2024-07-03

NICK DRAKE - FIVE LEAVES LEFT @ 55

 

Released on July 3rd, 1969, the debut LP from Nick Drake, Five Leaves Left, turns 55 years old today. While initially met with critical and commercial ambivalence, in the wake of his tragic death only five years after its release, its status has become elevated over the past half century into being recognized as one of the greatest folk rock creations of the era.

Drake suffered from depression and anxiety, which manifested in the deep melancholy of his music, with his recordings affecting a much more introspective and haunted incarnation of Donovan. His singing style, to my ears at least, contains that same kind of wispy delicacy, though his lyrics turn into existential insecurities, as opposed to hippy idealism. It's the kind of morose introspection that, a decade later, would find a welcome home in the post-punk-turned-Goth malaise of performers like Robert Smith of The Cure.

The album was produced largely via fully live performances with no overdubs. Drake would set himself up in the middle of the studio where he'd perform his vocals and acoustic guitar while being surrounded by the other musicians in a semicircle formation, utilizing the studio's tiered layout to create unique acoustic environments through the positioning of players on different levels. The title of the album is a reference to a particular brand of cigarette rolling papers, which had the message "five leaves left" stamped on the appropriate paper near the end of the pack.

Upon its release, it received mostly lacklustre commentary from the critics of the day. Disc and Music Echo described the album as "interesting" and said, "His guitar work is soft, gentle and tuneful; his voice highly attractive, husky and bluesy—but his songs uncertain and indirect." It concluded, "It's more a restful album than a stimulating one." Perhaps the subtlety of Drake's style simply failed to make an impact at the time, but age has revealed its true depth and passion, allowing the emotional complexity of his songs to grow and find the appreciation they rightly deserve.

Drake's career would prove to be sadly short, with the artist only releasing two more LPs before withdrawing from performing and recording after the third in 1972. He retreated from the music business to his parent's home in rural Warwickshire, where he was eventually found dead of an overdose of antidepressants on November 25, 1974. He was only 26 years old. While his career was active, he gathered only limited attention from music collectors, remaining an obscure, mostly forgotten artist through the remainder of the decade, but that all started to change with the release of a retrospective compilation in 1979. Since then, he's received many accolades for his work, with his catalogue receiving numerous reissues and critical reappraisals.

I only discovered these works in the early 2000s as I was on the lookout for unfamiliar music from the late 1960s. Once I heard these albums, I couldn't believed I'd never encountered this music before. Since then, Nick Drake's music has become a go-to whenever I'm looking for something to put me in an introspective, plaintive mood.

PARLIAMENT - UP FOR THE DOWN STROKE @ 50

 

Celebrating its golden jubilee at 50 years old is the sophomore album from George Clinton's Parliament, Up for the Down Stroke, which was released on July 3rd, 1974. While the band had released a debut LP in 1970, Osmium, classic Parliament really begins with this album, which was their first release on Neil Bogart's freshly minted Casablanca Records. Along with KISS, Parliament would help bring that label to unprecedented heights of success in the later half of the decade, with Parliament's massive stage show positioning them as the black music equivalent of their makeup masked heavy metal peers on that label.

The album's title track was released as a single and helped begin the group's rise to stardom, remaining one of the most iconic and recognizable tunes from the entire P-Funk discography. The album also proved to be a pivotal reunion with bass master, Bootsy Collins, who'd taken a two year hiatus away from the P-Funk collective prior to recording this album. His return to the fold would solidify his position in the group and he would remain an integral contributor throughout the band's entire residency with Casablanca. Parliament would run their career in tandem with Funkadelic, along with numerous other side projects, throughout the decade, building a massive P-funk network of performers and products.

2024-07-01

THE CRAMPS - GRAVEST HITS @ 45


 

Celebrating 45 years on the shelf this month is the debut EP from The Cramps, Gravest Hits, which was released in July of 1979. The 12" EP compiles both of their prior 1978 released 7" singles, Human Fly b/w Domino, & Surfin' Bird b/w The Way I Walk, and adds a fifth track, Lonesome Town. All of the included recordings were produced by former Big Star front man, Alex Chilton and were all recorded in 1977 at Ardent Studios in Memphis, TN. Collectively, these recordings constitute some of the earliest examples of the rockabilly revival, which would later be characterized as "Psychobilly" due to its grafting of sleazy horror and science fiction B-movie themes with this foundational genre of American 1950s era rock 'n' roll.

