“My British Invasion”

He was the first college rep not to be offered a gig at CBS after graduation.

He got fired from a trade for writing a negative review.

And then he ended up behind the counter at Rhino Records, an emporium on Westwood Boulevard where they commented upon what you bought, usually not positively.

And you knew all the clerks. Jeff Gold, Gary Stewart and Harold, and Jeff went to A&M and is now rock’s foremost dealer of memorabilia. And Gary Stewart eventually went to Apple. But Harold stayed, and became richer than all of them. You see with his partner, Richard Foos, Harold started the Rhino Records label.

You can play the game and make it to middle management. You can play the politics until you’re ousted or you oust them, sleeping with one eye open. Or maybe you weren’t born for that role, you don’t fit in and you’ve got to go your own way.

Rock is made up of people who needed to go their own way, who couldn’t do it any differently. Who could only be themselves.

And Harold Bronson is one of a kind.

Back in the seventies and eighties Rhino got more than its fair share of publicity, sheerly on the basis of creativity. Not only recording Wild Man Fischer, rereleasing Turtles Records, but coming up with novelty acts like the Temple City Kazoo Orchestra, which famously played Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” and other classics on the kiddie instrument to not only sales, but TV appearances.

But those days were different, everybody did not have an app and everybody did not have a record label. Entertainment was relatively scarce and comprehensible. But we were all in thrall to the British Invasion, including Harold. And Harold has written a book about his experience.

Now one is always anxious when a friend sends you their book. You want it to be good. And the introduction to Harold’s British Invasion book is astounding, in that it gives insight into the differences between the U.S. and U.K., why the British Invasion happened, not the nuts and bolts of promotion in the U.S. so much as the creativity, the dance hall roots, the infatuation with American blues records…I’m gonna include Harold’s thesis below, it may be dry, but it’s incredibly insightful.

But the book is different.

The book is chapter after chapter of the story of the legends. The ones we heard on the radio, who were our heroes, most of whom are still around but are unknown by the younger generation, even though we oldsters still exalt them. If you were not there, you’ll learn a lot, if you were there, you’ll still learn some things.

Like the fact that Jeff Beck was married when he joined the Yardbirds. And then became infatuated with actress Mary Hughes, in Los Angeles, and would skip dates to be with her.

And the history of Herman’s Hermits is fascinating. They’re often perceived to be a studio concoction, but just the opposite is true, they developed their act on the road, “Mrs. Brown” was a throwaway that was included on their album at the last minute, it went over well live.

And acts like Manfred Mann get their due. How does a jazzer from South Africa survive? By going rock and not being extremely happy about it and then vacillating from genre to genre, to be content and stay alive.

And we’ve even got the story of Mike Chapman. Does anybody remember the Commander? Who owned the charts and then burned out? Ever heard “Parallel Lines”? It dominated in 1978/9, “Hanging On The Telephone” jumped out of the record. And soon thereafter Chapman was done.

And to read the Marc Bolan interview is a revelation, because all that’s left is the image and the records, he becomes 3-D here.

In between are chapters about Harold’s life at UCLA and his trips to the U.K. and… They’re a bit too diaristic, if that’s even a word, in that they’re a recitation of facts, but when he’s in the U.K. you feel the loneliness, it’s palpable, along with the excitement of hanging with the Move and having other peak experiences. That’s what they don’t tell you, being a rock fan was a cure to one’s loneliness, we were square pegs in round holes who were saved by the music. Believe me, no boomer music businessman ever played on the football team, they all played guitar, they all needed to be closer to the music, they were saved by the music.

And there are all sorts of little tidbits. Listening to Alice Cooper’s “Elected” and realizing it was a remake of “Reflected” from “Pretties For You,” the breakup of the Spencer Davis Group. And expurgations of Pirate Radio and the clothing store Granny Takes A Trip and if you’re looking for glitz and glam, pictures glorifying what once was, this is not the book. But if you’re looking for a fan’s notes, the story of someone who was there, when music dominated the culture and everything was up for grabs, this is it!

 

Introduction

Age is an important factor in providing any cultural movement with added personal significance. Whether it’s a teenage girl cooing over Frank Sinatra in the 1940s or a haggard hippie immersing himself in the political philosophy of Phil Ochs before joining a protest march in the 1960s, one is most impressionable in their teenage years. Or maybe not. One is impressionable as a preteen, too, but soon thereafter one recognizes that many prepubescent fascinations lack the proper intellectual reasoning for a significant, personal choice. Imagine: “Those were the days… The Partridge Family were the best, it was all downhill from there.”

For Americans, life in the Eisenhower years was very safe, which perhaps made it possible for American teenage culture to become more aware of itself and its needs, and of its moral and political feelings. In previous eras, it was broken down to adults and children – there was no separate teenage culture. But World War II brought America out of the Great Depression, and these newly emerged teenagers had money to burn, money to support a commercial market that was aimed directly at them. It was still a conservative, insular world, with domestic life coping with the flux of the family, rock ‘n’ roll, and the newfound influence of television.

Everyone knows the story of how, as the 1950s became the 1960s, most of America’s potent rockers had disappeared, whether through plane or car crashes, social ostracism, or lifestyle transitions like Elvis going into the Army. By 1963, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Gene Vincent, and Fats Domino had disappeared from the Top 30, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t good music. It was just different music. Male and female vocal groups, folk groups, and the rise of the female singer defined the pre-Beatles years.

Over in Britain, there was a flux of another kind. Britain’s bundle of wartime babies was the first generation to be interested in what was going on in America. World War II had a lot to do with that. In Britain there were bombed-out buildings and rubble, but America was untarnished. The visiting, affable GIs planted the seeds of interest, and soon American culture was fervently embraced. The English marveled at the flashy cars, the Western and gangster films, modern appliances, Coca-Cola, and Marilyn Monroe. The mystique was irresistible.

There were reports that when Bill Haley belted “Rock Around the Clock” over the opening credits of the Blackboard Jungle movie, the normal, sedate British kids tore up the theater seats. For the first time they were able to betray their rigid schoolkid uniforms and feel outright liberation! This is what rock ‘n’ roll triggered. With young America manipulated to favor the pop singers who appeared on American Bandstand, many of whom lived in Philadelphia where the show was produced, America’s eminent rockers, now considered passé, set their sights on more receptive audiences in Europe, England particularly.

