Joseph's Picks Of The Week 10/28/11 - Bonnie Prince Billy and Tom Waits

It’s become quite apparent that Will Oldham’s simply going to keep on doing it until his personal well of fresh ideas runs dry, and if his latest WOLFROY GOES TO TOWN, released under the long established nom de plume Bonnie Prince Billy is indicative, he’s not going to encounter that problem anytime soon. And where a big part of the guy’s appeal has always been the unpredictability of his moves accentuated by a rather prolific release schedule, WOLFROY finds him, if not settling down, then at least choosing to deeply examine one aspect of his hulking artistic gush to strikingly fine result. Specifically, this new one continues the fruitfulness of his work with The Cairo Gang and, most recently, the starkly effective vocal foil Angel Olsen. The connection with members of the Gang spans back to guitarist Emmett Kelly’s work on 2006’s excellent THE LETTING GO (he’s been a staple on Oldham’s long-players since), but the association with the full-on Cairo concern developed into something so appreciable that they earned co-billing on THE WONDER SHOW OF THE WORLD from last year and the Haitian benefit ISLAND BROTHERS 10” EP from a few months back. I’m unsure of why WOLFROY is credited to Bonnie Billy alone, but it’s not something I’ll devote more than a couple minutes to wondering about. The music does feel far less rehearsed than the contents of the two earlier records, so perhaps that’s part of it. But the album doesn’t shy away from complexity, and a little over two minutes into WOLFROY’S layered and precise second track “New Whaling” a mild vocal hiccup occurs that’s almost worth the price of admission alone. And if WONDER SHOW felt mildly like late-‘60s post-psyche country-folkin’ San Francisco in orientation (hinting at moments toward the undiminished mastery of Skip Spence’s gorgeous OAR) and BROTHERS radiated a more overtly rocking and singer-songwriter-like aura (that’s somewhat in league with Parsons and even Rundgren), this one really ups the sparseness of the folkish quality and nods toward non-flash roots-country elements. In other words, nothing all that new, but the real connective thread in all of Oldham’s work is plain to hear, investing the record with a graspable sense of continued artistic growth; namely, his consistent thematic investment in material of non-autobiographical intent. Unlike many artists in the roots, alt-country and even New Weird categories, Oldham is no nude confessor. His origins and continued work as an actor really shed light on the fictive orientation of much/most of his discography, and yet he’s also no homey nouveau-back-porch yarn spinner dripping with fake-sincerity; Oldham’s take on folk’s rich history is quite modern in orientation even if it lacks any blatant contemporary touches. If his stuff often feels out of time it is assuredly due to sonic intention and not that he’s trying to convince as some earthy/gritty “real” dude that just happened to emerge from underneath a long-fallen tree trunk with a detuned guitar and a rucksack full of tunes for the listening. And yet large groups of people relish dishing out dislike in Oldham’s direction due to their perception of arrogance or artifice on his part, though I strongly disagree, the bad vibes in my opinion stemming from his refreshing lack of false modesty, an occasional impatience with the rigmarole of often banal publicity requirements and the fact that he basically controls his own destiny in a scene largely still stubbornly beholden to businessmen. “Quail and Dumplings”, the record’s most forceful if not necessarily overly rocking track illustrates the old(er)/new(er) blend very well, being on one hand a solid empty-pot growling-tummy promise of better times ahead, but on the other kicking into high gear with strategic use of electric piano, lending the song the feel of an early-‘70s city-folky gesturing towards the album charts. It also points to how Oldham’s oeuvre has become increasingly resistant to easy comparative name-checking, though he’s never been an artist accurately tagged as derivative. Opener “No Match” does feel tangibly like ‘70s fringe country, with the give and take between Oldham and Olsen recalling Gram and Emmylou (how could it not?), and “New Whaling” returns to WONDER SHOW’s brief flirtation with a Blind Faith-like atmosphere before heading into the tense but mellow zone achieved by certain segments of the Brit-folk community, but whole big chunks of WOLFROY are damn near impossible to absorb as anything but this most impressive cat and the worthy cast of contributors that make up his current orbit. This is a feat of no mean circumstance. It’s what’s called a signature sound, and not many people have it. When this rare quality is considered with Oldham’s backwards-looking musical bent, his actorly tendencies and the desire to craft songs as beautiful little fictions, it becomes not a bit far-fetched to evaluate him as an artist most fittingly comparable in resonance of intent if not actual sound to old Aussie hand Nick Cave, though intrinsically American in orientation and less self-consciously literary. Another quite noteworthy facet of Oldham’s output is how he’s essentially remained with the Drag City imprint for his entire career, heading into his third decade with the Chicago-based label as one of only two artists of substantial longevity to do so (the other being Bill Callahan). This lack of restlessness on his part (and the unflagging support on the side of Drag City) likely plays a significant role in how Oldham’s records, like Callahan’s, hit such a qualitative plateau (a similar situation applies to names like Yo La Tengo, Lambchop and Tortoise). WOLFROY GOES TO TOWN isn’t a bit likely to sway folks resistant to his previous work, but that’s to its credit. Oldham remains admirably non-pop in orientation, having found a fertile place where his music can breathe and strengthen without the undue distracions or compromises of commercial demands. This is a record as good as its cover. And its cover is a very fine thing indeed. WOLFROY is destined to be one of the year’s best, so if you’re a fan it’s a must and if you’re just curious it’s a fantastic place to begin.