Lux Interior (born Erick Lee Purkhiser) and Poison Ivy (born Kristy Marlana Wallace) met in Sacramento, California, in 1972. In light of their common artistic interests and shared devotion to record collecting, they decided to form the Cramps. Lux took his stage name from a car ad, and Ivy claimed to have received hers in a dream (she was first Poison Ivy Rorschach, taking her last name from that of the inventor of the Rorschach test). In 1973, they moved to Akron, Ohio, and then to New York in 1975, soon entering into CBGB's early punk scene with other emerging acts like Suicide, the Ramones, Patti Smith, Television, Blondie, Talking Heads, and Mink DeVille. The lineup in 1976 was Poison Ivy Rorschach, Lux Interior, Bryan Gregory (guitar), and his sister Pam "Balam" (drums), later replaced by Nick Knox (formerly with the Electric Eels) in 1977 by the time they started recording their first singles.

I remember when I first spotted this on the shelves of my local record shop, which was in a small strip mall next to the Burger King I worked at in 1979, when I was 16 years old. I glanced at that cover for weeks, every time I popped into the shop before or after work, and always felt vaguely uneasy about it, though also intrigued, until I finally plucked up the nerve to give it a shot. I was into "new" music at that time, "punk" and "new wave", but these folk didn't seem to fit into either of those slots. There was something "out of time" about them that didn't quite align with the other trends of the day. I wasn't even sure when the record was actually recorded. It looked like it could have been something from another decade. And the band were SO gnarly looking, especially Bryan Gregory, who looked like he was 60 years old, with his gaunt menacing glare and that shock of grey hair hanging down the side of his sunken, ghoulish face.

When I finally brought it home, Human Fly sounded so fucked up that I wasn't even sure what speed to play the record at. After I got that sorted, I immediately became enthralled by the odd spookiness of it all. The fact they had no bass guitar, but instead used duelling twang vs fuzz guitars, with only Knox's kick drum anchoring the bottom end, gave their sound a distinctive edge. What was even more surprising to me was the day I came home from school to find my mother had been listening to it! She was once a teenage bobby soxer in the '50s, so their rockabilly vibe caught her ear. It was quite a surprise to me when she actually dug one of my freaky records!

Years later, I got a chance to see them live, twice in the 1990s, which immediately reaffirmed why I've always loved the band, ever since this amazing record found its way into my collection.

2024-06-29

PUBLIC IMAGE LTD - DEATH DISCO @ 45

 

Released 45 years ago today, it's that harbinger of mutant disco and Public Image Ltd's second single, Death Disco, which was released on June 29th, 1979. It was a glimpse into the striking new direction the band were heading for their soon to be unleashed Metal Box album. The single fused the otherworldly sound of dub with a furious disco 4x4 rhythm, underpinned by Jah Wobble's sonorous bass and over-arched with Keith Levene's Tchaikovsky cribbed furious guitar scraping. Weaving about within the maelstrom was John Lydon wailing away, exercising the demons of having recently witnessed his mother's demise from cancer.

The single was released in two forms, a 7" backed with No Birds Do Sing on the B-side, and a 12" extended "1/2 mix" of the title track on the A-side, and an instrumental revamp of Fodderstompf from their debut LP, titled "Mega Mix" on the flip. This B-side is the only recording to ever emerge from a planned re-recorded version of their debut album that US label Warner Bros had demanded after refusing to release the original version due to its uneven production values. The re-recorded "First Issue" never materialized, however, and the LP remained unreleased in the US for decades, with only this alternate version of Fodderstompf ever surfacing.

Drums were played by David Humphrey, who was the first to replace original drummer, Jim Walker, after his early 1979 departure. Humphrey was gone by the time No Birds was recorded, which features former 101er, Richard Dudanski, on the kit. He lasted through some of the Metal Box sessions and one live gig before departing, eventually being replaced by Martin Atkins.

