THE 25 MOST INTERESTING OVERLOOKED 1960s
FOLK-ROCK LPs
By Richie Unterberger
This feature originally appeared in the August 2005 issue of Record Collector magazine.
For more information about Record Collector, the UK's
finest publication dedicated to record collecting and rock/popular
music history, check out its website at www.recordcollectormag.com.
For What It's Worth: The 25 Top Overlooked American Folk-Rock LPs of
the 1960s
It took a good decade after rock'n'roll's
birth as a commercial phenomenon for rock and folk music to mate,
though there had been awkward experiments at blending the two forms
dating back to the late 1950s. Once the Byrds combined the best of the
Beatles and Bob Dylan on their mid-1965 Transatlantic chart-topper "Mr.
Tambourine Man," however, there was no stopping the folk-rock
explosion. We all know about the brilliantly innovative -- and, often,
massively popular -- work that American folk-rockers like the Byrds,
Bob Dylan, the Lovin' Spoonful, Simon & Garfunkel, the Mamas &
the Papas, Buffalo Springfield, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
would generate over the last half of the 1960s. Less of a force on the
hit parade, but of equal musical magnificence and nearly as influential
in the long run, were the records by more cultish bands like Love, and
pioneers of the singer-songwriter movement such as Joni Mitchell and
Leonard Cohen.
Yet as with any major upheaval in popular music,
folk-rock also spun out a wealth of fine albums that barely made the
charts, missed the charts altogether, or were barely even sighted in
record stores. There's an irony here, of course, in that without
folk-rock, many of these artists might have never gotten to make an LP
or even record at all in the first place. Folk-rock paved the way for
singers with unconventional or, at times, even grating voices, as well
as ambitious lyrical explorations into both social and inner
consciousness that would have been considered too controversial,
off-the-wall, or impenetrable for the marketplace prior to the
mid-1960s. Too, the very lyrical and musical frontiers that folk-rock
had opened were crucial to establishing the long-playing record (as
opposed to the 45 rpm single) as the leading format for artistic
expression in rock.
All of this no doubt greased the wheels for both
major and independent labels to give the green light to full-length
albums in an incredibly diverse array of folk-rock styles. As in any
genre boomlet, many of the ones that failed to find a wide audience
were derivative, mediocre, and forgettable. But there were also several
dozen such releases that stood up to all but the best folk-rock albums
in quality and consistency, and if none of them were quite on the level
of the mid-'60s Byrds LPs or Love's Forever
Changes, there were barely-heard near-gems from all across the
American folk-rock spectrum. Some sounded almost commercial enough to
have been mainstream hits given the right breaks, like the
Byrds-meet-the Beau Brummels sound of the Blue Things' sole album and
the Ian & Sylvia-go-electric approach of Jim & Jean's Changes. Others were so
off-the-wall that it remains something of a mystery as to why they were
released at all, like Skip Spence's cult classic Oar and the Holy Modal Rounders'
the-title-says-it-all The Moray Eels
Eat the Holy Modal Rounders. There was groundbreaking
country-folk-rock on albums by Hearts & Flowers, the Gosdin
Brothers, the Dillards, and Steve Young; acid folk from the skewed pen
of "Get Together" composer Dino Valenti; some of the earliest, and
still most underacknowledged, electric folk-rock experiments from
Richard & Mimi Fariña; and pioneering singer-songwriter
statements from Fred Neil. There were early, tentative efforts by
future stars (Linda Ronstadt & the Stone Poneys, Jesse Colin
Young); comebacks by old rock'n'roll and folk revival veterans changing
with the times (Dion, John Stewart); and even avant-baroque-folk-rock
from an ex-member of the Velvet Underground (Nico's Chelsea Girl). And for those who
crave rarity as much as quality, there were minuscule private pressings
(Sayta Sai Maitreya Kali's Apache
and Inca), tiny indie label
efforts (Maxfield Parrish's It's a
Cinch to Give Legs to Hard Boiled Eggs), big-label releases that
seem to have been barely pressed at all (the self-titled Gentle Soul
album, Linda Perhacs's Parallelograms),
and publishing demo LPs by Jackie DeShannon and Gene Clark that even
rabid fans of those artists may have never heard.
What they all have in common, however, is that none
of them ever achieved the respect they deserved. Indeed, in many cases
they were never even heard by folk-rock fans who came of age in the
era, though fortunately many of the records have gained a widening cult
audience as their creators have been rediscovered in the last decade or
so. The 25 albums featured here might not have been the rarest American
folk-rock of the time; indeed, most have them have been reissued on CD,
though in many cases they had to wait until the twenty-first century
for that honor. They do, however, constitute much of the most
overlooked and underrated US '60s folk-rock, and in their own way
testify to the remarkably eclectic mosaic of music spawned by that
hybrid.
Note that we've fudged a bit to make room for a few
items that, if stricter boundaries were enforced, might not make the
cut for this list. A couple of entries include two albums by the same
artist that were roughly equal in quality, and recorded within a pretty
short space of time from each other; a few were released in the very
early 1970s, though they were extremely close to the 1960s in both
chronology and spirit; and in some cases they were actually recorded in
the 1960s, but not actually released for a few years, until after the
'70s had begun. We've also, somewhat regrettably, excluded fine
retrospective CD compilations by artists who never managed to release
an album while they were active, though anyone who's interested in rare
'60s folk-rock (or folk-rock in general, for that matter) would do well
to check out Blackburn & Snow's Something
Good for Your Head, Dan Hicks's Early Muses, the Rising Sons' Rising Sons FeaturingTaj Mahal and Ry
Cooder, and the Daily Flash's I
Flash Daily, all of them featuring unreleased material and/or
rare singles on par with the LPs discussed here. Plus there's nothing
from the intimately-related-yet-different '60s/early '70s British
folk-rock scene, many of whose rarities have been discussed in a couple
of recent RC features by Colin Harper (in "Top 20 Neglected Brit-Folk
Gems," RC 305) and Richard Morton Jack (in "Strange Folk," RC 309). The
music that's covered in the following survey, however, isn't concerned
so much with adhering to boundaries as with breaking them -- the one
quality that all great folk-rock shared.
- Jesse Colin Young, Young
Blood
- Richard
& Mima Fariña, Celebrations
for a Grey Day & Reflections
in a Crystal Wind
- Jackie
Deshannon, 1965 Metro Music Demo
- P.F. Sloan, Songs of Our Times/Twelve More Times
- Jim & Jean, Changes
- The Blue Things, The
Blue Things
- Fred
Neil, Fred Neil
- The Stone Poneys, The
Stone Poneys
- Tim
Rose, Tim Rose
- Fapardokly, Fapardokly
- Gene Clark, Gene
Clark Sings for You
- Hearts
and Flowers, Now Is the Time for
Hearts and Flowers/Of Horses, Kids, and Forgotten Woman
- Nico,
Chelsea Girl
- The Holy Modal Rounders, The Moray Eels
Eat the Holy Modal Rounders
- Dino Valenti, Dino Valente [sic]
- John Stewart & Buffy Ford, Signals Through the Glass
- The Gosdin Brothers, Sounds of Goodbye
- The Gentle Soul, The Gentle Soul
- Steve Young, Rock, Salt & Nails
- Alexander "Skip" Spence, Oar
- The Dillards, Copperfields
- Dion, Sit
Down Old Friend
- Linda Perhacs, Parallelograms
- Maxfield Parrish, It's a Cinch to Give Legs
to Old Hard-Boiled Eggs
- Satya Sai Maitreya Kali, Apache/Inca
1. Jessie Colin Young
Young Blood
(Mercury SR 61005)
March 1965
CD reissue (as Jesse Colin Young &
the Youngbloods...plus): Liquid 8 Records LIQ 12068 (2003)
Before the Byrds and Bob Dylan blew the electric folk-rock door wide
open in the spring of 1965, there were a number of far more ginger (and
far more obscure) attempts to weld acoustic folk with electric music.
One of the best and most fully realized, though it barely dipped its
toes into true electric rock, was the young Jessie Colin Young's second
solo album, predating the formation of the fully plugged-in band with
which he'd rise to stardom, the Youngbloods. Like his older
contemporaries Fred Neil and Tim Hardin, Young really had too much
blues, R&B, country, pop, and soul in his voice to remain wedded to
purist folk. And even though about half of Young Blood is wholly acoustic, and
much of the material derived from traditional folk and blues sources,
he was already putting rock and pop inflections into his inflections on
cuts like "Rider" and "Trouble in Mind." The same could be said, albeit
to a lesser extent, of the entirety of his debut solo LP, 1964's Soul of a City Boy, on Capitol -- a
label to which Bobby Darin, also a mentor to Roger McGuinn in his early
days, had helped Young get signed.
Young Blood
went into territory Soul of a City Boy hadn't dared to dread upon,
however, by also including some cuts with oh-so-light backing that
verged on, though didn't quite cross the line into, folk-rock. In fact,
two of the session musicians, Peter Childs (on guitar and dobro) and
John Sebastian (on harmonica), also played on another album recorded
around the same time, Fred Neil's fine Bleecker and Macdougal, that
likewise looked forward to folk-rock without quite leaving the folk
camp. Only "Nobody's Dirty Business," mind you, boasted actual drums.
But the Young originals "Summer Rain," ""Green Hill Mountain Home," and
"Lullabye" unveiled a distinctively winsome, bittersweet compositional
voice that owed as much to pop as folk -- and, as the soon-to-come work
with the Youngbloods later proved, only needed more oomph in the
arrangements to make for first-rate gentle folk-rock.
Young Blood
has been somewhat lost in the shuffle even by many Young/Youngbloods
fans. Never too widely exposed during its initial press run on Mercury,
it was then quickly overshadowed by the Youngbloods' far more popular
records on RCA in the late 1960s. It was also hacked apart and
reassembled for a confusing 1970 Mercury reissue, Two Trips, which combined seven of Young Blood's eleven tracks and
five early, albeit interesting, early Youngbloods recordings of
mysterious origin that most likely slightly predated their signing to
RCA. The CD reissue Jesse Colin
Young & the Youngbloods...plus almost made things simple for
completists by combining the entirety of the original Young Blood with four early
Youngbloods performances from Two
Trips. Unfortunately, it doesn't have one of the five early
Youngbloods tracks from Two Trips,
an electric version of "Rider" (which Young had done solo on Young Blood); perhaps the compilers
didn't even realize that there were two distinct versions of the number
done for Mercury. But however you manage to hear it, Young Blood remains an extremely
pleasant document of Jessie Colin Young just beginning to find his
stride, though he'd need a full complement of Youngbloods to finish the
job.
2.
Richard & Mimi Fariña
Celebrations for a
Grey Day
April 1965
(Vanguard VSD 79174)
CD reissue: Vanguard 79174-2 (1995)
Richard & Mimi Fariña
Reflections in a
Crystal Wind
December 1965
(Vanguard VSD 79204)
CD reissue: Vanguard 79204-2 (1995)
Richard Fariña died young (on April 30, 1966) and dramatically
(in a motorcycle accident, on his wife's twenty-first birthday), right
after publishing a well-regarded novel linking the beat and hippie eras
(Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up
to Me). His wife Mimi -- sister of Joan Baez -- also died
relatively young, albeit a quarter of a century later, after achieving
renown in the San Francisco Bay Area as founder of Bread and Roses, an
organization dedicated to staging musical events in prisons, old-age
homes, homeless shelters, children's hospitals, and AIDs hospices. In
their brief recording career, they were among the first folkies to go
electric. Yet despite their colorful lives, deaths, and collective
accomplishments -- and despite being written about at length in David
Hajdu's popular 2001 book Positively
4th Street, which examines the interrelationships between the
Fariñas, Joan Baez, and Bob Dylan at fascinating length --
they've never quite accumulated the cult following they merit. Nor have
they often been acknowledged as folk-rock pioneers, though their first
jumps into the music roughly coincided with Dylan's.
The Fariñas released just two albums in their
brief time as a recording act, and admittedly the first of these, Celebrations for a Grey Day (from
April 1965), had only mild folk-rock experiments. There were no drums,
and just three tracks used electric guitar (by ace session player Bruce
Langhorne, who also played on Dylan's Bringing
It All Back Home). Much of the record was modernized Appalachian
folk with Richard's dulcimer well to the fore, though Richard's lyrics
were firmly in the poetic-yet-abstract vein that his friendly rival
Dylan had started to pioneer earlier. Still, the bluesy "One Way
Ticket" had a rock'n'roll drive, and the doom-clouded, jazzy "Reno
Nevada" was a hit single that never was (and later picked up by the
early Fairport Convention, whose excellent late-'60s interpretation can
be heard on BBC and live recordings).
Reflections in a
Crystal Wind, which followed just eight months later, went
further into genuine electric folk-rock, four of the cuts featuring
full bands with drums. Among the backup players were John Hammond (on
harmonica) and the young Felix Pappalardi (a key session man on early
folk-rock outings by Fred Neil and Ian & Sylvia in his pre-hard
rock days, as well as producer of the early Youngbloods). Langhorne
added haunting Roebuck Staples-influenced tremolo guitar through a twin
reverb Fender amp, borrowed from genre-blending virtuoso Sandy Bull. At
this point, however, relatively conventional folk-rock was just one of
the areas the eclectic duo were dabbling in, mixing it up with
beautiful meditative ballads and dulcimer-fired instrumental rave-ups
with tinges of Latin rhythms and Indian raga. With Richard
Fariña's writing -- adept at both sardonic social commentary,
surreal sea shanty-like metaphor, and tender romanticism -- picking up
momentum, there seemed to be few barriers he and guitar-playing,
vocal-harmonizing partner Mimi would have feared, had only they been
able to continue to record.
Fortunately, neither of the albums have been too
hard to find as reissues since the 1960s, starting with a two-for-one
package of the pair as a double LP back in 1971 (titled The Best of Mimi and Richard Fariña).
For those who want to track down the rarer original LPs, they do offer
small bonuses in the form of back cover photos that don't appear on the
CD reissues. Incidentally, though the 1968 release Memories is comprised of studio
outtakes, Mimi solo recordings, Joan Baez solo cuts (from the
never-finished album Richard was producing for her), and live
performances, it's highly worthwhile as well, though not up to the
consistent level of the two proper albums. All three of the albums were
grouped together on the 2001 three-CD set The Complete Vanguard Recordings,
which adds some previously unreleased material from the 1965 Newport
Folk Festival.
BRUCE LANGHORNE Q&A
Q: As a session musicians, you worked
with more noted early folk-rock singer-songwriters than virtually
anyone. What do you think distinguished Richard's songs, and Richard
& Mimi's studio recordings, most from the other artists in this
territory with whom you were working?
A: Richard and Mimi's songs had tracks that were more rhythmic than
most other "folk" productions of the time. Richard's dulcimer playing
was reminiscent of Richie Haven's driving, intense guitar strumming. It
was too bad that Richard was killed. I think if he had lived, the
Fariñas would have had much more influence on the music of their
time. Like other artists of their generation, they were evolving and
writing the rules as they went.
Q: How easy or difficult was it for
the other musicians on those albums to move into a way of playing that
was different from previous folk records?
A: The musicianship was there. Many of the active NY studio musicians
who were working sessions with folk people at that time had classical
backgrounds, great chops, lots of creativity and could have played
anything, after a few hearings. Once again, it was Richard's death that
stopped the train.
Q: What was your impression of how
influential the Fariñas' records were when they came out, and
how they were regarded by their contemporaries in both the folk and
rock fields? It seems the albums might not have been as influential in
their time as they could have been; perhaps Vanguard had more limited
resources than major labels such as Columbia.
