If you live near me have ever chanced upon the Norumbega Tower (on the road of the same name) in Weston, Mass., you’d probably be scratching your head after reading the plaque at its base. It would have you believe that Leif Ericson and other Viking bigwigs established near that spot both a fort and a city of many thousands, at least enough to support the several industries it mentions. The plaque claims that this was the epicenter of the true Vinland, a veritable empire that stretched from present day Rhode Island to the St. Lawrence River! As opposed to say, the established-science location of a tiny patch of land in Newfoundland.
The tower was built in 1889 by Eben Norton Norsford, a guy who made his fortune by refining the manufacture of baking powder. But the dude must have been getting “baked” on something else to believe all that. He may have been the original “I did my own research” guy. Back then, he wrote a “seemingly endless series of books and articles” (Wikipedia) on the subject and built the tower to look down on the location of the alleged settlement (a lake-like section of the Charles River also bordered by present-day Newton and Waltham).
View of the Charles River from the top of Norumbega Tower.
Thing is, Norsford didn’t bother to back up these claims with anything as small-minded as archaeological proof. He just made it all up. He may likely not have believed it himself. In the late 19th century it was not uncommon to have an ulterior motive in trying to establish that America was founded not by swarthy Mediterranean (and Catholic) types like Columbus and Vespucci but by “whiter” Northern Europeans. This at a time of mass immigration from places like Italy.
Norumbega Tower is not the only monument in the annals of false-Viking claims. The Newport Tower in Rhode Island is another well-known example and hoaxes have reached as far away as Minnesota and Oklahoma.
But unlike the wholesale falsehoods and plying of racial grievances being perpetuated in the post-MAGA era, the lack of evidence apparently meant something back then and Norsford’s tall tales were soon discredited. And he did have a good side as well. He was an early supporter of higher education for women—a benefactor of Wellesley College—and built the first public library on Shelter Island in New York City, later Welfare Island and now Roosevelt Island.
On my most recent visit, the padlock that is usually on the door had been removed and you’re free to walk up to the top of the tower. It is just a hop and skip off the Weston interchange of Interstate 90 (Mass. Pike), so aficionados of the “Old, Weird America” should check it out if in the area. It is mostly free of graffiti (a blessing nowadays) so the “Cool History” tagging, pointing to the plaque, is esp. galling to me. Whoever did that must be a fan of the “History” Channel, which now regularly peddles junk theories about “Ancient Aliens” and such. But more on that in the next installment of “Placeology.”
The places we walk through or drive past, the sites we visit or that simply fall into our frame of vision, all have a heritage and inner spirit of their own. Even in our familiar everyday world, we are often just steps away from some location rich in hidden history and forgotten associations.
The ideational term “psychogeography” refers to the attainment of deep connections with man-made environments, usually by way of unplanned walks thru cities. It has been described as a “charmingly vague” practice by no less a man the French Situationist philosopher Guy Debord, who coined the phrase himself in 1953. It can also be seen as a more risk-averse cousin of today’s urban explorer subculture, which I’ve written about many times in this blog.
The preserved archway frame of Pier 54, where survivors of the Titanic disembarked from the Carpathia, now serves as the south entrance to New York’s Little Island.
But there is also a very practical side to psychogeography, that would do us all good to be aware of. The theory goes that the distractions and pressures of modern society have caused people to become disconnected from the public realm, leaving the one-percenters to run roughshod over the greater public interest. Understanding and appreciating our common built heritage can lead to thoughtful historic preservation and the design of more livable cities thru greater community involvement.
Winter’s bare trees reveal the vestigial facade of a paternalistic institution on Hawkins Street in Boston.
So while coming to understand the effects of the built environment can lead to a greater good, psychogeography can be both a passive pleasure or a wildcat experience. It’s something almost everyone has experienced, whether consciously or not. It can be the satisfaction of finding a great hole-in-the-wall eatery or tucked-away antique store because you wandered away from a usual walking route. It could mean tiptoeing into an off-limits but unguarded location to do a photo session with friends or discovering a fascinating historical vestige steps away from a throng of selfie-taking tourists, as in my photo below.
This statue of Ethel Barrymore, and of two other former stage icons, evoke an earlier era of Broadway, just a few feet away from the back of a gigantic electronic billboard in Times Square.
In his 2006 book “Psychogeography,” writer Merlin Coverley, traces this concept back to its immediate roots: French Marxists and Situationists. But he also vividly digs back to an earlier era and the “urban gothic” stylings of authors like Charles Baudelaire, Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson, showing how their “obsessive drifting (yielded) new insights.” Poe’s 1840 story “The Man of the Crowd” is perhaps the first examination of the mysteries and perplexities of the modern teeming metropolis. In “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Stevenson shows not only the duality of man’s nature but the stark dichotomy of the different parts of London his split protagonist inhabits. Dickens was a famously keen observer of the same city (often engaging in all-night walks) and had the fame and power to influence social reforms in the darker aspects of the city he witnessed, the exploitation of children, the workhouses, slum conditions etc.
I stumbled on this Dickens landmark during a London walkabout in 1994.
It’s Baudelaire, quoted by Cloverley, who has the most telling description of the psychogeographer, which has as its alpha the Parisian flaneur (or boulevardier). “For the perfect flaneur it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude… to be away from home and yet to find oneself everywhere at home… to be at the center of the world and yet remain hidden from the world.”
Sounds cool, yes? So try some psychogeography yourself. Put away the GPS and get to know your town. Stick up for livable cities and against gentrification. Patronize independent small businesses out of the way points of interest. Lastly, LOOK UP to see what I call the Museum of the Street, and see what those who came before built before us and begin to feel “everywhere at home.”
All photos and text by Rick Ouellette. More info on my “Placeology” photo series coming soon!
If you ever want to get one of those definitive telephoto pictures of American car culture run amok, there are few places better to trip the shutter than Breezewood, Pennsylvania. Located in the southern central part of the Keystone State, it’s a notorious “choke point” where Interstate 70, the Pennsylvania Turnpike (I-76) and the historic Lincoln Highway (Rte. 30) all meet, sort of.
Breezewood, where the Interstate is also a street.
