The year is 1967. London is a kaleidoscopic wash of primary colours, Pop Art, and the sound of amphetamines kicking in. The Union Jack suit is still in fashion, but the seams are starting to fray, hinting at the paisley print beneath. Amidst this glorious collision of glamour and grit stood The Creation, a band that, through sheer, vibrant sonic force, captured the exact moment Mod mutated into Psychedelia. And at the heart of their limited, dazzling catalogue, sits the essential, explosive single, “Painter Man.”
I first encountered this specific piece of music, not through a period vinyl pressing, but through a cheap, buzzing transistor radio late one night, years ago, when the sound of the past felt clearer than the noise of the present. The sheer punch of the intro was arresting—a dense, controlled fury that suggested The Who if they’d spent their nights reading Baudelaire instead of smashing their instruments. This was music designed to be played at a volume high enough to rattle the cheap, modern frames on the wall. The texture was immediate, visceral, and utterly now—a classic case of a band finding their signature within the confines of a three-minute pop song.
The Canvas and the Context
“Painter Man” was released as a single in October 1966 in the UK, but its biggest splash came slightly later, in 1967, when it achieved chart success in West Germany, peaking strongly inside the Top 10. This European embrace is a telling detail in The Creation’s career arc; they were a band perpetually beloved on the Continent, yet criminally undervalued in their homeland. The song itself was reportedly inspired by the band’s striking stage act, where lead vocalist Kenny Pickett would literally paint a canvas while performing, a perfect visual metaphor for the Pop Art moment they inhabited.
The track was produced by the legendary Shel Talmy, whose credits already included seminal work with The Who and The Kinks. Talmy’s genius lay in his ability to capture raw power without sacrificing sonic detail. Here, he takes the band’s potent energy and compresses it into a brilliant, taut recording, lending a necessary discipline to their incipient psychedelic urges. While it was released as a stand-alone single on the Planet label, its continental popularity led to it being the title track and cornerstone for their debut album, We Are Paintermen, released exclusively in West Germany and Denmark in 1967. This album, a compilation of their early singles and covers, serves as the definitive document of the Pickett/Phillips-era Creation. The sheer fact of its compilation nature speaks to the band’s difficult relationship with the UK market, where they remained a singles act before their eventual, early dissolution.
Sound and Vision: The Bowed Guitar Incident
The core instrumentation is standard Mod-era rock: bass, drums, vocals, and guitar. But The Creation’s guitar player, Eddie Phillips, was anything but standard. He was an innovator, a technical maverick whose presence elevates this piece of music from great Pop to proto-Art Rock.
The song’s primary rhythm section is a tight, aggressive rumble. Drummer Jack Jones locks into a relentless, driving beat, while the bassline, often overlooked in the melee, is a melodic powerhouse, navigating the chord changes with an insistent, thumping confidence. It’s this foundation that allows Phillips to paint his sonic masterpiece. The verses are dominated by Pickett’s distinct, slightly sneering vocal delivery—a perfect Pop Art portrait of the ‘suppressed artist’ who, after formal college education, is left with obscurity.
But it is the middle section, the song’s instrumental break, that justifies its legendary status. Phillips steps forward not with a pick, but with a violin bow.
The use of the bow is startling—a searing, high-pitched scrape and drone that is entirely unique for 1966. It cuts through the mix like a buzzsaw, establishing an unnerving, sustained tension. It’s a moment of abrasive texture that foreshadows the art-rock experiments of the 70s. This isn’t the bluesy extension Jimmy Page would later perfect; this is pure noise-as-colour, a frantic, vibrating line drawn across the rhythm section’s solid grid. It forces the listener to see the sound, to visualize the colour that the lyric is painting. The sound is dense, but the clarity of Talmy’s engineering means that every string scrape and drum hit is cleanly discernible, a feature many enthusiasts now seek when listening on premium audio systems.
“The Creation managed to condense the entire Mod-to-Psychedelic transition into a single, two-minute-forty-eight-second sonic manifesto.”
Texture and The Missing Piano
An analysis of The Creation’s records, and certainly Painter Man, often reveals the involvement of session players, most notably the brilliant Nicky Hopkins. While Hopkins is credited on various tracks from the We Are Paintermen collection, his distinctive touch on the piano is often integrated into the background, providing a subtle harmonic cushion or a brief, bright fill—a testament to his versatility as a musician who could serve the song’s energy rather than dominate it. In “Painter Man,” the focus is so laser-locked on the bow-guitar experiment and the rhythmic drive that the piano, if present, is a ghost in the machine, contributing to the overall chaotic-yet-controlled atmosphere without seeking the spotlight. The arrangement relies on the sheer density of the electric guitar and the vocal swagger to propel it.
The overall dynamic is deceptively complex. The song is loud, but it isn’t merely volume; it’s compression. The sound hits you flat-on, like a silkscreen print—hard edges, bright colours, no subtle gradients. The energy is breathless, from the shouted harmonies in the chorus to the final, rapid-fire rhythmic fade-out. It’s an exercise in maximalism delivered with minimalist economy.
Legacy and The Modern Listener
The impact of “Painter Man” is disproportionate to its original commercial success. The band’s refusal to simplify their visual and sonic identity—their commitment to the chaotic spirit of Pop Art—made them a difficult sell to the mainstream, but it solidified their status as a cult legend. This song, along with “Making Time,” is the reason The Creation continues to be cited by musicians and critics as a crucial, missing link between the R&B-influenced Mod of 1965 and the kaleidoscopic rock of 1968.
For a generation rediscovering the sharp, concise energy of the 60s, this is a masterclass in how much innovation can be crammed into a short time frame. It’s a vital piece of the period’s DNA, often overshadowed by the major acts, but no less essential. If you are learning the fretwork of the era, you could spend weeks in guitar lessons trying to replicate the pure grit of Phillips’ tone, let alone his bowed guitar technique. The song doesn’t just invite a listen; it demands attention, like a bright, impossible orange painting on a grey wall. It’s a reminder that true invention often happens in the margins, away from the blinding celebrity of the chart-toppers.
The power of “Painter Man” lies in this tension—the polished sheen of Talmy’s production clashing with the chaotic, artful energy of the band. It’s a moment where a band looked at the established boundaries of rock music and deliberately, brilliantly, drew outside the lines.
Listening Recommendations (If You Love ‘Painter Man’)
- The Who – “I Can’t Explain” (1964): Shares the same Shel Talmy-produced urgency and high-octane, guitar-driven Mod power.
- The Move – “I Can Hear The Grass Grow” (1967): Features a similar blend of aggressive rock rhythm and early psychedelic textures and vocal theatrics.
- The Smoke – “My Friend Jack” (1967): A fellow Pop-Art/Psychedelic single, which, like The Creation, found greater commercial success in Europe.
- Small Faces – “Tin Soldier” (1967): Possesses the tight, muscular R&B/Mod base with a slightly more soulful, yet equally powerful, vocal delivery.
- The Kinks – “Waterloo Sunset” (1967): A contrast in mood, but a study in how a different Shel Talmy production approach could serve Pop-era songwriting.
- The Velvet Underground – “Sister Ray” (1968): For the bold textural experiments, though far more extreme, it echoes the use of abrasive, sustained noise.