Sean Trane As you can easily guess, the further down we get into Gale’s discography, the further away we get from quality music and the more we delve into insipid pop/muzak, however well made it might be. Of course the arrival of that dreaded 80’s decade did not make things easier, but at least the Gale Gang wasn’t about to cede into the awful technology trends that abounded in that sad era. Indeed, no Casio synths, no Rhythm machine or awful Synclaviers that dulled every fiery note. It also helps that Bob James was still around for the production and writing of some tracks (would you believe that these are easily the best on the album?), and that the usual suspects McDonald brothers (percussions) are still around.

Opening on the BJ-penned Boardwalk, we are facing a lukewarm instrumental Latin jazz-rock piece that simply won’t be matched for the rest of the album. And to make matters worse, the following We’ll Make It is an awful honey-dipped sugar ballad with Sandy Barber holding the spit receptacle. Some might actually like that kind of shallow musical crud, but I’d rather not meet them – and more than likely, it’s reciprocal. The following My Momma Told Me So is an acceptable instrumental light funk-jazz. However, the title track presents a shallow soft-calypso or other Caribbean–origined rhythm, but outside the kitsch or not considerations, the music is flawless and enjoyable if you’re into tropical dance club scene. As soon as the first note of the BJ-penned and produced Dark Romance, you’re instantly pleased with the depth of the musical landscape that had disappeared since the opening track: not that the mid-paced but lengthy piece is all that enthralling, but BJ’s Rhodes and synths make the difference and allow Gale’s brilliant guitar some respectful counterattacks. Easily the second-best track of the album. As for the album-closing I Know That (Not) Right, it’s an awful disco-funk that will get your “booty” moving on the dance floor, but you’d better rely on better stuff (though it’s not that bad either) if you want to pack her into your bed.

Well, despite the old CTI usual suspects’ presence IB is an album that doesn’t hold enough excellent material to really want to keep this album in your shelves: two relatively good BJ-penned instrumental tracks, two more instrumental bordering on the nauseating and two awful sung dreck, though the later disco thing is better than that soppy ballad… Better pass on this one.