I remember picking up a Shangri-Las discography in 1994, compiled and released a record label called Cherry Red Records, that claimed to be “by the fans, for the fans.” Interested in the band after hearing covers by Superchunk and The Go-Go’s, it seemed like luck that someone would release a career-encapsulating CD, complete with a tell-all biography that didn’t spare contempt for the music-industry problems that sent the group back home to Queens. The disc went on to be re-released by a British company, RPM, but I thought there was something really special about getting a collection that was clearly motivated first by an affection for the music, and only secondly for profit. I mean, other than “The Leader Of The Pack” playing occasionally on oldies radio, it’s not as if there was really much commercial promise of The Shangri-Las during the 90s. I admit to not knowing much about the royalties that one would have to pay to release such an album, but I can’t imagine the proceeds justified the effort. With that thought in mind, I greatly appreciated that someone resurrected these tracks and made them available.
The same archeological love of music seems to drive The Numero Group, a record label out of Chicago that is best known for their Eccentric Soul series. I was introduced to the set by Marion Black’s “Who Knows,” a record that I had sought out after recognizing the Rjd2-used vocal sample. It was among one of the standouts from The Capsoul Label, a collection of would-be hits from an obscure Columbus, Ohio soul label from 1970-1974, and was the first of the Eccentric Soul releases back in 2004. Each release seems to somehow mirror the same end-to-end quality, and comes with their own unique story behind their history and how the vintage gems of soul were uncovered. Last year saw two of the best releases from the series, my #8 album of the year, Twinight’s Lunar Hour, as well as The Outskirts Of Deep City, a follow up to their 2006 release by the Miami-based soul label.
The shear number of quality tracks is exceptional: some standout, even amongst the great soul records of all time. I would be surprised if anyone can listen to “You Can’t Blame Me” without being taken to another time and place. And I don’t mean in the temporal, ‘this sounds old,’ sort of way… more in the casual approach of the song; between the subtle guitar licks, vibraphone and emotional vocals that immediately captures me. There is something interesting about going back to a time of 12″s and 45s: when groups put everything they had into single tracks, recognizing that it might be their only shot. In a time of digital downloads and the shallow releases of a hype-based music industry, Numero’s resurrected collections, exquisite packaging, and extensive liner notes are a refreshing look at the past.
: Johnson, Hawkins, Tatum & Durr - You Can’t Blame Me : (1972)
: Annette Poindexter & The Pieces Of Peace - Mama : (1970)
