Book Review: Richie Unterberger's Unknown Legends of Rock ‘n’ Roll (1999)

Subtitled “Psychedelic Unknowns, Mad Geniuses, Punk Pioneers, Lo-Fi Mavericks & More,” Richie Unterberger sets the bar pretty high for himself with Unknown Legends of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Luckily for we readers, Unterberger delivers the goods, providing an exhaustive, if not comprehensive history of the obscure and eccentric in rock ‘n’ roll. Delving into the netherworld of true cult artists, Unterberger offers informative profiles of over 60 singer/songwriters, touching upon dozens more in brief comments and sidebars.

Unterberger breaks Unknown Legends of Rock ‘n’ Roll up into thirteen distinct sections, ranging from “Psychedelic Unknowns” and “Punk Pioneers” to “Out of the Garage” and “Mad Geniuses & Eccentric Recluses.” Some of the artists Unterberger profiles will be familiar to any hardcore music fan – talents like Roky Erickson, Arthur Lee of Love, Syd Barrett, or Can – although relatively unknown to the great unwashed mainstream are nonetheless frequent touchstones in any serious discussion of rock music. Others artists profiled here, such as Joe Meek, Lee Hazelwood, Ronnie Dawson, or the Avengers have experienced recent surges in popularity due to CD reissues and rediscovery via zines or the Internet.

It’s with the completely obscure performers that Unterberger really shines, his journalistic prowess allowing him to research these one-shot wonders and come up with a cohesive history of long-gone artists like the Deviants, the Monks, or the United States of America. In every section, Unterberger reveals some long-lost gem of a story, but the fattest sections – those on ‘60s-era garage bands, European artists, and “mad geniuses” – seem to be those most closely looked at and covered in detail. Inside many of the sections Unterberger includes a chapter or sidebar, touching upon other artists, legendary indie record labels and trends like cassette culture. Unterberger isn’t stingy with his sources, either, recommending records/CDs for every artist as well as providing a bibliography of books and magazines. Unknown Legends of Rock ‘n’ Roll also comes with a twelve-track CD to whet your tastes with tracks by the Deviants, Penelope Houston of the Avengers, the Music Machine and Savage Rose, among others.

For any music fan who is fed up with today’s sales-oriented major label signing philosophy and cookie-cutter, carbon-copy, made-for-MTV rockers, Unknown Legends of Rock ‘n’ Roll will feel like a fresh breath of air. Discover the future of rock music by delving into its past – the artists Unterberger reveals here may not have sold a lot of records and, to be honest, some of them really had little or no talent. The styles showcased by these artists run the gamut from rockabilly, psychedelica, and pop/rock to punk, folk, and electronic experimentation. The one thing that they all had in common, however, was a singular vision, a passion for what they were creating and a sincere need to follow their muse, commercial considerations be damned. For this alone they deserve to be remembered, rediscovered and cherished for the true artists that they were. (Miller Freeman Books, published 1999)

Review originally published by Alt.Culture.Guide™ music zine...

Also on That Devil Music: Richie Unterberger's Urban Spacemen And Wayfaring Strangers book review

Buy the book from Amazon: Richie Unterberger's Unknown Legends of Rock ‘n’ Roll

Book Review: Al Kooper’s Backstage Passes & Backstabbing Bastards (1999)

Musician, songwriter, label executive, producer – Al Kooper has made a living out of being the “Forrest Gump” of rock music. For better than thirty years, whenever something momentous was about to occur in rock ‘n’ roll, Kooper was certain to be involved in it. From his haphazard entry as a keyboardist on Dylan’s classic “Like A Rolling Stone” and playing with Dylan onstage in Newport to producing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s first three albums, Al Kooper has a resume that’s every bit as long and impressive as anybody’s in rock music. With this revised and expanded edition of Kooper’s earlier memoir, Backstage Passes, Al brings the tales of his storied career full circle.

Al Kooper’s Backstage Passes & Backstabbing Bastards

A lively writer with an easily read, conversational style and more than a few stories under his belt, Kooper documents with Backstage Passes & Backstabbing Bastards a career that has seen its shares of ups and downs. Beginning with the earliest stirrings of his interest in music, playing in teen bands and sharpening his skills, Kooper takes the reader on a romp through his rock ‘n’ roll universe. High points of the book include Kooper’s early days as a musical hustler, a samurai of songs writing tunes on spec for producers in need of material. Here Al provides the reader with a lesson in the economics of songwriting and the real history of the Brill Building.

Kooper’s major league breakthrough as a session player begins with his hilarious story of the session for Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone” and its aftermath. It’s as a session player that Kooper is best known, sitting in on recordings with notable artists like Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Rolling Stones, Mike Bloomfield, and far too many others to list here. Although Kooper speaks of his own solo career in Backstage Passes & Backstabbing Bastards, he tends to give it short shrift in light of his stories of superstar session work. He goes into some detail on the formation and careers of Blues Project and Blood, Sweat & Tears, both projects in which he was an integral part until egos got in the way and Kooper would move onto the next challenge. His discovery of Lynyrd Skynyrd is, perhaps, the real feather in his cap; Kooper producing and playing on that band’s first three albums, arguably among the most important Southern Rock records ever made.

By the end of Backstage Passes & Backstabbing Bastards, circa 1998, Kooper has pretty much given up on the music biz, going into teaching at the noted Berklee School of Music in Boston. Some reviewers of this book have made much ado over Kooper’s distinctively sour grapes attitude during the book’s last few chapters, Kooper viewing with some bitterness the current atmosphere in the music industry. Given my own fringe involvement with the industry as a critic and journalist, I can’t say that I disagree with him. The industry turns its back on older artists who aren’t still cranking out hits (and, therefore, profits).

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

As an artist, musician and producer Kooper comes from a time when, perhaps, the music mattered more than the marketing and labels weren’t quite the greedy conglomerate bastards that they’ve become today. As such, Backstage Passes & Backstabbing Bastards is a captivating document, the honest, heartfelt memoir of, as Kooper terms himself, “a rock ‘n’ roll survivor.” Anybody who loves music should have a copy of this book on his or her shelf, right beside their latest CD purchases. Kooper’s Backstage Passes & Backstabbing Bastards will entertain you, inform you, and keep you honest. (Billboard Books, published 1999)

Review originally published by Alt.Culture.Guide™ music zine...

Book Review: Michael T. Fournier’s Double Nickels On the Dime (2007)

Although San Pedro’s favorite sons the Minutemen are almost universally praised, they are too often overlooked in favor of lesser punk bands like the Misfits or the Germs. True, the band’s landmark Double Nickels On the Dime album is typically named as one of the genre’s standing classics, but methinks that, much like Rodney Dangerfield, the Minutemen never really get the respect they deserve. I’d be willing to bet that many young punk rockers these days are more familiar with Green Day, NoFX, Hot Water Music, or even the Misfits than with the Minutemen.

This is an oversight that author/professor Michael T. Fournier is trying to correct with his 33 1/3 series book on the Minutemen’s Double Nickels On the Dime album. A well-known music journalist that has been published by both online and print magazines like Pitchfork, Chunklet, and Perfect Sound Forever, Fournier also teaches students at Tufts University about the history of punk rock. Fournier often uses Double Nickels On the Dime in his classes, exposing a new generation of punk fans to this incredible album.

The Minutemen were originally formed as the Reactionaries in San Pedro in 1980 by guitarist/singer D. Boon, bassist Mike Watt and drummer Frank Tonche, along with a second guitarist. George Hurley would replace Tonche, the other guitarist would disappear, and the trio changed its name to the more familiar Minutemen – mostly because the bulk of the band’s songs didn’t extend beyond the 60-second mark. Signed to SST Records, the Minutemen released its Paranoid Time EP in 1981, following with a full-length album, The Punch Line, later that year.

The band built its reputation by touring anywhere somebody would book them, often traveling with Black Flag, and even playing with R.E.M. at one time. By the time that they recorded their fourth album, the two-record Double Nickels On the Dime, the Minutemen had created an eclectic trademark sound that mixed hardcore punk with free-form jazz and scraps of pop, folk, and rock music. Only one of the album’s 44 songs comes within spitting distance of 3-minutes in length, most falling comfortably in the one-and-a-half to two-minute range, each song a short, sharp shock like a poke from a high-voltage cattle prod.

