This past February, the chitlin circuit became a little less funky when one of its greatest performers died following complications from pneumonia. Marvin Sease, a native of Blackville, South Carolina, was 64 years old and only eight days short of his 65th birthday when he passed. He was originally a gospel singer and as is the case with many southern gospel singers, he made his way into secular R&B music. In 1986, Marvin Sease released his self-titled album which included the tune that would become his trademark for the remainder of his days, “Candy Licker”.

From that point on, Marvin Sease built a career and a cult following based on his racy and raunchy songs. He never saw even a portion of the mainstream success that some of his peers did. Johnnie Taylor, Tyrone Davis, and to a lesser extent, Bobby Rush all come to mind. Perhaps that’s something to be expected here though. With songs like “The Power of Coochie”, “Rather Be Licked”, “The Bitch Git It All”, and “I Ate The Whole Thang”, chances of getting radio play would have to be slim to none.

When it comes to legends in rock ‘n roll, the Band seemed to have left its mark in so many different genres and on so many influential musicians that it’s hard to keep track. Raised on the road by Ronnie Hawkins and later battered into shape by touring with Dylan during his conversion to electricity, the Band went on to influence everyone from George Harrison to Neil Young to and Eric Clapton (in fact, the Band may have been one of the factors for getting Clapton out of Cream), and has since served as a template for the resurrected Americana movements of the last decade. 

From a critical standpoint, the group first managed to wow critics and fans with their debut homemade masterpiece Music From Big Pink (1968) and its return to simple, stripped-down songs and arrangements. However, it would be the Band’s self-titled sophomore record from 1969 (sometimes known as “The Brown Album”) which would catapult it into a stratosphere of commercial success.

This week sees the British DVD release of Upside Down, a documentary tackling the history of seminal UK indie label Creation Records, which was extant from 1983 until 1999.  Primarily dedicated to propagating 1960s-influenced alternative rock of all sorts and permutations, Creation was a collision of rockist traditionalism, hyperbolic bravado, and influential innovation, responsible for bringing the likes of the Jesus and Mary Chain, Primal Scream, My Bloody Valentine, Ride, Oasis, and Super Furry Animals to the world at large.

Of all Creation’s myriad releases, it’s Ride’s 1990 debut Nowhere that I adore the most.  Yes, Oasis’ first two albums are more tuneful, and My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless is a visionary work by an uncompromising musical auteur, but it’s Nowhere that touches me like no other record in the Creation back catalog. Long held as the second-best band in the shoegaze genre (after My Bloody Valentine) and the second-best band from Oxford, England (after Radiohead), Ride has never really gotten its proper due.  As such, I held hope that the 20th anniversary deluxe reissue of its first album this year (yes, the record actually came out 21 years ago—don’t ask) would go a ways towards drawing attention and accolades to the dreamy melodic charms of the disbanded foursome’s music.

Sammy Hagar seldom disappoints. When I heard he was tapped to replace ass-clown extraordinaire David Lee Roth in 1985, I anticipated uninspiring results. I was correct (your mileage may vary). And when I saw there were “tell-all” excerpts from his new book in the latest Rolling Stone, I figured there would be some avert-your-eyes ugliness. I was correct.

Look: it’s obvious that Hagar is a good businessman. The dude has made tens of millions from his own brand of tequila. Who knows how much coin he has pocketed from the Van Hagar albums and the recent tours? His book will sell plenty of copies and who can hassle that? The question could be begged: why would a very wealthy dude take the time to write a book detailing the degeneracy of his former bandmate? To make money, obviously. Of course, he also has a tale to tell, particularly as he may want to set the record straight regarding his involvement in the band (and the on-again/off-again status of the various redux reunions). It is a poorly-kept secret that Eddie Van Halen is difficult to get along with, and who could blame Hagar for wanting to put his imprint on the permanent record?

(Breaking news, real-time edit: he is now claiming he was abducted by aliens! And here I was, just praising his business acumen. Holy “let me learn from Charlie Sheen and up the ante to move more product”, Batman!)

The parts of the book that focus on pre-and-post Van Halen life will probably appeal only to the most ardent Hagar fans (are there ardent Hagar fans? Anyone whose life has been missing the inside scoop of the Montrose years or an elaboration on why he can’t drive 55?). And yet, whatever its literary merits, it may ultimately become a useful historical document. Since the semi-reclusive Eddie Van Halen is less than likely to ever write an autobiography, this may be the closest eye-witness account we’ll ever get from someone who lived through it—not necessarily the good but definitely the bad and most definitely the ugly, of which more shortly. Not necessarily the studio antics that produced OU812 or F.U.C.K., but rather some explanation (or evidence) for why exactly Eddie Van Halen went from being one of the best guitarists of his generation to the punch-drunk burnout he’s become.

Keith Relf.

Who? Exactly.

Quite possibly the best vocalist you’ve never heard of, you still have heard him if you are passingly familiar with rock music. Trust me. He was the voice of the Yardbirds.

Who?

Come on. You know, that semi-influential band that gave birth to the holy trinity of English guitarists. In order: Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, and Jimmy Page. Any questions?