The Dusty Shelf: H.P. Lovecraft

[The Dusty Shelf is a weekly column that showcases a tragically overlooked album from the music snob's library.]

I may be less qualified to do a writeup on H.P. Lovecraft (not the writer, but rather the band named after him) than any other Dusty Shelf entry so far, but that is because it is nearly impossible to find their music anywhere (iTunes doesn’t even have any of their studio albums).  They are one of the great lost psychedelic bands of the 60s.  Unlike the 13th Floor Elevators, who I wrote about in the past, H.P. Lovecraft have enjoyed not even moderate success, and it was simply on the suggestion of an anonymous internet message board user that I discovered them in the first place.

With two equally strong vocalists in George Edwards and Dave Michaels, who often sang in spellbinding harmony, H.P. Lovecraft had the haunting lure of Jefferson Airplane combined with the rustic folk of Fairport Convention.  Combining interstellar synths with twangy acoustic guitars created a clashing surrealism that has remained genuinely unique despite the scores of lava lamp bong-head bands that were spawned by the 60s.

H.P. Lovecraft quietly release two albums in their brief existence – 1967’s H.P. Lovecraft and 1968’s H.P. Lovecraft II – before dissolving completely.  While they reemerged in 1970 under the name Lovecraft, the lineup was much different, the results were rather poor, and the band shared little resemblance with its predecessor.  But their focused little bundle of work during that two-year period in the sixties still feels shockingly new today, with very few exceptions.

With such a small sample size, it’s better to judge H.P. Lovecraft’s work as an entire entity and not per individual album.  In that regard, they created some exceptionally focused work.  Most likely to be remembered is “Wayfaring Stranger”, the traditional folk march off the band’s debut that was more recently covered by Jack White for the film Cold Mountain.  The song is the best example of Edwards and Michaels’ combined vocal assault, providing the sort of convincing assurance as a Crosby Stills and Nash cut.

Another highlight is “Mobius Trip”, the sixth track off H.P. Lovecraft II and one of the rare psychedelic-prog songs that you can still listen to today without cringing.  The placid acoustic melody sways like a boat in a stream, while the spattering of synth effects sparkle like a twilight.  This is contrasted by the funk blues of “High Flying Bird”, which also uses synths to expertly subtle effect.  “I’ve got the sit-down, can’t cry, can’t fly, gonna die blues”, they sing, as the guitars groove along in a low-key, Surrealistic Pillow-like psychedelia.

H.P. Lovecraft may in fact be the most obscure band I have used for this Dusty Shelf column (with the exception of possibly Polaris), and admittedly, they did not move mountains with their music.  But neither did many other forgotten bands of the 60s.  Yet there is something endearing about this band’s music.  It is as familiar as any other experimental rock band of that era was, but it remains its own sonic entity – one very much worth discovering.