from the LP Black Sabbath, Vertigo Records, 1970
I will never forget the first time I heard this, the self-titled opening salvo from what was to become the world’s foremost dispenser of doom-laden rock: right about the point where we are confronted with the “…big black shape with eyes of fire, telling people their desire; Satan’s sitting there, he’s smiling, watches those flames get higher and higher…”, my typically unfazed adolescent mind became flooded with epinephrine & endorphins, seemingly released in time with my suddenly racing heartbeat, nearly echoing Ozzy’s sentiments, “…NO, NO, please God help me…” Granted, I was listening to it on headphones alone in my room after having smoked a couple bowls of schwag, but for a blazing moment (no pun intended) the boys in Sabbath literally made me feel Satan’s breath on my fucking neck; shit, everything about these guys was scary as all hell, from their name to their gloomy ambiance, and even that green-tinted witch on the album cover still terrifies me a little. Of course now, being old & wise & boring (see: not believing in pointy-tailed monsters who live in the core of the Earth), the content doesn’t pack the same creepy wallop, but the visceral impact of their music absolutely does: whether it’s the molasses-slow tempo of the song’s body, or the monstrous riffage of that insane breakdown about 4:35 into the track, this song (and indeed, the whole LP) marked the true beginning of heavy metal, in my humble opinion anyways.
from the LP KISS, Casablanca Records, 1973
Had some exceedingly good crate-digging yesterday at a local record store, scored some dank jazz-funk LPs & a rare electro release, but the pièce de résistance was undoubtedly a surprisingly clean (NM) copy of this, KISS’ debut album, a totemic item which proved impossible to resist. Excepting for the useless inclusion of the cover “Kissin’ Time”, which early copies of the album wisely excluded from the mix, there isn’t a throwaway track on here, coming right out of the gate with everything already in place to take over the world, as this song ably demonstrates: powerfully creeping bassline, big rhythmic drums, gnarly lead guitar, and Paul Stanley’s inimitable NYC-ized vocal delivery. Well, everything was in place except Peter Criss’ makeup, which got fixed, thankfully; gotta love the breakdown by wasted-ness though, with Criss and Ace both lidded & bloodshot, Stanley maybe drunk, and Simmons sober as the day is long.
from the LP Standing On the Verge of Getting It On, Westbound Records, 1974
“…music is designed to free your funky mind, we have come to help you cope; out, into another reality, you will be, through our music, we bring you hope…” What better mission statement than the above rhyme could one concoct when attempting to sum up the lasting importance of George Clinton’s P-Funk mothership, set to land around this area in about a month, and you better believe my ass will be there! These were Eddie Hazel’s last major song-writing credits with Funkadelic, so it’s a nice twist of fate that the riffs he laid down on this album (and particularly those found here on the title track) happen to smoke harder than a 16 year-old pothead fresh out of rehab; seriously, metal bands even got wet over this shit, it comes so hard. It’s almost unfathomable when you start walking through all the Parliament & Funkadelic albums and come to find yourself confronted with such an amazingly massive glut of top-notch tunes, I don’t hesitate to say that it easily eclipses James Brown’s discography in all-around funkiness, perhaps even equaling his legacy in cultural impact. Long live the Supreme Maggot Ministers of Funkadelia!! Free your mind and your ass will follow…!
from the LP Bongo Fury, Discreet Records, 1975
Lost in the maelstrom of grading that becomes every teacher’s world for the last couple weeks at the end of each semester, I somehow managed to miss the unfortunate news that Captain Beefheart had died last Friday, after a hard-fought battle with MS. Given that tomorrow would have been Zappa’s 70th birthday, I figured this song was an appropriate selection (Zappa’s mind-melting solo here is one of his best ever, and that’s Beefheart’s inimitable voice singing backup vocals at the end, “girl, you thought he was a man, but he was a muffin…”), taped live on the tour where their relationship, both personal & professional, basically fell apart; fortunately, the two men buried the hatchet previous to Zappa’s passing away. Plenty is being/will be written about the legacy of an artist as eccentric and anarchic as Beefheart was, so I will leave all the mushy eulogies about everything the world of modern music & art has inherited from him to the experts---suffice to say, the dude was far out man, and so was Zappa. Rest in peace fellas!
