Blood, Sweat & Tears: Live

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: LIVE (1980/1994)

1) Intro; 2) Agitato; 3) Nuclear Blues; 4) Manic Depression; 5) God Bless The Child; 6) Lucretia MacEvil; 7) Hi-De-Ho; 8) And When I Die; 9) Spinning Wheel; 10) You've Made Me So Very Happy; 11) (Suite) Spanish Wine; 12) Drown In My Own Tears; 13) Gimme That Wine; 14) Trouble In Mind / Shake A Hand.

Although this album was recorded on October 12, 1980 (at the Street Scene in Los Angeles), it took fifteen years for it to see the light of day — meaning that nobody really cared until Rhino Records started out on their missionary mission to salvage, cherish, and promote historically re­levant (or irrelevant — no big deal) material that the big ones left in the vaults for one reason or another. But it does make sense that the last album to be officially released by BS&T had to be a live one, considering that the band name has continued to serve as a tag for various incarnations of the «BS&T spirit», going out on the road for over thirty years since they last churned out some studio product.

Essentially, it happens as follows: Bobby Colomby has the rights to the band's name, and leases it out to whoever is willing to buy for a reasonable price, as long as there is a trumpet and trombone attached. Some of these groupings have included Clayton-Thomas and some have not; certain sources say that he has not sung with BS&T since 2004, but as long as he stays in good health, there is no telling what tomorrow may bring. Altogether, BS&T should probably be in the Guin­ness book — through those thirty years, approximately 120-150 different people have been listed as formal members of the band, even if some may have lasted for just a month or so. Then again, why not? They never hurt anyone, and they wisely refrain from «creating» stuff under the name of Blood, Sweat & Tears, and if you want to get rid of twenty bucks, there sure are worse ways than spending them on an opportunity to sing along to ʽHi-De-Hoʼ.

Anyway, this here live album still comes from an era when Clayton-Thomas provided a solid link to the past — namely, it is from the small tour undertaken to promote Nuclear Blues, and so the album is played here almost in its entirety (with the happy exclusion of ʽFantasy Stageʼ). The sound quality is pretty good, the energy level is all right, and the songs are played quite faithfully to the studio versions, so that the excellent stuff still rocks (ʽAgitatoʼ; the ʽSpanish Wineʼ suite), the overwrought stuff still irritates (ʽDrown In My Own Tearsʼ is still drowning in its own bathos like there was no tomorrow), and the so-so stuff still remains inexplicable (why ʽManic Depres­sionʼ? who in the band was ever maniacally depressed?).

Unfortunately, being so preoccupied with this promotion, the band succumbs to the «medley curse» — or maybe Clayton-Thomas only had time to teach his Canadian friends the bare rudi­ments of the old classics (but they do play quite impressively on all the sections, so there is no question in my mind that they could have handled the proper load, had they had the opportunity to do so). In between two sections, completely devoted to Nuclear Blues material, they stuff a 15-minute potpourri of the classic hits, where only ʽHi-De-Hoʼ gets the royal treat­ment because of its karaoke potential. And even if those classic hits were not the greatest masterpieces of 20th century music, they still deserved a better fate.

Particularly since there was no reason to castrate them in order to make more space for a twelve-minute jam to the theme of ʽGimme That Wineʼ — where did that get resuscitated from? It's es­sentially a joke number, not to be promoted, much less to be used as a fanfare conclusion to the whole show. «We're a cabaret band and we want you to leave the building with that feeling?» Is that the message? Silly. But well representative of the band's entire career — where, for every splash of serious artistic ambition, there had always been a compensating splash of glitzy Vegas cheapness. There is nothing wrong with a little silliness or a little lighthearted humor every now and then, of course, but it all depends on the timing, the context, and on how high the joke in question is ranked on the playlist. (And this is not even mentioning all the ultra-critics who think that Blood, Sweat & Tears as a whole was just one big gag that ran for way too long — some­thing that I strongly disagree with, because even ʽSpanish Wineʼ has some serious points of in­terest to it).

In any case, if you actually want a BS&T live album, do make sure that your primary choice is the one from 1976, because this particular Live is not even proper BS&T — it's essentially just Nuclear Blues plus a medley of deeply humiliated classics and a joke-style funk-pop number run into the ground with way too much force. But if you are just an obstinate completist, chances are you won't be too irritated with this stuff, either, particularly because the basic condition is satis­fied: David's Canadian friends are organised, tight, collected, and energetic throughout. If much of this ends up being applied either to the wrong material or in the wrong way to the right mate­rial, well, that's quite a traditional part of the Blood, Sweat & Tears idiom, too.

 

Blood, Sweat & Tears: Nuclear Blues

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: NUCLEAR BLUES (1980)

1) Agitato; 2) Nuclear Blues; 3) Manic Depression; 4) I'll Drown In My Own Tears; 5) Fantasy Stage; 6) (Suite) Spanish Wine.

Losing the entire band after Brand New Day had infamously ended up as the «Same Old Flub» was no big deal for Clayton-Thomas — after all, earlier on in the decade the entire band had lost him, so a quid pro quo was in the works anyway. Some sources state that he was not going to use the BS&T tag at all, but that the band's old manager somehow persuaded him, so David simply enlisted a bunch of his Canadian friends and ploughed on, brave guy.

Listening to Nuclear Blues makes it fairly obvious why this «new» Blood, Sweat & Tears was only able to get one new album on the MCA label. The reason is that the lineup may be new, but the music, the vibe, the sentiments stay exactly the same — by the standards of 1980, these guys might just as well have been «reinventing» the Charleston. In retrospect, Clayton-Thomas should probably earn our admiration for the obstinacy. In general, it did him no good: the album expec­tedly sank again, and most people probably did not even go to the trouble of noticing that it did come out. But those few people who are ready to take note might actually find something they can not only respect out of a general respect for bravery, but actually enjoy.

When the album is being bad or silly, it is the kind of badness / silliness that we are quite used to from Clayton-Thomas. Not for the first time, he picks out a solid soulful oldie (Ray Charles' ʽDrown In My Own Tearsʼ), then slows it down and stretches it out to breaking point, mutilating every inch with his overacting. For the hard rock part of the show, he picks out another solid oldie, Jimi's ʽManic Depressionʼ, and gives it a flashy brass reading that only works if you forget all about the schizo-psycho original. From his own songwriting gut comes the title track, a pas­sable piece of funk-blues that does not sensibly match the song's ominous lyrical message — and the predictable piece of cabaret schlock, ʽFantasy Stageʼ, which could work in Las Vegas, but hardly in my or your living room.

However, the unsung hero of this album is not Clayton-Thomas, but rather his hitherto unknown pal, trumpetist Bruce Cassidy. He not only contributes the opening instrumental (ʽAgitatoʼ), but is also responsible for a large chunk of the closing 15-minute suite, ʽSpanish Wineʼ — an inventive mix of various Latin musical forms with elements of fusion. In between both, this makes for twenty minutes of competent, energetic, and occasionally memorable music. Naturally, a third-, if not fourth-generation BS&T circa 1980 could hardly be capable of pushing boundaries or any­thing, but the various movements of ʽSpanish Wineʼ, most of them intelligently sewn together with Dave Piltch's subtly thrilling bass part, form an intriguing, if not very deep, composition, something that the old BS&T hadn't really tried out since the early 1970s.

All in all, this almost desperate attempt to stick even harder to their guns and go all-out retro on listeners who were just saying goodbye to the age of disco and hello to the age of electrofunk, synth-pop, and man-machines, was as good a «swan song» for BS&T as anything — it goes with­out saying that this nostalgic meandering, sometimes impressive and sometimes embarrassing, was much preferable to the option of trying to fit in with the times and incorporate contemporary synthesizers, drum machines, and pop-metal guitars. Hence, despite the many problems of Nuc­lear Blues, I will succumb to the temptation of giving it a thumbs up: at the very least, ʽSpanish Wineʼ deserves one all by itself, even if it comes in tandem with some gummy Ray Charles.

