Jobriath A.D. (Brattle Theatre, Cambridge, MA)

If you've read any of my posts from the months prior to my launch of the Cheese Camp sub-series, 'Gawking With The Glam Rock Geek,' I'm sure that you've heard the name "Jobriath" brought up a few dozen times. Earlier this year, I compiled an entry that summarized my deep fascination with the aforementioned, forgotten glam rock hero, and this past May I was able to attend a screening of the highly researched documentary, Jobriath A.D. at the Brattle Theater, located in Cambridge, MA. The film appeared to cap more than a handful of apocryphal bits of information regarding the story surrounding this singer, who was touted as the American David Bowie. I even had the chance to shake hands with the director of the film, Kieran Turner (I would've enjoyed chatting more with Mr. Turner as I had planned, but I had to catch the last train, as it was my only route of transportation back home.) It is my understanding that the film received mixed feedback from the New England-centric audience, but I have only positive things to reflect upon from my viewing experience. 

 

Friday, May 11: The schedule card posted at the alley entrance to the Brattle Theater, with Jobriath out for blood and ready to transcend the negative hype during his initial marketing campaign in the early seventies.

I entered the theater in a cold sweat, aghast that I was finally about to gawk at this space circus show from rock 'n roll's first openly gay alien messiah. It's taken me quite a while to put my thoughts into words, as the whole experience was actually very overwhelming. As I said before, I am very set on tipping my hat to this documentary, but as I thrust myself into this event that could either revive or bury any curiosity culminated for public interest in Jobriath, I retreated from my usual research on the topic (feeling as though everyone involved with the film was the final word on any remaining mystery.) As the months have meandered, my feverishly bookish anxiety has subsided, and I am finally looking forward to uncover more Jobriath-related history, wherever I may find it (more on these efforts later.)

   Not by any accident or misstep, Ecubyan urges you, the viewer to seek the sun. You may catch a glimpse of his morning star ship descending, prepared to assimilate new members into the Jobriath Fan Collective!

 

Since Jobriath had passed away nearly three decades ago, the film unfolds with friends and aquintances recounting the deluge that was rock's true fairy. Born Bruce Wayne Campbell on December 14, 1946, the arch-angel of space age movie queens quickly developed into a child prodigy of sorts, with an unnerving talent for singing/songwriting. The best equivalent stylistic origins that I can trace to Bruce's talents are those of Frederic Chopin (both were classically-trained pianists.) Bruce seems to be a kindred, yet confused soul, as society largely over-looked his musical assets, in exchange for their harsh treatment of his homosexuality. Having gone AWOL within months of joining the military, he emerged from hiding, calling himself Jobriath (a contraction of Job and Goliath,) and adopting the surname, Salisbury. After moving from Pennsylvania to California, Jobriath was soon christened as the Jagger-obsessed (and ambiguously gay,) 'Woof' in the west coast production of the Hair musical. 

I was unaware that this clip of Jobriath as he appeared with the West Coast 'Hair' cast on the Smother Brothers Comedy Hour, had been receiving Youtube playback for years. Unfortunately his performance of 'Sodomy' is not included in this footage, but you can still spot him in the background, with blond Yvette Mimieux-like locks.

In 1969, he left the production for work with his newly-assembled folk rock band, Pidgeon. They released a self-titled LP on Decca records, and cut the single 'Rubber Bricks/Prison Walls.' The group quickly dissolved into the backdrop of Woodstock era hippie music, although the music distinguished itself with its rock operatic layers, making Pidgeon a Roger Daltrey-like entity amongst every Buffalo Springfield carbon copy on the market. After the band broke up, Jobriath's absence from the military, caught the attention of the authorities, and led to his spending half a year in a mental asylum. 

'The Dancer' from Side B of Pidgeon (1969)

In late 1972, Jobriath's meal ticket was gay prostitution, although he was still trying to make it in the recording industry as well. At Columbia Records, Jobriath's recent demo tape was just getting laughed out of the studio, with company president, Clive Davis writing it off as "mad, unstructured, and destructive to melody." Just as it seemed a new contract was unquestionably in the gutter, former Carly Simon manager Jerry Brandt, overheard the tape and quickly located Jobriath to negotiate a recording deal. Newly dubbed 'Jobriath Boone', Brandt was eager to perk up the American Public's ears, and the two of them began work on cutting a debut album, along with a great media blitzkrieg, financed by Elektra Records. Realizing the shock waves emitted from the burgeoning glam rock movement in Europe, Brandt pitted his new business partner's taste for elegant tunesmithery and embroidered it with designer space cantina attire. The combination of Jobriath's own otherworldly stage charisma, blended with the popular gimmickery of flamboyant make-up was seen as a potential vehicle to sell him as the American Bowie. At the time, Brandt further reported that their partnership was to be the biggest thing to hit the world since Colonel Parker and Elvis Presley. 

