Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 #16

The Wailers – Burnin’

After my previous encounter with a reggae album, I promised myself I would be better informed about the genre the next time such a record came along. That didn’t happen. So, after multiple plays of “Burnin’”, I finally did it. I listened to albums from Peter Tosh, Burning Spear, Toots and the Maytals, and The Upsetters. And now, having been exposed to a broader selection of what the genre has to offer, I’m still not sure how I feel about reggae. I can, however, say one thing with a fair degree of certainty: I don’t much care for Bob Marley’s form of reggae. (A hush falls over the room.)

Not liking Marley can be a problem if you’re new to the genre, because he towers over it: the top five albums on Acclaimed Music are his. No one else dominates a genre the same way (though Springsteen comes close, with five of the top seven heartland rock records, which isn’t entirely a fair comparison, since it seems to have been invented just to give rock critics a box to contain Bruce). Unless you actively seek it out – at least so far as Canadian mainstream radio goes – you will hear Marley, and then more Marley, and, hey, let’s play some Marley.

There is no shame in that confession. Discernment is a big part of our experience of culture. I keep listening to Marley’s music and I just don’t care. This isn’t the distaste I feel for Jethro Tull, or the deep anxiety caused by most metal, or the loathing of everything related to Ted Nugent. I just don’t see anything to get my blood up about. It is pleasant enough to listen to, but doesn’t engage me – it’s just one song after another that sounds like the last one and the one that comes next. I wish it wasn’t this way – I may be missing out on something marvellous. But, like classical music and a lot of jazz, I am probably without that tiny strand of DNA that gets Marley. Marley sounds the way he sounds, and that’s just how it is. Just because a ton of other people love an artist does not obligate you to do the same. There are lots of celebrated rock/pop artists towards whom I am lukewarm: Dylan, The Who, Joni Mitchell, The Band, The White Stripes, Foo Fighters. I make different choices: give me more Elvis Costello, Fountains of Wayne, Mitski.

What I have learned is that there is a lot of fun music under the reggae banner. It isn’t all the plodding, uninteresting-to-my-ears work of the King. The Upsetters play dub, a reggae subgenre, and it’s playful and goofy and just a delight. Tosh’s record (“Equal Rights”) was very political, but it doesn’t get in the way of some lovely and really interesting beats, and Toots & the Maytals had me bouncing around my house.

As for “Burnin'”, “Get Up, Stand Up” is a justifiable classic, but I much prefer the version from Tosh, who co-wrote the song with Marley. I also prefer Eric Clapton’s (even though he is a racist POS) version of “I Shot the Sheriff”. And the rest is what it is. Like all reggae, it makes me feel like I’m by the pool with a rum cocktail in my hand as I drift off, feeling more relaxed than I have any right to be.

I know there will be more Marley in my future, and I will listen to it multiple times and write about it in this space, God willing. Maybe something will click. Maybe it won’t. But I’ll give it its fair due. Because that’s all any artist has the right to ask of us, and the one thing we should be willing to give them back.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 – #10

Al Green – Call Me

Al Green wasn’t part of my musical experience growing up, so it’s only in recent years that I have come to appreciate what an enormous star he was in the early 1970s. He wasn’t as successful in Canada – his biggest song here fell short of the Top Ten – but south of the 49th parallel he had six Top Ten singles, and a few others that came close, between 1971 and 1974. I was, however, familiar with his music through cover versions. There was Talking Heads’ late ’70s take on “Take Me to the River”, which was probably the only Heads song then known to casual Maritime listeners like myself, followed a half decade later by Tina Turner’s sultry (as if Tina could do it any other way) version of “Let’s Stay Together“, which was easily my favourite track off “Private Dancer”.

Al’s voice is often described as silky, but that really doesn’t do it justice. The word brings to mind smoothness, sensuality, luxury. There’s a strained quality to his voice: if this is silk, it has snags in it, little divots and tears where he gets caught, drops down, and modulates his instrument with changes in emotion. The result is a record that is never slick – yes, there are strings, because it’s an early ‘70s smooth soul album and I think there was a rule about that or something, but they are used very subtly, so the record never turns into easy listening dreck. It’s a sly and quiet record – even the more up-tempo tracks don’t pass muster as dance-worthy.

