Zelma Cliff, "Good Night My Love" c/w "I Don't Believe," Battle 45916 (rel. 6/1963; reissue of Spino 1011, c. late 1962)
Today's single is profiled in my why-do-I-still-bother-hawking-it book One-Record Wonders: One Shot was All They Got (RedWing BlackBird Books). I'm still determined to sell 25 copies of this tome, which I believe holds immense appeal to those who frequent this blog or care about the under-history of popular and vernacular music.
I upgraded a battered, skippy copy of this fine release, recorded some time in 1962 and first released on a Harlem imprint, Spino Records. Several months after that super-rare issue went nowhere, Battle Records gave it a second shot, with national distribution and an impressive list of Black artists, including John Lee Hooker and Latin-jazz guy Mongo Santamaria. The record did no better in its second go-'round and put paid to the music career of Zelma Cliff.
Hers is a persuasive and haunting voice that the world needed more of than the little drib it received. 63 years later, these two performances retain their passion and impact with a pair of sophisticated-yet-earthy songs penned by J. Brown, who didn't register their work with the Library of Congress Music Copyright Division, thus depriving us of a timeline for their creation. The fault was with the songs' publisher, Segario Music. BMI, who handled Segario's accounts, lists the composer's first name as Julian. And that, friends, is all we have about this record.
I will write fresh commentary on both tracks, since I know more about this record than I did when I put together my worst-selling book. I'm flipping the two sides, as I feel the B is a stronger song and a more powerful performance by Ms. Cliff. I'd love to know anything about Zelma Cliff. How old was she? What was her background? What brought her to performing? How did she get from amateur-with-promise to a recording studio somewhere in the boroughs of New York City?
"Good Night My Love" is a mature departure from the romantic norm. The scene is the end of a pleasant night out. Zelma holds off on inviting her man inside; she'd rather prolong the courtship and get to know him better. "Tomorrow you might be the man to hold my hand...so don't you worry about holding me tonight," she decrees, with a reassuring "Don't you worry," which she sings at record's end with soulful force.
The verses of this song do a trick common to rhythm and blues and early soul; each phrase of music goes through major chords and ends on a prolonged minor. This creates a sense of drama and foreboding--in this case, not the threat of a love ending but the promise of one beginning to bloom. This sense of anticipation is unusual for pop music of its day and gives both sides of this single a modern feeling. This is a love song for a man or woman who's been around the block, seen life's little ups and downs and isn't defeated: they still have hope for their own contentment, but they realize the stakes are high and important and are worth taking the time to consider and savor.
My first copy of this single skipped like mad on this side; it is a true pleasure to hear it in cleaner form, as you will now.
"Good Night My Love" is a mature departure from the romantic norm. The scene is the end of a pleasant night out. Zelma holds off on inviting her man inside; she'd rather prolong the courtship and get to know him better. "Tomorrow you might be the man to hold my hand...so don't you worry about holding me tonight," she decrees, with a reassuring "Don't you worry," which she sings at record's end with soulful force.
The verses of this song do a trick common to rhythm and blues and early soul; each phrase of music goes through major chords and ends on a prolonged minor. This creates a sense of drama and foreboding--in this case, not the threat of a love ending but the promise of one beginning to bloom. This sense of anticipation is unusual for pop music of its day and gives both sides of this single a modern feeling. This is a love song for a man or woman who's been around the block, seen life's little ups and downs and isn't defeated: they still have hope for their own contentment, but they realize the stakes are high and important and are worth taking the time to consider and savor.
My first copy of this single skipped like mad on this side; it is a true pleasure to hear it in cleaner form, as you will now.
Battle Records, though short-lived, had enough oomph to get Zelma Cliff's long single a positive review in Cash Box. The reviewer remarks on the sophisticated lyrics of Julian Brown in his magazine's hep-cat argot.
"I Don't Believe" is the other end of the dramatic spectrum. Here, Zelma realizes a love affair is a mess, and that whatever might have happened won't ever be for real. Cliff gets behind this sober assessment of romantic failure, with Brown's words, perhaps from personal experience, hitting home in their frankness and realism.
Such blunt sentiments were not the stuff of a hit single in 1963. This type of song would become a mainstay of LPs over the next decade--a safe space for songwriters and performers to do less commercial material and to experiment without risk. I salute Battle Records for going with this side as the single's A, but it may have cost Ms. Cliff the continuance of her musical career.
Such blunt sentiments were not the stuff of a hit single in 1963. This type of song would become a mainstay of LPs over the next decade--a safe space for songwriters and performers to do less commercial material and to experiment without risk. I salute Battle Records for going with this side as the single's A, but it may have cost Ms. Cliff the continuance of her musical career.
With the last notes of "I Don't Believe," the book of time closes on Zelma Cliff. Without a photograph or any biographical notes, she is a "photo not available" figure in the dim recesses of Black music. She's in good company with thousands of other gifted performers and groups who had the right sound at the wrong time or were victims of racist or exploitative management. These performers have a dear place in my heart and are worth remembering and celebrating.
Tomorrow: fantastic late-stage doo-wop from The Fabulous Pearl Devines on another one-record career. But what a record!
These two songs feel like they are trying to emulate the girl group sound (Chiffons/Ronettes?) but Ms. Cliff puts more blues into her pop—like if Janis Joplin had somehow been hired for the Shirelles? Both of these, again, 'shoulda been a contender' for the record-buying public. Both sound ahead of their time for 1962.
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