Listen to the Byrds' performances during the Monterey International Pop Festival, and you'll hear David Crosby rambling on between songs, something to the effect of (I don't have the disc at arm's length):

"If you didn't catch Mike Bloomfield's band this afternoon, man, you're really out of it!"

We can conjecture if David might have been a bit out of it himself at the time. But Bloomfield's set was one of the most anticipated events of the seminal June 1967 festival. Certainly, performances by Jimi, Janis and the Who have come down in history as landmarks. But those future legends were relatively unknown in this country in mid-'67 (Joplin's band, Big Brother & the Holding Co., was pretty much unknown outside of San Francisco).

Bloomfield, on the other hand, had staked out the reputation at the time as THE American rock guitarist. His groundbreaking work on the Les Paul with the Butterfield Blues Band established a template that others would strive to follow as the '60s brought exciting new players to the forefront. His sonic explorations on his instrumental composition "East-West" still send chills up the spine almost 40 years after the studio version was cut. And thanks to Butterfield keyboard player Mark Naftalin, a collection of three live versions is available - raw recordings, to be sure. But as an extremely musical knowledgeable friend remarked the first time he listened, "That's some of the most intense stuff I've heard in a long time."

By the time of Monterey, Bloomfield had staked out on his own, forming a band that would play the single gig at Monterey and split, according to contemporary reports. But that aggregation - which also included Nick Gravenites on vocals, Buddy Miles on drums, Harvey Brooks on bass and a horn section - decided to keep going, taking as a name the Electric Flag (subtitled "An American Music Band": They apparently set out to define the new sound of this nation).

The Flag cut a soundtrack album for a film called "The Trip" (wonder what that was about), then released its proper debut in 1968, appropriately titled "A Long Time Comin'." The opening grooves of the LP feature the voice of one Lyndon Baines Johnson, a bit of crowd noise, then the blast of the horn section. Out of all that comes Bloomfield's guitar, screaming out the theme of a rollicking version of Howlin' Wolf's "Killin' Floor."

It's a great start, and although the album has its ups and down, it indeed shows a new way, integrating the blues-band-with-horns concept into the rock world. A couple of fellow Columbia Records artists followed suit: Al Kooper with Blood, Sweat & Tears, and a guitar whiz named Terry Kath and a bunch of his cohorts calling themselves Chicago Transit Authority.

None of it lasted. The Flag was the first to go, as Bloomfield departed shortly after the release of "A Long Time Comin'." He joined forces with Kooper after he parted ways with his band, playing on the hit "Super Session" together (at least until Bloomfield couldn't continue and Stephen Stills finished the gig).

BS&T recruited new lead singer David Clayton-Thomas, scored several hits on an album that sold in the stratosphere, but the band's popularity wasn't sustained.

As for the third band with horns, after one exceptional album as Chicago Transit Authority, it shortened its name, released one more really stellar record, then followed up the next three-and-a-half decades with ... well, everyone has his own opinion. Most of it has been without Kath, who died of an accidentally inflicted gunshot wound in 1978.

Bloomfield's tale also is sad. The man who was so highly regarded in '67 was practically ignored by '70, as some solo work for Columbia didn't sell too well. Other projects during the decade included a short-lived reunion of the Flag, an equally short-lived collaboration with John Hammond Jr. and Dr. John called Triumvirate, and solo albums on some minor labels.

Shortly after the release of one such effort, called "Cruisin' for a Bruisin'," Michael Bernard Bloomfield was found dead in the seat of a car. He was 37.

But check out his work, especially on the first two albums by the Butterfield Blues Band. That way, David Crosby won't think you're out of it.

The name Slick is legendary in rock music annals.

Attach it to Grace, and you have the raven-haired, piercing-eyed beauty who sang her way to immortality with Jefferson Airplane's 1967 hits "Somebody to Love" and "White Rabbit." Personally, I fell in love with her a few years later when viewing a performance of the latter song on an "American Bandstand" retrospective. I'd never heard such cool sounds coming from someone so good-looking.

But as well-known as she became as Grace Slick, she actually started life (66 years ago as of this coming Sunday) as Grace Wing. The other surname came about in the early '60s, when she married a guy named Jerry Slick, who happened to have a brother named Darby Slick. The three of them started playing music together, very informally, until something happened in the summer of 1965 that prompted them to take their pursuits more seriously.

On Aug. 13 of that year, Grace attended the opening of a San Francisco club called The Matrix, where a band - some of its members were part-owners of the club - was making its public debut. The folk-rock aggregation carried the unlikely name (for that day and age) of Jefferson Airplane, and featured a female singer among its ranks.