Finally, with an opportunity to see the real thing compared to the pretenders who populated their turf, the English responded enthusiastically, both as fans and as imitators. What an odd phenomenon – scrawny English schoolboys casting themselves as second-generation bearers of rock ‘n’ roll and the blues. What could possibly have moved so many timid, pale classroom nebbishes to cast themselves as anguished blues belters in the manner of Ray Charles, or drugged-out cool jazz musicians? Perhaps it was a search to develop a new identity and get as far away as possible from class consciousness, English manners, or just tea and crumpets.

Many, like The Beatles, were inspired by Elvis Presley, Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, and The Everly Brothers to form rock ‘n’ roll combos to further experience the exhilaration. The hippest English music fans responded to genuine rock ‘n’ roll figures, like Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, and Buddy Holly, over the less substantial Fabian, Freddy Cannon, and Frankie Avalon. We might note that England’s equivalents – Lonnie Donegan (King of Skiffle), Marty Wilde, Billy Fury, Vince Eager, Duffy Power – were “safe” enough to offer a homebred rock ‘n’ roll that was at least acceptable to BBC’s conservative radio.

All the same, Americans couldn’t have cared less about England’s pop stars. Among the handful of Brits who had American hits, there were pop singers Anthony Newley and Frank Ifield; folk singer Lonnie Donegan; folk-pop trio The Springfields; and one instrumental band, The Tornados. Their token chart appearances reflected a lack of interest in sounds from the UK. Even Cliff Richard, the British equivalent of Elvis Presley, at that time invincible in his own land, failed to dent America’s Top 20 until 1976. One thing was evident: as the 1950s spilled into the 1960s, rock ‘n’ roll was in desperate need of a shot in the arm.

Prior to the British Invasion, American teenage culture was conventional. Our role models were sports stars, baseball players like Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays. Closer to home, it was he-man, physical stuff embodied by the high school football hero whose girlfriend was invariably a cheerleader. Even Jan and Dean and Brian Wilson, leaders of California’s pre-Beatles surf music craze, had played for their high school teams.

Similarly, regular ads in comic books for Charles Atlas pitched an exercise program with illustrations of a muscular bully kicking sand in the face of an undernourished kid. The program promised “the ‘Greek god’ type of physique that women rave about at the beach.” Cars also fascinated teenagers, especially hot rods, dragsters, and so-called muscle cars. In contrast, I found the cultural stimulation and intelligence offered by The Beatles and their ilk much more appealing than what had passed for American teenage culture. And it didn’t matter that they were skinny, like the kid bullied in the Charles Atlas ad, girls went crazy for them. It also planted the seed that less-than-burly American teenagers could form Beatle-like combos and arouse a similar appeal.

When The Beatles stormed the American shores in February 1964, they opened the doors for an onslaught of similarly attired Englishmen who sang and played guitars and drums and who came to dominate the American pop music scene. But The Beatles and the other groups might not have happened if it hadn’t been for the revision of the National Service Act, similar to the US draft that required young adults to serve in the armed forces. Brits born after September 1939 were no longer called for service, freeing them to follow their rock ‘n’ roll passions.
Although the sound of the bands that made up the British Invasion was different, the influences were invariably American. The more discerning English fans embraced American blues and rhythm and blues artists whose honest and emotive approach many found more appealing.

Imagine these Englishmen able to see past America’s early-sixties stars to get to the real thing: bloodshot, bourbon-drinking, sinister-looking Negroes who played a simple, sexual rock ‘n’ roll – a music too threatening for the mass American audience. Young British musicians were attracted to their authenticity and poetic imagery. They made efforts to find records by bluesmen such as John Lee Hooker, Slim Harpo, Bo Diddley, Muddy Waters, and Jimmy Reed. When The Rolling Stones and The Animals toured America, teenagers received their first dose of American blues in this second-hand manner.

One can use Slim Harpo as an example. The sleepy-eyed Louisianan was almost unknown among white Americans. But this didn’t stop the English from embracing him, with the result that most of the songs on his first album were covered by top English groups: The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Who, Them, The Pretty Things, and The Moody Blues, who even took their name from one of his songs. The lyrics were often deeper than cutesy boy-girl relationships. Sexual innuendo and references to voodoo were commonplace. Many times it was life and death on the line; Slim Harpo sang of having one foot in the grave in “This Music’s Hot.” The musicianship, especially the blues guitar, was adventurous by pop music standards, and, again, proved an instrumental inspiration.

These smitten English rockers were on a mission. They played the music because they were enamored of it, and wanted to spread “the gospel,” as it were, not because they ever thought they could be successful. No one performing this music had ever broken through before. If one wanted to be successful, he had to mold himself into a Cliff Richard or Tommy Steele and be a solo singer.

When the music of sinister-looking American Negroes proved saleable, it gave rise to the concept of the anti-star, the ones who broke all the rules and didn’t look like well-groomed pop stars with slicked back hair, shiny smiles, and polished shoes. The Rolling Stones were the trend’s poster boys. Here’s a particularly unkind assessment by Bill Whitworth in the New York Herald Tribune: “One of them looks like a chimpanzee. Two look like very ugly Radcliffe girls. One resembles the encyclopedia drawings of pithecanthropus erectus. The fifth is a double for Ray Bolger in the role of Charley’s Aunt.”

While American kids were reeling under the metal weight of orthodontic braces, along came the British, who not only made it acceptable to sport less-than-perfect movie star smiles, but whose crooked teeth lent an aura of distinctive character to their faces. George Harrison’s timid personality was enhanced when his smile revealed vampire-sized canines. Peter Asher’s cute overlapping incisors and unhip, black plastic-framed glasses inspired Austin Powers’ look decades later. A Rolling Stones’ fan could keep score as Keith Richards kept losing teeth. (Do you think I’m kidding? Bob Kirsch was interviewing Keith for Billboard when one of his teeth came out. Keith unceremoniously dropped it in an ashtray, not breaking stride with the interview.) New standards were set. No longer did one have to look like Troy Donohue to be a star. (Donohue, an uncommonly handsome film and TV star of the fifties and sixties, provided the inspiration for The Simpsons character Troy McClure, and is mentioned in a song from Grease.) It didn’t matter if one wore glasses, had a misshapen face, or sticks for legs.

