Category: artists

The Turtles

The Turtles
by Gary Pig Gold

Take a look at the cover of the Turtles’ stunning 1968 album Battle Of The Bands: therein stand not one, not two, but twelve different mock-"Turtles" (one for each song), each posed in an absolutely flawless visual parody of—or was it a tribute to?—one dozen different musical sub-genres and styles.

While this delightful ruse may have provided a hearty premise for—gulp—another Concept Album (albeit one which, in my less-than-humble opinion, far out-surpassed the Beatles’ comparatively meek Pepper-grinding), beneath all the dress-up fun and games lay a more than telling element of ironic, bitter truth.  For the real Turtles indeed spent their entire career struggling to establish a single, all-encompassing identity in the eyes of not only their audiences the world over, but with their long-suffering bosses at White Whale Records, radio programmers everywhere, and perhaps even the actual band members themselves.

In fact, the band’s very origins seem mucho-schizo to say the least: springing to life in Los Angeles circa 1961 as a rough ‘n’ ready instrumental combo (the Nightriders), they soon transformed themselves into a real-life surf band (the Crossfires), later tried their hand at folk music (as the Crosswind Singers, would you believe), were also known to show up at local bowling alleys pretending to be Gerry & the Pacemakers, then finally settled on the hallowed Turtles moniker (though almost the Tyrtles) upon signing with White Whale in 1965.  Their first hit, a Top 40-friendly cover of Dylan’s "It Ain’t Me Babe," was quickly followed by a P.F. Sloan sound-alike ("Let Me Be") and then the incredible, edible "You Baby."

The latter, also from the pedantic pen of Sloan, was an absolute, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-ears candy-rock delight, and its cheery combination of one-handed keyboard licks atop "Hang On Sloopy" thump-and-strum was soon heard reverberating throughout all the biggest and best hits of the Ohio Express, Fruitgum Co., et al et al.  But by this time (1967-68), the Turtles had already turned to New York writers Gary Bonner and Alan Gordon for their next two mega-smashes, "Happy Together" and "She’d Rather Be With Me."

It was right about now that the Turtles—always a super-slick and hard-hitting live act—began defiantly expressing more of their road-tested (and quite often far-out-there) chops on vinyl as well.  Despite the fact that their producer Joe Wissert was reportedly spending an inordinate amount of time reciting poetry and eating gingerbread bats when he should’ve been knob-twiddling, "She’s My Girl," "Sound Asleep" and even the infamous "Umbassa And The Dragon" were worthy enough to earn the respect of such highly-coveted peers as Frank Zappa (who later employed several post-Turtles in his most popular incarnation of the Mothers of Invention) and Ray Davies (who accepted a rare non-Kink production assignment when offered the chance to record the Turtles’ final album).

Yet White Whale, a small label solely dependent upon the Turtles for their financial bread and butter, just wanted lots more "She’d Rather Be Happy"-sounding smashes.  Oh yeah?  Well!  So group leaders Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan, butts against the wall (but with tongues very firmly in cheek) simply responded one night by writing the million-selling, wholly-bubble-worthy "Elenore": a hit so insidiously innocuous that it landed the band a chance soon afterwards to perform at the Nixon White House!

This being the late sixties however, gigs at Tricia Nixon’s prom were not the kind of events any well-respecting band wore on their denim-tattered sleeves.  So as the Turtles’ hair and beards—to say nothing of their songs themselves—grew ever longer and less manageable, and while hundreds of thousands of dollars in royalties due from White Whale still seemed lost in the ether, our boys finally tired of bucking the system and bitterly disbanded in 1970.  It was a dark day indeed for not only bubblegum, but for mankind in general.

Able to toss off cheerful Top 10 hits at the drop of a Nehru hat, then reply with such intricate, multi-layered gems as "Grim Reaper Of Love," the Turtles certainly could, without a doubt, be considered true purveyors of bubblegum at its ultimate, cleverly-crafted  stickiness.  These many different faces—and facets—of the Turtles also provide a textbook overview of how, and most importantly why, "image" has forever remained at the very core of any band’s acceptance and ultimate success.  Many of bubblegum’s greatest, from the Monkees and Partridges to even the Spice Girls and beyond, have obviously learned important lessons from the Turtles’ hard-wrought lessons.

