Deep Purple “The House of Blue Light”
Those first few miles out of Logan can be dodgy. It feels like you are driving in circles — because in fact you are — until you’re suddenly squeezed into a tunnel with signs pointing to the “Government Center,” which reminds you of that song by The Modern Lovers, and which you can’t get out of your head, until you emerge back into daylight, above sea level, and make your way onto route 93, which is not route 128, but which will eventually usher you out of the city and into Boston’s outer limits, where you’re still thinking about route 128 because somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you’re singing The Modern Lovers. But, this time of course it’s not “Government Center” but rather “Roadrunner,” wherein he’s driving on route 128 with the radio on! You’re singing louder and louder. And you’re not really in tune, but also neither is Jonathan. And it doesn’t matter anyway because you’re so happy to be away from Logan and out of that tunnel that you instinctively shout, “One, two, three, four, five, six.” And then you think, “Who counts out a song to six?" And then you answer yourself, “Jonathan Richman does!” And by that point you are smiling and fist pumping and soaking in the fresh air of New England.
From Massachusetts, you make your way into southern New Hampshire, which feels like its more famous neighbor state, just without the histrionics. And then, finally, once you’ve left route 93 for route 89 and headed northwest, everything changes. Road signs disappear. There are fewer cars. Fewer people. Fewer everything — except for cows, which there are more of. You notice that your blood pressure has dropped and that you are breathing deeply and easily. You stop for gas and pick up some cheese and maple syrup just because. Because you are in Vermont.
It’s hard to be stressed out in Vermont — especially if you’re simply visiting. And while the state is far from perfect, Vermont never fails its guests. The most common reaction from out of towners is something like “Wow, it looks exactly like the postcards!” The trees, the mountains and the covered bridges. The quaintness and the quiet. And the air — oh my god the air! Vermont is where lucky non-Vermonters go for a vacation from their problems.
Which is probably why, in 1984, Ian Gillan, Ritchie Blackmore, John Lord, Roger Glover and Ian Pace — the five members of Deep Purple who lived nowhere near New England and who’d not worked together in over a decade — gathered in Stowe, Vermont. Though Stowe is something of a tony ski resort town today, in the summer of 1984, it was a quiet, scenic mountain village run by locals, far from the roving eyes and wallets of Bostonians, New Yorkers and, certainly, British Rock Stars. But in this case, Stowe’s breathtaking vistas and complete lack of distraction served as friendly environs for the version of Deep Purple known as “Mark II.” If you needed a place to clear your head and focus on art, you could do a lot worse than Stowe, Vermont. But more than it was a creative oasis, Vermont was a place where you could not reasonably get angry. Where you left grudges at the door and where stress was kept at bay. At that particular time, The Playhouse in Stowe was the place — possibly the only place — where singer Ian Gillan and guitarist Ritchie Blackmore could peacefully coexist.
Vermont did its job. Though they’d not played together since 1973, and though Gillan had left the band because he could not peacefully coexist with Blackmore, and though Blackmore left the band two years later because he could not peacefully coexist with the rest of the band, Deep Purple “Mark II” successfully reunited and relaxed in the greenery of Mount Mansfield. But meanwhile, and unfortunately, the rest of the world was not all that much like Vermont. During their extended hiatus, Pop music had subsumed Rock music. Notwithstanding the success of Bruce Springsteen, 1984 was the year of Pop — Madonna, Prince and, of course, Michael. At the same time, Heavy Metal existed just on the cusp of the mainstream. Van Halen, whose synthesizers implied that they were not Metal and that they were MTV friendly, were the outliers. But there was a massive chasm between Van Halen’s mainstream supremacy and Metallica’s underground swell. In theory, Deep Purple Mark II, v2 was poised to fill that gap.
Recorded that summer, and quickly released in the fall of 1984, “Perfect Strangers” was a hit — a thrilling blend of volume and virtuosity. The album sold millions of copies worldwide and the ensuing tour was the second highest grosser of 1985 (right behind The Boss). And while its singles went nowhere and while the record did not attract many new fans, the reunion confirmed that a massive and massively loyal half-generation remained obsessed with the “Unholy Trinity of Heavy Metal.” But since Led Zeppelin were gone and Black Sabbath were on sabbatical, the next best thing was the third prong of that trident — Deep Purple.
Of that trio, Deep Purple is — by some margin — the least famous and the least infamous. But to even be mentioned alongside those two bands — acts that redefined how heavy, loud, exciting and terrifying popular music could be — is quite an achievement. On the other hand, it goes without saying that Deep Purple have not endured in the way that their exalted English brethren have. I’d go as far as to suggest that casual Classic Rock fans (i.e. most of them) could — at most — only name two Deep Purple songs: Likely “Hush,” the deeper but familiar cut from 1968 that hung around Classic Rock radio for years, and definitely “Smoke on the Water,” the iconic smash which perched itself atop the Classic Rock canon in 1973 and never left.
