Chicapah In the early 70s Boz Scaggs was one of those recording artists that most people had heard of but if you queried them on exactly what kind of music he made you’d stump them every time. Versatility can be a valuable commodity but until you’ve secured a niche you can really make your mark in it can also be a distraction. Scaggs dipped his toes in so many different genres that he wasn’t able to claim any of them for his own. His most distinguishing possession has always been the unique tone in his voice and that blessing is probably what kept him employed throughout his formative years as he slowly honed his songwriting skills and learned the tricks of the studio trade. You have to listen pretty hard to detect a jazz influence in his work on his first three or four albums because at that stage he was still relying heavily on his blues, R&B, C&W and folk leanings. It’s miniscule but it’s there.

After his much-ballyhooed American debut on Atlantic in ‘69 turned out to be a major disappointment to those who’d invested in it Boz was summarily dismissed by the label. Columbia evidently felt that this as-yet housebroken dog could still hunt so they signed him up immediately. Their thinking was that Scaggs just needed an experienced producer to mold him into a star so the highly-regarded Glyn Johns was assigned the job. Two albums were released under his tutelage in 1971. The first was the non-descript “Moments” that barely caused a ripple in the charts and the second was the platter I’ll talk about here, “Boz Scaggs & Band.” In many ways the two are quite similar in approach, due in no small part to the fact that the musicians he surrounded himself with are basically the same on both. The songs were written or co-written by Boz but they all sound like tunes you’ve heard before. That indicates to me that he was trying to imitate his heroes instead of boldly following his personal muse and creating something original. Perhaps mimicking was the only option he had at the time.

He opens with “Monkey Time,” a slice of straightforward, Memphis-styled soul that isn’t particularly remarkable other than it does a decent job of highlighting Scaggs’ inimitable vocal acumen. The apex of the record follows, the jazzy “Runnin’ Blues.” It’s an energetic, shuffling big band presentation where the brassy, fat horn section really shines and the tight track is peppered with punchy accents and kicks supplied by drummer George Rains and ex-Santana bassist David Brown. Boz had a weakness for southern-fried Country & Western fare and “Up to You” is one of his indulgences in the bland fruit of that boring field. Thankful for tiny favors, I appreciate that he substituted the obligatory whining pedal steel guitar with a more palatable Hammond organ. “Love Anyway” is a bluesy ballad with some nice piano and organ embellishments courtesy of Jymm Joachim Young. Patrick O’Hara’s trombone solo is an unexpected treat. On “Flames of Love” Scaggs borrows Chepito Areas and Mike Carrabello from Santana to put hot timbale and conga flare-ups inside this hard-rocking, Latin-tinted R&B tune. Young’s Hammond B3 ride blazes and the percussion break kicks serious tail, making this far and away the most exciting cut on the album.

Too bad Boz couldn’t sustain that momentum. “Here to Stay” is a smooth-as-silk, flowing AOR number that hints at what he would eventually discover to be his calling card. To say it’s mild and mellow is an understatement but it’s not half bad, either. I’ve suffered through much worse in my day and it’s definitely better than the next song, “Nothing Will Take Your Place.” It’s a weak ballad wherein Scaggs’ vocal sounds like he’s down a well filled with liquid reverb but I gotta give kudos to the band for doing a yeoman’s job with what they had to work with. Mel Martin’s flute flutterings in particular are commendable. “Why Why” is more Caucasian R&B but unfortunately this track lacks a solid groove to ride on. The song is in desperate need of dynamics because without them it has no personality to project. It just lays there like an expressionless rag doll. “You’re So Good” is the closer, an odd little ditty that crosses the border back and forth between being a sweet ballad and a lazy 50s rock & roll deal. The tune’s glaring deficiency is the same one that plagues most of the album in general (the exception being “Runnin’ Blues”) and that’s Glyn’s decision to keep the bright horns muted and far down in the mix. Their potential ability to contribute a striking contrast of highs and lows was the only chance these average quality songs had to rise above their innate mediocrity but, for some unknown reason, the usually competent Johns flattened them out, relegating them to non-factor status.

“Boz Scaggs and Band” exemplifies the meaning of the age-old adage, “big hat, no cattle.” There’s no doubt that everyone involved in the recording of this album was undeniably talented and capable of plying their craft with expertise but you can’t apply lipstick to a mule’s mug and expect to pass it off as a thoroughbred. The material simply wasn’t up to snuff on this disc. Boz had yet to master the difficult art of composition so I’m convinced that if he’d tossed in a few covers the record would’ve benefited greatly and not been so uneven. The positive news is that history reveals Scaggs would eventually discover his personal pot of gold a few years down the line with “Silk Degrees” but at this juncture of his career he repeatedly came off as a man without direction.