SOUTHERN CULTURE BEFORE ELVIS PRESLEY AND LYNYRD SKYNYRD

 

In the 1980s in a forgotten but wonderful magazine called Southern, there was once a cartoon series entitled "Little Known Chapters in Southern History."

Here's the caption for one of them: Citing "audience confusion,'" a promoter cancels the remaining dates of the 1962 James Brown/Flannery O'Connor Tour after the first show in Florence, South Carolina.

Adding to that confusion, there's an accompanying drawing: O'Connor reading stiffly while The Godfather of Soul kneels at her feet, shouting declarations of devotion and sending out wild and passionate demonstrations of his deepest needs.

No such undignified nonsense, no such cartoon, ever entered the minds of any Southern cartoonist regarding the South's #2 genius writer (Mr. Faulkner being #1, of course), Miss Eudora Welty.


I once saw Eudora Welty read at the University of Virginia. Following the razzle-dazzle tedium of writers Ann Beattie and Rita Mae Brown, Welty walked to the podium as if through molasses, bent and sad and with a humility that suggested an enduring spirit well beyond the academic comedy surrounding her.

Welty entered the academic setting as if from another era, blinked at the audience, and began to read from one of the funniest stories--not just of the 20th-century South--but perhaps ever written:  Why I Live at the P.O.," the bizarre tale of Papa-Daddy, Stella-Ronda, and Uncle Rondo in his flesh-colored kimono.

I cannot remember ever having laughed so hard.

As Miss Welty's voice slowly rolled the syllables she'd read so many times before, I could not help but think of her Mississippi landscape--of Robert Johnson, of Jimmie Rodgers, of Elvis Presley. Her dignity summoned forth another South, gentler and more restrained, before Elvis met Sam Phillips and the rebel yell was let loose via Lynyrd Skynyrd.

As Miss Welty's reading put Mississippi on my mind, I thought, too, of her words from "Place in Fiction":  "It seems plain that the art that speaks most clearly, explicitly, directly and passionately from its place of origin will remain the longest understood."

SONGS THE LORD TAUGHT US

Recorded at Sam Phillips' Studio in Memphis and produced by Alex Chilton (the Box Tops' former Big Star), Songs The Lord Taught Us fries the brain cells like nothing under God's holy firmament.

The album recalls every forgotten sleazy diner, every stinking bus terminal, every weather-beaten drive-in you've ever been in or dreamt of. It unleashes a noise so loud, so uncontrolled, so jittering and shivering with the nightmares of a thousand-and-one restless nights, that one may be moved to run in panic, switch on the lights, and cower in the nearest closet.

If the B-52's seem attuned to the camp of Cat Women of the Moon and other sci-fi trash, the Cramps have mastered the aesthetics of horror schlock (It's Alive, Last House on the Left). With his two-tone hair and a face that looks like it's been gnawed on by rats, guitarist Bryan Gregory undoubtedly eats gore for breakfast. The band's other guitarist, Poison Ivy (Rorschach), possesses a frigid-and-frizzly grace that bears a striking resemblance to a dead-and-buried Jane Fonda.

Along with their image, the Cramps' musical carnage is explicitly concerned with horrific content. What could be more frightening than an album which begins with these lyrics – "Baby, I see you in my TV set/I cut your head off and put it in my TV set/I use your eyeballs for dials on my TV set/I watch TV since I put you in my TV set..."? Or, consider the horror story of ‘Zombie Dance’, a ghastly event (unlike the B-52's wild beach parties) where nobody moves.

Although they do have a grisly and gruesome ability to strike terror in our hearts, that isn't the Cramps' forte. What's so captivating about this band is their willingness to junk everything (musical ability, the record's mix, fame and fortune) in favor of the elusive shudder of primitive rock and roll. With the discernment of genuine trash aesthetes, they combine the sloppy ineptitude of a mid-'60s garage band with the mental derangement of an American rockabilly Dixie-fryer.

The intent of their commitment to garbage is quite clear: It's truly the only way to topple the current hegemony of art-rockers strangling us with their thin neckties and boring us to tears with their clean-cut rhythms.

Amidst the sound of flushing toilets and rumbling garbage trucks on "Garbageman," the Cramps' message manifests itself as plainly as the untuned guitar reveal the band's impulsive nature. "You ain't no punk, you punk!" rants vocalist Lux Interior, baring his fangs while foam collects around the corners of his mouth. "Ya wanna talk about the real junk?!"

