The needle drops, and for a fleeting 150 seconds, the whole myth of The Walker Brothers, the beautiful, brooding piece of music they spun throughout the mid-sixties, seems to dissolve into pure, unadulterated sweat.
It’s late. The air is thick with the damp scent of ancient wood and dust, the kind that settles deep into the corners of a forgotten record shop. I am staring at the cover of a later compilation, the kind of sleeve that promises melodrama, vast orchestral swells, and the unmistakable, cavernous baritone of Scott Walker. My hand instinctively reaches for the dial on the home audio system, ready for the familiar, devastating sweep of a “Make It Easy on Yourself” or “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine (Anymore).”
But this is not the grand tragedy we were promised. This is “Land Of 1000 Dances.”
The track is an audacious, glorious anomaly in The Walker Brothers’ narrative. Released in the UK as a track on their debut album, Take It Easy With The Walker Brothers (1965), and often reappearing on subsequent compilations, this wasn’t a Scott Engel showcase of existential angst. It was a straight-up, full-throttle party record, a soulful, dance-floor burner with roots stretching back to Chris Kenner’s 1962 original. The 1966 year-tag associated with this track often places it in the shadow of the definitive, blistering Wilson Pickett version, which was climbing the charts that same summer. Yet, The Walker Brothers’ rendition, produced by John Franz and Nick Venet, and reportedly arranged by the legendary Jack Nitzsche, carved its own distinct, glittering path.
In 1965, when this track was laid down, the band were riding a wave of fame in the UK, a trio of Americans achieving a level of screaming celebrity that had eluded them back home. They were the ultimate purveyors of “teen appeal” orchestral pop, specializing in the blue-eyed soul balladry of the era, but this cover was a necessary reminder that they were also rooted in the raw R&B they’d cut their teeth on. It’s a moment of glamour contrasted sharply with grit, a fleeting pause before the orchestral strings would tighten the psychological knot around Scott Walker’s persona forever.
The Anatomy of a Soulful Collision
The initial sonic impact is immediate and visceral. The track bursts forth not with the slow, mournful tremolo of a classic Walker ballad, but with a driving, unapologetic swagger. The rhythm section—drums and bass—is locked in an urgent, propulsive groove, a thick, greasy backbone of pure American R&B. The drums are mixed high, their attack crisp and demanding, forcing the listener’s body into motion before the brain has a chance to analyze the orchestration.
The role of the guitar in this arrangement is fascinating. It’s not the lead voice, nor is it the source of melancholic introspection. Instead, we hear tight, choppy chord work—a funk-inflected rhythm pulse that weaves through the bass line, providing a taut, rubbery tension. It’s a functional, professional guitar performance that keeps the momentum relentless, ensuring the piece never drags into the lush melancholy of their more famous work. The arrangement here is a masterclass in controlled chaos, balancing a core R&B band with the sophisticated pop apparatus that was their signature.
Then, there’s the brass. A powerful, blaring section of horns—likely trumpets and saxophones—slash across the mix, adding punch and exclamation points where lesser bands would use mere harmonies. They enter with a joyful, almost chaotic fanfare, then settle into tight, repetitive riffs that echo the great soul records coming out of Memphis and Muscle Shoals. The brass is the primary melodic counterpoint to Scott’s vocal, a vivid burst of colour against the already taut rhythm section.
The piano work, though not dominating, provides crucial harmonic support. It’s a percussive, almost gospel-tinged chop—quick, rhythmic stabs of chord that fill out the middle register without ever muddying the mix. This use of the piano contrasts sharply with its usual role in The Walker Brothers’ ballads, where it often serves as a primary, reflective melodic instrument. Here, it’s a member of the rhythm section, emphasizing the downbeats with a kinetic energy that elevates the entire arrangement.
“It is a snapshot of Scott Walker, the pop idol, leaning into the light and heat just before the shadow of Scott Walker, the artist, began to consume the stage.”
Scott’s Voice: The Blue-Eyed Roar
This is perhaps the last pure moment of Scott Walker, the blue-eyed soul shouter, before the weight of his artistic ambition began to press down. His vocals here are extraordinary—not merely polished, but aggressively present. He tackles the shout-out lyrics of the dance crazes with a compelling conviction, his famous baritone shorn of its trademark vibrato, replaced instead with a raw, guttural power.
He belts the lyrics, trading his usual dramatic phrasing for an urgent, almost breathless delivery. The famous “Na na na na na” refrain, immortalized by Cannibal & the Headhunters and later Pickett, is present, delivered with an exuberant call-and-response energy, a collective roar that binds the band to the listener. There is no distance, no operatic high-mindedness. It is a snapshot of Scott Walker, the pop idol, leaning into the light and heat just before the shadow of Scott Walker, the artist, began to consume the stage.
For listeners accustomed to the symphonic misery of Scott 3 or the subsequent, almost industrial landscapes of Nite Flights, this track can be jarring. It is a portal to a different band—one that could convincingly stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the American soul invaders of the era, a band that could groove. This isn’t just a cover; it’s an assertion of versatility, a declaration that their orchestral pop wasn’t a limitation, but a texture they chose to employ. The sheer, dynamic range in the recording is impressive, making it an excellent candidate for anyone investing in premium audio equipment.
The track’s charting history remains murky, as it was often an album cut or a B-side in major markets, overshadowed by the massive success of their other singles. Nevertheless, its inclusion in their early discography provides essential context for their arc: they weren’t just a British fabrication; they were three ex-pat Americans who could command both the grand, weeping string section and the ferocious, sweaty R&B band. This particular recording offers a vibrant, albeit brief, glimpse into the rock and roll heart still beating beneath the baroque exterior of their mid-sixties success.
The track ends almost as abruptly as it begins—a sudden, climactic crash of cymbal and bass, cutting the frenetic energy clean off. The silence that follows is deafening, leaving the ghost of the groove hanging in the air. It’s a perfect closer to this micro-story, leaving us to wonder what might have been had Scott Walker chosen to follow this road of ecstatic, communal rhythm instead of retreating into the personal, internal chamber dramas that would define his later career.
It’s time for another listen. The sheer, kinetic joy of this one is infectious.
Listening Recommendations
- “Keep On Running” – The Spencer Davis Group (1965): Shares the same explosive mid-sixties UK blue-eyed soul energy and driving rhythm.
- “Tainted Love” – Gloria Jones (1965): A similarly intense, horn-punctuated soul-pop cut where a dramatic vocal is backed by a fiercely energetic band.
- “Just One Look” – Doris Troy (1963): Features the powerful, dynamic vocal delivery and classic, no-nonsense R&B arrangement that inspired all great covers.
- “Gimme Little Sign” – Brenton Wood (1967): Excellent example of the era’s crossover sweet-soul sound, blending a driving beat with orchestral flair.
- “Hold On, I’m Comin'” – Sam & Dave (1966): Epitomizes the tight, professional horn charts and punchy bass line that The Walker Brothers reference in their cover.