Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/8/11 - Mike Watt and Neko Case

Mike Watt has journeyed a long way from his San Pedro roots and his position as the bass-man for the greatest North American punk band (and arguably the best rock trio ever) the Minutemen, but no matter where circumstance takes him it’s quickly apparent that a well maintained personal compass will reliably lead him back home. Furthermore he stands as one of the few defiant proles to draw firsthand inspiration in the original punk wave that can still be described as legitimately carrying on that thorny ideological and musical tradition. And by that I simply mean he can be accurately described as “punk” without a) stretching the concept like taffy or b) having to contend with any obnoxious fashion garbage. But this is ultimately no surprise since two main tenets of Watt’s substantial rep have always been to push boundaries, never falling back on cliché, and to keep the scale small, the distance from the stage and the floor as infinitesimal as possible, the better to relate to those in the audience as peers instead of consumers. And while I continue to take much personal inspiration from the man’s approachable, encouraging personality and how it twines with his unflagging enthusiasm and parsimonious ingenuity, I do think this has sorta taken precedent over the boundary kicking/cliché shredding side of Watt’s enduring gush. For the guy is as comfortable spieling on the Modernist literature of James Joyce as that of music writer Richard Meltzer (which maybe isn’t so odd since as formidably uncompromising and challenging as Joyce’s work could be, he was always a street-level writer [no ivory tower for him] and one endlessly concerned [later consumed] with the sound, the music of language) and not only knowledgeable on the groundbreaking jazz of John Coltrane/Ornette Coleman and the unruly spirit of punk pioneers Richard Hell/The Germs but equally giving with all of it (that’s “Relatin’ Dudes to Jazz”). And he doesn’t just end his gigs with the exhortation “Start Yr Own Band!” he follows it with “Paint Yr Own Picture! Write Yr Own Book!” Which is more than just encouragement; it’s also a finely spoken way of saying that every great musician was once a member of the audience, every painter a denizen of the museum, every writer a patron of the library. From this it can also be inferred that the greatest artists never truly disconnect from the audience, the museum, the library, identifying them as reliable locales of leaning and inspiration: Art as an endless cycle of give and take, or (if you will) communication. And all this profoundly connects to Mike Watt’s new release THE HYPHENATED MAN, his third opera, this one partially inspired by Early Netherlandish painter Hieronymus Bosch, specifically his triptych THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS. Now, operas are often recorded, but the main point of the form is live performance, and if a fancy bug touched down on my shoulder and mentioned an anonymous opera connected to the work of Bosch I’d form a couple of preconceived notions, thinking I’d either need to rent a tuxedo and take out a loan for the ticket or that I’d end up in an art-space/loft where everyone in attendance has a Master’s Degree but somehow still needs to sell plasma to pay the rent. Now if that bug waited to inform me that this opera was indeed by Mr. Mike Watt, I’d brush him off my shoulder like a pest, for time is valuable. And this too is something Watt has always seemed to understand. THE HYPHENATED MAN is thirty songs in less than fifty minutes, so it has a lot on its mind but doesn’t go a lingering. Points are arrived at quickly but always artfully, and while each track is inspired by a different character from the mammoth wacked-out beauty of THE GARDEN, it’s readily apparent that the best entry way into MAN is to absorb it as one flowing, uninterrupted piece, kind of like an, um, opera. This is distinct from the gargantuan sprawl of the painting, which almost forces the eye to reject the whole and instead focus on its vast, rich minutiae. MAN is instead a self contained if angular work that can be swallowed in one joyous gulp. In this sense it’s similar to Minutemen’s WHAT MAKES A MAN START FIRES? Don’t think for an instant that I’m letting unbridled enjoyment form a faulty comparison to the exalted grandeur of the Minutemen. Watt with the Missingmen throws down his most cohesive and dynamic work, simply his best instrumentally since the death of D. Boon. Much as I love fIREHOSE, I feel the real significance of that group was in allowing Watt to regain his musical footing through the aid of George Hurley and inspired journeyman Ed Crawford. And much as I love The Black Gang, The Secondmen, his work with Nels Cline and the fruitful All-Star party that was BALLHOG OR TUGBOAT?, all of it lacks the intuitive power of Minutemen/Missingmen. Perhaps this is why the names are so similar. The only comparable spot in Watt’s oeuvre is Dos, his duo with ex-wife and fellow bassist Kira Roessler. Bands that attain this level of telepathic (jazz-like) understanding are often described as “tight”, but I feel that’s an inferior adjective. Blood Sweat and Tears and Fishbone are tight; never a note out of place but sadly lacking in musical surprise. The Missingmen are something different, maybe best described as Beefheartian.  If I were to sum up the essence of THE HYPHENATED MAN onto a fortune cookie message, I might say “Capt. Don piloting the B.O.C, through Watt’s channel”. B.O.C. means Blue Oyster Cult, and that means Watt is still refining and perfecting the hard rock dynamics through punk economy that was part of the whole SST Records shebang back in the day. Missingmen guitarist Tom Watson was involved with that scene through the criminally underheard band Slovenly, though they weren’t hard rock, far more an extension of the avant-garage ala Pere Ubu (and that ex-Ubu Tony Mamione engineered and mixed THE HYPHENATED MAN unites a whole lot of thematic circuits). To be brief (for once), Watson’s never sounded better. Drummer Raul Morales is the trio’s youngest member, but you wouldn’t know that by skill, for he weds jazzic brains and finesse to rockish (not rockist) muscle like an aged vet. And Watt’s strumming, plucking, singing and spieling like a true champ. While this fine record easily deserves another 1,000 words, I’ll sum it up thusly: it’s as great and intelligent as rock music gets, straining at the confines of genre and simultaneously redefining it, a record destined to last millennia (like Bosch) and with an ultra-suave Raymond Pettibon cover as the cherry on the top.



