The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. CXIV

I'm gonna recommend each and every one of you go run to the cabinet real fast and grab yourself a couple of NoDoz real quick before we start this evening's installment, folks. . . 

Album Title:  For Christmas This Year

Album Artist:  The Lettermen

Another solid-gold gem from a Christmas run to Radio Wasteland, this album was a long, long time coming, folks. It was only a matter of time before The Lettermen finally graced my turntable on this Christmas Record Odyssey of mine, and to be honest I'm kinda surprised they haven't already.

If you've never frequented the used records section of your local thrift store (don't worry, its there), you probably can't understand what I'm getting at. You see, when a record collector goes hunting for vinyl, they're presented with some alternatives. First, they can shop online (via Amazon, Discogs, SoundofVinyl, Merchbar, etc.), which usually have the best prices, best availability, etc.  Second, they can head on over to their local record store, which provides the cool atmosphere and the camaraderie of being around other collectors, talking shop and learning more. . . the downside, alas, being prices and availability aren't usually as great as online shopping.

Then there's your third option - they can slum it up in their local shit holes. Flea/antique markets, garage sales, and thrift stores.

This is the Wild West of record collecting, because it's a total crap-shoot with regards to pricing and what you stumble across. Some antique stores think some dusty, scratched up Elvis record is worth $50 just because it's Elvis, all because they don't know shit about record collecting and haven't taken the time to look up the value of it on Discogs. Other times you can hit up a garage sale where some lady just got a divorce and she wants her husband's record collection liquidated. 

I once scored over one hundred albums once for $10 when I had only been collecting for a few years this way, I still remember it. 

Thrift stores are probably the worst place to look, though. This is almost always the absolute dregs of the physical media world, because it houses those albums that other folks have deemed crappy enough to get rid of, but not good enough for other people in society to purchase back from the thrift store. This is the fabled Land of Mantovani, of Mitch Miller, of Lawrence Welk, of The Ames Brothers, of Anne Murray, of Roger Whitaker, and of The Lettermen.

Like I said before, I'm surprised this is the first time I've gotten around to reviewing The Lettermen on here, because this is literally all I've ever seen at thrift stores - their dusty, old bullshit. I was curious to know what the hype (or lack thereof) was all about. So upon dropping the needle on this album, the first thing that hit me was, "Damn, I didn't realize any three vocalists out there could make Three Dog Night sound so f***ing hard. . ." 

This is, without a doubt, the most inoffensive easy listening music I've ever heard. You could play this in front of anyone, at any time: in the middle of church, to your grandparents while they're having sex, to a little kid in the middle of the night while wearing a werewolf mask in order to soothe them back to sleep, you name it. It works on so many levels. 

Now, I should point out real fast that the music itself on this album is straight-up '4' territory - it's boring, but it is competent. This is 'Great Songs of Christmas' music, the kind you''d expect backing Johnny Mathis, Julie Andrews, Andy Williams, etc. - which is also easy listening music, but a few clicks up from these douchebags in terms of 'star power,' I guess.  So I have zero issue with the arrangements on here. . . though I do with some of the song choices - which are so bad where they may be 'originals,' God forbid.) If going by music alone, in fact (like, if it was an instrumental release), I'd probably give this one a '4.' Maybe a '5.'

But Goddamn it all to Hell. . . these vocals.

From Our House to Yours, baby girl. . .

At no point, throughout the entirety of this album, do The Letterman push their voices out of the malaise of background vocals-ish harmonizing.  Not one of these creepy-looking assholes (see picture at right) attempt to 'belt out' any of their songs - not at a chorus, not at a reprise, nothing. There's no variation in the volume of their singing, ever - it's almost like they had to sign some kind of a clause with this record deal where they had to record everything so that it came across as the audio equivalent of mayonnaise. Consequently, all three voices blend together into some kind of nauseating,  Valium cocktail, lulling the listener into a state of near-comatose over the course of twelve songs.

