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Bootsy Collins Collection, Cincinnati, Ohio | November 2024
EDITOR’S LETTER RE:DISCOVERY In Memoriam
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The Dirtbombs Blues Project Black Rock Coalition Iron Knowledge Turkish Rock Sixto Rodriguez babe ruth Bad Brains Don letts Dave Bartholomew Ernie Isley Elvis in Memphis The Rebels The Rascals Black Merda
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Front Cover Bad Brains photography Frank White
Back Cover Elvis Presley photography Michael Ochs Archive/Getty Images
re:Discovery
The Equals Baby, Come Back (RCA/Victor) 1968
studio to cut a few tracks, and he said to me, “Do you think you could do another ten or fifteen of these songs?” I said yes, but, of course, I’d never written that many songs in my life. When we went into the studio, everything that I thought to be ordinary turned out to be not so ordinary. The engineer would say, “Oh, you can’t have so much bass.” Remember, the Equals didn’t have a bass guitar in it to start with. We just had three guitars, which rocked like hell. But when we got into the bass, I wanted it to sound like how I heard it on the ska records. You know, deep and hard. I knew the sound that I wanted. It remained constant in my head and, as you can hear on the Equals record, just developed and developed in a kind of natural way. That has really stayed with me until now, because I make records in a way that is very organic. Although I’m into technology, I never let technology rule me. My personality must come through, and, more importantly, the Carib- bean must come through. I could play you the hardest of rock; if two notes are played, one must be calypso, you know what I’m say- ing? That’s my way. . Eddy Grant, as told to Jon Kirby
From my perspective, it’s not something I wanted to do. I wanted to go to college to become a doctor. But, one day, a friend said, “Listen, there’s a jam session up in Highgate, and you should come and see how you get on.” I went, but by the end of the night, I realized these guys weren’t serious. So I approached the drum- mer, John Hall, and I said, “John, I think we should form a band by ourselves with serious people.” He picked the two brothers, the Gordon brothers, and later we would choose Pat Lloyd. The Black component of the Equals came from the West Indies, and the White component came from England. John suggested that we call the band the Equals, because we would all be equal partners in whatever happened. Nothing’s more democratic than that. We played a lot of the Black clubs. Although we were a mixed group, we were seen in the prejudiced time of the early ’60s as a Black band. We got better and eventually started supporting a lot of the American acts that would come over and play in the night- clubs. I’m talking about people like Wilson Pickett, Vibrations, and Solomon Burke. I got somebody interested in recording us, Edward Kasner, who had just started President Records. We went into the
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re:Discovery
Johnny Jenkins Ton-Ton Macoute! (Capricorn) 1970
bug, accompanied by in-house Capricorn musicians, Muscle Shoals standout Eddie Hinton, and others. Originally slated as Duane All- man’s solo debut, none of the songs are original compositions, and, ironically, the most well-known selection, a rousing reading of the Dr. John voodoo paean, “I Walk on Guilded Splinters,” was ably covered by Cher on her 3614 Jackson Highway (Atco; 1969). Like Ton-Ton Macoute! , 3614 Jackson Highway is also a collec- tion of covers, with its star surrounded by an accomplished cast of players in the Swampers rhythm section of Muscle Shoals. But while that album—essentially a Swampers effort featuring Cher— sought to reestablish its centerpiece in a more organic, marketable light, Jenkins’s solo debut is dripping with the Southern sentiment that he helped create. By the time of the album’s release, the seasoned showman had already been instrumental in bringing Otis Redding from obscurity to stardom, and was also on the radar of fellow left-handed guitarist Jimi Hendrix as a model for onstage histrionics. Jenkins was a star in the making but, by most accounts, had no desire to be in the spotlight, preferring to remain a regional fixture and work the local circuit in lieu of chasing the international acclaim that many—Cap- ricorn’s Walden, in particular—felt he was capable of achieving. And having never reached stardom, there was no fall from grace for the influential Jenkins, who passed away in 2006 a legend in his Macon hometown. Ton-Ton Macoute! is the jewel of this legacy, signifying two sides of the career bluesman—the Jenkins family he chose, and the superstar lifestyle he left behind. . Ronnie Reese
The Allman Brothers Band always came off as less redneck than many of their Southern rock-and-roll counterparts. This had a lot to do with the presence of founding member, African American drummer and percussionist Jai Johanny “Jaimoe” Johanson, and also some members’ descent into heroin addiction following the abuse of speed and barbiturates, which, along with alcohol, were the redneck drugs of choice at the time. The group wasn’t as insular as some of its peers, and its mem- bers were more willing to branch out from their close-knit familial unit—evident in Duane Allman’s prolific work as a Muscle Shoals session regular, and, to an extent, his younger brother Gregg’s rela- tionship with actress and singer Cher. It’s hard to imagine Lynyrd Skynyrd front man Ronnie Van Zant or a member of .38 Special involved with a glamour queen like the former Miss Cherilyn Sarkisian, but it was nothing for the younger Allman sibling, who was about as Hollywood as any man south of the Mason-Dixon could be. Johnny Jenkins was the first artist managed by Phil Walden, a fellow Macon, Georgia, native and cofounder of Capricorn Re- cords, the flagship Southern label the Allman Brothers called home. Naturally, the band is all over Ton-Ton Macoute! like stank on a June
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re:Discovery
