Tijuana Dance Party: Pablo Rotero & His Mexican Brass Boys - Fontana 1969

The story goes that, back in the early sixties, Herb Albert was at a bullfight down Mexico way when he heard the sound of a mariachi band for the first time. Suitably inspired, he cut a series of albums with a Mexican flavour under the banner of 'Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass' and in so doing kick-started a musical style and craze that, for a while at least, was bafflingly popular around the world. Baffling to me anyway; I can't say I've ever cared for Herb's one trick Latin gimmick myself but plenty of others did and, wherever there's a coattail, you're inevitably going to get hangers on. Like the folk behind this release.

Try as I might, I can't find any information on Pablo Rotero or any of his Mexican Brass Boys, but I'd bet the farm that they were a bunch of jobbing session musicians from closer to south of the river than south of the border. 'Tijuana Dance Party' appears to be their only ever release, but what's interesting is that it seems to be a straight re-release of a 1966 album on Phillips by the same act with the same title (albeit with a different cover). That would both make sense and add fuel to my theory of an album 'on the make' - 1966 was the year that Albert had his biggest UK hit with 'Spanish Flea' and also the year Bert Kaempfert made his only UK singles chart appearance with 'Bye Bye Blues', both of which appear on this and only heighten the whiff of 'quick cash in' that surrounds it.

But speculation aside, where does all this leave us? Well with a bit of a mess all told; as I've said above, I've never been much of a fan of Herb's outfit and I've never 'got' what he was trying to do, but there's no doubt his band (mainly Herb himself on trumpet backed by The Wrecking Crew) were a group of crack musicians with chops to burn who could give any popular tune a Mariachi spin and make it sound at least halfway convincing. Pablo and his Brass Boys, on he other hand,  sound rather less assured in their playing. They're ok when they're following Alpert's boilerplate to the letter (as on 'Spanish Flea' and 'Tijuana Taxi'), but less so when they veer off piste and start to grate where they should be gliding; I don't think the world has ever been crying out for Tijuana Brass versions of 'These Foolish Things' or 'Strangers In The Night', but Pablo hands us both and both lurch around with all the grace and subtlety of a burro drunk on tequila. The remaining tracks have the aura of being selected purely on the basis of the Mexican/Tijuana theme in their titles and it makes 'Tijuana Dance Party' something of a curate's egg, a knocked together grab bag from a tacky Mexican border souvenir stall selling sombreros stamped 'Made In Japan'. All that's missing is a version of 'Speedy Gonzales'.

So, not my thing at all then - I've never been to a Tijuana Dance Party and I've no idea what one would entail, but if it involved someone breaking this out on the turntable to provide the entertainment then that would be me done I'm afraid. I'd be making my excuses and leaving; Tijuana Dance Party? Ah don' need no steenking Tijuana Dance Party.

Sounds Sensational: Bert Kaempfert & His Orchestra - Polydor 1980

I think someone somewhere was very pleased with how that cover turned out. The name of the artistic director (Jo Mirowski) is listed on the back credits, as is the designer of that chair (Mike Shepherd), the woman sitting in it (Dana) the bloke who did her hair (Mitch at Vidal Sassoon) and the chap who took the photograph (John Shaw). A roll call of the not so great and good, it's tempting to suggest that at least one of them should be tested for illegal substances, because that end result is hideous. Absolutely hideous.

What is it meant to be conveying I wonder? An ideal way to relax wrapped up in an aura of sophistication and modernity? Perhaps, but I can't imagine that chair wouldn't be too comfortable to sit in after more than a few minutes, and it looks like it would be a hell of a potch to get in and out of too I can only guess what any music must sound like coming through two huge woofers packed into cabinets the width of that woman's arm and set facing each other less than three feet apart. What makes me smile too is its proud 'Superstereo' boast - this is from 1980 fer gawd's sake, surely the novelty of releasing an album in stereo had died a death sometime before The Beatles split?

