One of pop music’s lost treasures has been rescued from obscurity. The legendary and influential film The T.A.M.I. Show has been restored to its original magnificence and is set for release on DVD March 23, 2010. Never before legitimately available on any home video medium — that’s right: not on VHS, Beta or Laserdisc — The T.A.M.I. Show has circulated far and wide among hardcore collectors for years in an inferior and incomplete version.

And for years we were glad to have even that. This writer has for many years owned a copy obtained from a fellow collector, but it was plagued with the same flaws — some intentional, as we’ll see — that kept these bootleg copies from being perfect. First of all, despite the title sequence’s insistence that the Beach Boys are in the film, they were nowhere to be found on these underground copies. As it turns out Murry Wilson (father to Brian, Carl and Dennis; group manager and generally full-of-himself guy) insisted upon the Beach Boys’ performance being excised from all prints of the film — those copies sent around to theatres for projection. And it was from one of those well-worn copies that the bootleg copy was made. Further, the collectors’ copy wasn’t wide-screen, so the edges were cut off (this certainly wasn’t a pan-and-scan job; just slice off the left and right and be done with it).

The original film was shot in something called Electronovision, which, for once, was no gimmick. Electronic cameras allowing screen resolution that approaches today’s HDTV standards were used in this summer 1964 production. No kidding. While it was shot in black-and-white, it’s damn glorious black and white.

But really, why all this fuss? What’s so special about a concert film from 1964? Well, several things. First of all, The T.A.M.I. Show was the first rock concert film; that alone makes it historically important. Second, the eclectic, sweeping bill includes acts from across the pop music landscape of the day. Twelve acts — five of which are African-American — cover the cream of 1964 r&b, soul, garage rock, British invasion, early rock and roll, girl-group, vocal pop, Motown. Third, there’s the film’s visual sensibility. Director Steve Binder understands the value and appeal of the music, and — equally important — he brings to the project a deep understanding of the visual medium. Shot and edited essentially on the fly, The T.A.M.I Show always seems to have its cameras fixed on the right image.

And fourth, the dancers. You simply haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed the high energy go-go dancing of the troupe in The T.A.M.I. Show. With a crew that includes future actress Teri Garr and future in-demand choreographer Toni Basil (The Monkees, That Thing You Do! and her own guilty-pleasure MTV hit “Mickey”), there’s a clearly sexual energy put forth by these indefatigable dancers as they flail for two hours nonstop.

The centerpiece, of course, remains the music. While 46 years later a few of the acts on the bill might seem a bit naff (that Britishism is used advisedly), the caliber of performer is peerless. Most acts are seen at the top of their game, or — better yet — just ahead of their peak. The bill isn’t stacked with high-profile has-beens, not at all.

Emcees for the event are Jan and Dean. The clean-cut and likeable duo now comes off a bit lightweight, like some second-rate Beach Boys, but their sunny dispositions strike just the right note for their position as event hosts.

Chuck Berry opens the show, and in what now seems like a strange programming decision, sort of spars musically with Gerry and the Pacemakers. The two acts trade the spotlight for the first few numbers, and the Liverpool group even plays some of Berry’s hit “Maybelline.” (Some tasty gossip about Berry is included on the bonus commentary, but it won’t surprise anyone who’s followed Berry’s career.)

Berry appears solo, more or less, but it’s important to note that The T.A.M.I Show is the real deal: no lip-syncing, and no pre-recorded musical tracks. Just out of camera range (most of the time) is the house band, including legendary figures such as Hal Blaine (drums), Tommy Tedesco and Glen Campbell (guitars), Leon Russell (piano) and Jack Nitzsche (keyboards and arranging).

At the time of this film, the fresh-faced Marsden and his band are hugely popular. Their hits “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying” and “How Do You Do It?” (the latter recorded by the Beatles under duress but not released until Anthology 1) are major crowd-pleasers.

Ah, yes, the crowd. A full house populated with local high school age kids (and some pacing police complete with motorcycle helmets) screams ecstatically throughout the show, reacting especially fervently anytime a performer waves or smiles in a particular direction. While such behavior would soon be de rigeur at concerts, in 1964 it’s genuine and unaffected, and quite charming.

Smokey Robinson and the Miracles turn in a winning performance. Suave and spot-on, Robinson exposes the live version of the Motown sound to an audience that — while mixed — is predominantly white, and has likely never seen an African-American performer onstage. The tight choreography and vocal harmonies of the Miracles are a delight.

Marvin Gaye is up next. His commanding stage presence and authenticity comes across well in his four-song performance, and the band — augmented with some of is own road band — really cooks.

