Warning: not for the faint-hearted. Electronic Church Muzik, a new album slated for 2010 release from Ant-Bee (aka Billy James) is another in the artist’s succession of relatively inaccessible masterworks.

This isn’t to suggest it’s not very good; merely to warn off casual listeners weaned on less-challenging mainstream rock. No, Ant-Bee’s guest musicians on this long player include no less than former members of Alice Cooper’s original lineup; Gong; Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band; and most significantly, the original Mothers. And more besides.

“Living” — the original version of which appears on Alice Cooper’s 1969 album Pretties for You — here is eerily reminiscent of a track that will be familiar only to hardcore Pink Floyd fans: “Crumbling Land,” a song found on the soundtrack of Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point soundtrack. The band — here including Michael Bruce on electric sitar and Bunk Gardner on sax — adds a loping 3/4 middle section and a distorted guitar figure, but the Floyd influence upon the arrangement is clear.

Not so on much of the rest of Electronic Church Muzik. Found sounds, vocal snippets and a wide assortment of “snorks” (an onomotopoeiac term referring to a horn mannerism familiar to Zappa-philes) place the album’s vibe squarely in 1969-era Mothers territory. Yet likening this disc to a collection of Uncle Meat outtakes does it a disservice: while these original tracks most definitely carry on the tradition of Zappa’s late-period original lineup, they are indeed original tunes.

With its musique concrète approach, “The Music of the Body” will be welcomed by fans of such immortal numbers as “The Chrome Plated Megaphone of Destiny.” Those who don’t dig that We’re Only in it for the Money cut might well be scared away from this one as well. So be it.

Zappa fans who’ve ever asked themselves, “What would Roxy and Elsewhere tunes like ‘Echinda’s Arf (of You)’ sound like if performed by the original lineup?” are advised to take a listen to Ant-Bee’s “Eyes of Agomoto.” The answer, in print: like this, and damn fine. Don Preston’s keys and James’ percussion create something that’s adventurous yet accessible (well, accessible in a “Peaches en Regalia” sort of way).

Electronic Church Muzik does incorporate some elements that the sixties Mothers never did. Female vocals of the spooky, spacey sort (provided by Gong’s Gilli Smyth) add an eerie dimension (not a “Penis Dimension” at all, Zappa fans) that Zappa’s eventual use of the distaff voice (see: Bozzio, Dale) lacked.

“Mallard Flies Toward Heaven” is a front-porch jug-band outing, led by Zoot Horn Rollo on dobro. Zappa never did anything like this, and for that matter, Beefheart was rarely this tuneful (Magic Band member Rockette Morton plays bass on the track).

Real Mellotron (or an excellent sample thereof) is the centerpiece of “Flutter-Bye, Butter-Flye,” a track spotlighting Michael Bruce. The liner notes mentioned a character called Sun Raw (sic) on recorder. Hmm. James really does have some heavy friends. Peter Banks (Yes), Jan Akkerman (Focus), Moogy Klingman (Utopia) and Groucho Marx all make appearances on the disc. Okay, so that last one is present through the magic of magnetic tape, but then, isn’t that really true for all involved?

Banks is featured on “Endless Journey,” a dreamy piece not far removed from some of Todd Rundgren’s instrumental excursions (think of the Healing suite). “The Light” is reconstructed choral music: bizarre yet fetching. One might not wish for a whole album like it, but its presence here shows the broad spectrum of James’ sonic palette.

Jan Akkerman’s lightning-fast acoustic guitar runs mesh well with James’ Mellotron to create a lovely instrumental duo in “Mannah.” Perhaps this album isn’t as inaccessible as the early tracks might have suggested. There’s an approach: scare off the pedestrian listeners early, and reward those who remain with a lovely album. It’s not an approach designed to shift millions of units, but then, anyone influenced by Zappa, Rundgren and Gong can’t really be all that focused on storming the charts.

A veritable suite of tracks kicks off with “Psalm 23″ and leads through a number of wordless (or near-wordless) tracks that are more mood pieces than actual tunes. Snatches of musique concrète and found sound make appearances, and the Zappa influence is dialed back in favor of something more, well, akin to 19th- and 20th century church music.

There is an ersatz religious theme to many of the tracks, at least in their titles. “Psalm 23,” “The Light,” and “Benediction” all have titles that would lead an unsuspecting listener to think that Electronic Church Muzik is some sort of devotional disc. But if that’s true, the devotion is, ultimately, to avant-garde rock of the sort purveyed by the late Frank Zappa.

“Secrets of the Dead” heads to the middle east or north Africa for its vibe. A heavily treated guitar line has texture reminiscent of Todd Rundgren’s “Tiny Demons” (again from Healing) but straight-ahead rock backing results in a more mainstream number. In fact, the presence of a former Alice Cooper band member on an Ant-Bee track (in this case the late Bruce Cameron) is a good indicator that said track will lean toward accessibility in some fashion.

