Cat Stevens

 (included on the album “Foreigner”, Island, 1973)

The “Foreigner Suite” has always had a special little corner of my heart, who knows why. Those eighteen minutes of suite, an alternation of… three? four? five? (never counted them, why break a spell?) different fragments – as suites tend to be, from “Supper's Ready” to “A Day In The Life” – I've always thought of it as a rare example of how pop (we called it rock back in that 1973) could be sweet and funky, airy and intimate, light as a run on the beach and moving as meeting the girl who was “made in Heaven”.

And yet, if you check the encyclopedias, it barely scrapes three stars against the five given to “Tea For The Tillerman”, “Teaser And Firecat”, “Catch Bull At Four” and “Buddha And The Chocolate Box”. They're gorgeous records, no doubt, hit after hit, pills of wisdom from a young Greek boy, who grew up above his father's shop in London, and had already been a teen star before tuberculosis reminded him that it really is a wild world out there.

Then he'd come back, a young sage writing about fathers and sons, about children with nowhere left to play, about bright moons and broken mornings. An ecologist of the soul. A poet full of life and curls, always at the center of beauty of every kind, a bon vivant of London nights. Now he really was living on the top floor, not the one above his father's shop. Impossible not to love him — just ask Venditti and De Gregori, they'll confirm it. Worldwide he was a guaranteed top ten act, and in Italy his fame was huge, which duly dragged him into the reckless war between David Zard and Stampa Alternativa, a tension-filled night at the Palasport that was the antithesis of any kind of music, let alone his, though at least we were spared the tear gas.

But “Foreigner”, conceived in Brazil and recorded in Jamaica, was something else entirely, even more so live: echoes of reggae and shuffle, samba and horns straight out of “Shaft”, black r'n'b and world sounds finding their way into the palette of the most delicate of European singer-songwriters. A white cover with one-face-one-race, and inside, that postcard illustration of a beach umbrella and tropical shore – the ideal of escape/life/landing for anyone who ever dreamed in travel-brochure images. Like me. That suite was the escape and the dream, the ideal woman and the happy return. But it hadn't been a huge hit. Maybe his only album without a major hit. Panned by critics. Underrated, if there ever was one. Sometimes three stars are better than five.

When I put it on tonight, it was on faith, on memory. Yes, every few years I've gone back to it (as its ubiquitous opening line says) but I'd never “seen it live”. But have you seen it? Or did you just drop a “like” or a heart on faith and memory, the way I did? Didn't you ever get comfortable, volume up, full screen (even if the quality is what it is), and just dive right in? If you haven't, find twenty minutes of your best time, and take the plunge.

There's a man at the piano in a light blue frock coat, handsome and (im)possible, smiling and rapturous, leading a battalion of super-musicians toward the end of a TV special, “Moon & Star”, November 9, '73 (I'll say it right away, it's not commercially available). There isn't just the drumming of Gerry Conway (THE drummer of English folk-rock) and Bernard Purdie (a man who played with James Brown and, just to be clear, in both Aretha Franklin's and King Curtis's bands on the very night they both recorded their “Live At Fillmore”. In short, calling it funky is just the beginning). Jean Roussel, riffing jazz on his electric piano, comes from Mauritius (he's played with countless artists, from Dusty Springfield to Bob Marley). Bruce Lynch on bass, his faithful Alun Davis on guitar, and (unbelievably) Danny Kortchmar, who would later play with Jackson. There are gospel choirs and a horn section straight out of black music, and, just to leave nothing out, a conductor and his orchestra.

It's music like they don't make anymore (thank god for YouTube). It has all the best of that music we love – I hope, still, for you too: melody and romance, passion and finesse, aching tenderness and rhythms of joy and celebration. Composed with mastery, sung with soul, played magnificently. It's being cradled by caresses on the piano and then jumping to your feet when Bernard's train pulls out. It's dreaming and smiling to yourself, and understanding that, in essence, everything you've done in life has been because of music, and for music. I've passed it on. That and nothing else. In the end, it's nice to sense your own place in the great wheel. But back to Cat.

Take my word for it, find these twenty minutes, if only because it's Sunday. Because, spoiler alert, after this ride full of honey and fire, once a tension has built, sexy and passionate like few others, everything opens up, and you slide toward the finale. It's a release, the one that never seemed to come, it's the lightness that lifts the spirit, it's the happiness that floods the scene, it's the happy ending, and it happens at minute 14:20: ⟦Q1⟧. Dedicated to anyone who's felt it, at least once. ⟦Q2⟧

Happy Sunday. Enjoy it.

Editor's note: If you'd like to know the list of Carlo's 100 (actually... more than that!) favourite records, you can find it here, complete with all the relevant mini-reviews.

There are no words, I can use

Because the meaning still leaves for you to choose

And I couldn’t stand to let them be abused, by you

Dreams I had just last night

Made me scared, white with fright

But I’m over to that sunnyside road

Over to that sunnyside road

Fortunes come and fortunes go

But things get better babe, that’s one thing I know

And I’m over to that Sunnyside road

Over to that Sunnyside road

I have a friend that I have met

Who gives me love and a certain respect

Just a little respect, everybody needs just a little respect

That means you…you…

And in a little while our love will spread

To you

Ain’t no matter who inside this world you know

There’ll he someone who will love you just for who you are

Really are

Dreams I had just last night

Made me worried to face up to the light

But I’m over to that Sunnyside road

Over to that Sunnyside road

Come on now it’s freedom calling

Come on over and find yourself

Come on now it’s freedom calling

Come on in and remind yourself

Oh darling, you see my face

But it’s in my heart that’s where it’s taking place

And I couldn’t stand to let it go to waste

Can you…

Oh love, sweet blue love

No man can ever get enough

But maybe one day we’ll all die in love

Will you…oh love, sweet love, my…love

Oh babe, understand

Take my love that’s all I have at hand

Please say you will…don’t say you can’t

Oh will you will you will you

The moment you walked inside my door

I knew’ that I need not look no more

I’ve seen many other girls before, ah but darling

Heaven must’ve programmed you

The moment you fell inside my dreams

I realized all I had not seen

I’ve seen many other girls before, ah hot darling

Heaven must’ve programmed you

You can live in the largest house

And eleven apartments too

Run your own private plane

And a boat in Malibu

But ‘till you know’ deep down what inside you really need

Well I love you baby, ooh my dear

And I think about you sometimes

But when you’re with me boy it chokes my mind

Come on now it’s freedom calling

Come on over and find yourself

Come on now it’s freedom calling

Come on in and remind yourself

Man must fight for freedom sure that’s what most other people would say

Look for a body to lead them but there’s too many to lead them away.

Why wait until it’s your time to die before you learn what you were born to do’?

Come on now it’s freedom calling but there’s only one freedom for you.

Love, love boy…

And I can’t wait to be with you tomorrow night.

Won’t you give me your word that you won’t laugh

Cause you’ve been a saving grace to me

And I’d hate to face a day without you around

My life would be without sound

Love, love, love, love must’ve made you on a Sunday

Cause you taste to me as good as god made honey taste babe

And the sky all glistens with gold

When you’re talking to me

And the whirling wind turns to song

Why it sets my soul free

Love, love. love. Love must’ve made you on a Sunday

There are no words. I can use

Because the meaning still leaves for you to choose

And I couldn’t stand to let them be abused, by you