1973: Guru Guru - Guru Guru

There’s something to be said for a band that sounds like they have fun playing together. If you are familiar with the most well-known names in Krautrock — Amon Duul II, Kraftwerk, Neu!, Can, and Faust—then you can appreciate that this particular period in German music isn’t exactly known for bands with a light-hearted sense of humor. So imagine my surprise after hearing Guru Guru whip through a 13-minute medley that ends with a tribute to Eddie Cochran. I guess Germans did have a good time. Who knew?

What you may expect from a band that jammed with Amon Duul II and Can is a moody, atonal mind-fuck of an album. What you actually get is a view of the German equivalent to rock pranksters Frank Zappa, The Residents, Ween, or even (gulp) Primus. Don’t let those comparisons scare you away, though. Guru Guru don’t sound like any of the aforementioned groups (save for maybe Zappa at times), but they do have two things in common with all of them: a damaged sense of humor, and the musical ability to melt your brain if they so desire.

Guru Guru’s first cut, “Samantha’s Rabbit,” starts off with awkwardly propulsive drumming before settling into a hybrid between the fractured melodies of early Pink Floyd and the more traditional blooz-rawk of Cream. However, it’s the song structures that truly throw the listener for a loop. When things become too pedestrian, the band stops on a dime and heads to the polar opposite of where you may have thought they were going. Perverse? Maybe. Interesting? Definitely.

As the album progresses, it becomes increasingly surreal, as if the band is living in a self-imposed psychedelic fantasy. “Woman Drum” sounds like the trio has imagined themselves sitting in the clouds, smoking hash out of a hookah with Little Richard and Chuck Berry. “Der Elektrolurch” is all tribal toms and deftly plucked electric guitar that conjures up a collaboration between Popol Vuh and the Grateful Dead, before devolving into a Faust-like mush of disjointed electronics and spoken word. The band then comes full-circle to kick out some echoed arena-rock histrionics that will make you wonder if they seriously wanted to rock you, or if they’re just taking the piss out of the musical trends of their era.

On the other hand, with Guru Guru, trying to figure out whether or not the band is joking is hardly the point. It takes a certain type of album to remind you that having a good time is all that should really matter. The music here doesn’t blow (sober) minds, and you definitely won’t develop an emotional attachment to it, but in its own way Guru Guru is a mind-fuck album in a genre packed with mind-fuck albums, just not in the way that you were expecting it to be.

1967: Blossom Toes - We Are Ever So Clean

Pioneering in modern music usually follows some chronological track that’s easy to follow. Blues, for example, can be traced down the Mississippi River to its southernmost deltas, where men in shacks laced together solemn guitar signatures and the lyrical laments of field workers. Most music, in fact, can similarly trace its origin to a specific source. Psychedelic rock, however, the music that soundtracked the ‘flower power’ movement, doesn’t have such a clear lineage. The daunting volume of bands that, between the years 1966 and 1969, were willing to share their standard rock setup (guitar-bass-drums-piano) with a more expansive collection of sitars, strings, brass, organs, and woodwinds would contrarily suggest a nebulous, spontaneous musical origin if any existed at all. Recording efforts put particular pressure on producers, who each tried to capture the sonic spirit of an expanding sociopolitical consciousness (particularly of Asian culture) that defied any existing convention. The swell of music produced under the Flower Power banner all seemed to adopt some form of wayward, blurred, day-glo, meter-hopping motif. And like all movements and fads, a certain deconvolution was necessary in order to discern genuine conviction from empty fashion.

