Why Didn't You Tell Me? (Part Two)

 

Dora Morelenbaum performing live at the Jazz Café in November 2024 was one of the highlights of the year. It was such a joyous show, and when she sprang into her lovely interpretation of Bobby Charles’ ‘I Must Be in a Good Place Now’ I almost melted in delight. It was so gloriously unexpected and unbelievably perfect. And it was not the only cover version performed that night. Months later I haven’t stopped grinning yet.

I first encountered Dora’s name as part of the Bala Desejo ensemble who had released the excellent SIM SIM SIM on Mr Bongo in 2022. Dora’s Jazz Café show came shortly after the release of her own debut LP, Pique, again on the ever-reliable Mr Bongo label.  It’s a really gorgeous record, with a strong 1970s vibe, along the lines of Gal Costa’s India, with strong suggestions that Dora and co. know a whole lot more about the soft rock, light disco, big hair MPB singer / songwriter activity in Brazil and elsewhere than you or I.

Performing with a small band who were wonderfully funky at times, Dora’s sound and style was far spikier live. Mid-set there was an acoustic interlude, which was just Dora with her guitarist Guilherme Lirio, and oh boy the sizzling chemistry between them was quite something. Before this show I think all the live clips of Dora I’d seen had her seated on a stool with a guitar, in the classic singer / songwriter style. But at the Jazz Café she was set free to stalk the stage and vamp it up in an oversized t-shirt and leggings, occasionally playing a big old semi-acoustic, looking far-from-square with her corkscrew hair. It is entirely possible she’ll never be as good ever again.

There was a guy standing near me, touchingly but irritatingly, singing along to all Dora’s songs in impressively word perfect Portuguese, but when she started to sing ‘I Must Be in a Good Place Now’ he was lost, so it was my turn, and my neighbour was silent for a few minutes. I suspect the Bobby Charles original is a strong Desert Island Discs contender for me. It really is among those special ‘once in a lifetime’ songs, like Fred Neil’s ‘Dolphins’ and Terry Callier’s ‘Ordinary Joe’ where you are just in awe that someone could create something so special.

I don’t think I heard it until the explosion of mp3 blogs were around, circa 2007, when someone shared Bobby’s 1972 LP. I think I grabbed a copy as I remembered the name from an episode of Gerry Lyseight’s Planet Mambo show on GLR or BBC Radio London (they used to have some great music shows: Charlie Gillett, DJ Ritu, Jazzie B, Ross Allen, Sean Rowley, Norman Jay, among others, in the days before the clampdown and cutbacks). It’s ridiculous what sticks in the mind, but for some reason I recall Gerry trying to talk someone into selling him their Bobby Charles LP, which must have been his 1972 set, with ‘I Must Be in a Good Place Now’ on. I love that song so much that it overshadows everything else on the record.

Bobby Charles really is an enigmatic and intriguing figure; rather like Charlie Rich he has such a rich history and is so hard to place. Where do they fit into the scheme of things these one-off singers? I guess Charlie found his place as the Silver Fox of Country, while Bobby found himself for a while an acolyte of The Band. In fact, the only clip I have seen of Bobby Charles performing is in an outtake from The Last Waltz. Back in 1972 he had The Band playing on his record, John Simon producing, and Dr John and David Sanborn among the musicians. It’s crazy that this was Bobby’s first LP, but he seems to have made it something of a speciality ducking out of the limelight and refusing to play the game. I can understand that.

I am no expert on Bobby Charles now, and certainly wasn’t when Gerry Lyseight spoke about him. Back then it is entirely possible I was getting him confused with Bobby Parker. Now I am lucky enough to have a couple of other compilations that focus on some of the things he had been doing before 1972, including one CD of his Jewel and Paula singles, and another covering the earlier Chess sides. I am not sure when the penny dropped that as a kid Bobby had written ‘See You Later Alligator’. That song has such bittersweet associations, via the Bill Haley hit version, but I am not sure I ever really listened to it until recently.

