George who? Well, you might have known him better as the Commander, Cody, that is, the laconic, cigar chomping leader of his Lost Planet Airmen, that ragggle taggle collective of country memes and influences that beguiled and bemused many an otherwise country music loathing audience across the swathes of the 20th century's last three decades. I loved 'em, but you might have known that.
Frayne started the band back in Ann Arbor, Michigan, as a way of getting some beer money whilst pursuing his studies, first a BA in design, topping that with a masters in sculpture and art, two years later, in 1968, before an initial foray into teaching. However, sensing an audience for the manic fusion of country, rockabilly and western swing, he and his like minded compadres did a bunk to Berkeley, during 1969, which is where they stayed, making forever there a little home of red necked hippies in Southern California. A bandleader in the old sense, he was unafraid of the others stealing his thunder, confident and competent enough to give the limelight to the rest of the band, if then to wrest back the crown for one of his idiosyncratic sung-spoken updates of vintage classics. Every album would contain one or two such pieces, like the song above, Hot Rod Lincoln, and the paean to nicotine, Smoke, Smoke, Smoke (That Cigarette). The rest of the booty would be shared out amongst the other front men of the band, Billy C. Farlow, vocalist for the rockier fare, toting a big and unplugged red guitar, and the mighty Bill Kirchen, who could write and croon a country weepy like no other, tongue in cheek, as tears fell down it. Kirchen also possessed an uncanny talent with a telecaster, going later on to have a career of his own, lasting to this day, the self-styled King of Dieselbilly. Having a bevy of ace musicians in the backline can't have hindered either, the likes of Bobby 'Blue' Black on steel and Andy Stein on fiddle and saxophone guaranteeing the chops were as sound as the influences, with second guitar John Tichy, bassist 'Buffalo' Bruce Barlow and drummer Lance Dickerson no small talents either.
Successive record companies, Paramount and then Warner Brothers, had seemingly hoped for some cali country rock to file alongside the Eagles or Poco, which, if nothing else, showed how wrong they had assessed the cut of the band's jib. But, whilst 1971's Lost In the Ozone may have been defiantly different from quite anything else around at the time, it did at least have some minor chart action courtesy Hot Rod Lincoln. Which gave them that extra foot hold to keep doing what they did best. Meanwhile, an ocean away, in the UK, the teenaged me was discovering the pleasures of honky tonks and steel guitar, if only aurally, through the works of Gram Parsons' Flying Burrito Brothers, and I chanced upon a copy of their second album, as entranced by the cover painting as the anticipation off what may lay inside, buying it on spec. Hot Licks, Cold Steel and Trucker's Favorites delighted me and disarmed me in equal doses, the heavy hit of some of the songs initially too "and western" for my untutored ears. Mama Hated Diesels, a brilliantly bittersweet fable from the pen of Kevin 'Blackie' Farrell, had my jaw drop to the ground in horror, momentarily at least, ahead of bouncing swiftly back into a fixed rictus of joy as it progressed. Hook, line and sinker, this was my kind of band, that then cemented by the Live From Deep in the Heart of Texas album. OK, it's true, I was less taken by Country Casanova and Tales From the Ozone, which seemed a little too busily wacky and less authentic, but remember being delighted as a friend picked up the latter, able to further eulogise their earlier works to him.
Which is how, in the spring of 1976 we found ourselves at London's Hammersmith Odeon, the two of us ready and eager for a taste of the live show ourselves. Unbeknownst then, it was from this show that provided the live tapes for (some of) later that years second live recording, We've Got a Live One Here, a double album I had to dig out and play, as I prepared this piece. Surpassing any of my expectations, the band were on fire, the line-up augmented by harmonica maestro, Norton Buffalo. Plus, given both he and Kirchen were also adept trombone players, this gave an opportunity for the Ozone Brass to make their debut, the two 'bones and Stein's sax, for exuberantly OTT takes on western swing staples like San Antonio Rose and Milk Cow Blues. I was in heaven, transported back there by my recent revisiting of the vinyl record.
That was sort of it, the band imploding a not so long thereafter. Frayne kept the Commander Cody title on into a number of lesser bands, but the tide had turned, for me anyway, my ears more keenly attuned to the new wave of artists like Elvis Costello and Joe Jackson. This tended to put my country music aside for a while. Or, actually, until Costello brought it all tumbling back into focus, as he nailed his flag to that mast with Almost Blue. Many, many years later I was lucky enough to have some of my Commander Cody favourites reprised, including, at my request, Mama Hated Diesels, when Bill Kirchen made one of his irregular small club and bar tours of the UK. I was able to chat with him in the interval, as he manned the merch stall, mentioning the tour of all those years before. He said he kept in some touch with the Commander, and had fond memories of those days. Me too. (Here's my review from then.)
Here's a great interview, from 2018, with Frayne, where he too comments on keeping links with Kirchen. And reveals that John Tichy, after the band folded, became a professor of physics. It makes for a more reflective read than the somewhat more effervescent Rolling Stone article of some near 40 years earlier.
R.I.P., George, thanks for the music and all those fond memories.
