For about 18 years, Pittsburgh, PA’s Microwaves have been melting faces with an aggressively mathy, aggressively tricky, just plain aggressive noise rock attack that variously or simultaneously recalls Voivod, technical death metal, prog, and Waves No- and New-, played with an emphasis on chaos and catharsis, as easily evoking the Load Records catalog as King Crimson. And they may have one of the more accidentally amusing overviews on AllMusic:
 

 
The band formed at the turn of the century around the core of drummer John Roman (late of storied spazz-punks The 1985) and guitarist Dave Kuzy. Lineup roulette ensued, starting with bassist Steve Moore (now of electro space-prog cosmonauts Zombi), with longest-serving and current bassist Johnny Artlett joining in 2012. They’ve released 5 albums on boutiquey labels like ugEXPLODE and New Atlantis, but their forthcoming 6th LP, Via Weightlessness, could and should reach far more ears, as it’s being released on Three One G, the record label and publishing imprint run by The Locust’s Justin Pearson. Among its 12 tracks, it sports a reverent, if somewhat truncated, cover of Alice Cooper’s “Refrigerator Heaven,” and New Noise shared the title track a couple of weeks ago:
 

 
Though Via Weightlessness’ dozen songs clock in at under 30 minutes, the album is the result of a three year writing process, which drummer John Roman discussed with us:

A lot of what we do starts with Dave’s guitar parts. This isn’t obvious but he’s really influenced by Queen and Bowie. I’m more the metal guy, pushing things into that heavy direction, nudging everything that way. Johnny fills in the gaps, though there are a few songs on the record that he’s largely responsible for, where the guitar came last. But whoever starts a song, there are lots of ways they can go. What I do from song to song is typically based on having an idea for an album when we write, and pushing towards things I feel like are missing from the album in my mind.

Via Weightlessness took such a long time because there were little pieces of songs we were picking away at, and it was all recorded in a couple different sessions. We would go maybe record 6 to 9 songs, feel pretty good about them, then realize that, oh, maybe these two songs could be a lot better, so we’d go back and re-write a lot of the parts. Or maybe even shorten something—it seems like one of the ways we write became like, if a part was giving us a problem, we’d just throw it out of the song and make it a shorter, more direct statement. And if the songs are shorter, you can play more of them live. We don’t want to write six or seven minute songs, I never got that.

It’s DM’s pleasure to debut the album track “Love Catheter” for you today, after the jump…

An illustration by Frank Netter done for the Ciba Company during the 1930s.
 
Dr. Frank Netter was a surgeon during the great depression, though as a child growing up in Manhattan, he aspired to be an artist. As it turns out, Netter became both a great artist as well as a doctor and selling his artwork to his professors helped pay for his college education at New York University and two different prestigious art schools. Netter would open a private practice in New York, but the devastating financial effects of the Great Depression didn’t bode well when it came to his patient’s ability to pay for his services. Netter continued to sell his illustrations and paintings until one of his customers paid him $7,500 for a series of five pictures to be used in an advertising campaign. Netter had originally priced the entire series at $1,500, but for whatever reason, his client didn’t blink at the high price tag which for the time, was considerable. Netter quit the medical game in 1934 and became a full-time artist specializing in medical illustrations at the age of 28.

Netter’s best clients were pharmaceutical companies which used his work prolifically during the 1930s. In 1937 the Ciba Company contracted Netter to illustrate a flier for one of their new drugs. Ciba (later known as Giba-Geigy) and Netter would work together for five decades during which Netter would produce approximately 4,000 illustrations for them. Many of Netter’s illustrations were used for the company’s ambitious group of books, the Collection of Medical Illustrations. His arresting color images were later used again for Ciba’s Clinical Symposia digests, which the company provided to doctors and were still in use during the early part of the 1990s. So yeah, you’ve probably seen some of Netter’s work yourself somewhere along the way waiting for your physician to arrive, late as always. I can tell you this, Netter’s work is hard to ignore. His use of color is in line with schemes used in classic pulp novel illustration, and he used real patients for his subjects when depicting various medical issues, such as a man suffering the after-effects of a brain injury (pictured at the top of this post), or what goes on inside the human body during a fit of unbridled rage.

Netter’s paintings and illustrations are as remarkable as they are often strange and off-putting at times. Nonetheless, if you are a fan of things remarkable, oddball, and off-putting, (like myself) then you will love the NSFW images by the dear Dr. Netter I’ve posted below.
 

Netter’s illustrations were used by medical professionals all over the world.
 

