apostrophe (1974) - frank zappa: discreet records, DS-2175

Weird.  It's a word one hears a lot when discussing Frank Zappa.  He looks weird.  He talks weird.  His music is most definitely weird. His movies are weird.  Even his name is weird.

Yeah, Weird absolutely fits Zappa.

But let’s be honest - the world needs someone to bring the weird.  A world without weird can be boring and stagnant and decidedly scary.  It would be like living in the fantasy land of Ronald Reagan, where every lawn is perfectly manicured, every meal comes in a foil-covered, molded aluminum tray, everyone wears clothing from the Sears catalog, and all the music sounds like a sterilized version of Paul Anka.

So yeah, weird is good.  Especially in music.  And Apostrophe (‘) is a fine example of just how much fun weird music can be.

Side 1: Don’t Eat The Yellow Snow Nanook Rubs It St. Alfonzo’s Pancake Breakfast Father O’Blivion Cosimk Debris
Side 2: Excentrifugal Forz Apostrophe’ Uncle Remus Stink-Foot

Zappa sets the tone of irreverence before you even drop the vinyl on the table, with a note on the back cover stating, This is an album of songs and stories set to music performed for your dining and dancing pleasure.

The first four songs cover the story of an Eskimo boy named Nanook who exacts revenge on a fur trapper for clubbing his pet baby seal by rubbing some of the deadly yellow snow into the trapper’s eyes.  The trapper then hears a legend that the only way to reverse the effect is to make his way to the parish of St. Alfonzo, where Father O’Blivion just happens to be hosting a pancake breakfast.

After this silly string of songs Apostrophe (‘) settles in to some more heavy sounds, with the remaining songs showing a familiar Zappa blend of some jamming and groove with the requisite comically strange lyrics.  Like many of Zappa’s songs, there are familiar themes running through both the music and the words.  Things like a lot of overdubbing and complex percussion featuring instruments such as the marimba, and lyrical references to Zappa’s childhood health issues (for instance, the lyrics "You might not believe this, little fella, but it'll cure your Asthma too!" and “So take your meditations an' your preparations An' ram it up yer snout” in Cosmik Debris both allude to Zappa’s history of asthma and sinus problems), or just plain bizarre (the dialogue with the talking dog in Apostrophe’).

Of all the songs on Apostrophe (‘), Uncle Remus is still relevant today.  It’s basically the epilogue to Trouble Every Day (from Freak Out!), and is a cutting look at the frustrating state race relations in the US:

I can't wait till my Fro is full-grown / I'll just throw 'way my Doo-Rag at home
I'll take a drive to Beverly Hills / Just before dawn
An' knock the little jockeys / Off the rich people's lawn
An' before they get up / I'll be gone, I'll be gone

What really blew me away with this listen is that this album is only about 32 minutes long, but sounds like it is closer to 45.  The songs just have this quality of being able to be so full.

As weird as Apostrophe (‘) may be, it’s easily the most accessible of all of Zappa’s albums – as shown by the fact it managed to reach #10 on the Billboard charts.  But as non-threatening (or non-confusing) as it was, there is still a lot of Zappa going on here.  And that is always a good thing.

Up next: A Canadian band in a very polite transitionary phase

billion dollar babies (1973) - alice cooper: warner brothers records, BS-2685

Even though Alice Cooper now has a reputation (well deserved as it is) of being the Edgar Allen Poe band of rock, they started out as basically just another glam band, with their intentionally androgynous makeup and look coming from the influence of the LA scene in the early 70’s.

However, the band soon realized they could exploit a niche by bringing a more theatrical element to their performances, and they soon hit on this cool idea of having a band called Alice Cooper with a frontman known as Alice Cooper (nee Vince Furnier) who would play the character of a homicidal woman named Alice Cooper.

Or something like that.  Remember, it was the late '60s / early 70’s so things didn’t always need to make a lot of sense.

Anyway, Alice (the man, the character, and the band) were born, and they had their schtick.  But in the beginning the whole horror rock thing wasn’t fully developed, and most of their songs tended to be pretty conventional rock.  And so, even though they had this idea, their music didn’t quite support it, meaning they were a concept band without a true identity.

Billion Dollar Babies is a pretty clear reflection of that.

Side 1: Hello Hooray Raped And Freezin' Elected Billion Dollar Babies Unfinished Sweet
Side 2: No More Mr. Nice Guy Generation Landslide Sick Things Mary Ann I Love The Dead

Now, I may be wrong, but there are a few subtle clues indicating that the album might be about money.  The title to start, as is the fact that the album jacket is designed to look like a wallet.  There’s also a giant 1 Billion Dollar bill tucked into it.  Oh, and the record sleeve has a photo of the band sitting in a pile of cash.

But BDB is definitely not a concept album.  There are songs about the cesspool that we call politics (Elected), songs about a hitchhiker being repeatedly molested by the insatiable woman who picked him up (Raped And Freezin’), songs about visiting a dentist (Unfinished Sweet), songs about a tranny (Mary Ann), songs about the generation gap (Generation Landslide), and the expected Alice Cooper horrorshow songs (Sick Things, I Love The Dead).

