Crappy Turntable, Awesome Records

The Move: Message from the Country (1971)

Message from the Country?

More like "Message from the Funny Farm"!

The Move's fourth and final full-length was released 55 years ago, confusingly after Roy Wood and Jeff Lynne had announced their plans to form a new, "experimental rock-with-strings" project, called the Electric Light Orchestra, whose debut would follow in December.

While this served as both a swan song and a proving ground for what was yet to come, it was hardly the roots-music exercise inspired by The Band that its title suggests, let alone a cohesive musical or conceptual 'message'; instead, it was an eclectic, fractious affair.

One year prior, Wood and drummer Bev Bevan had welcomed fellow Brummie Lynne (ex-The Idle Race) into The Move largely to fulfill contractual obligations with both their label and management (the fearsome Don Arden), to free them to pursue these novel ambitions.

But the end results sound simultaneously relaxed and chaotic, liberated and unhinged, as Jeff's Beatles-esque pop-rock songcraft ("The Minister," "The Words of Aaron") clashed with Roy's relentless, often tongue-in-cheek genre-hopping ("Ella James," "Until Your Mama's Gone").

One of my favorites, Wood's paranoid, unnerving "It Wasn't My Idea to Dance" -- with its doomy, grinding bass, gothic minor chords, and reedy oboe performed by the man himself -- is as close as this line-up came to the band that recorded 1970's Shazam and Looking On.

Another, Lynne's progressive, wistful title track does, in fact, deliver the pastoral idyll promised, but backs it with stacks of multi-tracked acoustic and electric guitars, while "No Time" boasts an eerie atmosphere and multi-tracked recorders performed by Wood.

But I don't particularly care for unintended novelty numbers like "Ben Crawley Steel Co." (a Country & Western satire featuring Bevan growling a Johnny Cash-like baritone), the vintage rock revival of "Don't Mess Me Up" (where Wood hams it up like The King), and Lynne's music-hall throwaway "My Marge."

As with all Move LPs, it's a lot to take in, and for all their shared love of classical music and classic rock & roll, it's hard to imagine a pair of strong, Type-A personalities like Wood and Lynne coexisting for very long, no matter what their group was called.

So few people were surprised when Lynne and Bevan stuck with ELO, going on to sell millions of albums after a slow start, while Wood resurfaced with Wizzard and immediately notched two U.K. No. 1s and five Top 5 hits before going ice-cold and sinking into obscurity.

But The Move's brief, turbulent, idiosyncratic career trajectory not only certified Roy's genius, but also his long-term cult status among serious music gourmands for whom Lynne's string-laden ELO and high-profile production work was far too mainstream.

p.s. -- Depending on which side of the Atlantic you bought this LP, it came with different cover artwork (Roy painted the European version; mine is the U.S. version), track sequencing, and even labels: Harvest in the U.K. and Capitol in the U.S.

Enuff Z'Nuff: Paraphernalia (1999)

Purple, violet, indigo, pink: my standard male-pattern color blindness makes a moot point out of memorizing the official colors that complete the rainbow (it's indigo, then violet), but that won't stop me from celebrating all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community.

Pride Month 2026 wraps up tomorrow and some of you may well be saying "enough is enough" but not me, nor the Chicago power pop revivalists known as Enuff Z'Nuff, who released arguably their finest independent album in 1999's Paraphernalia.

Their eighth overall and fifth after parting ways with Atco, then Arista (shout out to Clive Davis, who died last week), the record came out in Japan in 1998, through local powerhouse Pony Canyon Records, but followed in '99 in the U.S. through Spitfire.

Its recording process was sadly symptomatic of the group's chaotic career over the second half of the '90s, which saw mainstays Donnie Vie (vocals, guitar) and Chip Z'Nuff (bass), plus drummer Ricky Parent, juggling guitarists until landing on Johnny Monaco in '97.

By their standards, hanging onto Monaco for two (eventually four) consecutive albums was quite a feat; but that didn't stop the band from enlisting three Illinois legends to lend their six-string talents, namely Cheap Trick's Rick Nielsen, Styx's James 'JY' Young, and the Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgan!

Too bad these friends in high places weren't going to be enough (or should I say "enuff)" to lift Enuff Z'Nuff out of the "Big in Japan" cult category, but it did inspire some of their most satisfying, diverse, and also focused collection in years.

Infectious highlights like "Ain't it Funny," "Save Me," and opener "Freak" (which was refreshingly NOT about grunge-favored stereotypes like nerds, geeks, or losers but actual circus freaks) recall the "glory days" (that weren't) of 'the'91's magnificent Strength.

Well, almost.

Meanwhile, bittersweet torch songs like "Believe in Love," "Loser of the World," and "Someday" elevate the melancholy quotient while sprinkling psychedelic flower petals amidst Chip and Donnie's signature Beatles-esque melodies.

Unfortunately, the somewhat tuneless "Top of the Hill" sounds like bad Stone Temple Pilots and the quality control declines during the album's second half ("Invisible," "All Alone," etc.), except for a spirited cover of Trick's "Everything Works if You Let It."

Still, for all intents and purposes, Paraphernalia was both a respectable return to form and, sadly, one of the last gasps of respectability for these lovable underdogs, before driving force Vie flew the coop five years later, leaving Chip to lead a farcical facsimile.

Fact is, Enuff Z'Nuff were doomed to be misunderstood, both during the late '80s' hair metal heyday and the '90s' grunge era, which I suppose is a bizarre accomplishment in its own way and a fair representation of "Freak's" poignant lyrics:

"All alone ... With nowhere to call home; There's nothing waiting anywhere for me;

My life's a waste; Denied a pretty face; And no one's lookin' deep enough to see.

Everything is beautiful; And shines in it's own way; The prettier the uglier they'll be; And a likely substitute for love ... Is always empathy.

You'll see ... the freak. I'm the freak. Yeah, nobody wants to know me; I'm the freak."

35007: Sea of Tranquility EP (2001)

I had to use one of those fancy cell phone photo filters (try saying that real fast) to highlight this 10-inch's "dark blue transparent marble" wax, and thus keep my rainbow vinyl streak alive in support of Pride Month 2026 and all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community.

As I wrote in my All-Music Guide review, some 25 years ago: "They say necessity is the mother of invention, and that maxim certainly applies to Dutch experimental rockers 35007 and their 2001 EP, Sea of Tranquility."

For the uninitiated, the band's name, turned upside-down, spells "LOOSE."