Pitch “What Am I Gonna Do for Fun/ It’s a Quest” (On/Off Records) 1982 What is Pitch? A property of sound that varies with the frequency of vibration, or the act of tossing a ball? Perhaps it’s a condensed version of an idea used to sell a product or oneself. Is it a sharp angle or the violent rocking of a boat on the sea? What about a dark viscous substance? Marc Canter and Stuart Sharpe were Pitch, and they were able to synthesize all of the above ideas on their lone, mysterious 12-inch release. In the late ’70s, these hardwired mega-geeks dreamt of con- structing a “Soundvision Machine”—an interactive performance device that would incorporate MIDI keyboards, touch-screen dis- plays, state-of-the-art microphones, and video equipment. Their excitement over knobs, sliders, and buttons grew over the years, and by 1981, the future was closer than ever. The friends found them- selves in NYC at the center of the outskirts of the music world. The no-wave scene was in full swing. While it burned brightly, these two were helping build the Noise NY recording studio. To supplement their digital arsenal, they enlisted Gee Gillespie (drums, hands, and
feet) and a band of downtown luminaries, including Naux, who would soon join Richard Hell’s Voidoids. His guitar buzzes like an incredulous gnat around Raquel’s seductive vocals on the A-side. The flip is a brassy blast of delay-filled gratification that was cowrit- ten by Sonic Youth’s first drummer, Richard Edson. The throbbing bleat of electric sheep feed this cough syrup–in- duced psychosexual nightmare. There is no escape from New York when the miasma of swirling synthesizers, distressed tape, and evoc- ative hand percussion drag you down into its sticky tar. All you can do is ask, “What am I gonna do for fun?” But the question is rhetori- cal and bends back on itself leading to a loop of pre-ironic ennui. The group was gone almost before they were there. Shortly thereafter, Canter cofounded the company that became Macrome- dia and began working for an upstart called Apple Macintosh. And while he would realize some of his earliest dreams by helping to create the first multimedia player, his rock-and-roll fantasy slipped back into the pitch . . Robbie Busch
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re:Discovery
Black & White The Holey Smoke Show “Super Turkey/ Tasty Is As Tasty Do” (Gropnook 30052) 1976 This record is completely and utterly wasted. Intriguing, unique, and listenable, but ultimately wasted. Perhaps sometime in the future, music magazines such as the one you are holding will be equipped with a headphone jack where one can just plug in and listen to the sounds the author is raving about. In this case, it al- most seems necessary, as words will certainly fail to communicate the power and scorched trajectory of “Super Turkey.” The seem- ingly anonymous 45 hails from Kansas City (thank God for that notation on the label) and is the work of one man and several overdubbed tracks of seriously shredded guitar. “Super Turkey” changes meaning every time I listen to it, so I can’t really convey what it’s about. Cocaine, your sex life on TV, dancing, concen- tration, and things that are tasty are mentioned. The breakdown
at the halfway point makes the Ron Wray Light Show 45 sound like it has no fuzz whatsoever, and you can see Sunn O))) and them scribbling furious notes beneath their spilling manes. The flip is the same extended Big Muff sprawl, but with the lyrics changed to paint a burnt love portrait of Mary Hartman, perhaps in a vain attempt to bridge the topical and secure the fan base of other pigtail obsessives. It might actually be a deep aberration of my mind, but I’m almost certain that I have seen a 12-inch ver- sion of this thing, complete with Day-Glo animal picture cover, where the chemtrail guitar streams have been replaced with stock jungle sounds, macaw cries, and everything. And I swear there was a bumper sticker enclosed (safety orange, natch) that read: SUPER TURKEY. . Dante Carfagna
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jimmy mcgriff 1936–2008
his talents and sternly sat him down at the organ bench. Thusly, McGriff became smitten in a town seemingly minting world-class organists daily, including the Tiger Woods of the B-3, the incompa- rable Jimmy Smith, who’d, ironically, record a McGriff tune several years before McGriff would. “Jimmy Smith is king of the jazz,” McGriff would say in a radio interview, “but when it comes into the blues thing, we got a dif- ferent outlook on things.” True enough, McGriff insisted he was indeed a blues—not jazz—organist, and though he recorded his share of Basie- and Ellington-inspired shuffles, he found his voice melding gospel, blues, and jazz like no organist before or since. “Jimmy McGriff was the greatest blues organ player I ever heard,” says organ maestro Dr. Lonnie Smith. “He had that gospel, bluesy feeling, so beautiful . ’Griff played for the people!” And millions of people responded, shelling coin for his 1962 Sue Records smash debut—which included a screaming cover of Ray Charles’s “I’ve Got a Woman”—and later LPs throughout the ’60s and ’70s, where his groove became more funk laden, as evidenced by nuggets “The Worm,” “Blue Juice,” “The Bird,” “The Main Squeeze,” “Tiki,” and many others. “Funk had been good to me,” McGriff said, “and me and that organ had been good to funk.” “McGriff was so funky, man, truly a standout,” concurs organist Reuben Wilson. “Even funkier than Jimmy Smith. A real crowd-pleaser.” Bernard Purdie, timekeeper for many a McGriff platter, adds, “What I loved about McGriff was his touch, the way he could play the most beautiful ballad, then hit you hard.” He kept on hittin’ into the ’80s, ’90s, and ’00s as many of his peers synthesized into oblivion. And while rappers began rhym- ing over his McGrooves for a new generation, ’Griff returned to his bluesy roots by tag-teaming with veteran saxophonist Hank Crawford for an applauded string of tours and albums, all the while avoiding James Brown’s occasional plea for an organ lesson that would never materialize. .