And even while the songs are overall quite good, the album has a hard time holding its freshness and relevance 40 years later.  Listening to it was fun, but it also has that quality of a yearbook photo
where the clothing, hairstyle, and design are all so dated it’s kind of embarrassing. 

However, while the music may be a bit too nostalgic, the packaging is a prime example of how CDs and digital will never be as cool as vinyl.  Not only is the album a gatefold (which is enough to make vinyl better than digital), but the flourishes are great.

To start, there’s the whole album jacket as wallet thing, which is kind of clever.  But the jacket is actually embossed at the seal.  Opening it up brings the real fun.  To start, there’s that $1 Billion bill cleverly tucked into a clasp.

On the other side there is a bunch of punch-out photos of the band members (cleverly enough, they are wallet-sized) which, if removed, opens a window to where the album sleeve sits, so you can either see the lyric sheet (with dollar sign water mark) or a picture of the band with shit-eating expressions, sitting on a pile of money.

In the end, though BDB is one of those albums that are definitely of a specific time.  But then again, so are movies like Soylent Green and TV shows like Get Smart.  And there are times when they just feel right.

Up next: What snow you should avoid 

dawn of the dickies (1980) - the dickies: a&m records, SP-4796

While the birthplace of punk may be in question - some say it is New York (and bands like the Ramones and Richard Hell and the Dead Boys), while others claim that it was England (the Sex Pistols and the Damned and the Clash) -there is absolutely no doubt that it grew up and attained maturity in Los Angeles.

Bands like the Weirdos, Black Randy, X, the Germs, Black Flag, Fear, the Adolescents, the Circle Jerks and more made LA the undisputed center of the punk universe.  Clubs like the Whiskey, the Roxy, Gazzari's, the Rainbow and others along Sunset Strip were where bands lived and died, and where punk was nurtured and allowed to develop.  Sure, there were vibrant scenes in San Francisco and DC and London and New York, but by the early 80's they were all mere satellites to what was happening in LA.

And with so much punk happening, it's not surprising that different strains started to emerge.  the Germs and Black Flag were the hardcore sound, filled with rapid fire music and vocals that can be generously called screams.  X brought musicianship and a large dose of American rockabilly and were the virtuosos of punk.  And there was even a weird offshoot called funnypunk perfected by the LA band the Dickies.

Side 1: Where Did His Eye Go? Fan Mail Manny, Moe, And Jack Infidel Zombie I'm A Chollo
Side 2: Nights In White Satin (I'm Stuck In A Pagoda With) Tricia Toyota I've Got A Splitting Hedachi Attack Of The Mole Men She Loves Me Not

Of all the punk bands of the 80's none were quite as local or quite as fun as the Dickies, featuring Leonard Graves Phillips on vocals, Stan Lee on guitar, Karlos Kaballero on drums, Billy Club on bass, and Chuck Wagon on just about everything else. Everything about them was an LA insider joke.  Folks from Des Moines or Milwaukee or Dallas simply wouldn't get the references to Manny, Moe, And Jack, or Tricia Toyota.  Those were things that only we understood.  Similarly, songs like I'm A Chollo tended to resonate more with LA fans because of our unique cultural tapestry.

(Interesting Side Note: I was at an event at UCLA in which none other than Ms. Tritia Toyota was one of the honorees, and I had the opportunity to meet her.  After blubbering about how much I always admired her work on the local NBC news, I asked her how she felt about being the subject of a song.  She laughed and said that she was quite flattered, that she liked the song a lot even if her name was misspelled, and was surprised at meeting someone who knew it.  Plus she was still quite attractive.)

But just because we LA kids were in on the gags doesn't mean others didn't or couldn't find it funny. In fact, they did, because the Dickies were, quite simply, very funny.  Unlike their contemporaries, the Dickies didn't try and tackle social injustice, youthful agita, the Reagan oppression, or any of that.  Their songs were about where to buy cheap auto parts (Manny, Moe, And Jack); over-eager fans (Fan Mail); some dude trying to handle an over-sexed nympho (I've Got A Splitting Hedachi); or gentle mocking of the ripe-for-satire Sammy Davis Jr (Where Did His Eye Go).

And their lyrics were funny, too. For instance:

We really love that boy 
He's brought us so much joy
He even used to be a goy
- Where Did His Eye Go

Or,

I changed my name to Paco / Went to the store and got a taco
It made me feel real macho / Now all my friends are gabachos
- I'm A Chollo

This album is a great reminder of how much fun the 80's were.  As songs, they still sound as fresh and contemporary as they did when they were released, and when the stylus hits the groove it's just an instant party.

Up next: Glam, American style

dark side of the moon (1973) - pink floyd: harvest records 1975 reissue, SMAS-11163

At the risk of losing whatever credibility I may have, I feel like I need to enter the rock music confessional and beg forgiveness for my sin. You see, the truth is I was never really a huge fan of Dark Side Of The Moon.

