120. GENE CLARK – WHITE LIGHT (1971)

The Perfect Collection was crammed full of records by The Byrds. Hardly surprising – if ever there was a total Byrds nut it was the book’s author, Tom Hibbert. Their first five studio albums all featured in its pages and Hibbert singled out Fifth Dimension as possibly his favourite album of all time. He even found room in the ‘U.S. Seventies’ section of the book for Gene Clark’s ’74 solo masterpiece No Other, which at the time (1982) had been virtually forgotten by everyone else.

Discovering Clark’s post-Byrds solo output proved almost as thrilling as listening to those Byrds records themselves for the first time, and, of the original band members, his own solo work is by far the most accomplished. For those who had been paying attention, Clark had already proven that he wasn’t simply the ‘guy with the tambourine’ (see ‘I Knew I’d Want You’, ‘I’ll Feel A Whole Lot Better’, ‘If You’re Gone’, ‘Set You Free This Time’ for starters) and for many, myself included, he remains the greatest Byrd of all.

After his initial departure from The Byrds in 1966, he hadn’t wasted any time in recording his debut album, Gene Clark with The Godsin Brothers, later repackaged as Echoes. It was a strong album, the songwriting mature and confident, although one clearly indebted to the sound of The Byrds, a comparison particularly difficult to ignore given that it hit the record stores in the same week as Younger Than Yesterday in February ‘67. As if resigned to the idea that the umbilical cord could not be entirely severed, Clark even rejoined the band, albeit very briefly, in late ’67. But the marriage wasn’t to last.
He found a truly authentic voice of his own on his brilliant forays into roots music with Doug Dillard, releasing two groundbreaking albums, The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark and Through The Morning, Through The Night. Perhaps as much as any other album of the time, the former of those encapsulated the shift in American popular music away from psychedelic excess towards a ‘back to the country’ retreat (from Vietnam; from political assassinations; from inner city breakdown; from LSD overkill), in the process laying the foundations for the more laid back country rock of the early ‘70s.
At the dawn of the new decade Clark kept himself busy, contributing to albums by The Flying Burrito Bros, and also recording a few songs of his own, including the fabulous ‘She’s The Kind Of Girl’, originally intended as a single for A&M, but which, owing to record company problems, remained unreleased until Roadmaster surfaced in ’73.
Relocating to Albion California, Clark was sustaining himself on Byrds’ royalties (the Dillard & Clark albums didn’t sell), then after getting married (to Charlie Lynn McCummings), and fathering two children, he began work on White Light. It too would disappear almost without trace, but its reputation has steadily grown in stature since Clark’s tragically premature passing in 1991.
‘The Virgin’, upon first listen a solid if unspectacular beginning, reveals not only the great warmth of Clark’s homespun rootsy sound, but also the new depth to his lyricism. Dylan had long been the template for Clark’s wordsmithery, but by ‘71 the apprentice had arguably overtaken his master, although the influence was still too transparent for some: “From her dancing love and young soul/And the gypsies in her dream/To the pulse of stark acceptance/When the winds began to freeze/With no curfews left to hold her/And no walls to shield her pain/Finding out that facts were older/And that life forms are insane.”
The playing throughout the album is unfussy and economical, but everywhere the melodies niggle and ache, the spaces between those miraculous little chord changes growing ever more taut, nowhere more so than on ‘With Tomorrow’. Immediately afterwards the title track provides the album’s only noticeable change in tempo. Encompassed all around by delicate songs of rugged beauty, its buoyant country quickstep garners visions of cotton pickers holding on to their hats on the roof of a steam train hurtling to freedom across the prairie.
‘Because Of You’ boasts a denser arrangement, but retains that poignant mournful timbre, while the brooding ‘One In A Hundred’ re-recorded from the earlier A&M session in 1970, has since become one of his most celebrated songs. It’s barely whispered, the tone fragile, and he sounds like he needs those backing vocals to get him over the line.
‘For A Spanish Guitar’ on the other hand, may possess the most beautiful guitar line of his career, augmented by the most heartbreaking harmonica solo this side of ‘You’re A Big Girl Now’ and some fairly impenetrable philosophical discourse which reads once more like Dylan’s great poetry of yesteryear: “And the laughter of children employed/By the fantasies not yet destroyed/By the dogmas of those they avoid/Knowing not what they are/And the right and the wrong and insane/And the answers they cannot explain/Pulsate from my soul through my brain/In a spanish guitar.” Dylan by then however, was churning out the worst music of his career, so Clark had to dig a little deeper for the obligatory cover version (‘Tears Of Rage’) which he carries off in fine style.
‘Where My Love Lies Asleep’ nicks the bottleneck guitar line from The Stones’ ‘No Expectations’ (played beautifully by Jesse Ed Davis, who also produced the album), but is nonetheless entirely gorgeous for all that, and the finale (‘1975’) pre-empts the spiralling chord sequence of Neil Young’s ‘Lookout Joe’, recorded two years later in ’73, and a key track on his classic Tonight’s The Night Set from ’75.
With White Light, Clark was halfway up the mountain. At the summit was the gilded karmic conquest of No Other, but in these sparse and humble love songs he created one other album you certainly ought to have in your collection. (JJ)
Advertisements

