The Animals: With Sonny Boy Williamson

THE ANIMALS: WITH SONNY BOY WILLIAMSON (1963/19...)

1) Sonny's Slow Walk; 2) Pontiac Blues; 3) My Babe; 4) I Don't Care No More; 5) Baby Don't You Worry; 6) Night Time Is The Right Time; 7) I'm Gonna Put You Down; 8) Fattening Frogs For Snakes; 9) Nobody But You; 10) Bye Bye, Sonny, Bye Bye; 11) Coda; 12) Let It Rock; 13) Gotta Find My Baby; 14) Bo Diddley; 15) Almost Grown; 16) Dimples; 17) Boom Boom; 18) C Jam Blues.

This record exists in many forms and varieties — the negative flipside of the lack of proper copy­right — but the 18-track one is probably the most comfortable, even if also the least true, since the last seven tracks, in fact, have nothing to do with Sonny Boy Williamson. But what all of this stuff does have in common is that everything was recorded sometime in late 1963, live at the Club A Go-Go in Newcastle, the Animals' principal stronghold at the time. Fairly surprisingly, the sound quality is very good — all the instruments are well discernible, and, since the audience probably consists of rowdy, but self-preserved coal miners instead of orgasming teenage girls, Eric's singing is not impeded by extraneous noises to the point that he cannot hear himself.

As for Sonny Boy Williamson II, he was an excellent and even innovative bluesman in his own right, and his touring in the UK, along the same lines as that of Muddy or Big Bill Broonzy, did a lot to popularize black music and, eventually, replace it with black-sounding white music. But it must be duly noted that, while performing, he had this nasty habit of jamming the whole length of his harmonica way deep down his throat, making it possible for him to punctuate the right notes with his uvula. This gave him a unique, inimitable sound — the only drawback was that, most of the time, he did not have the time to push it back whenever it was necessary to sing. Therefore, if you lack access to Sonny's records, but are nevertheless interested in his manner of performing, it is advisable to stuff a big chunk of wood or rock in your mouth and try to sing some generic 12-bar material in this condition. For additional authenticity, it is also recommended to knock appro­ximately half of your teeth out before proceeding.

If this sounds a little exaggerated and offensive, my only excuse is that it at least makes the pro­position seem somewhat interesting. Because otherwise, there is no point whatsoever in being in­terested in this kind of collaboration. Sonny Boy sounds better on the original studio recordings anyway, and the Animals, when backing him, sound exactly like your average backing band, with Price alone occasionally trying out some extra organ flourishes and Burdon probably sleeping it out backstage. Things get a little hotter on the duets, such as the lengthy rave-up of 'Nobody But You' (same as 'Talkin' 'Bout You', actually), but only because Sonny Boy is mostly absent from there, only coming in for a few seconds to trade some lines with Burdon — who, in his turn, is very busy ad-libbing stuff about Sonny Boy being the king of the blues and all.

As for the band's own set (sometimes found separately under the title In The Beginning), it is pretty well smoking hot. The vocal harmonies aren't worth shit (particularly on those songs that really really need them, e. g. Chuck Berry's 'Almost Grown'), but there is plenty of energy and good will throughout, and I am especially struck by how big Hilton Valentine's presence is on here — he is playing lots of sharp, hard-rocking solos in a very fluent and «mature» manner that somewhat reminds me of Keith Richards' typical stage playing about six or seven years later on. Very raw, dirty, with plenty of rock'n'roll feeling: the Berry numbers rock harder than anything the studio Animals produced in their original years.

The album's primary value is historical, of course, but it does give one a somewhat different facet of the Animals than the ones we are used to, and no fan of early British R'n'B should stay away from it. As a first acquaintance with Sonny Boy, it does not work at all — please do not let it dis­courage you from exploring his classic Chess singles — but as a farewell glance at the original Animals, it provides a convincing last-time ass-kicking. Thumbs up.

The Animals: Ark

THE ANIMALS: ARK (1983)

1) Loose Change; 2) Love Is For All Time; 3) My Favorite Enemy; 4) Prisoner Of The Light; 5) Being There; 6) Hard Times; 7) The Night; 8) Trying To Get To You; 9) Just Can't Get Enough; 10) Melt Down; 11) Gotta Get Back To You; 12) Crystal Nights; 13*) No John No.

«Third verse, different from the first», as Joey would say. For the Animals' last attempt at a mea­ningful and productive reunion, they finally decided to shift their sound. Unfortunately, the deci­sion happened to be taken at a time when geometry-defying hairstyles were only the second worst thing after the current trends in music-making, and it is not a pretty sight witnessing one of the world's former champions in white R&B go all synth-pop on their audiences.

Frankly speaking, it is not even clear how much of a true «reunion» this is. In addition to all the regular band members, there are at least four additional people, two of which — Zoot Money on keyboards and Steve Grant on guitar — seem to have a much stronger hand in the playing and ar­rangement departments than the «true» Animals. The songwriting, this time around, is mostly ori­ginal, with the exception of the old blues number 'Trying To Get To You', but Burdon is the only Animal that gets any credits; the rest go to corporate songwriters. In short, it is more like a solo Burdon album with nice surprise cameos from his old pals (and no one would guess that anyway without looking closely at the liner notes).

Furthermore, it looks like Eric had finally gulped down the last drops of the old «creativity and experimen­tation» elixir. Before We Were... could at least be understood as the result of a simple desire to take it easy and go back, for a sec, to being the old careless rambunctious boys of the days of yore, playing simple, but fun, entertainment for the crowd. Ark, on the contrary, is an al­bum filled with new songs and melodies, looking as if it had something new to say — but, when you get down to the bottom of it, it hardly says anything worth paying close attention to.

It is not a bad album. It could have been much worse. They could have gone to Diane Warren, who had just made a name for herself in 1983. They could have tried to sound like Rod Stewart. Instead, Burdon most definitely sounds like Burdon — his voice is still in great shape — and the outside songwriters at least take enough care so as not to ruin the classic Animals legacy entirely: no power ballads, no disco, no hair metal.

