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Column: Crate Digger
The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard and Clark
Doug Dillard and Gene Clark
The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard and Clark
(Edsel, 1968)
Doug Dillard and Gene Clark formed a deep musical bond when they played together in the Byrds and later created the first classic country-rock album to come out of the LA cosmic cowboy scene with The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard and Clark.
Dillard grew up playing bluegrass in Salem, MO, alongside his brother Rodney. He was a first-rate guitar picker by his teens and picked up banjo at 15. By the time he was 21, his lightening fast banjo runs—think Earl Scruggs on speed—had made him a local legend. The brothers recorded with a number of local bands before starting their own group, the Dillards, and moving to LA to make it. They rightly thought a bluegrass band would stand out more in Hollywood than Nashville. The night they landed in LA, they played an after-hours set at the Ash Grove, and Elektra A&R man Jim Dickson gave them his card. The next day, he signed them. Their debut, Back Porch Bluegrass, amazed people with its musicality and the unbelievable speed of Dillard’s banjo and Dean Webb’s mandolin. (Many critics assumed Elektra had sped up the tapes to produce the album’s blazing tempos.) The Dillards soon got national exposure playing the Darling Brothers Band on The Andy Griffith Show, but they were too adventurous to keep playing traditional bluegrass. They slowly brought electric instruments and folk-rock attitude into their act. Sometime in 1967, Dillard left the band to play with the Byrds on a European tour. He met Clark, who had recently rejoined the band, and when the Byrds fired Clark again, he teamed up with Dillard and cut The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard and Clark.
Crate Digger: The Monks, Black Monk Time
The Monks
Black Monk Time
(Polydor, 1966)
It was “Monktime” in Germany long before it was “Anarchy in the UK.”
Dressed in black, sporting tonsures instead of mohawks, and forgoing safety pin accoutrements, punk’s unlikely progenitors were the Monks, who released their one and only album, Black Monk Time, on Polydor Records in 1966. While America was watching the Monkees on television, the Monks were developing songs with titles like “I Hate You” and “Shut Up.”
Strangely, the guys behind these songs were not a band of disenfranchised guttersnipes, but a group of former American GIs living in Western Germany who originally played Chuck Berry covers as the Torquays. Growing bored with familiar material, Larry, Gary, Rodger, Eddie, and Dave decided to experiment, dishonorably discharging sunshine and melody. What replaced those elements were a thunderous drumming style and cornerstones of what would be punk: Feedback and distortion.
Todd Rundgren: A Wizard, A True Star
Todd Rundren’s
A Wizard, A True Star
(Bearsville, 1973)
At the time of its release in 1973, Todd Rundgren’s sprawling art-pop masterpiece A Wizard, A True Star ascended no higher than number 86 on the Billboard Pop Albums chart. But in the intervening years, the record has enjoyed a cult-favorite status like few other albums of the classic rock era. Though it garnered no hit singles, the album does boast a handful of Rundgren fan favorites, like “Zen Archer” and “Just One Victory”, songs that have been staples of Todd’s ever-evolving live show for over three decades.
Unlike any other record of its time, A Wizard, A True Star blended the Beatles’ Abbey Road medley mentality with the ambition of Zappa, the unbridled energy of fusion, and of course Rundgren’s own explosive imagination. The result was a sparkling pop record that, though it enjoyed success among Reungren’s small fanbase at the time of its release, would languish in relative obscurity for several years before it began to get the recognition it deserved. A Wizard, A True Star: Was the title alone perhaps an indication of an advanced sense of self-deprecating humor that would forever be lost on the general public and well beyond the comprehension of the masses? Even in an era when Zappa’s oddities and the prog-rock freak-outs of many others were quite common, it seemed both critics and the record-buying public needed time to soak up the subtleties of A Wizard, A True Star before its greatness began to become apparent. Almost as if it took a few years to properly digest. read more
76% Uncertain: Estimated Monkey Time
76% Uncertain
Estimated Monkey Time
(Shmegma/Incas, 1984)
Connecticut: The Nutmeg State, home to Mark Twain, Moby, and the venerable Duchess hamburger franchise. Not exactly the most happenin’ place for hardcore punk. In fact, the only punk band anyone seems to know about from my birth state is the Vatican Commandos, and that’s only because the aforementioned multi-platinum bald techno wizard was at one time counted amongst their ranks (Moby, not Mark Twain). This thin legacy is upsetting to a ball-smashing, semi-anarchist like me. Alas, it is not entirely unexpected; what would a Connecticut punk rally against? Covered bridges? Deer ticks? The Danbury Fair Mall? Even for a mall, that place is pretty fanciful and dreamy (check the ornate, two-story carousel they plopped right in the middle of the food court).
