Babs Curates The Dead Screed Scrolls

 

You might think [assumes Babs - Ed.] that the biggest concert ever in New Jersey was by Bruce Springsteen, Bon Jovi, or some other homegrown Jersey group, but you’d be wrong. The biggest show was by a group that hailed from the west coast: The Grateful Dead. On Sept. 3, 1977 — the Saturday of Labor Day Weekend that year — the Dead headlined an outdoor show at Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey. It attracted more than 100,000 people. The New Riders of the Purple Sage and The Marshall Tucker Band also performed. And I was there!

Son Of Sam (Sam not pictured)

In 1977, I was thirty-years-old, married with two children and living in New York City. Thinking back at the summer of 1977, it was a horrific and chaotic time in New York. Serial killer Son of Sam [left - Ed.] was shooting lovers in parked cars, arsonists set Bronx buildings on fire nightly, and the infamous New York City blackout of ’77 led to a night of looting and violence. Worsening a grave situation, it was one of the hottest summers on record.

Culturally, the music scene in New York City was fragmented as Studio 54, home of the world’s most famous disco, opened in April ’77. Down on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the punk rock scene was raging at CBGB’s.  In the world of popular music, Andy Gibb’s I Just Want to Be Your Everything was the number one song. With all the great albums available in record stores, Barry Manilow Live was the bestseller of the week. But, The Grateful Dead movie debuted in theaters in New York City and Los Angeles in June, and their latest studio album, Terrapin Station, was released in July.

My husband Jerry and I had the Labor Day weekend to ourselves, as my parents took our children to Disneyland. So we decided on a road trip to New Jersey, and see a Dead show.

The week prior to the show, it became a media circus, when the Mayor of Englishtown tried and failed to stop the show with legal action, and during a TV news interview, he acted as if Armageddon was coming. The media hyped it as a looming Altamont-like disaster.

A blanket, yesterday.

The morning of the show we drove out to New Jersey, armed with two coolers filled with sandwiches, snacks, various drinks, a wine bag (remember those?), an ounce of primo Columbian buds, and some magic “shrooms”. We also brought our favorite outdoor Dead show blanket; a huge olive drab green one, made of thick wool, that we bought at an army surplus store in the late 60s.

If that blanket could talk…

Be that as it may.

We found a great spot about 20 yards away and to the right of the stage, With our blanket spread out, lounging comfortably with our cooler of goodies spread out, the New Riders of the Purple Sage were introduced, and played a very nice set.

While waiting for The Marshall Tucker Band to come on, two girls in their late teens, who looked like lost souls, asked us if they could sit on the corner of our blanket. They seemed liked nice kids, so we told them to sit down. They thanked us, and told us they got separated from their friends. One of them lit a joint, and we started talking. The conversation went something like this.

Teen girls not given drugs by Babs, yesterday.

Girl #1: This is our first show!
Girl #2: Yeah, this is far out!
Girl #1: When was your first show?
Me: 1968 in LA.
Jerry: 1967 in San Francisco, and the Dead have been following me around ever since [excellent joke - Ed.].
Girl #1: California, that’s so cool!
Girl #2: 1967 and 1968? Wow, you guys are old.
Me: I’m the same age as Bob Weir, we were both born in 1947.
Girl #2: Bob is that old?
Jerry (rolling his eyes): Yeah, he’s an old man.
Girl #1: We’ve got some acid, want some?
Jerry: Where did you get it?
Girl #2: From a guy we met outside the racetrack, selling acid.
Me: We have some psilocybin, it might be better than acid from an unknown source.
Both nodded their heads, and Jerry handed out dried shrooms to all of us.

The Marshall Tucker Band came out, and played beautifully. To our surprise, The Marshall Tucker Band, live, sounded exactly like their records. After the Marshall Tucker set, the two girls went to the bathroom, and disappeared, never to be seen again.

As Raceway Park sizzled below a tenacious late-afternoon sun, the promoter, John Scherr introduced members of the Dead individually and then announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the finest band in the land, the Grateful Dead!”

A polished Promised Land kicked off the show. The band was in fine form, following up with They Love Each Other and Me and My Uncle. Weir then urges the surging crowd to take a step back while Keith, Phil, Mickey and Bill play a light-hearted shuffle.

Bob: “Alright, now we're gonna play everybody's favorite fun game, move back!... Now when I tell you to take a step back, everybody, take a step back! Right? Right! Okay, take a step back! And take another step back! And take yet another step back! And another step back! Take a step back! Doesn't everybody feel better?... Whatdaya mean, NO?!?”

“Take a step back” has always been a prelude to a transcendent masterpiece, as it was in Raceway Park. The Dead confidently advance into one of their signature gems of ‘77, Mississippi Half-Step. Jerry’s trembling voice merrily sings the verses, and his solos ignite a mass dancing frenzy on a track built for drag racing and funny cars. Jerry belts out the chorus one more time, “Half-step Mississippi uptown toodeloo. Hello baby, I’m gone goodbye. Have a cup of rock and rye. Farewell to you old Southern skies, I’m on my way, on my way, on my way-ay-eee!”, and a monstrous audience roar filled the humid skies over Raceway Park.

The other sublime performances from the first set were Peggy O. The music has a lovely, hypnotic swing as Jerry serenades the faithful. After a mellow Friend of the Devil, Raceway Park came alive as Music Never Stopped slams the set shut for an overheated horde of hippie humanity.

Mary Tyler Moore cooling off, yesterday.

As Deadheads baked (and got baked) between sets in Raceway Park, millions of Americans were preparing for an emotional evening of television. The final episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show aired on this Sunday night. America had to kiss their wholesome girl next door goodbye. For those who preferred debauchery and improvisational theatre over American fluff and puff, the Grateful Dead took the stage for their second set.
        
