Part 1: The Psych Beginnings – When the Garage Door Cracked Open
"Laurie Did It" blasts from a busted car stereo in a '67 Dodge Dart. It’s three in the morning, the beer is warm, and the gas station coffee tastes like motor oil. Somebody’s rolling a joint on a copy of The Village Voice, and you just missed the exit to relevance.
San Francisco, 1969. The Summer of Love is over, and the city reeks of stale patchouli, broken dreams, and thousands of kids waking up on Haight Street realizing they should probably call their parents. Meanwhile, somewhere off the beaten path, a bunch of rock ‘n’ roll misfits called the Flamin’ Groovies are doing something far more dangerous than expanding their minds—they’re writing songs that sound like the '50s hopped up on bad speed and broken amplifiers.
Their debut, Supersnazz, wasn’t so much an album as a mission statement: “We don’t care about your flower crowns, we’re here to rock.” And rock they did, in the way only guys who grew up on Eddie Cochran and Bo Diddley could. "Love Have Mercy" hits like a bar fight in a bowling alley, and "The Girl Can’t Help It" struts like Little Richard himself just kicked in the door. It was garage rock before people knew what to call it—raw, wild, and completely out of step with the times.
Richard Meltzer, already two drinks in, grumbles, "These guys weren’t hippies. They weren’t trying to take you on a cosmic journey. They were trying to make sure the dance floor stayed sticky with beer and sweat.”
And that’s why nobody bought the album.
Part 2: The Grimy Rock Years – When the Band Got Real Mean
"Comin' After Me" comes on, and suddenly it’s 1971. Everything smells like unwashed denim and bad decisions.
Lester Bangs is pacing, shaking his head. He’s yelling about how the Flamin’ Groovies should’ve been the biggest rock band in America, how they had the swagger of the Stones and the snarl of the Stooges. But instead, they were scraping by, knocking out records that critics loved and radio ignored.
"Teenage Head" is the album that should’ve changed everything. The title track is all menace and sleaze, like a gang of leather-clad teenagers stealing your car and playing a Chuck Berry riff while they drive it straight into the river. "Headin’ for the Texas Border" is pure desperation, a song about getting out of town before the cops catch up. And "High Flyin' Baby"? That’s the sound of a band that knows the industry isn’t gonna save them, so they may as well play louder and meaner than anybody else.
“They had Exile on Main St. energy,” Meltzer shouts, dodging a beer bottle, “except the Stones were already famous, and the Groovies were still playing to fifty drunk guys in a basement.”
The problem? The world didn’t want bluesy, filthy, snarling rock 'n' roll. Not yet. The radio was choking on singer-songwriters and bloated prog rock epics. The Groovies were too early for punk, too late for the garage rock wave. Stuck in the wrong timeline.
Greil Marcus, catching his breath, mutters, "They played like they knew they weren’t gonna make it. And that’s what made them great."
Part 3: The Power Pop Era – The Revenge of the Underdogs
"Shake Some Action" is playing, and suddenly, the fight stops. Because you don’t punch a guy when this song is on.
By 1976, the Groovies had been battered, beaten, and left for dead. They’d lost members, lost momentum, and lost any shot at major label success. So what did they do? They packed their bags, went to England, and reinvented themselves.
Gone was the bluesy grime. Gone was the barroom brawl energy. In its place was something sharper, cleaner, and damn near transcendent: power pop.
With a new lineup and a new vision, they recorded Shake Some Action, an album that should be issued to every kid the first time they pick up a guitar. The title track is the power pop anthem—Byrds-like jangle, Beatles-esque hooks, but all played with the urgency of a band that had something to prove. "You Tore Me Down" is heartbreak in three chords, and "Yes It's True" feels like the record Big Star never got around to making.
And suddenly, they weren’t just a band anymore. They were legends. Not rich ones, not famous ones—but the kind of band that every great rock 'n' roll cult forms around.
Meltzer, lighting a cigarette, nods. “They should’ve been bigger than Cheap Trick.”
Greil and Lester, bloodied but grinning, shake hands.
Because the music never stopped.
And as long as some kid somewhere is digging through a dollar bin and finding these records, the Flamin’ Groovies will never really die.
Final Thought:
The Groovies were too early, too late, too raw, too polished, too punk, too classic. They were everything rock ‘n’ roll was supposed to be, and that’s why they never won.
And that’s exactly why they mattered.
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