“Smoke on the Water” is the sound of early Seventies Hard Rock. It arrived fully, perfectly formed and has endured for many obvious reasons. The force of Blackmore’s riff. The grip of Gillan’s vocals. How it kind of sounded like a million other Classic Rock staples but also, actually, like no other. How it also sounded like a bong being plugged into a 1968 Fender Stratocaster being plugged into a Marshall amp. “Smoke on the Water” is both a tremendous composition and a tremendous performance. But ultimately it has prevailed for one much simpler reason: it was the song that every aspiring guitarist born between 1965 and 1975 learned in the first weeks of their tutelage. If you had an acoustic guitar you strummed your way through “Take it Easy.” But if you went electric, you immediately pressed into “Smoke on the Water.” “Smoke on the Water” exists as both the popular embodiment of Hard Rock from a certain era as well as a seminal and libidinal sense memory for millions of once young musicians.
To be very clear, the Deep Purple songbook is filled with countless good to great songs, and at least a couple dozen that are even better than that. “Fireball” is a tour de force and quite possibly the earliest instance of Thrash Metal, predicting Metallica, Anthrax and Megadeth. “Highway Star” is as potent and concise as Prog Rock ever got. “Bloodsucker” and “Speedking” are positively ferocious. The list goes on and on. Deep Purple could sound like Cream or Hendrix or Zeppelin or AC/DC — and on several occasions — like all of them at once. And yet, their legacy is both underappreciated and misunderstood.
Underappreciated, I think, because Deep Purple did frequently sound like other bands. This was the blessing and curse of their technical fluency — their capacity to assimilate influences. It’s also a byproduct of being influential themselves and, as a result, being oft-imitated. Once I’m reminded that “Woman From Tokyo” is a Deep Purple song, I think, “Of course it is!.” But until that very moment, I sometimes wonder whether it's a Bad Company song. Or a Free song. Or a Grand Funk song. Or — well — you get the point. There are dozens of bands who took a pinch of psychedelia, added a dash of Metal, a dose of the Blues, a heavy riff, a nifty lead and synthetic keys, put a belter up front and dialed up the volume in order to sound “Deep Purplesque.” Except “Deep Purplesque” was easily mistaken for “Bad Company-esque.” Or, more likely, “Zeppelin-esque.” Which, over time, diminished the degree to which they were fully appreciated.
But more than they are underappreciated, Deep Purple were (and are) misunderstood. And not “misunderstood” in the “nobody grasped their art” sense but rather in the “nobody knew who was in the band” sense. Deep Purple were (and are) misunderstood because they shapeshifted — figuratively and literally. The arrival of Ian Gillan, in “Mark II,” coincided with a turn towards volume and speed. And when Gillan was replaced by David Coverdale in “Mark III,” but more so when Blackmore was replaced by Tommy Bolin in “Mark IV,” the band slowed down and flirted with Soul and Funk. Over the course of nearly sixty years and nine “Marks,” the band has had fifteen members and four lead singers. They are a group defined by constant change. But also, by constant turmoil.
That turmoil was often the result of creative tension. But mostly, it was a result of interpersonal tension. And specifically, it was the result of tension between two men — Ritchie Blackmore and Ian Gillan. Blackmore — the preternaturally gifted guitarist — was the brooding introvert. Gillan, the frontman and showman, was both an extrovert and a ham. Blackmore was obsessed with the music. Gillan with the show. Blackmore generally refused to do interviews while Gillan was always looking for the camera. Whereas Blackmore's aura was dark, Gillan’s sparkled. In a band packed with talent, Blackmore was the inarguable genius. He was Clapton and Hendrix rolled into one surly, loner drinker. Gillan, meanwhile, was a voice, a smile and a head of hair, but — great as he was — also not quite as magnetic as Robert Plant nor as potent as Paul Rodgers. That existential tension between the irreplaceable introvert and the theoretically replaceable extrovert proved to be the undoing of Deep Purple’s greatest lineup. Not once, not twice, but three times.
First in the summer of 1973 when Gillan — broken from the constant demands of touring and the whatever-is-more-than-constant demands of Ritchie Blackmore — left Deep Purple. Then again, at the end of 1989, when, following a brief reunion and some grace, Mark II broke up — again. And then, finally, for good measure, in the fall of 1993 when, after just fifteen months, Gillan and Blackmore recognized — for once and for all and they really mean it this time — that they simply could not coexist, peacefully or otherwise. The first version of Mark II was carefully selected and honed. The third incarnation was a last minute hail mary. But it is that second version — the Vermont, 1984 to 1989, first reunion of Mark II version — that most intrigued me.
