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30 Fascinating Early Bands of Future Music Legends

From Billy Joel’s heavy-metal duo to Madonna’s post-punk act and Neil Young’s Motown outfit, these are the primordial groups that rock forgot

30 Fascinating Early Bands of Future Music Legends

Read about the obscure bands where future music legends from Led Zeppelin to Simon & Garfunkel and Debbie Harry got their start.

Even rock’s biggest names had to start somewhere. Flip through this (way) back catalog of stars’ early projects and you’ll find yourself in a topsy-turvy bizarro-world where Michael Bolton and Billy Joel fronted metal bands, Debbie Harry and the Cars were folked-up singer-songwriters, Madonna was a post-punk drummer and Ronnie James Dio was a Sixties teen idol. By the time you’re done there are more questions than answers. Did Neil Young and Rick James really play in a Motown band together? Did Lemmy really wear a priest’s collar onstage every night? Why were Radiohead so into saxes?

Read on to hear 30 fascinating early bands from future music legends. Brace yourself, because it might get weird. 

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Future Doors Members’ Surf-Rock Band Rick and the Ravens

The otherworldly jazz-rock of the Doors had significantly more earthbound beginnings in Rick and the Ravens, a Santa Monica bar band specializing in surf and blues. The group was fronted by Ray Manczarek (as he spelled it then), who assumed the persona of “Screamin’ Ray Daniels, the Bearded Blues Shouter.” Together with brothers Rick on guitar and Jim on organ and harmonica, as well as other assorted school friends, he spent early 1965 playing regular weekend gigs at the Turkey Joint West, a dive for “swingin’ young people” located just blocks from the beach. “We didn’t know what we were doing. We were just having fun,” Manzarek recalled later.

Rick and the Ravens were often visited at the Turkey Joint by Manzarek’s UCLA film school classmates, including a young Jim Morrison – who was already displaying a penchant for booze. “When Jim got loose he would shout out song titles at the band, mainly ‘Louie Louie,'” Manzarek wrote in his memoir, Light My Fire. “We could always hear him barking from the back of the room.” One night Manzarek decided to teach his drunken friend a lesson. Leaning into the mic, “Screamin’ Ray” invited Morrison onto the stage to help him sing a “special version” of the Kingsmen classic. Though he’d never sung for an audience, Morrison wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. “Jim let out a blood-curdling war whoop, and the Turkey Joint West went Dionysian,” he continued. “The fucking place exploded! He was good. And he loved it. He hopped around and sang himself hoarse.”

For a time, Morrison’s drunken stint as a frontman seemed destined to be a one-off event. Upon graduating UCLA in May 1965, he planned to move to New York, leaving Manzarek to seek his fortune as an aspiring filmmaker when he wasn’t playing the Bearded Soul Shouter. Ultimately the future Lizard King decided to stay on the West Coast, and one day that July he bumped into Manzarek while strolling Venice Beach. It was a meeting that would change both their lives forever. “I said, ‘Well, what have you been up to?'” Manzarek told NPR’s Fresh Air in 1998. “And he said, ‘Well, I’ve been living up on Dennis Jacobs’ rooftop, consuming a bit of LSD and writing songs.'” After some convincing, he persuaded the shy Morrison to sing him one. “He began to sing ‘Moonlight Drive,’ and when I heard that first stanza – ‘Let’s swim to the moon, let’s climb through the tide, penetrate the evening that the city sleeps to hide’ – I thought, ‘Ooh, spooky and cool, man.'” Then and there, they decided to start a band.

With their passé name and tired sound, Rick and Ravens were far from the ideal vehicle for Morrison’s far-out lyrics, but Manzarek was in no position to be picky. The group had previously released three promo singles – “Soul Train,” “Henrietta,” and “Big Bucket T” – on Aura Records, a subsidiary label of World Pacific. The tunes had tanked and by the late summer the group were, in Manzarek’s estimation, “going nowhere. Nothing was happening. No record sales, no gigs. Dissent descended on the Ravens.” The rhythm section had departed and the remaining members were not especially receptive to Morrison’s mysterious poetry, which they viewed as the height of pretension.

