"The Seeds Of Love," by Tears For Fears

A few years ago I read an interview with a “hot” young musician, who subsequently faded away (forgive my feeble memory; I don’t remember his name; it’s on the tip of my tongue…), who was backhandedly complimenting Tears for Fears during their commercial heyday, citing their classic pop hits, like “Everybody Wants To Rule The World,” “Shout,” and “Sowing The Seeds Of Love,” as “wonderful, but dated, forever stuck in 1980’s synthesizers.” I have to disagree. I liken describing Tears for Fears’ music as “stuck in the 1980’s,” to saying David Bowie’s music is stuck in the 1970’s. Is it a product of its cultural and musical timeframe? Certainly, but isn’t that precisely from where it derives its artistic power and musical strength? Isn’t that the job of pop music, to reflect the mores and zeitgeist of the moment in 3-minute verse-chorus-verse format?

But hype is fascinating like that. Don’t believe me? Watch your facebook newsfeed evolve after a national event; it serpentines, with facebook friends jumping on the bandwagon of the thought-o-the-moment with cattle stampede-like trajectories of opinion. And so it goes with the music industry that hypes “the next big thing,” only to turn 180 degrees months, weeks, days later when it appears the trend is going in a different direction. Popular music is riddled with artists who should have been the “second coming,” only to fall short when trends shift. To wit, in the 1970’s, insiders speculated that The Knack was, secretly, the re-formed Beatles (sigh…if only), in the 1980’s, Terence Trent D’Arby was supposed to be the second coming of James Brown (sadly, not), and in the 1990’s, Sophie B. Hawkins was supposed to alter the direction of popular music (that said, I still enjoy her eccentric, sadly underappreciated music). And after their 15 minutes of fame were spent, these artists faded into their respective obscurities.

Such was the case with Tears for Fears much touted third release, The Seeds Of Love. Buoyed by the accumulated success of their previous two albums, the critically acclaimed, but slow-burning (in the U.S.) debut, The Hurting, and the world-wide, multi-platinum smash of Songs From The Big Chair, Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith were poised for musical world domination with their highly and long-anticipated follow-up, The Seeds Of Love. Indeed, arriving four years after its predecessor, The Seeds Of Love was to be the next big thing. How could it not be that? The first single, “Sowing The Seeds Of Love,” with it’s Beatles-influenced backdrop and inventive, accompanying video, rocketed to #2 on the Billboard chart and worked the awaiting, record-buying public into a frenzied froth (as a good lead-off single should). So much so, that in its November 1989 album review, the trend-conscious Rolling Stone magazine gave the album an almost perfect review: four out of five stars, reviewer Michael Azerrad stated, “…it's exciting that such thought-provoking music will undoubtedly be so widely heard. If with the title track Tears for Fears beg comparison to the Beatles, it's in the unspoken assertion that popular music can also be outstanding music. That's something this remarkable record proves over and over again.” 

Well said, Mr. Azerrad, well said. But just one year later in its year-end issue, the same publication trashed the album, calling the songs meandering and “overlong.” So which is it, Rolling Stone? What changed about the album in 10 months? Was it good or not? Apparently not, or maybe something else was afoot. After all, the subsequent singles from the album faired far less than the leadoff single (hard to imagine a feminist anthem competing strongly against the featherweight pop of Wilson Phillips, Michael Bolton, and Milli Vanilli). MTV, pop radio, and the record-buying public couldn’t be wrong about this one…right?

Whichever way you look at it, I’m inclined to agree with Azerrad’s original opine: The Seeds Of Love is a remarkable piece of work, likely the duo’s best effort, and worthy of another listen (or two or three…). Featuring only eight songs, side one became the “singles” side, featuring three of the most well-known singles from the album, the grandiose, everything-but-the-kitchen-sink #2 smash, “Sowing The Seeds Of Love,” the sensitive-man-as-feminist duet with (the stunning) Oletta Adams, “Woman In Chains,” and the playful, sunshine pop confection, “Advice For The Young At Heart,” with the borrowed John Lennon line, “Love is a promise, love is a souvenir; once given, never forgotten, never let it disappear…” The final song on the album, “Famous Last Words,” while one of my favorite tracks, was released as the album’s last single but disappeared without a trace as the album, by that time, had been widely forgotten by all parties concerned.

While references to The Beatles are undeniable (even down to the Sgt Pepper’s-like collage of an album cover), I liken The Seeds Of Love less to any, one Beatles album than I would compare it to Pink Floyd’s perennial classic, Dark Side of The Moon, with its swirling jazz riffs, melancholy atmospherics, sweeping soundscapes, and soulful, tortured vocals by Oletta Adams, who went on to a highly successful career as a soul singer after being launched by this album. Indeed, the tracks on Seeds Of Love, like the tracks on Dark Side Of The Moon, are longer than the standard pop song, clocking-in at an average of over 6 minutes, but Orzabal seemed to be going more for Alan Parsons style epics than catchy 3 minute pop petit fours. Viewing his entire catalogue, I’ve come to believe that Roland Orzabal can’t not write a song without a tangible melody, and Seeds Of Love is no exception. That said, the album is scarce on pop hooks, per se, but the album seems crafted to build a significantly more satisfying musical experience over time, with repeated listens, much like Dark Side Of The Moon’s epic journey, except instead of a musical case study in madness, Seeds Of Love examines a road map of the human heart. We seem to still need that...

