After a long break, let’s finish up with the Jim & Jesse records.

First up, Berry Pickin’ in the Country—Jim and Jesse’s tribute to the great Chuck Berry. These days it seems like there’s bluegrass tributes to everything, from the Beatles to AC/DC. Most of them suck (or at least the ones I’ve heard). The novelty factor quickly wears off, and you’re left with soulless bluegrass, which is as they say in Mad Magazine, “Yechhh!!!”

But this Jim and Jesse tribute to The Brown Eyed Handsome Man is mostly played with a lot of inspiration and verve. For me, the best part this recording is hearing Berry’s guitar licks played with great facility by banjoist Allen Shelton. Jesse McReynolds also tears off some great mandolin solos, notably in “Johnny B. Goode, ” “Reelin’ and Rockin,’” and “Bye Bye Johnny.” I suppose this record was made with some crossover attention in mind, but I truly think that the cats in Jim & Jesse and the Virginia Boys were fans of the “Great Chuck Berry Songbook” (as the back of the album calls it). All in all, a wonderful example of successful country music miscegenation (“My soul lives in the southern region of our America” say the probably ghostwritten liner notes attributed to Chuck himself on the back cover) and something that should be in your collection.

We finish our extry long visit with Jim & Jesse’s catalog with Palace of Songs on the Old Dominion label.  Released in the early seventies after J & J’s commercial success was over, we find the boys working on a small indie level. But still playing their asses off. Dig Jesse’s ass-kicking mandolin solo on “Air Mail Special” played twice as fast as the original version. He also brings his unique cross-picking style to the geetar on “Then I’ll Stop Going for You.” A nice, mature effort from the boys, mingling bluegrass and country without feeling forced at all. And no one interpreted the Louvin Brothers better, as evidenced on their crack at “Cash on the Barrel Head.” I bought this record in Nashville at Ernest Tubb’s Record Shop (I think). Good luck finding it.

I had to take a break from writing this due to internets problems. All fixed now, but in the interim I’ve lost my passion for delving into the Jim and Jesse twofer, Bluegrass Special and Bluegrass Classics. A good deal of the tracks on these discs are featured on the Epic  years  record I discussed in the previous entry. Suffice to say, these two records feature Jim and Jesse at their most “commercial”—aiming for both Nashville success (they got it; they became members of the Opry) and the college folk crowd. That was the interesting state of bluegrass in the early sixties, both inside and outside of the country mainstream. It has drums on it, fer cryin’ out loud! Not so much high lonesome, but plenty peppy.

I bought this reissue twofer from Jim and Jesse themselves at the Grass Valley Bluegrass Festival. They were super nice guys. And man oh man, did they have fantastic hairdos!

Up next: Jim and Jesse do an album of Chuck Berry songs!

One of the most exciting times in American vernacular music (a term I’m preferring to “American roots music”) was the early 1950’s when bluegrass was in its early years. No one probably thought about it much in terms of categories in those days, but in retrospect its intriguing to listen to young Jim and Jesse McReynolds of Coburn, Virginia participate in the development of the bluegrass genre. In a sense, Jim and Jesse were influenced by Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass, in two ways: as fans of his brother duets with brother Charlie aka The Monroe Brothers; and of course as disciples of bluegrass, the hot, new offshoot of country music created by Monroe, Flatt and Scruggs and others.

Air Mail Special Early Recordings 1952-1955 (on the Rebel Records of Canada label) covers the McReynolds boys earliest sides. Jim and Jesse had an arresting vocal blend. Jesse would become a respectable, underrated country vocalist, comfortable with the high lonesome songs, as well as straight up c&w. Jim was a haunting, high tenor harmony singer. On these early recordings the youth of Jim and Jesse is evident. They sound soulful but at times a little tentative. Over the years, their vocals would grow in confidence as their music became more powerful and driving. The other notable element of early Jim and Jesse is Jesse’s unique cross-picking mandolin style, a rolling sound influenced by the a banjo. Listen to him go to town on the opening track, “Air Mail Special.”

Now let’s pick up Jim and Jesse a decade on in their career with Jim and Jesse The Epic Bluegrass Hits (compiled on Rounder Records). By the mid-sixties, the Jim and Jesse sound is a well-oiled machine, a machine with soul, that is. Jesse’s voice has deepened, he sings with more authority. Jim’s high harmony cuts like a knife while sounding eternally youthful. The band plays with confidence, drive and swing. Everyone’s a pro.

