Jimi Hendrix 12: Live At Winterland

Just in time for the music industry’s celebration of the 20th anniversary of the Summer of Love came the first “new” Jimi Hendrix album specifically designed for the CD market. The first product of Rykodisc’s brief affiliation with the Estate, Live At Winterland was compiled from a three-day residency at a converted San Francisco ice skating rink the week Electric Ladyland was released. The compilers had six shows to choose from, and only repeated one performance from The Jimi Hendrix Concerts.

By this time his manager was professionally recording his concerts, so the source used was superior to anyone’s bootlegs. This CD was produced by Alan Douglas and future Beach Boys catalog maven Mark Linett, and they did a decent job of presenting the trio as they were, seamlessly blended to simulate a single show. After Bill Graham’s introduction (a Douglas trope), they plow through “Fire” and “Manic Depression”, then Jimi provides an explanatory intro for a jam on Cream’s “Sunshine Of Your Love”. “Spanish Castle Magic” is marred by buzzing amplifiers, and he acknowledges the absence of “Red House” from the American version of his first album. Jack Casady of Jefferson Airplane sits in on bass for “Killing Floor”; “Tax Free”, an instrumental familiar from War Heroes, gets an eight-minute excerpt. From there it’s a good run through “Foxey Lady”, “Hey Joe”, and “Purple Haze” right into “Wild Thing”. All in all, a solid listen. (Five years later, the album celebrated an anniversary of its own with the release of Live At Winterland+3, containing—you guessed it—three more songs on a 30-minute bonus disc, including a lengthy exploration on “Are You Experienced”.)

In this century, once the Estate realized that fans would be interested in multi-disc archival digs, the shows were mined for a four-CD package simply titled Winterland. However, as would be their wont, they still took liberties with history, by curating a disc each from each day’s two shows, and adding a fourth of “extras” from three of the shows, bolstered by an interview conducted two months earlier on the opposite coast. (Amazon customers got another disc with a little over a half an hour of music from eight months earlier at a different Bill Graham venue, most of which was previously released as an official bootleg, and notable for the first collaboration with Buddy Miles, on a cover of “Dear Mr. Fantasy” in two pieces because the tape ran out. Meanwhile, a single disc of Winterland “highlights” muddied up the discography further.)

Being a new mix spearheaded by Eddie Kramer, the sound is different from the Rykodisc releases; they even restored Herbie Rich’s organ and Virgil Gonsalves’ flute on songs where they’d been omitted earlier. But there was still some editing and combining of performances to enhance general listenability, and some chatter heard on the old CDs didn’t make it. There is naturally repetition of several songs, but he never played anything the same way twice, and for the most part the set focuses on songs that enabled his soloing as opposed to just playing the hits and familiar album tracks, which he does too. (“The Star-Spangled Banner” makes two appearances, once of which is compiled from two performances; the October 11 “Voodoo Child” remains exclusive to Live At Winterland+3, but at least the set included full versions of songs included on The Jimi Hendrix Concerts, which had since been deleted.) Nearly five hours of music is a lot to take in, but it’s educational to hear him in an environment where he could settle in for a stint and stretch, rather than just rush from town to town and show to show.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience Live At Winterland (1987)—3½
1992 Live At Winterland+3: same as 1987, plus 3 extra tracks
The Jimi Hendrix Experience Winterland (2011)—3½

Frank Zappa 53: Ahead Of Their Time

Back in 1968, once the Mothers of Invention included trained individuals—or at least people who could read increasingly intricate music—Frank Zappa began introducing more complicated, almost classical pieces in the band’s sets. Some of this he called chamber music that he wrote himself, some were arrangements of Stravinsky and Zappa idol Edgard Varèse. Either to appeal to the less adept members of the band or with the excuse that audiences needed things dumbed down, silly skits involving scripts and in-jokes would accompany these performances.

Two such performances at London’s Festival Hall included contributions from an actual orchestra alongside the Mothers. Excerpts from the “dramatic” portion emerged in the ‘80s, and the visuals were included as part of the perennially incomplete Uncle Meat film (on VHS), but the shows appeared in more or less a complete form as Ahead Of Their Time.

Because the audio can’t adequately demonstrate the dramatic portion, the first half of the disc is an acquired taste. Much of the music would end up incorporated into “Bogus Pomp”, while the content detailing struggle between “serious music” and its opposite would recur in 200 Motels. Luckily, the guys sound into it, so it’s not too tedious.

The political rarity “Agency Man” is followed by the dramatic “Epilogue”, and the remainder of the disc is pretty much non-stop Mothers rock ‘n roll. “King Kong” eventually segues into “Help, I’m A Rock” and “Transylvania Boogie”, “Pound For A Brown” begets “Sleeping In A Jar”, and the “Orange County Lumber Truck” suite is heard nearly complete, and more than the excerpt already used on Weasels Ripped My Flesh. Being abridged to fit on a single disc, it’s a shame that to date the album hasn’t been expanded to provide at least the equivalent of a full set.

Nearly thirty years went by before the era was revisited. The inaugural release of the Road Tapes series presented a concert in a Vancouver hockey arena (a.k.a. “the local electric icebox”) two months before the Festival Hall show. Obviously there’s no play to perform, so they start right in with improvisations; others dot the setlist. Along with material also heard at the London show, this performance includes a piece introduced as “Shortly” and said to be released on an upcoming album; the music is better known now as “Holiday In Berlin”, and said album was reduced to two records from three, and without this piece. Other highlights include the first album appearance of the doo-wop parody “Oh, In The Sky” and their arrangement of “Octandre” by Varèse. Thanks to some apparently exhaustive restoration work by Vaultmeister Joe Travers, the mono sound is excellent.

A little over a decade later, another relic from the era emerged. Whisky A Go Go, 1968 was recorded about a month before the Vancouver gig, and just before Ray Collins quit the band for the fourth and last time. The reason for this lengthy occasion was the intention of getting decent live performances from the nine-piece band on tape for future purposes that didn’t exactly develop.

A ten-minute improvisation leads perversely into “America Drinks And Goes Home”. Self-styled impresario (and accused sexual predator) Kim Fowley is brought up help shriek his way through “My Boyfriend’s Back”, followed by the original response of “[I’m Gonna] Bust His Head” and a lengthy “Tiny Sick Tears Jam”. Another improvisation goes into “Status Back Baby”, followed by some doo-wop, original and otherwise. “King Kong” is indexed as two parts, the second of which stops halfway through so the GTO’s [sic] can yell along with “Getting To Know You” and the Bugs Bunny Show theme. (Other guests on the evening included affiliated acts Alice Cooper and Wild Man Fischer; some of the Turtles were supposedly in the audience in a bit of foreshadowing.)

“The Duke” is played twice so they could get a decent usable take; this would eventually form part of “The Little House I Used To Live In”, but here’s it’s mostly Frank soloing over drums. Then there’s “Khaki Sack”, a more structured R&B jam that would be properly recorded in 1970 and shelved for half a century. “The Whip” and “Whisky Chouflée” run together for twenty minutes of mostly one-chord jamming, and the “world premiere” of “Brown Shoes Don’t Make It” for the first time on stage leads into an extended shuffle on the main theme and further improvisation.

In the end, only one segment from the evening was released at the time (“God Bless America” on Uncle Meat), though at least two other songs were mixed by Frank; one snippet made it to YCDTOSA #5, and more finally emerged on 2021’s Zappa documentary soundtrack. As the first full-length concert made available with Ray singing (save a few Beat The Boots), it’s about time.

