I’ll give you a very brief summary of what I did during my month-long absence, focusing on how it impacts my work here at altrockchick.com:
- The first week was spent in Côte d’Ivoire at what Westerners would call a “battered women’s center” or “domestic violence assistance center.” All I can tell you right now is that I was thankful I wore no makeup at all during the trip, because I cried myself to sleep every night. I’m still processing the experience and may write about it later.
- Then I met my sweetie on Gran Canaria island, where we stayed for a week in a little bungalow near the beach. She had always wanted to take me to the Canaries, because she has fond memories from family vacations taken there during her youth. I slept for two days straight, holding her close to me and healing from the Côte d’Ivoire experience. We spent the next day visiting a bird sanctuary and soaking in the hot tub, then my mojo returned and we spent the last four days fucking.
- After the passion play, we flew to Madrid and spent a week with her family. Her brother is a big Kinks fan, so I promised him I’d review Other People’s Lives as soon as I got back to writing. Mission accomplished!
- We then flew to Nice and spent the rest of the holidays with my mother and father, which brings us back quite nicely to altrockchick.com.
Long before I was born, my anti-capitalist parents imposed a rule on the purchase of Christmas gifts. From the beginning of their relationship, they agreed that they would spend no more than twenty dollars on Christmas gifts for the other. They extended that rule to me, but by the time I came around, the massive inflation of the 1970’s had raised the price to forty dollars. After I cheated a little bit a few years ago ($44.95!), they agreed to raise the price to fifty bucks. With the move to Europe, we agreed to a converted limit of €40.
This means you must think hard about the kind of gifts you select, because you have to create maximum meaning with limited resources. With that in mind, I bought my mother a hardcover copy of Histoire d’O to thank her for helping to turn me into a pervert, and a leather peek-a-boo thong (a thong with a strategically placed hole to allow clitoral access). Wasn’t that sweet? My dad certainly approved and shouted, “Try it on, Nique!” My mother gave him her cold stare that could cut through ten feet of steel and haughtily replied, “I am not an exhibitionist like your daughter.” She then thanked me and gave me a sly little wink.
For my dad, knowing how much he misses baseball, I bought biographies of Smoky Joe Wood and the Waner brothers, and because he’s a huge Sandy Denny fan, a replacement vinyl copy of Sandy. My mother shied away from sex toys for her daughter and instead bought me The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake, Dexter Gordon’s Our Man in Paris and Art Blakey’s Moanin’. My dad knocked it out of the park with the biography Walter Johnson: The Big Train and three CD collections of British Invasion bands.
“Hint, hint,” he remarked.
The purpose of the gift was to remind me that I hadn’t dealt with the 60’s British invasion groups who faded from the scene—bands like The Animals, Herman’s Hermits, Them (Northern Ireland is a part of the U. K.), The Dave Clark Five, The Hollies, Peter & Gordon, Chad & Jeremy, Freddie and the Dreamers, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Manfred Mann and The Zombies. I have avoided them because these are the bands he grew up with. People are very attached to the music of their teens and get very ornery when critics, even critics who are family members, pan the work of their childhood heroes. I completely understand the attachment to the music of our adolescence—it’s the music you heard the first time you received or gave a positive answer to the question, “Is it in?” Puberty heightens all the senses, so it makes sense that we would find the music associated with body odor, menstruation, pimples and wet dreams endlessly intoxicating.
I know my dad will never get off my ass if I don’t go there, so here’s the deal. Over the next three weeks I’m going to do a series I call “The British Invasion and The American Counterattack.” I’ve identified five Invasion bands and three American groups who were on the front lines during this epic engagement. Some were pretty good; others are included because I simply can’t ignore them in the context of the times. Even with such generous criteria, I could only identify three American bands from that era who had any kind of historical significance. The great American music of the mid-1960’s was soul music, not rock music, and the only songwriter the Americans produced who could compete with The British was Bob Dylan, a genre-crosser. Given that, I won’t leave you in suspense as to who won the transatlantic war of the rockers—The British, by a very comfortable margin.
