Songs of Drugs and Devotion

It’s a tragedy that some of the most brilliant and inspired music of the 20^th century languishes in the limbo of America’s junk stores, awaiting resurrection in the digital age. One such album that’s yet to transition to the almighty digital format is The Addicts Sing by the Addicts (a.k.a. Nine Former Addicts—formerly recovering addicts, that is). Issued on the Christian music imprint Word Records in 1963, just months before the arrival of the Fab Four, The Addicts Sing was a God-send, a true revelation. For this album marked the first time American audiences could delight in the sublime exploits of authentic drug addicts without feeling exploitative, shameful, or guilty. Sure, drug abuse and addiction was common in music—from smack in jazz to booze in blues—but it wasn’t part of the show: musicians kept their habits concealed—confined to the backstage, the shooting gallery, the back alley, public toilets, mom’s basement. The Addicts changed all that; they embraced and celebrated their addictions and the drugs that fueled them. No longer were fans left to wonder whether their favorite band were a bunch of strung-out junkies, speed freaks, pill poppers, hash heads, etc. The Addicts proclaimed with defiance, “So what if we are.” And just look at the album cover. Notice the not-so-subtle sky scraper puncturing the pink type? Might that be a hypodermic needle in disguise? And just what of big, bold, bright hot pink lettering: The Addicts Sing. You couldn’t dream of a flashier billboard. Flip jacket over and what do you see, but a graphic illustration of a dude shooting up—and he ain’t mainlining insulin. If that weren’t enough, take a look at the Addicts Dodge tour van, the original Mystery Machine. Imagine seeing that bombing down the highway. Smoke ’em if you got ’em! Indeed, the Addicts had declared war on the undeclared war on drugs. Still, they knew their progressive message might meet resistance, so to allay the fears of worried parents, the Addicts chose not pitch their circus tent in the country’s juke joints, roadhouses, or after-hours clubs. Instead, they went to America’s churches and sang about Jesus. How could a parent not feel good about that? “Well, gosh, Mabel; these drug-addled dirtbags are going on about the Lord! I guess they ain’t so bad. I mean the Lord did say to love your fellow man—even if they smell bad and have hepatitis C.” By the time the Beatles, Stones and their merry prankster contemporaries got around to dreaming up their own acid-laced, smack-tastic fever dreams later in the decade—and to worldwide acclaim—they had Addicts to thank.

Germany's Last Polka

It’s not an everyday occurrence that a truly remarkable album is exhumed from the dusty heaps of discarded vinyl at the thrift store. It’s an even rarer occurrence that an LP of true historical import is rediscovered. Let alone two. Two that are related. Two that tell the long-forgotten tale of the Great Rock ’n’ Roll Wars of the 1950s and ’60s.

So it was one sunny Saturday morning at the local Goodwill as I rummaged the dusty stacks of wax (the platters that seemingly no longer matter) that my dirty fingers flipped to these two LPs: Walt Groller and His Orchestra’s Auf Wiedersehen and the Little German Band’s Auf Geht’s! On the surface, they appear to be your typical oompah party music albums that crossed the ocean from the Fatherland a generation ago, begging for one last polka on the turntable. Yet it takes an astute collector with master’s degree in ethnomusicology (thank you, University of Phoenix®!) such as me to recognize these recordings for what they actually are: crucial documents containing German folk songs, battle hymns, and field recordings inspired by and captured during the Great Rock ’n’ Roll Wars.

What were the Great Rock ’n’ Roll Wars? You might recall that in the 1950s a new strain of popular music sprouted up like pustules on a pubescent face. It was called rock ’n’ roll, a crude, most unwholesome marriage of hillbilly music and rhythm and blues, and it swept through the United States faster than diarrhea in a hot tub. The music was savage, loud and obnoxious and featured prominent use of the electric guitar and drums. It soon inspired mass hysteria among millions of horny degenerates (teenagers) and led to rebellion, chaos and societal collapse. Churches and schools were torched. Planned Parenthoods, liquor stores, massage parlors and marijuana dispensaries sprang up at every corner strip mall. Morals fled north to Alaska. And communists moved into the White House. It was a scary scene to be sure: a once peaceful, verdant, prosperous, Christ-loving nation had been raped and pillaged into a dystopian wasteland.

