psychedelic pop appreciation thread

edited December 2010 in General
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Anton Barbeau-psychedelic mynde of Moses

has a kinda early post Soft Boys, crunchy R.Hitchcock feel
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    The Virgineers
    at bandcamp;
    absolutely essential for fans of psych pop

    artist website:
    Virgineers
  • edited December 2010
    This one by Cinderpop is a bit more poppy than psychedelic (as the name would indicate) but some ofthe tracks, esp. #6, are very definitely psychedelic. I was thinking of making this my first eMu download since the pricing change, just to see if I can handle it emotionally.

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    Also, people who like(d) the Dukes of Stratosphear might also like the Squires of the Subterrain:

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  • this is a great nu-psych album

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    this song, in particular cooks, especially after the decending synth line enters at around the 3:00 mark, when everything comes into sharp focus and the band finds -- and fillets -- a killer groove.
  • timtim
    edited December 2010
    Okay, I'm trying to make a clever post, but am falling on the wrong side of the fine line between clever and stupid. How do I embed images? Can I embed YouTube? I know that some flavors of BBCode allow it, with things like [video] and [yt], but I haven't wrassled one of those to the ground yet...

    And not that it's all that clever. Just trying to keep up the neighborhood standard...
  • edited December 2010
    Tim-
    i am woefully inept at these things but i'll take a stab at your question just in case:
    [url=whatever should embed anything; i know i have used it with youtube before.

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    Orange Alabaster Mushroom

    damn, the woodchucks are back-elbows locked, their fat furry legs high kicking in perfect unison.
  • edited April 2013
    The Mothers Of Invention's groundbreaking double album from 1966:

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    A few examples:

    Hungry Freaks Daddy
    Motherly Love
    Who are The Brain Police
    Trouble Every Day
    How Could I Be Such a Fool

    BTW: This was the first album where Frank Zappa mentions the French composer Edgar Varese with this quote:
    "The present-day composer refuses to die !"
    EDGAR VARESE, July 1921
    - This was how my interest in contemporary classical music started.
  • edited December 2010
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    a cherished album of Varese tunes by Konstanitin Simonovitch

    by the way,upon closer inspection and following a heated exchange of insults and expletives, i have determined that
    a group of drunken, unshaven elves have gathered outside my window, not woodchucks.
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    Green Pajamas-7 fathoms down and falling

    one of their best and a tough one to score; emusic has it for 5.88
  • edited December 2010
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    The Pillbugs

    all the moves and grooves that the cover art suggests




    the cheeping and chattering has finally stopped; it appears, however, that now the pointy eared little shits are marking off a perimeter with territorial urine. They are also apparently invisible to large dogs.
  • edited December 2010
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    Sunshine Superman

    one of the first and still one of the best psychedelic pop albums
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    Mr.Fanatsy

    another


    I can no longer see or hear them but I know they are still here, the air reeks of elf piss and cheap whiskey.
    perhaps there in the holly bush, their beady little eyes hidden among the berries.......
  • edited December 2010
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    West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band

    one of the better US efforts during psych pop's heyday


    long pulls on imperial stout can't dull the edge of their constant hammering and high pitched field hollers; my backyard has become a construction site for a strange wooden shrine or a crude hoist.
  • edited December 2010
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    Fifth Dimension

    maybe 1st US psych pop release; great record but i prefer this:

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    Younger Than Yesterday
  • edited December 2010
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    Strawberry Alarm Clock


    better comps exist but this is sufficient for the curious and will also
    stir up a nostalgic bee or two in those already familiar.