Yet the Cramps ain't just talking trash. Their album may not contain faithful renditions of the classics, but there's a muddled nobility in what the band does choose to recreate. The material ranges from Dwight Pullen's rockabilly obscurity, "Sunglasses After Dark," to the Sonics' deadly explosion, "Strychnine." In between, the band bombards us with musical salutes to the immortals – Count Five ("I'm Cramped"), The Trashmen ("The Mad Daddy"), and Link Wray (every cut). The album even concludes with a spooky interpretation of Little Willie John's "Fever," dramatically transformed into the mumbo-jumbo of a pyromaniac.

On Songs The Lord Taught Us, the Cramps ask the profound question that we must face to overcome our present spiritual malaise: "Louie, Louie, Louie, Loui-i-I...the bird's the word, and do you know why?" Clearly the Cramps do, for not since the Hombres' Let It Out has there truly been a more authentic album expressing the American punk sensibility.

 

DAWN OF THE DOOTZ

If you can imagine it, there once existed a bizarre cross between American punk's Legendary Stardust Cowboy, the author of the histrionic "Paralyzed," and rockabilly's the Phantom, who won our hearts with the mysterious "Love Me."

His name was the Dootz, and he singlehandedly created a stylistic blend that can only be described as mutant American primitivism. This radical sound, born in the early '80s, was downright psychotic to the point of being transcendental.

It was the creation of one David Frey Johns, who had spent most of his life singing to records in his room and wailing in friends' showers, hoping one day to be heard in a social context. As a child David Johns was called "Duke" by his father, a nickname that eventually evolved into "Dootz."

"My dad and I used to sing together when we went to church," the Dootz once told me, "but we had our own version of 'Onward Christian Soldiers.' Everybody else was singing it the right way."

Johns' earliest musical influences were typical--Elvis, the Beatles, Buddy Holly--but he was especially devoted to James Brown and Jackie Wilson, two performers who possessed an intense emotional style both on record and in performance. At times, the future Dootz even considered himself more of a soul singer because he could reach deep down and pour himself inside out with feelings from real-life experience.

In the '80s, the Dootz began making tapes at the Sonny Huckle Studio in Falls Church, Virginia (in actuality, a mildewed basement, stocked with a jukebox and cases of cheap beer, and far more degenerate and danker and grungier than the French villa where Exile on Main Street was recorded).  Those underground recordings (not available online, but you can find them on broken cassettes) still bear witness to the Dootz's commitment to the tradition of getting gone. Included are uncontrolled, battered versions of Bill Parsons' "The All American Boy," Bobby "Boris" Pickett's "Monster Mash," the Troggs' "Wild Thing," Doctor Ross's "The Boogie Disease," and the Standells' "Dirty Water."  Further, as if defying the ever-impending Apocalypse, the Dootz performs the craziest cover of "Train Kept A-Rollin'" ever conceived by any mortal.

Two songs were eventually culled from these landmark sessions and released as a single on the Sky label (named in reference to the Sun label, not Sky Saxon, bless his soul)--"A.C.N.E. (I've Got Acne)" and "I'm the Dootz." Both are original songs recorded in one take and composed on the spot.  On both songs, the Dootz shouts and howls from the pit of his soul, revealing a naked hysteria and an unrehearsed moment of being.

"I'm the Dootz" is a reworking of Bo Diddley's "I'm a Man" with a sense of spontaneity rarely heard on recordings, now or then. "A.C.N.E" is an astonishing garage-novelty performance, so powerful that it qualifies as the "Louie, Louie" of the '80s. The Dootz told me back then that he hoped "A.C.N.E." would become a million-seller--but he would gladly settle for a regional hit.

Most rock 'n' roll singers don't use their whole body as effectively as the Dootz once did. For him, music meant a kind of spastic catharsis. His conviction was real, his emotions genuine. Having spent most of his employed life back then working in a gas station or delivering auto parts, the Dootz's personal goals was to shape a rock 'n' roll sound (and I quote)--"a million times weirder than anything anybody's ever seen, done, heard or performed."

The Dootz's music was primitivism of the highest, or rather, lowest order. To this day, those-in-the-know eagerly await his version of "Mystery Train."

GREAT MOMENTS IN TV HISTORY #1

On April 9, 1988, on "Dolly," a variety program for the whole family, the irreverent Jerry Lee sang "Meat Man" for his hostess with the mostest.

