Books That Rock: “Precious and Few–Pop Music in the Early ’70s” (1996)

It’s been said that your musical identifications and tastes are cemented at a very early age, maybe as young as fourteen. That doesn’t mean you can’t expand your sonic palette later on—I didn’t get into jazz, reggae or classical until my mid-20s or so. But in the pop music universe, the “14 Rule” hold true.

One of my lasting musical fixations is Top 40 radio in the early Seventies, from about when I was 13 to 17 years old. So imagine my delight when I came across this tome at a retro store in Portland, Maine—a little shop stuffed with old albums, cassettes, VHS tapes, comic books and pop culture knick-knacks. I took one look at the cover and said to myself, “These guys get me.”

The guys in question are brothers Don and Jeff Breithaupt. They hail from Toronto, Don is singer in the band Monkey House and Jeff is an arts-fundraiser. In the mid-80s they began to wonder what became of the 45s they collected in the previous decade and found out from Mom that they were up in the attic crawlspace, still in their original faux-denim case.

The book’s “title track.” Go ahead and sing along, you know you want to.

So began their deep-dive journey through a large swatch of Billboard-charting singles dating from 1971-75. They starting with a survey of early 45s by the ex-Beatles and end at the Dawn of Disco. Early in their introduction, the Breithaupts make clear that they won’t abide by any lazy notion of this era being an inferior zeitgeist. Sure, there were questionable fashions and silly fads (with some novelty records to match), but they contend (rightly) that it was also a time of a vital incorporation of the strengths of venerated Sixties. “The rock press has a good ear for innovation,” they write, “but has shown little patience with the slower process of consolidation.”

The early 70s would be the last period of the Big House notion of commercial Top 40 radio. The authors note that the continuation and expansion of the earlier Boomer rock era: this was the end days of when R&B artists, singer-songwriters, hard rockers, foreign pop bands and teenybop idols would all share space on the Billboard charts. This rich audio-cultural diversity, delivered with none of today’s virtue signaling, would soon give way to specialized radio formats, a separation process that would eventually be reflected in America’s culture wars and divisive politics.

A decade-defining case in point. The sublime “Everybody Plays the Fool,” by the Harlem-based trio The Main Ingredient, was a huge hit in 1972 and of the last of the great “advice songs” (see also Petula Clark’s “Downtown” or the Beatles “She Loves You”). From its droll spoken intro to its last buoyant chorus, this was a stone-cold classic. But it was kept from the No. 1 spot by Chuck Berry’s infantile “My Ding-a-Ling.” Such was the Seventies.

The brothers collect these disparate musical trends into a colorful collection of concise chapters, preceded by a list of ten songs which best exemplify them. For instance:

“Revoluncheon: The Sixties Continued” Includes posthumous hits by Jim (“Riders on the Storm”) and Janis (“Me and Bobby McGee”) and post-mortem anthems like “Won’t Get Fooled Again” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

The authors note that some Sixties-identified artists like the Who, Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon and even the Rolling Stones put out much of their best work in the early Seventies, this continuation couldn’t last forever. “The relatively unified front of the Beatles, Stones and Motown,” they note, referring to the musical Sixties, “shattered into a million Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reynoldses.”

“Dancing in the Moonlight: Seventies Pop.” Featuring Carole King’s “It’s Too Late,” Seals and Croft’s “Summer Breeze,” Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” and Jackson Browne’s “Doctor My Eyes.” Sure it wasn’t as transformative as Monterey Pop, but only a snobby leading-edge Baby Boomer could resist the unabashed good vibes of “Dancing in the Moonlight” or this 3 Dog Night gem:

“The Sound of Philadelphia” Motown began to lose its way a little after moving from Detroit to L.A. in 1972—despite some great records by Stevie, the post-Diana Supremes and Marvin Gaye in his “What’s Going On” era. But in its place came the rise of the Philly Soul sound, led by the songwriting/producing team of Leon Huff and Kenneth Gamble. This is one of the book’s best chapters. Get ready to fall in love all over again with the Spinners, the Stylistics, the O’Jays and Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes. And let’s not forget this timeless adultery anthem by Billy Paul.

“Richard Nixon’s Greatest Hits” The era’s social protest songs were a mixed bag, but I am ready to defend the honor of the 5 Man Electrical Band’s “Signs” despite its many detractors (“the sign says you gotta have a membership card to get inside, ugh!”).

Also getting a going-over in this chapter are the likes of “Bring the Boys Home” (Freda Payne), “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” (Wings), “Fight the Power” (Isley Brothers), and the Raider’s white-guilt classic “Indian Reservation.” Sometimes the execution would get muddled and sentiments would veer more into apathy than action, despite good intentions. Ten Years After frontman Alvin Lee would “Love to Change the World” but didn’t know how so he just decided “to leave it up to you.” The authors also drill down on Chicago’s rather confounding minor hit “Dialogue (Parts 1 and 2).” Here, guitarist Terry Kath, playing a “well-informed progressive,” grills a “spoiled college kid” (sung by Peter Cetera) about his views on the world. The kid is so callow that when asked if he’s angry about the way the disastrous Vietnam War is dragging on, he plainly states that he “Hopes the president (Nixon) knows what he’s into.” And yet he somehow wins the argument by inexplicably convincing the Kath character (without providing evidence) that “everything is fine.” Wow.

By way of comparison, the Breithaupts contend that the “feminist pop” of the era was a lot more effective. Of course, Helen Reddy’s “I am Woman” gets a mention, but they are not too impressed with her “tame delivery.” Instead they rightly rave about the female singers (mostly African-American) who boldly turned the tables on the philandering macho men of the time. The politics here are mostly sexual, spawning a number of memorable, whip-smart singles like “Mr. Big Stuff” (Jean Knight), “Clean-Up Woman” (Betty Wright), “Women’s Love Rights” (Laura Lee) and my favorite, “Want Ads” by Honey Cone. In this infectious soul-groove workout, lead singer Edna Wright serves notice on her cheating-ass (ex) boyfriend by advertising for a new main squeeze in the Personals section of her local newspaper, noting that “experience in love preferred, but we’ll accept the young trainees.” Hell, yeah!

“Want Ads” was #1 on both the pop and soul charts in the spring of 1971. Here is the extra-funky extended version.

