These days, The Byrds are primarily known as staples of oldies radio with their mid-‘60s hits “Mr. Tambourine Man” and “Turn, Turn, Turn!” As great as those songs are, it’s a little sad that their other accomplishments are largely forgotten. Few bands have such wide-ranging influence as the Byrds, and even fewer are responsible for essentially creating two distinct genres of rock music.

In 1964, Jim (later Roger) McGuinn, Gene Clark and David Crosby were all veterans of the US folk music circuit. Unlike folk purists who considered electric instruments the tool of the devil, the future Byrds were enamored of the Beatles, and wanted to start an electric rock band. They eventually convinced bluegrass musician Chris Hillman to serve as their bass player, and enlisted Michael Clarke as drummer (Clarke’s drumming experience was limited to playing congas in coffeehouses- he was hired primarily for having a Beatle haircut, a rarity in 1964 America).

After the group released a failed single as the Beefeaters (a name chosen as a blatant attempt to cash in on the British Invasion), they renamed themselves the Byrds and hit paydirt with a cover of Bob Dylan’s then-unreleased “Mr Tambourine Man” in 1965. The song represented a unique melding of their folk background (Dylan was still king of the folkies and had yet to “go electric”) and Beatlesque rock, giving birth to what would soon be known as “folk rock”. McGuinn’s iconic 12-string Rickenbacker electric guitar exemplified the blending of genres- the 12 string was a staple of folk music, but amplifying it put it firmly in the rock camp. It would be the anchor of the Byrds’ sound for the remainder of their career. Dylan himself paid the song an unironic compliment when he remarked, “hey, you can dance to that!” Within months of the Byrds’ release, Dylan would put together his own electric band.

The Byrds further cemented folk rock with “Turn, Turn, Turn,” a Pete Seeger song with lyrics quoted almost entirely from the book of Ecclesiastes. The song’s message of peace and tolerance resonated in a country increasingly at odds with itself in the shadow of social turmoil, racial inequality and a rapidly escalating war in southeast Asia. The band released two albums in 1965, each titled after one of the hit singles and containing a mix of group compositions and covers.

The beginning of 1966 saw things starting to change for the Byrds. “Eight Miles High” was a dark, ominous song written by Clark, Crosby and McGuinn (the first group composition released as a single) containing off-kilter guitar work influenced by the ragas of Ravi Shankar and the sax playing of John Coltrane. Although it didn’t chart as highly as its predecessors, “Eight Miles High” is now recognized as one of the earliest examples of psychedelic rock. Authorities at the time were convinced that the song was about drug use, but McGuinn maintains the lyrics are about the band’s disasterous tour of the UK the previous year (a position upheld by a reading of the lyrics).

There were other changes at hand as well. Singer Gene Clark quit the band just before the release of “Eight Miles High,” which left them without a principal songwriter and vocalist (Clark had written a large chunk of the group’s original material and had sung lead vocals on all their singles). McGuinn and Crosby filled the gap, and  the resulting album Fifth Dimension showcased the band’s evolution into psychedelic rock. Although critics have panned it for containing an overabundance of covers (nearly half the album), the quality of the band’s original material had taken a quantum leap forward. Clark had been a gifted songwriter, but McGuinn and Crosby were staking out new territory.

By 1968 though, the wheels had fallen off the cart. Drummer Michael Clarke had quit and singer/guitarist David Crosby had been fired, leaving McGuinn and Hillman as the only remaining members of the group. Also, the band’s popularity had been steadily declining since their 1965 heyday (they hadn’t had a top 10 hit since Turn, Turn, Turn! three years before) . Rather than pack it in, they hired drummer Kevin Kelley and singer/guitarist Gram Parsons to take the Byrds in a new direction. The previous two albums Younger Than Yesterday and The Notorious Byrd Brothers showed elements of country music entering the band’s sound, but 1968’s Sweetheart Of The Rodeo dove in head first.

Very few albums can be said to have singlehandedly created entire genres of music, but Sweetheart Of The Rodeo is one. With its pioneering blend of  rock and country, Sweetheart not only set the template for the country rock movement of the ’70s (and its ’90s revival), but for country music as well. Sadly, 1968 was a horrible year to mix country and rock- the country and rock audiences were on opposite sides of the ’60s cultural divide which was nearly at its peak, and in one fell swoop the Byrds managed to alienate most of their remaining fans without attracting any new ones. The band attempted to reach out to the country audience by appearing on the venerable country radio program Grand Ole Opry, but they were met with heckling and general derision. The album sold dismally at the time, but is now widely regarded as a masterpiece.