Neko Case has developed into one of this toddling new millennium’s finest singer songwriters, though her roots extend back to the mid-‘90s twee-pop movement, where she was briefly in Cub along with playing drums and singing with the pleasant if short lived outfit Maow. She shifted gears into her current mode of operation in ’97 with THE VIRGINIAN. Released by Neko Case & Her Boyfriends, it was a cannonball plunge into the strong currents of contemporary alt-country, and with the exception of her outstanding contributions to Carl Newman’s ongoing band/project New Pornographers this is the post where her musical growth has remained at least somewhat hitched. She’s yet to release a record that’s less than very good, and her last one, 2009’s MIDDLE CYCLONE, just might be her best thus far. CYCLONE possesses solid continuity that’s remindful of the artist friendly atmosphere fostered by big labels like Elektra and Reprise back in the late ‘60s/early ‘70s, and a big part of this aura relates to its appealingly slippery approach to genre: country yes, but also folky and poppy with hints of soul and rock. This might create problems for those who arrange their record collections by style, but that’s a fine problem to have. Filing it right beside Cat Power’s THE GREATEST would be a shrewd move though, for the two records bookend incredibly well: both are grand late night listens, both sound like they could’ve been produced by Lenny Waronker, and both are saturated with stellar musical support that’s in total synch with the musical objectives of their estimable leaders. On CYCLONE Case has one foot in the coffee-house without stepping totally out of the honky-tonk and she blends in sly hints of soul diva confidence with ease. The album’s third track “People Got a Lotta Nerve” provides ample evidence of the above and more, for musically it’s a superb hunk of ‘80s chime pop brilliance that flirts with lyrical disaster. Keeping in mind that the personal resonance of lyrics are a largely subjective thing, something I come to understand more and more as I continue to engage with vocal music in languages I don’t understand, I still can’t get around the tightrope walk of “People…”’s lyrical chutzpah. When Case sings in the chorus that she’s a maneater it seems clearly descended from the brassy smack-talking frankness of pop country gals Loretta Lynn or Tammy Wynette or even the post-rockabilly of Wanda Jackson, but then it’s combined with a steady stream of animal imagery (elephants, killer whales) that feels ripped straight from the notebook pages of an intense teen girl in the grips of an attitudinal head of steam. It has the makings of an epic fail, but Case pulls it off with panache, partially due to the songs wise brevity. And its success points to Case’s growth, her maturity as an artist, flaunting the ability to really go there and make it work instead of playing it safe. This sort of chance taking attitude is represented by the over-the-top kookiness of the record’s cover art. I’ve stared at the album jacket numerous times, musing that I don’t know what she was thinking, but I’m glad she thought it. And her maturity/growth is what essentially sets her apart from Cat Power. Chan Marshall began by releasing “out” music on the fringes of the indie scene, delivering simmering documents of gripping alienation and difficulty. Play DEAR SIR or MYRA LEE for someone familiar only with THE GREATEST and it’s very possible they will get quite fidgety right quick. Along the way, Marshall’s music didn’t so much mature as it took a severe left turn, as if she looked in the metaphorical mirror one day and said “I’m not that person anymore”. And that’s cool. But the development of Case is cool too. THE VIRGINIAN is just soggy with alt-country’s trick of being beholden to the influence of idols whilst simultaneously frustrating purist expectations: chock full of twang but it ain’t a museum piece, dig? MIDDLE CYCLONE is the latest in her steady movement away from alt-country bonafides toward what’s probably best described as Contemporary Singer-Songwriter, her stuff becoming more resistant to that aforementioned hitching post of genre by the album. Again, very much in the Elektra/Reprise ballpark, but again this is no severe left turn. CYCLONE’s excellent covers of Sparks and Harry Nilsson might appear to be a newish development, but it’s important to recall that THE VIRGINIAN in addition to the more predictable treatments of greats like The Everly Brothers and Ernest Tubb also included a cover of cult Brit Scott Walker’s “Duchess”. MIDDLE CYCLONE is fine evidence of a very talented woman in total control of her musical abilities and the direction she wants to take them. Anybody curious to the state of smart modern pop should give it a hearing.