After recording two, relatively "standard" stoner rock LPs, the group had been rudely "relieved" of their van and musical equipment during a tour of Italy, prompting vocalist Eeuwout Baart to give his notice in frustration ... and he only lost a few microphones!

So guitarist Bertus Fridael, keyboardist Mark Sponselee, bassist Michel Boekhoudt, and drummer Sander Evens decided to turn their loss into a gain and embarked on a new career phase as a fully instrumental proposition, enhanced with atmospheric electronics and a Krautrock sensibility.

Fittingly, they looked beyond Earth's atmosphere for inspiration for the space-themed Sea of Tranquility EP, paying tribute to German rocket scientist Wernher "Von Braun" with cryptic dialog counting down to ignition of the song's titanic hypno-riffs and swirling synth effects.

Next up, the suddenly very topical "Artificial Intelligence," sees Fridael and the rhythm section locking into a relentless, repetitive, almost robotic groove, over which diaphanous wisps of slide guitar zip across the horizon like clouds in the jet stream.

And on the EP-closing title track, we float weightlessly like astronauts atop soothing, low-gravity Mellotron, with only the haunting dialog of the Apollo 11 crew and cyclical heavy rock riff punctuations to puncture the song's eerie, lunar reverie.

It was this cut, more than any other, that really set the tone for 35007's imminent transformation into the trance-inducing ambient experience responsible for 2002's spectacular Liquid, which as you can imagine, swapped outer space for a suitably fluid H2O theme.

Looking back now, I believe this 10-inch and 12-inch combo comprise the sum total of 35007's essential output, but don't let that stop you from exploring their voice-enabled releases (I did once) if you feel the need to get even more loose.

Coroner: Dissonance Theory (2025)

What was your favorite heavy metal album of 2025?

Mine was Coroner's Dissonance Theory: a comeback 30 years in the making by one of the few metal bands that's never put out a bad record and arguably just got better and better with each of their first five studio LPs, now augmented by a sixth impeccable musical chapter.

Just over a year ago, the Swiss power trio famously made up of Celtic Frost roadies, guitarist Tommy Vetterli, vocalist/bassist Ron Broder, and drummer Marky Edelmann -- now replaced by Diego Rappachietti --came through Nashville on a wholly unexpected reunion tour.

The show was everything I could have hoped for and more ...

Because one is so rarely faced with so much instrumental brilliance AND artistic integrity AND such a surgical musical decapitation at the hands of perhaps history's greatest progressive thrash metal band -- often referred to as "the Rush of thrash."

Dissonance Theory is an accurate description for ALL Coroner LPs, as these have always pushed the limits of metallic extremity against hard-won melodic elements in such a way as to accentuate the group's compositional inventiveness and amplify eventual epiphanies.

So it stands to reason that Coroner would pick up where they left off over three decades earlier, with twin crowning achievements, Mental Vortex (1991) and Grin ('93), and fuse the the former's dazzlingly elaborate techno-thrash with the latter's mid-tempo dread-grooves.

The result is a master-class in controlled violence and intellectual depth, as standout after standout ("Crisium Bound," "Symmetry," "Transparent Eye," "Renewal") is propelled by Rappachietti's clockwork precision and Vetterli's razor-sharp virtuosity, about which an entire thesis could be written.

Co-producer Dennis Russ contributes integral synths that never upset Coroner's clinical tripodal balance (with the possible exception of his organ solo on the superfluous coda, "Prolonging"), and robotic voices (reminiscent of Cynic) bring a sci-fi sheen to "Consequence."

But, elsewhere, it's always Broder's cynical bark eviscerating religion ("Sacrificial Lamb"), tyrants ("The Law"), and nuclear apocalypse ("Trinity") with a cold, emphatic wisdom, while his bass lines possess a mind of their own, rarely following the guitar's lead.

Heck, even the album's "mandatory metal intro," "Oxymoron," isn't wasted and conveys true industrial terror; teeing up the rest of the record and the crystal-clear, bone-shattering mix delivered by studio wizard Jens Bogren (Opeth, Kreator, Katatonia, etc.).

Man, it's hard writing about music you're totally obsessed with!

But I've done my best, and I'll close by celebrating Coroner's unique and unmistakable musical DNA, because most bands -- even some of the bands I love best -- still sound like other bands, but Coroner sounds only like Coroner and NO other band sounds like Coroner.

Spirit Caravan: Jug Fulla Sun (1999)

With Spirit Caravan and their first output, 1999's Jug Fulla Sun, Scott 'Wino' Weinrich further cemented his place atop the American doom and stoner rock pyramids, following his already quasi-legendary exploits with Saint Vitus and The Obsessed.

But it sure wasn't easy ...

Only five years earlier, The Obsessed had signed with mighty Columbia Records and seemed on the verge of a major breakthrough with '94's The Church Within LP, only to join numerous fellow metal bands (Carcass, Kreator, etc.) in a grunge-affected corporate purge.

Burnt out and disillusioned, Wino endured homelessness, drug addiction, and serious health issues in Los Angeles, before returning to his Maryland stomping grounds and launching a new band called Shine with bassist/vocalist Dave Sherman and drummer Gary Isom.

But then, just as they were starting to attract indie label interest, resulting in '97's "Lost Sun Dance" single, a pop-rock group laid claim to the Shine moniker, and so the name Spirit Caravan was conjured up to represent the project's developing cosmic and psychedelic themes.

The resulting Jug Fulla Sun effectively bridged this transitional period with material held over from both Shine ("Lost Sun Dance," "Powertime") and The Obsessed's final days ("Fear's Machine," "Melancholy Grey"), as well as several brand-new Wino classics.

These included twin-tempo opener "Healing Tongue," fuzz guitar-swept acid rocker "Cosmic Artifact," hypno-hallucinatory doom epic "Dead Love/Jug Fulla Sun," and the hilarious "Kill Ugly Naked," which may just be my all-time-favorite Wino hardcore sprint.

Last but not least came the imaginative, acoustic-accented grooves of "No Hope Goat Farm," and Sherman (R.I.P.) took his de rigueur turn at the mic for the grinding "Fang," which foreshadowed the glass-gargling credentials he would soon showcase by fronting Earthride.

But, for now, Spirit Caravan remained his priority, as it would Wino's for the same year's Dreamwheel EP, 2001's sophomore full-length Elusive Truth, and multiple U.S. and European tours to support them, until the band's internal chemistry started to deteriorate.

