tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19569221335543927012024-03-19T12:26:14.378-07:00©Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.comBlogger136125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-12722731561936594782014-04-17T17:35:00.001-07:002014-04-17T17:35:43.563-07:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">UPDATE: </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">We will now open Chester Records and Hopscotch Coffee at 8am for RSD. Sorry for all the confusion just trying to make things smooth for everyone. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Thanks</span>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-7834804142960541622014-04-17T13:55:00.002-07:002014-04-17T13:55:34.271-07:00Hello Vinyl geeks,<br />
It was brought to my attention that I overlooked a small rule for RSD about opening times. I'm not to be open before 8am on RSD. Due to my shop being inside Hopscotch Coffee the doors will be open at 7:30am but the records will not be available till 8am. please help out with being courteous to the coffee customers if you show up early to wait for the records.<br />
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Thank you,<br />
Chester RecordsChester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-3698384004003079752014-03-08T10:02:00.001-08:002014-03-08T10:02:41.198-08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
We have moved!! Come see us at our new location inside of Hopscotch Coffee Roasters! We have also added a used section to chester records to fill you used needs. </div>
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The address is:</div>
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250 Millwood Ave </div>
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Winchester VA 22601</div>
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Hours:</div>
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m-th 6:30am-6pm</div>
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Fri-Sta 7am-8pm</div>
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Sun 7am-5pm</div>
Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-5847745086339641612013-04-09T06:29:00.000-07:002013-04-09T06:29:57.718-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well it's that time of year again here at Chester Records Come join us for Record Store Day and pick up some really sweet releases and hear some good live music. This year we have two of Chester's favorites to play some afternoon tunes. West Virginias own Bishops and John R Miller. </div>
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<a href="http://bishops.bandcamp.com/">http://bishops.bandcamp.com/</a></div>
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<a href="http://bishops.bandcamp.com/">http://www.reverbnation.com/johnrmiller</a></div>
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<b>This Year we will be putting the records out and ready for purchase at 10am.</b></div>
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<b>The bands will go on at around noon so please stick around for them after you buy your records these guys are great and it's free!</b></div>
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<b>Thanks for your support and see you there!!</b></div>
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<b>http://www.facebook.com/events/559509797414280/</b></div>
Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-87511053730713037012012-07-17T11:15:00.000-07:002012-07-17T11:15:07.177-07:00In today!Got a few things in today and one of them is the new Jeff The Brotherhood! Check out a track here!<br />
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<br />Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-35828671258693939802012-07-13T12:29:00.000-07:002012-07-13T12:29:02.998-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 7/13/12 - Sonny and the Sunsets and Mission of Burma<div align="center">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0wnDTdBk13dfzMsV4kCPmaxgORgJZ3jPeuJ_U1HtMmx1SjwFZR64sjASbVxyQqd-gZTtk2defdjLLLzIYmgo-1f9QyPYu8YM3hJ_XZMaSBUkDuexlH7hwSkMd20-nG4MDwv3qIPa1DP0/s1600/sonnyandsunsetslc.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0wnDTdBk13dfzMsV4kCPmaxgORgJZ3jPeuJ_U1HtMmx1SjwFZR64sjASbVxyQqd-gZTtk2defdjLLLzIYmgo-1f9QyPYu8YM3hJ_XZMaSBUkDuexlH7hwSkMd20-nG4MDwv3qIPa1DP0/s320/sonnyandsunsetslc.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sonny Smith’s reputation to this point has been a pop dude doing double time in the art world. But with Sonny and the Sunsets’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i> he makes a serious play for both country-rock and the decidedly dicey proposition of the Breakup Record. While the least of the Sunsets’ releases thus far, it still proves worth the effort, particularly for fans of strong contemporary songwriting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pop troubadours don’t usually come with pedigrees that include playwriting and performance art, and that’s just one aspect of Sonny Smith’s persona that’s helped to make him so interesting. To be sure this kind of artistic double dipping can lead to underwhelming and occasionally even irritating results, mainly due to simple creative arrogance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But in reality musicians have been double and triple dipping into diverse artistic mediums for a very long time; John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Patti Smith and Richard Hell all published books for instance. And outside the realm of rock music Tony Bennett is a prolific painter and Louis Armstrong was a truly inspired collage artist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At this late date artistic multi-dipping is far from any great surprise, but in rock terms the story of Sonny Smith still feels a bit unusual, maybe even fanciful. Out on the road at nineteen years old, playing blues piano in bars? Sounds like the makings of a really good screenplay. Original songs, short stories and even some plays get penned along the way? How Beat. And then that commission from the literary magazine arrives, compelling him to put together a CD of those plays set to music? Really, this is getting almost too good to be true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Act Plays</i> essentially served as Smith’s coming out party, in large part due to the participation of such notables as Neko Case, Jolie Holland, American Music Club’s Mark Eitzel and Thee Oh Sees’ John Dwyer. The inclusion of the last two names is no accident; Smith’s a San Francisco boy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But if sensibly touched by the hand of regionalism, his focus reached far beyond the norms of mere geographical musical networking, for the songs behind <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">100 Records</i>, a project that provided Smith with another large spike in notoriety, all began their lives as part of an art instillation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">100 Records</i> found one hundred different artists creating seven inch picture sleeves for their own fictive bands/performers with Smith then writing two songs to accompany each. Any way it’s sliced an endeavor of this magnitude stood as a major challenge. If only halfway successful it would still reek strongly of failure, presenting an aura of that aforementioned creative arrogance, even if the intention was actually just ambitiousness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully for Smith and for listeners he proved up to the task, displaying chops and imagination to spare, and since that time he’s been off to the races under the moniker of Sonny and the Sunsets. 2009 saw the release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tomorrow is Alright</i> on the Soft Abuse label and last year found him/them on Fat Possum with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hit After Hit</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Both records found Smith honing rare songwriting ability and a breadth of influence that was at times striking in how it all registered as one guy’s inspired output. However, they could also be adequately summed up as blending Smith’s penchant for old-school pop simplicity (like a lot of relative new jacks, he’s a big doo-wop fan) with a smartly applied swath of friendly contempo psyche action. In my neighborhood that’s what’s called good stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now here’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i>, the country informed Breakup Record. Another dangerous and yes potentially disastrous move from a guy who seems to love these kinds of chances, but due to Smith’s talent as a writer and his heretofore lack of interest in waxing overly autobiographical, he avoids falling into the trap of cringe-inducing confessionals, painful polemics or woe-is-me platitudes. In the end Smith delivers his least successful document under the Sunsets banner, though to be fair the record only really suffers in comparison to his previous pair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Choosing country music as the vehicle for an examination of lover’s heartbreak might seem like cliché. In fact that’s exactly what it is, but instead of straining for a spurious authenticity Smith smartly settles for alt-country legitimacy that works rather well across <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i>’s ten tracks. “Sea of Darkness” comes closest to achieving an actual country aura, thanks to some boldly honky-tonk-like steel guitar. It’s ultimately more Byrdsian than Buck Owens-esque however, and the sound of Smith’s voice, a bit like a smoother, more relaxed Peter Stempfel, is just the kind of thing to make Ralph Emery spit bullets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Much of the record might be better described as radiating an alt-folky vibe, a sound immediately palpable on opener “I Was Born”, which begins with some home-spun picking only to see those basics embellished with swells of fragile flute. To be sure, it’s a sound by now well worn with precedent, but Smith avoids the trite with subtle touches, in particular the tough simplicity of a hi-hat rhythm, it’s locomotion helping to keep those flutes from sounding too precious, as flutes are wont to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dried Blood” increases Smith’s vocal similarity to Stempfel, and in fact the tune sounds somewhat like an outtake from a lost (and sadly mythical) Holy Modal Rounders session recorded at the barn of Owen Bradley roughly circa ’68. And the arrival of some rollicking barrelhouse piano midway through the track only adds to this situation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This, along with a few very brief nods to Michael Hurley, assists <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i> in shaping up as a fresh extension of last decade’s New Weird affairs, closer to Devendra Banhart and Vetiver than his San Fran subterranean-pop cohorts Fresh and Onlys and Shannon and the Clams. But as the record progresses this freakishly folky aspects lessens considerably, replaced by a quality mildly reminiscent of Conor Oberst in Mystic Valley Band mode.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well-drawn alt-folk, again; the major difference is that Oberst is very much a heart on the sleeve kind of guy and Smith, even when recording an album inspired by the end of a ten year relationship, prefers varying amounts of emotional distance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Smith’s detachment and his even-handedness help <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i> to transcend its major flaw. Specifically, the record’s first half bogs down with three tracks that needed some editing for length. “Pretend You Love Me”, the best of the trio, unfolds like a fine slice of pop from the ‘70s Laurel Canyon. The song’s duration alone (five and a half minutes, to be clear) isn’t a problem, but when placed between “Children of the Beehive” and the extended country shuffle of “Year of the Cock” the trifecta adds up to a need for the concise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The record rebounds solidly in its second half however, beginning with the sweet and lean instrumental workout “Rhinestone Sunset”. It all starts in a rather trad-country frame of mind, coming off like one of those honky-tonk breakdowns where every player gets a little time to strut their stuff and toss off some sweet licks, but soon enough the spotlight is given over to synths, electric keyboards and yes those flutes, an instrument that’s a recurring motif on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i>. And “Rhinestone Sunset” leads into the warm strangeness of “I See a Void”, the album’s strongest individual track, at least at this early point.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The rest of the album just rolls. The prominent pedal steel continues from “Sea of Darkness” into “My Mind Messed Up”, though again its presence signifies far less of a natural Nashville inflection than it recalls the hippie-country sound of CSN&Y’s “Teach Your Children”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the closing title track deepens <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i>’s often superb designs as a real player’s record. While the disc assuredly exists to map out a bevy of emotional issues to Smith’s satisfaction, it’s nice to find him not forsaking the musicianship in fleshing out a way forward. Therefore, the album works for us as well as for him.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So if the least satisfying Sonny and the Sunsets release, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Longtime Companion</i>’s lesser status isn’t any cause for concern. It’s simply a breakup record from a guy that was once more likely to get wrote up in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Artforum</i> than in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rolling Stone</i>. In other words, it’s another step in Sonny Smith’s unusual trip. Personally, I’d like to hear him return to that pop smorgasbord approach, but whatever path he chooses from here will be intriguing at the very least.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mission of Burma have just released <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsound</i>, their fourth record since reforming in 2002, and it continues the odds defying level of quality that marks them as the indie-rock reunion against which all others will be compared. The secret seems to be an unusually high personal standard combined with a desire to not take it all too seriously. That and excellent songs, of course.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m just going to come right out and say it; Mission of Burma’s second incarnation is the more impressive of their existence’s two segments, and as strong as the reunited original lineup of fellow Massachusetts residents Dinosaur Jr. has been (both on record and in the club), it still takes a backseat to Burma’s rekindled achievement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Obviously many, even partisans of the band’s current activities, will balk at this assessment, mainly because their Mk I discography, while the leanest oeuvre of all the life-changing ’80s American underground proto-indie bands, is very persuasively the most accomplished pound-for-pound; a seven inch, an EP, an LP and a live album, and all of them stone classics.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plus, in the context of first-wave hardcore’s last-stand and subsequent fallout, Burma’s expansive sound and manner of conduct served as a real guiding light for those looking for an alternative to the restrictions of the Loud Fast Rules. In this regard they shared the stage with Hüsker Dü, but the main difference between the two entities was Burma’s music being significantly more cerebral in execution, a reality that helped to keep the blatant copyists at a minimum and the late ‘80s backlash at bay.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Backlash? Yeah, by 1988 actually finding copies of Mission of Burma’s Ace of Hearts releases was a total chore, so the Rykodisc label undertook a stuffed to the gills, eighty-plus minute (the first of its kind) self-titled compact disc that served as the actual introduction for many listeners (such as yours truly) to an already hallowed group.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The problem many older, undeniably grumpy fanzine types had with this once-posthumous flowering was less a musical beef than a case of bitterness (some might say sour grapes) over the perception of many peers and a bunch of Johnny-come-latelies (such as yours truly) leaping onto a bandwagon that five years prior held a surplus of elbow room. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because of all those ‘80s u-ground entities, let’s call them the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our Band Could Be Your Life</i> bands, Burma was the least appreciated while extant, a fact that’s assisted in making that rather amazing output of their first phase (that’s ’79 to ’83) register as even more remarkable in retrospect. Indeed, listening repeatedly to the pure manna of that Rykodisc CD really drove home that a whole mess of ears missed sailing on a ridiculously beautiful boat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But in reality Mission of Burma wasn’t ignored, at least not on their home turf, where they were played on both college and commercial FM radio. They were simply misapprehend by many, taken for granted by others, and perceived as too mature by the stubble-domed youth of Boston’s regenerative punk scene. Ahead of the curve and belatedly adored; it all adds up to a situation called Legendary Status.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And any band of that distinction that reconvenes with the intention of releasing new music courts serious disaster. But even if that circumstance is successfully dodged, it’s still a near cinch that no matter how positive a reaction said group’s fresh output receives it will still take a backseat to the old stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not that many of these bands have the guts to step forth with new material after being anointed with the distinction of cornerstone act, and understandably so, since the fear of public failure is simply too great. It’s much safer to just take the old stuff on tour for the big money grab ala The Pixies or Pavement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Burma’s first reunion shows in ’02 and the release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ONoffON</i> two years later were openly about unfinished business; their breakup wasn’t due to intra-band conflict or displeasure with their level of success after all, it was related directly to Roger Miller going deaf.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That ugly affliction called Tinnitus brought them to an abrupt halt. And it was Miller’s rehabbed ears and a general desire for a more appropriate sense of closure, particularly after getting enshrined in the indie-rock pantheon that found Burma back together again. And it all went so well that guitarist Miller, bassist Clint Conley and drummer Peter Prescott, with Shellac’s Bob Weston replacing Martin Swope as tape-looper/soundman, have continued to release records with a refreshing and rather rare general attitude, electing to challenge each other with the task of creating a consistently evolving Mk II discography.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the face of it this mindset might seem the least any band charging cash on the barrelhead for records or live shows should muster, but the sad temperament behind so many releases old and new falls much closer to the motto “Hey, it beats working for a living”. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsound</i>, Mission of Burma’s third full-length since reignition, continues their improbable trajectory of quality by both refusing to settle for formula and by persisting in sidestepping the generally impossible expectations of Legendary Status.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To wit, Burma has smartly avoided the impulse to top the elevated standing of their past recordings. Instead, from ‘06’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Obliterati</i> to this latest release, the stated desire has been to simply make strong, satisfying records from within the general parameters of the Mission of Burma sound, a point of attack that provides far more leeway than expected. The only standard the band has taken to heart is its own; avoid going through the motions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Much of the vitality in Burma’s second life rests upon the unabashed heaviness of their sound. While ‘82’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vs.</i> and especially the ’85 live LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Horrible Truth About Burma</i> indicated the level of raucousness the band was capable of delivering, studio material like ‘80’s “Academy Fight Song” 7-inch and the following year’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Signals, Calls and Marches</i> EP deliberately put the Art in front of the Rock, and added a hyphen for good measure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, the band’s three Matador releases and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsound</i>, their first for UK label Fire, bring forth the power without any hesitation, sounding much closer to the band’s live sound. And this has been achieved without sacrificing those highly defining “art-rock” traits.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact, “Dust Devil”, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsound</i>’s two minute opener, combines these attributes as strongly as anything they’ve released in the 21st Century, blending moments of tough angularity with suitably tight rhythmic propulsion and throwing in their smart and distinctive vocal weave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But there are surprises in store, such as guitarist Miller’s use of effects pedal on “Semi-Pseudo-Sort-Of Plan”. Specifically, it greatly emphasizes the psyche/Detroit angle that’s always bubbled under the surface in Burma’s story, for not only did Miller originally hail from Ann Arbor MI (home of The Stooges, dontcha know) but Sproton Layer, his high school band with younger bros Ben and Larry, kicked up some impressive psychedelic dust via some recordings circa 1970.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those tapes were later issued by the New Alliance label twenty-two years later under the title <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With Magnetic Fields Disrupted</i>, and the record not only shed valuable light upon Miller’s formative years but also helped to explain why Burma came off so levelheaded and well focused in a sea of youngsters exemplifying the opposite. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>outside of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horrible Truth</i>’s smoking cover of The Stooges’ “1970” and their live take of Barrett-era Floyd’s “Astronomy Domine”, Burma has generally tended toward cultivating their punk (or post-punk, if you prefer) sensibility, as their renditions of Pere Ubu, The Dils and The Wipers testify.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsound</i>’s “Sectionals in Mourning”, “This is Hi-Fi” and “Second Television” the band continue mining that art-punk reserve with prime results. But “Part the Sea” works up an anthemic, fist pumping head of steam markedly different than anything I’ve heard from Burma before, and “Fell-->H2O” opens and closes with a tidy yet endearingly odd little psyche-funk guitar progression that had me picturing a dusted Robbie Krieger riffing in praise of the peace frog. Like, heavy man.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Due to the inclusion of trumpet the cuts “ADD in Unison” and “What They Tell Me” will bring the highest level of attention to Burma’s stated desire to keep it fresh through mixing up and messing with the program. But the appearance of Bob Weston’s tasty horn licks is far from the only striking departure on “ADD in Unison”, for Miller’s writing on the track’s first half pushes the same lovely buttons as Mike Watt’s work of recent vintage. And any Pedro/Beantown overlap is a mighty fine development to these ears, as is Weston’s spray of loosey-goosey valve-splatter on “What They Tell Me”; did somebody say art-punk?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To close, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsound</i> is a very well assembled record. Beginning with the short blast of “Dust Devil”, it quickly segues into the disc’s heartiest, lengthier numbers before wrapping up with a galvanizing three-punch combo of effective brevity; “7’s”, “What They Tell Me” and the ripping denouement that is “Opener”, a near instrumental save for the phrase repeated emphatically at track’s end, the last sound’s heard from this superb album: “Forget what you know”.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Picking the finest full length Mission of Burma album is a very easy task, for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vs</i>. is essentially a perfect record, one of the ‘80s Ten Best in this writer’s estimation. To decide upon the band’s second best is an endeavor far more difficult, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unsound</i> has happily complicated the effort even more.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-87015980557165465122012-07-06T10:35:00.001-07:002012-07-06T10:35:46.204-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 7/6/12 - Chain & The Gang and Neneh Cherry & The Thing and The Electric Mess<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chain & the Gang have just released their third album, and it displays and expands upon the musical and thematic attributes that have come to define the work of Ian Svenonius over the course of the last twenty plus years. Taken individually, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Cool Blood</i> is a solid collection of stripped down rock highly influenced by 1960s R&B and early ‘80s post-punk/DIY. But it grows substantially when considered with the rest of the band’s discography, and especially Svenonius’ oeuvre at large.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Ian Svenonius first burst onto the scene around the turn of the 1990s with Dischord Records’ post-harDCore heavy hitters Nation of Ulysses, he wasn’t particularly identifiable as a figure that would be around for the long haul. NoU (as they were sometimes abbreviated) were boldly conceptual, fiercely polemical and some felt flat-out arrogant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And above all, they were divisive. Detractors considered them to be a flagrant example of gratuitous playacting, an over-elaborate put-on. Those in favor loved them in the manner some display for sports teams and grand old flags. Svenonius was declared “Sassiest Boy in America” by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sassy</i> Magazine before they even had a record out, though their blistering live show surely did precede them; they came on so strongly that it all seemed destined for brevity, just another in a labyrinthine museum maze of rock music short timers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But occasionally these brief explosive vessels prove unexpectedly destined for longevity while artists/bands seemingly built to last end up fading out or fizzling away. Following Nation of Ulysses’ disbandment, Svenonius played the front man role in The Make-Up, an equally conceptually audacious entity that produced a surprisingly large body of recorded work and flaunted a live prowess that’s now legendary. The music hotwired mod/freakbeat high style to a platform of youth-centric social consciousness dubbed by the group as Gospel Yeh-Yeh, all before winding to a halt around the close of last millennium.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In this fresh century Svenonius has proven to be an impressive collaborator across a fairly diverse spectrum of projects. To name three; the eccentric groove-mining of sorta-supergroup Weird War, the pseudonymous “solo-project” flower-power/mod gush of David Candy and the somewhat historically focused and theatrical (at least live) Felt Letters (with Brendan Canty ex-Fugazi). Add to the equation such extra-musical concerns as essayist (his pocket-sized collection <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Psychic Soviet</i> was issued by Drag City), internet talk show host (via the program <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Soft Focus</i>), astrologist as humorist (inside much missed free publication <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arthur</i>) and hipster vacation curator (for the Bruise Cruise).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Across all this activity Svenonius has shown an unusual level of astuteness in communicating recurring themes in his work. The surface contrarianism of his ideas, when coupled with his confident, extroverted, some have said dandyish personality, is enough to turn off many observers, and when factoring in the uninhibitedly backward-glancing, deceptively non-groundbreaking nature of the music, the output of Ian Svenonius is often denigrated as an underground self-indulgence. Or, in a nutshell; haters will hate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that’s just the way this auteur wants it, I think. Chain & the Gang is another example of this wise musical commentator’s incremental observations/obsessions upon the daily struggles and conundrums that plague contemporary life. In service of these aims he and his band mates employ certain well-honed modes and formulas and are disinclined to care if the at times barbed humor rubs certain listeners the wrong way. Nothing on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Cool Blood</i> tempts listener hostility like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Music’s Not for Everyone</i>’s excellent jab at low self-esteem as a lifestyle “Not Good Enough”, but the air of provocateur does remain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In some cases Chain & the Gang’s methods stretch all the back to Svenonius’ earliest stuff; with the arguable exception of NoU’s post-bop/mid-period Coltrane jazz fixation the progression of his musical proclivities has focused upon styles that were largely neglected or ignored outright beyond their direct fan bases while happening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Think Nation of Ulysses’ juvenile delinquent/street gang imagery cross-pollinated with post-HC and given a MC5/White Panther-like revolutionary fervor (to some a shtick, yes), The Make-Up’s mod-rock simplicity fused with mock-religious youth-congress theatrics, Weird War’s street-level funk-rock wedded to a post-radical waving of the freak-flag.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">More things that stay the same; since The Make-Up, Svenonius has always had a female member/foil, he also holds a severe reverence for the ritual of live music (and how live bands sound best on records), and a definite predilection for the 1960s, an era where in large part rock ‘n’ roll wasn’t yet taken seriously by the establishment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And again, for a guy who’s been in so many bands/projects Svenonius is one of indie rock’s true beacons of consistency. If his current groups’ have become less elaborate, that’s mainly because he’s gotten so efficient at communicating his ideas. Recently, his swipes from the ‘60s rattle around in a tin can with the aura of bedroom ingenuity displayed by bushel’s full of early-‘80s small label post-punk and self-released DIY artists.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Cool Blood</i>’s opening track “Hunting for Love” is a perfect example, halfway between a knock-off ‘60s R&B single and something that might’ve been found on self-produced cassette in the racks of the early Rough Trade shop. Plus it features Svenonius making monkey sounds, and I’ve yet to hear it without thinking of the eternally grand “Gorilla” by The Shandells. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The LP was recorded in mono at Calvin Johnson’s Dub Narcotic studio and presents a new lineup of Chain & the Gang. Fresh vocalist Katie Alice Greer really helps cultivate both the old-school R&B and post-punk sides of the equation here. There was already an occasional (and mild) Marvin and Tammi-like aspect to some of Chain & the Gang’s work, but with the addition of Greer it really shines.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Relevant tracks in this context would be “You Better Find Something to Do” “If I Only Had a Brain” and especially “Where Does All the Time Go?” and the fantastic “Certain Types of Trash”, where new bassist Chris Sutton lays down a line of fabulous simplicity that’ll surely kill in the club context. Vivian Girl/Coasting member Fiona Campbell takes the drum seat and does so with the necessary understated flair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Greer has classic sass, but she also possesses a palpable intellectually-inclined swagger that reminds me of the music offered by “new wave” groups in small college towns in the dawn of Reagan. From a lyrical standpoint, a song like “Free Will” sounds positively concocted in response to a longwinded lecture from some scarecrow-thin old professor. Musically however it’s solidly in the tradition of Pac-10 frat-rock. And Greer’s deadpan on “Nuff Said” really accentuates the atypical bookish qualities that ooze from many of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Cool Blood</i>’s grooves and how they wrap like hip vines all over that ‘60’s inclination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is particularly resonant on the two parts of “I’m Not Interested”; on one hand the song feels like it would’ve went down an absolute storm in a crowded faculty bar on a foggy Friday night in late autumn circa 1981. On the other, it’s clearly the work of a mind that’s not only familiar with the two parts of Eddie Bo’s masterpiece “Pass the Hatchet”, he might even own a copy for himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But y’know, hardly anybody cared about that Eddie Bo single when it was first released. Just like nearly all those self-produced early-‘80s cassettes floundered in the racks (if even allowed space) and were insanely obscure before Chuck Warner’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Messthetics</i> CD-r series and an avalanche of internet blogs resuscitated a DIY revolution. And that fictional college town new wave band? Never recorded an album, though I like to imagine there’s a live tape in a shoe box somewhere just waiting for rediscovery and retrospective adulation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In other words it’s all ephemera. Maybe the sharpest trick in Ian Svenonius’ arsenal is that he understands the value of detritus rescued and reevaluated, and the beauty of the small gesture executed for the sheer joy of pulling it off.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That’s why nearly all of the records in his discography if taken in isolation can register as being achievements of an amiably mild variety. However, considered together they add up to an impressive sum that shows-off the talents of one of our shrewdest musical thinkers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some say Neneh Cherry is back. Nonsense, she and her vastly impressive talents never left. Some say The Thing play a load of formless racket. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hooey, they’re as methodical as an unusually suave trio of Chess Club presidents. Some say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cherry Thing</i> is a strange curiosity. Baloney, it’s a first-class record that details one of the strongest and most sensible collaborations of recent years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As concerns <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cherry Thing</i>, there are the obvious correlations and symmetries. Neneh Cherry was the step-daughter of the late great trumpeter/cornetist Don Cherry, he of the now legendary Ornette Coleman groups that basically defined an early dominant strand of free jazz.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And Scandinavian jazzmen Mats Gustafsson, Paal Nilssen-Love and Ingebrigt Håker Flaten play free and hard in an extremely modern context but are also sensibly informed by the innovations of the past; therefore it’s not a bit surprising their name derives from a tune found on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where is Brooklyn?</i>, Cherry’s 1966 Blue Note LP.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Neneh is far more than just a flesh and blood conduit between a musically innovative ancestor and his young descendents. Some only know her through “Buffalo Stance”, her rather excellent 1988 single or the album that included it, the highly enjoyable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Raw Like Sushi</i>. Others are familiar with her follow-up albums’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Homebrew</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man</i>, the latter featuring “7 Seconds” with Youssou N'Dour, an enormous hit nearly everywhere in the world except the United States, presumably because a big portion of Americans find the sound of voices singing in a foreign language either distasteful or unappealing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s also no secret that Cherry began her career in association with post-punk cornerstones The Slits and through the formation of her own band Rip Rig + Panic. Too few have heard that group, for they were at times very good, but even fewer realize the band’s name derives from a masterful 1965 LP from Rahsaan Roland Kirk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ignorance of this link is no crime, of course. It is worth bringing up however, for here’s Kirk on the significance of the record’s title from the original liner notes: “Rip means Rip Van Winkle (or Rest in Peace?); it's the way people, even musicians are. They're asleep. Rig means like rigor mortis. That's where a lot of peoples mind are. When they hear me doing things they didn't think I could do they panic in their minds…”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course, UK post-punk was rubbing up against all sorts of unexpected influences and inclusions during this era, as James Blood Ulmer’s "Jazz Is the Teacher, Funk Is the Preacher" makes plain by its turning up on The New Musical Express’ highly representative <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C81</i> cassette. But the connection of Kirk’s above statement to the moniker of Neneh’s first band is more than just a cool reference; it also helps to illuminate how she navigated those future commercial breakthroughs with a strong artistic focus and a deep personal integrity always on hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Naturally, hanging out on tour busses while her stepdad broke major ground in the blending of avant-jazz and disparate global styles throughout the heady 1970s most assuredly assisted in defining the healthiness of her subsequent path, but it’s apparent that Neneh Cherry’s refusal to compromise to the often damaging concessions of odious commercial concerns should ultimately be credited to her alone; her life, musical and otherwise, didn’t start with “Buffalo Stance” and certainly didn’t end with “7 Seconds”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As evidence, we have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cherry Thing</i>, a dialogue between two (or if you prefer, four) seriously inventive entities. And while six of the album’s eight pieces are interpretations of outside material, it’s inaccurate to describe the disc as a covers record; two tracks belong to the pen of contributors and are absolutely key in getting to the LPs crux of intermingling sensibilities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Opening with “Cashback”, an outstanding Cherry original that commences with a truly killer and downright funky bass line via Håker Flaten, it sets the stage for the gradual entrance of all the other contributors; first Cherry’s assured voice and words followed by the spry, tough drumming of Nilssen-Love and the reed accents of Gustafsson, who eventually launches into fleet blasts of gruff, agitated glory in his fluid, huge soloing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gustafsson’s tone is no doubt formidable, but I think it’s inaccurate to describe it, or for that matter the music of The Thing overall, as being difficult. And the trio’s engagement with cover material of a popular (PJ Harvey, White Stripes, Led Zeppelin) if not necessarily populist nature informs a major part of their admirable desire to expand the possibilities of heavy duty jazz improvisation beyond the ears of the same few thousand global converts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sounds Like a Sandwich</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Two Bands and a Legend</i>, their pair of threeway blowouts with Norwegian indie rockers Cato Salsa Experience and Windy City multi-horn free master Joe McPhee make the point quite easily; covers range from The Sonics, The Cramps and Yeah Yeah Yeahs to Don Ayler, South African trumpet titan Mongezi Feza and the aforementioned harmolodic stringduster Blood Ulmer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The goal in The Thing’s words is to illustrate “how close musical styles are today, how similar the energy is and can be, and how much today`s audience is melted together, devoted to creative music”. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cherry Thing</i>’s second and penultimate tracks bring this home with flawless expansiveness and precision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suicide’s magnificent “Dream Baby Dream” has fairly recently been in the spotlight as one of Bruce Springsteen’s gestures of contempo relevance, but its inclusion here sets a tone of beatific, soulful yearning, Cherry’s vocals showing her at the absolute top of her game. And the crispness of Håker Flaten’s vibraphone, the almost martial drumming of Nilssen-Love and the low-end oomph of guest Per-Ake Holmlander’s tuba contrast superbly with Cherry and Mat’s avant-gutbucket wail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But if “Dream Baby Dream” sets an early highpoint, it doesn’t linger on that achievement, as the ominous brooding bedrock of Mats’ lungs and Håker Flaten’s bowed bass at the beginning of Martina Topley-Bird’s “Too Tough To Die” gives way to a deliciously gnawing groove smartly expanding upon the track’s trip-hop origins, with Cherry’s woozy/bluesy tone interlaced with some exquisite avant-priestess vocal flurries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From there “Sudden Moment”, the album’s Gustafsson original, opens with a sturdy, accessible tone, so much so that it could be momentarily mistaken for a performance captured at one of those killer ‘70s loft sessions that Douglas Records put out as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wildflowers</i>. The mood of this mode continues even after, oh hell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">especially after</i> Cherry’s vocals enter the fabric of the fray.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I haven’t even mentioned the massive instrumental mid-section that builds to a soaring collective passage of gorgeous “ecstatic jazz” ala those masterful late-‘60s/early-‘70s Pharaoh Sanders releases, say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Karma</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black Unity</i> for just two swell examples, though unlike some of those extensive sidelong-plus excursions, this is far more abbreviated in its flights of freedom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Though to be correct, what’s here is not really “free”, at least not in the template of collective improvisation ala early Ornette. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cherry Thing</i> is surely not avant-garde in the true sense of term. This is instead what contemporary jazz should actually encompass, specifically a study in adventurousness that is inextricable from the past but in no way beholden to it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe the most leftfield cover here is MF Doom’s “Accordion”, which is wickedly funky and true to the original, though in the tradition of “outside” jazz the music never overstates its tightness. This is particularly evident in the fiery looseness of Nilssen-Love’s drums, and it underscores one of the record’s best qualities, namely that while obviously the work of much thought and practice it never suffers from sounding rehearsed. Plus, Cherry’s swagger can’t help but remind me a bit of Jeanne Lee on Archie Shepp’s masterful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blasé</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the reading of her step-pop’s “Golden Heart”, where the processed vocals help to pull this version of an already non-traditional tune (part of the title suite on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Communion</i>, another Blue Note classic from ‘66) far away from any jazz-centric norms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it’s the take on The Stooges’ “Dirt” that truly seals the deal. The largeness of the opening reed flutter evidences without question that Mats is indeed a monster on whatever axe he wields, and his sawing, swaying and yes even swinging sax line expresses all that is brilliant and everlasting about Detroit’s finest sons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All the while Cherry emotes like a woman who is not only well acquainted with the spirit of Iggy but can channel his essence with total ease, in the process sending a batch of dime-store divas far back behind the woodshed to work out some new moves. And this time Cherry joins in with the track’s instrumental freak-out, at least before it transforms into a total blizzard of 21st century skronk, a sound not unlike something recorded for the BYG/Actuel label but soaked in battery acid and slid through your mail slot by a postman who looks suspiciously like Kevin Whitehead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It needs mentioning that “Dirt” isn’t actually on the vinyl of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cherry Thing</i>. It is however on the CD that’s included with the LP, a gesture that easily proves that all involved with this record’s creation and manufacture clearly get the gist of what’s currently happening on a worldwide musical scale.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Winding down with a splendid version of Coleman’s “What Reason”, this release is destined to be one of the finest (and most spiritedly punk) jazz releases of the year, a circumstance that will also make it a clear contender for the best of 2012. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5z6pY2d5SKYkFpYsOFAArfpA_Az1BT-0VIHVPw0hVnRPKvLkF78423bMhUNgYeb4dr1uuMKTFtQeUdNewV8-mQLRH2vli_qK2M46Cse8iFk4k1FjhTbK_v5sxu2LIBmfA2A8zikW2LKn/s1600/electricmess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5z6pY2d5SKYkFpYsOFAArfpA_Az1BT-0VIHVPw0hVnRPKvLkF78423bMhUNgYeb4dr1uuMKTFtQeUdNewV8-mQLRH2vli_qK2M46Cse8iFk4k1FjhTbK_v5sxu2LIBmfA2A8zikW2LKn/s320/electricmess.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">New York’s The Electric Mess are a garage band, but not in the contemporary sense of the term. No, this group could easily soundtrack any number of the dreams that have unraveled on the back of Lenny Kaye’s beautiful eyelids. It’s the unfettered sound of the ‘60s one-hit Farfisa drenched wonder also known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i>, and on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Falling Off the Face of the Earth</i>, they largely do right by it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But before there was a 2-LP set called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i>, there was of course the wave of groups that constitute its enduring essence. Garage bands in a nutshell, doing it live in parking lots and rec-centers and teen dances and opening for larger touring acts (but hardly ever in bars). Sometimes these groups managed to release a single or three that either flopped or maybe hit locally, a few actually growing into nationwide hits. The especially fortunate were able to ride regional or national success and collect enough material for an LP or two before breaking up, the tides turning to more expansive, self-conscious and heavily psychedelic rock expressiveness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To expand just a bit, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i>-style action, for those maybe not familiar with its charms, is a short and sweet impulse that encompassed a wide swath of sonic ideas; frat-rock party masters, sometimes with honking sax men (The Kingsmen, The Premiers, Swingin’ Medallions, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs), electric-Dylan knockoffs (Mouse & the Traps), Tex-Mex flavored guitar-organ combos (Sir Douglas Quintet), sly Buddy Holly revisionists (Bobby Fuller Four), those specializing in US-bred reactions to the early Brit Invasion (The Knickerbockers, The Shadows of Knight, The Barbarians, Nazz) and brief snatches of legit proto-punk action (The Music Machine, The Monks, The Sonics, Blue Cheer).