The Middle East, after hours

Mention the Middle East nowadays and it’s hard, if not impossible, to not conjure up images of shoulder-fired grenades, the hulks of burned-out cars, barrels and barrels of blood - and our monkey-headed president grinning through it all. It wasn’t always this way. The Middle East may never have been the safest, most stable place, sure. But, decades ago, the average American - the pages of National Geographic open in voluptuous color before him - was allowed to at least persist in his more outdated notions about the Middle East, Oriental mystique fully intact.

Well before Abu Ghraib meant anything to you or me, there were snake-charmers, harems, and the Dance of the Sultans. And, naturally, there were records about snake-charmers, harems, and the Dance of the Sultans. Three of them are below.

1. The Glenrays, Egyptian Nightmare (Perry)
The Glenrays remind us that a minor key, a wordless chorus, and a sinuous saxophone line are all you need to turn bluesy instrumental burlesque into Saharan gold.

I can’t find mention of this single anywhere. I’d guess it was from ’63 or ’64, though. The Glenrays were a rocking instrumental combo with a few 45s on Minneapolis’s Gaity/Perry family of labels, surveyed brilliantly on the Bloodshot! compilations from Norton records. “Egyptian Nightmare” is actually pretty sophisticated fare by the label's standards; this was a label whose output tended to reflect the tastes of the more troglodyte element of Minnesota’s teen populace.

2. The Johnny Lewis Trio and Millie, Snake Hips (Coral)
Since the 1960s, saxophonist Johnny Lewis has lead jazz combos in the Pacific Northwest. His funkier '70s years have been fairly well chronicled, courtesy of Luv ‘N’ Haight’s reissue of Lewis’s sole 1972 LP entitled Shuckin’ ‘n’ Jivin’.

“Snake Hips” is his earliest and, in my opinion, most interesting recording. It sort of creaks around in search of some lost Rudolph Valentino movie set. There’s Millie - in unearthly duet with a grim-sounding electric organ - who tickles our temporal lobes and draws us skillfully into her vision of Little Egypt. There’s Millie's scream of terror at the conclusion. And there are castanets. I’m not sure what “Snake Hips” are. It's clear, though, that they're way groovier than the North African desert could ever be.

3. The Lombardo Twins and Combo,Arabian Drums (A)
About as authentically Arabic as a chartered gondola ride down the Euphrates, but that’s not the point. Or maybe it is the point.

Dee Richards here puts her glottis to spellbinding use with a series of shrill ululations that shattered ashtrays in lounges across Hoboken in 1964. The whereabouts of Lombardo Twins or Dee Richards remain a complete mystery.

Not entirely obvious, but the record label in question seem most likely to have been known, simply, as A Records. Scan of the label below is from the obverse of the record.

Overhauling the British Invasion

It was 1966. As far as both hipness and the sales of rock ‘n’ roll records went, the British were still clearly outclassing us. "Us" being the Americans. Naturally, we agitated as a nation to summon up a dignified response to the British Invasion - something that would attract all that twitchy, obsessive energy, and I suppose it’s arguable whether we ever quite generated that same amount of fervor with the American teenyboppers. But our boys were, in the meantime, imitating the British bands to the best of their abilities. Or at least taking characteristic glee in deconstructing the Brits’ handiwork.

Three American garage bands herewith - all doing mutated cover versions of British Invasion hits. I don’t know about you, but, sometimes, like on national holidays, this sort of thing gets me a bit misty eyed.

1. The Malibu's, I'm Cryin' (Quill)
How much amphetamine died to make this record? Once again we have breakneck velocity compensating for musical proficiency and my God we prefer it that way. This version of the oft-covered Animals song came from the Malibu’s (sic) - an unknown Chicago band, ca. '65.

