Bobby Bland: Blues At Midnight

BOBBY BLAND: BLUES AT MIDNIGHT (2003)

1) Where Do I Go From Here; 2) I Caught The Blues From Someone Else; 3) You Hit The Nail On The Head; 4) I've Got The Blues At Midnight; 5) Baby What's Wrong With You; 6) What A Wonderful World; 7) My Sunday's Co­min' Soon; 8) This Man-Woman Thing; 9) The Only Thing Missing Is You; 10) I'm A Blues Man; 11) Ghetto Nights.

Old age finally caught up with Mr. Bland at the turn of the millennium: Blues At Midnight was his first new album in five years rather than two (the usual interval for his entire life at Malaco), and, as fate would have it, his last album altogether — it was certainly not intended to be a swan song, but the next ten years of Bobby's life were spent without further ventures to the recording studio. Kind of ominously ironic, then, that the first song on his last album just had to be titled ʽWhere Do I Go From Hereʼ — verily and indeed ever so.

In fact, the shadow of the nearing end does loom over the entire record, and, when seen from that angle, Blues At Midnight may end up looking like the most interesting, touching, and thought-provoking record of Bobby's entire post-1970s career. As long as he was still relatively hale and hardy, and set up with a low-budget, but solid 'n' steady recording contract, he had little to care about other than recording whatever came his way, as long as it had that beat and gave him plenty of room to insert an explosive snort or two. Now that he has bypassed that 70-year-old mark be­yond which even Mick Jagger starts having problems, it almost feels, subconsciously, as if his next record were an attempt at summarizing something — and even though all the songs, as usual, are credited to his corporate songwriting team, they must have caught that hint, and made sure that Blues At Midnight, in many ways, sounded like some sort of a last confession.

Formally, ʽWhere Do I Go From Hereʼ is just another blues lament on lost love topics, but Bobby delivers it with just a little more tension than usual, and the brass / organ / guitar / backing vocals combo seems ready to assist him as best they can. Later on, three of the tracks feature the word «blues» in the title — a record-breaking streak for Bobby — and they are all meaningful: ʽI Caught The Blues From Someone Elseʼ is a bitter rocker that examines the roots of getting into the business (well, not really, but could be...); ʽI've Got The Blues At Midnightʼ is a passable, but 100%-Bobby interpretation of what the blues is all about (12:00 A.M., and you're still not getting any); and ʽI'm A Blues Manʼ, starting off with slide guitar, harmonica, our favorite snort, and "I was raised up on Jimmy Reed" (what? you were a contemporary of Jimmy Reed, Bobby!), is a kind of tune that Bobby never really tried before — this sort of semi-authentic swamp-blues was almost as far removed from his brand of blues-de-luxe as, say, heavy metal. All the more curious to see him try and assert this legacy thus late in his career — with a direct invocation of the spirits of Jimmy Reed, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf and the rest.

The «magnum opus» of the album, however, is its last track. ʽGhetto Nightsʼ is a slow, moody shuffle, very much in the vein of Bobby's mid-1970s «blacksploitation» period, with similar pro­duction and socially-oriented sentimentalism, and suitably loaded with atmospheric overdubs (such as the superimposition of a police radio transcript to simulate an actual ghetto environment). There is no attempt at a universalist statement here, such as on ʽSad Streetʼ, and, in fact, the lyrics do not even directly deal with issues of poverty / crime / etc., but this only helps the track gain in subtlety — it may not be a masterpiece, but it is one of the moodiest, bleakest-sounding things Bobby had the luck to record ever since his image-makers in the late 1970s decided that «dark» and «shivery» are unsuitable epithets for suave ladies' man Bobby B.

I guess I should stress that none of these songs are genuine masterpieces (as usual, they are too generic and middle-of-the-road for that), and that there is plenty of completely routine filler as well, let alone the irritating detail that Bobby really takes his time while stretching out on the coda to almost every one of these songs: only a (rather shaky) cover of ʽWhat A Wonderful Worldʼ sticks to a three-minute length — everything else, for some reason, must have from one to two or three extra minutes of Bobby trading signal calls with his female backing vocalists across the studio hall, even such dumb 12-bar exercises as ʽYou Hit The Nail On The Headʼ (and you did it so many times, Bobby, that little remains of the hammer, much less the nail).

Still, I would like to end this with a thumbs up — not merely out of general respect for the recently deceased Bobby B., but continuing to insist that Blues At Midnight is moving and mea­ningful (in spots), not to mention that Bobby's vocal abilities remain almost completely un­im­paired to the very end. Whether there is some sort of uncomfortably intriguing premonition here or not, is up to you to decide — but, as far as my own sixth sense is concerned, the record rises just one small inch above mere routine professionalism, and that is enough to recommend it.

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Bobby Bland: Memphis Monday Morning

BOBBY BLAND: MEMPHIS MONDAY MORNING (1998)

1) I'm Bobby B; 2) I Don't Want No Kickin' In My Stall; 3) There's A Rat Loose In My House; 4) The Truth Will Set You Free; 5) Memphis Monday Morning; 6) I'm Glad; 7) My Baby Is The Only One; 8) I Hate Missin' You; 9) You Left Me With The Blues; 10) Lookin' For Some Tush.

Very little unpredictable stuff here, either. The punch is in Bobby's age — he cut this at the age of 69, and he still snorts it out the same way he did thirty years ago. In fact, at this point he even allows himself a bit of straightforward swagger, opening the album with the uptempo cut ʽI'm Bobby Bʼ, written and performed in the been-there-done-that-licked-'em-all manner that is so ty­pical of old school R&B artists, but, let us admit that honestly, had rarely, if ever, appeared pre­viously on a Bobby B record. So if, at 69, he finally yields to the temptation of calling himself the greatest, let him. Anybody who does not turn to liquid shit at that age deserves a little self-flattery, and Memphis Monday Morning has the man going as strong as ever.

The songs do tend to drag — particularly the title track, creeping at a snail's pace for almost nine minutes, not to mention that its late evening vibe, lounge piano and sunset trumpet romanticism included, does not particularly well agree with the word «morning» in the title. Some of the gene­ric blues-de-luxe numbers, like ʽThere's A Rat Loose In My Houseʼ, also go on for absurdly long time periods, although it could be said that Bobby's band, after all these years, simply gels toge­ther so well that it makes them reluctant to stop.