Anyway, putting the (awful, absolutely awful) cover aside for the moment, I have confess that, just like his easy listening contemporaries James Last and Klaus Wunderlich, I don't know much about Kaempfert beyond the fact that he wrote 'Strangers In The Night' (made famous by Frank Sinatra). That's on here, as is 'Bye Bye Blues', Bert's solitary appearance on the UK singles chart (number 24 in 1965) and this is all because 'Sounds Sensational' is in fact a compilation round-up of Kaempfert's best known tracks and biggest hits, meaning despite the achingly modern packaging, the youngest track here actually dates from 1968 

 

For the uninitiated (like me), then the note on the back is useful -

'Bert Kaempfert has given to popular music a sound which is at once pleasing and unique. It relies on a prominent beat, a cushion of strings and the muted power of the brass. It brings together elements from differing musical environments all brought together by the guiding hands of a man with a wealth of experience' 

Actually, it's more than useful - that soundbite could have doubled as my whole review of this album. Whoever wrote it (actually, his name is given too - it's one Alun Morgan) nails Kaempfert's whole shtick to the wall and perfectly sums up what's in these grooves. Job done. Saying that, whilst I've no doubt Mr Morgan was being sincere, my own problem is with the "elements from differing musical environments" bit. It's true, a track list where 'A Swingin' Safari' rubs shoulders with 'Midnight In Moscow', 'Zambesi', 'Answer Me' and 'Afrikaan Beat' could have played out as a mash-up of various musical styles from around the world until the sparks flew but - alas - once they've been through Bert's Procrustean arrangements and given a makeover of dull that shaves off any rough edges until they fit the size of his orchestra's bed then they all blend into one syrupy whole where the only musical style on offer is Bert's.

It's very 'safe' music, but it's music that's difficult to 'like' or even enjoy; it's vacuousness is an empty landscape, a treeless plain of no depth that I can find no comfort, emotion or relaxation in. It's just 'there' in the way that oxygen is just 'there', only it's far less vital; I don't think the absence of Bert Kaempfert records is going to cause anyone any major hardship. I'd like to think too that there's a difference between a listening experience that's 'easy' and one that's 'remedial', but I'm afraid on this evidence I find Bert's music as functionally bland as woodchip wallpaper and about as interesting.

And yes, I know that's a very cheap shot - the man has a vast back catalogue that's sold in its millions to devoted fans all over the world, and so in commenting on this career retrospective in such a blase manner I'm potentially passing judgement on all of it in one fell swoop, but the troll in me just wants to dismiss this as music for people with tin ears who don't really care much for music but care for a background of silence even less. That would be an even cheaper shot at something that clearly wasn't produced for my benefit, but..........ah to hell with it, my opinion is not worth much in this context so I'll say 'Sounds Sensational' is music for people with tin ears who don't really care much for music but care for a background of silence even less.  There, the gavel has fallen and the black cap is on. Take it down.

Peter Firmani Sings In Clubland: Peter Firmani - SRT 1973

I don't think I'm giving away any spoilers or betraying any confidences when I tell you that Peter Firmani is a club singer.  It's there on the front cover. It's in the back sleeve notes too "Peter found he could supplement his income by singing in the clubs during his time off. This was clubland's gain, for Peter got caught up in the warmth of clubland, and it's rewards". Well ok, but 'Club singer' to me has always been a slightly demeaning descriptor that refers to someone with talent, but not talent enough to make it to the 'big time' and so are instead forced to ply their trade wherever there's an audience willing to pay to hear them sing. It also means that I'm immediately reminded of Vic Reeves' 'club singer' impression where, in over emoting the lyric to whatever song he's singing, he mangles the words into meaningless gobbledegook that barely follows the tune. It's not Peter's fault, but it seems the man has two strikes against him before he knows I'm even counting.

Fortunately, after giving this a listen, I can report that Firmani's vocal falls well short of Reeves' mugging. After all, as the sleeve notes point out, he's classically trained and so knows how to project a lyric without sounding like he's chewing glue. But although Firmani has what my mother would have called 'a nice voice', it's not a great one. In fact, it's prone to boom with a brashness that's borderline unpleasant on the ear, but as this is album is a one take, warts and all field recording from a cricket club with all the acoustics of a coffin in front of an audience who don't even know it is being recorded, then blame for any shortcomings can't be laid entirely at Firmani's feet. But that's not to say he's entirely blame free either.

That sleeve design gives a clue as to where I'm ultimately going with this; that mug shot framed in none more black projects an aura of doomy sternness the way a freezer gives off cold and it dares the listener not to take this as seriously as Firmani himself is. Because, make no mistake, he really is taking it seriously. The repertoire might be a mixed bag of popular light classics and the more heavy stuff (the old warhorse 'Nessun Dorma' gets another outing), but there's precious little light between the selections and Firmani goes for the throat of each with the same bug eyed intensity and they all climax with a gutbusting, eye popping, neck vein bulging sustained high note finale that, rather anticlimactically, draws polite applause from the audience. Even on 'lighter' numbers like 'Donkey Serenade' and the feminist bothering 'Girls Were Made To Love And Kiss', Firmani sounds more like he's singing for his life than his supper and his overwrought delivery and mock operatic gymnastics has a tension that leaves no room for relaxation and shows that Reeves' parody had more than a grain of truth in it.