The sleeve design for the single was taken from an original drawing by John Lydon. The 12" mixes remained unique to that release for many years until they were finally reissued in a couple of CD box sets, Plastic Box (1999) and The Public Image Is Rotten (Songs From The Heart) (2018). There is also a super-extended "1/2 Mix" variant on John Lydon's The Best Of British £1♫'s DVD (2005).

2024-06-16

CAPTAIN BEEFHEART & HIS MAGIC BAND - TROUT MASK REPLICA @ 55

 

Released on June 16th, 1969, Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band's third album, Trout Mask Replica, turns 55 years old today. Whether you truly love the album, name drop it for coolness brownie points, or consider it an unlistenable monstrosity, its mere mention is bound to stir up controversy and everything from profound admiration to disdainful outrage.

Beefheart and Band had a historically rocky relationship with record labels, resulting in a tremendous amount of confusion and disappointment for their first releases. First they were dropped by A&M after their first couple of singles failed to chart, then their label for their debut LP took a hard turn into bubblegum pop, leaving Beefheart on the outskirts again. Then sessions for what would eventually materialize as Strictly Personal and Mirror Man resulted in a backlog of recordings the band weren't sure would ever even see the light of day. Enter friend of Beefheart, Frank Zappa (who gave Beefheart his name), with an offer to release an album on his newly established imprint, Straight Records, and the promise of complete creative autonomy.

With that offer in hand, Beefheart and Band set up shop in a small, somewhat rundown rented house in Woodland Hills, Los Angeles. There, they set about the task of interpreting band leader Don Van Vliet's vision, with drummer, John "Drumbo" French, acting as principal translator of his compositions, which were often communicated through piano and vocal recitations. Van Vliet had never played piano before as his main composition tool, so given he had no experience with the instrument and no conventional musical knowledge at all, he was able to experiment with few preconceived ideas of musical form or structure. Van Vliet sat at the piano until he found a rhythmic or melodic pattern that he liked. John French then transcribed this pattern, typically only a measure or two long, into musical notation. After Van Vliet was finished, French would piece these fragments together into compositions, reminiscent of the splicing together of disparate source material on Marker's tape.

During the band's residency in the house, Van Vliet became a musical and emotional tyrant, creating something akin to a small cult, restricting the activities of the musicians and demanding adherence to his instructions to the letter. At various times, one or another of the band members were put "in the barrel", with Van Vliet berating him continually, sometimes for days, until the musician collapsed in tears or in total submission to Van Vliet. According to John French and Bill Harkleroad, these sessions often included physical violence. Their material circumstances also were dire. With no income other than welfare and contributions from relatives, the band survived on a bare subsistence diet. French recounted living on no more than a small cup of soybeans a day for a month, and at one point, band members were arrested for shoplifting food (whereupon Zappa bailed them out). A visitor described their appearance as "cadaverous" and said that "they all looked in poor health". Band members were restricted from leaving the house and practised for fourteen or more hours a day. This went on for eight long months before Van Vliet deemed that they were ready to go into a recording studio.

Zappa originally proposed to record the album as an "ethnic field recording" in the house where the band lived. Working with Zappa and engineer Dick Kunc, the band recorded some provisional backing tracks at the Woodland Hills house, with sound separation obtained simply by having different instruments in different rooms. Zappa thought these provisional recordings turned out well, but Van Vliet became suspicious that Zappa was trying to record the album on the cheap and insisted on using a professional studio. Zappa would say of Van Vliet's approach that it was "impossible to tell him why things should be such and such a way. It seemed to me that if he was going to create a unique object, that the best thing for me to do was to keep my mouth shut as much as possible and just let him do whatever he wanted to do whether I thought it was wrong or not." Van Vliet once told drummer John French that he had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, and he would see nonexistent conspiracies, which in hindsight, may have explained some of this behaviour.

Once it was time to head to the studio, the band had ingrained the arrangements and their parts so deeply through their endless rehearsals, the recording process was able to proceed extremely rapidly, with songs frequently requiring only one take. In one session, the band completed twenty instrumental tracks in a single six-hour recording marathon. Van Vliet spent the next few days overdubbing the vocals. Instead of singing while monitoring the instrumental tracks over headphones, he heard only the slight sound leakage through the studio window. As a result, the vocals are only vaguely in sync with the instrumental backing; when asked later about synchronization, he remarked, "That's what they do before a commando raid, isn't it?"

