Notes

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In this enlightened age of rock ‘n roll’s latest rebirth and flowering, it’s difficult to recall precisely how barren the wasteland that was early Seventies rock really was. I mean, if one harbored any longing for such taken-for-granted niceties of Fifties and Sixties rock ‘n roll as excitement, lunacy, economy, etc, etc., one might as well have hung it up, bro, ‘cause the Seventies seemed to give up the ghost from the outset. On one side, you had the horde of singer/songwriter types, gently sobbing into their sunflower seeds and fostering the resultant poetry onto a strangely doting world; and on the other, we suffered from the proliferation of heavy metal dinosaur groups that a lot of otherwise smart people (including the liner note kid here) raved about, because at least there purveyors of the three D’s (Decibels, Doom, Destruction) brought a sense of stupidity back into rock, but as we all know, mere stupidity does not automatically qualify one for rock ‘n roll saviorhood. Get thee behind me, Bull Angus!

For me, Big Star signaled the beginning of hope for the blighted Seventies more than any other group. Sure, the Raspberries, Flamin’ Groovies, Bowie, Roxy Music…I agree. But from my personal point of view, Big Star (and specifically Alex Chilton, whose group it increasingly became), conjured up the collective innocence of teenagers (and post-teenagers) everywhere, and shot it right back out with no apparent regard for the trends mentioned above. Everything Big Star put their fingers, throats and minds to became pop rock n’ roll at its finest, and it affected all who heard it forevermore.

The above may sound a tad hyperbolic, but chances are you’ve never even heard Big Star. (Quite excusable—to call their two released albums erratically distributed would be much too kind) As it happened, I discovered their first lp (called #1 Record—wishful thinking perhaps, but certainly deserving) through the good graces of Ardent records who presumably had a kind heart when it came to promotional mailings—Ii was a rock critic of very little repute at the time. I was also very shy and suspicious, working at a job I hated and living with my parents while all my high school friends majored in sandbox and such at chic "underachiever" colleges. Big Star totally turned my head around, and boy, was I ripe for it! From the day I received the lp (Thanksgiving eve ‘72—just like yesterday…), I’ve played it incessantly stopping only to rant about it to anyone who’d listen.

The biographical information on Big Star was sketchy, to say the last; the only familiar name to me was Alex Chilton’s, the former "voice of the Box Tops" ("The Letter) was a real "#1 Record" when Alex was only 16!). However, Chris Bell (who led the group at this point) co-wrote the lp with Alex and the combination was irrestible on rockers like "Feel", "When My Baby’s Beside Me", and "Don’t Lie To Me", plus ballads like "El Goodo" and Alex’s gorgeous "Give Me Another Chance". Yes, this was a group to be reckoned with—but their origins were so murky that who’d want to try?

The plot thickened with a jolt some months later when I was flown to Memphis (home turf for Big Star, Ardent and Stax Records, who "distributed" Ardent) for some sort of rock critics’ convention. A couple hundred of rock tastemaker elite waltzed their outsized egos through three days of mostly pointless discussion and light tourism ( I got my picture taken in front of Graceland—I’ll treasure it always). The drudgery was completely forgotten on the closing-night party, though, when Big Star took the stage for one of the most electrifying rock ‘n roll performances ever. They were down to a trio due to Chris Bell’s departure (recent reports have him making a much anticipated comeback), but a Chilton-led group turned a crowd of drunken freeloaders into drooling disciples with a taut, explosive set comprising the best of the first album, covers like the Kinks’ "Come On Now", T. Rex’s "Baby Strange", and Loudon Wainwrights "Motel Blues", and even an impromptu "The Letter", taught to bassist Andy Hummel and drummer Jody Stephens on the spot!

It was learned in conversation with Alex and Jody afterward that Big Star had in fact planned to split altogether following Bell’s departure, but felt sufficiently encouraged by the critics reception to cut a second album. Thus followed another wait of nine months or so. Hey, does this group want us to like them or what?

