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People who haven't heard this one often refer to it as "The Great Lost Mamas And Papas Album," the supposed epilogue to a brilliant career. But the record's lost, forlorn vibe is a far cry from the sunny pop sound of the group in its heyday. The year before Phillips made this, the Mamas And Papas (including wife Michelle, Denny Doherty and Cass Elliott) had imploded, Michelle was divorcing him and Dunhill Records was freaking over the loss of their most successful act. The label gave Phillips his own logo, Warlok, with the implicit understanding that he'd reassemble the band and record another blockbuster. He didn't. What they got instead was The Wolf King Of LA, a dark, brooding set that musically hinted at Nashville Skyline-era Dylan and the emerging LA country rock scene. Recorded in a studio in his Bel-Air mansion, it featured LA session heavies Hal Blaine, Larry Knetchel, Joe Osborn and James Burton with Buddy Emmons on pedal steel. The Blossoms (Darlene Love, Jean King and Fanita James) stood in for the Mamas.
With the shadow of the Manson Family and Altamont festival murders hovering over the West Coast hippie scene, it was clear the idyllic '60s were over and paranoia was the order of the day. Those feelings are evident in the tunes Phillips was writing; even the songs that sound most like the Mamas and Papas have a hint of the sinister. For example, on the surface "Topanga Canyon" could be a Mamas and Papas hit. It has a jaunty melody and soaring female backing vocals from The Blossoms. But the song paints the picture of a drowning man, maybe a suicide, maybe the victim of events beyond his control. Easy listening it's not. "Captain (The Mermaid)" also uses the sea as a metaphor. It's another M&P style folk rocker—swooning harmonies from the gals, and a tinkling country flavored piano—but everybody on this doomed ship drowns in the end. "Let It Bleed, Genevieve" is about a young woman lost in pain, stoned and having a miscarriage, or maybe attempting suicide. "Down The Beach," a song written about Michelle, is a melancholic tale of lost love with a beautiful melody, but the growling Louis Armstrong scat midway through the track has a slightly insane feel. The one minor chart hit on the album is "Mississippi," a bright country rock tune that should have done better. Phillips played a demo version for Elvis, who said he'd like to record it, but Colonel Parker had no truck with hippies (or writers unwilling to give him publishing concessions) and it never happened.
Lou Adler, the M&Ps producer who also helmed this album, helped track down the bonus tracks that complete this reissue. "Shady," which owes a melodic debt to Fred Neil's "Everybody's Talkin'" is a smooth country rocker; "Black Girl" is a forlorn reading of the folk tune "In The Pines," highlighted by Emmons' moody pedal steel; and "The Frenchman" is another song about the end of his relationship to Michelle, with a vocal full of grief and desolation. There's also "Larry, Joe, Hal and Me" a brief instrumental sketch (named for the players, obviously) and the single version of "Mississippi," with a brighter, tighter mix.
After Wolf King tanked, Phillips began his well-documented slide into creative paralysis, drug abuse and eventually, death. There's a mountain of great "what if" stories in pop music, but one can't help wonder what would have happened if the Presley-Phillips connection had borne fruit. Would it have changed the course of these two creatively isolated geniuses, both of whom died before their time? Or would it have been a momentary diversion from the inevitable? It's something to ponder as you stare into the heart of this bleak forgotten gem.
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