Aquarian Dream - 1978 - Fantasy

Aquarian Dream 

1978

Fantasy

01. You're A Star 5:30

02. Friends 5:41

03. It Ain't Watcha Say 3:52

04. Yesterday (Was So Nice Today) 4:45

05. Play It For Me (One More Time) 4:28

06. Fantasy 3:34

07. Gentle Thoughts 4:42

08. Do You Realize 4:41

Bass – Eddie Watkins

Bass – Ernie Adams

Drums – James Gadson

Drums – James Morrison

Electric Piano, Synthesizer, Vocals, Piano – Jacques Burvick

Guitar – Wah Wah Watson

Guitar – Ray Parker Jr.

Guitar, Vocals, Percussion – Claude Bartee III

Keyboards – Winston Daley

Percussion, Vocals – Dave Worthy

Tenor Saxophone, Soprano Saxophone, Vocals – Claude Bartee Jr.

Trumpet, Flugelhorn, Vocals – Albert Jones

Soprano Saxophone – Gary Bartz

Horns – Garnet Brown & The L.A. Horns

Vocals – Gloria Jones, Marcella Allen, Patricia Shannon, Sylvia Striplin

Backing Vocals – Julia Tillman Waters, Luther Waters, Maxine Willard Waters, Oren Waters

Producer – Norman Connors

In the late 1970s, when jazz-funk was still allowed to dream as freely as it danced, Norman Connors had a habit of spotting talent that the major labels somehow managed to overlook. Aquarian Dream was one of his discoveries. Assembled in 1976 as a vehicle for Connors’ production vision, the group first appeared on Buddah with Norman Connors Presents Aquarian Dream, a solid if slightly tentative debut. By the time they reached Elektra two years later for their second album, Fantasy, the lineup had sharpened and the sound had deepened into something more distinctive. Lead vocalist Sylvia Striplin had replaced Gloria Jones, bringing a cooler, more refined presence, while the supporting cast—saxophonist Claude Bartee Jr., guitarist Pete Bartee, keyboardist Jacques Burvick, bassist Ernie Adams, percussionist Dave Worthy, and others—settled into a tighter chemistry. Connors remained at the production helm, and the result was a record that balanced cosmic soul aspirations with street-level groove in a way that still feels special.

The influences are easy to trace yet never feel like imitation. Connors’ own catalog of sophisticated jazz-funk is the clearest reference point, but there are also echoes of Roy Ayers’ floating vibes, the harmonic richness of mid-seventies Philadelphia soul, and the rhythmic elasticity of the best post-fusion funk. Herbie Hancock’s “Gentle Thoughts” is covered here with elegant restraint, while original material from Burvick, Bartee, and the group itself keeps the album rooted in its own identity. Sessions for Fantasy took place with the kind of high-end polish Elektra could provide, featuring lush string and horn arrangements, layered background vocals from the Waters family and others, and a rhythm section that knew how to leave space as well as fill it. The production is clean without being sterile, airy without floating away, and always centered on the interplay between Striplin’s voice and the band’s collective pulse.

The album opens with the confident strut of “You’re a Star,” a five-and-a-half-minute statement of purpose that still sounds like a hit that somehow never quite was. “Friends” follows with a warmer, more conversational groove, while “It Ain’t Watcha Say” delivers concise, punchy funk. “Yesterday (Was So Nice Today)” slows the tempo into reflective territory, and “Play It for Me (One More Time)” keeps the dance floor in mind without sacrificing melodic interest. The title track, “Fantasy,” is pure late-night elegance, and the Hancock cover “Gentle Thoughts” provides a moment of pure jazz-funk atmosphere. Closing track “Do You Realize” has become something of a cult favorite among collectors, its circular groove and thoughtful lyric still capable of stopping a room. Across the eight tracks the music never overreaches; it simply settles into a sophisticated, slightly cosmic pocket and stays there.

The artwork matches the music’s understated ambition. The cover presents a dreamy, slightly surreal visual that suggests both fantasy and arrival—soft colors, evocative imagery, and a sense of quiet invitation rather than aggressive marketing. In an era when album sleeves could tip into excess, Fantasy opted for atmosphere, and it still looks like a record worth pulling from the shelf for the art alone.

Commercially the album was a disappointment. Elektra gave it a proper release, but sales remained modest and radio play was limited. Critical attention at the time was sparse; those who heard it tended to praise the production and Striplin’s vocals, yet the record never broke through to a wider audience. Over the decades, however, Fantasy has earned a devoted following among jazz-funk and rare-groove collectors. Tracks like “You’re a Star” and “Do You Realize” have become staples in specialist DJ sets, and Japanese reissues in particular have kept the music circulating. The group would make one more album, the more disco-oriented Chance to Dance in 1979, before dissolving, but Fantasy remains their most fully realized statement—a sophisticated, groove-rich record that never quite found its moment in 1978 yet continues to reward anyone willing to meet it halfway. In the long run, that quiet persistence may be the best kind of legacy a record can have.

Dexter Wansel - 1977 - What The World Is Coming To

Dexter Wansel

1977

What The World Is Coming To

01. First Light Of The Morning 6:09

02. Dance With Me Tonight 5:38

03. Holdin' On 4:55

04. Ode Infinitum 4:00

05. Disco Lights 4:09

06. What The World Is Coming To 6:21

07. Going Back To Kingston Town 3:59

08. Dreams Of Tomorrow 4:48

09. Prelude #1 1:21

Bass – Derek Graves

Drums – Billy Johnson

Guitar – Herb Smith

Keyboards – Steve Gold

Strings, Horns – MFSB

Synthesizer, Electric Piano, Lead Vocals – Dexter Wansel

Tenor Saxophone – Bob Malach

Trumpet, Flugelhorn – Al Harrison 

Dexter Wansel had already taken listeners to Mars on his 1976 debut; a year later he brought the conversation back down to Earth, though the view from ground level still looked pretty cosmic. Born in Philadelphia in 1950, Wansel had grown up in the orbit of the Uptown Theater before becoming one of the key architects of the Philadelphia International sound as an arranger, producer, and synthesizer specialist. After the space-themed Life On Mars established him as a solo artist with a unique voice, What The World Is Coming To, released in March 1977 on Philadelphia International Records, found him addressing more terrestrial concerns—poverty, struggle, the state of the planet—while still letting his ARP synthesizers and lush arrangements soar. The album is less a radical departure than a natural expansion: the same futuristic keyboard palette, the same Sigma Sound polish, but with themes that felt closer to the evening news than to science fiction.

Wansel’s influences remained a rich stew of Philly soul, jazz fusion, early disco, and his own restless curiosity. Where the first album answered David Bowie’s question about life on Mars, this one seemed to ask what kind of life was being lived on Earth. He wrote most of the material himself, co-writing a few tracks with Cynthia Biggs, Bunny Sigler, and bassist Derrick Graves. Sessions again took place at Sigma Sound Studios with engineering by Jay Mark and Jim Gallagher. The core band featured Derrick Graves on bass, Herb Smith on guitar, and a rotating cast of drummers that included Billy Johnson, Darryl Brown, Charles Collins, and even the great Idris Muhammad on the title track. Steve Gold added keyboards, Bobby Malach contributed saxophone, Al Harrison handled trumpet and flugelhorn, and the MFSB strings and horns provided the familiar Philadelphia sweep. Background vocals came from the reliable trio of Barbara Ingram, Carla Benson, and Evette Benton, with Jean Carn stepping forward for more prominent features on several cuts. Wansel himself handled ARP synthesizer, Fender Rhodes, RMI electric piano, Baldwin grand, percussion, arrangements, production, and lead vocals.

The album opens with the expansive instrumental “First Light of the Morning,” a six-minute piece that builds from delicate keyboard textures into a full orchestral statement; its graceful unfolding would later catch the ear of J Dilla. “Dance With Me Tonight” shifts into sleek disco-funk territory with a propulsive rhythm and thick synthesizer layers, while “Holdin’ On,” co-written with Bunny Sigler, offers a smoother, more intimate vocal performance. “Ode Infinitum” keeps the instrumental focus with brass and open keyboard space. Side two begins with the sparkling “Disco Lights,” then moves into the title track, a thoughtful mid-tempo piece that opens with the voices of children and features Idris Muhammad’s distinctive drumming. “Going Back to Kingston Town” takes an unexpected reggae detour, complete with a light Bob Marley influence and Jean Carn’s voice, before “Dreams of Tomorrow” settles into quiet-storm elegance. The brief “Prelude #1” closes the set like a quiet afterthought. Throughout, the production is polished and spacious, with Wansel’s synthesizers weaving through the classic Philly arrangements rather than fighting them.

