PLAYLIST 21--DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH: HARD ASS ROCK AND ROLL

DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH: 

HARD ASS ROCK AND ROLL

     Since the high wattage days of the late 1960s and early 1970s, the distinction between hard rock music and heavy metal thankfully blurred. The only remaining aesthetic elements separating the two is that, first, metal tended to employ vocalists who sounded as if they had inhaled helium while suffering the throes of strychnine poisoning, and second, hard rock rarely if ever ventured into pseudo-satanic concepts, whereas heavy metal recognized the commercial value of suggesting a connection to the Underworld. Nevertheless, sometimes hard rock groups such as Deep Purple did capitalize on vocal theatrics reminiscent of emasculation in process, just as certain HM bands--Cinderella comes to mind--shunned flirtation with demonic possession. This lack of clarity may leave the reader unclear as to what exactly hard rock is. I hope the list that follows makes the connection less murky, although it probably won't.

Jimi Hendrix. Axis: Bold as Love. Reprise. 1967.

     Funny, isn't it, how supposedly enlightened radio programmers who always talk a good game about what a monumental influence Hendrix was never quite feel comfortable playing anything from this album? I can't help but wonder if that might be because this album, more than any other in the Hendrix archives, sounds precisely and uncompromisingly black. Far be it from me to suggest that the programmers at classic rock stations are racist. I'm just intimating that they apparently think their audience is. And what a pity. Because everyone misses out on the first recorded evidence that Hendrix and the Experience had discovered high technology. Click here please.

Jimi Hendrix. Electric Ladyland. Reprise. 1968.

     The idea of using the studio to create specific textures and sounds was in its relative infancy in 1968. A lot of people had been doing it, but none for more than a few years. Electric Ladyland appeared and completely changed the way guitar, bass and drums would ever be understood again. Always big, always booming, this time out Hendrix laid in a deliberate stoned sentience intended to transform the accepted levels of and limits to the musical imagination.  "Crosstown Traffic," to site an obvious example, is jazz-like in its ability to replicate the sound and feel of its subject matter. There was still plenty of hokey-pokey mysticism on the album, but this time it was at least interesting, especially in the "Slight Return" version of "Voodoo Child" and the implied funk of "Long Hot Summer Night." The CD reissue of this recording loses the original cover and gloms it all onto one disc. Still, this is worth owning for waking up Bob Dylan with the version of "All Along the Watchtower."

Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. We're Only in it for the Money. Verve. 1968.

     People who listened to early Zappa albums tend to respond in one of two generalized ways. They find his band musically interesting, sophisticated and dense and yet are put off by his occasional vulgarity, or they declare the montage approach to his layered albums to be the greatest technique in existence for conceptualizing the varied and disconnected themes that run through his occasionally sophomoric satires of contemporary society. What both extreme points share is that Zappa's humor may be lame, but his band-leading skills, his guitar virtuosity, and his technical studio innovations compensate for it. That union of overlapping ideas lands squarely where I would assess the greater part of his 1960s output. The sole exception is We're Only in it for the Money. The only reason this album is so vastly superior to his earlier work is because here he was seriously pissed off and that state of affairs worked to his artistic advantage. Zappa's message appears far more pertinent today than any hippie interpretations of the Beatles so-called masterpiece. Zappa ripped open every limb of presumed hipness being shoved down our throats and exposed the insidious commercial bacteria driving the whole process. His studio technical proficiency and musical artistry made his argument all the more convincing.

Led Zeppelin. "Immigrant Song." Atlantic. 1970.

     Welcome back my friends to the pseudo-mystic bullshit that never ends. Robert Plant announces the journey with a pair of drawn out banshee wails before he tears off singing about Norwegian explorers on their way to conquer new worlds. "We come from the land of the ice and snow from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow." If that is your idea of deep and meaningful, please pass the belladonna. If, on the other hand, you just like the bass and drum collision reminiscent of a thundering horde ascending from hell, then this should feel just about right.

Three Dog Night. "Eli's Coming." Dunhill. 1970.