Bertha > Good Lovin’ gets the good times rolling again as Bobby preaches for good lovin’ in China and Russia. It’s aces back-to-back as the band smokes Loser. Garcia’s solo cries and moans. Next up was Weir’s pride and joy, Estimated Prophet, and the stage is set for a transition into an Eyes of the World that would charm and bedazzle future generations of Deadheads. The Raceway Park Eyes featured Garcia in his less-is-more mode.

Continuing to effortlessly display their diversity, the Dead romp through Samson and Delilah and glide into He’s Gone. Despite vocal flubs and having to replay the instrumental break because they missed the “Going where the winds don’t blow so strange” verse, it’s a fine performance. The transition into Not Fade Away is smooth as the Dead spend nine minutes building the anticipation for the first verse—games of cat and mouse—two steps east and two steps west, a sudden surge followed by a total retreat and the march towards “I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna be.”

At one point during the second set, Bob Weir told the audience: "We just got word that some people are trying to tear down our speaker towers, and, uh, you can't be doing that, man!” There was something about the way he said it, in his earnest laid back, stoned hippie manner, that sent Jerry and me into hysterics, and it became an inside joke of ours.

Out comes a whistle, and Bobby “Ringmaster” Weir blows it to ignite the first Truckin’ in three years. This is a Hall of Fame rock and roll moment. After Garcia goes berserk, Phil thumps bass leads on the road to an improvised crescendo ending. The Dead left the stage.

Stationary terrapin, yesterday.

When they returned for their encore, Phil Lesh bellowed, “All right! Woo-hoooo! All right, ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to play a little ditty from our newest album at your record stores currently.” Ah, the good old days, when we’d hustle on down to the local record shop and flip through album bins. The “little ditty” Phil was referring to,  was Terrapin Station, an eleven-minute encore.

With the mass exodus out of Raceway Park underway, thousands upon thousands of fans marched to their cars as the majestic Terrapin refrain echoed through the hot New Jersey night. It was an experience that any rookie or seasoned Deadhead would never forget. Raceway Park was a magnificent performance.

To qualify for Dick’s Picks Vol. 15, a long out of print 3CD set of the complete Raceway Park show, tell us who you think is the funniest person ever.

Kreemé's Mouth Organ Madness Dept.

Foam-O-Graph© - Th' Eye Chart O' Th' Mind™!

In what promises to be a popliar FoamFeaturette™, th' IoF©'s Executive Diversity And Inclusivity Officer Kreemé [19 my ass - Ed.] chooses her favorite harmonica-type albums! Taking a break from administering my varicose vein massage (I didn't have one before she started), we chatted poolside about her passion for the mouth organ.

FT3 The harmonica is the only instrument you play by sucking and blowing.

K Does my sucking blow, or my blowing suck?

FT3 (controls coughing fit with difficulty) I see you brung some albums with you.

K Albums? I got TikTok©.

FT3 These albums here. They're your favorites. (whispers) Come on, sweetcakes, pretend. We have to justify your presence somehow.

K (makes icky face) Who's old creepy guy?

FT3 He's a virtuoso.

K With his looks, I'm not surprised.

FT3 Uh - 

K Hey! Look! My tongue got a suntan!

[TAPE ENDS]

Say, fellows! Can you identify the long-playing elpee 12" vinyl albums in Kreemés Kollection? Impress your lowlife business associates at the tattoo parlor with your recondite musical knowledge by listing ONE of them in a comment! Oboy! Some fun, huh, gang?

Delta Del Dept. - Flotation Is Groovy

Delta Del poses in front of home, yesterday

I think [muses Delta Del - Ed.] my interest in the floatin' life really began when I was a zygote [at left, yesterday - Ed].  I suppose there was the water chute ride that propelled my spermy self to it’s eggy destiny, but I can barely remember that.  It was certainly a thrill, but over all too soon.  As a zygote, the time for childish thrills was behind me, while ahead lay many a challenge.  But that’s a story for another day.  Suffice to say mama’s waters eventually broke, and I surfed that break all the way to the beach.

Fast-forward fifty years.  Springtime in Northamptonshire and at Braunston marina a re-formed zygote is shopping for boats.  I had decided that the floatin' life was the life for me.  I needed to get back to the river.  I’d been a teenage angler, a failed fisherman in fact, interested in rivers not fish.  It’s not that I don't like fish, in fact I think they’re super-cool.  I gave up fishing exactly because I like fish.

Back then I used to get up at 4 a.m. in June just so I could sit by a mirror-calm lake on a perfect English summer morning, a tranced-out trippy hour or five, rarely interrupted by any annoying fish-type action.  I also had a friend with a tidal mooring and a small sea-going boat down on the South coast.  The Solent at dawn on another of those mirror-calm summer mornings, an amazing place to be.  And in August 1970, against strict instructions from his mum, we took the boat through the mirror to the Isle of Wight.  But that’s a story for another day.  Suffice to say we didnt make it to the festival site because moon turn the tides and, anxious not to be late for our tea, we had to surf that break all the way back to the mainland beach.

Boats and water played an important part in my early years.  As a teenager I became obsessed with the philosopher-poet James Marshall.  His assertion that floatation is groovy sparked a lifetime of personal experiments, some involving boats.  I can confirm that floatation is indeed groovy, although working at low tide on Bournemouth beach, summer of ’72, I failed to find a single jellyfish prepared to back me up on this.  One did try to sting me with a story about their grandmother needing an operation, but I saw right through them.  And on the subject of tricky sea-creatures, low tide in Ocean Beach, San Diego, summer of ’97, I met a Californian mermaid.  Right this way, she smiled.  And lured me into El Niño’s salty embrace.  They said it’s impossible for a man to live and breathe underwater.  They were right.  I tried it once, briefly, it didn’t work out.  But that’s a story for another day.  Suffice to say a friendly incoming wave broke me free of Niño grasp and mermaid spell, and I surfed that break all the way to the beach.