The artwork continues the elegant visual language of the previous album. Design by Ed Lee and photography by Frank Laffitte present Wansel in a stylish, slightly enigmatic portrait that feels more grounded than the neon-tunnel futurism of Life On Mars, yet still carries a sense of quiet sophistication. The package looks like a record that expects to be taken seriously without shouting about it.

Commercially What The World Is Coming To performed solidly within the R&B market, reaching number 45 on the Billboard R&B albums chart and producing the dance-floor single “Disco Lights.” Critical attention at the time was respectful but not ecstatic; many listeners preferred the more overtly cosmic personality of the debut. Over the decades the album has found its own dedicated following. Tracks such as “First Light of the Morning” and the title cut have been sampled by hip-hop producers, and the record as a whole is now appreciated as a sophisticated bridge between Wansel’s space-funk experiments and the more earthbound soul he would continue to explore. It may not have the singular concept of Life On Mars, but it reveals an artist expanding his range without losing the keyboard wizardry and arranging skill that made him unique. In the end, What The World Is Coming To sounds like a man looking at the planet with clear eyes and still finding reasons to make beautiful, forward-looking music.

Dexter Wansel - 1976 - Life On Mars

Dexter Wansel

1976

Life On Mars

01. A Prophet Named K.G. 4:20

02. Life On Mars 5:50

03. Together Once Again 4:23

04. Stargazer 3:20

05. One Million Miles From The Ground 5:00

06. You Can Be What You Wanna Be 5:04

07. Theme From The Planets 4:53

08. Rings Of Saturn 3:43

Backing Vocals – Barbara Ingram, Carla Benson, Evette Benton

Bass – Derrick Graves

Drums, Percussion – Darryl Brown

Guitar – Calvin Harris

Keyboards, Synthesizer, Lead Vocals – Dexter Wansel

Percussion – Charles Collins, Joe Johnson

Rhythm Section – Johnny McCants, Kim Miller, Raymond Earl, Scott Miller, Theodore Life 

Saxophone, Flute – Bobby Malach

Strings, Horns – MFSB

Trumpet, Flugelhorn – Al Harrison

Dexter Wansel never needed to leave Philadelphia to reach outer space. Born Dexter Gilman Wansel in 1950, he grew up running errands backstage at the legendary Uptown Theater, absorbing the energy of every major soul act that passed through while teaching himself piano and cello. A brief, complicated stint in the military during the Vietnam era only delayed the inevitable. By the early 1970s he was deep inside the Gamble and Huff universe at Philadelphia International Records, arranging and producing for MFSB and others while quietly perfecting a personal sound that mixed the lush TSOP strings with the new possibilities of the synthesizer. When he finally stepped forward as a solo artist in 1976 with Life On Mars, the result felt less like a debut and more like a fully formed transmission from another planet—one where the discos never closed and the bass lines were strong enough to escape Earth’s gravity.

The influences are gloriously mixed. There is the orchestral soul of Philadelphia International, the cosmic curiosity of early P-Funk, the exploratory spirit of jazz fusion, and, most importantly, Wansel’s own childhood fascination with the night sky. He has openly cited David Bowie’s “Life on Mars?” as a spark; his answer to Bowie’s question was a resounding yes, and the album is that answer set to music. Central to the sound is Wansel’s mastery of the ARP 2600 synthesizer, an instrument he treated less like a novelty and more like a lead voice. Sessions took place at Sigma Sound with the Instant Funk rhythm section—Derrick Graves on bass, Darryl Brown on drums and percussion, Calvin Harris on guitar—plus the trademark Philly strings and horns, and the incomparable background vocals of Barbara Ingram, Carla Benson, and Evette Benton. Wansel himself handled keyboards, synthesizers, arrangements, production, and occasional vocals. The engineering team, led by Jay Mark under chief engineer Jim Gallagher, captured everything with the clarity and punch that Sigma was famous for.

The album opens with the instrumental “A Prophet Named K.G.,” a shifting, keyboard-driven piece that announces the cosmic agenda without a word. The title track follows, a mid-tempo funk voyage built on phased synthesizers, a deep bass foundation, and those unforgettable female voices chanting about how nice it is on Mars. “Together Once Again” offers a smoother, more conventional soul ballad, while “Stargazer” leans into orchestral grandeur. Side two stretches out further: “One Million Miles From the Ground” floats on spacious textures, “You Can Be What You Wanna Be” rides a steady, affirmative groove, and the closing pair—“Theme From the Planets” and “Rings of Saturn”—deliver pure synthesizer-driven funk that still sounds ahead of its time. “Theme From the Planets,” with its instantly recognizable drum break, would later become one of the most sampled tracks in hip-hop history, but even without that future fame it stands as a perfect distillation of Wansel’s vision.

The artwork is pure 1970s futurism. The cover photograph, taken inside the Neon Tunnel at 127 John Street in New York (the same space-age corridor that appeared on Hall & Oates’ Silver Album), shows Wansel framed by glowing lights and clean lines. Art direction by Ed Lee turns the image into a perfect visual companion to the music: stylish, slightly otherworldly, and completely of its moment without feeling dated.

Commercially Life On Mars performed respectably rather than spectacularly. The title track reached the Top Ten on the Billboard Dance Club Songs chart and made a modest showing on the R&B charts, while the album itself climbed to number 44 on the R&B albums list. Critical reaction at the time was positive among those who heard it, though the record was somewhat overshadowed by the bigger hits coming out of Philadelphia International. Its real life began later. The album became a cornerstone of the rare-groove and jazz-funk revival, a favorite among DJs, and a foundational text for a generation of producers and artists. Jay Kay of Jamiroquai has repeatedly cited it as a formative influence. The break from “Theme From the Planets” has been sampled hundreds of times across hip-hop and electronic music. Reissues have kept the music in circulation, and the record’s reputation has only grown. What began as one man’s personal answer to a David Bowie question became a small but enduring planet in the solar system of 1970s funk—still spinning, still glowing, and still capable of making listeners feel like they have temporarily left the ground.

Conrad Benjamin - 1982 - Saturn

Conrad Benjamin

1982

Saturn

01. I Didn't Love You 3:02

02. You're Just Afraid (To Give Me Your Love) 4:39

03. Dance All Night 3:38

04. Will There Be Tomorrow 6:18

05. Why Should I Think The Way I Do 4:57

06. I Want To Let You Know 3:48

07. Love Me 8:58

08. Saturn 4:28

Acoustic Guitar, Electric Guitar – Mark Teixeira

Backing Vocals – Betty Richardson (tracks: A1, A4, B1, B3), Boy Driscoli (tracks: A2, B2), Jackie Richardson (tracks: A1, A4, B1, B3), Kathleen Kong (tracks: A2, B2), Liz Tilden (tracks: A1, A4, B1, B3)

Bass – Dwyane Brown

Drums – Russell Devert

Saxophone – Carl Hicks, Ian Harper (6)

Saxophone – Libert Carimbocas

Trumpet – James Poulos (tracks: B3)

Trombone – Maurice Wozniak

Trumpet – James Poulos, Merv Greene, Vernon Coombs, Will Sharp

Keyboards, Vocals – Conrad Benjamin

In the crowded constellation of early 1980s private-press soul and funk, few records burn as brightly—or as expensively—as Conrad Benjamin’s 1982 album Saturn. Original copies of this Canadian obscurity routinely fetch north of eight hundred dollars, sometimes cresting the thousand-dollar mark among collectors who treat it like a holy relic rather than a mere LP. That steep price tag is not mere hype; it reflects both genuine scarcity and a sound so assured, so quietly ambitious, that one wonders how it ever slipped through the cracks of commercial radio in the first place. What follows is an extended look at the man, the music, the packaging, and the afterlife of an album that somehow managed to feel both of its time and slightly outside it.

