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. 

"Born And Raised," by John Mayer

For my birthday this year, my partner, Kristina, indulged my inner (and outer) music geek and took me to Laurel Canyon in Hollywood to visit the birthplace of so many classic rock and roll songs. If you’re unfamiliar with its history, Laurel Canyon was to the late 1960’s and early 1970’s what Paris, France was to 1920’s: a denizen of era-defining young artists of the time. Crosby, Stills, and Nash first joined talents there after singing together in a Canyon living room, Mama Cass held court and served as concierge in those sacred hills, Neil Young haunted the Canyon, Carole King paved the way for women singer-songwriters in the storied neighborhood, and comrade-citizen, Joni Mitchell, devoted an entire album to the circuitous Canyon roads in her far-out 1970 effort, Ladies Of The Canyon, which contains some of her finest songs, including “Conversation,” “Big Yellow Taxi,” “The Circle Game,” and perhaps the song that best captured the Zeitgeist of the era, “Woodstock,” a #11 hit for Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young on their 1970 album, the sublime, Déjà Vu.

Fast forward over 40 years later, and pop music still draws from this mythical rock and roll neighborhood - as it should. In the last few years, in fact, dozens of albums have paid homage to this remarkable location in popular music. To wit, tribute albums of the eon have been produced by the likes of Josh Rouse, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Wilson Phillips (Admit it. You bought their ear-candied first album, too), and even a not-horrible tribute by actress, Rita Wilson. In addition, up-and-coming British artist (and my current favorite singer), Rumer, is building a career adulating similar artists of the period, most notably echoing Karen Carpenter with her two studio albums and side project, fronting for the retro-pop of “Stereo Venus,” whose debut album, Close To The Sun, is well-worth seeking out if you’re a fan of early 1970’s psychedelic pop.

Following the trend, John Mayer’s latest collection of new songs references this eternal fount of sweet inspiration: Laurel Canyon, 1971. The album’s artwork mirrors Neil Young’s Harvest and gives a hint to what awaits the listener, and “Queen Of California,” the set's opening track, lays the groove for the album, with a note-for-note recreation of the Laurel Canyon vibe. This song, with its unplugged, acoustic setting and laid-back lyric about Joni Mitchell’s heartbreaking album, Blue, could have resided on any 12” vinyl from that great era. In fact, the soft-rock fabric of Born And Raised is powered by Neil Young’s 1971 guitar (and hat and boots), Joni Mitchell’s word poetry, and the letdown from the late-1960’s, when young idealists recovered from a hangover of too much freedom, not enough discipline, and questionable life choices - a botched attempt at hippie utopia. I guess it was just a dream some of them had.

While garnering generally positive reviews, one writer critiqued Born And Raised as Mayer’s unbridled solipsism, but just like my favorite albums from the Canyon in the early 1970’s, that’s my favorite part of this remarkable scrapbook of songs. My philosophy regarding the role of pop music (and art in general), is that it’s the artist’s responsibility to convey the unuttered feelings of the observer, or in Mayer’s words, to “speak for me.” I posit that it’s not only the artist’s job to speak for us, but it’s also what we fans yearn for. It’s why we slide our credit card through the reader at the record store or why we click “download” on iTunes. I think David Gates described it best when he sang, “…you want to get the meaning out of each and every song; then you find yourself a message and some words to call your own and take them home.”

My favorite track is the title song, “Born And Raised,” which features angelic harmonies by David Crosby and Graham Nash (of course!), and finds the tabloid-riddled artist applying balm to his “quarter life crisis” with a dose of thirty-something maturity. In revealing intimate details of his own life (i.e., his parents’ recent divorce, his stupid mouth, his numerous cringe-inducing tweets, etc.) Mayer is giving voice to a generation of emerging adults navigating the coming-of-age process in the era of social media and public meltdowns. Andy Warhol’s notorious 15 minutes of fame prediction brought to life. From this perspective, Mayer’s album is nothing short of a public service. Teenagers, take notes!

10 Songs About The Power of Music, Part 2

It's been a busy spring, but fans are waiting and have been asking for the second installment of "10 Songs About The Power Of Music." And since I try to accommodate, let's begin again...

