Produced by The Man Band
Recorded live at The Roundhouse, Chalk Farm, 26th May 1975 by Vic Maile with the Manor Mobile.
Mixed at Pye Studios, London by Man and Vic Maile
Front Cover Photography by Keith Morris
Lettering & Logos by Rick Griffin
Inside Photos by Keith Morris & Edmund Shea
Poster photography, Keith Morris
Inside Spread designed by AD (Design Consultants Ltd.)
Stage Lighting by Rick Lefrak, Laughing Whitefish Productions
MANAGEMENT Barry Marshall, 177 Upper Street, London N1.
This is a magnificent live album, three lead guitars, a wall of great hard rock, and an intensity (God, I'm starting to use that word too much) which is not for the faint of heart. I once went over to the house of a friend who claimed to be a fan of great guitar music. He played me some Steely Dan and I played this album, and he was very intimidated by the music. This is loud, it's nasty and its full of delicious licks.
It starts off with Deke's "7171-551" from 'Iceberg' which had been expanded from a perky little single to an 11 minute assault on the senses. Next are "Codine" and "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You", two old standards that Quicksilver had originally recorded for the 'Revolution' soundtrack album (which was somewhat rare at the time, but was later reissued), Deke's vocals on "Codine" are incredible. For the B-side there are two old classics "Many Are Called" and "Bananas" both turned into extended jams with all three guitars getting a chance to stretch out.
Ted Koehorst's commentary on allegations that Mickey Jones went back and rerecorded much of John Cipollina guitar work (see his liner notes for 'Be Good To Yourself') deserve refutation, but since I really don't know any better, all I can say is that if they are true I prefer to live in an alternative reality where Minni-Vanilli can sing, Michael Jackson is innocent, and Mr. Cipollina's guitar work didn't need any studio tampering, and shame on you Mr. Koehorst for spreading vicious allegations about the non-existence of Santa Clause, etc.
But the real highlight of this album is Deke's longest set of liner notes to date (reproduced in glorious HTML for the first time below). It's a classic essay on the history and habits of Man's extended family, with further notes on the philosophy of car theft, police notes in triplicate, the dangers of Argentine Corned Beef and bolas in general. Last night I met and old record critic friend of mine at a concert and he could still quote large sections of the notes, having last read them some 15 years ago. He also wondered why I couldn't, and all I could say was that this was the first time I had read them while not stoned.
This first paragraph was just about the last thing I wrote, so I can tell you what I'm going to do, I rip a lot of unsuspecting people off. Obviously I can't steal their styles and execute them anywhere near the celestian grandeur that the originals had, but in my head they sound similar. These are the people I tried to rip off: Raymond Chandler (again), Kilgore Trout, Dylan Thomas (these portions mus be read aloud in a Welsh pulpit voice, preferable when drunk). These are major portions, there are endless minor phrases and presumptuous punctuations so derivative as to be embarassing. These have been stolen from people as varied as Alistair McLean, William Blake, Barbara Cartland, Sören Kiekegaard, Arthur Schopenhauer, Malcolm de Chazal, Godfrey Winn, Frank Capra, Jeffrey Fennimore Hooper, Robin Day, Omar Khayam, Desmond Morris and others far too numerous to mention. These were all unscrupulously robbed purely to make my compadres and I appear to be far more intelligent than we really are. Not a hard task. Anyway, I've always said that originality is just ripping off someone very few people have heard of. The Bachelors ripping off Karl Denver, who in turn was ripping off someone else, Georgie Fame ripping off Mose Allison who was in turn ripping someone else off. Matt Monro and Sinatra, Everybody and the Beatles etc ... Now I feel better. I'd better tell you something sensible about this record or the record company will throw me out on the street and I'll have to sell matches or something. OK. This is the start.
