Review: The Rolling Stones - 12 x 5 (1964)

Tracks: 1) Around And Around; 2) Confessin’ The Blues; 3) Empty Heart; 4) Time Is On My Side; 5) Good Times, Bad Times; 6) It’s All Over Now; 7) 2120 South Michigan Avenue; 8) Under The Boardwalk; 9) Congratulations; 10) Grown Up Wrong; 11) If You Need Me; 12) Susie Q.

REVIEW

While the UK only saw one Rolling Stones LP in the year that Beatlemania took over the world, the Americans, freshly subscribed to the thrills of British Invasion, got luckier and received this mega-pack of 12 extra songs where the British side got only five — the EP Five By Five, released on the 14th of August, did indeed contain five new recordings from five band members. In the States, it became 12 x 5; padded out with several more A- and B-sides from recent singles and a few tracks recorded exclusively for the American market, it came out two months later as (questionable) proof that the Rolling Stones could now easily compete with the Fab Four at least in terms of quantity, if not necessarily in quality.

If one accepts 12 x 5 as a legitimate second LP from the band, it might seem, indeed, that the proverbial «sophomore slump» is in full flight, since there are few, if any at all, surprises in store for us. For the most part, the recordings present the same cocktail of Chicago blues, Chuck Berry-style rock’n’roll, contemporary soul-oriented R&B, and one or two half-assed stabs at original songwriting — all of it competent, but not yet suggestive of an individual artis­tic path leading from interpretation to creation. And now that the novelty shock from the band’s first major statement earlier in the year had worn down, it was not that easy, either, to take the world anew by surprise at the phenomenon of the Rolling Stones as a darker and seedier alternative to the smiling «moptops». Predictably, of all the early Stones’ albums, 12 x 5 typically gets the worst rap in retrospective reviews (with the possible exception of December’s Children, a record that suffers even more from being scraped together from various leftovers).

Were one only to concentrate on the band’s output in terms of singles at the time, the awesome stylistic and substantial progression made by the guys from early to late 1964 would be impossible to miss. In June, they had their first proper #1 UK hit with ‘It’s All Over Now’, a song they got from Bobby Womack and his band, the Valentinos. The original was a fun little tune, melodically lifted almost note-for-note from Chuck Berry’s ‘Memphis Tennessee’ — but seriously distinguished, of course, by a tense and nasty vocal performance from Bobby. Naturally, Mick Jagger could never compete with Bobby Womack on a technical level, but, much to his honor, he never even tried. Instead, what he did try is to take the bitch-slappin’ potential of the vocals to a whole new level: each verse is shot out at you in one unfaltering timbral wave, like a revved-up prosecutor’s speech keeping the jury on the edge of their seats. Bobby sings the song like a man who was unjustly injured, writhing in figurative pain while getting the lyrics out; Mick throws them out like a set of sneering, mocking, condescending insults, asserting his hip-and-ironic superiority over his antagonist, his listeners, his audience, God almighty and whoever else might trod along. It’s naughty, insulting, offensive... and oddly hot.

Even more importantly, though, is the fact that the Stones did not merely «cover» the song. Instead, they re-wrote it from scratch; I would argue that they quite properly deserved their own songwriting credit here. There are no signs whatsoever of ‘Memphis Tennessee’, other than the basic rhythm pattern; instead, it introduces a completely new little blues-pop riff which is later emphasized by an unforgettable set of power chords echoing Jagger’s chorus of "because I USED to love her, BUT it’s all over NOW...". Nobody would demand that kind of creativity from a cover tune, but the Stones still went ahead and displayed it: it is within ‘It’s All Over Now’ that you should properly look for the true seeds of the Stones’ masterful blues-rock songwriting.

