The Rise of Max Merritt & The Meteors For all its plucky raw energy and undeniable charm, what we heard in the 50s and 60s in Australia from our own, came from somewhere else - from the top half of the world. It was diligently reworked and refashioned and if we were very lucky it was imbued with something unique, something truly worthwhile that gave it its own dimension. We were always lucky with Max Merritt. This Kiwi wonder introduced me, and so many others whose eager ears were opening in those frantic days, to the seductive soar of soul. He had grit, passion, flair and an extraordinary level of professionalism. He seemed to have known or lived the soul scenarios he sang about. He was the man among the boys, in more ways than one. Simply, he was the real deal ...... and always has been. Max had a fine, gravelly voice that led credibility to everything he sang and when he and his Meteors - one of many sets of like-minded musicians - crossed the Tasman at the end of 1964 and began dishing out R&B, Rock’n’Roll, Merseybeat, Surfpop and an unrelenting dance beat, the dance floors filled. By 1965 they were touring nationally with the Rolling Stones and Searchers, and cutting a run of fiery singles for EMI – Shake, I Can’t Help Myself and Fannie Mae – all precious pieces of vinyl. From 1965 to 1967 Max Merritt & the Meteors were absolutely the live band on the eastern seaboard, the ultimate discotheque kings. Entranced fans would follow them from gig to gig, hooked on Max’s peerless funk. Max had refined his passion for soul music after being turned on, by saxman Jimmy Sloggett, to Otis Redding’s Dictionary of Soul album, particularly the track Try A Little Tenderness. It was the sound and style he’d been looking for - his niche. It was such a sensation that there seemed to be only one place for it – anywhere in the top half of the world, anywhere but Australia. They were part of the pop scene of the day, even competing in Hoadley’s National Battle of the Sounds – the frenetic, hotly contested ‘pop’ competition that enabled bands to get tickets to the top half of the world. Though pitching themselves there to screaming hordes, Max and his men offered themselves as nothing more than the soul merchants they were - with Max close-cropped in a world of hirsute rockers, surrounded by a portly, white-bearded elderly jazz drummer, a bassist described as having the appearance of a rough long-haired version of Rolf Harris and a beatnik brass man. You could only love them for their sound - and at venues like the Whisky Au Go Go in Sydney, frequented by Vietnam soldiers on Rest & Recreation leave, that’s all that mattered. They were red hot, incandescent even, and young players sat at their feet to learn how it was done. After clawing their way back from an appalling car accident in 1967, which left Max with just one eye, the outfit recorded what is rightfully hailed as the first truly great Australian rock album – a classy package of brassy, bluesy soul. The bristling excellence of 1969’s Max Merritt & the Meteors album on RCA and the national hit Hey, Western Union Man, delivered on all the promise that had been there throughout the decade. Recently reissued, it is still to be marvelled at. Just as we marvel at the tenacity that saw the Meteors move base to England, almost five years after their original intention, and essentially start all over again, playing to homesick antipodeans in a Willesden pub, opening for Slade and the Moody Blues, and eventually generating such a groundswell that they became the first signing to the British arm of Arista Records, personally recruited by Clive Davis, the man who’d signed Joplin, Santana, Springsteen and Aerosmith. Though we antipodeans welcomed Max home warmly when he came back to co-headline Sunbury Festival (our Isle of Wight) with Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs, he did slip from sight for a few years. Most down under were unaware of how the Meteors who had made the trek over had fallen away from the side of their leader (well, except the loyal Stewie Speer, who kept perfect time with the tiniest of kits), how Max had gone back to his old trade of bricklaying for a time to make ends meet, and how he’d painstakingly put together a new, more polished outfit. But they did know that, over Christmas 1975, the Australian airwaves belonged to an impeccable, heartfelt rock ballad that implanted itself in listeners’ hearts and memories for life – Slipping Away. And they knew about the string of hits that followed - Let It Slide, Coming Back, Whisper In My Ear and Dirty Work. He came home in triumph for a sell-out tour in 1976. I was a young artist manager at the time, with a pop sensation on the charts, and I was in awe of him. Max has come and gone over the years, but he has always been a part of us, his name synonymous in this part of the world with passionately performed roots music. We’ve seen him with Ray Charles, Wilson Pickett and James Brown, we’ve seen him at Byron Bay Blues Festival, at the Crown Casinos, in pubs and clubs. Setting stadiums alight on the national Long Way To The Top concert tour. There hasn’t had to be current hits, there’s just had to be Max. But before radio opened up and let him in, before London and Arista, there was this. Max Merritt & the Meteors at the end of sixties were held in such exceptionally high regard as a live act and as musicians’ musicians, that the uncovering of a complete performance from that time is certainly cause for considerable celebration. As I may have already pointed out, in a ‘pop scene’ environment dominated by radio-pleasing bubble gum outfits, the Meteors shone incandescently with ambitious music of deft maturity. For those who didn’t get to hear it rolling off a stage back then, this is an opportunity to find out what the fuss was all about; just why their jazzish, soul-rock fusion turned audiences on so powerfully. The gruff vocals, the tight playing, the ferocious funk all contributed to something we’d never really heard in this country before. All those nights entertaining American soldiers on R&R paid off admirably, enabling them to stand well apart from the bunches of pretty young lads and their winsome glances. This could spin heads...and did. We all love lost recordings, uncovered moments, Basement Tapes and the like, but they become particularly tasty when they give us repertoire otherwise unavailable, when they place us at a performance where the players are sailing and soaring. Here, stretching out and blowing hard, Max and his lads give an insight into their imposing musical imagination and literacy; their soul shades and jazz lines. As players, as performers, they knew their chops, which is hardly surprising given that Max had formed his first bands at age 15, and had been a recording artist for almost a dozen years, debuting with Get A Haircut in 1958. This wasn’t captured with a multi-track desk or an array of carefully positioned mics. It wasn’t consciously put down as a live album (there wouldn’t be one of those until 1977). It sounds like what it is, it sounds like its time. But I have a strong suspicion that like me, you were looking forward to the opportunity to sit in on a gig by an outfit beloved for the nights when, in so many ways, the planets aligned. GLENN A. BAKER, Sydney, April 2012