This, along with Wino's souring worldview in the wake of 9/11 and major personal events like becoming a father contributed to Spirit Caravan's break-up in 2002 and his decision to form the politicized Hidden Hand, conveniently in his Maryland backyard.

However, while it lasted, Spirit Caravan was arguably my favorite Wino project of them all, and I still remember an electrifying set they played at Brooklyn's long gone North Six club in April of 2002 (*), just weeks before this Philly show and their final breakup.

* On a mighty stoner rock bill alongside Place of Skulls, Alabama Thunderpussy, Orange Goblin, and -- talk about an outlier -- Japanese black metal originals Sigh!

King's X: Manic Moonlight (2001)

In recognition of Pride Month 2026, all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community, and King's X's own Doug Pinnick, I'm rolling out another round of blogs featuring colored vinyl in a rainbow sequence, continuing with today's orange selection ...

Manic Moonlight? More like tragic lowlight.

After making some of the strangest creative decisions of their career on the previous year's Please Come Home … Mr. Bulbous, King's X injected electronic samples, loops, and beats into their signature dropped tunings and three-part Beatles-esque harmonies on this 25-year-old release.

But whereas 1994's Dogman had successfully reconciled the band's unique sonic hallmarks with grunge aesthetics (a sonic yin/yang conundrum if ever there was one) in the best possible way, Manic Moonlight sunk into the muck with some of the dreariest, most despondent material of the group's career.

This turn of events, coming from a band whose uplifting, virtually transcendent brand of progressive metal, had instilled quasi-religious euphoria upon their faithful acolytes, was at best confusing, and at worst very upsetting.

Which isn't to say that Manic Moonlight didn't produce a few enjoyable numbers in opener "Believe," the familiarly arpeggiated "False Alarm," and the extended funk rock grooves of "Vegetable," which contrast nicely against classic King's X ingredients and a liquid fire Ty Tabor solo.

But other funky efforts weren't nearly as satisfying (more like watching paint dry), with Pinnick either muttering instead of singing on "Skeptical Winds," or monotonously reciting minimalist lyrics on "Yeah":

"I hate the world because of you; The blame is my mistake; Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaah …

Please forgive me for my attitude; I'm choosing to stay on my side; Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaah …

Live with an addict you pick up a habit; Of letting them destroy your life; Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaah …"

Yaaaaaaaawwwwnnn.

"Static" was at least interesting for maximizing the album's organic/electronic hybrid with somber vocals over a techno-style loop, before a driving guitar riff, growling bass, and Pinnick's emotional higher registers conveyed yet conflicting, far from reassuring message:

"Hello, I didn't mean to put my faith in you; I was afraid of losing my place and get nothing from this;

Goodbye, to my heart shaped box in the trash today; I was ashamed, but not anymore so I thank you for it;

I don't wanna do this ... anymore; I really wanna do it."

Luckily, near the very end, "Jenna" sparkled with quavering psychedelics before unleashing a powerful distorted chorus capped by soaring harmonies and a poignant love letter that finally provided listeners with some much needed emotional release.

All these years later, some overly protective fans will still defend Manic Moonlight as some kind of clever model of austerity and simplicity, but I just hear a bleak and dispiriting collection from a listless band starting to question if it was all worth it.

So if this isn't the absolute "lowlight" in the King's X discography, I'd say it's close, alongside '03's vault-emptying Black Like Sunday and '22's incoherent comeback, Three Sides of One, but maybe my opinions will change after future listens.

Oromet: The Sinking Isle (2025)

Woooooooooaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh ...

Every so often, a brand-new band emerges fully-formed and armed with the whole package: the sound, the visuals, the vision, the vibe, and not even the unfortunate decision to only make their self-titled debut available on cassette can change that.

I'm talking about Sacramento, CA funeral doom duo Oromet, featuring vocalist/guitarist Dan Aguilar (also of Occlith and Battle Hag) and producer/multi-instrumentalist (drums, bass, synths) Patrick Hills (see also Occlith, Desiccation, Feral Season, etc.).

Coming together in 2022, the pair promptly proclaimed their nerdy credentials by selecting their moniker from J.R.R. Tolkien's Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings -- specifically some random hill on the lost island kingdom of Númenor.

This provenance accounts for the decision to title their 2025 sophomore album (luckily also issued on vinyl) The Sinking Isle, which, like its predecessor, assembled a towering, triple-threat tableau to welcome listeners into Tolkien-stoked imaginations.

However, although Oromet accept and live by most funeral doom ground rules, including agonizingly slow tempos, subhuman growls, de-tuned riffage, and vast, agoraphobic atmospherics, they boldly break others with their majestic, uplifting, even transcendent melodies, and total rejection of any clean singing.

Side A of The Sinking Isle harbors a single, 21-minute-long colossus called "Hollow Dominion" that quietly stirs on that mythical shore before plummeting to unfathomable depths and then gradually surfacing again amid both hopeful and forlorn melodies, sometimes reminiscent of Nautik Doom explorers Ahab.

One of two, eleven-minute excursions found on Side B, "Marathon" may be only half as long but is twice as sinister, cloaked by solemn choral chants; yet it too pivots mid-song into a haunting acoustic interlude that has more in common with blackened folk greats Agalloch than Evoken or Thergothon.

And the last of three, "Forsaken Tarn" (incidentally, a "tarn" is a deep mountain lake formed in a cirque excavated by a glacier), also forsakes utmost despair for distinct passages marked by militaristic percussion and soaring harmonies of a mournful but regal bearing.

Thematically, all three movements share what the band itself described as "the inevitability of collapse and the cycles of ruin and rebirth" -- a very Númenorian plight, even if Oromet's chosen "narrator" is possessed of a bestial roar more akin to a Balrog.

All kidding aside, Tolkien geeks will recognize direct emotional ties between Oromet's bittersweet, yearning melodies and the mortal Númenorian kings' curse of forever gazing west towards the forbidden, Undying Lands of Valinor, eternally beyond their reach.

To complete the picture, the band commissioned celebrated Tolkien illustrator Ted Nasmith to paint The Sinking Isle's cataclysmic cover art (note King Tar-Minastir's namesake tower) to illustrate Númenor's downfall: swallowed by the waves as punishment for mankind's hubris.

But Oromet need not fear divine retribution for taking their pride in a young career that's entirely deserving of the widespread acclaim bestowed upon their first two full-lengths, and I can't wait to hear what they do next.

p.s. -- In recognition of Pride Month 2026 and all my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community, I'll be posting my by-now-customary string of colored vinyl in a rainbow sequence.

