The Psychedelic Sounds Of ROKY ERICKSON

The Psychedelic Sounds Of ROKY ERICKSON

by Gregg Turner

�I just love monsters. I haven't met one person in the world that doesn't like a monster. Sometimes / wonder why I write my songs. I guess the reason I say that is— sometimes my songs seem to be a little bit too wordy. I'd rather have a song that's... scary. �

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(Roger) Roky (Kynard) Erickson, lead-singer/songwriter/guitarist of the 13th Floor Elevators, was born on St. Swithin�s Day in Dallas, Texas 1948, the� son of an Episcopalian architect and regionally prominent opera singer. He was first �horrified by comic books. The kind,� Roky recalls, �that were printed in black and white. They were so horrifying they couldn�t print them in color.. .and then, they couldn�t print them at all!� While early childhood fixations on late night TV and horror movies explicate the �demons and gremlins� he maintains lived behind the door of his bedroom in the shadows, disconnected images of real-life, �severed heads and headless torsos screaming in the night,� became an obsessive cornerstone of the Erickson world. Roky�s taste for celluloid terror prompted a quick exit from high school (11th grade) and the incarnation of his first band, The Roulettes. Then The Spades.

Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Screamin� Jay Hawkins—these were all focal points of inspiration. When the Brit Invasion shot thru Texas, primitive angles of crude, raw, fast-chord rock spurred Roky to unleash one of the greatest exhibitions of mental psychosis vis-a-vis 4-chord rock �n� roll of all time. Some have likened �You�re Gonna Miss Me� to �Gloria� but in fact the Van Morrison hit was not released until 1965 (one year subsequent to the Spades recording of �Miss Me� on their own Zero Records label in �64) and moreover bears little resemblance to the attacking hysteria of sound, the aggression of manic-ness that the Erickson tune dishes out in generous platefuls. The song sets high water marks of psychotic-release virtually unheard-of ca. 1964 (well, maybe Gerry Roslie and The Sonics—but that�s the Pacific Northwest!) and absolutely unprecedented considering the demographic nature-of-the-dog (Texas)! E-D-A-G. The chords are slammed ° home, then downstroked 4/4 as metallic | backbones of guitar greet unrestrained, % uncaged total insanity with no-holds-barr| ed. Erickson screams, and I mean screeeeeu eeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaamms with this type of �outside-of-my-brain� conviction that jars loose cerebral peace-of-mind in one fell swoop. Inflections on the words emphasize the imperative-ness of the fast rock beat, Roky�s punk-snotty vocal-edge sending a persecuted story of retaliation so convincingly deranged and credible in its .basketcased desperation the listener becomes tangent to the insanity, hyperextended to the mania.

Vm an alien from Mars.

The Lingsmen from Kerrville stole Roky from the Spades to be lead-singer of their �super-group�—the 13th Floor Elevators. A re-recording of �Miss Me� different from the Zero Records garage-demo first appeared on Contract Records, then on Houston�s International Artists label. The latter release on IA, a relatively obscure record company later to gain a retrospective notoriety for its roster of crazies and unconventional music-for-the-time, became a springboard for national recognition of sorts; �Miss Me� was a breakout hit charting prominently all over the place. The sounds (an amplified jug was used to punctuate already strange tunes with stranger patterns and tempos) and themes. Lyricist Tommy Hall (the jug-player) fitted reams of acid-drenched theology and quasi-mysticism with Roky�s music.

Their first elpee was called The Psychedelic Sounds Of The 13th Floor Elevators and it looked like some sorta psyched-out third-grade fingerpainting gone berserk—an eye circumscribed w/ circles and blotches of green and red. On the back, this freaked diatribe about �Aristotle and man�s organization of knowledge vertically in separate and unrelated groups...� The songs were all warp-outs about black things �grabbing you from behind� and crawling inside your brain and stuff and so quickly rabid followings of sugar-cube heads established Roky and The Elevators as kingpins in an acid-world limelight (eventually paving the way for groups such as Jefferson Airplane and The Grateful Dead to capitalize on more lucrative aspects of the scene so-called).

