318) The Peppermint Trolley— “I’ve Got to Be Going”
Who was America’s greatest TV band of the 60’s? Don’t think simian, think Peppermint. The Peppermint Trolley appeared rehearsing in an episode of the classic detective drama Mannix (see #136) and camped it up on The Beverly Hillbillies, and that’s just for starters. They also recorded the theme song to the generation-defining iconic TV series The BradyBunch (at least for the first season). Talk about Monkee business!
In addition to the Trolley’s contributions to television, it was a wonderful pop psych/ baroque pop band (not a bubblegum or sunshine pop band, despite what its name might suggest). The first two Trolley songs I have played were written by others (see #54, 136). The beautiful and bittersweet “I’ve Got to Be Going” was written by the band’s Jimmy Faragher.
Jimmy’s bandmate and brother Danny wrote a great history of their career which I recommend reading (http://www.dannyfaragher.com/bio/the-peppermint-trolley-company/). Of the Trolley’s sole album, on which “I’ve Got to be Going” (also a B-side) appears, Beverly Paterson writes that:
[T]he self-titled platter was padded to the ceiling with layers of sweet soaring harmonies stacked neatly atop pastoral textures, glistening melodies and exotic interludes. The band’s attention to detail and their ability to deliver the songs in such a natural manner remains flawless. A spiffy paisley pop vibe, akin to that of the Poor, the Left Banke, and the Strawberry Alarm Clock, hugs the tunes. Every song . . . is memorable, starting with the classy folk figured “I’ve Got To Be Going,” on which Chad Stuart of Chad and Jeremy handled string arrangements. . . . Challenging and ambitious, but highly accessible, [the album] is one of the greatest overlooked efforts of the era.
Another knockout performance by Barry of another fabulous Paul Ryan composition, from his ’69 album of his brother’s songs (see #88, 264-66). It was released as an A-side in Germany and hit #25. We miss you, Barry.
Big Mama Thornton and Elvis, please move aside. Etta James’s “Watch Dog” is R&B’s and rock ‘n’ roll’s true killer canine. The song — written by Don Covay — is “feverish” and “snarls with rock ‘n’ roll energy” (Charles Hughes, https://68comebackspecial.wordpress.com/2018/09/14/etta-james-tell-mama/). Dave Writz used it to epitomize James in his essay accompanying her to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame:
If rock & roll is rooted in teenage passion, teenage rebellion, teenage restlessness, teenage sexuality — then Etta James is a rock & roller to the bone. Starting out as a teenage phenomenon in the Fifties, she sang with a raw, unharnessed energy that matched her male counterparts. . . . Etta’s erotic audacity echoed the raunch of sisters like Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey, but in any era she would be considered a front-line feminist, a womanchild strong enough to dramatize the outrage of her gender, to break old chains and signify, “I don’t want a watchdog . . . I want a man.”
“I’ve never seen a man sneaking and a-hiding when he should be out working and providing.” Ouch!
Who was Etta James? This is not the place for an extensive biography, but let me quote Mark Deming, who writes in All Music Guide that:
Jerry Wexler once called [Etta] “the greatest of all modern blues singers,” . . . [But] despite possessing one of the most powerful voices in music, James only belatedly gained the attention of the mainstream audience, appearing rarely on the pop charts despite scoring 30 R&B hits, and she lived a rough-and-tumble life that could have inspired a dozen soap operas, battling drug addiction and bad relationships while outrunning a variety of health and legal problems. . . . James’ career went into a slump in the mid-’60s, but in 1967 she . . . bounced back onto the R&B charts with the tunes “Tell Mama” and “I’d Rather Go Blind.”
Those songs appeared on her Tell Mama album (which reached #82 in ’68, with “Tell Mama” the A-side hitting #23 (#10 R&B) in November of ’67). The album also included “Watch Dog.” Bill Dahl says, also in AMG:
Leonard Chess [had] dispatched Etta James to Muscle Shoals in 1967, and the move paid off with one of her best and most soul-searing . . . albums. . . . The skin-tight session aces at Fame Studios really did themselves proud . . . .
As we learned yesterday, Bohemian Vendetta backed Faine Jade on his sole album — Introspection: A Faine Jade Recital— in 1968 (see #313). Today, we turn to that album, which has deservedly become a critical darling. Most interesting is that is that Faine Jade (real name: Chuck Laskowski) is often described as highly reminiscent of Syd Barrett, though he claims not to have heard of Barrett at the time. Well, the album actually is very reminiscent, and so I will also spin one of Barrett’s post-Pink Floyd solo gems (see #87). Please compare and contrast.
314) Faine Jade — “A Brand New Groove”
A triumphant song with lyrics (perfectly epitomizing their times) to die for. As Richie Unterberger describes FJ’s trajectory in All Music Guide:
[He] began performing and recording . . . in the mid-’60s, with basic, energetic, angst-ridden material that differed little from literally thousands of other like-minded garage bands . . . . His solo LP . . . showed a quantum leap in songwriting with reflective, enigmatic lyrics and a swirling but disciplined melodicism. It has ranked among the most coveted collectibles of the psychedelic era . . . . [and] sounds as if he was besotted with Pink Floyd’s first LP, which was barely known in the States at the time. Jade’s vocals and songwriting uncannily evoke an American Syd Barrett with their evocative, cryptic lyrics, thick organs, and psychedelic guitar lines.
