Rubber City Review

Just picked up a good read about the troubled marriage of rock and the boob tube: “TV a-Go-Go” by Jake Austen (producer of a cable-access children’s dance show that airs in Chicago). Austen traces the roots of rock on TV back to Bo Diddley’s first (and last) appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, on Nov. 20, 1955. Bo was told by the show’s producers to play Tennessee Ernie Ford’s hit Sixteen Tons. He later noted in his biography “Living Legend” that he deferred instead to his label, Chess Records, which was hoping to break a hit with the song Bo Diddley: “Chess tol’ me that if I’da did Sixteen Tons and not Bo Diddley, that would have been the end of my career right there.” Bo snubbed the producers and played his namesake single, which earned him a lifetime ban from America’s most popular variety show:

As Austen points out, the most remarkable thing about the video is the last 55 seconds as Bo became “intimately engaged with his guitar – a guitar with a distorted, damaged tone that sang like a human being in a voice simultaneously joyous and mournful. Diddley was rock ‘n roll’s first guitar hero.” Far more viewers watched Elvis the following year on the same show, but the King’s mild renditions of Don’t Be Cruel and Love Me Tender couldn’t match the power of Bo and band in ’55.

By the end of the decade, Dick Clark had built a financial empire around a show that served as the prototype for virtually every music-related program that followed: American Bandstand. Clark is often blamed for polluting the airwaves in the late ’50s and early ’60s with the sappy sounds of teen idols like Fabian and Frankie Avalon – a trend that benefited his Philadelphia-based business interests and cronies. But Austen notes that Bandstand gave birth to a whole slew of worthy imitators, including shows like Shindig, Hullabaloo and, starting in ’71, Soul Train. And let’s hand it to the ageless one for featuring a long list of garage bands on Bandstand and its eventual spin-off, Where the Action Is, which featured bands lip-synching at various outdoor locations (mostly beach-related). Here Music Machine mimes their hit Talk Talk at what appears to be a zoo:

Speaking of lip synching, Austen is fairly forgiving of this hoary showbiz tradition. Given the technical limitations of most Sixties’ TV studios (and outdoor locations), it was difficult to accommodate multiple bands and their equipment in one session. “If no one had lip synched there would have been no guests on those shows,” Austen points out. Many of these mimed performances serve as historical documents of artists ranging from Chuck Berry to the Rolling Stones. Austen also notes that some of the better artists – like James Brown and, later, Michael Jackson – turned lip synching into an art form. He singles out Brown’s dazzling footwork during a solo take on Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag (seen here) – a mic-less performance on Shindig that enabled the show’s producers to “create a powerful, original visual statement instead of focusing on being ethnographic rockumentarians capturing a ‘real’ live performance.”

Even some of the band-less moments have their unique pleasures… Those of you who have a taste for the truly bizarre will enjoy this Bandstand clip from 1966 as Don Van Vliet (aka Captain Beefheart) calls in to answer some questions and introduce his cover of the Willie Dixon tune Diddy Wah Diddy (“Who thought of the name of the group?” “I thought of the Captain Beefheart and the rest of the group thought of The Magic Band”).

American Bandstand also should be credited for spawning countless regional music shows, like The !!!! Beat (filmed in Nashville, broadcast in Dallas, and featured in our recent post on Gatemouth Brown), The Buddy Deane Show in Baltimore (inspiration for John Waters’ movie and Broadway musical Hairspray), and Upbeat in Cleveland. Austen describes Cleveland as “one of the great TV rock towns,” with Upbeat serving as a first-rate example of regional rock ‘n soul programming. I remember being captivated by the show as a kid and even admiring Upbeat’s slick and cheery host, Don Webster. And if there’s better footage from the show than this live performance of Otis Redding and band tearing through Can’t Turn You Loose, you need to send it my way. (Historical footnote: Redding’s ’67 appearance on Upbeat occurred the day before the plane crash that took his life.)

Given its many studios and vibrant music scene, LA gave rise to the most Bandstand-like programs in the country – Shivaree, Shebang and Groovy, to name a few. Here’s sort of a hybrid performance from Shivaree, with The Byrds singing live over a prerecorded backing track. This segment was hosted by Frankie Avalon and broadcast on May 8, 1965, only three days after the band’s TV debut. Interesting tidbit from “mcd220″ for you Byrdmaniacs out there: ‘If you listen carefully, you can hear Gene Clark’s baritone vocal part in the second chorus during ‘In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you.’ This part was NOT on the record; reason being is that Gene’s vocals were on the same track as Leon Russell’s electric piano, which was taken out of the mix.”

If you’ve got about eight minutes, you’ll want to check out this treasure trove of soul music from Shindig – great footage (both live and otherwise) of James Brown, Tina Turner and Booker T and the MGs:

Next up: The agony/ecstasy of psychedelic rock on TV.

