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HIDDEN GEMS

Hidden Gems: Captain Beefheart’s “Unconditionally Guaranteed”

Each week, we take a look at some obscure or overlooked entries in the catalogs of music’s big names. MAGNET’s Bryan Bierman focuses on an album that, for whatever reason, slipped through the cracks in favor of its more popular siblings. Whether it’s new to you or just needs a revisit, we’ll highlight the Hidden Gems that reveal the bigger picture of our favorite artists.

It’s hard for anyone in the music business to make a living, but it was especially hard being in the Magic Band. Don Van Vliet (a.k.a. Captain Beefheart) was always more of a sculptor then a musician, even as a child, when he would spend hours making clay elephants in his room. This approach was how he created most of his music, by “sculpting” band members who would decipher his grand ideas and limited musical ability into the compositions that changed the fabric of music (and, possibly, space and time). This shouldn’t belittle the Captain’s genius songwriting (because no one could write music like he did), but it should give more emphasis to the talent and contributions of the Magic Band.

Instead, Beefheart drove them to tears with insults, beat them, pushed them down steps, took away their food and deprived them of sleep. Then, he would tell interviewers fantastic lies, including that he wrote the entire Trout Mask Replica album note-for-note in eight hours. (For followers of the Beefheart legend, this author included, that might be hard to accept. No one wants to hear vilifying things about their idol—it’s akin to learning your dad clubbed seals to pay for your first bike—but it is the truth.) For the members that stayed, there can only be one explanation why—it’s hard to leave one of the best bands in the world.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBxt9jbNjS0

It had to be hard on the good Captain, as well. He had spent the past eight years creating some of the most brilliant and original rock music ever made, before or since. For people that came in contact with his music, it was either the worst shit they’d ever heard or the work of an absolute genius; there was little in between. He didn’t make any money, because combined with his habit of signing any contract that was placed in front of him, the music was so challenging that not many copies were sold. It was high art, yes, but sometimes, that don’t pay the bills. Van Vliet and the rest of the group were living on food stamps, loans from the parents of band members and what little money they made from touring for the better part of ’72 and ’73. Although it’s nice to be called a genius, it’s even nicer to have a hot meal.

So in late 1973, the Magic Band secured a deal with Mercury Records, along with what it perceived as its “big break.” With the deal came new management, Andy and Auggie DiMartino, two brothers who persuaded Beefheart into making more commercial music with the promise that it would make him a huge star. But the group had tried before, and it didn’t work. When the Magic Band gave the audience “something to hold their hat on” by making more accessible, though nonetheless great, records like 1972’s The Spotlight Kid and Clear Spot, it still remained a niche market. So why would it be any different now? The answer the band was fed was the clichéd record-company sleaze, blaming the producer, the marketing and the distribution. Unfortunately, Beefheart ate it up.

For most in the rock business, compromising one’s art for the sake of money would be looked upon as pure greed, but it’s hard to fault the man, at least too much. As Lester Bangs put it, “No matter how brilliant you and your limited circle of fans know you are, it’s never going to matter as much as it should if it’s not universal enough to be relatable to people who don’t want to be bothered with something that doesn’t hit them over the head and get their gonads right away.” Plus, if writing some love songs is making a deal with the devil, then you’re getting off easy. At least, it seemed like it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDCHSI2KnAA

Sessions began for a new album in early ’74, the Magic Band consisting of vets: guitarist Zoot Horn Rollo (a.k.a. Bill Harkleroad), drummer Ed Marimba (a.k.a. Art Tripp), rhythm guitarist Alex St. Claire and bassist Rockette Morton (a.k.a. Mark Boston). Two new members were added, as well: Mark Marcellino (keyboards) and Del Simmons (woodwinds). Andy DiMartino produced the record, and along with Beefheart and wife Jan, received co-writing credit on the entire album. In an interview, Beefheart explained, “I’ve never had a producer, really, until now.” This isn’t entirely true, however. He did have producers before, but they mostly stayed out of the group’s way (save for the remixing of Strictly Personal). It was a formula that had worked every time, and the reason why all of those albums are so fantastic and beloved—it’s the band doing its thing. This time, it was different.

DiMartino pushed Beefheart into writing more ballads and love songs for the record, which he had done previously, from “I’m Glad” to “Her Eyes Are A Blue Million Miles,” both of which are classics. These songs were love letters to Jan, including the gorgeous “This Is The Day,” and “Lazy Music,” one of the great unknown songs in his catalog. His softer side is partly the reason for the album’s unfair lackluster legacy, but that’s more the audience’s fault than his. They weren’t experimental free-jazz jams; they were simple pop songs. But you can’t always sing about “Dachau Blues” and “Flash Gordon’s Ape”; the man had a heart, too.

When the mixing of Unconditionally Guaranteed was finished, the band hated the final product. In an interview, Tripp claimed, “We were horrified. As we listened, it was as though each song was worse than the one which preceded it. The mixing was terrible, and all you could hear was the voice. We were speechless.” During rehearsals for the upcoming tour soon after, the entire band, except for Simmons, quit. Others, including replacement keyboardist Michael Smotherman, claim they were fired. Though there’s probably some truthiness in both versions, one thing was clear: The classic lineup of the Magic Band was no more.

The DiMartino brothers quickly replaced the band with members of obscure soft-rockers Buckwheat, who had to learn the repertoire in a short amount of time. So this was Beefheart’s big break—touring with a band that had no idea who he was, let only his music. With this group, Beefheart recorded mostly terrible follow-up Bluejeans & Moonbeams; fans who longed for the classic lineup started calling them the Tragic Band. The name stuck, and so did the legacy.

By all accounts, the experiment failed. Unconditionally Guaranteed didn’t attract a new audience, and even worse, it alienated the audience that was there. With a few fantastic exceptions, the album was mostly dreck, though not nearly as bad as some claim. The Captain gave it a shot, and it didn’t work. But this wasn’t lost on him. That’s why, a year later, he called the record “horrible and vulgar.” That’s why its cover is Beefheart holding fistfuls of money. That’s why in “Upon The My-O-My,” the opener, not to mention one of his best songs, he growls “Now tell me, good captain, how does it feel?/To be driven away from your own steering wheel.” He sold himself, his band members and his audience out to try to hit it big. But in a few years, he went back to doing it his way, and his fans, and himself, were happier for it.

One reply on “Hidden Gems: Captain Beefheart’s “Unconditionally Guaranteed””

Thanks for a long overdue explanation of this (not terrible) album. Seems like its taken much time for Beefheart’s (perfectly rational, if maybe misdirected) motivation here to get its due. For Christ’s sake, the guy had to work, just like countless infinitely less talented acts. God bless him.

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