Check "Nuclear Blues" (MP3) on Amazon

Blood, Sweat & Tears: Brand New Day

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: BRAND NEW DAY (1977)

1) Somebody I Trusted; 2) Dreaming As One; 3) Same Old Blues; 4) Lady Put Out The Light; 5) Womanizer; 6) Blue Street; 7) Gimme That Wine; 8) Rock & Roll Queen; 9) Don't Explain.

Dropped from Columbia, the band briefly signed on with ABC Records, getting one more limp chance to «redeem» themselves from a commercial perspective — and predictably blowing it. Brand New Day was an arrogantly optimistic title, but it did not help. By 1977, BS&T were out of touch with everything and everybody: on one hand, with disco hitting really hard, Clayton-Thomas and friends were quite obstinate about making the necessary transition — on the other hand, their brand of slightly obsolete jazz-funk-pop was still classified as «light entertainment» rather than «serious musical exploration».

The results were predictable — the critics still hated them for being too shallow and silly, and the general public had no interest in them for being too out-of-time. Throw in the inability to accom­pany the LP with a solid single (ʽBlue Streetʼ — a ballad by Randy Edelman, a songwriter usual­ly covered by The Carpenters, Barry Manilow, and Olivia Newton-John, to give an indication), add a complete lack of serious promotion, and there you have it — the album was critically vili­fied, and did not even manage to break into the Top 200.

Frankly speaking, though, it is a significant drop-down even from the level of More Than Ever. Not a single original composition — and the cover selection, in retrospect, is very odd. Making use of material by contemporary songwriters worked well for them at the beginning, when they latched on to serious artists like Randy Newman or Laura Nyro; but Randy Edelman? Daniel Moore? Guy Fletcher? Phil Driscoll? you'd have to be one hell of a connaisseur to remember all these names, but why would you want to be that kind of a connaisseur? All of these songs are just easy-going, instantly forgettable tripe, be they ballads or be they «rockers», and the only thing that makes them listenable is that the band is still capable of getting a tasteful groove going.

They only hit disco land once, on ʽRock & Roll Queen (A Tribute To Janis Joplin)ʼ — however, they hit it hard enough for Janis to revolve in her grave, full turn on every next bar. Well, stripped of its ambitions, the song is an inoffensive dance track, with Mike Stern trying to ennoble it with screechy rock'n'roll guitar soloing, but it is not understood why the collective talents of BS&T should be wasted on such stuff — which could have been, with much fewer expenses and in a more adequate manner, handled by the likes of Billy Preston. Or Boney M, for that matter.

Elsewhere, they are mining two types of ground: «hilarious» lite-funk (ʽSomebody I Trustedʼ, ʽGimme That Wineʼ — "I just can't get well without Muscatel" should probably have been the title of the album; note, however, that the clumsy, overweight funky rearrangement does not in any way diminish the genuine hilariousness of the original Lambert/Hendricks/Ross jazz version from 1962) and Late Evening Balladry for You-Know-What (ʽLady Put Out The Lightʼ, ʽWo­manizerʼ). Every now and then a grumpy blues tune appears to shift the mood, but even if they respect and mostly preserve the original somber mood of J. J. Cale's ʽSame Old Bluesʼ, they add nothing of interest to the original (except for some unnecessary brass overdubs).

Still, it must be said that even in 1977, the band was functioning as a tight-oiled, professional machine, constructed out of living people — the essence of the grooves they set up may not be too interesting, but they still work each groove to the bone, demanding top results from every single player. This perseverance alone, a sort of «ethical music code» that they might have broken in favor of stiff, slick disco numbness and synthesizer swamps a million times already, does not allow me to give the record a thumbs down. If only the songs weren't that dumb and generic, Brand New Day, in its context, could have easily been a minor lost gem. As it is, its unavailabi­lity on CD up to this very day is no big loss.

Blood, Sweat & Tears: More Than Ever

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: MORE THAN EVER (1976)

1) They; 2) I Love You More Than Ever; 3) Katy Bell; 4) Sweet Sadie The Savior; 5) Hollywood; 6) You're The One; 7) Heavy Blue; 8) Saved By The Grace Of Your Love.

Curious, yes, but as late as late 1976, the band was somehow still holding up. As rhythm & blues, black and white alike, was steering ever closer to sterilized disco standards, and men were co­ming to terms with beginning to sound like machines rather than human beings, there are practi­cally no signs of catastrophe on More Than Ever — yes, at the expense of sounding way too old-fashioned, Blood, Sweat & Tears make an album here whose reputation a couple of decades or so past its original release must have inevitably exceeded the «warmth» of the initial reception (when the record stalled at #165, and was used as an excuse by Columbia to drop the band from its roster — not that the label itself didn't have a hand in this failure).

Anyway, more than anything else, More Than Ever takes its cue from the peak years of Stevie Wonder — with plenty of funky clavinet, brass fanfares à la ʽSuperstitionʼ, «ominous», socially acute, R&B, and excursions into gospel soul territory. Almost half of the album is self-penned, and the other half is allocated for relatively obscure covers, sometimes provided by guest players (e. g. ʽSweet Sadie The Saviorʼ, credited to Patti Austin, who took part in the sessions as backup vocalist). There is very little here that could be even remotely called «daring» or «experimental», but the songs are written and recorded with care, and, most importantly, with enough obvious love for the purely musical side of the business.

Occasionally, there are tasteless missteps. ʽHollywoodʼ, a glitzy dance-funk number that, out of everything on here, moves the closest to disco, was probably intended as a tongue-in-cheek self-paro­dy — the band sending up their own image of «prisoners of Las Vegas / Beverly Hills» — but it is not funny enough to be perceived as a purely comic number, and so, the ecstatic chants of "Hollywood! Hollywood! I think we're gonna be here a while!.." can easily come across as silly pandering rather than self-irony.

The big, bulky, gospelish ballads are also a problem. ʽI Love You More Than Everʼ, despite not being written by any of the band members, is entitled way too similar to ʽI Love You More Than You'll Ever Knowʼ to suggest sheer coincidence — and invokes unfavorable comparisons, since this here song is just a sentimental, hyper-orchestrated love ballad. The oboe part from guest star Sid Weinberg is a useful bit of peaceful pastoralism to draw attention away from the corny string arrangements, but it is still not enough to push the song into «artsy baroque» territory. In the end, it's just another sappy love hymn, suffering from excessive weight. ʽSaved By The Grace Of Your Loveʼ, closing out the album, suffers from the same, and this time, it does not even have any oboes for partial redemption. But at least they both give it an honest try.

A little more adequacy seems to be present in the tougher numbers. ʽTheyʼ is a funk / fusion ve­hicle that seems to grumble against organized religion, but, most importantly, has several instru­mental passages that dispense with predictability — guitars, brass, vibraphones, and the rhythm section move around in semi-free-form mode, groping for ideas, and generate a few minutes of thoroughly anti-commercial controlled chaos à la Zappa, which, furthermore, fits very well the overall confused / angry mood of the song. The funky instrumental ʽHeavy Blueʼ, in comparison, never tries to move into previously uncharted territory, but it does establish a moderately cool proto-disco groove — delightfully integrating all of the band's varied instrumentation to capture the now-dated, but then-resonant stylishness of the decade without sacrificing the musician.

