January 17, 1970 would have been its fourth birthday, but that hardly matters now. The Boston Tea Party is no more. Since the beginning of time (or so it now seems) the Tea Party was the one place in Boston where name brand rock and roll entertainment could be found. Day-glo palaces (the Psychedelic Supermarket, the Crosstown Bus, and countless others that never got beyond the initial stages of delusion) came and went in wispers, but the Tea Party, with its talent solidarity and comparatively unoffensive presentation, had attained a position of relative institutionalization. The final door-closing found the club located on Lansdowne Street in the shadow of Fenway Park (the home of the Red Sox, baseball’s answer to the Denver Broncos) on the site of another of 1 Boston’s ill-fated rock emporiums, the Ark. (The Ark, it will be remembered, was a tasteless attempt to bring an Electric Circus to Boston, not realizing that Boston’s basic charm stems from her insistence on historical personality and consequent resistence to all but organic face-lifts.)

Before the Tea Party assimilated the Ark, however, it was located on Berkely Street in the South End. The South End is that section of the city where the buildings have decayed just a shade past the point of respectable tradition, and is therefore doomed to serve as a receptacle for those too poor to move out of the city and too defeated to even entertain dreams of ever doing so. It was in the Magnus Hall, a beautifully grotesque old monolith with spectacularly high ceilings and “Praise

Ye The Lord” still inscribed over the altar converted into a stage, and it was here that many of Boston’s fondest rock memories were made.

In the days when the rest of the country didn’t particularly want them, the Velvet Underground were always at home in Boston, and the warm acceptance they found at the Tea Party served as a relaxed launching pad for the propulsion of their delayed-action rocket. Warhol & Crew would often fly down from New York for the gigs, bringing with them a special magic which was always somehow more palatable in a New England context than it was on its oppressive home soil. The MC5 made the Tea Party the first stop on their initial Eastern swing (second-billed to the Velvets), leaving countless destroyed heads and a permanent home-away-from-home in their wake. Performances by the Who at the Tea Party called for a considerably greater expenditure of energy than they’ve displayed in the last two years. The ballroom was the site of the only public performance by the now-legendary Magic Terry & The Universe, an exposition of rock insanity so advanced that it caused club manager Don Law to flip even farther out than when he unwittingly booked the Stooges for their first Boston gig (and you should have seen the look on his face that night!). The Tea Party also played an important part in the development of the J. Geils Band, a band as steeped in the funky rock mythology of Boston as was the Tea Party itself.

The roots of what is now known as the J. Geils Band can be. traced to Worcester, Massachusetts and a jug band called “Snoopy And The Sopwith Camel”. Worcester is like any number of faceless semi-cities in the Bay State

(places like Fall River, Springfield and New Bedford): depressing municipalities living in the shadow of faded industrial glory; the kind of places you live in only until you can scrape together busfare to Boston. It was here that J. Geils began picking up on the blues (probably because there was nothing better to do in Worcester at the time), a direction inspired by the disintegration of the jug band, joined in his pursuits by young Danny Klein and Magic Dick.

The early summer of 1967 found them escaping the Worcester stranglehold into the fast-flourishing electric blues scene of Boston/Cambridge. They gained modified houseband status at the Unicorn, a folky club experimenting with the possibilities of electric music (both Jefferson Airplane and Spirit made their Boston debuts there). The J. Geils Blues Band at this time consisted of J. on lead guitar, Danny on bass* Dick (who now called himself “Pittsfield Slim”) on harp and vocals, and a tall dude with an extravagant mustache, whose name is now lost, on drums and vocals. At that time they were undoubtedly the finest juke-box bluesband in all the land. They didn’t mess around with anything too original, preferring straight-from-the-shoulder renditions of blues standards spearheaded by the fine lead work of J. They were not particularly exciting as stage performers, but to a Boston community just beginning to explore the intellectual possibilities of the black man’s blues, the J. Geils Blues Band as a definative blues primer was an instrumental tool in shaping a musical consciousness.

At approximately the same time in Boston there was a band known as the Hallucinations. Like the J. Geils Blues Band, they were into black music far deeper than vogue superficiality. But where the Geils outfit concentrated on blues along purist lines, the Hallucinations were involving themselves with the comparatively more showy aspects of rhythm & blues (one of their very best songs was “Heatwave”). What they lacked in technical polish, they more than made up for in energetic funk. Hallucinations shows at the old Tea Party have acheived a very special place in Beantown folklore, for they combined rousingly funky music with a stage show which can only be described as contagiously outrageous.