A: Their material was brand new, hard to pigeonhole, and difficult to
imitate. Consequently it was not covered extensively. I don't
know how much a big production budget would have done to spread Mimi
and Richard's influence. Due to Richard's untimely death, there was
little recorded material available. No record company can hope to sell
that which doesn't exist. Artists are long term investments. Mimi's
sister, Joan Baez, was on Vanguard. Her titles are still selling. She
has lived long enough to record a sizable body of marketable work.
3.
Jackie DeShannon
1965 Metric Music
Demo
(Metric Music Co. M-64-9/M-64-10)
May 27, 1965
CD reissue: none to date
Although she's more often thought of as a relatively mainstream
pop-rock singer, Jackie DeShannon's long career has taken in some
fascinating byways to rockabilly, folk-pop, country, girl group-styled
records, collaborations with the pre-Yardbirds Jimmy Page, and -- for
just a brief time in the mid-1960s -- some of the earliest efforts to
hint at the blend that would soon crystallize as folk-rock. Her
original versions of "Needles and Pins" and "When You Walk in the Room"
were redone for hits by the Searchers that took them close to Byrdsian
folk rock before the Byrds had released a single. Too, she had done an
album of traditional and contemporary folk songs in 1963 with some
early Dylan tunes (including one that Dylan would not release in the
'60s, "Walkin' Down the Line"). She played briefly in clubs with the
teenage Ry Cooder as a folk duo, and championed the Byrds in their
early days; the Byrds, in turn, covered her "Don't Doubt Yourself,
Babe," on their first album, and backed her on an April 1965 version of
"Splendor in the Grass" that appeared on a B-side of no less than three
separate singles. Somehow, however, she never dived whole-hog into
folk-rock, perhaps getting sidetracked by her Top Ten success with the
lushly orchestrated Bacharach-David ballad "What the World Needs Now Is
Love."
There does, however, exist one ultra-rare relic that
hints at just what she might have had to offer the folk-rock scene had
she decided to focus on that direction. This untitled collection of a
dozen publisher demos -- issued on May 27, 1965, and known simply as 1965 Metric Music Demo among
DeShannon fans -- was, like several other such platters Jackie made in
the 1960s, done purely for circulation within the industry, probably in
hopes of attracting cover versions. Featuring just her and acoustic
guitar (which, she has said, she played herself), these are more
personal and probing compositions than anything else she'd done to that
point, sounding perhaps influenced by 1964's Another Side of Bob Dylan
album in its internal rhyming patterns. A few of the tunes will be
familiar to '60s pop collectors, like her own version of "Don't
Doubt Yourself, Babe" (here titled "It's Gonna Be All Right"),
"Splendor in the Grass," and "With You in Mind," the last of which
Marianne Faithfull covered. Whether they eventually got recorded by
someone else or not, however, everything here is a first-rate,
from-the-gut reflection of young adult search for identity and meaning,
delivered with great sensual grit, including obscure gems like "Too Far
Out," "What's It All About," and "Girl of Yesterday."
The existence of this LP -- her only known acoustic
recordings, and never issued to the general public -- is hardly a
secret. It was listed, with complete song titles, in the thorough
discography in the liner notes to the 1994 EMI CD What the World Needs Now Is...Jackie
DeShannon: The Definitive Collection. So were, for that matter,
four other Metric Music demo LPs, though those were of slightly earlier
vintage (and a far more pop-oriented style), all bearing a November 4,
1964 release date. Little is known about the May 27, 1965 demo, which
was most likely recorded earlier than its release date, though it's
anyone's guess as to when the tracks were laid down. The recordings
have circulated for years among appreciative DeShannon fans, and really
do merit a release in cleaned-up sound, should the original tapes (or
at least a clean copy of the vinyl) be available -- as do, in fact, the
earlier DeShannon Metric Music demo LPs, which contain some great
early-'60s-styled pop and girl group material, often done far better by
Jackie herself than by the artists who covered the songs.
4. P.F.
Sloan
Songs of Our Times
(Dunhill DS/D-50004)
September 1965
CD reissue: none to date
P.F. Sloan
Twelve More Times
(Dunhill DS/D-50007)
February 1966
CD reissue: none to date
Too often stereotyped as a juvenile Dylan wannabe or a mere pop
craftsman, P.F. Sloan in fact produced some of the most accomplished
and tuneful early folk-rock. He's primarily remembered as a songwriter,
and, for better and worse, specifically for penning "Eve of
Destruction," taken to #1 by Barry McGuire at the apogee of the early
folk-rock explosion in 1965. Yet though he never had a hit as a solo
artist, his own records are not mere "the singer does his own
compositions" (albeit sometimes co-writing with Steve Barri)
exploitation exercises. Certainly his first two albums are notable for
his more sparsely arranged versions of songs it took others to make
hits of, most notably "Eve of Destruction," "Take Me for What I'm
Worth" (taken to the hit parade by the Searchers), and "Let Me Be"
(made into a teen protest anthem by the Turtles). They are surrounded,
however, by quite a number of fine tunes that mark him as perhaps the
most adept composer to combine folk-rock and more conventional
California pop-rock this side of John Phillips. If they are more prone
to adolescent self-pity than Bob Dylan and the like, that very
earnestness is part of their appeal. And Sloan still hasn't gotten his
due as a very fine, winsome singer in his own right.
Of his two Dunhill LPs, Songs of Our Times is perhaps the
more striking, containing as it does "Eve of Destruction," "Take Me for
What I'm Worth," the then-controversial "The Sins of Family," the
arching pop melodicism of "I Get Out of Breath," the moving "Goes to
Show (Just How Wrong You Can Be)," and the
is-this-a-Dylan-satire-or-homage "What Exactly's the Matter with Me." Twelve More Times, following a mere
five months later, is more fully produced and slightly poppier,
accenting romantic numbers both melancholy and bittersweet. "From a
Distance," "Here's Where You Belong," "Lollipop Train (You Never Had It
So Good)," and "This Precious Time" are all highlights in that respect,
though "Let Me Be" and odder numbers like "The Man Behind the Red
Balloon" and "Halloween Mary" indicated that more ambitious social
consciousness and imagery hadn't faded from his radar.
Viewed from one angle, Dunhill Records could be said
to have shown a lot of faith in Sloan as a solo artist by releasing two
albums of his work within six months of each other, even though he
didn't have a hit single. In various interviews over the years,
however, Sloan has cast a dimmer light on Dunhill's plans,
characterizing Songs of Our Times
as a limited release that was effectively a demo album to interest
other artists in cover versions, and criticizing the company for
failing to promote his own recordings. As he said in Stephen J.
McParland's Sloan bio P.F. --
Travelling Barefoot on a Rocky Road, "Those (Dunhill LPs) were
just 'throw-outs' by the record company and I didn't place any kind of
real attachment to myself as a recording artist...I wanted desperately
to perform live, but Dunhill refused to let me...I was told under no
circumstances could I perform live. In fact, they refused to even press
any more P.F. Sloan records of [the 45] 'The Sins of a Family'! They
just pulled it back and told me to get involved in another project.
They said, 'Don't take P.F. Sloan any further.'
"You have to understand, the only reason there were
any P.F. Sloan singles was because the (so-called) demos were so damn good that
promotion men, who they played the albums for, said, 'My God, I could
get that on the #1 station in Cleveland tomorrow!' Therefore, the
record company would look stupid if they said, 'No.' And so they gave
me the green light. But as I found out, when I went on the radio tours,
there was no promotion behind it."
Whatever Dunhill's motivations were behind recording
Sloan, the relationship between the label and
Sloan-the-recording-artist seemed pretty convoluted, and came to an
inglorious, murky end a year or so after the early-'66 release of his
second (and, as it turned out, final) Dunhill LP. Sloan never fulfilled
the enormous potential unveiled by those longplayers, or indeed
recaptured the brilliance of the best of his early work, though he'd
only just entered his twenties at the time the albums were issued.
While various reissues in the 1980s and 1990s contained much of what's
on Songs of Our Times and Twelve More Times, the entire
albums, aggravatingly, have never been re-released on CD. The 1993
Sloan/Dunhill 18-song CD compilation Anthology
is still missing nine of the songs from the LPs, including such choice
items as "I Get Out of Breath," "This Is What I Was Made For," "Goes to
Show (Just How Wrong You Can Be)," "From a Distance," "Here's Where You
Belong," and "When the Wind Changes." The time has come for a CD
reissue that truly covers all of his Dunhill sides, covering not only
both LPs, but also the worthy non-LP 45 cuts "City Women," "A Melody
for You," "Sunflower, Sunflower," "Karma (Study of Divinations)," and
"I Can't Help But Wonder, Elizabeth" -- the last of which is a match
for any of the tracks on the albums. (Also recommended is Varese
Sarabande's 2001 CD compilation Child
of Our Times: The Trousdale Demo Sessions 1965-1967, consisting
entirely of previously unreleased Sloan demos from the Dunhill era.)
5. Jim
& Jean
Changes
(Verve Folkways FT/FTS 3001)
1966
CD reissue: Collectors' Choice Music
CCM-477-2 (2004, as part of Changes/People World)
If Jim & Jean are mentioned at all these days, it's usually in the
context of the life of Phil Ochs. Both were close friends with
Ochs; Jim Glover had with Phil at Ohio State University as part
of a folk duo, and Ochs shared a flat with the couple for a year after
moving to Greenwich Village. Jim and his wife Jean Ray, however, had a
viable recording career of their own, cutting three albums in the 1960s
that saw them follow the generational move from traditional folk to
electric folk-rock and beyond. Their rare mid-'60s self-titled debut LP
on Philips is a pretty routine straight folk artifact on which the duo
sound like a minor-league Ian & Sylvia, interpreting both
traditional material and emerging singer-songwriters like Ochs, Buffy
Sainte-Marie, and Tom Paxton. Like Ian & Sylvia, however, they
would soon move into folk-rock, and actually did so with considerably
more deftness, even if they never would project nearly as much
personality as their Canadian counterparts.
Their 1966 LP Changes
is something of an all-star effort by the B-team of New York folk-rock,
in which Jim & Jean drew upon the resources of top session
musicians and some of the best young sub-Dylan songwriters. Several of
the backup players had just contributed to Dylan's own groundbreaking
mid-'60s folk-rock sessions, including Al Kooper (on electric guitar
and harpsichord), keyboardist Paul Harris, bassist Harvey Brooks, and
drummer Bobby Gregg. For that matter, a couple of the tracks were
produced by just-ex-Dylan producer Tom Wilson, though most of them were
overseen by their manager, Arthur Gorson. Most of the songs were penned
by fellow Gorson clients, including naturally old friend Phil Ochs (who
also wrote the liner notes; Phil's wife, interestingly, had done the
same honor for their Philips LP), but also Eric Andersen and David
Blue. Ochs, in fact, would not release versions of two of his
contributions ("Crucifixion" and "Flower Lady") until some time later,
on his 1967 album Pleasures of the
Harbor, while Andersen never would put "Tonight I Need Your
Lovin'" on his records.
Likewise, Blue mysteriously never put out his own
interpretation of "Strangers in a Strange Land," a match for anything
else the minor singer-songwriter ever penned, and which Ray agrees "is
one of the best cuts we did, a most haunting magical song. We gave it a
good showing." There was also a Bob Dylan number, "Lay Down Your Weary
Tune," that the composer had yet to release, though the Byrds covered
it on their second album, Turn! Turn! Turn! While Jim & Jean
themselves wrote little of the material, Jean (with Harvey Brooks) was
responsible for the ethereally mordant "One Sure Thing," covered by
Fairport Convention on their first LP.
While the songs were arguably more distinctive than
the singers, the result was highly enjoyable, smoothly executed,
melodically harmonized early folk-rock, selected and interpreted with
imagination. Particularly effective was their tense, eerie seven-minute
rendition of "Crucifixion," one of Ochs's most piercing compositions;
Gorson, in fact, told me in a 2001 interview that "Phil always thought
that was the best performance of the song." As to why so many veterans
of Dylan sessions ended up on the record, he confessed, "We knew the
people who played with Dylan, because they were around the same scene.
We didn't know anyone else. We
were the only people we knew!"
The upbeat, harpsichord-driven Ochs-penned (and
Wilson-produced) "Changes" served as the title cut, but the album of
the same name didn't cause much of a commercial splash. Jim & Jean
did make one more LP, the more orchestrated and mildly
psychedelic-influenced People World,
before splitting up both personally and professionally. But their
influence wasn't as negligible as one might assume: original Fairport
Convention bassist Ashley Hutchings told RC in 2003 that "Anyone
wanting to understand us then should realize that the Jim & Jean
album Changes was very
important to early Fairport," who also covered an extraordinarily wide
range of obscure early American folk-rock songs, as well as employing
close male-female harmonies.
An even more interesting testament to Changes's
impact comes from Wayne Stone, who recalls: "In 1968 I was living in
the chauffeur's quarters on a large property in Laurel Canyon
(Hollywood Hills). A friend of mine from Venice Beach recommended the
Jim and Jean album entitled Changes.
Since I was a Phil Ochs fan, I immediately took to the music, and
played the album many times in my small room over the garage. My
neighbor, who lived in the gardener's shack up near the main house,
stopped by one day and asked about who the duo was. He also liked their
sound. He borrowed the album from me but never returned it. I
eventually had to venture up one night and rescue it from his turntable
while he was not there. He never seemed to be at home. My neighbor's
name: Neil Young." What's more, for her part, Jean Ray told me that
Young's "Cowgirl in the Sand" was inspired by a visit he paid her and
her family at their beach home in the late '60s.
Both Changes
and People World were
combined onto one CD (with liner notes by the author) last year. Both
stereo and mono copies of the original Changes LP, for those who seek the
original vinyl, still turn up surprisingly often in the used bins for
$5 or less, though you'll likely need to pay more than that to find a
copy that isn't worn to some degree. One interesting variation to note:
while my mono copy (on Verve Folkways) lists "Glover" as the writer of
the opening number, "Loneliness," my stereo copy (on the Verve Folkways
sister label Verve Forecast) changes the credit to "Baron." The latter,
according to Jean Ray, is the correct credit, "Baron" being their
friend Steve Baron -- better known as a member of the comedy act the
Hardly-Worthit Players, who (under the name "Senator Bobby") had a big
American hit in 1967 with a wild satire of "Wild Thing," with a lead
vocal parodying then-Senator Robert F. Kennedy. The obscure connections
to be found in the world of 1960s folk-rock lead down some strange
alleys indeed; could you make that
one up?
6.
The Blue Things
The Blue Things
(RCA LPM/LSP 3603)
September 1966
CD reissue: Rewind 55017-2/DRC 12868
(2001)
While the vast majority of significant '60s US folk-rock was recorded
in Los Angeles and New York by performers based on the west and east
coasts, some cool jingle-jangle did sneak out of the midwest. The best
heartland folk-rockers were the Blue Things, formed in Hays, Kansas in
1964. Quickly evolving from a quite good Beatles-styled act, as heard
on a couple of singles for the small Ruff label, they signed to RCA in
1965, recording several 45s and one LP for the label in Nashville with
esteemed country (and, with Elvis Presley, rock) producer Felton
Jarvis. By the time of their RCA debut single "I Must Be Doing
Something Wrong" (with backup vocals by one of the Jordanaires!), they
were firmly in the folk-rock camp, their Beatlesque harmonies and
chiming guitars combining the best of the Byrds and Beau Brummels while
somehow managing to project a sound of their own.