The rest of the songs do not deserve much commentary, but, as usual, none of them are awful — in fact, beyond the unlucky corniness of ʽHollywoodʼ, there is nothing on More Than Ever that would significantly challenge good taste: «generic decent album» would be closer to the truth than «generic failure». Why they decided to release ʽYou're The Oneʼ, one of the better ballads from the set, as the lead single instead of the much more hard-hitting ʽTheyʼ is anybody's guess — probably deemed ʽTheyʼ too adventurous for the masses, or hoped for yet another ʽYou've Made Me So Very Happyʼ — but on the whole, of course, their stubborn clinging to the old style was commercially doomed from the start. However, that is no reason to dismiss the record today without giving it a chance: it remains perfectly listenable, and deserves an unethusiastic, but honest thumbs up.

Check "More Than Ever" (CD) on Amazon

Blood, Sweat & Tears: In Concert

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: IN CONCERT (1976)

1) Spinning Wheel; 2) I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know; 3) Lucretia MacEvil; 4) And When I Die; 5) One Room Country Shack; 6) And When I Die (reprise); 7) (I Can Recall) Spain; 8) Hi-De-Ho; 9) Unit Seven; 10) Life; 11) Mean Ole World; 12) Ride Captain Ride; 13) You've Made Me So Very Happy.

Well, at least they had the good sense to wait until Clayton-Thomas was back to release the ob­ligatory double live album — this way, all the hits are re-generated the way they are supposed to: even a non-fan of the C-T style like me will gladly acknowledge that having ʽAnd When I Dieʼ or ʽLucretia MacEvilʼ sung by the completely colorless personality of Jerry Fisher would have de­prived the experience of the smallest modicum of sense it could ever contain.

Anyway, In Concert, a non-US LP release (only issued in the States as late as 1991, under the alternate title of Live And Improvised), was culled from at least four or five different gigs that were played in the US and Canada in late summer and early fall of 1975, and, technically, were intended to promote New City, even though only two songs off that album were included in the tracklist (no idea how many were actually performed); the band lineup is essentially the same as on the studio album, except that George Wadenius, the guitar player, was halfway out, and is on some tracks replaced here by Steve Kahn, and on others by Mike Stern, who would go on to play with the band on the next two studio albums.

There is really not much of any substance to be said about In Concert. Whatever their flaws, BS&T are never anything less than professional — money-grubbers they might be, but nobody can say they don't work hard for their money, and the record proves it. The rhythm section is tight, the improvised passages at least try to be inspired, and, most importantly, the setlist nicely fluctu­ates between predictable, but worthwhile, hits and unpredictable excursions into tasteful jazz-rock territory: they give out energetic renditions of Chick Corea's ʽSpainʼ and Cannonball Adderley's ʽUnit 7ʼ, the latter as a tribute to the recently deceased performer. This is not my kind of music at all, really, but as far as my ears suggest, the performances should be pleasing enough for the general jazz fan, unless he's racist or something. Better this, at least, than covering the latest Bee Gees hits or still trying to grovel at the feet of Earth, Wind & Fire.

Occasional turn-offs do occur, and, sad to say, they are mostly the fault of Clayton-Thomas, who sometimes lets his hair down too much — for instance, turns the finale of ʽLucretia MacEvilʼ into blabbery mush (how many "talk to me, Lucy!"'s does it take to make us get the point?), or has a little too much fun with the audience at the end of ʽHi-De-Hoʼ (okay, so its anthemic chorus may be the perfect trigger for happy audience participation, but that is no excuse for turning it into sheer silliness). Worst of all, however, is that we get to hear David's take on ʽI Love You More Than You'll Ever Knowʼ — with all the throbbing pain of the original replaced with a Vegas-ap­proved schmaltz delivery, oversung, overscreamed, and even the lead guitarist somehow manages to transform the original wail into a pseudo-Page blues-de-luxe solo without any soul.

But on the whole, the experience is adequate: ʽLifeʼ, ʽRide Captain Rideʼ, the bulk of ʽLucretiaʼ and ʽHi-De-Hoʼ, the ubiquitous ʽYou've Made Me...ʼ — I do not see how these could be suscep­tible to serious criticism. Besides, ʽSpinning Wheelʼ gets an improvised fanfare-ridden passage in the middle, and ʽAnd When I Dieʼ is split in half with a John Lee Hooker cover and a Dave Barge­ron-led trombone jam — so they are being at least mildly inventive. All in all, In Concert might even be a good alternative to getting all the studio albums: in between the hits, the oldies, the improvisations, and the tributes, it captures the spirit of post-Kooper BS&T much better than any individual studio record, possibly with the exception of the 1969 one, and, several nasty flaws notwithstanding, deserves a thumbs up.

Check "In Concert" (CD) on Amazon

Blood, Sweat & Tears: New City

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: NEW CITY (1975)

1) Ride Captain Ride; 2) Life; 3) No Show; 4) I Was A Witness To War; 5) One Room Country Shack; 6) Applause; 7) Yesterdays Music; 8) Naked Man; 9) Got To Get You Into My Life; 10) Takin' It Home.

The attempt to re-model BS&T as a funky dance-pop band having miserably failed, both critical­ly and commercially, it was officially decided that the group had lost its way, and needed to re­trace its steps back to the point at which they seemed more generally accepted. To that end, Jerry Fisher amicably left the band, taking most of the Mirror Image-era extras (like Jerry LaCroix, etc.) with him — and David Clayton-Thomas was welcomed back into the fold.

The result is an album that is at least «on the level» with the band's output circa 1970-71: the kind of sound they had back there had not yet become «dated» circa 1975, and the restructuring pro­bably injected a few extra drops of adrenaline into the outfit — and although I have never been a big fan of Clayton-Thomas, I have to admit that, next to the absolute non-remarkability of Fisher, he sounds like The Supreme God Of Vocal Expression by comparison, so that alone is a big step up from the passable, but colorless years of Fisher rule.

To herald the «comeback», BS&T tried out a move that, in retrospect, seems so utterly obvious that it only makes one wonder how they managed to hold out on it for so long — then again, per­haps they were saving it up for the rainiest day in their history, and it was getting pretty cloudy in 1975. I am talking, of course, of the release of the Beatles' ʽGot To Get You Into My Lifeʼ as the lead single from the album — that particular song that is referenced, in so many textbooks, as the song that gave life to the «jazz-pop» brand of BS&T and Chicago, much like ʽI Am The Walrusʼ gave life to the «strings-pop» brand of the Electric Light Orchestra.

Curiously, the band's version is actually much more guitar-heavy than the original — it is almost as if they were returning the Beatles a favor, with the «original brass band» paying homage to the «original guitar band» by reinterpreting the original guitar band's brass-led number as the ori­ginal brass band's guitar-led number. That said, unlike the Beatles, BS&T forgot to shape their guitar parts into any memorable riffs — the result is a slippery, mushy style of production that preserves the vocal melody but cheapens the song instrumentally. Despite that, the single still managed to chart: a Beatles song is a Beatles song, after all, it's fairly hard to spoil it to the ground.

But there are plenty of more adequate covers on New City as well. ʽRide Captain Rideʼ, the only hit by the little-known band Blues Image, originally recorded in 1970, is here given the proper BS&T treatment, including a lengthy cool-jazz keyboard solo, and Clayton-Thomas gives an in­spired performance — the original had a more exquisite guitar part (courtesy of Mike Pinera, who would later play with Iron Butterfly and Alice Cooper), but, overall, a thinner, less overtly kick-ass sound (and it also features here one of Ron McClure's toughest basslines, good enough to rival some of Fielder's), so count me happy.

