There were a number of factors that shaped the unique sounds of the British Invasion. The British bands records weren’t as intense as those of the American masters, but they were more spirited than what was passing for American rock ’n’ roll at the time. Many of the American rock acts were trios of singers who worked with impermanent backing bands, whereas the English were mostly self-contained units, four or five musicians who also sang. As part of paying their dues, many of the bands were required to play uncommonly long sets (as had The Beatles, who endured eight-hour work days in Hamburg), resulting in a vibrant sound characterized by a certain amount of sloppiness and bashing.
Bev Bevan, best known as the drummer in the Electric Light Orchestra and The Move, performed in Germany in 1965 with Carl Wayne & The Vikings: “When we arrived, the accommodation was ankle-deep in rubbish, and infested with rats. There were blood and semen stains on the bed. We spent what little spare time we had cleaning it all up. We started playing each night at 7:00 p.m. and did seven forty-five-minute spots, with fifteen-minute breaks, until two o’clock in the morning. Each weekend there were three-hour matinees, too. Any last hopeful beliefs I might have had that pop could earn me easy money were swept away in those weeks in Germany.”
Members of almost every English rock band of that time—The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, The Zombies, The Animals, The Yardbirds—had gone to art school. The Yardbirds and The Who even described their music as “pop art.” This exposure inspired progressive and creative concepts and helped to magnify and color the resulting sound. For instance, when The Who debuted their second single, “Anyway Anyhow Anywhere,” many were confused by the purposeful inclusion of feedback. Pete Townshend had attended Ealing Art College, as had Freddie Mercury, Ronnie Wood, and Thunderclap Newman’s John Keene. In interviews Pete kept referring to Gustav Metzger and his auto-destructive art as an influence. Other effects were more nuanced. At Hornsey College of Art and Crafts, Ray Davies watched people in train stations and sketched them. This helped shape his writing, where many of his songs, like “Waterloo Sunset,” placed him in the role of the detached observer.
As unlikely a form as music hall found its way into the charts. A vaudeville equivalent that flourished earlier in the century, music hall was rich in melody and humor. Herman’s Hermits scored big with three music hall-styled songs: “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter” and “I’m Henry VIII, I Am” in 1965, and then a year later with George Formby’s “Leaning on the Lamp Post.” Ian Whitcomb classified The Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon”—newly composed by Ray Davies—as a music hall-styled song: “a chug-a-long satire in the style of Formby’s great ‘Fanlight Fanny, the Frousy Night Club Queen.’” Peter Asher identified his (Peter and Gordon’s) hit “Knight In Rusty Armour” as part of the genre. Small Faces had their second biggest UK hit—at number two—with “Lazy Sunday,” which they considered part of the music hall tradition.
With The Beatles opening the door, record moguls realized that America offered a much larger and more profitable market, and encouraged displaying British characteristics: The early Kinks sported frilly shirts and red hunting jackets; Ian Whitcomb, on the back cover of his debut album, was decked out like Sherlock Holmes in a deerstalker hat and herringbone suit; The Beatles and Herman’s Hermits were dressed for photo sessions as English businessmen in suits, bowler hats and umbrellas. American kids were so mad for anything British that a few artists coming over, like Chad & Jeremy and Ian Whitcomb, had Top 10 hits without ever making the chart in their homeland. While on tour in the US, Herman’s Hermits’ Peter Noone ran into an unfamiliar group whose gimmick was their bleached blond hair. “We’re The Hullaballoos,” they said. “We’re from Hull.” It was new, it was exciting, and America lapped it up.
The Beatles’ sense of humor added to their appeal. Inspired by The Goon Show, they came across as hip: from their quips during the press conference when they landed in America, to their films, to their songs. When Brits were interviewed on radio and TV, in many cases their accents promised sophistication. They came across as polite, cultural, and intelligent. John Lennon assumed the status of an intellectual by cranking out two imaginative books characterized by wordplay and humorous illustrations. America’s stars seemed dull by comparison.
In any event, it all meshed into a gigantic wallop that left America with its trousers around its ankles. It mattered little that America’s teen idols were invariably handsome, suave, and of Italian lineage: Bobby Darin, Bobby Rydell, Joey Dee, James Darren, Lou Christie, Fabian, and Dion, among others. Britain’s milky-white, pencil-neck geeks created their own appeal with an affable, quirky, fun image.
