DC Share Revival: July 2025

Thursday, July 31, 2025

Sitarsploitation: The Sitar's Role in the 60s Psychedelic Culture

The sitar’s emergence in Western popular music during the 1960s represents a profound moment of cultural interplay, musical innovation, and also complex tensions around appropriation and commodification. At the heart of this story stands Ravi Shankar, the legendary Indian sitar virtuoso whose career bridged continents and traditions with unprecedented influence. Long before the sitar’s sound permeated psychedelic rock and pop charts, Shankar had already begun shaping Western musical sensibilities through collaborations with classical musicians like Yehudi Menuhin and jazz innovators such as John Coltrane and Dave Brubeck. His tenure teaching at UCLA in the early 1960s introduced American musicians to the intricate modal systems and improvisational depths of Hindustani music, planting seeds that would later flourish in various popular genres. Shankar’s deep commitment to the spiritual and disciplined practice of raga was pivotal in positioning the sitar not as a novelty instrument, but as an expressive vehicle of complex musical and philosophical ideas.

The first widespread Western popular music encounters with sitar sound came around 1965–66, a period marked by eager experimentation with Eastern aesthetics among British bands. While George Harrison’s sitar on “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)” from the Beatles’ Rubber Soul (1965) is frequently cited as the seminal moment of the sitar’s pop debut, earlier works reveal a more gradual absorption of Indian influences. The Yardbirds’ “Heart Full of Soul” (early 1965) famously featured Jeff Beck emulating sitar tones on guitar, after initial plans to include a sitar recording were scrapped. The Kinks’ “See My Friends” (July 1965) utilized a droning guitar tuned to evoke Indian musical textures, creating a sonic atmosphere that prefigured sitar’s direct integration. These examples underscore that British musicians were engaging with the concept of raga and drone—elements crucial to Indian music—prior to the actual instrument’s physical inclusion.

Brian Jones’s sitar on the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” (May 1966) signified the first prominent chart hit featuring the authentic sitar in a Western rock context. Jones’s collaboration with Harihar Rao, a disciple of Ravi Shankar who had settled in the U.S., added a level of authenticity, yet the song also typifies the period’s ambivalence—sitar as a symbol of exoticism and psychedelia, rather than a fully integrated musical element. This ambivalence framed the phenomenon of “sitarsploitation,” a term coined to describe the spate of albums and singles during the mid to late 1960s that exploited the sitar’s timbral novelty to capitalize on the psychedelic craze. These recordings often featured session musicians or studio projects that inserted sitar or sitar-like instruments (including electric sitars popularized by Danelectro) to evoke a vague Eastern mysticism. While commercially successful, many such works lacked the structural and improvisational sophistication inherent to Indian classical music, reducing the sitar to a decorative effect or a pop-culture shorthand for drug-influenced states and Oriental fantasy.

The Beatles’ Revolver (1966) stands as the most artistically and musically sophisticated engagement with the sitar and Indian music in 1960s Western popular music. George Harrison’s compositions “Love You To” and “Tomorrow Never Knows” embody a genuine integration of Indian instrumentation, rhythms, and philosophy. “Love You To” uses sitar and tabla alongside a tambura drone, replicating the cyclical, modal nature of a raga performance, while “Tomorrow Never Knows” incorporates tape loops and drone elements inspired by Indian devotional music. Harrison’s sustained studies with Ravi Shankar were crucial; the direct mentorship ensured these songs went beyond superficial exotica and engaged deeply with the form and spirit of the tradition. As Harrison himself noted, Shankar’s influence introduced him to “a whole new world of sound” and “a new spiritual direction”.

Kali Bahlu - Kali Bahlu Takes the Forest Children
on a Journey of Cosmic Remembrance (1968)

Yet the spread of sitar in popular music was a double-edged sword. Ravi Shankar himself expressed mixed feelings about its Western reception, lamenting that much of the sitar’s presence in film soundtracks, commercials, and novelty records boiled down to cliché and superficial exoticism. For example, he criticized how the instrument was sometimes used merely as a cue for psychedelic drug culture, rather than as a serious artistic voice. In interviews and autobiographical accounts, Shankar reflected on the tension between maintaining his art’s integrity and embracing its global diffusion. While he attended the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, sharing a stage with rock icons and countercultural luminaries, Shankar remained a disciplined classical musician committed to spiritual depth, often distancing himself from the hedonistic elements of the counterculture with which the sitar had become associated.

Beyond Harrison and the Beatles, the sitar influenced a broad array of artists who engaged with Indian sounds at varying levels of depth. Robby Krieger of The Doors, who studied at Shankar’s Kinnara School of Music in Los Angeles, integrated modal improvisation and drone techniques in compositions like “The End,” merging rock intensity with Indian musical sensibility. Donovan’s “Sunshine Superman” (1966) and The Byrds’ later works also embraced sitar and raga-influenced modalities, reflecting the instrument’s symbolic role in articulating consciousness expansion and spiritual inquiry that resonated with the era’s youth. The Moody Blues, Traffic, and The Rolling Stones (beyond “Paint It Black”) continued to incorporate Indian elements, crafting a complex sonic tapestry that blended Western rock forms with Eastern musical frameworks.

From a sociocultural perspective, the sitar in the 1960s came to embody more than just a new sound; it became a potent icon of the psychedelic counterculture’s quest for transcendence, authenticity, and alternative spiritualities. Its drone and microtonal nuances resonated with the contemporary search for altered states of consciousness, often paralleling the expanded perception sought through meditation, yoga, and psychedelic substances. The sitar’s association with mysticism and India’s rich spiritual traditions attracted youth seeking meaning beyond mainstream Western materialism. However, this symbolic role also raised questions of cultural appropriation, commodification, and the limits of cross-cultural exchange. Scholars and critics alike debated whether Western musicians’ use of the sitar constituted respectful fusion or superficial exoticism. The term “sitarsploitation” crystallizes this ambivalence, highlighting how commercial interests sometimes diluted or misrepresented the instrument’s cultural depth.

