When some magicians die, they vanish—their work done, their infernal ceremonies finished, their fire extinguished—leaving no traces behind. This was almost the case with self-styled high priest of rock magick, Geoffrey Crozier. Almost, I say, because some extraordinary documents of his short, turbulent time on this planet still remain. Dangerous Minds pal Otto von Ruggins is allowing us to showcase some of this rare and previously unseen material. If you are into vintage garage and punk rock insanity—like the MC5, New York Dolls or Alice Cooper, you know, the transgressively transcendent stuff that Julian Cope or Thurston Moore like—in all its mutant glory, then this post is for you.
Geoffrey Crozier was an enigmatic magician/rock performer from Australia who was a legend amongst New York City’s underground rock cognoscenti circa 1975-78. Crozier was the lead singer—you could also say lead shaman—of a rock group called Kongress whose other members at that time included pith helmet-wearing synth player Otto von Ruggins and nutzoid space rock No Wave madman VON LMO who beat the drums savagely, often with chains.
In the pages of The Village Voice, James Wolcott described a Kongress gig like so:
“A rowdy bottle smashing night…earlier in the evening there had been an altercation with a satanic occult band named Kongress that played music that sounded like a Concorde drone with Aleister Crowley lyrics. They abandoned the stage only after threats of violence were unfurled like vampirish cape flourishes.”
Crozier’s stage act—if you could call it that—was rather extreme. He used live rats and chickens, foul-smelling potions, elaborate costumes and headdresses, heavy, smoky Catholic incense, glitter, fire, flashpods, explosions and decomposing birds to work his voodoo. In the videos, he sometimes looks like he’s in an ecstatic trance.
Apparently his act, his magic act, if you will, was something he felt drawn to do at any early age. There is a scene of Crozier performing a youthful version of what he would later do in New York, in a 1971 film called Good Afternoon, directed by noted director Phillip Noyce. Here is a description of it I found on the Internet:
A multiple screen, colour recreation of the incredible eight-day Aquarius Arts Festival held in Canberra, 1971. A radical new departure in documentary filmmaking; two screens bursting with pulsating images overpowering the mind as 10,000 young people and performers do their own thing amidst the antiseptic environment that is our capital city. The horrifying pop-magician, Jeff Crozier, performs his coffin act. Ian Channel, Australia’s only wizard, preaches a doctrine of fun as a form of protest on one screen as fifty beautiful bodies drench thenselves in paint on the adjoining screen in perfect illustration of his message. It’s all there….and much more. Australia’s counter-culture at work and play. An important social document. (Filmmakers Co-operatives Catalogue of Independent Film 1975/6.)
He had groups with names like The Magic Word, The Rainbow Generator, and Shanghai Side Show. The idea was to get musicians to “play” behind him. Not playing any particular thing, mind you, just playing. Crozier, with the sort of props listed above, would do the rest. It seems clear that he was doing this for himself, for reasons we can only guess at.
The live clips embedded here are from a few different sources. The black and white performance is from Max’s Kansas City on Halloween night 1976 and was shot by famed rock photographer, Bob Gruen. The color performance material was shot by Rod Swenson, who managed The Plasmatics, also in Max’s and also on Halloween night, but one year later, in 1977. This is really saying something: A club infamous for the most decadent goings on and fucked-up bad-boy rock shenanigans (Iggy, Andy, Lou, Alice, the Dolls, etc. ) would hire these guys on Halloween two years running just to freak everybody out. Clearly, Max’s talent booker, Peter Crowley, knew how to book a rock club!
The ceremonial magick performance/spell casting pieces, where Crozier does some Crowley inspired incantations whilst smoking a joint and dancing around a smoldering altar, were probably shot in 1981, after Crozier returned to Australia.
This article (with minor modifications made by Otto) originally appeared in the pages of the Soho Weekly News in the 1970s.
Soundtrack for a Screamie
It is already too late to witness the spectacle of an exorcism set in the rock idiom.
Still, if Kongress hasn’t already burned themselves at the stake, or electrocuted themselves or bled to death from wounds inflicted by their late magical front person, Geoffrey Crozier, then it just may be possible to experience the most bizarre blend of media ever to darken the annals of rock’n’roll.
Some say that Kongress’ lead singer performed as though he were possessed…as though. You’d never have found him golfing with George Burns a la Alice Cooper, or cavorting with the Jet-Set a la Jagger. The act, for lack of a better word, was taken quite seriously; the important thing is that Kongress deserved a better fate than New York City’s rock dungeons. The question is, How can they survive?
When Geoffrey Crozier charged toward the stage at the opening of the set, replete with shimmering robes and flaming spear, he parted the unsuspecting loiterers like Moses at the Red Sea. And once the band, led by Otto von Ruggins’ cackling synthesizer, began to hit its caldron, there were a few moments when one wondered if it was such a good idea to go that night.
But there was no leaving this show once it got started. It was a breathless half-hour that stopped time dead in its tracks. It evoked images of those memorable William Castle horror flicks that taught a generation of scare-junkies the meaning of the word “nightmare.”
As for the music itself (which really could not be amputated from the beast), it was what one would expect from such a concoction – the soundtrack for a screamie. It oozed and slithered, pumped and pounded, as did its lead singer. And although he defied description because of his chameleon-like nature – try this for size: a jigger of Jagger, a spoonful of Boa constrictor, Robert DeNiro’s Taxi Driver, plus Jack the Ripper for good measure. Shake well to the beat of a locomotive at full throttle until foaming nicely. Don’t forget to leave a night light on, and be sure to check under the bed before turning in.
So what the hell happened when these creatures performed? Simply this – they burned out the electrodes inside anyone’s brain that happened to be present, including their own. At one point, the guitarist cried out in anguish when dabbed with Crozier’s flaming sword. Later, the high priest of exorcism-rock would break open a large metallic egg, releasing a live rat – which he proceeded to caress and allow to race around his neck and shoulders while he mock-sodomized the bass player.
But the high point was the finale, when Crozier goes beyond Alice’s guillotine; he dragged out an electronic chair, which he pounced on – whereupon it would shake, smoke, flame, and spit him out on the floor. Meanwhile, the group’s drummer would be busy doing what could only be termed as appropriate – beating his drums with chains.
It’s no exaggeration to say that this band exemplified the polar opposite of the Righteous Brothers’ “Rock and Roll Heaven.” Kongress was Rock and Roll Hell. And you can’t say they didn’t warn us, because they did: “Do our eyes make you nervous? Do you think you deserve us?”
***
Geoffrey Crozier left this plane of existence one year to the day after Ian Curtis of Joy Division, and by the same method. Fortunately, these rare tapes of him fell into Otto von Ruggins’ grateful hands and a few excerpts from their 1976 and 1977 Halloween performances at Max’s Kansas City are provided here, along with additional clips filmed in Oz before the master magician performed his final disappearing act.
Otto von Ruggins and VON LMO are playing together in a band called Avant Duel. Otto also has plans to bring Geoffrey back on stage in time for the Singularity by making holograms of the video performances, while he prepares for the event reading Ray Kurzweil’s Live Long Enough to Live Forever.