She emerged from bohemian New York with a maiden solo album, 1996’s Diary Of A Mod Housewife which shifted what was considered by a struggling music industry to be a “disappointing” 20,000 copies, despite glowing coverage. Her output since has included records with husband Wreckless Eric, the wildest card in Stiff’s pack—who encouraged her to “just get on with” Girl To City, an enthralling no-holds-barred account that left me with hope there’d be a second volume taking a life less ordinary nearer to the present.

Well, here it is: an account of a 35-year-old shaking off the fetters of a deteriorated first marriage, and uprooting to Nashville, the storm centre of what was once regarded as the squarest and, arguably, most lowbrow genre in pop. Yet it began to “celebrate rather than feel ashamed of its homespun history,” comments Amy. Certainly, by the mid-1970s, the Tennessean capital had embraced more generalized output, albeit of a kind not uninfluenced by country & western’s lyrical preoccupations and the kinda tunes folk like a-tappin’ their boot leather to.

As a result, there came to be—as Buck Owens sang in a 1973 B-side—“a songwriter under every rock,” and much of Amy’s domicile in “Music City USA”  (or, to Native Americans, “The Land of the Ill Wind”) was spent gravitating back to the Big Apple (most conspicuously to create 2005’s Little Fugitive long-player); on chiefly well-received tours overseas in venues where “the familiar smell of disinfectant mingled with the odour or beer was comforting and anxiety-inducing”—and, most germane to this discussion, camaraderie  with such as Skeeter Davis an effervescent regular on the Grand Ole Opry—which is to the C&W entertainer the same as Everest to a mountaineer—and hovering round publishing offices, most of them in close collusion with disc companies and studios on or within hailing distance of Music Row, the Tin Pan Alley of Nashville with its curt brush-offs, unreturned messages and hoity-toity receptionists.

She wasn’t entirely unacquainted with what to expect, having embraced qualified success with the Last Round Up (part of “this crazy new country punk phenomenon”), who’d chanced their arms in the metropolis during the mid-1980s. Therefore, armed with a guitar, demos and an intriguing curriculum vitae, she was poised to supplicate anyone who expressed the vaguest interest or even allowed her past the switchboard.

Up against entrenched inhibitions; “uncomfortably close to being over the hill,” and an “ethos where you only acknowledged success—never failure, fear or uncertainty,” the cardinal sin was to betray visible desperation: too nasty a reminder of the impermanence of stardom and wealth. Nevertheless, when the industry’s fish weren’t biting and left-over copies of her releases were to be destroyed (“the smasher would reduce the music I’d poured my sweat, tears and probably blood into, to useless shards and finally, powdered crystals”), she was obliged to buttress earnings as a performer with “proper” employment, albeit temporary, in a “frozen office park,” grounded by a daughter in tow, whose purpose was not “to take pride is watching your parent work at fulfilling their creative desires”—and her own father’s resumed pleas for her to “face reality and GET A REAL JOB.”

Periodically, it was a tempting prospect for one whose upbringing in “close-knit, provincial Pittsburgh” was blighted by low self-esteem and an associated degree of social anxiety disorder (not helped by persistent teenage acne). “For all my artistic ideals and aspirations,” she sighs, “maybe I just wanted to live a middle-class life, with easy parking and a cute shower curtain.” She was pushed ineffectively in this direction by a rich boyfriend who felt suspicious of every man I came in contact with between the ages of nineteen and ninety,” and of a type close to those outlined in “Needy Men” on Little Fugitive, which earned a justly rave review in The Nashville Scene, a weekly magazine that reflected the cohesion and depth of the region’s popular culture.

After the new century shifted out of neutral too, all signposts began to point towards the link-up with the fellow who “felt like English pop music royalty to me”; moving with Eric to a village in Aquitaine (“thinking how cool it would be to have Richard Coeur de Lion as your neighbour”)—and this inspired, sometimes mildly shocking—and, crucially, always entertaining—study concerned with “trying to find myself outside of the place that defined me.” (Alan Clayson)

Its author was born in 1966, so he wasn’t there. An obsession comes from a desire to reach the unattainable. Much scholarship is driven by this and Begnal is scholarly. Since he can’t experience the Stooges directly he zooms in on the album that followed the London concert, Raw Power, with a forensic examination of how each track came into being. Every reference is immaculately noted. His commitment revs up to an amphetamine squeal.

Begnal’s analysis is a labour of love; and in its way an extraordinary act of performance in itself. However I do feel that it is based on an underlying misjudgement, namely that Raw Power represents the Stooges career high-point simply because it is the first Punk album. Maybe it is the first Punk album. Others have said so. But Punk, for all its seering verve, was a return to snappy little numbers. Begnal’s book duly demonstrates Raw Power’s ancestry in the trad rock catalogue of short songs.

What had happened to the Dionysiac, the long-groove, the unique and special in the Stooges? David Bowie had come into Iggy’s life. Bowie, the genius of rock lieder – and of packaging. Bowie produced Raw Power and packaged Iggy. Perhaps he also gave the album its naff title. When Raw Power was released I remember feeling let down. I gave it a positive review (which Begnal quotes) but more in loyalty and hope than conviction. The promise of Fun House, of King’s Cross, had not been realised.

Dionysiac outburst flared briefly in the Sex Pistols later, then died. As for the book’s title Death Trip – Iggy is still living, comfortably, near Miami. And what of long groove/wall of sound? With the arrival of the 12-inch single, it merged with Disco, Funk and computer electronics, leading to Dance, Trance, Techno, Rave, Drone, and when all that turned into mere knob-twiddling clichés, it slipped over to the classical world where it had always had a sibling, from Corelli to Morton Feldman, and became a fruitful new form among the conservatoire set. You may sometimes hear it, not always shorn of its elemental terrors and drive, on BBC Radio 3’s wonderful New Music Show.

I remember in late 1969 when an acquaintance of mine, Heather Harris, an editor at the UCLA Daily Bruin Entertainment pages, received a copy of the Bob Crewe-produced Lotti Golden debut LP Motor-Cycle on Atlantic Records.

