Playback

In the late 1960s and early ’70s, you couldn’t turn on a pop radio station without bumping into a song written by Laura Nyro. Three Dog Night’s “Eli’s Comin’”; Blood Sweat & Tears’ “And When I Die”; Barbra Streisand’s “Stoney End”; and numerous hits by The Fifth Dimension. But Nyro never really attained more than cult status as a performer, even though her own recordings of those songs revealed a singer and pianist whose feverish mix of soul, pop, jazz and gospel was truly unique and innovative for its time.

Part of the problem was Nyro’s image as a distant, self-possessed stage performer—a reputation which began when, as an unknown 19-year-old, she famously bombed trying to simulate a soul revue at 1967’s legendary Monterey Pop Festival. Having witnessed a show a few years later in which she nearly set fire to Buffalo, N.Y.’s venerable Kleinhans Music Hall by leaving a lit cigarette dangling from the edge of the Philharmonic Orchestra’s grand piano while she wandered around the stage between songs murmuring to herself, I can personally attest to the often bizarre vibes Nyro could engender in even the most sympathetic of audiences. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when, in 1974, she announced the first in what would ultimately be a series of retirements (and unretirements) from the music business. The reclusive Nyro died of ovarian cancer in 1997 at age 49, leaving behind one of the more inscrutable oeuvres in modern pop history.

Of course, one of the great advantages of the digitally driven reissue/vault-clearing campaigns on which most record companies have embarked in recent years is the chance for listeners to re-evaluate the artistry of our collective musical past. Spread Your Wings And Fly: Live at Fillmore East, May 30, 1971, a newly unearthed solo concert by Nyro released by Columbia/Legacy, favorably exposes Nyro’s complicatedly bold yet fragile sensibilities as both a writer and performer. The kaleidoscopic range of Nyro’s impressionistic music is evidenced by her gospel-style wails on the atmospheric “I Am the Blues,” the gentle doo-wop hook of “Emmie,” the classical-like repeated piano figure of “Map To The Treasure,” and the rollicking soul groove of “Lu/Flim Flam Man.”

It wasn’t long after this concert that native New Yorker Nyro recorded Gonna Take A Miracle, a magical all-covers collaboration with female soul trio LaBelle that paid tribute to the R&B-steeped urban-vocal-group music of the ’50s and ’60s. And the conceptual seeds of that album are found on Spread Your Wings in a series of stream-of-consciousness medleys that weave between the originals: “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing/A Natural Woman”; “Walk On By/Dancing In The Streets”; and “O-o-h Child/Up On The Roof.” That they’re regarded now far more than they were then as authentic classics speaks volumes about Nyro’s instinctive and well-ahead-of-the-curve understanding of the Brill Building/Motown-generated revamping of the American pop aesthetic. “I’ve gone where the nightingale sings,” Laura Nyro notes on the concert’s third and final encore, the previously unrecorded ballad “Mother Earth.” Listening to this eye- and ear-opening display from one of modern pop’s more singular talents, one doesn’t doubt it.

If not necessarily re-evaluation, then certainly a sense of rediscovery awaits anyone picking up a copy of Kim Richey: The Collection, which culls over a dozen worthy songs from the four albums cut by the Dayton, Ohio-bred singer-songwriter over the last decade. Like Nyro, the country-leaning Richey has had better success penning hits than recording them—most notably, as co-author of Radney Foster’s “Nobody Wins” (1993) and Trisha Yearwood’s ’96 chart topper, “Believe Me Baby (I Lied).” Also like Nyro, Richey in her own recordings has to some extent been a victim of her own eclecticism—though in her case, her lack of success has been more due to country radio’s stylistic corralling than any personal affectations.

Even after 10 years, the haunting “Those Words We Said” sounds like it should be a hit, as does “Just My Luck”—two of the best songs from Richey’s ever-underrated self-titled debut. Guitarist Richard Bennett produced the album and, befitting a résumé that includes working with everyone from Neil Diamond to Steve Earle, he subtly embossed the recording with wide-angled touches—a George Harrison-style slide solo on “Luck,” and an ominous tremolo and spooky organ on “Those Words.” Contrast these tracks with later efforts such as the jaunty mandolin/banjo/accordion-backdropped “I’m Alright” (from ’97’s Bittersweet), the ambient sound-spirited “Come Around” (from 1999’s MGlimmer) and the harmonium/bouzouki-flavored “No Judges” (from 2002’s Rise), and you understand why Richey’s music has, at times, confused ever-nervous radio programmers. Of course, if they’d listened more closely to these smartly written, refreshingly mature reflections on love and relationships, this set probably would’ve been a collection of Greatest Hits rather than just a collection.

Finally, I doubt many people are likely to rediscover or reevaluate the music found on the lone album by the folk duo Kathy and Carol, originally released by Elektra Records in 1965 and now reissued by Collector’s Choice Music. This is because it’s one of the most obscure recordings I can think of to ever re-surface. It’s also one of the most pristine examples of what the ’60s folk movement was all about. Hailing from the small Southern California town of Vista, Kathy Larisch and Carol McComb came to folk music like most college-age kids in the early ’60s—hearing records by the likes of Joan Baez and Judy Collins and dreaming of being fair and tender ladies themselves. Strumming guitars and autoharps and singing in utterly disarming, quivering harmonies, the two were befriended by singer/songwriter Mark Spoelstra, leading to appearances at several folk festivals and a brief contract with Spoelstra’s label, Elektra.

Released in the waning days of the folk boom, Kathy and Carol’s one album together (McComb went on to a long solo career; Larisch became a university professor) features absolutely shimmering versions of your standard era-defining folk repertoire: well-worn American and British love/death ballads (“George Collins,” “The Grey Cock”), some Carter Family perennials (“Gold Watch and Chain,” “Carter’s Blues”), a token children’s tune (“Green Rocky Road”), and a necessary “message” song (“Just A Hand To Hold”). It’s almost holy in its innocence and remains, after some 40 years, a fascinating reminder of a kinder, gentler time in music—and in life.