Beautiful Blues text Matt Rogers photo courtesy of the McGriff Family
“This is what we call the love instrument ,” said Jimmy McGriff, while sitting at the helm of the 400-pound love child of pipe organ and furniture piece, better known as the Hammond B-3. “If you love it and play it like you mean it, it will work for you.” And work for him, “the Beast” certainly did, propelling a sixty-year professional music career in which McGriff loved and played the indefatigable instrument in clubs and concert halls the world over. He greased heavyweight grooves onto a plethora of albums for numerous record labels—including Sue, Solid State, Blue Note, Capitol, Groove Mer- chant, and Milestone—that would be sampled by hip-hop heads for years to come. Sadly, on May 24, 2008, the great Jimmy McGriff died—age seventy—just outside his hometown of Brotherly Love, due to complications from multiple sclerosis. James Harrell McGriff Jr. was born April 3, 1936—not long after the first Hammond organs were being rolled out of Chicago—into a family steeped in the thick sacred and secular Philadelphia music scene. Growing up in the Germantown neighborhood known as the Brickyard, it wasn’t uncommon for folks such as Count Basie to be jammin’ at the McGriff household and encouraging Jimmy Jr. to take a taste. And he did, sampling piano, violin, drums, and vibes before landing his first gig at age thirteen playing bass for singer Big Maybelle. Officially bit, McGriff then picked up sax gigs with Ham- mond organ–based groups, most notably organist Richard “Groove” Holmes’s, who insisted Jimmy—now earning his bread as a city po- lice officer (he’d given Miles Davis a parking ticket)—was misfiring
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BUDDY MILES 1947–2008 Them Changes text Ronnie Reese photography Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images “Buddy Miles is going to do this thing he wrote called ‘Them Changes.’” –Jimi Hendrix with the Band of Gypsys, January 1, 1970 Buddy Miles helped define the fusion genre. If Sly Stone was the centerpiece of a late-’60s revolution that saw an amalgama- tion of styles like never before, then Miles was just as integral a part—the blues to Jimi Hendrix’s rock and roll, to the R&B of Funkadelic, to Santana’s Latin, and to Miles Davis’s jazz. And as perhaps the only artist in history who has performed with each of the aforementioned pioneers, he was the thread by which they were all connected. Born George Allen Miles Jr. in Omaha, Nebraska, on September 5, 1947, Miles was the son of a jazz bassist. A natural musician as a youngster, Miles drummed with his father’s band and a number of well-established acts throughout his teens. At nineteen, while performing with Wilson Pickett at disc jockey Murray Kaufman’s “Easter Show” revue in New York City, he caught the attention of blues guitar virtuoso Michael Bloomfield and keyboardist Barry Goldberg, who were looking to put together a brass-heavy stateside band that represented all aspects of musical Americana. Legend has it that the two filled the teenager with Oreo cookies and visions of lovely San Francisco lasses until Miles decided to leave Pickett and join what would soon become the Electric Flag: An American Music Band. With the Electric Flag, Miles would emerge as the group’s de
facto artistic director and a monster live performer. A dulcet but powerful tenor and fatback drumming combined to form his sig- nature sound, which was developed even further while fronting the Buddy Miles Express after the Flag’s dissolution, which had begun with Bloomfield’s departure in 1968. In 1969, in the midst of his first official stint as a bandleader, and already a highly sought-after jam-session regular, Miles was summoned by his friend, the iconic Hendrix, to become part of a new project—a forward-looking restructuring of the Jimi Hendrix Experience—the Band of Gypsys. “It’s, like, for me, one of the many things in my life that I can really say that I really am just so proud of,” Miles told Bob Davis of Soul-Patrol.com during a 2006 interview. “Because Jimi Hendrix and myself—James Marshall Hendrix—we were very, very close. If I were to ask why he felt the way that he did about me, I guess because he thought that I fit what he wanted to do.” Much like his time in the Electric Flag, Miles’s tenure with the Band of Gypsys was short-lived, yet interest in his prodigious talent never waned. He would continue to produce and record through- out the ’70s with his own groups and in collaboration with a virtual who’s who of rock, jazz, and R&B until legal troubles and bouts with addiction took their toll, resulting in a period of incarceration as the decade came to a close. Undeterred, Miles kept performing as an inmate and, in the years following his release, resumed his career, reaching yet another peak in lending his vocals to the wildly successful California Raisins advertising campaign of 1987. Over the next twenty years, Miles remained on the scene but never fully in the spotlight—an ideal setting for a man whose mas- sive frame matched the scope of his humility, and one who served as a prophet for so many. “When I’m on that stage,” said Miles to Soul-Patrol’s Davis in 2006, “that is my way of saying, ‘Thank you, dear Lord…I am a sultan to do Your work.’ ” Buddy Miles died of congestive heart failure on Tuesday, Febru- ary 26, 2008. He was sixty. .
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Photo courtesy of Tuff City Records.
Ike Turner 1931–2008
A Black Man’s Soul text Andria Lisle
Perkins’s able hands—liberated him. Perkins was practicing for the King Biscuit Time radio show; Ike just happened to overhear. He drew closer to the house and, discovering an open window, stood rapt beneath it. Watching Pinetop, Ike later proclaimed, “put a burn in my mind.” In second grade, he began piano lessons himself, and by high school, he’d formed the Kings of Rhythm. Bigger things beckoned, and in March 1951, Ike brought the Kings of Rhythm to Sun Studio in Memphis. The band’s equipment was primitive—as legend has it, a guitar amp fell off the roof of the borrowed car, breaking the speaker cone, as they made their way up Highway 61—and their fortune was pinned on an admittedly corny ditty about the Oldsmobile 88. At Sun, Ike began pounding the piano keys as if his life de- pended on it, as drummer Willie Sims hurried to catch up. Wil- lie Kizart struck the guitar strings with a closed fist, and wild fuzz ensued. Throwing any sense of dignity out the window, Raymond Hill blasted chaotic, brain-piercing sax notes. Over it all, Jackie Brenston grabbed the mic, bellowing a guttural rhyme, praising the Olds’ V-8 engine and convertible top. American music would never be the same. After “Rocket 88” hit, Ike returned to Clarksdale briefly, then moved into that blue shotgun house in Memphis. Sam Phillips’s friend, Joe Bihari, paid the rent, giving Ike a job title—talent scout for Modern Records—and a handsome salary of $225 a week. Ike scoured the Delta for musicians, herding them into Bihari’s open arms. When necessary, Ike—by now a savvy studio musician—sat in with his finds, playing piano on Howlin’ Wolf’s “How Many More Years” and B. B. King’s “Three O’ Clock Blues.” In a remarkably short period of time, an unfathomable selection of hits, including Bobby “Blue” Bland’s “Stormy Monday,” Rosco Gordon’s “No More Doggin’,” Wolf’s “Moanin’ at Midnight,” and a creepy twofer by the Sly Fox, “Hoo-Doo Say” and “I’m Tired of Beggin’,” were all shaped by his intuitive musicianship. Memphis proved too small to hold Ike. He relocated to Chicago,
