from the LP Electric Warrior, Reprise Records, 1971
The concept of having a “next big thing” has chewed up and spit out a myriad of artists over the years, the notion that there is always something just around the corner, waiting to be discovered and celebrated, while at the same time encouraging us to turn on that which we were loving only moments before, but must then scoff at as “so last year”. I’m sure all of us here are above having our tastes be impacted by changing trends (right, and monkeys might fly out of my butt…), but generally speaking, fads have a way of destroying musicians as quickly as they have made them into stars; this is nothing new, as even classical performers & composers fell victim to passing styles and new crazes. Marc Bolan was something of a paradox when it comes to this subject matter, clearly having been an individual that was keenly aware of all the things considered in-vogue at any given time, but also someone interested in helping to define whatever zeitgeist happened to be emerging; thus, even though he was quick to abandon his elfin-hippie persona once ‘60s psychedelia became passé, he imbued a number of his glam rock masterpieces with an underlying sense of dippy ephemera, something which clearly differentiated his work in T.Rex from that of other glam “rockers” that tread much closer to the bubblegum model. That mixture of pastoral and spacey acoustics cut with harder-driving electric tendencies was a combination that makes this album absolutely magical, as evidenced in this lilting number, particularly towards the end of the track with that mind-melting back-tracked guitar & violin filled coda, simply divine and utterly heady man!
from the LP Sladest, Polydor Records, 1973
Many of us Americans lived through the big hair & perpetual misspellings of Quiet Riot in the 1980s, completely unaware of the fact that they didn’t just steal the idea of poor vocabulary skills from British glam rockers Slade, they flat out covered their songs too. Admittedly, when compared with other glam icons like Bowie or T.Rex, maybe it shouldn’t be too surprising that they were largely ignored over here, but a few of their tracks kick ass, this being one of them; essentially a wake-up call to the older generation, this blistering glam-pop gem delivers exactly what it promises. I have to admit though, this album cover never ceases to make me laugh---right, like that little bit of glossy front-lighting helps soften the impact of these poor sods collective fugliness, “…we’re gonna need a bigger light…”; thus, while the music rocks, their appearance does little to quell American assumptions about British musicians’ frightful looks. Thankfully, the music is more important, so there you go.
from the LP Hunky Dory, RCA Records, 1971
One focus within the study of life-course sociology is a concept called “turning points”, those moments in time when the normal trajectory of our life is interrupted, subjectively or otherwise, in such a way that things are never quite the same again; arguably, this time period was exactly that for Bowie, the start of a transformation which would continue to evolve over time, but never again look backwards to the campy preciousness with which he started his career. This was the first album where all the players who were to become the Spiders from Mars has assembled, and although there were still traces of that eccentric fop of yore dashed across this LP, Bowie himself actually sounds more confidant than ever---both as a performer & as a writer. This particular song is a reflection of the times around him in 1971, “…what are we coming to, no room for me, no fun for you…all the nightmares came today, and it looks as though they're here to stay…”; after the death of the new left’s dream had fallen with such a thud, things looked worse than ever, and although glam rock was fueling the immediate needs of Britain’s youth, Bowie was looking way ahead here; the idea of aliens coming from above to colonize the earth wasn’t new, but ever the marketer to youthful rebellion, he created a future in which the kiddies would team with the aliens to create a new breed, “…look at your children, see their faces in golden rays, don't kid yourself they belong to you, they're the start of a coming race; the earth is a bitch, we've finished our news…” While plenty about Bowie’s likeness during this pre-Ziggy period was still somewhat effeminate, I disagree with reviewers’ assertions that this track is a celebration of homosexuality in plot---when he says “…you gotta make way for the Homo Superior…”, it’s actually a reference to Nietzche’s concept of the ‘Übermensch’, or superman; he specifically says, “Homo Sapiens have outgrown their use”, not “heterosexuals”. Without going into the boring depths here, I feel that Bowie was asserting the concept of “fluid sexuality” (or at least bisexuality) into Nietzsche’s paradigm, particularly when you consider his image transition from kitsch femininity to extraterrestrial androgeny; the choice of “pretty” has more to do with glam trends in the UK at that time, which were makeup & glitter, not necessarily homosexual in nature (ambiguous, sure), certainly not if you were a female fan of his. At any rate, this theory of a space-based route to salvation would directly inform Bowie’s next moves, namely acting as the origin of his Ziggy Stardust persona and subsequent conceptual trip. David Bowie has never been content to stick with one image for very long, and that turning wheel of front-stage identity began right here.