The ad campaign progressed, and Jobriath's face was plastered in every major entertainment periodical, with Billboards cropping up, seemingly out of nowhere. The record finally made its debut in October 1973, and was met with mostly positive critical reception. Amidst the hype however, red-blooded Americana's reaction was in a different ballpark. Since there had been no singles preceding the first album, US record-buyers went on listening to their Allman Brothers LP's--not a note had been played to push the music, just an image of Jobriath's naked torso and an underlying gay intonation, that was too effeminate for the New York S&M cruisers to absorb. Those that did get an earful of the rich Queen-like, rock orchestrations were puzzled by the ornate mixture of lyrical science fiction and over-the-top Liberace glamor. Bowie's Ziggy Stardust lost heat rapidly in its Trans-Atlantic journey, but it at least made a dent at number seventy-five on the Billboard Pop Charts. Jobriath's eponymous debut couldn't even crack the Top 100. America was proving itself to be too homophobic to crack.

      A photo from the September 1974 performance at the University of Alabama.

The lackluster performance of the record did little to block more of the same verbal, one-upmanship from Brandt. Allegations of guaranteed platinum music marketing, continued to pummel stories in the recording industry. By March of the following year, Jobriath, along with his backing band, the Creatures, appeared on the musical variety program, The Midnight Special, where they performed two songs off of the first LP in front of a recorded live audience. Decked out in space slinky attire, stitched by a vulcan-eared Jobriath himself, audience members appeared more confused than shocked by the songs showcased for the television selection. 

Still holding the promise of an extravagant rock spectacle, Jobriath and the Creatures played two sold out shows at New York's Bottom Line club that summer, but album sales remained financially unaccommodating. Just a mere six months after the debut album was put on record store shelves, the sophomore release, Creatures of the Street, was laced together from leftover material during the first LP sessions. Although the second album was composed mainly of outtakes to the first record, Creatures had a more fluid direction and, in my eyes, worked even better, conceptually. The songs used would not have been out of place if Jobriath's life were adapted into a Broadway show, done in the Rocky Horror vain. Personal feelings aside, this record was the death knell for Jobriath's career at Elektra. The LP was a commercial flop. During the summer of 1974 an American tour was organized, but Elektra Records was quick to dust off America's premiere pixie rock star. In spite of Brandt and Elektra's abandonment of Jobriath, and further complications from relentless gay bashers, the tour limped on, until a cord was struck during the final show at Tuscaloosa University in  Alabama. Uproarious positivity was reciprocated from Jobriath's last audience. They loved him and his band, and even bantered for five encores, until a riot ensued and the band was run out by the fire brigade. Alas, Jobriath Boone was left mentally-scarred by the two year fiasco of hot air promotion and poor public reception. 

Coping by indulging in a steady diet of drugs and booze, Jobriath announced his retirement from the music business in early 1975, retreating to a Pyramid-shaped apartment atop the Chelsea Hotel in New York City. The next eight years were a jumble of personal success and misfire. Adopting the new moniker of  "Cole Berlin", the weathered space pierott found himself more at home reviving old cabaret tunes for restaurant crowds. His classical piano-playing abilities were finding much deserved recognition, albeit on a more scaled down level than his rock 'n roll career. His artistic victories were coinciding with his on/off again street prostitution. Still struggling with unearthing his true identity, regular clients knew him as 'Joby', the mustachioed macho man of Christopher Street. In his spare time, Cole Berlin was constantly at work on a string of piano-based projects, including a semi-autobiographical musical called 'Pop Star.' To my, and several other fans, dismay, virtually all of these musings never saw the light of day (a few bits have appeared on scarce pirated sources, but a complete product of any withstanding material is unlikely to surface.) The sands of time were also streaming invertedly down the hourglass, and in 1981, Mr. Berlin's flame was burning very low. Around this time, he contracted HIV, but didn't budge from his piano, even managing to play at the Chelsea Hotel's 100th anniversary celebration 1982. But these fleeting moments of  endurance quickly dwindled, for on August 3, 1983, Bruce Wayne Campbell became one of the first prominent figures in music to die from AIDS-related causes. 

This photo was taken by Zack back in February, where at his college campus, he also contributed his part in promoting the rebirth of Jobriath!

