Got a case of the Monday blues?Well DFD has just the thing you need.“Oh Pretty Woman” is a tasty number by John Mayall and The Bluesbreakers.The song was originally recorded by Albert King, but Mayall does this track justice with his fiery guitar licks and a grooving horn section.One listen to this track and it’s no surprise that his work has been influential on musicians like Eric Clapton, Mick Fleetwood, and Mick Taylor.
In honor of Steve Winwood’s birthday, we give you “Paper Sun,” a psychedelic treat from the Summer of Love.From Traffic’s first album, Mr. Fantasy, “Paper Sun” is interlaced with Dave Mason’s wild sitar work and Steve Winwood’s eccentric vocals.It’s quite a departure from the rest of the band’s catalog, which is more blues oriented.Released in May of ‘67, this was the band’s debut single, coming in at #5 on the UK charts.Happy Birthday Steve!
I can’t say enough good things about Love. They became a fixture on the LA music scene and influenced a young Jim Morrison to become a musician. Fronted by Arthur Lee , the original line-up briefly consisted of seven members for this second effort Da Capo. The stand-out track for me has always been “She Comes In Colors”. A psychedelic, yet moving serenade featuring a slithering flute that follows Arthur Lee’s vocals perfectly.
My first two song choices for today, Thanksgiving Day, were: 1) John Lennon’s “Cold Turkey” and 2) William S. Burroughs’ “A Thanksgiving Day Prayer.”Lennon’s was ruled out due to the fact that his “people” do not allow any streaming of his music, so we’d only be able to give you a :30 second sample and that’s not the ideal experience here at DFD [note for people outside the U.S.: we know you can’t stream full songs, no need to post this to the comments board, we’re working on a solution].Burroughs’ brilliant 1990 poem set to music was ruled out…well…let’s just say it might be a little intense for some.In the end we decided on something a bit more upbeat and cheery, and what says upbeat and cheery better than sweet soul music: William Bell’s “Every Day Will Be Like A Holiday.”
In 1967, The Jimi Hendrix Experience was forced back into the studio to quickly follow-up the extraordinary success of Are You Experienced, a studio album that in and of itself is the quality of a Greatest Hits title.The result was the less commercial, but more experimental Axis: Bold As Love, which contained today’s DFD track, “Spanish Castle Magic,” a powerful kick-in-the-solar-plexus from the trio of Hendrix on guitar, Mitch Mitchell on drums, and Noel Redding on bass.It was one of the only tracks from the album that would end up in the band’s live sets going forward.
Jesse Stone’s “Shake, Rattle & Roll” had been around the block several times before young soul singer Arthur Conley, hot off his 1967 blockbuster “Sweet Soul Music,” jumped onboard later that year and made it a hit all over again. The Georgia-born Otis Redding protégé may have been familiar with blues shouter Big Joe Turner’s supremely earthy Atlantic original, a ’54 R&B chart-topper, which spawned a cleaned-up cover by Bill Haley & His Comets and a blistering Elvis treatment. But Conley’s main inspiration was clearly a subsequent rendition by Sam Cooke; he and Otis were both huge fans. Cut in Muscle Shoals with Redding producing, Arthur’s pile-driving revival opens with a startling horn blast that leads into a sturdy walking bassline. Conley’s elastic, melismatic vocal channels Cooke, the boisterous call-and-response action enlivening the venerable R&B chestnut like it was written for no one else.
This unsung highlight of Are You Experienced? didn’t even make the U.S. version of the album back in 1967, one of three tracks cut to make room for the early singles “Hey Joe,” “Purple Haze,” and “The Wind Cries Mary.” But it would have been a better album if they’d added those and kept “Remember.” Picture Hendrix doing Memphis soul without the horns. Guitar licks stab and swagger like the great Steve Cropper while the lyrics channel Otis Redding in his brokenhearted prime and Hendrix sings about the impact of his baby leaving him on nearby birds and honeybees. “They used to sing so sweet,” he sighs. “But since my baby left me, they ain’t sang in two long days.” And just in case she won’t be swayed by melancholy honeybees? He lets her know that if she doesn’t come back soon, he’ll starve to death. Apparently, he doesn’t cook much.