There was a Hallmark Bill Haley & the Comets compilation at home when growing up, but I don’t really remember it being played. Somehow though, with ‘See You Later Alligator’, I bet people of my age knew the song by osmosis. I suspect for many of my generation there would be a little ritual on a good day, an exchange between you and your mum, as you headed off to school or whatever, and somehow that set the scene for a good day.  Listening to the Bobby Charles version I suddenly realised we’d been getting it wrong all along, and that he and Bill Haley sang not “in a while crocodile” but “after a while …” which just seems all wrong. It’s too late to change now, my memories too engrained.

Oddly, a few things have made me think of Bill Haley recently, which is not something I was expecting. One was a mention in Colm Tóibín’s beautiful novel Nora Webster in relation to police brutality on the streets of Derry: “’The last time I saw a baton charge,’ the lorry driver said, ‘was the night Bill Haley and the Comets played in the Royal in Dublin. We were all waiting outside to meet Bill Haley in person, and the men in blue decided it was a riot and they ran after us with batons. But the baton charge on Saturday was serious. They were marching for civil rights. They were on their own streets. I am telling you now that is a disgrace.’”

There so poignantly is a reminder Bill Haley improbably changed so many lives, and will forever be held in high regard for that, but I bet for us he’s never had the cool cachet of Jerry Lee, Chuck, Gene, Eddie C., Little Richard, Buddy, or Elvis, and was instead rather avuncular and stodgy, perennially middle-aged. But, then again, he was the one who unwittingly or not kicked the doors open for those others. I don’t recall too many deviating from that party line, though it is worth remembering that Nick Tosches, in his classic work Unsung Heroes of Rock ’n’ Roll, includes a short chapter headed ‘The Lounge Act That Transcendeth All Knowing’ in which he makes a case for the young Bill Haley.

Nick argues that it is “what Bill Haley did before ‘Rock Around The Clock’, rather than that silly song itself, that deserves recognition.” He particularly rates the 1952 version of ‘Rock The Joint’ by Bill with the Saddlemen, which he describes as “one of the first instances of a white boy really getting down to the heart of hep.” That recording features a wild Danny Cedrone electric guitar break, way ahead of the pack, so you can hear what Nick means. Tosches suggests after that it was downhill all the way, though I doubt if any kids in 1956 cared when they were jiving to ‘Shake Rattle and Roll’.

The second thing that got me thinking about Bill Haley was finding one of those Real Gone not-exactly-aesthetically-pleasing 4CD sets for next-to-nothing in the local British Heart Foundation shop. This one featured 120 London American recordings from 1961, and covers a lot of ground. I am not sure I would have put 1961 down as one of the great years, but there are so many incredible tracks on this collection, like The Miracles’ ‘Shop Around’, Maxine Brown’s ‘All in My Mind’, Carla Thomas’ ‘Gee Whizz’, The Coasters’ ‘Little Egypt’, Timi Yuro’s ‘Hurt’, Bobby Parker’s ‘Watch Your Step’, Lavern Baker’s ‘Hey Memphis’. And there’s a whole host of great names like Ben E. King, Roy Orbison, Eddie Cochran, Ernie K. Doe, Fats Domino, Johnny Burnette, Jerry Lee Lewis, Ike and Tina Turner, Gene McDaniels, Del Shannon, and so on. Plus, there are lots of lovely doo-wop ballads, some daft novelty rock, and a couple of Curtis Knight cuts which my early loves Showaddywaddy had big hits with. So, yeah, not a bad year at all.

And right near the end of the fourth CD are a batch of ‘twist’ related numbers, for this was the year of the twist, with everybody getting in on the act, from Pauline Boty and Derek Boshier to good old Bill Haley. Sure enough, Bill’s ‘Spanish Twist’ is one of the gems on this 4CD set which were new to me (perhaps the best being Miriam Johnson’s ‘Lonesome Road’). It’s cheap exploitative nonsense, but great fun, and it’s got some fantastic trebly rhythm guitar that oddly has more than a hint of the Velvets and early Subway Sect about it for a moment or two.