The Blossom Toes’ 1967 LP We Are Ever So Clean will forever have a place in flower power while at the same time, existing somewhere on this continuum between creativity (“Mrs. Murphy’s Budgerigar” sounds like a template for The Zombies’ 1968 Odyssey and Oracle) and fashion (the LSD-placebo laden, “The Remarkable Saga of the Frozen Dog”). “Look at Me, I’m You” introduces the record with a driving two-chord guitar line. The song then shifts into bubbling vocal harmonies and abstract lyrical lines that swirl in and out of the speakers: “The air is filled with coal dust/ The rain is making me rust.” Then an orchestral coda ensues for a few measures before the song shifts back into the driving rock that frames the song. While such schizophrenia does well to characterize psychedelic rock music, it’s poorly executed here with its layers of awkward texture. Simply put, The Blossom Toes’ adherence to blues-rock rhythms create rigid song structures that don’t lend well to these time-signature bends and instrumental arrangements that turn on a dime. This contrasts, for example, with Love’s “You Set the Scene” that, with its loose jazz rhythm, can readily be crafted into varying textures and arrangements. In spite of its auspicious introduction, We Are Ever So Clean has plenty of rousing moments, the best of which happen when a more homogeneous approach is employed. “Love Is” is an elegant song that could very well be a root of chamber pop as we know it today. It’s a short, ruminative piece with the perfect amount of tempered ambition. “Mister Watchmaker” compels in the same sense. In a perfect world, “Late for Tea” would rival “Time of the Season” and “With a Little Help From My Friends” as psychedelic rock’s crowning anthem.

As a DeLorean writer, I’m often leery of reissue bonus tracks, but the strength of those included on this collection bare mentioning. The live versions of “Mister Watchmaker” and “Love Is” invite the listener into an even greater intimacy than their beautiful recorded counterparts. A confident and loyal cover of Bob Dylan’s “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” serves to tie this collection into the context of the late 1960s pop. Included also is an instrumental version of “Look at Me, I’m You” that drives forth with genuine rock abandon. Clearly, its finished counterpart that found its way onto the record fell victim to an overzealous editing session. Its inclusion is telling: allowing us to glimpse the sketchpad of ideas stirring among the band and the unfortunate role that production had in diluting it. And it’s this notion that prevents We Are Ever So Clean from being a landmark psychedelic record. Ambition and zeal. Surely a sign of the times.

1988: The Go-Betweens - 16 Lovers Lane

Have you ever seen Twin Peaks, David Lynch’s TV show with Mark Frost? It was a cult hit on ABC about 20 ago, and the whole series was just released on DVD in October 2007. If you’ve only seen Lynch’s movies, then let me assure you, Peaks is just as crazy and wonderful as anything else he’s ever done -- if not more so, mainly because it’s a product of network television. His weirdness isn’t watered down; it’s buried and blurred -- lots of freaky sex and mysticism scuttling underneath sincere melodrama.

16 Lovers Lane is a pop record with a similar vision. On the surface, it’s bright and shiny and deceptively sweet, while swirling down below are insistent themes of pain, destruction, obsession, and abuse. And there’s a strange tension to the music itself -- the crisp guitar lines skitter this way and that, colliding at odd angles. But it’s catchy as hell and so romantic.

The Go-Betweens were a breathy indie-pop group from Brisbane, Australia, based around the songwriting partnership of singers/guitarists Robert Forster and Grant McLennan (to be perfectly reductive, concerning their respective styles, Forster was Lennon and McLennan was McCarthy). Their 12-year career produced five albums of stunning beauty and accessibility, and their inexplicable lack of mainstream recognition eventually became something of a joke among critics. “The quintessential cult band of the ‘80s,” says Allmusic.com.

The band had been living in London for five years when, in 1987, they relocated to Sidney and recorded what would be their final, and greatest, effort. They had a new producer, Mark Wallis -- “very much a producer producer,” according to Forster. “There were large amounts of time when we weren’t in the studio and he would be there... diddling and doodling and polishing and polishing.” The record ended up being mostly acoustic, with an emphasis on fuzzy pop atmosphere and lush string arrangements.

The songs on 16 Lovers Lane are all perfect. McLennan’s “Streets of Your Town” was the closest the group ever came to a radio hit. “Quiet Heart” rips off U2 and then puts them to shame. But if the album has a centerpiece, it’s Forster’s “Clouds”: “Blue air I crave/ Blue air I breathe/ They once chopped my heart the way you chop a tree,” he drones over sheets of twinkling guitar effects, accompanied ever so slightly by violinist/vocalist Amanda Brown. “Visions of blue/ I’m angry I’m wise/ And you/ You’re under cloudy skies” Anyone who is capable of love should hear “Clouds” at least once before they or their lover die.