My favourite of the original songs are “Stand Up” (love the horns in the chorus) and its exhortation to take control of your life, “You Ought to Be with Me”, and the album’s closer, “Jesus Is Waiting”. He hadn’t become Reverend Al yet, but even outside the not-so-subtle latter track, there is a spirituality to the music, or at least a life-affirming positivity, that shows the direction he was headed in.

Al knows his way around a cover himself and his takes on two country classics are highlights. In both cases, I listened for the first time with that sense of something familiar being encoun­tered in a strange place, like running into an ex at your usual hangout. The record’s strongest vocal is on “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”, as he muscles the Hank Williams’ tune into becoming a soul song without losing its connection to the original.

Another highlight is his take on “Funny How Time Slips Away”, which is a natural fit for Green – though originally recorded as a country song, more soulful versions have found greater chart success, from Jimmy Elledge’s blue-eyed version to Dorothy’s Moore’s powerhouse gospel-tinged effort. A fascinating roster of artists have taken this song on, including Junior Parker (weird), Brook Benton (so cheesy you can feel your cholesterol rising), Tom Jones (sexy AF, of course), Jerry Lee Lewis (saucy), The Supremes (flirty) and Bryan Ferry (cool as always, but sort of over the top). Al hits it with a regretful world-weariness, the strain of the years showing in his voice.

There is something comforting about this album. The differences in the tracks are subtle, and if you don’t pay close attention, it can all sound very similar over the course of its 35+ minutes. You really need to sit back, close your eyes, and let Al burrow in without distraction. It’s the musical equivalent of a giant soft pillow: let it envelop you, and it will fill you with a sense of peace.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 – #9

Lou Reed – Berlin

Figuring out the essence of Lou Reed as a creative figure can be challenging. As a rock star, he is iconic – an active cool, dark and aloof – and it almost feels as if the role needed to be invented just to contain him. Yet he’s really more of a gloomy troubadour, with a vagabondish feel to his music – he would’ve thrived as a wandering minstrel in the Middle Ages, not that he didn’t do just fine in our era. But where he really would have been at home is musical theatre, in storytelling songs with dramatic flourishes and stylistic switches, the kind of tunes that are showcases for the performer. 

Of course, one problem with musical theatre is that it is full of big and messy emotions, and that is not who Lou Reed was as an artist. He leaned towards a deadpan vocal style, drained of passion, always chill. But because he so rarely shows emotion, it’s a really big deal when he does. Some singers are forever on the knife’s edge – whether faking it for effect (most of them) or genuinely losing it (basically, Adele) – but that quickly becomes exhausting. Lou usually stays above it all, so when he slips, when the whole human mess of it all gets through to Lou-fucking-Reed, then you notice, and you lean in, and listen harder to take in what this wizard of cool is losing his shit over.

“Berlin” is a love story, but it’s not a happy one, and when the relationship at the heart of the album reaches its conclusion over the brutal sock in the teeth that is the three-song stretch that ends the record, Lou has clearly had enough of Jim and Caroline. You can see it coming, though: the delicate nostalgia of the title song becomes the flirtatious put downs (“she wants a man, not just a boy”) of “Caroline Says I” becomes the abusive toxicity (“You can hit me all you want to but I don’t love you anymore”) of “Caroline Says II”.

He’s in the middle of the mess now on “The Kids”, and he sings with less distance, a hint of emotion seeping into his voice, as the gentle music contrasts with the devastated mother of the tale. This turns into the delicate guitar picking of “The Bed”, an almost whispered inventory of grief so matter-of-fact that there really is no grieving being done (“I’m not at all sad that it stopped this way”), the “oh-oh”s rising to his voice slightly breaking on “what a feeling”. It then ends with “Sad Song”, a lightly hopeful and nostalgic epic that seems to be saying that maybe it’s best that the bitch is gone (“Somebody else would have broken both of her arms”).

There’s lots more to love here, especially the circus-like feel of “Lady Day” and the album’s one true rocker, “How Do You Think It Feels”. It’s an album that lives inside you with repeat listens, as you internalise its rhythms. Although a Lou Reed production would’ve made for a gloomy evening out – more “Sweeney Todd” than “My Fair Lady” – it is not an experience you would have easily forgotten. I’ll definitely be buying a ticket if anyone ever decides to give it a try.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 – #5

Elton John – Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

In the early to mid-1970s, no artist’s album covers entranced me like Elton John’s. I distinctly remember looking at “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” and “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy” at the local Woolco or whatever department store that was with a sense of awe. The covers were playful and mysterious, and thus very inviting. You wanted to know what was in the grooves of such a package.

