This compilation boasts that it is digitally remastered. However, the instrumentals are crisp and sadly to the fore, on most tracks the vocals have been muddied and diminished.. Cass would have not been amused.

Regrettably my cassette tape of the M&P purchased in 1969 puts this assemblage to shame.


FOR LATEST REMASTERING, BUY "GOLDEN ERA COLLECTION" INSTEAD   December 15, 2004
 23 out of 24 found this review helpful


This is an OK collection, but, if you are looking for the most up-to-date mastering of these classic hits, spend the extra dollars and purchase the 2001 2-disc "ALL THE LEAVES ARE BROWN: THE GOLDEN ERA COLLECTION" over this 1998 single disc package.

The vocals are much more up-front in that CD (although this one is a BIG improvement over "Creeque Alley", which sounds like an old AM radio).

"GOLDEN ERA" also delivers the complete content of TM&P's first four LP's and the non-LP single "Glad To Be Unhappy".

Link to the All the Leaves Are Brown: The Golden Era Collection.

2/06 UPDATE TO THIS REVIEW: Universal, in their infinite wisdom, has killed the 52-track "ERA" set and replaced it with a 2CD, 33-track "Gold"-series disc. The audio masters are the same, they just whacked out almost half the songs!

As I always say: Universal, YOU SUCK!

Try to find a used "ERA" disc either here on Amazon or on ebay. Also, BMG Music Service is still manufacturing the set. It's worth the search to have the complete M&P catalog.

It's also worth NOT buying the "Gold" set and putting your hard-earned cash into Universal's greedy pocket for a sub-standard version.



"California Dreamin'" Revisited   June 6, 2008
 16 out of 39 found this review helpful

What a bizarre afternoon. I was going along the foothills of my beloved Idaho, when my legs gave out on me. I fell down after what seemed like an eternity and landed yoga position into what seemed like a rabbit hole. I was a little dizzy, but I could see where I landed with the penetrating sunlight. Had I fallen into a prairie dog hole? There aren't any prairie dogs here, and the only ones I've ever seen are in Colorado. For that matter I've never seen rabbits here, either. So what gives? Amazingly, I got up and found myself no worse for wear. I felt a little foolish; for as I stood up and rubbed my knees, they were not even close to being broken. After a few wobbly steps, I went forward with my usual stride, and after a few feet I felt the pain melt away from my knees.

Getting out of that hole wasn't easy, but seeing a set of tree roots, I took off my belt, threw it up until the buckle fastened to one of its sturdier lines, climbed up along the edge of the inner walls until I was high enough to reach another branch-like extension. Grabbing a hold of it, I climbed up until I could reach the rim at the top of the hole.

To my surprise there was something completely different on the other side. As I pulled myself up, I was in a different neighborhood now. The streets were slanted by large, steep hills, and Victorian houses with bright rainbow colors flanked both sides of the street. I looked down, and it appeared without any evidence of metal, I had climbed out of a man hole while the nearest tree in sight was several yards away. At my near right was a girl sitting at what looked like a lemonade stand. She was wearing a Victorian-style dress, had long blonde hair, and wore a little lapel button that read "Alice" on it. On the front of her rustic, wobbly framed stand was a white sign with lettering that made me wince. With neon pink paint was written, "Electric Kool-Aide 10 Cents a Glass".

"Would you like a glass?" she asked me. I hesitated. I was slacked for thirst, and realized I had left my water bottle back in the hole. "I could give you a free sample," she prodded, but I looked at a folded paper sign that she had on her stand where "Drink Me" was written in day-glo blue letters with an equally luminous smiley face drawn on it. Attached to the smile was painted a long, blue electrical chord that went to a mini picture of a wall outlet--same color. It was just below a large pitcher of that sugary red kiddie punch with half-melted ice cubes floating on top and sweat dripping along the outside of its volcanic shaped sides. In the front I noticed a familiar smiley face etched in its foundation. Except as I looked more closely, I noticed the smile wasn't a smile at all, but a grin turned terrible with eyebrows that gave the facial features a sinister appearance.

`Where did you get that?' I asked in quiet horror. Seeing I was gazing at her pitcher, she replied, "My sister gave it to me. It's a joke. Don't you get it? It's like have a bad day. It's just supposed to be funny." I was partly relieved; for having thought I fell into a time warp, I now thought maybe the pitcher was taken from a Bon Jovi C.D. cover.

`No thank you.' I said absently even as I swallowed with a dry throat. Just then I heard singing. Beautiful singing. Heavenly singing. I mean women and men making a siren's cry all around me. I was seduced by the sounds of harmonies that blended, but became more sonorous as it came near me. The sounds were coming from the left of where I first stood from the hole. Then at the top of the sidewalk to my left I saw two couples walking down the hill towards us. There was a tall guy with a furry, Russian hat and a pencil-thin moustache. Then there was a young woman next to him with thin, blonde hair wearing periwinkle in her long locks. Diagonally behind them was another couple. A man with an oval face and dark, Beatle-cut hair was just behind them with another woman beside him. I started to notice that I heard her voice most distinctively of the whole group. She was a large woman with long, dark hair. At first the sound came as a burst, but then it became more distinct. They were singing "California Dreamin,'" and I was indeed in San Francisco in what had to be 1966 or 1967. John, Cass, and Denny were alive and well, and Michelle was quite young and with them, singing along the way.