It may be hard to believe now, but in 1964 Lesley Gore is the highest profile act on the bill. With six songs, the teenage Gore gets the most screen time of any performer. And her performance has actually worn pretty well over the years. She’s perfectly on pitch — remember, no lip-syncing here — and the crowd goes pretty wild, especially during “It’s My Party.” During that number, all of the performers who have appeared up to that point assemble onstage behind Gore. The purpose of this is twofold: to mark the end of the “first act” or halfway point of the show, and to make the point to those seeing the performance on celluloid that this was a real show, not a compilation of clips from various times and locations.

Jan and Dean turn in a couple of performances next, the highlight of which is a skateboard solo. Trust me: you’ve got to see it to believe it. Pretty edgy stuff for ‘64.

In the original film, Jan and Dean introduce the Beach Boys at the end of their brief set. And though that part of the show was excised from the film, the team that put together this official release of The T.A.M.I. Show located a copy of the un-butchered film. Because that copy had been in distribution, the Beach Boys section is pretty well-worn, with streaks, scratches and blotches common to celluloid, but it’s been seamlessly edited back into the copy for DVD. Viewers will have no trouble spotting the moment when the video quality drops, but the performance is important enough to merit its inclusion despite the dodgy quality of the print.

Augmented by the house band, the Beach Boys run through four songs that put the spotlight where it belongs: on the vocals. Leader Brian Wilson (on bass guitar) is seen in one of his last performances with the band, and his lead vocal on “Surfer Girl” is itself worth the price of admission. The rest of the band is shiver-down-the-spine tight on vocal harmonies as well.

Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas take the stage next. This, it must be said, is the only weak spot in the show. Kicking off with their biggest hit, “Little Children,” the insipid teen-idol style vocals of Kramer now seem hopelessly dated. Things improve when the band plays the remaining three songs, all from the pen of Lennon and McCartney. Keen students of rock will note that the guitarist on the left is none other than Mick Green (Johnny Kidd and the Pirates).

In 1964 The Supremes (not yet “Diana Ross and the…”) are just hitting their commercial stride. Their glamorous performance and peerless vocal delivery makes quite an impression on the audience, and the close-up camerawork is quite successful at capturing the ebullience of the trio.

The Barbarians are a left-field choice for The T.A.M.I. Show. The Boston garage band hasn’t yet had a hit, and they are (and will remain) virtually unknown except by fans of sixties garage-punk. Their long hair — much longer than those scandalous Beatles — and generally unkempt-for’64 look is probably pretty shocking to the audience in the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. In fact the band turns in an energetic and rocking one-song performance. They more than justify their inclusion.

The inclusion of James Brown and the Famous Flames in The T.A.M.I. Show raises the importance of the film to a stratospheric level. In what is perhaps the most effective James Brown performance ever captured on celluloid, Mr. Dynamite lays it down for the audience in passionate, melodramatic fashion. What he’s singing isn’t really important: it’s how he’s singing it. And Brown’s dance moves are nothing short of jaw-dropping. The drop-and-cape antics — even though they’re now so well known as to be almost a cliché — simply must be witnessed.

Pity the poor Rolling Stones, having to follow the hardest working man in show business. Not yet a major sensation — “Satisfaction” wouldn’t be released for another nine months — the five piece (still with Brian Jones) nonetheless goes for broke, treating the audience to several songs they have yet to record. Jagger busts some dance moves clearly influenced by Brown, and it’s amusing to see the Stones in such a young configuration.

Because the film was shot and edited in real time, there are no outtakes (audio or video). But the DVD does include bonus audio of radio spots, the original theatrical trailer, and audio commentary from director Steve Binder and music historian Don Waller. Special praise is due to Waller for his entertaining, insightful and concise liner notes.

Shout! Factory has done pop culture a great service by shepherding the official release of The T.A.M.I. Show. Essential viewing from both historical and pure entertainment perspectives, this is one DVD that belongs on the shelf of every serious music fan.

Lots coming up in this space. Over the next several week I’ll have:

• Interview with Graeme Edge of The Moody Blues
• Interview with musician-author-actor-etc. Henry Rollins
• Interview with Mark Lindsay, lead vocalist of 60s sensations Paul Revere and the Raiders
• Concert review of King Khan & the Shrines
• Concert review of the City Champs
• CD reviews of reissues from Gentle Giant, King Crimson, the Buzzcocks and more
• CD  reviews of new albums from Crack the Sky, Nick Curran, George Winston and more
• DVD reviews of concerts by Jethro Tull, Riverside, Mick Taylor and much more
• Just added: an interview with Jason Falkner! on the release of his new album

So you might want to check back often. Or better yet, follow me on Twitter…

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One look at the cover of It’s Personal, the 1981 album by British foursome City Boy, and there’s no question that this is a product of those new-wavey days. Two of the band members sport then-ubiquitous aviator-style glasses.

When you pop in the CD, the opening figure — coupling muted chugs of the guitar and hand claps – seems to seal the deal. Like fossils in amber, the music on It’s Personal is a time capsule of a particular era in music. But that’s not to say it’s bad. “No Ordinary Life” is a catchy tune on the order of better tracks from 10cc (an act to which City Boy was often compared) and, for this reviewer’s money, Pilot.