At that point, Grace decided she could do the same thing, so the three Slicks got together with a few friends to form the Great Society, named after LBJ's package of programs that supposedly was going to cure America's ills. (It didn't.)

From what I've read, their musical skills were kind of rudimentary, with the exception of Darby's guitar playing. Recordings they made later that fall under the guidance of Sylvester Stewart (before he became Sly Stone) pretty much confirm that assessment. Most of the songs remained unreleased for about three decades, until Sundazed Records issued them as a CD called "Burn to Be Burned," after one of Darby's compositions.

Two songs that did surface in the '60s, making up the two sides of an extremely limited-release single, were called "Free Advice" and "Someone to Love," both also written by Darby. The former features Grace scat-singing sort of a raga in what qualifies as an early attempt to merge Eastern music with rock.

The latter, with a slight title changed and a radically altered arrangement (legend has it that Jerry Garcia was the one who suggested doubling the tempo), still is heard on the radio on a daily basis. While I certainly enjoy Jefferson Airplane's version - after all, it features the extraordinary talents of Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Casady - I'm kind of partial to the original. It plods along and Grace sings slightly off-key, but Darby comes in with a buzz-saw of a guitar solo that's right there on the edge as far as '65 standards.

Meanwhile, the Great Society had honed its act by 1966, employing a bass player who actually could play his instrument and phasing out a male lead vocalist, to concentrate more fully on Mrs. Slick. At the height of Jefferson Airplane's popularity in the late '60s, Columbia Records issued two LPs of material by the band, recorded live at the Matrix. They're available today on a single CD, "Collector's Item," that shows how far the Great Society had progressed by the spring of '66.

The disc is full of interesting material: an arrangement of the Jaynettes' "Sally Go 'Round the Roses" featuring some very quirky guitar playing over Grace's modal organ notes; a song called "Darkly Smiling" that still shows up on set lists of today's version of Jefferson Starship; another early version of "Somebody to Love"; a recorder duo on a neat reading of Eden Ahbez's "Nature Boy"; and a primordial take of the other future Jefferson Airplane classic, this one penned by Grace.

The Great Society's "White Rabbit" is completely different than the one you hear on the radio. It starts with Darby playing a minor-scale riff that he repeats at strategic intervals throughout a jam that features an Eastern-tinged sax workout by the band's regular bassist, Peter Vandergelder. Finally, after nearly six minutes, the familiar lyrics come in as a chant, rather than the fluid vocal Grace employed later. All in all, it's a fascinating experience, considering what other rock bands were doing in '66, even the ones that were considered to be kind of out there.

Of course, it didn't last. I've read liner notes that say Darby became so interested in Eastern music that he contemplated a move to India. Then there was that offer to Grace from the members of Jefferson Airplane to replace singer Signe Anderson when she left the group to be a fuller-time mom.

Almost exactly a year after the Great Society debuted, Grace sang for the first time with her new band, just prior to her 27th birthday. And the following month, the Airplane went into the studio to record an album that would become a classic of the era, "Surrealistic Pillow." Grace's contributions were two cover versions that went on to immortality in their new hands.

By that time, the Great Society was long gone. But for some of us, it's not forgotten.

Journalist/music enthusiast Alan J. Wallace writes this commentary after attending the recent U2 concert in Pittsburgh:

The show certainly was mighty impressive ... great musicianship, stage setup/production values/lights/etc. But a couple of things struck me as a little strange.

First of all, with the exception of the time I saw Dizzy Gillespie and his big band play in a church in Beckley, W.Va., this had to be the most "disgustingly" clean-cut concert crowd I've ever been in. Nothing wrong with that, per se, but it did mean a lack of any kind of bad-boy "danger" edge (no pun intended) in the scene.

Second, and more importantly, I'm about the music first, other stuff second. While one expects preaching from Bono, I did find it a little jarring that U2 several times killed its own musical momentum in favor of speechmaking ... most notably, they basically dropped what was a killer "Sunday Bloody Sunday" so Bono could grab two little kids out of the crowd for a "children's sermon" on stage.

And therein lies the key to why U2 just doesn't quite do it for me. Seeing this show, I realized that (and I know this a loaded term, though I basically have no problem with the band's issue stances) what they do really is propaganda ... everything that goes on goes in service of the message, rather than the music being first and the message second.

Nothing wrong with that, per se ... I guess my priorities for rock concerts are just a little different than theirs.

Blues (and other good music) aficionado Dr. Spex writes this about the new Buddy Guy album, "Bring 'Em In," on Jive Records:

Man, this is the best new release I've heard in a long time, and I can't stop listening to it.

