I'm well overdue with this, but out of all the people in the music world, particularly those associated with the soul and disco worlds who have passed recently like Damon Harris, once of The Temptations; Major Harris of The Delfonics, Bobbie Smith of The Spinners and most recently, Richie Havens, I couldn't possibly let the passing of Vince Montana, on April 13th go unacknowledged here. As a vibraphonist, arranger and producer, if there was anyone whose work and pedigree spoke to the high level of musicianship that underlined so much of what made and still makes disco as foundational as it is, it's Vince Montana. One of the key members of MFSB's first generation lineup, which was essentially Philly International and by extension, Philly Soul's house band, having either played on, or arranged a number of Philly Soul standards, going back to The Delfonics' "La La Means I Love You," like many of the musicians who graced the Philly sound, and later many disco sessions, Vince came with a background rich in musical experience. Having been a working musician since his teens, rooted in Jazz, having played with the likes of Charlie Parker and Clifford Brown, by the time Montana would put together The Salsoul Orchestra, with many moonlighting Philly and Latin players; Vince, by then pushing 50, was more than a seasoned pro..
Loleatta Holloway and Vince Montana, Jr. (courtesy: Facebook)
With him and Joe Bataan as the artists who ushered in the landmark Salsoul label, with his own Salsoul Orchestra as the flagship act, while he (and Bataan) would have misgivings about the Salsoul experience, being embroiled in royalty disputes with them for far longer than he had worked for them; the Salsoul Orchestra, which he freely acknowledged, would give him the platform to, as he put it, "do something for himself," giving him a level of name recognition which remained elusive while working in Jazz and even later for Gamble & Huff.
After leaving Salsoul, Vince would have another strong run on the Atlantic label, with his own Goody Goody album (featuring his daughter, Jazz singer Denise Montana on vocals) and two records for his own MontanaOrchestra (one of which I had written about here back in November 2006). Even after disco, Vince remained active well into the 1980s and up into the 2000s, releasing music on his own Philly Sound Works label, and arranging records for the Pet Shop Boys, Robin S., RandyCrawford and for Masters at Work's Nuyorican Soul in the late 90s.
Having lived that life of music well into his 80s, with a body of work and musicianship that continues to touch generations of listeners, hopefully it's a wish that will continue to remain well-kept.
In closing, his daughter, Eileen, who according to his obituary in the South Jersey Courier-Post had been maintaining his web/social media presence, had put together an incredible archive of video footage on his official YouTube account, including this 1978 TV performance of "Warp Factor II," taken from his "A Dance Fantasy Inspired by Close Encounters of the Third Kind" LP. Without a band or an orchestra, just improvising on the vibes to the recorded track; to see and hear him here is to witness a master at work..
Out of the 60 some Disco Delivery posts thus far, this is probably the one which has the least in actual disco. In fact this record probably has more in common with quiet storm than disco itself, yet in that time between Smokey Robinson's coinage of the very term 'quiet storm' and its peak with the rise of Anita Baker and Luther Vandross, in one of those musical accidents that exists completely outside the official channels of promotion and hype; the lone single off this record - “Changin’” would end up finding its greatest audience through the skills of DJ heavyweights like Larry Levan, Robbie Leslie, Roy Thode and BobbyViteritti in the gay discos. It would be one of the songs that would become emblematic of perhaps its most innovative height, when the gay disco scene existed not so much with a finger on the pulse, but in some ways, perhaps beyond it altogether.
Prior to this, Sharon Ridley had been a collaborator of the late Van McCoy, pre-Hustle, having recorded an earlier album with McCoy as producer, "Stay Awhile With Me" in 1971 for industry impresario Clarence Avant's ill-fated Sussex label. While Avant remains one of the most powerful figures in the music industry today; prior to the label’s messy bankruptcy, through Sussex, Avant had brought artists like Zulema, Bill Withers, Dennis Coffey and the much lauded Sixto Rodriguez - subject of the recent award-winning documentary "Searching for Sugar Man" to the forefront. After her Sussex album, aside from a couple of solo singles, Van McCoy and Ridley apparently inked what was optimistically called a “long-term recording contract” as reported in Billboard and Variety with Joel Diamond's Silver Blue label, apparently as a duo act, which never fully materialized (perhaps due to the take off of Van McCoy's own career) beyond a lone single - “I’m In Your Corner,” in 1973.
