Bo Diddley: A Man Amongst Men

BO DIDDLEY: A MAN AMONGST MEN (1996)

1) Bo Diddley Is Crazy; 2) Can I Walk You Home; 3) Hey Baby; 4) I Can't Stand It; 5) He's Got A Key; 6) A Man Amongst Men; 7) Coatimundi; 8) That Mule; 9) Kids Don't Do It; 10) Oops! Bo Diddley.

This is Bo's one and only «proper» studio LP in the last thirty years of his career — «proper» meaning «distributed on an official commercial basis» (through Atlantic Records), but also «properly recorded», meaning a professional studio instead of Bo's bedroom, and also «properly available» (meaning it's still out of print, but at least you can ruffle through used CD bins on a regular basis with high chances of success).

It ain't no great shakes, and it might even be a bit below certain expectations (and a bit above other certain expectations), but in any case, it is a respectable career bookmark. A Bo Diddley al­bum from a nearly 70-year old Bo Diddley has only one point to prove — namely, that the rock'n'roll spirit can, and should, be still alive in 70-year olds — and it does that in the form of a test: can you guess that the album was recorded by a 70-year old, or does it sound ageless? Natu­rally, for everybody who has the faintest idea of who Bo Diddley is, the test is rigged from the beginning, but my own guess is that I probably couldn't guess.

As Bo was drawn in more and more into the Stones' circle of contacts — first the Ron Wood al­liance, followed by a joint public appearance in 1994, singing ʽWho Do You Loveʼ — it is no wonder that much of the playing and production here is masterminded by Ronnie and Keith, and that fact alone ensures a certain level of gritty quality. Other pieces of the puzzle include Stevie Ray's brother Jimmie Vaughan, lending a proper Texan flavour to the proceedings; Johnny "Gui­tar" Watson, deepening and nearly-monopolizing that Texan flavour; and such old vets of the business as Billy Boy Arnold on harp and Johnnie Johnson on piano. Throw in «The Shirelles» on back vocals (quotation marks reflect my lack of knowledge as to how many of the original «Shirelles» are actually involved — one? two?), and that is altogether more guest star presence than Bo ever had to back him up at any single moment in his career, including even the primor­dial soup of 20th Anniversary Of Rock'n'Roll.

This actually creates a problem — the end result looks too much like a glitzy all-star jam, with Bo merely guesting on his own record, something of which you could never accuse any of his origi­nal albums right up to 1974. Worse, even though most of the songs are credited to Bo (they must have all agreed that the old man needed the royalties more than anybody else), they don't really always sound like Bo Diddley songs. There is too little syncopation, too little funk, too little «tri­bal jamming» involved — in fact, about a third of this stuff sounds like typical Ronnie Wood boogie, another third is «Texan roots rock» à la Stevie Ray, and the final third is «modernized Bo Diddley for today's kids» material: glossy, even, and way too loud due to a whole army of cooks stirring the broth at the same time.

That said, it is still a fun record, and a fun «Bo Diddley-blessed» record, at that. ʽBo Diddley Is Crazyʼ is rigidly based on ʽWho Do You Loveʼ, and even if Bo's own rhythm guitar nearly gets lost under all the overdubs, his singing does not — and that deep caveman rumble is certainly far from an old man's croak. And he certainly ain't lost his wits, either: verses like "All I wanna do is play my music and make people happy / I don't wanna be an old drunk like my pappy" pretty much summarize the man's lifelong credo like nothing else. So even if the backing track is not very imaginative, the whole thing is still a fun-filled fast-paced romp — as is ʽOops! Bo Diddleyʼ that bookmarks the album from the other side (although the latter is seriously overlong, with the band fooling around for over seven minutes repeating the same licks over and over again).

In between, we have some slow boring 12-bar blues (ʽThat Muleʼ, mainly for fans of Billy Boy's harp blowing); Texan blues-rock shuffle (ʽCan I Walk You Homeʼ), occasionally used as a new bag for old wine (ʽA Man Amongst Menʼ, which is basically like a sped-up ʽI'm A Manʼ); one obligatory tribute to the «Diddley beat», adorned with harmonica vs. slide guitar conversations (ʽHey Babyʼ); one slow swampy funk groove (ʽI Can't Stand Itʼ); one reggae tribute to ʽCrackin' Upʼ (ʽCoatimundiʼ, definitely running overtime); and even one exercise in funkified hip-hop, targeted at the young ones, with Bo's own grandson joining in on the messaging (ʽKids Don't Do Itʼ) — «stay in school and get your Ph.D!» hints fairly well at the scope of Bo's goal-setting. (Problem is, I wouldn't mind the corniness if I knew for certain there'd be even one kid in the world, black or white, who could ever claim that his or her life was irrevocably changed by a thorough listen to this song. As it is, I suppose it was mostly the grandfathers who heard it).

So, at the very least, even if not all of this is typical Bo Diddley material, it's still a diverse set of moods and styles, which makes for a fitting conclusion to Bo's career — reminding of the good old days when the man was ready to try out nearly everything. Add it up to the perfect vocal form throughout (Bo even makes a fairly good rapper, much as I tend to snuff that form), and the fact that, whatever be the faults and flaws of the production, Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood, and Jimmie Vaughan are far more exciting guitar players than... (well, they could have gotten him Lenny Kravitz, or a stiff academician like Robert Cray — there's millions of them out there) — and altogether, it's almost awesome that Bo did get a chance to give us a proper musical goodbye with this record. And it is not bad, either, that although he still had twelve years left to try and repeat it, he either chose not to or did not get a second chance — one was perfectly enough for a solid thumbs up, two might have been excessive: A Man Amongst Men as a «goodbye» is far more effective than as a «welcome back».

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Bo Diddley: Live At The Ritz

BO DIDDLEY & RONNIE WOOD: LIVE AT THE RITZ (1988)

1) Road Runner; 2) I'm A Man; 3) Crackin' Up; 4) Hey! Bo Diddley; 5) Plynth (Water Down The Drain); 6) Ooh La La; 7) They Don't Make Outlaws Like They Used To; 8) Honky Tonk Women; 9) Money To Ronnie; 10) Who Do You Love.

Bo's recording activity throughout the late Seventies and the Eighties was about as high as any activity you'd expect from a bear in prolonged hibernation. He did record and distribute several cassette-only albums, produced in his own home studio in Archer, Florida, and fairly hard to locate these days (al­though they are sometimes offered as digital downloads): Ain't It Good To Be Free («...ain't it a bummer that nobody really cares?») in 1983, and Breaking Through The B.S. («...because Ol' Man Bo can still do better than goddamn Pump!») in 1989. I have not heard them, know next to nothing about them, and have a deep suspicion that neither is a masterpiece — but that suspicion don't amount to no fact, so you might wanna be on the lookout if you think an Eighties' album from Bo Diddley looks like a sufficiently kinky proposition.

The only Eighties' record with Bo's active participation that is readily available today is this concert album, recorded in New York in November 1987 by the short-lived «Gunslingers» pro­ject, involving Bo Diddley and Ronnie Wood. Considering that 1987-88 was the only period in the history of mankind during which The Rolling Stones had «ceased to be», the project actually had a theoretical chance at longevity — purely theoretical, that is, because already the first expe­riment showed that the matching was far from perfect.

Technically, Live At The Ritz may, and should, be included into both artists' discographies, but I prefer to review it under the Bo Diddley section, because (a) Bo's the older one, (b) the ratio of Bo to Ron songs here is approximately 3/2 (and only if we formally count ʽHonky Tonk Womenʼ as a Ronnie Wood song; ʽMoney To Ronnieʼ, despite the title, is a semi-improvised blues jam with Bo taking control), (c) Bo starts off the show as well as closes it, (d) the event was clearly of more importance to Bo than to Ronnie — it's one thing to simply fool around on the stage with one of your idols, and another thing to get your first major label record out in twelve years, even if you have to share it with some grinning clown from England who prefers to jump around the stage rather than actually play guitar (okay, so it wasn't nearly as bad in 1988 as it is now).