Sensing Manzarek’s existential malaise, the label’s ultra-hip chief, Dick Bock, suggested he take a class on transcendental meditation. It was there that Manzarek first crossed paths with a drummer named John Densmore, who was welcomed into the fold. Though they owed Aura Records one more single, Manzarek convinced Bock to let the newly outfitted Rick and the Ravens cut a demo disc instead. On September 2nd, Morrison, Densmore, Manzarek, his brothers and a bassist named Patricia “Pat” Hansen spent three hours cutting six original tracks: “Moonlight Drive, “My Eyes Have Seen You,” “Summer’s Almost Gone,” “Hello I Love You,” “Go Insane” and “End of the Night.” While the compositions were undoubtedly strong, the execution felt lackluster, weak, almost timid. Record execs agreed, and a discouraged Rick and Jim Manzarek quit both the band and the music business that autumn. In their place Manzarek recruited another acquaintance from meditation class, a guitarist named Robbie Krieger. He had briefly played with Densmore in a band called the Psychedelic Rangers, and this new group would also draw inspiration from mind expansion. Taking a cue from a William Blake line (by way of Aldous Huxley) they called themselves the Doors. 

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Debbie Harry’s Sixties Psych-Folk Group the Wind in the Willows

The future Blondie frontwoman doesn’t exactly think highly of her earliest recording efforts with the spaced-out, folky collective named for Kenneth Grahame’s 1908 children’s classic. Reexamining kid-lit through an acid-tinged lens may have been a crucial pillar of English psychedelia, but such preciousness was doomed to fail in 1967 New York City. “It was pretty awful. That was baroque folk-rock,” Harry later said. “I didn’t have anything to do with the music then. I was just a back-up singer.”

The Wind in the Willows was largely the vision of singer Paul Klein, who was married to one of Harry’s school friends. Klein happened to live on the same 7th Street block as music journalist (and future “Dean of Rock Critics”) Robert Christgau, who helped introduce them to a manager, which led to a recording contract with Capitol Records. Their self-titled debut was released to little fanfare in 1968. “A sweet, saccharine kind of thing,” Harry described in the book Blondie: Parallel Lives. “I wasn’t really a writer on that. That record is very childlike to me. I didn’t have a great deal of input. I was a backup singer doing high harmonies with the lead singer. It was his trip. He envisioned himself as this folk guy with a teddy bear aspect.” When asked a decade later if the record could be classified as “easy listening,” she offered a different term: “depressing listening.”

The public agreed, and the album failed to manager more than a feeble Number 195 on the Billboard charts. While their producer, Artie Kornfeld, met with greater success the following year when he co-organized a festival in upstate New York that would become known as Woodstock, the Wind in the Willows were dead on arrival. A second album was recorded, which reportedly featured more of Harry’s vocals, but the tapes went missing and it has yet to surface. Harry made her exit from the band soon after. “I wasn’t turned by the music anymore. I thought we should make certain changes, but Paul didn’t agree, so I told them I was leaving,” she recalled.

In the early Seventies she joined a group called the Stilettoes with guitarist Chris Stein. Within a few years she and Stein departed to form a new band, Angel and the Snake, which later became known as Blondie. 

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Ronnie James Dio’s Dreamy Fifties Pop Group the Vegas Kings

As a high school student in Cortland, New York, Ronnie James Dio (then still known as Ronald James Padavona) formed his first band, the Vegas Kings, in 1957, featuring himself on bass and trumpet. “I started playing the trumpet when I was five years old, which was great training for me as a singer,” he explained to Extreme magazine. “It taught me the correct way to do it, because I’ve not taken singing lessons from anyone.” For strictly practical reasons, he quickly assumed the bulk of the group’s vocal duties. “No one else wanted the job,” he later admitted. “It wasn’t my plan at all to lead the band.”