Despite recording for one of the biggest major
labels in the world, and despite enormous popularity in Kansas and the
surrounding midwest region, the Blue Things never did break out
nationwide. Part of it was bad luck: their follow-up single, the great
"Doll House," found difficulty getting airplay after a July 1, 1966
Time magazine article on pop songs with supposedly
controversial/objectionable lyrics cited the tune's (in reality quite
muted and sensitive) reference to a whorehouse. Part of it was bad
timing: RCA, for all its size, was a conservative label that really
didn't get a grip on how to sell records by self-contained post-British
Invasion bands until slightly later, with Jefferson Airplane and the
Youngbloods. And part of it was the fallout from internal conflict:
after recording a couple of remarkable subsequent singles that saw the
group evolving at light-year speed from folk-rock to psychedelia, lead
singer Val Stecklein -- also the member with the greatest input into
their original material -- left the band in early 1967. It was a blow
from which no one recovered -- the Blue Things limped along for a while
after that, breaking up after a crummy final Val-less single, and
Stecklein did a pretty lousy solo album that included tepid remakes of
some of the best songs he'd done with his former outfit.
Like many LPs of its time, The Blue Things (sometimes listed
under the title Listen & See
due to the use of that phrase as a prominent slogan on the back cover)
wasn't actually recorded as a stand-alone album, combining the late-'65
single "I Must Be Doing Something Wrong"/"La Do Da Da" and the May '66
coupling "Doll House"/"Man on the Street" with tracks from sessions
held in November 1965 and February 1966. By the time it was issued in
September 1966, in fact, it was a bit behind where both the band and
folk-rock itself were at the time the material had been cut. All that
said, with the exception of two or three slightly duff covers, The Blue Things is a pretty great
record that stands with the best of prime "ringing guitar-bashing
tambourine-world weary vocal" early folk-rock. Stecklein's yearning,
slightly coarse singing and earnest romanticism shone on his "I Can't
Have Yesterday" and "Now's the Time"; "The Man on the Street," by Wayne
Carson Thompson (more famous as the author of the Box Tops' "The
Letter"), was empathy-with-the-proletariat protest at its best; "Doll
House" one of the great overlooked singles of the era, both for its
engaging midtempo jangle and its unusual (and unusually sympathetic)
lyric about a house of prostitution; and ex-rockabilly wildman Ronny
Self contributed a grizzled on-the-road ode, "Honor the Hearse," that
oozed fatigue and fatalism. There was even a blast of genuine
rockabilly with a ferocious cover of Dale Hawkins's "La Do Da Da,"
perhaps as a nod to their already fast-fading roots.
One of the few albums on this list so accessible
that it could have stood a chance of becoming a big seller if it had
been promoted properly, The Blue
Things is the great lost folk-rock album for those who worship
at the altar of the early Byrds. The original -- which seems to have
been barely distributed outside of the midwest -- in good shape will
cost you. But fortunately it was reissued on CD in 2001, with six bonus
tracks from 1966-67 non-LP singles, all but the last two on the same
level as the album proper.
7. Fred Neil
Fred Neil
January 1967
(Capitol ST-2665)
CD reissue: none, but included in its
entirely on the two-CD compilation The Many Sides of Fred
Neil (Collectors' Choice
CCM-070-2, 1998)
The owner of one of the finest, most soulful low voices in all of
twentieth-century popular music, Fred Neil concocted a timelessly
idiosyncratic, moody blend of folk, rock, pop, blues, country, gospel,
jazz, and more. Though probably as admired among his peers as any
folk-rock singer-songwriter of the 1960s, and although several of his
songs were covered by leading folk-rock and folk acts of the day, Fred
Neil never sold a lot of records under his own name. More reclusive and
inner-directed in both his music and life than most of his colleagues,
he seemed to lack the appetite for the promotional merry-go-round
considered necessary to maintain a viable recording career. Of the few
albums he did record, Fred Neil
is the best, and if it only narrowly edges 1965's Bleecker and Macdougal, it
certainly went far further into electric folk-rock, though in a more
low-key fashion than most of his competition.
"Everybody's Talkin'" is the song from this album
that everybody knows, mostly due to Harry Nilsson's excellent cover
version, which hit the Top Ten in 1969 after getting featured in the
soundtrack to the smash movie Midnight
Cowboy. Just as brilliant, however, was "The Dolphins," whose
swimming electric guitar reverb perfectly complemented Neil's benignly
philosophical lyrics. Other mini-gems like "That's the Bag I'm In,"
"Ba-De-Da" (with harmonica by Canned Heat's Al Wilson), and
"Faretheewell (Fred's Tune)" reinforced his persona as the fragile
odd-man-out drifter, who seemed to want nothing more than to retreat
from the mad mad world into a world of his own. Which he did, more or
less; after an unfocused follow-up (Sessions)
and an early-'70s contract-filling LP of live material and outtakes, he
retreated to Southern Florida to concentrate on charitable work on
behalf of actual dolphins, never releasing another album and in fact
rarely performing in public.
Produced by Nick Venet for Capitol, Fred Neil captured the artist at a
time when his mercurial talents were most focused, and his songwriting
the most concise. "I also feel that the album had more cohesion, sort
of one presence, so to speak," says fellow singer-songwriter Cyrus
Faryar, who played guitar on the sessions (as well as the memorable
trilling bouzouki runs heard near the end of "The Dolphins"). "Nick did
a great job, masterful actually, of keeping it all moving along easily.
It really just 'came together' with its own special unity, which is
often as much happy accident as design. However, I would suggest that
such an 'accident' happened easily due to gentle shepherding by Nick;
it really was a lovely time and we all had a lot of fun. It seemed so
easy to slip into Fred's groove. A pleasure!"
"When he was working with Nick in the studio, we
would come by for some of his sessions," adds Rick Cunha, guitarist in
another folk-rock act Venet was producing for Capitol at the time,
Hearts & Flowers (see entry elsewhere in this feature). "Fred was
just sitting in a chair with his 12-string, and was such a resonant
singer. They had a drummer who half the time played on a cardboard box.
It kind of blew my mind. Sometimes it was a magazine on his snare drum,
and once I remember he had a box in there. But they were wonderful
sessions."
As to why Fred Neil never found a big audience,
though his cult continues to grow today, Faryar offers, "I rather
expect that you won't find an easy or simple answer to that one. You
never know how the public would receive; at least, in the old days
before such massive corporate music controlled availability. Even if
Freddie had been eager to gather any fame, it might not have happened.
His voice and music were certainly rich and deep and able to find a
responsive chord in people, but few heard him directly. Perhaps if more
folks had him in their ear they might have taken him into their hearts.
As they say, fame is too often posthumous. Enough in a way, that he
does live on. A sweet and fragile man. And a good friend."
8. The Stone Poneys
The Stone Poneys
(Capitol ST-2666)
January 30, 1967
CD reissue: Capitol C1-80128 (1995)
The Stone Poneys are now remembered only as Linda Ronstadt's first
group. But it's often forgotten that, at least at their outset, the
Stone Poneys were truly a group, not a backing band, for which Ronstadt
happened to be the most prominent singer, though not even the only one
in the outfit. Although she quickly overshadowed her colleagues and
assumed top billing, when their debut LP came out in early 1967, it was
credited to the Stone Poneys alone, and dominated by original material
penned by the two other members of the trio, acoustic guitarists Kenny
Edwards and Bob Kimmel.
The Stone Poneys
tends to be overlooked by '60s folk-rock fans and '60s rock collectors
in general, perhaps because many '60s listeners mistakenly associate
the group with the far more mainstream Southern California studio sound
of Linda Ronstadt's massive 1970s pop hits. However, the album has
little to do with her solo work, and is instead a pretty charming
record, if modest and barely electrified. The threesome's coffeehouse
folk roots are obvious in the clean, close harmonies, and it all rather
sounds like a hipper Peter, Paul & Mary (and far more at ease with
light folk-rock than PPM were when those folk superstars tried making
their own transition to folk-rockish recordings in the late 1960s).
Ronstadt's vocals are pretty rich and full even at these early stage in
her career, though without dominating the proceedings at the expense of
the other members' contributions.
Like several acts in this overview, the Stone Poneys were produced by
Nick Venet for Capitol, and in this particular case, the connection
with another, far more critically acclaimed Venet endeavor was tight.
For the session musicians employed to fill out the sound on The Stone Poneys -- Cyrus Faryar on
bouzouki and acoustic guitar, Pete Childs on acoustic guitar, John
Forsha on acoustic and electric guitar, James E. Bond, Jr. on bass, and
Billy Mundi on drums -- were exactly the same as the ones employed by
Venet on the above-discussed Fred Neil. "We didn't bring them into the
project, they were brought in by Nick Venet," confirms Edwards. "I'm
sure he wanted to make it more pop. And in fact, he kept pushing it
more in that direction through the subsequent albums." As it happens,
Ronstadt takes one of her vocal solos on a decent cover of Neil's "Just
a Little Bit of Rain," though all of the songs have an engaging light
grace, particularly "If I Were You," "Bicycle Song (Soon Now)," and the
somewhat earthier "Orion" and "2:10 Train," Ronstadt taking a couple of
additional solo vocals on the latter pair of tunes.
The Stone Poneys made a commercial breakthrough
later in 1967 with their cover of Mike Nesmith's "Different Drum,"
which made the Top Twenty. But although their second and third albums
were worthwhile as well, they weren't quite the work of the same band.
Ronstadt had already having been picked out for her potential as a solo
artist, and Edwards and Kimmel were virtually frozen out of the act by
the time of the third and final Stone Poneys LP. Ronstadt herself
viewed the Stone Poneys in an unreasonably harsh light in the early
'70s, carping to Rolling Stone that "The Stone Poneys tried to combine
the roots with rock and roll, and we were miserable." There might be
more roots than rock and roll on The
Stone Poneys, but it's far from a miserable relic -- to the
contrary, it's quite uplifting in its naive good-heartedness. And due
to Ronstadt's subsequent fame, it's never been too hard to find over
the last three decades, Capitol reissuing it to capitalize on her solo
stardom as The Stone Poneys
Featuring Linda Ronstadt in the mid-1970s -- under which guise
it became the only album in this feature to reach the Billboard charts,
albeit at a lowly #172.
9. Tim Rose
Tim Rose
(Columbia 9577)
1967
CD reissue: BGO BGOCD378, as part of Tim Rose/Through Rose
Colored Glasses (1997)
Like a few other LPs we're discussing, Tim Rose's self-titled debut
wasn't so much a proper album as a collection of singles, puffed up to
LP length by a few other items from sessions done around the time. No
less than half of the dozen tracks, in fact, had appeared the previous
year on a trio of 1966 singles, including what was by far the most
famous of the lot, "Hey Joe." A couple others had appeared earlier in
'67 on another 45, and a couple more would be plucked off the LP for
another single later that year. Possibly as a consequence, Tim Rose is rather more erratic
than most of the records in this feature, both in quality and in style,
the compass swinging from traditional folk updates to orchestrated
near-blue-eyed soul.
Nevertheless, it contains some significant early
folk-rock that was unfairly overlooked both then and now. His voice
might have been too gravelly to stand much chance of denting the hit
parade, but his slow rendition of "Hey Joe" famously acted as a model
of sorts for the arrangement of Jimi Hendrix's far more renowned (and
high-selling) debut single at the end of '66. Rose's blustery approach
also worked to his advantage on his adaptation of folkie Bonnie
Dobson's "Morning Dew" and a bombastic, yet memorably devastating, pass
at the ominous nuclear fallout ode "Come Away, Melinda" (which had
previously gained its widest hearing via a cover on Judy Collins's
third album in 1963). Co-written by Fred Hellerman of the Weavers (who
had also recorded it in the early 1960s), it actually wasn't Rose's
first go at the tune; he'd cut it a few years earlier as part of the
Big Three, the folk trio that also included a pre-Mamas and the Papas
Cass Elliot. At the other end of the maze was an unlikely cover of the
Barry Mann-Cynthia Weil warhorse "I'm Gonna Be Strong," which had been
a massive late-'64 hit for Gene Pitney, and flopped for Rose in late
'66 -- though it must be said that Rose's own leather-lunged version
isn't half-bad. "That wasn't my idea," the late Rose told me in 2001.
"That was, 'Do it or we don't record. We gotta have a single; try
this.'"
As uneven as Tim
Rose (which has also been reissued under the title Morning Dew) was, it was really his
best shot at stardom. His second album on Columbia -- a major label
that really had far too many interesting, not-quite-mainstream artists
in the 1960s to grant effective promotion to all or even the majority
of them -- made far less of a ripple than even his debut had. Finding
more of an audience in England, where he spent his final years, he
continued to record intermittently until his death in 2002, never again
coming nearly as close as he had to fame with that "Hey Joe" single.
About a year-and-a-half before his death, he had this to say about his
first album in an interview with me at his local pub in Central London:
TIM ROSE Q&A
Q: What kind of approach were you
taking on the material that ended up on Tim Rose?
A: When I did my first album, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
I wanted to take that core of bluegrass and country and blues, and not
copy it, not be like Fleetwood Mac and copy American blues. I didn't
want to copy anybody. I wanted to synthesize. But I couldn't. We got
close.
Q: You did some recording with Bob
Johnston [producer of Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, Simon & Garfunkel] in
the mid-'60s as well that not many people know about.
A: My recording with Johnston was '65. Johnston heard the possibility
of this kind of person from the folk with rock. I went down to
Nashville with Johnston and did five tracks that [Columbia executive]
Clive [Davis] wouldn't release. They've been lost. Clive didn't like
what I had done with Johnston, although those opening sessions with Bob
Johnston were great, with Area Code 615. The backup singers were the
Jordanaires.
Then I was put with [producer David] Rubinson. And
even Rubinson didn't hear it. Finally I found a drummer, Bernard
Purdie, who I could communicate with, who wasn't from the old be-bop
school of drumming. None of the young drummers then were any good. They
were just learning to do it. The John Bonhams and the Aynsley Dunbars
and the Mick Fleetwoods had yet to come along. They certainly weren't
in New York, I'll tell you that. The bass players, the guitarists who
could do that combination of blues and rock, they didn't exist. They
just weren't around.
Q: It seems like Columbia wasn't sure
what to do with you.
A: On "Hey Joe," I used a twelve-string, I wasn't trying to be rock, I
was trying to do my thing. I wasn't a rock and roller. And yet I wasn't
folky. That was the problem that CBS had. Clive finally told me in
1968, 'Tim, I know what you're not. I don't know what you are. And we
just don't know how to market [you]. What am I supposed to do? I'll
either give you your release, or take some time and make another album
for us and see if we can do something. I know you've made some great
records, but we haven't been able to sell 'em. We don't know what it
is. It doesn't seem to fit in the rock, it doesn't seem to fit in
the'...you know.
10.
Fapardokly
Fapardokly
(UIP LP-2250)
1967
CD reissue: Sundazed SC 6059 (1995)
There are grounds for arguing that Fapardokly's sole LP isn't so much a
lost folk-rock nugget as an incoherent mess. It's a jumble of unrelated
1964-67 sessions in both Hollywood and the small Southern Californian
desert town of Palmdale, much of which had previously been released on
singles billed to a group using an entirely different name; some of it
sounds much closer to Ricky Nelson's rockabilly than the Byrds'
heavenly chime; and it must be one of the few prized '60s rarities
where the original cover is actually uglier than the one substituted
for it on its 1980s bootleg reissue. About half of the record is
actually taken from 1964-67 singles issued by Merrell & the Exiles
on the small Glenn label, "Merrell" being leader Merrell Fankhauser,
who changed his confusing musical chairs of a band's name to Fapardokly
before the final tracks were cut. The album sneaked out virtually
unnoticed in 1967 (though one discography gives a release date of
February 1968), with only about one thousand copies pressed -- about
half of them, according to Fankhauser, given away.