The problem is that a good live Bo Diddley show needs a good live Bo Diddley backing band — and the people assembled on that stage had fairly little to do with that. The rhythm section, con­sisting of Debby Hastings on bass and Mike Fink on drums, is fairly flat-footed (they can't even set up a proper Diddley beat on ʽHey! Bo Diddleyʼ); the keyboard player (Hal Goldstein) occa­sionally switches from regular old piano — the only keyboard instrument suitable for this kind of event — to state-of-the-art synthesizers, killing most of the joy on ʽCrackin' Upʼ; and as much as the presence of two of the Temptations (David Ruffin and Eddie Kendricks, the latter also play­ing harmonica and occasional keyboards) could adorn the show... it didn't.

Above all else, the mix is quite poor: Bo's own rhythm playing is rarely elevated from anything other than background din, and Ronnie's leads (some, if not many, if not most of them actually supplied by third guitarist Jim Satten) are sometimes barely audible against the huge drum sound (remember, the late Eighties were a drummer's paradise — everybody used to think that ampli­fying the drum sound gives you complete, absolute power over the listener). All in all, the ambi­ence just isn't that great for a real sweaty rock'n'roll show.

The other side of the business is, of course, that Ronnie has no business taking part in Bo's stuff, and Bo has no business whatsoever to strut along on Ronnie's material. As good as all that mate­rial is on its own, I fail to see where it is that the two actually help out each other — unless we begin to count harmony singing, and I'd rather we don't (everybody knows that Ronnie is the only person in the world who sings even worse than Keith Richards, and using Bo Diddley as the re­sident «Auto-Tuner» is hardly a good solution to the problem). Ronnie gets a few of his trade­mark bluesy slide leads, e. g. on ʽI'm A Manʼ, but Bo Diddley songs are not solo guitar vehicles, and the leads aren't stunning enough to justify turning them into such vehicles. And whether Bo is actually doing anything on Ronnie's numbers, I have not been able to find out.

The Ronnie-led chunk part of the album is actually better than the Bo-led majority part, if only because the backing band is so clearly geared towards more «modern» numbers than the oldies. The performance of Ronnie's ʽOutlawsʼ, for instance, approaches first-rate barroom-boogie rock­'n'­roll, and he gets in a rough, but expressive slide-fest on ʽPlynth (Water Down The Drain)ʼ, which also incorporates contrasting bits of ʽAmazing Graceʼ and ʽProdigal Sonʼ. (The decision to also include ʽHonky Tonk Womenʼ was either due to audience pressure — or, perhaps, Ronnie always had that secret craving to finally wrestle the classic solo away from Keith. Spoiler bit: Keith is still the winner).

Still, this is never really «bad» — it is saddled with too many problems to reach «classic lost gig» status, but both of the gig's protagonists clearly had themselves some fun; it simply failed to be perfectly captured on the recording. Historically, it was important for the effort to drag Bo, a little bit at least, back into the spotlight and show that, at the age of sixty, he personally had not lost it at all: guitar chops intact, powerhouse voice still well-powered. A little more sad is the realization that he was actually dragged out of a deep freeze — having him play on that stage with all those people is like watching some resuscitated pre-historical mammal put in a cage with its modern descendants. But, on the other hand, he doesn't seem to mind, bother, or show any serious dis­comfort about this — so let us not look at this from pessimistic angles, either.

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Bo Diddley: The 20th Anniversary Of Rock'n'Roll

BO DIDDLEY: THE 20TH ANNIVERSARY OF ROCK'N'ROLL (1976)

1) Ride The Water (part 1); 2) Not Fade Away; 3) Kill My Body; 4) Drag On; 5) Ride The Water (part 2); 6) I'm A Man; 7) Hey! Bo Diddley; 8) Who Do You Love; 9) Bo Diddley's A Gunslinger; 10) I'm A Man.

A very strange record. Apparently, upon leaving Chess, Bo Diddley went into complete commer­cial retirement, as far as any toying with major labels was concerned. Yet, in 1976, he was still «invited» by a guy called Ron Terry to guest-star on a special RCA release — according to the title, supposed to celebrate «the 20th anniversary of rock'n'roll», but even if, out of general nice­ness, we decide to agree that rock'n'roll was indeed invented in 1956 and not one year earlier (or later), it is still not clear why (a) of all the early rock'n'rollers, the 20th anniversary of rock'n'roll should be primarily and exclusively associated with Bo Diddley; (b) why, instead of letting Bo Diddley himself mastermind the project, they made him sing a bunch of Ron Terry songs on Side A — and then let a bunch of other guys cover his material on Side B.

Never mind, we should probably blame it on the overall craziness of the mid-1970s — any time period that produces the likes of Lisztomania is bound to contain ten times as many «odd» pro­jects as it contains «insane» ones. This is one of the curious oddities, and it is not even particular­ly bad: it is merely inadequate to its purpose, and it is the first album in Bo Diddley's discography which really, genuinely loses Bo Diddley as a bit player among the general ambience.

Speaking of ambience, you would be pressed real hard to find a better application for the «too many cooks» line than this album. The roster includes, among others, such names as Leslie West, Elvin Bishop, Joe Cocker, Roger McGuinn, Keith Moon, Albert Lee, and even Billy Joel (!). But instead of bringing them out, one by one, and making this into some sort of studio-based Last Waltz celebration, Ron Terry goes for broke and crams them all together — at least, that is how it is on the 16-minute jam that occupies all of Side B (supposedly, they are not all there at the same time on Side A).

The results are predictable: the jam is extravagantly overproduced, so much so that it is impos­sible to latch on to anything in particular. There seems to be a lot of enthusiasm and energy, but you can never really tell if it is really like that or if it is just because there are so many players and singers out there at the same time. And in the end, it's all just the same old Bo Diddley stuff — maybe Albert Lee's guitar makes it flow more smoothly and with many more flourishes than the original versions, but the question is whether these versions need this smooth flow. As far as I understand it, turning Bo Diddley songs into «academic-style blues-rock», even with superb play­ers at the helm, kinda drop-kicks the initial purpose of these songs.

As for Ron Terry's songs on the first side, they are odd, too. He must have written them with Bo in mind, and particularly, with Bo's predilection for the sexy funky sounds of the decade. But these here are not so much straightahead funk grooves as creepily suggestive «swamp blues» with a funky undercurrent. ʽRide The Waterʼ, opening and closing Side A, would probably be better suited for the likes of a Screamin' Jay Hawkins, who could have, perhaps, given an appropriately spooky, joker-ish performance against these slow tempos, repetitive wah-wah chords, and mini­malistic bass punches. Mr. Bo Diddley just ain't evil enough for the swamp — let alone for an attempt to take Buddy Holly's lightweight, amicable ʽNot Fade Awayʼ and infect it with the devilish swamp blues virus as well.

There is no reason to hunt for this curio, unless obsession has already gotten the better of you — but if you do come across it, a spin or two won't hurt. The «Bo Diddley jam» might actually work if you play it real loud without stopping, all the way through — who knows, at some point all the innumerable instruments and voices might eventually fall together, blow a hole in your soul and make you see the light. And the first side, well... this is the last time you get to hear a still rela­tively young Bo Diddley sing some original material — the next twenty years would be spent in occasional touring, serious relaxation, and some home studio recording sessions, but no official releases. So that might be reason enough to regard this disc as a little «farewell gift from the boys», and get acquainted with it as a little piece of history.

Bo Diddley: Big Bad Bo

BO DIDDLEY: BIG BAD BO (1974)

1) Bite You; 2) He's Got All The Whiskey; 3) Hit Or Miss; 4) You've Got A Lot Of Nerve; 5) Stop The Pusher; 6) Evelee; 7) I've Been Workin'.