After a spell as the Vegas Kings, the friends changed their name to Ronnie and the Rumblers – named after their favorite Duane Eddy song, “Rumble,” which became their theme tune. They filled weekends performing at local dances and American Legion Halls, but in 1958 they had the chance to play a much larger hall in nearby Johnson City. However, organizers were nervous about their name. “Rumbling” in the Fifties was slang for fighting, so the group quickly transformed into Ronnie and the Red Caps. It was this name that appeared on their debut single that year, a Ventures-style instrumental called “Conquest.” They followed it up with “An Angel is Missing,” backed with a cover of Ray Charles’ “What’d I Say.” It was this record that first bore the surname “Dio,” though how he came to chose it remains the source of speculation. Some believe that it was a nod to his Italian grandmother, who always said he was a gift from the heavens (“Dio” being Italian for God), but Dio’s widow has disputed this. Others have theorized that it was a tribute to infamous mobster Johnny Dio.

Throughout the early sixties the group released a string of singles as Ronnie Dio and the Prophets, and even a live album purportedly recorded at a pizza shop called as Dio at Domino’s – featuring covers ranging from “Great Balls of Fire” to Tony Bennett’s “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” In addition to the his work with the band, Dio released a number of extracurricular singles in a baffling array of styles, trying to see which musical mask might launch his career as a solo artist. “Mr. Misery,” a heavenly 1963 tune complete with angelic choir, is a gentle teen lover’s lament that would have done Ricky Nelson proud. Two years later, “Smiling by Day (Crying by Night)” sees Dio doing a killer John Lennon impression with a hard driving garage stomper, whereas the B side – “Dear Darlin’ (I Won’t Be Coming Home)” is a less convincing pastiche of Nashville shuffles, punctuated by Floyd Cramer–style honky tonk fills. “[We] tried everything with Ronnie,” his manager at the time, Jim Pantas, later said. “However we tried to position him, it didn’t come off.”

By 1967, the Prophets had morphed into a group called the Electric Elves, later shortened to just Elf, which would see Dio jettison his teen idol ambitions in favor of heavy-metal immortality. 

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Dusty Springfield’s Early-Sixties “Family” Folk Trio the Springfields

A teenage Dusty Springfield – then known as Mary O’Brien – began her musical career alongside her older brother Dion in the family’s garage before graduating to the London supper club circuit. In 1958 she answered a classified ad in a trade paper for an “established sister act” seeking another singer. Having passed her audition, she became the newest member of the Lana Sisters – not actually related – a sugary pop vocal trio in the mold of the Andrews Sisters. They released a string of middling singles, but television appearances and stints as openers for artists like Nat “King” Cole, Guy Mitchell, and Cliff Richard brought them notoriety. By 1960 the Lana Sisters earned the dubious honor of being named the “Seventh Favorite Female Vocal Group” in Melody Maker, but O’Brien was becoming disenchanted by their outdated act. She left the group later that year, straining relationships with her ex-bandmates in the process. “I hated it when they implied that I was letting them down, but I had to move on,” she later explained. “Sometimes you have to let people down in order to get on, particularly in show business.”

She rejoined her brother Dion and his friend Tim Feild, who had been performing as a duo called the Kensington Squares. Taking inspiration from folk groups like the Weavers, and Peter, Paul and Mary, they incorporated Dion’s skills as a writer/arranger, O’Brien’s powerful voice, and their shared love of world music. An alfresco rehearsal in a Somerset field one spring day inspired the trio’s name: the Springfields. To complete the transformation into this fictitious family, Dion became Tom and O’Brien became Dusty.