Of course, though I never owned any of his albums from that period, I probably knew Elton’s songs better than any other contemporary artist at that time. First, he was all over the radio. Plus, pretty much every K-tel collection in my bin had a track of his: “Crocodile Rock” (my least favourite of his songs from that era), “Daniel”, “Saturday Night’s Alright (for Fighting)”, “Philadelphia Freedom” (okay, maybe this is my least favourite), “Island Girl” and “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” all had regular spins in my bedroom. “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” remains an all-time favourite song. By 1977, I was buying 45s, and Elton’s artistic peak was over, so I didn’t listen to him much after that. But the songs from that era remain masterful, undimmed by time.

There are a ton of hits, and it’s always nice to revisit those. The title track is one of my favourites of his, “Saturday Night” still kicks serious ass, and even Katherine Heigl can’t ruin “Bennie & the Jets”. It’s also nice to hear “Candle in the Wind” in its original form, without the nonsensical treacle of the post-Diana version. 

The best part for me of listening to these older albums is discovering the songs that weren’t singles. The album’s two-part opener, “Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding”, goes from a mournful, stirring extended buildup into one of the rockingest songs Elton ever put to wax. Other tracks that I really liked include “Grey Seal”, the heartbreaking kiss off “I’ve Seen That Movie Too”, the rolling melody and music hall piano of “Sweet Painted Lady”, “The Ballad of Danny Bailey (1909-1934)”,and Bernie Taupin’s fantasies of the American west brought to life in “Roy Rogers”. “All the Girls Love Alice”, with its fuzzy guitars, solid backbeat, jarring piano and tempo switches, is a song I first heard a few years ago, and while it has great energy, it’s best not to listen too closely to the lyrics if you don’t want to get seriously bummed out.

Time has not been kind to Elton (it never is to any of us, of course): the music (mostly) stopped being great around 1977, and he largely became a parody of himself (though this was at least used to great effect in “Kingsman: The Golden Circle”). I stopped paying much attention to him a long time ago. The excellent biopic “Rocketman” (so, so, sooooo much better than the insanely overrated “Bohemian Rhapsody”) shows what great showpieces these songs are for Elton’s over-the-top persona, and it was a reminder of how much I used to love his music. It’s been a real joy listening to this album over and over in recent weeks, and if you’ve forgotten how really great he once was, I suggest you do the same. Elton will not disappoint you.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 – #4

Roxy Music – For Your Pleasure

(This is going to get a bit meta, so please bear with me. I will (eventually) get to Roxy Music.)

A while back, a friend described what I do here as criticism. I don’t think that’s accurate, though I do have opinions about what I listen to because, hey, I’m a human being with functioning ears and a soul. I think a lot of the time, music critics feel like frauds. Everything cultural is about taste, and we all have it. I may think you are crazy for liking Jethro Tull, but what I can’t say is that you are wrong to like them. Well, I can say it, and you can tell me to go to hell and that I’m just as crazy for liking Olivia Rodrigo. And we are both right, and also both wrong. And it doesn’t matter, because everyone who disagrees with us can ignore anything we have to say on the issue.

I (almost) never feel like a fraud on this blog. I do this for free, so if I want to babble on for several paragraphs then take a parting shot at a band – it’s coming – I can, and you can read it or not. But what about people who get paid to do this? What is a writer to do when an editor needs 500 words on something you don’t give a shit about and the rent is due?

It’s easy to write about things I love – just open a vein, as they say, and it flows out, whether it’s an old love like the Bay City Rollers, or a new one like Can. It’s also pretty easy to write about things you don’t like – I rather enjoy coming up with new digs at Jethro Tull. The worst are things I like and respect but don’t feel passionate about, or that I can’t connect to my own experience. Stevie Wonder is frickin’ awesome, but I had so little to say about “Innervisions” that the piece I wrote doesn’t even sound like me. If you’re reading this, it’s because you like my voice, and if that’s lost, I don’t really have anything to offer that you can’t find somewhere else from someone who knows a buttload more about music than I do.

