1967-74: V/A - Psych Bites: Australian Acid Freakrock [Vol.1]
It’s difficult to properly define the term ‘psychedelic.’ Drug use and the social environment that it constructs are fine opening topics themselves, but things become much more complicated when ‘psychedelic’ refers to a genre of music rather than a cultural tradition. The tricky thing about attempting to describe psychedelic music is that, objectively speaking, the genre lacks base standards for inclusion altogether. One can’t explain the music by listing a set of genre-specific instruments, structures, lyrical themes, or production methodologies; rather, the potency of psychedelic music is reliant upon its listener’s familiarity with the form, so any accurate depiction of psychedelia must tether itself to the genre’s inherent and unending fluidity.
That said, this sort of dynamic becomes more problematic than interesting when the time comes to revisit old psychedelic records. Psych-rock, for example, is structurally rooted in rock ‘n’ roll, and it’s horrifyingly familiar to those of us who grew up listening to classic rock radio. You’ve heard it all your life — the stuff’s more outdated than psychedelic nowadays. As a result, now might not have been the most advantageous time for Past & Present Records to release a compilation such as Psych Bites: Australian Acid Freakrock.
Although Psych Bites would certainly impress someone who hadn’t heard anything apart from tracks featured on the Blues Brothers OST, this compilation was marketed towards a group of individuals who are, for the most part, quite acquainted with the genre’s American and European counterparts. Many present-day listeners have even immersed themselves in psychedelic music that has grown from and expanded upon the very material listed on the back cover of this compilation. Consequently, this Australian Acid Freakrock isn’t so freaky — just retrospective and uninspiring. Perhaps these sounds were affecting in their own time and context, but what’s clear now is that our parents’ old acid jams just aren’t tripping us anymore.
1978: Wolfgang Riechmann - Wunderbar
In our particular reality, in this particular timeline, we’ll never know how Wolfgang Riechmann’s career would have turned out had he not been stabbed to death in 1978. Wolfgang Riechmann — who was in a band with Neu!’s Michael Rother and Kraftwerk’s Wolfgang Flür, the drummer that Ralph and Florian fucked over and turned into a hippy by being wankers. Wolfgang Riechmann — who was blessed from birth with the greatest name available, ‘Wolfgang’ meaning not ‘a gang of wolves’ but ‘wandering wolf,’ which is awesome. Wolfgang Riechmann — who made this lovely little bit of early synth pop before popping off his mortal coil. Would he have gone to shit in the 80s like all his contemporaries? Maybe. Probably. Maybe not though, which is sad. We can only guess what he would have done, which is what I’ll do in a bit (guess).
Finished just before that tragic stabbing incident in 1978 but released three weeks after — not because he was stabbed but because that was when it was due out (that’s what’s tragic about it, you see?) — Wunderbar (which means literally ‘a wonderful bar,’ like Club Tropicana or any bar located on a beach pretty much, like the one in Lethal Weapon… one of the Lethal Weapon movies [2? Not sure*]) is a very palatable drop of ambienty, poppy, German-y late-70s synthesizer music. It’s enjoyable, it’s playful (that’s maybe why it’s enjoyable), it’s fairly light (weight not luminescence) as far as one can prescribe a weight to sound, and it’s pleasant. And actually, I think pleasant is a really good word to describe it all. And simple. Pleasant and simple. That’s it, lightly fizzing languorous sines with minimal soft bass notes and the occasional airy taste of the one-finger keyboard solo lingering on the nose.
There’s stuff on here that you’ll most probably like if you enjoy late-70s Kraftwerk. In fact, something like the fifth track, “Himmelblau” — if you like Kraftwerk and you don’t like that, then I’d say that was odd and maybe you’re in denial. What I’m saying is it sounds exactly like Kraftwerk. Except the vocal that comes in halfway through that sort of sounds like he’s taking the piss a bit going lalala la la lala la la. Apart from that, it’s just like Kraftwerk.
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See? And I also reckon he must have been watching some John Carpenter flicks because “Silberland” is straight-up JC. A heartbeat bassline** with inquisitive mystery synths sliding about the place***. A feeling of impending plot, like something is probably going to happen and it’s probably going to be a bit tense. It’s verging on being tense, y’know? That kind of thing.