The band also sounds revitalized on such party-oriented stuff as Allen Toussaint's ʽLifeʼ (similar in style to David Bowie's ʽFameʼ — coincidence? technically, yes, since Young Americans was released only a month prior to New City, but in general, no, since both songs reflected the same musical tendencies of the epoch); and Randy Newman's circus number ʽNaked Manʼ, introduced with a little bit of popular Mozart, but played out in «mock-silly» rather than «unintentionally-corny» style. And, just for diversity's sake, Laura Nyro as the band's resident «semi-popular in­tellectual singer-songwriter with musical pretense» is now replaced by Janis Ian, whose ʽAp­plauseʼ is extended by an extra three minutes of jazz-fusion and classical-fusion travels — no­thing too awesome, but at least they are trying something out, and this is the kind of something that their reputation was built upon in the first place.

Of the original numbers, Clayton-Thomas' ʽYesterdays Musicʼ is a dang good soul-pop song, simple, but with a subtle build-up and an elegant melodic wrap-up at the end of each verse. The ballad ʽI Was A Witness To Warʼ is not as good — too much vocal pathos, too little in the way of discernible melody — and McClure's instrumental ʽNo Showʼ is equally mushy for the first half of its duration, before a nicely placed twist pushes it over into upbeat rhythmic territory, where it becomes another passable, but forgettable, fusion piece.

Still, I have nothing against awarding the album an overall thumbs up. It is musically competent, mildly adventurous, gives us back a singer that is above average (no matter what I might hold in general against this particular type of singing), and, unlike its immediate predecessors, does not try to blindly compete against prevailing fads and trends, but rather just goes on to quietly pursue its own business. The very fact alone that they were able to put that blundering train back upon a crude, but functional railtrack deserves recognition.

Check "New City" (MP3) on Amazon

Blood, Sweat & Tears: Mirror Image

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: MIRROR IMAGE (1974)

1) Tell Me That I'm Wrong; 2) Look Up To The Sky; 3) Love Looks Good On You; 4) Hold On To Me; 5) Thinking Of You; 6) Are You Satisfied; 7) Mirror Image; 8) She's Coming Home.

Presumably, after New Blood and No Sweat, the next obvious LP title should have been Near Tears, or something like that. I can sort of see the band passing on that one, but the bare fact re­mains — Mirror Image is just a gallant euphemism for Near Tears, because (a) most of these songs do bring the knowledgeable listener «near tears», and (b) the album is, to a large extent, a «mirror image» of whatever this band used to be five years before.

Setting their glam-rock ambitions aside, Fisher, Bargeron, Wadenius & Co. have now decided that neither Elton John-style balladry nor Mick Ronson-style «flash-rock» are really where it's at (for «it», feel free to substitute either «big bucks» or «the future of music», depending on the po­sitive / negative charge of your feelings for the band). Instead, they decide to put their trust in funk-pop — those hot, catchy, sweeping dance grooves that were becoming all the latest rage and had already evolved to the state of «proto-disco». With Earth, Wind & Fire having recently begun to conquer the charts with that style, it was only natural that «Blood, Sweat & Tears» should use the same formula (most record buyers would be confusing the two anyway, wouldn't they?).

Consequently, Side A of the album is completely dedicated to trying out this new approach — steady, streamlined dance-pop interspersed with a few gentler soul numbers — while the B-side still pretends to a slice of artsiness, being almost completely turned over to a huge, four-move­ment suite (title track), with each movement written by a different band member or subset of band members. Speaking of which, almost all of the LP is self-penned, except for two of the most «shake-yer-booty» style songs, contributed by Patricia Cosby, wife of Motown veteran Henry Cosby, who produced the album for the band.

Also of note is another important lineup change: Jim Fielder, the amazingly nimble-fingered bass wonder behind all of the band's classic numbers, finally got fed up with the constant turnover — and, perhaps, he was feeling that this simplification of the band's playing style left no space for his talent. Replaced by the reliable, but nowhere near as impressive / expressive Ron McClure, Fielder left for a humble session musician career — leaving drummer guy Bobby Colomby as the only original member of the band.

If you are a deep fan of this funky dance music, regardless of the compositional and atmospheric value of the actual songs, that first side, actually, isn't that bad. The grooves are danceable and perfectly professional; Jerry Fisher continues to be reliable as the «never oversinging» singer; and they try to introduce bona fide brass hooks and vocal hooks to almost every song, the best of the brass riffs arguably captured on the album's lead single ʽTell Me That I'm Wrongʼ, and the most memorable vocal hook contained on ʽLove Looks Good On Youʼ, where lead vocals are taken by temporary guest member Jerry LaCroix (soon to join the mid-1970s lineup of Rare Earth).

But, of course, everything suffers from BS&T's predictable flaw — too smooth, too cautious, too middle-of-the-road. The hooks ain't Bee Gees level, the soul is tepid compared to Al Green, the energy does not begin to approach Funkadelic, the subtlety is just non-existent next to Curtis May­field etc. etc. Just as No Sweat fell right into the «generic glam-rock» category, Mirror Image is equal parts «generic dance music», with hardly any good reasons to single it out of the swarms of records by other, less reputable, artists riding the same train in 1974.

All hopes rest on the four-part suite — how good is that one? Well, other than a hard-funk vocal movement at the end, this is competent jazz-fusion that suffers from the very same problem: it should feel itself mighty uncomfortable in the company of John McLaughlin, Jeff Beck, the Soft Machine, Weather Report, etc. Had Jim Fielder still been in the band, he could have, perhaps, supplied parts of the suite with some super-tight monster basslines — as it is, the band is still able to keep its shit together, but lacks the virtuosity necessary to push it in a whole new dimension. For instance, at one point Wadenius lets rip with an aggressive, sky-high guitar solo, but it does not either have a distinctive voice of its own, or reach the same levels of dazzling technicality as you'd expect from a Santana or an Alan Holdsworth in this context.

Consequently, like everything else on here, ʽMirror Imageʼ is as perfectly listenable as it is perfectly boring — at this point, the band really starts looking like a respectably dressed, but a pennyless ticketless passen­ger, desperately trying to board one train after another, regardless of the actual direction, and inavoi­dably thrown off upon each attempt. The only thing about this whole process that is truly curious is how the hell they all managed to stick together and retain the original moniker for so long — considering that this particular «revolving doors» approach did not even depend on one or two permanent members (like Jethro Tull is always Jethro Tull as long as it has Ian Anderson in it, or King Crimson only has to preserve Robert Fripp to go on be­ing King Crimson). Blame it all on some sort of «Blood, Sweat & Tears spirit» that Al helped generate in 1968 — sweet, sour, or stale, it had this odd magnetic effect that simply would not wear off, whatever the circumstances. Mystical stuff.

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Blood, Sweat & Tears: No Sweat

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: NO SWEAT (1973)

1) Roller Coaster; 2) Save Our Ship; 3) Django (An Excerpt); 4) Rosemary; 5) Song For John; 6) Almost Sorry; 7) Back Up Against The Wall; 8) Hip Pickles; 9) My Old Lady; 10) Empty Pages; 11) Mary Miles; 12) Inner Crisis.

No Sweat? Really? Sure, the album cover is «funny» and all, but with the heated way the band throws itself on the glam rock barricades of the day, surely some sweat must have been sweated out while rehearsing and recording these tunes, not to mention performing them live before audi­ences who demanded that sweat from their performers. Preferably gleaming and glistening off their bare chests, for better effect.

With Steve Katz out of the band, the number of the original remaining members has now dwindled to two — the rhythm section of Jim Fielder and Bobby Colomby. (Additionally, Tom Malone replaces Chuck Winfield on trumpet, but he only lasted one year anyway, before leaving the band to accompany Gil Evans, and I don't blame him). The musical compass is now being provided by woodwinder Lou Marini and guitarist George Wadenius: in particular, they take it upon themselves to once again raise the quota of original songwriting — and to update the band's sound for those strange new times, when «flashy» seemed to take over «substantial».

