#progressive blues

Groundhogs: Hogwash (1972)

Decades of historical and anecdotal evidence, spread across a myriad of musical formats (CDs, cassettes, records of all sizes, 8-tracks, even downloads), have taught us that the 12-inch vinyl format provides the greatest possibilities for packaging music.

But only in the ‘70s would a cover photo of Groundhogs’ leader Tony McPhee’s giant, Leprechaun-esque noggin, be deemed remotely salable ... as it obviously was for the group’s 50-year-old sixth LP, Hogwash.

And look: some original vinyl pressings unfurled into a rare, trifold design that revealed similar close-ups of bassist Peter Cruikshank and new drummer Clive Brooks!

Still, I’d wager there were more cost-conscious ways to remind record buyers that this unassuming power trio (the self-effacing title really says it all) let their music, not their image, do the talking -- even though explaining the Groundhogs’ peculiar vision of progressive blues is never easy.

Because, at a time when bands like Yes, Genesis, and King Crimson were defining progressive rock with their sophisticated virtuosity, McPhee, Cruikshank, and Brooks’ definition remained stubbornly rooted in the loose, uncomplicated, and, most important, unpretentious rudiments of the blues.

Forever prizing feel over perfection, intriguing songs like “I Love Miss Ogyny,” “3744 James Road,” and “S’one Song” all revolved around chug-chug-chugging grooves and familiar but effective blues licks, while the acoustic country blues of “Mr. Hooker, Sir John” was Tony’s latest tribute to his idol, John Lee Hooker. 

Now, I can certainly understand why, for critics of the day, ‘progressive’ was the most convenient term (isn’t it always?) to describe the synthesizers swooping down upon “You Had a Lesson” and breezing like wind-gusts over the sci-fi landscape of “Earth Shanty,” which, not surprisingly, recalls Hawkwind.

And, though McPhee’s lyrics could be careless, clumsy, and unsatisfying, the latter track (like recent efforts such as Thank Christ for the Bomb, Split, and Who Will Save the World?) showed what he was capable of, when he chose to be, with thoughtful imagery like:

“Skyward fly the Eagles as the Hawks search out their prey; Seaward fly the seagulls catching fish beneath the spray; For their young amongst the shingle to feed them for the day; Look back on this and linger seeking thoughts of yesterday.”

So, as the old saying goes, don’t judge a book by its cover, because there’s always more about the Groundhogs’ weird fusion of prog and blues than meets the eye, and Hogwash is no exception.

p.s. -- For all his loyalty to the blues, Tony was still willing to experiment with an Oberheim/Maestro ring modulator and one of the earliest Hagstrom guitar synthesizers here.

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.

The Sensational Alex Harvey Band: Framed (1972)

Look up The Sensational Alex Harvey Band in most reputable reference tomes and you’ll typically see them classified as a glam rock group, but this is patently absurd! 

Calling these ugly, unwashed street urchins “glamorous” is like suggesting John Wayne Gacy was just a cheery clown.

Indeed, the band’s inability to slot into any obvious, convenient genre descriptions likely limited their commercial potential, and for evidence I’ll submit this menacing, mesmerizing, minimalist performance of “Midnight Moses” (before a very confused and/or catatonic festival audience). (*)

Formed in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1972, by the charismatic Harvey with former members of failed art rock band Tear Gas -- guitarist Zal Cleminson, bassist Chris Glen, and cousins Hugh (piano) and Ted McKenna (drums) -- SAHB’s music, as heard on that same year’s Framed was, if anything, an intriguing form of progressive blues.

And it doesn’t take a genius to work this out based on “Buff’s Bar Blues,” an imaginative version of Willie Dixon’s “I Just Want to Make Love to You,” or “There’s no Lights on the Christmas Tree, Mother, They’re Burning Big Louie Tonight” -- an amusing description of execution by electric chair.

In keeping, the band proceeds to update ‘50s rock & roll via Lieber & Stoller’s “Framed” (covered one year later by Cheech & Chong) and “Hole in Her Stocking,” then they generate (or would that be DE-generate?) their own “Eleanor Rigby” in the three-part “Isobel Goudie,” which is really quite a trip!

