Rubber City Review

John McVie, Danny Kirwan, Peter Green, Mick Fleetwood and Jeremy Spencer

There’s a curious scene in the movie “Cadillac Records” when the Rolling Stones show up at 2120 South Michigan Avenue to record at the legendary Chess Studio. Of course Mick and the boys were diehard fans of Chicago blues, and their American idols were probably more amused than flattered by the sight of five scruffy Brits at their doorstep in search of Muddy’s mojo and the Wolf’s howl.

The Stones cut some rockin’ tracks during their stay at the house that Leonard Chess built. I wouldn’t call any of it essential, but you can’t deny the joys of hearing the sound of Chicago filtered through some fairly capable white punks – enjoying their first stay in the states, no less: Little Red Rooster

Good stuff… but not deep, dark, bone-chilling blues. No, it would take another guy from England to show the rest of the Brits how to play with the big boys in Chicago, and maybe even give them a little kick in the arse too. That guy was Peter Green, the amazingly expressive guitarist and singer for Fleetwood Mac, circa 1967-1970: Watch Out/Fleetwood Mac in Chicago

That song was recorded at Chess Studio in 1969, some five years after the Stones visit. They were among the last blues recordings by the Green-led lineup, and also among the final tracks issued from the Michigan Avenue studio. The band was joined on the sessions by Chicago’s best, including Otis Spann on piano, Willie Dixon on bass, Walter “Shakey” Horton on harp and long-time Elmore James sideman J.T. Brown on sax.

Unlike the Stones’ take on Chicago blues, Green sounds firmly rooted in the tradition, like he’d been playing sessions for Muddy, Wolf, Sonny Boy and Little Walter since the Fifties. He sang with the same passion and authority, and none of the punk-ass posturing that makes Mick, well… Mick.

In his autobiography “Fleetwood: My Life and Adventures in Fleetwood Mac,” drummer Mick Fleetwood describes the band’s experience at Chess Studio:

“At first our heroes seemed condescending to us. But Peter Green dazzled the Chicagoans with the sheer feel of his playing and somehow pulled us through. Pete surprised them, I think. They learned that without the stacks of Marshall amps and that dread label – ‘English Blues Band’ – we were still a good little band, a cut above what they usually saw.”

Fleetwood Mac recorded a number of songs at Chess in ’69 – not all of them as successful as Watch Out. But they certainly gave Spann, Dixon, Horton and Brown a run for their money. Another fairly respectable player, B.B. King, wasn’t there when the Mac invaded Chess, but he later had this to say about Green: “He has the sweetest tone I ever heard; he was the only one who gave me the cold sweats.” I assume he’s referring to British musicians and not comparing Green to, say, Buddy Guy.

It wasn’t the first time that Green and band played with Chicago royalty. In ’67 and ’68, they recorded a couple albums’ worth of material with pianist Eddie Boyd, who built a solid reputation largely on the merits of his signature song, Five Long Years. But during the Boyd-Mac sessions, the elder bluesman was continually upstaged by the young Jewish upstart from London better known to his family as Peter Greenbaum: The Big Boat

Green also played a mean harmonica, with a gutteral moan that reminds me of Sonny Boy II. In fact, I’d put this next tune (a Green original) right up there with some of the best performances by the kings of Chicago harp: Looking For Somebody

For those of us who can’t get songs like Don’t Stop, Go Your Own Way and Rhiannon dislodged from our craniums, it’s hard to imagine that Fleetwood Mac started out in 1967 as a formidable blues band, definitely the best one in England. Green and Fleetwood were refugees from John Mayall & the Bluesbreakers (Green replaced Eric Clapton after he left the band in 1966). The founding lineup also included Bob Brunning on bass – who eventually was replaced by Mayall alumnus John McVie – and Jeremy Spencer, a hard-charging slide guitarist who modeled himself after the great Elmore James. As you can tell from this cut, Spencer came scarily close to capturing Elmore’s sound: Doctor Brown

Peter Green and Willie Dixon

Spencer also could expertly mimic Fifties artists like Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley. A colorful and unruly character, he eventually left the band to join a religious cult called the Children of God (for more on Spencer, I highly recommend this piece over at the Hound Blog).

So on the one hand, you had a B.B. King-influenced guitarist who combined an impeccable touch with a beautiful, piercing tone. And on the other, there was this rowdy, pint-sized maniac whose X-rated behavior managed to get Fleetwood Mac banned from several clubs.

To make things even more complicated, Green later added a third guitarist, Danny Kirwan – another powerful, bluesy player with a singular style that seemed to live somewhere in that space between Green and Spencer.

Although the band started out playing strictly blues, they began adding several distinctive originals to the mix – including Green’s Black Magic Woman, famously covered by Santana in 1970, and this dreamy instrumental that became a huge hit in England in 1969: Albatross

During this period, Fleetwood Mac recorded for two British labels: Blue Horizon and Immediate. But the band started to gain notice in the U.S., especially when they released this moody Green original in ’69: Man of the World

By the end of the year, they had signed with the Warner Brothers affiliate Reprise and released the wide-ranging album “Then Play On,” which included a rockin’  little number called Oh Well that became a staple in the band’s live shows (video at bottom). Here’s another Green classic from the same album: Show-Biz Blues

But as the band gained a greater audience, Green was riding on a crazy train to nowhere – largely fueled by acid use that worsened what might have been pre-existing schizophrenia. He became more and more unpredictable, and began demanding that the band devote all of its earnings to charity. By the time Fleetwood Mac was launching a sold-out European tour in February 1970, Green had effectively checked out. I’ll let Mick Fleetwood pick it up from there:

“Somehow Peter had gotten surrounded by a bunch of rich German hippie brats, a group we call the Munich jet set. They had a commune in a big old house with a lot of LSD floating around. During our stay in Munich, Pete was whisked out of there and spent all his time getting stoned. We never even saw him, except for the gig, and to this day, John (McVie) and I always say that was it. Peter Green was never the same after that.”

