Soundgarden 1 Gentlemen, Start Your Amplifiers T HESE days it''s hard to believe there was a time when metal didn''t exist. A staple of the classic-rock stations, it seems like it''s been around forever. For anyone growing up and listening to FM radio in the seventies, it has been. It''s perhaps even harder to imagine that it evolved out of pop and blues; after all, from the Kinks'' "You Really Got Me," (which is arguably the very first metal record, with its singular, pounding riff and manic guitar solo) to Ministry, Helmet, or Megadeth, might seem a remarkably long jump. But if you stop and think about it for a couple of minutes, you''ll realize that in the final analysis, it''s really not so far after all. If there''s one person to blame, really, it''s Jimmy Page. Without him there''d have been no Led Zeppelin, and without the monster that was Zep we might never have had "heavy" music, the stuff that became heavy metal, then just metal, before it shattered like a mirror into a thousand shiny reflections of its origin. Or then again, maybe it was inevitable, simply fated to happen. But without Zep it would have certainly charted a completely different course and become... Well, we''ll never know now, will we? Page was already one of London''s top session guitarists in the mid-sixties (it''s rumored that he was the one who played the solo on that Kinks song) when he was enticed into joining the Yardbirds, initially on bass, then playing joint lead guitar with JeffBeck (who, in turn, had replaced Eric Clapton in the band; they were positively littered with guitar heroes). Because of Beck''s ongoing health problems the lineup only lasted a few months, until November 1966, but it was captured for eternity on celluloid in Michael Antonioni''s quintessential film of those Swinging Sixties, Blow Up. After Beck left the fold, the Yardbirds soldiered on, gradually losing members, until Page--by now the only one left, and not even a founder--was more or less forced to change the name to the New Yardbirds, bringing in John Paul Jones, who, like himself, had been a fairly successful session musician and arranger, on bass and keyboards, then finding singer Robert Plant in a Birmingham group called Hobbstweedle. (He was recommended by another singer, Terry Reid, who was first offered the New Yardbirds gig but turned it down in favor of a solo career.) In turn Plant brought in drummer John Bonham from another Birmingham band. After fulfilling the New Yardbirds'' live commitments in Scandinavia, the name was changed to Led Zeppelin, appropriated from one of Keith Moon''s (The Who) pet comments, and the legend was ready to begin. While people have made a strong case for Jeff Beck''s Truth (1968) as the first "heavy" album, or even Blue Cheer as the first "heavy" band (their only hit single, a blasting cover of Eddie Cochran''s "Summertime Blues," in 1968, admittedly pointed the way), it was Led Zeppelin in 1969 that captured public attention, and record sales. Like Jeff Beck, Page''s grounding and his love was the blues, and he used it to strong effect on the record. But Zeppelin had far more going for them than just being a loud blues band. Blues was their point of departure for places music hadn''t been before, even in those swirling, druggy, psychedelic days. They took all the elements from the past, tipped them upside down, shook them around, and came out with something new, utilizing the studio as another instrument in a way no one had managed before, to bring a rare fullness and depth (a most important factor) to the sound. Page and Plant were the undoubted focus of the band: Page as the new guitar hero, every bit as revered as Seattle native Jimi Hendrix (and, in his own way, equally as innovative and pioneering) ; and Plant, with his flowing, golden hair, bare chest, and piercing voice, a new type of idol, one who appealed to males just as much as females. By the time Led Zeppelin II arrived on the shelves a year later, they were already established as a major concert draw. The album (which topped the charts two months after its release) contained the first of what would become a whole series of Zeppelin classics, a song to which every young guitarist learned the riff (and then tried, usually in vain, to copy the solo)--"Whole Lotta Love." While Page and company might have been the first big name in heavy-metal music, they weren''t the only ones for too long. Hot on their heels came Black Sabbath (also boasting strong Birmingham roots), who managed to be even heavier and louder. With lyrics full of Satanic and black-magic imagery, and played at zombie-like speed, Black Sabbath, in 1970, was a revelation (or a revulsion, depending where you stood) to a generation. Critics hated it. Kids loved it. This music owed little to the blues rock tradition, seeming to come