THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,720) The Dimensions — “Mary Lou”
Here’s a cool garage version of the ’55 R&B blazer co-written and recorded by Young Jessie. Bill Dahl writes that “its unusual minor-key arrangement must have appealed to rockabilly wildman Ronnie Hawkins who hit the pop lists [#26, #7 R&B] with it in 1959 for Roulette” and “a remade [’63 version] found Jessie collaborating with a trio of Phil Spector associates: Jack Nitzsche arranged, and Lester Sill and Steve Douglas co-produced.”(https://www.allmusic.com/artist/young-jessie-mn0000687322#biography) The song has been covered by everyone from Steve Miller to Bob Seger.
As to the Dimensions’ sole LP — ’66’s From All Dimensions — which included “Mary Lou”, Patrick Lundborg writes:
[It is a] somewhat legendary Chicago area frat-garage LP . . . . A solid uptempo party mood reigns, with an attactive cover selection that mixes frat-rock, ’50s r & b and British beat, with a notable Rolling Stones fixation. The band plays with snappy enthusiasm, and unlike many period albums there are no dull ballads or misplaced Broadway tunes. . . . [It is a]n unusually consistent and well-played moptop era club band LP.
The Acid Archives: The Second Edition
As to Young Jessie, Bill Dahl tells us:
The Los Angeles R&B vocal group scene of the 1950s was a fairly incestuous one — members flitted from one aggregation to the next . . . . Young Jessie was a member of the Flairs, Hunters, and Coasters, as well as scoring a solo West Coast hit with his 1955 rocker “Mary Lou.” Obediah Jessie was a Los Angeles high-school classmate of Richard “Louie Louie” Berry. The two put together the Flairs and debuted on the . . . Flair label in 1953 with “She Wants to Rock.” The Flairs recorded steadily for the firm, but solo status awaited Jessie, who cut a cover of Big Mama Thornton’s . . . “I Smell a Rat” . . . in 1954. “Mary Lou,” arranged by saxist Maxwell Davis, emerged the next year . . . . Platters manager Buck Ram took over Jessie’s career in time to pen his torrid 1956 rocker “Hit, Git & Split” under the sobriquet of Lynn Paul. . . . Jessie reverted to his vocal-group roots in 1957, joining the Coasters to sing harmonies on their smashes “Searchin'” and “Young Blood” for Atco. The same firm issued a solo Jessie 45, “Shuffle in the Gravel,” before moving him to Atlantic for “Margie.” Later singles for Capitol and Mercury did little to rekindle Jessie’s career . . . .
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Pay to Play! The Off the Charts Spotify Playlist! + Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock Merchandise
Please consider helping to support my website/blog by contributing $6 a month for access to the Off the Charts Spotify Playlist. Using a term familiar to denizens of Capitol Hill, you pay to play! (ârelating to or denoting an unethical or illicit arrangement in which payment is made by those who want certain privileges or advantages in such arenas as business, politics, sports, and entertainmentâ â dictionary.com).
The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
All new subscribers will receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock magnet. New subscribers who sign up for a year will also receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock t-shirt or baseball cap. See pictures on the Pay to Play page.
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Despite the fact that the Monkees gained creative control of their recordings from Don Kirshner at the beginning of 1967, they very smartly were not opposed to utilizing the Brill Building writers who had been under Kirshner’s rule earlier. “Shades of Grey,” a fabulous Barry Mann/Cynthia Weil ballad, was perfect for both the group and the time. A poignant and beautiful pop statement about the loss of innocence, the song makes references to both the civil rights struggle as well as the Vietnam War . . . . Tastefully arranged with a fine vocal duet between Davy Jones and Peter Tork . . . .
This is as pretty a song as the Monkees would ever record, a richly orchestrated ballad with stately piano by Tork (who shares the vocal spotlight with Jones) and session players fleshing out the understated chamber-pop arrangement on French horn and cello. The song was written by one of the Brill Buildingâs more inspired duos, Mann and Weil, as a bittersweet reflection on the changing times that finds them pining for simpler days when âit was easy then to tell right from wrong.â There are no easy answers here . . . .
Headquarter’s finest showcase of the group’s newfound arrangement expertise. “We created that stuff from scratch,” says [Peter] Tork. “Mike wrote the horn and cello parts, sang them to me, and I notated them. I was also really pleased with that little piano introduction I wrote. We were just thrilled to death with that song.”
liner notes to the CD reissue of Headquarters
As to Headquarters, Tim Sendra writes:
After the release of More of the Monkees, on which the band had little involvement beyond providing vocals and a couple Mike Nesmith-composed songs, the pre-fab four decided to take control of their recording destiny. After a well-timed fist through the wall of a hotel suite and many fevered negotiations, music supervisor Don Kirschner was out and the band hit the studio by themselves. With the help of producer Chip Douglas, the band spent some time learning how to be a band . . . and set about recording what turned out to be a dynamic, exciting, and impressive album.
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Please consider helping to support my website/blog by contributing $6 a month for access to the Off the Charts Spotify Playlist. Using a term familiar to denizens of Capitol Hill, you pay to play! (ârelating to or denoting an unethical or illicit arrangement in which payment is made by those who want certain privileges or advantages in such arenas as business, politics, sports, and entertainmentâ â dictionary.com).
The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
All new subscribers will receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock magnet. New subscribers who sign up for a year will also receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock t-shirt or baseball cap. See pictures on the Pay to Play page.
When subscribing, please send me an e-mail (GMFtma1@gmail.com) or a comment on this site letting me know an e-mail address/phone number/Facebook address, etc. to which I can send instructions on accessing the playlist and a physical address to which I can sent a magnet/t-shirt/baseball cap. If choosing a t-shirt, please let me know the gender and size you prefer.
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,716) Jesse Colin Young — “Four in the Morning”
This devastating âhaunting, all acoustic solo masterwork, [is] so stark and so blue you can almost hear the water dripping in his apartment.” (Mark Rosen, https://www.facebook.com/groups/240098362684435/posts/23878830535051219/) It lead off JCY’s first LP, ’64’s The Soul of a City Boy: “A stripped-down production of solo folk performances . . included a cover of the George [also known as Robin] Remaily song ‘Four in the Morning’ which gained radio airplay and helped launch Young’s career.” (Matt Collar, https://www.allmusic.com/artist/jesse-colin-young-mn0000331846#biography)
Ellaysium enthuses:
i fell in love with this song the moment i heard it. the lyrics are poignant, saturated in melancholy. it tells the tale of a man so haunted, so deranged, and so entrenched in his own pain that he murders his old girl and her new lover. heâs also troubled by alcoholism it seems – the phrase âlying on my backâ draws to mind the image of an insect, floundering before it dies. this man is dying without a drink. the cockroach, in his fevered mind, mocks him. the lyrics are subtly genius and beautifully dark. this is, in my opinion, the most devastating melody i have ever heard – from the lonely acoustic picking to sorrowful singing. the deep, profound misery of this tune reminds me of jackson c. frank [see #8]
Twenty-two-year-old Perry Miller was spotted by pianist/composer Bobby Scott at Folk City in Greenwich Village and signed to Capitol Records under the auspices of Scottâs employer, Bobby Scott. Scott took Miller, now renamed Jesse Colin Young, into New York’s A&R Studios in the spring of 1964, and they emerged four hours later with this 31-minute, 11-track acoustic-guitar-and-vocal debut album. Young proved to be an adept guitarist conversant with all the basic fingerpicking folk patterns, and to have an expressive, elastic tenor voice with just a touch of graininess to keep him from sounding too smooth. His six originals were fine but unexceptional, and his covers of songs like “Rye Whiskey” were pleasant. In the folk boom of the early ’60s, The Soul of a City Boy was just one more entry in the dominant style, and it would not be remembered today if Young had not gone on to bigger and better things. But it demonstrates that in his early 20s, he had a good grasp of the playing, singing, and writing talents upon which he would build in later years. The album did not sell upon release . . . .