It’s the summer of 2000, and Ike Turner is navigating a leased Lincoln Town Car through the streets of South Memphis. His girl- friend, Audrey Madison, is riding shotgun. I’m in the back seat, a Triton eighty-eight-key keyboard resting on my lap. Ike makes a left turn onto Crump Boulevard and slows in front of a combination gas station/fried-chicken joint. Then Ike gestures magnanimously toward Audrey, a California girl who is anxious to glean any details about his former history. “See that?” he asks, guiding our attention toward three shotgun structures, pointing toward the blue one, which stood on a lot further west of the intersection. The house was laughably small—probably three narrow rooms, including a kitchen. The front porch sagged. Tar-paper patches on the roof were tattered and worn. Yet the pride in Ike’s voice was unmistakable. “That house,” he says, “is the first place I rented in Memphis.” Ike died on December 12, 2007, and within a few months, his first Memphis home was razed. Even the concrete foundation has disappeared, likely hammered into movable chunks by scavengers and hauled off overnight. All that remains is a pile of old tires un- wanted by even the garbage men, who turn a blind eye to the debris on their weekly rounds. While the physical remnants of Ike Turner’s life have been dis- respected and neglected, the significance of his musical contribu- tions remains undisputed. It’s continually overshadowed, however, by his reputation as a cocaine addict and alleged wife beater. Born and raised seventy miles south of Memphis in Clarksdale, Missis- sippi, Ike was indoctrinated into wickedness at an early age. He wit- nessed his father’s painfully drawn-out death, the result of a racial assault. Neighbor women molested him, and his drunken stepfather dispensed vicious whippings on a regular basis. But somehow, Ike flourished: like the protagonist in a fairy tale, he collected scrap metal, raised baby chicks, chopped stove wood, brewed moonshine, and, when all else failed, posed as a deaf and dumb beggar to earn a few coins for his seamstress mother. Music—initially delivered via boogie-woogie pianist Pinetop
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Volatile Combination The compounded sound of the Dirtbombs text Ronnie Reese photography Jeremy Harris
“I chalk it up to the human need to categorize everything,” says Collins, who, at forty-two, grew up not only with prototypical Nuggets -era garage rock, but also classic soul and 1950s rock, R&B, and blues. “If we can’t label something, we get mad. It’s just part of human nature, really.” So Collins understands but still admits his annoyance with tags attached to the Dirtbombs style over the years. To him and any- one who knows the quintet and its dual-drum, dual-bass, single guitar setup, the sound is hardly garage rock, but more like a heavier, high-octane upgrade of Sly’s kaleidoscope of funk, rock, and soul. “Except for the heroic drug use,” Collins says of his relation to the irrepressible Sylvester Stewart, “we’ve had a pretty similar career trajectory.” Collins the solo artist stays in the woodshed while not on tour and comes up with outside-the-box projects like the three-track The OC EP—raw, electronic dance music released on producer Kenny Dixon Jr.’s Mahogani label—and the late-era, heavily Parliament- influenced I Sing the Booty Electric , recorded as one-half of the Vol- taire Brothers with childhood friend Jerome Gray. In fact, all of the Dirtbombs have their hands in other projects. “Not to say it’s inertia, but we still like doing it,” says Collins, who has spent twenty-eight years of his life as a professional musician. “I told Ben once that there was a time when I would have been unwill- ing to stop. These days, I’m unable to stop.” .
The first time I heard the Dirtbombs’ cover of “Underdog” from Sly and the Family Stone’s A Whole New Thing , I needed a shower afterwards. It was just that filthy. “Given some rehearsal, the Dirt- bombs could probably do that entire LP front to back,” says the group’s founder, guitarist, and lead vocalist, Mick Collins. Collins sees similarities between the Dirtbombs and Sly’s thing, especially in the notion of having just one kind of music. “The things that made his music great—especially the pre- Riot stuff—was the fact that it was kind of soul, kind of rock,” Collins explains. “It was brassy, but there was still balls-out distortion, heavy beats, and songs were still songs. There was a little bit of everything.” There is a little bit of everything in what the Dirtbombs do, too, despite being mistakenly categorized as a garage-rock band for much of their career. This is probably due, in part, to Collins being a for- mer member of seminal Detroit garage outfit, the Gories, whom the White Stripes’ Jack White has acknowledged as a major influence. White is also the uncle of Dirtbombs drummer Ben Blackwell. The Dirtbombs are very close to the Grammy Award–winning White Stripes and the garage-rock revival that duo is associated with, but, for Collins, it is a friendship and professional relationship and nothing else. He shuns being labeled as something he hasn’t been an active part of since the Gories disbanded in 1993, but does consider the motivation for critics and fans who feel the need to gift wrap his music.
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Color Blind The Blues Project didn’t need a reason to love the blues text John Kruth photography Kai Shuman, Michael Ochs Archive/Getty Images
Although the band’s diversity and eclecticism produced some great music (Kalb lived only to jam the blues, while Katz’s specialty was wistful ballads like Donovan’s “Catch the Wind,” and Kooper led R&B cookers like “Shake Me, Wake Me”), it ultimately would suffer an identity crisis that led to its early demise. “Kooper and Kalb’s insanity got to the point like they were bash- ing each other’s heads together. Al and Danny used to have fights onstage to see who could play the loudest and the highest,” Katz recalls. “Whenever they did this, they would make mistakes, but the audience at the Café Au Go Go, which was always very stoned, would look at us and say, ‘Far out!’ [ laughs ] And I would turn to Roy and say, ‘My God, that was the worst sounding thing I ever heard in my life!’ ” “I always took chances musically,” Kalb counters. “Al’s organ and my guitar were like two intersecting horn lines that kept building and building in the manner of Charlie Mingus’s horns in his Jazz Workshop. These days, our music and the contribution we made seems like it’s been airbrushed out of history. “We were out in California when Tommy Flanders quit, and we were about to break up,” Kalb continues. “We didn’t know if we could go on without a lead singer. So we went back to New York and played the Café Au Go Go, on the same bill with Muddy Waters, and were debuting our version of [Muddy’s song] ‘Two Trains Run- ning.’ It was eleven minutes long, and we’d changed it all around. And Muddy was there, watching. He meant everything and a half to us. After the set, I asked him what he thought. And he said, ‘You really got to me.’ And that’s my reason for living today!” The band fell apart in ’67. Al, inspired by archrival Paul But- terfield’s Blues Band, opted to add horns to the mix, while Kalb was staunchly opposed. Exit Kooper with Katz in tow. Enter (the original/pre–David Clayton Thomas) Blood, Sweat & Tears, whose brilliant debut album Child Is Father to the Man (produced by John Simon) featured Kooper’s funky White-boy-soul arrangements. Kulberg and Blumenfeld would hook up with Seatrain, the first post-Beatles band that George Martin produced, and Danny Kalb, after a long bad trip to the “Twilight Zone,” is back once again play- ing blues in small clubs with passion, taste, and chops. .
