HIDDEN GEMS

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.

“I’ll tell you about ‘punk rock’—‘punk rock’ is a word used by dilettantes and heartless manipulators, about music that takes up the energies, and the bodies, and the hearts, and the souls, and the time, and the minds of young men, who give what they have to it, and give everything they have to it. And it’s a term that’s based on contempt; it’s a term that’s based on fashion, style, elitism, Satanism and everything that’s rotten about rock ‘n’ roll. I don’t know Johnny Rotten, but I’m sure he puts as much blood and sweat into what he does as Sigmund Freud did.” —Iggy Pop, 1977

I was going to start this piece by warning that it has a sad ending. I would have explained that it’s the story of two of rock history’s most innovative, engaging and important groups; two groups that never set out to do anything else but voice their opinions and have fun in the process. It would go on to state that these two bands seemingly put their music ahead of all else, which would warrant the title of “true artists.” But I would again remind the readers that this story has a sad ending.

In fact, I wrote most of the article like that. Though I was coming from the right place, the result was boring and saccharine. I tried to be a “real writer” by being self-important, but when I read it back, this was extremely obvious. So I scrapped it all at the last minute.

I deeply revere all the artists that I cover for Hidden Gems, but I especially wanted to do a good job on this one. That’s because this story involves Black Flag and the Minutemen, two bands that had a disparate sound (even if it did branch from the same place), but shared similar ideals. Two bands that all together made up a ragtag bunch of goofy misfits—“fucking corndogs”—who shared a label, a van and the belief that anyone could and should brave the bullshit to express themselves. The music they made and the groundwork they laid is the reason why so many people of my generation have a venue to showcase their thoughts—be it bands, painters, filmmakers, or even schlubs like me who get to write about what they love. “Our band could be your life … ”

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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.

Instead of writing about neglected albums every week, I could just as easily use this column to rap about things I don’t understand. (Of course, Hidden Gems’ modest readership would plummet tremendously, and rightly so.) Here’s one for you: For some reason, Hall & Oates are not only popular again, but over the past five years or so, they have been appreciated by a new generation of audiences. But why? Let me preface this by explaining that this is in no way a dig at the duo; I’m a giant H&O fan. My confusion lies in the fact that although Hall & Oates are the biggest selling duo in the history of popular music, for many years, their legacy outside of the mainstream was one that was filled with great disdain.If you went back in time to the early ‘90s to ask grunge fans who they thought was the least cool band of all time, chances are Hall & Oates would be a common response. (Also, what a supreme waste of time machine usage, dude.) To many creators and fans of “real music,” the group was seen as schmaltzy corporate-rock whores who made corny songs/videos and had even worse facial hair.

So why the recent change? Whoever decides what things are cool now would be the best place to find an explanation, but I’m certainly not one of them. I don’t have the answer, so I can only theorize that it’s a mixture of these three things:

1. Time/Ingrained Nostalgia. As the years goes by, what’s considered “classic rock” or “oldies” naturally begins to take a different shape. People who came of age in the early-to-mid-’80s have since had kids, and these children have been growing up in the vicinity of what their parents listened to. Presently, many teenagers and people in their early 20s (including members of new bands) have developed a fondness for Hall & Oates’ music, since they’ve grown up hearing it. (It’s also our parents’ fault that young, drunk girls know about “Don’t Stop Believin’”—something else we can blame on them.)

2. Irony? Let’s face it, Hall & Oates aren’t cool, but in a lot of people’s eyes, that’s what makes them cool, because of irony or something. Not gonna lie, I’m not entirely sure how this works either, but like Justice Stewart, I know it when I see it. (As with most things, The Simpsons explains this perfectly.) For example, a few years ago,The Cool Powers That Be decided that canning/preserving food is the hip thing to do, even though it’s an incredibly uncool hobby that was seemingly picked at random—comparatively, food canning makes yo-yo’s look like Iggy Fucking Pop. [The views expressed on canning in this article do not necessarily reflect the opinions of MAGNET or its employees. —Ed.]