Never did see that fishgirl again, though I went lookin for her almost every day that summer.  She’d be right at home here with me now in England, swimmin alongside my narrowboat throwing cute dolphin shapes and slappin that pretty little tail.  Actually quite a large tail, half of her body in fact.  But kinda cute and real trippy when the light hits the scales.  Me and that mermaid we’d cruise along fine at a dreamlike pace.  That’s narrowboat pace, like walking without moving your legs, or your fish half, an almost frictionless glide.  Time to space out and wonder at the mad proliferations of summer or the frosted perfections of a winter landscape.  A journey that by car would take a couple of hours, by boat might take a couple of weeks.  And what’s the hurry?  Narrowboats move at 18th century speeds, past 19th century industrial architecture, through 21st century cities and back out into a world of heron and pike.  In the clear waters of winter, when few boats move around to disturb the sediment, I see the pike waiting and watching among the reeds.  And as I float by, the pike stares back, with classic you-lookin-at-me? insolence.  I watch the heron’s throat bulge as a less formidable fish realises just how bad things have suddenly become.  I spot a grass snake swimming across the river, it’s head held above the water, it’s movements unchanged as it glides from the water up the bank and into the fields.  I see this stuff because I move at snail’s pace, and like a snail I take my shelter with me.  I don’t visit London, I live there for a week or three.  One day I walk from my home to a blues club in Soho, a week later I walk from that same home to a village shop in sleepy Oxfordshire.

In fact these days I have a mooring in rural Wiltshire and spend most of my time there, having spent the previous ten years constantly on the move.  And the water-gypsy lifestyle aint all dreamy perfection.  There’s work to be done, wrestling with manual swing-bridges and leaking locks, hauling on mooring ropes against wind and river currents, winter hands frozen rigid trying to remove discarded allsorts wrapped around the propellor, humping sacks of coal and cylinders of gas, emptying containers full of piss and shit, dealing with junkies hanging around city locks, dodging missiles aimed by bored youths.  But in the end, floatation really is groovy.  And so I took to the water like a duck, and like my father before me.  He was a wartime mariner, a mechanic on aircraft carriers.  There was an album of photos, taken by him on his journey home from the western Pacific at the war’s end.  I was fascinated by it.  A big, padded, important, grown-ups’ album, full of ships and boats and grinning sailors and foreign lands and seas.  And back home from the war, daddy had gotten lucky on dry land, found a job fixing sewing machines in a factory full of ladies working sewing machines.  Maybe a dozen male engineers and labourers, and fifty bored females with unreliable machines needing constant attention.  I stand before you today as proof that he surfed that break all the way to the beach.

[Floatation compilations to surface in comments section later - Ed.]

Bobby Darin's Krautrock Nightmare

Only one of these dudes was called The King

Darin died at 37, shockingly young. It was the early seventies, and his career was moving with the times into a more reflective, less pop-oriented, era. Always dogged by ill health, a heart op finished him off. But what a life. He'd been a a Brill Building songwriter, and a rock n' roll heartthrob in the late 'fifties, the self-penned Dream Lover selling in the millions. His inventive cover of Mack The Knife helped make him one of the biggest stars in Vegas. He acted, creditably, in movies and T.V., had his own T.V. show, started his own record company, and late in life suffered the trauma of discovering his mother was his grandmother, and his sister his mother. Can't have helped, right?

He recorded nearly thirty albums at a rate of two a year. And here is where the problem lies - none of them is great, or even quite as good as you want it to be. As a teen heartthrob, he was no Elvis, no Ricky Nelson. As a lounge swinger, he was no threat to the Rat Pack. As a singer of pop, country, and folk rock he was competent, unexceptional. Although backed by some of the greatest musical talents on the planet, his voice could be that of anyone who can carry a tune in a flatbed truck (his voice has a tendency to lose interest in the note). The recorded legacy is disappointing; I want to like it more than I can. But his success in his own life, on his own terms, can't be argued, and it's at this point that my point of view fades into irrelevance. We all get to do our own thing (man). Indeed, doing someone else's thing is futile at best. So here's a glass raised to Walden Robert Cassotto, for achieving what he did with what he had. I like to think had he lived a little longer, he may have tried his hand, with equal success, at Krautrock.

Randy Randomguy's Regular Ritual O' Randomitude Dept.

It's Sunday! Time to give the help the day off, kick back with a zesty beverage and set your listening device to shuffle! Whut, pray, be the first five tunes to play? Impress your confreres by demonstrating your catholicity in a comment!

Been There, Dune That Dept.

This is the edition I had - yours may differ.

As a fifteen-year old, I devoured Frank Herbert's Dune, a satisfyingly weighty paperback with a cool cover. I enjoyed a recent digital re-read, too, although another attempt to get into the sequels was again aborted, because boredom.

The novel is self-serious, wit-free, lacks a clear narrative that impels the reader, yet the epic scope and visionary ideas have a real power. A big part of the story is character based; although a little two-dimensional and cold, they are discernible individuals who develop through dialogue and interaction rather than description. The movie is nearly all visual description, punctuated by bursts of tedious stunt ninja combat. Villeneuve ended his Blade Runner with a fist fight, so he obviously thinks a slugfest is more dramatically satisfying than I do. 

