The Beau Brummels: Live!

THE BEAU BRUMMELS: LIVE! (1974; 2000)

1) Nine Pound Hammer; 2) You Tell Me Why; 3) Turn Around / Singing Cowboy; 4) Gate Of Hearts; 5) Lonely People; 6) Music Speaks Louder; 7) Lisa; 8) Tennessee Walker; 9) Don't Talk To Strangers; 10) Laugh, Laugh; 11) Lonesome Town; 12) Free; 13) Man And Woman Kind; 14) Restless Soul; 15) Her Dream Alley; 16) City Girl; 17) Paper Plane; 18) Just A Little; 19) Love Can Fall.

For a band as «historically insignificant» as the Beau Brummels, they do seem to have a rather disproportionate amount of archival releases honoring their legacy — including a monumental 3-CD collection of demos, outtakes and rarities (San Fran Sessions) that is not easily available, and, anyway, the perspective of sitting through 60 samples of «second-rate» material by one of America's classic «second-rate» band may not look all that appealing even to an obsessive com­pletist: a gross excess of the allocated quota if there ever was one.

In its place, it is more useful and pleasant to mention this, much shorter, archival release of a live show that the reunited Brummels played in February '74 in some little-known pub near Sacra­mento. For some reason, the show happened to be professionally recorded — with no less than excellent sound quality — only to surface officially twenty-five years later, licensed by the small Dig Music label based in Sacramento.

There are two reasons to be happy about it. First, this is the only Beau Brummels live album in existence, and what is a rock band without a live album, even a bad one? Second, the time of the show caught the Brummels in a highly creative mode — Ron Elliott was writing like crazy for the 1975 reunion album, and most of that writing went through a live testing period; 13 out of 19 songs are newly-penned, and, what is most interesting, only three of them actually ended up on The Beau Brummels, so there is a swarm of previously unavailable material here, and not in «raw demo» form, either: these are fully fleshed out compositions that the reformed band was not afraid to offer for their limited, but rowdy audience.

As a live unit, the reformed Brummels sounded predictably professional and predictably not all that exciting compared to the studio recordings. The vocal harmonies are not too good, particular­ly when it comes to stretching out on the high notes — the "babe, babe, babe" chorus on ʽDon't Talk To Strangersʼ goes painfully on the ears, and Sal's «macho bleating» (I'm all out of words, goddammit) on ʽMan And Woman Kindʼ is another seriously stressful moment. But in general, when they are not trying too hard, the outcome matches the quality of the original recordings just fine — ʽNine Pound Hammerʼ and ʽTurn Aroundʼ are the major highlights, and the melancholic harmonica of ʽLaugh, Laughʼ has not lost a drop of the original melancholia.

But generally, the album is really worth it for several of the new songs that did not make it onto the 1975 record (they might, perhaps, have made it onto subsequent recordings, had the reformed band persevered for a couple extra seasons). ʽMusic Speaks Louderʼ is a lively, friendly pub romp very much in the spirit of the Lovin' Spoonful, and it's funny how its wah-wah-driven guitar parts unexpec­tedly contrast with the overall soft folksy melody. Bassist Declan Mulligan's ʽLisaʼ is a moderately heavy rocker with idiot lyrics, but a nice muscular drive that would be so sorely lack­ing on The Beau Brummels. So is Elliott's ʽRestless Soulʼ; and ʽFreeʼ is one of the band's pretti­est anthemic ballads (although, once again, it loses momentum whenever Valentino starts stretch­ing out — alas, Frank Sinatra this guy is not).

Overall, it is very good that the show does not go too heavy on the «classics» and leaves such a huge space for new material, even if this prevents it from becoming a well-rounded, conclusive «live retrospective». Altogether, there is more energy, passion, and interest here than the band demonstrated in the studio — maybe because by the time they did get around to the studio, dis­illusionment had already started seeping in. As it is, Beau Brummels Live! may not deserve its exclamation point, but it may at least be a better example of the reformed band at its brief inspirational peak, so one more final thumbs up is not out of the question.