Hammers of Misfortune: The Locust Years (2006)

I virtually jumped for joy when Hammers of Misfortune finally reissued their third, and, in my opinion, best album, The Locust Years, on black wax.

As I wrote in my All-Music Guide review, 20 years ago, their fans inevitably whined and bitched every time this iconoclastic San Francisco art metal ensemble kept them waiting for three or four years between records, but it was usually worth it.

Never more so than on this occasion, as The Locust Years meticulously meshed HoM's idiosyncratic twin guitar wizardry, intricate neoclassical metal orchestrations, and dense, intellectual lyrics with some of the most effective and streamlined arrangements of their career.

Perhaps it also helped that, thematically speaking, The Locust Years was the band's most grounded conceptual piece thus far, swapping its predecessors' horror fantasy narrative (The Bastard) and sociological alienation theme (The August Engine) with a blistering critique of post-9/11 American society.

"Now that we're unchained; We'll reign, insane; And drown the world in flames; And blood, and pain; Our legion eyes and ears; Will amplify your fears; In a wilderness of mirrors; In these new Locust Years."

The opening title track (*), "We are the Widows," and the spectacular "Trot out the Dead" paint a bleak, satirical portrait of a nation consumed by war, consumerism, blind patriotism, and intellectual decay -- sound familiar?

"Fool, I am no hero; So leave my casket be; Furthermore I'd never give my life; For such as thee; If the people wonder at the suffering you've caused; And your massive avarice has left them at a loss; If by chance they notice your bloody snapping jaws; The blood upon your claws; Your shifty eyes and laws; The nauseating flaws in all you've said; Trot out the dead; Trot out the dead."

Arguably even more relevant 20 years later (see the indictment of false morality in "Chastity Rides"), John Cobbett's words gained the emotional dimensions of a Greek Chorus when divvied up between fellow guitarist Mike Scalzi, bassist Jamie Myers, and keyboardist Sigrid Sheie's.

"Famine always hangs his lamp; Above the holy land;

Pestilence will pitch his tent; Upon the promised land; Death will always break his bread; Within the temple walls; War will always find his mistress; In the highest tower; Find her waiting, find her waiting; In the highest tower."

Indeed, Myers and Sheie's angelic harmonies lend a ghostly desperation to "Widow's Wall" and "Famine's Lamp," where the hypocrisy of man's politically-driven holy wars were impaled upon the latter's beautiful, classically-trained piano flourishes.

"Praised -- praised be our vanity; Now that we have our own tragedy; No time for subtlety; War is upon us, oh can't you see.

Here in the holy land; See how united and strong we stand; Slogans and banners for every man; Here in the holy land.

Death -- death to the infidels; Sons of our servants shall serve and serve us well; And gifted with endless war; Flags and fanatics forevermore."

On "Election Day," Sheie's pulsing B-3 organ locked in perfectly with Cobbett and Scalzi's guitars, and even drummer Chewy Marzolo got his showcase with an ominous Olodum-inflected drumline on the rather terrifying "War Anthem."

"It won't matter, when it's over; But ending, it's everything;

Shall we gaze into the sky; And helpless watch the storm; Foaming forms of locust swarms; Against the mirror sky; Swarming -- an insect storm; A million paper wings that whisper 'fall'; Scrawled all in blood across the sky; The writing on the wall -- the widow's wall."

All of this musical and lyrical detail kept fans like me busy for months deciphering new clues -- as did the gorgeous, intricately baroque artwork, which the smaller CD format obviously couldn't reproduce in its full glory like this 12-inch LP.

In fact, even the diametrically opposed band portraits -- one depicting the hirsute, tattooed quintet ready to rock, the other formal and dignified, outfitted for a night at the opera -- reflected HoM's punctilious commitment to every detail.

Why, these band photos almost look like AI!

But, no, Hammers of Misfortune are as real as music gets, and though I still consider The Locust Years to be their most fully-realized work, even the line-up instability and uneven recordings that followed have never failed to impress and surprise their loyal fans.

* From the Book of Joel, chapter 2, verse 25, referencing a period of devastation and wasted time, God promises: "I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten."

Tear Gas: Tear Gas (1971)

Nowadays, anyone can distribute their music to every streaming service without leaving their bedrooms, but back in the days when music was an IRL (*) activity, it was hard enough to score a record deal, let alone success, and there's yet another case in point: Tear Gas.

Before they found acclaim as the theatrical powerhouse called The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, some of those same musicians paid their dues but didn't immediately reap any benefits with a Glasgow-based heavy-prog outfit by that name.

Even before that, in the late '60s,, they formed as Mustard and consisted of guitarist Zal Cleminson, keyboardist Eddie Campbell, bassist Chris Glen, drummer Gilson Lavis, and singer Andi Mulvey, formerly of legendary Scottish beat group, The Poets.

By the time Tear Gas recorded their 1970 debut, oddly titled Piggy Go Getter, Mulvey had been replaced by David Batchelor and Lavis (later to join new wave band Squeeze) by Richard 'Wullie' Monro, who'd briefly worked in Ritchie Blackmore's pre-Deep Purple group, Mandrake Root.

But this line-up, too, wasn't bound to last, and brothers Hugh (keyboards) and Ted McKenna (drums) were brought in to help Bachelor, Cleminson, and Glen achieve a harder sound on Tear Gas' eponymous sophomore set, released 55 years ago.

And, I dare say, their ambitions were realized, because this is one of the heaviest, most aggressive records of the period, dominated by Zal's blistering fretwork, Ted's powerhouse percussion, and engineered loud-for-the-crowd by future Judas Priest producer Tom Allom.

Indeed, art rock barely enters the equation here -- such is Tear Gas' riff-driven intensity (I'm talking a little Cream, a little Zeppelin, a little Savoy, etc.) across muscular, technically impressive originals like "That's What's Real," "Woman for Sale," and "I'm Glad."

The group's progressive inclinations (and reputation) only manifest on the elaborate hard/soft contrasts of "Where Is My Answer," the uncharacteristically dreamy reverie of "The First Time," and an initially unrecognizable cover of Jethro Tull's "Love Story."

Supposedly used, said Cleminson, to shock their audiences as Tear Gas' show opener, the rendition unexpectedly explodes out of a sweet and subtle melody ( curiously foreshadows the Smashing Pumpkins' "Today") into legit proto-metallic devastation.

