Terrell: On the Wings of Dirty Angels

Some records have a way of sticking to the soul. You hear a song, you buy the album, play it once and that's it, you're hooked. Your musical tastes might, or rather will, change a dozen times during the course of your life, new beloved artists will enter your all-time favorites list, but a couple of decades down the road a hard to find album by a guy nobody remembers is still up there with the Tom Waitses and the Led Zeppelins that form the soundtrack of your life.

Hey Dr. Valentine

It’s hard to fight it when you really desire it

For those of us with the souls of pirates

It's hard to believe that Charlie Terrell never made it big: His story is full of the ups and downs and the other stuff rock 'n' roll legend is made of. Grew up in Nowheresville, Alabama, moved with his best friend to L.A. to form a band, had two industry bigwigs like Irving Azoff and Miles Copeland in a bidding war over signing him, released this gem of an album, got rave reviews. Then he lost the Giant Records contract, his equipment truck was stolen, his best friend became a junkie and quit, and he ended up living in his car. He somehow managed to land on his feet, put together a new band, released another great album, toured with Joan Osborne when she was big (and I mean BIG), she sang a duet with him for his third record, an obvious choice for a single and a guaranteed hit. But of course Osborne's record company shot it down so this album flopped as well. And so it continues, Charlie's still playing music somewhere. Great, catchy songs, with beautiful and haunting lyrics. Few people get to hear them.

She said “My name is Georgia”

I said “Hey baby you sure been on my mind”

But I digress. What I had really set out to write about was how FUCKING GREAT Terrell's debut album is, and what a FUCKING SHAME it is that not everyone owns a copy. Recorded in 1990 it sounds old and wise, but still manages to project the hunger and rock like a motherfucker. The guys in the band play like there's no tomorrow and the amazing Hawk (the aforementioned best friend and future junkie) on percussion truly elevates the rhythm section to another level. And how about that lead guitarist Jimmy Phillips, eh?

She’s a dame

She’s a broad

She’s a chick

She’s a slag

She’s me in drag

Of course, my passionate love for this album has been solidified over the years by stuff other than the music, as these things usually go. It reminds me of another me. If you will excuse the old fartdom, my mind associates this album with scenes like these: First hearing "Georgia O'Keefe", a track off this album at the Green Door, my favorite watering hole in Athens around 1990, on Kallidromiou Street (it's someone's home now. It's beautiful. He bought it real cheap because the previous owner was is need. I'm jealous of the bastard who lives there). Walking up to the DJ and asking him what it was, the DJ showing me the album cover, me skipping class the next day to go and buy it. Fast-forward five years later, NYC. Me and my buddy Akis walking into a BBQ joint in midtown Manhattan, Charlie's on stage with his new band and he's KICKING ASS. Akis, a true metalhead living in the most avant of avant-garde music cities in the heyday of grunge, proclaiming "I haven't heard guitars like these in years!". Me setting my eyes on the most beautiful lady in the house, but of course Charlie saw her first.

Dress my boot with a wicked spur

Sound sixteen syncopated syllables without a single slur

But here lawdy mama gotta drink this first…yaw

My shadow’s cool he’s unrehearsed

I think that Charlie Terrell makes his living today as an artist (his digital paintings can be found at http://charlieterrell.tumblr.com/ and http://hopefulsinner.com/art.html) but, to me at least, it's his music that paints the pictures.