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The Beau Brummels: The Beau Brummels (1975)

THE BEAU BRUMMELS: THE BEAU BRUMMELS (1975)

1) You Tell Me Why; 2) First In Line; 3) Wolf; 4) Down To The Bottom; 5) Tennessee Walker; 6) Singing Cowboy; 7) Goldrush; 8) The Lonely Side; 9) Gate Of Hearts; 10) Today By Day.

If there is a real reason why the Beau Brummels decided to make a comeback in 1974, I am al­most afraid to spell it out. They should have taken their clue from the original Byrds, who had already performed the trick one year earlier and, much to their surprise, discovered that most people couldn't care less about whether Crosby and McGuinn were generating their vibes toge­ther or separately. If the mighty Byrds couldn't do it, how could the not-so-mighty Beau Brum­mels stand a ghost of a chance?

They couldn't, but, for some reason, they still thought they could — had they reformed just for the fun of being together once again, they probably wouldn't have scattered in different directions as soon as the reunion album predictably flopped. Predictably, because in 1975, the Brummels' folk-/country-pop sound was either concentrated in the hands of «seriously charismatic» singer-songwriters, or mixed with a generic rock bottom to generate hits à la America. Elliott and Va­len­tino refused to go either way — and gave us an album that basically picked up exactly from where Bradley's Barn left off. No matter how experienced the experience, you could never re­liably tell that these songs were recorded in 1975.

The songs do not only sound timeless — they sound quite lovely. The entire atmosphere of Bradley's Barn, its mix of country-pop arrangements and folk melodicity, is carefully preserved, and Valentino has not lost one ounce of the confidence he so admirably gained in 1968. The over­all mood is a little heavier, and there is a higher percentage of dark, depressed numbers (ʽDown To The Bottomʼ, ʽWolfʼ, ʽGoldrushʼ, etc.), but that's one thing to be expected from the post-hip­pie era, and a little extra darkness never hurt anyone anyway — and, besides, the Brummels were well adapted to darkness ever since the lamenting intonations of ʽLaugh, Laughʼ.

The main problem, however, remains the same — most of these songs are eminently forgettable. Seven years of better-things-to-do had not produced any miracles: Elliott's songwriting skills are still mediocre, the band's playing has not improved, and the whole experience never for a single moment pushes anywhere beyond «nice». Perhaps they felt it too — or else why would they feel the need to re-record ʽYou Tell Me Whyʼ, a ten-year old single? (It's a fine re-recording, by the way, preserving all the hooks of the original and piling some new guitar flourishes on top — but it only makes the rest pale further by comparison).

ʽDown To The Bottomʼ was released as the lead single — a good choice, since the song's grim­ness, pessimism, and accompanying high-pitched, shrill electric guitar solos (courtesy of guest star Ronnie Montrose) do make it a stand­out of sorts. But this isn't Pink Floyd, and few people would want to be lectured on the misery issue by a band as lightweight as the Beau Brummels. Nor would anyone feel the urge to sit up and lis­ten as the feeble, delicate chords of ʽWolfʼ ring out in soft-rock mode, no matter how much they try to transform the "...crying wolf!" chorus into a catchpoint.

Every other song only seems to reinforce my point — the Beau Brummels' principal flaw is that you never know when their subtlety slides into weakness. Yes, these songs have potential, but the energy level is comparable to that of an activist two weeks into a hunger strike: even the frickin' drums sound like someone was much too afraid of breaking a drumstick. I mean, Joni Mitchell playing solo acoustic — at her best, that is — could produce more damn energy than this whole supposedly «rock» band.

For all of its niceties, I give the record a shaky thumbs up, but inten­ti­onally hunting for it is a waste of time unless your hobby is to build up a complete collection of 1970s country rock — an occupation that I'd find about as exciting as collecting matchboxes or bumper stickers, but hey, that's just an opinion.

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The Beau Brummels: Bradley's Barn

THE BEAU BRUMMELS: BRADLEY'S BARN (1968)

1) Turn Around; 2) An Added Attraction (Come And See Me); 3) Deep Water; 4) Long Walking Down To Misery; 5) Little Bird; 6) Cherokee Girl; 7) I'm A Sleeper; 8) Loneliest Man In Town; 9) Love Can Fall A Long Way Down; 10) Jessica; 11) Bless You California.