The icing on the cake is provided by Keith’s ins­pirational, most likely improvised, chopped-up, sputtering, stuttering solo break which came absolutely from nowhere (nothing even remotely like it on the Valentinos’ original) — and it has always been a deep suspicion in me that it directly inspired Dave Davies for his own punkish solo on ʽYou Really Got Meʼ, recorded just a few weeks after ʽIt’s All Over Nowʼ hit the UK market — thus, we get ourselves yet another legitimate contender for «first punk song ever» (and it still breaks my heart how Keith had completely abandoned / forgotten that particular style of lead guitar playing some time in between the Brian Jones and Mick Taylor periods). Finally, one more cool thing about ‘It’s All Over Now’ is its extended instrumental coda, bringing the length well over three minutes and sounding unusually repetitive-and-noisy for a pop single in 1964. Maybe they just thought that little power chord sequence was fun to drop down on the listeners several times in a row — and, incidentally, came up with a sort of proto-Velvet Underground vibe (which, I guess, is something worth taking into consideration for all the Velvet Underground fans who despise the likes of the Stones for their commercial orientation and musical predictability).

‘It’s All Over Now’ did not make that much of an impact on the US charts, but the band’s next, US-only single did: the cover of Jerry Ragovoy’s ‘Time Is On My Side’, which the band certainly lifted from a recent B-side by soul queen Irma Thomas, rose all the way to #6, for the first time putting them into the Top 10 and becoming their greatest commercial success on that market prior to ‘Satisfaction’ — rather odd, considering that the song has little to do with rock’n’roll, and that when it came to soul music, the Stones did not have such a surefire formula to make it more crispy, exciting, and modern than they did with their reinterpretations of Chuck Berry or Jimmy Reed. In this particular case, for instance, I cannot say that their cover is in any way «better» than Irma’s version — tighter, perhaps, and Mick manages to give a convincing performance, but he is nowhere near the spiritual belter that Irma Thomas is. Ironically, ‘Time Is On My Side’ would only gradually become a fundamentally important piece of the Stones’ legacy, as time went on and on and on and it became obvious that time was, very much indeed, on their side (something that they did not forget to exploit themselves when they revived the song for their 1981-82 stadium tour).

(Two trivia notes — first, check out the very first recording of this song, made by the jazz trombonist Kai Winding with Dionne and Dee Dee Warwick on backing vocals, it is every bit as inspirational as both Irma’s and the Stones’; second, remember that the Stones actually made two versions of the song — the one on the US single and on 12 x 5 features a little gospel organ intro, while the version later included on the UK LP The Rolling Stones No. 2 includes a stinging guitar lead instead. So, which one’s the better one? let us try our best and make half of the planet kill the other half over this burning issue!)

The core of 12 x 5, constituted of songs that were earlier released on the Five By Five EP in the UK, was recorded in June ’64 at the exact same location where they also did ‘It’s All Over Now’ — Chess Studios at Chicago, the Stones’ spiritual equivalent of King Solomon’s Temple. This is why one of the original tracks, the instrumental ‘2120 South Michigan Avenue’, bears that particular name — the address of Chess Studios. It is, however, notable that the location mainly served to provide inspiration — none of Chess’ regulars appear as session musicians on any of the tracks, either because the Stones were too humble and shy to ask, or too proud to require outside assistance even from any of their idols, or, heck, maybe both at the same time. In any case, while there are no great stylistic or substantial breakthroughs contained in these tracks, they most certainly prove that these five (six, if we count Ian Stewart on keyboards, and we should) British lads could waltz inside the single greatest American blues studio of all time and make music that was 100% worthy of all the illustrious names associated with the place.