This one is sometimes called Bo's «jazz album», mainly because some of the session players here were relatively big names on the jazz market, and a very strong brass presence is felt on most of the tracks. However, there are no «jazz» compositions on here as such — most of it is the same old funk that Bo had practiced all over the early Seventies, with a bit of B. B. King-ish «blues-de-luxe» thrown in for good (actually, bad) measure. And there is no need to feel disappointed: Bo Diddley feels at home with funky grooves, yet whether he would feel equally at home trying to make his Bitches Brew remains questionable. Fortunately, perhaps, we shall never know.

There are only seven tracks this time, and it does not help the album that the longest one, ʽEveleeʼ, is a slow 12-bar blues that we really do not need from Bo — the vocals are powerful, but blunt, the harmonica player, walking in the footsteps of Little Walter, seems to be too small to take a peek out of the footprint, and the rest of the arrangement is nothing that B. B. King's backing band could not do just as well or much better. The fact that it takes its time so leisurely is strongly indicative of filler — and bizarre, since danceable funky grooves that take their time are not only more understandable and enjoyable, but are right up Bo's alley as well.

Because, other than ʽEveleeʼ, the other six tracks are all welcome additions to the catalog — par­ticularly ʽBite Youʼ, which could arguably be called Bo's last genuine Chess classic. Playing the big bad (horny) wolf to a snappy funky bassline as the brass machine works it out like a newbuilt factory — this may not be as delightfully psycho-chaotic as the best stuff on Black Gladiator, but it still totally ranks in overall body temperature with whatever James Brown was doing at the time (although, presumably, Bo's backing band is a little less fluent).

There is also a noble, and surprisingly gritty, anti-drug diatribe (ʽStop The Pusherʼ) that sounds totally believable — Bo's "don't buy, and the pusher will die" is probably as straightforward and anthemic as he ever advanced with instructive social statements, and it is tied to a harsh and lean, «we-really-mean-business» bass/guitar interplay that helps drive the point home. Remember this, kids: if you wanna make a musical social statement that bites, make sure it's really a musical so­cial statement, and an interesting one, not just a variation on «Just Say No» set to the melody of ʽHoochie Coochie Manʼ or something like that.

Bobby Charles' ʽHe's Got All The Whiskeyʼ is saved from monotonousness by nice guitar and bass flourishes all over the place (in terms of whatever the bass guitar is doing here, it is probably the jazziest number on here); ʽYou've Got A Lot Of Nerveʼ is optimistic R&B with a bit of a pub flavor — just the kind of music that Ray Davies was pushing for so hard in his Everybody's In Show-Biz period, except that Bo rules it far more masterfully; and ʽI've Been Workin'ʼ finishes the album with a little «bleak soul», on a more ominous and desperate note than everything else — for the most part, Big Bad Bo is either uplifting, or humorous, or both, but this last number lays on some brassy and bass-y darkness; and there is something ironic, I guess, that the last track on Bo's last album for Chess bears the title of ʽI've Been Workin'ʼ and a slight aura of depression — seeing as how it has been more than a decade since he had his last bit of commercial success with the label. On the other hand, it makes no sense to read too much sense in any single Bo Did­dley track: the man was not exactly known for being a master of subtle nuances.

Anyway, thumbs up for Big Bad Bo — a winner both in terms of spirit and impressive, if not ut­terly jaw-dropping, musicianship, and not a bad way to say goodbye to the label that had been Bo's home for twenty years. It is a little sad that, after all, this «funky renaissance» period, so healthy to Bo's own persona and sounding so doggone underrated from the point of view of the 21st century, never caught on with the public back in its own time — but, apparently, playing good music was not enough: you had to build yourself up the appropriate image to go with that, something that James Brown was still capable of doing, but not ol' Bo, whose rectangular guitar and sexy female sidekicks were just about as far as he was willing to go in the visual entertain­ment department. Maybe a boa constrictor around the neck would have helped — unfortunately, no snake could properly withstand being shook up by the Diddley beat.

 

Bo Diddley: The London Bo Diddley Sessions

BO DIDDLEY: THE LONDON BO DIDDLEY SESSIONS (1973)

1) Don't Want No Lyin' Woman; 2) Bo Diddley; 3) Going Down; 4) Make A Hit Record; 5) Bo-Jam; 6) Husband-In-Law; 7) Do The Robot; 8) Sneakers On A Rooster; 9) Get Out Of My Life.

And the story goes on: no sooner does Bo find himself a comfortable, modern-sounding, tradi­tion-respecting groove to slip in, than his record label, anxious to make just a few cents more on the name, steers him into a «fashionable» direction. This time, «fashion» involves teeming up with a bunch of British blues-rock players, following in the sagging footsteps of Howlin' Wolf (who had the misfortune to actually make his record a stable seller, ensuring trouble for all of his colleagues), Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry, and (from a different label) B. B. King. The logic re­mains the same — with UK blues-rockers conquering the original turf of old Chicago bluesmen, both critically and commercially, old Chicago bluesmen are now in need of the big names in the business to sell their records. And, of course, the big names in the business could get all snub-nosed and haughty — but why should they? These are their idols, after all, and no Eric Clapton or Rory Gallagher could ever get arrogant enough to claim that they have already advanced to the point where no B. B. King or Muddy could catch up with them. Be it the truth or not.

Problem is, once they finally decided to repeat the trick with Bo Diddley, all the good guys had already been taken, or, perhaps, had decided that they'd already paid their dues in full. In fact, it turns out that much, if not most, of the recordings here were really made in Chicago, and only a few of the songs really stem from London studios — just enough to barely justify the name of the album. Most of the players are little-known American session men; the only UK credit that I feebly recognize is guitar player Ray Fenwick, famous for the immortal nugget ʽCrawdaddy Si­moneʼ recorded during his brief stay with the Syndicats, but it is not clear which of the tracks feature his playing, and, in any case, there is nothing here that would even remotely approach the primordial wildness of ʽCrawdaddy Simoneʼ.

Basically, this is just another set of rather restrained, unexceptional blues-rock and funk-rock, no­where near the level of excitement and unpredictability of either Black Gladiator or Where It All Began. To see that point, try playing ʽBad Tripʼ and ʽDo The Robotʼ back-to-back: the for­mer is an evil monster of acid funk, the latter — merely a professional workout, with plenty of people in the studio but not a single one daring to take any chances: six minutes go by in vain expectation that something will finally break out of this, but what exactly can break out when everybody just keeps politely saying «after you, Mr. Second Guitarist!» or «no, no, Mr. Organist, I insist!...» or «don't mind me, ladies and gentlemen of the rhythm section, I'm just sitting in the corner here, adding some high-pitched funky salt licks to this nice soup you got cooking».

Many of the songs are spoiled off the bat with a «de-luxe» big brass section — such as the boo­gie-blues of ʽDon't Want No Lyin' Womanʼ, where the only thing of note is Connie Redmond's powerhouse vocalizing; Bo, on the other hand, cannot truly break through the wall of guitars, or­gans, and brass that not only cancel out each other's effectiveness, but also cancel out the validity of the leading artist. The same disappointment concerns some of the funkier numbers as well, e.g. ʽHusband-In-Lawʼ and ʽGoing Downʼ.

Overall, like most of the London Sessions series, the chemistry here is quite weak, and the re­cord very rarely rises above «listenable». The re-recording of ʽBo Diddleyʼ with new lyrics is smooth and mildly catchy (mainly due to the amusing invention of the "oooooh... ouch!" harmo­ny trick); ʽMake A Hit Recordʼ, with Bo trying out the «stuttering» technique of delivery, is fun­ny for the first minute (and utterly annoying for the remaining four); and only the album closer ʽGet Out Of My Lifeʼ is in any way reminiscent of the scary bite of Bo at his funky best — all of a sud­den, it's like both the rhythm and lead guitars have received clearance for extra aggression, and, for all of our patience, we are rewarded with ass-kicking crunch. Maybe it was an outtake from the previous year — I have no idea, but I wouldn't be surprised.

