(Buddah)
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
Outwardly, there isn't anything strange or special about 1910 Fruitgum Co. except possibly their following, which extended to the first generation of NYC punk bands. That aside, a glimpse seems to reveal the archetypal Buddah Records bubblegum raunch. It's hard to know what the hierarchy was in the '60s at a label like Buddah, so completely at odds with our modern understanding of how the business works. But much as the studio system led to the creation of many a masterwork in 1930s Hollywood, the assembly line, individuality-crushing drudgery of Buddah accidentally wrought a solid enough discography for one of its indistinct brand names to produce one of the most delightful greatest hits albums I've ever heard.
The Company were a legitimate band, guitar player and everything, at first. But as they got folded into the machine, their origin tale lost its relevance; one of the group's best singles, "Indian Giver," was recorded by a wholly different set of people. This best-of disc has an impact that will make any advocate for musicians' rights shriek in horror -- it defines anonymity as a treasure and a miracle, and it makes not giving a shit about who's really responsible for these top tunes feel really fucking euphoric and grand.
The architects whose names will be on the test are Jerry Kasenetz and Jeff Katz. These guys used to work at Cameo-Parkway, label of such pure pop luminaries as Chubby Checker and ? & the Mysterians; at Buddah, they set themselves up as production and A&R bubblemen, shepherding bands of dubious existence such as the Ohio Express to superstardom with insipid singles. Somehow, coincidentally or not, the best songs they had lying around tended to end up with the Fruitgums. These non-people, these robots, these sub-Archie cartoons had some surprisingly innovative and smartly presented tracks in their heyday.
Another prime difference is that the vocal tracks on the Fruitgum singles are far less insufferable than those of their AM peers; Ohio Express, the Archies, and even the Monkees. All sang with a supercharged nasal whine like Mike Love on uppers; Floyd Marcus or whoever the hell sings the early cuts sounds more invested in his work, and his replacement gets the same feeling across as the "group" competes for a share beyond the disposable pop market with more overtly psychedelic and oddball material, sort of the Box Tops' marketplace. You can hear this on "Mighty Quinn," which matches that blue-eyed soul pastiche with a vague leftfieldness that's sort of a Fruitgum theme, or on the audacious "Quick Joey Small," a sort of Sam the Sham meeting Box Tops experiment (with Up with People backing) that actually connects; in this high-pressure commercial environment, the Buddah folks somehow concoct a perfect imitation of a rusty garage 45. ("Don't Have to Run and Hide" is a shameless Remains rip, in fact.)
Because the band is now next to forgotten, most new recruits will arrive courtesy of the acquisition of a Talking Heads bootleg on which David Byrne and company cover "1, 2, 3 Red Light." Without a doubt, the original version is the 1910 boys' finest moment, and it will not disappoint. It's easy to see why the Heads dug it: it's goofy, strangely convicted, awash in procedural nonsense, and gains wonder and joy from evocation of the mundane, the same way Byrne would be, a decade on, celebrating the absurd normalcy of growing up and living in a building. But better yet, the song is a damned giant musically -- that key change tugs and torments -- and, without cloying, will keep a permanent presence in the listener's skull. Almost equally hardcore is "Indian Giver," recorded by a completely different set of individuals, but managing to push onward with the minimal, pulsating chill-funk of "Red Light." "Giver" is louder and rattles the joints a bit more, but the impression is similar -- how can prefab pop be this strong, this entertaining, this convincingly felt, this artful? Maybe it's an accident and maybe it isn't, but these two songs could make any cock rocker doubt his pedigree.
Premiere hit "Simon Says" is less ahead of its time, marked by its obvious Lovin' Spoonful '60s sound, but it does possess the joyously stupid line "I hope the winner will be you," it is top-tier Buddah shit, and the double-time trickery in the fadeout hints at the "Red Light" mastery to come. The promise of that second-biggest hit shines onward to "Goody Goody Gumdrops," frayed Beach Boys junk that displays a comprehension of not just that legendary band's sound but their weird, off-putting intensity. It doesn't quite get there, but it does try. The influence presses on to "Looky Looky," which is really more of a Jan & Dean lift, although its direct cloning is of "Wooly Bully."
The compilation is filled out with covers of other Buddah bands' chestnuts, like "Yummy Yummy Yummy" (which adds more guitar) and "Chewy Chewy" (which doesn't). And some of the songs are indefensibly half-assed ("Pop Goes the Weasel," possibly Nixon commentary, and "Happy Little Teardrops," inexcusable sap). But the overwhelming majority of it is vibrant fun; "Bubble Gum World," the immensely well-written "May I Take a Giant Step," the unheralded classic "The Year 2001," and the breaking, mounting "Candy Kisses" cry out for inclusion on your next mixtape for that Special Person. If they don't like them, they don't deserve you. If you're really brave, allow them to bask in the glow of the total Brian Wilson in sandbox eccentricity of "Sticky Sticky." Don't say I didn't warn you.
Bubblegum wasn't part of my world growing up. I was busy listening to grunge and "alternative rock" or whatever because that was real art, man. What lame causes adolescene provides. I was doing my best to enjoy Pearl Jam while brilliant singles like "I Want It That Way" swirled around me. It's the same thing here. If I were a teenager in 1966 I'd have probably been into the fucking Doors or Jefferson Airplane or something and chortled at the teenage girls grooving to the Monkees and to 1910 Fruitgum Co. Then (hopefully) in 1973 or so I'd look around and think back and suddenly realize that, as ever, the teenage girls were right all along.
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