There were a number of factors that shaped the unique sounds of the British Invasion. The British bands records weren’t as intense as those of the American masters, but they were more spirited than what was passing for American rock ‘n’ roll at the time. Many of the American rock acts were trios of singers who worked with impermanent backing bands, whereas the English were mostly self-contained units, four or five musicians who also sang. As part of paying their dues, many of the bands were required to play uncommonly long sets (as had The Beatles, who endured eight-hour work days in Hamburg), resulting in a vibrant sound characterized by a certain amount of sloppiness and bashing.
Bev Bevan, best known as the drummer in the Electric Light Orchestra and The Move, performed in Germany in 1965 with Carl Wayne & The Vikings: “When we arrived, the accommodation was ankle-deep in rubbish, and infested with rats. There were blood and semen stains on the bed. We spent what little spare time we had cleaning it all up. We started playing each night at 7:00 p.m. and did seven forty-five-minute spots, with fifteen-minute breaks, until two o’clock in the morning. Each weekend there were three-hour matinees, too. Any last hopeful beliefs I might have had that pop could earn me easy money were swept away in those weeks in Germany.”

Members of almost every English rock band of that time – The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, The Zombies, The Animals, The Yardbirds – had gone to art school. The Yardbirds and The Who even described their music as “pop art.” This exposure inspired progressive and creative concepts and helped to magnify and color the resulting sound. For instance, when The Who debuted their second single, “Anyway Anyhow Anywhere,” many were confused by the purposeful inclusion of feedback. Pete Townshend had attended Ealing Art College, as had Freddie Mercury, Ronnie Wood, and Thunderclap Newman’s John Keene. In interviews Pete kept referring to Gustav Metzger and his auto-destructive art as an influence. Other effects were more nuanced. At Hornsey College of Art and Crafts, Ray Davies watched people in train stations and sketched them. This helped shape his writing, where many of his songs, like “Waterloo Sunset,” placed him in the role of the detached observer.

As unlikely a form as music hall found its way into the charts. A vaudeville equivalent that flourished earlier in the century, music hall was rich in melody and humor. Herman’s Hermits scored big with three music hall-styled songs: “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter” and “I’m Henry VIII, I Am” in 1965, and then a year later with George Formby’s “Leaning on the Lamp Post.” Ian Whitcomb classified The Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon” – newly composed by Ray Davies – as a music hall-styled song: “a chug-a-long satire in the style of Formby’s great ‘Fanlight Fanny, the Frousy Night Club Queen.'” Peter Asher identified his (Peter and Gordon’s) hit “Knight In Rusty Armour” as part of the genre. Small Faces had their second biggest UK hit – at number two – with “Lazy Sunday,” which they considered part of the music hall tradition.

With The Beatles opening the door, record moguls realized that America offered a much larger and more profitable market, and encouraged displaying British characteristics: The early Kinks sported frilly shirts and red hunting jackets; Ian Whitcomb, on the back cover of his debut album, was decked out like Sherlock Holmes in a deerstalker hat and herringbone suit; The Beatles and Herman’s Hermits were dressed for photo sessions as English businessmen in suits, bowler hats and umbrellas. American kids were so mad for anything British that a few artists coming over, like Chad & Jeremy and Ian Whitcomb, had Top 10 hits without ever making the chart in their homeland. While on tour in the US, Herman’s Hermits’ Peter Noone ran into an unfamiliar group whose gimmick was their bleached blond hair. “We’re The Hullaballoos,” they said. “We’re from Hull.” It was new, it was exciting, and America lapped it up.

The Beatles’ sense of humor added to their appeal. Inspired by The Goon Show, they came across as hip: from their quips during the press conference when they landed in America, to their films, to their songs. When Brits were interviewed on radio and TV, in many cases their accents promised sophistication. They came across as polite, cultural, and intelligent. John Lennon assumed the status of an intellectual by cranking out two imaginative books characterized by wordplay and humorous illustrations. America’s stars seemed dull by comparison.
In any event, it all meshed into a gigantic wallop that left America with its trousers around its ankles. It mattered little that America’s teen idols were invariably handsome, suave, and of Italian lineage: Bobby Darin, Bobby Rydell, Joey Dee, James Darren, Lou Christie, Fabian, and Dion, among others. Britain’s milky-white, pencil-neck geeks created their own appeal with an affable, quirky, fun image.

The look was different, too. Most apparent was the hairstyle. To me The Beatles’ long hair was more comedic (recalling Moe of The Three Stooges) than threatening. All of the other bands that followed had to have long hair like The Beatles. If not, it was as if they aligned themselves to a previous era, or were simply too insecure to take the step into the post-1963 world. When one later saw photos of the early Beatles with drummer Pete Best, you just knew he was doomed to be axed from the group. His hair was slicked-back 1950s style – theirs was combed forward. Consequently, groups with more conservative hairstyles, like Billy J. Kramer with the Dakotas, The Searchers, and Freddie and The Dreamers, were only as good as their last hit record (as compared to, say, a serious long-hair group like The Pretty Things, who had no hits in America, but prolonged a critically acclaimed career well into the 1970s).

As innocuous as it all was, it was so threatening to America’s post-teen population that vast amounts of offense and anger were generated by a mere few inches of hair. The Yardbirds’ Chris Dreja told me that, on tour in America, not only did they get dirty looks, but at times they were spat upon.

The Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein understood this, and that the group had to be made “more acceptable” in order to make it big. He kicked away the group’s earlier leathers, jeans, and T-shirts in favor of custom-made suits. Most of the British rockers who followed adopted suits and ties, although with less stylishness than The Beatles. Somehow these strange invaders neutralized the threat of their long hair by compromising their dress and by smiling a lot.