But on the positive side, the whole album has but one blues ballad (ʽTruth Will Set You Freeʼ), and it is a good one, with sparse, but clever brass arrangements and an atmosphere that seems totally lifted off from some early Solomon Burke torch song. In fact, if possible, the entirety of Memphis Monday Morning sounds more retro and oblivious to «modern blues standards» than any previously released Malaco recording — which is great news for Bobby, even if it does sur­mise surreptitiously rewriting old classics: ʽMy Baby Is The Only Oneʼ, for instance, lifts its main vocal / instrumental melody directly from Sam Cooke's ʽTwistin' The Night Awayʼ. But there is no way we could use this a pretext for incrimination: at this point, Bobby B. has nothing left to prove, nor do his resident songwriters.

That said, the last two tracks of the album seem like last-minute additions that do try to prove something new. ʽYou Left Me With The Bluesʼ switches the mood from «old school R&B» to «new school R&B», with programmed beats, looped funky leads, synthesizers (which were pre­viously dormant), and even a few forced «ughs!» from the man. It isn't nauseatingly bad, but it does spoil the overall feeling a bit. But the real surprise is the short and surprisingly kick-ass (hard rock riffage and all) cover of ZZ Top's ʽTushʼ — a style that Bobby B. had never before approached in his whole life, and for a 69-year old guy, he tackles it with more gusto than could be expected. So why didn't this guy try on some authentic rock'n'roll shoes decades ago? Or, at the very least, offered his services as lead vocalist for Grand Funk Railroad?..

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Bobby Bland: Live On Beale Street

BOBBY BLAND: LIVE ON BEALE STREET (1998)

1) Intro; 2) When Your Love Is Not Around; 3) That's The Way Love Is; 4) Love Of Mine; 5) As Soon As The Weather Breaks; 6) Farther On Up The Road; 7) I Pity The Fool; 8) Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone; 9) St. James Infirmary; 10) I'll Take Care Of You; 11) Get Your Money Where You Spend Your Time; 12) You've Got To Hurt Before You Heal; 13) Sunday Morning Love; 14) If You're Gonna Walk On My Love; 15) Bobby Rush / John­nie Taylor Introduction; 16) Stormy Monday; 17) Double Trouble / She's Puttin' Somethin' In My Food; 18) Mem­bers Only; 19) 24 Hours A Day.

Yes, it does look as if this was recorded live on Beale Street — at the New Daisy Theater, to be more precise; a symbolic gesture, easily interpreted by anyone who has not yet forgotten the humble beginnings of Bobby Bland's career. Additionally, it is the first (and only) proper live album in Bobby's discography (not counting the joint Bobby Bland / B. B. King albums), so it is only natural that the elderly gentleman should choose the city that gave birth to his career for this particular recording.

Considering that, by the mid-1990s, Bobby's Malaco backing band had left behind most of the electronic excesses and seemed happy to just play old-fashioned blues behind Bobby's back, Live On Beale Street does not seem particularly far removed from something like Sad Street or Years Of Tears — let alone the fact that Bobby himself, apparently, considered these late period albums authentic and respectable enough to include a lot of that new material into his setlists. So, at least half — more than half, come to think of it — of the album is dedicated to the post-1984 Malaco stuff, lightly peppered and salted with some predictable old hits from the Duke days. So lightly, in fact, that both ʽI Pity The Foolʼ and ʽFarther On Up The Roadʼ are reduced to medley-status items, trimmed and tamed in sheer disproportion to their dignity.

Consequently, the bad news is that this is not a live career retrospective, and the album does not make much sense if you have already heard all those studio albums. On the other hand, the good news is that Live On Beale Street offers a great opportunity to just dump all the studio albums, and remain perfectly contented with this impressive sampler — all of the samples being played live, without the excessive production gloss of the studio, before a homely, receptive audience where Bobby feels right at home.

Notable curios, as far as I can remember, include: (a) an audience participation bit on ʽAin't No Sunshineʼ, roughly interrupted by Bobby when they get it wrong ("now wait a minute, I'd like for you to help me, but somebody got too many ʽI knowsʼ out there..."); (b) a rather messy medley for which Bobby drags out fellow soul-bluesman Johnnie Taylor and fellow «folk-funkster» Bobby Rush for aid, whereupon they merrily deconstruct and bury ʽStormy Monday Bluesʼ; and for (c), I'd like to be able to let you know that Bobby keeps the snorts to a minimum, but I am not exactly sure if 5 or 6 times in 60 minutes counts as a «minimum», and even these calculations are very crude. Anyway, he does snort, including on songs where he never snorted before (ʽSt. James In­firmaryʼ — almost a sacrilege, that one).

But overall, the man and his band are in fine form throughout, and clearly enjoying what they're doing here. Also, to the pleasure of all blues-loving people, the show has been released on DVD, and watching the whole thing definitely makes more sense than just listening — Bobby's facial expressions and idiosyncratic love affair with the mike add a lot for entertainment value. Ultima­tely, a decisive thumbs up here for something not particularly great, but pleasantly outstanding on a conveyer belt of smooth «neo-retro-blues» LPs.

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Bobby Bland: Sad Street

BOBBY BLAND: SAD STREET (1995)

1) Double Trouble; 2) Sad Street; 3) God Bless The Child; 4) Tonight's The Night; 5) My Heart's Been Broken Again; 6) I've Got A Twenty Room House; 7) Mind Your Own Business; 8) I Wanna Tell You About The Blues; 9) I Had A Dream Last Night; 10) Let's Have Some Fun.

And here is the news. First, Bobby covers ʽGod Bless The Childʼ. The song is capable of yielding to the man, yet I wonder just how adequately he could get into it at the moment — Billie Holiday had written it just as she was getting out (tentatively) of financial straits, whereas Bobby's well-being had not generally been called into problem for about thirty years or so. As good as the song is, this reading is completely perfunctory, and I'd rather see Bobby do perfunctory readings of less personal numbers.

For that matter, his other cover choice — of Rod Stewart's bedroom anthem ʽTonight's The Nightʼ — is far more appropriate, even if the old man does feel the need to change the "let me come inside" line to something less provocative ("let your lovelight shine" or something like that, I already forgot), and even if the song is just as gauche here and now as it used to be when Rod The No Longer Mod used it to help solve the demographic problem. But that's Bobby, all right.

Next, it is really all about Bobby Bland and his odd team of late-period songwriters to take the name of an old blues classic about poverty and rejection (ʽDouble Troubleʼ) and apply it to some­thing more morally ambiguous: "I've got double trouble between my woman and my wife / My wife runs my pocketbook and my woman is running my life". It's a decent enough, slow-running, nostalgically recorded piece of blues-de-luxe, but somehow these new-fangled attempts at taking century-old lyrical clichés and reinventing them seem a little corny these days, don't they?

