The Rise of Max Merritt & The MeteorsFor all its plucky raw energy and undeniable charm, what we heard in the50s and 60s in Australia from our own, came from somewhere else - fromthe top half of the world. It was diligently reworked and refashioned and ifwe were very lucky it was imbued with something unique, something trulyworthwhile that gave it its own dimension.We were always lucky with Max Merritt. This Kiwi wonder introducedme, and so many others whose eager ears were opening in those franticdays, to the seductive soar of soul. He had grit, passion, flair and anextraordinary level of professionalism. He seemed to have known or livedthe soul scenarios he sang about. He was the man among the boys, inmore ways than one. Simply, he was the real deal ...... and always hasbeen.Max had a fine, gravelly voice that led credibility to everything he sangand 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, thedance floors filled. By 1965 they were touring nationally with the RollingStones and Searchers, and cutting a run of fiery singles for EMI – Shake, ICan’t Help Myself and Fannie Mae – all precious pieces of vinyl.From 1965 to 1967 Max Merritt & the Meteors were absolutely the live bandon the eastern seaboard, the ultimate discotheque kings. Entranced fanswould follow them from gig to gig, hooked on Max’s peerless funk. Maxhad refined his passion for soul music after being turned on, by saxmanJimmy Sloggett, to Otis Redding’s Dictionary of Soul album, particularlythe track Try A Little Tenderness. It was the sound and style he’d beenlooking for - his niche. It was such a sensation that there seemed to beonly one place for it – anywhere in the top half of the world, anywherebut Australia.They were part of the pop scene of the day, even competing in Hoadley’sNational 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 hismen offered themselves as nothing more than the soul merchants theywere - with Max close-cropped in a world of hirsute rockers, surroundedby a portly, white-bearded elderly jazz drummer, a bassist describedas having the appearance of a rough long-haired version of Rolf Harrisand a beatnik brass man. You could only love them for their sound - andat venues like the Whisky Au Go Go in Sydney, frequented by Vietnamsoldiers on Rest & Recreation leave, that’s all that mattered. They werered hot, incandescent even, and young players sat at their feet to learnhow it was done.After clawing their way back from an appalling car accident in 1967, whichleft Max with just one eye, the outfit recorded what is rightfully hailed asthe first truly great Australian rock album – a classy package of brassy,bluesy soul. The bristling excellence of 1969’s Max Merritt & the Meteorsalbum on RCA and the national hit Hey, Western Union Man, deliveredon all the promise that had been there throughout the decade. Recentlyreissued, it is still to be marvelled at.Just as we marvel at the tenacity that saw the Meteors move base toEngland, almost five years after their original intention, and essentiallystart all over again, playing to homesick antipodeans in a Willesden pub,opening for Slade and the Moody Blues, and eventually generating such agroundswell that they became the first signing to the British arm of AristaRecords, personally recruited by Clive Davis, the man who’d signedJoplin, Santana, Springsteen and Aerosmith.Though we antipodeans welcomed Max home warmly when he came backto co-headline Sunbury Festival (our Isle of Wight) with Billy Thorpe andthe Aztecs, he did slip from sight for a few years. Most down under wereunaware of how the Meteors who had made thetrek over had fallen away from the side of their leader (well, except theloyal Stewie Speer, who kept perfect time with the tiniest of kits), howMax had gone back to his old trade of bricklaying for a time to makeends meet, and how he’d painstakingly put together a new, more polishedoutfit.But they did know that, over Christmas 1975, the Australian airwavesbelonged to an impeccable, heartfelt rock ballad that implanted itself inlisteners’ hearts and memories for life – Slipping Away. And they knewabout the string of hits that followed - Let It Slide, Coming Back, WhisperIn My Ear and Dirty Work. He came home in triumph for a sell-out tour in1976. I was a young artist manager at the time, with a pop sensation onthe charts, and I was in awe of him.Max has come and gone over the years, but he has always been a partof us, his name synonymous in this part of the world with passionatelyperformed roots music. We’ve seen him with Ray Charles, Wilson Pickettand James Brown, we’ve seen him at Byron Bay Blues Festival, at theCrown Casinos, in pubs and clubs. Setting stadiums alight on the nationalLong 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 insuch exceptionally high regard as a live act and as musicians’ musicians,that the uncovering of a complete performance from that time is certainlycause for considerable celebration. As I may have already pointed out, in a ‘pop scene’ environment dominatedby radio-pleasing bubble gum outfits, the Meteors shone incandescentlywith ambitious music of deft maturity.For those who didn’t get to hear it rolling off a stage back then, this is anopportunity to find out what the fuss was all about; just why their jazzish,soul-rock fusion turned audiences on so powerfully. The gruff vocals, thetight playing, the ferocious funk all contributed to something we’d neverreally heard in this country before. All those nights entertaining Americansoldiers on R&R paid off admirably, enabling them to stand well apartfrom the bunches of pretty young lads and their winsome glances. Thiscould spin heads...and did.We all love lost recordings, uncovered moments, Basement Tapes andthe like, but they become particularly tasty when they give us repertoireotherwise unavailable, when they place us at a performance where theplayers are sailing and soaring. Here, stretching out and blowing hard,Max and his lads give an insight into their imposing musical imaginationand literacy; their soul shades and jazz lines. As players, as performers,they knew their chops, which is hardly surprising given that Max hadformed his first bands at age 15, and had been a recording artist foralmost a dozen years, debuting with Get A Haircut in 1958.This wasn’t captured with a multi-track desk or an array of carefullypositioned mics. It wasn’t consciously put down as a live album (therewouldn’t be one of those until 1977). It sounds like what it is, it soundslike its time. But I have a strong suspicion that like me, you were lookingforward to the opportunity to sit in on a gig by an outfit beloved for thenights when, in so many ways, the planets aligned.GLENN A. BAKER, Sydney, April 2012