Though it was filmed in 1983 and released in the Spring of 1984, and while its writers and director swear that it was based on an amalgam of many and not just one band, “This is Spinal Tap” bears an uncanny resemblance to Deep Purple, Mark II, v2. The petulant lead singer versus the hyper-sensitive guitarist. The mustachioed third chair. The bickering. The high jinks. The critical derision. David St. Hubbins couldn’t sing like Ian Gillan. Nigel Tufnel couldn’t drink like Ritchie Blackmore. And Derek Smalls played bass while John Lord played keys. Spinal Tap were on the descent whereas Deep Purple, between 1984 and 1986, was experiencing a minor renaissance. But at the heart of both stories were middle-aged men clinging to former glory and hoping to survive the long simmering feud between a lead singer and lead guitarist.
Had the fictional theatrical film not preceded the real life reunion, documentary footage of Deep Purple from 1984 could very easily pass for Spinal Tap B-roll. The quintet, gathered in bucolic Vermont as their prime sets into past prime, look fantastic. And ridiculous. Deep Purple are not done with the Seventies and also not ready for the Eighties. Gillan’s hair is unreasonably long, full and jet black as he sashays shirtless for the camera. John Lord, in his aviators and sporting that immaculate stash, resembles the love child of Lemmy Klimister, Derek Smalls and The Village People’s “Leatherman.” Ian Paice is cute, scruffy and balding, except where his sideburns threaten to swallow the rest of his face. And Roger Glover, with his mullet and bright tees, seems New Wave curious and also not like the others.
But it’s Blackmore, of course, who steals the show. And not with his dour affect or his clean shaven top lip. But rather with his disappearing act. In most of the documentary footage and all of the interviews, Blackmore is a no show. In one particularly hysterical sequence, in October of 1984, while MTV and the music press get lathered up for the band’s triumphant return, the camera cuts to a dais where five name cards have been placed before five seats. On the left is Roger Glover. Next is Jon Lord. Then Ian Paice. Then Ian Gillan. And then, on the far right, behind the name card that reads “Ritchie Blackmore,” is an empty seat.
It’s a joke deserving of “Spinal Tap,” except it was not a joke. While he seemed amenable to the reunion and tolerant of Gillan, Ritchie Blackmore was not going to show up for press conferences, much less interviews. As a result, Gillan and company were left to joke, make polite excuses, and quietly simmer. The image of these five men, but especially those two guys, descending upon Vermont in hopes of making peace with the past and finding inspiration for their future, is unintentionally comical. Part of the humor is the middle age of it all. Part is the fish out of water-ness of the story. But mostly it's the “I’ll do this, but on my terms and also I still won’t like it” nature of Blackmore’s participation.
While it was surely doomed from the start, Deep Purple, Mark II, v2 was initially a glorious achievement. And though not strictly speaking a “pop hit,” “Perfect Strangers” was an unmitigated success, selling millions of copies and many millions of concert tickets. On the top selling albums of 1984, right behind David Bowie’s abysmal “Tonight” but right above Laura Branigan’s “Self Control,” Deep Purple’s eleventh studio album validated the band’s Classic Rock legacy, confirmed their influence and, most surprisingly, indicated a vitality that betrayed the turmoil within.
To cap it all off, in the summer of 1985, Deep Purple headlined the Knebworth Festival, where they played for eighty thousand adoring fans who withstood biblical rain and a foot of mud to cheer on their returning heroes. But as much as it was another zenith, Knebworth was also the beginning of the second end for Mark II. In the summer of ‘86, Deep Purple returned to Stowe, Vermont to make their follow-up to “Perfect Strangers.” However, by that point. much of the muse and seemingly all of the good will had dissolved. Whereas Vermont had been a salve not so long ago, by 1986 it was merely an isolated getaway for four men earnestly hoping to succeed and one scowling guitarist who did not want to be there. No amount of platinum albums, sold out stadiums — or apparently green mountains, fresh air, peace and quiet — could thaw the Cold War between Ritchie Blackmore and his band.
In “This is Spinal Tap,” documentarian Marty Di Bergi reminds the band that their 1980 album “Shark Sandwich” had once famously received a review read simply: “Shit Sandwich.” But in (cinematic) fact Spinal Tap were always loathed by the critics while “Shark Sandwich,” which featured “Sex Farm” and “No Place Like Nowhere,” was actually a commercial return to form. Like “Shark Sandwich,” Deep Purple’s “Perfect Strangers” did not fare well with the mainstream press. In 1985, Rolling Stone printed a two star review that read like a one star review. Nevertheless, and like Spinal Tap’s late career hit, “Perfect Strangers” thrived commercially. But, if “Perfect Strangers” was Deep Purple’s “Shark Sandwich,” it follows that “The House of Blue Light” was their “Smell the Glove,” an ill-fated document of disunion that revealed a band spiraling into mid-life crisis.