There are many other categories covered here, too many to review. Some of them are: Jazz Pop, Religious Pop, Progressive Rock, Hard Rock, Instrumentals, Story Songs (that chapter is named “Harry, Keep the Change” lol) and even “Self-Pity Pop”. This section features the lachrymose likes of “At Seventeen” (Janis Ian), “All By Myself” (Eric Carmen), “Seasons in the Sun” (Terry Jacks) and “Alone Again Naturally,” the suicide-ideation hoot by the regrettable Gilbert O’Sullivan.

But good, bad, or ugly, this music from the last great period of open-format radio do have a lasting virtue. That’s because most of the hits we were digging on back then were marked by a dogged sincerity. This can be hard to reckon with in our own ironic age. When this book came out in the mid-90s, the Seventies were enjoying a moment, but not for all the right reasons. “Generation Xers find it easy to laugh at everything,” the brothers wrote in ‘96, “they aren’t used to pop culture that wants to be taken at face value.”

This recalls a couple of big-charting songs of the time. First is “Brandy,” the only hit by the Jersey Shore band Looking Glass. The story of a lovelorn barmaid in a harborside tavern, this tune is sung in complete earnestness and was listened to in the same spirit as it headed to #1 in June 1972. But upon closer inspection, if was Brandy was such “a fine girl” and desired by all, couldn’t she just dump this sailor guy who has clearly stated “My love and my lady is the sea” (I mean, really). Or conversely, the sailor could finally give up on his stinky old boat, put a ring on it and, I don’t know, open a bait-and-tackle shop?

The other is the inimitable “Sweet City Woman” by the Calgary-based trio, the Stampeders. In this winsome, banjo-driven ditty, the singer hops a train heading out of the boonies to hook up with his lady friend living in town. He even mentions his banjo twice in the song and his anticipation is heightened not just by his girlfriend’s good loving but also her macaroons. Like I said, such was the Seventies. So the next time either song comes over the radio, we late baby boomers will be singing along with affection not irony. But I’m posting “Sweet City Woman” because at least the guy in that song knew when he had a good thing going!

—Rick Ouellette

For the Records #5: From the Crossroads to Carnaby Street

“Those English boys, they want to play the blues so bad. And they do play it so bad,” Sonny Boy Williamson once said, looking back in humor to the times he went to tour in Europe in the early Sixties, sometimes supported by the Yardbirds or the Animals. It’s a classic quote and a bit unfair (the Yardbirds were just starting out) but it does point up the fact that most of the bands that made up the epochal British rock explosion of the later Sixties were steeped in reverence to the blues, despite the geographical and experiential distance from their heroes.

But nobody could question their sincerity and when the English blues-rock thing really took off a meeting of the minds was bound to happen. The legendary blues (and early rock ‘n’ roll) performers found their commercial fortunes fading, overtaken by R&B, Motown and funk. For the Brits, the legitimacy conferred and the fun to be had jamming with these legends was a no-brainer. When a Chess Records producer, after watching a Cream concert at the old Fillmore West, asked Eric Clapton if he would like to do an album with Howlin’ Wolf the die was cast. Although the record would not get recorded for another couple of years, it would set the pace for a notable mini-genre of “London Sessions” projects that would hit the market in the early Seventies.

The London Howlin’ Wolf Sessions (1971)

So the Wolf album would be the first of these, the Chess label would follow with three others, listed chronologically below. It could be argued that this is the best of them; it certainly had the best cover art (see banner image. Chess followed the formula of having illustrated covers showing their subject in London-themed settings. While the other three are a bit cartoonish, this one has a handsome drawing of the Big Guy surveying the Piccadilly Circus scene while seated with his guitar case under the Eros statue, while a chap who looks like Clapton plays on a lower step.

Eric certainly wasn’t going to waste an opportunity like this and he brings his A-game, pealing off any number of torrid solos on his trusty Stratocaster. Wolf brought along right-hand man Hubert Sumlin to set the pace on rhythm guitar, while Rolling Stones’ Charlie Watts and Bill Wyman laid the foundation for an energetic set of blues classics. The devotion to this Chicago blues legend was undeniable: the Stones’ insisted on Wolf as a guest when they appeared on the American TV music show “Shindig,” while Slowhand had been tapping the Wolf songbook for years (all but two of these twelve songs are credited to him—Chester Burnett—or his go-to guy Willie Dixon) and Cream’s 16-minute version of “Spoonful” is the stuff of acid-rock lore.

With the bedrock of Sumlin and this trio, plus either Steve Winwood or “sixth Stone” Ian Stewart on keyboards, Wolf fronts a strong collection of his well-known 12-bar tunes, in great voice and seemingly high spirits. You get “I Ain’t Superstitious,” “Sitting on Top of the World,” “Built for Comfort,” “Do the Do” and trademark numbers, all expertly played and well produced by Chicago bluesologist Norman Dayron. And if their was any question as to who was in charge here, listen to the practice take of “Little Red Rooster.” The imperious Wolf is showing the young guns how the intro should be done by playing it on his acoustic when Clapton tries to get him to play on the final: “Nah, man, come on!” The album was well-reviewed and made a respectable chart showing, leading the way for what was to come. Grade: A-

The London Muddy Waters Sessions (1972)

The mighty Muddy Waters was the next to get the UK treatment and this was another well-done effort. Already a pattern was established. There was the illustrated cover, though this one looked like a half-finished Peter Max reject (though Waters wearing a bobby’s helmet was kinda funny). There was the trusty wing man brought over from the Windy City (Muddy’s harmonica player Carey Bell). Again, the roll call at the London studio proved impressive (Rory Gallagher, Ric Grech, Georgie Fame, Steve Winwood again, and former Hendrix drummer Mitch Mitchell).

