High Tide was one of those obscure bands at the turn of the 70's who have been cited as an influence on both hard rock, heavy metal, and the avant-garde. Revolving around the tense pairing of Tony Hill on guitar and Simon House on violin and organ, as well as Hill's haunting Morrison-like vocals, the album is a cauldron of fluctuating peaks and valleys more attuned to the noise-rock scene of the 80's, even though there is quite a 70's progressive feel as far as the arrangements go. The titles and lyrics ("Futilist's Lament", "Death Warmed Up", etc.) reflect a mindset quite the doomy opposite from the then-prevailing psychedelic mood, that is for sure. But this is not to be confused with the simple, straightforward Black Sabbath-style of visceral horror, for High Tide is definitely more of the refined, psychological variety - based on Hill and House continously suggesting the listener's mind with note after crudely, distorted note spilling out of their respective instruments. As far as underground albums go, this is one of the more uncompromising - and fascinating - to take in.

A brutally important album for not just the career of Alice Cooper or producer Bob Ezrin, but for pop music in general, for all three were at a crossroads. 50 years later, Love It To Death does not sound as dangerous as it did in its heyday, but this was one of the major gauntlets thrown down to clear the post-Love Generation fog everyone was experiencing. Sinister, jagged, disturbing passages slash vivid flashes of imagery with Alice's finely focused and ever more disdainful sneering vocals and lyrics. For the first time, there's an undisputed anthem - "I'm Eighteen" - which is as tenously vulnerable as it is recklessly unpredictable. For those more cinematically inclined, extended theaters of psychological torture await thanks to "Black Juju" and "The Ballad of Dwight Fry". The bottom line was - the villains of rock have arrived, and with a vengeance.

Any last vestiges of Nelson's rockabilly past were fully swept away for this release, which sees him and the Stone Canyon Band dive head-first into country rock, 70's pop, and even a bit of glam which wasn't as much of a stretch for an old retro horse like Nelson as previously thought. The smooth, self-deprecating title track brought him back into Top 10 one final time, but the rest of the album is just as strong, and quite well-rounded. "Palace Guard" closes it on a terrific, uplifting note which subsequent albums never quite followed up on. A nice little oasis before Rick's career went into a desert of oblivion.

The second Valenti/Duncan/Elmore Quicksilver effort is definitely not as intriguing as the first, but taken on its own, roughshod, renegade terms, it doesn't hurt to take a few spins and hear their last gasp. Large banks of horn session players were brought in to give more creedence to their ramshackle take on Latin, funk, and jazz rock grooves - usually sifted through the hazy outlaw Valenti filter, who is at his most sardonic point here - but their time had long past come and gone, and this album sorely reflects that.

This is where Nelson first debuted with the Stone Canyon band and really established himself for the second time in his professional career. Recorded at the famed L.A. venue The Troubadour, this is a raw-boned, intimate experience between band and audience, much more so than the glitzy Elvis comeback in Vegas the year before. Never aspiring to songwriter greatness - although his two orginals here are good - the spotlight over-the-shoulder cover shot is an indicator of the workmanlike depths Nelson was willing to go to entertain people. In Concert is a great reminder of that energy and spirit.