Not long after the demise of Sussex, Clarence Avant would go off on his next label venture, establishing Tabu Records. Prior to their success with the SOS Band and Jam & Lewis protégés Cherrelle and Alexander O’Neal, Tabu’s roster at the time was dominated by their breakout act, Brainstorm along with Trini jazz guitarist Michael Boothman and noted film composer Lalo Schifrin. Also among the label’s roster were former Sussex acts Jim Gold (who, like Sixto Rodriguez, was produced by Dennis Coffey and Mike Theodore who’d go on to make their own mark in disco) and Sharon Ridley. Ridley, it seems, would be among those who would have little mileage with the label, recording this lone album for Tabu before seemingly retreating from the industry altogether.
Like many others, I had first heard of Sharon Ridley through "Changin'," a ballad that would become without question, one of the penultimate classics in the great morning music/sleaze tradition in the gay discos. Sleaze, for those who may not be familiar, was not necessarily named for being ‘sleazy’ as the name may have implied, but for the slower, melodic, often emotional vocal quality of the early morning cool-down sets, of love songs extolling both its agony and ecstasy in what is perhaps one of the ultimate testimonials to the artistry of the DJs who championed it.
Initially though, for me it was purely by proxy. In 2001, at a time when I was just beginning to fully acquaint myself with disco, my first time hearing “Changin’” was through Linda Clifford’s Ralphi Rosario-produced cover. Combining some of the major forces of the disco era: the late Mel Cheren, founder of West End Records then in the process of reinvigorating his long dormant label with one of the top divas of disco, Linda Clifford, covering one of both Mel and Larry Levan's favourite songs, Linda Clifford's version was something of a landmark release at the time. With its attendant 8 remix single package, it seemed specially targeted to both back in the day disco queens and their turn of the millennium circuit party forerunners. Even though I didn’t exactly fall into either of those categories, having already known and loved many of Linda Clifford’s classic records by that time, along with their then recent package of Larry Levan’s West End remixes, I wasn't about to pass this one over.
When I finally heard and compared Sharon Ridley’s version for myself, not knowing anything about 'sleaze', I was surprised at how completely unlike the Linda Clifford remake it was. Despite the overarching sense of conceptual continuity between them, with Linda’s peak hour versions giving off sass where Sharon was reflective, Sharon and Linda’s takes feel almost like opposite versions of the same song. Not to slight Linda Clifford in this case, but while perhaps a creative way to school (then) new audiences about a great singer, label and legacy; the emotional power of Ridley’s version remained then and still today undiminished in all its heartfelt, understated early morning glory.
Finally having bought a copy of Sharon's "Full Moon" album nearly a decade later, in late 2010, only served to deepen my appreciation for “Changin’” and the wider work of Ms. Ridley. Not having heard anything else from the album, it was practically a blind buy on my part (and hardly the cheapest of them either), but like the best of them, "Full Moon" has become not just another record that I own, but one of those albums that one takes to their heart and revisits again and again, slowly becoming a part of one's private, personal soundtrack.
Produced by Jerry Peters, a producer whose credits have spanned across both the R&B and Jazz worlds for artists like Phyllis Hyman, Syreeta, Deniece Williams, Ronnie Foster, Gene Harris and perhaps most notably in the disco world - Tabu labelmates Brainstorm and their hit “Lovin’ Is Really My Game,” this album feels slotted right in the middle of the disco-funk of Brainstorm and the fusion jazz of some of the other Tabu acts of the time. Peters surrounds these songs the kind of backing that takes his jazz experience and his work with the likes of Hyman and Williams, into crafting what have to be the richest, warmest surroundings ever given to Sharon’s voice.
At around 6 and a half minutes in length, longer than any of the other songs on the album, “Changin’” seems to have been singled out early on as one of the album’s centrepieces. From its opening notes and Sharon’s gently drawn-out phrasing, if there was ever an ideal theme for the sleaze ethos, or the agony and ecstasy of love and the many complex and conflicting emotions at the end of a relationship, it is this. As a portrait of the end of love - the gratitude, the regret, the good and bad memories; listening to Sharon feel her way through these lyrics makes this seem like a guide to the relationship grieving process in song. As music journalist Brian Chin once described it, Ridley’s vocals “convey regret, but she doesn't sound all that broken-hearted." While there’s a definite sadness here, it’s not of the kind of sadness that renders the woman completely hopeless without her long-gone love, nor is it the sadness of the wronged woman who comes out utterly self-reliant and defiant, wishing she never loved at all, but the sadness that comes with the end of any relationship that has been invested with love, a love that had changed, but won’t - that can’t - simply extinguish itself, even when it has run its inevitable course. This is a song for those endings when the road apart seems daunting, but the emotional reality of the situation, even more so; for all those endings and new beginnings, when love is no longer enough and there's no choice but to move on; with sadness, perhaps, but without regret.
