1970: Harbinger - Second Coming

To those of us under the age of 30, Dave Bixby’s spiritual hippie-folk songwriting will likely elicit a collection of grimaces. To those who attended liberal arts colleges where ‘townies’ trolled about campus with their white-boy dreadlocks and secondhand garb, Harbinger’s Second Coming isn’t going to do much to gratify. Let’s face it: we’ve been dealing with this shit for years. There’s no possible way that some dude with an acoustic guitar and ‘spiritual’ (but not religious!) lyrics could break through our calloused anti-hippie disposition. But while Harbinger’s Second Coming (recently re-released on Guerssen) will be an easy record to overlook, it doesn’t have to be.

Taken earnestly, Second Coming really is quite beautiful. Although you might have to circumvent a few temporal biases in order to enjoy it, Dave Bixby’s songwriting is a powerful product indeed. He hopes, he mopes, but above all else, Dave Bixby feels god’s influence in his every movement. A similar spiritual affinity characterized Bixby’s previous work (the devastatingly lonesome Ode To Quetzalcoatl), but on Second Coming we discover that he’s finally pulled himself together.

As a result, the work is much more optimistic than its predecessor; instead of appealing to god through his isolation, Bixby expresses his spirituality more directly. He’s not writing explicitly for himself anymore — Second Coming finds a recovered Dave Bixby, and he wants to tell you about what he’s seen.

1970s: V/A - Afro-Rock Vol. 1

Strut has a habit of re-releasing excellent compilations, and Afro-Rock Vol. 1 is no exception. Originally released on Kona in 2001, nine years later the collection still comes as close to perfectly presenting a panoply of afro-rock as is necessary. From jazz-inflected big band rockers to groove-heavy soul influenced dance tunes, Afro-Rock Vol. 1 trots through the gamut like so many dikdik and puku.

Whereas the Nigeria 70 compilation focuses more on documenting the Nigerian scene’s influence on the larger world of afrobeat, Afro-Rock acts as a smaller, rarer, and farther ranging collection. Fela Kuti is not present; rather, we get to check out some lesser known names like Dackin Dacking (whose super-smoking track “Yuda” is this author’s current favorite on the album) and Super Mambo 69. Or perhaps your taste is more akin to The Mercury Dance Band track, which features some colonial dance band touches that tie into African roots music more often associated with calypso or highlife.

Purchase the CD and allow yourself to learn a thing or two from the excellent liner notes. The compilation is an excellent introduction to what could become a lifelong obsession: unearthing rare afro-rock gems. Geraldo Pino, the “Nigerian James Brown” (pictured above), lays it down in a succinct fashion: “it’s really really heavy.”


1971: Los Jaivas - “Foto De Primera Comunión”

The psychedelic and progressive musical movements of the 1960s and 70s gave birth to a boatload of great bands, and left behind a central canon of brilliant albums we hold in high esteem today. It also – let’s face it – engendered some really terrible, indulgent messes. Most interestingly, though, is how quickly these predominately American and British trends influenced musicians in areas of the world one might have found surprising at the time: Asia and the Middle East, Australia and New Zealand, and so on. By and large, these groups weeded out the drug-addled excess of American psych and prog and blended what was left with the music of their past. The results were often extraordinary.

But the heavy hand of psychedelia landed most firmly on South America. Brazil’s rock revolution is well documented; it spawned groups like Os Mutantes, who became a legitimate sensation the world over, and who continue to play and create to this day. Less known outside their native Chile were Los Jaivas. Originally dubbed High Bass (rumor has it the name came from a guitar amplifier whose only knobs were labeled “high” and “bass”), the group soon changed it to the soundalike “Jaivas,” which, loosely translated, means “little crabs.”

(Read an excellent, if clumsily translated, Jaivas bio here.)

“Foto De Primera Comunión,” the indisputable centerpiece of Jaivas’ 1971 debut El Volantin, is a sprawling, six-minute plus improvisation that finds the group clicking on all the right levels. The song opens with a short but arresting dulcimer-sounding intro that is quickly enveloped by a heady Latin rhythm. A distorted electric guitar wafts in and out of the mix, providing exhilarating, ephemeral glimpses at Jaivas’ hidden psychedelic spine. By song’s end, it’s easy to have become so enveloped in the groove that the tune’s gradual fadeout goes unnoticed. Echoing church bells announce the song’s finale. They are jarring at first; finally, strangely soothing.

Apparently, the songs on the obscure, 40-minute El Volantin (gitchyaself a bootleg, stat!) were culled from over 20 hours of recorded material, most of it improvised (!). That the album doesn’t feel too jammy or overcooked is a testament both to the band’s ability as self-editors and to their basic collaborative skills as musicians. “Foto de Primera Comunión” only lasts six minutes, but honestly, I would listen to it if it dragged on for days.