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In terms of pure pleasure, it’s a simply fabulous movement with an inextinguishable sound that still provides inspiration for myriad musicians and listeners to this very day. And it’s this corner of the ‘60s that informs the sound of New York’s The Electric Mess. To call them a garage band is to invite potential confusion; one reason is due to contemporary garage becoming so identified with raucous lo-fi punk, a trend that really got rolling back when names like The Cheater Slicks, The Mummies and The Gories began hybridizing these same <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i> moves with such worthy later developments as the heavier side of Billy Childish, The Cramps at their wildest and the phenomenon of one-shot punk immortalized on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Killed By Death</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bloodstains</i> bootleg LP volumes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s not The Electric Mess’ scene at all, and if that disappoints one, well one will just have to be disappointed. No, these cats strongly recall the wave of garage revival aka retro-garage figures that flourished during the 1980s with names like The Cynics, The Fuzztones, The Miracle Workers, The Steppes, The Inn and The Brood. For the most part, these bands deliberately strove to sound like they’d wrangled through a wrinkle in time directly after playing a twenty-five minute gig on the back of a flatbed truck outside a McCrory’s five and dime.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was surely a fun sound when done well, but by the end of the ‘80s it had suffered for its lack of seriousness. This was basically inevitable; a slew of these groups cut records, it was by design a scene not conducive to change (i.e. musical progress), and many of the groups extended their love of the music to a love of the era’s fashion (color tinted rectangular glasses, Beatle boots, cloaks, beads, paisley), making them highly dubious to many for diverting from the standard late ‘80s u-ground rock attire of jeans and a t-shirt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Electric Mess recall this wave but are not of it, for obviously it’s decades later and to my knowledge wrinkles in time don’t exist. And frankly the contempo landscape is almost totally lacking in bands that specialize in making such a bold statement in pure ‘60s garage adulation. Some hard-hearted cynics will carp that what’s on offer from The Electric Mess is comparable to the wares of a purist Dixieland jazz outfit in the era of John Coltrane. But this misses how there were actually some rather crucial purist Dixieland groups extant in the post-bop/free era; try out the early ‘60s albums of Sweet Emma Barrett for example.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Naysayers will retort that Barrett was actually part of the creation of her style and The Electric Mess is a group of relative youngsters co-opting a much older one. And I’ll reply that co-opting is a huge part of rock ‘n’ roll’s history. Plus, as some of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i>’ O.G.s reach up on seventy years of age (or have already passed; Sky Saxon RIP), they are long past their prime for conveying such kicks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And on that very topic, I’ve no doubt The Electric Mess go down a storm in the club setting, but on their new effort <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Falling Off the Face of the Earth</i>, they stake their claim as a party band. Indeed, a fair amount of ink has already been spilled over the effectiveness of the group’s very pro show dynamic, but to my ears this bunch would sound fantastic playing three sets in a creaky three story house stuffed to the rafters with boisterous revelers while some lanky dude in a lawn chair takes it upon himself to guard the keg. Good job, sport.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If this sounds like I’m damning The Electric Mess with faint praise, don’t misunderstand. The best party bands are the ones too good for that status, the combos remembered decades later for making wild nights like the above stand out with sharp, sublime clarity. “I wonder what happened to them…” For numerous reasons, most never make it past the status of local heroes. However, a few…but hey, I’m getting ahead of myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a record, maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Falling Off the Face of the Earth</i>’s best quality is how it immediately demands the listener to take it or leave it. Opener “You Look Like a Psycho” possesses the sort of Mitch Ryder/Mark Lindsay-gleaned vocal chutzpah that either wins a convert or scores a detractor. But what might get missed is that the Mess’s blatantly 60’s derived clamor is delivered with an intensity that while inaccurately described as contempo is decidedly heavier, denser, and again more pro-like than the immortal sounds that so clearly stoke their fire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully, this situation continues throughout the record and helps to elevate songwriting that’s stronger than that offered by the average garage schmoes, particularly on “The Girl With the Exploding Dress”. The toughness of their presentation also helps to keep the use of Farfisa organ, a necessary accoutrement that nonetheless makes for a dicey proposition in a garage state of affairs, register far away from the hackneyed; for instance, the keyboard in “Tell Me Why” blends The Music Machine, Manzarek and a little bit of their own thing, right down to the fleetness of the solo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On a purely musical level, The Electric Mess step into unpleasant territory hardly at all. They do however take that aforementioned vocal/lyrical quality over the top a few times too often, especially on “Nice Guys Finish Last”. It doesn’t ruin the record, but it does make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Falling Off the Face of the Earth </i>feel more like a “captured performance” at times than an album, and perhaps that was the point.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Electric Mess mildly recall Girl Trouble, a fine garage themed band from Washington state that formed in the late-‘80s and straddled the Sub Pop, K and Estrus indie empires (a group that I’m tickled to find still going strong). But where Girl Trouble always felt like a very cool lark, much of The Mess’s appeal comes from being a bolder, more polished entity. Typical New Yorkers, y’know?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In this sense I can’t help thinking of The Fleshtones, a no big deal sorta band that turned that glorious party-rock aesthetic detailed above into three-plus decades of laid-back (but never mellow) action. Those are definitely big shoes for The Electric Mess to fill (Peter Zaremba was a size twelve, at least), but if they can keep recording songs like “Elevator to Later” and album closer “I’ll Take You Anyway” they’ll get at least part of the way there.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Falling Off the Face of the Earth</span></i><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> doesn’t rewrite any books and it won’t change many lives, but that’s clearly not the intention. And on some days this lack of ambition is quite enough.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-87641201043169808312012-06-22T15:28:00.001-07:002012-06-22T15:28:51.123-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 6/22/12 - Superchunk and Van Dyke Parks<div align="center">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2jEnaiNupY0FRvHkrV_PtF2JSmPOWgMu3thPB7VOcbv0jShENRKUyJJqP-WKlAJfP7BppxpMaa_fnMvsjEKWHF51-FxEPZa4kjnW8MV-KRMQWqC68M0fT180zRZNakshZk15urGL3gww/s1600/superchunkthissum.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2jEnaiNupY0FRvHkrV_PtF2JSmPOWgMu3thPB7VOcbv0jShENRKUyJJqP-WKlAJfP7BppxpMaa_fnMvsjEKWHF51-FxEPZa4kjnW8MV-KRMQWqC68M0fT180zRZNakshZk15urGL3gww/s320/superchunkthissum.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The “This Summer”/”Cruel Summer” 7-inch is the latest offering from classy ‘90s survivors Superchunk, and while not up to the level of the band’s finest work, that really doesn’t seem to be its intention. Instead, it’s one of the better recent examples of indie rockers gracefully adapting to middle age. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Superchunk, the enduring Chapel Hill NC based quartet whose existence served as the impetus for the creation of Merge Records, forms one of the biggest chapters in a book that’s yet to be written, specifically a detailed documentation on the topic of ‘90s indie rock. But the Merge connection is ultimately only a portion of Superchunk’s huge relevance to said movement, with the label’s first decade taking on a life of its own through defining records from names as disparate as Polvo, The Magnetic Fields and Neutral Milk Hotel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No, Superchunk’s deepest importance is in how they wed classicist pop-rock songwriting to post-hardcore structures and energies and in their very no-big-dealness became very much a big deal. And clueless magazine writers were often caught guilty of misinterpreting the meaning of their early foulmouthed anthem “Slack Motherfucker”, detailing it as a celebration of calculated laziness and underachievement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But those who loved the band already knew that one of Superchunk’s most appealing collective character traits was extra-musical, namely their tenacious work ethic; tour incessantly, write and hone songs, record albums and then tour some more. On top of all this fruitful activity Mac McCaughan and Laura Ballance somehow found time to run a label.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With Superchunk there was no detuned guitar soundscapes, no EPs of trip-hop remixes, no exhausting 79-minute compact discs detailing forays into expansive conceptual realms, no unexpected detours into exploratory Krautrock-inspired jams; in some ways the group, purveyor of quality LPs though they were, was really a “live band” in the best sense of the term, particularly early on. The albums brought familiarity and solidity, but the foursome was at their strongest when plugging in, tuning and turning up, and finally throwing down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Indeed, in the live setting they were a sight to behold and a sound to behear; I personally witnessed them turn the small stage of Lollapalooza’s touring incarnation (locale: The Charles Town Racetrack in Wild Wonderful West Virginia) into a immense dust cloud of sweaty pogo frenzy, interlacing their set-closing behemoth “Precision Auto” with a gleeful go-for-broke cover of Minor Threat’s “Screaming at a Wall” as sung by wiry, witty drummer Jon Wurster.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Superchunk has always been a self-deprecating unit though, often deflecting well deserved praise toward other bands or records they felt were more deserving of kudos. But again, their own releases were actually quite good and occasionally even excellent expressions of their small-scale essence as documented for home use. That documentation established a laudable trajectory of growth, even if their detractors basically chose to ignore it, those naysayers naggingly underestimating this bunch as a mere retread/update of borrowed Buzzcocks and Hüsker Dü moves given a contempo indie spin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That chapter in the book again; in terms of the great big indie bums-rush of the ‘90s, Superchunk can be portrayed as one line in the sand between those who embraced the phenomenon and those who didn’t. Listeners in favor of the group found a crew of determined and intelligent rock fans kicking out their own rip-roaring jams for the enjoyment of themselves and an audience of equals. Detractors would instead brandish the band’s name as an example of indie rock’s low expectations, or to decry its elevation of attitude over results.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By now it should be obvious on which side of the line this writer resides. If there were lessons to be learned from punk rock and the ‘80s underground bands that soldiered on in its wake, then Superchunk embodied them, mostly because the live shows, the records and the label that released them were all so worthwhile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And their growth really was a perceptible and rewarding development; from the young fresh rawness of the initial trio of LPs, 1990’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Superchunk</i>, ‘91’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Pocky for Kitty</i> and ‘93’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On the Mouth</i>, to the palpable leap forward of ‘94’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Foolish</i> and the two expressions of maturity and breadth that followed it, ‘95’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s Where the Strings Come In</i> and ‘97’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Indoor Living</i>, the quartet made a admirable sonic progression.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, I’m somewhat in the minority in considering 1999’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come Pick Me Up</i> and 2001’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s to Shutting Up</i> as their finest works. And I don’t think it would be inaccurate to surmise that the band themselves would disagree with my qualitative assessment, based mainly on the Superchunk records to appear subsequent to that duo of underappreciated gems.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s to Shutting Up</i> and especially its Jim O’Rourke produced predecessor displayed the band at their most far reaching, and I find it a perplexing drag that the cumulative creativity of these efforts are far too often simply categorized as just two more LPs by Superchunk instead of accurately championed as a righteous combo-punch of shrewd and searching songs that greatly transcended the tag of indie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, nearly a decade elapsed before they released another full length record (though there were occasional comp tracks, a few 7-inchs and an EP), and when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Majesty Shredding</i> appeared, it became immediately clear that Superchunk were reverting back to a more direct, less expansive period in their history. It was once again about the clarity of ungarnished melodic rock; the aim toward crafting bold advancements in depth and ambition was shifting elsewhere.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For in that hazy hiatus of the Aughts this aura of expansiveness once proffered by the ‘chunk was largely extended through Mac’s former side-project Portastatic, particularly on the excellent 2008 LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be Still Please</i>. Meanwhile, Wurster was drumming all over the place, most notably in The Mountain Goats and for Bob Mould, guitarist Jim Wilbur was pulling occasional spots in Portastatic, and Ballance, who occasionally gave off the vibe of a somewhat reluctant performer, concerned herself with Merge, the label having bloomed into one of our largest indie labels.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The appearance of the “This Summer”/”Cruel Summer” 7-inch finds Superchunk continuing their recent course and knocking out a pair of stray tracks en route to their next full length, and happily the results retain the standard of their work over the last decade. And to clarify, while the band has returned to a more stripped down approach, they haven’t regressed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What’s largely gone is the wider instrumental palate (plus Mac’s falsetto) from ’99-’01, the group’s most exploratory songwriting (beginning with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Foolish</i> and culminating strongly with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s to</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shutting Up</i>) and the two guitar tangle of McCaughan and Wilbur at its snakiest (heard best on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come Pick Me Up</i>). What’s here is the unfettered maturation as detailed by Superchunk’s growth expressed through a reassessment of the no-frills attack they wielded so expertly in the ’90-’94 period.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To elaborate, “This Summer” opens with Mac’s well-familiar vocal rasp delivering lyrical sentiments undeniably derived from the school of Springsteen, with the first near-minute of the tune registering very much like something from an upstart songwriter circa ’83 that’s been blown away in equal measure by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The River</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marshall Crenshaw</i>, and the glories of straight-up power pop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the full band kicks in, as heavy yet adept at navigating crucial pop hooks as ever they were via <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On the Mouth</i> or even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Foolish</i> (probably their best album in the equality of songs and delivery). “This Summer” is over in three and some change, and if it doesn’t equal Superchunk at their absolute best, it’s still a very worthwhile proposition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just as importantly, the music sounds as inspired as always. And the flip is a well rendered cover, specifically “Cruel Summer” by Bananarama. For those unfamiliar with Superchunk’s modus operandi regarding the material of others, this seemingly unlikely song is no piss-take; the band has previously tackled numbers by names as diverse as Sebadoh, Bowie, The Verlaines, Government Issue, The Chills, Motorhead, Adam and the Ants, Misfits and Destiny’s Child, treating them all with the same level of respect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cruel Summer” retains recognizable elements of the original, but its unabashed rock orientation is to my ears a big improvement upon the rather brittle veneer of Bananarama’s synth-pop gush. Interestingly, I can’t shake hearing a big similarity to the attempts of many early-‘80s SoCal punk acts to integrate elements of trad rock into their sounds. Difference is, those attempts nearly always sounded lousy and “Cruel Summer” sounds quite jake. It is perhaps a bit like something Agent Orange could’ve pulled off around the time of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When You Least Expect It</i>. But of course, they did not.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s tempting to evaluate Superchunk’s recent material as an admirable gesture for loyal fans, but the quality of the work has proven strong enough to continue roping new listeners into the fold. And with this seven-inch the trend continues.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCMmH0x1MjDoxc1Qy-FcF8R4mzS9huM_xdtx60HAjhCmGwMjgSjZT3YvMW4I1LGo7ps5UqQQpgvKwYXnIdcKAR0hIe2nrZ7qbsGJ9u1HSUfHAEK5X7-jsjcdqenUUNNv0c18Hc6cda6Z-/s1600/Van+Dyke+Parks,+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCMmH0x1MjDoxc1Qy-FcF8R4mzS9huM_xdtx60HAjhCmGwMjgSjZT3YvMW4I1LGo7ps5UqQQpgvKwYXnIdcKAR0hIe2nrZ7qbsGJ9u1HSUfHAEK5X7-jsjcdqenUUNNv0c18Hc6cda6Z-/s320/Van+Dyke+Parks,+front.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Van Dyke Parks is easily one of the most eclectic and engaging musical minds of the last fifty years. Largely known for his involvement as lyricist in the resurrected phoenix that is The Beach Boys’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smile</i>, he’s also put his stamp on an array of important works, none better than his own 1972 masterpiece <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discover America</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Please consider for a moment the impressive range of Van Dyke Parks. Yes, in addition to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smile</i> there is his arranging for “The Bare Necessities” from Disney’s animated classic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Jungle Book</i>. He’s also served as a producer and/or arranger for records as diverse as the debuts of Randy Newman and Ry Cooder, Phil Ochs’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Greatest Hits</i> and Joanna Newsom’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ys</i>, and contributed as a player to Tim Buckley’s first album, The Byrds’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fifth Dimension</i>, Linda Thompson’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fashionably Late</i> and Vic Chesnutt’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ghetto Bells</i>. The guy even composed music for TV commercials, including work for Datsun automobiles and the figure skating mayhem known as the Ice Capades.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But to really crack the delicious and nourishing nut that is Mr. Parks, inspection of his solo work is an absolute must. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Song Cycle</i>, his 1967 debut is in obvious retrospect one of the truly amazing introductory statements in all of 20th Century music. I say obvious because hardly anybody bought the thing when it came out. This was due in part to his low profile. While he’d released a couple singles on MGM, he wasn’t exactly stormtrooping the era’s cultural radar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the main reason <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Song Cycle</i> was destined for a second life as a cherished cult magnum opus lies in how Parks’ thoroughly non-trite baroque pop and gently psychedelic sensibilities synched-up with both his uncommonly deep and diverse interest in the history of popular song and the man’s shrewd ear for value in the contemporary (the record featured covers of both Newman’s “Vine Street” and Donovan’s “Colours”). With tenuous ties to the rock scene and a lack of capital with the rising tide of youth culture, it’s really no surprise <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Song Cycle</i> took four years to recoup its admittedly large for the era $35,000 budget.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ambivalent about his lack of success but undaunted, Parks bided his time by working with other artists through Warner Brothers. He did release a single in 1970, “The Eagle and Me”/”On the Rolling Sea When Jesus Speak to Me”, combining the A-side’s ‘40s-era Arlen/Harburg Broadway show tune with the flip’s radically interpreted cover of a gospel song by legendary Bahaman guitarist Joseph Spence. If the deck was stacked against <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Song Cycle</i> in ’67, then by 1970 this single didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in a Hollywood hot tub. Needless to say, the record was scarce, apparently even at the time, to the point that many of Parks’ fans didn’t even know of its existence until Rykodisc utilized it as bonus tracks in their compact disc reissue program of his stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If it appears that I dwell on this seeming one-off obscurity, it’s for a very good reason; the record sheds crucial light on what’s often been perceived as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discover America</i>’s severe change in direction (and I’ll add that both tracks are now available on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arrangements</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 1</i>, a brilliantly enlightening collection of Park’s early collaborations and MGM stuff released on LP and digitally through his own Bananastan label). For if his second solo effort’s levels of stylistic departure still leave some people stumped, that once neglected single provides a key to understanding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discover America</i> is a concept record, but not in the potentially frightening way familiar to rock bands with a surplus of aspiration. Simultaneously a tribute to classic Trinidadian calypso and a loose rumination on American history, it might initially (and for a while after that) seem to be totally out of step with the norms of 1972. But look closer and it becomes clear that it fell right into the decade’s breadbasket for nostalgic longing, a then somewhat new impulse that largely located the 1950s as The Good Old Days (think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Graffiti</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Happy Days</i>, Sha-Na-Na, chart hits by Chuck Berry and Rick Nelson, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grease</i>).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Naturally, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discover America</i>’s lasting importance is due in large part to its complexity and subtlety, factors that when combined with its seemingly casual, highly appealing music caused it to slip right by most critics at the time as merely an odd, inoffensive trifle. But make no mistake; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discover America</i> is a rare and vital combination of sincere accessibility and bold, multifaceted ambition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The proceedings start off rather strangely. A one minute clip of the great calypso singer Mighty Sparrow’s “Jack Palance” is immediately followed by “Introduction”, a twenty-five second bit of spliced tape recordings featuring an old man with a voice like heavy-duty sandpaper; meant to signify the talk of tour guides that frequented the busses of the album’s cover, to be frank the first time I heard it I was quite blindsided by its similarity to Captain Beefheart’s “The Dust Blows Forward and the Dust Blows Back”. And then to move directly into Parks smoothly crooning a cover of The Roaring Loin’s “Bing Crosby” provided a momentary study in sweet discombobulation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those worried over a lack of expertise regarding calypso need not be, for it’s as welcoming a musical form as there is. And it’s perfectly fine to ignore my advice; well done calypso reissues are numerous and widely available, with Rounder Records’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roosevelt in Trinidad; Calypsos of Events, Places and Personalities</i> being particularly illuminating as it includes originals of three of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discover America</i>’s tunes, “Bing Crosby”, “The Four Mills Brothers” (also by The Roaring Lion) and “FDR in Trinidad” (by Attila the Hun). Parks shows the depth of his interest by including two from Lord Kitchener, three pieces of traditional origin and a fascinatingly strange tongue-in-cheek reworking of Sir Lancelot’s “G-Man Hoover”, a celebration of J. Edgar, late of the FBI.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But he didn’t limit himself to Trinidadian works. Two Allen Toussaint covers appear, “Riverboat” and a deliriously grooving cover of “Occapella”, very likely the album’s highpoint. And “John Jones” by ‘60s Trojan Records’ reggae singer Rudy Mills is given a lazily swinging treatment. But Lowell George’s “Sailin’ Shoes” is also present, and in markedly different form from the Little Feat original (released the same year!).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact Little Feat’s George and Roy Estrada both contribute to “FDR in Trinidad”, so fans of that band and George’s distinctive slide playing in particular should take note. But the most interesting instrumentalists included on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discover America</i> are The Esso Trinidad Tripoli Steel Band, whose excellent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Esso</i> LP from 1971 was produced by Parks. Their mastery brings an authentic flavor that contrasts well with the record’s atmosphere of broad interpretation, specifically on the traditional “Steelband Music” and the quietly prescient statement on multiculturalism that is the LP’s coda, a short bit of Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What slowly becomes obvious is that Parks genuinely loves Caribbean music; while respectful the record is never self-servingly so. And its concept holds a real point-of-view, examining the value in how other countries see and celebrate American culture. I’ve played the album many times specifically looking for a flaw, but by the start of the second side have always forgotten the task at hand.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Okay, at thirty-seven minutes and change, it still manages to feel too short. But the results of combined listening with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Esso</i> and Mighty Sparrow’s very fine 1974 Parks-produced <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hot and Sweet</i> LP are simply splendid. They extensively detail not only the huge scope of Parks’ interest and talent, but also show just how much amazing music is out there just waiting for discovery.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-36403461556615413672012-06-15T10:46:00.001-07:002012-06-15T10:46:45.095-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 6/15/12 - The Bizarros and The Melvins<div align="center">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZJebGFfuVnlzjjPKexZqJnKt8bbpz8gAAaj0VkfP-ZThc55mMWiSYR6OWk34geJjfbWTfKpzrUUFCHgEQlhEr0nq9bWjIjEL9ZgqGwd0ExD-jcsk2k12C_EqlIEvkvQD-zyzVLKOK5Qq/s1600/bizzaroscc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" pca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZJebGFfuVnlzjjPKexZqJnKt8bbpz8gAAaj0VkfP-ZThc55mMWiSYR6OWk34geJjfbWTfKpzrUUFCHgEQlhEr0nq9bWjIjEL9ZgqGwd0ExD-jcsk2k12C_EqlIEvkvQD-zyzVLKOK5Qq/s320/bizzaroscc.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s true that punk rock anthologies multiply like cages full of randy rabbits on aphrodisiacal meds, but for fans of the style The Bizarros’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collection 1976-1980</i> deserves a high place on the shelf. It makes a strong case for the band as one of Ohio’s finest “lost” early punk acts, and it’s a tribute to Windian Records’ good taste that their work can currently be easily found. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Regarding punk rock, a whole lot happened between the release of The Dictators’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go Girl Crazy!</i>, arguably the first unhyphenated punk record (which hit racks in early 1975), and the screaming back-alley birth of hardcore (which reignited punk as a defiantly underground phenomenon for the ‘80s). And for some young pups in the here and now, punk rock essentially begins with hardcore, which is frankly a grave error in judgment; simply put, a walloping heap of the most interesting stuff in punk’s dysfunctional lifespan occurred early on, when discerning observers were cottoning to it as a necessary break from the staleness of the ‘70s, the new form having yet to become synonymous with commercial failure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Indeed, early in the game the majors were more than willing to give punk rock a shot. Just look at the New York scene, where all the main early players with the exception of the Heartbreakers (who were doomed) and Suicide (who were just too freaking weird) were signed-up to big American labels. And it happened all over, not just in Gotham; Boston’s DMZ and Willie “Loco” Alexander & the Boom Boom Band were both successfully courted by the big leagues, in their respective cases by Sire and MCA.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The state of Ohio, now justifiably legendary for its early punk scene, also saw a high level of A&R guys sniffing around looking for the Next Big Thing. Much of this action centered on Cleveland. That’s where NYC-defectors and Sire-signees Dead Boys were from, and it was also home to Pere Ubu, the brilliant avant-garage unit that eventually signed to Blank, the punk-centric subsidiary of Mercury Records. Blank ceased operations after just two LPs, those being Pere Ubu’s masterpiece <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Modern Dance</i> and The Suicide Commandos’ brilliant and horribly slept-on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Make a Record</i>; that was how quickly the winds of negativity spread regarding punk rock’s lack of sales potential.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The city of Akron also fostered an interesting early scene, the most famous act being those Spud Boys from Devo. But there was also Tin Huey (whose debut <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Contents Dislodged During Shipment</i> was issued by Warner Brothers in ‘79), the Rubber City Rebels and The Bizarros; these last two teamed-up for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From Akron</i> split-LP on indie Clone Records in ’77. Subsequently the Rebels went westward in hopes of elusive fame and The Bizarros recorded material for a planned release on Blank, said album eventually hitting racks as their self-titled debut through Mercury proper in ’79.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That record, often discussed betwixt those with a heavy jones for obscure documents from the early punk scene, forms a hefty portion of Windian Records’ double-LP Bizarros’ anthology <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collection 1976-1980</i>, another welcome reissue from a label that’s fallen into a fine habit of providing retrospective vinyl for underappreciated entities in US punk rock’s genealogy. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collection</i> is easily their finest top to bottom excavation effort thus far, for a handful of reasons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For starters and most importantly there’s the music, as worthwhile a batch of formerly underexposed early American punk action as has been released, right up there with such august names as Ontario’s Simply Saucer, Detroit’s Death, Davis CA’s Twinkeyz and from Boston a trifecta of the aforementioned DMZ, Nervous Eaters and La Peste.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Unlike some of their Ohio brethren, The Bizarros weren’t a self-consciously arty band, instead working in a mode clearly molded by Richard Hell. Both of Hell’s bands (remember that before the Voidoids he was an early member of Television) influence the majority of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collection</i>’s material, but not in a trite fashion; the main connection shapes up in the vocals and phrasing of lead singer Nick Nicholis.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Inspection of The Bizarros’ DNA also delineates the clear presence of The Velvet Underground, and it’s equally laudable how the band avoids coming off like a bunch of Reed-centric idolaters. This is perhaps due to the Velvets being “just” a vastly important band during this era, not yet having grown into a truly legendary one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That is, these guys grabbed from VU but didn’t resort to copying them in the manner of many bands that sprouted up like urbane weeds roughly a decade later, so it’s therefore very wise to shun categorizing The Bizarros as an interesting curiosity residing quite a few rungs down the qualitative ladder from their more famous contemporaries. No, The Bizarros are clearly equals to not only more celebrated late-‘70s obscurities like fellow Ohioans Electric Eels, but they also deserve to be considered in the same breath as any first wave North American punk unit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it’s a very punk move to compile The Bizarros’ music in a non-reverent, non-chronological manner. I mean, hardly anybody bought the Mercury album when it came out, so why remained yoked to that LP as the only way to anthologize their work? And it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the band members themselves played a part in the decision to eschew a museum-like presentation of this material.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This isn’t intended to give off any anti-intellectual vibes. When the scholarly approach works, it’s certainly very cool (maybe the coolest), but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collection</i> was obviously designed and sequenced for a maximum listening experience instead of just being collector bait. And yet the fact that the music is spread across four sweet sides of surely collectable vinyl helps to easily elevate it over the often shoddily produced CD collections of punk-era stuff that flooded the market during the early-‘90s digital disc boom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To expand; for every high-quality collection of needed punk-era stuff, there was a slew of crappily conceived productions that sounded muddy, tinny or sterile (poor mastering being an inescapable bugaboo of the whole CD era), looked like they were designed on some slouch’s personal computer, and invariably included liner-notes from a dodgy old nostalgist manhandling moves from a 5th generation Jon Savage fakebook. Ugh. But was there any real choice regarding buying these things? Of course not; it had to be done.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully we now live in a more enlightened age, and Windian Records are close to if not the current leaders of the pack regarding punk reissues as something other than mere product. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collection</i> just oozes punk love before it even gets onto the turntable, and once the platter is on the player the ambiance substantially grows. Of the previously released tracks (in addition to the spilt LP and the Mercury disc, they also pumped out three indie 7-inches), I particularly enjoy “Mind’s a Magnet”, which comes off very much like the early Pink Floyd if they’d grown up in Texas and recorded for International Artists (with Hell for a singer, natch).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But “Lady Doubonette”, with its sly, almost funky bass line and highly developed guitar playing for the period (not to mention some smart late-song keyboard) impresses because it doesn’t sound overtly like any other band operating at the time. Sure, there are the requisite VU touches, but the tune ultimately doesn’t connect like anything the Velvets would’ve concocted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plus, the vocals of Nicholis are too relaxed on this cut to be in the lineage of Hell; it’s almost like he’s an extremely relaxed, non-angsty Jon Richman. And “Artie J” nods toward the enduring pop sensibility that Television occasionally asserted, in the process crafting a reminder that in its earliest days, American punk was more than just the oppositional movement it’s often portrayed to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For those already familiar with The Bizarros’ extant work, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Collection</i> also includes some previously unreleased live tracks of primo quality, presenting the band in tough, raw form. Of particular note is a swaggering cover of The Music Machine’s eternal gem “Talk Talk”; replicating the essence of that unimpeachable classic is no easy feat, and these cats do it with aplomb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some later demo material finds The Bizarros pursuing an explicit power-pop direction, most notably on “The Beat”, and if this prospect bothers you, well please loosen up, grouchy. As the commercial door was slamming shut on punk, bands subsequently reacted in a variety of ways; this was one of them, and it sounds far better than most avenues some thirty odd years later. “The Beat” is strong enough to satisfy any Plimsouls’ fan, and dare I say it, any partisan of The Nerves or Paul Collins’ Beat, so you know it’s on the right side of history.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As is this whole anthology. Is the music included here as strong as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blank Generation</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marquee Moon</i>, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Modern Dance</i>? In a word, no; but those three records are in league with the greatest rock albums ever recorded. What’s highly impressive is that the sum total of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Complete Collection 1976-1980</i> ain’t far behind at all. Based on the evidence here, I’d rate these Akron gents as the equals of San Francisco’s Crime. And if that sounds like heresy, please listen before crying foul. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The music of The Bizarros sounds remarkably fresh in the present tense, and current hearing also lends a small taste of what it must’ve been like to bear witness as a vital new thing transpired to the joy of very few. Here’s to them for doing it anyway and to Windian for putting this stuff back in racks with panache.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not a bit surprising that a band on a label called Ipecac has released a record titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freak Puke</i>. The pleasant twist is that in reverting back to a trio with bassist Trevor Dunn, The Melvins have delivered their best release since 2006’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(A) Senile Animal</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Melvins, by my count eighteen studio albums strong (not including collaborations), have become one of the longest-serving examples of the “heads down/amps turned way up” mode of rock ‘n’ roll expression, a style not known for its survivalist tactics. While the vast majority of groups specializing in music of comparable heaviness understandably lack the stamina and depth of creativity for creating worthwhile records over a period of more than a few years, The Melvins have managed to stay interesting for close to thirty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Part of the secret might just be their refusal to fall comfortably into one single camp. Often hailed in mainstream coverage as a “godfather of grunge” due to geographical location and their music’s motions toward a punk/metal hybridization, and most importantly because of their close ties to Mudhoney and Nirvana (if not to Sub Pop proper), The Melvins were surprisingly (and in retrospect, understandably) indifferent to cultivating a forefather-esque association with a rock movement that would inevitably culminate in a big ol’ nasty backlash.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Signing the rather predictable ‘90s major-label deal with Atlantic (who just as predictably didn’t really know what to do with them), the then trio of guitarist Buzz Osborne (aka King Buzzo), drummer Dale Crover and not long for the band bassist Lori “Lorax” Black (aka child actress Shirley Temple’s daughter) retained a close relationship to the indie scene that spawned them, again as if sensing that the tide would inevitably turn in the other direction, with bands of their ilk being hung out to dry if found too dependent upon the corporate teat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But after deeper investigation The Melvins’ relationship with the indie landscape is one of the more unusual aspects of their back-story. While it made total sense to see their releases on such labels as Sympathy For the Record Industry and Man’s Ruin, and for the band to foster a long-term liaison with Amphetamine Reptile (one of the noisier imprints to soldier out of the late-‘80’s underground), it left some observers scratching their heads to find them amongst the participants in Calvin Johnson’s International Pop Underground Convention circa 1991.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The difference between Tom Hazelmeyer’s Am-Rep and Cal J’s K Records (where Melvins’ tracks could be found on cassette comps as early as 1984) can be illustrated by how each label’s fans might choose to spend their spare time: in the case of Am-Rep- target practice, cigar smoking, bidding on ltd edition Frank Kozik silk-screens on eBay; regarding K- vegan picnics, volunteer work, self-publishing zines.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I generalize to make a point; as an unabashed fan of both labels (and the quite important, still vital scenes they helped to document) I also understand how rare it was for a band to be a part of both. Indeed, the only other figure to gain similar acceptance from these highly oppositional (if not completely incompatible) scenes is Brit garage titan Wild Billy Childish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All this wouldn’t mean much if it didn’t also signify the underlying breadth of the band’s sound, an expansive exercise in the heavy and the slow that’s too often summed up as just a variation on metal, be it stoner, sludge, doom or drone. But to reestablish the point made above, the greater number of bands caught simply dishing out predictable helpings of heaviosity nearly always expire creatively before they hit the five year mark. That these guys have been pumping this stuff out for nearly three decades is testament to the fact that they’re actually up to far more than the average post-Sabbath skunk-smoking muck-meisters.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is all no great secret. However, The Melvins are more than a little bit self-deprecating regarding the significance of their activities and quite backhanded at times in referencing the experimental background of some of their collaborators. For instance, in the liner notes to 2005’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Live History of Gluttony and Lust</i>, a live in an empty warehouse in-sequence recording of the band’s ’93 Atlantic debut <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Houdini</i>, Buzz tongue-in-cheekily describes the activities of the album’s bassist Trevor Dunn as being limited to the “drowsy, headache-inducing, goose-honking New York ‘jazz’ scene”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In actuality, Trevor Dunn was a member of Mr. Bungle and the avant-metal supergroups Fantômas and Tomahawk while doing some of his most interesting work with his own group Trio-Convulsant (with incredible guitarist Mary Halvorson and superb drummer Ches Smith) and in the live context with such acts as The Nels Cline Singers and the amazing Rova Saxophone Quartet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Melvins in contrast, if a band willing to set the controls for outbound territory throughout their career, still generally kept those flights of oddness/abrasiveness well within the tradition of noisy punkish audaciousness, not at all far from the sonic strategies employed by such acts as prime Flipper and pre-crap Butthole Surfers. From this angle, it’s easy to have fun side-stepping the generic while ticking off the squares and coming up with some truly off-the-wall material, all while not having to worry about it getting taken too seriously by stuffy art-scene interlopers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hooking up with Greg Werckman and Mike Patton’s Ipecac label (roughly the left-field heavy rock equivalent to John Zorn’s Tzadik imprint, though far less prolific) changed this a little bit, though some punk rock attitudes do die hard. That is; if Dunn, a player born from the wilds of the mid-‘80’s Cali-rock scene, has no qualms about mixing it up with rockers, jazzers, “new music” experimenters or even restless contemporary singer-songwriters like Sean Lennon, it seems clear that The Melvins have been a little bit hesitant over getting unreservedly connected to someone else’s avant-garde.