By that time, however, The London Sessions have already lost whatever credibility the title could offer — the album as a whole can only serve as further evidence of the ineptness of the old labels to take the fates of their old artists into their own hands. Hence, worth a listen or two, but nothing helps to rescue The London Sessions from the good old thumbs down, unless you just love the «old school» so much that you have no desire to distinguish between the exceptional and the run-of-the-mill sorts of material.

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Bo Diddley: Where It All Began

BO DIDDLEY: WHERE IT ALL BEGAN (1972)

1) I've Had It Hard; 2) Woman; 3) Look At Grandma; 4) A Good Thing; 5) Bad Trip; 6) Hey Jerome; 7) Infatuation; 8) Take It All Off; 9) Bo Diddley-itis.

Well, we have just very narrowly escaped from making the review for Britney Spears' ...Baby One More Time conclude the reviewing season of 2012 — a fairly creepy omen would that be. Instead, we are concluding it with something much more solid, if about three hundred times less known — the finest record that Bo Diddley got to cut in the studio over the third, and most un­der­ra­ted, decade of his artistic career.

By all means, Another Dimension was not a bad album, but neither was it really true to the Bo Diddley spirit, and after it predictably failed to sell, the people at Chess showed enough glimpses of intellect to let Bo go on and do his own thang once again — and that he did. Where It All Be­gan is really a misleading title: usually, we expect them to be reserved for archival albums of early outtakes, or at least for straightforward nostalgic throwbacks. However, if there is a nos­talgic throw­back here, it is not too stretched out — the album returns to the steam-funk of Black Gladiator, and builds up from there. If anything, the title is rather an indirect hint that Bo Did­dley, in 1972, if he really puts his back to it, can be just as kick-ass as he used to be fifteen years earlier. And you know what? I'm almost convinced.

The record is a little more polished and a little less noisy than Black Gladiator, and we see the classic old Bo Diddley beat return on a couple of numbers, so overall, Bo is taking fewer risks here. But the overall sound of Gladiator — heavy, deep, echoey, and quite modern — remains stable, and now it is being supported by cleaner, sharper production; guest appearances by drum­mer Johnny Otis on one track and guitarist Shuggie Otis on another; and fabulous backup vocal arrangements, with Connie Redmond at the head of the team, and she is good enough to even take the lead on ʽA Good Thingʼ — and bury poor little Bo deep in the ground in the process. (The man was careful enough not to let his backup singers take the spotlight most of the time — but every once in a while, still let down his guard).

Each side of the LP is dominated by a lengthy jam: ʽBad Tripʼ, true to its name, is a devoted exer­cise in acid funk, whereas ʽBo Diddley-itisʼ is somewhat more traditional — faster, sloppier, and tribalistic. Both, however, are excellent by their own standards. ʽBad Tripʼ features six minutes of aggressive and surprisingly complex guitar pyrotechnics (courtesy of Bo himself and second gui­tarist Tom Thompson) — if played sufficiently loud, the track compares quite favorably to con­temporary Funkadelic workouts. And ʽBo Diddley-itisʼ is just a wild party freakout — now, in 1972, Bo can finally allow himself to stretch out without any serious limits in the studio, in a man­ner that, in the 1950s and 1960s, had to be reserved for local club gigs.

In between, we have lots of shorter, catchier, sunnier «funk-pop» numbers, often with interesting guitar themes — so interesting, in fact, that one cannot help but wonder how in the world did Bo manage to stay away so completely from exploring new note sequences throughout most of the 1960s. Yes, so ʽI've Had It Hardʼ starts things out on a more than familiar note of «chug, chu-chu-chug-chug, CHUG CHUG», but even there the second guitar plays something more melodic and curious over Bo's basic rhythm, while the girls in the back invent a new way of chanting "di­ddley bo diddley bo diddley bo diddley bo diddley".

Then there is ʽWomanʼ, pinned to a wobbly «post-bluesy» riff that would not be out of place on a Television record (yes, they did something quite similar for ʽMarquee Moonʼ); the fantastically catchy, hilarious ʽLook At Grandmaʼ, again dominated by the girls' harmonies; the gritty twin-guitar jam on ʽHey Jeromeʼ; a not-half-bad take on the sunny soul side with ʽInfatuationʼ; and Bo strutting his macho stuff with ʽTake It All Offʼ — again, a song not at all memorable for its «dirty» vocalization, but rather for the excellent guitar/bass/back vocals interplay.

In fact, amazing as it seems, there is not a single weak cut on the record. Perhaps it cannot really compete in flimsy terms of «relevance» with the big black music of the day — perhaps it is no­here near as far out as Funkadelic, really, and perhaps the rhythms and the riffs are mostly «old-school», because, well, one cannot demand of a Fifties idol that he completely re-learn his craft with every new decade. But on its own terms, Where It All Began shows no signs of weariness — every note is punched out with religious enthusiasm, and the entire team shows wonders of group coordination. A heavily underrated groovy jam masterpiece here — dig it out and learn how to surprise your local hipster parties. Thumbs up.

Bo Diddley: Another Dimension

BO DIDDLEY: ANOTHER DIMENSION (1971)

1) The Shape I'm In; 2) I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know; 3) Pollution; 4) Bad Moon Rising; 5) Down On The Corner; 6) I Said Shut Up, Woman; 7) Bad Side Of The Moon; 8) Lodi; 9) Go For Broke.

We might quibble all we want about the money-talks attitudes of record industry bosses, but from a certain angle the behavior of the guys at Chess was beyond reproach: despite Bo Diddley being an utterly miserable seller for almost a decade now, somebody was still out there thinking and thinking — trying to come up with ideas that would at least justify continuing to grant him studio time, let alone help him raise a profit. Dressing the man up as The Black Gladiator did not work — the funk audiences of James and Sly were not amused. So the next move was planned — saddle the man with some contemporary material. «Bo Diddley Sings All The Great American Hits» and the like.

Would that work? With Muddy and his psychedelically tinged Electric Mud two years earlier, it did not. There was hardly one chance in a thousand that it would turn out for the better with Bo. Then again, occasionally it did work — Ike & Tina Turner did manage to appropriate CCR's ʽProud Maryʼ, and then there always were Ray and Aretha, capable of turning other people's gold into their own platinum, or at least vice versa. And ol' Bo Diddley — well, at the very least, he always seemed kinda smart: who knows, he just might have that magic touch.

Allegedly, Bo himself had no intent of doing a cover album, but had to play along in order to ap­pease the bosses. If that was the way it was, though, he certainly went to the limits of his loyalty for Chess: there are very few, if any, signs of disinterest here. On the other hand — Another Di­mension is a success of a curiosity rather than a failure. Not only do you get to hear melodies and arrangements on a Bo Diddley record that you would never have gotten otherwise, but he does his best to get into the spirit of each covered song, and shows an impressive emotional range that goes way beyond the usual clowning.

For instance, I would never in a million years have bet that he'd be able to pull off Al Kooper's ʽMore Than You'll Ever Knowʼ — this is so much not a Bo Diddley song at all, he might have had better luck with Beethoven's 9th, right? But he offers a soulful, respectable delivery that hits all the right chords anyway: rougher and grittier than the original, perhaps, which was all dren­ched in romantic tragedy, and thus nowhere near as chillin' to the bone — but the fact is, most people in the world could not do justice to that song (including most of the lead vocalists for Blood, Sweat & Tears themselves), and Bo almost does. It is at least worth it just to hear him do it from beginning to end, rather than just switch the stereo off in horror.