As far as cover versions go, aside from Linda Clifford’s 2001 version, the late Esther Phillips would cover this song a few years later on her album “Good Black Is Hard to Crack” (1981, Mercury), produced by Benny Golson. In 2004, rapper Xzibit and producer Thayod Ausar would sample the opening notes of “Changin’” for the track “Back 2 The Way It Was” on Xzibit's album "Weapons of Mass Destruction" (2004, Columbia).
Although as the first version released, I've always considered Sharon Ridley’s version the original; one of the writers of the song, James McClelland - better known in Soul circles as Jesse James, recorded the earliest version of this song. Then titled, “I Feel Your Love Changing,” James had recorded his version in 1975 while under contract to the 20th Century label, which had long been left unreleased until 2010, when the Soul Junction label in the UK released it on 7” and later on their compilation “Let Me Show You” (2012, Soul Junction) combining some of James’ Northern Soul favourites along with some of his other previously unreleased material.
James’ version, straddling the line between the rougher, rawer Northern Soul sound and the more polished sheen of 70's Modern Soul, also carries some subtle and not so subtle differences in interpretation. Where Sharon’s interpretation was, to a point, more impartial; a plea for a mature, even amicable parting of ways amid the sadness, James’ version feels like an impassioned plea to salvage what has been broken. Though Sharon may have portrayed a woman who was wronged, whatever her feelings, she doesn’t necessarily place herself as a victim here. Sharon seems to approach the song as a woman who's made her choice and is at peace with it; whereas James’ version, with its desperate vocal, feels more like a portrait of a man's inner turmoil; grappling with all the changes he's been put through, knows he's at a crossroads, but not quite ready to leave it all behind. Perhaps one of the reasons why the writing credits differ slightly across both the Jesse James and Sharon Ridley versions. While James McClelland/Jesse James is creditedon both, producer Jerry Peters and background singer Lynn Mack get additional credit on Sharon’s version. Musical similarities notwithstanding, while they may not be entirely different songs altogether, they’re not entirely the same, either.
Though "Changin'" completely eclipsed the rest of the record in terms of recognition, in the context of the album itself, the whole thing is so uniformly strong that not even a song like "Changin'" can completely overshadow anything else on offer here in terms of strength, quality or feeling. Though the record includes a couple of originally executed Smokey Robinson-penned Motown covers, the Robinson connection dovetailing ever so appropriately with its quiet storm credentials, opening with Mary Wells' "You Beat Me To The Punch" and later on in side two with a version of Marvin Gaye's "Ain't That Peculiar," the real moments here are the originals, which with the exception of "Changin'," were all written by Ridley herself, where the record's intimacy really takes shape. While "Changin'" was the invitation and the welcome, Sharon's songs are the full experience here. The album's centre, both literally and figuratively, "Forever Yours" and "Ode To My Daddy" are both delivered with a tenderness that manages to be both moving and personal without feeling overbearing. The latter - “Ode to My Daddy” - humble in title but as personal and specific as it gets, out of all the songs on the album, this is one which in it’s own unassuming way, cuts straight to the heart. Singing about grief as adeptly and sensitively as she sang about the parting of lovers in “Changin’;” as a eulogy in song, whether or not one has experienced the loss of a parent, her lyrics summarize the feelings of love, loss and regret with an emotional clarity and honesty that’ll take you there, to that moment, whether you’ve already been there or not.
"Forever Yours" is yet another, right on the heels of "Changin'" that's so good it felt practically wasted at only half the time. Having opened with the most splendorous of orchestral intros, carried forth with an impossible to forget "darling, forever.." refrain, it's one moment that felt like it deserved to be elaborated on just a bit more than its allotted three minutes (and probably would have had it not been the time limitations of vinyl). I, for one, would have gladly traded at least one of the album's Motown covers for a few more moments of this song.
Ridley's ability to cultivate these moments of warmth and intimacy out of what seem to be the subjects of seemingly simple love songs is perhaps best experienced as she tells us how "Nothing Else Means More To Me Than Our Love." With all the attendant hopes, dreams and tender surrender of a love letter written to music, Ridley imbues a line like "the only love I found that lets me be me, that lets me feel free" with a knowing sincerity that would be almost innocent if her voice didn't carry the weight of someone who had seen and felt enough disappointment to know better. That she seems to hold back from a full vocal release until the very end only makes that emotional surrender feel all the more true.
Musically, the the jazz influence is most apparent on the title track, “Full Moon,” perfectly placed as the concluding track on the record. A song of escape and wild desire, it’s perhaps and appropriately enough, the most musically adventurous song on the record with it and “Guess I’m Gonna Have to Say Goodbye” being the closest things to uptempo tracks on the album. Although perhaps too jazz-oriented for either to have any actual disco traction, both, particularly the former contain some of the record's most stunning, intricate guitar work.