It's almost as if the characters have been stripped of the power of speech, or key scenes were edited out. People appear, intone a few lines, stride about, get killed off. In the book, Doctor Yeuh is fleshed out so his treachery means something. The ecologist Liet Kynes has a pivotal role in explaining how the planet works, both politically and naturally. The movie doesn't bother with any of that, choosing instead to dazzle us with wardrobe and set dressing (awesomeness) and close-ups of Chalamet's hair, which is more expressive than his face. Kynes and Yeuh - along with just about all the others - each get maybe a minute's total talk time, Speech is declamatory, pronouncement, a series of statements. There is no verbal dramatic development, no casual conversation. Screenwriting really is a lost art.

It's a long movie, yet not long enough. A half-movie that doesn't have me anticipating Part Deux with anything more than mild interest. Maybe a T.V. series would have been the way to go. Anyway, here's the soundtrack to Jodorowsky's aborted attempt.

Take The Bambi Challenge!

Who are these guys?

Fancy something a bit challenging? [screeds Bambi - Ed.]  I know the 4 or 5 Guys© are the sort of people who like to be challenged and excited by new music, as well as the music of nostalgia. I’ve been thinking of Kavus Torabi IoF feature for ages, I’ve seen him playing guitar numerous times in three of my favourite bands, Cardiacs, Gong and Knifeworld. He’s also a really nice chap, and now fronts the Canterbury favourites Gong since Daevid Allens death in 2015. Gong continue to release new material and tour, having received Daevid Allens blessing to do so. Kavus joined Gong in 2014.

From Wiki [oh, tsk - Ed.]: Kavus Torabi (born 5 December 1971) is a British Iranian musician and composer, record label owner and broadcaster. A multi-instrumentalist, he is known for his work in the psychedelic, avant-garde rock field (primarily as a guitarist). Torabi was one of the founding members of The Monsoon Bassoon (as singer, guitarist and one of the two primary composers) and subsequently joined the cult group Cardiacs as second guitarist. His biggest fan is Bambi [citation needed].

Most recently he’s been in a band called Utopia Strong, as well as performing solo and with Gong. He has toured with numerous bands over the years. I know many musicians in the UK need to have a ‘proper job’ in order to be in bands. I believe Kavus is a professional musician, because he seems to always have 2 or 3 music projects on the go at all times, as well as being a radio and festival DJ.

So two very different links: 

Utopia Strong  - Electronic/acoustic/mellow instrumental and trippy.

Gong - Radio session tracks (All the recent Gong albums are fantastic, even though there are no original members in the band now.)

Hope you enjoy these contrasting choices! 

The Great Pleat War Of '21

An oddity in a catalog of curiosities, The Newer Stuff was (I think) Nesmith's first ever C.D. [Compact Disc - Ed.], released in '89. Nobody seems to get a handle on this one, maybe because Nesmith wasn't exactly sure himself. But leave us entertain ourselves with this Allmusic review, reprinted here in its entirety:

"This compilation of later solo material is often glossy and overreaching but still quite impressive."

Gee whiz. A single sentence that manages to be both meaningless and wrong; even for Allmusic something of a low. The first eight tracks appear for the first time, culled mostly from an earlier video project. They comprise almost an entire new album, slotting nicely between Infinite Rider and Tropical Campfire's, his last studio album of any real worth. The remaining six tracks are remixes of tracks from Radio Engine and Infinite Rider. The point here is ... what is the point here? Unlike the fucked-up remixes of Wichita and Prison, they're perfectly okay, neither better nor worse than the originals, just different. Even interesting. But they're answers to a question absolutely no-one was asking. The real question is, why didn't he write a couple new songs to complete a new album? How hard could that be? From his liner notes:

"I chose these because ...well, just because I did. They certainly aren't the 'greatest hits' because none of them ever really were. They aren't my 'favorites' since I never really think of them that way."

The whole deal is unclear, but The Newer Stuff is swell listenin', whatever its imponderables. As a sentient human being who has mastered the use of the opposing thumb and retains the spleen for sentimental reasons, you need this album, which I will be happy to provide if you launch yourself into the comments with anything that doesn't break the unwritten rules we've fought so long and hard to write.

Hell's Monkees Dept. - Northville Cemetery Massacre

In 1975, Michael Nesmith was getting his house in order after releasing The Prison on his own Pacific Arts label, but RCA claimed he still owed them product. Unwilling to record a new album for his old label, he suggested they release his soundtrack to Northville Cemetery Massacre, a bikesploitation movie released that year. RCA duly printed up cover slicks [left - Ed.], but found the delivered tape - copied direct from the celluloid - unusable. Nesmith wasn't overly concerned - he'd donated the soundtrack to the director for nothing, anyway. We can only guess at the musicians involved, but Red Rhodes may lend his velvet hammer, and there's some experimental synth that has to be Nesmith, although the few vocals aren't, unfortunately, his (prove me wrong).

It's probably his most obscure recording, although a 45 released on Cannon Records [left - Ed.], featuring two radio spots for the movie, must run it close. C-E-M-E-T-E-R-Y cemetery, guys.

The movie is on YewChewb, should youse bums be desirous.

This post made possible thru' funding from the Apocrypha Foundation, a non-profit organisation. My thanks to Schartzmugel Ó Raghailligh for the cover slick!

Fun With Fine Art! And Drugs! Dept.

 

Claudia Bueno, she say nugatorio to drugs! She clearly doesn't need them, being out of her head on natural forms. She suffers less than most artists from from artspeak bullshit, but contemporary fine art has long been established as much by text as the work itself, so we mustn't blame her for the little she uses. Nobody needs to say anything about this, and yet we expect the artist to explain and the critic to analyse. It's just ... wordlessly ... beautiful. STFU.

(And, I have to say, she has a nice ass. Because that's the kind of guy I am. Disappointing, yet predictable. A guy.)