Gallagher, the revered Irish blues guitarist, and Bell really stand out here, trading solos on several tracks. And while Waters is in fine fettle, the album is held back at times by the Americans’ unfamiliarity with the surroundings and the Brits reverence. In other words, good but not off-the-hook good. Like on the Howlin’ Wolf album, the material consists mostly of artist originals and Willie Dixon standards, including a new MW version of his immortal “I’m Ready,” (“I’m drinking TNT/I’m smoking dynamite/I hope some screwball starts a fight”). Grade: B

The London Chuck Berry Sessions (1972)

I think it’s safe to say that Chuck’s UK album was the most financially successful of this lot, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. That is because it included the execrable novelty song “My Ding-a-Ling,” which, believe it or not was Berry’s only #1 single in America. But at least the 45 edit was only about four minutes, the juvenile singalong goes on for eleven minutes on the album’s live second side. It is sandwiched between this record’s highlights. Helped along by two future members of the Average White Band, he treats the Lancaster festival crowd to a frisky rave-up on “Reeling and Rocking” and then sends them into a frenzy with “Johnny B. Goode” (probably because they are secretly relieved that “Ding-a-Ling” is finally over). Chaos ensues at the end when the crowd belligerently demand an encore while a flustered MC begs the crowd to leave so they can make way for a show by “The Pink Floyd.”

The studio side has little of value, despite the presence of Kenney Jones and Ian McLagan from the Faces. Chuck sounds uninspired and the only real bright spot is “I Love You” which shows a more contemporary spin on his trademark sound. Grade: C

The London Bo Diddley Sessions (1973)

The pioneering rock ‘n’ roller born Ellis McDaniel was not one to rest on his laurels. Bo had spent the late 60s and early 70s updating his sound to fit in with the more contemporary funk style. It never really caught on and he was still making most of his income on the oldies circuit where his patented hambone “Bo Diddley beat” was ever popular. His London sojourn was bound to be a colorful affair and the old pro didn’t disappoint, even if it did nothing to help his flagging record sales.

There’s a great funk workout (“Get Out of My Life),” a couple of cheeky numbers written by his former Chess label mate Sam Dees (“Husband-in-Law” and “Sneakers on a Rooster”) featuring singer and female foil Cookie Vee, and a good version of his “Bo Diddley” signature song. There is less overt star power here, but Diddley is well served by a tight and sympathetic supporting cast centered around Spencer Davis Group alumni Eddie Hardin on organ and guitarist Ray Fenwick, while ELO founder Roy Wood contributes some supple bass work. Bo’s stature, if not his commercial standing, continued into the next rock generation and by 1979 he was knocking ‘em dead as a supporting act on the Clash’s first American tour. Grade: B+

B.B. King in London (1971)

King recorded this LP at London’s famed Olympic Studios in June of 1971 and it was released in November of that year, just prior to a tour of England. It’s a decent outing by the Blues Boy, though not much here that you haven’t heard before from him. He’s supported by a staunch roster of classic-rock supporting players and regulars from the British blues club/festival circuit. Drumming is by the Jims (Gordon and Keltner), the bass work is supplied by the ever-reliable (and ever-available Klaus Voorman), and the second guitar spot (backing up King and his famous Gibson ES-355 named Lucille) rotates between Fleetwood Mac founder Peter Green, John Uribe and Dr. John.

There are a couple of changes of pace which help a lot. The instrumental “Alexis’ Blues” has both Mr. Korner and BB on acoustic guitar while Steve Marriott blows some mean harp. Guest keyboardist Gary Wright gets to do his piano shuffle with King adding some of his piquant picking on this platter (sorry). He also does some fine singing and soloing on his own “Ghetto Woman,” the best of the straight blues number. The tasty string arrangement shows that a lot of care went into the making of the, even if the results are less than revelatory. Grade: B-

Jerry Lee Lewis: The Session…Recorded in London (1973)

As mentioned before, some of these London recordings are held in check by the double dynamic of the headliner’s unfamiliar surroundings and the kid-glove tendencies of the admiring supporting players. In one sense, this was also the case when Jerry Lee Lewis made his way across the pond in 1973. Although only in his late thirties, Jerry Lee was on the cusp of his elder statesman years and initially felt ill-at-ease during the sessions. He had rarely recorded outside of Memphis or Nashville and here he was surrounded by long-haired whipper snappers.

But this was still the same Lewis who was the incorrigible wild man of rock ‘n’ roll and he let it loose with a sprawling, freewheeling, braggadocious double album that yielded his last hit song on the pop charts (“Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee”) and cemented his status as an early rock ‘n’ roll icon. The album kicks off with “Drinking Wine,” setting the stage for what’s to come. It’s a great ol’ roadhouse boogie with Jerry leading the charge, singing enthusiastically of hedonistic pursuits and pounding away at his piano in that familiar staccato style. Alvin Lee of Ten Years After, the first of many hotshot guitarists to heed the star’s command to “Pick it, son,” gives some 70s firepower to a 50s-style solo. These “sons” are generally only 5-10 younger than “The Killer” but none of them would dare complain. His offspring include and impressive collection of guitarists (Rory Gallagher, Albert Lee, Peter Frampton, Delaney Bramlett and future Foreigner Mick Jones) and keyboardists (Gary Wright, Tony Ashton and Procol Harum’s Matthew Fisher) and Brian Parrish (then vocalist with Badger) on harmonica. Several of Lewis’ usual band also appear.

When these disparate elements come together the record can be great fun, with the accompanists’ amped-up backing giving Lewis a solid platform to hit his attitudinal sweet spot halfway between blasé and berserk. It’s a rush to hear Gallagher and Frampton trading solos as the man bulls his way thru “Johnny B. Goode” and to have pro’s pro Albert Lee move the crew full-steam-ahead on “Sea Cruise” as Captain Killer runs thru his paces of piano razzle-dazzle, esp. in those sweeping glissandos that flash by like Zorro’s sword. Country and blues numbers are also present as are a couple of more contemporary songs (CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” and Gordon Lightfoot’s “Early Morning Rain”).

It comes all together for the concluding “Rock & Roll Medley” as the Killer whiplashes thru four Little Richard classics before climaxing with his immortal “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.” Jerry Lee whoops it up like it’s 1957 and attacks his piano keys with karate-chop comping while Alvin Lee flies off into Woodstock guitar-hero land. It’s a satisfying ending to an entertaining, loosey-goosey record and will be a fun time no matter which of the four sides you drop the needle on. Grade: B+

—Rick Ouellette

On sale now: “In a Dream of Strange Cities” comic!

The familiar turns fantastical as “sleep voyager” Swain roams through fractured cities and societies, falling in with a group of utopian separatists.

