Sam Wilson--- Green Gates

For an album made mainly because Sam Wilson did not want to leave the handful of songs he had ready in the dust, Green Gates is an astonishing accomplishment. Normally plucking guitar for Charlottesville's up and coming Sons of Bill, Peyton Tochterman's High Society and the back-in-the-game (and about time) Shannon Worrell, he sidesteps into a world inhabited by bandmates Brian Chenault, Wells Hanley, Brian Caputo and Darrell Muller to unload eleven outstanding originals worthy of two of the best of the 'lost' late sixties and early seventies bands, unusual in their composition and produced to perfection. The bands of which I speak are Byzantium, a UK group who produced a stunning album picked up by Warner Brothers Records in the States and quickly buried by the apathy of radio (The second LP was released on A&M in the UK and was not picked up in the States, possibly due to the round of silence surrounding the WB album), and Chicago's much respected Illinois Speed Press. Despite the lack of success of both bands (Illinois Speed Press did sell, but not in the numbers Columbia Records had hoped), they were on the whole critically well received and worthy of a much better fate, but such is the music biz, and today the LPs command a hefty price at auction. Those bands also produced musicians of note, by the way, Byzantium's Chaz Jankel releasing a fairly successful album for A&M a few years later, and ISP's Kal David and Paul Cotton having extended careers, David with The Fabulous Rhinestones and others, Cotton with Poco and then solo.

Fortunately and unfortunately, the ghost of Illinois Speed Press appears only on the title track, “Green Gates,” but what a ghost it is, and totally unintentional, according to Wilson. He swears he has never heard ISP, but you cannot mistake the dueling lead guitars of Wilson and Brian Chenault a la David and Cotton on ISP's “P.N.S. (When You Come Around)” off of ISP's first album. The light and floating riffs of one are superb contrast to the brassy and more forceful riffs of the other--- pure guitar magic. Make no mistake, though. “Green Gates” stands on its own and the guitars just make it that much better.

The other ten tracks live in that netherworld which makes Wilson's musical vision so fascinating, the voices instruments in an ensemble of keyboards and guitars bowing to production. Wilson could have easily forced the issue, layering tracks into oblivion, but he somehow found a true balance between tape loops, synthesizers, reverb and tremolo and came out of the tunnel with dreamlike scenarios which effortlessly carry you away. In the seventies, we usually waited until late evening or very early morning to put Byzantium on the turntable, when we were more receptive to the whole other side of the music--- the subconscious, if you will. Wilson and crew have musically recreated the era without even realizing it, I am sure, even the rockers having that smooth progressive psych edge to them, almost Moody Blues-like, but better.

No doubt, a major label or two will perk their ears up at this. I fervently hope that Sam Wilson turns a deaf ear for awhile, at least, because throwing money at music many times destroys it and Green Gates is the start of what could easily be an outstanding beginning to a major, major musical career.

Albums like this are the real treasures in today's world of music. Each hearing produces not only highs but surprises, for there are gems hidden beneath the glimmering surface which take effort to uncover. It is adventure and any time you put music and adventure together, you have a winner. Miss this at your peril.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

TICKTOCKMAN--- tick...tock...tick...tock

Goddamn, but I love some energetic and powerful music sometimes if only to offset this acoustic rut the world seems to have fallen into. I remember when the “unplugged” craze hit and I remember cursing the musical gods with epithets which mostly contained the phrase, “If God had wanted us to listen to acoustic music all the time, he would not have invented electric guitar and amplifiers!” And I meant it. I mean, a lot of the bands which gave up stacks of Marshalls to sit on stools or folding chairs barely made it behind the wall of sound the amps created. Acoustically, their warts grew to sci-fi proportions, the music barely passable if that. Nope, give me electric most of the time and give it to me in mountainous proportions. I want time changes and power and a voice to string it together. I want rhythms which force you to listen or leave--- that's right, I don't want the unadventurous invading my space. Wait! That's it! Headslap! I want adventure!

And there are few bands out there as adventurous as Ticktockman. These guys are like anemones. Ideas fall onto them and they digest them and somehow come up with culinary delights for the ears way beyond most of the tripe passing for music these days. Dare I call them progressive? What does that mean anymore? Hard rock? They definitely have a hard edge but they don't play hard rock, at least not the three chord blast-em-out version many of us accept as such. Grunge? I still haven't quite figured out what that is, perhaps because I had lived through a couple of decades of rock metamorphoses before it came along.