Maybe not quite as corny as the title track, though — the album's attempt at a Significant Social Statement: seven minutes of somewhat uncertain complaining about how "the streets used to be filled with love, but all you hear about now is blood". Considering that Bobby Bland, the trouba­dour of broken hearts and carnal passions, had very rarely taken to heart the problems of society at large, this particular stab at a «grass-was-greener» sermon is a failure, despite some impressive ingredients (such as a grim wah-wah lead line crawling along those sad streets, sometimes threa­tening to erupt in a poisonous solo but never capitalizing on the promise). Somehow I doubt that the streets of Bobby's childhood were filled with that much more love than wherever he was spending his advanced years in 1995 — but then again, who knows. Maybe it's just his way of expressing dissatisfaction on the illegal immigration issue.

Finally, the really odd one out on this album is ʽI Had A Dream Last Nightʼ — from the title, one would never guess that the song is a thoroughly nostalgic disco number, replete with disco strings and disco back vocals à la 1977. The band seems so happy with being able to establish such a perfect facsimile, they forget to switch off the tape when the song is over and just keep on groo­ving for an extra two or three minutes. Nowhere near a great number, of course, but enough to give the reviewer an opportunity to add one more paragraph.

All of which, in the end, amounts to no less than five songs that merit a special mention — making Sad Street a record-breaking album in Bobby Bland's post-1970s career, but still not enough to guide it over the «great for fans, useless for everybody else» threshold.

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Bobby Bland: Years Of Tears

BOBBY BLAND: YEARS OF TEARS (1993)

1) Somewhere Between Right & Wrong; 2) There's A Stranger In My House; 3) Hole In The Wall; 4) Years Of Tears To Go; 5) Hurtin' Time Again; 6) I Just Tripped On A Piece Of Your Broken Heart; 7) Sweet Lady Love; 8) Love Of Mine; 9) I've Got To Have Your Love Tonight; 10) You Put The Hurt On A Hurtin' Man.

It takes serious experience, and a large pot of desire to waste your time and strength on something as strange as that, to track and mark down all the tiny mood fluctuations from one late period Bobby Bland album to another (and with a little less politeness, you could scratch «late period»). Being neither experienced nor desirous, I can only say that I vaguely suspect a relative fall back into the somber and the tragic on the appropriately named Years Of Tears. Whether it is simply an astute artistic move or the whole thing was triggered by something personal, I do not know. The important thing is, there's a lot of hurting to go through on this album, and, as usual, it is not being gone through all that convincingly.

Changes to the old formula involve... nothing — the most «different» thing on the entire album is the little old-school echoey arpeggio that introduces ʽSomewhere Between Right & Wrongʼ, im­mediately to become a nice, but totally ordinary Fifties-progression-based soul number. ʽYears Of Tears To Goʼ and ʽI Just Tripped On A Piece Of Your Broken Heartʼ (gotta love those titles that Bobby's sidemen seem to be generating for him on an algorithmic basis) are two more long, deluxe shows of the spirit, and the rest is more or less evenly split between sentimental ballads and angry 12-bar stuff (of which ʽHole In The Wallʼ, about Bobby's party-loving partner, is pro­bably the tightest and the most lyrically suggestive, but, as usual, that ain't saying much). ʽYou Put The Hurt On A Hurtin' Manʼ has a poppier and, therefore, more memorable chorus but not much of a hurtin' atmosphere, despite repeating the word twice in the same title.

Other than that, the only thing there is to say is that Bobby cuts down on the snorting a little bit — I may be off, not having done the proper calculations and all, but it seems as if, on the whole, those animal noises have been somewhat subdued. Whether this is a sign of increased modesty, or just advanced age, I have no idea.

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Bobby Bland: Portrait Of The Blues

BOBBY BLAND: PORTRAIT OF THE BLUES (1991)

1) Ain't No Love For Sale; 2) Hurtin' Love; 3) These Are The Things That A Woman Needs; 4) I Can Take You To Heaven Tonight; 5) The Last One To Know; 6) Just Take My Love; 7) I Just Won't Be Your Fool Anymore; 8) She's Puttin' Something In My Food; 9) When Hearts Grow Cold; 10) Let Love Have Its Way.

Just as I was winding myself up into the brain-wrecking procedure of writing something «origi­nal» on Bobby's fifth or sixth Malaco album, news came in that Bobby passed away on June 23rd, 2013 — nothing to be particularly sorry about, since the man seems to have lived a long and gene­rally satisfying, well-deserved life that most of us could only envy. It would seem natural to dedicate this review to his memory, but then, like all of his late period records, this isn't a parti­cularly outstanding album to deserve a «specially dedicated» review. Rather, let us just hope this entire set of Bobby Bland reviews somehow helps to keep that memory alive.

Anyway, Portrait Of The Blues sounds almost completely the same way as Midnight Run. There are two relative highlights, placed at the very start. ʽAin't No Love For Saleʼ is a moody throwback to the days of ʽAin't No Love In The Heart Of The Cityʼ (the title of the latter is even chanted in the background, just in case somebody happened to miss the stylistic link), with a bit more tension than usual, generated not only by Bobby's vocals, but also by some pretty exquisite Clapton-esque guitar work (not sure who exactly is responsible — the liner notes list about four or five different guitarists, none of whom are all that familiar). Then ʽHurtin' Loveʼ completely switches the mood from desperate to optimistic, and the lead instrument switches to organ from guitar — an equally dexterous part. No melodic inventions whatsoever, just good vibes.

From there on, the album slows down a bit, loosens up, and becomes the usual always-nice, never-grabby sequence of blues ballads and lite funk, only shifting gears once on ʽShe's Puttin' Something In My Foodʼ (slow blues-de-luxe that sounds like every other blues-de-luxe number ever recorded, but the song title and the misogynist sentiments do look funny wedged in between all the romantic libations elsewhere).

As usual, most of the titles are «written» by Bobby's Malaco sidemen (quotation marks indicate that the actual writing has mostly been confined to the lyrics, and even these mainly consist of rearranging pre-available sets of blues idioms, in the good old folk tradition), and once again they decide to cut down on the covers — in every other respect, arrangements and production do not differ from Midnight Run one iota.

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Bobby Bland: Midnight Run

BOBBY BLAND: MIDNIGHT RUN (1989)

1) You've Got To Hurt Before You Heal; 2) Lay Love Aside; 3) Kiss Me To The Music; 4) Keep It A Secret; 5) Take Off Your Shoes; 6) Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone; 7) If I Don't Get Involved; 8) I'm Not Ashamed To Sing The Blues; 9) Midnight Run; 10) Starting All Over Again.