While I love Tom Waits like an eccentric, impulsive chain-smoking Uncle, I must admit that his work doesn’t really scratch my itch in toto until the release of '83's SWORDFISHTROMBONES, the record that marked the significant turning of a corner in his to that point struggling career, an artistic sea-change from whence he’s never looked back. Folks whose intro to Waits came through RAIN DOGS or FRANKS WILD YEARS or even BONE MACHINE or MULE VARIATIONS have been known to feel a bit flummoxed when exposed to the far more straight-ahead trajectory of his earlier stuff. Some eventually cotton to it without reservation, others appreciate it at arm’s length, and almost nobody in my experience dismisses it outright. The Tom Waits of ‘73’s debut CLOSING TIME to ‘80’s HEARTATTACK AND VINE is a markedly different artist from that which emerged with SWORDFISHTROMBONES, and one not inappropriately aligned with names such as Randy Newman (to which he was compared), Ricky Lee Jones (to which he was romantically involved), Bette Midler (with whom he sang a duet on ‘77’s FOREIGN AFFAIRS) and Bruce Springsteen (who covered “Jersey Girl” from HEARTATTACK AND VINE). Of all these names, the one that actually has the most in common with Waits isn’t Newman (it’s not a totally unapt comparison, but Newman’s a satirist and Waits is a synthesist, and later a surrealist) but Springsteen. Both were songwriters consciously adopting a performance persona that bordered on shtick; in Bruce it was a mixture of Dion/Del Shannon/Four Seasons/Phil Spector/pre-Beatles gestures paraded as spectacle for the legions that were finding post-Woodstock rock excess distasteful, and Waits in contrast proffered a blend of less specific and more comfortably theatrical beatniky/bohemian sensibilities combined with a downtrodden, emotionally strung-out jazzbo guise. Springsteen of course became wildly successful commercially (while in my estimation falling almost completely flat artistically) basically because he very effectively blurred the lines of the whole presentation, his overwrought Sha-Na-Na routine being widely, wildly mistook for authenticity (some may consider this a shrewd maneuver, but I feel it’s smoke and mirrors). On the other side of the coin Waits was artistically successful (while not yet his post-Herb Cohen self) if commercially limited since he made no attempt to hide that his whole artistic personality was an extensive examination of songwriting technique through elevated homage. That is, I find it impossible to believe that any observant listener in ’75 didn’t understand that NIGHTHAWKS AT THE DINER was an extended riff on an anachronistic archetype, specifically a hard-bitten, boozy, road-dog having an unbeatable night in a club of unusually receptive rowdies; in fact, the thing’s not inaccurately described as half a comedy record, though the jokes aren’t funny as much as they are “funny”. Waits was up-front in regard to his inherent theatricality and for this he paid the price until just he didn’t care anymore, subsequently shifting into a mix of Captain Beefheart, Kurt Weill, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins and David Lynch. Naturally there are hints of this change in his early work, particularly from SMALL CHANGE forward, and there were lingering remnants of his younger self all over SWORDFISHTROMBONES (like the track “Frank’s Wild Years”, where he gets to indulge his Charles Bukowski/Raymond Carver side) and RAIN DOGS (“Downtown Train” shows just how close he and Springsteen could actually be in both form and delivery), but Waits’ decision to bail on an established career that was constantly hanging around the fringes of the mainstream for the uncharted waters at the heart of the ‘80s experimental/New Music playground has hardly any precedent. And to be frank, for Waits to still be knocking out quality albums nearly 40 years after first hitting the scene doesn’t really have many antecedents either. Yeah, the guy’s long overdue new one BAD AS ME is fresh in the racks, and my initial impression is that it’s as strong as anything he’s done since FRANKS WILD YEARS. Slipping immediately into his post-nuke Howlin’ Wolf-zone and grooving into some hyperactive locomotive jazzy-blues, “Chicago” makes it abundantly clear he hasn’t lost a step. In fact he’s probably gained a few. He also hasn’t misplaced his unerring ear for contributors. Marc Ribot is again heading up the band, a bevy of familiar names are back in the ranks, including David Hidalgo of Los Lobos, avant-percussionist/composer Gino Robair, Southside Chicago mouth-harp legend Charlie Musselwhite and some scraggly emaciated cat named Keith Richards, plus Sir Douglas Quintet/Texas Tornado-member Augie Meyers and Chili Pepper Flea both make the scene as newcomers. Like most of Waits’ output, BAD AS ME is a grower; the moodiness of the record registers first, then the high quality of the songs all begin to shine. But a few tunes are already starting to assert themselves. Examples: the Jay