Harris, and another concert pal of mine, Nancy Rose Retchin at Palisades High School, were big fans of Laura Nyro, and both knew I liked female singers and poets.

In winter of 1969 I first heard Golden’s Motor-Cycle on KPPC-FM in Pasadena, California, and got my own copy of the album at Wallichs Music City in Hollywood. I had read reviews of her in Newsweek and The New York Times when I stocked shelves in the library at West Los Angeles Junior College in Culver City.

Golden’s stream of consciousness lyrics was influenced by the beat generation and Jack Kerouac. Motor-Cycle wasn’t Brill Building pop music, but songs about narcotics, gender identity, the ramifications of involvement, and urban alienation from a Thrill Building tunesmith who was the landlord doing the reporting.

In 1968 and ’69, Heather, Nancy and I went monthly to the Shrine Exposition Hall in downtown Los Angeles for the Pinnacle Dance Concerts. Three former USC students, Sepp Donahower, Mark Chase and John Van Hamersveld, promoted 13 shows of visiting acts and local bands. It was where art, film and music collided. Filmmaker George Lucas was on the Single Wing Turquoise Bird lightshow crew. We saw Moby Grape, Canned Heat, Buffalo Springfield, Jefferson Airplane, Vanilla Fudge, Pogo (pre-Poco), Lee Michaels, Mothers of Invention, Richie Havens, and Sweetwater.

In 2025, Harris, now a noted music photographer and journalist, http://heatherharris.net, emailed me after we heard the High Moon reissue of Motor-Cycle.

“Ahmet Ertegun and Atlantic were thrilled with their own new Laura Nyro, the young Ms. Golden circa the late 1960s/early 70s, insofar as she was literate, intelligent, captivating looking, way past the confines of hipster/alternative conformity with a hella holler when that soprano wanted to reach the stratosphere. Atlantic dutifully provided me with its own copy wherein of course we all loved its excesses. After all, this era begat the nascent Alice Cooper Band….

“Back then, I noted some of the young lady’s social acquaintance crowd name-checked in those harrowing songs, like Silky Silkman (and her baby, also eponymously named Silky.) Now a hard to Google name, in 1970 Silky warranted a whole chapter in the famed Rolling Stone paperback Groupies and Other Girls book of gorgeous studio photography by Baron Wolman, with snippets and outtakes of RS’ notorious 1969 issue on groupies, which featured the better known GTOs, Catherine James, assorted NYC and SF ladies plus the Plaster Casters.

“The song in which Silky appears, ‘Space Queens,’ is about Golden’s outrageous gay male Greenwich Village playmates, although the same might apply to the interview of Ms. Silkman in the Wolman book. Therein she dismisses various partners as being ‘too heavy’ (not a reference to weight) and ‘a Pisces!’), while dressing in mannish caps, trench coats and short short hair while complaining that her men are not sufficiently butch. Maybe not a lot of self-awareness going down here.

“This is mentioned because in the late 60s, most all my contemporaries were far better at self-analysis than Ms. Silky, and far more like Lotti Golden with her diamond-hard, confessional songwriting as here in this fascinating form on the CD. I knew lots of accomplished, pretty young women like Ms. Golden, just few with those Laura-Nyro-esque pipes, and the bravery to write of transgressive fun like enjoying drugs.

“This CD will set the Wayback Machine to place you in the late 1960s world of Warhol hangers on, East Village others, and all your wild friends of your youth. It’s still hard to top Pavement’s Stephen Malkmus’ description of one of Golden’s eight-minute story tunes as ‘The song keeps building and she’s screaming about drugs.’”

George Wallace’s High Moon Records is a boutique reissue record label, with a catalog comprised of essential releases featuring deluxe packaging, extensive liner notes by writers and authors, impressive artwork with never-before-seen archival photos, and re-mastered audio often with rare bonus tracks.

The Motor-Cycle High Moon package includes lavish, 32-page LP and 48-page CD books with extensive liner notes detailing the story of how the teenage Lotti Golden came to make an album as singular and audacious as Motor-Cycle. With exclusive essays by Richard Hell and David Toop, and a wealth of archival photos, including more than 30 never-before-seen photographs by pioneering rock photographer, Baron Wolman.

Richard Hell: “Motor-Cycle transported me back to the ’60s in a way not many records do…There’s no irony or second-guessing: Golden’s all in, a psychedelic daughter of the Beat generation, among her equally hippie cohort, in swirls of free-loving, drug-chasing, multiracial, pan-sexual abandon… The album is a mother lode, not unlike Daniel Johnston or the Shaggs, say, for its multi-level fascination.”

Along with the original album track listing, the Motor-Cycle CD includes the rarely heard Atlantic single “Sock It to Me Baby/It’s Your Thing” b/w “Annabelle with Bells (Home Made Girl).”

Motor-Cycle is a singular record of the singer-songwriter era. The combination of Golden’s poetic temperament and Crewe’s bold vision was truly original.

A High Moon Records announcement provided additional information on their teaming.

“Crewe wanted the vocals raw and real, true to Motor-Cycle’s story, and Golden unflinchingly held her own in the studio. Crewe insisted on recording Golden’s vocals live in one take, an experience she had described as akin to ‘performing an entire Broadway musical, live in the studio.’ By pushing Golden’s voice to its emotional limits, Crewe achieved the desired effect, a spontaneous authenticity that remained true to her poet-outlaw narrative. From her R&B inflections and velvety rock intonations to gospel riffs, Golden’s vocals are nimble and dynamic, giving every song exactly what it needs.

“An ambitious suite of phenomenal pop power and originality, Motor-Cycle chronicles Lotti Golden’s immersion in New York City’s late-sixties counterculture. Underscored by a genre-bending soundscape, the action plays out on New York’s East Village and Lower East Side, populated with a coterie of philosopher-lovers, faux gurus, grifters, malcontents, and groupies.