From a commercial perspective, the album stood well outside the bounds of what was considered "popular music", and though it held shards of blues, jazz and rock, those reference points were all shattered and smashed, and the pieces were glued back together in angular, disjointed collages of rhythms, notes and non-sequitur vocal phrases. It was a kind of alchemy where listeners were often repelled by the record on first listen, then agonizingly drawn into its clutches until it became impossible to disregard it. Simpson's creator, Matt Groening, has famously recounted his experience with the album in exactly such a manner, describing his total disdain upon initial exposure, followed by an infectious obsession with it after subsequent listens. Yet it doesn't actually constitute something that was ahead of its time. That time has never come and it continues to stand outside of any time or referential context. It is simply singular in its idiosyncrasies and originality. It occupies its own world and refuses to integrate with any other.

2024-06-15

THE SHAGGS - PHILOSOPHY OF THE WORLD @ 55


 

Marking its 55th anniversary as the poster child for outsider music is the debut and only official album from the Wiggin sisters, collectively known as The Shaggs, with Philosophy of the World being released on June 15th 1969. It's an album that should have sank into obscurity, forgotten as an ill conceived indulgence by an over-ambitious and misguided father, but the fates would turn it into a signpost of inadvertent originality, pointing the way for future generations of outcasts to pioneer their own creative paths.

The story of The Shaggs is as bizarre and inexplicable as it is tragic and disturbing. In many ways, it is a tale of parental abuse by a father who was subject to obsessive, delusional compulsions, and who turned his children into unwilling vehicles for his determination to realize a reality that completely ignored his family's well being. It all started with a series of "psychic" visions by the mother of one Austin Wiggin Jr., who one day read his palm and made three pivotal predictions. First was that he would marry a strawberry-blonde woman, secondly he would have two sons after she had died, and finally, his daughters would form a popular band. With the first two predictions eventually coming to pass, Austin became obsessed with the third and began to focus on his three daughters in order to realize his mother's divination. He was so attached to her that he would hold seances with the family in order to attempt to communicate with her.

Austin worked as a low income mill hand in Exeter and was described by a local as a humourless man who rarely smiled. He was strict and did not allow his daughters to have social lives, friends or boyfriends, or attend concerts. Betty Wiggin said they "missed everything", and she fantasized about getting a car and leaving home. Some accounts indicated that the girls suffered parental abuse, and Helen said her father was once "inappropriately intimate" with her. After withdrawing his daughters from school in 1965 and purchasing a set of musical instruments, papa Wiggin kept his girls to a militarily strict regimen of practising their instruments and doing calisthenics every day for several hours each. It was a brutally strict routine and the girls were allowed almost no time for normal childhood activities, save those instances where they could sneak out of the house when they were supposed to be practising and get away for a couple of hours. But for the most part, they were dutiful and obedient to their father's relentless demands.

Austin had named the band, The Shaggs, after a popular haircut of the late '60s and as a reference to a favourite Disney film, The Shaggy Dog. By 1968, Austin felt his girls were good enough to perform in public, though they had no interest in music and were not at all confident with their musical abilities, which would prove to be virtually bereft of any conventional techniques or talents. Nevertheless, he booked shows for the girls at local school dances, where audiences would be bemused into hurtling abuse at the trio with their seeming inability to play, a situation that left the girls mortified and traumatized.

In March of 1969, Austin paid for studio time and brought the girls in to record their first album, Philosophy of the World, at Fleetwood Studios in Revere, Massachusetts. The studio was mainly used to record local rock groups and school marching bands. The sisters did not think they were ready to record, and one engineer recalled that they looked "miserable". Austin dismissed an engineer's opinion that the Shaggs were not ready, saying: "I want to get them while they're hot." One producer, Bobby Herne, recalled that the studio staff shut the control room doors and "rolled on the floor laughing" after they performed. The session for the album took only a single day to complete. The studio was tasked with mixing the album, even going so far as to hire session players to augment the recordings in an effort to salvage the session, but the musicians couldn't follow the erratic and unpredictably idiosyncratic original compositions and left without adding anything to the record.