Hawkins-like title track, the mildly Pogues-esque “Pay Me”, the Country & Mexican of “Back in the Crowd”, the bluesy martial-industrial of “Hell Broke Luce” and the by now sui generis laments of “Last Leaf” and the closer “A New Year”. The thing that becomes plainly apparent when really immersing oneself in Waits’ later material is how methodically he’s cultivated a new persona to replace the one he kicked into the Tinseltown gutter way back in Reagan’s first term. This is in no way a bad realization. Very much an actor and performer (as opposed to a more intuitive musician), what Waits has been refining with stops and starts for the last thirty or so years resists being called shtick only because it’s so specific to his unique personality; for that same reason it’s hard to imagine anybody having the sheer chutzpah to blatantly cop his moves and modes for their own ends. And yet as he gets older his instantly recognizable growl, bark and bellow feels less like cagey affectation, registering as more natural than ever, Waits having finally grown into that gravelly, weathered voice, a sound he can truly call his own. Like that portly old mensch once said; how sweet it is. This is all a roundabout way of praising Waits as one of the last true high-profile musical weirdoes still breathing on this mortal coil, a real global treasure to be sure, and BAD AS ME is a much needed addition to his discography after a seven year gap in new material.

Joseph's Picks Of The Week 10/21/11 - Flat Duo Jets and The Skillet Lickers

Back in the late-‘80s I held a deep interest in Athens, GA’s music scene, but upon reflection, aside from R.E.M.’s string of classic albums and appealing post-punk rediscoveries Pylon, the only act from that time and place that’s really stuck with me is Flat Duo Jets. In contrast to Gotham-like zip-codes like New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago or Boston, Athens at least somewhat resembled my personal small city/town-like Southern environs. Sadly, in retrospect most of that scene’s bands were to varying degrees just too well-mannered to survive the harsh treatment of history. Flat Duo Jets are the most noteworthy exception. I first heard them on the soundtrack to the independent documentary ATHENS, GA: INSIDE/OUT, and that introduction left me blown away by the pair’s off-the-scale levels of unkempt zest and flat-out unprofessionalism. Previous to hearing the Jets I was downright suspicious over contempo stuff that so proudly announced its influence from rockabilly and other pre-Beatles rock forms. Sure, I love The Cramps. Only soulless ninnies don’t love The Cramps. And yeah, I liked The Blasters too. But, A Confessional: I’ve never been able to abide The Stray Cats. Flat Duo Jets woke me up right quick to the non-crap potential of neo-rockabilly/early rock sounds. Problem was actually finding more of their stuff. There was a cassette release titled IN STEREO from ’85 (eventually reissued in ’92 on Sky) and a self-titled LP in ’89 from the brief trio version of the group (with doghouse bassist Tone Mayer) via Jefferson Holt’s Dog Gone Records. But neither of these records was obtainable at the mall, dig? Special ordering also proved problematic. I’ve since heard both, but my true introduction to Flat Duo Jets came through a cassette of GO GO HARLEM BABY, released in ’91 on Sky. Needless to say over the course of a few years I wore that tape right out. I replaced it with a CD but then after a one party or another it just up and vanished. Guh. Well, Jack White’s Third Man records has just reissued on vinyl, so I’ve been given another chance to own this most impressive slab on wax. How nice of the guy. HARLEM initially gave me the impression of a more stripped-down and ‘billy obsessed Blasters if they somehow shape-shifted into a two-person version of The Cramps fronted not by Lux but by a slightly less eccentric Tav Falco. And this impression holds, but over time the record opens up and shows Dexter Romweber (vocals, guitar, piano) and Crow (drums, vocals) to be ultimately indebted to no one. Produced (with occasional piano) by the late great Memphis legend Jim Dickinson, HARLEM shrewdly opens with three of Romweber’s own compositions before sliding into a cover of the Chilton Price-penned chestnut “You Belong To Me”, obviously a nod to Gene Vincent’s version from 1958. From there the pair rumble through an eclectic bag of touchstones including The Ventures, Duane Eddy, Ronnie Dove, Roy Orbison, sublime R&B shouter Big Joe Turner and a handful of originals easily equal to the task at hand. Interestingly, HARLEM also features a batch of takes on pre-rock standards that were eventually given the R&R-era treatment, making plain just how uniquely savvy Flat Duo Jets were in their channeling of many early rockers’ diverse musical gleaning. Not just “You Belong To Me”; jazz staple “Harlem Nocturne”, dedicated on GO GO HARLEM BABY to The Cramps’ Poison Ivy and probably inspired by the noirish ’59 R&B version by The