Dolly introduces the rock 'n' roll pioneer thusly: "When he's around there's a whole lot of shaking going on, but it's not an earthquake, so don't worry....it's Jerry Lee Lewis!"
  


Lewis leered, and Dolly did not conceal her cleavage, and God saw that it was good.

Jerry Lee's cousin, Rev. Jimmy Lee Swaggart, was not present at this momentous event, but he was there in spirit -- eating his heart out.

WATCH THE SPIRITUAL TRUTH OF ROCK 'N' ROLL BELOW

K-TEL GOES GONK!!!

Below is an excerpt from an article by GREG BEETS that appeared in The Austin Chronicle on May 4, 2001, entitled "Explosive Dynamic Super Smash Hits!," in which I'm interviewed.

R.I.P., K-tel...we all miss you madly!

Until its stateside demise, K-tel was best known for jam-packed compilations of both past and present hits direct-marketed to consumers via garish, cheaply produced TV ads. Although K-tel's buffet-style MO seems quintessentially American, the company was actually founded in Winnipeg, Ontario, by Phillip Kives in 1962 before moving to Minneapolis in the early Seventies.

Having cut its teeth selling items like non-stick pans on TV, K-tel released its first album, 25 Polka Greats, in 1971.

K-tel wasn't the first label to specialize in compilations. California disc jockey Art Laboe pioneered the practice of licensing material from several labels with his Oldies but Goodies series in the Sixties. Ron Popeil's Ronco (immortalized in "Weird Al" Yankovic's "Mr. Popeil") sold plenty of compilations alongside useful products like Mr. Microphone and the Record Vacuum. However, it was K-tel that truly cultivated the form into a pop culture institution ripe for parody.

During the Seventies, K-tel's marketing ploys had the same seedy appeal as a carnival barker's come-on. The pitch was fast and furious, with deftly spliced snippets of music, song titles rapidly scrolling across the screen, and an overcaffeinated announcer imploring you to order now. Some aficionados swear the ads said K-tel albums were not available in stores, even though they were -- at unhip outlets such as drug and discount stores.

You won't find a much better snapshot of pop music in the early Seventies than 1972's Believe in Music. Named for Gallery's "I Believe in Music," the album kicks off with the 1-2-3 feel-good punch of "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass, "Beautiful Sunday" by Daniel Boone, and "Sunny Days" by Lighthouse. Throw in Donny Osmond, the O'Jays, and a few more weird obscurities like Mouth & MacNeil's "How Do You Do?" and Bulldog's "No," and you have a bass-ackwardly definitive compilation rivaled only by Nuggets.

Maybe K-tel butchered art for profit. But even if that were true, does it make K-tel any worse than a record company padding a marginal artist's album with filler? Though it came at the expense of artistic vision, K-tel's Seventies output was nothing if not value-driven. Where else could you get up to 25 hit songs for the low, low price of $5.98 ($7.98 for 8-track)?

That said, the sonic quality of vintage K-tel albums is truly awful. You'll find better low end on a distant AM radio station, and the flimsier-than-Dynaflex vinyl ensures quick scratches if you so much as breathe too hard on it. And no discussion of K-tel would be complete without mentioning the blinding colors and screaming fonts utilized in the subtle-as-a-meat-cleaver cover art. But, as the tired old saying goes, that's part of the charm.

"Respectable" artists such as the Beatles and the Rolling Stones never showed up on K-tel. Although Eric Clapton and the Who made appearances, Elton John was the only megastar who appeared on K-tel albums with regularity. As a result, many K-tel albums portray an alternate musical universe that seldom crosses over into the mainstream pantheon advanced by today's classic rock and oldies stations.

Robert Hull is an executive producer at Time-Life Music, a label that produces compilations of popular music direct-marketed through TV. Hull is also a founding member of cult avant-garage band the Memphis Goons (as Xavier Tarpit) and a veteran of the Lester Bangs era at Creem (as Robot Hull). For Hull, the emergence of rock as a "serious" art form systematically eliminated a wide swath of music from the discourse of so-called tastemakers.

"In the late Sixties and early Seventies, Rolling Stone created the notion of the counter-culture," Hull says. "When I was working with Lester Bangs at Creem, we countered this with the idea of the counter-counterculture."