Austin paid to have Dreyer's record company, Third World, press 1000 copies of the album. The liner notes, written by Austin, said the Shaggs "loved" making music and described them as "real, pure, unaffected by outside influences". The songs "My Pal Foot Foot" and "Things I Wonder" were released as a 45 rpm single on Fleetwood Records. According to many accounts, Dreyer delivered only 100 copies of the album and disappeared with the remaining 900. Dot said that Dreyer had stolen her father's money and could not be traced. However, according to the music executive Harry Palmer, Dreyer said Austin had refused to distribute the extra copies because he feared someone would copy the Shaggs' music. Palmer said that Dreyer kept boxes of the records in the studio and would give them to anyone who asked. The journalist Irwin Chusid argued that it was unlikely Dreyer had stolen the records, as they were valueless at the time. Philosophy of the World received no media coverage and the Shaggs resumed performing locally. At this point, the entire venture should have sunk to the bottom of the swamp of obscurity, but the fates had something else in mind, and rather than vanishing into oblivion, the album would fester into an unexpected cult curiosity, eventually gaining international recognition.

Palmer, who had been given several copies of Philosophy of the World by Dreyer, was intrigued and wondered if he could find the Shaggs an audience. In 1970 or 1971, he attended one of their Fremont performances and was amazed to see locals dancing awkwardly to the music, likening them to zombies. Palmer approached Austin about promoting the Shaggs, but stressed that people laughed at them and asked if this was a problem. Austin responded with resignation. Palmer decided he was in danger of exploiting the Shaggs as a freak show and did not pursue them. In 1973, the Shaggs' weekly town hall shows were halted by the Fremont town supervisors. The sisters were relieved, as they were now adults and had tired of their father's control. When Austin discovered that Helen, then 28, had secretly married, he chased her husband with a shotgun. After the police intervened, Helen left the family home to be with her husband, but rejoined the band later.

In 1975, Austin took the Shaggs to Fleetwood Studios for another recording session. Though they had become more proficient through hundreds of hours of practice, the engineer wrote off their poor performances and felt sorry for them. He said they did not notice their out-of-tune guitars or disjointed rhythms when he played the recordings back to them. The recordings went unreleased. Shortly after the recording session, Austin died of a heart attack at the age of 47. The Shaggs disbanded and sold most of their equipment. A few years later, Betty and Dot married and moved out, and their mother sold the family house. The new owner became convinced that the house was haunted by Austin's ghost and donated it to the Fremont fire department, who burnt it down in a firefighting exercise. The Wiggin sisters had never profited from their music and took blue-collar jobs to support their families.

The music captured on their debut album was unlike anything that had ever been created before. Despite the fact the girls hated making it and the entire process was like a forced death march for them, somehow there's an innocence and purity trapped in those grooves, like an insect in amber. Songs like It's Halloween, Sweet Thing and That Little Sports Car exude a sense of childhood wonder and naivety that completely obscures the torturous conditions which brought the album to life. It's an undeniable alchemy that would cause the album to be blown into the breeze, like dandelion seeds, and take root in the collections of influential musicians around the country.

By the late 1970s, stray copies of the LP had managed to find their way into the hands of people like Frank Zappa, Bonnie Raitt, Jonathan Richman and Carla Bley. Zappa played two songs from the album when he appeared on the Dr. Demento radio show. He is often quoted as having called the Shaggs "better than the Beatles", but this may be apocryphal. This spurred on a grassroots word-of-mouth interest in the band, enough that Terry Adams and Tom Ardolino of the American punk band NRBQ spearheaded an effort to reissue the album in 1980 on their own indie label, Rounder Records. That reissue was the move that fanned the spark of their cult popularity into a full flame as a new generation of music lovers, most of whom had been brought up on the DIY eccentricities of "Punk" and "New Wave", found the album's inadvertent avant-garde strangeness a perfect fit for an era of risk taking and barrier breaking. While the sisters had no inkling of their distinctiveness at the time they created that music, as the age of musical exploration reached its crest a decade later, The Shaggs were suddenly embraced as pioneers and the most extreme outliers of "outsider music".

