Roky Erickson - The Evil One

Counting down to my 500th post and perusing the archives lately has brought to light some glaring oversights, albums I haven't posted yet that form the backbone of my musical taste.  Many of these (this one included) have remained un-posted because I listen to them so much that I can't imagine life without them.

The first one that came to mind was The Evil One, the most well known and arguably the best album by Roky Erickson.  I have posted many Roky albums here before and casually assumed that anyone perusing my little Swamp would at least have a passing familiarity with the man.  A huge percentage of albums on here are directly influenced by him, and many others have a spiritual kinship in their themes of paranormal phenomena, struggles with madness, and weird gibberish.

Lyrically, Roky draws from vintage horror movies and urban legends as much as he uses early rock n' roll's predilection for mantra-like refrains and cribbed blues motifs.  Musically, it's basically Buddy Holly and Bo Diddley squeezed through a proto-punk meat grinder.  Creedence Clearwater Revival's Stu Cook played bass on and produced much of this album, lending a layer of cosmic hillbilly mystique to a record already doomed to obscurity.

Of course now Roky is known as an essential part of any rock fan's collection and he continues to produce new material, against all odds, but this is the pinnacle.

I Walked With a Zombie

The Nameless Dread

 

Well, the gateway to Mediafire seems to be closed temporarily, so I must improvise tonight's entertainment.  I thought this timely with the passing of Bil Keane, creator of the widely loathed Family Circus.  Though numerous parodies of his maudlin creation existed, often with his blessing, only the now-defunct Nameless Dread was actively suppressed, presumably after touching some dark nerve in Keane's soul.  Fortunately I have many of them preserved in my private archive and now I shall pass them along to you, dear ones.  Presumably normal transmissions will resume tomorrow. 

Orion - Country

Jimmy Ellis was an obscure rockabilly singer who was blessed and cursed with a singing voice eerily similar to that of Elvis Presley.  After Presley's death he assumed the identity of Orion, mysterious masked country singer, who bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain supposedly dead singer, wink wink nudge nudge.  As gimmicks go, it a weird one - for one thing, Ellis really does sound almost indistinguishable from Presley, and the production closely matches the slick proficiency of Elvis's seventies output.  But on the other side, Ellis received a slice of the wildness that was Presley's later years - not to mention legions of crazed fans' misplaced obsession.  He soon abandoned the persona altogether and took to touring and recording under his own name, unsuccessfully, before retiring to open a convenience store in Alabama, where he was tragically gunned down in a botched robbery.  It's a weird music business story for the ages, sad and ludicrous and, not surprisingly, the source of some good goddamn country music.

Crazy Arms

Trouble - The Skull

Patience, little ones! I must exit the Swamp forthwith, but earlier today I found a copy of this seminal doom masterpiece on the cheap and I've just listened to it twice in a row. I know this blog thing is frequently full of rushed excuses and lazy half-explanation, especially lately, but your humble narrator has been unreliable from the beginning, so let's not get too upset, eh? This album ought to throw your own individual flaws into sharp relief, helpfully deflecting all criticism away from me.
The Truth Is, What Is

Root - Zjevení / The Revelation

This is the first full length by criminally unheard first wave Black Metal group Root, fronted by the burly Roky lookalike Big Boss. While they eventually evolved into a bizarre Lovecraftian chamber music style (years before this was fashionable), this one is pure primitive blackness, albeit already showing signs of burgeoning ambition and a healthy tongue-in-cheek attitude, quite unlike many of their more serious-minded contemporaries. Not that this album isn't dark and twisted, not at all; I'm just always more inclined to like bands that can poke fun at themselves and their genre whilst still being 100% sincere. I encourage fans of this album to seek out their increasingly esoteric and personal discography (up to a point), or you could just wait for me to eventually post them all.
Two versions:
Czech or English

This is Howlin' Wolf's new album...