It was also the only record that lineup would make. By the time Sweetheart was released, Gram Parsons had already quit the band. He went on to form the Flying Burrito Brothers and have his own solo career, both of which were hugely influential in the fledgling country rock scene. Within a few months of Parsons’ departure, Hillman left the Byrds to join him in the Burritos. Parsons’ replacement Clarence White convinced McGuinn to fire drummer Kevin Kelley in favor of White’s old bandmate Gene Parsons (no relation to Gram), and with a new a new bassist in tow the band recorded Dr Byrds And Mr Hyde. For the second time in a row, a Byrds record featured an entirely different lineup (excepting McGuinn) from the one before. Hyde was an attempt to reconcile the old folk rock Byrds with their new country rock sound, but from here to the end of the band they leaned further into the realm of country rock.

After the release of Hyde in 1969, bassist Skip Batten joined the Byrds. He proved to be the final piece in the band’s lineup puzzle that had started with Gene Clark’s departure three years earlier. McGuinn had finally assembled a Byrds lineup that would stay together longer than any other, until the final months of the band three years later.

The Byrds had by now become a live band par excellence- Clarence White was a supremely talented guitarist who specialized in playing blazing bluegrass licks in a rock context. A former studio musician who had contributed to every Byrds album since 1967, White brought the band’s playing to a new level. McGuinn once said playing with White was “like having Jimi Hendrix in your band,” and he wasn’t exaggerating.  Clarence White set the standard for mixing country and rock guitar styles, and his legacy from this period continues to be the gold standard over 40 years later.

Earlier incarnations of the Byrds had a deservedly poor reputation for ragged live shows, leading detractors to label them a “studio band.” The final Byrds lineup was a completely different animal- Parsons and Batten were a solid, yet flexible rhythm section that held the songs together while allowing plenty of room for improvisation. In its live form, the three minute single “Eight Miles High” became a 20+ minute free-for all jam session, with all four Byrds playing off each other and tossing ideas back and forth. While bands like the Grateful Dead were content to noodle off into space with aimless, free-form jams, the Byrds were like an amplified bluegrass picking session, with each member propelling the song and challenging the others to keep up. Audiences soon took note, and the Byrds became a top concert draw in the early ’70s.

To capitalize on this, one half of 1970’s double album Untitled was a live recording showing the band in full flight (including one whole side of “Eight Miles High”). The highlight of the studio recordings was “Chestnut Mare,” a song which epitomized the best elements of the country rock Byrds. White’s efforless switching between subtle beauty and fast-fingered virtuosity weaves a tapestry with McGuinn’s ringing 12-string, while Parsons’ drumming alternates from foundational timekeeping on the verses to driving the song on the choruses. To Batten’s credit, although he had shown himself to be a nimble, melodic bassist in the band’s live setting, he had the sense to keep the bassline simple and supportive on “Chestnut Mare,” which is precisely what the song required. Such restraint was a rarity in the rock world of 1970.

Unfortunately, just as their ability as a live band had finally come together, the quality of the Byrds’ studio albums began to suffer. Due to increasing demand on the touring circuit, the Byrds found themselves with inadequate time to prepare and record their next album Byrdmaniax. After hurried recording sessions, they left the mixing of the album to record producer Terry Melcher. Melcher felt the material recorded by the band was weak, so in attempt to fix things he added strings, horns, and a gospel choir without consulting them. The band was horrified at the result and demanded a remix, but their record label wouldn’t pay for it. The record came out to scathing reviews and poor sales, and mortally wounded the Byrds’ popularity just as it was beginning to rise again.

Immediately following the release of Byrdmaniax, the band began work on their next record without help from an outside producer, hoping to release it quickly in order to repair the damage to their reputation. The plan backfired, as Farther Along  proved to be another weak album that suffered from the same problems that caused Melcher to tamper with Byrdmaniax in the first place.

The Byrds remained a strong live band that drew large audiences, but their morale was sagging. By 1972 they’d been touring and recording relentlessly for three years and had little to show for it. Tensions between McGuinn and Parsons finally boiled over and the latter was fired. The band hired a session drummer to fulfill outstanding concert dates through the end of the year, and no permanent replacement was made. By February 1973, McGuinn was forced to ask former Byrd Chris Hillman for help in fulfilling the band’s remaining concert dates after firing bassist Skip Battin. After one shambolic performance from the ad-hoc band (Hillman and White hadn’t played together since 1968 and didn’t know the same songs, the drummer had never played with the Byrds before, and the first time they rehearsed was at soundcheck on the day of the show), McGuinn cancelled the remaining dates of the tour, effectively pulling the plug on the Byrds.

Or, not. The previous year, aspiring record mogul David Geffen offered the original 1965  lineup of the Byrds a sizable amount of money to reunite and record an album for him, and the group had accepted. While McGuinn’s version of the band was in its death throes, he had simultaneously been recording a reunion album with the original band. The reunion album was released to negative reviews just after McGuinn disbanded the final version of the band. A tour to support it had been planned, but the poor reviews and lackluster sales caused it to be abandoned.