It all began in the summer of ’63 when Elektra producer Paul Roth- child felt the time had come to put together an album of young, White blues singers. Amongst the best of this often-mocked genre were a bunch of country-style blues pickers hailing from the coffee- houses of New York, Cambridge, and Minneapolis, including Dave Van Ronk, Geoff Muldaur, and Danny Kalb. Rothchild’s hunch (as with Tim Buckley, the Doors, and Janis Joplin) was spot on. The compilation, titled The Blues Project , sold nearly 300,000 copies. On New Year’s Eve 1964, Danny Kalb, a session guitarist on albums by folk singers Judy Collins and Van Ronk, began assem- bling a band of fellow blues fanatics that would include drummer Roy Blumenfeld, guitarist Steve Katz of the Even Dozen Jug Band (which featured Maria Muldaur and the Lovin’ Spoonful’s John Se- bastian), and classical flautist turned bassist, Andy Kulberg (Check out Kulberg’s electric flute on “Flute Thing,” written by Al Kooper, who nicked the riff from Barney Kessell and was later sampled for “Flute Loop” by the Beastie Boys). Tommy Flanders, a Mick Jagger look-alike from Cambridge, Massachussetts, fronted the group. “It’s a funny story,” Steve Katz says, recalling his audition for the Blues Project. “I was used to playing acoustic guitar, and Danny came to see me because [guitarist] Artie Traum had gone on vaca- tion to Europe for a couple weeks, and he wanted to know if I could sub for him. I told him I never played electric guitar before. I put a D’Armond pickup on my [Gibson] J-200, plugged it in, and the feedback was so ridiculous, I just turned it down to zero. It looked like I was playing with the band, but nobody could hear me. After- wards, Danny told me, ‘That was some really tasty playing.’ ” Appropriating their name from the hot-selling album, Kalb’s crew had their first audition at Columbia Records. Producer Tom Wilson (best known for Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone”) called in session guitarist turned organist Al Kooper to loan some support. (Columbia passed but they would later sign with Verve, with Wilson at the helm.) The next day over lunch, Kooper was asked to join what he later dubbed “The Mystic White Knights of the Blues.” But around the Village (after Flanders’s departure over refusing to pony up for new equipment and the artistry of Steve’s mom’s scissors), the Blues Project became known as “The Jewish Beatles.”
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Compared to What? The Black Rock Coalition’s fight to break the mold text Andrew Scott photography Drew Carolan
MTV, this new medium that was supposed to be replacing radio, wasn’t playing Black artists, however. Vernon [Reid] was aware that attitudes about Black people not playing rock were starting to re- surface and solidify.” Accordingly, in August 1985, together with Konda Mason, Tate and Reid began laying the groundwork for the Black Rock Coali- tion (BRC), a nonprofit organization promoting musical choice for Black musicians. Gathering on Saturday afternoons at Linda Goode Bryant’s Tribeca gallery, JAM (Just Above Midtown)—which was where Craig Street, who would go on to produce for Norah Jones, k.d. lang, and Cassandra Wilson, was working—the newly created BRC began “freaking people out about their ideas of what Black music is,” suggests Tate. “We started to move quickly from Black cultural nationalism rhetoric to ‘What are we going to do to create an alternative?’ ” he elaborates. By year’s end, the BRC was host- ing parties and presenting bands at JAM (the poster for this initial “Drop the Bomb” event features Little Richard standing in front of the Japanese flag) and at the Kitchen. More than twenty years later, the BRC is going strong. With many of the gatekeepers gone (or perhaps just skilfully hidden) in the digital meritocracy that is today’s online music industry, I ask LaRonda Davis, current BRC president, what she sees as the con- tinued need for the BRC. “It’s harder to pinpoint what the obstacles are in terms of race in music,” she admits. “But those obstacles are still there, and the iconography of music is still against Black people. The BRC’s role now and going into the future is one of listening to people and offering resources. People want to know that people are listening to them.” They are. .
Whether White involvement in musics of the African diaspora is genuflection or appropriation (so-called “White theft of Black cap- ital”), from Benny Goodman to Elvis to Eminem, a dance between Black musical advancements and their mainstream acceptance by way of White popularizes has long been on display. White domin- ance of corporate rock music was so complete by the mid-1980s, argues Maureen Mahon in Right to Rock: The Black Rock Coalition and the Cultural Politics of Race , that Black musicians (ghettoized to such genre classifications as soul, R&B, jazz, and disco) were thought to be incapable of (or at least uninterested in) rocking out—a particularly myopic view of music history in that Louis Jor- dan, Jackie Brenston, Ike Turner, Little Richard, and Chuck Berry were the originators of rock and roll. Such was the cultural climate, however, that guitarist Vernon Reid and his band Living Colour found themselves in as a popu- lar, yet unsigned, New York club act during the mid-1980s. Reid, who had been a member of Defunkt and Ronald Shannon Jack- son’s Decoding Society, and who had recorded a two-guitar album with Bill Frisell (1984’s Smash & Scatteration ), was tired of how stylistically compartmentalized the industry viewed his band. Ac- cording to Aubrey Dayle, who would later play drums in Marque Gilmore’s Blueprint, “By the late 1980s, things had become really segregated. Rock and roll was for L.A. hair bands to the point that Living Colour looked novel.” Village Voice writer Greg Tate suggests change was in the air, however: “It was a real transitional moment in New York in 1985. Black artists like Prince and Michael Jackson had made important statements, Fishbone had gotten a deal, and they, along with Bad Brains, were part of the background radiation.
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(left to right) Iron Knowledge’s John Warren, Milton Van Blalock (sitting), Larry Johnson, James Vass, and Gary Blalock.
Element of Surprise Iron Knowledge still leaves them guessing text Andy Walko photo courtesy of James Vass
lot of stuff and change it up into our way. See, me and my brother were a different breed, man. We’d play anything from James Brown to Jimi Hendrix. We were the type of dudes—we didn’t care. Back then, everybody called it R&B and soul music. We’d go do a show playing soul music and then turn right around and play in some of the hottest rock clubs around here. We could play all that stuff. We were just different; we didn’t believe that ‘Just because I’m Black, I’m supposed to play soul.’ No, it doesn’t work like that. I can play what I like. We liked rock, we liked funk, we liked blues, we liked every- thing, you know. That’s the way we were. And I’m not bragging, but that was a dangerous five-piece band.” One listen to “Show Stopper” leaves no doubt about that. Iron Knowledge released three other tunes on the Tammy label, “Who Put the Ram (In-Rama-Lama-Ding-Dong),” “Oh Love,” and “Give Me a Little Taste of Your Love.” The Blalock brothers were also involved with the Steel City Band’s “Shakin’ It Down” 45, also released on Tammy. Gary Blalock and James Vass still reside in the Youngstown area and are still involved in music. Milton Van Blalock passed away in 1997. The current whereabouts of John Warren and Larry Johnson are unknown. .
