MARK WIRTZ - A Teenage Opera ...continued

THE KINKS - Arthur (Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire)

“I am sentimental about my childhood - not my own particular childhood, but the civilisation which I grew up in and which is now, I suppose, just about at its last kick”

“Coming Up For Air,” George Orwell

This is a quietly bitter record. Ray Davies put this together at the tender age of 25 whilst battling with the insecurity of his role as breadwinner for both family and band. He was recovering from a breakdown, adapting to fatherhood and in career limbo due to an American touring ban, which had The Kinks reduced to playing the Northern cabaret circuit. The songs bear witness to the psychological unravelling of a British subject, mirroring the decline of the Empire itself with Davies drawing on his own family for inspiration. But somewhere along the line, the archetypal affection for his subject matter got lost. In fact the sweet hummable tunes and chipper delivery make the lyrical desperation at the heart of it, all the more harrowing. The political stance is ambiguous but as a summary of the first 69 years of the 20^th century, it stands as an eviscerating portrait of working-class servility. And it makes me think about my own family.

From a childhood smothered in the fag-end “Land of hope and gloria, land of my Victoria”, Arthur miscomprehends his future. “I was born lucky me, in a land that I loved”. Job, family, methodism for the straight and narrow, “Scenes from the Afghan War” ‘tween skits at the Pally for entertainment. But in a heart-beat, the military drums of “Yes Sir No Sir” establish a life routine exercised on the shiny wet parade ground of school and barrack. “Stop your dreaming and your idle wishing, you’re outside and there ain’t no admission to our play”. An angry and pivotal song, it reads like a manifesto of oppression. I think of my Dad’s Dad and his first trip from home in 1915. Train from Oldham Mumps to Milton Haven, vomit filled boat to Channel fort , training in weapons of mass destruction, application in Flanders mud and blood. “Give the scum a gun and make the bugger fight and be sure to have deserters shot on sight, if he dies we’ll send a medal to his wife.” My Grandad was buried alive on the Western Front but dug himself out in time to witness the Canadian’s amphetamine charge at Vimy Ridge. “Some Mother’s Son”, recounts heartbreaking sacrifice. “One soldier glances up to see the sun and dreams of games he played when he was young” One minute it’s cowboys and Indians in the rhododendron bushes of Alexandra Park, “…a second later he is dead”.

Moving on into the post-war, we’re in the bread and circuses of consumerism, courting in a rented jalopy, “Drivin’” to adventure, in… Potters Bar. Forget, forget, forget. Like a thunderbolt “Brainwashed” deviates from any semblance of the universal to directly address the condition of our eponymous hero, punning on his genuflecting, carpet fitter profession. “Look like a real human being but you don’t have a mind of your own. Yeah, you can talk, you can breathe, you can work, you can stich, you can sew but you’re brainwashed. Yes you are, yes you are. Get
down on your knees!”.

In 1934 my Grandad was on his knees, convalescing on the dole and my 4 year old Dad went with mother to visit the cotton mills of Massachusetts. This was no holiday, it was reconnaissance for escape. It didn’t happen. Arthur contemplates a similar still-born fantasy in “Australia” where “nobody has to be, any better than what they want to be”, where “nobody has a chip on their shoulder”, where “…everyone walks around with a perpetual smile across their face”. The song starts in playful style like the Terry Gilliam-esque artwork on the sleeve, but the aboriginal sounds and tooting jazz soon turn it into an end of pier nightmare. There is no crock of gold. The crumpled Thomas Cook pamphlets, salvaged and smoothed out on Whitehall desks, selecting Australia as test site for the Bomb. A future destination for the airmen sent like lab-rats into the atomic clouds billowing over the vaporized atolls.

Arthur reaches the summit in an alternative “Shangri-La” somewhere in one of those suburbs that spread like gravy over the Nation’s tablecloth. “Put on your slippers and sit by the fire, you’ve reached your top and you just can’t get any higher”. It’s the emotional and musical peak, with urgent strummed guitars, tinkling harpsichords and lyrics hammered out like last rites. “You need not worry you need not care, you can’t go anywhere”. You can’t go anywhere!

