Once again, Wikipedia is good for a laugh. They seem to think that Hank Williams, Jr. spent the first ten years of his career imitating his dad. Really, Wikipedia? Have you LISTENED to those records? Yes, he RECORDED a lot of his father's songs, but he didn't really sound like Hank Sr. In fact, I actually prefer the early singles to the stuff Bocephus did later (when he became an "outlaw" country singer and a shill for Monday Night Football).
Hank Jr. seems to have been around forever, and there's a good reason - he got an incredibly early start, making his first records for MGM in late 1963 at age 14, and had his first hit in early 1964 with a remake of his dad's old hit "Long Gone Lonesome Blues". When listening to the record I'm blogging about today, remember that Hank Jr. was SIXTEEN YEARS OLD when he recorded it.
Sixteen. He already sounds 40 when he sings the opening line - "Down at work it's gettin' bad/It's gettin' kinda rough as a cob/My boss done told me/better get my mind back on my job". He probably WAS sixteen going on 40 at that point, with a domineering mother trying to push Hank Jr. into pale imitations of his father's music, without being able to assert himself legally and break away from the path his mother set him on (he finally got away from her in the early 1970s).
In any case, I just wanted to post this because it's a cool country number (written by John D. Loudermilk) with bluesy guitar licks and great drums. And no rowdy friends.
Hank Williams, Jr. - You're Ruinin' My Life (MGM 13392) - 1965
Wow! Has it really been a month since I blogged last? Damn work keeps getting in the way......
Anyway, I thought I'd throw a curve here and spotlight an LP track instead of a 45 (though this track SHOULDA been on a 7-inch slab o' waxy goodness). It's by a group that were called the M&M boys, the Maggs, Mag Men, etc., but they were officially known as The Magnificent Men - and magnificent they were.
The term "blue-eyed soul" gets thrown about quite a bit - I've heard it used in reference to everyone from David Bowie to Scott Walker to Frank Sinatra (in fact, if you want a good laugh, check out Wikipedia's entry for "Category: Blue Eyed Soul Singers"). But the term was coined for white singers who were singing in the new soul style of the 1960s - acts like Wayne Cochran, The Rascals, Ronnie Milsap, Roy Head, Len Barry, The O'Kaysions, The Shades Of Blue, The Soul Survivors and, of course, The Righteous Brothers, who were probably the first act to have that tag appended to them. But the best blue-eyed soul act of all was The Magnificent Men, from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. They had almost everything - TWO fantastic lead singers (David Bupp and Buddy King) who also wrote much of their material, a steady leader in drummer Bob "Puff" Angelucci, and the rest of the guys (Jim Seville, Tom Hoover - later replaced by Billy Richter, Terry Crousore and Tom Pane) were absolute killer instrumentalists and singers. They were the FIRST white act to headline at the Apollo Theater (and James Brown himself was so impressed that he jumped up on stage with them for one 45-minute set). They also played landmarks of the chitlin' circuit like the Howard Theater in Washington, D. C. and the Uptown Theater in Philadelphia (where they recorded their legendary live LP). Unfortunately, they were signed to Capitol Records, who literally had no idea what to do with them.
The group was formed in the early 1960s from the remains of two rather large (and racially mixed) bands - the seven-member Del-Chords (who had a great 45 called "Your Mommy Lied To Your Daddy") and the nine-piece Endells (who had a semi-hit in Philadelphia called "Vicky"). When several of the white members from both groups started jamming together, they formed a third group, calling themselves The Magnificent Seven. They also started getting a lot more gigs, since booking agents were a bit wary of hiring their old bands because they were racially integrated.
They soon signed with Capitol, and changed their name to The Magnificent Men. Their first single, "Peace Of Mind", written by Bupp and King, was a top ten R&B hit in Philadelphia, Detroit and Chicago. The follow-up, "Maybe, Maybe Baby", got airplay in New York on WMCA and got the Mag Men invited to the Apollo as headliners.