Rockasteria enthuses that:
[The album is] a minimalist psychedelic masterpiece. . . . bursting with curiously off-center British-influenced psychedelic pop . . . . [It] passed through the orange-colored skies of 1968 like a pink and lavender comet, then was gone . . . . detail[ing] every deliciously enigmatic, Syd Barrett-inspired twist and turn of the short but sweet career of this mysterious artist.
[A] first rate collection of sun-drenched psychedelic rock. . . . Faine Jade’s songwriting and vocals were definitely taking notes from Syd Barrett, and he does a damn fine job of it. . . . . Jade takes the sound of British Psychedelia and executes it as a garage-rocking, awesomely low rent version of the L.A. studio sound. A very groovy sound indeed. . . . If you’re looking for a straight up Americanized Barrett fix then you can’t go wrong with . . . “In a Brand New Groove.” . . . Really, this album belongs in the Pantheon of top rate, obscure psychedelic rockers . . . .
[Introspection] ranks as one of the most highly-coveted lost psych classics, and it’s obvious why. Fronting a sparse combo complemented by a distant droning organ . . . Jade . . . sings quirky, melodic tunes drenched in the flavour of their time. The feel is tense and fractured . . . the songwriting . . . pithy and pop-radio accessible. . . . Syd Barrett-era Floyd [is] the most obvious influence throughout (surprisingly, Jade claims he hadn’t heard of Barrett at the time of recording).
Recorded while his old band was holding tandem sessions for what would become Atom Heart Mother [see #38, 260], Barrett’s second solo album was co-produced by [David] Gilmour and [Richard] Wright, who also served as sidemen. . . . Barrett’s wild-eyed whimsy was evolving into songcraft of the highest order, despite his well-documented mental state. Sadly, getting there was remained simply tortuous. “Syd was very difficult,” Gilmour [said] in 2003. “We got that very frustrated feeling: Look, it’s your fucking career, mate.” Even so, Gilmour felt compelled to help, in whatever way he could. “The guy was in trouble, and was a close friend for many years before then,” he added, “so it really was the least one could do.” . . . [The album] sounded tough — and incredibly modern. Most of [it], and in particular “Baby Lemonade[” . . . ] and “Gigolo Aunt,” [see #87] could still fit easily into a college-radio rotation.
To me, the lyrics’s meaning are pretty hard to pin down, but they’ve even been interpreted as an attack on the perfidious members of Pink Floyd (see Black&Green Achilles’s comment at https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3458764513820560141/):
313) Bohemian Vendetta — “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”
Who were the Vendetta? — a “quintet . . . from New York’s Long Island, who backed Faine Jade on his Introspection album in 1968. That same year, they recorded and released a self-titled album for the Mainstream label.” (Bruce Eder in All Music Guide). One of the songs on the album was the Vendetta’s cover of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” It seems that a lot of artists have gotten (off) some from the iconic number that everybody knows came to Keith Richards in a dream. I have already flagged Jose Feliciano’s wonderful version (see #74). Well, the only words I can think of to convey the character of the Vendetta’s spin around the block are “demented,” “deranged,” and “delirious.” Psychedelic Rock ‘n’ roll agrees, calling the album’s covers “pretty demented.” (https://psychedelic-rocknroll.blogspot.com/2009/11/bohemian-vendetta-bohemian-vendetta-60s.html). In fact, I would say that the Vendetta vocals make Mick Jagger’s sound like Pat Boone’s. In case it doesn’t come through, I love this song.
So does Brendan in Rising Storm:
A melee of clangy guitars, screeching Vox Continental, thick fuzz, angst, acid, and pure energy make Bohemian Vendetta’s album one of the best garage finds ever reissued. . . . After a series of ripping beat demos and a single for United Artists, even scoring a tv spot on Dick Clark’s Rate-A-Record, the . . . Bohemians got a shot at a full LP . . . in 1968. Given the chance, this small group of teenage acid punks let loose with their monster, penning some excellent original numbers and warping a couple of very popular covers. The label delayed their album and hardly promoted it . . . but it screams.
Brendan and my adulation is not universally shared. Dr. Schluss gives a mixed review:
While not the grooviest band on the block, Bohemian Vendetta manages to rip out some nice face melting sounds on their sole LP. . . . [W]e find a few questionable covers. Their cover of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” gets five points for some great acid guitar leads, but then loses 76 by being painfully slow and having screechy vocals. . . . Bohemian Vendetta probably is a good candidate for the quintessential acid garage band. That is to say they don’t take home the first prize unopposed, but they do manage to stumble onto some inspired sounds from time to time.
And I can’t really describe Z-Man’s comment on AMG as mixed:
You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel here. In sum, this is poorly produced, pubescent garage rock. Their songs sound like they were written during lunch break and recorded after school in somebody’s actual garage. Some of the vocals are horrifically abrasive . . . . And the covers are disgraceful. The album’s amateur quality is too overwhelming.
Wait a second. “Poorly produced,” “pubescent,” “written during lunch break,” “recorded after school in somebody’s actual garage,” “horrifically abrasive,” “disgraceful,” “amateur[ish]” — aren’t those all the hallmarks of a fabulous 60’s garage rocker? And the Vendetta’s “Satisfaction” is a fabulous 60’s garage rocker. Teenage acid punks indeed.
