SuperTodd5000 MusicExplosion

The only place to find out exactly what I think about records, 8-track tapes, cassette tapes and compact discs.

[supertodd5000]

Mono? Stereo? Both?

Admit it. You’re flummoxed, fried out and forlorn. And it’s not because your baby left you. No, it’s because you woke up one day and realized you’re a record collector. With a serious problem. And not just the physical kind. It’s true that record collectors suffer from a host of very real problems – lack of social graces from dealing with heavy-handed and judgmental record clerks, bad breath from breathing in mold spores wafting up from water damaged records, plumbers butt, and a scoliosis-like malady called “crate-diggers hump” (not as sexy as it sounds) acquired from years of slouching, sagging and stooping over anything and anyone just to fat-finger a copy of that one record that makes your heart flutter, your spleen ache and your bowels tremble.

No, your current dilemma is a horse of a different color. Which version of your favorite records sound best? The mono or stereo copy? Which one should you buy? Should you buy both? Neither? Your mind is melting. 

These days there’s something akin to “Mono Mania” going on in the world of record collecting. To many of us it’s quite welcome. Especially if we’re one of the poor bastards not old enough to have purchased The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society in mono when it came out and we don’t have enough cold, hard cash to buy a minty fresh original flip-back gatefold copy for $425. To us, a sealed mono reissue is just what the doctor ordered.

To others, this mono vs. stereo issue is as baffling as watching your grandmother cut chewing gum out of her dog’s hair. What’s with all these monophonic reissues? To a cynic it seems like it’s the well-orchestrated and profitable reissue of every single recording ever made in a unique mono mix. You’ve seen them poking out of record bins everywhere. They’re typically pressed on 180g vinyl, tucked gently into nice inner sleeves hidden within tip-on covers and created lovingly and painstakingly (note: these are words that usually mean “expensive”) using “the original mono mixes.” But are they better? Sometimes. Sometimes not. Sometimes they’re just different.

This next bit of quasi-intellectual, ponderous gibberish is purely subjective. More so than everything up to this point in this pointless essay. Back in the mid-1960s there were primarily three reasons for buying a mono recording when a stereo recording was also available: you had a hi-fi system with only one speaker (more common that you think), you were deaf in one ear like Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys (look it up) or you were a cheapskate (mono records cost about $1 less per album). Sometimes you were all three. Sad.

Why jump back to the mid-60s? Because that’s a period of time when record buyers had a real choice to make. In most cases you could amble into any record store in the world and buy a great sounding, thick pressing of your favorite record in mono or stereo. Sometimes fake stereo. More on that later. Before the mid-60s, stereo records were a bit of a crap-shoot if you were into rock, blues or jazz. They might sound goofy. With instruments and vocals haphazardly panned left or right. It took a while for engineers to figure out how to make the most of stereo, and at the same time artists were figuring out how they wanted their music to sound.

Classical music is a bit of an exception to this. Conventional wisdom is that stereo recordings of classical music tend to sound better earlier on. And as far as jazz goes, producers and engineers like Rudy Van Gelder, Orrin Keepnews, Creed Taylor and Teo Macero were also a bit of an exception. They got into stereo early on and figured out how to make stereo sound cool with very few microphones. You can read on and on about this (and should) from many sources that are far more expert on this topic than your lazy, stoop-shouldered author. 

Speaking of jazz, the jazzbos tend believe that mono is best no matter what. Original 1950s and early 60s pressings of anything on Blue Note, Prestige, Riverside, Impulse and Columbia are more valuable. And it’s true that these mono records often do sound best. To my ears they can sound louder, with clearer sounding instrumentation and, in the very best cases, the sound can seem to pounce out of the speakers. But how much better are they? I used to avoid stereo pressings of jazz records from the mid-60s and earlier. I was under the impression they were “fake stereo” created in dimly lit back rooms in order to jump on the stereo bandwagon. Some are. Some aren’t.

Let’s push on.

Stereo vs. mono. Which is best? It depends on the recording, the vinyl pressing and your personal taste. Sure, there are albums that everyone says are amazing in mono – the pre-1967 records by The Beatles, The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, The Pretty Things, etc. The list goes on and on. But there are recordings that sound more eventful and interesting in stereo (Interstellar Overdrive by Pink Floyd comes to mind). Rock records released between 1967 and 1970 tend to be the ones that are far more subjective. And you’ll find plenty of beard-scratching know-it-alls with strident opinions who’ll tell you what to think. Some of these guys are right. But many of them also live in their divorced mom’s basement and only emerge from their listening lair to attend a record fair or to run out to buy mom a carton of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. Occasionally, they come upstairs to rub their mother’s bunions. 

People tend to crave the mono releases in part because they’re so rare. I know I’ve got my faves. I prefer the mono pressing of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles because (to me) it sounds more like a rock band and less like studio frippery. But the songs themselves are not that different. It’s not like hearing the record in mono for the first time could convince you that the stereo record you’ve been listening to your whole life sounds like a Jim Nabors Christmas album. Sometimes the performances are different or mixed peculiarly (the mono mixes of Don’t Pass Me By and Helter Skelter from the Beatles White Album come to mind).

For the purposes of this stupefyingly silly essay, I went back and did some side-by-side listening tests to confirm all my preconceived notions of what I like and don’t like in some hallmark recordings yanked from the overloaded racks in my fantastically disorganized music room. Stereo vs. mono. Which is it?

  The Who Sell Out (US mono reissue vs. Japanese stereo reissue):

From memory I thought I preferred the stereo pressing of this. Armenia City In The Sky is a fave of mine and I thought stereo was the only way to hear this tune. Wrong. Not by a crazy wide margin in my case but wrong still. The mono pressing sounded heavier and punchier yet still retained the fun frippery of the studio trickery baked into the tapes on this record. Mono wins. 

The Beatles “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” (Japanese stereo reissue vs. UK mono reissue):

I already tipped my hand on this one. As a kid I only heard the stereo copy. Loved it. No issues whatsoever. But, ever since hearing the mono copy of this record in college (several semesters ago) I became a monomaniac. Fact is, this might be the very first record where I became convinced of the majesty of mono. Mono wins.  

The Jimi Hendrix Experience “Are You Experienced” (Reissues of US stereo, US mono and British mono pressings):

Ok, read anything about this record and the experts will tell you the British mono pressing is the only one worthy of a spin on your turntable. I don’t own an original mono pressing. Who’s got that kind of dough or good fortune? I DO own a mono British reissue. A US mono reissue. A few stereo copies including a stereo reissue (the double LP Hendrix Family version) I used for this test for a couple reasons (it’s readily available at record stores and my copy was also readily available). To my ears the stereo copy is the clearest, coolest sounding and has effective panning and the sort of soundstage tomfoolery that makes stereo fun. To me it’s the best-est. Stereo wins.

Bob Dylan “Bringing It All Back Home” (US stereo original vs. US mono original):

Here’s another one that the professional listeners with hyper-tuned ears say should ONLY be heard in mono. I remembered liking the mono best years ago. Then I listened today. I compared a mono original to a stereo original. The mono copy was snagged by me only a couple years ago. It had been (mis)priced by someone at a national used bookstore chain. The price was too good to turn down and the record is so clean I sold my mono reissue. The stereo copy I got from my wife’s uncle who owned about 300 records. 290 of those were Irish music except for a few Greenwich Village favorites like Dylan, Baez, Seeger et.al. Despite being a well-loved copy with plenty of tiny hairline scratches and marks, I prefer the stereo copy. To my ears it’s the opposite of what I said about The Who Sell Out. In this case, I thought the stereo had more punch. Stereo wins.

Horace Silver “Blowin’ The Blues Away” (US mono original vs. US stereo reissue):

Ok, one of these is a pricey collectible and the other isn’t. Bet you can guess which is which. I fully expected the expensive mono original pressing to blow away the 70s “black b” pressing. And it is better. Louder. Hotter sounding instruments. In some cases Blue Mitchell’s trumpet is positively piercing. Right up into the red in the mix (God bless Rudy Van Gelder). Same way with Junior Cook’s sax. But, the stereo reissue from the 70s is not bad at all. Nice and punchy. It’s a real stereo recording too. Nothing fake about it. Rudy Van Gelder recorded this session in stereo and mono in 1959 and he’s one of the few cats who knew what he was doing in the late 50s. Make no mistake, the mono is better. But if I found these two records cozied up together in a bin at my local record shop and the mono OG was $150 and the stereo reissue was $10 I’d buy the stereo copy in a heartbeat and spend the rest of the money on elocution lessons so I could sound smarter. Mono wins.