No surprises, although, fortunately, the classic covers are back — there is no way Bobby could go wrong with his (predictable, but wonderful all the same) interpretation of ʽAin't No Sunshineʼ, or with the old Mel & Tim ballad ʽStarting All Over Againʼ, which makes here for a somewhat more optimistic and uplifting conclusion than last time's ʽThere's No Easy Way To Say Good­byeʼ, and the funny thing is that one doesn't even have to listen to either in order to understand that.

Still, two oldies' covers on a late period Bobby Bland album is too few, because the remaining songs are again provided by his sidemen, and are not in the least memorable. Just like last time, there is exactly one «fun» 12-bar blues (ʽTake Off Your Shoesʼ), nice while it's on; and then, like every self-respecting old bluesman, Bobby commands himself a song that explains why exactly he is still hanging around after so many years (ʽI'm Not Ashamed To Sing The Bluesʼ — actually, a song like that did make sense in 1989, when the popularity of the blues was only just beginning to recover after a decade-long snooze; that said, it's not as if the song smells of any particular heroism or self-sacrifice).

Additionally, ʽYou've Got To Hurtʼ opens the album on a powerful epic-ballad note; ʽLay Love Asideʼ tries to echo Bobby's dance-oriented R&B grooves of the mid-1970s; and the title track straightens out a reggae groove as the band does indeed search a little bit to expand its horizons. Neither the epic thing, nor the dance thing, nor the reggae schtick feature any outstanding musi­cianship or musical ideas, but at least there seems to be a bit more emphasis on guitars and strings rather than synthesizers, and a bit more diversity, which would altogether indicate an upward movement of the curve. If anyone still cared, that is. Anyway, expressing the same idea in com­mercial terms — better grab Midnight Run for a quarter than Blues You Can Use for a nickel.

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Bobby Bland: Blues You Can Use

BOBBY BLAND: BLUES YOU CAN USE (1987)

1) Get Your Money Where You Spend Your Time; 2) Spending My Life With You; 3) Our First Blues Song; 4) Restless Feelin's; 5) 24 Hours A Day; 6) I've Got A Problem; 7) Let's Part As Friends; 8) For The Last Time; 9) There's No Easy Way To Say Goodbye.

It should probably be mentioned that, since 1985, Bobby Bland had been signed to Malaco Re­cords, probably the largest and most fashion-independent Southern label that saw its mission in preserving the old ways — and that, although the move did not bring him a lot of financial stabi­lity, it certainly helped him recover and keep his integrity after all those strange MCA records with stiff models on the sleeves had nearly destroyed it. Thus, even if the Malaco house band is not the best there is, or could be (although, in 1987, who can really tell?), it is a house band, and these late Eighties' records of Bobby's sound as respectable as they could at the time. The electro­nic keyboards are dull, the horns are mechanistic, and the rhythm section uninventive, but this is blues, soul, and R&B music done the good old way, in styles that feel natural for Bobby. That is no big reason to ever use this kind of blues, but it is reason enough not to feel ashamed or sorry for the guy. Except when he keeps snorting, that is.

The variety is not too bad here, from the old upbeat, fast-tempo 12-bar blues-rock formula (ʽ24 Hours A Dayʼ) to funky R&B with rambling guitars and horns (ʽGet Your Moneyʼ) to old-style soul with a touch of flute (ʽRestless Feelin'sʼ) to slow blues-de-luxe (ʽI've Got A Problemʼ) — and, of course, plenty of torchy bluesy balladry for the old lady fans, culminating in ʽThere's No Easy Way To Say Goodbyeʼ, a song that clearly hints at the inescapable: this guy is not going away any time soon. Alas, as usual, there are no curious insights to be gained from the songs; the best that they can amount to is to simply sound decent.

The problem is somehow connected, I suppose, to the fact that most of Bobby's songwriters here are completely unknown — this is all derivative, clichéd hack material, without any sense of humor or attempts at individual melodic twists. Ted Jarrett, the songwriter star of «Nashville R&B», is the only guy to have at least a bit of information available on him (he contributes the bouncy ʽ24 Hours A Dayʼ, the album's most fun, but still completely generic number), but who is Larry Addison? Who is Robert A. Johnson? (Thank God for the «A.», or one could have thought the unthinkable). Who are all these people and why do they have careers in songwriting? At this point, it would have been far more pleasant if Bobby just stuck to old chestnuts — heck, even an album of Sinatra covers would be preferable.

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Bobby Bland: First Class Blues

BOBBY BLAND: FIRST CLASS BLUES (1987)

1) Two Steps From The Blues; 2) St. James Infirmary; 3) Members Only; 4) Sunday Morning Love; 5) In The Ghetto; 6) Sweet Woman's Love; 7) Angel; 8) I've Just Got To Know; 9) Can We Make Love Tonight?; 10) After All; 11) I Hear You Thinkin'; 12) Straight From The Shoulder; 13) Love Me Or Leave Me; 14) Second Hand Heart; 15) Wal­kin' & Talkin' & Singin' The Blues; 16) Heart, Open Up Again.

Bobby's records of the first half of the 1980s, caught in the short, but sadly prolific period be­tween his nasty fall from artistic grace and the start of the CD era, are fairly hard to come by these days — an Ebay enthusiast would probably have few problems getting his hands on most of them, but why? Hint # 1: Sweet Vibrations (1980), Try Me, I'm Real (1981), and Here We Go Again (1982) each feature a hot young lady on the album sleeve — and only Tell Mr. Bland (1983) features a hot young lady next to Mr. Bland in person. Hint # 2: the first song on Sweet Vibrations actually bears the name of ʽSweet Vibratorʼ, which must be the lowest point in Mr. Bland's career, ever, even if the song were to have a melody of the highest caliber.

Anyway, judging by the few snippets of some of the songs that I did manage to hear, not all of this stuff is utterly awful — in fact, one of the reasons these albums may have disappeared without a trace is that, after the disco embarrassment, Bobby made no effort whatsoever to adapt to the electro-pop standards of the new decade. Just the same old story all over again — perfectly evident on his first CD, First Class Blues, which combined the «best» selections off his previous two albums, Members Only (1985) and After All (1986) with two re-recordings of old classics (ʽTwo Steps From The Bluesʼ and ʽSt. James' Infirmaryʼ).