The finished film is still touring its run in selected regions of the world. At this point, an immediate DVD release is uncertain, although Jobriath's legacy seems to definitely have extended its grasp, beyond its original niche demographic. Kieran Turner's documentary is a champion of its subject matter and it doesn't perseverate on any one topic, allowing itself to reach hold of nearly every layer in Jobriath's story. Running just over an hour and forty minutes, the flow of the film is succinct and defines its hero for the glorious person he really was. This film is a must see for anyone seeking to expand their familiarity with the 1970s glam rock or American gay scene, and its a real plus if you're a casual or obsessive fan of this unsung creature of the street. In the long scheme of things, there is still much to be discovered from the inner-world forged by Jobriath. At any point, I hope to share any information and/or photos on recent Jobriath-related finds. I still believe that there are a few odds and ends scattered about, that I'm yet to come across. Below, I have linked a film review from the controversial Jonathan Poletti, who has come under fire for his Jobriath research, but who seems to have a wealth of personal opinions (although contrary to most) and primary sources to work from. Hopefully Jobriath A.D. is a sounding beacon for the interest that Bruce Wayne Campbell has long-craved. Perhaps we may see a scrapbook or biography materialize in Barnes and Noble, sooner than we think! 

Jobriath AD Review by Jonathan Poletti, Roctober Reviews

(http://roctoberreviews.blogspot.com/2012/04/jobriath-ad-dir-kieran-turner-florida.html)

  

Don't Leave Me This Way: Brian Connolly, the Lollipop Man

 When it came to titan teen anthems of the seventies and the brusque attitude of their proto-punkish guitars, Sweet were nearly unrivaled. Their music hails from the bubblegum end of the glam rock spectrum, blazing the trails for the first wave of British punk. If there are any artists reminiscent of the Sweet, you might immediately set your sights on Slade, Quatro, or Mud (like Sweet, all involved with the Chinn/Chapman pop factory.) Of course, there are hundreds upon thousands of sticky sweet confections, riding on the Sweet's decals (i.e. Hector, Iron Virgin, Blackfoot Sue.) The backbone of Junkshop Glam owes every hushed blockbuster to Sweet's presence on the pop charts. Aside from Priest/Scott's crisp guitar ripples and Mick Tucker's triumphant battering on the drums, front man Brian Connolly was easily the spokesman for every decadent smash felt by record buyers. Sure, Steve Priest definitely uprooted Robert Plant on popular tracks, such as 'Blockbuster' or 'California Nights,' but it was Connolly's years with the Sweet that chomped through teenybopper subconscious. When Brian's substance abuse worsened, eventually forcing him to leave the band, they could only dream of making a dent in the Top Forty. In 1981, Brian was hospitalized for severe bloating and he nursed multiple heart attacks--most likely tied to his alcohol habits and his diuretic abuse. As his health spindled down into deeper, darker, predicaments, Connolly still sustained a solo-career, in the midst of his failing condition and marital problems (a bitter divorce from first wife, Marilyn, was finalized in 1986.) Although none of his solo singles charted, he managed to secure a slot as a supporting act with Pat Benatar in 1983. Unfortunately, Brian's work would suffer the ultimate compromise as he began to wither away physically. His chronic alcoholism began to lacerate his muscles and snap his vocal cords, despite recent Sweet reunions.

 

( http://www.algonet.se/~sweetfa/bc.htm)

Brian Francis Connolly chose the way to rock 'n roll, but he was truly a lost angel. On February 9, 1997, Connolly's life was trampled under complications due to renal/liver failure and ceaseless heart attacks. During the last sixteen years on his life, Connolly's presence no longer embossed the pop craters, but the legend of his years with the Sweet kept him afloat for a constantly expanding fanbase (casual and die-hard alike.) The emotional tirade, emanating from his yelp and his ability to catapult flashy leotards to the limelight made him a liable precursor to Freddie Mercury. In 2009, 'The Man Who Sang Blockbuster' was published, and detailed Connolly's trials and triumphs, from his audacious heydays to his untimely fate. Currently, it is the only biography on Connolly, and although it has been out of print for a few years, it is an essential component of any Sweet fan's documentation of the group. 

Gawking with the Glam Rock Geek: Happy 65th Birthday, Marc Bolan!

