Revinylization

In the January 2020 Stereophile, I described my transformation from John Fahey skeptic to John Fahey fan; suffice it to say, the late guitarist was far from the only musical artist whose work I came to enjoy only after a number of failed attempts. Another was the English band Yes, which I saw in concert in 1977, at New York's Madison Square Garden: I was so bored by the many lengthy instrumental solos, each one remarkable only for the sheer number of notes being squirted at me, that I literally nodded off. (In my defense, it was also very warm in there.)

Today, having been exposed to the group's pre-1977 catalog, my appreciation for their ability to craft eccentrically interesting pop records has grown. And no better example exists than their fourth studio release, Fragile, which mixes solo pieces by each of the band's five members with four group efforts, the latter including the megahit "Roundabout."

Originally released in 1971 on Atlantic Records, Fragile has now been reissued by Mobile Fidelity Sound Lab as an Ultra-disc One-Step pressing, on two 45rpm LPs (UD1S 2-012)—in which incarnation it sounds absolutely glorious. Studio trickery notwithstanding—including apparently heavy compression on Bill Bruford's drum kit, an artistic decision that was very much the style of the day—this One-Step release offers dynamic, colorful sound, notable especially on the electric bass stylings of the late Chris Squire. Surfaces on my own ultraflat, ultraclean Ultradisc were crazy-quiet. As a bonus, the new MoFi set comes with an eight-page booklet with photos of the band members and two additional works by cover artist Roger Dean. The set is expensive at $125 but nevertheless offers good value: If the Ultradisc One-Step Fragile were a big-budget movie, it would be the kind where you can see every penny on the screen.

In that January column I also trotted out the descriptor punk folk, then in reference to John Fahey. In fact, the first time I saw those two words strung together was in 1979, in reviews devoted to the fresh-faced singer-songwriter Steve Forbert, whose sophomore album, Jackrabbit Slim, had just been released. Like other troubadours with both an acoustic guitar and a harmonica holder—do they even make those things anymore—Forbert cut his teeth at the folk clubs of New York City. But by the time he did so, those clubs were transitioning into new-music venues, none with a bigger bang than CBGB, the punk palace whose name originally stood for Country, BlueGrass, and Blues. The "punk folk" label—and God knows, magazine writers love labels—was reinforced by the cover art for Jackrabbit Slim: a semi-colorized B&W photo of the clean-shaven Forbert wearing a black leather jacket and striking an unabashed Elvis-esque pose.

In December 2019, to mark the 40th anniversary of the album's original release, Blue Rose Music released a limited-edition Jackrabbit Slim LP on bright red vinyl (BRM-1037). No, it isn't punk in the least; if anything, the production aesthetic of the original recording is rather too slick. But to hear it anew is to be reminded of Forbert's easy gift for crafting catchy chord progressions and melodies (a gift that, alongside his flexible, sweetly gravelly voice, endures in Forbert's present-day work). And the album's hit, "Romeo's Tune," belongs in the collection of every pop fan.

"Roundabout" and "Romeo's Tune" have been on my radar for decades, but I confess my ignorance of jazz singer Helen Merrill—or so it was until a couple of weeks ago, when Chad Kassem of Acoustic Sounds sent me a test pressing of his forthcoming reissue of her eponymous 1955 debut LP (EmArcy MG 36006/Analogue Productions AAPP 127). To say I was impressed is an understatement.

The album was recorded in December of 1954 by the legendary Bob Fine, at Fine Sound Inc., 711 5th Avenue in New York. Merrill, then only 24, was backed by a combo that included Clifford Brown on trumpet, Oscar Pettiford on bass, and pianist Jimmy Jones, with arrangements by Quincy Jones—himself a mere 21 years old at the time. The mono sound is on the (pleasantly) dry side and very forward, with taut-sounding drums and bass and an intimate vocal sound that at times comes close to being overly sibilant but never quite carries out the threat. Merrill's intonation isn't always spot-on (as in the intro to "Yesterdays"), but there's something about her voice—an odd combination of breathy innocence and husky-toned experience that pulls me in time after time. (In "Don't Explain," she intones the word quiet in a manner that could launch any number of ships.) And Clifford Brown's trumpet is, as one might expect, perfect.

Prices for the original mono LP reach into four-figure territory, so news of an affordable reissue is very good news indeed. Torch on.