They called him the King of the Hillbilly Piano Players. I like to think of Moon Mullican as one of the lost heroes of rock ‘n roll – a vital link between R&B piano pounders like Amos Milburn and early rockers like Bill Haley and Jerry Lee Lewis who owed a huge debt to the Moon songbook.

Some of Mullican’s recordings from the ‘40s and ‘50s sound like Bob Wills with a bad attitude. Others rank among the best rockers of the era, especially this tune from ’56 that was covered nearly 30 years later by Moon admirer Nick Lowe on his album “The Rose of England” (here Mullican is backed by the red-hot Boyd Bennett & His Rockets): Seven Nights to Rock

He also had a flair for country ballads and Cajun-flavored stomps like Jole Blon and Jambalaya, a tune Mullican co-wrote with another famous protégé, Hank Williams, to get around a contractual arrangement with Cincinnati-based King Records. Virtually all his recordings qualify as essential American music – a potent brew of country, blues, western swing, Cajun, rock, pop… and maybe a few other strains related to his Scottish-Irish heritage.

He’s on that long list of notable blues-based musicians from the great state of Texas (although he seemed to have a greater affinity for neighboring Louisiana, where he toured and recorded with eventual governor Jimmie “You Are My Sunshine” Davis). Born Aubrey Mullican in 1909, he grew up on the family farm in Corrigan, some 90 miles north of Houston. That’s where he first was exposed to the blues and, more specifically, a black sharecropper named Joe Jones, who showed him a few tricks on guitar and probably laid a few songs on him too. Aubrey’s father – a devout, church-going man – didn’t share his son’s appreciation for the devil’s music. But dad had the good sense to bring an old pump organ into the house, which his son used to play ill-gotten tunes that you can’t find in the Sunday hymnal. (When later asked why he played the piano, Moon replied: “Because the beer kept sliding off my fiddle.”)

With a big, booming voice and promising musical chops, Aubrey left for Houston at the age of 16 and began sitting in with western swing bands that borrowed heavily from the Texas roadhouse blues and jazz tradition. By the end of the ‘30s, he had built a fearsome reputation as a one-man wrecking crew on piano – not to mention his taste for booze, which probably earned him the moniker (short for “moonshine”?) that stuck with him throughout his adult life.

One of Moon’s many employers during the decade, western swinger Cliff Bruner, soon recognized his piano player’s distinctive voice and tagged Moon to sing lead on Truck Driver’s Blues – a ’39 hit that paved the way for one of my favorite sub-genres of country and honky tonk: Truck Driver’s Blues Within a few years Moon was fronting his own band, the Showboys, and honing a more hard-driving sound that would inspire a small army of rockers in the Fifties and beyond.

This brings us to the golden age of Moon – the dozen years (starting in ’46) that he recorded for Cincinnati-based King Records. Much like Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson, Roy Brown, Wynonie Harris and other post-war R&B stars, Moon could rock every bit as hard as Elvis did at Sun Studios in the mid-50s. The only difference being that an older, pudgier and far-less-sexy Mullican never received the recognition he deserved. Here’s aural evidence that Moon belongs in the pantheon of early rockers: I Done It

As we discussed back in this post, King proprietor Syd Nathan had a great ear for the kind of music hard-working folks from the south wanted to hear when they landed up north in big-city factories. Many of them were partial to blues (particularly jump-blues) and hard-core honky tonk. So Mullican definitely fit the bill on both fronts.

Nathan also had a knack for cross-pollinization. Even though he largely segregated his artists by creating “race” labels like Queen, Federal and De Luxe for his black R&B stars, he would get the most out of his publishing catalog by having someone like Harris, for example, cover a song by King honky-tonker Hank Penny (Bloodshot Eyes). And it worked both ways… One of my favorite cuts by Mullican is this hard-charging remake of a song originally recorded by R&B legend Tiny Bradshaw. For my money, Moon’s version packs more of a punch (with the help of blazing solos by Speedy West & Jimmy Bryant): Well Oh Well

Moon scored a few hits for King, including Jole Blon, Sweeter than the Flowers, and the culturally insensitive Cherokee Boogie (later covered by Asleep at the Wheel and BR5-49). He also developed a larger audience as a member of Nashville’s Grand Old Opry, playing on the program’s nationally syndicated radio broadcasts.