This may be a difficult thing for the Yanks to accept. Many Americans still believe they have never lost a war, conveniently ignoring historical facts that indicate otherwise. However, they never suffered as crushing a defeat as they did in the face of The British Invasion, both commercially and artistically. In 1965, the British had half the #1 songs on Billboard and on May 8 had nine of the top ten songs on the Hot 100. In 1966, the Americans shooed the British out of the year-end top ten entirely (the top fifteen, actually), but their counterattack was orchestrated by non-combatants: Sgt. Barry Sadler (number fucking one!), Nancy Sinatra, Daddy Frank, The Righteous Brothers and Roger Williams. The Supremes, The Four Tops and Jimmy Ruffin made it, demonstrating that Motown and the other soul labels had more firepower than the American rock scene at the time. Only two American rock bands (using the term loosely) made the list: The Monkees and The Lovin’ Spoonful. Not a particularly strong showing from American rockers. The Mamas and the Papas earned two slots, but they were neither rockers nor a group to be taken seriously.
By 1966, though, the battlefield had shifted to albums, and The British clearly had the advantage there. British rock musicians seemed endlessly inventive, exploring new sounds and styles while Americans were returning to the past, in some cases rediscovering blues and in other cases seeking solace in country, bluegrass and other down home derivatives. This is what led to Credence Clearwater Revival’s dominance in the late 1960’s, a development that told me that the Americans had given up and gone home, because that music wasn’t going to lead anywhere but to the past.
So, Ready Steady Go! The British are coming!
Reviews in this series:
The Best of the Monkees
I’ve always had a soft spot for Eric Burdon because he picked my mother out of a crowd as a woman he wanted to fuck and had the civility to ask my father for permission first. That’s class!
Unfortunately for Eric, soft spots don’t earn anyone a free pass from The Alt Rock Chick!
The Animals were the first “bad boys” of the Invasion, though they were soon to be out-grunged by the more dangerous, hide-your-virgin-daughters appeal of The Rolling Stones. The “bad boys” were a group of invaders who based their music more on the work of black blues and R&B artists, whereas the “beat groups” drew more influence from the early rockers and girl group . . . so say those given to racism who have to categorize everything in sight.
The Animals, in various incarnations centered around Eric Burdon, had a comparatively long run of hits, staying on the charts until 1968. They were primarily a singles band, and the only album that reached the top ten in The States was their first. The Animals were generally at their best when they stuck to the gritty scenery that sets the stage for life in the lower classes, average when it came to pure blues or R&B and absolutely ridiculous when Eric Burdon moved to California and transformed himself into yet another tedious spokesperson for the hippie movement. From a musical standpoint, I think they lost a great deal when Alan Price left the band because he had the talent and presence to serve as a counterweight to Eric Burdon. After his departure, the Animals became Eric Burdon’s band, eventually changing the name (with two or three variations) to reflect that fait accompli. At first, Price’s departure didn’t make much of a difference, as some of the The Animals’ greatest songs are from the immediate post-Price period. In the long run, The Animals fell prey to Eric Burdon’s hunches concerning musical direction, which were hit or miss at best.
As for the degree of influence The Animals had, that’s a matter of debate. Some claim that it was The Animals, not The Byrds, who created the genre of folk rock. Talk about a tempest in a teapot! Let’s get something straight: musicians don’t create genres, marketers and librarians do. Since rock and folk are based on similar chord structures and commonly use some kind of strummed instrument (lute, balalaika, guitar, etc) as a centerpiece, all it took to “invent a new genre” was for some yahoo to plug in a guitar and play already familiar patterns. Big deal. The argument for Burdon and the boys is that The Animals’ first two hits were folk songs played with them newfangled electric instruments. Some even credit The Animals with influencing Dylan to add electric instruments to his act. I view that assertion with skepticism, because musicians and critics are always trying to rewrite history to justify their theories or make themselves look good. The evidence cited is that Dylan did “The House of the Rising Sun” on his first album and reportedly “jumped out of his car seat” when he first heard The Animals’ version on the radio. In other words, circumstantial evidence at best.
I’ll let other people argue over this trivia. My personal opinion is that I don’t think they were that influential, in large part because they took too long to start writing their own songs and many of those songs are of questionable value.
