Burning Man

If you’re a record collector, particularly one who haunts thrift stores, garage sales and swap meets seeking out the bizarre and obscure, you’re probably familiar with the pair of Incredibly Strange Music books by RE/Search Publications from the 1990s (out of print). These books feature long Q&As with numerous record collectors—including Jello Biafra, Lux Interior and Poison Ivy of the Cramps and Billy and Miriam Linna of Norton Records—who show off their records while sharing interesting stories and anecdotes about the artists who made them. Both volumes are invaluable repositories of music from the fringes, particularly between the 1950s and 1970s. And by fringes we’re talkin’ about private press records, ill-conceived novelties, assorted kitsch, Jesus-freak music, third-tier rockabilly, outsiders—anything meeting the incredibly strange description.

Among the thousands of records and/or musicians covered in the two ISM volumes, one artist in particular stoked my curiosity. His name’s Merrill Womach, a gospel singer and former undertaker from Spokane.

Besides possessing an extraordinary voice, Womach also owns an extraordinary face, the result of third-degree burns sustained in a plane crash in 1961. What might have snuffed out the lives of others served to energize Womach’s. Legend has it that Merrill sang all the way to the hospital after being pulled from the flaming wreckage. Naturally (or supernaturally), Merrill credited his survival to Divine Intervention. Following a long spell in the hospital where he endured painful skin grafts and facial reconstruction, Merrill emerged a new man, more determined than ever to share his God-given gift—not to mention his man-made face—with the world.

And so it would be that for the nearly 20 albums he recorded between 1967 and 1985, Merrill would never shy away from making his miraculous face the focal point of their covers. On one album, In Quartet (shown below), four Merrill Womachs appear, striking poses in their polyester lounge-lizard disco suits—one Merrill for each of the four octaves of his glorious tenor.

Judging by his Wikipedia page, Womach is alive today and resides in Spokane. He’s 84 and still making music—albeit canned Muzak for funeral homes. He was an undertaker after all. (Surely, there’s a joke in there somewhere.) What follows are some of the Merrill Womach records I’ve acquired over the years, including one I picked up just last week from St. Vincent DePaul in Lynnwood, Wash. As you’ll see, one of the records, My Song, depicts Merrill before the plane crash. (Actually, it shows 42 Merrills—a full chorus!) Merrill Womach records aren’t all that hard to come by; you can always find a dozen or so listed on eBay—at pretty reasonable prices, too. But if you hunt around, you’ll likely find some at the junk shop for a $1 or less.

Also, for your enjoyment, you can watch a video here, taken from a documentary about Merrill’s accident and recovery called He Restoreth My Soul. In this scene, Merrill sings one of his signature songs, “Happy Again,” to a roomful of hospital patients. Is it just me or would this song make a decent flipside of a Scott Walker single? Maybe not.

My Song (1960) -- Acquired from Value Village in Ballard. This is Merrill Womach one year before his face went up in flames.

I Believe in Miracles (1967) -- Purchased at St. Vincent DePaul in Lynnwood. This is Merrill Womach's triumphant comeback album. The illustration does not show Womach inside plane. You'll just have to take him at his word that he was singing the Lord's praises. Believe it or not this is the second pressing of this album -- I also own the first, which was issued by a different label.

A Time for Us (1969) -- I don't remember where I got this one. On this album, Merrill gives the gospel a rest to bring us the good news of show tunes and weepy love ballads.

Surely Goodness and Mercy (1970) -- I think this came from a Texas thrift store where it was acquired by my friend DH.

I Stood at Calvary (1973) -- Purchased from eBay. Little-known fact, but Merrill was there at Jesus's crucifixion. This 2000-year-old painting proves it. Merrill was also believed to have introduced polyester and pleather to the nascent Christian movement.

Happy Again (1974) -- Found at the Goodwill in Lynnwood. This is the soundtrack to the aforementioned He Restoreth My Soul and is probably the most famous Womach record cover.

Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory... (1976) -- I don't remember where I found this one. I love the way Merrill's purple fly-away collar matches the scenery.

In Concert (1977) -- Picked this up at St. Vincent DePaul in Seattle. Merrill doesn't make his face the focal point of this cover, but it's there.

In Quartet (1977) -- Found at a Texas thrift store by my friend DH. Notice how Merrill mixes and matches two suits to make four. Genius.

I'm a Miracle Lord (1981) -- Found at a record store in Montreal, Quebec, of all places.