In fact, guitarist Steve Grant can write a mean tune: his two numbers, 'Loose Change' and 'My Fa­vorite Enemy', are the liveliest, catchiest, and least troublesome tunes on the album, and both have clearly been designed with Eric as the preferred vocalist in mind, especially the latter, which lights up rather slowly, but eventually does go up in smoke and propels Burdon back into all-out screaming mode as the rest of the band rally around him and clearly enjoy all the fun.

Less convincing, in my opinion, is the overtly MTV-oriented stuff like 'The Night', the album's lead single, molded into a sci-fi-ish New Wave pop tune. It's not even the silly keyboards — silly keyboards per se cannot spoil anything — it's that Burdon is simply uncomfortable when trying to adapt to this new style, about the same way that someone who has never worn a suit and tie would be uncomfortable when having to don them for an official reception. You know he'd rather sing 'Boom Boom' than shake his bum to these synthesized rhythms.

Naturally, there are missteps all the way: 'Love Is For All Time' puts the band into reggae mode, a first and, fortunately, last for them; 'Being There' seems to be a song about the movie Being There — great movie, piss-poor song; and, although 'Trying To Get You' is given a much more dramatic, desperate sheen than it used to have in the Presley era, it could certainly benefit from more blues guitar and less post-Kraftwerk keyboards. Etc. etc.

As an attempt to put the Animals back on the chessboard in the MTV era, Ark is a predetermined failure; at least the Rolling Stones had played back to back for the entire preceding decade, and were somewhat ready to face the upcoming challenge — these guys, on the contrary, had no re­gular bonding for more than fifteen years, and it would have been a marvel had they succeeded in «re-gelling» altogether, let alone in an Eighties fashion. But as a slight memento of the era, and as a record that features a bit of decent songwriting crossed with a bit of superior singing, it works, and, at the very least, 'My Favorite Enemy' has never left my best-of-all-time playlist ever since it got there, a long time ago. Therefore, although the brain keeps trying to plant a vicious thumbs down rating here, the heart still crosses it out with a thumbs up, if only moderately so.

The Animals: Before We Were So Rudely Interrupted

THE ANIMALS: BEFORE WE WERE SO RUDELY INTERRUPTED (1977)

1) Brother Bill (The Last Clean Shirt); 2) It's All Over Now Baby Blue; 3) Fire On The Sun; 4) As The Crow Flies; 5) Please Send Me Someone To Love; 6) Many Rivers To Cross; 7) Just A Little Bit; 8) Riverside Country; 9) Lonely Avenue; 10) The Fool.

Burdon dismissed the band soon after Love Is failed to make the big time, and for the next de­cade, there was no sign of the Animals, as Eric gravitated in and out of various projects, first with WAR, then on an entirely solo basis (not that the period did not have an excitement of its own, but this will be duly covered under the «Eric Burdon» section).

Eventually, nostalgia — or, perhaps, some earthlier feelings, such as cash pressure? — took over, and in 1977 Burdon and Price ended up reassembling the entire original line-up from 1965. Old time fans were rejoicing, but for the original five Animals, the studio hours must have been really hard, because what exactly were they to record? Obviously, there was no question about Burdon dominating the proceedings like he did on each record since 1967 — getting back the primordial line-up meant also going back to a more democratic kind of arrangement. On the other hand, what would be the point, in 1977, to return to the same brand of, by now, way obsolete R'n'B that used to be their main occupation?

These are tough questions, and, unfortunately, the resulting album does not manage to find the right answers. Like in the old days, they mostly revert to doing covers, and some of the covers are respectable oldies, like Ray Charles' 'Lonely Avenue', but they also do Curtis Mayfield and Jim­my Cliff and, most importantly, they try their best to not make it sound like an exercise in retro­spection. They do steer clear of all new trends — disco, punk, New Wave etc. — but neither do they sound like they are hopelessly stuck in the Sixties.

And it does not click. It goes down uneasy. The most transparent proof would be to compare their original recording of 'Just A Little Bit' (back then, called 'Don't Want Much' and easily available on the two-disc Columbia set) with the 1977 reworking. The aggression is toned down, Burdon trades his rock'n'roll growl for a moodier, «sexier» approach, Price mostly uses the organ for oc­casional flourishes, and I never manage to get the point.

Nor do they seem to recapture their blues glories all that well, either: 'As The Crow Flies' is com­pletely pro forma — where, in the past, Burdon and Price would be ripping each other's throats, competing for whoever was able to generate the higher excitement level, here they seem to com­pete for whoever is able to exercise the most restraint. It is odd to hear Burdon sing like Lou Reed, and it is even odder to hear Price trade in his organ for a tasteful, but minimalistic electric piano backing. Alan Price is really a phenomenal keyboard player; why do we have to hear him play like some anonymous backer in a late Eighties' Eric Clapton stage band?

This does not mean the record is unlistenable, or even boring. Eric does plenty of good screaming work on 'Lonely Avenue', reaches his highest «confessional» standards on 'Many Rivers To Cross', rocks out on 'Fire On The Sun', and does not let Bob down with 'It's All Over Now Baby Blue' (the latter is given a particularly minimalist arrangement, with Price not so much playing the piano as marking the time with it, so that we can give Eric our full attention. It is worth it, ac­tually). Plus, while evading the trends, it never once sounds like «generic Seventies soft rock» or something like that; play it without knowing and you will not be able to guess the year correctly, or even the decade — «retro-bands» or, simply, bands that laugh at trends are still recording simi­lar-sounding albums even today, except that not all of them are this good.

In the end, it is a moderate thumbs up and an enjoyable listen, but it did not prove the most im­portant point — namely, that The Original Animals had a solid reason to reconvene, much less waste time, money, and efforts on trying to hit the market again. Consequently, they went their own ways once again, and stayed that way for six more years.

The Animals: Love Is

THE ANIMALS: LOVE IS (1968)

1) River Deep, Mountain High; 2) I'm An Animal; 3) I'm Dying, Or Am I; 4) Ring Of Fire; 5) Coloured Rain; 6) To Love Somebody; 7) As The Years Go Passing By; 8) Gemini; 9) Madman (Running Through The Fields).