You can imagine, then, the elation I experienced last year when I discovered 76% Uncertain, a group of CT oiks who go all the way back to ’83. 76% released three albums during their original run; I have only heard their 1984 debut, Estimated Monkey Time, but it is most assuredly full of enough piss, vinegar, and classic skull-rattling mosh to appease even the stingiest Mohawk. Leave it to the city of Bridgeport, Connecticut’s statistical leader in crime across the board, to break off such a hot slice of punk. Anger is just in the atmosphere there. I’ll never forget the day my father came home early from his job in the burg that also gave us perpetual nice guy comedian Kevin Nealon. A severely charred corpse had been discovered on the front lawn of my pop’s employer, so they sent everybody home for the day. That’s how they roll over in the BP—they don’t even try to hide their corpses. They just throw ’em on the lawn.
Joe Ely: Honky Tonk Masquerade
Joe Ely
Honky Tonk Masquerade
(MCA, 1978)
Joe Ely was 30 years old when he cut Honky Tonk Masquerade in 1977. It was his second album for MCA and remains one of the highlights of his career. MCA signed Ely in an attempt to cash in on the so-called “outlaw movement,” which wasn’t so much a movement as a marketing scheme. RCA spawned the “movement” with a clever repackaging of back catalog items by Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Jessi Colter, and Tompall Glaser in a neatly designed package labeled Wanted! The Outlaws. Jennings had already been tagged “too rock for country and too country for rock” by several critics, and the outlaw thing was an attempt to cash in on Nashville’s narrow definition of country by marketing Jennings, Nelson, et al to mainstream rock fans. The album was the first country record to go platinum, laying the groundwork for the Garths and Shanias to come, but it also opened the doors for Ely, another performer who was too rock for country and too country for rock.
Ely was, and is, more of a folk/roots rock/Americana artist, but none of those categories existed when he made Honky Tonk Masquerade. The album includes traditional honky tonk numbers (honky tonk being an acceptable Nashville euphemism for country rock), bluesy, late night ballads that sound like they’d been written in the 1940s, boogie woogie, swing, traditional country tunes, and folky singer-songwriter numbers. It was an outside-the-box record before that cliché was coined. Ely’s top notch band included soon to be legendary producer/pedal steel player Lloyd Maines, Flatlander songwriting pal Butch Hancock on harmony vocals, super pickers Chip Young and Jesse Taylor on guitars, and Ponty Bone and Shane Keister on keyboards and accordion. There isn’t a single superfluous note on the tightly constructed set, and Ely still sings many of these songs in his shows today. (This was also the album that brought Ely to the attention of the Clash, who asked him to open their British tour of 1980, documented in Live Shots.)
Joe Jackson: Mike’s Murder OST
Joe Jackson
Mike’s Murder OST
(A&M, 1983)
Joe Jackson: Classical composer, post-punk impresario, sometime swinger, and musician responsible for a handful of little-known soundtracks. The best known are: Tucker: The Man and His Dream (flopped; soundtrack out of print), Queens Logic (flopped; Jackson’s score omitted from official soundtrack), and Mike’s Murder (flopped; soundtrack broke the Top 100; score almost entirely stripped from movie). Mike’s Murder could have been a solid follow-up to Jackson’s 1982 chart-topper Night and Day. Instead, it sunk along with the movie it accompanied.