Peter Green today

Although he officially left the band a few months later (a band that he founded and named), Green recorded and performed sporadically with Fleetwood Mac in the early ‘70s. Within a few years he had quit playing altogether and was working as a gravedigger. His descent into madness has been well-documented elsewhere. One story had an angry, gun-toting Green ordering his manager not to send him any more royalty checks for Black Magic Woman. Musicians love to share stories like that – maybe because it’s harder to face the fact that, despite several attempts at a comeback, Green will never again play with the fire and depth of feeling that you hear in his best recordings from the late ‘60s.

Of course, Mick Fleetwood picked up the pieces and launched a new version of Fleetwood Mac into the pop stratosphere in the late ‘70s (“Rumours” remains one of the best-selling albums of all time). For some of those latter-day fans, Peter Green is a sad footnote in the band’s remarkable history. For me, he was the real deal – a natural bluesman whose phenomenal gift would have been wasted on Stevie Nicks.

Peter Green live in ’69 on the British TV show “Music Mash,” introduced by The Animals’ Alan Price… Kirwan gets all the leads on this one, and Green already looks a little daffy. But still a fascinating look at the band in its prime.

Peter Green solo, playing one of his heartfelt originals. Can Green play the Blues? I think this is all the evidence you need. Stunning.

Alright, had to tag this on the end… Hugh Hefner on Buckminster Fuller’s theory of environmental conditions, and Fleetwood Mac’s ode to the joys of sexual self-gratification:

The Sonics

Although it may seem like we’re careening out of control now and then (“Thankless Jobs”), I started this blog with a simple, basic premise.

Over the years, I’ve collected a whole lot of music. And I haven’t always done it through legitimate means. So I finally figgered, I write good… I know a little bit about a lot of this stuff… I can’t possibly listen to all these tunes in one lifetime… and I probably should find something to do to offset all this bad karma I’ve taken on for file-sharing and other forms of digital thievery.

The solution? Rubber City Review. To use the parlance of shitty cinema, it’s just my small way of “paying it forward.” You’re welcome. (Speaking of compensation, don’t forget to purchase some of this music legitimately through the “picks” we provide at the end of each post… Mama needs a brand new pair of shoes.)

Hitting play on my iTunes library is like holding a small cup in front of a wide-open fire hydrant. So I use playlists to help me navigate through this teeming metropolis of artists and genres. Not all of these playlists make sense to other people (e.g. “Off Da Hook” and “Sausage”). But one of my favorites, “Sixties/Garage,” seems fairly bullet-proof – that is, until you open it up to debate among an entire universe of music nerds.

What exactly is garage rock? Is it rock music primarily conceived in a garage? Wikipedia defines it as “a raw form of rock and roll that was first popular in the United States and Canada from about 1963 to 1967.” But let’s face it, the garage itself originated in early-20^th Century England. So do you include the early sixties recordings of The Rolling Stones and The Kinks? I do… so throw me off the next panel discussion.

I view garage rock as a predecessor of punk; an antidote to a lot of the swill that seemed to find its way to the top of the pop charts in the early Sixties. Here’s just a short list of some of those hit songs:

• Theme from “A Summer Place” by Percy Faith (#1 in 1960)
• Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini by Brian Hyland
• It’s Now or Never by Elvis (movie-star Elvis)
• Wonderland by Night by the Bert Kaempfert Orchestra
• Tossin’ and Turnin’ by Bobby Lewis (#1 in 1961)
• Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton
• Go Away Little Girl by Steve Lawrence (please, go away)
• Dominique by the Singing Nun (sorry, Sister Mary)

Not exactly what you’d call the golden age of rock ‘n roll – unless you include all the “nasty bits” (as Tony Bourdain would call them) floating just beneath the surface on both sides of the pond. Songs often performed by rank amateurs with a sense of abandon that had nothing to do with state-of-the-art studio equipment, string sections, backing vocals and constant tinkering by nervous producers trying to keep their jobs at the major labels.

Of course, like any other vital sub-genre of rock, garage had its glory years and at least two or three revivals – including ‘70s “garage punk” (Iggy Pop, The Ramones) and whatever you want to call contemporary bands like The Hives, The Vines and The Strokes. But we’ll focus on the first wave of garage rockers – and, of course, just the stuff that resides in my playlist. You gotta problem with that?