Most of the tracks on this compilation were taken from two albums—Bluegrass Special and Bluegrass Classics—that I’ll discuss in more detail in the next entry. These were songs that they’d been playing for years or had recently been playing as part of their live show or their TV show. Thus the confidence and assurance. The material runs the gamut from the Louvin Brothers (“Are You Missing Me?; “I Wish You Knew”–Jim and Jesse were great interpreters of the Louvins and other country duo acts, such as the aforementioned Monroe Brothers, The Blue Sky Boys, and the Delmore Brothers), straight up country (“It’s a Long, Long Way to the Top of the World”) to fiddle tunes (“Stoney Creek”) to protest-style folk (“Cotton Mill Man”) to gospel numbers (“It’s a Long and Lonesome Road”). It tells you a lot about the place of bluegrass pros like Jim and Jesse in the mid-sixties: playing a smooth style of bluegrass that doesn’t move boffo units in the country music biz, but being invited to become members of the Grand Ol’ Opry. Yet their best selling single is “Cotton Mill Man,” which doubtless sold to many in the college folk protest crowd—not your usual Opry denizens. A wonderful compilation of “commercial” bluegrass from the mid-sixties.

One of my grandfathers was a hard working guy from Brooklyn who was a first generation American. He built a successful costume jewelry wholesale business, invested wisely, was married happily for sixty six years until he passed away last summer. He was curious, opinionated and loved schmaltzy music. I know for a fact that he loved the record I’m about to discuss—Soul of a People, arranged and conducted by Gordon Jenkins—because he told me so a few years ago. This one’s for you, Victor!

Jenkins is best known for his work with Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, and one of my favorites my Nat King Cole, Where Did Everyone Go? Jenkins was a master of the moody strings and woodwinds sound that hint at the darker side of the adult nineteen fifties cocktail hour scene. Jenkins’ facility with melancholic minor chords and mainstream adult pop make him ideal for this popular orchestral rendition of Jewish-themed tunes such as “Hava Nagila” and “My Yiddishe Mama.” I could just picture my grandfather playing this record when his mother was visiting. It’s Jews moving into the American mainstream music, looking back with nostalgia at the old neighborhood but glad to be in the middle class music. Jazzers Red Mitchell and Nick Fatool are among the lineup of musicians on this record. I wonder, was this recording a passion project for Jenkins or just a gig? In any case, it was $2.95 well spent.

My other grandfather Milton, was a songwriter. His best known composition—”Jim”—is something of a jazz standard. He was also the son of a synagogue cantor. Therefore, it only seems fitting to discuss A Centennial of Jewish Music by The New York Cantors Concert Ensemble with Milton in mind (although I have a feeling he might have dug the Gordon Jenkins record more). I’m a bad Jew. I know nothing about cantorial music and its traditions, but this record seems like a fair cross-section of Jewish vocal music from the nineteenth century to the twentieth. We can hear how traditional Eastern European Jewish music is influenced by the harmonics of Western classical music (of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries), and then later Israeli folk music, in this variety of compositions, performed by the above mentioned New York Cantors Concert Ensemble. I’m still learning…

The “up country” boys that fancied themselves cowboys and ruled the back of my high school bus often sang “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” on the twenty five mile ride back home from school. I hated that song for a long time, associating it with being oppressed by lunkheads. Even after I started to love country music, I held this song at arm’s length. And in full disclosure, I took my time getting into Waylon and Willie, as if they were the ringleaders of that gang of sad losers at the back of my bus.

Over the past ten years, I’ve finally delved into the catalogues of Waylon and Willie and discovered that I was depriving myself of much enjoyment and inspiration by these two geniuses. Furthermore, I’ve come to realize the melancholy (albiet romantic melancholy) inherent in “Mammas,” and by extension the sadness of being a cowpoke who’s too afraid to get off the mountain. But perhaps I project…

Anyway, that’s my lead in for Waylon and Willie’s duel album, Waylon & Willie. For what was probably more than a bit of a commercial cash in effort/contractual obligation filler (and an excuse to snort mountains of cocaine), this is a pretty solid record. Despite the the embossed, “hand tooled” leather look of the cover that frames the painted portrait of our heroes and looks like one of those modern Jesus paintings from the seventies, despite the presence of the previously recorded by both Willie and Waylon “It’s Not Supposed to Be That Way” and “Pick Up the Tempo,” despite all that, it holds up pretty well.

Let’s talk about cocaine for a second. It’s interesting that the sole compositional collaboration between Waylon and Willie, “I Can Get Off on You,” begins with the line: Take back the weed, take back the cocaine, baby. The implication in this Jimmy Buffetesque trifle is that Willie and Waylon can get off on their ladies without all them mind alterin’ drugs and such, thank you very much. Probably something they cooked up when they were in the doghouse with their respective significant others (and no doubt, coke was somewhere in the mix). As Waylon quotes Willie in his memoir Waylon, “It (getting Waylon into trouble) keeps Waylon alert.”