“I never met people that actually liked it,” bassist Gary Blalock says of Iron Knowledge’s obscure song, “Show Stopper.” Blalock’s aggres- sive, distorted opening bass line sets the tone of the track, and it nev- er relents over the course of its three-and-a-half-minute duration. One of the most vicious and heavy slices of psychedelic funk-rock unknown to man, “Show Stopper” was recorded in Cleveland in late 1972 and released on Tony March’s Tammy label in Youngstown, Ohio. But, according to Blalock, the song never caught on upon its release. “I was a radio DJ around here years ago,” he says, “and we never played it too much. Every now and then, we’d play it, and when we did, it was mostly after six o’clock in the evening, believe it or not, because of the way it sounded and the content.” The song would be later introduced to the worldwide record-collecting com- munity when it was featured on Dante Carfagna’s cult compilation Chains and Black Exhaust . In 1972, a sixteen-year-old Gary Blalock was joined by his older brother Milton Van Blalock on rhythm guitar, sixteen-year- old James Vass on lead guitar, John Warren on vocals, and Larry Johnson on drums. Iron Knowledge played locally in the Northeast Ohio area, performing a mixture of covers and original material. “We played a lot of cover music,” Blalock recalls, “and we’d take a
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Gateway to Distortion Anatolian rock fused Turkish folk with fuzz text Brion Paul images courtesy of Mahssa Taghinia and Brion Paul
Isiklar and Cahit Oben. But it was with the embrace of traditional instruments like the saz and oud (stringed and lute-like with a be- witching twang) and reconfiguring classic Anatolian folk songs in a Western rock and funk framework that the scene took on a mind- expanding distinction all its own. Still surprisingly modern sounding, with a heavy emphasis on galloping rhythm and reverbed vocals, melded with distinctive in- strumentation aided and abetted by Turkey’s geographic passageway to the Middle East, the gems are difficult to track down, usually only existing on 45s of varying sound quality and obscure Turkish compilations. Here’s a guide to five of the major Anatolian pop/rock players most comp’d, and worth searching out.
Before NAFTA, free trade, and globalization, there was, the fuzz . Ahh, yes, that scorching heat of overloaded guitar lines, emanat- ing deep from within the waxy confines of a 45 RPM record, the hall bearer of the most ferocious of psych rock, the hash-coated shot heard round the world. While myriad continents and cultures churned out their fair share of imitative psych records, perhaps no other country fused this new energy, experimentation, and instru- mentation with the traditions and culture of their own as immacu- lately as the great nation of Turkey with its “Anadolu pop” (also known as Anatolian pop or rock). The sound originated in Turkey’s surf-influenced beat scene, as ignited by the arrival of the Shadows, and spurring bands like Mavi
Ersen Recently the subject of a generous compilation from Finders Keepers—not to mention the buzz-inducing soundtrack to a major U.K. commercial—Ersen’s silken voice glides swimmingly over particularly hearty breakbeats, made all the more dramatic by his trademark panting vocalizations. While many others from the Anatolian rock scene injected politics into their music à la Brazil’s tropicalia movement, Ersen’s distinctive voice and heavy rhythms remained apolitical and committed to rock.
Starting out as beat band the Mongols, Moğollar released instrumental records on their own, in addition to working with some of the biggest vocalists of the scene—Ersen, Selda, Barış Manço, Cem Karaca—and cultivating a reputation for killer live shows. Their melding of traditional music and forward-thinking psych is often credited with starting Anatolian pop.
Barış Manço was a larger-than-life Turkish musical legend, fortified by a sprawling moustache of utmost awesomeness and forty years of involvement in music, responsible for records across all genres—beat, garage, fuzz-drenched psych, and disco. In 1975, he released his proggy, synthesizer-soaked masterpiece concept al- bum 2023 , an utter classic worth killing for.
Erkin Koray Erkin Koray was another formidable legend owing to his devastating prowess on the guitar and the literal East- West fusion that was his ferocious custom double-necked guitar and saz combo. He has a massive discography that includes the sought-after landmark Elektronik Türküler album, in addition to a battery of 45s featuring arguably the most acid-soaked sleeves of the era. Selda With a singular and spine-chillingly affective voice, Selda started out as a politically charged folksinger. In the 1970s, with Moğollar and other Anadolu rock bands backing her, she made some seriously forward- thinking music drenched in fuzz and brandishing synthesizers aplenty. Finders Keepers’ reissue, Selda , is the best place to start. .