1967: Gato Barbieri - In Search of the Mystery

Even the most casual listener’s cursory research can trace back the origins of free jazz and its major players, figures who hang like deities in a Caribbean grocery store: Coltrane, Ornette, Mingus, Ayler, Sun Ra, etc. All amazing musicians who transcended linear arrangements, traditional solo structures, and the possibilities of that music that started the whole sex, drugs, and what have you: jazz. All fine and dandy artists.

All of these beings, of course, are American.

The music did originate in the US, so it’s bound to have representatives of the highest order. Go deeper and you’ll find the European masters of chaos like Derek Bailey, Peter Brötzmann, and Han Bennink, or even delight yourself on the orgasmic brutality of Japanese destroyers like Kaoru Abe and Masayuki Takayanagi. But, what about the dirty dirty south? I mean the really really dirty dirty south? Of the Western Hemisphere?

You’d need to be a George W-brand idiot to believe there’s no free jazz south of El Paso; still, one is caught without much argument that there’s almost no major players within the skronk-honk business that are from Mexico, Central, and South America. The few that make it to the ears of connoisseurs are mostly odd additions to very detailed collections; still, fewer artists were there when it all happened in the first place, when the hot sound of the cool cats was set free from its own obliterating slavery (and into another kind of music idiom, with forms and structures, but that’s another discussion for another day).

A reason might be that free jazz attempts to reach for the ultimate state of being, of the most plentiful of liberties spiritually through sound, all done with an artillery to create a magnificent cacophony — sharp high notes, rumbling low-end mumbles, cymbal crashes. Bullets, explosions, and landmines that are the language of war — a modern electric, merciless, honorless war — not of desperate and impoverished people working for the goals of a manipulative asshole, but one of unsettling global consequences. USA, Europe, and Japan were all part of the two biggest and cruelest armed conflicts in the 20th century with an outcome ingrained in the subconscious of all their citizens from then on.

But seldom did it have a major impact in Latin America, with hardly anyone there having contact with the battlefields and the aftermath (Nazis going into hiding there don’t count). The idea of a collective afterlife, of a new chance for the masses through chaos and destruction — via technology and weaponry — is not uncommon in many fields and disciplines, and the free jazzers from territories that were affected by WWI and WWII certainly tap into that point of view when playing in public. Yet native Latinos have little concept of rebirth through destruction. For them, wars are civilians kicking the living shit out of some corrupted government to install a new kind of government and live happily until their new appointed leaders become oppressive and corrupted themselves. In other words, war is a local phenomenon, and its consequences have a different kind of effect. Perhaps this is why, when the free-jazz call to arms was put forth for a better, peaceful, and more enlightened tomorrow, Latin American people thought it was a flawed and doomed cycle.

Or maybe all of this is bullshit I’m making up and people near the southern hemisphere just really love structured rhythms to dance to.

At least Leandro “Gato” Barbieri didn’t think so, consciously or subconsciously. Hailing from Argentina, Barbieri was in the thick of improvised mayhem, recording for ESP-Disk — home to some of the most radical no-bop players and most insane acts, even by today’s standards, outside of jazz — collaborating with Don Cherry and Charlie Haden, making his tenor saxophone scream for and with vengeance. Although he recorded a number of earlier albums along with Cherry, In Search of the Mystery is his first album as a leader, in this case of a quartet featuring sax, drums, bass, and cello, the latter of which provides atmosphere and drones to an album of busy intervals, varying from discordant hard bop to all-out, no-rules beatdowns of frequencies, accidental chords, and wails of desperation, imitating Barbieri’s very nickname (“Cat” in spanish) on sax. All instruments add elements that surprise and complement, most notably the bass, which sometimes mimics inverted guitar chords. The ebb and flow of the whole affair is telepathically precise in its spontaneity, attacking then retracting to safer, warmer places, just to spike again into exchanges of dissonant notes that battle like a fencing match with 14 swords each.

Barbieri’s playing didn’t remain within this style for long; by the late 60s, he would start incorporating sounds of Spain and South America into his playing, as well as more structured and conventional styles (as heard on the score to Bertolucci’s film Last Tango in Paris, which, no doubt, has some inspiration from the jam sessions with fellow countrymate Lalo Schifrin). He continued his road to convention until the 80s when his wife Michelle (half the title of the first piece of In Search…) died, leaving him more or less retired from music. ESP-Disk is reissuing this album to remind us that Gato once heard the good news of bad skronk, said “I want to do that too,” and made one of the most well-developed albums free jazz ever hoped to achieve.