I can tell you this. They are powerful. They are tight--- asshole-tight, as my old drill sergeant used to say. They are adventurous, grabbing influences wherever and whenever it strikes their fancy. You don't hear jazzy guitar solos in the midst of tracks like “Scavenger! Move Along!” without a sense of adventure.

I can point out bands which also have that sense of adventure: Captain Beyond, King's X, Living Colour, and that's only three, although three of my all-time favorites. I'm sure there are others, though at the present I am amped up on caffeine and don't really care. What I care about is getting the word out about Ticktockman. You should hear these guys, if only to give you fodder for your next “Trash the Gutchman” rant. If only to prove me right or wrong. If only to, in the best case scenario, find a band to set you back on your heels.

Musicians! There are a handful of bands out there you should be hearing! Bands which are a step above, both musically and rhythmically. These guys are one. Pick your instrument (and I don't mean the fleugelhorn) and get set to be schooled. These guys are that good!

Words aren't enough? Good news! You can stream them here!

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Iron Bridge Band--- Against the Grain

Holy crap! Mainstream rock is not dead! Not even close. I know this because I stumbled upon The Iron Bridge Band--- actually, it was foisted upon me but I really don't care. I won't write about music I don't like but here I am writing about these guys so it should tell you something--- either I am a shill for a mega-corporation or I've heard something worth hearing. One look at my bank account should tell you it is not the former.

So where the hell has the IBB been? New Jersey. I would say strangely or oddly but New Jersey has been cranking out rockers for decades. Okay, I can't name anyone besides Springsteen and The Grip Weeds, but they are two of the big success stories right there--- one financially and the other artistically (and they probably are able to pay their bills as well). I would certainly not be surprised that half of the bands claimed by New York were originally from New Jersey too. New York is like a sponge or the 1950s Soviet Union, who was always claiming that they created God and everything else from that point on.

Well, IBB claims NJ home and I'm not disputing it. No, sirree. I'm not disputing anything these guys are dipping their wicks into. No reason to. Not only are they mainstream they are big sound mainstream, what many would claim as Big Hair mainstream. I have no idea, having never seen a picture of the band, but the big sound is impressive.

There is a bit of the loud bands of the late-seventies and early-eighties in them, guitars upfront and personal and the vocals right in front of them. Lead vocal chores are courtesy of one Chandler Mogel and he could easily sing back-to-back with vocalists from the likes of Winger or Zebra or even Cinderella or Van Halen. He is pushed hard by the guitars of Stephen Jude Walsh and bass and drums of Lanie Suky and Scott Suky, respectively. Add percussion and voice of Amy Anderson and we have a winner.

One thing that can be said about really good mainstream rock is that it can be anthemic, the kind of music which will have the dinosaurs reaching for their Bic lighters. When they rock, they rock, but when they want to make a point.....

What can I say? All the words in the world will not tell you accurately what they sound like. Check out their YouTube channel for more.

Hey, the seventies were a good time if you discount disco. Take a chance.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

What Is It?--- Punk Rock in SoCal, 1977-83

(Disclaimer--- this was posted a number of years ago on a website which used a variety of apps which are not available here, thus the comments about the font.)

Like the guys on this album would rip me a new one for using that fancy font, eh? Probably not because the musicians who made up a large part of the punk scene in Los Angeles in those days have moved on and, hell, it was a music scene, fer Chrissakes, and not an all-out war with the establishment like the record companies would have had you believe. Sure, there was angst and tension and even anger now and again. Welcome to Youthville! The only reason the young hippies were so mellow was that they were stoned all the time! Take away that nefarious weed and they could well have ended up spitting on sidewalks, each other and, worse, you!

I look back to those days and almost laugh. I say 'almost' because as crazed as some of these musicians thought they were, they were part of a small piece of music history which was luckily captured by Chris Ashford at What Records. Born and raised on surf and pop, Chris one day found himself surrounded by friends with spiked hair and safety pin piercings and, in pure self defense (he claims), he acquiesced. Well, not completely, because he refused to pierce anything, shall we say, too personal and his curly blond hair, no matter what he did with it, remained curly and blond. Know what? It may well have been wavy and blond. But I'm getting off the point here. Point is, he was there and so were they and damned if he didn't end up recording some of the bands being ignored by the established music interests and pretty soon here was a single and there was a single and eventually a compilation album and voila! What Is It?

