On the Record: Eugene McDaniels - Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse (1971)

I first heard the name Eugene McDaniels in 2008 in relation to “The North Wind Blew South”, a cover of a Philamore Lincoln song, by Alela Diane’s side-project Headless Heroes.

Don’t worry, I realise there’s a lot of information crammed into that sentence, a lot of names, none of them household. One of the joys of being a music fan, especially in these days of the internet and Spotify, is that when you find an artist or a piece of music you love there are instant trails for you to follow, darting off in several directions, leading to other similar, interesting and wonderful things. Sure, some of the trails are dead-ends. But many go on for miles. Influences, contemporaries, rivals, genre originators, kindred spirits, sound-alikes. Shared members, labels, studios, home-towns, schedules, fans, managers, writers, producers, lovers. Sometimes it can feel like everyone and everything is connected.

This feeling of interconnectedness is undoubtedly exciting, but it can also be frustrating – no matter how good your intentions and how many names and titles you scribble down onto post-it notes, there are always gonna be paths that you fail to follow as far as you’d like. Some recommendations you just don’t quite get round to, some – the shame! – you forget about completely over time.

So, the see-sawing, sea-breeze strings of “The North Wind Blew South” lead me eagerly to the equally lovely Lincoln original and the relative starkness of Alela Diane’s solo folk LP, The Pirate’s Gospel, but, for whatever reason, I didn't investigate the intriguingly-titled album from which Headless Heroes had taken their name: Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse by Eugene McDaniels.

Must have got sidetracked…

I didn't think again about Eugene McDaniels until a few years later when listening to What It Is!, a peerless four-disk compilation charting the evolution of funk. Nestled in amongst the 91 funky hot grits on the collection was “Headless Heroes”, three and a half minutes of cool but agitated jazz-funk and striking lyrical imagery. “Jews and the Arabs…pawns in the Master Game, the player who controls the board sees them all as the same: basically cannon fodder”, run the opening lines; after 40-odd party tracks urging you to “rock me all night long” and “get on down” and countless (admittedly awesome) instrumentals, the words of “Headless Heroes” packed quite the punch. McDaniels calls for warring sides to stop and realise that "industry and war machines" are the real villains, "the Kings in the Master Game". “Better get it together and see what’s happening to you, and you, and you”, he insists, as an equally insistent guitar outro kicks in.

Eugene McDaniels was born in Kansas City, Kansas in 1935, sang gospel in church from a young age, and developed a love for jazz. He enjoyed some success in the early sixties,  writing and performing as Gene McDaniels.  Following the assassination of Martin Luther King in 1968, McDaniels – disillusioned with America – moved to Denmark then Sweden. He returned to the US a couple of years later, now "Eugene", and signed with Atlantic Records.

Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse, released in 1971, shares many traits with the Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield and Stevie Wonder records that came out at the beginning of the seventies: ambitious and conceptual, taking cues from the rock Album model; less emphasise on radio hits; an embracing of other genres; a move to more politically conscious material in the wake of the Civil Rights Movement and Vietnam.

Yet, Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse has an atmosphere all of its own - there's a eerie wooziness to it, especially on the slower tracks. Paranoia and despair runs throughout. The cover image of “The Left Rev. Mc D” screaming between two warring samurai couldn't be more apt. When the US Vice President Spiro Agnew complained about the album upon its release, I would imagine it was this "heavy" vibe that he objected to, as much as the lyrical content. It's also what, years later and the album long out of print, would intrigue record collectors and inspire the numerous hip-hop producers who'd sample the LP (when talking about musical paths, few are more paved with gold than those leading from late-80s, early-90s hip-hop records with their inspired, eclectic use of source material). That, and the fantastic playing, of course.

Ridiculously tight and accomplished, the assembled studio band (including members of jazz-fusioneers Weather Report) bring an incredible variety to the record. The jazz influence is to the fore on “Jagger The Dagger”, with a sleepy female co-vocal and an irresistible loping groove that's since been lifted by A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul and Gravediggaz among others. “Lovin Man”’s catchy pop chorus works its (Stevie) wonders.