Somewhere out there is a model that convincingly predicts a Beau Brummels album recorded in 1968 would be more effective and natural than a Beau Brummels album recorded in 1967. May­be this idea has biased me from the start, but I do really feel that Bradley's Barn — titled after the Wilson County studio where the remaining Brummels, Valentino and Elliott, teamed up with some Nashville pros — seriously improves on Triangle. It may have nothing on the uniqueness of the sound of ʽMagic Hollowʼ, but it sounds like a record that these guys really had a lot of fun making, putting off most of the pressure of the preceding years.

Obviously, by 1968 the subtle «roots-rock revolution» was in an active phase, and, as The Byrds, The Band, and Bob Dylan were cleansing their organisms from psychedelic «excesses», the Brummels and their original folk-pop vibe suddenly got one more chance. The result is a record that may be even more underrated than Triangle — eleven lovely exercises in country-rock, with Elliott taking care of the music and Valentino of the words (usually): not generic country-rock, mind you (a.k.a. «Singing Cowboy rewrites with hippie lyrics»), but interesting attempts at mer­ging the spirit of country-rock with the band's experience in baroque pop flourishes.

Unfortunately, neither the album itself nor any of the singles released on its basis charted at all. ʽLift Meʼ, an experimental, but catchy patchwork that housed too many different beasts (rock­abilly rhythmics, psychedelic woo-hoos, folk vocal melody, Britpop bridge, etc.), was the first failure that was not even included on the LP (you can find it as a bonus track on today's CD ver­sions). ʽLong Walking Down To Miseryʼ was much more straightforward, with a very strong, if also quite delicate and lyrical, delivery from Valentino, but its hooks (including an oddly fussy set of blues-rock acoustic flourishes during each chorus, disrupting the steady, lazy country flow of the melody) were probably too subtle for anyone to notice at the time.

Finally, there was ʽCherokee Girlʼ — a 3:30 «epic» tale of the troubled allegoric relations betwe­en the «Cherokee Girl» in question and her friend The Coyote (an influence on Joni Mitchell's subsequent ʽCoyoteʼ, perhaps? lyrically, at least, there may be some unpaid debt here), with an intelligent, subtly grand strings arrangement; but, again, probably a bit less focused and more «wimpy» than necessary for significant chart success in 1968.

Neither these nor any of the other songs hit as hard as ʽLaugh, Laughʼ, and in 1968, competition was so tough that you either had to land your hardest punch in one go, or refrain from hitting at all; and the delicate, intelligent charm of Bradley's Barn only emerges with a little bit of time. The biggest surprise is Valentino — at this point, he is a masterful crooner, not busy butchering great songs with crudely experimental vocalizing techniques, as he did on '66, or trying out vari­ous «unusual» styles of singing to match the magic-expecting wishes of the public in 1967, but simply delivering the message with plenty of power, a good sense of pitch, and elegant phrasing and modulation; honestly, Bradley's Barn could simply be one of the best «sung» records of the year. (Especially since the Hollies only released an album of Dylan covers that year — Allan Clarke would usually be Valentino's biggest direct competitor).

But many of these songs are quite interestingly written, in addition. ʽTurn Aroundʼ, for instance, through its «dark folk chords» adds a bit of menace, a faint devilish grin even, perhaps, to what could otherwise be just an inno­cent love story. ʽDeep Waterʼ is a country-rocker that really does rock, despite always staying in acoustic territory. ʽI'm A Sleeperʼ is an incidental response to the Beatles' ʽI'm Only Sleepingʼ as presented from the perspective of a talented hillbilly with a strange pen­chant for cello overdubs. Okay, really, none of these songs are all that great — what really matters is that they all sound nice, easy-going, natural, and with an underlying streak of good humor and irony.

Overall, Bradley's Barn is a very nice artefact for us to dig up after all these years — traditio­nalist as it is, the Brummels were still able to make it ring out with its own voice: rootsy, yes, but keeping its feet just a few inches above the ground, with echoey traces of fantasyland psychedelia still contained in its keyboards and strings arrangements. That the band (duo) finally disintegrated soon after the album flopped on the charts, even worse than Triangle, was probably inevitable, and, anyway, I am not sure that they would have been able to replicate Barn's subtle charms even one more time without going completely limp and lifeless on us. But speculation is one thing, and facts are another: Bradley's Barn is what we have, and it remains a solid «B-level» album from a rare era whose «solid B-level» offerings are well worth seeking out. Thumbs up.