IN MEMORIAM: GEORGE FRAYNE
George who? Well, you might have known him better as the Commander, Cody, that is, the laconic, cigar chomping leader of his Lost Planet Airmen, that ragggle taggle collective of country memes and influences that beguiled and bemused many an otherwise country music loathing audience across the swathes of the 20th century's last three decades. I loved 'em, but you might have known that.
Frayne started the band back in Ann Arbor, Michigan, as a way of getting some beer money whilst pursuing his studies, first a BA in design, topping that with a masters in sculpture and art, two years later, in 1968, before an initial foray into teaching. However, sensing an audience for the manic fusion of country, rockabilly and western swing, he and his like minded compadres did a bunk to Berkeley, during 1969, which is where they stayed, making forever there a little home of red necked hippies in Southern California. A bandleader in the old sense, he was unafraid of the others stealing his thunder, confident and competent enough to give the limelight to the rest of the band, if then to wrest back the crown for one of his idiosyncratic sung-spoken updates of vintage classics. Every album would contain one or two such pieces, like the song above, Hot Rod Lincoln, and the paean to nicotine, Smoke, Smoke, Smoke (That Cigarette). The rest of the booty would be shared out amongst the other front men of the band, Billy C. Farlow, vocalist for the rockier fare, toting a big and unplugged red guitar, and the mighty Bill Kirchen, who could write and croon a country weepy like no other, tongue in cheek, as tears fell down it. Kirchen also possessed an uncanny talent with a telecaster, going later on to have a career of his own, lasting to this day, the self-styled King of Dieselbilly. Having a bevy of ace musicians in the backline can't have hindered either, the likes of Bobby 'Blue' Black on steel and Andy Stein on fiddle and saxophone guaranteeing the chops were as sound as the influences, with second guitar John Tichy, bassist 'Buffalo' Bruce Barlow and drummer Lance Dickerson no small talents either.
Successive record companies, Paramount and then Warner Brothers, had seemingly hoped for some cali country rock to file alongside the Eagles or Poco, which, if nothing else, showed how wrong they had assessed the cut of the band's jib. But, whilst 1971's Lost In the Ozone may have been defiantly different from quite anything else around at the time, it did at least have some minor chart action courtesy Hot Rod Lincoln. Which gave them that extra foot hold to keep doing what they did best. Meanwhile, an ocean away, in the UK, the teenaged me was discovering the pleasures of honky tonks and steel guitar, if only aurally, through the works of Gram Parsons' Flying Burrito Brothers, and I chanced upon a copy of their second album, as entranced by the cover painting as the anticipation off what may lay inside, buying it on spec. Hot Licks, Cold Steel and Trucker's Favorites delighted me and disarmed me in equal doses, the heavy hit of some of the songs initially too "and western" for my untutored ears. Mama Hated Diesels, a brilliantly bittersweet fable from the pen of Kevin 'Blackie' Farrell, had my jaw drop to the ground in horror, momentarily at least, ahead of bouncing swiftly back into a fixed rictus of joy as it progressed. Hook, line and sinker, this was my kind of band, that then cemented by the Live From Deep in the Heart of Texas album. OK, it's true, I was less taken by Country Casanova and Tales From the Ozone, which seemed a little too busily wacky and less authentic, but remember being delighted as a friend picked up the latter, able to further eulogise their earlier works to him.
Which is how, in the spring of 1976 we found ourselves at London's Hammersmith Odeon, the two of us ready and eager for a taste of the live show ourselves. Unbeknownst then, it was from this show that provided the live tapes for (some of) later that years second live recording, We've Got a Live One Here, a double album I had to dig out and play, as I prepared this piece. Surpassing any of my expectations, the band were on fire, the line-up augmented by harmonica maestro, Norton Buffalo. Plus, given both he and Kirchen were also adept trombone players, this gave an opportunity for the Ozone Brass to make their debut, the two 'bones and Stein's sax, for exuberantly OTT takes on western swing staples like San Antonio Rose and Milk Cow Blues. I was in heaven, transported back there by my recent revisiting of the vinyl record.
That was sort of it, the band imploding a not so long thereafter. Frayne kept the Commander Cody title on into a number of lesser bands, but the tide had turned, for me anyway, my ears more keenly attuned to the new wave of artists like Elvis Costello and Joe Jackson. This tended to put my country music aside for a while. Or, actually, until Costello brought it all tumbling back into focus, as he nailed his flag to that mast with Almost Blue. Many, many years later I was lucky enough to have some of my Commander Cody favourites reprised, including, at my request, Mama Hated Diesels, when Bill Kirchen made one of his irregular small club and bar tours of the UK. I was able to chat with him in the interval, as he manned the merch stall, mentioning the tour of all those years before. He said he kept in some touch with the Commander, and had fond memories of those days. Me too. (Here's my review from then.)
Here's a great interview, from 2018, with Frayne, where he too comments on keeping links with Kirchen. And reveals that John Tichy, after the band folded, became a professor of physics. It makes for a more reflective read than the somewhat more effervescent Rolling Stone article of some near 40 years earlier.
R.I.P., George, thanks for the music and all those fond memories.
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