Author Archives: Michael H. Little

Graded on a Curve: Herbie Mann, Push Push; Herb Alpert, Blow Your Own Horn

Good morning class.

I stand before you today to discuss a very important but relatively unexamined musical sub-genre. I’m talking, of course, about shirtless jazz. The “Shirtless Jazz Age” began at the dawn of the 1970s and came to an end in the mid-1980s, and at its peak buried excited record buyers in a virtual avalanche of bared nipples.

Jazz expert Roy Mantooth, author of the definitive shirtless jazz oral history Take It Off! , writes, “Free jazz was out. Free nipples were in. Shirts were for squares and white guys recording on the snobby Windham Hill label. As for the music, who really cared?”

And Mantooth was right. Because shirtless jazz had nothing whatsoever to do with music, and everything to do with posing shirtless on album covers. I’ve never even listened to the LPs in my carefully curated shirtless jazz collection, and I consider myself an expert in the field. Like children, shirtless jazz should be seen, not heard.

Historically, the movement was bookended by two bare-breasted titans. At the vanguard we have the great Herbie Mann, whose pioneering 1971 LP Push Push brought bold, topless improvisation to the Down Beat crowd. As Amiri Baraka noted in 1987’s The Music: Reflections on Jazz and Blues, “Something changed after Push Push hit the record stores. Discarded shirts soon filled the trash cans behind jazz clubs all across America.”

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Graded on a Curve:
The Kinks,
Low Budget

F. Scott Fitzgerald famously said there are no second acts in American life. But Ray Davies is English–as distinctively English as the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band and eel pie–and American rules don’t apply. So The Kinks front man and resident genius got his second act and what did we get? The disappointingly crass arena rock to be found on albums like 1979’s Low Budget.

Listening to the bloviating (and very, very obvious) hard rock of Low Budget, it’s hard to believe that Davies was the same guy whose delightfully gentle send-ups of English middle class life were delightful little worlds unto themselves. Davies was the Marcel Proust of England’s village green preservation societies and Waterloo sunsets, of old photo albums and “Do You Remember Walter?” If he wasn’t the last of the steam-powered trains, he was the backwards-looking chronicler of its sad passing.

Listening to Low Budget it’s hard to avoid the obvious–that Davies’ talent had coarsened over the years, and that his once semi-ironical (and so finely observed) satires of English middle class life had set like the Waterloo sun. The early Davies was a Dr. Jekyll, using his scalpel-like wit, whimsy, and nostalgic turn of mind to lovingly satirize England’s always deep class divides.

But at some point he drank a draught of curdling bitterness that boiled off all of the man’s sense of whimsy, satirical subtlety, and attention to the fine detail that made his early work so unique, and was transformed into the Mr. Hyde who dragged the Kinks from arena to arena on the American concert circuit, much to the dismay of old fans but much to the pleasure of younger American audiences, who made Low Budget the Kink’s highest selling American LP (non-compilation division) ever. I used to hear this baby playing just about every day in my dorm in Naugle Hall at Shippensburg College, and I sometimes suspect I got myself tossed out of said dorm just to get away from it.

As H.L. Mencken once said, “Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.

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Graded on a Curve:
Sweet, Hits

I have had the dubious good fortune of finding myself on board an airplane with the Sweet–twice. And in coach class no less!

On both occasions I was red-eyeing it to Berlin while they were on their way–or so the gone-to-seed rocker shoehorned uncomfortably into the narrow seat next to mine informed me–to play some god-forsaken Glam Festival in the hinterlands of Scandinavia. And he wasn’t an outlier; the whole lot of them were fat, bleary-eyed and looked seriously hungover, and carried with them a demoralizing air of utter defeat. Flying the red-eye econo class to play a nostalgia fest with a bunch of other ready-for-the-knackers-yard has beens (The Glitter Band anybody?) will do that to a person.

‘Tis better to burn out, indeed; these guys struck me as mushrooms sprouting in the fetid soil atop the corpse of the rock’n’roll dream. I found myself wondering if it wouldn’t be better for them if the plane went down, then realized it was too late; their sell-by date had come and gone years before, and even the posthumous glory that accrues to the victims of tragedy would be denied them. Honestly? I wanted to hug them the way you would a kicked dog.