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The Beau Brummels: Triangle

THE BEAU BRUMMELS: TRIANGLE (1967)

1) Are You Happy; 2) Only Dreaming Now; 3) The Painter Of Women; 4) The Keeper Of Time; 5) It Won't Get Bet­ter; 6) Nine Pound Hammer; 7) Magic Hollow; 8) And I've Seen Her; 9) Triangle; 10) The Wolf Of Velvet Fortune; 11) Old Kentucky Home.

The title obviously refers to the band's being reduced to a trio — upon the departure of guitarist Don Irving and drummer John Petersen, following the embarrassment of '66. (And if that ain't enough, take an extra look at the album cover). Of course, one could always try to uncover additi­onal meanings — for instance, attempt to define Triangle as a trendy concoction, consisting of one-third American country-/folk-rock, one-third British Kinks-style pop, and one-third world-wide psychedelia. That could probably work.

Anyway, the very fact that, having just recorded the most superfluous album in their history and gone through critical disinterest, fanbase decay, and loss of several members, The Beau Brum­mels found it in them to regroup, start anew, and present themselves as artists with interesting stuff to say in 1967, deserves merit. Triangle did not sell at all well, for understandable reasons: the Brummels were effectively kicked off the train by the end of 1965, and it would have taken a miracle to catch up with it in the whirlwind atmosphere of 1967. Besides, most people preferred their psychedelia with a harder edge at the time, and Triangle is totally music for sissies. How­ever, some reviews were positive, and since then, the record earned itself a stable place on all sorts of «great albums from the past that you have never heard about» lists.

The most notable song is ʽMagic Hollowʼ — the band correctly realized that it was the most ac­complished creation on the album and put it out as a single, unfortunately, forgetting that «most ac­complished creations» do not always qualify for single releases: the sleepy, hypnotic attitude of the song is quite far removed from the dynamic punch that the record buyer usually expects when he puts down the cash for about three minutes worth of A-side music. But the fact that it flopped commercially does not diminish the accomplishment — mainly in terms of arrangement, which weaves a dense and unique sonic web of harpsichords (played by Brian Wilson's SMiLe partner, Van Dyke Parks), guitars, accordeons, chimes, and strings. It is, indeed, one of the finest repre­sentatives of the baroque pop era — and, as far as my own perception can tell, it does paint a musical picture of a «magic hollow» without the aid of any particularly «trippy» effects or studio trickery, other than a bit of toying around with the delay effect on the vocals at the end.

However, the same perception also suggests to me that, in general, Triangle is not much of a «lost masterpiece». Unlike so many true masterpieces of the psychedelic era, its songs do not have a lot of staying power. The band seems hung up in mid-air, somewhere in between their folk roots and «art-rock»... but that is not the real problem — many wonderful things were generated over time in such a hung-up state — the real problem is that the songs, with but a few exceptions, never seem to know how to build up to full stature.

Take something like ʽOnly Dreaming Nowʼ, for instance. There is an attractive cello riff that drives it, but it does not mesh at all well with the accordion melody — the song seems torn between its baroque fundament and some sort of gay Parisian attitude: an unusual marriage, per­haps, but not a particularly meaningful one. Much worse, however, is the fact that its ominous introduction never develops into anything «stronger» — the climax of the song involves nothing other than Valentino rising high to bleat out the chorus. Likewise, ʽThe Painter Of Womenʼ is basically just an acoustic guitar / brass-led mantra; its chorus is a little louder than its verses, but that's about it.

The album's magnum opus is the five-minute long ʽWolf Of Velvet Fortuneʼ, an attempt to write a mystical-magical mini-epic, influenced by mid-Eastern music, Tolkienish fantasy, and just a pinch of acid. Again, the premise is nice enough — the little creepy echoey guitar flourishes, the ominous notes in the singing — but the eventual resolution (the chorus of "Delight! Delight!"...) is not quite enough a pay-off for the monotonousness of the verses. It's a good song, but it never crosses borders — there is a good reason why everybody knows and loves Led Zep's ʽBattle Of Evermoreʼ, but not this Beau Brummels tale of happenings in a parallel world (and I was never even a big fan of ʽBattle Of Evermoreʼ in the first place).