But on a national level, nobody knew who these guys were. Despite the regional success of their first two 45s, neither of them charted nationally, on either the pop or R&B charts (in fact, they only charted twice in their whole career, with "I Could Be So Happy", which hit #93 pop, and "Sweet Soul Medley", taken from the live LP, which was their biggest pop hit at #90. They never hit the national R&B chart). Their first two LPs, The Magnificent Men and Live!, were decent sellers, but again, neither one charted.
In October, 1967, the group decided to travel to Chicago to try and change their fortunes, working with producer Carl Davis and arranger Sonny Sanders on a session. Unfortunately, only ONE song was released from that session, and this was it. "Nobody Treats Me The Way You Do" was written by Marvin Smith, lead singer of The Artistics (who the Mag Men patterned their harmonies after) and is one of the finest examples of blue-eyed soul - hell, just SOUL - in existence.
Capitol couldn't have cared less. After two LPs and a bunch of 45s that didn't chart, the group's welcome was wearing thin. So Capitol pushed the group towards what used to be called "supper-club soul" - standards with a slightly soulful bent. This direction came to fruition on the group's third Capitol LP, The World Of Soul, an uneven album in which great group originals such as "So Much Love Waiting" and "It's Got To Be Love" were mixed in with standards such as "September Song", "Alfie" and "Everybody's Got A Home But Me". The Maggs handled these well, but the one Chicago track that was included on the LP sticks out like a sore thumb (and, typical of the corporate ways of Capitol, Carl Davis was not even credited on the LP jacket, though strangely Sonny Sanders was).
Released in early 1968, the LP bombed, and the novelty of a white group singing soul was beginning to wear off (The Rascals, after their huge 1968 hit "People Got To Be Free", suffered the same fate, dropping down the charts dramatically with their next few 45s). Funk and harder-edged soul were beginning to take over, and the Mag Men were left behind. A switch to the Mercury label didn't help matters; the LP Like A Ten Cent Movie and two singles (including a version of Dylan's "Lay Lady Lay") had few takers. David Bupp left the group shortly afterwards, and the group disbanded in 1973.
Supposedly, a film about the group is near completion. See the trailer here. But don't wait for the film. Get every piece of wax you can by this group. You will NOT believe your ears.
The Magnificent Men - Nobody Treats Me The Way You Do (Capitol ST 2846) - 1968
I was having a (somewhat) friendly argument with some online cronies over who the father of country-rock really is - Gram Parsons, Rick Nelson or Mike Nesmith. Of course, it ultimately doesn't matter, because now, really BAD country-rock is what passes for country nowadays (with a few exceptions, of course: George Strait, Alan Jackson, Billy Currington when he's in the mood). But it really was amazing how many good points were brought up in the argument, like how Bob Wills was the first guy to try and combine country with an R&B/rock and roll feel (instead of the other way around). Nesmith himself has said that Rick Nelson was the guy who pointed the way to country-rock. Gram Parsons? OVERRATED AS ALL HELL. Rich kid, nothing to do, liked country, had good dope, hung out with some degenerates, screwed Emmylou Harris, OD'd. Fuck him.
Me? It's a toss-up between Nesmith and Nelson. But I gotta say, old wool-hat made the more interesting records, with or without The Monkees. Or both, in this case (yes, it's a Monkees record, but none of the other three Monkeemen are on this song). As with a lot of Nesmith compositions, the title is mentioned nowhere in the song. Mike was kinda weird like that - or was he? More on that later.