I know, that sounds like sacrilege. If there is any album that is supposed to be untouchable it is this one (and, maybe, Sgt. Pepper ...).  This is supposed to be The One.  The monolith from 2001. Mount Everest.  King Kong. The Holy Grail. The Platonic ideal of albums against which all other albums are measured.

But while my friends were rabbiting on and on about how incredibly awesome and transcendent DSOM was, I would just nod silently, while shaking my head on the inside.  Because, for me, DSOM was always a contextual album - only suitable for those times when it was very late, the lights were turned way down, I'd have had a bowl or two, and the headphones were on.  It was an album simply screaming for some icky sticky and a navel-gazing frame of mind.  The songs seemed like they were engineered to exacting specifications to make the most efficient use of the time-distortion and acceptance of a mind on hash.

Side 1: Speak To Me Breathe On The Run Time The Great Gig In The Sky
Side 2: Money Us And Them Any Colour You Like Brain Damage Eclipse

When listened to with the proper pharmaceuticals, DSOM may be without peer. But as something to toss on while straight, it always seemed to fall short for me.

The problem as I see it is that DSOM may be too ponderous and introspective for it's own good.  When I sat down to listen to it this time it seemed as if the album would collapse under the weight of its own deliberate intent.  The songs are at times so moody or melancholy or philosophical that without the aid of some THC they start to fall in to themselves, creating a singularity of psychological agitation.

This is particularly true of the songs Breathe and Time.  When high, these are mellow songs opening ideas and allowing consideration of bigger things.  But when straight they are just creepy, man.  I mean, those clocks ticking and dinging on Time just gives me The Fear. It's like a countdown of my own mortality.

DSOM is absolutely a product of its time, and it's no wonder a gang of freaks tried synching it up to Wizard of Oz.  Whether or not that synch thing is legit isn't the point.  The point is that someone got baked enough and came up with the idea that DSOM would work with Oz.  That's not something anyone would think of normally, and it's the best example I can give of why this album only works for me after burning one.

Up next: The jesters of LA's 80's punk scene

close to the edge (1972) - yes: atlantic records, K-50012

The late 60's saw the emergence of a new kind of rock, inspired by an incongruous amalgam of old and new influences.  Progressive (or just plain old prog) rock was a weird blend of psychadelic, jazz, classical, and contemporary rock, and was far more complex than pop.  It expanded the instrumental arsenal beyond the guitar, bass and drums to lean far more heavily on keyboards and electronics, resulting in lush and intricate sounds.

The result was a form of music that didn't conform to the radio-friendly format of a 3-minute single and contradicted the idea that rock was simplistic and shallow.  The music challenged listeners and demanded their attention in both the music and the lyrics.

Yes was one of the bands at the vanguard of prog, and they were also one of the most successful at it.  Their music tended to have grandiose themes, blending the complexity of Bach with mythology and spiritualism.

It certainly wasn't for everyone.

Side 1: Close To The Edge The Solid Time Of Change The Total Mass Retain I Get Up, I Get Down Seasons Of Man
Side 2: And You And I Cord Of Life Eclipse The Preacher, The Teacher The Apocalypse Siberian Khatru

Close to the Edge was Yes' fifth album overall, and the third album from their "golden era" of 1971 to 1972.  Edge, along with Fragile, is widely considered to be the band's high-water mark and not only established them as rock megastars, but also featured the prog all-star lineup of Anderson, Squire, Howe, Wakeman, and Bruford, as Bruford moved on to join Robert Fripp in King Crimson after Edge was completed.

Not only that, Edge is also considered (by some) as the standard by which all previous and subsequent prog albums would be measured.

It certainly has all the elements needed for it: songs spanning an entire side of vinyl, broken into movements; soaring themes about alienation and searching; astoundingly complex and intricate music; and an underlying sense of being oh-so very serious about it all.


The inspiration for Edge is said to come from Hesse's Siddhartha, which makes sense, because both the novel and album focus on the spiritual journey of self-discovery, or some other such stereotypical pretentious prog rock aspirations.  And in a way, that's completely appropriate, because with Close to the Edge, each of the songs are basically a journey of their own.  Which is really cool because this is one of those perfect albums to play when you're feeling in the mood to just lean back and let the sound wash over you.  In my opinion, Edge is the most "meditative" of the Yes albums, which makes it among the most meditative albums ever made.

Dropping the needle on side one almost demands you ease into a beanbag, close your eyes, burn a jay and let the music carry you away.  The song starts with a sort of burbling and moves effortlessly through alternately simple, serene, complex, agitating, and soothing sections.  There's a lot at work here, with undercurrents of Squire's jazzy bass, Wakeman's elegant keyboards, Howe's intricate guitar and Bruford's complicated drumming all serving as the canvas for Howe's overly-earnest metaphysical lyrics.  It's easy to mock the naivete of the songs were it not for the fact that they are just friggin great.  Siberian Khatu alone is worth the price of admission.