You Don't Mess Around With Jim, by Jim Croce

While only a fleeting 5-year recording career, Jim Croce charted an impressive ten songs in Billboard’s “Hot 100,” with eight of those hits reaching the top 40 and five reaching the top 10, two of which reached the #1 spot, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” and “Time In A Bottle,” both in 1973. Croce’s third album, You Don’t Mess Around With Jim, spent 5 weeks at #1 in 1974 and is his best. The album was also his commercial breakthrough, spawning three top-20 singles, “You Don’t Mess Around With Jim (#8, 1972),” “Operator (That’s Not The Way It Feels) (#17, 1972),” and the aforementioned, “Time In A Bottle (#1, 1973),” which gained momentum after being featured in a long-forgotten TV movie, “She Lives!” 

But the hit singles were only a small part of this album’s impact.The non-singles on the album contain hidden gems, which reflect some of Croce’s favorite themes, including the playful country romp, “Hard Time Losin’ Man,” with its twangy, back porch shuffle and saucy background vocals, and the contemplative, “Walkin’ Back To Georgia,” where the disillusioned narrator returns humbly to his hometown sweetheart after failing his dreams (in fact, Croce seemed particularly drawn to that specific sentiment, revisiting the topic for several songs on this album alone: the Georgia tune as well as “New York’s Not My Home” and “Box #10”). 

The best non-single on the album and the song that finds its way onto most Croce compilations is “A Long Time Ago,” which is characteristically Croce: mellow, maudlin, and catchy as hell. A close second is "Photographs And Memories," which is, again, maudlin and catchy, has also become a perennial Christmas holiday classic. The optimistic album closer, “Hey Tomorrow,” turned out to be both prophetic and, tragically, short-lived for the author.

That Jim Croce is a musician who’s not received his due can likely be relegated to two mitigating factors: 1.) his untimely death at the age of 30, and 2.) his widow, Ingrid’s, ongoing battle with his recording and publishing companies that, seeing his hit-making potential early-on, signed the young and naïve musician to a horrifyingly unfair contract. Eventually, Ingrid was victorious, winning back royalties for her husband’s catalogue and spending the next 40 years promoting his legacy through various reissues and compilations. Over the years, Croce has often been described as “the voice of the American workingman,” and I guess that means because his songs describe “everyday people” in “everyday situations,” but I’ve always struggled with that moniker. I think Croce’s go-to themes: love, loss, striving, losing, and hopeful persistence, are universal and transcend any one sub-group. Who hasn’t felt those things?

I believe it was my brother, Jay, who introduced my siblings and me to Jim Croce, and when I was very young, I sometimes confused my brother and Croce as the same person (I know, crazy, isn’t it? I also used to believe as a small child that Paul Williams was merely the shorter iteration of John Denver – sigh…too many episodes of “Big John, Little John,” I guess). I’ve often wondered what Croce’s career and life might have been like had he survived the plane crash. How might he have evolved, artistically? Would he have ventured into disco (don’t laugh, Seals and Crofts did it!) or songs about outer space as so many did in the latter part of the 70’s (I’m lookin’ at you, Elton John, David Bowie, and Karen & Richard Carpenter!)? Would he have included synthesizers and drum machines in his 1980’s albums (vis-à-vis Carole King, Joni Mitchell)? How might his “Vh1: Behind The Music” episode have played out in the 1990’s had Croce lived? Would there have been a stint in rehab? How many “experimental periods” might we have had to endure? Sigh… Sadly, we’ll never know, and honestly, I suspect I would have hung in there with him through all of it. 

"Close To You," by Carpenters

Some of the greatest albums in the Rock-and-Roll canon were recorded in the early 1970s. To wit, “What’s Going On?” by Marvin Gaye, “Tapestry,” by Carole King, “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” by Simon and Garfunkel, “Dark Side Of The Moon,” by Pink Floyd, and classic recordings by David Bowie, Elton John, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, Nick Drake, and James Taylor, to name just a few. One of my favorites from the era, and a remarkably influential Polaroid from that period of popular music, was the second album by the brother-sister duo from Downey, California: Carpenters, Close To You. “Rollingstone” magazine lists the album as one of the “Best 500 albums” of all time - in the top 200 no less! It's also listed in the 2005 book, "1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die," which inspired the moniker for this blog. And while not the artistic pinnacle of the duo’s career (that would be two albums later, the 1972 classic, A Song For You), it was one of Carpenters best sellers and the album that launched their highly successful, but ultimately tragic career.