Right, this is a record we've called Maximum Darkness. Terry invented that one. Assuming that all the people involved are alive, this is a live album. This is about the tenth album we've done, I think, the thirteenth line-up, plus the American. Speaking for myself, however much there is of it, this brief shining moment in the golden halls of memories (how's that for pretention. Pretention is a laudable goal. That makes me feel a little less guilty) will be recalled as pure, total fun. (Dot just said, "Fools runs in and get all the fun".) I hope some part of the noise on this record gives you something, I hope we don't get dragged across the coals of criticism, I hope that somewhere in posterity there is a place for us. No reason. Ego, I suppose. (Dot's got a breadknife now and I'm glad I'm not a Hovis.) If nobody notices it's existence and only the bands families get their free copies, the pleasure and the excess will still remain intace. The band was the first repeat Man line up, stripped of it's innocence and the will to change the world into a smiling paradise, and considerably less physically fit. For the endless millions of virgins that enter the music of Man, it was Terry Williams, the rock I can always run to when the limb I've wandered onto gets a bit thin, Micky Jones will always trip me up and make me think I should have stuck at quantity surveying. I still survey the occasional quantity. Martin Ace would keep me awake all night and every night if I hadn't banished sleep from my theatre of operations (I got that one from the film "Patton"). Everyone has a point when they say "OK, that's it. This is as far as I go." Ace didn't get one of these points, which means he always ends up the last one still hurtling into history. Most of us try to be Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote. When I stop I feel like a Welsh Rugby Fifth Columnist standing outside a strip club in Soho inventing excuses for not going inside. Full of the Twickenham twitches, climing over the boards that keep Eros and us from entering into mortal combat yelling the question, "Ugi, Ugi, Ugi" and receiving the corect answer, "Oi, Oi, Oi". Sort that one out Socrates. Anyway without support moral or otherwise from other infiltrators I would never have taken my self consciousness and my blushes into that mirky, mysterious cathedral of forbidden untouchable stories to tell at least once every week and everyone who wasn't one of the heroes who risked his purity will pretend not to believe the steadily increasing feats of viking splendour accomplished by mere mortals. Hail Ragnor. Get ready for the Murreyfield boys. And don't forget, Micky Baker is the King of Wales.
I'd thing we'd better break off here and tell you about some of the people without whom the record could have been made but it would sound very different. Let's talk about the musicians first as there is still a feudal system of organization in the world of rock 'n' roll. Terry could be used by British Rail on the London to Glasgow run, pulling any amount of coaches and still getting there faster than any train on the rails. He's one of those clever bastards who either hide their mistakes perfectly or never make any. He makes me feel inferior.
Micky is a trip wire that pops up when you least expect it and plays notes that no-one has a right to play especially in this group, just across the stage from me making me feel inferior.
Ace who is only a stand in will soon go back to the exciting world of flying, has no breaks and is now dedicated to pushing everything as far as it will go. he is now hurtling into history. I try to keep up but I have breaks. He makes me feel inferior.
Deke is writing this. People call him 'the incredible shrinking man'. He has been voted unanimously by the band as the one most likely to screw the gig up! Deke was also a keen voter. He agreed with everything. He makes me feel inferior.
The American, John Cipollina, has a body that is built for pleasure, so why he got mixed up with the Manband I don't know. The day we met him at Sausalito Heliport nobody would believe that he was John Cipollina no matter what he said. So we made him prove it. "Do the growl on 'The Fool'.. we said, and he did so we said "OK, your papers are in order." When you get up close to him you notice he has white claws on his right hand, a tiny pineapple that can make a grown man shiver, and most people seem afraid to question his intentions.
That covers the people who make the noise. Now the people who help us make the noise.
Philip Foster is the tour manager and knows when to go to bed. He plays a rare game called Celtic Chess. It is such an inolved complicted game that only a few chosen mortals can play it, and their playing life is very short because of the strain involved on the vital organs. He'll probably be with us until one of his vital organs go.
Pip Newcombe drives the Manband wherever it has to go. He used to live by shooting pool and still rolls a sucker into the gutter now and then. I've seen Pip and Foster stand face to face and pull each others teeth out one by one.
Robert Collins helps the needy and keeps us all in one piece on stage. Robert Collins walks into a room like it is due for demolition and he is God's chosen foreman. I've seen entire towns totally collapse into rubble just by Collins saying their names. He was once the keyboard maestro of Quicksand and now and again he plays the odd tune. He makes me feel inferior.
Jeffrey Fennimore Hooper, (the last of the moccasins.) Jeffrey throws all our noises around the gigs and generally tries to make us sound like a real group. He is the sound mixer (or stirrer). Most of his existence revolves around Gillian and Jasper, who like gin and have an interior light that only works when it's raining ... in that order. Gillian is a lady and Jasper is a car (1965 Hillman Minx BTH 522C. Previous owner Owen Owen from Kidwelly). When I stand next to Jeff I feel like Jacob Marley. I saved Jeffrey till last because anybody that happy deserves some kind of handicap.
Then there are the people who are the closest to us who are much too intelligent to get into the band. These are some who have been around at the key moments of this record not in any order cos they're not orderly people. The least orderly is Clint ... the rhapsody in brown, Captain Corduroy. he's like a pile of dust that you keep sweeping under the carpet but it always sneaks back to the surface and usually drifts up your nose. Beware. The next album will have a very free vacuum cleaner. That won't do and better of course. Ray Williams was the very first bass player in the Man Band. He was on the first two Pye records and probably 'cos Pye didn't know who was in the group (if they'd even heard of us) his name wasn't on them. So let's make up for that now. Ray Williams ... bass and vocals, Ray Williams ... bass & vocals and once more for luck ... Ray Williams on bass and vocals. Ray appeared during the making of this album and shows very few signs of leaving.