The other coke song on this record is Stevie Nicks’s “Gold Dust Woman.” Yep, that’s right. And man, does Waylon gave it the full Waylon treatment. I think this song really spoke to him, he sings it like he means it—with tons of soul. My favorite song of the week.

Willie stands out on “If You Can Touch Her at All” and “A Couple More Years”—sing it, Willie!

This one’s for you, cowboys on the back of the bus!

Next Up: A couple of Jewish-themed records. My grandparents will be so proud!

1973-1975 were some years for Waylon Jennings. He put out five or six fantastic records, three of them—Honky Tonk Heroes, This Time, Dreaming My Dreams—were stone classics. It’s only by the exalted standards of that trio of wax slabs that 1974’s Ramblin’ Man is just a so-so Waylon record. It’s a bit less subtle and seamless than those discs, but it’s got its fine moments: chief among them his cover of The Allman Brother’s “Midnight Rider.” It’s the perfect song for Waylon’s soulful bellow and his patented sound—that mix of Buddy Holly, blues, and Johnny Cash that I described in the previous post. The title track (not penned by Waylon) is more in the cliched Waylon Outlaw bag than “Midnight Rider,” but it doesn’t move me near as much. Waylon’s own “Rainy Day Woman” kicks ass. Those are the highlights from Side A.

While the ass-kickers reside on Side A, the sensitive side of Waylon, the balladeer resides on Side B. At this point in his career, Waylon knew his way around a ballad—he could caress a song with his voice as well as he could authoritatively bellow them out in his uptempo numbers. While I dig Waylon’s take on “Amanda” and some others on this side, they aren’t a patch on his ballad performances on This Time and Dreaming My Dreams. Pleasant enough stuff…

How live was Waylon Live? That’s what I wonder. Knowing what we know about the studio sweetening of so-called “live” albums (not to mention the information on the back cover which says the record was recorded “Live” in 1974. The record was released in 1976), we can wonder about overdubs, crowd noise and such. And RCA, notable for their horrible cover art, shows that every expense was spared with the cheesy, ten cent painted portraits of Waylon on the front cover. Ah, but who really cares? This probable cash-in on Waylon’s success (or contractual obligation filler) is a nice showcase for Waylon’s super live band, notably the fantastic steel guitarist Ralph Mooney. You can’t argue with the material—”T For Texas”; “Rainy Day Woman”; fine versions of Willie Nelson’s “Me and Paul” and “Pick Up the Tempo”; good interpretations of “House of the Rising Sun” and “Me and Bobby McGee”; Waylon doing a country weeper, “The Last Letter”; Waylon doing Waylon, “This Time.” Sure woulda been great to see ol’ Waylon “Live” back in 1974.

The mid-seventies were a good time for Waylon Jennings’ music and career. After many years of hard work, struggles with the Nashville establishment, many albums, and a few hits, he finally put it all together with a series of fantastic records. As I mentioned in an earlier post, two of the best examples of Waylon’s great work—Dreaming My Dreams and Honky Tonk Heroes—I own on CD not vinyl, so I won’t discuss them here. Suffice to say that they are brilliant records, essential for the country music fan, and two of the best albums of the seventies in any genre—Waylon Music, if you will.

This Time is another fantastic Waylon record from this exciting period (and a stylistic predecessor to Waylon’s “chamber country” masterpiece Dreaming My Dreams), co-produced by Willie Nelson and Waylon. This is true so-called “Outlaw Country” before it became a self-parody. Waylon’s sound is pared down to the essentials, no Nashville sweetening and corny background singers. The mature integration of all Waylon’s influences, the spare, driving swing of Johnny Cash (and probably Waylon’s late pal, Buddy Holly), Texas blues, Western Swing, not to mention Willie’s playing behind the beat jazz sensibilities are evident in this recording. The header on the liner notes say it all: “Waylon Jennings…Free Spirit.”

It’s a well-sequenced album. Side A features the more up-tempo numbers and Side B features the ballads. Many of the songs are Willie Nelson compositions (several of them from Willie’s great Phases and Stages album). One often thinks of rowdy songs when the term “Outlaw” country is used, but the reclaiming of ballads from the Nashville syrup factory was just as significant to the sound. From the hard-driving, “Slow Rollin’ Low” to the aching ballad “It’s Not Supposed to Be That Way” This Time displays a range, intimacy, and confidence that defines the meaning of Waylon Music.

I don’t own the two best Waylon Jennings records—Honky Tonk Heroes and Dreaming My Dreams—on vinyl. Just puny CD’s, I’m ashamed to say. You should own them yourself in whatever format works for you. That disclaimer aside, let’s begin the Waylon vinyl discussion with some late early and early mid-career records.