Zappa/Mothers Ahead Of Their Time (1993)—3
Frank Zappa Road Tapes, Venue #1 (2012)—3½
Frank Zappa & The Mothers Of Invention Whisky A Go Go, 1968 (2024)—3

Fairport Convention 1: Fairport Convention

Joe Boyd is one of those Zelig-like characters to be found throughout this forum. He witnessed Bob Dylan going electric at Newport, he produced the first singles by Pink Floyd, and he started a production company that would eventually shepherd the likes of Nick Drake into public consciousness. This cachet would get him gigs working with R.E.M. and Robyn Hitchcock, among others. Fairport Convention was another of his early discoveries, and they’ve since gone on to become eponymous with English folk-rock.

In the beginning they were simply a coterie of like-minded young musicians trying to do something original. With Iain Matthews and Judy Dyble trading vocals, and two guitarists in Richard Thompson and Simon Nicol, they had something of a Jefferson Airplane vibe, but the rhythm section of Tyger Hutchings and Martin Lamble was more reserved. Their eponymous debut is all over the place, mixing esoteric covers with quirky originals.

Emitt Rhodes had yet to go solo and being his own cult status when they covered his “Time Will Show The Wiser”, an upbeat psychedelic jam with lots of lead guitar. They were also among the first to get to Joni Mitchell; “I Don’t Know Where I Stand” follows here, while “Chelsea Morning” begins side two. “If (Stomp)” was written by Matthews and Thompson, and has something of a Lovin’ Spoonful jugband feel, while “Decameron”, written by Thompson with two people we’ve never heard of, is a lovely duet. While co-credited to Bob Dylan, “Jack O’Diamonds” is merely a few lines taken from the liner notes of his fourth album set to music by Ben Carruthers, but good on them for including such an obscurity. “Portfolio” is a piano-driven instrumental with some sawing violins from the drummer.

Following a frantic “Chelsea Morning”, “Sun Shade” is another pleasant meditation from the team that brought you “Decameron”. Its eeriness sets up the weirdness of “The Lobster”, featuring autoharps and recorder and incorporating a poem by a 20th century British author. The mildly jazzy “It’s Alright Ma, It’s Only Witchcraft” is another nod to Dylan in name only, but it’s got a decent hook for a chorus. “One Sure Thing” is a melancholy tune borrowed from folk duo Jim & Jean (collectively the inspiration for Mitch & Mickey from A Mighty Wind, and she was allegedly the inspiration for Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl”). Another instrumental closes the side; “M.1 Breakdown” is an in-joke in reference to the new British highway, the bluegrass style, it apes, and the way it ends.

While it’s all over the place, what stands out on Fairport Convention outside of the quavery vocals is Richard Thompson’s lead guitar. Only 18 years old, he was already a force with which to be reckoned and worth watching, and certainly hearing.

The album didn’t come out in America until 1970, and on a different label, after three later albums had already been released. Once the catalog was unified, it did appear on CD over here in 1990, but collectors will want to seek out the expanded import (or streaming version) that includes four bonus tracks, including “If I Had A Ribbon Bow” (their first single) and previously unreleased covers of Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne”, Tim Buckley’s “Morning Glory”, and Mimi & Richard Fariña’s “Reno, Nevada”, which Matthews would record on one of his own solo albums, and which gets an extended jam here.

Fairport Convention Fairport Convention (1968)—3

Nilsson 3: Aerial Ballet

Harry Nilsson’s third album followed on closely from the last one; it’s very polite, with plenty of overly cute touches and vocal gymnastics. Aerial Ballet is an apt title, as it consists of high-wire feats designed to stun and amaze. There’s even a tapdancing routine that frames the album.

Removed from the album so as not to compete with the Monkees’ version but since restored, “Daddy’s Song” follows the same template as “1941” from the last album (“I loved my daddy but he left and now I’m sad”). It’s said that the initials of “Good Old Desk” make it an ode to a certain deity, which goes way over our heads, but while we’d like to hear the piano chords removed from the rest of the arrangement, when the strings come in, they’re lovely. “Don’t Leave Me” has some lovely dynamics between the verse and the chorus, but the scat sections, again, grate. While he hadn’t hit such a level of fame yet, “Mr. Richland’s Favorite Song” is an astute diatribe about the fickleness of it all that dissolves into yet another scat detour. “Little Cowboy” is supposed to be a lullaby, but the clippety-clop effect sounds like parody, and when you factor in the horns, good luck getting the kid to sleep. “Together” finally blends words and music well for a good track, and no scatting!

Up till now the album has focused on his own songwriting, but side two starts with the classic “Everybody’s Talkin’”, two years before its use in Midnight Cowboy and originally written by folkie Fred Neil. It’s followed by the next best song on the album, “I Said Goodbye To Me”, at least until the lyrics are echoed, literally, by a spoken track, but then we’re subjected to a reprise of “Little Cowboy” dominated by virtuosic whistling. “Mr. Tinker” (who was a tailor, ho ho) is another character study that’s mostly notable for a vocal hook that foreshadows “One”, which comes after. While not as overwrought (or as effective) as the hit Three Dog Night version, its arrangement more closely follows the busy-signal mode that inspired the track. “The Wailing Of The Willow” is more Bacharach bossa nova, pleasant and not offensive, whereas “Bath” is one of the happiest songs about a having a hangover, yet still thinks a variation on “doo-wacka-doo” comprises an actual chorus.

Aerial Ballet tries very hard to impress, but he’s still an acquired taste. It’s telling that for such a short album, it seems a lot longer.

Nilsson Aerial Ballet (1968)—2½

Zombies 2: Odessey & Oracle

Despite constant recording and touring, the Zombies weren’t able to ride the success of their first hit singles. Unbowed, they put their all into the ambitiously titled Odessey & Oracle, which ultimately broke up the band.

While the title and matching cover art reflected the psychedelic Summer of Love, the music was merely well-crafted, straightforward pop, built again mostly around Rod Argent’s keyboards, embellished by harmonies clearly influenced by that other cult classic Pet Sounds, and the Mellotrons left lying around at Olympic and EMI’s Abbey Road studios. The songs themselves, written separately by Argent and Chris White but perfectly matched, reflected the shift from mindless pop to near literature, as befit any band trying to compete in the marketplace with the likes of the Beatles and the Kinks.

From the start, these aren’t your ordinary love songs. “Care Of Cell 44” is a musical love letter to someone about to be released from prison, and it’s never stated what the inmate’s gender is. It’s positively infectious from start to finish, and the repeats of the “feel so good you’re coming home soon” hook never get tiring. Inspired by the macabre William Faulkner short story, the chamber pop arrangement of “A Rose For Emily” is fitting. Using an acoustic guitar for a change, the contrasting minor and major keys of “Maybe After He’s Gone” effectively reflect its lyrics, and a Leslie effect on the electric provides “Beechwood Park” with its own shade. The parlor sound on each verse of “Brief Candles” transforms to living color for each chorus before returning, and we really like how the guitar is paired with the Mellotron throughout “Hung Up On A Dream”.

Vinyl is a good way to experience the album, as the flute setting of the Mellotron dominates “Changes”, luckily balanced by the harmonies on the choruses, and tension between. The most Beatlesque track is the jaunty “I Want Her, She Wants Me”, with a prominent bass line wandering precisely underneath the dancing harpsichord. The joyful hope continues on “This Will Be Our Year”, though we prefer the mix without the horns. If anything might derail the listener’s enjoyment, “Butcher’s Tale (Western Front 1914)” is a harrowing antiwar song set in the first World War, a common fascination for British musicians of the time. Sung with suitable quivering by Chris White, it made for an unlikely single. “Friends Of Mine” returns the mood to sunny, as the narrator celebrates all the happy couples in his life, the backing vocals even reciting their names. Finally, “Time Of The Season” manages to be a musical progression for the band, while still evoking the cool of “She’s Not There”, with those sighing call-and-response vocals and a virtuosic organ solo.