Quotation marks around «best» are necessary for the simple reason that, at this point, there is really no best or worst, no good or bad, no ups or downs in Bobby's suitcase — slow blues, blues-rock, and balladry are all on the same level of technicality and inspiration. The backing musicians are real enough, but sound like they're mostly in it for the money (the joke is on them, of course, since all the money to be made on Bobby Bland was made at least a decade ago). The drums and keyboards have the predictable electronic sheen; the guitars are professional and modestly taste­ful (no pop-metal influence detected), worthy of a Robert Cray on an effortless day («formally better than shit, but less impressive than shit», that is).

Probably the biggest piece of news is that Bobby's voice has not lost a single frequency in five years — only the grunting / snorting habit has become more irritating, what with the tendency to succumb to it on just about every song that builds up a tense atmosphere. Consequently, those who just love Bobby B. for being Bobby B. will love First Class Blues as usual — as long as Bobby's vocal cords are in order and the arrangements follow traditional patterns, who's to claim that anything here is actually second class?

However, those who are willing to discriminate will probably yawn and cringe at the routineness (not awfulness, but routineness) of the arrangements, and at the fact that pretty much the same emotional load is spread over Vegasy ballads like ʽMembers Onlyʼ, Vegasy blues like ʽSunday Morning Loveʼ, and old-time «socially relevant» songs like ʽIn The Ghettoʼ (personally, I've ne­ver been much of a fan of the Elvis version, but at least it used to convey something special — here, the song does not even begin to stand out against the background). It's all listenable, for sure, but generic mid-1980s blues arrangements are a couple notches below generic mid-1970s blues arrangements (yes, the grass was greener and all that), and in the absence of any compensating factors of «surprise», this is altogether a thumbs down type of album, even if, probably, not the same kind of a thumbs down album as the one that has ʽSweet Vibratorʼ on it.

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Bobby Bland: I Feel Good, I Feel Fine

BOBBY BLAND: I FEEL GOOD, I FEEL FINE (1979)

1) I Feel Good, I Feel Fine; 2) I Can't Take No Mo'; 3) Little Mama; 4) Tit For Tat; 5) Someone To Belong To; 6) Soon As The Weather Breaks; 7) In His Eyes; 8) Red Sails In The Sunset.

All right, this one does not even deserve three paragraphs. Apparently, two ladies approached Bobby on the corner, each planting a kiss on one of his aging cheeks, while a third one almost literally "picked his brain",  convincing him to go disco. And even if the anti-disco backlash had already started by that time, how can you just say no, with two lovely ladies planting kisses on your cheeks? The only thing to do is to hop it up and go — with the six-minute title track announcing that trouble is finally over, and now you are lis­tening to a Bobby Bland album for the hip dance grooves, none of that depressing «deep soul» stuff that might lead you to dark thoughts of... never mind. In fact, it would even be best for him not to sing at all — and he doesn't (on the title track, that is).

The most hideous realisation of all, though, is that the silly hop-along title track, with the ladies chanting "I feel good, I feel fine, it's alright" as if they were advertising Prozac, is the best thing on the album — once Bobby cuts in on the second track, the tempos start slowing down (without losing the disco skeleton), and things start getting less fun and more serious without any adequate compositional, instrumental, or vocal merit to justify the change in style. Strings and brass almost completely drown out guitars and even keyboards; gospel (ʽIn His Eyesʼ), blues (ʽI Can't Take No Mo'), balladry, and pop are sifted through the same sieve; the lyrics accordingly suck (I swear I remember something along the lines of "you are my magnet, I am your dragnet"), as do some of the song titles (ʽTit For Tatʼ? — yep, very 1979-ish indeed); and although Bobby dutifully attacks all these monsters like a pro, he can do nothing worthwhile, saddled with this kind of material. Thumbs down for the sleeve alone, although we'd only seen the beginning of the slide.

Bobby Bland: Come Fly With Me

BOBBY BLAND: COME FLY WITH ME (1978)

1) Come Fly With Me; 2) Lady Lonely; 3) Night Games; 4) To Be Friends; 5) I'm Just Your Man; 6) Love To See You Smile; 7) You Can Count On Me; 8) This Bitter Earth; 9) Ain't God Something.

Well, apparently, someone thought that Bobby «Bland» was getting a bit too «acid» for a time that called for more and more mindless entertainment loaded with positive emotions. So ABC Re­cords called in a bunch of corporate songwriters, most of whom are a complete mystery to me (R&B stalwart Tyrone Davis is the only name I recognize on one of the credits), and saddled Bobby with a set that put his lonely, depressed, soulful persona in the trash bin — calling on the «ladies' man» persona. Oh well. At least it ain't disco, and at least nobody is forcing him to switch to the falsetto register.

The record is professional enough not to sound awful, and Bobby certainly has enough qualifica­tions to play the ladies' man convincingly — in fact, I'd go farther than that and say that the title track does have an uplifting funk-pop hook, and that its guitar / brass / flute / chimes / strings ar­rangement (no effort spared, so it seems) is very well done. Nor can I deny the relative catchiness and even occasional seductiveness of several other songs on here — for instance, the sexy purr of "if you feel the need, go ahead and cry" of the female backup on ʽLady Lonelyʼ, or the anthemic chorus of ʽLove To See You Smileʼ, which could almost pass for sincerity, if only it weren't so utterly dated by its late-1970s formalities.

And yet, no matter how slick, overproduced, or interchangeable one might have found Bobby's major efforts of the decade, when the man was in «tragic» mode, he was really on — demanding nothing but the smokiest from his backing band and playing the broken-hearted card for all it could be worth. In this here happy-sappy mode, though, no matter how much professionalism he keeps demanding from his backers, the songs just don't hit hard enough to merit a comeback — just one more of those albums that is okay while it lasts, then forgotten in a flash. Maybe the title track and ʽLove To See You Smileʼ are worth salvaging for anthology packages. But as for the rest, even the one lonesome gospel number, saved for last (with a somewhat sacrilegious title — doesn't ʽAin't God Somethingʼ sound just a bit... inappropriate?), feels more like a local newsreel (he was nailed to the cross and all that) than a moment of inspiration. In other words, the balance between «soul» and «craft» is completely upset in favour of the latter. No wonder, then, that the album has never been released on CD — from this point on, Bobby's records are becoming in­creasingly hard to find anywhere except for Ebay and used vinyl bins, and there is nothing co­incidental in this period being marked off by Come Fly With Me.

Bobby Bland: Reflections In Blue

REFLECTIONS IN BLUE (1977)

1) The Soul Of A Man; 2) I'll Be Your Fool Once More; 3) Sittin' On A Poor Man's Throne; 4) I Intend To Take Your Place; 5) It Ain't The Real Thing; 6) It's All Over; 7) If I Weren't A Gambler; 8) Five Long Years; 9) I Got The Same Old Blues.