“Susan Jane” is pretty much straight-up folk-rock, telling the tale of a “beautifully insane” girl, “barefoot in the muddy road”. The shuffling drumbeat, when it arrives, lends it a vibe similar to Little Feat or The Band. It’s a little light-weight when compared to the rest of the LP, but does offer some respite directly following the heavy “Master Game” and “get it together” warnings of “Headless Heroes”.

McDaniels sounds by turns pissed off, exasperated and bemused on “Supermarket Blues”, a terrific piece of jazz poetry in the vein of Gil Scott-Heron or Langston Hughes; his tale of everyday racism punctuated with exclamations of “God Daaaamn!”

Though he may never be considered one of the great soul Voices, McDaniel’s singing at the start of final track “The Parasite (For Buffy)” is really quite beautiful, reminiscent of Love’s Arthur Lee. The track begins at a stately pace, but the band’s backing gradually quickens and rises in time to McDaniels’ pulse and anger (“Just let justice go to HELL!” he yells, halfway through). Its jawdropping climax of deranged screams and fevered free-jazz (the sound of the Apocalypse?) is more Fun House Iggy & The Stooges than "good times" Kool & The Gang.

My vinyl copy was bought at Sounds Of The Universe for the bargain price of £8.99, while Fopp are currently selling the CD for a fiver as part of an Atlantic Japanese-import reissue series which also includes titles by Otis Redding, Booker T & The MGs and Aretha Franklin. Oh, and an album by Sam Dees called The Show Must Go On – I've been meaning to check that out for ages.

Relatively-Recent Classics #3: Super Furry Animals - Radiator (1997)

Here's a question: who's consistently produced the most inventive and - more importantly - most enjoyable music of the last 20 years?

Jack White immediately springs to mind (Elephant, "Icky Thump", "Steady As She Goes", the beautiful Van Lear Rose LP he made with Loretta Lynn, those live White Stripes performances), but then again does anybody seriously find themselves thinking "I HAVE to listen to that second Dead Weather album! RIGHT now!" or declaring "I can finally die happy!" after hearing the double A-side of Howling Wolf covers that White produced for human-boom-box Tom Jones a few years back? (If you've not had the pleasure, the backing on the two songs sound like that "Another Way To Die" Bond theme tune. But less expensive, and more overblown. With Big Tom bellowing over the top of them. No...me neither).

Much of what Ryan Adams has touched has turned to gold (including Gold) but, similar to Jack, he's perhaps been too prolific for his own good, spread himself a bit thin, especially on his more recent workman-like stuff with the Cardinals. Radiohead and Bjork have both created incredible, unpredictable, uncompromising work - music as art. Never less than fascinating, and when it's been more than that it's been OK Computer or Kid A or Homogenic or Vespertine. But is their art a joy to listen to? Not always. Fun? Very rarely.

Strong arguments could be made for either Damon Albarn or PJ Harvey, and it would be very difficult to disagree - both artists will no doubt feature on the blog at some stage. However, upon reflection, I think my vote would have to go to The Greatest Living Welshman©, Gruff Rhys.

As lead singer and head head-case of the Super Furry Animals, Rhys has released nine albums since 1996, exploring a brilliantly bonkers, brilliantly British blending of indie rock and psychedelia with electronic bleeps and blops. Not a dud amongst them. On top of this, he has released three fine solo albums (if you haven't already, be sure to check out this year's American Interior), recorded the terrific Stainless Style LP as part of Neon Neon, discovered and produced the delightful Cate Le Bon, and, as a guest vocalist, lent his dulcet tones and thick vowel sounds to tracks by acts as diverse as Simian Mobile Disco, Gorillaz and Mogwai.

Those that know and love Gruff really love him, and he's been a prominent figure and a massive influence on independent and alternative British music for over a decade. But in the wider pop music scene, his group are probably best known as that band who used to drive a tank round festival sites and count Rhys Ifans as a member. They remain criminally underrated (all of that's bound to change after this piece, of course).

I'm not sure if Radiator is the Super Furries' best album (many love their big-shot-at-the-big-time, multi-media extravaganza Rings Around The World; some think that they've never bettered their Fuzzy Logic debut; my mate Grant has always favoured Phantom Power), but - today at least - it's my favourite, and it's the one that, early in their career, laid down what they were about and pointed towards where they were going.