Like many disco or disco-associated acts of a similar vintage, I had become fascinated not just by the music in this album, but also by the complete enigma that seemed to surround it. In this case, this wasn't some anonymous studio group or singer whose mystery was purely by design, this was someone who had crafted an intimate piece of work and then disappeared just as she had left her mark - perhaps not on any Billboard chart, but certainly in the hearts of the many early morning dancers who wound down long marathon nights at legendary venues like The Saint or the Paradise Garage (as divergent as they were) to the emotional currents of this song. The fact that this seemed to go without any sort of acknowledgement, of who Sharon Ridley was, what ever happened to her and whether or not she was aware of how many people loved and still treasure her song, only seemed to cement its emotional and material value.
Sharon Ridley had a special way with the material here, originals and covers alike - an easy, graceful sincerity; an approach which feels exceedingly rare, out of place and even down-right old-fashioned today, where most things tend to fall into either distant posturing, irony or overblown bombast. Meeting us half-way between the warmth of Brenda Russell and the smooth touch of Anita Baker, much like Russell and Baker, Ridley had an underrated ability to present songs in a way that can be both disarmingly personal and heartfelt without crossing over into cloying schmaltz. Paired with the production of Jerry Peters, they capture a sound here that's gentle and inviting yet still musically sharp.
More recently the Demon Music Group in the UK, the same people behind the Harmless label and their excellent Disco Discharge and Disco Recharge series have acquired the license to the Tabu label catalogue. While a reissue program is in the works, set to kick off with some of the label's best known acts like the SOS band, Alexander O'Neal and Cherrelle, here's hoping the lingering boom in disco related reissues will also have them reaching back and revisiting this album so it too can be appreciated all over again. While “Full Moon” would end up in the 50-cent cut-out bins several years after its release, copies of the album have been known to fetch anywhere from $30-$90 US online in recent years. Which, admittedly, is nothing next to what people have paid for the bootleg white label of "Changin'."
Whether an album like this would have been better received if it had been released several years later is perhaps anyone’s guess, however nothing can take away from the hidden strength of this record and the gentle force of Ms. Sharon Ridley's vocals. For as far as they're concerned, time hasn't taken anything away here, it has only made their feeling all the more palpable. To paraphrase a bit from the old Tabu label slogan, this is one album that can be described as 'music, for those who listen.'
First heard this bit of elegantly funky early 80s late-period disco on Stevie Kotey's ace rarities compilation "Disco Diva Delights Vol. 1" (2009, Ambassador's Reception) a while back. Produced by Tony Green, the Montreal producer best known for his work with France Joli; this is one of those intriguing one-offs pairing Green who wrote, produced and contributed vocals, with an apparently unknown, or at least uncredited singer, who coos and sighs her way through this like a French-Canadian Debbie Harry, minus her well-cultivated sense of irony; which all seems entirely appropriate, as the song itself sounds like a glammed up, close cousin to Blondie's "Rapture." While the images of swank restaurants; suave, smooth jet-setting operators and breathless fawning chicks are a long way from the urban alien apocalypse in "Rapture"; with those guitar hooks, tolling bells and whistles, and all the bits of light, embryonic rapping in between, the resemblance is otherwise unmistakable.
After living with the version on "Disco Diva Delights" for a while, I'd finally come across the 12" single nearly a year ago now and discovered that the two mixes on the 12" are both longer than the version on "Disco Diva Delights," where the song is edited down to 4.23, from the 7.15 and 6.30 versions on the 12". Either the version Kotey used was based on one of the 7" versions (which are timed at 4.10 on the A-side and 4.15 on the B-side), or perhaps edited specifically for the compilation. Either way, a nice bit of Can-Con that while slightly derivative perhaps, is overflowing with just enough charm and soft-focus fantasy, you almost wished he'd have saved something like this for France Joli back in the day.
As far Tony Green AKA Anthony Mazzone goes, he evidently remains active in both music production and increasingly, filmmaking. Writer, filmmaker and France Joli fan Kelly Wayne Hughes published a wide-ranging interview with Green on his website just over a year ago. Apparently, after his success with Joli, Green was in the running to produce Aretha Franklin's ultimately ill-recieved disco album (covered here earlier, for those who are curious). Whether that was a dodged bullet or a missed opportunity depends entirely on your perspective, I guess; however that was just one of the many intriguing bits shared in the interview, which is well worth a read for any disco nerds out there.
A friend had recently told me about a new disco documentary premiering at this year's Toronto International Film Festival this past Saturday (thanks Oliver!). While he wasn't entirely convinced, and despite the decidedly mixed reviews, I decided that if it was a documentary and it was about disco (and in my own backyard, no less), I had to go see it.