The Animals' 1969 Christmas gift to their already well-loaded fans was this double LP — nine songs stretched to the breaking point and still hardly pushing over sixty minutes. With a little mo­dest trimming, the band might have easily fit everything on two sides of vinyl. But in 1968, dou­ble albums were coming in as the latest obligatory ingredient for the serious artist: if you lacked the capacity to splatter your Vision over four sides, you ran the risk of being deemed closed-min­ded. Big times required big statements, said the Beatles, and came out with The Beatles.

Eric Burdon, too, was already well used to big statements, and Love Is was one of his biggest. No original material here at all; instead, the band runs through a selection of covers whose only thing in common is that they have nothing, or almost nothing, in common. Having sung so many times about the diversification of popular music, Burdon now illustrates that diversification on himself. Beginning relatively straightforwardly with the R'n'B genre (Ike & Tina Turner's 'River Deep, Mountain High', Sly & The Family Stone's 'I'm An Animal', no doubt, selected because of the fit­ting title), he rips through country ('Ring Of Fire'), Brit-tinged roots-rock ('Coloured Rain'), lush balladry ('To Love Somebody'), 12-bar blues ('As The Years Go Passing By'), and, finally, psy­chedelic rock (side four).

And I stand by my word: with about fifteen or twenty minutes of this stuff trimmed, the album would have stood up better today. Case in point: the rocking rendition of 'River Deep' ranks among Eric's best covers, as he yields one of those stirring predator-begging-for-mercy perfor­mances that combine the primal ferocious scream with rough tender feeling in a uniquely Burdon way. But midway through, the song transforms into a silly tweet-tweet chant praising the charms of Tina Turner (culminating in a mock-psychedelic 'Tina-Tina-Tina-Tina!' that must have embar­rassed the poor woman deeply even back then). Original? Certainly. Does it add much to the song, does it go down well today? All I can say is that I far prefer the edited single version which, nice­ly enough, can be found as a bonus track on the CD edition of Every One Of Us.

Pretty much the same applies to every other song on here that goes over five minutes — with the possible exception of 'As The Years Go Passing By', which is prolonged at the expense of an ex­cellent blues-rock guitar solo rather than silly psychedelic noises, and the slightly less possible exception of 'Coloured Rain', where the guitarist improvises in a Clapton-like manner, backed by a tired brass section. 'To Love Somebody' just repeats the chorus too many times; and 'Gemini' of­fers a freakout break that is stuck somewhere in between the astral plains of the Moody Blues and the upcoming minimalistic chinks of King Crimson's 'Moonchild'.

All these flourishes will probably inspire only the most «open-minded» of human beings, those that accept just about any flash of creativity as long as there is a minimal chance of proclaiming the thing in question «a flash of creativity». Yet all it really takes is to flip the mindset switch on the back of your head into the '1960s' position, and then the «flashes» will not be a serious bother — at the very least, they will not prevent one from enjoying the individual stamp that Burdon is putting on all those covers. He is loving this — or else he would not have done it — and he still roars the blues out like crazy, and he does not spoil 'Ring Of Fire' by giving it an operatic flavor, and, in my opinion, he sings 'To Love Somebody' better than the Bee Gees.

And a special big thanks to new band member Andy Summers — later of the Cops' fame — for bringing along the beautiful song 'Madman (Running Through The Fields)', taken from the vaults of his previous outfit, Dantalion's Chariot. I would not say it is better than the original, but this probably made a lot of people hear it for the first time. Such a cute marriage between uptempo Brit-pop and «pastoral psychedelia» — a gorgeous way to close the record.

Analytically, Love Is does not quite make the grade: its «meat» is unoriginal, and its «fat» deci­dedly oversaturated; the brain is not happy. But the heart clearly states that, as long as Eric Bur­don sticks to singing the stuff that he is covering rather than fucking with this stuff, it will never have a problem with this particular artist. Assessing the rate of singing to fucking to be appro­ximately 7 : 3 on this album, thumbs up are guaranteed.

The Animals: Every One Of Us

THE ANIMALS: EVERY ONE OF US (1968)

1) White Houses; 2) Uppers And Downers; 3) Serenade To A Sweet Lady; 4) The Immigrant Lad; 5) Year Of The Guru; 6) St. James Infirmary; 7) New York 1963 - America 1968.

Like many other artists in 1968, Burdon must have also, at one point, sensed the uncomfortable feeling of having lost firm ground under his feet. Tangerine trees and marmalade skies are all right for a day, but dwell in their neighbourhood too long and you'll end up like Syd Barrett or Skip Spence. Even if you decide to move house, sometimes only a radical antidote will suffice — such as, for instance, a grim-faced, illusion-free, grit-filled record dealing with the fates of the working class. Such as Every One Of Us by Eric Burdon & The Animals.

Change is apparent from looking at the album cover — a black-and-white (no coloured rainbows!) photo of the band members, staring morosely into space while Eric, in a ragged overcoat and a worker's cap, is drilling you with subtle scorn, as if asking «What have YOU done to improve the conditions of the working man, you sad refuse of our oppressive society?» Thus, it is with an uneasy, troubled heart that we begin our listen, expecting the worst to come.

Surprisingly, this shift in direction has been helpful. The tone of the album is just as preachy as that of its two predecessors, but it would seem a bit strange to preach about such down-to-earth matters in the form of rambling sonic collages or mantras, so the band, this time quite firmly, re­treats back to the song format. And there are good songs — and most of them originals! Even the lengthy folksy drones, like 'The Immigrant Lad', or the first six minutes of 'New York 1963...', where Eric recounts his impressions of his first trans-Atlantic visit ('And when I got to 'Mer-r-r-r-ica, I say, it blew my mind!'), are touching, and the opener, 'White Houses', is one of the sweetest little shuffles to have ever come from the man.

