Monocled Alchemist

“Inside-Looking Out” / “Outcast” (Decca F. 12332) February 1966

The Animals | Inside-Looking Out | (Decca) 1966 | Oh dear, oh dear! I honestly thought I wouldn’t have to join the ranks of the great disappointers, but this is really very mediocre for the Animals.

Based on an original song by folk man Alan Lomax this has been Animal-shaped by Eric and Chas and has, I should think, lost a lot in the process. Now it sounds like “Work Song” crossed with “We Gotta Get Out Of This Place.”

Eric does his usual great grunting groaning job but they really must pack in that “yeah yeah” and “baby baby” bit they sing to each other, it’s getting dull. A hit anyway. (Disc Weekly, 12/02/66)

Tremendous roar-up most of the way – the Animals at their wildest. Opens with Eric singing reasonably quietly, setting the scene on this old prison work-song epic. Mid-way it really storms along, with screams, yells and dramatic instumental moments. Cools off a bit, then returns to the attack. An obvious hit. Probably a massive one.
Flip: No disappointment here. Top Fifty Tip. (Record Mirror, 12/02/66)

I must try and be constructive. Yes, I’ve heard it before. Do you want sugar in your tea? Well there ain’t none! Yes, it’s exciting I suppose. I don’t like the sound on the guitar. It’s too poppy and sounds like a BBC programme.

I thought Eric Burdon was quite good, but when the group sing together behind him I don’t like their harmonies – all that “yeah, yeah, yeah.” It’s a trifle long, but it will be as big a hit as their others. How did their last one go? They always get in the ten don’t they? There’s not enough to be a number one, but you never know in these days of the Overlanders. (Blind Date, Andrew Loog-Oldham, Melody Maker, 12/02/66)

Developed by Eric Burdon and Chas Chandler from the original by the well-known folk-blues specialist John Lomax, this is basically a prison song. And Eric gives it the full treatment, singing from the heart and feeling the very essence of the blues.

Strident guitar chords are his only accompaniment at the outset, then reverberating bass steadily builds the tension, until it erupts into a wild R&B raver – with Eric blowing his top, and the boys hammering home the backing for all they’re worth. Yep, their first Decca disc is a gas!

Flip: Eric’s again in great form on this mid-tempo item, with a fuzzy, rasping backing, stomping rhythm and ear-catching low-register guitar. (NME, 11/02/66)

Eric Knocks U.S. Acts

ERIC BURDON was sitting with Georgie Fame in the Cromwellian Club, just looning about, doing nothing in particular. The talk started . . . well, it was more a lecture from Eric really. He addressed Georgie and Dave Rowberry, who happened to be there. RM’s Peter Jones sat in, too. Here, in Georgie’s own words, is what went on:

There was a good American group on stage. Eric told me: “Look at that. I’ve never met an American who just came out on stage and performed. When they go out there, everything has to be written down—the whole sequence from the ad lib lines, the patter, the timing and the number of steps they take. They write it all down on a bit of paper.”

I told Eric it was only because they hated goofing anything. I thought there was nothing wrong with it. It’s surely more professional. Sometimes they might lose something from the act, but at least they know what they’re doing.

Eric wouldn’t have it. “No man,” he said. “There are very few Americans, maybe just a couple of exceptions, who are prepared to make goofs. Who will tell the truth about things in general. That’s the other side of the story. They won’t go on cold if they can help it, and do what an English artiste does who gets on stage and just goes . . . . “

Eric was well into his stride by now. Poking holes in the air with his finger. “I mean, look at Wilson Pickett’s performance. To all intents and purposes he roars away like Chris Farlowe or anybody else, but this isn’t so, It’s all written down. All arranged before hand. The thing is rehearsed as if it were a play. It’s almost stage-managed.”

PROFESSIONALISM

Knocking this American stage bit didn’t go down well with me. American stage professionalism is a ticket to show business for them. They’re in it, they really make a job of it. After all, I told Eric, if you’re doing a job professionally, behaving like a raw amateur isn’t a lot of good. You’ve got to know what you’re doing and do it as well us you can. If your national tradition relies strongly on a tight technique, then you have a tight technique.

Dave Rowberry was keeping quiet, just avoiding Eric’s flailing arms. He then said: “You’re both a bit off beam. American acts are very tight and exact, depending on the performer, but some of them really rave it up — and you can’t arrange and work out a real rave-up before hand. Sometimes the act is so tight, it looks as if they’re scared to let go.”

Anyway, I switched the subject and asked Eric about what happened to that LP the Animals were making in America.

Eric groaned. “A drag from beginning to end. We had American ‘Musicians’ Union trouble. I tell you, there has never been a British group yet that has gone to America and not had a load of trouble with visas and Unions and Lord knows what . . . but every time. It’s commercialism wrapped up with bureaucracy, a great ponderous machine grinding over what should be a casual and delicate thing.”

Then Dave said: “In America, plenty of people believe that the scene is dead over here for creative musicians. Not true, of course, in fact, the opposite holds good. There is none of this hard commercial jazz over here. It may become like that in future, but right now it isn’t. It’s a little bit softer, easier, less corrupted in a commercial sort of way.