When Ochs decided to “go electric” in 1967 it was with an eclectic vision that owed as much to classic pop as rock ’n’ roll. The songs on Pleasures Of The Harbor were less political and more poetic than his Elektra Records work, with the exception of “Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends,” a sarcastic protest song that became a surprise pop hit, and “The Party,” a cinematic look at a shindig thrown by rich liberals for their revolutionary friends. The air of “The Party” is bristling with resentment and misunderstanding, and Ochs investigates the inner demons of the mingling starlets, black power advocates, and scene makers with a contemptuous humor that spares no one, including himself. It may sound dated today, but it captures a unique moment in time with deadly insight.
Warren Zevon—cynical bastard—seems to take a less than charitable view of a tragic beauty whom he observes one night in a Hollywood bar. When the lights come on at closing time he compares her suddenly stricken visage to “something death brought in in a suitcase.” But then, he never was one to mince words. This is a more acerbic but somehow more empathetic view of the perils of the Hotel California lifestyle than that offered up by its most celebrated residents, the Eagles, who chime in on harmonies here. In his songwriting career Zevon seemed to be on a quest to unearth unflattering truths about himself and others, and in this chilling offering he succeeds admirably. As the song swells to a crescendo, he implicates himself as one of the young lady’s prospective suitors and admits that he’s just as much of a phony as everybody else in the joint.
It’s been something of a double-edged sword for Eddie Floyd. Enjoying a monumental smash with his Stax classic “Knock On Wood” meant that its immediate follow-up, “Raise Your Hand,” would be unfairly relegated to comparative obscurity, even if it did chart respectably in 1967. It’s time to rectify that injustice once and for all: “Raise Your Hand” packs the same knockout punch as its more celebrated predecessor. Cowriter Steve Cropper tosses in a nifty little Latin-tinged guitar intro before his MG’s bandmates jump in and dig deep into Memphis soul soil behind Floyd’s infectious vocal. There’s a party going on here as Al Jackson, Jr., in all likelihood the consummate R&B drummer of his era, does his usual spectacular job of keeping the groove rock-steady. Wave those arms in the air and make Eddie happy!
The annals of ’60s girl groups are littered with worthy ensembles who never got their due, and The Apollas rank at the top of that lamentable list. Perhaps history would have turned out differently had they been signed to Motown, since the trio (Billie Barnum, Ella Jamerson, and Leola Jiles) displayed all the polish of The Supremes, yet favored a rawer singing style more in line with Martha & The Vandellas. The lyrical sentiment of this 1967 single is nothing new—youngsters are forever pleading with the Almighty to send them a true love—but with its stomping beat and fat brass, this should have been a monster dance hit. Alas, it went unnoticed at the time. But don’t look for it in the bargain bins today. A cult favorite on the U.K. Northern Soul scene, the original 45 now fetches $200 or more.
Just because Percy Sledge made the greatest hit of his career his very first time out on Atlantic Records with the immortal “When A Man Loves A Woman” doesn’t mean his equally breathtaking encores don’t chill the spine and free the soul in exactly the same way. Take the absolutely gorgeous “Out Of Left Field,” a 1967 hit written by the unbelievably prolific Muscle Shoals duo of Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham. It’s guaranteed to raise goosebumps and, depending on your mood, maybe even elicit a tear. As on his signature smash, Sledge totally commits to the devotional ballad, its gut-grabbing intensity nearly overwhelming in its pristine beauty. Subtly deployed organ, guitar, and an otherworldly choir slowly but steadily elevate Sledge to heavenly climes. Deep soul simply doesn’t get any deeper than this.
Ring in 2009 without a resolution and some horns? Perish the thought. In early 1967 Otis Redding and Stax labelmate Carla Thomas recorded King & Queen, a terrific album of duets in the Marvin & Tami/Kim tradition, with Booker T. & The MG’s and the Memphis Horns backing. In fact, the two even covered “It Takes Two” with—dare we say—better brass! The album also gave us one of the funkiest, funniest duets ever: “Tramp.” On this song, the two make a loving pact for the New Year that rarely—if ever—gets played anywhere this time of year. Excuse us while we change that. May every day in your 2009 be a damn fine one—long live Otis and Carla!