The band split up in 1989, but in 2000 Forster and McLennan found their way back into each other's arms and released a slew of decent new material, even winning an Australian Recording Industry Association Music Award for Best Adult Contemporary Album (???). On May 6, 2006, Grant McLennan died of a heart attack. He was 48.

I imagine that if I ever write and direct a quirky, autobiographical indie flick, The Go-Betweens will find their way onto the soundtrack, right alongside Nick Drake and Yo La Tengo.

What are you listening to?

The Go-Betweens. Ever hear of ‘em?

No.

You have to hear this one song. It’ll change your life.

1968: Otis Redding - The Dock of the Bay

“(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” was supposed to inaugurate a venture into new musical horizons for Otis Redding. Known principally for his Stax-style deep southern soul – with its raucous gospel-influenced vocals, blasts of brass, and bluesy grooves – Redding’s new record disparately mixed the bucolic sounds of country and folk with his already sundry soul repertoire to create a truly distinct, pioneering sound. Equal parts Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, and The Animals, it was an oddly effective melding of dissonant musical touchstones. Redding’s melancholic tenor and wistful, indolent lyrics (“Cause I’ve had nothing to live for/ And look like nothin’s gonna’ come my way/ So I’m just gonna’ sit on the dock of the bay/ Watching the tide roll away/ Ooo, I'm sittin’ on the dock of the bay/Wastin’ time,”) resonated even more pronouncedly in the aftermath of what occurred just three short days after the recording of this record.

Redding's new horizons were never fully reached, as providence had other plans. He and four members of The Bar-Keys, his backup band, were killed when the plane they were traveling on crashed into Lake Monona on December 10, 1967. The posthumously released album that followed, The Dock of the Bay, proved an effective elegy, as its mixture of singles, B-sides, and unreleased tracks dating back to 1965 showcase what made Redding such a beloved, and iconic figure: his ability to play Casanova.

Redding was virtually peerless when heart-wrenchingly pouring his heart out. The skilfully composed ballad “I Love You More Than Words Can Say,” with its hushed, persistent string section, slowly builds, as Redding pleads with his would-be lover: “Living without you is so painful/ I was tempted to call it a day/ You’ve got me in your hand, why can’t you understand.” Redding’s remake of the Five Keys’ seminal doo-wop classic “The Glory of Love” is a brilliant transformation, as he turns it into grand, rousing gospel. Beginning as a dirge of lost love (“let your little heart just cry a little”), Redding soon begins shouting about “the glory of love” – backed by coronation-esque trumpet bursts – like a prophet spreading the gospel of affection and devotion.

Redding’s playful side is on display as well. On “Let Me Come Home,” he plays the part of a homesick lover expounding the positive aspects of breaking up (“the makeup sex”), backed by a stellar blues groove. Meanwhile, the second most recognizable track on the album, the Top 40 hit “Tramp,” finds Redding involved in a flirty repartee with his favorite duet partner, songstress Carla Thomas: “I tell you one thing/ Well tell me/ I'm the only son-of-a-gun this side of the Sun/ You're a tramp, Otis/ No I'm not/ I don't care what you say, you're still a tramp/ What's wrong with that?”

The blues number “Ole Man Trouble” proves to be an apropos conclusion to an album that was supposed to dream so highly, but tragically never had the opportunity to do so. Pleading with “ole man trouble” to “find... someone else to pick on,” Redding proved himself to be prophetic in getting “a little worried.” Although it will never be known what heights Redding would have achieved after “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay,” The Dock of the Bay proves the canon of soul classics he left stand up perfectly well on their own to any standard of taste.