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Naturally, this is utter nonsense. Groups like Sun O))), Earth, and Boris have stepped to the forefront of progressive metal largely because they’ve proudly refused to be defined by its restrictions. And based upon their new full-length, again self-disparagingly credited to Melvins Lite, whereupon Trevor Dunn stands in for the duo of Jared Warren and Coady Willis (collectively known apart from their membership in Melvins as the duo Big Business), it might be time for Osborne and Crover to ditch their issues with experimentalism once and for all and let their avant-freak flag fly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Beginning with 2006’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(A) Senile Animal</i>, Melvins included the pair of Warren and Willis, expanding the group for the first time into a legit four-piece with Crover and Willis acting as formidable double-drummers. Prior to this, the band hadn’t released a studio album since 2002’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hostile Ambient Takeover</i>, mainly due to the absence of bassist Kevin Rutmanis, and the fresh movement detailed by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(A) Senile Animal</i> was a welcome and successful wrinkle in their development.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was largely extended through 2008’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nude with Boots</i>, but 2010’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Bride Screamed Murder</i> proved to be one of The Melvins’ lesser albums. To be blunt, too much consistency appears to be contrary to this band kicking out top-flight work. And in the past, they seemed to sense this, bouncing around from more straight-ahead “normal” albums like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stoner Witch</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stag</i> to the screwy patience-testing of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Honky</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Colossus of Destiny</i>. Perhaps hooking up with Warren and Willis proved so fulfilling that they temporarily lost track of what made Melvins tick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freak Puke</i> does hold a few lesser songs, but on the whole it’s succeeds quite nicely in combining The Melvins’ stylistic attributes with the rather huge sounding and at times sweetly expansive amplified acoustic bass, especially on opener “Mr. Rip Off”, which begins with just the largeness of Dunn’s bowed instrument before shifting into an environment of relative rock tranquility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The brief two minutes of “Inner Ear Rupture” is also essentially a showcase for Dunn, additionally serving as a preamble for “Baby, Won’t You Weird Me Out”; that track begins with some bowed bass that could possibly leave a smile on the mug of a Steve Reich fan before sharply detouring into some bold buzzsaw riff-rock and culminating in a short rhythmic exchange halfway between an arena-rock instrumental showcase and a post-jazz-fusion exaltation in chops, but with a crucial punk edge. The verdict; these guys are splendidly shifty in how they blend such a wide range of seemingly irreconcilable influences.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And there’s actually something more than sarcasm in the moniker Melvins Lite. This is mainly palpable through the singing voices of Crover and Buzzo. But a lot of the songwriting, if not pop inclined, does fall to the more melodic side of The Melvins spectrum. So it’s ultimately of no great shock that the band’s cover of McCartney & Wings’ “Let Me Roll It” succeeds so well. If the undistinguished rocking of “Leon Versus the Revolution” provides the record’s low-point, the band does get in some quality crunch on the title track and in much of the similarly broad “Worm Farm Waltz”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it’s the lengthy closing track that leaves a lingering impression of positivity, initially furthering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freak Puke</i>’s melodic agenda before upping the tempo and taking flight into a fine mid-section that really doesn’t recall any of The Melvins’ extensively annotated prior motion. It does end with some spacious and attitudinally punk audio mess-around, and that’s certainly indicative of the band’s creative wheelhouse. As such it’s very cool.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As much as I’d theoretically love for these wily jokers to full-on embrace the experimental, in the end maybe I don’t want them to change too much. Perhaps <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Freak Puke</i> serves as a happy medium.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-68822208552672425552012-06-08T12:23:00.000-07:002012-06-08T12:23:16.152-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 6/8/12 - Public Image Ltd and Grass Widow<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By its very title, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is PiL</i>, the first studio album in over two decades from John Lydon’s post-Sex Pistols’ post-punk entity effectively becomes a state-of-the-band address. While nodding superficially at times toward the unkempt wilds of Public Image Ltd’s groundbreaking early work, there is far too much of the Lydon-dominated calculation and missteps that unfortunately defined the group’s later material.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some will immediately balk that Public Image Ltd has always been John Lydon’s band, and in a sense that’s very true. But on their initial three studio albums, they operated as a real band not in the democratic sense but in the undeniable reality that a gang of immensely talented musicians were butting up against each other and creating something huge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">John Lydon, guitarist Keith Levene bassist Jah Wobble and drummer Jim Miller conjured up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">First Issue</i> in December of 1978, an exceptional debut album and a bold maneuver in the development of post-punk. This was followed up less than a year later with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Metal Box</i> aka <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Second Edition</i>, recorded by Lydon, Levene, Wobble and a shifting lineup of drummers, and it stands as not only the finest release in the oeuvre of Public Image Ltd, but also one of the truly masterful post-punk albums.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Following this Wobble was out, drummer Martin Adkins was in, and instead of following a route of refinement, the group came up with one of the more uncompromising records ever released by a major label, which isn’t to insinuate that their first two were mellow going. What made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Flowers of Romance</i> so fascinating was how it largely made no attempt to replace the gap left by Wobble; the group essentially shifted in focus from one of the darkest manifestations of post-punk’s dub-reggae influence into an equally foreboding atmosphere of rhythmic experimentation that was very conversant with simultaneous expressions emanating from the industrial music scene.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Simply put, these three records cohere into an astonishing achievement, and it’s somewhat of a drag to find people underestimating them in the here and now, either because their vast influence has somewhat dulled the cumulative effect (though in my case at least, this hasn’t been the case) or due to folks’ aversion to Lydon’s persona and his later, lesser work subconsciously sabotaging their assessment of PiL’s most crucial documents.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On previous occasions I’ve likened my lingering reaction upon discovery of PiL’s early stuff to the impression of younger associates after they were first introduced to Radiohead. While older listeners more up to speed with dub, Can/Krautrock and experimental music in general were expectedly a bit (or a lot) more measured in their appreciation of Public Image’s first few records, for the fresh ears of me and others, they really sounded like something new under the sun. And please keep in mind that in my case the early PiL records were being digested simultaneous to hearing their later LPs like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Album</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Happy?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Flowers of Romance</i>, the band basically exploded, with allegedly stolen master tapes resulting in the Levene-instigated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Commercial Zone</i> bootleg LP, a frankly underwhelming record matched only by its legit counterpart <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Is What You Want…This Is What You Get</i>. Adkins remained as drummer, but it was increasingly clear that Public Image Ltd was now Lydon’s show from top to bottom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was this period that found the man’s attempted piss-take “This Is Not a Love Song” becoming his biggest chart single to date (#5 UK), an occurrence that’s perhaps indicative of the point where he began replacing the musically challenging with the merely vitriolic. From the point of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">First Issue</i>, Lydon had made sure to mix his disgust with true antagonism (see “Religion I” and “Religion II”) and the presence of Levene and Wobble pushed it all very far into the deep sonic weeds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Is What You Want…This Is What You Get</i> effectively ended Public Image Ltd as a band, but the nadir was the live record <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Live in Tokyo</i>; as problematic as the group’s rather obscure ’79 live dip <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paris au Printemps</i> was, that LP’s contents simply blew the doors off of the blandness of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tokyo</i>’s session-musician plagued undermining of earlier vital material.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So if the contents of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Album</i> were an undisguised move into pop territory, it was all much easier to swallow than the often blatant missteps of the prior two records. Plus, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Album</i> was undeniably aided by the production presence of Bill Laswell, who brought in a bunch of creative ringers to sessioneer and effectively stifle the genericism proffered by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Live in Tokyo</i>; if Lydon no longer desired a band dynamic, it certainly helped to stock the studio with names like Tony Williams, Ginger Baker, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Bernie Worrell and Malachi Favors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But his subsequent records, if created with a pretense of a working band, were all clearly situations where Lydon called the shots, and from inside the pop realm they were a story of diminishing returns, effectively ending with PiL’s studio low point, 1992’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That What Is Not</i>. A few live records have come out since, but I honestly didn’t think I’d ever encounter another PiL studio release.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But here is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is PiL</i>, and beforehand, being unable to do otherwise, I braced myself for the worst. And the opening title track still confounded me with the sheer level of its wrongheadedness. If “This is PiL” seems intended as a hearkening back to such early tracks as “Theme” and “Public Image”, it flounders threefold; the declamatory nature of Lydon’s early vocals benefited from being somewhat sparse, this sparseness was aided by the considerable levels of musicianship that surrounded him, and lastly his lyrics contained varying amounts of substantive content.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is PiL” is instead burdened by Lydon’s voice overstaying its welcome; it’s weakened further by a musical bed that’s uninspiring, and ultimately ruined by a lyrical sentiment that’s simply banal. Twenty years out of the studio and the best Lydon can come up with for an opening salvo is to incessantly tell us that this is indeed PiL (alternately spelled out or spoken as the word “pill”, maybe the most surprising aspect of the song), and that we’re “entering a PiL zone”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Actually, that last bit sheds some strong light upon where Lydon’s inspiration, at least on this track, is derived; in ’82, shortly before it all hit the fan, PiL announced the imminent release of an EP to be titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Are Now Entering a Commercial Zone</i>. Please couple this informational tidbit with the return of Lydon’s proclivity from the same era to specifically inform the listener as to what they were or were not getting: this is not a love song, this is what you want, this is what you get, and now this is PiL.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was easy to predict that our man would eschew jumping back into the dangerous waters of the group’s early material, but it’s disappointing that Lydon lacked the perception to avoid returning to the period immediately after Levene’s departure, when the music attributed to the group was at close to its lowest ebb. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is PiL</i> improves somewhat from its ill-conceived start, largely because it doesn’t have much other choice. But the record is a study in often erratic ups and downs, and yet is also burdened by its leader’s desire to play it safe far too frequently. The lilting reggae of “One Drop” ends better than it starts, but it’s not very inspiring to hear Lydon in this mode, even after an absence of twenty years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the better tracks here, “Deeper Water”, “I Must Be Dreaming”, “The Room I Am In”, “Fool”, all display a desire to make an album of real value, and that’s commendable. Yet good intentions do not a great, or in this case even a very good, album make. This is to say that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is PiL</i>’s is simply undone by too much subpar material.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">John Lydon is back and those that deeply love him may find the contents of this LP to be enough. Those who feel the ball was fumbled after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Flowers of Romance</i> should proceed with extreme caution.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those with an unscratchable itch for stripped-down yet pop-savvy post-punk should give San Francisco’s Grass Widow a try. Their latest record <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> hits upon many of that sub-genre’s best elements, all without being the slightest bit overbearing about the whole endeavor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Grass Widow has arrived at their third full length in an admirable, tired-and-true manner; via gigs, practice, patience, networking and diligence. Debuting in ’09 with a self-titled 12-inch on the Captured Tracks label and a self-titled full-length on the Make A Mess imprint, they’d been playing shows from at least two years previous to those releases, as is evidenced by a demo CD-R that’s recently been discussed on the interwebs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It should never be understated that one of the crucial factors in a band’s formative period is simply not being in a hurry. Far too many groups have let impatience squander their potential as manifested through the booking of studio time after just a few uncommonly smooth practices. And others have been given fatal advice by spurious third parties less interested in quality music than in the potential for profit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully Grass Widow comes from a proudly DIY place. One listen to the angular, post-punk derived sound of those first two records and it’s clear that Hannah Lew, Lillian Marling and Raven Mahon march to the beat of their own drummer. This isn’t to imply the band don’t give off the vibes of precedent; upon first hearing them I heard the shaping influence of the UK’s unbeatable Rough Trade warriors The Raincoats filtered perhaps through some of the righteous ‘90s rocking of Washington DC’s underappreciated Slant 6.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of it was a trio thing, and much of it was the immediate feeling that Grass Widow didn’t have any qualms about their femininity. So it was no surprise that the band’s 2010 follow-up LP was on Kill Rock Stars, a label that since their ’91 inception has proven to be one of the strongest outlets for contemporary women musicians. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Past Time</i> was a tangible advance in both songwriting and in execution.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To their credit, Grass Widow don’t make things easy for themselves; while never getting wonkily progged-out, their music undeniably possessed a palpable riffy complexity, and when coupled with the nature of trio rock (where nobody can hide, because everybody’s integral to the music’s success) they made it clear they weren’t just fooling around. Unlike the appealing shambolic aura of The Vivian Girls’ early stuff, Grass Widow’s music oozed like the product of a band that actually got a big kick out of practice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If those ’09 records still featured an attractive hint of nervousness in the band’s delivery, it was gone by the very impressive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Past Time</i>; no sophomore slump for these three. And their new record <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> posits that Grass Widow could easily become one of our best contemporary bands simply by emitting nary a trace of nonsense and getting right down onto tape and getting heard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Past Time</i> was a record about growth, then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> is about boldness. It’s most immediately engaging quality (beyond the sheer strength of songwriting of course), is how they take a form of skeletal post-punk that’s often defined as a reaction against “pop” sensibilities and imbue it with a fully formed production sound that doesn’t detract in the slightest from the record’s heft. This is achieved mainly due to Grass Widow’s decision to not sacrifice instrumental muscularity. In other words, they haven’t forgotten they’re a rock band.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But all three members are strong of voice, and as their discography has progressed it’s been quite a gas to hear them harmonize; it’s this pop aspect of their sound that leads me to think they could come up with something comparable to The Raincoats’ third LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moving</i>. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> is also a third album, and it’s become apparent that Grass Widow, unlike many of their post-punk predecessors (and I’m not referring to The Raincoats with the following) actually really enjoy what they sound like. Instead of bailing on it as they became more instrumentally adept and confident, they’ve instead honed their music’s considerable qualities through superb judgment into something exceptional.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For those already familiar with the band, the two most notable tracks on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> will be “A Light in the Static”, which is 1:30 of unexpected Spanish guitar, and the album’s solo piano outro “Response To Photographs. While they do much to broaden Grass Widow’s palate, they also serve as something of a red herring, for the LP’s real strides come from within territory already established; opener “Goldilocks Zone” runs those splendid harmonies through a noticeably Bratmobile-like zone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But that’s just for starters. “Hang Around” features some gradually grabbing guitar work, and “Under the Atmosphere” is a surprisingly pretty tune that’s antagonized by tough instrumentation. And longer tracks like “Spock on MUNI” and “Whistling in the Dark” provide platforms for every instrument to shine, particularly the bass, which alternates expertly between rhythm and melody, and the drumming, which is precise but never predictable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The significance of Spanish guitar on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> can be stretched a bit and compared to the classical guitar included on Minutemen’s masterpiece <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Double Nickels on the Dime</i>. Some might find this contrast specious, but for every obvious difference there is a similarity; both are trios, both this and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Double Nickels</i> are third proper full-lengths, and like those Pedro dudes, Grass Widow are highly influenced by Brit post-punk. Hell, these gals even covered Wire’s “Mannequin” on their “Milo Minute” 7-inch from last year, and that song’s long been a staple of Mike Watt’s set-lists, even getting recorded by Firehose.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I don’t want to push the issue too much. Unlike <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Double Nickels on the Dime</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> isn’t a masterpiece, and it’s somewhat imperfect. But its main problem is ultimately a minor quibble, specifically the brevity of the LP; two years in the making and the album is shy of half an hour, retreading both “Milo Minute and “Disappearing Industries” from singles. Sure, it’s always preferable for a release to leave listeners wanting more instead of wishing they’d gotten less, and a lean, quick record is very securely in Grass Widow’s M.O. However, it would frankly be nice to see them stretch out and away from the expected a bit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But one of the most pleasant extra-musical aspects of Grass Widow’s recent development is how they have retained a deep sense of that DIY spirit by releasing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> on their own HLR label. It’s not only reflective of the band’s sense of scale and their preference for artistic control over fleeting notoriety, but it’s also indicative of a recent spike in artists electing to not just remain with indies, but in many cases taking the initiative to actually coordinate the release of their own product, a trend that I can wholeheartedly cheer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The above comparisons between Grass Widow and The Raincoats were certainly aided by seeing them play with that legendary Brit band in Washington DC last year, and indeed some might complain that the two bands display too few overt similarities to make the connection. I disagree; to these ears it seems clear that Grass Widow fully understand that when drawing upon the template of the truly groundbreaking, the sincerely influential is antithetical to the spoils produced by the rote copyist.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Again, Grass Widow is scaled differently than The Raincoats (or for that matter, Minutemen), being a band whose best qualities grow with time well spent. All their records are worth owning, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Internal Logic</i> is the most fully formed to date, and its running-time posits that more is to come. </span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-72503027181541286542012-06-01T13:27:00.000-07:002012-06-01T13:27:20.131-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 6/1/12 - Paul & Linda McCartney and Heavy Blanket<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>, the second post-Beatle LP from Paul McCartney has just been reissued through Hear Music. There are numerous ways for the uninitiated to acquaint oneself with its contents, but the best is likely the two-disc Special Edition. It presents the contents of this hard-fought classic alongside a second album of appropriate bonus material.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paul McCartney was the member of the Fab Four that so many used to relish knocking around. Whether it was in spirited bar chats or animated discussions at parties, when the tide turned to The Beatles somebody could always be counted on for a hearty jibe at Macca’s expense. And in my above use of “so many” I’m generally referring to males and by “somebody” I’m specifically speaking of those who indisputably considered John Lennon to be the Best Beatle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While for those truly devoted fans of the band there could simply never be a Worst, for many Paul was the Square Beatle, a designation not borne out by the facts, for he was as interested in the avant-garde as any member. Hell, in ’68 he co-produced “I’m the Urban Spaceman” by The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band for Pete’s sake, an act that places him rather high up on the meter of cool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, others derided him as the Corporate Beatle. And yeah, it’s true that Paul never lost track of the business aspect of the whole affair, but his behavior in this regard hasn’t really played out as particularly odious in comparison to other rock star types of not even half his stature or talent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But both Paul’s image and the assessment of his post-Beatle solo career has rebounded in recent years. Much of this might have to do with the constantly regenerating fanbase of the Four consistently growing older and perhaps letting go of the rebelliousness that inspired easy identification with Lennon or Harrison. It also might be related to the race for Coolest Living Beatle being down to him and Ringo “No More Mail, Thanks” Starr.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But seriously. In my estimation Paul’s general critical resurgence is a welcome phenomenon, if only because his first two solo records have finally gotten something approximate to the proper level of respect. And yes, for years I bought the baloney regarding the collective underwhelming nature of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McCartney</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This was in part due to older acquaintances, even those quite favorable to McCartney’s work in The Beatles, being generally disapproving of his solo stuff, considering those early albums as grievous miscalculations of ambition (or lack thereof) and Wings (which of course wasn’t really Paul “solo”, being a band in its own right) as a severe pendulum swing into the other direction, offering safer though often more grandly scaled distillations of Paul’s talent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the kibosh was Landau and Christgau’s critical double whammy on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>, which was enough to make me weary for years. And yet, as I kept stumbling onto really great albums that either Jon or Bob (or both) disdained, and as the general curiosity inherent to music fans started getting the better of me, I decided to take the plunge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sensibly started with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McCartney</i>, and was knocked plumb out by its stripped down feel; it’s been described as demo-like, and that’s accurate. In contrast to the over-slick efforts that were clogging the bins at my point of discovery, it was a real breath of fresh air. And unlike its rep, the level of the songwriting was excellent, and made clear that McCartney’s aims were indeed ambitious, though simply at odds with what the critical zeitgeist (it wasn’t add odds with the record buying public however; both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McCartney</i> and its follow-up sold an asston). But the high quality of Paul’s solo debut simply couldn’t prepare me for the exquisitely ramshackle affair that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While I already knew and highly enjoyed “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey”, I was a fresh-faced newcomer to the wonky blues of “3 Legs” or the rollicking smack-talk of “Smile Away”. In “Monkberry Moon Delight” I found a deliciously snide and considerably twisted stomp, and “Ram On”, with its distorted electric piano tones and strummed ukulele, is nothing less than a prototype for the 21st Century indie-pop sound.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The interplay between Paul and Linda on “Eat at Home” feels a little like a laid-back country-rock precursor to the Buck/Nicks-era Fleetwood Mac, its scale smaller, oozing with the nonchalance of a couple that’s discovered they have nothing to prove, so they’re just going to do what gets them off. It seems this was enough to drive many observers to vitriolic ends. That “Eat at Home” is apparently a tribute to the undying grandeur of Buddy Holly only adds to its panache.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And unlike some who find her co-credit to be a display of hubris or economic maneuvering, I continue to find Linda’s vocal contribution to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i> one of its most endearing traits. There’s a mixture of earnestness and palpable pleasure that’s sweetly accented by an appealing lack of polish in her delivery, and this blend really adds to “3 Legs”, “Monkberry Moon Delight” (I gas every time on how she sings “cats and kittens”) and the extended “Long Haired Lady”, another <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i> cut that solidly presages the modern indie sound. And while we’re on matters of the up to date, the smooth folk-pop of “Heart of the Country” sounds downright contemporary. Bon Iver, anyone?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over time I’ve detected a mild thread of similarity across the grooves of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i> to the songwriting of Brian Wilson. Not only can I hear it in the album’s terrific closer “Back Seat of My Car”, but I also perceive its presence on “Dear Boy” and even a little bit in “Smile Away”, mainly due to that song’s backing vocals. And this directly relates to one of McCartney’s most positive attributes, specifically the lack of anxiety in his influence. He’s always been pretty open about where his inspiration derives, maybe attempting to add a little modesty to the mantle of pop messiah that was thrust upon all three of the Beatles’ principal songwriters.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Unlike some hit songs, tunes which stick out on otherwise superb albums like an unfortunate mustard stain inflicted upon a finely-designed and well-worn shirt during a swank holiday picnic, “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” fits snuggly into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>’s qualitative gist. In fact, it’s one of the album’s more important tracks in that it provides quite a template for some of the expansive tweeness that’s occurred over the following four decades.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s also a very weird song; to wit, the assumedly Linda-derived tongue-flutter in the cut’s first section. And while listening recently, it suddenly became tangible that “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey”, again at least in its first section, isn’t that far removed from some of the more pop-inflected moments of Animal Collective. Yeah, contemporaneousness is surely in abundance on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By this late date it’s not likely too many people are continuing to harbor a lingering prejudicial grudge against McCartney’s pre-Wings solo work. Like this expanded issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McCartney</i> was released in a deluxe bells-and-whistle intensive set not quite a year ago, and if that effort had either stumbled commercially or been subject to a persistent persnickety critical evaluation, Sir Paul might’ve hesitated over putting this one in the racks in so quick a fashion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And in my estimation, the two-disc edition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i> edges out the same configuration of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McCartney</i> by a little more than a nose. Sure, both “Another Day” and “Oh Woman, Oh Why” were already added to the ’93 CD issue, but their inclusion on the vinyl of this impeccably crafted set is still quite jake. “Little Woman Love”, the b-side to Wings’ “Mary Had a Little Lamb” also turns up, and is sorta the odd track out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For unlike the latter live versions that make up the bulk of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McCartney</i>’s extra material, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i> includes a bevy of previously unissued studio tracks, all of which date from the sessions for the LP (a big plus in my book), which makes hearing them an absolute cinch for anybody that’s stumbled onto the greatness of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the verdict on the general worthiness of these extra tracks is a resounding positive. Quite interestingly, the unreleased songs don’t sound like completed tunes that didn’t make the cut for reasons of inferior quality, instead feeling like pieces that were worked on and then set aside unfinished, never to be picked up again. For a few examples, “Great Cock and Seagull Race” and “Sunshine Sometime” are both instrumentals, and the lengthy rocker “Rode All Night” would’ve likely undergone some editing in a non-bonus cut version.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course, McCartney maniacs might already be familiar with these tracks through unauthorized channels. But here they are in a Paul-instigated expansion of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i>, another installment in one of the most meticulously assembled and least mercenary of contemporary single artist reissue programs.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">McCartney</i>, Paul’s second solo stab has endured the tide of time to distinguish itself as one of the more interesting and most personal works of the ‘70s, easily ranking in the top three Beatle solo albums alongside <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Things Must Pass</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band</i>. Hearing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ram</i> in its original form is essential. This well conceived expansion of its contents does nothing to interfere with its disheveled majesty.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">J Mascis plugs in and freaks out on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavy Blanket</i>. A blissfully heavy slab of instrumental scorch, it’s an expansive yet tidy expression of one aspect of his musical personality. It’ll likely appeal to only a portion of Dinosaur Jr.’s fanbase, but it’s no less interesting for that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In case you didn’t already know, J Mascis is quite the adept guitarist. In fact, along with Thurston Moore, he served the role of guitar hero to a late-‘80s u-ground rock scene that was still close enough to its punk roots to consciously disdain the concept of string heroics as antithetical to what made the period’s hip crux of bands bubbling under the radar such a supreme kick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That is, if Moore was Jimi Hendrix then Mascis was Jimmy Page and most of the wigs getting flipped by their abilities, if presented with such an analogy, would’ve likely sneered in disgust and berated the person making such an uncouth comparison as a total, um, dinosaur.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, some folks comprehended the significance of the moniker Dinosaur (the Jr. being added after some real dinosaurs from the San Fran psyche scene demanded they change it), but for most listeners back then the name was simply a name, and indeed most of those same listeners didn’t know or particularly care that Dinosaur Jr. soaked up influence from such relics as Crazy Horse, Sabbath and the general blunt sludginess of power-trio rock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, the above analogies are extremely loose ones meant to represent importance rather than specific stylistic similarities, for as one listen to Hendrix and Moore proves, the two are highly dissimilar. And Mascis for that matter doesn’t aurally reflect Page, or Clapton, or Jeff Beck. He does recall Neil Young in his roughest period with Crazy Horse mixed with the sort of head down, back to the audience heaviness that spread like a rogue STD in a free-love commune from ’69 to roughly ’73 or so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But give that description to someone who’s never actually heard any of J Mascis’ stuff, then play them a few choice cuts from either incarnation of Dinosaur’s original lineup, and the difference between what they imagined and what they actually heard will likely be quite large. This helps make a great case for the crème of the ‘80s u-ground guitarists (a group that also includes Black Flag’s Greg Ginn, Minutemen’s D. Boon, Big Black’s Steve Albini and Mission of Burma’s Roger Miller) as standing up tall in terms of individuality next to the late-‘60s team of string warriors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the case of Sonic Youth, this individualistic streak is unsurprising, for that band is maybe the apex of rock music made by actual record collectors. But in the case of Mascis, I’ve been consistently struck by how successfully he’s avoided falling into a retrograde zone. His obvious inspirations are unchanged, and yet while his most impressive, groundbreaking work is behind him, he’s retained his vigor in both performance and recording, surviving a bout of post-grunge ‘90s celebrity with no noticeable side effects.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A big reason for Mascis’ sustained distinctness from his influences and the continued creative spark in his work boils right down to punk rock. I know that upon my first hearing of Dinosaur, specifically the “Repulsion” 7-inch, I made no immediate connection to Crazy Horse and Sabbath. A helping hint was provided in the liner notes to Homestead Records’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wailing Ultimate</i>, a compilation LP that also included “Repulsion”, and where the band was described as “ex-hardcores that like to jam”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That liner blurb on ol’ Dino also served as my introduction to Deep Wound, the suburban Massachusetts hardcore band that’s taken on legendary status as the first group of Lou Barlow and J Mascis. Over time Dinosaur’s HC pedigree became general knowledge: their cover of “Chunks” by Boston fly-by-nights Last Rights, J’s professed love in interviews of the UK band Discharge, and the bootlegging and eventual legit issue of the Deep Wound discography, a big beautiful throttling blur of a thing, as the nooks and crannies of hardcore gained retrospective value and respect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it became apparent that while what Dinosaur’s music was no longer appropriately categorized as punk it was also impossible to remove vital elements of the music that shaped them from their aesthetic, and it was why so many crabby observers refused to accept that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re Living All Over Me</i> was a natural extension of elements derived from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everybody Knows This is Nowhere</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paranoid</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hell, by the ‘90s there was a certifiable ton of bands that had strapped on the mantle of able musicianship while retaining a connection to punk’s leveling globular impetus. One such example of this would be the obscure but very worthwhile instrumental compilation <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guitarrorists</i>, released in 1991 on Terry Tolkin’s short-lived but quite interesting No. 6 label. It lined up twenty-six tracks from as many contributors, one of which belonged to none other than J Mascis.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If deep down always connected to his roots, J’s use of Dinosaur as essentially a solo vehicle that had a fleeting pop-chart flirt caused many to knee-jerkily disassociate him with the movement from which he was creatively spawned. This was a big mistake, for the 21st Century found Mascis easing into his status as a not very talkative sleepy-lidded elder statesman of indie-rock, fronting a smaller scaled band The Fog as well as working in groups such as The Witch and Sweet Apple. But reconvening with his original Dino partners was the icing on the cake, knocking out two expectations-exceeding albums and some even stronger tours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavy Blanket</i> is J’s latest effort, and it’s rather resistant to broad description and analysis. The self-titled LP finds Mascis shredding in the studio across six instrumental tracks, all of them basically templates for extended soloing. The press bio concocts an entertaining if obviously bogue story about J stumbling upon some high school band mates and, based upon an old demo tape they made, rerecording those tunes to unexpectedly high quality results. Um, yeah. In reality, the music is likely to be all Mascis via overdubbing; he was the drummer in Deep Wound, as well as Gobblehoof and Upsidedown Cross.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The fun fictiveness is understandable. A bio that stuck to the bare facts would be a short, uninspiring read. But interestingly, the creative untruths connect the music on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavy Blanket</i>, a sound that many would consider antithetical to the oft rudimentary nature of punk, to 1984, a point when Mascis’ was still running roughshod over the Massachusetts’ HC circuit in Deep Wound. Indeed, the bio directly references that band.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These fabrications unknowingly reinforce what becomes clear after time spent with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavy Blanket</i>, namely that if on the surface indulgent of Mascis’ boldest desires of heaviosity circa the early ‘70s, it is also indicative of the guy’s continued relevance as an exponent of contemporarily substantive din. And the whole racket may not be overtly punk in form, but it holds an abundance of what some describe as “punk in spirit”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is a cool development. Much as I liked the largely acoustic and tangibly laid-back atmosphere of last year’s Sub Pop outing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Several Shades of Why</i>, I also couldn’t help having mixed feelings over my impression that the man was mellowing considerably with age. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavy Blanket</i> makes clear that he holds no inhibitions about plugging in and throwing down. And as a display of such, it’ll obviously appeal to a fraction of Dinosaur Jr.’s legion of fans, a huge portion of which require the melodiousness that’s become a trademark of said band, not to mention lyrics and the instantly recognizable sound of J’s voice.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But the fraction that will welcome <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavy Blanket</i>’s existence should be blown away but good. Throw in Savage Pencil cover artwork and the whole package feels a little bit like a project issued by the Twisted Village label around ’92 or so. It doesn’t stand as tall as the Fog stuff or the intense beauty of Mascis’ most unheralded work, ‘05’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">J Mascis + Friends Sing + Chant for Amma</i>, but it’s not far behind. Long may he wail.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-34643716822365004422012-05-25T10:42:00.000-07:002012-05-25T10:42:29.043-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 5/25/12 - Best Coast and Sugarman 3<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i>, Best Coast’s Bethany Cosentino joins up with Fiona Apple/Kanye West producer Jon Brion for the purposes of broadening her sound. But pop polish does her work no favors; the result is a record far inferior to the modest pleasantries of her debut <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As an unabashed fan of the sound of lo-fi and its contemporary descendant bedroom-pop, I can’t help but be afflicted by a nagging sense of disappointment over its practitioners consistently bailing on the small of scale and the unsmooth of texture, heading instead for the obvious comforts and potential acceptance of bolder sonic normalcy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Outside of the garage rock realm, where a defiant persistence in unkempt non-streamlining is often considered a virtue, it seems that musicians who chose to explore the glories of four-track fuzz and tape deck hiss are expected sooner rather than later to step into the chilly confines of a spacious studio and “go pro”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These days of course (with the appropriate software) a person can go pro in the dank confines of their very own expertly decorated basement. And that’s really the point. Lo-fi, no-fi, bedroom-pop, shitgaze etc; none of it sounds that way by accident or due to a lack of resources.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And while some folks thought otherwise, this was also the case back in the dawn of the ‘90s when the term lo-fi really started gaining traction. Pavement, Sebadoh and Guided by Voices all arrived at their individual if conspiratorial early sounds through savvy calculation. And by 1996 all three had made the necessary adjustments to go pro.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2010’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i>, the debut long-player from Best Coast was a solid nugget of bedroom-pop. While far from perfect, it soundly delivered on the promise of their assorted early singles and presented Bethany Cosentino as a name to watch. But when it was announced that Best Coast’s follow-up LP was to be produced by Jon Brion, I couldn’t help but feel that familiar twinge of disappointment; here goes another defection out of the bedroom and into the zone of relative refinement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To be fair, the increase in fidelity between <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i> and 2009’s double seven-inch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Make You Mine</i> was palpable, but it seemed like Cosentino had found a sweet spot and would hopefully stay there a while. No dice. But just because I suffered that twitch of disappointment over her choice of producer and decision to go large didn’t mean it was a foregone conclusion that I would be disappointed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For in a non-lo-fi context, I was also a bit bummed way back when after learning that for her third record PJ Harvey had chosen Flood as a producer. If I didn’t think that matchup was a good fit, proof to the contrary was very much in the pudding of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To Bring You My Love</i>. Sadly, I can’t say the same for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i>. And the fault lies not with Brion, who served his role to the fullest and delivered what’s essentially a mainstream indie-pop record. It’s just not a very good one, and the problem ultimately lies in Cosentino’s songs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But first let’s backtrack. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i>, if a strong record, was far from a masterpiece. That’s not a putdown. Debut masterworks have a tendency to represent artists that burn bright but brief. The listener gets everything (or close to it) in one big wallop, and then it’s all over but the inevitable letdown. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i> on the other hand felt like a natural starting point, a record that presented the real possibility of growth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure, Cosentino basically sounded like Neko Case if she cared less (much less) for being an alt-country chanteuse and more (much more) for smoking grade A skunk on a canopy bed whist writing songs that referenced a ‘60s pop sound, and all without feeling indebted to any specific predecessor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But certain tendencies were apparent; for one, the general insubstantiality of her lyrics placed her less as a disciple of B. Wilson and more in the tradition of ‘60s-exponants The Ramones. And the production of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i> was very much a part of its success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And in the divide between her tunes and the record’s production is where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i>’s weakness resides. A songwriting style that was well-served by echo, distance, and touches of fuzz is now shown to be seriously wanting. If Cosentino sounds more like Case than ever, the quality of her writing is nowhere close to that league, and if it seems like I’m damning her as being reliant on a bedroom-pop production gimmick to achieve a moderate level of success, that’s wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For so much pop music is intrinsically tied to production for communicating its essence, from The Beach Boys’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smile</i> to Michael Jackson’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thriller</i> to Daniel Johnston’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yip/Jump Music</i>. And rockists will sneer, but again The Ramones; Craig Leon’s knob-work on that first album is absolutely crucial to why it’s such an important document. A move to the glossier and instead of incendiary “Beat on the Brat” would’ve just sounded silly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, the previous paragraph is concerned with brilliant records and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i> is in comparison just a nice debut LP. But the concept is the same. It’s why the undeniably limited lyrical approach of that album’s “Our Deal” succeeds and the similar tactic of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i>’s “My Life” doesn’t. The former feels like someone crafting a swell if not particularly amazing little ditty, and the latter registers like someone under a spotlight attempting to stretch out an underdeveloped idea.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And stylistically Cosentino’s songwriting tends toward the middle of the road, leaving her better moments here (“Last Year”, “Dreaming My Life Away”) to wither amidst a batch of inferior material. To his credit, Brion really pulls out all the stops on the closer “Up All Night”, easily <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i>’s most surprising moment. It’s a song strong enough in its root form that its lush expansion sounds truly complimentary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the majority of the album resonates like Cosentino fronting a sprightly if far from remarkable indie combo, and that’s not what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i> sounded like at all. If it were possible to hear <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i>’s songs through the sonic framework of its far superior forerunner, I’d surely be tempted to do so. And I don’t think Cosentino is anywhere near creatively spent, I just perceive her as having (hopefully temporarily) lost the plot of what made her music so interesting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Pavement, Sebadoh and Guided by Voices all went hi-fi (so to speak), all three proved up to the task. True, they were all bands, and in contrast Best Coast is Cosentino’s show (with help from multi-instrumentalist Bobb Bruno). But they also had great songs on their side, and again the lack of such is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i>’s unfortunate undoing. Its content might very likely improve by crackling out of a fuzzy transistor radio, but going to the trouble of testing that theory seems like a lot of unnecessary work when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy for You</i> already achieves that synthesis.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In trying to graduate to a bogus manifestation of the “big leagues”, Cosentino has only managed in amplifying her music’s limitations. But she’s still an artist to watch, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Only Place</i> might eventually be considered her sophomore slump, especially if she manages further development as a songwriter. Her easiest road would be to just relax, pack it up and get back to the bedroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a decade’s absence The Sugarman 3 return with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the World Needs Now</i> and the long break betrays no signs of rust. The groups’ best record since 2000’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Soul Donkey</i>, it shows off their impressive skill and superb judgment, but strays not one inch outside their comfort zone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While the musical term “funk” really became common nomenclature in the late-‘60s/early-‘70s, where it was used to describe a particularly tough (and new) strain of R&B/soul, it’s employment as an adjective from within the jazz realm spanned back a bit farther than that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If the lingo can in fact be located at the mythological point of jazz music’s very conception via the legend of Buddy Bolden and the tune “Funky Butt” (aka “Buddy Bolden’s Blues”), the word funky as a musical adjective really dates to the 1950s where it was occasionally used to describe the especially earthy strains of often organ-led combos, though it wasn’t bound to any defined area of specificity; the great saxophonist Cannonball Adderley, playing pseudonymously due to contractual reasons on trumpeter Louis Smith’s 1958 Blue Note LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here Comes Louis Smith</i> was credited under the moniker “Buckshot Le Fonque”. Additionally, clarinetist Perry Robinson’s killer 1962 Savoy LP of inside-outside explorations was titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Funk Dumpling</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The organ based groups to which the term funky was so frequently attached came to be more commonly known as soul-jazz, and some of the classics of the sub-genre are Baby Face Willette’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Face To Face</i>, Brother Jack McDuff’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Honeydripper</i>, Big John Patton’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Along Came John</i> and Jimmy Smith’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back at the Chicken Shack</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sermon!</i> By the second half of the ‘60s the style had become quite boldly commercial, blending with concurrent strains of R&B and even the infectious Afro-Latin blend known as boogaloo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The title of the 1998 debut LP by The Sugarman 3, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sugar’s Boogaloo</i>, made readily clear just what type of experience was to be had from inspecting its contents. Indeed, an aura of unadulterated funk would be one of the first qualities noted in cataloging the nature of its grooves. To expand, Neil Sugarman’s group, a core trio often augmented with other instrumentalists, specialized in a celebration of the period when certain soul-jazz practitioners attempted to throw overboard the very notion of jazz as a self-conscious “art-music”, instead embracing its potential as a vessel of crowd-pleasing, body-moving party action.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not only did that inaugural effort contain as a general declaration of principles a cover of James Brown’s “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag”, but it also saw them contouring their approach to such chestnuts as Dale Hawkins’ “Suzy Q” and Donovan’s “Sunshine Superman”. If the group’s second and third LPs, 2000’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Soul Donkey</i> and 2002’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pure Cane Sugar</i> found them slowly moving closer to a less jazz-derived groove science ala Booker T or The Meters, they still threw in enough nods to the soul-jazz tradition to keep one remindful of that aspect of their background, e.g. a burning cover of Lou “Alligator Boogaloo” Donaldson’s “Turtle Walk” on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Soul Donkey</i> and showcases on both LPs for some assertive flute playing from multi-instrumentalist Sugarman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Their new record is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the World Needs Now</i>, and its title’s tip-off to the inclusion of a Burt Bacharach cover indicated the possibility that The Sugarman 3 were turning the tide back toward a more pronounced expression of their soul-jazz roots. And to an extent this possibility is realized. That titular instrumental reconfiguring (essentially a funkifying) of Bacharach’s pop warhorse is exactly the type of move many a late-‘60s soul-jazzer indulged without the slightest regret and much to the chagrin of jazz aficionados by the score. In fact, the fruits of that era’s funky-jazz scene lacked much in the way of critical standing until the ‘90’s acid-jazz movement located inspiration in its precedent and promoted a fair amount of reevaluation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If the phenomenon of jazz musicians tackling Bacharach, The Beatles, Dylan etc is a complex one, it’s now all water under the bridge. Some observers stubbornly persist in ruing the fact that stately improvisers would soil themselves with contemporary pop covers instead of simply continuing on the undying (and by the late-‘60s, rather tired) course of interpreting standards (i.e. the contempo-pop of yesteryear) for the umpteenth time. However, most well-adjusted listeners in the present day acknowledge the tendency as just one more wrinkle in jazz music’s labyrinthine development.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And as such, it continues to be just one wrinkle in The Sugarman 3’s sound. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the World Needs Now</i> features additional covers that reemphasize the group’s allegiance to the aforementioned MGs/Meters R&B axis, the unbeatable “But It’s Alright” by J.J. Jackson and the less typical <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i> cornerstone “Dirty Water” via The Standells. Both tracks percolate with a relaxed assurance indicative of the group’s instrumental prowess; that is, the unfussy blend of chops and good taste in execution that’s helped make the Daptone enterprise (which Sugarman co-founded with Gabriel Roth) a go-to concern for discerning mavens of R&B classique.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This isn’t to say that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the World Needs Now</i> doesn’t hold in its grooves a few surprises. For instance, the use of piano on “Witches Boogaloo” very much recalls “The In Crowd” by Ramsey Lewis, which along with Lee Morgan’s “The Sidewinder” and Les McCann and Eddie Harris’ “Compared to What” forms a massive trifecta of ‘60s non-crap jazz crossovers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But other moments on the LP toe the funky line in the manner more in keeping with their last two albums. “Your Friendly Neighborhood Sugarman” hits a spot quite reminiscent of prime Junior Walker. And if “Got to Get Back to My Baby” registers like a scaled down version of fellow Daptone artists Budos Band, that’s basically due to the tune having sprung from the pen of that group’s bassist Daniel Foder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m also pleased that the amount of vocals has been dialed back from that of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pure Cane Sugar</i>. While I enjoy Lee Fields very much, for some reason his take on “Shot Down” by garage monsters The Sonics just didn’t resonate with me. And his was my favorite vocal from the previous LP. The Sugarman 3 are foremost an instrumental unit; they work best with only occasional accents of the human voice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With all this considered, The group’s intense and finely tuned amalgamation of influences can’t help but leave a lingering aftertaste, specifically that the outfit is an exemplary style synthesis lacking a sense of personality tangibly their own beyond their status as ultra-cool kings of the throwback, of course. And there’s really not a thing wrong with that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, it does separate them rather substantially from their influences, musicians that were largely operating in territory without a net. This goes both for the Booker T side of the group’s sound as well as the Jimmy Smith portion. And it also differentiates them from the most laudable examples of the jazz/pop dialogue both then (Dylan’s “My Back Pages” from The Keith Jarrett Trio’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Somewhere Before</i> from 1968) or now (The Vijay Iyer Trio’s take on Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” from this year’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Accelerando</i>).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So The Sugarman 3 is undeniably great at what they do, but ultimately what they do doesn’t fall outside of an already very well defined context. They are exceptionally worthy distillers of a tradition, not estimable groundbreakers like Jarrett (or Morgan or McCann, for that matter) or valuable extenders like Iyer.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In the end, what makes the music of Neil Sugarman’s group so worthwhile is the collective level of sincerity necessary to pull off the whole endeavor. When listening to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the World Needs Now</i> it becomes blatantly obvious just how much the whole band loves what they are doing, so much in fact that I’m sure they would continue to do it whether anyone else was listening or not.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-31964823588792301802012-05-18T20:02:00.000-07:002012-05-18T20:02:20.518-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 5/18/12 - Cornershop and OFF!<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Turban</i>, Cornershop continue with their welcome and unexpectedly prolific return to the record racks. Collecting the fruitful results of a batch of collaborative singles, this album should easily satisfy old fans, while its playfulness, intelligence and range will help recruit new ones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From a distance, Cornershop’s career trajectory doesn’t seem all that unusual, being one of many early-‘90s indie bands to jump onto a larger stage (in this case through the Luaka Bop label) and deliver a hit song that basically defines their existence for most casual listeners. After a hiatus and a label switch they released a follow up before disappearing again, only to pop back into public consciousness with renewed purpose via their own label Ample Play.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But up close it’s rather impressive just how smoothly Cornershop picked back up right where they left off, and after some consideration the reason seems to stem from the very nature of Tjinder Singh and Ben Ayers sound. Unlike many acts that had brief affairs with the ‘90’s pop charts, there is really nothing in the group’s music that defines them as a product of that decade. Indeed, in my estimation if “Brimful of Asha” had been released last week instead of a decade and a half back, it would register as freshly up-to-date with nary a trace of the throwback.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is mainly because Beatles’ derived pop sense and Velvet’s descended strum are two timeless ingredients in a recipe of unlikely chart success, but that’s hardly the only reason Cornershop avoid any sense of the anachronistic. For <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When I Was Born For the 7th Time</i>, the very fine LP from which “Brimful of Asha” hails, still happily resounds as a creative success that resists any categorical assimilation into a default “’90s” sensibility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead, the album struck a righteous blow for multiculturalism by integrating the group’s Indian roots with funk, indie-pop, hip-hop, a streak of accessible experimentation and even a bit of femme voiced country ache that was slyly reminiscent of later-period Mekons. Throw in Dan the Automator, Allen Ginsberg and a concluding Beatles cover as reclamation (“Norwegian Wood”, natch) and the results add up to a worthy and again still quite contemporary sum.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s perhaps for these same reasons that Cornershop’s return, while noted and welcome, has garnered little if any retro-minded fanfare. This is just as well, since 2009’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Judy Sucks a Lemon for Breakfast</i> found them recommencing without any unneeded “comeback” bluster by releasing an LP that if obviously the product of Cornershop still felt unique from anything that preceded it in their discography.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Judy Sucks a Lemon for Breakfast</i> is a very good record, detectably and appealingly glammy for much of its duration, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cornershop and the Double ‘O’ Groove Of</i> is where they really turned up the qualitative heat, producing what just might be their finest overall achievement to date. Much of the reason comes down to the exquisite union with Punjabi singer Bubbley Kaur; Singh and Ayers are foremost grand agents of collaboration, and Cornershop at this point is less accurately described as a band (though that’s by no means an incorrect nomenclature) and more so as a continually evolving project that succeeds through focus and an uncanny sense of what works in their infectious hybridization of genre.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Turban</i> continues the practice of collab, though it immediately carries it into a heretofore unexamined area for the group. “What Did the Hippie Have in His Bag?” finds them deviating from their established practice of working with either well known musicians (Noel Gallagher, anyone?) or cultivating relationships with less bandied about names (Paula Frazer of Tarnation, Kaur) in the service of forging a successful sonic framework. It instead features the contribution of schoolchildren from Castle Hill Primary in Lancashire, and the sweet give and take between Singh and the kids helps “…Hippie…” feel a bit like a cross between “Brimful of Asha” and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Langley Schools Music Project</i>. Except it’s more laid back than “…Asha” and far less structured than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Langley</i> in its celebration of the life-affirming and non-cynical purity of youth. And of hippies with bags, for that matter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Turban</i> details Cornershop’s interaction with a variety of vocalists, all of them previously unheard by these ears, and the quality of the whole set is uniformly high. By this point Singh and Ayers are extremely adept at understanding not only the nature of their cross-pollination but also in locating the right outside contributors with which to realize their ideas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While perhaps not immediately apparent in their sound, Cornershop are the inverse of what often results from the occasional pop tendency toward the “exotic”. Simply put, this is due to their being steeped in the traditions they employ: it’s one reason why <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When I Was Born For the 7th Time</i> still holds up so well, particularly in contrast to the bogus “chill-out” music of Enigma, a project that feels even more trite now than when first released.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Turban</i>’s best moments present a further deepening of Singh’s and Ayers’ pop ingenuity. If they’ve always successfully avoided the shallowness of pastiche, they also seem to have found a way to increase the frequency of their output without putting any strain on the level of quality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Again, this record is collected from singles released through the wittily dubbed Singhles Club, and it lacks the natural flow of conception of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Double ‘O’ Groove</i>, mainly because it details work with a variety of vocalists conceived at different times. However, it’s hard to consider this a flaw, with the sequencing of Cornershop’s diverse method across the LP presenting an attractive set of possibilities for potential further development.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For instance, I’d love to hear the results of a full album with SoKo, the French singer featured on one of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Turban</i>’s standout tracks “Something Makes You Feel Like”. In comparison to Bubbley Kaur, who burst out of the box with an able-voiced oomph that stood (at the very least) on equal footing with the sounds that surrounded her (and all without falling victim to any diva moves), SoKo comes on with a very attractive conversational hesitancy in her vocals, almost as if the music is coaxing the words out of her, and it’s this aura that could very possibly be expanded into a refreshing longer work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And Cornershop continue to dodge the bullet of becoming too slick or formulaic. “Milkin’ It”, featuring the unusual MC skills of In Light of Aquarius, is basically an unvarnished excuse to name check a succession of classic masters of microphone technique (Spoonie Gee! Schoolly D!) and as such provides a fine counterpoint to the smoother techno-funk of “Non-Stop Radio” or the uncut dance-club cuisine of “Solid Gold”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One somewhat bumming side-effect of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Turban</i>’s design is the lack of Tjinder Singh’s vocals. His is simply one of the warmest and most immediately recognizable voices in the current pop field, and to only hear him on “What Did the Hippie Have in His Bag?” (and the song’s late album reprise) is undeniably a bit of a letdown, but ultimately it’s a disappointment of omission and not an error of any grave import. As the record’s value adds up, it becomes rather easy to accept not getting enough of Singh’s singing.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Turban</i>’s origins as standalone singles lacks the vigorous aural unity of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cornershop and the Double ‘O’ Groove Of</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When I was Born For the 7th Time</i>, it still shines as another exceptional collection of tunes from a consistently rewarding group of pop scientists. And it’s an album certain to only improve with increased familiarity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first full-length LP from hardcore punk survival unit OFF! delivers more of the brief, scorching sound initiated on their four highly-regarded EPs. It’s a dandy listen, and it places Keith Morris and cohorts at an interesting place. Just where will they go from here? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When it first came to my attention that Keith Morris was going to be fronting a new band, my immediate impression was a mixture of sincere happiness for the guy and a complete disinterest in actually hearing the music. We’ll get to the happy part a few paragraphs down, but the apathetic aspect has been hashed out by quite a few others already; it has to do with both the age of Morris and his band members and the actual contemporary relevance of the whole hardcore punk shebang.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Methinks that hardcore is a perfectly fine genre to tackle in the here and now, but it is a form best served up by a band of fresh-faced upstarts like Trash Talk rather than promulgated by a bunch of certified oldsters. Unlike blues, jazz and country & western, punk rock and hardcore in particular doesn’t ripen with age; it’s very much a young person’s game. Of course, plenty of old punks are still making high quality music. It’s just that very few are still working from within the confines of the style that originally spawned them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it’s not just the factor of youth. There is almost always a very finite window of opportunity from which to produce truly topflight junk before the situation just starts to break down. The number of bands that produced more than one great punk LP is infinitesimal compared to the sheer wealth of fleeting names that could only manage to squeak out one exceptional seven-inch or a single classic song before the wheels fell off the endeavor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When someone tells me about a bunch of punk vets whose sound is “just like the old days”, my reaction is consistently that of utter dubiousness, understanding the general tendency of folks to misapprehend good intentions for actual sonic success and to elevate form over content in a desire to reconnect with past glories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the case of OFF! I was hearing it from people I thought would know better, and this did rouse my curiosity a bit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I continued to avoid the band for a long while after learning of their existence, mainly due to my familiarity with the slowly diminishing quality of Morris’ past work; by the release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonderful</i> in 1985 the Circle Jerks’ were essentially over and done with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The four essential LPs of the Los Angeles HC-punk experience are in order of release <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(GI)</i> by The Germs (released ‘79), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Group Sex</i> by Circle Jerks (released ’80), the self-titled debut from the Adolescents (released early 1981) and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damaged</i> by Black Flag (released late 1981). Sure, there are some other high quality long-players in the Los Angeles hardcore canon along with scores of seven-inches, comps and individual songs that help to really flesh out the city’s post-Dangerhouse Records scene, but these four albums easily encapsulate the growth of the straight-ahead HC-punk sound before the genre quickly started stagnating and became plagued with also-rans, violence and noxious posers. In brief, these four LPs set the standard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Indeed I was extremely happy to know Morris had a band and was kicking up some fervor and that his personal circumstances were looking up, for an acquaintance that had moved to the west coast had filled me in on just how awful he felt after ordering a pizza and finding one of his favorite musicians ringing his doorbell to deliver it. Simply put, hearing that news stung me, too. And on top of that the guy was diagnosed with diabetes back in 2000.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, past glories are no guarantee against the hard realities of life, but this was an unshakable drag of a situation, for Morris is one of true greats of Cali hardcore punk not only through his direct involvement with the Circle Jerks but also by serving as Black Flag’s first vocalist, appearing on the genre redefining and still blistering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nervous Breakdown</i> seven-inch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead of enthusing at length on the quality of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Group Sex</i>, I’ll just reference the words of the Angry Samoans’ Metal Mike Saunders when he called it a classic of “folk appropriation”; Morris and company grabbed from whatever was necessary and came up with a ragged and concise masterpiece. And it was the LP equivalent to a bolt of lightning, i.e. the kind of record that’s essentially impossible to follow up. But try they did, naturally and admirably, with two very interesting if problematic LPs, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wild in the Streets</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Golden Shower of Hits</i>. Then the situation started going to the dogs circa <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonderful</i>. It was really quite predictable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, against my better judgment I eventually caught up with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">First Four EPs</i>. And against the odds its contents were rather major. How’d that happen? For starters, Morris and ex-Burning Brides’ guitarist Dimitri Coats bailed on a reportedly subpar Circle Jerks’ incarnation and recruited drummer Mario Rubalcaba (Rocket from the Crypt/Hot Snakes) and Steven Shane McDonald (Red Kross) to serve as the rhythm section. This shaped them up as a sort of punk rock supergroup, meaning they were flirting with disaster of massive proportions. But in avoiding the worst of all outcomes they actually achieved an extremely impressive result.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For comparison purposes OFF! mostly resemble the primal throttle of early Black Flag (that’s pre-Rollins, don’tcha know), an obvious similarity reflected in the humor of the band’s name. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">First Four EPs</i> delivered a wallop that was very similar to the aural punch thrown by one of the first three sides of the Flag’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything Went Black</i> or the entirety of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Four Years</i>. Like these examples, OFF!’s whole essence was “short”: short-tempered, short in song-length, short in overall running time. It was a resounding and unqualified success. The only question was how long would this good creative fortune last?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This follow-up, packaged as an LP, is slightly shorter in running time than the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">First Four EPs</i>, and as such holds some surface resemblance to the maniacal brevity of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Group Sex</i>. The music however retains its love affair with the mauling, grim density and velocity of early Flag, with a few slight and unfussy nods toward growth. For one example, Coats’ guitar has become more dynamic, though it’s as different from Greg Ginn string-bending work as it is similar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Unfettered hardcore is essentially a music of exhaustion; how long can I deal with this six-band show; how long can I play drums this way without losing the feeling in my arms; how long can this amazing band avoid descending into suckdom? Minor Threat, the pick of many (including myself) as the greatest hardcore band ever, only released three 7-inch records and one 12-inch EP (plus two compilation tracks) in their entire existence; the band’s whole discography fits onto one compact disc with time to spare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If post-hardcore was a widespread phenomenon, it had a hard time catching on in Cali and in particular Los Angeles, likely because that’s where much of HC’s sound, concept and image was formulated, and it’s also where many bands had something resembling commercial success (and the requisite “fame” that came attached). Kids in DC, Chicago, Boston, Texas, Detroit and other points on the North American map were initially reacting to cues from England and yes indeed Los Angeles and later to each other; popularity was largely elusive outside of their own peer group and notoriety was essentially posthumous. When HC started running out of gas it was easy for bands in the Midwest or DC to integrate elements of post-punk, noise or metal into the equation with differing levels of success.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Los Angeles, three SST bands were the exception to the hardcore redundancy; Black Flag’s big grapple with a metal/hard-rock sound (what Joe Carducci dubbed “New Redneck”), Minutemen’s power-trio brilliance, and the far less heralded punk-psyche-art of Saccharine Trust. In comparison to these bold moves, OFF! is still taking baby steps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But it’s early yet. This self-titled affair is their first LP after all. But it essentially puts them on a precipice; are big things going to happen, or is this the beginning of the seemingly inevitable downward spiral? It bears mentioning that Morris has never successfully navigated a move away from the punk norm. It would be a total gas if at this late date he accomplished just that.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-11054427275097985912012-05-11T06:43:00.000-07:002012-05-11T06:43:48.095-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 5/11/12- The Brian Jonestown Massacre and Lee Hazlewood<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Led as always by Anton Newcombe, The Brian Jonestown Massacre has returned with its twelfth studio album, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aufheben</i>. While not a complete washout, in the end it does little to displace the notion that the man’s best artistic days are far behind him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back in the ‘80s is when I first heard The Chesterfield Kings, a garage band with a definite ‘60s bent. Taking the genre’s limitations in mind, they were rather good. They also had a pronounced love of The Rolling Stones. One interesting thing about the Kings; while they certainly had a strong fan base and were bolder in conception than most other ‘80s garage acts, they were still somewhat hindered by the nagging viewpoint of many who considered their music to be decidedly retrograde.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Spacemen 3 and Flaming Lips were just two examples of late-‘80s bands with a detectable ‘60s focus that managed to dodge the retro tag, with both bands at different stages of their existence considered to be groundbreakers. The Kings on the other hand were dogged with the retro stigma, often by those who liked them even. If they made a very good record, it was ultimately very good from within the confines of a limited context, a bit like setting a home-run mark for a single-A farm club; it’s an admirable achievement, sure, but it still pales next to the more grandly scaled activity of the big boys.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think of The Chesterfield Kings and The Brian Jonestown Massacre together for a couple of reasons. First is their rather obvious shared love of the Stones. The other concerns the differences in reception these bands received for doing something roughly comparable. Yes, BJM first made their mark with a spin on the sound of shoegaze, but they quickly shifted into the role of a retro-inclined band that wore their Stonesian inspiration proudly and defiantly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The difference between The Chesterfield Kings and The Brian Jonestown Massacre is generally one of scale magnified by differing musical landscapes. By the second half of the ‘90s many listeners were feeling fatigued by an endless procession of “new”, “next” and “latest” things, so the time was ripe for a few bands that were far more about attitude and an unconflicted approach to influence holding no pretense to originality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, anybody truly moved to make music so indebted to the image of The Rolling Stones is bound to exhibit a certain swagger in execution, the kind of in your face attitudinal motion that causes lots of listeners to pile on the disdain. This is to say that if many people unabashedly loved BJM, just as many loved to hate them. Keeping in mind that the history of art isn’t to be confused with the history of nice people, I never really had any problem with the band in terms of image (while acknowledging that said image eventually steamrolled into something comparable to a train wreck), but I also can’t deny having a rather shoulder-shrugging reaction to them overall.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My ambivalence was probably due to their status as a band du jour while other far more interesting acts (from the garage sphere in particular) were getting slighted or ignored completely. By contrast, I was very much in The Chesterfield Kings’ camp back in the day simply because they had the cards of esteem so strongly stacked against them; in the end, they were a band I couldn’t help rooting for. To be frank, The Brian Jonestown Massacre needed none of my goodwill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And again, plenty of folks wore their fandom of BJM as a badge of cool and just as many used their dislike of the band as a way to define what rock music shouldn’t be; there wasn’t much in the way of middle ground. Well, except that the middle ground is pretty much where I put them. It’s now a given that the name Brian Jonestown Massacre is essentially synonymous with founder Anton Newcombe, and it hasn’t been really accurate in quite a long time to call them a band. But in their early incarnation a band is very much what they were, holding a solid lineup and releasing some solid music upon which their reputation is based.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I’m foreshadowing the direction of this review by saying that I don’t think The Brian Jonestown Massacre ever made a great record, I’ll add that in the ‘90s anyway, they also displayed a fair amount of promise. But as time marched forward and the situation shaped up more and more as a Newcombe-led project with a frequently revolving door, the whole endeavor became a case of highly dysfunctional diminishing returns, and I started paying less attention.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I haven’t been fond of any of the BJM records to see release in the 21st Century, I’ve come to at least respect Newcombe as a survivor and an artist of deeper dedication than I suspected he had in him. Yes, the heyday of the Massacre is long gone and it’s highly doubtful it’s ever coming back, and yet here Newcome is with another record. If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aufheben</i> does little to change my perception of his recent output, it does feel like the man’s best release in quite some time. With this said, the bad and indifferent moments far outweigh the good, and it’s become even more likely that Newcombe’s most productive days are vanishing in the rearview mirror. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s important to not fall into generalizations when describing the problems with any record; I was initially tempted to say that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aufheben</i> is hindered by too many songs in need of inspiration, but that’s not a particularly productive avenue. That the record is lacking in creative spark is perhaps the better way of putting it. After a strong opener (“Panic and Babylon”) and a not bad follow up (“Viholliseni Maalla”), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aufheben</i> begins to bog down with flat tunes (“Gaz Hilarant”, “I Want to Hold Your Other Hand”) and miscalculations (the unfortunate flute on “Illuminomi” and “Face Down on the Moon”, the dance-inclined repetitiveness of closer “Blue Order/New Monday”). “The Clouds Are Lies” and “Stairway to the Best Party” raise the quality back up, but the five and a half minutes of “Seven Kings of Wonderful” goes on for far too long, as does the length of “Waking Up to Hand Grenades”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If Newcombe had managed to release <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aufheben</i>’s four strong songs as an EP, it would’ve caused me to seriously rethink my assessment of his recent output. But these tracks are included on a record that’s sunk by faults seemingly ingrained in its creator’s musical personality. The biggest problem appears to be the sacrifice of dynamics and intensity and a dependence upon repetition that far too frequently results in dead ends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If The Brian Jonestown Massacre makes an interesting contrast with The Chesterfield Kings, maybe the most revealing comparison, at least in terms of this record, is with Jack White. The White Stripes were a similar sort of band to BJM in how they could divide listeners into pro and anti camps, especially as their popularity grew, in part due to White’s personality but also because their sound was so blatantly in thrall of the music that shaped it.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Listening to White’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blunderbuss</i> reveals it to also be an LP with quite a few flews, but it’s still a valuable statement with much to offer creatively. What it’s got is, in a word, verve. It’s important to never count any artist out, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aufheben</i> holds enough quality to reinforce that maxim. But as Newcombe continually staggers to his feet and gets saved by the bell on record after record, it’s starting to feel like he’s taken a few blows too many.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If Lee Hazlewood lingers in the contemporary cultural memory, it’s easily due to his work with Nancy Sinatra. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The LHI Years: Nudes, Singles and Backsides (1968-1971)</i>, the Light in the Attic label collects a bunch of his post-Nancy collaborations and a welcome helping of his solo shots, and the results are highly recommended not just for Hazlewood’s fans but for anyone with an inclination for well-crafted oddball pop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Though his music never wavered from its thoroughly commercial designs, Lee Hazelwood was still a truly strange duck. And the undeniable datedness of his work can really add to the overall weirdness factor, though that’s in no way a bad thing; if often possessing production values and orchestrations that are accurately assessed as “middle of the road” (not the same as “mainstream”), his songs almost always avoid falling into simple kitsch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Hazlewood was more than just a bizarro/sophisto cowboy that blended Vegas-inclined pop with a country-inflected folksiness both on his own and in a collaboration with Sinatra that still comes off like a Swingin’ ‘60’s reaction to Dolly and Porter. Indeed, while loads of folks are familiar with the string of late-‘50s hits that he produced and co-wrote with Duane Eddy, it’s also true that most of those listeners aren’t cognizant of Hazlewood’s actual involvement with those songs, a short flowering of creativity that stands amongst the finest instrumental rock music ever recorded.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was also the impresario of Lee Hazlewood Industries, a fleeting subsidiary label of ABC Records. Naturally, a fair portion of LHI’s relatively slim discography is dedicated to its namesake; both his solo album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Forty</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cowboy and the Lady</i>, credited to the duo of Hazlewood and actress Ann-Margret were released in 1969, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cowboy in Sweden</i> came out the following year. Back around 1999 or so, Steve Shelley’s Smells Like Records began admirably reissuing some of Hazlewood’s harder to find stuff on compact disc. This program included both the Ann-Margret collab and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cowboy in Sweden</i>, but plenty of worthy bits and pieces slipped through the cracks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As its title makes plain, this 2LP corrals a bunch of those bits and pieces with the supposed intention of further volumes to come, and the sustained level of quality across these four sides of vinyl really makes one hope that Light in the Attic comes through on their objective to excavate the LHI archives. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It opens with “Califia (Stone Rider)”, a duet with girlfriend Suzi Jane Hokom that mines familiar territory to impressive success; that combination of unabashed lushness and faux-earthy twang, the echo on Hazlewood’s booming, edgy baritone and the way he smartly blended his voice with the softer, more welcoming elements of a female counterpart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Things hardly look down from there, with the music making clear that Hazlewood had no problem playing to his strengths. To elaborate, seven of the record’s seventeen tracks are duets with female counterparts, all obviously inspired by the fruitfulness of his artistic union with Nancy Sin, and while none of them charted in the US/UK that’s not for lack of value. Another track with Hokom, three with Ann-Margret and two with Swedish singer Nina Lizell find him cultivating the contrast between tough and sweet with much success.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This blend of the masculine and feminine has become a big factor in Hazlewood’s work, even when he’s behind the chair. His was the pen responsible for “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”, after all. In fact, his status as a collaborator has sorta come to dominate his legacy; while his ‘60’s solo albums sold well enough to keep him in demand, it’s also true that Hazlewood never had a hit single under his name alone, and some people view the guy’s solo output as substantially lesser to his work with Nancy and the gals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To put it mildly, this is a gross miscalculation. Just for starters, I’ve never been able to decide between pre-LHI solo slabs <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lee Hazlewoodism – It’s Cause and Cure</i> (for MGM) or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love and Other Crimes</i> (for Reprise) as a personal favorite. Both are world class collections of strong song from a truly unique voice, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The LHI Years</i> includes more of the same top flight material. “The Bed” squarely hits the middle ground between honky-tonk and high gloss that found him in the producer’s chair for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Singer of Sad Songs</i>, one of Waylon Jennings’ finest pre-Outlaw LPs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But when the music called for it he could also show admirable restraint, as the spare, hung-over “If It’s Monday Morning” and the driving “Bye Babe” both display. “No Train to Stockholm” feels like a legit slice of flower power-era pop, and it matches up well with the Jesus as proto-hippie storytelling of “Trouble Maker”. These tracks can serve as a satisfactory corrective, for Hazlewood is sometimes erroneously tagged as a wannabe hipster, or categorized by more polite denigrators as a kooky and aged interloper upon the grassy knolls and bubbling fjords of the late-‘60s youth movement’s supposed exalted purity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is another way of saying that some crabby sticklers persist in viewing “Some Velvet Morning” as “fake” psychedelia, but the people holding this odious opinion probably don’t like Eric Burdon’s “Sky Pilot” either. What a bunch of killjoys. In reality, Lee Hazlewood is one of American music’s true eccentrics, and as the cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The LHI Years</i> plainly shows, he was part playboy and part sage prankster, halfway between the establishment and the margins with nary a trace of conflict between the two.