In short fashion the Second World War breaks out and as “Mr Churchill Says”, “ gotta fight the bloody battle to the very end”, with the conflict erupting in a surreal barrage of raga-rock. Post-war austerity follows and the raucous pantomime of “She Bought a Hat Like Princess Marina” parades working class pride in the face of adversity. In the interval, Palestine and Mau-Mau on the newsreels, for the main feature, “The Dambusters”. Then coming up for air Arthur reflects on his “Young and Innocent Days” indulging in a nostalgia, that seems not what it used to be.  

In “Nothing to Say”, the albums grinds towards it’s close with a glimpse of the isolation of age. I think of Dad and his Dad, I think of us all watching the football, their shared Unionism, their local pride and their stoicism but I also think of their strangely distant and jarring communication. For Arthur, his son is on his own aspirational path. “I’ll have to go soon cos I’m getting bored, I gotta be home early to see a good play”, and I think of my Dad’s transcendence of both his parents and his class.

By 1969 Britain had effectively become an archaic vessel in receipt of American culture, so it is strangely appropriate that the title track concludes as a country-style hoe-down. Davies had been commissioned to write the album for a Granada TV play, but it never got off the ground due to funding issues. The album was thus delayed and on release unfavourably compared to the heavy sounds of the day. “Shangri-La” was issued as a single but found no takers. Like the country The Kinks were suddenly out of time. But the lifting of the American touring ban opened up new horizons and like my Dad's speculative journey in 1934, The Kinks set sail in search of a new land of “hope and glory-ia”.

 

AMON DüüL II - Yeti

Only a generation after it was at war with nearly everyone, Germany was evidently at war with itself. The nation, divided by political ideology, was culturally and physically separated: one half apparently in colour, with all the trappings of modern life; the other almost in shades of grey, one eye cautiously looking over the wall at how the Other Half lived, the other eye frantically looking around for Stasi informants.

For the capitalist Westerners, life was grand. The middle classes were doing just fine and apparently extremely comfortable with the situation as it was… apart from a spirited proportion of the youth. Outraged that the older generations weren’t suitably ashamed of the atrocities they had taken part in - or at best, placidly gone along with – and railing against the traditional middle class system, they mobilised into movements, communes, to shake the Olds out of their cossetted armchairs and shock them into actually thinking.

Amon Düül II rose out of the ashes of the original Amon Düül commune (with band members who could actually play their instruments this time), whose mission was to play music which was diametrically opposed to the bland, saccharine, mindless Schlager pap that was infesting the nation at the time, a cultural manifestation of the unthinking sleepwalk their elders were stumbling through.

By 1970 it arguably reached its zenith with the astounding Yeti. Nothing about this album is comforting: the cover is an ominous, shady character with a scythe - presumably eyeing up Heino, or some other egregious middle-of-the-roader - and the music is gloriously brutal, unsettling, cacophonous and dissonant. This is not an LP to have on while you do the dishes, it’s one to start raging fires to.

The opener Soap Shop Rock is a kind of expressionist mini-opera, played out in a fever dream of interweaving vocals and stabbed guitar lines… it’s phenomenal, even if I have zero idea what it’s going on about, and lines like ‘SMOKE… COMING OUT OF THEIR EYES’ have etched themselves into dark recesses of my brain, to resurface when I wake, blinking and confused at 3am.

It’s an LP full of collisions: She Came Through the Chimney starts out as a calm, lilting guitar arpeggio, until jarring strings collide to make it feel like a bad acid trip. Archangels Thunderbird is almost mainstream with its crunching guitar riff, and at the same time unconventional due to the 6/4 rhythm and Renata Knaup’s unhinged vocals which barely manage to stay in tune. The Return of Rübezahl sounds like an eastern-tinged heavy prog version of Spirit’s Fresh Garbage, but it only lasts for a couple of minutes. Eye Shaking King sounds like the name suggests: it’s a slow, twisted, assault on the senses which occasionally adheres to harmonic and rhythmic structures, but possibly only by accident.

It’s a remarkable LP, about as far away from comfort, contentment and consonancy as it is possible to get; as a reaction to the societal norms of the time, it’s as stark and as jarring as they come.

X-RAY SPEX - Germfree Adolescents

The late 1970s in the UK, as in much of the world, were a time of turmoil politically, socially and economically. The Vietnam War had ended in abject failure for the USA, countries in South America had overthrown elected governments and wars started in Angola, Lebanon and the Cold War was at a high point. The enthusiasm and sense of hope that people had felt throughout the 60s was fading as the entire world seemed to be heading toward depression.

