Bubblegum University - Gary Pig Gold & Carl Cafarelli

The Juicy-Fruity Four !!

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 11:07:52 -0700

GARY PIG GOLD's ALL-TIME FAVORITE

BUBBLEGUM ALBUMS

(in the strictly Long-playing, Long-lasting, but pretty well long out-of-print category)

JONATHAN KING Bubble Rock Is Here To Stay (U.K. Records, 1972)

Including witfully-wadded takes on anything and everything from “Satisfaction” and “Mr. Tambourine Man” to “Rock Around The Clock” and beyond, this truly is the world’s tartiest collection of, as Mr. King describes it himself, “fabulous old wines in beautiful new bottles.”

Various Artistes The Fabulous Bubblegum Years (Kory Records, 1976)

Fifteen (“count ‘em!”) of K&K’s gooiest ‘n’ gummiest of all, expertly sequenced and lovingly packaged by the good folks at -- who? -- Kory. This, along with that first Ramone album, surely made 1976 the year of Bubblegum’s last great (original) gasp.

BUTTERSCOTT Great Scott (Grapefruit Records, 1998)

The proudly self-confessed Bubblegum Man of Boston herein gathers together an hour of his greatest three-chord, four-track creations and offers them boldly to a world which, long ago it seems, seems to have all but forgotten the simple joys in rhyming “yummy” with “tummy.”

CANDYPANTS Candypants (Sympathy For The Record Industry, 2000)

What do you get when you toss together a wad of Los Angeles’ greatest unsung musicians to create a clutch of tunes that veer wildly between pop-a-billy sass, Ronettes mascara-raunch, and the attraction(s) that was very early Elvis Costello? Top it all with the provocatively crayola-tones of the one and only Lisa Jenio and you honestly have one of the gummily-greatest creations this side of Josie and her Puddytats. Brings ALL new meanings to the expression “pony up” (for starters).

The Lovin' Spoonful

Thu, 04 May 2006 20:47:22 -0700

by Gary Pig Gold

Excuse me, but I think America had already produced a more-than-competent “answer” to that great big British Invasion quite some time before the Byrds and “Mr. Tambourine Man” ever reared their jingle-jangled heads.

I speak of the undeniably brilliant, once and forever Happy Hit Machine known as the Lovin’ Spoonful.

With long tangled roots deep within folk, jug-band music and the blues, this quartet somehow squeezed from its diverse musical lineage the deceptively simple brew they called, quite perfectly, Good-Time Music. In fact the band’s first monumental hit, “Do You Believe In Magic,” was no less than a musical manifesto – a Top Forty Call-To-Arms even! -- which instantly launched a solid three-year run of immense yet ** always ** innovative international hits.

The story began in New York City on the momentous night of February 9, 1964. At 8PM, on the corner of 53rd and Broadway, Ed Sullivan was introducing those four guys from Liverpool to a rightfully astonished nation. A couple of miles downtown, three under-employed folk singers named Cass Elliot, Zalman Yanovsky and John B. Sebastian were among the 73 million most definitely tuned in. Then and there, all three decided to form their very own rock ‘n’ roll combos, and after various incarnations and permutations – not to mention a recreational side trip or two (all documented in song and dance, by the way, within the verses of the Mamas & Papas’ “Creeque Alley”) -- it was John and Zal who, when the haze had cleared, were wowin’ em every night from the stage of the Night Owl Café with co-conspirators Steve Boone and Joe Butler in tow. Taking their name from a Mississippi John Hurt tune, the Lovin’ Spoonful soon numbered among their most loyal fans Phil Spector (who lobbied, unsuccessfully as it transpired, to be their producer), local boy Bob Dylan (getting ready to plug himself in at that very time), and a would-be Andrew Loog Oldham name of Erik Jacobsen, who quickly signed the band to the brand new Kama Sutra label.

