Well, maybe the gods were with us this time around, because sure enough it happened. On a small scale, of course — the majority of people listening to and playing rock were still mired in blues and abortive “classical” hybrids and new shitkicker rock and every other conceivable manner of uninventively “artistic” jerkoff. But there were some bands coming up. Captain Beefheart burst upon us with the monolithic Trout Mask Replica, making history and distilling the best of both idioms into new styles and undreamed off, but somehow we still wanted something else, something closer to the mechanical, mindless heart of noise and the relentless piston rhythms which seemed to represent the essence both of American life and American rock ‘n’ roll.

Okay. Bands were sprouting and decaying like ragweed everywhere. The MC5 came on with a pre-records hype that promised the moon, failed to get off the launching pad. Black Pearl appeared with a promising first album — no real experiments, but a distinct Yardbirds echo in the metallic clanging cacophony of precisely distorted guitars. Their second LP fizzled out in bad soul music.