This sort of ambient synth pop seems to be experiencing a mini-renaissance at the moment; recently, I was at an Oneohtrix Point Never show, sold out and packed to the gills with people digging the electric seagull soundscapes, so the reissue on Bureau B last year seems like a timely reminder that the Düsseldorf lot totally nailed it in the 70s. I wonder if Riechmann himself would be selling out shows these days had he not been knifed. He might be, but following the template of his contemporaries, he’d probably be doing it as part of a disappointing supergroup reunion à la Harmonia. Or maybe he’d be producing U2 albums. It’s all speculation anyway, but in all likelihood we would have probably got another two decent albums out of him.
Shame, but at least we got this one, and this one is lovely.
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* Actually starting to think now that it’s not a Lethal Weapon movie I’m thinking of at all, and maybe it’s one of the FX: The Art of Illusion movies (1 or 2). Or another movie altogether.
** As in a bassline like a heartbeat not the bassline from the bucolic police romance television series Heartbeat starring Nick Berry.
***Although weirdly, Nick Berry is a bit like an inquisitive mystery synth himself in Heartbeat, sliding about the place. Just a thought. Oh god, all this will mean nothing to Americans will it.
1968: Silver Apples - Silver Apples
The Silver Apples were named for the fruit in W.B. Yeats’s poem “The Song of Wandering Aengus,” one of Yeats most fey but beloved efforts. Unsurprisingly perhaps, “Aengus” was taken to the bosom of hippie culture. Donovan sung the verses of the poem to the accompaniment of a mellow acoustic guitar, and more recently Devendra Banhart curated the freak-folk compilation Golden Apples of the Sun. The gold and silver apples are referenced elsewhere, and one mention must go to the 1973 film with the same name as Devendra’s compilation, which was apparently a shocking hippie horror flick that used gratuitous nudity and violence to drive home its point about mother nature’s cruelty.
To my mind then, there is more significance in Silver Apples’ name than the average happened-upon phrase or in-joke that stuck at the first jamming session, something a little more poetically apposite. The band’s songs rarely talk about girlfriends, but they do seem to harp on the divine feminine and mystical marriage – the repetition of words like ‘oscillations’ over some insistent drumming turns a silly, ‘far-out’ phrase into a serious invocation, and a Celtic style voyage to an eternal paradise is mentioned at least once. Silver Apples get away with this because their music has that same loose limbed exuberance Talking Heads could tap into without being mocked (too much). It’s not that the songs should be taken incredibly seriously, but there’s an art to making an ass of oneself, particularly if this display can be justified with the excuse of ‘I was wasted.’ And while drugs quite clearly had a place in the bizarre Silver Apples universe (the band so offended Pan Am executives by strewing the cockpit of a jet with drugs paraphernalia for an album cover shot that Pan Am sued and brought down their record label), Silver Apples appear to have been using drugs in that cute, experimental way. It wasn’t unheard of in their time to actually aim for the blessedness that reputedly only reveals itself to holy fools; think of Bob Dylan, adopting the Christian name of Dylan Thomas as his surname – Thomas who was the ultimate drunken poet lost in flowery ramblings about boyhood.
That’s why it’s not so surprising that Joanna Newsom cites the Silver Apples as one of her favorite party bands. After listening to their 1968 album, I was quick to pin Joanna’s choice on the distinct possibility of the girl’s being as mad as a box of frogs. It seemed to me (and my prejudices) that the doyenne of freak-folk simply couldn’t bear to drink anywhere outside the hip neighborhood of the astral plane. But Newsom was right: Silver Apples are often danceable, in the democratically pilled out way that 90s rave and techno were. It was a real pleasure to hear the air-raid siren noises and pounding beats that are the fixtures of modern techno still flush from their first joyride in Silver Apples’ scrap metal car. Incidentally, Subotnick’s landmark electronic piece, “Silver Apples of the Moon,” which definitely shows early signs of techno, didn’t influence Silver Apples’ choice of name at all. Their eccentric frontman, Simeon, who named his homemade oscillator after himself, got into the early adopters of electronic music much later.
The track “Misty Mountain” was, according to Simeon, their only love song. So despite the “maidens gathering flowers” on “Velvet Cave” and the poetry about flowing hair, the love buzz on songs like “Seagreen Serenades” and “Velvet Cave” is the blissed out, drugged up kind that’s directed at all mankind. In keeping with this, when the buzz evaporates, the comedown is paranoid and evil intentioned. “A Pox on You,” from the Silver Apples’ second album Contact, is one of the most deranged yet catchy break up songs you’ll hear. If Yeats’s ideal love conjured from apple blossom (in a scenario Yeats evidently preferred to the relatively straightforward procedure of asking a girl out) was the kind of woman Silver Apples were channeling when they were in love with humanity, then the anti-ideal of “A Pox on You” is a voodoo doll stuck through with pins, defleshed and dehumanized.
