Parliament: Osmium (1970)

(Invictus)

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

Who can count up, and who would care, how much copy was wasted over the years attempting to determine the difference between George Clinton's two same-personnel-different-label outlets, Parliament and Funkadelic? Most of the time, the conclusions could've varied wildly from record to record -- sometimes Funkadelic was "darker," sometimes the opposite; sometimes Parliament was "drugs," sometimes Funkadelic was "sex." What's clear is that the distinction Clinton made between material for the two bands was private to him. The utter lack of daylight, overall, between the two groups prevents one from really considering this Parliament's "debut," as chronologically it follows at least one Funkadelic LP. But with four years to elapse between Osmium and its official followup, and indeed with a spiritual and musical crux more in line with the namesake Parliaments (the R&B outlet that gave way to P. Funk) than with the sister band, it's easy to look upon this obscure oddity as a work apart from the remainder of Clinton's insanely prolific '70s discography. That's a pity, because the record -- without qualification, without need for contextualization -- is brilliant, bearing all the crazed mad scientist genius marks of George Clinton at his best. It deserves to be as known and beloved as any of Parliament or Funkadelic's subsequent classics.

Already, Parliament is -- by the fact of their very existence -- a spit in the face of staid rock conventions that had by 1970 taken firm hold on pop music. Osmium defies all critical conceits coloring FM of the period; when they're not inconsequential, the lyrics are stuboornly banal ("the sink began to think") and the band finds heaviness a thematic tool rather than a sonic end. The intimidation one feels in the militaristic hard rock on "Funky Woman" is all in the space between the instruments, the cumulative effect of the band as an unstoppable unit. The confidence, assurance, swagger that would make George Clinton a major artist of the era is in place on "Moonshine Heather," irresistible sleaze as lazily provocative as any number of P-Funk classics, and proving that Clinton was already proficient and innovative as a producer before Parliament ever played a note. Others could easy channel the melodic "There Is Nothing Before Me But Thang" into a chunky anthem, but Clinton refashions it as towering guitar pop, with a gleeful overflow of effects, that ultimately falls into a glorious VU-like shapelessness fused, improbably, with Deep South gospel. And that's hardly the peak.

Osmium is a thrilling, endlessly surprising record because its songs are all so individualistic, to the point they scarcely seem to belong together -- Parliament's first record is not merely the creation of a grand world, it's the creation of many. You can hear Clinton's joy in subverting and updating his Parliaments formula on "Put Love in Your Life," which opens as a street doo wop hymn but veers nonchalantly into spy-movie melody, organ-driven minimalism, and a triumphantly emotional vocal of soul and sex that underscores, toys with, makes something of the song's craziness and plodding drama, with its epic build and closing guiatr deconstruction subtly offset by shades of Tommy James. This is an LP of head-turning eclecticism and variance even when its genre experiments are not as explicit as the (completely convincing) funk-country-yodeling hybrid "Little Ole Country Boy." Each track is utterly distinct, the crew never stopping for a breather.

If Parliament's artistic peaks come when they are most challenging, the treasure here is "Oh Lord, Why Lord / Prayer," a deeply ironic (in the vein of the Clash's "The Sound of the Sinners") but unfailingly respectful toy piano gospel, allowing a Eurofolk stuffiness to give way to filthy, often out of tune soul. But the pleasures are just as likely to be pure and unvarnished, the undeniable "My Automobile" scoring instantly with its post-modern doo wop, warm humor, atypically simplistic sentiments ("If you be nice to me I'll be good to you / We'll both ride home in my automobile"). If all this occasionally seems inappropriately kitchen-sink, it feels less so the more attention you pay to the Parliaments' silky vocals, which attain a rare spontaneity while sliding in and out of deepest darkest soul with what sounds like little effort, at chugging pace. They can make an emotional crescendo at the snap of the fingers, with expertise and professionalism -- hired funk and sincerity.

Osmium embodies the material for an A+ album to stand with Mothership Connection and Let's Take It to the Stage, but there are a few duds -- opener "I Call My Baby Pussycat" is a noisy hard rock nursery rhyme that's somewhat nondescript musically, and the last two songs are cock rock meandering and sap, despite a memorable chrous and thrilling, sophisticated guitar work on closer "The Silent Boatman." But even with its flaws, the record scores big as the real-time establishment of an artiste, with most if not all of his motifs in place. The songs are lengthy, given room to breathe and wallow in the fear, dread, paranoia that Clinton would make a career of crafting. condemning, celebrating. Even stripped of all context, of all awareness of its place in pop history, though, Osmium is as intensely pleasurable a record as even this master could conceive. A treasure trove indeed, it deserves many times the reputation it holds.