This double-album is the stuff dreams are made of. It’s like getting laid when you’re single or losing 10 pounds when you’re fat (I’m not judging; I’ve gained way too many).
I sauntered into a record store in Boulder, Colo., and bought this French mono 2XLP for a cool $12. As is my wont, I let it sit for awhile, then took it for a spin.
Then I looked it up on eBay. Then MusicStack. This fucking thing is worth upwards of $90! It’s too bad I could never, ever sell this. There are big, bouncy Benjamins to be made if I could just get over my obsession to Have, to Own, to Possess.
This fetish might be a big part of my tendency to horde, but I also happen to LOVE listening (natch!), especially when the product in question originates from — or takes heavy cues from — the Sixties.
What a time it was! Whoo boy … To tell the truth I’m getting sick of ’60s mythologizing. As I’ve mentioned before in these pages, there are only so many fresh groups from the era to explore, yet there seems to be a new compilation every other week from all corners of the country.
Luckily, in this case, the French have fantastic taste. The Sound of the Sixties double album, a compilation on ’80s label Eva Records, taps the traditional and the tertiary with equal aplomb. It also includes a nutty book compiling a fuckload of French EPs. Cool! Exhaustive! Mentionable! Worth having because … well, I’m not sure but you know what I mean!
Strangely, there is no French connection on the actual records; there’s a record with bands from the U.S. and one for U.K. fare. I’m not going to pretend to understand it, I’m just going to enjoy it.
Side 1 of the “American” — as opposed to the “British” — portion proffers stone-free bands like ? Mark And The Mysterians and The Count Five, and both make lukewarm appearances. The razzle-dazzle comes courtesy of lesser-known figures like Kim Fowley and afterthoughts like We The People. Each offer scratchy period artifacts that provide the sort of glimpse into the past you can’t get from boring whiteboy bands doing R&B covers (though a few of those turned out to be ok, no?).
Side 2, circa “America,” is much worse. The Music Explosion absolutely shit on “96 Tears.” The Trashmen court rock-a-billy but never get past second base despite some funny “If You Wanna Be a Bird”/Joe Meeks vocal sneers and smears.
Then, like a watermelon at a picnic, The Electric Prunes step in and provide instant refreshment with their howling psych-lical din, harmonicas honking and a scary-sounding freak-a-delic instrument “whoooo”-ing in the background like a lost ghost.
It doesn’t take Mitch Ryder long to squander all the Prunes’ momentum with one fell, fuck-all swoop. This is the whiteboy stuff I’m talking about. Mitchie had his moments with the Detroit Wheels but “Turn on Your Love Light” is a Ronnie Hawkins-esque romp that does little to get the blood really moving.
Up next a couple of unknowns, The Vejtables and Other Half, take their turn at the plate. The Vejjies serve up a platter of pleasing harmonies dipped in choppy-clean guitars that nearly ruin the whole presentation. But man, those melodies are mellifluous — quite a tune boys.
Other Half are a fucked-up little band and “Mr. Pharmacist” is an effed-up little tune. It’s not much,
though.
though.
I went into this review expecting to like the Brits’ contribution more because, from my experience, in the ’60s the international scene was where the truly acid-spun art dripped off the walls, into the microphones and into the speakers. A tidy way to confirm this is to dip into the strictly overseas Nuggets compilation.
That thing is an absolute asylum put to wax.
Creation never struck me as an overtly psych’d-out band, and their offering, “That’s How Strong My Love Is,” bears that theory out. It’s a gritty bar-band number though, a good representation of the power Creation could muster (though of course not the ultimate way to, ahem, “make time” with the group).
Sax-led Shake Spears play the type of pub-pop that works best doing just that: hyping up a lowly bar somewhere. In the studio it doesn’t work at all, sadly. “The Gorilla” by Belfast Gypsies/Them (I’m assuming this doesn’t involve Van Morrison but who knows?) is even less sightly, all portly and plodding with a complete lack of purpose.
“Giddy Up Ding Dong” wakes The Sound of the Sixties from its coma, however, and it does it with a surprising weapon: rock stylings straight out of the ’50s. Sir Henry & His Butlers never cleaned house in the States, but they are a charming little secret I’m sure more than a few crooked-teeth’d Brits hold dear.
Moving right along, The Animals keep up the brisk pace with an alternately nasty — when frontman “” is barking — and harmless cut called “Talkin’ About You,” which keeps the tavern theme rolling and has an absolutely ridiculous organ solo.
Why have I never heard of Nashville Teens? “Find My Way Back Home” is an echo-drenched UK nod to Mammas & Pappas that rocks simple punk chords like The Who and The Clash after them. But those melodies; Townshend and Strummer never cooked with harmony like this, never created multi-part vocals so succulent.
Maze close up the “British” Side 1 with an explosion of static-y period-piece action, strutting their six strings out front and leaning back hard on their bass-led bottom end while proving that the best thing you can do if you can’t mine a rhyme is repeat the same word/phrase over and over (in this case “I’m so glad / I’m so glad / Glad, glad, glad”).
Side 2 of the UK slab is all over the place. There’s a Stones cover that doesn’t suck too bad, I guess, and T-Bones’ “I’m a Lover Not a Fighter” doesn’t pull its punches. “Oh Mary” by The Primitives is “pleadin’ to you girl” and “goin’ crazy over you now” and I can’t argue with its spirit, a body blessed of both Joe Cocker snarl and Gary Puckett tenderness.
Then a little band called The Yardbirds plays “Baby What’s Wrong.” I don’t know which incarnation of the legendary group this is, but it’s a far cry from the gold-standard interpretations of their prime. Ingoes, a band with a terrible name, proceed to horrifically mangle “In the Midnight Hour.” This is exactly what I was talking about earlier in this post and in the 3121 Michigan Ave. review: Most white boys of the era sound ridiculously inept when they try to duplicate certain motifs, chief among them soul.
This raping of Wilson Pickett is truly a thing to behold. I’d actually recommend you hear it so you know what never, ever to do if you play in a cover band.
Thank god for Episode Six. They close out Side 2 in style, leaving a good, fluttery acid taste on the tongue with their sunny-day psych sound that still rocks harder than a quarry when it wants to. This is lunging Who-by-way-of-Kinks guitar riffs soldered onto Odessa sprawl, Pretty Things’ smiley-face kitchen-sink psych and Incredible String Band pickin’ savvy.
Replete with trombones, flutes and all manner of trickery, why this cunning stunt ended up at the end of the end of the end is beyond me. It might be my favorite cut on the whole album, and that’s saying a helluva lot when you look at the sturdy, hurdy-gurdy competition.
It rules. I can’t think of a better way to spend the early stretches of a Sunday morning than listening to ’60s rock and geeking it out. Look for more Sunday posts in the near-fut’.