Viscounts that became a minor hit in ’66; “Don’t Blame Me”, likely descended from The Everly Brothers’ ’61 take on the McHugh/Fields-penned oldie; and “Apple Blossom Time”, maybe connected to the vocal group version of the Von Tilzer/Fleeson-penned song that was a very small hit for The Platters in 1960. These smoldering versions of tunes that span all the way back to 1920 do much more than simply show a lack of anxiety in the Jet’s bag of influences; they also illustrate how the pair were quite knowledgeable over a huge part of what made early R&R such a gas, specifically its uninhibited and very often blatant gestures of snatch and grab regarding inspiration and source material, finding young musicians appropriating songs much older than they were and then jamming those pegs into the round holes of a new sonic equation. What a couple of smarties. Also, the range of Romweber’s vocals is one of the consistent joys of Flat Duo Jets, and on HARLEM he doesn’t disappoint for a second. It’s bluntly obvious that Jon Spencer did his own drive-by snatching and grabbing of Dex’s style for his subsequent front-man duties in Blues Explosion, and that’s cool since Dexter is anything but a one trick pony. His take on ballad material can feel like a rougher, weirder version of those slow-dance burners that were sorta perfected by the young selves of Elvis and Orbison, for just one instance. Shortly after this record the Jets began a long tenure on The A-Bones Miriam Linna and Billy Miller’s Norton label before calling it quits in ’99, though both Dex and Crow are still out there at it. I never heard a less than worthy note from these two in their whole remarkable tenure (which for this type of stuff is really saying something), and that GO GO HARLEM BABY is going to be available again in physical form, if only momentarily (read: don’t sleep), makes me very pleased indeed.

David Freeman started County Records in 1963 basically out of necessity, understanding that if he didn’t compile the early recordings of rural American musicians, maybe nobody else would. His closest contemporary was Chris Strachwitz, but where that tenacious and heroic cultural curator’s Arhoolie label covered a vast spectrum of genres, from blues to Cajun to jazz to Tex-Mex to western swing, Freeman was single-mindedly dedicated to what’s now-known as the Old-Time tradition, collecting work by mountain fiddlers and string bands onto LPs that helped shed essential light onto an undying thread in this country’s artistic wealth. It should come as no surprise that even in the heyday of the folk music revival and in the midst of the United States’ longest stretch of economic prosperity it took independent operators like Strachwitz and Freeman to help get the job of documenting its musical heritage closer to completion. Yes, the institutional presence that is Smithsonian Folkways is a major player in this huge state of affairs, but that admirable and formidably prolific label is a non-profit enterprise connected to the longstanding concept of museums and libraries as eternal centers of societal enrichment; the best side of our collective self, in other words. And as free enterprise continues to drive home the worst side of our nature (read the papers lately?), it can probably be left unsaid that if the larger, more dollars driven part of the music business had been left to secure this berg’s musical history, we’d be in some sad, shabby shape. Endeavors like Columbia’s ROOTS ‘N’ BLUES series are major exceptions to this rule, which is why labels like County and Arhoolie signify much more than just basic brand recognition, standing instead as labors of love distilled into consumer products that glimmer like jewels in a vast sea of mercantile indifference. Freeman eventually branched out into the more modern bluegrass style, Bill Monroe being a big seller for the label, but he cared most deeply for the Old-Time style, the sound of which was raw and wild, sometimes mournful and joyful, and contained the essence of an era that the unstoppable march of modernity was threatening to render effectively extinct. While County did release field recordings made by Charles Faurot in the same operational mode as Alan and John Lomax, even issuing later sessions by musicians previously documented by the Lomax team such as Galax, Virginia banjo-master Wade Ward, it’s clear that Freeman’s strongest desire, at least initially, was to compile music originally grooved into shellac 78s for the educational consumption of younger generations. This is how many ears drank up their first big gulps from such now renowned names as Charlie Poole, Uncle Dave Macon, G.B. Grayson & Henry Whitter and The Carter Family. Well, original but unplayed LP copies of many of those initial County releases are still available to the curious and/or discerning, and if you believe one or both of those adjectives fits the cut of your personal jib, then you could do pretty well by picking up OLD TIME TUNES 1927-1931 from North Georgia’s