Julie Felix: A 1964 Folk Gem That Still Kicks (and Twangs)
Let’s cut to the chase—Julie Felix’s self-titled debut album is like that quirky friend who shows up uninvited but ends up being the life of the party. Released in ‘64, this record straddles genres like Pop/Rock, Folk, and even dips its toes into World and Country waters. It’s got charm, grit, and a vibe so laid-back it feels like it was recorded in someone’s backyard hammock.
Now, before we dive in, let’s tip our hats to the crew behind this masterpiece. Producer Hugh Mendl? Genius. Engineer Jack Clegg? Solid. And props to photographer Michael Ward for making sure Julie didn’t look like she just rolled out of bed (though, honestly, she could’ve pulled that off too). Oh, and kudos to Harry Robinson, the recording supervisor, because without him, we might’ve ended up with… well, whatever the opposite of this album is.
The tracklist reads like a mixtape from another era—which, ya know, it kinda is. You’ve got classics like “Masters Of War” and Dylan covers such as “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright,” but two songs stand out enough to make me want to write home about them—or at least text my group chat.
First up: “Plane Crash At Los Gatos.” This one hits hard—not gonna lie, I wasn’t expecting an emotional gut punch when I hit play. The lyrics tell the real-life tragedy of a plane crash involving Mexican farmworkers, and Julie delivers it with haunting simplicity. No frills, no overproduction—just her voice and a guitar doing all the heavy lifting. It’s raw, honest, and sticks with you longer than last week’s leftovers. If Bob Dylan had written it, people would still be analyzing every syllable today. But here’s the kicker—it’s not his song. Julie takes ownership of it like it was hers from the start. Hats off to her for turning heartbreak into art.
Then there’s “Hey Nelly Nelly (Hey Willie Willie)”, which is basically the musical equivalent of finding $20 in your jeans after laundry day. It’s playful, catchy, and impossible not to hum along to—even if you have zero idea what “Nelly” or “Willie” are supposed to mean. Is it a love song? A drinking chant? A secret code between sailors? Who cares! It’s fun, upbeat, and reminds me why folk music used to be the ultimate campfire jam session material.
But wait, let’s rewind for a sec. Did anyone else notice how many countries got their hands on this thing back in the day? The US, Colombia, the UK, Australia, New Zealand—all aboard the Julie Felix train. Clearly, London Records and Decca knew they were onto something special. Or maybe they just liked saying her name. Either way, good call, guys.
So here’s the deal: Julie Felix isn’t perfect. Some tracks feel a little too safe, like they’re afraid to ruffle feathers. But hey, that’s part of its charm. It’s cozy, nostalgic, and refreshingly human—a reminder that sometimes less really is more. And while most albums from 1964 sound like dusty relics, this one still feels alive, like it’s whispering secrets only you can hear.
Final thought? Listening to this album makes me wonder if Julie ever imagined her work would end up discussed by some random blogger decades later. Probably not. But hey, here we are. Now go listen to it—and don’t forget to thank me later.