Note: I’ve found that most of these “black b” Blue Notes sound pretty good. I also love corduroy and canned beer so take that with a grain of salt.

Bottom line? It turns out the ears are the best test. Do YOU like how the record sounds? That’s what matters most. I prefer some mono records and some stereo pressings. I’ve even dabbled in fake stereo from time to time. I happen to love some records that have been “electronically re-recorded to simulate stereo.” After all, in many ways, life is a simulation. I can’t say I love tons of fake stereo records but I do love a few. In fact there are a few country music titles that fall into this sadly maligned category that I hold dear to my heart.

Here’s the insidious thing. Record collectors often have mono and stereo copies of their favorites. Sometimes the really sick bastards have multiple copies of pressings from all over the world. These people should be celebrated or pilloried. I’m not sure which. Perhaps a little bit of both?

Records. In the end I feel like we’re living and breathing in the promises and perils of records at the same time. Plumbing the depths of the dollar bin and scaling the heights of a pricey wall of record store collectibles. Sometimes on one dirty, dimly lit Saturday afternoon. And I loathe hyperbole. Sort of. 

Mono. Stereo. Both. Indeed.

[supertodd5000]

When Sour Turns To Sweet

The Lemon Twigs Do Hollywood

With a wee bit of help from some very lucky friends, The Lemon Twigs Do Hollywood. It’s hard to know where to begin with this record. So I’ll begin at the end. I recommend all twelve inches of this record. 

“Do Hollywood” was released in 2016 which means it was released about 46 years after the last record I reviewed (Grand Funk “Live Album”). According to tumblr, it took nearly two years for me to get around to reviewing another record in any substantive way. My Instagram (@supertodd5000) grunts and groans hardly count. Why so long since my last review? The best answer is I’m lazy. The second best answer is that I’ve been ghostwriting my own unauthorized autobiography. But that information stands in the way of the Lemon Twigs Do Hollywood record review. So let’s get on with it. 

Intimidating. Menacing. Emasculating. These are three of the feelings washing over me as I listen to the last few bits of “A Great Snake.” Quite possibly the best new song I’ve heard in 2 years. Why these strange feelings? Because I’m told the D’Addario brothers (Michael and Brian) are 17 and 19 years old, respectively. Or is it the other way around? I’m not sure which is which and I suspect they’ve forgotten as well. The point is they’ve accomplished more in six months than I have in twenty five years. Put another way, I could be their great great great grandfather.

The liner notes claim they can play every instrument known in the Western Hemisphere and I believe it. At the insistence of local celebrity writer and social media poet Alan Spindle, I paid ten dollars to see them perform an outrageous set of rock and roll at Chicago’s Empty Bottle a couple weeks ago. The D’Addario brothers traded between drums, guitars and keyboards in a way that seems comical on paper but works perfectly when you’re standing so close you can smell them before you see them. 

The music. At first I was having fun conjuring all the influences and references in the grooves of this record. Brill Building writers meet Peter Gabriel on a boat slowly ferrying across the Mersey with a Beatle, Phil Spector, Todd Rundgren, two Eric Carmens and Dr. Teeth and The Electric Mayhem playing live while the cast of Under The Rainbow scampers about. 

Songs can (and do) include moments of doo-wop, 1950s R&B, multiple movements (think Yes, early 70s Genesis) and the type of power pop riffs familiar to fans of Big Star, Raspberries and Dwight Twilley. At times I thought I was hearing an unreleased b-side from The Strokes. Or a Beck Hansen outtake. I even wondered if they were in The Monkees but quickly discounted that after doing the math. 

There’s a great deal of studio knob-twiddling, button-pushing and orchestral frippery involved in this record, but I largely consider it an omnipresent gift. You get the sense they asked a studio engineer “what’s this button do?” and she said “try it.” And they did. Over and over and over. That’s not to say all that wrist-work takes a front seat while the energetic crunching guitars ride in the trunk. Not at all. It’s more like every bit of this music rides on the roof of a 1970 El Camino as it roars toward the edge of a cliff. 

Every time I’d get the sense that the aural sculpture they were crafting was getting a bit ponderous, the noises would disappear only to reappear five or six minutes later disguised cleverly as another bleep, blip or bloop. When things seemed too pompous they’d transition into an acoustic moment descending into a dirge and coming out of a side-hatch into a Partridge Family jangle before jumping into the saddle of a full frontal riff. 

Strangely, it all seems to make sense. And it’s fun. And fresh. Sure, it’s easy to quibble with this thing or that because it reminds you of something you’ve heard before. Keep in mind, somebody heard Elvis’ first single and said he ripped off Big Mama Thornton or Ernest Tubb. People hearing Led Zeppelin for the first time knew they’d worn out some Robert Johnson records before recording their first long-player. A guy once told me he was glad the Black Crowes sounded like the Rolling Stones because The Stones didn’t sound like The Stones anymore. And on an on it goes. 

The Lemon Twigs Do Hollywood. And then some. 

Here’s a link to one half of the formula (click it! >)  The Studio Vibe.

And here’s a link to another half of the formula (click it! >)  The Live Vibe. 

I think you should buy this record at your local record shop or forever live in a past that has no future. And vice versa.   

[supertodd5000]

Ten Minutes In The Life Of A Grand Funk Railroad Apologist.

For one reason or another I’d been searching for the Grand Funk Live Album since birth. Well, at least since 1982. That’s the year I decided I’d been too judgmental about the hard rock genre in general and Grand Funk specifically. Sure, I “boogied” to Grand Funk’s cover of The Loco-Motion in third grade. I tapped my foot in time with the cow bell propelled We’re An American Band. Seems like those two songs kept my brother Tim and me toe-tapping whenever they came on my old man’s AM radio in his yacht of a car (a ‘69 Pontiac Catalina). After all, with no air conditioning in the car (or at home!) it mostly took our minds off the oppressive heat during the summers of our youth. It also kept us from punching each other which never ended well.

But first, let’s back up my friend. In 1978 I was the luckiest ten year old in Chicago’s western suburbs. For good reason. I acted older than my age by thinking like a twelve year old and pretending to have a girlfriend. And boy did it work. People treated me like a seventh grader and before I knew it I was moving beyond the musical comfort zone of Brownsville Station, The Bay City Rollers, The Beach Boys and KISS (to this day I love everything KISS recorded between ‘74 and ‘78). Admittedly, I couldn’t have made the transition without the help of an older guy who worked at The Music Shop in downtown Downers Grove. He not only turned me on to The Sex Pistols, The Cramps, The B-52s, Devo, AC/DC and The Clash, he actually sold me all those records between ‘78 and ‘80. Incidentally, years later I did the math and realized that this experienced, world-weary, expert rock ‘n’ roller of a record store clerk was only about six or seven years older than me. 

Sadly, at some point in junior high school, I became one of those loathsome pubescent music-exclusive prima donnas. I’d only listen to something if it was in Trouser Press magazine, Rolling Stone (depending on the reviewer) and if my mom and dad said it sounded like crap. I’d claim to love groups specifically because my mom heard from WGN radio’s Wally Phillips that listening to it would lead directly to America slouching its way into something like East Berlin. In my defense, who wasn’t some sort of insufferable little bastard at this time? Kids couldn’t trust anybody. We had hostages in Iran, gas cost over a buck and moms everywhere were still telling their kids to do old-fashioned and quaint 1950s things like “go play tag with the dog in the yard.” America had traded a peanut munching smiley face President for a helmet-haired former actor and it seemed like every top 40 record had ten synthesizers smeared all over it.

Which brings me back to Grand Funk Railroad. The Live Album. Released two years deep into the funk of Richard Nixon’s presidency. War raged in Southeast Asia. Bras burned in the Midwest. The Midwest!  And yet, there’s not one synthesizer on this record. I think the only weirdos in rock music who knew what a synth was in 1970 were the Tangerine Dream and Soft Machine types. There was no room for that sort of prancing keyboard frippery in Grand Funk’s America. No way. Remember that Mark Farner (lead guitarist) didn’t even own a shirt in 1970. His body heat and raw emotion enough to warm him on even the coldest Midwestern winter tour dates. With Mel Schacher beating his bass into submission and Don Brewer destroying his drums in this very power trio, who’d have time to play a keyboard anyway. For now. In a scant two years Grand Funk would realize a ten minute keyboard solo could afford them the ability to sip a cold one, kiss a couple groupies or send out for a stunt-shirt if the mood called for it. 