legendary Skillet Lickers. Formed by fiddler Gid Tanner in 1926 and featuring banjoist Fate Norris, guitarist Riley Puckett and fiddler Clayton McMichen, the original Skillet Lickers are a consummate example of the early string band tradition, equaled only by Poole’s North Carolina Ramblers and Macon’s Fruit Jar Drinkers. Now string band music was something of a rural sensation in the pre-Depression period, so there was a surplus of groups that managed to knock out a few killer sides in those fleeting early days of sound recording (some collected on County’s first release A COLLECTION OF MOUNTAIN FIDDLE MUSIC), but it was really the bands under the leadership of Poole, Macon and Tanner that made the strongest commercial impression and therefore have the largest bodies of extant work to consider. In just their instance, The Skillet Lickers' collected sides span five very loaded compact discs for the Document label. In contrast to Poole and Macon, both banjoist-vocalists that occasionally recorded in more solo contexts, Tanner ended up getting far more plugged into the ensemble aspect of his string band’s sound. This shouldn’t infer that Tanner lacked proficiency as a solo player; the story goes that he and the great Fiddlin’ John Carson were the rival rulers of early-‘20s Georgia Fiddle Conventions. But The Skillet Lickers were unique in featuring two fiddlers, whose playing weaved together with expert grace, helping to create an appealing, distinct sound. This matching of instruments is quite different from how crazed showman Macon, and to a lesser extent Poole, presented themselves as the leaders of their respective bands, with the result that while Gid Tanner’s moniker is synonymous with The Skillet Lickers they are often appreciated simply as a unit without his name rising to the top. For example, the cover of OLD TIME TUNES lists every performer without giving prominence to any single member. On one hand this isn’t really accurate. Tanner not only formed the band but was its most prominent contributor post-’31, continuing the group with different players, occasionally including original member Riley Puckett. But on the other hand the group did tour post-’31 without Tanner and with McMichen in charge. It’s also notable that falsetto Tanner didn’t always sing (that often fell to Puckett) and didn’t play lead fiddle (that comes courtesy of McMichen). The songs on OLD TIME TUNES do radiate an air not at all inconsistent with artistic equality, and part of the lore of The Skillet Lickers is how they were a band fraught with creative differences and in-fighting, sort of the Oasis of their day, but a whole heaping helluva lot better. What’s indisputable is that the splendid weave of the fiddles leads to a thicker feel that still manages to really soar; it certainly went down a storm on stages and at parties in their prime. This agile density seems to be quite a source of inspiration for numerous modern old-time practitioners, mainly because its solid instrumental base can be translated to a more contemporary setting sans period idiosyncrasies like Macon’s fascinating if undeniably dated hokum burlesque. But if The Skillet Lickers present a more democratic, user-friendly model for the contemporary age, partly because McMichen disdained Tanner’s rather lowbrow sense of humor, necessitating him to ease it back a few dozen notches, a more streamlined template is far from their only positive attribute. In the end the disparate nature of the songs is the thing. “Molly Put the Kettle” maintains such a furious pace that it could possibly turn a square dance into a flippin’ mosh pit, no joke, and what “Sal’s Gone the Cider Mill” lacks in tempo is made up for with swaying, sawing bow action and a general atmosphere of celebratory near delirium. “Leather Breeches” is the just the type of perfectly executed and wickedly multifaceted instrumental that neo-string-banders get misty-eyed and moist in the mid-section just thinking about, for it’ll turn a rustic college town watering hole into an uninhibited and rambunctious throw-down in just seconds flat. Speaking of which, the subject of booze is a recurring one here, and that’s not a bit unusual considering the Prohibition era; in fact, “A Corn Licker Still in Georgia” is essentially a prolonged skit with musical interludes detailing the trials and tribulations of bootleggers, and as such is a striking bit of history. Sure, the acting on the tune is as wooden as fellow Georgia hooch-runner Peg Leg Howell’s phony appendage, but that’s surely part of its appeal. Additionally, the Lickers prove they can successfully dial it back via ballad material with the more restrained but still wonderfully woozy “Devilish Mary”.  