Alan Price: A Gigster's Life For Me

ALAN PRICE: A GIGSTER'S LIFE FOR ME (1995)

1) Boom Boom; 2) Rockin' Pneumonia And The Boogie-Woogie Flu; 3) Rollin' Like A Pebble In The Sand; 4) I Put A Spell On You; 5) Good Times / Bad Woman; 6) Some Change; 7) Enough Is Enough; 8) Whatcha Gonna Do; 9) A Gigster's Life For Me; 10) (I Got) Business With The Blues; 11) How You've Changed; 12) Old Love; 13) What Am I Living For; 14) Say It Isn't True.

Liberty was pretty much the last of Alan Price's attempts to record a more or less complete LP of new material. Either he ran out of inspiration, or he just got tired of all his records selling poorly (he probably makes more royalties off ʽHouse Of The Rising Sunʼ these days than he does off his entire solo career anyway), or both, but anyway, the fact remains that Alan Price as a productive songwriter entered a period of decline in the 1980s and kicked the bucket in the 1990s.

Playing and touring was another matter, though, and for those purposes, sometime around 1994 Alan formed a «supergroup» of sorts, called The Electric Blues Company and featuring some of his old friends and colleagues — Peter Grant, who already played with him in the 1980s, on bass; Bobby Tench (formerly a sideman with Van Morrison, Freddie King, Jeff Beck, Ginger Baker, and many other far more famous people than himself) on guitar; and Zoot Money, one of Britain's most renowned sidemen, on guitar and keyboards. (Drummer Martin Wilde is the only dark horse, and I can sort of see why).

For the most part, these guys just played together, soending a lot of time on the road; in between touring, they did, however, venture into the studio as well, recording the dull-titled Covers in 1994 (haven't heard that one and would be very reluctant to try it out — not another version of ʽHouse Of The Rising Sunʼ, dear Lord!), and the slightly more colorful Gigster's Life For Me in 1995, which was picked up by Sanctuary's «Masters Of Blues» series and for that reason remains the somewhat easier available album of the two. And, clearly, the more interesting, because it focuses on slightly more obscure material than Covers, as well as offers at least a couple Price originals for those few admirers who are always waiting.

Unfortunately, unlike the surprisingly enthusiastic Thom Jurek from the All-Music Guide who even resorted to the word "terrific" to describe the album, I can only confess to having been deeply and profoundly bored all through Gigster's Life's inadequate hour-plus running length. Unless you just got to have yourself some retro-oriented, uninventive, run-of-the-mill blues-rock from 1995, the record has very little to recommend it, and, most importantly, it does not sound like a proper Alan Price record — true to its name and nature, it sounds like the results of a session on which Alan Price is a bit player. He does not even sing lead vocals on most of the tracks (Bobby Tench and Zoot Money handle them, and both sound like your average rockabilly singer in the local bar on a Saturday night), although on the rare occasion when he does, the level of excitement sweeps up considerably: for instance, Rudy Toombes' ʽRollin' Like A Pebble In The Sandʼ is a nice jazzy ballad — nothing special, just nice.

But there is nothing nice whatsoever about limp versions of old classics like ʽBoom Boomʼ or ʽRockin' Pneumoniaʼ, played with some pretense to rock'n'roll energy but sounding totally un­inspired and pro forma. There is nothing nice about yet another version of ʽI Put A Spell On Youʼ — even the old rendition from the late Sixties was nowhere near the true capacities of Alan Price, and how could he ever hope to compete with the likes of Screaming Jay Hawkins or John Fogerty thirty years later? There's nothing nice about a long, lazy, unfocused rendition of ʽWhat Am I Living Forʼ, a three-minute R&B song at best that has been slowed down to five. There's totally nothing nice about yet another version of Jackson Browne's ʽSay It Isn't Trueʼ — eleven minutes? you must be joking. Most ridiculous of all, there is nothing nice about the band selec­ting, out of all of Eric Clapton's catalog, ʽOld Loveʼ from the Journeyman album: I have actually always thought that this blues ballad has potential, but it was not properly realized with the ori­ginal arrangement and neither was it properly performed here (Eric can sometimes make the song come to life in concert, and maybe these guys could, too — who really knows? — but in the studio, it only shows a brief sign of pulse in the transition from verse to chorus).

The only thing I can say in favor of the record is that Bobby Tench is a damn good guitar player when he really puts his heart to it — based on some of his solos (most notably on the Boz Scaggs cover ʽSome Changeʼ and on the Peter Green cover ʽWhatcha Gonna Doʼ), I wouldn't really mind seeing him live. Sharp, crispy tone, great control over sustained notes, kick-ass punchy licks, the works. But even that is only present on just a few songs. As for Alan's originals, the title track, co-written with Bobby, is an unconvincing stab at pop-reggae, and only ʽHow You've Changedʼ features him in his trademark Randy Newmanesque mode, but the song is too slow and the vocal hook is too lazy to make much of a difference.

Bottomline is: if the guys actually had a good time recording this memento of themselves in the studio, we should all be happy for their veteran egos, God bless 'em and all. But as for everybody else, the record deserves, at best, a cursory listen, just so you could make sure that Alan Price was indeed alive and well in the 1990s (we know that, as of 2016, he is still alive, but I know next to nothing of any touring or recording activities of his in the past ten years), and a thumbs down just because I'm pretty sure these guys could do better if they wanted to do better, but they probably just didn't want to.

Alan Price: Liberty

ALAN PRICE: LIBERTY (1989)

1) Fool's In Love; 2) Everything But Love; 3) Days Like These; 4) Bad Dream; 5) Double Love; 6) Changes; 7) Mania Ureania; 8) Liberty; 9) Say It Isn't True; 10) Free With Me; 11) Man Overboard.

In the 1980s, Alan's musical activity abruptly decreased, which now seems kind of a good thing, given the general inauspiciousness of that decade for veteran rockers. Discographies of that peri­od are vague and contradictory, which probably has to do with the fact that, once his contract with Jet Records had expired, he found himself without a permanent record label, and whenever he did choose to record something, it could only be picked up by some minor team for a very limited release. As far as I can tell, he did manage to put out an album of old folk cover tunes (but also including Dylan's ʽGirl Of (sic!) The North Countryʼ), called Geordie Roots And Branches, in 1982 on a local Newcastle label; and then there's Travellin' Man from 1986, for some reason released on the Jamaica-based Trojan Records and largely consisting of covers of New Orleanian music from Snooks Eaglin to Fats Domino. Good luck finding these in any form — nobody ever thought of properly digitalizing either — but something tells me that you won't miss too much if you never hear Mr. Price digging all the way down to his Geordie roots or confessing his burning love for Louisiana bayous.