There is still plenty of room for the honest artist. I don’t think there is in America. And Eric said: “Dave and I mentioned one facet of this hard commercial attitude in America before you came down. Do you know that people have come over from America and told me how surprised they were to see our groups sitting in a club and talking to one another? The sight of the Beatles and Stones having a conversation together is thought to he a big deal. In America, apparently, the groups wouldn’t be seen dead with one another. It’s that commercial bit gone mad. But everyone there is affected by it.”

GAS-BAG

I told Eric I was mentioning this conversation in the Record Mirror. He said: “Well, before I run out of the door, I’d like to point out that Dave used the word ‘corruption’ in the sense of artistic corruption, not graft.”

And Dave said: “Don’t mind him. Tonight he’s more of a gas-bag than usual. I’ve hardly got a word in edge-wise and I perceive our road manager standing in the door-way yonder and waiting to drag us off for some scene someone has arranged for us.”

Upon which the two not so tame Animals wandered out of the door, patting female heads and shaking male hands on the way. (GEORGIE FAME, Record Mirror, 19/02/66)

A Tappy’s Eye View of the Animals

THE engine of our van had barely stopped clanking when five eager beavers dived out of the stage door and began tugging at the vehicle’s rear door. Tappy gave me a knowing wink and said: “It’s always best to arrive a bit late, they always want to help then.”

We graciously allowed the volunteer minions to lug amplifiers and other weird mechanical equipment into the hall while we considered the problem of Hilton’s condition.

Tappy Wright, Animals road manager extraordinaire, and I had struck a bargain to share the hard work (whoever heard of a group doing hard work) so that I could bring to light the trials and tribulations of a road manager. We had, however, reckoned without Hilton and his lady friend who decided to share the front seat with us and then kept inquiring as to the whereabouts of a certain kind of refreshment.

“It’s just on the left here,” instructed Hilton “as we sped eastwards from the West End. We came here before and I remember it’s got a green in front of it.”

The East End college we were seeking turned out to be on the left, but only after turning right twice, and the green was nowhere near the entrance we wanted. Still he’s a helpful type of lad.

“You put all the stuff over there,” said Tappy, pointing to the rear of the stage, “and I’ll set it up. Hilton’s gone downstairs and the others should be arriving soon. See if you can find out what time we’re going on. What’re all those girls looking at? Let’s get ’em up here to help.”

A bespectacled student (did Jonathan King start that craze?) told me to follow the “Orchestra Rehearsal Room” signs and at the end I’d find the rest of the Animals. I managed to find Chas, but he’s not quite big enough to represent the whole of the group, I fear. “What’s happening, then?” he asked, waving a Scotch bottle at me.

“What’s happening, then?” he asked, waving a Scotch bottle at me. “Where are the rest of the lads? Want a drink? Is Tappy all right?”

Skilfully managing to avoid the Novacastrian Inquisition, I told him that the others were on the way by courtesy of London Transport and that he and Hilton were the only ones who would be playing if the Tube broke down.

“You’re a jinx, Richard Spleen,” he replied. “Every time you turn up something goes wrong. If the others don’t get here, I’ll know who to blame.”

Just because the Animals have suffered a crash, an aircraft fault, the departure of Alan Price and sundry other defects when I’ve been near them, they seem to have a bit of a down on me. Strange people.

Fortunately, the rest of the group did arrive in time for the show, but midway through their act, Dave’s organ went up the spout. That would have been fine had it not been for the fact that while Tappy was setting up the equipment earlier he had discovered a fault in the instrument and hastily borrowed another from the supporting group, only for that to fail.

Eric managed to ad-lib his way through a song while Hilton did a Pete Townshend impersonation and Dave performed a war dance. John sat quite unperturbed at his drums and Chas yelled: “Oh, not him again!”

About one hour and numerable glasses later, Tappy and I were on the way back to Earls Court in the van. “They’re a funny bunch,” he said. “They’re all different. Eric is always going on about coloured people and he’s converted Hilton. You should hear them spouting in Newcastle.

“Chas spends all his time looning down the Scotch and Dave’s often doing the same thing, or going on about playing. You never see John after a show, he’s always straight out of the door and home to his wife.”

Since he’s been with the Animals, Tappy has been practically all round the world. On a recent trip to Poland he got married to a Prince’s daughter.

“I won’t be going abroad as much now as I have done, it gets a bit of a drag at times and it’s not always necessary for me to be with them all the time. It’s not so had abroad really, where everything is organised, but over here we can get through two vans a year. All sorts of things go wrong and you have to keep dead sober and fit to drive hundreds of miles at twelve o’clock at night,”

Tappy went on, “Hotels can be a menace. In America you can sit up watching the ‘Late Show’ on TV, then the ‘Late Late Show’ and the next thing you get is the ‘Early Morning Show’. You Just ring down at four in the morning and ask for a coffee and cherry pie. Have you ever tried getting a sandwich after ten in hotels in England?”

He dropped me off, and with a mumbled “I’m off to get some sleep” disappeared into the lower regions of Chelsea. The Animals minus John, were already raving it up somewhere or other, but Tappy still had to put the van to bed and check the equipment. And it was 1 a.m. Sob, sob. (Record Mirror, 05/03/66)