Gram Parsons, Another Side of This Life: The Lost Recordings of Gram Parsons 1965-1966 (2000)

 

Sure it’s archival demos, but it also sounds like good 90s lo-fi (instead of a Tascam, recorded on a Sony 500 reel-to-reel given to the teenage artist by a family friend who purchased it in Tokyo, according to Jim Carlton's liner notes). Young Parsons offers folkie chords done right on tunes like “November Nights,” but also a fair amount of proto-Darnielleian hard strumming, and the kid clearly has talent even as he cycles through identities, from jazzy nightclub crooning to grittier R&B growls. Harvard Square was a crowded place for young men with guitars in 1965, and even if Parsons doesn’t cut a fully unique figure, he sounds convincing invoking his miner daddy on “They Still Go Down,” with its nice Gordon Lightfoot tinge, and the early original “I Just Can’t Take It Anymore” is a genuine lost gem, a folk anthem by the numbers on one level, but the numbers fit perfectly, like when a mathematician marvels at the elegance of a proof for something we already knew. Sounds like he’s got a bright future ahead of him here. 

Dillard & Clark, Through the Morning, Through the Night (1969)

 

The ultimate hangout record. Aside from Clark’s elegantly sorrowful title track there’s not much songwriting, really not much songs so much as a sustained jangling hootenanny (he’d later revive “Kansas City Southern” with a harder rock edge on a solo album, but here it pleasantly blends with the Everly Brothers and gospel standards).  The sharing of the spotlight means that the greatest asset on hand, Clark’s soulful croon, goes underused, but low-key ambling seems to be the nature of the project here, so save that for later, I suppose. A closing Beatles cover makes no sense, but that’s part of the modest charm.

Chris Hillman, Desert Rose (1984)

 

Nobody’s ever going to accuse Chris Hillman of straining himself. This LP’s laziness runs clear down to the sequencing, where “Treasure of Love” is immediately followed by “Ashes of Love” as if everyone involved shared a common understanding that these songs were all mostly interchangeable. Still, bracket the consciousness of Hillman’s cruel, putrid rightwing politics and the album itself envelops you in bland, comfortable warmth, with “Somebody’s Back in Town” cozily recalling early-70s Burrito Bros and the aforementioned “Ashes,” covering a staple most popularized by Buck Owens, setting the stage for Hillman’s unexpected return to the (country) charts soon thereafter, re-recorded by his Desert Rose Band, some of whom appear here. Clearly the man runs in circles, or at least slowly strolls in circles, but he’s at his best when he doesn’t sound thirsty, and he’s rarely been more sedately sated.

Ever Call Ready, s/t (1985)

 

When rock bands like the Byrds pick up devotional music, the devotion plays as more to the music than to Jesus. And on that level, Chris Hillman and the boys (including one of the Eagles and etc.) getting together for a hootenanny has an undeniable near-beer charm, all affectionate conversation between banjo and dobro, singing out His praises, and even sliding in some front-porch Beach Boys harmonies in “On the Sea of Life.” A rousing, minor good time for one and all. 

Until you realize, they mean it. Or at least, Hillman does. I’m not sure whether other Ever Call Ready members took positions against same-sex marriage equality or aligned themselves with Ted Nugent politically, but this reactionary turd did both. Whatever beauty and joy can be heard in the great gospel tradition is supplanted by the sour note of what sounds like a Jerry Falwell screed in “Don’t Let Them Take the Bible Out of Our School Rooms,” an old Louvin Brothers chestnut that lands with a thud in the age of the Moral Majority (it was trash in 1962 too, the year the Supreme Court gave school prayer the boot in Engel v. Vitale). I half expected a song called “Is the School House the Proper Place to Teach Raw Sex?” They look awkward on the front cover in their clearly unworn jeans, but don’t let the dorky charm fool you; these are the false prophets the guy they claim to worship warned about.

Chris Hillman, Morning Sky (1982)

In which Hillman entirely stops trying, and thereby saves himself. Having made two of the most lackluster solo singer-songwriter albums in recorded history and then been outshined on the McGuinn/Hillman project by Roger McGuinn singing about going on roller-skate dates, the guy was in some serious career doldrums. It would be another few years before the Desert Rose Band gave him a commercial reboot, but this one restored his pulse, even if a bunch of MOR covers is the lowest-octane form of resuscitation known to man. Dan Fogelberg, J.D. Souther, country-ambling Grateful Dead, a Dylan deep cut, low-key Kristofferson, and that’s just the name-brand tunes—it’s a future dollar bin condensed onto two sides of vinyl. The whole thing is mellow, amiable, and more enjoyable than you’d ever expect from the stiff, dour cover art or its location at a onetime Byrd’s lowest ebb. Closing with Gram Parsons’ “Hickory Wind” was a bad idea because it’s the only time Hillman needs to try and it sounds like he’s not trying enough and straining at the same time, but if you’ve ever thought Loggins & Messina were good but would be even better if they’d just take it down a notch and replace some session-guy licks with mandolins and dobros, this is that record, born to be background music but crafted well for the cause.

 

Bonus points for crediting his fine dog Heather on the back cover, and additional ones because I picked this up the last time I was at the Hollywood Amoeba, RIP to that great location.

Elliott Murphy, Aquashow (1973)

Drumming for young Elliott Murphy was surely a good gig—the perks of 1970s major-label rocking being plentiful—so long as you weren’t looking for the limelight. Murphy barely pauses to breathe on his debut LP, bursting out of the gate with a feverish rush of wordplay and gloriously jumbled harmonica on “Last of the Rock Stars,” and while he later slows down, he never lets up. 

This is what Gene Parsons was made for: just try to keep up, and hold a steady beat. It had to be more interesting than late-Byrds work, and Parsons was never showy, but he knows how to sideman. When Elliott gets excited, rush a fill; when he’s dramatic, a stately downbeat; work in some accents on the verses to keep yourself occupied, he won’t notice or care.

It works perfectly. “Last of the Rock Stars” and “Hangin’ Out” are pop-rock masterpieces, and aside from a few dips into maudlinity and the excruciating ballad “Marilyn” (“she died for our sins,” natch), Aquashow is one of those great lost 70s albums, even, yes, Dylanesque at times (sneering Dylan, amphetamine-rush version). An ambling ex-Byrd truly couldn’t wish for more—aesthetically, at least; that other former Byrds drummer really stumbled into a soft-rock cash-cow with Firefall, but in the battle of cred, it’s Parsons all the way.

(Full disclosure: I've had this album for years, and only just noticed, while playing it and idly reading the back of the record, that it had a Byrds connection. So, voila!)

The Chad Mitchell Trio, Mighty Day on Campus (1961)

Is there anything more awkward than a trio with four members? Poor Jim McGuinn stands at arm’s length on the cover, and gets buried in a shadow on the back, but the place he’s hidden best is on the record itself, where he holds his banjo and . . . well, doesn’t do much. He whips up a little jangle-fire on “Whup Jamboree,” but this generally staid music, Peak Whitebread Pre-Dylan Folk with songs about the temperance movement and Lizzie Borden and a super skier. “Dona Dona Dona” is pretty, and nothing's too terribly dire, but it probably felt good for McGuinn to plug his guitar in and help lay this era to rest a few years later.

It was cool to see Bob Pollard producing and writing liner notes, but then I looked closer and it was actually Bob Bollard, so, bummer there. His notes call the crowd at this live show "wild," but it's important to remember, the Sixties hadn't happened yet.