Little is known about Conrad Benjamin’s personal biography beyond the evidence of the record itself. He emerges from the Toronto scene as a singer, keyboardist, songwriter, arranger, and producer who appears to have poured every ounce of his craft into this single full-length statement. There are no subsequent albums, no press clippings that survive in abundance, no lengthy interviews that illuminate a colorful past. What we do know is that he was a Canadian artist working at a moment when the country’s Black music community was producing sophisticated, under-heard work that rarely received the international attention it deserved. Benjamin’s only known major statement arrived on the tiny Nebula label (with phonographic copyright attributed to Scorpio Records), a classic private-press operation that pressed modest quantities and left distribution largely to word of mouth, local radio, and the occasional lucky record-shop buyer. The result is an album that feels like a carefully guarded secret rather than a commercial product—an independent labor of love recorded at Inception Sound Studios in Toronto and engineered by two respected local figures, Chad Irschick and Danny Greenspoon.

Musically, Saturn sits at a fertile crossroads. Benjamin clearly absorbed the late-1970s and early-1980s currents of boogie funk, jazz-fusion, and polished quiet-storm soul. One hears echoes of Roy Ayers’s cosmic warmth, Kashif’s sleek keyboard textures, and the horn-driven punch of Canadian contemporaries such as Crack of Dawn, yet nothing feels derivative. The writing is Benjamin’s own from start to finish, and the arrangements reveal a musician who understood both groove and atmosphere. The rhythm section is locked and generous: Dwyane Brown’s bass provides a firm, melodic foundation while Russell DeVert’s drums keep everything buoyant without ever becoming rigid. Mark Teixeira’s acoustic and electric guitars add rhythmic sparkle and the occasional lyrical fill. Over this foundation Benjamin layers a rich horn section—saxophonists Carl Hicks, Ian Harper, and Libert Carimbocas, trombonist Maurice Wozniak, and a trumpet squad that includes James Poulos, Merv Greene, Vernon Coombs, and Will Sharp—while a rotating cast of backing vocalists (Betty Richardson, Jackie Richardson, Liz Tilden, Kathleen Kong, and Boy Driscoli) supply the necessary silk and call-and-response energy. Benjamin himself handles lead vocals and keyboards with a confident, slightly husky delivery that never strains for drama; he simply inhabits the songs.

The album opens with the bright, mid-tempo declaration “I Didn’t Love You,” a three-minute statement of romantic clarity driven by tight horns and a springy groove that announces Benjamin’s intent without overstatement. “You’re Just Afraid (To Give Me Your Love)” slows the tempo and leans into vulnerability, the arrangement giving space for the backing singers to cushion Benjamin’s plea. “Dance All Night” returns to the dance floor with an irresistible bounce, while the side-one closer “Will There Be Tomorrow” stretches out into a more contemplative, socially conscious mood, its longer running time allowing the band to breathe and the horns to converse. Side two begins with the introspective “Why Should I Think The Way I Do,” followed by the shorter, more direct “I Want To Let You Know.” Then comes the album’s emotional centerpiece, the nearly nine-minute “Love Me,” a slow-burning, almost hypnotic ballad that lets Benjamin and the ensemble luxuriate in the groove; the trumpet solo by James Poulos here feels like a late-night conversation rather than a showpiece. The title track, “Saturn,” closes the record as a largely instrumental jazz-funk excursion, its cosmic title matched by a spacious, slightly otherworldly feel that has made it the most sampled cut on the album. The sequencing is thoughtful: shorter, punchier tracks give way to longer, more expansive ones without ever losing forward momentum. The production itself is clean and warm rather than glossy; the instruments sit in a natural acoustic space, the horns are present without harshness, and Benjamin’s keyboards (electric piano, synthesizers, and whatever else was at hand in 1982 Toronto) color the arrangements without dominating them. It is the sound of a band that knew exactly what it wanted and a producer who trusted the material enough not to over-polish it.

The visual presentation matches the music’s quiet confidence. Cover design and concept are credited to Jack Ellison, with photography by Bob Stewart. The sleeve has the slightly mysterious, understated quality typical of the best private-press packages of the era—neither flashy commercial art nor crude homemade graphics, but something in between that feels intentional. The cosmic title invites thoughts of distant rings and planetary isolation, yet the overall effect remains grounded in the earthly concerns of love, fear, and the search for connection that run through the songs. In an age of over-designed major-label sleeves, Saturn’s packaging has the modest dignity of a record that was made because someone needed to make it, not because a marketing department demanded a product.

Upon its original release, Saturn made almost no commercial impact. There were no chart placements, no national tours that entered the history books, no glowing reviews in the major music magazines of the day. It simply existed, circulating among those lucky enough to encounter it in Toronto record shops or through personal connections. Over the subsequent decades, however, the album’s reputation grew among collectors of rare funk and soul. Its scarcity, combined with the undeniable quality of the musicianship, turned original copies into serious collector’s items, regularly commanding prices well above the eight-hundred-dollar mark that gives the present review its title. Discogs users and private-press aficionados have long praised it as a hidden gem, with comments ranging from straightforward declarations of “one of the best albums I ever heard” to calls for a proper CD or expanded reissue. The record received a further boost when the title track was sampled by Curren$y and Snoop Dogg on the 2010 track “Seat Change” from the album Pilot Talk. That high-profile use introduced Benjamin’s music to a new generation of hip-hop listeners and crate-diggers, confirming what the collectors had known for years: this was no ordinary private-press curio.Today Saturn stands as a singular document of Canadian Black music in the early 1980s—an independent, self-contained statement that balances dance-floor energy with emotional depth and jazz-informed musicianship. Its legacy is that of the classic cult album: largely ignored in its own time, cherished thereafter by those who value substance over fashion, and still capable of surprising new listeners who stumble upon it in the digital age or pay the premium for an original pressing. Conrad Benjamin may remain a biographical mystery, but the music he left behind continues to orbit, elegant and self-assured, like the planet that gives the record its name. In a marketplace that often rewards the loudest or most heavily promoted work, Saturn is a quiet reminder that sometimes the most valuable records are the ones that were never supposed to be valuable at all—just honest, well-crafted, and deeply felt.

Jewel - 1982 - Cut 'n' Polished

Jewel

1982

Cut 'n' Polished

01. Gotta Make It Better 6:06

02. We Cannot Say Good-Bye 4:08

03. Song Of Life 6:04

04. Rhythms Of Home (Majai) 4:01

05. You're So Jealous 4:02

06. Something You Should Know 6:25

07. Soon You'll See The Way 4:00

08. Jewel's Groove 6:00

Bass Guitar, Vocals – Oliver Miller

Drums, Percussion – Keith Howard

Keyboards – Edward Beard

Lead Guitar – Rick "Demas" Van

Lead Vocals, Backing Vocals – Bill Ivy, Keith Stevens

Rhythm Guitar – Kenny Chatman

In the crowded, glittering bazaar of early-1980s Chicago soul, most groups either chased the last embers of disco or tried to reinvent themselves as electro-funk cyborgs. Jewel simply polished what was already gleaming. The band—Oliver Miller on bass and vocals, Keith Stevens and Bill Ivy sharing lead and harmony duties, Rick “Demas” Van on lead guitar, Kenny Chatman on rhythm guitar, Edward Beard on keyboards, and Keith Howard behind the drums and percussion—emerged from the city’s fertile independent scene with the quiet confidence of people who had listened carefully to Earth, Wind & Fire’s mid-seventies peak and decided the formula still had life left in it. They released a single, “Paradise” backed with “You and I,” on their own Jewel Productions imprint in 1981, then followed it a year later with the full-length Cut ’n’ Polished on the tiny Erect Records (catalogue number ESLP 303). The label, a division of Complete Productions, Inc., was no major-label powerhouse; it was the kind of local operation that pressed a few thousand copies, hoped for the best, and then watched most of those copies disappear into the humid Chicago night. That scarcity would later become part of the album’s legend, but in 1982 it simply meant the music had to do the talking without much help from radio or retail.