I was actually lucky enough to see Mike Nesmith in concert twice - once with The Monkees in late 2012, and once solo this past Friday (April 12, 2013). They were two completely different concerts. While the Monkees concert was more fun, the solo concert was more interesting (no big surprise). The Monkees did what was expected - they did hit after hit, did the "Head" LP in its entirety, and did a tribute to their fallen comrade, Davy Jones. With the solo concert, I had NO idea what to expect. Mike came out, acknowledged the cheers - and swung right into "Papa Jean's Blues"!! Turns out that was the only time he acknowledged the Monkees all night - which was fine with me. I was there to hear the best of his solo material - "The Grand Ennui", "Rio", "Some Of Shelley's Blues", "Different Drum", and the hits "Joanne" and "Silver Moon". Mike played 'em all, and he prefaced each song with a little spoken vignette, putting each tune into its own framework. It was a nice way to link the songs together, and to give us a glimpse of Nesmith's thought process (obtuse as that may be).
Now some folks might think that Mike, in giving his audience these vignettes, is talking down to them. If he is, he can't be blamed. Mike Nesmith is one of two artists (Scott Walker is the other one) who, no matter what they do, will always be imprisoned by their earlier personas, never being forgiven for their artistic growth, and never being forgiven for looking forward instead of backward. The Scott Walker of 1968 - young, beautiful to look at, singing Jacques Brel songs and standards in that honeyed, rich baritone - is never coming back, and those who love 1968 Scott revile the material that Walker's made since Climate Of Hunter in 1984; they refer to those albums as "that weird crap". As much as the audience last Friday came to hear Mike's solo material, most of them were wearing Monkees T-shirts and I'm sure some of them wished that Mike would put on his green wool hat with the pom-pom on top and play that 12-string Gretsch guitar and play "What Am I Doing Hangin' Round?" or "Salesman" or "Love Is Only Sleeping". Nope. Not gonna happen. Mike's playing what Mike wants to play - Michael Nesmith songs. Therefore, he's already got a strike or two against him before he comes out. Not that the songs aren't good, but they can't compete with old-fashioned TV and music nostalgia - and they shouldn't have to. But they do, at least in the minds of the people who go to see him perform. Like Scott Walker, Mike's music needs to sink in a few times before it can be truly appreciated for the genius work that it is, and, to be fair, Mike has always had an obscurantist streak in his writing, leaving you scratching your head and saying, "what does he mean by that?" So his explanations of the music he's making, while a bit peevish on some levels, become totally necessary when facing an audience that doesn't really understand him anyway.
The above record is just one of those examples. For years, I could never figure out why he named this tune "Good Clean Fun". Listening to the lyrics, it's just a guy waiting for a plane carrying his girlfriend who he hasn't seen in over a year. Big deal. But sometime in the 1970s, someone interviewed Nesmith and asked about this song (I wish I could remember who, so I can give them credit), wondering if there was more to it than meets the ear. Nesmith admitted that the song's last line, "I told you I'd come back / and here I am", is actually meant as a threat, and that the song's narrator means to do his (ex) girlfriend great harm. Hence the ironic title "Good Clean Fun".
Anyhoo, I thought I'd end this by saying this is the 100th post for "On The Record"!! Do I get some kind of syndication deal? No? Oh, well, I'll just keep going anyway. Thanks to all the readers out there for showing your support!!
The Monkees - Good Clean Fun (Colgems 5005) - 1969
I first heard about this record through a good friend of mine, John Grecco, who was the associate producer for the "One Kiss Can Lead To Another" girl groups box set that Rhino put out a few years ago. While the box set itself was pretty good, having to WORK on the box set was a bad experience for me. I helped out on that box with publishing information and a few label scans (none of which made it to the booklet). I spent a LOT of time doing research, and what did I get for my efforts? NADA. Zilch. Zip. Zero. I didn't get an invite to the release party (well, actually, I did, but would have had to pay full price for the tickets like any schlub off the street). Hell, I also didn't even get a COPY OF THE BOX SET!! My girlfriend, bless her heart, bought me one a couple of Christmases ago, which is the ONLY reason I have a copy.
FUCK Rhino.
This was one of the tunes selected for the box set that didn't make the final cut (somewhere in my files I have the first draft of the track listing - I think it was about 115 - 120 songs). One of the big problems in putting the set together was that it had such a Euro-girls point of view (probably due to the fact that Rhino decided to hire Sheila Burgel to write the booklet notes for the track listing - she loves that Euro-crap), so a lot of good American girl-group records were passed over in favor of the inferior but oh-so-hip European imitations.