There were three alleys now for the band to follow — with only one of them remaining the «ori­ginal» alley that BS&T themselves had a hand in constructing in the first place: instrumental jazz-rock / «fusion», here illustrated, first and foremost, by keyboardist Larry Willis' album-closing suite ʽInner Crisisʼ. The piece was, in fact, just a small fragment of the guy's creative mind — best illustrated on his solo LP from the same year, which, not coincidentally, was also called Inner Crisis and contained an alternate, even more harsh and funky version of the same compo­sition. Jazz fusion is not my favorite genre, so I cannot rave and rant about the great atmospheric wonders of the piece — but it is fairly adventurous, starting off on a solo piano note and then moving into a solid, riff-heavy groove (Jim Fielder offers lots of help on bass, too).

At the very least, ʽInner Crisisʼ sounds positively respectable next to the album's only other piece to contain some instrumental exploration: ʽAlmost Sorryʼ starts as «pub-rock de-luxe», then quickly turns into a portentous Vegasy piece, with hyper-loud trombone solos, hysterical synth parts and, ultimately, a vaudeville atmosphere — not so surprisingly, the brass / guitar / key­boards babble on the final couple of minutes sound eerily similar to the textures created by Alice Cooper on ʽWelcome To My Nightmareʼ (the song) a couple years later. Was Alice enough of a BS&T fan to get that influenced? In any case, it is one thing to combine vaudeville with parody, irony, and humorous titillation, as Alice does — ʽAlmost Sorryʼ is just boring in comparison.

But do not get me wrong: there is nothing truly trailblazing about No Sweat. On the contrary, the other two directions that it explores are not just traditional in themselves (soulful ballads and pompous rockers), but strictly follow recently established formulas. Two of the ballads, both con­tributed by Wadenius — ʽSave Our Shipʼ and ʽMy Old Ladyʼ — sound like totally bona fide Elton John songs, relatively convincing but spoiled by weak lyrics (no Bernie to save the day) and even weaker vocals (well, there is a reason, after all, why Elton John is celebrating his 60th anniver­sary at Madison Square Garden and Jerry Fisher is not — and it doesn't even have much to do with The Lion King or Princess Diana). In fact, the band is so well aware of the fact that it even hires Paul Buckmaster, Elton's trusty classic sideman, to oversee the orchestral arrange­ments — which happen to be the best thing about both of these tunes: Buckmaster had this mean, lean way with cellos, emphasizing them over violins, that automatically makes him one of the most distinctive, if not just plain best, string arrangers on that era's pop records.

Then there are the rockers — ʽBack Up Against The Wallʼ does sound like a smoothed-down version of the garage-era Alice Cooper, while Mark James' ʽRoller Coasterʼ, Randy Newman's ʽRosemaryʼ, and Traffic's ʽEmpty Pagesʼ are rootsier and/or funkier, but all four are equally loud, «triumphant», and designed to give you a good time in stretching your limbs, but not necessarily in getting an emotional high of any sorts. In other words, all of this is yer average «okay» music, perfectly adequate as a background soundtrack — no matter how seriously they try to make it loud enough for the foreground — but not really working on any other levels. Maybe that is really what the title of No Sweat is trying to tell us, except I think that the band members them­selves would be honestly pissed off at such a suggestion.

Overall, my final suggestion is that the album does no harm, but is mainly listenable for the sake of curiosity, especially if you are a big Elton John fan — like it or not, not everybody is physical­ly capable of nailing that style as expertly as they do on ʽSave Our Shipʼ — and especially if you are a serious fusion collector, in which case you do need to hear ʽInner Crisisʼ. (Then again, you might just want to head straight for the lion's den and get yourself a copy of Larry Willis' solo LP instead — certainly a better investment for the true fusion lover).

Blood, Sweat & Tears: New Blood

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: NEW BLOOD (1972)

1) Down In The Flood; 2) Touch Me; 3) Alone; 4) Velvet; 5) I Can't Move No Mountains; 6) Over The Hill; 7) So Long Dixie; 8) Snow Queen; 9) Maiden Voyage.

And lots of it, too. By 1972, the band had lost not just Clayton-Thomas, who thought his position solid enough to try and go for a solo career, but also two more of its founding fathers — Lipsius and Halligan, whose arranging and songwriting talents had been one of the band's assets. In their place, the remaining veterans hired Jerry Fisher, a big fan of the jazz-rock sound who'd been hanging around Dallas for a couple of years, playing BS&T and Chicago covers; Lou Marini on woodwinds; and Larry Willis on piano. In addition, Georg Wadenius was added to the lineup on extra lead guitar — maybe because the band just couldn't stand the prospect of not having a band member whose family name ended in "-ius" among them.

However, strangely enough, the basic essentials of the BS&T sound remain the same even with all the «new blood» pumped in those not-too-attractive veins. The new vocal guy sounds some­what like a deflated version of Clayton-Thomas — a barroom screamer who'd like to have the same amount of brawn, but is incapable of conquering his gene machine. That is a change, but not a very significant one. In all other matters, this is still the same old brand of roots music with horns — a little jazz, a little blues, a little pop, and a lot of blowing.

One change for the worse is that, with the departure of Clayton-Thomas and Halligan, the band is once again deprived of the songwriting initiative. Trombonist Dave Bargeron tries his hand in the business, but his ʽOver The Hillʼ ends up being a fairly standard pub-rock cut, very much influen­ced by Joe Cocker's ʽDelta Ladyʼ — the grizzly wah-wah riff that drives the song is a nifty inven­tion, but everything else about the song is way below par. New band member Lou Marini also jumps in with a slice of soulful funk (ʽAloneʼ) that only shows signs of life during the instrumen­tal jam section — in other respects, it's just your Vegas show most of the way.

Elsewhere, the impoverished band has no choice but to fall back on covers, trying out everything from Bob Dylan to Carole King to Herbie Hancock to Teddy Randazzo. Naturally, the choice could have been much worse, and the decision to cover ʽMaiden Voyageʼ alone signified that the band was not yet done with its «artsy» pledge — the mid-section with scat singing over a nimble jazz guitar solo by Wadenius could hardly qualify as «commercial» stuff in 1972. However, it is hard to sense any genuine inspiration in most of these covers: on the whole, the band does not seem to understand very well why exactly they are making these particular choices.

Thus, Dylan's ʽDown In The Floodʼ is unexplainably set to a slowed-down variant of the bassline from Cream's ʽCrossroadsʼ and transformed into a less-than-subtle blues-rock rucus — not too bad per se, but what's that got to do with Dylan? Randazzo's ʽTouch Meʼ is arranged as a bona fide Elton John piano ballad — all fine, but we already have an Elton John, and he sings better than Jerry Fisher. ʽSnow Queenʼ is a good song, but, from this particular rendition, you'd never guess it had anything to do with Carole King — and so on.

I suspect that the album would have worked much better as a fully instrumental project: almost everywhere on here, the tracks are easier to appreciate when the band just «gets it on» — nobody is able to deprive Jim Fielder of his great bass skills, and all the trumpet and trombone solos and duels are completely on the level with many jazz greats of the era. The cover of ʽMaiden Voyageʼ, which is completely instrumental, is unquestionably the highlight here for that very reason. But every time these guys drift off in a pure «entertainment» direction — and this happens way too often for comfort — they run out of purposes faster than you can pull that mouthpiece away from your lips. Nothing on here sucks bad enough to warrant a negative assessment, but RateYourMu­sic currently evaluates the record as «#868 for 1972», and I'd say that's a fairly rational place for it — be sure to check out those other 867 albums first.