Striking the right balance of acoustic folk and cheery pop, the group quickly became one of the best-selling acts in the U.K., scoring chart entries with “Breakaway” and “Bambino.” Even after Feild’s departure in 1962 (Mike Hurst would take his place) their run of hits continued with “Island of Dreams” and “Say I Won’t Be There,” in addition to their own BBC TV music series. “The Springfields happened at the right time,” Dusty Springfield told Rolling Stone in 1973. “We were an extraordinary mixture of pseudo-country, folk … indescribable, I would put it. There were two guitars and me, in the middle, trying to find room to move my arms. I felt like I was directing traffic.”

Their version of “Silver Threads and Golden Needles” cracked the Top 20 in the United States, becoming the first single by a British group to ever do so. The achievement earned them an invitation to travel to Nashville to record an album with veteran producer Shelby Singleton. It was while passing through New York City in 1962 that O’Brien first became exposed to the sound of American R&B groups. “I was deeply influenced by black singers from the early Sixties,” she recalled. “I liked everybody at Motown and most of the Stax artists. I really wanted to be Mavis Staples. What they shared in common was a kind of strength I didn’t hear on English radio.”

Feeling hemmed in by their folky good-time image, O’Brien decided to go solo as Dusty Springfield, and the group split in late 1963. For all the stardom and heartache that was to follow in her tumultuous life, she always maintained uncharacteristically fond memories of her time in the trio: “We’d had such fun being the Springfields, ever since that idyllic sunny day when it all began.”  

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Peter Frampton’s Teen-Idol Pop Group the Herd

Somewhat of a rock prodigy, Frampton got his start at age 12 in the early Sixties playing in a band called the Little Ravens at Bromley Technical School, where his father taught art to fellow student David Bowie. After a brief stint in a group called the Trubeats, he played in a band called the Preachers, produced and managed by Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman. But by 1965 he set his sights on a local group called the Herd, who had a large local fan base and a handful of unsuccessful Parlophone singles under their belt. “I used to come see them play when I was aged 15, way before I joined,” Frampton said in a 2006 interview. “They were the number one beat group in West Wickham and I got to know them by being the precocious pest that hung around saying, ‘I can play guitar.'” When vocalist Terry Clark left the following year, they invited him to join. Frampton eagerly accepted, much to the chagrin of his parents, who, in a tale as old as time, urged him to pursue his college studies.

Early in Frampton’s tenure, the band hired the songwriting partnership Ken Howard and Alan Blaikley, who had penned a succession of hits for the British pop collective Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. The duo provided the Herd with a selection of heavily orchestrated, high concept singles steeped in sanitized flower power. In August 1967, the band scored a hit with “From the Underworld,” perhaps the first chart entry inspired by the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice.

The song’s commercial success was a mixed blessing, publically casting them as a bubblegum band unworthy of serious consideration in rock’s coterie of cool. “Ken and Alan were wonderful songwriters. They helped us get a record deal and we weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. But it wasn’t everything that we wished for,” Frampton said. “We were a much more musical outfit and yet we were becoming a pop group.” Frampton’s status as “The Face of ’68” in the trade rag Disc rankled many in the band, who resented that the singer’s good looks were eclipsing the music. They continued to release a string of singles – including 1968’s excellent uptempo gem “I Don’t Want Our Loving to Die” – and a full-length album, but the failure of the self-penned “Sunshine Cottage” further soured Frampton on the group. Frustrated by his unwanted journey into teen-idol–dom, he left the band by the end of 1968 to form an altogether harder outfit, Humble Pie, with Steve Marriott. 

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Lemmy’s Costumed Sixties Band the Rockin’ Vickers

Lemmy Kilmister may not seem like man of the cloth, but the Motörhead frontman spent much of the Sixties donning a priest’s collar as a member of the Rockin’ Vickers. “My old man would have hated it, seeing me in a band that – shock, horror – took the piss out of being a vicar,” he later told author Mick Wall. “At the same time he’d probably have loved seeing me having to wear a fucking vicar’s dog collar onstage.” His interest in rock & roll began young – he once hitchhiked to Liverpool at age 16 to catch one of the Beatles’ Cavern sets – and his tenure in low-profile Manchester bands like the Rainmakers and then the Motown Sect prepared him well for his invitation to join the comparatively professional Vickers in 1965. Initially a covers band working the cabaret circuit along the Blackpool pier, they had released a single, “I Go Ape,” which met with scattershot success on the European mainland.