Of course, you can safely call the Spoonful “bubblegum” (as just one look at lead guitarist Zal Yanovsky, a human cartoon if ever there was one, will attest), but they were in fact one of those rare bands who dared to – and were capable of – supplying a goodly amount of Substance with their Pop. Certainly hits such as “Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind?” and especially the landmark “Summer In The City” laid the keyboard-crafted game-plan for much Super K gumness to come, plus the band’s on-stage penchant for brightly-striped T-shirts and over-sized cowboy hats make even the 1989 Musical Marching Zoo‘s stagewear seem downright demure by comparison. In fact, so potent was the Spoonful’s aura of goofy, glorious mayhem that they were briefly being considered for a starring role in their very own weekly television series! Lucky for Davy Jones though, the Spoonful seemed content instead to make a cameo appearance in – not to mention write the score for -- Woody Allen’s first (and by far greatest) film, 1966’s Japanese Bond spoof “What’s Up, Tiger Lily?”

Yet beneath all this day-glo zaniness, the band remain widely respected and revered more for their musicianship, and in particular Sebastian’s songwriting, than they are for their happy-go-lucky mugging across Hullabaloo and Shindig. Tragically though, the luck began to run out in 1967 following the controversial arrest and subsequent removal of Yanovsky back to his home and native Canada (where, until his above-untimely demise in 2002, he continued cookin’ up storms as owner and proprietor of the legendary Chez Piggy restaurant); by 1969, all that seemed to remain of those once Good Times was the disturbing sight of John Sebastian, clothed from head to toe in tie-dyed denim, babbling about far-outness on the stage of the Woodstock Music and Art Fair. Yikes!

Nevertheless, the Lovin Spoonful remain a very vital part of 1960’s American Pop, and their early breakthrough period provided a veritable musical and visual blueprint upon which all manner of Bubblegum was shortly thereafter concocted. And as if that alone wasn’t ample legacy enough, may I now remind you all that the late, so great Zally’s 1968 solo album “Alive And Well In Argentina” just has to be one of the drop-down, most magnificent works of bubble-fried art ever created by man or beast, and as such should immediately be searched out and purchased by each and every person reading these here words.

The Bay City Rollers

Wed, 03 May 2006 21:41:29 -0700

by Carl Cafarelli

Teen idols seem to have a built-in obsolescence, virtually guaranteeing a short career for any artist whose primary appeal is to a fickle preteen female market. For the self-consciously hip, the teen idol tag carries a stigma beyond easy redemption, and the artists who cater to this market risk being forever branded as uncool.

In this context, no band was less cool in the '70s than the Bay City Rollers, whose management went so far as to tout this harmless Scottish quintet as the �next Beatles.� That claim may seem ludicrous now (just as it did then), but the Rollers were nonetheless one of the biggest pop phenomena of the decade.

We'll dispense with the standard rap on the Bay City Rollers' tartan-clad teenybop image and all the hype. At this point, suffice it to say that the Rollers were an often-underrated, occasionally (if infrequently) terrific power pop group.

The Bay City Rollers began circa 1967 as an Edinburgh, Scotland cover band called the Saxons. The Saxons included brothers Alan and Derek Longmuir, on bass and drums respectively, with singer Nobby Clarke. That trio remained through various Saxons line-ups. Seeking a more American-sounding name, a pin was struck randomly into a map of the United States. The pin landed on Bay City, Michigan, and the Bay City Rollers were born.

The Bay City Rollers' first single, a cover of the Gentrys' "Keep On Dancing," became a # 9 British hit in 1971. But follow-up singles, including an early version of "Saturday Night," were comparative flops. By now, Clarke and the Longmuirs had been joined in Rollerdom by guitarists Eric Faulkner and Stuart "Woody" Wood. Clarke himself soon quit, to be replaced on lead vocals by Les McKeown.

The Rollers didn't play on any of their records until "Bye Bye Baby," a cover of the 4 Seasons' hit. Rollermania took Britain by storm, and was eventually exported to America via a new, McKeown-sung version of "Saturday Night" (a song which directly inspired the Ramones' own chanting "Blitzkrieg Bop," believe it or not).

The Rollers' recorded legacy is a mixed bag, offering a fair amount of drippy ballads and some bona fide rockin' pop. Bay City Rollers is notable mostly for "Saturday Night." Rock N' Roll Love Letter contains four of the group's best power pop tracks, "Money Honey," "Rock And Roll Love Letter," "Wouldn't You Like It" and "Too Young To Rock & Roll." "Wouldn't You Like It," in particular, is a dynamic power pop number that should have been a single.