After two sides of such sleepy singing, one almost wishes for the cheesy, over-the-top 'operatic' singing we've previously ridiculed on this blog over the years. If only to snap us out of our induced comas. 

Perhaps if they had drank a cup of coffee (or six) before recording albums like this one here, there wouldn't be so f***ing many of them cluttering up your local thrift store. . .

VERDICT:  3/10 - Seriously? (Do NOT listen to this album while operating heavy machinery.)

- SHELVED-

- Brian

The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. CI

Welp, we got ourselves a Buy One/Get One Free sorta thing going on this evening, folks - strap yourselves in. . .

Album Title:  Christmas with Henry Mancini/Christmas with Eddy Arnold

Album Artist:  Henry Mancini/Eddy Arnold

So obviously I picked this one up because I have never - ever - come across something like this on a record before, Christmas or not.  When I first picked it up from the Dollar Bin at Radio Wasteland, I saw 'Christmas with Henry Mancini' scrawled across the top, with a picture of some goofy-looking schmuck that looks like he's really trying to get you into that secondhand Dodge Dart he swears isn't gonna be around on his lot for very much longer.  I therefore figured this would be a hokey album, and well worth a buck, so I tucked it into my other arm and continued browsing through records.

You can imagine my surprise when, when reshuffling the stack of vinyl I had accumulated in my arms up to this point, I noticed upon second glance that it wasn't Henry Mancini at all, but some much more stiff-looking guy by the name of Eddy Arnold.  The schmoozey car salesman was gone, and now here was a father figure that wants you to sit down at the kitchen table for a sec, sport, so he can ask you about the pack of Marlboro Reds and the condoms he found in the glove box of your car.

It took me longer than I care to admit before I realized that I hadn't imagined the whole 'Henry Mancini being on the cover' thing, and that this album was, in fact, double-sided.  Not a double-LP, mind you:  double-sided.  On one side, this is a Henry Mancini album, and on the other, it's an Eddy Arnold album.

I didn't know you could do that.

Anyway, I struggled with reviewing these as two separate albums - seeing how it's one artist on each side - but ultimately sided against that approach because the producers of this LP decided on releasing it as a single album.  So that's what you get, folks - we're lumping these two together.  For better or for worse.

I'll start with Henry Mancini.  Side A.

This sounds the easy-listening, hometown-y, white bread sorta nonsense that every, last one of your grandparents listened to back in the 1950s.  It sounds like something I'd find on a cassette in my step-grandparents' conversion van back in the day.  I'm not sure if this Mancini guy is the singer, or just the composer, but in either case it's beyond boring.  

I could easily fall asleep to this one:  there are few highs and lows to be found on Side A, everything just keeps the same tempo, the same mix volume, the same instrumentation, the same everything.  While nothing is really worth making fun of, per se (at least not in a comical, fun way), it's hard to find any redeeming qualities in this side at all.  This is just another easy-listening album that is so non-offensive you could get away playing it in church.

And not a liberal church, mind you - one of the ones that think gays are evil and Democrats drink baby blood.

So how about this Eddy Arnold fella, let's talk about this guy.  I had heard of Mancini before - I'm no stranger to thrift stores, and have spent my fair share of time digging in vain through piles of musty and ill-kept Goodwill records - but I had never heard of Arnold.  

Giving this second side a listen, there's not a huge difference between Arnold's side and Mancini's side - they're equally boring - but if I had to be picky I'd say Arnold's arrangements aren't quite as sleepy.  It still classifies as easy listening, but the volume is literally louder (noticeably, and I didn't adjust my receiver) and the instruments are equally more brash.  There are more horns - the 50s definitely enjoyed their brass, without the swinging fun that accompanied the brass of the '60s - and, sadly, a lot more pipe organ.  The singer has a little more confidence in himself, too, and attempts to belt out his church-friendly, non-offensive carols like his voice alone has the power to drop elderly grandmother panties.