The first and only Eighties' album that is available on CD (because that was the way it was ori­ginally released) is Liberty. It consists largely of original material (although a re-recording of ʽChangesʼ was still thrown in, probably in the same vain hope of boosting sales a little bit that had already made Alan cheapen his act with the new-and-not-improved ʽHouse Of The Rising Sunʼ at the beginning of the decade), but most of the songs were co-written by Price with guitar player Steve Grant, formerly of the band Top Secret that was managed by Chas Chandler. The band itself only had one LP out in 1981, but apparently, Steve and his brother Pete Grant (on bass) got acquainted with Alan through Chas, and eventually got together as almost equal partners to try and help Alan get back in show business.

The result is pretty much what you'd expect from Price at this point. There seems to be no force in the world that would tear him from his beloved vaudeville and Randy Newmanisms, but just as he was always okay about combining them with contemporary trends in the Seventies (disco etc.), so is he willing to try out some Eighties' clichés here. So get ready for some really plastic and corny electronic keyboards, even cornier electronic echo on the drums, and at least one or two very, very bad songs on the fringe of arena-rock, synth-pop, and hair metal (ʽFree With Meʼ, where Mr. Price confesses that "I really want a woman with me tonight" as if he were Bryan Adams to really awful synths and testosteronic guitar solos).

On the other hand, ten years of relative inactivity have not completely extinguished his song­writing talents, and there's still a nice stack of good taste that cannot be totally hidden from view by corny arrangements. The record is bookmarked by two catchy, fun pop rockers — ʽFool's In Loveʼ is harmless danceable vaudeville, and ʽMan Overboardʼ, despite the grim title, is an upbeat, ʽDon't Stopʼ-like power pop number whose charm largely consists of making you sing "throw me down another line, this man's overboard" as if you were celebrating rather than panicking. In be­tween, there's decent New Orleanian R&B (ʽEverything But Loveʼ), a surprisingly gripping funk rocker with a "girl we gotta get out of this place" message (ʽBad Dreamʼ), and a completely un­expected baroque-pop number about the illusion of liberty (title track) with orchestration straight out of 1967 — probably the only song here that would feel well at home on any of the records from his classic period.

That does not mean that the record should have included boring adult contemporary balladry like ʽDouble Loveʼ, or a completely unnecessary eight-minute long Epic Cover of Jackson Browne's ʽSay It Isn't Trueʼ, or the energy-wasting New Wave rocker ʽMania Ureaniaʼ; nor does it mean that it is, in any way, an improvement over his middle-of-the-road albums from 1976 to 1980, although it does seem to have a higher percentage of «socially conscious» tunes than any of those. But this is by-the-book social consciousness, not really supported by equal feeling within the music, and, as I said, only the title track truly gives away the same sensitive, emotional Alan Price who used to be such an enchanting spokesman for the North. Overall, quite listenable and suffering much less from Eighties' overproduction than it could, and Steve Grant makes a decent songwriting (if not necessarily guitar-playing) partner for the man, but certainly not the kind of «big comeback» that could be hoped for after ten years of near-silence.

Alan Price: Rising Sun

ALAN PRICE: RISING SUN (1980)

1) The House Of The Rising Sun; 2) I'm Coming Back; 3) Mr. Sunbeam; 4) Love You True; 5) Perfect Lady; 6) Wake Up; 7) The Love That I Needed; 8) I Have Tried; 9) Don't Make Me Suffer; 10) Music In The City.

Well, you knew it would happen some day, and that day would be the beginning of the end — the day that Alan Price finally resorts to re-recording ʽHouse Of The Rising Sunʼ. Looking at how he trimmed the song title for the album title, and at all the stereotypical Japanese paraphernalia on the album sleeve, I sort of hoped that he'd at least go for a pseudo-Japanese arrangement, for amusement's sake — but no, the arrangement is fairly uninventive, with a slightly funkified beat and a wailing saxophone part replacing the original guitar melody (the organ solo is, of course, preserved, though it's nowhere near as tense as it used to be). Surprisingly, Alan sings the thing really well, almost on Burdon's level, which just goes to show how much confidence he had gained as a singer over the past decade — but still, was that really necessary?..

Because the rest of the record is just completely incompatible with the re-recording: it's almost as if the latter was forced on the man by his record label or something, as they were worrying about the impending lack of sales and all. (People are stupid, see, and they have this uncontrollable urge to buy everything that has ʽHouse Of The Rising Sunʼ stamped on it — 100% success if it is also accompanied by a picture of a bikini-clad geisha). All the songs are very lightweight, unpreten­tious, lyrically simplistic (but with a few fun Newman-style twists woven in here and there) and reflecting Alan's by now traditional integration of old school vaudeville and new school dance-pop. No social observations or philosophical undercurrents whatsoever.

Actually, that's nothing to be ashamed of, because the record is fun — harmless, fluffy fun. Even when he takes a merry country jig (ʽPerfect Ladyʼ), replaces the banjo part with bubbly-funky, synthetically treated guitar and the fiddle part with a really stupid-sounding synth, it still works, because the whole thing is a musical joke, and this time the joke's on the instrumentation. It's maddeningly catchy, too, even if (like so many other songs of his) the man probably pilfered it from some country record that I've never heard. The same applies to the majority of the material: these songs sound more like lighthearted parodies of various musical genres than sincere exer­cises in any of them, which is probably what makes the album ultimately enjoyable rather than embarrassing.

Anyway, here is a quick run through the «highlights»: ʽI'm Coming Backʼ sounds like a send-up of Cheap Trick-ish power pop, everything very ecstatic, but with an ironic smile behind all the hystrionic guitar soloing and vocal roaring; ʽWake Upʼ borrows the opening piano line of ʽMess Aroundʼ for its own purposes — a comedic send-up of the "get up and work" idea; ʽThe Love That I Neededʼ and ʽDon't Make Me Sufferʼ are old school pop rock, with female vocal harmo­nies, pleasant chorus resolutions and no ambition whatsoever; and ʽMusic In The Cityʼ caps things off with the album's only straightforward disco number that, once again, sounds pretty tongue-in-cheek to me, although — I admit — this might simply be due to the overall strange­ness of the idea of the Animals' keyboardist and Malcolm McDowell's soul mate doing disco.