3. The Music. New fans might have first heard “Private Eyes” or “Rich Girl” from their parents, and maybe there’s a small percentage of Hall & Oates’ fans who do like them to look cool (or uncool?), but it would be very cynical to not give most of the credit to their music. Try as you may, it’s hard to ignore the pure pop brilliance of “I Can’t Go for That” or “Kiss On My List” without getting hooked. The band churned out earworms better than almost anybody, especially during their remarkable hot streak in the early ‘80s—you don’t sell massive copies of decades old albums for any other reason.

The bad part about retroactively gaining a new audience is that new fans might automatically gravitate toward getting a best-of collection or download a few of their hits, especially with a single-heavy group like Hall & Oates; for a large amount of these folks, this might be the only amount of the band’s output that they’ll ever hear. As is the case of most artists, a greatest-hits collection can only give you a small portion of what the band can do, and with H&O’s large discography, much of their most interesting music will be passed over. Although the perception of the duo is that they were the ultimate radio-friendly unit, Hall & Oates were actually more experimental than people give them credit for. Case in point—their third album, 1974’s War Babies. Although it had no hit singles and was dismissed by much of their fan base, War Babies is a strange and fascinating look at their early expanding sound.

After the disappointing sales of folky debut Whole Oats and the slow-burning soul of Abandoned Luncheonette, Philly natives Daryl Hall and John Oates began work on their follow-up. With growing pressure from their label, Atlantic Records, they were frustrated with their lack of a hit song. (Ironically, they had already written one; “She’s Gone” appeared on Abandoned Luncheonette and was released as a single, though it didn’t become a mega-success until it was re-released in ‘76.) Instead of swinging for the fences once again, their third album would be a vast departure. Their first two records had already utilized a wide-range of styles, but the guys had an even harsher left turn planned, facilitated by multi-talented solo artist/producer Todd Rundgren.

For all the parties involved, War Babies was a unique work—a loose concept album about the perils of touring, as well as a look at the struggles of the baby-boomer generation. Hall and Oates had recently moved to New York City, as had Rundgren, so the frantic noise of their new home inspired the record a great deal. Hall, who wrote the bulk of the LP, found some wild, new influences from the likes of King Crimson and David Bowie’s recently released Diamond Dogs. Much of the musicians used on the record were members of Rundgren’s newly formed Utopia, including the guitar work of Todd himself. And even though most of the songs had already been written by Hall & Oates, Rundgren always manages to leave his imprint, and his musical and production influence are a major factor as a result.

The album opens with “Can’t Stop The Music,” Oates’ only solo credit on the record. Inspired by his disillusion with touring, his lead vocal portrays the life of an aging, senile rock star who has forgotten much about his heyday, detailed in the repeating hook, “And he can’t stop the music or remember the ending to his song/He played it much too long.” It’s a perfect example of the irresistibly catchy songwriting skills that pervade the duo’s work, enough to make you wonder why this wasn’t a hit, in and of itself. (The same could be said about several other songs on the album, especially “Better Watch Your Back.”) Although Hall was the more experimental member, Oates’ melodic touches could add sugariness wherever it was needed. For an album that Hall later claimed was his first solo work, it’s Oates who walks away with one of its best moments. (The tune fades into “Is It A Star” using an echoed drum machine, the first use of an instrument that would later become a foundation of their sound.)

In Paul Myers’ 2010 book A Wizard, A True Star: Todd Rundgren In The Studio, Rundgren calls “War Baby Son Of Zorro,” the “centerpiece” to the album, and the epitome of its sound: “There was no intention, at all, of making anything resembling a pop song; this was high-concept music at this point.” Over distorted guitars, deep synth tracks and television sound effects, Hall attempted to create what Myers calls a “musical collage of their shared memories of childhood in ‘50s Cold War America.” Even though they were only kids, baby boomers had already “been through momma, the Bomb and ‘Nam,” giant events they had no control over. The group’s harmonies vary from sweet to manic over Rundgren’s dense production, which is simultaneously sad and unhinged (“He’s a scared baby, afraid of a plane/Hid under his desk in a hundred air raids/Dug in dirt, watched Wyatt Earp, in the atomic age”).

