By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
By Courtney Harrell
By Kyra Scrimgeour
There have been rock-and-roll record geeks for as long as there's been rock and roll -- but it took the music industry a while to catch on. Back when Elvis Presley was still alive and still the size of an average person, rock compilations focused almost entirely on the hits of the day (the K-Tel approach), with the occasional thematic curveball -- such as 1963's A Christmas Gift for You, producer Phil Spector's groundbreaking foray into yuletide fare -- tossed out for good measure.
But in 1972, with Elektra Records' release of Nuggets, everything changed. Assembled by Lenny Kaye, future guitarist for the Patti Smith Group, the two-record set was filled with trippy garage music perfectly described in the album's subtitle as Original Artyfacts From the First Psychedelic Era, 1965-1968. Moreover, a goodly number of its selections had never made more than a ripple in the pop pond. For every "Dirty Water," by the Standells, which reached number eleven on the Billboard charts in mid-1966, there were quirky curios like "Public Execution," a wacky Dylan rip by a guy dubbed Mouse, and the Barbarians' "Moulty," a bizarre oddity in which the act's drummer explained how he put his life back together after losing his hands. Talk about a song with hooks.
Nuggets wasn't a smash (it failed to dent Billboard's Top 40), but its influence far outstripped its modest sales figures. As it was passed from person to person like a membership card to an especially cool underground club, the package rose steadily in stature -- so much so that Sire Records, home to the Ramones and Talking Heads, reissued it in 1977 during the rise of American punk, a movement with which garage had a great deal in common. Two years later, AIP/Bomp paid homage with Pebbles, the first volume in a sprawling series of discs devoted to tunes even more obscure than those on Nuggets, and other labels followed suit. Before long, imprints devoted to resurrecting fringe music in a wide variety of styles began sprouting like dandelions on a summer lawn, including Rhino Records, which today is arguably the largest and most successful U.S. company of its type. Appropriately, Rhino has demonstrated its affection for Nuggets on numerous occasions. Back in the vinyl-centric '80s, the firm released several albums under the Nuggets logo that attempted, with intermittent success, to expand on Kaye's baby; more recently, it put out a Nuggets box.
In some ways, this set was too much of a good thing. The 1972 Nuggets, with which the box kicked off, is so ideally programmed, each track coming across with unique potency and verve, that the discs accompanying it couldn't help but seem a bit scattershot by comparison. As a result, it was mighty tough to get excited about the prospect of a second Nuggets box. The well already seemed dry -- what was left to pump?
A lot, as it turns out. Rather than simply rehashing the Nuggets concept again, in the tradition of most sequels, Nuggets II: Original Artyfacts From the British Empire and Beyond, 1964-1969 takes the concept on a clever tangent. Specifically, the four-CD set, supplemented by a colorful, trivia-stuffed booklet, delves into the alternately simplistic and fantastical pop that bubbled forth in Great Britain and beyond throughout the half decade after the Beatles took over the youth of the planet. Unlike the Fab Four, most of the groups represented here got little attention in the States -- a fact that gives these four discs a freshness they might otherwise lack. On top of that, the songs chosen by project coordinator Gary Stewart and his dedicated staff of obsessives share stylistic idiosyncrasies that parallel the work of their Yankee peers in enjoyably strange and warped ways.
In England, especially, nascent garage-pop and psychedelia were informed by the mod movement closely associated in these climes with the Who -- and indeed, Who fanatics will have no trouble picking out the influence of their faves upon many of the ditties here. The Creation's "Making Time," the very first track, is a virtual blueprint of the Who style, with heavy guitar riffs surrounded by open space that's ably filled by drummer Jack Jones's belligerent, Keith Moon-like runs. (Shel Talmy, who worked with the early Who, produced the cut -- hardly a coincidence.) That's followed consecutively by "Father's Name Was Dad," by Fire, which resembles one of Tommy's bouncier moments, and the Move's "I Can Hear the Grass Grow," with background vocals that wouldn't sound out of place on the Who hits package Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy. Mr. Townshend, your lawyer is on the line.
As the set rolls on, however, the inspirational balance shifts from the Who's punchy aggression to the more surreal sounds first heard widely on the Beatles' Revolver, tunes that eventually led to art rock and prog. These related genres are widely derided by pop and punk boosters for pretentiousness and over-indulgence, and often for good reasons. But the music made amid the transition period captured by Nuggets II frequently encompassed the best of both worlds: the hearty, rough-hewn contentiousness of the post-mods and the spiritual questing associated with art rockers. It's a yin and yang exemplified by disc one's "My White Bicycle," by Tomorrow. The act included guitarist Steve Howe, who went on to commit innumerable sins against humanity as a member of Yes. But on "Bicycle," his work is thoroughly exciting, whether played forward or backward (there's lots of prominent studio tinkering), and the production is cheeky enough to include the jingling of a bike bell. The result is as charming as it is silly.