One of the most important advances in the field rock ‘n’ roll marketing was the invention of the term, “Supergroup.” According to Wikipedia, “A supergroup is a music group whose members are previously successful as solo artists or as part of other groups or well known in other musical professions.” Most people believe that Cream was the first supergroup, though there is an equally strong argument for The Steampacket, a mid-60’s U. K. band whose members included Long John Baldry, Rod Stewart, Julie Driscoll and Brian Auger. The term gained popular approval with the release of Super Session, a record marketed to the public as a truly glorious moment in rock history featuring the integrated talents of supermen Al Kooper, Mike Bloomfield and Stephen Stills.
Al Kooper was a so-so organist but a brilliant marketer. After leaving Blood, Sweat and Tears to go to work for Columbia Records, he heard that musical hobo Mike Bloomfield was ready to leave Electric Flag, so he booked two days of studio time to jam with him. When Bloomfield didn’t show up on day two (classic Bloomfield), he called Stills, who was looking for a way out of Buffalo Springfield. When the record was released, Kooper put Bloomfield’s stuff on side one and Stills’ contributions on side two. Bottom line: Bloomfield and Stills never played together in the “super session,” but the listening audience (which included many stoners) was not discouraged from believing that these three musical giants came together to create studio magic.
Hats off to P. T. Barnum.
Soon supergroups were popping up all over the place, though for many that moniker was quite a stretch. CSN&Y, Blind Faith, Emerson, Lake and Palmer and The Traveling Wilburys certainly qualify; Humble Pie and Derek and the Dominos are a jump ball. While the term itself has little value beyond its role as an incentive for would-be buyers, the idea behind the term is even more ludicrous. If you believe that the simple act of gathering famous musicians together in a studio would automatically result in a superior outcome, then you probably believe in things like trickle-down economics and the tooth fairy. Like all other human beings, musicians have egos, and when people form groups of any kind, the first concern of any member is “Where do I stand in the pecking order?” A study of the output quality of rock supergroups would surely disprove the hypothesis that supergroups are automatically super.
It should also be pointed out that rock was not the first genre to spawn supergroups. Jazz musicians had been forming supergroups for years. Take a look at the lineups on any album by Monk, Miles, Coltrane and others and you will see a collection of musicians who clearly meet the supergroup criteria. Rock just had a stronger marketing staff than jazz.
Bad Company was marketed as a supergroup from the get-go, featuring members from Free (Paul Rodgers and Simon Kirke), Mott the Hoople (Mick Ralphs) and King Crimson (Boz Burrell). None of them were “name” musicians at the time of Bad Company’s formation; they had played in bands that were generally familiar to the listening public but hardly top-tier. All are now more famous for their work in Bad Company than their other engagements, so while the supergroup label may have been prematurely applied at the start of their journey, one could say that they earned the label through their work. They were an enormous commercial success from the get-go, and that success continued for several years, especially in the United States.
Their maiden voyage hit #1 on the U. S. Billboard charts, a development that had little to do with supergroup status and much more to do with the album’s content. The most prominent songs on Bad Company feature the two most irresistible attractions to Americans of all stripes: sex and violence. Sex and violence have been a winning combination in the United States ever since the late 60’s, when the restraints of older social norms were ripped apart by the “anything goes” ethic of that era. Sex songs on a rock album don’t surprise me, but why a British group would choose to write a band anthem celebrating the violent culture of the Wild West remains a complete mystery to me . . . a question we’ll explore at the proper time.
Well, Bad Company can have their anthem, but I’m claiming “Can’t Get Enough” as MY anthem. I have NEVER come close to getting enough, and once when I was experiencing the self-doubt that accompanies the passage to adulthood and fearful that I was some kind of sex addict, I went to an ob-gyn about it. “What’s the problem?” she asked, expecting another yeast infection or a garden-variety STD. “Doc, I’m always horny,” I told her. “And you’re complaining?” she laughed. She poked around my twat with a latex-shielded finger and said, “There’s nothing wrong with you physically—you just seem to have a hyper-sensitive clitoris.” I thanked her for her time but wasn’t sure if it was proper to thank her for the orgasm she induced with all that poking.