Much the same applies to much of the rest. Three CCR covers might seem like overkill (unless it was all done in a «I'm The Man, I'm not going for just one wimpy cover like that Turner couple»), but other than the glammy female backup vocals, they are all done good. ʽThe Shape I'm Inʼ, se­lected for single release, might seem like a particularly bizarre choice — but Bo nails down the unhappy insecurity in Richard Manuel's voice very well, and the replacement of Hudson's mo­dernistic synth soloing with a more traditional R&B-ish brass section is not a bad idea either. Much weirder, probably, is the cover of Elton John's ʽBad Side Of The Moonʼ — not only be­cause it is the only overseas cover on here, and the only one selected from a fresh new arrival (Elton was barely just a year or so into his stardom), but also because Taupin's cryptic lyrics are a particularly tough nut for poor old Bo to crack. Still, the band gets a good groove.

The other three selections are relatively original — relatively, because ʽI Said Shut Up Womanʼ is, as expected, a direct sequel to ʽShut Up Womanʼ, building on the same one chord sequence, albeit in a more distorted, noisy manner this time. ʽPollutionʼ is an original funk-rocker that finds Bo worrying about the environment (move over, Marvin Gaye), but, more importantly, puts up a hot load of sharp guitar tones — again, something that is fairly atypical for Bo, generally used to far «sloppier» playing, but delivered with pure kick-ass honesty. And then there is some more lite-acid funk on the instrumental ʽGo For Brokeʼ, with complex beats, jazzy piano, brass fills, acoustic funky rhythms, and psychedelic guitar soloing — so much of it happening at the same time that the piece definitely warrants extra listens.

The worst thing one can say about Another Dimension is that it is not really a Bo Diddley album. ʽShut Up Womanʼ and maybe some vocal fills on ʽPollutionʼ are classic Bo; the rest is chame­leon attitude. That is a pretty bad thing. But for anybody interested in Bo Diddley «as a whole», with the smallest bit of curi­osity as to how the man's «up» and «down» periods hold on to each other, Another Dimension is a must-hear. On its own, it is, at best, just a moderately pleasant listen; in the overall context of Bo's career, it reveals some important things about the man that may seri­ously correct one's perspective on «The Originator». In fact, sometimes, every once in a while, it helps if «The Originator» briefly becomes «The Copycat» — I believe that Bo's take on ʽMore Than You'll Ever Knowʼ, in particular, says much more about the man here than would yet ano­ther remake of ʽHey Bo Diddleyʼ or ʽI'm A Manʼ. Thumbs up.

Bo Diddley: The Black Gladiator

BO DIDDLEY: THE BLACK GLADIATOR (1970)

1) Elephant Man; 2) You, Bo Diddley; 3) Black Soul; 4) Power House; 5) If The Bible's Right; 6) I've Got A Feeling; 7) Shut Up, Woman; 8) Hot Buttered Blues; 9) Funky Fly; 10) I Don't Like You.

For an «early rocker» from the 1950s to do something worthwhile in the age of Led Zeppelin, Lou Reed, and Amon Düül II, he would really have to divide himself by zero — children of the «un-accelerated era» as they were, in most cases, their mentalities just could not cope with the idea of having to modify and adapt their styles every two years or so. By 1967, Bo's engine had stalled completely, and he wisely retired from the business, biding his time, rethinking his attitu­des, and waiting for a suitable opportunity.

The opportunity eventually came in the emergence of the funk scene — with James Brown, Sly Stone, George Clinton, etc. establishing a whole brand new, powerhouse market for black music, Bo Diddley sensed that there just might be a small corner in that market for himself as well. After all, wasn't Bo Diddley the original «funkster»? Single-chord groove-based African dance music and all? So he didn't exactly invent syncopation or the «chicken-scratch», but these are just tiny technical details — of course, The Originator had a right to stake his claim here, and that is just what he is doing on The Black Gladiator (a title that James Brown must have envied).

Few people know about this record, and a small handful of those that do has predictably dis­missed it — «Bo Diddley having nothing better to do than to jump on the funk bandwagon, with expectedly laughable results etc.». Hold on, brothers and sisters. Maybe this is just a chronology effect: after so many same-sounding, self-plagiarizing, openly mediocre albums from Bo in the mid-Sixties, The Black Gladiator simply comes through as a stunning ray of light by sheer con­trast. But it is also an objective fact, I suppose, that as the first hole-burning electric laser beams of ʽElephant Manʼ cut through the speakers, everyone will just have to realize that, at the very least, Bo has managed to turn over a heavy page here — the likes of which most of his original colleagues were never able to deal with.

The trick is that The Black Gladiator is not really an attempt to make a «generic funk album with Bo Diddley's name on it»; it is an attempt to make a Bo Diddley album with a strong funky undercurrent. ʽElephant Manʼ, ʽBlack Soulʼ, ʽI've Got A Feelingʼ (nothing to do with the Beatles song), and ʽFunky Flyʼ — all of these «jams with vocal support» are really quite close in melodic structure to the «old» Bo Diddley. But the guitar tones are tougher, snappier, occasionally even acid-drenched; the old pianos are replaced with loud, jerky, stuttering organ passages; and the overall level of volume, «dirt», and grittiness is completely in keeping with the standards of 1970, even if one good listen is enough to understand that the man in charge must have had his basic schtick worked out at least a decade earlier.

Nor is the album particularly monotonous. The four titles listed above do sound very close, but there is also a mad, ear-piercing  «dance-gospel» celebration (ʽIf The Bible's Rightʼ); several old-fashioned 12-bar blues numbers, either just modernized for the psychedelic blues-rock era (ʽHot Buttered Bluesʼ — a somewhat misguided retort to Isaac Hayes' ʽHot Buttered Soulʼ), or milking the «Bo Diddley persona» for exaggerated comical misogyny (ʽShut Up, Womanʼ); an update of the «hey, Bo Diddley» routine (ʽYou, Bo Diddleyʼ — "who's the greatest man in town"?) with a well-engineered funkified variant of the Diddley beat.

Oddball-est of all is the next installment in the ʽSay Manʼ series: ʽI Don't Like Youʼ is a joke dialog between Bo and another of his female sidekicks (possibly Cookie Vee) which is not only set to a funky groove as well, but also unexpectedly shows Bo's operatic side, as he occasionally breaks out in mock-Spanish serenading — taken out of context, this would simply look dumb, but in the context of this totally freaked out, hyperbolic extravagance makes for a grand flashy finale to the album, fifty percent silly pomp and fifty percent hilarious self-irony.

All in all, this is an exhilarating experience. It ain't much in the way of new melodies, but it is a near-perfect update on Bo's personality — somehow, The Black Gladiator manages to sound completely different from the old stuff and yet, at the same time, preserve each and every element that is necessary to make a Bo Diddley out of an Ellas McDaniel. But remember — this record must be played loud from the very first notes, because if you are not sucked in by the first beats of ʽElephant Manʼ, you might miss the train altogether. Thumbs up.

Bo Diddley: The Originator

BO DIDDLEY: THE ORIGINATOR (1966)

1) Pills; 2) Jo-Ann; 3) Two Flies; 4) Yakky Doodle; 5) What Do You Know About Love; 6) Do The Frog; 7) Back To School; 8) You Ain't Bad; 9) Love You Baby; 10) Limbo; 11) Background To A Music; 12) Puttentang (Nursery Rhyme); 13) Africa Speaks; 14) We're Gonna Get Married.

This hodgey-podgey mess would be Bo's last self-sustained album of the 1960s: other than two «supersessions» with Muddy and Howlin' Wolf, he would be refraining from recording new ma­terial over the «psychedelic years» — finally realizing, perhaps, that one of the last things the world was truly interested in at the time was yet another helping of the good old Bo Diddley beat. Thus, The Originator, coming out in early 1966, became Bo's goodbye to his decimated pack of fans — for the next four years, he would sink in the shadows, biding his time and thinking about building himself a brand new image from scratch.