“Chthonic Days” is a 20-page, magazine-size short story comic that is culled from two pivotal chapters of the graphic-novel-in-progress “In a Dream of Strange Cities”. The title of the story indicates the underground quest to find a space large enough to construct a prototype independent sub-city, envisioned by an idealistic group called the Homelanders. Lady Domine, their charismatic and overstanding leader, lays out their vision in the speech that opens the story.

At first, Swain has no idea about how and why he has been drawn into this “Second World” or that it is even a different plane of existence. But his flair for urban exploring and psychogeographic observation make him an ideal recruit for Domine and the forces of “love, logic and learning” at existential odds with a late autocratic leader. Kept alive by a haranguing electronic video-audio loop, he encourages his followers to continue to follow his lead and meet every act of social empathy with scorn and even violence, with no end in sight.

Swain, at the conscripted call-up from the now autonomous “World Subconscious” will find out if there is “a way forward in peace” against the abusive cult of personality that pervades half the citizens of the story’s city-state.

The price of $5 includes mailing within the U.S. and will be so helpful and artist Ipan and I continue work of the first volume of a proposed trilogy. And you can keep up with our progress by Liking the In a Dream of Strange Cities Facebook page. Thanks! –Rick Ouellette

“Chthonic Days”

A short-story comic taken from the upcoming series “In a Dream of Strang Cities.”

$5.00

Books That Rock: “Popcorn: Fifty Years of Rock ‘n’ Roll Movies”

I hadn’t heard of the 2010 book “Popcorn: 50 Years of Rock ‘n’ Roll Movies” until I recently scored a copy for $2 at a library book sale. Penned by British music scribe Garry Mulholland, it was advertised as “The first and last word on the rock movie” six years before I self-published my tome “Rock Docs: A 50-year Cinematic Journey.”

So though I’d beg to differ with that blurb, I also know when to tip my cap to a pro. “Popcorn” is a wildly entertaining and rigorous look at both rockumentaries and music-themed feature films for the half-century starting in the mid-Fifties (my timeline is Beatlemania to 2014). Mulholland is a writer full of original thinking: astute, passionate, contrarian, righteous, risqué and often laugh-out-loud funny. You can’t wait to read the next review and find out what he’ll say about all these major music movies, even when you can tell by the star-rating that you’ll disagree with him.

That Thing You Do!: “Sixties rock according to Forrest Gump.”

This is a guy who likes “Help!” and “Yellow Submarine” better than “Hard Day’s Night,” prefers the Bob Dylan obscurity “Masked and Anonymous” over the iconic “Don’t Look Back,” and is as willing to praise John Waters’ “Hairspray” to the high heavens as he is to take the Rutles down a notch or two. But he will champion worthy obscurities like “Slade in Flame” with logic and love and assure us with 5-star ratings for “This is Spinal Tap,” “Quadrophenia,” “Gimme Shelter,” “Performance” and “The Filth and the Fury.”

 The Kids are Alright: “Unique, thrilling, and a great reminder of when snotty bands smashing up stuff was still shocking, big and clever”

The films earning one or two stars usually get a (often much-needed) hatchet job. Check out these “plot line” blurbs that appear under the rating.

The Doors: “Twat stops shaving and dies.”

Purple Rain: “A $6 million tribute to Small Man Syndrome.”

The Monkeys’ ‘Head’: “Boy band force fed drugs and abused by hippie fuckwits.”

Pink Floyd’s The Wall: “Walls are bad. But women are worse.”

Control: “The aesthetically pleasing death of Ian Curtis.”

With such stylistic flair and free-ranging opinions, Mulholland can sometimes go a bit daft. About the only thing he likes in “The Last Waltz” are those cloying interviews Martin Scorsese had with Robbie Robertson to sell their cinematic ego trip about a grandiose farewell concert. Meanwhile, he treats the rest of The Band (who did not want to break up the group) as if they were Mumford and Sons. Not cool. The only guest spot he approves of is Muddy Waters, a rare foray into the dubious Rock Critic Guide to Street Cred.

In Bed with Madonna (aka Truth or Dare): “It’s like spending 113 minutes inside a homophobic joke.”

Elsewhere, Mulholland (who is white) delves deep into the ever-issue of white co-option of black musical culture and does so via an intellectual process, not by lazy virtue signaling. Like I said, he has a righteous streak. He uses it to body slam both the likes of “The Blues Brothers” (“trades on the non-existent joke of two ugly sexist white blokes being the Kings of Soul”) and “Ray” (“The sick, cruel, racist America is stylized-to-fuck until it has the requisite glow of nostalgic cool”), exposing the ineptitudes of both low-brow comedies and Oscar-bait star vehicles masquerading as biography.

As for “Ray,” the author dutifully misinforms us that Jamie Foxx won the Oscar for “Best Actor in Sunglasses.” Mulholland may be from England, but his cheeky sense of humor will be much appreciated by rock fans weaned on the good old days of Detroit-based CREEM magazine (“The Wall” is judged to be “the rancid toenail clippings of fetid rotting dogs”). You get the idea. Keep a lookout for “Popcorn” on the discount shelf or see if your library has a copy. Then have yourself a good laugh—and a good think.

But if you’re interested, I still have a few copies of my “Rock Docs” available for sale. Inquire in the comments below. Thanks, Rick Ouellette

For the Records #4: Got Live If You Can Hear It

When it comes to signifying images of 20th century pop culture, the screaming girls of Beatlemania are right up there. Of course, the siren-pitch of their collective hysteria is also unforgettable to those who watched the Fab Four on television or especially for those who saw them in person, where the din was so epic one could barely hear what they were playing.

This kind of hysterical fan reaction was not limited to the Beatles. A lot of other British Invasion bands got a similar reception in concert. A look back at the legendary “T.A.M.I. Show” filmed in late 1964 shows the young Los Angeles audience (about 75% female) going completely bonkers over everyone from Lesley Gore to Jan & Dean to James Brown. But for this post, let’s concentrate on four titles that were recorded in those exuberant days of the mid-Sixties, while also noting that the Beatles entry was not released until 1977.

Over time, it became de rigeuer that every major rock group post-1964 would eventually release at least one live album. The problem with the early ones was that the amplification and recording equipment had not caught up yet with what the bands were doing. As the 60s progressed, the technology dovetailed with the heaviness of the sound and the kids had grown up and gotten past their Shrieking Stage.