At the core of the album, however, is a fully successful updating of the blazing hard sounds of yore. Eric had not given us fresh performances of traditional R'n'B since at least 1966, but here he returns with a vengeance to put his stamp on 'St. James' Infirmary', arranged as the musical equi­valent of a haunting movie thriller — starts out slow, deep, and dark, then gradually unfurls into a sonic nightmare. Eerie backing vocals, wailing guitar solos, Eric in the further stages of posses­sion, a little honesty plus a little theater goes a long, long way.

In terms of importance and unusualness, however, it is still trumped by Eric's original 'Year Of The Guru'. Not only is this the first — to the best of my knowledge — straightforward indictment of «professio­nal spiritual leadership» on a pop record ('Sexy Sadie' was not only more oblique, but also came out later in the year), it is also one of the first examples of «white rap» on such a record, and fairly well grounded, too, because there would be no better way to convey Burdon's anger than with such a rapid-fire delivery on the perils of guru-trusting. But not even the lyrics themselves are as hilarious and aggressive at the same time as the song's chaotic coda and Eric's demented cries of 'Gotta get a guru, gotta get a guru, a groovy groovy guru!' — a coda that sum­marizes the epoch's disillusionment in crash courses in spiritual enlightenment better than any lengthy treatise on the subject.

Alas, the flaws of Every One Of Us are just as obvious as its successes. If the staged conversa­tion between two silly cockneys on Side A and the black fighter pilot confession on Side B some­how fail to annoy you (they are not that long, after all), then the ten-minute 'I wanna be free — you can never be free!' jam that concludes 'New York 1963 — America 1968' most certainly will. Usually, such things happen when bands run out of things to say, but if this ten-minute raving was their thing to say, this is even worse. It is not psychedelia and it is not even «modern art», but it is more dull to listen to than the third LP of George Harrison's All Things Must Pass, and that was pretty dull. Must have been dull even back in 1968; who the heck would want to take this for one's ideal of a «lengthy composition» when one could choose between 'Sister Ray' and 'In Held Twas In I' at the same time?

Still, chop off the last ten minutes and you still come out with about thirty-five of good music, which is at least longer than the Beach Boys' Surfin' Safari, and that was an LP as well, and still continues to sell for a full price. Therefore, a definite thumbs up for the rest of it, coming mostly from the heart department — believe it or not, but that Burdon guy somehow manages to awaken the dormant working man in me. Roight, guvnah, off to the docks, 'en. See ye round.

The Animals: The Twain Shall Meet

THE ANIMALS: THE TWAIN SHALL MEET (1968)

1) Monterey; 2) Just The Thought; 3) Closer To The Truth; 4) No Self Pity; 5) Orange And Red Beams; 6) Sky Pilot; 7) We Love You Lil; 8) All Is One.

No matter how dated or downright silly we may find Burdon's output from this period in general, the sheer amount of creative passion is astonishing: no less than three albums — one of them a double LP! — had been released by the band in 1968, which would, perhaps, be normal for the likes of Frank Zappa, but certainly not for the rowdy Brit who, only a couple years ago, had seri­ous problems about coming up with any kind of original material.

It would be highly irreverent to disrespect the enthusiasm, much less doubt its sincerity. And, beyond that, parts of The Twain Shall Meet work as fascinating period pieces, absolutely un­imaginable to­day. It is easy to smile at the ongoing naïveness such as seen in 'Monterey', Bur­don's fanboy report on The Festival where, once again, he succumbs to the historiographic temp­tations of listing all the greats ('The Grateful Dead blew everybody's mind... Jimi Hendrix, baby, believe me, set the world on fire...'). It may be hard for us today not to judge Monterey from the point of view of such pompous, but safe and cozy events like Woodstock '99 or Live 8, but back in 1968, standards were different.

Plus, from a different point of view, 'Monterey' is just a cool sitar-driven psychedelic rocker with an impassioned vocal performance — nothing wrong about that. Melody, drive, and real senti­ment, a definite improvement over 'Winds Of Change'. The other highlight for the ages is 'Sky Pilot', Burdon's anti-war anthem replete with blazing guitar solos and air battle overdubs and, more importantly, one of the catchiest choruses ever recorded: 'Sky pilot, sky pilot, how high can you fly? — you'll never, never, never reach the sky!' Most importantly, though, it gives us an ul­tra-­serious Eric in an «epic» mood, which we have not properly — that is, within the context of a real song rather than merely a musical sermon — experienced ever since the recor­ding of 'House Of The Rising Sun'. The effect, predictably, is magnificent.

The rest of the material is far more experimental, and, therefore, hit-and-miss. In the good news, there is not a lot of preaching, as the boys concentrate more on revolutionizing the world of music than on giving us a good metaphysical grounding for it; so, no unlistenable trash like 'Winds Of Change' or 'Man — Woman'. In the bad news, «revolutionizing» still, quite frequently, means «vandalizing». Side 2, after the opening punch of 'Sky Pilot', does not deserve more than one his­torical lis­ten, consisting of a lengthy, powerful, but extremely monotonous guitar freakout ('We Love You Lil') and a drunken psychedelic jam ('All Is One') where the idea is to cram as many different instruments as possible into the framework and make us believe that they are all one — nice try, but one need not go further than Gustav Mahler to find that out, and the Animals do not qualify as serious competition.

The first side is marred by a couple non-Burdon sung tunes ('Orange And Red Beams', in parti­cular, is a pretty weak Danny McCulloch original, and his voice is a very ugly counterpoint to Burdon's, sounding as if Eric, out of pure misery, brought in a weak old semi-demented relative to give him his last chance), as well as silly production ideas (as Mark Prindle best put it, "Why does half of 'Closer To The Truth' sound like it was recorded on an empty aluminum can jammed into a tape recorder, and the other half sound like a drunken guitarist wobbling back and forth across a room?"). Nevertheless, 'Closer To The Truth' does rock, and a couple other psychedelic tunes are real psychedelic tunes rather than sad psychedelic nonsense.

There definitely is progress here, and the new band is beginning to find solid middle ground be­tween unbridled experiment and conservatism; but whoever hates Winds Of Change will most li­kely not be bawled over by The Twain Shall Meet, either, if only because the twain shall meet, but, at this point, they have not met yet. Still, no record that has 'Sky Pilot' and 'Monterey' on it deserves anything less than a thumbs up, because the heart cannot be denied.