from the LP Desolation Boulevard, RCA Records, 1974
I caught the back half of Dazed & Confused on TV the other day, and although I have watched this movie countless times in the past, I realized a couple things again: (1) the 1970s were truly the coolest fucking decade since the 1920s, (2) someone ought to do a film that attempts to capture the same general vibe, but for the early ‘90s instead of the mid ‘70s, if that’s even possible, and (3) after deciding that I wanted to watch the film from start to finish I found that I have, once again, misplaced our DVD copy of the movie, so I will thus be buying yet another for the third time---there is some beautiful irony in that. It’s not often that musicians who initially make their reputation appealing to the tween set are able to parlay that career into something that would attract the interest of adults, let alone adults who like to party, but Sweet pulled off just this feat in the mid ‘70s: having been cast as bubblegum dildos initially, this LP was the band’s real shift towards a heavier sound. You know me, so you know that I love the synths, the proto-punk edge, the driving drumbeat… but I also love the way they crafted this song about a groupie that changes shape with the times, and in so doing actually take the piss out of themselves in highlighting critics of their own image alteration, “…I don't wanna know your name, ‘cause you don't look the same, the way you did before; OK, you think you got a pretty face, but the rest of you is out of place, you looked all right before…”
from the LP All the Young Dudes, Columbia Records, 1972
Taste in music is neither purely cyclical or purely linear, and thus, it sometimes seems as if there is no explaining for the revolving door of popular trends and tastes which can come to define a band’s rise and/or fall; case in point, Mott the Hoople. These guys were indisputable cult heroes across the pond back in the ‘70s, scoring top ten UK hits with both singles and albums, but here in the USA they never had one recording breach the top 20; in all honesty, previous to the last couple of years, Mott’s legacy in the States has primarily consisted of classic rock radio’s infinite spinning of their quasi-hit “All the Young Dudes”, and even that is often wrongly presumed by Americans to be the work of it’s writer, David Bowie. Now that I think about it, perhaps it was their connection to Bowie which doomed them in the US, because the nature of their hard rocking boogie should have made them huge over here. That being said, it seems as if Mott may finally breakthrough, thanks to some crack music journalists and the glam-sound revival, Ian Hunter’s face has been all over the place here of late, and I for one think that that’s just peachy! This celebration of all things testosterone related comes across with only the slightest of a wink & nudge, “…well I grow my hair just to scare the teacher, my goodness gracious me ain't little Johnny a creature, and I lost count of the times when I never bathed; I'm one of the boys, one of the boys, I don't say much but I make a big noise…” So what does it mean if the teacher is the one growing his hair long…?
from the LP Roxy Music, Island Records, 1972
There was never going to be room for both Bryan Ferry & Brian Eno within a single working band, not for long anyways, but during the brief tenure they did manage to tolerate one-another’s egos, it spawned some of the most alluring and artsy stuff to come out of the glam scene in England; without a doubt, the time spanning their first two albums is, by far and away, my favorite period of Roxy Music. Not that they were want for acclaim or anything (Bowie used to fawn all over them, talking them up any chance he got, mainly over Eno I suppose), but it’s the slicker sounds that characterized the post-Eno period for which Roxy receives most of their praise, over here in the US anyways; although I am a fan of those tunes as well, this early stuff is so free-form and exploratory it takes my breath away---you could easily fool someone into believing this song was released in the ‘80s, maybe even the 2000s. This was Bryan Ferry’s ode 2 Humphrey Bogart, which actually makes a lot of sense considering Ferry’s cassanova-esque demeanor and affect, at times almost humorous; a peculiar song in anyone’s book, the real stars in this track are his electric piano, Andy Mackay’s sax-strangling exercises & Graham Simpson’s super-dope bassline.
