#nitzinger

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.

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”

Josefus: Josefus (1970)

50 years ago, a long-forgotten Lone Star State quartet by the name of Josefus breathed their first and last, in what one might well consider a “whirlwind career,” if the definition of “career” didn’t imply that some measure of monetary or personal reward was involved.

In Josefus’ case, it was not!

Formed in Houston, by singer Pete Bailey, guitarist Dave Mitchell, bassist Ray Turner and drummer Doug Tull, the band spent most of 1970 fucking things up, desperately trying to fix those fuck-ups, before collectively saying “fuck it!” and leaving behind a convoluted discography that took decades to sort out.

But I’m gonna try: in December of ‘69, Josefus recorded what they thought would be their debut album, only to see it shelved when they refused to change their name to Come; then they re-recorded it as Dead Man in a single day in March of ‘70 and pressed up 3,000 copies on their own dime.

These were presumably sold at shows, since Josefus was, by all accounts, a strong live draw in their home state -- strong enough to interest Mainstream Records (home to The Amboy Dukes, Big Brother & The Holding Company, etc.), which rushed the band back into the studio that fall to capture this self-titled set.

Like I said before, that’s a pretty eventful year!

But not a successful one, as things turned out, because Josefus -- the album -- failed as miserably as its predecessor, in spite of some impressive psych-and-blues-laced proto-metal, delivered with both power and confidence, via first side efforts like “B.S. Creek,” “America” and “I’m Gettin’ On.”

While none of the above would ever be confused for hit singles, the real problem lay in the album’s second side, where the rushed nature of these sessions is exposed by flat-out mediocre fare like “Feelin’ Good,” the flaccid country rocker “Such is Life,” and the simply horrid “I Saw a Killin’.”

And that just about did it for Josefus, which decided to break up even before this LP arrived in record shelves, with little to show for their very eventful 1970, presumably never to be heard from again. (*)

But a couple of 7-inch singles would appear out of nowhere in ‘79, and then renewed awareness to the band’s plight during the Internet era ultimately led to the belated release of that aforementioned, shelved debut, as Get Off My Case, and a few other recordings.

* I almost forgot to mention Stone Axe: a short-lived neanderthal metal proposition helmed by Bailey and Turner between ‘71 and ‘72, responsible for a sole, savage 7-inch called “Slave of Fear.”

Thunder: Thunder (1974)

Not to be confused with the British pomp rockers active in the early ‘90s, this Thunder hailed from Texas, trafficked in classic rock, southern rock and even a little yacht rock, issued its sole, self-titled LP in 1974 and, yes, it’s so obscure you won’t find half its songs on YouTube.

And, though they were ostensibly a duo, comprised of singer David Alley and keyboardist Whitey Thomas (a.k.a. Santa and his elf -- see rear sleeve painting), Thunder likely wouldn’t have happened without a major assist from Texas’ most underrated ‘70s guitar hero, John Nitzinger, who also played bass and wrote half of these songs.

Why?

Damned if I know but, by ‘74, Nitzinger’s eponymous band was on hiatus, between albums number two and three, and his long association with Fort Worth proto-metal cult heroes Bloodrock had come to an end (along with the band), so workaholic John must have been bored that week.

And so, I guess, were fellow musicians and session aces like bassist David Hungate (Boz Scaggs, Alice Cooper), erstwhile Bloodrock drummer Randy Reeder, and a roll-call of geetar slingers including Dean Parks (Steely Dan, Joan Baez, etc.), bluesman Bugs Henderson, and a Bill Hamm who may or may not have been the ZZ Top manager (probably not).

For tall that, the resulting album clearly didn’t light the world on fire with its eclectic but unfocused material, which ranged from the driving boogie of “It Feels So Good,” to the laid-back funk of “Lady Luck,” to the schmaltzy “Sleep is Not too Easy,” which was tailor-made for the local Holiday Inn lounge.