A few years back, I fumbled around on the car radio when I came across a funky and prog-ish instrumental tune being played by a local radio station in Philly, WXPN. I instantly enjoyed it, but had no idea who the artist was; it was my first interaction with War Babies, and I didn’t even know it. I was very shocked to learn that it was Hall & Oates, and I hunted down the record immediately. The song was “Screaming Through December,” the album’s longest track, and possibly the most radical departure for the group, before or since. Although the tune is bookended by a very strange, psychedelically warped description of life on the road by Hall, the large breakdown in the middle section is its highlight, held down by Utopia bassist John Siegler, future Utopia drummer Willie Wilcox and guitar work from Rundgren.For fans that are only familiar with “Maneater,” it’s definitely a trip.

War Babies was released in November ’74, and despite becoming Hall & Oates’ first Billboard charting album (number 86), Atlantic dropped the group soon after. Amidst the shakeup, the label, angry fans, even the band’s manager (future Sony head Tommy Mottola) wrongly blamed Rundgren for what they perceived as the album’s artistic and commercial failure. Almost immediately, Hall & Oates would sign to RCA and release their self-titled 1975 album, which featured massive hit “Sara Smile.” Although they toned down their weirdness for their subsequent works, War Babies is a unique highlight for the duo, and a weird detour on their road to master pop music.

Bryan Bierman is a freelance writer in Philadelphia. He’s very quiet and enjoys puzzles. You can e-mail him here.

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.

In November 2011, the four original members of Black Sabbath—Ozzy Osbourne, Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward—announced plans for a reunion tour, along with a new studio album. It would be the first time the four regrouped since the late-‘90s (with two previous one-off performances before it: Ozzy’s “retirement” concert in ’92 and 1985’s Live Aid.) However, the proposed reunion hit two significant stumbling blocks in 2012. Firstly, drummer Ward could not agree on what he called a “signable contract” that “reflects some dignity and respect toward [him] as an original member of the band.” Ward was originally a part of the reunited Ronnie James Dio lineup of Sabbath—renamed Heaven & Hell—but left that project in 2006, citing musical differences. Also in 2012, guitarist Iommi was diagnosed with lymphoma, which halted preparations for the album and concerts, though they plan to continue eventually. (While Iommi is recovering, Osbourne will tour with various musicians, including Butler at several shows, as “Ozzy And Friends.”)

With all these setbacks, one might wonder if it’s worth it. To be frank, 1998’s Reunion live album was solid at best, and old age is historically unkind to most bands, as it has been to Ozzy’s voice. (Sorry, but it’s true.) Black Sabbath has had a notorious amount of lineup changes, quittings, firings, health problems, drug problems and even deaths, with Dio’s passing in 2010 to stomach cancer. So, although none of this drama is anything new, is it really worth it? Can the band create something that will be nearly half as good as it once was? The odds are certainly stacked against ‘em, but keep in mind that they’ve done it before, particularly with the Ozzy lineup’s final album in 1978. If anything, the group’s resilience is commendable, and like the name of that last record, it appears that Black Sabbath will—here it comes—Never Say Die! (Apologies all around.)

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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.

Supergroups are one of rock music’s most frustrating entities. On paper, gathering up several big stars to collaborate might look good, but the results are rarely spectacular; for every Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young or Derek And The Dominos, there’s at least a dozen SuperHeavys. When a supergroup forms, there are definitely high, oftentimes impossible, expectations from the fan base, not to mention the tremendous amount of ego of its participants, which can easily soil the work. There’s sometimes a sense of quasi-perverseness in the eyes of the band members, whether it’s “everything we do is gold” or “we could try harder, but people will buy this no matter what.” (Although the results turned out to be pretty solid, Them Crooked Vultures—consisting of Queens Of The Stone Age’s Josh Homme, Nirvana/Foo Fighters’ Dave Grohl and Led Zeppelin’s John Paul Jones—were selling T-shirts and concert tickets hand over fist before they even premiered a full song.)