The Sopwith Camel

Medium Image

The Sopwith Camel
by Kim Cooper

Although they recorded for Kama Sutra, and their sole hit had the traditional double-barreled name, the Sopwith Camel was emphatically not a bubblegum band.  What they were were mid-sixties San Francisco misfits, a little too weird for that scene, who scored a big hit single with a New York producer and broke up so quickly that they barely finished their album.  

Nevertheless, people continue to lazily lump the Sopwith Camel in with the bubblegummers, and not entirely without reason.  Most Kama Sutra acts had hardcore kiddie appeal, and the Camel was no exception.  Their charming, retro songs would go over nicely during kindergarten quiet time.  And like all the best bubblegum bands, they were brought to New York at a producer’s behest, only to have everything go wrong.  If not truly of the genre, we’re willing to peg them as bubblegumesque.

Band leaders Peter Kraemer and Terry MacNeil met in a bookshop in 1966.  Terry was a student at the San Francisco Art Institute, and Peter was from a bohemian Virginia City family—although he’d moved away before the Red Dog Saloon became hepcat-central during the Charlatans’ tenure.  Drummer Norman Mayell had played with Mike Bloomfield and Charlie Musselwhite in Chicago before moving west to hanging out with the Kesey crowd.  Martin Beard was British, seventeen, and the bassist, natch.

Kraemer had been living with Chet Helms in the Haight when the latter was trying to launch a new group.  Names were bandied about, and Kraemer’s suggestion was mocked for being “trite and dumb”—so Helms’ group became Big Brother and the Holding Company (sheesh) and Kraemer remembered Sopwith Camel when he formed his own band.

Things started happening for the Camel once occasional bassist Bobby Collins sent a demo tape including “Hello, Hello” to Lovin’ Spoonful producer Erik Jacobsen.  Jacobsen—a visionary who had left his bluegrass band after hearing the Beatles, and who collaborated with John Sebastian to forge a distinctly American brand of folk’n’ roll —smelled a hit with this light-hearted, retro ditty, and invited the group out to New York.  They signed with Kama Sutra, making them one of the earliest SF bands with a record deal.  They’d never quite fit in with the other San Francisco bands, and “selling out” to an East Coast producer ensured that this remained the case.  Nonetheless, the Victor Moscoso cover art on their album was one of the first instances of mass exposure for an underground cartoonist from the SF scene.

Sure enough, “Hello, Hello” made the Top 10.  Their album, recorded as the group was disintegrating in unfriendly Manhattan, is a delightful old-timey idyll mixing moments of whimsy with some nifty oddball rock’n’roll.  Kraemer’s flapper vocal stylings and romantic lyrics are well-served by the organ grinding band.  You can see why Jacobsen liked them—they’re much closer to the Spoonful in their sense of play and wit than to any of the super-serious Bay Area bands.  After recording a couple of Levis ads, the band split up.  They reformed around 1971, prompted by Burger King’s use of “Hello, Hello” as a commercial jingle, and went on to record one well-reviewed space-rock LP with Jacobsen, The Miraculous Hump Returns from the Moon (Reprise, 1973).

The Lost Feature: Tommy Roe, Brian Hyland, Tommy James & the Shondells

An Appreciation of Tommy Roe, Brian Hyland, Tommy James & the Shondells and other primordial examples of bubblegum
by Domenic Priore in conversation with Shelly Kidd

Domenic Priore: We were trying to figure out what separates the British Invasion groups from the ’60s Garage Punk bands in America that followed, and when you said “they warped it with Chili Dogs” that pretty much says it all

Will the Real Ohio Express Please Stand Up?

