Little Feat’s 1972 classic Sailin’ Shoes LP featured an unforgettable image painted by Neon Park, an exceptional artist who made his mark through the creation of such provocative pieces as the infamous “Weasels Ripped My Flesh” cover for the Frank Zappa LP of the same name. He sadly passed away in 1993 from Lou Gehrig’s Disease.
Envisioned by Frank Zappa and Cal Schenkel as a “direct negative” of the iconic Sgt. Pepper album art, objections raised by Capitol Records – as well as apparent apathy on the Beatles’ part – delayed the release of The Mothers’ We’re Only In It For The Money by four months until Verve put out a bowdlerized version of the cover that Zappa despised. Ironically, the entire episode pretty much proved that Zappa’s distrust of Flower Power populism was justified.
While many fans prefer “Daydream Believer” or even “I Wanna Be Free,” this was always my favorite performance by Davy Jones with The Monkees.
Although the great Damo Suzuki had yet to lend his unique vocal stylings to the Krautrock pioneers, Can’s 1969 debut still sounded at least a decade ahead of its time. Not only did the album’s aggressive art punk provide fertile ground for such acts as Wire, Public Image Ltd. and The Fall, but echoes of the band’s sound are still heard to this day in the indie rock underground.
For the purposes of this blog, however, how awesome is it to see Galactus – albeit in a less than convincing disguise – brandish the Ultimate Nullifier smack dab on Monster Movie’s cover? Combined with Doctor Strange’s cameo on Pink Floyd’s Saucerful Of Secrets and other counterculture signposts I’m sure have escaped my attention, it’s easy to buy into Stan Lee’s typically over-the-top claim that late-60s Marvel comics were truly “pop art” sensations.
That’s a pretty great feather in the company’s cap. Too bad such accomplishments were eventually obscured by Marvel’s transformation into little more than a farm system for Disney to harvest merchandise and film franchises, but I guess that’s as good an indication of what became of the ‘60s counterculture as anything else …
If “Black Waterside” sounds familiar, it may be due to the fact that Jimmy Page brazenly “re-imagined” the song as “Black Mountain Side” on Led Zeppelin’s 1969 debut LP.
This is less an indictment of Page – an infamous plagiarist of folk and blues songs – than an acknowledgement of Bert Jansch’s (1943-2011) far-reaching influence, a guitarist of such renown that Neil Young once referred to the Scottish legend as the acoustic equivalent of Jimi Hendrix.
Jansch’s reputation among his fellow musicians was first established with the guitarist’s self-titled 1965 debut, which was seen at the time as an incredibly bold new direction for British folk music. Richie Unterberger wrote on AllMusic that Jansch recorded the album on a portable tape recorder with a borrowed guitar in the kitchen of his London flat.
Despite such humble origins, the album’s use of stark, original material combined with Jansch’s virtuoso guitar and plainspoken singing voice made an immediate impression on the British folk scene. The guitarist’s reputation was further enhanced by such releases as It Don’t Bother Me and Jack Orion.
(British pop troubadour Donovan even dedicated two songs to Jansch: “Bert’s Blues” and “House of Jansch.”)
In 1967-68, Jansch formed the genre-busting Pentangle with fellow guitarist John Renbourn, vocalist Jacqui McShee, bassist Danny Thompson and drummer Terry Cox. The band often performed folk standards infused with a jazz swing able to stand toe-to-toe with the likes of Charles Mingus.
“Light Flight” from Basket Of Light even hit the British pop charts.
On the whole, Jansch’s commercial fortunes never quite equalled his critical standing. Plagued by alcoholism, he disappeared for a time but re-emerged in the 1990s and continued to work until his death at the age of 67.
My deepest condolences to his family, friends and many fans.