     Once this seven-man-band with three lead singers released "Joy to the World," I lost what little respect for them I had ever had. Prior to that, the Dog put out quite a few melodic yet haunting numbers, many of which fit in nicely amidst other turn of the decade drool: "Out in the Country," "One Man Band," "Nobody," "One" and especailly "Eli's Coming." Their version of this Laura Nyro song frantically stomped all over the excellent original and for the first time actually utilized the power of their three lead vocalists. In, out and around they spin, encircling one another and zapping right through the center of the speakers about the fact that Eli is indeed coming and so you had most certainly better consider hiding your heart, girl.

Blue Cheer. "Summertime Blues." Philips. 1970.

 Named after a highly potent brand of lysergic acid, Blue Cheer is reputed to have been the favorite band of the Oakland Hell's Angels. Personally, I can think of nothing more unpleasant than reeling from acid in an Angels house with Blue Cheer clogging up the air passages. But in the safety of one's own home, in a state of relative clear-headedness, the tear gas bombast of these three lunatics is just this side of fun. The song begins and ends with the loudest (in the sense of striped shirts with plaid pants) version of "Purple Haze" intro ever recorded, and then with bouldering guitars turns Eddie Cochran's original ode to laziness into a total defiance of the complete Protestant work ethic. It takes your breath away, like the propulsion of a cork screw rollercoaster without the inconvenience of waiting in line.

Ides of March. "Superman." Warner Bros. 1970.

     Those who balked at the idea of horns in rock were, for the most part, reactionary porcine fornicators. The saxophone was as  integral to the music of Little Richard and Gary Bonds as any instrument on their recordings, so no one needed to introduce horns to rock and call it a new thing. What these non-Kosher copulaters should have railed against was the notion of fusing the most indulgent aspects of rock and jazz and foisting that upon the public as some grand aesthetic gesture. Jazz and rock certainly do have overlapping musical compatibilities, as genuine talents such as Carla Bley in the one field and Al Kooper in the other have proven. The problem endemic to the fusion movement was that most of the people popularizing it had learned trumpet or sax in high school marching band, probably gobbled up one or two tracks from Miles or Coltrane, came up with an idea they were positive no one ever had before, and puked up groups like Chicago and BS&T, two of the most scarring poxes on the face of either genre.

     One horn-heavy band that just barely managed to skirt the fusion travesty was the Ides of March. These guys not only snagged a keen doom-laden literary reference, their original mid-1960s sound was all pseudo-British Invasion by way of Illinois. But by 1970, lead singer, guitarist, chief songwriter and future Survivor leader Jim Peterik tired of people mistaking his group for The Buckinghams and so added horns to the group's line-up, resulting in people mistaking his group for Chase.

     "Vehicle," with its inexplicably enthusiastic blasphemies, is the song most people know. Far better was the nearly identical follow-up, "Superman," with its comic book blasphemy, "Great Caesar's Ghost I'll be yer Superman!"

Free. "Alright Now." A&M. 1970. 

     That singer Paul Rodgers and drummer Simon Kurke went on to form the excruciatingly boring Bad Company is no reason to hate them for the mindlessness of Free's biggest and best hit. Intended as ome kind of sick twisted sexual political anthem ("Let's move before they raise the parking rate"?), "Alright Now" is nothing more or less than Rodgers trying to get what he wants without much effort and being stunned by the rebuke he gets in return. It's a fairly simple sentiment matched by the guitar refrain and even simpler drum pattern. But in its abbreviated radio version, timed to be about three minutes long, it was glorious pop that didn't stick around long enough to be tedious.

Elephant's Memory. "Mongoose" and "Skyscraper Commando." Metromedia. 1970. 