 

 
More after the jump…

Marc Bolan and Siouxsie Sioux.
 
If you don’t already hold the rock-solid opinion (fact?) that Marc Bolan was one of the greatest things ever to happen to music, then hopefully this post will help you see the light of love which was the elfin leader of T. Rex. From a very young age considered himself a “superior being.” A bold statement which would turn out to have a chunk of glittery truth to it as Bolan would be one of the first and most influential innovators of glam rock.

Bolan’s short life was full enduring achievements including his fairy folk duo Tyrannosaurus Rex (with Steve Peregrin Took), and later his electric hit machine T. Rex. He had his own television show, Marc and would collaborate with David Bowie, Ike and Tina Turner and Alice Cooper. In March of 1973, T. Rex’s musical juggernaut “20th Century Boy” became a top ten charting single for the band. A few months later, Bolan sat down with the sixteen-year-old music journalist Cameron Crowe for an interview with CREEM magazine. As a huge fan of Bolan and Crowe (the man wrote Fast Times At Ridgemont High THE END), I was pretty giddy when I came across the entire interview online as it’s a short, entertaining read mostly due to Bolan’s frankness about some of his musical peers. Here’s Marc getting real with a teenage Cameron Crowe in 1973 about his alleged “feud” with Bowie:

“In England, they tried to sell his records by saying in the ads that were “high in the American charts,” when in actuality they were only 144th. Them, media-wise, they created me into something of a monster. They’d put me on the cover of their papers and sell a million more copies than they usually sell; then suddenly, because I wouldn’t talk with them as much as I did when I first started, they’d say I hated David Bowie. Essentially what they tried to do with Bowie was create another Marc Bolan, but the interest with the kids was not there. His concerts have not done well over there. “Starman” only got to about twelve on the charts, which is not good. And the other single didn’t happen at all—“John, I’m Only Dancing”—it was very bad actually.

I’ve known David for about five years, and he’s all right. I’ve played on a lot of his records. I mean, I don’t consider David to be even remotely near big enough to give me any competition. At the time the feud story hit England, my records were number one, and they stayed number one while David’s never came near. I don’t think that David has anywhere near the charisma or balls that I have. Or Alice has. Or Donny Osmond has got. He’s not gonna make it, in any sort of way. The papers try and manufacture a lot of things. They tried to do something with Slade. Slade is just a jive little group who are quite sweet and bang about a lot. They’re very valid for what they do, but I don’t think anyone can seriously compare them to what I do. Whether you think I’m good or bad, I’m still the best-selling poet in England. I don’t think anyone in Slade can write four words. And I don’t mean to be condescending; they’re nice people.”

 

A teenage Cameron Crowe interviewing Marc Bolan for CREEM magazine in 1973.
 
Categorizing an up-and-coming David Bowie as “all right” and comparing him to Donny Osmond is some next level, Alexis Carrington side-eye by Bolan. I’m so glad Cameron Crowe was there to document Marc Bolan confirming he thinks he is better than Bowie—which, as Bolan noted, requires balls. This interview (and others) might make Bolan seem like the kind of acquaintance living only for the opportunity to talk shit about you behind your back the minute you leave, but he was a very popular party guest.

Below you will see photos of Bolan hanging out with Keith Moon, members of the Ramones, a young Billy Idol, one of his personal heroes Stan Lee (Bolan adored Marvel Comics), and The Damned. Bolan toured with The Damned shortly before his death in September of 1977 and the promotional images of Bolan and a 21-year old David Vanian are the punk rock equivalent of awkward family photos.

So, let’s start with those first, shall we?
 

David Vanian of The Damned and Marc Bolan 1977.
 

 

 

Marc Bolan and Robert Plant.
 
More Marc and his heavy frenz after the jump…

 
Let’s be real - shit is pretty fucked up right now. I’ve got that P.M.A., sure, but doesn’t it sometimes feel as if the world is literally crumbling around us? I say this [of course] with a bit of tongue-in-cheek cynicism and even a touch of mild sarcasm, but seriously—what the fuck is up?
 
It’s the little things in life that make everything seem O.K. When you’re down, is there a song you like to play to cheer yourself up? Or a television show that never fails to comfort or distract you? For me, it’s something living and real. It’s the music and story of outsider musician, Superstar & Star.
 

