1968 The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown: Fire

I'm told that a picture paints a thousand words. Watching the 1968 'video' clip of Arthur Brown performing 'Fire' in warpaint and flaming headgear, I'm inclined to agree. Even with the sound off you can see the genesis of the New York Dolls, Kiss, Roy Wood, Alice Cooper and countless other/lesser rock acts who cottoned on to the notion that a strong, visual image can compensate immeasurably for a paucity in the 'good song bag'.

Turn the volume up, and the opening call to arms 'I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE AND I BRING YOU...FIRE' puts me in mind of Black Sabbath, Venom and the legion of corpse painted, church burning black metallers they inspired. Enough to send a small boy hiding behind a cushion in fright anyway, which is where my first glimpse of Mr Brown sent me. But then just when you think Arthur and the band have come to drag us all to hell, Vincent Crane's freakbeat organ fires (sorry) up to give the song wheels and suddenly it all gets a lot more cuddly.

I mentioned above about how Arthur's visual influence has been passed like a baton down the years, but that's not to say that he arrived like a clap of lightning from a clear blue sky. British music hall tradition is laced with acts reliant on mild freakshow overtones to sell their tickets, from George Chirgwin's black face minstrel with the falsetto voice to 'Little Tich' and his 28 inch shoes. But then contemporaneous with Brown, fellow Brit Screaming Lord Sutch was also fond of acting the goat by dressing up to add a grand Guignol appeal to whatever schlock he was peddling. Sutch, however, was the textbook definition of what my Gran would call a 'daft bugger', and scratch below the wild eyed fire demon front he presents and Arthur reveals himself to be fresh from the same gene pool.

Brown plays an effective bogeyman, but appearances are deceptive and 'Fire' is more mainstream than it would have you believe. Built entirely around that organ riff with brass overdubs (no guitars here), 'Fire' is psychedelia neutered by its inherent pop sensibilities. Stripped of Brown's vocal, 'Fire's steady drive seems more suited to soundtrack a car chase scene from some sixties thriller rather than a drug soaked freakout.

Stripped of its theatrics, 'Fire' manages to roll on its own internal rising momentum with sufficient force to keep the cheese at bay, but it's own prim neatness also keeps the excitement lid firmly shut - I don't know how useful the comparator is, but bootleg recordings of the 'Fire/Mrs O'Leary's Cow' elemental suite from Brian Wilson's aborted 1967 'SMiLE' sessions carry with them the wild and whirling unpredictability of a wall of flame to the point that you can imagine the disc itself breaking out in a sweat. By comparison, this 'Fire' simmers on a much lower flame on a Corgi registered gas hob. But that doesn't mean it's not all still great fun. Because it is.