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Blood, Sweat & Tears: B, S & T 4

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: B, S & T 4 (1971)

1) Go Down Gamblin'; 2) Cowboys And Indians; 3) John The Baptist; 4) Redemption; 5) Lisa, Listen To Me; 6) A Look To My Heart; 7) High On A Mountain; 8) Valentine's Day; 9) Take Me In Your Arms (Rock Me A Little While); 10) For My Lady; 11) Mama Gets High; 12) A Look To My Heart (duet).

An unexpected improvement upon the band's disappointing third album — suddenly, the band wakes up and remembers that writing songs can be as much fun as covering them (not to mention much more satisfactory in the financial scheme of things). Nine out of eleven tunes are originals, and a tenth one is contributed by Al Kooper, still the «blood» of the band where Clayton-Thomas could have been its «sweat» (and the proper «tears» had yet to come). Only one bona fide cover remained, because what is a Clayton-Thomas era BS&T album without an authentic cover of an R&B standard? Original songwriting be damned, nothing can get an audience on its feet as effec­tively as good old Motown — and ʽTake Me In Your Armsʼ is as good a choice as anything.

The point is not that Clayton-Thomas, Katz, Halligan, and Lipsius suddenly turned into genius songwriters. The point is, their investment in trying out new chord combinations gives the band a sense of purpose, even if that purpose is rarely satisfied. Most amazingly, it seems to somehow procure some much needed dignity for David's voice: be it on the introspective country waltz of ʽCowboys And Indiansʼ, on the tough blues-funk of ʽRedemptionʼ, or on the courteous folk bal­ladry of ʽFor My Ladyʼ, he sounds a little more thoughtful and a little less flashy / corny than he did on most of 3. A little original songwriting may go a longer way than one usually thinks?.. Or is it just a misguided gut feeling?

The decision to start out on a hard rock note, most likely influenced by the Zep-dominated tastes of the time, does feel somewhat pathetic, especially considering that ʽGo Down Gamblin'ʼ isn't really much of a classic — its generic and not particularly memorable blues chords are not even much of a match for the brass riff of ʽLucretia Mac Evilʼ. Competing with the «monsters of rock» did not pay off: thoughtlessly released as a single, the song only went as high as #32, and why should it have gone any higher, with the market already oversaturated with bulgy riff-rockers? (And most of the fans of bulgy riff-rockers had little interest in hearing a bunch of sissy brass instruments overclouding the guitars, anyway).

But it gets better from there: ʽCowboys And Indiansʼ exudes some simplistic nostalgic sentimen­talism — co-written by Halligan with Terry Kirkman from The Association, it challenges David to convince us that the protagonist does prefer, nowadays, to «play the Indian» rather than «play the cowboy», and in order to do that, the guy chooses the «mumble-in-your-beard» style that suits him much better than the Tom Jones posturing. The song is written in relatively free style, more like a distracted Van Morrison type of rambling than a verse-chorus thing, but the brass arrange­ment gives it a bit of grizzled-heroic atmosphere, and ultimately, it works.

ʽRedemptionʼ is more impressive for its funky instrumental section, with plenty of punch contri­buted by the bass and drums, than for any main melody, but, unlike ʽSympathy For The Devilʼ, this is a groove that they worked out all by themselves, and it is far more effective. ʽLisa, Listen To Meʼ is a pretty damn good «roots-pop» ditty, too, highlighted by a classic fuzzy psycho-riff from Katz — by all means, it should have been the first single from the album, not the second one: by the time it hit the market, ʽGo Down Gamblin'ʼ had already flopped, and the band was spin­ning down commercially at an alarming rate.

The second side of the LP is unexpectedly dominated by Katz compositions: formerly relegated to the duty of contributing one or two lushy-mushy folk ballads per LP, he now has a whoppin' four songwriting credits — of which only two are ballads (ʽValentine's Dayʼ sung by Katz him­self); ʽHigh On A Mountainʼ is a slow and rather boring attempt at a hymn, and ʽMama Gets Highʼ is a piece of old-school vaudeville, which would probably not be deemed good enough for Cabaret, let alone a respectable rock band. All of which just goes to re-confirm the old truth about sleeping dogs — Katz was not improving as a songwriter by expanding his range. Still, somehow, I'd rather have these limp attempts at living than yet another bunch of Traffic, Laura Nyro, and The Band covers. (Speaking of which, Al's ʽJohn The Baptistʼ sounds uncannily like a Band song from circa 1969 — and, what's even more funny, Al's own version of the song, re­leased the same year, is so much more overproduced and stuffed with brass overdubs that it ends up sounding more like typical Blood, Sweat & Tears than the BS&T version!).

Cutting a long story short, very little of this stuff is impressive, but it holds together well, and the album as a whole is a «moderate grower», becoming a wee bit more friendly and invigorating with each new listen rather than the opposite. Unfortunately, 1971 was not a good year for «mo­derate growers»: the public, already disappointed with what had been offered to them the year before, could do with nothing less than a strong jolt, and a strong jolt is one thing that BS&T4 does not manage to deliver even once — ʽLisa, Listen To Meʼ is a good song, but much too plain to attract the required attention. Alas, the lack of commercial success shattered the band's self-confidence, and what could have been a new humble beginning proved instead to be the begin­ning of the end.

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Blood, Sweat & Tears: Blood, Sweat & Tears 3

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS 3 (1970)

1) Hi-De-Ho; 2) The Battle; 3) Lucretia Mac Evil; 4) Lucretia's Reprise; 5) Fire And Rain; 6) Lonesome Suzie; 7) Symphony For The Devil / Sympathy For The Devil; 8) He's A Runner; 9) Somethin' Comin' On; 10) 40,000 Head­men.

We can safely bet that way too many admirers of ʽYou've Made Me So Very Happyʼ must have been fairly puzzled to buy an album called Blood, Sweat & Tears 3 right after having bought an album called Blood, Sweat & Tears — sending them out on a hard-to-explain quest for that mythical second album that never was. With a little less safety, we can also bet that these same admirers may also have been puzzled by the fact that the band's lack of creativity in choosing their album titles had, unfortunately, also extended to their albums' contents. With only two ori­gi­nal compositions out of nine, the new-look Blood, Sweat & Tears were now clearly positioning themselves as a cover band. And who the heck needed a cover band back in 1970?

Worse than that, they did give a concise answer here as to why it might have been wiser for them to stick to covers. The «artsy» past of the band catches up with it, and fills its collective head with unnecessary ecstasy, on the thoroughly pointless, and sometimes rather offensive, version of ʽSympathy For The Devilʼ. For some reason, somebody thought that a little bit of free-form jazz, with plenty of tuba and trombone polyphony, made a good companion to the pseudo-Satanic vibe of the Stones' contemporary classic — probably picked out of the lot not by pure chance, but due to increased public in­terest with it in conjunction with the Altamont disaster — but the result is not so much «experimental jazz-rock» as «Vegasy jazz-schlock», especially given Clayton-Tho­mas' «Tom Jones with tail and horns» vocal delivery. Nothing gels, nothing makes sense, and most of it genuinely irritates, because the band really feels quite clueless throughout the entire performance. Maybe it could have worked better, had they picked out a track that wasn't already «epic» in the first place — then again, maybe it couldn't.

Therefore, when they actually cover stuff without any attempts to turn it into a «symphony», it usually works better. Goffin & King's ʽHi-De-Hoʼ, a smart choice for the album's first single, suits Clayton-Thomas' normal singing style much better than any Rolling Stones song, and there is also a nice climactic buildup to the grand «Southern gospel» finale. ʽHe's A Runnerʼ is another Laura Nyro song that they do full justice to (not to mention that Laura Nyro could always use a good popularization from a more popular act), and there is a very nice piano/bass instrumental inter­lude that certifies their jazz chops without turning into a pretentious mess.