Thar She Blows

Thirty one years ago (yesterday), Mount St. Helens blew its top. One year later, with volcanic ash still blanketing large swaths of the Pacific Northwest, the not-so-legendary Seattle trad-jazz combo the Uptown Lowdown Jazz Band issued the hardy-har titled Hauling Ash. That the LP failed to blow up on the national (or even local) scene can be attributed to multiple factors, including the man-made disaster of its horrendous cover. Which as you can see simply blows.

Hooray for Record Store Day? Nah.

I skipped Record Store Day this year. (Yes, I know it was three weeks ago—forgive me for being slow.) I just wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Sure, there were records I really wanted, like the Fucked Up punk compilation LP, David’s Town (limited to just 750 copies), or the Beach Boys 78 rpm double 10-inch, or the Radiohead 12-inch (which turned out to be a U.K.-only release). I just couldn’t will myself to get out of bed on a Saturday morning and queue up for the mad scramble to the limited-edition vinyl RSD display and the subsequent wrestling match/feeding frenzy for the store’s one copy of Nirvana’s Hormoaning—which would be flipped mere minutes later on Ebay for five times the original list price. I don’t need records that bad.

I did the Record Store Day thing last year. I hit a local shop (not one I normally frequent, but the one closest to home), thinking I’d easily get my hands on a couple RSD exclusives I wanted. I got there just before the store opened only to find a mob of about 40 people massing at the store's entrance. It looked like Walmart on Black Friday—albeit on a smaller scale, though the crowd was just as pathetically dressed. Anyway, most of what I had come for had already been snapped up by the time I squeezed inside. I still managed to acquire a handful of records I was interested in and picked up some decently priced non-RSD used records as well.

However, most of the hour I spent in the store was focused on observing the activity and behavior at the dedicated RSD-exclusive vinyl display. One fashionably disheveled dork indiscriminately grabbed one of every release and then walked off with a massive stack toward the counter, where he flipped through his bounty and cast aside the ones he didn’t want—which themselves would get snatched up by circling vultures who had followed him. It was ridiculous. Mostly what I witnessed was disappointment from late arrivals (i.e., the sad sacks who got to the shop 10 minutes after it had opened) and found the RSD carcass virtually picked clean of its exclusives—save for those Hole 10-inches, overpriced Wilco box sets and assorted other major label crap. Another observation: most RSD shoppers never left the RSD quarantine area to browse the store’s impressive (though mostly overpriced) vinyl inventory, as well as the small section devoted to the remainders (or dregs) of 2009’s Record Store Day.

I admit it: I have record problem. I have a fairly large collection of LPs, 7-inches, 10-inches, etc., and I’m always tempted by events such as Record Store Day. But the corresponding ugly consumerism, greed and Ebay flipping that accompany this special day are a real turn-off. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for events that help preserve the dying business of the record store. I just don’t wish to be part of the collector scum scrum.

Tales from the Thrift Store

For 2010, I resolved to do my record shopping at the thrift store. It wasn’t so much a financial decision—though I saved a few bucks in doing so—but a fun experiment to see what I could unearth or be turned on to. In this age of instant gratification, music can be had with a simple click or tap, and elusive records are within easy grasp on eBay. But for me, and I’m sure most every other record collector, the hunt is just as thrilling as getting your grubby hands on that desired LP.

Ever since I started shopping at thrift stores in college, I would always thumb through the records. Occasionally, I’d find something worth spending 50 cents or a dollar on. But never had I considered the second-hand store to be my main source of music. And for good reason: If you’ve shopped for music at Goodwill, Salvation Army, Value Village, et al., you know that most of what they have is the pop culture waste of previous generations. The Al Hirts. The Andy Williames. The Art Garfunkels. That and much worse: Grandma’s crappy classical collection? Check. Ten copies of Firestone Christmas? Check. Ferrante and Teicher? Check. Mitch Miller? Check. All that crap, no matter which day or what store—the thrift store is where the bad records go to die. So I knew that getting some decent LPs was going to be a hell of a task.

You're likely familiar with the smell of thrift store. It’s not a good smell. Yet, every time the musty-dusty scent of the second-hand shop greeted me at the door, anticipation would pulse through my arteries, so excited I was by the prospect of finding some forgotten castoff or maybe a decent copy of a well-known favorite. Mostly, though, after rummaging through the usual detritus of moldy oldies, that feeling would soon yield to disappointment, and I’d inevitably leave empty-handed. But undaunted. If it’s treasure you’re hunting in the junk store, well, you have to be patient and persistent. Even then, you’ve got to be lucky, and on several occasions over the last year, I got lucky.