Among the better moments, “Power Glide” (a monster groove of guitars and organ), had appeared on the second Nitzinger LP, one year earlier; and another two songs were outtakes from the very first Nitzinger album: the almost glammy “Pretty Boy Shuffle” and a tough-nut hard rocker embellished with UFO synth effects called “King’s X.”

Now, imagine my excitement at having possibly uncovered the long-forgotten origins for the moniker of Houston prog-metal marvels King’s X (maybe attained via their domineering manager Sam Taylor) but, nooooo, apparently they got the name out of a C.S. Lewis novel called, tellingly, Out of the Silent Planet.

Oh, well, at least I didn’t go to all the trouble of tracking down this LP just to answer a trivia question, but rather out of respect for the great Mr. Nitzinger -- so don’t you sleep on all of his seminal ‘70s work, both with his own group and behind the scenes with Bloodrock.

Grinderswitch: Macon Tracks (1975)

As I wrote here on VinylSpinning a couple of years ago, I’ve been working my way backwards through Grinderswitch’s discography -- like some kind of southern rock Merlin! -- and now it’s time to talk about the Georgia natives’ sophomore album, 1975’s Macon Tracks.

Though their first LP hadn’t exactly lit up the charts, or even made much of a dent among southern rock fans, it certainly established the band’s distinctive sound, which was far more reliant on American roots music -- blues, country, gospel, etc. -- than many of their peers.

Moreover, no one could accuse Grinderswitch of ripping off the big boys, like the Allmans, let alone Skynyrd, because this quartet offered a clear alternative to the latter’s overcast skies with the altogether sunny forecast brought by numbers like “Mail Train Blues,” “Happy Like Me” and “The Best I Can.”

The positive attitudes of vocalist/guitarist Dru Lombar, guitarist Larry Howard, bassist Joe Dan Petty, and drummer Rick Burnett persisted unabated on the slippery slides of “Put it All in Today,” dancing licks of “Let the South Wind Blow,” and playful chords of “Get it While it’s Hot.”

Shit, even Grinderswitch’s ballads were upbeat (“Now I’m Lovin’ You”) as often as they were sad (“Drifter”), and the natural swing of closing instrumental, “Pickin’ the Blues” (*), highlighted their joyful interplay and collective chops, to boot.

All of these qualities served the band well once they hit the road across America, opening for southern rock stars likes Skynyrd, Wet Willie and The Charlie Daniels Band, but they never did amount to major hits, possibly proving that happiness simply doesn’t sell as well as misery.

* This track was used for many years by U.K. disc jockey John Peel as the theme tune for his BBC radio shows.

Bloodrock: Bloodrock (1970)

I recently compiled a list of obscure and underrated heavy metal songs released in 1970, and Bloodrock’s inclusion was a fait accompli; the only difficulty was choosing which song to cull from the Fort Worth, Texas natives’ beyond impressive eponymous debut.

Nowadays, only serious heavy metal historians seem to really appreciate Bloodrock’s contributions, but any one of them will tell you that this quintet (later a sextet) flew the flag for the nascent heavy metal genre as proudly and convincingly as any of their contemporaries.

And it all began (well it all began after nearly a decade earlier with fledgling lineups working as The Naturals and Crowd +1) with this bombastic yet eclectic first album, which set the bar on high for three additional, semi-essential LPs, with its progressive songwriting approach.

Some songs, like “Gotta Find a Way” and “Double Cross,” run a little long (or else they may have crashed the airwaves); some, like “Castle of Thoughts” and “Fatback,” were just the right length for radio, but lacked the necessary hooks.

On the more progressive side: “Timepiece” (a precursor to Bloodrock 2’s morbid pièce de résistance, “D.O.A.”) is haunting and foreboding, the atypically restrained “Fantastic Piece of Architecture” is supple and beautiful, and some, like “Gimme Your Head,” are just plain funny!

But the Bloodrock tune I ultimately championed in my Loudwire list was this album’s capper: the crushingly-riffed, amusingly-named “Melvin Laid an Egg,” which balances the band’s don’t-take-ourselves-too-seriously attitude with dead serious power chords and wild organ flourishes.