Andre never says anything unless you talk to him, but seems to solder enough joints to wipe us out for a year. I don't know anything about electricity so he may be screwing everything up, but he looks like he's doing things right. He fixed Foster's stereo the other day, not that it makes too much difference to Foster 'cos he's tone deaf. He just likes to put Beefheart on first thing in the morning at Sensuround volume. I live in the room above him, and so I usually scream in utter terror, I'm dressed in 4 seconds, hating every bone in his boneless body, and by six seconds I've got my stereo up full and Edgar Winters White Trash and the bit that goes round. So it's "Booglarize you baby" against "Give it everything you've got". If we've been up to the interstellar heights of the many splendoured thing that is love, our companions usually think that God is punishing them for having too much pleasure or give up hope of seeing anything again. So Andre isn't so clever after all. I'll just get him to put a governer on Foster's amp or better still a few live wires. That'll slow him down a bit. Anyway, well done, Andre.
Vic Maile has been in and out of our music as engineer and producer and similar things as far back as the very first album, when he replaced the Kenneth Kendall of the console, and tried to salvage something (anything) from the wake of the butchers knife when all at Department S had retired to the Cumberland Hotel. Since then he hasn't had the sense to give up or get involved with a jinx-less piece of music, so he's still here. In fact, he's sitting about six feet away from me as I'm writing this. In Pye Studios in fact, which just goes to show Rodin could have created 'The Kiss' with a pneumatic drill. He is half-way into his second Indian Summer, a point where everything suddenly seperates into a panoramic vista. A great moment.
You probably can't see the lights too good on this record. They just don't seem to record well. You can see some of them in the photos on the sleeve. The inventor of this juggernaut of shimmering light is Rick Lefrak, a child of the Bronx. Rick can also be totally inconspicuous in Georgia truck stops. Most Northerners when forced to, enter these confederate cathedrals of undefeated rebels, smile a lot and are very polite. These experiences combined with a kaleidoscope of emotions can be seen clearly while watching Rick's lights. Every ray of light cries out with the pain and ecstasy of creation ... providing there's enough power.
First time I met Blue was when he walked into the middle of the Manband when we were rehearsing in Studio 51 near Leicester Square, and he's been in and out ever since. I've got the feeling he's here for good. He plays bass. God help the world if he ever makes a record. his bass playing sounds like a very large nuclear war. He believed 100% in anything that's 100% and he's pure red and white. Ok brother, we've got money to burn and some wild times to come. God help the world.
If you've been in and out of the Manband at anytime you're probably still there, so we'll see ya soon. this is the last bit I'm writing and I've got to stop now, thank God, 'cos they want these notes now, if not sooner. But I've written the nex bit so carry on ... if you've got the guts. The next bit is about travelling down to Wales, (But I could be wrong.)
I promise I'll do my best to make as much of the rest sensible to anybody etc . . . etc . . .
We're driving down to Wales in a rented car which might be brown on the outside but I really didn't notice when I got in. Clint would probably have notices. The last few days have been so good that everytime things start slowing down everybody seems to try to crank it back up to trouble level. For about a minute nobody said anything for their own reasons which are none of my business unless anybody wants to tell them. Nobody did, which helped the latter stages of the silence. The plot thins, the characters have stopped revealing their secrets, and a serenity of a perfectly still mirror lake which informs whoever passes that the only thing that could possibly disturb the glory of this living, holy inertia is Excaliber offering it's Cinemascope, Technicolor star studded wisdow to a world on it's last legs, but a world believing it is clever enough to be able to stand without them. Which means in this Swan Rental, possibly brown metal compromise it's getting boring. Boredome is a tastless drink. So ... everybody gets a-cranking.
FACT: It would be more exciting if this care were stolen.
FRIENDLY SUGGESTION: OK ... Let's steal one.
SENSE: We'll have to find another car that looks like this.
Suggestion from someone who doesn't even know what this car looks like. The suggestion would be rejected by anybody with a micro-atom of survival in his spiritual make-up. Spoken with schoolboy bravado.
