Chicapah In the late 60s and early 70s there suddenly appeared a host of groups sporting large horn sections. They seemed to be springing up in every corner of the world, intent on transplanting a big band mindset into the ready and willing heart of rock & roll. (My theory on why this happened was due to The Beatles making horns cool again by incorporating them in songs like “Got To Get You Into My Life.”) The most notable of this new breed were Blood, Sweat and Tears and The Chicago Transit Authority but there were many other similarly-talented-but-as-yet-unsigned outfits flying just under the radar like Tower of Power and Rare Earth. The obvious thing that set Cold Blood apart from the horny herd was the appealing presence of a diminutive female dynamo fronting the group instead of the prototypical chick magnet macho Adonis with a golden throat. But little Lydia Pense wasn’t just some trivial curiosity piece. She could earnestly belt it out with fire and passion on a par with most any other singer of either gender in that era. It’s her strong vocal acumen that characterizes what this band was all about more than any other aspect of their sound.

I’ve never been all that enchanted by girl singers in general (then or now). I’m utterly mystified as to why I harbor that stubborn bias but I’ve always been very hard to please when it came to the ladies, unfairly comparing all of them to the legends I did enjoy hearing in those days like Aretha Franklin, Barbara Streisand and Dionne Warwick. Especially with that in mind I’m not sure what made me spring for this platter by an unknown group out of San Francisco in ‘69. It may’ve been the intriguing picture of the pretty blonde on the front of the album cover and/or the photo of what appears to be nine oddly connected people on their way to a Halloween party on the back. I do know I was a Chicago fanatic at the time so perhaps I was just eager to get another fix of funky, brash saxophones, trombones and trumpets shot into my cranial veins. Whatever the reason, I took a calculated risk with Cold Blood and, while I wasn’t blown away by their debut, I’ve never regretted purchasing it. It offers an honest look at what was going on in that jazzy niche of music as the revolutionary 60s decade came to an end.

The late, great Bill Graham signed them to his San Francisco Records label after a successful audition and, being no fool, he was likely the one who suggested they make the lovely Lydia the central focus. The album’s opener, “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free” features Pense’s soulful voice wafting a capella in the beginning as if to leave no doubt as to what would distinguish and separate this band from the rest of the rabble. The song’s patiently-built, brick-by-brick construction is very engaging as it gradually grows in intensity until becoming a huge brass attack led by Lydia’s powerful lungs before going out as quietly as it came in. “If You Will” follows, a slow blues number written by their keyboard man Raul Matute. I’m normally apathetic when it comes to these kinds of tunes but the ultra-dynamic arrangement allows the fat and sassy horn section to stand up front and bray in your face, making it difficult if not impossible to ignore them. Jerry Jonutz’ saxophone solo is low on technique but spectacularly high in intensity and, say what you will about these boys and girls, they certainly can’t be accused of holding anything back. “You Got Me Hummin’” is next and it’s a generous slice of hard-rocking west coast R&B. While the ambient sound is identical to that of the first two cuts, spotlighting a lack of studio experience on the resume of everyone involved in the production, kudos must be handed out to Matute for delivering a suitably fierce, growling Hammond B3 organ ride. (In my tiny sphere of existence that glorious instrument can make amends for a ton of transgressions.) However, the rhythm section of Rod Ellicott on bass and Frank J. Davis on drums is somewhat stiff and I attribute that flaw to the deficiencies of the latter half of the team. He just doesn’t have the ability to master this kind of feel in his limited bag of tricks. What it boils down to is the fact that their bold brass department and Pense’s fevered wailings are the best things about this group and both are on full display on this track so all is not lost.