For a final twist, the group revisits their roots with the barroom boogie of "Lay it On Me" and a classic rock & roll mash-up of Elvis' "Jailhouse" and "All Shook Up" -- a once popular gambit for heavy bands as diverse as Blue Cheer, UFO, and Led Zeppelin.

But it didn't pan out for Tear Gas, even though this sophomore LP (released through EMI's curiously named Regal Zonophone imprint) 'also boasted the distinction of a cover design executed by future Hipgnosis icon Storm Thorgerson.

By 1973, Cleminson, Glen, and the McKennas had parted ways with Bachelor and cast their lot with Alex Harvey's piratical crew, proceeding to rampage through the rest of the '70s with some of the decade's most daring, if misunderstood, albums.

* That's IRL as "in real life," for those of you not hip like me to Gen Z slang -- har-har.

Related: Sensational Alex Harvey Band: Framed, Next, The Impossible Dream, Tomorrow Belongs to Me, Live, SAHB Stories.

More Obscure Early ‘70s Heavy Rock: A.K.A.’s Do What You Like, Alamo’s Alamo, Ancient Grease’s Women and Children First, Asterix’s Asterix, Atlee’s Flying a Head, Bang’s Mother/Bow to the King, Birtha’s Birtha, Blackwater Park’s Dirt Box, Bloodrock’s Bloodrock 2, Blues Creation’s Demon & Eleven Children, Bolder Damn’s Mourning, Boomerang’s Boomerang, Buffalo’s Volcanic Rock, Bull Angus’ Bull Angus, Cactus’ Cactus, Captain Beyond’s Captain Beyond, Charlee’s Charlee, Copperhead’s Copperhead, Cradle’s The History, Crushed Butler’s Uncrushed, Curly Curve’s Curly Curve, Dies Irae's First, Fanny Adams’ Fanny Adams, Flied Egg’s Dr. Siegel’s Fried Egg Shooting Machine, Flower Travellin’ Band’s Satori, A Foot in Coldwater’s A Foot in Coldwater, Fuse’s Fuse, Gift’s Gift, Hard Stuff’s Bulletproof, Haystacks Balboa's Haystacks Balboa, Head Over Heels’ Head Over Heels, Heavy Cruiser’s Heavy Cruiser…

Sam Cooke: Night Beat (1963)

Of all Sam Cooke's remarkable qualities, some of the most obvious were the incomparable voice that crowned him the 'King of Soul,' the sharp business sense that made him a savvy entrepreneur, and the incredible musical legacy he left behind despite his shocking, premature death in December of 1964.

But next in line might be how Cooke managed to convey so much raw power and emotion amid the otherwise strait-laced commercial pop ingredients (soaring strings, vocal choruses, ornate production) used to maximize many of his records' crossover appeal.

1963's Night Beat was a notable exception, however, and is widely regarded by fans, critics, and music historians to be Sam's defining masterpiece, precisely because it resolved this paradox ...

Unlike Sam's lushly orchestrated pop hits, these recordings involved a small, intimate studio group (including a 16-year-old Billy Preston) providing subtle, uncluttered backdrops that let the spotlight shine on Cooke's silken, emotive tenor in all its glory.

All twelve performances were cut at RCA Victor's Hollywood studios over just three nights, and even that nocturnal setting contributes to the stark, sultry atmosphere permeating the stylistically eclectic final product issued as Night Beat in August of '63.

To achieve this bare-bones intimacy, Cooke divided the album's material into three overlapping moods: (1) haunting returns to his gospel roots, (2) sinking into smoldering blues standards, and (3) reinterpreting classic rock & roll and R&B with a jazzy sophistication.

Stripping away the effusive shouts of his Soul Stirrers past, Sam tackles spirituals like "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen," "Lost and Lookin'," and "You Gotta Move" with a quiet, minimalist, but intense reverence, proving with his deliberate phrasing that he didn't need Wall of Sound production to command a room.

When it comes to smoldering blues standards like "Mean Old World," "Trouble Blues," and "Please Don't Drive Me Away," Cooke channels the genre's dark, mournful energy and irons it out with his classy, velvety sensuality, which I can't quite reconcile with Howlin' Wolf's tawdry sexual metaphors on "Little Red Rooster."

Finally, jukebox favorites like "Laughin' and Clownin'" and "Shake, Rattle and Roll," have their raucous R&B and rock & roll party vibes replaced by a more relaxed, late-night cool, yet they still manage to lift the album out of abject despondency.

So here's the deal: you still can't go wrong making your first Sam Cooke vinyl purchase a greatest hits collection like 1985's career-spanning The Man and His Music, which covers all of his best loved hits -- fancy arrangements, first class production, and all.

But when you're ready to take that next step into Cooke's discography so as to experience an entirely deeper side of his amazing and dearly missed artistry, Night Beat will probably be your best bet.

Just think of how many more creative and professional superlatives Sam could have accumulated over the past 60 years since he's been gone ...

Madonna: True Blue (1986)

Madonna grows up? Learns to sing? Loses her virginity? All of the above?

I really can't decide, but she absolutely, positively, undeniably earned the title of "Queen of Pop" with her third full-length, True Blue, which turns 40 later this month, and saw the budding legend masterfully retaining her dance club roots while enhancing her artistic credibility.

And if you're wondering what the fuck a Madonna LP is doing in this blog, chill out!

This is my brother's LP and I kept it safe for him while he was moving, so why not jot down some observations about it here?

After working with Nile Rodgers on the sugary (if provocative) dance-pop of Like a Virgin, Madonna broadened her musical horizons and took the production reins here, backed by former boyfriend Stephen Bray (the roots) and musical director Patrick Leonard (the evolution).

She also co-wrote every True Blue tune, scaled back her reliance on sex appeal, and notably swapped her girlish helium soprano for a throatier, fuller alto, which arguably helped critics to take her more seriously while supporting the more mature subjects addressed in some songs.

Songs like first single "Papa Don't Preach," which, believe it or not, offered a significant female empowerment message for the time, and maybe her all-time greatest ballad, the chilling "Live to Tell," whose deep, dark secret is never fully revealed but alludes to child abuse.

For contrast, Madonna reverted to more familiarly upbeat sounds and themes on the title track, "Open Your Heart" (originally offered to Cyndi Lauper, who passed), and her first foray into Latin pop and Spanish lyrics, "La Isla Bonita."

I could hardly remember the remaining cuts, but the interchangeable synth pop of "Where's the Party" and even the salsa-accented "Love Makes the World Go Round" could have just as easily appeared on a Whitney Houston, Taylor Dayne, or Jody Watley album.