But...you can't keep a good album down, no matter
how disorganized it is. Original copies of the LP were already fetching
high-three-figure sums by the early 1980s, by which time a widely
distributed bootleg had also appeared. And while it isn't all folk-rock
-- in fact, upon first hearing, it almost sounds like a deliberately
Zappa-ish pastiche of '60s pop from teen idoldom to psychedelia -- what
folk-rock it does have rates among the finest sub-Byrdsian stuff ever
done in the genre. "Lila" in particular is a shimmering 12-stringer,
and while "Gone to Pot" is a pretty blatant cop of "Eight Miles High,"
it's got a reckless spaced-out flavor all its own, particularly after
segueing into the reverb-laden gloomfest of "No Retreat." "I think what
happened is Bill Dodd [who plays 12-string Rickenbacker on 'Gone to
Pot'] had heard the guitar riff and he used to go to sleep with the
radio on," Fankhauser explained to me in 1985. "I said, 'Bill, that's
bad practice, you're gonna subconsciously get something in there.'"
Other highlights were the goofy "Mr. Clock," which
transplanted the Beatles' "Michelle" riff into an actual ode to a
cuckoo clock; "Glass Chandlier" [sic], another tripped-out
scrutinization to an inanimate piece of furniture, yet pitched
perfectly between harmonized folk-rock and astral psychedelia; "The
Music Scene," an atypically sour swipe against the no-talents
cluttering Sunset Strip; and "Super Market," which soars with the best
of sunshine pop, though with tons more drive than that genre was wont
to employ. True, other tracks like the Zombies-worthy "Tomorrow's Girl"
and the infectious "When I Get Home" were closer to the British
Invasion than folk-rock, and "Too Many Heartbreaks" and "Suzie Cryin'"
more in tune with the even more dated strains of Ricky Nelson and Roy
Orbison respectively. Yet they were still highly enjoyable tracks in
their own right that detracted not a whit from the cheerily random, if
illogical, whichever-way-the-wind blows flow of the disc as a whole.
Future Captain Beefhearters John French and Jeff
Cotton can be heard on some of Fapardokly,
and Fankhauser would likewise turn in more psychedelic and slightly
weirder directions at the helm of H.M.S. Bounty at the end of the 1960s
and MU (with Cotton back in the ranks) in the early '70s. Both of those
bands issued fine albums as well, Merrell retaining his knack for
combining slightly off-kilter songs and arrangements with highly
accessible melodies, all anchored by his pleasing light, high vocals. Fapardokly -- now easily available
on CD, with three previously unreleased bonus tracks from the same era
-- might not be as unified in its vision as those H.M.S. Bounty and MU
albums were. But its music is just as worthy and enduring, even it is
as wackily fragmented as any record of its era, folk-rock or otherwise.
11. Gene
Clark
Gene Clark Sings
for You
White label acetate (no catalog number)
Summer 1967
CD reissue: none
If there's a holy grail of sorts among '60s folk-rock collectors, it
could be this eight-track acetate of demos cut by ex-Byrds co-founder
Gene Clark in the summer of 1967. While this wasn't done long after his
solo debut album Gene Clark with the
Gosdin Brothers, it wasn't, contrary to some reports, intended
at any point to be his second LP. Still, Clark fans have been hungry to
hear the material, particularly as Gene never would put out official
versions of any of the songs. Discovered in the vaults of Liberty
Records in the 1980s, very few listeners -- even avid Byrds/Clark
fanatics -- have been able to hear the music, which has yet to find
release, on CD or any other format. One of those few is John Einarson,
author of the excellent new biography Mr.
Tambourine Man: The Life and Legacy of the Byrds' Gene Clark
(Backbeat Books). Einarson goes into the Gene Clark Sings for You sessions
(as well as numerous other intriguing unreleased Clark tapes) at length
in the book, and kindly filled us in on some of the details:
JOHN EINARSON Q&A
Q: How does the music on Gene Clark Sings for You differ
notably from what he was doing with the Byrds and on his first solo
album?
A: The songs on Gene Clark Sings For
You are far removed from where the Byrds were by 1967 (or even
by 1966). While the group explored complex musical vistas taking
folk-rock into the realm of acid/psychedelia, Gene remained rooted in
the melancholy Dylanesque romantic wordplay of his Turn! Turn! Turn! album
contributions two years earlier. He does use mellotron to interesting
effect and experiments with time signatures. However, the eight songs
on the Sings For You acetate would likely have found little favour
among his former Byrds mates. They are closer to the songs on his debut
solo album in terms of lyrical direction and a folk-pop orientation yet
offer little hint, other than the slight country flavour on "7:30
Mode," of where he would go with his next project and album, The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard &
Clark, eschewing complex arrangements and abstract poetry for a
return to acoustic folk/country roots. So, in that sense, Gene Clark Sings For You is a
quirky anomaly between the Byrds and Dillard & Clark.
Q: Why do you think the material on
the album never found release, either in the form it was recorded or as
re-recordings on an official Gene Clark LP?
A: Gene was so prolific at this point that by the time he entered a
recording studio with a contract in hand a year later, he had already
abandoned these songs and dozens more. He once declared that he had a
whole closet full of acetates and tapes from this period and had
recorded enough songs in demo form for several albums, all discarded.
Recorded properly with better players and a sympathetic producer, these
eight songs might have made for an interesting album, but time was
passing Gene by. It’s hard to place where these songs fit in on the
musical landscape of late 1967/early 1968 (assuming an album made from
these songs would be released then). When you consider that he was
recording these tracks during the much-vaunted Summer of Love, Gene
seems kind of stuck in a time warp, still mining the Dylan folk-rock
seam when most of his contemporaries were moving beyond that.
The myth surrounding this acetate has been that it
was the great lost second Columbia solo album from Gene. However, the
reality is far less intriguing. His contract with CBS was terminated in
June 1967 following sessions a month before for the "The French
Girl"/"Only Colombe" single, with no follow-up album ever considered
given the failure of Gene Clark With
The Gosdin Brothers. These are demos, some in very basic form,
of songs Gene was either looking to hustle to other performers (several
acetates containing unreleased Clark material were in circulation at
the time, including the one given to members of the Rose Garden that
summer), or use to attract a new recording contract (he would land that
in early 1968 with A&M, though whether these tracks contributed
remains speculative).
One track, "That’s Alright By Me," a holdover from the Gene Clark Group
1966 live set, remained in Gene's canon as he moved into his next
project, a short-lived quartet with singer/songwriter Larry (Laramy)
Smith, and was cut in the June 1968 but not released until 1998.
"Yesterday Am I Right" was recorded in a bizarre big band arrangement
with Hugh Masekela in late 1967 on another acetate with two other
unreleased songs, "Without You" and "Don’t Let it Fall Through." The
remaining songs on Gene Clark Sings
For You were simply abandoned.
Q: In your research, did you find any
indication that the LP was well-circulated to other artists considering
material to cover? It seems that either it wasn't well-circulated, or
that other artists didn't find the material suitable to record.
A: That few artists other than the Rose Garden and David Hemmings
covered Gene’s material during this period, despite the respect he
continued to garner as a songwriter for his Byrds contributions,
supports the notion that this batch of songs was not among his best. He
admitted to being deeply troubled personally in the two years between
the Byrds and Dillard & Clark, and unable to find either direction
or momentum. That a copy of this acetate exists today is quite amazing
given that song publishing acetates back then were never intended to
last and were discarded quickly. What it offers the listener is a
fascinating glimpse into Gene's "lost years."
12.
Hearts and Flowers
Now Is the Time
for Hearts and Flowers
(Capitol ST-2762)
July 1967
CD reissue: Collectors' Choice Music
CCM-321-2 (2002, as part of The Complete Hearts and
Flowers)
Hearts and Flowers
Of Horses, Kids,
and Forgotten Women
(Capitol ST-2868)
July 1968
CD reissue: Collectors' Choice Music
CCM-321-2 (2002, as part of The Complete Hearts and
Flowers)
One of folk-rock's chief spin-offs, country-rock, didn't yet exist as a
label when Hearts and Flowers' debut album came out in mid-1967. Yet in
hindsight, Now Is the Time for
Hearts and Flowers was something of a transition between the Los
Angeles folk-rock of the mid-1960s and its more countrified late-'60s
cousin. The bluegrass-soaked harmonies in particular looked forward to
the vocals of many of the country-rock groups that would sprout in
Southern California in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and, further on
down the line, even to the slicker sounds of the Eagles. For that
matter, future Eagle Bernie Leadon would join the lineup for Hearts and
Flowers' second and final album the following year, Of Horses, Kids, and Forgotten Women.
Produced by the ubiquitous Nick Venet, the first LP
has something of the house sound he cultivated with his fellow Capitol
acts (including the previously discussed Fred Neil and the Stone
Poneys, as well as far more obscure efforts by Mary McCaslin, Vince
Martin, and Karen Dalton) -- a calm, spacious, and rootsy (if somewhat
dry) blend. Unsurprisingly, some of the same session hands who
contributed to the Venet-produced efforts by Neil and the Stone Poneys
also showed up on Hearts and Flowers recording dates. They didn't
overwhelm the core of H&F's strengths, however, those being the
close bluegrass-country harmonies they'd honed on the folk circuit,
given a slightly exotic dash via Dave Dawson's autoharp. On the first
album in particular, these were crossed with a flair for well-selected
covers spanning the gamut of folk-rock, country, and even pop,
including material by Donovan, Tim Hardin,
erratic-but-sometimes-brilliant California folk-psychers Kaleidoscope,
Hoyt Axton, and Gerry Goffin and Carole King.
By the time of Of
Horses, Kids, and Forgotten Women, Hearts and Flowers had
already undergone personnel changes. Rick Cunha, who with Dawson and
Larry Murray comprised the trio who'd made the debut LP, was replaced
by Leadon. Bernie had known Murray for years, ever since the two played
bluegrass in the Scottsville Squirrel Barkers, whose lineup also
included a young pre-Byrds Chris Hillman. Though similar in tone to
their debut, Hearts and Flowers' next album offered a considerably
higher percentage of original songs, including the atypical but quite
thrilling psych-pop opus "Ode to a Tin Angel." It also had fine covers
of Arlo Guthrie's "Highway in the Wind" and Jesse Kincaid's "She Sang
Hymns Out of Tune" -- the latter a great cryptic waltz that never was a
hit for anyone, though several people took a crack at it, including (on
a rare single) Kincaid himself.
The albums met with commercial indifference, and
Hearts and Flowers split up not long after Of Horses, Kids, and Forgotten Women
came out. Leadon, of course, would build upon many of the elements
Hearts and Flowers explored in his subsequent stints in Dillard and
Clark, the Flying Burrito Brothers, and finally as an original member
of the Eagles. Fortunately, both Hearts and Flowers LPs have been
reissued on CD several times over. The two-disc collection The Complete Hearts and Flowers
(with liner notes by this author) includes not only both albums, but
also a second disc of previously unissued outtakes, much of it more
country-oriented than what ended up on the '60s releases. Original
Hearts and Flower Rick Cunha, now the owner and operator of a recording
studio in the Los Angeles area, took a brief break to answer some
questions about his old group -- and reveal that there might be a lost
Hearts & Flowers album sitting in the vaults somewhere, if only
someone can find it.
RICK CUNHA Q&A
Q: A lot of what made Hearts &
Flowers different from other folk-rock bands was your heavy background
in bluegrass, and knowledge of music by acts like the Stanley Brothers
and the Carter Family.
A: Everything that we approached sort of came out of that background.
That was a bit of a difference from some of the other groups. David
[Dawson] and I just hit it off because we all knew the same songs. And
then when we hooked up with Larry, that was a reinforcement, because
Larry had been playing bluegrass, and that's kind of where we started.
Really, nobody was pursuing that, was sort of
crossing that line. Like, one of our first shows was opening for Flatt
& Scruggs at the Troubadour. And their interest in what we were
doing sort of caught me off guard. Earl [Scruggs]'s wife Louise was
trying to move them in that direction, and I got the feeling that for
Lester [Flatt], that was kicking and dragging. He didn't want to have
any part of that. But Earl was really interested in that, both for
himself and for his kids. 'Cause he was really looking down the line,
and he just wanted to get his kids into something, which they
eventually did. And in fact, they did a version of "Rock'n'Roll
Gypsies" [a track from the first Hearts & Flowers album] not too
long after that -- Earl with the Scruggs Brothers, Randy and the
brother [Gary]. Louise would send us a lot of stuff, and vice versa.
That to me, it made what we were doing a little more relevant in that
context.
But pretty much right away, we started getting into
more contemporary material. We listened to a lot of Freddie Neil, Tim
Hardin, a lot of the folk acts of the time. Also, Larry was very active
in looking for material in town here. He wasn't afraid to go to any of
the publishers and bring acetates home that we'd listen to, and we
would just sort of arrange that stuff in an acoustic trio arrangement.
And that became our beginning repertoire.
It certainly was an interesting time. I mean, we
basically got record deals by walking into the office of producers and
singing for them live. The first stuff we had recorded was with Gary
Usher, and it was a very, very convoluted production deal where he was
a staff Decca producer, but it seems to me Screen Gems paid for the
studio time. In fact it was so convoluted that when we signed with
Capitol, they wanted to buy the masters, anything we had done before.
And they couldn't find 'em. The stuff had just disappeared. If I'm not
mistaken, there was a version of "Rock'n'Roll Gypsies" and a couple of
other things. I remember Glen Campbell came in and played guitar on
some of the stuff, and then came in and did some high harmonies with
us. They just wanted to prevent MGM from doing anything with it. But
nobody could find it!
Q: Do you see what Hearts &
Flowers did as a precursor to country-rock?
A: Not really. We just wanted to get as much country music into it as
we could. And that was a little tough, 'cause it was a hard sell. Nick
[Venet] wasn't really interested in that, and he gave us a few token
spots that we could do whatever we wanted. But as far as material went,
Nick had his own vision of that, so he was always pushing us one way or
another. I think if we had our druthers, especially on that first
album, we would have probably done more country-sounding stuff.
Q: What were Venet's strengths as a
producer?
A: Getting the right people together. That was the best work he did.
The Freddie Neil stuff, there wasn't much comment coming from the booth
on that. They'd just run the tape, and the band would sort of make it
happen. I think Nick was more involved in our group and the Stone
Poneys as far as direction went. With Fred Neil, it was a given. It was
going where Fred was gonna take it, and that's what made [Fred Neil] such a great record.
Nick would tend to get in our way, because he had production ideas that
I know we weren't really crazy about, but Nick could talk his way into
or out of just about anything. I think he was by design more involved
in sort of making the group something that he had a vision of, than
just giving us our own way and letting us do whatever we wanted to do.
A lot of the material we cut was stuff that he brought.
Q: How do you think the band changed
when Bernie Leadon replaced you?
A: I think Bernie just brought a more pop direction to stuff. I
remember him sitting and listening to Beatles records and copying,
learning parts note-by-note. He and Larry worked on a lot on stuff
after I left, and sort of took it off in more of a Beatles direction.
Q: Do you hear the influence of bands
like Hearts & Flowers in what Bernie did with the Eagles?
Yeah. They worked really hard on a big vocal sound, and were certainly
good musicians. Like they took Steve Young's "Seven Bridges Road," and
Steve's version is a real sort of almost a southern blues waltz. And
they put it into 4/4 time and just polished it up a little bit. I think
"polished" would be the keynote word.
13. Nico
Chelsea Girl
(Verve V/V6-5032)
October 1967
CD reissue: Polygram 835209-2 (1993)
Nico's debut solo album might be the most contentious entry on this
list, as many might feel that neither the LP nor the artist fall into
that wide chasm we call "folk-rock." This is, after all, a platter from
a just-ex-member of the Velvet Underground, one of the noisiest and
most controversial bands of all time. There are no drums and little
electric guitar on the record, whose arrangements favor ornate baroque
orchestrations with strings and flute. And Nico herself would rarely
touch upon folky territory in her lengthy subsequent solo career,
taking the opportunity to disown the record when asked about it.
