#bloontz

Thunderhead: Thunderhead (1975)

My recent explorations into the darker reaches of Southern rock have yielded nothing but disappointments (Blue Jug, Two Guns, Beaverteeth!), but I knew my luck was bound to change eventually, and that's when Thunderhead came along.

Not to be confused with a German heavy metal band active in the late '80s and early '90s, this Thunderhead hailed from New Orleans, where they formed in 1973 from the ashes of local cover bands, and eventually signed to the Paragon Agency out of Macon Georgia (same as the Allman Brothers).

Singer Mike Daggar, guitarist Ronnie Dobbs, and bassist Otho T. Ware had all paid their dues with the colorfully named Paper Steamboard, drummer Bobby Torello did the same with David and the Giants, and second guitarist Pat Rush rounded out the line-up.

Within two years, Thunderhead had signed to ABC Records, which was looking to broaden a roster dominated by mainstream pop and M.O.R. acts (Paul Anka, Eydie Gormé, Jim Croce, etc.) with, errr ... whatever it is those crusty boys in "Leonard Skinner" were playing.

Enter Thunderhead, who'd already recorded an album independently at nearby Studio in the Country, in Bogalusa, LA, with some help from early supporters Johnny Winter (*), before re-recording most of it at the behest of ABC.

And a great record it is too, led by hardly groundbreaking but superbly-crafted southern rock gems like "More Than I Can Chew," "Breaux Bridge Rag" (*), and "Busted in Georgia" -- don't let those police sirens startle you if you're listening in your car.

Along with other solid cuts like "Got to Get Away," "Armed Robbery" and "Rock Me, Roll Me," they deliver that classic hard rock sound with country accents: snarling, drawled vocals, biting, slashing geetars, a rock-solid rhythm section, and, of course, transverse flute!

Wait, what? [Insert noise of record being scratched here.]

Yes, turns out frontman Daggar was an accomplished flautist, and he brought inevitable, if unexpected, Jethro Tull vibes to distinctive fare like "Lay it On the Line," "Showdown," "Hit and Run Driver," and "Juliette," where Dobbs helpfully subs on lead vocals.

In fact, given the band's solid but far-from-revolutionary songwriting, Daggar's flute embellishments would go down as Thunderhead's most distinctive quality, in the end -- and I say "the end," because ABC quickly dropped the group and they sadly never record again.

Daggar and Torello reformed Thunderhead with new bandmates in 2009 for selective live work, though no new recordings ensued, which is probably just as well, but I strongly recommend giving this 50-year-old platter a listen.

* I believe this might be it!

** Previously recorded by bluesman Clarence 'Gatemouth' Brown.

Raven [U.S.]: Raven (1969)

What's this, some kind of Black Crowes bootleg?

Sorry to disappoint, but no it's notn...

Instead, as I was writing about New Wave of British Heavy Metal trio Raven, a few weeks ago, I learned there was a mostly forgotten U.S. band by the same name that preceded them by a decade, so I decided to track down this eponymous LP from 1969.

This Raven hailed from Buffalo, New York, and formed in 1967 when singer Tony Galla, keyboardist Jimmy Calire, and guitarist John Weitz, formerly of The Rising Sons, joined up with bassist Tommy Calandra and drummer Gary Mallaber, previously with Stan and the Ravens.

Having honed their skills over an incalculable number of nightclub one-nighters, this murder of crows, I mean ravens, were nothing if not proficient instrumentalists, so their well-connected manager, Marty Angelo, had little trouble finding them work.

First came a residency at one time Jimi Hendrix manager Steve Paul's New York City club, The Scene, then select dates at prestigious venues like Detroit's Grande Ballroom and Chicago’s Kinetic Playground, and then a five-year deal with mighty Columbia Records.

This eponymous long-player from 1969 was the immediate result, and though the band's musicianship and versatility -- encompassing rock, blues, soul, jazz, and frankly every other form of American roots music you can think of -- were on full display, it's quickly apparent that Raven couldn't write distinctive songs, let alone hit singles.

The closest they came to doing so was on the unbearably upbeat "Feelin' Good," the bouncy "No Turnin' Back," and the unfortunately named "Frumpy," where they don't even show enough sense to use its memorable chorus -- "There's many more where you come from" -- for a title.

Two other tracks, "Neighbor, Neighbor" and "None of Your Jive," are nothing but cabaret fodder, "Green Mountain Dream" is a ponderous, pompous hippie melodrama, and neither the Stax-like instrumental "Let's Eat," nor the tepid Howlin' Wolf cover "Howlin' for My Baby" suggested this band was ready for prime time.

