Blue Öyster Cult “Imaginos”
The umlaut was a major tell. While they might seem gratuitous at first, those double dots over the “O” in “Öyster” are, in fact, extremely important. They indicate both a Wagnerian bombast and a permission structure for future bands, from Motörhead to Mötley Crüe. On the one hand, Blue Öyster Cult’s umlaut is linguistically useless — it affects neither pronunciation nor definition. But it does absolutely affect how the “Ö” appeared. It is symbolically profound — suggesting something old, Germanic and dark. And as if those three words in succession — “Blue, Oyster and Cult” — are not curious enough, the umlaut decorates the “O” with a tiny crown, as if to convey: “we are kidding around but also we are royally serious.”
Except that they were not really serious. Or at least not literally serious. Blue Öyster Cult was a band whose concept had always outpaced their reality — a signified connected to a signifier by just two tiny silent dots. Today, more than five years since they were born, Blue Öyster Cult are primarily remembered for three things. First, a couple of horror-inspired Rock radio hits (“Don’t Fear the Reaper” and “Godzilla”) from the mid-Seventies. Second, an unexpectedly tight and au currant proto-New Wave single (“Burning for You”) from 1981. And third, but probably most of all — Christopher Walken feverishly demanding more midriff and much more cowbell from Will Ferrell on SNL’s retelling of “Don’t Fear the Reaper.”
So how did one of the definitive Arena Rock acts of their time become the soundtrack to a sketch comedy meme? Well, for one thing, Blue Öyster Cult had always been more renowned than they were popular. Of their fifteen studio albums, just one was certified Platinum. And of their many singles, only one cracked the top ten (“Reaper”) while only one other landed exactly at number forty (“Burning for You”). Blue Öyster Cult were an exceptionally successful band. But, compared to their Seventies cohort, they were not a first — or even second — tier Arena Rock act. At least not commercially. Compared to Zeppelin, Queen, Floyd, possibly Skynyrd and probably AC/DC, Blue Öyster Cult were really just that — a cult. And even if compared to the next tier of mega-bands — KISS, Aerosmith, Bad Company and Boston — Blue Öyster Cult were more high end filler than chart-topping killer. But history has a way of blurring lines. A bunch of decades, some furry midriff, ecstatic cowbell and groundbreaking umlaut later, and Blue Öyster Cult endure in ways that more popular acts have not.
Yes — some of their oversized stature is coincidental and some of it is incidental. But also some of it was intentional. Blue Öyster Cult were always high concept — designed to be considered as much as they were heard. They were founded, in part, by a manager slash producer who was also a poet slash sci-fi junkie. Their lyrics, when not written or inspired by said manager slash producer slash poet slash sci-fi junkie, were occasionally proffered by legendary music journalist, Richard Meltzer, or more legendary Punk Rock poet, Patti Smith.
Blue Öyster Cult were among the first bands to employ movie horror tropes in their lyrics and lasers in their concerts. They could be loud but were never terrifying like Black Sabbath. They could be campy but were never shlocky like Alice Cooper. They could be trippy but never mind-blowing like Pink Floyd. Their sound was oddly consistent but not always identifiable. They had one lead singer — kinda sorta — and three other guys who sometimes sang lead. They were a mystery wrapped in a cult. Weirdly specific and oddly generic, Blue Öyster Cult could have only come from one place: a north shore, college hamlet that’s not technically a town called Stony Brook, Long Island.
Stony Brook is home to a state university where, in the late Sixties, young men came to avoid the draft and explore the intersection of liberal arts and the counterculture. A place where bridge and tunnel dreams were just close enough to the big city to feel like they could come true. In 1967, at almost any college in America, groups of young men picked up instruments, smoked some weed and jammed until they either quickly gave up or eventually broke through. Sometimes three guys. Sometimes four or five. But in the case of Blue Öyster Cult — who in 1967 at Stony Brook University were called Soft White Underbelly — those particular guys were more than a fledgling garage Rock band. They were a project. An idea. A vehicle for the entrepreneurial chutzpah and literary ambitions of Sandy Perlman.
