The Animals
House of the Rising Sun

Each of us nurtures a hobby or, better yet, a passion for which we spare no expense. In my case, from a very young age, it has been listening to music (facilitated by the fact that my parents were also lovers of good music). This meant for me having a pastime that manifested itself in going to shops and markets in search of records so beautiful as to pique my curiosity. Obviously, this also involved a fair amount of money spent, which I do not regret, as it was compensated by an intense engagement (as a consumer) with various musicians and musical styles.

But specifically, I must admit that, among the many rock groups and soloists I listened to and appreciated, the Animals were not adequately considered by me for a long time. Let's be clear: I knew and appreciated their famous version of a traditional track like "House of the Rising Sun." However, I stopped there because I was more intent on enjoying records from other bands (and not only those from the so-called "British invasion" of the mid-'60s).

It so happened, however, that some years ago (about twenty), during my wanderings among vinyl and memorabilia markets in the Navigli area of Milan, I came across this 33 rpm anthology titled "House of the Rising Sun." I was quite struck by one fact: it was a record published in Germany by EMI and completely devoid of the publication date (curious to think that the Germans, so precise, had forgotten to specify the year of publication...). It was only later that I confirmed it was an anthology LP released in the second half of the '70s when what had been recorded in the previous decade was by then assimilated and historicized.

It was a certain curiosity that led me to purchase the vinyl, and once I placed it on the turntable at home, I rediscovered a group that had made a worthy contribution to the maturation of rock music. Seated in an armchair, I immersed myself in the sound flow emanating from the tracks on the vinyl, and it was like being transported by a hypothetical time machine of Wells to find myself in that magical biennium of 1964-1965 when the Animals didn't miss a beat. And it wasn't just the famous "House of the Rising Sun" with the flaming Hammond organ played by the talented Alan Price, but also the remarkable bass line of Chas Chandler in "We Gotta Get Out of This Place," the sustained and relentless rhythm in "It's My Life," as well as that sort of proto rap in "Story of Bo Diddley" where frontman Eric Burdon excelled with a voice so cavernous it sounded like a Welsh miner.

In short, a fundamental anthology record, especially considering that today LPs and CDs of the Animals are not easily accessible. Therefore, "House of the Rising Sun" cannot be missing, just to see that the band excellently highlighted the black roots of rock by interpreting fundamental tracks by Lee Hooker, Bo Diddley, and Sam Cooke. A band of true rock blues purists, on par with the contemporary Rolling Stones, with a singer like Eric Burdon whose intense singing style would also inspire other subsequent rockers like Jim Morrison and Joe Cocker.

But after that biennium of 1964-1965, the musical alchemy proposed by the Animals cracked to the point where everyone went their separate ways. For instance, Chas Chandler had the right intuition to reinvent himself as a talent scout for promising young artists, so much so that he had the luck to discover a certain Jimi Hendrix, while Alan Price continued his activity as a keyboardist and also delved into cinema acting. But Eric Burdon was not as fortunate; he flew to San Francisco for the Summer of Love, presenting himself as the bard of the flowers generation but without particularly appreciable results. Perhaps it was an excessive indulgence in the psychedelic trips, but that Eric Burdon didn't reach the quality levels of the golden years of the Animals. So much so that the name of this band may still evoke some memories today, but the same cannot be said of Eric Burdon, who survived himself and his past excesses. Proof is a photo taken during a concert of his during the less brilliant period of his career: unsteady on his feet and with a vacant look, focused on downing a bottle of whiskey before resuming singing.

It's true, many rockers unfortunately met bad ends in the splendor of their artistic odyssey, but seeing someone like Eric Burdon harm himself and waste his talent always fills me with great melancholy. I prefer then to remember him by listening to (and savoring it like a true Proustian madeleine) an anthology vinyl like "House of the Rising Sun," which takes me back to his better years. Yet another confirmation that it takes little to ignite that rogue nostalgia...