The influences are worn proudly and without apology. You hear the elegant, horn-kissed grace of That’s the Way of the World-era Earth, Wind & Fire, the warm chordal language of jazz-funk, and the emerging boogie pulse that was beginning to define the early eighties dance floor. Miller and Stevens wrote most of the material, with an occasional assist—most notably the interpolation of Jean-Luc Ponty’s “Rhythms of Home (Majai)”—and the arrangements, supervised by producer Jim Porter, strike that rare balance between sophistication and street-level bounce. Porter handled the string, horn, and rhythm charts; Miller and Howard shared rhythm arrangements; the whole package was recorded at Pumpkin Studios, mixed by Danny Leake at Universal Recording, and mastered by Wally Traugott at Capitol. The result is a sound that feels expensive without ever becoming cold—crisp drums that still breathe, bass lines that lock in like they have known each other for years, and keyboard textures that shimmer rather than glare.

Side one opens with the six-minute manifesto “Gotta Make It Better,” a roller-coaster of bassy lead vocals, cascading harmonies, sizzling synths, and those vicious string hooks that Dusty Groove later praised as pure EWF brilliance. It is the track that converts skeptics on first listen, a modern-soul boogie anthem that somehow never tips into excess. “We Cannot Say Good-Bye” follows with a smoother, more romantic glide, while “Song of Life” lifts into falsetto territory that genuinely recalls “Fantasy,” complete with instrumental lifts that raise the temperature without breaking a sweat. The side closes with the Ponty-inspired “Rhythms of Home (Majai),” a brief but effective excursion into jazzier territory. Flip the record and the mood stays consistently high: “You’re So Jealous” delivers relationship drama over a groove that refuses to quit, “Something You Should Know” stretches out into a luxurious six-and-a-half-minute conversation, “Soon You’ll See the Way” offers hopeful uplift, and the closing instrumental “Jewel’s Groove” lets the band stretch its legs and simply play—proof that these musicians could hang with the best session players in town if anyone had bothered to notice.

The artwork matches the music’s understated elegance. Cover design by Joe Sotiros and artwork by Norman Nanstiel Studios present a clean, professional package; Vanessa Platis’s photography captures the band in a style that feels both of its time and slightly timeless—no spaceships, no exaggerated poses, just seven guys who look like they showed up ready to work. In an era of increasingly cartoonish album sleeves, Cut ’n’ Polished opts for quiet confidence, which is exactly what the music delivers.

Commercially the album barely registered. Erect Records lacked the muscle to push it beyond regional play, and the broader industry was already pivoting toward the shiny new toys of synth-pop and early hip-hop. Critical attention at the time was sparse to nonexistent; the record simply slipped into the vast ocean of independent soul releases. Yet the people who did hear it never forgot it. Over the decades Cut ’n’ Polished became a holy grail for modern-soul and boogie collectors. Original copies now trade for hundreds of dollars, and a 2006 CD reissue (plus a Japanese pressing) finally made the music available to those unwilling to mortgage a kidney for vinyl. Dusty Groove’s description remains the most accurate: an incredible record by an obscure Chicago group that sparkles with the brilliance of Earth, Wind & Fire at their best, polished without ever becoming slick, warm in a way that was already growing rare by 1982. Its legacy is the quiet kind—the kind that lives in DJ crates, sample libraries, and the knowing nods of crate diggers who still light up when the needle drops on “Gotta Make It Better.” Jewel never became huge, but they left behind one of the purest examples of what Chicago soul could still sound like when it refused to apologize for being beautiful.

Wynd Chymes - 1983 - Pretty Girls, Everywhere

Wynd Chymes

1983

Pretty Girls, Everywhere

01. We Are Wynd Chymes 4:35

02. Pretty Girls, Everywhere 3:27

03. Unconditional Love 3:38

04. Stand Up And Shout About Love 3:55

05. You Are Everything To Me 4:17

06. Festival 3:53

07. I Can't Say Goodnight 3:28

08. Stank 5:39

09. I'm Gonna Love You Forever 4:04

10. Unemployment Line 3:28

11. Lonely Lady 3:56

Bass – Kénee Morris

Drums – Jimmy Graham 

Guitar – Emanuel Godfrey

Keyboards – John Alford

Saxophone – Michael Bartley

Trombone – Morris Henderson

Trumpet – Henry Clay Rogers

Vocals – Michael Bethea

Producer – Larry Graham

In the early 1980s Jackson, Mississippi, was not exactly the first place most major labels looked when hunting for the next funk sensation, yet that is precisely where Wynd Chymes had been quietly sharpening their skills since 1973. The group began as classmates in Jackson State University’s celebrated marching band, originally calling themselves The Family before adopting the more enigmatic Wynd Chymes moniker. After nearly a decade of local gigs and a strong independent single, they signed with RCA and delivered the impressive Arrival in 1982 under the guidance of Cameo’s Anthony Lockett. One year later they returned with Pretty Girls, Everywhere, this time placing themselves in the capable hands of funk royalty himself: Larry Graham. The move made perfect sense. Graham, the slap-bass pioneer from Sly & the Family Stone and Graham Central Station, still carried the grit and groove of the 1970s while understanding the smoother, more radio-friendly demands of the new decade. The result was a second album that balanced hard-driving funk with quiet-storm romance and still managed to sound like a natural extension of the band’s personality.

The lineup for Pretty Girls, Everywhere featured lead vocalist Michael Bethea, guitarist Emanuel “Friend” Godfrey, bassist Kenneth “Kenee” Morris, keyboardist John “Boy” Alford, saxophonist Michael “Ice” Bartley, trumpeter Henry “Clay” Rogers, trombonist Morris “Bo” Henderson, drummer Jimmy Graham, and percussionist Forrest “Juice” Gordon. Graham himself produced, arranged the rhythm section and strings, and even contributed horn arrangements on selected tracks. Guest vocalist Alfie Silas appears on the duet “You Are Everything to Me,” while a couple of tracks originated from the soundtrack of the film Lonely Lady. Executive production came from Lee King and Ron Nadel. The sessions retained the tight, professional sheen RCA expected, yet Graham’s presence kept the bottom end thick and the grooves authentically funky rather than overly polished.

The album opens with the self-referential “We Are Wynd Chymes,” a horn-powered declaration of identity that wastes no time establishing the band’s confidence. The title track, “Pretty Girls, Everywhere,” is pure early-eighties charm—bright, melodic, and radio-ready without sacrificing rhythmic snap. From there the record pivots between moods with ease. “Unconditional Love,” “I Can’t Say Goodnight,” and “I’m Gonna Love You Forever” showcase the group’s romantic side, while “Stand Up and Shout About Love” (a Sam Dees co-write previously recorded by Graham himself) brings an uplifting, almost gospel-tinged energy. The real funk arrives in tracks like Graham’s own composition “Stank,” the socially conscious “Unemployment Line,” and the lively “Festival.” “Lonely Lady” and the Alfie Silas duet add further quiet-storm texture. Throughout, the arrangements are clean and punchy, the horns tight, the rhythm section locked, and the vocals warm and engaging. Graham’s production never overwhelms the band; instead it frames their strengths with the authority of someone who had already rewritten the rules of funk bass decades earlier.

The artwork reflects the same confident, slightly glamorous sensibility. Art direction by Art Sims and design by 11:24 Design present the group in a sleek, urban visual style typical of early-1980s RCA releases—stylish photographs, bold typography, and an overall package that suggests both accessibility and self-assurance. It looks like an album that expected to be seen as much as heard.

Commercially Pretty Girls, Everywhere performed modestly. The title track received some chart attention and radio play, yet the album never became a major national hit. RCA’s promotional machinery was solid, but the group remained more of a regional favorite than a household name. Critical notices at the time were generally positive among those who heard it, praising the production and the band’s versatility, though the record was often overshadowed by bigger releases of 1983. Over the years its reputation has steadily grown among funk and modern-soul collectors. The 2015 Funkytowngrooves expanded reissue, complete with 12-inch versions of two tracks from Arrival, introduced the album to a new generation and confirmed what longtime fans already knew: this was a consistently strong, well-crafted record that deserved better than the relative obscurity it initially received. Wynd Chymes never made a third album, and the group eventually dissolved in the mid-1980s, but Pretty Girls, Everywhere stands as a satisfying final statement—a Southern funk band working with a living legend and delivering music that still feels lively, heartfelt, and completely at ease in its own skin.