“Born in Brooklyn, Golden inherited a passion for music and art from her parents. As a teen, she began writing original songs, discovering a distinctive talent as both wordsmith and vocalist. In 1966, 16-year-old Golden landed a publishing deal with Bob Crewe’s Saturday Music as a staff songwriter – a dream gig which would give her the opportunity to hone her songwriting skills and produce song demos. Even with this early success, Golden had other plans. She was not just a songwriter – she was an artist, with her own story to tell.

“In early fall of 1967, Golden was singing in an elevator on her way to a recording session. The door opened and Golden immediately recognized the owner of Saturday Music, producer-arranger-songwriter Bob Crewe. Renowned for his uncanny pop sensibilities and innovative productions, Crewe had worked with the Rays, the Four Seasons, Diane Renay, the Toys, and Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels.

“Intrigued, Crewe set up a meeting. Golden brought her material to Crewe, who upon hearing the outrageous characters populating her songs, exclaimed, ‘Good God, who are your friends?’ Crewe was sold on the project and began shopping demo tapes to a major label with just the basic rhythm tracks and Golden’s vocal.

“Though only 16 when she started writing the songs that would become part of Motor-Cycle, Golden wrote candidly and compellingly about a world quite different from the fading norms of 1950s America and the flower-power clichés of the 1960s, with vividly personal accounts of street life that presaged urban troubadours like Jim Carroll, Bruce Springsteen, and Patti Smith.

‘“You feel immortal at that age,’ Golden says. ‘You feel you can take a chance, and it won’t burn you. Of course, it does end up burning you in many ways, but you can’t be afraid of it. If you fear it, then you won’t be able to tell your story or learn anything. So, you try to stay true to who you are, and write the story. But I didn’t write a book; I wrote an album.’

“After just one listen, Ahmet Ertegun and Jerry Wexler, industry giants and execs at Atlantic Records, bought the demo tapes, with Wexler declaring that Golden would be the greatest single pop artist since Aretha Franklin. Golden’s impromptu elevator audition had netted her a high profile, major label signing, and sky-high expectations.”

Lotti Golden penned every song on Motor-Cycle, except for one tune with Bob Crewe.

In May of 1975, I interviewed Crewe for the now defunct UK music periodical Melody Maker. He explained his songwriting collaborations and record productions.

“I try and get the most from all the artists I work with. That’s the secret of how someone who doesn’t have the big voice or the big facility can get a unique sound and make the record sound like it belongs to them. I write from experience. How else can you do it? I like to write for certain people. Sometimes you come up with a song that doesn’t have anybody’s name on it. In the studio producing is sound on sound.”

After signing the deal, Golden and arranger/director Crewe set to work at the famed Studio A at Atlantic Recording Studios, 1841 Broadway, completing the LP in eight sessions. Though Golden had worked out the songs with a “sparser concept of what would be added to basic guitar and vocals,” Crewe had something far bigger in mind. The producer brought a sprawling, multi-dimensional approach to the Golden’s grand songcraft, layering funk grooves, rock riffs, psychedelic soul, Southern blues guitar, big band sounds and myriad of other stylistic elements along with horns, strings, bells, timpani, a boys’ choir, and more.

Crewe assembled a stellar group of musicians to bring Golden’s tunes and her vocals to fruition: Billy Suyker (guitar), Charley Macey (guitar), Everett Barksdale (guitar), Hugh McCracken (guitar), Ralph Cassales (guitar), Vinnie Bell (guitar), Everett Barksdale (bass), Lou Mauro (bass), Bobby Gregg (drums), Buddy Saltzman (drums), Herb Lovelle (drums), Ernie Hayes (piano, organ), Joe Grimm (saxophone), Alan Raph (trombone), Ernie Royal (trumpet). The studio cats had been on sessions for Van Morrison, the Left Banke, Les McCann, the Monkees, Bob Dylan, Laura Nyro, the Four Seasons, Quincy Jones, Herbie Mann, Simon & Garfunkel, James Brown, Janis Ian, Sam Cooke and Nina Simone.

In certain respects, in 1969, Motor-Cycle was meant to challenge the listener, especially during an era when pop singles rarely topped the three-minute mark or strayed from a handful of well-worn song structures. All of the original album’s seven tracks are over five minutes and none contain a typical verse/chorus/bridge structure, instead employing radical changes in tempo, genre, and mood.

With its ambitious and eclectic musical arrangements, extended instrumental interludes, vivid cast of characters, and storylines that span multiple songs, Motor-Cycle may well be the first rock concept album by a female artist, chronicling the ecstasies and tribulations of a scrappy cohort of outsiders as a metaphor for resurrection and redemption.

Lotti never performed in Southern California and I forgot about the impact her 1969 LP had on me and my small circle of friends. I later learned Golden released an album in 1971 on the GRT label.

Needless to say, I was delighted to learn High Moon Records was re-releasing Motor-Cycle in 2025.

In the years since it was initially shipped to retailers in summer of 1969, Motor-Cycle has found popularity via fanzines, the Internet, social media and in 2025 from High Moon Records.

As for Lotti Golden’s career the last half century, don’t feel sorry for her as a criminally neglected solo recording artist whose major label debut disc wasn’t a commercial success. Many decades ago, guitarist, keyboardist and vocalist Golden wisely transitioned from songwriter/recording artist to record producer and achieved RIAA certified Gold and Platinum record success in various musical genres. Golden with Richard Scher wrote, produced or remixed hits by Diana Ross, the Manhattans, and Brenda K. Starr.

In the eighties she established a studio relationship with producer Arthur Baker, co-producing a Jennifer Holiday chart record. Golden worked with Baker and Steven Van Zandt on the multi-artist landmark anti-Apartheid recording and video, Artists United Against Apartheid, Sun City and appears in the acclaimed video.

Last century Golden was introduced to songwriter and record producer Tommy Faragher, after signing with MCA Music. Later she re-inked with Universal Music Publishing Group. The Golden/Faragher team wrote hit singles for the Jets, Brenda K. Starr and Taylor Dane. Celine Dion, Al Green, and B.B. King also cut their tunes.