The sitar’s characteristic resonance, sympathetic strings, and ability to produce continuous drone provided a unique sonic palette that meshed well with the psychedelic aesthetic of swirling, immersive soundscapes. Its tonal capacity for nuanced ornamentation aligned with the era’s interest in timbre, contributing to a broader experimentation in rock and pop. The instrument’s influence extended into the development of raga rock as a subgenre, with songs structured around modal improvisation, cyclical rhythms, and extended instrumental passages that echoed Indian classical forms.

Okko - Sitar & Electronics (1971)

The proliferation of sitar sounds also catalyzed innovations in instrument design. The electric sitar, popularized by Danelectro and session musicians such as Big Jim Sullivan, allowed for a sitar-like timbre accessible to guitarists, further embedding the sound into the Western musical vernacular, albeit often divorced from traditional technique or form.

One hallmark of the sitarsploitation wave is the album Sitar Beat (1967) by Big Jim Sullivan. As described on Night of the Living Vinyl, Sullivan’s covers of “She’s Leaving Home,” “Sunshine Superman,” and “Whiter Shade of Pale” became exemplary of the style. Tracks like “The Koan” and “Translove Airways (Fat Angel)” feature sitar swirling over fuzz guitar and tabla rhythms, creating a dreamy trance that is more about vibe than musical authenticity. Sullivan also released as Lord Sitar, with albums like Lord Sitar (1968) featuring stylized sitar versions of songs such as “I Am the Walrus,” further cementing the sitarsploitation brand.

Even session players like Vinnie Bell, the creator of the Coral electric sitar, were central to this movement. Bell’s instrumental “Quiet Village” from the Pop Goes the Electric Sitar series (1967, Decca) exemplifies how the Coral sitar sound became shorthand for psychedelic mood, especially when paired with lush orchestration. Compilations like Electric Psychedelic Sitar Headswirlers (volumes 1–5) gathered obscure psych rock, pop and folk tracks from the late 1960s that prominently featured sitar—both authentic and electric versions—spanning acts from across the globe, including Lord Sitar, The Pretty Things, Donovan, July, West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band and others.

In contrast to these novelty or instrumental‐covers LPs, dozens of mainstream pop singles of the era employed sitar or electric sitar as a stylistic flourish. Acts like The Box Tops with “Cry Like a Baby” (1968), The Lemon Pipers on “Green Tambourine,” and The Byrds on Moog Raga incorporated sitar sound either real or via electric sitar to evoke psychedelic texture. The Rascals released “Sattva” in 1968, featuring a sitar intro that opened the track with Eastern flavor. The Pretty Things included sitar on their concept album S.F. Sorrow (1968), primarily played by Jon Povey on tracks like “S.F. Sorrow Is Born” and “Death”.

Moreover, the fusion scene adopted sitar for instrumental effect: German jazz vibraphonist Dave Pike, on the album Noisy Silence – Gentle Noise (1969) with European combo MPS, featured electric sitar played by Volker Kriegel, merging funk grooves and sitar resonance on tracks like “Mathar”.

On the fringe of psychedelic fusion, Ananda Shankar, Ravi Shankar’s nephew, released his self-titled album in April 1970. Although slightly later, this release blends sitar and Moog synthesizer across covers such as “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and elaborate compositions like “Sagar (The Ocean).” While this represents a deeper fusion, it also continues the sitarsploitation lineage by positioning sitar prominently in a cross‐genre pop format.

Alan Lorber - The Lotus Palace (1967)

What stands out in sitarsploitation is how the sitar became instrumentally visible rather than structurally embedded. In Sitar Beat, the sitar is front and centre: compositions revolve around its tone, yet they rarely mimic raga's improvisational approach or cyclical development; instead they repeat motifs over Western grooves. The electric sitar’s buzzing resonance and sympathetic string effect—what Vinnie Bell referred to as the “bad saddle” Coral timbre—became instantly recognizable as psychedelic sonority, even if disconnected from Indian technique.

Despite their lack of musical rigor, these sitarsploitation records sold well within the late‑60s psych market. They complemented film soundtracks, library music, and compilations such as the Electric Psychedelic Sitar Headswirlers box sets, reinforcing the stereotype of sitar as mystical, dreamy, and otherworldly.

You might also like the review I wrote about the compilation "Various Artists - Maximum Sitar '66-'72 (18 Sitar Classics From Psychedelia's Golden Age)"

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Wednesday, July 30, 2025

Review: Ted Heath and His Music & Edmundo Ros and His Orchestra - Heath vs. Ros: Swing vs. Latin (1964)

Rating: 90/100 - Genrés: Afro-Cuban, Big Band,
Easy Listening, (Exotica), Mambo, Swing.

When Swing vs. Latin (Decca PFS 4033 in the UK, London Records SP 44038 in the U.S., Teldec SLK 16 807‑P in Germany) - was recorded in 1963 and released in 1964, it marked a meticulously staged meeting between two orchestral titans: Britain’s swing powerhouse led by Ted Heath and the Latin music empire commanded by Edmundo Ros. The sessions were overseen by producer Tony D’Amato, engineered by Arthur Lilley, arranged by Johnny Keating, and recorded at Teldec‑Studio in Berlin using Decca’s Phase 4 Stereo system.