This one's actually pretty good, though. Beverly Jones was an English lass who hooked up with a beat group called The Prestons for this one 45, released in the UK in October, 1964, and in the USA in January, 1965. The A-side, a mod version of Martha and The Vandellas' "Heat Wave", was a waste of time; the band cooks, but Beverly was never gonna come close to Martha Reeves' vocal. The flip, though, has some balls. Written by Prestons' lead guitarist Roger James, "Hear You Talking" is an atypical girl group lament; instead of threatening to beat up a girl who is vying for her man's affections, she lays down the rules to her GUY - no talking about your ex, or I'll CUT YOU DEAD! (and the organist is playing like he knows she means it!) Sounding like a tougher version of Lulu, this one grows on me with each subsequent play.
Unfortunately, that was it for Beverly Jones and The Prestons. They parted ways after this one single (and, honestly, I don't think the record got an actual release here - I've only seen promo copies of this, but have never seen a stock copy) and Beverly joined a group called The Mad Classix, later marrying their lead singer, Johnny Wells, and semi-retired to raise a family.
Unfortunately, Beverly passed on last year, but left this one unforgettable 45 with us.
For a good interview (and story) on Beverly Jones, click here.
Beverly Jones - Hear You Talking (Swan 4202) - 1965
Doo-woppers are obsessed with pigeonholing their music. They have a myriad of categories; white groups, black groups, bird groups, car groups, proto-soul groups, roots groups, kid groups, male group with female lead (it rarely works the other way around), gang groups, Italo-doo-wop groups. They also like to categorize by label; Chance, Red Robin, Rama, Gee, Vee Jay, Blue Lake are very desirable names to doo-woppers. If that wasn't enough division, they also like to categorize the songs themselves; nonsense lyrics, jungle songs, songs about Latin women, songs about Oriental women, pop-doo-wop, neo-doo-wop, Tin Pan Alley doo-wop, classic doo-wop, distaff doo-wop, a wop bop a loo bop a whomp bam boo doo doo boppa loo boppa poppa stoppa hoody waddy woo......
Which is one reason why I enjoy this record so much. It doesn't really fit into the accepted categories. First of all, it's on Duke Records, an outfit well-known for blues records by the likes of Bobby Bland, Little Junior Parker, Rosco Gordon, Fenton Robinson and the late, great Johnny Ace (in fact, it was Bland and Parker who discovered the group). Duke released VERY little in the form of group harmony, so it's not one of the labels the rabid doo-wop label collectors drool over. Second, instead of singing about some angel who makes their crazy hearts skip a beat, the El Torros are singing about an Indian warrior named Yellow Hand, who apparently was a REALLY big guy (sample lyric: "he used a giant redwood tree to make his canoe / a buffalo's hide to make just one shoe"). There's no Indian princess to steal his heart, no mother to tell him to find love, no nothing. In fact, the only other person mentioned in the song is Geronimo, who says that he obeys NO MAN except for Yellow Hand.
So, I'm going to start a new sub-category for all the doo-woppers - American-Indian-doo-wop!!
By the way, for a really good article on the history of the El Torros, look no further than here.
The Beau Brummels. Possibly my favorite 60s group (depending on what day it is....sometimes it's The Who). SCREW The Byrds, THESE guys were the first "folk-rockers" and the first "America's answer to The Beatles".
Though they only released 5 studio LPs and a handful of singles in the 1960s, the Brummels managed to encapsulate ALL the great influences of the era - folk-rock, mild psychedelia, Dylan, teenbeat garage, country-rock - in an amazingly clear and consistent body of work. If they only had better management, they could have gone all the way, or at least be in the same pantheon as more "hallowed" groups such as the aforementioned Byrds or Van Morrison or the Stones and the Beatles (and we'd actually be able to enjoy Beau Brummels tunes on so-called "classic rock" radio).
