Best-Albums-You've-Never-Heard Department: The Millennium, Begin

Taking advantage of the temporary slowdown in new releases that tends to follow the Christmas season, I've been once again stocking up on reissues as well as filling in some of the blanks in my collection. And, kicking myself for having put it off so long, I finally snagged one of those "great lost classics" of the 60's that actually lives up to its rep as one of those great fucking records that you just can't believe has been so universally overlooked. The album is Begin by sunshine pop pioneers The Millennium. First released in 1968 and available these days only as part of the 3-cd retrospective Magic Time, Begin, though not for everyone, is a pretty amazing piece of work.
The Millennium were the brainchild of Curt Boettcher, one of the key masterminds of sunshine pop -- the painfully cheesy yet intermittently endearing genre of music characterized by soaring harmonies, sappy strings, hummable memories, and cheery lyrics full of rainbows, love and, well, sunshine. (The Mamas & Papas, the Association [who were often produced by Boettcher], and the Cowsills are some of the better known purveyors of the genre, though the late vocalist/songwriter/producer Boettcher upped the ante a notch by infusing his songs with just a touch of acid-drenched psychedelia.)

After various production duties, Boettcher first assembled studio project The Ballroom around 1966, recording a series of catchy mid-60's pop tunes (pretty much all of which can be found on the Magic Time compilation, including both finished product and demos). Boettcher then hooked up with Brian Wilson partner Gary Usher (perhaps best known for his production work on Pet Sounds, alongside work he did with other bands including the Byrds); the two collaborated on Present Tense, a 1968 album issued under the moniker Sagittarius. Present Tense melded sunshine pop and psychedelia, and included a handful of (slightly) reworked Ballroom tracks. I find the album a tad overrated, though "My World Fell Down" is a fantastic pop track, and "The Truth Is Not Real" is one of the best examples of psychedelic pop ever recorded.

Boettcher then assembled the Millennium, whose Begin was a slight extension beyond Present Tense. There's still plenty of sunshine pop -- in all its cloying glory -- and some straightforward pop; but the real standouts are the more ornate, psychedelic tracks, where Boettcher really worked his way around the studio. The opening couplet of "Prelude" and "To Claudia On Thursday" may be the pinnacle of pop-psych, an unforgettable melody coupled with Boettcher's trademark sunshiney harmoneys and almost Zappa-esque weirdness in the margins. A few other tracks, particularly the run of trippy numbers at the end of the album, are nearly as memorable. Even those put off by the rainbow-happy sunshine pop numbers would have a hard time dismissing the musical near-genius lurking behind much of the album.

Of course, in order to hear Begin, you'll need to invest in the not-exactly-cheap Magic Time, which is probably far more Boettcher than you really need in your collection. (In addition to the Ballroom and Begin discs, you also get a third disc of various Ballroom, Millennium, Sagittarius, and solo Boettcher demos -- some of which sounds plenty nice, but is hardly essential. Plus, a lot of the tracks, particularly the Ballroom singles, are mastered in mono, with a slightly shrill tendency towards the treble.) But if that's what it takes to get your hands on Begin, then fans of well-crafted, lightweight but pleasant 60's pop may want to seriously consider the investment.

Cheney Shoots Companion!

After six years of the most evil, corrupt administration in U.S. history... an administration that routinely lies to the American public, spies on its own citizens, advocates torture, and serves only to enrich its wealthiest supporters... well, news of the Vice President accidentally shooting a hunting companion is almost a nice bit of comic relief, no?

Assorted Crankiness

Sheesh, been weeks since I've been here. But, hey, they're reporting that there are some 27.2 million blogs online right now, so I'm sure the 1 or 2 of you who've stopped by here are managing to keep busy. Plus I had the stomach flu, resulting in the longest period of worshipping at the porcelain altar since college, only without the fun part leading up to it. Fortunately, I've managed to continue to blow $$$ on new tunes, so I'll try to get some new reviews going soon enough.


Stomach flu (mostly) behind me, ducked out for the Jeff Tweedy show at the Fillmore in San Francisco last night. Jeff looked like he had been sharing the same toilet bowl with me, with his face all puffy and pale and his eyes red and one ratty-ass looking beard-like thing on his face, but I'm guessing it was just bad lighting and his post-rehab drug-free existence, as once he took the mic he kicked ass all over the place. You know you own the audience when you're willing to play the encore away from the p.a. system, just you & an acoustic guitar, counting on the crowd to keep quiet enough for it to work. And the audience was the quietest I've ever heard. HOWEVER...

In ranting about PEOPLE WHO MUST DIE in this space before, I've talked about the schmucks who talk through the quiet songs at concerts, and the drunken braindead fratboys who jerk spastically into your space, and so on (none of whom appeared to be at the Fillmore last night, thank God), but allow me now to append the following item:

PEOPLE WHO MUST DIE, #11: Idiots who sing along to every song at concerts. Yes, you, the bonehead about 10 people back from the stage, slightly stage left, Fillmore Auditorium, February 8, 2006: Did I pay $40 (after being fiscally violated by Ticketmaster) to hear YOU sing "Shot In The Arm"? No, I most certainly did not. So shut the fuck up. Yes, we are all so impressed that you have successfully memorized all the Wilco lyrics. Go shout them joyously from the hilltops, from the rooftops, from sea to shining sea, just don't sing them when I'm trying to listen to the guy I did pay to hear. You know, if you want to sing along to "Start Me Up" next time you catch the Stones perform before 60,000 of your closest friends at some [insert name of soon-to-be acquired tech company]-owned stadium, great; it's not going to ruin the atmosphere. But at a small or mid-sized stand-up venue, where your lame-ass voice is every bit as audible as the performer's? Just shove another Bud Light between your lips, or silently mouth the lyrics, or whatever, but keep it to your lame-ass self.


Oh, and speaking of another crappy performance of "Start Me Up" -- it's reassuring to know that these dinosaurs on life-support can still get enough of a rise out of network censors that their lyrics have to get bleeped out of the Super Bowl half-time show. (Then again, since the unimaginable horror of Janet's nipple, it's hard to imagine anything that doesn't scare the shit out of the networks... except, of course, for the commercials, which are free to use as much sexist imagery as their little hearts desire because... well, nipples at the end of a Janet Jackson performance are bad, but nipples hyping beer or cars or Internet companies are good. I guess.) Personally, I would be much more comfortable explaining "You make a dead man come" to my kids than trying explain why Keef looks that way.