Pilot is known (when it’s known at all) as the band that gave us the top 40 hit “Magic.” But that group’s albums were full of delights, and the expert players formed the core of the Alan Parsons Project.

City Boy has no such pedigree, but the music they produced across several albums in the late 70s and very early 80s was tuneful, catchy stuff. Hallmarks of the band’s sound included cleanly-recorded guitars, bracing (but neither overpowering nor florid) keyboards, and high harmonies. The quartet’s hook-filled music traded in the four-minute style: establish a melody, sing over it, add a middle eight, a solo and then throw everything in for the outro. Not a radical, groundbreaking formula, but rather a tried-and-true recipe for good songs.

“Rat Race” starts off sounding a bit like Toto and other lightweight acts of that era, but the song’s winning melody will likely remain with the listener long after the song has ended. And those harmonizing lead guitars — again, more Pilot than Thin Lizzy — catapult the song from very-good territory into the realm of something special.

On “The Blind Leading the Blind,” City Boy makes a stylistic detour into reggae. The sax figure that weaves in and out of the mix helps lift the song out of the strict confines of white-boy reggae. And to be fair, City Boy’s take on the Caribbean music isn’t of a lesser quality than what The Police were doing at the same time.

Continuing their musical trip around the world, the group next presents “La Guerra de Mondo.” Sung in English (except for the chorus), the keyboard-led arrangement features stacked vocal harmonies and a four-on-the-floor beat. An appealing synthesizer solo leads into a verse with a (different) synth underpinning.

“Lovers” leans more in a classic rock direction, with riffs that wouldn’t sound out of place on an album by Triumph, Foreigner, or even Aerosmith. But the vocal harmonies and keyboards are consistent with the group’s overall sound, and aren’t especially reminiscent of anyone else.

The title track seems to be shooting for that “epic storytelling” vibe so favored by songwriters of the era such as Bruce Springsteen, Mark Knopfler and Bob Geldof. But appealing arrangement and a soaring, longish guitar solo are what really make the tune.

There’s nothing wrong with “Who Killed Delores,” but it’s one of the disc’s least memorable tunes. “Names and Addresses” sounds like Toto again. Well, Toto if Toto ever rocked (which Toto didn’t ever do). Odd phrasing keeps the song’s hook-quotient from registering as high as, say, “Rat Race,” but the tune moves along nicely. As is the case with many of the tunes on It’s Personal, a stinging guitar solo improves things greatly. Still, the album’s slightly thin production is most noticeable here. The album was self-produced at Dave Edmunds‘ Rockfield Studios in Wales, though Edmunds himself had no involvement.

The disc winds up with “Exit the Heavyweight.” Hints of Styx and Queen permeate the piano-centered arrangement. The way that Lol Mason enunciates “cel-ee-brate” seems straight out of the Dennis De Young playbook. The stacked-chorused guitars borrow stylistically from Boston and (again) Queen, but then so did lots of mainstream rock music of the era.

Overall, City Boy circa 1981 was a straightforward rock group with ever-so-slight progressive leanings; their style owed more to the arena rockers of the day, but they delivered their songs with more ground-level immediacy than many of those acts. And while “No Ordinary Life” sounded new-wavey, the (very welcome) guitar hero antics throughout the disc pegs It’s Personal as an overlooked example of above-average pop-rock of the era.

The original album sank virtually without a trace on its 1981 release; the label It’s About Music — dedicated in part to rescuing such albums from the depths of obscurity — re-released the album in late 2009. As the liner notes indicate, this is the first time the album has appeared on CD. More surprising, perhaps, is that It’s Personal was the seventh album by the group. At press time, a reunion and US concert dates were being considered. By the way — the band’s web site (the place to go for updates on such things) is cityboy.org. As this writer has discovered, the dot-com variant is, shall we say, NSFW.

Like anyone who does what  I do, I get sent a lot of music. MP3 files, CDs, and occasionally vinyl.  Sometimes it takes me awhile, but I do listen to all of it. By “all of it” I don’t mean to imply that I play every disc all the way through. Some, I quickly identify as trafficking in a style that’s outside my area of interest and/or relative expertise. Put another way, if a death metal or Grateful Dead wannabe album somehow makes it onto my desk, I’m not likely to play the whole thing. Instead I’ll listen to all of the first track, then the beginning thirty seconds or so of the next few. While that’s certainly not enough to make an informed judgment as to the album’s virtues, it is enough to clue me in as to whether or not it’s a good fit for review consideration.

That said, you’d be surprised at how patently awful some of these discs are. And the category/genre that seems to have the poorest signal-to-noise ratio is the really way-out stuff. As one of my musical heroes, John Lennon, was credited as saying, “avant garde is French for bullshit.” And let’s face it: he’d know.

