My British Invasion

by Harold Bronson

  Ozzy was a willing and engaging conversationalist. Considering Black Sabbath’s droning sound and the dark imagery of their lyrics—most supplied by bassist Geezer Butler—I was surprised when Ozzy said that his favorite rock group was The Beatles. As a teen, he pasted pictures of them all over the walls of his room, and fantasized that his sister would marry Paul McCartney. When he heard the heavy guitar sound of The Kinks’ “You Really Got Me,” he said it was a revelation to him.

  In talking with fans, drummer Bill Ward heard them describe the band’s music as “downer rock,” which referred not only to the overall bleak effect, but sedative drugs, such as Seconal, which were commonly consumed by kids—and called “downers.” The group’s instrumentation matched lyrics that were negatively expressed, drawing upon the occult, Satan, and the supernatural. The instrumental styles of Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, and Deep Purple, defined by loud, sustained, and grinding guitar chords, came to be referred to as heavy metal. The term was most likely adopted from Steppenwolf’s 1968 hit “Born to Be Wild.” The lyric heavy metal thunder referred to the roar of a motorcycle.

  Ozzy understood the positive, therapeutic effect of fans leaving the band’s concerts feeling relieved of their frustrations. I hadn’t thought that a band with a gloomy outlook could make listeners happy. The album Black Sabbath was recording had references to Lucifer, nightmares, witchcraft, and the supernatural. It was more melodic than their three previous albums, Ozzy assured me, and he invited me to the studio that evening to hear what they were doing.

  They were recording at the Record Plant on Third Street. Studio B looked more like an avant-garde artist’s living room than a recording studio. A smoke-burned American flag hung on one wall. Parachutes were draped on the opposite wall. The room as a whole was composed of gentle combinations of orange and red, including tie-dyed baffles surrounding the drums.

  “For the best coke, just ring 3-8-9-0-9-8, only one hundred dollars!” exclaimed Ozzy as he grinned stupidly from behind a microphone. “I’m so stoned,” he moaned while gesturing like Frank Sinatra.

  “Look at ’em,” Geezer referred to the way the earphones squeezed Ozzy’s brassy head. “He looks like he’s in the Guards.” Ozzy took out a hardbound book with hand-written lyrics to the song “Snowblind” and commenced chanting in his customarily determined Sabbath style. The other members joked that Ozzy was so wasted he couldn’t remember the lyrics and had to resort to reading them from the book. Ozzy had written them, inspired by cocaine and a nightmare of Butler’s. His voice was flat—although he didn’t seem to notice—and the track had to be recorded again until he got it right. The first verse was finished and Ozzy sang again, matching the first take in order to give the (double-tracked) vocal more strength. He had trouble singing the next verse and the band agreed to take a break. The other members were low-key. Drummer Bill Ward was the friendliest. Tony Iommi impressed us as he tried different lead guitar runs—rather than merely a variation of one mode—until he came up with the one they used on the track. Because Ozzy was so wasted, probably due more to alcohol than any other substance, the group didn’t want my friend Todd Schneider to take any photographs.

  On Saturday, June 10, The Winos made their debut at the Daily Bruin party. We set up in a narrow space inside the family home of Heidi Yorkshire—Bruin editor David Lees’ fiancée—on Tower Road in Beverly Hills. I was nervous, and my adrenaline surged, but we delivered a passable set.

  I was excited about getting my degree, but I had no interest in attending graduation. For a school so large, I would have known few people. My parents didn’t seem interested in attending the ceremony either.

  I was a big Rolling Stones’ fan and anticipated every album they released, but I had a hard time coming to grips with their latest, Exile On Main Street. Too few tracks were of a high standard. I was tired of “Tumbling Dice” because of its constant presence on the Whisky’s sound system. “Happy” would have been so much better if sung by someone other than Keith Richards. The “songs” seemed more like uninspired jams, and the sound was muddy. Not having a playable Rolling Stones’ album didn’t portend well for the summer. Still, when Michael Warner and I attended their Sunday concert at The Forum on June 11, I had a good time. Our seats were next to the sound mixer, which meant that we were in the perfect place for good sound, in an arena that was built for basketball and not acoustically suited to music. The band performed with a lot of energy, and I didn’t mind that the Exile songs didn’t hold up compositionally.

