BETTY DAVIS: NASTY GAL (1975)
1) Nasty Gal; 2) Talkin'
Trash; 3) Dedicated To The Press; 4) You And I; 5) Feelins; 6) F.U.N.K.; 7)
Gettin' Kicked Off, Havin' Fun; 8) Shut Off The Light; 9) This Is It!; 10) The
Lone Ranger.
Maybe Betty herself felt that the second album
was a bit softer and a tad more compromising than the first — in any case, something
must have stimulated her to pull herself together and make damn sure that the
third one would blow the lid off the kettle. The band was wound up tighter, the
record label was changed to Island for better production and distribution, and
look at that album sleeve: too hot to handle or what?..
Other than, perhaps, again lacking the same
consistency of crunchy riffage as Betty
Davis (none of Betty's guitar players simply had as much flashy arrogance
as Neal Schon), Nasty Gal is in
every other respect a funk monster. First and foremost, this is because Betty
is simply unleashed: obviously, her vocal range has not improved one bit, but for
sheer nastiness / bitchiness, look no further — if the singing circa 1973 might
still sound a little repressed and stiff at times, in 1975 there are no
inhibitions whatsoever. Usually, it takes a very well-developed artistic
persona to make a slogan like "I ain't nothing but a nasty gal!"
sound like the real thing — in this
particular occasion, I do not even wish to consider this «artistry», it seems
to be the real thing. I'm sure Tina
Turner could do this if she wanted to (in fact, being a much better technical
singer, she could have done this even better), but the truth is that she just didn't do it, and neither did anybody
else. And when everybody else started
doing it, it was too late anyway, because the accompanying music had turned to
shit long ago.
Every single song on here is great in its own
way. The music, heavily dependent on clavinet and funky bass parts, takes
active cues from Stevie Wonder (you can almost tell how many times each of
these musicians had spun Innervisions
before walking into the studio), but exchanges Stevie's socially charged spirit
with a sexually charged one. The nagging «nasal» riff of ʽTalkin' Trashʼ agrees
with the «talking trash» message of the song to perfection; the speedy mix of
keyboard and guitar notes on ʽFeelinsʼ reflects the physiological message of
ʽFeelinsʼ ("pinch her, squeeze her, help her live again!", and the
whole song is nothing but a rapid succession of «pinches» and «squeezes», like
an aggressive-erotic musical massage); and few funk tunes have the catchiness
of ʽShut Off The Lightʼ, whose clavinet backbone could almost rival
ʽSuperstitionʼ, except that it intentionally goes in a «nasty fun» rather than
«danceable seriousness» direction.
Somehow, even every kind of approach that did not work earlier on now does work.
ʽF.U.N.Kʼ continues the line of ʽThey Say I'm Differentʼ, with Betty once again
resorting to the «list principle», counting off her idols — this time, they
are R&B and funk people rather than old bluesmen, though, culminating in a
brief reminiscence of the good times Betty had with Jimi (nobody really knows
if they had an actual affair, but Miles sure thought so), and this whole stuff
is much more up her alley, not to mention the music, which is darker, thicker,
and, well, funkier. Even the obligatory ballad (ʽYou And Iʼ), recorded in big
band jazz style, is good, as she finally learns to bypass her limitations and,
instead of trying to cope with a complexly modulated vocal hook, just turns it
into a hot sexual dream ("I'm just a child, trying to be a woman...")
that, goddammit, is almost believable (as much as the old «nasty bitch got
soul» trick is a cliché, every once in a while somebody comes along and
executes it to perfection one more time).
However, the lady seems to be sitting firmest
of all in the saddle when she's got someone, or something, to play off — in
ʽDedicated To The Pressʼ, she addresses those critical naysayers that dared to
condemn her style for extreme wildness, and for about four minutes turns her
vocal tract into a veritable cat-o'-nine-tails: "Well I really don't know
what they're talking about / I just can't seem to keep my tongue in my mouth /
That's all folks". True enough, but it's not the tongue that matters so much, actually, as it is the throat — and
not the actual words she speaks, but the way
that they are spoken. The press happens to be lucky that the message was
delivered by vinyl transfer — anybody who got that personally, face-to-face,
would have probably melted away on the spot.
Throw in a couple of slower, steamier, subtler sexual
provocations (ʽGettin' Kicked Offʼ; a newly re-recorded, and much sharper,
version of ʽI Will Take That Rideʼ, now retitled ʽLone Rangerʼ), and Nasty Gal wins out even in terms of
diversity — the message may be the same throughout, but there are several routes
of delivery, thoroughfares, shortcuts, and space warping included. It is
amazing that an album of this level
of verve ultimately failed to chart, even despite heavy publicity from Island
Records, but, apparently, the «black market» at the time was even more conservative
than the «white market», with people opting for Earth, Wind & Fire, Al
Green, Kool & The Gang, and The Pointer Sisters instead; all of them worthy
contenders, but in terms of sheer bravado, not even close to the level of fury
that Nasty Gal has to offer.
But make no mistake — the reasons behind my
enthusiastic thumbs
up here are not at all limited to the «unleashing» of the sex demon
in Betty's persona, because much, if not most, of Nasty Gal is fine, top-level funk stuff as well. Even without the
vocals, it would still be an impressive instrumental feat — one might think,
though, that it probably couldn't have existed that way without the vocals,
because, no doubt about it, it was nothing but the lady's fiery personality
that managed to rev the musicians up to these ecstatic heights. A coin toss
between Betty Davis and Nasty Gal as the finest she had to
offer, but then, why choose at all when her recording career was so unfortunately
short anyway?
Check "Nasty Gal" (CD) on Amazon
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