Also included is one of the finest versions of the standard “Soldier’s Joy” that I’ve heard and also one of the loopiest, frantic takes on “Cotton Eyed Joe”. One of the real delights of string band music is the unaffectedly weird elements it contains (paging Greil Marcus), and that quality is spread across the surface of this 12-track LP like delicious homemade butter. Undeniably, there are also some very occasional flare-ups of unattractive stereotyping and language, though thankfully the exception and not the norm (we might have the more erudite McMichen to thank for that). By no means is this type of dated nastiness an integral part of old-time music, but it is far more common in the forms that mingle with vaudeville and hokum, where coarse exuberant humor extended to activities such as blackface and other broad ethnic stereotyping. This is frankly a problem, and any listener’s personal levels of sensitivity, background and tolerance (or patience with intolerance, if you prefer) will decide if they’re destined to interact with OLD TIME TUNES 1927-1931. Freeman could’ve chose to not include the one really problematic track featured on this record, and a subsequent County CD that cherry-picks from the label’s two LP volumes of Skillet Lickers material indeed does just that, but like lost Warner Brothers cartoons, omission is ultimately the escape hatch of the chicken-hearted and a situation very similar to the decisions of certain historians to either leave out or greatly downplay that Thomas Jefferson, like most of his ideologically inconsistent cronies (to say the least), owned slaves. The history of the United States is one beset with as much sustained ugliness as momentary flashes of beauty, and there are warts of shame all over its skin. Strangely, some aspects of this ugliness get canonized (GONE WITH THE WIND) while other parts get relegated to the margins (Emmett Miller) while still others become the source of ongoing cultural debate (Al Jolson, BIRTH OF A NATION). This could all be chalked up as simply more American inconsistency, but that might be a tad too easy. I’m far more secure in my convictions that The Skillet Lickers play a vital role in this country’s musical landscape occasional blemishes and all, and those with turntables who wish to dabble in this band’s still impressive sound should find OLD TIME TUNES 1927-1931 an excellent place to begin the journey.

Joseph's Picks Of The Week 10/14/11 - Fruit Bats and Dinosaur Jr.

Until fairly recently, my experiences with Fruit Bats had mainly been intermittent pleasures absorbed through hit-and-run web-streaming or activities of similar nonchalance. In this regard I thought the music sounded fine; a whole lot of folksiness with some well calibrated indie pomp thrown in. For no specific reason I just never followed up those favorable impressions with a lengthier, hardier sit down to better acquaint myself with the work. Well TRIPPER, the fifth full-length in a decade from the Eric D. Johnson-led group has been out for a couple months now via Sub Pop, and it’s sticking to the wall of my consciousness like taffy and Testors. On first listen this record seemed like it might be afflicted with the fairly recent indie tendency to unashamedly wade into soft-rock waters, an inclination extant on newish records from everybody from Iron & Wine to Bon Iver to even Girls. This is definitely becoming something comparable to a trend and frankly it’s starting to get bothersome. Fruit Bats do certainly mess around with soft-rock sounds, but thankfully there is an underlying strangeness to the whole endeavor, even though their music isn’t particularly oddball in finished execution. Actually TRIPPER goes down pretty durned easy, smooth enough to even help soundtrack a long-assed road trip with a highly-strung pal riding shotgun. Johnson’s voice reminds me very much of Destroyer’s Dan Bejar (speaking of guys recently embarking upon strange soft-rock journeys) but with most of the poetic eccentricity replaced with a generally more direct attack; occasionally he’ll whip out some post-disco falsetto-soulifying jaunts that conjure up tall, overly skinny white-boys imitating Mick Jagger in smudged bathroom mirrors as their sisters pound on the doors for needed makeup time (what a constant battle). And as potentially horrific as that might sound, it actually works. The similarity to Mr. Behar also points to a mild and appealing glam-folkiness that springs early Bowie to the frontal lobes of my mind. No, TRIPPER isn’t all that odd of a record, but it is an often woozy one. For instance, opening track “Tony the Tripper” (any relation to Nick the Stripper?), with its vocal ache, acoustic strum and ripples of electricity sounds like a readymade anthem for young drunk lovers to boldly blast from the stereo as they stumble out to slow dance and lean on each other in the back yard. Oh, the good life. “So Long” sounds maybe a little like Matt Ward briefly setting aside his guitar to record a one-off single produced by James Murphy. With maybe a guest spot by Joanna Newsom. Or maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. “Tangle and Ray” actually approaches something close to a rock sound, not all that far from the more driving material by The Shins (with whom Johnson has played), and this