What's more than a little disturbing is the fact that, back in the day, it probably did.  Let that one sink in for a hot minute.  Alas, even that superpower fails to impress Yours Truly - that's nowhere near enough to save this snooze-fest from the donation bin. 

VERDICT:  4/10 - Borophyll (Double Trouble in the form of Henry Mancini and Eddy Arnold, bringing Nap Time into town like it's no one's business.  Lock up your grannies, America. . .)

- SHELVED-

- Brian

The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. LXXXIX

Time to get some Q.T in with the Rog, folks. . . 

Album Title:  The Roger Whittaker Christmas Album

Album Artist:  Roger Whittaker

If you've ever spent time in a thrift store digging through crates of moldy vinyl, searching for those usually non-existent rare finds, then you've definitely come across the name 'Roger Whitaker' before.  He shares crate space with the likes of Mantovani, Lawrence Welk, The Lettermen, and others of such ilk in just about every Salvation Army and Goodwill I've ever set foot in.

And folks, that's not a good thing.  There's a reason why folks dump such records off for a cheap tax write-off (along with soiled and outgrown childrens' clothing and tacky dishware that were found in a deceased grandparent's cupboards):  it's straight-up garbage.

Someone get this man some Head & Shoulders. . .

I've come across Roger a handful of times over the years, always on compilations (featuring some of the previously mentioned assholes), and I've never once been impressed by the guy.  How this dude managed to sell so many albums in his prime is beyond comprehension.  While listening to the opening track on Side 1 of this album, I'm convinced he's trying to be Cat Stevens (kinda almost sounds like him for a hot minute), until the slicked-up 70's production kicks in and the entire track drowns in cheese.  

After that opener, the album descends into music that can only be described as Grandparent Easy Listening.  The dude's got a baritone voice, for sure, but he can't seem to manage to bring that sense of gravitas to his songs like Elvis, Johnny Cash, Joe Cocker, or other similarly deep-voiced singers can do.  Nay, readers, Roger sounds like he's got one corduroy-slacked leg into an afternoon nap.  This near-yawning of his warbles along atop dated song arrangements that sound SO Late '70s you can almost picture the pornographic film they were likely inspired by. 

These two factors, while not doing Roger any favors when determining this album's overall rating, could be somewhat overlooked if the son of a bitch would at least have put some familiar Christmas songs on this release.  But no, we don't get any familiarity here whatsoever - it's a bunch of oddball weirdness, and honestly it's like some wood-paneled, shag-carpeted, parallel dimension where the only Christmas music that exists is bullshit that no one's ever heard before. 

All of these previously unheard of Christmas songs are boring and forgettable (hence this album's unavoidable return to the moldy crates of Salvation Army very soon), but a couple of songs on this album are so Goddamn terrible that I have to mention them briefly by name before we go: 

Side 1, Track 5. 'Darcy the Dragon.'  This Medieval romp sounds like Jethro Tull offered to take on a rock opera based on Disney's 1977 film, Pete's Dragon.  Renaissance Faire peasant music gallivants along in the background while an obviously-stoned Roger spins a yarn about a misunderstood dragon being chased out of a village or something by angry peasants, where he ends up in a magical forests and somehow - somehow - discovers the meaning of Christmas.  Or something, I don't know - it's only like three minutes minutes into the damn song that they somehow work Christmas into the lyrics.  I don't get why this song exists.

Side 1, Track 6. 'The Governor's Dream.'  The very next song, equally f***ed up, is some half-spoken word, half-song mini-play about Ancient Rome, wherein Roger plays the part of some Roman Governor who is troubled by. . . the Nativity?  An omen?  Something to do with Baby Jesus, I'm sure - how else are Romans being associated with Christmas if not by association with Baby Jesus?  So Roger acts out this song, speaking instead of singing quite a lot of the time, but then the music kicks in and a loud, boisterous chorus begins to rattle the rafters.  What ensues is a full-on shouting match with his backing choir, who continue to sing stuff like, 'Glory, Glory,' etc., and in return he starts barking at them like an angry, old racist yelling at a bunch of black teens to stop using the sidewalk in front of his house.  Repeated bellowing of "WHO SINGS, WHO SHOUTS?" from Roger Whittaker is just what the house was missing this Holiday Season, for sure.