Then there are some things that are just strange. For instance, what was the point of ending the album with a Randy Newman song? Just so as to please the album's producer Lenny Waronker, a good pal of Randy's? ʽOld Kentucky Homeʼ is indeed a hilarious send-up of red­neck attitudes, but it doesn't exactly have a lot to do with psychedelia — and even though it's one of the best tunes on the album (since it belongs to Randy), its positioning right after "delight, delight, the wolf of velvet fortune is upon his merry flight" is befuddling.

So, to be honest, Triangle is a mixed bag, really. The Beau Brummels were a decent folk-rock band, and the only kind of hooks Ron Elliott knew how to manufacture were folk-rock hooks. When pressed with the necessity of living up to the times, they accidentally fell upon a unique kind of sound — that one thing I am quite ready to admit: Triangle sounds lovely and intriguing — but the substance did not have enough time to catch up with the form. So no, I do not think Triangle really could belong in the same category with Pet Sounds, Forever Changes, or even The Left Banke's killer singles.

But on the other hand, it could have been much worse. Most bands of The Beau Brummels' cali­ber were simply blown away for good by the psychedelic revolution, or, at best, tried to squeeze out miserably laughable simulations of «the real stuff». (Bands like The Hollies were actually the opposite of the Brummels — they continued to write better songs, but nothing that they did in 1967 was as individually inventive as ʽMagic Hollowʼ in terms of pure sound). From that point of view, Triangle is an artistic miracle that, regardless of any criticism, absolutely belongs in the collection of every art-pop lover, let alone the abstract «musical annals». You may fall under its spell or resist it if you wish, but there seems to be no reason to disagree with a thumbs up, parti­cularly if all things are taken in the context of the Brummels' own career, rather than in the con­text of 1967 as the year of Sgt. Pepper, Are You Experienced, Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, or Days Of Future Passed.

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The Beau Brummels: Beau Brummels '66

THE BEAU BRUMMELS: BEAU BRUMMELS '66 (1966)

1) You've Got To Hide Your Love Away; 2) Mr. Tambourine Man; 3) Louie Louie; 4) Homeward Bound; 5) These Boots Are Made For Walkin'; 6) Yesterday; 7) Monday Monday; 8) Bang Bang; 9) Hang On Sloopy; 10) Play With Fire; 11) Woman; 12) Mrs. Brown, You've Got A Lovely Daughter.

In a blazingly inane move of complete incompetence, Warner Bros., under whose wing the Brum­mels found themselves with their old record label, Autumn, in early 1966, demanded that the band stop producing original material and release an entire album of covers instead. Apparently, the thinking process behind it went like this: «This band is not producing any big hits — maybe they suck at writing songs — but they have a lovely style of playing — maybe they can fare bet­ter covering other people's material — after all, some of our biggest hits are covers». That the is­sue was essentially out of the band's hands is made evident by the fact that they were recording original material — some of it resurfaced later on archival compilations — but had to put it down in order to make way for...

...you know, one curious thing that I realize from time to time is that, even though ʽYesterdayʼ is supposed to be the most frequently covered pop song of all time, I don't seem to have any covers of it in my not-too-small collection, except for maybe the Ray Charles version. Of course, this does not say so much about the song as it does about the average type of artist covering it. But this already does not bode well for the Beau Brummels. You're risking quite a lot if you decide to cover ʽYesterdayʼ — simply because the very act may land you in a category to which you wouldn't really want to belong.

Anyway, if there is one thing that Beau Brummels '66 proves to us, it is that they had a pretty good reason to stay away from covers on their first two LPs: as a cover band, the Beau Brummels are a completely, utterly incompetent bunch. Half of these songs are incompetently chosen, and the other half incompetently performed — to the point of sounding like clumsy high school paro­dies on the artists. It could have been better if the band tried faithfully sticking to the original ar­rangements; in keeping with the times, they decided to «brummelize» them, and the results are almost uniformly disastrous.