from the LP Machine Head, Warner Bros Records, 1972
Heavy, man. You’d better believe that when Ian Gillian declares, “…I got speed inside my brain…” he aint just talking about driving fast. Always popular with heads, this album was the one which accurately cemented Deep Purple’s reputation as one of the heaviest bands on Earth, still standing today as their magnum opus, and for good reason: it fucking kills! Released in ‘72, this particular song (one of the best album openers ever) is perhaps the most literal musical embodiment of that year’s GTO, Challenger or ‘Stang: fast, loud, ready to kick ass & hot as all fuck. Those were cars that you fucked on & in, and this was rock-n-roll that people fucked with & to, get it? “…nobody gonna take my car, I'm gonna race it to the ground, nobody gonna beat my car, it's gonna break the speed of sound; Oooh, it's a killer machine, it's got everything, like a driving power, big fat tires and everything…” Go ahead, blast this one while you’re racing down the interstate and tell me you don’t own the fucking road---just don’t send me your speeding tickets…
from the LP Motörhead, Chiswick Records, released: 1977, recorded: 1975
Anyone who manages to get kicked out of Hawkwind for their drug use, particularly given the excessive levels of chemical alteration that band was known for (it’s not as if they were a prohibitive scene), well, they’ve gotta be one crazy ass motherfucker--- all things considered, I’d say that title could be fittingly used to describe Ian ‘Lemmy’ Kilmister without much debate. Left to his own devices, Lemmy went about assembling a few of his friends that shared a passion for loud music, motocycles & amphetamines, calling themselves: Motörhead. These guys were an important cog in the primitive wheels of both heavy metal and proto-punk, bringing a level of trash & speed to their crunching hard rock that was rarely seen anywhere else at that time, something which proved to be very inspirational. Their sound got faster and harder with time, but this is some pretty fucking gnarly stuff for 1975. The cover art says all you need to know.
from the LP Argus, MCA Records, 1972
Autumn is easily my favorite season, perhaps increasingly more so as I continue to get older, the funny colored leaves & unruly winds really ignite my imagination like no other time of the year, the visible persistence of time, in motion. We all contain varying levels of wanderlust, remnants from our vagabond past perhaps, and something about this evocative term annually conjures that nomadic spirit like feedback inside our subconscious amp. Crafting big boogie blues-rock with major progressive leanings, Wishbone Ash was easily one of the more memorable (and unique) hard rock bands of the 1970s, bringing an ambiance which felt aged, but not stodgy, almost mystical in places; ultimately, their songs feel comfortably familiar & reminiscent---I mean, everybody can relate to lyrics like, “…in my dreams everything was all right, in your schemes you can only try…”! They were never concerned with singles, something which has unfortunately doomed them to near-obscurity in the States, mainly because they have been wholly ignored by classic rock radio, which sucks; their dual-lead guitar attack, care of Andy Powell & Ted Turner, was one of the first, and they remain among the all-time best at achieving a perfect balance between both players. Rock on.
from the LP No Rest for the Wicked, Montross Records, 1976
As much as society is inclined to worship the champions of any given pursuit (music, writing, acting, sports, etc…), one has to wonder just how many prodigious individuals, perhaps some with talents even eclipsing the stars we know, have been denied ultimate success and, thus, fallen by the wayside; scientifically speaking, the firm probability is that there are exponentially more human beings with equal (or paramount) skills who never get the acclaim, and those precious few that make it are near assuredly not the “greatest of all time”, strictly speaking anyways. Bored yet? That was a long (baked) way to say: Iowa guitarist Billy Lee Janey & his power trio deserve more props than they get. I briefly lived in Indiana back in the ‘90s, and I had a weed connection in a town called Kokomo that had me driving over there (in a borrowed car which I should have treated better) about once a month to re-up, and the guy’s uncle was a HUGE Truth & Janey fan; apparently, he’d worked the stage at a joint in Bloomington back in the day where these guys played a few shows in the mid ‘70s, and it left such an imprint on him that he never tired of re-telling us the same bone-headed tales of endless Thai stick and stacks of Marshall amps. The Midwest is a tough place to make it big, even though it’s their population that has largely floated the perpetual touring of classic rock and metal bands over the years, the fact is: you often gotta move to one coast or the other to improve your chances, something these talented young men never got around to. These riffs are massive man, bigger than King Kong, and countless more are found scattered throughout this entire album, their sole full-length offering and a true testament to the real working ‘70s rock underground.
