The Stooges – Fun House

The Stooges – Fun House

by Jonas Lenberg in Vinyl of the week

This Week’s Vinyl – A Slightly Different Perspective

There are few things I enjoy more than going out hunting for LPs. Finding something unusual, something you’ve been looking for, in a completely unexpected place and, even better, at the right price. These days, you can get hold of pretty much anything, as long as you’re prepared to pay for it. And that’s where the problem lies. Different pressings, coloured vinyl, heavier sleeves, unusual labels – anything that can push up the price of a record, whether in terms of collectability or actual market value, is constantly being highlighted. It can be quite difficult to navigate this jungle of available records. My own philosophy is that if I come across a good pressing and it costs less than a new reissue, then I consider it a fair price, provided the record itself is in good condition.

Anyway, this week’s vinyl comes from a slightly different angle. What is it, really, that makes one record worth more or less than another? There are plenty of variables that dealers take into account when assessing a record. Nothing we need to get into here, but some things are more or less a big no-no. Large, ugly stickers, for instance, or writing on the sleeves. Signed sleeves, on the other hand, are a different matter. There are plenty of examples, some signed by previous owners, others by someone who was actually part of the band featured on the LP. Obviously, the appeal varies depending on who did the signing, but it is certainly accepted and, of course, something many collectors actively look for.

I have, for example, a stereo copy of LOVE’s Forever Changes, where someone called Richard Barlow has taped a photograph of Arthur Lee onto the sleeve, dated August 1968, and then written his full address along one edge of the cover. I can only assume he loved this record as much as I do and didn't want it growing legs and disappearing.

I’ve also come across old photographs, small pieces of aluminium foil and letters tucked inside record sleeves. It’s incredibly stimulating to let your imagination run wild and, a bit like a detective, try to piece the story together. When, where and why? How did the LP end up going astray, and eventually find its way into my hands? 

One of my favourite examples in this category is The Stooges’ Fun House, a French edition distributed by Vogue for Elektra Records. Someone has written a little greeting in French on the inside of the gatefold sleeve. I honestly have no idea what it says, but there is a signature: Roland.

But what really makes this particular sleeve unusual are four small cardboard photographs that someone has glued inside. The images are taken from the film A Clockwork Orange. Fun House was released in 1970, and Kubrick’s film premiered in 1971. Both the band and the film could be said to capture a relatively brutal, violent and disillusioned youth culture, set against the backdrop of the transition from the sixties into the seventies.

In the world of record collecting, a clean and untouched copy is often the most desirable. But sometimes it is precisely the traces left behind by previous owners that make an object interesting. This time, I paid less for an early French pressing of The Stooges’ Fun House, simply because someone had written on the sleeve and glued in four photographs from A Clockwork Orange. To me, it wasn't a damaged record sleeve. It was an unfinished story.

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Indian Summer – Indian Summer

Indian Summer – Indian Summer

Indian Summer A Forgotten Supergroup from Coventry There are albums that make you wonder how on earth they managed to pass almost unnoticed when they were first released. Records that seem to have everything we associate with the most creative period of British progressive rock, around 1970–1972. Indian Summer’s self-titled album from 1971 is most certainly one of them. The story begins in Coventry in 1969, where Indian Summer emerged as an increasingly interesting name on the British rock scene. But there is a rather more fascinating story behind the band than simply another progressive rock album from the period. In the Shadow of Black Sabbath At the time, there was a relatively small but hugely significant musical world centred around Birmingham and Coventry. One of its key figures was Jim Simpson, the man who helped bring Black Sabbath to prominence. He ran Henry’s Blues House in Birmingham, a venue that welcomed many of the most interesting bands of the day. Among them was Earth, the band that would soon become Black Sabbath. Indian Summer came into contact with Simpson through the local club circuit. He recognised the potential in the group and also brought along Olav Wyper, who was then working for Vertigo Records, to see them. What makes the story particularly interesting is that Simpson and Wyper had seen both Indian Summer and Black Sabbath performing within the same musical circles. When the time came to sign a band, it was Black Sabbath who secured the record deal with Vertigo. Indian Summer would have to wait. But that was not the end of the story. After a further period of intensive gigging, the Coventry band had developed considerably. Wyper had since moved on to RCA, where he was establishing the progressive label Neon Records. Simpson once again took Wyper to see Indian Summer, and this time the meeting led to a recording deal. There is also a wonderful little episode in which Bob Jackson and Malcolm Harker were invited to Ozzy Osbourne’s home to discuss whether Indian Summer might join the same management stable as Black Sabbath. Two bands moving in the same circles, yet destined for very different futures. It is difficult not to wonder how differently things might have turned out for Indian Summer. While Black Sabbath would go on to write their name into rock history, Indian Summer never really got the opportunity to fulfil their potential. An Album That Deserved So Much More In 1971, the band’s self-titled album was released on RCA’s Neon Records, with Rodger Bain in the producer’s chair. Bain had already worked with Black Sabbath by this time. The result was a beautifully crafted recording, especially considering how little time the band had spent in the studio. What makes Indian Summer so interesting is that they emerged from the same musical and geographical environment as Black Sabbath, yet their sound was considerably more diverse than their brief career might suggest. When I listen to the album, I hear several of the great musical expressions of British rock. The weighty, rolling church-like sound of the Hammond organ, the harmonic freedom of jazz, Yes-like melodic passages and sudden bursts of Black Sabbath-inspired heaviness. There are also echoes of Deep Purple and Uriah Heep, yet Indian Summer somehow manage to create something that feels entirely their own. This is an album that constantly moves between different musical worlds. From jazz-inflected harmonies and long, floating melodies to powerful guitar riffs and a Hammond organ that at times seems to carry the entire sound. There is a wonderful musical fluidity to the arrangements and a melodic sensibility that ensures the music never feels contrived or overworked. A Story That Ended Far Too Soon Despite the strength of their debut, commercial success failed to materialise. Record sales were modest, financial difficulties began to mount and plans for a second album gradually fell by the wayside. A proposed single featuring Walking on Water and Firewater was never released either. Following further changes in the line-up and continuing difficulties, the band eventually called it a day in 1972. All that remained was a single studio album and a story of what might have been. In my opinion, this is one of the finest albums released during that period. It is a truly outstanding example of just how creative and boundary-pushing British rock music could be between 1970 and 1972. The fact that Indian Summer never achieved considerably greater success is, to me, almost inexplicable. Perhaps that is precisely why the album feels so special today. It is not simply a forgotten record from a bygone era, but a musical work that still has the power to surprise and fascinate. And above all, it is an album that deserves to be played, not just collected.