But the glory years didn’t last long. For reasons I alluded to earlier, Moon’s modest star was eclipsed in the ‘50s by the first wave of young, brooding rockers like Elvis, Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran. Few of them credited Moon, but Jerry Lee remained a loyal supporter, even covering one of Mullican’s signature songs, I’ll Sail My Ship Alone (a number one country hit for Moon back in ’50): I’ll Sail My Ship Alone/Jerry Lee Lewis

After he left King, Mullican recorded some sessions in ’58 and ’59 for Coral Records (released on the long-lost “Moon Over Mullican” album). Although he gamely tackled some of his old rockers like Pipeliner Blues, the sessions were marred by the unfortunate presence of the Anita Kerr Singers. As Phil Davies notes in his Rockabilly Hall of Fame profile of Mullican, “it’s a pity Moon didn’t take them back to a sweaty beer joint in Beaumont… they’d have run a mile.”

Mullican showed up on the charts one last time with a lively remake of his original Ragged But Right, but an onstage heart attack in ’62 slowed him down considerably. Overweight (and often overserved at the bar), Mullican suffered a major coronary on December 31, 1966, and died the next day. Two years later, Kapp Records released an album of sessions produced in the early ‘60s by Cowboy Jack Clement. “The Moon Mullican Showcase” quickly disappeared into obscurity, as did most of Moon’s recordings.

In his book “Country Music, U.S.A.,” music writer Bill C. Malone describes Mullican’s legacy as the guy who brought “a new style of playing to country music, the barrelhouse style pioneered by itinerant black juke joint musicians… Mullican featured a melodic-based, boogie style of playing which was designed, in his own words, ‘to make the bottles bounce on the tables.’ Mullican’s piano playing, combined with his zestful singing, made him one of the most colorful personalities of southwestern country music.”

You can find Mullican’s grave at Magnolia Cemetery in Beaumont, Texas. His epitaph? I’ll Sail My Ship Alone

Moon on video… Here he barrels his way through a quick medley – Pipeliner Blues and St. Louis Blues:

And here’s a spirited rendition of Rock and Roll Mr. Bullfrog (with a little schtick he probably stole from Al Jolson):

 In the last issue of Rolling Stone magazine, I was described as the “blues snob uncle” of The Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach. At first, I took great umbrage to this (how’s that for a snobby-ass word?). But then I went back and re-read this piece from two years ago and I thought, guilty as charged. The original post included a nice comment from Dan: “got love if you want it is so amazing… i’m ashamed to say, it took me way too long to get into Excello. i should have just trusted you from the get go tim. always loved lonesome sundown though. besides tav falco, that’s my favorite stage name ever.” Whispering Smith ain’t bad either.

I’m a blues hound… won’t deny it. Love the form’s many sub-genres and permutations. Hate most attempts to slap a little rouge on its cheeks and make it more presentable to the masses. You can have your Jonny Langs and Keb Mos. Give me John Lee Hooker, alone with his guitar – and please find a way to remove all those special guest artists from his final recordings.

On more than one occasion, I’ve run into a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing one of those painfully casual outfits who claims to love blues too. But he’ll offer this information in a very solemn and private way, like he’s confessing he has a family of illegal aliens living in his basement.

Fact is, he’s told me nothing… Did he just see B.B. King at the outdoor amphitheater while getting hammered on cosmos with Buffy, Bif and Lillian? Or does he like to drink bottom-shelf liquor by himself and listen to the stream-of-consciousness blues that Robert Pete Williams recorded in Angola Prison? Doesn’t make much difference to me what he likes… I just think that extra bit of information would be helpful before we continue the conversation.

As Duke Ellington pointed out, “There’s two kinds of music: good and bad.” So it goes with blues – there’s a lot to like and almost as much to avoid. And I try to judge all comers on their own merits. I don’t knock Robert Cray for trying to sound like the second coming of Stax-Volt. Some of his best stuff comes close enough. But don’t bring me any of Clapton’s last 20 or so releases, and if you buy me Buddy Guy’s latest for my birthday, save the gift receipt.

The real reason I stick with the form is the universe of expression within it. You’ve got your city blues and country blues… hard-driving Chicago blues and laid-back Piedmont blues… full horn sections and one guy with a mic… fife and drum bands from the Mississippi hill country… flame-throwing guitar slingers from Texas… piano pounders from New Orleans and Kansas City… shouters… crooners… howlin’ at the mooners… maybe there’s a blues song in there somewhere?

Which brings us in a very roundabout way to one of my favorite sub-genres, swamp blues. Before I came across this mutant form, I thought I had a pretty good understanding of blues. I had faithfully purchased and analyzed the Muddy Waters and Robert Johnson box sets, viewed the “Live at Newport” videos, read the books, even learned a few of the songs myself… Then Slim Harpo came along, openly mocking my earnest attempts to become a blues scholar.

