Gene Parsons, Melodies (1979)

With a title like that, you’d be forgiven for expecting some sort of swirling pop swell, all harmony vocals and lush hummable tunes. Instead, the first half offers the worst of both worlds: songs that are suffocated by the production, but still refuse to die (all four opening tracks crawl, rather interminably, past the four minute mark, and “Melodies of a Bird in Flyght” simply cannot bear the weight of its title--what could?). It sounds like the record label demanded a soft-rock hit, and Parsons didn't know what to do.  

The only surprise on the album comes when, after all that, things take a sharp midpoint swerve for the better. Parsons acquits himself well on a “Hot Burrito #1” rendition that has surely reduced lesser singers to rubble, and a few of his originals (“Little Jewels” especially) come close to qualifying as buried treasure—precisely the sort of thing you’re hoping for when you flip to side two of a record by the Byrds’ late-period (but best) drummer. I haven’t the slightest idea what a Gene Parsons show was like, but I picture him playing dinner clubs in marinas, modest and unassuming but every now and then silencing the house with something pretty. And lest that sound dismissive, let me be clear: his solo albums are better than McGuinn’s or Hillman’s, hands down.