Got Live If You Want It? Nowadays, all but the most hardcore Stones’ fans would say “no thanks, I’m good” to their first live album, released in the fall of 1966. It’s an interesting artifact in its way but these renditions of hits like “19th Nervous Breakdown,” “Under My Thumb” and “Get Off My Cloud” will have you running back to the studio originals. Andrew Loog Oldham’s production is woefully tinny (sometimes it seems like Charlie Watts’ cymbals are the lead instrument) and at times it can barely compete with the audience cacophony.

Considering that Stones’ concerts often ended in riots back then, it’s remarkable that a quieter number like “Lady Jane” comes off reasonably well. The same could be said of Mick Jagger’s take on Otis Redding’s “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” although it turns out that song and “Fortune Teller” were studio tracks with crowd sounds added on. See below for a nice up-close glimpse of an early Stones show looked like.

The post-Pet Sounds Beach Boys were most noted for the creative dominance of Brian Wilson’s songwriting and studio wizardry. Later touring editions of the band often did not include Brian but did feature everyone from Glen Campbell to Blondie Chaplin, Daryl “Capt. and Tennille” Dragon and even Ricky Fataar, later of the Rutles.

So it is interesting to get a live taste of the original quintet, the three Wilson brothers, cousin Mike Love and neighborhood pal Al Jardine. This period piece stems from an enthusiastic 1964 show at the Sacramento Memorial Auditorium, with some post-production touching up to follow. The gatefold liner notes claims that unlike other live albums where they pump up the crowd sounds to add excitement, here they had tone it down. Such bragging! If so, I wonder what the decibel level was really like in the hall when fan fave Dennis Wilson stepped out from behind the kit to sing Dion’s “The Wanderer.” Shriek City, man!

All in all, this is a fun throwaway album, a mix of amped-up hits of their own (“I Get Around,” “Little Deuce Coupe” etc.) and a batch of covers, some well considered (Jan & Dean’s “Little Old Lady from Pasadena,” Dick Dale’s “Let’s Go Tripping,” a lead guitar showcase for Carl Wilson) and some just silly (Mike Love doing “Monster Mash”??). Beach Boys Concert was the first pop live album to top the charts, the guys’ only #1 LP aside from the 1974 compilation Endless Summer.

By the time The Kinks Live at Kelvin Hall came out in 1967, the band were already in the midst of a run of classic albums that were known for an introspective approach that was a marked progression from the teen-beat appeal of their early sound (their wistful masterpiece “Waterloo Sunset” was recorded the same month, April ’67, as this LP was released in the US as The Live Kinks). But at Glasgow’s Kelvin Hall it was all “this-one-goes-to-eleven” frenzy. The group don’t seem to mind: the audience was give one full channel on the 4-track recording and Ray and Dave Davies often egged on the screamers, as they do here before launching into “Dandy,” their astute ditty about an aging Casanova that teen-idols Herman Hermits would take to #5 on the Billboard charts.

The Kinks never turned their back on those early ravers: they open here with “Til the End of the Day” and encore with the world-beating “You Really Got Me” after a bizarre but entertaining medley of “Milk Cow Blues/Batman Theme/Tired of Waiting for You.”

Even the Beatles could not lay total claim for initiating this kind of hormonally-induced musical insanity. Frank Sinatra inspired similar reactions in the Forties, as did Elvis in the Fifties. But the Fabs really went level up when they broke in America, and the wild scenes of them playing the Ed Sullivan Show and at Shea Stadium are the stuff of legend.

Two of their more high-profile gigs on the West Coast were their appearances at the Hollywood Bowl in August, 1964 and in the same month the next year. Both were recorded but for various licensing reasons did not see the light of day until 1977 when highlights from both shows were combined for a 13-song, 33-minute album in what added up to a complete Beatles concert back then. Naturally, the screaming is super-intense and you got to give the lads credit for their energy level and musical precision (and good humor) given that they could hardly hear themselves.

On certain songs, like this 1965 take on “Ticket to Ride,” the girls seem to be taking a collective breather from the really crazy stuff and instead give the impression of a distant plague of locusts. Here, the band’s sound booms around the venue’s natural amphitheater. Elsewhere, they tinker with arrangements, like adding a pumped-up middle section to the pensive “Things We Said Today.” But nothing could negate the fact that this was not an optimal arrangement, especially with their growing musical sophistication in the studio. The Beatles last paying concert was the next August, at Candlestick Park on 8/29/1966, three weeks after releasing the game-changing Revolver.

That last factoid points up perfectly how rock and roll was quickly being transformed from a teen-scream sensation into a more cerebral, counter-culture art form. All four of these iconic bands were gearing themselves to the new studio-as-instrument ethos (esp. the Beatles and Beach Boys) while the Stones and Kinks had roadblocks to touring in the late Sixties: the former due to Brian Jones drug-bust-induced visa restrictions, the Kinks via a 4-year ban after a punch-up with officials from the American Federation of Musicians.

By the time they returned, the technology and amplification had caught up with the heavier sound of the new decade (see the Who’s thunderous Live at Leeds and the Stones’ own Get Yer Ya-Yas Out). The Kinks did a series of theater-rock presentations before making their own arena-rock move in the late 70s. Of course, the teen-hysteria thing never really went away and can be seen at shows by acts like Taylor Swift and the boy band of the moment. For us fans of the more classic rock type, the distractions at today’s show run more to people talking during the performance and impulsively holding up their smartphones. But that’s a story for another day.

–Rick Ouellette

For the Records #3: Bloodrock’s Forgotten Prog-Rock Album is Not D.O.A.

In the annals of rock history, many bands are liable to be remembered only for their biggest hit. And so it is with Bloodrock, the Fort Worth-based outfit that graced the American Top 40 but one time. That single, of course, was the infamous “D.O.A.,” an exceptionally graphic dirge that depicted the immediate aftermath of a plane crash—told from the point of view of one of its soon-to-expire victims!