Our new Fly Fishing Correspondent, Kevin Swan, reels in some of his favorite Ry Cooder moments from the “pre-Buena Vista Social Club” era:

When Rolling Stone magazine published their “100 Greatest Guitarists” in 2003, there were few surprises in the top ten, with one exception: the enigmatic Ryland Peter Cooder. Hand-picked at age 18 to help solidify Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band, Cooder’s blues-based slide work was already highly prized in the Los Angeles studio scene. (Ry’s professional work ethic clashed with Beefheart’s unpredictable behavior, finally dissolving in chaos at a warm-up show for their scheduled appearance at 1967’s Monterey Pop Festival, when Beefheart refused to sing, then walked, or fell, off the back of the stage.) The final track of “Safe As Milk,” Autumn’s Child seems to mimic their artistic denouement: Cooder’s workmanlike guitar at odds with the throaty, possessed, anti-syncopation Beefheart, not to mention Dr. Stanley J. Hoffman’s wandering theremin: Autumn’s Child/Captain Beefheart with Ry Cooder

Through the late ‘60s Cooder kept a full session plate, working with and enhancing a range of artists: The Everly Brothers, Buffy St. Marie (!), The Monkees (!!), Pat Boone (!!!) and some incredible work with the Rolling Stones. (If you want to start a musicians’ fistfight, try, “Who played that amazing slide guitar on Let It Bleed?” I say an uncredited Cooder, even if the liner notes disagree.) Let It Bleed/The Rolling Stones (with Ry?)

In 1970 Cooder’s solo career began with his eponymous album. Hard to imagine now, but this type of raw, roots-based music was nearly unheard of 40 years ago; I doubt much made it out over the airwaves, beyond the odd college station. Sleepy John Estes’ Goin’ to Brownsville blends his mandolin, electric and slide guitars (although his vocals are, to me, still an “acquired taste”): Goin’ to Brownsville

In 1971, “Into the Purple Valley” crystallizes Cooder’s love of dust-bowl America, with Woody Guthrie, Leadbelly and Joseph Spence molded into a style evocative of a Depression-era hobo camp. With Hey Porter, the Johnny Cash train-track rhythm is deconstructed, Cooder lengthening and punctuating the time signature with his stuttering mandolin: Hey Porter

Slide guitar lends itself well to distinctive, signature styles. Duane Allman’s death in late 1971 took from us one of the best at that craft. His stinging bottleneck leads on “Blind Willie” McTell’s Statesboro Blues are among the most revered among slide-guitar aficionados. Cooder showcases his own unique touch on slide with another McTell song, Married Man’s a Fool. It’s from 1974′s “Paradise and Lunch,” which reveals even more of Cooder’s vast influences – from Burt Bacharach to Arthur Blake to Bobby Womack. (Tattler, a Washington Phillips reinvention, reveals a growing maturity and confidence and was covered by Linda Ronstadt on one of her mega-mega-selling albums.) Married Man’s a Fool

Just when the A&R guys thought they had singer-songwriter Cooder pegged as an American roots guy, 1976’s “Chicken Skin Music” threw a curve. Featuring Tex-Mex with Flaco Jimenez, then slack-key Hawaiian guitar with Gabby Pahinui, it was one of many of his collaborations that spanned musical genres. (When asked for definitive Cooder recordings, I usually respond, “Oh, get about 20 or so of his albums, that should do it.”) Chloe

The first of his albums to really take my breath away, though, was simply called “Jazz.” (A year earlier, my son was born; I named him Ryland. Django seemed a bit too much.) Drawing from early twentieth-century American jazz and blues, with traditional brass and wind backing, it re-visits Tin Pan Alley and the great bands and songwriters of the era. I’ve read that Cooder found the final recording too sterile and has distanced himself from it, but I find it unique in its scope. Although “Jazz” has been long out of print, you can find audio samples and a few copies for sale here.

Not fully satisfied with sessions, solo work and touring, Cooder scored dozens of movies, establishing an especially lasting bond with director Wim Wenders. For “Paris, Texas,” Cooder presents his doctoral dissertation on Blind Willie Johnson`s Dark Was the Night theme with spare, haunting precision. It is more than mere incidental music for the movie crowd, standing on its own with a rare depth of emotion: Paris, Texas

The Magic Band experience now far behind him, Cooder joined John Hiatt, Nick Lowe and Jim Keltner to form the band Little Village in 1992, named after a Sonny Boy Williamson studio rant. What started out as Hiatt’s backing band rather than a musical collective, it boasted Lowe on bass as well as great session drummer Keltner, a long-time Cooder collaborator. Ry must have been in heaven with Keltner at the kit: his style of drumming, sounding very loose but with a laser-like precision, is similar to Cooder’s playing – relaxed… with the confidence that comes from decades of hard work:

In the early ’90s Cooder presented two more interesting “world music” collaborations. V.M. Bhatt (with Ry’s son Joachim on percussion) plays the Hindustani slide guitar on the Grammy-winner “A Meeting By The River,” from 1993. A year later, Cooder played on and produced Ali Farka Toure’s “Talking Timbuktu,” a pan-African musical excursion that floats down the rivers of Mali and up the Mississippi. (Keltner once again held court on the drums.) Those musical roots run centuries and continents deep. They also remain alive and vibrant, with the help of singular artists like Ry Cooder.

R.I.P., Ali Farka Toure… This is amazing — look no further for the roots of John Lee Hooker.