On the sleeve of A Fire
Somewhere, Ray Stinnett
looks like a blurred photofit
of Skip Spence, half-remembered
by a starving
eyewitness. This isn’t
altogether inapt: Stinnett’s
album sounds like Oar had
Skippy been fully in charge of
his faculties and his muse.
Admittedly, Oar derives its
allure from its frazzled sense
of abandonment – but A Fire
Somewhere deserves belated
recognition as its more
orderly bedfellow.
Did we say belated?
Stinnett has been waiting
since 1971 for this album to
be issued. Formerly the
guitarist with Sam The Sham
& The Pharaohs, the
Memphis-born Stinnett was
a convert to root-and-branch
hippiedom in 1967,
subsequently becoming an
A&M signatory. The label was
set to release A Fire
Somewhere as a double-album,
but woundingly cooled
on the deal.
In its unassuming and
personable way, the album
is worth the 41-year wait.
Parallels can be drawn with
Moby Grape on You Make Me
Feel – good-timey blues-rock
with the faintest tinge of
country hurt – while the
earnest spirituality of Naturally
High and the acoustic frailty
of You And I call to mind
fellow Ardent Studio habitué
Chris Bell. Stinnett’s soulful,
slow-drag tenor is heard to its
best advantage on Stop, with
its tinkling, loose-wheel rhythm bed, and Silky Path.