But being pretentious and sort of silly (in retrospect) doesn't take away from the fact that Close to the Edge is a really impressive accomplishment.  More than that, it's one of those albums that really does work better as vinyl than digital in exactly the same way it shouldn't.  The allure of digital is that it can be a much cleaner, accurate reproduction of the music, by allowing the scrubbing of extraneous noise and the elimination of the artifacts inherent in analog play (like pops and hisses).  But its the pops and hisses and imperfect sonic reproduction that makes Edge stand out as a vinyl experience.

Up next: The alternate soundtrack to Wizard of Oz

cliff hanger (1985) - jimmy cliff: columbia records, FC-40002

Back in the early 70’s the explosion of Bob Marley resulted in the American music industry “discovering” reggae, and like a hunter stumbling across a rare albino tiger, they wanted to kill it. The mere idea of an untapped vein of profit made their mouths water and their avarice grow. So, they decided that reggae was the Next Big Thing and they tried to go all-in to capitalize on it and squeeze every last cent from the buyers.

Unfortunately, most of the American record company execs don’t really “get” reggae, and so throughout the 70’s and early 80’s they engaged in clumsy promotion and ineffective exposure. They treated reggae the way they treated all other music, as just another product to mass-produce, advertise and sell, no different than breakfast cereal or foot powder. It never dawned on them that reggae might have a unique appeal to a select group of music lovers, and when faced with something that didn’t fit their preconceived assumptions it’s no surprise that they fucked it all up.

They packaged reggae the same way they did soul or funk – as an ethnic niche only of interest to Black America. The result? Failure. In the US reggae never Caught A Fire (get it?) beyond Bob Marley, and when he died in 1981 the labels were left with the task of trying to actually raise interest in other reggae musicians.

So, the record companies, as they will do, concluded that the problem was with the music rather than their inept handling, and decided that they needed to “fix” reggae.

The result is the album Cliff Hanger.

Side 1: Hitting with Music American Sweet Arrival Brown Eyes Reggae Street
Side 2: Hotshot Sunrise Dead And Awake Now And Forever Nuclear War

This album is just awful. All of the songs sound like they were lifted from a soundtrack to shitty 80’s cop movie. Not only do they sound dated, they are also painful as well. It’s clear that the intent was to try to reinvent Cliff as some sort of island-born Michael Jackson, so they made an "accessible" reggae album where the actual reggae was almost completely erased leaving songs that felt like something a bad Off The Wall or Thriller cover band would play. In fact, this album was so bad, I almost wasn’t able to listen to the whole thing.

And the sad thing is that, by all rights, Cliff ought to have had more success in the United States. His resume certainly would lead one to believe so: great voice, engaging personality, and reggae bona fides. But Cliff just never resonated with audiences here the way Marley did.

Maybe that was because nobody could ever really connect the way Marley did. In any case, Cliff was a different sort of reggae singer than Marley. Marley was Roots, while Cliff was more pop. Marley brought the spiritual side of rastafari and the struggle to leave Babylon for Zion, while Cliff was more about the here and now. Marley sang about Jah, while Cliff sang about Joe (if that makes sense).

And maybe that’s why Cliff Hanger sucks so much. Because Cliff, being more a pop guy, may likely have been open to changing his music in order to make it more appealing to American audiences. Which, paradoxically, made it incredibly un-appealing.


As a punchline to all this, in what can only be called the irony of just how out-of-touch the Grammy awards are, Cliff Hanger ended up winning the 1986 Best Reggae Album award - despite the fact that there really is no reggae on the record at all. I mean, the Police and the Clash were doing more legit reggae than Cliff did on this thing..

Up next: Prog, soprano style.

clash, the (1977) - the clash: epic records 1979 US release, PE-36060

By the mid 70's music was suffering from a bit of a personality crisis (get it?).  Rock music was being suffocated by corporate mega-bands, while its sibling pillow of disco was smothering funk and r&b.

Something had to happen in order to save music from the suits.

As it turned out, something did happen.  Disco was confronted with rap, while corporate rock got kicked in the nuts by punk.

Although punk has its genesis in American bands like the NY Dolls and The Ramones, it was the British (much like in the 60's), who managed to take the flag and launch the assault.  The vanguard of which was The Sex Pistols, who unfortunately gained notoriety more for the antics and calculated PR stunts of creator Malcolm MacLaren than for their music.  But the band that really gave punk the gravitas needed to be taken seriously was The Clash.

Side 1: Clash City Rockers I'm So Bored With The USA Remote Control Complete Control White Riot White Man In The Hammersmith Palais London's Burning I Fought The Law
Side 2: Janie Jones Career Opportunities What's My Name Hate And War Police And Thieves Jail Guitar Doors Garageland

The Clash is the 1977 self-titled debut for The Clash, but it wasn't released in the USA because, in a perfect illustration of the total head-in-rectum dysfunction of the American music business at the time, the label was afraid that they would be too controversial and not "radio friendly" enough to warrant actually releasing their first album.  However, after the UK version became the best-selling import of the year, and Give 'Em Enough Rope  was voted the 1978 Album of the Year by Rolling Stone magazine, The Clash was finally released in America in 1979 - only with a different, more marketing determined track list. 

