Once upon a time, in a faraway land called 1975, a rock singer named Peter Frampton came alive.
This was a very long time ago indeed: so long that Gerald Ford was president and Chevy Chase was still funny. A movie called "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" opened to decidedly tepid reviews; meanwhile, "Shampoo" (starring a shaggy-headed Warren Beatty) and "Benji" (featuring an equally raggedly coiffed canine) packed in throngs of cash-carrying fans.
Almost exactly 20 years ago today -- on June 14, 1975, to be exact -- the 26-year-old Frampton recorded an album at Winterland. Cleverly enough, the ringleted heart-throb called it "Frampton Comes Alive." Of course it's unlikely that Frampton -- formerly of Humble Pie and much-touted successor to the Brit pop/rock throne -- could have known that a full two decades later, that record would continue to reign as the best selling live album of all time.
Really, who could have predicted such a thing?
And now it turns out that Frampton is actually still alive. Kicking, even. This week, he'll attempt the impossible: to recreate a moment frozen in time ("do you, you, feel like we do?") when he plays the Fillmore in San Francisco for three nights in a row. It's a gutsy move for a man pushing 50; this pie-in-the-sky plan to record another live album on the exact anniversary of that first implausible success. Just Pete and the guys 20 years after, hoping that crowds will show up and at least pretend to adore them one more time.
Seems far fetched, doesn't it?
Those of us who actually recall that summer of '75 still shudder to think of it: teenage chic meant halter dresses, platform sandals with leather criss-crossed straps, hooded sweatshirts, wallabies, levi cords and the obligatory Ditto "saddleback" slacks. Cocaine spoons shaped like tiny snow-shovels hung from gold chains around deeply tanned necks, adding to the dubious quality of the day's fashion statements.
Brrrr.
The very week that Peter Frampton officially came alive also brought new albums from Elton John ("Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy") and Paul McCartney ("Venus and Mars). Summer was getting underway, which meant massive outdoor concerts riddled with styrofoam coolers and paraquat-contaminated marijuana. Punk was just an ugly rumor that couldn't be taken seriously. (As if anyone would actually put a safety pin through their cheek!)
It was the sort of era that reaped millions for scholars like earnest "nonfiction" writer Carlos Castenada, with his fanciful tales of flying under the influence of peyote; a moment mercifully frozen in time when Cher had a weekly variety show that featured guests like the Osmond Brothers and Freddie Prinze.
Not that redeeming cultural qualities couldn't be spotted here and there. A single week brought the Bay Area bands like Bad Company and Dave Mason, Robin Trower and Janis Ian, the Ohio Players and Aretha Franklin. As if that weren't enough, the Tubes played a double-bill with Kiss and stole the show with their epic version of "White Punks on Dope." And headlines promised that Chrysler was really going to work on making the transition from giant muscle cars to "smaller, more fuel efficient" vehicles. The world was clearly edging towards nirvana.
But for Frampton the intervening years since that shining moment as one-time king of pop brought a world of personal trauma. There was scarcely time to bask in the glory of being named Rolling Stone's "Artist of the Year," given a near-catastrophic car wreck, a subsequent bout with drug abuse and the final insult to injury: a starring role in a stinker of a film called "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band."
Still, the intrepid Frampton kept on cranking out albums at the rate of two a year for nearly a decade, and managed to revive his career when he hooked up as David Bowie's lead guitarist for a world tour in the late '80s. Since then, he's kept on playing live, downscaling a bit from those days of monster-arena gigs, but still hitting the road with inimitable regularity.
And today -- when '70s fashions have made a somewhat unfortunate comeback and big, gas-guzzling cars seem refreshing in a sea of identical sedans -- Frampton's big moment in the spotlight is still pristine. The crowd screaming from the quaint vinyl grooves of "Frampton Comes Alive" sound as enthusiastic as ever when faced with a 14 minute version of "Do You Feel Like We Do."It's enough to spark a kindred guilty thrill from those of us furtively singing along in 1995, shocked to realize that we still know all of the words.
This article originally appeared in the San Jose Mercury News.
Julene Snyder is a San Francisco-based freelance writer. E-mail can be sent to julene@well.com
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