Because of some arcane law that once proclaimed I-70 could not directly connect to the tolled Turnpike, the Interstate shares a one-mile connector with Rte. 30. This corridor is a densely packed jumble of gas station/convenience stores, fast food joints, chain hotels—all announcing themselves with signs that can reach up to about 70 feet high. There are also two truck washes and plenty of room to park your rig after tear-assing your way thru the six-lane main drag, which seems to be a local sport.
Yes, it’s all very uber-American in a way. There may be no better a democratic leveler than the free breakfast room at the Holiday Inn Express or being in line behind a couple of hunters at Sheetz, the ubiquitous convenience store/coffee shop round these parts. But just beyond the narrow limits of unincorporated Breezewood, it’s a different story. My hotel room had a view of a picturesque farm. And if you head due east, you’ll be driving down the historic and scenic Lincoln Highway as soon as you clear the hill at the end of the strip.
But just before you do, there’s a rutted dirt parking lot next to a paved path you can walk up on. If you do, you’ll be entering one of the state’s strangest and most intriguing points of interest, the Abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Surrender all hope ye who enter….
The Turnpike opened in 1940 and was an engineering marvel at the time, and a precursor to the massive American Interstate system that followed. But by 1968, car culture had long expanded and so had the Pike, except for this 13-mile stretch. It was logistically too difficult to widen it here and was re-routed. It is now an accessible (but unmaintained and unmonitored) public walking and biking trail.
As a devoted (but not hardcore) member of the urban exploring subculture, I had long wanted to visit the APT. I got my first chance a few springtimes ago. I was on foot, and it was almost two miles from the Breezewood parking area to the first of the two tunnels on the trail. The way to Ray’s Hill Tunnel is a bit eerie, and evocative of an age of simpler automobiles and slower driving speeds. It presents as four rather narrow lanes but drops down to two at the tunnel. It was cool to see one of the turnpike’s original scalloped tunnels, not matter how defaced it is with graffiti.
Along with the taggers, curiosity-seekers and photographers, the APT has attracted at least one major film production. The 2009 screen adaptation of the Cormac McCarthy novel “The Road” takes place in the wake of an undefined extinction event (Apocalypse How?) and has many scenes filmed there.
Vito Mortensen and Kodi Smit-McPhee in “The Road.”
It’s curious how highways are such ideal settings for post-apocalypse movies. “The Road” does not feature the fiendishly modified vehicles tearing down outback highways like in the “Mad Max/Road Warrior” series. Things are even worse here, and a key scene is the confrontation between Vito’s protagonist and a wandering member of a violent cannibal gang when the group’s ragtag truck stalls out after emerging from the grim interior of Ray’s Hill Tunnel.
On my second visit to Abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike last fall, I had my new foldable Zizzo Bike and was ready to explore a bigger chunk of the ruined roadway. After pedaling past the strollers and the Goth kids doing Instagram pics at the mouth of the forbidding tunnel, I sailed thru the underpass with a big assist from a nifty little head lamp I bought for the occasion. On the other side, the atmosphere became more desolate in a hurry.
The far end of Ray’s Hill Tunnel.
Surely, not as desolate as the scenario in “The Road,” where the populace seems divided between killer cannibal gangs and those who retain the minimum standards of civilization, hoping to reach a promised safe haven once they follow the bleak highway all the way to the coast. Still, it is interesting to note that central Pennsylvania is on a sort of political fault line. The more liberal (blue) eastern part of the state can stand in stark contrast to the western hinterlands, where people have been warned to not even have a Joe Biden bumper sticker on their car to guard against reprisals from a hard-core MAGA constituency.
In the book “Divided Highways: Building the Interstate Highways, Transforming American Life,” author Tom Lewis details the passing of the massive legislation that authorized this epic road-building program was initiated by Republican President Dwight Eisenhower and eventually approved by a Democratic-controlled Congress—in an election year, no less! A transcontinental public-benefitting triumph that would “bind the nation.” It would hard to imagine an accomplishment (or agreement) like that with the toxically divided Washington of today.
It was twilight time as I reached the lonely halfway section of the APT (see above), and with little time to make the whole route before dark, I turned the Zizzo back towards the parking lot. Riding into the gloaming is enough to make you conjure your own dystopia—the kind where cars are all but obsolete and the world is hard under the heel of ecocide and/or a disastrous civil conflict.
The next morning I was in the better disposition as I checked out of the Holiday Inn, and said good-bye for now to Breezewood, the Las Vegas of service areas. I hope I can get back again to bike the whole ghostly trail. I topped the hill and drove into the immediate rural area on the Lincoln Highway, the road that kicked off America’s Highway Century (it opened in 1913). But that vague dystopic notion from the twilight of the previous day reentered my head when I thought of the next stop on my road trip: the Gettysburg national park.
Text and all photos by Rick Ouellette, except “The Road” film still and the circa 1940 postcard.
The Portsmouth Naval Prison is located on Seavey Island in New Hampshire. Dark, forebidding, isolated and pointedly medieval, it served as a max security jail for the U.S. Navy from 1905 to 1974. At its peak around World War II, the capacity of the prison (nicknamed “The Fortress”) was 3,008 inmates.
“Impregnable” would be another word for it. To escape this so-called “Alcatraz of the East” (assuming you made it out of building) you’d have to get past the guardhouse on the bridge to the mainland base or make an unlikely swim across the notoriously turbulent currents of the Piscataqua River just east of the cold Atlantic.
But perhaps more interesting is the question, why did the Navy need such an enormous prison? Turns out that around the time of max capacity in the Forties, as much as 40% of the inmates in this brig were in there for sodomy-related offenses. Yikes! This was enough for the top brass, even way back then, to reconsider their policy on homosexuality in the ranks. But it was still decades before even “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and reform likely meant a discharge instead of a lengthy stay in this hellish jail.