Alan Longmuir was replaced by Ian Mitchell on Dedication. Produced by Raspberries veteran Jimmy Ienner, Dedication suffers from weak material, including very lame attempts at Beach Boys and Raspberries covers, but is redeemed by the rockin' Faulkner-Wood "Rock 'N Roller," a reasonably cool cover of Dusty Springfield's "I Only Want To be With You" and a superb reading of Vanda and Young's terrific "Yesterday's Hero." Mitchell then split after a scant six-month stint; his replacement, Pat McGlynn, didn't even stay that long.

As a quartet, the Rollers released the slick It's A Game album as an attempt to bridge the adult and teen markets, eschewing both standard teenybop ballads and power pop. Instead, it offers an unlikely melange of Manilowesque crooning, disco styling and even a cover of David Bowie's "Rebel, Rebel."

Greatest Hits represents the final cash-in at the end of the group's commercial reign. A perfunctory best-of, it includes the American singles, both hits and misses, but omits essential LP tracks "Wouldn't You Like It," "Too Young To Rock & Roll' and "Rock 'N Roller." Arista reissued it on CD in 1991.

In 1978 the group (with Alan Longmuir back in the fold) starred on NBC in a Saturday morning kiddie TV show produced by Sid and Marty Krofft and released the forgettable Strangers In The Wind. When the TV show ended, McKeown split.

Duncan Faure, formerly of the South African group Rabbit, was McKeown's replacement. The group changed its focus, dumped the tartan outfits and teen image, and shortened its name to simply the Rollers. Elevator was the result, the most aggressive-sounding album the group ever made. Granted, there's nothing on Elevator to equal "Rock And Roll Love Letter," "Wouldn't You Like It" or "Yesterday's Hero," but it is far more consistently listenable than any other Rollers album. Key tracks include "Elevator," "Playing In A Rock And Roll Band," "I Was Eleven," "Turn On The Radio," "Instant Relay" and "Who'll Be My Keeper." The resulting sound could be compared to the Babys, or a more AOR-oriented version of the Records. If nothing else, it shows the Rollers as contenders, if not quite the next Beatles. It stiffed horribly, and was the last Rollers album issued in America.

The rare and little-heard Voxx is reportedly a contract-breaking set of odds and ends (if not sods). Ricochet follows in Elevator's footsteps, but is not its equal. The original group reportedly got back together in the mid-'80s for a reunion concert, and released one synth-dominated album, Breakout, before splitting again. [This writer has never heard either Live In Japan or Breakout, but we're told that the former is a triumph and the latter a tragedy.] A later version of the group, still featuring Faulkner and Wood, released Bye Bye Baby, a pathetic collection of remakes of old Rollers tunes. It is surely not representative of how one might wish to remember the Bay City Rollers.

That neither the Bay City Rollers nor the just-plain Rollers were the next Beatles is hardly a startling revelation. Maybe they were the next Herman's Hermits, or the next Banana Splits. Who cares? No matter how many self-appointed arbiters of hip despised the Rollers, there were nonetheless others who thought they were... well, kinda neat. Dee Dee Ramone was a Rollers fan; according to Johnny Ramone, the Bay City Rollers were a much bigger influence on the Ramones' brand of pop-fueled punk than anyone would have ever thought likely. And Nick Lowe's "Rollers Show," whether parody or pastiche, had to have some affection behind it.

Evidence for the Rollers' case still survives in the grooves. A quick spin of "Wouldn't You Like It," "Yesterday's Hero," "Who'll Be My Keeper," "Too Young To Rock & Roll," "I Only Want To Be With You," "Rock 'N Roller," "Saturday Night," "Money Honey" and "Rock And Roll Love Letter" makes a convincing argument for the Bay City Rollers as power pop savants.

And, perhaps more importantly, there are thousands of grown-up little girls who will cherish a memory of the Bay City Rollers forever. For that, even by itself, the Bay City Rollers were cool.