from the LP The Slider, EMI Records, 1972
Hailed by many across the pond as the biggest thing since Beatlemania, even by Ringo Starr himself, T.Rex rode proud & preening atop the wave that was glam rock: glittered cheeks and platform boots stomping out a path of hysteria which gripped all of England and much of Europe for the better part of the early – mid ‘70s. Having transformed himself into an electric rock-God from the folky, hippie-gnome persona which he had been rocking since the early days as a Syd Barrett devotee (listen to anything he released while still under the moniker “Tyrannosaurus Rex” for an idea of just what a severe image shift this was), guitarist Marc Bolan was actually the perfect poster-boy for all things glam; in fact, he had even modeled for a period, so wearing makeup wasn’t weird to him at all. This slow-paced title track from T.Rex’s most lauded album spells out his agenda nicely: simple guitar licks, thick percussion, lots of post-production, & a vibe that oozes sexuality and lustfulness; best line, “I have always always grown my own before, all schools are stra-a-ange; and when I’m sad, I slide…”
from the LP New York Dolls, Mercury Records, 1973
There are artists out there who specifically set out to define a new zeitgeist, planning and plotting their moves carefully and with labored thought, working the angles and doing whatever edgy or enticing things they need to do in order to get their names out there, but being careful not to step over too many lines in their pursuit, so as to enable them room to become supermegaultrastars---though their influence was no less powerful (and, arguably, much greater), the New York Dolls were expressly not that kind of band. That being said, there are also plenty of artists out there that don’t really give a fuck about what they do, they just want to avoid having to get a “real job”, masquerading as creative and far too lazy to take things to a level where they would be wholly called out for their fictitious craft---once again, the New York Dolls were absolutely not that sort of ilk either. The Dolls just fucking WERE man, they happened, in living color, from moment to moment & gig to gig; if ever there was a group who truly espoused the notion of art imitating life, it was the Dolls. Now, I’m not saying that they didn’t try, because they definitely had a drive to be rock-n-rollers, and they practiced their trade (all that makeup didn’t just magically appear on their faces); gimmicks aside though, much of their ambiance was simply the result of being broke, drug-crazed deviants, surrounded by tramps and hustlers, but basking in the debauchery rather than fleeing from it. Unlike fellow NYC shock-rockers of the same era, KISS, the Dolls’ drag-hooker-inspired look practically ensured them miserable record sales and a small touring radius; as I’ve mentioned before, glam rock never worked over here, and what the Dolls were doing took things to a whole other level of sleaze and abandon, guaranteeing them hatred from virtually the entire non-ocean-touching portion of our lovely nation. Another limiting factor (to some of us, a sparkling & charming aspect) was the group’s general lack of musical ability, relative to other rock bands of their time; frankly, the band was pretty goddamn sloppy, and singer David Johansen’s delivery wreaked of working-class, east-coast apathy & off-pitch snarling attitude---Johnny Rotten aped this guy to near-hilarious effect due to his cockney drawl, and the Sex Pistols would never have existed without the Dolls’ trailblazing example in front of them. They were often slammed by music critics as Rolling Stones rip-offs, but the Stones were only imitating the life the Dolls really led; remember, there is a big difference between becoming a rock star and thus a druggie on one hand, and a druggie becoming a musician on the other. The New York Dolls were the real deal: scars, track marks, bugs, women’s clothes, smeared makeup and ALL. Having just lost their original drummer and band co-founder Billy Murcia to an accidental drowning (reportedly due to being left in an ice cold bathtub after overdosing on Quaaludes and beer), the band was high as kites in mourning when this album was recorded; their slapdash approach to music practically foretold, and completely informed, the punk era which was to follow a few years later; albeit, punk rockers seemed much angrier. In retrospect, this chorus portends the misery and cries of most classic rock bands in the wake of punk’s revolution, “…jet boy’s so preoccupied, he don’t care ‘bout before; that’s why, jet boy’s fly, jet boy’s gone, jet boy stole my baby; flyin’ around New York City so high, like he was my baby… …”
from the LP Here Come the Warm Jets, Island Records, 1973
Deliriously brash and fantastically unkempt, this song and the vast majority of Brian Eno’s first couple of solo albums don’t bear any resemblance to the shapeless ambient soundscapes for which he later became famous. In fact, having just left art-rockers Roxy Music, this time period finds Eno showing a vastly more playful side than he would come to be associated with; arguably, it sounds like the most obvious fun he ever had in the studio. He brought some of the rock industries strangest & most talented along for the ride: Simon King on drums (later of Hawkwind fame), Robert Fripp from King Crimson, and guitarist Phil Manzanera whom Eno knew from Roxy Music. Propelled along by a riff that sounds quite a bit like the Velvet Underground’s seminal “I’m Waiting for My Man”, this song drives hard enough to almost sound like proto-punk rock; the lyrics are fittingly sly and wonderful, “…those who know, they don't let it show…the weather's fine and I feel so so-so...why ask why, for by the by and by, all mysteries are just more needles in the camel's eye…”
from the LP Silverhead, MCA Records, 1972
Call me crazy, but there is something about sloppy, boozed-up rock music that gets right under my skin and compels me to shake my long hair about, even coercing me into pumping a fist in the air or (gasp) rocking some air solos---more often air-drumming to air-guitar. Silverhead were exactly that kind of band: clad in elephant bell-bottoms, clearly wasted out of their minds, but maintaining their composure, fetid with the need to score more drinks, drugs, and infected willing pussy. This organ-driven burner predates the “metal-ballad” trend by almost 15 years, and I can only scrape for potential influences: some Spooky Tooth, a little T.Rex, some Joe Cocker, & certainly some Rolling Stones…like, if you could teleport Faster Pussycat into the early ‘70s, that’s Silverhead!
