Protoplasm is a killing machine, it’s got everything.
•••••
CRUSHED BUTLER – UNCRUSHED (1986)
Land: UK
Lifespan: 1969 – 1971
File Under: The punk, in the study, with the sledgehammer.
In Print?: Yes, re-released by Last Years Youth in 2013.
Wrong place, wrong time. That’s one of our cruelest salves. It’s meant to be Neosporin on a cut, however we most often try to slather it on a fatally sliced jugular. We forget we’re talking about real people wasting their real lives, held down due to the surrounding society failing them. Oh, you think Bach is great these days? Here’s what he thinks about that: Nothing. He’s dead. Yeah. It’s existence’s tougher pill, that transcendence needs to be signed off on by others who are uninterested in opening their eyes.
So, know we’re not going to use the phrase lightly. There’s magnified pain behind its four words. It’s gallows small-talk spoken as you feel the noose tighten around your own neck. It’s kinda terrifying, thus it has to be uttered responsibly.
Okay? Okay.
Crushed Butler, then? The power trio of Jesse Hector (guitar), Alan Butler (bass), and Darryl Read (drums)? The outfit dubbed the “first punks”?
Wrong place, wrong time.
Actually, it’s a little different in their case. It was the right place. London. It was the right time. 1969 – 1971. Butler just waited on the wrong people. Their original work was pyromania in audio form, as if, for a two year period, each mate in a rotating cast of brutes found a fire flower. Even when labels attempted to break them via a single, they set it alight. Consequently, that meant no one knew what to do with this filthy alley cat that kept yowling despite the torrent of tossed shoes. A scant few years before the punk explosion, when the group’s Neanderthal shuffle would’ve drawn raves, Crushed Butler was stuck cutting demos for deaf ears.
We can hear them loud and clear now. “It’s My Life” and “Factory Grime” are the tracks most point to when bolstering a proto-punk debate. “Life” rides a Stones doing Diddley shuffle, just, uh, louder. Way louder. Like DGAF, this-is-my-last-day-on-the-job loud. “Factory Grime,” though, is when metalheads need to perk up. After the bizarro Bonzo bashing, it petulantly stomps through a bluesy chorus befitting Iommi. This darkness fully enveloped the band on the slo-mo trudge, “Love Fighter,” which was a dead ringer for early Sabbath or someone holding their thumb down on a Sir Lord Baltimore LP. Its power seeps into your marrow. You don’t fight it. Why would you? You get it because you’ve been hearing it your whole life. In ’69? These goddamn animals? I don’t know. Perhaps everyone was too into II.
Seeing if reincarnation would do the trick, Crushed Butler transformed into Tiger around ’72. Alas, their tail still swished out of record execs’ mitts. Then, Hector and Butler beat their chest in The Gorillas, entering a new world which finally met snot, sneers, and strident screams with smiles. Their primal Kinks jangle wasn’t the hit the then-middle age mates could’ve been, but at least they had some change jingling in their pocket.
Be that as it may, it took 27 years for Crushed Butler to be exhumed and given a proper eulogy. In 1998, Dig the Fuzz Records collected the seven demo songs to curate Uncrushed, inspiring the band to jam on a few reunion dates. It was long overdue. Still, it’s just when artists live long enough to read the new remembrances. After all, the only thing worse than wrong place, wrong time is not being able to experience either.
[IAN CHAINEY]
•••••
NEIL MERRYWEATHER – KRYPTONITE (1975)
Land: Canada
Lifespan: 1965-infinity
File Under: Peter Frampton lecturing Pink Floyd about jamming a little less-rock
In Print?: Sort of- reprints and used copies aplenty on most major e-outlets.
Beginning under his birth name Bobby Neilson (which is Canadian for ‘musician’), the prolific career of Mr. Merryweather hit both its apex and nadir under this moniker- he ‘retired’ for most of the 80’s and 90’s after a gig as Lita Ford’s manager went tits-up. Still, 1975’s Kryptonite makes up for the absence with some funk-infused space jamming worthy of the finest ABA-style basketball shorts and porn-staches.
Aside from the never-ending groove that finalizes ‘Give It Everything We Got’, songs like ‘City Boy’ shift the focus from Merryweather’s early grit-rock to an ultra-slick, stage-and-radio ready performance. Also present are some of the fuzzier ‘warm’ tones that would become a hallmark in every stoner/sludge band ever started (‘Dust My Blues’ might as well have been covered by Kyuss). It’s an interesting album in that the spacier stuff leads the first half, only to give way to short and sweet rockers- basically, the opposite of every album.