Obviously there had to be an antithesis. The Rolling Stones had a sullen, sleepless appearance. It looked like their wardrobe came from a thrift-store, and their longer, unkempt hair seemed consistent with a reputation for boorish behavior. Even when liberal American parents consented to let their sons grow their hair long, it was usually, “Okay, you can wear it like The Beatles, but if I ever see you looking like The Rolling Stones, I’ll throw you out of the house!” Author Tom Wolfe put it this way: “The Beatles want to hold your hand, but The Stones want to burn your town.”

The Stone’s casualness mirrored their raw, chaotic, not-quite musical records, ones like “It’s All Over Now,” “I Wanna Be Your Man,” and “Not Fade Away.” Americans were slow to respond to this more serious approach, but it’s one that’s sustained a career that’s lasted over fifty years. The irony here is that the Stones persona was similar to that of The Beatles before they were smartened up. Cavern-going audiences, unlike those years-later US fans, knew that the early Beatles were a motley, sloppy bunch who sprinkled their song intros with lascivious and bawdy barbs. In Hamburg, John Lennon appeared on stage with a toilet seat around his neck. Imagine how far they would’ve gotten on America’s squeaky-clean Ed Sullivan Show with that!

Those musicians who had attended art school embraced fashion as it became outrageous. The Beatles’ collarless jackets and Cuban-heeled boots were just the start. New fashions were sold by a handful of boutiques that sprang up on Carnaby Street, located in a backstreet of London’s more formal Oxford Street shopping district. The tailors and designers catered to the more flamboyant tastes of homosexuals and thespians. When mods stumbled upon the area and noticed that there were more than various shades of black and grey in which to be suited, the area exploded.

Clothes consciousness extended past the mod period. The Troggs wore loud, candy-striped suits. The Who were splendidly shocking in their colorful jackets – one fashioned from a Union Jack flag and another covered in sequins. Stripped down, singer Roger Daltrey was the image of masculinity. That didn’t stop him from teasing his hair into a bouffant and dying it bright orange, and wearing a shawl, lace, and ladies’ slingback shoes. Others en masse adopted frilly shirts, Indian Nehru jackets, kaftans, and madras shirts, and military-inspired dress. Jimi Hendrix’s antique, military breast-plated jacket was purchased at I Was Lord Kitchener’s Valet (actually the name of the boutique). It was all new, colorful, and exciting, and there was too much to grasp.

After the initial hits had been registered, all manner of new television shows sprang up to showcase this talent, and it was from these that American baby boomers derived their most indelible images of the period. ABC’s Shindig! was filmed in Hollywood in black and white. Some segments were produced in England. It was a fine showcase indeed, if a little too weighted by the (old wave) cast of regulars: The Blossoms, The Shindogs, The Wellingtons, Bobby Sherman, and Billy Preston. There rarely seemed to be enough of the people we wanted to see, but it was here, primarily, that the various personalities (if any) behind the hits were on display. And the audience was as enthusiastic at a TV taping as in a concert hall. As Ian Whitcomb recollected, “The kid audience screamed at every shake of my long hair. Beatles stardust had fallen like dandruff onto my shoulders.”

NBC’s Hullabaloo had a more mainstream appeal, and was in color! It mattered little that the newer rock stars shared the stage with those more trusted by the establishment – Peter Noone and Vikki Carr were paired for a vocal duet – there was more than enough meat. Unfortunately, neither show lasted long. Mostly, Americans had no other choice but to wade through little Italian puppets, dancing Hungarian folk companies, trapeze artists, and rotating Jewish comedians in order to see the week’s rock artist – only one per week – on The Ed Sullivan Show. It was always professionally done, but never quite enough. Other shows, those hosted by Red Skelton, Dean Martin, and later The Smothers Brothers (who offered the most sensitive and best framework for these artists), and even Mike Douglas, whose afternoon show appealed mostly to housewives, had their weekly token rock group.

When The Beatles and others made it, it was with their own sound, not an already accepted one that fit into preexisting formats. Their adventurousness led them to altering these proven formulas to create newer and more far-out approaches. This may not have appeared to be good business, but it sustained a long career. Every time one turned around, the recordings had progressed, the clothes and hair had changed, and so had one’s perspective on the world. The “hippie” subculture evolved, and with it new political, social, and cultural stances. Imagine a hundred years of contemporary history crammed into five. That’s how it felt.

Peter Noone’s perspective is that the British Invasion was even bigger than most people realized: “Before the British Invasion, England was this quaint little country. It wasn’t considered a haven of brilliant musicians and songwriters. Can you imagine what it’s done for the British economy? Britain became a new place.”

What’s astonishing is how much the sixties live on in our culture, and I’m not talking about Mad Men. As my tastes developed, I came to appreciate nonmusical aspects: pop art, modern furniture, photography, fashion. The last few years have seen an uptick in sixties-inspired designs from Paul Smith, Ted Baker, Robert Graham, Valentino, Liberty of London, and Moods of Norway. There is also a wellspring of boutique designers, such as Madcap England, Pretty Green, Friday On My Mind, and David Watts. In 2014, John Varvatos refashioned Hendrix’s military jacket into a linen blazer that sold in clothing stores for $2,000. In the September 2015 issue of C Magazine, a fashion spread showcasing numerous designers proclaimed, “This fall, sixties Mod – replete with shortened hemlines, bold colors and statement coats – makes a welcome return.” In a retrospective on sixties designer Mr. Fish in the March 2016 New York Times Style Magazine, a photo caption reads: “Fish’s influence on the spring runways, at, from left, Gucci, J. W. Anderson, Dolce & Gabbana, Dunhill, and Ann Demeulemeester.” GQ’s spring 2016 style issue included an eight-page feature on Jimi Hendrix subtitled “The Man Who Inspired This Season’s Look,” as well as sixties photos of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards illustrating contemporary fashion trends.