With flies buzzing America the Carcass, rock ’n’ roll turned its voracious appetite east toward Europe and went swimming.

Across the pond in the old country, Germany, still nursing the self-inflicted wounds and humiliation it sustained both during and after World War II, braced for the onslaught. It was 1957 when American rock ’n’ roll, led by Elvis Presley (a.k.a. Private Pelvis), stormed the western shores of Europe and began its high-decibel charge eastward toward Das Fatherland. Having been crushed and then occupied by the U.S. and its allies, Germany thought that by making a triumphant stand against this nascent musical enemy it might rekindle national pride among the citizenry and reclaim its place as a major player on the world stage. Or any stage for that matter. Even a stage at some local festival involving wiener dogs, warm lager, toten hosen and luft balloons. Indeed, Germany wasn’t about to let such filthy, impure music impregnate its kartoffelpuffer (that’s German for potato pancake, thank you very much).

So the country dispatched its warriors to the Black Forest, the strategy being that the thick vegetation would provide sufficient cover for national forces to surprise and pounce on the unsuspecting invaders. But because the country’s elite soldiers were either dead or still imprisoned (something about crimes against humanity committed during WWII), Germany’s leaders were forced to draft its accordion-wielding yodelers, all 249,000 of them, to do battle. It was a decision that wrought disastrous consequences, but at the time, the entire country rallied behind its leaders as they held out hope that their unconventional militia would triumph.

This brings us to the records this post serves to highlight. The first record shown above, Auf Wiedersehen by Walt Groller and His Orchestra, depicts an actual scene of an oompah band sending Germany’s heroes off to war on the wings of a high-tempo waltz and bright, soaring notes, a most fitting Auf Wiedersehen for sure. Meanwhile, the second album, Auf Geht’s! by the Little German Band, meanwhile, shows members of an elite accordion battalion hiking into the Black Forest (and toward their certain deaths).

What transpired on the battlefield was gruesome. Germany fought, and fought valiantly. For 20 minutes. Emerging from the cover of the Black Forest for pre-battle polka pep rally, the accordionists were ambushed by the sound of a million guitars roaring from a mountain of Marshall stacks. They were overwhelmed, blown back, unable to match the amplified barrage with their feeble squeezeboxes, whose cumbersome shape and heavy weight impeded and ultimately prohibited a hasty retreat back into forest. When the cliché dust settled, the smoke parted, and the last yodels and accordion farts echoed into the past, a quarter million men lay in a bloody, smoking heap, their lederhosen in tatters, accordions destroyed. I won’t go into detail about how rock ’n’ roll celebrated their victory, except to say that they made sandwiches of their adversaries, hence the name of Black Forest Ham. 

With Germany out of the way, rock conquered Europe, and the rest of the globe soon surrendered, as billions of people from all nations raised their horned hands in unison to salute to their new leader. I can only imagine what the world might have been had polka successfully stood up to the rock ’n’ roll aggressors. Suffice it to say it would have been a better place. Just because.

Should you happen across these records in your archaeological digs in the vinyl mines of Goodwill, know that you’re holding a piece of important history, about a war everyone else has either forgotten or never known about.

Set the Twilight Reeling

Greg Dulli Finds Redemption in the Twilight Singers
By Joe Ehrbar

EDITOR’S NOTE: This interview first appeared in the final edition of The Rocket, in October of 2000. I’m republishing it here, because, well, it was one of my favorite interviews and few people actually read it—most of the 85,000 Rocket issues were launched straight to the dumpster. During my time as a rock music inquisitor, I often avoided interviews with artists and bands of whom I was a big fan—I didn’t want to come off like a sycophant; I also wanted to spare myself the eternal embarrassment and disillusionment I’d no doubt feel should an idol interview end badly. This particular interview went pretty well, as I recall. Conducted by phone, my conversation with Greg Dulli lasted about an hour; maybe one day, I’ll transcribe the entire tape—before it crumbles to dust.