Fournier dissects the album, side-by-side, song-by-song, supplementing his own substantial insight with comments and memories from the Minutemen’s Mike Watt, fellow musicians like Black Flag’s Chuck Dukowski, and other friends and followers of the band. Fournier tells how the album’s sequencing came to be, diving deep into each song and exploring the creative energy behind every tune. By covering the album as he does, the writer also provides plenty of back story, band history, and an overall glimpse into the early-to-mid-’80s west coast punk rock scene.

If Fournier’s classes are anything like this book, they’d be a lot of fun to sit in on. Fournier writes with an easy-going tone, combining the enthusiasm of the unabashed fanboy with the everything-but-the-kitchen sink style of the modern music journalist. It makes for a complete story, to be sure, but also provides the reader with new insight into and newfound appreciation of the band’s work.   

Although I don’t believe that the Minutemen get anywhere near the respect they deserve, the continued efforts of Mike Watt, combined with the support of fans like Michael T. Fournier, has kept the band’s flame burning bright. If not for frontman D. Boon’s tragic death in 1985, the Minutemen would certainly have made the jump to a major label and a larger audience along with friends like Husker Du and Sonic Youth. Still, the band’s legacy and influence is enormous, largely fueled by the excellence of Double Nickels On the Dime. (Continuum Books 33 1/3 series, published April 18th, 2007)

Review originally published by Trademark of Quality (TMQ) blog

Buy the book from Amazon: Michael T. Fournier’s Double Nickels On the Dime 

 

Book Review: Drew Daniel’s 20 Jazz Funk Greats (2007)

Just about any aging hipster or backwards-gazing youngster with an interest in ‘70s-era underground culture is familiar with the British band Throbbing Gristle, but few of ‘em have actually ever really heard the band. Part of the reason for this is that TG were, well, somewhat loud and noisy in the pursuit of their particular artistic vision. The progenitors of what would later become known as “industrial music,” the four muckrakers that made up Throbbing Gristle – Genesis P-Orridge, Cosey Fanni Tutti, Chris Carter, and Peter “Sleazy” Christopherson – spun the fledgling genre out of their genuine anger at English society, tempered with a sound that was pure aural terrorism.

Throbbing Gristle’s third album, 1979’s 20 Jazz Funk Greats, eschewed the band’s previous alchemical brew of clanky metallic factory noise, found vocals, tape loops, and aggressively distorted sound to go in an almost completely different creative direction. As explained by writer Drew Daniel in his 33 1/3 series book on the album, 20 Jazz Funk Greats was both a departure from the band’s standard modus operandi, as well as a grand artistic statement. Lyrically, the album strays … albeit not far … from TG’s poetic obsessions with death, mayhem, and the perverse, dancing coyly into the battleground of interpersonal relationships (including their own), adding their unsubtle social commentary on the era to the mix.

Daniel points out that 20 Jazz Funk Greats actually includes none, and plenty of both, the album representing TG’s unique tongue-in-cheek perspective on jazz music and funk, in addition to their normal industrial-strength Sturm und Drang. From the off-putting album cover, where the four members look like anything but the “wreckers of civilization” that they’d been referred to by the British tabloids, to the relatively accessible sounds created by the band for the album, 20 Jazz Funk Greats is admittedly the creative high point of Throbbing Gristle’s brief, but notorious career.

Unlike those aforementioned listeners, Daniel has delved deep into the album, and dissects it here, song-by-song, with acute insight, and with some thought in providing the context and meaning of each track. Daniel had access to all four band members for the book, garnering valuable information in his conversations with each, also drawing upon the band’s historical record as documented in print (much of it in the British press, some through the excellent RE/Search Industrial Culture book).

Although Daniel comes across as a fanboy one moment, and a dry academic the next, his commentary on the album fits well within the 33 1/3 series’ purview overall. Although Daniel readily admits that 20 Jazz Funk Greats is not widely considered a classic album, he treats it as such in his exploration of both the album, and the band’s lasting importance and influence. In the end, he convinces the reader that, perhaps, this little-heard work by an obscure band is nevertheless deserving of another spin on the turntable. (Continuum Books, published December 15th, 2007)

Review originally published by Blurt magazine

Buy the book from Amazon: Drew Daniel’s 20 Jazz Fun Greats
       

Book Review: Cary Baker’s Down On the Corner: Adventures In Busking & Street Music (2024)

‘Busking’ is defined as “the act or practice of entertaining by dancing, singing, juggling, etc., on the street or in a public place,” which is a fairly comprehensive list of…you know…the kind of stuff that buskers actually do for the few coins tossed their way by passersby. Although they’re usually found in high-traffic urban centers, it’s not unusual for buskers to show up in even the smallest of burgs.

Our rural WNY town boasts of a population of >16k but we have a guy that dresses up in black leather and death metal face paint and rips off chords on an electric guitar and portable amp while standing by the side of Main Street. When the mood hits him, he migrates down the road to the smaller (8k) village of Brockport, setting up shop in front of the Vinyl Record Revival store where he can perform for college kids from SUNY. Truth is, busking is a time-honored tradition that has been around almost as long as humans began smashing two rocks together in rhythm.     

Cary Baker’s Down On the Corner: Adventures In Busking & Street Music

With his first book, Down On the Corner: Adventures In Busking & Street Music, writer Cary Baker takes a fairly comprehensive look at the busking tradition. I say “fairly” comprehensive because Baker hints at a second volume (yes, please!), but even if that never comes to fruition, Down On the Corner provides a deep look at many talents behind the tradition. Baker is a music biz lifer, formerly one of the best publicists in the industry for a number of record labels, including I.R.S. and Capitol Records as well as his own hard-working firm, Conqueroo, working with talents like Bonnie Raitt, Bobby Rush, Willie Nile, and R.E.M. Before all that, however, Baker wrote about music for publications like the Chicago Reader, Creem, and Trouser Press.

I’ve known Cary since we were both in high school and contributing to the regional hippie rag Sunrise, where we were mentored by rockcrit legend Rick Johnson. As a writer, I worked with him for decades (sometimes to his aggravation) in his role as publicist and can vouch for his knowledge of musical matters (many of which he had a hand in). Although many of us thought that he’d pen his first book about his years in the biz, it’s not really surprising that he chose busking as the subject of his first tome – Baker has been enchanted by street musicians since he was a teen, seeing bluesman Blind Arvella Gray perform at the market on Maxwell Street in his Chicago hometown. Appropriately, Down On the Corner kicks off on that long gone section of the Windy City before traveling around the world.

Blind Arvella Gray

 

The stories told by Down On the Corner are as enchanting as they are insightful, covering a wide range of bluesmen-and-women, folkies, country artists, and one-man bands in environs like NYC, New Orleans, London, Los Angeles, and Nashville. Although some of the names are familiar – Billy Bragg’s pre-fame busking years are an integral part of his story, and artists like Ted Hawkins, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Moondog, and Wild Man Fischer are well-known to even a few casual music fans as rising from the street to the suites as they hammered out careers of one sort or another on major and minor record labels. However, I was surprised to see talents like Americana legend Lucinda Williams, 1980s-era college rock faves Violent Femmes, folk-rocker (and former power-popper) Peter Case, ‘90s-era alt-rocker Mary Lou Lord, and bluesman Fantastic Negrito as having launched their careers on the streets.

Down On the Corner also introduces the reader to regional artists that are definitely more obscure or never got a proper shot at the brass ring, folks like Oliver Smith, Nashville’s Cortelia Clark, George ‘Bongo Joe’ Coleman, and the duo of Satan & Adam, every one worthy of further research on Discogs. Most of the artists relate their story in their own words, which can make for a lively conversation – I particularly liked reading about the social activism of the duo of David & Roselyn, or Mary Lou Lord’s adventures in the subways of NYC. Baker does an admirable job of capturing that ‘something special’ about each performer, and has delivered an overall well-written and well-researched…although never dull…book on busking that digs into the lives of the buskers as well as the tradition.           

