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| Decisions, decisions . . . |
But the fact is, I hardly ever spend time looking through my shelves for something to listen to (unless I've managed to misfile something and can't find it). So, how do I decide what to play next? It's a fair question, and I realized the other day that I don't have a good answer. Sure, some days I wake up knowing that I want to hear some Beatles or Joe Venuti (look him up). But usually it's a more subtle process that seems to happen organically based on my mood, the weather (really), a song I heard in the car the night before, an article from a music magazine about a group or performer that I haven't listened to in a while, a record review in an audio magazine, a blog post discussing the merits of different pressings of an album, an email ad for a newly reissued LP, or, often as not, looking through my pile of recent LP purchases for something interesting to start the day with.
As I wrote in a recent post, I regularly come home with 20-30 albums after going through the $1 bins at a record store or digging through crates at an antique mall. And it's a rare week that I don't order an LP or two from Amazon or Discogs. As a result, I almost always have 50-100 albums in the intake pile that I'm anxious to get to.
To better explain how it seems to work, I thought it might be interesting to pick a random day (last Friday) and make a list of the records I listened to that day and explain how I came to choose the particular albums. Here you go:
Earlier in the week I had read somewhere about the reissue of an album by a relatively unknown L.A. singer/songwriter named Jim Sullivan, who released two albums before mysteriously disappearing in the desert of New Mexico. I'd never heard of Sullivan, but some sample tracks I listened to online sounded good, so I ordered the reissue. Jim Sullivan was actually his second album, originally released in 1972. While I was at it, I went ahead and ordered the reissue of his first album, called U.F.O., which originally came out in 1969.
Jim Sullivan arrived last Thursday, so first thing Friday morning I cleaned it, entered it in my database, and sat down for a listen. It's terrific -- a lost jewel of southern California folk/rock. These songs would have been right at home in the 70s in Laurel Canyon or at the Troubadour on Sunset Strip. With some better luck, Sullivan could have been the next Jackson Browne or Glenn Frey, instead of disappearing in the desert of New Mexico.
The lilting, driving rhythm on a couple of the songs from Jim Sullivan reminded me of the the great Fred Neil tune, "Everybody's Talkin'." So after Jim Sullivan was over, I pulled down Fred's classic 1966 album, Fred Neil. I have three copies -- an early 1969 Capitol reissue, a 2002 Scorpio reissue, and a 2013 reissue from the 4 Men With Beards label. I played side 1 of the original Capitol version, then switched to the 4 Men With Beards version for side 2. Both sound great, but the original has a bit more detail and tonal balance. (I also sampled a couple of cuts from the Scorpio reissue, which isn't half bad, but not as good as the others.)
This gives you some idea of the rabbit holes I tend to go down when I'm listening to music. After doing the shootout with my three copies of Fred Neil and making a few notes for future reference, I went online to check Discogs for other releases of the album to make sure there isn't a better-sounding version available. Thank goodness there is not, since I really don't need four copies.
Back to the music. One of the last songs on Fred Neil is the traditional folk song "Green Rocky Road." As I was listening, I thought: You know who else does a great version of that song? Tim Hardin, that's who.
Hardin's version of "Green Rocky Road" is on his first album, the 1966 release Tim Hardin 1. As I went looking for the album, I realized to my horror that I don't have a copy. The only version of "Green Rocky Road" I have by Hardin is on a 1970 "best of" collection that is not in great condition. Not to be deterred, I grabbed the 1968 release Tim Hardin 4 and put it on. It's a great set of bluesy songs anchored by John Sebastian's fine harmonica. Interestingly, although it's called Tim Hardin 4, the album is really a demo tape Hardin made in 1964 as an audition for Columbia Records. In 1968, his then label, Verve Forecast, repackaged the audition tape and put it out as a new release. Hardin was apparently not amused.
Fun facts: Hardin was a Marine and served in Southeast Asia. Tim Hardin Nine, his last album, released in 1973, was actually his seventh or eighth album, depending on how you count.
Rabbit hole number two. After listening to Tim Hardin 4, I had to stop everything and go back online to track down a copy of Tim Hardin 1 to fill the gap in my collection. After a half hour on Discogs, I found a NM copy of the original pressing for a reasonable price and put in the order. The album is currently on its was to me from somewhere in California.
