Country

Marsha Hunt “Woman Child” (Track, 1971)

Born in Philadelphia in 1946, Marsha Hunt attained cultural cachet and musical brilliance in the UK during the hothouse milieu of late ’60s and ’70s London. She is something of a Renaissance woman, earning notoriety as an actor, model, singer, and novelist. On a more salacious note, Hunt also had more than artistic relationships with some of England’s rock royalty, including Marc Bolan, Mick Jagger (with whom she had a child), John Mayall, and Soft Machine’s Mike Ratledge, whom she married to help her resolve visa problems. In addition, Hunt sang alongside Bluesology keyboardist Reg Dwight (later Elton John), acted in the London staging of the zeitgeisty musical Hair, and reputedly was the inspiration for the Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar.” What a legend…

We here at Jive Time HQ are most interested in her musical exploits, though, which she flaunts with panache on her debut LP, Woman Child. Produced by three of the UK’s finest studio wizards—Gus Dudgeon, Tony Visconti, and Kit Lambert—the album goes heavy on covers… some expected, some surprising. With everyone from Humble Pie to Jonny Jenkins to Cher covering Dr. John’s “I Walk On Gilded Splinters,” it’s not shocking for a soulful diva such as Ms. Hunt to take a crack at it. And Marsha really digs into the haunted guts of this New Orleans voodoo-funk classic with apropos gravitas and intensity. It’s clear from the outset that Hunt’s acting chops came in handy when she got in front of a mic in the studio. Her expressiveness is elite.

Hunt also flexes her formidable range on “No Face, No Name, No Number,” an intimate, orchestral interpretation of the 1968 Traffic ballad. The vibe resembles some of the gentler pieces on Love’s Forever Changes. Hunt gives one of the Supremes’ most heart-rending hits, “My World Is Empty Without You,” a nuanced reading, reflecting the lyrics’ profound hurt amid a shivering, orchestral backing and subtle conga patter. Listen closely for her beau, Bolan, on backing vox. On “Keep The Customer Satisfied,” Hunt blows out Simon & Garfunkel’s twee folk song into a gospel/hippie-rock revival, with crazy, wailing sax. And her seductive take on Dylan’s celebratory country-rock nugget “You Ain’t Goin Nowhere” probably made Bobby all hot and bothered.

The first of three Bolan compositions reworked here is “Hot Rod Papa,” in which Hunt switches the gender of Marc’s spare blues-rocker “Hot Rod Mama.” She and her musicians improve the original into sleazy, fried R&B that’s not too far from what Rotary Connection were doing a couple of years earlier. A mellifluous, folk-proggy Bolan number from Tyrannosaurus Rex’s Prophets, Seers & Sages The Angels Of The Ages, “Stacey Grove” doesn’t really play to Hunt’s strengths, but it’s interesting nonetheless. And for all the John’s Children fans, there’s a remarkably sexxxy soul cover of the freakbeat classic “Desdemona,” written before Bolan formed Tyrannosaurus Rex. Here’s where Hunt reveals her swag in excelsior. The way she sings “lift up your skirt and flyyy-iiieee” is a serious climactic moment on Woman Child.

On “Wild Thing,” Hunt once again super-charges a white-boy track (this time by the Troggs) with show-stopping eroticism. She brings the full force of her towering thespianic powers to this groovy ode to raunchiness. Rumor has it that Faces members Ron Wood, Ian McLagan, and Kenny Jones play on this. I believe it.

It should be noted that Hunt’s greatest song, “(Oh No! Not!) The Beast Day,” only appears on a 45 released by the vaunted Vertigo label in 1973. I paid a pretty hefty price for it, but the ROI has been great, as I play it in 90% of my DJ gigs to overwhelming approval. Both that single and this album deserve reissues. It may be quixotic to think that this review will initiate the process, but it can’t hurt to put the idea out into the universe. -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 Byrds “Ballad Of Easy Rider” (Columbia, 1969)

Unless you’re a staunch contrarian, your favorite Byrds album is probably one of the six that was released between 1965 (Mr. Tambourine Man) and 1967 (Sweetheart Of The Rodeo). But post-1967 Byrds—with Roger McGuinn often the lone original member left in the lineup—had some strong albums, too. My favorite of the bunch is Ballad Of Easy Rider, which, as most fans know, has little to do with the wonderful counterculture film Easy Rider… except for McGuinn’s title track and the fact that one of its stars, Peter Fonda, wrote the LP’s liner notes.

The personnel for Easy Rider included drummer/banjoist/guitarist Gene Parsons, bassist John York, lead guitarist Clarence White, and guitarist/synthesist Roger McGuinn, with all members singing. Terry Melcher and Jerry Hochman produced. Perhaps helped by its association with the Easy Rider movie, the album peaked at #36 on the Billboard albums chart and the singles “Ballad Of Easy Rider” and “Jesus Is Just Alright” had some commercial success, although not on the level of “Mr. Tambourine Man” or “Turn! Turn! Turn!”