And in keeping with the 'Material Girl's' burgeoning cinematic ambitions (she had recently wrapped work on Desperately Seeking Susan, among other flicks), "White Heat" was apparently inspired by James Cagney's 1949 film noir of the same name and "Jimmy Jimmy" by James Dean.

These silver screen exploits, too, would help Madonna complete her ascension from upstart dance diva to the 1980s' undisputed, defining female pop star, and, eventually, the best-selling female music artist of all time -- suck on that Taylor Swift!

And the blockbuster True Blue contributed a huge chunk of those record-breaking sales, moving over 25 million copies and also qualifying, not only as Madonna's best-selling LP to date but the best-selling album of the 1980s by ANY female artist.

Wow!

Count Five: "Psychotic Reaction" / "They're Gonna Get You" (1966)

When all is said and done and Father Time has ground us all to dust, rock 'n' roll will be remembered (or not) for its uncanny, transcendent power to turn the humblest sounds and rawest emotions into musical atom bombs of devastating, life-altering force.

This ineffable, almost numinous quality describes the title track of this 60-year-old 7-inch, which has stood the test of time as both a cornerstone of America's garage rock golden age AND an inadvertent precursor to the ensuing psychedelic era.

Of course I'm talking about "Psychotic Reaction," by San Jose, CA's Count Five.

Formed in 1964, initially as The Squires, by teenagers Mouse Michalski (lead guitar) and Ron Chaney (bass), they became the Count Five after adding John 'Sean' Byrne (lead vocals, rhythm guitar), Craig 'Butch' Atkinson (drums), and Kenn Ellner (vocals, harmonica).

Their matching Dracula-inspired capes soon followed and a gimmick was born; but this might have amounted to nothing if Byrne (who'd only recently immigrated from his native Ireland) hadn't composed a stone-cold classic in "Psychotic Reaction."

Released in the summer of '66 by independent Double Shot Records, the single shot to No. 5 in the U.S. charts (No. 3 in Canada) and neatly bridged garage and acid rock with its distorted fuzz guitar, hypnotic strums, train whistle harmonica, double-time breaks, and oddly sedate vocal delivery.

Indeed, few songs leave as much to imagination while saying so little:

"I feel depressed, I feel so bad; 'Cause you're the best girl that I've ever had; I can't get your love, I can't get a fraction; Oh little girl, psychotic reaction.

And it feels like this!

I feel so lonely night and day; I can't get your love, I must stay away; Well, I need you girl, by my side; Oh little girl, would you like to take a ride now? I can't get your love, I can't get satisfaction; Oh little girl, psychotic reaction."

Years later, legendary rock critic Lester Bangs titled his surreal 1971 essay "Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung" after the track, and the song's inclusion in '72's seminal Nuggets compilation cemented its iconic, countercultural status, which the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame eventually recognized by naming "it"Psychotic Reaction" one of the '500 Songs that Shaped Rock and Roll.'

But if you're wondering why the Count Five became a one-hit-wonder, let's start by flipping over this single to sample the embarrassing B-side, "They're Gonna Get You": a childish novelty number one can't possibly take seriously, with its nonsensical lyrics and kiddie voices.

Fact is, the young group simply wasn't ready to deal with their first single's unexpected success (neither was their inexperienced manager, Mr. Ellner), let alone writing and recording a decent full-length to capitalize on their brush with fame.

But Double Shot insisted they try anyway and the Count Five duly emerged from the studio, just a few months later, with a cheaply produced, poorly marketed LP that rose no higher than No. 122 on the Billboard charts and spelled the end of the band's mercurial run.

When faced with the prospect of soldiering on and facing the frightening prospect of the Vietnam draft, or staying in school, the band members chose the latter, allegedly turning down thousands of dollars in concert bookings, and consigning the Count Five to history.

But their singular moment of brilliance, "Psychotic Reaction," obviously has kept us talking about the Count Five up to the present day.

Dio: Intermission EP (1986)

With so many albums to buy and so little money to spend, I could rarely justify spending my teenage pennies on live EPs like Dio's Intermission, Accept's Kaizoku-Ban, or even Slayer's Live Undead until recent years, when I started rebuilding my vinyl collection.

Granted, I didn't think twice about purchasing Maiden Japan back in '85, but that was on a completely different level of 'must-have' metal.

Anyway, the aptly named Intermission was how Ronnie James Dio bought some time between '85's Sacred Heart and '87's Dream Evil, and announced the replacement of original Dio guitarist Vivian Campbell with former Rough Cutt shredder Craig Goldy.

Anything to maintain career momentum during a busy '86 that earlier found Ronnie, Campbell, and bassist Jimmy Bain recruiting dozens of fellow metal-heads to lend their voices and guitars to the Hear 'n Aid charity project amid almost incessant touring.

And what a tour it was: one that went down in heavy metal lore thanks to one of the era's most ambitious and most talked about special effects extravaganzas, headlined by a certain towering animatronic monster!

I'm of course talking about 'Denzel the Dragon,' as he was cruelly nicknamed by the mordant U.K. press, and with whom the diminutive Dio would slay on a nightly basis, but who gained immortality on Intermission's cover. (*)

Enough with the surrounding details, though ...

Another reason I passed on this EP back in '86 was that I'd grown a little weary of Ronnie's schtick and I simply wasn't bowled over by the efficient but unvarying performances of Dio favorites "King of Rock and Roll," "Rainbow in the Dark," "Sacred Heart," and "We Rock."

When they did deviate from standard studio album arrangements, it was to embark on what I call Ronnie's "Medley Madness," which, to my knowledge, was introduced as far back as his stint with Black Sabbath for the Live Evil rendition of "Heaven and Hell" and "The Sign of the Southern Cross."

On Intermission, that meant forcibly stuffing brief snippets of Rainbow's "Long Live Rock 'n' Roll" and "Man On the Silver Mountain" into Dio's "Rock 'n' Roll Children" in an irritating attempt to remind us he'd sung for a bunch of great bands.

Yeah, Ronnie, we know!

Anyway, the EP's sixth and final offering was a decent, not exceptional, new studio track entitled "Time to Burn," which officially welcomed Goldy into the fold in time for the second half of the year-long Sacred Heart tour.

In conclusion: like most intermissions, not everyone found it necessary to leave their "seats" between Dio's album-length "acts," to check out this EP and, in my case, it was to walk out of the "theater" entirely, never to return for any of Ronnie's future solo endeavors.