Toronto filmmaker Jamie Kastner's current film (Kastner was previously behind the docs Kike Like Me and Recessionize! For Fun and For Profit!) The Secret Disco Revolution is largely based around some of the key premises around two of the more recent revisionist histories about disco, Peter Shapiro's "Turn The Beat Around: The Secret History of Disco" and more pointedly, Alice Echols' "Hot Stuff: Disco and the Remaking of American Culture" (she not only gets a lot of screen time, the poster art also matches her book) that Disco was not a throwaway fad, but really the soundtrack to a cultural revolution and the liberation of blacks, gays and women. While it seems fitting to have a documentarian use Echols and Shapiro's books, which are some of the most compelling works of disco scholarship in recent years; Kastner doesn't quite seem to agree entirely with their conclusions, spending approximately half of the film presenting them, and the other half sending them up. While that may seem like a cold splash in the face to some disco enthusiasts (myself included), and something of a Jamie Kastner signature judging from his earlier films, it actually becomes one of the film's stronger points. The way, however, in which he often presented many of those points, was not.
The "Revolutionaries"
Using three Mod Squad style "disco revolutionaries", clad in nearly every single retro disco party costume cliché you can think of (dollar store afro, check! moustache and open-chest with heavy medallions, check!, glitter and blue eye-shadow, check!) to satirically tie together the history of disco, (their adventures narrated by actor Peter Keleghan), the film's main framing device was a total dud. While one can appreciate wanting to bring a sense of fun and levity to a documentary about disco; it not only seemed to generate more eye-rolls than laughs, but detracted, more than anything, from the otherwise serious exploration of the subject and the legitimate questions the film raises.
Henri Belolo
On the positive side, the best parts of the film lie largely in the deftly employed goldmine of archive footage and the interviews which cover a broad spectrum of disco personalities, from mix masters Tom Moulton and Nicky Siano, to Gloria Gaynor and Thelma Houston repping the divas, to industry figures like Vince Aletti and Larry Harris to name only a few. Kastner's interview with Village People producer Jacques Morali's business partner and co-producer Henri Belolo is especially illuminating, coming across as the most articulate and insightful of all the interview subjects. The way the film presented the absurd gulf of contradictions between Belolo's take on the Village People's subversive gayness and that of the present group members' is undoubtedly one of the highlights (or lowlights, depending on your perspective). Another one of the film's more clever and pointed moments comes when Kastner brings Echols' and Shapiro's conclusions, namely the question of the political and revolutionary aspects of disco directly to the interview subjects whose answers seem to range from outright bewilderment (Thelma Houston and Martha Wash) to hostility (Harry Wayne Casey and the Village People). (For the record, Belolo, once again, came through with the most perceptive answer here).
The Village People
Kastner also gets points for not only bringing forth and giving ample time to Shapiro's and Echols' theories, but in also bringing up some of the contradictions that exist between their ideas and the reality of disco. For example, while disco was a genre that represented a new freedom for blacks, gays and women; as a largely producer driven genre, how come it seemed to represent the very opposite for many of its artists? Also, for a genre that represented liberation and inclusion, how does one explain why and how did Studio 54, one of its ultimate cultural representations, symbolize such a crass and superficial exclusivity? All valid questions, which the film doesn't necessarily answer; Kastner seems to content to leave that for the viewer (although I suppose you could reply to the former with a treatise on rockism, but that's another documentary).
Open questions aside, one problematic aspect of the film were some of its rather stark omissions. Perhaps a reflection of the filmmakers' outsider perspective (Kastner admitted he wasn't really a disco fan going into the project) though not, in this case, to the film's benefit. Can one really bring up black and gay liberation in disco and not even briefly touch on Sylvester? (An omission which an audience member pointed out in the Q&A). As well, can one bring up Studio 54 these days, but not, say, Larry Levan and the Paradise Garage as a counterpoint? While oft-referenced in its own way, Levan and the Garage are arguably more influential as a touchstone of the disco movement among current generations of listeners, than 54 ever was. Perhaps they felt they had sufficiently covered a 54 counterpoint with the inclusion of Siano and the accompanying Gallery footage. Though whatever the rationalization, it still felt like a missed opportunity in highlighting one of the more compelling cases of disco's enduring presence.
Thelma Houston
Imperfect as it is, Secret Disco Revolution at the very least does an adequate job of bringing together some different perspectives and some new ideas about disco to a general (read: non-fan) audience. The more discerning of disco denizens will likely be disappointed that the film, despite heavily referencing Shapiro and Echols' works, doesn't quite live up to either of them (less Disco Mod Squad and more footage and conversation, perhaps?). While not necessarily making up for its shortcomings, the interviews and often times incredible archive footage will probably be just enough for more disco-inclined viewers to chew on.
