Let’s raise a drink to Twink—he’s a goddamn psychedelic rock hero. Twink (given name John Charles Edward Alder, adopted name as of 2006 Mohammed Abdullah) has pristine acid rock bona fides—he was the drummer for the Pretty Things when they released their seminal 1968 concept LP S.F. Sorrow, before moving on to loveable anarchists the Pink Fairies.
And during the interim between bands he released his first solo LP, 1970’s Think Pink, with a cast of lysergic loons that included defrocked Deviants frontman Mich Farren (who produced) and ex-Tyrannosaurus Rex vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Steve Peregrin Took, both of whom would go on with Twink to form the prototype of the Pink Fairies. Also on board was Canadian sessions musician Paul Rudolph, who before he returned to his true love of cycling was perhaps the most unhinged (and unheralded) guitarist on the English psychedelic underground scene.
Think Pink is very much a creature of its times, but it’s stood up over the years. Whimsical and eccentric in the Grand English Manner, albeit quite dark in some places, its songs vary from sound-effects heavy freakscapes to off-the-cuff goofs to a few of the best—if seldom heard—acid rock songs of the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. In short it’s a dog’s breakfast of an album that keeps its ambitions low—this is art for art’s sake stuff, making few concessions to commercial accessibility, which isn’t to say that one or two of these songs wouldn’t have sounded too out of place on the old wireless.
The LP opens with the inadvertently hilarious “The Coming of the One,” a madcap collection of discordant sounds that include sitar, pixie horn, and lots of deranged voices over which Twink turns Nostradamus and gives us the lowdown on life in the year 1999—and exactly seven months.
In a Spinal Tap spoken word performance he informs us that things aren’t going to be very rosy. “From the skies shall come an alarmingly powerful king” (love that “alarmingly”)” prophesieth his Twinkness. “There shall be seen the sports of ghostly sacrifice,” he adds, which sounds rather ghastly to me, and worst of all the dead are going to rise from their graves. Twink was wrong about all of it—instead of the End Times we got Sugar Ray, Whitney Houston, and Matchbox 20, which is to say that Twink’s prediction was far too optimistic.
“Ten Thousand Words in a Cardboard Box” is a true lost classic—a psychedelic crash course for the ravers fueled by Rudolph’s bravura guitar performance. Over a methodical crash and bash Twink, voice distorted, sings while ghostly backing vocalists come on all vaporous and dramatic. But it’s Rudolph’s stinging guitar solo that makes the song–he throws in lots of feedback, plays mighty power chords, and just gets louder and more out of control as the song goes on. “Dawn of Majic” is Stonehenge at sunrise mystical druid chant hoodoo voodoo and a real droning lark—the vocals split the difference between Gregorian chant and an Islamic muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. I recommend its inclusion on the mix tape for your next human sacrifice.
“Tiptoe on the Highest Hill” is a veddy moody Moody Blues kinds number that degenerates into noise, with Rudolf playing haunting guitar before finally launching into a fuzzed-out solo, and Twink going heavy on the cymbals while singing from outer space or maybe inner space or both even. “Fluid” is a spacy drone that features a woman named Silver sighing and orgasming in what sounds like the void to the accompaniment of lots of cymbal crash and random percussion while Rudolf and one Victor Unitt play far-freaking out sprung guitar that gets wilder and wilder before taking over completely.
A wonderful number, which is followed by the very martial “Mexican Grass War,” on which the army of General Antonio López de Santa Anna marches your way whooping and hut-hut-hutting to the sound of rat-a-tat drums while Rudolph interjects with sudden squalls of fuzz and feedback. The army makes quite a racket as it grows closer, things speed up, and just when the song seems on the brink of anarchy the troops finally pass by, flags waving and stoned off their asses, on their way to bong the Alamo. It all lasts a bit too long. But that’s the way with most wars.
“Rock an’ Roll the Joint” is a mechanical funk number that does the herky-jerky for a while then stops dead for the folks in the studio to give out a raggedy cheer. Personally I think it would have been funnier had they shouted, “Pennsylvania 6-5-0-0-0!” like the Glenn Miller Orchestra on mushrooms, but what’s a guy to do? Nobody ever asks for my input. The song’s a bit too tight-assed for its own good—fluidity, lads, that’s the ticket.
“Suicide” is another moody blues that alternates between fast-paced acoustic guitar strum space jam to slow, orbital intermissions during which Twink closes his eyes and tries to “forget the thing that brought me here.” It’s all very vague and down in the mouth but the bottom line is clear enough—”From this world I knew I had to flee.” And the song closes out in a storm of acoustic guitars, one of them in the hands of Der Twink himself.
“Three Little Piggies” has the gang in the studio shouting out the nursery rhyme in funny voices with lots of “oi’s” and oinks and “la la la la las.” Sounds like they had a lot of fun making it, but it grows wearisome fast, although some good weed might change that. “The Sparrow Is a Sign” is an acoustic guitar folk-rocker that features Twink and Took on vocals sounding very raw like they don’t want to sound good while the song itself is reminiscent of Bowie at his Major Tommest. Great melody, and once again Rudolph steps in to blow the old tin can out of its trajectory with his guitar while the acoustic guitar strum goes blur on you. Crazy!
Think Pink is a representative slab of Ye Olde English psychedelic rock circa 1970, for good and ill. But mostly for good—for every acid-laced throwaway there are three songs that will blow your groovy little mind. Experimental as Think Pink is in some places, it delivers up some catchy numbers that in an alternative universe would have made their way to the Top of the Pops. Twink didn’t exactly lack ambition—he just didn’t let it get in his way. He answered to a higher calling, as the best of ‘em always do. And that, my friends, makes him a goddamn psychedelic rock hero.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-
