Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass

The Lonely Bull 1962 ★★½

Herb Alpert’s debut album came out on his own label, A&M, which is already a pretty good way to enter the room. It was buoyed by the success of “The Lonely Bull,” an instrumental that became iconic in the ’60s and still sounds desperately cool: Alpert’s overdubbed trumpet, crowd noise, bullfighting effects, the whole plaza-in-your-living-room. His later albums would sharpen his snap ‘n’ swagger, but the basic sound is already here. A bit shaky but not bad for a first album from a guy still perfecting his signature sound. The styles wander around. Bossa nova, lounge-pop, exotica, Mexican folk, and an oompah/mariachi combo called “Tijuana Sauerkraut,” which is about as good an idea as throwing sauerkraut into your gas station bean burrito. “Struttin’ with Maria” has that upbeat horn-tootin’ bounce that makes “Spanish Flea” feel not too far off. There are some nice covers, too. The slow mariachi version of “Let It Be Me” is lovely, and “Limbo Rock” sounds like something that should be played at your grandma’s garden party.

Volume 2 1963 ★★½

A lot like the debut, only smoother, more polished, and more confident in the act. Herb Alpert wasn’t exactly out to reinvent music. Apart from a few trumpet and studio techniques he helped popularize, he generally stayed inside familiar territory. Clean melodies. Bright arrangements. Tidy rhythms. But he also knew how to nudge those conventions just enough to keep them lively, giving the polish a little personality before it has the chance to turn bland. This album is quite enjoyable on the whole—maybe slightly more offbeat than the first album. Also it’s a concept album—released before the rock ‘n’ roll kids made that sort of thing respectable—all the songs pointing, at least vaguely, toward Spain. “The Great Manolete” returns to the bullfighting atmosphere that gave him his breakthrough, “The Lonely Bull.” It’s not as distinctive this time, but still likable—bright brass, galloping rhythm, sound effects from the crowd going wild. “Swinger from Seville” is basically striptease music in a matador jacket. “Spanish Harlem,” the gorgeous Ben E. King song, here is even rendered more gorgeous—a laid back, with strong horns and ringing xylophones. “The Green Leaves of Summer” is a beautiful western theme (from the 1960 film The Alamo), which he cuts with a mildly playful rhythm. But his layered trumpet sound there is pure drama—and wouldn’t be out of place on an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. Also notable—at least for people who care about these strange little pop-genealogy details—is a few tracks use “studio party” sound effects. The exact same thing Brian Wilson would do for Beach Boys’ Party! All in all, a cheerful, polished, slightly corny record. But this is corny in the right tuxedo.

South of the Border 1964 ★★★

Herb Alpert was never exactly about authentic mariachi flavor. He took the suggestion of it, brought out the brass, added a little snap, and turned it into a postcard fantasy. Music for the living rooms of suburban dads with swimming pools, scotch cabinets, and hi-fi equipment they absolutely made guests admire before dinner. The earlier albums still had more obvious mariachi gestures. This one slides firmly into easy listening. We’re just one album away from his seminal contribution to the genre, Whipped Cream & Other Delights. Alpert here almost has that sound locked down. There are a few tracks that still wave at the title’s geography. “South of the Border” has the flavor, though not so much ready to serve you salsa as pigs in a blanket. “Salud, Amor y Dinero” and “Mexican Shuffle” have that unmistakable Alpert snap—the double-layered trumpet, the bright little rhythm, the whole thing grinning at you with a faintly cartoonish swagger. But the real curiosities here might be the pop covers. Even by lounge-pop standards, they’re unique reinterpretations. Sophisticated things to snap your fingers to, and immaculately produced to boot. Just off-center enough to give the record some personality beyond background music. “Hello, Dolly!” is a lovely stroll through an already upbeat tune. “The Girl from Ipanema” doesn’t sound like bossa nova at the beach so much as a cha-cha at a champagne party. Even The Beatles’ “All My Loving” gets dressed up here like something you might hear in a classy Vegas showroom between acts. In the end, a pretty solid album. Good escapism. Light, snappy, far more carefully constructed than its inherent breeziness lets on. Alpert perfecting his idiosyncratic technique of making background music that doesn’t belong in the background.

Whipped Cream & Other Delights 1965 ★★★★

Well, what have we here: an iconic album sleeve before the needle even hits the record. That whipped-cream cover became almost as famous as the music itself, but the record inside is Herb Alpert in full blossom—snappy, polished, playful, immaculate. “A Taste of Honey” opens with about fifteen seconds of dirge. That turns out to be a fake-out, because then the kick drum pipes up, the trumpet starts tooting, and suddenly everything is cheerful enough to make your ice cubes start dancing in your iced tea. Twinkling xylophones, strumming guitar, production so clean you could serve hors d’oeuvres on it. “Green Peppers” and “Bittersweet Samba” are perfect little cocktail-hour numbers, music for granddad to dance to in a fez because I assume this album used to come free with certain Shrine memberships. “Ladyfingers” slows things down, lovely and evocative, for that moment when the scotch kicks in and the floodgates of your tear ducts have permission to open up. Apparently it’s Alpert’s most played song on Spotify, which surprises me a little. I would have figured one of the peppier little trumpet workouts would take the crown. “Butterball” has a little New Orleans jazz bounce to it, while “Love Potion No. 9” turns the Clovers song into polite striptease music. Just an immaculate easy-listening album—bright brass, tidy rhythms, cheerful innuendo, and Alpert perfecting the art of making background music too stylish to remain in the background.