At this point, it’s probably useful to ask, what is swamp blues? First, it’s a form of Louisiana music that should not be confused with the state’s other vital and distinct contributions to American music – including Dixieland, New Orleans R&B, Cajun and Zydeco. Second, it’s largely the product of a small studio in Crowley, Louisiana, where one J.D. “Jay” Miller created regional hits for the Excello label, run by Ernie Young in Nashville. In other words, another one of those haphazard cultural collisions that makes Southern roots music so damn good.

Swamp blues is what you’d expect when a self-taught producer reinvents the dominant Chicago sound in a small Louisiana town – lazy, loping rhythms, casually soulful singing, and a do-it-yourself approach to recording technology (or lack thereof). Check out this cardboard-box rhythm on a tune by Lightnin’ Slim: Mean Old Lonesome Train/Lightnin’ Slim

Many artists made the pilgrimage to Louisiana rice country to record at Miller’s Crowley studio, including a small army of curiously named bluesmen like Mr. Calhoun, Shy Guy Douglas, Whispering Smith, Guitar Gable and Boogie Jake. Miller also launched the careers of several outstanding blues women – most notably the great piano player Katie Webster, who did session work on legendary swamp blues and pop recordings like Phil Phillips’ 1959 hit, “Sea of Love.” Here’s Katie with her own take on the hit… Sea of Love/Katie Webster

In my mind, the absolute standouts of swamp blues were Slim Harpo (whose songs were covered by the Rolling Stones and the Kinks), Lightnin’ Slim, Lazy Lester and Lonesome Sundown. As another aside, I noticed that local officials in Crowley have adopted the marketing slogan “Where Life is Rice and Easy!” Screw that… just build a massive statue of Harpo, Slim, Lester and Sundown – the “Four Horsemen of the Swamp” – and wheel it into the town square. But once again, I digress…

Let me get right to the point, by sharing with you a short list of my favorite swamp blues recordings (samples at the end for your listening pleasure):

Slim Harpo: I Got Love If You Want It. This tune seems to encompass everything that’s right and wonderful about swamp blues. I’m not sure how to describe the rhythm – it’s like the second-grade teacher gave the kids a few shakers and sticks and asked them to play a mambo. Then there’s the harp, which ain’t Little Walter but makes one hell of a statement at the opening. The acoustic-sounding guitar serves only one purpose – to move the song from I to IV to V. And Harpo’s voice brings it all together with his usual, laconic delivery. A blues masterpiece.

Lightnin’ Slim: It’s Mighty Crazy. John Hammond Jr. did a great version of this song back in ’75, but the original can’t be beat. Miller’s Cajun background must’ve led him to suggest the rub-board rhythm. Lazy Lester gives the tune its signature riff. And Slim’s gritty voice adds just enough menace to make you wonder just what he’s rubbin’ on. I think we all know it’s something other than a good scrub in the bathtub.

Lonesome Sundown: My Home is a Prison. Apparently, Miller liked the opening guitar riff to this song – it shows up on several other cuts by Lonesome Sundown (aka Cornelius Green). Sundown played guitar for Zydeco legend Clifton Chenier before joining Miller’s stable of artists in 1956. Released the following year, this tune is about as blue as blue can get… “It’s true I shot my baby, but it’s because she did me wrong. The only thing I got is this lonesome jail I call home.” Maybe Sundown was haunted by the dark muse behind this song… He eventually became a minister in the ecumenically named Lord Jesus Christ of the Apostolic Faith Fellowship Throughout the World Church.

Lazy Lester: I Hear You Knockin’. Not to be confused with the New Orleans nugget by Smiley Lewis that adds the line “but you can’t come in.” This is one of those blues songs with near-universal appeal, easily making the transition to rock and honky tonk (check out Dwight Yoakam’s version from “Buenas Noches from a Lonely Room”). Sounds like the rhythm section consists of that same cardboard box they used on Mean Old Lonesome Train. Legend has it that Lester met Lightnin’ Slim on a bus and talked his way into a recording session at the Crowley studio. We can all be thankful for that conversation.

“Rockin” Tabby Thomas: Hoodoo Party. The New Orleans influence is especially strong on this cut by Tabby Thomas, father of contemporary blues artist Chris Thomas King and former owner of Tabby’s Blues Box and Heritage Hall in Baton Rouge, LA. Great rhythm and horn part, and Tabby’s fine voice is practically swimming in Miller’s patented reverb. Louisiana blues doesn’t get any better than this – a testament to Miller’s genius in the studio.

