Author Archives: Joseph Neff

Celebrating Chuck Portz on his 80th birthday. —Ed.

On the subject of The Turtles, the first thing to cross many people’s minds will be “Happy Together,” their huge hit from 1967. They scored other hit singles, some bigger than others, but they also had some LPs, and the initial four all portray a distinct point in the group’s development. Their 1965 debut It Ain’t Me Babe features a young band striving to find an individual voice while attempting to capitalize on their first hit. It’s a situation that often spells disaster, but in this case it results in a record that while small of scale and not without faults, nonetheless remains a highly pleasurable listen.

I’m unsure if there’s ever been any real consensus over which of The Turtles’ string of original, non-comp albums is their greatest. Indeed, the group doesn’t really get discussed all that often in LP terms, at least in my experience. Instead, they seem to remain in the cultural discourse mainly as an exponent of the mid-‘60s folk-rock boom, one that was able to break free of the substantial Dylan-isms of their early work to score a handful of pop hits that successfully straddled the fence betwixt the youth market and the era’s more “adult” record-buying audience.

Underscoring this is the fact that the only Turtles LP to enter the top twenty of the Billboard Album Chart was a compilation, 1967’s Golden Hits. But release full-length records they did, and the personal favorite of this writer is probably 1968’s ambitious yet refreshingly level-headed concept offering The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands. That album found them dishing out 12 songs in a diverse range of musical genres and all of it under the guise of different fictitious and humorously-named groups.

But that disc was also a substantial change from what they’d been doing up to that point, in some ways more indicative, mostly in terms of wit, of Howard Kaylan and Mark Volman’s post-Turtles work as Flo & Eddie, a run that began with 1972’s Mothers of Invention-aided and still pretty hep sounding Warner-Reprise-issued The Phlorescent Leech and Eddie. But they didn’t totally break from their past on Battle of the Bands, for it did include two of their biggest hit singles in “Elenore” and “You Showed Me,” both making it to the #6 spot.

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Remembering Ben Webster, born on this day in 1909. —Ed.

As one of the greatest of tenor saxophonists, Ben Webster amassed a sizable discography across a long career. His live performances were also extensive and on occasion, those nights were recorded. Released posthumously in 1985, At the Renaissance is a fine introduction to Webster’s full-bodied, mature style as he stretches out with a sharp band. There are certainly more important albums in Ben Webster’s body of work, but he rarely sounded better than he does right here.

Ben Webster is most renowned for his work with Duke Ellington, who he joined for an extended period in 1940 after playing in numerous bands, including those of Bennie Moten, Fletcher Henderson, Benny Carter, and Cab Calloway. Considered one of the “big three” tenor saxophonists of the swing era (the others are Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young), Webster was the first major player on the instrument to have a significant role in Ellington’s band, though by 1943 he’d made his exit for the clubs of 52nd Street.

Webster briefly rejoined Ellington later in the decade (he’d first played with Duke in the mid-’30s), but from the mid-’40s onward his career path is noted for an association with promoter Norman Granz’s Jazz at the Philharmonic initiative, co-led sessions with Hawkins, pianists Art Tatum and Oscar Pederson and saxophonist Gerry Mulligan, plus plenty of records and club dates as a leader.

At the Renaissance is just one of numerous albums capturing those club dates. Prior to departing for Europe in 1964, Webster gigged frequently at the Los Angeles club the Renaissance, often with Mulligan, but on October 14, 1960 he was leading the band heard here, with Jimmy Rowles on piano, Jim Hall on guitar, Red Mitchell on bass, and Frank Butler on drums.

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Estonian composer Arvo Pärt is considered to be one of the greats in the broad spectrum of 20th-century classical music, and he’s further distinguished as a trailblazer of “holy minimalism.” Befitting a composer of his stature, the discography of Pärt’s recorded works is vast, but from inside that number there resides a smaller group of releases holding particular import. On April 11, Mississippi Records’ Silentium is poised to join the list of essential Pärt recordings. Offering three selections on side one and a long and unique version of the title piece on the flip, the release is available on LP (in black or clear vinyl editions), CD, and digital. A 35”x35” silkscreen poster is also available.