“Dance To The Music,” by Sly & The Family Stone. Is it wrong that I first heard this song performed live by a certain, unnamed teen pop star in the summer of 1989? Sigh…probably wrong, but I don’t care. This 1968 single by Sly & The Family Stone was their first big hit, reaching #8 on Billboard and kick-starting a string of classic hit singles, including: “Everyday People,” “Hot Fun In The Summertime,” and “Family Affair,” among others. The song breaks down the elements of a rock song, starting with the drummer, adding guitar, then bass, then organ and horns, telling “all the squares” to go home. While that directive clearly included me, I never went home. I stayed. And I’ve never stopped returning to this classic track.

“Old Time Rock-and-Roll,” by Bob Seger. This iconic rock song about the power of music was co-opted by an 80’s teen movie in an (admittedly) iconic socks-sliding scene, which is, sadly, what it took to make this song a rock classic. Originally just cracking the top-40 in 1979, its inclusion in the 1983 teen flick, Risky Business, solidified the Bob Seger track as a radio staple, with its punchy opening piano riff and dirty guitar and drums, the tune perfectly expresses the sheer joy of “old time rock and roll.” That said, I never understood the lyric, “…in ten minutes I’ll be late for the door.” Seger doesn’t seem the type to make appointments…

“Sir Duke,” by Stevie Wonder. As the title suggests, this song about the power of music is a tribute by Wonder to his musical hero, jazz pianist, Duke Ellington, who had died a few years before Wonder wrote this transcendent song. Taken from his legendary 1976 album, Songs In The Key Of Life (if you don’t own this album, you’re just missing out), the single, released in the summer of 1977, topped the U.S. Billboard charts for two weeks and still sounds fresh today, due largely to Wonder’s other-worldly arrangement and playful horn section. It doesn’t matter the context: when this song is played, everybody starts moving.

 “Late In The Evening,” by Paul Simon. Taken from the obscure, semi-autobiographic 1980 movie, One-Trick Pony, this #6 Billboard hit is a rock classic. Andy Greene from Rolling Stone magazine recently noted, “Whenever (Paul) Simon sings the line, ‘I stepped outside and smoked myself a J,’ from "Late in the Evening," at a regular concert, the crowd goes absolutely insane.” And it’s true. I witnessed it firsthand when I saw Simon play live in June 2001. I guess folks like to have their fun. But I cheered at the next line about the rapturous joy of live music: “…I turned my amp up loud and I began to play, it was late in the evening, and I blew that room away!” Well said, Mr. Simon, well said.

 “Groove Is In The Heart,” by Deee-Lite. One-hit wonders get a bad rap. I argue that on one level, they do fans justice by delivering a careers-worth of music in one, all-encompassing song, sparing fans from enduring career highs and lows and inevitable “experimental” phases. Deee-Lite is such a one-hit wonder, arguably existing for the sole purpose of bringing “Groove Is In The Heart” to the world. The song features a Herbie Hancock sample (from “Bring Down The Birds”) as well as a sample from Vernon Burch's "Get Up" and rapping by Q-Tip, from “A Tribe Called Quest.” Additionally, the song features bass and backing vocals from Bootsy Collins. How could it not have become quintessential? Its message is universal. Music stems from the heart, and it’s impossible not to move to this remarkable dance tune. It was popular when I was in college and was THE song the women in my dorm listened to when they were getting ready to go out. In fact, every time I hear the song, I can still smell the Aquanet lingering in the air, mingled with the smell of beer, perfume, and the anticipation of another dumb night. 

10 Songs About The Power Of Music, Part 1

Every now and again, we like to mix things up at “You Must Hear This Album.” This time, we’re spotlighting 10 notable songs about songs, in two installments: melodic odes to music itself, the very thing that inspires us, excites us, comforts us, and informs us. Music accompanies us through all of our rites of passage: when we get married, when we graduate, when we drive to work, and when we celebrate. It’s the soundtrack of life, and as such, this writer believes music to be essential to life and deserving of a little praise. These featured songs and artists, while not representative, definitive, or even "cool," (to wit, some great songs that didn’t make the cut: “Where It’s At,” by Beck, “Sultans of Swing,” by Dire Straits, “I Dig Rock-andRoll Music, by Peter, Paul, and Mary, and “Still Rock-and-Roll To Me,” by Billy Joel, etc.), are certainly worthy of searching out. Accordingly, the songs are not listed in any particular order, but taken together, represent a harmonious sampling of our collective dependence upon musical expression, one of our greatest treasures.