OK, after yesterday’s blog, featuring dirge-like music and bleak lyrics, I thought I would lighten the atmosphere by playing a song with upbeat/finger-snapping/funky-cool music . . . and bleak lyrics.
Peter Sando, of the legendary psych group Gandalf, recorded “Bird in the Hand” as a solo artist in ’71. It was not released until ’07 as part of the Gandalf 2 CD, following the official CD release of the sole Gandalf LP. Richie Unterberger in All Music Guide says that:
Gandalf sounded something like a more psychedelic/ progressive Left Banke. . . . Though Gandalf’s sole album was barely noticed upon its initial release in the late ’60s, it eventually attracted enough of a reputation among collectors to warrant a[n official] CD reissue [following years of bootleg releases]. Impressed and gratified by the surge of interest in the record decades later, Gandalf’s Peter Sando dug up enough acetates, demos, and live tapes from 1968 to 1971 to fill up this disc of largely previously unreleased material. . . . Much of it’s nicely haunting, wistful period folk-rock-pop with an only very slightly bittersweet tinge. . . . Individually, most of the disc’s cuts are pleasant and impressive, though not brilliant.
Um, Richie, a fair number of the songs on Gandalf 2 (“Bird in the Hand” foremost among them), can fairly be described as brilliant. Not that I need my opinion validated, but let me validate my opinion. Marios says that “[a] thorough search of Sando’s tape vault revealed a fabulous stash of spellbinding demos and acetates, unheard for decades.” (http://rockasteria.blogspot.com/2012/10/gandalf-gandalf-2-1969-us-beautiful.html). And Michael Saltzman says that “Bird In The Hand . . . qualifies as Sando’s genuine lost classic . . . a ringing psychpop number with an exotic beat, whistling flute, and a big, bounding chorus to boot.” (https://recordcollectormag.com/reviews/album/gandalf-2). So there!
Many years before “Synchronicity II,” here is the tale of a man ground down by both the corporate rat race and women. It’s infectious!
[A]ny number of acts at the time [tried to replicate Procol Harum’s “Whiter Shade of Pale”]. Among those who fell for the idea of church organ and trippy lyrics were Felius Andromeda who even managed to haul in some faux chanting (Gregorian or Buddhist, you choose), stabbing strings and one of those very embarrassing spoken word sections which sound like the musings of schoolboy trying hard to be part of the acid generation
But many others, myself included, cherish the song. The Chocolate Soup for Diabetics psych comp says that the song “features a wonderfully sombre sound” and Richie Unterberger writes in All Music Guide that:
“Meditations[]” was one of the best British psychedelic obscurities, highly reminiscent of early Procol Harum in its organ work. But it also had a gothic churchy atmosphere of its own in its Gregorian backing vocals, almost tearfully philosophical vocal, and solemn spoken incantation . . . . Not the stuff of hit singles, perhaps, but a fine piece of trippy psychedelia. . . . It’s surprising that a group with such evident promise never got to record again, but it was their only single. . . . they did pose for publicity photos in monks’ robes . . . .
The band told Record Mirror that at a seance soon after the song was recorded, a spirit sent a message:
The message, from a spirit signing himself the Devil read: “Felius Andromeda – HIT”. . . . Since working on this record we’ve been surrounded by a strange atmosphere, which has affected the group deeply.
Unfortunately (for the devil’s reputation for prognostication), the single was nowhere near being a hit. Band member Alan Morgan reminisced that:
We were so confident that the record would be a success, Johnnie Walker made it his pick of the hour on Radio London . . . . When nothing much happened, disillusionment took over and we eventually drifted apart all going on to different bands.
Id.
Ok, let me throw out one possible reason for the song stiffing on the charts — the lyrics. Anorak Thing says that they “are pure fried brain material in my book.” I am not sure if that is a good or a bad thing, but I am sure that the lyrics are some of the most self-absorbed and depressing that I have ever heard in a pop song:*
We learn from Alan Morgan that the producer’s girlfriend wrote the lyrics. Hmmm . . . . I wonder if she had the producer in mind.
Protestors carried placards saying “Peace on the Strip.” They weren’t referring to conflict between Israel and Hamas in the Gaza Strip, they were protesting a 10 p.m. curfew on teens and the closure of the Pandora’s Box coffee house on the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles. The ’65-’66 Sunset Strip “Curfew” or “Hippie” Riots were the most famous white riots of the sixties. Well, those were certainly simpler times, weren’t they?!
The liner notes to volume 8 of the Pebbles garage rock comp say that:
The Sunset Strip Riots started in 1965 and picked up again the following summer, peaking in November as swarms of teens descended on the main drag to assert thier sceneliness, arousing the ire of local business and, inevitably, the LAPD. Curfews were imposed, kids were rousted without pity, and musical protests were heard around the world, thanks to Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth” and The Standells’ “Riot on Sunset Strip” [see #162]. An unknown named Terry Randall waxed one of the best.
310) Terry Randall — “S.O.S.”
“S.O.S.” was the A-side of his only single (‘66). It was quite cool. Colin Mason says that:
Terry Randall is a bit of a mystery, although this killer protest 45 about the riots on Sunset Strip during November 1966 is a well known tune among garage hipsters. . . . [I]t’s got a swingin’ garage beat that I dig the most and there’s some great ‘cop’ put down lyrics.
