By Abdullah "T Kid" Saeed
By Matt Caputo
By Devon Maloney
By Chris Chafin
By Village Voice
By Katie Moulton
By Hilary Hughes
By Gili Malinsky
The history of pop music goes marching by in 18-month segments, generations that last two years, epochs that barely fill half a decade of teenage time, in other words. So it is that this collection manages a double refraction of the past: the era of its contents and the era of its conception. The latter survives in its packaging. When Lenny Kaye put together the first version of the garage-band anthology Nuggets, in 1972, its most recent tracks were only four years old. After Woodstock, Altamont, Tommy, and sundry other ephemeral disasters, though, 1968 might as well have been the days of crinolines and mustache wax. In 1972, mediocrity ruled. That accounts for the plug-ugly jacket artunforgivably quadruplicated hereleaden 1970s psychedelia in the Yellow Submarinegreeting-card vein. Then there's the subtitle. Anybody under 35 can be forgiven for wondering just when the second psychedelic era might have occurred.
Psychedelia, anyway, is only one detail among many in this typically overstuffed box set. Imagine it all on buff stock with Garamond type and footnotes and cross-references and you'll get the idea. It's an ethnographic collection, assembling basic documents for the study of creative expression among white adolescent and postadolescent males in the American suburbs during the key years 196368. That time and place saw one of those boomlets, like doowop, of mass simultaneous illumination, mushrooming cottage-industry production, and anybody-can-be-a-star inconsequentiality. Great records, re cords that will never die, were made by people who went right back to being busboys, and the era itself sank back into the sea like Atlantis.
The phenomenon escaped notice while it was happening because at the time many of these bands could pass for parasites feeding on the major British ruminants. The stuff was marginal chart litter without a manifest, a few lucky hits and a lot of also-rans. But while it's true the set contains its share of quasi-Beatles and pseudo-Stones, as well as dozens of debtors to the Yardbirds, the whole package gives off an unexpectedly coherent sense of purpose, with an originality that is more collective than individual. Lotus eaters like the Thirteenth Floor Elevators and frat boys like the Swingin' Medallions, who might then have spat at each other, turn out to have more in common than not.
Where did it all come from? Possibly the Pacific Northwest in the early '60s, home of the Kingsmen and the Ventures. The former (whose "Louie Louie" is semiredundantly included) galvanized 10,000 bands who assumed they could play as well as that; the latter (not included) moved another 10,000 who aspired to their chops. By the time the Beatles ate the world, their biggest contribution to the scene was a redistribution of envy. In the mid '60s combos and singing groups (as they were then called) decorated the premises at pool parties, store openings, local political rallies, Founder's Day festivities, drive-in theaters, farmers' markets, tree plantings, statue unveilings. Five guys with turtleneck dickies, bangs combed down so they took a turn at the eye brows, garrison belts, elastic-sided boots, Vox amps, Mosrite guitars, Farfisa organs, tambourines, practiced sneers. It was folk music, really. You can assume that every single band in America at the time covered "Hey, Joe" and "C.C. Rider" and "Gloria" and "Twist and Shout" and "House of the Rising Sun." And then they wrote variations on those themes, and then covered each other's variations.
Before the advent of the Sex Pistols you could always find the genre at record fairs filed under "Punk Rock," and that was accurate in several senses. Every time I hear the voice of Sky Saxon, of the Seeds, for example, I feel like I'm 11 and about to get beat up, so closely do his adenoids resemble those of Johnny K. and Jimmy H. from down the block. Then, too, the original Nuggets(included here as the first of the four CDs) is the one indisputable founding document of the second punk era. Probably every band that played CBGB and Max's between 1975 and 1978 covered at least one cut, and they all improvised on different tangents of the phenomenon. The Standells and the Chocolate Watch Band and the Leaves were the self-taught workingmen, and the Ramones and the Voidoids and the Heartbreakers their decadent wastrel offspring.
At 118 tracks, the set is like 10 pounds of Tootsie Rolls: to be consumed at a measured pacealthough it probably won't be, and stomach up set will result. You won't like every number; nobody could. On the psychedelia front alone, there's zit-cream metaphysics (the Electric Prunes, who went on to record every ex-Catholic's transitional fave, their Mass in F Minor), brain-pan alley (the Elevators; as Tom Verlaine once remarked when announcing a cover of "Fire Engine": "The guy was from Texas, so he thought 'the empty place' was 'DMT place'"that's DMT the extra-strength hallucinogen), Napoleon XIV babble (Kim Fowley), Stan Freberg parody (the Magic Mushrooms), slick studio contrivance (the Strawberry Alarm Clock), slick contrivance with outsized guitar heroics (the Amboy Dukes), insufferable la-la twaddle (Fenwyck), and bobbing for meatballs (the Bees).
While the folkies in the college towns read newspapers and argued policy, these garage laborers were exercised about more basic subjects, such as hypocrisy, untruth, unfairness, unhipness. "I'm up to here in lies," complains the Music Machine's Sean Bonniwell. "I guess I'm down to size." His social life's a dud, his name is really mud, and all around him is nothing but talk talkbut he doesn't whine about it, he snarls, and it wouldn't really matter anyway if it weren't for a great stop-and-go arrangement centering on the bass. So the lyrics are pretty much all inchoate flailingbig deal. It's telling that "Shape of Things To Come," by Max Frost and the Troopers, which was concocted for the teen-uprising epic Wild in the Streets, sounds no more artificial than anything else here. The words are not the content.