A clip of Groucho Marx lightens the mood ever so briefly, but then things head back into bizarre churchly territory. Another suite of compositions incorporate some spooky sounds (crying babies, dropping bombs, machine gun fire, bees, etc.) to good effect. What the point is, exactly, isn’t immediately evident, — the connection between religion and war, perhaps? — but it’s certainly unsettling.

“The Lord’s Prayer” sounds like Head-era Monkees fronted by Stephen Hawking. After the brief “Angels” Electronic Church Muzik heads into its most mainstream track, a cover of Todd Rundgren’s “Don’t You Ever Listen” featuring Napoleon Murphy Brock on lead vocals. Ex-Rundgren bandmate (and frequent Rundgren detractor, as evidenced in quotes found throughout both of James’ books on Todd) Moogy Klingman plays keys. A mid-section answers another musical question: what would it have sounded like had Todd and Frank collaborated? (Note for trivia hounds: they were once co-billed for a show in the 70s, but it never took place.)

The disc wraps up with some more spooky sounds courtesy of Gong’s Gilli Smith and Daevid Allen. Significantly, despite James’ long list of guests on Electronic Church Muzik — and the fact that he isn’t credited as a vocalist on the disc * — the overall tone is still very much his. He’s never overwhelmed musically by the (perhaps) bigger names, and that’s a testament to his musical vision.

The final track (”Final Benediction”) leaves the listener wondering if perhaps James’ latest disc might not be an anti-religion treatise after all. Either way, it’s intriguing, interesting music.

The first Ant-Bee album came out way back in 1990 on Bomp/Voxx; prior to that Billy James’ recording career included highlights such as playing drums on Steve Vai’s debut Flex-able. Since that time James has built up a Rolodex of aforementioned heavy friends while writing about several. His books are interesting; his music, even more so.

At present James is seeking financing and/or a label deal to aid in the release of Electronic Church Muzik. Here’s hoping he finds it; for fans of any of the artists mentioned herein, this is an album worth hearing.

* Wrong on my part. Ant-Bee sings lead on “Living,” “Flutter-Bye, Butter-Flye” and “Secrets of the Dead.” All standout tracks.

Full disclosure: Billy James is a friend of mine. But that changes nothing, nor does it mitigate in any way the praise heaped on this disc. If I didn’t dig it, I could have easily skipped reviewing it. My inbox is quite full, and I have no shortage of material ripe for review. So there.

The people who’ve left the Rolling Stones add up to an amazing amount of talent. The late and lamented Brian Jones may well have had a lot more to give musically, had he not met his untimely swimming-pool demise in 1969. (The circumstances of said death remain murky at best.)

Mick Taylor was at the center of much of the Stones’ best work, but since leaving that group he has kept (by design or misfortune) a relatively low profile. But with the 21st century has come renewed activity by a number of sixties stalwarts (I’m thinking here of Peter Green), and so we have a new concert video from Mick Taylor.

While Taylor never had the setbacks with which Green had to contend, his time out of the limelight hasn’t dimmed his abilities. He’s not the most expressive or memorable vocalist, but his voice serves him well enough on the seven tracks on New Morning: The Tokyo Concert, a document of a 2009 supper-club gig.

The primary focus of the songs is Taylor’s playing ,and he serves it up in spades. Aided and abetted by longtime associate Max Middleton (Jeff Beck Group) on keyboards, Taylor leads the group through a set mixed between originals and well-chosen covers.

A track called “Twisted Sister” has nothing to do with the 80s glam act; instead it’s a medium-tempo number featuring tasty slide work from Taylor. Vocally the guitarist stretches toward a hoary Mark Knopfler style.

“Losing My Faith” is built around a gospel chord progression. Again, Taylor’s fills and solo are the song’s high point, his vocals its weakness.

A cover of Led Zeppelin’s “You Shook Me” (that attribution’s my little joke, folks) is up next. Taylor’s rendition is competent but not life-changing. Middleton’s choice of keyboard sound is perplexing; rather than go for a straight organ sound, he selects a more modern faux-organ patch that seems ill-suited to the classic vibe of the song. His piano fills more than redeem things, though. Taylor’s tasty licks abound.

Bob Dylan’s “Blind Willie McTell” — cowritten by Taylor and originally recorded for (but not included on) Dylan’s 1983 Infidels — is both the highlight and Achilles’ heel of the set. The choice of the song is inspired, as it points out Taylor’s contributions beyond his guitar playing. The song’s structure is something of a departure from the other songs on New Morning. But tragically, Taylor’s guitar is out of tune. No kidding. It’s not so terribly noticeable when he plays single-note solo runs, but when he hits chords — ouch. If the listener can get beyond this — some will be able to, some won’t be able to manage it — the performance is otherwise peerless. A brief interpolation of Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” is — or was, before I told you about it — a mid-song surprise.

Taylor wraps up the relatively brief set with a Rolling Stones cover. But it’s not one from the Taylor-era Stones. Instead it’s the Beggars Banquet track “No Expectations” from 1968, an intriguing choice. The track fits Taylor’s style well, and he brings the blues feeling of the song to the fore.

