Salem Mass – Witch Burning (1971)

“Over by the courthouse, down by the church / people having a witch trial, condemning a woman to burn“

For some reason I’m feeling the Halloween spirit a bit more this year, and it was a tossup between C.A. Quintet’s Trip Thru Hell (just the recollection of the song title “Cold Spider” gives me the chills) and Salem Mass‘s Witch Burning for the scariest record I could think of. Not from Salem, rather these Idaho longhairs somehow got their hands on one of the first Minimoog synthesizers, an instrument that is indisputably the star of their show—along with some fitfully inspired spooky imagery. I’ve had this pressing for twenty years and in trying to re-engage with it, I contrived a lonesome listen in a shrouded room illuminated only by a single candle. Reportedly none of the reissues of this LP quite cut it sound-wise, and it took finding online a vinyl rip from an original copy and walking around the neighborhood with headphones to really lock into it. Still, I’d say there’s half a great record here, and those tend to be the songs that, for better or worse, hew to the barbarous theme.

The behemoth-sized title track begins with a low rumble, building to a somewhat cacophonous crescendo, and one can imagine the buckets of dry ice feebly rolling smoke onto whatever stage that would have them. It’s not a bad riff—as adequate as “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” anyway—for laying down some words about hideous goings-on and a foundation for some expansive jamming. There’s an unhurried, drawling solo that is neither virtuosic but also never overextending guitarist Mike Snead’s abilities. More interesting is the interplay with keyboardist Jim Klahr, who soon dominates this extended instrumental section (and ultimately the whole album) with his summoning of varied and unspeakably great sounds. When the verse finally returns it is with an alternately hilarious and spine-tingling banshee wail which, ten minutes into the record, may be the dealbreaker on the sympathies of the listener. Though not technically a concept record, the witchy doings extend into the second song. On one hand, “sweet jane” was common slang for weed (and Klahr would be a lifelong legalization advocate) but in this case “My Sweet Jane” is the name for “a beautiful face that went up in smoke”—and no, not that smoke—but rather of the sort accompanying flames that tend to nip at the facial features of an accused sorceress. The less flamboyant and more funereal organ mask some of the dopier and borderline distasteful lyrics (baldly exposed on this vinyl rip) until some unexpectedly wild and horrific images reach out from the dark to give genuine creeps: “The time for her is almost near / I pity the girl with only one ear.” After bearing witness to such monstrous cruelties, the record takes a left turn with the southern boogie rock of “Why” and its banal inquiries of people who are just so dang rude.

With side two, the feelings of heartbreak and contrition for our Sweet Jane seem to have run out with the truculent takedown of “Woman, You Can’t Run My Life!” Still, the song benefits from a Deep Purple-ish swagger and an unexpectedly hair-raising Fripp-like run right at the finish (to be fair, Fripp himself wasn’t even playing this way until the following year, making this rare guitar flourish positively prophetic). Three members are credited with “vocals” but none are specified with providing lead, so they may be taking turns on different tunes. The piercing pipes going on about witchy women of all stripes does not seem to be those of the moaner on “You’re Just A Dream.” Eerie vibes return for album highlight “Bare Tree,” specifically the ghastly-but-still -grooving organ riff, eventually giving way to a solo that sounds like the analog board short-circuiting in the most wonderful way. While the lyrics seem to be more about seasonal change and a lost love, the point of view could also be that of a guilty party revisiting the scene—like, say, a stake whose bark has been licked clean by pyre flame. Only the abrupt, hard stop lets the track down, and the brief closer “The Drifter” doesn’t go anywhere either. The mundane tale of an easy rider with little more than his motorcycle and a bedroll could have been on just about any 70s private press hard rock album, and like half the tunes here it’s only Klahr’s contributions that redeem it.

If Salem Mass had built up to the witch burning rather than starting with it, a broader conceptual approach may have been sustainable (the premature and graphic demise of “My Sweet Jane” pushes the extremities of their scenario only a third of the way into the record). I suppose C.A. Quintet strayed from their titular journey as well, and thinking about the mastermind of Trip Thru Hell and his bonus track wish “Bury Me In A Marijuana Field” (for my tastes, a terrible title and idea for a song) I hope Jim Klahr’s final resting place (RIP 2014) is studded with buds and just as tranquil for him. In this week of drafting my own will, and a white-knuckled wait on an outcome for our nation with the possibility of tiki torch-bearing mobs in the streets, I just hope for a fate that’s lower on the violence scale than being burned at the stake.