2. The Swamp Rats, It's Not Easy (St. Clair)
These Pittsburgh malcontents had a minimalist streak that would have made the Velvet Underground proud - and the good taste to reduce the Rolling Stones' “It’s Not Easy” to a driving one-chord drone. The Swamp Rats had at least four or five brilliant 45s in the mid-60s, and, if my recent candy-bar sales are any indication, I will own all of them by 2009.

3. The Evil, Whatcha Gonna Do About It (Living Legend)
Buried somewhere in this racket is a Small Faces hit. Like all of this week’s artists, Miami, Florida’s The Evil ratchet up the tempo of the song in question, jettisoning all that is decent and subtle in the name of their art - and the pure 1966 American thrill of being violent. You could have drilled straight through the Earth’s crust with this one.

Against all logic, heavyweight Capitol records - home to the Beatles, Beach Boys, and many, many others - later picked this record up for distribution. (Though, more predictably, Capitol did see fit to remove that ear-piercing guitar break when they reissued it.) Perhaps Capitol sensed that there was some freak hit potential in this song?

There wasn’t.

Vocal Noir

Some rare and atmospheric jazz vocals this week.

1. Mark Murphy, Come and Get Me (Riverside)
“Come and Get Me” is just so macabre - and on so many levels - that it’s hard to know quite where to begin. From those first creeping bass notes to the strings' final eerie groan, Murphy is able to wrench every last drop of emotion from his plea with a sort of unhinged delirium rare in jazz. And it’s rarely captured with such effectiveness, too. Can you hear him pleading with his woman? Do you understand when he sings “Come and get me,” that he’s pleading with his dead woman?

The NYC jazz label Riverside had the prescience to record Murphy’s hipster vocals with sympathetic musicians on several fine, jazzy albums in the early '60s. Mark Murphy still records (and performs). He later recorded this song for his 1973 album Bridging the Gap.

This version of “Come and Get Me” was only released on 45.

2. Jeri Simpson, My Black Lace (Sun-Kist)
A bachelor’s vacation on some far-flung jungle isle might seem like a fab idea at first, sure. But much of what '50s exotica implied was that, really, wouldn’t your time be better spent elsewhere; away from the steaming, buggy reality of the tropics, language barriers, and your fourth straight day of Dysentery? Instead, say, on your couch?

Yes, Ms. Simpson’s sultry vocals exemplify that spirit of armchair adventure. “My Black Lace” is an unequivocal invitation, and, when she hits those husky estrus notes, who are we to turn her down? Ms. Simpson’s performance is showcased here to great effect by the restraint of the backing musicians, an intimate style popularized by the torch singer Julie London on some of her sexier '50s albums (she even used the same two backing musicians – Kessel and Leatherwood). London never sang with quite the same jungle ardor, though.

It’s from Los Angeles. I otherwise have no idea about who Ms. Simpson is, sadly.

3. Marilyn Ross, Out of This World (Suave)
Not as feverish as this week’s other selections, but Ms. Ross - complemented by a touch of Latin percussion and her cool jazz accompaniment - transforms this Harold Arlen evergreen into pure boudoir fantasy. Better pull those curtains shut.

Recorded for the Suave (of Beverly Hills) record label, sometime in the late '50s. Ms. Ross was joined here by West Coast jazz stalwarts Clare Fischer & Red Mitchell.

Bossa America

The Bossa Nova had already been maturing in Brazil for several years when, in 1959, the movie Black Orpheus first broke the elegant sounds of Luiz Bonfa and Antonio Carlos Jobim to a larger American and European audience. The wheels were set in motion, though it took Stan Getz and João and Astrud Gilberto with 1963's “Girl From Ipanema” to truly charge the American popular consciousness.

Its commercial potential immediately obvious, jazz musicians from coast to coast were soon adding “Mas Que Nada” and "One Note Samba" to their repertoires - or were, for better or for worse, being goaded by managers and record executives into making Bossa Nova-themed albums. This was mostly for the better. It just meant that, in the typical American fashion, Bossa Nova came to signify a fairly loose concept. Any jazz record might call itself a Bossa Nova if it had a breezy rhythm section and the promise of South American latitudes. As you'll hear.

