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Rating: When the most prominent member of Little Feat, namely the guitarist and singer Lowell George, unexpectedly passed away at the age of thirty-four, his band had already taken quite a hold of things: the insurrection led by colleague Paul Barrere and keyboardist Bill Payne, both very much into genres like funky and fusion that George wasn’t interested in, had already begun a couple of years and albums before.
His departure (in 1979) suspended work for eight long years, after which the Little Feat brand returned to the market, picking up where it had left off, that is, with very Los Angeles-style music, essentially metropolitan, filled with moods like Steely Dan, Doobie Brothers, even Toto, much to the chagrin of poor George who tended to favor more rustic paths, between southern rock and country blues.
Well, I personally prefer this second portion of Little Feat's career: both Barrere, a brilliant and incisive guitarist with an excellent voice reminiscent of Tom Johnston (Doobie Brothers), and Bill Payne, an outstanding pianist and organist with a decent voice, are musicians closer to my preferences than Lowell George. They are certainly far from being mere sidekicks... It's understandable that they managed to shoulder the burden of continuing the career of such a renowned and esteemed band (more the latter than the former…).
The “gap” left by George was filled by hiring not one but two guitarists/composers: Craig Fuller (also a valid solo vocalist) from the Pure Prarie League and Fred Tackett. Seven musicians on stage and in the studio, then, creating an extremely multifaceted, vibrant, and precise sound, arranged with precision and class, in that typical California style that is always smooth and spicy without ever overdoing it.
For many, this is a legitimate flaw, and perhaps they are right: albums like these initially sound exciting, with instruments and voices that travel without a hitch, dry and synthetic in their interventions. Then one might realize that not much sticks, that out of a whole series of admirable passages and clever interactions, of solos that end after a few bars, of solo voice exchanges, there is never an epic song, the perfect solo, or an irresistible melody.
The undeniable fact is that all the musicians can play excellently, with measured and crystalline class interventions. Drummer Richie Hayward, for example (speaking of… he also passed away, three years ago) can be heard in certain tracks seeking the rolling shuffle beloved by colleague Jeff Porcaro (Toto), who was then setting the standard in the City of Angels. Bill Payne is a musician of great caliber on piano, organ, and synthesizers, with which he has no problem arranging entire, complex sections of horns (on “The Ingenue” in particular); he is among the best in the world, many say so (Elton John, for instance) and the hundreds of records he has been called to help as a guest confirm it.
There are three singers: Barrere, the most cheerful and clear voice of the trio, takes on five tracks, another four are interpreted by Fuller who displays a more distressed and tense timbre, perfect, halfway between a grittier Jackson Browne and a Steve Overland (and who’s that? Ah, the singer of FM. And who are they? Oh, figure it out). The last two tracks are performed by Bill Payne.
The opening “Texas Twister” is attacked and marked dramatically by Fred Tackett’s great work on a Fender Telecaster, handled very skillfully, highlighting its great qualities in terms of clarity and attack. On “Feelin’s All Gone” the balding Barrere works wonders with the slide, not making one miss the acknowledged master Lowell too much, but the most sparkling solo break is delivered by a guest, the exceptional Michael Brecker, with his saxophone on the already mentioned “The Ingenue,” my favorite, in touching Steely Dan style.
This is Californian music one hundred and one percent, a true crucible of all the styles that have made the United States great in the musical field: blues, jazz, rhythm & blues, rock, pop, even a bit of Latin blended together and served in excellent sauce by distinguished chefs; white music, very white, but borrowed from the blacks… however, with respect; music viscerally and cerebrally mixed with snazzy and tasty entertainment: it will never be art worthy of an A+ grade, but it often earns a solid B, and this seems to me one of those cases.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
03 Representing the Mambo (05:56)
Bill Payne, Neon Park, Fred Tackett, Paul Barrere
Gretta's flunky, some two fisted monkey, some wild-eyed Romeo
Winds up the mountain with Rio down below
Drives too slowly past a burning impromptu altar
Attended by no one of visible means
Could be a warning just shining us on, but we're far too gone
On our way to see some Johnny
Representing the mambo
Representing the mambo... mambo... mambo oooh.. mambo
Rounding the corner we come to a halt
Doors fly open as we prepare for assault
Out from the shadows step the dangerous boys
Hands holding weapons, they treat them like toys
A debutante Gretta, the taxidermist's daughter
She knows what to say
She knows how to mingle, she knows the lingo
Muchachos we're here to see Johnny
Representing the mambo
Representing the mambo... mambo... mambo oooh.. mambo
Gretta leads us through the stone carved archway
Into the school of samba, the place of sacred rites
We push through a gauntlet of limpwristed handshakes
An empty cotillion air kisses
Gretta smiles as we make our way to the bar
The new crowd says I remind them of Frank
Who died of excessive nymphets
In Barcelona... in Barcelona
Who's that with Gretta? Yeah You know how she is...