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of the duet tracks, those with Ann-Margret stand up strongest, particularly the gleefully over the top festival of corn vs. schmaltz that is “Sleep in the Grass”, though the fairly laid-back country-folk-pop of “Victims of the Night” is also quite appealing. “Nobody Like You” with Hokom is one idea stretched a little beyond its limit, though it’s not unpleasant for all that. And both tracks with Lizell acquit themselves with purpose, though “Hey Cowboy” really tackles the era’s Bacharach-esque MOR tendencies with vigor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At this point the LHI label is still mostly remembered for Hazlewood’s releases, though the company also issued <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Safe at Home</i>, the only LP from Gram Parsons’ first group The International Submarine Band. But the imprint also put out some highly regarded and quite hard to find work from artists like The Kitchen Cinq, Arthur and the Aggregation, Honey Ltd., The Surprise Package and Sanford Clark, whose 1956 hit “The Fool” happened to be written by Hazlewood.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s unclear how much if any of this material will surface in Light in the Attic’s LHI reissue plans, but here’s hoping at least some of it makes it onto disc, for it’ll only serve to deepen the already rich legacy of an absolutely one of a kind artist. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The LHI Years: Nudes, Singles and Backsides (1968-1971)</i> is a trove of Hazlewood’s brilliant work. Not every song is perfect, but every song is essential. It’s a beautifully done package from one of our best reissue labels.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-90666436741931503812012-05-04T13:38:00.000-07:002012-05-04T13:38:16.378-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 5/4/12- Death Grips and Ty Segall/White Fence<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i>, Sacramento CA trio Death Grips cross-pollinates hip-hop with the tactics of noise and drenches it all in a seething, apocalyptic outlook. Certainly not for everyone, it is however a surprisingly successful document, displaying high standards of variation throughout its onslaught of vitriolic ferocity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To begin with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i>, there’s the major label aspect. This is frankly the most unlikely release to get corporate backing in quite a long time, but it’s important to remember that this sort of thing happens in cycles, and the way some people are reacting, you’d think Epic signed Borbetomagus or Masonna to a contract. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i> is indeed a crazy and uncompromising release, but it’s not completely off the map; as abstract and scorching as the record gets it retains a close enough relationship to previous models (mostly through the employment of rhythm) that its integration into the Sony Music Entertainment empire doesn’t so much inspire head scratching but instead feels like the latest example of a company feeling secure enough in its bottom line to attempt stepping out as the coolest bunch of executives on the block.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If that’s cynical, so be it. Epic may very well believe very strongly in what Death Grips offer on this quite impressive if undeniably divisive record, but that remains to be seen. Just because the musical landscape is different now than in any time since people realized a nice profit could be made by mass producing records doesn’t mean that the behavior of big money is somehow in need of reappraisal. The ‘90s major label feeding frenzy of indie and u-ground acts also resulted in some hard to rationalize signings, e.g. Boredoms’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pop Tatari</i>. The main difference here is the lack of an overflowing floodgate of sudden (and temporarily) hot properties ready for the pickings; digital avenues have greatly leveled the playing field against big label tomfoolery and anybody with internet access and speakers can discover new bands and test drive the records they want to buy (this directly led to an indie band winning a Grammy for Album of the Year). Yes Death Grips stick out like bloody appendages on the Epic Records roster, but in the end that’s not really anything new under the sun.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But far more importantly, if not quite as extreme as some have claimed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i> is a riveting and somewhat groundbreaking listen. In combining the aesthetics of hip-hop, electronics, and noise into a bleak, at times unsettling landscape of shattered imagery, they feel like a new (if by no means wholly original) development. Comparisons have been made to Odd Future, but the edginess (or of you prefer, offensiveness) of that group registers differently from Death Grips. Odd Future often feels like just the latest extension of hip-hop’s transgressive possibilities. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i> comes off like a mixture of u-ground hip-hop, the far-out electronica of Kid606 and a despairing worldview that’s somewhat comparable to early industrialists like Throbbing Gristle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the specifics of Death Grips’ discomfiting vision are by design not easy to discern. The vocals of Stefan Burnett (aka MC Ride) are mixed throughout the album in a manner that resists any kind of narrative hold. Words, phrases and occasionally whole lines do jump out, but struggling to decipher the fabric of what’s being said is ultimately against the grain of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i>’s goals. Death Grips don’t want to tell an unpleasant but easily grasped story but instead desire to craft the equivalent to the often inexplicable imagery of a fevered nightmare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This unholy trio of Burnett, producer Andy Morin and drummer Zack Hill (a name some may recognize from Hella and numerous other projects) released the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exmilitary</i> mixtape last year. Flipping the script somewhat, their debut is less caustic than their major label coming out party. A big reason is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i>’s lack of samples. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exmilitary</i> featured clips and loops lifted from sources as disparate as Black Flag, Pet Shop Boys, The Castaways’ “Liar Liar”, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Pink Floyd and that unrelenting motor-mouth of lingering societal discomfort Charles Manson, and the use of these collected reference points fashioned their initial effort as being much closer to the norms (if you will) of experimental hip-hop, though it was an immediately darker experience that didn’t necessarily fall in line with the genre’s expressions of intellectual complexity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But a large segment of the planet’s population will derisively sum up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i> as “noise”. And it’s also true that aficionados of various noise sub-genres will possibly be quite taken with the contents of this LP. But Death Grips’ cacophonous blitzkrieg wields its effectiveness through precision, relying far more on force and velocity than on the elements of abstraction that lead many observers to erroneously label noise music as so much screwing around. However, it’s highly unlikely that people will volley the insult “my five-year old can do that” in this particular album’s direction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that reliance on power and momentum is in execution if not in sound very reminiscent of vintage hardcore punk’s primal fury, with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exmilitary</i>’s Black Flag sample holding much more significance than being just a crafty loop. And the cover art only amplifies this connection, looking like a cross between prime Raymond Pettibon and a page ripped out of some S&M troll’s leather-bound sketchbook.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i> isn’t just one big bum’s rush of methodical if calculatedly submerged aggression. “I’ve Seen Footage”, “Hustle Bones” and the closing track “Hackers” introduce periods of relative respite from the maelstrom. In fact, the appropriating and reconfiguring of the beat from Salt-n-Pepa’s “Push It” makes “I’ve Seen Footage” feel like this record’s “single”. While a perfectly fine song taken in isolation, I’m a bit conflicted over its presence here, as hearing it in sequence highly normalizes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i>; while reportedly left to their own devices, Death Grips still managed to come up with a record that the suits at Epic could identify with strategically; amidst the hammer blows of third-degree negativity, this album holds in its nihilistic mid-section something resembling a party jam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Conversely, tracks like “Lost Boys” “Blackjack” “System Blower” and “Punk Weight” turn up the abrasive heat, and it’s in these excursions that Death Grips come closest to realizing the potential of hip-hop for Merzbow-loving Wolf Eyes fans. This means that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i>’s hip-hop legitimacy is roughly comparable to Last Exit’s relationship to jazz or Jandek’s general proximity to folk or rock. This record is certainly “there” in hip-hop terms, but its status as an idiosyncratic hybrid with likely garner some purist hostility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ultimately, “I’ve Seen Footage” might bode well for Death Grips’ future. Bands specializing in music of this extremity often have short qualitative life spans, either flaming out before they start to suck or unfortunately besmirching the vitality of their initial work with inferior product. I’ll still be surprised if these three are still together and cranking out top-notch material in two years’ time, but there is a chance that Death Grips will exceed expectations and wind down later rather than sooner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">With another album scheduled for the fall, it’s going to be interesting to hear Death Grips’ progress. Whether they’re destined for brevity or built to last, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Money Store</i> is a major statement. It might be far from pretty, but it’s surely effective in its caustic vision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As its trippy cover image indicates, the collaborative effort of Ty Segall and White Fence’s Tim Presley conjures up a natty batch of tough-minded psychedelia. While not a life-altering affair, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i> confidently succeeds in its ambitions and stands as far more than just a one-off curiosity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While Ty Segall is still most accurately identified as a garage-rock guy, it’s also true that he’s been showing some significant growth spurts of late. His record of last year <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodbye Bread</i> made great strides in both the level of his songwriting and the scope of his presentation, all while remaining true to Segall’s organic, non-flash aesthetic. And while he was never really a stone-faced garage purist, his development remains worthy of commendation; ‘tis true that no one will ever fill the gap left by the far too soon departure of Jay Reatard, but Segall probably comes closest through the prolific and unfussy nature of his progressions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tim Presley is the man behind White Fence, a quietly impressive bedroom psyche solo project that also happens to flaunt a high level of productivity; four albums, a live cassette and a 7-inch in a two year period, all released while remaining a member of the bands Darker My Love and The Strange Boys. If his approach in White Fence looks backward to such fine antecedents as Syd Barrett, Love, The Move, Donovan and the anemic glory of toy-town psyche, hearing just a small portion of his solo output makes it plain that he’s very much an artist of the moment. Presley’s not deliberately up-to-date, but his work still feels contemporary in its overall thrust. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With all this said, I frankly couldn’t help but feel a tad bit nervous after being tipped off to the imminent release of a joint venture between Segall and Presley. Collaborations between established artists have a tendency to either be a bit underwhelming (Broken Bells, for instance) or highly disappointing (not to flog a gift horse in the mouth, but how’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lulu</i> treating you lately?), and in this case I was unsure of how two musicians who’d so successfully forged a creative identity out of going it alone would reconcile with the give and take inherent to the exercise of artistic partnership, though the basis of my concern resided more with Segall than with Presley. It’s true that Ty has also spent time in full-fledged bands (five of them in fact; The Epsilons, The Traditional Fools, Sic Alps, Party Fowl and Perverts), but he’s also been effectively solo since 2008, and that’s where his reputation is rightly based. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I was also intrigued. The pairing of Segall and Presley was somewhat surprising since their styles aren’t a natural fit, but at the same time they were far from theoretically irreconcilable. In fact, I quite like it when the garage-born mindset nuzzles up against a psyche state of mind, finding it a case of two great sounds that sound great together. But I kept having this nagging suspicion that the duo would just jump into the studio with a combined head full of shared steam (or some other substance or two) and proceed to throw down a batch of songs that felt glorious as it happened but would unfortunately linger after the fact as something far less than earth-shattering. It’s the recurring sensation of All-Star Jam-itis Super-Sessioning its way into the depths of the record collection, taking up space and looking very necessary as it’s being passed over once again for some other less-grandiose selection, rarely if ever getting pulled out for a spin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After ample time spent with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i>, I’m happy to report that my fears were misplaced. While not a masterpiece, this tidy if expansive eight-song collection leaves a lasting positive impression mainly because it doesn’t attempt to present an overt equality between the participants. Presley sings the majority of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i>’s songs and the album’s overall thrust is much closer to White Fence than to Segall’s extant work. This shouldn’t be read as Segall not asserting himself; to the contrary, he picks his spots exceptionally well, and his presence is certainly felt throughout the album. It just becomes apparent that he’s disinterested in matching Presley song for song in some spurious desire for creative democracy. Instead of the schizophrenia that might’ve resulted from that situation, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i> really breathes, its tunes calling out for repeated spins, the product of the two’s shared desire to simply make the best album possible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Opener “Time” sets the scene exceptionally well. It begins with some faux-psyche garage action, then shifts into a strummy, mildly George Harrison-like mid-section and tacks on a distorted coda that feels a little bit like the young Times New Viking shooting for the sweet thunder of prime Crazy Horse. Quite a trip! The next track “I Am Not a Game” feels a bit like a combo of Thee Oh Sees, White Fence’s sunshine-psyche vibe and the sort of rhythmic drive that’s been Segall’s specialty over the last few years, and it all concludes with an ace rave-up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t help but hear Robert Schneider in Presley’s vocals, and this only abets “Easy Ryder” in sounding like something the Elephant 6 ringleader might’ve come up with had he been more inclined toward the grittier side of the ‘60s psychedelic experience; it shares a similar melodic approach, but is ultimately punchier and more stripped-down in delivery, more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i> and less <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pet Sounds</i>. The first part of “The Black Glove/Rag” alters this mode slightly, sounding a bit like Schneider shooting for the folkier side of Donovan. But the track’s second half gravitates away from this sensibility toward a fine survey of gradually mounting guitar scrawl, drum pound and vocal swagger.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Side two commences with the brief, echo-laden stomp of “Crybaby”, sounding like The Sonics in full-tilt glory, which means we’re solidly if momentarily on Segall’s turf. But “(I Can’t) Get Around You” tilts the proceedings back into Presley’s favor, and with gusto; the song is essentially a tug-of-war between Anglo derived pop-psyche (replete with nasal-blockage vocals) and some exquisite amp-fuzz circa ’66 Los Angeles. From there the loopy rocking of “Scissor People” and closing sing-along strum and bop of “Tongues” are just gravy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After some consideration, it seems that Segall’s strongest overall contribution to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i> lies in how he tempts Presley’s approach out of the bedroom and onto a larger, bolder stage. Certainly there is nothing inferior or less-admirable about the oft-twisted intimacy that hovers around the existing White Fence material like an enveloping and intoxicating florescent cloud, and indeed Presley has already exerted flashes of a more extroverted nature. For example, there is “Harness” from last years’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is Growing Faith, </i>and the stellar Brit-DIY nod of “Baxter Corner” from his 2010 self-titled solo debut. But on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i> a vigorous quality of conception pulses throughout and it draws largely from Presley’s creative wheelhouse; much like Segall’s work on his lonesome, it’s not polished or pro, but it oozes with the same confident, punk-derived attitude.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Apparently, there is more in the can from this match-up, so it remains to be seen if Presley’s impact on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i> is representative of the whole, or if this album was sequenced to sit in contrast to an additional volume where Segall will assert the fiery potency of which he’s most capable. Either possibility would be equally welcome.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-15618467010566441982012-04-27T09:38:00.000-07:002012-04-27T09:38:18.556-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/27/12- Bola and Allo Darlin'<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While the heyday of world music on LP may be long past, there have been enough recent appearances of new global sounds on vinyl to make one hope they represent the beginnings of a sustained trend. One such record is by the Ghanaian kologo player and vocalist known as Bola; his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i> is a forceful and organic blend of the traditional and the contemporary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course it needs to be said that the digital age has swung the doors wide open on a massive outpouring of previously unavailable music from all over the world, giving the casual listener access to a disparate selection of sounds that in prior eras would’ve only been heard by pure accident, if at all. The proliferation of blogs hosting MP3s is viewed by many with jaundiced eyes, but if done conscientiously these websites can exist not as an exercise in freeloading but instead as an educational resource, a platform for communication and most importantly as an instigator of further possibilities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One such is example is Brian Shimkovitz’s Awesome Tapes from Africa. Way back in 2006, his website began exposing listeners to a steady stream of mostly cassette sourced obscurities obtained largely through his travels to the African continent. By this point, it would take even the most determined listener many months to appropriately absorb the content on his site, but it doesn’t seem to be Shimkovitz’s intention that his visitors hear everything; instead, hopefully a visitor will be captivated by just one discovery from an array of choices that would’ve not crossed their path otherwise. And as testament to those further possibilities mentioned above, Awesome Tapes has begun releasing records, the first being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Grande Cantatrice Malienne Vol. 3</i> by Malian musician Nâ Hawa Doumbia, and the second being the subject of this review.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bola Anafo is from the Upper East Region of Ghana and his instrument the kologo is a two stringed lute with a calabash gourd resonator. It’s been likened to the banjo, an instrument which came to America (and the Caribbean) from Africa. But Bola is also a vocalist of potent intensity as well as a musician unconcerned with (or perhaps oblivious to) the often persnickety Western standards of tradition. To specify, in addition to his the omnipresent kologo, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i> also features the use of drum machine, keyboard and synthesizer, and if this fact inspires encroaching dread in the reader, it shouldn’t. It’s immediately clear that the inclusion of programmed rhythms and synthetic additives hasn’t been thrust upon Bola by an outside producer working in the interest of increased record sales.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead, the use of recent (if appealingly “inexpensive” sounding) tech quickly situates that listeners desiring an antiquated expression of “tradition” should look elsewhere, for while <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i> indeed features a deep connection to Ghanaian culture through the employment of the kologo, it’s far from a museum piece. In a sense, Bola is comparable to the wild junkyard aesthetic of Congolese group Konono Nº 1, in that they share a willingness to incorporate whatever’s necessary to advance the music they play. It’s just that Bola is less eccentric in his developments and more “pop”; one of his biggest influences is King Ayisoba, a fellow kologo player who worked with musicians from the hiplife style, a form that combined hip hop with the longstanding genre of Ghanaian highlife.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The music on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i> is hard-driving dance music that’s matched by the impressive power of Bola’s voice. Singing in the Frafra tongue, his ability as an explosive shouter is only amplified by the difference in language, bringing the sheer passion of his vocals to the forefront and (in my case, anyway) greatly relieving the desire to know the exact meaning of his words. Bola’s singing could accurately be said to lack variation, but that’s surely by intention, matching up well with the qualities of the kologo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As an instrument with only two strings, the kologo doesn’t possess the wide expressive range of its descendant the banjo, but with one string tuned to bass and the other to treble, it easily possesses enough tonal variance to get the job done. And what’s immediately apparent is that Bola’s playing of the instrument is assured and methodical, the result of long study and dedication. If the eight songs on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i> are initially quite different in sound from the norms of Western music, they are no less complex in conception or precise in their delivery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that lack of variation could be a stumbling block in appreciation for some listeners, though I think there is enough overall depth (and a few curve balls, like the brief bit of auto-tuned vocal at the beginning of “Tigantabame”) to keep well-disciplined ears from getting too restless; circular patterns of electronic keyboard that grow in infectiousness, an insistent rigidity in the low-tech drum machines that also establishes a momentum of tight grooves, and the rich mixture of melody and rhythm from the kologo. Again, these songs are plainly conceived as dance music (though quite different in execution from the tight elasticity of American funk); every track on the record save for the last is over six minutes long, and what the raw drive of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i> lacks in variety it makes up for with verve and finesse. This is repetition by design, and the more time spent with it the more it grows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And there are some very pleasant extra-musical vibes going on with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i>, starting with the very title of the record, which underscores that what’s on display is a straight reissue of one of Bola’s numerous cassette releases. That may not seem like a big deal, but from my perspective it indicates a level of sincere respect for this musician and his work. Bola has at least six previous tapes under his belt and very likely has additional subsequent volumes. From these sources, Shimkovitz could have easily assembled a compilation with the intention of spotlighting growth and an artificial (or at least misleading) sense of variation. Though not being privy to his other recordings, it’s certainly possible that Bola burst onto the Ghanaian tape scene fully formed, with each release exploring a unwavering sonic terrain, a hypothetical possibility that I actually find quite attractive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But if this were the case, I’d likely be reviewing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 1</i>. No, Shimkovitz obviously felt there was something special about this particular cassette, and by making it available on LP/CD/download for curious consumers outside the sphere of the musician’s homeland, the integrity of Bola’s art is retained without any needless tampering. And perhaps it’s not a big deal, but when coupled with the fact that Bola is getting fairly compensated in this agreement, the whole endeavor feels like a relationship between equals. After expenses, it’s a 50/50 split between artist and label. Nowhere to be found is that all too familiar aftertaste of the First World capitalizing on the Third.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Along with recent issues of new and old sounds by Sidi Touré (two albums on Thrill Jockey), El Rego (via Daptone), the aforementioned Nâ Hawa Doumbia release on Awesome Tapes and numerous records on labels like Soundway and Strut, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 7</i> makes a strong case for lending an ear to the diverse sounds of Africa.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thirty years ago, the imperative of world music was shared between major labels, smaller companies (often with government or philanthropic connections, e.g. Ocora from France), and extremely cool indies like John Storm Roberts’ Original Music imprint. Flash forward to right now and the independents are just about all we have left. That might seem worrisome, but with guys like Brian Shimkovitz on the case bringing the music of Bola and others into sharp global focus, it appears that we’ll be just fine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The finest examples of indie-pop manage to feel deliciously out of step with current trends, leaving their mark by confidently being themselves in a sea of records spinning variations on the latest thing. London’s Allo Darlin’ has a secure handle on this tradition, and their second long player <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i> is not only a well-done expression of what makes the genre so appealing, but also bodes well for the band’s future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a manner not unlike how zydeco is identified with Louisiana or no-wave is described as a style of New York development, indie-pop is essentially thought of as a form born from the United Kingdom, for that is where its generally acknowledged roots (the melodically inclined punk of The Buzzcocks, pop-savvy post-punkers such as Television Personalities, Josef K and Orange Juice) are all located, and it’s also the locale that really kick started the whole movement in earnest (think The Smiths, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C86</i>, and both Sarah and Creation Records).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure, there were certainly a few likeminded groups across the globe (say Beat Happening in Olympia, Washington, The Cannanes in Sydney, Australia and Shonen Knife in Osaka, Japan) but these outliers weren’t really integrated into the scheme of things until indie-pop spilled out into a global movement in reaction to the post-grunge ‘90s (one instance of a parallel scene, New Zealand’s proliferation of small bands centered largely around the Flying Nun label, rests almost entirely on its own merits and should be looked upon as a scene unto itself). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So it makes sense that Elizabeth Morris, a native of Australia, would end up making records as a London migrant. Allo Darlin’ is led by Morris, and from the quiet beginnings of a few self-released EPs while also serving as a member of Tender Trap (a band with a solid indie-pop pedigree, featuring three members of Marine Research, most notably Amelia Fletcher, also formerly Heavenly and ‘80s legends Talulah Gosh), she and her group have grown in confidence and scope to be one of the better examples of indie-pop currently operating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the connection to Tender Trap is a significant one, for along with a similarity in sound, Morris’ singing and songwriting displays the same sort of confidence and smarts that Fletcher has exhibited in both her fledgling and mature work. Curiously, when first noticing the title of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i>’s standout track “Tallulah”, my kneejerk reaction was that it was in reference to Fletcher’s first band. But no; there is indeed an extra letter l in the name, and the track instead refers to the fifth album by that most excellent Australian band The Go-Betweens, who in a manner similar to Morris spent a fair amount of time in Great Britain in the earlier stages of their career.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nostalgia is a big part of the indie-pop trip, in particular the pining for or the idealizing of a time and place from before you were born. For instance, the use of old photographs was a recurring motif on indie-pop album covers like Television Personalities <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">…And Don’t the Kids Just Love It</i> and needless to say, pretty much the whole run of Smiths’ records. This has resulted in some observers painting over indie-pop with a brush soaked in conservatism, but that line of thinking usually has some sort of agenda, most frequently either rockist (i.e. they don’t have the “right” attitude) or in service of a constant flow of innovation (they’re not playing music the “right” way). There’s a reason why Orange Juice, those Smiths, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C86</i> and Beat Happening all inspired sizable waves of often mean-spirited detractors, and it’s why when Nirvana openly expressed admiration of The Vaselines through covers of “Molly’s Lips” and “Son of a Gun”, so many Black Sabbath-loving observers very openly couldn’t deal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i> absolutely possesses this by now well established inclination to look back, but like the best of the prior work in the style that embodies this outlook, it’s far more than just an exercise in yearning. The biggest quality in Morris and company’s favor is that she’s not operating from a sense of simple nostalgia; rather, her songs depict an often bittersweet recollection of the past and how those memories interact with the present. Marcel Proust may not have loved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe </i>(had he somehow lived to hear is charms), but he would’ve certainly understood it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While their self-titled debut from 2010 was a pleasant affair that set the context for Allo Darlin’ rather nicely, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i> is a big step up in both songwriting quality and in the assurance of delivery. Opener “Neil Armstrong” not only shows off the bands’ strides extremely well, but it will also establish to newbies exactly what Allo Darlin’ are about; it’s the kind of song that can easily tempt a listener into donning a moth-eaten cardigan while puffing on a clove cigarette and gazing at a black and white photograph of Tom Courtenay. How fragile, and yes, how winsome. And the track that follows it, “Capricornia”, begins with some almost requisite achy strum before kicking into a crisp up-tempo slice of indie-pop that’ll likely charm the trousers right off longstanding fans of The Wedding Present.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">From there the album just rolls. The title cut really drives home how the majority of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i>’s tracks exist essentially as audio letters or confessions to characters (either real or fictive, setting up a sweet ambiguity) that Morris <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as narrator holds close. Plus, its use of strings is quite tasteful, complimenting the songs’ pleasant rainy day jangle, never overwhelming it. This is followed with “Some People Say”, which features the terrific ukulele strumming of Morris, this element helping to define Allo Darlin’ as something much more than just a standard bunch of indie-pop idolaters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the uke is employed to magnificent effect on “Tallulah”, again <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i>’s standout cut. In both its melodic simplicity and the open vulnerability of its storytelling it can feel like a readymade for some aspiring filmmaker with a digital camera, a handful of eager if outwardly blasé cast members and a trust-fund just waiting to be whittled down to nothing. And this is cool, except for one thing; the movie has already been made by Elizabeth Morris. All that’s required to watch is the closing of the eyelids.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A song like “Tallulah” requires a certain level of bravery to pull off, for if it fails its much worse than a misstep. It’ll be downright embarrassing. And while this song succeeds wholeheartedly, it’s also quite nude in its emotionalism, and listening to it can feel a bit like eavesdropping. Of course, this is absurd. It is a record, after all. But that’s the power of music for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If “Tallulah” is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i>’s best moment, it’s also an album with no bum tracks. Penultimate cut “Still Young” is the closest the disc comes to straightforward rocking, and it can’t help reminding me of what Velocity Girl might’ve sounded like if they’d resided closer to the River Thames than the River Potomac. Another similarity throughout the record (especially on “Some People Say”) is Glaswegians Camera Obscura, though Allo Darlin’ are just a wee bit more spritely. For fans of indie-pop, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i> will be a welcome addition to the library, and it just might tear the wig off newcomers to the style.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can easily envision some of those listeners glancing to the bottom of this review and wondering why <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i> didn’t receive a higher grade. And in a sense, they’d have a point, since the text above is loaded with praise and lacking in faults. To elaborate, this is indeed an LP without any glaring flaws, but it is also a record that’s very much “in the tradition”. Allo Darlin’ fit into the Slumberland roster like long, thin torso snuggly hugging a thrift store sweater, and their sophomore record is one of the best femme-fronted indie-pop slabs to grace my ears in quite a while.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And if it were readily apparent that Allo Darlin’ had outdone themselves and hit a qualitative ceiling in the making of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe</i>, a higher grade might have been called for. But in this case, it’s obvious that Elizabeth Morris and her cohorts are capable of far more than just putting their own superb spin on a fine genre; if they keep at it, they could very likely play a role in defining the indie-pop sound for a whole new generation. With this possibility in mind, my highest marks are being saved for if and when.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-82520258167763107762012-04-20T09:24:00.000-07:002012-04-20T09:24:12.123-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week Record Store Day Edition 4/20/12- Mississippi John Hurt and Pussy Galore and Patti Smith<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mississippi John Hurt is one of the few bluesmen whose talents endured undiminished over the often cruel span of time. He never made an album that was less than superb and his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Session</i>, freshly reissued for Record Store Day, presents the possibility that recording technology captured only a portion of his relaxed and always approachable style.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Simply put, Mississippi John Hurt is a treasure of the blues. His absolutely mandatory 1928 recordings for the OKeh label not only provide an ample survey of an assured artist captured in the music industry’s wild early days, but their enduring brilliance additionally served as the impetus for his ‘60s rediscovery, where he held court like a benevolent giant. Those OKeh sides present a musician initially dealt a bum hand by the circumstances of history; if record companies of the era would record just about anything in hopes of a hit, they also weren’t very invested in artist development. If his first release was successful enough to get him to New York City on OKeh’s dime for another session, his subsequent five 78s didn’t capture the public’s interest in a manner acceptable to the label, and no more recordings were made.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hurt might’ve easily found another company willing to issue his music, but as a farmer he essentially looked upon the blues as a sideline. Unlike many of his notable contemporaries, Hurt wasn’t a restless soul easily adaptable to the rough and tumble lifestyle of the transient musician. Instead, as the quiet, unperturbed nature of his work attests, he desired little more than to make an honest living in the comfortable environment of the town where he was born. And if his unconflicted personality greatly reduced the likelihood for further recording opportunities, the harsh realities of the Great Depression essentially put the kibosh on them outright. Any record company not driven out of the business was suddenly much more cautious over what they released, and since the blues theoretically appealed to poor people its frequency on disc was greatly diminished. If Hurt hadn’t uttered the line “Avalon my hometown, always on my mind” in his “Avalon Blues”, it’s very likely his rediscovery would’ve never happened.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But folk musicologist Tom Hoskins used that clue to track him down, in the process setting in motion what’s probably the most fruitful of all the ‘60s folk era rediscoveries, his only real rival being fellow Mississippian Skip James. The reasons for this are multifaceted. To begin, the particulars of Hurt’s art lacked the complexities and intensities that would’ve surely been diminished by age and the effects of lifelong toil. If the reappearance of Son House, Bukka White, Furry Lewis and others was quite welcome, their latter day recordings also cast little doubt upon the superiority of their earlier musical activities, though some who prefer the cleaner sound afforded by advanced technology might disagree. And in the case of performers like Robert Pete Williams, Mance Lipscomb and John Jackson the point is moot since none of these worthy names had been presented with the opportunity to record in their younger days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Hurt’s ability actually seemed to ripen with age, mainly due to his music’s non-reliance on emotional desperation and stylistic extremes. If James was still an able musician, he was a significantly less accessible one than Hurt, who was tailor made for the folk festival circuit; his material was a veritable call to walk right in and sit right down, and his presence left audiences feeling good. This isn’t to imply that Hurt’s playing was inferior to that of James, though it’s clear that James felt this way; the notoriously difficult figure just didn’t consider Hurt to be a serious blues artist. But if Hurt’s fingerpicking style gave off an easygoing surface veneer, it was actually quite deep in conception, and in fact it sits at the core of the American Primitive guitar movement as led by John Fahey, Leo Kottke and Peter Lang. The leadoff track of Fahey’s superb 1968 LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Requia</i> is titled “Requiem for John Hurt”, and through this direct association the influence of the by now mythic artist born in 1892 can be heard in a contemporary player like Glenn Jones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After being located by Hoskins Hurt’s musical activities recommenced with vigor. He relocated to Washington DC where in addition to extensive recording for The Library of Congress under the auspices of music scholar Dick Spottswood he completed a pair of albums for the Piedmont label that were later reissued by Rounder under the titles <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Worried Blues</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Avalon Blues</i>. Hurt then entered into a relationship with the prominent ‘60s folk label Vanguard, and that’s where his reputation as a rediscovery justly rests. The four records issued through Vanguard found him nimble fingered and in strong voice, and in addition to becoming a hot property on the folk scene he even appeared on national TV via <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tonight Show</i>. If listeners understandably migrate to his first two studio efforts <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Today!</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Immortal Mississippi John Hurt</i> it’s largely because they radiate with the same energy and warmth that’s in evidence on his numerous live recordings, of which the misleadingly titled Vanguard double-LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Best of Mississippi John Hurt</i> is arguably the finest example.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Hurt was far more than just a crowd pleaser. He was also a serious player, and that’s what makes the often neglected <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Sessions</i> so valuable. Upon initial casual listening, the contents of his final studio album (not released until 1972, six years after his death) essentially register as just one more example of what Hurt did with stately aplomb. But there are differences, at first subtle and gradually becoming more pronounced, that mark it as a work by a man disinterested in resting on his laurels. While his repertoire had always been peppered with songs of traditional origin, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Sessions</i> opens with a cover of Bukka White’s “Poor Boy, Long Ways From Home”. If Hurt immediately remakes the song in his own image, that’s no matter; his inclination to interpret the work of his peers is highly indicative of this album’s lasting importance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For instance, on “Boys, You’re Welcome” his voice attains a loose assertiveness that while still within the range of gentleness that defines his stature as a blues singer, still feels distinct from the body of work that led up to it. Certainly adding to this is the extremely close production technique utilized by Patrick Sky (who also served as occasional second guitarist); not only is Hurt heard with unusually sharp clarity, but his occasionally audible breathing and whispering greatly increases an already high level of intimacy. And on “Joe Turner Blues” that closeness combines with his typically fleet playing and a not so typical exploration of dark themes (“policeman, you better not let him ‘round/If you do I’m sure gonna shoot him down”) to greatly accentuate that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Sessions</i> is a document of a musician that fired on all creative cylinders to the very end of his life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yes, you read that above parenthetical correctly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Sessions</i> indeed features additional guitar. Perhaps this aspect has caused some blues fans to regard this album with a measure of detachment. If so, that’s a big mistake. Sky’s accompaniment blends seamlessly into the record’s grooves, and it’s readily apparent that the choice for added string work was in no way due to any faltering skills on the part of Hurt. Rather it’s quite clear that Hurt and Sky (who in addition to producing the entire run of Hurt’s Vanguard studio stuff had his own extensive career as a NYC folkie; he’s a worthy but essentially forgotten name) established a strong working relationship that was entering into a new phase with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Sessions</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s a record that’s simply an unbroken string of highlights. And as testament to its thoughtful symmetry, the album closes with a second cover, Leadbelly’s warhorse “Goodnight Irene”. This is a resonant selection, for John Hurt and Huddie Ledbetter were two of the most successful blues artists to cross over into the folk music sphere. “Goodnight Irene” is given a fine reading, but it’s the tune “Funky Butt” that really points to the breadth of what Hurt brings to the table on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Sessions</i>. The song, which many jazz buffs will instantly recognize as “Buddy Bolden’s Blues”, is openly and unashamedly in the tradition of the bawdy (“you see that girl with the red dress on/she got the funky butt, the stinky butt sure as you’re born/’cause I don’t like it no how”). While Hurt had recorded the song previously for the Library of Congress, it was quite the new wrinkle for him to present this aspect of his work in a commercial context. Maybe it was Sky’s suggestion, or possibly Hurt just felt the time was right. Either way, “Funky Butt” isn’t a study in risqué double-entendres, but instead is very direct in its subject matter. The unaffected delivery really serves to amplify that Hurt was a full man easily in touch with the entire range of human experience.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Sessions</i> richly details the assuredness with which Hurt expressed that range. Whether it was regal blues or heartfelt gospel, songs of his own origin or wisely chosen cover material, rich crowd-pleasers or statements of a more personal quality, Hurt’s music shined with vitality on any record that bears his name. I’m pleased as pickles to see this album get a fresh vinyl pressing for Record Store Day. It’s a superb closing chapter to one of the great sagas of 20th Century American music.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While Jon Spencer is most celebrated for his front-man duties with the Blues Explosion, in some ways his role in divisive ‘80s noisesters Pussy Galore is his most interesting gig. That band’s discography is getting an overdue reissue treatment on vinyl starting this Record Store Day with their 7-inch debut <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feel Good About Your Body</i>, and anybody desiring to be bombarded with malevolent cacophony need look no further. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To this day, many people persist in considering Pussy Galore as a mere provocation instead of a smartly conceived conceptual unit. From their earliest moments the band specialized in making many listeners unhappy, mainly because their music was drenched in calculated immaturity and brazen racket that connected with about as much subtlety as a brick to the head. If a large segment of the late-‘80s punk community was wrapped up in positivity, Jon Spencer, Julia Cafritz and a revolving door of additional members were having none of that. The dividing line was between those who found Pussy Galore to be regressive, deliberately antagonistic snots and those who thought their pummeling, anti-social din to be a needed breath of noxious air. If punk rock had initially redefined the standards of musicianship away from virtuosity and polish, by the time <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feel Good About Your Body</i> first hit racks in 1985, the u-ground punk scene had somewhat unconsciously reestablished a paradigm of expectations regarding appropriate musical behavior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While there was certainly exceptions, by the second half of the decade hardcore was largely dead in the water. Pussy Galore’s first great achievement was in engaging with the no-frills anybody-can-do-it sensibility of garage bands and then acquainting it with the just-blossoming aesthetics of noise rock. Now, the ‘80s was surely full of (some would say polluted with) retro garage bands that played the role full-tilt, all the way down to taking their fashion tips from the Shadows of Knight or The Count Five. Stumbling into a hole in the wall club as one of these groups was playing was akin to falling into a time warp and being deposited onto the set of a Roger Corman-produced drive-in flick that’s entire aim was to opportunistically cash in on the thriving youth market. Think paisley shirts, brightly colored maracas, granny-glasses and necklaces of wooden beads. Witnessing these bands wasn’t a horrible experience by any means, but it was very far from cutting edge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This wasn’t Pussy Galore’s intention in the slightest. Jon Spencer didn’t want to replicate what he’d heard on compilations like Crypt Records’ massive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back From the Grave</i> series, instead desiring to bring the essence of those collected obscurities screaming into a subterranean music scene that he and others felt needed a real kick in the pants. And if Pussy Galore was most definitely not alone in wanting to stir things up, they frankly stood apart in terms of image, choosing to come off like nihilistic cretins instead of hip art hounds like Sonic Youth/Swans or an acerbic autodidact ala Big Black’s Steve Albini. And this was apparently too much for some folks to handle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s been said more than once that Pussy Galore was The Rolling Stones of the ‘80s underground; after all, they did release a scorching in-sequence demolition as tribute of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exile on Main Street</i>. But it’s just as often said that Pussy Galore was a bunch of posers indulging in an over-studied badass swagger that was intended to dupe the gullible into thinking they were somehow comparable to the significance of the Stones. Actually, neither of these assessments is wrong. Calling them the Stones of the ‘80s doesn’t necessarily insinuate that Pussy Galore was as great a band, even if it’s a no-brainer that PG’s partisans cared far more about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sugarshit Sharp</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dial M For Motherfucker</i> than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tattoo You</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Steel Wheels</i>. But what Pussy Galore in ’85 and The Rolling Stones in ’64 share is a take no prisoners approach. Both bands really didn’t care if you didn’t like the cut of their jib, and to an extent this atmosphere of disdain actually pleased them. And it wasn’t just adults that found Mick and Keef distasteful. Many teenagers were also put off by the band’s image and music; this is essentially the beginnings of the Beatles Vs Stones cliché. Likewise, I have firsthand experience with high school contemporaries that upon first hearing Spencer and crew reacted like the speakers were puking out the aural equivalent of toxic green bile. In this sense PG can also be likened to The Stooges or Sex Pistols, but it’s in their misanthropic, arrogant, in-your-face attitude that they beg comparison to the Stones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it’s also not inappropriate to describe Pussy Galore as posers, though most of the people that felt this way in the late ‘80s plainly believed anybody appearing in public in something other than blue-jeans and a t-shirt was guilty of shameless foppery. Accusations of slumming rich kids abounded, particularly after they bailed on DC for New York City. And if these allegations held some basis in fact (indeed, Spencer was a Brown University dropout), then Pussy Galore were posers of the finest caliber; their acting was all part of a non-rigid and non-lofty conceptual strategy. Especially after Bob Bert, Neil Haggerty, Christina Martinez and Kurt Wolf joined, they made seriously innovative music while confounding large numbers of listeners with what was often perceived as willful incompetence. Three guitars rarely in tune and no bass, a drum-set featuring an automobile gas tank, and lyrics that often seemed stolen from the wall of a truck stop men’s room. Their shows were notoriously hit and miss, but when they pulled it all together (as documented on the long gone<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Maximum Penetration</i> VHS tape) they were rock ‘n’ roll theatre of the finest order (and somewhat comparable to the psychedelic-punk circus of The Butthole Surfers); threatening, head-strong and flirting with self-destruction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I’ve said little about the direct content of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feel Good About Your Body</i> thus far, that’s mainly due to the 4-song record’s blunt efficiency as an inaugural statement of purpose. Or to put it another way, like many great debut records it provides only a taste and leaves the listener wanting more. In this case however, it obviously left many sets of ears wishing they’d never heard the infernal thing it at all. It takes only the rudest aspects of garage/punk and combines them with the disruptive metal-on-metal percussiveness nabbed wholesale from early industrial music (Einstürzende Neubauten in particular) and then spits it all back out with hostility and contempt. And if “Die Bitch” and “Constant Pain” revel in celebrating themes of undisguised (and not at all complex) negativity, “HC Rebellion” is at least tangibly methodical in its mocking of the contemporaneous punk scene’s proclivity for self righteousness and hyperactive identity mongering; to make this point, Cafritz simply reads from the letter’s section of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maximum Rock ‘N’ Roll</i>. In order to actually understand what she’s saying, “HC Rebellion” also presents the band at their most tuneful, though needless to say nobody’s going to confuse this bunch with The Feelies. By the release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pussy Gold 5000</i>, the band has largely dispensed with any gestures of social-commentary, and for the better; this tactic couldn’t help feeling a mite reactionary, and honestly they were at their absolute best when appearing totally oblivious to any ideology except lowbrow classique. The very title of “Car Fantasy” really drives this home with panache; in the end, their particular brand of mayhem isn’t all that far removed from that of The Cramps.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feel Good About Your Body</i> had somehow been the band’s only release it would essentially be looked upon as a clamorous curiosity of the early noise-rock scene. But it wasn’t their only record, and in fact this hypothetical circumstance is simply an impossibility. In retrospect it’s abundantly clear that Pussy Galore would simply not be denied, and because of this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feel Good About Your Body</i> connects not as a minor, developmental work but rather as a suitably brief and highly caustic introductory screed from one of the ‘80’s shrewdest bands. To really absorb their thuggish evolution in full, it’s necessary to begin right here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It might not be a tantalizingly obscure or doggedly underrated record, but it’s great to see Patti Smith’s debut LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses</i> getting a fresh vinyl reissue for Record Store Day. If she’s not a “lost” artist or even one needing a boost in retroactive esteem, there’s always room for additional assessment. For when the supreme deity of musical affairs gave us this post-Beat proto-punk rocker-poet, well they simply broke the mold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For those born too late, it’s a reliably interesting experience to hear the works of groundbreaking artists. Being all of four years old when Patti Smith’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses</i> was released is a prime example. Initially, I had to contend with hearing and holding dear a whole gaggle of stuff that was obviously influenced by Smith’s massive precedent. For just a few like-gendered examples, I’d already been knocked sideways by Poly Styrene, Exene Cervenka and Kim Gordon, so when I finally spent some of my hard-earned part-time hash-slingin’ cash on a beat up copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses</i> circa 11th grade, I was very much impressed, but the chaotic disorder of time caused my introduction to lack the rarefied status of epiphany.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it was surely similar for others from my age group. But her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dream of Life</i> album was making some comeback waves around this time, with her single “People Have the Power” getting a good bit of MTV play and even some commercial radio airtime. That tune pairs up well with Lou Reed’s “Dirty Blvd” from his ’89 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York</i> album (also something of a creative comeback), with both songs making the case for younger listeners that there was far more to Smith’s career and Reed’s solo work than her “Because the Night” and his “Walk on the Wild Side”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This may all seem like elementary learning, but during the ‘80s Reed’s post-Velvet Underground career was not that highly regarded, some even calling him a creative washout. And while the period wasn’t unkind to Patti, the perception of her output up to that point, at least for many youthful upstarts, was that she was a surly early ‘70s proto-punker easily lumped in with the likes of Jonathan Richman and New York Dolls, except that Smith actually managed to negotiate a fleeting relationship with the mainstream.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And her geographical circumstances sorta compounded the issue, for in the late-‘80s the original NYC punk scene was, with the exception of The Ramones and to a lesser extent Richard Hell, looked upon with a degree of skepticism by youngsters bred on subsequent examples of the style; Blondie was too pop-savvy, Television was a bunch of jammers, Heartbreakers smacked of the failure of junkiedom, Talking Heads was too New Wave and nobody could initially figure out exactly what Suicide was up to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The reality is that while punk rock is correctly identified as a movement centered on youth, the New York incarnation of the form was conceived almost entirely by adults, and it’s not that these deservedly renowned individuals didn’t want to grow up; expectations (and rents) were notoriously low in the weird and seedy boroughs of pre-gentrification New York City, and carving out an existence (if not necessarily a living) in a rock band was just one of many options. It just took a little bit of accumulated life experience for kids ten years hence to really get that Sonic Youth’s twin guitar attack was unimaginable without Television, that Nikki Sudden’s work in the Jacobites was deeply touched by the example of Johnny Thunders, and that a small army of industrial and experimental bands were directly linked to the work of Suicide. And if Patti’s defiant individualism has resulted in a lack of boldfaced stylistic descendants, the very nature of her groundbreaking if non-didactic feminism locates her as a godmother to over thirty years of righteous rock women.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While spending ample time with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses</i>, I managed to not only hear both “Hey Joe” and ”Piss Factory” from her killer debut single, but also the splendid live throttling of “My Generation”. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Radio Ethiopia</i> came not long after this, and all the components of Smith’s early work were in place. If these records didn’t provide an epiphanic experience, they did slowly reveal some very powerful truths, the foremost being that with the obvious exception of Bob Dylan, Smith had conjured up the most successful hybrid vernacular of music and serious literary aspiration to ever make it onto record (Leonard Cohen fans, please don’t take this personally, for he ranks third).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And while Dylan certainly influenced Smith, it’s still striking just how much of her formative work lacked clear-cut predecessors, though a few prior models did peak through, notably Lou Reed, who studied under poet Delmore Schwartz at Syracuse University and dedicated “European Son” from the debut VU album to his former professor. And in a sense early punker Smith can also be considered the tail end of a New York-centric movement that combined music and disheveled poetics, with The Fugs and Allen Ginsberg being prime examples.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Patti Smith deeply loved rock ‘n’ roll, and that’s what set her apart as a literary musician both then and now. Beginning with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses</i>’ opener “Gloria” she and her coconspirators, the foremost being Lenny Kaye, slammed the essence of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nuggets</i> up against the formidable spirit of Arthur Rimbaud and neither side loses, so everybody goes home a winner. And if Smith’s influences as a poet span a wide range of bohemian experience, she lacks any trace of the overblown or the obnoxious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To elaborate, two nagging problems with rock music that aspires to a poetic sensibility are a lack of restraint and unchecked idolatry. For one example, picture a dude reciting some “first thought best thought” scribblings while accompanied by music that strives for inspired spontaneity only to flounder in a directionless mess. But “hey man, we’re in the tradition of Kerouac”. Actually, you’re more like that cartoon beatnik from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Flintstones</i>. And guys who trip out on peyote and swill whisky straight from the bottle as they scrawl their insights onto a crumpled grocery bag in the desert are just as bad; while Jim Morrison was a lot of things, a role-model ain’t one of them. He died at 27, and if an occasionally great rock front man, his attempts at poetry aren’t exactly staples in university lit courses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Meanwhile Patti Smith has received an honorary degree from Pratt Institute, a college that she couldn’t afford to attend. Instead she toiled in a factory, and like so many great proletarian artists, this mind-numbing work taught her discipline. If “Birdland” and “Land” (aka the title track) from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses</i> clock in at over nine minutes each, they are both, like Patti herself, exceedingly trim, with nary an ounce of excess fat or folly. And she mingled these more expansive numbers with buoyant bits of pop brilliance like “Redondo Beach” and “Kimberly”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Debut records very rarely arrive with this much self assurance. And not to wax too autobiographical, but if the value of Smith’s work didn’t speak directly to my own teenaged experience, as I grew older and worked a succession of crappy jobs while seeking solace in the regenerative properties of music, books and art, her work communicated with me in ways I simply didn’t expect. She was there like a wise older friend, not giving advice but just setting a beautiful example.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sometimes the succinct merely states the obvious. For instance, writing that Patti Smith’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses</i> is among the small handful of debut masterpieces ever committed to magnetic tape feels like the borrowed accolades quoted in record advertisements or promo blurbs. But the better angels of elaboration be damned, sometimes the concise is the best avenue of persuasion. In the case of this brilliant document having thus far eluded you, I will offer one suggestion in response; please get thee to a music shack and remedy this circumstance post haste. You won’t be sorry.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-25396944418807161342012-04-13T10:35:00.000-07:002012-04-13T10:35:02.601-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/13/12 - Robert Pollard and Screaming Females<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a year that’s going to see (at least) two releases by the reformed “classic lineup” of Guided by Voices, it might seem feasible that Robert Pollard would relent just a little bit in his efforts to singlehandedly keep the nation’s record pressing plants in business. Nope. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman Cloud</i> is the latest entry in his solo discography, and with producer/multi-instrumentalist Todd Tobias in tow, it’s a strong if inessential effort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lots has been made of Robert Pollard’s gobsmacking level of prolificacy and his seeming disregard for what’s been called quality control, but in my view it all ultimately shapes up as the workaday method of a musician determined to avoid answering the question “when are you going to come up with another <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bee Thousand</i>?” The constant flow of Pollard-related discs essentially cuts off that line of inquiry before it’s even asked; he’s obviously disinterested in recapturing the specificity of past glories (which are very much caught up in the particulars of long gone times and places, natch), instead being single-mindedly devoted to documenting his uncanny ability to soak up song ideas like a sponge and then spit them back out as if he’s being squeezed by some invisible godlike pop-obsessed hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is not to say that Pollard is opposed to looking back and reengaging with the energies of former cohorts. Far from it; the “classic lineup” of GBV has indeed reunited and knocked out the appealing if by now typically expectations-defying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Go Eat the Factory</i>. And defying anticipations seems to be the underlying raison d’être of Pollard’s work over the last few years, in some way informing every release that bears his name. It seems the only expectation he’ll indulge is the one that accepts his prodigious output on its own terms. And Guided by Voices have another record scheduled for May, just five months after the appearance of the last one, so it seems this attitude has extended to the reemergence of the most-lauded lineup of the band that for many will always constitute his/their legacy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And good for them, for with a few exceptions (like Dinosaur Jr. and especially Mission of Burma) indie rock reunions (and the phenomenon of playing albums in sequence live) holds an aura that’s decidedly more Branson than badass. That <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman Cloud</i> pops up on the release schedule between two of the reconstituted GBV’s studio efforts only emphasizes their interest in (along with drinking copious amounts of beer) making records that first and foremost please themselves. And this will only serve to exacerbate the complaints that Pollard is profoundly screwing his frustrated fans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But this situation has been going on for a while, so maybe his base of support has largely accepted that the glory days of Scat and Matador are very likely never coming back. I don’t haunt the GBV-related message boards and fan sites, and haven’t been to a Pollard-related live show since the booze-soaked<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>victory lap that that brought Guided by Voices to a temporary close back in ’04. But somebody’s still buying the albums, and as long as that’s the case it seems very clear they will keep on hitting the racks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Among the stream of Pollard’s recent efforts <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman Cloud</i> is distinguished by its consistency, and in fact it’s more successful overall than the peaks and valleys of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Go Eat the Factory</i>. I’d rate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman</i> with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Space City Kicks</i> and the Boston Spaceships stuff as the guy’s strongest material to see release in the last four years or so. This doesn’t mean it’s perfect. But it shows enough inspiration and cohesion across its seventeen songs to be of possible interest to those listeners that have long given up on keeping track of every nook and cranny of Pollard’s output. And if not a must have (but there hasn’t really been one of those since ‘04’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Half Smiles of the Decomposed</i>) it does make a good case for the general batting average of his “jewels amongst the pleasant ephemera” tactic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman Cloud</i> finds Pollard indulging the more rocking side of his personality and peppering the proceedings with some appealing psych-pop touches, though nothing here develops into the bold foofery of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Go Eat the Factory</i>’s “Doughnut for a Snowman”. Opener “Obvious #1” is a stripped down piece of classic guitar pop that establishes the tone of what’s to follow, not only from an instrumental standpoint but from a lyrical one as well; after forty odd seconds of his typically skewed wordplay, it finds him repeating variations on the phrase “it’s obvious” for the second half of the tune. This motif recurs occasionally throughout the album, most effectively on “Mother’s Milk and Magnets”, where he repeats the song’s title with the dispassionate air of a vocalist under mild hypnosis, and on “Continue to Break”, where the nifty bit of phraseology “grandfather blues continues to shoot up the six o’clock news” is chanted until it almost begs for an accompanying sing-along. On first listen, even.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This lyric strategy will surely be fodder for those that think Pollard’s output has far exceeded the proliferation of his ideas. And that would make sense if it didn’t feel so premeditated. For all of the truth in the assessment of the man as a highly-skilled if somewhat eccentric surgeon applying his scalpel to classic rock forms, the blade extracting the choice bits and then stitching them together into concise melodic nuggets that seem halfway between college radio and the long gone crackle of the AM dial, the oddness of Pollard’s stanzas have always been the thing that’s distinguished him from being simply another artist of savvy reassemblage. Sure, many of his words certainly derive from a Beatles-inspired pop-psyche precedent, but partly due to his proclivity for writing songs of such fleeting duration his lyrics lack the vivid descriptiveness and occasional grandiosity of those models. Instead, they often flow like stream-of-consciousness that’s been scribbled into and then torn out of a battered notebook, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman Cloud</i> is a solid continuation of this method, repeated lyrics and all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No, not every tune is up to the standard of his best stuff, but the record is also unsurprisingly rife with those brief songs, so the lesser ones don’t linger around for too long. In many ways (and like many of Pollard’s strongest efforts), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman Cloud</i> feels like one long tapestry, and this fact only helps in making the occasional dips in quality easier to swallow. When he chooses to stretch out it’s to fine effect; “Picnic Drums” and particularly closer “Chief Meteorologist” provide two of the record’s best moments. And please add to the album’s sum a few selections of truly tweaked disposition; “Smacks of Euphoria” finds Pollard barking out an acoustic number that’s halfway between addled folk-rock and regal, almost glam-like pomp. And the cheap keyboard wheezing of “Half-Strained” sets up an eerie psyche opening that gives way to a little bit of riffing and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>some very twisted lyricism. And then it’s over.</span></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mouseman Cloud</span></i><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> is ultimately a flawed record, but its problems are relatively minor. It’s surely not the finest entry in Pollard’s vast discography, but it’s much farther away from the shoulder-shrugging aura of his least inspired material. While all of his records are to some extent indicative of their creator’s fallibility as an artist that abjures the typical standards of restraint and refinement, it’s also true that within this context certain Pollard releases do a better job than others in cluing in the listener to what the fuss is all about. It’s not earth-shattering, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mouseman Cloud</i> falls into that category quite nicely.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through the course of four albums, New Brunswick NJ’s Screaming Females has grown into one of the most interesting and promising young rock bands on the scene. Heavy, distinctive and featuring a legitimate guitar-hero in Marissa Paternoster, their latest record is called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i>. Not only does it lack any signs of creative fatigue, it’s easily their best one yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The profile of Screaming Females has increased significantly in the last few years, and that’s almost completely down to the band’s hard work; they’ve played hundreds of shows since 2005, the majority naturally taking place in the expected locales of clubs, halls and music spaces. But quite a few of these gigs have also occurred in the basements of houses, their hometown lacking in the required amount of venues conducive to the Females’ ground-level punk-inspired sensibility. If your town doesn’t have enough stages to hold the presentation and growth of your thing, taking it to the basement is just what you do. And with the release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i> the group now has five full-lengths under their collective belt in just a smidge over six years, a circumstance that pretty much paints them as shameless busybodies, at least in contemporary rock terms. For some icing on the cake, Screaming Females are a trio, a power trio in fact; they excel in an environment where hard work is very much a given.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But from within the confines of their sound, it’s the galvanizing combo of Marissa Paternoster’s vocals and guitar that is clearly responsible for the band’s increased following. Once heard, she’s not likely to be soon forgotten. This is not a knock on bassist King Mike or drummer Jarrett Dougherty (there’s only one actual female in Screaming Females); both are a far sight more than just capable on their instruments, the pair quite adept at transcending the standards of a mere rhythm section, which is another element of the power trio that’s an absolute necessity. But with this said Paternoster is essentially the focal point of the band’s attack; her vocal delivery has been likened to that of Sleater-Kinney’s Corin Tucker and her guitar playing has drawn comparisons to J Mascis. To put it mildly these are big shoes to fill, and Paternoster does so not through calculated imitation but by forging ahead with nerve and impressive dedication to her craft.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Screaming Females have been called a punk band, and while that’s not a terribly inapt description, I do think they’re most appropriately described by the above nomenclature of punk-inspired. To put it another way, the band is definitely descended from the aggressive template of punk rock. What’s more their dedication to those basement gigs and allegiance to their local “scene” in lieu of moving to a more rock-centric city (New York is just a hop, skip and train ride away), when coupled with a tireless if appealingly offhand work ethic is easily identifiable as punk in attitude. But to simply call Screaming Females a punk band might erroneously suggest a focus on the rudimentary, and while not a overly complex unit inclined toward flash for flash’s sake, they are frankly too accomplished as a group to be comfortably labeled with the potentially misleading descriptor of unhyphenated punk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead, Screaming Females are in league with the distinctive (and yes quite punk-informed) underground rock of the 1980s, a place where power trios flourished; think Minutemen, Hüsker Dü and indeed Dinosaur Jr. The Females don’t sound like the ‘men or Dü, but they share with those bands an anti-generic non-simplicity that was a step beyond the “anybody can do it” back-to-square-one ethos of punk rock. And if Paternoster’s guitar brings Mascis to mind (and it does, though she’s just as remindful of Eddie Van Halen), the music as a whole isn’t very suggestive of ol’ Dino. It’s really in the comparison to Corin Tucker that we cozy up to a direct point of reference for Screaming Females, specifically a heavy, liberating post-Riot Grrl vibe. It’s not a bit of a stretch to say the band’s entire discography could’ve easily fit into the release schedule of the fledgling Kill Rock Stars label. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i> was recorded with Steve Albini, a connection that’s almost become a rite of passage for bands specializing in this type of unabashed rock action. And since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i> shapes up as Screaming Females best platter, it’s tempting to credit Albini as a large factor in the album’s success. That is, if the previous four discs hadn’t already established an uncommonly astute hand at record making. For many bands (particularly of this heavy inclination), a succession of releases can risk becoming something of an indistinguishable or interchangeable blur, which might be okey-dokey for fans satisfied with hearing one thing done extremely well, but it’s also undeniable that more casual listeners will be far less inclined to go back for a double dip. But in the case of the Females, each record holds traits that clearly define their stylistic progression; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baby Teeth</i> is their strong if modest debut, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What if Someone is Watching Their TV?</i> finds them at their angriest and most shredding, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Power Move</i> displays real songwriting growth, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Castle Talk</i> finds them nodding at times toward pop-punk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i> continues this practice of stylistic development, not only flaunting their boldest production sound but also finding them branching out in both song-length (“Doom 84” clocks in at 7:38) and album running time. These admirable aspects aside, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i>’s success can almost entirely be credited to the uniformly high level of songwriting and the seamless rapport between the players. Paternoster is indeed the focal point, but her talents are surely greatly enhanced by the fluid familiarity that’s bloomed between all three principals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The one aspect of Screaming Females’ sound that is undeniably punk in both intent and execution is the sheer hugeness of Paternoster’s vocals. Punk in intent because she possesses a tough take-it-or-leave-it quality, and punk in execution due to the sheer lack of prettification in her delivery; she’s not trying to sooth or tempt. Instead, she’s interested in shaking and stirring things up. As <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i> plays for the umpteenth time, I can’t help but think of her as a modern disciple of Patti Smith, and that’s because she’s so thoroughly invested in doing her own thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If there’s anything troubling in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i>, it’s in the likelihood that it’s going to be a hard act to follow. However, closing track “It’s Nice” features Paternoster’s vocals and acoustic guitar accompanied by a string section that alternates between sinewy and lush. The sheer unexpectedness of this finale is quite welcome, and it’s a possible harbinger of rewarding developments in the band’s future. Here’s hoping.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">With <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly</i>, Screaming Females have not only set themselves a lofty standard, but they’ve also placed the bar quite high for contemporary-minded power trio rock in general. Anybody curious over the current rock scene’s state of health should lend them an ear.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-4138074047157228692012-04-06T18:54:00.001-07:002012-04-06T18:54:53.414-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/6/12 - Gentleman Jesse and Lee Ranaldo<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In theory, the idea of a band playing unadulterated throwback power pop in 2012 might not seem all that promising. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Atlanta</i> that’s just what Gentlemen Jesse does, and through a combination of impressive songs and an obvious love and understanding of the style, he manages to pull it off. And then some.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While power pop’s heyday is generally considered to be mid-‘70s through the early-‘80s, it has managed to make a dent on the charts in every decade since its decline, with Weezer and Matthew Sweet scoring hits with the stripped-down formula in the ‘90s and OK Go doing likewise in the ‘00s. But “Buddy Holly”, “Girlfriend” and “Here It Goes Again” were very contemporaneous appropriations of power pop tradition, extending that framework into the mainstream by sounding up to date, i.e. nobody was confusing any these bands with The Raspberries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the indie/underground scene, power pop hasn’t fared so well, particularly in contrast to its stylistic cousin garage rock. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This could be due to its generally upbeat disposition, for it’s a sub-genre not noted for being overtly angry or angsty. Or maybe it’s just preferable to be seen as not trying hard enough instead of trying too hard; no knock on the garage impulse, but it’s difficult to throw a rock and not hit a underachieving (or downright lazy) band of that stripe. And for every great garage act like The Mummies, The Gories or The Oblivians there are hundreds (each!) that barely qualify as also-rans. If garage often breeds a certain nonchalance, then power pop oozes commitment to a standard far beyond attitude (though attitude was something many great power pop bands did have in spades) and elevated competence. It’s about the patience of songwriting, especially the judicious crafting of hooks, and it very much concerns extensive practice and allegiance to the band dynamic. To display this sort of dedication only to be confronted with the crossed-arms of apathy or the catcalls of derision (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what a bunch of posers</i>) honestly isn’t something most humans wish to endure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully, Jesse Smith isn’t concerned with the opprobrium of those that would deride him as being slavishly devoted to a sound that’s far beyond its sell expiration. Or it just might be that he resides in a large enough berg to avoid the harassment of wet-blanket brigade. Formerly of the rather slept on Atlanta garage punks Carbonas, Smith formed Gentleman Jesse and His Men and released a fine debut to almost no fanfare back in 2008. Since that time he’s suffered an uncommon level of personal strife, namely a physical assault and the death of five loved ones, so rather than feeling delayed, the appearance of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Atlanta</i> instead serves as the grand testament of one downtrodden survivor and the healing properties of his art.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Given Smith’s history in Carbonas, it might seem that his work as Gentleman Jesse would retain some of his former band’s ’77-ish firepower. But no, both the album with His Men and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Atlanta</i> (credited to Gentleman Jesse alone) collectively possess nary a trace of punk grit. Instead, they openly fondle the splendidly direct pop-rock spirit that thrived alongside punk as an alternative to the conceptual bloat of the 1970s rock scene; bands like The Nerves, The Real Kids, The Beat (Paul Collins’ L.A. band) and The Records serve as the direct precedent for Smith’s sensibility, as do more obvious sources such as early Cheap Trick and Costello and the Attractions circa <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Year’s Model</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While many power pop bands released LPs, the era is best remembered retrospectively for certain highpoints in specific songs that feel custom designed for killer mix-tapes. Or for that matter compilations; anybody looking for a fix on the style should search out any of the four pop volumes of Rhino’s excellent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DIY</i> series or the Numero Group single disc dandy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yellow Pills: Prefill</i>. In plain truth many of the records these bands issued were faulty, revealing weaknesses that can be chalked up in large part to commercial aspirations. Through engaging with the album format Gentlemen Jesse may be swimming against the tide of power pop’s lingering historical resonance, but his work refreshingly lacks any unfortunate marketplace maneuvers (in a word: sappiness) to inevitably gum up the works.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This shouldn’t infer that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Atlanta</i> isn’t completely conversant with its models. It’s just that Smith understands that repeating past mistakes is to be avoided when appropriating a form to his own ends. It’s the difference between shallow homage and the relevance of true stylistic extension. And happily Jesse shoots for a full-bodied, radio ready atmosphere, not being content to replicate the scaled-down studio traits of many modest, often self-released power pop obscurities. Everything here could’ve easily ended up on commercial radio playlists back in the late-‘70s without any sense of discord regarding production value. It’s not slick, it’s vivid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Atlanta</i> greatly extends this Carter Administration radio-friendliness by grappling with a few of the era’s bigger and not immediately power pop taggable properties; “Take It Easy On Me” smartly splits the difference between Petty and Springsteen, particularly through the use of organ and a mildly Spector-esque bass line. Analogous to this are hints of a ‘50s jones that really steps up to the plate on penultimate track “Rooting For the Underdog”, its wickedly trim 1:39 sounding like something Rick Nielsen might’ve penned after being bowled over by a rerun of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Girl Can’t Help It</i> on late-night Illinois TV.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A huge part of the record’s success derives from its top flight instrumentation. Milton Chapman’s keyboards add just the right amount of tonal color to the tunes, the rhythm section never lays a note wrong, and a dual guitar attack allows for ripping, Berry-descended solos without any loss of overall power. They even scored garage heavyweight King Louie Bankston (Royal Pendletons, The Persuaders, Bad Times) to contribute a little harmonica. Maybe the band’s best collective tactic is invigorating the up-tempo numbers with just enough hyperactivity to possibly inspire a live crowd mass pogo (or a big ol’ dogpile on the living room carpet), but not so much as to undermine the music’s essential power pop circuitry. Again, what really drives <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Atlanta</i> home is that it’s never conflicted about what kind of record it wants to be; if the garage punk cats don’t “get” it, that’s just means there’s more room on the dance floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If anything punk-informed slips in here, it might be in the dark lyrical undercurrent to many of the record’s thirteen tracks. The relationship songs lack the la-la sweetness that undermined a lot of power pop (those commercial aspirations again, a quality that found many of the style’s purveyors labeled as “wimps”), and much of the material is focused instead on uncertainty and (as its title indicates) the desire to get away. This obviously has roots in Smith’s aforementioned personal struggles, but it never feels overly autobiographical; the love song’s words display common ground with The Ramones, and album closer “We Got to Get Out Of Here” is in the fine tradition of a similarly titled tuned by The Animals. Smith really seems to understand that great party music should always be leavened with undercurrents of emotional dissent in order to distinguish it from mere escapism. And he acquits himself as a fine lyricist here; “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I saw an old friend yesterday/but I couldn’t recall his name/he told me that I have not changed</i>” easily nails the nagging sense of loss that comes from time and distance, and “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at night I sit in TV glow/watching reruns of the Popeye show</i>”…well, that just speaks for itself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The music on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Atlanta</i> is the stuff of great sweaty gigs in hole-in-the-wall dives and spirited, lease-breaking revelry. It’s also so successful in the recalibration of its chosen glories that an obvious temptation to overrate it creeps in. But no wheels are being reinvented here, and that shouldn’t be forgotten.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But the on the other hand, that won’t really be germane to the issue when three dozen people are up in your digs and another quick clean party platter is the only situational recourse. Cue this up and don’t be shocked if next morning some lout is sprawled out on the floor with the gatefold sleeve of Nick Lowe’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesus of Cool</i> hovering over his slumbering mug like a tent. At least the dude has good taste.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After over three decades as one half of Sonic Youth’s estimable guitar tag-team, Lee Ranaldo finally delivers a traditional song-based solo album. While quite strong melodically and displaying the assurance and wisdom of a veteran musician, it also can’t help but register as a somewhat reserved affair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Upon first seeing the cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Between the Times and Tides</i>, I couldn’t help being reminded of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Eye and Ear Control</i>, the wild and wooly free jazz soundtrack to Canadian multi-media artist Michael Snow’s experimental film released by the legendary ESP-Disk label way back in ’64, a record that features august avant-garde improvisers Albert Ayler, Don Cherry and Sunny Murray amongst others. But beside the use of black and white (frankly underutilized in album sleeve design), the images aren’t that much alike; yes they both feature human bodies and symbolic representations of same, but that’s really where the mild similarity ends. And yet I couldn’t help but be reminded of one by the other, and my thoughts on why have turned to the similarities between Snow and Ranaldo that just might’ve been residing in my subconscious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For amongst other pursuits Michael Snow is involved with painting, film/video, photography, books and music. And so is Ranaldo. Unlike Thurston Moore, his prolific cohort in the currently on-hiatus Sonic Youth, Ranaldo is far less easily categorized as simply a guitarist with a few additional creative outlets. Yes, he’s been involved in a fair share of solo and collaborative music endeavors since the release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From Here to Infinity</i>, a drone/loop/locked-groove project first issued by SST in 1987, but since that time his extracurricular concerns have been pretty evenly divided between music, visual art (often with his wife Leah Singer) and writing; he’s slowly acquired a reputation as a multi-media artist whose highest profile gig happens to be membership in what’s arguably the finest New York city rock ensemble since The Velvet Underground. By contrast, Moore can’t help being identified as a maddeningly prolific and indefatigably networking guitar slinger who just happens to dabble in small-press post-Beat poetry, music journalism and the running of the Ecstatic Peace! record label.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So it’s really no surprise that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Between the Times and Tides</i> is being touted by Matador as Ranaldo’s first “proper, song-oriented studio album”. That’s just simple truth in advertising. Up to now his recorded output has included grand drone statements like ‘93’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scriptures of the Golden Eternity</i> and 2000’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amarillo Ramp (for Robert Smithson)</i>, some avant-improvisational splatter with drummer William Hooker and auto-harpist Zeena Parkins (‘95’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Gift of Tongues</i>), and the experimental film music project Text of Light. While Ranaldo has included honest-to-goodness songs on some of his solo outings (I particularly value his cover of Lennon’s “Isolation” from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amarillo Ramp</i>), twenty-five years is a long time to deny the prospects of a full-fledged rock solo work, particularly when it’s been established through Sonic Youth’s proper albums that the guy can really deliver the goods in the style (e.g. “Hey Joni” from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daydream Nation</i>, “Mote” from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goo</i> and “Rats” from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rather Ripped</i>).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In deciding that now’s the time to indulge his latent solo rock side, Ranaldo’s held nothing back in assembling an all-star cast; the core unit includes Wilco’s Nels Cline, bandmate Steve Shelley, Text of Light collaborator and former Love Child/Run On member Alan Licht, Medeski, Martin and Wood’s John Medeski and bassist Irwin Menken, with appearances by ex-SY members Bob Bert and Jim O’Rourke. But the work Ranaldo has signed is far from an indie-experimental jam session, indeed being far more song-oriented than expected from its measured promotional description.