Bringing obscure songs from the 1970s such as deep album cuts, underrated cover songs and forgotten singles back on this blog. The 70s was a great time for music, possibly the best and the most diverse; that some gems that need to be rediscovered
A hollow echoplex guitar is muted and the strings are picked up and down near the bridge picking out a circular pattern; the flanger on full distortion creating a warbling effect around the mix like the reflections of a water gong. A depressed, 'down in the doldrums' deadened organ lays down a dreary set of keys as Phil Collins launches into one of his most intimate love songs; a precursor to In Too Deep with it's watery keyboard 'slow jam' vibes. His tender voice intentionally restraining his gruffness, the cascading chorus where the phased guitars and Oberheimer synth play high pitched notes in harmony with the band members in their backing group 'lalalas' vocals.
The desolate instrumentation, such as the subtle kalimba colouring, which along with the opening guitar pattern sound almost pre-programmed in their endless looping. Phil Collins's hissed tones are expertly set in the middle of this sprawling rain forest of sound; the echo and phaser drenched guitars and African poly-rthymic percussion beat around restlessly around the solemn organ and vocal combo. Then comes the most extraordinary synth solo I have ever heard, Tony Banks hits a dazzling, tumbling flurry of descending, floral synthesizer notes in a bright, sweet Japanese whine, oscillating back and forth in a wishy washy manner. The way the line trickle down like a jungle stream interpreted by electronic circuitry and transcribed as digitised notes whizzing away into the depths of the night; it's all too 'wanderful'. The drums take on a barrelling growl like a gorilla grunt, a contrasting backdrop to the tone of the synthesizer, which soars in a sweet lilting way, Oriental like a female Japanese singing voice as it trails off into the virtual jungle. Collins' hi-hat rattles along and Mike Rutherford's original guitar part still bares its own gorilla-esque panting, Tony Banks' wonderful solo part returns for one more run; seesawing and zigzagging away like the run off of rainwater as it leaks down a huge banana tree leaf, trapped in the midst of a Madagascan everglade. This isn't a gem,its an emerald!
Stoneground could be one of the strangest groups there is; ten-piece band with seven lead vocalists, chiefly Sal Valentino the 60s folk rock group the Beau Brummels (pretty much the band the Byrds modelled themselves on).
From the first track the distinct female backing singers and rough overlapping blues guitar stands out, the second track , Great Changes Since I've Been Born is a Southern rock gospel and tabla driven tune along the lines of Rolling Stones' classics You Can't Always Get What You Want and Shine a Light (which I'll write about soon). The cover of Rainy Day in June is a very 60s wah wah draped groover as honky tonk pianos and hippy commune singalong vibes dominate. The bluesy guitar pulls of this group is their best asset, and present in the opening bars of Added Attraction over a galloping drum beat before turning into a Neil Diamond styled commercial pop song with a female singing a Dolly Parton duet with a more Bob Dylan voiced singer; remember there were seven singers across this album..Seven!
The strung-out lyrics, stoic bass lines and building layers of arpeggios in Dreaming Man display an expert level of dynamic tensions. Stroke Stand is just a Southern blues stroller, but Bad News starts with a kick ass dual guitar part and a kickass female singer who claims Bad News travels like Wildfire. Which sounded like WiFi with her southern drawl which threw me for a second how they even knew about WiFi back then; either way this is a fresh modern sounding rocker riffer. Don't Waste My Time reminds me of early Styx with it's glorious scream falsetto harmonies and frenetic shredding guitar work. Colonel Chicken Fry is a bizarre blues rock tribute to KFC founder Colonel Sanders, but album closer Brand New Start features a hopelessly love sick voice so touching and set to a typical Stax rhythm as sparse piano and guitars follow a steady beat as the emotions and vocals 'lead; a terrific and heartfelt denouement rather than a overblown climax.
Probably the epitome of a critics' darling, Elvis Costello' only melodic numbers were on his first release; the controversial Oliver's Army and Welcome to the Working Week, which was the b side to today's gem. Alison receives a lot of writing but what surprises me is how no one ever points out that it is clearly a soul song and a homage to the Sweet Philly sound.