While browsing Discogs, I also came across a nice reissue of Cannonball Adderley's 1958 classic Somethin' Else. My only copy is the 2014 Blue Note 75th anniversary reissue, which I'd always planned to upgrade some day. However, I decided I'd better give it a listen to be sure. Yep, I was right -- incredible music, and a very good remaster by Chris Bellman, but the pressing by United Record Pressing is noisy with some weird low-level whumps. So back to Discogs. The reissue of Somethin' Else I had found was from 1997, part of Blue Note's "Top Ten Series," a limited edition of ten (duh) classic Blue Note titles remastered from the original analog tapes by the most excellent Ron McMaster at Capitol Records (which owned Blue Note at the time) and released on 180-gram vinyl. Everything about this series is first-rate. And the sound is fabulous. Counting Somethin' Else, I now have eight of the ten releases in the series. Get some!
While I was putting Somethin' Else back on the shelf, I pulled out a few other Cannonball titles, including the 1961 release, Know What I Mean?, which features Bill Evans on piano, with the rhythm section of Percy Heath and Connie Kay. It's one of my favorite albums (with a truly bizarre cover - at left), that features incredible interplay between Cannonball and Evans. So, what the heck, I'm already in a Cannonball mood, I might as well hear some more. Fun fact: Julian Adderley got the nickname "Cannonball" while a student at Florida State. But his nickname was originally "Cannibal," because he was known as a big eater. Later on some band mates misheard the nickname and took to calling him Cannonball, which is also appropriate (Julian was a big guy) and probably for the best in the long run.
While listening to Bill Evans play his classic "Waltz For Debby" on Know What I Mean?, it reminded me of the great Jerome Kern song, "All The Things You Are," another beautiful and poignant ballad. So I went looking to see what versions of "All The Things You Are" I have. My database found 44 different performances of the song in my collection. It took me a while to figure out which one to listen to, but I thought I'd stick with a piano version and settled on Keith Jarret's terrific performance from the album Tribute. Tribute is a 1990 release from a 1989 live recording in Cologne, Germany with his longtime trio-mates Gary Peacock and Jack DeJohnette. "All The Things You Are" is the next to the last song on the two-album set, but wow is it ever worth the wait. Jarrett starts off with a dazzling (and seemingly) improvised intro, and by the time he gets to something like the actual melody and the band kicks in, it felt like my hair was on fire. Holy guacamole. The German pressing on the ECM label is outstanding.
By this point it was getting late, but the UPS man had just left a package with the reissue of Jim Sullivan's first album, U.F.O. I had enjoyed Jim Sullivan very much and wanted to give a quick listen to U.F.O. before signing off. U.F.O. is very much of a piece with Jim Sullivan, in the same way that two of James Taylor's early albums have the same sort of sound and feel. Despite the bizarre and somewhat creepy cover (left), there is lots more fine songwriting and singing by Sullivan and excellent performances by members of the Wrecking Crew, the crack L.A. studio musicians who play on the album.
So there you have it. I guess my answer to "How do you decide what to listen to?" is: I don't. I just go where the music takes me, one album leading to another. Of course every day is different. If it's raining tomorrow, I may wake up feeling like some Sinatra or Diana Krall. And that will inevitably lead me to think of a different take on one of the songs by a different performer, or maybe to an album by guitarist Anthony Wilson, who plays on many of Diana Krall's albums. That might get me thinking about how Wilson's style clearly owes a debt to Wes Montgomery, and inspire me to listen to some Wes, maybe his great collaboration with Milt Jackson on Bags And Wes, which will remind me that the great pianist Wynton Kelly also plays on the album, so let's hear some more Wynton Kelly, and so on and so on until it's time to go to bed.
Last fun fact: Anthony Wilson is the son of the mostly under-the-radar jazz arranger, conductor, composer, trumpet player Gerald Wilson, who, during his 75-year career, played with, arranged for, or conducted just about everybody in the business, and who should be designated a national treasure. All of his albums are worth seeking out, but you could do worse than to start with the 1961 release You Better Believe it!, with Richard "Groove" Holmes on organ and a 17-piece big band. Seriously good stuff.Enjoy the music!