Phase 4 Stereo, introduced by Decca in 1961, was designed to create immersive, spectacular sound rather than replicating live realism. It used a ten‑channel console (later twenty) and scored performances to move across the stereo field with artificial reverberation, directional panning, and dynamic contrast played out in real time. In effect, this album was intended as not background music, but as a showcase of movement and space—what the label called “true musical use of separation and movement”. According to audiophile reviewers such as The Skeptical Audiophile, Swing vs. Latin remains one of Phase 4 Stereo’s most successful titles, delivering immediate, explosive dynamics, “zero smear,” severe clarity of transient response and a sonic picture more lifelike than many rock pressings.

The 1964 album Heath vs. Ros: Swing vs. Latin stands as a rare document where big band swing and Latin orchestration confront each other not as rivals but as sophisticated counterparts. Ted Heath, born in 1902 in Wandsworth, South London, led Britain’s foremost postwar swing orchestra, modeled on the precision of Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey, but with a brass-forward style all his own. His ensemble featured up to 18 musicians, including a classic five-man saxophone section, four trumpets, and four trombones. Their arrangements, often shaped by Johnny Keating, were known for their tight voicings, full-section unisons, and harmonic boldness rooted in Ellingtonian color.

Opposite him stood Edmundo Ros, born December 7, 1910, in Port of Spain, Trinidad, raised in Venezuela, and trained at London’s Royal Academy of Music. His orchestra, famous from the 1940s onwards at venues like the Coconut Grove Club and the Dorchester Hotel, specialized in pan-Latin idioms—mambo, beguine, cha-cha, and bossa nova. Ros’s rhythmic arsenal included congas, guiro, timbales, and maracas, played by a battery of up to six percussionists, with brass and reeds in supporting roles. His Latin phrasing was influenced by Xavier Cugat, but stripped of showbiz cliché and rich in Afro-Caribbean integrity.

Musically, Swing vs. Latin is engineered with a dual-panned stereo field: Heath’s band occupies the left channel; Ros’s fills the right. In “Malagueña”, a Cuban classic by Ernesto Lecuona, Ros’s group begins with flamenco-derived harmonic tension, layered over 6/8 Afro-Cuban rhythms. Heath’s band, by contrast, plays “In the Still of the Night” with aggressive brass interjections and syncopated shout sections reminiscent of Billy May’s high-octane swing charts. Each ensemble was recorded live in separation, then mixed with dramatic stereo separation by engineer Arthur Lilley, exploiting Phase 4’s wide dynamic range and frequency response, often cited by audiophiles for its crisp transient detail and headroom.

The intriguing concept of the album was dramatized even before the first note: lore surrounding the sessions describes Heath’s musicians and Ros’s ensemble warming up in adjacent partitioned rooms—brass tuning, maracas rattling, piano and percussion warming up—creating the sense of two bands preparing for a staged confrontation before the “red light” switched on and the recording began. On the album itself Heath’s orchestra delivers sharply executed interpretations of standards such as In the Still of the Night, Come Rain or Come Shine and Speak Low with tight ensemble discipline and brassy punch, while Ros’s side answers with renditions of Desafinado, Misirlou and Malagueña full of rhythmic heat, flute and percussion textures that seem to flow across the stereo image in contrast to Heath’s more static swing center. At the album’s midpoint the composition Ted Meets Ed serves as a symbolic convergence where swing and Latin patterns collide and interlock in vivid stereo interplay, reinforcing the dialogue concept.

Collectors and vinyl enthusiasts frequently praise the UK and German Decca pressings for their rare dynamic integrity, noting that many U.S. London Records pressings suffer from compression and limiting that reduce punch and clarity. The better Decca variants deliver what many consider “shootout winning” analog sound: crisp, clear, with no muddy decay or smeared transients, especially in the percussion and brass sections. One long‑time audiophile reviewer wrote that the pianos can overpower at times, but when held in check, the huge stage effect and percussion leaping from the soundfield makes it an experience of it's own - a level above most stereo LPs of the era.

Beyond the sonic engineering, the album captures a cultural crossroads: by 1964 Edmundo Ros, born in Port of Spain in 1910 to a Scottish father and Venezuelan mother, had become the undisputed “King of Latin Music” in Britain, running supper clubs like the Coconut Grove, producing dance schools, BBC broadcasts, and maintaining a high‑society clientele until his club’s decline in the mid‑1960s. Meanwhile Ted Heath, leading Britain’s foremost swing band since the mid‑1940s, remained the symbol of precision and power until his death in 1969. This collaboration was therefore not just musical but strategic: two orchestral traditions confronting changing tastes head‑on, with phase stereo technology as their theatrical canvas.

The venture was expanded in 1966 with Heath vs. Ros Round 2 (Decca PFS 4111), which introduced additional repertoire such as Tiger Rag, Begin the Beguine, Granada, America, and Baby It’s Cold Outside. This second volume maintained the same Phase 4 production ethos and was later reissued in a deluxe 180 g vinyl package mastered at Abbey Road in 2016, often paired with the original in boxed editions, thereby cementing the project’s reputation among big‑band collectors and audiophiles alike.

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Monday, July 28, 2025

Psychedelic Jukebox: [1967] Perpetual Motion Workshop - Won't Come Down

At the center of the project stood Simon T. Stokes and Dave Briggs, both credited with producing and arranging the songs. Stokes penned the A-side, “Infiltrate Your Mind,” while Briggs wrote the B-side, “Won’t Come Down.” The publishing details offer some intriguing clues: “Won’t Come Down” was published by Brigg Songs (ASCAP), and the flipside under T. Stokes Music (BMI)—indicating independent publishing control and hinting at personal investment in what may have been a deeply private recording endeavor. According to Discogs and data on vinyl labels, the release took place in September 1967, likely recorded in Los Angeles, though no studio, engineer, or session musician names have ever been confirmed.