Tragically, a few months after the end of the Byrds, Clarence White was killed by a drunk driver as he loaded equipment into his car after a nightclub show with his two brothers. He was 29.

Various incarnations of the band would briefly reunite in the ’80s, generally in regard to legal wranglings over the name and other financial squabbles. Even after the significant tarnishing of their legacy though, their many accomplishments still stand.

Those of us who were around in the early ‘80s undoubtedly remember The Clash’s monster hits “Rock The Casbah” and “Should I Stay Or Should I Go.” To many people, the fact that the band imploded a year after these songs’ release marks The Clash as another one-hit wonder in an era rife with disposable pop acts. However, the fact is that The Clash had already created a pioneering musical legacy long before ascending the pop charts, one that continues to resonate today.

In 1976, Joe Strummer (born John Mellor) was the frontman of London pub rock band the 101ers. Pub rock was a form of rootsy, boogie type music that was popular as a soundtrack to drinking in pubs. One night, Strummer saw an early performance of a bunch of scruffy juvenile delinquents calling themselves the Sex Pistols.  This was before “punk rock” even had a name- at this point the Pistols were just a bunch of disaffected kids playing stripped down, adrenaline charged rock & roll.  Their music recalled the early days of bands like the Who and Rolling Stones, back when rock music was seen as a dangerous threat to morality and social order instead of as a business.

Instantly, Strummer knew he was seeing the future of rock & roll. By the mid ‘70s, rock had become mired in bland mediocrity as the trailblazing stars of the previous decade settled into mansions and sank under the weight of their own malaise and self-indulgence. Economic times were tough, and escapism was the overall theme in the entertainment world. Where rock music had once challenged social norms, it was now content to pacify, as evidenced by pub rock’s “let’s just get wasted and have a good time” philosophy.  Raw, edgy bands like the Pistols were needed to make rock compelling again.

Strummer soon met up with a group of likeminded musicians and formed The Clash, whose lineup had solidified by the end of the year to include guitarist Mick Jones, bassist Paul Simonon, and drummer Terry Chimes.  Their self-titled 1977 debut is a rough-hewn document of a band finding its legs, but it stands head and shoulders above the morass of “punk” records issued that year. Prodded by manager Bernie Rhodes to move beyond simple boy/girl lyrical topics, Strummer wrote about the world facing Britian’s young people in the late ‘70s- unemployment, police harassment, race, class, encroachment of American culture and an uncertain future.  Although they could play fast and loud with the best of them, The Clash also showed a willingness to slow things down (relatively speaking) and stretch out with a cover of Junior Murvin’s reggae hit “Police And Thieves.”

After the album came out, fate handed The Clash a blessing in disguise. Drummer Terry Chimes resigned, resulting in a mad scramble for a replacement.  The eventual candidate was Nicky “Topper” Headon, whose jazz and r&b skills made him ridiculously overqualified for playing in a punk band. Headon’s initial plan was to build his resume with The Clash in order to move on to “real” drumming work, but the group soon realized they had an incredible musical chemistry. Chimes had been a good drummer, but Headon’s extensive musical palate enabled the band to broaden their horizons in ways they’d never imagined possible.

1978’s Give ‘em Enough Rope showed a band much more musically savvy than the year before, but their willingness to move beyond the strict template of punk left many fans crying sell-out. The safe move would have been a return to form, blasting out loud fast songs with tunefulness kept to a minimum. Instead, in 1979 The Clash released London Calling, a double album that shattered all notions of what punk, or even rock music itself, was all about. The genre-hopping record included a dizzying array of styles and sounds that were all flawlessly executed- this wasn’t the work of dilettantes, The Clash had done their homework and were able to fully integrate their diverse influences and create a unique musical style. Ironically, by discarding punk’s stifling aesthetics they managed to stay truer to the movements’ original intent of creative expression than any other band. London Calling proved to be one of the most influential records in rock history (my vinyl copy hangs in a frame in my son’s room).

By 1980 The Clash began writing and recording in New York City as they became interested in the fledgling rap and club music scene there. Lengthy, spliff-inspired studio jams were edited together to become the basis for 1981’s sprawling Sandinista!, a three-record set that contained a single albums’ worth of brilliant tracks scattered among experiments, jokes and boring noodling. True to their principles, Sandinista! (like its predecessor) was sold at single album price, which severely impacted The Clash’s earnings.