It made me realise I really knew nothing about what Bill Haley did apart from his early hits. So, was it possible that there were overlooked gems from the post-‘Rock’ years? Well, maybe not. Perhaps of most interest is an LP he made at the start of the 1970s, called Rock Around the Country for the Swedish Sonet label (though MFP later released it here), recorded in Nashville with the jazz, blues and beat generation historian Sam Charters producing. He also wrote the liner notes. Being generous, I guess this LP is of interest for the contemporaneous covers, like Kris Kristofferson’s ‘Me & Bobby McGee’, Joe South’s ‘Games People Play’, and Creedence’s ‘Who’ll Stop The Rain?’ which Bill ambles through pleasantly enough. The true highlight is a wild romp through Creedence’s ‘Travelin’ Band’ where guitarist Nick Masters takes over the vocals and sounds alarmingly like Lemmy.

The third thing that prompted this contemplation of ole Bill was reading in Ugly Things #66 (and you really need that for part two of Rob Symmons’ Subway Sect story!) about the MC5 live in London in 1972, in a great piece by trash scholar Peter Stanfield. I had no idea the MC5 played at the London Rock & Roll Show in August of that year, at Wembley Stadium, alongside Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, and oh yes Bill Haley & his Comets. It’s an event I have long been vaguely aware of, but had never paid any attention to. My loss, as there’s some fantastic footage floating around, including show-opener Heinz backed by an early Dr Feelgood, featuring Wilko with long hair, doing ‘C’mon Everybody’. Just like Eddie? Or Sid? Appropriately we also get a glimpse of Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s Let It Rock stall.

The documentary makes a lovely counterpart to Horace Ové’s Reggae film, with the footage of the 1970 reggae event at Wembley Empire Pool. The 1972 London Rock & Roll Show, the first big music event at Wembley Stadium, was not just Ed the Teds and Hell’s Angels all grown up. There were also plenty of young Teds there with their drapes and brothel creepers and quiffs bopping away. Actually some of the dancing would not have been out of place at Wigan Casino though the threads might. Perhaps it was some cool crossover tribute to Little Richard’s Northern Soul gems like ‘A Little Bit of Something’. And you get a brief glimpse of rocker girls doing that dance we used to do down the local pre-teen disco, which I associate with Mud’s ‘Tiger Feet’, where you’d stick your thumbs in your waistband, drop the shoulder forward, and go. I never knew the dance’s origins or what it was called, but it was great fun.

As well as the MC5, the other cuckoos in the nest at Wembley were Gary Glitter with the Glitter Band and possibly the first appearance of Wizzard: a taste of what was to come, with The Sweet, Mud, Suzi Q., Showaddywaddy, etc.: my pop awakening. And ‘Rock Around The Clock’ was a big UK hit again in the midst of all that. Bill just kept on rockin’ all over the world. In 1975 he was in Brazil, and you can see some great footage of him playing to predominantly young kids having a whale of a time. Quite possibly their parents went to see Bill when he visited Brazil for the first time in 1958. Judging by contemporaneous news reports Bill’s ‘Mambo Rock’ was big over there, and apparently at the first show in São Paulo Bill's clothing was torn to bits and over 100 policemen had to lead the way into and out of the theatre. And don’t forget old Haley gets a namecheck in Erasmo Carlos’ ‘Bom Dia, Rock ’n’ Roll’ from his wonderful Sonhos e Memoria 1941. 1972.

We get so used to seeking inspiration from Brazilian sounds, old and new, that we overlook how people there have looked outside for inspiration too. Hence, I guess, the cover versions in Dora’s Jazz Café set. Apart from ‘I Must Be In a Good Place Now’ she also performed two other English language songs, ‘I Don’t Know Why The Hell’ and ‘It’, both Hirth Martinez songs, reinforcing that 1970s vibe. Just before she started singing ‘It’ Dora asked the audience if anyone knew Hirth’s work, and there was simply an embarrassed silence, some shuffling of feet, lots of averted eyes, blushes, so no. The irony there somewhere is that I bet in the crowd there were plenty of experts on Brazilian obscurities. Me, I didn’t even really catch the name and had to do some searching on the way home. And I can honestly say Hirth Martinez was a new name to me.