Sixties hits used in commercials are nothing new. The Kinks’ “All Day and All of the Night” provided the soundtrack for a recent Yoplait commercial, as did The Spencer Davis Group’s “Gimme Some Lovin'” for Activia, and The Zombies’ “She’s Not There” for Coco Chanel. But obscure songs have been cropping up with more frequency throughout the media: The Kinks’ “I’m Not Like Everybody Else” in an Acura commercial; The Yardbirds’ “Glimpses” in Amazon’s Transparent, The Zombies’ “Can’t Nobody Love You” in HBO’s Girls and “This Will Be Our Year” in Mad Men; and The Creation’s “Making Time” (revived in Wes Anderson’s Rushmore) in commercials for Depends and Best Buy. The less obscure Cream’s “I Feel Free” was featured over the opening scenes of Joy and The Animals’ “Boom Boom” over the closing credits of HBO’s The Brink. It’s all fine by me.

Tin Foil Hat – Spotify

This is the best track on Todd Rundgren’s new album, “White Knight.” But if I didn’t tell you that, you’d think it’s a new Steely Dan cut, and the irony is it’s better than anything Steely Dan has done since 1980, it could use a few more changes, but it’s got that soulful jazz attitude that Donald Fagen specializes in and if you lived through the transition from “Reelin’ In The Years” to “Aja” you’ll find yourself nodding your head, hear it twice and you want to hear it again and again and again.

How did we get here?

Todd Rundgren was too talented for his own good, he could throw off three minute pop songs, hit ditties, seemingly at will, so he stopped. It’d kinda be like Michael Jordan deciding to give up basketball for basebalL..hell, that HAPPENED!

And if you’re part of the club, you believe Todd is God, but most people tuned out after “Hello It’s Me” and maybe know “Can We Still Be Friends,” but the Philly native is seen as a has-been in the rearview mirror, the only problem is TR is a punk in the classic sense, he refuses to be categorized, he doesn’t care if he pisses off his hard core, he’s got to continue to follow his muse and test limits, go deep into electronic music, even though he’s got no chance of breaking through. And he’s not warm and fuzzy, as anybody who’s ever come in personal contact with him knows. Study your rock history and you come across barbs not so veiled, like those of Andy Partridge of XTC, who believes Rundgren ruined “Skylarking” when the truth is Todd’s the one who made it great, I heard “Earn Enough For Us” on Sirius yesterday and I was MESMERIZED!

But that’s the problem with talented artists, they’re arrogant, they want to do it their way, and now more than ever we venerate those who know how to smooth down their rough edges and get along, but that’s not Rundgren.

And if you give Todd some cash, he’ll make you an album. But there’s been an endless string of curios and throwaways. Have you heard “Todd Rundgren’s Johnson”? And now comes “White Knight.”

The advance single was “That Could Have Been Me,” featuring Robyn, that’s right, Todd doesn’t vocalize on all the cuts, he’s got guest stars, and no one is as cynical as a record label, no wonder they went with the track featuring a young ‘un, but the winner, the one that penetrates your brain and sticks to your ribs, is “Tin Foil Hat.”

Now like the greatest protest songs, the best social commentary, “Tin Foil Hat” works as music irrelevant of the lyrics. Granted it sounds like nothing on the airwaves today, it’s slick where those cuts are rough, it’s got melody where those tracks are all beats, but it goes down smooth, like a milkshake.

And you catch snippets the first time through, the second, about putting the “pluto” in “plutocrat,” believe it’s an indictment of the ruling class, and then you realize “Tin Foil Hat” is all about TRUMP!

Funny world we live in, the youngsters have all bought in, they don’t want to upset the apple cart, whereas the oldsters, at least those still plying the boards, they’re willing to speak truth, it’s in their DNA.

He’s coming down the escalator
With a girl from east of here

They’re talking about Melania, who if you do a bit of research you will find looks nothing like the woman born there, she’s had so much plastic surgery it’s jaw-dropping, if you doubt me just go here:

Melania Trump, Before and After

But that’s the world we live in, one of image, one of lies, like Agent Orange is gonna save the working class, that’s right, while he gives tax cuts to the rich and Carrier cuts those jobs anyway.

He wants to make the country greater
We’ve got nothing to fear

Other than Angela Merkel leaving us in the rearview mirror, knowing she can’t depend upon us anymore, read David Frum in the “Atlantic,” the right winger who was excommunicated for having a brain:

Trump’s Trip Was a Catastrophe for U.S.-Europe Relations

Because the man in the tin foil hat
Is sitting on the throne tonight
It kinda feels like a coup d’etat
But it’s gonna be great, tremendous, amazing and all that

The funny thing is just repeating Trump’s own words makes you smile, laugh. And the papers say the same damn thing but it has no impact, but music crosses borders, put this on radio stations and it would subliminally change minds, but there’s nowhere for this on Active Rock and AOR is all oldies and where are you gonna get exposure?

‘Cause the man in the tin foil hat
Is tweeting like a teenage girl
He puts the pluto in plutocrat
It’s gonna be a yuge yuge yuge new world

This is the kind of stuff that bonded us to the artists of yore, speaking truth, being subversive and not caring about the consequences. But the consequences were the more they were true to themselves the bigger they became, the more impact they had.

And there’s a video I don’t recommend, because “Tin Foil Hat” plays better in your head, when the lyrics marinate and slowly penetrate, line by line, as the music keeps you going. Like it used to be. But if you want to check out the visuals, go here:

Todd Rundgren/Donald Fagen: Tin Foil Hat – YouTube

So what have we learned here?

That there’s HOPE!

There’s something in the air, and it only takes one artist, one record, to make a difference.

This is just the beginning, but unlike all the other faux protest songs in the wake of the election this one makes it as MUSIC!

And it makes sense it comes from Rundgren, who could bring Grand Funk to the top of the chart, but he’s the one who’s truly an American Band, however self-contained.

One of these classic rock artists is gonna step out of the shed and cut a track so hot it’s undeniable. They’re operating off the radar screen, they’ve got less to lose, and they have the instincts, the history, they were there when music was the hottest medium in the world, when one song could move mountains.

You say you wanna revolution?

LISTEN TO THIS!

Gregg Allman – Spotify

They finally caught the midnight rider.