Their slightly funkified version of the Willie Dixon classic “I Just Want To Make Love To You” garnered some airplay on the still embryonic FM radio stations broadcasting in north Texas around that time and it’s possible that their different approach in presenting this standard may have caught my ear and contributed to my investing in them. One thing’s for sure, Lydia sings it like she means it and it’s sexy as all get out. The middle segment is very big band-ish as they pitch in to support another gutsy sax ride from Jerry and together they establish a unique atmosphere around this oft-covered tune. A dramatic soul revue-styled introduction for “I’m A Good Woman” leads to an up tempo, James Brown-like groove for Pense to wildly croon atop but, other than founder and guitarist Larry Field’s gritty guitar lead, it’s all quite pedestrian. They seamlessly segue from that into “Let Me Down Easy,” a smooth R&B ballad that gives license to Lydia to wail away with unrestricted abandon. Yet it’s the humongous descending horn lines in the later going that supply the payoff moments. They close with another helping of the Godfather of Soul type of vibe in “Watch Your Step” and it causes me to wonder if the petite Pense had any of JB’s dance moves to break out on stage. Danny Hull’s squealing saxophone solo is rather novel but, other than that distraction, there’s not much happening in the way of variety, just a whole lot of power-packed funky soul where Lydia tries a bit too hard to emulate her mentor, Janis Joplin. Sorry, lady, there was only one Janis.

One of the outstanding traits that fills this record and goes a long way in making up for the mediocrity in the songs they chose to present is the group’s unbridled enthusiasm that jumps right out at the listener from start to finish. Some bands, when they finally get their big break and record an album, are too tentative and cautious to let it all hang out for fear of making mistakes. Not this bunch. I have a feeling that the excitement and drive they brought to the Fillmore West stage was captured, warts and all, on their debut and I find that quality charming in its innocence. If you like loud horn ensembles blaring with all their might behind a go-for-broke female vocalist as if there was no tomorrow then I think you’ll find a lot to like about “Cold Blood.” Simply approach it with lowered but realistic expectations and you won’t be disappointed.

Chicapah I consider some of the albums residing in my respectable but eclectic collection of vinyl records, deteriorating cassette tapes and CDs to be extraordinary not because the music is particularly unique or jaw-dropping spectacular but because over the years I’ve found myself pulling them out of my stacks for a spin more often than 99% of the rest. Cold Blood’s “Thriller!” has that distinction. It’s a record I’ll gladly choose to hear when I want to indulge in some quality big band-styled jazz/rock but it’s also one of those albums I’ll opt to play whenever I’m not sure of what mood I’m in, much less what music will appease my unspecified mindset. And that should speak volumes about it right there. When a guy like me who’s adored music since he was a child yet gets bored with the majority of albums after a few months of absorbing them avers that he’ll willingly listen to this baby on almost any occasion it must be good. It is.

By 1973 this Northern California-based outfit had cut and released three albums previously, each one a little better than the last. Despite that gradual improvement they had yet to produce the elusive smash hit single that would give them the boost of nationwide exposure, pushing them over the hump of being a cult favorite into the profitable waters of the mainstream. I don’t know this for sure but it seems to me that for this, their fourth issue, they decided to veer from their usual method of picking material and instead cover songs that had a proven pedigree instead of rolling the dice again with obscure numbers composed by band members, producers or staff writers. “Thriller!” is by no means a masterpiece but it certainly makes for a damn good listen. Of the seven tunes in the lineup, five are exceptional and that’s an impressive ratio if you ask me.

Unfortunately they begin with the runt of the litter, “Baby I Love You” by Jerry Ragavoy. Michael Sasaki’s funky chord riffing is soon joined by Raul Matute’s bubbling clavinet, Gaylord Birch’s drums and Rod Ellicott’s bass to establish a too-busy groove before their little fireball of a singer Lydia Pense enters backed by the effervescent Pointer Sisters. It’s all an intriguing combination but it fails to fulfill expectations due to a disconcerting lack of focus for most of its six-minute duration. Only in the track’s final segment does it find its true purpose and by then it’s too late. Don’t get discouraged, though. They redeem themselves with the next song, Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.” Raul’s reverberating Rhodes paints a dreamy introduction to this terrific, timeless tune and Lydia’s sincere vocal suits the subtle big band arrangement perfectly. Matute’s aggressive electric piano ride is drenched in a sea of sometimes disorienting echo, lending a trippy edge to the song’s romantic atmosphere but the horn section keeps it well-grounded until Skip Mesquite’s fluttering flute solo gives it wings. I’ve always liked what they did with this classic and it has nothing to do with it being me and my first live-in girlfriend’s “special song.” I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die.