The label itself, Rally Records, was a short-lived West Coast operation. The gap between its known releases—its most active period was in 1965—suggests that by 1967 it had ceased being a formal imprint. This makes the Perpetual Motion Workshop single particularly anomalous, appearing over a year after any previous Rally 45. According to Garage Hangover, a digital archive of forgotten garage and psych bands, the single’s appearance on the label may have stemmed from a revival, a vanity imprint resurrection, or simply a re-use of the Rally brand by its former operators for one last unpromoted issue. There is no evidence of advertising in trade papers like Billboard, nor does the record appear in any regional charts, local gig listings, or radio station tip sheets from the era—rendering its visibility at the time essentially nonexistent.

The sound of “Won’t Come Down” is as telling as its paper trail is opaque. The track is characterized by heavy fuzzed-out guitar leads, drenched in reverb and tape echo, aligning it sonically with the likes of The Music Machine, The Litter, and certain more obscure efforts by bands such as Zakary Thaks or The Human Expression.

The song has drawn comparisons to the “heavy psych” and “acid punk” subsets of garage, yet it lacks the overt distortion and studio trickery of, say, The Monocles’ “Psychedelic (That's Where It's At)” or The Calico Wall’s “I'm A Living Sickness.” Instead, “Won’t Come Down” is curiously restrained: it’s a song about inner turmoil that communicates via limitation—compressed sonic space, reduced structure, and a sense of emotional stasis. This minimalist ethos was not uncommon in 1967, a year that saw a sharp divide between high-concept psychedelic albums like “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” and the rawer, more fragmentary voices of garage bands across the U.S.

Who exactly were Simon T. Stokes and Dave Briggs? Simon Stokes, later known for his outlaw biker rock stylings and association with Captain Beefheart, had already begun developing a distinctive sound marked by grimy distortion and dark lyrical themes. His early output, such as “Voodoo Woman” (1965), shares textural similarities with the A-side of this release. Dave Briggs, however, remains almost entirely undocumented outside of this single. It is unclear whether he was a session musician, local songwriter, or simply a pseudonym. The ASCAP registry confirms his authorship, but offers no further links to other published material under his name.

The B-side, “Won’t Come Down,” was likely the conceptual nucleus of the single. Its more emotionally resonant tone and starker arrangement suggest it may have been the true artistic statement, with “Infiltrate Your Mind” serving as the more conventionally psychedelic cut. The division of writing credits between Briggs and Stokes further supports this theory, hinting at distinct artistic roles within the duo.

The single’s afterlife has been equally ghostlike. It was never repressed, issued on LP, or compiled on any of the mainstream psychedelic box sets of the 1980s or ’90s. It eventually surfaced on rare private compilations such as “The Psychedelic Experience Vol. 4” and “Garage Psychedelia Uncovered,” but in lo-fi form, sourced from collector vinyl. No studio tapes are known to survive, and no official remaster has been attempted. The only accessible versions today are from fan uploads on platforms like YouTube and SoundCloud, often from worn 45s with substantial surface noise.

The fact that no interviews, liner notes, or retrospective credits have emerged points to the possibility that Perpetual Motion Workshop never existed as a performing band. Rather, it was likely a one-time studio configuration, possibly recorded in a few takes with minimal overdubs. This was not unusual for the Los Angeles scene in 1967, which hosted a dense network of independent producers, session musicians, and songwriters floating between temporary outfits. For instance, The Other Half, Clear Light, and The Sons of Adam all shared musicians with overlapping projects, often producing obscure 45s that have since become cult items. In that context, Perpetual Motion Workshop might have been another node in that ephemeral network, with its members never intending more than a single pressing.

Adding to the mystique is the complete absence of visual artifacts. No known photographs, gig posters, press kits, or label ads survive. Even collector-focused databases such as Popsike, MusicStack, and eBay archives only reference the 7-inch in transactional terms—grading quality, matrix numbers, label wear. Some auction listings have described the song as “lost heavy psych,” with prices ranging from $40 to over $120 USD, depending on condition. This suggests that, despite its total lack of mainstream visibility, the record has achieved something akin to cult relic status among genre completists and DJs specializing in obscure late-’60s sides.

You might also like this song from the Psychedelic Jukebox: [1967] Kim Fowley - Reincarnation

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Sunday, July 27, 2025

Review: Donovan - Catch the Wind (Recorded 1965, released 1971)

Fun-Fact: The photo was mirrored by the label, suggesting Donovan
would be playing left-handed, which actually isn't the case.

Rating: 90/100 - Genré's: Folk, Songwriter.

When Donovan's name began circulating in the British folk scene of early 1965, he was swiftly branded as the “British Dylan,” a phrase both promotional and reductive. His first single, “Catch the Wind,” released by Pye Records in the UK in 1965, was already a major hit when Hickory Records in the United States capitalized on his rising profile by releasing a compilation LP in 1971 under the same title: Catch the Wind (LPS 123). Although presented as an album, it was in fact a licensing exercise drawn from Donovan's early Pye material. This very same compilation was also issued the same year (1971) in the UK by Hallmark Records (HMA 200) — a budget imprint under the Pickwick umbrella — targeting a wider but less curated market

The tracklist of LPS 123 and HMA 200, though differing from Donovan's UK debut LP What's Bin Did and What's Bin Hid, shows a marked curatorial sensibility, capturing both his traditional folk grounding and emergent lyrical experimentation. It opens with "Catch the Wind", his debut single, presented here in its original acoustic form with harmonica and sparse accompaniment. This version omits the strings and echo found on the single's more commercial UK mix, allowing Donovan’s Dylanesque phrasing and vocal fragility to take center stage. The song’s meter and minor-key solemnity channel both melancholy and romantic idealism, setting the emotional tone for the compilation.