Even if the song hadn’t dealt with the constant edge of sexual desire, “Can’t Get Enough” would still appear on my fuck playlists because the music is so goddamned sexy. After Simon Kirke’s count-in and cue, Mick Ralphs lets it rip with a clean, sustained power chord using open C tuning, riding Kirke’s slap-that-bitch beat before downshifting into the rest of the three-chord pattern that ends on the bite of the Bb-F repetition. That tiny bite feels even sharper because Kirke shifts to cymbals, clearing the way for Mick’s power chords to be heard at full intensity. After a second go-round, Mick and Simon retreat to the background to allow Paul Rodgers to do his thing.
Let me get this out right now: Paul Rodgers’ voice gives me the tingles—up and down my spine and deep into the nether regions discussed above. Paul Rodgers singing a sex song is an orgasmic experience, and if you don’t believe me, my dry cleaner can show you the evidence. But before you get the idea that this is just a latent schoolgirl crush on a rock star with a great voice, let me remind you that sexual stimulation can come from many sources and one of the features in a man or a woman I find most sexy is intelligence. Paul Rodgers is one of the most intelligent, thoughtful and intentional singers I’ve ever heard, in any genre. A lot of guys have sexy voices but they fail to discipline the talent with intent. Paul Rodgers pays careful attention to phrasing, understands the critical importance of build and is the master at creating a mood. As he explained in one interview, “To me, that’s what music is: creating a mood, and taking the listener to the place that you’re going.”
On “Bad Company” he’s going to take you to the lonesome prairie in the depths of night, but on “Can’t Get Enough” he’s going to drag you to the bedroom and do all sorts of wonderful things to you.
The first verse is all about command. Rodgers sings the lines with confidence and precision, making it perfectly clear what he’s after. In the second verse, he eases up slightly on the word at the end of the opening line—“Well, it’s late, and I want love.” That wicked little twist communicates the sweet side of love, the opening salvo in the seduction. It’s a disarming line that makes the clarification all the more erotic: “Love that’s gonna break me in two.” Yeah, baby! That’s what I’m talking about! None of this kissy-kissy-woo-woo shit! Let’s fuck like Klingons! As for the next line . . . I have to admit that I have always misheard them, probably due to my BDSM orientation. What I heard was “Gonna hang me up in the doorway/Gonna hang you up like you do,” which I heard as a request to be suspended from chains; the actual line is “Don’t hang me up in the doorway,” meaning he’s a perfect gentleman who won’t enter the house unless he has permission. Ah, that’s sweet, but gee, I was really looking forward to stringing you up! Oh, well (heavy sigh).
Rodgers gets looser in the second chorus but what really grabs my attention here are the slightly syncopated cuts where Kirke applies the high-hat. Ooh, that sound gives me the trembles! The band then shifts to all-out bash for the instrumental break, with double-tracked guitars soaring over Kirke’s let-it-the-fuck-out drum-and-cymbal pattern. When Paul returns, he sounds like a man who’s in the middle of the act, driving his member home to the very depths of his sweetheart’s anatomy. I am so disappointed when the intensity of the fade dissolves into a repetition of the opening passage. Don’t stop now, fucker! I’m not done! Four minutes and seventeen seconds ain’t gonna cut it, baby!
One footnote: this Mick Ralphs composition was rejected by his former band, Mott the Hoople. That means they rejected two Bowie classics (“Suffragette City” and “Drive-In Saturday) and one of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll songs ever! What the fuck was the matter with those guys?