First up is Waylon Sings Ol’ Harlan from 1967. On this one, Waylon performs the compositions of the great Harlan Howard. Although this record (produced by Chet Atkins) does have some Nashville mid-sixties gloss—the background girl chorus vocals don’t sweeten as much as annoy–Waylon does honor to the material with his commanding voice and musical drive (is it Waylon and his band or session pros playing on the record?). I’m not so sure these are the definitive version of Howard’s songs—”She’s Gone, Gone, Gone”; “Tiger by the Tail”; “Foolin’ ‘Round” don’t quite match up to the Buck Owens versions (although maybe that’s because I know the Buck versions so well). Nevertheless, when you hear Waylon belt out “Busted” or “Heartaches by the Number” or mournfully croon “Beautiful Annabel Lee” or “In This Very Same Room” you know that this here is a country singer who stands out from the Nashville pack. A damn fine record.

Next up is 1971’s Singer of Sad Songs produced by Lee Hazlewood. I think the hipster in Waylon liked working with the oddball, hipster Hazlewood. On the cover photo greasy-haired Waylon doesn’t look so sad as he does pissed off. As powerful as Waylon sounds on the Harlan Howard record, he sounds so much more upfront and assured on this one. The Nashville sweetening is diminished, the arrangements are simpler (dig Waylon’s stark and soulful version of “No Regrets”), the Waylon beat is more prominent (check out “Ragged But Right”), the lead guitar is dirtier, the background vocals (including Waylon’s trademark doubletracked vocals) are less sacharine, the influences of folk rock and sixties rock in general is evident but they sound organic rather than forced, except for the one disappointment: Waylon’s prissy version of “Honky Tonk Women”—yuck! (interestingly, the allmusic review of this record lists Billy Joe Shavers’ “Honky Tonk Heroes” in place of “Honky Tonk Women.” What gives? Is this a typo or do I have an earlier version of the album?) His interpretation of the oft-covered “If I Were A Carpenter” is a lot more credible by comparison.

Coming up next: More Waylon!

Since I was just concluding with the “Ja’s” when I bought this record—The Jazz Crusaders—Live Sides—I’ll write about it. I feel funny writing about a newly acquired record for this project. It doesn’t feel like part of my life yet, but I’ll just address it as a new acquaintance. So here goes…

Hey there Jazz Crusaders,

I only knew about you in your later incarnation, The Crusaders. I remember hearing that song “Street Life” on the radio when I was in high school. I always thought of you as a kind of smooth jazz predecessor, a “Quiet Storm” kind of band. Not that there was anything wrong with that, just not all that interesting to me. The only other thing I knew was that Wilton Felder and Joe Sample were in the band, two cool names.

Then, a few months ago, my friend Big Game James waved copies of your Jazz Crusader-era live sides in my face. He explained to me that you were more hard driving, straight up, post bop,  sixties era soulful than I might have imagined. I was intrigued. Therefore, when I saw you in the stacks at Grooves I bought you. I’m glad I did.

If I were to introduce a skeptic to sixties jazz, I might start with you. Soulful, swinging, but not too out there or brainy (no insult intended!). You remind me of the live sides of Cannonball Adderly with a bit of the Coltrane and Miles influence. I dig Wilton Felder’s sax playing (I hear echoes of Coltrane and Wayne Shorter?), Sample’s piano and Henderson’s trombone. I love me some trombone. The opening track, Coltrane’s “Impressions” is a killer.

Welcome to the collection.

Sincerely,

uncorrected

I’m currently listening to a wonderful, great sounding two record set of Blind Lemon Jefferson recordings on the Milestone label. The liner notes by Pete Welding bring up elements of blues authenticity arguments that intrigue me. For example Welding writes that the myth of the “footloose, hard-drinking, hard-living, tender-tough man of rough genius” has been recently been recently exploded by “serious, dispassionate study.” And yet, he still maintains, “The more carefully one applies the merciless gaze of detached inquiry the more clearly he emerges an uncommonly original, highly individualistic artist sui generis. If anything, the aura of romance glows even more brightly.”

I can dig that mostly. Listening to Blind Lemon sing “Jack ‘o Diamonds” blues you can’t help but visualize a lonely, tormented genius, even if in reality his life wasn’t completely like that. On the other hand, you can hear a cheerfulness, sexiness and a vaudeville pop sensibility in the thirty two songs on this record. His guitar playing is zippy, danceable, sociable. You can imagine the guy playing with a band, not just alone and lonely.

In his book Escaping the Delta, Elijah Wald brings up an interesting question to think about: was Blind Lemon Jefferson a natural bluesman or was he a gifted musician who just happened to come of age when the blues was in its ascendancy as a popular music? A bit of both maybe?

Such questions take some of the fan boy romance away from the blues, but if that helps to take away some of the moldy fig snobbery and breathes life into my dusty old records, I’m all for that.