Finally, the greasy-haired Harvey reveals himself quite the back-alley poet on the haunting “Hammer Song” and the vicious “St. Anthony” -- further proof he was a major role model for AC/DC singer Bon Scott, who, at the time, was still fronting no-hope hippies Fraternity, back in Australia. (**)

In fact, throw out SAHB’s occasional dalliance in cabaret and vaudeville, and Framed’s collective influences have even more in common with AC/DC’s slower, early material, and let’s not forget that Malcolm and Angus also flirted with glam rock for a red hot minute, in their infancy.

Of course, like The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, theirs was a decidedly dirty, unattractive, and unglamorous mirror image to the flamboyant Bowie and Bolan, so categories be damned -- I just LOVE this album!

* At least these two seem to be digging it, but why not? They’re naked!

** Though it’s possible that Scott witnessed The Sensational Alex Harvey Band for himself during Fraternity’s ll-fated London sojourn of 1972.

Stone the Crows: Stone the Crows (1970)

Proof that no amount of raw talent or business connections can always guarantee fame and fortune, Stone the Crows never made it big despite the backing by Led Zeppelin manager Peter Grant and a marketable frontwoman in Maggie Bell, a.k.a. the 'British Janis Joplin.'

Instead, the Scottish blues-rock group's eponymous debut album, which landed roughly 55 years ago, stands as a cautionary tale for great expectations gone awry, with its questionable creative choices and sheer self-indulgence.

What I'm trying to say is that these guys' heads were so far up their arses that they couldn't see the light of commercial reason -- possibly because things had come together so quickly for them ...

Formed in 1969 by Bell and guitarist Les Harvey (younger brother to the inimitable Alex Harvey), Stone the Crows took their name from a popular English exclamation indicating surprise or shock, and their line-up did just that to me when I read this album's credits.

Because Maggie was sharing lead vocals with one of the unsung heroes of '70s classic rock in bassist James Dewar (he later made his mark with Robin Trower's power trio), backed up by drummer Colin Allen (ex-Zoot Money, later sessions for Bob Dylan and countless others), plus keyboardist John McGinnis.

Clearly full of chutzpah, and not ones to make things easy for the listener (or themselves, as things turned out), Stone the Crows ignored successful contemporary Brit-blues role models like Ten Years After, Savoy Brown, and Chicken Shack, to travel their own, stubbornly meandering musical course.

To wit: they chose to make their first impression on this eccentric set with an authentic but leaden gospel number called "The Touch of Your Loving Hand," before thankfully picking up the tempo on the exuberant "Raining in Your Heart," which showcased McGinnis' organ skills.

Next up, the folksy "Blind Man" turned the spotlight on Harvey's impressive acoustic country blues stylings and Bell's emotive, glass-gargling rasp, which contrasted sharply with her largely straightforward delivery on an unexceptional cover of The Beatles' "Fool On the Hill."

And yet, all of this 'Musical Personality Disorder' had nothing on "I Saw America": the discombobulated, seventeen-minute suite spanning all of side two, which really put the "prog" in progressive blues by splicing together a dozen styles and leftover song snippets.

We're talking invariably naive and self-important hippie idealism scattered across poorly interconnected snatches of the blues, R&B, country rock, symphonic rock, acid rock, hard rock, and even some zany, avant-garde dada-isms right out of Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention, whose G.T.O.'s are mentioned by name.

Given all this, not even the musicians' undeniable virtuosity, nor Bell's astonishing, if derivative, vocal prowess could overcome the collective's lack of focus, restraint, and direction: the album bombed!

But Stone the Crows did come back stronger later that year with their sophomore album, Ode to John Law, before dissension within their ranks and a horrible tragedy (when Harvey died by electrocution on stage!) doomed them to a premature demise.

All of which, once again, proved that not even Grant, with all his burgeoning power and influence, couldn't replicate the success he enjoyed with Zeppelin with Stone the Crows.

Veteran British blues-rockers Groundhogs deserve respect. They were there, in one form or another, from the early days of the UK blues explosion, taking their name from a John Lee Hooker song (‘Ground Hog Blues’) and backing the legend on his mid-60s visit to old Londinium. After a debut album in 1968 showed them in lockstep with the electric blues zeitgeist, the 1969 follow-up reveals a more…