Champagne, Blow And Reefer - It's B.B. n' Babs!

In December 1983 my husband Jerry (RIP) and I visited England for a few weeks. One afternoon, while we were shopping in London, we saw posters for B.B. King at Royal Albert Hall, so we thought: “Let's go!” We were staying at Brown’s Hotel, and when we checked in they told us they had tickets for West End shows and concerts. Later that day, when we returned to Brown’s, we spoke to the Concierge, who had second row seats.

The day of the show, we had lunch in the Hammersmith section of London [known as "Hammersmith" - Ed.]. Afterwards we visited a few pubs and smoked joints before the show. As always, B.B. put on one hell of a show! His banter between songs was worth the price of admission alone. When B.B. came out for his encore, Jerry elbowed me and said: “Look at B.B.’s vest (waistcoat to non-Americans), it looks like half a gram fell out of his nose!” it did indeed. At every B.B. King show I’ve seen, when he came out for his encore, he gave out enamelled lapel pins in the shape of his guitar Lucille, and I was determined to get one. I was sitting in an aisle seat, so when B.B. came out for his encore, I rushed to the stage, and held out my hand. When he looked at me, I said with my Brooklyn accent “How Ya Doin’, B.B.?” he bent towards me from the stage and said: “Where ‘ya from, honey?” I said: “Brooklyn, B.B.!” he smiled and said: “I can dig that” and gave me a pin, and I told him: “There’s blow all over your vest!” he looked down, and said: “Oh shit!” brushed it off his vest, laughed, gave me a wink, and continued giving out his pins. After he gave out his pins, he walked back over to me and said: Thanks again, sweetie!”, reached into his pocket and gave and gave me a tortoiseshell colored guitar pick that had D’Andrea and .71mm printed on it. All in all, a very cool evening.

The next day, one of the things on our agenda was to have Sunday afternoon tea at Brown’s. So we’re sitting in Brown’s drawing room, and some people came in, and were seated next to us. When I looked up, it was B.B. King, with his musical director Calvin Owens, and two other people. B.B. smiled at us, and noticed I was wearing the Lucille pin, and said: “I remember you, you’re from Brooklyn!” then in a hushed voice told the table: “She’s the one who tipped me off about the snow white on my threads.” They looked at us and smiled. B.B. introduced us to Calvin Owens, LaVerne his P.A. and Tony his road manager. We had a nice little chat and some laughs for around fifteen minutes, when B.B. said: “If you’ll excuse us now, we have some business to discuss.” A few minutes later a bottle of Champagne (’60 Bollinger for the oenophiles on th' Isle O'Foam©) was brought to our table, and we were told by the waitress: “The gentleman next to you sent this.”, and asked us: “Who is he?” we told her “It’s B.B. King”, then she asked: “What does he do, then?” Jerry told her, “He’s one of the most famous guitarists in the world!” to which she replied, “Oh.” Shrugged her shoulders and walked away. Jerry and I started singing a low-volume version of Muddy Water’s Champagne & Reefer which caused B.B. to laugh loudly and say: “Next time I see Mud, I’m gonna tell him ‘bout this!” We always wondered if he did.

In the 80s, the B.B. King had one of the best bands of his entire career. Under the leadership of Calvin Owens, this band played three hundred plus shows a year, and was a force to be reckoned with. B.B,’s voice was warm and stentorian, as was his playing and guitar tone! This is the same band we saw in London. Many B.B. aficionados (myself included) think the band improved slightly around 1985, when Michael “Mighty Mike” Doster took over on bass. Nevertheless, this is a smokin’ band! Along with B.B. are:

Eugene Carrier on keyboards

Russell Jackson on bass

Leon Warren on guitar

Caleb Emphrey, Jr. on drums

Calvin Owens on trumpet, and the arranger/conductor

James “Boogaloo” Bolden on trumpet

Edgar Sunigal, Jr. on tenor saxophone


Our download du jour, is The B.B. King Orchestra - Live At Midem 1983, which was recorded a few months before we saw him in London. 

[Ed's note: In absence of Hammersmith footage, YewChewb clip shows Dallas gig from same year  - Ed.]

Paul Anka's Portmanteau Of Prog Dept. - Byzantium

Foam-O-Graph© - Often Bettered, Never Imitated!

You'll know pert n' pouting Paul Anka from his quiff-tossing performances on T.V.'s Dick Clark's Dick Clark's Bandstand, but did you know he's also an afficionado [high wind in the workplace - Ed.] of the latest pop "trend" to drive the nation's teens wild? That's right, fight fans - I'm talkin' 'bout the now sounds of "prog" rock!

Say yes! to undanceable time signatures! Say yes! to songs about elves! Say yes! to queasy Mellotrons and side-long elpee tracks with "movements" just like in classical-type symphonies! Say yes! to men dressed as vegetables singing in unnaturally high voices! Say yes! to audiences of schoolboys pumping toxic sebum and confused hormones!

None of which has any relevance to Paul's first Portmanteau Of Prog, Byzantium, who fall bang into the middle of that broad and popular category of rock music known as "uncategorisable". Paul explained himself in a recent Foam-O-Fone™ call to th' IoF© [screen grabs above - Ed.].

FT3 Paul! Th' Ankster! Ankman! How's it hangin?

PA Swell, Farq!

FT3 So! Byzantium - prog or not?

PA Well, they generally get filed under prog, although they cover a lot of musical ground not-

FT3 (cutting in) Who's your friend? Guy with a 2001-type pod for a head?

PA What?

FT3 Guy smoking a pipe there. Got a camera. Him.

PA (looking around) You're kidding, right? A joke?

