Dino Valente's self-titled, 1968 debut
"Valente's sole album recalls the one issued by another San Francisco artist signed to CBS in the late 1960s, Skip Spence: quirky, lyrically vague, folky-yet-psychedelic, and nearly devoid of commercial potential, in spite of its largely pleasant (if moody) melodies and textures. Valente, however, was not as intriguing a lyricist as Spence, nor as intensely soulful a vocalist, and overall much sunnier in tone. Valente had a rather whiny voice, so it was wise to put so much echo on both his 12-string guitar (which accounts for most of the instrumentation on the records) and vocals, which both covered up some of his vocal deficiencies and added a sheath of mystery. Valente's sole album recalls the one issued by another San Francisco artist signed to CBS in the late 1960s, Skip Spence: quirky, lyrically vague, folky-yet-psychedelic, and nearly devoid of commercial potential, in spite of its largely pleasant (if moody) melodies and textures. Valente, however, was not as intriguing a lyricist as Spence, nor as intensely soulful a vocalist, and overall much sunnier in tone. Valente had a rather whiny voice, so it was wise to put so much echo on both his 12-string guitar (which accounts for most of the instrumentation on the records) and vocals, which both covered up some of his vocal deficiencies and added a sheath of mystery. Listening to his songs is like listening to some hippie trying to talk a vulnerable, confused, attractive girl, on the rebound from failed romance, into taking up with him as a panacea to her problems: phrases are uttered, rejoinders offered, but we're not sure exactly what the situation is or where it's leading to. It's not the insufferable experience that description might lead you to expect, mostly because of the enticing (if similar-sounding) melancholy of the tunes." -- AMG
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