If I were to stay true to the form, I’d probably just pick 6-7 songs from the much-heralded “Nuggets” compilation assembled by Jac Holzman, founder of Elektra Records, and Lenny Kaye, before he played lead guitar for Patti Smith. “Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era, 1965-1968” was released as a two-record set back in ’72, and Rhino Records expanded it into a box set issued in ’98. And it’s hard to argue with gems like this one, from Boston-area band The Remains: Don’t Look Back

But I’ve decided to play fast and loose with the whole garage label, hence the “Sixties/Garage” title. I always found it interesting that stateside bands like the Standells, the Beau Brummels and the Blues Magoos were heavily influenced by British Invasion bands like the Rolling Stones and the Kinks, which owed a huge debt to American blues. So where does the term garage apply? This next Jagger/Richards original from the Stones’ ’64 album “12×5” made my playlist, because it sounds every bit as sinister as tunes that groundbreaking garage-rock bands like the Sonics were recording at roughly the same time. And it signals one of the band’s first major departures from its blues-purist roots: Empty Heart

Speaking of the Sonics, no garage-influenced collection is complete without at least one song by this bruising quintet from Tacoma, WA. Gerry Roslie’s blood-curdling wail remains one of the great treasures of rock ‘n roll. And most of the band’s recorded output sounds like its members were whipped into a state of rage by a sadistic, maniacal producer. But I doubt that was the case, so I’ll just attribute it to grim weather and the logging industry: Psycho

Levon and the Hawks

Most people wouldn’t describe The Band as garage rockers. But they definitely gave off that vibe back in the early ‘60s, when they recorded as the Hawks with Canadian transplant Ronnie Hawkins. They also cut some tough-as-nails numbers without Hawkins – as Levon and the Hawks and, with this next tune, as The Canadian Squires. Pianist Richard Manuel handles the lead vocals on Uh Uh Uh, and to my ears, he sounds just like drummer Levon Helm. I also like Robbie Robertson’s throwaway harp playing on this tune. Never underestimate the power of a poorly played harmonica: Uh Uh Uh

Getting back to the Brits, the Kinks followed roughly the same trajectory as the Stones. They started out aping Muddy Waters, Slim Harpo and Jimmy Reed before realizing they could come up with a few decent songs of their own. And when Ray Davies started writing classics like Where Have All The Good Times Gone and Tired Of Waiting For You and this next one, the Kinks never looked back. Once again, we could argue til the cows come home if this qualifies as garage. Doesn’t matter… It’s my list, and the song stays: Til the End of the Day

My other favorite form of rock from the era is surf. And I think of guys like Link Wray and Lonnie Mack as the common ground between surf and garage rock – just like Freddie King blurred the lines between surf and blues. When you listen to an instrumental like Big City After Dark, it’s easy to imagine it being performed in the same space that’s used to store power tools, gasoline, motor oil and toxic bug spray. It’s from a ’62 single on the small Mala label under the moniker Ray Vernon and the Raymen (Link’s brother Vernon, who played rhythm and bass guitar and usually manned the 3-track Ampex recorder). This stunning act of depravity is from a collection of Wray rarities on the Norton label, whose proprietors describe it as “ultimate crime-inspiring whangery that spits, sweats and swaggers.” Amen: Big City After Dark

Lonnie Mack is probably too accomplished a musician to be considered “garage,” but he makes the cut on my playlist simply because rock music in the early ‘60s didn’t get any better than songs like Wham and Memphis. This next number also appeared on Mack’s ’64 release on the Cincinnati-based Fraternity label, “The Wham of That Memphis Man!” – an essential album by any standard. Here he covers a blues tune by Jimmy Reed. And even though it features background singers, Mack earns a pass by bringing in Gigi and the Charmaines, a rockin’ little R&B trio from the Queen City. If he had been signed to a big label, they would’ve replaced the Charmaines with Lily and the Whites: Baby What’s Wrong

If you like Lonnie, you’ll also dig “the Fastest Guitar Player in the South,” Travis Wammack. The native of Walnut, Mississippi, recorded his first album at the age of 11, and scored a minor hit in ’64 with the instrumental Scratchy when he was only 17. That scorching workout and 20 others produced by Sun Records session guitarist Roland Janes are included on “That Scratchy Guitar from Memphis,” a compilation on the German Bear Family label. Word has it that when Janes sent a copy of Scratchy to Chet Atkins, the Nashville legend sent it back with an unintended compliment: “This scares me. I pass.” Wammack went on to do session work in the ‘60s at FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals and ran Little Richard’s band from 1984 until 1995. He continues to dazzle audiences today with his lightning-fast licks, but he can also slow it down to play funky numbers like this one (must’ve inspired the ’74 hit Kung Fu Fighting… garage soul, maybe?): It’s Karate Time

I’ll close with a tune that was recorded at the tail end of garage rock’s glory years, and it’s by one of my favorite rockers of all time, Doug Sahm (aka Sir Douglas). I had the huge pleasure of seeing Doug and band – including the great Augie Meyers on farfisa – perform at a small club in San Antonio in May 1999, only a few months before Sahm passed away from a heart attack. He was in fine form, bitching about the dot-commers up in Austin and raving about the Spurs (some things never change). But mostly, for two blessed hours, he turned that crappy little dive into a groover’s paradise. R.I.P., Doug: You’re Doin’ It Too Hard

Here’s a real time-suck – a series of videos on youtube titled “60s Garage, Surf, Freakbeat & Psychedelic Music,” from the mysteriously named GrimlyFormingPW. With respect for your time, I only included one. You’re welcome.

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.

Alright, guitar fans. I know all of you have your favorite examples of six-string nirvana – Derek & the Dominos, The Allman Brothers Band at Fillmore East, Stevie Ray Vaughan’s first album, Jeff Beck’s “Blow by Blow,” blah, blah, blah… But here’s one you’ve probably never heard.

The album: Chico Hamilton’s “The Dealer,” released on the Impulse! label in 1966. The guitarist: a 23-year-old Larry Coryell, making his recording debut. The bandleader: a legendary jazz drummer who started playing back in the late-‘30s in L.A. with his high school classmates Dexter Gordon, Charles Mingus and Illinois Jacquet.