The two songs Dora covered come from the singer’s 1975 debut LP, Hirth from Earth, a record I had no idea existed. But it has got some fantastic tracks on. For me, the best ones are where he sounds hip and flippant, and the songs have a sweet kookiness, like the ones Dora sang. I guess these are in the tradition of Hoagy Carmichael and Mose Allison and have lovely gentle arrangements that are really jazzy and rhythmic, with smart, witty lyrics and elusive suggestions of samba, salsa and wider Latin and South American sounds. Fans of Harry Nilsson and Ben Sidran would find a lot to love here.

In sharp contrast there are other songs on the LP where the sound is more funky and bluesy (coincidentally or not, Hirth as a kid went on the road with Ray Charles: down all the days his day job was as a jazz guitarist) and where Hirth’s voice mutates into a real Bob Dylan (of later years yet-to-come) gruff growl and the music is rougher and rowdier, closer to what Dylan and The Band were doing, which is apt as Bob was an early champion of Hirth’s songs, closely followed by Robbie Robertson who produced the LP in L.A. and got his Band mates in to help out, and also the great Larry Fallon did some of the arranging. I guess you could say the LP’s split between cast-iron swamp rockers and offbeat, sweet ballads. Personally, I prefer it where Hirth sounds like Bob Dorough rather than Dr John. Or should that be I prefer his Kermit the Frog mode rather than his Rowlf the Dog one? But it’s all good.

Coincidentally, or not, Dr John appeared on Hirth’s second LP, 1977’s Big Bright Street, which had John Simon as producer and Garth Hudson among another stellar cast that included jazz greats Ron Carter, Bob Cranshaw, Max Bennett, Steve Gadd, and Randy Brecker. Once again, there was that same strange split between the harsh, itchy, funky numbers and the cuter, quieter, playful acoustic cuts. A particular favourite among the latter being Hirth’s ‘The Mothman Samba’, inspired by the folk panic of the time and no doubt by John Keel’s book The Mothman Prophecies. Bizarrely that folkloric element endures, and as you read this I bet Blaze TV has a programme on the phenomenon airing.

It would be another 30 years before Hirth made his third record. The rebirth of the Hirth was primarily prompted by a surge of interest in Japan, and in particular an enduring obsession with his lovely extra-terrestrial love song ‘Altogether Alone’, which opened Hirth from Earth. I had no idea until recently that Dee C. Lee covered this song of Hirth’s for the 1996 Japanese TV series Gift, a version which has a lovely Style Council bossa feel (coincidentally or not, the soundtrack strongly features Merton Mick and Steve White, too). Since then, it has been covered beautifully by the young Japanese outfit Be The Voice, with a lovely whistling interlude, which reminds me that Dora is a wonderful whistler.

So, in 1998, Hirth released his I’m Not Like I Was Before LP through the Japanese label Dreamsville (a name that makes me think of Sammy Ambrose’s Big City Soul classic ‘Welcome to Dreamsville’), an imprint which seems to have been big fans of Curt Boettcher-related activity. Hirth for this record was reunited with John Simon, and the songs were recorded in small combo settings featuring Garth Hudson, Ron Carter, David Sanborn, and Randy Brecker among the players.

I believe that, as Hirth’s new Japanese audience had a solid bond with his jazzier compositions and Brazilian-flavoured material, he chose to record his new record in that style. In the liner notes he explains what the record’s all about: “It’s about friends, new & old, trust, feelings, respect, art, stories, songs, truth, relationships to life and to each other, nature, reverence, joy, love, and magic.” How could you not love a record built on those foundations? It is such a lovely record, and Hirth’s lyrics are endearingly eccentric, a little like lost Richard Brautigan or Jim Dodge poems.

I have to mention that the design of the CD package is credited to Believe In Magic Inc., and appropriately John Sebastian gets thanked for the loan of a guitar. Coincidentally or not, Hirth covers ‘Daydream’ rather beautifully on a live LP he recorded in Japan at the end of the 1990s. There’s no whistling on it though. Did I tell you that Dora certainly knows how to whistle? I did? Fine. Anyway, that is a different story for another day. For now, I am excited that I have found a lovely clip of Dora and her band performing Hirth’s ‘I Don’t Know Why The Hell’, which goes like this.