  On June 21 Mark and I went to the Whisky to see The Strawbs. Jim Bickhart had turned us onto the group when he worked at A&M, and we became fans. They had evolved out of the English folk scene, originally as The Strawberry Hill Boys, but adopted more of an electric rock sound that incorporated ominous, medieval influences by way of the organ—played by Blue Weaver after Rick Wakeman left to join Yes—and droning, monk-like choral vocals. Dave Cousins was a strong singer, and he also contributed the folk-like dulcimer. The cover of their new album, Grave New World, carried the motif with woodcut illustrations.

  On Friday afternoon, June 23, I went to Gibson and Stromberg to pick up tickets for Jethro Tull’s concert that evening at The Forum. As I waited for Mark to meet me, I chatted with Bob Gibson. Because I had just graduated, he recommended I go to law school. He reasoned that there were few lawyers who were savvy in the music business, and, as it was a growing field, there would be opportunities for a music fan like me. I thought it was good advice, but hoped to get a job in a creative area, working for a record company.

  Mark arrived, and as Bobbi Cowan was giving us the tickets, she asked if we minded giving a ride to “a young writer.” Bobbi had provided the tickets, so how could we not do her a favor? For most of the trip, Danny Sugerman was sedate, but at some point the drugs he had taken must have kicked in. Like a dog that relished the wind whipping through its face, Danny leaned his head out the window and howled, “Aauugghhh!” After we entered The Forum, at the top of the steps, Danny yanked off his shirt, unleashed an “aauugghhh!” and ran all the way down to the floor.

  I had interviewed the members of British rock sextet Heads Hands & Feet—whose members included Albert Lee, Chas Hodges, and Tony Colton—around the pool at the Continental Hyatt House. They opened the show with a set of country rock, but the crowd barely paid attention. Before Jethro Tull was due to start, a gorilla (most likely a man in a suit) jumped around on the stage, followed by a handful of stagehands wearing caps and overcoats. When they finished adjusting the equipment, they removed their overcoats to reveal that they were not roadies but members of Jethro Tull. The group played well, featuring their new album Thick As A Brick. Lead singer/flautist Ian Anderson, atypically, looked more like an old man than a youthful rock star. Rather than combating his looks, he pushed in the other direction by assuming the persona of a deranged homeless man: his wiry hair bristled, and he wore what appeared to be a bathrobe over a leotard. Despite the seriousness of their music, the group injected physical humor by changing their clothes on stage, adorning animal costumes, and chasing each other in the manner of The Marx Brothers. They encored with “Aqualung,” a fitting end to an excellent show.

  During my time as a college rep, it would not have been proper for me to have written stories or reviews of CBS acts. With the job over, I wanted to write an article on Paul Revere & the Raiders. I interviewed Mark Lindsay and Paul Revere in a recording studio at CBS, on June 28, the day after a performance on Disneyland’s Tomorrowland Stage. They were open and patient in responding to my fumbling, Columbo-like probing. I sensed a conflict of art versus commerce. Revere was more focused on the presentation of the live act and the economics of touring and Lindsay was more involved in the production and songwriting.

  In the first few years, Revere, Lindsay, and the band had worked incredibly well. Paul the hustler, four years older than Mark, was like an older brother. Although Mark matured into a confident front man
with matinée idol looks, at his core he was a gangly, bespectacled shy kid who hid behind his saxophone. Initially they had an outrageous, at-times-“gross” live act that attracted a fervent college-age crowd. When they became TV stars, they had to change to appeal to their new, younger teenage fans. Later still, as they and their audience matured, they had to retool again, and questioned whether the tour could accommodate their props, or whether they had to tone down their showmanship, as in the recent appearances I’d seen at Knott’s Berry Farm and Disneyland.

  At some point they lost their way. Mark wanted to go in the direction of The Beatles and other acts that had opened the door to artistic expression. But Paul was a blues and boogie-woogie piano stylist unmotivated to explore. Paul was pragmatic, feeling the band was better off touring than spending the increased amount of time recording that was now required. Consequently, session musicians were used. This was partly why the other three members left in the spring of 1967, to form their own band. Their popularity as Raiders didn’t survive the transition, and their new band, Brotherhood, was a commercial flop.

