album

It’s almost difficult to remember a time when information wasn’t disseminated through the ultra-convenient format of streaming web media and thousands of specialized, niche TV channels and the dubious omnipresence of Wikipedia. So, I was a little bit bewildered when an acquaintance of mine at the library, and a generous contributor to my record collection, brought in two small folders of records for me to play with. At first glance, they were a collection of 45s with classical and choral music on them from Wallace Laboratories – something I could easily pass over, since I’m not a huge fan of the genre – but I’d glanced wrong.

Deeper inspection revealed that this collection of sixteen records were definitely sized like 45s – but were played at 33 RPM instead, which resulted in a recording that lasted roughly 6 minutes on each side. Even more interestingly, on the A side of every record were medical discussions and advertisements for various pharmaceuticals, most of them focusing around a drug called Milpath. The bizarre combination of a baritone man discussing tummy drugs and the segue into Schubert dances was almost a non-sequitur. They went together like sharks and underpants. On fire.

Originally, each of these two handsome little cases came with two records, each similar in bizarre theme – but the cases were later used to store the curious influx of these records that the previous owner accumulated. A bit of research revealed that these albums were distributed by Carter-Wallace Inc. during the early 1960s to doctors and pharmacological technicians, mostly to advertise the properties of their drugs and results of clinical trials. You might recognize Carter-Wallace as the fine folks who provide us with Arrid deodorant, Nair, and the first pressurized shaving cream.

The whole promotional deal was organized by the Ted Bates Agency, whose advertising campaign aggressively reached over half of the doctors in the entirety of the United States. When the records weren’t enough, free drug samples were included with the mailings (alas, absent from my new collection), and by the end of the campaign, it’s estimated that all of the freebies cost Carter-Wallace about $9.22 per doctor, or about $63, adjusted for inflation – and was spread across 92,000 doctors. While billed as a ‘news service’, the records’ news was invariably peppered by references to how Milpath and Miltown and Soma could make the world a better place – the equivalent of today’s promotional DVDs or websites. And then, Beethoven’s Country Dances for Orchestra. The pairings are hilarious and wonderful :

• News Service Series No. VII : Relationship Between ABO Blood Groups and Peptic Ulcer / Beethoven : Country Dances for Orchestra

• News Service Series No. 3 – Reports on Gastroenterology : Detection of Gastric Malignancy Phenomenon of Reflux of Bile into Stomach Effect of Temperature of Food on Stomach Functions / Symphonie Espagnole for Violin (Lalo)

• Appetrol : A new product for effective appetite control / The Twelve Days of Christmas

I don’t think that Rossini had gastric mucosa in mind when he was composing his ‘Tancredi di Siracusa’, but someone saw a natural pairing of the two. I’ve uploaded the contents of a full album for you to listen to – including the very first Wallace Labs Milpath record in the series.

• Side A : News Service Series, No. 1 – Electronics in Medicine ; Telemetry Apparatus in Gastroenterology
• Side B : Excerpts from Five German Dances, Seven Trios and Coda (Schubert) – Vienna State Opera Orchestra

There’s no clear monetary value to these that I can find, but sixteen records in one place is certainly the biggest collection that I’ve seen. Unfortunately, they’re not sequential, but they’re all in excellent condition. My quest for unusual and spoken word records found a rare wintertime bit of awesome with this set. Now, to dig out my set of 45s that demonstrate various heartbeat irregularities… that’ll get ‘em swingin’ at my next tiki party.

I live in a small town, as I’ve mentioned before. A vast portion of it is relatively unsettled state park lands, and the rest is fairly centrally located. I work at the library, which seems to be the epicenter of all things hilarious and tragic that concern town politics and personalities. People know me, for what it’s worth. I help them find the books of town code or get on the internet or summer reading for their kids, and I like doing it.