Any group that spent the better part of the late ’60s hauling Cole Porter, Paul Simon, and Van Dyke Parks copyrights up the Top 40 knows a thing or two about songs. The choice of this hidden Randy Newman gem, from the wisp-rock choir boys’ Anything Goes album, is further proof. The tune retains none of its composer’s signature irony or black humor. Instead, it’s a straightforward—and uncompromising—meditation on irretrievable loss set and sung to an achingly beautiful melody. The quintet’s affectless harmony makes the metaphoric whiteout almost chilling, as if even the memory of the time and people gone from our lives is itself meant to melt away.
While the majority of tracks on The Doors’ self-titled debut are now fibers of the national consciousness, there is an unsung hero in the bunch. “Take It As It Comes,” in its brief dash past the ears, pulls in a myriad of sounds and imagery that would come to define The Doors as well as Los Angeles rock in the ’60s. Morrison’s lyrics ooze the pervading ethos of the time, while hinting at the Native American settings that would give his work depth and offering up leather-clad double-entendres that would give a generation of girls eargasms. The band married these elements to a coiled, swinging beat and featured an undulating, Eastern-inspired Vox organ solo by Manzarek. If this song were by any other band, it would have been the biggest track on the record, but because it was by The Doors, I write about it here.
After their self-titled debut in 1966, The Incredible String Band was reduced to a duo with the departure of Clive Palmer. Robin Williamson and Mike Heron moved further afield from the music of the British Isles, creating a blend that embraced everything from Eastern mysticism to American jazz, Mediterranean island opium-infused reveries and folk styles from around the globe. “First Girl I Loved” is the beautiful confluence of autobiography and universality. Williamson’s song references his own life (“Me rushing around Britain with a guitar, making love to people that I didn’t even like to see”), but perfectly captures the innocence of anyone’s first love. His own experiences turn a listener inward to the phantom quality of memories that float through the intervening years in all of our lives.
Neil Young was all of 21 years old when he created this mind-boggling, quasi-psychedelic masterpiece of disillusion and regret. Written during a brief, self-imposed exile from Buffalo Springfield, “Broken Arrow” was virtually a solo Young record, although Richie Furay sang crystalline harmony and Dewey Martin—the band’s drummer—bellowed out the opening lines, from Young’s “Mr. Soul,” over teen screams borrowed from tapes of The Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl. Each verse appears to take on a different subject: The first is about the downside of rock stardom; the second is about Vietnam and what it meant to be “grown up” in 1967; and the third—well, some thought it was a continuation of the war topic, while others heard a mournful ode to JFK. Complex and mesmerizing, “Broken Arrow” was the song that cemented Young’s standing as rock’s dark genius, and pointed the way for things to come
In the flower-powered, Sgt. Pepper-ed summer of 1967, it’s only too fitting that some of the year’s greatest music was created by an L.A. band called Love. In June ’67, after a show with Elektra Records labelmates The Doors, Arthur Lee and company began work on their third album, Forever Changes. The record became a timeless musical and lyrical document of its day, and one of Robert Plant’s very own desert-island discs. This song was originally titled “Alone Again” until Lee simply added “Or” to the end. UFO and The Damned covered “Alone Again Or,” but the original’s still where it’s at.
Even the thick haze of their reputation as the ultimate jam band can’t hide the original quintet’s amped-up garage-punk origins. That’s what you get on this rampaging cut from the group’s 1967 debut album: sheet-metal chording, phosphorescent Vox organ, caustic vocals, and slashing guitar. I’d always heard it as a Dylanized take on The Animals’ “I’m Crying” ever since Garcia announced it as a group original from the Fillmore stage in mid-’66. The abrupt waltz-time breaks only heighten the rush when the band jumps full-on back into the fray on the verses. Fast and stinging, this isn’t your grandson’s Grateful Dead. It’s the early-vintage hard stuff, an acid-rock introductory offer hastily recalled by the manufacturer that nonetheless remains potent and highly combustible whenever uncorked.
Aretha Franklin is to pop singers what Everest is to mountains, what Jupiter is to planets. While certainly more famous for songs like “Respect” and “Chain Of Fools,” “The House That Jack Built,” released in the summer of ’68, demonstrates in less than two minutes and 30 seconds exactly why Aretha was crowned The Queen of Soul. Truth be told, this amazing track was the inspiration behind the creation of this daily newsletter and site: It occurred to me that every music fan on the planet needed to own this song. Listen to it right before you walk out the door in the morning, and I guarantee you’ll have a damn fine day.