It starts with a pretty opening that is 100% Philadelphia in aesthetic; from a smooth fluttering blues lick that could've opened any Spinners song (particularly reminding me of I'll Be Around) to the harmonised snaps of a breathy electric piano and
bass guitar reminding me of the tropical feel of the O Jays' productions. The rattle of the cymbals and tastefully restrained beat reminds me of the louche Hi Records sound of Memphis, another influence as Costello's crisp vocal retains a raspy quality similar to balance of rough vocals and smooth instrumentation of Memphis
icons Al Green and Otis Clay.
The way the rhythm parts lock in for bursts of notes and chords at a time rather than a long held note or chord, the clean jazzy blues guitar and the placid 'quiet storm' organ feel of the electric piano make this more a 70s soul number than any new wave or pop rock tag it may
have gotten due to its association with Costello. The mix of scratchy, haggard vocals on the chorus and then a more sleepy subdued malaise fits with the moody vibes of the lyrics. I can't stress enough the dusky summer evening tone of the tune, the limited range of Costello recorded dry and upfront is
very real and unvarnished while the splashing cymbals and acrobatic lead guitar tangle in the background before Costello soars in the chorus. His fading refrains of the album title are also a great touch to close out this track. One difference is while Philly
soul was grand and layered, this is pared down in true post-punk nihilism, the bass and twinkling midnight electric piano are almost indistinguishable as they play the same notes, in perfect time and very low in the mix; creating a blend as they meander in gentle waves rocking an ocean liner. Its FM yacht rock and potentially blue eyed soul with a schoolboy roughness in the texture of Costello voice; his delivery far from the polish of a seasoned soul singer;
fantasy and reality coming together like American Soul and British punk.
The Quicksilver Messenger Service, often abbreviated to just Quicksilver, were always overshadowed by their San Francisco Psych rock brethren, The Jefferson Airplane, however they did boast sterling musicianship, their first album of the 70s was Just for Love, a nice romantic sentiment. The Native beats and flute of Wolf Run Pt.1 is astounding in it's stripped down beauty if culturally appropriation, adding no new element. On the title track, David Freiberg's 60s styled croon carries ghostly echo against a backdrop of staccato Spanish drums and bolero bass while psych acoustic guitar also plays in flamenco styled lines; its all very reminiscent of the Jefferson Airplane. Cobra is a highlight with it's dawdling, fluid guitar soloing and atmospheric fevered drums and piano, the hard rock guitar twirls and curls just like a Cobra before the drawn-out climax. The Hat is Freiberg's showcase from James Brown punchy yelps, to some octave leaping soulfulness to a variety of other vocalisations like breathy vibrato trills and scooping all over the shop. Goen Again is engorged with reverb and heady brew of melodious guitar slides and hammer-ons, Freiberg is on peak form with a gentle unrushed, hushed delivery against some Samba Pa Ti tones as the guitars' warm, glowing tone, paced tabla and tippy-toes piano create the same late evening chilled out vibe. Fresh Air is a bracing windy blast of chamber reverbed Sanatana-esque Latin Blues vamping and noodling while tablas roll away and sudden stops punctuate the track with the echoes of the lats note ringin out in the cramped dank studio interior for a moment before returning back to the repetitive chords. The piano fills of the ending are my favourite, we soon get reprises of Just for Love and Wolf Run to bookend the album, which is fairly enjoyable if derivative of their fellow San Francisco acts who went onto bigger and better; prove me wrong that they don't just sound like an amalgam of Jefferson Airplane and Sanatana.
The Sylvers 1972 debut album contained some promising compositions, based around street wise doses of revved up pop soul. Their youthful rebellious vocals could be often be effervescent and sunny in the bubblegum soul numbers as well as ethereal and hypnotic in the ballads Their pinched falsettos and hippie-ish flower power exuberance was jarringly paired with philosophical lyrics and a mix of incredibly wet backing vocals that aren't stacked but naturally sound that huge like a gospel choir, as that is where the six member sibling group got their inspiration from. However the rough and ready lead singing would often sound terse and tinny by contrast with a 'wall of sound' approach to the backing track; which would be cluttered with clashing acoustics and percussion parts splashing around the vocals. Though I must say the swirling, slightly hissed and tinny transistor feel does provide an airy nostalgic touch, like a semi-daydream nature to the production.