Anyway, my point (you knew it was coming) is that, while it is growing on me a bit, this feels like a record that only a music critic could love from the get-go, because it invites extensive commentary, and soon enough you have those 500 words. It all seems very clever and creative, but to me there is almost nothing here that grabs the listener and makes you pay attention. It’s a very mannered record, all artsy pretense and rich sounding and dry as fuck. The one track that stood out was “Grey Lagoons”, with a rockabilly feel dominated by pianos and horns that is just messy and energetic and fun. This record definitely needed more fun. But critics loved it, and through some madness it ended up as the 4th best record of the year in their estimation. If anyone actually listens to this for pleasure, I’d love to hear from them. Because I have a 10cc record I think they should check out – and Olivia Rodrigo, too, for that matter.

Classic Songs of My Youth Revisited #4

The Vapors – Turning Japanese

If you had the good fortune to attend a Friday night dance at Memorial High School during the 1980-81 school year, you might have witnessed me having what could best be described as a spasm whenever “Turning Japanese” was played. I don’t remember if it was my favourite song of that year – though I’m pretty sure these trips down memory lane will inevitably answer that question – but it was definitely the song that gave me the most joy. Never the most graceful of dancers – ask my wife and children if you doubt the accuracy of that statement – this song somehow made me worse, all flailing arms, spastic legs and, oh regret, a racially insensitive bow or two. My friend Sandy Nicholson, who always had an air of chill about him, was definitely embarrassed for me for my gyrations. And I gave zero fucks, which might have been the only thing in my life then that made me feel that way. I wasn’t a good dancer, but I was a committed one, and giving in to a song and just moving was a source of immense joy.

I thought it might have been a Cape Breton novelty, a song that some local DJ fell in love with, but it was actually a pretty big hit across the country, getting to #6 on the RPM chart and ending up as one of the top 100 songs of the year in both 1980 and 1981. It barely made the top 40 in the U.S., but the Aussies loved it even more than we did, and it did well in other parts of the waning British Empire. There is a pretty cool video – David Fenton’s dancing isn’t much better than mine, and he also went on to become a lawyer, so maybe it’s a lawyer thing – and the critics at Pazz and Jop knew a good thing when they heard it, ranking it the 8th best single of 1980.

The band was confident this was going to be a hit, but were concerned it would doom them to be one-hit wonders because it was such a novelty. Which is rather unfortunate, because the album it came from, “New Clear Days”, is pretty fantastic, a great example of the New Wave of the era, bleeding into power pop, sounding often like The Jam on speed, which was probably not an accident, since Paul Weller’s dad was their manager.

The song is either (depending, it seems, on Fenton’s mood when you ask him) about masturbation or just regular teen boy angst, which, if we’re being honest here, is probably the source of more teen boy masturbation than actual lust is. It, of course, starts with that stereotypical Oriental riff, telling you this isn’t like anything you’ve heard before on pop radio, and it keeps coming back throughout. It is propulsive, a high energy rush from end to end, and if you don’t end up bouncing around your kitchen as it plays, I’m not sure I want to know you. It easily remains one of my all-time favourites. Kirsten Dunst loves it, too.

And The Vapors are back, baby! They released an album in 2020, and had a few songs on the lower end of this very British thing called the Heritage Chart. It’s more power pop than New Wave, and a pretty good listen, proving that lawyers can rock, even in their 60s. The bar thanks you, David Fenton.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 – #3

Iggy & the Stooges – Raw Power

For a guy who hasn’t had much commercial success, Iggy Pop has an outsized pop culture presence. A treacherously skinny standup comic I saw live in the early 1990s said he was doing the “Iggy Pop workout tape”, and we all got the reference. (For younger readers, workout tapes were things we could buy in order to help us exercise in front of our televisions in our underwear or pyjamas, before regular people started going to gyms and it became acceptable to wear such items in public.) I’ve always been a little scared of him. He looks like a fit version of the addict he once was, all sinew and raw energy. He’s the guy who, meeting him on a street late at night, you either, depending on how you’re wired, cross the street to avoid or follow to see where he ends up, because you know that’s where the party is. It will shock no one who knows me to hear I am the “cross the street” type.