Arvo Pärt came to prominence in his home country in the 1960s with a handful of recordings spanning the decade, but these are formative works that precede a long period of woodshedding after which Pärt reemerged with his tintinnabuli style of composing, a method where he utilizes two distinct voices (i.e. instruments), a tintinnabular voice restricted to the notes of the tonic triad and a melodic voice that can roam around freely.

Für Alina, first performed in 1976, introduced Pärt’s tintinnabuli style. It was eventually documented on one of numerous recordings made for the ECM label, a group of releases that comprise a significant chunk of his essential discography. The first recording of Pärt’s compositions released by ECM was Tabula Rasa in 1984, the title piece dating from 1977 scored for two solo violins, prepared piano, and string chamber orchestra (consisting of two violins, viola, cello, and contrabass).

The performance and recordings of Tabula Rasa were major successes integral to Pärt’s breakthrough as a composer and specifically as one of the three major pioneers of holy (or mystical) minimalism, alongside composers Henryk Górecki (of Poland) and John Tavener (of England). Holy minimalism is a sacred music of uncommonly deep feeling that’s strikingly devoid of concerns with passing fashions.

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With My Own Dead Love, the Milwaukee, WI-based outfit Sleepersound has just self-released their third full length album, a nine-song set that’s available on translucent green vinyl and digital. The music deftly encompasses elements of post-rock, shoegaze, indie rock, slow-core, dream-pop, and even a few touches of prog along the way. As on their previous efforts, Sleepersound can roll for significant stretches as a fully developed instrumental combo sans vocals, but when the singing does come in, the addition never connects as tacked on, instead adding an extra dimension to an already robust whole.

For this new LP, Sleepersound consist of guitarist-vocalist-keyboardists Dave D’Antonio and Kenny Buesing, bassist-keyboardist Mike Campise, and drummer Dan Niedziejko. So it has been since the beginning, with In Medias Res the band’s 2018 debut and Idle Voices its 2021 follow-up. From 2019–2021 Stephen Vincent Anderson provided a visual component, consisting of original and found footage, to the band’s live performances. Buesing exited the band in 2024, but not before the completion of My Own Dead Love.

On the post-rock side of the spectrum, Sleepersound have on more than one occasion been compared to Godspeed! You Black Emperor, and that’s a fair assessment to make, but it’s also important to pinpoint a lack of severity in their approach, and this is where the dream-pop and shoegaze sensibilities impact the sound and give their records a subtle Anglo feel, like they could’ve been signed to 4AD during that label’s heyday, or for that matter, right now.

For those hearing Sleepersound for the first time with My Own Dead Love, opener “Let’s Play Wolves” could give an initial false impression as it radiates moody indie folk vibes with mild inflections of Radiohead. But then “Tread Down” kicks the record into full-band gear, with chiming guitars, sturdy drumming and soaring vocals. There’s an atmospheric mid-section and then a slow build back up to full energy. It’s the kind of number that’ll go over huge during a live set.

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Pianist Sylvie Courvoisier and guitarist Mary Halvorson are well-versed as collaborators. Bone Bells, newly released by Pyroclastic Records, is their third recording as a duo. The often stunning set builds upon the fertile dialogue between the Switzerland native and longtime New York City resident Courvoisier’s deft intermingling of chamber music roots and boundary stretching jazz verve and Massachusetts-born and NYC-based Halvorson’s ceaselessly fresh and instantly recognizable approach to the electric jazz guitar. Available on compact disc in a 6-panel gatefold wallet featuring artwork by Joskin Siljan, Bone Bells offers eight pieces and an even compositional split.