A note about the premiere: One of the film's main interview subjects, Thelma Houston was in attendance and dutifully delivered a rousing rendition of "Don't Leave Me This Way" at the end of the Q&A. Houston had the audience on their feet, waving their hands and (like the two ladies beside me) marveling at how strong and clear she still sounds (and that was singing to a track, hardly the best showcase for even the greatest of singers). Dare I say, the lady sounded so impressive; if one didn't know better, you would have thought she had recorded that song yesterday. The full Q&A and performance was recorded on video, so hopefully that will show up on the TIFF site in the near future. In the meantime, here's some amateur audience video (not mine) of Thelma's performance (thanks for the tip-off, Javier!)
Haven't done a great deal of record shopping in the last little while, but while plumbing the depths of my hard drive(s), found something that I had ripped at the beginning of 2011 that I thought was well worth a little blog post.
Produced by Chicago's ever reliable Donald Burnside, who had also produced and/or arranged Air Power (previously featured here), Elaine & Ellen, and two of Captain Sky's albums, Burnside is one of those names that I haven't missed with yet.
A female quartet comprised of Denise Austin, Demetrice Henrae, Martha Jackson & Lisa Hudson (although there's some question as to whether this was the actual lineup for this release), First Love later released an album on Chycago International Records, also helmed by Burnside which featured the stunning "Party Lights" (featured on Beat Electric a while back). However, as as far as I can tell, this looks like their first single and lone release on Brunswick's Dakar imprint in the US.
The A-side, "Don't Say Goodnight," (which was included on on Strut's Horse Meat Disco II compilation) was also their lone chart entry on the Billboard Disco/Dance chart. Peaking at a modest #68 in early '81, this one nonetheless packs a nice swinging punch with its infectious staccato horns (reminiscent of yet another Burnside production from the same year, Elaine & Ellen's "Fill Me Up") and chirpy girlie vocals (which I love) and that intro, centred on a signature Donald Burnside percussion-hinged build-up.
And just when I thought I'd never find video, I come across some long-buried live lipsync, with the ladies surrounded (in true early 80's style) by dancers, neon and copious amounts of dry ice. Apparently this is from a TV show called Star Club (anyone have any idea which country this was from?).
Flipping things over, "Love Me Today" on the B-side doesn't disappoint either. While it doesn't have anything that quite stands up to the A-side's big brass hook; with some chucking guitar and string touches, it's one of those great breezy, sunny day, lovers holiday type of songs (and yes, that phrase is straight from the lyrics).
As far as this 12" goes, mark both sides down as another quality entry in Burnside's discography.
For a little change of pace, the blog Mellow Soul & Sensual Grooves posted one of First Love's final singles from 1984 "Things Are Not The Same."
Held down by the most basic of disco basslines, this little number from 1979 comes courtesy of Marilyn McLeod, sister of the late Alice Coltrane, grandmother of Flying Lotus (who records for the über-hip Stones Throw and Warp labels), and also more importantly, one of Motown's most prolific staff songwriters of the 1970s. Alongside Pam Sawyer
(with whom she also co-wrote this song), she had written classics like Diana Ross' "Love Hangover," and High Inergy's "You Can't Turn Me Off (In The Middle of Turning Me On)
" (said to be originally intended for Ross). Outside of Motown, McLeod would also co-write one of Anita Baker's hits, "Same Ole Love" from her breakthrough "Rapture" (1986, Elektra) album, just to name a few.
Produced by McLeod, Sawyer and Mel Bolton (also a Motown alumni and frequent collaborator), this song seems to recall elements of both of those earlier Diana Ross and High Inergy songs, (albeit with some added late disco tempo and thrust), with its sexy string-laden groove and tender vocal touch. Combining that unstoppable bassline, a delicate string arrangement and Marilyn's engaging, unaffected vocal style; this is possibly one of the most danceable songs about not wanting to dance that had ever been released. Call it a bit of before-the-bedroom boogie, if you will.
On a disco related tip; around this time, McLeod and Sawyer would contribute heavily to co-writer/producer Mel Bolton's group Flakes, who are probably best known for their disco singles "Miss Fine Lover" and "Sugar Frosted Lover" from 1979 and 1980, respectively. Both Bolton and McLeod would produce both of the Flakes albums, the last of which was released on the Salsoul label in 1981.