Will the Real Ohio Express Please Stand Up?
by Becky Ebenkamp

Dean Kastran and Joey Levine never performed side by side on a stage, nor have they ever recorded a song together. Yet simultaneously throughout the late 1960s, both were members of same band, and each could claim some responsibility for its success: Dean as the face, a good-looking kid in a Midwestern rock group lured into a contract by the Super K Productions team, photographed for record covers and then shanghaied into a life of nonstop touring. And Joey as the studio whiz kid, songwriter, and famous, distinctive voice of

The Monkees: Bubblegum Or Not?

Good Clean Fun
Carl Cafarelli and Gary Pig Gold wonder out loud, The Monkees: Bubblegum Or Not?

Vilified since their very inception (circa 1965 within the television division of Columbia Pictures), yet forever being rediscovered and embraced by new generations of pop fans and/or cable addicts the world over, the Great Debate persists: Were the Monkees nothing but a crude, calculatingly crass hoax foisted upon those least-musically-discriminating within the eight-to-fourteen-year age bracket? Or were the Monkees actually a pretty cool buncha guys whose origins may have been suspect, but whose contributions to popular culture are formidable and wide-ranging indeed not to mention no less worthy than, say, Wham!

The Lemon Pipers

The Lemon Pipers
by Gary Pig Gold

The Lemon Pipers are a perfect example of a band confidently launched atop, quickly constrained within, then ultimately torpedoed by that deceptively friendly tag we call “bubblegum.” Although their one and a half hits continue to highlight Super K-stuffed compilations the world over (and rightfully so), many of this same band

1910 Fruitgum Co. Liner Notes

Click to purchase The Best Of The 1910 Fruitgum Company


THE 1910 FRUITGUM CO. by Kim Cooper

A thick pink strain of bubblegum music came oozing out of the world’s AM radios between 1967 and 1969, giving little kids something to pound their Mickey Mouse spoons about, and making critics groan. If you followed it back to the source you’d find New York City, and the studios rented by independent producers Jerry Kasenetz and Jeff Katz. Under their supervision a revolving crew of bands, session players and writers knocked out giddy pop songs that mixed garage band riffs and nursery school rhyme schemes with deliciously catchy results.

By late 1967, Kasenetz and Katz were anxiously seeking hitmaking bands that could be paired up with writers in their Super K Productions stable. They’d already mined the teen clubs of central Ohio to come up with the Music Explosion, Ohio Express (originally Sir Timothy & the Royals) and Lemon Pipers (Ivan & the Sabres), but their next discovery would be found much closer to home.

Supposedly Jeff Katz’ dad met several members of Jeckell & the Hydes (previously known as the Lower Road, and the Odyssey) in a Linden, New Jersey diner, and passed their number along to his son; later, the producers heard them play at a house party. Kasenetz and Katz flipped over Mark Gutkowski’s boyish voice, and quickly signed the band to a production contract. With a little work, they’d become the third act in the mega-selling Buddah bubblegum triumvirate that included the Ohio Express and Lemon Pipers.

Of course that retro garage band name had to go, and “1910 Fruitgum Co.” fit right in with the other sugary Kasenetz and Katz confections. PR legend has it that rhythm guitarist Jeckell named the Fruitgums from an old gum wrapper found either in a suit pocket or an attic trunk (possibly both).

The 1910 Fruitgum Co. had their first hit with the immortal “Simon Says,” a song K&K had been trying to place for some time. The kindergarten game lyrics set to a chugging garage rock organ riff set the stage for much of their future activity. They quickly established themselves as the most childlike of the bubblegum bands, their singles filled with babyish games and infantile alliteration. Album tracks revealed more adult themes, sometimes disturbingly fused with references to a loved one’s yummy candy sweetness. With these guys, you never knew if they were about to kiss a girl or take a bite!

But even the singles were more suggestive than they appeared on first glance. The lyrics of “1-2-3 Red Light” are less a schoolyard game than the sound of a boy wearing down his sweetie’s resistance through constant begging, with the threat of a break up if she doesn’t put out.

