BEEFCAKE GONE BAD: FREE & BAD COMPANY
I never thought Free were a great group, but they had moments of greatness—and Paul Kossoff could really play guitar. I never thought Bad Company’s immediate American success was necessarily a sellout of Free’s more bluesy roots, either—but closer to a meeting of Mott The Hoople’s old pop staples and Free’s less controllable excesses.
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BEEFCAKE GONE BAD: FREE & BAD COMPANY
Iman Lababedi
I never thought Free were a great group, but they had moments of greatness—and Paul Kossoff could really play guitar. I never thought Bad Company’s immediate American success was necessarily a sellout of Free’s more bluesy roots, either—but closer to a meeting of Mott The Hoople’s old pop staples and Free’s less controllable excesses. But the way it turned out, it’s a moot point. It doesn’t matter whether Bad Company fitted themselves to their audience or their audience grew into them.
Free were formed after guitarist Paul Kossoff and drummer Simon Kirke, playing together in a bar blues band, Black Cat Bones, met vocalist Paul Rodgers of London pub band Brown Sugar, and with ex-John Mayall Bluesbreakers bassist Andy Fraser, began playing together. Under the guidance of white Brit blues great Alexis Korner (cf.: the Rolling' Stones), this somewhat minor supergroup were a somewhat minor flop. In the great ’60s tradition, they first played an instant mix of blues greats and originals, their sound spurred by Kossoff s all too human guitar playing (reaching for self-control and getting it occasionally), and Paul Rodgers’ intermediary singing, between pop restraint and blues heart-on-sleeve.
By 1969, the year of Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac, Free had released their debut LP with the aid of Island Records boss Chris Blackwell, Tons Of Sobs. It wasn’t a bad start, but it wasn’t up to Cream and Fleetwood Mac standards. And, despite a cult following in England’s clubland, it wasn’t a hit. Within a year, however, they began the move over to highly professional hard rock band. Free’s first substantial hit (it went top five in the States) was “All Right Now,” a pop-blues shouter with extended noise guitar and casual fuck/salvation lyrics that didn’t obscure the hook-line chorus. And along with the almost equally well-selling “My Brother Jake,” sounds like a proto-Bad Company. But Free began to unstitch soon after. Even then, Paul Kossoffs battle with heroin was deflating his talent, acrimony among the musicians made working together impossible, and Free disbanded. The breakup was short-lived, though—by 72 all the originals were back together for another hit single: the disappointing “A Little Bit Of Love.” By now, though, Free were so embroiled in personnel problems —Kossoff leaving and joining according to the condition of his drug addiction, Andy Fraser quitting for good—and ex-Osibisas and soon to be Faces joining and leaving. There was one last, and by all accounts, less than wonderful, American tour in 1973, and then in late 73 Simon Kirke and Paul Rodgers left to form Bad Company. What Free hadn’t had from 71 was consistency; their personal problems overwhelmed their music, and though Paul Rodgers was never less than a good vocalist, he wasn’t a good focus.
At first it seemed that Bad Company had everything Free was missing. Along with Kirke and Rodgers were Mott The Hoople guitarist Mick Ralphs and King Crimson drummer Boz Burrell. They began touring in 1974, and with the aid of Led Zeppelin’s manager Peter Grant garnered a smash American hit single “Can’t Get Enough.” Their self-named first release on Led Zep’s Swan Song label, and subsequent American tour were the heights of their careers to date. At that time, Bad Company managed to integrate some fun into the despondency that had been Free, and with the exception of Led Zeppelin were surely the heavy metal band to watch. In fact, it could be claimed that Bad Company were tapping the roots Page et al had left untouched since Led Zeppelin 2; that while Satanism and mystic bullshit were (at least as far as good music goes) hurting Led Zep, Bad Company’s very basic horniness was catching the hordes of teenage denim wearers. Certainly, after Led Zep called it a day, it was Paul Rodgers that replaced Robert Plant as greatest Heavy Metal singer.
But Bad Company aren’t anywhere close to Led Zep. I don’t much care for either band, but I can’t deny that Led Zep never stopped moving (albeit not always linearly), and everything Bad Company had to offer was surrendered on their first album.
There isn’t much use in picking through LP by LP; they are more or less interchangeable. And rather boring. Perhaps more interesting was the vaguely indifferent reaction to Bad Company’s last opus, after a three year break. Rodgers’ singing sounded histrionic and whiny (ah! so that’s why you like ’em), and although a heavy metal audience is the most loyal in the world, a three year holiday is pushing it. Or maybe, as the recent hits by the Human League and A Flock Of Seagulls suggest, the HM factions are finally ready for a change. If only for their laziness, Bad Company deserve to be forgotten in a manner Free will never be.