119. NICO – THE MARBLE INDEX (1969)

I’d forgotten all about The Marble Index, such a crushingly pessimistic listen, that each and every remnant of its shimmering beauty seemed to have been catheterised by some dark unbearable grief. But recently I found my way back to it alongside it’s shining sister Desertshore, through an obsession with the last few Left Outsides albums, whose forest-spirit avant-folk seemed to rekindle some latent inclination towards the vaguely morbid. Or perhaps that was simply the onset of winter.

Nico had already recorded her first solo album, an exquisite assemblage of chamber folk, Chelsea Girl – by the time she reunited with former VU companion John Cale. I know of at least two people who believe that album to be the greatest record ever made, period – and I must say I like it a lot myself – but Nico detested it, seething with frustration when she first heard its neutered production. Even so, few could have predicted what would emerge from the sessions at the recording studio on Cienega Boulevard in LA in September ‘68. After all, Christa Päffgen had a face made for superstardom – icy blonde, geometric cheekbones – but there had been signs on Chelsea Girl (in particular on ‘It Was A Pleasure Then’ where accompaniment was provided not by Jackson Browne, but by the Velvets’ core, so it came out howling and droning like a wrung out ‘Black Angels Death Song’) that she was striving to be taken seriously as an artist too.

To that end, she rejected her own beauty, dyed her hair dark red, wrapped herself in a shroud of death and like Scott Walker – a contemporary also at pains to prove he was more than simply a pretty face – reinvented herself as existential goth queen. I’ve always suspected an additional element of contrariness in this transformation which happened just as she moved from NYC to sunny California, but who knows? For certain the timing must have made the contrast in her appearance seem even sharper.

The album’s desperate bleakness resulted from a confluence of factors. Cale cultivated in its timbre a sound reflecting his interest in modern European classical music and Nico had been feeding off the mad ramblings of Jim Morrison who encouraged her to explore her inherently darker sensibilities, and gorge upon the opium-fuelled poetry of Coleridge. She had also acquired a harmonium and it’s droning wheeze perfectly captures the album’s dark spirit.

According to some accounts, Nico and Cale reputedly spent the whole time feuding whilst strung out on smack. All too much for in-house producer Frazier Mohawk, who could barely bring himself to put the finishing touches to the album, first of all consigning four of its bleakest compositions to the dustbin of history and then handing over the reins to Cale who became defacto producer. Cale claimed Nico’s harmonium was out of tune with everything but that didn’t matter, and in some ways it was entirely fitting. When after being left alone for two days, he played back his mix of the album to her, Nico reputedly wept with joy.

The album’s title is taken from a line in Wordsworth’s Prelude, which also lends its title to the short but incredibly beautiful opening instrumental. After that brief moment of transcendence darkness descends, beginning with ‘Lawns Of Dawns’ whose sonic refractions – like mirrors on the ocean, now glistening on the surface, now submerged beneath – parallel its author’s psychological disintegration. “Can you follow me?/Can you follow my distresses/My caresses, fiery guesses?/Swim and sink into/Early morning mercies”

There are dissonant chamber pieces (‘No-one Is There’) and ‘Ari’s Song’ (named after her son) which promises some relief but replete with droning pump organ entangled in some strange sonic barbed wire, was reckoned by Rolling Stone to be “the least comforting lullaby ever recorded”

On ‘Facing The Wind’, whose bizarre martial piano comes across like a discarded instrumental from Tom Waits’ Rain Dogs, Nico’s voice is electronically distorted giving it an even eerier more expressionistic quality: “It’s holding me against my will/And doesn’t leave me still/Amazons are riding out/To find a meaning for the name, my name.”