    I woke to a screeching noise that seemed to be approaching in
    slow, rolling degrees-each turn filled with strain and tortured protest.
    With as much stealth as I could muster considering the hour-I couldn’t risk detection
    and suffer through another hellishly long rain of pin oak nuts against my window, I
    opened the shutter and squinted into the moonless night. Just outside the full grip
    of the flood light, I focused on an image that riveted my already fragile state of mind.
    An enormous bull elf, at least 10 times the size of the others, was strapped supinely to
    a makeshift cart; he was naked except for a long white beard that drug the ground as his
    captors struggled him towards the structure in the middle of the yard.
  • edited December 2010
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    Byrds beat them to the punch in 66 and 67; doesn't matter though, it's all worthwhile.

    i prefer Revolver over Fifth Dimension, but choose Younger Than Yesterday over Sgt Pepper
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    Blossom Toes-we are ever so clean

    excellent psych pop from 67; criminally overlooked (in US anyway)




    still unconscious, the prisoner hung from the tripod crane with arms and legs splayed and spread at 45 degree angles to his torso on cables that were connected to a complex system of pulleys and cranks. His skin hung like bleached burlap sacks that once bore substantial loads; thankfully, the once crowded paunch now served well as a loincloth, covering the most objectionable of his unsightlies. His white beard spread across everything above his neck and below his eyes but cragged, red cheeks and a nose that looked like it fastened the loose skin of his face to a skull that wore long white hair pulled into a librarian bun on its crown.
    As I sat watching him, several elves with clipboards began measuring various
    dimensions of his body and writing them down, shaking their heads with either concern or disgust-I couldn’t tell which.
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    Eire Apparent

    Good psych pop from 69; Hendrix produced and played on a couple of songs.




    My wife confronted me again about staring into the backyard for
    no apparent reason. I turned and grabbed her shoulders, shaking
    them in emotional appeal and begging her to look out the window
    and to tell me what she saw. I could see the fear and pity in her eyes
    immediately give way to anger. She began her reply with an open
    palmed cuff to the right side of my face then punctuated it convincingly
    with an argument of knuckle and jewel to the left. I looked to my dog
    for a compassionate ally but she flinched and stared at me sideways
    as she hurried from the room. The sting of the slap brought a flash
    of lucidity and subsequent doubt, I turned back towards the window;
    the color once again rushed from my face as I saw that the naked,
    white haired stranger was still hanging there, almost flapping in the
    stiff breeze like a decorative house flag celebrating errant flesh.
    My stupor was interrupted by what sounded like several ball peen
    hammers rapping at my front door. I waited to see if my wife would react
    but she did not seem to hear a thing; my dog remained silent also.
  • edited December 2010
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    Elmer Gantry’s Velvet Opera

    Another from a seemingly endless stable of quality 60s UK psych poppers.





    The events unfolding in the backyard freshened my despair and addled my loon;
    I had expected the scene to take a medieval twist with floggings by tiny hooded
    torturers but instead witnessed what looked like hundreds of elves scattering back
    and forth with purposeful industry and carrying rolls of red velvet and white pile. The knocking at the front of the house continued despite my refusal to acknowledge it; however, the constant drumming was threatening to undo my Camus, I finally buckled at the knees of my resolve and opened the door.
    Three elves dressed in tattered velvet jackets greeted me with patient yet irritated smiles,
    the few remaining bells on their curled toed boots jingled as they shuffled urgently in strange geometric patterns, they moved and spoke in perfect unison, “ We assume you
    know the identity of the trussed visitor behind your home.”
    Their high pitched voices were startling and I backed away a few steps; “Yeah, I knew who it was,” I thought to myself, but admitting it seemed like another finger pried from my grip on sanity.
  • I saw Donovan a few years back. Brilliant fucking show. Actually videotaped it from a hidden position in the balcony. Gotta dig that out and check the quality - maybe post it if people are interested.

    Back when my woman was performing regularly at an open mic I kept trying to convince her to do a cover of "Wear You Love Like Heaven". No dice...
  • edited December 2010
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    Creation of Sunlight

    Rare 67 psych pop in the style of Strawberry Alarm Clock-good stuff; re-issued again at the beginning of the year. Amazon has it for 15.44; not a deal, but for fans of the genre…..