No ... let's steal the most conspicuous ... an Aston Martin DB6 ... an ambulance ... the Coronation coach with the Queen still in it ... Gypsy Moth ... a Boeing 747 Jumbo Jet and turn it into a mobile home ... or a hot wheelbarrow that every incorruptable policeman in the entire world knows its number and his its crime report in triplicate in his inside pocket. Always triplicate because basic police training virtually insists that he lose the first tow to make the dirge of his conveyor belt, blindfolded persecution of anybody who looks like they're having fun, hugging and kissing, laughing, sleeping standing up and not being able to do anything without having to make a report in triplicate the details of the actions and reactions and causes and effects, what's missing is heroism of the late cashier and wasn't it poetic justice that the bullet missed the good conduct watch and hit him in the left ventrical (in triplicate). This was not the cause of his death, nor was the fact that both his legs were blown off by a sawn off shotgun, the cause of his death was food poisoning. Two days previously he had eaten a minor brand of corned beef that had been cut from a Spanish speaking bull or cow who while grazing in the Pampas he ate a bit of severed bolas that had had been hardened by soaking in linseed oil which a cactus loving gaucho left lying where he threw it away because he had bought a new one at Tesco da Finefare's Bolasary. Now a little technical background that will be necessary in the tracing of the actual killer of the sadly departed casier. It is fact that to harden their bolases the gauchos soak them in a mixture of cactus sap and sheeps blood. This is called Argentinian case hardening. It's like conkers only taken much more seriously. Anyway they are then soaked in linseed oil. Still safe, you can lick a bolas for hours and all you'll get is strange looks and bored. This is because the sheeps blood and cactus sap harden before the linseed oil is added so they remain separated. But if left to decompose in desert sunlight, the ingredients mix and form into a mildly poisonous fungus-like growth. Cattle in Argentina are very badly educated (the political regime in Argentina purposely keeps them that way), so they aren't chemically sophisticated enough to understand the nature of either fungi or poisons. So a hungry, uneducated, politically ignorant and religiously repressed Argentenian cow sees something that looks vaguely edible uses both its upper lips and its lower lip to flick a juicy piece of mildly poisonous fungus seasoned with sand, into its digestive system, thereby unknowingly taking the first step on a road that would end in a cashiers bid for heroism ending suddenly and denying him his last dignity. His moment of death was not noble and proud, but hollow, painful and unchangeable tapestry woven in eternity.
Meanwhile, back on the Pampas and our cow ... The cow was not a lone one. The cow, along with other cows, was part of a herd made up exclusively of cows. These cows and their relations would soon be, forceably and not of their own free will, treacherously murdered by smiling gauchos and chopped into bits and stuffed very tightly into tins. Sometime during this process they were all sent to different parts of the world, travelling under very uncomfortable conditions without one word of complaint. The cashier was part of a society that ate chopped up animals, so one day, feeling like eating a piece of chopped up cow, he bought a tin of chopped up cow, heated it up and ate it, including a virtually invisible piece of bolas fungi. After four days his body had digested the chopped up cow, which had already completely passed from his body leaving only a negligible amount of nourishment and energy and a respectable sized lump of fungi. After seven days he was thinking of taking some time off work because he felt ill, but he went in anyway. It was the day that the person with the shotgun decided to rob the band where the cashier was doomed. He would have been doomed if he had stayed home. It just depended on who got him first ... the food poisoning or the shotgun ...
The cashier lived through the robbery until he was diving for the alarm when he died of food poisoning one tenth of a second before the shotgun shells hit him. So to everybody around it looked like the cashier had been shot, which was enough for the police who caught the man with the shotgun three years later and he was convicted and hung. He was convicted and hung in triplicate but he was innocent just once, which is enough. So if you see a man with a shotgun he might be innocent. Some little details. The rope that was used in the hanging was made by the same firm that makes and exports rope to Argentian to make bolases. In fact the same firm made both the rope used in the hanging and the very same bolas that our cow ate. The managing director of the rope firm, in fact, shot his wife while she was reading about the cashiers murder in the newspaper, and they'd eaten corned beef for lunch that day. Another interesting detail was that underneath her clothes the wife was totally naked. Their daughter was out at the time of the murder with her boyfriend and that particular night they had decided to come to the Roundhouse to see the Manband. I know this for sure because I talked to her and of course she didn't know anything about it, which proves everything. So that's all the loose ends tied up, isn't it? The Manband will play for the children of murderers, they come to Manband gigs and shout the word 'Bananas'. Whew ... I'm glad you can't judge a child by looking at the parents. I just like to know who the children are, in case they invite me home for tea or something. Nobody's innocent of course. We've all used rope, eaten corned beef and read newspapers and go to Manband gigs. I go to all the manband gigs so I'm pretty suspect. And I know lots of others who are too. So I don't trust us. Don't trust anybody. Hang on, I'm wanted on the phone ... I'll be back in a minute.
That was either God or Cecil B. De Mille on the phone and the voice said "Thou shalt stop writing this rubbish and take it into the record company ... for I have stopped anymore silly things from entering your shredded brain". God, I wish you'd done that sooner. Everything's so logical and ordered now, I can stop. I have in fact.
See ya soon,
love,
Deke (the only one in the Manband who says he can read and write)
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