The Portsmouth Naval Prison has been closed now for fifty years, but you can’t visit it. Unlike the similarly decommissioned Alcatraz, sitting out there in the middle of San Francisco Bay, you’d have to pass thru the active Naval Shipyard to get there. Too bad, as it would probably be a great tourist attraction for historic and hip Portsmouth, just as the fascinating Eastern States Penitentiary has in central Philadelphia. Oh well. You can still get a good view of it from Route 1B going from Portsmouth to the seaside village of New Castle. Nearby is Fort Stark and Ordiorne State Park, both featuring the remains of giant gun batteries and other WW2 ruins. That could be another entry for this new series, where I will review many of the interesting places, famous or obscure, that I have photographed.
About “Placeology”
The places we walk through or drive past, the sites we visit or that simply fall into our frame of vision, all have a heritage and inner spirit of their own. Even in our familiar everyday world, we are often just steps away from some location rich in hidden history and forgotten associations. Through this “Placeology” photo series, I will strive to give fresh agency to locales both grand and humble, uplifting and foreboding. More coming soon!
Remains of World War 2 gun emplacement. Battery Seaman, Rye NH
The live album holds a curious place in many discographies of rock bands and solo artists. It can be many things: a peak-career highlight for some (The Who’s Live at Leeds, the Stones’ Get Yer Ya-Yas Out, James Brown’s live-at-the-Apollo recording) and a career maker for others (Frampton Comes Alive). Many others are seen as placeholders between studio albums or as a de facto souvenir for fans who have seen their favorites in concert.
Sometimes though, an official live release can end up being a millstone in the canon of even the best musical artists, scoffed at by both critics and fans alike. It could be a case of shoddy production, sloppy performance, a group in career downturn or even an excess of success. Creem magazine was once so put off by the rank triumphalism Quenn’s Live Killers they compared it to the sound of “someone peeing on your grave.”
Over time I have gathered up a list these bad-rep concert documents and re-visited them, wondering if they really deserved all those one-star reviews. In some cases, time has been kinder, initial victims of a hot-take hostility in a tougher age of music criticism. Others are still big-time stinkers.
Who’s Last—The Who (1984)
I’ve always wondered about this one. Dismissed and derided at the time, Who’s Last was a document of the band’s at-the-time Farewell tour back in 1982. I mean it couldn’t be as bad as all that, right? Yes and no. On one hand it is the Who and there are gobs of great tunes that are played well enough. But on the other hand, don’t expect anything transformative. The galvanizing versions of “Magic Bus” and “My Generation” on the celebrated Live at Leeds put the ones here to shame, not to mention how poorly this “See Me, Feel Me/Listening to You” stacks up to victorious version on the Woodstock soundtrack. True, people thought it was a swan song back then and a release was justified (though it only hit #81 in America) but after Pete and the boys resumed touring in 1989 it seemed irrelevant, esp. after the sublime Leeds was expanded from 6 to 14 tracks in the CD era. Grade: C-
Take No Prisoners—Lou Reed (1978)
“What do I look like, Henny Youngman up here?” Yeah, kinda. This smart-ass double album was reportedly Lou’s answer to those who said he never talked on stage. True to Reed’s incorrigible nature he goes too far in the other direction, ad-libbing over opener “Sweet Jane” until the song is just an afterthought. True, he does get out a few good lines (“Give me an issue, I’ll give you a tissue”) and a sick burn on Patti Smith (“Fuck Radio Ethiopia, this is Radio Brooklyn!”) but it sets the tone for what is really a punk novelty record.
The music, such as it is, starts at 2:20
The crowd at the Bottom Line nightclub in NYC seem to be there as much for the cult of personality as for the music, and “Walk on the Wild Side” becomes a rambling 16-minute monologue a la Lenny Bruce. When Lou does manage to get thru a whole song without ragging on rock critics or his old Factory friends the results can be pretty good, as on “Coney Island Baby” and “Satellite of Love,” but they add up to a relatively small fraction of the album’s long 98-minute run time. Grade: C
Coast to Coast: Overture and Beginners—Rod Stewart/Faces (1974)
The Faces were on borrowed time when this concert record came out, maybe accounting for the poor press it got. Some saw it as a quick cash-out before Rod Stewart finally split to commit full-time to his burgeoning solo career. Key contributor Ronnie Lane had already left, replaced by Japanese bassist Tetsu Yamauchi. Coast to Coast is an enjoyable (if slapdash) mix of Rod solo numbers, a couple of Faces songs and clutch of covers. Most successful is a top-shelf take on the Motown lament “I Wish it Would Rain,” featuring an impassioned vocal by Rod and a great blues guitar solo from Ronnie Wood. Grade: B-
On the Road—Traffic (1973)
Traffic were another stalwart British group who were heading down the home stretch when this leisurely live double hit the shops. They released one more studio album before disbanding the following year. This was the end of their expanded-lineup era, with the core trio of Steve Winwood, Jim Capaldi and Chris Wood were joined by percussionist Rebop and three Muscle Shoals session men. This period was marked by a certain languid jam-band sound and most of the material here was drawn from the previous two studio sets, Low Spark of the High-Heeled Boys and Shoot Out at Fantasy Factory. The only nod to the “old” Traffic was a 21-minute medley of “Glad/Freedom Rider.” The band may have set themselves up for rock-mag ridicule by including the recent “(Sometimes I Feel So) Uninspired.” But that one turns out to be a highlight, with some electrifying lead guitar from Winwood, so go figure. Grade: B-
David Live—David Bowie (1974)
This is a textbook case of a concert album being recorded at precisely the wrong time. Bowie’s ’74 show started off as the “Diamond Dogs” tour and ended as the start of his “plastic soul” era. (His next album would be Young Americans). The album is unfocused and lacking in true energy, his vocals careless and strained. Hard drugs were an issue. It tends to sound better if you don’t know the studio version and have nothing to compare it against (I rather like his version of the Ohio Players “Here Today, Gone Tomorrow”). But the only one of his many famous songs here that maybe outdoes the original is a strong version of “Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide,” that closes this misbegotten release. Grade: D+
T.V. Eye Live—Iggy Pop (1977)
Speaking of Mr. Bowie, the year 1977 brought him renewed recognition not only for two of his classic Berlin-era albums (Heroes and Low) but also reviving the career of a certain James Osterberg, who was at loose ends after the dissolution of his proto-punk band the Stooges. Iggy Pop, as he was better known, joined Bowie at his digs hard by the Berlin Wall, both trying to kick long-standing drug habits and get new inspiration in their bleak Cold War surroundings.