Throughout the 70s there was a growth in what would become the dominant form of music, at least in the singles charts, club scene and amongst the young and racially and sexually mixed younger generation of the time. The hedonistic and borderline solipsistic influence of disco presaged the direction the world would take in the coming decade, but in the 70s it was the abandonment of the dominant morals of the time, even if all it amounted to was people dancing and drinking on the deck of a sinking ship; but coming over the horizon were a bunch of bad tempered, ill-mannered buccaneers keen on tearing everything apart.

Punk arrived like a boot to the crotch of society and a lot of people with a vested interest in the status quo felt the pain. Punk shared some elements of the approach to society of disco, and even the hippy movement that went before that, in that it was inclusive, non-discriminatory and wanted to change the society in which it was created, but that was where the common threads ended. Punk lacked the hedonistic sense of the previous sub-culture, chose confrontation rather than peace and an aesthetic of the used, cheap and torn over designer labels and glamour, and few bands would ever express this attitude more than X-Ray Spex.

X-Ray Spex were a political statement as a band, regardless of the music that they would produce. Five teenagers possessing various levels of musical ability fronted by the gloriously named Poly Styrene, a mixed race woman with very obvious braces on her teeth, as a collective they looked like the kids who had become friends because there was no-one else who would be friends with them, possibly because they had something to say and they were damn well going to say it.

The first song that brought the band to the attention of the public was the provocatively titled “ Oh Bondage, Up Yours! ” which started with Poly Styrene speaking the line “Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard but I think; oh bondage up yours!”, with the name of the song yelled into the microphone. This was not a reference to the style of clothing that would become associated with the punk movement, but more to do with a sexual practice favoured by right wing members of parliament; it was also the statement of a rejection of the restrictions placed on women and their place in society. Curiously this track would not feature on their debut album “Germfree Adolescents” but the tone of their debut single would continue throughout.

From the opening track “Art-i-ficial”, with its themes of consumerism and identity, through the final track “The Day the World Turned Day-Glo”, with its imagery of fake products and waste, there is a continuous focus on consumerism, misogyny, authoritarianism and the mental states these factors can induce. “Obsessed With You” turns the normal focus of obsession on its head, foreshadowing the tracking of digital identity across multiple platforms, with the notion that it is those in control who are obsessed with the commercial activities of individuals, an idea that is extended in “Plastic Bag” to the ubiquity of advertising affecting the way people think and see themselves, once again an idea that we would be all too familiar with today. “Identity” expands on these ideas, drawing on representation in media and how that reflects back on those who consume it, often resulting in people adopting false personas in the hope of fitting in or impressing others, as alluded to in “Warrior in Woolworths” and “I Am A Poseur”, the latter being possibly the most self-explanatory of all their titles.

Several tracks on the album, though still dealing with the notions of identity and consumerism, take a darker turn. "Germ Free Adolescents" is about the repressive effects of obeying societal norms, but also reads like a description of OCD, while "I Live Off You" is quite blunt about the way modern society needs to exploit people for gain. “I Can’t Do Anything” speaks of someone who is stuck, unable to progress, with a suggestion of attempted suicide; a description that today would be easily recognised as depression, while “Let’s Submerge” employs imagery of hell, as an allusion to night life and the underground, that would not be out of place in Paradise Lost or The Divine Comedy. “Genetic Engineering” has a strong dystopian, Brave New World influenced feel, but the way the song starts, with Poly Styrene counting to four in German, suggests that there may be a different meaning to a song about science creating “a perfect race”.

“Germfree Adolescents” would be the only album that X-Ray Spex would release, the group breaking up due to the negative attention that fame, however minor, would bring, yet this album would go on to influence bands in the years that followed; not least of which was the Riot Grrrl movement over a decade later, though how much it was an influence is open to debate. They were a different voice in the early punk movement, not as aggressive or confrontational as The Sex Pistols or extremely political as Crass, with much wider musical influences than most punk bands of the time, but what they had to say is still very much relevant to this day

PHIL OCHS, CREEDENCE and the Vietnam War: Effigies in the Static

(MS) 

In 1975, like metal insects fleeing a burning hive, the last helicopters clawed skyward from the U.S. Embassy in Saigon. I was 7 years old. I saw some of it on the news. People clinging to landing skids, the sky thick with smoke. And then a little later, when the milk bottle-top campaign came urging we children to raise funds for the “Boat People”, I robotically knocked on the neighbours doors like some sort of rehearsal for Bonfire night. I look back and reflect on the suffocating irony of the nation asking its innocents to mend the colonial wounds it had covertly helped inflict.

