Salient. Official Newspaper of Victoria University of Wellington Students Association. Vol 40 No. 26. October 3 1977

Lani Hall

Lani Hall

This one might go unnoticed in the rush. Just possibly.

And to all intents and purposes, it probably will, which is a damn shame because, as far as interpretive singers go, she's the best I've heard. The problems facing interpretive singers are legion - the most obvious being, naturally, that the original is usually superior. The dilemna is compounded in this funny world of ours by the further problem of the "all-important" delineation between what is hip, and what is not. So while Linda Ronstandt is couth, Olivia Newton-John misses the boat. As an added snarl-up, male vocalists in the genre, because of their own idiosyncratic approaches, are generally able to transform lyric from another writer to such an extent that it is almost a different song.

So while we have an endless sucession of female vocalists homogenous to the point of blandness, every now and again along comes nirvana, the "cosmic blast", whatever. What you thought Linda could have been after Heart Like A Wheel, except that she persistently underachieved However, all is not gloom to the horizon—and Sweet Bird should be ample to dispel doubts. Truly, she makes Ms Ronstadt look like the dumpling next door.

Part of this may be attributable to the fact that she has several plusses going for her from the start—not the least of which was that she was, for some years, one of the two lead singers with [ unclear: Ser] Mendes and his band of soft-core Brazilian jazzers. Secondly, she's married to Herb Alpert, who just happens to own the record label she records for. Third she's pretty; not just beautiful, pretty. And, fourthly. Sweet Bird—her seconc solo effort—is a long way distant from the usual hastily assembled mishmash that comprises the bulk of most albums devoted to material from alien pens. On top of which, she sings it all rather well—give and take a couple of lapses where she sidles into shrillness attempting to hit the higher notes—and with writers of the calibre she's assembled here, that just may not be the easiest thing in the solar system to do.

Those writers include Stephen Sondheim, Barry Manilow, Andy Pratt and Joni Mitchell, from whose bittersweet paean the album takes its title. Even (shudder) Marvin Hamlisch, whose acerbic "At The Ballet" provides a striking contrast to open side two. Basically, a tale about a little girl and her parent's marital hassles—coupled with the ballet fantasies she enacts inside her own head. Without being maudlin, strong enough to make any WASP/RC, or combination thereof, gag over their cornflakes, which is probably where they will hear it. Which is another pity. Being tagged as middle of the road, somewhat limits an artist's audience, and this is one lady who deserves something better.

Sondheim's "Send in the Clowns" provides an unexpected introduction. Taken at a much faster tempo than Judy Collins the initial effect of the jerkily, sprung rhythm is incredulity, bordering on embarrassment. You know how songs affect you sometimes. However, that soon passes and as one listens the subtleties of Stanley Clarke's bass, pinioned by crisp drumming, work their way into consciousness. Howling synthesisers embellish the lyric, and one is left feeling that it is decidedly not as gauche an attempt as it first seemed.

Andy Pratt's song from Resolution is slower, but it is a nice song, treated sympathetically. It moves into the thematic core of the album: a brace of songs. Too Many Mornings, and Misty Blue (Mister Blue)—during which hubby takes a trumpet solo. Mellow, easy-listening, if you're looking for cranial abrasion you won't find it here—something I never thought I'd find myself listening to and enjoying, but there you are.

Abrasion abounds at the ballet: second thoughts, and the aspect is a lot scarier. Music hath charms........

The remainder of the side is sufficiently varied to ensure the interest never flags—the arrangements are impeccable, though sometimes veering towards the grandiose—leaving this reviewer with a warm pleasant feeling. Pleasant's probably the applicable word, really. Nice one.

—Patrick O'Dea.

P.S. As far as I can ascertain she is not related to any telephone linesman.