The Carpenter family moved from New Haven, Connecticut to Downey, California in the early 1960’s for a job opportunity for Dad Carpenter and to be closer to Los Angeles, where Richard could be closer to the nexus of the music industry. At that time, Richard was the sole musician in the family, while Karen mostly tagged along behind her big brother, tapping the drum kit grudgingly purchased for her by her parents ("girls don’t play the drums"). It wasn’t until later, when recording demos in a friend’s garage studio that, on a whim, Richard put Karen on the microphone, and he realized his little sister could sing. Karen reportedly wasn’t convinced of her remarkable gift until sometime later, with some close friends suggesting she always thought of herself as a “drummer who sang.”

After a few years of gigging around the L.A. music scene, sending demos to and getting rejections from every major recording studio in the industry, the siblings landed a short-lived recording contract with RCA (the prize for winning the Hollywood Bowl “Battle of the Bands,” contest in 1966). The songs recorded with RCA never saw the light of day, however, and the band was released from their contract, as RCA execs felt the duo were not commercial enough. A few years later, their demo landed in the cassette player of Herb Albert, popular musician and co-founder of A&M Records, and he signed the duo in 1969. Their first album, Offering, was less-than-meteoric (although well-worth seeking out), but yielded their first chart single, a startling re-imagination of The Beatles’ classic, “Ticket to Ride.”

After the single and album finished a brief run on the charts, A&M decided to give the duo one more chance, but this time by releasing a final, make-or-break single. Essentially at their label’s mercy, Richard and Karen agreed to record a saccharine Burt Bacharach song, which had been released numerous times in the previous decade to little success. But Herb Albert felt it would be right for Karen’s voice, and frankly, while not thrilled to do so, the siblings had no choice and recorded that tune with over-the-top lyrics (“On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream-come-true, so they sprinkled moon dust in your hair and golden starlight in your eyes of blue.”). After the recording session for “(They Long To Be) Close To You,” Herb Albert and Richard Carpenter sat on the stoop in the A&M parking lot, discussing the potential for the single. Carpenter predicted, “It will either be a #1 hit or the biggest stiff the label has ever recorded.” “Close To You” became Carpenters’ first #1 single, remaining in the top position for a month and catapulting the siblings into instant fame and a whirlwind of recording and promotional activity.

And this is how the Close To You album was born, amidst a flurry of activity in the wake of the “overnight success” of the Bacharach single. A&M wanted to leverage the success of the monster hit song, while Richard and Karen were just grateful to still have a recording contract. But having gone through most of their original material on their first album, Richard was left with the task of finding new songs for the follow-up album. Serendipity intervened. As “Close To You” rose on the charts, Richard saw a bank commercial on late night television. He couldn’t help but notice the background song, written by Paul Williams and Roger Nichols, about a young couple just getting started, and he wondered if the jingle existed as a complete song. It didn’t, but when Williams and Nichols were contacted about a full-song, they happily obliged, finishing “We’ve Only Just Begun” by adding another verse and submitting it for recording.

The rest of the Close To You album was recorded in like manner: hurriedly, between promotional engagements and concerts, but the results were astonishing, for an album thrown-together in the duos precious free time between gigs. Including a mix of Carpenter-penned originals with Bacharach and Roger Nichols and Paul Williams songs and another Lennon-McCartney cover, the album was probably the last “rock” effort the duo produced, as they spent the remainder of the early seventies focusing on their sublime hit pop singles. Speaking of hit singles, I’ve always held that, while containing two of the duo’s best-known songs, the album could have spawned even more hits, including the Carpenter original, “Maybe It’s You,” and the Bacharach cover of the Shirelles’ 1961 top-ten hit, “Baby It’s You.” The siblings’ demonstrate their lesser-appreciated rock-and-roll leanings with the Beatles’ “Help!” and the grandiose album closer, the spellbinding Carpenter original, “Another Song.”

The album was a monster, selling millions of copies and launching the duo into the chaos that would be the next five years of hits, constant touring, and television appearances. In hindsight, it was too much. I’ve often wondered what might have been, had the duo taken the remainder of the 1970s off after their hits compilation around the middle of the decade. But sadly, they got caught up in the star-maker machinery, unwisely chasing horrid 1970’s pop culture trends, and essentially losing focus. And while the hits never stopped (in fact, the duo enjoyed top 40 hits on every album released during Karen’s lifetime, up to their final hit single, “Touch Me When We’re Dancing,” #16 in 1981), their albums in the latter part of the decade, while always delivering one or two gems (mostly due to Karen’s creamy, alabaster voice), were largely forgettable efforts. But Close To You reflects a moment when the siblings were young and optimistic. They'd only just begun to do their thing, and the album accidentally became an early 1970’s classic.