I really really like one song here — the straightforward cabaret number ʽMr. Sunbeamʼ. Of all the tunes here, this one seems to be the only one to capture some of Alan's patented Englishness, in­cluding some awesomely quirky lyrical lines ("It's tough at the top, but rougher at the bottom / And positively boring in between") and a properly sunny attitude for those of us who feel down and out. Simple as it is, this is the one that could have easily fit in on any of his mid-Seventies masterpieces. But one song, of course, is not enough to salvage the record from the misde­meanor of «fluffiness», and the re-recording of ʽHouse Of The Rising Sunʼ (which, by the way, on this record is directly credited to Alan Price, not even listed as «traditional, arr. by Alan Price» as it used to be — did they think nobody would notice?), decent or not, is still an unforgivable artistic gaffe, so no thumbs up here.

Alan Price: England My England

ALAN PRICE: ENGLAND MY ENGLAND (1978)

1) England My England; 2) This Ain't Your Lucky Day; 3) Mama Don't Go Home; 4) Groovy Times; 5) Baby Of Mine; 6) I Love You Too; 7) Those Tender Lips; 8) Citizens Of The World Unite; 9) Help From You; 10) Pity The Poor Boy.

Odd how, when you listen to these records by «second rate» artists peaking in the early-to-mid Seventies, you get this sharp feeling of «gradually winding down» — each next album being ever so slightly inferior compared to its predecessor, but slightly, slightly, so that the contrast is felt particularly between extremes rather than neighbors. Compared to Alan Price, England My Eng­land is merely suffering from a tiny extra touch of disco and a tiny extra touch of Billy Joel-itis (Joel-light-is, I mean), but then if you play it next to Lucky Man!, well...

Again, hardly a single song here sounds really embarrassing, but this is only because the author relies too much on the tried and true: vaudeville, R&B clichés, soft funky grooves, conventional ballad structures — and his usual humble charisma, which is by far the only thing that has not deteriorated, because, well, that's just a fact of nature. Again, the songs are divided between love ballads, love-sex grooves, and a few sociopolitical declarations thrown in for old times' sake — such as the title track, which starts out sounding more like a Russian folk song than a patriotic English anthem, somehow redeems itself in the chorus ("we are your children, oh England, don't cry!"), and still leaves behind a confused impression, particularly when Alan begins to scat-sing to these Russian cossack dance moves. There's also ʽCitizens Of The World Uniteʼ, which only lacks a proper Barry Gibb falsetto to have been a big hit at Studio 54, which — no doubt about it — was the place for citizens of the world to unite at the time.

I struggle to single out any highlights, but arguably ʽGroovy Timesʼ is Price's finest moment here, starting out as one of those unremarkable soft funk grooves only to have him launch into an extended, warm, gentle, and classy jazz piano solo that sounds absolutely fabulous even on top of the most generic and glossy arrangement imaginable. Another track that stands out after a few listens is ʽHelp From Youʼ, a slow piece of soul with an impressive vocal buildup — and it is quite strategically placed near the end of the album, so that after a series of quiet, unassuming, humble grooves you get this one particular spiritual statement where the man gives it his all, suddenly becoming a vocal powerhouse for six minutes and not losing an ounce of his usual sincerity at that.

Overall, this is by no means a bad record; it merely confirms the man's complete resignation from any truly «creative» angle, let alone the more demanding «experimental», but the mix of ancient and modern stylistic influences is still intelligent (it is not often, after all, that you find Phil Spector-style vocal harmonies, Ray Charles-style keyboards and disco basslines on the same album), the man's aura is still pleasant, and as far as generic entertainment from 1978 is concer­ned, this is a far better proposition than a great percentage of chart-hitting disco burners.

Alan Price: Alan Price

ALAN PRICE: ALAN PRICE (1977)

1) Rainbow's End; 2) I've Been Hurt; 3) I Wanna Dance; 4) Let Yourself Go; 5) Just For You; 6) I'm A Gambler; 7) Poor Boy; 8) The Same Love; 9) Is It Right; 10) Life Is Good; 11) The Thrill.

I am not quite sure if this was recorded and released before or immediately after the first attempt at the original Animals' reunion... but who cares? It's not as if you can see any faint echoes of «Animalisms» in this album, which seems to be continuing in the same direction as its prede­cessor — glossing Alan's image as that of a clean-cut entertainer with equal respect to vintage and modern forms of said entertainment. For sure, this «between today and yesterday» angle makes for a mildly interesting listen, but in fact the album's only saving grace is Price's humble charisma that even a bowtie cannot totally melt away.

The record is a stylistic hodge-podge — there's gospel soul (ʽRainbow's Endʼ), discofied pop rock (ʽI've Been Hurtʼ), sugary folk pop (ʽI Wanna Danceʼ), funk-pop (ʽLet Yourself Goʼ), Billy Joel-esque balladry (ʽJust For Youʼ), glossed-over rock'n'roll (ʽI'm A Gamblerʼ), and later on, there'll be some blues, some country, some vaudeville... no two songs really sound alike, which would have probably made the album a masterpiece if all the tunes had something new and stunning to say in their respective genres. Which they do not; but Price sings them all in his usual lovable voice, and oversees arrangements that avoid contemporary gimmicks and concentrate on quite traditional and well-constructed guitar and organ solos. (The screechy guitar solo on ʽLife Is Goodʼ is particularly well rounded — I have no idea who Rod Hendry, the officially credited guitar player, is, but if he's alive and well, please tell him that somebody still cares).

Most importantly, the «new» elements, such as the very well noticeable disco bassline on ʽI've Been Hurtʼ, are quite harmlessly integrated with old stylistics — really, that song sounds just like good old time barroom entertainment, just with an extra «hop quotient» thrown in for the sake of modernity. And I suppose that on ʽI'm A Gamblerʼ, Alan delivers a solo on the newly manufac­tured Polymoog synth, because you just don't get that sound from him or anybody else prior to those times, but it just adds a slightly «technophile» aspect to take away the generic flavor of this otherwise completely run-of-the-mill boogie number.