     Singers Rick Frank (drums) and Stan Bronstein (sax) put together this great band with the ever-changing line-up. The idea that a band could play unnervingly hard rock that challenged while it shook without being in the heavy metal camp was one that didn't meet with much favor among promo men at the time. That didn't stop these loonies. They knew they were great and played just that way. Initially an experimental jazz band, they tried in vain to make the strip clubs where they performed into exercises in Art. When that failed, they took the energy in their sound and turned the beat around with these, two of the most caterwauling calls to anarchy ever to make the Top Ten (regionally) and that's before you even realize that the former is only a tune about a mongoose in a village trying to protect the people from millions of hatching cobra eggs.

Crabby Appleton. "Go Back." Elektra. 1970.

     Michael Fennelly led this outstanding L.A. band, notable for Fennelly's way with a simple song and Phil Jones' amphetamine teeth grinding wind tunnel way with a drum set. "Go Back" was one big rollercoaster ride in anticipation of the ultimate exhale. Fun for the whole family, if they can withstand the trip.

Santana. "Everybody's Everything." Columbia. 1971. 

     Since everyone and his Uncle Henry want to rave on about how Carlos Santana and band have been the biggest influence of Latin heritage, style and form, let me present this, far and away their greatest recording and best song. From the unimaginatively titled Santana III album, "Everybody's Everything" is a stampeding busload of well-dressed migrant workers looking for a place to do a hyperactive cha-cha. The words are the least important part of the fray, although when Carlos mumble shouts "Time for you to all get down," you are more than ready to accede. No, the key here is the avalanche of drums, congas and trashcans that come tumbling like boulders on a mission from God.

Lee Michaels. "Do You Know What I Mean." A&M. 1971.

     Lee Michaels was one of the most encouraging acts to emerge in the early 1970s, only to disappear after working hard to attain popular acclaim. With lines such as "Been fourteen days since I don't know when," the song's title was appropriate. The real joy,  however, was less in silly word games than in the sound that felt like an intoxicated basketball descending several flights of stairs. The music itself was Michael's inspired one-finger organ work and the glorious stumbling drums of Bartholomew Smith-Frost, aka Frosty. Following the commercial success of this song and a cover of Marvin Gaye's "Can I Get a Witness," Michaels stopped releasing unpunctuated question songs and teamed with future Doobie Brothers drummer Keith Knudsen. This partner lacked the ability to replicate the sound of drunken athletic equipment. The result was a permanent retirement to Hawaii. 

Fanny. "Charity Ball." Reprise. 1971.

     There had been all-female rock bands before, but few that sounded like Fanny. June and Jean Millington, with Alice DeBuhr and Nicky Barclay, didn't put any special effort into denying their sex. They just played and sang with a joyous and sweaty ferocity that had more to do with their love for what they were doing than did their specific femininity.

The James Gang. Rides Again. MCA. 1971.

     Crashing down like a calculated stuttering mudslide, the electric guitar introduction to "Funk 49" begins what at first seems like nothing more or less than the perfect eight-track soundtrack to adolescent madness. Halfway into the instrumental "Asshtonpark," such assumptions fall by the wayside, as technical proficiency joins the most sophisticated musical concepts this side of Pete Townshend, with whom the James Gang's lead guitarist shares substantial affinity. 

Redbone. "Witch Queen of new Orleans." Epic. 1972. 

     It is hard to believe that Pat and Lolly Vegas, the two main principals in Redbone, made this, the hardest rocking and most complex song of their career, and also made the sweet disco-oriented "Come and get Your Love." That's about it.

Steppenwolf. Sixteen Greatest Hits. Dunhill. 1972.

      Growing up in small town suburban Ohio, most of us had to take our fun where we found it. The tape that most visitors to my lair demanded was this one. The album had all the ingredients to reinforce our collective personality disorders: guitar-oriented hard rock, motorcycle ambiance, a disdain for hard drugs, and an image that none of our parents would have liked at all, had they known Steppenwolf from Roy Rogers. 

T. Rex. "Bang a Gong (Get it On.)" Reprise. 1972. 

     Of all the different silly trends in rock and roll, few came under as much unwarranted attacks as the glam rock movement. Which would you rather have your barely pubescent kid bopping to: the relatively hilarious longhaired gyrations of diminutive Marc Bolan or equally so Suzi Quatro, or the bastardizations of classic soul songs by Michael Bolton or Mariah Carey? Hey, at least Marc Bolan knew his limitations. 

