Celebrating Steve Miller on his 80th birthday. —Ed.
Steve Miller took the long and winding road to superstardom, putting out eight albums before he hit paydirt with bicentennial year smash Fly Like an Eagle. And there was a reason for his prolonged stint as a journeyman; most of those first seven albums were middling at best, and even Miller conceded as much.
Here’s Steve in the liner notes to 1972 comp Anthology: “Always before, you know, people more or less needed to be fans to like the albums. Oh, I mean there’d be some good cuts and a couple of not-so-good cuts, and then some cuts I don’t even like to remember. But Anthology is what I always wanted to make–two good LPs that’ll hold up.” Hardly a killer endorsement for his earlier work.
But all middling is not created equal, and I have a soft spot in my heart for the Steve Miller Band’s second LP, 1968’s Sailor. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a psychedelic rock masterpiece–that notion goes out the window right from the get go with the Pink Floydesque opening track “Song for Our Ancestors,” which is all whale farts and organ noodle and should have come with a tab of acid to render it interesting–but it includes more than its fair share of “good cuts.”
On Sailor–the last Steve Miller Band album featuring original members Boz “Lido Shuffle” Scaggs and keyboardist Jim Peterman–the group splits their affection for white blues and psychedelic rock more or less down the middle, and tosses in a couple of Dylan/Stones/Beach Boys homages while they’re at it. All of which is to say they’re all over the damn place, but still manage to turn what might have been an impossibly diffuse LP into a charmer.
A quick run down: “Dear Mary” is all hushed vocals, stately piano, and trumpet and very, very winsome in a Beach Boys meet the Beatles kinda way, while drummer Tim Davis’ “My Friend” is far freaking out right down to the Hendrix feedback that opens it. And you gotta love Davis’ head shop heavy lyrics (sample line: “So you think you know just what goes on inside your head, my friend”). And if you’re wondering if such mismatched songs sound good back to back, the answer is yes.
And so it goes with the rest of the LP. “Living in the U.S.A.” is a star-spangled boogie and artifact of its time right down to Steve’s complaint that “We’re living in a plastic land.” (Inspirational lyric: “Somebody give me a cheeseburger!”) Psychedelic pastoral “Quicksilver Girl” employs more hushed Beach Boy vocals and doesn’t exactly rock my world, but it doesn’t set off my bullshit detector either.
Peterman’s “Lucky Man” opens like an acoustic blues; then the organ and drums kick in and the band takes a left turn smack into Stephen Stills. I don’t approve of Peterman’s choice in role models, but he could have done worse–David Crosby was available. Fortunately Steve and Company switch gears with a cover of Johnny “Guitar” Watson’s signature song “Gangster of Love,” and between the Cheech and Chong chatter and Miller’s vocal braggadocio a lot of fun is had over one very rudimentary riff.
And the hijinks continue on Steve’s cover of Jimmy Reed’s “You’re So Fine.” Miller’s not going to go down in history as a great blues singer–he’s more Lyndon Johnson than Robert Johnson–but his very relaxed take on Reed’s Barcalounger blues gets the job done. Meanwhile, Boz Scaggs’ “Overdrive” matches Boz’s rather funny Dylan impersonation to a Bo Diddley beat to wonderful effect; this baby may not be for the ages, but it’s one of my oddball favorites of 1968.
And Boz comes through again big time on LP closer “Dime-A-Dance,” a sonic slam of a rock’n’roller that borrows liberally from the Rolling Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Scaggs sounds nothing like the blue-eyed soul man he would become, the guitars have real crunch, and frankly my dear I don’t care if every damn riff, lick and gesture sounds begged, borrowed, or stolen.
Steve Miller never really had much to say as a lyricist–as he admits in “The Joker,” he’s better at striking poses than making grand statements, and as anybody who has ever listened to Fly Like an Eagle knows, it didn’t go quadruple platinum by means of deep thought.
But on Sailor the Midnight Toker and Company bequeathed us a slapdash treasure trove of lovable nuggets and an LP well worth owning, even if Miller only saw fit to include one of its cuts (“Living in the U.S.A.,” duh) on Anthology. Damn, Steve. I thought you said you got that comp right.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