Speaking of live records, this one boasts that it’s a “...true historical documentation of this group in person...” and that there’s been “...no technical assistance added to this recording...” Probably a mistake given my one hour and twenty minute ride with my new, used LP. Even though it’s some sort of unadulterated live document, Grand Funk Railroad should have considered heading back into the studio to drop in a few key overdubs and edits in my opinion. Not that those could improve the “recorded over the telephone onto a portable cassette player” fidelity of this record. Put simply, this double record makes Black Sabbath Vol. 4 sound like The Royal Opera House Covent Garden Orchestra performing Verdi as conducted by Sir Georg Solti. And yet, I still enjoy it. The songs are played with intensity and care. Sort of. Any way you look at it, it rocks. Hard. Another thing. Records like this are party records out of their time. People just don’t throw the carefree, wild, packed garage and basement parties that records like this were created for. But I didn’t come to this conclusion alone. 

And that brings me to the ten minute conversation I had with the owner of the record store where I bought this record last week. I’d had a long day of doing nothing. Woke up late. Ate lunch late. The type of day where heavy decisions needed to be made. Not the type involving my wife or daughter. They had a bunch of girly stuff to do on that day. So what would it be? Would I clean up some more of the 175 jazz records I bought from a nice baker lady in Florida or would I try my hand at crate digging through records at my local Goodwill store hoping to score some 99 cent black gold? I’d munch the better part of a bag of Taco Flavored Doritos and drink a few Cokes while I mulled it over. Best to slow things down a bit, not overthink it and dig in to the first two Aerosmith records with a focus on Mama Kin and Train Kept A-Rollin’. Next thing I knew I had about 30 minutes before I had to meet a couple guys for some BBQ and beers. We’d have to talk some business. Future business. In the surly ad game. But now I had to get down to a different kind of business. I had just enough time to hit a used record store and comb through the discount bins looking for underpriced gems. 

A few minutes into perusing what seemed like hundreds of copies of Oklahoma! and The Very Best of The Rest of Lawrence Welk I spotted the Grand Funk Live Album. A clean looking double record. Cover in perfect shape. A mixed blessing. That usually means at least one of the records was used as an ashtray. Nope. The records were perfect. And this double set also included a kickass rocking poster. All for $3.99. I fondled the record a few minutes wondering if Record Store Guy mis-priced it. Thought about what type of defense I’d throw out there if during the course of purchase I was told “somebody made a mistake on this price” or worse “did you pull a switcheroo on the price tag?” 

After all, this record is NEVER in good shape. Ever. I looked at the clock on the wall. I was due for BBQ in five minutes. I took the record to Record Store Guy’s perch. The type that puts his head several feet above your head so he can watch cheats, chiselers and other chumps trying to rip him off. He rang me up and I did what I do so often. I began waxing eloquent about the record. How I’d never seen a copy of Live Album in such great shape. That most copies of this record must’ve been used in the war effort. Or beat to death at pre-bicentennial parties and never afforded a proper burial. Record Store Guy agreed with me. We talked about how certain records were miraculously preserved while others should have been ground up, melted and turned into Goody combs decades ago. 

At this point I became aware of another shopper’s gaze. He obviously had no time for something as low brow as Grand Funk Railroad. He shot me a look so dismissive I figured him for a Kings Of Convenience or Bon Iver fan. I was talking too loudly. Too passionately. About hard rock records. AGAIN! As tough as it is to admit, I felt weird for a few seconds. Self conscious. Until I realized this chappy was shopping for and selecting video tapes priced at fifty cents apiece. Record Store Guy and I got back to business. Party Enabler Records vs. Party Killer Records. His theory was that way back in the day you drop on a party record by a group like Grand Funk or Sly and the Family Stone and amp things up. Take the party higher. Put on a Black Sabbath or Judas Priest album and people split. Too risky. Not because they’re not good groups but because they’re more polarizing. Fair enough I thought. I’d done a lot of listening to Sabbath and Priest. Some of it with headphones. Some of it with a small group of carefully curated cats. Never at a huge party. He was right. And I needed to split for the meet-up. But not before I shot the VHS Weirdo a look as I strutted out onto the greasy, mean streets of west suburban Chicago with Grand Funk firmly in hand. It was the kind of look that made it abundantly clear that I could buy and sell VHS Weirdo’s mustache many, many times over. And that’s factual. It’s actual. 

[supertodd5000]

Miles Davis And Gil Evans Create More Than Mere Sketches Of Spain.  

A sketch suggests a work on its way to completion. The beginning of something with potential. The only thing preliminary about this record seems to be its length. But it’s not really brief at 41 minutes. At least not by twelve inch record standards. The music just happens to you a bit too quickly. It leaves you wanting more. And in that way alone it seems incomplete. But satisfyingly so. Perhaps that’s one of the many secrets of this record.

Recorded between Fall of 1959 and Spring of 1960, Sketches of Spain is much more than a rough draft of something more to come. It’s a full, emotional portrait of a seemingly beautiful series of events we’ll understand later. The orchestra and jazz group that created this masterpiece bring the compositions to life by shaping and coloring them as they play them. The album is composed of five songs magically connected to one another by Miles Davis’ flugelhorn. The songs include Concierto De Aranjuez, Will O’ The Wisp (from “El Amor Brujo”), The Pan Piper, Saeta, and Solea.

As I sit here listening – first to a 1980s stereo reissue and then to an original “six eye” monophonic copy – I’m impressed by the picture painted by Mr. Davis and Mr. Evans. The recordings seem to be announcing something wonderfully warm but melancholy all the same. At times the record seems to be made up of a tension that builds between a tight jazz group – Miles Davis on flugelhorn, Johnny Coles on trumpet, Paul Chambers on bass, Jimmy Cobb on drums, Elvin Jones on percussion – and an open-armed orchestra that slowly surrounds them, occasionally pressuring them to deliver on their Spanish promise.

It happens to be a cool, rainy Fall day as I attempt to unravel all these Sketches of Spain and what strikes me is the incandescent swirling of amber, russet and golden hues glowing within my mind as I listen to the record over and over. The recordings themselves have warmed my heart and connected me to a time and place I’ve never been. And that’s the rare, wonderful feeling created by Miles Davis, Sketches of Spain, arranged and conducted by Gil Evans. A jazzy, orchestral, Spanish gift to the future from so long ago. 

Put on your headphones, close your eyes and float over the Iberian peninsula by clicking this very sentence.

For Weirdos Only:

As I mentioned above, I reviewed a 1980s stereo pressing and an original mono "six-eye" pressing. I expected huge differences between the two. The differences weren't huge. Don't get me wrong, there are differences. The mono copy has more immediacy and force. More punch. But the stereo reissue sounded good too. More enveloping. As is typical of any comparison of the same recordings pressed some thirty years apart, there's some loss of information over the years. There's just not as much music in the grooves of the reissue. So what? It's still great. Those two pressings weren't enough for me anyway. I put on a compact disc copy of Sketches of Spain from the Miles Davis/Gil Evans Complete Columbia Studio Recordings (burned from my brother's box set). While the cd sounded clear as a bell it also sounded the most different. The mixes sound different too. I bet they are. Too trebly. That said, it's not like I suddenly and shockingly thought I was listening to Jim Nabors singing the Whiffenpoof Song. It was still Miles, man. My guess? The copy to own is the original stereo six-eye Columbia pressing.  

[supertodd5000]

Dust Rises From The Ashes Of A Shattered Metal Hammer

The only thing more ridiculous than that headline might be the lyrics on this album. Thank God ridiculous lyrics don’t disqualify a rock ‘n’ roll record from being phenomenal. Every now and then pompous lyrics and musical mayhem work wonders when combined into a tantalizing metallic tincture. This LP is just that. It’s incredible. I’d rocked out to this record many times before digging in to the lyrics inside the gatefold.

Truth be told, it took me quite a while to locate a copy of the LP so that I could read the lyrics. It’s a pretty rare record. Less so today (more on that later). I had to make due with a Repertoire compact disc reissue for a couple years. And that CD had no lyrics or booklet. Talk about cheapskates. In Repertoire’s defense, the CD did come out in 1989 during a very dark period in the music business.

Imagine my surprise when I read the last few lines of one of this record’s string-heavy molten rockers - “Amethyst and lace, broken women and their dossier, bleeding clowns, with tongues that badly shake, ‘tis the hour of the snake.” I didn’t know what to make of it either. But it finishes an ethereal head game and wild ride called Thusly Spoken.