Speaking of “Ballad Of Easy Rider,” this McGuinn composition differed from the version that appeared in the Dennis Hopper film. That one only featured Roger on guitar and vocals and Gene Parsons on harmonica. This one had the whole band contributing, with orchestral elements added at Melcher’s suggestion. It has the flowing, bucolic bliss of “Goin’ Back” off The Notorious Byrd Brothers. Trivia: Dylan contributed the opening line (“The river flows, it flows to the sea/Wherever that river goes, that’s where I want to be/Flow, river, flow,” scribbled on a napkin that he gave to Fonda), but he demanded that his songwriting credit be nixed, because of his dislike of the film. Originally performed by Art Reynolds Singers, the Byrds’ “Jesus Is Just Alright” wasn’t as successful as the Doobie Brothers’ souped-up, percussion-heavy version with unison vocals, but they really lean into this inspirational gospel-rocker, so that even atheists can appreciate it.

Of the two traditionals arranged by the Byrds, “Oil In My Lamp” is a gorgeous, solemn tune with lovely vocal harmonies while “Jack Tarr The Sailor” is a stilted sea shanty that I could live without. The two country covers fare slightly better. The Pamela Polland-penned “Tulsa County” is a ballad that gently tugs the heartstrings, buoyed by White’s delicate, intricate acoustic-guitar tapestries. “There Must Be Someone”—written by Vern Gosdin—is a spare, heart-melting ballad that even this non-lover of country music can enjoy.

On “Gunga Din,” Parsons proved he could write a sweet-natured rambler in the vein of Fred Neil’s “Everybody’s Talkin’,” and sing it with hearty tenderness, too. And on the Dylan classic “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” the Byrds slowed the tempo for greater poignancy—plus, the vocal harmonies and White’s sighing pedal steel sway this version into the W column.

Lo and behold, my favorite song on Easy Rider is McGuinn’s least favorite: “Fido.” Composer York based its structure on Dylan’s “The Mighty Quinn,” but with its excellent extended drum/percussion break (the only drum solo in the Byrds’ catalog), “Fido” sounds like a shoe-in for the next volume in Light In The Attic’s Country Funk series. I mean, it’s the Byrds’ second-funkiest cut after “Captain Soul,” but McGuinn thought it shouldn’t even be considered a Byrds song, because York, a “lowly” bassist, sang on it. Sorry, Rog—this track rules and you sound like a whiny bore. I think were Peter Fonda alive, he would agree with me here. -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.

Poco “Poco” (Epic, 1970)

For decades I avoided Poco records because I thought they were the epitome of bland, soft country rock. I’m not even sure how I came to that conclusion, as two members—Richie Furay and Jim Messina—played with Buffalo Springfield, whom I dig. Sometimes you just formulate rigid dogmas based on no or little evidence. It’s a bad habit. Then I remembered being plagued by Poco’s gooey 1978 radio hit “Crazy Love,” and likely had scorned them based one that one song. We didn’t have YouTube or streaming services in the 20th century, so one could, if so inclined, hold ignorant grudges against musicians for years on end.

But in the late 2010s, after hearing someone I respect praise their early albums, I decided to take a chance on Poco’s self-titled LP because, what the fuck, it was a buck. And, man, am I glad I did. Sure, it gets a bit maudlin here and there—especially on the cover of Dallas Frazier/George Jones’ “Honky Tonk Downstairs.” But there’s also some residual Springfield melodiousness here, some Sweetheart Of The Rodeo and Michael Nesmith’s First National Band mojo, and some Neil Young-like guitar shredding by Messina and Furay.

The Furay composition “Hurry Up (Now Tell Me)” opens Poco with the sort of deceptively funky country rock that you sometimes hear on Steven Stills’ solo records. Replete with imaginatively arranged vocal harmonies, this song grooves harder than you’d expect from a bunch of honkies with a pedal steel (wielded by Rusty Young). And Messina’s surprisingly tough guitar solo would make Neil’s sideburns roll up and down. Jim comes in hot with “You Better Think Twice,” an uptempo country-rock breezer with punchy rhythms that should’ve been a hit. Sad to say, Poco garnered zero chart action. “Keep On Believin'”—which Furay and bassist Timothy Schmit wrote—is a rousing rocker overflowing with feel-good energy, bespangled with Young’s radiant dobro solo.

I was ready to write off the sentimental ballad “Anyway Bye Bye,” but it unexpectedly goes bombastic, so respect is due for subverting tropes. The baroque country rocker “Don’t Let It Pass By” flirts with prog complexity, proving again that Poco couldn’t be too easily pigeonholed.

That realization bursts into vivid truth on “Nobody’s Fool/El Tonto De Nadie, Regresa.” Written by the entire band, it starts in funky, blues-rock/slow-burner mode, as Poco ease out of their comfort zone. What sounds like a flamboyant organ solo but is actually Young’s pedal steel run through a Leslie speaker enlivens things. About four minutes in, though, Grantham gets methodically funky on the drums and someone (fab guest percussionist Milt Holland, probably) goes off on cowbell and shaker, as Poco begin to sound like Medeski Martin & Wood, 21 years before the fact. A few minutes later, a serious percussion jam commences that would impress early-’70s Santana. The piece eventually heads into a heady conflagration that sounds like Traffic jamming with Traffic Sound, climaxing with a wild, squealing guitar solo. With that, we’re miles beyond any quaint, cozy notions of trad country-rock conformity, thankfully. Poco earn every second of this 18:25 magnum opus.