Most of the other covers, too, range from passable (ʽLonesome Suzieʼ has the lead singer doing a Richard Ma­nuel impression that almost works — although, who really wants to hear David Clayton-Thomas sing like Richard Manuel when one can instead listen to Richard Manuel not singing like David Clayton-Thomas?) to likable (Traffic's ʽ40,000 Headmenʼ). The problem is, none of them make much sense apart from the «and now, your favorite song by Mr. X... done with horns!» message. In fact, I'd say that James Taylor with horns (ʽFire And Rainʼ) is a down­right sordid idea, but that's just me.

All the more puzzling it is to realize that the two originals here are pretty strong songs in their own right. ʽThe Battleʼ, co-written by Katz and keyboardist Dick Halligan and sung by Katz, continues Steve's tradition of gallant baroque / medieval-influenced folk compositions, but is tighter, catchier, more ambitious and less mushy than usual — a nostalgic minstrel tune with a good balance between the harpsichord and the brass section. As for Clayton-Thomas' ʽLucretia Mac Evilʼ, yes, it is overwrought, over-exuberant, and Tom Jones-y, but it does have a good slew of memorable brass riffs — something that ʽSpinning Wheelʼ, for instance, did not have, and the instrumental reprise gives Jim Fielder the best of opportunities to practice his nimble bass runs, as the rest of the band, too, feels invigorated by the tightness of the funky groove. So why did they have to waste solid musicianship on clumsy attempts to get into somebody else's groove, then (ʽSympathyʼ), when they were still capable of growing their own? Beats me.

Although the record enjoyed heavy commercial success, on the huge impulse of its predecessor, it must have been obvious to everybody that the overall reaction would be one of disappointment — or, perhaps, they thought they could make it on the strength of the singles alone, in which they were only partially right. Oh well, at least they did retain a good taste in covers, and at least there is a working logic in that Al Kooper would cover Harry Nilsson and Randy Newman where Clay­ton-Thomas would cover Joe Cocker and Steve Winwood. No thumbs down in the end — the awful ʽSym­pathyʼ is nicely counterbalanced by the excellent ʽLucretiaʼ, and most of the rest is so utterly neutral that the band seems more poised for a shrug than a negative judgement.

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Blood, Sweat & Tears: Blood, Sweat & Tears

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS (1969)

1) Variations On A Theme By Erik Satie; 2) Smiling Phases; 3) Sometimes In Winter; 4) More And More; 5) And When I Die; 6) God Bless The Child; 7) Spinning Wheel; 8) You've Made Me So Very Happy; 9) Blues (Part II); 10) Variations On A Theme By Erik Satie.

No band that fires Al Kooper and hires David Clayton-Thomas deserves appraisal for its actions. With their second album, in a brief, unpleasant flash, Blood, Sweat & Tears dispense with at least several meters of soulful depth — making a transition from «art rock» to «professional enter­tainment» and, worst of all, probably not even realizing it. The good news was that they made the charts, something that is, indeed, easier to do for a professional entertainer than for an art-rocker: the record went all the way to No. 1, became quadruple platinum, yielded several hit singles, and essentially made the band into a household name — now that they finally had a singer who could provide them with that «Tom Jones» feel.

Despite the disappointment, the record is not bad. First, Kooper had some time to work on these songs — a few of them do seem to have a bit of the Kooper touch, although I do not know the exact details. Second, the idea of BS&T as an «art» band is not yet completely abandoned: the record is di­verse, unpredictable and largely experimental — after all, no entertaining act targeted at bored housewives would probably start the album off with a rearrangement of an excerpt from Satie's ʽTrois Gymnopédiesʼ. Third, they still retain a good sense of taste in their selection of covers: whatever be, one has to admit that Traffic, Laura Nyro, Billie Holiday and even Brenda Holloway are fairly good company on the road.

The worst thing about Kooper's departure is that the awesome contrast between the loud and bom­bastic, on one side, and the lonesomely personal and the introspective, on the other, which really made Child the masterpiece that it was, has vanished into thin air. The band itself under­stood it well enough, I guess, since self-titling the record symbolized a sort of total reboot. Now all the songs were not only loud and bombastic, but also sunny, cheerful, optimistic, well suited for an audience that did not care to see a lot of «suffering» on its playlists. Of course, the switch itself was neither «right» nor «wrong», but it did put the record, right from the start, into a cate­gory where failure becomes irredeemable, if you know what I mean.

As a songwriter, David Clayton-Thomas was, of course, no match for Kooper. He contributes only one song altogether: ʽSpinning Wheelʼ is a friendly jazz-pop piece that occasionally pretends to be loaded with a little bit of psychedelic powder — which goes all wet at the end, as the band unexpectedly launches into several flute-led bars of ʽLieber Augustinʼ and the drummer makes a comment of "that wasn't too good" as the rest of the band snickers around him. The song, alto­gether, is more efficient than its coda, but not by much — the best thing about it (and many other things around here) is probably Jim Fielder's bass playing, combining a perfect sense of rhythm with a desire for inventive melodicity.

Of the two covers chosen for single release, Laura Nyro's ʽAnd When I Dieʼ seems to me by far the winner, what with all the melodic transitions (from slow country-rock to fast vaudeville-rock and back) and the clash of the song's unsettling title with its lyrically and melodically optimistic message — although, frankly speaking, Clayton-Thomas is hardly the right vocalist for this kind of material. He does seem to be far more in his element on ʽYou've Made Me So Very Happyʼ, a song that quickly became the new-look BS&T's calling card but, honestly speaking, adds little to the Holloway original — which had already taken the composition to its joyful peak, and neither the rough-hewn, pompous, quasi-Southern growl of Clayton-Thomas nor the horn gymnastics of his band members can push it up any higher, so it seems to me. Nor is the guy genius enough to uncover any new depths in ʽGod Bless The Childʼ — great song, for sure, but never because of being blessed by a Blood, Sweat & Tears interpretation.

In all actuality, the best song on the album (bar ʽAnd When I Dieʼ) is probably ʽMore & Moreʼ, a cheerful, but tough funk rocker on which both Fielder on bass and Steve Katz on his Cream/Hen­drix-in­fluenced «acid tone guitar» are allowed to shine on par with Clayton-Thomas. At the very least, it is still a song that rocks hard in solid 1960s mode, which is almost always a plus. Less of a plus, but still respectable as an ongoing tradition, is the presence of a near-obligatory psycho-folk ballad by Katz (ʽSometimes In Winterʼ) — these things are generally pleasant to the ear, but totally lack any staying power.

Where the album really starts taking serious chances is on ʽBlues, Part IIʼ, an 11-minute improvi­sational (or «seemingly» improvisational jam) with just a little bit of vocal blueswailing at the end. Along the way, almost every band member gets to show some jazzy tush, culminating in them all happily diving into the riff of ʽSunshine Of Your Loveʼ, and then, for dessert, Katz leading them into a few psychobars of ʽSpoonfulʼ — a ritualistic tribute, no doubt, to the freshly deceased supergroup. The piece is not «great» or anything, but the band takes care to switch its groove as soon as it risks becoming boring, so, in the end, its role on the album seems more posi­tive than negative: at the very least, it symbolizes that this here band is still searching for some­thing, even if it may not necessarily be looking in the right place.

With our hearts perhaps full of sorrow at such flat-out spoiling of such a flat-out terrific begin­ning, we can still give Blood, Sweat & Tears a thumbs up, if only because it is hardly possible to nosedive from the peak into the pit in one single go. But there is little, if anything, about the record that makes it as timeless as its predecessor, stylish and professional as it might be — un­less one actually prefers the powerful, but one-dimensional and pompous vocals of Clayton-Tho­mas to the technically weaker, but (in my opinion) far more expressive and meaningful wailing of Al. Of course, I could see where such a preference could take place, but it is hardly the location to which these particular reviews are addressed, anyway.