Against a morbid musical backdrop of funeral organ and blaring sirens, Bloodrock vocalist Jim Rutledge spares us no detail, whether it’s his missing limbs or the blood-soaked sheets applied by a paramedic who is overheard saying, “There’s no chance for me.” The song ends with Rutledge’s over-the-top cry of “God in heaven, teach me how to die!” before the final chorus yields to the sound of multi-tracked sirens sounding off on route to the morgue.

Brilliant stuff, to be sure. Just enough of us twisted teenagers bought the 45 (the full LP version ran past 8 minutes) to enable “D.O.A.” to claw its way to #36 in early 1971. I still have my copy. The b-side (“Children’s Heritage”) was more typical of the band’s output, a righteous if plodding boogie typical of the era. While the band’s signature song may not have been intended as a novelty (their guitarist Lee Pickens had witnessed a small aircraft crash), Bloodrock were to be identified with “D.O.A.” as closely as the Baha Men will be stuck forevermore with “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

For their first three albums, Bloodrock were under the clientage of both John Nitzinger, the sketchy kingpin of Texas blooze-rock who penned many of their songs, and manager/producer Terry Knight, who was also the combative Machiavelli behind Grand Funk Railroad. But by 1972, Rutledge and Pickens had left the band and Bloodrock had a new frontman in the person of fresh-faced Warren Ham. Ham was the lead singer and quite handy with the flute, saxophone and harmonica.

In late ’72, two years after recording “DOA,” came their fourth album, Passage. Gone was Terry Knight and his brainchild that their every LP sleeve design had to have dripping blood somewhere. Instead, the cover was a cryptical woodcut-like illustration of a clipper ship passing an underground cave, a nice touch. Similarly, the new Bloodrock sound was imaginative, and suggestive of the era’s preeminent progressive-rock sound.

The biggest and best surprise being the second track, “Scotsman,” an outright ringer and tribute to Jethro Tull leader Ian Anderson. With its scootering flute riff, weighty Hammond organ accompaniment (by key band holdover, Stevie Hill) and jaunty jig-rock arrangement, it could have been slotted into a Tull album like War Child or Songs from the Wood, if not for the singing accent.

While this edition of the band would never be mistaken for Yes or Peter Gabriel-era Genesis, other artful touches spice up this record. The buoyant opener “Help is on the Way” has a deft instrumental coda and “Life Blood” has some nimble dynamics and fresh splashes of synth that can stand up there with the best proggers of the day and contains some still-relevant lyrics (“I have seen a picture of hate, formed in a thousand ways/People say it’s all too late, talk of numbered days”).

The 8-minute semi-epic “Days and Nights” is a nice slab of organ-led heavyosity that should appeal to anyone who’s ever enjoyed a Uriah Heep album. There’s even a topical number, a nifty blues shuffle called “Thank you, Daniel Ellsberg,” giving props to the man behind the “Pentagon Papers” expose. Despite this new lease of life, Passage did not catch on and Bloodrock would only be around for one more studio album.

Since this “For the Records” series focuses on the obtaining of records as well as the listening to them, here are the somewhat odd circumstances of how I got my copy of Passage. After a night on the town, I pulled up in front of a used record store in North Cambridge, Mass. The owner of the Blue Bag Records store sometimes puts a pile of free discarded albums outside the door after hours. There was no pile this time, but the place was open despite the late hour (I think the guy was doing his accounts). Since I was likely going to be the only customer at that time, I had to be supportive and buy something. Nothing interested me until I saw this baby for eight bucks. I love the covert art (reminiscent of nautical mysteries like “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” or Poe’s novel “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket”) and I had heard a few of its tunes online. So it came that I bought my second Bloodrock record, some 52 years after purchasing the “D.O.A.” single.

Although Bloodrock were not long for the world by the time that this album was released but Warren Ham went on to a long and successful career (still ongoing) as session and touring saxophonist for everyone from Kansas and Toto to Olivia Newton-John to Donna Summer. He has also been in several iterations of Ringo Starr’s All Starr Band (see above). In fact, I saw him on one of these tours and of course never made the connection then. Too bad. If I ever had the chance to meet him I would love to see his reaction when I told him: “Hey, I loved that “Scotsman” song you did way back when.”

—Rick Ouellette

Happy Free Comic Book Day! Get one Here

May 6th is Free Comic Book Day and I have a bunch of introductory 20-page mini-comics of my graphic novel-in-progress “In a Dream of Strange Cities” to give away. Here are some sample pages, if you are interested, please leave a message below and/or Like my Facebook page In a Dream of Strange Cities. Thanks! Rick Ouellette (writer) and Ipan (artist).

Front cover above, Back cover below.

Rock Docs Spotlight: “Herb Alpert Is…” (2020) Directed by John Scheinfeld

“Herb Alpert is… “ a pretty good documentary tracing the life and career of an introverted East Los Angeles kid who grew up to be the trumpet-playing leader of a band that for a while in the 1960s were arguably the biggest in the world, even outselling the Beatles for a spell. This is a story well worth telling, especially since the genial and low-key Alpert is still here to tell a lot of it himself. He is seen here in his early 80s, painting, sculpting, and running his charitable foundations—and still performing with his wife Lani Hall. Herb’s story is an encouraging tale of a creative life well-lived, in sharp relief to our age of trivialized Tik-Tok “stardom.”

Director John Scheinfeld takes the viewer on a compact trip thru Alpert’s early years as he takes up the trumpet in high school, spends a couple of years in the USC marching band and begins his professional career as a vocalist on a few L.A.-area novelty hits. Unsure of his future direction, he takes a break in Tijuana, and spends a day in the city’s traditional bullring stadium. He comes up with the idea for “The Lonely Bull,” a beautifully moody piece of music he records with his new band dubbed the Tijuana Brass. The single hit #6 on Billboard and its indelible melody still feels like a timestamp of the early Sixties.

This video for “The Lonely Bull,” nearly as evocative as the tune itself, was shot for a TV special in 1967. The original hit single was from five years earlier.

It’s probably for the good that the Herb Alpert and Co. got famous when they did. The group’s Mexican-American branding would be seen today in some corners as “cultural appropriation” much like some people now bemoan how surfing has robbed native Hawaiians of an important part of their heritage (really). Nobody in the band was Chicano (Herb’s parents were Eastern European immigrants), with members coming from as far afield as Staten Island and Newark, NJ. Back then, of course, the band’s bolero jackets and hits like “South of the Border” and “Tijuana Taxi” were just great fun. Their light and lively records were as an essential an ingredient to the success of a pre-Boomer party as was the club soda in a Tom Collins cocktail.

