Garage rock is a largely straightforward endeavor that’s easy to champion mainly because the byproduct frequently resonates so splendidly. In an excellent turn of events Windian Records has just reissued two 7-inch platters from the label’s neck of the woods, specifically by Washington, DC’s The Hangmen and Baltimore’s Ebenezer and the Bludgeons; the former oozes mid-‘60s teen-scene gusto and the latter grapples with the disreputable essence of ‘70s punk. Both are welcome additions to any shelf devoted to rock in its pure, short form.
In the guts of the 20th century many youngsters in the US were impacted so heavily by the rock ‘n’ roll impulse that they diligently sought out likeminded individuals and formed bands of their own, and once amassed they found shelter in buildings where they could practice and hopefully perfect a few tunes. The true heyday of this phenomenon is the mid-‘60s, an economically healthy period with roughly a decade’s worth of accumulated R&R moves ready for the swiping.
Just as importantly the music had yet to find widespread acceptance as Art; it was, in an aged phrase, still greasy kid stuff. This is the territory where The Hangmen thrived. Theirs is a tale of shows truncated by the fuzz due to rabid fandom, the playing of private parties at the digs of Robert Kennedy, traveling to and from gigs in a hearse, and displacing “We Can Work it Out” b/w “Day Tripper” from the DC chart’s top spot.
Their ’65 single actually derives from Hangmen guitarist Tom Guernsey and drummer Bob Berberich’s prior outfit The Reekers. As a Link Wray-styled instrumental group they dished a 45 for Ru-Jac (the swell Dick Tracy-inspired “Don’t Call Me Flyface” is found on numerous comps including Strummin Mental Vol. 2 and Signed DC) but soon brought Joe Triplet’s vocals to the fore on “What a Girl Can’t Do” and “The Girl Who Faded Away.”
By the time Fred Foster of Monument Records (of Roy Orbison fame) heard the acetate, The Reekers had split, with Guernsey and Berberich a part of The Hangmen. Rather than issue a 45 by a defunct band, Foster simply slapped the active unit’s name on it. A profiteering motive and a questionable maneuver (to say the least), but subterranean rock history is the better for it.
It’s often assumed that by ’65 every guitar combo in the States had revamped in response to the Fab Four and their invading countrymen, but Stones-gleaned girlfriend-bossing lyrics aside, “What a Girl Can’t Do” is surprisingly non-Brit in orientation, recalling the beach/frat rock of The Rivieras (they of “California Sun”) but sans organ and with a hint of lingering Wray.
It’s got sinewy riffing, a sturdy yet versatile rhythmic simplicity, a swaggering vocal avoiding overzealousness, judiciously applied backing voices, lively soloing on guitar, and harmonica and a general sense of assurance inspiring repeated listens; later covered by DC’s The Slickee Boys (as “What a Boy Can’t Do” with Martha Hull singing on ‘76’s “Hot and Cool” EP) and Boston’s The Lyres (on ‘81’s “Buried Alive” EP), it’s exactly what a set of ears should desire in an a-side.
Eventually one will want to examine the contents of the flip. Erroneously listed as “Bad Goodbye” on the reissue’s label, the sleeve is accurate, and correction stickers are included; “The Girl Who Faded Away” proves no letdown. Slowing the pace and cultivating a tense, eerie mood that’s aided by an aura of distance in Triplet’s vocals, the song benefits from understated delivery across the board, the crisp playing flourishing during the instrumental break. It completes a tasty dose of garage verve with nary a bit of grafted-on psych ambience (‘twas too early).
By the mid-‘70s rock had reached high decadence, and something had to give. What gave is now well established in the annals of recorded sound, but it took around 15 years for bootleggers to start rounding up the outpouring of mostly self-released punk retroactively known as Killed by Death, the subgenre so named through the prolific series of compilations detailing material spanning from ’77 to ’83.
The main difference between the ‘60s Nuggets collections and the Killed by Death/Bloodstains LPs is the former’s representation of fleeting regional and occasionally national success; even a relative unknown like The Hangmen momentarily usurped The Beatles (the ‘60s underbelly is best surveyed on Crypt’s Back from the Grave run). KBD’s plunge into utter obscurity/local infamy is a trait reflecting punk’s marketplace underachievement as a whole and pinpointing the series and its ilk as a torchbearer of the ‘60s garage paradigm.
Five-piece Ebenezer and the Bludgeons figure on three Killed by Death volumes, #3, #12, and #18; that’s 75% of their output. Cited as Baltimore’s first punk band, a recent interview with rhythm guitarist Paul Landsman in Noisey details such credits as a birthday party gig for John Waters, landing Bad Brains as an opening act, and even driving up to New York City to play CBGB as ‘78’s “Peer Pressure” EP (initially waxed on Primal Stomp Records) productively blends Brit and US influences.
“Fake”’s brisk construction is reminiscent of The Damned and to a lesser extent The Ramones, Dennis “Ebenezer” Davidson assuming the responsibilities of front-man a la mode of Richard Hell. As he sings the music trucks along with raw togetherness (to call it tightness seems wrong in this context), but maybe the most interesting facet is the amount of standard rock input, particularly a long solo from lead guitarist Tim LeBrun that’s frankly not very Ramones-y; instead, it brings San Francisco’s Crime to mind.
The one track not booted is “Gerti,” basically because it’s slow and likeably melodic in a vaguely ‘60s manner. Though it’s not without some amp raunch and a tinge of Television, its progression could possibly get my mom’s foot a tapping. She’d likely be perplexed by the lyrics, however; concerning a melanin deficient scenester (“albino from head to toe”) it’s perhaps best summed up with the catchall “Hey man, it was the ‘70s.”
Speaking of which, “Weekend Nazi” nicely deflates that decade’s unfortunate Nazi Chic speed bump, Davidson continuing to recall Hell as he lambasts fashion stupidity. We’re pretty far away from Sire or even Stiff Records, but the amateurishness is a virtue and never quaint as “Peer Pressure” saves its strongest cut for last. Collectively firing on full cylinders, “Oh How I Love This Weather” brandishes a thundering bass line from David Arscott, its massive bottom-end inching near the ass-flaying force of a 1981 release on Touch and Go, Dischord, or X-Claim.
The Hangmen managed an album for Monument; Bitter Sweet is, as they say, a mixed bag. For Ebenezer and the Bludgeons, this was all she wrote. Together these reissued beauties highlight last century’s Mid-Atlantic garage narrative exceptionally well.
THE HANGMEN
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EBENEZER AND THE BLUDGEONS
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