Though I’ve liked the songs from Iggy that made it into the broader culture, I knew instinctively that this wasn’t something I’d be playing on any kind of regular basis. With only a  few exceptions, I’ve never listened to much hard or punk rock, and Iggy was definitely the former and possibly the original of the latter. The only one of his records I ever bought was the 45 of “Real Wild Child (Wild One)”, which I believe I first heard in the trailer for “Adventures in Babysitting”, which was not a very good movie, though rewatching the trailer reminds me why I went to see it in the first place.

It’s a fired up collection, and if nothing here gets your heart racing, you are either a world class athlete or you really, really need to see a doctor. However you want to describe this – garage or proto-punk – there is something primal about this music. The vocals are often screams, and though prominent in the mix (along with lead guitar, to the virtual negation of the rhythm section at times), he really doesn’t seem to care if you understand what he’s singing. The force of their sound is relentless, the pace rarely lets up, the tenor often menacing. It’s a messy record, distorted and disjointed, but never confused about what it wants to be. The standout songs for me are the more bluesy “I Need Somebody”, along with “Gimme Danger”, a very insistent tune that crawls into your head and won’t leave. 

Despite being a good listen overall, I’m fairly certain I will never play this album again. I don’t know why I don’t love this – maybe I only have room for one purely punk record in my life, and that slot is forever owned by the Sex Pistols. Or maybe that’s just how taste works. If you love everything, then you don’t really love anything. 

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 – #2

Stevie Wonder – Innervisions

If you had “socially conscious Stevie Wonder” on your pop music bingo card in 1973, you could have completed the line that included “Dolly Parton sweet talks a ho”, “Marvin Gaye brings even more sexy” and “some new guy named Bruce” for a bingo with the free space in the middle.

There are songs about drug abuse, reincarnation, meditation, urban decay and crime, (allegedly) Richard Nixon, and, because it’s Stevie, love, though maybe that’s really what all of these songs are about. Even in a powerhouse like “Living for the City”, with its tale of the struggle to survive, it starts with a foundation of familial love. 

Conventional romantic love isn’t forgotten. The uptempo piano ballad “Golden Lady” has a pseudo Latin feel, and it glides along, melodic and soothing, as the underlying music becomes more complex. “All in Love is Fair” is impassioned and intense, full of regret that emerges towards the end with the vocals becoming strained as the piano keys hit harder, and could serve as the closing theme over the credits of a tragic romance movie. 

More aggressively Latin is the super fun “Don’t You Worry ‘Bout A Thing” (probably my favourite track), which finds the cocky narrator trying to impress his girl, but the chorus shows his limitations. He tells her “I’ll be standing on the side when you check it out”, and while he thinks she’s overreaching and should be content, in fact she’s trying new things while he is afraid to put himself out there.

But it’s the three more spiritual tracks that make the greatest impression. There is a sense of disenchantment in the fantasy soundscape of “Visions”, of seeing wonderful things that really aren’t. It becomes somewhat neurotic in the latter stages, before ending on a hopeful note. The funky dance vibe of “Higher Ground” lauds reincarnation and the process of growth, but the verses show that everyone keeps repeating the same old patterns. Finally, the mellow “Jesus Children of America” questions how to find peace and the price paid to achieve it.

Just a great record from start to end. Break out your dabbers (or daubers – this is apparently a matter of some controversy in the bingo community) – Marvin will be along soon.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 – #1

Pink Floyd – The Dark Side of the Moon

There was no Pazz and Jop in 1973 – it would return in 1974 and continue for more than 40 uninterrupted years – so for this year I’m going with Acclaimed Music, which seems more critic and artist focussed than my 1972 source. For #1, at least, the two lists are in full agreement.

There are records that have such a large cultural imprint that it is virtually impossible to have an original thought about them, even if you’ve never played them before. This might be the record of that type, which has left me feeling slightly intimidated when it comes to writing about it. That it is considered progressive rock in many circles (I disagree, respectfully) did not help my frame of mind coming in. Curiously, I don’t think it would have ranked this high if there was a Pazz and Jop in 1973 – Robert Christgau only gives it a “B” in his guide, and the early polls were a very inclusive club of his music writer pals. This seems to be a record whose import has grown with time.