It stands to mention that this was likely looked at as derivative in its time. Borrowed elements will stand out like a gym class erection. But it’s a good deal of fun nonetheless for both rock revivalists and L. Ron Hubbard fans alike. Hail Xenu.
[CHRIS REDAR]
•••••
T2 – IT’LL ALL WORK OUT IN BOOMLAND (1970)
Land: UK
Lifespan: 1970-72 (ignore the ‘90s incarnation).
File Under: Progressive stonk.
In Print?: Nope. But there are over a dozen reissues of varying sonic quality floating about. You’ll find a copy.
There’s a few things about UK trio T2 that make them stand out in any gathering of protoplasmic pleasures. Firstly, the band featured a genuine, and highly-energized, guitar prodigy in their ranks with 17-year old Keith Cross. Secondly, unlike many of the bangers and crashers here, T2’s blend of hard rock, psych, jazz, and flaming-amp blues was as much an influence on progressive rock as it ever was on heavy metal. Thirdly, T2 were also signed for a huge (at the time) 10,000 UK pound advance to influential label Decca for their 1970 debut, It’ll All Work Out in Boomland. And finally, and admittedly not that uniquely at all, through a familiar tale of record label mismanagement and internal band tensions that led to Cross’ exit early on, all the band’s promise was wasted.
Still, T2 might have disappeared all too quickly, but they left us with was a damn fine album in It’ll All Work Out in Boomland. The album provides plenty of hot-blooded jams, including fiery opener “In Circles,” the gritty folk workout “No More White Horses,” and the fucking spectacular 21-minute prognaut finale, “Morning.” Truth is, drummer Pete Dunton, bassist/vocalist Bernard Jinks, and wunderkind Cross, had everything going for them creatively on It’ll All Work Out in Boomland, but with their label mishandling distribution, fans were hard-pressed to even find a copy on the album’s release. That sent It’ll All Work Out in Boomland in to the rare and mythical realms for many a year, and there’s also an album of raw demos, recorded in ’70, that was destined to become T2’s second album (which goes by the name Fantasy or simply T2) that’s working checking out too. T2 reformed in the early ‘90s, without Cross’ six-string wizardry, and you can safely skip the T2.1 version of the band. It’ll All Work Out in Boomland provides all the kicks, thrills, and spills you’ll ever need.
[CRAIG HAYES]
•••••
ULTRA – ULTRA (2007)
Land: Texas
Lifespan: 1974 – Current
File Under: ZZ Top meets Jimi Hendrix boogie-core.
In Print?: Check Rockadrome, otherwise good luck.
Birthed by Larry Mcguffin and Galen Niles (of Homer fame), Ultra recorded the sixteen tracks that would eventually become its debut and then probably just hung out around jukeboxes, hoping this gem would magically surface alongside the .38 Specials and Confederate Railroads that likely ruled the Texas bar scene at the time. Unfortunately, these remarkably lead-driven tracks wouldn’t see the light of day until the turn of the century. Shame, really- these guys may very well have risen the ranks alongside mainstays such as Thin Lizzy and Molly Hatchet before settling comfortably into making a living touring the summer fair circuit.
Ultra plays a unique brand of bluegrass-influenced boogie combined with non-stop riffage just as ready for the arena as it is the pub. “Mutants” opens up with a finger-tapper that would make Eddie Van Halen shit in his acid-wash jeans before putting on a groove seminar courtesy of some stellar rhythm work and the confident swagger of frontman Don Evans. The man commands his microphone, never letting the guitars drown his punctuated cadence. “Android” brings the thunder in a big way, thanks to Tom Schleuning’s stabby cymbal work and the bong-rattling bass (that’s two Simpsons references from me now, if you’re counting) of Scott Stephens.
What’s interesting about Ultra as an album, and specifically an album recorded in San Antonio, is that this wouldn’t be readily identifiable as coming from the south. Dabbling in pop-rock (“Get Away”) and lighter jazz-influenced fare (“Compass”), the boot-scoot, take-no-shit attitude of what would have been their contemporaries is largely absent. What is left is a highly enjoyable beers’n’buds album of feel-good rock performed by some great musicians that seems to be unfortunately all but forgotten. Hit up eBay or something and track this one down.
Unless you hate fun or something.
[CHRIS REDAR]