As record producers, Golden and Faragher produced the British R&B girl band Eternal, the first female group to sell one million album sales in the UK.

Journalists and authors have pointed to Golden’s groundbreaking and innovative work in urban dance, electro and hip-hop music. Lotti is featured in David Toop’s The Rap Attack: African Jive to New York Hip Hop. Golden’s contributions to hip-hop as part of electro pioneers Warp 9, Motor-Cycle has been sampled by producer Madlib, Amon Tobin, and Eels singer/songwriter Mark Oliver Everett, pka “E.”

All images courtesy High Moon Records.

© Harvey Kubernik 2025

Harvey Kubernik is the author of 20 books, including 2009’s Canyon Of Dreams: The Magic And The Music Of Laurel Canyon, 2014’s Turn Up The Radio! Rock, Pop and Roll In Los Angeles 1956-1972, 2015′s Every Body Knows: Leonard Cohen, 2016′s Heart of Gold Neil Young and 2017′s 1967: A Complete Rock Music History of the Summer of Love. Sterling/Barnes and Noble in 2018 published Harvey and Kenneth Kubernik’s The Story Of The Band: From Big Pink To The Last Waltz. In 2021 the duo wrote Jimi Hendrix: Voodoo Child for Sterling/Barnes and Noble.

Otherworld Cottage Industries in 2020 published Harvey’s Docs That Rock, Music That Matters. His book Screen Gems: (Pop Music Documentaries and Rock ‘n’ Roll TV Scenes) is scheduled for 2025 publication.

Harvey wrote the liner notes to CD re-releases of Carole King’s Tapestry, The Essential Carole King, Allen Ginsberg’s Kaddish, Elvis Presley The ’68 Comeback Special, The Ramones’ End of the Century and Big Brother & the Holding Company Captured Live at The Monterey International Pop Festival. During 2006 Kubernik spoke at the special hearings by The Library of Congress in Hollywood, California, discussing archiving practices and audiotape preservation. In 2017 he appeared at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, in their Distinguished Speakers Series

Dutch-born California resident Olaf Jens is one of my favorite living artists. Inspired by great comic book illustrators like Will Eisner and Robert Crumb and the New Objectivity artists of the 1920s like Otto Dix and Max Beckmann, his work is executed with skill, imagination and an all-too-rare flair for character and atmosphere. His artwork can be seen on an array of record covers released over the past decade or so including the Twisted Tales from the Vinyl Wasteland series, Back from the Grave Volumes 9 and 10, and releases by the Jackets, the Chrome Cranks, the Kentucky Colonels, the Legendary Stardust Cowboy, and more. He’s also responsible for the fabulous banner for our “Echoes from the Vault” reviews section in Ugly Things.

Olaf’s character portraits of his favorite musicians from the world of rock ‘n’ roll, R&B, punk, garage, country music and more are especially well-rendered. He recently produced an eye-popping calendar with an incredible 365 color illustrations, each assigned to their date of birth—from country singer Ernie Chaffin on January 1 through Egyptian vocalist/actress Oum Kalthoun on December 31.

Famous names like Dolly Parton, Little Richard, Gene Vincent, Don Everly, Tina Turner, Bo Diddley, Lou Reed, Roy Oribson and Iggy Pop, are featured alongside lesser-known cult figures like Cathy Berberian, Adrian Lloyd and Robert Drasnin. There’s ‘60s garage icons like Sky Saxon, Gerry Roslie, Question Mark, Moulty, and Sam the Sham; UK ‘60s heroes like Syd Barrett, Chris Britton, Dave Davies, Screaming Lord Sutch, and Sharon Tandy; blues and R&B artists like Jimmy Reed, Elmore James, Slim Harpo, Ruth Brown, Nathaniel Mayer, Howlin’ Wolf, and Charlie Patton; rockabilly cats Johnny Burnette, Gene Summers, The Phantom, Charlie Feathers, and Cliff Gallup; country singers like Loretta Lynn, Porter Wagoner, and Red Sovine; legendary producers like Sam Phillips, Joe Meek, and Sir Coxsone Dodd; a plethora of punk rock and post-punk characters including Jean-Jacques Burnel, Mark E Smith, Rat Scabies, Joey Ramone, Poly Styrene, Richard Hell, Lux Interior, Ed Kuepper, and  Johnny Strike; neo-garage rock mavericks like Billy Childish, Russell Quan, Holly Golightly, Jon Spencer, Johnny Bartlett, King Khan, Fink, and Monoman; and outliers like Sun Ra, Eric Satie, Harry Smith, Chopin, Nico, Jack Kerouac, Korla Pandit, Criswell, Brigitte Bardot, Omar Korshid, and Anton LaVey. Scattered among them all are a host of upper echelon Ugly Things heroes including Phil May, Viv Prince, Wally Tax, Joop Roelofs, Arthur Lee, Cyril Jordan, Gary Burger, and Gabor Szabo.

Each portrait was painted with acrylic on 3.5” x 5” wooden panels, most of which were quickly snapped up by collectors and fans. But if you want every last one of them, you can hang this beautifully-presented collection of 365 on your wall instead.

For more details, email olaf.jens@g

mail.com

Review by Alan Clayson

Because I found Jim such a nice bloke during correlated e-mail correspondence, I don’t want to give his diligently-researched work a rubbishing. Yet it has to be said that, perhaps through ham-fisted sub-editing, sentences are often split up. Like this. Which may prove irritating. So might factual and syntactic repetition, and, in the process of scene-setting, going off on not entirely relevant tangents. Moreover, the lack of an index may frustrate anyone seeking raw information. In this regard, a few minor errors might not matter. For example, while it’s correct that the use of Tchaikovsky’s “1812” riff in “Night Of Fear,” the maiden A-side that kicked off the Move’s five-year run of domestic hits, was pre-empted by Ike and Tina Turner in their “Tell Here I’m Not Home” opus, this came out in 1964—not 1966. Also, it’s Johnnie Ray not Johnny Ray, and what’s this about ‘Clifford Bennett and The Rebel Rousers’?

