While not forgotten, the late-‘60s group known as Rhinoceros seem to be remembered less for their music and more for the circumstances of their formation. In the end that’s no great crime, but they did knock out two very solid LPs in ’68-’69 (and a final one in 1970 that frankly isn’t so good.) The first one was self-titled and anyone with a strong inclination for the music of the period should look into its contents.
Even though they got into game a bit late, the Elektra label was responsible for some of the biggest rock success stories of the latter half of the 1960s. The Doors were the company’s biggest commercial breakthrough, but interestingly, most of their other achievements from that period sold more modestly.
Love and The Paul Butterfield Blues Band certainly shifted some units, and the imprint’s diverse troop of progressive/ crossover folkies Tim Buckley, Phil Ochs, Tom Rush, and The Incredible String Band all found varying levels of consumer interest (particularly the ISB, who were quite big for a spell in the UK), but if the Lizard King and his crew are excluded from the equation, Elektra’s ‘60s rep rests far more on critical accolades and enduring influence than upon massive chart domination. Furthermore, the label even holds some curious releases from outfits that surely fell far short of Elektra’s expectations.
Some might be thinking of proto-punkers The Stooges and MC5, but that’s not the case. Less reliable, often word-of-mouth instances of proto-punk lore frequently establish that only a small, wise few bought the records that comprise the movement, but that’s not really all that accurate, with The Stooges managing a very minor but under the circumstances respectable showing of #106 on the Billboard Album Chart, and the MC5 climbing all the way to #30 and selling a quick 100,000 copies of Kick Out the Jams.
No, the bands of which I speak often missed the charts entirely and have gathered a much smaller level of cult status. This den of disappointed hopes includes the fleeting groups Earth Opera, Clear Light, and Ars Nova, all of them worthy of retrospective attention, and features another act that actually hung around for a little while longer, namely Rhinoceros.
This last name sticks out a bit from the pack, partially because of Elektra’s ambitions for the band, and also due to their achieving a minor hit single with “Apricot Brandy,” which made it to #46 in 1969. Additionally, many folks that worship at the temple of Frank Zappa surely know the story of early Mothers of Invention drummer Billy Mundi exiting that group for the safety net that Rhinoceros provided.
That might seem odd, given that we’re discussing missed opportunities. But Mundi was leaving a circumstance of considerable poverty, essentially starving in service of someone else’s art (though Zappa was definitely in same situation himself), and heading for a gig where he would get paid to practice was an understandable decision. It was obviously greener pastures than drinking hot water in the shower to stave off hunger while living in the Albert Hotel.
Mundi was the last man to join the band, the other members having been chosen from two separate auditions held by Elektra house production man and talent scout Paul Rothchild and his fellow producer Frazier Mohawk (né Barry Friedman). If that sounds odd for the era, it certainly was, for more organic band formulation was then the norm. High school friends honed their songs in garages with regularity, a tried-and-true method that’s still prevalent today.
But if unusual, the use of a “third party” to form groups wasn’t unheard of. Obviously, The Monkees spring quickly to mind. And the handful of folks that continue to deride that fine outfit as a “manufactured group” (aka the Prefab-Four) likely cling to the belief that “real” bands evolve in much purer ways, e.g. some hangdog longhaired outcast ogling a hand-scrawled “Guitarist Wanted” ad taped to the wall of the local record store/ head shop and then showing up in some skanky basement shortly thereafter for an, ahem, audition.
Well, au contraire. For Rhinoceros was an attempt by Mohawk to repeat the success he’d scored in forming the Buffalo Springfield. While the assemblage of that august band was much looser than the far more rigorous formality used for Rhinoceros (the endeavor was dubbed Project Supergroup), it was in the end the same desire; to in essence play Dr. Frankenstein and build a better (and certainly more profitable) performance ensemble.
In this scenario, the first time proved to be the charm, though Rhinoceros are far from negligible on the recording front. Those two Laurel Canyon auditions procured guitarists Doug Hastings and Danny Weis, keyboardist/ vocalist Alan Gerber and singer John Finley. Hastings was an alumnus of Seattle’s The Daily Flash (whose excellent “Jack of Diamonds” is included on the Nuggets CD box set), Weis had helped form the often unfairly shat-upon Iron Butterfly, and Finley previously figured in the now obscure Canadian act Jon and Lee & the Checkmates.
Weis’ Iron Butterfly cohort Jerry “The Bear” Penrod then came in on bass, followed by keyboardist Michael Fonfara, formerly of the Checkmates and also a member of an early touring incarnation of The Electric Flag. With Mundi completing the picture, all this pedigree was set into motion with Rothchild at the helm.
Rhinoceros never made a great album, but their first two, ‘68’s self-titled effort and ‘69’s Satin Chickens are enjoyable products of the period, and any anyone looking for a complete picture of rock music’s late-‘60’s growth spurt should get acquainted with both.