We’ll begin the first installment with “We Will Rock You,” by Queen. This 1977 double-sided #2 smash hit (“Rock You” was the “b-side” to “We Are The Champions”) was inspired by the band’s desire to involve their fans more in their rock shows, being moved on one occasion by an audience singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” to the band for an encore. An understandably powerful moment for the lads. Not only is “Rock You” the band’s singular promise to their fans, but the song has transcended the music world, morphing into the standard rallying cry at athletic matches of every variety. And who can resist the catchy, “stomp, stomp, CLAP! stomp, stomp, CLAP!” hook that permeates the record. Instantly recognizable. Instantly classic. Powerful. Punchy. Perfect. Just like the band.

“I Love Rock and Roll,” by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts. Joan Jett and The Blackhearts performed the definitive 1982 version of this song, written by Alan Merrill and Jake Hooker, from the British band, “Arrows.” Jett’s iteration spent seven weeks at number one that summer and featured one of the cheesiest/coolest music videos in the early days of the medium (was I the only pre-teen who worried that Jett might be a biter?). Just watching the video made me suspect my parents weren't telling me everything (turns out, they weren't). The song was ubiquitous on the radio that spring, and for me, turned into summer’s invocation; it was so visceral and rebellious and kick-ass; the perfect jolt in the arm this 11 year-old needed as I prepared to matriculate into a new school the next town over. It was my go-to song that summer and into the fall, until this little album titled, Thriller, came out that November...

“Drift Away,” by Judson Spence. While it’s deservedly best-known incarnation was released in 1973 by the late Dobie Gray (#5), who sadly left us in 2011, “Drift Away” has received numerous treatments over the decades, covered by such heavy-hitters as Willie Nelson, Tina Turner, and the Rolling Stones, to name a few, but my all-time favorite version comes from a relatively unknown artist who debuted in the late 1980’s and whose lifespan on the pop charts was short-lived. Judson Spence’s reading of the 1970’s classic demonstrates a gifted interpreter of rock classics; I wish he would have done an entire album of these. And fortunately, Spence’s version is actually available today on iTunes. It’s featured on the soundtrack to the late-1980’s television program, “The Wonder Years.” The album is an inoffensive tribute to music from the late 1960’s / early 1970’s, featuring originals from the likes of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young as well as covers by Julian Lennon and Debbie Gibson, who closes the set with an amiable tune about what it feels like to grow up in the suburbs. Fitting for the program. Fitting for the soundtrack.

“Sing,” by Carpenters. Richard Carpenter reportedly regrets recording this Grammy-winning hit song (#3 in 1973), seeing it as trifle, compared to their other recordings (as well as a waste of time, given the precious few years of recording they ended up having during Karen’s lifetime), but nonetheless, this Sesame Street classic stands as a tender tribute to the inspirational power of music, and while targeted at children, it’s message transcends age and time: everybody has a theme song and shouldn’t be afraid to sing it out loud (what’s yours?). What’s mine, you ask? Naturally, it’s “Warm It Up,” the 1992 #13 hit by Kris Kross.

“Music,” by Madonna. You may not remember this, but in the late-1990’s, many folks had written off the Queen of Pop. Apparently, with the late-90’s rise of grunge and the short-lived girl singer-songwriters (I’m looking at you, Jewel, Fiona, Joan, and Alanis) the “Material Girl” had apparently outstayed her welcome. With the love-it-or-hate-it Erotica album, in 1992, and the all-over-the-place Bedtime Stories, in 1994 (and the Evita debacle in 1996), the Madonna hit-machine seemed to have blown a gasket. But late in the dingy decade, Stella got her groove back, releasing the dazzling one-two punch of the Ray Of Light album, in 1998, and Music, in 2000. The title song on the latter album is a sassy, dance floor lolly about the transcendence of music. Favorite line referencing our need for music: “It's like ridin' on the wind and it never goes away, touches everything I'm in, got to have it everyday.” Well said, your “Madjesty.”

"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.

"Don McLean," by Don McLean

In 1971, Don McLean released the single, “American Pie.” This classic song brimmed with imagery of the United States in the 1950’s, as well as the sadness of Buddy Holly’s premature death and McLean’s pointed, rock-and-roll commentary about “the Jester,” Elvis Presley, stealing Holly’s rightful place in the Rock-and-Roll pantheon “in a coat he borrowed from James Dean and a voice that came from you and me…” Okay, okay, so that’s just my take, and feel free to form your own position, because McLean has deftly avoided interpreting the enigmatic pop tune through decades of probing interviews, most frequently describing the meaning of the song’s cryptic lyric as, “It means I’ll never have to work again.”