Mostly, though, the humanity and the inhumanity of the brand new sounds Silver Apples drew out of their wind-up radio oscillators went hand in hand in the innocent/merciless way that Philip K. Dick envisaged his childlike androids. Perhaps the best way to introduce the odd, offworld noises made by a cranky instrument like the Simeon was to emphasize that emotion could be felt through them in a particular way – with humor and goodwill and the vicarious pleasures of watching them grow. Simeon has said that his favorite Silver Apples moment was “Oscillations” – the very first song the band ever recorded. The oscillator was so fragile that a cloud passing over could make it go out of tune. It seems that what Simeon saw in his invention, much like Philip K. Dick’s eccentric model maker, was its childlike capriciousness rather than the cold, sophisticated futurism that came to be associated with electronic music in the 80s. That prejudice has since been and gone, but it’s refreshing to be reminded that there are often two genesis stories accounting for something we think we know, and one tends to be a lot more forgiving than the other.
1983-1990: Gene Clark - Gypsy Angel
Former British PM Maggie Thatcher supposedly said that any man who found himself sitting on the bus over the age of 26 years old could consider himself a failure. This may or may not be true, but it is classic Maggie to remain aloof to the possibility that some people feel quite affectionately about failures, right up to the spectacle of the puffing, panting, belching, and spewing bus itself. Most of the buses I ever had to take were meandering and unreliable. Although the rage builds up when you’re standing there checking the time, when the bus finally arrives you’re so happy to see it that you immediately fall in love with the sweet chariot, simply ‘cos it’s there to pick you up and take you where you need to go.
I think there are songs too that have that effect. Songs that work well on journeys taken through not particularly spectacular countrysides, or at the end of long hard days involving flight delays and hardship at the hands of low fare European airlines because of rumbling volcanoes that won’t stop passing smokes between northerly isles. Okay, perhaps the latter experience isn’t so universal after all, but instead, if it helps, think of your dad switching a cassette tape in the car when you were in the backseat on a long family trip, and then think of him playing Gypsy Angel: The Gene Clark demos.
Most of the demos were recorded in 1990, the last year of Clark’s life, when he was preparing to make his first album with Carla Olson since their successful 1987 record, So Rebellious a Lover. The remaining four were recorded at various times throughout the 1980s. Though the compilation is threadbare (if it was actually made of fabric it would smell a little like dog), each song has its torch-like moments which can be attributed to Clark’s melodic abilities. He was the main songwriter for The Byrds during his stint with them (from 1964 to 1966) and wrote hits like “Eight Miles High” and “Here Without You.”
The melodies on songs like “Dark of my Moon” and “Pledge to You” are real tear-jerkers, and without these standouts, the album would deteriorate into little more than the ramblings of a broken down old folkie. The songs are too long, often nodding off into extended dozes of steel string’d prevaricating. Even so, the occasionally soporific atmosphere actually adds something to the album. The lyrics genuinely sound as if they are delivered by an old timer who talks in clichés but means what he says. I’m also a fan of the relatively boring guitar background — it is simple and mostly unaccompanied steel strumming that’s far from virtuosic, but has a lovely, sincere tone.
If old man heartbreak is what you’re looking for, then you might consider Gene Clark over Johnny Cash when you’re feeling low but resigned about your mood. Crawling slowly overland in the back of trucks and buses is not everyone’s ideal way to travel these days, but it gets you there in the end. Likewise, if you listen to Gypsy Angel in a patient mood — and there is definitely some kind of kinship between patience and melancholy — you will find yourself transported in a ramshackle but trusty vehicle to a place where every romantic failure contains the seed of a new song.
Clark is happy to paint himself as the fool who keeps forgiving his woman no matter how many times she runs off on him. As a result, he looks less foolish and more sage when he advises the girl he loves to chill out and quit runnin’. This approach is not as patronizing as it sounds, because it’s cut with a fair dose of residual pain; however, it is grandfatherly enough to be soothing on those days when even a late bus is breaking your heart.
1963: Roy Orbison - "In Dreams"
It is undeniable that different songs elicit different emotional responses. That is, a melancholy song by Nick Drake feels sad in comparison to an uplifting song by The Beatles. Yet, if you reflect on your experiences with music, a given song is also capable of eliciting unique emotions, simply by altering the environment where it’s played. Film presents many examples of this phenomenon, a particularly notable instance being the chilling and surreal use of Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams” in David Lynch’s Blue Velvet.