One album I got not long ago — I didn’t review it and I won’t say who it was by — was perhaps the worst thing I’ve ever heard. It was deadly-serious musique concrete. Now, the thing is, I sometimes like that kind of thing. While I’m not always in the mood for John Cage, Edgard Varèse, Karlheinz Stockhausen, Terry Riley, Eno, Philip Glass etc., there are times when I dig their efforts. (Especially Brian Eno, the lone artist on that laundry list with a pop sensibility.)

Anyway, this album was forty-five minutes of clatter. And while I’m willing to accept the possibility that the artists involved are masters of their instruments, this was a textbook example of what-the-f**k.  There was no seeming musical or spatial relationship between what one player was doing (randomly banging on percussion allsorts) and what another was doing (randomly banging…you get the idea). It was the sort of thing that didn’t merely turn me off: it actually made me a little mad. How dare they steal my time, I thought. Who would bankroll such a waste? It was humorless, boring, pretentious trap-kit claptrap.

From there, it was off to listen to something to soothe my nerves. Something with exponentially more musical sense, more melody, more accessibility. That’s right: The Residents.

Luckily, my travels through new and previously-unheard music more often than not results in some lovely discoveries. Had it not been for the network of publicists, promoters, musicians and colleagues, I would have never discovered excellent music by artists as diverse as Tiny Tim, Ozric Tentacles, Them Bird Things, The Orange Peels, Jim Duffy, The Twilight Hours, Pugwash, Eloy, IZZ, and Knight Area. All have released new albums in the last eight months (of course Tiny Tim’s was posthumous, but it’s newly-released material). There’s pop, jazz, blues, psych, garage and progressive rock in that short list. And even some avant garde stuff…

Because not all of it is bullshit.

Sure, the title track of Frank Sinatra’s 1966 album Strangers in the Night is sappy, MOR stuff. Impeccably arranged and finding the 51-year old Sinatra in fine vocal form, the song nonetheless was hopelessly out of step with the current musical trends. “Adult” music as it was, the song bumped no less a song than the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” off of the number one spot on the charts.

Thing is, the song – with its famous “do-be-do-be-do” – is unlike anything else on the album. And the remaining nine tracks are exemplars of a style. Big-band Vegas-y arrangements with plenty going on musically, the other tunes rank right up there with the most enjoyable work Sinatra ever turned out.

That’s thanks in large part to arranger Nelson Riddle. Sadly, Sinatra would never again with Riddle, but on the Strangers in the Night LP, the ace arranger works his magic, developing sympathetic backing for the chairman.

Recorded in three days over a month-long period in 1966, these songs survey the adult pop landscape. “Summer Wind” is a song that originated in Germany, but it appears here with new lyrics by famed lyricist Johnny Mercer (“Autumn Leaves,” “Moon River” and literally hundreds of others). As is typical, Sinatra’s vocal effortlessly glides atop Riddle’s arrangement.

Sinatra’s legendary vocal control is a highlight of “All or Nothing at All.” Riddle’s arrangement starts out subtly and builds as the song unfolds: instruments come in, the drums loosen up, and the swinging beat becomes more prominent overall. At a shade over four minutes, it’s the longest tune on Strangers in the Night, but not a moment is wasted; the long instrumental section is a delight.

In its own way, that song’s big-band arrangement points out the sonic connection between swing-pop and rock and roll. In the postwar era, many bands found themselves unable to support the expense of bringing a big band on the road. So bandleaders like Louis Jordan stripped the bands down to a handful of musicians, and played harder to make up for what was missing. That “jump blues” or swing music  — though not primarily guitar-led (saxophone was the most common lead instrument) informed much of rock and roll with its sensibility.

But back to Sinatra. “Call Me” had been a big hit for Petula Clark, but in Sinatra’s hands the song is slowed a bit and reinvented as a big band number. Once again Sinatra proves his mettle as a chief interpreter of others’ work.

“You’re Driving Me Crazy!” is a musical cousin to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” but the playful, upbeat arrangement gives the song its own unique identity. When – after Sinatra’s “How true” vocal line – the band blasts out, the listener knows that it’s going to be a pull-out-all-the-stops affair, and it is.

The pace is dramatically dropped for Sinatra’s reading of the then-popular Lerner-Loewe number “On a Clear Day (You Can See Forever)”. The same-named play had recently concluded a successful Broadway run.

Sinatra’s reading of “My Baby Just Cares for Me” focuses on his ability to phrase the lyrics to his liking. Easily parodied because of its unique nature, this phrasing approach was in fact a big part of what made Sinatra special. While it didn’t always work – it occasionally sounded gratuitous – here the approach works well. This technique is yet another way that Sinatra made songs his own.

Another Petula Clark hit — “Downtown” — gets the Sinatra treatment. A showy band arrangement attempts to recreate the hustle and bustle of the city, and a snare-led drum pattern propels the song. A few odd vocalisms (“ugh” and “ewww”) seem out of place, but overall Sinatra turns in a credible cover of the hit.