The only real standout on the album is ʽRainbow's Endʼ, which could have easily fit on any of Alan's conceptual records — a soulful, self-questioning epic with great interaction between the almost operatic lead vocal part (terrific falsetto flourishes at the end of each line) and the gospel-style backing vocals. Unfortunately, it sets the wrong tone for the record: had it been placed at the end, it might have mildly stunned us as a sort of ʽDay In The Lifeʼ conclusion to the overall «whimsy» of the album — as it is, it serves as an inadequately grand introduction to lots of plea­sant, but simplistic entertainment (although ʽLife Is Goodʼ, near the end of the record, tries to somewhat remedy the situation and bring back the epic vibe — especially with that guitar solo — but it is not as originally written as ʽRainbow's Endʼ).

Still a thumbs up, though: the overall combination of diversity, modest energy, occasional hooks, and personal charisma ensure that this is one of those «high-mediocre» albums where nothing specifically stands out, but the collective humor, emotionality, and taste produces a positive vibe all the same. Generic entertainment, yes, and, again, a far cry from the man's lucky streak of 1973-75, but «if all generic entertainment were like this»... and you can finish this one up in any way you personally prefer.

Alan Price: Shouts Across The Street

ALAN PRICE: SHOUTS ACROSS THE STREET (1976)

1) Glass Mountain; 2) The Waste Land; 3) Leave It All To Me; 4) Hungry For Love; 5) I Know When I've Had Enough; 6) Shouts Across The Street; 7) I Just Got Love; 8) Don't Stop; 9) The World's Going Down On Me; 10) Cherie; 11) Don't Try; 12) Farewell Goodbye.

This next record from Alan seems almost deliberately «low key» and even plain regressive, com­pared to the vivid panoramas of provincial British life that he set up on his last three. I mean, being serious about your native country is fine and dandy, right? But you can't do it forever; a man needs a break every now and then, and so Shouts Across The Street is a much lighter and a much less inventive affair. Here, we see Mr. Price falling back on some good old blues-rock and R&B grooves, as well as retaining his passion for vaudeville, but throwing out most of the social realism and replacing it with simpler tales of love, lust, misery, and happiness.

Not that it's bad or anything — «low key» is fine by me if the grooves are strong and the front­man is attractive, and as long as Alan is not impersonating Billy Joel or Barry White, he's doing okay. Unfortunately, he does impersonate Billy (ʽLeave It All To Meʼ) and Barry (ʽDon't Stopʼ) at least a couple of times, and these songs just sound like uncomfortable attempts at sounding «modern» for 1976; ʽDon't Stopʼ is a particularly corny flop, with embarrassing falsetto "baby, baby, baby"s and a soft-romantic piano-embellished funk groove that would at least require the presence of a uniquely sexy vocalist (like Al Greene) before it could even begin fulfilling its pragmatic purpose (bedding hot chicks). All that's missing here is a gold medallion on a hairy chest, but we don't even know if Alan had enough hair for the purpose — and in any case, he always had it better with a bowtie on.

On the other hand, all of the tunes here that have a more «retro» sound to them work better: even silly-named tracks like ʽHungry For Loveʼ, with a fun blues-based pop-rock melody and a memo­rable guitar line (played on something that sounds very close to 10cc's "Gizmo" guitar), are ac­ceptable, not to mention happy barroom shuffles like ʽI Know When I've Had Enoughʼ or lusty romps like ʽThe Waste Landʼ. On most of these tracks, Alan plays a careless clown, but his vocal and musical charisma have sure grown since his mid-Sixties singles, and he is now much less shy and reserved when getting into character, which makes him fairly convincing when imper­sonating either the chauvinist gigolo on ʽI Knowʼ or the midnight stalker on ʽWaste Landʼ (okay, so neither of these set positive social examples, but it's tough to stay clean all the time).

For something more serious, keep your eyes and ears on ʽThe World's Going Down On Meʼ, starting out with a chord sequence not unlike Harrison's ʽIsn't It A Pityʼ (so you can slap the «epic» label on it without reservation), but never really diving into the depths of misery: instead, it tries for an optimistic-sounding chorus that contrasts lyrical lamentation ("I think the world's going down on me / You can't imagine what I've seen") with beautiful falsetto resolutions of the chorus melody and a wall of sound with soaring organs and guitars — works beautifully when you want to aggrandize your misery and raise it to the status of Universal Tragedy, thus offering yourself some consolation in the process.

Still, by the time you get to the end, those final lines of "Farewell, goodbye / I hope I didn't make you cry" might seem self-ironic — to fans eager for more musical tales of Geordie life and social allegories, Shouts Across The Street may well have been a solid disappointment, and, of course, it did absolutely nothing to revive the man's briefly successful commercial career. Granted, it may well have been a conscious move away from being stereotyped as a new «working class hero», but in any case, the deed was done: the album ended his flirt with fame and fortune once and for all, and from then on, nothing would help — not even the brief reunion with his former band a year later, which took place right in the middle of the «punk revolution» and was doomed from the start anyway. And yet, now that we've left those times far behind and feel ourselves free to judge musical records based just on their feel-good quotient rather than their throbbing relevance at the time, Shouts Across The Street does come across as a fun listening experience on the whole (ʽDon't Stopʼ and an occasional «cock-rock» misfire like ʽI Just Got Loveʼ aside), and I could hardly deny it a thumbs up — after all, it's only rock'n'roll and all that.

Alan Price: Performing Price

ALAN PRICE: PERFORMING PRICE (1975)

1) Arrival; 2) O Lucky Man!; 3) Left Over People; 4) Away Away; 5) Under The Sun; 6) In Times Like These; 7) Simon Smith And The Amazing Dancing Bear; 8) Poor People; 9) Sell Sell; 10) Justice; 11) Look Over Your Shoulder; 12) Too Many People; 13) Nobody Can; 14) Keep On Rollin'; 15) City Lights; 16) You're Telling Me / Is There Anybody Out There; 17) Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo; 18) Sweet P; 19) I Put A Spell On You; 20) It Takes Me Back; 21) Between Today And Yesterday; 22) Changes; 23) O Lucky Man! (reprise).

Another year, another pun. Actually, the price was right on the money here, because it's a double live album which now comes for the price of a single CD (provided you can find it at all) — and it captures the man at the absolute peak of his solo career, so much so that he plays pretty much the entire Lucky Man! soundtrack, and a huge huge chunk of stuff from Between Today & Yes­terday. Indeed, the setlist is the highlight of the show — 90% is from his last three records (apparently, Metropolitan Man was still in the works, so there's only four songs from that one as a preview of things to come), with three hit singles from the 1960s thrown in as golden oldie bonuses, and not a single Animals song in sight (I'm not sure he ever dared to do ʽRising Sunʼ on his own, no matter how much the public would probably love to hear him have a go).