The album wraps up with a ten-minute jam called "Bad News" (yeah, no shit!) that, again, leaves no doubt about the musicians' chops -- especially dominant keyboard player Calire -- as they stitch ideas and solos spots together like Spirit without a plan.

But Columbia sure had a plan: dropping Raven so fast they had time to put out an independent live album before year's end -- ironically inspiring their otherwise unrelated transatlantic namesake with its title: Live at the Inferno.

Then, having seemingly run out of options, Raven broke up, but Calire went on to play with soft-rockers America (1976-'80) and Malliber became a top journeyman drummer working with headliners like Eddie Money, Greg Kihn, and The Steve Miller Band.

According to legend, Malliber even turned down an offer from Kiss' to replace Peter Criss!

So, it's probably professional afterlives like theirs that have stopped Raven from slipping completely through rock history's cracks, to eventually find their way into the hands of mega-dork music bloggers like yours truly.

Killing Floor: Killing Floor (1969)

One of my favorite areas of musical discovery in recent years has been the ever-so-exciting British blues scene of the late '60s and early '70s, so I was positively chuffed to discover this 55-year-old LP by South London savages Killing Floor.

Just look at all that unruly hair!

Starting in 1968, Bill Thorndycraft (vocals/harmonica) and Mick Clarke (lead guitar) played in a blues band called The Loop, but by the following year they had decided to make a fresh start with pianist Lou Martin, bassist Stuart McDonald, and drummer Bazz Smith.

Taking their name from the Chicago blues standard made famous by Howlin' Wolf, Killing Floor found an enthusiastic patron in London DJ, John Edward, who offered to manage them and helped secure a deal with music publisher Bob Kingston's Spark Records.

The band's self-titled debut was recorded in less than two weeks at Pye Studios, and their moniker was most certainly reflected in the frantic acts of raw violence like "Come Home Baby," "Forget It," and an instrument-wrecking interlude named simply "Wet."

Clarke, in particular, wielded his axe like a wild man, pushing his band mates dangerously close to hard rock on "People Change Your Mind" and "Nobody By My Side" (where sinister riff hypnosis verges on doom); but the fabulously named Thorndycraft was no slouch on harmonica, either, wailing his lungs out from front to back.

Mind you: though credited to the band, these songs were basically energized re-interpretations of the American blues masters' works, but then, this was also true of better-known Brit-Blues ensembles like Mayall's Bluesbreakers, Savoy Brown, Chicken Shack, etc.

Indeed, this LP's only "official" cover was similarly rough-and-tumble take on of Willie Dixon and Muddy Waters' "You Need Love," which got worked over by so many bands around this time (The Small Faces, Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin, etc.), you'd think it was done by order of Her Fucking Majesty the Queen!

And after the album's release, Killing Floor got to work!

They opened for fellow Brits Jethro Tull, Chicken Shack, Ten Years After, The Herd, and, at London's Marquee Club, The Nice and Yes, but they also embarked on U.K. tours backing up American blues greats like Freddie King and Arthur 'Big Boy' Crudup.

Killing Floor returned to the studio in 1970 and emerged with the crassly named sophomore LP, Out of Uranus, and poor sales soon led to line-up instability and short-term replacements recruited from Juicy Lucy and Fuzzy Duck -- both REAL band names, by the way!

But by 1972, Killing Floor were no more, as the gifted Martin signed up for a long stint with Rory Gallagher, McDonald briefly joined Paul Rodgers' ill-fated Peace project, and the others pursued less successful endeavors before surprisingly reuniting in 2002.

p.s. -- This LP was issued with several different covers and, in Germany, it was renamed Original Killing Floor, but I'm partial to this pressing's blood-red, jail cell scenario, even if it's not exactly on point by definition.

Steamhammer: Mountains (1970)

I’m not sure if their moniker inspired a certain modern-day German heavy metal imprint, but English blues-rockers Steamhammer definitely produced some inspired blues rock on their four studio LPs of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, particularly their third, 1970’s Mountains.

Hailing from the seaside town of Worthing, West Sussex, Steamhammer was formed in 1968 by Kieran White (vocals, guitar, harmonica), Martin Quittenton (guitar), Martin Pugh (guitar), Steve Davy (bass), and Michael Rushton (drums), and their musical apprenticeship included backing up American bluesman Freddie King when he toured England.

