For all of the late Gram Parsons’ solemn pronouncements about his mission to nurture the creation of ‘cosmic American music’–an amalgam of rock, and country laced with R&B– there was a readily discernible tongue-in-cheek permeating much of his work. That thread of humor may be no more obvious than on The Gilded Palace Of Sin the debut album by the Flying Burrito Brothers, a band he founded with one-time Byrds bandmate Chris Hillman.
Still, the lightheartedness is rarely overstated, except in the final cut, “Hippy Boy.” This spoken-word, broad comedy is at odds with the LP’s prevailing solemnity, as in the form of the preceding cut, an openly vulnerable but hardly self-serving piece titled “Do You Know How It Feels.” Such juxtapositions suggest Parsons and company were straining to balance heart-on-the-sleeve moments with the blithe intervals that otherwise pepper the album.
Along those lines, the front cover of the LP is suitably artful. Photos taken in the desert depict the band outfitted in the Nudie regalia of many country music stars of the era, except that Parsons, Hillman, Sneaky Pete, and Chris Ethridge’s gaudy threads are adorned with cannabis leaves. And the foursome is standing right in front of a somewhat drab edifice–labeled with the album title–within the entry of which stand two rather comely females that inject additional undercurrents of meaning behind the Barry Feinstein photo (further mirrored in the music itself).
Godless heathens the Burrito Brothers may seem in those poses, there’s more than a little fire and brimstone weaving its way through the material, at least in Parsons and Hillman’s minds and hearts. The doleful rendering of “Sin City” is nothing if not a cautionary tale addressing inevitable apocalypse and it only gains further credence through its (second) mention of Lucifer here following “Christine’s Tune (aka ‘Devil In Disguise’)”.
Arguably one of the best opening album cuts of an era in which radio was a prime tool for exposure of new music, the latter track was programmed for easy access by disc jockeys. Similarly savvy label marketing might likewise have issued “Hot Burrito # 1” (sans its repeated exhortations of ‘Jesus Christ!’?) and “Hot Burrito #2” as a double-side single; the pairing would vividly illustrate this band’s overall strengths, primary of which is that heartrending singing of Gram’s.
Two Dan Pen co-authorings present the man’s voice in all its quivering but resolute glory. Sounding altogether like the trust fund kid from Florida (born Ingram Cecil Connor) is singing with the last breath he has left in him, his straightforward and heartfelt efforts on “Do Right Woman” and “Dark End of the Street” are as much a transformation of r&b into a new version of country music as those two idioms, each in its way, morphed from gospel music.
Gram Parsons found a kindred spirit, not to mention a reliable source of solace, in the support of former Byrd Hillman. And it’s not just in harmony singing together as a means to elevate a satire of patriotism title “My Uncle:” the duo co-wrote seven of the eleven songs on the album, the aforementioned number a bluegrass-tinged romp right in the wheelhouse of the bassist-turned-guitarist as a former member of the Scottsville Squirrel Barkers.
Sneaky Pete Kleinow’s visionary approach to the pedal steel further amplifies the roots of that tune. Just as his innovative, modified tones fittingly expand the sonic scope of “Wheels,” his more straightforward approach to the signature instrument of country music on “Juanita” proves he could maintain more conventional stylings as well.
Despite rave reviews at the time of its original issue, as well as increasing recognition of its significance over the half-century plus since its release, The Gilded Palace of Sin has, at this half-century plus point, still not been certified a gold album for its commercial sales. But that hardly reduces its position as one of the great debuts in rock history.
And, needless to say, it’s also the Burritos Brothers’ finest work. The launching point of a string of records that would ultimately extend into the 2000’s with various personnel lineups, while it’s only one of the two with Parsons–who would leave after the the sophomore issue for a solo career of even shorter duration than his one with the group–it remains a work against which pale so many subsequent efforts along similarly eclectic, but far less authentic lines.