Despite McLeod being one of the more high profile Motown staff writers of the 70s, this single would remain one of McLeod's few releases under her own name. Among those few releases though was a notable 1978 promo album, borne out of a Motown campaign aimed at promoting some of their staff songwriters, for which McLeod and Sawyer were the first to be chosen, entitled "Pure Magic: The Songs of Pam Sawyer and Marilyn McLeod" with McLeod providing vocals on the bulk of the record. In a Billboard article promoting the Pure Magic release, it was mentioned that McLeod would be doing more recording of her own for Motown, under the name Supercloud, which apparently never materialized. More recently however, McLeod has been getting some attention for her work again, having released an album of her own in 2010, and with one of her earliest efforts at Motown - "A Heart is a House" with The Nu Page (a group which also included Mel Bolton) getting some positive notices via the recently released compilation "Our Lives Are Shaped By What We Love: Motown's MoWest Story 1971-1973" released last year on noted reissue label Light In The Attic, chronicling some of the long-forgotten singles from Motown's short-lived west coast imprint.
This particular song has also been gaining some notice on its own, too; with the vocal version having been included on one of the most recent installments of Harmless' Disco Discharge
series, on their "American Hot" compilation (released this past March). In 2010, primo disco editor/producer Jacques Renault also got his hands on it, releasing a crafty edit/mashup entitled "Marilyn's Gold," combining this song's instrumental track with a break which (i believe) comes from First Choice's "The Player."
While on the subject, given the similar song titles, one can't help but draw a possible connection to one of Natalie Cole's greatest hits of the 70's, "I've Got Love On My Mind." Two very different songs to be sure, but both close enough in both title and essential feeling, that even if this wasn't inspired by it, it sure makes a nice disco response to it (at least in my mind, anyway).. Whatever the case is, if you're not going out and don't wanna get lost in a crowd, here's one way to enjoy some disco love tonight..
This year has already seen so many high-profile losses in the music world: Whitney Houston, Etta James, Don Cornelius and Dick Clark. More recently, Adam "MCA" Yauch. Stax Records' bassist Donald "Duck" Dunn, in the disco realm, singer Belita Woods of the group Brainstorm earlier in the week; as recently as this Wednesday, Chuck Brown, Washington DC's Godfather of Go-Go. And now, Donna Summer.
Feeling emotional over the loss of a celebrity, in the way one would over a death in the family is always slightly uneasy for me. However, truthfully, out of all of them, this is the one which hurts the most. It's hard to fathom the loss of someone like Donna, someone who was so central to disco so much a symbol of it's success, of the times themselves.
I still recall as a ten year old, going to garage sales in our neighbourhood at the time, usually with my cousin in tow, she was a young 20 something girl who had recently immigrated to Canada at the time and had been living with us. She may have been my cousin and not an immediate one, even, but became like the sister I never had. She was so fascinated with these garage sales, these people giving away their possessions for practically pennies, that we would take them in whenever we got a chance. Thanks to these garage sales, she ended up taking an interest in vinyl for a brief moment and came back from one of these expeditions with a copy of Donna Summer's "On The Radio - Greatest Hits, Vol.2." From the groove of "Hot Stuff" and "Bad Girls" to the vocal showcases of "MacArthur Park" and "On The Radio," I would ponder the album cover as I listened (something only really possible with vinyl), wondering who was this woman? This woman with this voice soaring with feeling and clarity. I'm sure that I listened to that album more than my cousin ever did. In fact, I'm certain she barely even got to touch it once I got a hold of it. When I got around to the flipping the record over and hearing the relentless, throbbing pulse of "Sunset People," there was no turning back. I don't think any song had captured and transported my ten year old imagination more than that song did. People made records this forward thinking then? How was that possible!? A few years later, when I started taking a more serious interest in disco and in music generally, Donna Summer was naturally one of the first artists I had sought to explore.
Having fought a private battle with cancer that few knew about until now, her death seemed to come almost completely out of nowhere. She had announced, at the end of 2010, after touring for much of that year, that she was planning to take time off to record and release two albums, an album of standards and a dance record. Reportedly she had been working on one or both of them before she passed. It had been circulating among fans that she was working on her standards record with famed producer, the modern master of MOR, David Foster. Her last major public appearance had been on his David Foster & Friends concert in October of last year, so it seems entirely probable. Her final single, "To Paris With Love," originally recorded for Louis Vuitton, released in 2010, would be her 14th #1 on the Billboard Dance charts.
Since then, there had been precious little news of note. No tour dates on the horizon, no real updates on recording. Viewing one of the Donna Summer fan forums off and on, the relative silence of the past year had left some fans almost apoplectic. It's even more silly to read some of those posts now, fans will be fans, after all (especially on internet forums), however it only reinforces the absolute shock of it all. It's entirely understandable now, the woman probably wanted to avoid the media deathwatch that inevitably preceeds most high-profile deaths today. After all she had given, she was and is entitled to her dignity. It seems she was in control of her circumstances, up until the end. The loyalty of those close to her speaks volumes about her strength of character.