Cale’s fingerprints are everywhere in evidence but nowhere more so than on ‘Frozen Warnings’ whose bubbling ‘Baba O’Riley’ type pulse is underwritten by the insistent and unfluctuating drone of his viola.

And as far as apocalyptic finales go, the sinister spiralling ‘Evening Of Light’ takes some beating. “In the morning of my winter/When my eyes are still asleep/A dragonfly laying in a coat of snow/I’ll send to kiss your heart for me/Midnight winds are landing at the end of time/The children are jumping in the evening of light/A thousand sins are heavy in the evening of light.” It is ‘Tubular Bells’ turned inside out by Beelzebub, an agonising descent – as the last rays of light are slowly extinguished by the clattering noise and chaos of the welcome party for Hades.

The album clocks in at a mere half hour. Not everything about The Marble Index is black, but almost everything is. Its doomed unremitting litanies suggest catastrophe but it possesses an undeniable ‘slash your wrists’ nocturnal beauty and marks the moment Nico’s career as an artist truly began. (JJ)

118. CRAIG DAVIES – LIKE NARCISSUS (1988) Guest Contributor: Edgar Breau (Simply Saucer)

Edgar Breau is frontman of Canadian psych-punk legends Simply Saucer, still going strong after 40 years. The band’s classic Cyborgs Revisited featured in TNPC last year. We invited Edgar to write about one of his own favourite underrated albums. As lost gems go, this takes some beating…

I found this beguiling LP by Manchester singer songwriter Craig Davies on an afternoon foray through the junk store aisles of Bibles for Mission thrift store on Upper Wellington St. on Hamilton Ontario’s ‘mountain’, as we call it, really it’s an escarpment. There lying next to the usual Mantovani, Percy Faith, James Last. polka assortments, scratchy beer stained country albums and obscure hillbilly gospel local legends, was an LP on Rough Trade by someone I had never heard of but which I picked up, curious . The record was entitled Like Narcissus, the cover a blurred orangey blotchy photo of Craig. My copy was a ‘Special Low Price LP Limited Edition’, used of course, and at 49 cents, a real bargain as I would soon discover. The insert told me that the great Danny Thompson, founding member of Pentangle played stand up bass on it. Recorded in 1988, the songs are timeless classics sung in a strange, oddly adaptable quivering voice at times reminiscent of Marc Bolan, Tom Waits, Bowie perhaps but finally in the last analysis totally Craig Davies and strikingly original.

There’s a bluesy, New Orleans folk jazz beat poety approach on all the material. It’s a rainy day record, darkly comic at times, romantic. Think the Buckleys, a bit Scott Faganish, I dunno you decide. A find! Worth the trip to a most unlikely place to find a cult artist of this stature. I’m ordering his second 1990’s offering, Groovin’ on a Shaft Cycle. Can’t wait!!

Edgar Breau (November 2017)

117. PAUL BUTTERFIELD BLUES BAND – EAST-WEST (1966) Guest Contributor: Rick Brown (The Misunderstood)

TNPC is delighted to invite frontman of legendary ’60s psych outfit The Misunderstood, to tell us about one of his favourite ‘lost gems’.

During the mid 1960s the electric guitar as a lead instrument came of age in the UK. It seems to initially have been brought to the fore by his holiness Eric Clapton, but carried to perfection by his successor Jeff Beck.

Beck combined sustain, fuzz and treble with style, progressing with each song until finally, in ‘Mister You’re A Better Man than I’, he gave birth to the phenomenon of the lead guitar solo being the stand out part of the song. Subsequently people would anticipate the next Yardbirds release just to hear the guitar solo.

But back in the USA, the guitar players were nothing of the sort. If British lead guitarists could have been compared to “Mods on acid,” then the USA versions were more like “hillbillies on glue”. This was the thinking at the time The Misunderstood went to UK in 1966.

In London we were excited about the lead guitarists, from late Mick Wayne (Junior’s Eyes) up to Beck – the master himself. In UK, lead guitar was supreme; and we were in awe of the British “metallic” sound of The Creation and The Who, etc., etc.. So much power and ‘edge’. Even Hendrix had to tap into that British sound in order to make it.