I'll never be ashamed again is the forgotten hit so to speak, instantly melodic and relatable; it captures all the elements of the new group's vibe in one song and with the mix far more balanced than the rest of the album. It starts with a crystal chandelier of an intro; all sparkling and intricate as we are immediately dazzled by the instruments, chiming and reflecting all around the mix. It's a fragrant few bars to start with, as 'raindrop' patters of harpsichord keys intersecting with clockwork tabla in a carousel, music box melody.
While the band carries heavy Doo Wop influence, they were also dogged with comparisons to the Jackson Five; one of the singers sounds exactly like Jermaine, but when it came to vocals they had the stronger voices. On this album you often hear their harmonies blare out in flanged whoops, almost for percussive effect though they could also swoon like sirens on the prettier numbers, something they would put to greater effect in later years on tracks like Forever Yours, Roulette Wheel of Love etc.
The dewdrop sentimentality in the young Foster Sylvers' pop vocals belie the extraordinarily mature ponderings and observations in their songs, usually written by elder brother Leon Sylvers III; who went on to become a famed producer. The spirit and energy of the group is clear, they employ the call and response technique to a great degree and constantly shifting tempos, from lush drawls to jumpier rhythms. The tremolo on the backing vocals and submerged echo chamber on the instruments creates a transcendent tone, slightly burying and blurring the sharp performances.
The shiny vibraphone tinkles along in the coda to far more prominence, also of note is the busy thrumming bass that locks everything together and the smooth blues licks that keep things flowing. The closing jam is a infectious mantric dance with sultry refrains and sharp thwacks/snaps of some percussive instrument; probably a set of drum sticks clapped together very harshly it sounds clipped.
A quick word on the lyrics; they are about a guy coming on to a girl too strong and aggressive and forced to learn an important lesson in how to approach with more humility and grace; it's a fresh message in a fresh recording.
This track was criminally left off their fourth album, Pawn Hearts, but deserves another listen, as in five short minutes you can almost imagine a whole scenario.
We get some tentative tom tom pounding from Guy Evans; it slowly get things started racking up the tension in their muted poly-rhythm. Then the snare bursts in, playing some marching band inspired double stroke rolls, similar to the kind employed by their dark-prog rivals, King Crimson in 21st Century Schizoid Man; where it gave an 'Iron Man' mechanical quality to a song about the rise of dystopian warfare.
It swiftly turns into a feeding frenzy as a horde of saxes break onto the scene like elephants from Hannibal's March. Squeaks of wild birds are also channelled from the very powerful lungs of David Jacksons as his fantastic saxophone parts dominate the mix. His deafening elephantine squeals could crack an ear drum but also make your most primal instincts flair up. The rabid squawking of David Jackson's 'double horn' approximate the cacophony you would hear under a jungle canopy. While the depth of the chamber reverb create a feeling as if a faint echo from a prehistoric age when beasts stomped the earth. But the key is the reverse echo, clipping and sucking the various elements till it distorts, anteing up into swirling cauldron of sounds, panning in and out and endlessly rotating. Soon the maddening layers of drums and brass ramp up as the beat goes fully ballistic; the creatures are now in heat. Now all manner of ghastly sounds blare out from bleats to yelps; some saxes even seem to bear a guttural gargle like sound of cockerels, while others shriek like deranged monkeys going haywire under a molten sun. Reverse echoes add an urgency to proceedings as if things are spinning around and the saxes are sped up to raise their pitch before an abrupt finish; a glass pane smashes.
What follows is a collage of sounds playing out like some sort of nightmarish orgy in the middle of the African bush. A trebly signal pulses from left to right channel like tge reflections of a wiffleboard, and a key chain sound zips just like the sound a tape measure makes when it retracts. This plants an image in my mind of a grasshopper, praying mantis or smaller insects like a beetle scuttering along.
Smaller glass objects smash all around like crystal goblets dropping out of the hands of people suddenly caught off guard. You can almost picture nature launching an attack on some colonial retreat in the middle of a savage terraplane. Next are some sharp zaps that resemble ray gunfire, but ricochet out like that of aimless musket fire from heavily outnumbered imperialists. The saxes pierce simultaneously in horrid screams and booming battle cries as cymbals crash all around us to add to the mayhem and chaos; even a gong can be briefly heard. The whooping alto-sax is the key ingredient it could be any animal with it's curdling and the way the baritone saxes bay like a herd of stampeding Mûmakils marauding the dusky East African dry lands. But it's no good; the snare and saxes return in a barrelling assault as the elephants and creatures of the jungle retake man's outpost.