The songs are filled with raw energy, passion, and intensity.  The guitars mount a full-frontal audio assault on every song, while the lyrics display a sophisticated dissection of just how messed up the world was at that time.  For example, I'm So Bored With The USA features some pretty in-your-face critique of the ugly image America had around the world:

Yankee dollar talk / To the dictators of the world
In fact it's giving orders / An' they can't afford to miss a word

I'm so bored with the USA / But what can I do?

While White Man In The Hammersmith Palais brings about a pretty scathing condemnation of the malaise and cynicism of things going on in Merry Old England:

Punk rockers in the UK / They won't notice anyway
They're all too busy fighting / For a good place under the lighting
The new groups are not concerned / With what there is to be learned
They got Burton suits, ha you think it's funny / Turning rebellion into money
All over people changing their votes / Along with their overcoats
If Adolf Hitler flew in today / They'd send a limousine anyway

Listening to these songs it's clear why one journalist called The Clash "The Only Band That Matters."  That was true then, and in light of the sort of so-called music that's around at the moment, it is even more true today.

What stands out in the songs on this album, now almost 40 years later, is just how mature they are both musically and lyrically, and how even though the band were transitioning from original drummer Terry Chimes (who appears on all but five tracks) to new drummer Topper Headon, there is no drop in either intensity or consistency.  In fact, they would only get more intense as they went on.

But back in the late 70's when this album came out it was nothing less than getting hit square in the face with a shovel.  The lack of slick production, the genuine power of the lyrics, and the raw honesty of the music made people take notice.  Especially the suits in their offices promoting the mega bands.  Change was in the air whether they were ready for it or not, and it was riding a horse of grinding guitars and gravelly voices.

Up next: A reggae icon sells out in a Big Way

chronic town (1982) - rem: irs records, SP-070502

I remember hearing the song Wolves, Lower on KALX radio in 1982 during my freshman year at UC Berkeley.  There was something about the song that caught my attention so much so that I went down to Rasputin Music on Telegraph Ave the next day, snatched one of the records from the bin, and plunked down my $10 (or whatever it cost back then).  I can still remember it because the clerk - some totally Berkeley looking dude with the serenity of a guy in The Zone - validated my instinct by saying, "Good choice.  You're going to really like this."

In 1982 REM were still almost totally unknown outside of Athens, GA and a few select college campuses, but their name was getting around.  The Chronic Town EP was generating a lot of buzz with it's (at the time) unique musical blend of Southern jangle, rock, and folk.  The combination of unadulterated instruments with Michael Stipe's curiously mumbled singing created an immediate sensation among the cynuical college crowd. 

Chronic Town (Side 1): Wolves, Lower Gardening At Night Carnival Of Sorts
Poster Torn (Side 2): 1,000,000 Stumble

REM's music was uniquely American in the same way so much of the other stuff coming out in the early 80's was not.  So much of the new stuff had a distinct English, if not Euorpean sound.  Even bands like the Ramones, with their retro 'murrcn look of jeans and leather jackets had this whiff of England, especially with the slightly affected accent in Beat on the Brat.  But REM had none of that. They sounded as if they'd never even heard a British band.  More than that, REM (like fellow Georgians, the B52s) sounded Southern, just as Blondie and the Talking Heads sounded New York, and X and the Plimsouls sounded LA.


The other thing about REM was that they somehow had this weight of intellectualism not found in bands like the Plimsouls or Blondie or X or the Ramones or the B52s.  Maybe it was the subdued simplicity of the music, or maybe it was the fact that in 1982 REM was limited to college radio. Or, perhaps (and I think this likely) it was the introverted inflection and mumbled singing of Michael Stipe.  Listening this time around I tried to pay as close attention to the sound of the vocals as I did to the instruments and the actual lyrics.  Maybe it's just me, but the volume, inflection, and register of Stipe's singing sounds more like something you'd hear on an NPR discussion than on a rock song.  And it's a good thing, too, because the lyrics for these songs are, to put it plainly, kind of silly.  That, or so deep that I'm unable to dive far enough to grasp them.

Consider this from Gardening At Night:

We echoed up the garbage sound but they were busy in the rows
We fell up not to see the sun gardening at night just didn't grow The yard is nothing but a fence the sun just hurts my eyes somewhere
It must be time for penitence gardening at night it's never worked

 Or these from Carnival Of Sorts:

There's a secret stigma, reaping wheel / Diminish, a carnival of sorts
Chronic town, poster torn, reaping wheel / Stranger, stranger to these parts

If there is deeper meaning here I'd certainly like to know it, because it seems to me that clothing these lyrics in cautious muttering was a way to make the music match the mocking gargoyle on the cover.  And that's pretty cool, too.