I’ve long admired Greg Dulli’s work, first as an Afghan Whig, then as Twilight Singer, later as a Gutter Twin. I regret not going to see him and his bands perform in the last decade. Perhaps I’ll resolve to get out more in 2012. One thing’s for sure, I’m excited by the recent news of an Afghan Whigs reunion. The band will make their grand re-entrance as the headliners of the ATP festival in Asbury Park in the spring. A tour will follow. Given the Whigs' Seattle history—they were among the original Sub Pop bands and Dulli lived here for a time—perhaps they’ll give us an encore.

Q&A with Greg Dulli. The latest issue of Chunklet magazine has been stirring up a bit of controversy for its cover story on the "The 100 Biggest Assholes in Rock." Charting high on the list is the Afghan Whigs' Greg Dulli at No. 24 (he beat out the likes of Isaac Brock and Mark E. Smith). While Dulli is down seven places from last year's posting, he's still considered a big asshole by the editors of Chunklet because, they say, "He thinks he's God's gift to women." Having only interviewed Dulli just once and over the phone-for this particular piece-I can't say that Greg Dulli is an asshole. During our recent conversation about his latest musical endeavor, the Twilight Singers, the singer was quite pleasant and candid and acted interested. I also can't vouch for Dulli thinking he's "God's gift to women"; the subject just never came up. If Dulli is guilty of anything it's his ability to make women swoon (or maybe, just one woman-my wife). As an Afghan Whig he's made some incredibly sexy soul music-all be it dark and tormented, but sexy rock 'n' roll nonetheless. Now with the Twilight Singers-a project that's involved the likes of crooners Shawn Smith (pigeonhed, Brad) and Harold Chichester (Howlin' Maggie) and English dance music kingpins Fila Brazilla, Dulli is immersing his soul singer talents into the wrinkled silk sheets of the night-where many romances begin and end. Much like the records cranked out by Motown in the '60s, the Twilight Singers' debut, Twilight as Played by the Twilight Singers (Columbia), is a bittersweet album, but it's also a bearer of soul music the likes of which you're not hearing these days.

The Rocket: How are you doing, Greg?
Greg Dulli: I've been better actually. I fucked up my back last weekend taking a bath.

The Rocket : Were you alone?
Dulli: Yeah, I was, actually [laughs]. I slipped in the tub and grabbed a towel rack and wrenched my back and spent all day Saturday in the hospital. It's bad. I've got to have an MRI in about an hour.

The Rocket : You must be swallowing some pretty sweet painkillers?
Dulli: Yeah, they're pretty sweet. They gave me Dilaudid on Saturday. I was in a Drugstore Cowboy state-of-mind all day Saturday, know what I'm sayin'? But since I had to do press today, I haven't taken any pills today. Right about now, though, I should take one.

The Rocket: So you're living in L.A. these days. How come you left Seattle?
Dulli: Honestly? The rain finally got to me. I love Seattle; I was there for six years, but for my health and state-of-mind I needed a little more sunshine.

The Rocket: While you were here, you began work with the Twilight Singers. How did this record come together?
Dulli: It took awhile. I started working on it three years ago.

The Rocket: Didn't the Twilight Singers start as a collaboration with Shawn Smith and Harold Chichester? Or, was it your idea?
Dulli: Oh, no, it was my idea. One thing I will state on that subject: Never try to get three lead singers in the same room.

The Rocket: I've had a bootleg copy of an early version of the album for about a year and a half-
Dulli: Oh, you have the demos? Uh-oh.

The Rocket: What I was going to say is that the final product of Twilight as Played By the Twilight Singers is significantly different and better in places than the original demos. It doesn't sound like it buckled under the weight of three distinct egos.
Dulli: It didn't because over the course of things one ego was destined to take over anyway. And I don't say that in an egotistical way, but it was my vision. And, honestly, I was bringing all of my best songs that I had at the time to the table and the other guys were kinda second-stringing it. And when you second-string it, the first team's gonna eat up the second team. It's not that those guys didn't have great songs in them, I just don't think that they were willing to part with them.

The Rocket: How much of the album was re-tooled in England with Fila Brazilla?
Dulli: The majority of it. Two songs got taken off: one of mine and one of Shawn's. Three songs ["Railroad Lullaby," "Annie Mae" and "Last Temptation"] took their place. I did three new songs in England. And of the eight original that remained, I re-did five of them.