Yet Nico's own background in folk was not
negligible. For years, apparently, she'd been bugging whoever would
listen to let her perform and record Bob Dylan's "I'll Keep It With
Mine," which Dylan himself had yet to release on his own vinyl, and
which (she said) Bob had written for her during their brief affair in
Europe in 1964. She had, according to session drummer Bobby Graham,
done a Joan Baez cover on an unreleased 1965 French-language EP. She'd
done a pop version of Gordon Lightfoot's "I'm Not Sayin'" on her '65
flop debut single, backed by an acoustic ballad produced and co-penned
by the young Jimmy Page, who (along with Brian Jones) also played
guitar on the track. More recently, she'd been working as a solo artist
in the Dom club in New York, where her sole accompaniment was one
guitar, played variously by Tim Hardin, Tim Buckley, fellow Velvet
Undergrounders John Cale and Sterling Morrison, Ramblin' Jack Elliott,
and teenage paramour Jackson Browne.
Most of those sidemen would end up contributing
songs to Chelsea Girl, which
is notable not so much for Nico's oddly low, deadpan vocals (which
sometimes wavered into flatness) as the well-selected repertoire and
the adroit combination of acoustic folk with gorgeous (if somewhat
fruity) quasi-classical chamber music. Perhaps it was consciously or
subconsciously inspired by the similar baroque-folk approach Judy
Collins had used (with much more commercial reward) on her recent In My Life album, which likewise
cherry-picked underexposed tunes by up-and-coming singer-songwriters.
(Collins, as it happened, also had eyes on "I'll Keep It with Mine,"
beating Nico to it by covering it as a non-LP track on a 1965 single.)
Chelsea Girl,
however, was odder and less apt to capture a wide audience, both by
virtue of the singer's almost macabre vocals and the more obtuse songs
that were selected. But those songs, obscure as they were both in
renown and in their lyrical flavors, were quite good ones -- by Browne,
Hardin, Cale, Morrison, Lou Reed, and Dylan -- that for the most part
had not yet been included on releases by anyone. (In some cases,
versions by the composers themselves have yet to be released.)
Certainly the Reed-Morrison collaboration "Chelsea Girls" is a
devastating portrait of Warholian decadence every bit the equal of any
such number the Velvet Underground tackled on their albums. It was also
the first airing for Browne's much-loved "These Days," though his "The
Fairest of the Seasons" (co-written with Greg Copeland) and "Somewhere
There's a Feather" are equally attractive in their almost timid
daintiness. Hardin's "Eulogy to Lenny Bruce," to be included on the
composer's live album the following year, is as funereal as anything
Nico did in her goth phase, though here accompanied solely by guitar.
Only "It Was a Pleasure Then" (written by Nico with
Cale and Reed), with its cacophonous guitar shrieks and rumbles
underpinning rhythm-less melismatic stream-of-consciousness, sounds at
all like the Velvet Underground. (It sounds a lot like the Velvet
Underground, actually, enough so that it could have fit on their early
albums without causing too much of a jolt.) The only cut that fails to
convince, ironically enough, is "I'll Keep It With Mine," whose bouncy
strings seem to be trying way too hard to make this into an
appropriately upbeat feel-good number.
Though it was produced by one of folk-rock's top
aides-de-camp, Tom Wilson (who'd worked on Dylan's early electric
recordings and grafted electric guitar and drum onto Simon &
Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence"), Chelsea
Girl did not, as Verve was probably hoping, make Nico into a pop
star for the artsy. Both Nico and others involved in the record, in
fact, heavily criticized Wilson's role in the sessions. Cale and Browne
have recalled how Wilson seemed to spend more time on the phone than
paying attention to what was going on in the studio, while Nico (as
quoted in Richard Witts's biography Nico:
The Life & Lies of an Icon) griped, "I cried when I heard
the album. I cried because of the flute. I hate it so much! It is a
great mistake. The arrangements in general were not so good. Even so, I
could bear the string sound. But I wish I could take the flute off.
There should be a button on record players, a 'No Flute' Button....I
wish I could un-orchestrate Chelsea
Girl. The flute, anyway." Nico was soon free to record wholly
dissimilar albums, occupied primarily by her own material, in which
there were no flutes, no folk, and barely even any rock in the
conventional term, focusing on music of the most uncompromising,
avant-garde sort. But while Chelsea
Girl ended up being something of an anomaly in the context of
her career as a whole, it remains her most accessible work -- though,
by the standards of '60s folk-rock, it's downright avant-garde in many
respects.
14.
Holy Modal Rounders
The Moray Eels Eat
the Holy Modal Rounders
(Elektra EKS-94026)
1968
CD reissue: Water 101 (2002)
Peter Stampfel and Steve Weber had been doing addled folk music for
about five years by the time the Holy Modal Rounders went to Los
Angeles to record their sole Elektra album in the spring of 1968. In
their original guise as an acoustic duo, the Rounders had taken great
delight in simultaneously mocking and paying loving homage to
traditional old-timey music on their Prestige recordings. Breaking up
for a while, and briefly surfacing in an early version of the Fugs, the
pair reunited and expanded into a full rock lineup (with
playwright/actor Sam Shepard on drums) for one chaotic ESP recording, Indian War Whoop. Shepard was still
on drums for The Moray Eels Eat the
Holy Modal Rounders, which -- though just as chaotic as Indian War Whoop -- upped the
psychedelic wattage, inspiration, and drug-fueled craziness.
It's tempting to view the LP in some respects as an
acid folk parallel to early Mothers of Invention albums, particularly
as it segues between zany song fragments without a break. "Bird Song"
-- by far the most widely known song, due to its memorable use in the
soundtrack of Easy Rider --
was bad-trip honky-tonk country, giving way in turn to zigzags among
manic-depressive acoustic folk, field hollers, barroom country, and
shambling tongue-in-cheek white boy blues. "Half a Mind" was a
frighteningly self-descriptive title for a piece with mind-melting
demented acid-blues-rock guitar and the croakiest vocals ever to be
heard on a popular music recording. (That vocal was by Weber, aided by
a splash on his throat from a spray can of a substance used to make
instrument necks slippery.) The whole exhilarating mess came to a halt
with Shepard's butchered pledge of allegiance to the American flag, an
act that many right-thinking Americans would equate with treason in the
tumultuous year of 1968. This was roots folk taken to its absolutely
most cracked extremes, like hillbillies transported to a warped fifth
dimension where fiddles and guitars refused to play as they usually
did, and backporch singalongs got unrecognizably distorted and mangled.
Whereas Frank Zappa and his crew had constructed
their fun-house epics quite meticulously and consciously, however, the
Rounders and producer Frazier Mohawk seemed to have ended up with their
manifesto more by seat-of-the-pants spontaneity than anything else.
Stampfel has contended that the engineers eliminated the grooves
between the tracks without his knowledge; Mohawk, for his part, says
that none of the songs were completed (which Stampfel in turn
disputes). Both amiably agree that drug use during the sessions was
abundant. "It is a reflection of the mental and physical condition of
all of the parties involved," states Mohawk simply today. "We were all
very impaired, so what you hear are snap decisions made through a fog
of many additives. What was amazing is that we made it to the studio at
all, much less accomplishing anything."
Rather surprisingly given the fairly insane end
result (and its modest sales figures), the Holy Modal Rounders did
start on a second Elektra album. That project was aborted, though, when
the drug use and craziness accelerated even more. Stampfel, who's made
much music with and without the Rounders in the intervening 35 years,
isn't all that fond of The Moray
Eels Eat the Holy Modal Rounders. That didn't stop the genial
trickster, however, from contributing detailed liner notes to its 2002
CD reissue (also including an essay by this author), which restored one
of the strangest and -- yes -- funniest folk-rock albums of the late
1960s to wide availability.
15.
Dino Valenti
Dino Valente [sic]
(Epic BN 26335)
August 1968
CD reissue: RPM 289 (2004)
Dino Valenti was one of folk-rock's most fascinating enigmas. He'd been
among folk-rock's leading backroom boys since the mid-1960s, recording
a little-heard electric 1964 Elektra single, "Birdses"/"Don't Let It
Down," that not only tilted in a folk-rock direction but also (via its
A-side) inspired Gene Clark to suggest that his new band call
themselves the Byrds. His "Get Together," probably written in the early
1960s (the composer himself recorded it on a January 1964 demo), became
a folk-rock standard, particularly when it was covered by Jefferson
Airplane on their first album, and made into a Top Ten hit by the
Youngbloods. He almost formed a band with Roger McGuinn right before
the Byrds got off the ground, and falsely claimed the songwriting
credit for another folk-rock standard, "Hey Joe." It's been reported
(and disputed) that he was set to be a founder-member of Quicksilver
Messenger Service before a drug bust sent him to jail. All this and by
the late 1960s, he somehow had yet to put out a record, other than that
rare '64 Elektra 45.
Given Valenti's, um, unconventional attitude toward
major label recording, it's something of a miracle that an album got
finished and issued at all. Valenti's buddy (and Quicksilver Messenger
Service guitarist) Gary Duncan has said that an entire unreleased album
of "well-produced little nuggets of radio stuff" was produced by Jack
Nitzsche, but scrapped at Dino's insistence (if such material was laid
down, it doesn't seem to have surfaced). The relatively sparsely
arranged cuts that did end up on the final Dino Valente (sic) album were all
credited as the work of Columbia producer Bob Johnston, who was already
an old hand at folk-rock by 1968, with several Dylan albums under his
belt. And, presumably, already an old hand at patiently dealing with
temperamental artists -- Duncan's also said that a couple of days in
the studio were spent doing nothing by flying paper airplanes, and
Johnson's recalled asking Valenti to chop super-long compositions into
smaller pieces in order to come up with relatively concise songs to
record.
For all its apparently fraught birth, Dino Valente itself beams with
beatific, placid hippie sunshine. Capturing the brightest essence of
acid folk, its sagely cosmic ramblings were at their heart beautiful
acoustic guitar ballads, tweaked into psychedelia with some ghostly
reverb and swathes of harpsichord. If Valenti's nasal voice sounded a
tad creepy in its suggestive probings of the inner psyches of the
beautiful-but-troubled young women he seemed to be aiming most of his
words at, they were balanced by a certain utopian glow, seemingly
burning with expectation of a new dawn not just for him, but for all of
humanity. Taking things back to earth was his spooky cover of John
Phillips's "Me and My Uncle," while the oddly out-of-place pop
orchestration decorating "Listen to Me" was the only hint of how he
might have sounded had he decided to aim for a mass audience instead of
pleasing himself.
Due in part to his determination to alienate
Columbia Records executives, the one and only solo album by the man
dubbed "the underground Dylan" was destined to remain underground, even
by underground rock standards. Issued on Columbia subsidiary Epic, Dino Valente was barely promoted,
and the artist's very name apparently misspelled on the cover (though,
contrary to legend, it seems at least some token promotion was
undertaken, as there was a full-page ad for the LP in the September 14,
1968 issue of Rolling Stone).
Valenti would soon gain some measure of stardom by joining Quicksilver
Messenger Service for real, but nothing he wrote or recorded afterward
recaptured the magical bliss of his solo album. Like his labelmate Skip
Spence (see entry for Oar
elsewhere in this feature), his piece de resistance was nearly
unnoticed, even in the counterculture that had made it possible. And
unlike Skip Spence's Oar,
Dino Valente somehow has failed to be honored with a sizable cult
revival, although it's been reissued on CD (with two previously
unissued outtakes) more than once.
16.
John Stewart & Buffy Ford
Signals Through
the Glass
(Capitol T/ST 2975)
September 1968
CD reissue: Folk Era JST 7088D (2004)
The folk-rock revolution caught a lot of the old guard off-guard, and
the late-1960s saw many veterans from the pre-Beatles folk revival,
rock, and pop scenes vainly trying to get in tune with the times. Most
of these efforts were woeful; many of them were embarrassing. But a few
unlikely (relatively) oldsters did reinvent themselves as gentle
folk-rock singer-songwriters with fairly successful, if aesthetically
variable, results. Bobby Darin -- who'd given both Roger McGuinn and
Jesse Colin Young valuable breaks when those future stars were unknown
-- made the Top Ten with a cover of Tim Hardin's "If I Were a
Carpenter." Dion -- who, it's worth noting, had made his own pretty
respectable, almost wholly overlooked forays into folk-rock in the
mid-1960s on Columbia with Bob Dylan producer Tom Wilson -- had a huge
hit with "Abraham, Martin, & John." And John Stewart, who'd just
come to the end of a long run with the waning Kingston Trio, was --
almost uniquely among his fellow early-'60s folk revival stars --
reborn as a critically respected singer-songwriter in the late 1960s
and 1970s.
His first album under his new persona, however, was
a bit of an awkward baby step into the brave new world. First off, he
shared billing with his wife Buffy Ford, who took frequent harmony and
lead vocals, although in truth Stewart -- who wrote all of the songs --
was the main force behind the music. Too, there's a sense of a man
desperately trying to make up for lost ground, as if the changing times
were threatening to throw him off the pop music merry-go-round
permanently if he didn't prove he was up to date. And it certainly is
more serious, probing, and sophisticated, generally speaking, than what
Stewart had done in the Kingston Trio, even on their later recordings.
Yet he hadn't quite arrived at the rural-flavored,
rootsy country-folk-rock that would characterize much of his solo
work. While the earnest Americana for which Stewart would become
known is already in evidence in songs like "Nebraska Widow" and
"Lincoln's Train," "July, You're a Woman" was a quality
middle-of-the-road production on the order of Glen Campbell, and "Holly
on My Mind" quite fetching in its ornately orchestrated pop. Yet social
consciousness was the order of the day on "Muckee Truckee River" and
the slightly contrived but extremely moving "Draft Age." As the LP's
closer, the latter song is a nearly cinema verite travelogue of the
thoughts of one Clarence Malloy on the day he becomes eligible for
induction into the American army, which in those days quite likely
meant fighting in the horrific Vietnam War. Steadily building in
tension with martial drums and fanfares, the bright sentimental melody
and lush strings wholly undermined by the lyrics' evocation of
impending doom, it's one of the most overlooked protest songs of the
1960s.
Some Stewart fans view Signals Through the Glass as a
failed, compromised solo debut, watered down by inappropriately lavish
orchestration. Arranger/conductor John Andrew Tartaglia, in fact, was
primarily known for his work on jingles, soundtracks, and the easy
listening Mystic Moods Orchestra. While the combination is admittedly
somewhat incongruous, it's also fascinating to hear such disparate
elements playing off each other, doing tense battle without quite
canceling each other out. While many Stewart fans consider his second
album, 1969's California Bloodlines
(produced by the ever-industrious Nick Venet), to be the one where he
truly found his metier, Signals
Through the Glass odd but appealing tug-of-war between styles
should not be ignored. It's a lot easier to hear, too, after its
low-key reissue on CD last year, but if you do want the vinyl, note
that the 1975 reissue (on Capitol SM 2975) has a different version of
"July, You're a Woman" than the one on the original LP.
Here's as good a place as any to note that if you
crave some really rare early solo John Stewart, be on the lookout for
the 1967 four-LP Columbus Tower Demos
box set (CRS-1162). Circulated within the industry only by SFO Music,
it contains numerous Stewart solo demos (as well as quite a few
unrelated tracks by other artists). While most of these aren't
full-band electric folk-rock, nor up to the standards of Signals Through the Glass, they do
demonstrate that his shift from the Kingston Trio to his solo work
wasn't as abrupt as it might seem. No plans seem to be afoot to make
these available for official release, unfortunately, and if you do
manage to find Columbus Tower Demos,
it'll cost you big-time.
17.
The Gosdin Brothers
Sounds of Goodbye
(Capitol LP ST 2852)
October 1968
CD reissue: Big Beat CDWIKD 235 (2003)
Purists might carp that an album by the Gosdin Brothers has no place in
a folk-rock retrospective. After all, they're usually classified as
country singers, with one half of the duo, Vern Gosdin, attaining
mainstream country-pop stardom in the 1970s and 1980s. One of the
beauties of '60s folk-rock, however, was how it drew so many unlikely
contributors into its orbit at point or another, even if sometimes for
just a brief moment or two. And the Gosdin Brothers really did play
forward-looking country-folk-rock, even if it was for just a year or
two, and even if virtually no one was listening.