RSD 2011 @ Chester Records Come on out and show your love for Vinyl!

Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/1/11 - Iron & Wine and The Beach Boys

I’ve travelled by rail and flown on planes big and small, but upon reflection I’ve never set foot on a yacht. Crossed on a barge, navigated a raft, rowed a boat, fished from a schooner, but alas never on a yacht have I been. Maybe one day I’ll make the right connections. I have heard my share of yacht rock though, and in fact am aged enough to recall when some of that stuff was new. For those that don’t know, yacht rock is a bogue genre/backhanded term of endearment for a stripe of über-smooth soft-rock that flourished in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s. It’s a retro phenomenon born from hipster poverty that’s similar to the ‘90s lounge music revival; when you’re too poor to buy the good stuff you’ll settle for 25 cent copies of Christopher Cross and learn to “love it”. Har.  The main point of distinction between yacht rock and lounge is that the latter actually had a core of serious fans that helped promote the reevaluation of important figures like Mexican bandleader Juan Garcia Esquivel and exotica kingpin Martin Denny while additionally inspiring a few worthy contemporary acts like Combustible Edison, The Coctails and even the highfalutin pop experiments of Stereolab. Yacht rock’s more of a post-modernist gag, at least until fairly recently. For in the last few months two records have appeared that unapologetically tap the sound of the soft, Destroyer’s KAPUTT and Iron & Wine’s KISS EACH OTHER CLEAN. Both are great listens. While Destroyer has always been a shape shifting project, Sam Beam’s Iron & Wine has remained fairly close to the fragile neo-folk that put him/them on the map, and the unexpected twist of events that is KISS EACH OTHER CLEAN has been drawing me back with regularity. Now I’ll admit that I’m not totally averse to soft-rock sounds. Seals & Croft’s “Summer Breeze” is in my estimation a perfectly calibrated  example of the style, and it also serves as a good pointer for what Iron & Wine were up to on 2007’s THE SHEPHARD’S DOG. But this new one feels often indebted to the blue-eyed soul of early Hall & Oates (think 1973’s excellent ABANDONED LUNCHEONETTE) and includes horns remindful of Roxy Music honker Andy Mackay. Indeed, whole big chunks of KISS sound a bit like post-Eno Roxy backing up a foulmouthed Robert Wyatt. That this likely unintentional flirtation with prog sensibilities brings to mind Daryl Hall’s very fine and sorta slept on Robert Fripp-produced solo record SACRED SONGS is just dandy. The music’s sunny disposition contrasts well with Beam’s wordy approach, which is as image laden as ever. So it’s by no means a clean break with the past. And that endearing blabbermouth quality helps keep that sunny sound from becoming oppressive. But all sorts of other elements creep in: hints of Van Morrison, flashes of Joanna Newsom and even passages reminiscent of John Cale’s magnificent PARIS 1919. Now I haven’t reached a point where I prefer KISS EACH OTHER CLEAN to the stripped down woozy and bluesy folkisms of THE CREEK DRANK THE CRADLE or the bolder, more lush OUR ENDLESS NUMBERED DAYS, but I do admire artistic growth, and KISS is more than just admirable, it’s downright listenable. I do worry that KISS (and KAPUTT, for that matter) is going to inspire a slew of bad records from jamooks that’ll cling like a rumpled dryer-sheet to the soft yacht rock surface while missing/ignoring the all important substance/depth/quirks underneath, but that’s not really Sam Beam’s (or Dan Behar’s) problem, is it? Like rampant Gang of Four clones ten years ago or hoards of Nirvana wannabes looking back twenty, the responsibility is on us to separate the wheat from the chaff. As dicey propositions go, Beam’s bearded mug looks quite fine, at least for the time being, in a Captain’s hat. How ‘bout that, Tennille?