Wynd Chymes - 1982 - Arrival

Wynd Chymes

1982

Arrival

01. Arrival 0:26

02. Stylin', Smilin' And Profilin' 3:48

03. Checkin' Out Your Stuff 4:24

04. Love Has Come Again 5:01

05. Body Rap 4:09

06. Do It (Fun In The Sun) 4:46

07. Sending My Love 3:52

08. Girl It's Alright 2:59

09. Ain't It Good 4:36

10. Alakazam 3:57

Acoustic Guitar – Emanuel N. Godfrey, Kénee Morris

Alto Saxophone – Michael Bartley

Art Direction – Ron Kellum

Backing Vocals – Emanuel N. Godfrey*, Forrest Gordon, Jimmy Graham, John Alford, Kénee Morris, Michael Bethea

Bass Guitar – Kénee Morris

Bells – John Alford

Bongos – Forrest Gordon

Clavinet – John Alford

Congas – Forrest Gordon

Drums – Forrest Gordon, Jimmy Graham 

Flugelhorn – Henry Clay Rogers, Jr.

Flute – Henry Clay Rogers, Jr., Michael Bartley, Morris G. Henderson

Grand Piano [Upright Grand Piano] – John Alford

Lead Guitar – Emanuel N. Godfrey

Lead Vocals – Forrest Gordon, Jimmy Graham, Michael Bethea

Percussion – Jimmy Graham, Kénee Morris, Michael Bethea

Percussion – Forrest Gordon

Piano – John Alford

Rhythm Guitar – Emanuel N. Godfrey

Soprano Saxophone – Michael Bartley

Fender Rhodes, Mini-Moog, Prophet-5, Jupiter, Arp Omni II – John Alford

Jupiter 8 Programming – Charlie L. Singleton

Jupiter 8 – Kénee Morris

Mini-Moog, Jupiter 8 – Michael Bethea

Prophet 5 Programming – Anthony A. Lockett

Tenor Saxophone – Michael Bartley

Timbales – Forrest Gordon

Timpani – John Alford (2)

Trombone – Morris G. Henderson*

Trumpet – Henry Clay Rogers, Jr.*

Tuba – Michael Bethea

Thanks to: Ray Harris, Hilda Williams, Robert Wright, Tony Wells, Phil Ransom, Jackson State University, Wynd Chymes Fan Club, "W.G." Garrison, Dick Griffey, Harold Haughton, Kinsha Management, Mr. Anami, Eddie Tillman, Frederick Knight, Wynd Chymes Road Crew, Lee King, Joe Shamwell, Julian Davis, Gloria Hunter, Bobby Lovelase, Terry Rosner, Tom Wright and all the musicians, who were dynam

Special thanks to the Almighty Creator and our parents and wives.

In the early 1980s, while the big coastal cities were busy inventing the next wave of post-disco and electro-funk, a group of sharp young musicians from Jackson, Mississippi, were quietly perfecting their own brand of Southern-fried boogie. Wynd Chymes started life in 1973 as classmates in the Jackson State University marching band, originally calling themselves The Family because of the brotherly bond they shared. Looking for a name with a little more mystique, they eventually settled on Wynd Chymes and spent the better part of a decade honing their sound on the local circuit. By 1981 they had cut a now-legendary independent 45 that still makes modern-soul collectors weak in the knees. The following year RCA Records came calling, and the result was their debut album, Arrival, a confident, groove-saturated statement that still sounds like it arrived fully formed.

The band’s influences were pure funk of the late-seventies variety—Cameo’s tight rhythmic attack, the elastic slap of Larry Graham, the horn-driven energy of early Parliament-Funkadelic—but filtered through a distinctly Southern sensibility that favored warmth over flash. RCA wisely paired them with producer Anthony Lockett, the gifted guitarist and songwriter who had already made his mark inside Cameo. Lockett not only produced the album but contributed several of its strongest compositions and even played guitar on a couple of cuts. The core group included lead vocalist Michael Bethea, guitarist Emanuel Godfrey, bassist Kenneth Morris, keyboardist John Alford, saxophonist Michael Bartley, drummer Jimmy Graham, trombonist Morris Henderson, trumpeter Henry Clay Rogers, and percussionist Forrest Gordon, with additional help from background vocalists Fredi Grace and Sheila Weaver and synthesizer work from Charles Singleton and Joe Shamwell. Sessions took place at Cheshire Sound Studios (with some sources also citing Malaco’s Jackson facilities), and the finished product was mastered at Masterfonics. The result is a bright, punchy, and beautifully balanced sound that sits right in the sweet spot between late-period funk and early boogie.

The album opens with a brief spoken-word “Arrival” that feels like a curtain rising, then launches straight into the infectious “Stylin’, Smilin’ And Profilin’,” a strutting anthem of self-assurance that still gets dance floors moving decades later. “Checkin’ Out Your Stuff” keeps the energy high with Lockett’s Jupiter-8 synth flourishes and a playful lyric that never tips into novelty. The mood softens for the smooth, heartfelt “Love Has Come Again,” then shifts into the album’s best-known track, “Body Rap,” a clever, lightly rapped funk number that manages to sound both of its time and ahead of it. Side two continues the balance: the sunny “Do It (Fun In The Sun),” the tender ballad “Sending My Love,” the concise and charming “Girl It’s Alright,” the mid-tempo groove of “Ain’t It Good,” and the closing jam “Alakazam,” which lets the band stretch out and simply play. Throughout, Lockett’s production keeps the arrangements tight and the rhythms locked, while the group’s collective chemistry ensures nothing feels like a studio concoction.

The artwork is pure early-eighties RCA polish. Art direction by Ron Kellum presents the band in a clean, stylish layout that suggests arrival in more ways than one—confident faces, sharp clothes, and a sense that these guys knew exactly how good the music inside was. It looks like the kind of sleeve that would have stood out on a record-store wall without needing gimmicks.

Commercially Arrival never became a major hit. RCA was a big label, but the group remained a regional favorite rather than a national crossover act, and the album slipped between the cracks of the shifting early-eighties R&B landscape. Critical attention at the time was limited, yet the record found a devoted following among funk and modern-soul collectors who recognized its consistent quality track after track. Over the years its reputation has only grown. “Body Rap” and “Stylin’, Smilin’ And Profilin’” became diggers’ favorites, the album received a well-received CD reissue in 2010 on PTG Records, and a limited blue-vinyl edition appeared in 2024. What was once a solid major-label debut that failed to set the charts on fire has become a quietly essential document of Southern funk at its most assured. Wynd Chymes never quite became stars, but on Arrival they sounded like they already were—polished, playful, and completely in control of a sound that still feels like a discovery every time the needle drops.

Rocket - 1982 - Rocket

Rocket 

1982 

Rocket

01. Here Comes My Love 7:13

02. Come Together 5:55

03. I Wanna Know 6:27

04. It Keeps Me Coming Back 5:35

05. Love Chain 5:46

06. Groove Thing 4:15

07. Tonight Is The Night 4:20

Bass – Arnold Wilson

Drums – Ray Rock

Guitar – Bobby Gillion

Guitar – Philip Hamilton

Guitar – William "Bubba" Anderson

Keyboards – Lenny Underwood

Keyboards – Ray Rock

Keyboards – Terry Burris

Percussion – A.C. Brown

Produced By – Ray Rock

Vocals – Audrey Wheeler, Carol Douglas, Cheryl Milton, Ray Rock, Harry Boardley*, Stephanie James, Wanda King

In the early 1980s, when disco’s glitter was fading and the smoother, more rhythmic pulse of boogie was taking over dance floors, a handful of New York session players and producers still knew how to bottle that late-night electricity. Rocket was never a touring band in the traditional sense; it was a studio vehicle assembled by producer, multi-instrumentalist, and arranger Ray Rock, who pulled in Crown Heights Affair’s Ray “Johnny” Reid for lead vocals and a rotating cast of East Coast funk veterans. The result, released in 1982 on Quality Records’ RFC imprint in Canada (with European pressings on Rams Horn), was a self-titled album that captured the exact moment when post-disco still felt luxurious rather than desperate. Rock handled production, drums, keyboards, percussion, and some vocals himself, while Reid’s warm, slightly husky delivery floated over the grooves. Supporting players included bass from Arnold Wilson, guitars by Bobby Gillion, Philip Hamilton, and William “Bubba” Anderson, keyboards from Lenny Underwood and Terry Burris, and percussion from A.C. Brown. Executive producers Eddie O’Loughlin and Lou De Biase steered the project, with engineering by Buddy Pollack and Steve Guardigli and mixing that kept everything crisp and club-ready. It was the kind of record that sounded expensive without needing a major-label budget, the product of people who had already paid their dues in bigger groups and simply wanted to make something that moved.