Liner notes on this disc repeatedly whine about �the quest for pure sanity� and that �recently it has become possible for man to chemically alter his mental state...� Relegating the aesthetic impetus of this band to el-SD in-and-of-itself nullifies what I think deserves more credit: The Elevators were musicians of the highest order, slaves to an unusualness rooted by extremes of pathology governing Roky as a performer and songwriter. The tunes on this first album bleed the Erickson persona, the charged-up ferociousness of passion and sickness that artists the likes of Patti Smith, Tom Verlaine, Robert Plant (?) and Metal Mike Saunders have later claimed as �impetus to create.� Anyway, Roky emerges from this monumental album as a prime number, an indivisible, nonfactorable talent not really traceable to anything before. He quickly became the standard, the prototype for all latterday punks to emulate and use.

Anecdotes trade hands of monstrous hallucinogen-hayrides, 5-tabs-of-acid-aday/two-trips-a-minute, but tKe Elevators� legacy as punk-rock pioneers and looneytune creatures beyond control manifest vividly in the minds of those who remember —citizens of the Avalon ballroom in Frisco back in �67, �8, scores of fans contagious to what was happening back then.

IA released two more Elevators LPs, Live (dubbed-in applause from not-used studio stuff) and Bull Of The Woods (more studio outtakes, some without Roky). Actually, these were the third and fourth of the four IA-Elevators releases. The one preceeding these two, the second alb—Easter Everywhere—softened the metal edge of the first alb, included some additional ballads and less interesting/more self-indulgent Tommy Hall hippie-poetry and stuff like that. But some hall-of-fame tunes: �Slip Inside This House,� �Levitation,� and �She Lives In A Time Of Her Own� were among several noteworthy here.

Efforts of civic-minded authority and lawsubhumans finally clamped down on counter-culture and drugs and the Elevators were ripe targets.

Roky was arrested for possession of marijuana around this time, a charge to which he pleaded �not guilty by reason of insanity.� Jail was precluded for the mental institution. �I was such a good actor, man. I had them all fooled; sayin� there were spots runnin� up and down the walls, beasts with big fangs everywhere—well, they believed me!� Beasts with big fangs weren�t the only thing Roky talked about. Apparently one configuration had Roky behind a slide projector demonstrating �configurations of Nazi astrobodies� (constellations of...??) and �deformed shapes.� During his incarnation, a book of poetry was finished entitled Openers. I remember seeing the ad in the back-page classifieds of Rolling Stone back in �72; curiously enough, images inside the edition abounded w/Christ proclamations and born-again ' Jesus-manifesto—but with a twist: �Ye Are Not Crazy Man� and �Jesus Is Not A Hallucinogenic Mushroom� typified the carnival of thought! Turns out the revenue collected from the sales grounded legal fees to get Roky out of the nuthouse. He insists however the conceptual nature' of the poetry had been altered: �It�s like whenever they printed Jesus, I had written alien and martian.� Roky was finally released matriculating to the flying saucers. The high priest of a generation tied to LSD and love had a new message for his for his flower children: �I�m an alien from Mars.�

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Not only did he swear to �belief in spaceships sucking the blood out of cows and people,� he maintained that he himself was �an alien from outer space, a Martian,� the reality of which had just been �made apparent.�

1975 proved the first apparition of Roky Erickson onstage since the Elevators and confinement (actually in �72 he tried briefly to reform the band with his brother and John Ike Walton, the band�s original drummer, but engagements were tenuous and Roky�s visibility in the public eye was spotty at best). Doug Sahm and the Sir Doug Quintet booked three nights at North Hollywood�s Palomino club, a C&W showcase improbably for occasional outcroppings of hard-rock (way before it turned �Urban Cowboy� catering to shmoemacho types at present). Unlikely as it seemed, rumors circulated to the effect that Roko was along for the ride—to perform some of his new material with Sir Doug backing up. Allowing for the implausible, I rushed down to the Pal, scouted any sign of life, of what might be perceived, uhm, weird: Was wearing my Elevator T-shirt (w/a pyramid-eye just like on the first album) that Phast Phreddie of Back Door Man mag had stenciled months before, when Sahm�s face winced in incredulity. �You wanna meet Roky?� he asks.