With Bone Bells, Mary Halvorson gets the odd numbered tracks and Courvoisier the evens, but it’s striking how seamlessly they fit together. Better said, there is a flow to the set that, when listening blind, essentially undercuts any easy indicators into who wrote what. And once cognizant of the credits, the album’s engaging progression, and indeed Courvoisier’s playing, simultaneously chamber-inclined and jazz-inflected in the opening title track, suggests the two principals were writing with each other in mind, though without explicit detail into the process, this is a speculative observation.

What’s not a hypothetical is the communicative heights Courvoisier and Halvorson attain across Bone Bells. As a recording rooted in composition, the dialogue is more about tone, balance, and the ebb and flow of intensity, rather than the now well-established model of free-from duo exchange, though there are certainly moments, e.g. “Esmeralda” and “Beclouded,” where they do let it fly improvisationally.

But Bone Bells isn’t an abstract bruiser, instead offering beauty moves like the crisp and again very chamber-like “Nags Head Valse” (track four, one of Courvoisier’s). Overall, the set is appealingly relaxing yet consistently assertive and secure in its position at the forefront of contemporary jazz. Of course, the music doesn’t fall back on standard swing notions, so some will question the jazz connection, but those who value the Downtown New York scene’s contribution to jazz’s eternal discourse will understand; both Courvoisier and Halvorson have records in John Zorn’s Book of Angels series.

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Remembering Jon Hassell in advance of his birthdate tomorrow.
—Ed.

Originally released in 1981 on Editions EG, Jon Hassell’s Dream Theory in Malaya: Fourth World Volume Two was a groundbreaker in its merger of ambient, experimental, and global sounds, but as the decades unfurled it came to be inexplicably overlooked, in part due to a lack of reissues since getting placed on compact disc in the late-’80s. Well, that scenario has changed, as it’s been given a LP and CD release courtesy of Glitterbeat Records’ new sub-label Tak:Til; that its often surreal yet meticulously crafted rewards are back in the bins is a fine circumstance indeed.

Regarding Jon Hassell’s early catalog, 1980’s Fourth World Vol. 1: Possible Musics is much better known, even before it was reissued by Glitterbeat in 2014, largely because it has Brain Eno’s name on the cover. Eno plays on and mixed Vol. Two as well, but co-billing eludes him, specifically due to Hassell’s distress over his partner running with the Fourth World musical ball and spiking it directly into David Byrne’s backyard.

Hassell apparently viewed Talking Heads’ Remain in Light (’80) and the Eno/ Byrne collab My Life in the Bush of Ghosts (’81) as part of “a full-scale appropriation.” This may sound like an atmosphere of hostility, but Hassell actually contributed to Remain in Light, and as said, ol’ Bri wasn’t locked out the studio for Vol. 2; in retrospect, Hassell has said he “probably under-credited him.”

If a bit harsh at the time, Hassell’s caution over the usurping-weakening of the Fourth World, a concept expanded upon by Hassell as “a viewpoint out of which evolves guidelines for finding balances between accumulated knowledge and the conditions created by new technologies,” wasn’t exactly unjustified, as a stated goal was to imagine a musical landscape where assorted global musics, with Hassell citing Javanese, Pygmy, and Aboriginal forms as examples, had been as influential as the Euro-classical tradition.

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Remembering Lee Scratch Perry, born on this date in 1936. —Ed.

Of records, legendary Jamaican producer Lee “Scratch” Perry has released a ton; setting aside the singles and EPs, his non-compilation album total is hovering near 100, and for an artist outside the jazz realm, that’s a considerable achievement. Of course, the number of individuals who own a copy of every one of those full-lengths might fit comfortably into a four-door sedan, a possibility illuminating that Perry’s prolificacy doesn’t equate to his prime. 

When you make as many records as Lee Perry has, they can’t all be brilliant. Hell, the majority of them are unlikely to resonate with more than moderate levels of personal investment. I say unlikely because I’ll confess that haven’t listened to more than half of his output; Discogs lists 87 full-length albums and 97 comps, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion there are scads of releases that haven’t been logged, plus beaucoup stray singles and EPs (to say nothing of the dodgy gray-market stuff).