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Blood, Sweat & Tears: Child Is Father To The Man

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: CHILD IS FATHER TO THE MAN (1968)

1) Overture; 2) I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know; 3) Morning Glory; 4) My Days Are Numbered; 5) With­out Her; 6) Just One Smile; 7) I Can't Quit Her; 8) Meagan's Gypsy Eyes; 9) Somethin' Goin On; 10) House In The Country; 11) The Modern Adventures Of Plato, Diogenes And Freud; 12) So Much Love / Underture.

A slightly cumbersome name for a somewhat encumbered band — but in early 1968, the game was worth it, considering that nobody in the rock'n'roll department had properly done it before: namely, integrated the «rock band» format with the «big band» format, expanding the regular lineup to no less than eight permanent members, four of them confined almost exclusively to the brass section (although Fred Lipsius, in addition to alto sax, is also credited for piano). For all we know, this here is indeed the birth of «jazz-rock», a gleefully incestuous combination in which «rock», the child, turns on «jazz», the mother, and takes his Oedipus complex out on her.

No wonder the pagan gods got angry, and although they could not stop the jazz-rock virus from spreading, they did ensure that, for all their prolific career, Blood, Sweat & Tears would only have one proper masterpiece of the genre — this album. The formal reason is obvious: the band was essentially conceived and formed by Al Kooper, «the master of creative thinking» in roots-oriented American pop music, fresh out of The Blues Project — but no sooner had they released their first record that the unlucky guy was booted out of his own band, due to «creative disagree­ments»: much like Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck on the other side of the ocean, Al must have simply been incom­patible with normal teamwork, and eventually had to go solo.

The good news is that Child Is Father To The Man, a groundbreaking and, one could say, visio­nary collection of new compositions and old songs rethought in a radically new manner, did hap­pen. Like many similar artefacts of the time, it is quite a pretentious affair — the name of the band, the name of the album, the sleeve photo with all the band members holding cardboard re­plicas of themselves, the presence of an overture and an «underture», the understandably loud, sprawling sound... but its intentions are also honestly idealistic — this is not complexity for com­plexity's sake, this is complexity for the sake of building a ladder to the sky — and, most impor­tantly, it simply got a bunch of great songs on it.

I must say, though, that this is one of those cases where the presence of a small handful of major personal favorites sort of obscures the rest, and dims the whole picture. Namely, I am talking about the three principal Kooper originals: ʽMore Than You'll Ever Knowʼ, ʽMy Days Are Num­beredʼ, and ʽI Can't Quit Herʼ, which not only happens to be the best triad he ever wrote — there is no doubt in my mind about that — but should also rank as high as anything contributed to the world by a major songwriter in 1968. The man's career in The Blues Project gave only vague hints at the soulful depths he would eventually uncover, and how was that made possible? In the least predictable manner — by surrounding himself with trumpets, trombones, and saxophones that could be organized into a genuine power machine.

Actually, ʽI Love You More Than You'll Ever Knowʼ is the one song on here that would have been just as poignant without the brass backing — first and foremost, it is the greatest one-man show in Al's entire career. Recording a song that formally matches the required criteria for «soul­ful desperation» is not difficult, and has been done millions of times; making it fully credible and epically breathtaking is a feat manageable only with a fortuitous combination of talent and luck. Although, technically, the song is molded in the well-known «blues-de-luxe» idiom, and you can very well see its roots in the output of B. B. King and Ray Charles, Kooper's vocal composing is all his own — the gradual build-up, rising to near-hysterical heights on "is that any way for a man to carry on?..", then suddenly turning from rage to sobbing tenderness on one of the awesomest "i-love-you-baby" of all times, then bringing it all the way up with the first "more than you'll ever know", then gently lowering it back down with the second one. «Heart-wrenching beauty» — check, and I would personally take that vocal part over literally anything Robert Plant has ever committed to tape, much as he liked to dabble in the same sort of aesthetics.

That said, the individual beauty of ʽI Love You More Than You'll Ever Knowʼ does not quite tie in with the ideology of Blood, Sweat & Tears: its chief reliance is on Kooper's voice and the con­cordingly weepy lead guitar parts from Steve Katz (who, by the way, also rises to the occasion and comes up with lines far more impressive than anything previously tried in The Blues Project). That the album, after the string snippets of the overture have died down, is actually launched with this particular tune, might even be a bit of a surprise for the uninitiated, as the brass section truly comes in only on the bridge, and is not at all essential to the tune. But Child Is Father To The Man is actually quite big on surprises — as befits any classic work of art.

The brass section does get essential on ʽMy Days Are Numberedʼ, a faster, tenser, and even more desperate sequel to ʽMore Than...ʼ — the opening brass melody gives you con­templative melan­choly resolving into decisive musical seppuku in a matter of just a few bars, and although the fast rock-based verses and the slow baroque-styled choruses are a little too crudely sewn together, the contrast still works towards making the experience even more unforgettable. Finally, the «Love Junkie Trilogy», as the whole thing could be suitably called, ends with ʽI Can't Quit Herʼ, more piano-based and a little less gloomy than its two suicidal companions, but still picturing the pas­sion as a hopeless addiction, driving the protagonist crazy and, perhaps, more than a little psycho­pathic. Here, the piano is soon joined by strings and brass in a fairly democratic ensemble, but again, everything is dominated by the vocals and the inner demons — belying the image of «jazz-rock» as something that has to be bombastic and anthemic, ʽI Can't Quit Herʼ is really as personal and intimate as it gets.

And this is also why everything else on the album, as thoroughly thought out and implemented as it could be, inevitably pales next to the «Love Junkie Trilogy». Steve Katz, Kooper's old pal from the Blues Project days, in stark contrast to Al, still seems to be living in those days — his psycho-folk ballad ʽMeagan's Gypsy Eyesʼ is pretty and courteous, but hardly endowed with much stay­ing power. However, Kooper himself is hardly free of the old «training days» legacy, either, con­tributing the eight-minute mammoth blues jam ʽSomethin' Going Onʼ that is quite pedestrian in the old Blues Project way: at least Katz's «post-Hendrix» guitar tone and the thick brass backing give it more substance, but hardly enough to compete with the new blues-rock language of Jeff Beck or the upcoming Led Zeppelin.

The jazzified covers of Tim Buckley, Harry Nilsson, Randy Newman, and Carole King are all perfectly listenable, intelligently reworked, and pleasantly soulful — certainly not «filler» in any sense of the word — and, in between the four of them, show quite exhaustively how this new musical formula can be applied to any sort of material, though it is interesting that the band pre­fers to concentrate on «singer-songwriter» stuff rather than try, for instance, to put their touch on any of the pop hits of the day. Kooper's intentions seem clear enough: build his art at the intersec­tion of the confessional style, typical of loners and recluses, and the loud «arena» style — show how, when the deeply personal gets expressed through the openly public, the end results may, surprisingly, turn out to become even more deeply personal. This is the greatest paradox of Child, and the one reason why the band became such a different artistic entity after Kooper's departure: the form was retained, the substance was lost.

Anyway, the bottomline is: even if, for some reason, you are afraid of «jazz-rock» — for instance, associate it with Chicago ballads, or with instrumental fusion conundrums for those who value mathematics over music, do not make the mistake of ignoring this record, which sounds nothing like either of the two formulae. In fact, it pretty much sounds like nothing else out there: «Al Kooper with horns, strings, and heartbreak» finds no reasonable equivalent in my experience, and gets an assured thumbs up for that reason alone, not to mention all the others.

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