The show is shot on videotape and is of exceptional visual quality. The well-behaved supper club crowd behaves in that stereotypical way (Cheap Trick At Budokan being a notable exception to the rule), remaining silent during the songs, clapping appreciatively at each tune’s conclusion.

Though billed as bonus material, in fact the mini-documentary On the Road With Mick Taylor is the real highlight of the disc. Despite dodgy sound on some of the “field recordings” (actually, Taylor playing acoustic in his living room) the documentary is reasonably intimate and revealing. It also shows Taylor to be candid, engaging, and musically versatile: he’s a quite good pianist. What’s more, the live 1995 concert footage in the documentary shows Taylor and band in a more lively, looser mood. Those numbers — not full songs as shown in the film — are in many cases superior to the Tokyo set. In fact, Taylor’s voice is in better form, and his guitar’s in tune.

It’s certainly good to see and hear that Taylor’s still at it. For fans of Taylor’s solo work and/or Rolling Stones completists, New Morning: The Tokyo Concert is a worthwhile purchase. Honestly, others may lack sufficient interest to warrant the (admittedly minor) investment to view the concert. But the bonus documentary is well worth seeing for anyone interested in Taylor, the Rolling Stones, John Mayall, or Bob Dylan (Taylor’s involvement with each is addressed in the film).

In his best-selling 2005 book Healthy Aging, Andrew Weil MD sets forth a compelling and ultimately convincing argument concerning the benefits of aging. Using the examples of wine, whiskey, cheese, beef, trees, violins and antiques, Weil argues that some things do in fact get better with age. As you might guess, once he’s discussed those seven items, he widens his argument to include humans.

The flute playing of Jethro Tull founder/leader Ian Anderson could well be Exhibit A for Weil’s thesis. Anderson has been fronting the progressive-folk-rock group since the late 1960s, and in fact only took up the instrument around that time. (His stated reason for choosing the flute is amusing — read about that and much more in my extensive interview with Anderson, here.) Over the years, Anderson’s mastery and control of the flute — in a style heavily influenced by jazz multi-instrumentalist Rashaan Roland Kirk — has only improved.

The new concert video Live at Avo Sessions Basel provides ample proof of this. Backed by the current version of Jethro Tull — one that still includes linchpin Martin Barre on guitar — Anderson puts the flute through its paces. And at age 62 he’s — amazingly — still able to leap about the stage and do his trademark stand-on-one-leg routine. His playing is expressive, imaginative, and often nothing sort of amazing.

Anderson’s voice is, slightly, another matter. Perhaps oddly, for a man whose primary instrument is flute, Anderson often sounds, well, a bit winded when he sings. He doesn’t have trouble hitting the notes, exactly. But when he does hit them he sometimes sounds out of breath.

More troubling, on several tunes Anderson sings out of tune. Let me explain: to my mind there are two kinds of out-of-tune-ness. The first (and most common) is of the “I just plain don’t know how to sing” variety. Examples include the non-Autotune-corrected work of, say, Paula Abdul; and anything by Sid Vicious (though Vicious was arguably endearing due in part to his lack of finesse). The latter is a product of a breakdown in communication between the monitor system and the musician’s ear. In other words, the player or singer can’t hear the music well enough to follow it.

That latter variety of out-of-tune-ness is easily identified by one characteristic: the singer is well in tune with him or herself; all of the notes are in the same key. It’s just that the overall vocal product is a semitone or two sharp or flat relative to the music. And it’s that dissonant variety that many of the songs on Live at Avo Session Basel suffer. Anderson sings well, and in tune, so to speak, but he’s not quite in the same key as the instruments. To a completely untrained ear, the effect might not be noticeable. To a moderately trained listener, it’s distracting and dismaying. This reviewer suspects that to a highly and precisely trained ear, the vocals on this set might approach the realm of unlistenable.

Kudos are due, in a sense, to Anderson and the producers of this DVD for not sweetening the audio to correct for this. What we get is a warts-and-all performance, and in fact the pitch problem does come and go throughout the set’s fifteen numbers. The playing is peerless throughout, serving up copious amounts of (metaphorical) shade and light.

Throughout a set that leans heavily (but not exclusively) on older material, Anderson takes the time between songs to provide narrative context. His comments add considerably to the enjoyment of the set, especially as they’re delivered in his grand and booming oratory (which itself is odd, juxtaposed as it is against the previously mentioned occasional windedness of his singing).

The set is beautifully filmed. On a TV soundstage in Basel Switzerland using minimal but effective colored lighting, the five-piece band is set up on a cleanly organized stage. Anderson switches deftly between flute, miniature guitar, and harmonica (he makes self-deprecating comments as to his harmonica-playing ability; listeners may well argue with his assessment).

Even on a non-HD screen, the picture quality is nothing short of magnificent, and the sound mix is flawless as well. As a modern document of the 21st century variant of this veteran group, Live at Avo Session Basel is recommended with consideration of the caveats mentioned herein.

