Sifting
Through
the Pebbles

by Brent Bozman
If youre even somewhat interested in 60s-era
garage rock, youve probably already purchased Rhinos deservedly
acclaimed Nuggets box set. You may
have even bought Nuggets II, the poppier
and more psychedelic sequel. If so, the next place to look for 60s
garage gems is the Pebbles series on
Bomp! Records.
Pebbles is an undiluted
romp through the murk of one-single wonders long forgotten outside of
the rarified world of record collectors. There arent any familiar
tracks like Psychotic Reaction or Dirty Water
here, just raw, unrefined records too jagged and uncommercial to dent
the charts. The ratio of good stuff to junk is also significantly lower
than the Nuggets series. The problem
with the anyone can make a garage record ethos, like any DIY
creative climate, is that most people who do it probably shouldnt
have bothered in the first place. Theres plenty of rote three chord
bash-em-outs, embarrassing attempts at psychedelia that were dated
ten minutes after the record was pressed, and enough lousy attempts to
knock off British rock to fill an army of Beatlemania! touring casts.
But there are also plenty of amazing moments: inept teenage kids who somehow
stumble upon a magic riff for two and a half minutes, unusually strong
vocal or instrumental performances that capture the mixture of angst and
hormones that are the lifeblood of rock and roll, and a few genuinely
powerful anthems that, in a just world, would be played ad nauseam on
classic rock and oldies radio.
Heres an overview of some of the best tracks
from Pebbles:
Suzy Creamcheese,
Teddy and the Patches. The entire history of 60s rock and
roll neatly encapsulated into a three minute package. A three chord stomper
that abruptly segues into a psychedelic organ breakdown that (unlike most
psych) ends before it gets too ponderous. The lyrics are another variation
on that timeless straight-girl-becomes-hippie-and-then-goes-insane story
immortalized in countless exploitation films and in the real life of Diane
Linkletter.
Green Fuz,
Randy Alvey and Green Fuz. Perhaps the most famous song on the
series, due to the Cramps' cover version, Green Fuz is one
strange yet undeniably powerful recording. Its apparently an attempt
at creating a mythmaking theme song, and it does succeed at making the
group sound dangerous, albeit in a stupid and self-destructive way. The
Green Fuz sound like the sort of gang who probably lost more members from
accidental shootings and motorcycle accidents than any sort of conflict.
The Green Fuz sound like the sort of gang who
probably lost more members from accidental shootings and motorcycle accidents
than any sort of conflict.
Like a Rolling Stone,
Soup Greens. This version of the Dylan standard is a prime example
of a little known musical fact: Any lyric can be sung over the "Louie
Louie" chord progression. (Its about time that some group of
enterprising garage-rock revivalists finally arrange a three chord version
of "Tales from Topographic Oceans.") The Soup Greens may dull
the seething anger and unrepentant venom of Dylans version, but
this take has its own thuggish charm.
Beaver Patrol,
Wylde Knights. If you can overlook the really dumb frat-guy humor
on this song, its a great Farfisa-led groove with a succinct, biting
guitar solo. Actually, the song is a lot more innocuous than it may seem
from the title. Unfortunately, the followup singles Bikini Inspector
and Muff Diver failed to dent the charts.
Makin Deals,
Satans. Naming your group The Satans in 1960s America
didnt turn out to be the commercial boon these guys might have anticipated.
Dabbling in Satanic imagery two years before the Rolling Stones released
Sympathy for the Devil, but lacking some of the edge of the
Stones classic (Im the guy who makes the deals).
The song makes Satan seem more like a smalltime record hustler than a
powerful, merciless deity; in other words, Kim Fowley as Satan. Actually,
that would explain quite a bit.
Shell Lie,
Satan and D-Men. Brazenly unheeding the commercial lesson taught
by the Satans, Satan and D-Men dispense with any sacrilegious marketing
schemes and dole out this woman-bashing stomper. Most notable for the
truly nasty guitar work on the verses, which sound like a white guy version
of Chicago blues played through a trash compactor.
The song makes Satan seem more like a smalltime
record hustler than a powerful, merciless deity; in other words, Kim Fowley
as Satan. Actually, that would explain quite a bit.
Writing on the Wall,
Five Canadians. Unlike many of the other songs in this series,
its hard to understand why this one wasnt a huge hit
it outdoes Paul Revere and the Raiders at their own game. Taut and driving,
with a instantly memorable chorus. You can picture them doing this one
on Where the Action Is, dressed in matching Mountie outfits or toques
or torques or whatever the hell it is they wear up there.
Move, State
of Mind. Kind of a forgettable song, albeit with a suitably driving
chord progression, but then out of nowhere comes one of the great guitar
solos of the 60s a jagged, spiraling go-for-broke masterpiece that
elevates this song into a minor classic.
Searching, Omens. Yet another variation on the venerable Peter
Gunn guitar riff, this one stands out for the truly primitive backbeat
and the great (if off-key) chorus harmonies, with a short and tight guitar
solo added for good measure.
You Treat Me Bad,
JuJus. The agonizing sound of puberty, captured for posterity on
vinyl. The trebly, just slightly post pubescent vocal tone of the lead
singer on this one is made even more poignant by the hysterical raw emotion
of his vocal performance. Acne-covered soul.
Flight Reaction,
Calico Wall. This nerve-wracking bit of early psychedelia about
fear of flying is propelled by a creeping guitar line and paranoid vocals,
building steadily to the final and inevitable plane crash. Marred somewhat
by the novelty song touches (duck calls, a W.C. Fields monologue, etc.),
but a compelling vignette nevertheless. Also worth seeking out is the
flipside to this single, Im a Living Sickness, a tale
of self-loathing set to a proto-Doors minor key organ.
Loose Lip Sync Ship,
Hogs. A truly odd pastiche one part soul instrumental a
la a white cover of Booker T and the MGs or the Meters, one part Zappa
homage and/or parody, one part psychedelic/pseudo-free-jazz freak out,
concluding with the kind of goofball stabs at humor heard in the Hombres
Let it All Hang Out. Somehow, it all holds together, at least
for three minutes.
Going Away Baby,
Grains of Sand. About as raw and unrestrained as 60s era garage
could get, the slashing guitar riff and driving drumbeat that power this
song couldve fit in on any second-tier class of 77 punk single
youd care to name. This performance is only marred by an unnecessary
organ solo, one of the rare examples in music history where there was
actually too much Farfisa organ.
Go Away, Plague. Maybe
the best misogynist song in this series, which is saying quite a bit considering
just how many 60s garage songs center around the evils that women
do. A speedy rip topped with a very short pseudo-Yardbirds rave-up that
pounds its way to a satisfying conclusion.
My Soap Wont
Float, Regiment. You have to give the vocalist here credit
he manages to sound completely anguished throughout this slice
of mid-60s suburban angst (TV personalities all look nice in black
and white/Turn the color on to green, makes me want to eat ice cream).
Also includes several denunciations of phonies, a perfect
example of why its a good idea to read other books besides Catcher
in the Rye over and over again. Musically, the band works up a nervous,
taut atmosphere led by a percolating organ.
Doin Me In,
Gonn. Of all the gems unearthed in this series, this one is the
most stunning a tense back-and-forth over two chords on the verse,
building into an explosive call-and-response chorus. Doin
Me In stands up next to I Can See For Miles or You
Really Got Me or any other 60s rock anthem youd care to name,
and its a perfect example of why the garage rock genre still fascinates
listeners today. Its a pure blast of rock and roll in all of its
primal, stupid, cathartic glory.
|