PETE BROWN & PIBLOKTO! - Aeroplane Head Woman

 (PS)

I love Pete Brown, but let’s get this straight right from the start: prodigious poet & lyricist though he may be, he should never have been a front man.  

In interview he’s admitted that he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of singing his own songs, and it was only Graham Bond who encouraged him to do so; even his 1987 anthology of the period between 1969-1977 was titled “Before Singing Lessons”. His voice is wavering, often not strong enough to rise above the typically excellent musicians under him and wholly unremarkable in tone or character. Watching footage of Piblokto live on French TV in 1970/71, it is also apparent that his on-stage presence was less Strutting Rock God, more Gnome Attacked by Wasps. 

But after his sublime songwriting partnership with Jack Bruce – both with Cream and on Bruce’s solo albums, including the exquisite Songs for a Tailor – there was a sense that Brown had earned the right to do whatever he wanted (and evidently had the moolah from the royalties to do just that). He formed the jazz/prog band Pete Brown’s Battered Ornaments and released the experimental A Meal You Can Shake Hands With in the Dark in 1969, and was then booted out before the release of the subsequent Mantlepiece LP, his vocals scrapped and re-recorded (Ed. and abysmally) by guitarist Chris Spedding and band name changed to simply The Battered Ornaments. 

Undeterred, Brown formed Pete Brown & Piblokto! and released two LPs in 1970: the jazzy Things May Come and Things May Go… But the Art School Dance Goes On Forever in April, and the somewhat rockier Thousands on a Raft some six months later. Aeroplane Head Woman is the later LP’s opener, and what an opener it is. 

 The riff that opens the song and continues ostinato throughout is a belter: raucous, loud, prickly, awkward, with a dropped beat halfway through to keep you on your toes. The riff is played in unison by organ, guitar & bass and even manages to survive being honked out by Brown himself for one of the repetitions. 

The lyrics, telling the story of a lovelorn woman missing her wartime pilot lost in action some 30 years previous are poignant, aided by the recurring moments of soft reflection in the music – until, POW! on the snare, back to the killer riff and the volume is back up to 10 where it belongs. This loud/quiet/loud pattern also repeats through the song, sometimes lulling you with a false ending, only to shock you back to life like a defibrillator to the heart when it resumes. 

Rob Tait’s drums are lovely and taut, crisp sounding and Steve Glover’s bass walks nicely around them throughout – but the two extended solos are the stars of the show here: first, Jim Mullen’s clean-but-still-gritty guitar is rocky, bluesy but precise and perfectly placed within the chord structure; then after a final verse from Brown, Dave Thompson’s whirling organ storms in and provides a fantastic climax, sometimes echoing parts of the riff, other times pinning you against the wall with its force or providing a calm conclusion to the proceedings. Magnificent stuff. 

Piblokto didn’t last long after Thousands on a Raft; Brown released a few LPs in subsequent years – the most notable collaboration being with Graham Bond in 1972 – before the safety pins of punk did for him in 1977 and he turned his back on music for many years. There’s plenty to delve into with Brown’s various projects & off-shoots if you have the time and patience, but this is perhaps the most accessible place to start. 

(CG)

A sub Troggs (or Wild Ones) riff and vocals from the heyday of archaic rock. The vocals are typical of this genre of British archaic rock, descending (and rising) with male plaintive phrasings that are meant to signify meaningfulness, a stylistic archness that heralded the pathway to supergroups and pomp rock. The lyrics are less than engaging but seeking similarly to be meaningful in that dire sub-sub Bob Dylan style that witters on. The guitar when left to get on with it (which is not often) plays some lively melody sequences but all too soon it is back to the power riffs that become exhausting to listen to. The organ breaks in at certain points but seems to head in other directions to the rest of the band. This is very much from a genre that the Harvest records had a prediliction for that their white male A and R guys of a certain age went for. Not a song I will ever listen to again.

(JS)

“She sits in the city with wings on her mind

 She waits for the birdman who left her behind

 He had to fly almost straight into hate

 There is only one though the race is run

 Pilot of her love feels him far above”

 

Dense, lyrically ambiguous stomper with a distinctive riff that sounds like a Cream coda and a lighter chorus section which prefigures Genesis. The riff spawns an endless guitar solo from Jim Mullen. The organ work by Dave Thompson holds it together. Brown’s vocal is gutsy but tonally minimalist, more of a lyricist than a singer.