Chief culprit here is Sal Valentino, who thought it would benefit the recordings if he kept stray­ing away from the melody, changing notes in mid-air, adding extra vocalization, and throwing in all sorts of annoying mannerisms. What's up with all the "eveyyy-wheey people stayyyy" and "yes, and I hear them say" stuff on ʽYou've Got To Hide Your Love Awayʼ? With the "why don't you play a song for me" and the "I'd like to go far, far from the twisted reach..." on ʽMr. Tambourine Manʼ? Why is Simon's ʽHomeward Boundʼ, a song that should really be performed at barely-audible level to reveal its full potential, sung with the flamboyance of a Tom Jones? Why do they think that the last verse of the Stones' ʽPlay With Fireʼ should rise from the quiet menace of "now you've got some diamonds..." to the ugly barking threat of "...or start living with your mother?" There was a good reason why Mick Jagger never did that, even though the thought might have visited him — there is no good reason to dump the subtlety here.

But the band's musical decisions are not that far advanced, either. Extending the Beatles' songs with extra repeated verses and additional solos — including a solo on ʽYesterdayʼ — seems cheap (for that matter, completely instrumental versions of these songs might have been a better move). The decision to do ʽLouie Louieʼ, a lonesome garage rocker among a sea of folk-pop, is extremely strange — the Brummels were never a rock'n'roll band, unless, of course, they actually wanted to prove this by covering the song. They fare a little better with their moody R'n'B arran­gement of Nancy Sinatra's ʽBootsʼ — the combo of melancholic jangly guitar, fuzz bass, oddly placed chimes, and sneering kill-it-kid vocal delivery adds some serious spice, but it's also quite telling that the only song in this batch that somehow stands competition with the original is a co­ver of Nancy Sinatra.

«Embarrassing» choices, other than the Beatles songs and ʽLouie Louieʼ, include ʽMr. Tam­bou­rine Manʼ (which can only remind us of the time when the Byrds came into existence and blew the Brummels off the stage), and ʽMonday Mondayʼ — actually, a decent arrangement, but the choice, all by itself, pla­ces the Brummels on the «oldies» shelf, since The Mamas & Papas themselves pretty much owed their existence to the BBs, and now here they are basically ack­now­ledging that somebody already outdid them at their own game.

All in all, this is one of the most inane cover albums of the decade — worth a curious peek, per­haps, as a reminder that even a bunch of absolutely great tunes may be easily spoiled with wrong attitudes and poor translation from one artist's language to another's. And although the Brummels would recoil from this artistic disaster, and get their act together the following year, the damage was done: it struck one further blow at their reputation, tougher and meaner than all the previous ones. Completely justified at the time, alas. Thumbs down.

The Beau Brummels: Vol. 2

THE BEAU BRUMMELS: VOL. 2 (1965)

1) You Tell Me Why; 2) I Want You; 3) Doesn't Matter; 4) That's Alright; 5) Sometime At Night; 6) Can It Be; 7) Sad Little Girl; 8) Woman; 9) Don't Talk To Strangers; 10) I've Never Known; 11) When It Comes To Your Love; 12) In Good Time.

Ouch, bad mistake. Instead of trying to capitalize on their personal strengths — the mournful vibe of ʽLaugh Laughʼ, for instance — The Beau Brummels, completely seduced by and envious of the success of the Byrds, decided to adjust their sound to the standards set by McGuinn and Co. The results were not so much «bad» as they were disastrous. Perhaps in simple terms of «hooks», Ron Elliott could stand some competition with Gene Clark (although even here the bands were at a serious disadvantage — the Byrds had at least three accomplished songwriters, the Brum­mels only had one). But in terms of everything else — instrumentation, technicality, arrangements, un­expected sources of inspiration, etc. — the band did not stand a chance; and if there ever was a moment in their career when the term «poor man's Byrds» could be appropriate, it was right here.