Jerry “Boogie” McCain: She’s Tough. Jerry’s girl is so hot, she walks through campus and “professor lose his mind.” But she can’t hold a match to McCain’s blazing harp, which sounds like it could burn the whole place to the ground. McCain obviously inspired the Fabulous Thunderbirds, who included this song on their 1979 debut. And the pride of Gadsden, Alabama, is still playing the blues today. You can check him out at the city’s annual Jerry McCain Broad Street Blues Bash (now that’s how you honor a blues legend!). I Got Love If You Want It It’s Mighty Crazy My Home Is A Prison I Hear You Knockin’ Hoodoo Party She’s Tough

I should’ve included this in the first post… great clip of The Rolling Stones playing Slim Harpo’s Shake Your Hips (but without Mick on harp). Filmed live inside the Rialto Theater in Montreux, Switzerland – May 21, 1972, right after the release of the Stones’ classic “Exile on Main St.”:

“A lot of people think the blues is depressing, but that’s not the blues I’m singing. When I’m singing blues, I’m singing life. People that can’t stand to listen to the blues, they’ve got to be phonies.” RIP, Etta James (check here for a great blues cut by Etta).

(Listen to Eddie Cochran while you read.)

Start with a good mystery. Then throw in some intimate and revealing images from the early years of rock ‘n roll. Therein lies the beauty of “1950s Radio in Color: The Lost Photographs of Cleveland Deejay Tommy Edwards” – a spellbinding book by songwriter, musician and music historian Christopher Kennedy, as well as a new exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum that runs through the summer.

The story behind these photographs combines a little intrigue with a lot of luck. Eight years ago, Kennedy began searching for one of the Holy Grails of rock – a movie short called “The Pied Piper of Cleveland” that includes early (pre-fame) footage of Elvis Presley taken during his first tour outside of the south. The movie was produced by Cleveland DJ Bill Randle as a way to document his own role in promoting rock ‘n roll.

Randle was an intense rival of fellow DJ Edwards, another noteworthy figure in the Cleveland music scene (both Randle and Edwards plied their trade at WERE-AM). But Randle had the good sense to put competitive jealousies aside and feature Edwards in the film as the first DJ in Cleveland to recognize Presley’s unique talents.

As Kennedy dug deeper into the history of the film (which remains missing), he became more interested in Edwards’ reputation as a devoted chronicler of all things rock ‘n roll. First of all, Edwards’ vivid photos – compiled in Kennedy’s book along with the author’s wry commentary – provide an inside look at some of the early stars of rock, country, hillbilly and pop as they made their career-building pilgrimages to WERE and Cleveland-area nightclubs. Second, he created a weekly, two-page newsletter that provides historical context to these images and the music business in general during the mid- to late-‘50s. Here’s a taste from the “T.E. Newsletter” (dated Sept. 2, 1955):

“Eileen Rodgers opens at the Alpine Village here on the 5th —– Johnny Van does the Cabin Club here this weekend to be followed by Laurie Anders —– Nat Cole’s next is FORGIVE MY HEART —– Gene Davis now working in Dayton — formerly here in Cleveland and Akron —- My new hobby is taking pictures of all stars who come in to visit on the show —– R & B TUNES TO WATCH: I’M SO GLAD, Mickey & Sylvia; IT’S OBDACIOUS, Buddy Johnson; IT’S YOU, YOU, YOU, The Charms.”

In the preface to his book, Kennedy describes some of the side trips that led him to the photos and the only surviving copy of every issue of the “T.E. Newsletter” – now safely housed in the Rock Hall’s Library and Archives. He befriended Edwards’ nephew, Keith Winters, who helped him locate the slides; and a separate detour led him to the newsletters, which Randle gave to Cleveland journalist David Barnett as a gift (bear with me… these artifacts made their way through a whole cast of characters).

Winters initially notified Kennedy about five Ektachrome slides he received from his father, Edwards’ half-brother Gerald Winters. These included an iconic shot that seems to capture a passing of the torch from an elder Bill Haley to Elvis, whose career was on the rise as Haley’s tailed off. Kennedy assumed the five slides were the only ones that survived, but then he found the motherlode.

