In 1974, from deep inside the fault line between the hippie-era’s disintegration and the initial pangs of the punk explosion, Minnesotan Barry Thomas Goldberg cut Misty Flats. Originally pressed in an edition of 500 and promptly inspiring no hubbub, it features eleven folk-inclined songs eschewing callow trend-hopping and exuding a tantalizing loner vibe. On July 24 it gets a well-deserved reissue by the folks at Light in the Attic.
Not to be confused with the Windy City denizen having risen to prominence as a member of The Electric Flag, this Barry Goldberg hailed from Minneapolis and sharpened his musical chops first in The Shambles and then in The Batch. The former unit managed one single and the latter recorded a bunch, all of it issued retrospectively save for one 7-inch in ‘72.
Peter Relic’s liner essay for Misty Flats mentions Columbia as interested in a single by The Batch, an offer unfortunately nixed by a manager holding out for an album deal. Assessed by Relic as a power pop combo loaded with harmonies, casual inspection of the group’s extant material verifies the description, and the notes further speculate that given a couple breaks The Batch might’ve ended up as historically lauded as The Rubinoos, The Raspberries, and even Big Star.
I won’t quibble with the possibility, but it’s a flat fact Goldberg was in cahoots with Michael Yonkers, the Minneapolis experimental-psych-rock rediscovery who became something of an underground cause célèbre roughly a dozen years ago. Many will remember Sub Pop’s Microminiature Love reissue of 2003; amongst other discs Yonkers had two repressed by Drag City in 2014.
Suffering a severe back injury while laboring in an electronics warehouse, Yonkers used the settlement money to fund a five LP spurt; four were credited to Yonkers, one in duo with Jim Woehrle, and the other was Misty Flats. Waxed in glorious mono via Ampex two-track in Yonkers’ Loonland studio, Goldberg’s micro-pressing arrived simultaneously alongside Yonkers’ efforts and received zilch in promotion.
Plus, the ’74 release by Atco (coincidentally the label releasing The Shambles sole 45) of the self-titled long-player from the other Barry Goldberg only increased the unlikelihood of Misty Flats getting noticed in a crowded field. Subsequently, this Barry Goldberg recorded the unreleased set Winter Summer and in 1976 formed Barry T. Goldberg and the Hwy 52 Band. He’s got additional items in his discography, but here is a fine place to start.
Opening the album at a slow pace, “Hollywood” inhabits fragile territory that becomes sturdier as the fingerpicking and voice unwind. The concise track wastes no time in establishing the aforementioned loner ambiance, though as Misty Flats progresses it’s just as clear Goldberg doesn’t represent the unhinged “parent’s basement” extremes of the designation.
For instance, the livelier atmosphere of “Stars in the Sand” illustrates an ambitious singer-songwriter with discernible commercial potential; in fact, during the mid-‘60s Goldberg and Yonkers were employed by the production company Candy Floss, the teenaged Goldberg penning the baroque psych-pop Nugget and nationwide hit “20 Years Ago (In Speedy’s Kitchen)” for hometown act T.C. Atlantic.
At the very least “Stars in the Sand” could’ve (and perhaps did) satisfy frequenters of various Minneapolis coffee joints, and as the cut unfurls harmony vocals broaden the canvas. “Never Came to Stay” is more contemplative but retains a crucial current of intensity as Goldberg’s singing is welcoming yet disinclined to lull the listener into complacency. And instead of innocuous accompaniment his guitar adds weight to the proceedings.
In short, there’s nothing saccharine about Misty Flats. In the notes, Goldberg cites John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band as a key influence and states his intention to “make the first punk rock album” circa ’74. However, in tandem with Yonkers hovering harmonica “Golden Sun”’s gradual drift doesn’t really make this goal overt.
Nor does the LP as a whole for that matter; but “Golden Sun” (an earlier version of which comprised the a-side to The Batch’s 45) does resonate as a terrific “morning after” song, particularly after those all-nighters when the rays of the tune’s title are impacting one’s consciousness with an extra spot of vibrancy. It carries over into the strum of “Cry a Little Bit,” the mood further enhanced by the sound of a distant wind instrument.
Altogether it suggests the folky side of Neil Young, though Goldberg is actually a less idiosyncratic vocalist. The lyrical imagery (inspired by a poem from John Oxenham) and tense acoustic environment (Yonkers contributes touches of bass harmony) of the title track kinda remind me of a solo single Arthur Lee might’ve dished out circa-Forever Changes. Love’s main guy didn’t, but the centerpiece of Misty Flats should please ears encouraged by the comparison.
The analogies don’t all lead back to the ‘60s. For an example, the stripped -down production and vigorous delivery of “China Doll” brings the roughness of solo Alex Chilton to mind and also forecasts the raw fidelity of certain later indie folk stuff. Indeed, had this platter emerged early last decade, it’s a safe bet it would’ve been championed by the Freak Folk brigade.
In terms of Goldberg’s punk rock objectives, “Pop and Ice” conjures visions of an acoustic demo by Lou Reed in neo-Brill Building mode. The tune also derives from the repertoire of The Batch, Relic delineating it as part of the unconsummated Columbia affair. It’s surely less polished and fleshed out than the reading found on The Batch’s Blue Sky Day – The Lost Music of MidAmerica, Vol. II 1970-1973, but the Misty Flats take benefits from considerable studio ingenuity and an energetic performance.
“Magic Cloud” returns to the folk angle, the setting heartier than its title implies, though it’s frankly not one of the standouts here, especially from a lyrical standpoint. Again reinforcing Goldberg’s pure ability and legitimate commercial promise, “City Rain” is an all-around more resounding number; the only thing missing is the sheen a large company would’ve doubtlessly applied.
“City Rain” doesn’t suffer for the lack; to the contrary, the barebones approach is beneficial, Misty Flats avoiding datedness and offering sonic character that could believably reside on the outskirts of any decade from the late-‘60s to even the ‘90s. It does fit very nicely in the midst of the ‘70s as much of the record escapes relationships to specific precedent.
This is true of the LP’s closer in particular, “Never Stop Dreaming” supplementing the folkie air with a laid-back piece of pop sophistication. In presenting talent undone by external circumstances rather than internal conflicts and extremes, Misty Flats serves an audience greater than those feverish for lost treasures. In summation, Barry Goldberg is an artist very much worth hearing.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