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Much of what’s here could easily fit onto any of the LPs that comprise Sonic Youth’s late work. But due to Ranaldo’s appealingly direct, almost conversational vocal delivery and his rather individual (if ultimately very accessible, even popish at times) approach to songwriting, the results are quite distinct from the feel of Sonic Youth’s work proper. Due to the limited exposure (some would say neglect) that his songs receive in the context of SY proper (he’s been described as the band’s George Harrison), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Between the Times and Tides</i> can give the impression of a solo record by absolute necessity; if he’d saved these tracks for upcoming Sonic Youth albums it would’ve taken ten more releases to actually hear them all. But the record lacks the aura of having something to prove, instead feeling assured and very relaxed. It did take this long to appear after all. This feeling of casualness comes to define the record, even when it occasionally starts to drift outward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Opener “Waiting on a Dream” sets the course with a solid mid-tempo, the tune slowly building in forcefulness until it settles into an appealing (and familiar) pulse/chug rhythmic pattern meticulously layered with gliding string textures and the immediately welcoming tones of Ranaldo’s voice. From there the album is front-loaded with two of its standout tracks. The first is “Off the Wall”, an especially pretty and concise piece of guitar pop that succeeds through sheer melodic simplicity and a nice dynamic shift in the chorus. If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Between the Times and Tides </i>features a “single” (and why not?), “Off the Wall” is it. The second is “Xtina as I Knew Her”, a lengthy groove again in the mid-tempo (which honestly seems to be something of a songwriting comfort zone for Ranaldo) that’s simultaneously a multi-guitar showcase and a ample vehicle for some loose, imagery-laden storytelling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And from there the album displays a consistency that is at once impressive and a slight bit disappointing. Impressive because of its clarity and variety, with the psych-inflected “Fire Island (Phases)” being quite a pleasant surprise, just for starters. And a bit disappointing due to a nagging sense that Ranaldo is playing it somewhat safe in crafting his first trad rock solo work. Naturally, “playing it safe” = my own mildly flouted expectations; all this firepower in one studio at the same time and they never manage even once to really let it fly. I understand that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Between the Times and Tides</i> is a collection of the guy’s very good, at times even exceptional melodic material and not an out-rock free for all, but I can’t deny thinking these songs could’ve benefited from some more chance taking, a few rougher edges and a greater helping of Ranaldo’s proven potential for general idiosyncrasy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I shouldn’t protest too strongly, for “safe” or not after a few listens it becomes clear that Ranaldo has made the album that he wanted. And touches of essential difference do sporadically assert themselves, with “Hammer Blows” skeletal acoustic structure serving as the platform for some nicely tweaked (if too brief) vocal action. And the use of Leah Singer’s spoken words in “Shouts” really adds to the songs already affecting Occupy-inspired atmosphere, forming what will likely remain the record’s finest track.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Between the Times and Tides</span></i><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> is an admirable effort by an artist of distinction. Those who enjoy Sonic Youth purely for their more grounded inclinations will find much to like here. And if it doesn’t scratch the itch of those favorably disposed to the clime of outward-bound experimental exploration, well there’s always <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Eye and Ear Control</i>.</span></div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-84632920894187379102012-03-30T11:29:00.000-07:002012-03-30T11:29:59.957-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 3/30/12 - The Decemberists and Lambchop<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After returning to relatively humble ambitions with their last studio album, The Decemberists have went triple-live gonzo with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We All Raise Our Voices to the Air (Live Songs 04.11–08.11)</i>, and the results should easily meet their fans expectations. And while its contents may not convert the dubious, it might at least provide them with a clue to what the fuss is about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A great many live records have been issued over the years by a diversity of pop and rock artists, and with a few notable exceptions, these documents generally serve two purposes. One, they stand as a commentary on the success of an act and a gift to those consumers who made that success possible. Second, they can provide proof that a performer or band can indeed put their thing across on the performance platform.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If pop and rock after the Beatles has largely been a phenomenon of greatness judged through studio albums, there has also been a persnickety attitude that those deemed great must also be able to exhibit their talent on the stage, the nude environment that doesn’t lie. This contrasts rather strongly with jazz, where it’s essentially considered a given that the players on a studio LP have made it there by already displaying their skill on the bandstand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In rock in particular, those aforementioned exceptions to the standard of live albums as templates of success and proof have risen to some of the form’s most vital moments. For example, James Brown’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Live at the Apollo</i> made it plain that the essence of soul music wasn’t located in the mind of a record label entrepreneur seeking chart success but in the mastery of one man and his crack band captured making history in front of a few hundred people in a jam-packed auditorium.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And if Jerry Lee Lewis’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Live at the Star Club</i> was recorded with the intention of proving its leader could still bowl over a crowd and incinerate a club with reckless abandon, it was also a statement of defiance delivered to a public that had kicked him to the curb as unseemly and unworthy of their attention and respect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Likewise, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1969: The Velvet Underground Live</i> amplifies the achievement of a group very few people cared about while they actually existed, an apathy that doubtlessly shaped their status as rock’s greatest outsiders. And The Grateful Dead’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Live/Dead</i> captures a single-minded and expansive band on a grand night making music that the confines of a studio simply couldn’t inspire or contain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It should come as no great surprise that The Decemberists’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We All Raise Our Voices to the Air (Live Songs 04.11–08.11)</i> doesn’t endeavor to the heights of the previous four examples. If its two plus hours spread over two compact discs or three vinyl LPs seems like a grandiose collection by a band that’s never been afraid of engaging with the maximal, the release is appealingly modest in its aims, the most immediate one being a condensed account of the band’s well-earned and somewhat unlikely success.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I say unlikely because their non-confessional, highly literary sensibility is frankly the stuff that cult status is made of. And I say well-earned because The Decemberists’ claimed their success through the traditional modes of high quality (and in their case, often thematically elaborate) albums and extensive touring, graduating from small clubs to larger halls and then to amphitheatres and multi-day outdoor festivals. So as an unabashed album band that can do it on the road, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We All Raise Our Voices to the Air</i>’s sheer length lacks arrogance or self-indulgence and instead testifies to the nature of a fan base where favorite songs are numerous and no one release has emerged as the consensus best.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We All Raise Our Voices to the Air</i> also stands as a gesture of goodwill to the group’s devoted fans. But on closer inspection, it might have something more than just a statement on success and a thank you in mind, for its track listing, taken from a tour supporting their last studio album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The King is Dead</i>, insinuates that The Decemberists might have a little something to prove.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In this age of camera phones and copious YouTube clips, proving it as a live band is nowhere near as difficult as it used to be. And bands of their ilk don’t pull off shows playing in-sequence renderings of high-concept albums like ‘09’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hazards of Love</i> via smoke and mirrors. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The King is Dead</i>, while garnering its share of praise also seemed to divide critics and listeners over the perception of playing it safe and staking out the middle of a road paved with mere folk and Americana. ‘Tis true that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">King</i> may have won back some folks put off by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hazards</i>’ hints of prog-rock and metal, but for many listeners their last effort felt like The Decemberists minus the creative chutzpah.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Seven of<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> We All Raise Our Voices to the Air</i>’s songs originate from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The King is Dead</i>, and if that doesn’t seem surprising considering the shows partially included here were in support of that record, it also seems possible that The Decemberists are looking to integrate its less ambitious goals into the larger weave of their discography and maybe soften the expectation (a band instigated one, true) that in terms of scope every new release must equal or top the last one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If the choice of seven songs from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The King is Dead</i> does contain a potential element of attempted validation regarding their most recent direction, their inclusion also simultaneously possesses an atmosphere of preaching to the choir. And this is okay. Actually it’s much more than okay, since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We All Raise Our Voices to the Air</i>’s surface unwieldiness is actually quite thoughtfully sequenced to deliver a pair of sets that build to very impressive climaxes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hazards of Love</i>’s lofty concept is given an almost token acknowledgement via “The Rake’s Song”, that slight is softened (and immediately followed in the track order) by the inclusion of “The Crane Wife 1, 2 and 3”. While Colin Meloy partakes in a fair share of banter, crowd interaction and many humorous asides, it’s the sixteen minutes of “The Crane Wife” (which closes disc one, or side three of the vinyl) and the appropriately escalated grandeur of the already debonair “I Was Meant For the Stage” replete with an extended culminating orchestral skronk-fest (which ends disc two or side six) that provides ample evidence of the band’s ability to get right down to the business of playing live music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the band’s performances vary enough from their studio origins to make them worth the investment, but they also don’t lose the qualities that made them so appealing in the first place. This is particularly relevant to “The Soldiering Song” and obviously to “The Mariner’s Revenge Song”, which retains much of its splendor even after becoming a by now inevitable audience participation melee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Calamity Song” is also given a fine reading, and the concise pop of “O Valencia!” really shines in this atmosphere. Of course certain tunes are absent. I especially miss “Odalisque”, a track that would doubtlessly shine in the concert setting (and one I’ve unfortunately never heard them play), but if frustrated expectations are a part of the nature of seeing a band play live, this circumstance is certainly extended to live records. </span></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We All Raise Our Voices to the Air</span></i><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> is a very impressive document of some quite seamlessly selected (and sequenced) performances, but in the end it’s really no game-changer, which is to say The Decemberists are still largely the same band they were before its release. But if they keep on trucking, this 3LP set might end up becoming their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Europe ’72</i>. Its contents already provide a fine alternative to the underwhelming obviousness of a standard Greatest Hits collection.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a wait of over three years, Kurt Wagner and his band of astute conspirators have delivered yet another highly distinguished album. Lambchop’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr. M</i> unwinds as just one more example of Wagner and Co’s unfussy brilliance, and it adds to the oeuvre of one of the finest acts American music has produced in the last quarter century. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Due to the nature of their early musical inclination, a rustic sound that held uneasy relationships with the comforts of both contemporaneousness and tradition, Lambchop has been frequently identified as one of the more eclectic examples of the alt-country genre, a circumstance that’s only been amplified by the group’s residence in Nashville, TN. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a tag that Kurt Wagner and Co has never really bristled against, even after moving considerably beyond the template established by their first few albums, mainly because there really isn’t another genre that can comfortably house them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, Wagner can be grouped with Will Oldham, David Berman and Bill Callahan, all artists that charted paths out of the early ‘90s US indie boom to their own uniquely expressive ends. But of this foursome, Berman is no longer musically active, riding out on a high note, Oldham is a heavily collaborative and highly prolific operator continually shifting between on-again off-again bands and projects, and Callahan is most accurately sized-up as a solo artist. In this group it’s in Wagner alone that we find an artist so inclined to explore the possibilities of a gradually shifting (in membership as well as sound) long term collective.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr. M</i> opens with “If Not I’ll Just Die”, four and a half minutes of lush, symphonic lounge, a song that if used as an introduction to Lambchop would surely bypass any alt-country connections and instead inspire an association with neo-easy listening. But for longtime listeners this development is par for the course, the use of strings being a longstanding component of the band’s arsenal asserting itself as far back as their second album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How I Quit Smoking</i>. If on “If Not I’ll Just Die” Lambchop are shooting for a Tormé /Sinatra vibe instead of the chamber-country of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smoking</i>’s “We Never Argue” or the deep soul excavation of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What Another Man Spills</i>’ Curtis Mayfield cover “Give Me Your Love” (Love Song)”, well, that’s just gravy. And the song does feature the sterling piano of Tony Crow, traces of gentle noise adding brief and familiar commentary, and of course the immediately recognizable properties of Wagner’s voice and lyrics, all three casually establishing the group’s aural signature.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“If Not I’ll Just Die” is a study in contrast, another example of how Lambchop’s gorgeous arrangements and impeccable instrumentation sugar the pill of Wagner’s examinations of loss, dysfunction, alienation and despair. With the notable exception of some of their country-soul inflected stuff that sprung up on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thriller</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What Another Man Spills</i> (see the covers of Mayfield, Frederick Knight’s Stax nugget “I’ve Been Lonely For So Long” and even their vamping up of East River Pipe’s “Hey, Where’s Your Girl?”), this has largely been the band’s default mode. And while this mixture of beauty and darkness wisely avoids the maudlin, it’s also not exactly a barrel of laughs, which is one probable explanation for Lambchop’s small yet devoted core following stateside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr. M</i> is an even darker album than usual for the band. For starters, it’s dedicated to the memory of Vic Chesnutt, a gifted musician stricken with long-term health problems who took his own life on Xmas day in 2009. Listening to the album with this tribute to a departed friend in mind (Lambchop backed Chesnutt on the outstanding 1998 LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Salesman and Bernadette</i>) only deepens this record’s moods of frustration, particularly those of emotional and physical separation examined on “2B2”. The song’s stripped down yet sturdy musical bed slowly grows into a sweet melancholy ache while Wagner’s loose yet resonant imagery and a muffled, troubled answering machine recording intensify the aura of isolation and the accumulation of otherwise insubstantial activity (taking down Xmas lights, watching TV, cooking a meal) that accompany it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But there are moments on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr. M</i> that if not necessarily upbeat, at least provide a crucial sense of moderate uplift that helps shape the record into another smartly delivered tapestry of expressiveness. “Gone Tomorrow” and particularly both of the disc’s exceptional instrumentals “Gar” and “Betty’s Overture” prove that while not a band of astounding sonic diversity, Lambchop do possess impressive range within the confines of their well-established sound. And while a wealth of diversity can be admirable (if focused, natch), the sort of disciplined range this band has made a habit of displaying is perhaps a greater achievement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like most of Lambchop’s albums, the quality of the tracks and their relationship to each other makes it difficult to locate a high point. It certainly could be found in the expert tonal shifts of “Mr. Met”, a song where the Tosca String Quartet’s tough chamber feel contrasts with the lush contributions of the London String Ensemble on tracks like “If Not I’ll Just Die” or “Gone Tomorrow”. And like “2B2”, “Nice Without Mercy” foregoes strings, adapting a spare forcefulness that accents some of the album’s more liner storytelling. However, Wagner’s most straightforward lyrics come on “The Good Life (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is wasted</i>)”, the tune flaunting some of the C&W feel that he’s largely sidestepped on recent Lambchop releases in favor of a sort of Southern Leonard Cohen-ist vibe. If in the past he could come off like moodier Tom T. Hall, on “The Good Life” he sounds like a mixture of Don Williams and Lee Hazelwood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That C&W feel was given a much more thorough examination on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">KORT: Invariable Heartache</i>, Wagner’s collaboration with singer Courtney Tidwell that came out last year. It featured members of Lambchop in the band and found the vocalists paying tribute to obscure Nashville label Chart Records by indulging in some sly duets that recalled the prime discourse of George and Tammy. While <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr. M</i> eschews this sensibility, Tidwell does appear in a backup role, and her turn on the instrumental “Gar” brings a subtle exotica flavor to what’s already a pleasant, airy tune. She’s also briefly on “Betty’s Overture”, lending a noirish feel to what sounds like a Shorty Rogers or Johnny Mandel composed theme for a TV show about a kickass yet emotionally troubled lady secret agent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But everybody on the record contributes in top form, and in a way that resists singling out individuals for specific praise. Lambchop’s is an ensemble sound after all, low on flash and high on interaction. The group’s masterful maturity elevates <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mr. M</i>’s 11 songs into a simply superb document, the record denoting the third installment in a loose triumvirate of late-works with ‘06’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damaged</i> and ‘08’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OH (Ohio)</i>. For fans of the band it’s an indispensable purchase, but I can’t imagine there are many Lambchop partisans that haven’t already picked it up.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Please note that the 2LP edition includes four bonus tracks, three of them remixes, one a top-notch cover of Glen Campbell’s (Brian Wilson-penned) “Guess I’m Dumb”. All the extra stuff is located on side four, which smartly allows the album’s thematic integrity to remain intact. And along with the download coupon, the whole package clearly shows why Merge continues to thrive creatively after growing into one of the music scene’s bigger true indies. As does the fact that they’ve stuck with Lambchop’s stately accomplishments for nearly twenty years. </span><br />
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<br /></div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-71913649040674256032012-03-23T13:51:00.000-07:002012-03-23T13:51:05.521-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 3/23/12 - feedtime and The Magnetic Fields<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s a harsh fact of the ongoing musical discourse that vastly important and terribly underappreciated bands are constantly in danger of slipping through the cracks of time. In the spirit of spreading the word and clarifying the historical record, Sub Pop has done the world a great service by collecting in box-set form the first four LPs from one of the truly singular acts of the ‘80s underground, Sydney Australia’s feedtime.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a listener whose life was forever changed by the steady avalanche of small bands that sprung up in the post-hardcore 1980s, it can be a little bit of a drag to see the retrospective mainstream validation of this movement focus so heavily on the same handful of names. Nearly all of these entities either found wider success in the ‘90s (Sonic Youth, J Mascis, Butthole Surfers) or held some direct influence or involvement with the decade’s crossroads of Alternative and indie culture (Steve Albini, Beat Happening).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Any witness to the defiant march of the subterranean ’80s can attest to the landscape holding far more than just a dozen or so groundbreaking groups. In fact, so many records were available through a network of grassroots channels (mail-order, independently owned shops, at shows) that a dysfunctional industry existed, one that was largely undisturbed by the snouts of Big Label snoopers until the rumblings and eventual explosion of what’s sometimes called The Year Punk Broke tore the lid off of everything.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And this outbreak of small, organic bands and scenes was very much a global one; it’s a very US-centric notion to posit that the music which helped to shape Grunge and indie-rock originated, with one or two bones tossed to the rest of the planet, inside the borders of the Continental United States. For just one instance, the continent of Australia fostered a thriving rock underground that rivaled the output of any other region on the map, and one of their greatest exports was feedtime.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The music of feedtime can be described as a very heavy extension of post-punk minimalism, and it can be counted as one of the earliest examples of noise-rock, a sub-genre that didn’t really gain a toe-hold until the latter part of the decade. But tagging them as post-punk misses explicating how feedtime was such an astonishing example of primitive, pummeling invention, the trio being one of the first punk-informed outfits to grapple with the blues as a launching pad for formal extremity. What’s more, their barbed assault registered as fundamentally different to the bluesy absorption of The Gun Club’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fire of Love,</i> feeling much closer to the back-to-basics gestalt of hardcore.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">feedtime released four full-length albums between 1985 and 1989, all on their home country’s Aberrant label. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through distribution deals via Rough Trade and Holland’s Megadisc their music reached far beyond the shores of Australia and developed a small yet devoted following, particularly stateside in the Pacific Northwest and in its noise-rocking mid-section.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s those four LPs that Sub Pop have collected in what can be best termed as a long gestating labor of love. Their self-titled debut finds the rudiments of the band’s potent, no-frills attack firmly in place. Rick (guitar, vocals), Al (bass) and Tom (drums) first began playing together in 1979, so the album’s startlingly well-formed structural basis shouldn’t be surprising. As a recording entity feedtime was always a tight unit, though so heavy and unrefined that to the casual ear their assault could be perceived as a barrage of low-end murk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But feedtime simply weren’t a band for casual ears. Instead, they were about the abandonment of finesse and polish in favor of a throttling simplicity located not only in the logistics of the power-trio but also in the less urbane, more primal end of their aforementioned blues fixation. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feedtime</i>’s cover of Mississippi Fred McDowell’s “I Wonder What’s the Matter with Papa’s Little Angel Child” illustrates the link between the Delta and Down Under rather nicely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the music of McDowell provides even further illumination on the congruence between two seemingly disparate sensibilities. While the early country blues was acoustic by necessity, McDowell was a post-WWII discovery who had no problem plugging into an amplifier to boost the oomph of his already huge style, and cuing up his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Do Not Play No Rock ‘n’ Roll</i> LP alongside <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feedtime</i> really emphasizes the common ground between the bluesman and the Aussie trio.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But if Fred McDowell didn’t play rock ‘n’ roll, feedtime most assuredly did. And if their debut displayed an unusual level of confidence in conception, its follow-up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shovel</i> still managed to impart a startling level of progress. Rick’s blade-sharp slide guitar was even more potent, as was the way he alternated its cutting aura with waves of engine-like grind. Tom’s drumming was tangibly heavier in its shrewd simplicity, and Al’s bass was the crucial not-secret weapon; while surely a key factor in the music’s rhythmic propulsion, the reality is that Al approached the bass like a lead instrument, allowing the bottom-end to move with a fleet density. While never playing all that fast, feedtime was a unit of such single-minded cohesion their songs felt like a well-kept vintage car being pushed into fifth gear by an expert (and slightly crazy) driver.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If not their best record, 1988’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cooper-S</i> is certainly the boldest. An all covers affair, it featured songs originally from The Beach Boys, Rolling Stones, Slade, Nancy Sinatra, Ramones, Stooges, Lee Hazelwood and even a poem by e. e. cummings (!), amongst others. What’s refreshing is how feedtime didn’t just steamroll over their sources; that would be far too predictable a maneuver. Instead, they simply choose to adapt them into their formidable sonic attack. With this said some songs are more recognizable than others; the point isn’t tribute but rather an expression of common ground. So it makes total sense considering feedtime’s non-purist blues bent that the Stones get tackled three times. Okay, maybe a little bit of tribute does slip in via home-country covers of The Easybeats’ “Sad, Lonely and Blue” and (the Aussie band) X’s anti-social anthem “I Don’t Wanna Go Out”. While <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cooper-S</i> is a fine LP that’s vital to understanding what made feedtime tick, it’s also not the best place for the uninitiated to start.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suction</i> however, might be. Arriving in 1989 and marking the end of their first phase, its mix courtesy of Butch Vig is a major component of what is probably feedtime’s friendliest record. So those unaccustomed to ‘80s u-ground noise-rock that are looking to dabble into feedtime’s fuel-injected waters might want to start here and perhaps work backward. In addition to the evolution of their blues influence, the band integrating acoustic moments that sit in agreeable contrast to their standard mode of operation, what’s maybe most impressive about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suction</i> overall is how it shows with clarity that feedtime didn’t decline, they just chose to stop. That’s a nice balm for consumers curious over this group who are potentially weary of plunking down ducats for a box-set due to the format’s rep for including later and much lesser material.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suction</i> is the last LP in this set, that’s by no means the end of feedtime’s story; the trio subsequently reconvened for 1996’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Billy</i>, released through the Amphetamine Reptile. And while that record remains a particularly strong showing, its contents are sensibly not included here. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Billy</i> was an excellent release by the same smart unit, but it was frankly the product of another time.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Instead, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Aberrant Years</i> generously fills out its CD and digital editions with hard to find singles and comp tracks from ’85-‘89. The result is a grand portrait of the massive movements of an outstanding band, and for anyone seeking a thorough understanding of the ‘80s underground rock scene, it’s absolutely essential.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at the Bottom of the Sea</i> The Magnetic Fields reengage with the synth-pop that made them one of the ‘90s most artistically fruitful acts. But something’s missing, or more accurately two things; the peaks of Stephin Merritt’s once exemplary songwriting and the music that made his tunes such a unique listening experience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was pretty much inevitable that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">69 Love Songs</i>, The Magnetic Fields’ massive 3-volume set of thematic yet emotionally diverse pop gems, while providing an embarrassment of riches that more than capped-off their distinguished ‘90’s work, would also prove to be an impossible act to follow. In fact Merritt seemed to sense this very fact by delving into three albums that have come to be called the “no-synth trilogy”; the first two, 2004’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">i</i> and 2008’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Distortion</i>, were generally well received efforts that largely succeeded in their aims of stylistic divergence. However 2010’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Realism</i>, by no means a failure, seemed to locate a certain weariness in the group and provoked restlessness from longtime fans of the band desirous for them to get back to what they did best.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at the Bottom of the Sea</i> is intended as that record. After a three album departure to Nonesuch it finds The Magnetic Fields returning to Merge, the label that issued their most highly regarded work, and it features the synth-pop instrumentation that proved so crucial to the group’s sticking out in a clamorous sea of ‘90s indie guitar bands. But ultimately this new record sounds less like The Magnetic Fields of old and more like an inferior version of a once near-unimpeachable act.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A nagging part of the problem lies in a gradual change in Merritt’s songwriting. One interesting indulgence found on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">69 Love Songs</i> was its occasional flare-ups of wordplay that might inspire a laugh, a shake of the head, or an eye roll at the premeditative nature of their lack of subtlety. This tactic generally worked exceptionally well, mainly because Merritt’s style has never been about sincerity. Instead, it revels in an old, pre-rock artificiality; it’s not about the purging of the soul but the exaltation of the song. The infrequently blunt, sometimes even corny lines found on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">69 Love Songs</i> found him closer to Cole Porter than ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at the Bottom of the Sea</i>, these head-shakers and eye-rollers have codified into a strategy of near or outright groaners. This causes “Your Girlfriend’s Face” (for just one example) to plummet from a song of broken-relationship revenge into an unappealing parody of one <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(in the evenings I devised your death/being buried alive on crystal meth</i>). For every song that successfully navigates this sensibility, like the pre-release single “Andrew in Drag”, there is one that doesn’t, such as the abstinence mocking “God Wants Us to Wait”. It used to be that Merritt’s lyrics felt instantly classic. Now they too often feel calculatedly cheesy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it’s not that every song Merritt wrote in the ‘90s was brilliant and every release an impeccable masterwork. His batting average was impressively high, but 1995’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Lost</i> was a less significant album than its predecessor from the previous year, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Charm of the Highway Strip</i>. But if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Lost</i> was minor, it was still totally consistent with Merritt’s disciplined excavation of early pop tradition and even included one of his finest ever songs, “All the Umbrellas in London”. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strip</i> could engage with the tricky allure of country music while never once getting within spitting distance of shallowness or parody.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at the Bottom of the Sea</i> holds a number of very good songs (“Andrew in Drag”, “The Only Boy in Town”, “I Don’t Like Your Tone” “All She Cares About is Mariachi”) but I’m hesitant to call any of them great, at least against the standard Merritt once set for his work. And the less than good ones (“God Wants Us to Wait” “Your Girlfriend’s Face” “Goin’ Back to the Country”, “The Horrible Party”) make the album unpalatable as a start to finish listen. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Realism</i> shouldered a similar problem, but that felt like an aberration. For a record touted as The Magnetic Fields’ return to synth-pop form to register as so hit-and-miss, and with its highs so earthbound, is distressing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But this LP actually doesn’t sound very much like their synth-pop of old. Frankly, it’s much too slick. One of the finest qualities of the group’s music up to and including <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Lost</i> is how they elevated cheap tech into a clinical prettiness that didn’t really recall any prior synth-pop models. Additionally, their attention to detail was magnificent, allowing a compilation track like “Take Ecstasy with Me” to be as strong as anything in the first half of their discography. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While it’s true that many of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">69 Love Songs</i>’ more techno informed tracks did radiate with a slicker quality, they also very often featured an appealing sparseness (and again, top-flight songwriting) that’s simply nowhere to be found on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at the Bottom of the Sea</i>. Minus the vocals of Merritt, Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms it’s doubtful I’d recognize much of the music here as being The Magnetic Fields.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I want to be clear that I’m not penalizing the group for sounding different than they did in 1995. Bigger production and less inventive instrumentation wouldn’t be at all a problem if the songs were stronger. And regarding those songs, I’d welcome their change in direction if it was successful more often, but sadly that isn’t the case. And if I am unconsciously pining for a sound that’s over fifteen years old it’s in large part because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love at the Bottom of the Sea</i> has been so heavily identified as a reengagement with the synth-pop that made them such a lauded band.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But The Magnetic Fields have delivered a record that amplifies a double meaning in “return to form”. Yes, in the strict sense they have reacquainted themselves with the formal aspects of synth-pop. But in terms of sheer quality, the band hasn’t returned to anything. Instead, they’ve made the least successful record in their long existence, a circumstance that finds them squarely in uncharted territory.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-85602571639286898792012-03-16T10:39:00.000-07:002012-03-16T10:39:12.823-07:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 3/16/12 - Disappears and Mount Carmel<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Sonic Youth’s Steve Shelley joined the lineup of Disappears on drums it seemed to indicate the band was primed to undergo another big surge in growth. Instead, their latest <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i> is far more concerned with refinement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On their 2010 debut album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lux</i>, Chicago’s Disappears spat out ten songs of melodic rock that referenced post-punk, shoegaze and Krautrock. While not straining to reinvent any wheels, it was a solid debut record, hinting at untapped potential that boded well for the band’s future, in particular the album’s closer “No Other”, a short, slowed-down “Sister Ray” rip filtered through the attitude of late-‘80s Creation Records. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2011’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guider</i> delivered on that promise, but not in the expected way. Where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lux</i>’s appealing blend of influences never strayed far from the succinct in delivery, with no song topping the four minute mark, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guider</i> entertained the possibilities of extendedness, ending with the mightily impressive nearly sixteen minute “Revisting”, the excursion drawing equally upon Can in “Yoo Doo Right” mode and the fried sensibility of Spacemen 3. If surprising, it was also quite welcome. While the five tracks leading up to it were in the same terse framework as the debut, they were detectably rougher in presentation, with Brian Case’s vocal manner suggesting the prime post-Pistols work of John Lydon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i> denies the tranced-out expanse of “Revisting”, the band instead largely choosing to further explore the sonic terrain of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lux</i> and the first side of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guider</i>. Initially this is something of a disappointment, for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guider</i>’s long denouement seemed to indicate Disappears were ready to jump wholeheartedly into a zone roughly comparable to San Francisco’s Wooden Shjips. But if the first impression is one of relative restraint, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i> does possess an energetic cohesion coupled with bigger production and sharper instrumental prowess certainly aided by the presence of Shelley, his unimpeachable chops having synched with the band through shows in the US and Europe (including support on former Neu! member Michael Rother’s Hallogallo tour).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Opener “Replicate” immediately recalls Joy Division, and the rather conventional feel of its chorus’ guitar bursts bring to mind a heavier, less vocally dominated version of Interpol. It’s a strong opener, but it quickly portends the direction that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i>, with a couple notable and much needed exceptions, follows with precision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In some ways the switch of drummers has far less to do with sticks hitting skins than it does with a sharp contrast in production. Departing drummer Graeme Gibson had also served the band in the capacity of producer, and he gave both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lux</i> and particularly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guider</i> a bath in reverb that made the music feel a bit distant, even when turned up loud. Shelley’s arrival plops them down in Sonic Youth’s Echo Canyon West studio with John Congleton (The Polyphonic Spree, St. Vincent) at the knobs, and the difference is significant. Formerly fuzzy and occasionally muddy, the music now delivers more punch while also holding an increase in polish, even when it’s dishing out the distortion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And this shift in production quality causes Disappears’ music to register in a somewhat different way. Where previously their song’s melodic tendencies were leavened with appealing waves of guitar drone and an interest in rock’s experimental traditions, on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i> they largely feel like the work of an edgy contemporary indie rock band. And again, this is initially a disappointing circumstance. But after a few listens it becomes clear that the songs are uniformly solid and the presentation, while streamlined, hasn’t been neutered. If disappointment nags, two standout tracks show this is still the same band that made such a favorable impression with “Revisiting”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first is “Joa”, a sweet bout of rhythmic repetition that holds a chilly, incessant post-punk tension. At nearly six minutes long, it shows that one of Disappears best attributes continues to be their ability stretch out, a process that can turn a good idea into a great one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This trait also plays a factor in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i>’s other highpoint “Love Drug”, and it’s no accident that it happens to be the second longest track on the album. It opens with a menacing riff, pulsing bass and Shelley slapping out a simple, incessant beat; when Case enters vocally, he does little more than moan/chant the song’s title. And that’s all that’s needed. It’s a sturdy exercise greatly enhanced through escalated intensity, the track’s second half being punctuated with a wicked ruckus of guitar pedals and crashing cymbals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If different on the surface, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guider</i> are similar tactically, their boldest moves back-loaded in the track order. While neither “Joa” nor “Love Drug” (even collectively) equal “Revisting” in terms of scope and sheer pleasurable impact, the goal still seems the same; to first establish Disappears’ dominant melodic paradigm and then embellish it with stylistic detours. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i> these divergences are very impressive, but on the previous record they’d frankly proved capable of delivering the exceptional. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Also, that melodic paradigm has shifted here, being much more about the establishment of mood. If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lux</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guider</i> announced the band was conversant with the Velvets, Can and Spacemen 3, it also flashed moments that recalled The Clean, Ride and yeah, Public Image Limited. That range has been whittled down, their Krautrock and shoegaze tendencies greatly reduced. The emphasis now feels firmly on the post-punk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This style of moodiness is often expressed through lyrical stance and vocal mannerisms, and Case has a nice handle on the latter, but in regard to the former he seems far more inclined to let the band’s instrumental prowess set the tone. If his vocal model has shifted somewhat from Lydon to one Mark E. Smith (with a dollop of Ian Curtis added in for good measure), that’s okay, since it’s apparent he’s disinclined to dominate the tunes through playing the role of front-man. Also, it seems that Case, formerly of Chicago tunesmiths The Ponys (and 90 Day Men), has at least temporarily lost interest in indulging the poppier side of his personality. This would be fine if moments like “Joa” and “Love Drug” were more frequent, but that’s not the case.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Strangely, closer “Brother Joliene” sounds a bit like Spoon shooting for a beefed-up, distorted Stooges/Sonic Youth synthesis. Maybe not so strange, considering Shelley, and even less so when it’s recalled that Spoon’s name references a Can song. No matter; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pre Language</i> is a solid, at times very good record, but it leaves a lingering impression that Disappears are holding back their best qualities.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A lot of bands have taken influence from the sound of early-‘70s bluesy hard rock. But one band manages to capture that era’s heavy, jamming spirit so closely that it can feel like an actual time warp back to ’73. That band is Columbus Ohio’s Mount Carmel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s been often fashionable to knock the efforts of the blues-based non-purist bands that proliferated in the wake of Cream, the Jeff Beck Group and Ten Years After. It’s in some ways a punk-centric attitude, but it’s also reflective of a belief that the urge to rock should be accompanied by at least some level of taste, discernible intelligence or at least a motivation beyond the simple desire to wed big riffs, heavy rhythms and ripping solos. In short, the Nixon-era influx of bands like Free and Mountain is viewed by many as a debasement of the form propagated by a bunch of dummies trampling upon the sacred ground of the blues. A sense of respect and decorum regarding history is what separated Clapton and the Allman Brothers from say Humble Pie and Cactus.