For these next several posts I am sharing some of the highlights of my 2010 vinyl thrifting. Have a look.

Today’s entry is Dark of Light (Buddah) by Norman Connors.

I won’t lie to you, I had no idea who Norman Connors was prior to seeing his face look back at me from the dusty stacks at a Value Village (location classified). Upon close examination of the LP’s cover, though, I saw that the record features a who’s who of jazz luminaries, including Herbie Hancock, saxophonist Gary Bartz, bassist Cecil McBee, trumpeter Eddie Henderson, et al. (a good sign) and was recorded in 1973 (an even better sign—I’ll get to that in a moment). Seeing that the actual vinyl was far better shape than its well-worn (or well-loved) only made me happier. Indeed, I had high expectations for this record, expectations which were easily surmounted once I dropped the needle on it.

Dark of Light comes from an era when jazzbos, be they avant-gardists, hard boppers or free jazzniks, explored the outer limits of electric funk, drifted off into mystical meditations, freaked out in the cosmos or improvised deep into the unknown. It was an interesting period for jazz—at least to my ears. A time before all that sonic exploration was synthesized and diluted into the catch-all commercial ghetto of fusion (bad fusion, Weather Report/Return to Forever-style fusion). Accordingly, what flooded from my speakers were sounds both exciting and expected (not a bad thing): cosmic, mystical jazz, a head trip of mood- and mind-altering mellow gorgeousness and ecstatic fire, tugging grooves that bubble up to the surface, and some truly inspired improvisations.

Dark of Light was Norman Connors’ first album as a leader, but he was hardly a newcomer. Connors, a drummer, most notably created percussive thunder behind two jazz legends, Archie Shepp and Pharaoh Sanders. As his solo career progressed, though, he changed his tune from jazz to more commercial-friendly R&B, creating super-smooth soundtracks for singers such as Michael Henderson and Phyllis Hyman, scoring several hits late into the ’70s. However, if I come across any of those records in my future thrifting, I’ll leave them well enough alone.

Welcome Back, Wanda

First it was Loretta Lynn. Now Jack White is bringing out singer Wanda Jackson for another bow. The rockabilly queen has a new album out, The Party Ain’t Over—which was produced by White and released this week on his Third Man label. And the record is actually quite good, a hillbilly hootenanny of country, rockabilly and gospel, energized by Jackson’s signature voice and matchless spirit. She’s still got it, all right. (Check out an interview with Jackson and listen to the album at NPR).

I interviewed Jackson nine years ago in advance of a Seattle appearance at the Tractor Tavern. It was indeed a career highlight for me. We talked by phone for about 45 minutes. She was awesome, and I was pretty pleased with the resulting story I wrote for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer (though I might have gotten her age wrong). So in celebration of her return to the fore, I give you my short feature on Wanda Jackson.

March 15, 2002

Club Beat: Jackson Still Blazing a Rockabilly Trail

By JOE EHRBAR
SPECIAL TO THE POST-INTELLIGENCER

In his book The Unsung Heroes of Rock 'n' Roll, author Nick Tosches declares rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson to be "simply and without contest, the greatest menstruating rock 'n' roll singer whom the world has ever known."

No truer words have been put so eloquently, if crassly. Jackson is a rock pioneer. She is living, screaming, guitar-strumming history who turned country on its head and broke new ground in the 1950s with a feisty growl and signature songs like "Fujiyama Mama," "Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad," "Mean Mean Man" and "Let's Have a Party." The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame may snub her, but the historical and cultural weight of her music cannot be denied.

At 62, Jackson is still at it, performing with a vigor and abandon that betray her age. Whether preaching to the faithful in concert halls in Sweden or reaching out to young converts in American clubs such as Seattle's Tractor Tavern, where she's set to appear on Wednesday along with the Donettes (9 p.m.; $12), Jackson is all too eager to share the raunchy gospel of rockabilly.

Jackson exudes just as much enthusiasm when telling her story. Speaking to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer by phone last week, Jackson recounted what it was like to be a teen star, to work with Elvis Presley, to pave the way for rock 'n' roll as a woman before later being paved over, to be rediscovered in Europe and finally recognized in her own country.

"It's been a heady trip for this old lady," summed up Jackson with a chuckle.

Jackson's trip began in Oklahoma City in the 1950s. Just in high school, she was discovered on a radio show by country star Hank Thompson, who got her signed to Decca Records. Jackson soon charted her first hit, in 1954, a duet with Thompson's bandleader, Billy Gray, titled "You Can't Have My Love." Upon graduation, the budding star, chaperoned by her father, piled into the family car and motored onto the concert trail, never to look back.