This isn't the first time most of these tracks have been on LP. Most were there when the first compilation was released on, amazingly enough, What Records (this one is on Wondercap), but Ashford decided to blow the dust off of two tracks heretofore buried in his vaults (a handful of cardboard boxes stashed toward the back of a closet, a constant bone of contention between him and his girlfriend) and put two previously unreleased tracks on this one, those being by The Spastics. For the first time anywhere, the world is exposed to their recorded music (I'm a Spaz/Fuck the World and Baby, You String Me Up/Your Head Exploding) and might not be all the better for it. The Spastics, even supported by the future David Baerwald (David and David, Sheryl Crow), were not exactly crowd favorites wherever they played and, like the liner notes say, they “had the fire extinguisher turned on them during their swansong performance” at The Masque. An aside: The author of those liner notes is working on finishing up a book about those early punk days tentatively titled Destroy All Music.

You get the picture then, right? Throw in all of the standards of the time, though many would argue the term, and you have a history of oddball punk with tracks by The Germs (Forming and 'Round and 'Round), San Diego transplants The Dils (I Hate the Rich),The Eyes (Don't Talk To Me), The Skulls (On Target), The Controllers (Killer Queers), Kaos (Top Secret), and Agent Orange(Out of Limits). Hell of a lineup and including future names like DJ Bonebrake, the aforementioned David Baerwald, Johnny Stingray, Charlotte Caffey, and Darby Crash, among others.

Watch out, though. Though the young punks have mellowed and even burned out, the music is as brash as ever. If you were there, you will undoubtedly want to turn this up and recreate some of those adrenal rushes you experienced listening to the bands or the records in the old days. If you weren't, chances are you will want to turn it up anyway. There is something about these punks that doesn't sound quite right when played at a low volume and, hell, that would be defeating the purpose of this music in the first place. So turn it up, my friends, and be thankful that there is a Chris Ashford out there watching over your music. And if you don't agree, there are fire extinguishers everywhere. Chris will be that old surfer dude with the long curly (or wavy) brown hair. Tell him Frank sent you.

By the way, What Is It is available for download or will be eventually and the 10-inch vinyl record is ready for shipping from Wondercap Records. If you visit, check out the other releases, including a fine rock/jazz album by DJ Bonebrake Trio. The drummer for X playing vibraphones? Very cool. And doing one hell of a job on them, too.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

The Mike Farley Band--- Where We Stand

I've been having flashbacks. I walk down the street and see old girlfriends, old cars, beer signs which haven't existed for decades (Oh, Heidelberg, what happened to you?). I think about what life was like before the Internet and at certain moments really wish that we could go back and change things. I find myself closing my eyes to so many things which are part of the everyday now and shuddering to think how far we have come. The thing is, it has come with a cost. A billion people knowing the answer to everything but not knowing much of anything at all. A million sure that their way is the way. A hundred thousand who are sure that there is no good music anymore and have stopped looking. A hundred, if that many, who know music is better than ever but have no one to tell because the hundred thousand who claim interest have stopped listening. I get tired.

And then along comes an album which drops into your lap and gives you hope and, yes, that hope is in the past because those times were simpler and not as intense and more human. The album of which I speak is The Mike Farley Band's Where We Stand and don't be surprised if you don't know of it. In this time of information overload I am surprised that we know as much as we do. But it is there and it has made its way into my ears and my psyche and I find myself listening to it on an escalating scale--- to enjoy, to escape.

Lately my escapes have come through music values revisited, mostly those of the early seventies. I have been drawn to the past as much as those hundreds of thousands have refused to leave theirs, preferring the constant drone of the “classics” to anything new or exciting. My past did include Led Zeppelin and The Rolling Stones and, yes, The Beatles, but I have heard those ad nauseum and have turned toward others--- the lesser-knowns, shall we say. The music going through my head is that of early Sons of Champlin and The Damnation of Adam Blessing and Illinois Speed Press, not because they are cool, like others who have found them or carried them into their present, but because the music was (and is) good. Paul Cotton-era Poco. The Atlantics. Greg Kihn.

A couple of years ago I added Lost Leaders to the mix because of the small details in their music, naming it Album of the Year for 2014 and ready to defend it against all-comers, though no one seemed to notice. And this year, there is The Mike Farley Band.

I have known Farley for awhile now but not as a musician. As much as we have talked music, his personal involvement just never came up. And he has a band. Sonofabitch, and I mean that in a music manner. Who knew?