309) The Glass Family — “Sometimes You Wonder (Henry’s Tune)”
Wonderful hypnotizing soft psych L.A. style ’67-68 (I love L.A.!). People got to be free to do as they please!
Bob Koch talks of Electric Band, the album from which today’s song is drawn:
Electric Band is way above average post-garage band era L.A. rock, with good songwriting and catchy psych pop touches. The Glass Family is a rare trio from the late ’60s that did not fall into the trap of trying to be the next Cream; there’s nary a blueshammer move on Electric Band, a somewhat rare feat in itself for a 1968 release.
Thanks God — and thank God the Police didn’t try to be the next Cream! Anyway, Jenell Kesler tells us that:
The Glass Family . . . began their career on a lark, as a way of making money for beer and surfboard wax, often playing the same venue and parties under a different name, mere days apart . . . . It was an ideal time to young and idealistic in L.A. back in 1967, where they experimented with instrumentation, fuzzed out guitars, and vocal arrangements emphasizing the softer side of psychedelic rock. And though they were never a hit, and received nearly no radio airplay, this assemblage of talent set the pace for many bands to follow, and anyone who saw them live stumbled home with hallucinogenic musical imagery dancing in their heads . . . .
And Maplewood Records, which issued the first official release of Electric Band since the sixties, informs us that:
[W]hen the band members were at Cal State LA for grad school, they changed the band name to The Glass Family. They played all over Los Angeles, gigging at notable venues like The Troubadour, The Topanga Corral and The Whiskey A Go-Go, sharing bills with The Doors, Vanilla Fudge, and Love. By 1967, they’d secured a record deal with Warner Bros. Records, who released their record in 1968. [It] never became the hit that they’d hoped for . . . .
Los Angeles at that time was a wonderful place to be . . . . It was people expanding their minds with LSD and marijuana. People just wanted to try new things and change the way that they were expected to live their lives.
When I was going to UCLA and then later Cal State LA, there were only three or four other guys with long hair. Those were my friends. Straight people didn’t like us. They looked at us and treated us as if we were terrorists. But the girls liked us!”
As I have said, Osmium, the album from which this song is drawn, is where it all began for Parliament (see #249). Mark Montgomery French writes that:
According to George Clinton, the five-man ex-doo-wop group Parliament performed polite music you could play for your mother, while their five-man backing band Funkadelic was the group that would scare your mother into cardiac arrest. The fact that all ten people were in the same band was simply a matter of convenience. In 1970, even though Funkadelic was already signed to the Detroit-based Westbound label, Clinton signed Parliament to the Detroit-based Invictus label and delivered Osmium. Parliament had released several smoothed-out hit singles in the previous years, so the raw and roughneck Osmium had the effect of discovering that your seemingly normal parents were actually two-headed Martian warlords. . . .
“Country Boy,” also the B-side of Osmium’s first single, is funk that lovingly sends up country music. You don’t see that everyday. It is such glorious fun. Mark Montgomery French says that “Parliament gets its Nashville on with . . . a hyped-up country-and-western song complete with pedal steel guitar solo, washboard percussion and lots of yodeling. Yes, yodeling.” Ned Raggett asks in All Music Guide “who else but this crew could have come up with the [song’s] trash-talking, yodeling twang . . . and still made it funky with all the steel guitar?” And Jive Time Records says that:
[“Country Boy”] swerves into mock-country territory, replete with jaw harp, tabletop guitar embellishments, and Fuzzy Haskins’ Southern-honky vocal affectations; think the Rolling Stones, but with tongues more firmly jammed in cheek. . . . (Yes, De La Soul producer Prince Paul sampled the yodeling part for “Potholes In My Lawn.”)
“You’re Holding Me Down” is the Platonic ideal of freakbeat. The only A-side by the (Edinburgh) Buzz, released in ’66 (of course) and produced by Joe Meek (of course), is “the stuff of legends” and an “insane slice of Joe Meek produced freakbeat mayhem” (Wilthomer), an “eternally classic slab of ’66 UK dementia” (The Seth Man), and boasts an “almost psychotically unhinged lead vocal” (David Wells, liner notes to the Joe Meek Freakbeat CD comp). The long-overdue adulation this single has received is well-deserved, and, as we shall see, seems to induce psychosis in some admirers.
Wilthomer says that:
It’s perhaps the perfect companion to Meek’s speed induced paranoia and mania manifesting itself in the three minute pop song. Though the genre moniker did not exist at the time of it’s release the record implies freakbeat in every sense of the aesthetic! The insane over compression production, the manic intensity of the tune’s delivery and the sheer savage brutality of the “fuck you” lyrics are magical. . . . It honestly doesn’t get any freakier than this . . . .