“Yes Sir, That’s My Baby” finds Sinatra back on more familiar and comfortable musical footing. A swinging beat and electric organ figure prominently in the big-band arrangement. Riddle even weaves in a string part, yet the song isn’t overstuffed. When you’re as confident a vocalist as Frank Sinatra, you can give the band plenty of space for solo turns.

The original 1966 LP wraps up with a frenetic paced reading of “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World.” The vocals race a bongo figure, a hopped-up drum part and a crazed orchestra. It’s easy to picture a conductor’s arms flailing wildly, egging the band faster and faster. Tight as the proverbial drum, the band careens through the tune, and Sinatra’s voice soars above it all, making the whole affair seem completely effortless.

The 2010 reissue adds a live reading of “Strangers in the Night” from a Tokyo concert in 1985. Though nearly two decades had passed, Sinatra’s voice seemed only slightly the worse for wear. The arrangement keeps fairly close to the original.

Also included from that same ’85 concert is “All or Nothing at All.” Here Sinatra doesn’t hold his notes quite as long – he was seventy, after all – but he turns in a near-flawless and entertaining performance. And the band absolutely kills.

A studio outtake from the original album sessions closes the 2010 reissue. “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby” appears here in a slightly more organic version. Apparently no two Sinatra vocal readings were exactly alike; the differences from the released version are slight, but worth hearing.

As a snapshot of where Frank Sinatra stood in relation to the popular music of the day, the 2010 reissue of his 1966 LP Strangers in the Night is a worthwhile purchase. But it’s also a worthwhile listen even when shorn of that context. As the old saying goes, don’t judge an album by its title track: while “Strangers in the Night” is a syrupy tune (as kids, we made fun of it whenever it came on the radio — which it often did), the remaining nine tracks show the master still close to his peak.

Covering the life and career of Todd Rundgren is a serious, sprawling undertaking (trust me!). The prolific multi-instrumentalist has recorded and released several dozens albums, first as a member of proto-powerpop sixties group Nazz, then as both a solo artist and member of Utopia. He’s been at the forefront of technology (sometimes too far out in front) and has made important contributions in the fields of recording, internet content delivery, interactive media, video and computer software. As a producer for hire, he’s worked the boards on some of the most popular and/or critically acclaimed recordings of the rock era.

Along the way, he’s had some hits and some misses, but his career has never made for less than a compelling story. His legion of fans (relatively small in number, but as dedicated in their own way as Deadheads) follow his every move. Past age sixty, Rundgren is still turning out new and interesting material.

That said, and despite a few high-profile hits (”We Gotta Get you a Woman” in 1970, “Hello, It’s Me” in 1972 and “Bang the Drum All Day” in 1983) Rundgren’s iconoclastic approach guarantees that he’ll remain a cult artist. He’s revered by those who know his work, but unknown to most in the mainstream.

For the former, Billy James‘ work is a gift. Musician/author James has tackled musician bios before: he has written books about Captain Beefheart, Grand Funk (Railroad) and others. But Rundgren’s oeuvre requires a detailed and lengthy approach. So it was that James published the first volume of A Dream Goes on Forever: The Continuing Story of Todd Rundgren in 2002. That book covered Rundgren’s life and career up to 1976. The thick volume was full of interviews with many who had worked with Todd over the years; review and article reprints; and the author’s own perspective.

In the mid 1990s, Rundgren himself was reported to have begun work on an autobiography; there’s been no update since then. And no autobiography has appeared. So those interested in delving deeper into Rundgren’s history are left with James’ books (Rundgren was not involved on any level with the project).

The second volume was published in late 2009. Subtitled The Utopia Years, Volume 2 picks up where the previous volume left off and runs through the group’s dissolution in 1988.

James uses the same approach (interview quotes, article and review reprints etc.) in this latest volume. In many ways it’s a superior book; perhaps because it covers a more recent time period than the first volume, many of the quotes are first-hand (rather than sourced from the previous work of other writers). The book charts the rise and fall of the four-piece version of Utopia, with equal weight given to coverage and discussion of Rundgren’s solo work during that period.

Plenty of ink is used covering the internal and external tensions that ultimately derailed the band, but while Volume 1 relied greatly on interviews with personalities who, shall we say, had an axe to grind (Moogy Klingman, for example), most of those involved in the period covered by Volume 2 have, on balance, a positive outlook about the period.

Some of the book’s extensive research was conducted by noted Rundgren collector Tony Rogers; in Rogers’ afterword, he makes slightly petulant remarks in response to reader complaints about the first volume. Specifically he dismisses concerns about editing and binding of the volume. In truth, both were serious issues in Volume One; while well-written and organized, the book was rife with errors. And the binding did fall apart readily. But neither of those kept that book from being an essential read for anyone with more than a passing interest in Rundgren’s career.