Turns out it's a damn good band, in fact, and though I was ready to give them a chance, it took a few listens. Mainstream rock is a strange animal and I have dismissed albums before which became real favorites over the years. The first hint of quality was Back To Before, a light poppish tune which had just enough Greg Kihn to make me take notice. Listen two uncovered my now-favorite track, Subtle No More, which could have easily been a hit in 1972 or 1973, the verse building toward the chorus which stuck in my mind and wouldn't go away. Rewrite History came next, an upbeat but smooth rocker, then Helpless and so on and so forth.

They are good songs. Solid songs. But what makes them better than good is the attention to detail--- the way they were recorded. Listen closely and you can hear the organ on this song and the smooth electric rhythm on that song and the lead guitar, which could have been recorded by the master of the studios back in the seventies, Dean Parks. Guitarist Jeff Nagel will appreciate the comment. Parks was (and hopefully still is) a master.

The one negative about the album is not a negative at all. Reading the track listing, one song stuck out: Evil Woman. My heart beat a little faster when I envisioned maybe a slightly toned-down version of the Spooky Tooth classic. Could it be, I thought. No such luck, but the alternative was not all that bad--- it was a cover of the ELO song. The good thing is that I didn't mind it. Maybe if they had attempted the Spooky Tooth song, I would have. I will never know (unless they cover that one on the next album).

I'm listening to Subtle No More as I end this. It's the chorus. It has to be the chorus. Or maybe it's the guitar. Or the harmonies. But goddamn, I am beginning to really love the song. I knew it was making headway when I found myself in line at the grocery store and hearing it in my head and wondering who it was. It took a good half hour before Mike Farley popped into my head. Of course! He's in good company in there, lots of Nick Holmes and Brian Cullman and Lost Leaders and others taking up space. So much better than the days I worked retail and had Springsteen or The Rolling Stones bumping the much better indie songs out of my consciousness.  It's called brainwashing, kiddies.

Music is better than ever. Where We Stand proves it. It may not be the best album you will ever hear, but it's goddamn good and close enough.  

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini, out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades (talk about zombies). He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gratefully.)

Ric Todd--- Drawing Lines

Look out! Time warp! As soon as I slipped Ric Todd's Drawing Lines into the CD player it was suddenly the seventies all over again, only better. Those were good days for rock, my friends. Larry the K and I worked at Licorice Pizza in L.A. and San Diego and, man, we were digging the music! We would get shipments in, put on a rocker like, say, the first REO Speedwagon or a Scorpions album, and we would rock the store, bopping heads with an armful of records, heading from section to section restocking the bins. One time, we passed one another, each playing a stack of albums like air guitar, leaned back and played a dual lead together. As soon as the guitar break was over, we headed toward the racks, laughing.

K and I recently renewed our friendship after a few decades of little contact and I think we both realize how golden those days were. We loved the same music and when we didn't, we tried. We shared our music like people share air. It just came natural. So when I heard Todd's EP, I thought of the K. This is classic rock with roots not unlike that of Pat Travers and Lone Star and early Aerosmith. True, Todd does not look like the bands of that era (if I didn't know better, I would have expected Americana or standard singer/songwriter fare) but he sure as hell sounds like it. And it's only partially in the guitar.

Most of it is in the groove because that replaced the ol' hook when pop gave way to rock. Think Savoy Brown and Foghat and Climax Blues Band--- louder and softer. Upbeat, unplugged on one of the five tracks, the other four pure groovers. Like the opening track, Red Letter:

Got the idea? Hell of a track with lyrics right up there with Shakespeare and Longfellow (seriously, this is possibly what they would be writing if they lived today). Dig this:

I stand up/Heavy is the hand that's had enough/I stand up/Bury me in lies and cover me in flies/I stand up/Blacken out the sky with anger/I stand up (red letter)/You cannot control what I do not submit

You getting this? That's not all. There's a chorus:

A bird in flight to your quicksand/A hammer strike to your nail/To live a life that you can't have/Bend now I won't to your will

Man, them's lyrics, Skeezix! None of this rhyming love with dove or blue with you. This cat stands up! And it doesn't stop there. Check out the chorus on New Religion:

Because every time you put your hands on me/I find a new religion/And I just gotta get my hands up

Beats the hell out of the lyrics of those ol' rock ballads.