from another [under]world altogether. The music of their Ozzy period was tremendously influential in the genre, and their first four albums remain classics. And then there was Deep Purple, who approached it from an altogether different angle. Starting out as a pop/progressive /pseudo-classical outfit, they had a pair of hits (with songs written by Joe South and Neil Diamond, no less) before releasing organist Jon Lord''s ridiculously pompous Concerto for Group and Orchestra (1970), which straggled in the footsteps of the Nice and all manner of other bands with hifalutin aspirations. It didn''t sell, so on their next album, Deep Purple in Rock, later that same year, they took another, more direct tack--louder and heavier, with the emphasis on Ritchie Blackmore''s guitar solos and Ian Gillan''s screaming. With new songs like "Speed King"and "Child in Time," it all came together, and the band became a major force on the scene, at least for a while. Across the Atlantic the amps were also getting cranked up to 10. Vanilla Fudge had scored a major hit with an extended, overwrought version of the Supremes'' "You Keep Me Hangin'' On," and in fact had headlined over Led Zeppelin on the latter''s first American tour. However, following a decidedly half-baked second album--which included one twelve-minute opus purporting to contain the entire history of music!--they were off down the slippery slope to oblivion. While no one considered them part of the fraternity at the time, hindsight has cast the Stooges and the MC5 as primal punk-and-metal bands. Although their following was small while they existed, both groups have proved to be tremendously influential across two decades, to metalheads and punks alike. Neither was especially proficient, but they had a crude energy that could ignite a performance--especially when Stooges frontman Iggy Stooge (soon to become Iggy Pop) lost control, as he all-too-frequently did, cutting himself with broken glass, smearing himself with peanut butter, or getting beaten up by the audience. It was the people''s music... and power to the people (right on). The MC5 were unabashedly political, allied to the White Panther movement, and had a touching, genuine belief that rock ''n'' roll really could change the world (which was not uncommon in those heady days)--an attitude which more or less assured them low record sales (in spite of some glowing reviews) and only a brief moment in the spotlight, although "Kick Out the Jams" has proved to be an enduring anthem, even if it''s strayed far from its original anarchistic intention over the years. The Stooges managed to last longer, mostly through the intervention of David Bowie, who produced their "comeback" album, Raw Power, in 1973, as well as giving Iggy a strong push at the start of his solo career in the mid-seventies. Next on the block was the band that was reviled by everywriter in America, and loved by almost every long-haired teenage boy--Grand Funk Railroad. Over the course of their first two years the trio from Michigan racked up an astonishing five gold LPs, and in 1970 reportedly sold more records than any group in America. On the road continually, they played a very basic form of blues rock utterly without finesse or charm. But something in there caught the collective imagination, making them very popular, and very rich, for over half a decade. Then who could forget Alice Cooper? He did everything possible to make sure his name stuck in your mind. The "master of shock rock" might have taken a lot of his theatrical schtick from space rocker Arthur Brown, but in the end he reached a lot more people than his inspiration. Born with the rather ordinary moniker of Vincent Furnier, he was taken up by that aficionado of the twisted joke, Frank Zappa, who released Alice''s first album, Pretties for You, on his Straight label in 1969. From there it was full speed on the road to the charts, with a string of hit singles--"Eighteen," "School''s Out," "Elected," "Hello, Hooray," and "No More Mr. Nice Guy"--while his stage act became more and more gruesome, going from the relatively innocuous decapitation of baby dolls, to elaborately baroque mock hangings. And by 1994, Alice, who was still recording, although long without the ubiquitous Budweiser in hand, was laying down two tracks for his new album which had been penned by Chris Cornell, a perfect example of metal coming full circle and the sons giving back to the fathers. The other major veterans of the era were Aerosmith, who in the early seventies were still very much a regional band, based in Boston and playing throughout New England. They signed to Columbia in 1973 and released Aerosmith the same year, although real success stayed at arm''s length until 1976, with the charting of the "Dream On" single (number 6) from Toys in the Attic.