For “Nobody’s Fool/El Tonto De Nadie, Regresa” alone, the bargain-bin staple Poco is worth your undivided attention. I’m sorry I waited so long to get familiar with this transportive epic. -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.

Area Code 615 “Trip In The Country” (Polydor, 1970)

Area Code 615 are best known—if they’re known at all—for their track “Stone Fox Chase” being the theme to the progressive UK music show The Old Grey Whistle Test. But more importantly, these session musicians were Nashville’s answer to the Wrecking Crew or the Funk Brothers. Yeah, they were on that level. Some members played on Bob Dylan’s Blonde On Blonde and Nashville Skyline, some on Neil Young’s Harvest, some on Linda Ronstadt’s Silk Purse. Some were also members of the estimable Barefoot Jerry. The point is, Area Code 615 labored in service to other people’s commercial visions in order to make a living, but on the side, they demonstrated their own lofty creative ambitions. Trip In The Country—their second and final album—represents the zenith of their formidable talents

If Area Code 615 had a leader, it was guitarist Mac Gayden, who sadly passed away on April 16. The rest of the lineup consisted of Charlie McCoy (harmonica), Weldon Myrick (steel guitar), Kenny Buttrey (drums), Bobby Thompson (banjo), Wayne Moss (guitars), Buddy Spicher (fiddle), Norbert Putnam (bass), and David Briggs (piano). Studs, all.

Their distinctive skills slap you upside the head immediately with “Scotland,” as Thompson’s banjo and Spicher’s fiddle bring an Appalachian-hoedown feel to what is essentially a deep funk cut. That sort of unlikely hybrid makes for damned interesting listening, friends. Late in the song, the band breaks into a homage to Sam & Dave’s “Hold On I’m Coming”—just because. “Russian Red” is a rambling tune with jangly guitars that predate the sound of R.E.M.’s Fables Of The Reconstruction by 15 years, while “Gray Suit Men” is a country-rock barn-burner that wouldn’t sound out of place on Jan Hammer and Jerry Goodman’s Like Children. In a similar vein is “Katy Hill,” whose rambunctious, fiddle-heavy rock boasts a killer, plunging bassline by Putnam.

If you want some definitive progressive country rock (not an oxymoron), check out “Welephant Walk.” The ebullient instrumental “Sligo” stands as the funkiest song on the album, and it ought to appear on the next volume of Light In The Attic’s illuminating Country Funk series. One of their absolute peaks, “Devil Weed And Me (Buffalo Herd)” is full of surprising dynamics and changes, even getting heavy-metal-ish in spots, with a riff that would make Deep Purple green with envy.

The album’s highlight, unsurprisingly, comes on “Stone Fox Chase.” This is perhaps the most advanced fusion of country, funk, and psych-rock ever waxed. The panoply of percussive timbres alone launches this track into the pantheon. I love to play “Stone Fox Chase” in DJ sets in order to see people’s WTF? expressions as it goes through its shocking permutations.

It’s kind of wild that Trip In The Country vinyl has been oop in the US for 55 years. Even though used copies are not terribly scarce, we could use a nice deluxe reissue with liner notes… which—just putting this out there—I would love to write. -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.

Tony Joe White “Tony Joe” (Monument, 1970)

The late Tony Joe White should’ve been at least 75% as popular as Elvis Presley. He had the deep, sexy voice, the knack for telling vivid stories in songs set in his Louisiana swampland youth, the tight guitar playing, a sly sense of humor, and the rugged good looks. TJW was the whole package, and he was more versatile than Elvis (who charted with White’s own biggest hit, “Polk Salad Annie”). So while Tony had some commercial success (the aforementioned hit in the last sentence and “Rainy Night In Georgia”) and wrote a couple more blockbusters for Tina Turner ca. 1989, he didn’t come close to the fame and fortune of his fellow Southern stud. Life ain’t fair, etc.

TJW’s first five albums from 1969-1972 are all great and representative of his prodigious sangin’ [sic], songwriting, and guitar-pickin’ skills. I could’ve written about any of them, but I chose his third LP, Tony Joe, because I dig the poncho Tony’s wearing on the back cover and the horse he’s riding looks cool. I also picked Tony Joe because it starts with one of White’s toughest tracks, “Stud Spider,” which Light In The Attic Records placed on the first comp of its essential Country Funk series. In conjunction with Muscle Shoals hotshots Norbert Putnam (bass), David Briggs (organ), and other session-musician ringers hanging around Nashville studios at the time, White weaves a lustful tale of love via the metaphor of spider behavior while he and the boys erect a slow-burning funk edifice to accentuate the lyrics’ drama. Kanye West and Common have sampled Jerry Corrigan’s drums from this one, and it’s surprising more hip-hop producers haven’t.

Further excursions in grooviness occur with “Save Your Sugar For Me,” a paragon of country-funk accessibility, with White’s trademark libidinousness leading the way and female backing vocalists (uncredited, unfortunately) adding that titular sweetness. With natural gusto and grunting lasciviousness, Tony embodies the Southern-fried braggadocio of Otis Redding’s “Hard To Handle.” Clearly, TJW was born to perform this soulful crotch-scorcher. “What Does It Take (To Win Your Love)” (previously done by Jr. Walker & The All Stars) reveals White’s tender side with mellifluous harmonica playing and a confidential singing tone.