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Isaac Hayes – Hot Buttered Soul

Isaac Hayes – Hot Buttered Soul

When I was very young, around six or seven years old, I used to lie on the living-room floor listening to records my mum would play. Our home had a distinctly 1970s-inspired feel. My dad worked with flooring and carpets, so rugs seemed to be everywhere. In the living room, in particular, there was a thick, pale, pure-wool tufted rug with a very long, shaggy pile. It was like lying on a sheepskin. I especially loved lying there listening to soul, without really knowing that this was what the music was called. We listened to Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On, Stevie Wonder’s Music of My Mind, Barry White’s I’ve Got So Much to Give, Aretha Franklin’s Young, Gifted and Black and Diana Ross’s Surrender, to name just a few. Isaac Hayes, on the other hand, is someone I have no distinct memory of listening to back then. With just four tracks and a running time of over 45 minutes, Hot Buttered Soulchallenged the idea of what a soul album could sound like. Long arrangements, deep grooves, psychedelic touches and Hayes’s unmistakable voice created something that was both cinematic and intensely intimate. Yet there was one track that had been hovering at the edges of my mind, never quite rising to the surface. A track just over nine minutes long, with the decidedly peculiar title Hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic. I had a vague recollection of listening to a babbling female voice as a child, almost like a jumble of words, all merging into one rhythmic stream. Then, one day, I spotted a copy of this LP while flicking through a record crate. On some subconscious level, I knew this was a really good record. I pulled it out and, much like the critic in Ratatouille, experienced one of those extraordinary back-to-the-past moments. A taste, a smell or, in this case, a few notes of music can suddenly unlock something you thought you had forgotten. Hot Buttered Soul feels like a bridge between spoken rap, musical theatre and – at its very best – psychedelic prog rock, funk and soul, all served up as a perfectly mixed cocktail in which each ingredient retains its own distinctive character. Isaac Hayes combines the emotional weight of soul with deep basslines, heavy drums and funk’s long, repetitive grooves. He allows the music to take its time, grow and constantly change shape, without ever losing its driving momentum. This is particularly evident in Hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic. Here, the rhythm and hypnotic pulse lean towards funk, while gospel, orchestral soul and psychedelic elements weave their way into the mix. The result is music that both swings and floats – almost as if it exists in a world of its own, somewhere between a concert, a theatrical performance and a musical dream. If you haven’t really explored soul music before, start here. It is a wonderfully intriguing listening experience, and an album I can wholeheartedly recommend.

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JEFFERSON AIRPLANE – CROWN OF CREATION

JEFFERSON AIRPLANE – CROWN OF CREATION

Once upon a time, Gothenburg was full of demolition leases and cheap flats in buildings without modern conveniences. I was lucky enough to live in several such flats, just like my casual acquaintance Peter. I first met Peter at Café Norrland. An institution, with wonderful walnut rolls filled with Brie and salami. The coffee was always served in a pot, about three cups at a time. The tiled floor was laid in diamond patterns, rather like an English public lavatory. Everything exuded a state of emergency and a certain need for sanitation. I loved the place. I went there as often as I could as a poor student. Peter was poor too, a jack-of-all-trades with business tucked into his inside pocket for every occasion, from Jazzspecial to bulk lots of blue jeans. More often than not, I would treat him to coffee from my pot or help him out with the soup of the day. It was LPs that brought us together. Music in general, old bands and new. Peter lived near Redbergsplatsen, in a building that had been condemned because of dry rot and fungal growth. And that brings me, quite naturally, to the psychedelic music that played on his stereo. Music that would, in time, become increasingly sought after, but which had yet to enjoy the renaissance that would later send the prices of rare vinyl soaring. There was often a crate of LPs sitting there, waiting to change hands. Peter needed to scrape together the rent. Prices ranged from five to twenty-five kronor. Crown of Creation was one such five-kronor LP. Appropriately enough, the album revolves around social criticism and a sense that the world is changing. But Peter had a different view. For him, there was only one track worth bothering with: Lather, the opening track on side one. The rest simply wasn't interesting enough to keep. For me, it's quite the opposite. Or perhaps not. Lather is so good that it carries the entire album on its own. A little one-off that has etched itself into my memory, a song that always brings back the best of thoughts and makes me feel free. I've also said many times that Lather itself, a character in the song who goes his own way, reminds me of – and is therefore, in its own way, dedicated to – my oldest friend, Stefan, otherwise known as Stefan the Man. Perhaps that is precisely what music can do. A song becomes more than music. It becomes a person, a time, a friendship and a feeling that never quite disappears. For me, Jefferson Airplane's Crown of Creation is one of the finest examples of the band's psychedelic expression. But above all, it is Lather that makes this particular five-kronor record mean so much to me. From Peter's crate of records to my own collection. Some finds turn out to be worth considerably more than the price tag could ever have suggested.

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