Technically, “The Dealer” is a jazz album – but it stretches the meaning of that term at every turn. A couple of songs are in that riff-based, soul-jazz vein that the Blue Note label mined so well back in the Sixties. One is a fairly straight-ahead blues, at least the kind that you’d hear a classic organ combo play. Another takes a left turn into “psychedelic jazz” – because you couldn’t swing a dead, or stoned, cat back then without hitting a song aimed at that vast new audience known as the American hippie.

Rumor (aka Wikipedia) has it that Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor was a big fan of Coryell’s playing on this album. And to help prove the point, I’ve combined samples of solos from “The Dealer” and “Sticky Fingers.” First, you’ll hear Coryell launching into his break on For Mods Only (did they have to make the swinger reference so obvious?). Next, you’ll hear Taylor’s playing on the jazzy second half of Can’t You Hear Me Knocking. Given that Taylor appropriates big chunks of Coryell’s solo, I think it’s safe to say he spent a lot of time between ’66 and ’70 hooked on “The Dealer.” For Mods Only/Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

But the most startling moments on the album are right out of the gate, as Coryell makes a huge statement on the title cut. It’s the only jazz solo I’m aware of that sounds completely indebted to early rock ‘n roll – specifically, Chuck Berry. Coryell’s playing on this tune gets my attention every time it randomly shows up on my iPod. Clearly, he misspent much of his youth woodshedding along to rock and blues records… then he probably migrated to some Wes Montgomery, and maybe Django too. But all of these influences seem to come together organically – sorry, can’t think of a better adverb here – in Coryell’s loose and playful solo. The Dealer

As you can tell, Coryell also isn’t afraid to take his playing a little outside too. But he does it in a way that doesn’t sound the least bit calculated. I like how this next solo starts out fairly conventional and then devolves to the point where Coryell’s almost off the fretboard altogether. And Chico, another restless explorer, eggs him on with a few well-placed cracks of the snare. Now this is my idea of free jazz… Thoughts

Just when you think Coryell’s completely off the rails, he settles down and pulls off some pretty convincing blues licks. Although he’s credited with “writing” the next tune, it’s really not much of a composition – just a basic organ-combo workout that you could hear in countless inner-city clubs back in the Sixties (check this for more on the glory days of the B3). And he had the cojones to name the thing after himself, with a nod to another fearless wanderer… Larry of Arabia

If all this jaw-dropping guitar weren’t enough, the 1999 release of “The Dealer” on CD includes four bonus tracks from other sessions featuring the great Hungarian-born jazz guitarist Gabor Szabo. A master of the second-note drone and other exotic flourishes, Szabo was a big influence on Carlos Santana and many other Sixties rock guitarists (Santana used his original, Gypsy Queen, as the coda to Peter Green’s Black Magic Woman). Here’s Szabo strutting his stuff on El Toro… El Toro

Coryell went on to a successful career playing in a number of settings, including jazz-rock with his band The Eleventh House (can’t say I’m a fan; I prefer one of his more acoustic outings, which we touched on here). Approaching his 90^th birthday, Chico currently teaches at The New School for Jazz and Contemporary Music in New York City and occasionally tours with his band Euphoria. He played in Lena Horne’s band… scored music for film and TV… recorded with Rolling Stone Charlie Watts… mentored more contemporary rockers like former Spin Doctors guitarist Eric Schenkman and Blues Traveler John Popper… and, for my money, almost stole the show on the HBO documentary “The Jazz Baroness.”

I’m sure both men look back at “The Dealer” as a defining moment – a near-perfect start for Coryell, and a high point in Hamilton’s successful run as a bandleader in the Sixties, often with the popular Charles Lloyd on sax and Szabo on guitar.

We’ll close it out with Coryell playing some very Wes-like runs on this ballad, written by Chico and arranger Jimmy Cheatham… Baby, You Know

Chico in 2009, Live at Borders… When I’m 88, I’d like to have a steady gig at the local bookstore (but I’m assuming such establishments won’t exist when I’m that age).

The recent reissue of the Rolling Stones’ classic “Exile on Main St.” made me nostalgic for the days when a new Stones album was something worth arguing about…

Beatles or Stones? It’s one of those big questions – Republican or Democrat, paper or plastic, roll from top or roll from bottom (toilet paper, of course) – that supposedly reveal the very essence of your personality. And don’t believe those folks who say “I simply can’t choose between the Beatles and the Stones… they’re both so vital and important.” That simply proves that the person you’re talking to is a) full of shit; b) an inveterate fence-straddler; or c) both.

Put me in the Stones column. Don’t get me wrong – like every other kid on the block, I couldn’t resist the many charms of the Fab Four. I remember sitting on the family room floor with my older brothers and sister, watching the Beatles’ first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1964. Can’t say I fully understood what was going on, but judging from the near-psychotic reaction of my siblings, I got the sense that things would never be the same.

But I took a certain amount of pride in telling everyone that I preferred The Dave Clark Five. The band was named after a drummer who played like a caveman, for chrissakes! And I loved the big, stomping, four-on-the-floor beat of their hits Glad All Over and Bits and Pieces… not to mention their singer, Mike Smith (everyman name, everyman voice), who sounded like he’d been thrown out of the Beatles for bad behavior. So maybe the stage had already been set to embrace the sheer, decadent glory of the Rolling Stones.