“My discovery of Tommy Edwards’ small cache of photos was a nice coup for a novice rock ‘n’ roll detective but it was nothing compared to what was to come,” Kennedy writes. “Within a few weeks of our first communications, I receive an excited, late-night call from Keith, who asked if I’m sitting down. While looking for Christmas decorations, he found treasure stashed away under a basement workbench: several dusty cardboard boxes with the family name ‘Mull’ (Edwards was born Thomas Edward Mull) handwritten on the sides, containing 1,790 more slides. Gerald Winters had, in fact, inherited all of his deceased half-brother’s photographs. Sometime around 1988, Gerald gave the slide collection to his son… Keith simply had forgotten about them.”

As the book and exhibit reveal, the Edwards collection is an embarrassment of riches. I wouldn’t call Edwards a master photographer, but he definitely had a knack for capturing images that were strikingly honest and unvarnished. He also found a perfect use for his images, featuring them in slide shows at the many record hops he’d host throughout the area. Did Edwards create the first multi-media rock show?

The above photo of a 28-year-old Chuck Berry seems like it was shot in the basement of one of those ethnic social clubs you can find throughout Cleveland. It actually was taken at Gleason’s Musical Bar, a popular club on Cleveland’s east side (E. 55th and Woodland) from 1942 to 1962. Virtually every major blues and jazz act you can think of from the era came through Gleason’s – James Brown, Bo Diddley, B.B. King, Ella Fitzgerald, Charlie Parker, Nat King Cole… This photo shows Berry with local sax star Sammy Dee, founder and leader of the house band for the show Bandstand (before it became American Bandstand).

In 1958, Johnny Cash came through town long enough to plop himself down on the couch at WERE studios to visit with Edwards. “Less than comfortable must be Sun Records owner Sam Phillips, walking the floor back in Memphis, justifiably paranoid about the clandestine deal Cash has struck with Columbia Records to leave Sun as soon as contractually possible,” Kennedy notes in his book.

That same year, rocker Eddie Cochran stopped by Cleveland to promote his new single Jeanie, Jeanie, Jeanie. More from Kennedy: “A rock ‘n’ roll star with smoldering sex appeal; an innovative guitarist, songwriter, and music producer; international touring act and budding movie star – the kid’s got it all. Except time.” Two years later, Cochran died in England when he was thrown from a taxi in a high-speed crash. Rockabilly star Gene Vincent (another subject of Edwards’ camera) survived the accident with minor injuries, but his glory days were mostly behind him.

Edwards eventually became the proprietor of Record Heaven in Cleveland’s Brooklyn neighborhood before passing away in 1981. Kennedy continues to search for Bill Randle’s long-lost treasure, “The Pied Piper of Cleveland.” I’ll definitely pay more attention at local garage sales, but the smart money’s on the guy who already delivered the goods with the lost photographs of Tommy Edwards.

Thirty-two images from Edwards’ collection are now showing in the Baker Gallery of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum’s Main Exhibit Hall. Check the Museum’s website for more information.

So who, you might ask, are The Storey Sisters? Hailing from Philadelphia, sisters Ann and Lillian helped pioneer the “girl group” sound that paid off in the Sixties for acts like The Shirelles, The Shangri-Las and The Ronettes. This smokin’ little number from 1957 features NYC session guitarist Wild Jimmy Spruill, who had the distinction of appearing on two #1 hits in May ’59: The Happy Organ by Dave “Baby” Cortez and Kansas City by Wilbert Harrison.

Psychedelic rock: I know I shouldn’t try to boil down an entire sub-genre of music into a few sentences. But here’s my take on psych rock.

First and foremost, it changed my life – starting with the moment I first heard Jimi Hendrix coming from the tiny speakers of my transistor radio (a mind-blowing event that I covered here). There was no denying the power of the opening riff to Purple Haze. Just two notes, like a siren’s blare. And rock ‘n roll would never be the same. Purple Haze

I eventually got a Heathkit POS (piece of shit) stereo and kept it tuned to WMMS in Cleveland, where DJs like Billy Bass (“the classical gas, the man with the special stash”) turned me on to Cream, Jefferson Airplane, Santana, The Doors and other heavy bands from the late-‘60s. But eventually psych rock lost its appeal… and the best way to explain this is by looking at the changes that took place at roughly the same time in the Catholic Church.

You see, the Latin Mass I remember as a child was all about mysterious ritual (brightly colored vestments, odd choreography, ornate dinnerware), exotic sounds (Latin, Gregorian chanting), intoxicating fragrances (incense) and a solemn act of communion (Communion). Then, almost overnight, most of those grand mysteries were replaced with shiny happy teenagers singing crappy folk songs. At that point I knew exactly what was going on – the church was pandering to me, and I wasn’t buying it.