Born Perry Miller . . . . [he] enrolled at Phillips Academy Andover in Massachusetts where he took classical guitar as an elective. His musical interests soon overtook his other school studies . . . . [and he] was ultimately expelled from the academy, and after finishing high school enrolled at Ohio State University. There, he lived behind a record store and further expanded his musical knowledge, digging deeper into folk, blues, and jazz artists. . . . By 1961 he had transferred to NYU and spent several years balancing his studies with playing gigs at local Greenwich Village coffeehouses. Dropping out of school, he took a day job . . . and continued playing solo folk shows. . . . Prior to [The Soul of a City Boyâs] release he had adopted the name Jesse Colin Young (an amalgamation of western outlaws Jesse James and Cole Younger, and Grand Prix racer Colin Chapman) to avoid undue comparisons to pop singer Perry Como. A second Scott-produced album, Young Blood, followed a year later on Mercury . . . . [H]e met guitarist Jerry Corbitt . . . . They began hanging out and working on music together. Inspired by the Beatles, and looking to move toward a more electrified sound, they joined forces with keyboardist/guitarist Lowell “Banana” Levinger and drummer Joe Bauer with Young moving to bass. Naming themselves the Youngbloods after Young’s second album, they developed a rambling, harmony-laden sound that touched upon the blues, country, and lyrical folk-rock. Playing regularly at New York club The Night Owl, they gained valuable experience . . . . They signed to RCA and released a debut single . . . which charted in the Top 60 in November 1966. Their full-length debut, The Youngbloods, followed in 1967 and featured their cover version of Dino Valenti’s . . . . [which reached] number 62 . . . . As they were beginning work on the album[ Elephant Mountain,] Corbitt dropped out of the band . . . . [T]he album found the Youngbloods exploring more of their jazz and Americana influences. There was also a more introspective tone to many of Young’s songs . . . addressing themes of death and depression and evoking the war in Vietnam. At the same time in 1969, RCA re-released “Get Together” as a single . . . landing at number . . . . In 1970, Young built a home and recording studio on a ridge top in Inverness, California where he recorded his third solo album, 1972’s Together. . . . The album marked the beginning of the end for the Youngbloods, who released . . . 1971’s Good and Dusty and 1972’s High on a Ridge before calling it quits. Signed to Warner Bros, Young moved forward as a solo artist, issuing 1973’s jazz-infused Song for Juli. . . . A creative and commercial breakthrough, the album hit number 51 . . . and helped solidify Young’s return to solo work. More albums arrived in quick succession with 1974’s Light Shine and 1975’s Songbird hitting number 37 and 26 . . . . He followed with 1976’s On the Road and 1977’s Love on the Wing, both of which charted . . . .
1,717) The Sunshine Company — âFour in the Morninââ
“Man, this is groovy! Digging the fuzz!” (Leachz1, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWVxsX9fTZk) Took the words right out of my mouth! J Rodger writes of the Companyâs take on the song and its debut album Happy Is the Sunshine Company:
The Sunshine Company melds their signature harmonies with some killer fuzz guitar action showing the tune a new light. It’s further accompanied by piano, bongos and handclaps giving the listener a refreshing change of pace. The hard-time lyrics don’t particularly reflect their namesake… In fact, quite a few tunes on the record contain moments of beautiful melancholia. Aside from a few happy go lucky âfluffersâ the sad undertones are a far more prominent theme.
But what was the great sunshine pop band the Sunshine Company (see #691) doing recording this song?! Richie Unterberger explains:
Much of their material may have been pure sunny SoCal pop . . . . But their real heart lay closer to rootsy singer-songwriter folk than the child-like naivete conveyed by their name and some of their songs. . . . âIt was a struggle with Imperial, because they kind of wanted to carbon-copy âHappyâ over and over,â confesses [singer/guitarist Maury] Manseau. âWe didnât like a lot of the pop, bouncy material they brought us. . . . [We had] this ongoing fight . . . with the record company . . . . We had to give a lot to get a few things on that we liked[.]â . . . [Producer Joe] Saraceno [said] “‘Look, letâs get a hit and then invite the public into your world after youâre popular,â and they agreed to that.[“]
liner notes to the CD comp The Best of the Sunshine Company
Jason Ankeny tells us that:
[The s]outhern California soft pop quintet . . . . [s]ign[ed] to Imperial Records in the fall of 1967 . . . [and] issued its debut LP . . . scoring their lone Top 40 hit with the single âBack on the Street Again.â The album also generated the minor hit âHappy,â although with their self-titled sophomore effort, the Sunshine Companyâs commercial momentum dissipated, and in the wake of their third LP, 1968âs Sunshine and Shadows, the group disbanded . . . .
[Joe Saraceno] calls them âthe most talented group Iâve ever worked with or seen,â [and] puts a lot of blame on their failure to go further on the record company politics that had kiboshed the release of âUp, Up and Awayâ [lost to the Fifth Dimension] (âthey really got screwedâ). . . . Manseau recalls Bill Graham introducing the[m] at a San Francisco show at the Filmore with the words âI know that San Francisco audiences havenât really warmed to this group. But I think itâs one of the few good things that ever came out of L.A.â
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The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
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Honeybus is one of my favorite bands (see #6, 52, 207, 434, 562, 605, 764, 1,100, 1,439, 1,582), with the honey being especially bittersweet with what should have been, what could have been. LN writes:
When I once lent a friend a copy of my beloved Story [including “She Said Yes”] he quipped that it sounded almost like a Beatles album from the 1960s that had somehow escaped release. I had for some time lacked just the right phrase to describe the album, and here it was; my friend had completely summed up my feelings about one of rock musicâs true lost treasures in one neat soundbite.
Honeybus had the pop touchstones of the Beatles and the Hollies, while balancing the more sunshiny, twee aspects of the early Bee Gees with some mild touches of post-Sgt. Pepper psychedelia. . . . Their songs were unusually tuneful, some lovely little hooks paired with sweet harmonies, and itâs almost shocking to hear these songs today and realize the band had pretty much zero commercial success (at least here in the US).
Bruce Eder beautifully ponders what made the band so special and what could have been:
Considering that most have never heard of them, itâs amazing to ponder that they came very close, in the eyes of the critics, to being Decca Recordsâ answer to the Rubber Soul-era Beatles. The harmonies were there, along with some catchy, hook-laden songs . . . . The pop sensibilities of Honeybusâ main resident composers, Peter Dello and Ray Cane were astonishingly close in quality and content to those of Paul McCartney and the softer sides of John Lennon of that same era. Whatâs more, the critics loved their records. Yet, somehow, Honeybus never got it right; they never had the right single out at the proper time, and only once in their history did they connect with the public for a major hit, in early 1968. . . .
Dello and Cane . . . were the prime movers behind Honeybus. In 1966, they formed the Yum Yum Band . . . . A collapsed lung put Dello out of action in early 1966, and it was during his recuperation that he began rethinking what the band and his music were about. He developed the notion of a new band that would become a canvas for him to work on as a songwriter â they would avoid the clubs, working almost exclusively in the studio, recreating the sounds that he was hearing in his head. . . . It was a novel strategy, paralleling the approach to music-making by the Beatles in their post-concert period, and all the more daring for the fact that they were a new group . . . . The group was one of the best studio bands of the period, reveling in the perfection that could be achieved . . . .
They were duly signed to Englandâs Decca Records and assigned to the companyâs newly organized Deram label . . . . The critics were quick to praise the band . . . [but their first two singles were commercially] unsuccessful. Then . . . their third release, âI Canât Let Maggie Go,â [see #6] . . . . . . peaked at number eight. . . . [It] should have made the group, but instead it shattered them. Peter Dello resigned during the singleâs chart run. He had been willing to play live on radio appearances and the occasional television or special concert showcase . . . but he couldnât accept the physical or emotional stresses of performing live on a regular basis, or the idea of touring America . . . . Dello left . . . . [and] Jim Kelly came in on guitar and vocals, while Ray Cane . . . took over most of the songwriting, and Honeybus proceeded to play regular concerts. The group never recovered the momentum theyâd lost over âMaggie,â however, despite a string of fine singles . . . . [that] never charted . . . . [T]he group had pretty well decided to call it quits once they finished the[ir] LP . . . . The Honeybus Story . . . was released in late 1969, but without an active group to promote it, the record sank without a trace. . . . [I]t was a beautiful album, with the kind of ornate production and rich melodies that had become increasingly rare with the passing of the psychedelic era . . .
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The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
(song first featured as#113) John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band â âLoveâ
As I do each year on September 11, and also in light of Charlie Kirkâs murder yesterday, I will play John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Bandâs âLoveâ from 1970, one of the most beautiful, delicate and consoling songs ever written. I present it along with five wonderful cover versions, by Barbra Streisand, the Lettermen (yes, the Lettermen), Shirley Bassey, Jimmy Nail, and Beck.
The Beatles Bible says:
âLoveâ, the tenderest moment on John Lennonâs debut solo album, was a simple love song inspired by his feelings for Yoko Ono. ââLoveâ I wrote in a spirit of love. In all that shit, I wrote it in a spirit of love. Itâs for Yoko, it has all that connotation for me. Itâs a beautiful melody and Iâm not even known for writing melody.â Lennon had recorded a guitar demo of âLoveâ in Bel Air, Los Angeles, where he stayed in the summer of 1970 while undergoing Primal Therapy with Dr Arthur Janov. The recording is the only one of the time that lacked the anger or bitterness that coloured much of [the album]. Back in England, âLoveâ was recorded at EMI Studios, Abbey Road. Lennon again played a simple acoustic guitar part, over which he sang his plaintive lyrics. . . . After recording a satisfactory take, Lennon asked Phil Spector to add a piano part. . . . âLoveâ was not released as a single in John Lennonâs lifetime, although he considered issuing it as one. It received considerable radio airplay from stations who baulked at the prospect of playing âMotherâ, Lennonâs eventual choice of single in the US.
