Brenda Lee Melson, "Valley Of Love" c/w "The Love Game," Rust 0804 (rel. 5/1968)
We typically discuss records made before 1968. That year marked a major change for popular music. Emphasis went towards albums rather than singles, and many performers strove to make big artistic statements in the 12-inch realm. Singles continued into the 1990s, but their impact was dimmed from 1968 on. And, as more companies switched to styrene, it became a regrettable industry standard.
As well, 1968 was the year when multitrack recording became widespread. This ended the live recording style that had always been the standard. Some producers (Phil Spector, Norman Petty, Les Paul) did primitive sound-on-sound overdubs but this process was dangerous; if a mistake was made, the song had to be restarted from scratch. Three-track stereo recording was introduced in the late 1950s and was generally used as follows: a mono base track that contained the instrumental backing; the second channel for lead vocals (and sometimes backup singers); the third for lead instruments and/or a harmony voice. As can be heard on some 1959 sides by teen idol Ricky Nelson, the three-track mode made for a spacious stereo mix that flattened to mono without ill effect.
This was the beginning of the end. As performers and producers explored the potential of multi-track recording, they praised its efficiency and convenience. If a hot performer needed a new single but was away on tour, a producer and arranger could get the backing track ready to go. When the vocalist entered the studio, all they had to do was sing their part; if they made mistakes, it could be re-recorded until everyone was happy. All well and good; but something was lost.
That was the "together" sound of a mono recording where everyone played and sung their part live from start to finish. This approach was seen as antiquated by 1962, when The Beatles made their first commercial recordings with producer George Martin. EMI Studios already had multitrack tape recorders, and Martin understood that it was best to get a good instrumental backing done first, then have group members do their live vocals. The results weren't far afield of how The Beatles sounded in-person, minus the incessant screaming of fans.
Once four-track recording was possible, The Beatles hopped on that wagon and, by 1968, eight tracks were available. It was catnip to musicians eager to make recordings that couldn't be replicated in live performance. Modern, convenient, efficient...yes. But music that once felt "together" was now diffuse, impressionistic and washy-sounding. As stereo became the industry standard, it was considered redundant to record all at once, and some bands whose members hated one another's guts could fulfill recording contracts without unpleasant social contact. Albums were made without their performers meeting one another in the studio.
Things change, and nothing changes as quick as popular music. Six decades ago, at the end of the mono age, rock 'n' roll was on its way to being 'rock' and rhythm and blues to soul and funk. I lose interest in pop music with this transition; I feel it takes itself too seriously. I know most people love that era of music best, and that's fine. The purpose of this little-known, little-read blog is to champion the cause of "together" music and to make a case for it--that it shouldn't be forgotten, dismissed or discarded. There is something of great value to it. I appreciate the few souls who drop by this URL on a regular basis; thank you for your presence and I hope the music gives you pleasure and interest.
In 1968, some acts from the pre-serious era continued recording. Among them was Dean and Jean, a Black co-ed duo who made their first single a decade before. They had a couple of hits in the earlier 1960s but were spinning their wheels by this time. Rust Records, subsidiary of the Laurie label, kept them on their roster. Producer Ernie Maresca was true to his stable of artists and kept their careers going. Flop singles were great tax write-offs, so no one lost any money in the long run. What harm was it?
Brenda Lee Jones (Jean) is an unheralded Black voice of her day. Her feisty harmonies enliven the Dean & Jean catalog and it was evident she had potential as a solo act. Why she chose the surname Melson for today's record is lost to time. Joe Melson was a white Southern songwriter and vocalist who collaborated with Roy Orbison on several of The Big O's pop hits and recorded on his own for Hickory Records in Nashville. As the only other Melson in '60s music, it's an odd comparison. (To say nothing of Brenda Lee!)
As Melson, she delivered a superb summertime single that bridged what had come before and what would soon be. "Valley of Love" was her composition, and it has a Memphis/New Orleans vibe with a nod to Aretha Franklin's work for Atlantic Records. Its rollicking rhythm, with punchy brass and woodwinds and a killer bass line (plus layered handclaps), offer a perfect setting for Brenda's wailing vocal on a story song of a country girl who fetches her beau from the lure of the big city back to home, sweet, home.
This has that pop radio hit sound and it's surprising no one went for it. Released in the summer of 1968, this was an ideal soundtrack to a hot day in city or country; the shimmer of sunlight on glass and concrete and the smells of grass, asphalt and chlorinated pool water on some long-lost patio. "Together" music was still being made in 1968 and this it one of its best examples.
As well, 1968 was the year when multitrack recording became widespread. This ended the live recording style that had always been the standard. Some producers (Phil Spector, Norman Petty, Les Paul) did primitive sound-on-sound overdubs but this process was dangerous; if a mistake was made, the song had to be restarted from scratch. Three-track stereo recording was introduced in the late 1950s and was generally used as follows: a mono base track that contained the instrumental backing; the second channel for lead vocals (and sometimes backup singers); the third for lead instruments and/or a harmony voice. As can be heard on some 1959 sides by teen idol Ricky Nelson, the three-track mode made for a spacious stereo mix that flattened to mono without ill effect.
This was the beginning of the end. As performers and producers explored the potential of multi-track recording, they praised its efficiency and convenience. If a hot performer needed a new single but was away on tour, a producer and arranger could get the backing track ready to go. When the vocalist entered the studio, all they had to do was sing their part; if they made mistakes, it could be re-recorded until everyone was happy. All well and good; but something was lost.