“He was a fan of our band before joining forces with our two road managers and setting our gear up for us,” bandmate Harry Feeney told Wall. “We didn’t pay him a wage, we just fed him and kept him. Then the band had a big bust-up and we were left with only three of us. Lemmy turned round and said, ‘I can do this,’ and he got onstage and he was brilliant.” The group played to 10,000-seat arenas in Finland and, according the legend, were the first rock band to break through the Iron Curtain following an offer to play Yugoslavia as part of a cultural exchange program.

The band secured a recording contract with producer Shel Talmy, famous for working with the Who and the Kinks (plus a young David Bowie). Perhaps because of this, the Rockin’ Vickers’ next two singles owed a serious debt to the two bands. “It’s Alright” was such a blatant steal of the Who’s “The Kids Are Alright” that Pete Townshend apparently threatened to sue (though Lemmy says the Who became “great mates” during his Motörhead days), and their follow up single was a cover of Ray Davies’ “Dandy.” It didn’t chart in their native country, but Lemmy insisted they were living large from live bookings. “We didn’t have hit records but you didn’t need ’em. We were making, in those days, quite a lot of money. We had this big house we lived in and three fucking Jaguars and a speedboat on Lake Windermere. We used to go water-skiing. That was the heyday, if you ask me.”

By 1967 Lemmy decided wanted to get a piece of the London action and subsequently quit the band. He shared a room with Noel Redding, and briefly served as a roadie for Jimi Hendrix, but within a few years he’d be topping the bill himself – first in the psych rock band Sam Gopal, then Hawkwind and finally Motörhead. 

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Bon Scott’s Australian Teen-Pop Band the Valentines

AC/DC’s manager Michael Browning once described the Valentines as “a satin-clad, bell-bottom–wearing teeny-bop band.” In other words, not the kind of group in which you’d expect to find Bon Scott. But the future metal god spent the late Sixties as a co-frontman of the Perth-based pop group, sharing the spotlight with singer Vince Lovegrove. Formed in 1966, the Valentines were a fusion of Scott’s first band, the Spektors, and Lovegrove’s the Winstons. Scoring their first local chart entry with a cover of Arthur Alexander’s “Every Day I Have to Cry,” the band capitalized on their success by recording a number of songs co-written by George Young and Henry Vanda – previously members of the Aussie rock outfit the Easybeats and future AC/DC producers.

Moving to Melbourne by the end of 1967 to pursue national fame, the group became an in-demand act on the touring circuit, drawing hoards of teenage girls eager to get a look at the twin heartthrobs out front. Even at this early stage, Scott was not suited to the life of a teen idol. His friend, former AC/DC bassist Mark Evans, recalled seeing the uneasy truce between Bon Scott the Rock Outlaw and Bon Scott the Pop Star in his book, Dirty Deeds: My Life Inside/Outside AC/DC. “I was sitting in front of the PA on the side of the stage and I could see him disappear into the wings during solos and after songs to slug from a bottle of Johnnie Walker,” he writes. “As the set progressed he built up a descent sweat and I could see something strange going on under the sheer chiffon sleeves. Tattoos were starting to appear – he had tried to hide them with makeup but the sweat was making it run. The guy was turning into Bon Scott before my eyes.”