Succinctly, after hearing a fair portion of Perry’s later material I realized I should cease investigating those more recent progressions and just hang with the canonical stuff. If all this seems poised to besmirch the guy’s rep as a dub innovator-auteur, I will counter that fluctuating personal investment isn’t the same as lacking a recognizable stamp; if the majority of his post-’70s work is far from essential, I’ve never heard anything that faltered into anonymous hackery.

Lee Perry very much fits in with certain cineastes from the early days of auteurism. Specifically, like numerous directors who worked under studio contracts and would begin another film almost immediately after their last one was finished, Perry has created, if not incessantly, then at a clip that has insured a diminishment in his masterpiece percentage, a downward plummet to what some folks might consider journeyman levels had the man’s achievements not been integral to the growth and longevity of Jamaican music.

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Remembering Paul Atkinson, born on this day in 1946. —Ed.

With three enduring hit singles, the last of which derives from a classic album that’s as redolent of its era as any, The Zombies aren’t accurately classified as underrated, but it’s also right to say that the potential of much of their catalog went unfulfilled while they were extant. Since their breakup, subsequent generations have dug into that body of work, which has aged rather well, and right now nearly all of it can be found in Varèse Sarabande’s The Complete Studio Recordings, a 5LP collection released in celebration of the band’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. For anyone cultivating a shelf of ’60s pop-rock vinyl, this collection is a smart acquisition.

The Zombies began cohering as a band around 1961-’62 in St Albans, Hertfordshire UK. By the time they debuted on record in ’64 the lineup had solidified, featuring lead vocalist-guitarist Colin Blunstone, keyboardist Rod Argent, guitarist Paul Atkinson, bassist Chris White, and drummer Hugh Grundy. That’s how it would remain until their breakup in December of ’67. Rightly considered part of the mid-’60s British Invasion, The Zombies’ stature in the context of this explosion basically rests on the success of two singles, both far more popular in the US than in the band’s home country.

Those hits, “She’s Not There” and “Tell Her No,” each made the Billboard Top 10 (the former all the way to No. 2) and respectively open sides one and two of the US version of their first album, a move suggesting confidence on the part of their label Parrot that, as the needle worked its way inward, listeners wouldn’t become dismayed or bored by a drop-off in quality.

That assurance was well-founded. While “She’s Not There” is an utter pop gem, thriving on perfectly-judged instrumental construction (in its original, superior mono version with Grundy’s added drum input) and emotional breadth that’s found it long-eclipsing mere oldies nostalgia, and “Tell Her No” a more relaxed yet crisp follow-up, their talents were established beyond those two songs, even if nothing else on The Zombies quite rises to the same heights of quality.

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Celebrating Bill Frisell on his 74th birthday. —Ed.

Michael Gibbs is a musician of many facets, chalking up credits as a composer, conductor, arranger, producer, and instrumentalist on trombone and keyboard. However, much of his adult life has been devoted to teaching, a role that contributed to a relatively trim discography and a fairly modest profile. Amongst his students was Bill Frisell; subsequently, their association blossomed into friendship and collaboration. For evidence one need look no further than Cuneiform Records’ superb CD, wherein Michael Gibbs & the NDR Bigband Play a Bill Frisell Set List.

Engaging in a discussion over worthwhile contemporary creative guitarists will find the name Bill Frisell rolling off tongues sooner rather than later. But when the talk turns to active composer-arrangers Michael Gibbs could easily get neglected, and as his career in jazz spans over half a century undeservedly so.

Born on September 25th, 1937 in Salisbury Southern Rhodesia, Gibbs moved to Boston in 1959 to attend Berklee College of Music. He studied there with Herb Pomeroy, but just as importantly received a full scholarship to the Lenox School of Jazz in 1960; the short-lived program started by the Modern Jazz Quartet’s John Lewis brought Gibbs into contact with such major compositional figures as Gunther Schuller, George Russell, and J.J. Johnson.