Both of those problems have been addressed (to some degree) in Volume Two, and the result is an even better book. Those hardcore fans will want both, but since James helpfully starts out Vol. 2 with a capsule summary of the first book, Vol. 2 is the one to get.

At the rate he’s going, James will likely need two more books to bring the story up to date. And since Todd’s as busy as ever, depending on how long that takes, who knows — we may some day see Volume 5.

For 1982’s Dada, Alice Cooper brought producer Bob Ezrin back to run the console. Ezrin and Cooper had worked together on many of Cooper’s most commercially successful albums in the 70s, and by ‘82 Ezrin himself was at something of a critical high water mark himself, owing in no small part to his work on Pink Floyd’s opus The Wall.

What’s more, Cooper enlisted the aid of Ezrin on keyboards, and veteran rocker Dick Wagner (The Frost, Lou Reed, Ursa Major, most of Alice Cooper’s biggest hits…) on guitar throughout the album. Unlike the stylistic dabbling of 1981’s Special Forces, Dada adopted a more rocking and theatrical approach, one familiar to anyone who followed Cooper’s 1970s career. But in a radical departure, most of the album was created using the then-radically-new Fairlight CMI, a synthesizer/computer capable (people then believed) of doing almost anything.

Perhaps surprisingly, the results were impressive. Not widely known as a sonic innovator, Cooper created a compelling work on Dada. The creepy, foreboding opening track “Da” (penned by Ezrin) has a vibe not miles removed from Pink Floyd’s The Wall. The track sounds like the opening of a set-piece, and that’s exactly what it is. For much of the cut, Cooper’s barely present on the tune, but it’s the sonic equivalent of a show in which the band vamps before the star strolls onstage. When he does — in a spoken dialogue — he sounds eerily like actor James Woods.

“Enough’s Enough” does betray the sequenced-drums vibe (Cooper admits to as much in the original liner notes) but it’s a showstopper; like most of the songs on Dada, it sounds like it would have gone over well onstage. The song explores a dysfunctional father-son relationship, albeit with a trademark Cooper spin on the proceedings.

“Former Lee Warner” is another macabre Cooper narrative. While it doesn’t rock so much, that’s not its mission. Had Cooper’s star been in ascent in 1982, the song might have been ripe for treatment as an MTV-destined video. Sadly, it was not to be, and in fact to date none of Dada’s tunes has ever been performed onstage by Cooper.

“No Man’s Land” rocks like 70s Cooper while still sounding contemporary enough for ‘83. Cooper’s vocals are more expressive and less mannered than many other tracks from the era. “Dyslexia” is a nod in the direction of synthy new wave, but it’s a more effective bid than most of Cooper’s attempts in that direction. A distant musical cousin of M’s “Pop Muzik,” the track is a tad sprightly for Cooper, but worthwhile nonetheless.

Alice Cooper shows his heavy metal side on “Scarlet and Sheba.” Synthesizers purvey a Middle Eastern vibe while guitars set on “stun” create something between Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath. The nonexistent chart action of Dada suggests that there was a limited market for this kind of thing in 1982, but that might be down more to Cooper’s lower profile (and the loss of a chunk of his audience in the wake of earlier missteps).

“I Love America” is another of Dada’s spoken pieces: Cooper rabbits on about stuff he loves. Kindred souls The Tubes did it much better (and funnier) in 1976 with “Proud to Be An American” (no relation to the execrable Lee Greenwood jingoistic pap). The music’s pretty good, though.

“Fresh Blood” is a mixed bag. Musically it’s in Mr. Mister meets Steely Dan territory; lyrically it’s vintage Alice Cooper. But like most of Dada’s tunes, it’s surprisingly organic for an album created on a computer (with all due respect to Todd Rundgren, listen to Utopia’s POV or the Tubes’ Love Bomb for examples of how not to make an album using purely digital technology).

“Pass the Gun Around” shows that Cooper’s guns-and-ammo fixation hadn’t gone away. Musically it’s among the most involved and interesting tracks on Dada. Ezrin’s production skills and Wagner’s writing prowess help make the track a fitting end to the album. A long instrumental section is the song’s highlight.

Cooper was friendly with famed artist Salvador Dali; in 1973 the duo were immortalized in a hologram art installation. Dada’s album art (by Glen McKenzie) riffs on Dali’s Slave Market with the Disappearing Bust of Voltaire, working Cooper’s face into the image. Clever stuff.

After the creative success but commercial invisibility of Dada, Cooper took a few years off to dry out and combat his alcoholism. When he returned in 1986 with Constrictor, the results suggested he had learned from the past: that album built on the creativity of Dada while discarding the stylistic blind alleys of his earlier 80s releases.