Word has gotten around town that I collect LPs, as well as whatever manner of spinny black discs that our small town might have hidden in its spidery attics and squirrely garages. It was a few weeks ago that a gentleman came into the library seeking me out, as he understood that I collected these records. He’d been driving around with a considerable collection of them in his car, looking to get rid of them somehow, and while the overpriced record shop in the next town over had given him a few bucks for a handful, a majority of them remained unclaimed. Sure, I’m always excited about the prospect of a new stack of records to play during my lonely evenings at home… and usually, I’m excited enough to go out to some stranger’s car and poke around inside of it to see what he’s got to offer me. I live dangerously.

It was clear that this man was a music lover. These wooden crates full of discs were listened to and appreciated. As he leafed though them, he’d pull out a few to mention how great this or that album was, or how he loved Emmylou Harris… but he had to get rid of them, all of them, or his wife would kill him. He no longer had a turntable, and his sentimentality didn’t justify marital strife. Was this a dark telescope into my future? Would I one day be making daily, forlorn trips to the Toys for Tots box against my will?

Through a process of negotiation in the parking lot, I made it clear that I had no personal knowledge of which record would be worth what, since I’m a record collector concerned only with the listenability of the music, not the condition of the sleeve. There were a few options to make his wife happy, but we eventually settled upon a convenient donation of records to the library, to benefit everyone. I didn’t have the money or frankly, the energy, to buy them outright, and the library was about to have a big bi-annual booksale. We could sell the records as a library, I’d buy them from the library (and get first pick), the library could get a few bucks, and he’d get a tax write-off for his generous donation. I didn’t know the tax value for a record donation of that size, but I hope that the financial and marital compensation was worth the loss.

And the donation was generous. Generous enough to make me feel physical pain as I watched him part with his beloved music collection, which he vocally lamented as I tried to comfort him in his loss.

We estimated about 500 records, and while I had to sort through them before the sale to remove the ones that were destroyed by mold, moss, moisture, cracking and general grossness, the resulting pile of leftover music was still excellent. While it hurt to have to chuck a copy of Zeppelin’s IV that had been colonized by alien spores, we kept Duke Ellington, Sly and the Family Stone, Donovan, The Young Rascals, Joe Cocker, Santana, and all kinds of things that would be great to listen to on a turntable. Especially notable was Santana’s first album, which came signed by Carlos Santana and six or seven of the other recording artists on the album. I’d brought it home to listen to, and only afterwards discovered the signatures.

I limited myself to about 30 one-dollar records, since I’m still indoctrinating myself into the parts of the musical world of the 1970s that didn’t involve Jethro Tull. I’m already a total Tull expert. Don’t tell anyone that. I’ve also outgrown my own LP spaces and have expanded into the unfriendly climates of the garage, which are never good for records.

I could likely download any one of these albums in perfect clarity, but now I know the guy who’d once listened to and loved them, and I want to listen to them like he did – hisses, pops, and all.

The array of deceptively simple technologies that have been incorporated into classic vinyl records reveals new things to me every day. Of course, there’s my beloved voice-o-graph and its home-based version, the recordio disc, as well as the experimental Gakken turntable, and Derek explored the use of x-rays as recording devices in Soviet Russia. I’ve only recently come to find out about the amazing existence of Red Raven Records.

I’m an avid animation junkie, so alongside my love of bizarre vinyl and optics, Red Raven Records are a great example of something that beautifully combines all three, predating the use of any kind of digital effects. Each of these was a regular 78 record with the requisite single song on each side. At the center of each was also the requisite label – except in the case of Red Raven records, the label was a bit larger than usual. Printed around the edges of this label were 16 small cartoons, each a single frame of animation. Using the natural spin of the record on the turntable, these images produced a second or so of looped animation while spinning, when reflected off of a central bank of mirrors.

The technology is not unlike that of a zoetrope, though in the case of these records, the optical device used is actually a praxinoscope, a device which succeeded the zoetrope, and which offered improved viewing quality – mostly in that one no longer had to view everything through a tiny slit. Instead of the usual cylindrical slip of animation that these devices usually use, the angle of the mirrors in the Red Raven praxinoscope allows the images to lay flat on a disc – something that the record itself provides an excellent medium for. In the case of these Red Raven records, this central mirror is also called the ‘carousel’, since it’s decorated, well, like a carousel. It’s also a rare device, far less common than the music / animation discs themselves.