  As Paul receded musically, the band’s producer, Terry Melcher, stepped up to partner creatively with Mark. But after Terry left, Mark was cast adrift, having to bear the burden of pushing for the highest quality The Raiders could muster. The new lineup fared less well on the charts, but had a reprieve with “Indian Reservation,” which was recorded to be a Mark Lindsay solo release. It hit number one—the “group’s” only chart-topper—in the spring of 1971. As a solo artist, Mark Lindsay had a Top 10 hit in January 1970 with “Arizona,” but his subsequent efforts failed to make the Top 20.

  On the turntable: David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, Randy Newman’s Sail Away, History of Eric Clapton.

  July

  On July 3, Procol Harum performed a terrific set at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, where I had last seen them in March. They featured songs from their new album, recorded with the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra. It was their best-selling album, and spawned the hit single “Conquistador.” The Eagles preceded them, in their first local appearance. Their harmonies were impressive, but their songs were just OK. After the show I went to a party held for them at a house on the beach. People weren’t that sociable, so I didn’t stay long.

  I was curious to see Ramatam, who played the Whisky on July 19. I had loved Mitch Mitchell’s drumming as a member of The Jimi Hendrix Experience, but here he was less engaging. April Lawton, a beautiful guitarist, fronted the band, but her visual appeal wasn’t enough to make up for the mediocre songs and arrangements. Also on guitar and vocals, Mike Pinera, whom I’d interviewed two years before when he was in Iron Butterfly.

  As school had ended, we relocated our Winos rehearsals to the Lampl family garage in Westwood. On a couple of occasions we checked out the bands at Gazarri’s nightclub on the Sunset Strip.

  On Saturday, July 15, The Winos played a party in the backyard of Shelly and Nikki Heber’s house on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. For the special occasion I sprung for fireworks—just like The Who—but they failed to have the desired affect. The Roman Candle was positioned too close to Rob’s drum kit, which meant that sparks flew no higher than the inside of his snare drum. John Mendelsohn, my original editor at the Daily Bruin, came to check us out, though I don’t think he had been invited. We played much better than at the Bruin party. Afterward, as a special treat, I set up a projector and showed 8mm films—without sound—of The Beatles performing that I’d borrowed from Atlantic Records’ publicist Pete Senoff. As I was setting up, I noticed Mark departing with his girlfriend. It bothered me that he didn’t stick around for the camaraderie, and that he didn’t say goodbye. It was a fun night.

  Here’s our summer set list:

  “I Can’t Explain” (The Who)

  “You Really Got Me” (The Kinks)

  “Love Potion Number Nine” (our heavy arrangement of

  The Searchers’ hit)

  “Nose Job” (first Winos’ single)

  “Just Like Me” (Paul Revere & the Raiders)

  “Glad All Over” (The Dave Clark Five)

  “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” (Manfred Mann)

  “The Last Time” (The Rolling Stones)

  “Train Kept A-Rollin’” (The Yardbirds)

  “Down the Road Apiece” (The Rolling Stones)

  “Communication Breakdown” (Led Zeppelin)

  “Street Baby” (second Winos’ single)

  On July 23, Alice Cooper played the Hollywood Bowl. Theatrically, it was the most amazing show I’ve ever seen. DJ Wolfman Jack came out to introduce the evening, riding on a camel, surrounded by a harem of six dancing girls. Doves were set free when the band hit the stage. During “Gutter Cat vs. the Jets”—a song that started out like The Stones, then transitioned into the Jets’ song from West Side Story—the group chased each other on stage as though they were in a gang fight. It concluded when Alice was hung from the gallows, an effective stage piece that debuted on the previous year’s Killer album tour. To show he was OK, Alice reemerged in white top hat and tails. The show ended with fireworks, bellowing smoke, floating bubbles, and what appeared to be confetti dropped from a helicopter, but were girls’ paper panties like the ones packaged with the album. Because of the band’s lackluster performance and the many negligible tunes from their new School’s Out album—which wasn’t as good as their previous two LPs—the show was more entertaining than musically engrossing. The School’s Out album jacket is one of the best I’ve seen. It unfolds into an old-time school desk with initials of the band members carved into the wood. The vinyl record is wrapped in a pair of pink-paper, girl’s panties. Truly inspired!