The look was different, too. Most apparent was the hairstyle. To me The Beatles’ long hair was more comedic (recalling Moe of The Three Stooges) than threatening. All of the other bands that followed had to have long hair like The Beatles. If not, it was as if they aligned themselves to a previous era, or were simply too insecure to take the step into the post-1963 world. When one later saw photos of the early Beatles with drummer Pete Best, you just knew he was doomed to be axed from the group. His hair was slicked-back 1950s style—theirs was combed forward. Consequently, groups with more conservative hairstyles, like Billy J. Kramer with the Dakotas, The Searchers, and Freddie and The Dreamers, were only as good as their last hit record (as compared to, say, a serious long-hair group like The Pretty Things, who had no hits in America, but prolonged a critically acclaimed career well into the 1970s).
As innocuous as it all was, it was so threatening to America’s post-teen population that vast amounts of offense and anger were generated by a mere few inches of hair. The Yardbirds’ Chris Dreja told me that, on tour in America, not only did they get dirty looks, but at times they were spat upon.
The Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein understood this, and that the group had to be made “more acceptable” in order to make it big. He kicked away the group’s earlier leathers, jeans, and T-shirts in favor of custom-made suits. Most of the British rockers who followed adopted suits and ties, although with less stylishness than The Beatles. Somehow these strange invaders neutralized the threat of their long hair by compromising their dress and by smiling a lot.
Obviously there had to be an antithesis. The Rolling Stones had a sullen, sleepless appearance. It looked like their wardrobe came from a thrift-store, and their longer, unkempt hair seemed consistent with a reputation for boorish behavior. Even when liberal American parents consented to let their sons grow their hair long, it was usually, “Okay, you can wear it like The Beatles, but if I ever see you looking like The Rolling Stones, I’ll throw you out of the house!” Author Tom Wolfe put it this way: “The Beatles want to hold your hand, but The Stones want to burn your town.”
The Stone’s casualness mirrored their raw, chaotic, not-quite musical records, ones like “It’s All Over Now,” “I Wanna Be Your Man,” and “Not Fade Away.” Americans were slow to respond to this more serious approach, but it’s one that’s sustained a career that’s lasted over fifty years. The irony here is that the Stones persona was similar to that of The Beatles before they were smartened up. Cavern-going audiences, unlike those years-later US fans, knew that the early Beatles were a motley, sloppy bunch who sprinkled their song intros with lascivious and bawdy barbs. In Hamburg, John Lennon appeared on stage with a toilet seat around his neck. Imagine how far they would’ve gotten on America’s squeaky-clean Ed Sullivan Show with that!
Those musicians who had attended art school embraced fashion as it became outrageous. The Beatles’ collarless jackets and Cuban-heeled boots were just the start. New fashions were sold by a handful of boutiques that sprang up on Carnaby Street, located in a backstreet of London’s more formal Oxford Street shopping district. The tailors and designers catered to the more flamboyant tastes of homosexuals and thespians. When mods stumbled upon the area and noticed that there were more than various shades of black and grey in which to b
e suited, the area exploded.
Clothes consciousness extended past the mod period. The Troggs wore loud, candy-striped suits. The Who were splendidly shocking in their colorful jackets—one fashioned from a Union Jack flag and another covered in sequins. Stripped down, singer Roger Daltrey was the image of masculinity. That didn’t stop him from teasing his hair into a bouffant and dying it bright orange, and wearing a shawl, lace, and ladies’ slingback shoes. Others en masse adopted frilly shirts, Indian Nehru jackets, kaftans, and madras shirts, and military-inspired dress. Jimi Hendrix’s antique, military breast-plated jacket was purchased at I Was Lord Kitchener’s Valet (actually the name of the boutique). It was all new, colorful, and exciting, and there was too much to grasp.