The Animals: Winds Of Change

THE ANIMALS: WINDS OF CHANGE (1967)

1) Winds Of Change; 2) Poem By The Sea; 3) Paint It Black; 4) The Black Plague; 5) Yes I Am Experienced; 6) San Franciscan Nights; 7) Man-Woman; 8) Hotel Hell; 9) Good Times; 10) Anything; 11) It's All Meat.

By the end of 1966, Burdon's ego got the best of him. Disbanding what remained of the original lineup, he assembled an entirely new team — people who only knew him as Eric The Great and would, therefore, kowtow before his will — and re-christened it «Eric Burdon & The Animals»: first part for honesty's sake, second part so that people would go on buying the records. People were not that easily duped: Winds Of Change only got as high as No. 42 on the Billboard, and each of the three following records only sank lower and lower.

No one is to blame but Eric. As the scene of pop music was exploding from the cumulative ta­lents, invading «high art» territory and splitting into dozens of distinct genres, all of this bliss went to his head — and caused irreversible reactions. Suddenly, Burdon began to think of himself as a prophet of the new movement, that one individual whose responsibility included not only summarizing the achievements of his contemporaries — in an artistic form, of course — but also creating an entirely new synthetic form of art itself, where the lines between music, poetry, thea­ter, and social philosophy would no longer exist. The idea took complete hold of him, and his new band of talented, but submissive musical companions (slaves?) was to help him realize it.

It is not to be denied that Eric Burdon, in 1967, before he became old and ugly and began to re-record 'The House Of The Rising Sun' for peanuts, was still young, fresh, powerful, and talented. But even so, there was hardly any other artist at the time, both in Britain and overseas, who would be less suited for this grandiose venture than the Animals frontman. Drastically inexperienced as a songwriter, not playing any actual instrument, his best talent was lending his voice to rearrangements of classic blues and R'n'B. Prophet? Guru? You must be joking.

Winds Of Change is — in my opinion, has always been — one of those proverbial records that give the late Sixties their bad name. We sometimes tend to forget that, for each true artistic break­through, there were ten silly, badly dated «experiments», and few have dated worse than Burdon's original declaration of creative freedom. Out of the record's 11 tracks, more than half are not «songs» at all, but Statements with a capital S-.

The title track States Change, recounting the his­tory of popular music for the past half century. 'Poem By The Sea' States Romance, presenting Burdon as the tormented loner. 'Paint It Black' States Stream-Of-Conscience, taking a compact pop number from the hands of the Rolling Stones and showing how much farther you can go with it (but why should you?). 'The Black Plague' States Serious Art — where would we be without a little medieval influence, to link The Now with The Then? 'Yes I Am Experienced' States Dialog — because if Jimi Hendrix asks 'Are You Experienced?', someone has to answer. Guess who that someone is. And so on.

Basically, the first side of the album is so explicitly weak that, for a long time, it was painting my overall impression of the whole thing — black, black, black. With minimalistic musical backing, it is a one man show all the way, and the show combines peak-level naïveness and idealism with unbridled pomp so clumsily and unattractively that it must take a very special mind to fall under its charm. Besides, it is pretty doggone hard to fall under the charm of 'Winds Of Change' when that wretched sitar and John Weider's violin keep blasting at your ears all at the same time.

The flipside, however, does have several traditionally-oriented songs, mostly rhythmic mid-tem­po ballads with pleasant arrangement touches (cute baroque guitar flourishes on 'San Francisco Nights', Morricone-style brass flashes on 'Hotel Hell', strings gushing on 'Anything', etc.), as well as one heavy rocker ('It's All Meat') that also preaches ('When Erkel Darbies walks, when Eric Clapton talks... it's all meat on the same bone!'), but, at least, does rock.

These songs, credited to the entire band — much to Burdon's honor, although that gives very little indication as to who was the driving force behind the melodies — are well-written and touching, much more so than all the impressionism and preachiness on the first side. (The worst bit, by the way, a long percussion-backed rambling, in a flash of brilliant provocativeness entitled 'Man — Woman', has surreptitiously made it onto Side Two, fucking things up even in this relatively safe haven). 'San Francisco Nights' and 'Good Times' have, over the years, held up so as to even be occasionally covered by other artists. Alas, back in sunny 1967 Burdon probably thought that it would be 'Poem By The Sea' and 'The Black Plague' that truly represented the spirit of the times.

Certainly, Winds Of Change is unique enough for its age, and, intellectually, it would be unjust not to notice that uniqueness. But it is poor, shrivelled uniqueness, like the swimming pool scene in The Graduate, one that withers and dies with time, and it would be equally unjust not to notice that. I once used to think that Winds Of Change was the worst thing ever to come out of the de­cade. Clearly, that was an exaggeration, triggered by the staggering discrepancy between the clas­sic material of the early Animals and this incomprehensible, unforgivable change. At least it is mildly interesting, and the ballads are fine. But my overall negative judgement — thumbs down, down, down! — stays the same.

The Animals: Animalisms

THE ANIMALS: ANIMALISMS (1966)

1) One Monkey Don't Stop No Show; 2) Maudie; 3) Outcast; 4) Sweet Little Sixteen; 5) You're On My Mind; 6) Clapping; 7) Gin House Blues; 8) Squeeze Her Tease Her; 9) What Am I Living For; 10) I Put A Spell On You; 11) That's All I Am To You; 12) She'll Return It; 13*) Inside Looking Out; 14*) Don't Bring Me Down; 15*) Cheating; 16*) Help Me Girl; 17*) See See Rider; 18*) I Just Wanna Make Love To You; 19*) Boom Boom; 20*) Big Boss Man; 21*) Pretty Thing; 22*) Don't Bring Me Down (stereo); 23*) See See Rider (stereo); 24*) Help Me Girl (stereo); 25*) Cheating (stereo).

The original Animals' last album is conveniently available today as a monumentally expanded col­lection, twice the size of the original, also including all of their 45s from around 1966, out­takes, stereo mixes, and even, as a very special bonus, the band's earliest EP from way back in 1963, so that the commonest layman may easily assess the length of the road traveled.