"Candy Man", a folk-blues standard by Rev. Gary Davis, follows. This rendition, featuring a rolling fingerpicked guitar line, shows Donovan's early adoption of American blues idioms. Though the lyrics carry traditional double entendres, Donovan's interpretation is strikingly innocent, emphasizing melody over innuendo. It sits in contrast to the following track, "The Alamo", a lament for the 1836 siege of the same name. A traditional ballad popularized by Tex Ritter, it finds Donovan performing as a storyteller, reverent and distant, highlighting his narrative instincts rather than protest rhetoric.

Side A continues with "Sunny Goodge Street", one of Donovan's most significant early compositions, and a track that foreshadows his drift toward jazz-inflected psychedelia. With oblique references to hashish and bohemian Soho life, the song is notable for its impressionistic urban imagery. It marks a clear departure from pastoral folk into modernist songwriting. The first side concludes with "Ramblin' Boy", a version of Tom Paxton's poignant ballad of transience and companionship. Unlike many versions by American contemporaries, Donovan's reading is marked by restraint, emphasizing loneliness over nostalgia.

Side B opens with "Universal Soldier", written by Buffy Sainte-Marie, one of the most important protest anthems of the 1960s. Donovan's cover brought the song to broader UK audiences and reached number 5 in the UK singles chart in September 1965. His delivery is soft and haunting, stripping back anger in favor of solemnity. The lyric’s indictment of war’s perpetuators through individual complicity marks a philosophical engagement with pacifism more pointed than anything in his original work at that point.

This is followed by "Little Tin Soldier", penned by Shawn Phillips, a friend and occasional collaborator. The song is a folk fable with moral overtones, and Donovan's interpretation respects its whimsy and melancholy. "Turquoise", a Donovan original, is a gently romantic tune, its harmonic simplicity serving a lyric of pure adoration. The song would later be covered by Joan Baez, further cementing Donovan's role in the transatlantic folk dialogue.

"Goldwatch Blues", written by Mick Softley, is a biting satire of labor bureaucracy and a standout moment in the compilation. Unlike Dylan's more caustic protest songs, Donovan here delivers the song with a mix of bemusement and indignation, reflecting a uniquely British sensibility. The final track, "The Ballad of a Crystal Man", returns to Donovan's own pen. A profoundly anti-war lyric, it uses crystalline imagery to critique militarism, drawing from both Blakean and existential motifs. Its haunting sparseness makes it a fitting close to the compilation.

Though Donovan had no creative control over the assembly of Catch the Wind (LPS 123 / HMA 200), the result is surprisingly cohesive. Its emphasis on socially conscious material, folk storytelling, and poetic introspection positions it as a more deliberately curated body of work than its status as a budget-label compilation would suggest. The inclusion of songs by Sainte-Marie, Softley, Phillips, and Paxton shows Donovan as a conduit for contemporary folk voices, not just an imitator of Dylan.

The recording personnel remain minimal. Most tracks were produced by Terry Kennedy, Peter Eden, and Geoff Stephens, with Donovan's own acoustic guitar and harmonica serving as the primary instrumentation. Some sessions include sparse contributions from bassist Brian Locking and percussionist Skip Alan, though the album’s soundscape is defined by its bare intimacy.

Catch the Wind (Hickory LPS 123 / Hallmark HMA 200) captures the point at which Donovan, still largely unknown, was articulating a voice that would soon find expression in albums like Sunshine Superman (1966). While often overlooked in critical histories, the compilation offers one of the clearest portraits of Donovan as an artist not yet mythologized: a solitary figure navigating the confluence of folk tradition, pacifist conviction, and poetic ambition.

You might also like the reviews I wrote about Donovan's 1965 albums "Fairytale" and "What's Bin Did and What's Bin Hid".

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Saturday, July 26, 2025

Psychedelic Jukebox: [1967] Mom's Boys - Up and Down

The track originally appeared on Freakout U.S.A., a compilation LP released in 1967 by Sidewalk Records (catalog number T-5901), a subsidiary of Capitol Records that specialized in youth-oriented, psychedelic, and B-movie soundtrack material. Sidewalk was founded by Mike Curb, a prolific producer and songwriter who would later become Lieutenant Governor of California. In the 1960s, Curb was known for assembling studio-only bands that performed under a variety of monikers. These acts—The Arrows, The American Revolution, The 13th Power, and Max Frost & The Troopers—often shared overlapping personnel and were created to populate the soundtracks of American International Pictures (AIP) films such as Riot on Sunset Strip and Wild in the Streets.

Mom’s Boys, by all surviving indications, appear to have been one such project. Their inclusion on Freakout U.S.A. is not the only instance of their name appearing in this milieu. On the Riot on Sunset Strip soundtrack, released earlier that same year by Tower Records (T-5065), Mom’s Boys are credited with the track “Children of the Night”. This reinforces the idea that they were not an autonomous performing group, but rather a studio invention engineered to fill out Sidewalk and Tower’s soundtrack rosters. The presence of their music in both Sidewalk and Tower releases—labels closely tied to Curb and AIP—strengthens the assumption that Mom’s Boys functioned as a pseudonym for a group of recurring session players.

Among the names frequently associated with these anonymous session acts is Paul Wibier, a vocalist and songwriter who fronted The 13th Power and contributed to a number of Sidewalk-affiliated releases. Wibier is best known for his work on the Wild in the Streets soundtrack, where he provided the vocals for Max Frost & The Troopers—a fictional band created for the 1968 AIP film of the same name. Tracks like “Shape of Things to Come” and “Fifty Two Percent” were credited to the Troopers, but scholars and collectors agree that Wibier’s voice is unmistakably present. While no definitive documentation links him to Mom’s Boys, the vocal tone and phrasing on Up and Down bear a striking resemblance to Wibier’s performances on Sidewalk material, leading many to speculate that he may have fronted the track under yet another alias.