It's detailed, ambitious and full of studio trickery (the band making full use of producer Gorwel Owen's Atari computers and vintage synthesizers), but in no way polished or '"mature". Experimental yet accessible. It showcases the band's invention and sense of humour - wild wordplay and songs populated with lovable characters in surreal situations ("Hermann loves Pauline, and Pauline loves Hermann, they made love and gave birth to a little German").

And throughout there's Gruff Rhys and his effortless way with a skewed pop tune. "Torra Fy Ngwallyt Yn Hir" is so irresistible that the small matter of it being sung in Welsh doesn't get in the way of attempting to sing along; to paraphrase another track, Gruff speaks the international language of melody, loud and clear. The singles are all absolutely killer: "Hermann Loves Pauline", "Play It Cool" with its fuzz guitar and hand-claps, the plain gorgeous "Demons".

The final section of Radiator finds Super Furry Animals characteristically stretching out: "Download" dissolving into "Mountain People", one of their finest moments, a six-minute ode to their homeland which builds to a climax of crunching electronics and laser gun sound effects.

I reckon time will be kind to the SFA. I like to think of them as the closest thing my generation has to The Beach Boys, and, in my eyes, Gruff deserves a place alongside Brian Wilson in the sandpit of mind-bending pop masters.

Hot Dreams: the Best of 2014 so far

So we’re halfway (and a bit) through 2014, and it’s been really quite marvellous. Musically-speaking, at least. Perhaps a little low on Big culture-bothering statements (Daft Punk, Yeezus) or surprise releases (Bowie, My Bloody Valentine) compared to last year, but still more than enough weird, wonderful and walloping sounds to get the ears around and the teeth into.

Indeed, cruelly, there aren't enough hours in a year and pounds in my wallet to listen to and buy all of the terrific records which have emerged between January and July.

Below is a playlist of things that I have heard, bought and enjoyed: singles, teaser tracks, stand-out album cuts. It should work well as an introduction to my tastes and to the kind of delights I intend to feature and explore in future posts.

There’s a healthy dose of transporting psychedelia of which I'm very partial, by turns exploratory (Morgan Delt), heavy (Woodsman, Bo Ningen), lilting (Thievery Corporation) and cosmic (Damien Jurado). Modern takes on the soulful (Lee Fields, Fatima) and funky (Kelis, Ibibio Sound Machine) feature, as well as thrilling rock’n’roll in all its cocky, punk-y and drone-y forms (The Men, Eagulls, Pink Mountaintops).

Classic rock songwriting is represented by established artists including Beck, Gruff Rhys, Greg Ashley and Sharon Van Etten, as well as relative newcomers like Angel Olsen and Blueprint Blue. Pop pops up: wonky dance-pop (Metronomy, Little Dragon), parping prog-pop (St. Vincent, tUne-yArDs), the simple beautiful truthful pop that all-too-rarely disturbs the Top 40 (Wild Beasts, Future Islands, Pure X). On top of this, there are San Franciscan oddballs (Thee Oh Sees, Dylan Shearer), Pitchfork-approved electronic acts (Todd Terje, East India Youth), and a whole lot more.

One record arrived earlier this year so fully formed, perfectly paced and punch-the-air fantastic as to unite virtually my whole group of friends and threaten to cast a shadow over everything else...

Lost In The Dream by War On Drugs.

I ADORE Lost In The Dream. So much so that even though it was only released in March, I already consider it one of my all-time favourite LPs. So much so that I've named this blog after one of its finest moments: “An Ocean In Between The Waves”. And so much so that it made me ever-so-briefly reconsider my negative feelings towards Bruce Springsteen.

Lost In The Dream is gonna take some beating as my Album of 2014 then, but there are five months of new releases ahead (expectations are high for Caribou, Avi Buffalo, Colorama, Naomi Shelton, The Wytches, Ty Segall’s double LP, and – yes – even the Morrissey album) and a countless number already out there, just waiting to be discovered.

Dive in!