The band backs it up, too. Two guitars (probably one of the guitarists playing bass at times)--- Todd and Dale Heib. Drums and percussion courtesy of Casey Smith. And they come ready to rock! Todd handles the vocals and does a damn fine job, Heib nailing down the high harmonies. They even have a hint of Trower on End of My Rope.

Sad thing is, this may be my only chance to write about Todd and crew. I write only about the music I like and then only because they need a leg up.  By the time this album is available everywhere, everyone will get into it. He will no longer need me to help spread the word. It will spread on its own.

The dude is from Fargo, sports fans. The last musician I heard from Fargo was Lucy Black who put out a solo album right after Betty Does Veronica split up. You might have been watching the TV series. Now you can hear the music. Buy this EP. Consider it an investment in happy.

Frank O. Gutch Jr.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades. He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gracefully.)

The Fuzz--- Best Kept Secret

Ever drive and have a great song come on the radio or maybe have a CD in the player and you all of a sudden notice you're driving 20 miles over the speed limit? Happened to me tonight and I'm surprised I wasn't pulled over. What could I do if I was? Crank The Fuzz's new album up louder and let the music plead my case? I could have done it, especially if Loaded was the track playing when I rolled down the window. Or Wilt. Hey, officer, I lost it for a minute because of this rockin' tribute to Wilt Chamberlain's sex life. Here, let me turn it up for you. “He shoots, he scores.” Get it? What's that? Get out of the car and put my hands on the hood? Are you listening to this, man?

It would have been worth a ride to the police station, sports fans. The album started out normal but the more I heard it, the more I had to turn it up. By the time it got to Track 8, the aforementioned Loaded, I might as well have been. Loaded, that is. I was headbanging, for Chrissake, and I haven't done that for years! Got tired of the migraines, I guess. But there I was, hair a lot shorter and the head bobbing like a madman, screaming “I'm loaded... and I don't care...” and “I've wasted... all of my time... and I'm losing... most of my mind... and I... don't... care!!!!!!” and listening to this guitar solo which I swear to God is as close to Randy Bachman as I've ever heard--- Bachman at his best! Remember the solo on Guess Who's American Woman? Think that cranked up to 11 on a stack of Marshalls and you're almost there. In fact, I want to hear this through a stack of Marshalls cranked up to 11--- a big stack! In an arena! This is the kind of stuff I saw back in the late sixties when The Wailers took on The Sonics at the Albany Guard Armory. When Stray opened for Caravan at the Starwood in the mid-seventies. When Motorhead... wait. I've never seen Motorhead! See what this stuff does to me?

There is raw power here. Raw power! Play it low and you won't get it. This kind of music you have to crank up!!! Wild freaking take-no-prisoners, slashing guitar and vocals as raw as the guitars. Riffs! Noise! Pounding beat! It's all here. Again, though, crank it up!!!

  All tracks are good but rockers are going to really get off on opening track I Can't Wait, Wilt, The Stones-oriented Charley Horse, the demon speeder She Believes, Locked Out which reminds me a lot of many of the bands from the seventies New Wave movement, and Loaded, which starts out pure funk and turns wall-of-sound riff-heavy hard rock quickly, with an extended groove over which two guitars run rampant--- God, you gotta love them dual leads!!! Call the Cops ends the madness and it's just as well. My heart can only take so much exercise these days. Just ask my girlfriend. By the way, I don't have one. Just threw that in to see if you were paying attention.

Garage freaks, metalheads, Power-Poppers and speed freaks are going to love this album. Hell, I'm not any one of those except maybe a Power-Popper, and I love it, and the last time I looked in the mirror, I was an old man! Not as old as I had thought, I guess. If I am, this music makes me forget it for awhile. Ah, to have the Maxell sound system. This is the kind of stuff that makes your hair blow back. And, yes, I still have hair. But I probably won't have it too much longer. Not if I keep listening to these guys.

Available from Green Monkey Records.

Frank O. Gutch Jr.

(Frank Gutch Jr. writes and has written for numerous magazines and websites, presently including this blog, his own website and the prestigious Don't Believe A Word I Say site put together by musician and music pundit Bob Segarini out of Toronto. He specializes in the Indies, having fought hand-to-hand combat with major record labels for decades. He believes music should be the core of the music business, though business it mostly be, and denies the accepted reality in the stead of the artistic one. Seldom does he receive pay for articles and/or reviews and believes that there is no place for negatives in a world in which one cannot keep up with the positives. He is, in a sense, a lost soul in a sea of music, drowning, but drowning gracefully.)