helps lend TRIPPER a nice diversity. Speaking of which, “You’re Too Weird” is easily the record’s most blatant soft-rock statement, taking a big mess of Fleetwood Mac and mixing with some o’ that modern pop-chart rhythmic choogle ala Scissor Sisters. No joke. And ultimately it is seriousness that saves it from being tossed into the dust-bin; nothing in the song is ironic or arch. It indubitably helps in my case that I’m pretty okay with pop-era Mac (in doses, especially from TUSK) and those Sisters (who like so many things surely sound best to me while gills deep in booze). To continue, “The Banishment Song” shifts with ease from New Odd Beardo front-porch picker-isms to piano driven wounded-lover soul-purge and then floats it seamlessly into the somewhat Sufjan-ist organ sounds of following track “The Fen”. Cagily, closer “Picture of a Bird” is the most straightforwardly indie-folk moment on the disc, a pretty tune dominated by acoustic guitar and tough singing, reminding me of what I’d previously pegged from my fleeting encounters with their work as Fruit Bats’ default sound. TRIPPER is a fine record, confidently succeeding in its refined mellowness where many other mainstream indie acts fail or flirt with full-on disaster. Anybody turned on to the sounds of Sam Beam, Justin Vernon or Fleet Foxes should find Fruit Bats to be worth investigation if they don’t already know them quite well. Hey, just because I’m playing catch up ball doesn’t mean you haven’t been top of things. Just do me a solid and fill me in next time, okay?

Though I’d been reading about them in the underground music press since first getting clued into the scene, I didn’t finally get to hear Dinosaur Jr. until late ’88 or so, shortly after their third album BUG was released. However, my introduction to this singular and incendiary band came through the previous year’s YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME, a record that I continue to rate as one of the ‘80s greatest rock albums. I’m talking top five, easy. Upon hearing it and being knocked sideways, I promptly placed my mitts upon the rest of their catalog. ‘Twas the smart thing to do, Dinosaur Jr. being one of the truly key bands to spring from their decade’s whole beautiful American punk/hardcore/u-ground mess to directly affect mainstream music culture as a whole. How? To explain that, it helps to define exactly what made their records such huge gulps of fresh new air back in the day. J Mascis (guitar), Lou Barlow (bass) and Murph (drums) emerged from the fallout of the Western Massachusetts hardcore scene looking for new kicks. Murph had been in All White Jury (whose APATHETIC SOCIETY demo cassette from ’83 is a fun if non-essential HC curio) and J and Lou were part of the justifiably legendary Deep Wound (whose work, collected on the ALMOST COMPLETE compact disc is a crucial component in understanding HC’s vitality as a non-metropolitan phenomenon). In Deep Wound Lou played guitar (which he would later do in Sebadoh, Folk Implosion etc.) and J played drums (which he does from time to time, most notably in Gobblehoof), and in one sense the blindingly fast speed of the music sets them far apart from what the trio subsequently fleshed out on the ’85 debut DINOSAUR; integrating at-times popish melody and the long-established dynamic sensibilities of heavy rock, in the process slowing things down considerably and touching upon influences that were rather out-of-vogue in the punk scene of the time. By the release of LIVING the group had really managed a firm handle on their unique blending of Sabbath-ian heaviness with a post-Crazy Horse propensity for getting to the heart of the jam. Figure in that J emerged in many people’s ears as the fledgling indie-rock scene’s guitar god du jour and Dinosaur can be perceived as quite out of step with the hardcore scene that reared them. But on the other hand, not really; the band retained a sense of density and an attack that was directly descended from hardcore even if it felt strikingly different. For instance, Lou strummed his bass like a guitar, coming up with thundering bottom end that was distinct from any sort of pre-punk precedent. And Dinosaur’s brilliant combination of hard-rock and punk-rock qualities manifested through heaviness and tunefulness is where their influence on the mainstream is located. To put a fine point on it, they were the dry run for Nirvana, and just as succinctly (and boldly, perhaps), they were far superior to Kurt and company. Furthermore, I question if Nirvana would’ve even existed (at least in the form that we know them) without Dino as a guiding light. None of this is a big secret, and for that matter neither is the quality of the band’s first three records. All three have just been reissued on vinyl by the JagJaguwar label, and LIVING is the cream of this truly bumper crop. If I were asked to simply play four songs in illustration of what made this band such a sustained big deal, I’d resist the urge to cherry pick from the records