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

Down On the Corner is a quick read, with each chapter sort of open-ended and dependent on the reader to do their own research by checking out the featured artists’ music, some of which you can find on YouTube and most of which can be dug up on vinyl and CD. Aside from the artists, Baker also includes the localized busking scenes of places like Chicago, New Orleans, and Venice Beach, California, which provides an invaluable backdrop to the artists’ stories. The book includes a 16-page insert of vintage color and B&W photos of people and places that also help add to the book’s historical import. Down On the Corner is mighty impressive first effort from Mr. Baker, and doubly so as it shines a light on a seldom-addressed but nevertheless rich niche of music history. (Jawbone Press U.K., published November 12th, 2024)

Buy the book from Amazon: Cary Baker’s Down On the Corner

Book Review: Roman Kozak's This Ain't No Disco: The Story of CBGB (2024)

During my first trip from Nashville to ‘The Big Apple’ circa 1983 or ‘84, there was just one thing that I wanted to – visit the world-renown CBGB club in the NYC Bowery. A dive bar in a seedy neighborhood, the club launched the American punk scene with bands like Television, The Ramones, Patti Smith, Blondie, and Talking Heads, among many others from 1975-78. It was ‘ground zero’ for enthusiastic young punk-rock fanboys like myself. My buddy Thom, who was paying for the trip (we were ostensibly attending a trade show on business) was lukewarm on CBGB, but instead wanted to visit the Cedar Tavern in Greenwich Village where painter Jackson Pollock used to drink (and was later barred from for tearing up the joint…).

I begrudgingly went along to the Cedar (free beer being free beer, after all!) and after a few pitchers of the establishment’s finest lager, Thom was easily convinced to go catch a show at CBGB. Long Island NY’s Dancing Hoods were headlining that weeknight, with a long-forgotten band featuring actress Laura Dean (from the movie Fame) on the microphone opening. Recognizing Dean from the film, Thom was psyched to talk to her after the show, and the club’s dank atmosphere and blaring sound system lived up to my expectations. That was my only visit to the infamous venue, but it still lives large in my memory, especially since I drunkenly left behind an umbrella I’d paid a Korean shopkeeper three bucks for earlier that day.

For rock ‘n’ roll fans of an accruing age, CBGB was the stuff of legend – opened in 1973, the club hit its stride by 1975 when owner Hilly Kristal allowed an unknown band by the name of Television play regularly on a weeknight. Others soon followed, and although the implications of the scene weren’t apparent at the time, the CBGB’s cohort forever changed the direction of rock music in the U.S. and abroad, and while only a handful of ‘original’ CBGB bands went on to fame and fortune, the best of the lot still managed to leave behind an enduring legacy that is forever tied to the club. The roster of bands who performed at CBGB reads like a literal ‘who’s who’ of rock music; aside from the aforementioned hall of famers, among those gracing the Bowery stage were Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, Madonna, The Police, The Fleshtones, Misfits, The Cramps, Bad Brains, Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, and The Beastie Boys.

Billboard magazine editor Roman Kozak was there from the launching of CBGB & OMFUG (Kristal’s acronym for “Country, Bluegrass, Blues, and Other Music For Uplifting Gourmandizers), and his 1988 book This Ain’t No Disco: The Story of CBGB documents much of the club’s first decade or so with an oral history provided by the artists who performed, club employees and hangers-on, and Kristal himself. Out-of-print for decades, the book was recently (and deservedly) republished by Ira Robbins’ Trouser Press Books with permission from Kozak’s family. Chris Frantz of Talking Heads provides a new foreword and Robbins’ coverage on the 2006 closing of the club from Spin magazine and New York Newsday provides a coda to Kozak’s book. Photos by NYC scenester Ebet Roberts capture the charms of CBGB with B&W portraits of bands like Blondie, The Ramones, The Jam, and Television as well as the club itself.

It’s a damn shame that Kozak passed away shortly after the publication of This Ain’t No Disco, his only book (he also co-wrote a screenplay titled The Bomb) because he’s quite a good writer. Although approaching the book from a journalist’s perspective, Kozak’s light, conversationalist prose style weaves a solid narrative from the disparate interviews used to tell the story, which makes for an easy and fascinating read. As a fan who experienced CBGB in its prime, Kozak offers a keen eye in describing the club and its environs, as well as the people involved, who almost all have stories to tell. Kozak describes the lead-up to the club’s ascendancy as a ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Mecca’, writing of the club’s difficulties and mishaps as well as its small triumphs.

Although Kozak goes into some depth on the all-important 1975-78 period that launched several bands into the stratosphere, he digs into the aftermath as well, digging into the CBGB’s tenure of bands like the loco Dead Boys, the equally-crazed Plasmatics, and a ‘80s NYC hardcore scene that yielded H/C leading lights like Agnostic Front, Murphy’s Law, and the Cro-Mags. Although most of those interviewed for the book waxed positive about the club and its owner – folks like Annie Golden (The Shirts), Lenny Kaye (of Patti Smith’s band), Handsome Dick Manitoba (The Dictators), and Jim Carroll among them, as well as members of several CBGB-associated bands – Kozak wasn’t afraid to include the voices of some less infatuated speakers; the late, great Willy DeVille didn’t seem to be much of a Hilly Kristal fan.

After a lengthy and ultimately-futile fight with its landlord, CBGB closed after 33 years in October 2006, with club owner Kristal passing away the following year. Some of the grime-encrusted décor of the club was preserved by the high-end John Varatos retail store that opened at the location, and the club’s intellectual properties were reported sold to a group of unknown investors (to hawk t-shirts and such…). Kozak’s This Ain’t No Disco cements the club’s history, warts and all, preserving its legacy for rock ‘n’ rollers too young to have ever visited the East Village. Well-written and insightful, This Ain’t No Disco was penned by somebody that was ‘on location’ rather than a well-meaning historian looking backwards. I’d heartily recommend the book to any music fan curious about the legendary New York City venue. (Trouser Press Books, published October 15th, 2024)

Buy the book direct from the publisher: Roman Kozak’s This Ain’t No Disco

Also on That Devil Music:
CBGB’s and the Birth of U.S. Punk CD review
Jim Higgins’ Sweet, Wild and Vicious book review

Book Review: Jim Higgins’ Sweet, Wild and Vicious (2024)

On the Mount Olympus of rock ‘n’ roll, Lou Reed may be Apollo, the Greek god of music and poetry…or maybe he was the Oracle of Delphi, Pythia, whose prophecies are said to have come from divine possession. More likely, though, Reed was Hermes, the messenger god, who was also known as a bit of a trickster along the line of Loki of Norse mythology, for what else could Metal Machine Music be considered other than a terribly cheeky prank?

Perhaps Reed was an amalgam of all of these mythological figures. Over the course of a lengthy career that spanned six decades, Reed released nearly three-dozen studio and live albums – both solo and with his influential group the Velvet Underground – with more than a few clunkers in the mix, but enough solid efforts to build an impressive legacy. More importantly, he spread the message of rock ‘n’ roll, a particular gospel fueled by Reed’s unique and unparalleled creative vision.

Jim Higgins’ Sweet, Wild and Vicious

There is an entire shelf of books available that deconstruct Reed’s life and career, some obviously written by fans like Will Hermes and Anthony DeCurtis, which present the artist in an honest light, warts and all, while others (Howard Sounes, I’m looking at you…) seem to be purposely salacious, designed to denigrate Reed’s reputation without the good sense to realize that you can’t really tarnish a god’s image. Have these scribes ever read the story of Leda & the Swan? An entirely different bookshelf covers the lightning bolt-brief albeit influential existence of the Velvet Underground.

Yes, Lou was a prickly, contentious, misanthropic figure who particularly disliked the music media, and his feuds with critics like Lester Bangs are legendary in and of themselves. Reed could sometimes be hateful in words and actions, but looking at the artist from an arm’s length, it seems that most of the damage caused by Lou was targeted at himself. What few of the aforementioned books do, however, is really cover the man’s music in depth. For that, we have Jim Higgins’ Sweet, Wild and Vicious.

Higgins is a former pop music and jazz critic for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel newspaper – back in the day when arts coverage was valued by the mainstream press – and Sweet, Wild and Vicious is an invaluable listener’s guide to Reed’s largish catalog of music. Published by Ira Robbins’ Trouser Press Books, a commercial imprint with a fan’s perspective and plenty of rock ‘n’ roll history behind it, unlike most of these currently trendy “album-by-album” books, Sweet, Wild and Vicious doesn’t lapse into the “song-by-song” orthodoxy that tends to hamstring acute criticism in favor of word count (and, as author of one of these books – Sonicbond’s Spirit…On Track – I have some familiarity with the form). 