Iggy also released two great albums in ’77 (The Idiot and Lust for Life), both produced and largely co-written by his pal Dave. This single live album also got a release but was panned across the board (one meager star at AllMusic) but nowadays it’s hard to see why. It’s a pretty strong set, some of it from an American tour where Bowie supported him on keyboards and backing vocals. The sound quality is not so hot, probably because RCA gave him a $90,000 advance to produce the album (he owed them one more LP) but then spent five grand on it and pocketed the rest. That alone bumps it up half a grade. B+
Bob Dylan at Budokan—Bob Dylan (I think) 1978
Perhaps we will never know just what compelled Zimmy to release this album of his revolutionary repertoire performed as a vacuous Vegas lounge act (and presented as such). On the heels of his divorce and the epic flop that was his “Renaldo and Clara” movie, maybe he thought he could release a quicky double live album and recoup his losses before anyone noticed, it did hit #13 in America.
It did have a few critical defenders and of course if you go by the YouTube fanboys, Budokan ranks right up there with the Sistine Chapel at the apex of Western Civilization. But unless it’s enjoyed as a perverse form of performance art, I don’t know how anyone can like the Wayne Newton arrangements, the cloying back-up singers, the overwrought saxophone and Dylan singing his visionary back catalogue as if it were the collected works of Tony Orlando and Dawn. Just take this encore version of “The Times They are A-Changing” (please) and listen to the fake sincerity of the spoken intro and then Dylan actually telling the crowd “We’re here for four more nights” as if he really were at a casino cocktail lounge and not one of the world’s most revered concert halls. Wow. Grade: D
Still Life—The Rolling Stones (1982)
The era of the true mega concert tour, complete with corporate sponsorship, was under way in the early 80s and naturally the Stones were on the leading edge. That means fans packed in like 80,000 sardines at a place like Arizona’s Sun Devil Stadium and the band trying to fill it with sound and vision no matter how impersonal the setting. (You can see some of that scene in the Hal Ashby-directed tour film, “Let’s Spend the Night Together”). The stage is so big that Mick Jagger and Charlie Watts seem to be in different zip codes). This dynamic comes thru in the unfortunately- titled Still Life.
Like Who’s Last, there are lots of great songs here and the notes are all in the right place (mostly). Yet, it comes down to a business model that just doesn’t work—for me, anyway. I’ve never been to a football stadium concert, and this shows me why. Sure, it’s quite possible to have a good time at this kind of show (many have) but to me the possibility of a good aesthetic return on your monetary investment seems low. I can’t see the band and they can’t reach me; that dubious dynamic carries over to the album. Like David Live, this album sounds OK when you don’t have any previous recording to compare it to, so I chose their new cover of Smokey Robinson’s “Going to a Go-Go” as the best of the lot. Grade: C
Live ‘n’ Kicking—West, Bruce and Laing (1974)
Twin Peaks—Mountain (1974)
When you apply the contemporary phrase “Go big or go home” to the classic rock era, it’s hard not to think of Leslie West. He was a “mountain” of a man (his girth inspired the band’s name), his bellowing vocals and scorched-earth guitar solos known far and wide since the band made a big splash at Woodstock. By 1972, Mountain were on hiatus and West and Mountain drummer Corky Laing joined ex-Cream bassist/singer Jack Bruce to form a blooze-rock supergroup that released two studio albums and this single live set, released just after announcing their break-up in early ’74.
As a group, Mountain, as heavy as they were, also had a melodic sign, seen in deft compositions like “For Yasgur’s Farm” and “Nantucket Sleighride.” WBL cast away most of that. To start off Live ‘n’ Kicking, they turn the Stones’ refined and brooding ballad “Play With Fire” into a 13-minute marauding metal warhorse, complete with drum solo. The “96-decibel freaks” in the audience eat it up. Jack Bruce, replacing the more refined Felix Pappalardi as West’s frontline partner, was rougher-edged. He fills the space between songs with arena-rock bravado and his bass is turned up to overload levels nearly as loud as West’s guitar, if that’s even possible. True, there is some nimble trip interplay on the WBL original “The Doctor” but things go happily off the rails with closer “Powerhouse Sod” which turns into a Bruce showcase, because everyone knows the best way to end a 70s live album is with a bass solo!
Around the same time that West, Bruce and Laing were dissolving due to internal dissension and hard-drug abuse, West was and Pappalardi were re-uniting with a new lineup. Corky Laing, for whom the drug issues were hitting esp. hard, was replaced this time by Alan Schwartzberg. Original keyboardist Steve Knight was subbed off in favor of Bob Mann, who also doubled on second guitar for added sonic impact. My roommate at the time called the Japan-recorded Twin Peaks “the album with the biggest tits in the world” (riffing on Monty Python) and it did seem like the band was out to prove scale new heights of heavyosity.
Twin Peaks, with its confident air attractive artwork (see banner image at top of this post) did fare a little better in the critical arena than Live ‘n’ Kicking, which got an E+ (?) in the Village Voice. However, many scribes headed for the exits at the prospect of a 32-minute “Nantucket Sleighride.” Of course, fans, in this age of bong hits and good stereo systems, loved every long minute of it and didn’t mind having to get up and flip the record halfway thru. The glorious noise continues right through to side four, as the band run over the “Mississippi Queen” with a Mack truck and play “Roll Over Beethoven” at such volume that it would have made ol’ Ludwig van deaf all over again. Best of all is West’s signature “Guitar Solo,” where he gets free reign to indulge himself for five uninterrupted minutes, to the point where he injects a bit of “Jingle Bells” even though it’s August in Osaka. The Seventies, they were a thing, man.
Grades: Live ‘n’ Kicking: B-, Twin Peaks: A (fight me).
And speaking of “Jingle Bells,” Happy Holidays, everyone!
“He took the road to heaven in the morning.” RIP to Shane MacGowan, principal singer and songwriter for the Pogues, and the poet laureate for the modern Irish diaspora. Though he was born and (mostly) lived in and around London, his childhood experiences in Tipperary seemed to inhabit him as profoundly and completely as did Dublin to James Joyce, who left Ireland as a young man.