One supergroup dealt with these tropes and did the opposite (at least somewhat). Instead of several giant superstars, the June 1, 1974 band featured a handful of cult musicians in a sold out concert at London’s Rainbow Theatre. Heading the group was Kevin Ayers, a founding member of Canterbury avant-psych rockers Soft Machine, who had by then gone solo. The show’s quote, unquote “leader” was Brian Eno, the former keyboardist for Roxy Music, just off the release of his first solo album (and masterpiece) Here Come The Warm Jets. The other two names were John Cale and Nico, two brilliant artists who were both ex-members of the Velvet Underground, a band whose legend and influence was finally being crystalized in 1974, even though they were finished. The backing musicians featured even more cult heroes, including Mike Oldfield (of Tubular Bells fame), John “Rabbit” Bundrick (rock journeyman and future keyboardist for the Who) and Robert Wyatt (the now solo, ex-drummer for Soft Machine, who was paralyzed from the waist down in a fall exactly one year earlier.)

The idea for the performance was spearheaded by Richard Williams, A&R man for Island Records, who had helped sign several of the artists. Island was originally a strictly reggae label based in Jamaica, but starting in the late ‘60s, had started to release all kinds of music, especially artists of a more experimental nature. Though the critics lauded Island’s output, much of it didn’t sell very well, so while the concert was, in part, a unique artistic endeavor, there was a business element, too. As Cale explained in a 1974 press release for his upcoming solo album, “They had all these cult people on the label. The idea was that if you put them all together you might sell enough to justify their presence.”

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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.

The Beastie Boys have always been a punk band. Though they’re primarily known for their hip-hop output, the group started out in the early hardcore days of New York City. What began as a joke among a few friends from various bands culminated in the first Beastie Boys EP, 1982’s Polly Wog Stew, featuring Adam Yauch on bass, Michael Diamond on vocals, guitarist John Berry and drummer Kate Schellenbach. After Berry left shortly thereafter, 16-year-old acquaintance Adam Horovitz took his place, and their next release would begin their road to hip hop. 1983 single “Cooky Puss,” featuring a prank call to a local Carvel Ice Cream backed by a funky beat, became an underground dance hit, although it also began as a joke. (This will be a common theme throughout their career.) Signing to the upstart Def Jam Records in 1984, the Beasties began making rap music that simultaneously celebrated and poked fun at the young genre, though they would do so without Schellenbach, who had since left. After the release of 1986 classic Licensed To Ill, the three MCs—now Ad-Rock, Mike D and MCA—were superstars, taking rap places it had never dreamed of going, especially white suburbia. They matured and experimented on each subsequent release, blending sounds and lyrical references hip hop had never seen, keeping their humor while growing in popularity. Even though it was a different rhythm, the Beastie Boys have always followed the creed made famous by the Minutemen: “Punk is whatever we made it to be.”

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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.

Part one in our two-part look at Paul McCartney’s 1980 solo album, McCartney II. Come back next Thursday for part two.

The old stereotype of the Beatles goes something like this: John was the “smart one,” Paul was the “cute one,” George was the “quiet one,” and Ringo was the “funny one.” Though all of these are true, you could easily swap the adjectives around, pin them on any of the four and they would still make as much sense. The Beatles were the Beatles; they were too amazing to tie down that easily. Many view John Lennon as the most experimental of the four, bringing the pathos and avant-garde tendencies that helped pen “Tomorrow Never Knows” and “Revolution 9,” but all four were pretty out there. George Harrison broke new ground by adding Indian instruments and structures to the group, as well as fiddling with new technologies on his 1969 solo album, Electronic Sound. Ringo Starr added his permanent love of country ‘n’ western music, reflected on “Don’t Pass Me By,” their cover of “Act Naturally” and exclusively on his 1970 solo album, Beaucoups Of Blues.