The principal problem is predictable: all the songs are played relatively safe, sticking close to studio arrangements, and Alan is so busy trying to get the best out of his weak voice that he al­most completely concentrates on «getting it right». Which he does, most of the time, but as good as it must have been for the paying audience, I don't exactly see the performance opening any new dimensions for these tunes. I absolutely do not mind hearing the songs once again — they're all great, and getting them all assembled in one place is nice, and you can use it as extra confir­mation of the fact that at least for a three-year period, Alan Price somehow emerged as one of Britain's top-level songwriters, but that's about it.

Stage-wise, Alan is as humble as ever, usually cutting the banter down to regular thank you's and occasional brief explanations of what the next song is about; there's a little bit of audience inter­action for the chorus of ʽIn Times Like Theseʼ, but that's about it. There are no soloing or jam­ming detours whatsoever — the band obviously follows strict instructions to stick to the rules, and the rules are so strict that they even brought an orchestra along to reproduce all the lush string parts. (By the way, the concert was apparently held in January 1975 somewhere in London and parts of it were also transmitted for a TV show — you can easily catch a few glimpses on You­Tube these days). Eventually, it just leaves you in a situation where the only thing left to do is wonder, «what is he going to leave out anyway?» And he leaves out most of the weak stuff, yes, but for some reason they also don't do ʽThe Jarrow Songʼ — considering that it was one of his biggest hits, that's a tough one to explain.

On the whole, a nice, polite, gentlemanly, feel-good experience, but not really worth a thumbs up, unless one wants to specially elevate Mr. Price just for the sake of his overall nice vibe. On the plus side, the man loyally did his 1970s duty and left us with a double live LP, even despite never claiming to be a progressive rock or a heavy metal artist. (Actually, that should have been a triple live LP to satisfy all the conditions, but for somebody who never engaged in twenty-minute long symph-rock suites, that'd have been one real tough challenge).

Alan Price: Metropolitan Man

ALAN PRICE: METROPOLITAN MAN (1975)

1) Papers; 2) Fools Gold; 3) Nobody Can; 4) A Little Inch; 5) Changing Partners; 6) Mama Divine; 7) Too Many People; 8) Keep On Rollin'; 9) It's Not Easy; 10) Sweet P; 11) The Drinker's Curse.

The relative success of Between Today & Yesterday made Alan invest in an attempt to repeat the same approach, but on a slightly humbler scale — this, too, is largely a conceptual, and this time an even more personal album about the past and the present, but lacking the elements of grandeur that may have appealed to the «progressively trained» buyers in 1974. Actually, it is this low-key attitude that may explain why its predecessor sold reasonably well, whereas Metropoli­tan Man seems to have bombed, and even in retrospect remains totally obscure (not even a measly review at the All-Music Guide!) When in reality it is every bit as good as its predecessor and maybe even better — at least in terms of consistency.

The fact that there are no grand, stately compositions here in the vein of ʽJarrow Songʼ or ʽBe­tween Today And Yesterdayʼ might even be positive, because Mr. Price, with his passion for homely pubs, quiet provincial life, and cozy vaudeville, is far from your poster boy for Grand Statements — he has neither the compositional nor the vocal talent for that. But he'd honed his compositional and vocal talents well enough to ensure that Metropolitan Man has not a single bad, or, more precisely, not a single unattractive song on it. It's a wonderful combination of diverse melodies, stretching across several distinct genres, tasteful arrangements, clever lyrics, and a rainbow of joyful sadness and optimistic melancholy that arches all the way from Tyneside to Randy Newman's Brooklyn.

Song-by-song, it might easily be his single best set. Even if the man never succeeded in inventing his own sub-genre or anything, here he excels at practically every genre. On the dynamic side, ʽPapersʼ is a brilliantly multi-layered power-pop piece, with an ecstatic slide guitar lead part ruling over a bedrock of pianos, synthesizers, and brass as the man himself launches into a biting condemnation of the yellow press; ʽNobody Canʼ is somewhat of a musical and lyrical answer to Elton's ʽCrocodile Rockʼ, every bit as catchy as the latter but not as superficially corny; and ʽChanging Partnersʼ is a hilariously loving parody on Fifties' rock'n'roll, with Alan going all Jerry Lee Lewis on the piano, mock-stadium applause mixed in for «authenticity», and the guitar man going expectedly batshit crazy on the solo.

Things are subtler and much more moving on the ballad side — ʽFool's Goldʼ, at the least, should have been a classic, with a really choking chord change introduced in the long solo organ intro and then reprised in the vocal melody; this is, once again, Price taking a lesson from the sad side of Paul McCartney and Badfinger, and matching it to his own memories and experiences accu­mulated during his musical career. For ʽA Little Inchʼ, his lead guitarist, whoever he is, borrows the «weeping slide» style of George Harrison and uses it admirably in combination with Alan's own weepy tale of an unsuccessful love affair. Even the orchestrated schmaltz-pop of ʽIt's Not Easyʼ creeps under your skin, by means of Price's weak, gently trembling voice.

In addition to all that, you get a fun calypso romp with a supercatchy chorus (ʽMama Divineʼ), a tight, slightly Exile On Main Street-ish R&B/gospel groove riding a cooler-than-hell bassline (ʽToo Many Peopleʼ), a dark New Orleanian blues shuffle with swampy harmonica (ʽKeep On Rollin'ʼ), a 100% Randy Newman rip-off that should by all means be reserved for some future Pixar movie (ʽSweet Pʼ), and a plaintive «me and my piano» coda that should, of course, be played by the pianist late at night when the only clients left at the bar are those unable to leave the place on all fours (ʽThe Drinker's Curseʼ). Lascivious, spiritual, ominous, empathetic, depressed but unyielding — there's your emotional variety contained in this little bunch alone, and there's more: the album brings a whole new dimension to the understanding of what it is to be a true «metropolitan man».