Subsequently signed to Columbia Records, Steamhammer’s self-titled debut combined covers of B.B. King’s “You’ll Never Know” and Eddie Boyd’s “Twenty-Four Hours” with their first stabs at original material, some of which revealed encroaching folk, jazz, and classical influences.

Quittenton and Rushton left the band in the summer of ‘69 and Steve Jolliffe (saxophone, flute) and Mick Bradley (drums) joined in time for their sophomore album Mk II, which boasted only self-penned compositions and more progressive experimentation that gained Steamhammer a small following in West Germany.

And when Jolliffe quit at the start of 1970, the foursome of White, Pugh, Davy, and Bradley got to work on Mountains with producer Fritz Fryer (who?) and engineer Martin Birch (woah!), emerging with an album that alternately reminds me of fellow Brits like Chicken Shack and Savoy Brown, or U.S. southern rockers like The Allman Brothers Band and Potliquor.

See if you agree when you spin the hypnotic grooves of “I Wouldn’t Have Thought (Gopher’s Song)” (interrupted midway through by tasteful Pugh licks) and “Walking Down the Road,” which seamlessly intertwine blues fundamentals with eclectic genre detours, pulled off with accomplished musicianship.

A ten-minute jam on Noel Hampton’s “Riding On the L&N,” complete with solo trade-offs (guitar, bass, keys, drums, harmonica), proves the band wasn’t afraid to stretch out, while the ensuing, driving live performance of “Hold that Train” gives the blues purists their fix, if it were needed.

By contrast, laid-back offerings like “Levinia” (dig that bolero mid-section), “Henry Lane” (Keith Nelson on banjo), “Leader of the Ring” (folksy, acoustic) and the pastoral, Eastern-flavored title track showcase Steamhammer’s more melodious, progressive side -- with the guarantee of a surprising twist or two in every song.

Therefore, if you dig the sounds of aforementioned Brit-Blues contemporaries (plus Blodwyn Pig, Juicy Lucy, and the original Fleetwood Mac), as well as those early American southern rock bands (MINUS The Band’s self-indulgent back-to-the-country bullshit), Mountains is for you!

Unfortunately, the album was another commercial disappointment (despite that beautiful gatefold cover art, what a shame!), Steamhammer’s career stalled, and Davy split -- replaced by Louis Cennamo -- ahead of their fourth and final album, 1972’s Speech.

Pugh and Cennamo would later resurface in one-and-done head-bangers Armageddon, featuring Yardbirds vocalist Keith Relf and Johnny Winter and Captain Beyond drummer Bobby Caldwell, but the Steamhammer story was conclusively over ... or was it?

Because I was absolutely stunned to learn, midway through researching and writing this blog, that some reunited iteration of the band released a brand-new fifth studio album YESTERDAY! 

Crawler: Crawler (1977)

No, this is not a Whitesnake album...

Crawler arose from the ruins of Back Street Crawler: the star-crossed group built around erstwhile Free guitarist Paul Kossoff that delivered just two, hit-and-miss long-players, before the drug-debilitated ‘Koss’ expired from a pulmonary embolism, mid-flight from L.A. to N.Y.C., on March 19, 1976.

As well as nearly derailing AC/DC’s first U.K. tour (a setback that the unstoppable Australians turned into another victory on their road to global domination), B.S.C.’s collapse and subsequent dismissal by Atlantic Records pushed the surviving musicians into emergency career re-think mode.

These were lead singer Terry Wilson Slesser (ex-Beckett), keyboardist John ‘Rabbit’ Bundrick, bassist Terry Wilson, and drummer Tony Braunagel (the latter two ex- Bloontz), who failed to convince either Mick Taylor or Peter Green (shocker!) to replace Kossoff, and had to settle for relative unknown guitarist Geoff Whitehorn, instead.

And then, after hustling a new deal from Epic Records, the reconstituted and renamed Crawler got to work on this self-titled debut with producer Alan Callan (is there an echo in here?), simultaneously trying to live up to their fallen figurehead’s old glories and branch into new directions 

Speaking to the former, both the laid-back blues “Pastime Dreamer” and the soulful ballad “You Are My Saviour” sure as shit wanted to be Free (but were not), while the album highlight “You Got Money” was a nasty, funky hard rocker (horns and all) that added just enough sauce to satisfy discerning customers. 

