Once upon a time, in a magic city called Los Angeles, there lived a Supergroup known as the Mamas and the Papas. Of course, nobody called them a Supergroup, because in those days, before there was Alvin Lee or even Jimi Hendrix, that word hadn't been invented yet.

Although the Mamas and the Papas were rich and famous and lived in big houses near the magic city called Los Angeles, they were not happy. They fought among themselves, and threw things, and screamed, and yelled, and hurt each other's feelings, until finally they all went away, locked the doors to their big houses, and sulked.

And they never made any more beautiful record albums.

Oh, sure, every now and then one or two of them would come out of their houses and go down to the beach and sing, all by themselves, but it was never the same, and it didn't sound as good, and it never would, ever again.

This is what you're expecting, right?

Wrong!!

The John Phillips album is a masterpiece. And we can all put away our Golden Era albums, and stop reciting Kaddish for the Mamas and the Papas, because the old familiar feeling is back with us. No, not the sound, but what was behind the sound, the incredible songwriting of John Phillips. In this album, backed by the same old gang of L.A, studio musicians, and assisted on vocals by an amazing chick trio (featuring, for all Phil Spector fans, none other than Darlene Love), Phillips has come to terms with himself, his own talents, his own mythology, and the result—well, I think it compares favorably with Nashville Skyline.

Go ahead, raise your eyebrows. The facts remain — there isn't a boring or repetitious cut on this album—nothing is forced, exaggerated or indifferent, and it is original, unselfconsciously, and helplessly original, original without gimmickry, gadgetry, or goofery.

The songs are (like Nashville Skyline) mostly about love and other related problems; but where the Dylan album presented us with an archetypical set of situations, from which we could pick and choose, and substantiate with our own meanings as they applied, John Phillips' songs have their own prefabricated reality. "April Anne," for example, is rather like Peggy Day, except that this time she sounds like someone you know. In "Topanga," and throughout the first side, for that matter, the entire idea of introspective and personal song-writing, which certainly has been all kinds of popular lately, is taken one step further. Phillips is not breaking his head trying to write universal songs—fortunately, he doesn't have that kind of image to live up to—yet what we're getting, diffused through his word patterns and syruped over by Buddy Emmons' pedal steel, is a set of personal experiences and reactions that we (with little cries of joy and amazement, natch) just happen to recognize.

The same thing, it seems, is going on in the music. Opening off side two, in "Captain," he comes up with a third cousin to the 12-bar blues form, throws in some fine shouting in the middle, and finally adds a country fiddle, bumbling and scratching around the edges of the song. In "Mississippi," which has been released as a single (and I might add, this is the first time in years that I've sat huddled by the radio, enduring hours of bubble-gunk, in the hopes, in the hopes ...) he comes out with an informal, exuberant, intense performance that, along with the happily insane lyrics, emerges as my favorite Little Groovemaker.

Without the big voices and the fancy arrangements, without the elaborate chord changes, without all the musical trappings that characterized his former days (but with Lou Adler) Phillips comes across fresh and sweet, like that one delicious Delicious in a barrel full of otherwise disappointing apples. Sure, he still sings in three-syllable "yeahhhhs" — why not? — he invented them. And the twist and feint of the lyrics couldn't be unfamiliar. But that's all in a different perspective now. This album, John Phillips, has zilch to do with that departed Supergroup from the magic city called you-know-what. This is John Phillips' album, and you get the impression that that's how he wants it.

In that case one can only admire his judgment. It's a brilliant album. (RS 63)

SYLVIA A. WEISER