FT3 Oh. Okay. Moving right along. So kinda prog but not. These guys.

PA Exactly! Just like this portmanteau is more of a steamer trunk than a traditional portmanteau.

FT3 Euh ... can't see knitting pattern guy, huh?

PA (backing away) Hey! Is that time? I have to let you go, Farq! Moviedom's teen sweetheart Annette is swinging by to plan tomorrow's pool party!

FT3 Annette? Wow! Can I-

(signal cut)

EDIT: Sitarswami's Indian Summer Scorcher

Sitarswami hasn't landed on th' Isle O' Foam© for a while now - he's been busy gathering Kirlian Auras at his lofty lamasery high atop Irv's 24hr Dri-Klene (Koreatown L.A. - walk-ins welcome) and weaving them into this perfect dreamcatcher of sixties sunshine! 

EDIT: Sitarswami sent me fifteen extra cuts that didn't make the first volume, which I've packaged as Vol. 2. Both vols are included (tagged with new covers) in the download at the end of the comments.

Garry Bonner and Alan Gordon were one of the most successful writing teams of the mid-6o’s. Over the same period, Boyce & Hart gathered greater acclaim (and sales) through their association with the Monkees and via their own recordings, but they didn’t have a Happy Together on their resume.

After putting in a couple years as a staff writer at We Three Music, Alan Gordon signed with New York music publishers Charles Koppleman & Don Rubin (or CHARDON, whose own careers were formed by meeting Don Kirshner and Al Nevins of ALDON) who were interested in Gordon’s song An Invitation To Cry. Needing a lead vocalist, Gordon’s group the Magicians enlisted Garry Bonner. Shortly after, he and Gordon began their collaboration. K&R also assumed production work as their client base grew to include Tim Hardin and the Lovin’ Spoonful. Soon K&R headed west working with the Turtles and Gary Lewis who each had hit records written by Bonner & Gordon. Koppleman & Rubin also became the team charged with resuscitating stagnant careers and Bonner & Gordon placed songs with Bobby Darin, Rick Nelson, and Gene Pitney among others. As the 1960’s flamed-out so did Bonner & Gordon’s career with one last hit for Three Dog Night in 1970.

Of the 34 songs included, 24 were released in 1967 with the remainder falling into 1968-1970. The one exception, Flo & Eddie’s revamped version of Goodbye Surprise appeared in 1972, but had been recorded by the Turtles for inclusion on the unreleased Shell Shock lp.

• Lady Fingers – Magicians (the last of their four singles and the only one with B&G credits)
• Contact – Teddy Neeley (pre-Hair and JC Superstar)
• She Knows – Bobby Darin (non-lp 45, he also recorded three B&G songs for his "Inside Out” lp including a sitar-laced Lady Fingers)
• Mary Elizabeth – Osmond Brothers (listen for the whoozy psychedelic harmonies!)
• Girls in Love – Gary Lewis (possibly my favorite B&G song, one of five B&G songs on his New Directions lp)
• She’d Rather Be With Me – Turtles
• You Know What I Mean – Turtles
• When the Good Sun Shines – Changin’ Times (K&R had worked with Artie Kornfeld prior to this group’s genesis so it’s no surprise they eventually reconnected. What is surprising is Kornfeld & Duboff dropping the Pied Piper Dylan impersonation and instead trying on their Cowsills’ clothes)
• Kitty Doyle – Dino, Desi & Billy (The Monkees never recorded a B&G song so I view the two DD&B tracks as the Davy Jones songs that never were)
• Me About You – Mojo Men (one of B&G’s best and most-covered songs, this version arranged by Van Dyke Parks)
• Genuine Jade – Moods (produced by Artie Resnick & Joey Levine)
• Dance at St. Francis – Barracuda (these guys had two singles, all four songs written by B&G)
• Animal Crackers – Gene Pitney (another non-lp single, reportedly Pitney hated this song which has only been re-issued as part of a large box set. I think it’s great and should routinely appear on his best-of collections)
• They All Got Carried Away – Parrots (B&G under a different name. “Be nice.”)
• Put the Clock Back on the Wall – “E” Types (a Nugget, also recorded by the Parrots as the b-side to the above)
• Jill – Gary Lewis (one of four B&G songs on the Listen! lp)
• Whatever Happened to Happy? – Mojo Men
• Small Talk – Claudine Longet (the best version of this oft-recorded – Harpers Bizarre, Gary Lewis, Lesley Gore – song. Male voice belongs to producer Tommy LiPuma)
• Moonshine – Rick Nelson (another fabulous non-lp track)
• Two in the Afternoon – Dino, Desi & Billy (was it the K&R association that kept B&G from placing songs with Don Kirshner’s Monkees?)
• Sleeping Out the Storm – Furnacemen (strange alias for a group already recording, not too successfully, as the Blades of Grass on the same label)
• Tiffany Rings – Gandalf (Pete Sando post-Barracuda, this lp also includes another B&G track)
• The Cat in the Window – Petula Clark (how did she escape from Tony Hatch for this one-off?)
• Happy Together – Turtles (“Bend over and spread ‘em baby, here comes my [#1 with a] bullet”)
• She’s My Girl – Turtles
• The Heart of Juliette Jones – Trav’lers (one previous release by this group as the Hung Jury on the Monkees-related Colgems label)
• (Til I) Run With You – Lovin’ Spoonful (no Sebastian, no Zally, not much left)
• Celebrate – Three Dog Night (B&G’s last big hit, the 60’s are officially over)
• Touch ‘n Go – Critters (post-Kapp Records, the group discovers a muscle they’ve never used)
• Goodbye Surprise – Volman & Kaylan (a great lp by the way)
• Double Good Feeling – Magicians (b-side to track #1)
• New Day – Gary Lewis
• As Long As You’re Here – Zalman Yanovsky (non-lp single, whose flip side is the instrumental backing track backwards)
• When the Good Sun Shines – Elmo & Almo (are B&G auditioning for Sesame Street?)