Lou Reed, Montauk Studio 2002, photo by Julian Schnabel, courtesy Light In The Attic Records

Lou Reed Album-by Album

Instead, Higgins treats each recording individually and organically in its entirety, providing context and history while calling out the best (and sometimes worst) of the songs. Sweet, Wild and Vicious begins, logically, with the four Velvet Underground albums circa 1967-1970 and, after a quick and insightful aside into the song “Sweet Jame,” dives into Reed’s solo career with his self-titled 1972 debut album, which I hold in higher esteem than does Higgins. Over the course of 246 pages, Higgins smartly and concisely tackles each album in the Reed milieu, including late-period VU live discs, up through Reed’s mischievous swansong, Lulu, his 2011 collaboration with heavy metal legends Metallica.

Higgins’ appreciation for even Reed’s minor works is obvious, but never fawning, and he seems to be able to pluck a gem or two out of even lackluster albums like Mistrial or Rock and Roll Heart. Higgins’ enthusiasm is contagious, his insight as thought-provoking as the artist’s work he’s writing about. The last few chapters of Sweet, Wild and Vicious go beyond Reed to discuss legendary critic Robert Christgau’s estimation of the artist’s body of work and “Children of the Velvet Underground,” i.e. musicians influenced by Reed’s work including some of the usual suspects – folks like David Bowie, Dream Syndicate, and Jonathan Richman – as well as some you may not have thought of like Yo La Tengo, Joy Division, and the Feelies.

The final two chapters feature “Orphans and Rarities,” significant performances that Reed contributed to various tribute albums or movie soundtracks, and “Remake, remodel,” tackling covers of Reed’s songs by other artists. As Higgins writes, “many people can claim to be better singers than Lou Reed, with a greater range or more technical skill. But that doesn’t mean they can improve on or even credibly deliver a Reed song.” His criticisms of the performances he describes are a perfect illustration of Reed’s unique ability to infuse a song with magic that is impossible for even more talented other artists to capture.

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

Higgins’ Sweet, Wild and Vicious is a quick read (no pun intended!), well-written and intelligent and providing even the casual Lou Reed fan with motivation to track down some of those albums you may have overlooked or forgotten about. I’d highly recommend it for anybody with any interest in the artist, the book a welcome addition to the rapidly-growing Trouser Press catalog, which also includes Mitch Cohen’s Looking For the Magic, a fascinating account of his tenure with Arista Records, several collections of Robbins’ wonderful writing on music, and the essential Zip It Up! The Best of Trouser Press Magazine 1974-1984, all of which deserve space on your bookshelf. (Trouser Press Books, published April 19th, 2024)

Buy the book from Trouser Press: Jim Higgins’ Sweet, Wild and Vicious

This Mine Has Played Out: Goldmine Magazine In 2023

I have quite a few rockcrit colleagues who write for Goldmine magazine, so I apologize in advance for stepping on any toes with this rant. Receiving and reviewing the winter 2023 issue of the long-running collectors’ zine, however, I feel that as the publication approaches its 50th anniversary, that it may be time to retire Goldmine to the old magazine resting home.

Goldmine was launched by publisher Brian Bukantis in September 1974 in the Detroit suburb of Fraser, Michigan. Bukantis’ agenda for the bi-monthly newsprint tabloid was to service the growing rock ‘n’ roll record and memorabilia collectors’ market. Early issues of Goldmine covered rock, country, blues, and soul music with artist interviews, discographies, and album reviews. One of the main features, however, were the seller’s ads, which offered albums, 45s, zines, and books by mail order from what would become a regular group of trusted sellers.

By 1977, both the magazine and the collectors’ market had grown to the point where Bukantis could take the publication monthly. I met Brian at a record convention in Detroit in 1979 and stayed in touch with him and editor John Koenig through the years. I wrote for Goldmine occasionally during the 1980s and ‘90s, and also contributed artist interviews and album reviews to similar publications like DISCoveries and Record Auction Monthly during both publication’s brief lifespans. At some point, Bukantis sold Goldmine to Krause Publications, a specialty publisher of price guides and other materials for collectors and hobbyists; it was a good fit. Krause later bought DISCoveries and folded it into Goldmine.

During its tenure as Goldmine’s owner, Krause did away with the magazine’s tabloid format in favor of a standard 8.5” x 11” magazine format largely printed on newsprint with color covers. In 2002, Krause was purchased by F+W Media, the New York City-based publisher of Writer’s Digest and other magazines. Goldmine continued more or less as it ever had, until F+W was bought out by a private equity fund, which continued expanding via purchases of other publications until F+W was saddled with debt and bought by another equity fund. The end-of-the-line came for F+W when the company filed for bankruptcy in 2019. The publisher’s assets were sold at auction, and Goldmine was bought at a discount by something called Active Interest Media (AIM), an equity fund-owned publisher of “niche enthusiast magazines.”

A year later, however, AIM dumped a number of its publications before being sold off itself. Goldmine ended up in the hands of the Project M Group, LLC which was formed in 2016 by CEO Enrique Abeyta, an investor and entrepreneur, and COO James Welch. Project M has been on a buying spree since its founding, gobbling up publications like heavy metal magazines Metal Edge and Revolver; Alternative Press magazine; and the BrooklynVegan music website. The first thing the new owners did was move Goldmine from Wisconsin to Brooklyn, and change the publication to a glossy, full-color 9” x 11” square bound format with better paper quality and ostensibly more content. With the change in appearance came an increase in the cover price, which had held at roughly $6 per month for years. Still, at ten bucks for a better zine, it was worth it…

The changes didn’t stop there, however…while the cost of an annual subscription stayed the same at $29.95, the frequency of the magazine was slowly reduced. What was once a bargain has become much less so, as the number of issues published each year dropped from twelve to six to the current quarterly publication schedule. The mail order ads, which had already dwindled to a handful of longtime advertisers, were finally eliminated altogether in favor of advertising for Goldmine’s online store. Record and book reviews were moved online and axed from the print edition altogether. Issues started featuring multiple covers, a gimmick no doubt inspired by Marvel and DC Comics’ long-standing practice of separating fans from their cash. Photos of the covers are also available to purchase and, given the email pitches that hit my in-box at least once a week, Goldmine seems more interested in selling me anything but the magazine.              

Back to the winter of 2023, and the new issue of Goldmine hit my mailbox with a thud. This issue has almost nothing that I’m interested in reading…with feature stories on Night Ranger and Foghat, the publication is touting new projects by two bands that even a lot of avid fans stopped caring about 40 years ago. There’s something on a guy that took a lot of photos of Bruce Springsteen, an excerpt from Bernie Taupin’s autobiography, and the obligatory three articles on The Beatles ‘cause they released a new song or something…for years now, Goldmine has never missed an excuse to put the Fab Four on the cover to help move some copies to its aging boomer readership. If not for Dave Thompson’s regular and welcome “Grooves” column, there’d be nothing I’d want to read.

The previous issue was similarly-vacuous and light on copy, and I blame both the magazine’s editor and the parent company. The Project M Group seems less interested in publishing a good magazine than in creating a “lifestyle” company by luring readers to the web store where you can buy records, books, t-shirts, photographs, and even stereo equipment. In the meantime, they’ve left editor Patrick Prince to continue steering the Goldmine ship. I have no beef with the editor – my infrequent dealings with Prince have been pleasant through the years, but he’s been the editorial overseer for better than ten years (2010-12 and 2015 to now) and he doesn’t seem to realize that any new music has been made since 1979.

The magazine’s editorial focus is long-past stale, and focused on a ridiculously-narrow slate of classic rock artists from the 1960s and ‘70s. Yo, Patrick, do you know what young vinyl fiends are collecting these days? Punk, new wave, and heavy metal bands from the 1980s and ‘90s! You couldn’t tell it from the last couple years of the magazine. Whereas the original Goldmine offered diverse coverage of musical genres, the current incarnation offers little beyond the same old tune, which is as tired as my arthritic knees. I love classic rock and blues music, but I get deeper coverage of bands I know and those I don’t from zines like Ugly Things, Maggot Brain, The Big Takeover, and even British music rags like Vive le Rock.

Goldmine has some talented and insightful writers on its freelance staff, folks like the aforementioned Thompson, Martin Popoff, Lee Zimmerman, Gillian Gaar, and Bill Kopp, among others, but I don’t believe that they’re being used to their full capabilities – especially since the zine has axed Zimmerman’s indie release column (a source of new music for a lot of us) along with the review section that frequently hipped readers to new music. An editorial change of course is needed, or else I don’t see Goldmine making it far beyond its 50th birthday.