Although they were internationally famous and critically acclaimed, by 1981 The Clash were in debt to their record company. In light of this, the preparation for their next album was a source of contention in the band. Guitarist Mick Jones had begun assuming production duties for their recordings, and was insistent on producing their next record himself. His version of the album, provisionally titled Rat Patrol From Fort Bragg, was rejected not only by their record label, but by the rest the band as being too experimental. The master tapes were handed over to veteran producer Glynn Johns, who trimmed and tweaked the recordings into what became 1982’s Combat Rock. Bootleg copies of Rat Patrol From Fort Bragg reveal an album not quite finished, and illustrate Johns’ excellent sense of what needed to be improved versus what shouldn’t be fiddled with. Jones’ version is moodier, longer, and more verbose, but Johns was able to tighten things up without losing the band’s identity or original intent.

“Should I Stay Or Should I Go” and “Rock The Casbah” from that album propelled The Clash into the stratosphere.  Constant touring and massive record sales quickly erased the band’s debt, and they began earning large sums of money. However, things were falling apart. Just before Combat Rock was released, Topper Headon had been fired from the band due to his debilitating heroin addiction.  Ironically, he’d been the one to write the music for “Rock The Casbah”, which would soon become the band’s biggest hit. The Clash drafted Terry Chimes back into the fold but he resigned again at the end of the Combat Rock tour, citing the toxic atmosphere in the band. Jones and Strummer had begun feuding over artistic direction and control, and in late 1983 Jones was fired.

Most fans consider this the end of The Clash, but unfortunately that isn’t the case. Strummer hired a new drummer and a pair of guitarists (bassist Simonon had stayed on) and began to tour and write new material. The resulting Cut The Crap (generally referred to by fans simply as Crap) is an unmitigated disaster. While recording the album, Strummer and band manager Bernie Rhodes had fallen out, resulting in Strummer abandoning the sessions. Rhodes decided to finish the album on his own and subsequently submitted it to the record label, which was evidently too hungry for a follow up to the multiplatinum Combat Rock to realize they’d been handed a load of garbage. After Crap’s 1985 release, the band inexplicably went on a busking tour of England- hitchhiking from town to town and playing acoustic guitars in public places for change. By 1986, The Clash had finally ceased to exist.

Over the years, Strummer and Jones reconciled their differences while recognizing that they had drifted too far apart creatively to work together. In 2002, the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame announced that The Clash would be inducted the following March. Strummer, Jones and Headon began discussing a possible reunion to coincide with the induction, which was sadly mooted when Strummer died of a heart attack on December 22, 2002. While Jones, Simonon and Headon have all worked together in various permutations since then, they have stated that The Clash cannot exist without Strummer.

Ignominious end aside, The Clash’s body of work sets a standard for creativity and fearlessness that will continue to challenge and inspire musicians for as long as there is rock music.

They were a band. They were on Motown. They had some songs. They were good. Maybe I’ll post more about them later.

My goal is to only post one one Music Appreciation entry per week, but extenuating circumstances dictate that this one has to appear now.

Curtis Mayfield grew up in Chicago’s infamous Cabrini-Green housing projects in the 1950s. He saw music as both a calling and a way to escape the grinding poverty of the projects, and dropped out of high school to sing with The Impressions, an established gospel/soul/doo- wop group. A strong vocalist and budding writer, Mayfield eventually wrote and sang the Impressions signature hit “People Get Ready” in 1965. Although  it had a traditional gospel feel, “People Get Ready” was also an allusion to the social and political upheaval of the time.

By 1970 he’d gone solo and released “Curtis”, a record that showcased his many talents as he wrote, sang, and produced the album himself on a record label he owned. “Curtis” found Mayfield adding funk and psychedelia to his r&b roots, along with a continued lyrical focus on social issues. Mayfield felt that like his contemporaries in rock, he could use his lyrics to offer social commentary and often discussed racial and cultural themes in his songs. Along with Marvin Gaye, Mayfield became one of the prime movers in the “message music” movement in early ’70s r&b.

In 1972 he supplied the music for the classic blaxploitation film Super Fly. While the film is somewhat ambiguous about its stance on the morality of  drug dealing, Mayfield’s songs are a damning indictment of the evils of drug addiction and those who profit from it. Super Fly is one of the few films in history which was actually outsold by its soundtrack.

Mayfield continued making music, though his popularity eventually waned from his ’70s heyday. In 1990 he was paralyzed from the neck down when a lighting truss fell on him during a concert. Though this rendered him unable to play any instruments, he remained undaunted and managed to painstakingly record a final album “New World Order”, which saw release in 1997.

Curtis Mayfield died on 12/26/99. The influence of his work can still be seen in the rap/r&b music of today (some of which directly samples his grooves). The socially conscious lyrics of Public Enemy, NWA and their progeny owe a great debt to Mayfield’s pioneering work.