Clocking in at around three-and-a-half minutes, it is actually quite astonishing that Lennon manages to convey so much of the emotion he felt for Yoko Ono in the time it takes to brew a cup of tea. . . . âLoveâ is one of the most minimalist songs Lennon ever released, featuring just two musicians, Lennon himself on guitar and vocals, and Phil Spect[or] on the piano. . . . [It] is a remarkably stark track, as if he wanted to avoid anything that might detract from his adoration. The stripped-back, elemental sound that Lennon pursued on âLoveâ feels almost like an extension of the primal therapy that he and Yoko Ono took part in following the break up of The Beatles in 1970. Itâs as if all that screaming into the wind allowed Lennon a period of calm in which he was able to sit down and write something honest, sensitive, and undeniably vulnerable. . . . [I]tâs possible that, at least in some ways, it was intended as a gift to Ono. âWith Yoko, I really knew love for the first time,â he once said: âIâd never met anyone who was my equal in every imaginable way. My better, actually. The dream came trueâ
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Opening with a stately cello figure (not unlike some of the unreleased Beach Boys Smile-era recordings such as “The Old Master Painter”), [it] closes out the underrated Songs for All the Seasons of Your Mind with fabulous style. The song is indeed a rock/folk suite, compromising several different passages, not unlike an opera. The main melody is rock and folk based, featuring some chillingly dissonant choral patterns on the keyboards by the great Artie Butler. The song even quotes from another of the album’s songs, “Sunflakes Fall,” which adds to the chilling quality of the recording. Insanity, suicide, and teenage angst and blues are all a part of Ian’s world here, and she neatly (and disturbingly) ties all of this up in one great statement. Chronicling the actual suicide of a young girl (by jumping off of a building), Ian illustrates all of this in gory and emotional detail, and the effect is truly terrifying, as well as artistically brilliant.
One of America’s most important singer and songwriters, Janis Ian melds intimate personal insights with sociopolitical polemics, and has never been afraid to share her secrets or her opinions with her audience through her intelligently melodic songs. Ian’s career has gone through three distinct stages. She had an initial burst of fame as a teenager with a precocious gift for social and political commentary as documented on her self-titled 1967 debut album and its hit single “Society’s Child.” She returned to the public eye in the mid-’70s with deeply personal songs about life and relationships . . . . In 1993, after ten years away from the spotlight, Ian re-emerged as an independent artist . . . . In each stage of her career, her lyrics were literate and affecting and her vocals have a warmth that reflects strength and vulnerability with equal eloquence. . . . [Her parents] were political activists who supported a number of progressive causes, which led to the F.B.I. investigating the family . . . . Growing up, Ian was fond of the music of Joan Baez and Odetta, often played in the house, and she started playing music at a very early age. . . . In 1963, Ian wrote her first song, “Hair of Spun Gold,” which was published in the noted folk music journal Broadside. She briefly attended the High School of Music & Art in New York City . . . and she began performing at school functions that spread the word about her talent. Soon she was making the rounds of New York folk clubs . . . . In 1965, Ian wrote a song about an interracial romance between two teenagers, “Society’s Child,” and word about the song and its young composer made its way to Atlantic, which arranged for Ian to record it with producer Shadow Morton . . . . [W]hile Atlantic opted not to release “Society’s Child,” Verve/Forecast signed to her a record deal and issued the tune as a single in 1966 . . . . The song initially met resistance from radio programmers due to its controversial theme, but after Leonard Bernstein featured Ian on a television special, Inside Pop: The Rock Revolution, the single took off . . . . Ian suddenly rose to stardom, and her first album, Janis Ian, appeared in early 1967. She dropped out of high school in tenth grade to focus on her music full-time, and before 1967 was out, she’d released a second LP, For All the Seasons of Your Mind. A song from the album, “Insanity Comes Quietly to the Structured Mind,” was issued as a single, but rose no higher than number 109, and her third full-length, 1968’s The Secret Life of J. Eddy Fink, produced no hits and failed to chart. Ian stopped working with Shadow Morton[.] . . . 1969’s Who Really Cares . . . was a creative step forward for Ian as a songwriter and performer . . . [but] it was promoted poorly and proved to be her last album for Verve/Forecast. . . . Frustrated with the music business, Ian retired . . . though she soon reconsidered, and signed with Capitol, which issued Present Company in 1971. The album received little attention, but it reawakened her interest in songwriting, and she soon wrote the songs “Jesse” and “Stars.” The former . . . would become a hit when recorded by Roberta Flack . . . and the latter . . . became the title track for her first album under a new contract with Columbia. 1974’s Stars sold only modestly, but received strong reviews, and the song “The Man You Are in Me” was issued as a single and peaked at number 104 on the pop charts . . . . Ian’s second Columbia LP, 1975’s Between the Lines, became a major commercial and critical breakthrough, earning some of the best reviews of her career, rising to the top of the Top 200 albums chart, and spawning “At Seventeen,” a vivid recollection of adolescent angst that unexpectedly made its way onto AM radio and became Ian’s signature song, peaking at number three on the pop singles survey.
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I was the bloke who started [the Riot Squad] and discovered a young unknown drummer ‘Mitch Mitchell’ (who is drumming on this). I did not want to record [the song], but our Manager (Larry Page) insisted that we did, so for a laugh I borrowed a friend of mine’s voice (Georgie Fame) and sung it like he would have done it. . . .
I know Georgie, and when I recorded the song I hated it, still do, so I ‘borrowed’ Georgie’s voice to record it!! When I saw him next I told him what I did, he did not believe me, but a few days later he heard it on the radio and told me that he thought it was him singing, and we had a big laugh about it.”
Bruce Eder has told us the story of the Riot Squad Mark II (see #1,461). Here is his telling of the story of the band Mark I:
Their story began in 1964 when producer Larry Page decided to put together a group whose sound would be a more pop-focused brand of British Invasion-style rock from that of his one big success of the time, the Kinks. The resulting lineup included Graham Bonney (aka Graham Bradley) (guitar/vocals), Ron Ryan (guitar/vocals), Mark Stevens (organ), Mike Martin (bass), Bob Evans (saxophone), and John Mitchell (later better known as Mitch Mitchell (drums). They were all young, from 17 to 22, but had surprisingly extensive experience as session musicians, and each was proficient on more than one instrument . . . . Page was going to call them simply “Riot,” but Evans proposed and he accepted the alternative of Riot Squad. The irony was that once he had them assembled and they began working together, they plunged in exactly the opposite direction from what Page had intended — the sextet discovered that they shared a natural affinity for and ability with the bluesier, more R&B-inflected side of British rock & roll. They roared into 1965 with a debut single, “Anytime” b/w “Jump,” a double-sided soul shouter that got great reviews . . . . A follow-up single eight weeks later, “I Wanna Talk About My Baby” b/w “Gonna Make You Mine,” got similar high praise and both earned considerable airplay without actually selling a lot of copies . . . . But by then the group was starting to build a reputation as a live act and their shows were pulling serious crowds. Things started to go wrong just as they were looking up — the band’s hopes were hinged on a tour with the Kinks and the Yardbirds, but when the Kinks had to pull out, owing to an injury to Ray Davies, everything else fell apart, as the Yardbirds’ commitment became shaky as well. . . . A third single, “Nevertheless” b/w “Not a Great Talker,” was also well reviewed and seemed to portend great possibilities. But amid these efforts to break through in the year 1965, there were already internal stresses threatening the group — Martin was the first to exit, followed by Ryan, who’d sung lead on the first two singles; and then Bonney, who’d sung lead on “Nevertheless,” decided to opt out in favor of a solo career. That seemed to mark the end for the group as a coherent, cohesive unit, and before that point even Larry Page had moved on to other projects and opportunities. Mitch Mitchell jumped to Gerogie Fame’s band the Blue Flames, and that seemed to be all for the band. But then saxman Bob Evans, recognizing that the group had a stage reputation and also that those positive reviews of the first records comprised something to build on, however small, decided to try and salvage something from the previous year of work. He assembled what was essentially the Riot Squad (Mark II) by recruiting a promising London-based outfit called the Chevrons.