The reader is left too with unanswered questions. Why, say, was Roy Wood expelled from Moseley College of Art? Was Tamla Motown’s cosseted Little Stevie Wonder really among four mere support acts to the Move at Birmingham’s Club Cedar on February 3, 1966? What was the genealogical connection between Unit 4 + 2 and Tomorrow figured out by an author given to mixed metaphors—e.g. “the weak link in the chain is the one who becomes the sacrificial lamb”—and opinionated digs at the respective likes of Ginger Baker (“a clodhopper of a drummer”) and Syd’s Pink Floyd (“half-assed playing, sloppy drumming, allied to pretentious lyrics. Middle-class student music”)?

Yet, if nothing else, this offering is more than simply thorough—as demonstrated by both 1967’s “Wave The Flag And Stop The Train” flip-side featuring “a wonderful, harmonized confusion of vocals between 1:39 and 1:50 seconds,” and maybe too much detail about a particularly sick-making jape in the van between gigs. Crucially, the account is carried by McCarthy’s infectious enthusiasm that, if over-effusive sometimes, tells an intriguing tale rooted in grassroots struggles of the West Midlands beat groups from whence would spring in 1966 the ‘classic’ line-up of the Move, i.e. singer Carl Wayne with guitarists Roy Wood and Trevor Burton, drummer Bev Bevan and Chris ‘Ace’ Kefford on bass—who all took lead vocals at designated points during a stage presentation involving fireworks, smoke bombs, lighter fluid and Wayne charging about with an axe to implode televisions and hack at effigies of political personages like Prime Minister Harold Wilson who, after being caricatured in a rude postcard circulated to publicize 1967’s “Flowers In The Rain” single , won a libel suit against the quintet and their manager, Tony Secunda (“almost ‘situationist’ in his preferred style of creating chaos,” writes McCarthy).

Before the year was out too, the discords and intrigues that make pop outfits what they are had started to overwhelm the Move. First to go was Ace Kefford, given pride of place on the book’s front cover, having been singled out loudly by a prominent London promoter as the combo’s chief visual selling point—with all the concomitant resentment—for his Norse god androgyny with underlying dread. He was also a composer whose efforts were marginalized by Wood’s near-monopoly of originals. Indeed, Kefford was responsible for “William Chalker’s Time Machine,” the best-remembered 45 by the Lemon Tree—which had it been attributed to the Move, would have been a sure-fire smash.

Effectively, Ace sacked himself after starting to go the same brain-frazzled way as Syd Barrett when the Move and Pink Floyd were each on a round-Britain package tour with the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Amen Corner, that, in less absolute fashion, was on a par with that fated “scream circuit” trek in 1960 co-headlined by Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran.

Kefford’s creation of “a hole that was never filled” did not, however, impede the Move’s onwards-and-upwards trajectory as they scored a Number One with “Blackberry Way,” although during its Top of the Pops plugs, Burton’s constant scowl and Brooding Intensity became less an effusion of ‘image’ than the real thing. Irked by Wood’s increasing control of the ensemble’s destiny, he was soon to depart—as would Wayne, but not before the latter had advocated the Move’s unhappy stab at cabaret on the same bills as corny variety acts.

Bevan and Wood rallied by enlisting Jeff Lynne, X-factor of the picked-to-click Idle Race, but, garbed and painted like a psychedelic Wild Man Of Borneo, Wood was at the central microphone for “Brontosaurus” and remaining British chart entries during the three’s plotting of the Electric Light Orchestra and the late Carl’s discarded but “very cool and practical idea” of fronting a Move with Ace and Trevor back in the fold.

Flowers In The Rain also addresses the post-Move careers of all concerned, and a discography plus lists of electric media appearances and even the venues for cancelled tours in the USA (where the group surfaced only as cult celebrities) are included in the appendices of a history that, while it won’t win Jim a Nobel Prize for Literature, will serve as both a useful starting point for Move beginners and a necessary purchase for long-time devotees.

There is a charming fragility and innocence here not found in the later Twilley or Seymour stuff. And a dreaminess: indeed much of this is the embodiment of the term ‘dream pop’ and should appeal to a whole host of people who find the concept of power pop anathema. And the current crop of Big Star fans. The lo-fi aspect will also appeal to fans of DIY. There’s a little bit of the baroque but for the most part it’s spirited, minimalist early Beatles/Hollies-style pop rock, with a rootsiness learned from early mentor and former Sun artist Ray Harris, and the frequent prominence of Twilley’s piano lets you know it’s the ‘70s. Most of the songs here were later rerecorded for official release, including the sublime “You Were So Warm,” but even a lot of the re-recordings have only appeared on Twilley rarities collections, and the versions are strikingly different. The material is uniformly strong; the never-before-released “Pop Bottle” is a stunner.

Thank god for the current power pop revival and Hozac for this release: hopefully it will lead to a wider appreciation of Dwight and Phil and all their recordings. Now can someone put it out on CD for me please? (David Laing)

Andrew Loog Oldham signed her to a management deal around the same time, and produced what was to be her debut solo release, a sublime version of a newly-minted Goffin-King number, “Goin’ Back,” arranged and conducted by Art Greenslade. The single was issued on Immediate in February with the Oldham-scribed B-side “Headlines,” a brassy soul number with cinemascope lyrics later recorded at a much faster tempo by Chris Farlowe. Unbeknownst to Oldham and Goldie, though, Dusty Springfield also had plans to record “Goin’ Back,” and when she got wind of Goldie’s version, she threw a fit. In the subsequent tempest in a teapot—detailed in the liner notes—Oldham agreed to withdraw the release, clearing a path for Dusty to take the song into the UK Top 10 that summer.

“Goin’ Back” and “Headlines” make up the flipside of this excellent three-song EP, which comes in a classy full-color sleeve with a booklet insert. (Mike Stax)

By Doug Sheppard

We all want it so badly.