Well, it's been a long and grueling week here in the Swamp, and it's not over yet, no sir. All throughout my labors today I fantasized about diving into a frigid booze ocean and absorbing large quantities of it via osmosis, whilst pontificating about a weighty wonderful album and thus grinding the jagged edges of reality down into tolerable squishy nudges. Now that my daily duties have been fulfilled and I sit down before you, I have no idea which record I was daydreaming about, and all of the elaborate sentences I constructed in my mind have evaporated. Ah well, so what?

Here's an interesting one though: Aging bluesman Howlin' Wolf, once a larger-than-life figure of menace and mystery among his inferiors, is by 1970 frail and sickly. His longtime rival/labelmate Muddy Waters has released the transcendent "Electric Mud," a wild psychedelic rejiggering of his old standards with a hungry young whiteboy band, to critical disdain and large piles of cash money. Their label, the once-vital Chess, is struggling to stay afloat and, energized by that success, forces its other surviving 800 lb. gorilla into the same corner. This is the result.

Much has been said about this, from the predictable purist sneering to the retroactive acclaim of figures like Chuck D (who claimed both records as early influences). Personally, I take comfort in it and find myself drawn to it after long stretches of work, angst, and hollowness. Wolf may have claimed to hate it, but he sounds like he's having a blast. He recorded a similar, tighter session in London two years later with a much more unsavory psych band that included racist douchebag Eric Clapton, "fusion" pioneer Steve Winwood, and the rhythm section of original blues biters the Rolling Stones. Muddy and Chuck Berry, both quickly overcoming their skepticism when faced with sizable percentages, would do the same. History bends in strange curves in the wake of these albums, in retrospect, but I stand in defiance of those who say this one is an empty cash-in or a novelty.

"Why don't you take them wah-wahs and all that other shit and go throw it off in the lake — on your way to the barber shop?"

Mourn

Another lost little gem of female-fronted witchy doom, Mourn can be seen as a forerunner to the style that Jex Thoth, Blood Ceremony, Windhand, and The Devil's Blood are toiling over their cauldrons for today. Lately I just can't get enough of this stuff and this early example, circa 1995, is like a beacon out of time. It is unfortunate that this ensemble called it quits immediately after this release, as they clearly were bursting with ideas and energy - a few more albums and they maybe could've been as important and influential as your Sleeps or your Electric Wizards. Still, we have this to entrance and seduce us.
Forever more.

Death Dealers

Speaking of morbid, here's something so twisted that it might make you a bad person just for listening to it, let alone posting it on your blog thing. This is a compilation of country and punk music about serial killers, interspersed with interviews with actual serial killers. Unfortunately (or perhaps not), this version isn't entirely complete: interviews with John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Albert DeSalvo were scrambled in the great hard drive crash of 2010, and unsurprisingly I can't find this anywhere else on the internet. All of the songs are present, however, from Red River Dave's laid back "California Hippie Murders" to The Bugs' disgustingly sincere twin odes to DeSalvo's Boston Strangler incarnation. I really can't condone this, but it's a fascinating document. Make of it what you will.
Do you think I'm psycho, Mama?

Memphis Swamp Jam

If you're anything like me, you're already bored of knuckleheaded debate about the state of heavy metal in the year of 2010, you're out of patience with hipsters flinging the h-word at other hipsters, you're alienated by narcissism, petty irrelevant snark, humorless niggling about sound quality, and sub-relevant sub-genre Asperger's syndrome. Here's my advice: who cares?

What you're lacking is perspective: all of those records are shit, and they'll probably play one you hate at your funeral. You've spent your whole life working towards this scholarly multi-syllabic mode of criticism, and yet every goddamn day you've gotta get up and shrug your tension-knotted shoulders and declare your correctness to the world, like you're not gonna be embarrassed by it next year.

It's not like I have answers to all your shitty little life problems, but it might behoove you to just sit down for a minute and not make everything into a list or an argument or a pretend offense. Listen to Booker White, Furry Lewis, Fred McDowell. Listen to songs of death, booze, trains, prison, love, and dancing. Just please, stop your fucking complaining.
Keep your jank trimmed and burning.