Alpert went back to singing for his #1 1968 solo hit “This Guy’s in Love With You.” The film also posits that the period following was a low point in his life personally We are shown a great archival interview on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, where he hesitantly questions his own happiness. This was around the time of the divorce from his first wife, while the fortunes of the Tijuana Brass were taking a dip during the ascendancy of rock music (Alpert even stopped playing for a few years and had to “relearn” the trumpet). Better times were to come with his subsequent marriage to Brasil ’66 vocalist Lani Hall and the founding of A&M Records with music mogul Jerry Moss. A&M would be a major player for the next two times, the two men personally shepherding the careers of such household names as Cat Stevens, Joe Cocker, the Carpenters, the Police, Janet Jackson and the Go-Gos.

The album cover that launched a million schoolboy fantasies (at least). This title track was later used as the theme music for “The Dating Game” TV show in America.

Interspersed among all the old gratifying film clips and photos of his heyday, are equally welcomed shots of the self-effacing and ever-active Alpert today—whether he’s painting or sculpting in his studio, attending an event at one of his many arts and music academies or performing with his wife. So while “Herb Alpert Is…” may run a little long at two hours (I would have cut out the extraneous testimonials from the likes of Sting and Billy Bob Thornton) there is a lot of inspiring stuff here to wow his many fans and maybe convince some of the younger folk that the successful life of a creative is based on running a marathon and not a 100-meter dash.

For the Records #2: Newer Bands, Older Listeners

Born in 1958, I well remember the days of my early record-buying youth, looking up to my rock and roll heroes. The guys in the Beatles, Stones, Credence and the Who were all first wave baby-boomers, coming into this life during or just after World War II. The band members of the punk/New Wave groups I followed enthusiastically and so identified with were my contemporaries. Even though great music is timeless, the age factor is an important variable when it comes to musical appreciation.

So what happens to aging rock ‘n’ rollers when, like me, you are approaching Social security age? For many years, what I would call “Instagram Pop” has dominated mainstream charts, my main exposure to it being the endless parade of forgettable, dance-heavy one-hit wonders that tend to show up as the musical act each week on “Saturday Night Live.”

You can always dial into a classic-rock station or listen to the old favorites in your collection. But how does one satisfy a lifelong urge for new musical discoveries? Well, in this age of the Internet and streaming, access to newer acts that carry high the torch of Rock music is easier than ever. Here are several of my more recent finds. Keep in mind that the word “newer” is relative for an old geezer like me. The criteria I used is that the band in question had to have dropped their first album in 1990 or later.

Apricity—Syd Arthur (2016)

In the Seventies, the “Canterbury Scene” was a vital musical hotspot—this ancient English cathedral city was home to bands like the Soft Machine, Caravan, Gong and Matching Mole. In 2003, a talented young band named Syd Arthur (pronounced like the Herman Hesse novel but also a tribute to rock iconoclasts Syd Barrett and Arthur Lee) emerged from the same town. The pedigree was not unnoticed: Soft Machine co-founder Hugh Hopper offered the group advice (and one of his bass guitars) and Paul Weller was an early fan.

Syd Arthur fit loosely inside the wider neo-prog rock genre. On their albums their songs are propulsive and airy, with thoughtful lyrics and unfussy but expert musicianship. They are led by singer-guitarist Liam Magill and his bass-playing brother Joel, on keyboards and violin is Raven Bush (nephew of Kate). This is (was?) a great band, the only thing I would say is that their records leaned heavily on tightly arranged 4-minute songs that had a certain sameness of approach. That is why I prefer their fourth (and to date, last) album, Apricity. The formula is loosened up with various intros and outros and it’s a strong batch of songs. I especially like the closing title track (“Apricity” means the warmth of the sun that can still be felt on a cold day).

I saw Syd Arthur open for Yes in 2014 and was surprised and impressed how they delved into ambient psychedelic instrumental passages along with their more conventional songs. Although they have been inactive since 2017, here’s hoping for a reunion and maybe a willingness to explore this intriguing experimental side of their sound.

Let It All In—Arbouretum (2022)

The Baltimore-based group Arbouretum have been releasing excellent music since 2002 but have only attained a regional/cult following. Led by the enigmatic singer-writer-guitarist Dave Heumann, they have gotten some wider recognition, mainly for 2011’s The Gathering, which made the best-of-year lists of the UK’s two standard-bearing rock magazines, MOJO and Uncut. That album concludes with the brooding ten-minute-plus “Song of the Nile” which sprouts a glorious fuzz-drenched solo by Heumann, a not uncommon point of attack for him.

Arbouretum were more-or-less on my radar for years, via YouTube clips or the odd compilation track, but I finally ponied up and bought their latest (and tenth) album off their website. Let It All In is a strange beauty of an album. The heightened naturalism of Heumann’s cryptic song scenarios gives the whole album a hauntological vibe—he even name drops Telesphorus, the child-god of healing. Heumann’s voice seems to inhabit his own folklore, a few songs here sound like Gordon Lightfoot with Tom Verlaine on guitar. In their more hard-driving moments (the locomotive 12-minute title cut) their momentum is unstoppable, as is the saw-tooth lead guitar and the terse self-actualization that informs much of Heumann’s compelling lyrics: “Polestar don’t know where you are, only where you are drawn/Headwinds turn tail, hard to fail if you know where to begin.”

Alvvays (2014)

Alvvays (pronounced “always”) have put Canadian indie rock squarely on the map since releasing their self-titled debut in 2014. They hail from Atlantic Canada (formerly known as The Maritimes) but have re-located to Toronto. They are fronted by Molly Rankin, progeny of the Rankin Family, Nova Scotia’s first family of Cape Breton-style Celtic music.

That first album opened with a great one-two punch. The attention-grabbing opener “Adult Diversion” is followed by the ironic twee-pop plea “Archie, Marry Me” that, with its earworm chorus, became a cult hit. The aloof charms of the photogenic Rankin inform every song, her vocals are invariably both yearning and wised-up. Alvvays’ other two long-players, Antisocialites (from 2017) and Blue Rev (2022), are also excellent. Highlights include “Dreams Tonite” from the former and “Tom Verlaine” from the latter. The first is accompanied by a gratifying video that digitally inserts band members into the crowd at the Expo ’67 in Montreal (I was there as a 9 year-old but those guys hadn’t been born yet).