Tucked in the pages of the winter issue is the publication’s circulation statement, which to the experienced reader signifies a publication in dire straits. Goldmine prints and circulates less than 6,000 copies of each issue, most of them sent to subscribers. They seem to have all but given up on newsstand circulation, which represents just a few hundred copies of each issue. This, my friends, is not a recipe for a successful regional publication, much less a magazine with a national profile. The record collecting field is wide open right now, and opportunities abound. This “mine” has played out, though, and unless Project M Group discovers a better editorial blueprint (Yo, Enrique, pick up a copy of the U.K. zine Record Collector), Goldmine will too soon wander into the publishing graveyard…

 

Book Review: Mary Lou Sullivan’s Raisin’ Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter (2010)

When guitarist Johnny Winter burst onto the rock music scene in 1969, his arrival was accompanied by a then-unprecedented amount of hype. Signed to Columbia Records with what was reported as the largest advance in history, expectations were unrealistically high for the young albino bluesman from Texas.

Truth is, by the time that Winter was introduced to the record-buying public, he was already a decade-long veteran of local and regional Texas bands, first performing at the young age of fifteen years old. In the 40 years since Winter’s “discovery” and the release of his self-titled debut album, the talented guitarist has endured a fearsome roller-coaster of fame and famine, addiction and alcoholism, acclaim, and indifference…and along the way he has created some great music and influenced a couple generations of guitarists that followed.

Mary Lou Sullivan’s Raisin’ Cain: The Wild and Raucous Story of Johnny Winter

Writer Mary Lou Sullivan first met Winter a quarter-century ago, and has become a trusted confidant to the tight-lipped musical legend. Her biography of Winter, Raisin’ Cain is the result of seven years of work and hundreds of hours of recorded conversations with Winter; the artist’s family and friends; and with musicians like Billy Branch, Jerry Portnoy, Bob Margolin, and Tommy Shannon, among many others. Raisin’ Cain is an authorized biography, meaning that Winter oke-doked the book, and the man even dug up dozens of photos to help compliment Sullivan’s 386 pages of hard-hitting but easy-to-read prose.

Raisin’ Cain touches all the bases of Winter’s lengthy, wild, and raucous 40-years in the business, from his early days on the Texas music circuit to his signing by manager Steve Paul and subsequent performance at the Woodstock Festival; Winter’s short affair with fellow Texan Janis Joplin and the dozens of women that have crossed his path; Winter’s heroin addiction and alcoholism; his record label deals, mismanagement, and re-emergence in the 2000s as an elder statesman of the blues.

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

More than anything, Raisin’ Cain does a great job of capturing the one everlasting love of Winter’s life: blues music. From his early efforts to hold onto a pure blues sound in the face of pressure to rock ‘n’ roll, to his joyful production of Muddy Water’s late-career albums, to the making of nearly all of his recordings through the years, Sullivan captures it all with humor, insight, and deference to her subject.

Writer Mary Lou Sullivan digs as deep into her subject’s life as such great music biographers as Peter Guralnick did with Elvis or Robert Gordon did with Muddy Waters, interviewing everybody from Winter and his equally famous brother Edgar to former bandmates, managers, producers, fellow blues musicians, and many others. Sullivan’s writing style is to simply get out of the way and let those she’s interviewing tell the story, and she has strung together the story of Winter’s life and career masterfully. As a result, Sullivan has delivered the ultimate bio of the enigmatic bluesman. Raisin’ Cain is highly recommended for any Johnny Winter fan, of course, or anybody interested in blues music. (Backbeat Books, published May 1st, 2010)

Buy a copy of the book from Amazon: Mary Lou Sullivan’s Raisin’ Cain

Book Review: Chuck Eddy's Rock and Roll Always Forgets (2011)

Over the past 15 or 20 years, music criticism has become both ubiquitous and mostly disposable. The evolution of this once-hallowed literary endeavor can arguably be traced to the criticism of classical composer George Handel by his contemporary Charles Avison in 1752, although it would be modern scribes like Dave Marsh, Lester Bangs, Paul Williams, and Greg Shaw, among others, that would define and develop the dubious art form known as “rock criticism” during the 1960s and ‘70s.

As writing about music evolved beyond the milieu of handmade zines and poorly-distributed magazines, it would eventually become known as “music journalism,” and album reviews and artist interviews could be read everywhere from syndicated columns and glossy mainstream publications to small-town newspapers. Until recently, many big city newspapers usually had one, if not two writers working the “entertainment beat,” talking about music and such. Not coincidently, the downfall of music criticism can be traced somewhat to the advent of the Worldwide Web, which allowed anybody to be a publisher, and everybody to be a critic, albeit without editors and whether or not they had writing chops, or even a faint knowledge of music history whatsoever.

Now the Reverend has a vested interest in this unfortunate evolution of music criticism, what with being an old-school rockcrit who teethed on Marsh and Bangs and Metzger, and who mentored under, perhaps, the greatest of the early rock ‘n’ roll wordsmiths – the one and only Rick Johnson. But the Rev is no aging Luddite blaming all the publishing industry’s ills on the gosh danged Internet. While the web has definitely upset the traditional applecart as far as music magazines go, it has also enabled low-budget, high-quality media outlets like Blurt to exist.  

But even among the glut of online music zines and personal blogs, a few intelligent voices have managed to rise to the top like cream, writers like Jim DeRogatis, Martin Popoff, Fred Mills, and Chuck Eddy managing to bring new insight and perspective to an increasingly noisy critical realm too often overwhelmed by static and poorly-formed opinions expressed in too-brief reviews. Eddy, in particular, has distinguished himself as a critic to be reckoned with, both as music editor at the Village Voice and as a contributor to such publications as Creem, Rolling Stone, and Spin, among others. Eddy has also penned a couple of highly-entertaining tomes of music criticism and theory – The Accidental Evolution of Rock ‘n’ Roll, and the controversial and often hilarious Stairway to Hell: The 500 Best Heavy Metal Albums in the Universe, which made a strong argument for the inclusion of recordings by funk-soul diva Teena Marie.

Eddy’s latest book, Rock and Roll Always Forgets, is sub-titled “a quarter century of music criticism” and, as such, it collects essays and reviews chosen from throughout Eddy’s 25 years as one of America’s most entertaining and annoying music critics. While it suffers slightly from a lack of an overall concept as his previous books, Eddy has broken everything down to thematic chapters, such as “Predicting The Future,” in which he illustrates the futility of predicting where music is going by using his own past statements, and “Alternative To What,” where Eddy questions the often-mindless pigeonholing of music through reviews/essays on the Ramones, Big Black, SST Records, Nirvana, Marilyn Manson, and others.  

Much of Rock and Roll Always Forgets is entertaining and thought-provoking as only Eddy can achieve. Chapters tackle heavy metal (Metallica, AC/DC, Def Leppard); hip-hop (Sir Mix-A-Lot, Just-Ice, Spoonie Gee); and pop music (Debbie Gibson, Pet Shop Boys) as well as offering perspective on the racial aspects of soul and rap music with fascinating pieces on Eminem, Kid Rock, and the aforementioned Teena Marie. Most of this stuff is well-written and insightful, offering a unique perspective and personality that few music critics are wont to reveal these days. Eddy’s willingness to champion genres often ignored or outright disdained by the typical rock critic, such as metal and rap, is legendary, but he also displays a deft hand at writing about pop and even vintage music.  

Still, it’s easy to find evidence of middle-age dementia creeping into Eddy’s work. His complimentary reviews of contemporary Nashville floss like Mindy McCready, Toby Keith, and the horrible Big & Rich, among others, may read well, but they also provide cause to suspect Eddy’s critical credentials. Sure, Eddy has covered glossy pop like Michael Jackson and the Spice Girls before – and done so without a hint of irony or patronizing opinions – but his dismissal of “pseudo-traditionalist hypocrisy” as the “country party line toed by most rock critics” as an excuse to wax ecstatically about Montgomery Gentry is pure D bullshit.