The news doesn’t just repeat, it haunts. It loops in grotesque cycles: reportage, commentary, prediction, reflection… toothpaste ads… and back again. A Sisyphean broadcast of despair. It doesn’t knock politely. It kicks down the door and sits at the dinner table, whispering through the television, humming in the background. The Vietnam war was famously the first and last to be televised live in unfiltered “living color”. Henceforth we learned to look away. And it opened a cultural fault line. A seismic rupture that split generations, ideologies, and identities. It also neatly collided with the golden age of popular music so its impact has been winningly immortalised. Oil barons fed the war machine; Tin Pan Alley fed the charts.

The music didn’t merely reflect the war—it bled from it. From the early ’60s, songs became weapons, shields, elegies. Hawks and doves clashed not only in jungles and on campuses, but in recording studios and radio stations. Jingoistic country and kitsch exploitation discs offered feverish support to “our boys” with sharp kicks to those in dissent. The music of black America offered stoic resignation,

with combatants unsure whether the war was overseas or on the streets of Detroit. Post-war beatnik culture injected irony into the mix whilst the growing horde of pop groups tested their evolving beat, rock, and psychedelic credentials with political sound bites, naïve or otherwise. The result: a sonic civil war—an echo chamber of rage, satire, grief, and defiance. Buffy St Marie sang about the unending futility of the “Universal Soldier”, Jan & Dean responded with the “Universal Coward”. Barry McGuire offered the “Eve of Destruction”, The Spokesmen answered with the “The Dawn of Correction”.

Though outnumbered the folk tradition prevailed with the revolutionary charge. Pete Seeger, Tom Paxton, Ewan MacColl, Joan Baez and Bob Dylan, or more accurately, “the young Bobby Dylan,” as quipped by Phil Ochs in the live intro to “The Ringing of Revolution”. The war was soon becoming a catalyst for bigger issues and the songs began to reflect this. In this one the peasants rise with burning torches encircling the cornered bourgeois. Ochs inspiration may have been the climax of Frankenstein but his ideas for a film version are pure Bunuel. The mob resembles Lee Marvin, Frank Sinatra plays Castro, and to great mirth, “John Wayne plays Lyndon Johnson… and Lyndon Johnson plays God!”

Ochs met his audience with humour, but his songs cut deep;  razor blades wrapped in melody. His inclusion of Wayne is telling. For all his firebrand fury, Ochs was a man of contradictions: a nationalist, if not patriot, who idolised Wayne and Gary Cooper through a childhood steeped in cinema. His song "Love Me I'm a Liberal" might have been a self-deprecating joke, but by the end of the decade, his ego was so consumed by despair, he began taking world events as a personal affront. By 1969 the pre-amble to “I Ain’t Marching Anymore” makes it crystal clear, I ain’t joking anymore.

But 1969 was the year of Creedence Clearwater Revival. A California band with a bible-belt fetish, whose alchemy turned swamp rock into gold. At Woodstock, they headlined, though you may not know it. They took the stage after midnight, following an exhausting Grateful Dead set that drained the energy from the multitudes. Creedence blocked their appearance in the film as a result. The subsequent release of their Woodstock set bears witness to their power: studio precision fused with blistering acid rock abandon, a band demonstrating they could extend their repertoire as ably as any of their peers if required.

Over time, Creedence became indelibly linked to Vietnam via the medium of film. Coppola led the charge in Apocalypse Now, featuring a Creedence-style version of “Suzie Q” whilst Playboy bunnies foreshadowed a Saigon-esque stage exit under the cover of Bill Graham’s smoke bombs. But their connection to the conflict was more than their soundtrack omnipotence.

Last night
I saw the fire spreadin' to

The palace door.
Silent majority
Weren't keepin' quiet
Anymore.

Who is burnin'?
Who is burnin'?
Effigy.
Who is burnin'?
Who is burnin'?
Effigy.