The Rocket: What inspired this record?
Dulli: It was reclamation project. And what I was out to reclaim was a certain amount of my musical innocence. I felt like I was starting to bow under the expectations of a record company [Elektra] to the point of where it got so ugly that I had to leave said record company. And as a parting gift, they let the [Twilight Singers] demos out so that people such as yourself could hear them. It got so negative to point where I was starting to forget why you play music in the first place. A lot of music for me started out in a self-gratifying way. I made up songs that I wasn't hearing but wanted to hear. I think [this project] was to get back to that. I think Harold Chichester, in particular, who's been through the same wars I've been through, he was the most inspirational. He said, "Why don't you write songs that you want to hear again." That seemed like an anachronistic thought, but it was so right on that I took him up on his offer.

The Rocket: To me, it sounds like the soul record that no one's making today.
Dulli: Yeah, I was finally able to articulate what soul singing means to me. And to me soul singing is if the singer can make you feel like he feels when he's singing that particular song. That's what I really got in touch with. There's no chart toppers on this record, but it's probably the most pure recording I've done since I was a teenager.

The Rocket: It's funny, the liner notes to the advance promo CD of the album says that it was "conceived in your bedroom."
Dulli: That's where my recording equipment was set up.

The Rocket: Nice double entendre.
Dulli: It definitely is a double entendre. A lot of people have told me-and I've started to feel this way as I started workin' it out-"Well, this is kind of a mood record." And the mood is definitely sexual. And I've heard from people that they have used it in their seductive pursuits.

The Rocket: And with varying degrees of success? Or was it unanimous?
Dulli: I think a lot of these guys who are using it are using it on people that stuff like this has worked on before. So they're preaching to the converted.

The Rocket: As long as the seductees aren't listening too closely. The lyrics betray the music's sultry, sexual tone. It's full of heartache and heartbreak.
Dulli: Lyrically, I've always sort of been like that, which is why I think I was so drawn to Motown music in particular. There's a lot of jaunty musical tracks in the Motown repertoire. But if you strip away the words and read them on their own, they're pretty heart-breaking. A lot of Supremes songs are on a real jaunty, kind of doot, doot, doot, but when you take the words out....That's why Uptown Avondale [an EP of soul covers the Afghan Whigs recorded in 1993 for Sub Pop] was a big experiment for be because I started to hone in on that. I'm like, "These words are sad. What if you took these words and put them in a sad setting? You get a really devastating heart-breaker of a tune. More than anything, I think [the Twilight Singers] is a continuation of the Uptown Avondale principle.

The Rocket: It's that betrayal or underlying sadness or bittersweetness that makes the music compelling and affecting. Reggae and rock steady utilized the same formula.
Dulli: Oh yeah. People will hide heartbreak behind anything that will conceal it. I think it was pretty ingenious what they were doing, especially in Detroit.

The Rocket: Twilight as Played By ends on kind of an ambiguous note, with you repeating the chorus "Everything's gonna be all right." It can easily interpreted as something positive, uplifting. What do you think?
Dulli: There's a point in the "Everything's gonna be all right" where I start to wonder if it is going to be all right. I sort of wonder if it's not a desperate man trying to convince himself of a lie. In the time that I wrote that song, I was desperately trying to convince myself of a reason to continue on because I was psychiatrically in trouble-though, thankfully, I do not find myself in that spot right now. Bob Marley popularized that phrase, at least musically. It was definitely done with the full knowledge that he had done it. To me, it's a universal statement and one I could hang my hooks into. Honestly, the record helped me purge a lot of things, helped me move on, if not musically then palpably.

The Rocket: How difficult was the process of writing and recording the material while wrestling personal demons?
Dulli: I don't know what a nervous breakdown is, but from what I've heard I think I had one and was having during the writing as I was able to revisit it with the three new songs ["Railroad Lullaby," "Annie Mae" and "Last Temptation"]. These songs give the record some levity without taking it out of its context. The three new songs helped it sound more cohesive. They were strategically placed in the repertoire of the album to give it that feel it has now.