The recording itself is quintessential garage-psych. The song opens with a moody Hammond organ line that lays a menacing foundation before the vocals enter. Lyrically, it is a narrative of emotional disorientation, captured in lines such as “I’m sittin’ here all alone… that I feel so good inside,” and “I said I’m up and I’m down and I can’t keep my feet on the ground.” Musically, the song builds in intensity, culminating in a searing fuzz guitar solo that cuts through the mix with a rawness typical of Los Angeles garage bands like The Music Machine or The Seeds. At just 2:04 in length, the track delivers a concise but potent burst of psychedelia.

No known physical single of Up and Down was ever released under the Mom’s Boys name. The track survives solely through its inclusion on Freakout U.S.A. and later compilation albums such as Pebbles Vol. 9: Southern California 2, part of the influential Pebbles series curated by Greg Shaw’s Bomp! Records in the late 1970s and 1980s. These compilations played a crucial role in reviving interest in obscure 1960s garage bands, many of whom had released only one or two 45s. However, Mom’s Boys stood out in their absence of any known standalone release or biographical information.

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Friday, July 25, 2025

Evolution of Genré: Glam Rock (1971-'74)

Glam Rock manifests as a bold cultural rupture at the dawn of the 1970s, especially in Britain, where it flourished between 1971 and 1974 before cascading into later forms. It was born as a conscious rebellion against the earnest leanings of late 1960s psychedelic and progressive music, supplanting solemn authenticity with theatrical artifice, performance persona, and flamboyant identity. In Philip Auslander’s book "Performing Glam Rock", the genre is described as “the first fully developed post‑countercultural genre of rock music,” built not on spontaneity or sincerity but on style, pose, and spectacle.

The origins trace back to Marc Bolan of T. Rex, whose March 1971 appearance on Top of the Pops performing “Hot Love” in glitter and satin is widely cited as Glam’s point of inception. That televised moment allowed a generation of teenyboppers publicly to experiment with androgyny and performative gender. Bolan’s 1971 album Electric Warrior further solidified Glam’s aesthetic vocabulary in sound and image. Auslander notes that Bolan pioneered a “queer rock voice” whose implied gender and sexuality were deliberately polymorphous and malleable, intentionally disrupting the link between musician and "authentic" self.

Shortly thereafter, David Bowie amplified that theatrical impulse into an art form through his Ziggy Stardust persona. By late 1971 and into 1972 Bowie fused mime, science‑fiction narrative, elaborate makeup, and gender play into his live shows and albums, consciously framing identity as performance rather than expression. Bowie declared, “rock is a pose,” aligning closely with Judith Butler’s later theories of gender performativity. Bowie himself said in an early interview: “I think glam rock is a lovely way to categorize me and it’s even nicer to be one of the leaders of it” circa 1972, reflecting both defiance and ownership of the emerging genre.

From a stylistic standpoint, Glam Rock married driving 1950s rock‑and‑roll rhythms and bubblegum pop hooks with lavish studio production. It favored danceable, hook‑laden songs over extended virtuoso jams, producing music that sounded simple yet felt mediatized—designed for television and spectacle rather than introspective consumption.

Guitar Riffs – the Driving Force
At the heart of many glam rock songs are bold, often repetitive guitar riffs. They provide a direct, compelling structure and supply the propulsive energy reminiscent of classic rock’n’roll, while also anticipating the grittiness of later punk. These riffs are rarely complex, but they are strikingly effective – sharp and edgy in songs like T. Rex’s 20th Century Boy, or heavy and anthemic in tracks by Sweet or Slade. Their clarity and impact deliberately contrast with the virtuosity and intricacy of the contemporaneous progressive rock movement.

Rhythm – Clear and Effective
Rhythm is essential to glam rock’s appeal. The songs typically rely on straightforward, danceable beats rooted in pop, yet delivered with the power of rock. Many tracks follow a steady, almost march-like pulse that gives them weight and momentum. Drumming plays a key role in this: crisp snare hits, solid bass drums, and simple but punchy patterns form a driving backbone – perfect for the theatrical stage performances that defined the genre.

Piano – Glamour and Drama
An often overlooked yet vital component of the glam rock sound is the piano. Unlike in traditional rock settings, the piano in glam rock is not merely an accompaniment but an expressive, dynamic instrument in its own right. Arrangements range from sparkling chord progressions to dramatic flourishes. Especially in the works of artists like David Bowie or Roxy Music, piano became a signature element, enhancing both the emotional range and baroque theatricality at the heart of glam aesthetics.

Visually, Glam was a collage of Victorian decadence, cabaret, sci‑fi kitsch, and camp theatrics embodied in glitter, platform boots, satin, flamboyant makeup and outrageous hairstyles; these elements were not mere adornment but narrative tools in crafting personas.

Cultural significance lay in Glam’s destabilization of hegemonic masculinity. As Auslander stresses, glam performers were clearly men who had adopted feminine decoration, not aspiring to be women but deliberately ornamenting masculinity with feminine codes to subvert normative definitions of gender. This was a powerful gesture of queerness within mainstream rock, particularly resonant in Britain, which had begun national discussions on sexuality during legalization of homosexuality in the late 1960s. By contrast, the United States was less receptive, often succumbing to “homosexual panic,” limiting Glam’s impact across the Atlantic.

Glam Rock’s peak years, from 1971 to around 1974, saw chart dominance in the UK. Slade, Mud and Wizzard each reached Christmas number‑one hits—Merry Xmas Everybody, Lonely This Christmas, and I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday—becoming cultural touchstones well into later decades. Yet by mid‑1974, critics convened symbolic “Deaths of Glitter” in Los Angeles, and by 1976, Punk had emerged to reject Glam’s exaggerated theatricality and reinstate raw, unmediated expression.