The influences are pure early-eighties New York: the horn-and-string polish of Crown Heights Affair, the hypnotic mid-tempo bounce of the best boogie records, and just enough residual disco shimmer to keep the champagne flowing. Ray Rock’s arrangements favor tight rhythm sections and soft, layered vocals over flashy solos, creating tracks that feel both intimate and expansive. The album opens with its clear standout, “Here Comes My Love,” a seven-minute mid-tempo glide whose softly sung melody and zesty, funky bottom end still sound like summer arriving early. The 12-inch remix, often preferred by collectors, stretches the groove even further without losing its serene charm. “Come Together” and “Groove Thing” deliver solid, feel-good dance-floor material—competent, sunny, and thoroughly of their time—while “I Wanna Know” raises the temperature with a stylish co-lead from disco veteran Carol Douglas, her voice adding a sexy, knowing edge. “It Keeps Me Coming Back,” “Love Chain,” and “Tonight Is the Night” round out the set with more of the same polished, party-ready energy. Technically the production is clean and spacious, the kind of mix that sits comfortably on both a home stereo and a club system; nothing here is revolutionary, but nothing feels rushed or undercooked either.

The artwork matches the music’s unpretentious professionalism. The cover, typical of early-eighties independent dance releases, presents a sleek, slightly futuristic design that suggests motion and nightlife without overdoing the sci-fi clichés. It looks like the kind of sleeve you might find in a well-curated record-shop “imports” bin, promising a good time rather than a conceptual statement. In an era when album packaging could tip into excess, Rocket kept things straightforward and inviting.

Commercially the album made only modest waves. Quality/RFC was a solid Canadian independent with international reach, but it lacked the promotional muscle of the majors, and Rocket itself was more a one-off project than a permanent group. “Here Comes My Love” found some club play and later became a quiet favorite among boogie and modern-soul collectors, yet the record never charted significantly. Critical attention at the time was limited; dance-music press noted the strong production and Reid’s vocals, but the album largely slipped under the radar of mainstream reviewers. Over the decades its reputation has grown steadily among crate diggers and DJs who value the smoother side of early-eighties funk. Original pressings command respectable prices, and Unidisc’s later CD reissue helped introduce the music to a new generation. Its legacy is the quiet kind—the kind that lives in late-night sets and playlists dedicated to the moment when disco grew up, put on a sharper suit, and kept dancing. Rocket may have been a short-lived studio experiment, but for forty-odd minutes in 1982 it got the formula exactly right.

Don Blackman - 1982 - Don Blackman

Don Blackman

1982

Don Blackman

01. Yabba Dabba Doo 5:17

02. Heart's Desire 4:30

03. Holding You, Loving You 4:12

04. Deaf Hook-Up Connection 4:02

05. You Ain't Hip 3:00

06. Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide 3:36

07. Since You Been Away So Long 5:13

08. Never Miss A Thing 3:50

Don Blackman arrived in 1982 like a quiet hurricane from the fertile musical soil of Jamaica, Queens, a neighborhood that seemed to manufacture funk-jazz hybrids the way other places made bagels. Born Donald Blackman on September 1, 1953, he grew up next door to saxophonist Charles McPherson and within shouting distance of the jazz pantheon—John Coltrane had lived less than a mile away, and a cousin ran with McCoy Tyner. By fifteen he was already holding his own in McPherson’s band alongside bassist Sam Jones and drummer Louis Hayes, the sort of teenage résumé that makes ordinary high-school yearbook entries look like grocery lists. The electric piano soon called, and with it came the 1970s parade of heavyweights: stints with Parliament-Funkadelic, Earth, Wind & Fire, Roy Ayers, and then a foundational role in Lenny White’s Twennynine, where Blackman wrote the irresistible “Peanut Butter” and “Morning Sunrise.” He also gifted Bernard Wright the gleefully unpronounceable “Haboglabotribin’,” a track that would later become hip-hop catnip. By the time Arista’s GRP imprint handed him a solo deal, Blackman was already the secret weapon every producer wanted and almost nobody outside the New York session circuit could name.

His influences formed a deliciously contradictory stew. The pure jazz vocabulary of Coltrane and McPherson sat alongside the cosmic absurdity of George Clinton’s mothership, the harmonic sophistication of Herbie Hancock and George Duke, and the gospel-tinged soul of Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder. You can hear all of it swimming around inside the eight tracks of his self-titled debut. The record was cut at Manhattan’s A&R Studios in late 1981 under the co-production of Dave Grusin and Larry Rosen—the GRP brain trust—with Weldon Irvine serving as associate producer. Mastered at Sterling Sound by Ted Jensen, the album wears the crisp, slightly glossy sheen of early-’80s high-end jazz-funk without ever sounding sterile. Blackman himself handled synthesizer (Oberheim OB-X), Fender Rhodes, clavinet and Yamaha grand, while the rhythm section was pure Jamaica Queens royalty: Barry “Sonjohn” Johnson on bass (a player who made even Marcus Miller sit up and take notes), a young Dennis “Washington” Chambers on drums, Steve “City” Horton and Eddie “EPM” Martinez on guitars, and the ever-tasteful ‘Crusher’ Bennett on percussion. Horns arrived courtesy of Jon Faddis, Ronnie Cuber, Alex Foster and George Opalisky; strings were conducted by Grusin himself. A small army of background singers—Desire “Deezie” White, Sheri “Ayo” Snyder, the Palmer Brothers, and an adorable contingent labeled “The Little People”—filled out the vocal tapestry. It was less a session than a family reunion with better clothes and tighter arrangements.

The music itself refuses to sit still. “Yabba Dabba Doo” opens the proceedings with a call-and-response P-Funk roof-raiser that somehow also feels like a Saturday-morning cartoon rewritten by a conservatory graduate. Martinez’s guitar solo cuts through the party like a neon switchblade. Then the mood shifts without warning into the liquid mid-tempo elegance of “Heart’s Desire” and “Holding You, Loving You.” The latter remains the album’s calling card—a romantic slow-burn whose bassline alone could power a small city, its piano flourishes so delicate they feel almost shy. Blackman’s voice, sweet and slightly grainy, floats above the groove like someone who knows the difference between seduction and salesmanship. “Deaf Hook-Up Connection” closes side one with grinding guitar riffs and kicking horns, a reminder that Blackman never forgot how to get dirty. Side two keeps the same mischievous balance: the playful finger-wagging of “You Ain’t Hip,” the conscience-probing “Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide” (co-written with Irvine and Steven Moss), the aching ballad “Since You Been Away So Long,” and the closing slap-bass masterclass “Never Miss a Thing.” Throughout, Blackman’s keyboard work is the quiet star—never flashy for flash’s sake, always serving the song while still managing to sound like no one else.

The album’s artwork matches the music’s sly confidence. Photographed by Trudy Schlachter and designed by Howard Fritzson, the cover presents Blackman himself in a clean, stylish portrait that feels both approachable and quietly regal—no spaceships, no exaggerated Afro, just a man who knows exactly how good the record inside is. The design is pure early-’80s GRP elegance: crisp type, restrained color palette, the sort of packaging that looked equally at home in a jazz boutique or a disco crate.

Commercially the album barely registered in the United States; GRP and Arista’s promotional machinery apparently took the day off. Yet across the Atlantic, especially in the United Kingdom’s rare-groove and jazz-funk scenes, it found a devoted audience. “Holding You, Loving You” and “Heart’s Desire” became minor European hits and permanent fixtures on specialist radio. Critics who actually heard the record tended to rave—AllMusic later called it “as phenomenal as anything else his contemporaries were producing at the time (George Duke in particular)”—but the wider press mostly looked the other way. That initial neglect has only burnished its cult status. Original pressings now change hands for serious money, and successive reissues (Expansion in 2006, various vinyl revivals including Vinyl Me, Please and Music On Vinyl in the 2020s) have introduced new generations to its charms.

