Let me tell you about a band that should’ve been huge but somehow slipped through the cracks of history. The Riot Squad. Not the one you might be thinking of—the one that briefly shared a stage with David Bowie, yes—but the original crew that had the world at their feet in the mid-1960s. Their story is a tragicomic tale of missed opportunities, shifting lineups, and a producer who might’ve been more unhinged than he was brilliant. And now, thanks to a 3CD box set from Cherry Red, we finally get to hear what could’ve been. But here’s the kicker: this isn’t just about music. It’s about how the past gets rewritten by the people who find it. Personal take? This collection feels like a time capsule that’s been opened by someone who finally got the key after decades of it being locked away.
The Riot Squad’s existence is a masterclass in how talent and chaos can coexist. Their lineup changed more frequently than a TikTok influencer’s diet plan. One week, you had Mitch Mitchell (later of Hendrix’s band) on drums. The next, David Bowie was playing saxophone. Wait, no—actually, Bowie was in the band for a brief period in 1967, right? Or was he just hanging out? This is where the confusion starts. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the band’s identity was so fluid that even their most famous association—Bowie—feels like a footnote rather than the headline. But don’t get me wrong: Bowie’s presence here is a goldmine. It’s not just about the music; it’s about the what if factor. What if Bowie had stayed with The Riot Squad instead of going solo? Would we have a different version of Ziggy Stardust? Or would we have a whole new genre of mod-soul rock? Speculation is fun, but the reality is that the band’s legacy is defined by its instability. And that’s the tragedy: they had the talent, the connections, and the right producer, but they couldn’t hold onto any of it.
Then there’s Joe Meek, the man who might’ve been the most controversial producer in music history. His Tea Chest Tapes are the holy grail of 1960s session work, and this box set is basically a love letter to him. Meek’s production style was all over the place—think of him as the British equivalent of Phil Spector, but with more paranoia and less glitter. The Riot Squad’s sessions with him are a treasure trove of unreleased material, alternate takes, and experiments that never made it to radio. But here’s the thing: Meek wasn’t just a producer. He was a visionary who believed in art for art’s sake, even if it meant alienating his collaborators. The fact that so much of this material was buried in his archives until now says something about how the music industry values commercial success over artistic integrity. It’s a shame, really. The Riot Squad’s work with Meek is raw, soulful, and ahead of its time. And yet, it took decades for someone to dig it up. What does that say about us? That we only care about music when it’s convenient to remember it?
Now, let’s talk about David Bowie. I know, I know—he’s the elephant in the room here. But here’s what I find fascinating: Bowie’s time with The Riot Squad was a training ground for his later theatricality. He didn’t just write songs; he staged them. He encouraged the band to wear makeup, to treat performances like spectacles. This was 1967, mind you—long before Ziggy Stardust and the rise of glam rock. Bowie was ahead of the curve, but he was also a student of the scene. The Riot Squad’s mod-rock sound was the perfect canvas for his ideas. But here’s the twist: Bowie’s contributions to the band were mostly covers and original songs that were, frankly, forgettable. ‘Toy Soldier’ and ‘I’m Waiting for My Man’ are okay, but they don’t scream ‘iconic.’ So why does this collaboration matter? Because it’s proof that even the greatest stars need to start somewhere. And in this case, it’s a reminder that Bowie wasn’t always the genius we know today—he was just another kid trying to make it in the music business.
The real magic here, though, is the unreleased material. The Tea Chest Tapes aren’t just about The Riot Squad; they’re about the entire ecosystem of 1960s London. There are tracks with Glenda Collins, a singer who should’ve been a star but was overshadowed by bigger names. There are demos that feel like they were recorded in a garage, not a studio. And there’s the album that Joe Meek never finished, which is now being released for the first time. But here’s the deeper question: why did Meek abandon this project? Was it creative differences? Financial pressure? Or was it just the kind of madness that comes with being a genius? We’ll never know, but the fact that these tracks exist at all is a testament to the power of preservation. Music is ephemeral, but when someone like Cherry Red decides to bring it back, it’s like giving a voice to the forgotten.
So what does this all mean for us? It means that history is written by those who have the resources to dig it up. The Riot Squad’s story is a microcosm of the music industry’s tendency to forget the underdogs. But this box set is a victory for those who believe that every artist, no matter how obscure, deserves to be remembered. And personally, I think this is a wake-up call for fans of 1960s rock and soul. We’ve been so focused on the big names—The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bowie—that we’ve overlooked the countless others who paved the way. The Riot Squad may not have made the charts, but their music is a window into a world that’s long gone. And in a time when streaming services prioritize algorithm-driven hits over historical depth, this release is a breath of fresh air. It’s a reminder that music isn’t just about fame—it’s about the people who dared to create, even if the world never noticed.
