Leon Russell’s eponymous debut album (released 3/23/70), may be the most significant instance of serendipity in the history of contemporary rock and roll. As described with insightful detail in Bill Janovitz’ 2023 biography, “The Master of Space and Time” not only found himself in the right place at the right time five decades ago, but he made the most of those fortuitous circumstances.
Yet the project that became Leon Russell did not happen solely by chance. In the long term, the effort was, in fact, the culmination of the Oklahoman’s five years of experience playing, arranging, and writing as a session man in Los Angeles (where some but not all of the LP was recorded).
During that period, he encountered Delaney and Bonnie and their rotating cast of friends, many of whom followed Russell to England on his sojourn there in the fall of 1969 with impresario Denny Cordell. The two were planning to launch their own record company, for which Leon’s long-player would be the first release.
Aligning themselves with engineer/producer Glyn Johns–prior to his work with The Who and The Eagles, but at the time collaborating with the Beatles circa Get Back/Let It Be –Russell and Cordell found themselves at the eye of a hurricane of creative talent contributing to the making of the album.
In keeping with the imperious glare on Leon’s face in the front cover photo, he was not intimidated by the prestigious company, including various Beatles, Rolling Stones, Steve Winwood, and Joe Cocker. And rightly so because, at that point, Russell was hitting his stride as a songwriter.
The resultant confluence of the eccentric musical personality’s writing, playing and recording skills created a flashpoint of inspiration all the more impressive with a five decades hindsight. That Leon Russell did not sell particularly well upon its release is confounding to say the least.
The dozen tracks include an understated piano and French horn arrangement of “A Song For You,” a title many consider the author’s signature song (if it’s not “This Masquerade” from 1972’s autobiographical Carney). Then there’s a remake of “Delta Lady,” which Cocker had recorded for his eponymous sophomore album under the aegis of Cordell months prior: this is an even more uproarious take.
Like that latter tune, many performances here overflow with a rare combination of spontaneity and confidence, even when in muted form, such as the delicate mix of acoustic bottleneck guitar and tabla drums on “Hummingbird.” Russell’s trademark drawl of a vocal style is very pronounced on “Pisces Apple Lady” and “Shootout On The Plantation,” but only slightly more so than his now readily recognizable style of piano playing, where he parlays an uncanny combination of R&B, gospel, and New Orleans jazz.
At least one of the 1989 CD issues mastered from the original mixes of Leon Russell includes a minute and twenty-second reworking of Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War.” Sung to the tune of “The Star Spangled Banner,” it nevertheless turns out almost as slight as the hearty two-minute-plus singalong of “Give Peace A Chance” (not John Lennon’s). Nevertheless, the latter, like “Roll Away The Stone,” indicates the warm, friendly (and often rambunctious) camaraderie of the sessions.
Unlike at least one of its counterparts, this disc’s cover graphics do not boast the red and yellow Superman shield initially tapped as the Shelter records logo (then removed from subsequent layouts due to legalities). Still, the braggadocio that moved producers/business partners Cordell and Russell to use the design permeates virtually all the music that fills Leon Russell, imbuing the record with a propulsive impact that, from this half-century perspective, illuminates this unusually prolific artist’s eclectic string of thirty-some albums.