Over the years, Paul McCartney has been seen as the sensitive balladeer and the most light-hearted of the bunch. (This was hilariously parodied in Jack Black’s over-the-top portrayal in Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, where he complains to Lennon, “I’m sick of you being so dark, when I’m so impish and whimsical!”) And while this Paul appears on “I’ll Follow The Sun” and “Honey Pie,” this is the same man who also wrote the unhinged, proto-metal “Helter Skelter,” and the game changing concept behind Sgt. Pepper. (He was also behind musique concrète freak-out “Carnival Of Light,” a legendary, still-unreleased Beatles tune from ’67.) Even now, as a grandpa with a new album of jazz standards, he still occasionally shows off his experimental side, like the crazed Oobu Joobu radio shows or his electronic work as the Firemen.

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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.

“I’d like to clean you boys up a bit and mold you. I believe I could make you as big as the Turtles.” —‘A Noted L.A. Disc Jockey’ to the Mothers Of Invention, as quoted in Freak Out!’s liner notes

In late 1969, Frank Zappa disbanded the nine-piece Mothers Of Invention, citing financial strains, lack of effort from band members, audience reaction and creative boredom. In the three years prior, the group had pushed the boundaries of rock music further than almost anyone. What began as a blues/R&B combo had blended difficult jazz rhythms, warped juvenile humor, a love/hate relationship with pop music and unlikely instruments; the Mothers Of Invention were equally inspired by Howlin’ Wolf as they were Stravinsky, helping them reach new levels of the avant-garde. Zappa trained his band like an orchestra and even played with some, proving that rock ‘n’ roll was every bit as legitimate an art form as classical music, though in their unpretentious, addictively entertaining way.At the height of the “flower power” era, the band was outspokenly anti-drug, criticizing the hippie movement for the fad it was, but was symmetrically harsh toward the conservative stiffs who ran the country. They were too weird to fit in anywhere; exactly where they wanted to be.

After splitting up the group, the notoriously hard-working Zappa founded his own record label, produced a wide variety of artists, continued work of the never released Uncle Meat film, as well as issuing three more albums: Hot Rats, Burnt Weeny Sandwich and Weasels Ripped My Flesh. In early 1970, he was approached by Zubin Mehta and the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra to perform some of his classical works. As he had tons of unplayed orchestral music written, Zappa was excited, although he soon found out it was not the experience he had hoped. As it turned out, the orchestra was only interested in performing with a rock group to boost young enthusiasm (and ticket sales), plus Zappa had to put up the money to print the scores. Since he was without a band, a new one-off lineup was formed and went out on a short tour to quickly prepare for the L.A. show. To make things worse, the Musicians’ Union would not allow Zappa to record the show (even though it would be for personal reference and not for commercial purposes).

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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.

There’s a mantra that appears throughout De La Soul’s Buhloone Mindstate: “It might blow up, but it won’t go pop.” Like many of the trio’s best lyrics, there are a number of ways to interpret this. At its simplest, the line echoes the album’s title; digging deeper, the threesome could be promising that no matter their amount of success, they won’t “go pop” or change their sound for anyone, especially the mainstream. On a more personal level, one could read this as a statement of defiance, telling the world that De La will never break up, in spite of whatever comes its way. There’s no one answer, in fact; there’s probably truth in each of these readings and maybe even more—but as the album warns, there’s always a “stickabush” threatening to deflate you.

By the time of the album’s release in 1993, Posdnuos, Maseo and Trugoy had already had a wild and successful career. Barely out of high school, the Long Island, N.Y., trio hooked up with producer Prince Paul to help record its first album, 3 Feet High And Rising. Released in ’89, the group’s colorful beats, along with the smart and often humorous wordplay, struck a chord with listeners searching for an alternative to the up-and-coming gangsta-rap phenomenon. Exploding to success with hit single “Me, Myself & I,” De La Soul was hailed as an innovator by the music press, and the hopeful positivity of the trio’s so-called “D.A.I.S.Y. Age” (short for “Da Inner Sound, Y’all”) was seemingly in full effect. However, after feeling dissed by a large portion of the hip-hop community, as well as the music press and media, which constantly referred to the group as “hippies,” much to its dismay, De La Soul made one of the boldest moves in rap history by proclaiming its death.