Few expected it when in 1991, one of rock’s most legendary and influential bands suddenly (and briefly) reappeared on the scene. Television had released two landmark albums in the 1970s, both revolutionary in bridging the chasm between 70s guitar-god rock and the minimalist aesthetic of punk/new wave. With a style best described as the audio equivalent of film noir, Television stood rock convention on its head, melding an angular, bracing method that appealed to the hipsters, while forging a twin-guitar attack that warmed the hearts of fist-pumping rockers everywhere.

It’s a familiar story: Television’s influence far outstripped the group’s commercial impact. Like so many other groups of that era (New York Dolls, Rocket From the Tombs) their genius was recognized — and even then only belatedly — primarily by the cognoscenti.

So it was a surprise when the classic lineup quartet (ace guitarists Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd plus Fred Smith and Billy Ficca) reformed. Their eponymous 1992 release picked right up where Adventure had left off some fourteen years earlier. Yet Television sounds today even less dated than the earlier efforts.

The reformed group played dates in the USA and England; several shows were captured by audience tapers. A two-disc recording from the Town & Country Club in London finds Television doing precisely what one might expect. Never ones to look backward, they played the new songs while expanding arrangements in a considered, logical way without ever descending into noodlesome jamwankery.

This set presents most of the ‘92 album, but the group inexplicably passed over one of the most accessible tracks, “Shane, She Wrote This.” The sole nod to the past is the encore, “Little Johnny Jewel.” This set is a must for aficionados of ‘77 punk and, for that matter, damn near everything that came in its wake.

Difficulty to Locate: 8 out of 10
General Listenability: 9 out of 10

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In October 1969 — two and a half months after Woodstock — the rock festival was at its peak. Eclectic festivals were the norm. So it was then that the French indie/jazz music mag Actuel planned to sponsor a five-day show in Paris. Oddly, they chose Frank Zappa to serve as emcee. Speaking no French, Zappa chose to communicate through music, and jammed onstage with a few of the groups. Last-minute permit difficulties forced the relocation of the festival to Mont de l’Enclus in Amougies Belgium. A film was made of concert highlights, but owing to performance-rights issues, the film, Music Power, was never released.

So ended the story…almost. In 2005 a figure known only as “JJB” released his audience tapes of the show to interested parties at no charge. While the tapes are not release quality — distortion and tape speed problems are evident, and the taper simply switched off his recorder mid-song if he didn’t care for an act — the music serves as an important historical document.

The tapes include complete sets by several major acts. Ten Years After built upon their newfound fame. The original Yes lineup played a rousing set of mostly covers. The Nice (featuring Keith Emerson) did a set, one of their last before folding. Canterbury favorites Caravan played a full set, as did Captain Beefheart. Pink Floyd jammed with Zappa, as did overlooked psychedelic group Blossom Toes. (Happy 64th birthday today to Blossom Toes’ Jim Cregan.) In most cases, Zappa would just surprise the musicians mid-set and walk on. Interviewed in March 2006, Blossom Toes guitarist Brian Godding told me, “Frank [came] on, tuned up and [tried] to teach us one of his tunes…in front of the crowd!”

Ten discs in all, the Festival Actuel set provides a time-capsule alternative to Woodstock. Highly recommended to anyone interested in the progressive end of late 60s rock.

Difficulty to Locate: 9 out of 10
General Listenability: 7 out of 10

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When a writer’s work gains a certain degree of visibility, an interesting thing sometimes happens. The artists getting reviewed and/or profiled often contact the writer to give feedback. This happens more often than you might expect. Owing to the ease of communication afforded by the intertubes, it’s easy for an artist to find out when s/he has been mentioned online. Google Alerts exists just to aid such a purpose.

It’s gratifying to hear from an artist, especially when they say things along the lines of “you really understand where I was going with that” or similar sentiments. In my own experience, several recording artists have contacted me (privately, not for publication) to admit that I was on the mark in some criticism I might have proffered. That’s very helpful feedback for me, and demonstrates a healthy ability on their part to accept criticism.

Occasionally, however, an artist is displeased with something I’ve written. Now, usually when this happens, if they comment at all, it’s generally not to me, but more often via their Twitter account, personal online diary or other similar venue. In most cases, well, there’s nothing I can do about that. I have savaged a number of works over the years, and I meant it. If I wrote it, I meant it, and I’ll stand by it.

Well, almost always. Recently – as part of a lengthy and largely positive review – I applied a couple of gratuitous adjectives to my description of a very well-known recording artist. I’m not going to say whom; that’s not the point. Said artist took offense and blogged about it.

Not to get too “inside baseball” about it, but like many bloggers, I am keenly interested in tracking how readers find my blog. As such my curiosity was piqued when I learned that several visitors in the last few days found my blog by searching Google using a text-string made up of a full sentence from the aforementioned review. So I Googled the same phrase, and – in addition to my own blog – found the artist’s rejoinder (including the offending excerpt from my review) .