 
Neville Lawrence was born at some point in the early 1960s on the island of Trinidad. As a youth, he joined a local dance group and would perform in any way he could. Neville describes Trinidad as a place rich in music and celebration. This is something that has contributed to his creative background, although he claims to have no musical training. Popstars like Michael Jackson and Tina Turner became big influences on Neville’s life, as he hoped that someday he too would become, a Superstar.
 
In July of 1988, Neville moved to the United States to live with his family in Brooklyn. Having always been interested in singing, he purchased rudimentary audio equipment at Brighton Beach and learned to record his own songs. Neville would perform at New York venues such as The Arc and Samy Hotel, where he had shared the stage with the likes of Snoop Dogg, Biggie, and Tupac. I’m still not sure if he is fully aware who they are.
 

Superstar performs in New York in the 90s
 
After much diligence, Neville quite literally became a Superstar. It’s more than just a name—it’s a way of life. In order to act the role, one must demonstrate the ability to be the best person he or she can possibly be. We all must in some way contribute to the greatness of this twisted world that we live in. “To be a star, you must be disciplined, respectable, and humble,” he once told me. “If someone falls, you pick them up. Like a superhero.” Superstar hopes to make music that will make people help one another.
 
While in New York Neville met the love of his life, Ann (Star). She performed backing vocals, so they became known as Superstar & Star. Although Neville had once stated that the crime-rate decreased while he was in New York, duties eventually called elsewhere and the two moved to Omaha, where they reside today. Now without many opportunities to perform his songs locally, Superstar went online.
 

Superstar and Star
 
The music of Superstar & Star is described as lo-fi pop and disco, with a blend of calypso, soul, reggae, and sometimes even underground house. Coming from someone completely unaware of musical trends and movements, the recordings are actually pretty good considering Neville’s authentic outsider status. Keeping with his strive to end suffering in the world, most songs contain positive themes or connotations that follow the Superstar motto: “Life is Worth Living.” Neville claims to have written and recorded over two hundred songs, and most of which will probably never see the light of day. What has been released, however, exists on YouTube and is oftentimes accompanied by a mesmerizing DIY home music video that he shot himself. I think about all of them feature Superstar singing and dancing in various locations at home and throughout Omaha. And I can’t forget to mention this, Superstar performs in a totally amazing white and gold jumpsuit that he made himself.
 

 
The accessibility of the World Wide Web has allowed Superstar to find people who truly care about him. His home recordings and bizarre social media presence, along with an infectious sense of positivity, has gained Neville a fascinating cult-like following of both music-heads and weirdos from around the world.

More after the jump…

‘Noisefields’ exhibited at the National Gallery of Iceland, 2016 (via Tique)

Back in the nineties, before the internet was merely a platform for sharing hate tracts and pictures of your lunch, we cherished utopian dreams about its possibilities. Some people looked forward to a revolution in education, others to radically new forms of storytelling and decentralized systems of government that would put a check on corporate power. I clung to the simple hope that, in the future, every day would bring a fresh opportunity to nuke my central nervous system with megawatts of electronic light and sound.

Steina and Woody Vasulka probably had something else in mind when they created Noisefields in 1974, but for me it represents a technological utopia still to come. Like a video tattva card, its elements are basic shapes and primary colors, gently abraded with TV noise. Its bracing electronic soundtrack, rapidly alternating frames and illusion of indeterminate depth will get your thinking parts’ TILT sign flashing in no time!

Watch it after the jump…

Big Star’s original lineup. L-R: Andy Hummel, Chris Bell, Alex Chilton, and Jody Stephens.
 
Being a big fan of Big Star, I was excited to receive an advance copy of the oral history book, There Was a Light: The Cosmic History of Chris Bell and the Rise of Big Star. I started flipping through it and was immediately drawn to the story of the Baker Street Regulars. The band existed for a brief period in 1976, and featured two former members of Big Star, Chris Bell and Jody Stephens. Considering this was a seldom discussed part of the Big Star story, I asked HoZac Books if we could run the Baker Street Regulars passages in the book. They not only said “Yes,” but provided us with the majority of the images here—many of which have rarely been seen before. There Was a Light author, Rich Tupica, has even written an introduction just for us.
 

Chris Bell in Ardent Studios, pre-Big Star.

Often overshadowed by his iconic Big Star bandmate Alex Chilton, the genius of the late Chris Bell wasn’t truly uncovered until years after he was tragically killed in a car wreck in December 1978. The 27-year old remained in obscurity until 1992, when I Am the Cosmos, his posthumously released solo album was finally released to much praise.