But from the Yank ranks we had no one to brag about, except Mike Bloomfiefd. It seemed like Bloomfield was the only American lead guitarist who was respected in the UK at the time East-West came out.

East-West was the 2nd album by Paul Butterfield Blues Band – and featured the long instrumental of the same name. The title track takes the listener around the world musically, and Bloomfield is fantastic. At some points the drone becomes so intense it can give one goosebumps.

Other outstanding tracks on the album, including ‘Walkin’ Blues’ are all powerful electric guitar and harp driven blues rockers – better heard than explained. The entire album is outstanding. Nevertheless East-West has fallen into some obscurity now, and I have been surprised by the number of people who have never heard it. Of course the harmonica playing of Paul Butterfield is a whole other subject.

This album is worth a listen by any one who loves intense lead guitar and harmonica. East-West never gets outdated.

Rick Brown (The Misunderstood, Nov 24, 2017)

116. THE MISUNDERSTOOD- BEFORE THE DREAM FADED (1982*)

When it comes to the Champions League Cup Final of pub debates – that of course being which are the greatest albums ever made – there inevitably arises the odd point of contention. For instance, there are those records which proffer such a sharp contrast in styles between their two sides so as to make consensus virtually impossible. These albums may be a major triumph (Low, Bringing It All Back Home, Neu ’75), a minor triumph (Rust Never Sleeps), or perhaps something less than a triumph (Abbey Road). Then there are those double albums (The Beatles, Tago Mago) and triple albums (Sandinista!, All Things Must Pass) which some will argue would have been better as a single volume, and others (Tales From Topographic Oceans, The Wall) which others reckon ought not to exist at all. Next there are those albums let down by at least one clunker (Surfs Up, Younger Than Yesterday, dare I be as bold to suggest Revolver?) But might it be a legitimate choice to include a record based on the merits of only one of its two sides? I certainly think so. Take for example Da Capo by Love, justly lauded in the original book The Perfect Collection. A magnificent first side certainly, but who ever really listens to ‘Revelation’? Then there’s the whole issue around the validity of including compilation albums. Often a hung jury is declared on that one.
Given the latter two considerations, it may appear like utter folly to make allowance for one whole side of what is ostensibly a Best Of compilation, for that album would for many, fail the test on both counts. And yet it would be equally foolish to exclude Before The Dream Faded by The Misunderstood on the basis of the otherwise quite reasonable gripe that it contains only six tracks worthy of note. For what if those six tracks authentically rank among the greatest psychedelic tracks ever recorded?

The Misunderstood were formed in Riverside California in 1963, one of the many thousands of garage bands to spring up across the States following the Brit Invasion. And like so many other bands of the time, their sound was a coalescence of bruising R&B, Bo Diddley shuffles and high-powered beat music. Nothing particularly new there, but by ’65 the embryonic fourpiece had gained a reputation as a fearsome live act. Not only that, but they also staked a claim to be one of the first bands to pioneer the live psychedelic light show. John Peel, then working as a DJ at KMEN in California, immediately recognised their potential, rating their performance at Pandora’s Box in Hollywood in early ’66 as one of the ten best live performances he ever witnessed in his life. At Peel’s behest the band were persuaded to move to London, in retrospect a somewhat strange move, considering the explosion of acid rock and psychedelia taking place back home in California. By then however, they had undergone some personnel changes – guitarists Greg Treadwell and George Phelps were replaced by Tony Hill and Glenn Ross Campbell respectively – leading to a vital and inspirational alteration of their sonic landscape. Now, with Campbell’s steel guitar at the centre, no-one else sounded remotely like them. The future looked promising, but after recording only seven tracks in London, vocalist Rick Brown was forced to return to The States to face the draft board. Eventually Fontana picked up the band, releasing two 45s before they disbanded. Peel famously quipped that: “By God, they were a great band! If they hadn’t been broken up by the US Government when they tried to draft Rick … they would have ruled the world.” Of that claim, one can only speculate. The four sides of those 45s along with two other tracks recorded at the time, make up the first side of Before The Dream Faded. And well, this is really about as good as it gets…

On ‘Children Of The Sun’ which initially appeared as one side of the second 45 from the sessions, Steve Whiting’s turbo charged bass struggles to wrap itself around Tony Hill’s scything feedback-drenched guitar. This is ‘Shapes Of Things’ on a seriously heavy dose of steroids and Whiting’s three-dimensional throb takes on a life of it’s own, predating John Cale’s jaw dropping outro on ‘White Light/ White Heat’ by over twelve months. Meanwhile, Rick Brown’s primitive howl seems at first to speed up then to slow down – is it poor mastering, or is it designed to mess with your head? – as he emphatically proclaims his acid-fried manifesto: “Let go lovely children/Close your eyes and drift away/When you wake again tomorrow/You’ll be born again to stay/Thus the word of love has spoken/You’ve joined the children of the sun.”