The two lead singles, ʽYou Tell Me Whyʼ and ʽDon't Talk To Strangersʼ, are two lovely little folk-pop creations that both succeeded in hitting the charts, but both — particularly the latter, with its jangly melody and the lead singer's (subconscious?) imitation of Roger McGuinn's phrasing — are only enjoyable to a full extent if your experience has not been previously tampered with Mr. Tambourine Man (and Turn! Turn! Turn!, although the latter, to be fair, was only released after the Brummels' second album). The vocal harmonies are lovely, but the guitar sound is so thin and wimpy that the songs just don't seem capable of being hammered into your brain with the proper energy (unlike the Byrds, where every final pluck of McGuinn's and Crosby's guitars was always delivered with perfect self-assu­rance — at least that's what my intuitive feelings are whispering at the moment).

Tracks that are less obviously «byrdsey» turn out to be more impressive at the end of the day. The real major highlight is probably ʽSad Little Girlʼ, a melancholic mid-tempo ballad with a highly repetitive structure whose main point of attraction is a subtly arranged crescendo: considering the band's relatively low instrumental skills and relatively poor instrumental inventory, they do a great job adding layer after layer of guitars, percussion, harmonicas, and vocal harmonies, and eventually transform the song into a mini-anthem.

Another unexpected highlight, for me, is ʽWomanʼ, a fast R'n'B number that they first recorded in a fully vocalized arrangement (the «lyrical» version can be found as a bonus track on the CD edi­tion), but then decided instead to include in an instrumental version, with acoustic and electric guitars taking turns to mimic the vocal melody. The results are cute, funny, and somewhat atypi­cal for the era (not a lot of people were interested in working out acoustic leads for electric rock­ers) — atypical for the Brummels themselves, in fact, but that might be all for the better, conside­ring that «typical Brummels» for this album means «let's do it like the Byrds do, as best we can».

There are no real in-yer-face embarrassments on the album — most of these folk-poppers and «soft-garage-rockers» have their moments, but they hardly deserve individual descriptions. It does not help, either, that the subject matters of the songs remain slight and formulaic — it's all in the traditional love-my-girl ballpark, with the exception of ʽDon't Talk To Strangersʼ, which tries to deliver a message ("follow your own beaten path, wander where you can't be grabbed"), but not very convincingly or effectively.

All in all, it's a nice little album, but the train was running speedy in late '65, and Vol. 2 failed to catch it, forever grounding the Brummels in the losers' lounge: while their story was far from over, and the stock of creative energy would still be enough to carry them through the psychede­lic years, this sophomore semi-success (certainly not a «sophomore slump» — the album de­ser­ves a friendly thumbs up in any case) forever buried any hopes of the band joining the big league, which may not seem like a big deal in our indie-soaked days, but certainly was a big deal back in the old days, and explains the oblivion into which the Brummels had sunk before being dragged out by the ears by the likes of Richie Unterberger, along with their many pals and competitors.

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The Beau Brummels: Introducing The Beau Brummels

THE BEAU BRUMMELS: INTRODUCING THE BEAU BRUMMELS (1965)

1) Laugh Laugh; 2) Still In Love With You Baby; 3) Just A Little; 4) Just Wait And See; 5) Oh! Lonesome Me; 6) Ain't That Loving You Baby; 7) Stick Like Glue; 8) They'll Make You Cry; 9) That's If You Want Me To; 10) I Want More Loving; 11) I Would Be Happy; 12) Not Too Long Ago; 13*) Good Time Music; 14*) Gentle Wanderin' Ways; 15*) Fine With Me.

It has been said that the Beau Brummels chose their name deliberately — so that their records could be placed right next to the Beatles in record stores. The band members themselves denied it quite vehemently, of course, but then again, who on earth would publicly admit to such trickery? The situation is even less in the band's favor when you realize that nobody in 1965 sounded as close to classic British Merseybeat on the other side of the Atlantic than those five guys from San Francisco. They had their own peculiarities, for sure, but where the Byrds only borrowed super­ficial traits of British Invasion bands, these guys went much further in idolizing their heroes from the overseas. Only The Sir Douglas Quintet could probably compare, and they have always seem­ed more of a novelty act to me.

