Van Dyke Parks' first album, Song Cycle, released in 1968, was a dizzyingly eclexoteric work that had the critics alternately gushing, "The emergence of a super-genius!" and hissing, "Insufferable pretentiousness!" and so dumbfounded the thirty or so civilians who bought it (probably under the mistaken impression that Van Dyke Parks was a Flemish psychedelic group) that no distinct lay impression ever became visible.

If nothing else, Van Dyke Parks' second album, Discover America–wherein he continues the celebration of the musical culture of the West Indies that he began with his production of the Esso Trinidad Steelband–won't wind up in the same lonely corner of record purgatory as Cycle, mostly because this new album is roughly a trillion times as accessible, which in turn, I daresay, owes mostly to the fact that V.D. himself wrote neither a bar nor a word of it. (Which, rather than to imply a judgment of his gifts as a lyricist or composer, is only to suggest that in both capacities he tends to draw connections that few others can readily detect.)

With Kirby Johnson assembling and conducting the orchestra and supervising the whole salami, seven arrangers providing the orchestra with "direction," no less than ten engineers manning the board, and his missus and another lady friend co-producing, V.D.'s major roles were apparently those of compilator, cheerleader, and lead singer.

He's done dandy by each of those gigs.

All of the material is at least a little interesting, some of it is enchanting, and V.D.'s choice of two numbers by Wilmoth Houdini, the pioneer Calypso recording artist of the Thirties strikes these ears as a feat of sublime inspiration. The thought that at this very moment some zany trinidaddy might be writing the 1972 equivalent of Mr. Houdini's adulation of Bing Crosby ("... Bing has a way of singing with his very heart and soul which captivates the world/His millions of listeners never fail to rejoice at his golden voice ...") is enough to send one into a cold sweat of ecstasy.

If you missed Ry Cooder's revival of "F.D.R. in Trinidad," this album offers you another chance to behold firsthand a song that one day will be universally recognized as a monument of unctuous patronization. On Mighty Duke's "Be Careful" V.D.'s sly, slightly lispy little chap's voice attains new apogees of irresistibility. Allen Toussaint's "Occapella," a catchy, even politely funky little item, and "John Jones," which lilts rapturously in complete contradiction of its lyric content, impress these old ears as potential platinum platters.

Truth be uttered, the only selection here that begins to get a little nauseating, gag-gingly over-cute, after repeated listenings is "G Man Hoover" (by Clark–as in Ramsey?), which finds V.D. and Rhetta Hughes sweetly cooing "Rat tat tat tat" about four times as many times as any human being could reasonably be asked to tolerate.

Some of the arrangements, like "Careful" 's, may well have you yearning for a Hollywood you were born too late to see oozing from your every pore, which, loverly as that may be, doesn't negate the fact that for all his obvious affection for steelband music, V.D. has yet to figure out how to capture even half of the Esso Trinidad's presence, majesty, and power on tape. (When and if he or someone else does, you may never want to hear anything else again.)

Can you dance to Discover America? Yes, but it'll involve outgrowing your emotional dependence on the frug or whatever oddly-named series of suggestive contortions youngsters are heavily into these days, and learning instead the dances that were brought over by the hot-blooded Latin film stars Mom was swooning for when she first began to menstruate. Will it get me off? No. Will I be able to make heads or tails of the liner notes, in which Mr. Parks speaks of record companies playing cricket, Warner Bros.' life-interests, and other strange things? In general, no way.

To put this review out of its agony, recently many Hollywood and other hipsters have begun to proselytize zealously on behalf of the idea that listening-sessions should be programmed along lines similar to those of a multi-course meal, with a couple of Moody Blues tracks being to the former that saying grace is to the latter, and so on. Although my intention is not to imply my personal endorsement of this idea, allow me to speak in the context of it long enough to suggest that Discover America may be thought to gratifying effect as a delicious liqueur, as the piquant little something you'd break out at the end of a long evening of listening to your own personal equivalent of meat and potatoes. (RS 114)

JOHN MENDELSOHN