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The ebb and flow of folksinger Sixto Rodriguez text Jason Lapeyre photography courtesy of Light in the Attic Records
particularly on the album’s opening track, “Sugar Man.” And in ’69, psychedelic was the name of the game. “We had listened to the Beat- les’ stuff,” says Coffey. “We were doing things backwards, turning the tapes upside down, just for effects.” “I took the string track from one of the other songs and put it on another machine backwards,” Theodore recalls. “I was running it through a tape delay and just manipulating it by hand, so that gives you that unexplainable kind of music.” Decades later, the technique would come to be known as sampling. At the time, it was studio ex- perimentation in an attempt to find a sonic landscape that matched the vividness of Rodriguez’s lyrics. They didn’t stop there. Coffey played a Vox Tone Bender effects pedal for the fuzzed-out guitar intro on “Only Good for Conver- sation,” setting the stage for a monster bass/drum break after the second verse. At the other end of the spectrum is the marimba that suddenly joins the sparse arrangement and powerful lyrics on “Cru- cify Your Mind.” “It got to the point where we were so busy, and we were trying to be so creative, we started looking in the union book for weird instruments,” says Coffey. “We had guys come in with bass saxophones that were so heavy they had to be wheeled in on a cart. We were always trying to be on the edge. Either that or I had a short attention span.” Cold Fact was released in the spring of 1970. It was the real deal, a funky folk-rock masterpiece from a searing new voice of truth. Rodriguez flew to New York and Los Angeles to push the album. He was compared to Dylan. Billboard gave the album four stars. And then it tanked. Sussex didn’t push him right. Rodriguez wasn’t big on touring. The material was too intense. There are a number of theories, but the fact is that the record didn’t sell. Avant was still enthusiastic and put Rodriguez back in the studio for another LP with British pro- ducer Steve Rowland. Coming from Reality was released in the fall of 1971, but with Buddha pouring all its promotional energy into Sussex’s other singer/songwriter—Bill Withers—there wasn’t much
In 1969, times were ill in the Motor City. The Twelfth Street rebellion two years earlier had blown the city apart, leaving forty- three dead, 7,200 arrested, and two thousand buildings burned to the ground. Vietnam was taking Detroit’s young men and never re- turning them. White flight was in full swing, and the inner core of the city was crumbling. The city was becoming synonymous with urban blight. At the time, singer-songwriter Sixto Diaz Rodriguez was playing at a hooker bar called Anderson’s Garden—accom- panied by a toothless saxophone player and an organist. With his back to the audience, Rodriguez was singing bibles full of truth to a gang of drunk autoworkers that couldn’t care less. “When you go out to a place and see a guy singing facing the wall, you really listen to what he was saying,” says Dennis Coffey. “And that’s when we realized that he was kind of an urban Bob Dylan-ish guy.” Motown’s legendary session guitarist was the man responsible for getting Rodriguez a record deal, along with his production partner, Mike Theodore. “We were seriously think- ing of naming his second album Rodriguez’s Back ,” adds Theodore. But he recognized the power of Rodriguez’s pure voice and lyr- ics that hit like sledgehammers. “Rodriguez hooked you in right away, with a simple melody and a clever lyric. And his voice was appealing. It was the whole package; as a vocalist and as a writer, he was there.” They brought Rodriguez to Sussex Records owner Clarence Avant, who went wild when he heard Rodriguez’s bold lyrics and strong melodies. He immediately sent the singer into the studio with the duo behind the boards. Cold Fact was recorded in the fall of 1969, with Coffey on guitar, Theodore on keyboards, and Funk Brothers, bassist Bob Babbitt and drummer Andrew Smith, as the rhythm section. “Basically, we recorded him and his guitar, uninflu- enced by anything other than what he was doing, and we built the rhythm section around him,” remembers Coffey. “We didn’t wanna interfere with his vibe. Rodriguez was centered on what he does.” The unusual process gave the producers lots of room to experiment,
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Sixto Rodriguez live at the Sewer, Detroit, circa 1969.
Babe Ruth’s hip-hop homerun text Jesse Serwer photography courtesy of Janita Haan/Babe Ruth
twelve, he’d formed a band called the Juniors with future Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor, who was just fourteen at the time, and eventual Jethro Tull bassist John Glasscock, then eleven. “I was fascinated with the blues, and the soul music coming out of the South like James Brown and Derek Martin,” recalls Shack- lock, who now lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where he works as a record producer. “We’d study who the players were on these records and try to imitate them. We were fanatics. I remember getting a 45 with ‘That Driving Beat’ by Willie Mitchell, and it was just awesome. I still listen to that and ‘The Midnight Hour’ by Wilson Pickett, and it’s matchless to me.” The Juniors released their lone single, “There’s a Pretty Girl” b/w “Pocket Size,” for Parlaphone in 1964. Soon afterward, Shacklock found himself in blue-eyed soul singer Chris Farlowe’s band, the Thunderbirds, an act whose lineup would briefly include a pre- Zeppelin John Bonham. In the late ’60s, however, he put his rock career aside and enrolled in London’s prestigious Royal Academy of Music, mastering classical Spanish guitar. “That’s where the Spanish influence you hear on ‘The Mexican’ came from,” Shacklock says. After graduating in 1971, Shacklock decided to apply his com- mand of classical song structure to a combination of hard rock and the driving soul music he grew up on, recruiting bassist Dave He- witt, keyboardist Dave Punshon, and drummer Dick Powell. The foursome took the name Shacklock and began developing mate- rial that its eponymous founder had composed while at the Royal Academy. First Base “I was fascinated with Motown and [with] what arrangers like David Van DePitte and Paul Riser were doing. I wanted us to be very simple, and very much based on a constant groove,” Shacklock
“The Mexican” might be the unlikeliest of all b-boy anthems. Recorded in 1972 by Babe Ruth, a British progressive rock band whose second-greatest claim to fame may have been opening the West Coast leg of the Frampton Comes Alive tour, it certainly doesn’t seem to have the same inherent connection to New York Afro-Latin culture as, say, the Jimmy Castor Bunch’s “It’s Just Begun.” But after speaking with Babe Ruth founder and “The Mexican” song- writer Alan Shacklock, I learn his inadvertent role in the early de- velopment of hip-hop culture seems oddly fitting. Over the course of our interview, Shacklock cites Albert King’s “Cold Feet”—a proto-rap track if there ever was one, and the basis for Wu-Tang’s “Protect Ya Neck” and Diamond D’s “Check One, Two”—as his greatest inspiration as a young guitarist. He explains that he wrote the lyrics to “The Mexican” as a response to John Wayne’s one-sided 1960 film The Alamo , which didn’t bother to humanize the Mexican troops, who lost the infamous 1836 battle to Sam Houston’s army. The fifty-eight-year-old classically trained guitarist names J Dilla, the Roots, and A Tribe Called Quest among his favorite contemporary artists, and quotes from Jeff Chang’s 2005 hip-hop tome, Can’t Stop Won’t Stop . “The Mexican” wasn’t just a Babe Ruth song, it was the Babe Ruth song. The first tune ever recorded by the band (they ultimate- ly released five albums), it was the only track on the original demo used to seek out the record contract that led to 1972’s First Base . With its funky bass line, driving drumbeat, and climactic interpo- lation of Ennio Morricone’s For a Few Dollars More theme, it was also the culmination of a life’s worth of influences on Shacklock, who grew up enamored with African American music and Wild West shoot-’em-ups. Born thirty minutes north of London in the town of Hatfield, Shacklock picked up the guitar while still in his single digits. By age