    The three miniature orators began a piercing rant of historical explanations and
    hysterical predictions, “the sleigh is engineered for specific weights and measures,”
    they began, choosing to ignore the fact that I had jammed the tips of all my fingers into my mouth and had started to nibble them in a manner that should have clearly raised concern for my capacity to receive information, “the old geezer has dropped almost
    100 pounds, something about blood sugar……he’s an elf, dammit-all we eat is sugar-
    Milton Bradley and his band of toy town thugs saw to that.” The three leaned forward as their
    voices crescendoed in the direction of either a lather or, hopefully, a point, “he hasn’t been the same since somebody pirated television signals onto the satellite, he’s even
    claiming to suffer from depression. He can’t be depressed, the whole chimney shtick
    only works if he’s jolly!”
    Certainly the look on my face gave them an idea of how little of what they said was registering, I removed the fingers from my mouth to erase any doubt, “I can’t…..”
    They grabbed the knees of my pants and pulled me to their chests before I could finish,
    their eyes glaring and their voices in a near growl, “listen biscuit boy, if Claus isn’t
    fat and jolly by Christmas Eve you won’t have your precious ritual this year and we’ll
    be out of a job. We can’t go back to the wild, not after being domesticated; we’ll be eaten
    alive…..literally.”
    I began trying to kick my legs free from their grasp but only succeeded in falling to the floor. The three of them hovered over me as they finished their screeching tirade,
    “your people created this, you’ve been chosen to fix it, we don’t know why nor do we care; all we know is you get the blame if Santa is a no show this year……
    so we suggest you get your ass up off the floor and start cramming cheeseburgers and chuckle dreams down that rickety old bastard’s throat.”
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    The David-another day, another lifetime

    another rare one and a must have for fans of psych pop
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    Love

    an LP that deserves better position in the development of psych pop; released earlier in 66 than 5D or Revolver



    I opened my eyes realizing I had been unconscious and that I was lying in the middle of
    my front doorway; I also realized that my shoulders were being poked by a blunt and rather solid object. As I quickly twisted and turned my torso in the direction of the infringing intruder, my wife jumped back and raised the 31 ounce Don Clendenon
    Louisville Slugger she held in her hands into the business position, her back elbow perfectly perpendicular to the slight sway of the wooden club.
    “The Stancels from across the street just called,” she said, her eyes digging through mine,
    as if searching for something she recognized, “they asked if you would please stop convulsing on the front porch; they said you were scaring their children. What the hell
    is wrong with you?”
    I did not hear a word she was saying; Santa Claus was standing directly behind her dressed in a hastily sewn, unfastened robe, his flesh draping and folding in too many directions to follow. He wore a red, long tailed stocking cap that was tasseled with a white ball that appeared to be tangled in his matted beard and a pair of black boots that were well cracked by age and service. Small wire rimmed glasses struggled to maintain position on the end of his nose as he drew repeatedly and without result on a small clay pipe, “Can I trouble you for a light, young man?” he said as he stared bewilderedly into the bowl, “this has never happened before- supposed to be magic you know.”
  • edited December 2010
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    Psychedelic 60s London Underground


    excellent compilation of obscure UK bands from the 60s; most fit nicely under psych pop banner
    49 tracks 167 minutes 5.99-damn good deal