With a super-talented group of players behind him, Shane wrote dozens of beautiful and incorrigible booze-infused songs on themes of wanderlust, bittersweet romance, camaraderie, Irish social history, political indignation and London street life. His songwriting compromised a universe unto itself: this was a guy who could make the demolition of an old greyhound racetrack (“White City”) sound mythic (Oh, the torn-up ticket stubs of a hundred thousand mugs/Now washed away like dead dreams in the rain”).
The same goes for “Sally MacLennane” which covers an entire lifetime in 2:40. MacGowan sings the tale of Jimmy, who “played harmonica in the pub where I was born” (brilliant) and goes off to America to make his fortune while the narrator grows up to tend the same bar. Jimmy eventually returns to a very changed homeland and you come to realize that the fateful walk to the train station is in fact a funeral procession.
So let’s sing Shane “a song of times long gone” and remember him well, as he remembered the world around him in a way that touched so many so deeply.
It’s been said that your musical identifications and tastes are cemented at a very early age, maybe as young as fourteen. That doesn’t mean you can’t expand your sonic palette later on—I didn’t get into jazz, reggae or classical until my mid-20s or so. But in the pop music universe, the “14 Rule” hold true.
One of my lasting musical fixations is Top 40 radio in the early Seventies, from about when I was 13 to 17 years old. So imagine my delight when I came across this tome at a retro store in Portland, Maine—a little shop stuffed with old albums, cassettes, VHS tapes, comic books and pop culture knick-knacks. I took one look at the cover and said to myself, “These guys get me.”
The guys in question are brothers Don and Jeff Breithaupt. They hail from Toronto, Don is singer in the band Monkey House and Jeff is an arts-fundraiser. In the mid-80s they began to wonder what became of the 45s they collected in the previous decade and found out from Mom that they were up in the attic crawlspace, still in their original faux-denim case.
The book’s “title track.” Go ahead and sing along, you know you want to.
So began their deep-dive journey through a large swatch of Billboard-charting singles dating from 1971-75. They starting with a survey of early 45s by the ex-Beatles and end at the Dawn of Disco. Early in their introduction, the Breithaupts make clear that they won’t abide by any lazy notion of this era being an inferior zeitgeist. Sure, there were questionable fashions and silly fads (with some novelty records to match), but they contend (rightly) that it was also a time of a vital incorporation of the strengths of venerated Sixties. “The rock press has a good ear for innovation,” they write, “but has shown little patience with the slower process of consolidation.”
The early 70s would be the last period of the Big House notion of commercial Top 40 radio. The authors note that the continuation and expansion of the earlier Boomer rock era: this was the end days of when R&B artists, singer-songwriters, hard rockers, foreign pop bands and teenybop idols would all share space on the Billboard charts. This rich audio-cultural diversity, delivered with none of today’s virtue signaling, would soon give way to specialized radio formats, a separation process that would eventually be reflected in America’s culture wars and divisive politics.
A decade-defining case in point. The sublime “Everybody Plays the Fool,” by the Harlem-based trio The Main Ingredient, was a huge hit in 1972 and of the last of the great “advice songs” (see also Petula Clark’s “Downtown” or the Beatles “She Loves You”). From its droll spoken intro to its last buoyant chorus, this was a stone-cold classic. But it was kept from the No. 1 spot by Chuck Berry’s infantile “My Ding-a-Ling.” Such was the Seventies.
The brothers collect these disparate musical trends into a colorful collection of concise chapters, preceded by a list of ten songs which best exemplify them. For instance:
“Revoluncheon: The Sixties Continued” Includes posthumous hits by Jim (“Riders on the Storm”) and Janis (“Me and Bobby McGee”) and post-mortem anthems like “Won’t Get Fooled Again” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”
The authors note that some Sixties-identified artists like the Who, Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon and even the Rolling Stones put out much of their best work in the early Seventies, this continuation couldn’t last forever. “The relatively unified front of the Beatles, Stones and Motown,” they note, referring to the musical Sixties, “shattered into a million Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reynoldses.”
“Dancing in the Moonlight: Seventies Pop.” Featuring Carole King’s “It’s Too Late,” Seals and Croft’s “Summer Breeze,” Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” and Jackson Browne’s “Doctor My Eyes.” Sure it wasn’t as transformative as Monterey Pop, but only a snobby leading-edge Baby Boomer could resist the unabashed good vibes of “Dancing in the Moonlight” or this 3 Dog Night gem:
“The Sound of Philadelphia” Motown began to lose its way a little after moving from Detroit to L.A. in 1972—despite some great records by Stevie, the post-Diana Supremes and Marvin Gaye in his “What’s Going On” era. But in its place came the rise of the Philly Soul sound, led by the songwriting/producing team of Leon Huff and Kenneth Gamble. This is one of the book’s best chapters. Get ready to fall in love all over again with the Spinners, the Stylistics, the O’Jays and Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes. And let’s not forget this timeless adultery anthem by Billy Paul.
“Richard Nixon’s Greatest Hits” The era’s social protest songs were a mixed bag, but I am ready to defend the honor of the 5 Man Electrical Band’s “Signs” despite its many detractors (“the sign says you gotta have a membership card to get inside, ugh!”).
Also getting a going-over in this chapter are the likes of “Bring the Boys Home” (Freda Payne), “Give Ireland Back to the Irish” (Wings), “Fight the Power” (Isley Brothers), and the Raider’s white-guilt classic “Indian Reservation.” Sometimes the execution would get muddled and sentiments would veer more into apathy than action, despite good intentions. Ten Years After frontman Alvin Lee would “Love to Change the World” but didn’t know how so he just decided “to leave it up to you.” The authors also drill down on Chicago’s rather confounding minor hit “Dialogue (Parts 1 and 2).” Here, guitarist Terry Kath, playing a “well-informed progressive,” grills a “spoiled college kid” (sung by Peter Cetera) about his views on the world. The kid is so callow that when asked if he’s angry about the way the disastrous Vietnam War is dragging on, he plainly states that he “Hopes the president (Nixon) knows what he’s into.” And yet he somehow wins the argument by inexplicably convincing the Kath character (without providing evidence) that “everything is fine.” Wow.