Every time I try to prove my love
1-2-3 Red Light, you stop me…
If you stop me again
That’s when we might end
So please don’t refuse

And in the sorta-psychedelic “1910 Cotton Candy Castle,” the promise of candy seems to carry a distinctly phallic subtext when Mark croons: “Here comes the Lollipop Man in his goody ship Lollipop/ all aboard for lollipop land where the lovin’ never stops.”

For their first few (most bubblegummy) albums, the 1910 Fruitgum Co. was officially made up of the old Jeckell & the Hydes lineup. This was Mark Gutkowski (vocals/ organ), Frank Jeckell (vocals/ rhythm guitar), Floyd Marcus (vocals/ drums), Steve Mortkowitz (bass) and Pat Karwan (vocals/ lead guitar). But sidemen were always being called in to play on K&K productions, and there’s some controversy about who played on what. An intermediate lineup was Gutkowski with Chuck Travis (vocals/ lead guitar), Larry Ripley (vocals/ bass/ horn), Bruce Shay (vocals/ percussion), and Rusty Oppenheimer (vocals/ drums). Less than two years on, the hard rocking Hard Ride was the work of Jimmy Casazza (vocals/ drums/ percussion), Ralph Cohen (trumpet), Jerry Roth (vocals/ sax/ clarinet/ flute), Don Christopher (vocals/ guitar), Richie Gomez (vocals/ guitar) and Pat Soriano (vocals/ organ/ piano). Since K&K owned the band name, anyone they wanted could “be” the 1910 Fruitgum Co.

Mark Gutkowski’s singing was the constant on most things released under the 1910 Fruitgum Co. name, but their #5 hit “1, 2, 3 Red Light” was supposedly Gutkowski backed by Vinnie Poncia, Pete Anders and guys from the touring version of session group the Tradewinds (“New York’s a Lonely Town”)-while other sources claim that Gutkowski wasn’t present at all, and the vocals for this song and “Goody Goody Gumdrops” were by “Gumdrops” co-writer Billy Carl.

Personnel matters aside, whoever the 1910 Fruitgum Co. were, they made monster bubblegum records throughout their short career, and the kids loved them. A vintage press release offers the tantalizing claim that their fans threw so much bubblegum (chewed and otherwise) during performances, that a little man had to sweep it up after every show. We also learn a thing or two about the original band members. Frank Jeckell (21) is the oldest, and the one who makes sure the others behave. He digs country music and golf. Pat Karwan (19) surfs, hates diets and airplanes, and chews a lot of gum. He sometimes uses the pen name Scaramuche Quackenbush. Mark Gutkowski (18) likes girls, steak and onions and sheepskin rugs, and hates barbershops and oatmeal. Steve Martkowitz (19) studied art in Paris, and is the silent type. Floyd Marcus (19) is always late, wants to be a great songwriter, hates shredded coconut and likes girls and sports car racing. Such nice boys.

“Indian Giver,” recorded with the middle Fruitgum lineup, proved to be the final Top 10 bubblegum smash for Buddah, first charting in January 1969. The song gives no sign that the power of bubblegum music was diminishing, and that hypnotic tom-tom beat can still stir the blood of tykes and their elders to this day. Master gumsters Bobby Bloom, Bo Gentry and Ritchie Cordell wrote this politically insensitive gem, while Bloom and Gentry wrote the Fruitgum’s final charting hit, “Special Delivery,” and produced both with Cordell.

Like most fads, bubblegum faded out after two years, but the Fruitgum Co. wasn’t quite ready to call it quits. Kasenetz and Katz gleefully told Roctober magazine’s James Porter that the final version of the band nearly got a plum gig at the Fillmore East, a hall far too hip to stoop to booking has-been bubblegummers. But an unlabeled test pressing of the heavier Hard Ride album impressed a booker sufficiently that a show was briefly offered, then immediately retracted when the ruse was revealed.

With that, the 1910 Fruitgum Co. retired, never to be seen again.

Thanks to Carl Cafarelli, Bill Holmes and James Porter.