In short: if you like the old metal, you should own this LP. 

p.s. -- Bloodrock were heavy metal pioneers in another way, by recording a backmasked message here that said “Anyone who is stupid enough to play this record backwards deserves what he is about to hear,” followed by an excerpt from Lewis Carroll’s nonsensical poem, Jabberwocky.

Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble: Texas Flood (1983)

35 years ago, Stevie Ray Vaughan burst upon the scene with Texas Flood, breaking into the Top 40, sticking to the charts for over a year, and almost single-handedly reviving the blues as a commercially viable genre in America.

But what probably looked like overnight success to most outsiders was, in fact, the result of over a decade of frustrating obscurity and tireless hustle playing seedy Texas clubs, backed since 1980 by bassist Tommy Shannon and drummer Chris Layton, a.k.a. Double Trouble. 

And when Stevie finally caught a break, it ironically came from overseas, when he was booked and proceeded to demolish the1982 Montreux Jazz Festival (producer Jerry Wexler recommended SRV to festival organizer Claude Nobs), later leading to precious studio time donated by Jackson Browne, of all people.

Now, all of a sudden, Stevie Ray was signed to Epic Records, being championed by iconic A&R man John Hammond, cutting tracks for David Bowie’s imminent chart-topper Let’s Dance, and spilling his blood and guts into his long-awaited shot at the big time, Texas Flood.

And, man, did SRV take advantage, forcing stinging Texas blues upon a tight-arsed ‘80s music world that didn’t know how much it needed the urgent shuffle of “Love Struck Baby,” colossal swing of “Pride and Joy,” and devastating pathos of the title track.

The excitement rarely flags beyond this formidable opening trio, taking in the blistering jazz-rock of “Rude Mood,” the laid-back “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and another scorching slow blues called “Dirty Pool.” 

By the time Stevie Ray winds down with the fluid, Hendrix-influenced six-string subtleties of “Lenny,” it was clear that one of the great electric guitar stylists of all time, and in any musical genre, had arrived.

So much so that, had he packed up his Strat and quit after just one LP, Vaughan’s legend would have probably been cemented, but I sure am glad he left us half-a-dozen recordings before his unfairly premature demise.

That’s why I had to put Texas Flood at No. 1 when I ranked Stevie’s discography from worst to best for Ultimate Classic Rock.

Nitzinger: Live Better Electrically (1976)

Live Better Electrically was released some three years after Nitzinger's closely stacked first two albums -- 1971's hit-bearing eponymous debut and 1973's nearly as good sophomore effort, One Foot in History -- so it probably resurrected a band moniker many fans had given up for dead. 

But namesake vocalist/guitarist John Nitzinger (slightly better known for writing many songs for fellow Texans Bloodrock) seemed intent on proving them wrong, and while he’d sadly replaced original band mates Linda Waring and Curly Benton with now long forgotten new henchmen, his versatile ambitions remained undimmed.

If anything, Live Better Electrically suffered from too much eclecticism, taking in disco/funk on “Are You with Me,” string-laden country-rock (with nifty pedal steel) on “Vagabond” and vaguely psychedelic yacht rock on “Around,” before calling some soul sisters to help out on “Gimme a Wink.”

Fortunately, there was still a lot of heavy rock to go ‘round, too, including the aggressive title track, confrontational “Tell Texas,” punchy highlight “Yellow Dog” (a personal favorite) and Ted Nugent-inspired “Control.”

And, last but not least, came an elegiac number called “The Writing On the Wall” that sounded like some long lost ‘60s offspring, and brought closure to Nitzinger’s ‘70s output with touching, sober introspection.

John would later work for A-listers like Carl Palmer and Alice Cooper (a measure of the respect he commanded as a sideman) and he has recently recorded again under his own name, but his criminally underrated contributions to ‘70s hard rock (and appearances in this blog) officially end here.

p.s. Some of these words came from my All-Music Guide review of Live Better Electrically.