At the end of listening to this album, I'm sure my facial expression matched the one on the kid to the far left:

VERDICT:  3/10 - Seriously? (WHO SINGS, WHO SHOUTS???)

- SHELVED -

- Brian

The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. LXIX

Alright, alright. . . we got another thrift store find to dust off and subject to some audio scrutiny.

Album Title:  The Gifts of Christmas

Album Artist:  Various Artists

So, full disclosure here, I did not just pop this out of the sleeve and throw it on my turntable, folks.  I'm not a savage, give me some credit.  I picked this one up at the Bethesda thrift store a week or so ago (when I picked up that stack featuring a few of my previously-evaluated selections), and I gave each one of these sons-of-bitches a thorough cleaning on the ol' Spin Clean before dropping a needle onto them.  They were pretty gross.

The Wicker Man heralds the beginning of the Apocalypse.

So, this collection is from the 'Guideposts' people of Carmel, New York.  I have no idea what in the hell that means, but apparently this was a big deal and all, because this is an exclusive recording.  I mean, you can't just slap that name on any old album, can you?  God knows they paid out the ass for this top-tier art layout on the front cover (see right).  Check out the Wicker Man angel, for Christ's sake.  They only needed one picture for the front of this damn record, and that's the one they went with.

Maybe the music speaks for itself, so they didn't need to fork out a lot of dough on art direction, I don't know.  Let's see who exactly we're dealing with here:

Holy f***ing shit.

This is a Christmas no one alive still remembers.

You read that right, guys.  Percy Faith, Jim Nabors, Mitch Mitchell, Kate Smith.  That's like the Four Horseman of the Goodwill Vinyl Apocalypse.  I swear to God, if you go into a thrift store trying to find a diamond LP in the rough that is their moldy-smelling vinyl offerings, you're going to find each and every one of these assholes highly represented.  Wedged right in there among the Mantovani records, polka collections, church recordings, Mills Brothers, Lawrence Welk. . . you see where I'm goin' with this.

Well, these guys straight-up carpet bomb this album with shittiness.  I honestly can't see which one of these assholes I hate the most, they all sound like people pretending to sing.  Like, karaoke singing, if you will.  The arrangements themselves are of the Great Songs of Christmas variety, but lacking the Frank Sinatra and Julie Andrews talent that makes those compilations, while boring in their own right, at least somewhat palatable.

No, 70% of this album is pure garbage.  Like, 2/10 on the ol' Odyssey Rating Scale of mine, that's what we're dealing with here.  

But, then we have a couple rare glimpses of hope pop up from time to time.  A choir/instrumental medley on the third track of Side A isn't half-bad - if anything, it's generic background Christmas music.  Alas, when compared to the rest of the crap on this album, it shines like a frickin' star.  

Then, you have Johnny Cash with a track on here ('I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day'), and while it's not necessarily great (because, as I've said before, his Christmas songs rarely are), it's still Johnny frickin' Cash, and the man's mere presence on this record is enough to drag this sludge-fest up a point on its own.  Aside from him, there's a pretty soulful track from Mahalia Jackson (not sure if she's any relation to the dead child molester), who belts out a Southern Gospel-styled rendition of 'Go Tell It on the Mountain' that is way better than it should be, and, as such, stands out on this album like a sore thumb.

So, needless to say, consistency is definitely not this album's strong suit.  Honestly, I don't think it has one at all.  A dusting of songs on here are decent, most of the album is bottom-shelf, thrift store fare, and the arrangement styles are all over the damn place.  The only people who would possibly like this horrible, horrible collection are elderly people who shop daily at thrift stores, and who actually like artists like Percy Faith, Jim Nabors, Kate Smith, and Mitch Mitchell.