Rhinoceros is the more consistent of the two, but the follow-up is a more ambitious effort, holding some fine tracks that provide an indication of what they could have become had Elektra not been so insistent on seeing a return on their investment (a considerable one, with some accounts stating that 80,000 smackers were poured into the group.)
The aspect that pretty much defines Rhinoceros is also the thing that ultimately holds them back (and later, effectively ruined them.) In a nutshell, they were a bunch of well-intentioned Caucasians high on the potent fumes of the era’s R&B/ Soul explosion. This might sound strange given how deeply imbedded this sort of hijacking is to the whole R&R experience, but a few words over Jon and Lee & the Checkmates sole single will help illuminate the issue.
That 45, “Bring it Down Front” b/w “Pork Chops” was released in ’67 on the Sparton label, and it’s a very impressive double-punch. The a-side’s a deep slice of Sam Cooke transference, the flip’s a spirited instrumental, basically a Booker T cop, and both hold some snazzy fuzz-guitar. But what really helps pull it all off is the emphasis on energy over finesse; it actually feels much more like something from ’65 than a byproduct of the Summer of Love’s substantial increase in refinement.
By contrast, Rhinoceros were designed to seduce the increasingly sophisticated ears of the burgeoning rock listenership, and their lack of large success was really down to happenstance rather than a failure of execution on record. And if a borrowed soulfulness limits them (indeed, there are a few dangerous moments where things crawl dangerously close to the carcass of Three Dog Night), a real dedication to the rock dynamic is what keeps this Rhinoceros afloat.
Opener “When You Say You’re Sorry” is a case in point. The song possesses more than a hint of late-‘60s commercial radio intent, but the toughness of the instrumental delivery rescues it from becoming weak tea, and it ends up sounding like a funkier Spencer David Group if Winwood had actually stuck around for a while. The following cut “The Same Old Way” benefits from a subtly eccentric arrangement, but is hindered somewhat by being only two minutes long (unlike many of their contemporaries, Rhinoceros lacked the desire for sprawling conceptions.)
The reason the Junior Walker grab “Apricot Brandy” sold so well as a single comes down to a surplus of that aforementioned energy, though the song is also drenched in the swagger of emerging studio pros. It’s the record’s best track, and the lack of vocals is no coincidence. “That Time of Year,” a heavy ballad, does hold some instrumental firepower, especially towards the end, but the overemphasis on emoting locates it on the lower end of Rhinoceros’ spectrum of quality.
“You’re My Girl (I Don’t Want to Discuss It)” (later popularized by Rod Stewart), the first of two non-originals on the LP, is given a pretty straight soul reading, with the dual vocals a little remindful of Sam & Dave. It ends side one on a high note and the flip’s opener “I Need Love” (the LP’s other cover, sourced from Larry Williams) lands in roughly the same zone, though with somewhat lesser results. Reminiscent of a Mitch Ryder/ Otis Redding hybrid, it unfortunately doesn’t attain the full potential of its ambitions, though it is still quite listenable.
Following this is one of the record’s bigger pop successes, “I’ve Been There.” Then “Belbuekus” arrives, and for a large portion of its running time it comes off like a cross between a big-city version of The Band and a less heavy James Gang. “Along Comes Tomorrow” starts as more middling balladry, though thankfully a picking up of the pace is a part of the song’s strategy.
And “I Will Serenade You” (later a hit for Three Dog Night themselves as “Let Me Serenade You”) continues in this less rewarding mode, and like many of their contemporaries, it can be assessed as holding too much organ. It ends Rhinoceros with a bit of a whimper.
When things didn’t quite work out as planned the group split into two camps, one pro-Rothchild, the other against the guy who brought them together. The later faction won out, and Satin Chickens was cut without Rothchild’s involvement. Former Checkmate Peter Hodgson also replaced Penrod as bassist.
The second album fared no better, but it did find them stretching into new areas, the record opening with a curiously lounged-out 50 second contraction of Duke Ellington’s “Satin Doll.” At times Satin Chickens conjures up thoughts of Spirit’s more pop-oriented stuff, though the pop motions really begin to stick in the craw after a while. If they hadn’t been yoked to the burden of monetary return so tightly, they could’ve easily made a classic LP or two.
Better Times Are Coming, their last statement, is far from an ideal finale. By the time of its recording, a bunch of the original members had bailed, and the disc is dominated by an underwhelming Rockin’ Soul vibe, a sound that had really taken the hippie scene by storm as the new decade opened. Sadly, Better Times Are Coming is an LP only required for the completist collector.
Rhinoceros didn’t set the world afire, but in the here and now they do help to deepen the musical landscape of the moment from whence they came. It wasn’t all masterpieces, y’know? Satin Chickens holds the band’s strongest stuff, but the first album is the group’s smoothest listen, and it does a very good job of capturing them early.
It won’t torch anybody’s listening room, but it will provide more than a little heat, and if they’re a band too often shortchanged due to the unromantic manner of their creation, Rhinoceros deserve to be better treated by history.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B-