The group's two main members, Sal Valentino (real name: Salvatore Spampinato) and Ron Elliott met in high school in San Francisco, and began singing together. After graduation, Elliott went off to San Francisco State to study music composition, while Sal sang in sleazy clubs in North Beach and cut an unsuccessful single ("I Wanna Twist") in 1962. By early 1964 Valentino and Elliott were playing in a band together with bassist Ron Meagher, drummer John Petersen and Irishman Declan Mulligan, who played rhythm guitar. Calling themselves The Beau Brummels, they soon were playing the same sleazy North Beach circuit that Sal had played a couple of years before. But while most bands were playing covers of the top hits of the day, the Brummels mostly played Ron Elliott's original songs, making them a standout from the very start.
At one gig, they were spotted by two DJ's, Bob Mitchell and Tom "Big Daddy" Donahue, who worked at KYA, at the time San Francisco's top radio station. The two DJ's had a brand-new record label called Autumn Records (so named because it was formed in the autumn of 1963) which, at that point, had one artist signed to it (Bobby Freeman) and a young record producer named Sylvester Stewart, later known to the world as Sly Stone. Autumn had just had a big hit with their second release, Bobby Freeman's "C'mon And Swim", so Donahue and Mitchell had the cash to snap up the Brummels before anyone else. Looking back, the Brummels should have waited for another company to sign them.
In December, 1964, Autumn released the Beau Brummels' first 45, "Laugh, Laugh", which showed that, even with their first single, the Brummels were a force to be reckoned with. The folk and country influence was highly apparent, and in a rock and roll song in 1964, that just didn't happen. Plus Elliott's lyrics were FAR ahead of anything other songwriters were doing, even Bob Dylan and The Beatles (what other song can you name besides "Laugh, Laugh" that uses the word "smug"?). As a result, The Beau Brummels became the FIRST rock group out of San Francisco to make it big.
Unfortunately, Autumn Records was not prepared for the magnitude of success that the Brummels were having. Despite "Laugh, Laugh" going Top Ten in many large cities (including New York and Los Angeles), Autumn couldn't keep up with the demand for the record, and even though the sales were huge, they could have been larger if Autumn wasn't such a shoe-string operation. As a result, the record only hit #15 nationally, when it should have been a national Top Five hit.
Over the next year, the Brummels had several more mid-charting hits (including their only Top Ten, "Just A Little"), two LPs, and made appearances in the films Village Of The Giants and Wild, Wild Winter (and also made an appearance as "The Beau Brummelstones" on an episode of The Flintstones). But as the year of 1965 ground on, Donahue and Mitchell were losing money (and interest) fast, and in early 1966 Autumn crashed and burned. Donahue and Mitchell sold the Brummels' contract (and the contracts of several other Autumn groups) to Warner Bros. Records.
This should have been a good thing for the group - after all, WB at that point was riding high with Petula Clark, and was becoming a major player in the industry. Unfortunately, the management team of Donahue and Mitchell screwed it all up.
The Brummels had recorded a third LP for Autumn, full of Ron Elliott songs, that was basically finished. But when Autumn folded, and Donahue and Mitchell sold out, they tried to play slick with Mo Ostin at Warners. They sold the Brummels to Warner Bros., but not their recordings, either in the can or released already. So Donahue and Mitchell, after getting x amount of dollars for the Brummels, tried to squeeze more money out of WB by offering to sell them the third, unreleased Autumn LP. Warners told Donahue and Mitchell to shove it up their collective asses, and whisked the group into Mira Sound in New York to record an LP of cover versions of current hits. Called "Beau Brummels '66", the LP completely destroyed the group's credibility, guaranteeing that whatever they put out next would be cruelly ignored.