My words were hurtful. Yes, I was making a point, and no, I don’t believe that my point was completely without merit. But the thing is, said point had little to do with the larger points I was trying to make in the review. In other words, they were gratuitous. I was thoughtlessly throwing in an opinion of mine because I could, not because it furthered discussion of the relative merits of the album under consideration.

I’ve since appended an apology to the tail-end of that review. Words have consequences, after all. If I wished to write an essay dedicated to exploring the assertions I threw into that review, I could do so legitimately (though doing so would appear mean-spirited at best, and I am not such a person). But those assertions didn’t add to the reader’s understanding of the album, so they didn’t need to be included.

An apology was not requested. One is freely and humbly offered nonetheless.

Gentle, pastoral guitar picking starts off the epic-length “Daydreamers’ Nightmare” on Beyond Reality, the latest from Dutch progressive outfit Mangrove. An airy synth line doubles the melodic phrase, and then — as prog is wont to do — the rest of the band thunders in, and a soaring electric guitar lead is laid atop the entire thing. Slow chord progressions with plenty of air in them are the order of the day. Three minutes in, the virtual stage goes dark except for a lone electric piano and vocal. Theatrical in its presentation — and highly melodic in its delivery — “Daydreamers’ Nightmare” unfolds slowly, making deft and effective use of those oft-abused progressive rock trademarks (fast/slow, loud/quiet, hard/soft, complicated/simple).

Though possessed of a feel that will be familiar to followers of the genre, the song isn’t overly reminiscent of any particular act. And that’s all to the good. Rather than serving as a showcase for one particular virtuoso, Beyond Reality is a well-balanced album that provides plenty of vocals and lyrics, while still delivering the requisite instrumental spotlights. No player overshadows another; the songs are often built around keyboard parts, but tasty guitar solos abound. Some seven-plus minutes in, “Daydreamers’ Nightmare” really breaks out into epic fashion, and here the band does sonically evoke some of the past greats. The thunderous rhythm section recalls some of the best work of Rush (minus the Donald Duck vocals, of course) and the choir Mellotron calls to mind A Trick of the Tail-era Genesis.

The signature synth line on “Time Will Tell” has a texture highly reminiscent of Genesis’ “Follow You Follow Me,” but the song’s overall structure is more ambitious than that 1978 pop hit. The song’s midsection segues into an almost funk-jazz vibe, but that’s quickly supplanted by an aural windstorm that leads into a pastiche of Pink Floyd’s mighty “Echoes.” Reverbed piano, glacial tempo, hypnotic bass, and buttery slide guitar all add up to the most obvious, unashamed cop of “Echoes” ever to be recorded. Even the signature Nick Mason drum fill (you know the one: dumdum-dum-tadum) makes a subtle appearance. After a few minutes of that, Mangrove updates things a bit by referencing some chord changes from Dark Side of the Moon. Little of Beyond Reality is pastiche (or ripoff, if you’re feeling unkind), but whole sections of “Time Will Tell” are undeniably Floydian.

The ballad “Love and Beyond” is built around more traditional instrumentation including acoustic guitar and piano. The members of Mangrove are clearly not technocrats; a song like this needs little filigree, and the arrangement is note-perfect. A brief and lovely guitar solo from Roland van der Horst leads into a verse with organ underpinning, and then the arrangement drops back to the spare guitar-piano-vocal approach. Vaguely reminiscent of the best work from (early) Styx, “Love and Beyond” would be a prime candidate for an AOR radio ballad, if such a thing still existed.

Church bells and spooky strings set the scene for “Reality Fades,” an instrumental track with a sweeping, cinematic arrangement. But soon enough, the band explodes into a bombastic, fast-paced aesthetic, and the song quickly progresses through a series of movements. The track is essentially a series of (mercifully brief) solo pieces, and is likely a highlight of Mangrove’s live show (they premiered Beyond Reality as an onstage set piece in June 2009).

The title track is another song-based production. Despite the use of a few less-than-standard chord changes, “Beyond Reality” is a rock-ballad number. Plenty of shade and light keeps the song interesting, and though the track employs verse-chorus structure, it’s still clearly progressive. The guitar solo is a highlight; if van der Horst harbors any tendency to overplay, he keeps it well in check, leaving ‘em wanting more. The rousing end section of the song is evocative of the closing of Grobschnitt’s “Rockpommel’s Land.”

The band fires on all cylinders on the album closer “Voyager.” The song features a piano part that is oddly but inescapably redolent of Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice.” Roland van den Horst shows off his ability to shriek (in tune) when called upon to do so. Chris Jonker’s fleet keyboards — here, mostly organ — head for Uriah Heep territory. The rhythm section of Peter Drost (bass) and Joost Hagermeijer (drums) holds things together with extreme force. The melodramatic chord shifts and tempo changes suit an album-closer remarkably well. An atmospheric organ-guitar interlude is good enough to stand on its own. Parts of the song even sound a bit like Klaatu, circa Hope.