2001: Shuggie Otis - Inspiration Information

Tell me if this story sounds familiar: "Could have been, promising, young artist" blows his wad with overly ambitious magnum opus that goes largely ignored by the mainstream, destroying his confidence and prematurely ending the musician's budding career. Re-released 27 years later, the album enjoys a massive PR blitz and gets grouped alongside world superstars ranging from David Byrne to Fela Kuti, while the rock critics provide an unceasing parade of linguistic fellatio in order to finally give the album the credibility it has always deserved.

Well, its a story that does not seem particularly unusual given the immediacy of the internet age, the essentialness of music marketing, and the (sneeze) perpetual lack of musical talent in the "mainstream" channels. If anything, the story should seem god-damned old by now, given all the impressive and effusive praise that has been heaped upon the 2001 Luaka Bop reissue of Inspiration Information. However, even though similar tales have recently been all the rage (Nick Drake, Daniel Johnston, Bobb Trimble, etc.), very few can match the scope of the Shuggie Otis saga. This cat really should have been famous and it is truly amazing that Inspiration Information was virtually ignored for a generation.

As the son of the legendary R&B bandleader Johnny Otis, Shuggie proved to be a prodigal musician at an early age, cultivating urban legends about his guitar skill, afro, and wispy mustache while he was still a preteen. As a full-teen he had the opportunity (and talent) to gig with his dad and hobnob with some of the most revered rock and blues stars of the day, playing guitar (and getting title credit) on all the tracks of Al Kooper's 1969 In Session album when he was only 15. In 1974, at the tender age of 21, Shuggie released his third solo album Inspiration Information, a musical masterwork that would have finally broken him free from his father's traditional boogie ‘n’ blues image, and it should have propelled him into the limelight on his own terms. Sadly, the album tanked.

In perfect hindsight, what makes Inspiration Information a phenomenal effort is probably what prevented it from becoming successful when it was released -- Shuggie had too many creative ideas and wanted to be all things to all people. But when you’re expecting to sell records as a commercial recording artist, you can’t please everyone! You can’t tickle the Sly and the Family Stone sound and expect to win over the partying fan base, especially when the next track is a slow, introspective blues number. So, similar to listening to Brian Wilson's SMiLE, we (as savvy, contemporary music listeners) now get pleasure both from wallowing in the overabundance of Shuggie’s musical cleverness as well as from the guilty joy of witnessing a young genius put his heart on the line, not yet seasoned with the courage to say "no" to an idea. Playing nearly every instrument on the album (except orchestral), Shuggie essentially makes a supreme pizza – sprinkling flavors of pop, psychadelic rock, blues, Detroit soul, jazz fusion, stoner jam, funk, sensitive introspection, and electronica – baked in Southern California sunshine. It’s the soundtrack to a DJ Shadow, Cee-Lo, Gilles Peterson, and Beck circle jerk.

Although touching on many of the same influences, Shuggie was careful to distance Inspiration Information from the over self-indulgence that plagued many of the other "funky" artists of the 1970s. In addition to complex chord changes, lush instrumentation, and fractional rhythms that give those who listen to a lot of music a chance to pop off, the album works best because it is simply pretty. Including the last four songs on the 2001 reissue, which were previously recorded on his Freedom Flight album, the album maintains cohesion and has a progressive, if not overly Morning Becomes Eclectic flow, shifting seamlessly between trippy meadows and lonesome dance halls. The title track (sampled by Digable Planets), "Strawberry Letter 23" (successfully covered by The Brothers Johnson and later jacked by OutKast), ""Aht Uh Mi Hed"" (the most accessible), and ""XL-30"" (early electronica) are the songs that get the most attention, but as just mentioned, this album is really best listened to as a whole album that transports you to a more mellow, more self-aware place.

Inspiration Information’s sympathy-inducing back story and the corresponding plethora of written critiques fighting for the album’s historical relevance both help the listener keep the music in perspective, but it's all superfluous fodder unneeded for the enjoyment of the album. Inspiration Information is a cheeky, pleasing album that is a perfect backdrop to driving along the Pacific Coast Highway or for stoned-unkempt-‘70s-pubic hair sex.