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The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,712) Nirvana — âIllinoisâ
Two expatriates in Swinging London — one from Ireland, one from Greece — as Nirvana (see #287, 391, 475, 1,238, 1,525) give us this pop psych masterpiece (along with all their other pop psych masterpieces), a “remarkable tour-de-force with a quite exceptional orchestral backing” (Softman, https://rateyourmusic.com/release/album/nirvana/dedicated-to-markos-iii/), a âheartbreaking tale of a young man leaving his family to try and find work. The lyrics are full of hope, but you know he’s never coming back”. (Kimsganglion, https://rateyourmusic.com/release/album/nirvana/dedicated-to-markos-iii/) This is nirvana to me.
Softman writes of the album — Dedicated to Marcos III/to Markos III:
This is quite simply a masterpiece – Patrick Campbell Lyons was never again to achieve such poise, maturity and sophistication in his songwriting. Given the quality of the songs and the smoothness of the production, it is something of a surprise to learn of this achingly beautiful album’s troubled history. Record-company machinations meant that – at its original time of creation – it was barely released, and sank without a trace. Talk about injustice! . . . For those not only with ears to hear, but with the pureness of heart to receive, To Markos III . . . is balm for the soul.
[The LP has a] big and cool late 60s sound and . . . swooning melodicism . . . . Recorded over just three short days in between March and June 1969, it was originally intended as their third album on Island. Instead only a small number of copies appeared in 1969 on more or less instantly folding American label Metromedia, after the Island contract had been abruptly cancelled. A small number of copies were also released in Italy and Brazil, and in 1970 on Pye in the UK. . . . It appears that one of Alexâs cousins gave Nirvana money to remix the tapes on the condition that they dedicated the album to his son Markos who had a terminal disease. Although the original Metromedia release appears to have no visible title at all, the dedication to Markos III appears on the back sleeve just above the band name. However, on the Pye release, the record labels have Dedicated to Markos III printed on them. . . . [T]he music on this album is quite grand and rather unique. More continental (Francophile, even) than its 1969 peers in the UK, it has a cinematic sheen and combines sweeping orchestral arrangements with some quite dramatic and well-written pop songs. It also benefits from being less naive than Nirvanaâs earlier material.
Nirvana’s third album pretty much spelled the end for the band . . . . [It was] originally recorded for Island Records’ Chris Blackwell [with] the working title Black Flower, but Blackwell rejected the project as too derivative and declined to release it. The duo secured funding, reportedly from a family member of Spyropoulos, and issued a limited run titled Dedicated to Markos III on the Pye Records label in 1970, which may have been intended only as a promo. There was also an Americas release on Metromedia Records around the same time. This is the same label that was an experiment on music promotion by the MetroMedia communications conglomerate. The label never managed to properly promote any of their acts . . . . The only act they did manage to succeed with was the pop icon Bobby Sherman. The label folded not long after their Nirvana release . . . . [It] is a cohesive album of sorts, with most of the tracks centering on themes of love, love lost, and yearning. One exception is the West Coast pop-psych sounding “Christopher Lucifer” which was supposedly written in response to Chris Blackwell’s refusal to release the album.
David Wells writes that âNirvanaâs sound involves âmystical, gently romantic lyrics . . . [with a] breathy falsetto and a gorgeous combination of soft psych/pop melodic flair and baroque-flavoured arrangements that incorporated the use of cello and French horn.â (Record Collector: 100 Greatest Psychedelic Records: High Times and Strange Tales from Rockâs Most Mind-Blowing Era)
Steven McDonald sketches the band’s early history:
Nirvana appeared in 1967, starting as a six-piece led by Patgrick Campbell-Lyon from Ireland, and Alex Spyropoulos from Greece. They were quickly signed to the fledgling Island label, which had formed out of Chris Blackwell’s street-level R&B and rocksteady label operations, when Blackwell recognized a need to hook into the exploding psychedelic genre of the time. The first LP to emerge was the science-fiction concept album, The Story of Simon Simopath, which yielded their second single, “Pentecost Hotel” [see #287] (their first and third singles appeared on the follow-up, All of Us). The band’s early performances yielded something of an audience, but this did not translate into explosive sales in England or America, though the band achieved some success in Europe. Winnowing down to the core duo of Campbell-Lyons and Spyropoulos, Nirvana continued to release singles from All of Us, with the title track [see #1,525] going on to be selected as the theme song for The Touchables, while “Rainbow Chaser,” [see #1,238] an almost-hit, came to be considered a classic psychedelic outing.
Nirvana, the nonchalantly enigmatic duo of Patrick Campbell-Lyons and Alex Spyropoulos . . . . releas[ed] a brace of the most airily accessible and mercilessly hooky albums to have floated into being in the culturally charged domain of 1967 and â68, without sacrificing a neutrino of integrity. . . . [We must] ponder anew why Nirvana didnât make a deeper impression on the malleable hearts of the record-buying public. They fared rather better in mainland Europe, admittedly, where their billowing, romantic, sumptuously arranged and gracefully baroque compositions were tailor-made for trailing fingers in petal-strewn lakes on warm nights and contemplating Greco-Roman statuary. Nevertheless, their comparatively brief entry in the historical record remains mystifying when they were the perfect panacea for intense times. [A]n ambrosial, benevolent air blew over them and lightly draped a paisley pattern over most everything they recorded. Theirs was a sonic picture unassailed by acid horrors . . . . For the most part, this was sweet-natured, serenely uplifting mood music for the watering of ferns and the lighting of joss sticks; and even in the hard light of 1968, when the compass-overboard hedonism of the previous year had tipped over into revolution, riots and a return to rock, you still had the option of sinking into Nirvanaâs plushly-upholstered sound cave of incense, patchouli, silks and satins after a hard day at the barricades.
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The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,711) Bob Dylan — âNo More Auction Blockâ
Well, everyone in the world has heard this song â at least the song that was either inspired by or adapted from this song. For the anti-slavery Black spiritual âNo More Auction Blockâ begat âBlowing in the Windâ. Here is the version that Dylan sang at the Gaslight CafĂŠ in New York City in October 1962 â â[t]he best version . . . I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe how young he was when he performed it because it’s so plaintive and nuanced at once.” (johntustin3122, https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5_KHDWpnDjg) âBesides the unfettered raw virtues of the performance, I can’t unhear the making of âBlowin’ in the Windâ in its nascent form.” (jaggers4808, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_KHDWpnDjg)
Jochen Markhorst gives us some history:
The practice of slave auctions has been immortalized in the song âNo More Auction Blockâ, a song that surfaced somewhere in the middle of the nineteenth century. Its origin is unknown, but we know that it was sung as a marching song by the so-called Black Regiments during the . . . Civil War . . . . A decade later the legendary Fisk Jubilee Singers travelled around with that song on the repertoire and a century later it is still on the setlist of black artists â Odetta, in particular, keeps it alive. Dylan sang it one time, in 1962, and then knocks up the melody for âBlowin âIn The Windâ . . . .
Dylan has not planned th[e] success [of âBlowing in the Windâ] and can not foresee that the song will grow into the hymn of the civil rights movement, of the Sixties as such, even. But a calculating cold-blooded strategist could not have figured it out craftier. The melody comes from an old slave song from the nineteenth century, âNo More Auction. . . . In a radio broadcast of National Public Radio, October 2000, comrades from day one, Happy Traum and Bob Cohen (from The New World Singers) recall more details: One night at Gerdeâs Folk City, Dylan heard The New World Singers perform a Civil War era freedom song, one that Bob Cohen still remembers. âIt was very dramatic and a very beautiful song, very expressive. And Dylan heard that and heard other songs we were singing. And some days later, he asked us, he said, âHey, come downstairs.â We used to go down to Gerdeâs basement, which wasâis it all right to say?âfull of rats, I donât know, and other things. And he had his guitar, and it was kind of a thing where when he added a new song, heâd call us downstairs and weâd listen to it. And he had startedâand he wrote, (singing) âHow many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?â And the germ of that melody of âNo More Auction Blocksâ certainly was in that.â
[T]he influence has never been denied, it has always been described as a point of departure, an inspiration, but hardly more than that, and the similarities really arenât that substantial. . . . obvious but limited. The beginning is identical, when it comes to the melody, the harmonization (the album version differs slightly, but most live versions use the same harmonization as on No More Auction Block), and the phrasing . . . . Nobody would dispute this, and nobody has. . . . Dylan himself said so: ââBlowinâ in the Windâ has always been a spiritual. I took it off a song called âNo More Auction Blockâ â thatâs a spiritual and âBlowinâ in the Windâ follows the same feeling.â Should further evidence be needed in Dylanâs defense, one might point out that the loan is limited to the first and last phrase and to the overall mood of a spiritual â âthe same feelingâ; and that the rest of the song structure is very different: Auction Block is a stylized call-and-response type of song, where one phrase is sung and then repeated in a slightly varied form . . . . [O]n a scale from complete independence (0), through influence (1), similarity (2), striking similarity (3), identity (4) to theft/plagiarism (5), and with a second axis going from open to covert and a third from innocent to crooked, this one obviously scores a clear 2 on the first axis and zeroes on the other axes: Blowing in the Wind is influenced by and therefore shows some similarity with Auction Block, but it is an open loan and morally white as a dove.