Like whatever music that you wanna like, Chuck, but the Reverend is old enough to remember when Jon Rich was trying (in vein) to become a rock star in Nashville and Toby Keith was the punchline to a Music Row joke. Country music really was better back in the day of Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings and David Allen Coe, and its current persona as 1970s-era singer/songwriter lite-rock with twang is a slap in the face to those that came before. That’s not a party line to be drawn in the sand, that’s just reality. Coe might be one ugly sumbitch, but he can sing circles around today’s crop of country stars relying on Pro Tools and image consultants to get over with the suburban housewives that buy their records. Don’t try and sell us sour milk and claim that it’s aged whiskey…

Eddy’s critical flights of fancy notwithstanding, he’s a solid writer of no little wit and humor, and if we readers (such as yours truly) can agree to disagree on some of the dreck that he immortalizes in Rock and Roll Always Forgets, we can all find middle ground. As music critics go, Chuck Eddy has always been a bit of a provocateur, and his tendency to risk ridicule with absurdist or unpopular critical stances is what has always made him an engaging and intelligent writer. Rock and Roll Always Forgets certainly includes its share of those questionable moments, but it’s also an entertaining and informative look back at the past quarter-century of popular music. (Duke University Press, published August 10th, 2011)

Review originally published by Blurt magazine, 2011

Book Review: Jerome Blanes’ Outsiders by Insiders (1997/2009)

Unless you’re a 1960s rock aficionado, or a specific collector of the era’s freakbeat and garage rock vinyl, it’s unlikely that you’ve ever heard of the Outsiders. One of the fave mid-to-late ‘60s bands in the Netherlands, the Outsiders were rock ‘n’ roll pioneers, teen idols, studio innovators, and ready-for-primetime musicians who, sadly, never broke out of Amsterdam, much less made their way to London, Los Angeles, or New York City where they may have found a larger audience. After my review of garage-rock legend Greg Prevost’s recent book, On The Street I Met A Dog for the Rock and Roll Globe, his publisher Massimo del Pozzo sent me a copy of Jerome Blanes’ excellent tome Outsiders by Insiders from Misty Lane HQ in Italy.

Jerome Blanes’ Outsiders by Insiders

Originally published in Dutch in 1997 and later updated and translated for republishing in English in 2009 by Misty Lane Books, Outsiders by Insiders is a timeless look behind the scenes at one of the best bands to be shrouded in rock ‘n’ roll obscurity. The Outsiders basically existed from 1965-69, with the band’s earliest Dutch chart success experienced during their first couple of years. They released thirteen charting singles during this period, as well as three full-length albums – one a collection of their singles (Songbook) – and their self-titled 1967 LP featuring a studio side and a live side, which was perfect as the Outsiders were known across the Netherlands as a dynamic and electrifying live act.

The band’s de facto swansong was their third album, 1968’s C.Q., which initially sold little or nothing but has since garnered status as a classic psych-garage-rock album that deserves space in your collection. Whereas most European bands were falling over their amps in an attempt to mimic the Beatles, the Outsiders drew inspiration from the R&B-influenced bad-boys in the Pretty Things and the Rolling Stones, even opening for the Stones for one of their 1966 Dutch appearances. The best-known Outsiders line-up was comprised of singer/songwriter Wally Tax, guitarists Ronnie Splinter and Tom Krabbendam, bassist Appie Rammers, and drummer Leendert Busch, with Frank Beek taking Rammers’ place from 1968-69.

Blanes does a wonderful job with the book, Outsiders by Insiders providing an oral history of not only the band, but the Dutch rock ‘n’ roll scene altogether, going into exhaustive detail about the musical and cultural evolution experienced by the Netherlands during the 1960s (societal growing pains that were similar to those in both the U.K. and the U.S.). Years of interviews are compiled into a coherent and succinct narrative that crams a lot of life and energy into roughly 170 pages. Blanes conducted extensive interviews with the band members, friends and hangers-on, and managers and promoters, and has outlined a fantastic story about starry-eyed teens searching for fame and fortune.

Wally Tax of The Outsiders

 

Sadly, it was never meant to be for the Outsiders, whose most effective manager was also unable to take them to a higher level of success. Although the band made a few performances in France, they never received an opportunity to play in England, which may have been more receptive to their harder-edged R&B-tinged garage-rock sound. Blanes mentions but a little of the friction that occurred between the band members and, by all accounts, the original Outsiders stayed relatively tight throughout their lives, and many continued playing music well into the new millennium. Short-sighted management was slow to recognize changes in the musical currents that were occurring internationally circa 1968 or so, and a lone U.S. visit by the Outsiders did little to advance their careers while less creative Dutch contemporaries like Tee Set and Shocking Blue enjoyed massive late ‘60s U.S. radio hits.

Blanes work on Outsiders by Insiders is impressive, the book an easy read providing a comprehensive history of the band. Although I haven’t seen the original Dutch version of the book, Misty Lane’s edition is as swanky as the aforementioned Greg Prevost book, with heavy glossy paper and a wealth of B&W photos of the band, memorabilia, and other rock ‘n’ roll ephemera sure to please any hardcore collector. The final chapter includes sections on each band member and what they did after the Outsiders, while an extensive discography and session notes provide those with a love of minutiae with the cheap thrills they crave. Overall, Outsiders by Insiders is a solid rock biography that has flown under the radar for far too long, as have the Outsiders themselves. My curiosity piqued by the story told within these pages, I sought out the  Outsiders albums on CD and have not been disappointed.  

Misty Lane Magazine

Along with the Outsiders book, Misty Lane head man Massimo del Pozzo also sent the most recent copy of their Misty Lane magazine. Although the cover date on issue #21 is 2007, the music that del Pozzo and his contributors write about is timeless, so the zine offers a great read despite its vintage! Features in this issue cover 1960s and ‘70s-era artists like the Jefferson Airplane, Blues Magoos, The Choir/Raspberries, Blues Project, Crabby Appleton, and Leaf Hound, vinyl from all of which is heavily traded on the collectors’ market. The issue also includes coverage of some bona fide obscurities known only to the most dedicated of crate-diggers, bands like Rising Storm, Sir Lord Baltimore, Chosen Few, and Third World War.

The zine also includes an interview with Ugly Things publisher Mike Stax, currently of the band the Loons and previously of the Tell-Tale Hearts, which goes a long way towards outlining the artist’s musical obsessions. I’m a Neil Merryweather fan, but even I didn’t know about his early albums with the band Merryweather, a situation quickly fixed by a moderately-expensive sojourn to Discogs. The zine’s writing is enthusiastic and informative, and the contributors track down original band members when available to get their stories directly. There’s the usual bunch of record reviews and other pop culture material, presented in a somewhat old-school graphic format, on glossy paper with lots of color photos. The best thing is that Massimo has told me that he’ll be resurrecting the zine sometime later this year, which is good news, indeed! Check out the Misty Lane website for more details on all the books, zines, and groovy records they have available…

Wally Tax photo by A. Vente / A. & F. van Geelen - Beeld en Geluidwiki - Gallery: Fanclub

I Come To Bury Caesar: Creem Magazine #2 (2023)

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.” - William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, 1599

When I was a teenage rock ‘n’ roll fiend growing up in the rural suburbs of Nashville at the dawn of the 1970s, Creem magazine was literally my doorway to the world of music. Launched in Detroit in 1969 by publisher Barry Kramer and editor Tony Reay, the rag’s ‘Blue Collar’ irreverence appealed to my ‘Rust Belt’ upbringing, and writers like Dave Marsh, Lester Bangs, Jaan Uhelszki, Richard Meltzer, Jeffrey Morgan and others provided my education in rock music. By the mid-‘70s, Creem was shuffling close to a quarter-million copies a month out the door, second only to Rolling Stone among music zines at the time.

The rag’s editorial focus, unfettered by advertiser manipulation or the desires of the recording industry, meant that they could – and did – write about artists like the New York Dolls, Lou Reed, David Bowie, Roxy Music, and Blondie long before they were discovered by more mainstream publications. When a second generation of writers and editors came along in the 1980s, including Dave DiMartino, Susan Whithall, Rick Johnson, Bill Holdship, and John Kordosh, Creem introduced readers to artists like the Replacements and R.E.M. From 1969 through 1989, Creem magazine was an integral part of American popular culture.

21st Century Creem

The magazine struggled in the years after Barry Kramer’s death in 1981, and although the staff published some good work during the decade, ownership changed hands, Creem moved to the West Coast and, by 1989, it was kaput (the less said about a short-lived and dismal 1990 NYC-based version of the rag, the better). Long story short, there was plenty of litigation, and various hijinks ensued before Barry’s son (and heir to the Creem throne) J.J. Kramer gained ownership of the magazine. A documentary film about the early days, Creem: American’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll Magazine, was released in 2019 to rave reviews.