(MS)

In the back of “The Torrington” the band wiped themselves down with bar towels and grabbed for cheese sandwiches laid out on a trestle-table. Round the corner the night bus edged its way out. Three shapes slumped deep in their seats on the upper deck. Behind them, Tally-Ho Corner slipped back into its early morning meditative state. Paper blew across the wet pavements, electrified in amber street-light, shining from the evening’s incessant rain.

 

"Not as good as his "Fire" stuff", said Big Barry, pulling at the damp black curls hanging like a storm-raged thicket on his head.

"What "Fire" stuff?"' Replied Colin stiffly, his ears still ringing, his head still bobbing, his chest inhaling the hand-rolled ciggie.

"'Fire'.Y'know with the fucking about with the ...fiery helmet shit"

"That was Arthur Brown, Barry,"

 

The bus lurched on in silence, the gears crunching over the North Circular. Moments passed like Centuries.

"Well who was that then?"

"Pete Brown!" snapped Colin in irritation, the riff from "Aeroplane Head Woman" still rising and receding in his inner ear like sea tide shale washing across a beach. "And sit over there will you...you smell rank"

"What did he do?"

"Can you sit over there for fucks sake?"

 

Rising with a moan Barry slouched heavily into the pale blonde girl staring out the window. "Give us a fag Sue?", he asked.

Fumbling in a Peruvian style woollen bag, the girl produced a crumpled box of Park Drives and shaking, thrust it into Barry's hand. Lighting up with a simultaneous drag and loud exhale, he spluttered on,

"Come on Coll what did he do?", he repeated.

Colin carefully picked a flake of tobacco from his lip, "He was in The Cream".

In his head he re-played the gig, from the riff-heavy opening, through “High Flying Electric Bird” to Brown’s lengthy beat poetry reading of “Politician”. “A sum of his parts” he nodded to himself.

 

The silence cannoned down the length of the bus. Aeons passed.

"Was he the drummer?"

"Of course he wasn't the fucking drummer Barry, he wrote the words. Politician, In The White Room…Sunshine "

 

Suddenly Sue leaned forward. "Gonna puke...gonna puke!"

Barry shot out of his seat banging his head on the roof. Moaning in pain he watched in horror as a psychedelic waterfall of projectile orange filth spewed from Sue's retching throat. Clearing her patterned dress it splattered Pollock-like across the whole right side of Barry’s already soaked afghan coat.

"Foookin’...Hell! Foookin’...Hell!", moaned Barry in slow, pained resignation.

Sue collapsed across the seat, breathing deeply, her teary eyes sparkling with relief. "I feel better", she cooed quietly.

Hands rubbing his head, Barry looked down at himself with wild eyes,  

"Foookin’...Hell! What about me?", he shouted back.

Colin pulled his scarf across his mouth and pulling his knees up to his chin mumbled and pointed, "Sit back there will you, you're stinking the place out".

 

Barry shaking his head, stumbled to the back of the bus and started scraping the vomit from his coat with a fist of discarded Golden Wonder packets. The tiny crisps hung to his coat, giving it the look of a ceremonial gown. From his back seat throne he surveyed his kingdom and boomed down the length of the bus,

"I'm soaking wet, I'm covered in sick, I've cracked me nut….I'm fucked off with all this!"

 

The bus continued its journey creeping up Muswell Hill, then on reaching the Broadway the three of them rose in stages. Colin lead the way, racing down the stairs with the music still pounding in his ears. Sue followed, urgently dragging a plastic comb across her hair.

From behind Big Barry shouted,

"I've just paid 50p to watch someone I've never heard of who couldn't even SING!" Dragging himself heavily down the stairs, he shouted after them, "I'm not even pissed...! I’m not even pissed…! I could have had three pints for that!"

Behind them the doors shut with a thud and the bus edged it's way on towards the Great Metropolis. 

 

Back in North Finchley Pete Brown and band silently loaded the Commer van. A night in Torquay lay ahead.