Its true legacy lives in the samples and the quiet influence. J Dilla (as Jay Dee) flipped “Holding You, Loving You” for Slum Village’s “Go Ladies.” Elements of the album have turned up in downtempo house and countless hip-hop tracks. Bass players still study Johnson’s lines the way guitarists study Hendrix. And every time a modern neo-soul or jazz-funk artist reaches for that perfect blend of sophistication and street-level groove, they are, whether they know it or not, walking a path Blackman helped clear. He released only one more album under his own name—2002’s Listen—before cancer took him in 2013 at fifty-nine. Yet this single 1982 statement remains his monument: a thirty-four-minute masterclass in how to be funky without shouting, soulful without sentimentality, and jazzy without ever forgetting the dance floor. In an era of overproduced excess, Don Blackman made an album that still feels like a secret handshake among people who know better.

Sylvia Striplin - 1981 - Give Me Your Love

Sylvia Striplin

1981

Give Me Your Love

01. Look Towards The Sky 4:33

02. Toy Box 4:17

03. You Can't Turn Me Away 5:28

04. All Alone 5:14

05. Give Me Your Love 6:20

06. Will We Ever Pass This Way Again 4:36

07. Searchin' 6:29

08. You Said 5:00

Bass – Nathan Lamar Watts, Peter Brown, William Allen

Clavinet, Handclaps – Jaymz Bedford

Drums – Dennis Davis, Omar Ibn Hakim, Steve Cobb

Electric Piano – Mudbone

Engineer – Carla Bandini, Dave Whitman, Rick Smith

Guitar – Chuck Anthony, Jeff Johnson, Randy Russell Pigee, Rick Zunigar

Handclaps – Derrell Harris, Mudbone (2), Peter Brown (5), Wes Ramseur

Lead Vocals, Backing Vocals, Handclaps – Sylvia Striplin

Soprano Saxophone – Justo Almario

Synthesizer [Oberheim Obxa] – Philip Woo

Sylvia Striplin’s sole full-length album, Give Me Your Love, arrived in May 1981 like a perfectly timed late-night invitation that most of the world somehow managed to sleep through. Born March 23, 1954, in Harlem as the youngest of five children, Striplin’s family relocated to the North Bronx after a fire destroyed their Sugar Hill home. She grew up making up songs at the family piano, taking lessons, and performing in recitals before singing professionally as a teenager with neighborhood friends. After high school she attended City College of New York, where her turn in a student production of Anything Goes drew praise. In the late 1970s she worked as a backup singer, understudied the role of Dorothy in the Broadway production of The Wiz, and eventually played the part on the national tour, collecting excellent reviews from Miami to Los Angeles. That theatrical poise and emotional clarity would later color every note she recorded. She joined Norman Connors’ jazz-funk outfit Aquarian Dream, delivering the lead vocal on their 1978 hit “You’re a Star,” then moved into Roy Ayers’ orbit as a member of the short-lived Eighties Ladies. Ayers signed her to his own Uno Melodic imprint—sometimes mistakenly remembered as a Solar Records project, though the connection is purely aesthetic rather than corporate—and the partnership yielded first a single and then this album, her debut and only proper solo statement. Striplin passed away on March 2, 2013, after years of personal struggles, leaving behind a slender but luminous catalog that still feels like a secret handshake among those who know.

Her musical world sat at the crossroads of late-1970s jazz-funk, disco’s lingering shimmer, and the sleek early-1980s R&B that would soon harden into boogie and quiet-storm formats. Ayers’ vibraphone-laced sensibility provided the guiding star; his productions always favored groove over flash, warmth over bombast. Striplin’s own voice—clear, girlish yet emotionally grounded, often compared to a less ethereal Minnie Riperton—floated above the tracks with an almost weightless discipline. You can hear the influence of polished studio soul à la Quincy Jones’ The Dude or George Benson’s Give Me the Night, filtered through the New York session culture of Electric Lady and Sigma Sound Studios (with additional work at Artisan Sound in Hollywood). The result is neither pure disco nor pure funk, but a pre-boogie hybrid that feels both of its moment and slightly ahead of it, the kind of music that makes dancers sway rather than thrash and collectors pay absurd sums decades later.

The supporting cast was a who’s-who of East Coast and session talent. Striplin handled lead and backing vocals plus handclaps; bass duties rotated among Nathan Lamar Watts, Peter Brown, and William Allen (who also arranged the strings); guitars came from Rick Zunigar, Jef Lee Johnson, Chuck Anthony, and Randy Russell Pigee; drums were supplied by Steve Cobb, Dennis Davis, and Omar Hakim (credited as Omar-Ibn-Hakim). Keyboard colors arrived via Philip Woo’s Oberheim synthesizer, Mudbone’s electric piano, and James “Jaymz” Bedford’s Clavinet, while Justo Almario’s soprano saxophone added melodic sighs. Ayers and Bedford co-produced and arranged the entire affair for Ro-Ayer Productions, giving the record a cohesive sheen without sanding off its human edges. The engineering at those legendary studios captured everything with clarity and punch: the bass is rounded and walking, the percussion crisp, the synths warm rather than cold.

Musically the album is a masterclass in sustained mood. It opens with Striplin’s own “Look Towards the Sky,” an uplifting mid-tempo glide that sets a hopeful tone, her voice already sounding like it has somewhere better to be. “Toy Box,” written by Bedford, brings playful Clavinet and synth textures that bounce like the title suggests, while the oft-sampled “You Can’t Turn Me Away” (co-written by Ayers, Striplin, and Bedford) unfolds as a sultry, squelching slow-burner whose bassline and melodic hooks would later power Junior M.A.F.I.A.’s “Get Money” and inspire Erykah Badu’s own reworking. “All Alone” softens the pace with feather-light strings and a quiet-storm intimacy that feels almost confessional. The title track, another Bedford composition, is the album’s irresistible centerpiece: six-plus minutes of unhurried, velvet-bass-driven soul-disco in which Striplin’s crystal-sweet delivery rides a bubbling groove that climaxes with those signature girlish yowls in the extended outro. It is the sound of someone asking for affection and somehow making the request feel like a gift. “Will We Ever Pass This Way Again” keeps the emotional temperature high without tipping into melodrama, “Searchin’” offers a funky, extended cover of Ayers’ own classic that lets the band stretch out, and the closing “You Said” (Striplin and Ayers) wraps things with a Minnie-like high-register sweetness that lingers after the needle lifts. Across all eight tracks the production never crowds the singer; every element—snappy drums, rounded bass, subtle synth pads, occasional saxophone—serves the voice and the pocket. The tempos stay danceable yet conversational, the arrangements sophisticated without pretension. It is the rare record that can soundtrack both a late-night drive and a crate-digger’s living-room revelation.

The artwork matches the music’s blend of glamour and quiet longing. The cover presents a close-up of Striplin, her large eyes simultaneously sad and hopeful, a bare shoulder peeking from beneath an opulent white fur coat. Photographed with soft lighting and an almost cinematic intimacy (art direction by Dennis Armstead and Yellow Go-Rilla Production Ltd., photography by Charles Robinson), the image is sensual without being brazen, elegant without stiffness. It feels like a still from a film that never got made—part quiet-storm album sleeve, part fashion editorial—perfectly encapsulating the invitation of the title while leaving just enough mystery to make you lean closer.

