Al Kooper / Mike Bloomfield / Stephen Stills – Super Session

Contrary to Al Kooper’s assertion in the liner notes that this music “has amazingly found itself timeless,” Super Session is very much tied to its times: 1968. (Being reissued or used in films is not the same as being timeless.) The project brought together members of two of the era’s blues-based, horn-bolstered bands: Electric Flag and Blood, Sweat & Tears. Kooper is the driving force, playing on the whole set along with bassist Harvey Brooks and drummer Eddie Hoh.

Guitarist Mike Bloomfield is on hand for the first half, in which he is wisely showcased. A blistering player in the Albert King mold, he is the primary soloist heard here. Kooper’s strengths have always been more as an arranger and producer, though he does have his moments, most notably playing the early electronic keyboard the Ondioline on “His Holy Modal Majesty” (though by the time it steps into a 6/8 groove, the whole thing gets wobbly in the knees). As a singer, he’s never had sufficient character to pull off his lack of precision. And when he straps on a guitar, well, he’s as good as Leon Russell or Steve Winwood, both of whom also indulged their urges to wander the middling paths of multi-instrumentalization.

For the second half, Bloomfield is gone, replaced by Stephen Stills. As a trade, this would be akin to drummer Buddy Miles substituting for Elvin Jones. However, Stills does serve to make Kooper the best soloist on the premises. During Dylan’s “It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry”, Stills brings to mind old film footage of the early days of flight, as incorrectly proportioned and weighted contraptions failed to take off, lumbering ever onward until stopped by some stationary object. “You Don’t Love Me” is annoyingly cluttered with phasing (the only band to successfully employ this production gimmick were the Small Faces on “Itchycoo Park”; everyone else is grounded for a month).

All that notwithstanding, there is a potent resonance to be found here. I was not alone in first encountering this album as a teenager upon its 1968 release. With my experiences limited and the doors wide open, this became a soundtrack to the era, albeit briefly. For me, the highlight of this album remains the original closer, “Harvey’s Tune” (the reissue has been appended with four additional tracks). A brief but beautiful theme, it’s like a magical send-off to all the jamming that preceded it. At the age of 14, the melody and arrangement seemed to me to hold some sort of glimpse into adult circumstances, and from my current vantage point, it shivers with the ghosts of heartache.