Let’s get to the music so you can form your own opinions. The Retrospective collection cheats a little by adding “Spill the Wine” to the set, reinforcing the notion that The Animals were Eric Burdon and vice versa. I don’t mind. The story of The Animals is the story of the career of Eric Burdon, so I like it that the album ends with his swan song performance and that his exit as a regular on the pop charts was a memorable musical experience. The track order isn’t perfect, but it’s better than most in following the chronology of their musical development. While the collection doesn’t begin at the beginning, we can get there with a literary flourish or two.
Once upon a time there was a band from Newcastle upon Tyne called the Kansas City Five who changed their name to The Animals after the nickname of one of their buddies and traveled down to London to play at the Crawdaddy Club, where they were introduced to an evil fart named Mickie Most who ordered them to launch their recording career with . . .
“Baby Let Me Take You Home”: Now I’m cheating a little. This song actually appears third on the CD track list, because I suppose the compilers wanted to open with The Animals’ signature song to attract consumers. Harrumph! God damn, I love that opening guitar riff, where Hilton Valentine seems to defy time and space. What happens is that his arpeggiated intro ends one beat early, so when the band comes in it takes the listener by surprise and makes the song that much more exciting. For a rookie singer, Eric Burdon shows surprising sophistication with his sometimes off-beat phrasing and sheer presence. Alan Price helps define The Animals’ early sound with his deft touch on the organ and Chas Chandler rips it on the bass in the double time coda. This is a super maiden release that sure beats the hell out of “Love Me Do.” The song can be traced back to either Blind Boy Fuller or Reverend Gary Davis, and was later transformed by 60’s folk scene presence Eric Von Schmidt into “Baby Let Me Follow You Down,” the version “re-arranged” by Bert Russell and Wes Farrell into “Baby Let Me Take You Home.” Let’s see . . . that makes at least five plagiarism-related lawsuits that are no doubt still working their way through the courts with each dead man’s estate fighting for every penny.
“The House of the Rising Sun”: After that side trip into the complexities of the legal system, I am relieved to inform you that “The House of the Rising Sun” is of uncertain origin. Instead of wasting our time on competing hypotheses, how about if we just enjoy the damned song? It is absolutely mesmerizing! The repetitive arpeggiated chord pattern combined with the 2/4 time reflects the relentless march of evil that will inexorably and inevitably swallow the soul. Eric Burdon’s vocal is a dramatic tour de force and Alan Price’s organ adds that eerie feeling that there are certain things in life that are beyond a man’s control, especially seething passions and irresistible temptations. Gambling den or whore house, the place is a symbol of consuming temptation and creeping addiction to vice; dissolution becomes “that ball and chain” from which there is no escape. My interpretation is that the original place was where normal people went to have a good time, then returned to “normal” and found themselves drowning in various forms of Christian guilt. There could never be a House of the Rising Sun in a culture that doesn’t equate sex with sin. Eric Burdon even manages to stay in character and communicate genuine regret for his character’s debauchery. Since we know that the real Eric Burdon propositioned my mother in front of 5,000 witnesses, we have to give him credit for his acting skills.
“I’m Crying”: Their follow-up hit bursts out of the gate with the band creating maximum sound with everything they could throw at the studio microphones. The Animals generally did more vocals in unison than in harmony, and here the “ah-ah-ah” vocal pattern is particularly effective in its simplicity: you take the high note, I’ll take the low note, let’s stay on the same note. I do detect one of Eric Burdon’s flaws emerging here: sometimes he hams it up and over-emphasizes rather dull lines with excessive volume and emotion. A simple blues pattern with the flatted third and fourth chords adding a teeny bit of variety, “I’m Crying” is the classic hit carried into the top ten more on the strength of its predecessor than the song itself.
“Gonna Send You Back to Walker”: The B-side to “Baby Let Me Take You Home,” it’s really too bad that 45’s weren’t three-dimensional, because this song is clearly C-side quality. Based on Timmy Shaw’s minor (and only) hit, “Gonna Send You Back to Georgia,” The Animals attempt to localize the song for the British market by changing the return destination to Walker, a burb outside of Newcastle where Eric Burdon grew up. They carefully change the directional preposition from “from” to “to” so that the babe who is the object of the song goes south to get to Swinging London, so that Eric can send her home in a northerly direction after her big city experience turns her into a desirable possession whom other men may covet. For all their efforts at pre-GPS triangulation, the song proves to be a bore, and they made a major mistake in removing the most provocative verse from the original: “You run the streets with your bald head/Tryin’ to play the high-class game/You’d run those streets on both day and night/You don’t have pocket change.” Whoa, Nellie! What was that girl up to?