Sandy Perlman’s career path no longer exists – if it ever existed at all. He didn’t follow a path so much as he made up a calling. After leaving Stony Brook, Pearlman dabbled in music journalism, leaned into artist management, opened a recording studio, ran an indie record label and presided over an early digital subscription service before spending his sunset years as an academic. He was not Clive Davis or Ahmet Ertegun or Brian Epstein or Malcom McLaren. He was a big thinking, free spirit who resided somewhere between industry outsider, industry stalwart and industry legend. He wrote for Crawdaddy! Magazine. He managed Black Sabbath. He produced the second Clash album. He was well liked and therefore well connected but not exactly well known. In spite of his many accomplishments, though, he is perhaps best known as a co-founder of Blue Öyster Cult.
Which is of course strange because Sandy Perlman did not play a single instrument or perform a single note on a single track by the band. And yet, he is credited with writing and producing many of the group’s best loved songs. In the realm of teen Pop, it is not at all uncommon for a group to be assembled and directed by a manager svengali type. In Rock and Roll, however, there’s very little precedent for a “serious” band to be born from and guided by a non-playing member. And what makes the Pearlman case more remarkable is that, to whatever extent he was “pulling strings,” he was not domineering. He shared lyric writing duties with the band, as well as with more renowned, “professional” writers like Richard Meltzer and Patti Smith. And what’s even more remarkable is that — more so than Eric Bloom (vocals), Buck Dharma (guitar), Joe Bouchard (bass), Albert Bouchard (drums) and Alan Lanier (keyboards and also Mr. Patti Smith) — Sandy Pearlman, who passed away in 2016, endures as the most famous “member” of Blue Öyster Cult.
This is true in spite of the band’s massive, if not Platinum or Diamond-selling, success. In spite of “Don’t Fear The Reaper,” “Godzilla” and “Burning for You.” In spite of the “More Cowbell” sketch. And, most of all, in spite of the fact that, in his heart of hearts, Sandy Pearlman never wanted to be the manager of a Rock and Roll band, or a studio owner, label honcho or digital music executive. What he really wanted to do was to write poetry and science fiction. And, ideally, both at the same time.
In the late Sixties, while still a student at Stony Brook, Pearlman penned a series of epic poems, notes and half-finished scripts which became the loadstar for Blue Öyster Cult. But before there was Blue Öyster Cult, there was Soft White Underbelly. And while Soft White Underbelly used aspects of Pearlman’s “Imaginos” as inspiration for songs and lyrics, they never managed to transform their manager’s sprawling literary conceit into a full-fledged Rock opera.
And that was for good reason. The plot of “Imaginos” is impossible to describe. There’s something about a hermaphroditic, shape-shifting, time-traveling child and the inciting events of World War I. It’s a bewildering set of characters, plots, sub-plots, intra and extra-textual allusions that are both aware of and unconcerned with genre and style. “Imaginos” presupposes worlds and timelines that could have spawned other books, sequels, prequels and meta-verses. In other words, “Imaginos” lent itself more naturally to religious tome or comic book series than to a Rock and Roll album.
The idea that “Imaginos” could be adequately contained within two sides of vinyl or cassette or one side of a compact disc seems preposterous. Rock and Roll has a long history of high concepts which exceeded the capacity of human recording. Pete Townshend’s “Lifehouse.” Pink Floyd’s “Household Objects.” Jim Steinman’s “Bad for Good.” Similarly, the history of cinema is littered with projects wherein the auteur’s vision surpassed the filmmaker’s budget or capacity, or both (“Heaven’s Gate,” most Coppola movies, etc.). But Rock and Roll differs from film in that (a) the budgets are smaller, (b) the medium is not visual and (c) the physical formats are time-constrained. Apparently, none of these facts seemed to matter to Sandy Pearlman. More to the point, these obstacles were minor, and possibly exciting, inconveniences to drummer Albert Bouchard, who’d been fired from Blue Öyster Cult in 1981 but who, by 1982, had started working with Pearlman to make the dream of “Imaginos” a Rock and Roll reality.
Amazingly, he succeeded. Kind of. Sort of. Well, not exactly. But for half a decade, Bouchard and a cast of studio musicians labored over what was to be his debut solo record, as well as the first in a series of “Imaginos” albums. The problem was that Bouchard could not make it work — he struggled to pare the concept down to sixty minutes. The other problem was that Bouchard was not a competent lead singer. The other other problem was that the material was confusing to the point of baffling. And the big problem — the problem which was a byproduct of those first three — was that no label wanted to fund and release a Albert Bouchard solo album inspired by Sandy Pearlman’s college poetry.