The very first two tracks on 12 x 5 show that the boys are here to stay and conquer. ʽAround And Aroundʼ, taken over from Chuck Berry, is merry barroom rock that was sort of lacking on Newest Hitmakers, and not only does it signal the true arrival of Ian Stewart as a boogie piano player to rival Jonnie Johnson and Jerry Lee Lewis (even if, unlike those two, he always humbly keeps to the background — I do not think there is even a single Ian Stewart piano solo on any of the Stones’ albums), but it also firmly establishes Keith as the un­questionable inheritor and perfector of the Chuck Berry lick — unlike Chuck, Keith is no big fan of showing off, but every note that he plays sounds nastier, grittier, and, in a way, more fully and decisively realized than the way it was played by Chuck. The most important element is still Jagger, though — with his vocal strategy, the cycled "but we kept on rockin’, goin’ ’round and ’round..." bit becomes more overtly rebellious with each new repetition, a barely veiled call to rip out theater seats and go full-out riot mode, even if the song starts out as just an innocent piece of good-time boogie. Every time I play the original and the cover back-to-back, Chuck’s version merely makes me want to dance — the Stones’ version, in comparison, makes me want to storm the Bastille or something. (For the record, the Animals’ version, released the same year, was also injected with exuberance rather than insurgence — mainly because neither Eric Burdon, nor Alan Price ever strived for the sort of provocative nastiness that was a common feature shared between Mick and Keith).

The other highlight, quite different in terms of genre and style, but not so much in the desired effect, is ʽConfessin’ The Bluesʼ, an old blues tune which Chuck Berry also recorded back in 1960, but in this particular case the Stones rather take as their model the slower, steadier version done by Little Walter in 1958. On here, Mick goes into his trademark full-out «midnight rambler» mode, with both guitarists supporting him as grimly and snappily as possible. One could complain that Jagger’s singing is somewhat strained and unnatural, but this is precisely what makes the song so enticing: both Chuck and Little Walter sang those verses with their usual ease and fluidity, making their vocal efforts unremarkable against the background of everything else they did — Mick Jagger, however, was there to make a sharp difference which would be sure to grab your personal attention. The tense shrillness of his vocals is sharpened and polished to near-geometric perfection, and he had this unique way of emphasizing specific lines with a high-pressure glottalized burst ("oh, baby... can I ha-a-a-ve you for myself?") that would have been considered not just offensive, but dang near-criminal just a decade earlier. It is a marvel to listen to him zipping between different vocal styles, transforming a potentially deadly dull 12-bar blues into a journey of devilish seduction which, at times, sounds downright creepy (and, of course, utterly unimaginable in the cultural context of the 2010s-2020s). Even the harmonica break, which cannot compare to Little Walter in terms of technique, beats Walter in terms of efficiency — with its echoey production, steady pacing, and swaggery, threatening feel of confidence, it just seems like a natural, if not supernatural, extension of Jagger’s hypnotic powers. In short, when placed in the hands of the Stones, ‘Confessin’ The Blues’ is not a love song, not even a stalker’s monolog — it is our friend the Devil himself, who came here on Earth because he would rather love you, baby, than anyone else he knows in town. (Six years later, he would be making another, even more direct, proposal, singing "my name is Lucifer, please take my hand" through the vocal cords of yet another crazy Englishman — although by that time, he would seem to be more honest about this, hinting to you at eternal damnation and desperation rather than at those sexy, seductive flames of hell).

These are the big ones in my opinion, but there’s quite a bit of fun to be extracted from some of the smaller ones as well. One might argue that the Stones have very little business covering the Drifters, but I have always loved the tightness of the groove they get going on ʽUnder The Boardwalkʼ, and how even on this superficially very happy song they still manage to introduce an odd strain of darkness — the vibe of those deep "under the boardwalk, under the boardwalk..." backing vocals is anything but joyful, sounding more like the voices of all the spirits of those unfortunate enough to drown somewhere in the vicinity of the boardwalk, just as the unsuspecting happy couple are enjoying their safe and sunny day out. (Cue the Jaws theme or something here).

