Chicapah In the late 60s and well into the 70s the successes of large entities like Blood, Sweat & Tears, Tower of Power and Chicago in particular spawned a host of super-sized jazz/rock conglomerations all over America, allowing hordes of frustrated horn blowers to finally partake in the music revolution. They were now as free to lustfully and recklessly indulge in the sins of sex, drugs and rock & roll as anybody else because not looking as cool as guitar-flailin’ royalty like Jeff Beck or Jimi Hendrix didn’t matter as much and music lovers the world over benefited greatly from their overdue inclusion. Groups like San Francisco’s Cold Blood helped to resuscitate and keep the traditional “big band” mentality and attitude alive while, at the same time, they creatively pushed the envelope of the role brass instrumentation was going to play in the unceasing evolution of modern sounds. On the upside of the coin the horn sections in these outfits brought a learned regimen of cooperation to the party, repeatedly driven into their tender brains while participating in high school marching troupes. In this respect they knew a lot more about discipline than self-taught garage band drummers, bass players, guitarists and singing front men who sorely lacked training in knowing how and when to compromise, being naively left to confront the brutal reality (for better or for worse) that they needed one another in order to attain their dreams of stardom. The downside was that when you crammed twice as many musicians as usual into a testosterone-sated rock group the potential for disagreement and dissention skyrocketed exponentially and the chances of survival nose dived accordingly. The tragedy of politics insured that the all-for-one democratic ideal that invariably blossomed at the onset of such an endeavor was likely doomed to fail.

Yet Cold Blood bucked the odds for many years, producing a handful of good albums. They certainly went through their share of high turnover in the personnel department but they had two ingredients going for them vital to any group’s thriving in the “biz” whether they’re a stage full of longhairs or a power trio: A talented vocalist and something out of the ordinary to distinguish them from the riff raff. In Lydia Pense Cold Blood had both. She was female (an oddity in this genre) and she was gifted with a powerful set of lungs (a must-have). The faceless fraternity of swingin’ Richards swaying in the background could come and go and the band’s identity would stay basically the same as long as the pretty leading lady stalking the stage in front remained as the focus for the public to fixate on. Admittedly, they had their growing pains. Their first two albums were uneven and sometimes amateurish affairs but on the third one, “First Taste of Sin,” they began to hit their stride. Having the great Donny Hathaway on board as their producer didn’t hurt their cause, either.

“Visions” starts things off with the crisp horn section blaring confidently and the song’s brisk R&B groove fairly portrays what this band is all about. Little Lydia (the girl isn’t just petite, she’s tiny) unleashes her energetic, slightly husky voice and commands your attention all the way through this enjoyable track. The Achilles heel of this group turned out to be a deficiency in their writing skills (a common malady) so they often and wisely turned to outside sources for their material. In the case of James Taylor’s “Lo and Behold,” they covered one that fit them quite well. They adopt a soul ballad feel for the tune and their brass squadron adequately fills all the gaps around Pense’s passionate and convincing vocal. The clever arrangement includes a plethora of arresting kicks and accents, to boot. They then strike a deep, growling Moog note to segue into the best cut on the record, “Down to the Bone.” In this rare case saxophonist Danny Hull wrote a winner for them with this percussion-heavy Latin beat rocker that drives like a race car on a dry speedway. Trumpeter Max Haskett contributes his not-too-shabby voice, providing a nice change of timbre, but it’s their studio guests the Escovedos (Coke on timbales and Pete on congas) that steal the show. Their percussive expertise really gets your bodily fluids running wild and when they and drummer Sandy McKee go on an extended breakdown towards the end the song almost flies off its wheels. This is motivational music at its most motivating.

Hathaway’s “You Had to Know” is next and its slow and dramatic bluesy R&B aura is perfect for Lydia’s sensuous voice. Airy strings combine with the fat horns to provide a dense backdrop and I suspect Donny himself contributed the expressive piano runs that add a tasteful seasoning underneath. Hull’s “My Lady Woman” follows but it isn’t nearly as delightful as his earlier song. It’s one of those up-tempo R&B numbers typical of that era that did absolutely nothing for me. Maybe it’s the annoying “Shaft” wah-wah guitar noise courtesy of Michael Sasaki that’s the real culprit, though. Keyboard man Raul Matute co-wrote “No Way Home” with Hull and talk about putting some pep in your step; this one travels in Mercury’s fast lane. The Escovedos help out again with some fiery percussion but it’s the invigorating horns that really shine brightly, both individually and collectively. After an atmospheric beginning Haskett’s “Inside Your Soul” turns out to be a puny specimen of light contemporary jazz that any one of a thousand music-college freshmen could’ve come up with in five minutes but, in its defense, the brassy big band arrangement is its saving grace, making it worth a listen or two. Otis Redding meets James Brown in the rowdy mood they cop for “All My Honey” and the rhythm section consisting of McKee and bassist Rod Ellicott sprints by like they’re ablaze and headed for the nearest pond but I gotta hand it to the rest of the group, they keep pace with nary a stumble. They end with Hathaway’s smooth but spirited instrumental off his “Extension of a Man” album, “Valdez in the Country,” and its samba-on-the-beach feel is a refreshing side trip. Mel Martin’s baritone sax solo is decent and Bill Atwood’s trumpet sizzles but it’s the horn ensemble’s unified playing that places the cherry on top of this sugary sundae.

Cold Blood’s “First Taste of Sin” probably won’t blow your fuses and/or knock your lights out but it’s an above-average disc brimming over with jazz-orchestra-styled rock that makes for a satisfying aural experience. If you’re an avid follower of this kind of hybrid music or just a casual fan looking in from out on the perimeter (such as myself), this ensemble’s aggressive and assertive plan of attack is hard to ignore, especially when they have a fearless, strong female vocalist leading the charge. They may be many things, but subtle they ain’t.