âBlowinâ in the Windâ is, according to Bob Dylan, and as is repeated endlessly by commentators, based on âNo More Auction Blockâ. Indeed, if you concentrate, you can hear the melody of âthe answer my friend is blowing in the windâ in the instrumental introduction to âNo Moreâ, and again within the song most particularly in the last line of each verse. . . . But I think this whole thing about âBlowin in the Windâ actually being based on âNo more auction blockâ is rather a simplification. Of course we accept it because Dylan is quoted as saying ââBlowinâ in the Windâ has always been a spiritual. I took it off a song called âNo More Auction Blockââthatâs a spiritual and âBlowinâ in the Windâ follows the same feeling.â But that is a key point â I am not at all sure how many people would trace âBlowing in the Windâ back to âNo More Auction Blockâ without being told. In short, Bob may have started with âNo More Auction Blockâ but that is not the same as the two songs being inexorably linked. . . . I wonder just how true that link that we are regularly told about actually is. For really just as there is little more than one musical line in Dylanâs version of the song that relates âNo more auction blockâ to âBlowin in the windâ and there is not much in the lyrics at all to suggest [they are] related . . . . Is there really any link between the MUSIC of âNo More Auction Blockâ, and the MUSIC of âBlowing in the Windâ? Now I know . . . that if you go onto Googleâs AI Overview it will tell you that âThe melody of Bob Dylanâs song âBlowinâ in the Windâ comes from the 19-th century African-American spiritual âNo More Auction Block For Meâ and so I am disagreeing with AI, because quite simply I am saying âNo it doesnâtâ. Of course you can hear half a phrase of music in the title line to âAuction Blockâ as equivalent to âHow many roads must a man walk down,â but then that latter line only contains four notes, and yes it if you play it in the right key they are the same four notes as âHow many roads,â although at a different speed, and with a different rhythmic lilt. But this is true for hundreds of thousands of songs. . . . [I]n every song there are almost certainly elements of other songs. The musical opening to âNo More Auction Blockâ is made up of just four notes. The musical opening of âBlowing in the Windâ is made up of the same four notes in the same order BUT the rhythm, speed and indeed feel of those notes is completely different. . . . [T]here is some link . . . but it is the same sort of link that can be found between characters in two different novels saying âI love you.â The words are the same but most likely the situation, the feeling, the emotions, the reaction, the volume, the speed â in short everything â is different. . . . I think the amount of impact that song had on âBlow in’â is minute.
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On the other hand, Wilson & Alroy’s Record Reviews calls “Bobby” a “blatant and unsuccessful attempt to create another âDon’t Mess With Bill'” (the Marvelettes’ #7 hit (#3 R&B) in ’66) (https://www.warr.org/marvelettes.html) What?! “Bobby” is way, way better than “Bill”, it’s the one for me!
Richie Unterberger writes of the Marvelettes:
Probably the most pop-oriented of Motown’s major female acts, the Marvelettes . . . recorded quite a few hits, including Motown’s first number one single, “Please Mr. Postman” (1961). “Postman,” as well as other chirpy early-’60s hits like “Playboy,” “Twistin’ Postman,” and “Beechwood 4-5789,” were the label’s purest girl group efforts. Featuring two strong lead singers, Gladys Horton and Wanda Young, the Marvelettes went through five different lineups, but maintained a high standard on their recordings. After a few years, they moved from girl group sounds to uptempo and midtempo numbers that were more characteristic of Motown’s production line. They received no small help from Smokey Robinson, who produced and wrote many of their singles; Holland-Dozier-Holland, Berry Gordy, Mickey Stevenson, Marvin Gaye, and Ashford-Simpson also got involved with the songwriting and production at various points. After the mid-’60s Wanda Young assumed most of the lead vocal duties; Gladys Horton departed from the group in the late ’60s. While the Marvelettes didn’t cut as many monster smashes as most of their Motown peers after the early ’60s, they did periodically surface with classic hits like “Too Many Fish in the Sea,” “Don’t Mess with Bill,” and “The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game.” There were also plenty of fine minor hits and misses, like 1965’s “I’ll Keep Holding On,” which is just as memorable as the well-known Motown chart-toppers of the era. The group quietly disbanded in the early ’70s after several years without a major hit.
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Please consider helping to support my website/blog by contributing $6 a month for access to the Off the Charts Spotify Playlist. Using a term familiar to denizens of Capitol Hill, you pay to play! (ârelating to or denoting an unethical or illicit arrangement in which payment is made by those who want certain privileges or advantages in such arenas as business, politics, sports, and entertainmentâ â dictionary.com).
The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
All new subscribers will receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock magnet. New subscribers who sign up for a year will also receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock t-shirt or baseball cap. See pictures on the Pay to Play page.
When subscribing, please send me an e-mail (GMFtma1@gmail.com) or a comment on this site letting me know an e-mail address/phone number/Facebook address, etc. to which I can send instructions on accessing the playlist and a physical address to which I can sent a magnet/t-shirt/baseball cap. If choosing a t-shirt, please let me know the gender and size you prefer.
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,709) The Blues Project — âNo Time Like the Right Timeâ
It only reached #96?! As Richie Unterberger says, this “quite ingenious and catchy song” was the Blues Project’s (see #1,411) âgreatest achievement and one of the best ‘great hit singles that never were'” of the 1960’s. (https://www.allmusic.com/artist/the-blues-project-mn0000041899#biography) Mike Stax says itâs âa pulsating soul-pop number with psychedelic overtones in [Al] Kooper’s exotic keyboard passages and some interesting tempo shifts. . . . one of the group’s most exciting contributions to the era”. (liner notes to the CD comp Nuggets: Original Artyfacts From The First Psychedelic Era 1965-1968)
Unterberger goes deep:
[It] was the most avowedly commercial track by the Blues Project, and perhaps their most pop-oriented one, consciously tailored for the pop singles market. And it did become their only charting single . . . though it deserved to go much higher. The Blues Project had primarily been known as a blues-rock band with touches of folk-rock, but [it] was both poppier and more eclectic, almost like a combination of several different songs. The opening instrumental section led off with a drum pattern much like that of the rhythm of grinding train wheels, punctuated by eerie, dramatic guitar chords, segueing into the vocal section with a downward sweep of the organ by Al Kooper [see #642, 705, 765, 804, 1,447]. Kooper, the song’s author, also took the lead vocals on the verses, making the best of his average vocal talents with an infectious swagger, helped by dramatic minor-keyed background vocal harmonies. The rhythm then flattened out into more of a blue-eyed soul thump for the latter part of the verses, somewhat in the style of the Rascals. A leap of several keys upward led into the gospel-influenced chorus, the bashing rhythms a nod to Motown, the melody portentously lowering into more ominous progressions as Kooper promises to show his lover how to do things. The instrumental break offers a spot of psychedelia, as Kooper solos on his Kooperphone keyboard to produce snake-charming, Middle Eastern-like tones for a few bars before the return to the verse. After the last chorus, it’s back to a reprise of the trains-in-motion opening segment, with a sudden flourish of ascending chords leading into a fadeout on another pass through the chorus.
One of the first album-oriented “underground” groups in the United States, the Blues Project offered an electric brew of rock, blues, folk, pop, and even some jazz, classical, and psychedelia during their brief heyday in the mid-’60s. . . . Erratic songwriting talent and a lack of a truly outstanding vocalist prevented them from rising to the front line of ’60s bands, but they recorded plenty of interesting material over the course of their first three albums, before the departure of their most creative members took its toll. The Blues Project was formed in Greenwich Village in the mid-’60s by guitarist Danny Kalb . . . Steve Katz . . . , flutist/bassist Andy Kulberg, drummer Roy Blumenfeld, and singer Tommy Flanders. Al Kooper, in his early twenties but already a seasoned vet of rock sessions, joined after sitting in on the band’s Columbia Records audition . . . . The eclectic rĂŠsumĂŠs of the musicians, who came from folk, jazz, blues, and rock backgrounds, were reflected in their choice of material. Blues by Muddy Waters and Chuck Berry tunes ran alongside covers of contemporary folk-rock songs by Eric Andersen [see #1,235] and Patrick Sky, as well as the group’s own originals. These were usually penned by Kooper, who had . . . co-writ[ten] Gary Lewis’ huge smash “This Diamond Ring,” and established a reputation as a major folk-rock shaker with his contributions to Dylan’ mid-’60s records. . . . [T]he group truly hit their stride on Projections (late 1966), which was, disappointingly, their only full-length studio recording. While they went through straight blues numbers with respectable energy, they really shone on folk- and jazz-influenced tracks like “Fly Away,” Katz’s lilting “Steve’s Song,” Kooper’s jazz instrumental “Flute Thing” (an underground radio standard that’s probably their most famous track), and Kooper’s fierce adaptation of . . . “I Can’t Keep from Crying.” . . . The band’s very eclecticism didn’t augur well for their long-term stability, and in 1967 Kooper left in a dispute over musical direction (he has recalled that Kalb opposed his wishes to add a horn section). Then Kalb mysteriously disappeared for months after a bad acid trip, which effectively ended the original incarnation of the band. . . .