By way of comparison, the Breithaupts contend that the “feminist pop” of the era was a lot more effective. Of course, Helen Reddy’s “I am Woman” gets a mention, but they are not too impressed with her “tame delivery.” Instead they rightly rave about the female singers (mostly African-American) who boldly turned the tables on the philandering macho men of the time. The politics here are mostly sexual, spawning a number of memorable, whip-smart singles like “Mr. Big Stuff” (Jean Knight), “Clean-Up Woman” (Betty Wright), “Women’s Love Rights” (Laura Lee) and my favorite, “Want Ads” by Honey Cone. In this infectious soul-groove workout, lead singer Edna Wright serves notice on her cheating-ass (ex) boyfriend by advertising for a new main squeeze in the Personals section of her local newspaper, noting that “experience in love preferred, but we’ll accept the young trainees.” Hell, yeah!
“Want Ads” was #1 on both the pop and soul charts in the spring of 1971. Here is the extra-funky extended version.
There are many other categories covered here, too many to review. Some of them are: Jazz Pop, Religious Pop, Progressive Rock, Hard Rock, Instrumentals, Story Songs (that chapter is named “Harry, Keep the Change” lol) and even “Self-Pity Pop”. This section features the lachrymose likes of “At Seventeen” (Janis Ian), “All By Myself” (Eric Carmen), “Seasons in the Sun” (Terry Jacks) and “Alone Again Naturally,” the suicide-ideation hoot by the regrettable Gilbert O’Sullivan.
But good, bad, or ugly, this music from the last great period of open-format radio do have a lasting virtue. That’s because most of the hits we were digging on back then were marked by a dogged sincerity. This can be hard to reckon with in our own ironic age. When this book came out in the mid-90s, the Seventies were enjoying a moment, but not for all the right reasons. “Generation Xers find it easy to laugh at everything,” the brothers wrote in ‘96, “they aren’t used to pop culture that wants to be taken at face value.”
This recalls a couple of big-charting songs of the time. First is “Brandy,” the only hit by the Jersey Shore band Looking Glass. The story of a lovelorn barmaid in a harborside tavern, this tune is sung in complete earnestness and was listened to in the same spirit as it headed to #1 in June 1972. But upon closer inspection, if was Brandy was such “a fine girl” and desired by all, couldn’t she just dump this sailor guy who has clearly stated “My love and my lady is the sea” (I mean, really). Or conversely, the sailor could finally give up on his stinky old boat, put a ring on it and, I don’t know, open a bait-and-tackle shop?
The other is the inimitable “Sweet City Woman” by the Calgary-based trio, the Stampeders. In this winsome, banjo-driven ditty, the singer hops a train heading out of the boonies to hook up with his lady friend living in town. He even mentions his banjo twice in the song and his anticipation is heightened not just by his girlfriend’s good loving but also her macaroons. Like I said, such was the Seventies. So the next time either song comes over the radio, we late baby boomers will be singing along with affection not irony. But I’m posting “Sweet City Woman” because at least the guy in that song knew when he had a good thing going!
“Those English boys, they want to play the blues so bad. And they do play it so bad,” Sonny Boy Williamson once said, looking back in humor to the times he went to tour in Europe in the early Sixties, sometimes supported by the Yardbirds or the Animals. It’s a classic quote and a bit unfair (the Yardbirds were just starting out) but it does point up the fact that most of the bands that made up the epochal British rock explosion of the later Sixties were steeped in reverence to the blues, despite the geographical and experiential distance from their heroes.
But nobody could question their sincerity and when the English blues-rock thing really took off a meeting of the minds was bound to happen. The legendary blues (and early rock ‘n’ roll) performers found their commercial fortunes fading, overtaken by R&B, Motown and funk. For the Brits, the legitimacy conferred and the fun to be had jamming with these legends was a no-brainer. When a Chess Records producer, after watching a Cream concert at the old Fillmore West, asked Eric Clapton if he would like to do an album with Howlin’ Wolf the die was cast. Although the record would not get recorded for another couple of years, it would set the pace for a notable mini-genre of “London Sessions” projects that would hit the market in the early Seventies.
The London Howlin’ Wolf Sessions (1971)
So the Wolf album would be the first of these, the Chess label would follow with three others, listed chronologically below. It could be argued that this is the best of them; it certainly had the best cover art (see banner image. Chess followed the formula of having illustrated covers showing their subject in London-themed settings. While the other three are a bit cartoonish, this one has a handsome drawing of the Big Guy surveying the Piccadilly Circus scene while seated with his guitar case under the Eros statue, while a chap who looks like Clapton plays on a lower step.
Eric certainly wasn’t going to waste an opportunity like this and he brings his A-game, pealing off any number of torrid solos on his trusty Stratocaster. Wolf brought along right-hand man Hubert Sumlin to set the pace on rhythm guitar, while Rolling Stones’ Charlie Watts and Bill Wyman laid the foundation for an energetic set of blues classics. The devotion to this Chicago blues legend was undeniable: the Stones’ insisted on Wolf as a guest when they appeared on the American TV music show “Shindig,” while Slowhand had been tapping the Wolf songbook for years (all but two of these twelve songs are credited to him—Chester Burnett—or his go-to guy Willie Dixon) and Cream’s 16-minute version of “Spoonful” is the stuff of acid-rock lore.
With the bedrock of Sumlin and this trio, plus either Steve Winwood or “sixth Stone” Ian Stewart on keyboards, Wolf fronts a strong collection of his well-known 12-bar tunes, in great voice and seemingly high spirits. You get “I Ain’t Superstitious,” “Sitting on Top of the World,” “Built for Comfort,” “Do the Do” and trademark numbers, all expertly played and well produced by Chicago bluesologist Norman Dayron. And if their was any question as to who was in charge here, listen to the practice take of “Little Red Rooster.” The imperious Wolf is showing the young guns how the intro should be done by playing it on his acoustic when Clapton tries to get him to play on the final: “Nah, man, come on!” The album was well-reviewed and made a respectable chart showing, leading the way for what was to come. Grade: A-
The London Muddy Waters Sessions (1972)
The mighty Muddy Waters was the next to get the UK treatment and this was another well-done effort. Already a pattern was established. There was the illustrated cover, though this one looked like a half-finished Peter Max reject (though Waters wearing a bobby’s helmet was kinda funny). There was the trusty wing man brought over from the Windy City (Muddy’s harmonica player Carey Bell). Again, the roll call at the London studio proved impressive (Rory Gallagher, Ric Grech, Georgie Fame, Steve Winwood again, and former Hendrix drummer Mitch Mitchell).