“Effigy”, the final track on Willie and the Poor Boys, closed that album like a funeral dirge. It echoes Ochs in its wider summary of where things were heading but bereft of his irony, save a deceptive opening chord progression that’s almost baroque. It’s like a bar-room philosopher’s weary end of night rant, tossed off in a crushing minor key, each bass note like racked-up shots of bourbon, dragging the listener deeper into the mire. The song’s structure mirrored its lyric and the extended frenzied guitar solo burns like the wildfire spreading outwards from the White House lawn. It deliberately takes its time to fade, the flames engulfing Maryland…Pennsylvania…the Carolina’s…Georgia…Apocalypse now indeed:

Songwriter, John Fogerty has said the song was written in response to the President’s glib admission to watching the baseball on TV while anti-war protests raged just beyond the Oval Office. But the lyrics suggest something deeper. The reference to Nixon’s appeal to a “silent majority”, may be a reference to the very audience that fuelled CCR’s success rather than the distant middle-classes. The band’s working-man - blue-collar, checked shirt “look” appropriated later by Neil Young and Springsteen - was central to their appeal. “Wrote a Song for Everyone,” he sang on an earlier album, and here he may be mourning a nation unravelling toward unthinkable anarchy, a view at odds with the cataclysmic Yippies and Panthers.

Fogerty’s lyrics are cryptic, evasive, as if unwilling to name the monster outright. Whatever the intent, the performance is a jarring counterpoint to the band’s usual upbeat paeans to soulful back-wood life. File next to “Gimme Shelter’” in the list of sermons evoking society on the brink.

As if to emphasise the not un-coincidental impact of the war on culture, Michael Herr, war correspondent for Esquire noted;

“Out on the street I couldn’t tell the Vietnam veterans from the rock and roll veterans. The sixties had made so many casualties, its war and music had run power off the same circuit for so long they didn’t even have to fuse.”

As the returning grunts made their perilous odyssey “back in the world”, Creedence Clearwater Revival tore themselves apart in a bitter financial civil war. John Fogerty became crippled by a predatory record contract, that dragged him into a years-long, soul-crushing legal battle that ultimately drove him to bankruptcy. In 1975 as those helicopters exited Saigon there was no solace in the hollow echo of war’s end. At a Central Park victory concert, the fragile facade was palpable. Folk veterans like Pete Seeger and Joan Baez played to a crowd weary and scarred by the conflict. Their voices, once full of youthful protest, now carried the heavy weight of a nation’s exhaustion. In this void stood Phil Ochs, a man already a casualty of the era’s dark undercurrents. A brutal mugging, rumoured to be the work of a deeper, more sinister (central) intelligence, had shattered his spirit and damaged his vocal chords. Ochs, a ghost of his former self, had lost his fire. A year later the final curtain dropped, and he took his own life, a sombre footnote to a war that had devoured so many.

And the cycle continues and the News continues to haunt. Kabul echoes Saigon: departing imperialists abandon the desperate. The President remains mired in scandal, the corruption leaks. The proxy wars proliferate and nations divert funds to the military. The sides are forming. The protesters are arrested, the children are bombed, the politicians are jailed…or shot… The helicopters rise again, but this time, the world turns its back on the refugees in the small boats. And in South East Asia fire engulfs a parliament building.

The effigies still burn.

(PS)

They do say that adversity promotes creativity. It’s perhaps no co-incidence that the mid-60s to early 70s was both the era of the Great American Protest Song and for many, the golden age of popular music.

There were different sides to this: for the pseudo-intellectuals and draft card burners, there was the snarky, off-beat humour of Arlo Guthrie or the flat-out, right-on hectoring of Jefferson Airplane. Creedence Clearwater Revival were something different though: they seemed to hold up a mirror for the working man, the ones on the front line, and speak to them directly about their situation.

They mixed it up with lighter moments too, though: so for every Fortunate Son, there’s a Down on the Corner; for every Run Through the Jungle, there’s a Lookin’ Out My Back Door. Almost like they’re saying “yeah things are really shit, but we make the best of it, don’t we?”. Grounded, matter-of-fact, broad-shouldered acceptance, but celebrating the tough characters with the grit and determination needed to weather such storms without crumbling in the face of adversity.