The Seth Man loves the song’s finale so much that he sort of loses his mind:
[“Holding Me Down” is] one of the very best works produced by Joe Meek ever [and] one of the most aggressive pre-punk British singles from the mid-sixties. . . . For the entire 3:05 duration . . . the vocals and guitar tracks are bathed in excessive echo to emboss them with unusual depth . . . to make it seem like The Buzz were the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse armed with beat instruments while representing archetypal garage punk attitudes towards women, which were always extreme: idealised virgin attraction, she-devil fright, whore-loathing anger and low-self-esteem frustration at said female’s unresponsiveness to any and all sexual advances. . . . [The song ends with] an extended rave-up of the utmost psychosis as a 57 megaton device in the form of Joe Meek echo and compression is dropped on top of it all. . . . It’s fucked up, fierce, flat out fried and several other adjectives that begin with an ‘F.’ It’s perfect in every way. The vocals are great and billow in bursts of echo in the chorus as stentorian Townshend-like guitar windmills blast in accent over the main verses while the traps rap out a distant dint with the bass. What was once first sung all achingly fucklorn now gradually winds up going medieval all over everyone’s ass as vocalist Tam White loses it completely over a squall of twin guitar echoes screaming at top speed with neck-veins-a-poppin’ all out of his mind and in your face. . . .
306) Great Speckled Bird — “LoveWhat You’re Doing Child”
Canadian country-rock from the eponymous ’70 album by the folk-rock duo Ian & Sylvia and their new band. Randall Adams calls it “one of the best country rock albums of all time.” He goes on:
[The album] immediately sank without a trace . . . . Propelled by the toughest country rock sound anybody was doing in 1969, Ian Tyson brings together a handful of timeless classic songs seldom matched . . . . It’s tempting to imagine what might have become of this record if it had been released on a proper record label and if it had been billed as “Ian & Sylvia & the Great Speckled Bird.” Surely it would now be on every record shelf that also holds “Sweatheart of the Rodeo,” “Nashville Skyline” and Michael Nesmith’s first few solo albums.
The album itself was a great mixture of early country-rock and folk. At the time it was a bold move for the Tysons to break free from their folk straight jackets. The band was very tight from live gigging, containing some good musicians [who] play with an added venom, incorporating different tones and textures to their guitar playing that work just brilliantly. The concept of the Great Speckled Bird was to change the direction of folk as well as add electricity and rock n roll power to contemporary country music. . . .
By the late ’60s, [Ian & Sylvia] were leaning decidedly more toward a country-rock direction . . . . Great Speckled Bird . . . differed from that effort in that it was the work of a real band . . . . Produced by a young Todd Rundgren in Nashville, the album . . . suffered from poor distribution and consequent low sales. Great Speckled Bird toured as well, but got a mixed reception, in part because those expecting straight folk from Ian & Sylvia weren’t prepared for a full band with electric instruments. They were part of the Festival Express tour in 1970, which had them cross Canada with a traveling rock festival of sorts that also included the Grateful Dead, the Band, Janis Joplin, and Delaney & Bonnie.
And Bob Gottlieb, also in AMG, concludes that:
It is not the perfect album, but when you realize it was made in 1969, and the great courage it took for these two folksingers to follow their instinct and make this album, you appreciate it even more.
Wait a second, all this adulation is a bit over the top! Is everyone confusing Great Speckled Bird with Bob Dylan at the ’65 Newport Folk Festival?! Thank God there wasn’t cancel culture back then. Can you imagine what that would have meant for Bob and Ian and Sylvia? Deplatformed!!! Talk about “Now you don’t talk so loud, now you don’t seem so proud, about having to be scrounging your next meal. How does it feel, how does it feel? To be without a homepage. Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone.”
In any event, a fine album and a great funky song that begins with the sage advice to “[l]ove what you’re doing child, do what you love to do” (which pretty much sums up the impetus for this blog).*
* The rest of the lyrics are quite puzzling. I have a Japanese release of the album and I can’t tell whether the lyrics are simply obtuse or whether they were mangled by a Japanese translator. In any event, I think the song has something to do with urging women to accept their husbands/boyfriends for what they are, since “men get drunk.” I’d love to hear others’ opinions.
305) Boudewijn de Groot — “Een Meisje Van 16/(A Young Girl of 16)”
On the first day of this new year, I’d like to remind everyone that here at Off the Charts/Brace for the Obscure, it is always Groundhog Day, always the Sixties. So, on to our first song of the year, an oft-covered morality tale about an impressionable girl of 16 led astray by a seductive vagabond. This great song has a long pedigree beginning in 1951 as a French chanson. What I think is really interesting is that it was covered so often back in an era when rock stars notoriously had underage girlfriends or groupies. Didn’t it hit a little close to home? (see https://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/music/11-rock-stars-allegedly-slept-with-underage-girls-bowie-elvis-jagger-page-7980930). It is also strange that the song hasn’t experienced a resurgence of popularity in this era of Jeffrey Epstein and Harvey Weinstein.
In any event, “Une Enfant” was written in French by the legendary Charles Aznavour and Robert Chauvigny, and the equally legendary Edith Piaf released its first recording in ‘51. Aznavour himself released a version in ‘55. The Dutch version was written by Lennaert Nijgh and the great Boudewijn De Groot (see #107, 161) was the first to release it (as a single in ‘65 and as a track on his first album in ‘66). The English version — ‘Young Girl” — was written by Oscar Brown, Jr. He released a recording in ‘63. Glenn Yarbrough and Noel Harrison (son of Rex) each released versions in ‘65. Harrison’s reached #51 on the Billboard pop chart in December of that year. Cher released a version the following year. Peter and Gordon had a version in ‘67 (which I don’t think is very good). (https://secondhandsongs.com/performance/4453/versions).