Gallagher, the revered Irish blues guitarist, and Bell really stand out here, trading solos on several tracks. And while Waters is in fine fettle, the album is held back at times by the Americans’ unfamiliarity with the surroundings and the Brits reverence. In other words, good but not off-the-hook good. Like on the Howlin’ Wolf album, the material consists mostly of artist originals and Willie Dixon standards, including a new MW version of his immortal “I’m Ready,” (“I’m drinking TNT/I’m smoking dynamite/I hope some screwball starts a fight”). Grade: B
The London Chuck Berry Sessions (1972)
I think it’s safe to say that Chuck’s UK album was the most financially successful of this lot, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. That is because it included the execrable novelty song “My Ding-a-Ling,” which, believe it or not was Berry’s only #1 single in America. But at least the 45 edit was only about four minutes, the juvenile singalong goes on for eleven minutes on the album’s live second side. It is sandwiched between this record’s highlights. Helped along by two future members of the Average White Band, he treats the Lancaster festival crowd to a frisky rave-up on “Reeling and Rocking” and then sends them into a frenzy with “Johnny B. Goode” (probably because they are secretly relieved that “Ding-a-Ling” is finally over). Chaos ensues at the end when the crowd belligerently demand an encore while a flustered MC begs the crowd to leave so they can make way for a show by “The Pink Floyd.”
The studio side has little of value, despite the presence of Kenney Jones and Ian McLagan from the Faces. Chuck sounds uninspired and the only real bright spot is “I Love You” which shows a more contemporary spin on his trademark sound. Grade: C
The London Bo Diddley Sessions (1973)
The pioneering rock ‘n’ roller born Ellis McDaniel was not one to rest on his laurels. Bo had spent the late 60s and early 70s updating his sound to fit in with the more contemporary funk style. It never really caught on and he was still making most of his income on the oldies circuit where his patented hambone “Bo Diddley beat” was ever popular. His London sojourn was bound to be a colorful affair and the old pro didn’t disappoint, even if it did nothing to help his flagging record sales.
There’s a great funk workout (“Get Out of My Life),” a couple of cheeky numbers written by his former Chess label mate Sam Dees (“Husband-in-Law” and “Sneakers on a Rooster”) featuring singer and female foil Cookie Vee, and a good version of his “Bo Diddley” signature song. There is less overt star power here, but Diddley is well served by a tight and sympathetic supporting cast centered around Spencer Davis Group alumni Eddie Hardin on organ and guitarist Ray Fenwick, while ELO founder Roy Wood contributes some supple bass work. Bo’s stature, if not his commercial standing, continued into the next rock generation and by 1979 he was knocking ‘em dead as a supporting act on the Clash’s first American tour. Grade: B+
B.B. King in London (1971)
King recorded this LP at London’s famed Olympic Studios in June of 1971 and it was released in November of that year, just prior to a tour of England. It’s a decent outing by the Blues Boy, though not much here that you haven’t heard before from him. He’s supported by a staunch roster of classic-rock supporting players and regulars from the British blues club/festival circuit. Drumming is by the Jims (Gordon and Keltner), the bass work is supplied by the ever-reliable (and ever-available Klaus Voorman), and the second guitar spot (backing up King and his famous Gibson ES-355 named Lucille) rotates between Fleetwood Mac founder Peter Green, John Uribe and Dr. John.
There are a couple of changes of pace which help a lot. The instrumental “Alexis’ Blues” has both Mr. Korner and BB on acoustic guitar while Steve Marriott blows some mean harp. Guest keyboardist Gary Wright gets to do his piano shuffle with King adding some of his piquant picking on this platter (sorry). He also does some fine singing and soloing on his own “Ghetto Woman,” the best of the straight blues number. The tasty string arrangement shows that a lot of care went into the making of the, even if the results are less than revelatory. Grade: B-
Jerry Lee Lewis: The Session…Recorded in London (1973)
As mentioned before, some of these London recordings are held in check by the double dynamic of the headliner’s unfamiliar surroundings and the kid-glove tendencies of the admiring supporting players. In one sense, this was also the case when Jerry Lee Lewis made his way across the pond in 1973. Although only in his late thirties, Jerry Lee was on the cusp of his elder statesman years and initially felt ill-at-ease during the sessions. He had rarely recorded outside of Memphis or Nashville and here he was surrounded by long-haired whipper snappers.
But this was still the same Lewis who was the incorrigible wild man of rock ‘n’ roll and he let it loose with a sprawling, freewheeling, braggadocious double album that yielded his last hit song on the pop charts (“Drinking Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee”) and cemented his status as an early rock ‘n’ roll icon. The album kicks off with “Drinking Wine,” setting the stage for what’s to come. It’s a great ol’ roadhouse boogie with Jerry leading the charge, singing enthusiastically of hedonistic pursuits and pounding away at his piano in that familiar staccato style. Alvin Lee of Ten Years After, the first of many hotshot guitarists to heed the star’s command to “Pick it, son,” gives some 70s firepower to a 50s-style solo. These “sons” are generally only 5-10 younger than “The Killer” but none of them would dare complain. His offspring include and impressive collection of guitarists (Rory Gallagher, Albert Lee, Peter Frampton, Delaney Bramlett and future Foreigner Mick Jones) and keyboardists (Gary Wright, Tony Ashton and Procol Harum’s Matthew Fisher) and Brian Parrish (then vocalist with Badger) on harmonica. Several of Lewis’ usual band also appear.