The album Hard Attack came out in 1972 and it’s the second long player from Dust. The album has ten tracks if you include a 19 second instrumental listed only on the label (the second of two instrumentals) at the end of the b-side. That second wordless wonder is curiously titled Entrance. And, to stay on top of early 70s rock trends, one of the songs – Pull Away/So Many Times – is really a two-parter. Only the prog rockers could imagine 8-12 part pretentious rock “passages” at this point in rock history. The metal heads could stretch only to two parts. And that’s perfect.

The first Dust LP is a self-titled affair that’s eluded me for years. The prices are typically upwards of 100 bones. Which is appropriate because that’s probably a good guess as to the number of bones in the skeletons on the cover of that record. I do have a great sounding Russian bootleg CD (with booklet!) of the first record.

Both Dust LPs are very heavy.

They’re also three other things. Creepy. Cool. Elusive. The trifecta!

Sure, I’ve got a recently reissued Sony/Legacy Record Store Day double LP that combines Dust’s entire recorded output – two records – into one nice double LP package, but owning an original is way cooler, right? Right.

Dust. Who were they? Come to find out they were a hard rock power trio from New York City. Maybe metal. You decide. One thing I’m sure of? Anyone lucky enough to have this record in their collection in the 1970s would have stored it next to the first couple Rainbow records which were probably right next to their Black Sabbath albums. Maybe if they were label freaks they’d store it next to The Flamin’ Groovies Flamingo LP. Though that’s unlikely since those records are very different stylistically. But they are both cool and they’re both on Kama Sutra Records.

Dust was Richie Wise (electric and acoustic guitars, lead and backing vocals), Kenny Aaronson (bass, slide and pedal steel guitars) and Marc Bell (drums and percussion). Hard Attack was co-produced by Richie Wise and Kenny Kerner. Mr. Kerner also co-wrote every track on the record with Mr. Wise.

If the names Kerner and Wise sound familiar to you hard rockers, they should. That’s the team that produced the first two Kiss LPs – Kiss and Hotter Than Hell! Great records! Kenny Aaronson would join the group Stories after Dust called it quits and Marc Bell would Christen himself Marky Ramone when he replaced Tommy as the drummer of The Ramones just in time to record and release 1978s Road To Ruin (my brother’s favorite and the only Ramones record he owned on 8-track as I recall).   

Dust. Concussive. Powerful. And Serious as a Hard Attack.

Listen to the entire album right here by clicking this sentence. If you dare!!!

For Weirdos Only:

My original copy (I believe it to be a first pressing) of Dust Hard Attack on vinyl is on the Kama Sutra label that has the Garden of Eden picture with Eve handing Adam the apple. Thee Apple. Same goes for the label on the copy of Hard Attack contained within the Sony/Legacy double LP reissue from a couple months back. The first self-titled Dust LP is on the pink label. "Kama Sutra" is written in cursive and the label sports 8 three-headed Indian gods. Here's my question. Have you seen a copy of Hard Attack on the pink label? I have a record reference book that lists that record but I wonder if it really exists. I've never seen it. Doesn't mean it's not out there though. Please send me a copy of it when you find it. 

Oh, by the way, the artwork for Hard Attack was created by none other than the fantastical Frank Frazetta. In my opinion, this record cover looks exactly like the record sounds.

UPDATE: My friend Stevo produced a photo of his copy of Hard Attack which is on the pink label. Thanks, Stevo.

[supertodd5000]

It’s Time For The Plimsouls

Everything about this record is pure stripped-down rock ‘n’ roll. Mostly. There are one or two ill-advised studio gimmicks, but hey man, it was 1981! And besides, the real studio polish would happen a couple years later when The Plimsouls released Everywhere At Once and ended up on the Valley Girl Soundtrack with their big selling single A Million Miles Away.

In many respects this LP (their first full album released a year after the fantastic - but difficult to locate EP - Zero Hour) is nearly a million miles away from the short lived fame they’d suffer through in 1983. Fame comes at a cost and it cost The Plimsouls everything since they broke up right after the album came out on David Geffen’s humble little label called Geffen.

Listening to this long-player you can imagine the marketing people at Planet Records (part of the Elektra/Asylum behemoth) arguing about how to sell it. It’s new wave! It’s post punk! It’s garage rock reinvented for the 80s! It’s power pop! In my experience, this type of scenario usually sent great rock ‘n’ roll records like this to the cut-out bins of your local record store. Good for teenage pocketbooks but bad for bands. But here’s some good news! That didn’t happen to this record. People bought it. Don’t get me wrong, I doubt Peter Case is currently raking in any cash from this record but I bet he got a sweet condo and a Mercury Capri (with the big engine) out of the deal back in ‘81!

The fact is The Plimsouls were led by guitarist Peter Case. In rock ‘n’ roll circles Mr. Case comes with quite a pedigree as he was 1/3 of The Nerves along with Jack Lee and Paul Collins (Paul Collins Beat). The Nerves, one of America’s last hopes in my opinion, collapsed under the weight of their one release - a measly little incredible four song masterpiece that’s hideously rare. The Nerves EP in question contained the original version of Hangin’ On The Telephone which was covered to great effect by Blondie several years later. Ok, back to The Plimsouls.  They were rounded out by some heavy hitters like Lou Ramirez on drums, Dave Pahoa on bass/vocals and Eddie Munoz on lead guitar.  No slouches. Listen to the record and you’ll see what I mean.

This record is for lovers of straight up rock ‘n’ roll, garage rock, and stuff that was called new wave that’s really just rock music that came out during that time period when it was so important to classify and categorize rock records. People who like The Dwight Twilley Band, Phil Seymour, The Raspberries and lovers of most anything called “power pop” from the late 70s or early 80s will adore this record. I know I sure do. My favorite tracks on this elpee are Zero Hour, Now, Lost Time and Everyday Things. Come to think of it, I’m gonna go get another Pop-Tart, wash it down with a can of Coke and spin this sweet little record another time, m’friends!!!

Click this link to hear a blast of Zero Hour!!!

*Nerds will notice that this is the Zero Hour EP version (very slightly different than the reviewed LP).

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Love It To Death, Alice Cooper!!!

I have a theory that this record was recorded amidst a pile of beer cans in a basement with no access to natural light. Caught in this dream of mine, the amplifiers are turned up too loud and the band aren’t even sure what they’re playing. Black light posters ring around the sweat filled room and the air is as thick as the sheet metal on the fender of a ‘70 Chevelle. A young Vince Furnier primps and pumps his fist to a crowd that wouldn’t show up for a couple years. When the sun arises and they play back the tape, the masterpiece that is Love It To Death by Alice Cooper surprises even the band.

Speaking of surprises, this record contains their first hit - I’m Eighteen. Remember that one? It’s got that really sad reference about lines forming on a guy’s face and hands. Even as a kid I thought it was weird that some teenager was getting wrinkles. Ah, but that line about having a baby’s brain and an old man’s heart. Well, that’s heady stuff for heavy rockers. Almost poignant. This record contains searing guitar work, heavy pounding, thumping, thudding and wailing. And numerous religious references. Specifically, Christian. Listen and you’ll see what I mean. Though with songs like Hallowed Be My Name and Second Coming even the thickest heads will get the idea there’s something beneath something here. I remember seeing an interview with Mr. Alice Cooper once where he said that the theme running through Alice Cooper records was that there was Evil and there was Good and don’t choose Evil. Good advice, that.

There’s a song here called Ballad of Dwight Fry. In that one song you get a straight jacket, weight loss, a missing father and a hook and riff explosion that most rock bands would kill for. There’s also the preposterously awesome Is It My Body. There are no wasted songs on this record. It might just change your life. And I’m no fan of hyperbole.

Only in America could there exist a rock ‘n’ roll Horatio Alger story like this one. Mr. Alger, of course, being a long dead collector of Alice Cooper records. In any case, let’s get into why this album is so important.

The Alice Cooper story began a couple years earlier with the sound of no hands clapping to the release of the band’s first record - Pretties For You. It’s a great album but it’s not like Love It To Death. It’s more psychedelic and artsy. Their next record was called Easy Action and to me it’s the link between their first record and the heavier buzz-saw sound of Love It To Death. With Love It To Death things started to ferment and the band saw some real success. They’d have much more success in years to come with the albums Killer, School’s Out, and Billion Dollar Babies but the formula started to kick like an electric mule on Red Bull with the release of Love It To Death.