“The House of Blue Light” is the sound of five inordinately talented colleagues unable to work together. It sounds both overcooked and unfinished. If it were a Spinal Tap album, its virtuosity would impress, but its jokes and, frankly, its melodies would not. It’s not so far off from Loverboy without the hooks or Motorhead without the teeth or AC/DC without the grooves. In fact, it’s not so far from its predecessor, “Perfect Strangers,” but much worse in every way. And it’s miles away from “Machine Head.” It is a bad album from a great band. And while there are small corners who defend it, the members of Deep Purple are not among them. Gillan reflected on it like a marriage that had lost its spark, while Blackmore acknowledged that he was basically checked out during its long, labored gestation. “The House of Blue Light” is a divorce album, but not in the traditional sense. The breakup was not of a marital union, but a creative one. And what made it all the more depressing was that everyone knew how it would end and nobody could do anything top change it.
In fairness, it doesn’t start out that way. “Bad Attitude,” which opens the album, is a not horrific take on the century old “woman, you’re keeping me down / woman, let me be free” Blues. Except, and by Gillan’s own admission, the “you” in the song is not a woman. It’s not his spouse, to whom he was very happily married, or an ex-girlfriend for that matter. Rather, it’s his lead guitarist, with whom he’d regrettably reunited. To its credit, “Bad Attitude” resembles a lot of high end, Pop Metal of the late Eighties. If I didn’t know better, and if I ignore the “Phantom of the Opera” church organ and the incendiary Blackmore solo, I could easily mistake it for RATT or Mötley Crüe. But — and here’s the thing — it would be middling RATT or middling Mötley Crüe. Ultimately, it’s four guys racing around a hook while their lead singer screeches his way to the finish line.
For a brief moment, on “The Unwritten Law,” Mark II almost find their footing. Blackmore’s lead is bracing. Lord’s synth is exactly the right amount of New Wave. And while Gillan is really pushing the edges of his register, there’s a funny, if off color, joke about “The Clap” at the center of everything. It’s an extremely well played, unserious song. And it’s probably the best five minutes on the album. Because, for the next eight songs, the humor dissipates, the hooks dull and — most of all — the singer begins to grate.
Ian Gillan was a generationally talented singer. Apparently he once possessed four plus octaves of range. Even in 1987 his instrument had retained reach, accuracy and power. At its frequent best, his voice paired well with the weight of Blackmore’s guitar and the height of Lord’s keyboard. But also, he never had the tone of other belters, like Paul Rodgers or Robert Plant, and he lacked the precision of operatic lead singers, like Freddie Mercury or Dennis DeYoung. Gillan was always one of many attractions inside Deep Purple. On “The House of Blue Light,” however, he is forced from the front to the center. So, while the band struggles to connect riffs to melodies to grooves, Gillan regresses form lead singer to carnival barker. His vocals are incessantly loud, but more so shrill. And though his performance is not the only flaw on the record, and while it may not even be the biggest flaw on the record, it is absolutely the loudest.
Despite that not horrific start, Deep Purple’s twelfth album never gets its head above water. Blackmore’s solos occasionally thrill, but his riffs never quite cut the muster. Meanwhile, Gillan grates on. The band aims for AC/DC but misses wide on “Hard Lovin’ Woman.” Elsewhere, on “Dead of Alive,” they have the misfortune of sharing a title with a gargantuan Bon Jovi hit from the same year while also sounding like Emerson Lake and Palmer with Sammy Hagar on the mic. It’s an unsavory song on an unsavory record, full of countless good moments but truly no great songs. And just as you are ready for the misery to end, on “The Spanish Archer,” Gillan says the thing that was supposed to be left unsaid:
Well is there something I can say
As we stumble to the edge, have we gone too far?
Why don't we call it a day
Before we call it a nightmare, darlin'?
In the end, “The House of Blue Light” is an unrelenting bummer of an album. An album that was born from the good faith of its predecessor but which ended as a bad faith affair. It is the sound of a family breaking up, unable to recapture any seeds of their former love. Oddly, it’s not an acrimonious record so much as it is an apathetic one. An album wherein everyone involved understood it was doomed but in which only one guy tried to do anything about it. And unfortunately, that guy (Gillan) and his efforts (signing) were effectively the detonation device.
On the other hand, I admire that Deep Purple tried. Really, I do. And I admire that, in 1993 — just four years after Mark II broke up for the second time — they reunited again. And I admire that the third time, which lasted for only a year, was also the last time. And I admire that, despite their differences and disdain, Blackmore and Gillan did eventually patch things up. And strangely most of all, I admire Deep Purple for believing that Vermont could be their balm.