All the more reason for me to return this as soon as possible.  After all, there might be elderly women waddling about Salvation Army as we speak, looking for Christmas records to liven up the Hi-Fi's in their crotchet-covered living rooms.  And Christmas is a time for giving, America.

VERDICT:  4/10 - Boraphyll (A parade of Goodwill heavyweights let loose in all their shittiness, and not even Johnny Cash is enough to salvage this boring record from the dusty, mothball Hell from whence it came. . . and to where it'll be returning very shortly.)

- SHELVED -

- Brian

Nuptials for Bravo Team

No idea what's happening here. . .

Hi fellas (and fell-ettes).

When you hit your mid-30s, most of your friends are married. They're old and fat and boring, and they all have kids.  And when you get together for a few beers, you reminisce about all the cool times you had back in your wild 20s.  Back when you were thinner, better-looking, not tied down to a female, and able to drink more than four beers without getting sleepy.

Damn it, getting old sucks.

Well, as it would turn out, one of my closest friends from high school and college, the legendary Jon F. Kimmel, was still to tie the knot.  He had proposed to his long-term girflriend, Kat, and asked me to stand in his wedding in Chicago this weekend.  I was obviously down with this (after all, he had stood in my wedding back in 2006, and, more importantly, had played bass in our epic high school band, JLFP), so I hitched a ride with the McNerneys (McNernies? - more friends of ours from high school) for a kid-less, spouse-less weekend of nuptials.

Check it out. . .

Entering Grand Rapids - the hipster capital of Michigan

Pit stop for a healthy breakfast.

There was a ton of this crap on the way to Chicago.  I can begin to tell you how happy I was that I didn't have to drive. . .

See that quarry in the background?  It's big.  

Stopping off at this above-the-highway restaurant/rest stop/strip mall thing that we used to stop at every time my family was driving out to Iowa during the summer, back in the '80s. 

Looks insanely different these days.

The drive, aside from the traffic, was fairly uneventful on the way down, and by early afternoon we had reached our Ramada, north of Chicago.  It was kinda dirty and old, but it was in a safer part of town. . .  so, at the very least, we wouldn't be getting knifed in our sleep by prostitutes over the weekend.

The McNernies and I ended up splitting a room, which saved us about $70 per night.

After we dropped our stuff off, Trevor and Sara headed out to hit up a Walmart for booze, snacks and cigarettes, while Yours Truly tried watching something on TV (we Houghs don't have cable, as you'll recall, so I splurge whenever I get the chance.)

Yes, this show exists.  A Real Housewives show, based in Atlanta, about midgets.  Or dwarves, little people, hobbits - whatever you want to call them.  Rest assured, it was just as awesome as it sounds.

Trevor gets sucked into the Drama. . .

At the wedding rehearsal, chowin' down on some food while Kimmel takes his sweet time getting around to doing whatever it is they were supposed to be doing.. .

Kimmel and Kat chose to get married in some non-profit farm/petting zoo/pet store/thrift store/reception hall thing that employs only special ed people.  Or something, I don't know - I never really figured it out.  The nuptials themselves were to be exchanged by this pond, and if you'll be so good as to look at the treeline on the far side you'll see an expressway, which provided a soothing din of car and semi noise during the rehearsal.

Waiting around for the wedding party to sort their shit out (we'd be doing a lot of this over the course of the weekend.)

Sara and I.  Still waiting for Kimmel.

After the dry-run of the wedding ceremony, Kimmel handed out his groomsmen gifts (the tie and pocket square for the ceremony, and an awesome bottle of whiskey.)  I knew from the get-go that I'd be wearing a pink tie, but I figured all the groomsmen would be.  Alas, I was to discover that I, alone, would be sporting pink.  Our friend Dalton, Kimmel's best man, was wearing a bright green tie, and the other two groomsmen - friends of Kimmel's from Chicago- were wearing orange and sky blue.  Rest assured, Kimmel's wearing a bright pink dress when Kris and I renew our vows in fifteen yeras. . .

Making another trip through the hotel lobby. . . forget why, but that's what it looked like.