Today, Beck and Wilco cover the enigmatic songwriter’s works, while members of R.E.M. still praise his work when asked about their favorite bands—yet at the time of his death, Bell was anything but a rock ’n roll legend. After the release of 1972’s #1 Record, Big Star’s debut LP on Ardent/Stax Records, Chris suffered a bout a clinical depression and heatedly exited the Memphis-based group—the band he masterminded from the ground up. He also had a falling out with Ardent Studios owner and Big Star producer John Fry. His life was in shambles and he realized his dream of breaking Big Star into the mainstream wasn’t going to happen.

 

Big Star in Alex Chilton’s bedroom, posing for a ‘#1 Record’ promo photo. (Courtesy of Carole Manning)

With Bell out of the picture, Alex Chilton and John Fry took the reins and kept Big Star going for two more equally acclaimed albums, Radio City and Third/Sister Lovers—but with little financial successes, the band fully dissolved.

Meanwhile, Bell not only became a devout born again Christian, he also attempted to launch a solo career. He even moved to London with his older brother David Bell for much of 1975 and pitched his reels of solo material to any A&R rep who’d meet with them. They were ultimately turned down by every label. By 1976, America’s Bicentennial, Chris was back in Memphis living at his parent’s upper-class estate in Germantown.

For money, Bell flipped burgers at his successful father’s fast food chain, while in the evenings he played as a sideman guitar slinger alongside fellow Memphians Van Duren in a short-lived band called the Baker Street Regulars. The band would never record a single track, but its short list of dates at low key Memphis bars would be the only time a full band would ever play Chris Bell’s solo material in front of an audience. 

The following excerpt is a portion of Chapter 20 from the new oral history book, There Was a Light: The Cosmic History of Chris Bell and the Rise of Big Star (HoZac Books), details this transitional period of Bell’s life.

 

Chris Bell on stage during a Baker Street Regulars gig. (Courtesy of Van Duren)

Chapter 20: Baker Street Regulars: 1976
Within weeks of his return from England, Chris connected with Van Duren and promptly formed the Baker Street Regulars—a Memphis-based bar band named after the Sherlock Holmes characters. The group—which also comprised former Big Star drummer Jody Stephens and guitarist Mike Brignardello—played Van’s and Chris’s original tunes along with some semi-obscure covers. For the first time since his pre-Big Star days, Chris played music just for fun.

Mike Brignardello — Bassist, Baker Street Regulars, Nashville session player: I grew up in Memphis, then hit the road immediately after high school in the early ’70s. I was in a little club band and learning about being a musician, then I came back in the mid-’70s. Big Star had come and gone in my absence, but I heard about them when I got back. They were local heroes, already a semi-cult band. One of the first guys I met when I came back to Memphis was Van Duren. We hit it off and started playing together. He was the guy who hooked us up with Chris and Jody.

Van Duren — Musician, songwriter, solo, Baker Street Regulars: The Baker Street Regulars was the name when the band first started—Chris thought of it. In December of ’75, we started to get together and rehearse, but we had been kicking around the idea of forming a band for months before that. The first time I went out to the Bells’ house, Jody took me over there for our first rehearsal. We turn off down this street and it turned into this winding driveway. You couldn’t even see the house from the street, the property was so huge.

 

Chris Bell poses in front of his parents’ home, Christmas 1977. (Courtesy of Bell Family Archive)

Mike Brignardello: Chris lived in, to my eyes—at least back in the day—a full-blown mansion. I remember turning down the driveway and driving, and driving, and driving and thinking, “You’ve got to be kidding me! He lives on this estate?” I had grown up as a poor kid in Memphis. He had us set up and play in the living room because his parents were overseas for like a month. I was like, “Who goes overseas for a month?”

Van Duren: Chris was different, obviously upper crust. I come from a blue-collar background, so that was a new world for me. He was from privilege and he acted that way sometimes, but he could also be quite humble. He always had a twinkle in his eye, much like Alex in a way. Sometimes you couldn’t tell if he was putting you on or being serious.

Mike Brignardello: We practiced in a corrugated-metal storage room—it wasn’t insulated or anything like that. We’d just roll the door up on hot, humid Memphis days and rehearse. My girlfriend got that photo of us in there. I thought it perfectly summed up where we were at. We were hungry to play. We sweat through those rehearsals.