from the LP The Tubes, A&M Records, 1975
Sometimes you just have to celebrate your inner slut…don’t deny it, we all posses that area of our brain, some just choose to stimulate it more than others. Most songs about hussies and shady ladies are fairly negative, condescending, and reek of backstage sexism, but this track rides a less-defined line. The story comes across more as a tip of the hat than an indictment, an ode to loose women by men who are clearly intimidated by the very idea; it’s still pointing a finger, but they give the slut props, “…there’s something missing, but you don’t know what; someone should tell ya, I’d rather not…he told ya God would get you someday, but you were too quick and ya moved on Monday…” The Tubes origins mainly spawn from Phoenix, AZ, but the band didn’t really get developed until moving to the Bay area in the early ‘70s. Without beating around the bush I will say flat out, any music created by the Tubes after 1977/1978 is complete and utter shit; those singles that were mildly popular in the ‘80s make me cringe---and I like most ‘80s music! That being said, the theatrical and parody-based songs they turned out in the mid ‘70s are successful & fulfilling attempts at lampooning our egoistic way of American living. They mainly built their reputation around an elaborate and radical stage show which involved a number of characters and settings (if curious, go to youtube.com and search “Tubes, White Punks on Dope”, it will give you some idea), highlighted by singer & former roadie Fee Waybill’s numerous comical impersonations; my favorite among those being the character of Quay Lewd, the sedative-inspired superhero which both mocked and celebrated everything the British glam rock movement stood for. For real, if you think you know fierce, this dude skulked around on stage in 18” platform boots (yes, that’s an entire foot and a half), a humongous blond wig, and ass-less silver spandex…work it bitch!! Amidst all the slapstick, one can’t help but notice the very tight musicianship, particularly the forceful drumming and bass playing; also of note, bandmember Vince Welnick is rocking the spooky keyboards here, later to play with the Grateful Dead. This song feels like the bastard child of Queen and the Rocky Horror Picture Show, all lips and hips and general moistness. I can never decide which line shocks/pleasures me more, “…petting heavy didn’t, didn’t bother you, your 8th grade teacher showed you what to do…” or “…another waitress with an I.U.D., went to the clinic, you got it free…”…!
from the LP Diamond Dogs, RCA Records, 1974
The opening riff on this track is one of the catchiest damn hooks ever, and it commands me to choose this song from among the forty-or-so other Bowie tracks I have on the old computer here. Although it is the glitter god himself handling the guitar-playing duties on this recording, I suspect he wasn’t the original author of that riff; this song was written a couple years before its release, during the Ziggy Stardust sessions, so it was probably another winner from his underrated pal Mick Ronson. At any rate, the moment this song starts playing in any public setting (bar, restaurant, ballgame, etc…), the driving guitar and notorious cowbell literally force people to tap their feet & bob their heads. The lyrics roll out like some musical m/documentary of the entire glam rock scene, a frenzy which was akin to Beatlemania in the UK but made only a small stir across the pond here; I always wonder if our American version of masculinity just wouldn’t allow for such a scene to take off, as compared to England, where eccentricity and effeminate men are almost celebrated, in popular culture anyways. “You’ve got your mother in a whirl, ‘cause she’s, not sure if you’re a boy or a girl; hey babe, your hair’s alright; hey babe, let’s go out tonight…” If you were walking around the streets of London from around 1970-1976 you were sure to see hordes of teenage boys wearing eyeliner and glitter smeared all over them. “…we like dancing and we look divine; you love bands when they’re playin’ hard, you want more and you want it fast…” I have this theory, which is solely my own half-cracked presupposition, that the vast majority of aspiring guitar players during the late ‘60s basically saw and heard what Jimi Hendrix was doing, and said to themselves, “Well self, that’s basically it then, we’re just gonna have to dress up something simpler, ‘cause there ain’t no fucking way I’m gonna get there…” In any case, glam musicians really stripped rock music down to the bare elements that had been explored more in the ‘50s than the ‘60s: no endless noodling, no acid-washed guitar solos, and no more album sides taken up by only one long song. Much has been written about the integral part glam rock plays in the milieu which became the impetus for punk rock, and you can certainly hear that in this song. I must confess, I’m also partial to his line, “…you got your, queue lines & a handful of ‘ludes…” Ahhhhh, what I wouldn’t give for a handful of Quaaludes sometimes…hell, gimmie a whole damn freezer full, the way the world is going anymore…
from the LP Electric Warrior, Reprise Records, 1971