Another highlight occurs on “Conjure Woman,” an ominous pounder about a swamp-dwelling witch whom the narrator feared would put a spell on him. The album’s low point is Donnie Fritts/Spooner Oldham’s “My Friend,” a string-heavy ballad that unfortunately tumbles into the maudlin column. White’s better when he straps on the acoustic for some minimalist blues, as he does with “Stockholm Blues” and “Widow Wimberly.” Speaking of blues, White really rises to the occasion with his take on John Lee Hooker’s lean, menacing 1962 original of “Boom Boom.” He lays on the hambone-tough-guy persona thickly while playing mean harmonica and subtly savage electric guitar over the top of the classic’s pitiless lope. This version’s nearly eight minutes long, and it’s all gripping. Ain’t no way Elvis could do it better… -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.

J.J. Cale “Naturally” (Shelter, 1971)

J.J. Cale’s debut LP sounds as if it were recorded while the leader was on the verge of nodding off to sleep. Even though Naturally is a party album, a driving album, a sex album, a crying album, a mourning album, everything on it sounds muted, swaddled in fluffy blankets, as intimate as pillow talk. The record established from the get-go that ain’t nobody as laid-back as Tulsa, Oklahoma’s J.J. Cale, and ain’t nobody ever leveraged that posture to such sublime songs which somehow achieved commercial success—mostly in the hands of other artists (Er*c Clapt*n, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Johnny Cash, et al.).

Now, Cale was relatively old for an artist making his debut full-length (32), but that’s fitting when you take into account the man’s proclivity for doing things unhurriedly. The advantage to this is, Cale’s music burst into the world fully formed and honed to perfection. Naturally proffered all of J.J.’s styles and tics in one 12-song, 33-minute platter, and he spent the ensuing 40-plus years further polishing these modes (country, bluegrass, jazz, blues, and rockabilly, with sly nods to funk). But for many fans, Naturally remains Cale’s peak.

“Call Me The Breeze”—Cale’s first song on his first album—could be his definitive work, something that rarely happens in the music world. In it, J.J.’s spindly, rapid blues-guitar calligraphy wreathes the metronomic drum-machine beats, like Canned Heat in mechanized-mantra mode. It could be classified as “hick motorik,” as one writer for The Stranger put it in a 2009 feature on Cale. Even Cale’s driving songs choogle at a relatively slack pace. This friction-free, country-rock ramble was covered/homaged by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Johnny Cash, Spiritualized, Bobby Bare, and others.

Cale’s blues songs don’t seem very brutal, but rather something with which he handles with a minimum of fuss. Nevertheless, his sentiment seems genuine and the spare architecture of tracks such as “Call The Doctor,” “Don’t Go To Strangers,” and “Crying Eyes” convey a light gravitas that appealed to Spacemen 3 and Spiritualized, among many others. Cale’s intimate, gruff vocal style makes every word seem confidential and crucial. Even as he sounds as if he’s a second away from napping, Cale rivets on these blues tunes with his hushed, sandpapery tones. You can hear this to stunning effect on the unlikely single “Magnolia,” a spare, dewy ballad of exquisite beauty. The song is as evanescent as a teardrop, with Cale’s voice so full of regret it can hardly attain audibility.

But Naturally shows that Cale can also go jaunty and celebratory, too, as he does on the Dr. John-like “Woman I Love,” “Bringing It Back,” and “Nowhere To Run,” Cale’s idea of a rowdy Rolling Stones rocker, but still as laid-back as a yogi after a cup of camomile tea. And then there’s “After Midnight,” a subdued party jam that Clapt*n made famous even before J.J.’s album dropped. The subliminal funk of “After Midnight”— thanks largely to Norbert Putnam’s bass, Chuck Browning’s drums, and David Briggs’ piano—turns this classic into a boudoir-friendly slow-burner. (Grateful Dead comrade Merl Saunders covered it on Fire Up. You can read a review of that album here.)

Now let us reflect upon “Crazy Mama,” Cale’s only Top 40 hit and perhaps my fave song by him. From today’s perspective, it seems like a miracle that a tune as minimal and unobtrusive as this would chart, but those were different times. Even mainstream ears had the capacity to cherish music with subtlety in 1972. Despite its hedonistic title, “Crazy Mama” is prime hammock-lazing blues rock, with a slide-guitar solo by Mac Gayden that embodies libidinal ache as articulately as anything I’ve heard in my long life. “Crazy Mama” exemplifies the less-is-more ethos in rock.

Some artists try strenuously to reinvent themselves with every new release. Cale was completely at ease doing his own thing, with minor tweaks, decade after decade. Like the protagonist in “Call Me the Breeze,” Cale “[kept] blowing down the road… Ain’t no change in the weather/Ain’t no change in me.” So gloriously chill, that man and his music were, and the peacefulness that emanates from the latter is priceless. -Buckley Mayfield

Nancy Sinatra “Boots” (Reprise, 1966)

It must’ve been great to be a young Nancy Sinatra. She had father Frank’s DNA, the gilded singer’s music-biz connections, and an easy in with his record label, Reprise. On the other hand, it must’ve been awful to be a young Nancy Sinatra. She had to perform in the shadow of the 20th century’s most celebrated vocalist, an entertainer whose accomplishments she could never come close to matching. And she was a woman trying to assert a degree of autonomy in an industry and an era not conducive for female artists to do so.