It’s fitting that the album ends with the song that ultimately got the album onto the charts. The omnipresent Al Kooper was doing A&R for Columbia Records at the time, found Odessey & Oracle in a stack of import LPs, and spearheaded its American release. Its subsequent success prompted the suits to get the band to record a follow-up, and they tried, but Colin Blunstone had already quit the business and the remaining members were already morphing into Argent. (Once again, the Zombie Heaven box set nicely fills in the blanks.)

Over the years Odessey & Oracle became one of those relatively obscure records touted by rock snobs as a lost classic. Depending on how sick you were of hearing “Time Of The Season” on oldies stations, newcomers could be justifiably skeptical. But it truly is a grower, we’re lucky to have it in the world. It’s been reissued several times in the digital age, usually with bonus tracks like those later singles, sometimes with the mono and stereo versions together. (We lean towards the mono ourselves.)

The Zombies Odessey & Oracle (1968)—4½

Who 27: Fillmore East

The term “long-suffering fan” doesn’t usually inspire much sympathy. The artists these people adore don’t owe them anything, and if they’ve shelled out their hard-earned cash on numerous occasions for duplicates or sub-standard material, it’s not like they were forced to. Buy the ticket, take the ride. Or don’t, it’s up to you.

So when a band like the Who, after literally decades of teases, overlooks, and bad editing, comes out with an official version of a classic bootleg that might actually surpass the legend, there is cause for celebration. Live At The Fillmore East 1968 finally presents a nearly-complete document of one of their appearances that year at said venue, in terrific sound, with no dodgy edits, overdubbing, or fly-ins. With the exception of the first two songs from the night apparently beyond salvage, this is the show as performed, with dialogue and mistakes left in.

1968 was something of a lost year for the band; they recorded lots of songs and released a few singles, but a new album evaded them until Pete happened on the idea of a sensory-deprived kid who played pinball. Meanwhile, they played tons of gigs on several continents and became an incredible live act. Their managers, always on the lookout for a gimmick, thought a live album might fill the racks, and so recorded two nights at the Fillmore East.

World events caused a change in schedule; instead of performing two shows a night, they played one long one for each. Inspired by some of the more experimental bands of the time, the Who began to mix their quick, radio-friendly singles with lengthy explorations. “Relax”, a groove from Sell Out, manages to extend to 12 minutes; “A Quick One” goes nearly as long in a version that comes close to the definitive take from later in the year. Amazingly, even for them, “My Generation” runs for 33 minutes, and is assigned to a disc on its own.

They also relied on covers to fill their allotted time. “Summertime Blues” was already in the set, and two more Eddie Cochran tunes (“C’mon Everybody” and “My Way”) lead into “Shakin’ All Over”. This is also the first appearance of their arrangement of “Fortune Teller”, somehow folding into “Tattoo”. It managed to work, and they would still play it that way two years on.

It’s impossible to say how this album would have been received had it been released back then. The beloved original bootleg came from an acetate compiled from both nights, so we don’t get to hear Roger and John sing different verses of “Boris The Spider” simultaneously, nor do we hear Pete telling someone in the crowd to “get stuffed”. But to finally hear complete songs, without fade-outs or fade-ins, is truly exciting. We hoped they’d finally approve the Woodstock performance for its golden anniversary, but no.

The Who Live At The Fillmore East 1968 (2018)—4

Kinks 9: Something Else

While released overseas on the closing cusp of the Summer of Love, the Kinks’ next album didn’t make it out in America until the first month of 1968. Something Else By The Kinks is a terribly understated title for the band’s best work to date. In addition to even more excellent Ray Davies tunes, we can hear the emergence of Dave Davies as a songwriter, as it includes songs that had recently released as solo singles. But because Something Else is another one of those finely sequenced albums, we’ll tackle them in this context.

While seemingly every other British band spent part of the era dabbling in psychedelia, the Kinks were decidedly set on simpler passions. “David Watts” might as well be a leftover from the mod era, describing a boy who, unlike the narrator, dresses right, looks right, and “is so gay and fancy-free”. Dave comes up strong with “Death Of A Clown”, a blatantly Dylanesque plaint, both in words and tone, but with ethereal “la-la-la” transitions that keep it from being too much of a ripoff. The balance between the brothers is explored with some maturity in “Two Sisters”, with a harpsichord framing the portrait of freewheeling single Sybilla and trapped housewife Priscilla. (Spoiler alert: there’s a happy ending.) The quiet samba of “No Return” provides musical variety, particularly before the Cockney smoker’s lament of “Harry Rag”. “Tin Soldier Man” could be seen as a protest song, considering the era, but this particular figure gets to go home to his wife and kids and “keep his uniform tidy”. “Situation Vacant” returns to the theme of modern people trying to get by in the day’s economy, but this time blaming the breakdown of the marriage on the nagging mother-in-law. (The guitar solos provide evidence that Keith Richard heard the album a few times.)

Dave kicks off side two with the randy “Love Me Till The Sun Shines”, a decent, sneaky rocker. “Lazy Old Sun” seems to go out of its way to be off-pitch, with horn parts, a slide bass, and incessant maracas managing to sonically illustrate the more unbearable days of summer. But what makes Ray happiest, of course, is “Afternoon Tea”, particularly with the one he loves. Meanwhile, Dave misses his “Funny Face”, from whom he’s separated by windows, gates, and doctors. “End Of The Season” begins with sound effects right off of Face To Face (indeed, the song was left over from those sessions) before turning to something of a cabaret spoof. Closing the set, though hardly tacked on, is “Waterloo Sunset”, the previous summer’s hit single. Several critics have called it one of the loveliest songs of the 20th century, and while first impressions may not support it, it truly is one of those songs that sticks with you, with simple changes and a melancholy narrator watching two kids named Terry and Julie crossing over to what he imagines must be a better future.

Dave’s contributions notwithstanding, Something Else By The Kinks captures the band as they escaped from under producer Shel Talmy’s thumb to the apparent preference of Ray’s, who gets co-credit for producing. And while he’s only briefly mentioned by his first name on the back cover, the more intricate piano parts are played by good old Nicky Hopkins, who certainly deserves credit for why the tracks sound as good as they do. (Once again, expanded editions released overseas are worth digging up, as they include many contemporary singles and B-sides just as good as the A-sides that made it to the album. And then there’s the exquisite “Little Women”, which only got as far as a backing track with Mellotron overdubs.)

The Kinks Something Else By The Kinks (1968)—4

Michael Nesmith: The First National Band

In addition to his increasingly experimental contributions to Monkees albums, Michael Nesmith also displayed a defiant affection for country music. As the band dwindled out of commercial favor, he began stockpiling songs, which usually began as poetry pieces with arbitrary titles, that he hoped to one day issue on his own.

His first major extracurricular experiment reared its wacky head in the summer of 1968. The Wichita Train Whistle Sings was recorded over two days with dozens of L.A.’s finest session players, and presented ten instrumental arrangements of Nesmith tunes, some already familiar from earlier Monkees albums. The record is best appreciated if one is fluent with the more standard recordings, because the styles used here range wildly from easy listening to high school marching band, with prominent banjos and a determination to be just plain nutty. Laughter at zany guitar lines is left in, along with the notorious sound of Tommy Tedesco’s prized Telecaster being hurled into the air and crashing to the floor.

