8. Quicksilver Messenger Service, Happy Trails (1969)

The only album that matters by Quicksilver Messenger Service offers up a jam band San Francisco ballroom act live in concert(s)—and live in studio, and not above overdubbing either—working over a couple of Bo Diddley numbers, “Who Do You Love” on the first side and “Mona” on the second. There may be a case that Quicksilver is no better with Bo Diddley than the Grateful Dead were with Chuck Berry, but I’m not inclined to it. As a teen I adored the first side of Happy Trails and still do. They work it like jazz on “Who Do You Love,” politely passing around the soloing honors. Like the Allman Brothers they take way too long to wrap it up, but I am generally in a forgiving mood by then. The 25-minute so-called suite is divided into parts, depending on the soloist, even as the Bo Diddley beat carries on. The first, “When You Love,” features Gary Duncan delivering one of the most lyrical electric guitar solos I know with effortless purity, a thing of riveting beauty. It’s the section I always specifically listen for and it remains transcendent. I also liked “Where You Love,” which follows, featuring drummer and singer Greg Elmore, but that was mostly because I was so enamored of live recordings and crowd interactions then. It seems more a slight and somewhat silly interlude now, but “How You Love” picks up the pace again with John Cipollina’s abrupt, snarling electric guitar. David Freiberg follows with a bass solo on “Which Do You Love.” Don’t turn away from me just because I said “bass solo”—I see the expression on your face. This is no self-indulgent morass like too many of them, but an upbeat barn-burner less than two minutes that likely left his wrists sore.

And that was it for me with Happy Trails for a very long time. Friends would remind me the second side is good too, and yeah yeah, but it’s cut from a different cloth. More recently, however, on revisiting the album, I believe I have finally grokked it. The seven-minute cover of “Mona” is one thing, a good showcase for the much-vaunted electric guitar interplay of Duncan and Cipollina, but the drift is increasingly toward outer space and alien planets. “I’m gonna tell you Mona what I want to do” are practically the last words we hear. The singer seems to be losing his train of thought. “Maiden of the Cancer Moon”—is that Mona?—is only three minutes but follows the bent and takes it further. The guitar licks seem to be asking questions and then they are turned to hard labor. Where is this thing going? The 13-minute “Calvary” may or may not have the answers. It has the answers to something anyway. Note, on an elaborately themed western album that finishes off with a Roy Rogers chestnut, that it is “Calvary” and not “Cavalry,” as my brain keeps thinking it should be. This is a hostile landscape we occupy now. I think I can hear Ennio Morricone influence in spots. It has the feel of the harsh spaghetti western desert, but it put me in mind even more of a novel still nearly 20 years away when this was recorded, the desolated landscape of the 1985 Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, where Judge Holden and the Kid roamed, the antelope were slaughtered for hearty dinner by gangs of marauders, and all unimaginable things go on. I even hear touches of flamenco like seasoning and a heavenly vocal chorus for texture, but there’s no resolution. They leave us stranded on this strange planet. No wonder they threw on 90 seconds of “Happy Trails” to close. We need the soothing familiarity of Roy and Dale.