I was enraptured as they came nearer to us. I felt a seductive wall-of-sound envelop me as I forgot my stiffness and my thirst. As they came toward us, they locked eyes with me, and I couldn't help but stare at them. They turned their eyes from me and looked at Alice, and, undoubtedly John, smiled at her and asked her for a glass to drink. He eyed me a little more warily, for it isn't polite to stare; I know this.

With my mouth slightly agape, I blurted out, 'Do "Twelve-thirty"! Do "Twelve-thirty"!' "Do you mind?" John reproached me gently. "We need this stuff right now." 'Oh, sure,' I said feeling a little idiotic.

"What's 'Twelve-thirty?'" It was Mama Cass who turned and asked me this. "I mean who's it by? Who sings that one?" I stumbled a little, feeling the hairs on my neck stand up as I realized that song hadn't been invented yet. `I don't know,' I blurted out stupidly. `I was hoping you might know it...It's my favorite song.'

"Sing a few bars for us," said Denny. Between my nervous infatuation with the band and my dry throat, I croaked out the words in a nearly tuneless monotone.

"Interesting concepts there," said John.
"I think it needs a little work," offered Michelle in an off-hand way.

"It's really your own song, isn't it?" asked John. I tried to speak, but John put his hand up to silence me. "It's all right," he said with a disconcerting smile. "We get that all the time." After a brief pause he added, "It's not bad; it just needs an extra verse or two." By then I admit I felt a little dizzy.

"Will you be joining us?" Cass asked me lifting up a glass like she was giving a toast.

`No, thank you,' to which when they looked at me curiously, `I'm a diabetic,' I lied to save face.

As they slacked their thirst, they started to walk down the sidewalk. People were starting to do the same on both sides of the street as interest was picking up about their new visitors, who, if memory served me correctly, resided somewhere around L.A.

I couldn't hear what they were saying as they left, but as they were talking, I heard Cass start to hum a lingering melody. After a few bars, I recognized it. It was "Dream a Little Dream of Me." As they walked, I noticed John started to wince at the sight of the nearby houses. It looked like they made his eyes hurt.

I knew out of necessity I had to go back to the hole. Still, the timelessness of their music rushed back to me: "Monday, Monday," "I Saw Her Again," "Go Where You Want to Go," the ethereal "Look Through My Window," the idiosyncratic "Dancing Bear," and the funny, self-effacing, "Creeque Alley". Ah, I was so refreshed; maybe I didn't need a drink, after all, as a cool breeze came from the Bay to hit my sweaty face.

Just before I left I saw another familiar face up the street. A little boy, looking no older than seven, had a round head with red hair and plastic, black rimmed glasses. "Come here, Mister; my lemonade doesn't have sugar. It has saccharine instead," he said confidently. I felt my thirst return, so I went across the street and a bit to the left to his lemonade stand. He had a similar set-up, but he had a yellowish-green figure on his banner that looked like Buddah and a caption that read in neon-green letters, "It's Bad Karma to Steal Lemonade."

'What's it got in it?' I asked apprehensively.

"Only the freshest lemons, water, and, of course, no sugar." He looked at me eagerly as he pushed up his glasses, and then added proudly, "I have a corner on the market for people who are on a diet."

I paid just a nickel, which I fortunately had because I seldom carry cash, and I looked at the boy who had a huckster smile if there ever was one.

"Would you like to buy my special of ten glasses for forty cents?" he asked smugly. I grimaced, and being a little tired of the displacement chided, 'You sure are a precocious little boy, aren't you?' The boy looked a little dour and a little hurt. After a little pause, he smiled again and said, "When I grow up I'm going to be a writer." After that offhand announcement, a lizard came out of nowhere and walked across the top of his lemonade stand. I was so startled, I nearly spilled my glass of lemonade. "I want to write because of people like you," he added without a trace of petulance. "I'm going to try to make this world a better place." I immediately regretted my calloused remark, and said amiably, 'Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.'

After I drained the liquid down my parched throat, I felt friendly again. `Where did you get the gila monster?' I asked.

"Oh, it's no gila monster. That there is my pet dragon." I smiled at him warmly, pleased that he seemed to at least have the imagination of someone his age. 'What's his name,' I asked, 'Puff?' and started to laugh. He looked down and a little perturbed like I had asked something he didn't understand. "He doesn't have a name--not yet."

He readjusted his glasses, then asked, "What's your name, mister?"

'You can call me J.P.' I said amiably.

"Nice to meet you, Mister J.P. My name's Eddie."

`Eddie?' I said stupidly.

"Eddie--or you can call me `Metamorpho`, that`s my nickname."

And just then, I was transfixed by the eyes of the dragon. For indeed that's just what the little lizard was. As his eyes glowed with a hot, red glare, I was hypnotized into a trance. After some spinning that made me feel more dizzy, I felt myself float...rise above the ground, and found myself suspended in the air. I found myself traveling, and instead of ending up on the warm, sunny footpath of the outdoor trail, I was transplanted to my computer monitor, where I just had to write down and tell you this incredible tale...