Once free from the Monkees, he strove to fully explore the possibilities of blending the professional Nashville sound with his own idiosyncratic tendencies. Such a blend was already evident on “Listen To The Band” and “Good Clean Fun”, both chosen as Monkees singles, and after settling on some friends as his rhythm section, he was able to rope in pedal steel player Red Rhodes to complete the First National Band. In less than a year’s time, they recorded three albums’ worth of material, released faster than they could be recorded. Just like other early practitioners of what would become country rock would take decades to get any kind of respect, they were pretty much ignored at the time, being too country for rock and not country enough for country.

Magnetic South came first, frontloaded with Nesmith originals, some of which were those Monkees leftovers: the samba-flavored “Calico Girlfriend”; the all-too-brief “Nine Times Blue”, which goes into the nearly funky “Little Red Rider”; “The Crippled Lion”, a hidden Nesmith gem; and the surprising hit story-song “Joanne”, which cuts right to “First National Rag”, something of a commercial break telling the listener to flip the record over. There he pulls out the yodel for “Mama Nantucket” and “Keys To The Car”, and gets a little ambitious with “Hollywood”, but by ending with two covers—the straight croon of “One Rose” and a “mind movie” rendition of “Beyond The Blue Horizon”—it’s a nice little trip.

Loose Salute was half in the can by the time Magnetic South came out, and is even more country, but with only one cover (“I Fall To Pieces”). “Silver Moon” with its mild island lilt was a mild hit single, and probably the high point. Monkees fans today have already heard several better takes of “Conversations” (a.k.a. “Carlisle Wheeling”), and the original single of “Listen To The Band” was so definitive, even by his own admission, why do another? “Tengo Amore” is enticing until the vocal kicks in, a frighteningly accurate amalgam of Stephen Stills’ worst Latin tendencies. Where the first album was refreshing, this one’s almost ordinary.

By the time Loose Salute was on the shelves, the rhythm section had already left, so Nevada Fighter was finished with session pros. This time the sides were split, with Nesmith originals on side one and covers on side two. The originals are of fine quality, particularly “Propinquity (I’ve Just Begun To Care)” (another Monkees refugee), “Only Bound”, and the rocking title track. With the exception of “Tumbling Tumbleweeds”, the covers come from the pens of previous Monkee collaborators Harry Nilsson, Michael Murphey and Bill Martin, with a surprising choice in “I Looked Away”, best known as the opener for Derek and the Dominos’ Layla. Red Rhodes’ solo “Rene” closes the album, and the chapter, fittingly.

The three First National Band albums have been in and out of print over the years, and further reissues have gone as far as abridging them to cram the most music in. If one enjoys Nesmith’s voice and writing, and can handle a lot of pedal steel guitar, they’re worth checking out, particularly for fans of Gram Parsons. If anything, they run rings around Changes.

Michael Nesmith The Wichita Train Whistle Sings (1968)—2
Michael Nesmith & The First National Band Magnetic South (1970)—3
Michael Nesmith & The First National Band Loose Salute (1970)—2½
Michael Nesmith & The First National Band Nevada Fighter (1971)—3

Doors 3: Waiting For The Sun

Most of the music on the first two Doors albums had been in the band’s repertoire for a couple of years, so when it came time to record their third, they were tasked with coming up with new material. Consequently, Waiting For The Sun is stuck between pop and the experimental, with varying results.

They did save one ringer from the old days, and despite its similarity to any number of Kinks songs, “Hello I Love You” was an obvious hit. “Love Street” is a lazy, poppy stroll through Laurel Canyon, and something of a red herring for what comes next. Having included an eleven-minute epic on each of the previous albums, Jim Morrison’s next feat was to be the sidelong “Celebration Of The Lizard” suite of poems, as illustrated by the libretto on the inner gatefold. At the time, however, only the section called “Not To Touch The Earth” was completed for the album. The track, which wasn’t worth the trouble, fights against the loopy slide and buzzing organ up until the final declaration, “I am the lizard king”, which is why people talk about it today. “Summer’s Almost Gone” restores the pop sensibility, having been written years before and probably left aside due to its similarity to “The Crystal Ship”. “Wintertime Love” sounds really out of place, and should have been arranged slower and without a harpsichord. While the big epic didn’t happen, “The Unknown Soldier” is a mostly successful attempt at a sound picture, though you’d think they could’ve found a better sound to approximate a gunshot.

Robbie Krieger steps up with a flamenco flourish to begin “Spanish Caravan”, and the rest of the song follows a respectful pace, with a nice fuzzy inversion of the opening theme. “My Wild Love” is a chant destined to try anybody’s patience, making “We Could Be So Good Together” seem an improvement. (Maybe nobody told Robbie his fuzz tone sounded like a kazoo.) “Yes, The River Knows” begins like a lounge ballad, but Jim actually puts some emotion into it. “Five To One” redeems the side, and the album proper; here the dynamics of their lengthy epics are reduced to under five minutes, and shows a respect for economy. Plus, it’s loaded with some of Jim’s better one-liners.

Waiting For The Sun doesn’t have the legs of its predecessors, but they weren’t completely running on fumes yet. (The title track would have to wait to be hatched.) As a hint at what might have been, the expanded CD includes some early stabs at “Not To Touch The Earth”, and two tracks siphoned from various compilations. “Albinoni’s Adagio In G Minor” is a surprisingly faithful interpretation of the baroque piece, while a “work in progress” mix of “Celebration Of The Lizard” runs for 17 minutes, and gives an idea of the music the band concocted for the poems. If anything, Jim’s delivery illustrates why he’s either adored or despised. None of these were included on the so-called 50th Anniversary Deluxe Edition, which merely added a second disc of nine of the album’s tracks in rough mix state, plus five songs from a 1968 Copenhagen concert in questionable sound quality. The early version of “The WASP (Texas Radio And The Big Beat)” is historically interesting, however.

The Doors Waiting For The Sun (1968)—3
2007 40th Anniversary Edition: same as 1968, plus 5 extra tracks
2018 50th Anniversary Deluxe Edition: same as 1968, plus 14 extra tracks

Grateful Dead 2: Anthem Of The Sun

As the Dead gained notoriety for their free-form live performances, they faced the challenge of translating that energy to albums. Apparently they didn’t have the pull at the label to just release a live album, nor the technical ability to record something of releasable quality. Therefore, Anthem Of The Sun consisted of various live recordings edited and embellished in the studio, with all the locations dutifully listed on the back cover.

While the album can seem random at points, there is structure within. “That’s It For The Other One” begins with a plaintive Garcia melody, eventually exploding into a jam that leads into another melody led by Bob Weir, back to the Garcia part and ending with a very avant-garde collage of prepared piano and percussion. Because the track is listed as having four parts, the listener can have fun trying to guess where each one lies. The seamless transition to “New Potato Caboose”, another lengthy jam, might be hard to spot, while the shorter “Born Cross-Eyed” had been a single. Either way, without clear breaks between tracks, the listener might be surprised when the side ends.

Side two lists only two tracks, which were often played together anyway. “Alligator” sports a prominent kazoo at the start, which is gratefully retired not to far into the song. Piano from new member Tom Constanten better fills out the first half of the song, before the switch to a live performance, exhortations for audience members to clap their hands, instrumental solos and more consolidated boogie. Sharp ears will recognize the melody from Donovan’s “There Is A Mountain”, soon to be appropriated by the Allman Brothers. Despite its title, “Caution (Do Not Stop On Tracks)” is possibly closest to the blues influences on the first album, being an extensive exploration on the single idea of something a gypsy woman said. It ends the album with extensive feedback, which would be a feature of future live albums, often listed as a separate track.

