Take some time and read
this excellent, enlightening article on The Beau Brummels, one of the great not-quite-success stories of the first phase of powerpop, the bridge from the British Invasion to psychedelia.
The immediate occasion of the article is the release of two records by former Brummels frontman Sal Valentino: "Dreamin' Man (a collaboration with former Stoneground guitarist John Blakeley) and Come Out Tonight. Each title is a polished assortment of classic-sounding pop-rock, slow-burn meditations on love, and sturdy roots-rock. It's not groundbreaking music, but both discs are solid evidence that Valentino is a serious talent who still wants to write and perform new music." Valentino will be going to the uber-hip SXSW this year, and it's about time, too.
But Farrar makes me rethink that whole era, the way in which that first wave of power pop got swept away, its innovations and experimentations ignored in favor of... something else. And The Brummels, from the Bay Area, were positioned both to benefit from the shifts of the mid-60's, and to get kicked in the ass by them because of their relatively modest commercial success.
Possessing a dramatic vibrato, Valentino's croon is one of the most individual instruments to emerge from the '60s. Faint traces of Dylan, Elvis, Roger Miller, and even Dean Martin can be detected, but it has no concrete precedent. However, as is true of all these singers, Valentino (an authentic North Beach-bred Italian-American, born Salvatore Willard Spaminato) is a master stylist, curling his emotions around each little note and negotiating every turn of phrase with a cultivated flair. "At one point," Valentino continues, "Lenny wanted to put a band together of me, Lenny{Waronker {father of Anna Waronker, late of that dog, Mrs. Steve McDonald, and founder, with her sister-in-law Charlotte Caffey, of Five Foot Two Records. --NYM}], Randy [Newman], [Ron] Elliott, and Van Dyke. Hal Blaine was the drummer. Randy's suggestion for the name of the band was the White Boys' Blues Band, which is very funny because I am now surrounded by white-boy blues bands." Valentino chuckles at an irony only he can fully appreciate.
"Friends and Lovers" -- the stunning pop tune wafting out of Valentino's speakers -- went nowhere. Recorded in 1970, not too long after the demise of the Brummels, the Valentino solo single was released by Warner Bros., and what should have been a monster hit (it's that great) plunged into obscurity. Valentino was all too familiar with such a demoralizing outcome. From 1966 to '68, after scoring two Top 20 hits in 1965 (the aforementioned "Laugh Laugh" and the Top 10 smash "Just a Little"), the Beau Brummels moved to Warner Bros. and released some seriously beautiful and innovative pop music, but every last one of the group's records for the label died a swift, quiet death, including Triangle, a pastoral psych-pop epic, and the band's swan song, Bradley's Barn, a collection of what feels like rural-flavored Broadway show tunes that's considered a pioneering exploration into country-rock.
But this is what really caught my attention, a story which could be repeated for many, many power pop bands:
You see, the Brummels were in a precarious position in 1967 and '68 (similar to but on a much smaller scale than the Beach Boys' situation after the release of Pet Sounds). Their music was advanced, complex pop that had become way too weird for the mainstream AM-pop audience that originally made "Laugh Laugh" and "Just a Little" national hits. As one L.A. fan from back in the day recently said to me, "With Triangle and Bradley's Barn, the Beau Brummels got total artistic control, and they kind of went off the deep end," which means the only listeners open enough to really get what the Brummels were up to were the freaky hippies of Haight-Ashbury and beyond. But those guys were not nearly as freethinking and free from superficial labels as history has led us to believe: Remember, the Brummels were considered Top 40 "Beatles clones." And to be an American act branded Top 40 during what old Joel Selvin zealously describes in the book It Happened in Monterey as "a transformation in music as the 45 rpm format was broken and pop music became a rock revolution ... when Top 40 died and underground (FM) radio was born" was to be consigned to the losing side of a larger cultural battle. As that quintessential hippie chick Michelle Phillips once stated, summing up the attitude that pervaded the underground, "If you didn't get invited to the Festival, there was something wrong."
When I was a teenager falling in love with Pet Sounds, my mother told me this funny story. In 1967, she was a tall, gorgeous model, actress, and authentic "Copa Girl" living in New York. She had good taste in music and couldn't get enough of the Beach Boys' new single, "Good Vibrations." So she headed over to some hip West Village record store and bought a copy. When the ultrahip record store clerk manning the cash register eyeballed that photograph of the Beach Boys on the picture sleeve, he decided to have a little fun. With outstretched arms like teetering airplane wings, he feigned imbalance like a surfer riding a massive wave as he said to my mom in a faux-surfer dude accent, "Whooooaaaa, the Beach Boys. Far out. Surf music is cool. Hang 10." Well, in 2006, the reputations of "Good Vibrations" and Pet Sounds far eclipse that of the once cutting-edge music of Selvin's "rock revolution." (Who the hell still listens to Country Joe & the Fish?) So maybe modern San Francisco should make up for all those Haight-Ashbury heads who, during their heyday, behaved like that elitist, deluded record store clerk and finally invite the Beau Brummels to the Festival, because they are, without question, one of this city's greatest and most forgotten musical treasures.
Thanks to dave (tm) and steve s. for the heads-up!
