ELEGANZA

ELEGANZA

Metallurgy 101: Glorious Failures In The Middle Ages

by

George Smith

Going all the way back to 1970, it’s difficult to think of a single American hard rock band with the kind of credibility that British heavyweights like Sabbath and Zep commanded. Ya could point to Blue Cheer and Grand Funk, but Funk were always considered pretty much a joke whose following seemed to be a function of some massive marijuana-induced group psychosis while Blue Cheer were far too flaky and erratic to sustain a career.

ZZ Top and Blue Oyster Cult also come to mind; they had the moxy and brains to vie for the top, but in 70 and 71 were still mere pikers bent on “discovering themselves” and developing a strictly regional following: Ted Nugent was stomping the Midwest making horribly indulgent records with the Amboy Dukes and engaging in ludicrous guitar duels with Mike Pinera and Frank Marino which actually seemed to make him appear more silly than ballsy. It would still be a long time ’til Cat Scratch Fever.

Detroit had the MC5 and Stooges who, in retrospect, loom like gargantuas in most critics’ minds but never ever stood a chance of developing any kind of mystical reverence in the average male high school natural order. Let’s face it— being a Stooge or a member of the Five was far too angry and forbidding a chore to cultivate much squam appeal. The teen-boy brain would never have been able to place itself in the shoes of a Jimmy Osterberg or. Wayne Kramer while onstage and imagine hordes of women drawn in adoration by his guitar as “big dick” symbolism. Guys like lommi, Page and Blackmore had it all wrapped up. Did I hear you say Brownsville Station? Forget it, strictly bubblegum.

It would seem impossible that in all of America during 1970 and 71 there were no bands theoretically capable of challenging the machismo and charisma of the Limeys. In fact, there were a few. And they were even on major labels which never seemed to give ’em the right amount of push. Three of the best were BullAngus, Bang and Head Over Heels.

BullAngus lasted for three records (with Mercury), the first Of which was truly jawdropping. Oh the cover, the band (a bunch of Mafiosi with names like Piccolo, Venditti, Previte, Paolillo, LaFalce and Geno) sported leering smirks worn only by dudes who know they’re gonna be headlining Madison Square Garden by the end of the year. They looked much like Metallica.

That record never got ’em to the Garden, but not for want of trying. It was loud and intricate riff-rock with a screaming vocalist and two would-be Blackmores who greased the grooves with dual stun guitar philosophy over songs about dirty sex like “Miz Casey,” “No Cream For The Maidi” and “Mother’s Favorite Lover (Margaret)” which is one of the few metal songs that I can think of about lesbian relations. Singer Frankie Previte wailed, “Carry on Ma, I won’t tell Pa! No, I won’t tell Pa!” Perhaps too frightened by this blasphemy, the public banished them into obscurity.

Bang were the most long-lived of the bunch. They also managed three records between 70 and 73. Of them, the fitst (Bang) is a sludge-metal classic. Frank Gilcken’s guitarwork was as capable of heavy doom as anything by lommi, and since the first Sabbath LP was issued at about the same time, no case for plagiarism can be nriade.

Lyrically, Bang Were just as interesting. The drummer, Tony D’Orio, wrote ’em and the bass player, Frank Ferrara, sang ’em. These numbers were about bacteriological warfare, nuclear holocaust, the screams of the Christians as they were fed to the lions, and the theft of the American Indian’s land. Not too far removed from Voivod and Anthrax; eh?

By the second record, Mother/Bow To The Kingr the end was in sight. Tony D’Orio Had left and been replaced by an anonymous journeyman and, even later, Knackster-to-be Bruce Gary. Gary’s increased involvement with Bang coincided with the band’s shift toward lame pop. A cover of the Guess Who’s “No Sugar Tonight” was the perfect wretched example of this ruinous trend; it seems obvious that even as early as 72, Gary’s DNA was coding for the wimp proteins which would serve him so well in his later tenure with the Kriack. Gilcken’s guitar was heavier in places than bn the first LP but the die had been cast. Music, Bang’s last, was forgettable and wishy-washy. It was a sad and humiliating end for a band capable of such power.

Our last entry, Head Over Heels, were an enigmatic power trio who evolved from the Human Beinz—a garage act who had a novelty hit with “Nobody But Me.” They were fast and crashing with a truly studly lead guitarist/singer in Paul Frank, cunning enough to steal from Bo Diddley (on their own “Road Runner”) without being too obvious. Live, they could go from slow-blooz-bOmbast a la Zep to peerless interlocking riff ’n’ wah excess in the blink of an eye. Their lone record on Capitol delivered it all arid had they been able to cop a significant touring schedule it’s possible we woulda been listening to ’em for the remainder of the decade.

It is certain that these acts and others like ’em were, as the insightful Chuck Eddy has said, the true young “punks” of the. decade. Although far off the beaten path, they had no less talent or dearth of ideas than many of those who went on to become megastars (or at least solvent). They struggled, lost money, and eventually failed—all for the loye of rock as its own bad self. The reason that their music is cool today is that it demonstrates the enduring timelessness of good hard rock; much of it Still kicks major ass.