Early ‘74’s release of Radio City brought tumultuous tidings of a decidedly different shade. Where #1 Record had been infectious, melodic pop, Radio City was…well infectious, melodic pop, yet with a lyrical air of desperate confusion in Alex’s writing that was most closely compared to Alex’s fellow Southerner, Gram Parsons. The main difference between the two (apart from obviously divergent musical styles ) was environmental: where Parsons sang of a honky-tonk lifestyle in bittersweet terms, Alex viewed life from a lonely teenagers vantage pint (just barely out of his teens himself), all the while avoiding mawkishness with arrangement and performances that were shimmering, concise exercises in pop style. All told, Radio City was as poignantly personal a statement as rock had yet produced ("What’s Goin’ Ahn", "Daisy Glaze" and "Back Of A Car" are prime examples), yet at the same time was a work of musical brilliance, featuring at least one certifiable classic ("September Gurls") and plenty of other slices of true Seventies pop at its most thrilling.

[As a parenthetical aside, I’d like to turn those of you glued to your seats while reading this onto the fact that #1 Record and Radio City have just been released in England as a double-packaged reissue (SXSP 302). You could do much, much worse than to pick it/them up in the import section of our local record shop.]

Once again, critics everywhere half-ruptured themselves racking their brains for adjectives worthy of Big Star’s greatness, yet Radio City Collected dust in disc-o-marts nationwide (that is, the ones the record actually made it into). Weirdly enough, though, this time around found what was left of Big Star (Alex, Jody Stephens, and a pickup bassist by the name of Johnny Lightner, I think) trekking up the East cost performing at such nightspots as Maxs’s Kansas City (where they played and sang their hearts out to virtually nobody for four or five days), some dive in Boston where they got their equipment stolen (My God, who had it in for these guys?) and a few other places, including a memorable radio concert over WLIR-FM. They were as wonderful live as ever, yet no promotion, no sales, no money, and ill feelings all around sent the boys back to Memphis amidst record company collapse and more hardship than you’d wish upon your last boss.

To even those few dozen citizens that followed Big Star throughout thin and thin, this appeared to be the end. But it wasn’t (obviously), as Alex, Jody and assorted Memphis sessioners and buddies entered Ardent studio (which, unlike it’s namesake label, is a thriving concern to date), to record a third album which you are reading the cover of, bless your hearts! They worked on and off through the fall of ’74 with the idea of selling the results to an interested label, but as it turned out, there were no takes (until now). "but why not?", you may ask. "Didn’t you say that Alex Chilton and Big Star were strictly nowsville? Didn’t you make us buy this record out of curiosity? Didn’t’ you imply that Big Star helped pioneer…POWER POP??? Yeah, yeah, it’s all true. Yet somewhere along the line, Alex Chilton decide to drop the crystalline guitar and forceful production (just as he’d earlier dropped the whiskey-and-cigs growl that was his Box Tops trademark) in order to explore slightly quirkier musical avenues. Lyrically, Big Star Third was even bleaker and more disconsolate than its predecessor, and now the music matched. Roll over Gram Parsons, and tell Syd Barrett the news!

There are sublime moments here that rival anything on the first two lps: "Thank You Friends" is a strangely hopeful song amidst and album of defeated laments, and feature Alex’s inimitable guitar (you mean that’s only one guitar?); "Jesus Christ" makes sure Alex’s "he’s-from-the-South-he’s-gotta-do-a-religious-number" dues are paid. Lou Reed’s "Femme Fatale" is given an achingly beautiful treatment highlighting Steve Cropper’s guitar, and falls nicely into the albums mood; and those are just the obvious winners. Closer inspection reveals "Kizza Me" as a crazed rocker with producer Jim Dickinson’s pounding piano in the lead; Jody Stephens’ "For You" is as pretty as a picture…

So what’s the deal? Umm…I really don’t know; I just know that this album has an eerie quality about it that I can’t put my finger on, even after living with it as long as I have. It sounds partially completed (which it may or may not be); instruments fade in and out of the mix, Alex sounds at times like he’s stretching words to fit phrases, and the whole thing is buried in enough reverb to make even Duane Eddy sound crisp. However, the factor that makes this album as compelling an experience as I find it to be is Alex Chilton, who plainly writes, plays and sings like a man at the absolute end of his rope.