Gary Glitter. "I Didn't Know I Loved You Til I Saw You Rock 'n' Roll." Bell. 1972. 

     If one were to believe the astoundingly uncritical sycophancy of VH1, one might accept the idea that Glitter was some kind of major star. The reality is that even in the UK he was always a sort of self-parody who, probably through inadvertence, happened to construct a fuzz hook and lumbering drum sound that went well with large consumptions of heavy beer. That his work has been celebrated by his betters in no way elevates his slimy status. This song is interchangeable with any of his other trash glam classics, any one of which are heard to better effect by Joan Jett or Brownsville Station.


Jo Jo Gunne. "Run Run Run." Asylum. 1972.

     This early-1970s spirited power pop band rolled over Beethoven with their Chuck Berry-inspired name and tune. Jangling power chords, drum rolls a-plenty, and faceless vocals galore. Not a great dietary lifestyle, but a darned refreshing snack.


Mott the Hoople. "All the Young Dudes." Columbia. 1972. 

     While David Bowie is the most self-important nonentity ever to become a moderate commercial success in any genre, he did one good thing in his all-too-long career and that was to write and produce this brazenly avant-homosexual anthem, a U.K. hit by a band of straights.


Steely Dan. "Do It Again" and "Reelin' in the Years." 1972 and 1973. MCA.

     These two singles are here specifically because they are not as sophisticated as the songs that would transform Steely into a national critics convention. Walter Becker and Donald Fagen, for all intents and purposes, were Steely Dan and they were determined to be obscure, a fact made clear by the unlistenable albums that would follow. But these two excellent singles worked in spite of lines like "You been telling me you were a genius since you were seventeen," because the music actually goes somewhere--mostly up.


Focus. "Hocus Pocus." IRS. 1973.

     To my knowledge, this is the only primarily instrumental number to feature yodeling and still crack the U.S. Top Ten. Jan Akkerman's walls of falling guitar lava prevented all of this from descending to the level of novelty.


Sutherland Brothers and Quiver. "You Got Me Anyway." Columbia. 1973.

     Ever notice how a lot of the time so-called one-hit wonders announce that fact about themselves? Sure, either the one hit is so transitory that it bespeaks an abbreviated career for the group or else the song itself is so good that only a fool could fail to realize there will be no more hits coming from this group or person. Well, the Sutherland Brothers and Quiver fooled everyone. Iain and Gavin Sutherland, two experimental folkies, hooked up with Quiver, a real rock band, gelling with an all-out assault, replete with cannon drumming and leer jet guitars, yielding the sound of the invasion of Grenada set to music. Naturally, they never charted again in the U.S.


Fancy. "Wild Thing." Big Tree. 1974.

     Right up there with Sylvia's "Pillow talk," the sound of the female orgasm instants from happening in the pre-Donna Summer world was a thing never much considered outside of this glorious version of the Troggs' hit. Fancy was thoroughly an invention of the studio, but that didn't stop the body-rubbing guitar from accentuating the moans of fake ecstasy from the frequently naked Helen Court.


Alice Cooper. Alice Cooper's Greatest Hits. Warner Bros. 1974.

     Having always experienced and interpreted rock and roll as an essentially auditory medium, I place less importance on the visual component and therefore judge groups such as Kiss, the Stooges, the New York Dolls and others known for stage silliness almost entirely on their sonic appeal. In fact, the more an act tries to pick my pocket while distracting me in some way other than assaulting my sense of sound, the more I will resist experiencing them in that other way. Breathe fire, strangle chickens, chain saw sheep, light a fart: it's all wasted on me. So when the group known as Alice Cooper emerged at the end of the 1960s as the answer to Sominex, I didn't give much of a damn. As the years tumbled by, I noticed that every album had one or two truly fine songs while the rest pandered to those who responded best to ambiguity. 
     But the singles were a different story. "Be My Lover" captures the rock star sitting in a bar checking out the debutante scene perfectly, "School's Out" is a raucous anthem to anarchy, "No More Mr. Nice Guy" is quite hilarious, and best of all is "Teenage Lament '74" which not only has the best backing vocals of any Cooper song, it also has the most humane lyrics. 