I had to remind myself–and I’m sure it hurt them to remember–that once upon a time the Sweet was a very big deal indeed. The toppermost of the bands on the bubblegum end of the English Glam spectrum during the seventies, Sweet (thanks in very large part to the outrageously fecund songwriting combine that was Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman) first gained prominence with a small handful of chewy chewy pre-teen crowd pleasers along the lines of “Little Willy,” “Wig-Wam Bam,” and “Co-Co,” before aiming for pop immortality with such zany (and very hard rocking) crowd pleasers as “Blockbuster,” “Ballroom Blitz,” and “Fox on the Run.”

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Graded on a Curve:
Sir Lord Baltimore,
Kingdom Come

Recorded in beautiful West Orange and featuring what looks to me like a ghostly Arctic death ship on the cover, Sir Lord Baltimore’s debut LP (1970’s Kingdom Come) is without a doubt the best thing to ever come out of New Jersey. It’s better than the Boss, Bon Jovi, and my ex-wife put together! And it won’t fight you for custody of the dog!

Boasting lots of seriously fucked-up guitar noise and the gold-plated tonsils of lead singer/ drummer/Freak of Nature John Garner, this 1970 monolith deserves its status as one of the pioneering slabs of what would become known as stoner rock.

Imagine an improved (as in freakier, more in-your-face in a Stooges kinda way) Deep Purple. Now imagine a guy whose larynx is capable of incredible feats of strength yet nimble enough to tap dance across the Sahara in its bare feet, which is difficult to visualize I know because your average larynx doesn’t have feet. But that’s the amazing thing about Garner–his larynx does! Two of ‘em in fact! And they wear size 12 shoes!

Why, it’s hard to believe the guy is a Homo sapien in good standing. If a giant bird of prey could sing it would sound either like Geddy Lee or Garner, but I wouldn’t take pot shots with my bb gun at Garner the way I would with Lee (and this despite the fact Geddy’s protected from hunting by law!).

And to make things even better, Garner seems to be channeling the voice of Sir Lancelot or somebody, which definitely ups the LP’s amusement quotient–I’m no scientist, but I posit here for your consideration the theory that Garner is the long-sought missing link between Rick Wakeman’s The Six Wives of Henry VIII and Iggy and the Stooges’ Raw Power.

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Graded on a Curve:
Alice Cooper,
Billion Dollar Babies

Alice Cooper had the music world’s head in a guillotine in the year of our dark lord 1973; his cartoonishly ghoulish song matter and macabre on-stage shock rock shtick were thrilling to outrage-hungry teengenerates like my older brother, who went to a show on Alice’s Billion Dollar Babies tour in a suit covered with a billion dollars’ worth of stapled-on Monopoly money.

While your more sophisticated tastemakers were deriding poor Alice as so much P.T. Barnum hokum–a low-brow sensationalist who lacked the talent, subtlety and immediacy of such glam era creatures as David and Lou and Iggy–Alice was winning the big American youth vote (“Elected” indeed!) and laughing all the way to the bank.

Who cares if his oh so chic contemporaries dismissed him with a smug wave of the hand? Sneered an offended David Bowie: “I think he’s trying to be outrageous. You can see him, poor dear, with his red eyes sticking out and his temples straining… I find him very demeaning.” Which didn’t stop Lou Reed, for one, from stooping to his own brand of low-rent on-stage theatrics; if shaving Iron Crosses onto your skull and mimicking shooting up on stage isn’t “straining” to be outrageous, what is?

Fact is Billion Dollar Babies isn’t really that different from Diamond Dogs or Berlin (whose producer, Bob Ezrin, also produced this baby). It’s not a concept album, per se, but it has the feel of one–on it Alice grapples with having money tossed at him, threatens to parlay the success of “School’s Out” into an apocalyptic run for higher office which he’s sure to win in a “generation landslide” cuz he’s got the toxic kiddie vote wrapped up, and in general flexes his skinny biceps while singing “God, I feel so strong, I am so strong.”