1969: The Savage Rose - “Trial in Our Native Town”

It’s not clear where to place this track. Are we hearing some form of proto-metal, or has the Jefferson Airplane blimp been shot down and replaced with the flag of a rival vocalist? In 1969, The Savage Rose’s founder siblings (Thomas and Anders Koppel) were only at the beginning of their wide-eyed adventure into rock ‘n’ roll territory and were no wiser. By their early twenties the brothers could claim the distinction of calling themselves a composer and a novelist in their turn, but by their own account they threw away the honors to follow what the kids on the street were doing. From the start they seemed to welcome into the project whatever was current and appealed to them. Thus they adopted the stray blues alley cat Annisette and later harnessed her powerful voice in the service of several musical experiments, some of the dodgy gospel variety. The band discovered more than a new style in rock ‘n’ roll – rather a whole new pioneering attitude, which sent them a little overboard sometimes, sympathizing with the Black Panther movement in the 70s for instance. Anyway, their almost cosmic ambitions are already evident in “Trial in Our Native Town.” These ambitions didn’t make them much money, and their own version of excess was far from selling out. It was the slightly scatty pursuit of the hippie ideal. The strident organ on the last track of their 1968 album In the Plain is one of the most distinctive features of the band, and together with Annisette’s voice it publishes their revolutionary intentions loud and clear.


1995: Hum - You’d Prefer an Astronaut

Music has always had strong ties to nostalgia, be it personal or global. Certain songs, albums, and artists transport us through a minefield of emotions deeply rooted in our over-stimulated bodies. It’s why listening to You’d Prefer an Astronaut still makes me relive a 15-year-old decision to purchase a Hum album over Silverchair’s Frogstomp. All my friends had Frogstomp, so why did I need to add to the pile? The true thrill of purchasing music — at least during the death rattle of major labels — was weighing what you wanted against what CDs your friends had. No one had You’d Prefer an Astronaut, and we all loved “Stars,” so the scales were tipped and a love affair that has lasted longer than anything else in my limited lifespan began.

That zebra affixed to the bright green background is an odd palate choice when inviting listeners into the idea of space. It was just one of many curveballs thrown by Hum through the course of the album, one that’s still as fresh as it was in 1995. Despite song titles buoying the album’s proclamation (“Little Dipper,” “The Pod,” and of course cult radio hit “Stars”) and casual flirtations with the definitions of space in Matt Talbott’s lyrics, You’d Prefer an Astronaut was more about the Big Bang of sonic expansion than the garbled lines of alternative-era prose. The press of the time was quick to lump Hum in with the rest of the Northern Illinois (specifically Chicago), but how lazy and ignorant were they?

Fifteen years later, You’d Prefer an Astronaut feels as if it should be nestled in retail bins alongside Funeral, You Forgot It in People, and Sung Tongs. In a musical generation that celebrates the tiniest difference in design, You’d Prefer an Astronaut continues to boast nine tracks of innovative tunings, odd time signatures, and challenging song lengths. The opening triptych of “Little Dipper,” “The Pod,” and “Stars” is slightly at odds with this claim, as each is built on straight-ahead alternative riffage, but as layers are slowly peeled away with each listen, the art of discovery begins. The seemingly simple melodies begin to morph into dynamically textured experiments. Slight tweaks in tempo and timbre are sprinkled throughout, especially as “The Pod” transitions from its angry tone into an upbeat acoustic outro. “Stars” also relies on shifting dynamics; from its quiet, lazy strums to a punchy guitar assault and back to its dreamy ending. As far as singles go, none do more to represent just how deep You’d Prefer an Astronaut delves despite its seemingly bare-bones approach.

The back half of You’d Prefer an Astronaut was their playground. From the beginning of “Why I Like the Robins” to the fade out of “Songs of Farewell and Departure,” the many swells of style and substance flourish away from the scrutiny of the alternative era’s demand for a rocking first half. “I’d Like Your Hair Long,” which was Astronaut’s first single, proves to be the band’s finest moment. The lackadaisical pickings mixed with a crunchy guitar melody alongside Bryan St. Pere’s hard hitting fills and syncopated cymbal crashes put the track on an island all its own. It wasn’t punk enough; it was too far out to be of the Alternative Nation mold; and its length didn’t allow for the quick impressions and repeated listens that the mid-90s music scene thrived upon. The lyrics were acerbic — the only link it and much of the album has to the era in which it was created.

You’d Prefer an Astronaut will never be an album for the masses. It’s unwashed, rustic, and odd. But in a police lineup, you’d be quick to pick it out; even amongst a backdrop of band’s that have tightened and perfected the Hum style in the time since, the album still feels unique. At some point, nostalgia wears off and all that’s left is the shell. While memories of standing in a Musicland with the album proudly in hand remain strong, they no longer define what is contained within You’d Prefer an Astronaut. It’s an album that makes new memories with every listen, no matter what label executives and disappointing sales may otherwise have deciphered.


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.