Even the weird world of psychedelic music needed its lowest common denominator, something that would appeal to the innocent tastes of pre-teens. Iron Butterfly filled that role. On the surface, seemingly a random bunch of stoned hippie amateurs who wanted to make records with universal appeal. Never mind that there actually was quite a history behind the band's formation, involving two groups, a move from San Diego to Los Angeles, and a moderate overhaul of the lineup from the debut album to the follow-up. And this follow-up only happened to turn out to be one of the biggest selling records in pop music history - at least it was, for a long time, for Atlantic Records. The title track was a 17-minute and five-second paean to free love 60's excess (taking up the entire second side), featuring endless solos, and much of the "heavy" atmosphere the band's name promised. Some of the five tracks on the first side are more pop ("Most Anything You Want", "Flowers and Beads"), but as things move on the mood gets darker ("Termination"). Doug Ingle's Vox organ and faux-Elvis vocals are out-front, but the real virtuoso here may be Lee Dorman and his thick bass lines, and anyway, the fuzz-emphasized sound they achieve throughout is dated but fun to revisit.

High Tide was one of those obscure bands at the turn of the 70's who have been cited as an influence on both hard rock, heavy metal, and the avant-garde. Revolving around the tense pairing of Tony Hill on guitar and Simon House on violin and organ, as well as Hill's haunting Morrison-like vocals, the album is a cauldron of fluctuating peaks and valleys more attuned to the noise-rock scene of the 80's, even though there is quite a 70's progressive feel as far as the arrangements go. The titles and lyrics ("Futilist's Lament", "Death Warmed Up", etc.) reflect a mindset quite the doomy opposite from the then-prevailing psychedelic mood, that is for sure. But this is not to be confused with the simple, straightforward Black Sabbath-style of visceral horror, for High Tide is definitely more of the refined, psychological variety - based on Hill and House continously suggesting the listener's mind with note after crudely, distorted note spilling out of their respective instruments. As far as underground albums go, this is one of the more uncompromising - and fascinating - to take in.

A brutally important album for not just the career of Alice Cooper or producer Bob Ezrin, but for pop music in general, for all three were at a crossroads. 50 years later, Love It To Death does not sound as dangerous as it did in its heyday, but this was one of the major gauntlets thrown down to clear the post-Love Generation fog everyone was experiencing. Sinister, jagged, disturbing passages slash vivid flashes of imagery with Alice's finely focused and ever more disdainful sneering vocals and lyrics. For the first time, there's an undisputed anthem - "I'm Eighteen" - which is as tenously vulnerable as it is recklessly unpredictable. For those more cinematically inclined, extended theaters of psychological torture await thanks to "Black Juju" and "The Ballad of Dwight Fry". The bottom line was - the villains of rock have arrived, and with a vengeance.

Any last vestiges of Nelson's rockabilly past were fully swept away for this release, which sees him and the Stone Canyon Band dive head-first into country rock, 70's pop, and even a bit of glam which wasn't as much of a stretch for an old retro horse like Nelson as previously thought. The smooth, self-deprecating title track brought him back into Top 10 one final time, but the rest of the album is just as strong, and quite well-rounded. "Palace Guard" closes it on a terrific, uplifting note which subsequent albums never quite followed up on. A nice little oasis before Rick's career went into a desert of oblivion.

The second Valenti/Duncan/Elmore Quicksilver effort is definitely not as intriguing as the first, but taken on its own, roughshod, renegade terms, it doesn't hurt to take a few spins and hear their last gasp. Large banks of horn session players were brought in to give more creedence to their ramshackle take on Latin, funk, and jazz rock grooves - usually sifted through the hazy outlaw Valenti filter, who is at his most sardonic point here - but their time had long past come and gone, and this album sorely reflects that.