An Appreciation of Grand Funk Railroad

In this, the age of “populism” (quotation marks intended), I thought it'd be a good time to expound on Grand Funk Railroad, a Cream-inspired power trio that broke out of Flint, Michigan in 1969.

Recipients of some of the most-brutal record reviews any band ever received, Grand Funk nevertheless became a concert ticket and record-selling behemoth, boosted by the unwavering allegiance of their fans.

But I never cottoned to them. At least not at first.

Just as the Jefferson Airplane and the Allman Brothers Band spawned dozens of uninspired jam-band clones, legions of bands attempted to replicate Cream's power trio approach, which was capable of bludgeoning even the stoutest listener into submission with sheer force.

Grand Funk could only approximate Cream's strengths, appropriating the most-obvious elements and repeating them ad infinitum. It was pretty dull listening.

But one thing stood out. That was Mark Farner's stentorian voice. And when “I'm Your Captain (Closer to Home)” somehow made it to my ears in 1970 (which was odd considering I didn't own a radio capable of pulling in an FM signal), I heard something different. Melody. Strings. Tempo changes. Oh my God—is that a flute???

This was not my father's Grand Funk Railroad.

After more albums of mostly forgettable—but profitable—hard rock, Grand Funk had another epiphany. Towards expanding their sonic palate, they enlisted the talents of keyboardist Craig Frost.

The results were found on Phoenix.

By then immersed in the sounds of War and Sly & the Family Stone and Stevie Wonder (featured regularly on the era's demographic-free FM radio), “Rock 'N Roll Soul” appealed immediately.

A tidy little ditty lasting three minutes and forty seconds, it exposed yet another facet of the Flint, Michigan quartet. It put the funk in Grand Funk Railroad. Edgar Winter? Humble Pie? Eat your hearts out. 

(I should add that I'm an all-day sucker for a throaty Hammond B-3.)

An appearance on ABC's In Concert the following January cinched it. I was a fan.

This sweet spot continued through the We're an American Band LP, released in July of 1973. An invigorating mixture of hard rock and hard Top 40 fare, it had me thinking of Grand Funk in the same manner I did Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple.

(Of course, it didn't hurt than less than a year later I saw Claudia Lennear in Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, which brought to life the carnal delights alluded to in “Black Licorice”.)

And yes, I still have the gold vinyl LP—with stickers.

Alas, it was not to last. Grand Funk made a purposeful move to embrace the hit single aesthetic. Even a fine re-make of the Soul Brothers Six's “Some Kind of Wonderful” couldn't halt the slide.

While they at last had the broad-based radio play they'd always coveted, it came at the expense of many of the core fans who had embraced them sans airplay and critical kudos.

Fortunately, Caught in the Act (a 1975 live LP), captured what had by then evolved into a very tight and very energetic live unit. It melded the old and new Grand Funk into one package that everyone could enjoy.

Citing burnout and internal tensions, the group disbanded shortly thereafter. But not before issuing the Frank Zappa-produced curiosity Good Singin' Good Playin'. Despite possessing one of the most-arch personalities on the planet, the producer claimed to be a fan.

It doesn't get more populist than that.