Retro nostalgia essentially follows a twenty year timeline. It all started out in the ‘70s, a decade that held severe reverence for the ‘50s. Think HAPPY DAYS, AMERICAN GRAFFITI, Sha Na Na, “American Pie”, unlikely hits by Chuck Berry and Ricky Nelson and punk rock’s return to basic principles ala Sun Records/Gene Vincent/Link Wray.  For the most part, this made sense; with the possible exception of the ‘20s, the ‘50s were the only decade of the 20th century not dominated by corruption, war, or strife. The ‘50s supposed conformity and prosperity also contrasted well with the let-it-all-hang-out hedonism and malaise of the ‘70s. Since then it’s been an easy trend to chart: ‘80s/’60s, ‘90s/’70s, ‘00s/’80s. Which means that yes, ‘10s/’90s isn’t far behind. Adjust yr temperament accordingly. But that’s not my reason for bringing up the topic. As someone who grew up in the ‘80s, I was very much swept up in ‘60s nostalgia whether I like to admit it or not. For the ‘80s were in my opinion far more conformist than the ‘50s, and it made total sense that folks would (perhaps unconsciously) pine for an era of righteousness and tumult, i.e. the ‘60s in a nutshell. I certainly did. Before discovering punk and the ‘80s underground scene, I idolized Dylan as a heroic apostle of protest and championed Clapton and Hendrix as groundbreakers. I longed for a President I could look up to like JFK, perceived Reagan through the lens of Nixonian corruption and took Lenny Bruce, MLK and Malcolm X to my heart. In retrospect these are all positive steps in my personal growth, but it’s very interesting to see the things that get left out. Like on the musical side of things, The Beach Boys. At the time, I don’t think there was a major ‘60s group that was as saddled with the burden of unfair squareness as Brian Wilson and company. Even The Monkees were more retro chic, largely due to how they unwittingly presaged the music/visual developments of MTV. This isn’t to infer that The Beach Boys didn’t get swept up in ‘80s retro, for they certainly did, but in a thoroughly uncool way. Two examples: singing backup on The Fat Boys’ “Wipeout” (a good idea on paper that was unfortunately fumbled into novelty territory and compounded by the fact that “Wipeout” was actually a song by The Surfaris), and “Kokomo”, their 1988 hit single. The former case was basically a way for parents to relate while watching MTV with the kiddos and the latter a sop to those same parents as ear candy while driving to and from soccer practice in the minivan. Don’t let’s speak of FULL HOUSE. Instead, let’s talk about why nobody in the dark days of Iran-Contra was looking to PET SOUNDS as a source of retrospective inspiration. This seems largely due to The Beach Boys being correctly if subconsciously identified as a continuation of distinguished ‘50s aesthetics like the concise inventiveness of Doo-Wop, the game changing stylistic alchemy of Chuck Berry, the celebratory nature and deceptive simplicity of early rock ‘n’ roll in general and the rock-solid and still relevant template of Tin Pan Alley songwriting. As important as The Beach Boys were to ‘60s culture, it’s undeniable that they were somewhat out of step with the zeitgeist of the era. To this day many people obstinately dismiss pre-PET SOUNDS Beach Boys, ignoring the fact that “In My Room”, “Don’t Worry Baby” and “California Girls” are masterpieces of high-pop style. But the one thing even hardcore doubters admit is that PET SOUNDS was a major advancement for the band. In fact, it’s one of the finest records of any era, far better in my estimation than SGT. PEPPER. The biggest reason is organic flow. While PET SOUNDS had its share of hit singles, the qualitative magnitude of those songs only increased when heard within the well labored context of the whole LP. SOUNDS is also playfully, accessibly psychedelic, and while it avoids the heavy handedness that plagues many concept albums it also stands as one of the great pop song cycles. In addition, it’s basically unparalleled in how it combines lush, at times cheerful orchestration with themes of alienation, loss, longing and uncertainty, presenting a finished work that’s never forced or conceptually dissonant and refreshingly devoid of modern(ist) irony. Furthermore, most of The Beach Boys’ contemporaries were focused outward, their work commenting on the world around them instead of addressing concerns of the self, but Brian Wilson was just the opposite. His lyrics are still captivating in their nude frankness, a quality that’s rare because it can’t be faked. Without depth and honesty, it’s all pretense. While much bally has deservedly been hooed over the almost circular influence between The Beach Boys and The Beatles, I ultimately think the most comparable bookend for PET SOUNDS isn’t PEPPER (or RUBBER SOUL or REVOLVER) but the gorgeous, gentle and at times ominous psychedelic tour de force FOREVER CHANGES by the Los Angeles band Love. Both albums present a seductive loneliness and sincere darkness (as well as dark sincerity) coupled with flashes of tenuous optimism that stands apart from the crowd of joiners and lauded eccentrics that was the late ‘60s music scene. Plus both bands contained a brilliant and troubled creator/leader surrounded by other talented guys (Arthur Lee/Brian Wilson, natch). Anybody already hip to CHANGES that’s not also long-tight with SOUNDS needs to correct that grave error toot sweet, for the latter is simply an inexhaustible record that refuses to lose its luster. To the contrary, it’s an album I’ve played well over 100 times and just given five consecutive listens, and I’m still hearing fresh elements. Terms like masterpiece and genius don’t begin to cover it. Sometimes art truly is beyond words. And sometimes art possesses a greatness that can withstand the often unkind and random whims of nostalgia.