I think De Groot’s infectious (yes, I know, a strange word for this song, but listen) version is the best of the 60’s.
In the Oxford English Dictionary, the definition of the term “monster riff” is accompanied by three musical illustrations — from T. Rex’s “Get It On,” Oasis’s “the Hindu Times” and the Crystal Rain’s “Hey Ma Ma.” No, really.
“Ma Ma” was the first A-side by “a short-lived band from Dayton, OH [that] released two singles in 1969 . . . . a very catchy and hypnotic song written by [drummer Bill] Moan . . . .” (psychedelicized.com/playlist/c/crystal-rain/). Man, it is so mesmerizing that I think I am writing this blog entry under some sort of hypnotic suggestion. I strongly advise those with epilepsy not to watch the accompanying video. The lyrics also have a great refrain — “You can find someone to think about, think of one to dream about, dream about one to think about.” How was this song not a hit? How was it not on Nuggets? Could it be because the band was known for using “a couple distinctive band vehicles, first a 1957 Cadillac hearse, and later a customized 12 seat bus that was painted red white and blue”? (buckeyebeat.com/crysrain.html).
Ah, yes, the 14 Hour Technicolor Dream at the Alexandra Palace on April 29, 1967. In my mind, it and not Woodstock was the defining moment of and catalyst for the counterculture of the 1960’s. “Wow, I guess I’m not the only freak in this whole country.”* While the event is well known and documented, the following links might be of interest:
In any event, let’s get to the Syn’s ’67 song “14-Hour Technicolour Dream.” A few points:
First, I think the Syn’s main sin clearly was paving the way for Yes (guitarist Peter Banks and bassist Chris Squire).
Second, the song was a friggin’ B-SIDE (from the second of the Syn’s two singles)!
Third, THE SYN DIDN’T ACTUALLY PLAY AT THE 14 HOUR TECHNICOLOUR DREAM! I don’t know if they were even there (though, of course, many of the actual attendees couldn’t remember if they had actually attended). But, as David Wells says, “like Joni Mitchell and Woodstock a little while later, that wasn’t going to stop them commemorating the event in song.” (Record Collector: 100 Greatest Psychedelic Records: High Times and Strange Tales from Rock’s Most Mind-Blowing Era)
Fourth, I think the song is as tongue-in-cheek as its A-side “Flowerman.” To me, they sound like they were written by someone trying really hard to parodize the 14HTD and the counterculture.
Fifth, it is a really good song! David Wells calls it “an irresistible acknowledgement of the Ally Pally gathering of the tribes.” (100 Greatest Psychedelic Records) Richie Unterberger says in All Music Guide that:
The[ Syn’s] first single, “Created by Clive,” was a foppish Carnaby Street takeoff that the band disliked . . . . Their promise really bloomed on their next and last 45, “14 Hour Technicolour Dream,” one of the best obscure British psychedelic singles (indeed one of the best British psychedelic singles by any band). Inspired by the 1967 psychedelic London festival of the same name, it was an exhilarating distillation of the best attributes of British pop-psychedelia — a hook-happy ebullient melody, precise harmonies, unexpected structural twists and turns, Who-like drumming, and tasteful guitar distortion — into a compact package. It wasn’t a hit . . . and the band broke up in early 1968.
This “quote” was made up by me, not that somebody at the Ally Pally might not have actually said it or thought it.
302) Billy J. Kramer with the Dakotas — “I’m in Love”
OK, the Fourmost did release “I’m in Love,” which reached #17 in the UK in December of 1963. Bruce Eder writes in All Music Guide that:
The Fourmost’s fortunes took a sharp turn upward in 1963 when they were given the nod by Brian Epstein and became a part of his stable of Liverpool-based acts. [They] got access to a pair of Lennon-McCartney originals (“Hello Little Girl,” “I’m in Love”) that got them noticed, and they peaked in April of 1964 with the single “A Little Lovin’,” which got to number six in England. Unfortunately, none of the Fourmost were songwriters, and this left them at the mercy of outside inspiration and outside sources for songs, which quickly dried up as dozens of rival bands started covering the same material. . . . .
But this is my blog, and I don’t really like the Fourmost’s version. For one thing, there is too much ersatz Beatle harmonizing. “Oooohhhhh.” But Billy J. Kramer and/with the Dakotas came to the rescue. Vernon Joynson informs us that:
The Dakotas were a Manchester-based group which formed back in 1962 [the year I was born!]. It was Brian Epstein who provided them with their big break when he matched them up with Billy Kramer . . . and sent them all off to the Star Club in Hamburg, Germany for a three week slot to smarten up their stage act. Their Epstein connection afforded them the opportunity to record Lennon/McCartney songs . . . .”
The Tapestry of Delights
Adrian Bolton’s liner notes to The Very Best of Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas note that:
Epstein came up with the idea of Lennon & McCartney writing material either specifically for Billy or passing to him any songs not used by the Beatles. John Lennon duly obliged with “Bad to Me” which gave [them] their first No. 1, in August 1963.