While ramshackle, Anthem Of The Sun does hold together as an album, hinting at how they really sounded in their true element. These songs would only develop further in performance, as the bonus tracks on the expanded CD demonstrate. None of those were included on the inevitable 50th anniversary set, which combined the album’s original mix with its early ‘70s remix, along with a previously unreleased Winterland show from October 1967, and the earliest known recording with Mickey Hart known to date. (For those seeking the original shows that were used to make up the album, some of those have become officially available, and are listed below.)

The Grateful Dead Anthem Of The Sun (1968)—3
2003 CD reissue: same as 1967, plus 4 extra tracks
2018 50th Anniversary Deluxe Edition: same as 1968, plus 12 extra tracks
     Archival releases of same vintage:
     • Dick's Picks Volume Twenty-Two (2001)
     • Download Series Vol. 6 (2005)
     • Road Trips Vol. 2, No. 2 (2009)
     • 30 Trips Around The Sun: The Definitive Live Story 1965-1995 (2015)

Jeff Beck 1: Truth

Besides being one of the most inventive, uncompromising guitarists of his generation, Jeff Beck is to be commended for having the same hairstyle for fifty years. One need only look at Nigel Tufnel to see the man’s influence.

After parting with the Yardbirds, the young axeman struck out for a solo career, but there was just one problem: he couldn’t sing. This is evident from his first single, the so-goofy-it’s-great “Hi Ho Silver Lining”, a record that included a more enduring B-side. The follow-up, “Tallyman”, wasn’t as embarrassing, nor as good.

Once it was established where his strengths lay, he put together a band that would attempt to set a precedent for a new kind of rock, balancing heaviness and lightness within the same song. A raspy kid named Rod Stewart would be his singer, bringing along Micky Waller on drums, while a chameleon named Ron Wood, already a guitarist on his own, would play bass. This lineup would record “I’ve Been Drinking”—used as the B-side to Beck’s instrumental butchering of the schlock classic “Love Is Blue”—before going on to record an album proper (incidentally, at Abbey Road in the weeks immediately before the Beatles started the White Album).

Truth is a likable hodgepodge of an LP, complete with self-deprecating notes from the man whose name graced the cover. It begins with a slowed down, groovy version of “Shapes Of Things”, which gives both Rod and Jeff a chance to show what they do best. “Let Me Love You” is one of those electric blues standards that everyone has to do at one point or another, while “Morning Dew” was the current folk equivalent, albeit with Jeff mangling the wah-wah pedal while an “unknown Scottish bloke” plays bagpipes. “You Shook Me” would be redone—some would say stolen—by Led Zeppelin a year later, complete with John Paul Jones on organ as he was on the Beck track. Here it’s merely two and a half minutes, grinding to a quick close described as “my guitar being sick”. A more subdued organ, with Keith Moon on tympani, drives a cover of “Ol’ Man River” from Show Boat.

If the listener wasn’t completely confused by now, the solo acoustic “Greensleeves”, precisely finger-picked, shows Jeff to be more than just flash. “Rock My Plimsoul” is another generic blues, better for the guitar than the lyrics. A nice addition is “Beck’s Bolero”, originally the B-side to his first single. Alongside the instrumental melody, we have Jimmy Page strumming an electric 12-string, John Paul Jones playing bass, Nicky Hopkins on piano, and Keith Moon on drums with a terrific howl a minute and a half in. Such catharsis is a memory for most of “Blues Deluxe”, yet another rote blues augmented by obvious added applause effects to give it that “club” feel. Finally, there’s “I Ain’t Superstitious”, a great nasty blues made even more diabolical by being in the key of F, especially difficult for bass players.

The abundance of blues tracks makes Truth less than perfect, but at least they’re spread out for variety, so the album manages to float well above the Mendoza line. Later reissues would pair it with the next Jeff Beck Group album, but today it can be found on its own with a pile of bonus tracks, including all the singles, and earlier versions of some of the album cuts.

Jeff Beck Truth (1968)—4

Small Faces: Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake

Speaking of British bands with messy catalogs, Small Faces began as a genuine mod R&B combo before sliding into psychedelia. Besides being contemporaries of The Who, bass player Ronnie Lane would go on to collaborate many times with Pete Townshend, and drummer Kenney Jones would get the unenviable task of replacing Keith Moon. (Pianist slash organist Ian “Mac” McLagan would also marry Keith’s ex-wife, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves again.) Ronnie sang from time to time, but guitarist and lead singer Steve Marriott was likely the “star”, and not just because Paul Weller’s been copying his haircut for decades.

Their not-really-a-concept-album Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake usually shows up on lists of classic albums nobody knows but everyone should hear, even without its original unique packaging based on a tobacco tin. Taking its cue from the previous year’s hit single “Itchycoo Park”, it combines Hammond-heavy swirly music with acoustic strums and music-hall silliness—and that’s just side one. The instrumental title track is something of an overture, always on the verge of becoming something bigger; they even put strings on it. Despite its loungey send-up beginning, “Afterglow Of Your Love” soon turns into a powerful Marriott belter. There’s a quick segue to “Long Agos And Worlds Apart”, sung by Mac, which has the same clap-along rhythm as the pub singalong “Rene” (rhymes with beanie) and its extended jam ending. “Song For A Baker” is a groovy rocker sung by Ronnie, before Steve comes back on the exceptionally catchy “Lazy Sunday”, delivered in a thicker Cockney accent than that of “Rene” and would one day be worn of its welcome by Phil Collins. (We’ll credit Glyn Johns for why the album sounds so good, from the flanging effects to the well-placed vocal interjections, very similar to what he’d already done for Traffic.)

Side two is where things get really wacky, with all of the songs strung together by a gobbledygook fairy tale about “Happiness Stan” looking for the moon. The narrator will remind newcomers of Michael Palin, and the side does sound like a parody, except that this was the source. The story itself is just that, hiding no real mysteries or message, except that Stan finds himself “Rollin’ Over” to greet “The Hungry Intruder”, a fly who grows giant enough to take him on “The Journey” to the cave home of “Mad John”, who tells Stan that life is as simple as “Happydaystoytown”. Of course. The songs would likely stand on their own without the narration, but it’s a gimmick that works.

Aside of the novelty of the presentation, two things stand out from Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake. First is Ian McLagan’s mastery of the electric piano, a touch rivaled only by Nicky Hopkins. Then there’s Kenney Jones’ drumming. How could a guy this inventive and tight go on to become the Who’s metronome? (Because of the differences in mixes unique to different countries, several reissues of the album have offered mono and stereo versions, along with outtakes, but as long as the 12-song sequence is intact, anything else is gravy.)

Small Faces Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake (1968)—3

CSN 12: Demos

While Neil spent much of the decade promising and delaying his box set, the others in Crosby, Stills & Nash quickly realized that there was gold in them there hills. Nash curated box sets for himself and Crosby, but Stills tinkered with his a lot longer. While we waited, he released Just Roll Tape, purporting to be a long-long demo session recorded in April of 1968. With snippets of songs never revisited, along with the usual embryonic versions of a few classics, the set proves that he wouldn’t truly find his voice until he had other voices to support him. (It also shows him to be a master of time travel, since it’s been established that Buffalo Springfield had a gig in Arizona while this session was supposedly taking place in New York.)