That Rolling Stones album that recalls the bluesy affirmation of their earliest work, when they reworked an American form into a new rocking blues hybrid that equaled and even surpassed their idols. One that reflects the turbulence of the times via indirect symbolism like “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” or Let It Bleed, or that takes that approach and slathers it in swagger and Southern hot sauce like Sticky Fingers. Or even one with the cold existentialism of “Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker),” a melodic marvel as hard as the pavement the boy chased right through the park hit after the bullet went through his heart.

That’s the Stones we think of—and how we want to remember them. Not by the glitzy celebrity of the past 30 years or so. Not by the umpteenth performance of “Start Me Up” with about as much emotional depth as their corporate tour sponsors. And certainly not by most of their post-1980 output (though this author has a soft spot for Steel Wheels).

So when there’s a new Stones album billed as a return to roots, covering some of their favorite lesser-known blues sides, naturally we stand up and take notice. And maybe, given our longing (see above), we cut ’em a little slack, concluding that they’ve succeeded.

But have they? Not really. Sure, Blue & Lonesome is their best album in years, and the sound alone — not quite raw yet recorded live and spontaneously—is enough to garner excitement. The times when it hits are definitely worthy of the lips logo—such as the spunky versions of Howlin’ Wolf’s “Just Like I Treat You” and Lightnin’ Slim’s “Hoo Doo Blues,” if not the forthright opening salvo of “Just Your Fool,” one of four Little Walter covers. But more often than not, it’s the type of thing that would probably be great to witness live in the studio, but that one files away after a couple listens. Good but not great. As Hill Country DC talent buyer John O’Neill put it, “It’s a solid old man blues album that sounds like a thousand other releases from Alligator Records. So yeah, automatically the best Stones album in forever.”

The (over)reaction to the new Rolling Stones album typifies the response to many reunions. When legends come back and record new albums, many shower them in accolades. But while it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of the here and now, the payoff is how it sounds years later. Curious to test this hypothesis, I went back and listened to 20 reunion albums to see how they hold up. I’ve divided them into four categories: “Reputation Upheld” to signify the ones that live up to the artist’s reputation; “Good” to denote ones that aren’t quite up to past standards, but are worth owning nonetheless; “Neither Here Nor There” for the ones that are OK but one would rarely play after a listen or two; and “Avoid” — which is self-explanatory. Expecting most to fall into “Neither Here Nor There,” I was pleasantly surprised in some cases.

Reputation Upheld

THE PRETTY THINGS – Rage Before Beauty (Snapper) 1999

Rage Before Beauty was the best Pretty Things album since Parachute because the band returned to their R&B roots—as reinventors, not as replicators. Rather than carbon copying their early sound, the Pretties updated it, channeling their old drummer on the Diddleybeat of “Vivian Prince” and adding a new element on the slower, impassioned tracks like “Pure Cold Stone,” “Goodbye, Goodbye” and “Fly Away.” The dramatic uptempo “Everlasting Flame” is one of the best tracks the Pretty Things ever cut, period. Not as enthusiastic about the covers of “Eve of Destruction” and “Mony Mony,” but playing this in sequence on the Bouquets from a Cloudy Sky box set illustrated what a dramatic return to form it was.

ROCKET FROM THE TOMBS – Rocket Redux (Smog Veil) 2004

Remakes albums are usually pointless, but this was different because Rocket from the Tombs had never recorded their songs properly in the first place. The late Peter Laughner is missed, but Richard Lloyd is a more than worthy replacement, and core members David Thomas, Cheetah Chrome and Craig Bell are in top form. And in Steve Mehlman, they found a drummer who was actually better than any from their original run. “Amphetamine” is superior to the original, and Chrome’s impassioned vocals on “Ain’t It Fun” are no slouch, either. When I’m in the mood for RFTT, I’m as likely to put this one on as I am the vintage recordings. Both followups, 2011’s Barfly and 2015’s Black Record, are worth owning as well.

THE DICTATORS – DFFD (Dictators Multimedia/Norton) 2001

Not just a great comeback—but the best Dictators album, period. (Unless Manitoba’s Wild Kingdom, a Dics album in all but name, counts.) Whereas the first three albums had varying levels of inconsistency, there’s not a loser in the bunch here: from the full-on rockers like “I Am Right” and “Avenue A” to the melodic movers like “Pussy and Money” and “Who Will Save Rock and Roll?” Combine that with lyrics as sarcastic and Bronx bold as ever — and what’s not to love?

THE RUBBER CITY REBELS – Pierce My Brain (Smog Veil) 2003

Pierce My Brain was the album the Rubber City Rebels always wanted to make — or at least should have made: 35 minutes of no-holds-barred Raw Power-cum-Status Quo punk crunch and roll that goes all the way back to their King Cobra roots in execution. Longtime live favorite “Born Dead” finally got its first proper recording, and the title track, “I Don’t Wanna Be a Punk No More,” “Punk Daddy” and “Dead Boy” romp with the autobiographical hedonism of old. This came a quarter-century after it should have, but who’s complaining?

Good

THE NEW YORK DOLLS – One Day It Will Please Us to Remember Even This (Roadrunner) 2006

Lacking three key members from the classic lineup (whose time on earth had tragically expired), David Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain were at a decided disadvantage when they conscripted new hires to cut this album. It’s obviously not as good as the original Dolls, but it’s also not the embarrassment some portrayed it as—even offering a few solid songs like the biting “I Ain’t Got Nothin’,” a ballad called “Plenty of Music” and two in the glam rock mold, “Fishnets & Cigarettes” and “Gotta Get Away from Tommy.” Much better than I remembered. (Or maybe that’s why I kept it?)

RADIO BIRDMAN – Zeno Beach (Yep Roc) 2006

Their goal was an album that would stand on its own rather than replicate past glories, and Zeno Beach did the job with a new rhythm section and a sound owing as much to Radio Birdman as it did to parallel bands like the New Christs and the Visitors. While this doesn’t quite have the impact it did when it landed with a killer (and first-ever) U.S. tour, it’s still a solid comeback sporting a few tracks—“You Just Make It Worse,” the title track and (in the tradition of “Man With Golden Helmet”) “The Brotherhood of Al Wazah”—as worthy as any in the Birdman canon.