“Feel So Bad” is one of those tunes that sneaks up on you. They cleverly play with the downbeat at the beginning (a ploy that always piques my interest and consumes me until I triumphantly locate it and lock it down inside my head) and then the full, brassy horns lurking behind Pense’s husky voice slide in to give her solid support. And who among you can resist a line like “feel so bad/feel like a ballgame on a rainy day…”? Not me, brother. Michael’s guitar ride is devilish in its slinkiness just before the second movement starts wherein the underlying beat turns into a straight-as-an-arrow parade ground strut and the massive marching horn ensemble grows and grows until they’re a behemoth force of nature ravaging the landscape like an F5 tornado. You gotta hear it to believe it. Suddenly they drop back to the song’s original cool aura prior to confidently walking it right out the studio door and out of sight. Yowza. That’s how it’s done, folks. They follow it with a lukewarm rendition of Robbie Robertson and Richard Manuel’s “Sleeping,” a smooth ballad with a nice acoustic piano foundation and one that features a fine mixture of horns and strings. Mesquite turns in a decent saxophone lead but the track is tardy in finding its momentum and Lydia’s overwrought vocal sounds like she’s trying a tad too hard to make up for that deficiency.

The album’s only instance of a tune from the mail room being promoted up the ladder to the band’s penthouse suite is Max Haskett’s spirited “Live Your Dream” and it deserves the recognition. The song’s perky shuffle will have you nodding your noggin to the beat and Raul’s fat, growling Hammond B3 gives the track a strong underpinning. Pense and the Pointer Sisters put hot pizzazz into the proceedings and the group’s beefy brass army is crisp and splendidly dynamic. I fell in love with Boz Scaggs’ awesome “I’ll Be Long Gone” the first time I heard it so they couldn’t have covered a better song as far as I’m concerned. Simply put, it’s a fantastic rendition of a fantastic tune and it contains one of the all-time poignant lines, “good luck with your past/’cause it wasn’t built to last/or we might take it differently…” Lydia’s passionate singing does it ample justice and Mesquite’s tenor sax ride is beautiful. ‘Nuff said. They end the album in eye-popping fashion by taking on the Bill Withers gem, “Kissing My Love.” This is one of my trusty “get off your duff and get with it” numbers that does the trick every time no matter how lazy I might be feeling at the moment. Birch’s opening drum attack kicks like a feisty mule in heat but the great thing is that they stay true to the original’s sly, funky drive. Yet it’s the gradual riotous uprising that occurs during the “put your foot on the rock and tap your foot, don’t stop” breakdown that makes me want to cut the nearest rug with my awkward white dude dance moves. The call & answer duel between Lydia and Skip is phenomenally scorching and the band’s feverish finale can get even an apathetic couch potato to involuntarily jump up and start “a’ bumpin’ and a’ skippin’.”

If you like loud-and-in-your-face horn sections, if you like Tower of Power or Blood, Sweat & Tears-ish jazz served up with a ton of attitude and if you like any of the aforementioned Wonder, Scaggs or Withers compositions then this is your ticket to paradise. Big band rock has all the ghastly appearances of being forgotten and left behind, buried in the weed-covered graveyard of popular music and that’s a tragedy. When performed properly it was a delight to my senses because it combined the classy air of jazz with the spunky charisma of rock & roll (two of my preferred genres). Therefore albums of this lofty caliber will always hold an esteemed spot in my heart. If you’re under the age of 45 or so and missed out on hearing what large, boisterous, horny groups like Cold Blood could conjure up in the jazz/rock room of your soul then I can’t recommend this album more emphatically.

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.