Alright, let’s take a short break for trivia. In 1971, where would your local record store flunky file a record by Alice Cooper? In the “C” or “A” sections? Answer? How ‘bout both! It was a trick question, freaques! If the aforementioned flunky clerk knew what he was doing he’d file it in “A” section. Huh? Well, it’s because “Alice Cooper” isn’t a person. Or at least he wasn’t a person way back in the late 60s and early 70s. Nope. Alice Cooper was a group of five hard rockers that were long on talent and silver clothing and short on scissors. This group was made up of real humans with real names like Vincent Damon Furnier on vocals, Glen Buxton and Michael Bruce on guitars, Dennis Dunaway on bass and Neal Smith on drums. After a few years of success (and even more beers) Vincent Furnier worked up the nerve to take the name of the group as his own name thus becoming the person Alice Cooper. Mr. Alice Cooper to you.

Here’s the important part. Americans, I implore you. In this election year, there’s one thing more important than voting. Buying this record. So, drop your socks. Pick up your car keys. Skip out of work and run to your local record purveyor and purchase this twelve incher. Same goes for you American Samoans. With one exception - drop your banana (even us xenophobic Americans know you don’t own socks!).

Oh, here’s something.

Do yourself a favor and listen (and watch) Alice Cooper perform Is It My Body by clicking on this very sentence!

For weirdos only: By now if you’re following my unusual brand of record reviewing, you’ll note that I must have something self-important and/or self-indulgent to say about a record if I include a photo of the record label. In this case I’m bragging a bit that I own a first pressing of Love It To Death as evidenced by the pinkish Straight label. Sure, I also own a Warner Brothers copy of the record too, but it’s these first pressings that sound almost criminally powerful. When I bought this copy at a local clothing resale shop (see, there is hope!) a friend of mine who’s more of a record weirdo than me told me I’d throw out my Warner Brothers copy as a phony replica of the real thing on the Straight label. He may have been exaggerating but it does sound better. The first pressings also contain the naughty cover before it was airbrushed at the request of nervous corporate execs over at Warners. There’s nothing naughty about it at all, really. But I guess people thought the old thumb through the zipper trick was an inch too far and they did away with it when Warner Brothers bought the rights and reissued the record in 1971. Have fun weirdos. Keep smiling!

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The Small Faces Bask In The Afterglow Of Ogdens' Nut Gone Flake!!!

The Small Faces. Four well-dressed diminutive mods in search of a proper psychedelic album found their Holy Grail in between the grooves of a long player that landed on God’s Earth in 1968. Of course it’s called Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake. Why not?

This heavily played record is a basher. It’s unlike any other I’ve heard in the genre. Excellent musicianship, interesting production, hilarious East End accents (“Ello Mrs. Jones, ow’s your Bert’s lumbago?”) and a kind of self-parody come together to punch you in the kidneys after tickling your toesies.

The bulk of what is called “psychedelic music” is often overly serious and occasionally too self-aware. The first bit of this record – the opening instrumental title track in particular – might fool you into thinking you’re in for a pretentious festival of swirling guitars and echoing organ runs. You’d be forgiven for thinking something like that, but it is a great cut. But it’s the next track – Afterglow (Of Your Love) – that will set you straight for the rest of the record. Mostly. It starts with some hand clapping, East End mumbling, bongos and acoustic guitar before descending into a heavy Motown-fueled soulful punch of overcranked musicianship that feels like the older, tougher brother of another, earlier Small Faces winner called “All Or Nothing.” And that’s not nothing, my friends. Strong medicine indeed.

More hand claps and heavily echoed organ kick off the next track – Long Agos And World’s Apart – which serves as a romping bridge to the next song – Rene. Pronounced “Reeney” by a mugging, winking Steve Marriott, this one’s a song and a half really. It’s the story of Rene – the docker’s delight – and it reminds me of the kind of old-timey fishermans’ songs until it kicks into an instrumental psychedelic freakout. Which is a good thing because it works. Probably because Ronnie Lane, Kenney Jones, Ian McLagan and Steve Marriott manage not to overthink their brand of psychedelic. Song Of A Baker then pulls itself up by it’s flour and water and forms itself into a quite a pie indeed. The last cut on the A side of this long player is Lazy Sunday. Hilarious. Even more so because it was written as a joke and accidentally (?) released by Immediate Records as a single (to Mr. Marriott’s great displeasure). But like so many tales of pop groups and record labels, the joke managed to be on everyone. Lazy Sunday became a number 2 hit in Great Britain. 

Flip this long-player over. But not before preparing yourself. Suck down a pint of your favorite ale, tickle the wife and scream out the window to clear your pipes. It’s on side two where this business of not taking psychedelia too serious gets down to business. It’s all about some Cockney cat named Happiness Stan – narrated throughout by a real Stan – Stanley Unwin. I don’t know where the Small Faces found this guy but man is he freaky. Funny too. Speaks nonsense to my ears but I can’t be sure. He’s probably some Lord of Hamburger-Wolverhampton. Rollin’ Over is the second track and it’s worth the wait. Heavy bit of flash, this one is. A few more dollops of psych follow in the form of The Hungry Intruder (a light moment), The Journey (silly stuff really), and Mad John (great vocals by Mr. Marriott!). The record finishes with Happy Days Toy Town – a song that shockingly reveals the meaning of life through the opening line “Life is just a bowl of All-Bran!” It’s a downhill giggle the rest of the way, love.

And, that’s it exactly. The Small Faces introduce us to a giggle of a psych album that somehow manages to rock hard enough to keep your toe tapping and give you something to think about. Sure keeps your mind off the war in Indo-China. 

Listen to Afterglow (Of Your Love) by clicking this very sentence!!!

For weirdos only:  The record pictured above is a Get Back label reissue of the original 1968 LP. Good luck finding a clean original! The package ripped off a brand of tobacco called Ogdens’ Nut-Brown Flake. The cheek! Some guy named Mick Swan designed the cover. Nice work, Mick! Ogdens’ was the last studio record of new material by this line-up. Not long after it’s release, Steve Marriott jumped into a band called Humble Pie with future talk-box weirdo Peter Frampton. But in these early days Humble Pie were an authentic blues-rock group worthy of their name. The hole left in the Small Faces was filled by two well-known rockers – Rod Stewart and Ronnie Wood. They cut one LP as The Small Faces and then dropped the “Small” after realizing Ronnie was a hair over 5’6” tall with the right haircut. God bless his socks.  

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Ted Nugent Bites Into And Eats The Beating Heart Out Of America

Strike while the iron’s hot I say. Ted Nugent seems to be hot all over America again. I’m not sure why this time. Having long ago given up on mainstream media (I get most of my news from Trouser Press and Creem Magazine), I can only surmise that all this watercooler talk about Ted Nugent must be about one thing – his liberal use of guitar savagery! America, I’ll never figure out how you work, but I love you. By the way, so does former President Jimmy Carter who, though being a small man, has a big heart for this country. And one suspects, a big love of Ted Nugent’s music.

Within Ted Nugent’s oeuvre, this particular album – Tooth, Fang & Claw – is actually credited to Ted Nugent’s Amboy Dukes. It came out in The Year Of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Seventy Four and it fills an interesting niche. That niche being the Middle Ages between the Amboy Duke’s psychedelic late 1960s and early 70s chugging ooze and the late 70s guitar-as-shotgun solo music assault on the senses that became “Ted Nugent” the man. And, not surprisingly, the band. My thinking is that by 1974, Ted Nugent still liked the name Amboy Dukes and thought it was helpful to him on his journey to becoming the Motor City Madman. He appears to be right.

Any way you slice it, this album is a heavy rocker. Some of you who may not be familiar with this period of Ted’s work might dismiss it as overly sentimental or light-hearted. It isn’t. It’s got a loud, kerranging, crunching approach not without humor and a soft supple side. Now that you're intrigued, let’s dive into the tracks on the album. 

Lady Luck leads things off. No it’s not about gambling. It’s about the Virginia Slims generation. You’ve come a long way, baby and Uncle Ted doesn’t want you to forget it. I think this track is written as a gift to Gloria Steinem. Living in the Woods is exactly what you think it is – a romantic story about Ted’s upbringing by mother wolf and father bear. The first side of this record ends with a long instra-mental and it’s called Hibernation. I challenge any of you to sleep through this one! It gives your insides a kind of primordial body shake. You’re almost afraid to flip the record to hear side two.

Do it anyway. Something amazing happens. The second side begins with another non-vocal workout. This one’s called Free Flight and it’s sensational. I think it shows off Ted’s sensitive side as it dips and ascends into rock ‘n’ roll inner-space. I think it’s about the history of American altruism but how can you tell when there are no words? Give it a listen and you’ll see what I mean. The next cut – Maybelline – was written by Chuck Berry as an ode to modern cosmetics. Nugent’s version is a weird interpretation. But worth hearing I think.