Although my older brothers eventually became blues hounds and Dylan freaks, they certainly could appreciate the Beatles’ evolution from cute popsters to acid-fueled poets. I distinctly recall one bizarre conversation at the kitchen table that involved Jack and James deconstructing the lyrics to I Am The Walrus. I think they somehow discovered the true meaning of “yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog’s eye”… only to forget it a few minutes later.

But it was just this sort of blowhardian (is that a word?) nonsense that made me realize I needed the rock ‘n roll equivalent of Muddy Waters and Jimmy Reed in my life. Leave the free word association to the experts, like Allen Ginsberg and Norm Crosby. Give me the primal poetry of Keith Richards’ grinding rhythms: Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

Keep in mind, the album from whence this awesome riffage sprang – “Sticky Fingers” – was recorded the same year that the Beatles finally went down in flames, following several years of sonic excess (e.g. “Sgt Pepper’s”… sure, it was mind-blowing when it first came out, but has anyone listened to it lately?) and other forms of self-indulgence (Number 9, anyone?). Thankfully, they woke up in time to record one minor masterpiece, “Abbey Road,” in ’69… and that was pretty much it, unless you count “Let It Be” (not me).  Before long, Paul had turned into the British dance hall dandy he always wanted to be, crooning strange odes to Uncle Albert and other misguided dreck.

Back to the Stones… At the tender age of 16, I attended my first Rolling Stones concert – at Akron’s unfortunately named Rubber Bowl. I couldn’t believe my parents let me go. Maybe I’d convinced them I was going to watch late-night soap box derby races at the adjacent Derby Downs. It’s hard for me to remember much of what happened on July 11, 1972. I recall enjoying Stevie Wonder’s opening set, until police in riot gear tried to make an arrest on the field (they had to beat a retreat under a shower of flying debris). Then I made my way close to the front of the stage, where I watched what seemed like a sloppy, drug-addled performance of songs from the Stones’ sloppy, drug-addled masterpiece, “Exile on Main St.,” which was released in May of that year. When I first saw the apocalyptic action film “Mad Max” some 10 years later, it reminded me of the Rubber Bowl at the end of the Stones concert – zombie bikers with hollow eyes, stray dogs roaming nearby, small fires burning everywhere… OK, I’m exaggerating (just a little).

The relative letdown of seeing the Stones live didn’t stop me from wearing out my copy of “Exile” that year, just as I did with “Sticky Fingers” the previous year. I couldn’t get enough of the thick, sweaty groove that Charlie Watts and company laid down on this one – a blues that had something to do with the lack of ventilation in the basement of Richards’ vacation rental in southern France, where most of “Exile” was recorded… Ventilator Blues

From a creative standpoint, things seemed to go downhill for the Stones after “Exile.” And the next time their roadshow hit the area – ’75 in Cleveland – my college friends had to drag me to see them. I’m glad they did. They were in great form, much better than the Rubber Bowl show. Although guitarist Mick Taylor was gone, they’d added Ronnie Wood and brought along both Billy Preston and Ian Stewart on keyboards. Preston was amazing… he had scored huge hits over the previous three years with Outa-Space, Will It Go Round In Circles and Nothing From Nothing. So we were more excited about seeing him than the Stones.

Jagger and the boys regained some relevance in ’78 with “Some Girls”… and any band that hires jazz sax legend Sonny Rollins as a guest artist (“Tattoo You” from ‘81) gets a lifetime pass in my book. But I have to admit, I haven’t paid much attention to them since then, except for the occasional remastering of their classic stuff from ’63 to ’72.

I don’t even mind some of the revisionist experiments that Jagger conducted on the bonus tracks from “Exile.” What’s not to like about this one? I’m Not Signifying

But mainly, the “Exile” reissue sent me back to some of my favorite cuts prior to ’72 – including a few of the tunes they recorded as unabashed imitators of their beloved Chicago blues idols. Here’s just a short list of some of the stuff I’ve been digging into from their back catalog…

It used to bother me that the Stones started out as a second-rate blues cover band. Now I can’t help but admire how ballsy these guys were, barely reworking tunes by Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf. Don’t play Muddy’s original right after listening to this one… it would only ruin the moment. I Just Want To Make Love To You

A hidden gem from 1964′s “12 x 5.” This is one of those quintessential Sixties rock songs that make you picture a gang of teenage punks hanging out in someone’s dingy basement rec room – swilling Blatz beer, smoking cigars, shooting pool, busting each others’ chops… No self-respecting jukebox should be without this tune. Congratulations

Anyone who was surprised by the punk-rock attitude of the Stones’ 1978 comeback album, “Some Girls,” obviously never heard this number from “Got Live If You Want It!” A collection of small-club recordings from ’66, “Got Live” is far from essential. But their cover of the Bobby Troup classic has an undeniable edge… I’m guessing subtlety wasn’t a strong point of their mid-’60s shows. Route 66

If the Stones had disbanded right after recording this song, they’d still be considered legends of rock – and the tune’s signature riff remains Brian Jones’ greatest contribution to the form. The Last Time

I love the fuzzed-out bass that opens this very obvious tribute to the home of Chess Records, where this song was recorded in ’64. I’ve heard people say that Jagger’s a poseur… thought that a few times myself… also enjoyed the “rooster on acid” parodies… then I listen to his harp-playing on this tune and give the man his due. 2120 South Michigan Avenue

From “Beggar’s Banquet” – 1968. This may be the most underrated song in the Stones’ catalog. The opening sounds like something The Black Keys would be proud of. Then it builds into this glorious noise of scratching guitars and Jagger’s perfect howls… It’s no capital crime, but it’s still dangerous. Stray Cat Blues

We’ll end where we started – with Keith Richards playing rhythm, the way God and Chuck Berry intended. Listen to how this song breaks down to the brutal riff that kicks it off… then hear Richards answer himself with some tasty slide. Sorry, Beatles fans. This is why the Stones once ruled the world. Monkey Man

Keith Richards and Ron Wood, struggling to film a promo for MTV… I like how they snap into focus and nail it at the end. I’m guessing a few of their recording sessions went something like this.