Upon release the album made only modest commercial waves. The title single reached the upper reaches of the Billboard Disco Top 12" Singles chart and the Club Play rankings, earning radio adds and dance-floor play, yet the LP itself never dented the mainstream R&B charts in any significant way. Trade publications offered polite notice rather than raves; the record simply slipped into the ether of early-1980s oversupply. Time, however, proved far kinder. By the 1990s it had become a cornerstone of the rare-groove movement in the UK and a holy grail for American crate-diggers. “You Can’t Turn Me Away” alone has been sampled or interpolated by Junior M.A.F.I.A., Naughty by Nature, the Backstreet Boys, Assorted Phlavors, and many others; the title track powered Armand Van Helden’s “Full Moon” (featuring Common) and further electronic and hip-hop productions. Reissues by Universal Sound/Soul Jazz, Expansion Records, and Japanese labels such as P-Vine kept the music circulating, often with remastered sound and bonus 7-inch mixes. Critics and collectors now routinely call it a masterpiece of early-’80s soul, one of Ayers’ finest productions, and a defining document of the transition from disco into boogie. Its legacy is that of the perfect overlooked gem: an album that never needed to shout to be heard, that rewarded patience, and that continues to give listeners exactly what its title requests—love, groove, and a voice that somehow still feels newly discovered every time the needle drops. In a catalog as brief as Striplin’s, Give Me Your Love stands as both beginning and lasting testament, a reminder that sometimes the records that miss the charts end up owning the long game.

P.S. Speaking of perfect summer soundtracks, it’s that glorious time of year and I’m currently on holidays, happily stockpiling a stack of those irresistible 1980s groovy albums specifically for the lazy days by the swimming pool. Nothing quite matches floating in the water while Sylvia’s crystal-sweet vocals and those buttery basslines drift across the patio speakers—pure rare-groove therapy under the sun. Next week I should finally be back home, where the latest haul of albums from the Far East will hopefully be waiting for me like a pile of vinyl treasure just begging to be spun.

Cecil Taylor - 1973 - Student Studies

Cecil Taylor

1973

Student Studies

01. Student Studies Part 1 15:56

02. Student Studies Part 2 10:54

03. Amplitude 19:49

04. Niggle Feuigle 11:58

Alto Saxophone – Jimmy Lyons

Bass – Alan Silva

Drums – Andrew Cyrille

Piano – Cecil Taylor

Recorded on 30 November 1966 in in Paris, France.

Cecil Taylor’s Student Studies (1973) is the sonic equivalent of watching a grand piano get possessed by a poltergeist who’s read too much Derrida, downed several espressos, and decided the best way to communicate is through a hurricane of notes that somehow coheres into profound architectural logic—if you can hang on for the ride. Recorded live in Paris on November 30, 1966, but not seeing proper release until 1973 on the Japanese BYG label (initially as an untitled double LP set), this quartet document captures Taylor at a ferocious creative peak, right in the thick of his post-Blue Note explorations. It’s raw, relentless, and rewardingly dense: a live set that feels less like a concert and more like a ritualistic summoning of new musical possibilities.

Born Cecil Percival Taylor on March 25, 1929, in Long Island City, Queens, Taylor was raised in a musically inclined household—his mother, a classically trained pianist and dancer, instilled in him a love for both European art music and the vibrant sounds of Harlem. He studied at the New England Conservatory, where he absorbed the rigors of classical composition (Stravinsky, Bartók, Webern, and later Stockhausen), while devouring jazz giants like Duke Ellington, Thelonious Monk, Horace Silver, and Lennie Tristano. Taylor’s early career was a slow burn of rejection; club owners and audiences often balked at his uncompromising intensity. But by the mid-1960s, he had become a cornerstone of the New York avant-garde, organizing the October Revolution in Jazz and recording landmark works like Unit Structures and Conquistador! for Blue Note. His approach fused classical formalism with jazz’s improvisational fire, delivered with a percussive, orchestral physicality at the keyboard that treated the piano like a drum kit, orchestra, and debating society all at once.

Influences coursed through Taylor like electricity: Ellington’s ensemble grandeur, Monk’s angularity, classical serialism and pointillism, and the physicality of dance (he was a lifelong practitioner and collaborator). He rejected the soloist-over-rhythm hierarchy, instead building dense, interwoven tapestries where every player contributed to a collective architecture. By 1966, his music had evolved into what he called “energy units”—self-contained motivic cells that could expand, contract, collide, and recombine in real time.

The core Unit quartet on Student Studies—Cecil Taylor on piano, the indispensable Jimmy Lyons on alto saxophone, Alan Silva on bass, and Andrew Cyrille on drums—represents one of free jazz’s most telepathic ensembles. Lyons, with his fleet, Dolphy-inflected lyricism and Parker-rooted fire, served as Taylor’s ideal foil, echoing and extending phrases like a conversation between old souls. Silva’s bass provides both anchor and propulsion, capable of woody lyricism or frenetic density. Cyrille, a master of color and pulse, battles and dialogues with Taylor’s percussive storms without ever falling into mere timekeeping. Recorded at a Paris concert shortly after the Blue Note sessions, this group had honed an almost supernatural level of interplay through rigorous rehearsal and shared vision.

The album’s four tracks, all Taylor compositions, unfold across roughly an hour with a logic that’s both meticulously prepared and wildly spontaneous. The two-part “Student Studies” (nearly 27 minutes combined) serves as the centerpiece, opening with spacious, almost meditative explorations—short tonal meditations and propulsive bursts that hint at the “studies” of the title, like etudes for a new musical language. Here, Taylor’s compositional method shines: he provides frameworks of “energy units”—dense clusters of notes, rhythmic cells, and intervallic motifs (often built around minor seconds, clusters, or rapidly articulated figures)—that the ensemble deconstructs and rebuilds collectively. There’s little reliance on standard heads or changes; instead, the music moves through phases of density and space, with Taylor’s piano acting as both architect and detonator. Lyons weaves serpentine lines that mirror and challenge the piano’s cascades, while the rhythm section shifts from martial pulse to floating abstraction. “Amplitude” explodes into a longer, more volcanic terrain (nearly 20 minutes), layering overlapping rhythmic strata and textural contrasts—Taylor’s infamous forearm clusters and lightning runs create orchestral density, punctuated by Cyrille’s precise eruptions and Silva’s arco groans. The closer, “Niggle Feuigle,” offers a playful yet intricate coda, its title suggesting Taylor’s wry humor amid the intensity. Throughout, composition isn’t a fixed score but a dynamic process: motifs are introduced, fragmented, inverted, and recombined in real time, creating a sense of organic inevitability. The live recording captures the room’s acoustics with a raw immediacy—piano notes ring with percussive bite, horns cut through with clarion presence, and the bass and drums provide a tactile foundation that feels almost three-dimensional.

The original BYG artwork is stark and enigmatic, often minimalist in the European avant-garde style of the era—bold typography against abstract or photographic elements that evoke the music’s intellectual ferocity without pandering to commercial flash. Later CD reissues (as The Great Paris Concert or under the Student Studies title) vary, but the original packaging feels like a quiet warning: this is not background music; it’s a confrontation with sonic possibility.

Upon its delayed 1973 release and in the decades since, Student Studies has garnered strong admiration from critics attuned to the outer reaches, though it remained challenging for broader audiences. AllMusic’s Thom Jurek praised it as the sound of an artist at his improvisational peak, leading the band through “maze[s] of sonic architecture” into something truly new. Scott Yanow highlighted the quartet’s telepathic communication, use of space, and textural innovations that predated the Art Ensemble of Chicago. Henry Kuntz emphasized the intricate movement of sound and inter-relationships between tones and instruments. It earned respect as a bridge between Taylor’s tightly structured Blue Note outings and his later, more expansive live marathons. Public reception was predictably polarized—adored by free jazz devotees and academics, it bewildered casual listeners who expected swinging standards. Taylor himself was no stranger to this; his music demanded (and still demands) active engagement.

Its legacy is monumental. As part of Taylor’s mid-1960s explosion of creativity, Student Studies exemplifies the rigorous freedom that defined his career: composition as a living, breathing entity rather than a rigid blueprint. It influenced generations of improvisers, composers, and boundary-pushers across jazz, classical, and beyond, proving that structure and spontaneity could forge something transcendent. Reissued multiple times (including in comprehensive sets like With (Exit) To Student Studies Revisited), it continues to reveal new layers with each listen. Taylor, who passed in 2018 at 89, left behind a body of work that reshaped what music could be—demanding, exhilarating, and occasionally hilarious in its audacious refusal to compromise. Student Studies isn’t an easy entry point, but dive in, and you might just emerge with your ears (and maybe your worldview) forever altered. Approach with respect, an open mind, and perhaps earplugs for the neighbors; the maestro wasn’t here to entertain—he was here to detonate and rebuild.