Animalisms is, in fact, a transitional record. After 'It's My Life', boosted by commercial success but also fed up with the dependency on producer Mickie Most's material, the Animals — by now, entirely in Burdon's hands — switched from EMI to Decca in an attempt to toughen and roughen up their original sound, on the verge of leaking and collapsing under commercial pressures (or so they thought; back in 1966, everything was so mixed up that «commercial» and «artsy» pressures were frequently impossible to separate from one another).

They still have not learned to write original material, though, and, for the most part, still exploit the same old vaults of blues, R'n'B, and rockabilly. Without Price, and in light of the changing times, they sound different: louder, brawnier, darker even than before: Chas Chandler's bass rises high up in the mix, as is evident already on the opening seconds of 'One Monkey Don't Stop No Show', and Valentine's guitar says goodbye to the shrill squeaking of yesterday and fully embra­ces garage noise as its ideal (although he still goes light on the feedback). Yet it cannot really be said that all of this manages to improve on the previous two years.

The album's two greatest numbers are, in fact, not on the album — they are the hit singles 'Don't Bring Me Down' (a Goffin-King original, and nothing whatsoever to do with the ELO disco hit) and 'Inside Looking Out' (in a rare glimpse of happiness, credited to the band members themsel­ves, although most people probably know it through the Grand Funk version). These rank high up there with the very best. Eric is on fire, the boys supply him with cool guitar and organ riffs, and an A+ in the tension-building department is guaranteed for both. 'Inside Looking Out', in particu­lar, is one of those simple, but unforgettable hard rock classics that serve as the perfect illustra­tion to the 'Spirit Of '66'. The Yardbirds have some of those, too.

Sometimes you can't help but wonder — what was it, exactly, that prevented the original lineup from simply sitting down and writing a bunch more of these numbers to put up on the next LP, instead of filling it to the brim with cover material of such widely ranging quality? Was it mode­sty, or even self-humiliation? Wild, unbridled love for trans-Atlantic music dictating their hand in the studio? Elementary laziness? Or real true inability? The latter choice is the most dubious: lack of talent has never prevented «The Artist» to clog the world with his refuse. I go for a combina­tion of the other three.

That said, 'Maudie' is a great dirty piece of talking blues arranged as proto-punk rock (the band never fails with John Lee Hooker — he's like their closet songwriter!); Bessie Smith's 'Gin House Blues' is a little too overtly theat­rical, but Eric's sincerity is not to be doubted; and Chuck Willis' 'What Am I Living For?' is given a lush, deep arrangement that makes the ori­ginal sound like a hastily pre-recorded demo. On the other hand, tunes they should not have touched include Screamin' Jay Hawkins' 'I Put A Spell On You' — Burdon singing Hawkins? might just as well hunt elephant with a baseball bat — and 'Sweet Little Sixteen' (who the hell needs another cover of it, and in 1966 at that?).

The rest of the tracks can be further split down the same line, and in the end, Animalisms is a severe disappointment — a generally good record that only gives tiny hints at how excel­lent this band could have become with a bit more verve. At that moment, the world needed lots and lots of songs of the caliber of 'Inside Looking Out'. Instead, it got one more 'Sweet Little Sixteen' — and, worst of all, by the end of the year Burdon was so strung out that he'd simply confused his lazi­ness for writing good conventional songs with The Artist's disdain for writing good conventional songs. This led to near-catastrophic results, not the least of which was the dissolution of the origi­nal band; and we have, I guess, to be glad that they still left behind even such scraps as they did leave behind.

For these scraps, they still win — with much difficulty — a thumbs up from the department of the heart, but from a rational point of view, Eric Burdon should be strapped to a time machine, transferred back into 1966 and forced to remain there until coming out with a whole album of songs like 'Inside Looking Out'. Sweet, sweet punishment!

The Animals: Animal Tracks

ANIMAL TRACKS (1965)

1) We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place; 2) Take It Easy; 3) Bring It On Home To Me; 4) The Story Of Bo Diddley; 5) Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood; 6) I Can't Believe It; 7) Club-A-Gogo; 8) Roberta; 9) Bury My Body; 10) For Miss Caulker.

Again, this American release, this time following the same-titled UK album after a four month de­lay, has virtually nothing to do with it — only two tracks intersect ('Roberta' and 'For Miss Cau­lker'), whereas most of the other numbers on the British Tracks are really the same as the ones on the American Tour. On the other hand, the title when applied to the American record ac­tually makes more sense: these are indeed 'tracks', a.k.a. 'leftovers' — an even more than usually discoherent mess of tracks, some cut as early as 1964, some as late as summer 1965, by which time Price had already left the band, replaced by Dave Rowberry. (Rowberry is a fine organist in his own right, but prefers to stay in the shadows — listen to how subtly hidden he keeps himself in the mix on 'We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place', for the most part — so this means trans­forming the band into a guitar-driven powerhorse, under Eric's undisputed rule.)

The result is weird. It would be an exaggeration to say that, over two years, the Animals' sound had covered a distance of any number of light years, but, let's face it, songs like the straight up raver 'Club-A-Gogo' are very different from songs like 'Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood' — imagine a record that is half Please Please Me and half Help! and you'll know what I mean. This is not to say that any of the songs are bad; on the contrary, Animal Tracks is as consistent in pure quality as its predeces­sors and maybe more. But it's a decidedly odd mix.

Its two superheroes bookmark Side A: 'Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood', Price and Burdon's last triumph together as they borrow a tune from Nina Simone and show no intention of giving it back, and 'We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place', the classic Mann-Weill escapist anthem that showed the world the Animals could hold their ground even without Price — for a little while, at least. It is Bur­don who leads the band on both numbers, showing that his gruff wildman persona can be sha­ped into a painful, personal, sensitive mold just as easily as it can be employed for the needs of acute social statements. His 'I'm just a soul whose intentions are good... oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood' and 'we gotta get out of this place, girl, there's a better life for me and you' are delivered almost in the same tone — and yet they mean two entirely different things.