from the LP Out of the Cellar, Atlantic Records, 1984
Most cultures use clothing symbolically, as a way of telling others about the things one finds important without having to talk, thus easing our social navigation substantially, and perhaps no where is that fact more readily practiced than in the United States; specifically, back in the day, the girls who wore rock tees were generally looser (see: not prude), but there was even a hierarchy within their ranks: the girls with Poison or Bon Jovi shirts were often the teases, those donning Guns ‘N’ Roses or Mötley Crüe shirts were likely to be pretty fun, but the absolute guarantee of hitting a home run came from those daring, proud girls in the RATT tees---these were the ladies your mother had warned you about, wild horses who embraced the inner slut and weren’t afraid to show it. Having been something of a slut myself, I gotta give those girls big props, because it’s better to embrace what you are than to spent a lot of effort pretending to be something else. This debut long-player from Ratt is an absolute must-have for any self respecting fan of ‘80s heavy metal, gritty and melodic at the same time, a balance this deep cut manages with adept precision.
from the LP Fighting, Vertigo Records, 1975
“Wild one won't you please come home, you've been away too long, will ya; we need you home, we need you near, come back wild one, will ya…” Had a great conversation with an old friend over the extended weekend, both of us having spent our adolescence as cast-outs & black sheep from our family, only to fall back into the mix after getting our “shit” together, and then be eclipsed by other family members’ drama; it’s a strange thing when you’re used to being the fuck-up and, suddenly, you find yourself amidst the haloed majority, the eagle eye of judgment’s glare now averted to other, more fucked up relatives. The perspective feels awkward, even after holding it down for almost a decade now, and although our former roles imbue us with a greater empathy for the new screw up(s), I selfishly adore not dealing with my folks’ ire anymore! Who’s to say though, we could always re-take that crown at some point in the future again, although most of us try as hard as we can to avoid that from happening. Some of us never really get it together, and sadly, Thin Lizzy bassist & vocalist Phil Lynott falls into this latter category (dude with the bat on the cover); it would’ve been easy to be fooled into thinking that, with all his songs featuring strung-out anti-heroes, someone with that much insight must surely be smart enough to find his way out. Sadly, that was not the case, and Lynott succumbed at 37 to health complications brought on from years of heroin and alcohol abuse. Thing is, once you live long enough, you realize that it can be any one of us at any time falling down that slippery slope, which means, my dear brothers and sisters, we all gotta do a better job of looking out for one another. “…so you go your way, wild one, I'll try and follow; and if you change your mind, I will be waiting here for you tomorrow…”
from the LP Medusa, Threshold Records, 1970
Better known for the band’s they wound up playing in later (Judas Priest, Whitesnake, Sabbath, et al), the members of British trio Trapeze actually had all the right elements working together early on, and this entire LP is a testament to that fact: tight musicianship, catchy melodies, poignant vocals, and lots of cowbell. Singer & bassist Glenn Hughes, who would later go on to briefly replace Roger Glover in Deep Purple, really pulls out all the stops on this track, coming close to the high bar set by guys like Paul Rodgers in his ability to sound genuinely soulful without it being an obvious put-on (like it is with so many other white rockers trying to sound black). There is only one reason why songs this good aren’t played regularly on classic rock radio across the nation, and that’s shitty licensing regulations; so many rock stations are now owned by Clear Channel, and thus bound by their craptacular playlists, leaving heady burners like this (an even mix of stoned western groove, southern accents & driving hard rock) to collect dust in the corner. It’s a damn shame.