In the meantime, this album throws together a bunch of widely varying, chronologically scattered stuff — ʽPillsʼ, for instance, was a minor hit going back all the way to 1961; ʽJo Annʼ was a single from the less commercially fruitful year of 1964; ʽLimboʼ is a re-recording of ʽLimberʼ from In The Spotlight (faster, cooler, and spiced up with a snazzy dose of «yakety sax»); and I have no idea how much of the rest was specially recorded for these sessions, but the very fact that «The Originator» had to stretch out so far back in time shows that even the mighty Bo, with his seemingly unending supply of optimistic energy, was feeling disoriented.

Of course, in some subtle way drawing attention to an old song called ʽPillsʼ in 1966 was a novel move — "she went through my head, through my head, while I was layin' in the hospital bed" sounds highly relevant, and «edgy», for the circumstances. Plus, it does feature one of Bo's catch­iest melodies, even if he almost certainly nicked it off some Cuban dance or something. The bad news is, you still get this song on most of Bo's compilations, so its presence alone does not justify finding out how well The Originator matches its title in toto.

What else is there? Well, actually, a few of the tracks are funny blurbs with individualistic twists. ʽTwo Fliesʼ acts out a dialog between... two flies (how did you know?), set to a generic shuffle beat, but kinda funny (Bo has always been a better actor than singer anyway). ʽBackground To A Musicʼ has Bo speaking in the name of the «background» itself, demonstrating several of his well known rhythmic techniques at a staged «job interview». Most unusual and eccentric of all is ʽAfrica Speaksʼ, which is a natural round-the-fire tribal chant with, indeed, authentic Africans in­volved in the chanting — a bit of realistic «world beat» way, way before these things became na­tural in pop music, and hence, doing a bit of justice to «The Originator».

On the other hand, there are still predictable lows — rough, rote ballads (ʽWhat Do You Know About Loveʼ), perfunctory rehashes of the Diddley beat (ʽYakky Doodleʼ almost reads like a Bo Diddley cover of the Rolling Stones' cover of Bo Diddley's ʽI Need Youʼ), unsuccessful attempts at inventing pseudo-new dance moves (ʽDo The Frogʼ), and a strange pro-school sermon (ʽBack To Schoolʼ) dominated by an electric organ so poorly tuned that the result is almost completely unlistenable (or maybe the engineer accidentally wiped his ass with the tapes before starting work on the final masters).

Overall, it's all in the same ballpark as Bo's albums from the three previous years — a bit less monotonous than 500% More Man, perhaps, but certainly unfit for a proper «goodbye record»: not that Bo ever planned turning it into a goodbye record, of course — however, the one most wise decision he could have done in 1966 was take a long, well-deserved break, and turn into a careful «listener» for a while, instead of persisting in the mostly discredited emploi of «the origi­nator». That he did, and we are all grateful.

NB: do not confuse the LP The Originator with a much later 2-CD compilation also called the same. It is definitely true that a collection of Bo's bestest deserves being called The Originator far more than a third-hand-derivative LP which originates insect dialogs and spoken confessions of musical patterns, but rules are rules: the original Originator originated first, and even if the origination of the unoriginal Originator originally originated prior to the original Originator, this originates no originality for the unoriginal Originator as such. Is this an original statement or what?..

Bo Diddley: 500% More Man

BO DIDDLEY: 500% MORE MAN (1965)

1) 500% More Man; 2) Let Me Pass; 3) Stop My Monkey; 4) Greasy Spoon; 5) Tonight Is Ours; 6) Root Hoot; 7) Hey Red Riding Hood; 8) Let The Kids Dance; 9) He's So Mad; 10) Soul Food; 11) Corn Bread; 12) Somebody Beat Me.

«500% more self-plagiarizing», to be more precise. Even if nobody was buying Bo's records any longer, that still did not stop the man from putting out two whole LPs in 1965 — and, to be fair, seemingly enjoying every minute of it, although by now he seems to be making his fourth or fifth circle around the same old tree.

The title track, as can be easily guessed, is yet another remake of ʽI'm A Manʼ, out here to reas­sert our hero's reliable virility in an age of quickly changing trends and fads. Other than the reas­suring lyrics ("more man than you ever seen", "I'm still round here, baby, and I let the good time roll", etc.), the only reasons to ever listen to this track had only been there in 1965; today, with the man finally gone for good, listening to ʽ500% More Manʼ instead of the original would be a strange occupation indeed.

The other tracks are... well, two things of note: first, The Cookies — Bo's backing band of high-pitched cat-girls — are present on almost every number, which seems more likely to give us a headache than a feeling of awe and wonder, particularly since most of the backing vocals are so goddamn repetitive (I mean, how could a man not go mad if every goddamn bar on ʽHe's So Madʼ is stuffed with the robotic chant of "oh yeaaah... he's so mad... oh yeaaah... he's so mad"?). It only gets completely intolerable once, when they follow Bo up on a sweet ballad (ʽTonight Is Oursʼ), delivered with the usual clumsiness, but overall, the girls definitely overstate their value on this album, which should have been called 500% More Cookies — with a special disclaimer for those with cholesterol troubles.

On the other hand, there are some really good guitar parts on the record, too. ʽLet Me Passʼ, once the old school ʽDiddley Daddyʼ introduction is over, sees an attempt to merge the gap between Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry, by having Bo play more Berry licks than on Two Guitars (where each player was more like an «intruder» in the other one's groove). A whole series of other tunes, conceived in the standard blues idiom, features variegated bluesy lead lines and solos, which could perhaps be appreciated better if not for the Cookies — who finally shut up on ʽCorn Breadʼ, one of the finest blues shuffles in Bo's repertoire, even though that is not saying very much: Bo will probably never be counted among the blues giants, not only because of limited playing technique, but chiefly because of the lightweight joking attitude. Yet in many ways, lightweight joking blues shuffles may be preferable to those that take themselves too seriously — a properly executed «guitar fart» disrupting a generic chord progression can go a long way.

For the record, that trademark Bo Diddley humor, ambiguous as it is, is very much alive: you get Bo retelling the story of Little Red Riding Hood (he makes for quite a credible big bad wolf), drawing on the spirit of The Coasters in a tragic story of fucking it up in Las Vegas (ʽSomebody Beat Meʼ), complaining about being jinxed by his woman (ʽRoot Hootʼ), in short — pretending to still live life to its fullest. Somehow, it all manages to wind me up a little stronger than Hey! Good Lookin', but only by a brief margin — unless I do a good job convincing myself that, at this point, I am mostly listening to Bo Diddley for the comedy routine, the endless rewrites drag my attention down anyway. Well, it does have this surge in 12-bar blues and Chuck Berry influ­ence, so I guess it at least enables us to move on without a proper thumbs down ritual.

Bo Diddley: Hey! Good Lookin'

BO DIDDLEY: HEY! GOOD LOOKIN' (1965)

1) Hey! Good Lookin'; 2) Mush Mouth Millie; 3) Bo Diddley's Hoot Nanny; 4) London Stomp; 5) Let's Walk A While; 6) Rooster Stew; 7) La La La; 8) Yeah Yeah Yeah; 9) Rain Man; 10) I Wonder Why People Don't Like Me; 11) Brother Bear; 12) Mummy Walk.

Two Great Guitars might have been an oddity, but at least it left a stronger impression than Bo's regular studio albums from the same era. This one belongs in about the same class as Bo Diddley & Company — as solidly masterminded and produced as anything the man could knock off in his sleep. But with the musical world growing more and more demanding by early 1965, and slow­ly awakening to the idea that «progress» could and should not only come «naturally», but could also be permanently stimulated, the idea of making a 1965 record that sounded so firmly like 1957 was getting colder and colder by the minute. This one didn't sell at all, and I don't blame anyone — were I alive and buying LPs in 1965, I probably wouldn't buy it either.