After the initial hits had been registered, all manner of new television shows sprang up to showcase this talent, and it was from these that American baby boomers derived their most indelible images of the period. ABC’s Shindig! was filmed in Hollywood in black and white. Some segments were produced in England. It was a fine showcase indeed, if a little too weighted by the (old wave) cast of regulars: The Blossoms, The Shindogs, The Wellingtons, Bobby Sherman, and Billy Preston. There rarely seemed to be enough of the people we wanted to see, but it was here, primarily, that the various personalities (if any) behind the hits were on display. And the audience was as enthusiastic at a TV taping as in a concert hall. As Ian Whitcomb recollected, “The kid audience screamed at every shake of my long hair. Beatles stardust had fallen like dandruff onto my shoulders.”
NBC’s Hullabaloo had a more mainstream appeal, and was in color! It mattered little that the newer rock stars shared the stage with those more trusted by the establishment—Peter Noone and Vikki Carr were paired for a vocal duet—there was more than enough meat. Unfortunately, neither show lasted long. Mostly, Americans had no other choice but to wade through little Italian puppets, dancing Hungarian folk companies, trapeze artists, and rotating Jewish comedians in order to see the week’s rock artist—only one per week—on The Ed Sullivan Show. It was always professionally done, but never quite enough. Other shows, those hosted by Red Skelton, Dean Martin, and later The Smothers Brothers (who offered the most sensitive and best framework for these artists), and even Mike Douglas, whose afternoon show appealed mostly to housewives, had their weekly token rock group.
When The Beatles and others made it, it was with their own sound, not an already accepted one that fit into preexisting formats. Their adventurousness led them to altering these proven formulas to create newer and more far-out approaches. This may not have appeared to be good business, but it sustained a long career. Every time one turned around, the recordings had progressed, the clothes and hair had changed, and so had one’s perspective on the world. The “hippie” subculture evolved, and with it new political, social, and cultural stances. Imagine a hundred years of contemporary history crammed into five. That’s how it felt.
Peter Noone’s perspective is that the British Invasion was even bigger than most people realized: “Before the British Invasion, England was this quaint little country. It wasn’t considered a haven of brilliant musicians and songwriters. Can you imagine what it’s done for the British economy? Britain became a new place.”
What’s astonishing is how much the sixties live on in our culture, and I’m not talking about Mad Men. As my tastes developed, I came to appreciate nonmusical aspects: pop art, modern furniture, photography, fashion. The last few years have seen an uptick in sixties-inspired designs from Paul Smith, Ted Baker, Robert Graham, Valentino, Liberty of London, and Moods of Norway. There is also a wellspring of boutique designers, such as Madcap England, Pretty Green, Friday On My Mind, and David Watts. In 2014, John Varvatos refashioned Hendrix’s military jacket into a linen blazer that sold in clothing stores for $2,000. In the September 2015 issue of C Magazine, a fashion spread showcasing numerous designers proclaimed, “This fall, sixties Mod—replete with shortened hemlines, bold colors and statement coats—makes a welcome return.” In a retrospective on sixties designer Mr. Fish in the March 2016 New York Times Style Magazine, a photo caption reads: “Fish’s influence on the spring runways, at, from left, Gucci, J. W. Anderson, Dolce & Gabbana, Dunhill, and Ann Demeulemeester.” GQ’s spring 2016 style issue included an eight-page feature on Jimi Hendrix subtitled “The Man Who Inspired This Season’s Look,” as well as sixties photos of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards illustrating contemporary fashion trends.
Sixties hits used in commercials are nothing new. The Kinks’ “All Day and All of the Night” provided the soundtrack for a recent Yoplait commercial, as did The Spencer Davis Group’s “Gimme Some Lovin’” for Activia, and The Zombies’ “She’s Not There” for Coco Chanel. But obscure songs have been cropping up with more frequency throughout the media: The Kinks’ “I’m Not Like Everybody Else” in an Acura commercial; The Yardbirds’ “Glimpses” in Amazon’s Transparent, The Zombies’ “Can’t Nobody Love You” in HBO’s Girls and “This Will Be Our Year” in Mad Men; and The Creation’s “Making Time” (revived in Wes Anderson’s Rushmore) in commercials for Depends and Best Buy. The less obscure Cream’s “I Feel Free” was featured over the opening scenes of Joy and The Animals’ “Boom Boom” over the closing credits of HBO’s The Brink. It’s all fine by me.