The Rocket: Was it painful trying to complete this record this year, to tap back into the mindset you had a couple years ago?
Dulli: Yeah, but when you confront something, you don't fear it anymore. Had I kept running from it-which, I'm sure the record company would have been fine with if I left it on the shelf.... I'm a completion junkie, I have to have closure on something in order to move on. Going back and listening to some of the [album's songs] and the B-sides, too, I was like, "Whoa, who is that guy?" I felt bad for him. When you can go back and have pity on yourself-but it's not self-pity because it's another version of you-that's kind of interesting. It was the sound of a person who did not like himself at all. Thankfully, I've overcome that. So, on the new songs, I had to go back to that other guy a little bit and help him out, help him at least connect the dots.

In Death Gerry Rafferty Gets Last Laugh

Gerry Rafferty's pickled liver finally walked off the job this week, so denying any further comeback attempt or call for one last round by its owner. While this might be seen as tragic (how can death deny a very thirsty man a final drink ... or two dozen?), few of us are shedding tears about Gerry's slightly premature checkout. Some of us are even laughing -- because the accidental prankster hit the road toward the great gig in the sky and left us with the master tapes to "Baker Street," whose distinctive porno sax solo, with its stained sheets of sound, is sure to ooze into the sleazy motels of our minds for many years to come. Damn you, Gerry! What a kidder.

Help Me Out Here...

Do people actually enjoy the music of Todd Rundgren? Really, do people park their butts on the couch and say, "Phyllis, fetch my slippers--tonight, I'm gonna re-cline and bathe in the bittersweet melodies of the Todd." Is there some joke that I'm not getting?

I've tried to listen to this clown for years, and every time I'm left to wonder, "What am I doing this for?" Honestly, I don't know. Perhaps it's because people (friends, writers, connoisseurs) whom I respect mention his name from time to time--and not as a punchline, either! (What do you get when you cut cocaine with hairspray, VD and the eyebrows of George Harrison? Todd Rundgren. Or: What's the difference between a bucket of poop and Todd Rundgren? Todd Rundgren plays keyboards. Not very funny, I know, but I'm not getting paid for this.)

Anyway, last night I gave this so-called pop music genius/studio whiz another shot, dropping the needle on his 1978 opus, The Hermit of Mink Hollow. Three songs into this slick-as-shit, pop-goes-the-fart crap fest, I yanked the LP off the turntable, returned it to its jacket, and tossed it in the box of castoffs about to make the final leg of their round-trip journey from the thrift store.

Maybe I'll have better luck with the Alan Parsons Project.

Sing Along No More

On Saturday, July 31, Mitch Miller finally died. After 99 years! As I write, his corpse is being reunited with his music career.

Sadly, I'm sure to be haunted by Mitch's stupid smirk and goober goatee for years to come, for every time I treasure hunt for vinyl gold at the thrift shop, while flipping past cat-urine-scented classical LPs and mildew-stained Art Garfunkel albums, I'm greeted by a glut of "Sing Along with Mitch" records. And there are dozens of them. I haven't been to every thrift store in this fine country, but every thrift store I've been to, from Jacksonville to Spokane, Seattle to Santa Barbara, has had a stash of Mitch Miller records. Which isn't all that surprising since he was said to have sold 17 million albums by 1966!

And, really, the thrift store is where his music belongs--gathering dust and mold along with the rest of the consumer detritus and cast-offs we so charitably donate. It's justice for the sing-songy gimmicky crap "the maestro" shoved down America's throat in the 1950s and '60s. Back then, when rock 'n' roll was king, Miller, in his vain yet futile attempt to conform America's impressionable ears to his own bad taste, said famously, "[rock 'n' roll] is not music. It's a disease." Which wouldn't have been a big deal, had ol' Tin Ear not been running the show at Columbia Records. For the record, it wasn't Mitch who signed Bob Dylan; it was John Hammond.

Mitch made a brief comeback in 1993, when his music was taken out of mothballs and applied in a new, more suitable context when it was played at ear-splitting volumes to drive out David Koresh from his compound. Sadly, Mitch's music wasn't an effective enough irritant and ended up becoming background music for a pretty spectacular barbecue. Anyway, should you happen upon a Mitch Miller LP at the thrift store, leave it. Don't listen to it; don't even trash it--our dumps are already overflowing with Andy Williams records.

Besides the millions of pounds of toxic waste generated from the polyvinyl chloride used in the manufacture of his foul-tasting pop music confections, Mitch Miller is survived by his ridiculous goatee.

Beatles or Stones?

Kinks.