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Graded on a Curve: Siverhead,
16 and Savaged

Like many another hungry band desperate to make a name for itself in the early seventies, England’s Silverhead jumped aboard the Glam bandwagon with both platform-booted feet, but if you’re expecting fey androgyny and campy signifiers of the Glam demimonde, forget about it–Silverhead was a hard rock outfit that owed its sound to the likes of Humble Pie, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, and the Faces, and there isn’t enough glitter in the whole wide world to disguise the fact.

Silverhead didn’t exactly set the world on fire and only stuck around long enough to release two studio LPs, and nowadays hardly anybody remembers ‘em (sob!), but here’s the thing; they were a pretty damn good raunch’n’roll band, and the evidence to prove it is on their sophomore album, 1973’s 16 and Savaged.

The more I listen to 16 and Savaged the more I realize the whole glam thing is a gloss and overlay, if not an outright red herring; aside from the triumphant “Hello New York,” which is very New York Dolls in spirit, singer/actor (he went on to play a punk rocker in a 1978 episode of WKRP in Cincinati!) Michael Des Barres and the boys can only be termed a glitter rock band in the sense that they looked like a glitter band.

What they sound like to me is a band trapped between rock epochs; the tres catchy ”More Than Your Mouth Can Hold” may anticipate the rude punk attitude of the Dead Boy’s “Caught With the Meat in Your Mouth,” and (looking even further into the old crystal ball) the hair metal sleaze of Poison’s Open Up and Say… Ahh!, but it’s a streamlined boogie number at heart–ain’t nothing glam OR punk about Des Barre’s Rod Stewart meets Steve Marriott rasp.

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Graded on a Curve:
Nico,
Chelsea Girl

Everybody, or so it seems, loves Teutonic chanteuse Nico’s absolutely enchanting 1967 debut solo album Chelsea Girl–except Nico. In 1981 she said, “I asked for simplicity, and they covered it in flutes! They added strings and–I didn’t like them, but I could live with them. But the flutes! The first time I heard the album, I cried and it was all because of the flute.”

“They” were Velvet Underground producer Tom Wilson and arranger Larry Fallon, and as should be obvious from the above quote they sugar-frosted Chelsea Girl without so much as asking for Nico’s by your live.

Nico may have been crestfallen about Chelsea Girl, but generations of listeners have been bewitched by her hauntingly droning approach to songs by the likes of the young Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, Tim Hardin, and (of course) her former Velvet Underground bandmates Lou Reed, John Cale, and Sterling Morrison. These songs are as coldly tender as a Baltic Sea wind blowing through the pines of Spreewald Forest where Nico spent her childhood war years, watching the flickering lights of Allied bombers devastating Berlin on the horizon.

The veddy veddy German Nico (aka Christa Päffgen) is certainly one of the most distinctive vocalists you’ll ever run across; my East German ex-Frau lost her accent within a year or so of leaving the Deutschland, but the ex-model, Warhol actress, and member of his Exploding Plastic Inevitable’s accent remained every bit as thick as the walls of Hitler’s bunker, making her without a doubt the frostiest Ice Queen in the history of modern pop music.

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Graded on a Curve: Freddie Mercury,
Mr. Bad Guy

A Freddie Mercury solo album? Hot damn! I didn’t even know such a creature existed until I watched Bohemian Rhapsody last week. And immediately thought, “Man, that album has just got to be shit! I’d better listen to it right now!”

And guess what? 1985’s Mr. Bad Guy IS shit, and what makes it even worse is the fact that it was two years in the making. That said it’s relatively good-natured shit; if it seems Freddie’s working too hard and getting nowhere throughout, to his credit he has tongue firmly planted in cheek (watch out for that overbite!).

One thing you can’t accuse Mercury of is trying to recreate the Queen sound without Queen; on the other hand, he seems to be slumming. Most of the LP is either your standard flatulent mid-’80s shlock (lots of over the top ballads) or sleazy Eurodisco. Warning to fans of Queen’s rock operatic bombast–there’s not a single rock song on the album. And there’s no opera either!