And as for the latter, Crawler exhibits their versatility on everything from slick, gutless boogie (“Without You Babe”), to flute-addled lounge rock (“Sold On Down the Line”), to white boy reggae (“Never Loved a Woman”), to flaccid disco (“You and Me”), to Doobie Brothers-style yacht rock (“Stone Cold Sober”).

Now, I couldn’t tell you whether this decision to stretch came down to innocence, ignorance, or arrogance, but at least it leaves no doubt as to the expert, seasoned musicianship of all those involved, even while it fairly reeks of a rudderless band, firing shots in the dark.

And yet, Crawler’s debut sold relatively well in America, where “Stone Cold Sober” (dig that rare live footage) enjoyed some radio airplay and climbed to No. 65.

But a second LP called (ugh) Snake, Rattle & Roll didn’t fare as well, despite benefitting from a considerable promotional push and high-profile opening slots with label mates Cheap Trick, plus Foreigner and Robin Trower.

And when Bundrick was hired to play keys for The Who near the end of 1978, Crawler finally crawled into a hole and died, although they obviously outlived their original leader, and its musicians went on to enjoy successful careers in backing bands based on their undeniable instrumental chops.

Blackhorse: Blackhorse (1979)

Am I the only one who thinks that Blackhorse’s eponymous LP looks like the work of some lame, late ‘90s nu-metal band, instead of a 1979 private pressing from an ultra-obscure, surprisingly heavy southern rock power trio from the Lone Star State?

Hailing from the Central Texas town of Mineral Wells, located some 80 miles due west of the Dallas / Ft. Worth Metro, Blackhorse formed in the early ‘70s and spent the rest of the decade paying dues, sharing stages -- but not fame or fortune -- with fellow Texan combos like ZZ Top, Bloodrock, and Point Blank.

By 1979, Gary James (lead guitar, vocals), Paul-Anthony Middleton (bass, vocals), and John Teague (drums, vocals) had grown tired of waiting for that elusive lucky break or label deal and decided to spend their own earnings from packing clubs and ballrooms to record this LP.

And its proximity to the ‘80s may explain why hard-riffing, razor-sharp highlights like “Fox Huntin’,” “Velvet Angel,” and “Hell Hotel” nearly cross the line into heavy metal, similar to the works of contemporary groups like Molly Hatchet, Doc Holliday, and my favorites: Blackfoot.

As indicated overhead, all three men shared both lead and harmony vocal duties, and while I couldn’t tell you who’s who, I believe that’s Gary lending a standard-issue southern rock growl to most of the tracks, and John with the soulful intro to the band’s rowdy cover of Little Richard’s “Lucille.”

There’s a also a solid touring lament in “Cannot Find My Way Home” that builds from subtlety to volume, but credit to Blackhorse for resisting the temptation of jamming on and on to copy “Free Bird” or a “Highway Song,” and no doubt saving that for their stage shows.

The album does lose steam near the end (likely because the boys were also running out of recording funds), bu even “Slow Down Tom” and “Dave’s Song” have their moments, and “Spencer’s Corner,” has a little fun at the expense of a local rock club that briefly banned the group for wearing cowboy hats on stage.

Go figure!

Anyway, although record label suits were never sold, fan testimonials about Blackhorse’s on-stage power and charisma still survive online, even after all these years of utter anonymity, along with some very grainy footage here and here, captured not long after this album’s release, in 1980.

Unfortunately, except for a brief California sojourn in the late ‘80s during which they renamed themselves The Cause, Blackhorse never did make it too far from their Texas strongholds, and their rock ‘n’ roll adventures had all but finished by the time the ‘90s rolled around.

Luckily, the worldwide web eventually unearthed a few details (but only a few) of the Blackhorse story, led to CD and LP reissues such as this one, and the band briefly reunited for a few shows in 2008 (you can still buy T-shirts from their Facebook page) before Gary’s death in 2015. 

I’ll leave you with a description of the band in the words: “Blackhorse is a three-piece of intense power and emotion whose concert appearances have been aptly hailed by critics as ‘kick-ass.’ This debut album is their story. So ... TURN IT UP and enjoy one of the best rock & roll albums ever”

Zephyr: Zephyr (1969)

By all rights, Colorado blues-rockers Zephyr are the kind of creatively ordinary, commercially inconsequential band time should forget -- and largely has forgotten -- but for the fact that a teenaged Tommy Bolin was their original guitarist.