Despite all of those hindrances, Nancy Sinatra carved out a nice little niche for herself as a quasi-kitsch pop-cult icon who parlayed a brief but brilliant creative partnership with Lee Hazlewood into at least three all-time classic songs—two of which are “Some Velvet Morning” and “Sand.” Sinatra’s 1966 debut album contains the other tune and, woman oh woman, has she ever gotten a lot of mileage out of those walkin’ boots. More on that later.

With the wily composer/producer Hazlewood, Sinatra transitioned out of her bubblegum image into something more sophisticated. Her debut album, which peaked at #5 in the US, was produced by Hazlewood and arranged by Billy Strange. It starts unpromisingly with “As Tears Go By,” the Andrew Loog Oldham-Jagger-Richards ballad. Done as a bossa nova with persistent, mellow shakers and rimshots as percussion, “Tears” proves that lachrymose melancholy is not Nancy’s best mode, although she really nailed it with her interpretation of Dolly Parton’s “Down From Dover” on Nancy & Lee.

“Day Tripper,” the first of two Beatles covers here, is Vegas-y but not annoying about it, with horns and women backing vocalists singing “ba da ba ba” in place of the famous guitar riff. The drums stomp like Motown’s Funk Brothers on steroids and I’m guessing Lee decided to sneak in the “Boots” bass line. When DJing, I like to follow this with Hazlewood’s “In Our Time,” which was his sly homage to “Day Tripper.” (Nancy did “In Our Time,” too, but with less pizzazz than Lee.) The other Beatles cut is “Run For Your Life.” Sinatra reverses genders on Lennon’s problematic, stalker-ish rocker from Rubber Soul as the musicians give it a proto-Austin Powers-esque treatment: brash horn charts, swinging piano, twanging guitar. Sinatra emphasizes every “little boy” with withering disdain, and that took ovaries at a time when the Beatles were indisputable gods.

The second best Hazlewood song on the record, “I Move Around” is one of Lee’s, uh, most moving songs. The backing “ooh”s and “ah”s are to swoon for and though the expensive session-player sheen that glazes these songs suggests a desire to win over mid-’60s squares, it can’t dim the song’s poignancy. Lee’s “So Long, Babe” is swanky country rock with a deceptive middle finger raised. You can imagine Mazzy Star’s Hope Sandoval drawing deep inspiration from this. A cover of the Knickerbockers’ sassy Nuggets standard “Lies” fits snugly in Sinatra’s wheelhouse, with its wronged romantic partner perspective. However, the backing vocals verge on Chipmunks-level hilarity.

And now for “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’.” Reviewing this song is like critiquing Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In logo or Johnny Carson’s nicotine chuckle or Richard Nixon’s jowls. It’s so ingrained in American Boomer consciousness that describing it seems superfluous—and that’s exactly why I’m writing about it. It’s music that makes the lizard brain wiggle, thanks largely to that descending, twangy double-bass line. “Boots” is perhaps the most seductive anthem of vengeance ever penned, and Sinatra owns it, her take-no-shit, deadpan delivery a distaff simulacrum of Hazlewood’s. The “Boots” single deservedly sold over a million copies.

Interestingly, the original plan was for Hazlewood to release “Boots” himself, but Sinatra suggested that she sing it to change the power dynamic to a vengeful woman, which at the time had a more radical charge than vice versa. She was so right. (Lee later did it, too, because those expensive vices of his weren’t going to pay for themselves.) “Boots” has been covered dozens of times, including by the Supremes, Megadeth, Billy Ray Cyrus, and Crispin Glover. And just by reading the title, you’ll have the song stuck in your head for hours. You’re welcome.

Light In The Attic Records recently kicked off a Nancy Sinatra reissue campaign by releasing the great 2xLP comp, Start Walkin’ 1965-1976. -Buckley Mayfield

Meat Puppets “Up On The Sun” (SST, 1985)

Kurt Cobain’s favorite Meat Puppets album was II. Obviously. And it’s not hard to understand why Nirvana covered three songs off of it (“Plateau,” “Lake Of Fire,” and “Oh, Me”). Its combo of poignant, desert-fried mysticism and virtuoso, Tasmanian Devil punk packed a distinctive punch—especially for 1984. As great as II is, though, I like Meat Puppets’ follow-up even more.

When Up On The Sun tumbled off the SST Records conveyor belt of awesomeness in 1985, it hit fans like a solar flare. Curt Kirkwood (guitar), Cris Kirkwood (bass), and Derrick Bostrom (drums) had taken another great leap forward, leaving behind their punk roots for a bizarre agglomeration of psychedelia, country/bluegrass, and prog rock. I’m happy to report that Up On The Sun still blazes as hot as it did over 35 years ago. Either that or I’m stuck in my 23-year-old mindset. Anyway…

The opening title track finds Curt in mellow stoner sage vocal mode (think Jerry Garcia crossed with Steve Miller) as the group slouch into a Grateful Dead-like, implied-funk amble. Then the buoyant chorus shocks you into a body-wide alertness, as if you’ve actually found yourself on the titular star. Helluva way to begin your best album. The intro to “Maiden’s Milk” barges in with a Zappa-esque motif of absurdly frilly prog-jazzitude, then the song shifts to a swift, Leo Kottke-esque bluegrass romp, with bonus chipper whistles. Here, we become aware that Curt switches into different styles and tones with an unparalleled, speedy nonchalance that would make Frank’s mustache curl with envy.