Released two years later, De La Soul Is Dead defied everyone’s expectations by giving nobody what they thought they wanted. With a cover depicting a subtextual broken pot of daisies, it was clear that this was a different side of the group; fans of 3 Feet High were surprised by the follow-up’s sometimes stark nature, and the group’s critics were jarred to hear the alleged “hip-hop hippies” confront them on wax. Though there are still upbeat moments that highlight the group’s unshakable integrity and playfulness (“Ring Ring Ring,” “A Roller Skating Jam Named ‘Saturdays’”), they were lodged next to much darker fare like “Millie Pulled A Pistol On Santa,” a disturbing tale of a teenage girl who murders her father, a department store Santa Claus, who had sexually molested her. Regardless of its heady content, the album sold well, though not reaching 3 Feet High And Rising levels. De La Soul Is Dead is not only widely considered the group’s high point, but it’s now regarded as one of the greatest hip-hop albums of all time.

De La refused to be pigeonholed; by “dying,” the band proved that it was more than an image. They illuminated everyone, even some of their fans, forcing on them the realization that it didn’t matter what they were, but who they were. So who were they? Or rather, who were they now? On their third album, they would rise again, but what would this “rebirth” be like? Though still young, Tru, Pos and Mase weren’t teenagers anymore—they were growing as people, as well as artists. As co-producer Paul described in a 2008 interview with The Smoking Section, “They were maturing … The vibe had changed. Things had happened since 3 Feet High And Rising. People had kids and responsibilities got heavy. The pressure of trying to follow the success of the first album and all of the criticisms made it kind of deep. Buhloone Mindsate caused us to mature somewhat. For them, I think the difference was that I was still in yuck yuck land. I wanted to do the goofy, crazy stuff. They were into being a little tamer. I didn’t know that it would be my last album with them, but I knew things were definitely changing.”

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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.

Louis C.K. is the funniest man alive, though if you’re even a casual fan of comedy, this won’t be news to you. Not even taking into account his other work (including his increasingly brilliant TV series), in terms of pure stand-up comedy, there’s really no one else who’s work continually rises to his levels of resonating genius. This is especially exciting for my generation. As a 23-year-old, all the “great ones” were either before my time (Pryor, Carlin, Bruce, etc.), or whose heyday I just missed (Rock, Hedberg, Hicks). These are the guys who have been immortalized, the ones that my generation grew up hearing about in reverent tones, until we eventually experience their work and see why. I believe Louis C.K. will go down as one of the “great ones,” and it’s happening before our eyes. To be fair, we are not contemporaries (he’s 44), and I’m not suggesting he is the only truly great comedian of the past 10 years—but like any time period, there aren’t many future legends to go around. And although it’s an unorthodox comparison, in the world of music, the same can be said for TV On The Radio.

There are many elements that separate good artists from the great, but the evolution of their work is perhaps the most important. It’s one thing to create art that reverberates with an audience, and though not many can repeat this success, even less can do it while continuing to grow and innovate. In an interview with AV Club, C.K. used this principle to explain why he writes and performs a completely new hour of comedy each year, something almost unheard of in the world of stand-up: “If people pay to see you because they like your special, and they pay money to see the exact same show, they’ll actually be very happy. They won’t complain. They’ll go, ‘Ah, that was exactly as great as I thought it would be, because I’ve seen it.’ But they won’t see you again. If you come through town, they’ll go, ‘I know what he does. I don’t need to see that three times.’” That quote has always stuck with me, particularly because I’ve witnessed it in action. I have had the pleasure of seeing TV On The Radio in concert five times, and like its albums, each was completely different from the last. This wasn’t purely based on song choice or jam-y improvisation—the entire tone of each performance had changed. These ranged from a sweaty, punk gig in a shitty club, to an outdoor dance party with a full horn section, to putting on a crowd-pleasing rock show that could give any band a run for their money. I’ve never seen any group as many times, because, to paraphrase Louis, I never needed to. Like C.K., they always bring something new to their work, no matter how risky, and they’ve more or less always pulled it off.