  I discovered a sleepy record store on Market Street in Inglewood. Inglewood Music had an impressive stock of 45s, including years-old flops still in the bins. I bought singles I’d only read about (and hadn’t heard): “Call My Name,” “Don’t Start Crying Now” (Them), and “She’s Coming Home” (The Zombies) among them. As I thought the owner would recognize me as a regular customer, I asked him for a job. I imagined it would be fun to work in a record store, at least until I could secure a record label position. The store never seemed to be busy, so I wasn’t surprised when he turned me down.

  On the turntable: Cheech and Chong’s Big Bambu, The Strawbs’ Grave New World, Mark Volman & Howard Kaylan’s Phlorescent Leech & Eddie, Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits, Stories, Spring.

  August

  The new issue of Phonograph Record Magazine came out. Among the photos on the inside cover was one of me visiting with Procol Harum backstage at the previous month’s concert.

  Bob Emmer and I had become friends, even though he’d not fulfilled his promise to buy me a new pair of socks. We went to Ledbetter’s on Westwood Boulevard a few times. Originally a folk music club, it had turned into a pickup bar with a pool table and cheap pitchers of beer. Contemporary, up-tempo music blared: Santana, Buddy Miles, Creedence, etc. Once we met beforehand at Bob’s apartment. He had a waterbed.

  August turned out to be a good month for music. I went with Bill Pique and his friends to see The Allman Brothers at the Hollywood Bowl (August 6). I’d first seen the group in January 1970 at the Whisky. There wasn’t much of a buzz on them—the club was half-filled—but I was riveted by Duane Allman’s guitar proficiency. At the Bowl they performed well, but suffered from Duane’s absence. He’d died in a motorcycle accident the previous October.

  Guitarist Peter Banks left Yes to form Flash, which sounded like a rocked-up version of his former group at their Whisky debut (August 16). The Guess Who (August 2) and The Kinks (August 29) turned in good shows at the Santa Monica Civic.

  The Faces played a sloppy set at the Hollywood Bowl (August 25), owing, no doubt, to the onstage bar setup which included a bartender who dispensed drinks to the band throughout. I found out later that keyboardist Ian McLagan had filled the white carn
ation he was wearing as part of his tuxedo ensemble with cocaine to sniff during the evening. The group’s pacing was off and the performance was merely routine, but the evening was a lot of fun. A young woman threw one of her high-heel pumps onto the stage. Rod Stewart retrieved it, and it looked like he was going to throw it back. He then sauntered over to the bar and had the bartender fill the shoe with Blue Nun. He held the shoe aloft in a toast and the crowd cheered. He then drank the wine and heaved the shoe back into the crowd, to riotous applause. During the encore, he kicked soccer balls into the audience.

  The Winos performed at this year’s Behemoth Festival (August 4). The highlight for me was seeing Jerry Mathers (Beaver from the Leave It to Beaver TV show of the fifties and sixties) dancing during our set. Jerry’s younger, attractive sister, Suzanne, was Heather’s roommate. Shelly Heber had us back, on the next night, but to fewer people.

  At one of our recent outings for crepes, I asked Paul about the possibility of Columbia signing the band. He shrugged it off, saying that Columbia was interested only in bands like Santana and Chicago. At the time, few clubs would have considered booking a band like ours. The Whisky and Troubadour, for example, favored acts signed to record companies, requiring the label to subsidize the box office by purchasing tickets for executives, writers, radio programmers, and store buyers.

  It was obvious that the 1960s-inspired style of The Winos was out of favor. Look at a then-current Top 10 in Billboard: (1) “Song Sung Blue” by Neil Diamond; (2) “Candy Man” by Sammy Davis Jr.; (3) “Outa-Space” by Billy Preston; (4) “Lean On Me” by Bill Withers; (5) “Too Late to Turn Back Now” by Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose; (6) “Troglodyte (Cave Man)” by Jimmy Castor Bunch; (7) “Nice to Be With You” by Gallery; (8) “Rocket Man” by Elton John; (9) “I Need You” by America; (10) “Daddy, Don’t You Walk So Fast” by Wayne Newton. How many of these would you say are rock records?