Fair enough. But as you likely know, “American Pie” was ubiquitous on radio in the early 1970’s, it rocketed to number one on the Billboard charts, remaining there for 4 weeks, and it continues to be a radio staple to this day, garnering new generations of fans every year, who are drawn-in by its rock-and-roll imagery and infectious, sing-a-long chorus. In fact, the song is so revered that it’s used to close down bars at the University of Illinois, has been parodied by the wonderful Weird Al Yankovic, and was even given an electronica treatment by Madonna in 2000 (which I didn’t hate). And besides the follow-up single, the majestic, “Vincent,” a tribute to artist Vincent Van Gogh that reached #12 the following fall and McLean's “comeback” hits from a decade later, the remake of Roy Orbison’s “Crying,” #5, in 1980, and “Castles In The Air,” #12, in 1981, that’s pretty much everything pop fans know of Don McLean.

And this is the problem, since the scattered hits tell only a part of the story, and American Pie isn’t even McLean’s best album. That distinction goes to his third LP, the self-titled, Don McLean: a portrait of the artist in the wake of massive commercial success and wide critical acclaim. Backstory: when McLean recorded the American Pie LP, he was still a relatively unknown singer/songwriter, whose first album, Tapestry, failed to make a dent on the charts (even though it contained two future hits, the original version of the aforementioned, “Castles In The Air,” and the song that Perry Como turned into a hit three years after, the 1973 #29 single, “And I Love You So”). When Don McLean recorded his eponymous third album, however, the eyes of the world were watching. So how does one follow a monstrous one-two punch, like the American Pie album?

For McLean, it included writing an album about the spinning, crushing, whirlwind-lifestyle, “stoking the star-maker machinery behind the popular song.” He introduced the album with the challenging leadoff single, “Dreidel,” (#21 in 1973). The song, while a fitting description of his life in that past year, was a left-turn choice, in terms of selecting a song representative of the album. But maybe that was the point. In fact, half of the introspective Don McClean album finds the artist seeking solace from the typhoon of concerts, interviews, and television appearances that followed the behemoth success of American Pie. Themes reflect in like manner: the emptiness of show business (“Bronco Bill’s Lament,” “The Pride Parade”), love’s mutability (“Falling Through Time,” “Oh My, What A Shame”), a few tender love songs (“If We Try,” “Birthday Song”), and even a novelty remake of a 1920’s ditty (“On The Amazon”). My favorite song on the album, however, has always been “Narcissisma,” with it’s playful, silly lyrics (to wit, “…She’s got no...cryers, no pliers, no liars and no sleeves, and she will always tell you everything that she believes, she's got no belly button too, no high heeled shoe…”) and especially the sassy backing vocals by the West Forty-Forth Street Rhythm and Noise Choir.

What the album, McLean, didn’t do, however, was recreate the American Pie experience, which would have been the most fiscally-responsible choice as well as what the record-buying public expected. Instead, McLean opted to release an album that was true to his personal and artistic journey. Great art. Poor marketing potential. In fact, had McLean been released in 2011, we might have seen a few well-placed, high profile celebrity breakdowns leading up to its release. I can envision McLean visiting a Hollywood salon to borrow clippers for a self-shaved Mohawk before running off, barefoot, into a public men’s room, a public intoxication arrest or, better-yet, an “embarrassing” twitter scandal. These incidents would have beautifully set the stage for the themes included in this album, and perhaps the public would better appreciate it. But as it was, the album quietly limped its way up to #23 and only remained in the Top 40 for a paltry 7 weeks. But I guess I’m lucky. Not everybody has an older brother (hey, Jeff), who purchased the album in the late-1970’s and played it endlessly on the families' wood-grained, 3-speed stereo. For the rest of you, this sensitive, imaginative album must be discovered on your own.