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found that in certain North American markets, particularly Que- bec and the Midwest, they were instant superstars. “When we saw our first sales-figure statement, we immediately got in touch with promoters there,” Shacklock says. “ZZ Top opened for us in Mil- waukee . It was bizarre.” Out at Second When it came to follow up First Base , Shacklock found that EMI was willing to give him unbelievable latitude. “It was the progres- sive-rock era,” Shacklock says. “Risks were being taken by the re- cord companies—they had almost unlimited budgets in those days. Being classically trained, I was a kid in a candy store. I said, ‘Oh, we’ll have eight cellos on this, book a horn section for this.’ We had guys from the London Symphony Orchestra come and play.” However, for various reasons, their sophomore LP, Amar Cabal- lero, would not be Second Base . “My publisher had said, ‘Hey, you’re a good writer. Can you get a song to Diana Ross? The Tempta- tions?’ ” Shacklock recalls, proudly. “I was trying really hard, ’cause these were my legends. It didn’t happen, so I adapted these songs for the band, and it turned into a mishmash.” Meanwhile, the group replaced drummer Dick Powell with Ed Spevock and experienced an unfortunate series of events that drove keyboardist Dave Punshon from the band. Following a gig in Liver- pool, their van flipped over, seriously injuring several members; at a show in Sunderland, they were severely beaten by bouncers. “Dave was following the Maharishi at that time, and experimenting with drugs, and he just freaked out,” Haan says. “It was a devastating blow, because we kind of lost the signature sound, the harmonic runs that Al and Dave did together.” To a degree, their third album, 1975’s Babe Ruth , was closer in spirit to First Base , with interpretations of Morricone’s “A Fist- ful of Dollars,” William Bell and Judy Clay’s “Private Number,” and Curtis Mayfield’s “We the People Who Are Darker Than Blue” scattered among more straightforward rock numbers. “There was a consciousness within the band about race, which we always tried to address, lyrically, in a passive way,” says Haan, who, by this time, was taking on a greater role when it came to songwriting. However, the edge the band sought to bring to the album was dulled somewhat by decisions beyond their control. “EMI didn’t trust me anymore,” Shacklock says, “because I went off the rails on the second one. So they gave us a producer who wasn’t really right for us. We lost the plot a little through the powers that be coming on too heavy.” As Babe Ruth headed to the studio to record its fourth LP, Stealin’ Home , an increasingly frustrated Shacklock left the band. “It was like somebody cut off my right arm,” Hewitt says, “because Alan’s writing was what the band was all about. From then on, it was just the dregs of fulfilling the contract. The soul was gone.” Stealin’ Home would produce one vital song in “Elusive.” The up-tempo track ironically found the band influenced by disco, a style whose development the band may have influenced. Released as a single in 1976, it became a minor hit in New York and a north- ern-soul favorite. By this time, though, Haan and Hewitt had left to start the short-lived Jenny Haan’s Lion. The Babe Ruth that re- corded 1976’s dismal Kid’s Stuff included no original members. Hewitt blames the group’s management for its disintegration.
says. “My philosophy was, if they didn’t like the music, they might like the beat, and if they liked the beat, they might come around to liking the music.” “The Mexican,” he says, was not constructed democratically but rather dictated to the members: “I told the drummer, ‘Don’t do any fills, just keep the groove constant like in the soul days, and we’re gonna lay this crazy stuff over the top.’ Our bassist came from a blues background, so he got it, [but] it was difficult for me to tell our drummer not to play fills, because that’s what he got off on. I loved the massive orchestral arrangements in the spaghetti, Clint Eastwood westerns. I thought Morricone’s orchestration was pure genius. So I got this crazy idea to put “[For] a Few Dollars More” over the same drumbeat. Really, they were two different pieces— we segued it in and tagged that on at the end. I thought it was a nice instrumental break. As they say in [ This Is ] Spinal Tap , it was something between stupid and clever.” Shacklock, who was also the band’s lead singer in its earliest stag- es, also wrote the song’s lyrics. “I’m someone who’s always been in favor of the underdog,” he says. “I wanted to [reflect] what it would be like on the other side, in Santa Anna’s army. Chico Fernandez was a fictional character that I made up. I figured there had to be one of those in the army.” After A&R man Nick Mobbs caught a performance at London’s Marquee club, EMI/Harvest agreed to sign the band, under the condition they find a permanent lead singer, and a new name. “EMI wasn’t disrespectful to Alan’s singing,” recalls bassist Dave Hewitt. “They were saying, ‘You’re doing all these harmonic runs and intricate guitar playing, why sing lead too? It’s too much.’ ” During a round of tryouts, Janita “Jenny” Haan, an attractive, eigh- teen-year-old jolt of energy, instantly stood out. “Jenny was totally different: one, because she was female, but [also] because she was so athletic,” Hewitt recalls. “She was doing cartwheels and splits. We never thought of a female until she appeared, but when she did, it seemed really exciting.” Though she was British, Haan had spent her adolescent years just outside of San Francisco, and, despite her youth, her powerful voice already evoked hippie heroes Janis Joplin and Grace Slick. “I was a free-spirited, San Franciscan type, so I’d put every ounce of energy and emotion into the songs and interpret them the way I felt,” Haan recalls. “I’d listen carefully to how the music was struc- tured and match the intensities of the sounds with my voice.” The quintet cut First Base at Abbey Road Studios with Beat- les engineer Tony Clark in early 1972. In addition to “The Mexi- can,” it included covers of Frank Zappa’s “King Kong” and Jesse Winchester’s “Black Dog,” along with originals “Joker,” “The Run- aways,” and “Wells Fargo,” which reprised the Western theme of “The Mexican.” The name Babe Ruth was proposed by the band’s first manager. “We didn’t even know who Babe Ruth was, except for Janita,” Shacklock recalls. “She’d been a cheerleader in the U.S., so it just kind of fit. People used to think she was Ruth.” Coincidentally, Shacklock’s friend Roger Dean, whose iconic al- bum covers for Yes would define the prog-rock aesthetic, had just created a space-age baseball scene, which would become the cover art for First Base and, eventually, the band’s logo. While First Base fared only modestly in the U.K., the band
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