Around the time Merle Haggard was flaying war protesters and nonconformists in “Okie From Muskogee,” Bakersfield’s other country king was confounding fans and copping hip moves from pop with this adventurous track. Buck probably never inhaled, but the deliberate use of the g-word—and the song’s unconventional folk-rock flavor, fuzz guitar, and quirky waltz-time arrangement—seemed more than a passing nod to a world that was rapidly changing in 1969. In the ’70s, Hee Haw made him the premier ambassador of corn, but cuts like this prove that Owens was always more imaginative than many of his contemporaries and cooler than most.
Chicago saxophonist Harris is best known for his 1961 crossover hit “Exodus,” his ’70s collaborations with pianist Les McCann (“Compared to What”) and the raw raps he put down on The Reason Why I’m Talkin’ S—t (1976). Here, though, he stretches out on a slab of sulphuric funk-jazz that riffs in the vein of “Green Onions” or the innumerable covers of Sonny Boy Williamson’s “Help Me” cut by Brit bands of the ’60s. Piano, guitar, drums and bass (the latter played by the MGs’ Duck Dunn) provide kindling for a slo-burn jam that Harris, on amplified sax, and trumpeter Ira Sullivan crash and splash through for seven-plus minutes. So ceaseless is the track’s big fat groove, it could be a loop. When it feels this good, why stop?
I’m from the school that says there are no bad versions of this song. And this may be the best. Maurice Williams’ original was the baptismal fount that consecrated the Jersey Boys, Brian Wilson, Lou Christie, and countless other guys. There’s so much to like about this so-short cut: It’s simultaneously super fluid and absolutely static—not going anywhere in particular, its melody simply recycles against Valli’s supple vocal and the drums, tambourine, and finger-snaps. Hear him on the fade, check Tommy DeVito’s scratch-guitar fills (maybe the record’s real hook), and know the essence of pre-Beatles pop hip.
Teen-mag covers and Top-40 glory for hits like “Laugh, Laugh,” “Just A Little,” and “You Tell Me Why” faded like Frisco fog when that city’s pioneer folk-rockers issued this ultra-subtle single in late 1965. Was it too long or too slow for radio heads raised on brevity? Regardless, Sal Valentino’s aching vocal and the song’s deliberate, mood-darkening arrangement hints at the inspired melancholia of the band’s Triangle triumph, still two years distant. The cut opens with a stark 12-string not unlike the Stones’ “Play With Fire,” then drops into a variation of The Byrds’ chiming “Bells Of Rhymney” riff, but the Brummels manage more emotion than The Byrds could ever muster, more melody than the Stones dared flirt with. “Sad Little Girl” is so ’65 autumnal: The Beach Boys’ California girl walks the sand alone. The fun era has ended, and an unsettling future beckons.
Like Richard, Eva, and Anthony, this “Little” guy grew up—in his case into the pop-soul eccentric Swamp Dogg (1970’s Total Destruction To Your Mind scribbled all over the margins of the R&B rulebook well before George Clinton’s class cut-ups). As anything-but-plain Jerry Williams, he produced Gene Pitney’s sitar-drenched rocker “She’s A Heartbreaker” and penned Johnny Paycheck’s country chart-topper “She’s All I Got.” Little Jerry thought outside the box too. On this 1964 single, he lays out his romantic bona fides against march-time piano, guitar, and snare. Gradually, a phalanx of reeds and brass falls in, then more guitar, more horns, a key change and Williams, in almost range-defying falsetto, leads the assembled multitude off the field in glorious soul victory. This cut practically levitates.
If imitation is the sincerest flattery form, count this pre-sampling style-heist—easily one of the most audacious faux-Dylan recordings ever—as an homage of Everest proportions. In 1969 Brit glam-rockers Mott The Hoople take an unassuming Sir Douglas Quintet ballad, replace Doug Sahm’s East Texas drawl with Ian Hunter’s cod-Zimmerman vocal, and dress the set in Blonde On Blonde furniture (cathedral organ, slow-crawl piano). They don’t stop there but add slinky steel-guitar fills, funky Steve Cropper lead riffs, and pummeling drums until the whole thing boils over into a thick noise stew that transcends its own origins as affectionate mimicry. In fact, this cut creates the sonic template from which Mott The Hoople built the entirely distinctive style it flashes on the David Bowie-produced All The Young Dudes and subsequent albums of its ’70s heyday.