* Years later, Ronnie would have the last laugh when he named his ninth studio LP, Killing the Dragon.

Uriah Heep: High and Mighty (1976)

Dreams die every day in rock 'n' roll and a significant one was dying 50 years ago (or thereabouts) for Uriah Heep and their founding singer David Byron, who, unbeknownst to most, had recorded his final album (their ninth) with the heavy metal pioneers in 1976's High and Mighty.

The tour that followed was plagued by widening internal rifts, but the most obvious centered around Byron's alcohol-impaired performances, which ultimately escalated into an "either he goes or I go" standoff with band leader Ken Hensley.

In truth, Heep's problems ran much deeper (Heeper?) and included increasing distrust in longtime manager, label owner, and producer, Gerry Bron, who was barred from the studio this time around so Hensley could dominate proceedings, instead.

Hensley wound up writing every song, two with bassist John Wetton (ex-King Crimson, future Asia), who also handled lead vocals on the opening "One Way or Another" in what could only be seen as a passive-aggressive warning shot at Heep's unreliable frontman.

Alas, this petty ploy backfired almost immediately, just as soon as Byron made a typically dramatic entrance on the ensuing "Weep in Silence": preening like a peacock and packing the punch of his powerhouse vocals, which in no way betrayed his ailing health.

Most of the material that followed exchanged the heavy prog and fantastic lyrics of yesteryear for mainstream rock (e.g. "Misty Eyes," "Woman of the World," "Can't Stop Singing"), but then, so had preceding LPs dating all the way back to '73's Sweet Freedom.

Partial exceptions like "Midnight," the slide guitar-infused "Make a Little Love," and the ominous "Footprints in the Snow" (another, more direct message to Byron, highlighted by a spiraling Mick Box guitar lick) didn't even try to climb previous heights of epic-length inspiration.

But I happen to enjoy these numbers for what they are, as well as the throwback swirling synths and good humor of "Can't Keep a Good Band Down," which delivered a final display of defiant band unity against Uriah Heep's critics:

"I can't believe y'all still sayin'; We're a long way from rock 'n' roll; You won't look for the good in the tunes we're playin'; You prefer to say we got no soul;

But day after day, in town after town; People say we're doin' alright; We play and we stay boogyin' down; And rockin' on into the night;

It's breath and words and time you're wastin'; When you should be tryin' to have a good time; For a good few years it's been yours we've tasted; So here's a little piece of our mind;

We'll roll and we'll roll and we'll roll and we'll roll; Till we run out of reason to try; If it happens you don't approve; It don't matter, we won't ask why;

You can't keep a good band down; You'll never find the solution; You won't stop us runnin' around; You're dealin' with an institution;

We'll fill our cup with wine while you ... Fill your head with high ideals; You know so much but you still can't touch; Till you find out how it feels;

It'll take much more than the high and mighty; To bring down the king of the road; We could still be friends and quit this fightin'; And let the real story be told;

You can't keep a good band down; You'll never find the solution; You won't stop us runnin' around; With your paragraphs of pollution;

You can't keep a good band down."

Unfortunately, unremarkable record sales suggested fans were also torn on Uriah Heep's musical direction, and few observers saw Byron's apologetic words ("I'm so sorry for the things I've done") on the poignant, piano-led "Confession" for the emotional swan song it turned out to be. (*)

Not that his ousting could solve the group's deeper problems, as Wetton also quit (replaced by erstwhile Spider from Mars Trevor Bolder) ahead of Heep's hastily recorded 1977 follow-up, Firefly, featuring former Lucifer's Friend frontman John Lawton.

Sure, Uriah Heep would carry on (still does!), long after Lawton and even Hensley gave up the fight, but I myself have little love for the pedestrian monolith of nostalgia still led by the indefatigable Box -- heavy metal's ultimate "guitar zero." (**)

As for David Byron, though he tried to keep the dream alive with a busy work schedule fronting Rough Diamond and the Byron Band, he was never able to defeat Demon Alcohol and finally succumbed to directly related health complications in 1985 at the age of 37.

* CD reissues of High and Mighty unearthed a very decent outtake called "Name of the Game," well worth checking out.

** Let me explain: I say "guitar zero" because Box is surely the most invisible lead guitarist of heavy metal's '70s generation, headlined by fretboard giants (a.k.a. "heroes") like Page, Iommi, Blackmore, Tipton, Downing, Schenker, Roth, et al.

The Black Crowes: Lions (2001)

After caving to record label pressures with a back-to-basics, Shake Your Money Maker-styled classic rock record in 1999's By Your Side, those obstinate, contrarian Black Crowes swerved violently in another direction 25 years ago with Lions.

Their first release for Virgin Records subsidiary, V2, which granted the band total creative freedom, the album introduced new guitarist Audley Freed (ex-Cry of Love) and may just be the Crowes' most sonically distinct and brazenly experimental, though not in a good way.

At least, for all these changes, it didn't find the band reverting to the dazed, untethered hippie meanderings of 1996's Three Snakes and One Charm.

Instead, the Crowes' recent experience performing Led Zeppelin songs with Jimmy Page influenced their approach to songwriting dynamics, according to Rich Robinson, but not necessarily the inspiration they found in funk, soul, folk music, and, yes, psychedelia.

The resulting Lions was the sort of album that plays hard to get; making fans work through numerous listens to uncover its secrets, discern its strengths and weaknesses, and grow to love it (or hate it) for what it was -- like two prideful lovers nervously reconnecting after a break-up.

Opening cut, "Midnight from the Inside Out," sounds like an acid doom dirge, and second track "Lickin'" like an anti-single; in fact, I'm not sure Rich or Audley ever strum their guitars, just manipulate their volume knobs from start to finish!

Neither "Come On" nor "No Use Lying" offer major shows of affection, so the album's first welcoming chorus doesn't hug you until the strings-sweetened "Losing My Mind," five songs in, and even for someone who enjoys UN-welcoming music, this feels a little too long.

However, it takes just two more conventional rockers, "Ozone Mama" and "Greasy Grass River," for the Crowes' cautious courtship to transform into lovestruck euphoria on the gospel-soaring "Soul Singing," which has since proven to be this album's only concert staple.

Next thing you know, by the subsequent cut, "Miracle to Me," Chris Robinson is all but supplicating the listener (or at least his new wife Kate Hudson) to "Be my lover, be my friend, be a miracle to me" -- what a charmer!