The Hallucinations were led by guitarist Paul Shapiro and crazed vocalist Peter Wolf. Wolf, at that time also a late-night purveyor of r&b delights on local rock station WBCN, was the closest thing Boston possessed to a resident rock and roll maniac. While everybody else in sight was stuck on the lethargies of acid-rock and the like, Wolf just got up there and shook his ass like a jnadman. To many he was more than strongly reminiscent of Jagger, but he was one of the few around to exude a directly physical appeal, a precious commodity indeed in those cerebral times.

A few brief words should be said about the Boston rock scene in this period. While the MGM “Boston Sound” fiasco tended to concentrate on a series of opportunist readymades (under the assumption that California-styled market transplant in the East), there was a very viable scene already existant (albeit not in terms that recording industry magnates could fathom). In keeping with the relaxed life-style Boston affords, her music scene was built upon a loose comraderie of musicians, a collective of people who played and hung out together simply because it felt good.

Bands like The Remains (there’s one for you to check out, Lester), The Lost (whose bassist, Walter Powers, now plays in the illegitimate Velvet Underground), The Barbarians (who, sans Moulty, moved west and became Black Pearl) and the Ramrods refused to trade in their brand of good-time, get-down music for more commercially viable academic castration. They played for their audiences, not exclusively for themselves, in a hard-and-fast manner suited even to dancing. (Let it be remembered that California hated the Beacon Street Union because they

played hard rock\) They built their reputations, whether in friendly ballrooms like the Tea Party or distant lounges like the Saxony, on their ability to show the people a good time. The J. Geils Band evolved out of a scene based on these principals; principals they have thankfully never stopped operating under.

At this point in time we now have the J. Geils Blues Band and the Hallucinations both gigging on the New England rock circuit, drawing generally good response wherever they played and not pushing especially hard for instant international fame and fortune. Both groups were approached by little men with pushy cigars during the “Boston Sound” thing, but both very wisely let it pass. The entire set-up just didn’t feel right, and neither was going to jump before they felt secure with themselves. While both bands had very attractive musical facets which could have made them a potentially viable product, both also possessed certain unresolved weaknesses and a great capacity for growth which only time could iron out. Yet the strengths of the J. Geils Blues Band and the Hallucinations seemed to compliment each other, and a fusion of the two bands seemed like sure-fire dynamite. Which happens to be the way things worked out.

J. and Dick happened to be hanging out at the Club 47 in Cambridge (perhaps the finest folk club this country has ever seen; it was forced to close in 1968 due to operating costs and performer’s fees a small club just couldn’t handle, but in its illustrious history it nursed Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Tom Rush, Jim Kweskin, Tim Hardin, David Blue and innumerable other folk luminaries through the breast-feeding stage in their development) on a night when the Hallucinations were performing. Having had problems with drummers and vocalists, it took them little time to pick up on the obvious talents of Wolf and drummer Stephen Bladd. The Hallucinations were in the process of calling it quits, and Wolf and Stephen soon found themselves in the company of J., Dick and Danny in the revitalized J. Geils Band.

Under the new allignment, things began falling into place. The technical mastery of the old Geils outfit was treated to the dynamic spark so sorely missing in their formula, while Wolf found in his new comrades a necessary musical solidarity (which, in turn,

disciplined him) on which to base his funky antics. Seth Justman was lured away from school by our band of renegades to do the keyboard honors, rounding out the sound perfectly. What emerged was a rambunctious amalgam of blues heritage, rhythm & blues inspiration and good old rock and roll zippity-doo-dah.

Now it might have been perfectly natural to assume (and many people, myself included, did) that the J. Geils Band would burst forth from Boston to wreak vengence upon all those anemic sissies who were dominating the musical spotlight in early 1969. Such was not the case. They did manage to gather a contract from Atlantic records, but various attempts at recording fell short of the expected mark; things didn’t mesh, it still didn’t feel right. In this respect it is nearly impossible to over-praise the band: they steadfastly refused to put a product out on the market until they were completely satisfied with its representative value. Still, as the band’s gigs began cutting deeper and deeper into core audience response, people began getting more and more impatient for a record. Boston rock station WBCN had the infamous J. Geils “bathroom tapes” (that were almost exactly what the name implies) and a tape of their performance at Alternate Media Conference at Goddard College, but these hardly sufficed. In the waning weeks of 1970, however, peoples’ patience was rewarded — the long-awaited album from the J. Geils Band was finally delivered, and the results more than justified the extended waiting period.