Ultimately, there's a aura of desperation hovering over this whole release. Firmani obviously has talent, but to these ears this album is the sound of a man selling himself short. It doesn't work as a showcase for his talent or range, and it's a total mystery to me why anyone would see worth in owning an album of poorly recorded, almost bootleg quality light and popular classics sung in a cricket club in Halifax or why he would want to put his name to it in the first place. All a bit odd to be honest.

Hammond A Go Go Volume 2: James Last - Polydor 1968

I've had many years experience of scouring charity shops, car boot sales, jumble sales and the like in my search for second hand vinyl treasures. I mentioned in my introduction that the nuggets of gold can be few and far between and a great deal is sifted out simply by me glancing at the name on the cover and then passing it by. One of the main 'nothing to see here, move along' names I've come across has been James Last, and in that sifting I've come to view Last's albums in much the same way I've come to view women's diet magazines and internet porn. That is, as a casual observer, I can see there's rather a lot of it about, but I'm not sure I understand why or who is buying it all.

 

Is it a single, dedicated, obsessive completist hardcore audience that's buying up every single thing that comes on the market, or is it a larger number of ever shifting, multi-generational individuals who occasionally dip their toes in the waters every year for the occasional purchase but in sufficient numbers each time so as to make the whole economically viable? There's probably a bit of both going on I suppose, but either way, for a man who has reportedly sold over 200 million albums worldwide, not one of them has ever been sold to me and I know comparatively little about him or his music. I do know that he's now dead but in life led an orchestra that specialised in easy listening versions of popular and classical music, but I'm conscious that's not much butter to have spread as far as it seems to have done. There has to be something more.

 

In light of all this, I guess it was inevitable that at least one of Last's albums would turn up here sooner or later, if only to satisfy my own curiosity and add to my own sum of knowledge. My problem in the past has always been that I've never known which part of this vast ocean to dip my toe in first. There's simply so much of it 'out there'. And so I decided to take a punt on 'Hammond A Go Go Volume 2' simply because of the cover - an attractive woman, a magnificent looking teapot and a shadowy gentleman who, in that light anyway, looks a bit like Boris Karloff in 'The Raven' (the 1935 version). Now that's something that deserves to be listened to. At least once anyway.

 

Presumably intended as a dance album, "Hammond A Go Go" has its selections grouped together according to the type of rug you're meant to cut to them. Thus we get 'On The Street Where You Live', 'I Love Paris' and 'Bye Bye Blues' lumped together and played in the style of a foxtrot, while 'Samba Estrellla' and 'The Peanut Vendor' are collected and played as a samba. You get the picture. What I didn't get from the cover picture though was how all this was actually going to sound; to my mind there's a definite mismatch between what the sleeve suggests you're going to get and what the music actually delivers. With a scene of such ornate sophistication, I imagined some swish Viennese locale where waltzes are swished out by a full orchestra, and I expected music that would back that up. What we actually get is a stripped down trio of Hammond, percussion and then either a saxophone or guitar who take the lead alternately. While none is given special prominence, true to the title a Hammond parping away in the background is a constant presence.

 

Whether or not this music actually pushes those dance buttons I couldn't say, but for the casual listener your take on this is going to be mainly informed on your take on a Hammond organ. When they're wild they're wild, and the music does have a rough edged spikiness that I wasn't expecting - if not exactly lo-fi, it's certainly not over produced and it almost seems like Last was trying to be canny by positioning himself in two opposing camps. On one hand it's a partial bone for those feeling left out and left behind of the Sixties sex, drugs and rock and roll revolution and who wanted to hark back to the more traditional times of the cover shot where dance music didn't need the ingestion of a bagful of drugs to enjoy it, while on the other it's a come on to the fans of the organ driven freakbeat groups of the sixties. If that Hammond had suddenly kicked into the riff of '96 Tears' in-between 'Singing In The Rain' and 'Bell Bottomed Trousers' then I wouldn't have been too surprised as it wouldn't have sounded too out of place.

