Everybody Loves a Doris

Please accept The Typing Monkey's apologies for the long absence. Shit got real over the past few weeks and nobody at the offices felt like lifting the pencil or finding a piece of paper unbesmirched by memory and loss.

Let's get back to publishing with a belated birthday wish of health and happiness to Doris Day, who turned 90 on April 3.

It's easy to dismiss Day as a peroxided, harmless cutie whose sole purpose was to be irritated and flummoxed by Rock Hudson only to come around and fall in love in the third act of the many meringue-light romantic comedies the two made together during the 1960s.

That's fine, but we've always preferred the rom-coms with James Garner as her foil/paramour, as Garner's gravelly nature played better off of Day's sugary charms. Her outing with David Niven ain't bad either.

Better still is to remember that Day is the secret key to the success of Alfred Hitchcock's 1956 remake of his own The Man Who Knew Too Much. James Stewart does great work in the film, but it's Day's determined, crafty mom who finds a way out of the international intrigue mess they're in. It's a shame she didn't get more roles of this nature, as Day holds her own in a way many probably don't expect.

Her delivery of the song "Que Sera Sera" is not only a great plot device in Too Much, but just straight-up great selling of a song that uses Day's velvety delivery to great effect, given that the lyrics are actually quite clear-headed when put up against many other romantic tunes of the day.

And with that we arrive at Day's other great gift: The woman could sing. She's on par with other lauded Big Band vocalists (Kay Starr, et al.) and her creamy vibrato stands proud alongside Dinah Shore (another singer who rarely gets her due.)

Day could deliver the sad and heartbroken as well as the dreamy lovestruck material. And The Typing Monkey says if you want a real snapshot of what Day could do, look no further than "Everybody Loves a Lover."

It's not a showcase for her vocal abilities the way "Dream a Little Dream" or "When I Fall In Love" are. Instead it's a testament to Day's ability to inhabit the material. Where she's both mother and child -- and all realist -- in "Que Sera Sera" Day plays the wholly self-aware woman who is both confident and stupidly in love in "Everybody Loves a Lover."

It's an almost Bugs Bunny-like performance culminating in Day's round-style duet with herself. She found a guy she loves who loves her back and has no qualms floating by the rest of us, flaunting her luck and (subversively) the hint of the skills she employed to snag her man.


[courtesy of VinylNostalgia]

Send Me a Postcard

The unofficial end to summer approaches, a time reserved for listening to Nat King Cole on AM radio, eating fruit you picked right off that tree in the alley near the end of the block, and wondering how quickly your tan will fade.

Here's a music video that constructs a fantasy "wish you were here" greeting from a vacation to a magazine advertisement in the mid 1970s. Good job, Royksopp.

Unimpeachable

No matter where you are, if this song plays, the world turns into a twilight fantasy of glistening highways after a rain, leading you to the city at night, with its neon and mystery and wood-hued cocktails.

Dammit Gerry

As if if that line from "Baker Street" about giving up "the booze and the one-night stands" needed to have any more poignancy.

Farewell, Gerry Rafferty.

Neither Blind nor Random

FRANÇOIZ BREUT
À L'aveuglette
(Le Pop)
Breut wrote all the lyrics for this, her fourth album, and co-wrote most of the songs. That doesn't sound terribly impressive unless you know that the former back-up singer has built a respectable career in Europe as a vessel for other songwriters.

Perhaps the album title, which translates to blindly or at random speaks to the leap into the unknown she took by consciously leaving her comfort zone as a performer of existing songs so that she could create her own works. Whatever the meaning, L'aveuglette is good.

A galloping rhythm propels "Les Jeunes Pousses," one of several songs shaded by the spacious arrangements and arid, lonesome guitars of bands such as Calexico. (It's odd to think of a Frenchwoman emulating that Southwest-of-the-mind style, but Breut has collaborated with Calexico.) Her past work with Dominique A utilized similar styles, but without him on these recordings, the songs are less noisy and rock oriented.

