Apologies for the lack of any activity around these parts in the past week; between working on about half a dozen post ideas right now, getting my year-end write-ups out of the way, and making my way through 8 Diagrams (2007) and The Big Doe Rehab (2007), finding time to drop even a Song of the Week has been tough. Until I can get my act together this weekend, enjoy this post I wrote for EarFuzz earlier this year.

The sweetest of ’70s Soul has always been about summertime and sunshine for me, so during these dreary days of November in New England I’ll occasionally have to remind myself that June is only… eight… months… away by digging out some of the more ignored Soul records in my collection. Recently I’ve taken a certain fascination with Sylvia Robinson’s Pillow Talk (1973), and the more I listen, the more I become attuned to how utterly strange this record is. An explanation is probably in order.

Regardless of one’s feelings about Robinson as a cold, heartless businesswoman (see: The Sugarhill Gang, a discussion for another time), she nevertheless had a long and successful career in the music industry, beginning in the late ’50s as the latter half of Mickey & Sylvia, most remembered for their single “Love is Strange.” During the ’60s she worked behind the scenes, nurturing New Jersey trio The Moments to stardom while raising her family. She began releasing solo records under her first name in the ’70s, moving into bedroom disco and even hip hop during the ’80s. Yet while many of her contemporaries patiently waited by the assembly line for producers to churn out chart-toppers for them, Robinson actively played a hand in shaping her own career, writing or co-writing most of her material and supervising the daily operations of running her record label with her husband, Joe. She was also a hell of a guitar player to boot.

Still, listening to Pillow Talk, one gets the impression that something just isn’t right, but it’s difficult to place a finger on what it is. It’s a pleasant listen, to be sure, undeniably sensual and full of slithering, late-night grooves. Perhaps it’s Sylvia’s reserved presence and somewhat hesitant delivery, at times sounding as if she’s curled up on the couch in the control room, intimidated and cradling the microphone; others, her whispery coos and moans have all the sincerity of a minimum-wage phone-sex operator. But there is a certain intimacy in her voice that connects with the listener despite the fact that it’s quizzically buried in the mix most of the time. “Gimme a Little Action” is one such example, a sleeper cut that would have benefited tremendously from a boost of Sylvia’s vocal track, yet she seems content to cuddle into her surroundings, treating her voice as equally as the other instruments of pleasure. And oddly enough, it works.

“Gimme a Little Action” – Sylvia 4:00 (Pillow Talk, Vibration 1973)

“Sunday” was written for Sylvia’s brother’s fiancee, who tragically died in a car accident the night before they were to be married. It sounds unlike any of the other selections here, a haunting ballad with just Sylvia, her acoustic guitar, and a lone cello. The atmosphere calls to mind something out of a Country-Western musical from the ’60s, with Sylvia’s cries echoing throughout the moonlit desert canyon long after her companions have fallen asleep by the campfire. (Attentive listeners will recognize this track as the basis for Ghostface’s “The Letter” skit from The Pretty Tony Album [2004].) Compared to the relatively standard instrumentation and arrangements of the original Moments version, the two are like night and day.

“Sunday” – Sylvia 3:12 (Pillow Talk, Vibration 1973)

“Sunday” – The Moments 2:47 (Not on the Outside, But Inside In!, Stang 1968)

Pillow Talk is definitely worth checking out, if only for two reasons: 1) there are few records of the era that sound remotely similar to it (keep in mind that this stuff was pretty risque for the time), and 2) a seven-minute version of “Not on the Outside” where Sylvia seductively introduces her “little band,” then instructs her guitar player on how to play his solo as if he were forcibly pleasuring her. Bizarre, to say the least.

Opeth “In Mist She Was Standing” Orchid Candlelight 1994

For a good six or seven years, Stockholm’s Opeth could do no wrong in my book. Their finely-honed balance of crushing riffage, rich melodicism, and uniquely structured songwriting – displayed in all its glory on My Arms, Your Hearse (1998) – was nothing shy of a revelation to these ears. I spent hundreds of hours trying to wrap my head around Still Life’s (2000) complexities, and still hold Blackwater Park (2001) to be metal perfection from start to finish. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the less-metal/more-’70s-prog direction band leader Mikael Åkerfeldt had shifted the group toward on Deliverance (2002) and especially Damnation (2003), and I was utterly defeated when I heard these tendencies nurtured to fruition on Ghost Reveries (2005) two years ago. (A recent listen to the record revealed it to be much better than I had remembered, though it’s safe to say that I’ll never want to hear “Hours of Wealth” again.) With the recent departures of longtime guitarist Peter Lindgren and drummer Martin Lopez, I highly doubt that my unwavering devotion to the band will reach the same levels of fanaticism, and the recent announcement that Opeth will occupy the opening slot on Dream Theater’s 2008 tour hardly gains them any points. Yet I’m still amazed by the replay value of those earlier records, especially the debut Orchid (1994) and ambitious follow-up Morningrise (1996).

It wasn’t until after My Arms, Your Hearse that I backtracked through the band’s catalogue and heard these two records, which, other than the extended song structures, bear little resemblance to what Opeth would grow into. (Part of this could be attributed to the fact that the impenetrable rhythm section of Lopez and bassist Martin Mendez had yet to jump on board.) Orchid’s opening volley “In Mist She Was Standing” remains one of the band’s finest quarter-hours (literally, clocking in at 14:09), with an abundance of single-note dual-guitar harmonies, galloping 6/8 grooves, Åkerfeldt’s chilling death-metal roars, and expansive instrumental passages and brief acoustic interludes in equal measure. Åkerfeldt’s gift for composing the most gorgeously sad and moving melodies is already apparent at this early stage – note the dreary spaciousness of the movement at 5:34, which sounds like something off Pink Floyd’s Animals (1977). His wealth of ideas here is ebullient, moving through each section with a furious, don’t-look-back intensity that he would abandon by the time of Still Life; in other words, enjoy that riff while it lasts, because you won’t hear it again. It’s a wonder how lesser bands like Night in Gales and even In Flames had the stones to continue after hearing something of this caliber; in less than fifteen minutes, Opeth just trumped anything they could ever hope to write.

“In Mist She Was Standing” – Opeth 14:09 (Orchid, Candlelight 1994)