The songs are mostly covers, with a few originals. Seems like there is a unifying theme in there ... but if so, it's lost on me so far. The covers have a predilection for funky soul, with several Memphis/Stax numbers and Wilson Pickett's "Ninety-Nine and One Half." But other material comes in too - like an interesting "Lay Lady Lay" and a smoldering cool "Ain't No Sunshine."

Also covered: Best version of "I Put a Spell on You" I ever heard. (I find Screaming Jay's screaming annoying, and most "Spell" covers kinda boring (including CCR's and yes, our boys' [The Radiators] too). But, with Carlos Santana sitting in, Buddy makes it smoke!

Buddy's tone is awewome and pure. And "Bring 'Em In" is definitely blues ... but blues with a twist. Meaning, it doesn't have the same-old "somebody else's take on one 12-bar after another" that wears thin after a few listens. And in addition to Santana, there are also guest appearances from Keith Richards, Robert Randolph and others.

Seems some old school Buddy fans are complaining - that the guest artist thing is a commercial sell-out, and/or that the album is overproduced. I suspect these are the same people who complained when Dylan started playing them electrical instruments ... Production sounds fine to my ear. Might not be "raw," but I don't find it overpolished. And thank god it doesn't have that incredibly excessive compression (ever hear the "Clarksdale to Heaven" Hooker tribute? Somebody should be shot for wasting that collection of talent).

AND, hasn't Buddy Guy earned the right to play with whoever he damn well pleases?

So if you like Buddy, and/or the blues, and/or Memphis soul, and/or music - pick this one up!

(Thanks, Dr. Spex! - Funk)

When the Doors were just getting started in the mid-'60s, Jim Morrison's goal for the band supposedly was for it to be "as big as Love."

Love in this case was a fellow Los Angeles band, led by singer/guitarist Arthur Lee, that scored a modest hit single with its debut record, a garage-rock version of Burt Bacharach and Hal David's "Little Red Book." As a live act on the L.A. scene around '66, Love ranked right up there with the Byrds and the Mothers of Invention as a local attraction.

The following year, the Doors were well on their way to legendary status with "Light My Fire" rocketing to No. 1. Meanwhile, Love's single "7 and 7 Is" made a bit of noise on the charts, but had nowhere near the Doors' success. The first two Love albums also registered decent, if not spectacular, sales for Elektra Records.

The turning point for Love came with the release in early 1968 of "Forever Changes," a collection of 11 songs - nine by Lee and two by bandmate Bryan Maclean - that represent some of the most melodic, intricately arranged music to emerge from what's come down to us as the psychedelic era. Rather than rely on the sound effects in vogue at the time, though, the band played it relatively straight, with acoustic guitars weaving tapestries around the occasional string arrangement. The result is a mood that's far removed from Love's roots just a few years prior, and far-removed from what other musicians in their early 20s were producing at the time.

Rock historians have hailed "Forever Changes" as a classic at least since I first read about it back in the '70s. But in '68, it stiffed, failing to reach the charts at all. The album did have a decent showing in Britain, where listeners always seem to have a better ear for music that points its way toward the future. The people at Elektra, though, would've preferred some better sales in the larger market across the Atlantic.

I've read where some of the problem arose from Love's reluctance to tour, preferring to stick around their native L.A. As such, the band's members certainly weren't going to travel all the way to the U.K., where they might have really caught on big.

Then again, there really wasn't a Love after "Forever Changes." The album represented a turning point in that Lee subsequently replaced everyone else in the band - including Bryan Maclean, a talented singer-songwriter added another dimension to the sound. The new aggregation staggered on for a few more albums, perhaps highlighted by Lee's collaboration with Jimi Hendrix, "The Everlasting First," which appeared on an otherwise lackluster (and appropriately titled) album called "First Start."

Legend has it that Lee and Hendrix were planning to form a band together at the time of the latter's death, and that they'd recorded something called "Black Gold," the tape of which was stolen out of Jimi's apartment, never to be heard from again. Don't know if that's true, but it makes a good story.

We heard sporadically from Lee from the early '70s into the late '90s, until an interesting release hit the shelves in 2003: a DVD of a concert in Britain featuring Lee, decked out in an American flag for a bandana, performing the entire "Forever Changes" album with full band, including strings. It's pretty much of a note-for-note interpretation, but seeing gems like "A House Is Not a Motel," "Andmoreagain" and "Bummer In the Summer" performed by the man who's responsible for them is well worth the price of admission.

The Doors may have surpassed the Love in popularity. But even Morrison & Co.'s excellent debut album doesn't quite stack up against "Forever Changes."

Not a day goes by without the chords of "All Right Now" ringing out on a Classic Rock station (or perhaps through the speakers at your local supermarket).