For my money, in October of 1963 (see the liner notes to the With a Little Help from John, Paul, George & Ringo, Volume 1: 1962-1972 comp) BJK with the Dakotas recorded the supreme version of “I’m in Love.” Well, sort of: the song wasn’t actually released until decades later, and when it was, it had to be stitched together from two takes. BJK remembers that:
“I’m In Love” was a song that John and Paul brought down to a session at Abbey Road. The band and I had been recording and were about to finish for the day when they played this song for me. We quickly learned the song and did record it, but didn’t have the time to finish it. Honestly, I had forgotten about it until a few years ago when EMI America released it as part of The Best Of Billy J. Kramer. A fellow named Ron Furmanek, who is a pop music historian, found the recording in the vaults of EMI and edited two of the takes that we had done into one. It was strange to hear it after all these years, especially hearing John shouting directions to me in the studio. I once again realized what a fabulous song it was and I started performing it on my shows a few years ago and everyone seem to love it.
Youtube notes by the Merseysound.
In any event, it’s almost as good as it would have been had the Beatles themselves recorded it. And that’s pretty damn good!
Here is the Fourmost’s version:
Here is John Lennon’s demo, just his voice and a piano. What is so chillingly beautiful is how his piano part reminds me of that of “Love” from ’70’s Plastic Ono album:
301) Tony Joe White — “Willie and Laura Mae Jones”
Such a powerful song from TJW’s first album in ‘69, appropriately titled Black and White.
“Willie and Laura Mae Jones” has been recorded dozens of times by a wide range of artists, from Mel Torme and Waylon Jennings, to Bettye Swan and Shelby Lynne. Interestingly, about a half-dozen versions were cut in 1969 alone. Perhaps the best known is by Dusty Springfield from her classic “Dusty in Memphis.” That’s right: A song about two African-American sharecroppers, sung by a white British woman, who sounds Southern.
“Willie and Laura Mae” reminds us — in such a beautifully understated way — of the bonds of affection and shared experiences that can develop between people of different races and ethnicities, but also of how easily such bonds can be torn apart by changed timing and circumstances — “This is another place and another time.” I just think back to the Sunnis and Shiites of Iraq and the Serbs, Croatians and Muslims of Bosnia, who lived door by door in friendship and then . . . .
TJW was an American original who wrote “Polk Salad Annie,” the song that Elvis loved most to perform in his final years. John Bush writes in All Music Guide that:
One of the most iconic figures in swamp rock, Tony Joe White was a songwriter, guitarist, and singer whose gritty, soulful music wove together elements of blues, country, and rock into a unique and powerful reflection of his Southern roots. As a songwriter, White wrote . . . “Polk Salad Annie,” which Elvis Presley made a staple of his Vegas-era live shows, among many others. As a recording artist, [he] was an uncompromising performer and often battled his record companies for control of his work, but his high standards meant the bulk of his albums reflected the honest, deeply rootsy spirit of his songs. . . . Born . . . in Goodwill, Louisiana, White was born into a part-Cherokee family. . . .
Jim Newsom, also in All Music Guide, says that:
When “Polk Salad Annie” blared from transistor radio speakers in the summer of 1969, the first thought was of Creedence Clearwater Revival, for Tony Joe White’s swamp rock bore more than a passing resemblance . . . . But White was the real thing — he really was from the bayou country of Louisiana, while Fogerty’s bayou country was conjured up in Berkeley, CA. Plus, White had a mellow baritone voice that sounded like it had been dredged up from the bottom of the Delta. Besides “Annie,” side one of [Black and White] includes several other White originals. The best of these [include] “Willie and Laura Mae Jones,” a song about race relations with an arrangement similar to “Ballad of Billie Joe,” [and with which] Dusty Springfield had a minor hit [reaching #78 in July ‘69.]
I love Dusty Springfield to death, but her rendition doesn’t do it for me. For a great cover version, listen to Clarence Carter’s (see #296).
Yes, you heard right, Herman’s Hermits. As Vernon Joynson says, the Hermits “were one of the more lightweight [British] pop acts of the sixties but they were one of our most successful exports to the States and released several good three-minute pop singles.” (The Tapestry of Delights). By ’67, the band’s fortunes were beginning to wane. Yet, as Al Campbell writes in All Music Guide:
While Herman’s Hermits couldn’t keep up with the revolutionary sounds created in 1967 by the Beatles, Cream, or Jimi Hendrix, they did manage to release pop records that steadily revealed maturity, especially evident on Blaze, their final MGM studio release. . . . Unfortunately, the teen idol image of front man Peter Noone was becoming a double-edged sword, as he was starting to be replaced by a new generation of teen idols, while not being able to make the transition into hip 1967.
’67’s Blaze wasn’t even released in the UK, but did reach #75 in the U.S. Graham Reid says that “[a]t a stretch – yes, a bit of stretch admittedly – it was like Revolver as presented by a clever but lightweight pop band who’d smoked a little marijuana.” Well, I guess Revolver was presented by a clever but super-heavyweight pop band who’d been dosed with LSD (thanks, dentist Riley) (elsewhere.co.nz/absoluteelsewhere/7803/hermans-hermits-blaze-reconsidered-2017-going-out-to-a-blaze-of-indifference/). Blaze‘s “Upstairs, Downstairs,” written by the great Graham Gouldman (see #226), is, as Al Campbell says, a great lost pop song.