I have to admit that the album, titled simply The J. Geils Band (Atlantic SD-8275), surpassed even my considerably high expectations. The entire album, I’m told, was cut in a mere three days, with little or no overdubbing or special effects. It manages to capture the good get-down vibes of their live performances (it was cut live in the studio, the only way a band like this could go), but under the expert hands of veteran R&B producers Dave Crawford and Brad Shapiro, the recording is crystal clear. And the band, as Ronnie Hawkins might say, is tighter than a twelve year old virgin.

One look at the cover and you know what’s happening with these dudes: faces staring out in black-and-white indifference, all leathers, shades and self-confidence. If it wasn’t for the facial hair you’d swear that you had stumbled into the bar that served as hang-out for the rival gang from the other side of the tracks way back in the Fifties. The music they play is just what you’d imagine at this point — tough, uncompromising funk Virtually unaffected by the love generation and false narcotic gods. They should do the sound track for the movie that Sha-Na-Na only hints at.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about this album is the smooth diversity the band displays. In their early stages, the J. Geils Band, for all their technical competence, were; mired somewhat in a largely derivative stance. This record attests to the fact that those days are in the past, and has much to say about individual identities as it does about a oollective approach. It could be called blues, it could be called R&B, it could be called rock and roll; I prefer to call it good energetic music and leave it at that. They spent their formative years absorbing the best of all these musics and the sound they have distilled is truly their own.

The development of J. Geils borders on the unreal. Always a fine blues lead guitarist, his scope has widened and his role expanded greatly in the last two years. His leads posess a textural dimension they lacked beforehand his rhythm work is aggressively effective. Peter Wolf, who always had the right phrasing and moves, now has the poise so necessary to a good lead singer. Danny Klien’s bass is not always as pronounced as it could be, but this is at least partly resultant from his solidarity with drummer Stephen Bladd. I had had strong reservations about the functional logic involved in having a harp player who does nothing else, but in this respect Magic Dick has shut my mouth. He has done more to develop the use of £he harmonica (he fills both lead and rhythm roles, and as a more-than-acceptable horn substitute) than anybody, Butterfield included, that I’ve heard in recent memory. Seth Justman’s keyboard role is rather understated, but he compliments the bottom beautifully, and I look forward with pleasure to more spotlight time for his piano work.

“Homework” and Smokey’s “First I Look At The Purse” (the two sides of their single) show what they can do with cooking R&B. Both move on a solid Geils/Magic Dick rhythm track, perfect for dancing and nearly impossible to resist. But “What’s Your Hurry”, penned by Wolf and Justman, shows that they are fully capable of creating their own R&B tradition. Indeed, the album is marked by both vigorous treatment of older material and an impressive ability to come up with equally fine material of their own.

Albert Collins’ “Sno-Cone” and Geils’ “Ice Breaker” are examples of the band’s instrumental prowess. The latter must rate (especially in light of the Cream-inspired trend toward endless monotony) as a brilliant instrumental; it is compact (3:24) yet individually illuminating, and features one of the most intelligent and interesting drum solos to come down the pike since Ginger Baker made the drums an instrument of dull destruction. Their natural affection for bluesy-up-tempo (“Cruisin’ For A Love”, “Hard Drivin’ Man”) is offset by a rendition of John Lee Hooker’s “Serve You Right To Suffer” that moves well despite its comparitive length (5:01) and a great Wolf-Justman thing called “On Borrowed Time” in the ballad vein.

For my money, though, “Wait” is probably the album’s best cut. The opening piano riff is fused with some marvelous Geils rhythmical funk, while the rest of the band supports in tightfully moving fashion. It features Wolf at the height of his vocal streetcorner cool, and “The bartender says you’re disengaged” must surely be instant classic in the poetics of rock. It’s the kind of song, with its infectious melody and tough vocal, that encourages bedroom rock star sing-along fantasies when nobody is around.