As explosive as ‘Children Of The Sun’ is, ‘My Mind’ is even more innovative, beginning with some Eastern raga-esque harmonics before Whiting’s pummelling sliding bass distortions take over. Brown is on top form now: “If there is anyone in my mind/Would they please take themselves away/Cause all time to stop/Cause all light to fade” …then a stuttering frenetic mess of thoughts and sound:..”There is no sense in this dimension/If I could leave there’d be no question/Of what I’d find/Peace of mind yeah…” and then…suddenly…the strangest intrusion you will ever hear in the middle of a madcap psychedelic wigout – Campbell’s steel guitar. Playing a different tune. On its own. It belongs as much here as a theremin solo would in the middle of ‘Pretty Vacant’ – at first that sense of utter incongruousness is unavoidable but slowly gives way to the realisation that this is insanely beautiful, utterly inspirational.

Next up and you expect they might have dug out their old workclothes to tackle Bo’s ‘Who Do You Love’. Not so. First of all the intro segues so seamlessly from the tail of ‘My Mind’ as to render the junction indistinguishable, before it’s zig zagging chords slowly begin to relent and Diddley’s standard is savagely ripped apart like a rag doll. And then Campbell repeats his feat, although this time, it seems less a bizarre musical interlude, than one of the most beautiful and haunting instrumental sections in all of popular music. If, on acid, Brian Wilson really did see God, then Campbell must have ingested a double dose of the same compound, for this brief but bewitching passage is genuinely paradisaical.

The macabre lyrical content of ‘I Unseen’ (“I’m only seven although I died/In Hiroshima long ago/I’m seven now as I was then/For I am dead, yes I am dead/My hair was scorched by swirling flame/My eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blind/Death came and turned my bones to dust/And that was scattered by the wind”) is adapted from a work by Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet (The Byrds’ did likewise on ‘I Come And Stand At Every Door’) and might possibly even outweigh its sonic potency, while the intensity and immediacy of its galloping rhythm illustrates the crucial advantage of a perfectly fluid album sequence. The first chords of this Yardbirds raveup turned inside out, are merely a bugle blast short of the charge of the Light Brigade, and provide the perfect counterpoint to the twisted elongated coda of ‘Who Do You Love’. Brown’s stonking harmonica solo is just the icing on the cake.

By the time ‘Find A Hidden Door’s demented staccato rhythms begin to melt your mind, Campbell’s steel guitar is now orchestrating proceedings like some all-seeing eye. By now the tempo is relentless, and one’s mind begins to crave momentary respite from the onslaught…

Cue ‘I Can Take You To The Sun’, the first 45 to appear on Fontana. In 1968, Peel famously called it “the best popular record that has ever been recorded”, and he wasn’t far off the mark. It plays with light and shade, power and fragility, as skilfully as The Velvets and Syd did at the same time. Building to a pulsating crescendo, suddenly the valves are loosened, and Hill demonstrates his versatility with a beautiful acoustic passage, the balalaika-style picking just unnerving enough to leave you suitably disoriented before the needle locks into the run out groove.

The second side here – a collection of recordings, most of which date from a year earlier, and which feature the original lineup, are by no means bad, but they do not compare with the sheer power, verve and originality of the later tracks, and seem to exist as if merely to emphasise the incredible metamorphosis in the band’s sound. Suffice to say, the songs on the first side more than make up for it. The band’s promise may have been tragically unfulfilled, but the dreams they have woven will never fade. (JJ)

115. BABY’S GOT A GUN – ONLY ONES (1980)

BABY’S GOT A GUN – ONLY ONES (1980)