Furthermore, the Sweet played a pivotal role in the glam rock explosion of the early 1970s, blending catchy pop melodies with a harder rock edge that helped define the genre’s sound. Originating from Sheffield, England, the band rose to fame with a string of hits produced by the songwriting duo Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman. Songs like Ballroom Blitz (1973), Block Buster! (1973), and Fox on the Run (1974) became glam rock anthems, combining infectious hooks with powerful guitar riffs and Brian Connolly’s distinctive vocals. Their music balanced the theatricality and flamboyance of glam with a raw, energetic performance style that resonated widely, particularly in the UK and Europe.

Visually, the Sweet embraced glam’s characteristic glitter and glamor but were somewhat less androgynous than contemporaries like David Bowie or Marc Bolan, instead favoring bold costumes and platform boots that reinforced their energetic stage presence. Despite being sometimes criticized as “manufactured” due to their close work with Chinn and Chapman, The Sweet’s musicianship and songwriting have earned enduring respect. Their success during glam’s heyday, marked by numerous Top 10 UK hits, cemented them as key players in the movement.

Even as Glam faded from charts, its aftershocks endured. Simon Reynolds frames Glam not as a discrete era but as an elastic idea of pop, one that shaped the theatrical self‑consciousness of later icons like Prince, Lady Gaga, and Kanye West. He characterizes Glam’s ethos as “a place where the sublime and the ridiculous merge and become indistinguishable,” a logic that persists in how fame and persona are constructed in the 21st century.

Philip Auslander’s work remains central to understanding Glam as a performance strategy. He defines three identity levels every performer negotiates: the real person (the performer as human), the performance persona (self‑presentation), and the song‑character. Glam intentionally foregrounded the gap among these layers, staging identity as inherently constructed rather than authentic.

T. Rex, David Bowie, Roxy Music, The Sweet and Suzi Quatro each embody different strands of Glam’s aesthetic and gender politics. Ferry’s art‑school sophistication and vocal ambiguity in Roxy blurred stylistic boundaries, while Quatro offered a striking inversion of femininity through her tomboy persona and dominant bass playing—challenging both gender expectations and rock’s authenticity discourse.

Mott the Hoople’s “All the Young Dudes” (written by Bowie) became a glam anthem, celebrated as “a Gay Anthem… a rallying call to young dudes to come out… proud of it,” yet Bowie himself described it not as an anthem of hope but as a message of apocalypse, linking glam identity play to darker societal narratives.

Glam Rock was influenced by art‑rock and art‑pop sensibilities. Bryan Ferry and Brian Eno (of Roxy Music) came from art‑school backgrounds, embedding influences from Pop‑Art icon Richard Hamilton and cybernetic theory into their music and aesthetic framing. Simon Frith described Roxy Music as the “archetypical art pop band,” and Ferry’s approach is emblematic of glam's synthesis of commercial pop and avant‑garde art.

Critically, some writers such as youth culture scholars Ian Taylor, David Wall and Dick Hebdige dismissed Glam as superficial consumerism or escapism—Taylor and Wall argued Glam neutralized the emancipatory potential of earlier progressive rock, depicting Bowie as a fashionable tool of capitalist culture. Hebdige acknowledged glam offered identity space but criticized its narcissism and elitism.

Yet feminist scholars and cultural critics recognized its liberatory aspects. Glam offered teenybopper fans, especially girls and LGBTQ+ youth, a realm of self‑invention and queer visibility—spaces often neglected in mainstream.

You might also like the review I wrote about the album "Suzi Quatro - Suzi Quatro (1973)".

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Thursday, July 24, 2025

Haight-Ashbury in the 1960s - The Epicenter of the Hippie Movement

The Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco during the 1960s stands as a seminal chapter in the history of American counterculture, emblematic of the hippie movement’s aspirations, contradictions, and cultural heritage. Far beyond its popular image as simply the “Summer of Love” neighborhood, Haight-Ashbury evolved into a complex social experiment marked by artistic innovation, radical community-building, and transformative activism. To truly understand its iconic status and the ecosystem it nurtured requires a deep dive into the myriad individuals, collectives, and projects that shaped its identity—layers often obscured by romanticized retellings.

By the mid-1960s, Haight-Ashbury was a geographically defined but socially fluid space on the western edge of San Francisco. The neighborhood’s Victorian homes and tree-lined streets, once seen as declining real estate, became a magnet for youth seeking alternative lifestyles, attracted by affordable rents and the promise of community. This transformation was catalyzed by the successful grassroots opposition to the Panhandle Freeway, which would have destroyed parts of Golden Gate Park and the adjacent neighborhood. This preservation of space was not incidental; it created the physical conditions for the burgeoning counterculture, as author Dennis McNally notes in his detailed chronicles of the era.

One early figure whose influence is often underappreciated is Peggy Caserta, who in 1965 opened Mnasidika, a boutique at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury streets. Caserta’s hand-crafted bell-bottom jeans quickly became a sartorial symbol of the movement, worn by icons such as Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead. The garment transcended mere fashion; it articulated the hippies’ desire for self-expression, rebellion against mainstream norms, and communal identity. The shop itself was a hub where artistic production met political statement, a microcosm of Haight-Ashbury’s cultural synthesis.