THE REAL KIDS – Shake … Outta Control (Ace of Hearts) 2014

Like Rocket From the Tombs, this second stab at a Real Kids reunion (the ’90s incarnation only managed an EP) succeeds in part because it comprises songs that were never recorded properly back in the day. The songs were worthy then and they’re worthy now—and I’m just as likely to put this one on as any other Real Kids album.

THE SONICS – This Is the Sonics (Revox) 2015

The Sonics knew what their fans wanted and gave it to them: the same type of raunchy, R&B-fueled Northwest rock that made ’em legends in the first place, all served up in mono. It’s the best record they could have made at this late juncture, and it’s all good fun, from the snarling covers of “Look at Little Sister” and “I Don’t Need No Doctor” to a small handful of new originals like “Bad Betty.” But no matter how many “picks up where they left off” reviews it gets, they’ll never replicate the feeling of their ’60s recordings, which relied as much on youthful energy as strong performances. It’s a nice gift to fans that’ll give the Sonics more to work with in their live shows than just their greatest hits, and maybe that’s enough.

THE ALARM CLOCKS – The Time Has Come (Norton) 2006

Who would have thought that a band with only one single to their credit would reconvene 40 years later? Certainly not drummer Bill Schwark, who was stunned to learn there was still an audience for the Alarm Clocks when he gave his first interview on the subject to this author in 1997. But it was there, and the Clocks enjoyed every minute of it as original members Schwark, Mike Pierce and Bruce Boehm were augmented by guitarist Tom Fallon on this mostly original outing. “More Money” is better than 90 percent of the garage revivalists, “It’s About Time” rocks like the old single — and the entire affair was enough for the Clocks (with a new drummer) to continue with two more albums to date.

BLIND IDIOT GOD – Before Ever After (Indivisible Music) 2015

These avant-garde instrumentalists didn’t lose anything in the 20-plus years since their last album: Before Ever After stirs the pot with the same blend of prog, metal, postpunk and reggae that fired up their first three albums. But unlike bands who make the mistake of mixing all their influences together at once, Blind Idiot God knows how to use discretion: “Earthmover” would be at home on a modern doom metal album, the angularity of “Twenty Four Hour Dawn” would make Robert Fripp smile, the riff and melody of the reggae-fied “Ramshackle” invalidates the entire career of UB40 in one song, and the frenzied metallic cataclysms of “Antiquity” and “Under the Weight” recall the Blind Idiot God of old. Being housed in the coolest psychedelic album cover in recent memory is a nice touch.

Neither Here Nor There

THE STOOGES – The Weirdness (Virgin) 2007

Iggy’s reunion with the Asheton brothers and replacement Mike Watt on bass was absolutely transcendent live—at last giving the Stooges a chance to bask in overdue glory. They had fun in the studio, too, but unfortunately no songs. Tolerable enough, but the closest this overproduced outing comes to a decent song is “My Idea of Fun”—not coincidentally one of the few to make the live set.

IGGY & THE STOOGES – Ready to Die (Fat Possum) 2013

Ready to Die accomplishes what The Weirdness couldn’t: the first truly good song of the Stooges’ reunion, a bluesy acoustic ballad called “Unfriendly World.” But that’s it for this near-reunion of the Raw Power lineup (sadly, Ron Asheton had passed before its recording), which mostly sounds about like The Weirdness. That is, not bad but nothing special.

BLACK SABBATH – 13 (Vertigo/Republic) 2013

Bill Ward said he heard his style on this almost-reunion of the original lineup, but he’s wrong: ex-Rage Against the Machine drummer Brad Wilk isn’t in his league at all—playing in-the-pocket, almost basic beats with none of the fire of Ward’s slyly unpredictable, tempo-shifting patterns on classic Sabbath albums. It’s almost enough to derail the entire proceedings, but Rick Rubin did get a good sound — and jams between Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler are always worth hearing. The songs, however, don’t quite click—making 13 the equivalent of a fireworks display: exciting for a few moments, but not a lasting memory. By the time Black Sabbath toured, they had Tommy Clufetos on the traps—a major improvement that one hopes will carry over to any further reunion efforts. That is, unless there’s an even better development: bringing back Bill.

THE YARDBIRDS – Birdland (Favored Nations) 2003

Heavy on remakes and celebrity guest slots, which were undoubtedly a selling point for this one, Birdland nonetheless does have a few decent new originals in “Please Don’t Tell Me ’Bout the News,” “Mr. Saboteur” and “My Blind Life,” which has a cameo by their old guitarist, Jeff Beck. Like the live performances by the reborn ’Birds, it’s not extraordinary the way their ’60s records were, but it’s worthy of the Yardbirds name.

CACTUS – V (Escapi) 2006

To their credit, three-fourths of the original Cactus (Rusty Day having passed away in 1982) didn’t try to make another heavy rock record on this comeback—favoring a bluesy approach more befitting their advanced age. It’s not the most imaginative album, but they’re clearly having fun, the live shows to support it were great (saw two myself), and there is one bonafide great song: the boogie-rocking “Cactus Music.”

LEAF HOUND – Unleashed (Repertoire) 2007

Leaf Hound had less to live up to than anyone else in this column; contrary to record collector myth, Growers of Mushroom is not a “great” album, nor is it in any way on the level of Led Zeppelin. Heck, even comparing it to Budgie would be a stretch. But the best Leaf Hound holds up reasonably well, and this is a reasonably decent comeback by original lead singer Peter French (whose pipes are intact) and three new sidemen. Essentially standard-issue barband hard rock, “Barricades” and “Too Many Rock ’n’ Roll Times” might have made a nice single—though one need not hear an entire album’s worth of the reborn Hound.

CRIME – Exalted Masters (Crime Music) 2007

Cutting old songs that hadn’t been properly recorded, Crime did get a good sound in the studio on this comeback. But its most memorable moment is a spoken-word vignette set to music, “Ports of Hell,” and it’s probably only memorable for that reason. As the saying goes, for completists only.