I could take or leave the funky "Young Man, Old Man," appreciate the maelstrom of activity across "Cosmic Friend," and would never complain about the ascending power chords of "Cypress Tree," but the closing, brilliant "Lay It All on Me," takes things to another level with a parting piano masterclass from Eddie Harsch (R.I.P.).

All in all, I think patient dedicated fans who soldiered through Lions' unfamiliar sonics and early emotional distance were eventually convinced that The Black Crowes could still deliver the goods, but the album quickly lost momentum after its chart debut at No. 20.

The ensuing 'Brotherly Love Tour' in conjunction with Oasis was anything but, marred by sluggish ticket sales, mounting tensions behind the scenes, and the tragic attacks on September 11, which postponed many dates until the end of the year.

Come January 2002, the band was officially announcing the beginning of an indefinite hiatus, which was only interrupted by a contractually obligated Live album and the Robinsons' solo pursuits until the Crowes finally reunited in 2005.

For a while, anyway, until the Robinsons' next bust-up, and the one after that, and so on and so forth, forever amen, which reminds me, I've yet to pick up their latest, A Pound of Feathers, but I'll surely share my thoughts about that LP, too, soon enough.

Ramones: Animal Boy (1986)

Now that most of the Ramones are no longer with us and their iconic music is all we have left, it would be easy to focus on our fond, if bittersweet memories of punk rock's archetypal band, but 40 years ago their career reached a new low with the release of Animal Boy.

1984's Too Tough to Die had been optimistically hailed as a return to form, but you wouldn't know it from its frustratingly modest sales, and that, along with fast-deteriorating intra-band relationships, led to one of the quartet's worst efforts 40 years ago.

With Joey disillusioned and Johnny as difficult as ever, Dee Dee shouldered most of the songwriting, with one key contribution from the underrated Richie Ramone, who came up with the album's lead-off track and single, "Somebody Put Something in My Drink."

By and large, though, the material was pushed in two, irreconcilable and often indefensible directions by the influence of hardcore and the keyboard sweetenings endorsed by producer Jean Beauvoir, formerly of punk/metal shock-rockers The Plasmatics. (*)

The first of these drove next-level blitzkriegs like the title track and "Eat the Rat," while the second corrupted "She Belongs to Me" (a typical Joey love song composed by Dee Dee) and "Something to Believe In" with '80s-style synthesizers, heretical to the group's punk roots.

At least the music video's parody of the Live Aid theme was entertaining.

Strapped for ideas, Dee Dee recycled weak variations on the band's "Pinhead" theme ("Apeman Hop," "Freak of Nature"), accidentally hit the mark with the silly but endearing "Crummy Stuff," and gave a play-by-play of Sid Vicious' and Nancy Spungen's doomed love affair on "Love Kills."

"Sid was a punk rock king; Nancy was a broken queen; When you're hooked on heroin; Don't you know you'll never win."

As for Joey, he added the totally forgettable "Hair of the Dog" and "Mental Hell," then collaborated with Dee Dee and Beauvoir on the passive-aggressive highlight, "My Brain is Hanging Upside Down (Bonzo Goes to Bitburg)" -- a protest of President Ronald Reagan's visit to a Nazi cemetery aimed squarely at the conservative Johnny.

Clearly, Animal Boy was as disjointed and conflicted an album as the band itself at the time of its recording, earning mixed reviews upon release and even more so in retrospect, much like the albums that followed it over the next few years.

But at least the Ramones would never again flirt with such commercial ingredients in the years and albums that remained to them (the especially heavy Mondo Bizarro being the clear standout), which I suppose we should be grateful for.

* Who also supplied additional guitar, along with Walter Lure of Johnny Thunders' Heartbreakers.

Irish Coffee: Irish Coffee (1971)

I had to refresh my own memory, but, for those who don't know (or don't drink), Irish Coffee (Caife Gaelach) is a caffeinated cocktail consisting of Irish whiskey, hot coffee, and sugar, stirred and topped with cream (sometimes cream liqueur), then drunk through the cream.

Emphasis on "drunk" ... I think I know what I'm doing this weekend!

One must assume the drink was also popular in Belgium and in Aalst, East Flanders, to be exact, because that's where the band named Irish Coffee was formed in 1970, after rebranding from a mid '60s beat group called The Voodoos.

Their musical influences naturally evolved apace: from The Shadows, Beatles, and Rolling Stones, to Iron Butterfly, Vanilla Fudge, and Deep Purple, whose late '60s heavy psych period is abundantly reflected in this group's 55-year-old eponymous debut.

Problem is, that sound -- an organ-drenched, guitar-shredding, classically-rooted melange of post-psych and proto-metal, simultaneously progressive and regressive -- was already slightly outdated by 1971, when Irish Coffee took their shot.

And yet, singer/guitarist William Souffreau, lead guitarist Jean Van Der Schueren, organist Paul Lambert, bassist Willy De Bisschop and drummer Hugo Verhoye possessed more than enough talent and road-tested experience to make it all work, more often than not.

For example, see how the archaic ingredients of "The Show" (parts one and two) and "I'm Lost" are offset by no less than three, tastefully rendered laments for the Age of Aquarius: "When Winter Comes," "A Day Like Today," and the funereal "Beginning or the End," whose hard/soft dynamics echo Deep Purple's "Child in Time."

Moreover, the manic drive of "Can't Take It" (used here in a Hard Days Night-style Belgian TV montage) and altogether astounding, controlled aggression of "Hear Me," provide ample evidence of the experience and musicianship the band accumulated throughout the late '60s.

Unfortunately, Irish Coffee's best known composition, aptly named "Masterpiece," was omitted from the album, including this reissue (come on, guys!), after being released as a single (paired with "The Show") and charting highly in several European countries.

That casual but fateful decision may have doomed Irish Coffee's career prospects, as the album didn't exactly fly off record store shelves, despite a healthy touring schedule supporting the likes of Focus, Uriah Heep, and Colosseum.

Instead, the grueling road work proved too much for Van Der Schueren and Verhoye, who were replaced by Raf Lenssens and Luc de Clus, for subsequent singles in '72 and '74, when disaster struck in the form of a road accident that killed Lambert.

So essential were his contributions to Irish Coffee's music that the surviving band members wouldn't entertain the thought of carrying on without him and split, although some reconvened two years later under a new band name, Joystick, which never recorded.

Eventually, Souffreau, who'd continued writing, recording, and performing solo into the 1990s, took it upon himself to reissue the Irish Coffee LP and the public's warm reception led to a smattering of partial reunion shows and new releases until his passing in 2023.