Jonker uses a plethora of keyboards on the album. Almost all are possessed of a seventies aura: Rhodes, Wurlitzer, Mellotron, analog synths. Their use gives the album a firm grounding in the proud tradition of progressive rock. But rather than aim for flash or speed, Jonker’s keyboard parts establish melodic lines. The band’s song structures are pop-based, though, and in fact if one can imagine a cross between a classicist prog band of the early 70s and more song-based mainstream rock, that’s a good approximation of the Mangrove sound.

The liner notes’ gimmick of reproducing all of the lyrics in mirror-image is a goofy one, but rather than coming off as pretentious, it seems instead rather to be a piss-take on prog rock’s generally self-important attitude. The band photos suggest they had a good time at the photo session, coming off like nothing so much as a 21st prog version of the Monkees.

Mangrove is yet another of a growing crop of melodic prog rock groups based in Europe, a movement more interested in serving up songs than preening musically. Like the better among their peers, in fact Mangrove has it both ways — fiery playing welded to solid songcraft — on Beyond Reality.

Johny Lydon (née Rotten) used to end Sex Pistols concerts by sneering this question to the crowd: “Ever feel like you’ve been cheated?”

You might, if you spend eighty minutes watching the 1980 film Blank Generation, starring Richard Hell. One individual who’s in a position to have authority on the subject calls Blank Generation a “misbegotten” enterprise, and describes director Uli Lommel as an opportunistic, talentless hack of the lowest order.

The film starts future French superstar Carole Bouquet; she’s quite stunningly beautiful (and the film is beautifully shot) but she’s as wooden as a cigar store Indian. There’s virtually no chemistry between her and any of the film’s other actors. In fact, only two onscreen actors come off well in the film. Andy Warhol — who’s billed prominently in the feature despite being onscreen for a mere three-minute scene — “comports himself well” in the words of that aforementioned authority. Punk musician (and non-actor) Richard Hell, as the star of the film, actually exudes more realism, more authenticity, than all of the other players combined.

What’s amusing is that the authority to whom I’ve referred is none other than Hell himself. The DVD release of this pretentious claptrap of a film includes as its bonus material an up-close conversation with Hell, in which he relates his horrible experience of being associated with this monstrosity of a motion picture.

But wait! His disarming and candid demeanor is quite entertaining to behold as he mercilessly deconstructs the film, picking apart scenes as “stupid” and pointing out (correctly) that the film is completely disjointed, artificial, and full of scenes that represent little more than ideas (as opposed to fully-thought out story lines). More than once he marvels at a clip from the film, commenting, “What the f**k was that?”

One central scene in the film revolves around Hell’s character Billy riding in his car with Bouquet’s Nada (heavy-handed symbolism in the naming, much?) toward the beach. They argue whether or not to go, and ultimately don’t decide. In the commentary Hell observes that this lack of being able to decide whether to go to the beach, well, that’s how Lommel tells us viewers that Billy and Nada are “blank.” What is meant to be heavy and revelatory is instead silly and laughable.

The thing is, because Hell is discussing this particular film, viewers must see the movie to follow and fully appreciate what he’s talking about. “Part of my shame is that my name is among the screenwriters,” Hell admits wryly in the 2009 interview. So while the Hell interview is well worth seeing, the price of admission is: watching the damn film first.

All that said, Blank Generation is not without its redeeming features (but it is, in Hell’s words, “irredeemable” overall). As he points out, it’s well shot (but badly edited). It does present some real shots of 1978 NYC (though they’re couched in ludicrous dialogue and action). And the film does capture Hell onstage at CBGBs with his band the Voidoids (featuring ace guitarist Robert Quine, drummer Marc Bell [later known as Marky Ramone] and guitarist Ivan Julian). Though even that is botched by the director: the song “Blank Generation” is heard in its entirety more than four times.

See the film so you can appreciate Hell’s interview. Truly, that interview is reason enough to buy this DVD.

It would be too easy to dismiss The Apples in Stereo simply as sonic tricksters, as, fun trick noisemakers, so to speak. Or to peg them as retro-revivalists. But that would sell them short. On Travellers in Space and Time the group certainly trades in pop confections, but they’re delivered with heart and muscle. And, with a wink. The backing vocals on “Dream About the Future” are creamy, vocoder-y goodness a la Electric Light Orchestra. But all of the seeming gimmicks are in service of the songs. Though they purvey a vibe that often approaches early 70s AM pop (think: the Archies), the Apples in Stereo are as likely to evoke thoughts of artists as diverse as Sweet, Vince Guaraldi, 10cc and Mountain. No, really.

Few other groups could put forth the early-disco aesthetic of “Hey Elevator” and make it appeal to rock fans. Impossibly catchy hooks abound throughout the sixteen tracks. The dual guitar solo on “Hey Elevator” manages to conjure images of Thin Lizzy and kazoos at the same time.