The second is not necessarily about the legendary Television frontman who passed away three months after the album’s release. Instead, Molly assures a Delphian boyfriend, “you’ll always be my Tom Verlaine.” Hipsters of the past and present will know exactly what she means.

England is a Garden—Cornershop (2020)

A big sunny musical highlight of the grim Covid year of 2020 was England is a Garden by the British indie-rockers Cornershop. The band, fronted by Tjinger Singh and Ben Ayres, was formed in Leicester in the mid-90s. In 1998 they had a #1 UK single with “Brimful of Asha,” a bouncy and delightful tribute to an Indian singer featuring the immortal tag line, “everybody needs a bosom for a pillow.”

However, Cornershop may be too quirky overall for sustained commercial success. It’s not the fault of the music: England is a Garden is a non-stop infectious mix of strumming guitars, flutes, tambouras and percussion, playing infectious rhythms under appealing melodies. But at times it is a bit hard to suss out what these lads are on about. (The CD comes with a fold-out poster that could have been better utilized as a lyric sheet). So while I may never understand “St. Marie Under Canon” or the tale of the “Uncareful Lady Owner,” they are still fun listens.

But when all their pistons are firing, this is some of the most enjoyable music I’ve heard in years. In time-tested form they celebrate their subculture and bemoan authority’s failure to appreciate it in “Everywhere the Wog Army Roam” (“policeman follow them”). In the chipper “Highly Amplified” they acknowledge that “hell is deep and the world is sinking” but refuse to give in to despair if there’s another rave to be had.

England is a Garden also features a pretty instrumental interlude (the title track), a radiant sing-along cover of a tune from a Seventies Hare Krishna pop album and two tracks that fall into the band’s long line of T. Rex/Sweet homages, one of which (“No Rock: Save in Roll”) pays clever tribute to the big role their native West Midlands area played in the development of hard rock.

Take Care, Take Care, Take Care—Explosions in the Sky (2011)

Explosions in the Sky are an all-instrumental “post-rock” band from Austin. They have released seven studio albums since 2000 and a few soundtracks as well, including one for the film version of “Friday Night Lights” about high-school football culture in their native Texas. Even their non-soundtrack work sounds like the compelling incidental music for the cinema of the mind. The music ebbs and flows and cascades, and often builds up to magnificent guitar crescendos.

The music of EITS can certainly be cathartic and their live shows come highly recommended though they’ve not been around my way that I know of. Like their other albums, 2011’s Take Care is great “listening listening” for those who have the time. Yet I can’t but help feel there’s a little something missing: yup, it’s the lack of vocals. The reflective folk-rock opening of a song like “Human Qualities” just cries out for an opening verse. While the group refer to their music as “mini-symphonies” there’s not enough variety in the arrangements to really make that stick. Still, at their evocative best (like in “Postcard from 1952” posted above), there’s something quite enchanting about EITS that made me glad I did get around to checking them out.

English Electric, Part Two—Big Big Train (2013)

Big Big Train are one of the more high profile bands of recent decades that inhabit the multi-variate world of neo-prog rock.. They formed in 1990 in the city of Bournemouth on England’s southern coast, and have released 14 studio albums and a clutch of EPs and live sets. Their overall sound falls somewhere between the late Peter Gabriel-era Genesis (Selling England by the Pound) and the early post-Gabriel Genesis (Trick of the Tail, The Wind and the Wuthering). Admittedly, that’s a narrow window so you can probably hear their sound in advance.

BBT have long resembled a collective more than a fixed group; on their records as many as seven or eight musicians are used per song, according to the sonics needed. These are some lush audio landscapes. The album I bought was English Electric Part Two (though Part One is also good) and the combination of the songwriting of founding member (and bassist/keyboardist) Greg Lawton with vocalist David Longdon was a creative peak (at the time, ex-XTC man Dave Gregory was on lead guitar. Longdon died in 2021, aged 56).

This music is unabashedly pastoral and nostalgic, with longish well-arranged  songs that extol the virtues of farmers and shipyard workers and railroad engineers etc. These multi-sectional pieces with their florid piano, flutes and guitar crescendos will be too precious for some. Titles like “Curator of Butterflies”  and “Swan Hunter” may even be a deal-breaker for some. But people like me who were weaned on the classic prog-rock sounds of Yes, Moody Blues and, yep, Genesis, will likely be intrigued. 

This is a partial list, and I didn’t included bands that I followed more closely (like the Decemberists or British Sea Power) or those that I want to find out more about, like last year’s indie darlings from the Isle of Wight, Wet Leg. Everyone remembers “Chaise Lounge,” their buttered-muffin breakout hit, but I like this best of the follow-up singles, with the girls cavorting on the headlands of their home island. Til next that next time…

“In a Dream of Strange Cities” teaser

A little sneak-a-peek from my graphic novel work-in-progress, “In a Dream of Strange Cities.” It’s an odd filmgoing experience from the chapter “The Last Days of Odeon Circle.” Text by me (Rick Ouellette), drawing by Ipan.

Odeon Circle was a faded entertainment district that backed up to a still-desirable neighborhood but fronted a less-than-desirable one. I was nearly late for the film, so I hurried into the cinema and took a place in the steep overhang balcony, just like in the old days.

“Objective: Venus” played in fits and starts. The stolid monochrome actors planned their space trip, unaware that their new navigator planned to horde the mined gold and leave the others stranded on the Evening Star. The movie stopped and a bit of a World War II newsreel played backwards, effectively reversing the Allied victory in Berlin. Just as quickly, the film started up again. The un-helmeted crew were already standing on Venus and the lovely heroine was revealing the bad guy. The screen flared; the crew were either melted by the sun or there was some burning celluloid in the projection booth.

I gave up the ghost and headed down to the lobby. Outside in the Circle, there seemed to be trouble afoot.

Watch this space for a sample chapter, coming soon! Or better yet, like the “In a Dream of Strange Cities” Facebook page.