In truth, the Gosdins had closer ties to the
epicenter of Los Angeles folk-rock than most people realize. In the
early 1960s their bluegrass group, the Hillmen, also included a young
pre-Byrds Chris Hillman on mandolin. The Hillmen recorded an album's
worth of material for future Byrds co-manager Jim Dickson, and though
that LP didn't see the light of day until the late 1960s, Dickson
continued to work with the Gosdins in both production and management
over the next few years. Another future Byrd, Clarence White, played
with the brothers live in the mid-'60s, while the Gosdins opened for
the Byrds themselves at some concerts. Vern added guitar to the Byrds'
"The Girl with No Name," and both Vern and Rex overdubbed harmonies on
Gene Clark's 1967 solo debut album, though their contributions were not
quite as major as the title (Gene Clark with the Gosdin Brothers)
suggested. Chris Hillman produced a Gosdin Brothers single in late
1966, and although the Gosdins and Dickson parted ways soon after that,
both White and yet another Byrd-to-be (Gene Parsons) got involved in
the brothers' subsequent recordings for producer Gary Paxton.
Given all the Byrds connections, it's perhaps
unsurprising that the Gosdin Brothers' 1968 LP Sounds of Goodbye bears the heavy
influence of the Byrds, though it comes at folk-rock from a country
angle rather than a rock one. Certainly "Love at First Sight," with its
anthemic thrust and ringing guitars, sounds like a great lost 1966-67
Byrds cut. Much of the rest of the album was more muted and
countrified, however, rather like a more country-soaked Gene Clark with
fraternal vocal harmonies, projecting a similar aura of stoic
melancholy. In Gene Parsons's view, it's "more than slightly melancholy
-- haunting, you might say. When you listen to some of the original
stuff that Vern sang in that voice and with Rex right in there with
him, it just grabs ya. Gene's got that same quality -- honesty in the
music. It's not an affected style. It's plain and honest and straight
from the heart."
It's true that "She's Gone" -- a simply great
lovelorn ballad -- might be more pure country music than anything else.
But Sounds of Goodbye is not
a pure country album. It's Byrdsian country-folk-rock that manages to
retain the Gosdins' own stamp on things. It was a direction, too, that
took some courage for the pair to pursue. For it was not just a rather
radical turn from their Alabama country roots, but really too radical
for the country audience that was their primary constituency. This was
an act, after all, that played a pep rally for controversial
segregationist Alabama governor George Wallace when he ran for
president in 1968!
Though Sounds of
Goodbye is a highly accessible record, it was perhaps too
country for rock ears, and too rock for country ones. The brothers
split not long afterward, Vern Gosdin eventually re-emerging in the
country mainstream. Testifying to its unpopularity, copies of Sounds of Goodbye are hard to come
by indeed. But fortunately, the music's now available again and then
some on Big Beat's expanded CD reissue of the album, which adds no less
than 13 bonus tracks from rare singles and previously unissued outtakes
recorded in the same time frame.
18.
The Gentle Soul
The Gentle Soul
(Epic LP BN 26374)
October 30, 1968
CD reissue: Sundazed SC 11123 (2003)
While much folk-rock (and rock in general) was getting noisier and more
psychedelic in the late 1960s, a few Los Angeles folk-rockers were
moving in a rather calmer, rootsier direction. We've already looked at
a few -- the Stone Poneys, Hearts & Flowers, and Fred Neil -- all
of whom, uncoincidentally, were produced by Nick Venet for Capitol.
Elsewhere in town, the Gentle Soul took a similar approach to their
Columbia sessions for another top producer, Terry Melcher, most famous
for his work on the first two albums by the greatest folk-rock act of
all, the Byrds.
Though a few musicians (including, briefly, the
young Jackson Browne) passed in and out of the Gentle Soul, the band
centered around the male-female harmonizing duo of Rick Stanley and
Pamela Polland. Indeed, they're the only two pictured on the cover of
this ultra-rare late-'68 release, on which Epic Records thoughtfully
forgot to credit them by name on the back, though they did manage to
list nearly ten session men (including Ry Cooder, with whom Polland
performed live in the mid-1960s). Though there were quite a few
musicians involved in the sessions and some orchestration was used,
it's quite a low-key record, somewhat in the mold of the Stone Poneys.
If the Gentle Soul lacked a singer on the order of Linda Ronstadt, or
material as strong as that heard on the Stone Poneys' records, it's
still an attractive relic from the more laidback corner of the L.A.
folk-rock scene.
It took quite a while for Melcher and the band --
who had made their first recordings together back in late 1966 -- to
get an album assembled, and by the time it finally came out on
Columbia's Epic subsidiary, the Gentle Soul had just split. Like
several other worthy folk-rockers on Columbia (Cooder's
Melcher-produced band the Rising Sons, for instance, never even got to
release an album for the label), the group were buried by an avalanche
of under-promotion. Barely distributed, copies of The Gentle Soul were going for
three-figure sums 30 years later. But its recent CD reissue, which
augments the album with eight cuts from non-LP singles and outtakes
(including the never-before-heard early Jackson Browne song "Flying
Thing"), ensures that the music can be heard without spending half of
your next paycheck.
RICK STANLEY Q&A
Q: What qualities do you think made
the Gentle Soul LP stand out most from other folk-rock coming out in
the late 1960s?
A: I think the music on this album and some of the singles capture the
more subtle spiritual essence of that little golden age of creativity
called the '60s. This music is the pure expression of kids with no care
for money or fame. We were guileless and wrote from our deepest
experience and understanding of love and spirituality. We wanted to
give only the highest expressions of ourselves, the most beautiful
music we could make. We had no plan or agenda for success and this is
probably why we so easily parted, Pamela off to Greece with her Poet
and me off to India to write two albums of music for Maharishi Mahesh
Yogi, just as the Beatles took their leave. Another quality that
obviously helped us out was our love for some of the greatest musicians
of the time who were unknown outside of the Troubadour crowd. People
like Ry Cooder, who met with me for a couple of weeks as we worked up
his guitar parts.
Just for the record, much of the guitar that you
hear on Gentle Soul is mine;
this is something that I have never been credited with. But I was the
guitar picker who did the finger picking and funky rhythmic stuff on
the album, like "Young Man Blue." I laid all the basic tracks with my
own three- and four-finger style, and Ry added his awesome flatpicking
style on guitar and mandolin. Van Dyke Parks, and especially Paul Horn,
played an important role as session leader. Fortunately, Terry
Melcher had the same taste in session musicians that we did.
Q: What were Melcher's greatest
contributions to the record?
A: Terry had a great foundation of folk-rock experience with the Byrds,
and great taste in session musicians as I've mentioned. We hadn't
recorded all the songs for the album before we stopped recording. Terry
had to bring in Ry and some of the other musicians after he had
commissioned Jack Nitzsche to write an arrangement of the themes of all
the songs on the album to fill up the record. This compilation made up
for the missing one or two songs, and I think it was very well done.
What I liked best about him was that he wanted us to love what he did
with our music, and would listen and respond to our input. He just
wanted to make us sound as good as we possibly could. He kept it
simple, just as we wanted it to be. We didn't want the "wall of sound"
or any other gimmick of the time, although they did give it a try on
one of the singles.
Q: Did your splitting up right before
the album's release help account for the rarity of the original LP?
A: You got that right!! I found copies in some of the most out-of-the-
way places for several years, so they must have sent it out, but
without promotion or any sort of advertising. They did send some copies
around for review before it was released. I happened upon a Billboard review years later that
said "Gentle Soul, the most
beautiful unknown album of the year."
Q: What kind of musical and recording
directions do you think you might have been able to explore had you
managed to hold together longer?
A: I think we would have gone in the same direction that I went myself
when I started recording with Henry Lewy, Joni Mitchell's [engineer],
at A&M Records. I studied with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi for seven
years, starting in 1968, and wrote and recorded two albums of
songs with Maharishi's inspiration; I think Pamela would have gone to
India as well if we had remained a group. Instead, Paul Fauerso, of the
San Francisco group the Loading Zone (with Linda Tillery),
teamed up with me on [my 1972 solo] album, Something Good Is Happening, and we
wrote and harmonized much like Pamela and I had done. We had to blend
our singing styles a bit -- Cat Stevens and Stevie Wonder become the
Everly Brothers, sort of. The two albums sold at least a couple of
hundred thousand copies during the '70s. Paul Horn played some great
flute on both albums, as he had done on Gentle Soul; Tom Scott and Doug
Dillard added some great parts as well.
So I guess what I'm saying is, if Pamela and I had
stayed together we would very likely have done those albums together.
If you carry the "if factor" up to the present, we would probably be
writing and singing some songs against war like "Bonny Brave Boys"
(about my Vietnam experience, on the CD Border Lord) and no doubt, songs
about Pamela's love for nature and the environment, and beautiful
Celtic-influenced songs like the Gentle Soul's single, "Tell Me Love."
We would be singing them in rich, weaving harmonies. I would be playing
my self-made Irish harp, guitar and banjo and she would be playing
keyboards, maybe harmonium? In truth, it would have been great if it
had worked out that way. But she is in Hawaii singing traditional songs
as she sways to the hula, swimming with the dolphins and monitoring her
environmental website. Me, I'm writing songs and performing when they
pour through me, sometimes about the distant past and sometimes about
the rapidly disintegrating world order. What keeps me writing and
performing is the high I get when I can go to the feeling level of the
audience and share a communication and upliftment of the heart that
heals us all.
19.
Steve Young
Rock, Salt &
Nails
(A&M 4177)
1969
CD reissue: Edsel 193 (1994)
Alabaman Steve Young had been on the folk and folk-rock scene for years
before his solo debut, even briefly playing in a pre-Buffalo
Springfield group with Stephen Stills and Van Dyke Parks, the Gas
Company. He was also part of Stone Country, whose sole late-'60s album,
though largely given over to pop-psychedelia, had a couple of Young
songs on which his southern grit cut through the band's usual
mediocrity. Recorded in November 1968 and released the following year, Rock, Salt & Nails -- on which
he finally got a chance to express himself for the length of an LP --
was a wholly overlooked blend of folk, rock, soul, blues, country,
gospel, and swamp pop. It's been cited as an early country-rock
milestone, and gotten some attention among Byrds/Flying Burrito
Brothers collectors for the presence of Gram Parsons, Gene Clark, and
Chris Hillman among the supporting players. It's not purely
country-rock, however; it's folk-rock that draws from all shades of
roots music. There are few, if any, more Southern '60s folk-rock
records than this one, even if it was recorded in Southern California,
not the Southern United States. And for what it's worth, though Gram
Parsons gets far more kudos for combining country and soul in the
Flying Burrito Brothers, Young did it too, and just as early as Parsons
did.
"Seven Bridges Road" is certainly the most renowned
song on the LP -- and, for that matter, the most famous song Young
wrote and recorded during his entire lengthy career -- owing to its
subsequent cover by the Eagles. Just as memorable, however, are "Holler
in the Swamp" and "Kenny's Song," where far-off strings effectively
heighten the stark, tense drama that Young created at his best. It's a
little too cover-heavy, and it comes as a disappointing surprise to
learn that Young had to fight to get any of his own compositions onto
the record at all. The album made even less commercial headway than
A&M's other late-'60s country-rock ventures by the Burritos and
Dillard & Clark, and Young never has been able to cross over to a
big audience in either the rock or country realm, despite a subsequent
long and critically respected career as a singer-songwriter.
Still writing, recording, and performing -- he even
toured India in 2004! -- Young is proud of his first album, which
remains his favorite. He'd also like to see it get back in print
somehow; although it has been reissued on CD, it's unfortunately out of
catalog at the moment. Speaking to RC from his Nashville base in spring
2005, he had to this say about Rock,
Salt & Nails:
STEVE YOUNG Q&A
Q: Why do you think Rock, Salt & Nails holds up more than 35 years later?
A: Something that makes it hold up is its simplicity. It's just sort of
classic, which is something I aspire to do, hope to do, when I make a
record -- [that] it not be dated, no matter when you might hear it. It
just did incorporate all the roots styles that I grew up with, plus the
more folk-rock element too, some of that. Of course, at the time we did
the record, A&M said, "Well, this is country music." They sent it
to Nashville and they said, "No, we don't know what it is, but it's not
country." That story's been going on forever.
Q: What was Gram Parsons's involvement
with the album?
A: We only kept a little bit of what he did on Rock Salt & Nails. But Gram
really was interested in what I was doing, 'cause the producer, Tommy
LiPuma, had taken the tapes and played it for Gram. He really liked it,
and lent a lot of moral support. I'm just projecting, but I would think
that [Gram] thought there might have been more interplay between us. I
have a little bit of regret about that. He also played on some outtakes
that were not on the record, and I've never known what happened to
those. Somebody said recently that in England, Universal looked for
these outtakes and could not find them. I don't truly know if any of
those outtakes were all that good or not, but he was more active in
actually playing on those cuts.
I remember several of them being Dylan songs,
because Tommy LiPuma had this idea that I should not do original songs.
He just wanted me to be a simple interpreter. I know it sounds odd, but
he didn't really want me doing original stuff. And only accidentally
did two or three original songs wind up on the record, one of them
being "Seven Bridges Road," because [session guitar great] James Burton
was there. We ran out of songs one day, and I started playing "Seven
Bridges," which I wasn't even sure was a finished song, really. And
Burton said to LiPuma, "This is good, let's put it down." He said it
with such authority -- LiPuma was kind of in awe of Burton -- so
[LiPuma] said okay, and put it down.
Q: How did "Seven Bridges Road" end up
getting covered by the Eagles?
A: I believe it got to the Eagles through Ian Matthews. I'm sure that
the Eagles, or some of them, had and were aware of Rock Salt & Nails, and maybe
they liked the song already. But I think what sold them on the song was
Ian Matthews's arrangement. He's a brilliant arranger, and did that
different arrangement with the voices, more upbeat 4/4 time,
pedal steel, autoharp and different things. A very good cut, and it got
some FM airplay [in] the early '70s. I think he was in Mike Nesmith's
studio, and the Eagles had come in there. Ian was finishing up, and
they heard this recording of the song, is the story I've always heard.
Then they liked it so much that they started closing their show [with
it], and based their arrangement on his arrangement.
20.
Alexander "Skip" Spence
Oar
(Columbia CS 9831)
May 19, 1969
CD reissue: Sundazed SC 11075 (1999)
The tragic events that led to Skip Spence's Oar have, for better or worse,
achieved as much notoriety as the album's quite magnificent music. The
original Jefferson Airplane drummer, and one of the three guitarists in
the first Moby Grape lineup, he freaked out violently during the
recording of the Grape's second album in New York. An axe-wielding
Spence was disarmed, briefly jailed, and then committed to Bellevue
mental hospital for six months. Upon his release he traveled to
Nashville to record, in a mere four days of sessions, the primordial
acid folk of what would be his only solo album, Oar, credited to his given name,
Alexander Spence.
Certainly Oar's
unique brand of roots voodoo folk-rock was uncommercial. Like a hoarser
Johnny Cash, Spence's low growl spun oblique tales of murder, lust,
ebullient mattress-bouncing sex, regret, and redemption. Like a dying
rural bluesman given one last sugar cube to ease his breakthrough to
the other side, it was equal parts Delta blues, Appalachian folk, and
Haight-Ashbury haze. For all its gravity, however, it was pretty funny
in places -- Spence had a great ear for witty puns, some of which even
made their way into the song titles ("War in Peace," "Weighted Down
(The Prison Song)," and "Lawrence of Euphoria"). Raw, naked, and
utterly devoid of artifice, Oar is not just the greatest low-selling
'60s folk-rock album of all time -- it's one of the greatest '60s
folk-rock albums, period.