As tastes shifted from lightweight pop towards heavier rock cuts by the end of the decade, the Valentines struggled to shed their image and their popularity waned. They promoted their 1968 single “Peculiar Hole in the Sky” with an advertisement bearing the comically desperate copy: “Please buy a copy – we’re starving.” It was barely a joke, as the group had taken to sneaking bites in the middle of supermarket aisles while on tour. “We were very poor, almost starving, driving down the highways, absorbed with rock ‘n’ roll, stealing people’s front door milk money … living on boiled potatoes, the dreams of success our mantra,” Lovegrove later wrote of those difficult days. “[But] when he sang, Bon took off into charisma-land.”

Their circumstances deteriorated further on September 20th, 1969, when authorities raided the group’s lodgings at the Jan Juc Surf Life Saving Club and discovered marijuana. The legal repercussions of this, the first major rock & roll drug bust in Australian history, exacerbated personality clashes within the band. “Bon and I have often come really close to punching the shit out of each other,” Lovegrove told Go-Set that same year. Even worse, the music wasn’t selling. The failure of their February 1970 single, “Juliette,” sealed the band’s fate. 

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Carole King’s Progressive Folk Trio the City

Though Carole King’s status as one of pop’s premier melodists was still strong, by 1967 her marriage to songwriting partner Gerry Goffin was in a state of collapse. Desperate to start over, she took her two daughters and went West – trading New York City’s industrial-style songwriting factories for the comparatively laid-back and groovy Los Angeles clique. “Southern California was the center of everything fresh, young, and current,” King recalled in her memoir, A Natural Woman. “The beautiful people, the gorgeous weather, the burgeoning music scene, and the free and easy lifestyle were a siren call.” She settled in Laurel Canyon, a bucolic artists’ enclave inhabited by the hippest musicians in town, and soon fell in with two other NYC transplants: bassist Charles Larkey and guitarist Danny Kortchmar.

Larkey, who would later become King’s second husband, had been a member of a pop-rock group called the Myddle Class, which were signed to Goffin and King’s label imprint, Tomorrow Records. Following the dissolution of the band, he joined Kortchmar in the provocative proto-punk collective known as the Fugs. Kortchmar, known far and wide as “Kootch,” was also a veteran of the Flying Machine, fronted by a talented singer named James Taylor. Both Larkey and Kortchmar had migrated to Los Angeles to seek their fortune, but so far fame proved elusive. To stay sharp they practiced at King’s Wonderland Avenue home, running through old Goffin-King numbers in addition to fresh compositions she had written with new collaborators, Toni Stern and David Palmer. For King, whose confidence as a performer lagged far behind her confidence as a songwriter, these loose sessions were a revelation. “Playing with Charlie and Danny was not only fun, it greatly enhanced my jamming skills,” she later wrote. “As the number of licks in my kit bag went up, so did my confidence and understanding of jazz. And Kootch had a gift for exhorting other musicians to play, write and sing beyond what they believed was the edge of their ability.”

King’s track record as a recording artist in her own right was sparse, but Kortchmar and Larkey persuaded her to venture into the studio and cut an album of these new songs. As a nod to their shared East Coast heritage, the trio decided to call themselves the City. “Even though we had a group name, this was Carole’s record all the way,” Kortchmar wrote in 1999. “She would sing or play parts to Charlie and me, and once we got it right, we could hear how great this record was going to be.” For a producer King approached her friend Lou Adler, a onetime songwriter who had graduated into full-blown impresario by producing hits for the Mamas and the Papas, Scott McKenzie, and Barry McGuire on his own labels, Dunhill and, later, Ode Records. With Adler on board, they augmented their lineup with pro session drummer Jim Gordon, later to serve Eric Clapton in Derek & the Dominos.