They had no choice but to dial it down a bit from that killer opener, and the Paul Rodgers composition “Rock Steady” was a good choice—it keeps the intensity high while foregoing the dramatic cuts and pauses of “Can’t Get Enough.” The song is about taming the wild beast who showed up in “Can’t Get Enough,” and though Rodgers tries to convince us that he’s capable of keeping his libido in abeyance, his gritty vocal expresses the opposite. He covers the range of dynamics, attenuating his vocal when telling himself to ease up on the testosterone accelerator (“When my love . . . gets a little bit too heavy”) and breaking into all-out passion when he discovers that there is indeed erotic opportunity in the slow, deep one. Virtually missing on “Can’t Get Enough,” (low bass levels are a problem throughout the album), Boz Burrell provides some nifty bass runs and strong rhythmic support throughout this piece.
“Ready for Love” was a Mick Ralphs composition that appeared on Mott’s All the Young Dudes, and anyone who has heard that version has to conclude that Mick Ralphs was not the right guy for the vocal—this is a passionate, erotic song, and Mick’s thin, reedy voice was incapable of expressing the depths of those feelings. Enter Paul Rodgers, the best in the business when it comes to setting the mood for an erotic evening at home. The arrangement is much cleaner than the Mott version—the introduction of piano into the mix adds a touch of balancing tenderness to offset the guitar and organ, and its use as the solo instrument in the break reinforces the melancholy psychological state expressed in the opening lines:
Walkin’ down this rocky road
Wonderin’ where my life is leading
Rollin’ on to the bitter end
Finding out along the way what it takes to keep love living
You should know how it feels my friend
That melancholy is further reinforced by the deeply reflective fade, where Paul Rodgers sounds like a man who hungers for the healing powers of love as opposed to erotic stimulation (not that the two are mutually exclusive). Bad Company gives “Ready for Love” the treatment it always deserved—it really is a superbly written piece.
Now I have to put my foot down. What the fuck is it with all the “Don’t Let Me Down” and “Don’t Bring Me Down” songs? Wikipedia lists eighteen with the first variation of the theme and two with the second (including ELO’s best-selling single, which is a total piece of crap except for Bev Bevan’s drumming). Since the phrase communicates distrust for the invisible current or potential love partner (most often a woman), can we interpret the cornucopia of “Don’t Fuck with Me” songs as further evidence of the rampant male insecurity that has brought the world to the brink of disaster? Or are these songs a repressed cry for female domination because men secretly want strong women to keep them in line? Whatever your take, I fervently believe that the world will self-destruct in the next twenty years unless THE GIRLS TAKE THE KEYS OUT OF THE GUYS’ HANDS AND START DRIVING THE FUCKING BUS!
While the opening segment with its dramatic drum rolls is a bit over the top, this “Don’t Let Me Down” isn’t half bad because it doesn’t wallow in insecurity as much as express dissatisfaction with the current partner. The best parts of the arrangement occur when Sue Glover and Sunny Leslie provide background vocals to support Paul Rodgers’ soulful approach, giving the song a gospel-like feel. The band is far off the mark, though, with Kirke paying way too much attention to the snare and Mick Ralphs dropping in with a fairly weak solo.
We’ll flip it over to side two and explore the curious title track and band anthem, as promised. There are various and competing stories about its origins, including the Jeff Bridges western flick Bad Company and a seedy character Paul Rodgers saw in a book on Victorian morals used as a warning to the young to “beware of bad company.” Why anyone would bother to look at something so dry and desiccated as a book on Victorian morals is far beyond my limits of empathy, but the evidence shows that the song’s content comes from the film and Paul Rodgers’ childhood familiarity with the phrase made it “click” for him.
The song itself works better if you listen to it as a mood piece. To capture that mood and attempt to duplicate the sounds of the howling prairie, Paul Rodgers decided to sing the song outdoors at midnight, winning the Guinness record for the longest microphone string set-up in recording history. And damn if doesn’t work! He sounds like a total badass, simultaneously mourning his rebellious destiny while fully embracing the six-gun as the key to ensuring the continuity of that destiny. I have no problems whatsoever with his vocal, with his portrayal of the character, with the haunting piano refrain, with the eerie sounds in deep background or with Simon Kirke’s POW-POW that cue the chorus.
