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There's an annoying and ever-growing trend in the music press of linking obscurity with greatness. The pages of MOJO and Uncut are bursting with rediscovered '60s and '70s-era albums that are now being championed as "masterpieces." The fact that these albums might have languished because they were lame to begin with never seems to enter the picture.
A victim of this ever-rising tide of hyperbole is the late Chicago street musician Blind Aravella Gray, whose label does his memory the great disservice of presenting The Singing Drifter as a great "lost treasure," rather than what it is—a pleasantly diverting little folk and gospel album by a much-loved local character. The press kit and liner notes for this re-issue (out of print for 35 years!) are so rich with portent that the listener can't help but be disappointed by what's in the grooves. Gray plays with a modicum of grit and fire, but nothing more, and certainly not with the kind of flair that puts a definitive stamp on the material; there are much better readings of "John Henry," "When The Saints Go Marching In," and "Take My Hand Precious Lord" by dozens of other artists, both great and small. Gray's originals, too, are cut from the same competent, workmanlike cloth—earnest and heartfelt, but nothing to turn your head or make you miss your subway car. In short, Drifter is the work of a very talented street busker. Every city has a Blind Aravella Gray—when they pass the hat, drop a few frogskins in. Then go home and pop in the Harry Smith Anthology.
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