    My wife’s voice cut sharply through my fogged state, “WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?!” she shrieked, her knuckles turning white around the handle of the bat and a single
    vein pulsing a dangerous red glow on her forehead.
    It was enough to divert my attention away from Claus long enough to make an attempt to pacify the situation with a lie about a headache.
    She wasn’t in the market to be placated, “You better pull yourself together by the time
    my Mother gets here mister or I will see to it that your head does a lot more than ache.”
    She lowered the bat and left the room, shaking her head and mumbling fiercely; my dog
    lifted a curious nose to what it supposed was vacant air but I could see was Santa’s crotch, then hurried after my wife.
    I ran over to where Claus was standing, closed his robe and fumbled a knot into the tie, “what are you doing in here?” I asked, surprised at how sweet he smelled considering
    his appearance.
    “I was told you were a psychologist of some note,” he replied while stirring his pipe with
    the left temple of his eyeglasses, “…..about that light.”
    “You can’t smoke in the house,” I said patting my pockets as if checking for matches, then grabbing a long stick lighter as I pulled him towards the front door.
    He smiled and nearly bellowed, “Fine idea, I could use the fresh air and a vigorous walk.”
    As I wrestled with flame and breeze to light the pipe to his satisfaction, I noticed that elves had lined up on both sides of the street, each one jabbing their index finger in my
    direction, then swiping it across their neck with the internationally recognized motion
    of threatening intent.
  • edited December 2010
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    Lazy Smoke-corridor of faces

    great psych pop,
    who cares if it sounds a lot like the Beatles? I look a lot like my Father,
    does that mean I don't deserve to be loved?





    The elves began hissing as they formed a semi-circle around me and Claus, blocking the street in hopes of thwarting any ideas Santa had of boosting his heart rate. Claus jammed his finger up his nose, grabbed me by the collar and lifted us just over the approaching crowd in a wobbly flight pattern-muttering loudly as he steadied us to the ground,
    “bothersome little buggers are still bitter about the Company threatening to move the operation down to the southern hemisphere.”
    I looked back at the crowd of jeering, velvet clad bantams, “hissing elves….how festive.”
    Claus shrugged off my sarcasm and picked up the pace, betraying his physique with
    deft but decidedly ungraceful movements.
    “Where is you office, Doctor?” he asked from the side of his mouth that wasn’t supporting a pipe, “I’m anxious to get started with this therapy thing-will it involve
    role playing?”
    I coughed on a waft of smoke that had broken free from the swirl trying to form around
    around the puffing pixie’s head, “Mr. Claus, I hate to tell you this, but I’m not a do…..”
    my confession was interrupted by a folded beer can that smacked me directly above the right ear; the elf responsible for launching the tin missile jumped from behind a large tree and started hissing and waving his fists as menacingly as his size and attire would allow-obviously trying to impress upon me the hazards of exposing their ruse, and that they were watching me very closely.
  • edited December 2010
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    Chamaeleon Curch

    Pop psych with Chevy Chase on drums....won't blow your mind but it might give it a little kiss.


    After a weekend of long walks, carrot sticks and lengthy lectures on the deterioration of “a once magical time of year”, I finally had Claus stretched out in a leather recliner, convinced that my office downtown was being renovated and consenting to begin the “sessions” in the “less than professional” setting of my den. Wearied and seeming more despondent than when we first met, he drew long on his pipe and blew fairy winged smoke rings that fluttered around his head then faded into a sparkling dust that chased the deeply etched lines on his face into brief but brimming smiles. The elves were ratcheting up the pressure as time was running out and I was getting absolutely nowhere; in fact, as they took turns lowering each other upside down from the roof to leer into the windows of the small room like maddeningly asynchronous pistons, all I could do was rock back and forth, emit a low monotone trill and scribble deep circles into the pages of the yellow legal pad that sat fraudulently on my lap.
    My heart jumped into my throat and swung from my uvula as Claus sprang to his feet, shaking furniture and foundation, and announced a boisterous and immediate need for “a stein of your orneriest nog, doctor…..maybe two.”
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    excellent late 60s pop psych produced by Bill Wyman



    Steins turned to yards and piercing pale ales turned to dark murky stouts; the latter so strong that each sip caused me to blurt out ancient tongues in a tone that suggested profanities vile enough to make Claus cringe and check over his shoulders after each episode to ensure that no slumbering demons had been conjured by the visible undulations of the vulgar discharges. I was no match for his command of the well knuckled hops and soon found myself hoisted Gulliver fashion on the shoulders of a dozen elves that followed in lock step behind Claus as he made his way clumsily into a room filled with banana palms and bean bag chairs placed randomly in front of a large screen television. “Set him up, boys,” he said, pointing to a chair in the middle of the room, “ I’ll start the corn a’popping.”
  • edited December 2010
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    July on Amazon for 7.99

    July on Guvera; free, one petal at a time

    one of the tastiest pop psicles from the era in my Harry Toad opinion.

