Aynsley Dunbar could’ve been a contender. Take the two overwhelming and contradictory pieces of evidence. One, his 1967 self-composed, acrid billowing account of romantic hindsight Warning, then place it alongside the other, his poodle rock sojourn of 1987, as a rather subdued skinthumper for a Whitesnake who went for the Rock N’ Roll Gok Wan treatment to make themselves more palatable for half-hearted Stateside audiences. To (mis)quote Hank Scorpio, “No-one ever says Whitesnake…” Let’s stick with 1967 then, shall we…
Other acts gauge into the zeitgeist of post Mod/Rocker binaries with greater zeal than The Aynsley Dunbar Retaliation, which is all very fine really, as Warning has no actual need to jostle for space with Black Magic Woman, Astronomy Domine, and Yer Blues who all scuffle like 14 year old schoolboys trying to impress a spoiled blonde caked in mascara for the first time. No, Warning, as Black Sabbath testified on their eponymous debut album a few years later, can tap into any source, blues for anyone in the mood for subtle vengeance after being screwed around once too often, garage rock for a Saturday afternoon in the suburbs, borderline Jazz, and obviously in the case of Sabbath, proto-metal.
Knob twiddler Mike Vernon must have spent a lot of time snooping around desolate cathedrals as his ‘catch ’em by surprise’ job on Victor Brox’s petrified vocal shows, while Aynsley himself is in a zone that the pounding lifeless percussion of 1987 shouldn’t be allowed to sully. Listen to how the song literally walks its way into every nook and cranny, if a black cat strolls past, don’t be surprised is what I’m trying to get at. Everyone is off-guard here, band, listener, Vernon himself (and thankfully so too), so in effect the song becomes a cautionary tale that all the same reminds everyone that the protagonist would probably like to be fucked around again, just so he can sing something as badass as this in the future and pull a chick off the back of the one who shanghaied him in the first place.
Warning is predictably difficult to locate. Technology means that CD versions shouldn’t be to tricky to find, though to really get into the sultry cloudy moonlight groove of Dunbar’s finest hour, try and root out the original vinyl 45, even for that few quid extra it’s worth it, just to sit alongside these guys back in ’67, knowing that one-way love won’t find an outlet as alluringly morose as this for its midnight ramblings until… Well, that’s the beauty of actually being there. Cheers Aynsley.