Up next: The eponymous debut from "The Only Band That Matters"

cheap thrills (1968) - big brother and the holding company: columbia records 1970 reissue, KCS-9700

One of my favorite books is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and it contains a fantastically melancholy quote (heavily edited here):

San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of [...] no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world.

[B]ooming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end  [. . .] but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now […] you can go up on a steep hill […] and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."

One of the things not explicitly mentioned in that quote, but made clear by the constant musical references within F&L, is that music played a huge part in the whole atmosphere by the Bay in those days. And putting Cheap Thrills on the platter while considering Dr. Thompson's words was like getting battered by the wave he described.

Side 1: Combination Of The 2 I Need A Man To Love Summertime Piece Of My Heart
Side 2: Turtle Blues Oh, Sweet Mary Ball And Chain

Cheap Thrills just feels like pure 100% summer-of-love San Francisco.  Geek up the volume, close your eyes, and open your mind to really feel as if I you're right there in the Fillmore grooving to the heavy acid-blues and Janis' vocals.

And what vocals.  Janis had some serious pipes, and I doubt there will ever be another singer able to belt out Ball & Chain or Piece of My Heart with the same insane power that she did.  She was a force of nature - a mutated super singer with a direct line to the very souls of her forebears. She could channel Etta and Big Mama and Bessie and others.

This is the music that tortured Spiro Agnew and kept him awake at night quaking with rage and fear.  To the squares, albums like Cheap Thrills were a soundtrack for long-haired freaks running wild, raping wives and daughters and feeding LSD to the family dog.  To them it wasn't music as much as the sound of the very foundation of America's moral purity being ground into a fine powder to be injected into a godless junkie's vein.  It symbolized an American Ragnarok - an age of chaos in which children are torn from their parents arms and forced to endure non-stop orgies, while Good, Decent, Law Abiding people are marched from their homes, shaved bald, stripped naked, tattooed, and made to harvest hemp or work in factories manufacturing illicit narcotics.

Of course, the paranoia was unfounded and in reality Big Brother & the Holding Company just played basic blues with a bit of embellishment and extra grindy guitar. The kind of stuff Zeppelin and Rory Gallagher and others would end up doing.  Something that could have come out of the juke joints and honky tonks of the chitlin' circuit. Nothing to threaten the American way of life at all.  In fact, the most subversive part of the entire album may have been the cover artwork (done by underground comic artist R. Crumb), particularly the stoned, one-eyed space Jeebus, or the crowd of hippies and heads (with a cameo by Mr. Natural) waiting for the show:

The funny thing is that today, Cheap Thrills is almost classical music.  The sounds that froze the blood of middle-class America in the late 60's now sounds as harmless and quaint as Vivaldi.  And all those stoners and smack-heads and revolutionaries and pinko anarchists that were in the crowd that night in 1967 to see Janis wail are now in their late 60's to mid 70's, worrying about the dangers of rap and complaining about the temperature of their soup. The record keeps spinning ...

But playing this album sure does remind one of what music meant back in the day.  And, with much apology, to paraphrase Dr. Gonzo himself, today you can put a disc of vinyl on a turntable and with the right kind of ears you can almost hear the crescendo—that place where the music finally broke and rolled back.

Up next: Four geeks from Georgia fire up College Radio

brain salad surgery (1973) - emerson, lake, and palmer: manticore records, MC-66669

Prog rock fans have always been easy to mock because a very select but vocal minority of them take it all so very, very seriously.  For these arrogant few, prog bands don't play "music" - they create ethereal artistic moments.  They don't write "lyrics" - they plumb the depths of human existence and greater universal truths.  And these annoying prog fans fancy themselves as having the depth and intellect required to be able to comprehend the subtleties and sophisticated nuances within the compositions (never songs, of course!) that normal nose-picking slobs could never grasp, giving them the attitude that they are better than the rest of us.

In short, these smug dingbats view prog rock as an exclusive domain populated by a bunch of intellectual elitists gathering together in a ritualized group jerk session.

And that totally sucks, because those folks give prog bands and fans a serious image problem. Sort of how that really aggressive Star Wars dork fan will engage in lengthy, pointless arguments regarding the defensive prowess of Imperial Star Cruisers when matched against the maneuverability and speed of Rebel X-Wing fighters, and the divergence of the Sith from the Jedi.

It sucks even more when prog bands themselves contribute to the perception that prog is nothing more than a pompous collection of pseudo-intellectual claptrap filled with self-indulgent musical conceit and gaudy lyrical grandiloquence. Sort of like this paragraph.

Enter Emerson, Lake, and Palmer and their pridefully flamboyant album with perhaps the single best title in all of music history, Brain Salad Surgery (although, to be fair Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy certainly merits consideration).

