Leon Thomas, even as he’s groaning like a wounded water buffalo (in perfect pitch, to boot).

The lyrics are concise and consoling: “Prince of peace/Won’t you hear our plea/Bring your bells of peace/Let loving never cease.” Smith’s piano becomes a shimmering beacon of hope while Sanders’ sax is a conduit to some of the most extreme emotions in human history, ranging from absolute tenderness to shrieking ecstasy/agony. Rarely is catharsis this artful. The bell- and gourd-shaking, kalimba-plucking, and tub-thumping keep things vibrating on a higher plane. Unfettered joy alternates with scalding vitriol, giving your psyche whiplash.

The nearly 28-minute “Sun In Aquarius” begins with a strange fanfare of flute, contrabass clarinet, chimes, gong splats, and shakers, all of which wouldn’t sound out of place on The Holy Mountain soundtrack—a high compliment, to be sure. Following this odd intro, Smith’s pounding piano clusters lead the portentous rumble the band generates, recalling avant-garde improvers such as MEV or Gruppo Di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza more than any jazz artist of the time. That is, until Sanders’ sax enters the fray with some emergency-warning bleats.

Unexpectedly, the piece shifts into an exuberant, jaunty paraphrase of “Creator,” with Thomas yodeling “yeah”s and “oh”s in his lovable way. Leon really set the bar high with his ecstatic, utterly moving glossolalia. A bass duet at around 17 minutes grounds “Sun In Aquarius” with lithe pizzicati follows, accompanied by emphatic bell-tree tintinnabulation and fragrant kalimba arpeggios. Then Sanders delivers his most fiery blasts yet, setting off drum explosions. This is the sort of infernal free jazz that separates true heads from dilettantes. The last three minutes find Thomas returning with his heart-healing ululations and Pharoah blowing righteous, raspy soulfulness. Talk about an emotional roller coaster…

Jewels Of Thought will leave you exhausted yet paradoxically stimulated to the max. It’s one of Sanders’ greatest achievements. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Yo La Tengo “New Wave Hot Dogs” (Coyote, 1987)

Goofy title and all, New Wave Hot Dogs was the beginning of a fantastic run of albums by New Jersey indie-rock stalwarts Yo La Tengo. That stretch from this one to President Yo La Tengo, Fakebook, May I Sing With Me, and Painful plowed a narrow but very rich seam of tough-and-tender rock that used the Velvet Underground’s fertile catalog as a template. Might as well borrow from the best, right?

Yo La Tengo—guitarist/vocalist Ira Kaplan, drummer/vocalist Georgia Hubley, and bassist Stephan Wichnewski (later James McNew)—seem to have inhaled the VU oeuvre as prepubescents, and New Wave Hot Dogs was the result. Nobody simulates the cooler side of the Velvets better than YLT—except for the Feelies. Of course, when you’re band includes a former rock critic (Kaplan wrote for NY Rocker) who sings like a higher-pitched Lou Reed acolyte, siphoning influences from the Velvets is expected. At least these superfans had the guts to wear their fandom on their sleeve by covering the deep cut “It’s Alright (The Way That You Live).”

But, to be fair, YLT generate their own distinctive ax heat; check out the rancorous rave-up “House Fall Down,” the PSF Records-esque speed-freak eruptions of “The Story Of Jazz,” the twisted noise jam “Let’s Compromise” (featuring guest guitarist from Bongwater, Dave Rick). Another guest, dB’s guitarist Chris Stamey, delivers a Bubble Puppy-esque solo on “Lewis.” Kaplan glazes his understated Velvetoons with feedback that stays just long enough to make its point. The too-brief “Lost in Bessemer” proves that YLT could forge a moving, intimate instrumental, too; it’s their “Embryonic Journey.”

Alternately manic and contemplative, New Wave Hot Dogs leaves a pleasant afterglow. It took YLT a while to shake their VU obsession, but they’ve gone on to hack their own niche in the indie-rock stratosphere. However, it’s odd that they’ve let New Wave Hot Dogs (and the equally wonderful President Yo La Tengo) languish in out-of-printland for over 35 years. Or maybe it’s some legal b.s. beyond the band’s control? Whatever the case, it’s problem that needs rectifying. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.

Bongwater “Double Bummer” (Shimmy-Disc, 1988)

Following in the footsteps of the Mothers Of Invention, with whom they share a perverse sense of humor, Bongwater made their debut album a double. Led by actor/performance artist Ann Magnuson (see her in The Hunger, Making Mr. Right and other films) and former Butthole Surfers/Shockabilly bassist and renowned producer Kramer, Bongwater made a unique, albeit small splash in the indie-rock world with their sprawling debut. Their wry parodies, mutated glam rock, wide-eyed psychedelia, and inventive cover versions of famous rockers’ fluke hits and deep cuts made Bongwater a quirky cult band who deserve wider recognition.

The distinctive Kramer production stamp permeates all four sides and 27 songs of Double Bummer. The sound’s largely shrouded in a soupy fog; imagine Butthole Surfers on less potent drugs. A polluted stream of consciousness runs through this scrambled, rambling soundscape, as Magnuson sings and reads from her dream diary while Kramer laces tracks with vocal snippets from Richard Nixon, John F. Kennedy, ignorant right-wingers, argumentative people on the street, etc. In this cacophonous collage, everything is fragmented, skittish, askew, out of focus. The prevalent mode is truly fugged hallucinogenic rock—a kind of slo-mo psychedelia swelling with muted grandeur and subaquatic guitar scrawl by Dave Rick.

Kramer’s unpredictable flights of lunacy and lucidity bring us inspired versions of Gary Glitter Band’s “Rock & Roll Part 2,” Johnny Cash’s “There You Go,” the Monkees’ “You Just May Be The One,” the Beatles’ “Rain” and “Love You To,” Soft Machine’s “We Did It Again,” and a Chinese translation of Led Zeppelin’s “Dazed And Confused.” The latter will make you laugh until you fly.

Bongwater’s catalog is long out of print and even the career-spanning, four-CD box set came out in 1998 isn’t easy to obtain. It’s about time somebody—maybe even Kramer’s own Shimmy-Disc label—reissued their four cool albums and the 1987 EP, Breaking No New Ground!, that kicked it all off. -Buckley Mayfield

Located in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, Jive Time is always looking to buy your unwanted records (provided they are in good condition) or offer credit for trade. We also buy record collections.