You've heard it so often that you can sing along with most of it, at least the parts Paul Rodgers sings that are somewhat intelligible. But if someone asks you to name the artist, you might be stumped for a minute. And when you come up with the answer, you might attach the words "one-hit wonder."

True, the British band Free had just that one hit in the United States. And besides that single song, Free is remembered almost exclusively as the precursor to Rodgers' better-known band, Bad Company. Around that time, I remember everyone being under the impression that the two groups were somewhat interchangeable and just happened to record different songs under different names.

The real story is somewhat more complex. And much more tragic.

Let's start way back in 1968, when a group of teenagers recorded their first album, drawing heavily from the British blues revival at the time. The result was Free's "Tons of Sobs," featuring Rodgers' already well-developed vocals backed by the rhythm section of Andy Fraser of bass and Simon Kirke on drums.

Free might have ended up being as forgotten today as some other groups recording the same style of music at the time. (Chicken Shack, the Groundhogs, the Keef Hartley Band, the Aynsley Dunbar Retaliation - any of those particularly ring a bell?) But Free had one heck of a guitar player.

Paul Kossoff had just turned 18 when "Tons of Sobs" was released, and his work on his vintage Gibson Les Paul immediately drew rave reviews, standing out among a particularly fertile crop of young guitarists in his own country. His workout on Albert King's "The Hunter" was particularly worth the price of the album.

On Free's second album, simply titled "Free," the band started moving away from 12-bar blues, producing some moody classics like "Broad Daylight," the band's first single (it tanked) and "Free Me." But the quartet also continue to rock it up on such numbers as the opening track, "I'll Be Creepin'," a dual showcase for Kossoff's guitar (featuring very effective use of the wah-wah) and Rodgers' already instantly recognizable vocals.

"Fire and Water," released in 1970, was the watershed album. It contained "All Right Now," which cracked the Top 5 in both the U.S. and U.K., but also features several other of Free's best-remembered compositions: "Heavy Load," "Oh I Wept" and "Mr. Big" (later to be covered in grand fashion by Gov't Mule). That summer, the band was among the headliners at the legendary Isle of Wight festival, where Free's performance of "All Right Now" was filmed and today is available as the opening track in the film "Message to Love."

(Incidentally, that festival represents the final filmed performances of both Jimi Hendrix and the Doors with Jim Morrison. Obviously, it's highly recommended.)

Suddenly, the members of Free, although some still had yet to turn 20, were at the top of the pyramid, competing with the likes of the Who and Led Zeppelin for superstar status.

So, what happened?

I've read where the follow-up album, "Highway," failed to generate any excitement, although I kind of like it. And then the dreaded "creative differences" started weighing in, and the band split up around the time a live album and another British hit single, "My Brother Jake," were released. Free did reunite, without Fraser, for two more albums, although Kossoff's role in the finale, "Heartbreaker," was underwhelming. The standout track on that album is "Wishing Well," on which Rodgers actually plays the guitar parts. You used to hear it on FM radio back in the day.

Kossoff recorded a solo album, "Back Street Crawler," in 1973, featuring a couple of structured songs and a couple of extended jams: "Tuesday Morning" clocks in at over 17 minutes, and the unedited version of "Time Away" (which appears on a five-disc Freeanthology, "Songs of Yesterday") is even longer. One of the tracks, "Molton Gold," featured one last go-around for the original members of Free, and the tortured harmony vocals of its chorus should have propelled it to hit-single status.

But the guitarist who once was mentioned in the same breath with Clapton and Page was fighting demons he couldn't overcome. On March 19, 1976, Paul Kossoff suffered a fatal heart attack while on an airline flight from Los Angeles to New York. He was 25.

Rodgers and Kirke meanwhile had teamed up with Mott the Hoople's Mick Ralphs and King Crimson's Boz Burrell to form Bad Company, which clicked immediately and sold millions of records throughout the latter part of the '70s.

And Free was destined to be a band that, as the average listener surmises, sounds just like Bad Company.

But it really should be the other way around.

For more about Paul Kossoff, check out this highly informative article by Tom Guerra (a good guitarist in his own right), published in Vintage Guitar magazine.

This post doesn't exactly have to do with music. In fact, Hallie Engel doesn't even listen to the Grateful Dead.

But the young artist paints a great Jerry Garcia ("He has a nice face"), hence her inclusion here.

I met Hallie while working on an article about the fantastic murals she painted on the walls of some local youngsters' rooms (look for the spread in an upcoming Sunday Home & Garden section of our print edition). I was impressed by the depth and diversity of her talent, and that she seems to be well on the way to a successful career in a difficult field.

If you like her depiction of Jerry, Hallie has a lot more where that came from, so drop her a line at e.family@mlynk.com.