Gibbs’ “Fly Time Fly (Sigh)” turns up on his fellow Berklee alumnus and longtime friend Gary Burton’s second LP for RCA Victor, Who is Gary Burton? By ’64 Gibbs had relocated to London, his talent on the trombone proving very much in demand; an easy point of inspection from this period is Deep Dark Blue Centre by the Graham Collier Septet from ’67 on Deram.

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Remembering Nat King Cole, born on this day in 1919. —Ed.

Nat King Cole’s enduring renown derives from his skill as a vocalist, but he’s also arguably the most underrated of jazz’s great pianists. The seven CDs or ten LPs comprising Hittin’ The Ramp: The Early Years (1936-1943) do a stellar job of highlighting Cole’s keyboard prowess while documenting the growth of his superb trio with guitarist Oscar Moore and bassist Wesley Prince first, and later Johnny Miller. There are also brief visits from the great saxophonists Lester Young and Dexter Gordon and a ton of singing, though the approach lands solidly in a hot and often vocal group zone. 

Back in 1991, Mosaic Records issued The Complete Capitol Recordings of the Nat King Cole Trio, an exhaustive limited-edition set spread across 18 compact discs or 27 vinyl records. It was obviously produced for hardcore jazz nut collectors, the kind of listener who would know that Cole had worked extensively as a musician prior to his career-defining move to Capitol (an association he would maintain throughout his superstardom until the end of his life) but with very few commercial records detailing said period.

Hittin’ The Ramp features jukebox-only discs, private recordings, and a slew of radio transcriptions along with the handful of sessions that resulted in discs that were available for retail purchase, with the vast majority of the selections here officially released for the first time. There is a smidge of overlap with the Mosaic collection, but it doesn’t arrive until LP eight (or CD six) with “Vom, Vim, Veedle” commencing a smattering of cuts for the small Excelsior and Premier labels which were later purchased by Capitol and serve as the kickoff to the Mosaic set.

This repetition isn’t likely to bother owners of The Complete Capitol Recordings one bit, as it’s a miniscule percentage, specifically ten tracks out of Hittin’ The Ramp’s 183. Yes, that’s a lot of music, but slim compared to the behemoth decades-of-discovery scenario presented by Mosaic’s presentation of Capitol’s holdings, though in its vinyl incarnation Resonance’s achievement is also a limited edition.

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Remembering Lightnin’ Hopkins in advance of his birthdate tomorrow. —Ed.

Lightnin’ Sam Hopkins remains one of the crucial figures in the annals of the blues. By extension, he recorded a ton, and owning all his music will require diligence and a seriously long shelf. However, there are a few albums that are a must even for casual blues collectors, and his self-titled effort from 1959 is one of them. Recorded by historian Samuel Charters in Hopkins’ apartment while he played a borrowed guitar, it served as the door-opener to years of prominence. A highly intimate gem of nimble-fingered deep blues feeling, Lightnin’ Hopkins is available through Smithsonian Folkways, remastered from the source tapes in a tip-on jacket with Charters’ original notes.

To call Lightnin’ Hopkins the byproduct of rediscovery isn’t inaccurate, but it does risk stripping the contents of its unique story. Unlike Son House, Skip James, Bukka White, and John Hurt (all from Mississippi), Texan Hopkins had only been inactive for a few years when Samuel Charters found and recorded him in Houston, and if he’d been playing since the 1930s, he was still very much in his musical prime.

Hopkins debuted on record in 1946 for the Aladdin label of Los Angeles in tandem with pianist Wilson “Thunder” Smith, the partnership bringing him his sobriquet. From there, a solid decade of studio dates (and some R&B chart action) commenced; his additional sides for Aladdin fill a 2CD set, and the sessions for Gold Star take up two separate CD volumes. Additionally, there were worthy recordings for Modern, Sittin’ in With, and majors Mercury and Decca. 1954 brought a massive spurt of wild, highly amplified material for the Herald label; it contrasts sharply with the one-man circumstance of Lightnin’ Hopkins.