With the torrent of obituaries and celebrity tweets and statements flowing, New Yorker pop critic Sasha Frere-Jones had tweeted in response: "2012, and people feel like they need to save Donna Summer from disco to celebrate her. She WAS disco and disco won the war." He's absolutely right, and it's absolutely true. With Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte, she crystalized the sexual revolution and the hedonism and liberation of disco with "Love To Love You, Baby." Together, they would set one of the most important benchmarks of the genre. In 1977 Summer, Moroder and Bellotte had, to steal a phrase I read years ago, split digital skies with "I Feel Love." Today, those steely synth pulses and sensual vocals are still reverberating across the popular music landscape. Like Disco at large, she defied old boundaries around "black" and "white" music. She had never been R&B, nor strictly pop. A church rooted black girl from Boston, influenced by both Mahalia Jackson and Janis Joplin, she began her career fronting a rock band and later on the German stage and studio, backed by European producers. The varied influences and styles she incorporated, not just in her disco material, but throughout her career embodied the synthesis of influences that lay at the true heart of disco.
There were many, who in the quest for a popular reappraisal of disco, felt the need to separate disco into two classes. In a refrain that still gets played today, many were often quick to pooh-pooh the popular disco hits of the time in favour of the disco underground. The former was, like everyone had said, the fake, cheesy pop shit that was rightfully disdained; the latter - that was the real deal. In an effort to try and fit disco into some clichéd rockist narrative of authenticity, many seemed to think the only way to do that was to separate disco from itself. However wrong-headed it often was, that dishonour never extended to Donna Summer. It may have extended to Anita Ward, to the Village People, to the Bee Gees, but not Donna. To do so would have likely run the risk of revealing oneself as someone who didn't understand the real weight of her presence and her impact on disco, on popular music, as someone who just missed the point altogether. You didn't touch the Queen. Like the music of Chic, Donna was someone whose records crossed all of those boundaries, someone who was beloved among all walks of the disco faithful. As Alex Needham wrote in The Guardian, Donna Summer's disco was, indeed, as radical as punk.
Certainly, Disco was never short of great singers; auteurs, even. However, aside from her talent and success, what separated Donna Summer from her peers was that Summer was ambitious in ways that few of them were. There weren't many singers at the time inside or outside of disco who could move from one benchmark to another, pulling off expansive concept double-albums like "Once Upon A Time" and "Bad Girls," pursuing these grand artistic ambitions with unprecedented quality and frequency. And yet, she did. And it wasn't just because she had Giorgio Moroder in her corner, either. Surely he deserves a lot of credit, however it's often forgotten that many of Donna Summer's finest moments credited Summer, Moroder and Pete Bellotte equally. Donna was a singer who held artistic ambitions that, for a time, seemed to blossom further with each successive release.
In fact, Donna herself continued to make some good (even sometimes great) records in the 80's after the peak of disco, apart from Moroder and Bellotte. One of her biggest hits (and her most coherent contribution to the MTV age), "She Works Hard For The Money" was made without Moroder or Bellotte. Her final record for the Geffen label, "All Systems Go" (1987) is possibly one of her best from the time and certainly one of her most overlooked. Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte would also make great records apart from Summer and from each other. Moroder's own influential work, especially, needs little introduction here. However, nothing that either of them did apart from each other would ever quite reach that elusive apex of enduring popularity and influence the way their work together with Donna Summer would.
She wasn't just the First Lady of Love, one of the first titles bestowed upon her, the black Marilyn Monroe, cooing breathlessly to the throbbing disco beat; she could belt as soulfully as the best of them, she could tackle rock and country, even
(she made her home in Nashville for many years, after all). Creatively, she seemed to chafe at stylistic boundaries, especially later in her career. She attempted to cross them the best way she knew how, without alienating her audience. Her now final album "Crayons" (2008, Burgundy) was proof of that. Her work often displayed an underplayed eclecticism, an eccentricity, even, that belied her 'Queen of Disco' title. Yes, she was that, but she also held a desire to reach beyond it whenever possible.
In the midst of the relative silence of the past year, released barely a month ago, Donna collaborated on a hip-hop track with her nephew, up and coming rapper O'Mega Red, on a track entitled "Angel." A song about lost loved ones watching over the living, with Donna singing the hook and melody, it was to be the very last release she would be part of in her lifetime. As the angel in the background, she had never sounded more comforting, more peaceful. It was to be her first and last hip-hop collaboration, one that was strangely prophetic and all the more poignant now that the voice is no longer with us. Rest in Peace, Donna Summer.
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