ARTHUR GEE - SAME (USA PSYCH '71)

This is Arthur Gee’s self-titled album from 1971 – apparently it was his THIRD album, although the first two are demo-only affairs and not fully realized. There’s a country rock vibe throughout this one, but that’s not to say it’s Porter Waggoner or Conway Twitty, thank God. Arthur seems far too stoned, and the atmospheric production is way, way too psychedelic for the steel guitar and beehive set. Lee Hazelwood is a better comparison, but while no individual Arthur Gee song can stand up to Lee’s stuff, the overall experience of listening to the entire album gives much bigger rewards. It’s more like Lee Hazelwood if Roger Dean designed his album covers. So grab your stirrups and a spliff and let’s dig in…

The opening track, “Dimensions,” is the trippiest thing here, creeping in on a low-lying bed of paisley fog, with Arthur’s deep resonant vocals namechecking Bob Dylan’s sad-eyed lady. But like Nashville, Bob’s only a starting point for Arthur Gee. If going electric was blasphemy for Bob’s fans, think of how they’d react to the prog rock mellotron that comes creeping in at the 3 minute mark. I can hear the cries from the Newport crowd now – “Judas!” “Hipgnosis!” It’s Emerson, Lake and Yoakum. In the Court of the Crimson King of the Road.

But that’s the beauty of Arthur Gee’s album. It’s all lonesome cowpoke prairie songs, spiked with stoned prog rock trappings and produced like it was some hypnotic raga from one of the Shankar boys. If you don’t think country music can be hypnotizing, check out “Cotton Suede,” a trance-like ballad with steel guitar and chirping birds that’s the badlands version of “Grantchester Meadows.” Or the steady, slowly-building “Confessions,” whose droning organ, mellotron and steady marching beat conjure up images of some prairie revival where even the coyotes are wearing love beads. I mean, this is the same guy who thinks nothing of throwing in some Jew’s harp along with the blistering prop jet guitar in the stoned cowboy singalong “Plain Talk.” Replace Buck Owens with Skip Spence and Hee Haw might’ve sounded more like this. “Hey Skip, I’m a-pickin…” “And I’m a-trippin’!”

It’s mesmerizing stuff. The expansive, wide-open production, coupled with the lazy, lonesome psychedelic cowboy music, creates this whole new dimension of sound. An all-encompassing little ghost town where the local saloon plays Quicksilver Messenger Service, and the sheriff drives a VW van. And bad guys get hanged, while the rest of the citizens get stoned. No sirree, this ain’t your daddy’s Conway Twitty.

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