He was fresh out of Ohio—what did he know about the city?
So intones the throaty narrator on the trailer for the thriller flop of ‘84, Mike’s Murder. Mike is a tennis instructor-cum-coke dealer, goofy, friendly looking, not exactly the CEO of the ROC, no. The lyrics Jackson imagines for his “Mike” are similarly goofy and vulnerable, though Jackson pits his protagonist against New York, where he lived at the time, and the Mike of Mike’s Murder spends his time on the coke-white beaches of LA.
The Vandals: Peace Thru Vandalism
The Vandals
Peace Thru Vandalism
(Epitaph, 1982)
The story of how I came into possession of my original vinyl copy of Peace Thru Vandalism is perhaps the most interesting record acquisition story of my stupid white life. My friend Drew’s aunt met and started dating this guy from Texas on the internet. Texas Guy came to visit her in Florida (where we all lived at the time) and brought, like, nearly everything he owned. It was kind of a fishy deal. Suspicious, Drew’s aunt hired a private investigator, and it was quickly discovered that Mr. Right (Now) was wanted in his home state for, among other things, possession of child pornography. She confronted Master Criminal and he hightailed it outta her house so fast he ended up leaving the majority of his worldly possessions behind. Amongst the crap this gross dude had were some punk records, so Drew, knowing I was into that kind of thing, called me up.
”I think there are some bands here you like. Come take what you want.”
Come take I did, although not without some trepidation. This stuff had been in the hands of a kiddie porn enthusiast. I almost became nauseous just being in the same room as his stuff. Yet how could I ignore Peace Thru Vandalism, a record that by all outward appearances could have been a hilarious fictional creation used to service the plot of some forgotten 1980s sitcom? Oh no, the kids on Charles in Charge are getting into this wild rock band the Vandals, who sing songs like “Pirate’s Life” and “Anarchy Burger (Hold the Government)!” That latter entry was an endless source of amusement long before I managed to even hear the song once (I didn’t have a turntable at the time and wouldn’t get one for at least six months). It really didn’t even matter, though, if the damn tune was genius or hog shit. Anarchy burger? Hold the government? I’m smiling right now as I type this. There simply cannot be a more stereotypical suburban gutter punk rock song title from the decade when Eddie Murphy was still a hit.
“Anarchy Burger” did not disappoint when it finally assaulted my ears. The raucous two-minute explosion is Peace Thru Vandalism’s true diamond, a wild tribal punk pounding that boasts deliciously inept riffing and comically offensive lyrics delivered in a balls-to-the-wall caterwaul by stocky singer Steve Jensen (the original Stevo). Was SoCal punk ever more cringe-inducing than the opening lines of this song?
“Anarchy, kill a cat! / Shoot James Brady in the back! / Raise an army of rabid rats! / Beat your neighbor with a bat!”
That still stings, and I was only two years old when Reagan was shot.
Years later, “Anarchy Burger” would make an appearance in the most unlikely of places —the 2002 Vin Diesel film xXx. Amidst all the gratuitous explosions, corny one-liners, and Dario Argento’s hot-ass daughter was a scene in which Mr. Diesel and a swarthy piece of Euro Trash trade off lines from the most beloved song in the Vandals’ pre-Dave Quackenbush catalog. Just when you think something’s sacred, the guy from The Chronicles of Riddick comes along and fucks everything up.