Every year I get together with five or six of my high school buddies – as well as assorted spousal units and special guests – for a party at my friend’s alpaca farm just outside of a small town in southern Ohio.  Now this town is a good three-plus hours away from our alma mater, St. Vincent-St. Mary in Akron.  In fact, it’s a good distance from just about everything.  One of the running jokes on the morning after the party involves asking for the Sunday Times and a cup of Starbucks joe (although I’ve been told the frozen breakfast burritos at the mini mart are actually quite good).

But our relative isolation allows us to reflect, in a somewhat impaired manner, on all things Seventies.  And for me, of course, it’s all about the music – which is why I’m in charge of coming up with a five-hour playlist that draws from that awkward era between the hippies and the punks.

Several of the activities don’t require musical accompaniment.  There’s the shooting competition led by Officer Tony.  And then there’s the obligatory golf-like event organized by Fern, the honorary Mayor of Batavia.

But the main event of the weekend focuses on the making of sausage, using a century-old stuffer and several miles of entrails.  Over the years, this has become a highly synchronized activity involving wine, accompanying dishes, exotic spices, Seventies music and near-constant bitching from all of us about how much ground red pepper to put into the pork.  This bitching dissipates somewhat as the evening progresses – which is why we need special containers, originally designed for the nuclear industry, to hold the late-night sausage (note to self: rephrase that before posting).

Dazed and confused…

I thought that coming up with a playlist for this event would be fairly easy.  After all, I burned through what seemed like several thousand dollars in my youth buying albums by the Rolling Stones, the Allman Brothers Band, J.J. Cale, Little Feat, Taj Mahal, Steve Miller Band (before he was the Joker), Fleetwood Mac (before they were a joke), Savoy Brown, and so on.  Now I could’ve referenced other Seventies acts like prog-rockers Yes, King Crimson and Emerson, Lake & Palmer, and the ubiquitous city/state bands like Chicago, Boston, Kansas, Duluth, whatever… but I hate that shit – and unlike most other DJs, I don’t take requests.

I also could’ve mentioned the most iconic album (and image) of our high school years, “Dark Side of the Moon” by Pink Floyd. But that’s like saying the baseball game kicked off with the Star Spangled Banner.  It’s safe to say that no other generation has had such an omnipresent soundtrack.  Of course, this was back before the music industry was such a fragmented mess, when it was possible for huge masses of people to share the same musical tastes and sources.  I heard “Dark Side” so many times during the Seventies, both intentionally and otherwise, that I’m not sure I can work up a visceral reaction to it today.  I won’t question that it’s one of the most important musical achievements of the 20th Century.  Just don’t play it for me, ever again.

A lot of stuff I grooved on in the Seventies sounds pretty lame today.  I’ll start with the musical moment that defined every young man who came of age in that era – the arrival of Led Zeppelin’s first album in 1969.  How can that be, you ask?  Well, first, Led Zeppelin may have landed in ’69, but they rocked every high school kid in America in the early Seventies, period end of story.  And second, this is my blog, so I’ll pretend it was released a year later to make my point.  And that point is… oh yeah, lameness.

There are many moments of great power and majesty in Led Zep’s first – which completely altered my reality when Brother James’ friend Bill Austin first brought it over to the house, holding it carefully like the small explosive it was – but this next little number ain’t one of them… You Shook Me/Led Zeppelin

Everything up to that point actually works pretty well, but I just can’t get beyond Robert Plant yelping like some crazed, rabid blues hound in heat.  I’m reminded of a capsule review I once read about ”Apocalypse Now” – two hours of great drama, leading up to a cameo by Don Rickles.

A lot of other stuff on my playlist holds up much better.  And, once again, I’ll cheat a little – by picking an album that was recorded in late ’68.  I really don’t consider Taj Mahal’s “The Natch’l Blues” part of the Sixties anyway… it’s not the least bit psychedelic or mind-expanding, and the lyrics are fairly straightforward (except for something about painting a mailbox blue).  “The Natch’l Blues” is a rootsy collection of mostly blues-based songs – eight originals and four covers, and only one extended jam.  Taj is a triple threat with his gritty voice and perfect touch on harp and national steel.  But the album’s secret weapon may be guitarist Jesse Ed Davis – an American Indian from Oklahoma with an endless supply of slippery, soulful licks.  I’ve listened to this album regularly since it showed up on my radar screen in the early Seventies… hard to believe it was recorded more than 40 years ago. Going Up To The Country, Paint My Mailbox Blue/Taj Mahal

Another notable album from that era is “Live!” by Bob Marley and the Wailers, recorded on July 18, 1975, at the Lyceum Ballroom in London.  This was Marley’s third tour of England, and you can tell by the crowd response that he’d become a major phenomenon.  One of the great pleasures of the album is hearing this steady roar in the background – the same sound you typically hear at World Cup Soccer matches… in other words, the sound of many delirious people shouting and singing at the same time.  And, unlike some other live albums, it seems like the crowd’s quasi-religious fervor was more than warranted.  It may be one of Marley’s best performances, live or studio, and certainly better than some of the slick recordings he made late in his career.  Here’s the raucous opening to Lively Up Yourself… Lively Up Yourself/Bob Marley