Why this whole thing is not considered a timeless classic is understandable — a low-key perso­nality like Price, without a lot of brazenly original ideas, is not going to attract a lot of attention. Why the album is so completely neglected is a different question — even though it has been re­leased on CD, I don't exactly see lost treasure hunters flocking towards it in sufficient numbers. In such situations, even a measly, but strong thumbs up on a «maverick review blog» can be of a little help, and we here at Only Solitaire are happy to provide, particularly since most of us, I'm sure, will find an easy way to relate to at least parts of this record.

Alan Price: Between Today And Yesterday

ALAN PRICE: BETWEEN TODAY AND YESTERDAY (1974)

1) Left Over People; 2) Away, Away; 3) Between Today And Yesterday; 4) In Times Like These; 5) Under The Sun; 6) Jarrow Song; 7) City Lights; 8) Look At My Face; 9) Angel Eyes; 10) You're Telling Me; 11) Dream Of Delight; 12) Between Today And Yesterday.

The success of O Lucky Man! must have popped the cork off Alan's little bottle of hitherto hidden ambitions, because he very quickly followed it up with the most «serious» album in his career so far, and maybe ever — Between Today And Yesterday is a full-fledged conceptual piece about everyday life (today and yesterday) in Northern England, a sort of epic «Ode to Geor­die» that will clearly strike the biggest chord of all with Tyneside people, but might just as well appeal to everyone concerned with the struggle and strife of ordinary people living in small, de­pressed towns all over the world — the "left over people" of the album's introductory song.

It is not some sort of breathtaking masterpiece, no; Price is neither the master of the heart-tugging musical hook, nor is he some fabulous unique singer who'd be capable of making his shopping notes come alive under vocal pressure. But he's got style, taste, basic songwriting capacities, and, above all else, he knows what he's doing and what he's singing about — this is a tactful, honest record, and with repeated listens, it gets under your skin through sheer humility and understate­ment alone, never mind the melodicity and the pleasant arrangements. If there's any reason why it could hardly hope to become a major international hit like some Kinks album, it's because it is even more «British» musically than any given Kinks album — with but a small handful of bluesy ex­ceptions, it's all vaudeville and music hall (although the Randy Newman influence is also very keenly felt throughout).

In the UK, he did (rather unsurprisingly) achieve his biggest commercial success with the record, which rose to #9 on the charts; and the single ʻJarrow Songʼ reached #6, which would be the last time ever he'd crack the top 10 on the single charts — an excellent song, too, commemorating the Jarrow March of 1936 with a slightly-merrily-drunk anthemic chorus and a cool structure, where the old-school music hall verse-chorus segments are written from the point of view of the origi­nal participants of the March and the more modern, rockier bridge section is written from the author's point of view ("I can see them, I can feel them, I can hear them / As if they were here today"), until the author finally merges the past with the present ("My name is little Alan Price..."). It's cool, creative, sensitive, complex — precisely the way one should be writing songs of social protest if one does not want them to be here today and forgotten tomorrow — and arguably one of the finest glorifications of the "Geordie boys" ever written, though probably too convoluted and too personal to be adopted as a high school anthem anywhere in Tyneside.

The album as a whole is conceptually divided into the "Yesterday" and "Today" parts, corres­ponding to its two sides — and the "Yesterday" part, I'd say, is somewhat superior, since that is where he most fully unleashes his arrangement skills, with colorful use of brass, keyboards, and orchestration. ʻLeft Over Peopleʼ and ʻIn Times Like Theseʼ continue the good old tradition of sarcastic social criticism under the sauce of cheerful, catchy vaudeville; and ʻAway, Awayʼ is a touching, but not overtly sentimental account of wives seeing their husbands off to work in the morning. Probably the most underrated of all these is ʻUnder The Sunʼ, a lush orchestrated ballad where, for once, the weakness of Alan's voice works strongly in his favor — the strain, the shaky intonations, the occasional slip-ups make it all far more human than if Engelbert Humperdinck ever wanted to have a go at the stuff.

The "today" side, which was probably intended to sound more «modern», is slightly patchier for that reason — this is where we meet the somewhat corny synthesizers of ʻAngel Eyesʼ and the substandard «modern R&B» number ʻCity Lightsʼ; however, I am quite partial to the slow, bitter-burning blues of ʻYou're Telling Meʼ, with some good old Animals-style organ soloing and quiet­ly understated guitar runs, and I cannot quite decide if ʻDream Of Delightʼ sounds more like Crosby, Stills & Nash or like James Taylor, but on the whole, it's a decent acoustic ballad, al­though it remains in sore need of a decent hook to rise above pure «atmosphere».

The link that ties both sides together is the title track, first presented in a stripped down piano arrangement and then expanded to a full wall-of-sound arrangement, with tempestuous strings, a loud rhythm section, and a gradual vocal crescendo. The basic melody is a bit generic (remember Badfinger's ʻMidnight Callerʼ?), but this does not prevent the song from reaching an epic climax. The point of the song, so it seems, is to tell us that nothing ever changes, and "draw the shades" and "let me drink black wine" — sort of a resigned conclusion, not particularly alleviated by the fact that most of these songs have either a tender or a humorous nature to them, because once again, like Roger wrote, "quiet desperation is the English way", and it's as if Price made this entire record to prove him right.

Anyway, do not expect any grand melodic breakthroughs here; the record is to be enjoyed some­where at the crossroads of an intelligent concept, a charismatic personality, and deep musical ex­perience rather than because of outstanding songwriting genius or illuminating social philosophy. Its purpose is to entertain your tired ears while at the same time making you feel some compas­sion for the underdog — the kind of thing that we normally expect from people like Billy Bragg, yet, as it turns out, Price had the whole punk movement beat here for about two or three years, and he didn't even have to resort to chainsaw buzz or «electro-busking» here. Patchy in places, yes, but unquestionably a high point of his career, well worth another thumbs up.

Alan Price: O Lucky Man!

ALAN PRICE: O LUCKY MAN! (1973)

1) O Lucky Man!; 2) Poor People; 3) Sell Sell; 4) Pastoral; 5) Arrival; 6) Look Over Your Shoulder; 7) Justice; 8) My Home Town; 9) Changes; 10) O Lucky Man! (reprise).