and simply play LIVING’s first side. Beginning with a burst of effects-pedal whoosh and submerged screams, “Little Furry Things” quickly shifts into a mode more introspective, far less cacophonous yet ultimately just as powerful. With guest backing vox by Lee Renaldo bookending J’s own sweetly sleepy whine, a suavely executed instrumental break and waves of distortion carrying the tune to its conclusion, “Furry…” is Dino at their most approachable and most abrasive. This segues into “Kracked”, a speedier number which includes volatile riffing, bruised and needy vocal emoting, brutally assertive guitar soloing and even some acoustic strum for good measure, it’s a textbook study in dynamic firepower. This goes double for “Sludgefeast”, its effectiveness only increased by a slower tempo that  allows everybody to really lean into their instruments and conjure up a total shitstorm of rock’s true essence. Couple this bottled up intensity with a lyrical tactic that eschews any gestures toward grandiosity or eloquence in favor of short stanzas that communicate blunt, direct emotional appeals and states-of-mind (and then: repeat), and it’s not hard to see how some folks, particularly those eyebrow deep in a post-Beatles, post-Dylan, post-Springsteen, post-Costello mindset could find Dino a tad bit um, regressive. But that’s a mistake. Leslie West wasn’t trying to be Leonard Cohen; he was just a fat dude who was really adept at wailing on a guitar. On paper, the lyrics to “Sludgefeast” are borderline embarrassing; boy finally works up the nerve to wring his hands and plead for that special girl to pay him some attention (i.e. ex-hardcores ‘fessing up that they dig chicks more than sweaty mosh-pits). But a song isn’t on paper. The lyrics to “Sludgefeast” succeed through delivery, sound and oh okay sincerity. The big deal about so much truly timeless rock music is how it’s an assemblage of little things that aren’t individually any big deal. “The Lung” is a case in point. It is a succession of small gestures deftly integrated and sublimely executed; a loud but defiantly pretty instrumental opening that once clearly stated undergoes a shrewd tempo shift, giving the band opportunity to strut a wickedly loose groove. From there, J lets fly with one simple lyrical couplet, restating it once before gliding into a guitar solo that can only be accurately described as slouching towards epic (sorry Joan Didion). J’s voice then returns to emphasize that hazy stanza twice more (there’s still debate on what exactly he’s singing) before everything comes to a pedal stomping conclusion. In theory, it’s just a bunch of things other people have already done in different combination, and yet at the time of their arrival Dinosaur Jr. were thrillingly distinctive. It only took a couple years for a whole assload of lesser lights to get wise to their moves (and no I’m not talking about Nirvana here folks), but at the stage where YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME was fresh booty in the bins no one but these three disheveled, dysfunctional bodies sounded anything like this. To think I haven’t even mentioned the second side. To sum a few things up, “In a Jar” is maybe the single song that best exemplifies all of Dino’s superb qualities (it’s a photo finish with BUG’s “Freak Scene”, natch), and not to sound like a stressed-out street percussionist thwacking on the side of an oil drum with a 9-iron, but vinyl is the best way to experience the magnificence that LIVING holds; one reason why--the record ends with the mopey acoustic strum and tape-collage of Lou Barlow’s “Poledo”. SST’s initial CD issue screwed the pooch by following it up with a cover of Pete Frampton’s arena-rock warhorse “Show Me the Way”, thereby negating the lingering, naggingly unsettling atmosphere of Lou’s lo-tech experimentation. The remastered Merge CD swapped out the Frampton for their much-loved run-through of the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven”, and while I value both of these tunes very much (particularly “…Heaven”), I’ll state unequivocally that this classic record ends with “Poledo”. M'kay? It’s now engraved in indie-rock lore that BUG spelt the end of the original line-up of Dinosaur Jr. While I dug the post-Lou Dino stuff pretty well (especially the Sub Pop single of “The Wagon” with Don Fleming briefly in the band), it should shock no one that in my estimation the Mike Johnson-era just wasn’t the same. Sebadoh was its own prickly (and then sorta polished) can of worms, very important and much loved by me. But hardly anything in the aural sphere compares to the sound of early Dinosaur Jr., and the fact that they’re back together in the studio and out on the road is just a grand thing to behold. YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME helped put them onto the map as one of the greatest heavy-rock trios in the history of the whole shebang, and any serious rock fans still unaware of their status need to rectify that omission post haste.