But lo, there are five other trashy delights on this Vandals EP, all nearly as much fun as that final shit-kicker. “Wanna Be Manor” utilizes a dark chord progression and a slow increase in tempo to tell a scary tale of not-entirely-voluntary same sexcapades. “Urban Struggle” playfully imitates Morricone’s famous overture from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly before dealing with Stevo’s punk vs. cowboy identity crisis. “Pirate’s Life” unravels a memorable drug-heavy trip to Disneyland in which the line between reality and Pirates of the Caribbean becomes dangerously blurred (dig that sea shanty breakdown!). I suppose I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention “The Legend of Pat Brown”, a musical tribute to a notoriously drunken friend of the Vandals. That’s one of the few songs from this record that the Vandals still perform today in the version of the band that features original Vandals drummer/recreational bullfighter/former entertainment lawyer Joe Escalante on bass, percussive all-star Josh Freese on the skins, Oingo Boingo graduate Warren Fitzgerald on guitar, and the aforementioned Quackenbush on vocals.
I know what you’re thinking. Gee, a punk band that kept going with only one original member? I’m sure no one had a problem with that! To quote Kevin Spacey as heinous Superman foe Lex Luthor, WRON-GUH! According to founding Vandal axe man Jan Nils Ackermann and the late Jensen (who passed away in 2005), lil’ Joe Escalante falsely credited all the early Vandals tunes to himself circa 1990 and used his legal prowess throughout the decade to keep his one-time dudemeisters from getting any piece of the financial pie. Escalante’s side of the story is that his former band mates agreed to give up their stake in the band so they could play a reunion show as some kind of alternate universe Vandals featuring more than one original member. Not surprisingly, legal mud began flying all over the place; an undisclosed settlement eventually allowed Escalante to retain control of the Vandals catalog while songwriting credits reverted back to the whole group. Moral of this story: There is no such thing as punk brotherhood.
Thankfully, Peace Thru Vandalism lives on in the era of Fake Shemp Vandals Endorsed By Thick-Tongued Action Stars. This record—which today can most easily be found packaged with the band’s sophomore outing When in Rome Do as the Vandals—exists as a relic from a simpler time, a time when none of the Vandals could ever imagine being popular enough to play for US troops overseas (which they did) or the influence of their miniscule label Epitaph Records growing large enough to convince acid-throated troubadour Tom Waits to sign up for distribution (also true). There were no corporate sponsorship deals, precious Warped Tour slots, royalty checks, or Vin Diesel action movies to be lost back in those wild frontier days of 1982. With nothing at stake, the Vandals could be as crude and crazy and reckless as possible; no cow was too sacred (as evidenced by their vile, disgusting cover of Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel”). Thus, Peace Thru Vandalism slaughtered as many heifers as it saw, serving up tasty/tasteless Anarchy Burgers to anyone hungry/crazy enough to join the party.
Yet as lowbrow as the original Vandals could be, there’s no arguing with their basic logic. To wit, the very line sold to xXx for some ungodly amount of money the boys like to brag about in concert these days:
“America stands for freedom, but if you think you’re free / Try walking into a deli and urinating on the cheese.”
I have, on numerous occasions, and trust me, none of the arresting officers let me stand behind my First Amendment rights. I can also assure you that the current incarnation of the Vandals hasn’t come close to authoring anything that bitingly honest or sharp since they first slipped on their checkered Vans in the mid-to-late ’80s and recruited a teenage drum whiz from Disneyland to be their drum god.
Listen: “Anarchy Burger” [at youtube.com]
Henry Mancini: The Music from Peter Gunn
Henry Mancini
The Music from Peter Gunn
(RCA, 1959)
It was 51 years ago when Mr. Mancini taught the band to play, and what they played revolutionized television music, at least for a few years. Peter Gunn was the first TV show to make music, real music, an integral part of the show. The program’s noir look, sculpted by producer Blake Edwards, was perfect for the late ’50s, when people were finally fighting off the Cold War jitters and looking for alternatives to the deadening conformity that was the hallmark of the decade. The cool jazz and unflappable James Bond-like charm of PI Peter Gunn, masterfully underplayed by Craig Stevens, gave us a new hero. Gunn was a playboy crime solver with a hip girlfriend and a cooler hangout, the smoke-filled jazz den Mother’s, where the house band included drummer Shelly Manne, sax man Plas Johnson, trumpeters Uan Rasey, Conrad Gozzo, Frank Beach, and Pete Candoli, British vibes player Victor Feldman, bass man Rolly Bundock, pianist John Williams, who went on to compose the music for Star Wars and other blockbusters, and guitarists Barney Kessel and Bob Bain.