The Great White Buffalo deserves its own paragraph. It has nothing to do with the Dustin Hoffman movie - Little Big Man. You’ve heard it somewhere. You just forgot about it. America, come home to The Great White Buffalo. It was a concert favorite for years and I think it’s about an albino buffalo that looks like Edgar Winter but I can’t be sure.

Sasha is the meandering and beautifully toned acoustic-electric-mellow rocker your mom never knew Ted Nugent had in him. But he did! Now you can now laugh in your mom’s face! No Holds Barred is hard to categorize. I guess I’d call it a mounted gun for firing heavy projectiles type song. It closes out this long player and it's  a good finisher. It’s got plenty of moments where you think it might end but doesn’t. A fun-loving romp of an album that comes highly recommended.

So wash down your double cheeseburger with a can of beer and get out to your local record store to score this rock 'n' roll mutation. 

Detroit thanks you.

Listen to Free Flight by clicking this very link!

For weirdos only:  The Amboy Dukes, Ted Nugent and The Amboy Dukes, and Ted Nugent's Amboy Dukes are tricky to follow. There are any number of albums, compilations and collections of different incarnations of these bands. While I might not get this right to the letter of the law, think of it this way. If the band is called The Amboy Dukes, the music was most likely recorded between 1967 - 1969 and is largely blues-based psychedelia that's first rate (Journey To The Center Of The Mind being their most famous single). Anything called Ted Nugent's Amboy Dukes or Ted Nugent and The Amboy Dukes is probably a heavy rocking affair that lives down around the corner from Ted's hard-rocking stuff that ruled the FM airwaves in the late 70s. While right thinking people these days concern themselves with Ted Nugent's "boorish" behavior, this writer finds his guitar work to be boarish in the best possible way. Keep smiling, weirdos.

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Runt is no small feat.

Make no mistake. Runt is the band that is Todd Rundgren. It’s supposedly a real band but I have my doubts. From where I sit, I guess Todd Rundgren – the Philly based anglophile rocker from The Nazz – had so much faith in his first solo album that he didn’t put his name on it anywhere. Almost. If you look closely you can see he scribbled it on some paper in the bottom right corner of the album cover. Not a confident start, really. Though a great one.

The Nazz. Now that was a band. Three great albums if you ask me. If you ask Todd Rundgren he’d give you the usual tortured artist story about only wanting to release one good album, couldn’t sing on his own songs (nearly all of them) and that the record company released sub-par material on Nazz Nazz and Nazz III. I’m not having any of it. Great records. All of them, Todd. All.

Back to Runt. It came out in 1970 and as far as I can tell, the songs fit into three basic categories. All out rockers (Broke Down & Busted, Who’s That Man?, Devil’s Bite). Tentative sad sack stuff of legend (Believe In Me, Once Burned, I’m In The Clique). Hit record attempts [We Gotta Get You A Woman, Don’t Tie My Hands (which is really part of a weirdo trilogy song thing)].

Now that we’re on the topic, Mr. Rundgren did score a hit with We Gotta Get You A Woman. I think he wrote that for Joe Namath based on a misunderstanding that Joe was tentative with girls.

This entire record is self-conscious, claustrophobic and great. It’s just plain great. I don’t understand any of it but I love it.

I’m not sure what the malady is called, but in my opinion Todd Rundgren suffered from a rare disorder early in his career where he actually believed he was a black British soul singer who became all four Beatles. Imagine the waistcoats he must own! The good news is that Todd Rundgren really knew how to overcome.

There’s something else. I can’t prove it, but I strongly suspect that Todd Rundgren taught a high school rock band and jazz combo to play every note of this album over many months fueled by Pixie Sticks, cans of Coke and the promise of groupies only to pull the rug out from under them, wipe all their performances from the master tapes and re-record every note himself. In his grandmother’s basement.

Runt. A self-aware pop masterpiece.

Listen to Broke Down & Busted by clicking this here link!

For weirdos only:  I looked forever and a day to find my copy of this long player. In a move not out of character with the rock ‘n’ roll weirdo I described above, there was some controversy over the release of this album. There are supposedly three versions out there – two on Ampex Records (one with twelve tracks; one with eleven). I’ve got the less desirable ten track version on Bearsville(distributed by Ampex). Rundgren must hate putting out records! And, I had to bust my butt to find a copy of the album that wasn’t trashed. They’re always beat beyond recognition. Usually the sign of a good album (or any Black Oak Arkansas record).

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Bob Seger System Is No Silver Bullet!

No way. It’s a rock ‘n’ roll kick to the skull. Just the way I like it. Fact is, the first track – Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man – kicks you in the head and then stomps your solar plexus after you fall to the ground shaking like your grandma's bundt cake shaped lime jello.

I wanted to hate this slab of wax from 1968 – The Bob Seger System’s first LP – based on my experience with 1980s truck commercials drenched in MOR rock music from Bob Seger. Thing of it is, when you hear that much MOR rock music over and over all day long you begin to loathe it.

But there’s nothing to loathe in the grooves of Bob’s first outing as a rocker. The worst that can be said about this record is that some of the cuts are a bit hippy dippy (“Gone” comes to mind).

But when the Bob Seger System nails it – “Tales Of Lucy Blue”, “Down Home”, “Ivory”, “White Wall” and the title track – they really hammer it in.  If Vice President Biden were to ask me to describe this album in terms he’d understand, I’d probably say it was musculoskeletal psychedelic rhythm ‘n’ blues with a dollop of country folk thrown in to scare the crap out of you.

And, that’s what this record did for me. It scared the crap out of me. Because there’s a lot to love about it. And I wasn't ready to love Seger. There’s thudding, pounding, hammering, screeching and a few moments where you stick your head out the window to escape the smoke and breathe in some of that sweet, cool Motor City air. I love those things in a rock record. A rock record that sounds like Detroit in 1968.

I can actually imagine UAW workers listening to this record as they pounded together a car with some serious curb weight. Sensational. And that my friend, is factual.

Listen to Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man by clicking this very link!

For weirdos only:  Allow me to get on a teensy weensy soap box for a second. A close look at this record would lead the uninitiated to think I dropped $5.69 for this LP at Laury’s Records. A great deal by me. A real close look will reveal a “Clearance $.50” sticker top right. That’s right, weirdos. Yours truly scored this slab of wax a mere two weeks ago at a used book store for half a buck. Shrink wrap intact. Sure, it’s an early 80s reissue. But 50 cents? Mint condition. It boggles the mind. Talk about an inflation beater! That's twelve full inches of artwork (Kinda naughty in this case if you look close. Shame on you Capitol Records!) with eleven songs carved neatly into two sides of a vinyl story created by someone desperately trying to tell you something they think is important. Try finding a music file at a used bookstore that can duplicate this action. Go ahead, try it. Take that, digital!

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The Undertones. Derry Singles Farmers.

The most pop punk band from Derry, Northern Ireland? The punkest pop band? Can there be any doubt? Admittedly, I’ve never tooled around Derry’s sectarian streets looking for a better band. But I’ll venture a guess that there’ll never be another single cranking machine from up there who’s any better.  Have a look for yourself. Bear in mind they’d spot a poser like you in a flash and box your ears.

This short canary cage liner of an article will explore my fascination with the first Undertones long player. A gift from God to the world from guitarist bruvvers Damian and John O’Neill, bassist Michael Bradley, Billy Doherty on the sticks and a concave-chested  gent named Feargal Sharkey on lead warble. I once said Mr. Sharkey was the poor man’s Bryan Ferry and nearly got punched in the mouth. I stand by it as long as the goons are gone. Sure, one’s more of a quivverer and the other a warbler. But still, nobody knows how either of ‘em does it.

Let’s get into the thick of it. First off, the record you see above is the second pressing of the band’s first LP released on Sire Records. God bless you Seymour Stein (the Sire Records genius responsible for signing The Ramones, The Dead Boys, The Flamin’ Groovies and on and on.). I guess he signed them to Sire because “they got sawngs.” You see, Seymour loves bands that have songs.  More on that another day. My copy came out in October 1979 and has two front covers. Sort of. You can flip it and both sides have a cover photo. Either that or no back cover. My head hurts thinking about it. Most import, however, is the fact that the October ’79 copy has two additional tracks including a real life saver – Teenage Kicks!

Teenage Kicks is the best single ever recorded according to John Peel. It was the BBC radio impresario’s favorite song until his untimely death a few years back. Think about it. Of all the songs John Peel heard in his life, he considered Teenage Kicks the ultimate. The numero uno. Boggles the mind. Makes me want to wolf a Mars bar right now!