1. Dan Yessian Quintet, Basadelic (Sound Patterns)
Imagine my disappointment when it turns out that this wasn’t really “basadelic.”

Still, this nifty jazz instrumental from Michigan has a lovely and confident sway. It’s nominally the most Brazilian of this week’s selections, too. Dan Yessian, a Detroit-area saxophonist, was later the founder and head honcho of the Yessian music production house.

I’d guess that this was a late '60s release.

2. The Cals, Amazon Bossa Nova (Loadstone)
It's got an unfamiliar time signature and the rattle of the maracas. Making it, I suppose, vaguely tropical. Even in the most liberal interpretation of the form, "Amazon Bossa Nova" is not Bossa Nova, though. Nor does that really matter. This isn't music that seeks to startle or to move us the brink of tears. No, cool and catchy as a cucumber, this Hammond jazz cocktail has no overriding motive beyond a certain loose-limbed sophistication. The Bossa Nova, that is.

It’s from San Francisco, ca. 1965.

3. Mk. III, Mocha Nova (Tigertown)
Just drums, flute, and an unidentifiable reedy-sounding electric organ. "Mocha Nova" is another low-key charmer, brought to us by an obscure Tampa, Florida trio.

I’ve been to Tampa; this record has the relaxed sort of cool that would have only been heard long after nightfall, when it was finally safe for jazz flutes to come creeping out. Black or white, I bet these guys were the palest crew on the bay.

It’s great stuff either way. "Mocha Nova" is from 1966 (see label).

The hinterlands

Psychedelic pop wasn’t just the unique provenance of greater Los Angeles and San Francisco in the 1960s. That's right: This week we pack our books-on-tape and almond nut thins for the long trek to the hinterlands. Times being what they were, no corner of America was free from the bands which sprang forth, fungus-like, to fulfill those long-dormant desires for backwards guitars and cellophane flowers.

1. Jazz Bend Me Blues Band, Lady Weaver (Algar)
Things were different in the late 1960s, when many musical varieties of hippie flora and fauna flourished.

There was a gentler variety which appropriated images of hookah-smoking caterpillers, and which suggested that the coolest LSD experience was, ultimately, the Renaissance Faire.

Then there was the woolier, bearded, post-commune variety. It makes me think of a band that has recently staggered from the woods after a long winter with only a beat-to-shit copy of the Chronicles of Narnia. Enter the Jazz Bend Me Blues Band. Where does one geographically place off-kilter tremolo guitar and xylophone? I'm not sure either, but I get the vague sense that this bit of ramshackle weirdness was a product of the Pacific Northwest.

2. West Minist'r, Carnival (Razzberry)
West Minist’r was a Midwestern group, with a reputation as a sort of Beatles-by-way-of-the-Breadbasket. The two (of at least three) West Minist'r 45s that I own definitely carry a pronounced Anglo influence.

This is a personal favorite. And proof, too, that, with some chemical fine-tuning, anything - even carnivals - can be made psychedelic. It just takes the right combination of backyard production, blissed-out harmonies, and church organ.

It's that walloping drumbeat which really sets “Carnival” apart for me, though. This is from 1969.

3. King Biscuit Entertainers, Pride (Burdette)
"Pride" is chiming, uncharacteristically quiet fare from the King Biscuit Entertainers, an accomplished bunch who built a reputation from years of energetic live shows on the Pacific Northwest’s ballroom circuit.

It doesn’t matter here that only fifty percent of their lyrics are decipherable, and that the rest are blurred into oblivion by that fascinating '60s studio gadget, the Echoplex tape delay. (The Echoplex could ascribe an hallucinogenic haze to the sound of silverware clattering to the floor, and it sometimes did.) What really matters here is the stoned buzz that the King Biscuit Entertainers achieve in a mere two minutes. That's the charm of deftly produced psychedelic pop. It got right down to the business of getting mellow.