This writer remembers feeling greater sorrow when GUN CLUB singer Jeffrey Lee Pierce expired from a brain haemorrhage in 1996 than over the passing of any other recent rock luminary, Cobain and Buckley included.
I admit I have personal reasons here, because I was lucky enough to interview Pierece at his Shepherd's Bush home during my time with "SOUNDS" in the Autumn of 1990. THE GUN CLUB had just released "Pastoral Hide And Seek" (Fire Records) after a lengthy lay-off, during which time Jeffrey had been struggling with drug-induced health problems. He was a little shaky physically, but alert and fascinating company. The conversation covered a lot of bases, including Jeffrey's major fascination with the Vietnam war. As I left he gave me an LP I still covet today.
All of which would only amount to a fan's hill of beans if not for the rich, vital and largely unexplored legacy bequeathed by Jeffrey and THE GUN CLUB spanning nearly 15 years from the release of their thrilling 1981 debut, "The Fire Of Love," when they roared straight outta LA; Pierce rockin' a Marilyn Monroe- from -hell blonde shock and the band oozing sleaze and diamonds via a caveful of gnarled rawk anthems.
For most of us, "Fire Of Love" was the blueprint. First on import then on the Beggars Banquet imprint, it's staggering even now, supping manically from a psychedelic still of blues, punk and rockabilly, Pierce shrieking unearthly garage delights like "Sex Beat," "Jack On Fire" and (prophetically) "She's Like Heroin To Me". In discerning quarters it's still revered and rightly so. What' usually forgotten, however, is that the 1982 follow up, "Miami" actually just shades it in terms of visceral guitar bliss.
Yeah, no matter how many spills are supplied by the best of Pierce's guitar brood - and you should also seek out "Las Vegas Story" (1984), the Robin Guthrie-produced "Mother Juno" (1987) and the under-rated "Pastoral Hide And Seek" - "Miami" remains the definitive GUN CLUB statement of psychotic intent.
"Miami" retains arguably the classic GUN CLUB line-up featured on "Fire Of Love." Pierc is joined by guitarist Ward Dotson, bassist Rob Ritter and Terry Graham (drums). By the time they came to make it, the group had signed to BLONDIE guitarist Chris Stein's new (sadly short-lived) Animal label, with Stein himself sliding into the producer's chair. An nspired move as it turned out.
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Strangely, it's the LP's cover version that's the key track. "Run Through The Jungle," the old Creedence Clearwater Revival nugget is blistering 'n' mesmeric in these calloused hands and, indeed, Pierce's agenda here is simlar to John Fogerty's in the way his cranked-up boogie is invested with heavy dollops of Southern-fried bayou country 'n' rockabilly swagger.
Virtually every track is a killer. "Like Calling Up Thunder" snags on Dotson's jagged guitar hooks before Pierce bellows the molen chorus; "A Devl In The Woods" rattles on psychotically on Ritter's tightrope-walking bassline and spits diablo portent aplenty and "Fire Of Love" (the song itself - later given an inspired, ghostly reworking live by ace Finns 22 PISTEPIRRKO) is magically warped with nasty Hank Marvin twangs from Dotson and Pierce's best sub-Elvis sneer.
There are hints of the "Psychobilly" tag that sometimes dogged the band, notably the ramalama chords and screeching vocals of "Sleeping In Blood City" and "Bad Indian",but even these are both forceful and intuitively sleazy, not to mention great, foils for two of "Miami"s integral set pieces - "Texas Serenade" and curtain closer "Mother Of Earth," where guest Mark Tomeo's burnished pedal steel mingles longingly with Pierce's liquid slide work, distilling both some gorgeous melancholy and bottling THE GUN CLUB'S claim as Alt.Country forerunners in one almighty swig.
"Watermelon Man", though, tops the lot, stein introducing congas, while Pierce's demonic howls are pure native Indian seen through an opiated veil of Bo Diddley's classic backbeat. Rich and resonant, like "Miami" itself, this is an unsettling glimpse into America's black, primordial heart.
Only mentioned briefly in dispatches since his premature death, that Jeffrey Lee Pierce should be regarded as only a minor ghost at the great gig in the sky is grossly unfair. In "Miami" his spirit soars on the very sweetest of six-string salvation.
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