As inevitably as the sun rises in the east, Creem magazine itself was resurrected in 2022 as a quarterly, subscription-only “lifestyle” publication which resembles the original rag not a whit. Kramer brought in professional magazine wranglers from the executive suites of Vice magazine, Entertainment Weekly, and Rolling Stone to publish the new 21st century Creem; Jaan Uhelszki was hired as Editor-At-Large to provide a link to the zine’s notorious past. A website was thrown together, tee-shirts featuring the magazine’s classic, Robert Crumb-designed mascot “Boy Howdy” were screen-printed and put out for sale, and a weekly email newsletter primed the pump for a print version of the magazine.

Creem In Print

When subscriptions became available for a Creem print version, I swallowed hard and coughed up the ridiculous sum of $80 for four quarterly issues. I’m halfway through my one-year Creem subscription and, so far I am not moved. With the third issue of the new Creem about to be published, I thought it the right time to review what they’d done so far, and it ain’t pretty. The current iteration of the zine has little of the wit or irreverence that made the original publication a rock ‘n’ roll media legend. None of the current crop of writers has jumped off the page, grabbed me by the ears, and poked at my eyeballs with a number 2 pencil to make me pay attention.

The rag’s physical size – an unwieldy 10.5”x13.5” – provides a lot of space for editorial content, which is squandered by the over-use of full-page photographs and illustrations. It’s a pet peeve of mine when magazines overly rely on pages of photos to fill up space – I perceive it as a lack of creative vigor – and the second issue of the reborn Creem sitting on my desk right now features roughly 40 mondo-sized pages of photos, or nearly 1/3 of the issue’s 128 pages. An otherwise interesting twelve-page story on the tragic final days of singer/songwriter David Berman (Silver Jews, Purple Mountains) is littered by six full pages of unnecessarily large photos and a seventh introductory page that add little of value beyond the story’s other four smaller photos.

An Awkward, Oversized Print Format

This is a minor cavil, perhaps, but photo galleries like “Be Our Guest” or the glut of pix embedded in the barely-there story “Freak On A Leash,” for example, are the print equivalent of website slideshows, which went out of style a decade ago. Admittedly, the awkward, oversized print format allows for some fantastic full-color photo reproduction, and the zine’s overall graphic design is reasonably contemporary, efficient, and yet exciting. The publication relies too often on illustrations to accompany the stories – three of the issue’s dozen features offer bad artwork to open the story, others over-utilize photos.

As for the editorial content, it hasn’t been all that compelling over the first two issues. Number two has an interesting story on how the CIA stole $5 million from classic rockers Creedence Clearwater Revival, and the aforementioned story on Berman serves its purpose, if providing little insight into the artist’s work or the lifelong depression that led to his suicide. Three pages of Justin Borucki’s original tintype photography of heavy metal musicians is at least three pages too few, considering its uniqueness and stark imagery. They could have taken pages away from illustrations and featured more of Borucki’s work. “Complacence Rock,” an article on wannabe billionaire rock stars, is a nifty bit of social commentary, but otherwise much of the content is hipster posturing and disposable trifles.    

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

Unless the next two issues of my Creem sub really knock me down and drag me to the record store, it’s unlikely that I’ll be re-subscribing. At the cost of a double sawbuck per issue, there’s too little bang for too many bucks. When I cough up $12 for a copy of Third Man Records’ Maggot Brain zine, there’s usually three or four articles of interest, and something about an obscure artist that makes me spend my money on. With shipping, a copy of Ugly Things cost me nearly $20 for the zine and another $100 for the records I buy after reading the issue.
 
Personally, that’s my benchmark for a music magazine – does it tell me something new about artists I’m already familiar with, and does it introduce me to artists I didn’t already know, getting me excited about new music I’ve yet to hear. I realize that you can never go back to the old daze [sic], and I’m probably an old man shaking his fist at the clouds. If you dig the “new” Creem, go for it – I won’t judge you – but I’m afraid that they’re no longer singing for me, so I’ll look for my cheap thrills elsewhere… (www.creem.com)

Full Disclosure: My first editor and mentor “Ranger” Rick Johnson got me into the pages of Creem in the early 1980s, and I sold them a handful of humorous reviews of books, TV shows, and such for the “Media Cool” section. The zine went bankrupt owing me something like $15 and I got legal paperwork for years afterwards as a legit creditor. I promise that this outstanding debt did nothing to color my impressions of the magazine’s new incarnation.

 

Book Review: John Dougan’s The Who Sell Out (2006)

The Who Sell Out is, undeniably, one of the legendary rock band’s most adventuresome yet lighthearted of albums. A tribute to the notorious pirate radio stations that operated off the coast of England during the mid-‘60s, The Who Sell Out mixes Pete Townshend’s uncanny ear for melody (songs like “Glittering Girl” and the Top Ten hit “I Can See For Miles”) with made-up jingles and fake radio commercials that echo the sounds then being heard by U.K. teens from stations like Radio London.

John Dougan’s The Who Sell Out

Author John Dougan attempts to dissect and analyze this classic album with his book The Who Sell Out, part of Continuum’s rightfully acclaimed 33 1/3 series of books. The result of Dougan’s efforts is a delightful trip in the wayback machine to the swinging ‘60s of London and a British music scene dominated by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Kinks, and the Who. Dougan sets the stage for the story with a personal recollection, talking about the differences between him and his father, not only in their musical preferences, but also in their relative degree of musical fanaticism. Whereas family and obligation caused his father to put aside music as an adult, the younger Dougan – not unlike many of us children of the ‘50s – became hopelessly addicted to rock ‘n’ roll, an affliction that the author has obviously carried to the present day.

It was his unquenchable thirst for new music … a trait also shared by many collectors and critics … that led Dougan to discover the British Invasion and, subsequently, the Who. In a strange twist of fate, however, it wasn’t until he was in his 20s that this hardcore Who fan finally added a copy of The Who Sell Out to his personal library. Such are the fortunes of the music fan, and when Dougan describes living in a “cultural backwater” in Massachusetts, many of us can identify. I remember living in a rural suburb of Nashville, my lifeline to the outside world consisting of copies of Creem magazine, dog-eared by constant reading, and the irregular packages of promo albums sent for review by my editor Rick Johnson at Sunrise.

Dougan lays the groundwork for the recording of The Who Sell Out by going into the history of the UK pirate radio scene with some detail. I find this aspect quite fascinating, the thought that a handful of illegal offshore stations like Radio London and Radio Caroline could have such a cultural impact is mind-boggling. There was nothing like this phenomenon in the United States – pirate stations stateside were erratic, disappearing frequently, and were greatly limited by America’s size and geography. Dougan provides interesting details on the history of England’s state-sponsored media, the BBC’s reluctance to embrace rock ‘n’ roll an important deciding factor in the creation and popularity of the U.K. pirates.

Dougan’s discussion of ‘60s-era art and art theory is equally fascinating, his exploration of the influence of these factors on Pete Townshend’s work ties together disparate snapshots previously provided by the band’s biographers like Dave Marsh and Richard Barnes. No artist lives in a vacuum, and Townshend was certainly no exception, and the opportunities to immerse one’s self in radical and thought-provoking cultural scenes during the era were seemingly endless. There was an almost unbelievable co-mingling of art and commerce in those days, unthinkable by today’s “alternative” mindset, but much of what we think of as classic works from the ‘60s were fresh, original and unabashedly commercial.

It was from this miasma of art and commerce that Pete Townshend conceived of The Who Sell Out. Townshend’s aim was not, as the album’s title implies, to actually “sell out” but rather to offer listeners, as Dougan describes it, “a celebration of the zeitgeist, a joyous reaffirmation of the discrete cultural elements that had defined British postwar popular culture and the Who as a pop art musical experience.” Townshend correctly found British pop culture to be less cynical and more positively-oriented than that of America, and it’s true that the British have, and continue to embrace a much wider range and diversity of cultural media.

Dougan recounts the creative and technical obstacles that were overcome during the making of The Who Sell Out and, sadly, tells of the album’s immediate commercial failure. A bit too cerebral, perhaps, for mainstream audiences, the album’s fortunes waned after the last chords of “I Can See For Miles” disappeared from the charts. Undaunted, the Who would go onto greater triumphs and tragedies but, strangely enough, The Who Sell Out continues to hang around, 40 years after its initial release. An intriguing and many-layered work of art, the album continues to win converts and influence people long after its “sell by” date has expired. Just as importantly, Dougan outlines how the album was a vital work, aiding the Who’s transformation from a chart-topping pop band into a legendary rock band.