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Led by Colin Cooper, the former frontman of the R&B unit the Hipster Image [see #842], the Stafford, England-based Climax Chicago Blues Band were one of the leading lights of the late-’60s blues boom. A sextet also comprised of guitarists Derek Hold and Peter Haycock, keyboardist Arthur Wood, bassist Richard Jones, and drummer George Newsome, the group debuted in 1969 with a self-titled effort recalling the work of John Mayall. Prior to the release of 1969’s Plays On, Jones left the group, prompting Holt to move to bass. In 1970 [the band] moved to the Harvest label, at the same time shifting toward a more rock-oriented sound on the LP A Lot of Bottle. Around the release of 1971’s Tightly Knit, Newsome was replaced by drummer John Cuffley; upon Wood’s exit in the wake of 1972’s Rich Man, the unit decided to continue as a quartet, also dropping the “Chicago” portion of its moniker to avoid confusion with the American band of the same name. . . . Released in 1975, Stamp was their commercial breakthrough, and 1976’s Gold Plated fared even better, spurred on by the success of the hit “Couldn’t Get It Right.” However, the rise of punk effectively stopped the Climax Blues Band in their tracks, although they continued recording prolifically well into the ’80s . . . .
They . . . were really “Johnny Come Latelys” on the tail end of the British blues boom. This probably accounted for the band’s low profile over most of their career . . . in the UK . . . . [O]nce the . . . boom eroded they concentrated on the American market and their albums achieved modest commercial success there in the seventies.
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John Reed tells us that “[t]his Leeds band started out as a skiffle group but had progressed to an altogether more impressive sound by 1967. A students charity rag record led to a one-off single for Deram [of which today’s song was the B-side]. . . . A follow-up for Immediate Records’ Instant subsidiary was less effective, and that appeared to be that.” (liner notes to Decca Originals: The Freakbeat Scene)
Fred Thomas further explores the Outer Limits:
The Outer Limits . . . evolved quickly over the course of their brief four-year run, working in Merseybeat territory before branching out to explore mod, freakbeat, and psychedelic styles. The band was led by songwriter Jeff Christie, and they recorded multiple singles . . . before their dissolution was captured as the subject of the 1969 documentary Death of a Pop Group. . . . The Outer Limits formed in 1965, following the end of Christie’s projects like his skiffle band Three G’s Plus One and his beat band the Tremmers. The group initially made soul-tinged tunes in the style of Merseybeat or early rhythm and blues, as exemplified on their debut 1965 single “When the Work Is Through.” They soon transitioned to more of a mod sound, and signed briefly with Deram for their 1967 single “Just One More Chance.” Before 1967 was up, the Outer Limits performed on a package tour that included the Nice, Pink Floyd, and Jimi Hendrix. In 1968, the group released “The Great Train Robbery,” a psychedelic and sunny chamber pop tune and the final single they’d make before breaking up shortly after it came out. In 1969, the documentary film Death of a Pop Group included live footage and interviews with the group, delving deep into their struggles with money and keeping the attention of what they felt was a fickle and unadventurous music listening public.
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They could and should have been one of the top groups on the Pye label, based on their rough-and-ready debut “Help Me,” a cover of a Sonny Boy Williamson [â63 A-side] that was beautifully raw and authentic, and wonderfully intense across an astonishingly long three minutes and 39 seconds, [John] Soul’s harmonica and [Geoff] Eaton’s guitar keeping the verisimilitude right up there like a Chess Records session gone out of control, amid [Jay] Roberts’ ever more intense romantic lamentations.
The group, signed to Pye Records in 1964, never found even a small national audience in England, but managed to make a name for themselves in Italy . . . . The[y] started life as the Rising Sons, before taking the unpromising name of the Cornflakes, under which they won a local band competition in Northampton, the first prize of which was a contract with Pye Records. They’d already developed a strong following with their strong (if somewhat heavy-handed) R&B-based sound in the clubs around Oxford, but coming off of the competition, they also got professional management in the guise of the owners of the Plaza Theatre, where the contest was held, and they changed [to] . . . the more . . . appropriate name the Primitives. The . . . lineup consisted of Jay Roberts . . . on lead vocals, Geoff Eaton on lead guitar, John E. Soul on rhythm guitar and blues harp, Roger James on bass, and Mike Wilding on drums — their sound was very similar to the Pretty Things [see #82, 94, 153, 251, 572, 731, 892, 1,001, 1,327], rooted heavily in American R&B, and Roberts was a serious, powerful shouter who could sound seriously, achingly raspy, rough, and growly, while the others played with virtually none of the niceties or delicacy that usually marred British attempts at the music. Astoundingly, neither that single nor its follow-up, the raw and raspy “You Said” b/w “How Do You Feel” . . . managed to chart. With two failures in a row, the group and their management felt under increasing pressure to do something drastic, and they did this by splitting up — Roberts had taken over the bassist spot, doubling on the organ, and Soul kept the group name and formed the core of a new group backing vocalist . . . Mal Ryder . . . who had just lost his backing band, the Spirits. This incarnation of the Primitive . . s included Stuart Linnell (lead guitar) and Mick Charleton (drums). They had a sound similar to the original group, although Ryder was more of a dramatic singer, with an intense but less raspy delivery . . . . “Every Minute of the Year” was a suitable A-side, similar to the group’s past work . . . . [and also] failed to chart, and for a time the Primitives retreated to Northampton[. T]hey accepted a gig in Norway. . . . discover[ing] . . . that they were treated like visiting rock & roll royalty . . . and that there was a good living to be made there. . . . That was the lineup that made it to the Piper Club in Viareggio in 1966, after a short stay in France, where they recorded a killer EP. It was in the Piper Club that they became stars — like the Rokes [see #1,370] before them, the band quickly became part of the musical ether of Italy, where they had a credibility that the homegrown bands could only envy. They had a huge hit in late 1966 covering the Rascals’ “I Ain’t Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore” (entitled “Yeeeeeeh!”), which resulted in their only LP, entitled Blow Up. . . . filled with covers of American and British hits . . . . Eventually, Mal Ryder moved to center stage on their records and in the group’s promotion, and became a recording star in his own right, while the bandmembers receded in importance and influence. In the later ’60s, he released a million-selling single (an enormous statistic in Italy) of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You” (as “Pensiero d’Amore”), and ultimately became a star of stage and the small screen, becoming something of the Italian equivalent to Rick Springfield. The Primitives endured into the 1970s . . . .
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Mikhail Badanin and Kirill Babanin tell us (translated by Andrey Sinelnikov):
The history of Neoton Familia started long ago in 1965 with several young musicians forming a rock band called Neoton (Newton). That was one of the many Hungarian rock bands that played heavily progressive rock at the turn of the 1970s. It was founded by LĂĄszlĂł PĂĄsztor (guitars & vocals . . . ) and Lajos GalĂĄcz (guitars & vocals), who recruited other musicians to complete the band; however, its line-up was subject to continuous changes. They were joined by FecĂł BalĂĄzs (vocals, keyboards, organ . . . ) in 1967, and Ferenc Debreczeni (drums, vocals . . . ) one year later. In 1968 the band appeared on a Ki Mit Tud? Hungarian TV talent show, emerging victorious with a song titled “Nekem eddig Bach volt mindenem”/âBach Still Means Everything to Me”; another song with lead vocals by Lajos GalĂĄcz titled “Kell, hogy vĂĄrj” (“You Must Wait”), released on a single and broadcasted on radio, brought them their first success. One year later the band recorded one more successful single “VirĂĄgĂŠnek/A fal” (“Singing Flower/The Wall”). Lyrics of Neoton songs were contributed at that time by a Hungarian poet IstvĂĄn S. Nagy. The band performed together for a while with an up-and-coming Hungarian singer KlĂĄri Katona, who was Lajos GalĂĄcz’s wife at the time. They were also working closely with a rock band Omega [see #195, 644, 766, 832], participating in their 1970 tour as a supporting act. The same year Lajos Som . . . , formerly a member of Record and TĹązkerĂŠk, became the band’s bass player. In 1971 the band’s debut album “Bolond vĂĄros” (“City of Loons”) came out, getting a warm public reception; it was even released in USSR. This album contained twelve rock music tracks, which were innovative for the time, skillfully arranged and characterized by sweet melodies and smooth rhythms. Album sales weren’t really good though, so the band decided to go on African tour to promote it, playing shows in Nigeria and Ghana. An English version of “Kell, hogy vĂĄrj” titled “You Must Wait” got broadcasted on Nigerian radio. However, this didn’t bear a desired fruit and some of the band members went back to Hungary even before the tour ended. The band, struggling to maintain popularity, released a few more singles and participated in TĂĄncdalfesztivĂĄl music festival with a song titled “MiĂŠrt van ez Ăgy?” (“Why Is That So?”) in 1971. The band’s breakup became inevitable though: the same 1971 year Ferenc Debreczeni left the band for Omega and was replaced by ZoltĂĄn Ambrus . . . . One year later FecĂł BalĂĄzs and Lajos Som also left the band to create the first Hungarian hard rock band Taurus, putting a question mark over the future of Neoton. However, the band has found replacements for them . . . . The real boom happened in 1981 with the release of the band’s most impressive album titled “A FamĂlia”, which contained . . . superhit “KĂŠtszĂĄzhĂşsz felett” (“Over 220 kmh”), ultimately securing “Neoton FamĂlia”‘s stardom and title of the best disco band in Eastern Europe.