Even a gimmicky vocoder-only track like the brief “Strange Solar System” works in this context. Imagine an ultra-poppy take on Todd Rundgren’s “Born to Synthesize.” The aptly-named “Dance Floor” will have even the most dance-phobic listener bobbing. Robert Schneider’s slightly twee vocals might be off-putting to listeners weaned on David Lee Roth and those Metallica guys, but then said listeners might have wandered into this review by mistake.

The analog synth riff that stakes out “C.P.U.” is horribly and intentionally out of tune, recreating the notoriously unreliable oscillators built into 80s era Moog synthesizers. (Trust me: I had one.) If the Human League had a punk attitude akin to, say, the Music Machine, this is what they would have sounded like. “No One in the World” is built on a Something/Anything era styled piano riff, but with a pie-eyed happy vibe more akin to the Captain and Tennille.

“Dignified Dignitary” is a musical citation of The Move’s (rather than ELO’s) “Do Ya?” and features cowbell right off a Grand Funk LP. But the chirpy backing vocals and watery synthesizer solo keep the song from heading into heavy-rock territory; the song’s attitude is closer to Material Issue.

The swirling pop of “No Vacation” features a bed of what sounds like cellos with a propulsive bass line. Heavily chorused guitars, electric harpsichord triplets and a melodic piano solo all come together to make the song another in a long line of pop winners.

“Told You Once” is ABBA-meets-Mott the Hoople. This reviewer is running out of words to get across the point that the music on Travellers in Space and Time is infectious, bubbly, and just plain fun. “It’s All Right” heads for a 15 Big Ones aesthetic and makes it work.

“Next Year at About the Same Time” rocks harder, sort of across between the Moody Blues and the Raspberries. Here the precious vocal delivery is dialed back. “Floating in Space” presents a minimalist take on the sort of sounds one would usually expect from the Flaming Lips. “Nobody But You” throws Los Bravos‘ “Black is Black,” ELO’s “Showdown” and Motown disco into a blender. The result sounds like a forgotten hit from 1977.

A Wurlitzer electric piano holds “Wings Away” together. The melody has that the-end-of-the-album-is nearly-upon-us feel. Vocoders, Mellotrons and other vintage keyboards abound. The album ends with “Time Pilot,” featuring a found-sound recording. That’s fitting, as the use of spoken recordings from odd sources bookends the album. One of the speakers predicts that “you will use this record often,” and he’s probably right.

Overall, the songs on Travellers in Space and Time present a skewed and original take on 70s pop. On one hand, it’s not too difficult to imagine this band appearing as guests on Sonny and Cher or one of the 70s era variety shows. But if one scratches the musical surface, it’s clear that The Apples in Stereo are far too weirdly wonderful and unique for that sort of mainstream acceptance.

On the back-cover liner notes of the 1967 album The Spirit of ‘67 by Paul Revere and the Raiders, publicist and bon vivant Derek Taylor wrote these prophetic words: “They are very good. And they are also very successful. Which is not always the same thing.”

Knowingly or not Taylor (former press agent for no less than the Beatles) was putting forth an argument that wouldn’t really to begin taking hold until decades later. The Raiders were very, very good. But their high visibility — five days a week from June 1965 until March ‘67 on Where the Action Is!, then as hosts of the weekly Happening ‘68 and the daily It’s Happening — was a double-edged sword.

True, the fact that the group appeared on TV in their pseudo-revolutionary garb, smiling and cutting up (before the Monkees, mind you) did help bring their music to a wider audience than would have otherwise caught on, but that visual image would ultimately work against them as the sixties progressed. Listeners wanted more “serious” music, and though Paul Revere and the Raiders could (and very, very often did) deliver, somehow the group has never gotten its critical due.

Paul Revere and the Raiders were a hard-working, show-stopping touring band. While they recorded songs from outside composers (usual suspects of high quality such as Boyce-Hart etc.) they also wrote the lion’s share of their best songs themselves. In fact those songs — many credited to the team of Mark Lindsay (vocals, sax) and Terry Melcher (production) — rank among the best rock music of the sixties, period.

I could go on. And in fact, I will. But not today. I’ve had the pleasure of speaking at length with Mark Lindsay, as well as with Phil “Fang” Volk (bassist during the group’s ‘65-’67 apex), group manager/historian Roger Hart and others. All of this will culminate in a feature, coming soon.

Meanwhile, there’s the music. Collectors’ Choice Music has released a 3cd set called The Complete Columbia Singles. This 66-track set (mostly in monaural, a la the original 45rpm discs) includes every a- and b-side waxed by the group during their time on Columbia (1963-1975; the nine or so pre-Columbia sides are not included). Taken strictly as music, this set is of extremely high quality; it will make the listener nostalgic for the era even if he or she didn’t experience it the first time ’round.