Though much less surprising, Solomon Burke’s ʽIf You Need Meʼ is given as strong a Jagger-jolt as ʽYou Can Make It If You Tryʼ — no tenderness whatsoever (Jagger’s "if you need me, why don’t you call me?" = "if you need me, bitch, just call me instead of having a nervous breakdown and making me pay your medical bills!"), but a lot of fabulous glottal contortions weaving an attitude of superhuman cockiness and absolute self-assurance from somebody to whom «vulnerability» probably means the chance to catch one too many STDs. (Do not be too harsh on a lad who’d only just turned 21: over time, he would eventually achieve great success in exploring his sensitive side as well).

Even the abovementioned instrumental jam ʽ2120 South Michigan Avenueʼ has its moments of great­ness — like when all the instruments quiet down for a few bars, creating an atmosphere of suspense, and then Jagger’s harmonica blasts start raining down from the sky with little warning. Of note is also the nasty fuzzy tone on Wyman’s bass, bringing the tune quite close to the requirements of classic hard rock (or, at least, «proto»-hard rock), and the funny dialog effect between the chugging chords of the rhythm guitar and Ian Stewart’s quietly mumbling organ solo. (Fans should also note that the latest remaster of the album restores an extra minute and a half of the jam with a long-lost guitar break from Keith, although it is hardly anything special). And while the definitive Sixties’ rock cover of ʽSusie Qʼ still had to wait for John Fogerty to mature, this short and super-tight blast is no slouch, either: the boys bale out all the swamp from Dale Hawkins’ original and replace it with nasty, dirty, distorted rock’n’roll fury — this is easily the single best group performance on the album, with everybody giving their best, Bill and Charlie almost owning the result with fairly psychedelic bass «zoops» from the former and near-tribal drumming from the latter.

In the meantime, the number of original compositions has increased drastically — counting both Jagger/Richards and the «Nanker Phelge» moniker, there’s five, of which ʽEmpty Heartʼ, a plea­ding, brooding R&B number with interlocking guitar, organ, and harmonica parts, is arguably the best: most of the time it isn’t even so much of an actual song as it is more of a shamanistic ceremony, a multi-layered magical incantation to rekindle a lady’s passion for the broken-hearted protagonist. ʽGrown Up Wrongʼ, a rather thin one-line guitar vamp, and ʽGood Times Bad Timesʼ, an acoustic blues-pop ballad, are less impressive, but the former is notable for being the very first (out of many more to follow) classic Jagger putdown of a girl for acting all stuffy and conformist ("you were easy to fool when you were in school, but you’ve grown up all wrong"), and the latter at least features the best harmonica break on the record (the lyrics are total crap, though: lines like "there’s gotta be trust in this world / or it won’t get very far / well trust in someone / or there’s gonna be war" should be considered an insult to Dartford Grammar School, never mind the London School of Economics).

My favorite of the originals, however, is the slow-waltzing ʽCongratulationsʼ — sort of an early precursor to the band’s baroque pop flirt in the mid-Sixties with its inventive interlocking of two rippling guitar patterns, with the electric part coming in with a little delay after the acoustic part, as if chasing it away. This is the kind of interplay that you did not see all that often even on a Beatles record, and clearly showed that here, too, was a band with some major composing potential. The lyrics aren’t too good, the vocals aren’t Jagger at his finest (sadness and sentimentalism are not his forte, at least not just yet), but that guitar work, including the dark folksy acoustic solo break, is absolutely exquisite for 1964.

In the end, everything has to be judged in the context of its time, and while 12 x 5 might seem weak by «common» standards applicable to the Stones, and not tremendously innovative to be able to catch up with the Beatles, it is still a major achievement compared to the rates and peculiarities of evolution of almost any other British Invasion band at the time. The lack of giant strides here is compensated by the presence of small creative steps taken in pretty much every direction — arrangements, production, reinvention of other people’s songs, and nurturing of the band’s own songwriting craft. Above all, it would be impossible to hear this collection in 1964 and not realize that, much like the Beatles, these guys were here to stay — though, of course, it would still be impossible to realize just for how much longer than the Beatles they would be staying...

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