Mike Markesich. In time this name will assume a status similar to that of Stanley Gibbons in the field of philately, or the art historian, Bernard Berenson, or indeed many others who are recognised authorities in a particular specialism that is outwith the wit of the majority of people. Stamp collecting and teenbeat records? Think about it.
For the best part of my life I have been exposed in varying degrees, to the influence of minority forms of music. Pre and post war jazz; country and urban blues; R’n’B, 50s rock’n’roll; rockabilly, 70s punk, too. Try the Sods ‘No Pictures’ and tell me that organ riff would not be out of place in 1966.
The difference between what Mike has achieved is that teenbeat, Post-Pepper Beatles aside, was never regarded as a ‘serious’ music field, one worthy of preservation for further study. One could of course argue; ‘Teenbeat? Listen to ‘It’s a Cry’n Shame’. It’s all you need to know.’
Jazz and blues quickly became the preserve of white, liberal minded, ‘intellectuals’ who saw the Blacks as down-trodden victims of evil capitalists – and a vehicle for furthering the plans of people whose ‘useful idiots’ these intellectuals really were. To them, Jazz and blues represented the cries of Black Americans. One evening spent in some Mississippi Juke Joint or a New Orleans Bordello would have freed these noble champions of the oppressed from their delusions.
Likewise the music was there to be analysed; listening to it was merely a tool for the analyst. Over the years I’ve read some hilarious debates about Blind Lemon Jefferson’s varying guitar styles and key changes. Lemon was a street corner musician who often played for white, middle-class patrons as part of their polite entertainment package. He also performed simple parlour tricks. Despite first-hand evidence from a former Black blues partner of Lemon’s, the learned of this earth refused to believe that ‘Matchbox Blues’ was not conceived in accordance with some secret code, known only to Lemon. The plain fact was, Blind Lemon Jefferson was musically illiterate in the formal sense. He could not read printed music. However, he could play what came into his head, a one-time performance, unique, the true sign of genius.
Musical sounds differ from printed shapes of music in much the same was as sculpture does from painting. Both seek to convey a common idea; the presentation sings a different tune. That’s all.
But all this takes nothing away from those great researchers, musicologists, ferreters after obscure facts, writers and renowned word preachers of the jazz and blues world without whose pioneering efforts our knowledge of Jelly Roll Morton, King Oliver, Robert Johnson, Charley Patton, Blind Blake, Paramount records and their roster of blues and primitive hillbilly artists, would be so much poorer. So take a bow Paul Oliver, Samuel Charters, Paul Whelan, Nick Perls, Dean Wardlow, Richard Nevins and all the other members of the so-called ‘Blues Mafia’.
Then there were those mavericks whose prime mission in life was to dig out the original artefacts that underpinned all the knowledge uncovered by the blues authorities, who were themselves record collectors, albeit of a lesser fanatical stripe. Harry Smith, Joe Bussard and Pete Whelan head up this pack. They were the ones who went canvassing door-to-door in the late 40s to early 70s period, retrieving 78s from their original owner and creating their own legends in the process. Robert Crumb can also be numbered among this exclusive band.
Following the square white world’s exposure to black rhythm and beat courtesy of the Rolling Stones and their disciples on both sides of the Atlantic, the above earlier process repeated itself. Even more so given the enhanced victim status afforded to Black Americans following the Civil Rights era. Black music became weaponised as part of the race struggle against Whitey. In keeping with the times, the subtle nuances that conveyed the woes of 1920s blues singers gave way to the aggressive blaring of saxophones and over-amplified electric guitars some 20 years later. By the end of the 1960s black music had become a rallying post for every would-be black revolutionary in the Western world. And the Liberal establishment were openly delighted with this turn of events, this fearsome demonstration of, largely fabricated, black rage. But secretly they were shitting themselves. However, no more needs be said about this.
Mike Leadbitter, Charlie Gillete, Mike Vernon, John Broven, Bill Millar, Jim O’Neil, Ray Topping. These and others like them ploughed a similar furrow in the post-war blues and R’n’B fields. Researchers, writers, record compilers, collectors. Sure, the original artists secretly mocked these enthusiasts, all the while taking the money. All those stories about Robert Johnson still being alive or phantom recording sessions with moonlighting artists that produced records human ears will never hear. Harmless for sure; but how the chasers loved these wild geese!
Dawned the 1970s and, to some of us at least, the flotsam of the last ten years washed up before our very eyes. Serial bandwagon jumpers like Elton John, Rod Stewart, David Bowie, Marc Bolan and their ilk were suddenly elevated to the status of forgotten superstars. Maybe it was the break up of the Beatles; or the Altamont fiasco. Or maybe the time really had come for these former failures to enjoy their limelight time. Myself, all I wanted was to experience again that first time I heard The Birds ‘Leaving Here’.
Once the blues/R’n’B barrel had been well and truly scraped, the rock critics discovered the ‘real underground’ - rockabilly. Written off by Greil Marcus in his book ‘Mystery Train’, as being ‘not much off it’, it seemed the ideal vehicle for the critics pens. In truth European record collectors had been travelling to America since at least 1965 to hunt down those old 45s, many of which were still on the shelves or, in some cases, had not yet been recorded.
When the blues researchers reached out to pick the brains of the rockabilly collectors, they were rudely surprised to find their efforts repulsed. What did they expect? Rockabilly collectors had long cultivated an image of 1950s juvenile delinquency. You got a question?’ ‘Don’t bother me; I got a Cast Iron Arm’. So, some of our disappointed researchers turned their attention to other minority genres, Cajun or example.
When Lenny Kaye put together his ‘Nuggets’ compilation, it received faint, damning compliments from the learned scribblers who contributed to ‘Creem’, ‘Let it Rock’ ‘Zig-Zag’ and the new bible, ‘Rolling Stone’. In their world, the 60s scene had disappeared up the arse of the ‘White Album’. Garage punk was nothing more than second-rate pop dreck. Lester Bangs probably shaped these opinions. A liar for sure, Buckeye!
Help was at hand in the form of Greg Shaw whose contributions to what became known as garage punk are well known to all of us who care for such things. Greg received his due accolades in ‘Teenbeat Mayhem’.
Ultimately, there is Mike Markesich. ‘Eclipse is First. The rest are nowhere’.