Erickson�s sitting at this battered backstage conference table, explaining to some weathered lovechild-turned-40-yrs.old why he�s certain he�s an �alien from outer space.�

�Like, my mother was the first one who told me about it. She told me I was an alien.� Roky�s Texas accent blends with shades of John Astin, like a used-car dealer from Hawaii. �I didn�t want t�believe, but she insisted, so now.. .what do you call your mother?� The woman guesses nervously: �Uh, mom, mommy,�—�c�mon, what else? What d�ya call her?�—�Uhm, uh... mum? uh...�Ma, right? You call her Ma.�—�Yeah, yeah, right, I see, Ma. Ma//� Roky appropriated a clean side of notebook paper. He slowly and carefully carved each letter out w/a black felt-tipped pen: M-A like �Ma� at the top of the sheet, then resumed interrogation. �Now, what�s the first letter of my first name?�—�Roky.. .V to �R�!!� He was pleased with the quickness of this development, added an �R� to the alpha string: M-A-R. Continues: �Now what comes after R?� She scrambled for the answer, �A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H .� Paused. Then �H-I-J...S! It�s S!�-�That�s right,� exclaimed Roky mater-of-factly, finally penning: M-A-R-S. He nodded serenely up and down as if spelling out the grim reality. �Yeah, and I couldn�t believe it either the first time / found out.�

If this bit of lunacy detracted from the �diabolical mastermind, evil genius� legacy that pervaded expectations of Roxy�s return to form—suffice it to say his performance of new selections did not. This time around Rok was showing off tunes that fit newly personal lyrics with explosively powerful sounds. Screams knifing out from the middle of �T\Ao Headed Dog (Red Temple Prayer)� erupted from these lateral head gyrations—this incredibly bizarre resonance he forcefeeds down the mike like a shortlived epileptic fit. A rurj-thru of four new ones, including the Buddy Holly-oid ballad �Starry Eyes,�, floored basically everyone in the room—and that includes alia the cowboy-dorks not knowing what to make of this frantic creature that shook the floor with his Telecaster and wailed to the ceilings with a voice that sprayed a re-vitalized rock �n� roll angst like a firehose run amuck in a sewer or something. All of these pig-faced beef-brains gaping open-mouthed wondering �Wha the fuck�...Whatta night.

Rhino Records (record store and label) on Westwood Blvd. in West L.A. became interested in sponsoring Erickson with studio time in hopes of an imminent 45-release not long to follow. 1976 now, and Roky�s currently supported by a crew of handpicked musicians called (surprise) the Aliens. Manager Craig Luckin shopped far and wide for the �sympathetic� talent to support Roky�s endeavors. Duane Aslaken plays guitar, looks like a Pavlovian hybrid of James Williamson and Keith Richards. Bill Miller�s the choice for electric autoharp, an instrument that clones effects similar to Tommy Hall�s amplified jug (tho sparingly employed in that respect) and angry white noise. �Bermuda� b/w �The Interpreter� actuates vinyl and Rhino goes to work promoting word of Erickson�s comeback trail.

Around the same time, more demo stuff s recorded and subsequently released on the French-labeled Sponge Records EP, �Mine Mine Mind,� �I Have Always Been Here Before� (shades of Syd Barrett acoustic melodies) and �Click Your Fingers Applauding The Play.� Some �500-600� new songs testify to Roky�s prolific rebound, the ones appearing on these two 7-inch discs are formulated and very cohesive. Dark themes and demonology replace strict martian-outer space party-line as evidenced in �White Faces� (�About a pack of wolves that surrounds a family on the forest and negotiates with the head of the family-the-dad—which of his kids the wolves can eat�) and �It�s A Cold Night For Alligators.� Explains Rok: �I go in for the 'more evil side of things. I don�t really like anything unless it�s evil. I go in for nightmare comics and horror magazines. I like to go to old buildings that have caved in, in the darkest part of Dallas at midnight, and read about people injecting printer�s ink into people�s veins—and someone cutting off a man�s hand because he wanted his ring and then the hand kills him in jail while he�s asleep. Blood spurting out the little arteries in the wrist after it�s cut off../�

A year later on, a press party introducing Erickson and the Aliens to Los Angeles (prior to two Whisky shows that had Roky in a tux and cape rocking out like a supercharged Dracula!) occurred at Crawdaddy magazoon�s office off of Sunset Blvd. Richard Meltzer commented that autoharpMiller looked like a �mushroom.�

Horror movies since have enveloped Erickson�s imaginos, culturing songs to parrot the obsession. �-Creature With The Atom Brain,� �Stand For The Fire Demon� (after �Curse Of The Demon� starring Dana Andrews) and on and on. Now aliens and demons succumb to strict celluloid kid-recollections of the grizzly. One day we played �word� association: Blood? �The Day The World Ended.� fangs? ��Bedlam� Halloween? �The Day He Came Home� (the subhead of the film Halloween) kill? �The Day The World Ended� monster? �Creature From The Black Lagoon� baby? �The Four Skulls Of Jonathan Drake� demon? �The Hideous Sun Demon� dead? �The Day The World Ended.�

The Aliens as of the turn of this decade have been playing independent of Roky; Texas punkrockers The Explosives currently are backing performances and repertoire. Scattered, almost infrequent, shows in the Bay Area, where Roky now lives, have garnered a rabid mob of fans, ready on call whenever, wherever it happens. The uniqueness of, Roky, the strange flavor of the music (melody and powerful guitar-metallics hand-in-hand) bears contemporary witness to the compulsive emotion offered by these people madly woofing for more and more, howling, barking for Roky never to stop. Nowadays Roky�s guitar amp is turned all the way up (used to be subdued with a secret master-volume switch so as not to drown out Alien-guitar Duane) and when it�s cranked, it quickly becomes apparent what a superb rhythm guitarist he is, not to mention one of rock�s most peculiarly gifted .writers. Chord-runs overlay melodic songlines redolent of Buddy Holly and Johnny Rotten all at once! The ferocity of vocal-6-string layering parallel worlds of non-derivative non-passive hysteria unleashed lends further credence to accolades touting Erickson as a pioneer and craftsman of high degree.

Howard Thompson of CBS International has signed Roko to the overseas label with hopes of inciting the domestic company to follow suit. Roky Erickson & The Aliens signals an official return to twelve-inch vinyl in well over a decade. The album�s cover checks out no less ridiculous than the first Elevators� slab. A photo of Erickson ripped in half, collaged in blue and red sketches of fanged demons and bloody eyeballs, all submerged in a wash of psychedelic vomit. Five ruinic symbols (not the title of the record as overseas trade press mistakenly acknowledges) lifted loosely from the Jacques Tournier Curse Of The Demon synopsis spookily stare out from somewhere near the top; scary stuff. The tunes—as they are—mix recent efforts with older (s.a. �Two Headed Dog,� �White Faces��). All are exquisite representations of Roky�s unbounded perspectives (for lack of a better word!), �Don�t Shake Me Lucifer� steals the show with a Chuck Berry format, Roky screaming and ranting no less convincing (and on par w/) moments of �Miss Me.� All the vocals (guitar sounds too) have been meticulously EQ�d so it all sounds like a psychedelic record! Frequency-wise— the tremelo�d treble of Erickson�s high-pitch register match in synch with the high ends of the guitar so the result converges on the cool kinda sound you�d expect when, uh, records last sounded cool (67?). The metallic shine and vibrato of the melodies and instruments come off just as bitint? and for-real as the first Elevators disc—why aren�t people proclaiming wild-in-thestreets what a masterpiece this is? It�s been out for a few months now, where is everyone? Why don�t you know about this record? Youshould.

I�ve graduated from being a fan of the arcane, to being a fan of impulse and firstperson witness. In either case, what I dig and re-relate via personal endeavor has been altered and affected by Roky Erickson. It�s an indelible stamp that I hold sacred. ^