He also gives a decent, if very unfaithful, Sam Cooke impression ('Bring It On Home'), shows himself capable of handling old folk blues ('Bury My Body', which these jokers manage to turn into a sweaty R'n'B workout at the end anyway), and jokes at his own ineptitude in impersonating Bo Diddley ('The Story Of Bo Diddley'). The latter, by the way, although it is chronologically one of the earliest recordings here, already presages Burdon's future overstated love for pompous verbosity and 'propheteering' as he extends 'The Story' way beyond Bo Diddley and turns it into a lengthy narrative of rock'n'roll history up to the present day. Later experiments in this style would for the most part be awful, but this particular bit of narration — no doubt, due to its extremely tongue-in-cheek character — is still a laugh riot, especially when Eric starts imitating Bobby Vee ('take good care of my baby...').

The review would be incomplete if I did not mention the band's last single for Columbia, which does not form part of this LP but rightfully concludes the 2-CD package of The Complete Ani­mals. Roger Atkins' 'It's My Life' follows the winning formula of 'We've Gotta Get Out...' — same cool, swaggery melody, same bravado in the singing, same self-assertive atmosphere, plus a great, epoch-defining guitar riff to go along with it, making it perhaps the quintessential Animals song (no Price, though).

For some reason, I have always admired its B-side, a Burdon "original" called 'I'm Going To Change The World', even more, despite the obvious fact that Eric simply re­cycles the exact same riff and comes up with just one melodic part instead of three different ones — but what a part! As if in honest compensation, he winds his mechanisms up to the limit and over the limit, on the verge of pushing his larynx all the way down his trachea, even if that's what it takes him to change the world. If 'It's My Life' is, after all, a proper pop culture creation, then 'I'm Going To Change The World', stripping it of all embellishments, is the punkiest statement from these guys, right up there in terms of sheer power with 'My Generation' from the same year.

But, of course, as an album Animal Tracks has no significance whatsoever, and the predictable thumbs up only refer to the songs, not the meaningless non-principle of their collocation. It does give you all the odds and ends on one plate, though, and this is, in a way, convenient. And if, like me, you also hold the opinion that there was no finer moment for the Animals than the ever-so-brief 1964-65 period, well, there is really no sense in bickering as long as you have all that first rate material to consume.

The Animals: On Tour

THE ANIMALS: THE ANIMALS ON TOUR (1965)

1) Boom Boom; 2) How You've Changed; 3) Mess Around; 4) Bright Lights Big City; 5) I Believe To My Soul; 6) Worried Life Blues; 7) Let The Good Times Roll; 8) I Ain't Got You; 9) Hallelujah I Love Her So; 10) I'm Crying; 11) Dimples; 12) She Said Yeah.

This is not a live album (for some reason, American companies had a predilection for slapping the On Tour moniker onto British band releases — the Who had a similar trick played on them — as if these words might have had some magical influences on record buyers), but rather a mishmash of studio tracks partially carried over from the British LP Animals and partially previewing the Bri­tish LP Animal Tracks, not to be confused with the later American LP Animal Tracks (yes, the two sides of the Atlantic are different worlds and people on one side do not have to know any­thing about the other. And if they want to know, they have to do serious research on it).

There is no single classic track on here that could hold up to the grandeur of 'House Of The Ri­sing Sun' — few songs could — but, overall, it is a definite stylistic improvement over the debut. We can still hear ferocious rock'n'roll — Ray Charles' 'Mess Around' and Larry Williams' 'She Said Yeah' are perfect for the rave crowd, as is the band's first post-'House' single, the Burdon / Price-penned 'I'm Crying' — but it is also much heavier on slow, moody blues and soul numbers, which the band shapes more and more in its own image.

John Lee Hooker and Jimmy Reed, in particular, are unrecognizable. When Hooker recor­ded 'Boom Boom' and 'Dimples' in the early Sixties, they were quiet, grim, gloomy, scary tracks: one could just see the hellbound old Negro sitting on the street, creeping out little girls by mumb­ling 'I like the way you walk, I like the way you talk' under his breath. Under Burdon's heavy hand, both become loud, brawny, and quite unsubtle expressions of drunken lust — there are no nuan­ces or suggestions, it's all hanging out in the open, but there is a place for that, too, especially when he unfurls the battle cry of 'Come on, let's shake it!' and the rest of the band start imperso­nating a gang of hoodlums sweeping through town.

Jimmy Reed's 'Bright Lights, Big City', on the other hand, which used to be just another one of an innumerable series of totally sound-alike Jimmy Reed songs, is transformed from something plain and unsubtle into a little symphony, with a new quiet mid-section and ad-libbed lyrics in which Eric names all the city perils that conspire to turn his girl loose — 'long Cadillacs... Rolls Royce... men with money... cigarettes... flamenco... scotch... bourbon...'; an exciting rearrange­ment that further confirms my suspicions about Jimmy Reed as mostly a "songwriting vehicle" for other people to expand on his ideas (or, rather, idea, I'm not sure Jimmy ever had more than one) and build flowery gardens on top of them.

The slower numbers — blues and soul things like 'How You've Changed', 'I Believe To My Soul', and 'Worried Life Blues' — take more time to sink in (and also require inborn tolerance for the 12-bar form), but the Price vs. Burdon contests that are at the center of each are well worth the price of admission. Eric always lets his brawn do most of the talking, but there is always a bit of soul behind it, and his sense of theatricality, as he unfurls the broken-hearted drama before the li­stener, is unparalleled for 1965, whereas Price is Price, showing himself completely worthy of imitating and expanding on Ray Charles' piano style.

So, while this is not a "true" album in any way, its consistency level is higher than on any other collection of the band's early output. Nevertheless, a thumbs up judgement applied to it individu­ally will be of little practical use, since today it is only available as a scattered sub-set on The Complete Animals; and it does not even have a proper chronological sense, since, in terms of dates of recording, On Tour is all over the place.