September 30 would've been Marc Bolan's sixty-fifth birthday. Roughly three weeks prior to entering his thirties, glam rock's cornerstone elfin crooner passed away after a fatal automobile accident on September 15, 1977. Ironically, his landmark hit-making band, T.Rex built much of their lyrical success around hot rods, in addition to sexually primed double entendres. T.Rex were celebrated for their clunky, yet nimble sound in many corners of the globe during the seventies (unfortunately the United States views Marc Bolan and his band as little more than culty bubblegum.) Thirty five years later, Marc Bolan's spangly leopard print star is shining with a nova of rebirth from countless fan clubs, album reissues, merchandise, and internet enthusiasm. From his days in a hobbit hole with the Tolkienesque, Tyrannosaurus Rex folk duo to his brazen climb to success with the electrified, five-piece T.Rex, the Warlock of Love is now the subject of many autobiographies/period books pertaining to glam rock, and is fast becoming a word of mouth character in the twenty-something vinyl community. With all of this posthumous power rising, the United States may be readying itself for an invasion from the glittering dino-king. If this is the case, I'd like to contribute my own touch and bring to light Mr. Bolan and T.Rex for a new generation (mine.) What I have here is a review for my definitive T.Rex LP: The Slider, released some forty years ago, during the summer of 1972.

The Slider by T.Rex 

The Slider is the best selling album from T.Rex, on either side of the Atlantic, and continued Bolan's tenure as glitter god royalty. The only artist seen as a potential threat to the T.Rex dynasty, was none other than Ziggy Stardust himself, David Bowie. Although Slider failed to yield any hit singles in America, it did secure a foothold at number seventeen on the Billboard charts. Just a year earlier, the band had put out their first runaway success, Electric Warrior (if you live in the US, you've probably been exposed to the album single, 'Bang A Gong (Get It On)', on the radio and the abundance of soundtrack appearances its made over the years.) Warrior made Marc Bolan a media darling over night, after a decade of minor achievement in the UK mod/hippie circuit. The album featured a very small strand of hippie-folk influence (think Donovan or Dylan,) but had nearly shed the sound entirely, due to Marc's allegiance to Chuck Berry guitar arrangements and the burgeoning revolt against any remotely political propaganda in pop music.

Marc's new album slid across the stage and shot up to space. It perfected the band's signature sound of whimsical sensuality set to the rough and sweet stomp from electric guitars. On Elton John's word of recommendation, Slider was largely recorded at the Chateau d'Herouville, near Paris. Recording wrapped up in Copenhagen, and the album's net worth was invigorated, since it had dodged British tax policies. Former Turtles bandmates, Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan (AKA: Flo and Eddie) lent backing vocals in Elektra Studios, and were critical to the success of the album's vocal harmonies (as they had done for Electric Warrior.) The LP was balanced by two mega-hits in England, 'Metal Guru' (the opening track), and 'Telegram Sam' (also off the record.) Since the album was propped by a higher budget than Warrior, the production was fuller, and it allowed the songs to vibrate their fun house aggression.

Many argue and tag The Slider as the cheap clone of Electric Warrior's formula for success. The two albums are both rewarding listens in their own right, and they could easily be coupled together as an extravagant gatefold LP, but I feel that Slider is just a tad superior to its predecessor. Sure, the formula is almost identically similar. Bolan resonates his usual nonsensical poetry combined with a lion's share of sexual innuendo. The band blows tribal fire through their instrumentation, and Marc's Les Paul let's us enjoy living any way we'd like (and we still have a rollicking good time!) Still, thanks to their higher production values the album is louder and Marc's voice sounds more glam-boyant than ever. Also, the transition from Middle Earth hobbit bard to androgynous Star Trek elf looks to have come full circle, and there is not a trace of Fairport Convention-strumming on the entire record. Hence, this is a truly unified glam rock album, as it never veers from its indulgence with eroticism/outer space mythos, and it wears it's radiant shock frock with pride, never failing to be less than outrageous.

I would have to throw five baby boomerangs and expect the five to return with unbridled satisfaction. This album highlights a genuine stepping stone for rock music in the same light as Bowie's Ziggy Stardust or Aladdin Sane had done. The versatility of moods conveyed on this album is unique for a basically pop-based glam album, as it does offer a prying eye into the difficulties of life in the spotlight with the darker reflections of 'Spaceball Ricochet' or 'Main Man.' Much of the album's body is wiry and sprite with the energy of both 'Baby Boomerang' and 'Baby Strange', and it gives Led Zeppelin a run for its money with the war cry of 'Chariot Choogle.'

Although September 30 was yesterday, I am extending belated birthday wishes to Marc, as he continues his atomic reptilian romp among the stars. The twentieth century boy lives on in the new millenium! Accompanied by his children of the revolution, he rides free, atop their futuristic dragon. I'm sure, Bolan, Steve Currie, Mickey Finn, and every cosmic dancer from the band is rocking into eternity. Happy birthday, Marc!