Back to normal. Good title, good album sleeve, good song selection, good backing band. No at­tempt to repeat the country debacle. No dabbling in trashy disco or other styles that are not hard­wired to Bobby's stem cells. Just the usual — a little blues, a little soul, a little urban atmosphere, a little smoky darkness, and we are completely back to the style of Dreamer.

Supposedly, that should complete the review, but I will try to add just a few specifics. ʽI Got The Same Old Bluesʼ was already one of J. J. Cale's most frequently covered numbers, but this is the first time it was done in style by an accomplished soul vocalist, and the original vibe is right up Bobby's alley — and, by the way, whoever is out there trying to match his vocal tension with loosely flowing blues-rock guitar pirouettes is no slouch either.

Conversely, one could say that the blues classic ʽFive Long Yearsʼ is butchered with extra strings, slower-than-necessary tempos, butter-soft guitar soloing, and too much tenderness in some of the verses — but this is really a thorough «soul reinvention» of a blues number, not just a sissied-up cover, and the new look at least makes it feel more novel and curious than if we just had our­selves one more generic cover of ʽFive Long Yearsʼ.

The best songs, however, are probably Bobby's own ʽSoul Of A Manʼ, taken at a jumpier tempo and molded somewhat in the «anthemic» vein characteristic of blaxploitation movie soundtracks of the time; and the funky ʽSittin' On A Poor Man's Throneʼ (swampy wah-wah croaks over R&B strings à la 1970s are always welcome). But in reality, the album is simply very even: no great victories, not a single serious misstep. A good listen on a tired old evening, and very little to write about — thumbs up, and be done with it.

Bobby Bland & B. B. King: Together Again... Live

BOBBY BLAND & B. B. KING: TOGETHER AGAIN... LIVE (1976)

1) Let The Good Times Roll; 2) Stormy Monday Blues / Strange Things Happen; 3) Feel So Bad; 4) Mother-In-Law Blues / Mean Old World; 5) Everyday (I Have The Blues); 6) The Thrill Is Gone / I Ain't Gonna Be The First One To Cry.

With the unexpected commercial success of Bobby and B.B.'s benefit, it was only a matter of time before we would see the formula repeated, and here we are: recorded at the Coconut Grove in L.A. on an unspecified date in 1976, this time, before a larger audience, in a less intimate fa­shion, and in a shortened format: only a single LP that focuses on lengthy, semi-improvised work­outs and medleys rather than a representative selection from the catalog.

The problem is that the setting has irrevocably changed. First Time was, indeed, the first time, an unpredictable attempt at getting themselves captured in a natural, loose, relaxed environment. Two years later, what we have is a firmly established, commercially-footed «star duet» that be­haves appropriately: the friendly stage banter is cut short and, where it is still preserved, feels more theatrical and forced, the performed songs include big hits (they did not see it fit to perform ʽThe Thrill Is Goneʼ on their first record, but they almost feel obliged to do it now), and, worst of all, both the playing and the singing (particularly the playing) feel even lazier than before — as if the stars were confident now that the people in the audience are there to just look at them sharing the stage together. Well, they do make an impressive pair, sight-wise, that has to be admitted.

Arguably, the major highlight is Chuck Willis' ʽFeel So Badʼ, derailing the proceedings from the restrictive blues patterns in favor of a little spirited syncopation and allowing Bobby to whip him­self up into his trademark frenzy — because, frankly speaking, stuff like ʽLet The Good Times Rollʼ is far better suited to B.B.'s self-contented, round-bellied mode of bellowing than Bobby's subtler-soulful style. This is eight minutes of first-rate hot groovin', and I sure wish the entire re­cord would be like that instead of giving us yet another version of ʽStormy Monday Bluesʼ (what could they possibly do with it that we do not know by heart already?) or ʽEveryday I Have The Bluesʼ, which usually works well as a brief show opener to give the audience a quick initial work­over, but here is made into a completely autonomous and overlong performance.

Admittedly, ʽThe Thrill Is Goneʼ gets an inventive bit of reworking: first, they play out a «shy­ness» scene, with B. B. expressing «doubts» about whether they should be cutting the song, then, once the band is in full swing, Bobby starts wooing the audience, getting a «Viola Jackson» lady to take over the lead on one verse — talk about a master class in simulating spontaneity. But in any case, the song never works well with a host of cooks minding the broth — it is essentially a very intimate chamber piece, and switching vocals between B. B., Bobby, and an out-of-the-blue guest vocalist, no matter how gifted, is a corny idea in the first place.

Little surprise, in the end, that the record generally gets much more of a critical thrashing than its predecessor, and, as far as I know, did not at all sell comparably well — bringing an understan­dable halt to the franchise. It may still be worth a listen (I do not see how a well-recorded live album by B. B. and Bobby could even theoretically be a «total catastrophe» — unless they per­manently switch to hip-hop duets or something), but, er, well, «the thrill is gone», I guess.

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Bobby Bland: Get On Down With Bobby Bland

GET ON DOWN WITH BOBBY BLAND (1975)

1) I Take It On Home; 2) Today I Started Loving You Again; 3) You've Always Got The Blues; 4) I Hate You; 5) You've Never Been This Far Before; 6) If Fingerprints Showed Up On Skin; 7) Someone To Give My Love To; 8) Too Far Gone; 9) You're Gonna Love Yourself (In The Morning).

More like «Let It Down With Bobby Bland», actually. After the success of the California Al­bum / Dreamer formula, yet another modest reinvention could not hurt, and heading in a coun­try­-blues direction was not necessarily a bad thing... well, come to think of it, in 1975 it probably was — the next bad thing to going disco. Nashville people come into the picture and while they do not exactly steal it from our hero, they sort of tug the rug from under his feet.

The only excuse for «sterilizing» production values and opting for a smoother, slicker sound in the post-Duke era was that the resulting smoke, darkness, and desperation were an excellent com­pensation. Now, however, sterile production values remain, but the depth is gone — Bobby is covering newer and older country classics that were never written with himself in mind, and, for the most part, are so melodically faceless that only a strong — and appropriately selected — per­sonality could make them work. Bobby's personality is a strong one, by all means, but whether it has really been appropriately selected for these songs is questionable.

Technically, it all works if you have sufficient respect for Merle Haggard, Freddie Hart, Charlie Rich, and Kris Kristofferson: the arrangements are deep and lush, the backing vocals sensual and sexy, and Bobby gets into the whole thing like a pro, whether or not it was his own idea. But emo­tionally, the whole thing wallows in syrup rather than anything else — so much so that even a song called ʽI Hate Youʼ really spells ʽI Love Youʼ (and is about as musically intriguing or spi­ritually involving as either of these titles).

