The Pretty Things, Balboa Island

In my last column I time-shifted back 35 years to talk about a new CD of old music by John Phillips of The Mamas and the Papas. This week I've got a CD of brand new music from a band that goes back even further.

At the opposite end of the pop music spectrum from Papa John's shimmery harmonies lie The Pretty Things. 43 years after its first recording, the band that made the Rolling Stones look like polite gentlemen is going strong (if sporadically), and their new album - the first in eight years - sounds far more vital than anything their fellow survivors, the Stones and the Who - bless 'em both - could ever record this late in their careers.

Probably no artist as astronomically successful as those bands could remain this real. The Stones and the Who stretched and polished their musical horizons over the decades. The Pretty Things were never about polish. They were about the beast that scratches your face and gives you an infection, then stomps on your foot for good measure. Yet there's a simple, aching beauty to some of the new songs.

Lead singer Phil May, guitarist Dick Taylor (the Stones' original bass player), and their bandmates enjoyed a period of great popularity in the mid-60s in Britain, though their success didn't cross over to the US. The songs they crafted then were good, but they're better writers now. Some of the credit for that goes to Frank Holland, a relatively late addition to the band. Meanwhile May's voice, always effective, has deepened and strengthened with age.

Perhaps the Pretty Things never had the pop songwriting genius of Pete Townshend or Jagger-Richard. They didn't channel their raw energy into the kind of tunes that could transcend their time, penetrate and become part of the collective soul. Instead the Things built attitude into art, years before the punk revolution made fuck-you rebelliousness mainstream. They were a little too nasty even for those relatively enlightened cultural gatekeepers who welcomed the Stones as a raunchy alternative to the clean-cut Beatles. Laboring in obscurity, they've stayed true to their vision.

The band has retained a cult following over the years. The new CD should please those fans and also create some new ones, provided it gets a chance to be heard. Its British Invasion-style, blues-influenced pop songs aren't prettied up for a pop audience. Parts of the CD are breathtakingly raw, like "All Light Up" and the rave-up towards the end of the epic "(Blues for) Robert Johnson." The elemental rock anthem "Buried Alive" sounds like a lost collaboration between Cream and T. Rex, the cover of Bob Dylan's "Ballad of Hollis Brown" suits the band fine, and "Freedom Song" wallows in its Fats-Domino-in-Hell piano triplets like a pig in murky water. Set off against those are a handful of lighter pop nuggets like "Mimi" and "Pretty Beat."