Though this album displays as high-energy a conception as you’ll find, their years of practice and application have ingrained a polish and sense of taste that so many of your bust-’em-up bands have never stopped to consider. Their energy is smoothly directed; the kind of energy that loosens you up rather than knocking you down. Their very obvious technical skills are backed up (and sometimes even overshadowed) by an enthusiasm and emotional awareness that adds up to super-fine music and a good time guaranteed for all. But as good as the album is (and I have little doubt that it will prove itself among this year’s best), it is still only a representative piece of wax and tells but one side of the J. Geils Band story.

In reference to Mighty Quick’s performance at the Alternative Media

Conference of last summer, Lester Bangs contended that “anybody who can piss off that many people must have something going for ’em”. The J. Geils band also made that gig, and on the basis of their reception it becomes apparent that anybody who can motivate that many people in a positive manner must surely have considerably more going for them. It is the live performance which ultimately defines the essence of the J. Geils Band, and at the same time convincingly separates them from the mainstream trend-chasers and hangers-on.

The J. Geils band in concert instantly recalls the aura of those wonderfully sweaty high school gyms and stiflingly crowded bar scenes that marked our collective youth. No mere re-enactment of stale nostalgia (as constituted the body of the recent “revival”), they have always operated out of the belief that certain principals from that era are not only still relevant but basic to their music. The J. Geils method must figure prominently in any discussion of music as “resensification”, for while they consciously encourage open response to their music, they promote a joyous inter-action with their audience that outdistances the simple hand-clapping and murmurred “far-outs” which distinguish contemporary rock reaction. Dancing and jiving, laughing and singing, on occasion even joining with the band on-stage in boisterous communion; these have long been the welcomed effects of the J. Geils experience.

Over the past years, the band’s show has made strides to match that of the music. Performing has always been Peter Wolfs forte, and he serves as primary point of energy transfer between the band and audience. He used to strut about in almost Jaggeresque pose, but now comes closer to the shuffle-bomp of a drugstore Dion: an easy flow of engagingly confident energy. His raps between (and occasionally during) songs revive a lost art in rock; his humor, being both personable and personal, reflects the casual intimacy of the entire band’s presentation.

The rest of the band carry themselves with the same informal air and lack of pop-star pretension. Old J. Geils, with legs that just can’t resist the rhythm, is musical maestro, and he wrenches those notes from his quitar with a fluidity that makes it look deceptively simple. Each member of the band registers an awareness of the others visually as well as musically. You know they’re having

fun up there, dammit, and that makes resistance nigh impossible. I mean, how can any self-respecting hipster be expected to maintain his ultra-cool (which he cultivated, no doubt, only after long hours in front of the mirror and endless Bogart flicks) in the face of six men so obviously enjoying themselves and, what’s worse, going out of their way to provoke the audience into the same frame of enjoyment. (And, after all, aren’t rock and roll stars supposed to act detached, indifferent, and even downright aristocratic. This sort of thing is liable to undermine the very foundation of 1960’s rock and roll.)

The music is always solid. A standard J. Geils Band set will give you all your favorite tunes from the album, and considerably more to surprise and delight. They pay ample tribute to their root affections (J. is particularly fond of Otis Spann, Wolf possesses every R&B single issued since 1896), they introduce new compositions (the Wolf-Justman team, on the basis of the album alone, will no doubt keep us supplied with killer music for quite some time to come), and they throw in left-field presents just to keep you on your toes (I am told they are considering “Wooly Bully” for that special J. Geils treatment). But despite their loose physical presence, the music and show are professionally oiled for machinegun movement. That they have found an effective translation of their funky excitement into a thoroughly professional context attests to the fact that the time they took getting here was more than well spent.

The Boston Tea Party is no more. It stands orphaned and alone on Lansdowne Street these days, another permanent fixture in the nostalgia of Boston. That other Boston fixture, the J. Geils Band, is very much alive, however, and firmly a part of the present that the Tea Party just couldn’t keep up with. Like Boston itself, they make a name for themselves in their own solid, though admittedly hardly neon spectacular, way. If you’ve got the ears, they’ve got the music, and that’s probably as far as a J. Geils hype will ever go. And that’s good. Judging from the response they appear to be getting, Boston is going to have to make concessions to ears all over the country who are picking up on her most solid musical citizens. Which, I think, is just fine.