    I felt trapped in a loop of dime store Dickensian nightmares and Magoo fever dreams; flanked and pinned in place by elves that looked like they had spent many years filling prescriptions for rough stuff in tight and close doses, I had no choice but to watch the unusually dimensioned images that had begun reaching for me from the large screen with vivid, lifelike display. There I was as a young child on Christmas morning, wide-eyed and tickle grinned, swearing that I had heard sleigh bells the night before as I forced and fought sleep, there I was peeking through a curtain, watching my uncle ride a banana seat sting ray in a very un-Santa like fashion; I watched as I scarcely even tried to hide my disappointment as I unwrapped “Action Boy” instead of “Captain Action” or my jealousy as my best friend waved the 1951 Willie Mays baseball card under my nose. Joyful was replaced by material which rolled into emotional: my Mother opening appliance after appliance never losing that faint glint of hope in her eye that the next one would be something personal, my Father giving me money to shop for myself the year my Mother passed away, then getting pissed when I couldn’t muster the pluck to shop, wrap and put presents to me under the tree, waiting and wondering about medical diagnoses through holidays, watching fellow employees carry their belongings out the door a week before Christmas and knowing the climate didn’t look that rosy for those of us left. The hops no longer hummed loud enough to drown the bone on bone scrapes of my senses; I struggled to free myself from the toy sized rough boys but they were remarkably strong for their size; Claus sat to my right catching single pieces of popcorn in his mouth as he tossed them in the air, “Heh, Heh, Heh….Meh,” he chuckled with an obviously affected spin of indifference; he grunted as he broke himself free from the pillowed prison grasp of a bagged chair whose beans wheezed loud relief as they unloaded their short but husky cargo, he then stood in front of me-arms akimbo, robe askew, “you’ve heard it all before: life is tough, short and unpredictable, be thankful for what you have and take nothing for granted, and for the love of all the once-a-year Capricorns, stop using me as a metaphor for all of your anxieties and gluttonies; I already have enough joy stompers and kill merries trying to pin the world’s trouble on me and Christmas. Now….do I need to run the heartstring and floodgate footage?”
    I tried nodding an aggressive negative as the room began spinning and Claus and his miniature goons faded into the multi-colored lights that were coming into focus and revealing themselves as decorations on the Christmas tree that stood in front of the chair where I was curled in a near fetal position, my head resting on the padded leather arm and my dog painting my face in slobber with long, purposeful strokes of its tongue.




    And with that I will say Happy Holidays and goodbye.
    I can be contacted or cussed here: selfrisinmojo@yahoo.com
  • edited December 2010
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    Arnold Layne had a strange hobby
    Collecting clothes
    Moonshine washing line
    They suit him fine

    On the wall hung a tall mirror
    Distorted view, see through baby blue
    He dug it
    Oh, Arnold Layne
    It's not the same, takes two to know
    Two to know, two to know, two to know
    Why can't you see?

    Arnold Layne, Arnold Layne, Arnold Layne, Arnold Layne

    Now he's caught - a nasty sort of person.
    They gave him time
    Doors bang - chain gang - he hates it

    Oh, Arnold Layne
    It's not the same, takes two to know
    two to know, two to know, two to know,
    Why can't you see?

    Arnold Layne, Arnold Layne, Arnold Layne, Arnold Layne
    Don't do it again.
  • Thanks selfrisin! Loved every word. Merry Christmas.
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