And most importantly, there is simply no room for Bobby to show off what he's got: these songs do not imply build-ups, contrasts, growls, snorts, hysterics, or gospel undertones. They may work — occasionally — when sung by lazy, offensive, unshaved, whiskey-soaked white guys, but not when sung by a hard-working, amicable, clean-cut, and (presumably) sober Bobby «Blue» Bland. At least when Ray Charles did this kind of thing more than a decade earlier, it was novel and benefitted from the overall freshness of approach, the overall healthier climate of 1960s pop, and the overall genius of Ray; this piece, however, uncomfortably reminds of the subtly evil sides of that legacy. Thumbs down.

Bobby Bland & B. B. King: Together For The First Time... Live

BOBBY BLAND & B. B. KING: TOGETHER FOR THE FIRST TIME... LIVE (1975)

1) 3 O'Clock Blues; 2) It's My Own Fault; 3) Driftin' Blues; 4) That's The Way Love Is; 5) I'm Sorry; 6) I'll Take Care Of You; 7) Don't Cry No More; 8) Don't Answer The Door; 9) Medley; 10) Why I Sing The Blues; 11) Goin' Down Slow; 12) I Like To Live The Love.

Technically, this record should have probably been filed under «B. B. King»: B. B. is officially given first billing on the set, and besides, he plays and sings, whereas Bobby, unfortunately, ne­ver took the time to properly master an instrument — not even a tambourine. But since B. B.'s discography is so much more vast anyway, we will bring in some balance and give Bobby extra credit. He sure needs more credit from us than B. B. does, anyway.

This is a beautiful little sprawling double LP, recorded in one take in some cheap sleazy L. A. bar (correction: actually, at Western Recorders, Studio 1, but, allegedly, the audience was real, and rowdy enough to suggest that they did mask the studio as a cheap sleazy bar) — much of it im­provised and almost all of it without any serious pre-planning or rehearsal. It got panned by Rolling Stone upon release and continues, out of subconscious respect for tradition, to garner cool reprimands from mainstream-os: the All-Music Guide review mumbles something about the at­mosphere being «too relaxed» and a lack of flying sparks — as if they were expecting the Dead Kennedys or something. For Christ's sake, these guys are public entertainers: their job has always been to entertain, and, having gotten together, this is what they do at twice the effort and twice the effect. Despite the critics, the album sold real well, and in this particular case, I am complete­ly on the side of the buying public.

On the technical side, nothing is new. The setlist is comprised mainly of those songs that were already big hits or personal favorites of B. B.'s or Bobby's — it is rather symbolic that they open with ʽ3 O'Clock Bluesʼ, which was the very first commercially successful recording for King in 1952. The singing and playing are exactly what you would expect from both gentlemen circa 1975 (you may set your expectations pretty high, but no particular surprises). And the «novelty» of the «together for the first time» announcement will, of course, be dampened for everybody who knows that B. B. and Bobby spent an awful lot of time together in the 1950s as the «Beale Street Boys» in Memphis. They may be recording for the first time together, but they gel like old pals — because they are old pals.

And this is, of course, the cornerstone of the album's charm. Even if it is a commercial project, it has all the trappings of a loose, free-flowing, informal party — just two guys showing off before each other and a bunch of friends, cocky but amicable. Almost every track has them shooting off insider jokes at each other, trading funny (or not so funny) one-liners and offside remarks, and, overall, having a great time — or at least simulating a great time so well that I honestly couldn't tell it for the real thing.

True enough, there is very little «blues» here if what you want is serious heart tension rather than a friendly party environment. The atmosphere only gets bleak and smoky maybe just a couple of times — for instance, when they put a temporary stop to the banter as Bobby launches into a heartbroken rendition of ʽI'll Take Care Of Youʼ: then, almost as if they simultaneously realized that things are getting too «heavy», just as the last note of the song is sprung, they launch into the uptempo, uplifting ʽDon't Cry No Moreʼ to compensate. The other track where they try to go over the head of the «party mood» is ʽGoin' Down Slowʼ, with a mighty build-up towards the end — but the show is still brought to a final stop with ʽI Like To Live The Loveʼ, a recent hit for B. B. that has nothing for you but one hundred percent positive vibrations.

And there is nothing wrong with that. "Some people say that the kind of blues we're getting into now are ʽslick bluesʼ", B. B. remarks as they wind up ʽI'm Sorryʼ, "and I don't think so, I think they're just telling it like it is", and there certainly is a serious slice of truth to that remark. In 1975, both of these guys were respectable stars (if not superstars), with plenty of reputation, pub­lic acclaim, and money to spare — so would a tense, tragically-flavored performance, floating in misery and anger, be «telling it like it is»? What they do here, in addition to being professionally performed and recorded, is all perfectly natural, a fine document of their time that, even today, will make for terrific evening party accompaniment. Thumbs up, totally.

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Bobby Bland: Dreamer

BOBBY BLAND: DREAMER (1974)

1) Ain't No Love In The Heart Of City; 2) I Wouldn't Treat A Dog (The Way You Treat Me); 3) Lovin' On Borrowed Time; 4) When You Come To The End Of Your Road; 5) I Ain't Gonna Be The First To Cry; 6) Dreamer; 7) Yolan­da; 8) Twenty-Four Hour Blues; 9) Cold Day In Hell; 10) Who's Foolin' Who.

I do not know most of these guys who supplied Bobby with the material for Dreamer, but they sure did a fine job in ensuring its coherence. The dark, smoky soul atmospherics of California Al­bum has been expanded to full length — one peep at the lengthy song titles is more or less enough to understand what this is all going to be about. This time, there isn't even any ʽIt's Not The Spotlightʼ-type material: just about every song here comes from the point of view of a none-too-happy blues guy, and he makes the best of his backing band to let you know it. Consequently, this is one of the gloomiest albums of 1974, and even if, formally, at this point Bobby was sup­posed to plough the same field with the likes of Donny Hathaway, in spirit Dreamer is much closer to the tense, paranoid funk masters of its era.