Also, the group was having internal problems. The line-up wasn't stable. Declan Mulligan either left or was booted from the group just before the second LP was released (he later sued them). Ron Elliott, a diabetic, couldn't handle the rigors of the road, and so was replaced for live dates by Don Irving, who became an official Beau Brummel on the "Beau Brummels '66" LP. But after that disaster was released, both Don Irving and John Petersen left the group (Petersen joining Harpers Bizarre, Irving drafted into the Army). And then there were three - Sal Valentino, Ron Elliott, and Ron Meagher.
With Elliott's diabetes (and move to L. A. to work as a session guitarist) making touring impossible, The Beau Brummels became a studio-only group. Ironically, the decision to stop touring resulted in the group's best work. The trio of Valentino, Elliott and Meagher recorded "Triangle", one of the best LPs of 1967. Released in July, 1967, it combined mild psychedelia with Tolkeinesque fantasy with a little country thrown in. It was an absolute artistic triumph for the group. Unfortunately, the record barely sold, only hitting the #197 spot on the LP charts. But it truly is a beautiful piece of work, right up there with Love's "Forever Changes" in the artistic winners circle of 1967 ("Sgt. Pepper" doesn't even come close.)
A month later, the above 45 was released. Most discographies place "Lower Level" as the B-side of the record, but I think the Brummels meant for this to be the A-side. They were well-known for releasing singles independent of their current LPs (examples: "Good Time Music", "One Too Many Mornings", "Two Days 'Til Tomorrow", "Here We Are Again" - none of these were on their original LPs, and in some cases are still hard to find). Also, while the flip of this single - "Magic Hollow" - is one of the highlights of "Triangle", it's not exactly single material. "Lower Level" fits the bill a little better. Warners didn't help matters by not designating a "plug side" for the single, but ultimately it didn't matter anyway, because almost no one bought it. Other San Francisco groups like the Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead and Sly and The Family Stone (the Brummels' old producer) became the darlings of the music press, while the original San Fran rockers, The Beau Brummels, were left in the dust.
A lotta people missed out. Starting with traffic noises, "Lower Level" plods along with Elliott's softly strummed acoustic. Then Sal's voice comes in, softly but firmly, singing about an elevator ride that's either an allegory for an LSD trip or life - "lower level now is clear / if you want to park it here / though we may seem cramped, we're not / you'll get your ticket stamped on top". Despite some nice guitar flourishes, the record really belongs to Sal Valentino's voice; expressive, soothing, soulful.
"Lower Level" went the way of "Triangle", destined for the cutout racks. Ron Meagher got drafted soon after the LP's release; Valentino and Elliott made one more LP for Warners, "Bradley's Barn" (another masterpiece which takes more of a country-rock stance) then called it quits. Valentino recorded solo for Warner Bros., later joined Stoneground, and hung around the San Francisco and New York rock scenes, highly respected by those in the know. Elliott stayed in L. A. as a session musician and songwriter, and worked with Van Dyke Parks on his legendary "Song Cycle" LP and with the Everly Brothers on their seminal 1968 country-rock LP "Roots". He also recorded a solo LP, "The Candlestickmaker", which is highly sought-after today. In 1975, the group reunited for a one-off LP and tour.
If it weren't for the mass stupidity of the record industry (and the Brummels' management), these guys would have been the superstars they deserved to be, instead of a nice little secret us cool kids know about. Still, I can't help but think Ron Elliott was watching the whole arc of their career with humor, with this line toward the end of "Lower Level":
"1, 2, 3, when we drop / it sure was nice to be on top".
Haven't had a lot of time to post lately - but since it was Otis Clay's 71st birthday on Monday, I just HAD to put this up!
Long before finding national success with Willie Mitchell and Hi Records, Otis made some KILLER 45s for George Leaner's One-derful label out of Chicago, and this was the very first one - a real stomper!
Too bad they didn't have a better sound engineer.....
Apparently there are two pressings of this 45 - one without the sound effects at the beginning, and this one, that has the (rather crude) sound effects.
Otis Clay - Three Is A Crowd (One-derful 4834) - 1965