It ends with those insects scurrying over the debris, as if kicking over some glass shards, at the bottom of the food chain they enjoy little of the remains of the day; they may only feast once the larger mammals' bloodlust have been fully quenched.
The two-part song starts with some haunting organs and springy bass pluck sliding in on top of it as well as some drums rattling all around it. The creepiness is immediate as Hammill gets his cue wrong and we hear start the line twice, as he reveals 'some have me Satan, others have me..GOG!' The bizarre cadence that follows no accessible melody but instead seems to follow a more theatrical monologue as Hammill's voice rises with the droning church organ, soon some hyperspatial reverbs animate his voice to demonic proportions as his vocal takes on more resonance. He pushes his voice to a croaky raw as he rails about the 'corridors of power'. His voice increases in electronic processing, cascading in terse static yelps, the dreaded organ sound just keeps searching in the background. By four minutes in I am completely spooked as Hammill sings with a very pronounced phasing and chorusing that echoes back in response, it's chaotic as the bombastic drums add more violence to this earth flattening composition. His strange (there's no other way to put it) vocal mannerisms are so draconian, he belts intentionally with little breath to gain a ragged, strained muster to it, embodying that of a coiled beast, or a werewolf undergoing some sort of transformation. The bass player plucks some nice notes before the track soon transitions with the drums heavily panned back and forth.
We're now thankfully it seems in Magog, the musique concrete half of the composition, but things are only about to get scarier and more ingenious in their ability to unnerve you with just the slightest of everyday objects and production technique. There is a whirring bass signal, the panned drums somehow as if by Magick transform into some more ordinary clutter sounds, still oscillating as does something dissonant like a alien radio or a Metalic organ. An armchair creaks, as do several other objects which glow with an electronic whoosh as they rattle back and forth. Some timbales rustle like wind chimes, a foghorn briefly toots its horn (I think that's what it is)as more tapping on planks of wood or some sort of surface pan back and forth veering from right to left channel endlessly.
It's like a haunted house effect but a spatial audio version and far more terrifying, I propose listening to this in the dark with a pair of decent headphones in the dark should become a true Halloween custom, if you dare! The tapping could either be a ball bouncing down some stairs, or the devil at this point..and I continue to hear some sort of horn you hear on cruise ships but that could just be me.
Some faint industrial sound effects are in the background, either recordings of a steam train chugging or the heavily treated clanging of a factory floor, who can trust their ears at this point. There are now all kinds of soundings peeking out from the depths, a strange spring, some sawing sounds, and the rumble and phasing of an echoplex and some of it's feedback as it crackles away like cockroaches on flypaper. I hear a bell toll, probably the clearest sound so far and most recognizable as a brooding bout of bass heavy noise rumbles and Hammill begins to throat yodel like a 12th century monk in the dark caverns of a well as the bell is struck with immediacy and panic like a village being warned of an incoming danger.
As he warbles a second voice in a very distorted filter chants intelligible incantations; the filter is incredibly crackled, electronically rendered and has that thin tinny, distant tone you would get from a megaphone. A mix of modern and old as the disembodied voice sounds like some evil overlord sending a warning, odd collages of sound continue in the background full of vibrations and white noise, once recorded sounds now some mangled wall of sound transformed from its original audio source as another wooden or steel object is dropped into something hollow to give a rippling 'plop', maybe 'ball in a cup', everyone's favourite pastime!
We get invaded by a litany of cracks like pots and pans being played come across as the static continues to oscillate and undulate into something more smoother, and audio waves rise in the mix to a more mellifluous whole. Soon some reverse echoed gongs, flexatones and pots and pans sear across the mix along with the introduction of a saw at one point, the wobbly signals seem to coalesce and provide a seeming score from all this before abruptly ending and we get more goofy percussion and bird whistles. The pulsing sound never goes away, the soup of sound keeps burrowing away into our ears, it becomes an elephantine bray towards the end as more clear-cut objects beak through. The delay continually adds a computerised tremolo and the frequent cracks of objects make for an audial nightmare bar none.