My Senior Year
1971–1972 Time Capsule
September
I’ve got a feeling twenty-one is going to be a good year, The Who sang on Tommy. In the rock opera they referred to the year 1921, but I took it as a theme for my twenty-first year. It wasn’t just that I could now vote or drink legally. I was transitioning into adulthood. Although I had a year left before graduating from UCLA, I was champing at the bit to make my way in the world.
On September 10 with the new school year weeks away, I was, unexpectedly, seated in a fourth-row box at the Hollywood Bowl on a beautiful summer’s evening eating a fried chicken dinner. I couldn’t believe how good I felt. Paul Rappaport had invited me to join him and his boss, Bill Shaler, for the evening’s concert by jazz-rock band Chicago. I didn’t own any of their three albums, but close up, Chicago’s musicianship and repertoire won me over.
I had met Paul at the Daily Bruin office the previous year when he stopped by to introduce himself as the college rep promoting Columbia Records product. Sporting an Afro hairstyle, Paul could have passed for the fourth member of The Jimi Hendrix Experience. He thought of himself as a blues guitarist, but he wised up in time to realize that a full-time gig working for Columbia wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
We became friendly, and toward the end of the spring quarter I asked Paul if I could succeed him. As he was graduating, he had already promised the job to someone else. I should have asked him earlier. When his friend changed his mind, though, Paul called and I accepted.
Writing about rock music, I got a glimpse of the people who worked at record companies and came to realize that I wanted to work at a record company after I graduated. Being a college rep was a good stepping-stone, and I looked forward to the year.
September was a big month for me as a writer. In addition to a handful of record reviews, I had two major magazine pieces. My second article published in Rolling Stone was a feature on singer Howard Kaylan, who transitioned from The Turtles to The Mothers of Invention. Howard was funny, opinionated, and scintillating. I even received a congratulatory comment from Rolling Stone publisher Jann Wenner on my pay stub. Coast Magazine ran my comprehensive feature on The Monkees.
The Conception Corporation was a four-man comedy group. Two were alumni of Second City in Chicago. I interviewed them for a feature I wrote titled “The New Comedy” for Rock Magazine. (I had also interviewed George Carlin and Cheech and Chong for the article.) The Conception Corporation’s first album, A Pause in the Disaster, had been released on Atlantic Records’ subsidiary Cotillion, but hadn’t sold much. I loved it, especially the tracks “Black for a Day” (a take off on the radio/TV show Que
en for a Day) and the soap opera spoof “The Love of Grass,” which concluded with a drug bust in a leather shop. The album was funny, imaginative, and well produced. I visited them at Wally Heider Recording in Hollywood as they worked on their second album.
Fellow Bruin writer Heather Harris and I went to a screening in Beverly Hills of the new Frank Zappa movie 200 Motels. As a fan of Zappa’s, I was looking forward to it, and to seeing the current Mothers of Invention/ex-Turtles Howard Kaylan and Mark Volman in their acting debuts. There was a clear theme that “touring can make you crazy,” but little that held it together: it lacked dramatic structure, an ending, and had too many self-indulgent scenes. Ringo Starr, as Larry the Dwarf, portrayed Zappa; Keith Moon, in drag, played a nun; and original Mothers drummer Jimmy Carl Black sang a song that provided one of the few high points.
On the fourteenth, I saw Bill Withers on a bill with Cheech and Chong at the Troubadour. Withers’ current single, “Ain’t No Sunshine,” was a big hit. At thirty-three he was older than most up-and-coming performers, and had recently quit his job installing seats in airplanes. He assumed the role of a guitar-strumming, urban folk singer. He was a confident, engaging storyteller, and his voice had a rich tone. Cheech and Chong, whose debut album had just been released, billed themselves as countercultural comedians. Their act was far from polished, but funny. Among the few comedians who embraced the new drug culture, their Latino and musical references added to their uniqueness. When I interviewed them they gave me ceramic roach clips with their images on the handles. Given their flaunting of the drug culture, I was amused to learn that Cheech’s (Richard Marin) father was a policeman for the LAPD.
My British Invasion Page 2