Also, Breut's quiet alto has developed into a more mature instrument, separating her from easy comparisons to iconic French vocalists from the 1960s. She does maintain a seeming national tradition of draping every phrase with melancholy, though now Breut sounds more spectator than participant. The Typing Monkey must note that we understand just a few of the words she's singing, so if any of the vocal content is upbeat, she's still delivering it with a touch of sadness -- so French.

The nouvelle scène francais aims modern French pop toward the 21st century. Breut's giant step forward sounds and feels like she's the first one to actually reach that frontier. For all the desolation, she makes the trip worthwhile.

Reference material: Though more modern comparisons and contrasts surely exist, Françoiz Breut brings to mind an undamaged Marianne Faithful or a less manic Kristin Hersh.

It's Okay, He's Sensitive

PAUL BRYAN
Listen of
(Sonar Kollectiv)
At first listen, this reissue of soft pop from 1973 breezes past, light and sweet. Bryan's jazzy singer-songwriter exercises don't even merit the attention of re-release effort from a European label known mostly for electronic music, it would seem. But his story adds an intriguing layer to the proceedings, making the reissue a far more engaging idea.

Bryan, a Brazilian native whose real name is Sérgio Sá, might have cashed in on his nationality and pumped out some bossa nova or latched onto tropicalia and that would have been that. But instead he wrote and recorded a dozen AM-radio ready songs with the same smiling vibe of say, Johnny Nash and standing, unashamed, on the shoulders of beard-era Beatles, The Association and numerous California sunshine-pop acts.

His accented English and almost feminine voice makes these already delicate songs even more fragile. When he's happy ("Listen" "Feel Like I Feel") it's so in the moment, that cynicism and irony won't hold against him. And when Bryan's sad ("Why She Goes Away") he's just a daisy bending in the rain.

The obvious singer-songwriter tools of the period are all in place: soft drums, unhurried bass, acoustic guitars and a Fender Rhodes. Bryan adds string sections and frequently employs an oboe and French horn, all to good, wistful effect. His particular appeal grows with repeated plays, which leads this all to the main concern: Why didn't he hit big outside Brazil?

Listen of was clearly aiming for North American ears. "Feel Like I Feel" sounds an awful lot like Stevie Wonder's "You Are the Sunshine of My Life" [released the same year -- ed.] and he's no fruitier than the other tender-hearted men who filled the airwaves during his time.

Maybe this time, Paul Bryan.

Reference material: Listeners unafraid to admit they enjoy The Association's "Never My Love" and know that owning an album with a cat on the cover does not compromise their authenticity can pursue Paul Bryan's Listen of with confidence.

The Cold of the Winter Sun

KOUSHIK
Out My Window
(Stones Throw)
During the past year critic types enjoyed pointing out that the Stones Throw label was branching out. Let's be honest, the seeds of that growth have been there all along. For all the Guilty Simpson, James Pants and Baron Zen, there's always been Koushik.

The Canadian-born DJ/producer has a couple EPs, a few singles (the transcendent "None In Mind" from Chrome Children), remixes and production work under his belt. Now his debut full-length arrives just as autumn unfurls. Perfect timing.

Koushik's gauzy music swirls together the dreamier asides from '60s sunshine pop and psychedelic soul with stealthy hip-hop rhythmic elements. The vintage and modern elements don't bump up against one another for the effect of high contrast and clever juxtaposition. His collage-artist touch is so light the songs fold over onto themselves with a sort of blissed-out dream logic.

He favors birdlike woodwind warbles, tender guitar picking and watercolor washes of keyboards, but gives obvious nods to the musical era he's mining with "Lying In the Sun." The back-masked wheezes and sucked-in percussion that start the track eventually encounter Magical Mystery Tour horns. However, the horns seem to come from a brass band marching in a parade several blocks away.

