Extreme
Measures Fillmore Auditorium, San Francisco I CAN'T REMEMBER when I heard that the Sons of Champlin gave away their first single – it was either "Sing Me a Rainbow" or "Jesus Is Coming," I've heard the story both ways – the gesture might have been an omen of things to come, but it had the kind of hopeful absurdity that suited me in those days. I'd meant to ask Bill Champlin about how much acid a band had to consume to kick off a career with such a burst of inspiration. Unfortunately, when he called me from Australia the other night, he entered the conversation at high speed, and I'd been asleep; by the time I was ready to talk, I'd forgotten what I wanted to say. Besides, statue of limitations or not, a lot of folks have selective memory when it comes to the past. Champlin was on tour with Chicago, the faceless, horn-driven rock band whose albums are titled by their numerical order in the band's catalog. He was calling to talk about the regrouped Sons and the new live album and DVD, Secrets. That was a good thing, because asking someone a question like "How are things in Chicago?" or "What's your favorite Chicago song?" could legitimately be interpreted as antagonistic. Champlin joined Chicago 22 years ago, and the first time I mentioned them, he went out of his way to praise the band, who have rewarded him handsomely for endless touring and playing sets that consist of the band's hits. Money or no money, it's hard for me to see Champlin playing "25 or 6 to 4" a hundred times a year. He was an inventive musician, a great singer, and a prolific songwriter, who, among many songs, cowrote Earth, Wind, and Fire's Grammy-winning classic "After the Love Is Gone." Late in our conversation, I got another, much more relevant comment on life in the band: I asked how many songs he'd contributed to Chicago. "None," he replied, which is what I needed to know. Were I Champlin, I'd have wanted to record with the Sons like I wanted to breathe fresh air. Chicago offered him a decent living, and he had a family to support. But Champlin wasn't an ordinary talent; in a world of mediocre rock bands, the Sons were one of a kind, driven by Champlin's lifelong obsession with R&B and a '60s-inspired recklessness. He had – still has – as soulful a voice as any white singer of his generation, and while most Bay Area bands were distinguished by blues-inspired guitar jams delivered through a psychedelic squall, the Sons were funky and innovative, anchored by a fat B3 organ and set apart by jazzy horn arrangements. Once our conversation began to roll, I had to fight to get a word in. I'd wanted to confess how my ears were shaped by his music in those days, and how, when The Sons was released in 1969, my old friend John Kochman – the best keyboard player I knew (although I didn't know very many at the time) – called and raved about it. The Sons played rings around most Bay Area bands; they had good songs, a soulful vocalist, and a deal with a major label (Capitol). For six or seven years, fans, critics, and musicians knew it was just a matter of time until the band hit it big. And then, in 1977, I heard the band was dead and Champlin was doing session work in Los Angeles as a vocal arranger and singer. In 1979, I saw him in the movie The Rose as a member of Bette Midler's band; he won two Grammies – one in 1979 for writing Earth, Wind, and Fire's "After the Love Is Gone," and the other in 1982 for writing George Benson's "Turn Your Love Around." That year he joined Chicago and entered the twilight zone. In the early days I was fond of impressing friends with the band's albums, and then – to show exactly how singular the group were – disclosing details of the giveaway. My endorsement was unhampered by facts, because I had no facts. I just knew this: the Sons were true believers, and in my world they became a kind of punch line to a vision of the future built around impending global ecstasy or, depending on my mood, lunacy. The band got some press for the giveaway – although knowing about what they did and knowing the music were two different things. They were a reckless, inspired posse of Marin County hippies, and Champlin told me what was already obvious, that the band took a careless approach to career building. "You know those songs like 'Get High' and 'Freedom'?" he asked rhetorically. "We practiced what we preached." Still, Secrets is a monster album, with strong tunes, airtight playing, and great arrangements – and Champlin's incredible voice, as strong today as it was back in the day. I listened to it and remembered a 1970 show at the Berkeley Community Theater where the Sons opened for the Youngbloods and gave the furious headliners 20 minutes to play after a two-hour-plus set. "Jesse Colin Young has been a prick to me ever since," Champlin said. The '60s don't translate well to the present for many reasons, suffice it to say. The Sons stood up for something different – musically and socially – and if their career hit the wall, their music is memorable. Secrets is funkier than anything I've come across in a while: it doesn't take me back to the old days as much as it puts me on the ground I want to stand on today. You can't ask more from music than that. |