Just a few electric guitar touches here and there, and (for all you opera fans) the ersatz “Bohemian Rhapsody” substitute that is the title cut, which dispenses with both figaro and magnifico in favor of a symphonic shlock and proceeds to plod, plod, plod. “Mr. Bad Guy” is to “Bohemian Rhapsody” what Alvin Stardust is to Ziggy Stardust. Aside from the amusing lyrics this clunker has nothing to offer the world, and I can hardly believe Freddie expended his vocal chords on it when he could have just soon covered Alice Cooper’s “No More Mr. Nice Guy.”

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Graded on a Curve:
Kiss, Alive!

Kiss: The McDonald’s of Rock! The ultimate mass-produced fast food for your ears! Over 100 million albums served and counting! Hell, they actually kinda LOOK LIKE Ronald McDonald! And their concerts should have drive thru windows!

Which is to say that while other bands may produce better songs, when it comes to dependable lowest-common-denominator rock product, Kiss makes most (if not all) of your other hard rock outfits look like mom and pop burger joints.

But I’m not slagging ‘em. No matter highly evolved your tastebuds may be, don’t you ever get the unshakable hankering to sink your teeth into a Mickey D’s cheeseburger? They’re so wrong they’re right! And it’s just like that with Kiss. I can make fun of the make-up and the dumbed down music (they make Grand Funk sound smart!) but when push comes to shove I can’t resist songs like “Strutter” and “Black Diamond” and “Rock and All Nite” any more than I can a holster of McDonald’s fries. They’re greasy and taste great with salt on ‘em!

And THEE DEFINITIVE Kiss product is of course 1975’s Alive!, which in the great seventies live el pee tradition is a twofer and as such probably one LP too long, but who’s counting? Think of it as a double Happy Meal! As a graduate of the Class of ’76 I couldn’t escape this baby, everybody owned a copy on 8-track and played it nonstop in their cars as they rolled down the main drag of Littlestown, Pennsylvania (which was so small it didn’t EVEN HAVE a McDonald’s) looking for girls WHO DIDN’T EXIST, that is when they weren’t playing Frampton Comes Alive! (which in the great seventies live tradition was a double album as well).

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Graded on a Curve:
The Monkees,
The Best of the Monkees

Today we remember The Monkees’ Peter Tork who passed away yesterday, February 21, with a look back from our archives.Ed.

The kids in my 6th grade class didn’t give a shit about The Beatles; we were Monkees fans through and through. The Beatles, well… The Beatles were for fucking old people, and who gives a shit about old people? We had our own squabbles (Mickey’s No. 1!) and rumor mill (Davy’s dead!) and preferred Dr. Pepper to Sgt. Pepper anyway. My older brother never tired of playing the thing; it was fucking boring! And what did he know anyway? He was, like, 16 and practically dead!

And all these years later I’ll still take the Pre-Fab Four over the Fab Four any day. My heart doesn’t go pitter patter when I hear “Penny Lane,” but it skips a beat every time I hear “Daydream Believer” or “Valleri.” What do I care if The Monkees were the product of big Hollywood and that boring homunculus Don Kirshner? The truth is I kinda like Don Kirshner; his impossibly monotone and utterly banal introductions of bands on Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert bordered on Andy Kaufman-school performance art, and provided me with some of my biggest laffs during the seventies.

Sure, the Monkees were created in a test tube in a laboratory by the suspiciously named Raybert Productions, and sure they were hardly allowed to play their own instruments on their own albums (hell, for a long time they couldn’t play ‘em!), but when push comes to shove it’s all about the songs, man, which now that I think of it were outsourced to the likes of Boyce and Hart and Neil Diamond and Goffin and King, but who cares? The kids in my 6th grade class knew something our boring elders/Beatles’ fans didn’t know; namely, that The Monkees were communicating with us DIRECTLY through the televisions in our living rooms, and the televisions in our living rooms were omnipotent!

