This bizarre, Alan Lorber-produced psychedelic album appeared originally in 1969 on Boston Sound. Bobby Callendar was an incredibly gifted poet and lyricist whose complex texts could only be compared to Scott Walker; the concepts of a U.K. artist of Indian heritage post-psychedelia were augmented by the lush arrangements of Paul Harris and Bob Gallo. The cast of musicians on this album included some of the highest-caliber sidemen of the time, most notably Richard Davis, the master bassist of Van Morrison's Astral weeks fame (not to mention a jazz musician in his own right), the guitars of Eric Gale and Hugh McCracken, and the astonishingly subtle Burnard Purdie on drums. The album is a rich and complex exploration of Eastern-inspired psychedelic rock and folk centered on the incredibly complex texts and vocals of Bobby Callendar. When reading the lyric sheet, it is most astonishing how such elaborate poetic evocations were somehow made to fit popular song forms. Sure, at these highly conscious times of the late '60s it was not uncommon for deeply poetic, socially conscious, or hallucinogenic themes to appear in the lyrics of pop music, yet this is album is absolutely brilliant for being one of the most ostentatious animations of the written word, yet absolutely vital and musical throughout. Fans of Scott Walker's solo material, Colin Blundstone, and Duncan Browne should give this album a few hours -- if not a week -- of their attention. This excellent Italian reissue from Akarma is packaged and remastered exquisitely.
Musee de l'Impressionisme - 1971
Saying Robert Callender's reputation was obscure even in the world of psychedelic collectors was understating the case, but even so his first two albums and occasional singles had been circulating around well enough. Turns out that he had a third and final one that had only been released in the Netherlands in 1971, and as a prime example of how the vinyl album format became the repository of all sorts of insane ideas during that decade, Le Musee de l'Impressionisme not only takes the cake, but probably spikes it. Fallout's liner notes for the 2006 reissue (which has some inaccurate track divisions on the CD, it should be noted) use the words "grandiose folly" and there's not much more to immediately add to that -- it's ridiculous, but in a compellingly bizarre way. When you hear Callender begin the album with "Nadars (The Baptism of Impressionism)" -- a five-minute history lesson on the birth of the artistic school in question, with brassy backing singers, horns, and a general arrangement of post-Otis Redding Southern soul/funk of sorts as redone by '70s Elvis -- then it's unclear whether the nearest point of comparison is Schoolhouse Rock or Monty Python. If it was just that, maybe the album would have recovered, but Callender -- writing all the music as well as the words, producing everything, co-writing the arrangements -- was out to live his dream. Dancing rapidly between fragmentary short pieces and "interludes" and a variety of French language performances, Callender creates something which feels, in retrospect, like a Euro-porn film scored by mid-period Stereolab jamming with Santana's rhythm section with a Quaalude-laden Tom Jones on vocals. There's all kinds of funky jamming and gasps and Sly Stone moves, even while Callender is painstakingly trying to sing the stories of Van Gogh, Gauguin and, to quote one memorable title, "Claude Monet (A Visionary of Time and Space and the Light)." It is, if nothing else, unique -- but not worth hearing more than once.