The gospel-flavored organ solo that opens the title cut on the City Champs‘ The Safecracker is something of a red herring. Though the sonorous B3 tones suggest that listeners will be treated to something along the lines of Boz Scaggs‘ 1969 cover of Fenton Robinson’s classic “Loan Me a Dime,” instead this Memphis trio launches into a Booker T & the MGs-styled number.

And that’s just fine. Across the landscape of seven tracks, this instrumental trio (organ/guitar/drums) hews fairly close to the soul-revivalist genre, but they do so with a looser, less studied approach than (the also excellent) Leeds, England group The New Mastersounds.

The title track’s lean, resounding lead guitar solo is no study in precision, and in fact the song is all the better for that looseness. Operating without a bass guitar, the group’s bottom end is held together through drums and nimble use of organ pedals. The lack of vocals and lyrics doesn’t dull the group’s expressive edge a bit; the virtual dialogue of clean lead lines — courtesy of Al Gamble’s organ and Joe Restivo’s guitar — speaks volumes.

It’s true that the riffs that make up tunes like “Takin’ State” sound an awful lot like Booker T outtakes, but the songs are imbued with such a feel-good vibe that there’s no point holding that against the group. While all three players are possessed of considerable talent, they rein in any showoff-y tendencies and concentrate on playing as a group.

The group has an innate feel for song delivery. When Restivo steps forward (figuratively, at least) for a tasty extended solo — like the one on “Love is a Losing Game” — drummer George Sluppick holds things together, and Al Gamble’s organ fades into the shadows. But — and this is key — Gamble’s work, even when it’s subtle and working as a backing part — is soulful, expressive and (if one listens closely enough) quite interesting. When it’s Gamble’s turn to shine, Restivo responds in turn.

The feel of the trio is amazingly organic, and the transition from one solo turn to another happens so smoothly, it’s almost imperceptible. As I’ve said about other acts (but only when it applies) these guys really do play in service to the songs. Each number is a well-developed song, not merely an excuse for some solo time.

A jazz-meets-Bar-Kays vibe takes hold on “Poppin’”, and Restivo’s guitar even displays hints of distortion. The explosive, jubilant tune finds all three letting loose; the song’s mid-album placement is a good strategy: build the energy level, as in a live show. The verse-ending descending phrases in “Comin’ Home Baby” evoke memories of Spencer Davis Group’s “I’m a Man,” and the soulful connection is a most pleasant one.

The album’s production is spare and gimmick-free; of course, anything else would be a travesty. The analog warmth is palpable. The Safecracker sounds, one strongly suspects, quite similar to a live show by The City Champs. The group begins a whirlwind tour (opening for the North Mississippi Allstars) in support of The Safecracker at the tail-end of January, with dates across the USA. I’ll update in mid-February after I see them onstage in Asheville NC.

By 1981 Alice Cooper really had begun, thankfully, to flush the fashion (something he made an empty threat to do two years earlier). To the extent that Cooper had a formula, he was doing his best to move back toward it as the 1980s unfolded. After the creative disaster of 1981’s Special Forces, he co-produced the 1982 follow-up Zipper Catches Skin with his bass player Erik Scott. Cooper brought Flo and Eddie back to add their winning vocal harmonies, and Dick Wagner was present for some tasty lead guitar runs.

The synthesizer flourishes and spare arrangement approach of Special Forces wasn’t completely abandoned, but Zipper Catches Skin found Cooper aiming for a more open, wide-screen sonic palette, one that would hopefully appeal to his fans more than the previous couple of platters.

“Zorro’s Ascent” isn’t among the canon of classic Cooper, but it avoids most of the previous album’s mistakes. “Make that Money (Scrooge’s Song)” is a foot-stomping rocker in the proud Alice Cooper tradition. Dick Wagner’s contribution is unmistakable and welcome, and makes the early point that Zipper Catches Skin is a guitar album. In fact no fewer than four axemen lend their talents on the set, and synthesizers — while still present — are used to good effect.

“I Am the Future” from the classic film Class of ‘84 (remember that? Me neither.) sounds like a Jim Steinman/Meat Loaf piece, and that’s great: what was Bat Out of Hell, after all, but an amalgam of Bruce Springsteen and Alice Cooper?

Most of the tracks on Alice Cooper’s Zipper Catches Skin were co-written with guitarists John Nitzinger or Dick Wagner (or both). Despite its awful title, “No Baloney Homosapiens” is a reasonably rocking tune. It’s not among Cooper’s best, but it’s a step in the right direction. Once again the big arrangement saves the day; apparently Cooper learned quickly that the trendy small-scale boxy sound wasn’t gonna get it for his music.

“Adaptable (Anything for You)” also doesn’t rank among Cooper’s best work, but it’s no misfire. And it’s consistent with the Zipper Catches Skin approach of short songs: fully half of the album’s ten tracks clock in under three minutes.