What I have a problem with is a combination of a cliché-ridden story that’s been told a hundred times and the underlying message that wielding a gun makes a man a man. “Oh, the boys are just having fun here,” you might say. “Piss off,” I reply. “Guns aren’t fun. Guns are used to kill people.” What I will concede is that from a commercial perspective, “Bad Company” was made for the times. The 1970s saw the re-popularization of violence in American life in a disgusting reaction to the non-violent values of the 1960s. Movie buffs flocked to see odes to violence like The Godfather, Dirty Harry and Death Wish. Boxing, which seemed to be on its way out in the 60s, became a major draw thanks to the Ali-Frazier fights and the moronic Rocky flicks. Support for the death penalty surged. “Bad Company” played to the moment in history, validating the toxic masculinity that became chic during that dark period in American life.
The song’s embrace of the rebel figure also endeared Bad Company to the self-styled, bad-ass bubba crowd who prefer their music masculine and like to impress their girlfriends by smacking them around. That connection continues to this day, as noted in a review of a 2008 Bad Company concert I found in the Miami New Times: “Bad Company seems to attract more than their share of large sweaty guys of ample girth.” It still boggles the mind to think that a British band could have come up with a song like this, much less turn it into their anthem, so if anyone has any insight into this conundrum, please comment.
The rest of the album is pure filler. The follow-up piece “The Way I Choose” is a lumbering song with a guitar counterpoint somewhat reminiscent of George Harrison’s work on “Don’t Let Me Down” and a supporting horn section that falls far short of soulfulness. Paul Rodgers sings it well but his voice is completely wasted on the shallow lyrics celebrating independence, stupidity and mistrust. “I don’t ask no questions and I don’t get no lies” could be a slogan on a Fox News t-shirt. It’s followed by the equally vacuous rock-star-whining-about-life-on-the-road song, “Movin’ On,” a piece more than worthy of inclusion in the who-gives-a-shit genre.
The album closes with what became sort of a tradition for many hard rock bands of the era: the “deep” song. This was a slow number presented in a way to suggest to the listener that hard rockers weren’t just all about fun and games but that they had a serious side and thought about meaningful things. Usually the result of those efforts wound up somewhere between sentimental mess or symbolic overload. The most famous song in this mini-genre is “Stairway to Heaven,” my nominee for the most overrated song in the history of the human race.
“Seagull” is Bad Company’s “deep” song, and the only thing that gives it the edge over “Stairway to Heaven” is that Paul Rodgers is a better singer than Robert Plant. The lyrical content is just as confused as that alleged masterpiece, with the songwriting team of Ralphs and Rodgers taking a page out of Donovan’s songwriting handbook and attempting to imbue the seagull with meanings far beyond its status as a nasty, squawky bird that takes great pleasure in pooping on people. The second verse is particularly bizarre, featuring poetry with all the cohesion of a bumper-car free-for-all:
Here is a man asking the question
Is this really the end of the world
Seagull you must have known for a long time
The shape of things to come
Now you fly through the sky
Never asking why, and you fly
All around till somebody shoots you down
What the fuck? Man wonders if the end of the world is nigh and looks to the seagull for answers because we all know that seagulls can see into the future then BOOM! No more seagulls! If a man is pinning all his future hopes on a message from a seagull, we’re in bigger trouble than I thought!
Overall, Bad Company is a fairly decent debut album, all things considered. Listening to Paul Rodgers is always an engaging experience, and despite a couple of out-of-sync moments, the band is tight and relatively tight and disciplined for a hard rock band. The songwriting is definitely on the spotty side and really doesn’t get much better over the duration of Bad Company’s career. If you’re thinking about buying a Bad Company album, expect one or two great songs, two or three decent songs, and four or five “meh” songs. Their ability to write killer hits dripping with eroticism like “Feel Like Makin’ Love” and “Can’t Get Enough” helped keep them on top for a decent stretch, for few can deliver the goods on a sex song as well as Paul Rodgers.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have this uncontrollable urge to break my baby in two.