That was the "together" sound of a mono recording where everyone played and sung their part live from start to finish. This approach was seen as antiquated by 1962, when The Beatles made their first commercial recordings with producer George Martin. EMI Studios already had multitrack tape recorders, and Martin understood that it was best to get a good instrumental backing done first, then have group members do their live vocals. The results weren't far afield of how The Beatles sounded in-person, minus the incessant screaming of fans.
Once four-track recording was possible, The Beatles hopped on that wagon and, by 1968, eight tracks were available. It was catnip to musicians eager to make recordings that couldn't be replicated in live performance. Modern, convenient, efficient...yes. But music that once felt "together" was now diffuse, impressionistic and washy-sounding. As stereo became the industry standard, it was considered redundant to record all at once, and some bands whose members hated one another's guts could fulfill recording contracts without unpleasant social contact. Albums were made without their performers meeting one another in the studio.
Things change, and nothing changes as quick as popular music. Six decades ago, at the end of the mono age, rock 'n' roll was on its way to being 'rock' and rhythm and blues to soul and funk. I lose interest in pop music with this transition; I feel it takes itself too seriously. I know most people love that era of music best, and that's fine. The purpose of this little-known, little-read blog is to champion the cause of "together" music and to make a case for it--that it shouldn't be forgotten, dismissed or discarded. There is something of great value to it. I appreciate the few souls who drop by this URL on a regular basis; thank you for your presence and I hope the music gives you pleasure and interest.
In 1968, some acts from the pre-serious era continued recording. Among them was Dean and Jean, a Black co-ed duo who made their first single a decade before. They had a couple of hits in the earlier 1960s but were spinning their wheels by this time. Rust Records, subsidiary of the Laurie label, kept them on their roster. Producer Ernie Maresca was true to his stable of artists and kept their careers going. Flop singles were great tax write-offs, so no one lost any money in the long run. What harm was it?
Brenda Lee Jones (Jean) is an unheralded Black voice of her day. Her feisty harmonies enliven the Dean & Jean catalog and it was evident she had potential as a solo act. Why she chose the surname Melson for today's record is lost to time. Joe Melson was a white Southern songwriter and vocalist who collaborated with Roy Orbison on several of The Big O's pop hits and recorded on his own for Hickory Records in Nashville. As the only other Melson in '60s music, it's an odd comparison. (To say nothing of Brenda Lee!)
As Melson, she delivered a superb summertime single that bridged what had come before and what would soon be. "Valley of Love" was her composition, and it has a Memphis/New Orleans vibe with a nod to Aretha Franklin's work for Atlantic Records. Its rollicking rhythm, with punchy brass and woodwinds and a killer bass line (plus layered handclaps), offer a perfect setting for Brenda's wailing vocal on a story song of a country girl who fetches her beau from the lure of the big city back to home, sweet, home.
This has that pop radio hit sound and it's surprising no one went for it. Released in the summer of 1968, this was an ideal soundtrack to a hot day in city or country; the shimmer of sunlight on glass and concrete and the smells of grass, asphalt and chlorinated pool water on some long-lost patio. "Together" music was still being made in 1968 and this it one of its best examples.
By 1968, the Cash Box style had changed. Some of their verbal slapstick remained, but the more sober approach echoed popular music's new-found seriousness.
"The Love Game" was penned by Ernie Maresca, Eliot Greenberg, Steve Schwartz and Vickie Neuland, a songwriting combo that appears on many Laurie singles of the era, sometimes with one different member. These were all label employees and their credits may have been a way to get some additional income. Whether they contributed anything or not, it was a sort of profit-sharing program.
Brenda sounds more relaxed on this B-side. She's double-tracked here and there on a busy arrangement that has more than it needs. The bass line, while enjoyable, competes with her vocal for the listener's attention. As well, the brass and woodwinds are too upfront for a mono single. Were this in stereo, they'd have more elbow room. Here is a problem of pop music post-1967: too much of a good thing. Spareness and simplicity would make a comeback after this age of baroque overkill. It had to happen, and some good came of it, but many recordings suffer from too much monkey business, to quote Chuck Berry.
Brenda sounds more relaxed on this B-side. She's double-tracked here and there on a busy arrangement that has more than it needs. The bass line, while enjoyable, competes with her vocal for the listener's attention. As well, the brass and woodwinds are too upfront for a mono single. Were this in stereo, they'd have more elbow room. Here is a problem of pop music post-1967: too much of a good thing. Spareness and simplicity would make a comeback after this age of baroque overkill. It had to happen, and some good came of it, but many recordings suffer from too much monkey business, to quote Chuck Berry.
One of Brenda's earlier solo singles, "You're the Love of My Life," was issued twice in the UK in 1975--nine years after its US version. A cranky reviewer dismissed it as "Noisy, mock-Northern [soul] sound that sounds too clumsy by half." If ya can't say somethin' nice...
Tomorrow: David Axelrod produces blue-eyed soulster Tina Mason and The Mustangs on a catchy pop confection from early 1966. A toe-tapping start to a gift-wrapping week!
Tomorrow: David Axelrod produces blue-eyed soulster Tina Mason and The Mustangs on a catchy pop confection from early 1966. A toe-tapping start to a gift-wrapping week!
Great interest and pleasure! Fine examples here of the magic of musicians perfoming all together. The feeling’s authentic and raw and RIGHT! That first track’s a doozy and I plan to listen to it several more times today, clapping along.
ReplyDeleteAs I've said before, I love these well-written songs that tell a story and don't repeat verses. Brenda certainly put her heart and soul into these two fun songs. I think you're right in saying these have 'busy arrangements' and she sometimes gets lost in those arrangements.
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