Relatively-Recent Classics #2: Supergrass - Road To Rouen (2005)

Supergrass – “the toothsome threesome”, as no one calls them – burst onto the scene in 1995 with their debut I Should Coco. They were exuberant, larger-than-life, cartoonish (it was both fitting and somewhat unnecessary that Jim Henson later turned them into Muppet-like characters in the “Pumping On Your Stereo” video), gurning at the camera, careering downhill in shopping trolleys, and getting nicked by the cops. A three-pronged power pop celebration of youth and its recklessness.
The album became the biggest-selling debut on the Parlophone label since a little-known band called The Beatles released Please, Please Me in 1963.

2005’s Road To Rouen – a nice pun and a nod to the city in northern France where the album was recorded – opens with “Tales Of Endurance Pts. 4, 5 & 6”.
You could read into it that Pts. 1,2 & 3 were the periods marked by the three LPs that followed Coco. Each album contained big anthems but failed to take Supergrass to the next level of an Oasis, Pulp or Blur. Attempts by the band to mature and evolve their sound weren't always warmly received or entirely successful: In It For The Money featured a Kinks-y approach to songwriting and grown-up hues of brown and purple organ, but wasn't a massive seller; Supergrass was more personal and experimented with mood, but was perhaps too sombre for its own good. Life On Other Planets seemed to be a reaction to this, Supergrass making the kind of record they thought Supergrass fans expected/wanted from Supergrass: two minute pop-punk tunes about UFOs, girls and getting pissed, with shout-along choruses and hyperactive bass, played at break-neck speed.
They had had to endure and had endured, but were, in many ways, back where they’d started, ten years on, in a much-changed pop landscape. Where to next?
You could read all that into the title of “Tales Of Endurance Pt. 4, 5 & 6”, but most probably it’s just a neat name for a Side One Track One.

Musically, “Tales” begins with an extended intro, a simple acoustic riff layered with rumbles, twangs and puffs of smoke creating a cool spaghetti western vibe. Horns rise and fall. A dreamy, rolling verse is halted by another choir of horns, before jagged electric guitars and yelping vocals charge in, taking the track to a strutting conclusion. “St Petersburg”, by contrast, drifts in and catches you off guard with its quiet beauty. “Time to move on…set sail for St Petersburg” croons lead singer Gaz Coombes, a rich string section swirling around him, recalling Jean Claude Vannier’s arrangements for Serge Gainsbourg. It also acts as a reminder that vinyl-fiend Coombes has always professed himself a massive Gainsbourg fan and that Air included I Should Coco track “Lose It” amongst the film scores, prog and French lounge music on their incredible Deck Safari mix.

Throughout, the string arrangements are stellar, and a striking feature of Road To Rouen. Recorded live, they bring a drama, sophistication and timelessness missing from the many modern records which include synthetic studio strings (For two more expertly arranged, string-soaked Noughties beauties, see Richard Hawley’s Cole’s Corner and Paul Weller’s 22 Dreams).
This change to a more refined, reflective sound, as well as the relocation to France, was in direct response to difficult events in band members’ personal lives: the brothers Coombes’ mother had passed away, while drummer Danny Goffey’s rock‘n’roll lifestyle had brought him unwanted tabloid press attention. Care-free odes to being young and free with teeth nice and clean suddenly weren't high on the agenda.

The lushness of the sound is matched by the ambition of the song structures. Even the songs which take classic Supergrass as their starting point shoot off in unexpected directions: the title track has a glam feel the band have explored before, but it’s a tricksier Roxy Music variety of glam compared to the “Blockbuster”-stomp of earlier efforts; “Roxy” starts conventionally enough, before building to a hysterical, strung-out climax of ringing piano cords and shrill, stabbing strings.

Following directly after “Roxy”, “Coffee In The Pot” is light relief, more a studio in-joke or local radio jingle than a song. The album highlight for me is “Low C”: a wonderful strum-along, which could slip effortlessly onto John Lennon’s Imagine album, its unexpected key changes and whoops of joy recalling “Oh Yoko”.