If commercial recording industry prospects had dried up by ’59 and Hopkins’ guitar was in hock, there was no trace of rustiness from inactivity, though the comfort level does increase as these songs progress (the bottle of gin Charters bought likely had something to do with it). What’s shared with his prior electric band stuff is a recognizable, eventually signature style based in the conversation between rural blues verve and more citified boogie motion (in this he shares much with John Lee Hooker).

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As The Fall’s constant fount of creativity, vocalist-songwriter Mark E. Smith has attained a rare position in the rock pantheon, with the man and his band exhaustively covered in print form. And so, the publication of Excavate! The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall might seem an inessential item. However, the objective of editors Tessa Norton and Bob Stanley isn’t biography, but is rather to assemble between hardcovers a series of ambitious essays plus photos of front and back album covers, flyers, correspondence and much more. 

Norton and Stanley’s objectives for Excavate! are admirably bold, but it still feels right that the book’s final piece is a eulogy, by Richard McKenna, that was published on January 30, 2018, six days after Smith’s death, for the website We Are the Mutants, of which McKenna is senior editor. It’s also fitting that his opening line functions a bit like tripwire for writers covering this hefty tome who might not have finished the text or indeed even bothered to begin: “Mistrust all eulogies containing the words ‘contrarian,’ ‘curmudgeon’ and ‘national treasure’: these are inevitably the work of hacks.”

It’s pretty clear the author was referring to those either choosing to or fulfilling the given task of eulogizing Smith in the period shortly after his passing, so that hopefully the next sentence in this paragraph will escape McKenna’s harsh judgement (but if not, them’s the breaks). If by now so well-established as to be considered clichés, in the admittedly short interval since his passing, “contrarian” and “curmudgeon” (we’ll set “national treasure” aside for a bit), along with an unquenchable thirst for booze, remain dominant aspects of Mark E. Smith’s persona.

Norton and Stanley’s book doesn’t refurbish his reputation but instead complicates the issue by delving into the outside forces that helped shape Smith’s perspectives and his art. That means the man isn’t always front and center, with the shift of emphasis onto influences artistic, cultural, and environmental driving home that Smith’s antagonisms weren’t kneejerk or for the sake of just being difficult (well, mostly), and that his grumbling and grousing ultimately stemmed from the same complex worldview that shaped his art.

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Any discussion of ‘70s-era pop-rock is incomplete without due time spent on Blondie, and vinyl mavens unversed in their essence can play catch-up in one fell swoop with Universal’s box set of the six LPs from the group’s original run. As no-frills as its title, Blondie offers exact reproductions and absolutely nothing extra; the totality captures the heights and depths of a highly successful and influential band.

If the most commercially solvent entity to emerge from the ‘70s New York City punk/new wave scene, Blondie’s style, at least for a significant portion of their ’75-’82 existence, is most aptly compared to the Ramones. Purists may balk, but honestly I’d be perplexed if by this date on the calendar there are more than a handful of bitter goats clinging to the notion that Blondie were hangers-on or sellouts.

Spearheaded by vocalist Debbie Harry and guitarist Chris Stein and after early personnel changes solidified through keyboardist James Destri, bassist Gary Valentine, and drummer Clem Burke, in December of 1975 Blondie’s self-titled debut appeared via fly-by-night independent Private Stock Records. It didn’t shift many units, but their popularity surged once Chrysalis scooped them up, releasing Plastic Letters in the fall of ’77 and reissuing Blondie in the bargain.

There were lineup adjustments, with Valentine out and replaced by Frank Infante, who promptly switched to guitar upon addition of bassist Nigel Harrison. The membership remained stable until ’82, when disappointments revolving around The Hunter inspired a breakup. This collection doesn’t include everything; missing are the five illuminating ‘75 demos cut with Alan Betrock and the ’80 Giorgio Moroder collaboration “Call Me” from the soundtrack to Paul Schrader’s American Gigolo; instead it simply boxes-up the half-dozen long-players devoid of editorializing.