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now a fair amount of blues-rock was bad and some of it was even plumb awful, but its success ratio is really no better or worse than any other genre. And many people tend to ignore that it was a legitimately new wrinkle in rock’s development; increased virtuosity (of a non-prog-rock stripe) heightened through extensive practice in turn lent an increased heaviness to the band dynamic. People just too often mistook a lack of subtlety for a lack of value. If Led Zep and Black Sabbath have slowly seen an increase in critical validation, then the vast majority of their brethren are still victims of often snide dismissals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With all this said, many listeners will automatically consider the music of Mount Carmel to be an exercise in the retrograde. The band’s second LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Women</i> is so boldly created in the image of its models that it’s damn near impossible to not immediately perceive it as a defiantly luddite gesture, the utter lack of contemporary (or even twenty year old) influences seemingly postulating that any musical developments to have occurred after the breakup of Beck, Bogert & Appice are unworthy of representation in their sound.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On their self-titled first record the band infused their bluesy ruminations with a hint of Blue Cheer-like grit. The drumming was loose and driving, the bass lively but not too busy, and the guitar spit out skuzzy chunks of riffs and flights of woozy soloing, all with vocals that thankfully lacked the need for emotional overreach. And just to make emphatically plain the tradition into which they were tapping, the trio covered Ten Years After’s “Hear Me Callin’” replete with an extended drum workout and closed the set with eleven minutes simply titled “Studio Jam”. It was a fine out-of-time debut, bringing to mind what I’ve always suspected Sabbath sounded like back when they were called Earth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Women</i> is tighter, more groove oriented, and less about the exalted properties of the jam. No track tops five minutes, and it’s obvious that considerable effort was spent building and then honing catchier songs. The singing has attained a more soulful edge while still denying any urge to succumb to the strained wailing that frankly damaged a lot of the genre back in the day. And that’s a general pleasantry of the power-trio; the person emoting is also responsible for handling an instrument instead of just standing in front of three really adept players trying to prove worthy of being in the same room or on the same stage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And if the thrust has shifted from impolite, slightly dusted blues studies to concise melodic power-rocking, the music still feels derived from the same three guys. This is again partly due to guitarist Matthew Reed’s vocals, which while non-showoffy are also quite distinct. But it’s also true that the band’s jump from post-Alvin Lee/Cream form-stretching to a sort of Humble Pie/ZZ Top/James Gang merger isn’t really that large. It’s just notable as admirable progress.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe the most interesting aspect in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Women</i> fresh approach comes through Kevin Skubak’s drumming. Where on the debut he was loose but never off his game, here he grapples with a thunderous heaviness that directly recalls the power of Ginger Baker. And the way he synchs up with Patrick Reed’s bass provides the songs with massive bottom end, allowing the trio to examine a sort of groove-strut that’s remindful of ZZ Top at their early best.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What’s obvious is how Mount Carmel dearly loves the music that serves as their inspiration, and in fact this love is the biggest reason for their success. It’s what instills the desire for repeated listens into their tunes, and makes clear that the band’s disinterest in any of the progress rock music has made since the early ‘70s is far more than just a gesture of audacity. They’re not sneering at the contemporary but instead enthusing over a style that’s undeniably been given short-shrift in the years following its collapse in the foul air of Arena Rock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that raises another point in Mount Carmel’s favor; specifically the opportunity to nix the less inspiring moments in hard-rock’s past (and there were many) and refine the far more productive aspects that make the genre perfectly valid for resuscitation in 2012. This process of selection through hindsight actually makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Women</i> an experience of higher quality than some of its key influences. It’s lean, doesn’t overstay its welcome and the only questionable thing on display is an indulgence in what can be described as a non-progressive lyrical stance on the title track. But it’s not like I believe Mount Carmel actually buy the sentiments expressed; instead I just chalk it up to period flavor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Women</i> is far more than just a replica or distillation of its influences, showing Mount Carmel to be a thriving band in excellent form. It does however lack the sheer depth of their New York blues-rocking cousins Endless Boogie. That band is equally divested of contemporary touches, but they also possess a startlingly creative moxie, with some of their lengthy jams managing to even flash undercurrents of sly experimentation. Mount Carmel in no way pale in comparison, but the band does hit a qualitative ceiling in toeing the hard rock line so closely.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The growth displayed on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Women</i> shows that Mount Carmel is capable of cracking that ceiling. If they don’t, it won’t be a terrible loss; ultimately it’ll just be the difference between a very fine band and a truly exceptional one.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-89664190292878629312012-03-09T10:36:00.000-08:002012-03-09T10:36:11.848-08:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 3/9/12 - Girls and The Faith<div align="center">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpznfvpLmG8YpBrDxy7v2D7ufld1lB3KcjRwg4BHNqsNElfkcLDGVd9DJ1Ojc6Fr3FMW2VdpVgZBMY5ScJvlfI23PZ1M2YQqWedvMBmfw5hqjmyfCRJbTH0dnjunk0eLieU8A0LFoXc-qt/s1600/girlsfather.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpznfvpLmG8YpBrDxy7v2D7ufld1lB3KcjRwg4BHNqsNElfkcLDGVd9DJ1Ojc6Fr3FMW2VdpVgZBMY5ScJvlfI23PZ1M2YQqWedvMBmfw5hqjmyfCRJbTH0dnjunk0eLieU8A0LFoXc-qt/s320/girlsfather.bmp" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At the moment quite a few bees are all abuzz over the big strides, leaps even, that San Fran’s Christopher Owens-led Girls has made from <em>Album</em>, their exceptional ’09 debut, to the freshly released <em>Father, Son, Holy Ghost</em>, and I can understand the hubbub. <em>Album</em> was a breath of relatively basic if extremely well written and delivered guitar-pop air, holding undisguised nods toward Beach Boys, Spector, Costello and even My Bloody Valentine. To be blunt, it was just swell to hear some new music so openly tackle such a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">classique</i> form while also being boldly contemporary in personality; thusly Girls sounded old yet remarkably up-to-date simultaneously.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But guitar-pop isn’t really a genre that lends itself to longevity or even a prolific discography; Jersey’s kings of post-Velvet’s stun-strum The Feelies have only managed five full-lengths in thirty-plus years (yes, with a twenty year hiatus thrown in). It can indeed be great when bands adopt a stubborn/hard-line stance to the often exultant parameters of the guit-pop style, but an undeniably more sensible stance for working musicians to take is to open up and expand a bit (or a lot) beyond the basic paradigm: hence Yo La Tengo.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">With last years’ EP <em>Broken Dreams Club</em> Owens jumped fully into broadening the scope of Girls’ sound. Just as smartly, he didn’t betray his initial template with those long six songs, and with this confidently ambitious sophomore effort he still possesses a loose grasp upon the style that bore the fruit of his earliest expression. The strategic use of horns and Owens’ vocal mannerisms pointed <em>Broken Dreams Club</em> toward an intersection of Beirut and Bright Eyes, and that wasn’t a bad place to be (not at all), but <em>Father, Son, Holy Ghost</em> is strikingly bold in the span of its integrated influence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Honey Bunny”, the two and a half minutes of Spector-esque jangle that opens the album, is noteworthy not only for its individual qualities, but additionally for how it differs from the rest of the record, being a succinct bit of pop exuberance that contrasts sharply with much of the expansiveness that follows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A lot of noise has been made over how <em>Father</em>’s large, methodical production canvas and the layered adornments that it occasionally flaunts are in direct reference to the Floydian ‘70s. Well, sure. That ‘70s influence is surely part of what makes this 2nd Girls record such a bold stroke of sonic flair. But that decade, namely Costello again, was part of Girls’ make-up kit from the start, and it’s not the only card he’s holding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On <em>Father</em> Owens’ gleans, possibly in some cases unconsciously, from a wide variety of sources spanning over thirty years of pop/rock history; hints of Neil Young, Jonathan Richman, Dinosaur Jr. and Teenage Fanclub all assert themselves in the mix. Sure, “Vomit”, the first “single” from the record, can be directly connected to Pink Floyd’s early ‘70s studio exploits, complete with gospel-oid diva vox, but (to my ears anyway) it also feels just as indebted to ‘90s Flaming Lips (and yeah, I do realize the Lips were/are deeply influenced by the Floyd, oh yes indeedy).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Additionally, “Die” is a wah-wahed-out hard-rocking throttle (the Deep Purple comparison is apt), but it’s also screwy enough to register more like a ‘90s indie-rock update/subversion/commentary upon ‘70s heavy-rock dynamics (dude). But these ‘70s/’90s juxtapositions, while quite prevalent on <em>Father</em> don’t really feel dominant. Other vibes sneak in; the opening of “My Ma” directly quotes a Mission Of Burma song (maybe by total coincidence) and whole big hunks of the record feel descended from the ranks of the sharply-dressed early-‘80s singer-songwriters. Again, this is a very post-Costello state of affairs; “Love Like a River” actually sounds more than a little like early Squeeze having a blue-eyed soul moment. And that’s not something I’d like to see become a habit, but it goes down okay in this instance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While it includes a small handful of ringers (“Honey Bunny”, My Ma”, “Vomit” and most def the Jon Richman slow dancing with Randy Newman closer “Jamie Marie”) <em>Father, Son, Holy Ghost</em> is the type of record that is destined to be embraced by large numbers of listeners, but for vastly different reasons. Some will clutch a blatantly accessible, electric piano driven pop confection like “Magic” to their hearts and others will be drawn to the more misshapen yet still approachable weirdness of “Just a Song”.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So this isn’t a perfect record, but I’m really impressed with how Owens’ songwriting prowess and the group’s talent as players succeeds at reigning in his diverse textural and stylistic interests, so that the LP, alternately smooth, hard, heavy and light, also resists being categorized as deeply flawed or even unfocused, particularly in the harsh light of the dreaded sophomore slump. <em>Father, Son, Holy Ghost</em> is loaded with fine moments, and while I’m still undecided on the tally of its long-range worth it is most assuredly a keeper.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisf-Od_iQiGxbe-15fsAV3hTT61Mrfho6i1QsCxBVDYkANb6QF_3I8GKpo4EsAYzMTfTmXySmNT-dKc5z73BfyprlHQ3OupcvrAuZyUQNwSq_KVlAwvlAKQHZc27556Ufo_4CPjJnLdGI5/s1600/thefaithlp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisf-Od_iQiGxbe-15fsAV3hTT61Mrfho6i1QsCxBVDYkANb6QF_3I8GKpo4EsAYzMTfTmXySmNT-dKc5z73BfyprlHQ3OupcvrAuZyUQNwSq_KVlAwvlAKQHZc27556Ufo_4CPjJnLdGI5/s320/thefaithlp.jpg" width="313" yda="true" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As Void’s legend has grown over the years into something close to biblical proportions, The Faith’s reputation has suffered somewhat. I feel confident this is a just a temporary situation, and that a tide of deserved esteem regarding the band will soon reassert itself, for I can still clearly recall the collective anticipation on a drive home with friends from Fairfax, VA way back in ’89, <em>Subject To Change</em> and <em>Faith/Void</em> having been freshly purchased, understanding that a couple simple spins upon the trusty turntable were going to significantly deepen and adjust perspectives while solidifying a whole lot of punk rock connections.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As a “second-generation” DC band (though very much an integral part of the original ’80-’85 wave) The Faith featured members of The Untouchables (Alec MacKaye and Eddie Janney) and State Of Alert (Michael Hampton and Ivor Hanson), two of the groups upon which the whole initial Dischord impetus/ethos was founded. Post ’83 break-up, members of Faith went on to fortify such important DC units as Embrace, Rites Of Spring, Ignition, One Last Wish, Happy Go Licky and The Warmers. Furthermore, in ’89 Minor Threat, while surely important and influential, weren’t quite as monolithic a punk/HC/u-ground presence as they would soon become, Fugazi were just gaining their musical footing, and Ignition, featuring ex-Faith members Alec (Ian’s bro, don’tcha know) and Chris Bald were one of the most impressive, in fact maybe the best, of all the post-Revolution Summer bands, so finally catching up with The Faith in ’89 held something special.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Ultimately, after getting well acquainted with both records it was driven home with direct clarity just how key the band was at ushering in stronger songwriting, an increased melodic sensibility that did nothing to weaken the music’s firepower, a far less formulaic rigidity coupled with improved dynamics, and lastly a broadened lyrical scope delivered through Alec’s distinct raspy holler. In a nutshell The Faith functioned as the lynchpin band joining first generation harDCore and the subsequent post-HC progressions that rumbled through the District in the later ‘80s and most of the ensuing decade, a connection that reinforces their importance as sorta incalculable and makes the fact that they’ve been persistently slept-on more than a bit bewildering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So it’s very nice to see <em>Subject To Change Plus First Demo</em> appear as part of Dischord’s recent spate of reissues. Over one year elapsed in the band’s brief but productive lifespan between the recording of this previously unreleased demo material (December ’81) and the 8-song 12” EP <em>Subject To Change</em> in May of ’83, and the difference is substantial. Unsurprisingly, the demo is closer to standard hardcore, though it’s far from generic. In fact, if Faith had called it a day after recording these initial eleven songs, they would still easily be the equal of other 2nd-gen DC cohorts like Deadline and Artificial Peace. But the demo essentially stands as an early run-through of the songs that comprise the band’s side of the <em>Faith/Void</em> split. The May ’82 session that makes up half of that canonical monster is heavier in delivery than the demo material (which is a rougher, with more ragged edges), but the biggest detectible difference is basically an increase in instrumental confidence. If ye practice, ye wilt improve, thou knowest?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If catchy and dexterous, The Faith was also a grouchy, dark hued band, and this found them to be a fitting, distinct contrast for Void. Thurston Moore, a huge fan of the group (his latest solo album <em>Demolished Thoughts</em> is titled after a lyric from “It’s Time”) has mentioned how Faith were in essence really a methodical continuation of the template DCHC style, and that’s right on the money. The eight tracks that make up <em>Subject To Change</em> feature Eddie Janney formerly of The Untouchables on second guitar, and even though it was released after the band’s breakup, this is the stuff that had such a profound impact on the Dischord scene over the following decade.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But please let us linger a bit over the addition of Eddie Janney. In hardcore, unless a band is heading for metal suckdom or they just have terrible songs, adding an additional guitar is pretty much a sure bet, allowing for exploration of melody and opening up the potential for increased instrumental elasticity while sacrificing little if anything in the departments of heaviness and density.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For instance, Minor Threat briefly featured second guitarist Steve Hansgen on <em>Out of Step</em> and Black Flag’s <em>1982 Demos</em> finds Dez Cadena on rhythm (and is in my estimation one of the greatest of punk rock bootlegs). So to properly absorb the sound of Faith’s growth it’s necessary to begin with the second side of <em>Plus First Demo</em>, which contains the entirety of their inaugural session; next switch to the band’s half of <em>Faith/Void</em> (temporarily resisting the urge to indulge the Void side for kicks. Just control yourself, m’kay?); and then lastly soak up the huge strides and assured finality that is <em>Subject To Change</em>. Approaching their discography in this manner really sheds a fine light on just how talented and groundbreaking Faith actually was, for as detailed above the evidence of their influence is indisputable, their sound having become so seamlessly interwoven into the fabric of Dischordian activities that upon first hearing the music can sound instantly familiar, this fact likely being another attribute in their status as a consistently underappreciated entity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But instead of ruminating over clues as to why The Faith aren’t as revered as they were roughly twenty years ago, I’ll simply state that knowledge of the band’s oeuvre is a complete necessity in gaining a full-bodied appreciation of early American hardcore. If thou study, thou shalt understand? Capiche?</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-45137573379700974692012-03-02T10:28:00.001-08:002012-03-02T10:28:49.620-08:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 3/2/12 - Nation of Ulysses and Thelonious Monk<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Big recent news has it that The Make*Up are reuniting for some live shows around the estimable All Tomorrow’s Parties series, and for folks that never had the chance to see them, that’s a golden opportunity to experience one of the more dynamic live acts to splat out of the ‘90s indie scene. Take it from me, for I witnessed their glorious spectacle on numerous occasions in clubs, art galleries and even a sushi-bar basement during their prolific and too-brief period of neo-mod/freakbeat/R&B motion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For many The Make*Up = Ian Svenonius. That’s not a bit accurate, but in the case of a front-man/vocalist this galvanizing, it’s also not a bit surprising. And it’s an impulse that’s largely came about due to the guy’s rather brilliant (if divisive by intention) transformation into a musically shrewd performer as social commentator as writer as indie-media personality. But as any fan of Svenonius will tell you, this wasn’t always the case.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As evidence please consider the vigorously conceptual post-harDCore troupe Nation of Ulysses. It might strain the britches of some of Ian’s strident non-fans to hear it, but I (after much consideration) believe the NoU are amongst the top half dozen Dischord acts in the labels considerable history (the others, since you asked and in chronological order, are Minor Threat, Void, Rites of Spring, Fugazi, and Lungfish). To put a fine point on it, not only was the Nation a real breath of fresh air in purely Dischordian terms, but they also helped in providing a sweet alternative to the waves of T-shirt clad regular-guy indie noise rockers that were so dominant (as to become almost oppressive) in the moments just before grunge blew the lid off of the scene.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Indeed, a big part of the Nation’s concept (as well as Svenonius’ modus operandi as a whole) was to pull the rug out from underneath the error of equating the beatific properties of DIY with the under-the-radar rumblings of Joe-average schmoes. And the perceived arrogance of a bunch of (some would say entitled) kids playing dress-up and approximating the persona of elitist revolutionaries got under the skin of more than just those perched to despise anything not cloaked in a blanket of earnest self-deprecation. Even lynchpin Dischord engineer Don Zientara described the NoU as acting like real “prima-donnas” in the studio.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But that’s something I always dug about Nation of Ulysses (and Ian’s attitude in general); they really popped the balloon of expectations over u-ground rock musicians needing to be humble and approachable and just like you and me. They also took very seriously that they were performing (and by extension what they were performing), which obviously didn’t sit well with those who’ve misunderstood the wisdom to be gleaned from punk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Specifically, much has been made of Minutemen’s working-class punk ethos, but what many people either don’t understand or simply ignore is that Watt Boon and Hurley were on stages playing music and delivering a show that the vast majority of their audiences couldn’t have replicated. When they said “Our band could be your life” in “History Lesson” it didn’t mean that the listener should be satisfied with their status as a self-effacing consumer or audience member or fan; it was intended to inspire self-improvement and the unrealized potential to be something other than just another anonymous prole.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And in my mind Nation of Ulysses (that’s Ian S, Steve Kroner, Tim Green, Steve Gamboa, and James Canty) is one of the last bands to be legitimately touched by the fall-out from the original punk wave. For instance, they provided a commentary upon the increasing emptiness of punk’s political grounding not by lampooning it but by complicating the subject matter far beyond the comfort zone of those satisfied with simply shouting slogans. The band’s militant-group guise (kinda unthinkable post-9/11) and deliberately obscure rhetoric has been derided by some as shtick, but I tend toward the kinder description of theatre. Shtick is something relatively easy to convey. Jokesters love shtick, but what NoU was conveying was the best type of comedy, one of profound seriousness. Theatre, if done well anyway, requires dedication and imagination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the Nation had both in spades. In my estimation, the best document of their abilities is their second and final full-length <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plays Pretty For Baby</i>. While both of the band’s 7-inch records are stone gassers of youthful ambition and bombastic punk execution, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plays Pretty</i> was a marked improvement over the already quite impressive debut LP <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">13-Point Program to Destroy America</i>. Where that record was full of unleashed post-HC fury and loaded with excellent songs, its follow-up distilled these elements with the precision of a group that thrived in the lived setting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It also diversified their sonic template with unexpected forays into jazz (or more appropriately “jazz-like”) territory. These moments shouldn’t have been surprising considering NoU’s employment of trumpet as an aid for sonic disruption, but they still managed to raise the eyebrows of many with their sheer dedication to approximating a bunch of energy and intellect drenched kids intoxicated on the uncut spirits of prime ‘60s Impulse recordings. And this jazz love fit right in to the Nation’s conceptual ballgame. For if blues and folk are the wood-shedding material of the humble rocker then jazz is the true weapon of any young revolutionary. Just ask John Sinclair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that leads me to a nice observation. At their best (which was often) Nation of Ulysses sorta came off like the MC5 if they’d exploded not from the ‘60s Motor City but from underneath the floorboards of the just post-Revolution Summer Dischord House. It’s not the sound but the presentation; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plays Pretty For Baby</i> opens with a brief bit of loosely delivered spoken-word ambiance that, while distinct from Rob Tyner’s rousing intros on "Kick Out the Jams", still manages to convey complimentary intent. If the MC5 were (only briefly) the personification of a ‘60s youth movement that possessed the interest in politics and social issues but sadly lacked long-term commitment, the Nation of Ulysses were the righteous dissenters in a early ‘90s u-ground scene populated by so many folks willing to throw their ideals out the window once the post-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nevermind</i> floodgates opened.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s great that the NoU’s ideological concepts are so thick and tasty, but like Tyner, Wayne Kramer and company (Michael Davis RIP), what matters in the end is the music; listening again to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plays Pretty For Baby</i> it’s clear that music will carry the day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once upon a time, Thelonious Sphere Monk was considered too esoteric for mass consumption. These days the man is as deep in the jazz pantheon as it gets, but it should be stated that most of the tribute recordings that I’ve heard outside of the late great Steve Lacy (a sax man!!) register as safe and uninspiring. To the point, they miss what makes Monk so vital and contemporary, instead flattening his music (and not just the songs but most importantly the man’s undyingly brilliant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">playing</i>) into a museum worthy atmosphere (no hostility toward museums, but Monk’s achievements sprung from the far different locus of the bandstand) that while not necessarily sterile still deflates the songs, from conception to delivery, into shadows of what they were in the hands of the master over fifty years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back in ’55, Riverside producer Orrin Keepnews understood what made Thelonious Monk such an amazing and sui generis figure. Indeed, the title of his second record for Riverside is appropriately titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Unique Thelonious Monk</i>. But at this early stage Keepnews also understood that many ears were still resistant to the man’s unimpeachable greatness, with some dissenters dismissing him as a flake and others even damning him as non-musical. Those that valued the (to my ear) vastly overrated “flying-fingers” approach of Oscar Pederson were likely to backhand Monk as annoyingly eccentric at best. It wasn’t really until the early ‘60s, after free jazz had tore the roof off the house of post-bop, that Monk started attaining something like mainstream acceptance, getting his beautiful mug on the cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Time</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magazine</i> and scoring that late-career recording contract with Columbia Records.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So knowing what he was up against, Keepnews decided it would be best to have Monk initially abstain from recording his own compositions; instead, he would interpret standards, a tactic that gave the skeptical some solid footing in grappling with the new conceptions of Monk’s style. In fact his first Riverside release was also a covers only affair, the essential <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thelonious Monk Plays the Music of Duke Ellington</i>. If this all sounds like compromise…well, yeah. But it wasn’t a bad strategy. You see, Monk’s whole thing, while gesturing at times toward European models, was very much a straight-up expansion on the jazz aesthetic. It’s just that he was one of the great musical modernists, and groundbreakers of this stripe are rarely rewarded with acceptance from the jump.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Standards had been tackled by jazzmen for a long while before Monk first sat in with his bebop cohorts at Minton’s Playhouse. But the tradition of standards was largely one of homage, of reinvention, of crowd-pleasing, of personal indulgence. In the case of Monk’s early work for Riverside it was a different affair, a gesture of sincerity hopeful of meeting a wider potential audience halfway. And again, because the man’s greatness is as much about playing as it is composition, this meet-in-the-middle proposition worked wonderfully as a document of pure musical expression.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But this framing of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Unique Thelonious Monk</i> is frankly not the best way to engage with the music in the here and now. It’s certainly historically important for contextualization, but it’s also a flat fact that anybody at this late date continuing to pontificate objections over Monk’s work is simply the worst kind of moldy, dehydrated fig. The pendulum has indeed swung in the other direction, with folks that possess far too much disposable income feeling the need to get gussied up in tuxes and gowns to sit and watch and politely applaud as talented but imaginatively compromised individuals mummify Monk’s legacy. But there is another angle in which to consider <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Unique</i>, and it has to do with the ever present and often problematic mode of expression known as the piano trio.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now there has been a seriously considerable amount of great piano trio recordings, so many in fact that I’ll probably go to my deathbed without getting to hear them all. But these studies in baseline rhythmic improvisation are very often unapologetic exercises in form-for-form’s sake (which is cool in itself) lacking in the breath-force provided by horn players that also frequently tackle the well-worn melodiousness of standards. This makes them not only acceptable listening on hung-over mornings but also in coffee shops, in upscale restaurants and in nursing homes. And that’s alright. But due to their broad agreeability the goddamn records of these triangular endeavors have a tendency to multiply like rabbits nourished on nothing but high-vitamin carrots and uncut Spanish Fly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And there is also the issue of the piano-trio’s inherent suitability as a soundtrack for cocktail shenanigans. Part of this stems from how the non-horned conception of keys, bass and drums has long been the preferred backdrop for the supper-clubby environs of the jazz vocalist. To be frank, the tradition of the singer has always been one of my least favorite elements of the great big bag of jazz. Sure, Billie’s beautiful, and I dig Ella and King Pleasure and Anita O’Day and Johnny Hartman and Helen Merrill and Betty Carter (to say nothing of sweet disruptors like Patty Waters, Linda Sharrock and Jeanne Lee), but the fact remains that one big reason I got into jazz in the first place was to escape the harsh domineering of the vocalist in modern music. The jazz singer far too often feels like a gesture toward (and in a contemporary setting reminder of) jazz’s (long-gone) commercial heyday. And the piano trio can very often fall into this same zone, almost seeming to strive for the aural wallpaper status appropriate for sipping overpriced mixed-drinks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of this seems to stem from the simple misinterpretation of Bill Evans’ amazing Village Vanguard recordings with Scott LaFaro and Paul Motian. But a much bigger part of it is due to the very nature of the piano. The instrument’s 88 keys offer unparalleled possibilities in relation to notes and chords, but this opportunity is also stubbornly resistant to offering avenues outside a range of comfortable familiarity. That’s why the piano was resistant for so long to the full-fledged excursions of free-jazz (outside of Cecil Taylor, of course). It’s why Ornette Coleman eschewed the keyboard for so long, and it’s why avant-classical composer John Cage jumped headfirst into prepared piano in expending the pinetop’s sonic possibilities. And it’s also part of why Monk had such an initial rough time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Unique Thelonious Monk</i> presents the man in tandem with bassist Oscar Pettiford and drummer Art Blakey. It’s a grandly executed set of seven standards, and it belongs in any serious library of the jazz form. It finds Monk approaching the songs with sensitivity without losing any of the qualities that make his music such a thrilling gift to this day. Pettiford and Blakey come to the music not as pros (which they of course were) but as fully engaged coconspirators, aiding the proceedings with rare knowledge and grace. It’s a short set, but in this age of marathon CD sessions, that’s a plus. The trio sets up, digs in, gets down to it and leaves the ears in a state of sublime appreciation. All that’s left is to reflect or play the record again.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Along with his earlier date for Prestige (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Thelonious Monk Trio</i>), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Unique Thelonious Monk</i> shares space with other magnificent studies in piano trio form from such august names as Bud Powell (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Amazing Bud Powell Vol. 2</i>), Sonny Clark (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sonny Clark Trio</i>), Herbie Nichols (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Complete Blue Note Recordings</i>), Tommy Flanagan (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Overseas</i>), Phineas Newborn (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Great Jazz Piano</i>), Mal Waldron (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mal 4: Trio</i>), Duke Ellington (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Money Jungle</i>), Chick Corea (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now He Sings, Now He Sobs</i>), Keith Jarrett (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Morning of a Star</i>), Andrew Hill (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nefertiti</i> & <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strange Serenade</i>) and of course Bill Evans (do yourself a big solid and invest in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Complete Live at The Village Vanguard 1961</i>).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Unlike Jarrett, Waldron and Evans, Monk rarely recorded in the trio format (I’m unfamiliar with any authorized releases post-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unique</i>), so that’s another factor in this record’s favor. But the biggest is that even when working in a mode of least resistance in hopes of gaining new listeners, Monk still sounds incomparable. That’s the thing his legions of copyists still don’t understand; in order to really be like Monk you have to be yourself.</span><br />
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</div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1956922133554392701.post-83573570638946506592012-02-24T09:50:00.000-08:002012-02-24T09:50:26.056-08:00Joseph's Picks Of The Week 2/24/12 - Laura Gibson and The Gaye Blades<div align="center">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Grande</i>, Portland, Oregon’s Laura Gibson expands upon the fragile alt-folk of her previous releases while retaining the qualities that make her such an appealing example of contemporary Americana.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My introduction to Gibson came in the live setting, where she opened for and accompanied a solo show by Decemberist Colin Meloy to fabulous effect. His tour CD <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Colin</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Meloy Sings Sam Cooke</i> also happened to be enriched by Gibson’s strong backing vocals, their presence prompting me to seek out <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Six White Horses: Blues and Traditionals Vol. 1</i>, an exceptional all covers EP featuring versions of a half-dozen tunes drawn from such acoustic legends as Elizabeth Cotten, Mance Lipscomb and Furry Lewis. While released by Hush, the Portland-based label that served as the early home of the Decemberists, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Six White Horses</i> still felt very much like a homemade document, the kind of recording passed around amongst friends/fans that slowly gains a small, devoted following. From there I tracked down 2006’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If You Come to Greet Me</i> and 2009’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beasts of Seasons</i>, two full length records that showed Gibson’s talent extending beyond the realms of imaginative interpretation. Both records detailed an ability to sound out-of-time without seeming contrived and combined this with a talent to express vulnerability and loss without registering as maudlin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Up to this point Gibson’s best attributes have been the unique depth of her voice and the tender strength of her tunes. As vintage as some of her moves can be, and there is a definitely an old (if not necessarily weird) vibe radiating from much of her stuff, this combination places Gibson squarely in the comparatively recent tradition of singer-songwriter. Folk-derived without being homespun or rustic, she’s been compared to names ranging from Karen Dalton, Joanna Newsom, Chan Marshall, Jolie Holland and Gillian Welch, all of which are appropriate to varying degrees. The distinctiveness of her vocals is similar to Newsom, though Gibson is less assertively unusual and more delicate. Also, the core of her music very often evokes the calm of the back porch instead of the rigors of the rock club, and this is certainly remindful of Welch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Grande </i>seems immediately calculated to alter the attractive intimacy previously dominant in her work. With its rollicking drums and tense sonic atmosphere, the opening title cut evokes the soundtrack to a cactus-town noir, somewhere between the filmic vistas of later Tom Waits and the sturdy sound-world of Calexico, whose Joey Burns guests here. It’s the kind of song well-suited for getting a room full of appreciative fans right into the spirit of things, but Gibson abruptly and shrewdly changes tactics with “Milk Heavy, Pollen Eyed”, a pretty little down-tempo ditty with achy horns that’s similar to the early work of Nashville titans Lambchop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In her loose vocal delivery Gibson is reminiscent at times of M. Ward (particularly on the young heart/old soul dichotomy of “Red Moon”), which is well-suited for the broadening of her sound. But she smartly takes this development into areas very specific to her personality. “Lion/Lamb” integrates a jazzy sensibility that rather than heading for the smoldering zone of the late-night bandstand is instead lightly kissed with the always refreshing aura of prime Astrud Gilberto. Additionally, “The Rushing Dark” manages to approximate a bit of uptown bluesy lamentation sourced from some ancient Columbia Records’ 78 without getting at all precious about it. Not for a second does it sound dinky or contrived. But “Crow Swallow” again redirects her energies into a more contemporary sphere, examining mildly Newsom-like territory with brass accents that recall Zack Condon. I also like the fluid shifts in tempo on the penultimate track “Time is Not”, and the bruised piano-mistress feel of “Feather Lungs”, with its well-applied chamber-pop strings, provides an exceptional closer for an album that’s over far too quickly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But multiple listens reveal what’s perhaps the most eye opening aspect of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Grande</i>, specifically Gibson’s emergence as a versatile instrumentalist. In addition to arranging duties, she plays a dozen instruments across the course of the album, effectively beginning her movement beyond the frequently constraining aspects of the singer-songwriter genre. This is a big step, for if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Six White Horses</i> revealed her as an fine interpreter ala Dalton, both full-length discs occasionally gave the impression that she was a bit beholden to outside contributors (mainly members of Norfolk & Western, but on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beast of Seasons</i> also contemporary avant-violin great Eyvind Kang) to help lend her records an increased level of dimensionality. If that was ever indeed the case, it’s no more. On top of multi-instrumentalist duties <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Grande</i> makes clear that Gibson’s collaborators were chosen simply for their ability to realize <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> vision. And she can certainly pick ‘em. In addition to Joey Burns the record hosts Rachel Blumberg and Jenny Conlee of the Decemberists, the pair helping “The Fire” to come off like a land-locked incarnation of that august band playing for bean soup and cornbread at some Saturday night barn dance. Wish I’d been there.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">La Grande makes clear that Gibson is gaining confidence and adeptness not just as a writer, singer and player, but as a musician savvy enough to successfully weave all three elements into a whole befitting repeated listens. To be fair she’s always been a fine guitarist, but nimble fingered string pullers aren’t hard to find. And her talent for self-accompaniment was also admirable, but the sort of closeness evoked so well by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If You Come to Greet Me</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beasts of Seasons</i> is hard to sustain over time. Even if that well-calibrated mood of melancholy and mortality could’ve been sustained without fatigue, it would likely have tempted the listener to ask “What else have you got?” Thankfully with Laura Gibson that’s a question one needn’t pose, for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Grande</i> already provides the answer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s nice to know that no matter how strong the possible (hell! probable) impulse toward contemporaneousness lurking inside the furrowed folds of the current rock scene, that we have bands like The Gaye Blades intermittently popping up to disrupt the tyranny of being up to date.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Featuring members of such esteemed junk rock heavyweights as Black Lips, Gentleman Jesse and his Men and The Carbonas, The Gaye Blades can perhaps register as a bit of a lark. Side bands have a tendency to do that, particularly when they lean toward a template of boisterous party-throttling instead of the urge to either break new ground or reinforce the prevailing streams of the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that’s how it should be. The allure of the one-off record has generally been about shoving aside expectations and getting back to the basics of what I like to call Pure Throwing Down. And this applies equally to the rumbles from undeniably star-studded affairs as it does to the doing it for the sheer hell of it discographical asides issued by more underground figures. Actually, after giving it some consideration, it’s in the low-expectation/high performance zone of the side band that household names and comparatively unheralded toilers can join together in celebration of the goodness inherent in rock’s economy of scale. It’s where the sweet studio screwery of the Hopkins Cooder Wyman Jagger Watts <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jamming with Edward</i> or the bruising Stoogeoid mess-around of the Moore Shelley Fleming Hell Dim Stars material rubs shoulders with The Gaye Blades and their Norton label mates The Ding-Dongs (comprised of neo-garage heavy-hitter Mark Sultan and Canadian rockabilly manic Bloodshot Bill, dontcha know).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If operational shoulder rubbing between these four examples is extant (and I certainly think it is) then it’s also with the Blades and the Dongs that we can glimpse some deeply conspiratorial, in fact almost coital, communion. For in both groups (the Blades a kinetic if appealingly featherweight four-piece, the Dongs a stripped down and dirty duo) there is a determined predilection for plundering the essence of uncut ‘50s rock ‘n’ roll exaltedness. This is getting to be something of a trend (especially if any revived rock moves of a pre-Beatles vintage are equated with “the 1950s”) and I can’t say I’m the slightest bit displeased. I mean, who would’ve thought that doo-wop, Spector, ‘billy and horn-honking R&B would become a small but viable part of the current u-ground state of affairs, much less one with an actually hip cadre of fans? Not me, but I’m as pleased as a punch drunk Shriner that I can revel in this rich mulch instead of sitting on a stump contemplating the contempo relevance of dubstep. Zing!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And if that mention of hipness worries you (shiver me timbers!), please relax. The main attribute keeping this batch of backward-looking upstarts from falling into the pits of style over substance (thus far) is the endeavor of getting right down to brass tacks on cheap instruments in practice spaces over all and sundry. That and a sincere dedication to songs. This naturally helps heaps in not only not sounding like this month’s flavor, but also in not sounding like the other bands within their similar sonic temperament.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For instance, The Gaye Blades differ significantly from The Ding-Dongs in concept and execution. Where the latter actually manage to sound like a long-lost and loopy slab of throbbing rockabilly meat, the former come off like a bunch of smart teens who while out searching for musical inspiration ended up unsuspectingly waylaid by somebody’s ultra-cool uncle’s record collection, the kids opportunistically absorbing wholesale moves and then applying them to a handful of brilliantly basic songs in the admirable attempt to win their high school’s battle of the bands. Did they do it? Well, if not the damned thing was rigged.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As should be obvious, The Gaye Blades self-titled 10-song LP is very much cut from Ramones-like cloth, though in concept not in execution, being much sunnier in disposition, though by no means oppressively so. One more time: this is ‘50s inflected power-popish (read: not pop-punkish) R&R with harmonies and hooks by the bushel. But unlike the Ding-Dongs, it all sounds just as likely to have been made last week as in the days of 1976. And that’s a fine duality to consider.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It may seem like I’ve spent the majority of this review talking around The Gaye Blades instead of about them, and that’s not incorrect. Fact is, bands of this level of simplicity and directness are somewhat resistant to extended analysis. The concept is extremely basic; the songs get down onto disc and it either succeeds or fails or falls somewhere in between. But the context of the concept is always worth a few hundred words. And when the knob is turned way up so that for a few too brief moments everything feels alright in the world, the music shines like a diamond.</span><br />
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<br /></div>Chester Recordshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11906547993191104957noreply@blogger.com0