The animations, which can be viewed in this YouTube video, corresponded thematically with the music on the disc itself, and in the case of every animation, the end of the visual loop deftly incorporated itself back into the beginning of the loop, creating a hypnotic crowd of swirling bunnies or dancing children ad infinitum. 20 of these were produced by Red Raven, and are some of the more highly hunted childrens’ record collectibles.

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Since high school, Elysian Fields has lived somewhere under my skin and in the warm caves in my brain. Those eight free choices from my ill-fated and wrongfully-obtained Columbia House membership couldn’t have been more fortuitous, and the inclusion of Elysian Fields in their catalogue almost made up for the sampling of pure garbage that made up the rest of their monthly fliers.

To clarify, I’m not talking about the Greek heavy metal band, but the sexy, mellow ‘noir rock’ band from NYC, headed up by Jennifer Charles and Oren Bloedow. I devour anything that either of them participate in, from backing vocals in other bands, to solo albums, to sephardic side projects. Fortunately for me, they’re a semi-local band, and they make their home in New York City. They’ve often played from the tiny, but legendary, Tonic venue, and when they play, it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard. Unfortunately, Tonic went the route of CBGB and was shut down this past year, leaving their bevy of experimental, independent bands shifting to less intimate venues.

But I collect the music of Elysian Fields, because I really enjoy it. After their self-titled 5-song EP and their first full album with Radioactive & Universal Records, they went into the studio to record their second album. Creative differences between the major label and the band formed, and communications went sour. The band ultimately maintained their artistic integrity and left for another label, but all of the music that was recorded by them had to be left behind – now owned by the all-powerful record overlords. It has never been fully re-recorded or officially released, though a few odd songs have made it onto later albums in revisited formats.

(As a side note, their most recent album, ‘Bum Raps & Love Taps‘, is still only available to purchase from Amazon in France, or as an iTunes download – the physical album does not have US distribution rights. That’s how awesome these guys are. So awesome that you can’t hear them.)

Anyone who’s familiar with music at all will realize that the phrase ‘official release’ means next to nothing to fans who want to get their hands on live, or rare, or obscure music. Sometime after the lost album was lost, a bootleg started to circulate from sources unknown. Maybe it came from a sympathetic employee at Universal, or maybe a backup tape was coincidentally discovered elsewhere. It’s assumed that the original recordings are still gathering dust in a closet, but there’s been no communication to confirm or deny this. I’ve made it pretty clear how much I love lost music, and the idea of unreleased recordings of anything is exciting.

The unofficial second release goes by a few names – Clinical Trial, The Albini Record (named for Steve Albini, their collaborator at the time), Black Acres, or simply ‘The Lost Second Album’. And as hard as I try, I can’t find it. It’s not often that I can’t complete a collection, or hunt down a reasonable price to satisfy anyone’s material desires, but I’m stuck. Fans suggest seeking out online downloads, though even those searches are fruitless. I can only assume that any listening of this album would cause Universal’s head to explode, since they’ve made no money off of the music due to their refusal to release it, even to a very solid fan base. Still, I’ve come up empty-handed, even after message board begging – which is the saddest, most pathetic kind of begging there is.

The music industry is peppered with lost tracks, deemed unsatisfactory by either the artist or their label. From this graveyard are usually spawned comprehensive box sets of lost music, much of it probably deserving to remain lost – but there are always a few great tracks that might connect to the listener, even if they miss the artist’s desired outcome.

Jethro Tull’s ‘Nightcap‘ CD set is a great example of this, and an album that I hunted for years (in the pre-internet days) before an industrious aunt found it at a Washington, DC store for me. Among the tracks is a full album’s worth of rock opera in which the sound equipment didn’t live up to the band’s standards, and so was never released – but rewritten almost entirely into their album ‘A Passion Play‘. For Tull fans, or any music fans, I don’t think that recording quality is quite as important as getting to hear more creative output from the brains and hearts that they admire while they were in their raw, youthful prime. Of course, I can very much live without a Jethro Tull song about female problems, which is midway through disc 2. What were you thinking, Ian Anderson?