Of course, the keywords are “more or less.” Like most, if not all artists, there’s usually a period early on where they are still trying to find out who they are or what they’re about—comedians and musicians alike. It’s interesting to look back at the early work of great artists, since it’s often very different from their later accomplishments; sometimes, very different. Watching C.K.’s late-’80s stand-up performances, it’s jarring how different it is from his modern sets, but it’s fascinating since you know what’s in store for him. And for fans of TV On The Radio, its first album, OK Calculator, might seem almost unrecognizable, but it does flash some of the moments of extreme glory that would soon become a common occurrence in the band’s music.

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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.

Before they were taking flight onboard the Mothership, Parliament began its trip in a New Jersey barbershop. In the mid-’50s, George Clinton was a hair stylist at Newark’s Uptown Tonsorial Parlor. Located in a predominantly black neighborhood, the shop was the hangout for the young and old. The North Carolina-bred Clinton became well-known for his hair-styling abilities (no surprise there), but also for his musical talents. Along with a few friends and co-workers, Clinton would regularly belt out doo-wop tunes for the delight of the costumers. At first, it was just a fun hobby, but the boys soon found themselves harmonizing in the back room, long after the shop had closed. Clinton soon left the Uptown to start work at Silk Palace, another barbershop in the nearby town of Plainfield, where he recruited a few local singers for his burgeoning group. It was here where the boys focused their musical ambition, and taking the name of their favorite brand of cigarettes, the Parliaments were born.

Beginning in ’58, the group recorded a few singles under various record labels but all struggled to find success. 1965’s “Heart Trouble” single for Golden World Records met the same fate, though it was the first to feature the Parliaments’ classic lineup of Clinton, Grady Thomas, Ray Davis, Calvin Simon and Fuzzy Haskins; this formation would remain for years to come. After producing a bunch of local groups for different labels including Revilot Records, with whom the Parliaments were soon signed, Clinton got a job as a songwriter/producer for Jobete Music, the publishing company of Motown Records. On his weekends off from the barbershop, which he now owned, he would make the trek from Jersey to Detroit to produce recording sessions. On one such trip in ’67, Clinton recorded a song he had co-written, “(I Wanna) Testify,” though as the rest of The Parliaments were unable to attend, the track was filled out by various session musicians and vocal group the Andantes. Released as the Parliaments for Revilot that summer, “(I Wanna) Testify” became the group’s first hit song.

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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.

“Parental Warning: This Is An Iggy Pop Record”: There was a time when reading this would have harpooned fear straight into the hearts of any red-blooded American mom or dad unlucky enough to know who Iggy Pop was, or what they imagined he stood for. Every incessant nightmare or despair held by the baby boomers—from Charles Manson to Mad magazine—were projected onto Iggy and his Stooges during their seven-year life span, and they responded by spewing it right back, in a torrent of heroin and glitter, blood and peanut butter. As Dictators guitarist Scott Kempner described, “This was living and being born and coming for your fucking children in the middle of the night right in front of you.”

But to parents reading that same warning in 1993? The same Iggy Pop who played Johnny Depp’s goofy backwoods uncle? The same Iggy Pop who recorded an ode to campy horror villain Freddy Krueger? The same Iggy Pop who sang that love song to the gal from the B-52’s? Really, how bad could it be?

