Gary McFarland/Peter Smith – “Butterscotch Rum” (1971)

For better or worse, Butterscotch Rum is unlike any other album in the entire discography of composer, arranger, producer, vibraphonist, keyboardist and vocalist Gary McFarland (1933-71). Was this a one-off, a way forward, or something else? We’ll never know.

The disc is also the last record issued under McFarland’s name, although, in his remaining months, he wrote a terrific score for the terribly under-appreciated film “Who Killed Mary Whats’ername?,” which opened a mere nine days after McFarland’s all-too untimely death, provided arrangements for pianist Steve Kuhn’s eponymous album of that year and served as a music supervisor on a just-as-well forgotten Broadway cast album.

Released in March 1971, just eight months before McFarland’s death, Butterscotch Rum has nothing whatsoever to do with jazz, where McFarland found his initial notoriety. This one is a folkish set of pop originals, with lyrics by cartoonist Peter Smith (who is also responsible for the album’s cover art), music by McFarland and vocals by both.

The two vocalists are accompanied on this disc by a truly all-star line-up of jazz studio masters, to, unfortunately, little avail:

Romeo Penque, Ron(nie) Cuber, Phil Bodner and George Opalisky on reeds
Marvin Stamm on trumpet
Ray Alonge on French horn
Herbert Price, Jr. on tuba
Warren Bernhardt or Gary McFarland on keyboards (no vibes here!)
Sam Brown or Stuart Scharf on guitar
Chet Amsterdam or Tony Levin on bass
Denny Seiwell (and, notably for our purposes here, future Wings co-founder) on drums
Russell George on fiddle (“Poor Daniel,” “Straight Arrow”)
Plus strings (“All My Better Days,” “Miami, Here We Come,” “Dance with Me”)

Throughout, Smith’s vocals sound like Bob Dorough’s crossed with Nilsson’s, while McFarland – who blends particularly well with Smith (especially on harmonies) – but sings lead on the album’s most downbeat songs, seems, to these ears, a most uncanny blend of the Beatles and the Beach Boys.

Smith’s lyrics aren’t awful; indeed, he can be a thoughtful writer. But he doesn’t seem to have much of a way with a stanza or the clever turn of phrase (the album’s best track, “Salvation Army Rags” is a possible exception, however). His lyrics often read more like freeform poetry, so much so that McFarland practically takes to speaking the lines – à la Leonard Cohen – on “Rain on the Ocean,” the record’s most grueling track (until the instrumental outro that doesn’t arrive until after the seven-minute mark!). And the readings of the names “Sylvia” and “Jenny” sound positively clunky.

Throughout, McFarland’s music tends to traverse changes that are quite a bit more complicated and unusual than either pop or folk music is accustomed to. This was something for which Burt Bacharach – and, to be fair, former-McFarland associate Antonio Carlos Jobim – had a real gift. It tends to weigh down this album as a generally joyless affair.

What I tend to hear in this music is the influence of Brian Wilson’s reflective stylings, mixed with a healthy dose of Paul McCartney’s late-sixties humor and whimsy. It’s entirely possible and likely that Smith’s lyrics don’t give McFarland much to work with, either. As it stands, the music seems to be fitted to the lyrics. Had it been the other way around, we might have had a more compelling album.

But McFarland’s minimal, yet deft and ever-sensitive sweetening is truly first-rate here, particularly on the numbers with strings – and the above-mentioned outro.

McFarland’s new label, Buddah Records, didn’t seem to put much energy into promoting Butterscotch Rum, and the record didn’t get much coverage in the music press either. Of course, the jazz press ignored it all together. Subsequently, record buyers tended to as well.

What’s even more surprising is that Buddah issued not one single release from the record, practically assuring the record of little to no airplay at all.

But Butterscotch Rum surely has its fans, even among those who are not necessarily Gary McFarland completists. “Gary McFarland came along too late for jazz,” Morgan Ames waxed rhapsodically in her November 1971 review in High Fidelity magazine review, “and too early for rock. He showed up in New York with the kind of talent that fascinates other musicians and the kind of looks that fascinate women. …

“In this album Gary has met his match in lyricist Peter Smith. Together they have come up with a beautifully relaxed and totally together project (whose equally impressive artwork is by Smith).

“All vocals are by McFarland and Smith . . . [and] the two are amazingly compatible in mood, inflection, and simplicity. At times there is a quality of innocence about their sound. They do not sing to prove they are singers, but rather to accompany their songs. …

“Here are Gary McFarland and Peter Smith at their best. I highly recommend the album for its musicality, poetic spirit, humor, and love.”

Smith left the music industry almost immediately after McFarland’s death – he never had any further recording credits – and, from what I was told years ago, he wound up in Atlanta as a designer working in TV. He seems to have kept a low profile, not wanting to be associated with any of his work from this period.

Butterscotch Rum was first issued on CD in Japan only in 1995, and subsequently again in  2005 and 2015.

The record will show that I’ve always had mixed feelings about this one. I still do. But I am looking forward to reading the comments to find out what reactions Butterscotch Rum elicits in others.

#McFarlandMonday