When these disparate elements come together the record can be great fun, with the accompanists’ amped-up backing giving Lewis a solid platform to hit his attitudinal sweet spot halfway between blasé and berserk. It’s a rush to hear Gallagher and Frampton trading solos as the man bulls his way thru “Johnny B. Goode” and to have pro’s pro Albert Lee move the crew full-steam-ahead on “Sea Cruise” as Captain Killer runs thru his paces of piano razzle-dazzle, esp. in those sweeping glissandos that flash by like Zorro’s sword. Country and blues numbers are also present as are a couple of more contemporary songs (CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” and Gordon Lightfoot’s “Early Morning Rain”).
It comes all together for the concluding “Rock & Roll Medley” as the Killer whiplashes thru four Little Richard classics before climaxing with his immortal “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.”Jerry Lee whoops it up like it’s 1957 and attacks his piano keys with karate-chop comping while Alvin Lee flies off into Woodstock guitar-hero land. It’s a satisfying ending to an entertaining, loosey-goosey record and will be a fun time no matter which of the four sides you drop the needle on. Grade: B+
The familiar turns fantastical as “sleep voyager” Swain roams through fractured cities and societies, falling in with a group of utopian separatists.
“Chthonic Days” is a 20-page, magazine-size short story comic that is culled from two pivotal chapters of the graphic-novel-in-progress “In a Dream of Strange Cities”. The title of the story indicates the underground quest to find a space large enough to construct a prototype independent sub-city, envisioned by an idealistic group called the Homelanders. Lady Domine, their charismatic and overstanding leader, lays out their vision in the speech that opens the story.
At first, Swain has no idea about how and why he has been drawn into this “Second World” or that it is even a different plane of existence. But his flair for urban exploring and psychogeographic observation make him an ideal recruit for Domine and the forces of “love, logic and learning” at existential odds with a late autocratic leader. Kept alive by a haranguing electronic video-audio loop, he encourages his followers to continue to follow his lead and meet every act of social empathy with scorn and even violence, with no end in sight.
Swain, at the conscripted call-up from the now autonomous “World Subconscious” will find out if there is “a way forward in peace” against the abusive cult of personality that pervades half the citizens of the story’s city-state.
The price of $5 includes mailing within the U.S. and will be so helpful and artist Ipan and I continue work of the first volume of a proposed trilogy. And you can keep up with our progress by Liking the In a Dream of Strange Cities Facebook page. Thanks! –Rick Ouellette
“Chthonic Days”
A short-story comic taken from the upcoming series “In a Dream of Strang Cities.”
I hadn’t heard of the 2010 book “Popcorn: 50 Years of Rock ‘n’ Roll Movies” until I recently scored a copy for $2 at a library book sale. Penned by British music scribe Garry Mulholland, it was advertised as “The first and last word on the rock movie” six years before I self-published my tome “Rock Docs: A 50-year Cinematic Journey.”
So though I’d beg to differ with that blurb, I also know when to tip my cap to a pro. “Popcorn” is a wildly entertaining and rigorous look at both rockumentaries and music-themed feature films for the half-century starting in the mid-Fifties (my timeline is Beatlemania to 2014). Mulholland is a writer full of original thinking: astute, passionate, contrarian, righteous, risqué and often laugh-out-loud funny. You can’t wait to read the next review and find out what he’ll say about all these major music movies, even when you can tell by the star-rating that you’ll disagree with him.
That Thing You Do!: “Sixties rock according to Forrest Gump.”
This is a guy who likes “Help!” and “Yellow Submarine” better than “Hard Day’s Night,” prefers the Bob Dylan obscurity “Masked and Anonymous” over the iconic “Don’t Look Back,” and is as willing to praise John Waters’ “Hairspray” to the high heavens as he is to take the Rutles down a notch or two. But he will champion worthy obscurities like “Slade in Flame” with logic and love and assure us with 5-star ratings for “This is Spinal Tap,” “Quadrophenia,” “Gimme Shelter,” “Performance” and “The Filth and the Fury.”
The Kids are Alright: “Unique, thrilling, and a great reminder of when snotty bands smashing up stuff was still shocking, big and clever”
The films earning one or two stars usually get a (often much-needed) hatchet job. Check out these “plot line” blurbs that appear under the rating.
The Doors: “Twat stops shaving and dies.”
Purple Rain: “A $6 million tribute to Small Man Syndrome.”
The Monkeys’ ‘Head’: “Boy band force fed drugs and abused by hippie fuckwits.”
Pink Floyd’s The Wall: “Walls are bad. But women are worse.”
Control: “The aesthetically pleasing death of Ian Curtis.”
With such stylistic flair and free-ranging opinions, Mulholland can sometimes go a bit daft. About the only thing he likes in “The Last Waltz” are those cloying interviews Martin Scorsese had with Robbie Robertson to sell their cinematic ego trip about a grandiose farewell concert. Meanwhile, he treats the rest of The Band (who did not want to break up the group) as if they were Mumford and Sons. Not cool. The only guest spot he approves of is Muddy Waters, a rare foray into the dubious Rock Critic Guide to Street Cred.
In Bed with Madonna (aka Truth or Dare): “It’s like spending 113 minutes inside a homophobic joke.”
Elsewhere, Mulholland (who is white) delves deep into the ever-issue of white co-option of black musical culture and does so via an intellectual process, not by lazy virtue signaling. Like I said, he has a righteous streak. He uses it to body slam both the likes of “The Blues Brothers” (“trades on the non-existent joke of two ugly sexist white blokes being the Kings of Soul”) and “Ray” (“The sick, cruel, racist America is stylized-to-fuck until it has the requisite glow of nostalgic cool”), exposing the ineptitudes of both low-brow comedies and Oscar-bait star vehicles masquerading as biography.
As for “Ray,” the author dutifully misinforms us that Jamie Foxx won the Oscar for “Best Actor in Sunglasses.” Mulholland may be from England, but his cheeky sense of humor will be much appreciated by rock fans weaned on the good old days of Detroit-based CREEM magazine (“The Wall” is judged to be “the rancid toenail clippings of fetid rotting dogs”). You get the idea. Keep a lookout for “Popcorn” on the discount shelf or see if your library has a copy. Then have yourself a good laugh—and a good think.
But if you’re interested, I still have a few copies of my “Rock Docs” available for sale. Inquire in the comments below. Thanks, Rick Ouellette
Reel and Rock 