I heard a country band do a killer rendition of “Amarillo by Morning” last weekend. Got all the old folks on the dance floor, and put a damn tear in my eye. In that moment, it even gave “Wichita Lineman” a run for its money. Tracing it back from the George Strait version I know best, I was surprised to find this record at the other end. Terry Stafford scored an early hit with his own Elvis-impersonating version of the King’s track “Suspicion”. He also wrote “Big in Vegas”, which became a hit for Buck Owens. This record finds him later in his career, where he’s got the perfect blend of the former’s swagger and the latter’s aww-shucks twang, and as it turns out, that blend is a perfect match for the lush-bordering-on-schmaltzy countrypolitan sound of the era.

Very early on, this album presents us with lovely new mellow-country versions of both his previous hits. His rendition of “Amarillo” tugs at the heartstrings (that any version can hold its own against Strait’s is quite the feat), “Ain’t No Woman” uses that hokey-swagger to sell an FCC-friendly sexual innuendo chorus better than most could, and the opening and closing numbers are both highlights for me as well. The best surprise here is “Captured”, the rhythm of which jumps between a stiff prairie bounce and some of the loosest country-funk I’ve ever heard on a mid-70’s major label Nashville release (“Road House Country Singer” does something similar but with less of an abrupt rhythmic shift).

There are plenty of wonderful session musician moments peppered throughout: Pig Robbins on piano, harmonica-man Charlie McCoy on vibraphone (who knew? not me!), and titans Lloyd Green, Pete Drake, and Weldon Myrick doing some phenomenal pedal steel work (and singlehandedly elevating “Shelly’s Winter Love” from filler territory). The Nashville Singers’ harmonies teeter on the edge of being too-dated (“Amarillo” is an example), but are often used tastefully. The title track has aged the worst out of any of these songs, with sugary keyboards, skiffle guitar, and hokey fiddles high in the mix, but it only makes you appreciate the otherwise-restrained dose of pop schmaltz throughout.

I’m really happy to have discovered this one, and it seems like the perfect candidate for a boutique reissue. C’mon, Light in the Attic, throw me a bone.