Oar is so
akin to a final testament that it's hard to imagine how Spence could
have followed it up, but he sealed his cult legend by never releasing
another solo album, although he would record and perform again
sporadically with Moby Grape. Despite a glowing review by a young Greil
Marcus in the September 20, 1969 issue of Rolling Stone, Oar sold poorly -- less than a
thousand copies, in fact, according to one account. Worse, Spence
battled with mental illness and homelessness for much of the rest of
his life. It was an American counterpart of sorts to Syd Barrett,
albeit with even more tragic consequences.
Though original copies of Oar are undeniably scarce, there's
some suspicion that the album couldn't have sold as poorly as legend
would have it. A major label truly has to try hard to sell less than a
thousand copies of an album praised so enthusiastically by Rolling Stone, and over the past
half-dozen years or so, three owners of the first pressing have told me
they had no trouble whatsoever finding the LP when it came out. (It was
also cited as an influence on one of the other albums surveyed here, It's a Cinch to Give Legs to Old
Hard-Boiled Eggs, by Maxfield Parrish singer-songwriter David
Biasotti.) Perhaps it's an urban legend whose roots can be traced back
to Pete Frame's "San Francisco: 1" family tree in April 1979, which
stated that Oar had sold less
than 700 copies worldwide. The story has a happy ending, though, for
the album if not for Spence himself. Reissued on LP in the late 1980s,
and then on CD twice in the 1990s (with progressively more unreleased,
if rather unimpressive and half-formed, outtakes tacked on), Oar's cult just grew and grew.
There was even a tribute album with contributions by Beck, Robyn
Hitchcock, Robert Plant, and Tom Waits. And in its latest iteration,
the CD reissue of Oar has
sold tens of thousands of copies -- not a gold record by the RIAA's
standards, perhaps, but pure platinum validation for such a weird and
wonderful cult album.
21. The
Dillards
Copperfields
(Elektra EKS 74054)
January 1970
CD reissue: Collectors' Choice Music
(2002)
The Dillards established themselves as a popular bluegrass act years
before they moved into electric folk-country-rock. Rather like the
Gosdin Brothers, they too moved into the Byrds' flight path, likewise
opening some shows for the Byrds in the mid-1960s. Their 1968 album Wheatstraw Suite has been justly
acclaimed as a country-rock groundbreaker, putting bluegrass, country,
folk, rock, and pop together with a natural ease. Their 1970 follow-up Copperfields was quite similar, but
somehow has failed to garner nearly as much praise as its predecessor,
though it's just about as good. Perhaps it was just too similar; what
was novel in 1968 on Wheatstraw Suite
was more taken for granted in country-rock by the time Copperfields hit the shelves.
Much of Copperfields
was devoted to beautifully harmonized folk-country-rock, the largely
original material broken up by well-chosen covers of songs by Eric
Andersen ("Close the Door Lightly"), Harry Nilsson (who co-wrote
"Rainmaker" with Bill Martin), and the Beatles (a lovely one-minute a
cappella version of "Yesterday"). There were some surprising moves
toward pop and acid rock, however. "Touch Her If You Can" could easily
pass for a classy AM radio hit single that never was, while the
harmonies on "In Our Time" verged toward California sunshine pop. And
there can be few better approximations of the Fifth Dimension-era Byrds than
"Brother John," with its jazz-waltzing tempo, angelic harmonies, and
McGuinn-esque guitar runs. If the Dillards were taking some inspiration
from the Byrds, it's worth noting that some water had flowed under that
bridge in the opposite direction; it's still not widely known that the
Dillards' Dean Webb helped the Byrds work out their vocal harmonies for
"Mr. Tambourine Man."
Unlike most of the other albums in this rundown, Copperfields has little in the way
of strange stories, unexpected artistic U-turns, odd alliances,
celebrity cameos, and personal or business misfortune attached to its
conception, execution, and release. Which shouldn't count against it,
by any means: it was just the Dillards doing what they did best, and
they were among the best at what they did. And, like several of the
other country-rockish LPs we've previously discussed, it contained --
particularly in those vocal harmonies -- seeds of the formula the
Eagles would, with much commercial pop finish, take to the masses in
the 1970s. Not that it helped the Dillards sell too many records in
their time; it would take a tour with Elton John to help their next
album, Roots and Branches,
become their only LP to make the Billboard charts.
22. Dion
Sit Down Old Friend
(Warner Brothers WS 1826)
1970
CD reissue: Ace CDCHD 2001 (as part of
Sit Down Old Friend/You're Not Alone)
Dion's late-1968 hit single "Abraham, Martin and John" was one of the
most remarkable comeback stories of the decade. To those who hadn't
been paying very close attention, it must have seemed as though he'd
changed himself from a teen idol to a credible folk-rock
singer-songwriter overnight. Actually, however, Dion had tested the
folk waters as far back as late 1963, when he'd covered Woody Guthrie's
"900 Miles." He also encouraged an uncertain Roger McGuinn to go in a
folk-rock direction in 1964, and in his autobiography, he recalled
helping Tom Wilson work out some rock'n'roll arrangements to overdub on
acoustic Bob Dylan tapes, as an experimental preamble to Dylan's actual
initial mid-'60s folk-rock sessions. By 1965, Dion himself was
recording and writing some quite respectable early electric folk-rock
for Wilson. He was derailed by a serious drug problem, however, and
most of those cuts were buried as flop singles, obscure album tracks,
or outtakes that didn't come out until the CD era.
So it wasn't as much of a detour as it seemed when
he cut an entirely unplugged album in 1970, Sit Down Old Friend, on which the
only accompaniment was his own acoustic guitar. He'd already gone into
singer-songwriter folk-rock, more or less, with the "Abraham, Martin
and John" single and his 1968 self-titled album, which included the
anti-war original "He Looks a Lot Like Me" among covers of songs by
Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Fred Neil, Lightnin' Hopkins,
and even Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze." Yet Sit Down Old Friend, it must
be said, is the more impressive and certainly more uncompromising LP.
Most of the songs were Dion's, and showed him at perhaps his most
confessionally personal on record. Some might contend that there's no
"rock" involved as everything's acoustic, but certainly it's neither
mild nor twee, if more tender than harrowing. He unveils some
surprisingly nimble blues chops and scat vocals at times, particularly
on "Jammed Up Blues." The main pleasure, however, is hearing one of the
finest rock'n'roll vocalists sing a more intimate, gently crooning
folky style than he did on his famous hits, proving as adept in this
persona as he had as the macho brute behind the likes of "Runaround
Sue."
Both Dion and Warner Brothers must have had high
hopes for his first album on the label. Dion was moving from a waning
indie, Laurie, to a powerful major. Warner Brothers was scooping up
singer-songwriters right and left at the beginning of the '70s --
indeed, perhaps too many to promote all of them effectively at once --
and likely thought of Dion as a prestigious addition to its roster. Sit Down Old Friend missed the
charts entirely, however, and Dion returned to full rock band
arrangements for his less impressive follow-up, You're Not Alone -- which also
failed to chart. Indeed, Dion would never land another hit album or
single, or make as bold a musical move as he had with Sit Down Old Friend, which is now
paired with You're Not Alone
on a single-disc CD reissue.
23.
Linda Perhacs
Parallelograms
(Kapp KS 3636)
1970
CD reissue: The Wild Places WILD005-RE
(2003)
Linda Perhacs's route to a record deal was perhaps more circuitous,
fortuitous, and accidental than any of the other artists covered in our
survey. Working at a Beverly Hills dental office, she came to be
friends with one of her patients. She mentioned that she also wrote
songs; he asked to hear them; she gave him a home tape; and the next
day, 8am on Saturday morning in fact, he and his wife called to ask
Linda to come over. He was Leonard Rosenman, and he wanted to produce
her album for Kapp Records. That's how quickly things could get thrown
together back then; these days, it might have taken four lawyers and
many more weeks before he even asked for a demo.
Perhacs might have stumbled into her recording
career through the back door, but she had unusually sophisticated, even
avant-garde ideas in mind for her LP. Wanting to create a motion
painting of sorts, she brought an unconventional "score" into the
studio on a long scroll of graph paper, complete with picture graphs
and timings. The "parallelograms" of sound she and the other musicians
(including renowned jazz drummer Shelly Manne) generated were hardly
inaccessible, however. More than one reviewer and listener has
described the album as something of a spaced-out Joni Mitchell. The
largely acoustic settings were matched with lyrics riddled with
penetrating images of nature, as if the singer was seeing the true
hidden depths of her environment for the first time and bursting to
share them with her listeners. The otherworldliness was amplified by
cascades of double-tracked voices that could whirl in the mix like
leaves on a gusty autumn day. Its ethereal loveliness was not heard by
many listeners, however, as the album -- in a refrain familiar to many
of the LPs we're dealing with here -- was unpromoted and barely
distributed, though Perhacs has said it did get airplay in Washington
State, Portland, Hawaii, Canada, Colorado, and Northern California.
Perhacs vanished from the public eye after Parallelograms, and even after it
was reissued on CD by a small independent in the late 1990s, it took a
while for the label to track her down. (The album was reissued on CD
yet again in 2003 with several demos and outtakes as bonus tracks, and
that's the preferable edition to locate.) Unaware of the record's
mushrooming cult following until just a few years ago, Perhacs is
highly appreciative of her new audience, recording again, and glad to
answer a few questions about her Parallelograms.
LINDA PERHACS Q&A
Q: What type of music were you trying
to create on Parallelograms?
A: Deep in my soul I have always longed to create multidimensional and
visual music. Because even as a tiny child, I have seen music and color
as twins (and they are twins in physics). It is all a wavelength
phenomena of amazing beauty -- shapes and movement also correspond. Our
universe is incredible! That is why I love nature so much.
Leonard Rosenman and I were both experimenting with
early multidimensional sounds in our music, long before the equipment
was created to do this type of music. He loved atonal classical and my
love was softer, more ethereal sounds. I created the title song on the
album, "Parallelograms," to express music this way, i.e. as a
three-dimensional sound, and color and light sculpture in movement. But
the musical equipment to do this type of music was not yet created.
Finally, this year, an unusual music composer, Ron
Shore (www.musiccomposer.com) of Los Angeles, helped me to realize this
dream by using today’s equipment to redo the title song. I call it
"Parallelograms -- 2005." It is amazing! Ron is a genius at
multidimensional music sculpting and layering of harmonies and unusual
sounds. (You can hear a demo (rough copy) of it by going to the above
web site and following the prompts, but ear phones are a MUST!) There
is a "visual" mix version that is very contemporary, but not my own. I
have a very special dream for the final visual, it will be graceful and
full of light and color.
Q: What about Parallelograms makes it so attractive and relevant to
recent listeners, many of whom did not know about the album or were
even too young to hear the album (or not even born yet) when it was
initially released?
A: Perhaps the reason the album has had such a following for so long is
because it evolved as an attempt to be in balance with the harmony of
the natural universe, and these balances are timeless and belong to
everyone! It was a creative endeavor, done from the beginning without
hype or promotion. It was done with love and inspiration by people who
were happy to create music.
I am very grateful and somewhat humbled to realize
that what I have done so long ago has not only a good following of
people that enjoyed it when it was first issued, but is also gathering
appreciation and interest from the "now" generation. It is quite
wonderful to reflect on remarks that I get via E-mail these days from
fans from all over the world. I think that what surprises me more than
anything is that even after doing interviews that are considerably deep
and searching, more questions are generated.
Q: Why wasn't it promoted when it
first came out?
A: I simply do not know. But quiet things are sometimes the rare and
special ones, and time has proved this to be so in this case.
Q: What kind of musical directions do
you think you would have explored had you been able to make more albums
in the years after Parallelograms was made?
A: Actually I feel more ready now than at any time since the first
album. The inner development and growth inside me is stronger now than
at any previous time. Songs pour out of me faster than I can write them
down. And I am only hampered by the demands of "life." But the
creativity level has increased because it is pure spirit -- it flows
through us when we are truly ready to receive it.
I feel that in other dimensions of life, we express
our love for one another in not only words, but in color and tones and
shapes. I feel that this is a more complete expression of our love for
one another. I want to create music to express this and to increase
this love in our world today.
24.
Maxfield Parrish
It's a Cinch to
Give Legs to Old Hard-Boiled Eggs
(Cur Non 721)
Summer 1972
CD reissue: Taxim TX-2051-2 TA (1999)
The Byrds were actually not among the biggest record sellers of the
1960s by a long shot. They never had a Top Ten US single after their
early pair of #1 hits ("Mr. Tambourine Man" and "Turn! Turn! Turn!"),
and only made the album Top Ten charts twice (with Mr. Tambourine Man
and Greatest Hits). Their influence among other bands, however, can
hardly be overstated, spreading not only all the way up to the Beatles
and Bob Dylan, but all the way down to numerous younger bands that
barely or never recorded. One of these, Maxfield Parrish, could be said
to have taken their Byrds worship to extremes. They started life as the
Jim McGuinn Memorial Band, and even wrote a song ("Ellie McCall") with
a character living at Ten Canyon Road -- Roger (nee Jim) McGuinn's home
address, according to something they'd read.
Recorded in 1969 but held up for release for several
years, their sole album -- the not-exactly-roll-off-the-tongue It's a Cinch to Give Legs to Old
Hard-Boiled Eggs -- was unsurprisingly much like the late-1960s
Byrds in its cosmic, countrified folk-rock. Obviously the fellows
admired the head Byrdman above all else, and it's sometimes like
hearing a Byrds in which McGuinn's reedy voice and kindly, mischievous
space cowboy persona were even more dominant. Several of the songs, too
-- check out "Julie Columbus," "Cruel Deception," "The Widow (Lennie
Porrue)," and "The Untransmuted Child" (the last of which was not on
the original LP, but added to the CD reissue) -- can't fail to recall
the modernized electric sea shanty lilt at which McGuinn was such a
master, and "Cross Over the World" gets the bluegrass beat of Byrds
songs like "Mr. Spaceman" down to a T. Despite the inevitable
comparisons, the LP did have its own spin on their obvious
inspirations, with a somewhat goofier, more whimsical, and at times
spacier lyrical vision. They also crafted commendably creative, eerie
mild psychedelic arrangements on "The Widow (Lennie Porrue)" (with
bowed banjo and prepared piano) and "The Untransmuted Child," with its
unsettling celestial organ, quivering harmonica, and
disappearing-down-a-mineshaft vocal refrain.
Maxfield Parrish also had help from some quite
esteemed friends when they recorded the album in the Los Angeles suburb
of Monrovia in 1969. Producing was Chris Darrow, fresh from stints in
Kaleidoscope and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and also (with Bernie
Leadon) part of Linda Ronstadt's backing band, the Corvettes, in her
early solo days. A couple of Darrow's Kaleidoscope bandmates, David
Lindley and Chester Crill, helped out on various instruments; Leadon
pitched in with some acoustic guitar; and John London and John Ware,
soon to join Mike Nesmith's First National Band, chipped in on bass and
drums respectively. The spotlight, however, remained very much on the
singing of guitarists David Biasotti and Perrin Muir, who as a
songwriting team also wrote virtually all of the material.
Unfortunately the album wasn't released until 1972,
on the small Cur Non label, by which time the group had long gone their
separate ways, though Biasotti and Muir continued to work together as a
pair for a while. It's unfortunate that the band didn't have more of an
opportunity to develop their obvious potential into more original
directions, but at least the record's easy to obtain since its CD
reissue, bolstered with two outtakes from the original LP sessions and
five previously unreleased demos cut in 1972 by Biasotti and Muir as a
duo. Now living in Japan and doing some writing as a rock historian
himself, David Biasotti gave us the scoop on the brief life and times
of Maxfield Parrish, with Chris Darrow offering a comment as well.