Neoton FamĂlia (also known in some countries as Newton Family) was one of the most successful Hungarian pop-bands, their career spanning several decades, with changes in line-up. Most active from 1977 to 1989, they released albums and singles and toured in 25 foreign countries . . . also producing many of the best-known hits in the country. From 1979 to 1989, the band sold over 6 million records in Hungary and about 1.5 million records in other countries . . . . The band was founded in 1965 by LĂĄszlĂł PĂĄsztor and Lajos GalĂĄcz, studying economics in Budapest, in order to enter the school’s annual Santa Claus music contest. Out of the two bands entering, Neoton . . . finished second. Three years passed until their first major success . . . .
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â[O]ne of [Supertramp’s first] album’s apex is th[is] fantastic [song] . . . where [Roger] Hodgson’s (see #1,393, 1,619) superb bass line and gentle high-pitched voice are superbly underlined by [Rick] Davies’ gentle Hammond line”. (Sean Trane, https://www.progarchives.com/album.asp?id=1249)
Mike DeGagne writes about the LP:
Progressive in texture for the most part, Supertramp’s debut album became increasingly disregarded as they blossomed commercially through the ’70s. . . . Quite a bit different than their radio and AOR material, Supertramp is inundated with pretentious instrumental meandering, with greater emphasis and attention granted to the keyboards and guitars than to the writing and to the overall effluence of the music. There are some attractive moments . . . . Hodgson’s use of cello, flageolet, and acoustic guitar is endearing in spots, and while both he and Davies had just recently formed their alliance, it was evident that their songwriting was going to be one of the band’s strengths. Ultimately dissatisfied with the results of the album, they retorted with Indelibly Stamped, which disappointingly followed suit. It wasn’t until 1974’s Crime of the Century that things began to improve for Supertramp . . . .
Supertramp was formed in 1969 by pianist and vocalist Rick Davies. Davies had been a member of a group called the Joint, who had found a financial backer in Dutch millionaire Stanley August Miesegaes [who] had grown disenchanted with the Joint, but saw promise in Davies, and he offered to bankroll a new band if Davies wanted to launch a fresh project. Davies placed an ad in the British music weekly Melody Maker, and recruited guitarist Richard Palmer, percussionist Robert Millar, and vocalist/bassist Roger Hodgson. Davies initially dubbed the new band Daddy, but to avoid comparison with a number of other paternally named acts, he changed their billing to Supertramp, taking the name from a book by Welsh author William Henry Davies. In 1970, Supertramp signed a deal with A&M Records, and their debut album was released later the same year. Dominated by extended prog-based compositions, the album didn’t win a large audience, and Supertramp’s lineup shifted, as Richard Palmer and Robert Millar left the group, Hodgson moved from bass to guitar, and bassist Frank Farrell, percussionist Kevin Currie, and Dave Winthrop on flute and sax joined the act. The new edition of Supertramp released the album Indelibly Stamped in 1971, but it fared little better in the marketplace than the debut, and Miesegaes cut off his funding of the group. Left to their own devices, Supertramp came close to collapse as most of the group’s members moved on, but Davies and Hodgson put together a new version of the group . . . .
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,703) Nat Turner Rebellion — âLove, Peace and Understandingâ
What’s so funny about love, peace and understanding? “The spirited social commentary” of this incredibly inventive ’70 A-side “calls for harmony” (Fred Thomas, https://www.allmusic.com/album/laugh-to-keep-from-crying-mw0003267247) — despite the Philly soul/funk band’s provocative name and black power underpinnings.
“We won’t let instigation or any aggravation, no, destroy our foundation or our love for our nation”
The Nat Turner Rebellion “reflected part post-Civil Rights black consciousness, part post-soul black rock and funk, and part sweet soul harmonies that would become a main ingredient in 1970s Philly soul.” (Melissa Weber, liner notes to the CD comp Laugh to Keep from Crying)
Fred Thomas tells the story of this fascinating Philly soul band:
The story of Philly soul group Nat Turner Rebellion is one of “lost classic” music mythology. The group formed in the late ’60s around the talents of songwriter/bandleader Joe Jefferson, aiming to bring a different level of consciousness to the soul-funk sound that was developing in Philly at the time. Rather than stick to the typical themes of love and romance, Nat Turner Rebellion’s songs tapped into the burgeoning black power movement as well as anti-war sentiments and hippie ideology. Naming themselves after a violent uprising that happened at the height of slavery, Jefferson and bandmates Major Harris, Ron Harper, and Bill Spratley worked themes of racial inequality and revolutionary thinking into their sharp grooves. The band toiled in the studio for about three years, producing a few singles as they worked towards a full-length debut. Ultimately, however, their label wanted a less confrontational sound more in line with the accessible pop of other soul acts of the day. Frustrated, Nat Turner Rebellion broke up and the majority of their songs were shelved as the bandmembers went separate directions. . . . [A]lmost 50 years later, the studio where the group recorded donated their archive of tapes to Drexel University’s Audio Archives program. The unearthed Nat Turner Rebellion tapes proved just as electric and charged decades later, and work began to properly issue these songs of hope and struggle. By the time Laugh to Keep from Crying saw wide-scale release in 2019, Jefferson was the only member of the band still alive. It’s a bittersweet time capsule in that way, and a document that highlights the anger and excitement of the early ’70s, particularly in relation to the lives of young black Americans. . . . Fueled by hard-hitting funk grooves and confident vocal arrangements, the 14 songs represent all of the band’s recorded work. . . . a document of urgency and intensity but also one of fun, joy, and togetherness.
[T]he group worked in a high-energy soul-funk vein, and their name . . . nodded to their political and sociological underpinnings. They signed a record deal with Philly Groove records in 1970, but disputes between the band and the label ultimately led to their breakup. The label wanted the band to sound more like commercial contemporaries like the Delfonics, but [the] group argued for more challenging content and a harder sound. . . . [A] finished album was shelved around 1972. Jefferson went on to write songs for other soul acts and Harris joined the Delfonics, enjoying a successful life in music both with the group and solo.
Jefferson went on to write or co-write a number of hits for the Spinners: “One of a Kind (Love Affair)” — #11/#1 R&B, “Mighty Love” — #20/#1, “Love Don’t Love Nobody — #15/#4, “Sadie” #54/#7, “(They Just Can’t Stop It) Games People Play” — #5/#1, and “Love or Leave” — #36/#8. (https://www.musicvf.com/The+Spinners+%5BUS+band%5D.songs#gsc.tab=0)
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,702) October Country — âEnd of the Lineâ
A kiss-off song disguised as winsome L.A. sunshine pop! Renowned producer, arranger, songwriter and musician Michael Lloyd wrote this song with future Three Dog Nighter Jimmy Greenspoon. After they released it in ’67 as the B-side of their band Boystown’s only single (https://www.discogs.com/release/12917382-Boystown-Hello-Mr-Sun-End-Of-The-Line), Lloyd produced October Country’s (see #624) ’68 version.
Bryan Thomas tells us about October Country’s LP:
Th[eir] album is one of the better examples of . . . Michael Lloydâs overall influence and impact on the West Coast-based [sunshine pop/soft rock]Â genre. Lloyd â who was certainly influenced . . . [by] various psych-pop sounds of the Brit-pop invasion, even harmony vocal groups like the Bee Gees â always seemed to find interesting ways to incorporate various sophisticated instrumentation (organ, horns, harpsichord, and string arrangements) into his productions.