Never the same one twice
I say old chap, would you care for a piece of cake
No thanks, Paul, my ears are too sweet now
A strange choice of work, but forensically it's true
Sudden thunder clap drum roll
Gretta's on the stage... she's a honey of a hun
A blue-eyed angel girl
Announces proudly to everyone in the room
Senhores y senores here's Johnny
Representing the mambo
Representing the mambo... mambo... mambo oooh.. mambo
Gretta Gretta I've got to slip away
It just won't work between us
Your daddy runs the house of pain
You are the taxidermist's daughter, yeah
05 Rad Gumbo (03:28)
If you walk in off the street
You can take the load right off your feet
Mamma bring the menu to your seat
But the bill of fare be short & sweet
Won't find no etouffe
Mamm never ever could cook it that way
She's all ancien regime
No nouvell cuisine
She cook gumbo
A mighty rad gumbo
It's the only way she can go
Down at the Club Rad Gumbo
Now the heads and shells stay in the stock
She stirs her roux and really rocks
One gallon shellfish stock or water
Man this gumbo is made to order
Two toes of garlick finely chopped
Man this party just can't be stopped
Mamma's pots are boiling, band starts to blow
Piano keys a flying like Fats Domino
She cook gumbo
A mighty rad gumbo
It's the only way she can go
Down at the Club Rad Gumbo
Oh no, no escargot, no cordon bleu
This ain't the place to go lookin' for beef stew
But if you like tender shrimp and rice
If ya think ya can stand the spice
She cook gumbo
A mighty rad gumbo
Now the people come from miles around
Dig what Mamma's puttin' down
Everybody knows her name
She in the seafood hall of fame
I got to get that recipe
If it means the death of me
Get my spyboy to sneak a look
Into Mamma's book
She cook gumbo
A mighty rad gumbo
It's the only way she can go
Down at the Club Rad Gumbo
She cook gumbo
A mighty rad gumbo
It's the only way she can go
Down at the Club Rad Gumbo29c:58
10 The Ingenue (04:22)
Paul Barrere, Bill Payne, Fred Tackett, Craig Fuller
She ain't real friendly for no good reason
Claims her life's been filled with treason
Says she's cursed by a toothless gypsy
Wonderin' why her life's so greasy
With doulbe blades she dulls her senses
Spiteful girl by all consensus
All her life it's been the same
Hell she don't even like her name
She longs to be the ingenue
To leading men tall dark and handsome
But now the play has passed her by... oh my
There's no exit
Oh no there's no way out at all
There's no exit
Jumped a train in Italy
On her way to gay Paris
Down in the Loire Valley
She got sho drunk she couldn't see
Stumblin' through a metro station
In a mood for conversation
Fortune teller read her palm
Told her that her time was gone
She longs to be the ingenue
To leading men tall dark and handsome
But now the play has passed her by... oh my
There's no exit
Oh no there's no way out at all
There's no exit
She used to model as a child
With Bardot's looks and Gigi's laughter
Enfant terrible creation
Of a sockless adman's mind
Played her first recital at the tender age of nine
Strains of Clare de Lune
Mater sipping wine
Pater in the garden gazing
At those ponies grazing
The spoils of a lonely child
She longs to be the ingenue
To leading men tall dark and handsome
Once just a jet-trash kid
Down at Les Halles
Her frequent trips to Nice
In Monaco she was always welcome
She was embraced by all society
Along the way she lost her charms
Now the play has passed her by
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