"In our pantheon were the garage groups, one-hit wonders, soft pop bands, bubblegum cretins, etc., that the 'serious' writers for the RS-type rags were dismissing because they didn't follow the 'auteur' concept of the singer-songwriter model."

"So, in essence, this type of music fell out of favor because of so-called rock journalism:  Rock began taking itself too seriously, even though there wasn't any real difference, in terms of motivation, between, say, Moby Grape and the Archies."

THE LONELIEST ALBUM EVER MADE

Frederick Knight's only album for Stax is one of the loneliest albums ever made. It speaks of failure, the sense of loss, and solitude. Of these things, Knight knew a great deal.

Knight was born in Bessemer, Alabama, in 1944, and spent years visiting record companies to land a contract. Joe Tex's manager, Buddy Killen, helped Knight obtain an advance from Mercury for "Throw the Switch," but the single was never released. Capitol issued "Have a Little Mercy," but it went nowhere. Knight looked for a career in New York, but had no luck.

Eventually he returned to Alabama to work as an engineer at the Sound of Birmingham Studio.

Knight's first hit, "I've Been Lonely For So Long," was written by Posie Knight, his wife, and Jerry Weaver (although they had someone else in mind when they wrote the song). Released in April 1972, the single was a unique, almost bizarre, example of Southern soul, its sound gentle and resigned, not over-the-top or too deep. Knight's falsetto suggests Al Green's, but it's more whining, less serene.

Unlike most soul recordings, the passionate tirade of a preacher is not at the heart of the performance. Instead, Knight's voice knows the value of keeping the peace. No drums were used on the recording session; the rhythms were made by tambourine and a stool hit with slats of wood. There is, in a sense, a silence imbedded even in the percussion work.

Recorded at Sound of Birmingham Studio, the album was engineered and produced by Knight, with most of the songs written by him. It is practically a self-made work. Even though the album was not created in Memphis, Stax's influence is clear in the use of the fuzz guitars often heard on Isaac Hayes' recordings as well as in the sloppy but pleasing group harmonies which recall the Mad Lads and the Temprees.

Knight's album is downhome, dependable, and devotional.

Every song on the album is a companion to the next, each in search of a friend. The misery of covering up of one's feelings is explored on "Take Me on Home Witcha." "Friend" is about the troubled times when there is only yourself, but when the trouble's over, there's a stampede to your door.

Sounding similar to the album's only hit single, "Now That I've Found You" is an unusual moment of Southern soul transmogrified into doo-wop. Knight's second single, "Trouble," bears the thematic weight of this sad, determined album:  "No matter how good you be doing, Old Man Trouble just out there laying, waiting on you."

The whole thing is held together by inventive percussion, sincere spoken introductions and interruptions, gospel calm, and a quiet vision.

There is a happy ending to Knight's tale. In 1979, he wrote and produced Anita Ward's disco smash, "Ring My Bell," for T.K., recording it at the Malaco studio in Jackson, Mississippi. Because of the single's success, Knight moved from his native Birmingham to Jackson, and settled in at Malaco, where the work was steady.

If he is still a lonely man, we have not heard tell of it.

THE REFERENCE BOOK EVERY R&B FAN AND COLLECTOR NEEDS TO OWN

While in college at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, I would often break away from the college library and head downtown to explore urban squalor -- and to look for records. 

In the early '70s, Providence was quite a funky place to be, and I loved it.

Downtown at his modest record shop is where I met the legendary Big Al Pavlow, one of the greatest record collectors of all time. He taught me many things about collecting, but mostly he introduced me to the entire history of recorded sound. 

I would go sometimes go over to his house, and he would play me records that I'd taken for granted (usually big band or doo-wop or novelty).  Any record he played me was like an explosion -- and an honest gesture against the tide of mediocrity known as the recording industry.

 Big Al spoke the truth -- and he played the music that supported his mission of integrity.

Back in 1983, the Rhode Island record store owner and record collector put out a truly amazing book called  Big Al Pavlow's The R and B Book: A Disc-History of Rhythm & Blues.This incredible book tried to list the "biggest" R&B hits for each year from 1943-1959, added lists of not-quite-as-popular-but-"representative"-in-some-fashion records for each year, and then tossed in lists of some "representative" race (blues) and jazz records for each year from 1920-1942.

Yikes!

It's is one of the greatest music reference books I own -- and straight from a different planet -- early '70s Providence, Rhode Island, the pit stop between Boston and New York.