I am not a big fan of Malcolm McDowell movies, regardless of whether it's Kubrick, Lindsay Anderson, or, God help us, Tinto Brass at the steering wheel — there's just something about the guy and the kinds of scripts he is involved in, some sort of off-putting mix of hipness, ugliness, pretentious­ness, and shock value that I just cannot bring myself to enjoy. So it is hardly a surprise that as of now, I have not even seen O Lucky Man! (I have seen If..., and have no big wish to spend three more hours of my life on an Anderson/McDowell collaboration) — however, I am happy to say that you do not at all need to see the movie in order to be delighted by the sound­track, which constitutes a perfectly autonomous and self-sufficient Alan Price album on its own (actually, mini-album: the whole thing, unlike the movie, is over in a measly 25 minutes, because Alan, unlike most soundtrack composers, seems to have written precisely as much music as he knew could make it onto the final cut. Ever thought about how it must feel to write a 9-minute instrumental with only thirty seconds of it making it to the actual movie? Well, apparently Price managed to circumvent that problem).

Anyway, the reason why this thing works is because Alan wrote it as a sort of abstract conceptual suite on matters of everyday existence in contemporary England — ideologically, it reads like a Ray Davies album in the tradition of Arthur and Lola, and, for that matter, is far more impres­sive, musically and lyrically, than Davies' own rock opera Preservation from that same year. Most importantly, it is the album that truly announced the arrival of Alan Price, intelligent and talented songwriter with his own tale to tell. It did not sell much and yielded no hit singles (at least, not until 1987, when ʻChangesʼ was used to advertise Volkswagen Golf), but it nicely set the stage for his biggest commercial success with Between Today And Yesterday, and it still sounds fresh and exciting after all these years.

The music, as usual, is a somewhat conservative mix of British music hall and American R&B (more of the former than of the latter), almost completely ignoring the hottest trends of 1973: the only number here that does not sound like it could have been recorded in 1968 is the funk rocker ʻSell Sellʼ, which cleverly takes the aggression and frustration inherent in funk rhythms and wah-wah solos and channels it into a spiked-tongue condemnation of commercialism. At four minutes, it is the longest song on the album, as Price allows himself to stretch out a bit on an extended organ solo, but the groove is sharp and quite involving, even if the vocal hook owes quite a bit to ʻHarlem Shuffleʼ — then again, Price's composing skills should probably be described, in general, as «an ability to create interesting variations on other people's melodies», be it in the rhythm & blues paradigm or in the traditional pop one.

At least on ʻSell Sellʼ cynical words are matched by cynical-sounding music; on the whole, though, the album makes its living by contrasting bitter lyrics with pretty melodies — ʻLook Over Your Shoulderʼ, for instance, is a catchy vaudeville tune, replete with falsetto la-la's and stuff, whose ultimate message is "without that dream you are nothing... you have to find out for yourself that dream is dead". (La la la la and all that). ʻJusticeʼ, floating on a raft of quasi-Mexi­can acoustic guitar, states that "we all want justice but you got to have money to buy it" in the slyest possible tone and with the friendliest of atmospheres. ʻPoor Peopleʼ sounds a little like Billy Joel, but the good sort of Billy Joel when he is not being too full of himself and banality, but actually manages to combine humility with catchiness. And ʻChangesʼ, which is, in fact, based on ʻWhat A Friend We Have In Jesusʼ, states that "love must always change to sorrow, and everyone must play the game", declared with as much enthusiasm as a proclamation of faith in salvation and life everlasting.

And it all works fine, including a bunch of pretty instrumentals (the lyrical piano bit on ʻPastoralʼ; the quasi-progressive piano/organ interplay on ʻArrivalʼ) and two versions of the title track that rock harder than everything else and are a little reminiscent of poppier material by The Who like ʻLong Live Rockʼ. And best of all, you really do not need any movies to enjoy it — although, admittedly, it may be worth seeing the movie if only because Price is featured in it himself, playing the role of a Greek chorus providing commentary on the action. I'm happy enough to just have the commentary without the action, and give it a self-standing thumbs up.

Alan Price: A Price On His Head

ALAN PRICE: A PRICE ON HIS HEAD (1967)

1) The House That Jack Built; 2) She's Got Another Pair Of Shoes; 3) Come And Dance With Me; 4) On This Side Of Goodbye; 5) So Long Dad; 6) No One Ever Hurt So Bad; 7) Don't Do That Again; 8) Tickle Me; 9) Grim Fairy Tale; 10) Living Without You; 11) Happy Land; 12) To Ramona; 13*) Biggest Night Of Her Life; 14*) Don't Stop The Carnival; 15*) The Time Has Come; 16*) When I Was A Cowboy; 17*) Tappy Tortoise; 18*) Love Story; 19*) My Old Kentucky Home; 20*) Trimdon Grange Explosion; 21*) Falling In Love Again; 22*) Sunshine And Rain; 23*) Is There Anybody Out There; 24*) Not Born To Follow.

Apparently, ʻSimon Smithʼ worked so well that, for a brief while at least, Alan Price decided to become for Randy Newman what The Byrds used to be for Bob Dylan — there's a whoppin' seven Newman covers on this album itself, and a few more among the 11 bonus tracks that were kindly added by the Repertoire label when the album was released on CD, all culled from con­temporary singles and whatnot. Throw in an extra Dylan cover and a Goffin/King one, and you will almost be missing out on the fact that there are also four Alan Price originals, which is about four more than on the previous record — a major step in the direction of artistic independence and the establishment of the man's personal identity.

Of the four songs, ʻShe's Got Another Pair Of Shoesʼ is a meatily arranged R&B number, not particularly original or exciting — sort of like a calmed-down James Brown tune, only distin­guished with a fluent, but weirdly out-of-tune piano solo. The other three, however, are firmly in the then-current Brit-pop vein, with vaudeville and music hall influences all over, but no traces of that «English haughtiness» that sometimes turns people away from (and, more rarely, on to) this kind of material — in other words, there's no danger of Alan Price ever developing the airs of a David Bowie or a Robert Fripp (come to think of it, his Newcastle-Durham background would probably be incompatible with such attitudes).

ʻThe House That Jack Builtʼ, in particular, is a catchy piece of lyrical absurdity, stuck somewhere between Dylan and Monty Python and oozing abstract sarcasm over its rise-up-and-shine arran­gement, all pianos and woodwinds and morning breeze. ʻDon't Do That Againʼ is more slight in nature, but is actually even more catchy, a half-comical number on personal relationship issues that shows an actual talent for vocal hooks — not an ability you'd suspect Mr. Price of owning based on his earlier career; and ʻGrim Fairy Taleʼ, a song that calls out loud for a tuxedo and top hat, is quite a serious compositional stake, with several distinct parts seamlessly merged together in a mini-suite that niftily shifts between ironically-happy and melancholic moods.