“Their third. Their best.” The advert’s assertion was blunt, a brusque collision of commercial and artistic imperatives, but few agreed, then or now.
Possibly including me. Of the Only Ones’ three albums, the middle, 1979’s Even Serpents Shine, is often pushed forward as their masterpiece but there are three places on a podium. Serpents… lunges over the line powered by a higher consistency than its siblings, while the first, eponymous album, is noticeably more uneven but will always be distinguished by having by far the best known Only Ones song, Another Girl, Another Planet, rightly famed for its cardiovascular propulsion, John Perry’s skyscraper-scaling solo and its impeccable timing in unravelling itself in exactly three minutes.
As it wasn’t a bona fide hit, apart from reaching 17 in the 1978 Festive 50, it was an albatross they were able to wear comparatively lightly in their lifetime.The dead hand of mythology and the deadweight of telecoms advertising would increase the pressure years later but, more than probably any other supposed one-song band, the Only Ones were nothing of the sort.
Perfect as it is, Another Girl… was just one arrow in a quiver packed with swift, lethal bolts – Lovers Of Today, City Of Fun, The Beast (notwithstanding Motley Crue later -surely unwittingly – duplicating its riff on their horrible, even by their standards, Girls Girls Girls) Flaming Torch, Miles From Nowhere – and a sizeable proportion of Baby’s Got A Gun, which here gets the leg-up that posterity has too often denied it.
It’s a simplistic sketch to say the least but if there was ever a British answer to Television, it was the Only Ones. Skilled musicians with too many miles on the clock to be strictly punk (as well as Perrett’s prehistory with England’s Glory, bassist Alan Mair was a mid-60s veteran of Glasgow band Beatstalkers, whose hometown appearances sparked riots  before they’d so much as issued a record and were the subject of at least three front page splashes in the city’s Evening Times in 1965-6, while late drummer Mike Kellie had seen quite different service to the Only Ones in Spooky Tooth) but more than enough internal combustion to be as near as dang, an Impressionist painter’s exquisite craft and dissolute demeanour, singers pouring their hearts out in steady trickles – the pieces mirrored each other like the coasts of Africa and South America.
In Peter Perrett, the Only Ones had a frontman whose weary disposition belied a heart that sparked and crackled like all the world’s cities on New Year’s Eve. Second only to Syd Barrett in unequivocal Englishness, his speciality was to make the most straightforward and heartfelt romantic declarations, offset by further pronouncements that were either self-lacerating or simply peculiar, like these masterly and flawlessly delivered lines from Lovers Of Today: “If we ever  touched, it would disturb the calm/Physical exertion often causes mental harm/I don’t have the energy/You could say things get pretty tranquil with me/Maybe you can’t see that I love you, baby/Much more than me.” Ardour and desire, tempered by a fragility possibly linked to Perrett’s long-running problems (more than enough said about that elsewhere, nothing to add here; some of his his many face-value love songs  could well also be metaphors, though he recently maintained they weren’t all about one thing) but also the  product of an emotional candour which is there in plain view anyway.
It’s there on  Baby’s Got A Gun’s opener, The  Happy Pilgrim, where Perrett’s Canterbury Tale, initially, couldn’t be clearer, or more tender: “I’m gonna give it to you, all the love that’s in my heart/I’m gonna give it to you/We’ll never part, you and me.” But then: “Take me into your heart/Protect me from myself…Keep me safe from evil…I’ve had enough of tragic people.” Suddenly, the love song of promises has turned into a prayer of pleas but it’s such an abrupt volte-face that you end up wondering if there’s a proto-Morrissey wink in Perrett’s eye. It’s likely the Bard of Stretford was listening; it’s almost certain that Johnny Marr was too, with this song’s subtle yet vigorous trajectory finding echoes in him a few years later; it also has more than a few contemporary ripples towards the Jam.
The same rock’n’ romanticism is in Reunion, where Perry’s cocky riff builds a seemingly unlikely bridge between the south bank of Sweet Home Alabama and the north bank of Dum Dum Boys. It sounds celebratory but Perrett’s heart is mourning: “I had so much love inside me/I don’t know where that feeling’s gone/I’m mortified by this recurring dream.” The reunion seems to be either a distant memory or a remote possibility, even as his sister-in-law, Koulla Kakoulli, chimes in on what are not so much harmonies as shadows.
Trouble In The World charges in on a steed of a bassline from Mair as the band  fashion an edifice from a couple of rock’s sturdiest pillars, with Perrett and Perry pulling blades like Richards and Jones on the Stones’ version of I Wanna Be Your Man and Perrett unpacking a prime Dylan delivery. It starts as one of his gloomiest lyrics: The ‘Trouble’ is the final inevitable and, as Nick Drake did on Pink Moon, he reminds the biggest and the toughest that they won’t wriggle free either: “If you do happen to be stronger/It only means you’re gonna take longer to go under.” Later, though, he seems to find at least some hope, pleading: “Don’t be scared to have children” and making it the only song I’ve ever come across to include the word “preordained.” Please let us know if you’re aware of any others.
The two shortest songs on Baby’s Got A Gun are unlike anything else they ever did. Castle Built On Sand opens, genuinely unsettlingly, with the cry of a baby but before you can run to fetch the bottle, it’s gently pushed aside by a Barret-esque (him again) melody, complete with carnival organ and incongruously forceful drums from Kellie. It effortlessly sidesteps the now-cliched sinister nursery rhyme schtick and, in well under two minutes, finds room for plenty of apocalyptic imagery of “masked men on horses” at Traitors’ Gate and “jackals fighting for the carcass”; meanwhile, not only is the disappearance of the protagonist in the first and repeated last verse acknowledged as a mystery but we’re given no indication of why he should be “overcome with guilt.”
Fools is  a duet between Perrett and  Pauline Murray, who had recently split Penetration and was putting together her one brilliant album with the Invisible Girls (aka, among others, Martin Hannett, John Maher and Vini Reilly). The single from the album and a  rare cover – of a song by country singer Johnny Duncan – it could have been only a Radio 2 whim away from becoming a hit, though you would never have had the people who previously sang Language Problem and Firing Squad gazing gooily at each other as they harmonised. Even so, it foregoes the saccharine that blights country at its worst and tells of a love that seems at best ill-advised, at worst illicit or mutually destructive.