Black Mystery Pipes Out Of Flytown, U.S.A.

Foam-O-Graph© - Front N' Center In Th' Void!

Ronald Theodore Kirk changed his name twice, both times inspired by dreams. Ronald got transposed into Roland, and Rahsaan was added, years later, without the cloying spiritual hubris of a Mahavishnu or a Narada or a Devadip. As with his names, Kirk's music came from his interior world, where anything was possible, and everything came together.

I saw him some time in the early 'seventies, standing like a mythical totem pole strung with jewels in front of the Mandala light show - the biggest and most spectacular in Europe, at least. Possibly the universe, from where I was standing. If you've read The Crystal World by J.G. Ballard you'll know where my head was at, man.

Rip, Rig & Panic is a quartet recording from '64, with Elvin Jones.

Now Please Don't You Cry, Beautiful Edith is from '67, Creed Taylor and Rudy Van Gelder doing their impeccable stuff. Like, digsville!

Footnote: The disarmingly modest Ian Anderson, him out of The Jethro Tulls, called Kirk a "snake oil salesman". Fuck him and the embouchure he rode in on.

Randy Randomguy's Romper Room O' Randomness Redux! Dept.

HEALTH WARNNG - DO NOT LOOK AT ABOVE FOAM-O-GRAPH© - Legal Advisory

In what is by some way th' Isle O'Foam©'s most popliar feature, Randy Randomguy once again gives you, Mr. & Mrs. Four Or Five Guy©, the opportunity to feature your hipness, eclecticism, and sophisticated good taste to an internet starved of those qualities!

Simply set your device to Rando, and list the first five top tunes chosen by the evil rando-bot embedded in your seemingly harmless device! Oboy! Some fun, huh, gang?!

(If you don't have a music-playing thing capable of making your choices for you, simply throw a fist of darts at your record collection!)

EDIT: T.V.'s Sid Slaw Explains Dept. - Where Paul Simon Went Wrong With Bridge Over Troubled Water

Foam-O-Graph© - The Bastard Child Of Reality And Imagination!

T.V.'s Sid Slaw [above - Ed.] shot to fame as Fred MacMurray's stunt double for three seasons of N.B.C.'s The Nunkie Bupkiss Show ("I can't remember how many times I tripped over L'il Binkie's wagon!" he laughs today). Now happily retired ("the calls stopped coming - I don't know why" he ruminated yesterday), he divides his time between freebasing with ladyboys and advising major stars of rock, pop, n' roll on where they went wrong.

When diminutive, wily tunesmith Paul Simon dropped by th' Isle O' Foam© recently, Sid was on hand to help! They chatted relaxedly in th' Conversation Pit O' Sound®, whilst Kreemé [19 my ass - Ed.] served Gum n' Olive Flapjacks with Peach Gravy.

SS Hey! Paulie! My man!

PS (silence)

SS So we're here, or rather you are, to learn what you should of done with Bridge On The Waters! Which, believe me, could of been big! A big, big hit album! Just needed a few tweaks, the expert touch of somebody who knew what he was fucking doing - no offence! - and that album could of put you right up there with The Buckinghams!

PS (silence)

SS Okay! Well, I got this checklist - here's your copy, to keep! Let's take it from the top: Frontloading the single? Right at the top of the album? Were you out of your tiny fucking mind? Rhetorical question. Lemme explain, Paulie. Albums is all about pacing. Dynamics. Or - fucking a broad. You don't want to come all over her soon as you drop your shorts, right? Not a good look. You probably know this, right? Ha ha! Trust me, the title song? Bridge On The Waters? This is the great spurting climax of the album! The money shot! After that, you pull out, relax. Smoke a cigarette. Snap off your socks, take a dump, your work is done. So it goes at the end, dumbass. The last track. Everything else is build. Foreplay! You getting this? Going too fast?

PS (silence)

SS Okayy, moving on, your programming is fucked. It's a fucking disgrace. What you do? Throw dice? I've rebuilt the entire album, ground up. But your other big boo-boo, a real humdinger, was putting that Everly Brothers thing in there? What the actual? And live? Was there no-one who had the balls to say, hey, excu-use me, Mr. Simon, but this sounds like shit? Because it totally does. I cut it right out, not too easy because the clapping bleeds all over. No, don't thank me. And I slipped in Feuilles-O, which you say is a demo but it clearly fucking ain't. It's a complete. although minimalist, production, and it should of been on the album. So what we're gonna do is, cue up my version - I think you'll want to get the sleeve reprinted, Simon & Slaw & Garfunkel, and - hey? Where'd he go? Paulie?

EDIT: In response to the tsunami of indifference generated by this post, two albums are now offered to youse ungrateful bums; the new, improved Bridge Over Troubled Water you couldn't care less about, and a subtly yet palpably enhanced Bookends.

You'll have to loaddown to see exactly how this audio witchcraft has been worked. With your convenience ever uppermost in my mind, two new covers are supplied, so you won't get these reshuffles confused with the official - and inferior - releases you may already have. 

MrDave Sparks One Up Dept.

Readers young enough [MrDave screeds - Ed.] to remember my last appearance on the prestigious IoF "Last Resort Cantina" stage (featuring Joe Frank on vocals) no doubt harbor a bitter and deep-seated resentment towards me for trying to con them into some spoken-word nonsense they didn't ask for and didn't want (47 hours worth!).