 

The Baker Street Regulars in the metal storage unit. L-R: Chris Bell, Mike Brignardello, Jody Stephens, and Van Duren. (Courtesy of Beverly Baxter Ross)

Van Duren: It was pretty miserable in that twenty-foot-by-ten-foot mini storage—those things were brand-new in 1976. It was on Lamar Avenue and was the first of its kind in Memphis. One day, Chris showed up two hours late for rehearsal out there. He walks in wearing these tennis togs with the sweater wrapped around his neck and says, “Sorry I’m late, Tommy Hoehn and I had a vision on the tennis courts.” I didn’t know if it had to do with his religious beliefs, or if I was supposed to take him seriously or not. I was a little bent out of shape, but I just laughed when he said that. It wasn’t the first or the last time he was late. He operated on Chris time. Even so, by January of ’76, we were out playing.

The Baker Street Regulars landed shows at now-defunct venues, like Aligahpo’s on Highland Street by the University of Memphis, Procapé Gardens in Midtown on Madison, and the High Cotton Club, just south of Overton Square.

Van Duren: We played those three clubs about three times each, but the first gig was in the springtime in Oxford, Mississippi at Ole Miss at a fraternity party. We did originals and some cover material—but the covers were Beatles, Bee Gees and a lot of fairly obscure things at the time, like Todd Rundgren. We played things nobody had picked up on yet, especially in Mississippi. We threw in my songs, some Big Star songs and a few of Chris’s songs. We’d do “I Am the Cosmos,” “Make a Scene” and “Fight at the Table.” We learned Chris’s songs by listening to what he was calling demos—what later emerged as his solo album. It was a wonderful experience, even though when we played gigs we were pretty much ignored. That’s probably why we didn’t play much in the six months we were together.

 
Continues after the jump…

 
Coulrophobia is a neologism used to describe a fear of clowns—or really by the word’s derivation, a fear of stilt-walkers.

I can attest for the fear clowns can instil in some people. I once worked as a clown. My job was handing out fliers for an electrical showroom. I had to hit on unsuspecting families: give the kids a balloon, then hit the parents with a too-good-to-be-true hire-purchase deal on TVs, radios, Walkmans, fridge-freezers, cookers, that kinda thing. Thinking about it now, my job was in many ways a fair description of what makes a clown—someone who seems to be ultra-friendly and fun but is in fact a devious and calculating fuck with unimaginable intentions.

Starting at the feet: I wore black size-thirteen comedy boots. I had a frilly red, white and blue costume with three big pom-poms on the front. I had padded white gloves that made my hands look cartoonish and made it exceedingly difficult to hold balloons and peel-off fliers. I had a multi-colored wig and a red hat. But I didn’t get the make-up. That was way too pricey. Instead, I had a disgusting and well-used (who knows what for..) old rubber clown mask, that someone had embellished with grotesque clown make-up which was beginning to flake off. It kinda made me look like a zombie clown who’d just escaped the crypt. Of course, I had to have a name, so I chose Pogo the Clown—which no-one seemed to appreciate other than thinking it was me just adding a couple of “o’s” to my initials. This was the west coast of Scotland not Cook County, Illinois. Not only did I look horrific, I had that grim moniker too.

But companies don’t give a shit about things like that when there’s money to be made. Off I went, down the busy high street, zooming in on families on their day out. I had no idea what to expect, other than feeling none too keen on twisting the arms of moms and mads into spending money they didn’t necessarily have. Times were hard. Money was tight. Unemployment at an all time high. Thankfully, I was not on commission otherwise poor Pogo would have starved. However, what I did not expect was the look of sheer unadulterated horror on some kids’ faces when I greeted them. These poor lambs would struggle to break free of their parents grasp and sometimes run as fast as they could in the opposite direction. Their foolish parents would laugh and joke and coo about it being just Pogo the friendly clown, and drag their traumatized offspring back to shake my unwieldy hand and get a free balloon. If you were one of those poor damned kids, well, tough. At least you gotta free balloon and an experience you’re still paying an analyst to fix.

Anyhoo…

In my innocence, I never knew the sheer dread, the sheer horror, the sheer pant-shitting terror clowns cause some people. And I’m fairly sure, these kind of poor unfortunates won’t have any of the following classic clown-covered vinyl in their record collections. And I don’t blame them. For who in their right mind would have this shit in their home other than serial killers and clowns.
 

 

 

 
More ghastly clown vinyl, after the jump…
 

 
The bad news first: the episode of Boy George’s nineties talk show Blue Radio on which Poly Styrene appeared, though she said she almost didn’t make it because of a close encounter with a spaceship, has not yet entered the worldwide digital video stream. Pair that with Lora Logic singing “Bow Down Mister” and you’ve got yourself the beginnings of a quality Dangerous Minds post!