The album’s greatest achievement, “Away” recalls both the Police’s “When The World Is Running Down, You Make The Best Of What’s Still Around” and the Feelies’ “Away” (what are the odds?). There’s a faint undercurrent of swerving, Möbius-strip insistence in Curt’s guitar riff that speaks of Afrobeat knowledge, and the track feels as if it’s going to fly right out of the grooves into that fiery orb in the sky. The mercurial country funk of “Animal Kingdom” is awash with wonder about said domain, and the bridge features Cris’ bass mimicking noises of imaginary creatures. Nice!

Another highlight is “Swimming Ground,” which combines head-spinning country-rock euphoria and touching nostalgia for a childhood idyll. It’s as if the Puppets spiked the concept of “Americana” with the strongest amphetamines and LSD—both of which it wouldn’t be far-fetched to imagine the band consuming in those heady days. “Buckethead” is not a tribute to the Guns N’ Roses guitarist, as he didn’t hit public consciousness till the early ’90s, but the fleet, fluttering filigrees Curt peels off here would surely make him doff his KFC container in respect. The song sounds as if Fear Of Music-era Talking Heads had lost their uptightness and put pedal to the metal. It gives quirkiness a good name.

Up On The Sun‘s remaining five songs offer nonstop excitement. “Enchanted Porkfist” is a clunky pun, but this fast and furious instrumental zooms and curlicues like an American Southwestern Gentle Giant. It’s a new breed of prog rock in which unpredictable tempo changes and virtuosity sound as natural as getting a sunburn in Arizona, Meat Puppets’ home base. Throughout, Curt flaunts superhuman reflexes yet an unbelievably gentle touch that enables him to generate riffs that zip by at an astonishing clip while also sounding velvety, twinkly, and pliable—it really is miraculous, like the Dead’s “Dark Star” at 78rpm. “Creator” abounds with Curt’s faux-wise gobbledygook about deities—which is just as valid as any “good book”’s gobbledygook, and it boasts the advantage of rocking way harder than the Bible or Koran.

Every Meat Puppets release after Up On The Sun receded farther away from its unprecedented incandescence, and that’s okay. Cobain and company knew that trying cover anything on it would be a fool’s errand, because the songs here are too dauntingly sui generis. You have to know your limitations. -Buckley Mayfield

Bobbie Gentry “Fancy” (Capitol, 1970)

Even though she had a massive hit in 1967 with “Ode To Billie Joe” and released a grip of great LPs from in the late ’60s and early ’70s, Bobbie Gentry is not quite the household name she should be. Much like her English counterpart Dusty Springfield, the Mississippi-born Gentry is a soulful, nuanced vocalist who could work wonders with country, funk, rock, and pop material. Aside from singing in her supple, sensuous contralto, Gentry also wrote, produced, and even did the artwork for some of her album covers (including Fancy). She exerted a lot of control over her career for a woman in a male-dominated industry that wasn’t as progressive as it wanted to think it was.

Although she had sporadic chart success in the US and UK, and even hosted her own variety show on BBC TV, Gentry faded from the music biz and the public eye in the early ’80s. But her profile’s received a boost in recent years after being name-checked by young country-music stars like Kacey Musgraves and Nikki Lane, as well as the recent release of the 8-CD box set The Girl From Chickasaw County: The Complete Capitol Masters, should further raise Gentry’s profile… [ahem] as well as this review.

The title track establishes Fancy‘s main mode: slick, orchestral country-funk executed by excellent session musicians from the Fame Studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama and in Columbia Studios in Nashville. The lone Gentry original, “Fancy” finds the singer recounting the rags-to-riches story of an 18-year-old woman whose mother nudges her into a life of prostitution to lift the family out of poverty. It’s so good, one wonders why Capitol larded the rest of the LP with other people’s compositions. On the two Bacharach-David tunes—“I’ll Never Fall In Love Again” and “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head”—Gentry’s Southern-belle gravitas doesn’t thrive in the famous songwriting team’s spick-and-span suburban pop, no matter how well-crafted it is. She sounds a bit uncomfortable and out of her soulful element here. Similarly, the cheerful, waltz-time pop of Rudy Clark’s “If You Gotta Make A Fool Of Somebody” does not play to her strengths.

Thankfully, Gentry shines on the rest of the album. While Laura Nyro’s “Wedding Bell Blues” may not be the most copacetic vehicle for Gentry, the melody is so sublime that she can’t help making a gorgeous swoon of yearning heartache out of it. Leon Russell’s “Delta Man” is a song into which Gentry can really sink her incisors. She switches the original song’s genders and lays into Russell’s rousing chorus with less brio than Joe Cocker did, but Bobbie out-finesses the English geezer by far.