DEVO’s set of two ‘Hardcore DEVO‘ CD have reached prices as high as $75, but have recently quieted down to roughly $35 each, with the increasing accessibility of downloadable tracks. These albums feature recordings that the band made in the mid-to-late-70s on a 4-track recorder, before they were signed to any label and were relegated to messing around in a Dayton, Ohio basement – and a lot of it is really bizarrely great.

But ultimately, if anyone wants to share the love of Elysian Fields’ Clinical Trial, I certainly won’t object.

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There have been several articles from my ‘fellow-bloggers’ regarding old records. I thought I’d head down to the ’storage area’ to check out what I might have. It seems that a lot of them had really awful covers, at least per the recent blogs. Many featured unattractive folks in less-than-pretty settings. Many ’stars’ that would not last a minute with Simon Cowell scrutinizing them.
But I was sure that I could find some that offered beautiful, creative and at very least, interesting, ’sleeves.’
Let’s see what I have found. The first one was really unusual. It features a younger Rod Stewart in the album called Atlantic Crossing. It shows a bunch of exaggerated, colorful skyscrapers against a dark sky with scads of stars. The tall and ‘lit-up’ Mr. Stewart is pouring light from a bottle. Probably good fun for him to be pictured that large! It has a truly ‘art deco’ flair to it. I checked the song list and don’t think it was one of his biggest successes. But, boy, that cover is something!

The next one is really old! It features a young man, smiling, showing dazzling white teeth. Almost as white as his 10-gallon Stetson hat. We look closer and see an early Gene Autry, America’s favorite cowboy. The corner picture shows him on his horse, Champion! Colorful, bright, music notes too, what’s not to like?

While this next one does not qualify as ‘beautiful’, it certainly is unique and thought-provoking. It is from Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung” album and shows a rather demented looking gent with scraggly hair and a grimace. He carries something in his long coat and must have at least one secret. The poster on the fence makes reference to Christmas shopping – how bizarre.

Now on to a truly sweet cover. Cat Stevens “Teaser and the Firecat.” A real charmer featuring a little boy in a top-hat, holding the skeleton of a fish. A rather porky, orange cat is nearby. (It definitely reminds me of a friend’s cat.) He probably just enjoyed that fish! Rather simple, pleasant and with a bit of whimsy.

A real special one follows for you fans of Bourbon Street Music – Pete Fountain’s “Standing Room Only” album cover. It shows the front of his French Quarter Inn, New Orleans, Louisiana with a long line of anxious fans. Not sure if it is still open since Katrina, but it sure looks welcoming. And the music was incredible!

Another favorite cover is from a long-ago music master, Neal Hefti. He had a “jazz pops orchestra”, wanting to cover several venues. We see credit for the design was given to Paula Powers. A real delight!

And who could pass up the three beauties on the cover of this one? Well, two beauties and one guy. This is an album from Tony Orlando & Dawn. They are definitely dressed to kill-lots of sequins, fur and Tony in his tux – ooh-la-la!

A blast from the past – that’s what I’d call this album – Sandy Nelson’s “Drums are My Beat.” Back in his day, Sandy played with the best of them including The Teddy Bears and Gene Vincent. His idol was Gene Krupa. I remember him best for “Teen Beat.” The drums on this cover are really unique!

Now for a real treat – Music from the MGM Motion Picture, The Singing Nun! This album shows a church yard with a group of kids, listening to Sister Dominique. I do remember the up-beat, happy songs.

On a sadder note, I came across this album “Teresa Brewer and the Dixieland Band.” I understand she passed away a short while ago and when you see her vibrant red hair, charismatic smile and energy, it’s hard to believe. The cover has a group of red and white jackets and instruments in the background. Ms. Brewer tips her red and white hat and appears ready to belt out another song. She had an incredible voice!

Next time you’re in a record store or thrift shop or such, check out some of their records – you might be surprised at the creativity in these oldies. The CD’s of today are sure bland by comparison, but admittedly, the sound is better in a lot of cases. But these old covers can offer ‘music to your eyes.’ Happy hunting!
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