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

The Who Sell Out is a worthy addition to the 33 1/3 series. Dougan’s prose is lively and informative, his insights well-considered and crafted by spending most of a lifetime living with and considering this often overlooked album. His account of the cultural forces that helped shape Townshend’s work is immensely important in a historical context, and I can see myself referring back to this tome in the future. Unlike many of the well-written books in the 33 1/3 series, Dougan’s The Who Sell Out provides a textural framework that actually enhances the listening experience rather than merely supporting an album’s critical credentials. Dougan’s efforts made a fellow Who fanatic listen to The Who Sell Out with fresh ears, and for that I thank him! (Continuum 33 1/3 series, published September 15th, 2006)

Review originally published by the Trademark of Quality (TMQ) blog

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Book Review: Dave Van Ronk’s The Mayor of MacDougal Street (2005)

He’s not a household name, although his influence on folk music falls just short of Woodie Guthrie and Bob Dylan. A charismatic performer and tireless champion of traditional folk and blues, Dave Van Ronk was one of the leading lights of the early ‘60s folk movement that was based in New York City’s Greenwich Village.

Dave Van Ronk’s The Mayor of MacDougal Street

The Mayor of MacDougal Street is Van Ronk’s infectious and friendly memoir. Written with help from, and completed after his death in 2002 by music historian Elijah Wood, Van Ronk spins tales and unravels yarns that document his evolution from a musically-obsessed high-school dropout to his role as a mover and shaker in the admittedly small, insular world of folk music. A self-taught musician, Van Ronk launched his career in the early ‘50s as a died-in-the-wool traditionalist, playing guitar and banjo in jazz and Dixieland bands in New York and New Jersey.

Van Ronk quickly figured out that this road led towards starvation, so he cast aside his “carefully cultivated jazz snobbery” and taught himself the finger-picking guitar style practiced by folk musicians. By mid-decade, he was a Washington Square regular, playing in the park with musicians like Barry Kornfeld and Dick Rosmini. His weekly (free) performances in the park led to marginally paying gigs in the clubs and coffeehouses around the Village and, eventually, to record albums and a fair degree of notoriety.

Van Ronk and Wald do an excellent job of capturing the gradual build-up, short “boom” period and eventual decline of the Village folk scene of the ‘60s. Van Ronk explains the importance and influence of leftist politics on folk music, the roots and history of the genre and introduces many of the major players. Along the way, he shares memories of talented musicians that he played alongside and those that he mentored (or those that mentored him). Bob Dylan, Tom Paxton, Phil Ochs, Odetta, Mississippi John Hurt, Joni Mitchell and Rev. Gary Davis are among those friends and colleagues Van Ronk talks about.

Van Ronk colors the Greenwich Village folk scene with many details and memories, discussing folk music publications like Broadside and Caravan that he wrote for, as well as the influence of visionaries like Moe Asch, Alan Lomax and Harry Smith on the genre. The style here is conversational and lighthearted, Van Ronk’s self-effacing humor and refusal to take his experiences too seriously making his memoirs an enjoyable and informative read.

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

The Mayor of MacDougal Street is vital not only for those who love folk music, but also for those of us who enjoy music at all. The styles performed by Van Ronk – traditional folk and folk blues – are deeply intertwined with rock, rap and country music to the point where it’s difficult to separate them. Dave Van Ronk understood this musical cross-pollination decades ago and his career of almost 50 years is a testament to the enduring nature of folk music and its roots. (Da Capo Press, 2005)

Review originally published by Alt.Culture.Guide™

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Book Review: R. Crumb’s The Complete Record Cover Collection (2011)

Cartoonist Robert Crumb came to prominence during the 1960s, contributing significantly to the birth and evolution of underground “comix” with his highly-stylized and uniquely-exaggerated artwork. One of the founders of Zap Comix, Crumb created the nearly-ubiquitous “Keep On Truckin’“ comic, which would become a 1970s pop culture icon, as well as such memorable counter-culture characters as Mr. Natural, Fritz the Cat, and the Devil Girl.

Crumb is also among the most controversial illustrators of his era, often slammed by critics for the purported misogynist nature of many of his sexually-charged, fantasy-fueled strips. Charges of racism have also been leveled against Crumb, who is guilty at a minimum of racial insensitivity for his stereotyped portrayals of African-American men and women. None of these criticisms dilute a powerful and prolific body of work, however, Crumb’s mainstream comics such as American Splendor – in collaboration with writer Harvey Pekar – or The Book of Genesis, the artist’s interpretation of Bible stories, rising to the level of genius.    

R. Crumb’s The Complete Record Cover Collection

Seldom mentioned in any discussion of Crumb’s artistic milieu is his love of music and his work in preserving the history of the blues, jazz, and country music. An enthusiastic collector with an impressive library of 78rpm recordings in the aforementioned genres, Crumb is also a semi-professional musician. R. Crumb and his Cheap Suit Serenaders – a revolving roster of like-minded amateur instrumentalists that has included fellow cartoonist Robert Armstrong and filmmaker Terry Zwigoff – have released three albums of old-timey blues, jazz, bluegrass, and swing music from the 1920s and ‘30s. Crumb played mandolin with the East River String Band on several recordings, and has also put together a number of compilation albums featuring songs culled from his personal collection of 78s.  

Crumb is also well-known, albeit underrated, as an illustrator of record album covers. Working in a medium where, perhaps, illustrator William Stout is his only rival, Crumb has brought a unique aesthetic to his album cover artwork that is both steeped in tradition and informed by the underground cartoon work he created in the 1960s. The best of Crumb’s album cover and other music-oriented artwork has been gathered in a collectors’ edition titled The Complete Album Cover Collection. A beautifully-illustrated, sparsely-annotated, roughly 10” square hardback (around the size of a 78rpm record), Crumb’s work is certainly to be of interest to any fan of old-school blues and jazz music.

Big Brother & the Holding Company’s Cheap Thrills

Perhaps Crumb’s best-known album cover is Big Brother & the Holding Company’s Cheap Thrills, the 1968 album that introduced the world to singer Janis Joplin. Featuring a series of panels that depict the album’s song titles, the cover draws its inspiration from the psychedelic ‘60s San Francisco rock scene that the band came up in, and is actually one of Crumb’s least-entertaining covers. More inspired is the artist’s cover for the 1976 compilation Harmonica Blues, an album of blues, jazz, and country harmonica performances from the 1920s and ‘30s that, while sparse at first glance, perfectly frames a solitary figure walking down a long country road, presumably in the south, playing away on his harmonica, his back turned to the viewer. Created for Crumb’s friend Nick Perls, who owned Yazoo Records, it is a work of enduring elegance.

Through the years, Crumb would draw almost a dozen-and-a-half album covers for Yazoo releases, many of them included in The Complete Album Cover Collection and nearly all of them similarly inspired works. Among my personal favorites is the cover for the Blind Boy Fuller collection Truckin’ My Blues Away, the Casey Bill Weldon and Kokomo Arnold collection Bottleneck Guitar Trendsetters of the 1930s, and the label’s History of Jazz compilation. Crumb also did some brilliant work for other labels, including archival specialists Arhoolie Records and Barrelhouse Records, the latter label’s Maxwell Street Alley Blues a two-toned marvel.

Crumb’s immersion in music illustration doesn’t begin and end with the aforementioned album covers. The Complete Album Cover Collection also displays a wealth of Crumb artwork, including logos for labels like Ordinary Records, Blue Goose, and Oboy Records as well as the actual album labels themselves, advertisements, artist portraits, and more. His illustrations for Michael Bloomfield’s “Me And Big Joe” article, which originally appeared in High Times magazine, will have me scouring eBay for a copy of the 1980 issue. Not all of Crumb’s works are strictly illustrated, either, covers for the Cheap Suit Serenaders albums integrating antique-looking photos with colorful drawn artwork.       

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

The Complete Album Cover Collection won’t appeal to all blues fans, and some may be offended by Crumb’s bawdier, more suggestive artwork (mostly PG-13 by today’s standards, but also some R-rated material contained herein). There is surprisingly little art duplicated here from Crumb’s Heroes of the Blues trading cards (and accompanying jazz and country sets), or from the hardback cover collection of the cards. For those who appreciate Crumb’s musical obsessions, however, The Complete Album Cover Collection would make a welcome addition to any blues book collection. (W.W. Norton & Company, 96-page hardback, published November 7, 2011)

Also on That Devil Music: R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Country book review

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