“He Made A Woman Out Of Me” (written by Fred Burch and Don Hill and earlier covered by Bettye LaVette) is Southern country-funk that’s as lubricious as Tony Joe White at his most seductive. It’s a momentous coming-of-age tale… so to speak. The album’s highlight is Harry Nilsson’s “Rainmaker”; it’s the funkiest, most sweeping track here, augmented by banjo and violin—not exactly staples of the funk genre, but Gentry, producer Rick Hall and his Muscle Shoals crew, and strings arranger Jimmie Haskell make it work to the max. This is my go-to track on Fancy for DJ sets—so it has that going for it, too.

While I’d prefer to hear Gentry perform her own songs, on Fancy she inhabits other composers’ with sly charisma, imbuing them with a strong wiliness that was rare for its time among female entertainers. -Buckley Mayfield

The Rolling Stones “Goats Head Soup” (Rolling Stones, 1973)

For decades, Goats Head Soup endured many critics’ and fans’ slights and even dismissals for not being as earth-shaking as its canonical predecessor, Exile On Main St. But in recent years, a re-evaluation of Goats Head Soup‘s merits has gained traction, and its reputation has burgeoned among people with better-than-average taste in rock music (if I may be so bold). The turning point for me was when I found myself on New York psych-rockers Mercury Rev’s tour bus in Ohio on one of their mid-’90s tours, and they were listening to Goats Head Soup. If these musicians whom I admired like hell were into this album, maybe I needed to give it a closer listen. I’m very glad I did.

GHS boasts some of the Stones’ most popular and overexposed tunes (“Angie,” “Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo [Heartbreaker]”), some of their greatest deep cuts (“Coming Down Again,” “Winter,” “Can You Hear The Music”), and a couple of country-rock burners (“100 Years Ago,” “Silver Train”; that these London blokes are so adept at country stylings has always puzzled and pleased me). There’s only one real dud: the rarely spoken-of, standard-issue blues-rocker “Hide Your Love.” Everything else deservers heavy rotation in your annual Rolling Stones diet.

“Dancing With Mr. D” is such a great sleazy opener, so potent and sinister, although it kind of verges on self-parody by 1973. No matter. It’s the sound of a band whose members know they’re the baddest in the world, and that bravado manifests itself to the fullest in this grinding, midtempo rocker. “100 Years Ago” toggles between country-rock and R&B, with a slick raveup at the end in which guitarist Mick Taylor reels off a mercurial, wah-wah-intensive solo which reinforces the idea that losing him seriously weakened the Stones.

On “Coming Down Again,” Keith Richards sings in his most sincere, vulnerable, and poignant voice in a song that ranks among the Stones’ greatest ballads, up there with “Wild Horses” and “Sway.” This Gram Parsons-esque country-rock weeper exudes a junkie fragility that’s tragically beautiful. “Coming down again/Where are all my friends?” (with Jagger following in sotto voce “Sky fall down again”) is a concise summary of a drug addict’s situation. You can have “Happy” and “Before They Make Me Run”; I’m sticking with “Coming Down Again.”

“Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)” is a harrowing tale of drug addiction and violence set to menacing, flinty rock, augmented by horns of magnificently triumphal robustness, as if they’re trying to lift your spirits from the morbid NYC tale Jagger’s relating. You’ve heard “Angie,” a gorgeous, tender ballad about a dissolving romance with bravura piano performance by Nicky Hopkins, about a hundred times too many. No getting around it: The heart-string-plucking allure of the Stones’ most Elton John-like moment has been eroded by thousands of listens over the decades, but still, respect is due.

The three songs that close out GHS are phenomenal. The Van Morrison-esque ballad “Winter” has beaucoup soul and enough wistfulness to melt the coldest heart. Richards sat out this one, while Mick Taylor contributed much to the sublime music, but the Glimmer Twins shafted him on the credits. Not cool.

But let’s not get bogged down in petty administrative decisions. Because “Can You Hear The Music” follows. While few fans rate it highly in the Stones’ canon, I place this paean to the metaphysical power of music near the top. It’s at once one of the band’s funkiest and most psychedelic songs, and its outlier status is solidified by Jim Horn’s serene flute and percussion contributions from the great synth composer Nik “Pascal” Raicevic and CAN/Traffic member Rebop Kwaku Bah. This thing sways and breezes from an exotic place where the Stones rarely ventured, and it features some of their sickest guitar tones. It almost sounds like a tribute to Brian Jones’ Master Musicians Of Jajouka collab in Morocco. “When you hear the music/trouble disappear” is a mantra worth storing in your memory banks forever.

After the lofty, exotic splendor of “Can You Hear The Music,” “Star Star” slams you back down to earth and the bedroom with a raunchy Chuck Berry homage that gained notoriety for its profane chorus and its tumescent tribute to a hall-of-fame groupie who made Ali McGraw angry “for giving head to Steve McQueen.” Leave it to the Stones to follow perhaps their most spiritual composition with possibly their nastiest. If that sequencing was intentional, I tip my hat to Mick and Keef. You gotta love that kind of perversity.