The only track here that suggests a certain awareness of one's surroundings is ʽLondon Stompʼ, a dance-blues number that crudely parodies a bunch of English accents, all based on Bo's recent experiences in the trans-Atlantic cradle of the English language. Just a novelty number, but one well worth a listen — after all, surely all that tolerance towards the legions of white British boys imitating the walks and talks of grizzled black bluesmen entitles us to hearing the grizzled black bluesman returning the favor. Then again, a parody is only a parody, however funny it may be (and this one ain't particularly funny).

Everything else is just standard Bo fare. The title track is no Hank Williams cover, but simply another pomp-and-stomp opening number to exploit the Diddley beat, even if it opens with a couple of deceptive licks that Bo might have learned from the Chuck Berry sessions — then in­tegrates them into the old beat to the point of disintegration. ʽI Wonder Why People Don't Like Meʼ is a decent Motown stylization — and the lyrics, with their tongue-in-cheek rags-to-riches story, might actually be a subtle jab at the typical «Motown star» of the time (especially appro­priate for Bo, who was struggling for survival at the time and must have been fairly envious of all the young, smooth, soulful whippersnappers like Marvin Gaye).

The rest? For the most part, just variations upon variations, with semi-catchy recycled vocal grooves at best and no particularly curious guitar parts whatsoever. The best Bo Diddley song of the epoch was not even included on the original LP for some reason — this is the grim, parent-scaring ʽMama, Keep Your Big Mouth Shutʼ, in which the man gallantly asks the matron of the family to refrain from interfering in his romantic relations with her daughter. (And the guy was worrying about why nobody was buying his records!). It does seem to crop up on some editions, though, so do try to hear Hey! Good Lookin' in its company — the only way to ensure that Bo actually did have some bite left in late '64 / early '65.

Oh yes, ʽMummy Walkʼ is rather amusing as well ("hey little girl, I mean a-you in yellow, I don't wanna see you do the mummy walk with the other fellow" is one of the classic lines of the pre-Patti Smith era, in any case). But on the other hand, you should also suspect that something is wrong when two songs in a row are called ʽLa La Laʼ and "Yeah Yeah Yeahʼ; and when you ac­tually hear them, you will most likely go from suspicion to somewhere else, much less pleasant. Overall, a thumbs down — lack of diversity or originality is one thing, but simply remaking your own history, going round and round in circles, is another thing. An annoying thing.

Bo Diddley/Chuck Berry: Two Great Guitars

BO DIDDLEY/CHUCK BERRY: TWO GREAT GUITARS (1964)

1) Liverpool Drive; 2) Chuck's Beat; 3) When The Saints Go Marching In; 4) Bo's Beat; 5*) Fireball; 6*) Stay Sharp; 7*) Chuckwalk; 8*) Stinkey.

More of an historical curiosity here than an actual good album — but a terrific historical curiosity all the same. This was the first of several «star power» projects that Chess Records briefly toyed with in the Sixties, before realizing their commercial uselessness: getting Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry to play on the same record. Recorded in March 1964 at Tel Mar Studios, released later that year, the album is never remembered as a particular highlight for any of those guys; however, in some ways it is a rather unique artefact of the era. Even if you find it horrible, you won't ever for­get how you found it horrible, that is for sure.

The original LP consisted of just four tracks: two short instrumentals, each provided by one of the two guitar heroes in their own trademark styles, and two long ones, symmetrically titled ʽChuck's Beatʼ and ʽBo's Beatʼ (since the latter is four minutes longer than the former, I used that as a feeble, but valid pretext to review the album under the Bo Diddley section). The long ones are fairly accurate with their titles — although both guitarists are quite active on both of them, tra­ding solos between each other in a friendly competition, ʽChuck's Beatʼ has Bo «guesting» on a Chuck-led recording, set to the beat of ʽMemphis Tennesseeʼ, and ʽBo's Beatʼ sees Chuck retur­ning the favor and trying to adapt his style to a typical Diddley beat number.

Both of the long jams sort of settle the long-standing debate of who was there first with a pop number running over ten minutes — Love, with their ʽRevelationʼ, or the Rolling Stones, with their ʽGo­in' Homeʼ. Two years prior to that, here we have two already-veteran rockers, licking each other first for ten, then for fourteen minutes in a row — and their record company being perfectly hap­py to release the results commercially, in an age of two-minute pop songs.

The very fact is fasci­nating, even if the jams themselves are nothing to write home about: twenty-four minutes of Bo and Chuck emptying their bags of tricks, most of which we have already known for about five years. There might not have been even a single newly invented chord sequence over all this endless jamming and soloing. The whole experience makes it very easy to understand why, in their everyday life, these guys preferred to stick to short outbursts rather than lengthy jam pieces. Nevertheless, the experience is perversely fascinating — seeing them stretch out so bravely in those early, pre-jam band times. And it's kinda funny to try and imagine the stuff played out in their heads, too. Like when, at 7:24 into ʽChuck's Beatʼ, Berry breaks into his «goose-quacking» solo mode, and then... «oh shit, ain't that the third time already?.. better drop this, quickly, before they take notice...» Then, twenty-five seconds later: «Aw heck, I can't play anything else anyway, so why bother looking? A solo is a solo». And he restarts the goose-quack mode again, fourth time over.

In «compact» mode, the instrumentals make more sense: ʽLiverpool Driveʼ, with its three mi­nutes, is just the right size for Chuck to deliver a short and sweet set of riffs and solos, and Bo's take on ʽWhen The Saints Go Marching Inʼ is a fine sample of «diddlifying» the classic New Orleanian atmosphere — putting the tribal beat back where it was originated. On the other hand, they lack the novelty factor of the jams: neither of the two is likely to ever take the place of ʽLittle Quee­nieʼ or ʽDiddley Daddyʼ in anyone's hearts, whereas the jams — these jams you will definitely be remembering years from now on, at least on a purely factual basis.

The CD release of the album threw on a few bonus tracks, probably released during the same ses­sion, and, judged on their own, they might actually be the best there is: ʽFireballʼ, as behooves any song called ʽFireballʼ (see Deep Purple), is fast and tense, based on a speedy boogie pickin' pattern, probably copped from the likes of Big Bill Broonzy; and ʽStinkeyʼ experiments with pha­sing a bit, creating a lively noisy environment against which sharper, more focused licks are played — the result is a great swampy feel, with well-bred, goal-oriented bullfrogs croaking out of the generally mucky, oozy depths.

Overall, a strange project indeed, but one that adds a somewhat interesting page in both histories of the «two great guitars». Supposedly, any prominent people in the jazz world, listening to this stuff back for some random reason back in 1964, would have scoffed at the poorness of the tech­niques and sparseness of ideas. They would be absolutely right, too. But everybody has to have a start somewhere — so, in a way, these simplistic sessions were paving the road to all the great achievements of rock-oriented jam bands, some of which were only a couple of years away from these humble beginnings. So, sort of a thumbs up for historical importance and general weird­ness, but otherwise, only recommended for hardcore rockabilly collectors.

Bo Diddley: Bo Diddley's Beach Party

BO DIDDLEY: BO DIDDLEY'S BEACH PARTY (1963)

1) Memphis; 2) Gunslinger; 3) Hey Bo Diddley; 4) Old Smokey; 5) Bo Diddley's Dog; 6) I'm All Right; 7) Mr. Custer; 8) Bo's Waltz; 9) What's Buggin' You; 10) Road Runner.

Few of the great rockers of the 1950s lived long enough, to put out a great live rock'n'roll record. Not surprisingly, Bo Diddley's first live album was recorded almost at the same time as Jerry Lee Lewis' — with about a year's difference — and both were lucky enough to capture them still in their performing prime, even if no longer a vital critical and commercial presence. Bo Diddley's Beach Party certainly sounds like a crap name for a great rock'n'roll record, but what can you do if it was, actually, like, recorded at the Beach Club in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina? (At least it wasn't really recorded directly on the beach, as one could suggest from looking at the cover). The important thing is, it is actually Bo Diddley's finest album of the decade — worth every ounce of praise that has slowly, but steadily accumulated over it through the efforts of historically-oriented critics, like Ritchie Unterberger, Bruce Eder, and that annoying hipster next door.