Of course, these are only his first efforts, and as far as meaningful-emotional compositions go, most of the covered Randy Newman tunes here are superior — in fact, Newman is an obvious influence on Price himself as songwriter; but at least Alan's interpretations of Randy's material do the material perfect justice — and, if you have a hard time warming up to Randy's creaky voice and raw, rambling arrangements (you shouldn't, but it would be understandable), then Price's smooth, pleasant deliveries and the tight control that he has over his brass section will be just right for a first impression. (Same as the Byrds/Dylan relationship, yes). At the same time, I can­not say that he really goes all the way to make the songs more interesting: in the case of ʻLiving Without Youʼ, for instance, I'd rather either go for the creaky-croaky original, or for the complete blazing power-pop reinvention of Manfred Mann — Price's version is middle of the road, retai­ning the minimal, demo-style piano arrangement, but not adding anything particularly outstan­ding in the vocal department. Just nice. (Admittedly, ʻNo One Ever Hurt This Badʼ is given an excellent coating of brass, guitar, and keyboards).

The bonus tracks generally add more of the same (for instance, ʻNot Born To Followʼ is yet another Goffin/King cover), but also shows Alan dabbling around in various strands of folk — American (ʻMy Old Kentucky Homeʼ) as well as British (ʻTrimdon Grange Explosionʼ, taking you all the way back to an unfortunate event in 1882). The selection is so comprehensive, though, that it covers all of Price's subsequent output all the way to 1970, meaning that you get his ex­cellent self-penned single ʻSunshine And Rainʼ, a piece of shiny funk-pop with an outstanding kaleidoscopic arrangement of brass, mandolins, psycho-keyboards that never overshadows the classy vocal hook. Overall, in between the original album and the bonus tracks, if you filter out a dozen or so throwaways, you are still left with a good LP's worth of very solid material, so unlike the debut, this one gets a well-deserved thumbs up. Hardly essential listening, but a must-own for all lovers of intelligent late-Sixties Brit-pop (and, come to think of it, there wasn't really that much of it in the late Sixties).

Alan Price: The Price To Play

ALAN PRICE: THE PRICE TO PLAY (1966)

1) Barefooting; 2) Just Once In My Life; 3) Going Down Slow; 4) Getting Mighty Crowded; 5) Honky Tonk; 6) Move On Drifter; 7) Mercy Mercy; 8) Loving You Is Sweeter Than Ever; 9) Ain't That Peculiar; 10) I Can't Turn You Loose; 11) Critic's Choice; 12) Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo; 13*) Any Day Now; 14*) Never Be Sick On Sunday; 15*) I Put A Spell On You; 16*) Iechyd-Da; 17*) Take Me Home; 18*) Willow Weep For Me; 19*) Yours Until Tomorrow; 20*) Simon Smith And The Amazing Dancing Bear; 21*) Who Cares; 22*) Shame.

After Alan Price parted way with The Animals, it took him quite a bit of time to find the proper footing, and at the moment when it came to recording his first album, that time had not yet arrived. As an organ player, Price formed an essential part of the band's R&B sound — as a leader of his own band, The Alan Price Set, and being responsible for the material, the arrange­ments, and the singing, he was nowhere near as effective as Burdon as long as he made the mis­take of standing on the same R&B turf.

Indeed, The Price To Play, which came out in the same year as The Animals' first «priceless» (sorry for even more inevitable puns) album, Animalisms, could have most of its songs recorded by the actual Animals, and nobody would feel the difference — there's quite a comparable selec­tion of rock'n'roll, blues, soul, pop, and R&B, maybe with a slightly less hard edge than Burdon would give it all, but that could have easily been remedied. There ain't a single original compo­sition in sight, and although there is no question about Alan actually loving all this stuff, «loving» a song is hardly the only requirement necessary to make your version of it outstanding.

As an R&B singer, Price hits the right notes, but he is not too powerful, nor is he endowed with some stunningly idiosyncratic vocal timbre — you'd probably have a much harder time trying to memorize his identity on this album than you'd have with, say, Manfred Mann's Paul Jones. As for his keyboard playing, The Price To Play is very definitively a band album, not a solo show­case, democratically allowing all members of The Alan Price Set to flaunt their talents: not a good idea, I'd say, seeing as how Alan is the most gifted musician of the lot, and how so much time is taken away from him and donated to the brass players. (On the trivia side, the drummer for this lot is none other than Alan White, whom we would all come to really know later as Bill Bruford's replacement in Yes. No Tales From Topographic Oceans preview here, though).

Not surprisingly, the organ-led instrumentals, such as ʻHonky Tonkʼ and ʻCritic's Choiceʼ, are the most exciting tracks in this lot — on the former, Alan gets to spread his playing wings wider than he could ever allow himself in The Animals. Otherwise, all you really have to do is admire his good taste in R&B covers, but really, you are not missing all that much in life if you do not hear him running through a British-disciplined ʻI Can't Turn You Looseʼ or a smooth, poppy variant of Don Covay's ʻMercy, Mercyʼ, which only one year before was covered by the Stones in a far snappier, edgier manner. And if you want a real corny, catchy version of ʻHi-Lili, Hi-Loʼ, you do not have to go farther than the Manfred Mann version, also from 1965. Ultimately, for most of these tunes, Alan came a little too late and a little too senselessly.

The CD reissue of the album does somehow pump up its value, by throwing on ten additional tracks from contemporary singles and EPs. This includes Alan's first significant solo commercial success in the UK, an organ-led version of ʻI Put A Spell On Youʼ — slyly and subtly re-written and re-arranged so that musically and atmospherically, it brings on associations with ʻHouse Of The Rising Sunʼ (even the solo in the instrumental break begins with precisely the same chords as the ʻHouseʼ solo); and, more importantly, ʻSimon Smith And The Amazing Dancing Bearʼ, an early song by Randy Newman that introduced Alan to music-hall values and pretty much turned his entire subsequent career around. Both tunes are quite nice, even if, as of then, neither of them still suggested that Price would ever become a successful songwriter in his own rights.

Anyway, criticisms aside, it all feels good, friendly, and professional — listening to the record is guaranteed to not cause any harm whatsoever. But clearly, if this were to become Price's regular output, then leaving The Animals would have been the biggest blunder he ever made in his life. Fortunately, he was quick enough to realize that himself.