Most of the evening we hung out in Kimmel's soon-to-be bridal suite, which included a hot tub.  This is about as far as I got to 'getting in it.'

Lemondrop pit stop back in our hotel room.  I stay away from these when at all possible.

High school heroes

The morning of the wedding, dressed - in pink - and ready to kick some ass.

I rode with Kimmel in his car on the way to the wedding, which we were supposed to be at by 10am for pictures.

Jon Kimmel, ladies and gentlemen.

See all that crud spread out over the grass?  That's goose shit.  Seriously.  We had to constantly traverse a mine-field of gross-ness to get anywhere.  Good thing we were all wearing our fancy dress shoes. . . 

Sara took my camera during the ceremony (I brought the Powershot this weekend instead of the big SLR, as I didn't want to have to carry it around all weekend.)

Note the sucker in the pink tie. . .

Somewhat color-coded, but the bridesmaids didn't look as obnoxious in theirs. . .

I wish my pastor at my wedding would have worn sunglasses. . .

Hitched.

Kimmel's socks.  He's a classy man.

These pictures - the good ones, at least - were all lifted from Kimmel's photographer's Facebook posting of the event.  I'm citing this in case someone comes after me later, as I'm unsure what constitutes 'legitimate' and 'illegitimate' sharing.

Why the giant Paul Bunyan statue?  These are the sort of questions you don't ask at Jon Kimmel's wedding.

He's from Farwell, it makes sense.

Receiving line, or something.  I don't know.  They're meet-and-greeting the attendees.

The reception was a short walk away, in the same complex as the ceremony.  And yes, I'm pretty sure that's a barn in the background.

Sean and the McNernies

Despite what you might be thinking, there was not a giant cache of sheep in this building.

Dalton (at left) giving the Best Man speech.

Waiting for food.

Signing the marriage certificate

After dinner, the reception moved outside, where the Kimmels had set up a series of lawn games.

Gigantor Yatzee

After a couple hours of lawn games (and an Open Bar), a few of us walked next door to a thrift shop that was on the property.  I'm always down for a good ol' fashioned treasure hunt. . .

Not sure what Sara's checking in to, here. . .

Records!  Not a bad selection here, better than your usual Goodwill or Salvation Army, but obviously not as good as a genuine record store. . .

A bad-ass chair and the book section (I didn't have the patience to go through this.)  

Cornhole

They also had this pet store on the property, which only added to the Holy Randomness of this place (a petting zoo, a greenhouse, thrift store, a reception hall, and a pet store?)  Here's this dude, thoroughly enjoying a life well-lived in captivity.

See these big-eyed Ty stuffed animals?  This is probably my kids' favorite toys, so being the good dad that I am, I picked them each up one (a pair of dragons.)  I'm sure Kris will give me a hard time about it later. . .

Mr. and Mrs. Kimmel

Around 5pm (it was an early reception), we took off and headed over to a local Walmart to replenish our booze wares. . .

This is legal in Illinois.  No, we did not buy it.  It's gasoline.

Should be a fun night. . .

My record score.  Four of these are 2-LP sets, and I spent $14. .. which is pretty good for the Near Mint condition these albums are in.

We had to get a pic with the Reznor, which more or less encompasses the totality of our hotel room window view.

This wasn't ours, but we couldn't help but marvel at this electrical box as more and more Corona bottles continued to appear atop it throughout the evening.

We spent the majority of the evening in this bar in our hotel.  They had one of those whoop-ass, digital jukeboxes that play any song you could possibly think of for $1.  I love those things. . .

Watching pool

Trevor and Kimmel, heading back to the rooms.. .

We could have really used some couches in our room. . .

Early the next morning, we said goodbye to our old high school pals and hit the road, headed south through Chicago. . .

You couldn't pay me enough to live in a big city like this.

Later into our trip, driving through Indiana.  Apparently this car is a cat.  I guess.  I'm not sure what they're going for with this.

Home sweet home.

- Brian