How big was the Allman Brothers Band? They HEADLINED the biggest rock festival to date, Watkins Glen, with 600,000 attendees. The Band opened, but their hits and impact were in the past, and out of steam they broke up just a few years later. The Dead? This was not the Dead of today, a legendary act known by all who were godhead, with a soulful guitar player who took you on aural trips…that was the ALLMAN BROTHERS!

IDLEWILD SOUTH

That’s what I heard first, that’s what most people heard first. And the opening cut, “Revival,” was nothing like what ultimately made the band famous, it was tight, it was energetic, it exuded both confidence and a will to impress, but listening to it one knew not that southern rock would soon infiltrate not only the airwaves, but our consciousness. Yes, let’s state for the record right now, the Allmans were the progenitors of southern rock. They made it before Skynyrd or anyone else, they were the first with twin lead guitarists, we’d almost never seen two drummers, they came to play, and you certainly realized this when you heard the first side closer, “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” when the guitars locked on and took you on a mellifluous journey that required no visuals, you could just lay your head back and close your eyes and dream.

But what pushed “Idlewild South” over the top, was “Midnight Rider.”

There was the picking, the percussion, the groove, the feeling like you were riding a horse, and then…

I don’t own the clothes I’m wearin’
And the road goes on forever
And I’ve got one more silver dollar
But I’m not gonna let ’em catch me, no
Not gonna let ’em catch the midnight rider

This wasn’t about fast cars and private planes, although their manager, Phil Walden ultimately owned an aircraft, but the MUSIC! That’s right, the road really did go on forever, from Florida to L.A. and back again, with a stop for Duane in Muscle Shoals in between. You either had a hit record or you played in the studio or live. The Allmans had no hits. So, Duane quit the studio and they ground it out on the road. In an era where people put out albums and then toured and then recorded again, but the Allmans were different, they kept playing and playing, they were convincing customers one by one, but with no help from either the press, which hated the south, or promotional shenanigans, it was purely the music.

And then came…

LIVE AT FILLMORE EAST

It was closing, New York’s most legendary venue. And the closing night band, the headliner, Bill Graham’s favorite, the best in the land according to him, was the…ALLMAN BROTHERS?

They had no hits, were barely known, it’d be like Jason Isbell being the headliner at Coachella. There was a radio simulcast, but most of the focus was on the appearance of the suddenly resurgent Beach Boys, and then, at the end of August, the album came out…

Wake up mama, turn your lamp down low

You only had to drop the needle.

WHAT WAS THAT? You were immediately grabbed by the throat, made to pay attention, you fired up a doobie, even though it was still two years until most knew that term, sat on the couch and listened through, all four sides, and one thing was for sure, no one said the package was TOO LONG!

How could this be, how could a band emerge so fully-formed? It would be like stumbling upon a Ferrari in 1910, you suddenly got it, what all the excitement was all about.

And as energetic as “Statesboro Blues” was, “Trouble No More” was just as energetic, but different. It was like going on a date with your crush, the girl you admired from afar, and finding not only was she just as beautiful without makeup but she had a 3-D personality. And you know how that goes, when you’re pinching yourself, it never lasts.

And it didn’t.

Duane Allman died.

DREAMS

Just one more mornin’
I had to wake up with the blues

We planned to see the band in Providence. You traveled to see your favorite bands, but not by plane, you loaded up in old American iron, Chevys and Fords, and drove for hours just to be in the auditorium, it wasn’t about being seen, but being in the same room with the magicmakers. It was a badge of honor, before you had any idea what the experience was like, long before MTV, when every show was a new adventure.

But the Allman zenith was still two years off. Atlantic put out a two album retrospective on Duane, the band soldiered on, but still so much of America was clueless, because to reach everybody you had to be on AM radio, but just like now, there are pockets of people who will keep you alive, huge pockets the press misses until an event like Watkins Glen.

So newly-minted fans went back and bought not only “Idlewild South,” but the initial LP, where it’s all there, even an abbreviated “Whipping Post,” it’s just that the production kept the band too contained, they were so busy getting it perfect that there was one percent missing, and that one percent is everything, it’s what pushed “Fillmore East” over the top.

AIN’T WASTIN’ TIME NO MORE

Well lord, lord Miss Sally, why all your cryin’
Been around here three long days, lookin’ like we’re dyin’
Go step yourself outside, look up at the stars above
Go on downtown baby, find somebody to love

The band was soldiering on, so we got onboard, we jumped on the truck carrying the giant peach and listened…

But the emotional cost… Now all the weight was on Gregg’s shoulders. Dickey stepped up, but that ultimately caused problems, but the band was even more successful.

You wanna know why you have so many friends named “Melissa”? That’s straight off “Eat A Peach.” Never underestimate the power of music, the power of a band.

RAMBLIN’ MAN

It’s a Dickey song, written and sung, but it’s this number that made the band the biggest in the land, you could go nowhere without hearing this tune, to the point where you couldn’t push the radio button soon enough to end it.

If you didn’t live through the era you’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, no act today has this ubiquity, not a single one, just talk to the average person about Taylor Swift or Jay Z or Ed Sheeran and they’re flummoxed, but everyone knew ‘Ramblin’ Man.”

And a lot of women are named “Jessica” because of the instrumental on the second side of “Brothers and Sisters,” which dominated dorm room play all fall, but my favorite track on the LP is ‘Come and Go Blues.”

People say that you’re no good
But I wouldn’t cut you loose, baby, if I could

Bad boys with bad girls. Not everybody went to college, not everybody was on the fast track, life was about meaning as opposed to accomplishments, and our beacons, our instructors, were these bands, these acts. We looked to them for direction.

LAID BACK

And on the heels of this great success with “Brothers and Sisters,” Gregg released his initial solo LP, a victory lap that swept up every woman in America, that touched every male’s soul, you see here was the coolest dude on the planet singing about his weary life, this twentysomething with long golden locks had seen more than we ever would in a lifetime and he was deigning to tell us about it, in a slowed-down version of “Midnight Rider” and the definitive version of Jackson Browne’s “These Days.”