I also have a weak spot for Steve Winwood and his band Traffic.  Winwood started his career (and might be ending it) as kind of a slavish interpreter of American soul.  Not to take away from tunes like Gimme Some Lovin’ and Roll With It, but I like the fact that in most of his work with Traffic, Winwood isn’t afraid to sound, well, British.  To my ears, early-Seventies classics like “John Barleycorn Must Die” and “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” sound very organic – what you’d expect when three hugely talented Brits hide out in a countryside cottage, experiment with god knows what and explore their own roots for a change.  It’s really genre-bending at its best – not quite jazz, not quite blues or folk, and certainly not sea chanteys… just an oddly familiar-sounding mix of influences that these guys seemed incapable of screwing up.  Here’s part of an extended jam that closes out “Low Spark”… Rainmaker/Traffic

None of the tunes on these albums would ever show up on a “Classic Rock” playlist.  But I’ll spare you from my usual rant about this dreadful format (if it were a form of torture, I’d cave right away).

Instead, I’ll use this opportunity to thank Mark, Francis, Sophie and Sadie for graciously welcoming the Mongol Horde from the North to their beautiful home in the country… by giving a shout-out to the Sausage Party regulars – wife Laura, Jim and Martha, Fern and Patty, Pat and Mary, Don and Donna, Tony, Mickey, and assorted hangers-on… and by leaving you with this quick list of a few other Superhits from the Early Seventies (or at least the version that would exist in a parallel universe).  I purposely left off my favorite funk and soul of the era – that’s a subject for another post.

A little gem from ZZ Top’s best album, “Tres Hombres” (released in 1973) – Low Rider meets the Texas Hill Country: Sheik/ZZ Top

Another great live album that I completely wore out, “The Allman Brothers At Fillmore East” (1971): Statesboro Blues/The Allman Brothers Band

I’m a proud veteran of the Rolling Stones’ 1972 concert at the Akron Rubber Bowl (yes, I was five years old), and this was the song of the summer: Tumbling Dice/The Rolling Stones

From Bonnie Raitt’s first, back in 1971 – still her bluesiest album: Finest Lovin’ Man/Bonnie Raitt

So much J.J. to choose from… Why not start at the beginning, “Naturally” (1971)? Crazy Mama/J.J. Cale

Before Rod became irrelevant, he fronted one of the great rock ‘n roll bands of all time… Also evidence that Ron Wood could play. Bad ‘N’ Ruin/Faces

Ry Cooder reinvents a song by zither-strumming evangelist Washington Phillips, from 1974’s “Paradise and Lunch”: Tattler/Ry Cooder

Still the greatest soundtrack album of all time – made even better with the “Deluxe Edition” treatment in 2003: The Harder They Come/Jimmy Cliff

On the video front, I’d love to post the party scene from the movie “Dazed and Confused.”  It’s almost as if the director, Richard Linklater, were a documentary filmmaker at half the parties I went to in high school.  Instead, I’ll offer this prime example of what ethnomusicologists have labeled “stoner rock,” featuring one of the great voices of the Seventies, Paul Rodgers.

The cover song is a proud musical tradition – and it dates back centuries. Let’s face it, many popular tunes and entire forms of music wouldn’t exist today without the act of appropriating someone else’s song.

Guitar hero Richard Thompson made this point in spades several years ago when he released a set of live recordings on his own boutique label that he only half-jokingly titled “1000 Years of Popular Music.” The CD kicks off with a 13^th Century “round” and eventually gets around to covering Oops!… I Did It Again by Britney Spears.

The cover song seemed to reach its peak, at least in terms of significance, in the 1940s and ‘50s. At that time, songs recorded by black R&B and blues artists were typically segregated onto so-called “race” labels – Modern, Aladdin, Savoy, etc. But some of those artists started covering songs by white honky tonkers – for example, Bull Moose Jackson’s Why Don’t You Haul Off and Love Me, a cover of a 1949 country hit by harmonica player Wayne Raney – and aspiring white rockers began perfecting their own form of musical thievery.

Of course, this whole cross-pollinating thing led to what may be the defining moment in 20^th Century music – Elvis Presley’s cover of a little ditty by Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, That’s All Right Mama.

For the most part, the covers by white artists pale in comparison to the originals, but there are a few exceptions. Here’s the original version of The Train Kept A-Rollin’, by jump-blues bandleader Tiny Bradshaw: The Train Kept A-Rollin’ (Tiny Bradshaw)

Now here’s the cover by an especially dangerous rockabilly band from the Fifties, the Johnny Burnette Trio: The Train Kept A-Rollin’ (Johnny Burnette Trio)

Johnny Burnette Trio

I’d argue that the Trio kicked it up a notch or two, fueled by Johnny’s well-placed screams and Paul Burlison’s gut-bucket guitar. And I won’t even bother with the far more popular version by Aerosmith, which ranks a distant fourth in my book (a Columbus bar band came in third).

Quick aside about those screams: Apparently, Burlison liked to place his lit cigarette on the loose end of one of the strings sticking out from the head of his guitar. Band is tearing it up onstage… Johnny backs into the lit cigarette… screams bloody murder… crowd goes wild… rest is rockabilly history.