Ramble Tamble is a stark picture of blue collar America, framed as a country rock diatribe – as if Johnny Cash played a Les Paul through a Marshall stack. It’s as grim a view as you could want, with all the ‘roach in the cellar/bugs in the sugar’ references. There’s little political commentary or judgement there, it’s just telling it how it is… which for those who didn’t have the will or capacity to engage politically, allowed the band to connect with its audience and let them feel as if someone was speaking for them, in their language and on their terms.

There is a hint at a political jab, with the line ‘Actors in the White House’… naturally before an actual actor shuffled in there, I think we can safely take this to mean ‘liars/dissemblers’… jeepers boys, wait until Watergate. But despite the hopeless feel of the lyrics it’s all major key, upbeat, ‘hey what are you gonna do?’ stoicism. Even the incredible, brooding middle section only has an A minor as its tonic, but the C, G & D are all major… almost willing its listeners to breathe deeply and trudge on regardless.

Effigy is darker though. The violent imagery in the lyrics harks back to America’s shameful past with its pre-civil rights lynchings, but is mirrored in the horrific contemporary news clips of Vietnam villages being put to the torch. It’s warning about othering, either at home or abroad, and how easily it can creep into society.

It hints at an insidious fear, a hatred lurking in the underbelly of the population, just waiting to bubble over. It seems to start at the top, with the ‘fire burning on the palace lawn’, but it soon seeps down to infect the working classes. Eventually the whole nation is engulfed and there’s little remaining of what the country used to be… ‘few were left to watch the ashes die’.

Pretty chilling stuff… if only there were some parallels we could draw nowadays, on either side of the Atlantic.

(LK)

Oh what a lovely war!

We all know the scene by now; the camera pans across a South - East Asia village hidden away in the jungle, a river flowing placidly at the edge of the shot when, so very faintly at first, as if at the very extent of your hearing, you hear the opening bars of…

Well you can insert the song of your choice at this point, as long as it is era appropriate of course. Many will be thinking of songs concerning the decision to paint doors a chosen colour, or perhaps the possible dispensation of favour in regard to offspring, but let’s not limit ourselves by the imagination of others. Regardless of the music chosen, the place of the Vietnam war in popular culture is due almost entirely to the portrayal seen in films and music plays a large part in that portrayal.

The Vietnam war was unique at the time, never before had a war been featured so heavily on television, whilst at the same time raising huge objections within the general populace. For a country so steeped in patriotism, it was a shock to the system of a nation to see death and destruction on TV and thousands of dead bodies returning. At the same time there was a growing disaffection with government and major changes in society in general. Along with the ability of the media that allowed these images into every household, there was also the ability that allowed people to send their messages across the airwaves. Small radio stations across America were popping up and playing music that was being created in homes, schools and garages by a generation that was no longer sure that the old rules applied to them. A generation that would soon find themselves being shipped off to a country they probably couldn’t find on a map to fight people they knew nothing about.

Teenagers were having to face the idea that they could be the next one coming home in a bodybag and they were very pissed off about it. So what do people who have no power or influence do when faced with the horror of destruction? They shout about it as loudly as they possibly can, by protesting in the streets an protesting on vinyl, even if much of the music that has become associated with the Vietnam War is not concerned with the war itself. The music that has become associated with it, at least in the minds of the general public, is the music of the counter culture which, almost by definition, is not the most popular music of the time. It is almost as if what people think of the music linked to the conflict has been filtered through a cultural obsession with the social eruptions throughout the 1960s.

To say that America has an obsession with the Vietnam War is one hell of an understatement. Since the war ended they have been making films about it, about the people who fought in it and films which feature it in some way; it’s almost like a box of chocolates with a dark heart and every one of them makes music one of the strongest features. The music is rarely diegetic in nature, though apparently, if we were to believe what we see in films, the American military makes an exception for German opera, but tends toward music from the period which helps to situate the action in time, or possibly just preferred by the director to try and help with the story and it is this, more than how popular the featured music had actually been, that lives on in the minds of the people watching the movies.

The Vietnam war has had a significant effect on popular culture, but rather indirectly as it is not the actual war which has had the effect, but rather the portrayal of the war after the fact. What has been seen on screen, that also comes with a healthy helping of music from the period, is what lives on in the minds of those who see it and, with the great renown many of these films possess, each generation discovers these films and music that they might never have heard of otherwise

ERIC CLAPTON -10 GREAT tracks 1968-74

SCOTT WALKER - Scott 0

SIDE ONE

SIDE TWO