“Boom Boom”: Uh-uh (shaking head vigorously)! No way (jaw firms up in defiance)! Look, when John Lee Hooker sings, “I’m gonna shoot you right down” to his woman, he fucking means it, whether the shooting is a euphemism for getting a sassy bitch off her high horse, a fluid he would like to eject from his hardened member, or a small metal object expelled from the barrel of a .44. Eric Burdon doesn’t mean it, because he didn’t have the life experience to give those words the layers of meaning in the original. Once again, he overdoes the vocal. John Lee’s is one of quiet, cocky confidence: he knows that bitch is goin’ down.
“Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood”: This time Eric gets it right. His vocal is actually more restrained than Nina Simone’s original, and clearly communicates the vulnerability that men often deny. The quicker tempo also helps the song; Nina’s version sounds draggy to me, as if the point was to squeeze every last drop of emotion from every syllable. In real life, someone admitting mistakes and flaws in the personality would tend to speak at a faster rate once the words started to tumble out, with brief stutters and stops along the way. Eric Burdon understood those emotional dynamics, even occasionally slipping back into a tone of self-justification that gives his vocal more credibility. I love the unison vocals on the chorus, the quiet humming in the background and Alan Price’s work on the organ.
“Bring It on Home to Me”: It’s tough to measure up to anything Sam Cooke ever did, but Eric does a credible job with this cover. I just hate that little snickering laugh he adds in the second verse: “You know I laughed (ha-ha) when you left.” What the fuck is that? I guess no one taught Eric the Count Basie Theory: less is more!
“We Gotta Get Out of This Place”: A classic example of how cultures apply art in ways other than the artist intended. This Mann-Weill number is largely famous for the chorus and the repetition of the title line. It’s easy to understand why American boys trapped in the dismal jungles of Vietnam made this their unofficial theme song. “We’ve gotta get out of this place if it’s the last thing we ever do” is a powerful double entendre when “the last thing we ever do” may become tragically true. The real story of the song has nothing to do with Vietnam, but the thing we now call “income inequality,” hardly a new phenomenon in capitalist cultures. To work your life away and still find yourself trapped in poverty, unable to afford health care and stuck in a tiny shithole of a flat is a humiliating experience of permanent despair (“See my daddy in bed a-dyin’/See his hair turning’ gray/He’s been working and slaving his life away.”) Even high-paid professionals can relate to this song in a more existential fashion, because many of them feel like they’re working their lives away in meaningless jobs. Barry Mann and Cynthia Weill were the best of the Brill Building songwriters, and this song is one for the ages. As noted above, Eric Burdon shines when he’s singing about the gritty and hard lives of the lower classes. Kudos to replacement organist Dave Rowberry for not overplaying his hand, and to Chas Chandler for one of the most recognizable bass riffs in history. By the way, this is the original American single release, so all those people who have been whining that the versions on “The Most of” and “The Best of” albums were bogus can now rest in peace.
“It’s My Life”: Continuing with the formula of notable bass runs and life in the slums, we have another Brill Building creation courtesy of Roger Atkins and Carl D’Errico (this one specifically commissioned by Mickie Most for The Animals’ next single). The opening combination of Chas Chandler’s bass run and Hilton Valentine on a 12-string Ric grabs your attention with the emphasis on the flatted fifth note presaging the dysfunctional nature of the living situation. Because Eric Burdon cared more about feel than precise enunciation, some listeners never realize that the narrator is a poor young stud whose plan is to use his sexual prowess to exploit the fuck out of rich women and get the hell out of a life of “sweatin’ rent.” Can’t say I blame him, and if the women get their rocks off and are willing to pay up, everyone goes home happy. While mutually agreed-upon exploitation is a pretty pathetic way to relate to one another, this kind of thing is going to happen in a world where people are trained to believe that life is dog-eat-dog, no matter what your station in life. Rich women have to get laid like the rest of us, and poor boys with big dicks have a talent that fits nicely in a supply-and-demand economy. I actually prefer this song to “We Gotta Get Out of This Place” from a musical perspective, but both represent The Animals at their best.