Released in 1986, Blue Velvet is a dark drama, taking place in the seemingly pleasant logging town of Lumberton. The main character Jeffrey Beaumont (played by Kyle MacLachlan) becomes part detective, part voyeur as he is intertwined in a suspicious woman’s bizarre mystery. As Jeffrey takes greater risks to uncover the truth, he eventually crosses paths with Frank Booth, Dennis Hopper’s portrayal of arguably the most disturbing villain in cinematic history. For the part of Frank, Hopper brings raw energy and steals virtually every scene he’s in. Of Frank’s many sadistic quirks, his deeply personal and complex attachment to music illustrates how a song acquires new meaning when juxtaposed with a reel of film.
The soundtrack of Blue Velvet, supervised by the American composer and frequent Lynch collaborator Angelo Badalamenti, features a variety of vintage pop songs. Yet, while Crooner Bobby Vinton’s “Blue Velvet” is the film’s mantra and namesake, Orbison’s “In Dreams” is the catalyst for two of the films most unforgettable scenes, distinct in their visceral reactions.
The first time the viewer hears “In Dreams” is in the following scene:
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Even without context, this clip conveys the scenes intended emotional content. At first, Hopper’s character, Booth, is deeply moved by his friend’s theatrical lip-synching of the benign lullaby. Yet, as the scene cuts from Booth to his friend to the back of the room, a festive atmosphere is altered by enigmatic and woeful expressions. Jeffrey, surrounded by two goons, looks intimidated and troubled. A downtrodden woman emerges from the back room and sulks toward the group. Though Booth seems wholly unaware of his surroundings, soon his mood sharply changes to anger and disgust. It feels as if the sentimental lyrics of the song are too much for Booth. In the moment his affect shifts, the song becomes unbearable and he abruptly turns it off, though he grabs the cassette for later.
Contrast that scene with the following clip:
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After a very R-rated sequence of drugs, sex, and violence, Booth demands his crony named Paul play “Candy Colored Clown.” This term comes from the first line of “In Dreams” and seems strikingly disjointed amongst the rest of the lyrics. (The image of a “Candy Colored Clown” is out of place amidst otherwise straightforward clichés.) But, evidently, this phrase connects with Booth, and he identifies the song with “Candy Colored Clown.”
Additionally, over the opening lines, he delivers a chilling threat to Jeffrey, punctuated by the recitation, “In dreams… I walk with you. In dreams… I talk to you. In dreams… You’re mine. Forever in dreams.” Unlike the lip-synching in the previous scene, Booth’s intentions are far more sinister, and he even changes the last line in order to bolster the image of him haunting Jeffrey. The song becomes an unshakable threat rather than a sweet ode to perpetual love. And, in doing so, “In Dreams” shows both Lynch’s talent for perverting the banal and music’s shifty potential to transform in disparate contexts.
1994: Samuel - Lives of Insects
Samuel should’ve been a contender. Their recorded body of work encompasses all of seven songs: this EP, a second seven-inch, and a split with Texas Is The Reason. Sonically, they were a rock band where the less acrobatic “post-hardcore” was expected: streamlined and no-nonsense, guitars that roared, and a vocalist more than capable of issuing bitter denunciations and offhand lyrical putdowns in an instant.
Singer Vanessa Downing and Eric Astor had previously played in a State College, PA band called Junction, but where Junction stopped and started, Samuel simply moved. There is, perhaps, something of the East Bay punk sound in Dean Taormina’s guitar and a fondness for skirting the edge of dissonance both musically and lyrically. The title track opens the EP with unsettling imagery and ruminations on mortality; there’s a quieter interlude to be found inside, but by the song’s conclusion, that sense of home has been banished. Over relentless drums and a rumbling bass, Downing sings “You thought you were safe here/ You were wrong.”
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“Held Over” features some of the EP’s moments of relative levity (and the closest thing to a breakdown you’ll hear here.) Downing’s lyrics about “Your starry eyes/ They’re staring in the twilight/ Up into a makeshift sky” are a quick side trip into moods more sentimental than the scorched-earth approach heard elsewhere.
“Sideways Looker” closes out the EP by essentially pushing one mood for two minutes and segueing from there into somewhere much more grim. Essentially, it’s the sound of a band teetering between blissful noise-pop and something distorted and implosive. As Downing instructs, “Look to your left now/ That’s right/ That’s fuckin’ pretty,” her words echo the music, darting back and forth between welcoming and sinister. It made for a hell of a balancing act, and the group’s ability to encompass so much without being easily pigeonholed is why these songs still sting, 16 years later.
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