I’M NO ANGEL

And then the band petered out. Made an ignored record, broke up, got back together, you never counted them out, but now we were in the video era and on to something new and then came this, from a survivor, a cut he didn’t write but that expressed his ethos perfectly, Gregg Allman was no angel, but he’d SURVIVED!

Kinda like Keith Richards, but an American, someone we could relate to, not a man who made a pact with the devil, but someone who’d lived the life, taken some chances, and had emerged on the other side.

There was the Cher episode. Which was incomprehensible, but when she complained he was passing out in his dinner plate, inside you laughed, she snagged him, but she hadn’t changed him, you couldn’t change Gregg Allman, the midnight rider.

He dated a famous porn star. Got married again, had children, and didn’t worry about you judging him, he just lived on, and then he had another hit!

ANYTHING GOES

My favorite cut on the “I’m No Angel” album, there’s a moment, after the break, when Gregg Allman reaches down deep and at the top of his lungs screams…ANYTHING GOES! It’s at 3:20 in the song if you wanna check it out, and it’s moments like these that are personal, that keep you going, putting one foot in front of the other, so when we were hanging out before the show…

Yes, I ain’t got no money, but I’m rich on personality, and that has allowed me to meet all my heroes, get e-mail from them, it thrills me, and about an hour before they took the stage at the Greek I was introduced to Gregg and I had to ask him, about that emotive explosion.

Now you’ve got to understand, they’re not like you and me.

First and foremost, he was wearing his boots, the original American rockers never got over the Beatles. And he’s towering above me, and he leans down to my ear, his long hair almost falling on my shoulder, and he starts whispering, telling a story, sotto voce, like we’re the only two people in the universe, like he’s gonna reveal a deep dark secret.

“I can’t hit that note every night. But there are certain evenings, when I’m sitting on the piano bench, and I reach over to hit a note and my left nut gets caught under my leg and I yell ANYTHING GOES!”

I swear to god, just like that, that’s about an exact quote.

And he backs off, stands straight, but gives me a poker face, and I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me, pulling my leg, putting me down, or initiating me into the ways of the road, making me an honorary insider, but one thing’s for sure, he was still COOL!

DESDEMONA

They’d been on Atlantic/Atco/Capricorn, jumped to Arista and Epic, everybody wanted to give the band a chance, everybody still believed, but the act didn’t truly recapture the magic until they made a record themselves, for their Peach label, “Hittin’ The Note,” which was a complete return to form, but had no impact.

This is rare. That the magic can be recaptured, check this number out, the whole damn album, to experience it.

PEAKIN’ AT THE BEACON

And when your record company has stolen all your money, that’s right, the Allmans got a judgment against Capricorn but could not collect, and no one is interested in your new recordings, what do you do?

You bury the hatchet and go on the road.

Suddenly the Allmans were available. Everywhere, on a regular basis, but nowhere as much as the Beacon, they owned it, figuratively if not literally, they were recapturing the Fillmore magic at James Dolan’s pleasure palace, and that meant no showiness, no over-the-top elements, just pure music.

One time I sat on stage, right behind Gregg, where you could see the tattoos on his arms as he tickled the ivories, supporting the band in front of him, despite the act carrying his name, being untenable without him, but he saw himself as just a musician, one of the group, but I remembered, we remembered.

THE ROXY

Wait long enough and you can see your favorites up close and personal. That’s what’s weird, you’re lamenting their loss when they were just here, readily available. And it made me crazy that the crowd refused to listen to the quiet numbers, but Gregg could still sing and play. And when I was in the dressing room after the show he wanted to talk…

This is always surprising. You learn not to say hi if you’re not introduced. But then they know who you are and you express a few pleasantries, and then there are times you realize…they’re thrilled to find a friendly face, thrilled not to have to press the flesh and go through the motions, when they want to open up and converse.

And you’re flummoxed. Not sure exactly how to act. Whether to fawn, which is usually a mistake, talk about the world at large or put forth the questions that have always haunted you.

I went for the questions.

And this man with the pink skin and the white beard and quiet southern voice answered them all.

That’s the last time I saw him.

GOD REST HIS SOUL

So what have we learned?

That you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.

These classic rockers have to stop dying.

But some are broke, some lived so hard their bodies have given out.

But one thing’s for sure, they lived.

It would be great if Gregg was still here, but no one can say he didn’t make the most of his 69 years on the planet. Sure, he could have made other choices, stopped the drugs and alcohol earlier, but when you’re testing limits, making it up as you go, sometimes you fall down the hole, but the amazing thing about Gregg is he always climbed out of it, until now.

He didn’t take his own life, didn’t die in an accident, he just lived hard and used himself up.

But he left a legacy. Of not only hits, but a whole way of life.

First and foremost he was a musician, whereas today it’s more about being a star. He paid his dues, he earned his success.

And he wrote these songs. It’s one thing to play in the band, quite another to improvise a solo, but to compose the changes and the lyrics, that’s what we marvel at, how did he come up with this stuff?

Duane’s death was a surprise.

Berry’s almost a fait accompli.

And then they kicked Dickey out of the band and Butch took his own life and now Gregg has succumbed, all that’s left is ashes, the Allman Brothers are no more, but the records live on.

And those records, they weren’t repeats of what came before, rather the Allman Brothers improvised upon what once was and created something brand new.

And Gregg’s life had many twists and turns, but he got bitten by the music bug and lifted himself out of the land of single parenthood to have an impact, to burn an impression upon a whole generation. And, like I said, he was never one of us, he had too much charisma, he was too cool.

He survived. All the death, all the bankruptcies, all the substance abuse, but now he’s gone, and we’re all feeling the loss.

You see, when done right, music is unique. It might be part of a genre, but you never mistake one great for another. You knew when you heard the Allman Brothers, you knew it was Gregg Allman when his voice came out of the speaker, and although you thought you knew him, you really never could, because he was different from you and me, and it’s these different people, these gods, these musicians, we look to enrich our lives. Not the techies, not the bankers, not social media sensations, but the players who sit down and overwhelm us with their talent, the sound they create.