The album pretty much picks up from where ʽI've Got To Use My Imaginationʼ left us last time around: ʽAin't No Love In The Heart Of The Cityʼ also has a threatening heavy riff, although it comes and goes rather than stay with you all the time, while ringing funky syncopes and strings keep a more constant presence. It is the perfect urban blues anthem of 1974 — the verses may seem to simply deal with yet another broken heart story, but the refrain ("ain't no love in the heart of the city... ain't no love, ain't no pity") has a more universalist spirit, and the fact that the song became a big hit is quite telling: the whole experience is so loaded with mid-1970s decadent melancholia, everybody with subconscious expectations of the end of the world must have bought a copy for oneself, and one more for each of one's best friends.

The second single, ʽI Wouldn't Treat A Dog (The Way You Treated Me)ʼ, is a bit more intimate, but the title and the related vocal hook were harsh enough to pick the public's attention all the same, and it still works — the song is assigned a proto-disco beat, but this is more for experimen­tation's sake than commercial reasons: nothing else here invites you to dance, least of all Bob­by's vocals, as he is still capable of giving the old «she done me wrong» yarn a fresh tonal spin. One funky guitar in the right speaker, one bluesy guitar in the left speaker, quiet organ in the back, ominous brass riffs in front — perfectly tasteful and meaningful combination.

There is not much to say about the following tracks: they all probe the same moods in much the same tasteful ways. There is only one song I actively dislike: ʽYolandaʼ has the brass section in Vegasy mode, and Bobby's chorus of "oh Yolanda, why you forsake me?" shows an irritatingly cheesy «Tom Jones»-style spirit that clashes quite uncomfortably with the rest of the album — I am sure that this came about by accident rather than intention, but I would be much happier any­way to have this over-acted piece replaced by something more substantial. The other mildly mer­ry tune here, the album closer ʽWho's Foolin' Whoʼ, could theoretically be spoiled by excessive emphasis on backing vocals from Bobby's girls, but at least it is a formal blues-rock number with screeching solos and aggressive singing — no «Vegas effect» whatsoever.

As much as I struggle to write about individual songs, I am still quite glad about this consistent monotonousness — at this point, the more gloomy funk-blues, predictably arranged and perfor­med, this guy gets to sing, the more good it does for his reputation. No syrup, no sap, and only a tiny slice of cheese: Dreamer is one of the few islands of taste and even «class» (and I don't like to abuse that word) in a sea of mainstream sludge on the «unadventurous mainstream» pop market of 1974. Thumbs up.

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Bobby Bland: His California Album

BOBBY BLAND: HIS CALIFORNIA ALBUM (1973)

1) This Time I'm Gone For Good; 2) Up And Down World; 3) It's Not The Spotlight; 4) (If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don't Want To Be Right; 5) Goin' Down Slow; 6) The Right Place At The Right Time; 7) Help Me Through The Day; 8) Where My Baby Went; 9) Friday The 13th Child; 10) I've Got To Use My Imagination.

The start of an entirely new life for Bobby — a new label (Dunhill); a new producer (Steve Barri, famous for having produced at least a little something by at least half of the major American hit­makers of the day); and, overall, a thoroughly new style, as we move into yet another decade, Bobby's third one, where he would feel right at home. No wonder he would soon be teaming up with B. B. King in a triumphant swell of pride: they were pretty much the only veterans of the pre-rock'n'roll era astute enough to move with the tide, not against it.

His California Album was not a huge hit, but it sold steadily, and the lead-off single, ʽThis Time I'm Done For Goodʼ, a leftover from his ex-boss «Deadric Malone», even hit the Top 50 on the pop charts for the first time since 1964. For a good reason, too: the production style is distinctly «contemporary», with a thick orchestral layer (piano / organ / strings) and wailing electric guitar and a big fat post-funk-revolution bassline — but Bobby's soul hollering remains on exactly the same wavelength as it was twenty years earlier, and that is the best news of all: after all, we don't want the guy competing with the likes of Barry White, do we?

Actually, there is nothing wrong whatsoever with stereotypical 1970s production when the band shows a good balance between muscle and flex; and although the names of these session musici­ans do not immediately ring a bell, there are actually a few unsung heroes here — Max Bennett on bass, who had played with everyone from Peggy Lee to Frank Zappa; Larry Carlton on guitar (and a few other people who would eventually become members of The Crusaders); Ernie Watts on sax; and others too numerous to mention, but, for the most part, veterans of the jazz / blues scene, more interested in simply keeping up with the changing times rather than with the drop­ping tastes. And in terms of taste, California Album is just about perfect: all soul, no sap.

On a couple of the tracks, the band even gets fairly heavy, nowhere more so than on the album closer, a cover of Gladys Knight's ʽI've Got To Use My Imaginationʼ that buries the original — transforming it from a relatively lightweight dance number into a slowed down, fang-baring, grumbly blues-rock stomp. But this is, of course, not very typical: usually, the band is content enough wallowing in light-hearted grooves itself, just not dance-oriented.

And everything works. ʽIt's Not The Spotlightʼ is a Gerry Goffin song that we usually know in soft takes — Rod Stewart's, or Barry Goldberg's, or Beth Orton's, whatever; here, the song is gi­ven the royal production treatment, with an almost gospel backing, several guitar and «snowy or­gan» overdubs, and one of those thunderous «oh Lowwrrrd!» roars from Bobby every now and then for an extra thrill — the end result is uplifting and exciting without losing the subtlety of the original version.

ʽ(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don't Want To Be Rightʼ was a major hit for Lu­ther Ingram, spurred on to notability for the controversial lyrics (openly romanticizing and glori­fying adultery was a bit over the top even for «The Me Decade») — and although Ingram's per­formance was quite credible and respectable, the instrumental backing on Bobby's record far surpasses the compa­rably thin ar­rangement on his single from 1972. ʽHelp Me Through The Dayʼ is a Leon Russell song, and Leon Russell songs are always done better by somebody who is not Leon Russell, be they black singers, white singers, or little pink blobs from Aldebaran. ʽGoin' Down Slowʼ has been done by just about everybody in the rootsy business, but even here the band is able to find a moderately original, aggressive brass/bass groove and stick to it steadily for five minutes (with some fairly nifty jamming taking up a large chunk of the time).

In short, this is nothing short of a «modest masterpiece» of early 1970's soul — coming from a 1950's survivor, no less — and a thorough must-hear for all lovers of the genre who like their in­strumentation to be polyphonic, tasteful, yet somewhat restrained instead of going all the way à la Funkadelic. If anything, the lack of saccharine ballads alone makes this a real gem in its niche, for the standards of 1973. Thumbs up all the way: for some reason, the average reviews of the album generally tend to be lukewarm, but I prefer to ascribe this to historical accidence, or maybe just the general reluctance to highly back-rate any album that has the word California in the title ever since the Eagles set us on the road of no return.

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