Avoid

THE BOYS – Punk Rock Menopause (Wolverine) 2014

The Boys’ produced some of the best (and sadly, often overlooked) UK punk of the class of 1977, but the excitement in their first album in 34 years ended with its release. In spite of three original members and some snappy artwork, there’s nothing here other than languid tempos and ordinary songs. “Organ Grinder” is about the closest it comes to recapturing the Boys at their peak—but even that might be generous. Oh well.

NERVOUS EATERS – Eat This! (No Tomorrow) 2003

“Just Head” is one of the greatest rock ’n’ roll records ever to come out of Boston—or heck, just about any city. Which is why it’s so painful to note that there’s nary a hint of what was on this utterly unremarkable comeback album. Better to hear their other (now forgotten) comeback, 1986’s Hot Steel and Acid.

THE REZILLOS – Zero (Metropolis) 2015

This classic UK punk band’s live show is still great, but the studio product of their ongoing reunion is not. As Jack Rabid observed in issue #77 of The Big Takeover: “Sadly, this album is well-named. … The band riffs it up, but listening to Zero is a chore, where once this band brought unmitigated joy.”

The other two reissues are more of a piece, utilizing a consistent host of Australian rock and country artists. G Wayne Thomas, who only released one album under his own name in 1973, made his first appearance on 1972’s Morning Of The Earth soundtrack, giving an appropriately we-are-all-the-universe feel to the title track. Several other one-hit (or no-hit) wonders offer up singer-songwriter tracks that amble on pleasantly enough, but don’t justify the label hype of “psychedelic” music (with the rare exception being prog outfit Tamam Shud’s floaty and brilliant “Bali Waters,” which sounds like an outtake from Islands-era King Crimson).

Thomas handles all the songwriting chores on 1973’s Crystal Voyager, which is the most cohesive of the set. Given two full sides, he finds the stoned soul of the classic Eastern Hemisphere surf trip, leading a band that’s able to develop a buoyant, country rock/soft-sike stride and makes the LP feel like more of an actual album than a soundtrack. (Alex Stimmel)

The combination of an unbearable mainstream and inadequate underground made the ’80s the worst decade of the rock ’n’ roll era. Hardcore, postpunk and thrash metal played out quickly as MTV, radio and major labels spattered the manure of crass, overproduced corporate music awash in synthesizers and obnoxious loud drums. Worse, conformity that rejected the ’60s counterculture pervaded throughout society, giving rise to religious fanatics and other ignoramuses (e.g., the PMRC) who sought to censor what little truly alternative sounds were out there.

If you didn’t fancy derivative, wimpy college rock that rocked only slightly more than Peter, Paul and Mary, there wasn’t much — and by the late ’80s, there was virtually nothing. Punk and metal were mostly clichés, the garage revival was going nowhere, and rock ’n’ roll in general lay dormant. Into this late ’80s void came a louder, noisier underground as heard on new labels like Sub Pop and Amphetamine Reptile.

The story of Sub Pop is well known, but Amphetamine Reptile went undocumented — until now. The Color of Noise tells the story of a label that was essentially Sub Pop’s evil twin: rawer, ruder, darker and more provocative — yet almost as influential in making the 1990s better than the 1980s and helping lay the groundwork for the future.

Amphetamine Reptile (named after a slight mishearing of Motörhead’s “Love Me Like a Reptile”) reflected the ambitions of its owner, Tom Hazelmyer, a guitarist and veteran of such Minneapolis bands as Todlachen and Otto’s Chemical Lounge — not to mention the US Marines — who founded the label to put out records by his noise rock combo, Halo of Flies.

Like Sub Pop after its humble beginnings, Hazelmyer soon found an audience of dissatisfied youth ready to embrace his iconoclasm. His label signed more likeminded noise rockers like the Cows, God Bullies, Unsane, Boss Hog and the band that put AmRep on the map, Helmet. As the releases and European tours for AmRep acts mushroomed, so did the imprint’s rep for provocative artwork (by renowned artists like Frank Kozik, Coop and Derek Hess) and uncompromising DIY ethos. If the ugliness and outrage of AmRep bands reflected distaste for the ’80s itself, who could blame them?

Hazelmyer himself and every AmRep band of significance is interviewed, as are sleeve artists, label employees and outside observers like Jello Biafra. The Color of Noise serves as much as a bio of Hazelmyer — also a restaurateur and print artist — as it does the story of his label, but that makes sense, as the two are inextricably linked. The cinematography is first-rate, interspersing quality old clips of AmRep bands in various clubs worldwide with colorful presentations of flyers and sleeves and, of course, interviews with the provocateurs who shared Hazelmyer’s vision.

The parallels to Sub Pop are striking. Both hailed from cities — Seattle and Minneapolis — that produced some of the greatest local rock scenes of the ’60s. The labels not only did joint releases, but saw overlap in bands that recorded for both. And just as Sub Pop went big with the rise of Nirvana, Helmet’s ascent to platinum status with Meantime in 1992 ensured that AmRep (which then sold Interscope Helmet’s debut, Strap It On) would be a viable business proposition for years to come.

Or at least until 1998, when Amphetamine Reptile went dormant — with only sporadic releases since. But even if it didn’t last as long as Sub Pop, which continues to this day, its influence is almost as significant. The 1991 revolution that turned many heads in the direction of alternative sounds was mostly spurred by Nirvana, but Helmet — and therefore AmRep — was also part of the mix. Doom metal, stoner metal, garage rock and the psychedelic revival all existed before then, but undoubtedly got a boost when, yes, the alternative briefly became the mainstream and told impressionable teens that there was something else out there.

Today’s mainstream might be worse than ever, but the underground is healthy. We owe Amphetamine Reptile and other vintage indie labels gratitude for laying — or at least strengthening — the groundwork when bands didn’t have the reach and immediacy of the Internet. And we have The Color of Noise to thank for preserving an interesting piece of rock ’n’ roll history in this fine documentary.