“I Like Girls” sounds like standard 80s-style arena rock — think of Loverboy. (Now stop. Please.) Judged against 70s Cooper, this would be a travesty. Viewed alongside the last couple of discs, it’s actually pretty good. It’s a bit disappointing that such a standard-issue song ends up being viewed as a return to form, but there it is. A sped-up end bit adds interest.

“Remarkably Insincere” and “Tag, You’re It” wed the big-guitar approach with the click-tracks 80s vibe. These tracks (and others alongside them on Zipper Catches Skin) suggest that Cooper was still searching for a new sound (as opposed to flailing for one on Special Forces).

The stop-start “I Better Be Good” has a catchy vocal hook, and probably worked well as a live number in the 80s.

Zipper Catches Skin closes with yet another long-winded and parenthetical title, “I’m Alive (That Was the Day My Dead Pet Returned to Save My Life)”. The talents of Wagner plus Flo and Eddie help a great deal.

Collectors’ Choice added the track “For Britain Only” onto the 2010 reissue. Nothing earth-shaking, the track does feature some tasty guitar work in the outro.

An interesting aside for liner-note aficionados: Collectors’ Choice isn’t always known for deluxe packaging of its reissues, but the label does what it can. In many cases original album art isn’t readily available, so a high-resolution scan of an old LP cover must suffice. That seems to be the case it Zipper Catches Skin, because a close reading of the back cover shows that the artwork from Zipper Catches Skin’s Canadian release was used for this reissue.

Ultimately, Zipper Catches Skin was a step in the right direction for Cooper; he would make good on that album’s creative (but not commercial: it failed to chart) momentum a few months later with 1983’s Dada.

Putumayo is, for many listeners, the first stop for various-artists world music collections. But the label has recently ventured into more mainstream genres. The latest exponent of this is Putumayo Presents Rhythm & Blues. A survey of classic and contemporary artists, the twelve-track disc provides a neat capsule survey of what the liner notes calls “first generation legends and rising starts of today’s retro R&B revival.”

Lavelle White’s horn-led “I’ve Never Found a Man to Love” kicks of the disc and remains a highlight. James Hunter’s “‘Til Your Fool Comes Home” sounds like a modern take on Ray Charles‘ stylings, with the welcome addition of a fleet-fingered guitar solo. “Sweet Feeling” by Cracked Ice slows things down for a smoky nightclub vibe that veers closer to blues than most of the other tracks. The female lead vocal plays call-and-response with a beefy horn section.

The Quantic Soul Orchestra featuring Kabir turns in a swinging number in “Who Knows.” The Emotions‘ Wurlitzer-centric “My Honey and Me” suggest what the Supremes might have sounded like had they loosened up and caught as bus to a studio in Memphis.

One near-misstep is the cover of Willie Dixon’s immortal “Wang Dang Doodle,” covered here by a supergroup including Sam Moore (of Sam and Dave), Keb’ Mo’ and Angie Stone. There’s nothing actually wrong with the rendition; it just seems out of place on this collection: more blues than R&B. The vaguely updated arrangement seems too slick, too polished for either genre. Stick with any number of other semi-definitive versions (I prefer Savoy Brown’s 1971 cover). Things get back on more solid footing with Catherine Russell’s “Put Me Down Easy,” though it too is a bit slicker than the tracks front-loaded on the disc. A banjo-like guitar solo adds a bit to the stylistic confusion.

Ruthie Foster slows things waaay down for “‘Cuz I’m Here,” heading into Aretha Frankin ballad slow-jam territory: a winner. Snooks Eaglin brings the lead electric guitar to the fore in “A Mother’s Love.” The upbeat tune — which also features ample and delightful organ soloing — is another of the disc’s highlights, and marks a slight departure in that it highlights playing almost equally with singing. Most of the disc’s tracks focus squarely on the singer.

No collection of this type would be worth of serious consideration if it didn’t include at least one tune from the estimable Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. That act’s “100 Days, 100 Nights” will likely send owners of Putumayo Presents Rhythm & Blues to their corner record shop (or, yeah, iTunes) in search of more.

Nobody would choose to follow Sharon Jones. The people sequencing the disc must have know that: the next cut is a throwaway. Rockie Charles‘ “Before I Find the Right Girl for Me” sets a soul-stirring lead vocal atop a standard-issue late-night bar band melody. But two weak cuts out of twelve is still pretty great value for money.

All is redeemed on the Irma Thomas — Henry Butler duet “River is Waiting.” The gospel arrangement strikes all the right notes, and ends the album in fine fashion.

One of the goals of a package like Putumayo Presents Rhythm & Blues is to distill a genre or style into the highlights, allowing new listeners to check out music they’d otherwise pass by. In that, the compilers have chosen wisely. Thorough liner notes (a Putumayo hallmark) give enough information to point interested listeners in the right direction to find more of this tasty stuff.

In sum, Putumayo Presents Rhythm & Blues is recommended for what it is: a sampler, an introduction to the genre. The compilers aspire for nothing more, and they do deliver on their stated promise.