But while scouring the intertubes in search of material for the Boy George/X-Ray Spex/Hare Krishna ultramegapost already inked in the book of my dreams, I came across this curiosity. Half of Meathead is like every other animal rights movie you’ve ever seen—emetic camcorder tape of fowl, ruminants, canines and hogs trudging through their relatives’ offal in cramped pens, proceeding inevitably toward the animal-snuff-film equivalent of the money shot—but half of it is a black-and-white narrative about a rich guy with an insatiable hunger for gore, fed by his maid (Lene Lovich) and a hamburger-juggling clown (Captain Sensible). If you make it to the end without hurling all over your keyboard, you’ll see Boy George’s interview with director Gem de Silva. Beware: you may blow chunks.

Never having listened to Captain Sensible’s 1995 double album Meathead, I can’t say if the connection between the CD and the film extends beyond a shared disgust with flesh food. But I guarantee the film is much shorter.
 
Watch it, after the jump…

 
Recently, I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, when I came upon a post from the group Junkshop Bubble Gum Glam and Glitter. It read, “Japanese ‘70s all-girl glam/punk band GIRLS covering the Runaways!,” with a link to YouTube.

*Click*

The song and the fan-made video, which includes images of the group, did not disappoint. Soon I was falling down the rabbit hole, trying to find more of their tunes, as well as information and imagery related to the GIRLS. The band isn’t all that well-known outside of Japan, and as their name’s been used by so many other groups, it was a challenge. But I believe I came through for you, dear reader.

GIRLS consisted of five members, who all adopted nicknames: Gill (bass and vocal), Ilia (lead guitar), Rita (lead vocal), Lena (guitar), Sadie (drums). Notice that the first letter of each name spells “GIRLS.” Their discography includes two studio albums and three singles, with quite a few covers.
 

 
“Cherry Bomb” is the B-side of their debut single, and was also included on their first album, Noraneko (Google translation: “Stray Cat”); both records were released in 1977. As she does on other GIRLS songs, Rita alternates between singing in Japanese and in English on “Cherry Bomb.” It’s a solid cover.
 

 
Visual images of the Runaways, which frequently included a teenage Cherie Currie wearing sexually suggestive outfits, raised eyebrows in the States, so the GIRLS, who adopted this image for the Japanese market, must have made quite the impression in their home country, which is more socially conservative. In both countries—worldwide, really—all-female rock bands who played their own instruments were rare.
 
Much more after the jump…

The cover of Rosetta Stone’s single featuring their version of Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love.”
 
I’m going to do something I love doing here on Dangerous Minds—taking you back to the 1970s when everything was cool. Today’s time machine post concerns Irish band and sort of one-hit-wonders, Rosetta Stone (not be confused with UK goth-rock outfit Rosetta Stone, naturally).

Formed by three brothers, Damian, Terry, and Colin McKee, the lineup of what would later become Rosetta Stone also included the trio’s pal, future Bay City Rollers guitarist Ian Mitchell. After going through a few different names for the band like Bang and the poorly chosen moniker Albatross, they started calling themselves Young City Stars sometime in the mid-70s. Young City Stars opened a gig for the Bay City Rollers in Belfast in 1975, and Mitchell would leave his school friends to join them in 1976. The rigor of non-stop touring and media attention was a bit much for Mitchell, and he would return to his roots with Young City Stars bringing with him the support of the machinery behind the Rollers. After changing their name to Rosetta Stone they would sign with Private Stock (Blondie, Stevie Wonder, Nancy Sinatra)—a label formed by Larry Uttal after getting ousted by Clive Davis from his role with Bell Records.
 

Rosetta Stone.
 
In 1977 Rosetta Stone released a 7’ single with Private Stock—a disco-pop version of Cream’s 1967 psychedelic smash “Sunshine of your Love.” The band got some pretty good traction from their boogie-worthy interpretation of the song and got to perform it on Marc Bolan’s short-lived television show, Marc. Rosetta Stone would follow up with a full-length, Rock Pictures later in 1978 (which included “Sunshine of Your Love” as well as a cover of The Kinks “You Really Got Me”) and a second album in 1979, Caught in the Act. Shortly after the release of Caught in the Act, Mitchell would split from the band again, this time for good.

I have to tell you, Rosetta Stone’s cover of “Sunshine of Your Love” is really out there, and I’m sure some of you will think it’s utter trash.

Watch and listen to Rosetta Stone, after the jump…