But this album is packed with singles even if they weren’t released as such. In addition to the two listed above, you gotta love the sweet surround of songs coming at you on this record – Family Entertainment, Girls Don’t Like It, Male Model (!!!), I Gotta Getta, Jimmy Jimmy, Here Comes The Summer, and more! My guess is you’re not going to find too many records from 1979 with as many two minute masterpieces! If you do, prove it. Tell me about it. I want to hear it.

Click this sentence for proof that John Peel is right about Teenage Kicks.

For weirdos only: The first pressing of this record came out a few months earlier – May 1979 – and has a black and white photo of the band. Here’s a case where it’s better not to be the early bird. The second pressing has the first beat by two full songs – Teenage Kicks and Get Over You. Two serious singles, m’friend! Curiously, the October pressing sports a re-recorded version of Here Comes The Summer. Not sure why. Both versions are very similar. I know because I have a compact disc (blasphemer!) reissue of the album with all kinds of bonus tracks. Worth it, punters. 

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Lights Out, Lights Out In London.

Lights Out by UFO. The album. The song. I know what you're thinking. "Finally, this joker reviews a dependable album." Guess what, weirdos? This review is going to tackle the politics of this album. Sort of. Take that! You see, this album isn't without some controversy.

Is the song Lights Out about the World War II bombings of London as I told my wary, sonicly challenged parents in the late 1970s? I sure thought so. I had no reason to doubt our neighborhood expert who told me so. He was the older brother of a friend of mine and I had it on good authority that he knew his stuff. He had more records than me, he'd kissed a girl and I saw him smoking once. The trifecta!

Remember, in late 1970s America, bands like UFO were actively solving one of America’s biggest problems -  boredom. Face it, heavy rockers like UFO, AC/DC and punkers like The Ramones, The Undertones and others were pulling us kids out of a Frampton-induced malaise. Nobody knew more about exciting issues like sleeping with the TV on, drinking Coca-Cola for breakfast and the Nazi bombings of London during The Big War than the rock groups.

Here's the deal. Maybe this song – Lights Out – isn’t about London bombings at all. Maybe it’s about the electricity shortages, strikes, and industrial unrest of 1970s England. Seems convincing. After all, those issues would provide better inspiration for a group of English rockers and their famously bare-chested German friend. But how do we confirm the band's intentions?

I suppose I could ask the guys who wrote the song. According to the liner notes, four guys wrote it. Let’s start with Michael Schenker. Already we have a problem. Mr. Schenker doesn’t remember being in UFO. There’s also a vicious rumor that he’s in a romantic relationship with a Gibson Flying V once owned by Howlin’ Wolf. I could ask either singer Phil Mogg or bassist Pete Way but they too suffer from an unusual form of memory loss. In their case, it's attributed to decades of spandex abuse. So we're down to the drummer. It turns out Andy Parker is available by telephone but is despondent and seems to be singularly interested in discussing pending litigation related to his being swindled out of his investment in some sort of “inflatable cricket team.”

Since we'll likely never get a real answer, let's move on. It turns out the Lights Out album isn’t only about that one song. The album has another radio staple in Too Hot To Handle, a song right thinking people believe helped to create a population boom in Cleveland, Detroit and Chicago in 1977-1978. And let’s face it, the album ender – Love To Love – whoa! Pounding, thudding, circuitous! Speaking of Love. Did you know that Lights Out boasts a cover of a song by 1960s hippie band Love? Yeah, that Love. The band fronted by Arthur Lee and his buddy Bryan MacLean. Alone Again Or is performed very faithfully. Despite the fact the band took issue with the grammar. 

It’d be hard to do a review of this album – which is a crucial record in any collection – without mentioning the guitar prowess of Michael Schenker. If you don’t know who he is, ask any roached out, long-haired mumbler in any bus terminal in America. They'll all tell you the same three things about Michael Schenker. He's technically amazing, soulful and he’s Margaret Thatcher’s favorite hard rocker. Take that, Labour!

Click this sentence to see UFO in action!!!

For weirdos only:  Too Hot To Handle (the first cut on Lights Out) is a favorite of Tennessee’s very own Tipper Gore! Her husband Al Gore (former Vice President of the United States) co-wrote one riff in that number and told her the song was about an overcooked plate of bangers and mash.

Here’s something. Those of you with keen eyes may have noticed my alternate cover of the Lights Out album. I own a rare Hungarian test pressing with a “559” tattoo on the huge shirtless guy’s chest. On with the action. 

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Barnyard Psychedelic Echo Drenched Pastures

I know how silly that sounds.  Honest I do. I just can’t come up with a better way to describe this record in one sentence given the tight deadline I’m dealing with on this torturous music blog. I’m not even sure if I’m reviewing this album or if it’s reviewing me. Since dropping a needle onto this record I’ve had a confused, hazy feeling. One thing is certain.  This record is the fairly righteous rocking curiosity known as Bull Of The Woods by the 13th Floor Elevators, the darlings of late 1960s Austin, Texas. So smitten by the band were local authorities that they ran them off to San Francisco (how predictable!) and locked up their lead singer (Roky Erickson) in a mental institution.

This review attempts to settle once and for all an issue we’ve all been grappling with since puberty – is Bull Of The Woods a worthy final studio statement from the sweethearts of the south Texas psychedelic rodeo? The answer is yes. But you’d like some proof and I don’t blame you.

The record is unusual in the 13th Floor Elevators canon in that there’s much less electric jug from Tommy Hall, a lot less Roky Erickson (legal problems related to “exhaustion”), more horns and a lot more writing, guitar noodling and singing from Stacy Sutherland. On paper this should mean that Bull Of The Woods stinks. And while there is an aroma wafting out of the grooves cut into the lacquer, it’s not a bad one. Rather, it’s the smell of the sun-drenched,  dew-covered grasslands of a south Texas pasture. Albeit a weird one.  

Let’s start by laying it on the line my friends. This record isn’t as good as their shockingly awesome first record – The Psychedelic Sounds Of The 13th Floor Elevators. And it’s not as strangely trippy as their second LP – Easter Everywhere. But it is a fine record.

The best songs are sung by Roky Erickson (four of them). Those include the opener – Livin’ On – a great single with really neat unpredictable drumming.  Never Another has me cheering on the electric jug which rests comfortably high in the mix. Dr. Doom isn’t as gloomy as it sounds. Although who knows? I can’t figure out what it’s about but it sounds great and has some horns that come out of nowhere.

Sure, Roky’s a better singer but he was in jail! It’s a good thing the songs sung by Stacy Sutherland hold their own. Barnyard Blues sounds a little bit like Season Of The Witch by Donovan but more lo-fi, psych-like in its approach. Till Then sounds like something a less super-serious Jefferson Airplane might’ve cut if they weren’t so pompous and were more earthy. Rose And The Thorn is a romping, ghost-imbued rocker. Give a listen and you’ll understand what “ghost imbued” means. Down By The River (not the Neil Young song) is a great pulsing, oozing thing imploring you to get down to the river because that’s where it’s at, man.  And at less than two minutes it states its case and then moves on to Scarlet And Gold, which is a thumping and chugging workout with a bass heavy groove. Street Song is a layered piercing guitar story about a guy wanting to go back to the country. It’s at odds with itself in a good way.

 The final song on the album is May The Circle Remain Unbroken and it’s amazing. If you’ve ever heard anything like it before I want to meet you and your parents at a Denny’s of your choice to discuss it. This song defies time and invents a new dimension. It almost literally reaches in to your spleen and fools your body into thinking it’s a spaceship trying to peel out in pool of molten molasses. Which makes me hungry for pancakes.

 In the final analysis I think I’ve proven that purchasing this record is probably a civic duty. Buy it and if you don’t like it I’ll get somebody to refund your money. Keep in mind, however, that not buying this record may prove to be un-American. Look what that got Alger Hiss!

Click on this sentence to receive a healthy dose of late 1960s American Weirdness. 

For weirdos only:  The red vinyl pressing being reviewed was pressed in Italy on the Get Back Lo-Cost label (ironically, it wasn’t that cheap). God bless the Italians! There’s an extended version of this album inside the Sign Of The 3 Eyed Men box set. This box set is now hideously rare but worth seeking out if you love this group like I do. The bonus tracks on the compact disc in the box set are: Livin’ On (single version), Scarlet And Gold (single version), May The Circle Remain Unbroken (single version), Livin’ On (alternate horn arrangement), and Bull Of The Woods Bay Area Radio Spot (Finally, right?). 

[supertodd5000]

Think Pink, Parker!!!