Central to the neighborhood’s social fabric was the Diggers, a radical collective whose ethos combined anarchism, theater, and mutual aid. Founded by Emmett Grogan and including figures like Peter Coyote, the Diggers turned the streets into a stage for social critique and practical support. Their initiatives included organizing free meals in Golden Gate Park, where hundreds gathered daily; baking “Digger Bread” in improvised ovens; and establishing free stores where anyone could obtain clothing, food, or household goods without exchange of money. Perhaps most significant was their Communication Company, which disseminated mimeographed broadsides—leaflets blending poetry, satire, and political messaging—amplifying a decentralized countercultural voice. These actions, as scholars emphasize, were not merely charitable but consciously performative, reflecting a philosophy that the act of giving was a revolutionary redefinition of community.

The Human Be-In of January 14, 1967, marks a watershed moment in Haight-Ashbury’s public identity. This event synthesized elements from the Beat Generation, psychedelic music, and emerging New Age spirituality. Timothy Leary’s exhortation to “Turn on, tune in, drop out” was delivered to an audience estimated at 30,000 people, a potent call to consciousness expansion and rejection of conformity. Bands like Jefferson Airplane and The Grateful Dead provided a live soundtrack that fused folk, rock, and emerging psychedelia. Poets such as Allen Ginsberg recited verses that bridged East and West spiritual traditions, lending the event a prophetic aura. Media coverage, however, often sensationalized the scene, reducing its complexity to stereotypes and contributing to an influx of visitors that overwhelmed Haight-Ashbury’s fragile infrastructure.

Newspaper clipping about Hippies on Haight-Ashbury district, April 30, 1967.

In response to the emergent healthcare needs of this rapidly growing community, the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic was founded on June 7, 1967. Spearheaded by David E. Smith, then a medical student at UCSF, the clinic embodied the ideal that healthcare was a universal right, not a privilege. It began as a small, volunteer-run operation providing immediate care for “bad trips,” injuries, addiction, and sexually transmitted infections, conditions exacerbated by widespread drug experimentation and transient populations. The clinic’s funding was supplemented by benefit concerts organized by Bill Graham, with performances by luminaries including Janis Joplin, Led Zeppelin, and The Grateful Dead. Over time, the clinic became a pioneering model for harm reduction and community-based healthcare, a legacy that endured until its closure in 2019 amid shifting political and economic pressures.

Parallel to the Free Clinic’s emergence was the creation of Huckleberry House on June 18, 1967. This institution was the United States’ first dedicated runaway youth shelter, providing counseling and refuge for teenagers fleeing abusive homes or seeking the promise of freedom represented by Haight-Ashbury. Founded by a coalition of religious groups and social activists, Huckleberry House innovated in its emphasis on voluntary support rather than punitive measures, reflecting the counterculture’s broader ethos of compassion and autonomy. It became a vital resource amid escalating homelessness and substance abuse among young people attracted by the neighborhood’s allure.

Beyond healthcare and social services, Haight-Ashbury was a vibrant hub of artistic production. Photographers like Elaine Mayes, who lived in a commune on Central Street in 1967–68, documented the neighborhood’s residents with sensitivity and nuance, capturing everyday moments rather than media sensationalism. Her portraits reveal a community composed of students, beat poets, musicians, and everyday bohemians, offering a counterpoint to dominant narratives of chaos and decadence. Similarly, Herb Greene, intimately connected to musicians such as Jerry Garcia and Janis Joplin, produced iconic images that have become visual shorthand for the era. His photographs, now archived and exhibited by institutions like the San Francisco Counterculture Museum, are valued not only for their aesthetic but for their ethnographic insight into a complex, transient population.

Performance art also flourished, most notably through the flamboyant troupe known as The Cockettes, founded in 1969 under the leadership of Hibiscus. Emerging from communal living arrangements in the neighborhood, their psychedelic drag musicals, performed in small theaters and storefronts, combined camp, spiritual ritual, and radical queer politics. Their shows challenged conventional gender norms and theatrical forms, embodying the counterculture’s commitment to boundary-pushing creativity and inclusivity.

The underground press served as another crucial cultural artery. The San Francisco Oracle, published from September 1966 through early 1968, exemplified the fusion of Beat poetry, psychedelic art, and radical politics. Contributors such as Allen Cohen, Michael Bowen, and Allen Ginsberg produced a publication that was at once a manifesto, art object, and spiritual guidebook. With a peak circulation of around 125,000 copies, the Oracle disseminated Haight-Ashbury’s ethos nationwide, inspiring a generation of underground newspapers and zines.

Despite its idealism, by late 1967 the neighborhood faced severe challenges. Overcrowding swelled the population well beyond the infrastructure’s capacity. Drug addiction, particularly heroin, increased alongside homelessness and crime. The commercialization of the hippie image led to the very spectacle and consumerism the movement sought to escape. In a symbolic act of protest and mourning, the Diggers organized the “Death of Hippie” funeral procession in October 1967. A coffin labeled “Hippie — Son of Media” was carried through the streets, an incisive critique of the media’s role in co-opting and diluting the movement’s original ideals.

Haight-Ashbury in the 1960s cannot be reduced to a mere locus of psychedelic music or fashion trends. It was a living laboratory of community care, political experimentation, and cultural innovation. The neighborhood incubated models of mutual aid that influenced harm reduction clinics and social services for decades to follow. Its artistic output reshaped visual culture and performance. The iconic bands, from the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane to Big Brother and the Holding Company, functioned within and contributed to a broader social ecology that included free clinics, youth shelters, radical theater, and underground media. The neighborhood’s ongoing heritage lies in these interconnected projects—embodying a conviction that social change arises not just through protest but through creating alternative institutions and everyday acts of generosity. As much as Haight-Ashbury became a myth, it was also a tangible experiment in communal living and direct action that continues to inspire those seeking new ways to live and care for one another outside the logic of commerce.

You might also be interested in the article I wrote about Ken Kesey, the Merry Pranksters, and the Acid Tests.