From the early cuts that showcased the group’s tough Pacific Northwest R&B sound (led by Revere’s boogie-woogie piano and Lindsay’s gritty saxophone) it’s clear that the Raiders were (among other qualities) excellent interpreters of the work of others. Like most groups of the day, the group’s b-sides found them reproducing their live performances on cuts like the instrumental standard “Night Train” and Richard Berry’s “Have Love Will Travel” (also recorded by the Raiders’ regional colleagues The Sonics). And while the question as to who recorded Berry’s “Louie, Louie” first — Paul Revere and the Raiders or the Kingsmen – may never be settled to everyone’s satisfaction, the Raiders’ stomping, honking version is here.

By 1965 Paul Revere and the Raiders had made the move to Los Angeles, and begun two fruitful associations: on TV with Dick Clark, and in the studio with Terry Melcher, then flying high on the strength of his production work for the Byrds. Thus began the hit singles (and hit albums) era for which the group is most remembered. Absent a singles compilation such as this new one, it’s easy to forget just how many hit singles (and damn good rocking ones at that) the group had during this era. Beginning in late 1965, the string began with the proto-punk “Steppin’ Out” and continued with “Just Like Me,” “Kicks,” “Hungry,” “The Great Airplane Strike,” “Good Thing,” “Ups and Downs,” “Him or Me — What’s It Gonna Be?,” “I Had a Dream,” “Peace of Mind,” “Too Much Talk,” “Don’t Take it So Hard,” “Cinderella Sunshine,” “Mr. Sun, Mr. Moon” and 1969’s return to form, “Let Me.” Wow, just…wow.

By the end of that stunning run in 1969, Melcher was gone, Lindsay had assumed virtual control of the group in the studio, and three members of the “classic era” lineup had left (Bassist Volk, drummer Mike “Smitty” Smith and guitarist Drake Levin formed the musically successful but commercially stillborn Brotherhood, but that too is a story for another day, as is the ultra-rare Stockhausen- and Cage-influenced album they and friends released as Friend Sound. Stay tuned.)

The b-sides of those early singles were often off-the-cuff instrumentals, and for good reason: the band wanted deejays to be clear on which was the “plug side.” Yet within these b-sides — some of which showed up on the long players, some not — listeners can find some interesting music. In fact, much of it is so good, listeners unfamiliar with which-was-the-hit will find their enjoyment doesn’t ebb and flow between the a- and b-sides. B-side highlights from that early era include disc one’s “B.F.D.R.F Blues” and the aforementioned “Have Love, Will Travel” as well as one of the rare examples of a composing credit by a Raider not named Lindsay or Revere, Phil “Fang” Volk’s excellent “In My Community.” That song — according to reliable sources — was briefly considered for a-side status.

And while Lindsay’s “Undecided Man,” the b-side of the smash “Good Thing” could be slagged as an “Eleanor Rigby” ripoff, use of that epithet would be a crime: the song features a strutting string section and a mannered (in a good way) vocal from Lindsay. It, too, is a very, very good thing.

Lesser-known but fascinating tracks on the second disc — covering 1967-69 — include the heavy rocker “Rain, Sleet, Snow” from the rare and oft-maligned A Christmas Present…and Past album. That track features a catchy fuzz guitar riff and treated vocals, and deserves to be revived every Holiday season along with the Kinks‘ “Father Christmas.”

Due to its comprehensive nature, the set isn’t all wonderful, and listeners are likely to spend less time spinning the third disc than the previous two. Yet the disc covering the latter part of 1969 through 1975 (the group actually recorded into the mid-seventies) contains a number of gems.

The surprise hit “Indian Reservation (The Lament of the Cherokee Reservation Indian)” is here, and — although the song (a) wasn’t originally intended as a Raiders cut at all, but rather a Mark Lindsay solo number, and (b) sounds not a bit like the band that recorded “Him or Me — What’s It Gonna Be” because it wasn’t — it’s still an enjoyable, essential cut. Forgotten gems on the disc include the band’s 1969 remake of their 1967 song “Gone Movin’ On,” the semi-hit “Just Seventeen” from the oft-overlooked Collage LP, “Country Wine” and the “Mississippi Queen” rewrite “Powder Blue Mercedes Queen.” Latter-day Raider Keith Allison took a larger hand in composing with the group, and the results — while (again) not sounding much like earlier group — are impressive and memorable.

It’s only near the very end of disc 3 that things take a turn toward the dreadful. The discofied “Love Music” (from 1973) did actually chart, so some people liked it, but it’s safe to assume those people weren’t fans of “Kicks” or “Hungry” (or “Louie, Louie,” for that matter). Late-late period singles didn’t even feature Mark Lindsay, who had finally left to pursue his solo career full time. “Your Love (Is the Only Love)” featured some other guy singing, some other guys writing, and could have been any group…except Paul Revere and the Raiders.

But three or four minor, late-period missteps do not a less-than-perfect 3cd set make. The Complete Columbia Singles is a (nearly) career-spanning look at the singles output of one of America’s finest — and most criminally underrated — rock and roll bands. Highly recommended to anyone who’s a fan of rock music in general, and of the sixties variants in particular, The Complete Columbia Singles is an essential addition to the collection of any serious music fan.

Keep an eye out for my feature on the band, coming soon.