In truth, Mancini didn’t teach the band to play, but he did hire West Coast musicians who were in the process of inventing the California cool jazz sound and gave them a bit of prime time exposure. Although jazz purists still carp about the music’s pop and rock foundation, Mancini left his players some blowing room, and exposed mainstream America to some groovy tunes.
Spirit: Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus
Spirit
Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus
(Epic, 1970)
When people think of real classic rock albums, the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s and Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon are two that immediately spring to mind. For me, LA-based Spirit’s wonderful eclectic psychedelic masterpiece Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus fits neatly between the two. It’s kind of a distant cousin to those drastically different albums, in that it has the production and arrangement qualities of the aforementioned Beatles album and the daring instrumentals and precision of the Floyd set. Also, it was released right in the middle (three years after the former and three years before the latter). It was the fourth and last album by the original five-piece band (not counting a mediocre ’80s reunion effort). Amazingly, it has never been out of print since its original November 1970 release. It stayed available in its vinyl edition until the advent of CDs in the early ’80s, then was subsequently released as a CD, an expanded CD edition, a Mobile Fidelity Sound Lab audiophile CD edition, and it has been released again as a 180-gram vinyl disc from those bastions of quality at Sundazed, which made for a good excuse for me to revisit one of my favorite albums of all time. It’s even been the subject of a complete and quite exhilarating tribute/reinterpretation album by Seattle-based band 13 Dreams in 2006.
Sardonicus is an enigma, a prime example of quality winning out in the long run. The sales of the album (which went gold in 1976) are simply based on its quality and propelled by word-of-mouth over time, as opposed to any publicity blitz or hype. Most of its accolades seem to come from fellow musicians. On its release, it achieved the poorest chart position of any of their albums, peaking at 63, but has gone on to be the band’s biggest selling album by far and has remained a major cult album.
Crate Digger: Elias Hulk, Unchained
by: Howard Wyman
Unchained
(Youngblood, 1970)
It was a distinctly transitional moment; that magical pivot between eras where the clouds began to darken, flowers folded back into the wormy soil, and the googly-eyed daydream of the ‘60s sloughed its Technicolor hide to expose the tattered, mystic psych-prog putrefaction of the ‘70s. Elias Hulk formed the old fashioned way in 1969, through ads posted in a guitar shop and in Melody Maker magazine. They gigged generally around the southwest of England as the UK blues-rock wave was at high tide, cresting and hammering down upon the ore that would flatten into nascent heavy metal. Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” single came out that year, the same year a young Black Sabbath signed its first record deal, and in the penumbra of these deities-to-be, bands like Leaf Hound, Black Widow, the Killing Floor, and Elias Hulk filled opening slots and flirted with headliner status in smaller venues. The Bournemouth five-piece Hulkster (not their real nickname), however, faded to an exceptional depth of obscurity, given that they broke up only two years later, and produced but a solitary hard rock nugget of an LP, now a highly prized rarity among collectors: Unchained, originally issued by Youngblood Records in 1970.
There was no follow-up to Unchained, primarily because it just didn’t sell enough to warrant one, which I’d have to chalk up as some kind of failure on Youngblood’s part, because truly, it should have. It’s a little derivative, sure, but it also fully rocks, and to call a thing “derivative” is also sometimes a way of letting history be written by the winners. Unchained, as an artifact, is representative of the dominant underground styles of its day, while also sprawling outwards to palpitate elements of bygone jazz and embryonic prog through its hard blues-rockin’ heart. It fully rocks, and if nothing else, at the very least, it can be agreed that Unchained, as a debut LP, shows a hell of a lot of promise.
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by: Howard Wyman
published: March 16, 2010
in column: Crate Digger
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