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Copyright (c) 2002

StanRay Entertainment Group

Essay On The "Lost" Album

Garage rock. Look it up in the dictionary if you want, but you’ll be wasting your time. It’s impossible to grasp the power of this most pure form of rock & roll by reading about it, writing about it or doing anything other than experiencing it. It is simply the brutal power of teenage angst and hormones driven through cheap guitars and Silvertone amps. It’s the act of telling the world to f*ck-off by pounding on busted drums and barely tuned guitars until the neighbors call the cops. It’s screaming about getting laid, or not getting laid, or driving around trying to get laid. It’s mayhem and madness held together with duct-tape, black jeans, and the promise of maybe playing a gig at the local high school. And maybe…just maybe…it’s a shot at the big time. If rock and roll is about sex, then garage rock is the orgasm. Simple, satisfying and not meant to last.

There are many opinions as to what constitutes great garage rock. As with any subject that has a passionate and knowledgeable following, garage rock has its camps. There are some that believe that any band that plays more than three chords per song might as well be playing Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Others believe that great garage is saying, "I got a fuzz box. I’m gonna use it. Screw." One thing that they all can agree on is that every time the music industry starts shoving bland flavorless pop ditties or pretension pompous epics down the publics’ throat, the beast from the garage time and time again pulled it back by the short hair and kicked it’s ass.

Garage rock has had its success stories, magnificent failures and deep mysteries. In fact, during the 1960’s and thanks to the British invasion, there may well have been thousands of garage rock bands scattered across the USA. Many of them managed to get out a single or two, trying to make their mark before disappearing back into obscurity. Others even managed to score record deals with the majors, to varying degrees of success. Some are just fading local legends that are remembered at class reunions and methadone clinics. And then there is the stuff that’s just plain weird. Introducing thee Wytches…

Very little is known about this band other then the fact that they hailed from Salem, MA and played the local nightclub circuit between 1966 and 1967. Before that they may have been called The Sand-ells. A collection of rich prep school brats slumming at the beach front watering holes of Revere Beach, blasting out instrumentals in matching blazers.

There was supposedly some involvement in witchcraft, but any band with a name like thee Wytches would obviously attract that kind of speculation. Even the names of the group members are in question, although that may have recently been cleared up. Who knows. What is certain is that the band did not go quietly into that dark night.

They left a record (a beat to hell acetate) and one ¼" reel to reel tape of their passing, as compelling a document of ‘60s garage rock as one could hope for. On it is recorded 11 fuzz/pop/psych/garage songs that are amazing in their sophistication and production values (at least by local 1966-67 standards.) Found during a house renovation in Salem, and nearly thrown out with the trash, was a box that contained tapes, some photos and promotional posters.

Fortunately they made their way to a local collector in early 2000. At that point a flurry of activity went out over the Internet questioning the authenticity of the tape and speculation of who the band members were.

Now, as of this writing we are still looking for any surviving band members. For whatever reasons, none have come forward. One source, which claims to have been a "hanger-on", names Ray Eastman, Eric Stanley, Lenny Cafazzo and Jeff Michaels as members. Another source in Los Angeles who grew up in Salem mentions Frank West, and a lead singer simply named Ronnie Fox. (In any event, we have tried to take reasonable precautions in protecting the rights of the songwriters, whoever they may be, in order to get this remarkable 11-song set onto MP3 and CD formats and thus to the public.)

The music titles were hand written on the large manila envelope containing the reel to reel, and that was cool because of the interesting spellings (including the correct spelling of name of the band.) Here’s what it said.

Down in the lower right hand corner of the envelope someone else had scribbled "Saved copy, October 66".

Whatever one might think of these recordings, it was obviously an ambitious and expensive undertaking. It’s garage all right, but I’ll bet someone had to move dad’s Jaguar before they could unload in the Ludwigs.

The first thing I noticed upon hearing the tracks was that it was recorded very loud, nearly to the point of distortion. This I find strange, because most producers in those days preferred cleaner mixes causing them to try and get bands to turn down. Maybe it’s a production trick, but thee Wytches sound like they beat the hell out of their instruments. They also seemed to be able to use overdubs to great effect, especially with the guitars. It’s possible to count four separate guitar parts on many of the songs.

It also appears that who ever did the engineering had a few tricks up his or her sleeve. The audio montage in "Tyme To Leave" predates the freak out in "Whole Lotta Love" by two and half years. Someone had fun on that one.

As for lead vocals, there is nothing especially outstanding here. There seems to be two different singers at work, both occasionally letting slip their Massachusetts accents. The background vocals, however, are unusually tight and well thought out, leading one to believe these guys had been listening to a lot of AM radio.

The general tone of the album is rather menacing, not unlike something from the "Pebbles" or "Back From The Grave" compilations. They seem to have possibly wanted to be the East Coast’s version of The Raiders, but nastier. A lot nastier. Check out the opener "Salem Wyllows Girl" with the lyric "See her hanging by the baseball dugout…you can almost smell the peppermints in her mouth…" featuring a whispered vocal that’s creepy as hell. This guy is not talking about asking someone to the prom.

Everything takes off from there, threaded together with a total addiction to fuzz and volume. Some stuff is obvious radio pop ("Dum Dum") that could have been The Archies on Acid. Other tunes are juvenile delinquent anthems ("Wylde Tymes") that give the impression these guys vanished because they wound up in jail. Then comes the line from "Idunno"..."break this curse, put her in a hearse".

Today this simply would not stand up to the glaring eye of political correctness or the sanctimonious Lilith tours. You can listen to rest and make your own judgements.

This is an entire LPs worth of music that was fully produced for release, yet it stood unnoticed and forgotten for over 30 years. By some strange twist of fate the music survived to play a cosmic joke on it’s creators, wherever and whoever they are. Included is cleaned up copy of the early acetate and live recording of the band playing at the Salem Armory in 1966 (and from the sound of it a very loyal audience).

Anyway, we hope to have done thee Wytches proud by finally getting "Wylde Tymes Wyth" out to the public. If these guys ever surface, I for one would like to know what the hell happened. Then again, maybe it’s just as well we never find out. Everyone likes a mystery, and after all it’s garage. It was never meant to last.

Stephen Molly - February 2001