From the hardcover book, tour program, and poster to the rice paper sleeves that enshroud the four compact discs in replica LP covers, niceties abound in the package of BBA Live. But no nuance is more telling than the black-and-white graphic design of the box itself: it is at once homage to the late Jeff Beck as well as a stark declaration about the chemistry–or rather lack thereof–between the British guitar genius and bassist/vocalist Tim Bogert and drummer/vocalist Carmine Appice, erstwhile members of Vanilla Fudge and Cactus.
Bruce Pilato’s essay chronicling the timeline of this fateful alliance clearly documents the enthusiasm the trio shared, not to mention their perseverance in pursuing a formal union over a tumultuous sequence of events lasting some three years. That their super-grouping lasted all of fifteen months is less indicative of their persistence than a readily apparent lack of simpatico documented on the two double CDs.
Besides the sixty-page book containing an abundance of period photos and replications of memorabilia along with the aforementioned prose, the enclosed tour program and a poster constitute a somewhat sentimental longing for what might’ve been from BBA. Meanwhile, the music itself documents a fitful development that generated undisputable intensity the principals simply could not sustain.
Heretofore previously (officially) unreleased recordings from the Rainbow Theater in London in 1974 distinguish this collection, which also includes the previously-issued Live In Japan 1973 ( of limited distribution upon its original release and widely available for some time). On the former, the second-generation power trio incorporates a clutch of tunes material set for the sophomore BBA studio album, but that only slightly improves the output compared to its predecessor.
Even with numbers including “Jizz Whizz” and “Solid Lifter” bunched near the beginning of the eleven tracks, the imminent end of this ill-fated amalgamation seems a foregone conclusion. The bane of the original Jeff Beck Group’s existence, a paucity of quality original material, continued to afflict BBA, hence the inclusion of selections from the ex-Yardbird’s earlier solo and group projects like “Blues Deluxe” and “You Shook Me.”
Still, in a reflection of Jeff’s discography overall, there are moments of brilliance—some outright astonishing—in the midst of what turns out to be precious little shared improvisation. Perhaps not surprisingly, those exceptions to the generally desultory rule occur during intros like the one to “Black Cat Moan:” sung by El Becko himself and featuring gimmicky use of the Heil Talkbox later made famous by Joe Walsh and Peter Frampton (and used more judiciously by Jeff himself on “She’s A Woman” off Blow By Blow), it serves to remind how confounding it was/is that three musicians with so much varied experienced couldn’t conjure up more foundational riffs as the one on which they build the arrangement of (studio album co-producer) Don Nix’s “Going Down.”
Other selections in the composite of performances from the previous year are equally stultifying if not more so. The unified playing comes and goes in flashes, abruptly and repeatedly breaking down into attenuated call-and-response intervals like “Boogie.” Meanwhile extended excursions into monotonous vocal scatting effectively undermine the intense points of impact represented by Beck’s fiery playing on “Lady” and “Sweet Sweet Surrender.”
The highlight of the threesome’s sole studio album was a bone-crushing cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and BBA proffered a similarly titanic take in the Far East. Yet they errantly dispense with that number as the first of a baker’s dozen on these self-produced recordings, thereby forestalling momentum they might otherwise have conjured building up to it if placed later in the sequence.
Furthering a toxic phenomenon of self-indulgence increasingly prevalent as this decade progressed (thankfully without an interminable drum solo), it’s quite clear Beck Bogert & Appice are neither sufficiently disciplined to marshal their inherent strengths nor collectively self-aware of their shortfalls to preclude an awkward vocal interpretation of Superfly soundtrack author Curtis Mayfield’s “I’m So Proud.”
Ironically, it’s here the single overriding virtue of BBA Live comes to the fore. Sound quality so rich and present such that it will reverberate throughout a room or within the skull via headphones nonetheless can’t camouflage the reality that, over the course of fourteen some minutes, this threesome’s rendition of “Morning Dew” fails to generate up much atmosphere compared to its haunting counterpart on the landmark 1968 album Truth.
Playing BBA Live 1973 & 1974 at high volume or not, Beck Bogert and Appice still come across as the most glorious trainwreck in the history of contemporary rock and roll. In quite accurately summing up the conflicting circumstances surrounding the deeply flawed aggregation, this multifaceted compilation even enumerates the various candidates for the role of lead vocalist in the lineup (including true luminaries in the persons of Rod Stewart and Free/Bad Company frontman Paul Rodgers).
As a result, it may ultimately be as enlightening to understand the chronology of Beck Bogert and Appice as it is to experience their occasionally exciting output. These are the erratic efforts of musicians who so loved to flaunt their immense collective power, that they couldn’t figure out how to fully contain it.
One Response
Wow. This has to be the worst review I’ve ever read. How many times did you use a thesaurus to find alternates to “hate”. I’m college educated but I had to have a dictionary at my side to understand this crap. BBA had an energy like no other. It was the personalities that were the problem, not the music. They were phenomenal.