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Rating: Sometimes music should simply flow and accompany our habits, letting go as if it were a gentle spring breeze; this is the case with this wonderful album, whose greatest virtue lies in its charm. Commander Cody (the name is inspired by a 1950s TV serial titled, indeed, Commando Cody) is a group formed in Michigan at the end of the sixties by a bunch of amused and amusing hedonists who took little time to move to San Francisco where the scene is much, much more stimulating. "Lost in Ozone" (ABC, 1971) is the band's official debut record, probably the most honest and compelling. Commander Cody resembles a mixed fruit salad of musical languages; in the album in question, we find a delightful mixture of swing, country, rock, boogie-woogie, honky-tonk, and other tones from the diverse galaxy known as "Americana".
The vinyl (but the CD is much easier to find) opens with "Back to Tennessee", a slippery boogie-woogie that raises the curtain on the sonic kaleidoscope we are about to approach; from the first beats, the passion and skill with which the tracks are interpreted are evident.
"Wine do yer stuff" is a piece with a strong country accent, whose original rendition is due to the magnificent stride piano of George Frayne IV, alias Commander Cody himself: however, the American tradition intertwines with acid echoes that recall none other than the imaginative Workingman's Dead by the Grateful Dead, while the guitars invite a look back at Ry Cooder's early interesting works: the dust of the trails is moistened by the saline drops of Big Sur, and the atmosphere refuses simplistic classification, as the country matrix is authoritatively contaminated, soaking in hippie breezes and psychedelic unease. "Seeds and stems (again)" is dominated by the refined work of West Virginia Creeper on the steel guitar, and the atmosphere is influenced by the contemporary flavors of Country Joe McDonald's creations; in the lyrics, the narrator tells us how all the world's misfortunes fall upon his head: "Oh, my dog died just yesterday, left me all alone/ The finance company dropped by today, and repossessed my home/ That's just a drop in the bucket, compared to losing you/ And I'm down to seeds and stems again too/ Got the down to seeds and stems again blues". "Daddy’s Gonna Treat You Right" highlights enjoyable work by Andy Stein on the fiddle, while the general structure of the track winks at Buffalo Springfield; there’s a ragged and emotional chant from whose edges emerge the 'eagle-esque' sounds of a successful album like Desperado. A dive into the deeply folk culture of the USA with the traditional "Family Bible," and side A is completed with a wonderful "Home in my Hand," where a nearly spoken text is chased by a luminous rock’n’blues trail: meanwhile, from behind a corner, the elongated face of Tom Waits appears (listen again to Closing Time: satisfaction guaranteed or your money back!).
On the second vinyl side with "Lost in Ozone" it's as if David Bromberg invites us to dance to the sound of Creeper’s steel and Andy Stein's fiddle; do you like country fairs? If music were like this, I'm sure you do. The party continues with "Midnight shift": a perfectly played rock’n’roll classic, full of life and sensuality. "Hot Rod Lincoln" is the album's real hit that gained fame and airplay across all the States, yet, in all honesty, this legendary composition, with its hyper-American storytelling supported by effective rhythm and blues, doesn't come across as the most successful track. Instead, I believe the crown can perfectly well be given to "What’s the matter now?". A wonderful, (again fully 'tomwaitsian'), near-ballad, seminal for its use of bass and voice, ironic and mocking; a slow, tipsy boogie punctuated by a powerful steel guitar: a masterpiece. With "20 Flight Rock'n Roll" we head to the drive-in; then all together in the gym, at the university party where beer and sweat, at the sound of a hoarse sax, forget for one night the desolation just beyond the windows. The party ends with "Beat Me Daddy Eight to the Bar," an unruly honky-tonky, whose onomatopoeic language emphasizes the imperfect and temporary beauty of a music that truly risks making us euphoric: "A-plink, a-plank, a-plink plank, plink plank/ A-plunkin' on the Keys/ A-riff, a-raff, a-riff raff, riff raff/ A-riffin' out with ease/ And when he plays with the bass and guitar/ They holler out, "Beat me Daddy, eight to the bar".
Sometimes even a sweet, joyful stupidity, similar to a never-ending adolescence, tempts and deceives us. And that's why groups like Commander Cody exist.
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