Jackson logged thousands of miles with her father in those early days, performing on one multiact caravan after another. While it was exciting, her life was anything but glamorous. "It was harder in those days when you' re just starting out," Jackson said. "We had to travel by car mostly. I didn't make enough money to fly.

"I used to have to put on my stage clothes in service station restrooms," she continued. "Some of them were so bad, I'd have to stand up on the toilet stool lids."

It was on one of those tours that Jackson met Presley, himself a newcomer, recording rockabilly songs for tiny Sun Records. The two became friends, and later dated. "Elvis was always an exciting person to be around. He had charisma. I always looked forward to working with him. We dated when we could on the road. He asked me to be his girl and wear his ring, and I did."

Jackson's relationship with Presley marked a turning point in her career. At Presley's urging, Wanda went rockabilly. "My dad and Elvis just lit in on me that I needed to be doing this music," she said. "Elvis kept saying it was gonna be the next big thing. I could tell that by working with him, with all the girls screaming."

"It took me a while to get the nerve to do it," said Jackson, "but I found some songs." She also found her voice, well described by Tosches as "a wild fluttering thing of sexy subtleties and sudden harshness, feral feline purrings and raving banshee shriekings." In 1956, Jackson and her wicked set of pipes helped usher in rock's golden age by cooking up a spicy number called "Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad." "Fujiyama Mama" and "Mean, Mean Man" followed in 1957 and 1958.

As groundbreaking as they were, these bombshells fell on deaf ears. "I couldn't get any airplay," Jackson said. "No one seemed to recognize what I was doing. America wasn't ready for a girl hollering, singing this raunchy, soulful and exciting music." Ironically, Japan was. "Fujiyama Mama" went No. 1 there in 1958, despite its politically incorrect lyrics: "I been to Nagasaki/Hiroshima too/The things I did to them, baby/I can do to you."

Jackson's big moment in the States came in 1960, when "Let's Have a Party" screamed up the charts with all the unbridled glee of a party blower on New Year's Eve. Its successors "Right or Wrong" and "Riot on Cell Block #9" kept up the front, though by this point, Jackson had all but abandoned rockabilly. "I gave it a run, and then had to kind of back down into country to get airplay and keep my name out there so that I could work."

Jackson rode out the 1960s as a commercially successful country singer. But when she felt a tug to do gospel music after converting to Christianity, her label, Capitol, wouldn't hear of it, so ending their relationship and Jackson's days on the charts.

Then in the 1985, spurred on by a rockabilly revival in Europe, Jackson made a comeback and started touring and recording again. America, late to the party as ever, rediscovered Jackson in the mid-1990s as the rise of insurgent country and reissues of her work (such as Capitol's 1996 anthology Vintage Collections) increased awareness of the singer. Jackson has since been in hot demand and she spends many of her days as she did when she was just starting out — on the road. This time, however, she's usually flying first class.

"I'm always coming and going," Jackson said. "That's my life and I love it. It's the only life I know. It has probably taken its toll. I tell people, 'When you look at me, just remember, maybe it's not the age but the mileage.'"

Case of the Half-Written Blues

I've got a bunch of new posts in the hopper for the new year. Sadly, this is not one of them. No, the new stuff just isn't quite there yet. So while I agonize over the nascent posts, I thought I'd tide you over with the covers of two uncommonly awful recent thrift store acquisitions. Dig in.

James Lockridge Sings Joy in My Heart (1974)

James' love interest on this record is ... Jesus. But of course.

The Wheeler Family City of Gold (197?)

Looks like a perfectly innocent album of Christian gospel hymns sung by a pleasantly homely and inept quartet of siblings, until ...


... you take a gander at the back cover. This is the Wheeler Family's "Dad" as he appears on the back cover. Kind of makes Murry Wilson or that puppeteer father of the sisters Shagg seem almost rational, reasonable, loving even.

In Death Gerry Rafferty Gets Last Laugh

Gerry Rafferty's pickled liver finally walked off the job this week, so denying any further comeback attempt or call for one last round by its owner. While this might be seen as tragic (how can death deny a very thirsty man a final drink ... or two dozen?), few of us are shedding tears about Gerry's slightly premature checkout. Some of us are even laughing -- because the accidental prankster hit the road toward the great gig in the sky and left us with the master tapes to "Baker Street," whose distinctive porno sax solo, with its stained sheets of sound, is sure to ooze into the sleazy motels of our minds for many years to come. Damn you, Gerry! What a kidder.