In the decades that followed, The Shaggs would resurface for a couple of reunions with sisters Dot and Betty, with Dot even forming a new group, Dot Wiggin Band, and releasing an album of new songs in 2013, still retaining that distinctive quirky sound. Rounder Records also cobbled together a second Shaggs album in 1982, Shaggs Own Thing, gathering together any unreleased recordings that they could find that were made after the sessions for the first album, including an unsettling ditty with vocals by father Austin and brother Robert. Pitchfork described it as "particularly disturbing" and unintentionally Oedipal, noting that Austin sings of catching another man, his son, "doin' it" with "his girl". In 1988, Philosophy of the World and Shaggs' Own Thing were remastered and re-released by Rounder Records as the CD compilation The Shaggs.

In some respects, the process of creating The Shaggs disturbingly reminds me of the ancient practice of creating human "oddities" by placing a young child in a ceramic vase, with only their head and feet sticking out, where they would then be forced to grow inside it until they were warped into stunted and grotesque curiosities and sold for exhibition. As horrifying as that sounds, it seems like a rather similar analogue to what these three sisters endured and what could have caused them to create something so entirely distant from traditional music, even with the endless hours of practice they were forced to perform. The fact it NEVER resulted in musical ability, in a traditional sense, is something that may speak to the constraints to which they were subjected. In that sense, it creates a conundrum for those who seek out the unique and distinctive in the realm of art. The Shaggs are an established part of the pantheon of outsider artists, celebrated for their distinctiveness, though I have to consider, at what cost? If you were to ask Dot, Betty and Helen if they'd do it all again, I'm certain they'd offer up a resounding and emphatic "NO"!

JOY DIVISION - UNKNOWN PLEASURES @ 45

Released on June 15th, 1979, the debut LP by Joy Division, Unknown Pleasures, is celebrating 45 years on the shelf today. It's an album that would define both the band and a genre of music, bringing to the fore the potential of studio production in a way that was as significant as The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper, elevating what could have been a mundane post-punk band to the level of visionary pioneers.

Joy Division's beginnings and career have been well documented in recent years, with both theatrical dramatizations and documentaries detailing everything from their inception following that infamous 1976 Manchester Sex Pistols gig to the tragic 1980 suicide of their lead singer, Ian Curtis. The creation of their first LP was a case of an unsuspecting young band falling into the clutches of an ambitious producer who was looking to redefine his role in the studio. Over the course of three weekends in April of 1979, Martin Hannett would impose his signature sound on the group, a move that would leave some members of the band feeling like they'd been misrepresented by the end product.

Once Joy Division got into the studio to record, Martin set about taking their raw, aggressive sound and deconstructing it, pulling the pieces apart and setting them out in a sonic landscape that emphasized distance and negative space. Akin to the approaches that defined dub music, Hannett utilized reverb, echo and abstract electronic ambience to push those pieces into a more expansive configuration where each element suddenly stood out in stark relief, accented and counterpointed in ways that were much more subtle than the "pedal to the metal" thrust the band would use on stage. The effect was to soften their sound, while also creating a menacing and brooding sense of depth and space, with its accompanying sense of isolation. It's an approach that engendered feelings of paranoia and apprehension. Of course, that tactic was greatly enabled by superlative songs and the somewhat unorthodox style of the band, which pushed the bass frequencies in to the upper register, an approach Peter Hook had developed simply out of a necessity to be able to hear himself on stage against the extreme volumes they favoured in their performances.

Once the album was mixed, some members of the band came away from the production feeling disheartened and frustrated by the way they were reshaped in the studio. Hook, in particular, had envisioned a harder, tighter and more concentrated sound from the band, and its only in recent years that he's been able to concede that there was method in Hannett's madness, and that the end results stand the test of time. Some critics were also ambivalent towards Hannett's indulgences, dismissing them as frivolous ornamentation and distractions from the band's essence. But the tides of legacy have seen the album codified as a comprehensive masterwork of innovation and originality. Nothing had sounded anything like it beforehand, with every instrument finding a distinctive new texture and tenor of expression.

The graphic design for the album has also gone on to have a life of its own as a distinctive item of iconography. It's become so ubiquitously associated with the band that one has to wonder how many of the millennial and gen-Z folks running around with the design on their T-shirts have ever actually listened to the record. Taken as a whole, they add up to an artifact that defines a generation and survives as a timeless example of musical risk taking at its best.