|
|
Pugsley Munion's album
however wasn't crap. In fact, several songs contain some really quite tasty
guitar work. Furthermore, despite everything you may have read about it to
date, the LP isn't even particularly rare (and neither does it date from
1969 either). Erik Lindgren of Arf Arf Records in Massachusetts tracked down
a stash of original copies crated up in the basement of a record shop in
Pugsley Munion's hometown of Fitchburg a couple of years ago which he
"brokered to a rare-record dealer who will probably leak them slowly into
the collector's market for many years to come", and although he puts the
current value at $35, which is a considerable drop from the $80 to $140
quoted in Borderline's Comprehensive Guide to American Garage,
Psychedelic and Hippie Rock in 1993, I've seen sealed copies regularly
occurring on lists at $25 and even less just recently, leading me to wonder
if Erik's isn't the only stash out there.
My own copy is
certainly not in anything approaching mint condition. In fact, I'd
personally rate it somewhere below "trashed", having played the record
innumerable times down the years and used the sleeve as a temporary work
surface for all manner of nefarious activities. The thing is, I happen to
like this album; I even have a soft spot for the admittedly abominable
mustard-and-ochre cover, with its group photograph featuring the
unfortunately bespectacled and even more unfortunately named guitarist,
'Ducky' Belliveau. Even more quaint is the way the group named the LP after
what is possibly the weakest, but obviously the most ambitious song, 'Just
Like You', a stoned semi-acoustic wander down the vocally dodgy petal-strewn
pathways of their minds. The acclaimed 'Slumberland Blues' is a fairly
straight blues in the Savoy Brown mould — I can never understand why pundits
always pick up on that one as one of the highlights of this LP. The real
winners are the lengthy opening cut 'What's Right For Me' which features
some seriously hunched keyboard work from John Schuller (who wrote, or
co-wrote, all of the songs on the LP as well as playing bass and singing
throughout) and a marvellous, curling guitar break from Belliveau which
flies off at all kinds of unexpected tangents; the six minutes of intense
keyboard, drum and guitar interplay entitled 'No Time Tomorrow' which
successfully evokes the sound of the early Mad River Blues Band (despite
having a guitar break which is at times indistinguishable from that in
'What's Right For Me'), and the compelling, if vocally faltering, closing
number 'I Don't Know Who To Blame' in which drummer Ed — just "Ed" on the
sleeve, no other information is volunteered — drives the final nails into
the coffin as if he knows it's the band's ultimate swansong.
In short, I like this
album, and since that's always been a good enough reason to write about
something in the Terrascope when given half the chance, when I was
approached by Sally Cragin of the New England fiction and poetry magazine
'Button' with the story of Pugsley Munion, I not unnaturally jumped at the
chance. Here's what Sally found out:
"Last winter, on a visit
to the Log Cavern tavern, a tough little roadhouse in Fitchburg (a
working-class city in the north-central section of Massachusetts that saw
better days in the 19th Century), I glanced down at the wooden bar-top,
richly decoupaged with souvenirs. One black and white photograph jumped out:
a studio shot of three weary-looking youths with hip-hugger flares and
bristly muttonchops. "Pugsley Munion", went the photo caption, "J&S
Recording Artists". The guitarist gripped a Gibson SG, and the bassist held
a mid-1960s Fender jazz bass. Clothes and coiffures anchored these guys to a
particular time as unquestionably as candle-lit interiors identify late
Northern Renaissance paintings. Yearning and earnestness shines from their
faces, expressions one seldom sees in young band photos of the 1990s. Was
this just youthful awkwardness, or had they just been 'discovered'? Who were
they?
"Paul Salvatore of
Fitchburg's Music Box provided some phone numbers. One for Schuller and the
other for Ed (Ed. Kelly, as it transpired). And both were local.
"John Schuller roared
with laughter when told the phone call was about Pugsley Munion. 'Boy,
that's going back', he said. He and boyhood friend Ed Kelly started playing
in high school and quickly grafted Ducky Belliveau into the mix. They called
the band Masque. 'We were into weirder kinds of things,' explained Schuller.
'More English, heavier R&B type things. When I put the band together, it was
an experiment. At the time, in the late 60s, you got points for how
different you could be rather than how much you sounded like someone else.
Times have changed now.'
"The lads were students
at Fitchburg High School, played locally at high school dances, where they
acquired a following, and held down after-school jobs at Fitchburg Music.
Although the music they played, heavy on the guitars and energised vocals,
is termed 'garage' the band practised in the Schuller's living room on Cross
Street in Fitchburg. 'We had a full band set-up in a 9 by 12 foot room',
recollected Schuller. 'We were zealous rehearsers, Ed and myself just lived
to play'.
"Then came graduation
for Schuller and Kelly. And, a miracle, a chance connection with New York
producer Zell Saunders (whose daughter wrote a peculiar R&B number, 'Sally
Go Round The Roses'). In 1970, Masque loaded up a truck and headed down to
the city. 'We were in a massive eight-track studio', said Schuller
ironically. 'Wow! In 1970, that was a real big studio. I was nineteen, and
on another planet.' But, trouble ensued. The band had no manager to
negotiate with J&S, who had budgeted a miserable two days for the entire
recording session. 'The songs were pretty well rushed,' recalled guitarist
Ducky Belliveau. 'Mistakes were left in. We'd just go on to the next thing.'
At one point, the band ran out of songs. Slumberland Blues was tacked
on, and when that became the single's B-side, the band was riled. 'That
didn't represent who we were', recalled Schuller. 'We were very disgruntled
— we were supposed to go back in and fix things.'
"Things went from
muddled and hurried to worse. The name Masque had been previously
copyrighted, and they had to come up with a new name on the spot. 'Pugsley
Munion' was a private joke amongst the band, inspired by a Pugsley Street
sign in the city and a Lunenburg patrolman named Munion. [Translation: a
local police officer by the name of Munion. Helpful Ed.] Two hours were
set aside for mixing nine songs; the cover was a photo-collage instead of
their friend Johnny Girouard's pen and ink drawing; and when the original
liner notes were lost, J&S did a hasty reconstruction: hence 'Drums - Ed.'.
The coup de grace came when Schuller called home from New York. His
draft notice had just arrived.
"'That put a quick end
to it', Schuller recalled. He joined the navy, avoided going overseas, and
when he returned he re-joined the band which had carried on without him. 'We
had a real good following and were doing club work. But it kind of burned
itself out', mused Schuller. Although Schuller and Kelly continued to jam
together, Ducky Belliveau was showing more interest in country music.
"These days, Schuller
still jams occasionally with Kelly in his home studio, but makes ends meet
as a realtor and used-car salesman. For many years he played keyboards for
club headliners Calamity Jane and Circus; he also played on Orion The
Hunter's debut in 1985 (Epic). Ed Kelly drums for Monkfish, who tour the
county and beyond, and also installs sun-roofs. Ducky Belliveau added
pedal-steel guitar to his repertoire, is a full-time musician and has
recorded with Beaver Brown, Terence Trent D'Arby and Bill Carson."
Credits: Written and
directed by Phil McMullen, with special thanks to Sally Cragin, the
'Worcester Phoenix', and to Erik Lindgren of Arf Arf Records.
Go back to Index |
|