Essentially the same thing happened with psych rock: mysterious ritual (Morrison the Lizard King, Hendrix the Fire God, Janis the Whiskey-Swilling Earth Mother), exotic sounds (said opening to Purple Haze), intoxicating fragrances (weed) and a solemn act of communion (smoking of weed)… All of it was eventually co-opted by ad campaigns straight from Madison Avenue and lame-ass TV shows like The Partridge Family and Laugh-In. I wasn’t buying that crap either. But the music lives on, along with a few choice videos from the era.

I love the fact that early purveyors of psych rock, like Roky Erickson and the Austin-based 13^th Floor Elevators, somehow snuck past Dick Clark’s Vanil-O-Meter and made their way onto American Bandstand. Here’s a great clip of the Elevators attempting to lip synch their way through You’re Gonna Miss Me… Apparently they were just a couple tabs of acid from a perfect take.

Here’s another clip from Cleveland’s entry into the Bandstand sweepstakes, Upbeat. This segment from ’68 features The Yardbirds with Jimmy Page, notable for the fact that Page is faking Jeff Beck’s recorded solo. It’s another one of those trippy collages that cropped up way too often during the Sixties (although singer Keith Relf looks very groovy during the guitar solo).

It’s hard to find a better artifact from the era than Jefferson Airplane’s 1967 appearance on The Smothers Brothers Show, where they performed White Rabbit and Somebody to Love. First of all, White Rabbit remains one of the best examples of psychedelic rock – a wonderful stew of thinly veiled drug references, moody minor chords over a quasi-bolero beat, Jorma Kaukonen’s snaky guitar, and that amazing voice (to me, Grace Slick will forever be 28 years old). Second, the Smothers Brothers were a surprisingly subversive force on Sixties TV as they continually battled with CBS network censors over skits that took on, among other issues, racism and the Vietnam War. But their main stock in trade, of course, was being silly – in a mildly anarchic way. Those of you of a certain age will recognize Dick Smothers’ comment about “smoking a banana,” which at the time was rumored to give you a cheap high (never tried it, so I can’t confirm). And the visuals on these clips are vintage Sixties… There must be something inherently disorienting about tiny people floating in an oil lamp.

I’d be remiss if we didn’t include the godfathers of psych rock, the Grateful Dead. And this lengthy clip from Playboy After Dark (1969) is mind-blowing in several respects. Let’s start with the segment up front, as Hef and a few other well-scrubbed dandies (or “beautiful people,” as someone hissed in a youtube comment) “rap” with Jerry Garcia. I love Garcia’s description of the two-drum attack: “It’s like the serpent that eats its own tail, and they go around and around like that, and if you can stand in between them… they make figure eights on their sides in your head.” I think Hef’s intended response was “eh, that’s great, Jerry… let me go fetch another martini.” But mainly, this encounter reflects the whole co-opting process I mentioned earlier. I’m not suggesting that the Dead sold out by showing up at the Playboy Mansion. Hey, it was a simple business decision – and probably a good one, which is why the band stuck around for another 25 years.

You might want to pass on the first number, Mountains of the Moon… pretty dreadful. Pick it up at around 7:10 as the Dead launch into one of their signature freak-outs, St. Stephen. One more sidebar: You’ll notice the relative lack of dancers – unavoidable in most “After Dark” videos (although the St. Stephen clip includes the ghostly image of an unrecognizable soul man gyrating throughout). That’s because you’d probably need a tab or two to dance along to the song’s constantly shifting time signatures.

Of course, psych rock never really went away. But it sure seemed a lot less relevant to pimply faced teenagers in the Seventies (like me) who spent way too much time dazed and confused, listening to good old-fashioned crotch-rock from the Midwest and across the pond. Bands like Grand Funk Railroad, The James Gang, Free, Humble Pie, Savoy Brown, Foghat… riff-heavy bands that rarely strayed from the pocket and left the noodling to the experts, like Sonny Rollins. Mark, Don and Mel (need I say more?) first showed up at the Playboy Mansion right after the Dead, in ’69. But they seemed to come from an entirely different time and place. Note the return of the After Dark Dancers, looking fairly ridiculous on the stairs.

Let’s say I did psychedelic drugs… I doubt the trippy videos from the Sixties would raise my consciousness. But this one would earn me a trip to see Nurse Ratched.