SF Guardian review + NPR

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Item 1: in half an hour, Lind's going to be on NPR's Talk of the Nation. Short notice, but if you're listening, you'll hear him.

Item 2: There was a nice write-up on Mr. Lind in the San Francisco Bay Guardian, readable over yonder, beneath the sub-head "Landing on the more sensitive end of the spectrum."

So. Check 'em out.

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Here's the text of that article:

The elusive Bob Lind

Landing on the more sensitive end of the spectrum

By Will York

› a&eletters@sfbg.com

FULL CIRCLE Some one-hit wonders really deserve the title. Think of Zager and Evans, Timbuk 3, or Jump 'n the Saddle Band. On second thought, don't.

Sometimes, though, the hit song that brings fleeting fame winds up unjustly obscuring the rest of the artist's catalog. Such is the case with singer-songwriter Bob Lind, whose one hit, the breathless folk rock ballad "Elusive Butterfly," is an oft-cited example of wide-eyed hippie-era excess or just bad high school poetry set to music. "Butterfly" was later mocked by the Bonzo Dog Band and Frank Zappa, among others, who heard unintentional comedy in Lind's frail vocals and admittedly over-the-top lyrics.

Whatever the merits of "Elusive Butterfly," though, there's more to Lind than that one song. For starters, there was the rest of the 1966 album on which it appeared, the Jack Nitzsche–<\d>produced Don't Be Concerned, and its follow-up, Photographs of Feeling (both World Pacific), released the same year and drawn from the same sessions. Then came a long lull, followed in 1971 by what may be Lind's best record, Since There Were Circles (Capitol), recently reissued by the UK's RPM.

As '60s singer-songwriters went, Lind landed on the more sensitive end of the spectrum. He sounds like someone who probably endured a few wedgies in grade school. Lind didn't aspire to the rootsy authenticity of a Fred Neil or the political commentary of a Phil Ochs. He used fancy chord progressions — for folk rock, that is — and moved beyond typical "cowboy chords" to a subtler, softer-edged sound, a sort of precursor to Johnny Marr's playing with the Smiths. Along with Nitzsche's string arrangements and Lind's thin vocals, with their distinctive, tailing whine, it all made for a unique sound, but one that wasn't exactly oozing rock 'n' roll street cred.

By the time he recorded Circles, Lind had moved to the desert of Santa Fe, N.M., and parted ways with World Pacific and Nitzsche. Meanwhile, his voice had grown deeper, and the wide-eyed wonder that informed his earlier songwriting had faded. Productionwise, the album is modest in comparison to his earlier work, but it's not bargain-bin fare by any means. The disc includes cameos by the Byrds' Gene Clark on harmonica and bluegrass legend Doug Dillard on banjo, along with contributions from Los Angeles session aces Carol Kaye on bass and Sneaky Pete Kleinow on pedal steel guitar. Even so, it's Lind's songs that make Circles.

"There was a lot going on during this time," Lind writes in the reissue's liner notes. "Drugs and alcohol were killing me. I was falling apart." If Lind was bottoming out during this era, though, he wasn't intent on dragging his listeners with him. While there are dark moments on the recording, standout songs such as "Anymore" and "Spilling Over" are more like sighs than cries for help. There's a self-deprecating humor to many of Lind's lyrics, helping to balance, in his words, the "shameless self-pity" that might have otherwise taken over. "Not That I Would Want Her Back," with its transparent sarcasm, is a prime example. "She wasn't all that much, in fact<\!s>/ I'm glad she's gone, I'm happy to be free," he sings — completely unconvincingly, and purposefully so. Granted, Circles is no laugh riot, but while Lind may not be shedding the tears of a clown, they're at least the tears of someone who's still trying his best to laugh at himself.

After Circles, Lind fell further off the map, although unlike folk rock peers such as Neil and Ochs, he wasn't actually dead. It just seemed that way. He moved to Hawaii and then Florida, where he worked at one point as a writer for the tabloid Weekly World News. In the past few years, however, he has gradually emerged from exile, first with a Web site and scattered gigs near his Boca Raton, Fla., home, then with a self-released CD, Live at the Luna Star Café, his first album in 35 years.

One might rightfully fear the results of such a comeback, but as the live disc proves, Lind has held up remarkably well, vocally and otherwise. The CD captures a handful of old songs along with a half dozen or so new ones that have me wishing he'd reel off a few albums of new material. He takes his time introducing the songs, sounding genuinely grateful to be performing before a packed house. "Ha, ha, ha, yes! I love it when you like the new stuff!" he proclaims at one point.

Like Circles, the live full-length begins with an a cappella number, "I Love to Sing," before it veers into a new tune, "Laughing Song," which turns out to be one of the disc's highlights. It's like a compressed summary of all the things that make Lind unique, love 'em or hate 'em: the pastel chord progressions, the sighing vocals, and the regretful, shamelessly emotional lyrics. "Sometimes I can't help but laugh at the pitiful fool I am," he concludes. "Sometimes it's only my laughing that keeps me alive." It sounds a little corny on paper, but it gets at the essence of Lind's songwriting — a lot more than anything he ever sang about "nets of wonder" or chasing elusive butterflies of love.<\!s>*

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...and here's the Talk of the Nation appearance:

Click here for the main story page

or

click here for the blog entry (with extra links to Lind songs!).