Hey, with only four songs this story should be shorter than the stories I write about LPs right? We'll see. I may not have enough time to make it shorter.

The Pink Parker. On Vertigo. An E.P. - Extended Play for the uninitiated. Four cuts. With The Rumour backing him up to the wall! This record sounds like it was recorded under a tall table in the corner of a North London pub filled with smoke, sweat and at least two guys named Ivor looking to pound you into the ground after downing nine ciders - before the show starts. And, I'm just describing the two studio cuts - Hold Back The Night (by The Trammps!!) and (Let Me Get) Sweet On You. The other two cuts are recorded live and this nifty little EP says they're taken from the hideously rare "Live at Marble Arch" bootleg album. How 'bout that? Beating the bootleggers at their own game. The cheek! The live cuts? Sizzling versions of White Honey and Soul Shoes from the very first Graham Parker and The Rumour long player - Howlin' Wind. My six year old daughter heard these live tracks this morning before school and said "This sounds awesome!" Which it does. 

The Rumour? Pub rockers extraordinaire. I'm talking about Brinsley Schwarz (g; and formerly of the band Brinsley Schwarz with Nick Lowe, et.al.), Andrew Bodnar (b), Stephen Goulding (d), Martin Belmont (g) and Bob Andrews (k; and also formerly of The Brinsleys).

But it's, Graham Parker on lead sneer all the way. Doing what he could to anticipate Elvis Costello's sneer and one-up it before Costello even cut an album. Talk about foresight! True, they're a goofy looking lot but they know how to rock.

If you click this sentence you'll see the proof!

For weirdos only:  Graham Parker thanks Brian Robertson of "Thin Lizzy's" on the sparse liner notes on this slab of pink wax. I have no idea why. Do you know? And, if you were wondering where Graham Parker's been hiding since the early 80s, I know. In the $1.00 bins at America's local record shops. I see his albums constantly hiding out under the full price records. If I were you, I'd  get down on my knees and start digging in the P section because they're usually in great condition and cost a buck. No kiddin'. I bought this E.P. earlier this week for exactly 49¢. Special thanks to Spindlephonic Alan for reintroducing me to the merits of Mr. Parker and friends. 

[supertodd5000]

The State Of Our Union!

“I thought I saw some diplomat hawking secret plans in the park.

I thought I saw my president walking through Harlem late after dark.”

Those first lines of this record’s opener - Looking For Lewis And Clark - suggest you’re in for a politically charged wild ride. Turns out it’s a well-written, tuneful, fun one at that. I love this record for so many reasons and one of them is that The Long Ryders use this record to prove the supposed rock ‘n’ roll dust bowl of the 1980s is a myth.

This record is an appropriately arrogant blend of country rock love of Gram Parsons, plugged into some Byrdsian jangle guitar, a strong pop sensibility and the spirit of Woody Guthrie. And it all happened in 1985.

Sid Griffin (g), Stephen McCarthy (g), Greg Sowders (d), and Tom Stevens (b) came together again in 1985 to create this long-player filled with addictive Americana (no wonder it was so popular in England!). It’s their second record together with this line-up. The first being 1984’s Native Sons (which may have even more going for it). The same line-up minus bassist Tom Stevens put out a great EP in 1983 called 10-5-60.

State Of Our Union is packed to the gills with some predictable stuff like weaving, bashing, jangly guitars. But, it’s just as heavy into harmonica, autoharp, banjo, and lap steel. Oh, and drums that never miss a beat and keyboards that don’t stink.

Funny thing is, State Of Our Union seems as well suited to the have/have not times of today as it did in the mid 80s. Or, in the 1930s for that matter. I’m not saying the record is timeless but man is it close. There’s no doubt the band didn’t like trickle down economics or Ronald Reagan’s view of America. But to say the record is singularly focused on politics underestimates this slab of fine wax. It’s as easy to pump your fist in the air in support of the small man as it is to get lost in the scenery of riding the rails and filling up your coupe with gas from a glass topper. It’s simple, straightforward American idealism and it’s awesome.

Go to your local record shop and purchase this LP today. Don’t do it and regret it forever. And, I’m no fan of hyperbole.

Take a peek at The Long Ryders over here by actually clicking this sentence!

For weirdos only:  State Of Our Union is produced by well-respected man and drummer/vocalist Will Birch of England’s The Records. Those fine pop songsmiths really deserve a second go around. Mr. Birch’s involvement likely explains the pop sheen that glistens so beautifully in the mid-80s southern California sun. One more thing. I owe my love of the Long Ryders to a guy who turned me on to this record in 1986. That guy? Mike “Country Punk” O’Russa. Thanks C.P.

[supertodd5000]

The Beatles. Not that bad!

Beatles. Four of them. John, Paul, George and Ringo. Their first proper British long player. Please Please Me. I understand the title has earned them a fair amount of scorn from the British suffragettes. These women's rights groups aren’t without merit in this case, gents.  After all, it’s one thing to whisper about but quite another to be so frank with your intentions. That said, I think most right thinking people would agree that the average suffragette is simply looking for her husband to chase her around the dining room table now and again. But, this is a record review and not a social commentary. Good thing, that. 

To my ears these Beatles mix their styles and play with a ferocity not heard since the blues and their little baby cousin – rhythm & blues – was accidentally overheard by some young white kids in a west suburban cul de sac. Call it what you will – Merseybeat, folk-rock, pop-rock, British Invasion, rock & roll – I say it’s simply not that bad by today’s standards.

A man on holiday in Dover said Ringo never missed a beat and I’ll be darned if I’ll be the one to disprove it! Those wonderful (if unconvincing in their attempt to mimic American English) vocal harmonies by Messrs. Lennon and McCartney! The lead(ish) guitar from George Harrison is formidable at minimum and could quite possibly cure leadminer’s complaint in due time!

Now, let’s get down to some specifics so I can convince you I’ve actually listened to the album in its entirety! First out of the gate is I Saw Her Standing There. With its opening line “Well she was just seventeen and you know what I mean” it’s hardly difficult to see what they mean (They mean she was legally able to see popular art films). That tune – a McCartney-Lennon original – sets the tone for the record. That tone is both hard driving and original for at least one more song – Misery, which is believable in its portrayal of a young man who’s been treated poorly by the whole world. Ha ha ha. Who hasn’t, chumps? It’s at this point the record takes a decidedly unoriginal turn with the following toe-tappers – Anna (Go To Him), Chains, and Boys – all obviously unoriginal since other people wrote them and had hits with them long before.  To be fair, The Beatles take the mickey out of them and make them their own. They’ll never know how much I respect them for that. Ask Me Why is the sixth song on the album and that seems fair.

The seventh track is Please Please Me. Some people would say it’s the song in the title of the album but I’m unsure of such an obvious move. These guys are intellectuals. Either way, it’s a real rocker and cuts right into the heart of modern romance like a knife sold by a door-to-door knife salesman. P.S. I Love You is nothing more than a post script really. Which seems about right. It’s great. Baby It’s You (another cover!) has a lot of sha-la-la-la-las in it to lull you into a false sense of security. It’s then that they tell us she’s a “Cheat! Cheat!” Just what a hopped up teenage head needs to hear! Thanks a farthing’s worth, Beatles! Though, they didn’t really write it. Some American guy named Bacharach did. Let’s blame him. Do You Want To Know A Secret doesn’t have a “?” which is confusing to me. But I listened to it anyway. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the secret after hearing all that bad news about the girl in the song before. But, it’s a really good song as it turns out. Somewhat sparse really – sounds more like a trio but it is rollicking number. A Taste Of Honey is what The Beatles serve up next. It’s a cover. Are you getting the pattern here? Write a few songs, cover a few ringers, grow your hair out and cop some accent and the girls will swarm you. Even more if you talk bad about them! Well it IS a good song. There’s A Place is a McCartney-Lennon song that's not unlike something Greenwich Village folk huckster Bob Dylan would write. Not surprisingly, the “place” is a made up place in their minds! Big thinkers. The last song on this 14 song long-player is Twist and Shout which is a real shredder. Man, I wish the album was full of songs like this. Yes, for you scorekeepers, it’s a cover version. But, boy is it convincing.  In my opinion it’s as good as the Isley Brothers version. Which is to say very good indeed.

If I were you I’d purchase this album from your local furniture store. Or ask me if you can borrow it.  

For weirdos Only:  Please Please Me was released on the EMI subsidiary Parlophone. Which is funny because Parlophone was a label devoted to comedy recordings. The Goons – including future Beatle friend Peter Sellers - recorded for Parlophone.

See The Beatles Play For Queen Elizabeth II!!!