 https://youtu.be/SnlavQAnzI8

Then there are the two longest songs, which occupy opposite extremes. While Me And My Shadow is the album’s one real misfire, its Diddley skeleton poking too visibly through the flesh of a somewhat ungainly, overlong song, the Big Sleep is its centrepiece. The Chandler-derived title again hints at mortality but it’s something Perrett has been rescued from. For what, though? He insists it’s love but “you taught me how to think cheap…there’s no such thing as glory…I don’t have the strength to break an empty shell.” It’s no good for him but it’s what he wants and the turmoil boils over in a melody that rolls endlessly like the boulder of Sisyphus, up one hill trod earlier on Roxy Music’s In Every Dream Home A Heartache and down another trod later on REM’s Camera.
“They’ve made this album before, though not necessarily in this order,” said David Hepworth – paraphrasing Eric Morecambe – in his Smash Hits review of Baby’s Got A Gun. This lukewarmth would take hold as the shadow of Another Girl’… grew ever longer in the public imagination and the album would dwell – if it dwelt anywhere – in the answer to the pub quiz question about albums which don’t feature their title track (other residents: Waiting For The Sun; Houses Of The Holy; World Shut Your Mouth; Screamadelica; Sheer Heart Attack).
But only a little scrutiny reveals a record of joy in the face of horror, defiance in the face of meanness, a battle for redemption in the face of ill-will. Perrett has now finally prevailed and, after a couple of false restarts, delivered a fine solo album, How The West Was Won, but even if none of the Only Ones had been heard of again after they came to an end in 1981, their stamp had already been left. It is – as they put it themselves – The Immortal Story (PG).

 114. NEIL YOUNG (1969)

The hideous painting on the sleeve was a little off putting to say the least. The song titles too were unfamiliar, but in the top right hand corner the price label read £1.99, so it had to be worth a shot. Yet another bargain from Rebel Records. As soon as I put it on the turntable, it began to crackle away. A good sign. It must have seen some proper service with its previous owner. It’s the unplayed records you want to worry about. But the surface noise could not disguise the fact that something had gone badly wrong with the production – the electric guitar seemed suffocated, its strangulated stabs and squeals occasionally puncturing what sounded like a thick protective quilt. And those trebly tonsils, buried so low in the mix. But here was a record I couldn’t help but fall in love with, and it has been a favourite ever since.