But “Imaginos” would not die. After the dismal performance of “Club Ninja” from 1985, four fifths of Blue Öyster Cult’s classic lineup reunited in 1986. And, for reasons that are hard to explain, Pearlman was able to convince the band to get a hold of Bouchard’s masters, add new vocals, dress up the parts, bring in Robby Krieger of The Doors and Joe Satriani of Joe Satriani and condense the boundless epic into a fifty-five minute, CD-ready Blue Öyster Cult album.
While I’m really only a casual fan of Blue Öyster Cult and a less than casual fan of science fiction, “Imaginos” has intrigued me for years. And though its gestation was long and convoluted, it was not unique. Many of us assumed that Brian Wilson’s “Smile” and Guns N’ Roses “Chinese Democracy” would never see the light of day. And yet, for all their unfathomability, for all of their delays, both were eventually released. What makes “Imaginos” different, I think. is not the complications of its birth but rather its basic premise: that a multiversal, epic poem could be effectively rendered by an on again, off again Classic Rock band laying down tracks on top of their former drummer’s original tracks. Everything about that previous sentence sounds wrong — like a theoretical physics equation wherein the answer was likely “null set.”
For most “real” fans, and according to the band itself, “Imaginos” is not really a Blue Öyster Cult album. Yes — it features the same five men who played on their beloved “Black and White” albums. But no — those five men did not write, play or record the album together. The name Blue Öyster Cult appears in name only, as a last ditch (unsuccessful) effort to see if the parties involved could recoup any of the significantly sunk cost. And yet, in a strange way, “Imaginos” is also the most Blue Öyster Cult of all Blue Öyster Cult albums in that it was born from their source material. “Imaginos” not only predated Blue Öyster Cult, it predicted Blue Öyster Cult.
Everything about “Imaginos” — its perplexing origin story, its inexplicable album credits, its song titles ("The Siege and Investiture of Baron von Frankenstein's Castle at Weisseria") — suggests “buckle up, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” Nothing about it seems accessible. I’d in fact go as far to say that “Imaginos” is less an album for Blue Öyster Cult fans and more a foundational text for the most devout subsection the Blue Öyster Cult cult. But in the same way that “Chinese Democracy” was off-putting and apocryphal but also compelling in its own way, I wanted to give “Imaginos” a shot.
Ultimately, “Imaginos” is nothing I could have ever fathomed, but also almost precisely what I expected. Which is to say that it’s predominantly shrill Hard Rock that sounds a little like Dream Theater, a little more like RATT and a little less like Blue Öyster Cult. It’s not particularly hard to listen to — there are riffs and hooks and bridges and choruses. But it is truly impossible to follow — which is the conundrum of the record and also, undoubtedly, its raison d'être. The “Imaginos” universe was profoundly important to Sandy Pearlman (presumably), Albert Bouchard (definitely), other members of Blue Öyster Cult (possibly), and an unknown, but not large number of Blue Öyster Cult fans (apparently). Without “Imaginos” there would be no Blue Öyster Cult. And yet, for anyone beyond that innermost circle, “Imaginos” presents like the lovechild of Jim Steinman, Genesis-era Peter Gabriel and L. Ron Hubbard. Generally speaking, it’s not abysmal. It’s better than competent and occasionally impressive. But unless you really really care about the source material, “Imaginos” is indecipherable Hard Rock Opera.
Yes, ”Tommy” is batshit crazy. Of course, “The Wall” is hard to follow. But those “Rock Operas” have incredible songs — generationally memorable hooks and choruses that render any narrative illogic irrelevant. “Imaginos,” on the other hand, is obsessed with the details — the Prussian War in 1880, the Mexican border in 1892, something in New Hampshire in 1804, and a genetically mutable titular character who is sometimes also called “Desdenova” or “Captain” or “Grandpa.” I submit that the original poems might be spellbinding. And that the “full story” of “Imaginos” could be mind-blowing. For all I know, it could be “Star Wars” meets “Quantum Leap” meets Stephen King meets H.P. Lovecraft. I’d like to think that I am open to all possibilities. But apparently I am not open to those possibilities when rendered by drummer Albert Bouchard and a bunch of session players and then re-rendered by the other members of Blue Öyster Cult plus more session players, including Joe Satriani.