Swinging between these two ends of the spectrum was somewhat deliberate, but mostly a by-product of Jim “Iggy” Osterberg’s wild personal, and career, path. After the Stooges disbanded for the second time, in 1974, Pop was left a broke junkie who spent the next two years floating from couch-to-couch in L.A., trying to get clean, finally winding up in a mental hospital. He soon moved to Germany with his old pal, and fellow addict, David Bowie to sober up—a period in which both men would arguably create their best work. 1977 saw the release of Pop’s first two solo albums, The Idiot and Lust For Life, which received rave reviews and have since become classics. Along with a newfound respect as an artist, he shed his image as a drug-crazed madman (which countless up-and-coming punk bands simultaneously attempted to imitate).

Unfortunately, this artistic upswing didn’t last, and after 1979’s great New Values, Pop spent the next few years with a reinvigorated heroin addiction while making mostly terrible records, ranging from watered-down new wave (Soldier) to clunky synth-pop (Party). Though these didn’t sell well, Pop lived off of royalties from songs he penned with Bowie, who had recently turned them into worldwide hits. Pop cleaned himself up, started an acting career, even scoring commercial success with the Bowie-driven Blah Blah Blah in ’86, which he followed with the overproduced hard rock of Instinct.

Hardly anything from Pop’s ‘80s work stands out with the same vigor that he once had. Although they may have started with interesting and experimental intentions, the records were cold and neutered, unfit for a man of his talent. With a now un-hazed perspective, Pop seemed aware of this, and in 1990 recorded his “comeback,” Brick By Brick, with help from producer Don Was. The songs were focused, showing a lyrical maturity not before seen, though the production was a tad too slick. However, the formula worked, and with the help of a hit pop single (the aforementioned “Candy,” a duet with Kate Pierson of the B-52’s), the record became the biggest hit of his career.

But still, something was missing. In a 2010 interview, Pop explained, “I peaked commercially. I’d done pretty well with Brick By Brick and Blah Blah Blah, and I’d lined up a lot of apples in a certain way, but that sort of professionalism—that professional West Coast type of American career that I was beginning to put together—just was a drag … I didn’t wanna do “Candy” live onstage; I thought, ‘Maybe I’ll get some kid who can play “Raw Power.”‘ And the next thing I knew, from 1990 on … Stooge-ism and amateurism started slipping back into my life.”

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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.

On Dec. 26, 1967, the Beatles’ new film Magical Mystery Tour premiered on BBC television; the next day, almost every newspaper in Britain ravaged it. The Biggest Band In The World had its first real taste of critical failure; of course, they were being a bit harsh. The consensus was that the movie was an unfocused, psychedelic mess—which it most certainly was—but that only added to its goofy charm. No matter what the critics thought of the film itself, its music was undeniably great, and the accompanying soundtrack (an EP in U.K., an LP in the U.S.) fared much better. Many thought the Beatles should get out of the movie business and stick to music. George Harrison was already at work, doing both.

Earlier that year, a budding young director named Joe Massot had hoped to talk to Harrison about composing the soundtrack to his debut film, Wonderwall. The plot centered around Oscar Collins, a middle-aged scientist played by Jack MacGowran (who had previously starred with John Lennon in How I Won The War) and his obsession with his young next door neighbor, hippie supermodel Penny Lane, played by future Serge Gainsbourg protégé Jane Birkin. It was a metaphor for a changing Britain: The stuffy, bowler-hatted era was being ushered out, in favor of the new, swinging psychedelic scene, which the Beatles had helped to create.

And like Britain, the Beatles were in a state of change themselves. On Aug. 27, 1967, while in Wales learning about Transcendental Meditation, the band received word that Brian Epstein, their manager and the glue that held them all together, had died of an accidental overdose. In just the year prior, they had: become bigger than Jesus, quit touring, changed the world with Sgt. Pepper, experimented with drugs, got married, had kids, etc. It was their most important period, when they went from pop stars to artists; from children to men. Now, for the first time, they were on their own.

The Beatles used their newfound independence by constantly trying new things, which for them, was simultaneously exciting and nerve-wrecking. So when Massot finally asked Harrison to compose the soundtrack, he was reluctant to accept, as he had never scored a film. But after the director assured Harrison, promising to use whatever music that was submitted, he signed on.

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