The Beau Brummels made their first — and, as it turned out, biggest — mark on musical history with ʽLaugh, Laughʼ, a song that was actually one of their less obvious Beatles rip-offs, because none of the Fab Four ever played harmonica in such a mournful way, or sang in such a melancho­lic, plaintive, trembling manner, which would soon become one of the trademarks of the folksy San Franciscan sound. It wasn't aggressive garage rock, and it wasn't mainstream pop, it was a special kind of folk-pop sound where the «folk» and the «pop» elements were mixed in equal proportions. The gentleness and vulnerability of the tune, in fact, suggests that The Searchers were a much bigger influence here than the Beatles.

Like most of the other songs on this record, ʽLaugh, Laughʼ was penned by the band's lead guitar­ist Ron Elliott, and that was yet another defining trait in the Brummels' portrait: they had their own resident songwriter, who could hammer out well-crafted hooks all by himself, and their very first long-playing album only had two covers — an incredible feat for an American band circa early 1965. If there is a problem here, it is rooted in the band's wimpiness: Introducing The Beau Brum­mels does not feature any good old rock'n'roll, which is a bit regrettable for a band wih two elec­tric guitars and a swinging rhythm section.

However, that isn't really the way one should be trying to get into this album. This one is for the sensitive, delicate souls — or at least for the sensitive, delicate corner of one's soul, provided there is one that can be found — souls that do not want to be delved way too deep, but wouldn't mind a bit of emotional complexity dressed up in formal simplicity. Basically, if you really like songs like ʽAsk Me Whyʼ or ʽP.S. I Love Youʼ, but are ashamed to admit it because everything about them is exceedingly childish, from the chord sequences to the arrangements to the lyrics — The Beau Brummels are here to offer you a slightly more advanced version of the sentimental ballad, just as frail and genteel, but with a bigger emphasis on craft and, well, «intelligence».

By «craft» I do not mean technicality, since the band's hold on their instruments was rather limi­ted; but they had a really good knack for getting the most out of these limits — listen to ʽJust A Littleʼ, for instance, and see how well the mix of rhythm guitar, minimalistic acoustic lead fills, and vocal harmonies, create a believable atmosphere of «noble melancholia» with only a few chords and «trivial» overdubs. (The song became their biggest commercial hit, by the way, yet it did not acquire such a monumental status as ʽLaugh, Laughʼ — perhaps because of the lack of harmonica, or because, in retrospect, it looks like a very conscious attempt to capitalize on the success of its predecessor).

Other mini-delicacies in the melancholic vein include ʽThey'll Make You Cryʼ, where the harmo­nica does make a triumphant return, and participates in a pretty-sad duet with a three-note acous­tic guitar solo (to great effect!); the more traditionally arranged ʽI Would Be Happyʼ, sounding like a subconscious tribute to Roy Orbison; and ʽNot Too Long Agoʼ, sounding like a conscious tribute to the Searchers and ʽNeedles And Pinsʼ in particular.

The rest of the album is more upbeat, but, like I said, the upbeat side of the Brummels is less con­vincing than their cry-in-my-pillow side. They do show their country heart fine enough on a re­spectable cover of Don Gibson's ʽOh Lonesome Meʼ which they somehow manage to play even faster than the original, but the other cover (ʽAin't That Loving You Babyʼ) is totally forgettable, and fast-paced originals like ʽJust Wait And Seeʼ, fun as it always is to listen to a fast-paced pop rock song from 1964-65, sort of make them sacrifice their identity — not sure why exactly one should be enjoying this if the Hollies have better vocals, the Animals kick more ass, the Yard­birds have a far more gifted guitar player, and anyway, Carl Perkins did all that earlier. Still, most of this is at least semi-original material, so at least they tried.

Overall, there are occasional signs of a «rush job» on Introducing, as you'd expect from any pop LP (particularly American) of the era, but considering that the Beau Brummels never really vied for a VIP lounge among the rock crowds of the day, in a relative way, this is a tremendously suc­cessful debut. Do not miss the current CD edition, which throws on some nice demos and B-sides, among them a cover of John Sebastian's ʽGood Time Musicʼ (generic R'n'B melody + one of John's patented «love music!» set of lyrics = forgettable, but hilarious) and ʽGentle Wanderin' Waysʼ, which simply happens to be one of the best Beau Brummels songs ever: apparently, the addition of a little menace-laden fuzz guitar can work wonders on an inspired day. Thumbs up for one of the most underrated US records from 1965.

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