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Graded on a Curve:
Deer Tick,
Divine Providence

Hey, how about we forget about this stupid review and go get trashed instead? Yeah, yeah, yeah, drinking to excess is bad for your moral fiber and could even land you in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous or in an El Camino wrapped around a utility pole (like me!), but sometimes you just gotta go off like a human roman candle or die a little inside, ya know?

And it’s this wild hair up yr ass, this impulse to just go off the rails and to hell with the consequences, this itch that you just GOTTA scratch that Deer Tick captures so wonderfully on 2011’s divinely raucous Divine Providence. The LP title’s a salute to the band’s Rhode Island hometown; the contents therein include some of the most barbaric yawps and calls to get shitfaced this side of Gang Green’s “Alcohol” or the Dictators’ damn near definitive “Weekend.”

Divine Providence is by no means a perfect album; the first four songs are drop dead great, near perfect actually, but after that it’s hit or miss if only because the party mostly peters out and Deer Tick is reduced to pure songcraft, the problem with that being that a couple of these songs sound suspiciously like songs by other bands.

Deer Tick’s owe a heavy debt to the Replacements, and on “Main Street” they don’t even try to hide it. And I can’t listen to “Chevy Express” (what a waste of a great title!) without hearing Spoon. Meanwhile, “Make Believe” is a bizarro homage (or should I make that wholesale swipe?) of Neil Young’s “Like a Hurricane,” right down to its human cannonball guitar riff and opening lines (compare “I saw you dancing through the window” to “Once I thought I saw you/In a crowded hazy bar/Dancing on the light/From star to star”), with a touch of Spoon tossed in for flavoring.

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Graded on a Curve: Weather Report,
Sweetnighter

For years people have been telling me how Weather Report is THE SHIT, how each of its musicians is a brilliant improviser and team player working together to further the noble cause of jazz fusion, but all I hear when I listen to Weather Report is dumbed-down Miles Davis Mood Muzak, albeit of a much higher quality than the rest of the other EZ listening jazz fusion out there.

Still, I don’t get the point of jazz fusion, never have, why listen to jazz with all the rough edges rounded off (which is what I hear) when you can listen to the real thing, I guess some people like it the way some people prefer purée to real solid food, because it saves you from having to do all of that annoying chewing.

So yeah, Weather Report, a buncha indubitably talented guys for sure, real players with real talent and impeccable credentials bringing jazz to the masses, their albums sold like hotcakes although they didn’t sell as many as Chuck Mangione or Kenny G, probably (or certainly) because they refused to sell out completely by going the total shlock route. Still there’s no denying that on albums like 1973’s Sweetnighter (their third) they ain’t exactly out to challenge so much as to cater to a middlebrow crowd looking for an easier, softer alternative to the more in-your-face free jazz beloved by your more hardcore jazz enthusiasts.

Then again, who says you gotta go the free jazz route or any other route? Last I checked jazz was once a form of popular music, music that your average person could listen to without screaming “Turn this shit off!” which is a not uncommon reaction to, say, John Coltrane’s Live in Seattle. Artists are expected to suffer for their art, listeners not so much.

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Graded on a Curve:
UFO, Lights Out

How deep an impression did the British hard rock band UFO make on my teenage years? Well, I got this baby on 8-track for Christmas one year and I can’t remember a damn thing about it. I suspect I listened to it once, went “Bleh,” and tossed into the discard pile.

Hell, I have no idea what possessed me to ask for it in the first place. Probably a review in Creem magazine. Those fuckers were always leading me down the primrose path.

UFO’s 1977 Lights Out was certainly an odd choice for something to ask for, seeing as how I never much dug hard rock or metal and didn’t even like Led Zeppelin. The snooty teenage me looked down on metal, thought it was dumb, but my good taste has gone to shit over the years and good thing, seeing as how good taste (and this has been scientifically proven!) takes all the fun out of life. Shit, I didn’t even like Foghat, and what kinda way is that for a person to live?

So a coupla days back I decided to give Lights Out another listen and guess what? I love it! It’s the greatest heavy metal album ever! Okay, so it’s not as good as Kix’s debut LP, or Van Halen’s 1984 for that matter, but it packs a big dumb sonic punch that lights up my pleasure receptors every time I put it on.