“Don’t Bring Me Down”: There sure were a lot of don’t-let-me-down-bring-me-down-put-me-down songs in the 1960’s! Living under the constant threat of nuclear war must have made everyone a bit sensitive. I’m not too fond of this piece; the parts never really come together into a satisfying whole. The fuzz guitar seems to have been thrown in because of trendiness rather than fit.
“See See Rider”: Yawn. If there’s one blues number that has been played to death, it’s this one. After the swirling organ opens the song, there isn’t much to hold one’s interest. Mitch Ryder’s version with “Jenny Take a Ride” was way better.
“Inside, Looking Out”: Eric Burdon and Chas Chandler took one of the songs discovered by the Lomax brothers in their search for American roots music and turned it into a decent-sized hit in the U. K. The sound is more garage band than studio, which works well for this old work song. There’s some very nifty organ work from Dave Rowberry here, and the ham in Eric Burdon must have loved the stop-time structure of the verses.
“Hey Gyp”: The unfortunate connection between Eric Burdon and Donovan that would inform the work of Eric’s hippie phase began with this cover of a pedestrian song by Donovan that any teenager could have written at the time. Bo-ring.
“Help Me Girl”: The original Animals were in the process of breaking up, so this tune appeared on Eric Burdon’s solo album Eric Is Here, credited to Eric Burdon & The Animals. I find it very helpful when artists clearly delineate their phases, which is the only thing I like about this song. The horns are so Bob Crewe Generation.
“When I Was Young”: The last of the gritty trilogy was thankfully composed by the entire band (now Eric Burdon & The Animals), giving the performance an immediate sense of credibility. My favorite of the three and probably my favorite Animals song of them all, this song frigging works on so many levels I love replaying it just to pick out the parts: the descending distorted guitar opening, the Indian-like guitar riff courtesy of new lead guitarist Vic Briggs, the flashes of electric violin and best of all, Eric Burdon’s delivery of one line in particular: “Pain more painful, laughter much louder, yeah.” If you listen closely there’s almost a hidden laugh behind the vocalization of the word “laughter,” and the closing “yeah” is snapped off with street-wise perfection. The modulation of the dynamics from quiet to loud to utter stillness is terribly effective and the mixed-race implications of “she was brown and I was pretty green” were pretty daring for the time.
“A Girl Named Sandoz”: While I do like The Smashing Pumpkins’ version better, I like the mix of garage feel and San Francisco sound on The Animals’ version. It sounds very Haight-Ashbury, as should any song where the heroine is named after the pharma company that brought helped bring LSD into the world.
“San Franciscan Nights”: Oh, for fuck’s sake. Warm San Franciscan nights? When? I lived in the City for twenty-five years and can remember maybe three warm nights. If you come to San Francisco in July or August and you see hordes of tourists shivering in their tank tops and shorts around Union Square as they huddle closely together in line waiting for the souvenir stores to open so they can buy piles of sweatshirts and sweatpants to protect them from the relentless fog and wind of a San Francisco summer, you’ll know whom to blame. “It’s summer! Isn’t California supposed to be warm in the summer?” they whimper in pathetic explanation of their skimpy wardrobes. The only way you could possibly describe San Francisco nights as warm is through the influence of LSD. Cocaine simply won’t do—you need something that completely distorts your perceptual field to believe that icy fog is a warm and snuggly blanket. To use this song as a plug for his buddy Donovan (“fly Trans Love Airways”) adds insult to frostbite.
“Monterey”: I guess Eric decided to pick up some extra cash as a marketing shill for the music industry. This song defines the regrettable tendency of humans in modern society to define certain happenings as “seminal events,” an exaggerative tendency much like the current practice to turn everyone who ever made a record into a “legend.” Baby Boomers are particularly prone to attaching excessive meaning to events, from Woodstock to Watergate to the Super Bowl. The most offensive aspect of this song is its elevation of musicians into godlike status. Referring to a drugged-out, unreliable guitarist as “His Majesty Prince Jones” is seriously over-the-top, as is the line “young gods smiled upon the crowd,” referring to the performers. The excess of this song is breathtaking, easily making my list of the ten worst songs ever conceived.