The 12-tracks that make up Now That Everything’s Been Said, the City’s sole release, are a bridge between the precision pop assembly line that King was leaving behind, and the highly personal singer-songwriter era she would define in the early Seventies with her seminal 1971 LP Tapestry. The centerpiece is the ethereal “Snow Queen,” coupling King’s earthy voice with spacey instrumental arrangements and Gordon’s jazz rhythms. But changing times didn’t diminish her skill at crafting hits; the jaunty gospel of “That Old Sweet Roll (Hi-De-Ho)” would reach the Top 20 in 1970 with Blood Sweat and Tears, the Byrds’ version of “Wasn’t Born to Follow” was a highlight of the soundtrack to the film Easy Rider, and the Monkees later delivered a stirring cover of “A Man Without a Dream.”

Despite the strength of the songs, and significant industry attention, the album didn’t sell. “I was 26 when Now That Everything’s Been Said was released in 1968,” King wrote in A Natural Woman. “[We] expected it to zoom to the top of the charts within, at most, a few weeks. Individually and together, we optimistically imagined the album’s success as if it had already happened. Danny and Charlie kept telling each other, ‘It’s a great album. The City is gonna be Number 1 with a bullet!’ The album didn’t get above 500 with an anchor. It never even charted.” King has since admitted that her reluctance to tour due to extreme stage fright may have doomed the record, although label distribution snafus likely didn’t help matters. For decades the disc remained out of print, largely at King’s request. The City would not issue another album, but the project would embolden her confidence and cement the creative relationships that helped pave the way for her reinvention as a solo artist. 

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Sammy Hagar’s Sunshine-Pop Duo Samson & Hagar

Little appears to be known about this unusual early chapter in the Red Rocker’s history. After fronting a Southern California band called the Fabulous Castilles (not to be confused with the similarly named group featuring a young Bruce Springsteen), Hagar joined forces with fellow vocalist Pete Samson in 1967. Together they recorded the self-penned song, “Reach Out to Find Me” (backed by Samson’s “Read My Thoughts”) for Ranwood Records. For a backing band, producer Dan Dalton called in the Peppermint Trolley Company, thus melding the future Van Halen shouter with the voices behind the Brady Bunch theme song.The single’s chart failure later that year spelled the end for the short-lived duo. Hagar continued performing in a pack of other SoCal groups – the Johnny Fortune Band and also the Justice Brothers among them – before achieving mainstream recognition in the hard-rocking early Seventies outfit Montrose. 

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The Cars’ Ric Ocasek and Benjamin Orr’s Mellow Early-Seventies Trio Milkwood

The future brain trust behind 2018 Rock and Roll Hall of Famers the Cars first crossed paths in Cleveland back in the mid-Sixties, after Ocasek saw Orr performing with his group, the Grasshoppers, on a local television program. They soon became close, playing both as a duo and in bands at local venues across Columbia, Ohio, and Ann Arbor, Michigan, before winding up in Boston. While there they teamed up with guitarist Jas Goodkind to form Milkwood, a laid-back vocal trio in the Crosby, Stills and Nash mold. The group’s honey-soaked harmonies and gentle acoustic picking caught the attention of audiences throughout the Cambridge club circuit. “We were playing around town and somebody asked us if we wanted to make a record,” Ocasek told Rolling Stone in 1979. “In two weeks we recorded that Milkwood thing.”

Work on what would prove to be the band’s one and only album took place at Aengus Studios in Fayville, Massachusetts. The sessions marked the first collaboration with future Car Greg Hawkes, who played saxophone and provided brass arrangements. “He had the simplicity concept,” Ocasek later said, “but he wasn’t afraid to do interesting things. I knew he’d be the keyboard player I wanted.”

Ten original songs by Ocasek and Orr (credited to their real names, Otcasek and Orzechowski) were released on Paramount Records in 1973 as How’s the Weather. The comically banal title gives some impression of the overall sound of the album, which is mellow to the point of narcolepsy. The wistful, confessional singer-songwriter material, flecked with the occasional “jazz-odyssey” breakdown, is light years away from the robotic New Wave anthems that would make the Cars famous later in the decade. The record-buying public, presumably believing that one CSN was enough, stayed away and the album sank without a trace. 

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