At times Lights Out rocks harder than those bozos in Foreigner ever would (compare “Too Hot to Handle” to “Hot-Blooded,” I dare ya!), at others it anticipates Def Leppard’s glossy pop-metal sheen. Like Bad Company but with a soggy soft side (see the great “Love to Love” and their cover of Love’s “Alone Again Or”!), or AC/DC only quicker on the trigger, Phil Mogg (vocals), Michael “Displaced German” Schenker (lead guitar) and Company produced some of the most shamefully likable hard rock this side of Elton John, who I could swear plays piano (it’s credited to Mogg) on the very Captain Fantastic “Just Another Suicide.”

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Graded on a Curve:
Witch,
Introduction

“We’re a Zambian Band!”

Tired of motoriking around the living room to your Krautrock records? Just plain done with dancing your legs down to your knees to your Northern Soul, Batucada, and Space Disco LPs? Sick unto death of the records in your Eastern Bloc Jazz-Fusion, Dungeon Synth, Nederpop, Nangma, Pirate Metal, Pornogrind, and Spouge collections?

Well, my depraved vinyl junkie friend, why not give Zamrock a shot?

The 1970s Zambian rock scene produced some really great Afro-psychedelic bands, the most famous of which was Witch (stands for We Intend to Cause Havoc!). Fronted by the charismatic Emanuel “Jagari” Chanda (that “Jagari is an Africanization of “Jagger”!), Witch sang in English and were famed for their frenetic live shows, which could last more than six hours and frequently included some really dope covers, including a retooled version of Grand Funk’s “We’re an American Band” the band proudly retitled “We’re a Zambian Band.”

Seriously, all you crate diggers: how fucking Sub-Saharan cool is that?

I’m not going to go into any great detail about the socio-economic conditions that made Zamrock such a potent force in the seventies; suffice it to say the movement arose and thrived in the sunny wake of Zambian national liberation and economic boom times only to slowly founder amidst a host of vexing geopolitical problems (wars on the nation’s borders, an uprising in country) and the near collapse of the country’s copper-based economy.

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Graded on a Curve:
Queen,
Sheer Heart Attack

It’s a shame, when you think about it. All the great albums I never heard growing up because (1) I could rarely afford the cost of an LP, and (2) there was no great or even half-decent FM radio station within listening range of the one half-horse town (the other half of the horse was owned by nearby Harney, and they got the front end) I called home.

Take Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack. Never heard it. Never heard of Queen period until “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which I should have liked but didn’t because I thought it was too camp. Too camp! This from a guy who spent the better part of his adolescence idolizing Elton John. But that’s the way I roll. I didn’t like the pitch of Freddie Mercury’s voice, or the band’s lush and ubiquitous vocal harmonies, and as for the songs, they were too structurally baroque for my primitivist tastes. In hindsight, I was a little punk in the making. My attitude was keep it simple, which was why I never liked progressive rock, period, until I started to get high and listened to my fair share of Peter Gabriel-era Genesis.

And if I didn’t like Queen much to begin with, I really disliked them after they put out those bookend hits, “We Are the Champions” and “We Will Rock You.” To me they sounded like pseudo-fascistic declarations of supremacy, and I thought then and still think now their Übermensch shtick would have gone over like gangbusters at the Nuremburg Rallies. The line “no time for losers” offends me as much as any line in rock history, which is why I never listened to 1974’s Sheer Heart Attack even after I knew it existed. I thought of Queen as a bunch of snotty high-pitched twats whose songs were too complicated for their own good, and wrote them off as bad rubbish.

But there is a time and a place for everything, and now is the time to give Queen their chance at rocking my world. And guess what, they have. Sheer Heart Attack isn’t the perfect LP, but it includes a slew of cool songs I like, even if some of their affectations continue to irk me. Bottom line: Any band with a guitarist as good as Brian May, and that can come up with a line as good as “Give me a good guitar/And you can say my hair’s a disgrace” is okay with me.

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