Two years later, the very same day Neil’s Archives box finally emerged, so did a CSN disc called, simply, Demos. Culled from the first three or so years they worked together, it’s a low-key, enjoyable collection of songs you already know, but generally in a basic format. In other words, solo and acoustic, and no harmonies.

Considering how headstrong these guys were, the demo versions aren’t that different, structurally, from the finished productions. In most cases they’re blueprints to be built on; “Music Is Love”, for example, appears to be the simpler basic track before Graham and Neil loaded it up to open Crosby’s first solo album, while “Long Time Gone” is an early band version that hasn’t quite arrived at its proper feel.

And that’s another perk to the set—the songs aren’t limited to just the group albums, but include plenty of ideas that wouldn’t reach fruition until their various solo albums. All of Nash’s songs (save “Marrakesh Express”) would end up on his first album, while Stills’ ideas (as proved on Just Roll Tape) could sit around for years before making one of his albums. “You Don’t Have To Cry” consists of just the one verse that would be repeated for the album version, though Crosby’s unplugged sketches of “Déjà Vu” and “Almost Cut My Hair” are even longer than the released takes.

Demos is for fans only, and might have spurred a sequel had the sales been there. But it does succeed for the reasons mentioned, as well as for sending people back to the first records they made together and apart. While not the cottage industry that runs message boards concerning hypothetical post-1970 Beatle albums culled from solo work, there must be more than a few fans who have compiled their own collections of the best of CSN apart.

Stephen Stills Just Roll Tape: April 26, 1968 (2007)—3
Crosby, Stills & Nash Demos (2009)—3

Cream 5: Live Cream

Just because the band was done didn’t mean there wasn’t money to be skimmed off Cream. With all three members still active with various new projects, their label went back to the vaults and emerged ere long with Live Cream, which mostly presented two sides’ worth of extended versions of songs from the first album, recorded during the same stretch of shows that spawned the live portion of Wheels Of Fire. “N.S.U.” is particularly good, though we always think “Sweet Wine” is played too slowly. The sound is terrific, and the interplay excellent. Oddly, the compilers also chose this outlet to unleash “Lawdy Mama”, a Disraeli Gears outtake better known as “Strange Brew” with different lyrics.

Two years later, after Eric Clapton had already struck gold on his own and with Derek and the Dominos, Live Cream Volume II leaned more on the “hits” (“White Room”, “Sunshine Of Your Love”, f’rinstance). This time the sources were split between the same Wheels Of Fire shows and those from their farewell tour, as sampled on Goodbye. “Deserted Cities Of The Heart” stands out, but then again so does the crowd noise throughout, and it’s a matter of taste whether these particular tunes sound better live. But the key draw here is a 13-minute exploration on “Steppin’ Out”, which Clapton had done with the Blues Breakers, but hadn’t been included on any Cream album. Both albums, while more tossed together than lovingly presented, still showed off the band’s power, and nicely bookend their work.

From there, Cream’s legacy was recycled through countless complications and repackages. Clapton was the only surviving band member when, over half a century after the band called it quits, the powers that be put together Goodbye Tour—Live 1968, a set of four discs each containing a complete show from that brief run. The Oakland show is arguably the most interesting, as the set list varies the widest from the other three; Ginger Baker takes his drum solo on “Passing The Time” instead of “Toad”, which wasn’t performed. “Toad” as well as “Traintime” show up on disc two and three; the crowd was rowdy at the L.A. Forum, and not because of Buddy Miles introducing the band, while the San Diego show is heard for the first time ever here. Finally, while the final show at the Royal Albert Hall had already been broadcast at the time and released on video (it’s the one where the camera on Jack Bruce’s microphone is close enough to show his fillings and tonsils) this is the first time it’s been on CD. While it sounds like mud compared to the other discs, it’s historically important. Though you’d think someone would have noticed that some of the photos in the booklet are backwards.

Cream Live Cream (1970)—3½
Cream Live Cream Volume II (1972)—3
Cream Goodbye Tour—Live 1968 (2020)—3

Jethro Tull 1: This Was

Say the name Jethro Tull to the average person, and there’s a good chance his or her mental image will immediately depict a wild-eyed, frizzy-haired guy wearing a codpiece and wielding a flute. But they were more than that, as we’ve come to find. (For one, that guy with the codpiece isn’t named Jethro. Chances are you knew that if you’d read this far, but then again, maybe not.)

They began as many British bands in the late ‘60s did—as a blues band. Tull’s difference was not so much in the power category, but in the jazz influences, most obvious in Ian Anderson’s placement of the flute as the center solo instrument, over the guitar or harmonica. If you’re not a particular fan of the flute, as we haven’t been, that can be enough of a deterrent from going any further with them.

Which would be a shame, because their debut, This Was has a lot to recommend. “My Sunday Feeling” offers up a little Cream volume, and then they take it way down for “Some Day The Sun Won’t Shine For You”, which is basically “Key To The Highway” with new lyrics. A snaky riff underpins “Beggar’s Farm”, and Ian steps aside to let guitarist Mick Abrahams sing on “Move On Alone” (foreshadowing alert!) complete with a sympathetic horn arrangement. Side one ends with “Serenade To A Cuckoo”, a Roland Kirk instrumental that the liner notes helpfully inform us was the first thing Ian learned on his flute. (Well, not that helpfully, printed as they are in neon green text on a bright orange background.)

“Dharma For One” is another jazzy instrumental, although one they wrote themselves. As drum solos go, Clive Bunker is no Ginger Baker, but the guitar has a cool tone. They take a trip to more typical blues with “It’s Breaking Me Up” (complete with harmonica) and yet another version of “Cat’s Squirrel”. “A Song For Jeffrey” is a striking departure from the program, combining blues and skiffle into the sound that would soon become all theirs. With its open ending, the minute or so of “Round” serves as something of a coda.

The title is equally open-ended, one reading being “This Was what we sounded like then, and we’ve moved on”. If that’s the case, so be it; we didn’t expect to enjoy at as much as we did on first listen, and maybe other newbies will have the same experience. Fans knew all along, and they, like the band itself, were on to something.

The Tull catalog has undergone a handful of sonic re-evaluations in the digital era; the initial expanded This Was added three contemporary tracks from singles, while the eventual “40th Anniversary” edition included mono and stereo mixes, a pile of BBC performances, and further singles. Because seemingly every album that came out in 1968 required a 50th Anniversary edition, This Was got one too. This time, in addition to the original mono and stereo mixes and BBC stuff, there’s a new stereo mix of the album and subsequent single, plus some unreleased tracks and further rare cuts. And a DVD with surround mixes and whatnot.

Jethro Tull This Was (1968)—3½
2001 remastered CD: same as 1968, plus 3 extra tracks
2008 40th Anniversary Collector’s Edition: same as 2001, plus 22 extra tracks
2018 50th Anniversary Edition: same as 2008, plus 21 extra tracks

Cream 3: Wheels Of Fire

Rock was getting excessive, and while it was only their third album, Cream decided to make it a double, with two sides of studio recordings and two others of live performances. Wheels Of Fire continues their explorations of psychedelia and blues, with striking results.

Jack Bruce takes lead vocals on nearly every song on the studio half, with Eric Clapton mostly limited to guitar. Still, the two of them leave their mark on “White Room”, a showcase for descending riffs and wah-wah, though what makes the song stand out are the violas on the intro, played by producer Felix Pappalardi. “Sitting On Top Of The World” was a blues standard played pretty much by everybody, including the Grateful Dead. Things start to get weird on “Passing The Time”; the intro doesn’t reappear in the track, the verse suggests a sinister nursery rhyme, and the chorus is about as fuzzy as can be. Jack completely takes over on “As You Said”, playing all the acoustic guitar and string bass, following his own Eastern vocal through a Leslie speaker.