from the LP Moving Pictures, Mercury Records, 1981
I’ve seen enough dinosaurs wheezing their way through current takes on their golden oldies to know that making a song (let alone an entire album) sound the same as it did on an LP thirty years ago is no small feat---and that’s just musically speaking, as I know better than to ever presume a singer’s pipes will remain intact after that much abuse. Thus, all of us were blissfully stunned last night upon receiving the sacrament which is a Rush concert at Red Rocks, because not only did they play through all of Moving Pictures with cyborg-like precision, they also played another album’s worth of deep cuts as well, both challenging stuff (still in shock that they jammed on “2112”, fucking surreal man…) and standard fare (i.e. “Working Man” and a roiling rendition of “Subdivisions”); not to mention, Geddy sounded incredible, still hitting the highest notes without bluffing. The moment that legendary synthesizer chirped to life in the opening bars of this song, people just completely lost their shit man, it was bloody extraordinary!! “…no, his mind is not for rent, to any god or government, always hopeful yet discontent, he knows changes aren't permanent--- but change is…what you say about his company is what you say about society; catch the mist, catch the myth, catch the mystery, catch the drift…the world is, the world is, love and life are deep, maybe as his skies are wide…” Being a sociologist, this type of lyrical reflection on culture and society have always been a big part of my love for this crew, one in a small handful of successful rock bands to make it big without a focus on sappy love songs or party anthems. I know I’m gonna sound like an old fuddy-duddy here, but there just aren’t many band’s today who are talented enough to even get close to this shit (maybe Zombi or Astra being the exceptions, and even they are still pawing at the mantel), either in complexity or breadth of ability. Oh yeah, and Neil Peart is greatest drummer EVER, period.
from the LP The Day the Earth Met the…, Smog Veil Records, released: 2002, recorded: 1975
Cleveland rocks, period. Having lived there, trust me, you can take my word for it, but those who need more convincing need only do a brief search on proto-punk music and you’ll find that an uneven percentage of the groups deemed as such (and who actually sound like punk rock) came from the Cleveland area: Mirrors, The Styrenes, The Electric Eels, and this crew, Rocket From the Tombs (RFTT), who wound up splitting into the Dead Boys and Pere Ubu upon their collapse in 1975. Surely the town’s proximity to Detroit (in both locale & deserted ghetto vibe) had something to do with this odd musical factoid, Motown being the birthplace of pre-proto-punk’s like the Stooges & the MC5, but geography alone isn’t enough to explain just what the fuck turned the 216 into such a hotbed of prophetic dissonance. Granted, the entire “rust belt” (i.e. S. Michigan, Ohio, W. Pennsylvania, W. New York state, NE Indiana, etc…) had seen the systematic dissolution of the American dream long before the economic decline of the late ‘70s, something which most music scholars point to as an essential element of punk rock’s rise to prominence in both England & the US; that said, it still doesn’t answer the question: why Cleveland? Well, I can tell you that there is a certain feeling up Thieveland way, one that says ‘we’re all in this together’ and means it, as I have never again felt such a general unity of purpose (namely, to get very fucked up and to heartily root for the Indians & Browns) amongst the population from a city that size in all my travels & travails since; no, it is not a utopia by any means, I’m just saying that there was this understanding of how dead the area was, and a dedicated agreement to have fun regardless. Sadly, this tale of living fast & dying young proved to be a prescient one for it’s author, Peter Laughner; “…ain’t it fun when you’re always on the run, ain’t it fun when your friends despise what you’ve become; ain’t it fun when you get so high that you can’t cum, ain’t it fun when you know that you’re gonna die young…I broke the windows, crashed my fist right through the glass, but I couldn’t even feel it, it just happened too fast, it was fun, such fun, oh such fun…”
from the LP Alive!, Casablanca Records, 1975
Following along with the bloodsucking theme above, this smoking hot number from my first true musical obsession, KISS, leaves no doubt at all as to the allegory being made herein, “…she'll always be there, tryin’ to grab a hold; she thought she knew me, but she didn't know… parasite lady, parasite eyes…” This was the album that saved KISS’ ass, and even with them having admitted to over-dubbing some of the crowd noise and guitar parts (big fucking deal), it still provides some of the most terrifyingly fast & dark versions of their early album cuts that one can experience; this was one of Ace Frehley’s initial attempts at song-writing for the band, although he was still too unsure of his own voice, so he gave Simmons the track to sing. Not only is the main riff menacing enough to warrant its own restraining order, but the blistering solo Ace peels off (starting at around 2:15) is so crushingly heavy that, I swear, you can almost see the mountains around here recoiling in fear when I play this loud enough…