To be fair, there are bright spots. “Del Rio’s Song” is a just left of middle of the road, Seventies rocker with a whiff of Glam. Eric Bloom handles vocals (a plus) and neither the spoken word interlude or the white hot metal guitar solo upend album’s best hook. Does the fact that it has something to do with a Texas border town in the later nineteenth century by way of some Louisiana riverboat situation from the early nineteenth century bother me a little? Honestly, yes it does. It forces me to consider the reference material when all I want to do is sing along to the silly earworm of a chorus: “Del Rios Song / Oh, Del Rio.”
Even at their most obtuse, however, Blue Öyster Cult have a knack for weird fun. The album’s closer, which is also the title track, is a just on the cusp of New Wave, very nearly funky rocker that wants to be a good time. You want to tap your feet or shake your hip until Jon Rogers, a singer for hire from the original Bouchard recordings, starts singing something about Desdenova turning into a buzzard and flying off to Texas to fulfill their destiny. And elsewhere, on “In the Presence of Another World,” Bloom and company go full Metal, by way of “Phantom of the Opera,” retelling the classic story of the master born from a yolkless egg who has dominion over the animal kingdom and something about the divine importance of the number seven. It’s patently ridiculous, but so is most musical theater. Apparently, when the hook is solid and the singer is competent, I can almost get down with “Imaginos.”
But those iare the rare exceptions. Donald Roeser is a superb guitarist, but he cannot sing like Eric Bloom. And so, when he grabs the mic, things get ponderous. “Les Invisibles” is a plodder about (I think) Aztec ruins and Haitian voodoo and time travel that fizzles miserably. “Magna of Illusion” is just a tick better and probably as the album gets to Broadway — the grandeur, the narration and the piano flourishes. But those ingredients are simply no match for the shrill metallic pummeling. Roeser works hard to locate the fun in the bombast, but this is material that might only be redeemed by a singer with the pomp of Freddie Mercury or the gall of Roger Daltrey. Roeser is no Freddie or Roger, but also, he’s no Eric Bloom.
Meanwhile, drummer Albert Bouchard is no Donald Roeser. Bouchard, who sings half of one track (an origin story, entitled "Blue Öyster Cult”) is cursed with a drummer’s voice — limited by pitch, range and wanton sincerity. As a reminder, “Imaginos” (the album) was originally Bouchard’s idea. It was his passion — his dream. And it’s also worth reminding that his version — the Bouchard solo “Imaginos” — was summarily rejected by the label and deemed commercially unviable.
The Blue Öyster Cult version fared just slightly better. It peaked at 122 on the U.S. Billboard sales charts, but received virtually no airplay, critical acclaim or international success. By any reasonable standard, it was a failure. And yet, I find it hard to accept those standards. For one thing, “Imaginos” was not really a Blue Öyster Cult album. It was much more a doomed Albert Bouchard solo project, nominally salvaged by his former bandmates as homage to Sandy Pearlman. Yes — it was a commercial debacle. But creatively it was more a historical overreach than a total misfire.
For me, the charm of Blue Öyster Cult laid in the odd tension between their bridge and tunnel norminess (five guys playing slightly psychedelic, slightly bluesy, album oriented Rock) and their total aberrance (five guys playing slightly psychedelic, slightly bluesy, album oriented Rock inspired by science fiction, horror and the poetry of their manager and his writer friends). In that the origin story of “Imaginos” is also the origin story of Blue Öyster Cult, and in that those five guys agreed to — needed to — honor their source material, I have affection for it. But I have almost no desire to ever hear it again, which is what I think separates me from the most culty of the Blue Öyster Cult.
I can get down with The Reaper and Godzilla and the best of Blue Öyster Cult because they are as straight faced about their unseriousness as they are winking in their earnestness. “Imaginos,” though, tilts into the humorless realm of college level poetry slash magical realism — because that is exactly what it was. It was an idea whose ambition so far outpaced its means of production that it’s a miracle it was ever considered, much less recorded, much less released. To be clear, “Imaginos” has its defenders, most of whom are happy to decipher the lyrics and defend its musical virtues on Reddit. And all these years later, “defendant number one” is still Albert Bouchard, who released “ReImaginos” in 2020, “Imaginos II - Bombs Over Germany (Minus Zero And Counting)” in 2021 and “Imaginos III - Mutant Reformation” in 2023. Seventy seven years young, Bouchard apparently still has a fever. And the only prescription is more shapeshifting, time traveling Desdenova.