Anyway, the sound is shitty (come to think of it, if this were recorded on a beach, right after a volleyball party, I wouldn't actually be surprised, but then again, this was 1963), the songs are nothing new, and neither Bo nor The Duchess have bothered to learn any dazzling new moves for the show, but that doesn't matter one little bit. What does matter is that this is the most «triba­l­istic»-sounding LP released up to that date — James Brown, fine as he is in so many other re­spects, does not even begin to come close. This is Mr. Bo doing his thang, leading the audience in a cult dance around the bonfire, never minding the melody as long as the groove is enough to keep the spirit (and the spirits) properly agitated. In fact, he doesn't even mind the lyrics — half of the songs have no words other than scattered howls, yells, and hollers, and even those that are supposed to have had some words, forget all about them (ʽRoadrunnerʼ). And who cares? We all know Bo Diddley can't sing anyway. That's not exactly why he was born into this world.

The setlist has practically nothing to do with Bo as a hitmaker — other than ʽRoadrunnerʼ, depri­ved of its lyrics (but featuring a funny little intro tidbit on the origins of the song), and ʽHey Bo Diddleyʼ, which is certainly not included here because it was a hit, most of the songs are not too well known, and, in fact, most of them just function as excuses for setting up a twin-guitar groove where, typically, The Duchess keeps up the grinding rhythm, and Bo either sends down his cas­cades of machine-gun fire against it or joins his «sister» in perfect, or intentionally non-perfect, sync. The approach does not differ much regardless of whether he is working on well-rehearsed chestnuts like ʽHey Bo Diddleyʼ or ʽGunslingerʼ, leading a «diddlified» take on fellow Chuck Berry's ʽMemphis Tennesseeʼ, or choosing a less distinctly African, but equally raucous power level on the rearrangement of ʽOld Smokeyʼ.

One tune that most people probably know off here is ʽI'm Alrightʼ, since the Stones got that one from Bo early on in their act, and turned it into one of their own live highlights throughout 1964-65. The difference is amusing, although, unfortunately, not exactly in Bo's balance: Bo does in­deed sound like «he's alright», simply giving himself and his listeners one more feel-good kick, whereas Jagger would often turn the song into something overtly psychotic, sometimes bordering on desperate — maybe not intentionally, but that's the way it turned out. Still, there is no getting away from the fact that the riff is pure Bo, and also that Jagger couldn't credibly «parrot» the way Bo does all that amicable hollering; in any way, it is more fun to just compare and spot the dif­ferences than to draw subjective judgements.

Bo is, first and foremost, an entertainer, and he does everything in his power to entertain — how­ling (quite authentically) on ʽBo Diddley's Dogʼ, luring the audiences into silly, «slumbery» wal­tzing before unexpectedly crashing back into the Diddley groove (ʽBo's Waltzʼ), slipping in jokes and anecdotes, making whatever funny guitar noises he can think of in 1963, etc. etc. But enter­tainment comes in different flavors, and this one is wilder, more reckless, and far more targeted at the «beast within» than just about anything there was at the time. Come to think of it, the natu­ralistic lo-fi sound is actually on Bo's side here — clean, clear sound separation would only help reveal the technical weaknesses; when it all sticks together, the guitars, bass, drums, and even Jerome Green's maracas become a testosteronic monster.

It is too bad that practically none of this was captured on film — Bo's TV appearances from the late 1950s / early 1960s are scarcer than hen's teeth, and he was notoriously «tamer» inside the TV studio than when hidden from the camera's eye. This particular show, on the contrary, is rumored to have been broken up by the cops when tension got too high (with Jerome Green all but stagediving into the crowds), and that certainly seems believable, as the whole show is no­thing but one large, crude, effective audience provocation. Total thumbs up to this little glimpse of the «rock'n'roll underground» in the pre-garage rock era (which it definitely influenced).

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Bo Diddley: Surfin' With Bo Diddley

BO DIDDLEY: SURFIN' WITH BO DIDDLEY (1963)

1) What Did I Say; 2) White Silver Sands; 3) Surfboard Cha Cha; 4) Surf Sink Or Swim; 5) Piggy Back Surfers; 6) Surfer's Love Call; 7) Twisting Waves; 8) Wishy Washy; 9) Hucklebuck; 10) Old Man River; 11) Oops He Slipped; 12) Low Tide.

Allegedly, this is as much of an oddity in Bo's catalog as Bo Diddley Is A Twister, except that this time around I actually got to hear a crackly LP rip of these twelve tunes — recorded by Bo at the height of the surf-rock craze, in a strange, transparently misguided attempt to fool the young fans of Jan & Dean and the Beach Boys. After all, somebody must have thought, Bo is not on the album photo, and them kids these days will spring for anything with a tidal wave on the sleeve — you gotta be real dumb, after all, to listen to surf muzak in the first place.

Now the image of a «Surfin' Bo Diddley» would not be all that far removed from the image of Disney's dan­cing hippos, or that of King Arthur on ice, but, surprisingly, that is not what is wrong with this album. As a matter of fact, very few of its tunes, despite the misleading surf-related tit­les, have anything to do with surf-rock at all: the whole thing is basically an R&B album, almost completely instrumental and mostly drawing upon Ray Charles, Booker T. & The MGs, and a little bit of old-fashioned Chicago blues for inspiration.

The real bad news is that it does not sound much like a Bo Diddley album. Maybe that was the point — make a Bo Diddley album that does not sound like one. But when the artist already has an established style, such experiments more often fail than succeed, and Surfin' is no exception. For the first time ever, the guitar as such — at least, audible, significant guitar — does not enter in the picture until the third track: ʽWhat Did I Sayʼ is a sax-and-keyboards-dominated rearrange­ment of Ray's ʽWhat'd I Sayʼ, and ʽWhite Silver Sandsʼ is a merry, upbeat, brass-based instru­mental that seems to have been recorded while Bo and The Duchess were enjoying a snack in the cafeteria around the corner. Only on ʽSurfboard Cha Chaʼ does the six-string make its first appea­rance, playing a melody that is more... um, Del Shannon than Bo Diddley.

The biggest surprise of the album is that numbers with titles like ʽSurf Sink Or Swimʼ, which you would expect to sound like The Ventures, sound instead like ʽGreen Onionsʼ — crisp, aggressive, deceptively simplistic early blues-boogie-rock. The biggest disappointment is that there is hardly any need to hear them if you can simply go for the real thing instead. Likewise, ʽPiggy Back Surfersʼ is real­ly the old blues of ʽMe And My Chauffeurʼ, wrapped up in a little twang. And ʽSurfer's Love Callʼ, one of the LP's few vocal tunes, is nowhere near a ʽSurfer Girlʼ in style — it is more like a drunken, good-time Mardi Gras number, with Bo occasionally breaking into yodel­ling instead of bellowing. Some fine surfing out there on 'em pretty Alpine meadows.

The album's most radical rearrangement is that of ʽOl' Man Riverʼ, the one tune that Bo really tries to turn into a surf-pop song (and, perhaps, having a vocal part on top would have made the effort more noticeable). If that were the overall pattern — try to «surf-ify» various non-surf-re­lated stuff — the album could have had some value as a novelty piece. Instead, the overall pattern seems to be just duping the listener by putting false titles on formulaic R&B and blues-rock stan­dards. In a way, that is novel, too, and you could almost say that this is Bo's subtle send-up of the whole «jump on somebody else's bandwagon» movement, but that don't necessarily make it a rewarding listen. Thumbs down, in all honesty.