from the LP 25 TAB, Glitterhouse Records, 1991
It kills me how many people only know of Monster Magnet (MM) from their fluke brush with mainstream success (via their generally boring 1998 LP Powertrip), particularly because that exercise in generic head-banging shouldn’t even be discussed in the same breath as their earlier work: a demented, drug-addled, sludgy, soupy, psychedelic mess that felt as if Hawkwind had eaten dinner with Sabbath, both crews dosing one another’s food (with DOM and Quaaludes, respectively), and then decided to make an album--- that was a compliment, in case you weren’t sure. This “song”, which comes across like some sort of lysergic space hymn, marks the absolute apex of MM’s sonic experiments, more than half an hour’s worth of droning, skronking pandemonium that builds up around a repeating bottom end whose rhythm section easily owes as much to Can as it does to the boys in Hawkwind. This trip (…and it is a trip…) should be experienced through the glory of good headphones and strong hashish, at the least, but I’ve even had a sober friend of mine tell me it makes his head feel funny & his heart beat fast when he rocks this track, so go figure. Put bluntly: the title “Tab” isn’t just a smart name, and Monster Magnet aren’t your average stoner rock band.
from the LP Van Halen, Warner Bros. Records, 1978
Having all grown up in the greater Los Angeles area during those shaggy-haired, jamadelic late ‘60s & 1970s, the members of Van Halen must have been taken by utter surprise when suddenly the clubs they were used to frequenting had been taken over by sour-faced little kids with fluorescent green liberty spikes and safety pins shoved through their moping faces. Rather than bitching about “these damn talent-less kids” like so many other classic rockers did, Van Halen took it on the chin & decided to pen this speedy number on their debut album as a document (and perhaps skewering) of what was happening--- and anyways, metalheads didn’t produce the ire in punk rock circles that prog or psych rockers did. Say what you will (and plenty can be said) about the douchebags who comprised this band, they still fucking rocked, end of discussion.
from the LP Känguru, Brain Records, 1972
Moving hazily through no less than 8 different suites of musical variety, one thing you will assuredly not be while listening to this expansive jam by German acid freak’s Guru Guru is bored; indeed, some parts fluctuate so drastically that if you don’t like what you’re hearing, just a wait a couple minutes, because it’s no indication of where things might be headed next (my favorite section is the loose vibe from 5:17 – 7:30, more cowbell!!). While some krautrock bands made their reputations sounding like the control panel on a spaceship, and others upon sounding like a prehistoric drum circle, Guru Guru always comes across to me as the most literal translation from that whole scene, in that, they sound like a bunch of Germans on LSD; mind you, this is not to take away from their abilities as musicians, only to highlight the profoundly wasted vibe they brought, noticeable even within a scene that was partially founded on drug experimentation. I don’t hesitate to call this album absolutely essential for any fans of krautrock or spacey hard rock in general.
from the LP Holy Diver, Warner Bros. Records, 1983
We have truly lost a great one… Ronnie James Dio was not only heavy metal’s elder statesman, he was a beaming example of what it means to love what you do and not take anything for granted; this man’s first band was in 1958, so he already possessed maturity by the time Blackmore enlisted him to front Rainbow in the mid ‘70s. Every interview clip I’ve ever seen of Dio he was smiling, visibly stoked & verbally grateful for what rock ‘n’ roll had given him---let alone, what he’s given rock. Beyond the devil-horn fist pump that’s become ubiquitous at concerts of all types, his vocal delivery served as one the biggest influences on NWOBHM acts in the 1980s (Maiden, Saxon, Priest, et al.); this song was his solo group’s biggest hit, culled from an album that caused quite a bit of ruckus upon it’s release, due to the cover art’s portrayal of a demonic creature seemingly drowning a Catholic priest---an image that wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow by today’s standards. What many people might not realize is that Dio was also actively involved in many humanitarian endeavors, including him & his wife’s charitable organization that helps sex workers & homeless women in need. May he rest in peace.
from the LP Black Sabbath, Vertigo Records, 1970