Formed in the spring ‘68 by Bolin and keyboardist John Faris as Ethereal Zephyr (*), they soon merged with another local act, Brown Sugar, featuring the wife/husband team of Candy (vocals, harmonica) and David Givens (bass), then added drummer Robbie Chamberlin.

And it only took a few months for Zephyr to catch their big break, when local promoter Barry Fey facilitated a multi-label showcase at L.A.’s Whiskey A-Go-Go that saw ABC/Probe emerging as the highest bidder (**) for the band’s services, largely based on Candy’s Janis Joplin-like vocal acrobatics.

Alas, instead of rising to the rather tall task of becoming the world’s next, superstar female blues belter, Givens’ performance on this self-titled debut from 1969 only illustrates the many reasons why there’s only one Janis ...

Because, while she certainly had the same kind of vocal power, stamina and flexibility, Candy didn’t possess Joplin’s uncanny control over her superhuman pipes, often tipping the scales from histrionic to hysterical, and totally overwhelming already run-of-the-mill blues workouts like “Sun’s a Risin’,” “Cross the River” and a cover of “St. James Infirmary.”

Along the way, Zephyr’s considerable instrumental prowess (Bolin wasn’t the only ace in this group) and more progressive songwriting attempts like “Sail On,” “Somebody Listen” and “Hard Chargin’ Woman” were similarly overshadowed by the singer’s general excess and prominence in the final mix.

While we’re on that subject, there was apparently some friction in the studio because producer Bill Halverson (who’d made his name as an engineer for Cream, Crosby, Stills & Nash, etc.) insisted that Zephyr cut their parts individually instead of as a unit, possibly contributing to the overall musical disconnect.

But none of it mattered, in the end, because Zephyr’s debut failed to dent the charts, and ABC quickly shuttered the under-financed Probe imprint and dropped the band, which would link up with Warner Bros. for their dead-on-arrival 1971 sophomore LP, Going Back to Colorado.

It was all downhill from there, but Tommy Bolin acolytes may still want to check out his still-developing talents here, and they’ll definitely want to watch this vintage footage from something called The Barry Richards Show.

* The band took its name from an express passenger train called the Denver Zephyr (see promotional photo above), which operated between Chicago and Denver from 1936 to 1973 -- hence the railroad tracks depicted in the album’s inner gatefold, don’t ask me why the front cover has a toilet and bathtub.

** ABC was the highest bidder -- not, as would ultimately become evident, the most capable business partner to promote Zephyr’s talents -- but Fey had gotten paid and could hardly be bothered with what followed.

Jukin’ Bone: Whiskey Woman (1972)

I can’t say there’s anything exceptional about Jukin’ Bones’ first of two LPs, Whiskey Woman, at least not in the conventional sense, since it consists of fundamentally straightforward, raw, electrified white boy blues, so common to that era.

I can, however, single it out for the exceptional curiosity of having been recorded, basically live, before a small group of fans, including false starts and brief chatter, allegedly at Jimi Hendrix’s famed Electric Ladyland Studios!

(I would also like to call your attention to the cover illustration, depicting New York’s iconic Roseland Ballroom, home to many a memorable show I witnessed -- AC/DC, Faith No More, Mastodon, Slayer, etc. -- until its demolition in 2013.)

This live stratagem, if we can call it that, ultimately makes all the difference for Whiskey Woman, infusing an exciting spark into otherwise workmanlike originals like the percussive, Bo Diddley child “Jungle Fever,” the lyrically challenged “Can’t Judge What You Miss,” and overall forgettable “Got the Need” and “Let Loose.”

To be fair, there’s a gutbucket honesty to Jukin’ Bone’s approach -- hoarse vocals, heavy guitars, growling bass, and bashing drums -- that’s also very appealing; particularly on the title track and engaging covers of the Fred Neil / Beverly Ross favorite “Candy Man” and Aretha Franklin’s “Spirit in the Dark.”

And, since every blues-rock band of this generation had to take a stab at either Don Nix’s “Going Down” or Albert King’s “The Hunter” (must of been a union thing ... not!), Jukin’ Bone went ahead and covered both, for good measure.

Not that any of this could buy Jukin’ Bone a hit, so they were back in the studio before year’s end to try again, only to emerge with slightly inferior results (and a second drummer, indicating a new southern rock interest) on sophomore album Way Down East.

Alas, this too was a commercial non-starter, spelling the end of Jukin’ Bone’s brief run on RCA, and contributing to their inevitable breakup shortly thereafter, rarely to be heard from again.