All of these platters were once extremely cheap and relatively easy to pick up used (though I’ve never glimpsed a Private Stock edition of Blondie), and I can’t imagine the situation has changed. But I realize there’s a breed of vinyl connoisseur equivalent to those licensed drivers who wouldn’t stoop to buy a second-hand car; bluntly, this set is for them.

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Celebrating Mark Stein, born on this day in 1947. —Ed.

To soak up Vanilla Fudge’s talent as song-interpreters the best route is their eponymous ’67 debut. A further understanding of them as a singles act is most appropriately gleaned through the Rhino compilation Psychedelic Sundae. If an immersion into the multifaceted positives and negatives of these trailblazing late-‘60s hard rockers’ everyday reality is what one wants however, then one should look into the contents of Near the Beginning.

There’s no question Vanilla Fudge are an important band. “You Keep Me Hangin’ On,” the group’s reading of a Holland-Dozier-Holland tune originally by The Supremes, is a vital evolutionary brick in the hard rock megastructure, and it stands as a one-song distillation of nearly everything that was good and potentially less than stellar about this hard-touring New York quartet. There are two versions of the Fudge’s recording, a just shy of three-minute single edit and the take found on their debut; that one’s over twice as long, and this duality is to an extent indicative of the group’s creative problems. It’s far from that simple though, and their somewhat brief and highly eventful initial existence provides a consistently interesting story, if one that’s only sporadically fruitful in musical terms.

Vanilla Fudge’s beginnings are in The Electric Pigeons, the soul cover unit featuring organist/lead vocalist Mark Stein and bassist Tim Bogert. They soon acquired guitarist Vince Martell and drummer Carmine Appice, and after hooking up with Shangri La’s producer Shadow Morton, they changed names and focused attentions on the studio.

The first effort turned out to be the best, but it was also a problematic record. Those soul roots were still showing; in fact, they never went away, flaring up rather flagrantly later in their tenure, but on Vanilla Fudge, it’s not a decisive detraction. It’s true that “People Get Ready” (and the first album is composed entirely of covers) is no great shakes, but “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” is one of the better R&B lifts in ‘60s rock precisely because it displays a disinterest in mimicry (a real issue with NYC bands of the era) to instead hone a variation on a then new sound.

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On March 21 Elemental Music concludes the impressive string of reissues that constitutes the label’s Motown Sound Collection with a 180-gram edition of The Temptations’ Psychedelic Shack, the groundbreaking Norman Whitfield-produced LP from 1970. It’s an appropriate finale for a series that has divided its focus between the classic Motown approach to pop R&B and the company’s later forays into funkier and more expansive sonic terrain.

Psychedelic Shack isn’t Motown’s first dive into the style whose impetus for Barry Gordy’s enterprise has often been attributed to Sly and the Family Stone, although that’s somewhat reductive, as in terms of pop sophistication, the 5th Dimension almost certainly served up some inspiration to Gordy, and just as importantly to Norman Whitfield, as from a contemporary vantage point, psychedelic soul is the innovation upon which the producer’s reputation largely rests.

Attempts to cash in on trends can frequently age like a deli tray left out in the desert sunshine, with the sounds often reeking of the retrograde at the moment of first release. Aging poorly is really not the case with most of Motown’s psych soul output, though that shouldn’t suggest that the company’s intentions weren’t mercantile in nature.

But of course, Motown’s aims were far from purely financial, and the label’s excursion into psychedelic soul set as many trends as it followed them. Often it was both at once. For one example, Psychedelic Shack features two longer numbers, “Take a Stroll Through Your Mind” and “Friendship Train” that set a standard for Motown album tracks to follow (even as some were released as singles in shorter edits) while likely being influenced by The Chambers Brothers “Time Has Come Today.”

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