"Buttaflybeat" and "Welcome" provide the most Stones Throw sounds here, and wouldn't sound out of place on a Quasimodo record. But the rest is all Koushik's world, especially when he sings. His voice, buried in the mix and smeared in echo, peeks through the instrumental clouds but never blares outright. That might ruin the daydream.

Reference materials: Tons of 1960s soft-psych (The Lovin' Spoonful, Fifth Dimension, Friends of Distinction) with Joe Meek's Bluemen style percussion ("See You") and the true sound of Nino Rota in love ("Ifoundu") -- therein lies Koushik.

Waterbeds and Puka Shells

BING JI LING
June Degrees in December
(To the Curb Productions)
Anybody who wishes to travel back to the time when soft-rock and sleek, subtle funk ruled the radio could do worse than to stumble into this multi-instrumentalist’s loving arms. Ling’s emulations of all things Silk Degrees-era Boz Scaggs, Hall & Oates and even Toto (oh my!) are uncannily accurate and surprisingly pleasant.

Pay close attention to the multi-layered guitars in “Home” -- if that’s all him, Ling’s got a secret skill that’s likely overshadowed by his voice and songwriting. And just for fun, imagine sinking into that cushy bass in “This Song is For You.”

June Degrees aims for the bedroom, but these five tunes slink rather than thrust. The soft-touch percussion, keyboards as warm as a snifter of brandy, melodic low-end and Ling’s smiling, earnest croon all add up to an authentic make-out record. At just 18 minutes though, you’ll have to work fast.

Reference materials: Think that Justin Timberlake has it too easy? Does the ironic/un-ironic enthusiasm for this ridiculous notion of yacht rock irritate you for reasons you can’t adequately explain? Bing Ji Ling can help.

Unwarranted salacious commentary: Remember when it was okay for singers to look like Rupert Holmes? The Typing Monkey takes hope that the charmingly fugly Bing Ji Ling probably gets more tang than an astronaut.

AM Gold

THE SILVER SEAS
High Society
(Cheap Lullaby)
The press High Society has garnered makes frequent comparisons to Paul McCartney and Wings, Jackson Browne, and other gentle-touch pop giants from the 1970s – and they’re spot on. This Nashville quartet wears the nostalgia-rich glow of AM-radio pop so well they’re nearly critic-proof. Add to the list some Beach Boys (“Ms. November”), a nod to The Beatles’ “Because” (“Tativille”), and modern day Tin Pan Alley champ Rufus Wainwright.

And though we could go on with the comparisons -- Gerry Rafferty comes to mind as well -- it’s a terrible disservice to the band to reduce them to celebrity math. Album opener “The Country Life” sets the mood well with a two-and-a-half minute tale of city folk loose in the sticks, playing at what everybody wishes life in a rural area was really like. It’s all brisk, clean rhythm guitar, uncomplicated drum and bass rhythms and piano fills that show skill without being showy.

Closer “The Broadway Lights” brings it back to the big city, where dreams don’t necessarily go to die, but neither do they always turn out the way we thought they should. Chief songwriter/singer/guitarist Daniel Tashian sings the bruised and romance-damaged lyrics convincingly. Keyboardist Jason Lehning (who co-wrote this song) uses simple piano fills to color the tune in a way that guitars alone couldn't.

Really, there’s not much else to say aside from the fact that High Society barely crests the 30-minute mark, so keep up the good work fellas. The Silver Seas will either be your new boyfriends, or steal your girlfriend.

Reference materials: Will you like The Silvers Seas? If you like Augie March and Rufus Wainwright, then you probably will.

Bonus fun fact: High Society is technically The Silver Seas' debut. Their previous album, Starry Gazey Pie (a ridiculous title), was recorded under the name The Bees. A British band, also calling themselves The Bees, changed their name to A Band of Bees to avoid confusion. Then the U.S. Bees became The Silver Seas. So go ahead and call your own band The Bees if you want, because that name is available again.