DAVID BIASOTTI Q&A
Q: It's
a Cinch to Give Legs to Old Hard-Boiled
Eggs obviously reflects the band's deep love for the folk-rock
of
groups like the Byrds and Kaleidoscope. What do you think set Maxfield
Parrish most aside from what else was going on in folk-rock in the late
'60s?
A: That we were using traditional instruments (banjo, mandolin,
dulcimer)
on original songs was pretty unique at the time, at least for a group.
We certainly recognized Dillard and Clark as musical cousins, once they
came along. More though, I’d say David Muir’s lyrics set us apart. They
were deep and strange, quite unlike anything I’d ever heard.
Q: If the album had been released in
1969 or 1970, what do you think the reception might have been?
A: To be honest, I don’t think we’d have fared well critically or
commercially, at least in the States, even if we had released the album
in 1969. We were a pretty weird proposition. On the one hand, you had
fairly straightforward numbers like "It’s Alright (I Love Her)," and
then you had these genuinely horrific ballads about still-born babies
and the like. Maybe we were delusional, but we did think we were on the
cutting edge of something,
and I guess there’s a sliver of possibility
that, in the climate of 1969, some label might have thought us
interesting enough to give us a chance.
Q: Could you explain the differences
between the LP and CD versions of the
album, and between the different pressings of the original LP?
A: By the time the LP was released, David Muir and I were estranged
from
the process, and were pretty pissed that "The Untransmuted Child" (or
"Death of the Desperate Outlaw," as we called it at the time) was left
off. Less so "'Round the Morning," which was a pretty weak cut --
though God knows, we thought it was the coolest of the cool at the time
it was recorded. I remember being embarassed, in any case, that the
runtime for the LP was so short.
When Taxim decided to reissue it in '99, Muir,
Darrow and myself got
together at Darrow's place and decided to go with the original,
unreleased mix, rather than the second one. That, plus the fact that
the CD restores the two album cuts, means for me that, weirdly, the CD
is more "authentic" than the LP. But so it is.
Another thing perhaps worth mentioning -- from a
collector's point of
view -- is that there are two versions out there. One with a picture
inner sleeve (individual band member photos and album credits on one
side, lyrics on the other) and one with a plain sleeve. I didn't know
this myself until a few years ago, when Darrow produced a copy from his
stash to have us autograph for a Japanese club owner friend of mine.
There were, then, two pressings. I'm not sure if this is the proper
term for it, but in the "inner groove" of the LP, the blank bit between
the actual grooves and the label, there's a crude image of a turtle,
along with the words "turtle theory." This had absolutely nothing to do
with Maxfield Parrish, but meant something to the Cur Non people.
Something to do with an ancient origin of the Earth myth, I recall
being told.
As it happens, George Goad, who did the art
direction, had just gotten
in touch with Chris Darrow over the last few days. I've never met
George, but Chris passed on his e-mail address to me, and I asked him
what he remembered about the "turtle theory" bit, etc. George wrote:
"Turtle theory maintains that the world is carried
on the back of a
giant turtle, which in turn is riding on the top of the Spruce Goose,
which is piloted through the void by Howard Hughes himself. The limited
area of the turtle's back explains why you kept running into people
from Claremont, no matter where you went.
"The inscription on the lead-out spiral was probably
put there by
either [John] Pashdag or Jim Woller [both of Cur Non] when they took
the master to the duplicator. I only put the package together, Chris
[Darrow] having shot the cover photo with the photographer friend at
the time. I designed the Cur Non logo (because it means 'Why
Not?' in Latin) and Bulbous Graphics is from a phrase on an early Zappa
album cover which read "Fast and Bulbous -_ Zorch stroking!"
Q: Why wasn't the record released
promptly, and what kind of sales and distribution did it have when it
finally came out in 1972?
A: To the best of my recollection, 5,000 were printed. But Muir and I
were
really out of the loop with the people involved with Cur Non by that
time. I asked Chris Darrow for what he remembers, and Chris today
contributed this:
"The powers that be in the origins of the label known as Cur Non were
banjo player Randy Groenke, Jim Woller, and Howard Hinkley, with the
help of John Pashdag. The label was a labor of love and it tried its
best. To my recollection money and distribution were always an issue
with the investors. There were even two mixes of the album that were
done to satisfy everybody. We were all new at the game and were finding
our way in the record biz. Since the principals of the time are not
here any more, it is hard for me to piece together the exact scenario.
However, there wasn't an immediate release for the record. It was, in
its time frame, a completely unique amalgam of folk, country,
traditional and rock and roll music merged with gothic elements of
traditional European music, both Anglo-Saxon and Celtic. We felt that
we had a winner, yet finding its place proved to be harder than we had
anticipated. Almost 3 years of false starts, album design, and looking
for the right place finally led to its 1972 release. Not that it wasn't
good, even then, but by then the band had dissolved, the '60s became
the '70s, and the newness of the idea was tarnished somewhat by time
having passed. Getting the record out the door became another problem,
and I always heard of boxes of records taking up spaces in homes,
apartments, or garages. We all tried our connections to make something
happen until the label chose to pay for and release the album
themselves. The rest is history."
Q: Where do you think the band might
have headed had you not split up after the recording?
A: I don’t think we’d have continued as a strictly acoustic band. Nor
would we have been particularly "country." Once David Muir and I got a
taste of what it was like to work with drums and the whole bit, we
started writing to that concept. Had there been a second LP in, say,
1970, I think you’d have heard something like a cross between the Band
and Fairport Convention. But with weird lyrics!
25.
Satya Sai Maitreya Kali
Apache
(Akashic CF 2777)
ca. 1971
CD reissue: Normal/Shadoks 5 (as part
of Apache/Inca, 2001)
Satya Sai Maitreya Kali
Inca
(United States of America)
ca. 1972
CD reissue: Normal/Shadoks 5 (as part
of Apache/Inca, 2001)
Satya Sai Maitreya Kali
Apache/Inca
(Akashic CF 2777/United States of
America)
ca. 1972
CD reissue: Normal/Shadoks 5 (2001)
Saving the best for last -- or, at least, certainly the most mysterious
for last...the epic tale behind these incredibly strange, privately
pressed LPs has yet to be unraveled. There's even a lot of confusion
about where the artist should be filed, and in the few specialty shops
stocking reissues of these works, you might find them alphabetized
under S, M, or K depending upon the judgement of the proprietor. What's
known for sure is that Satya Sai Maitreya Kali was the name adapted by
Craig Smith, who pressed just a few hundred quantities of both Apache and Inca sometime in the early 1970s
(also issuing them together as a gatefold double-LP set). Pasted
together from sessions spanning approximately 1965-1971, the packaging
was crude, primitive, and downright creepy in its shoddiness. Yet the
music was rather more accessible than the homemade covers give you any
right to expect, sounding something like a lost alternate universe
Buffalo Springfield on the tracks done with a full band. The solo
acoustic cuts were altogether more disturbing, like a cross between
Skip Spence and Charles Manson, though even these had their moments of
beauty. Who was this guy, anyway?
Smith had actually been in the shadows of the music
scene for some time. In the fall of 1965, he and fellow folk
singer-songwriter Chris Ducey starred in a pilot for an NBC series that
would have documented a struggling fictional folk-rock trio called the
Happeners. The series never got the go-ahead, but Smith and Ducey
continued working together, putting out a 1966 single on Capitol as
Chris and Craig, and then forming the folk-rock band the Penny Arkade
in Los Angeles. The manic roller-coaster flavor of the Satya Sai
Maitreya Kali albums is to some degree explained by the revelation that
seven of the full-band tracks -- generally speaking, the most "normal"
material here -- were cut not by Craig Smith/ Satya Sai Maitreya Kali
per se, but by the Penny Arkade, in which he shared songwriting and
lead vocal duties with Ducey. Produced by Monkee Mike Nesmith, these
seven recordings would have comprised all or most of what was hoped to
be the first Penny Arkade LP. And good they are too, coming over as a
highly likable blend of Buffalo Springfield at their poppiest and the
Monkees at their earthiest.
The Penny Arkade, sadly, never managed to find a
record deal, and broke up without even a 45 to their name. Around early
1968, Smith left the band (who carried on briefly without him), later
slapping these seven Penny Arkade cuts onto his vanity LPs without the
rest of the band's knowledge. Fortunately, all of these tracks, and
sixteen others (all but five with Smith in the lineup) that the Penny
Arkade recorded in 1967-68, were recently issued on Sundazed's fine Not the Freeze CD compilation.
Ducey, who later recorded as part of the duo Prairie Madness on
Columbia and then as a solo act for Columbia and Warner Brothers in the
1970s, gives his own take on the Penny Arkade/Smith saga in the
accompanying Q&A sidebar.
Using the songwriting royalties he'd collected for
penning the Monkees' "Salesman" and Andy Williams's (!) "Holly," Smith
took off for the hippie trail later in 1968, returning to California in
the following year, and subsequently taking off for Central and South
America. What happened during his globetrotting has yet to be fully
revealed, but those who knew him before and after his travels agrees
that Craig came back changed -- and not for the better. Now calling
himself Maitreya Kali, he cobbled together scraps from the past five
years or so -- some of the spooky solo tracks most likely recorded
after he'd taken a turn for the dark side -- on Apache and Inca.
Even given the homemade look of many such
self-pressed albums from the time, the covers of these appeared to be
the work not so much of a born-to-wanderer as the inmate of a lunatic
asylum. Their mix of snapshots from his recent travels, hand-drawn
religious and celestial symbols, and incoherently fractured liner notes
suggested a seriously disturbed state of mind, reinforced by the
negative of a skull-like image glaring out from the cover of Apache, a spider tattooed on its
forehead. (To be fair these LPs did offer some bonus features of value,
including a booklet (with Apache),
an insert and poster (with Inca),
and a booklet, insert, and poster (on Apache/Inca);
the grapevine has it that some copies even came with a stick of incense
and a feather.) It was as if Smith was doing his best to scare
listeners away, not only with his album covers, but also with the more
spectral solo cuts, where both guitar and voice rang with the reverb of
a man lost in the caves of his inner psyche. Even friends and bandmates
were uncomfortable with Smith when they encountered him in the early
1970s, and they haven't seen him since then, though it's known that he
was stopping by to pick up song royalties from the Glen Campbell Music
office as late as the 1990s.
It's this writer's opinion -- not universally shared
among collectors by any means -- that few of the private American
folk-rock pressings of the late 1960s and early 1970s boasted truly
noteworthy music. Apache and Inca -- both of which,
incidentally, draw scattershot from the same pool of
mid-1960s-to-early-1970s material, sometimes linked by lo-fi spoken
word snippets -- are the most outstanding exceptions, of interest to
any collectors of both commercial late-'60s L.A. folk-rock and weirder
acid-folk. Only a few hundred copies or so of each LP, and the gatefold
double-LP combo of the two, were pressed, though they've been reissued
on both vinyl and CD. Meanwhile the search for Craig Smith/Satya Sai
Maitreya Kali's current whereabouts, intriguingly, could have even
longer odds of success than the near-impossible search for original
copies of his LPs.
CHRIS DUCEY Q&A
Q: What do you think distinguished the
Penny Arkade the most among other bands working in Californian
folk-rock at the time?
A: Nothing really set us apart. In fact as I reflect back on those days
we
probably weren't good enough to break through against the likes of
Buffalo Springfield, Love, Seeds, Byrds, Leaves...you see, we didn't
have a cut that jumped off our record in the ears of those A&R guys
who bought projects at labels. In retrospect, you and others may feel
we did. But hey, at the time we were just another bunch of kids trying
to break with some average tunes. I think we were too clean-
cut...not
"hippie" enough as well.
Q: What were the key similarities and
differences between your style and Craig Smith's?
A: Craig was much smoother singer and player than I. I was the rough
stone...louder (too loud all my career, over-sang everything!) and a
brasher strummer as well. Craig came from the Good Time Singers, a very
polished folk act that had regular appearances on the very square Andy
Williams TV show. I came from a little folk trio in upstate New
York...then to L.A. where I did a Dylan kind of thing with git and
harmonica. Those were my real folk days. Then the Happeners brought
Craig and I together. Post-Happeners, failure to make the TV cut
started us off as Chris and Craig folk duo, though our first Capitol
record wasn't folk. Craig wanted us to be like McCartney &
Lennon...everyone loved the Beatles, you know, and we were huge fans.
At the end of our Penny Arkade days he even accused my wife [as] the
reason for our breakup...kind of a Yoko thing. Pretty dumb, as what
caused us to split up was his insanity.
Q: What did Mike Nesmith contribute to
the Penny Arkade recordings?
A: Mike was our benefactor/producer. Riding high with the Monkees, he
had
good cash flow and liked our duo act so much he suggested we form a
band and he'd back us. In fact, got Bobby to come up from Texas to play
with us, and we found Don through the union. Without Mike there would
have been NO Penny Arkade. He bought our gear and had a converted
garage at his house that was our rehearsal studio. At the end (when he
stopped trying to sell our master) he moved us aside to let Three Dog
Night use the studio and our amps etc. That was it. Craig left on his
infamous trip to Peru or wherever, and came back totally loony tunes.
As a producer Mike just let us do our thing, which we attempted to do.
He gave it one last try when the three Texas guys joined up and we
became Armadillo. Got way more blues-infused and did cover tunes so we
could gig at local clubs...recorded "Give Our Love (To All the People)"
[an outtake now available on the Not
the Freeze CD] and died.
Q: What's your best guess as to why
the Penny Arkade never managed to get a record deal, even with Mike
Nesmith as a key supporter?
A: I have to go back to no hits...or anything vaguely resembling a hit,
anyway. This always plagued me throughout the rest of my career as well.
Besides not having hits I also think we played the
very unhip club
scene and were also unfashionable. Mike thought we'd be cool in these
blue suits when everyone cool was wearing longer hair, love beads, and
leather. We were too "clean." Also, being attached to the Monkees,
though they were a big TV teenybopper hit, they were uncool in the hip,
upcoming musical circles.
Q: How do you think the Penny Arkade
might have evolved had they had a chance to release the LP and record
additional albums?
A: Wow, who knows. If you heard those demos I made in Craig's absence
on
the Sundazed disc -- "Year of the Monkey," "Woodstock Fireplace,"
"Sparkle & Shine" -- you can get a flavor of my direction, anyway.
We did that stuff on four tracks with a lot of bouncing, and in one
night too. A few months after that we were dust. I met pianist Ed
Millis, and started my four years with him as Prairie Madness. Wrote
lots of cool things (over 50) with him including the rock musical that
ran for a whole week at the Ivar Theater [in Hollywood] called Oh Fuck
Visigoths! But once again...no hits. I guess if you listened to
all the
things I released and the eleven-self produced tracks I never did
release, my stamp was legible. One can see how I evolved...with Craig's
influence on those, one can only imagine. One thing I always thought,
though, was Craig would have become a lead guitar player the more we
played electric guitars. That would have been a natural step for him,
and I feel he would have held his own.
Q: What do you think of Craig's solo
material on Apache and Inca, which is quite haunting and spooky in
places?
A: His best song, "I'm Walkin' Solo" [on Apache], was one he had
written
back before we met and, in fact, impressed me so much that it drew me
to work with him. "Salesman" was cool but, what can I say, the others
were such downers and had such low energy. It was a sad thing to hear
his talent and originally good nature devolve into the loneliness of an
echo chamber. Sometimes, with the cans on, that's a safe place for the
struggling psyche of a down-and-out singer. It's warm and safe in there.
Thanks to Paul
Bradshaw of Mod Lang Records in Berkeley, California, and Mike Stax of Ugly Things magazine.
unless otherwise specified.
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