Even I’m not convinced it’s his best album, but it’s almost universal dismissal I find irksome: “a godawful debut”; a “stuttering false start” to his solo career, or at best a mere “prelude to Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere“. It’s as if he was saving everything in reserve, gearing up for the real thing, but that rarely happens with debut albums. Popular music is all about the present moment, and by autumn ’68, Neil Young had a point to prove. The wax on the last Buffalo Springfield album had barely had time to dry before Neil Young hit the stores. The cover of Last Time Around told the story of Buffalo Springfield’s sad and premature demise. The photo montage pictured Young positioned with his back to the others, steadfastly facing in the opposite direction as if he could no longer even bear to pretend anymore. Bruce Palmer’s departure in early ’67 had effectively sounded the death knell for the band. Palmer had been, according to Young, the “soul of the band”, if you will,  Buffalo Springfield’s very own Brian Jones. The clash of egos would play out a familiar battle and everything soon fell apart. Last Time Around was a hastily assembled contractual obligation album, but it had in effect delivered Young’s first solo recording to the world, ‘I Am A Child’, which foreshadowed the bedsit folk troubadour of After The Gold Rush.


By August 1968, Young was back in the studio with David Briggs and Jack Nitzsche. It was in many ways a painful time. In Jimmy McDonough’s bio Shakey, Young recalled: “It was either a lonely experience or a labour of love. I was really glad when it was over, because it was so technical, took so much thinking.”

The instrumental overtures which kick off each side provide scant indication of any ‘labour of love”, at least on Young’s part. The laidback country twang of the first, ‘The Emperor of Wyoming’ is matched to a relatively unfussy string arrangement, while the second, the brief Nitzsche-penned ‘String Quartet From Whiskey Boot Hill’ only hints at some of the complexity characteristic of the rest of the album.

A more explicit benchmark of the album’s ‘everything bar the kitchen sink’ production, is ‘The Loner’ where strings soar beneath meaty chunks of stomping guitar, at times fizzing like a squadron of mosquitos fighting for air in a glass bottle, which has the subtle acoustic interludes running for cover. There’s s parallel performance on the conquering metallic riff of ‘I’ve Been Waiting For You’, which renders as mere subtext the intricate underlay of piano and organ.

Young has stated that he wished his voice on the record to sound “a million miles away, but right there” and in the floating reverie of ‘I Could Have Her Tonight’ his wish is granted. Barely whispered, it’s unassuming country jangle has a strange little twist in the tail which Television may have lifted for the coda of ‘Torn Curtain’.

Perhaps the most polarising track on the album is ‘The Old Laughing Lady’. Jack Nitzche’s overwrought orchestration often comes in for some criticism, but when Ry Cooder’s languid guitar and Nitzsche’s fluid electric piano ooze into the big soul chorus – take a bow Merry Clayton, Brenda Holloway, Gloria Jones et al – the results are utterly euphoric. It’s simply magnificent.

If Nitzsche’s aspirations were ambitious here, then David Briggs’ contributions were equally so. ‘Here We Are In The Years’ – on the surface a stately ballad – weaves little melodic miracles throughout its patchwork structure and features one of Young’s most earnest vocal performances: “Here we are in the years/Where the showman shifts the gears/Lives become careers/Children cry in fear/Let us out of here!” “We got tones nobody’s ever got, even Hendrix” said Briggs at the time, and here – bizarre moog solo aside – the balance was just about right. Similarly on ‘I’ve Loved Her So Long’ the arrangements (vibes, electric piano, soul chorus, even woodwind) are well-balanced, pretty and entirely satisfying.

The best tracks more than offset the album’s one blatant misstep, the bumblingly neurotic and supremely self-indulgent nine minute acoustic dirge ‘Last Trip To Tulsa’, of which the less said the better.

I am sure I speak not only for myself when I adjudge the best Buffalo Springfield moments to be ‘Expecting To Fly’ and ‘Broken Arrow’, both transcendent sound collages, as opposed to ‘For What Its Worth’ or Neil’s very own ‘Burned’. That he aimed to crystallise some of that airborne-ness, and twine a few fragments of baroque into the album’s tapestry is most certainly a plus, and not a minus. Neil Young is the last time he would venture quite as boldly in that direction. The great sin from that moment onwards was to ‘overthink’ composing and arranging. That perhaps accounts in part for such a prolific output. Perhaps he was right too, but undoubtedly something  was lost in the process. For the man himself, Neil Young represented a steep learning curve, and if for him it was a failure, for us it was a glorious one. (JJ)