WASTED WORDS

“God Rest His Soul” is from the 1989 Allman Brothers boxed set “Dreams,” when that was still a thing, when you hungered for the outtakes, the alternative takes, long before Napster. And nothing I’ve written will tell you as much about Gregg Allman as much as listening to one cut, and the one cut I listen to most these days is “Come and Go Blues,” not the one from “Brothers and Sisters,” but from “Dreams.”

People say that you’re no good

Believe me, Gregg had haters, long before the internet, long before Twitter.

Don’t ask me why I stay here, I don’t know

When an act touches your soul you can never deny them, you still follow them, play their new tunes, you never forget, you stay attached.

Well maybe I’m a fool to care

We’re all fools, we baby boomers who refused to join corporate America and decided to make this music our life, we just wanted to be involved, closer to these musicians, Gregg Allman was bigger than Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg or Warren Buffett could ever be.

Without your sweet love baby I would be nowhere

They needed us as much as we needed them, it was a mutual experience.

Here I’ll stay, locked in your web

We’d play the records and just the records over and over again, they were not a distraction, they were the main event.

‘Till that day I might find somebody else

We never did, find somebody else, that is. We liked other bands, but we never forgot you.

Well I seem to stay down on the ground
Baby I’m too far gone to turn around

This is me, this is you. Our records are our most treasured possessions, I’ve never sold my vinyl, not because it sounds better, but because I built that collection, that’s me, thumb through those records after I’m gone and you’ll get a good picture of who I am.

Oh, if only you would make up your mind

The great thing about Gregg Allman is his mind was made up, he knew where he was going, he stayed the course, refused to sell out and be someone else. Never got plastic surgery, never overexposed himself on game shows, he’d play along, but always reluctantly, because he knew his residence was behind his instrument, in a rehearsal room, on stage.

Take me where you go, you’re leaving me behind

Yes, I feel left behind. I’m sure you do too. I got the news and felt at loose ends. How can this be happening? Death is final, you mean he’s never coming back, I’m never gonna see him sing “Midnight Rider” one more time, how can that be, what am I supposed to do with myself now, now that I’ve dedicated my whole life to you and your ilk, I’m not ready to join that great band in the sky, but it seems they’ve got better players than we have down here.

Now they’ve got you.

While I’m talking TV, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how exceptional Billy Bob Thornton is in “Goliath.” It’s on Amazon Prime, and although half the households in America have it and don’t have to pay for it nothing on that outlet gets any traction, it seems people don’t know how to pull the service up or they don’t have a Roku or it’s not on Apple TV and they don’t know how to operate their smart TV but I wouldn’t count out Amazon, it’s a long game and that’s the one they play best and they’ve got oh-so-deep pockets and I’m not saying you have to watch “Goliath,” because it’s a typical David E. Kelley legal drama with holes galore, but Billy Bob Thornton, the excoriated actor who moonlighted as a musician, he’s FANTASTIC!

We seem to have forgotten the power of the individual. Of one person to make a difference. I’m not saying of one person to become successful, we have multiple iterations of that, we prop up nitwits for nothing and marvel at their remuneration but they’ve got no talent, whether it be the YouTube stars with their gaming and fashion tips or the models, even the one-dimensional pop stars fronting for Max Martin, but then there are talented people so good that what they say makes a difference. Like some people on Twitter. You need to follow Steven Rattner (@SteveRattner), the disgraced investment banker who went to work for Obama as the car czar. He took over for Felix Rohatyn at Lazard Freres, left media for the money, and now he’s returned to media, writing occasionally for the NYT and tweeting not only emotion, but facts, and if you still believe in facts it’s a revelation.

And one great band member can carry a whole act. How many have survived the loss of their lead singer? There’s Genesis and Van Halen, although both acts were the same yet different, but there are so many others with charismatic frontmen who couldn’t soldier on, whether it be the Doors or now Soundgarden. You see the magic is often in one person.

And millennials don’t get this, they’ve been taught it’s best to be a member of the group, they didn’t want to raise their hand in class for fear of standing out.

And business school is all about teams and relationships. God, if I hear the word “networking” one more time I’m gonna explode. Is that what life has come down to, finding people you can use to get ahead? And people have no shame, they want to go to lunch, talk on the phone, just so they can express their agenda, use me to further their careers, they do it unabashedly, which is why the odds of me talking on the phone or getting together with you are so damn low, although now I will have scared away the reasonable people but the unreasonable ones have no shame.

Which brings us back to Billy Bob Thornton, the rugged individual walking his own way who we get mad at because he doesn’t comport with our desires, doesn’t do it the way we think he should. Hell, all these years later it’s Jian Ghomeshi who’s the loser, funny how time lifts those who deserve attention and buries those who don’t. Which is why you can tune out today’s music scene for a couple of years and miss nothing, because none of these people are gonna last.

The heroes of America used to be rugged individuals. Hell, I can start naming them and continue for days. Whether it be Steve McQueen, or even musicians like Bob Dylan and John Lennon. These are artists we can’t take our eyes off of.

We can’t take our eyes off of Billy Bob Thornton in “Goliath.”

And sure, the role is written for him. The moral lawyer who can’t handle the results of his excellent work who goes off the deep end and trashes his life, ruins his family and career. But there’s still an inner mounting flame. And when it’s given oxygen, the old Billy Bob fights the goliath, because if you don’t believe in something, if you’re not fighting for something, why even get up in the morning?

The cinematography is incredible. William Hurt is acting at B level. Molly Parker is always great. Maria Bello acts to the limits of her ability, which unfortunately are not anywhere near Billy Bob’s, and you end up seeing that Nina Arianda deserved all those Broadway accolades, she’s not Hollywood beautiful, but she can ACT!

But Billy Bob is in his own league. He carries the whole damn show. Because he’s so damn BELIEVABLE! In an era where no one is, or there’s no one home. You think he really is the character. Who is willing to bob and weave and tolerate slights all in the furtherance of the ultimate goal, sticking it to the man.

Does anybody want to stick it to the man anymore?

No, they want to BE THE MAN!

But we’d rather watch the outsider, look to the lone gunman, the person outside of the system, not beholden to the rules, who thinks for themselves, they’re the beacon.

Like Billy Bob.