Look. Any objective reading of history will tell you that the truly seminal one-time events of the 60’s were JFK’s assassination and The Beatles’ first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. The definition of ”seminal” is “strongly influencing future developments,” and those events created massive change, for evil or for good. Monterey Pop opened up another distribution channel for rock music, period. Woodstock didn’t change dick except account balances for the promoters. Some 60’s movements produced change, but the big events associated with those movements didn’t change shit. Change usually takes time, and a single event simply doesn’t have that much power or significance. The 60’s were full of big events, but when you follow the path that leads away from the event, you usually wind up nowhere. What did Kent State produce? A shitty CSNY single and a landslide for Richard Nixon.
I don’t know if Eric Burdon really cried to Ravi Shankar’s music, but I’ll bet Ravi didn’t cry even after Eric mangled his name to Shank-nar. Ravi had no reason to cry because he was the only musician who performed at Monterey who insisted on being paid for his performance. How fucking spiritual of him.
“Anything”: This is the song that Eric Burdon is most proud of writing. Uh-uh. Okay. Better not say . . . anything.
“Sky Pilot”: This opus had to be split into two sides on the 45 due to its length. The “sky pilot” is the army chaplain, a job whose existence defies reason and logic. I’ve always felt that the concept of “Christian Soldiers” is the ultimate oxymoron, and for a man of the cloth to accept a job in the military makes no sense to me at all unless you believe in predestination and are just playing out the string. The theme of “Sky Pilot” is this fundamental contradiction and the inevitable test of faith involved in choosing to serve in such a position. Although the lyrics are sometimes clumsy and the grammar atrocious (“only time it will tell”), it’s a compelling performance from the a cappella opening to the clinching line, “Thou shalt not kill.” I particularly like the strings here, especially in the passage before the last verse.
“White Houses”: One of the most underrated songs in their catalog, this Eric Burdon composition features the usual grammatical difficulties as he twists syntax to create rhyming lines (“Soon another life it will bring”), but is saved by a solid groove and a playful lead vocal. The theme of the song is “look at reality, people!” and as we continue to ignore the presence of poverty a few miles from our doorsteps and accept the daily bullshit fed to us by politicians and media, the message retains its relevance today.
“Spill the Wine”: Ironically, a band named War was created with the intent to spread peace and brotherhood. The original mixed racial-cultural lineup, from which the fairer sex was excluded, certainly met their brotherhood goal, she said snarkily. Sexism aside, War proved to be a very solid funk band that carries on to this day. They allowed a woman into the band in the late 70’s, to their credit.
“Spill the Wine” is certainly one of the most distinctive pieces ever to land a spot on the higher reaches of the charts. The carefree Latin beat enhanced by splashes of flute and a woman speaking in Spanish (Eric Burdon’s girlfriend) provides a much more interesting background for this largely spoken word piece than the programmed beats of rap and hip-hop. The dream state of the song allows for fanciful lyrics that celebrate the amazing beauty of women of all shapes and sizes (appropriate) but goes no further than validating their status as one of the many pleasures available to men (bullshit). Confident in the innate superiority of my gender, I can ignore the slings and arrows of ignorant males and enjoy this fresh and exciting piece of music.
As with the comparison of The Dave Clark Five to The Beatles, The Animals lacked the catalog depth of their leading competition, The Rolling Stones. They stuck with covers and Brill Building songs far too long and never really developed into accomplished songwriters as did Jagger and Richards. Those who survived after the Invasion had petered out possessed two qualities that made all the difference: the ability to write great songs and a sense of curiosity that led to the exploration of new possibilities in rock music. While that was certainly no guarantee of continuity, the artists who lacked those two qualities really had no chance at all.
Eric Burdon and The Animals did leave behind several songs that have an undeniable place in the history of rock music. While they may not have been as accomplished as some of their contemporaries, they gave us some great tunes that have stood the test of time. That’s more than you can say about Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick or even Tich.