Older readers who may be able to remember as far back as last week and have nothing better to do than follow blog comments, are also likely to hold a lingering grudge against me (rightfully so!) for promising rare and priceless gems that turned out to be lackluster and forgetable bandcamp freebies. The smooth-jazz-fusion I recently posted can't have helped my credibility either; especially in its stark juxtaposition to Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler, Anthony Braxton, and the rest.

Fool you once, twice shy; fooled again, something something ... shame on you! How can you trust me again? You probably can't. But 100 AllMusic users can't be wrong, can they?!? So let's hand the mic over to one of them for a minute since my cred is dead.

Opines AllMusic User Murray Winship on this band's self-titled debut LP from the turn of the century: "This is really a very special album if you've (sic) in the know about boomer music modernized in this day and age. If ever a band sounded like the sunbaked children of a partnership between the trippy psychedelic dreamers of the paisley underground and the lonesome cowboys of the late-'60s Laurel Canyon cosmic country, Beachwood Sparks are it. ..."

Couldn't have said it better myself, Murray (except you plagiarized most of your review from Tim Sendra's official review you scoundrel!) Honestly, this is great music that is in complete alignment with the Isle of Foam psychedelic country-rock fan base. Beautiful "cosmic american music" that was 30 years too late and 20 years too early yet completely on time as well. Comparisons to The Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers are deserved but the Beachwood Sparks are in no way derivative; they take those tasty country-psych flavors and make something wonderful and new with it. I find it deeply affecting and it's some of the only music I have actually shelled out cash to acquire in the past 20 years of napster, soul-seek, WinMX, private FTP sites, torrents and blogs.  

Countless bands seem to be making similar music now (see the Aquarium Drunkard blog) but in the early 2000s there was really nothing else like it and it has stood the test of time. There's lots of good players out there making fine country-folk-psych flavored music now but few acts capable of creating lasting collections of memorable songs like these. I'm sharing everything you already have plus some stuff you probably don't (some live shows, EPs, and recently released rarities).

PLUS, if you act now, I'm throwing in the wonderful 2004 album "Spirit Stereo Frequency" by Beachwood Sparks spin-off All Night Radio. Passing the mic to official AllMusic editor Tim Sendra now since, like Murray, I can't describe this stuff better than he already has:
 

"Take two guys from the Beachwood Sparks, add half the drugs in L.A., mix it all up and spread it out thick like layers of stars and waves…that’s what the only All Night Radio album is like. Featuring songs that resonate like half remembered Laurel Canyon lullabies, the record seeps into your brain right away and settles in like a calm summer twilight and sticks around. Too bad they never made another."
 
So, yeah, you want this despite my poor track record! (BTW, if anyone has a rip of the Beachwood Sparks 20th Anniversary Vinyl Edition from last year, I want it! That appears to have some material unavailable in any other format and my B&O turntable doesn't even work anymore.)

Let's Play! Dept. - "Who's In Barbara Bel Geddes' Bung-Hole?"

Foam-O-Graph© - "If you were blind, this is what you'd think sight was like!"

You'll know Barbara Bel Geddes for her iconic role as auburn-tressed Dr. Quim in T.V.'s long-running show Little Whorehouse On The Prairie, where her marriage to grizzled patriarch Jock Walton (Tom Bosley) provided family values a-plenty! Who can forget the glitz n' glamor of th' Awl Bairns Bawl? Or Pemmy Ewing (Miss Michael Learned) in her leotard? Us neither! [Please make it stop - Ed.]

But did you know she's also a keen collector of obscure 'seventies funk-type long-playing elpees? And she curates her priceless collection in her applejack butt? That's right, fight fans! Peek into Ms. Bel Geddes' bung-hole, identify rare funk album! [I quit - Ed.] Inspire respect of confreres by leaving clew, hint, or cunning allusion in comment to win this week's Grand Prize! Don't directly identify album or act!

What's that you say? Ms. Bel Geddes' bung-hole too small, dark to descry album therein? Leave us ax Doug Henning - T.V.'s Mr. Magic - to cast spell of mystic bung-hole vision!

This post made possible thru th' auspices of Happy Horsie™ Brand Horse Paste - The Prince O' Horse Paste!

The Shameful Cost Of "Free Jazz" - A FoamExposé™

 

The birth of Free Jazz, New Orleans 1922.

The birth of Free Jazz is one of the more shameful episodes in American history, and remains little known even to those who practice the art. In this searing FoamExposé, veteran musicologist Irving Phloem-Bundle [below left - Ed.] reveals the long-hidden truth.

By the early 20c [writes Irving Phloem-Bundle, left - Ed.] jazz had become established as live entertainment. Bands were employed to play not only club dates and residencies but high-society social gatherings, and the Sinkopation Orkestry [above - Ed.] arrived at the New Orleans wedding reception of  "Bertie" Loinstrap II and his bride "Pinkie" Poltergeist to learn that they would not be paid, and should consider it a privilege to appear before such a distinguished gathering.

"Okay," said bandleader Delahaye Montclair (2nd right), "whitey wants free jazz, that's what whitey gets." They played a short and chaotic set, entirely tune-free and each to his own rhythm. At one point Montclair shouted to Daisy Dumpling (far right) to sing "any old shit". The concert broke up in a hail of crockery and bread rolls.

The term free jazz stuck, but the meaning altered over time from its original exploitative origin to describe improvisational music free of conventional harmonic and rhythmic structure. "Scat" singing is also accepted as jazz form, its scatological genesis ("any old shit") conveniently forgotten.

Today's loaddown is a couple of swell long-playing L.P. records featuring ensembles led by drummer Norman Connors. A long way from the screeching cacophony of that far-off wedding gig, this is free jazz you'd be pleased to pay for, if you wasn't such a cheap-ass freeloading bum.