Bruce Eder rightly says in All Music Guide that “Tim Hollier was one of the most unfairly neglected of folk-based artists to come out of late-’60s England . . . .” Eder goes on to say that:
[Hollier’s] brand of trippy, quietly elegant psychedelic folk-rock deserving an infinitely wider hearing than it got . . . . Hollier recorded his first album, Message to a Harlequin, in mid-1968; released in October of that year, it was a tremendous showcase for [his] excellent voice and challenging, psychedelic-flavored songs, elaborately produced . . . . The album — although not especially successful in England — even managed to get a U.S. release . . . . Hollier made slow progress in finding an audience over the ensuing year . . . . [H]is self-titled, self-produced second album [from which today’s two songs are taken. was released] in the summer of 1970. It failed to sell, and a year later a similar fate befell his third album, Sky Sail, released on Philips. . . . A stripped-down album compared to its predecessor, [the] self-titled second album is filled with pleasant, catchy folk-based tunes, with . . . most of the songs loaded to overflowing with memorable hooks . . . .
What got Hollier interested in music? His answer is refreshingly honest (if possibly tongue-in-cheek):
As a snotty 15 year old, playing Apache at Frizington Veterans Club was the best way to meet girls – but they were the days of playtex girdles, and that was a hurdle indeed. I only did it only for the sex, in other words!
What was the London folk music scene like when he started out? —
Wonderful. I spent many a very stoned evening . . . playing in clubs like Bunjies, The Troubadour and the Half Moon with Paul Simon, Jo-Ann Kelly, Roy Harper and eventually Nick Drake too.*
298) Tim Hollier — “Seagull’s Song”
Dear Spirit says that:
[“Seagull’s Song” is a]n obscure gem of beautiful, melancholic, psychedelic folk rock . . . . It’s my understanding that all folk albums of this era were legally required to contain at least one song dedicated to a bird, and “Seagull’s Song” takes care of that obligation right off the bat.
Yes and yes. I’m not even gonna mention Jonathan Livingston Seagull! Dr. Schloss says that:
This [album] is sort of a slightly psyched-up ‘Tim Buckley-lite” affair . . . . Although folk-rock is clearly the order of the day, the band does work up a groovy head of steam to give the songs a nice sonic push when needed. Most of the tunes here are pretty solid, though only a few really stand out. Despite some really clunky, cliched lyrics, “Seagull Song” worms its way into your head with a fine folk melody and some groovy guitar and flute leads bouncing about in the background. . . . Hollier is a Brit and the echoes of that islands folk traditions are on display here. Still, it’s clear that Hollier likely had a large pile of L.A. folk-rock vinyl taking up space in his ‘flat.’ This set isn’t really a mindblower. It’s probably not going to change your life, but it’s a very groovy concoction while it’s playing . . . .
I generally disagree with the good doctor. The songs are generally stunning, even mindblowing, and “Seagull’s” is possibly life-altering, but it’s lyrics could indeed by called clunky (though definitely not crunky).
299) Tim Hollier — “Maybe You Will Stay”
Is it just me, or does the melody of this song of generous spirit sound eerily reminiscent of Bob Dylan’s “Every Grain of Sand,” released a decade later? I can’t find anyone else noting the similarities before, but I maybe in the hour of Dylan’s deepest need . . . .
* More from Tim Hollier on performing in London. When asked by Record Collector whether he played live much, he responded:
As often as I could. I played on the BBC many times – John Peel always gave me a gig. One memorable gig was at the Wigmore Hall, of all places, with Amory Kane and Rick Cuff, in May ‘69. During our final number, Evolution, David Bowie suddenly appeared on stage in full space suit and performed a dance, ending with his almost naked body stricken on the stage. There were rumours of a live album of these events, but nothing emerged. I finally crashed as a performer at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, playing with Sarstedt and David McWilliams. For once I was headlining, my parents were in the audience and my oldest friends were onstage with me. But just before I went on my manager gave me a huge joint, and thereafter things became absolutely miserable. The BBC recorded it but it wasn’t much good, and I never played live again.
297)The Master’s Apprentices — “Wars or Hands of Time”
Richie Unterberger in All Music Guide calls this ‘66 B-side an “undiscovered classic,” Greg Shaw calls it “one of the greatest powerpop records of all time,” and Nuggets II says that:
[It is] one of the era’s most affecting [Vietnam] antiwar songs. . . . [U]nlike the typical protest merchants, who struck a stance of fist-shaking moral outrage, the Masters took a simpler, more effective course, outlining the intense personal impact war can have on people’s lives. The track describes a couple’s last embrace on a beach as a soldier bids his lover goodbye . . . .
Powerpop? Garage all the way! The song did reach #13 in Australia. It should have everywhere.
As to the Master’s Apprentices, Unterberger says that “[o]ne could easily make the case for designating the[m] as the best Australian rock band of the ’60s. . . .” They were even dubbed “the second Easybeats” at the time (liner notes to the Hands of Time comp). Unfortunately, the band never reached its true potential as guitarist and songwriter Mick Bower suffered a nervous breakdown and had to leave the band.
The band’s name reflected the group’s humbleness before bluesmen John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, Elmore James and Jimmy Reed and its other musical idols (Hands of Time). Just like Oasis’s album Standing on the Shoulder of Giants, except that in the Master’s’ case, it likely was a genuine sentiment.
Brace for the Obscure (60s rock)! / Off the Charts: 60s Rock Revelations😊 