 

That fact alone meant 'Hammond A Go Go' caught my ear for a few minutes, but familiarity soon bred, if not contempt, then a weary acceptance that this pony only had one trick, and that it had another thirty five or so minutes still left to perform it. Pity really that Last didn't go for the throat and let rip with some overtly psychedelic versions of these tunes and then aim it directly at 'the kids' by wrapping it in a suitably 'sixties' sleeve. A missed opportunity perhaps, but it means that what's left doesn't really ring my bell and, once heard, I can't imagine any scenario where I would want to listen to it again. I doubt that chap on the cover would be slipping this on to the turntable when they 'retired' either, and if he did then I can't imagine that woman would be too impressed with either it or him.

Stay Later: Eric Winstone & His Orchestra - Stereo Plus 3 1973

'Stay Later' eh? I can guess what's on that chap's mind, but I'm not sure how much of a promise he's on - he's obviously come dressed to impress in a button down, frilly shirt with bow tie and tux, but she looks like she's just thrown on something she knitted herself. No effort whatsoever, whch doesn't usually bode well. Maybe slipping this album on the turntable when she's not looking will help his chances?

Well if he was looking for something to relax the mood then he could do a great deal worse, 'Stay Later' is all low key hush and jazzy brushed drums with the melodies picked out on a muted saxophone in a manner that seeps out of the speakers like sleeping gas; it's fair to say this is not an album to scare crows off your crops.

Although ostensibly instrumental, 'Stay Later' has occasional interjections from an all female Greek chorus who sing/speak the title of the pieces (like on 'It's Impossible') or else recite a key line from the chorus (such as on 'Help Me Make It Through The Night') at opportune moments to keep everyone on their toes. Each of the arrangements are familiar without ever being predicatable, different without ever being jarring and it matters not a jot whether you're familiar with the tunes or not - taken as a whole, 'Stay Later' has the common denominator of a somnambulistic ambience that's as familiar and reassuring as slipping into a warm bath. Candles optional. 

Despite all that, I have to confirm that this is just muzak - make no mistake about that - but it's muzak on stilts, and whilst I acknowledge the key driver behind this blog is to uncover the vinyl that time forgot, I can't help thinking 'Stay Later' would fare better on CD or download. A format where you don't have to spoil the mood by getting up to turn it over anyway. It's one for very late nights or very early mornings and it's not bad, not bad at all.

Top Of The Pops Volume 74: Various Artists - Hallmark 1979

Yes, I know I've previously said that, as a rule, I was going to be giving these Top Of The Pops albums a wide berth for the purposes of this blog, but as it's my own rule then I guess I'm free to bend or break it as I see fit. The general principle still stands, but I saw fit to bend it here simply because I noticed there was a version of Public Image Ltd's 'Death Disco' on this. I didn't know such a thing existed before and, now I know it does, I had to hear it. And then tell you about it. But before I do, a little back story.

I think one of the main things to note about the Top Of The Pops series of albums (apart from the shameless pilfering of the goodwill that attached to the BBC music programme of the same, unfortunately for them non copyrighted, name) is that they don't contain cover versions per se. The Jimi Hendrix version of 'All Along The Watchtower' - now that's a cover version in the sense of an artist crawling under the skin of someone else's song, re-tooling it to fit their own frame and, in the process, finding things in it that the original artist probably didn't know were there. No, the Top Of The Pops acts were more concerned with producing facsimiles of recent hit singles rather than covering them; they're attempts to produce a version that sounded as close to a passable imitation of what was recently in the charts as the talent, time and (I guess) money allowed.

As a case a point, the versions of 'Light My Fire' and 'C'mon Everybody' on this volume aren't cover versions of The Doors and Eddie Cochran respectively - they're versions of Amii Stewart's and Sex Pistols' own 1979 cover versions. Which I suppose puts everybody on the back foot before they even start.  It's well known too that these things were knocked out faster than Henry Ford knocked out his cars by anonymous musicians who often had to buy the actual single themselves to learn how the song sounded on the day they recorded it, and if some the lyrics sound like they've been made up on the spot, then that's because they have.

So, what of 'Death Disco' then, my whole raison d'etre for buying this? Well the original is a thick slab of dubby krautrock that's all bassline and Keith Levine's skittish guitar tracking the primal scream of John Lydon as he stares down his mother's cancer. As a proposition for a hit single, it's hard work. The version here is a close approximation on the surface, but only insofar as Call Of Duty on the Playstation is an approximation of real war; there's a polite tidiness to the playing and the production that sucks out all the drama and power leaving a dry, bloodless husk that's more concerned with what it's meant to be, rather than what it could be.