Back From The Grave volume 1

This was the first in a series of LPs released by Crypt Records in the Nuggets mode - that is, collections of forgotten 45 rpm records by forgotten sixties punk bands. Back From the Grave gravitated towards the most brain-damaged, nasty, weird end of the spectrum, generally eschewing pretty psych in favor of bludgeoning stupidity and atavism. In other words, Swamp material for sure! All of these collections are excellent but naturally a lot of primo slop ended up on this one. Notable entries include surf combo The Novas performing "The Crusher," widely recognized as the first example of what would become death metal vocals, covers of genre-defining horror tales "Jack the Ripper" and "Psycho," and some originals eventually covered by the likes of The Mummies, Dwarves, and many more.
That's the Bag I'm In

Sam Gopal - Escalator

Little-known British psych band Sam Gopal, named for its founder, perhaps would have been forgotten if not for the inclusion of one Lemmy Kilmister in the first line-up. Young master Kilmister would soon jump ship for Hawkwind, and later Motörhead, and the second iteration of this act (not included on this recording) fizzled quickly without him. It would be easy to write this off as a novelty because of Gopal's tablas, which replace the drums entirely, but the airy sound allows Lemmy's already-hoarsening vocals and ridiculous hippie-dippy lyrics plenty of breathing room. This fact, combined with the brevity of the album, make it a pleasant trippy interlude in between bouts whatever foul noise you're all out there filling your skulls with.
You're Alone Now

Aldebaran - Voz De Aldebaran

Aside from the fact that they share a name with one of our favourite doom bands and the orange giant star circled by the dreaded King in Yellow, and the fact that this demo is from Portugal in 1994, I have no information at all on this mysterious cassette (not even a cover). I've been listening to it quite a bit lately though, it's a kind of rocking punk sound (in Portuguese) that somehow reminds me certain of a southern Florida sound from the 80's and 90's, especially The Eat/No Fraud/Fuckboyz. Without knowing what the man is singing about, I can tell you he certainly sounds like he means it! You might want to crack open a beer and pour it all over yourself while listening to this.

Mulheres De Hoje Sem Educação

Celestiial - Desolate North

One thing among few that the farthest, bleakest extreme reaches of heavy metal has in common with the string of balmy islands off of our continent's western coast: the double I. Maledictiih, Mortiis, Mütiilation, Celestiial, Hawaii... What I'm getting at is that it's freezing here in the Swamp, and I'm trying to think warm thoughts. Celestiial plays funereal doom of the sparsest, most glacial variety. Distant, doppler-effected drums crash aimlessly in isolation, whilst whole notes ring out and blend into swirling Aurora Boreali, enchanting but difficult to focus on. The sound of tweeting birdies is merely an hallucination of your frost-bitten mind; it's actually the sound of ice forming inside your ear canals. Your only hope is that whiskey bottle, and it's looking awfully low...
Lamentations in the Citadel of God

Black Death

Diligent readers may recall the great cataclysm our Swamp computing machine experienced some months ago, in which many albums were lost. Over time we have recovered much of it, but some in particular have been difficult to track down in listenable form. Surprisingly this album was among them, and for some time I was forced to make due with inferior and stuttering versions, but (after what seems like an inordinate amount of time and sweat) I've obtained a working crisp copy. In fact, I'm listening to it as you read this. For the uninitiated, Black Death was/is Cleveland's premier all-black heavy metal juggernaut, an unholy amalgam of Motorhead, Venom, Mercyful Fate, and leather-era funk-noise like Wicked Witch or the nastiest coke depths of Rick James. I'll not ruin all the special moments of enlightenment awaiting you if this is your first time, because I'm about to stop typing and finish listening to it.
Your Mother Can't Help You Now

H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu - The Festival

As promised, here is the three-issue series "Cthulhu - The Festival" circa 1993 from Millennium Comics. For the record, I recommend CDisplayEX to read these on PC. More music tomorrow, wee ones, take heart.
one and two and three