Any group that spent the better part of the late ’60s hauling Cole Porter, Paul Simon, and Van Dyke Parks copyrights up the Top 40 knows a thing or two about songs. The choice of this hidden Randy Newman gem, from the wisp-rock choir boys’ Anything Goes album, is further proof. The tune retains none of its composer’s signature irony or black humor. Instead, it’s a straightforward—and uncompromising—meditation on irretrievable loss set and sung to an achingly beautiful melody. The quintet’s affectless harmony makes the metaphoric whiteout almost chilling, as if even the memory of the time and people gone from our lives is itself meant to melt away.
If you only know the Tina Turner of “Proud Mary” or “What’s Love Got To Do With It,” this paint-peeling slice of pre-soul from ’64 should be a real ear-opener. Before the glitz, arena tours, and leg insurance, it was true grit, pressure-cooker lounges, and shout-and-shimmy shows that tore the roof off more suckers than a midsummer twister. Here Tina wails, fumes, and flips off her parsimonious mate, pushing with all she’s got against the furious riffing of a band that sounds like a fleet of bulldozers clearing a building site. Roiling guitar, air-punching brass, and a spit-take sax stoke a performance that’s unforgivably relentless and absolutely unforgettable. Listen and sweat.
Even the thick haze of their reputation as the ultimate jam band can’t hide the original quintet’s amped-up garage-punk origins. That’s what you get on this rampaging cut from the group’s 1967 debut album: sheet-metal chording, phosphorescent Vox organ, caustic vocals, and slashing guitar. I’d always heard it as a Dylanized take on The Animals’ “I’m Crying” ever since Garcia announced it as a group original from the Fillmore stage in mid-’66. The abrupt waltz-time breaks only heighten the rush when the band jumps full-on back into the fray on the verses. Fast and stinging, this isn’t your grandson’s Grateful Dead. It’s the early-vintage hard stuff, an acid-rock introductory offer hastily recalled by the manufacturer that nonetheless remains potent and highly combustible whenever uncorked.
Listeners who feel overexposed to the warmth of The Association’s sunshine pop (“Windy,” “Cherish,” “Never My Love”) may be surprised to find that the group didn’t always stay out of the shadows. Singer-flutist Terry Kirkman (that’s him on “Along Comes Mary”) penned this bittersweet paean to the downside of growing up, from the band’s eponymous 1969 album. There’s something poignant, almost elegiac, about the way the 30-year-old regards the earnest teenager who swore he’d “gladly die for my God and Uncle Sam.” And the tale of his virginity-loss resonates with a touching truthfulness (“I wasn’t even sure I loved her/We were friends in the high-school band”). Soft-rock with perspective, it’s the sound of someone confronting his doubts about who he was, what he did, and where he’ll go from here.
Here’s a neglected child of the shotgun hookup of country and rock from one of the few acts with kin on both sides of the aisle. This 1969 single was among a handful that followed the Everlys’ Roots comeback attempt that found Kentucky’s pop-radio sweethearts cavorting with material by Merle Haggard and The Beau Brummels’ Ron Elliott. The instrumental track alone is worth the price of admission: freight-train picking from Clarence White (guitar) and Gene Parsons (banjo), both fresh from The Byrds’ genre-busting Dr. Byrds & Mr. Hyde, egged on by ex-Elvis bassist Jerry Scheff. But the singing’s the thing on this sly ode to indolence: creek-clear sibling harmonies and Don’s radiant reading of the bridge (“Monday I’ll just sit and look out the window/ Tuesday I’ll just spend the day drinking beer”). So much heart and high spirits poured into just over two minutes of perfect music.