Side 1: Jerusalem Toccata Still ... You Turn Me On Benny The Bouncer Karn Evil 9 (1st Impression, Part I)
Side 2: Karn Evil 9 (1st Impression, Part II) Karn Evil 9 (2nd Impression) Karn Evil 9 (3rd Impression)

I actually really like this album but I can still see it for what it is, and I simply can never listen to it without just thinking that it is a parody of itself. Everything from the cover (which is an amazing HR Giger piece that simply demands lengthy and intimate examination) to the songs are so incredibly pretentious and overdone that I honestly do wonder whether the boys intentionally decided to go over-the-top on this one.

I mean, this album has all the trappings of prog parody: orchestral score, pipe organs as the lead instrument, ridiculously dramatic lyrics, and the toffee-nosed singing of someone who considers their voice and interpretive skill as being somehow touching the mind of god.

All that out of the way, however, this album really is good. There is quite a lot going on musically, ranging from the weird futuristic interpretation of Toccata (giving it the feel of a soundtrack to a cheezy 70’s B sci-fi movie), to the ragtime piano of Benny the Bouncer, to the soul/funk guitar driving the otherwise saccharine ballad Still … You Turn Me On. And all of it does showcase the fact that everything else aside, Messrs Emerson, Lake, and Palmer are very accomplished musicians. And their willingness to premier the Moog Apollo (the first polyphonic synthesizer) shows that the boys embraced new technology.

The centerpiece of the album is Karn Evil 9 – a 30 minute song rendered in three “impressions” spanning the last 9 minutes of side one and all of side two. Karn Evil is both the best and worst of prog in one go: a song about a dystopian future featuring complex musical passages fused with ludicrously ostentatious lyrics.  Just consider this excerpt from Karn Evil 9 - 1st Impression, Part I (I mean even their song titles drip with pretense!):

Cold and misty morning / I heard a warning borne in the air
About an age of power / where no one had an hour to spare
Where the seeds have withered / silent children shivered, in the cold
Now their faces captured / in the lenses of the jackals for gold.

Or this bit from the beginning of Karn Evil 9 - 3rd Impression

Man alone, born of stone / will stamp the dust of time
His hands strike the flame of his soul / ties a rope to a tree and hangs the Universe
Until the winds of laughter blows cold.

I mean, come on! These make the lyrics for songs like Supper’s Ready or Stairway to Heaven seem subtle and understated. But they save the best for last. The album ends with this musical dialogue between the machine-voiced overlord and the piteous but defiant human:

(Man) I am all there is
(Overlord) Negative! Primitive! Limited! I let you live!
(Man) But I gave you life
(Overlord) What else could you do?
(Man) To do what was right
(Overlord) I'm perfect! Are you?

That reads like the journals of some angst-ridden freshman philosophy major whose girlfriend just broke up with him and who now finds himself questioning the mechanics of the universe.

But still and all, this is a cool album with cool music, cool cover art, and a cool title.

Next up: Heavy acid-blues sung by one of the most soulful voices ever

box office bomb (1987) - dramarama: questionmark records, QM-009

The late-80's post-punk era was a weird time in both society and music. The raw honesty, energy, and confrontational anger that drove the musical overthrow of corporate rock and disco had burned out, and was co-opted by suits into non-threatening ways to sell breakfast cereal.  The

mohawks, leather jackets and unnaturally colored hair that were once seen as a threat to the placid suburbia of Reagan America, became little more than fashion accessories.

And made-for-TV musical acts like Ratt and Madonna and Whitesnake and Debbie Gibson became the center of rock through slick videos featuring sexy dancers, careful lighting, quick-cut editing, and meticulous choreography. A song could suck eggs but still be a "hit" so long as the video got a regular play on the MTV.  It was a perfect distillation of the cheap shallowness of the 80's. Image ruled and substance ... well that became a dirty word.

But somewhere in the ashes of punk and the shadows of the soulless Top 40 there was still a fringe where real bands with real songs and no budget for slick videos with sexy dancers played and recorded.  There were bands like the Lemonheads and the Replacements out there playing genuine music.  And one of those bands was Dramarama.

Side 1: Steve and Edie New Dream Whenever I'm With Her Spare Change 400 Blows Pumpin' (My Heart)
Side 2: It's Still Warm Out In The Rain Baby Rhino's Eye Worse Than Being Myself Modesty Personified

The problem was there was very little outlet for these fringe bands.  Radio and MTV were now saturated with the major acts and the big labels controlled airplay, making it tough for these indie bands to find an audience outside of college radio and the rare station dedicated to promoting genuine rock.

That was the situation in which Dramarama found themselves.  Formed by John Easedale and Chris Carter, they struggled to get traction until Rodney Bingenheimer (who is one of the most unsung but important heroes in music) heard their 1985 album, Cinéma Vérité, and played it on his Rodney on the Roq show on LA radio icon KROQ (another unsung hero in music).  That led to Dramarama finally getting some much-deserved attention, and eventual commercial success.  It's clear that  Easedale and Carter appreciated this because the liner notes for Box Office Bomb (which are awesome, by the way) end with a very large, bold statement dedicating the album to Rodney.  In fact, the entire "dedication" section of the liner notes are pure gold, including such names as Jed the Fish, Richard Blade, & Poorman (other kroq deejays), Peter Buck, Ian Hunter, Chris Stein, Mickey Dolenz, Lou Reed, Patti Smith, Joey Ramone, and Mick Ronson.  That's quite a list of musical influences, right there.

