First in a three part series devoted to Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators
I remember the first time I heard him. I was sitting on the floor of Mistress Olivia’s apartment in Los Angeles, listening to her fabulous collection of records, when I came across a 45 dating back to 1977. It was Bermuda/The Interpreter by Roky Erickson.“Who’s this?” I asked.
“Oh, some guy from Austin Texas,” she said.
We put in on and the most singular music rang out through Olivia’s living room. The grouchy guitar, chorused bass and electric autoharp, ringing out like a peculiar organ, all in a patient rhythm that lingered behind the beat. A dual lead guitar, carving out an oriental melody, covered the wall of sound.
Then came the voice. Unapologetic Texan drawl, without self-conscious affect or strain, dancing around the beat with rush and drag timing, singing unexpected-atypical lyrics. It was music from the soul… but a soul of a strange sort.
The Interpreter, where is he now?
will he burn like the devil?
will he leave Moscow?
His voice has no shame, no plotted direction in terms of style. His emoting, so brilliant, it can only be described as entering his body from heaven, undulated divine, so pure that it must be attacked by demons who torture him into madness.
This chaotic mix of the sublime and grotesque can be heard in the lyrics of his solo career, where good and evil seamlessly blend.
that that is pleasing
that that is real
that that is forever keeps filling never filled
that that snuck up on you in the night
that that you remember him an early child delight
that that was supposed to have frightened you
but somehow you never took to fright
I have always been here before
Roky Erickson is, quite possibly, the most purely open receptacle to the artistic divine in our age. This of course has its challenges, especially when mixed with mescaline and LSD.
The key to understanding Erickson’s music is to know something of his history. He was the lead singer/guitarist of the 13th Floor Elevators, a band widely credited with conceiving psychedelic rock. They certainly coined the term.
The 13th Floor Elevators have made a few albums, so seminal that their influence can be heard in the various artists who shaped the music of the late 60s, 70s and early 80s. Listen to Splash1 and You’re Gonna Miss Me off of Psychedelic Sounds and you can hear where Janis Joplin modeled her vocal styling. Think of ZZ Top when you listen to Reverberation Doubt off the same album, and you can hear the genesis of their sound. Credence Clearwater Revival’s, Born On A Bayou, could have been placed on the album, Bull of the Woods and nobody would have questioned that it wasn’t the 13th Floor Elevators.
After release of the seminal masterpiece, Easter Everywhere, the band’s career was cut short by the strong arm of power, wanting to make an example of the first musical act of the 1960s to openly advocate the use of drugs. Roky was incarcerated in the middle of recording what would have been the album to bring them international fame and sent to Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He was subjected to electro shock therapy and has never been the same.
By the time Erickson was released from Rusk, the sixties were over and he was schizophrenic and unfocused. It wasn’t until the end of the seventies that he was able to resurrect his career, releasing his acclaimed solo effort, The Evil One. After another focused effort, 1986s, Don’t Slander Me, Roky’s schizophrenia completely took hold. He faded into obscurity again, unheard of until he was arrested for stealing mail in 1989.
Roky Erickson didn’t make music again until 1995.
While relishing the sound of his voice and choice of melody, his mid 1990’s cd, All That May Do My Rhyme, wasn’t up to par with past recordings like, The Evil One or Easter Everywhere.
So it happened. I had heard he was better, had gotten treatment and was back in the studio, paired with artistically compatible musicians. I was in a meeting when I heard the news about the new cd, Love Cast Out All Evil. It’s title gave me hope that maybe the demons were gone, leaving only the angels to sing through his voice, infusing my speakers with an ocean of love. Can we go back? Is there anything left of the cultural revolution of the 1960s? Would this record be another attempt by opportunists or zealous fans to take advantage of a mentally disabled person?
There have been so many bad lo-fi impromptu recordings to come out over the years. “Hey Roky, if we buy you a burger, will you play guitar and sing into this cheap mic?” Or would it be his first proper recording since the Evil One or Easter Everywhere?
Can love really cast out all evil? I had to find out so in the middle of my meeting, I called up the folks at Toronto’s Beach City Music, (Michael, Brett and L.P.) demanding that they get me a copy. Sensing my urgency, Beach City Music delivered it the next day.
I gazed at the jacket, the aging Roky, staring at me with eyes that can see apparitions from beyond. I was afraid to listen. When I did, I was amazed. It was true- Easter is everywhere.
This record is a journey, an autobiographic descent into a deranged hell and back. And like Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, it’s meant to be listened to in one sitting, preferably with headphones.
The record opens with a recording made back when Roky was incarcerated at Rusk, the guitar, crudely recorded. And then that voice, a cherub; pure sweet and innocent, struggling to deny the subversive spiritualism that had been fueling his madness.
For Jesus did not, and does not,
And shall not slay any persons
As somewhere was falsely written.
And, too, as Jesus is not a hallucinogenic mushroom
Don’t wait for Christ to come-
He has already risen.
(References to The Infancy Gospel of Thomas and John M. Alegro’s The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross)
Mellatron overdubs were mixed into the scratchy recording, creating the most beautiful music ever to be captured on a Radio Shack cassette recorder. I wept, the melodic sweeps controlling my emotions through divine intervention. At the song’s end, the sublime gave over to a cacophony of noise and feedback, a re-creation of Roky’s own deranged perception.
Then came the song, Ain’t Blues Too Sad? His voice, wrecked from age, has yet to lose the ability to emote. They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore.
When Roky sings:
Electricity hammered me
Through my head
Until nothing at all
Is backwards instead,” you can almost visualize him being driven to the insane asylum and led from the electro shock room into the mundane routine of his inmate existence. He’s weary, yet optimistic and ultimately, a survivor.
From Goodbye Sweet Dreams to Be and Bring Me Home, or the majestic Forever, Roky has (brought) Back the Past, restoring his rightful place as the father of psychedelic rock and a cultural icon. Remember, God Is Everywhere and True Love Cast Out All Evil.