Grand Slam - Demos

Grand Slam was Thin Lizzy main man Phil Lynott's last project before his death, and while much of their recorded legacy is diluted through aggressively new-wave production, this collection is stripped of all but a few basic elements and crackles through time as the transmission of a ferocious songwriter on his final arc of productivity before the end. Even the mellow yacht rock ballads (difficult to appreciate on the band's actual studio work) sound naked and raw, allowing the world-weary, resigned ennui of the lyrics to shine through like a black beacon. Lynott seems to be writing his own will and testament at times. Of course, some of it just pure 80's cheese as well, including the unfortunate low-tech dance remix tacked onto the end. Still, it's a darkly beautiful recording full of hum and hiss and poetry, and the first track, "Crazy," will punch up any decent mix-tape or fight scene.
Part 1:
You think I'm crazy, but I'm not
Part 2:
You think I love you, I only like you a lot

Dead Fingers Talk - Storm The Reality Studios

Named after the exquisite fifth novel by William S. Burroughs, a work partially derived from cut-up bits of the first books glued back together randomly, Hull-via-London band Dead Fingers Talk (fronted by the wonderfully monikered Bobo Pheonix) played a jangly deadpan punk style informed by the Velvet Underground but also seemingly in tune with the New York scene, especially Richard Hell and the Voidoids. Pheonix's plainly homosexual lyrics and defiant persona echoed Burroughs as well, as exemplified on the fiercely catchy "Nobody Loves You When You're Old and Gay." Humorous and humanistic, this album (and what seems to be many bonus tracks, as it's well over an hour of music) was also produced by one Mick Ronson, who gives it a soothing buzzing warmth that keeps all the angular guitar from poking holes in the upholstery.
Hold On to Rock And Roll

Africa - Ritual and Witchcraft Music

Little comment needs to be made about this enthralling 1975 field recording from Kenya and Tanzania, but volumes are spoken by the music. The liner notes pontificate at length about the intertwined nature of healing and magic and music, but you'll find no extrapolation here. This record rattles and shakes and stomps, but continuous tones humming in the background cast a hypnotic spell.
Ngoma ra mrongo

Aarni - Bathos

Your host likes to keep his beloved readers on their collectives toes and tentacles, so let's see how just far out we can go tonight, shall we? Aarni, Finnish one-man experimental prog-folk-doom, sings of matters esoteric and inscrutable, drifting spectrally across windswept mushroomscapes, transversing from choral chug-a-lug metal riffs directly into extended flute sections, chanting, grunting, whispering mad things, and harmonizing with himself in an ouroboros loop of strangeness. The guitar is tinny and swathed in sheets of effects and hiss, the drum are barely audible and erratic, the lyrics swerve between fractured English, Latin, and Finnish, and song structure is arbitrary and labyrinthine. In other words: a treasure, a maddening artifact smuggled from a different plane of existence. Also, possibly the only metal album with maracas. Charmingly, Aarni takes its name from the Finnish spirit who floats above buried treasure, clinking his gold coins and cackling.
"Visit the innermost of the earth and by rectifying what is there, you will find the hidden stone."

Booker White - Memphis Hot Shots

Known colloquially as "Bukka White," Mr. Booker T. Washington "Big Daddy" White was a true original, a bluesman archetype. (I choose to refer to him by his given name, as he refuted the "Bukka" spelling his whole life, in vain.) He learned how to play guitar from Charley Patton, the same mystery figure who taught Robert Johnson. He sang about prison, women, booze, trains, and death, and not much else. When the market for the blues dried up in the forties he made a living in the boxing ring and as a pitcher in the Negro League. When hippies rediscovered and revitalized the blues in the sixties, he was one of the first on board - easily the first one out of the old guard to embrace playing with young white boys who may or may not have experimented with mind-altering substances. This weird lost gem from 1968 shows Booker in prime improvisatory form, pounding out old standards and his "hits" from the previous four decades with the band valiantly struggling (and ultimately failing) to keep up with him. As a result this record sounds cosmically askew, sliding in and out of proper time as if we can't quite grasp the fullness of it. Booker called his improvisations "sky songs" because of his habit of plucking them from thin air - perhaps on no other record has this been a more appropriate phrase.
Gimme an old, old lady.