“Fin” – appropriately enough – closes the LP on a serene note, a lullaby with plinking electronics and a studio effect which turns Coombes’ voice into a ghostly quiver. “It’s a long way home”, he half-whispers, half-gargles.

Gaz Coombes later reflected on the album as “career suicide”, and, in commercial terms, he was right – despite positive reviews, its stately pace and lack of bouncy lead single meant that it sold slowly and disappeared quickly. Supergrass released one further album, Diamond Hoo Ha, their most blatant homage to their glam rock heroes, before calling it a day in 2010. Still, they leave behind a pretty much flawless Greatest Hits, a legacy as one of the great festival bands, and – in Road To Rouen – a fantastic, future unearthed rock gem.

Relatively-Recent Classics #1: Badly Drawn Boy - The Hour Of Bewilderbeast (2000)

It's the year 2000. Someone must have trod on the Millennium Bug, or blasted it with a sonic screwdriver, or something, because we're all still here. The world's still spinning, the human race is lurching on, and my music tastes are maturing nicely. The gateway rock drugs of Travis, Stereophonics and Semisonic have been digested - they've saved me from a Westlife prison sentence, given me a taste of an alternative, hinted at possibilities, and now I'm looking for something else. Something stronger, something with more meaning.

I've heard "Yellow" by Coldplay and can't wait to get my hands on their soon-to-be-released album Parachutes. Flickering through the newspaper one wet day during the school hols, I notice the golden globe of the Parachutes cover lined up alongside eleven other pictures: the twelve nominees for the Mercury Music Prize, the award for British album of the year. I'm intrigued by the exotic names of the artists, many I've never heard of before (Goldfrapp, Death In Vegas, Nitin Sawney) and some I'll never hear of again (Helicopter Girl, anyone?), and decide to buy as many of the records as I can afford. First it's Parachutes, The Great Eastern by The Delgados (hooked in by the ever under-stated NME's claim that it contains "the greatest songs in the history of recorded sound". To be fair, they weren't THAT far wide of the mark on this occasion) and Dove's gorgeous, brooding Lost Souls.

Then it's The Hour Of Bewilderbeast by ex-Dove, Badly Drawn Boy - a mysteriously scruffy Northerner, real name Damon Gough. A one-man-band in a woolly hat. I put on the CD and sit in front of the fire, listening intently on earphones, flicking feverishly through the booklet. I can't wait for it to stop, so I can press 'play' again. I listen to nothing else for weeks, drinking in the songs and their rich details.

The orchestral cabin-folk of opener "The Shining", a glowing hymn to the sun; "Fall In A River", which sounds like it was recorded underwater; "Another Pearl", an appropriately named glam-pop gem; "Magic In The Air", in my opinion, one of the most romantic songs ever written ("You left your shoes in the tree, with me. I'll wear them to your house tonight"); the queasy psychedelia of "Cause A Landslide" with its bad-trip outro; and "Epitaph", the duet with his wife and perfect closer, feels like a late-night home recording, the wide-eyed wonder of "The Shining"'s "warm sun" replaced by a simple candle-lit declaration of love ("I hope you never die, there's no need to say why, just promise that you'll try").

So many different sounds, moods, and textures, woven and smudged together in a lo-fi way to create a disorientating and beautiful 60 minute "journey": The Hour Of Bewilderbeast. (Remember, this is in a more innocent, pre-Pop Idol time so you're not allowed to punch me for talking about a "journey" or a "roller-coaster of emotions"). It's the first listening experience to make me understand the importance and the power of "the album" - a body of work rather than just a collection of songs, something greater than the sum of its parts - an experience familiar to those who discovered Pet Sounds in the 60s, Dark Side Of The Moon in the 70s, or Daydream Nation in the 80s. In 2000, I have all those particular pleasures ahead of me.

The LP deservedly wins the Mercury, Damon getting so drunk on the night of the ceremony that he loses his winner's cheque. He writes a highly successful Hollywood soundtrack and dashes off sparkling pop songs for breakfast, but, hard as he tries, is unable to recapture the otherworldly magic of that debut. He shouldn't beat himself up about it though: with each passing year, Bewilderbeast feels more and more like a wonderful one-off.