Listen to this album—Alex sings with a blunt honesty and desolation equaling the John Lennon of Plastic Ono Band or the Peter Townshend of The Who By Numbers, and maybe surpassing them in terms of desperation. "O Dana", "Nightime", and "Kanga Roo", while a bit abstract lyrically, convey confusion and alienation more convincingly than anyone since the post-Pink Floyd Syd Barrett ("Kanga Roo" even features some very Barrettesque guitar). A stranger, more disjointed, yet again totally unpretentious (sometimes even fun as when Alex barks "that’s enough baby!" at "Kizza Me"’s conclusion) album is not likely to be found in the near future. I trust you’re reading this post-purchase.

Obviously, the Big Star arrangement was a bit limiting for one truly into the concept of beauty through chaos, so after cooling his heels for an extended period (and cutting the intermittently rewarding Singer Not The Song ep), Alex moved up to New York in early 1977, assembling a band comprising Chris Stamey on Bass, Fran Kowalski on keyboards (both proverbial stars on the horizon in their own right))) and Lloyd Fonoroff on drums. They delighted audiences throughout the East all year with loose, fun sets containing many of the songs contained herein, plus older Big Star favorites, oldies like the Seeds’ "Can’t Seem To Make You Mine" and "Wouldn’t It Be Nice"—and, but of course, the occasional "The Letter". Record companies were starting to sniff around and interest was high—yet once again, everything seemed to fall apart at the most inopportune moments, and as of this writing, Alex is back in Memphis, were rumor has it he’s recorded a new album featuring recent tunes like "My Rival", "Shaking The World", and believe it or not (as this point I’d believe anything I hear about this guy), a version of KC & The Sunshine Band’s "Boogie Shoes"! Hmmm…

A group and an artist who never attained double-platinum status, never headlined a hall containing more than a thousand people, and in truth, were never very popular or commercially successful. Yet Big Star played a large role in shaping my musical tastes and anyone who’d be interested in buying this album in the first place must surely realize that success in the marketplace does not always equal success in the place that true art (or at least truly great rock ‘n roll) comes from Big Star Third is an odd, yet heavily rewarding, heretofore-unknown artifact of one of rock’s finest-ever groups, and no clever phrase can describe my joy in helping it see the light of day at long last. Like the song says, take care, and have one on Alex for me.

PETE TOMLINSON
June 1978

A shambling wreck of an album, Big Star's Third/Sister Lovers ranks among the most harrowing experiences in pop music; impassioned, erratic, and stark, it's the slow, sinking sound of a band falling apart. Recorded with their label, Stax, poised on the verge of bankruptcy, the album finds Alex Chilton at the end of his rope, sabotaging his own music long before it can ever reach the wrecking crew of poor distribution, indifferent marketing and disinterested pop radio; his songs are haphazardly brilliant, a head-on collision between inspiration and frustration. The album is a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, each song smacking of utter defeat and desperation; the result is either one of the most vividly emotional experiences in pop music or a completely wasted opportunity, and while the truth probably lies somewhere in between, there's no denying Third's magnetic pull — it's like an undertow. Although previously issued on a variety of different labels, Rykodisc's 1992 release is the definitive edition of this unfinished masterpiece, its 19 tracks most closely appoximating the original planned running order while restoring the music's intended impact; in addition to unearthing a blistering cover of the Kinks' "At the End of the Day" and a haunting rendition of Nat King Cole's "Nature Boy," it also appends the disturbing "Dream Lover," which distills the album's messiest themes into less than four minutes of psychic torment.