And this applies to virtually every track on this record -  to risk spouting a cliché, they are paint-by-numbers versions of old masters that, in being arranged in defined blobs of neatly demarcated colour allow you to see the picture, but not the artistry, tone, brushstroke or the consistency and texture of the paint itself. Thus, the power doom drone of 'Are Friends Electric' is reduced to the annoying buzz of a bluebottle butting against a windowpane, the glorious disco thrash of Patrick Hernandez's 'Born To Be Alive' is fitted with a straitjacket to keep it calm while the precision funk of 'Good Times' hobbles stiff legged in callipers. I could go on, but suffice it say that with every effort being spent on trying to reproduce the sound of a hit single as closely as possible, nothing swings, nothing grooves, nothing rocks and nobody sounds remotely like they're enjoying themselves

It's not just the music either; because of that brief then on the majority of the tracks, the vocalists try their best to imitate the original, which is often the final nail in their respective coffins. For example, I was enjoying this version of 'Silly Games' until the chorus left vocalist X completely high and dry and squawking a cracked falsetto as she gropes to get anywhere near the notes Janet Kay was hitting, whilst the same game chap tackles 'Are Friends Electric' and 'Death Disco' in a manner reminiscent of a young Albert Steptoe on both. An exception to the rule is 'Go West', where the Village People are reduced to a Village Person who attacks the song in the style of Wilson Pickett and is predictably found wanting, but at least he sounds like he's really going at it gangbusters.

There aren't really any honourable mentions in dispatches to be had on Top Of The Pops Volume 74 and no reason for me to ever listen to any of it again. The best I can say is that all the versions here are instantly recognisable and if they were knocked out to this standard by a covers band down the local club on a Saturday night in-between three games of bingo and a fat stand up comedian then everybody would go home happy. I probably would myself. But if you're going to freeze the recordings for posterity on a commercial release then I think even the most easily pleased amongst us are perfectly entitled to set a bar of quality that most of these would struggle to clear. 

The Happy Hammond Goes Pop Country: Gerry Butler - Hallmark 1970

Well that title is something to get your head around - country music played in pop style on a Hammond organ. I'm not going to bother asking 'why' because I know there are no answers here, and if that grinning, topless blonde showing generous side boob on the cover knows what's going on, then she's not telling. On the back, the write-up assures me "You don't have to be a country and western fan to enjoy this album as it is styled to suit all tastes. If you were not certain of the origins of these songs this will serve as a tribute to the contemporary country writers whose material falls into many categories". I don't know what that means either. I suppose I'd best just get on and listen to it then.

"A very interesting collection of classic country melodies arranged specially for the Hammond organ" - the back cover says that too, but that 'very interesting' descriptor oversells this by a good few grand, and if by 'arranged specially' they mean a basic karaoke backing track with the 'vocal' melody played straight over the top, two fingered style, on a Hammond organ then fair enough. Because that really is all there is to it. There is no more to this album than that.

Who on earth would find this 'very interesting', or even be interested enough to buy this I wonder? Hardcore country music fans tend to be a conservative bunch who wouldn't take kindly with anyone messing about with the old standards, and surely even the casual fan doesn't listen to this stuff just for the tunes? 'Take These Chains From My Heart', 'He'll Have To Go', 'Your Cheatin' Heart' - these are well trod songs of misery for the broken-hearted to wallow in with a bottle. Hearing them piped out sans lyrics with the jolly subtlety of an ice cream van's horn in August dilutes their message somewhat; as Waylon Jennings sang, "I don't think Hank done 'em this way" Even the more upbeat numbers ('Jambalaya', 'Hey Good Lookin'') blandly chirp along in their own mindless, fixed grin, thousand yard stare way with no sense of context, tradition or understanding of what country music is all about. Or, for that matter, with any artistry in the playing. I could go on, but suffice it to say 'Pop Country' is about as imaginative as the cheesecake cover shot they use to try to sell it. Quite frankly, I find this whole package ridiculous.