The Turtles

Mon, 01 May 2006 23:46:11 -0700

The Turtles
by Gary Pig Gold

Take a look at the cover of the Turtles’ stunning 1968 album Battle Of The Bands: therein stand not one, not two, but twelve different mock-"Turtles" (one for each song), each posed in an absolutely flawless visual parody of—or was it a tribute to?—one dozen different musical sub-genres and styles.

While this delightful ruse may have provided a hearty premise for—gulp—another Concept Album (albeit one which, in my less-than-humble opinion, far out-surpassed the Beatles’ comparatively meek Pepper-grinding), beneath all the dress-up fun and games lay a more than telling element of ironic, bitter truth. For the real Turtles indeed spent their entire career struggling to establish a single, all-encompassing identity in the eyes of not only their audiences the world over, but with their long-suffering bosses at White Whale Records, radio programmers everywhere, and perhaps even the actual band members themselves.

In fact, the band’s very origins seem mucho-schizo to say the least: springing to life in Los Angeles circa 1961 as a rough ‘n’ ready instrumental combo (the Nightriders), they soon transformed themselves into a real-life surf band (the Crossfires), later tried their hand at folk music (as the Crosswind Singers, would you believe), were also known to show up at local bowling alleys pretending to be Gerry & the Pacemakers, then finally settled on the hallowed Turtles moniker (though almost the Tyrtles) upon signing with White Whale in 1965. Their first hit, a Top 40-friendly cover of Dylan’s "It Ain’t Me Babe," was quickly followed by a P.F. Sloan sound-alike ("Let Me Be") and then the incredible, edible "You Baby."

The latter, also from the pedantic pen of Sloan, was an absolute, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-ears candy-rock delight, and its cheery combination of one-handed keyboard licks atop "Hang On Sloopy" thump-and-strum was soon heard reverberating throughout all the biggest and best hits of the Ohio Express, Fruitgum Co., et al et al. But by this time (1967-68), the Turtles had already turned to New York writers Gary Bonner and Alan Gordon for their next two mega-smashes, "Happy Together" and "She’d Rather Be With Me."

It was right about now that the Turtles—always a super-slick and hard-hitting live act—began defiantly expressing more of their road-tested (and quite often far-out-there) chops on vinyl as well. Despite the fact that their producer Joe Wissert was reportedly spending an inordinate amount of time reciting poetry and eating gingerbread bats when he should’ve been knob-twiddling, "She’s My Girl," "Sound Asleep" and even the infamous "Umbassa And The Dragon" were worthy enough to earn the respect of such highly-coveted peers as Frank Zappa (who later employed several post-Turtles in his most popular incarnation of the Mothers of Invention) and Ray Davies (who accepted a rare non-Kink production assignment when offered the chance to record the Turtles’ final album).

Yet White Whale, a small label solely dependent upon the Turtles for their financial bread and butter, just wanted lots more "She’d Rather Be Happy"-sounding smashes. Oh yeah? Well! So group leaders Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan, butts against the wall (but with tongues very firmly in cheek) simply responded one night by writing the million-selling, wholly-bubble-worthy "Elenore": a hit so insidiously innocuous that it landed the band a chance soon afterwards to perform at the Nixon White House!

This being the late sixties however, gigs at Tricia Nixon’s prom were not the kind of events any well-respecting band wore on their denim-tattered sleeves. So as the Turtles’ hair and beards—to say nothing of their songs themselves—grew ever longer and less manageable, and while hundreds of thousands of dollars in royalties due from White Whale still seemed lost in the ether, our boys finally tired of bucking the system and bitterly disbanded in 1970. It was a dark day indeed for not only bubblegum, but for mankind in general.

Able to toss off cheerful Top 10 hits at the drop of a Nehru hat, then reply with such intricate, multi-layered gems as "Grim Reaper Of Love," the Turtles certainly could, without a doubt, be considered true purveyors of bubblegum at its ultimate, cleverly-crafted stickiness. These many different faces—and facets—of the Turtles also provide a textbook overview of how, and most importantly why, "image" has forever remained at the very core of any band’s acceptance and ultimate success. Many of bubblegum’s greatest, from the Monkees and Partridges to even the Spice Girls and beyond, have obviously learned important lessons from the Turtles’ hard-wrought lessons.