October Country was a six-piece Los Angeles-based harmony pop group probably best-remembered for their association with producer/composer/songwriter Michael Lloyd. Lloyd was already an accomplished songwriter by age 13, signing a publishing deal with L.A. producer Kim Fowley [see #89, 449], who later introduced him to entertainment mogul Mike Curb [see #57]. Fowler hoped that Curb would use some of Lloydâs songs in the âteensploitationâ films he was producing at the time. Instead, Curb gave Lloyd the opportunity to produce a handful of groups . . . . [including] a We-Five-ish folk-rock group, led by a pair of singing siblings, Caryle De Franca and her brother Joe. The group had already performed on the Sunset Strip scene . . . . [U]nder Lloydâs supervision, [they] recorded the Lloyd-penned âOctober Country.â . . . The group adopted the name October Country thereafter, and signed with Epic Records, which released that first single in late 1967. By the spring of 1968, the groupâs second single, âMy Girlfriend Is a Witch,â [see #624] was released, followed a few months later by . . . âCowboys and Indiansâ. A self-titled LP was released that same year, but the groupâs records failed to catch on outside of the L.A. area.
By the age of 13, he had formed his own band . . . at the same time continuing to take lessons in music theory and composition. He also started writing songs and pitching them to record labels in Los Angeles, including Tower Records, a subsidiary of Capitol. By Lloyd’s own account, Eddie Ray, the head of A&R at Tower, suggested that the teenage Lloyd work with Mike Curb, and the pair began collaborating on songs and record production. Other sources suggest that Lloyd and Curb were introduced to each other by Kim Fowley, who had signed Lloyd to a song-publishing deal. Lloyd also recorded surf music as a member of the New Dimensions, a group that included Jimmy Greenspoon, later of Threw Dog Night. Around 1964, Lloyd began performing with brothers Shaun and Danny Harris . . . . Together they formed a group initially called the Rogues, later renamed the Laughing Wind. They recorded demos with Fowley, who then introduced the band to Bob Markley, a law graduate and aspiring performer who had already had his own TV show in Oklahoma. With Fowley’s support and Markley’s financial backing, Lloyd became a member of the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band with the Harris brothers, Markley and drummer John Ware, releasing an album, Part One [see #197, 488], in 1967. Fowley also released some of the Laughing Wind’s demos, with other tracks featuring Markley, as Volume One, credited to the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band. Lloyd left the band shortly afterward, but returned to contribute to their 1969 album Where’s My Daddy?. In 1967, Lloyd wrote songs and produced [a] Fowley[] solo album . . . . Curb allowed Lloyd to use his Hollywood Boulevard studios, and together with . . . Stan Ayeroff and Steve Baim . . . Lloyd wrote and produced an album, The Smoke . . . . Lloyd also provided the music for Steven Spielbergâs first short film, Amblinâ, and worked with Curb on other movie soundtracks, including The Devilâs 8 . . . .
Referred to as a boy genius at the start of his career Michael Lloyd has certainly proven that right. . . . [T]he prolific and talented record producer has accumulated in excess of 100 gold and platinum records well over 72 albums and 34 singles collecting numerous #1 singles and albums. Lloyd’s records . . . rang[e] from Pop & Rock to Country & Jazz, R&B & Gospel . . . . His various chart records span five decades, from the 60’s to the present. Additionally, Lloyd has provided scoring, music supervision, song writing, song placement and or music producing for well over 100 motion pictures, 16 TV movies, 13 television specials & 35 television series. . . . As well as being the music supervisor for the motion picture, and the Dirty Dancing album . . Michael produced the blockbuster hits “I’ve Had The Time Of My Life” for Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes, “Yes” by Merry Clayton [see #53] and “She’s Like The Wind” by Patrick Swayze. . . [H]e met Mike Curb, which began a long and fruitful friendship and business association . . . . Curb put Lloyd to work scoring motion pictures, and a few years later, when Curb became president of MGM Records, he brought Lloyd, then 20 years old, in as vice president of A & R. At MGM Records, Lloyd signed Lou Rawls, which generated Lloyd’s first major hit, âA Natural Manâ. Some of the artists Lloyd has worked with over the years include Barry Manilow, Belinda Carlisle, Kimberley Locke, Dionne Warwick, Steve Holy, Natalie Grant, Bill Medley, Benny Mardones, Stryper, Jennifer Warnes, The Righteous Brothers, The Monkees, Shaun Cassidy, Eric Carman, The Bellamy Brothers, The Burrito Brothers, The New Seekers, Sammy Davis Jr., Air Supply, Carmen, Jeffrey Osborne, The Osmonds, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Bill Medley, Tamara Walker, The Pointer Sisters, Leif Garrett, Susie Alllanson, Brush Arbor, Donny & Marie, Maureen McGovern, Roger Williams, Merry Clayton, Debby Boone, and Frank Sinatra [see #1,455] . . . .
Pay to Play! The Off the Charts Spotify Playlist! + Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock Merchandise
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THE GREATEST SONGS OF THE 1960s THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD
1,701) Octopus — âGirlfriendâ
This ’69 B-side is a very sweet and wistful song about a young man’s looking back at his youth as he grows up. It predates the UK late psych group’s wonderful album Restless Night (see #759, 1,056). “I’ve been a cowboy and a spaceman, had such fun at school And now it’s time for me to grow up and become a man”
As to Restless Night, Forced Exposure says that:
[Restless Night] bridges the gap between â60s psychedelia and a harder-edged â70s sound, drawing on the obvious touchstones of the time including Lennon/McCartney, Argent/Blunsone and the brothers Davies and Gibb.âBut Octopus had the songwriting and playing chops to make this album much more than an also-ran; with hooks galore, swirling organ, and fuzz-tone guitars, Restless Night is a prime piece of early-â70s UK psychedelia thatâs rare as henâs teeth in its original form.
Fantastic UK psychedelic pop progressive act who really took the âSgt. Pepperââs aura to another dimension. Restless Night . . . is a wonderful album full of 70âs era â BEATLEâesque themes and musical feelings.â[The band] blend[s] superb fuzz guitar and organ work all wrapped up with some great lead vocals.âSomeone once described this album as being âSo dangerously post-Sgt. Pepperâs that it approaches solo McCartneyismâ. . . .âIMHO this is an essential album . . . a masterpieceâŚ
Bruce then brings us back to the Octopusâ garden:
Octopusâ origins lay in Hatfield, 30 miles from London, and a mid-â60s quartet called the Cortinas . . . . made up of Paul Griggs (guitar), Nigel Griggs (bass), Brian Glassock (drums), and Rick Williams (guitar).âBy 1967, the Cortinas had moved from Brit beat into pop-psychedelia and cut one single (âPhoebeâs Flower Shopâ) for Polydor without success.âThe following year, the quartet renamed and redirected itself and Octopus was born.âThe band earned a support spot to Yes which was, itself, an up-and-coming group at the time.âThey also appeared on stage with acts like Status Quo and Humble Pie, and were discovered by Troggs bassist Tony Murray, who helped get them a record deal with independent producer Larry Page, who was the Troggsâ manager.âOctopus . . . released a single, âLaugh at the Poor Manâ . . . in 1969 [with today’s song the B-side].âMidway through the recording of their debut album, Restless Night, Glassock and Williams quit the band, and it was a re-formed Octopus, with John Cook on keyboards and Malcolm Green on the drums, that finished the record . . . .âThe resulting LP was popular in Hatfield but never found an audience anywhere else. . . .â[The band] disbanded in 1972. . . .âMalcolm Green and Nigel Griggs later became members of Split Enz.
Pay to Play! The Off the Charts Spotify Playlist! + Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock Merchandise
Please consider helping to support my website/blog by contributing $6 a month for access to the Off the Charts Spotify Playlist. Using a term familiar to denizens of Capitol Hill, you pay to play! (ârelating to or denoting an unethical or illicit arrangement in which payment is made by those who want certain privileges or advantages in such arenas as business, politics, sports, and entertainmentâ â dictionary.com).
The playlist includes all the âgreatest songs of the 1960âs that no one has ever heardâ that are available on Spotify — now over 1,100 songs. The playlist will expand each time I feature an available song.
All new subscribers will receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock magnet. New subscribers who sign up for a year will also receive a Brace for the Obscure 60s Rock t-shirt or baseball cap. See pictures on the Pay to Play page.
When subscribing, please send me an e-mail (GMFtma1@gmail.com) or a comment on this site letting me know an e-mail address/phone number/Facebook address, etc. to which I can send instructions on accessing the playlist and a physical address to which I can sent a magnet/t-shirt/baseball cap. If choosing a t-shirt, please let me know the gender and size you prefer.
Just click on the first blue block for a month to month subscription or the second blue block for a yearly subscription.
Brace for the Obscure (60s rock)! / Off the Charts: 60s Rock Revelationsđ 