Side two picks up the challenge with “Pressed Rat And Warthog”, another goofy children’s verse recited by Ginger Baker, heralded by trumpet and flute. (We’ve yet to clarify whether the closed-down shop selling atonal apples and amplified heat is a Beatles reference.) The blues come back for “Politician”, a twisted variation on “Born Under A Bad Sign”, which had only been recorded for the first time a few months earlier by Albert King. In between, “Those Were The Days” revives some of the mythological whimsy of Disraeli Gears, all the while defying a straight meter. “Deserted Cities Of The Heart” is a driving track, with more furious acoustic strumming and a nice counterpoint in the interludes.

Clapton finally takes a lead vocal on the live disc, and it’s not a stretch to say that the four minutes of “Crossroads” are the highlight of what’s already a pretty decent album, and excellent in its economy. Following that, it’s easy to lose focus for the 16 minutes of “Spoonful”, since it would appear both Clapton and Bruce are soloing simultaneously. “Traintime” is fine if you like a guy accompanying himself on harmonica, but Ginger manages to keep up. If you think that’s indulgent, you might not want to sit through “Toad”, but as drum solos go, it’s one of the more palatable ones, even at 16 minutes.

There’s a lot of music on Wheels Of Fire, and it’s not a stretch to suggest that the studio half plus “Crossroads” would have been sufficient on their own. But apparently the band was already thinking about moving on, so just as The Beatles decided to load up their albums to satisfy contractual obligations, Cream’s time wasn’t long.

Cream Wheels Of Fire (1968)—3½

Beach Boys 15: Friends

Despite a dwindling fan base, the Beach Boys were still enough of a legacy outfit to stay on the record company’s schedule. (Besides, said company was still hoping Smile would be finished.) In the meantime, Mike Love discovered the Maharishi, and got to hang out with the Beatles in India studying meditation. When he came back, he joined the other Boys and completed the surprisingly brief Friends album.

Brian was more involved this time out, and it shows, particularly in the mostly instrumental “Passing By”. He has a writing credit on nearly every track, with the exception of those written by Dennis, of all people. Unfortunately, the drums still sound they’re coming from a speaker in a box, as they do throughout the entire album.

“Meant For You” is something of a prelude, leading right into the lazy loping title track. “Wake The World” has a similar hammock-swaying feel, punctuated by a tuba on the chorus. The under-produced sound of “Be Here In The Morning”, along with the strained falsetto, makes it sound like a demo, but then the Leslie effect on the last chorus shows that they had a decent grasp on experimenting with effects. “When A Man Needs A Woman” is an uninspired title for a song about having kids—a good-sized leap from the heroes and villains and columnated ruins of the year before.

“Anna Lee, The Healer” gets a much more elaborate vocal arrangement than it deserves, but soon our attention turns to Dennis. “Little Bird” sounds like he distilled what he remembered of the Smile sessions into a single track—and indeed, some of “Child Is Father Of The Man” makes it into the mix—but “Be Still” hints at the “dark genius” that he’d be hailed as in the decades after his death. Whatever his demons, they’re not yet as unsettling as the laundry list of distractions Brian details in “Busy Doin’ Nothin’”. Then they pull out all the effects out o the closet to paint a sound picture of Hawaii on “Diamond Head” (for the surfers still listening). Finally, “Transcendental Meditation” ends the program with an actual drumset accompaniment and fuzzy horns.

Even habitual stoners must have been scratching their heads over Friends, just as their longtime fans would have been confused over whether their heroes were still clean-cut and spiffy. There are some excellent moments here, but they’re fleeting, and most of the songs are so short that the better ideas don’t have the space to blossom. It makes it difficult to root for them. 1990’s two-fer CD paired Friends with 20/20, but the only bonus tracks came from sessions for the next album. This was rectified somewhat in 2018 with the digital-only release of Wake The World: The Friends Sessions, which offered a disc’s worth of alternate versions, backing tracks, a cappella mixes, and castoffs, including Brian’s unique solo take on “My Little Red Book” and an instrumental stab at “Rock & Roll Woman”. Even if the songs weren’t there, the boys could play.)

The Beach Boys Friends (1968)—2
1990 CD reissue: same as 1968, plus 20/20 album and 5 extra tracks

Band 1: Music From Big Pink

The Band’s history has been recounted several times, by them even, so we’re going to try not to go too deep into here. It should be said, however, that the years prior to recording their debut album were spent first toiling in the wake of Bob Dylan’s chemically infused 1966 tour, then finding their gig postponed while he recuperated from a motorcycle accident. Still on something of a retainer, they rented a couple of houses in the Woodstock area, one of which was painted a lovely shade of Calamine pink. Once Bob’s health was settled enough for him to get around, he’d stop by the house after taking his stepdaughter to school, and he and the boys would jam for hours on end (fueled, according to one source, by strong coffee and potent weed).

Among many breakthroughs during that period, pianist Richard Manuel became an extremely competent drummer in the absence of Levon Helm (himself a master of the mandolin). Before long the four and then five members of this little unit became very adept at switching instruments and playing off of each other—just like a band should be.

While it wasn’t recorded there, Music From Big Pink still manages to convey the sense of five guys sitting around a very small room, possibly a basement, creating a brand of music wholly untouched by psychedelia, and infused with the spirit of what might be called Americana, even if four of the guys were Canadian.

Of course, if two of your members were allowed to share a copyright with Dylan, you’d be an idiot not to include those songs on your album, right? That’s why “Tears Of Rage”, music by Richard, begins the program, providing a stately introduction and some nicely arranged horns. Robbie Robertson gets credit for “To Kingdom Come”, and even features the guitarist taking a stab at a lead vocal amidst the group holler. Richard returns for his own “In A Station”, driven by a keyboard sound that’s the closest they’d get to psychedelic. “Caledonia Mission” is another inscrutable tune seemingly sung by Richard, but no! It’s Rick Danko. The one song everybody knows, and argues about the words, is “The Weight”. Levon sings the bulk of it, stepping aside on one verse for Rick, taking it back and closing it out.

“We Can Talk” is a rollicking opener to side two, an unfortunately overlooked track in the wake of what comes next. First there’s “Long Black Veil”, a cover from the 1950s that sounds like it was written in the 1850s. The killer is “Chest Fever”, beginning with a fantastic faux-Bach fugue from Garth Hudson’s fingers, followed by a groove the other four keep up so well it doesn’t matter what the hell the words are about since nobody can understand them anyway. We stop for breath in the mournful “Lonesome Suzie”, a sentimental Richard song, and then it’s back to Bob. Several people have covered “This Wheel’s On Fire”, but since Rick wrote the music for it, this one might get the edge. And finally, Richard’s lonesome falsetto nails “I Shall Be Released”.

One of the nicest things about this album is that sense of communion. The inner sleeve sports a large group photo labeled “Next Of Kin”, with the musicians mixed in among cousins and grandparents. The label doesn’t even say “The Band”, going instead with the individual names of each player, plus their producer John Simon, an honorary member himself. Such democracy wouldn’t last, but luckily, Music From Big Pink is here to preserve it. Even Bob’s cover art—the elephant and oddly placed teapot notwithstanding—suggests the homemade qualities that have brought people back again and again.