The Animals: The Animals

THE ANIMALS: THE ANIMALS (1964)

1) The House Of The Rising Sun; 2) The Girl Can't Help It; 3) Blue Feeling; 4) Baby Let Me Take You Home; 5) The Right Time; 6) Talkin' 'Bout You; 7) Around And Around; 8) I'm In Love Again; 9) Gonna Send You Back To Walker; 10) Memphis Tennessee; 11) I'm Mad Again; 12) I've Been Around.

This and the following two albums are most easily acquired today on the 2-CD set entitled The Complete Animals — but "complete" only as far as their 1964-1965 Columbia recordings go, i. e. representing the "Alan Price" era in which the band had not yet turned into the custom-made vehicle for propagating Eric Burdon's limitless ego, but, rather, was simply one of the tightest, strak-raving-maddest British R'n'B combos that ever came out of Newcastle-on-Tyme. (Now that is a statement that'll be pretty hard to beat).

Eric Burdon, at this point, is merely the vocalist: an essential part of the band, the rough, rowdy, ballsy exterior, its bullroarer communicator. Alan Price is the organist, creating grim, moody at­mospheres derivative of Ray Charles but in a class of their own. Hilton Valentine is the guitar player — nothing particularly special but it was he who first put on record the arpeggios of 'Hou­se Of The Rising Sun', and that alone should suffice. And the rhythm section is... decent.

As with most British bands of the period, it is of no principal importance whether the reviews cen­ter around their US or UK discographies — none of the albums were intended as 'concept' pieces, and, in the case of the Animals, producer Mickie Most could care less about proper track sequencing regardless of the side of the Atlantic ocean that sequencing was delivered to. US dis­cographies are cozier in that respect, since the albums tend to be more numerous at the expense of including material that, in the UK, was only issued on 45s, but it really makes no difference.

Anyway, The Animals — the American version, which, for some reason, happened to come out about a month earlier than the UK counterpart — does faithfully include the band's two first sin­gles, plus seven LP tracks that would also be on the UK album and 'Blue Feeling', which would later be used as the B-side to 'Boom Boom'. The sequencing is a mess indeed, but, more impor­tantly, there is not a single Animals original: all of the tunes are blues / R'n'B / rockabilly covers, with 'House Of The Rising Sun' thrown in for good measure. So, how does it measure up today?

Still great. At the intersection of Burdon's vocals and Price's organ playing, the Animals had de­veloped a unique sound that made these songs their own and make even such universal chestnuts as Chuck Berry's 'Around And Around' or Ray Charles' 'The Right Time' well worth hearing in these versions. Price, in particular, almost singlehandedly turns the electric organ into a rock weapon as powerful as the electric guitar; his playing may be simpler and more "rootsy" and traditional than that of his main concurrent on the instrument — Rod Argent of the Zombies — but, before his successful quest of conquering the organ, no one had ever explored its potential so thoroughly. On the fast numbers, Price-led instrumental passages create an atmosphere of proto-psychedelia that must have driven rock'n'roll dancers punch-drunk in 1964 ('Talkin' 'Bout You'); and the slow ones, through his subtle uses of various effects and volume levels, are transformed from generic blues into artsy explorations of human emotion ('I'm Mad Again').

As for Eric, it is tremendously hard to understand and describe the secret of his singing. He ne­ver had much range, and his "powerhouse" delivery, shocking and stunning in 1964, has long since been beaten by far throatier powerhouse vocalists like Noddy Holder of Slade. But perhaps it is exactly the combination of the powerhouse approach with a certain amount of refined finesse and intelligence — something Noddy could never have been suspected of — that does the trick. Bur­don knows how to play with his voice and intrigue the listener with this play; he knows the value of silence and quiet just as he knows the value of all-out screaming, and he, perhaps best of all the early British R'n'B-ers, had mastered the voodoo art of classic bluesmen and R'n'B-ers who could easily lure the audience into a trance through simple repetition of the simplest phrases. You will know what I mean if, just like me, you will not feel that 'Talkin' 'Bout You' has lasted all of seven minutes, a record-breaker in 1964.

In between these two masters of the trade, even thoroughly lightweight tracks like 'Baby Let Me Take You Home' (copped by the band from Dylan's earlier 'Baby Let Me Follow You Down') are delightful, although I personally lean towards the darker stuff, like 'I'm Mad Again', arguably the most believable impersonation of a nervous breakdown in British pop music up to that time. The only catch is that the darker stuff is in the minority here — in their earliest days, the band liked to rave and rock their audience more than it liked to hypnotize it. But can we blame them?

Then again, of course, few things could be darker than 'The House Of The Rising Sun', which has not lost one ounce of its terrifying power ever since. Its historical influence can hardly be over­rated — it may not have singlehandedly invented 'folk-rock', but it certainly was one of the earli­est indications that pop music made by young rebellious people could have brains and soul in ad­dition to brawn and lust. It also served as an important watermark in the evolution of rock lyrics: apparently, Burdon did not feel as comfortable as Dylan about singing 'it's been the ruin of many a poor girl, and me, o God, I'm one', and changed 'girl' to 'boy' — immediately and, probably, un­intentionally, transforming it from a tragic, but generic, folk lament of a brothel-locked girl with family troubles into an equally tragic, but far more mysterious — mystical, in fact — plight of The Disspirited Young Man, with no common idea whatsoever of what "The House Of The Ri­sing Sun" really is or should represent.

The historical side should then be reinforced by mentioning the record-breaking length of 4:29 for a single release (kudos to Mickie Most for greenlighting the idea), and the emotional side — by mentioning the fantastic crescendo, as the song slowly and steadily gains in volume, beginning with little other than Valentine's arpeggios and then gradually becoming a bloody battlefield be­tween Burdon's epic vocal stand and Price's keyboard-generated tempest. For all its purposes, for all its simplicity, it is most certainly "art rock" at its earliest and freshest, and that organ solo should be canonized; is there anything like an "organ solo Hall of Fame"?

So the album should be getting a thumbs up even if it had nothing but 'House' on it — in terms of historical importance, that's probably just the way it goes — but its overall sound is such a de­light that I am even happy about relistening to the band being proverbially mega-repetitive and ultra-monotonous on 'Memphis Tennessee'. Classic.