The burden of such an outsized profile is that it can make a record seem underwhelming on first listen, because the listener (okay, me) has such high expectations. This is the “Office Space” effect. For years, I heard about what a great movie this was, so when I finally watched it, I wanted too much to love it, and ended up disappointed. Thankfully, because I’m a stubborn cuss, I gave it another try, now with more measured expectations, and did love it. More than a few people have been forced to listen to me deliver this exchange.

That was my experience with “The Dark Side of the Moon”. It was good, for sure. But what made it great? I wasn’t hearing it the first few times through. Records, though, are easy to keep playing. They can accompany us in the car, when doing dishes or laundry, when feeding our cats. Slowly, one play at a time, this album has gotten under my skin. I have no idea if it’s the second best album of all time, as Acclaimed Music has concluded, but, god, it’s good.

The more experimental stuff – heartbeats, conversational snippets, the legendary clocks of “Time” and cash register of “Money” – is fine, but I’m a song guy, and those are impressive even without the little avant garde flourishes. The gentle “Breathe (In the Air)” sets the tone, with the mournful guitar sounds washing over you. The guitar in “Time” is propulsive and howling, and sounds like loss feels, with a callback to “Breathe” in the final stanza. Plus, it has my favourite line on the album: “Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.” “The Great Gig in the Sky” has some beautiful piano – I love the change at 0:35 – and is the most stirring tune here, with the possible exception of the spirituality and grandeur of “Us and Them”, with melancholic saxophone turning desperate towards the end.

The second half of the record, which includes “Us and Them”, starts with the money-is-bad-but-don’t-touch-mine cynical vibe of “Money”, with the saxophone adding a jauntiness that turns into a strut. The sadness over a lost comrade – “or maybe I’m crazy, too?” – of “Brain Damage” is followed by the “nothing matters” fatalism of “Eclipse”. The album is in no way a trip to a happy place, focussing on conflict, madness, fears and the like, but it is also a call to understand and empathize with what the people around us are going through, and that is a message that never gets stale. Especially today, when the world can seem like Jamie Tartt waiting for a hug from Roy Kent.

The lesson for me is to not give up on something too quickly. (Except Jethro Tull – I am very comfortable that I am right about those guys and don’t need another listen.) If I wasn’t writing these little commentaries, this would probably have gotten one play and then been consigned to the bin of “yeah, that just wasn’t for me” records. It can be good to find out you were wrong about something.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1972 – #20

Neu! – Neu!

And so we end 1972 with more Krautrock. I knew early on there would be many surprises along the way – my sixth piece was about a band I’d never heard of before, after all – but did not expect things to be so international this quickly. Fantastic music was coming out of Brazil and Germany, and I don’t know if it was recognized as such in its time, but I feel fortunate that it found its place in the canon before I got around to discovering it in 2021.

This is primarily an instrumental record, with the only singing – and it is very, very generous to call it that – found on the last track. Some of this is just noise, and nothing that anyone but the most generous listeners would call a song. Highly experimental, with industrial and nature sounds, mumbled dialogue, odd tempo shifts, and droning backgrounds. In the end, this is all just a bit too weird for me in parts, but there are some tunes that I will happily revisit.

“Hallogallo”, easily my favourite track, first made me think of early New Order (but maybe it’s more Joy Division), then that Christmas song that Fallon, Sanz, Kattan and Morgan did on “Saturday Night Live”. The title is a play on a German slang term for “wild partying”, and it’s the one track here that is truly uptempo, with an incessant motorik drumbeat that gets under your skin and starts your feet tapping and hips swaying.

Highlight #2 is “Negativland”, with more motorik and a propulsive bass line over a screeching squall. The tempo speeds up a few times, then drops back to the more at-ease pace, before an all-out dash to the end over the last minute and a half or so.

“Weissensee” (or “White Lake”) is a hypnotic soundscape with gentle drums and smooth guitar licks, with an abiding sense of melancholy. “Im Gluck” (“Lucky”) is similarly mellow, and has what my Maritimer ears could not miss as the sounds of water lapping against a dock (soon confirmed when seagulls or some similar water fowl turned up). It’s incredibly comforting, and a nice way to end my travels through 1972’s best music.