As the self-imposed caretaker of the legacy, Robbie has not let a chance to exalt the album go by. The first expanded CD version added nine tracks, including some outtakes, some recordings previously ascribed to the Basement in an act of either error or connivance, and a couple of oddities that actually did come from there. When the golden anniversary rolled around, he had the album remixed by Bob Clearmountain, included only five of the bonus tracks from the previous version, and added an a cappella mix of “I Shall Be Released”. That means you’ll want to keep the first expanded CD, not only for the original mix, but for “Katie’s Been Gone” and “Orange Juice Blues”.

The Band Music From Big Pink (1968)—4
2000 CD reissue: same as 1968, plus 9 extra tracks
2018 50th Anniversary Edition: “same” as 1968, plus 6 extra tracks

Traffic 2: Traffic

Traffic was barely out of the gate (sorry) before Dave Mason left the band. He was soon coaxed back for their second album, where he would play a more prominent role. Traffic bears little of the psychedelia that defined their first album and singles, so maybe that’s why it got the simple title.

The jaunty “You Can All Join” is a celebration of the communal spirit still prevalent in 1968, a happy little singalong to start the side. “Pearly Queen” manages to get a good groove out of a blues riff, with plenty of organ. “Don’t Be Sad” is a nearly sweet pop song with clever rhythms and sustains, while “Who Knows What Tomorrow May Bring” would be improved a year later as “Shanghai Noodle Factory”. Hidden at the end of side one is a song that would soon become something of a standard from the throat of Joe Cocker, but here, “Feelin’ Alright?” shows its roots as a more unsettled tune, albeit with two chords.

“Vagabond Virgin” mostly lopes along, sounding for all the work like a precursor for Crosby, Stills & Nash. “40,000 Headmen” brings us back to the mythology of the house in the country, a mysterious little song, nicely followed by “Crying To Be Heard”, with its subtle harpsichord matching the “sail across the ocean with the wind against your back” sentiment. A ghostly soprano sax heralds “No Time To Live”, one of those “who am I” songs that succeeds despite itself, thanks to the descending piano chords and Winwood’s excellent R&B delivery. “Means To An End” isn’t the best finale, but it will have to do.

Traffic has a lot of stops and starts (sorry), and overall it’s very disjointed—mostly because Dave Mason worked on his own, while Winwood and Capaldi collaborated very well with Chris Wood. It’s an odd little album, still good, but missing something.

Traffic Traffic (1968)—3
2001 CD reissue: same as 1968, plus 3 extra tracks

Jimi Hendrix 3: Electric Ladyland

Jimi had become fascinated with studio recording, spending much of his time there when he wasn’t touring incessantly. And given his magnetic personality, it was easy for hangers-on to access him in the studio, where jam sessions would inevitably take place. He was teeming with ideas, and wanted to get them all out.

Electric Ladyland was a double album in a time when the concept was evolving from an indulgence to elite artistic expression. Unlike Cream, who put out a half-studio/half-live set that year, or the Beatles, who had three very prolific writers vying for space, Electric Ladyland is all Jimi, credited as “producer” and “director”, with barely any filler.

Similarly to the last album, a fanfare of sorts begins the proceedings. But while “EXP” assaults the listener, “…And The Gods Made Love” is a sound painting of phased effects and slowed-down tapes. After it whooshes by, “Have You Ever Been (To Electric Ladyland)” provides a breath of Curtis Mayfield in an almost one-man band. “Crosstown Traffic” careens from speaker to speaker, with a pounding piano, wacky kazoo and infectious chorus. Just when you think pop it taking over, up bubbles the opening notes of “Voodoo Chile”. Not to be confused with the track of a similar title, this is a 15-minute blues exploration backed by Mitch, Jack Casady of Jefferson Airplane on bass, and Steve Winwood on organ. Jimi and Stevie play off each other amazingly, and the only distraction is the nightclub ambience added after the fact.

Things get a little more conventional on side two, beginning with Noel Redding’s “Little Miss Strange”, nicely decorated by Jimi. “Long Hot Summer Night” is more complicated, but the straight-ahead R&B of “Come On (Part I)” picks up the pace. On “Gypsy Eyes”, another forecast of his funk style, he matches the vocal with guitar, while another guitar stutters a rhythm and a third slides. The previous summer’s UK single “Burning Of The Midnight Lamp” is one of the best examples of psychedelia, with the wah-wah doubled on harpsichord and heavenly harmonies aah-ing over the lyrics.

Side three is as misleading as side one, given the number of curveballs throughout. “Rainy Day, Dream Away” begins as a jazz groove, while a couple of stoned individuals bemoan then embrace having to stay inside. A few hits off a joint bring in the vocal, which shifts gears a few times before another groove establishes itself, only to fade away into the underwater journey of “1983… (A Merman I Should Turn To Be)”. This epic begins with a simple riff over three chords while Mitch plays a martial beat. The verse simply follows a descending chromatic sequence into the riff. The bridge, if it can be called that, gets a bit more intense, the vocals phased and echoed, and punctuated by his trademark asides. The intensity elevates until it stops for another verse and riff. Mitch plays with his cymbals for seven minutes while Jimi explores his neck, adding bubbly bass parts and Chris Wood from Traffic on flute, all swirling around the spectrum. The song reaches another apex to usher in a final verse, fading into a final phased sound painting indexed as “Moon, Turn The Tides… Gently Gently Away”.

The suite concludes at the start of side four, with “Still Raining, Still Dreaming” picking up where “Rainy Day” left off on side three, continuing for a three-minute jam featuring Buddy Miles on drums, in something of a premonition. “House Burning Down” is something of a political commentary about urban unrest in a dangerous year. His guitar parts manage to emulate the sound of fire and chaos brilliantly. Speaking of brilliant, his version of Bob Dylan’s “All Along The Watchtower” transformed that simple tune into an anthem of sorts, to the point where Dylan’s been doing it the Hendrix way ever since. And finally, “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” takes up the gauntlet from side one to present a more compact, hypnotic variation.

Many call Electric Ladyland Hendrix’s best album, and we’d have to agree. It works best as a whole, or even as individual sides. It also represents the final statement by the original Experience, while clearly showing that Jimi would be taking his music other places, even if the destination or even the pit stops weren’t clear.

While the contents of the album were uniform worldwide, the cover was not. Although the American version has become a classic image, it wasn’t what Jimi had in mind at all, preferring a photo of the band surrounded by children on the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park, taken by the future Linda McCartney. The UK spread a photo of 19 nude women across the front and back, which Jimi himself hated.

The variations continued in the digital era, naturally. The first CD had the album on two discs, reduced to one once the industry standard for CD lengths was increased, albeit with a noise. The 1993 CD version used yet another unrelated photo for the cover, which was thankfully restored to the American original in 1997, with shots from the Alice session and even a letter from Jimi about his ideas for the cover inside the booklet.

Since every other album released in 1968 seemed to get one, Electric Ladyland underwent the 50th anniversary treatment with an upgraded mastering, a disc of home demos and outtakes, a decent (but distorted near the point of discomfort) Hollywood Bowl show from that September on another, plus the requisite Blu-ray with surround mixes and a previously released documentary. Some of the demos have made the rounds before, and will make many itchy to hear Jimi plugged in and wailing. Eventually we get a couple of variations on “1983” and a few jams. Noel Redding gets some love on an instrumental bash through “Little Miss Strange”, with him on electric 12-string and Buddy Miles and Stephen Stills as his rhythm section. Al Kooper fans will love the two stabs at “Long Hot Summer Night”. It would have been nice to have more “making-of” takes—the complete “Rainy Day” sequence, anyone?—but at least the family used the cover he wanted.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience Electric Ladyland (1968)—4½
50th Anniversary Deluxe Edition: same as 1968, plus 31 extra tracks