The Who. By Numbers. MCA. 1975.

     This was a great rock album with the misfortune of being released when most people wanted an outstanding one. "Slip Kid" is a funkier and non-synthesized version of the band's "Baba O'Riley." "Squeeze Box" is a genuinely dirty pop single. "Success Story" is John Entwistle's hilarious view of life with the band and one of the best songs of the group's career. "How many Friends" is one of the most narcissistic, paranoid, and poignant songs ever recorded. The Who takes us from flattered joy to suspicion to out and out hostility in less than twenty seconds without seeming anything but natural. The whole album is big, bold, stadium bombast that does not suffer from the heavy-handedness such descriptions would later imply.


Led Zeppelin. Presence. Swan. 1976.

     A lot of people bashed this album on its initial release. After many reflective years during which time I never played this recording more than twice, I have at last reconsidered. Whatever that odd monolith on the cover may suggest, the music here is actually among the least idiotic of the group's massive offerings. The trick, perhaps, lies in not worrying about what any of these songs mean. Just thrive on Bonham's mistimed drums and Jones' bass and wonder why Plant is shrieking, especially on "Candy Store Rock."


Blue Oyster Cult. Agents of Fortune. Columbia. 1976.

     Intelligent people do occasionally make good music. Buck Dharma got pesky management rock critics Richard Meltzer and Sandy Pearlman out of the way and let himself and occasional contributor Patti Smith focus on sound texture and meaning. The opening track creates a texture of wet wool and a tone of lead anvils, a tone which the intelligence of the lyrics transcends. This band was a serious attempt to look, sound and act like a metal band in the best ways without any of the lumbering "daisies gone a-melting" of twittery twats like Led Zeppelin. 


Kiss. Destroyer. Casablanca. 1976.

     I was fired from a radio station for making a disparaging remark about the fans of one of the songs on this album, an opinion I have yet to retract, and so my critical judgment should be evaluated with that built-in bias in mind. I will say that "Detroit Rock City" has interesting sound affects and one of the more challenging rhythms the group ever created. "Shout It Out Loud" is a fine aspiring anthem in the vein of Slade, among others. The rest, sadly, is simple pandering to affection for glam over substance.


Cheap Trick. Live at Budokan. Epic. 1979.

     This group defined the distinctions between standard rock and metal by being the most clever of the late-1970s hard rock bands. One of those distinctions is that it is possible to whistle to hard rock. Cheap Trick also had a non-malicious sense of humor, something their tattooed brothers seldom displayed. Guitarist Rick Neilson and drummer Bun E. Carlos were slaughterhouse musicians who gave geek class. Bassist Tom Peterson stood there looking great and singer Robin Zander had an authentic Peter Frampton throat. Their best song, "Surrender," is caught live and ideally on this album.


Frank Zappa. You Are What You Is. Barking Pumpkin. 1981.

     Here the perpetual misanthrope attacks fans of the Grateful Dead, C&W cheating songs, a perfume called Charlie, the callousness of people cheering a cokehead on what turns out to be a fatal overdose, the L.A. nightclub scene, tele-evangelists, and people who attempt suicide. If that sounds about as uplifting as Nathaniel West, that's only because I haven't told you about the music. While it's a bit more conventional than his early Edgar Varese impressions, it still challenges through the keen approach to editing, through the discomforting and abrupt time changes, through the sheer density of much of the production, and especially through the vitality Zappa brings to these subjects. The singer-composer on this album is not only self-righteous. He calmly accepts his self-righteousness as the tribute due one who is so obviously correct. That knowledge gives every song here a ferocity that would surely terrify any of the meek that Zappa claims will inherit nothing. It is tough to argue with the best album of his career.