Wish You Were Here!: David Graham - Grosvenor Records 1984

For not the first time on this journey I've come across an album that leaves me scratching my head. I'm not sure if this release was aimed at organ enthusiasts (there's a note in the top left corner that says 'Electronic Organ Series') or for ordinary holidaymakers looking for a souvenir of Blackpool*. If it's the latter then they're in for a bit of a disappointment; though that cover montage suggests you'll be getting two sides of a Wurlitzer merrily blasting out 'Beside The Seaside' and the like, that is not what this is about. At all.

What we do have is a curate's egg of musical fragments and jazz standards played entirely on an electric organ with the only accompaniment being provided by the pre-set rhythms of that machine. I'm happy to confess I don't know much about organs, and I know even less about the Technics U90 that the back cover informs me that Graham is playing on this, but I do know that the sounds creeping from these grooves are very similar to the sounds that have piped the mourners into the chapel at every funeral or cremation I've ever attended. Low and mournful, the organ sound on this casts a gloomy spell over everything it touches in a way that stands in stark contrast to the postcard sleeve. 

This is a world where 'Stars And Stripes Forever' rubs up against 'The Blue Danube', 'Lullaby Of Broadway', 'Tyrolean Whistler' and 'S'Wonderful' with no hint of rhyme or reason as to why these pieces should make good bedfellows and it suggests (to me) that Graham is just playing whatever comes to mind rather than following a theme. True, you'd need to be really determined and/or a miserable bastard to make the more jazzy pieces like 'Jeepers Creepers' or 'I Got Rhythm' anything but upbeat, and these takes do have a vague, seaside swing about them, but it's the sepia tinged feel of a rainy day in November rather than high summer, and much like watching a circus elephant balancing on one leg, the surface jollity is still tinged in a sadness that's as deep seated in this album as rising damp in a wall. 

In fairness, the downbeat tone actually works quite well on some of the pieces - for example, the sampled bird songs and die straight playing on the standard 'Morning Has Broken' could have reduced it to hackwork personified, but Graham plays it slow as a crawl and fills it with the dread of what the new day will bring instead of the hope of a new beginning that's suggested by Eleanor Farjeon's original lyric. In other parts, simple melodies swirl in a wash of notes that almost puts me in mind of some of Edgar Froese's mid-seventies output, 'Epsilon In Malaysian Pale' maybe. Well for a few seconds anyway.

At the end of it all though, I have to report that Graham sounds like he's playing in a dark and dreary place, the resident organist at an empty dancehall at midnight where the only punters are the ghosts of better days dancing under a mirror ball that stopped spinning sometime during the blitz. Frankly, I don't wish I was there at all.

* David Graham, I'm informed by the back cover, plays seasons at the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. I hope he played something a bit more lively than this, though maybe that's why that title is posed as an incredulous statement rather than a question. We can't say we weren't warned.

40 All Time Honky Tonk Hits: Warren Carr - Robin Records 1974

Well what do we have here? I'm assuming the chap at the piano dressed as a butcher is Warren Carr (though you'd have to look on the record label itself to glean this information), but I'm not sure who those ladies - who could charitably be said to resemble three burlesque strippers at the tail end of their career - flanking him are meant to be? As this is an entirely instrumental affair, unless they're on drums and percussion then they don't appear on this record other than the cover. And as far as that goes, if their only purpose is to inject some stereotypical seventies glamour to lure in the punters, then the outcome is as cheap and tacky as the premise.

 

Misleading too; whilst that sleeve shot suggests an album of raucous and bawdy saloon bar singalongs recorded somewhere between last orders and throwing out time, what we get in actuality is something rather more tame and polite as Warren tickles the ivories over a minimal 4/4 backing and trots out a medley of familiar tunes like 'Camptown Races', 'Swanee', 'California Here I Come', 'Tip Toe Through The Tulips' (etc.).  And while the cover boasts '40 All Time Hits', we only get about a minute sample of each.'Tickle' is the appropriate verb here too - though Carr is true to the Honky Tonk style of the title and pushes rhythm above harmony on an untuned piano, there's no barrelhouse key pounding here. Carr is totally proficient in execution, but he executes with a light touch that's never going to get the neighbours banging on the walls or me to move my fingers along an imaginary keyboard on my thigh.

 

And that's really all there is to it. It's the sort of thing that would work fine in the 'live' setting of a pub after a skinful of ale, but I'm assuming the intention with this release was for it to be something to put on at a house party to get everyone singing along. But just as Eno released his 'Music For Airports', then this could have been subtitled 'Music For Very Dull Parties'; any party that needs this to try and get it going should be put out of its misery. It's 1974 people, get some Abba on the stereo.