1969: Alexander Spence - Oar

"There is a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased that line." -Oscar Levant

It is rather unfortunate the train-wreck magnetism mental illness creates on the works of musicians, from the took-so-much-acid-he-lost-his-shit stories of Syd Barrett, to the uncomfortable-to-watch mental breakdown documentary footage of The Devil and Daniel Johnston, along with every other stop on the crazy train you could come up with. It seems glorifying the tales of madness surrounding those unlucky enough to suffer from their psychological conditions goes hand in hand with any of the music they recorded, even giving them an enhanced mystique. Whether all these extracurricular tidbits of musician's lives serve to put their art into context, or perhaps even to overshadow it, it is almost inevitable you'll get one with the other. It may be completely cliché of me to once again exploit the saga that unfolded leading up to the recording of Alexander ‘Skip’ Spence’s Oar, but it's almost impossible not to. If you're already familiar with his sensationalistic history, bear with me while I get the rest of you up to speed on the cult of Oar.

Skip Spence found himself in San Francisco during the mid-‘60s and quickly made his way into the upper echelon of the psychedelic music scene in that city as the drummer for Jefferson Airplane on their first album and as a founding guitarist in Moby Grape. Skip took part in the cultural spirit of all that was going on at that groovy time and place, including the copious drug-ingesting hippie ethos. While Moby Grape were recording their second album in New York in ‘68, the events that allegedly unfolded went something along the lines of the following:

Skip was hanging out with a groupie who was deep into black magic. The groupie fed Spence a heavy dose of LSD, convinced him his bandmates were possessed with demons that were out to get him, and next thing you know ol' Skip is chasing the other guys with a fireman's axe, attempting to chop them into little pieces. Fast-forward to a six-month stint of staring at the white walls in the criminal ward of Bellevue Hospital where the diagnosed schizophrenic Spence must have been sautéing in his creative juices, because after being released, he bought a motorcycle and, while wearing his hospital jammies, drove to Nashville to record his one and only solo album in a two-week exploration of his fractured soul. Is this not the fantastic shit that a movie is just waiting to be made about?

Apparently, the peace-and-love generation weren't ready for such a rough-around-the-edges record rippling with dark undercurrents. The Manson Family had yet to make headlines, and the Stones had yet to play at the summer of love hangover known as Altamont. The album tanked upon release.

Listening to Oar leaves me feeling unhinged. I'd assume only the bravest explorers of mental terrain could handle the heavy unease of these songs on their psyches. It’s like a lullaby to a nightmare, a schizophrenia soundtrack, a channeling of personal fire and brimstone with analogies to angels and demons. As patronizing as putting an outsider artists on a pedestal comes across, there is an allure to being the voyeur looking into another person’s inner turmoils.

But all pomp and circumstance aside, Oar was also one of the very first albums where every vocal, instrument, and overdub were recorded by one person only. Skip did it all. It was a rare event back in the day. In the eyes of many, such a feat is nothing short of genius. Some of the lyrics contain the corny hippy dippy sentiments of the time such as "Little Hands." Others, like "Dixie Peach Promenade," feature double entendre vulgarities of lust aimed at the fairer sex that are far grittier than anything seen on an episode of Three's Company. It ranks up there with Captain Beefheart's Lick My Decals Off, Baby as one the most misogynistic odes to sex to come out of the free-love era. "Books of Moses" overdubs the sound of a thunderstorm to the tale Charlton Heston brought to the masses, cryptically delivering it in a voice that sounds like it ate gravel and lemons for lunch.

Oar definitely isn't one you’ll play to set the mood with that special someone, nor is it going to get that party started on a Friday night. It is, however, one that brilliantly gives you a glimpse into the dark corners of humanity.

There's a lot of good music out there, and it's not all being released this year. With DeLorean, we aim to rediscover overlooked artists and genres, to listen to music historically and contextually, to underscore the fluidity of music. While we will cover reissues here, our focus will be on music that's not being pushed by a PR firm.