Dramrama is one of those band without which there may never have been a Nirvana.  Because of their time, they, along with other bands like Dinosaur Jr and the Smithereens, were essentially caretakers, bridging the mid 80's and mid-90's from the previous generation (i.e. the Plimsouls, Blondie ) to the next (Nirvana, Pearl Jam).

Unfortunately as caretakers Dramarama ended up being not only undervalued, but neglected and dismissed.  Which sucks, because Box Office Bomb is a great album, with a strong songlist including a killer cover of Patti Smith's Pumpin' (My Heart).

Box Office Bomb turned out to be one of the last albums I ever bought new.  By 1987 I was well into investing heavily in CDs, and in any event new releases on vinyl were becoming more and more scarce in record stores. In many ways the change from analog to digital was a reflection of the change in music back to more mainstream AOR.  There was still good stuff out there, but the landscape had definitely shifted.  The next so-called revolution in media (from CD to MP3) would also be reflective of a change in music - and much like the shift from vinyl to CD represented a small step backwards, the drop from CD to MP3 would be a major decline in quality.

Up next: The album with perhaps the greatest title ever.

born to run (1975) - bruce springsteen: columbia records, JC-33795

By the early 70's the center of the rock universe had not only moved to, but had taken out a 30 year mortgage and started a family in England.  Bands like the Stones, the Who, Zep, Tull, Yes, and Genesis had taken over, and for every Hendrix coming out of America, England answered with a Clapton, Beck, and Gallagher.  Not only that, but American rock performers - like Joplin, Hendrix, and Morrison - had decided to take up the annoying habit of dropping dead from overdoses of drugs or drink or both (something the Brits would begin to do in the mid to late 70's), leaving the softer folk-rock singers like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and James Taylor to fill the void.

Things were looking grim in the birthplace of rock until a short kid from New Jersey with a gravelly voice and a Fender Telecaster stepped into the void.

Bruce Springsteen caught the attention of the music world with a pair of albums released in 1973, Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ and The Wild, The Innocent, & the E Street Shuffle, but it wasn't until his 1975 album Born To Run that Springsteen finally managed to bring back some serious rock cred to the US of A.

Side 1: Thunder Road Tenth Avenue Freeze Out Night Backstreets
Side 2: Born To Run She's The One Meeting Across The River Jungleland

Look at that track list.  Six out of the eight songs on this album are hits, and four (Thunder Road, Tenth Avenue Freeze Out, Jungleland, and Born To Run) are absolute iconic songs.  That's more than most bands get out of a career, and Springsteen managed to toss those off on one album.  There is a reason that the acclaimed LA Times music critic, Robert Hilburn, used Springsteen as his barometer for all other acts.

But this album also stands out as a fantastic example of what the full vinyl experience was like. The cover is a gatefold photo of Bruce, guitar slung over his shoulder, leaning up on Clarence Clemons just blowing his sax, with the both of them looking like a couple of rock gods who are cooler than the rest of the world combined can ever be:

The best part is that the music is just as cool (if not cooler) than the cover. This is one of those albums that I can listen to again and again, and always enjoy, even if it is a bit dated.  Springsteen's use of sax and piano was anachronistic even in the 70's, and it's even moreso today (unless, of course, it's some millennial hipster douchebag trying to be intentionally ironically cool).  But even though the songs show a little grey at the temples, they still have the vitality and impact they did when they were new. Or maybe that's just me projecting...

Of course, in the interest of being fair, I do have to mention a pet peeve of mine when it comes to Springsteen lyrics: his giving the characters in his songs names.  Yeah, I know he's not the only songwriter to do that, but unless a song is really about one specific person, giving the characters in it names sort of kills the universality of them.  For instance, Born to Run should be one of those songs that resonates with anyone, anywhere.  But when Springsteen sings this:

Beyond the Palace hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard
Girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors / and the boys try to look so hard
The amusement park rises bold and stark / kids are huddled on the beach in a mist
I wanna die with you Wendy on the street tonight / In an everlasting kiss

It sort of kills it.  Suddenly only dudes fingerbanging some chick named Wendy can really relate.  Now maybe Bruce really did date a gal named Wendy with whom he wanted to run away.  But by simply replacing Wendy with Baby, he makes the song universal.  And this happens in many Springsteen songs.  Ah well, like I said, it's just a pet peeve of mine.

The really important thing, however, is how in today's climate of music manufactured via a formula and teams of image consultants and choreographers, songs like Thunder Road and Tenth Avenue Freeze Out are even more relevant than when they were released by the very fact that they are so non-corporate.

Besides, there's nothing wrong with a bit of nostalgia, and Born To Run is exactly the tonic to the stuff one is forced to endure whenever going outside and hearing today's music.

Up next: A caretaker band finds success in LA