There are far more examples of definitive originals by black artists. If you’re only familiar with Elvis’ cover of Hound Dog, brace yourself… the original by Big Mama Thornton will make you forget all about The King’s version: Hound Dog

A mutant offspring of the cover is the “answer song,” which also peaked around the same time. It’s a fairly simple concept, and I’ll let this response to Big Mama’s Hound Dog speak for itself… Bear Cat

You get the idea… The accuser is Rufus Thomas, who was a mainstay on Memphis’ fabled Stax-Volt label throughout its glory years. Here’s another answer song from the label’s catalog, with Jeanne & the Darlings take on Sam & Dave… Soul Girl

The Rolling Stones started out as little more than a decent cover band, doing their own versions of Chicago blues standards. Here they put their stamp on a classic by Muddy Waters… I Just Want To Make Love To You

The Beatles also cranked out more than a few covers, including a version of this original by soul singer Arthur Alexander, who was one of John Lennon’s favorites (he reportedly had a jukebox that only played Alexander’s 45s)… Anna (Go To Him)

Alexander also was covered by the Stones (You Better Move On) and spent years in obscurity before he was rediscovered in Cleveland, driving a school bus. He put out a strong comeback album – “Lonely Just Like Me” – before passing away in 1993.

Today, it seems like indie rockers, hip-hoppers and country hit-makers are lined up to pay tribute to anyone from Marvin Gaye to the Grateful Dead. But much of those tribute songs are totally unnecessary and only serve to send the listeners back to the originals. A few rise above the fray, like Bob Dylan’s cover of a Hank Williams tune from the 2002 Grammy-winning tribute, “Timeless.” Now I’ll just come out and admit that I’m not a big fan of Dylan’s recent vocal stylings (he makes Billie Holiday’s final performances sound too polished). But I like how he wheezes his way through this one (great phrasing) as his ace band drags Hank into a west Texas dance hall… I Can’t Get You Off Of My Mind

During the summer months, you can’t miss the steady parade of tribute bands coming to an ampitheater near you – covering well-worn songs by the Beatles, the Stones, the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac… even U2 and the Dave Matthews Band. These bands take boomers back to days when they could get a contact high at most rock concerts (although that tradition seems to live on at jam-band shows).

But that’s not quite the same as musicians trying to reinvent the songs they love… and maybe even create something a little better (or at least different) in the process.

Oh, and if you’re still wondering what Richard Thompson did with Britney Spears… Oops!… I Did It Again

A few favorite covers…

Actually, just picking the right song to cover is a creative process that can say a lot about a band or musician. Here are a few covers that head off in different directions from the originals.

Let’s start with the oldest – Milk Cow Blues. Kokomo Arnold recorded the original back in 1930, and it’s one of those tunes that country musicians pounced on right away, probably because of the lyrics. It’s been covered by many artists – Robert Johnson (as Milkcow’s Calf Blues), Elvis at Sun Studios (as Milkcow Blues Boogie), Willie Nelson, Ricky Nelson, the band Nelson (strike that last one)… but my favorite is a western swing version from 1941 by Johnnie Lee Wills, brother of Texas legend Bob. Back then, it was a much shorter walk from blues to country, and Wills’ singer barely takes a step. He’s Cotton Thompson, a long-forgotten fiddle player (the world’s first blue-eyed soul singer?). Kokomo’s original comes first, then the cover.Milk Cow Blues (Kokomo Arnold/Johnnie Lee Wills)

The title of Young Man’s Blues is a little misleading, because neither of the following two versions falls neatly into the blues category. The originator is Mose Allison, really a jazz guy who played a lot of blues-based songs, and a keen observer of the human condition. The imitator is The Who, from the 1970 album Live at Leeds. Now I’m not a huge fan of everything The Who put out, but I like how they reworked the original – transforming it from a laid-back lament into a defiant rocker… Roger Daltrey is one pissed-off young man!Young Man’s Blues (Mose Allison/The Who)

Johnny Cash has been covered by hundreds of musicians of every stripe – roots-rockers, hillbillies, punks, metalheads… And roots-music explorer Ry Cooder has made an entire career out of reinventing other people’s songs. This next one is the flip side of The Who’s approach – Cooder takes Cash’s signature “Tennessee Three” treatment and slows it down… and in the process, turns it into something far more ominous (we’re not quite sure where this train is heading). I especially like the instrumentation on this cover – just mandolin, piano (the late Jim Dickinson, a Memphis icon) and upright bass.Hey Porter (Johnny Cash/Ry Cooder)

If their recent reissues proved anything, the Beatles are an even bigger draw today than they were back in 1964. But their songs haven’t been covered by other artists as much as you might think. Could be that the Beatles catalog is considered sacred canon by many musicians – or maybe it’s just too damn hard to improve on the originals. But that didn’t scare off The Holmes Brothers, who have developed a strong following with their unique brand of gospel-infused R&B. This one knocks me out every time I hear it – a soulful take on an old Beatles favorite.And I Love Her (The Beatles/The Holmes Brothers)

Musicians seem to have an easier time covering Dylan… might have something to do with the demo-like quality of albums like “The Basement Tapes” with The Band, which gave us the original version of Going to Acapulco. The cover shows up 40 years later on the soundtrack to “I’m Not There” – a surreal look at various incarnations of Dylan throughout his career. I was unimpressed with most of the soundtrack, but this one stands out as the Tucson band Calexico paints a desert soundscape behind the stunning voice of Jim James (My Morning Jacket). Better than the original? You be the judge.Going to Acapulco (Bob Dylan/Jim James & Calexico)