So, yeah, Goats Head Soup has gotten a bad rap by certain establishment critics and wrongheaded fans, but it possesses at least five undeniable classic cuts. The Stones may have been buckling under the stresses of rock-star excess and unrealistic expectations in the early-’70s wake of Exile, but they somehow fought through the haze to create a strong, varied record that’s earned its status as an underdog favorite in their massive catalog. -Buckley Mayfield

Swamp Dogg “Total Destruction To Your Mind” (Canyon, 1970)

(Little) Jerry Williams is one of those stalwart R&B/soul songwriters/performers who had some modest success in the ’50s and ’60s with solid but fairly conventional tunes. And then in the late ’60s our hero ingested some LSD, the ’70s commenced, and Williams became Swamp Dogg and took his music into much more eccentric and interesting territory. His debut full-length under that alias announced the arrival of a soul maverick. Total Destruction To Your Mind is a righteous cult classic that’s aged shockingly well.

The record peaks early with the dynamite 1-2 spiked punch of the title track and “Synthetic World.” The former’s an unstoppable burbling funk party jam fueled by liquid wah-wah guitar, bold horn flourishes, and Williams psychedelic-soul vocals redolent of Otis Redding’s Southern-fried throatiness. The latter’s laid-back funk with a country-folk lilt in the swampy (yes!) vein of Tony Joe White.

The two Joe South covers are fab, because Joe South was unfuckwithable in the late ’60s and early ’70s. Williams tackles “Redneck,” a sarcastic dig at bigoted white guys, and he really sinks his fangs into South’s good-ol’-boy chug with rollicking piano and horns that want to get you drunk. “These Are Not My People” is funky folk boasting a vibrant, catchy-as-hell melody; this song should’ve been a hit for both the composer and for Mr. Dogg.

A couple of other highlights: “If I Die Tomorrow (I’ve Lived Tonight)” brings more Redding-style testifying, just oozing real-shit emotion while “Sal-A-Faster” offers lean, menacing funk akin to Whitfield-Strong’s “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” (think the Temptations’ version). And “I Was Born Blue” proves that Williams could render a heart-shattering ballad with one of the greatest key changes in soul music. It’s pathos overload, not unlike that in the Bee Gees’ “I Started A Joke.” It gave my throat lump goose bumps.

Alive Records reissued Total Destruction To Your Mind in 2013, doing the world a humanitarian service that you’d do well to not let go to waste. -Buckley Mayfield

Parliament “Osmium” (Invictus, 1970)

Osmium captures Parliament (aka Funkadelic) at a time before their trademark stylistic traits had firmly solidified. Consequently, it’s a wildly diverse record, full of songs both expected (if you’re familiar with the P-Funk catalog) and very surprising—like, “check the record to make sure this is still the band from Detroit led by George Clinton” surprising. Yes, Osmium is at core a soul album, but it’s a helluva lot more, too. Because any George Clinton production—especially from the ’60s and ’70s—can never be typical.

Osmium—alternately titled Rhenium and First Thangs in subsequent releases; a 2016 reissue of it is floating around, too—begins with a prime slice of horndog funk, “I Call My Baby Pussycat,” with Eddie Hazel and Tawl Ross’ guitars and Billy Bass Nelson’s bass really setting fire under asses. Things grind to a solemn halt with “Put Love In Your Life,” a soul-gospel-tinged ballad sung with baritone gravity by Ray Davis… but then it unexpectedly shifts into a florid psych-pop anthem. Wow, my ears just got whiplash. If that weren’t strange enough, the Ruth Copeland-penned “Little Ole Country Boy” swerves into mock-country territory, replete with jaw harp, tabletop guitar embellishments, and Fuzzy Haskins’ Southern-honky vocal affectations; think the Rolling Stones, but with tongues more firmly jammed in cheek. More ear whiplash. Ouch! (Yes, De La Soul producer Prince Paul sampled the yodeling part for “Potholes In My Lawn.”)

“Moonshine Leather” peddles the sort of sublimely sluggish bluesy funk that occupied some of Funkadelic’s earliest releases, while “Oh Lord, Why Lord/Prayer” is a baroque-classical/gospel hybrid, sung with utmost passion and soul by Calvin Simon and Copeland. It’s definitely the frilliest and most churchy P-Funk track I’ve heard. As an agnostic, it sort of gives me hives, but there’s no denying the sincerity and skill behind the song.

Side two begins with “My Automobile,” yet more Stonesy faux country, but with sitar (?!) accompaniment, quickly followed by the revved-up, libidinous “Nothing Before Me But Thang,” which is the wildest, most Funkadelicized cut on Osmium. The struttin’, ruttin’ “Funky Woman” is indeed funky and ready to make any party you’re attending lit, as the kids say. The hippie-fied gospel rock of “Livin’ The Life” sounds like something off of Godspell or Hair, but it’s not bad at all.

Parliament saved the best for last with “The Silent Boatman.” Another Ruth Copeland composition (she also co-produced the LP, by the way), “The Silent Boatman” is one of the most beautiful and moving songs in all creation. A slowly building, majestic ballad aswirl in Bernie Worrell’s organ and glockenspiel, it’s a poignant tale lamenting inequality and strife on Earth and redemption in the afterlife. When the bagpipes come in, you feel as if you’re being swept up in a highly improbable dream in which Parliament become the most persuasive religious sect ever to enter a studio. Going way against type, “The Silent Boatman” might be the closest Clinton & company ever got to godliness. Ruth Copeland was their secret weapon, although she never again recorded another proper album with the group. But what a legacy she left. -Buckley Mayfield