**Oh, and quick, but relevant post script: McLean doesn’t ever get credit for his tremendous singing ability when, in fact, he’s a remarkable singer with tremendous vocal dexterity. And in the age of Britney / Glee / Kanye vocoder-abuse, I appreciate that so much more…

"Pieces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd.," by The Monkees

Everybody knows The Monkees story: the Hollywood trade newspaper, “Variety,” listed an ad titled, “Madness!” enlisting actors and musicians to play a Beatles-like, “Help”-inspired television program, and Micky Dolenz, Davy Jones, Peter Tork, and Michael Nesmith were selected out of hundreds of hopeful applicants, including (as legend has it) rock legend, Stephen Stills, and the murderous Charles Manson. After one season of the wildly successful “Monkees” television program and two number one albums, pressure from the rock press (who understandably questioned their rock cred - after all, they weren't actually a rock band, they just played one on T.V.) pushed the four actors/musicians to demand artistic control of their recorded albums, resulting in the firing of the golden-eared musical Svengali, Don Kirshner (who would soldier on to continued success in the 1970’s with “The Archies,” another studio invention spawning a number one hit in 1969 with “Sugar Sugar,” and the syndicated TV rock show, “Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert”).

Their first album after Kirshner was the wonderful, Headquarters, one of the band’s very best albums (a significant accomplishment, considering it boasts no major radio hits and still rose to the pole position on Billboard’s album charts earlier in 1967), demonstrating that two actors and two musicians thrown together for a television show could hold their own, musically. “Headquarters doesn't show the band to be musical geniuses, but it did prove they were legitimate musicians with enough brains, heart, and soul as anyone else claiming to be a real band in 1967” (All Music Guide). And later that same year, the band submitted the sublime Pieces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd., which stands as their very best.

Pieces is a psychedelic pop gem, which featured some of the earliest use of the Moog synthesizer ever recorded as well as the songs of some of pop music’s greatest songwriters, including: Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil (“Love Is Only Sleeping”), Harry Nilsson (“Cuddly Toy,” with the royalties of this song allowing Nilsson to quit his then “day job” managing a bank), and Carole King and Jerry Goffin (“Pleasant Valley Sunday” and “Star Collector”). The album also featured some outstanding compositions by Mike Nesmith (“Don’t Call On Me” and the stunning, psychedelic, “Daily Nightly”). Monkees go-to songwriters, Tommy James and Bobby Hart, contributed one of my favorite songs on the album, as well, the haunting, “Words,” featuring Micky on lead vocals and Peter providing the memorable echo in the verse. Great stuff.

Home to two of their most memorable hits (the aforementioned “Pleasant Valley Sunday,” #3, and “Words,” #11), Pieces was the band’s final #1 album. To be sure, hits would follow after Pieces (the delightful and durable “Daydream Believer,” which became a #3 US Country hit for Anne Murray over a decade later, and “Valleri,” the Monkees’ ode to a female name which has received more than it’s fair share of pop homage – from Steve Winwood and Amy Winehouse to name a few), and some of the band’s best songs were yet to be heard (“The Porpoise Song,” "Daddy's Song," and “As We Go Along,” from their 1968 cult film, "Head," and “Listen To The Band,” “I Won’t Be The Same Without Her,” and “Someday Man, - go Roger Nichols and Paul Williams!)” from later albums as a trio, minus Tork, and finally, songs like “Oh My, My,” from the final “original Monkees” LP, the surprisingly strong bubblegum album, Changes), but Pieces was, by all accounts, the Monkees’ last hurrah.

A cartoon band? A manufactured image? A flash-in-the-pan? Criticisms and accusations followed the beleaguered band during their 60’s heyday, but what naysayers couldn’t know in 1967 was that the Monkees would endure: through a decade of 1970’s after-school syndication, through a late-1980’s, MTV-driven resurgence 20 years later, and still drawing sold-out crowds 45 years later for a world-wide summer tour. Maybe the lads (as Ringo calls them) will never be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but I’d argue that they should be, because regardless of how they came to be, The Monkees, Inc., made an indelible mark on the pop music business landscape: The Monkees are arguably the first “boy band” (okay, so maybe that’s not a check in the “plus” column, but it was influential, nonetheless), they are certainly the first rock group to leverage the power of music videos to successfully market their music (pre-dating MTV by 15 years and the "Glee" phenomenon by 43 years!), and they showcased some of the best pop writing of the era, establishing songwriters who were, in fact, later inducted into the same Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, largely due to the Monkees recordings of their songs. But whatever ones’ stance on the Hall of Fame question, Pieces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd., stands as a classic post script from the “Summer of Love” and one of the very best examples of pop psychedelia of the 1960’s. So turn down the lights, turn on the lava lamp, put the needle on the record (or click your iPod), and listen to this groovy album.