Joseph's Picks Of The Week 2/3/12 - A Winged Victory for the Sullen and Bare Wires

My main reason for pricking up the ears over the self-titled debut from A Winged Victory for the Sullen was specifically due to the participation of Adam Wiltzie, he who comprises one half of Austin, TX drone kingpins Stars of the Lid. I’ve been a fan of that duo for a long while now, with my appreciation spreading to previous Wiltzie “side-projects” like The Dead Texan and Windsor for the Derby. The other member of AWVftS is Dustin O’Halloran, and while I knew a little about Devics, the Los Angeles indie band where he works with vocalist Sara Lov, I was frankly clueless to the man’s solo output as pianist and film composer. Checking out O’Halloran’s first two plainly (you might even say Eno-esquely) titled records, 2004’s PIANO SOLOS and 2006’s PIANO SOLOS VOL. 2, I was pleasantly struck by the crisp, calm nature of his style, which fits snuggly into the genre of Classical, Modern. And yeah, that’s an awfully big corral of sometimes restless cats, so please let me elaborate; Dustin O’Halloran’s music possesses the same sort of quiet, relaxed intensity that’s absolutely perfect for rustic, backstreet antiquarian bookshops. Picture this, won’t you? While browsing the Fiction section’s pricey but pristine first edition hard-covers of Borges, Barth and Barthelme (aka the three Bs), the music’s unobtrusive assertiveness first catches the ear. Briefly the thought tangles on the tongue tip to ask from whence the music derives, but the college-aged counter clerk appears completely engrossed in a tattered copy of AGAINST INTERPRETATION and likely doesn’t want to be bothered. Shades of Arvo Pärt, Olivier Messiaen, and even Morton Feldman become briefly explicit, but the music swirling about the shelves of major volumes obviously doesn’t belong to the oeuvre of any of those heavyweight names.  And yet it’s exactly that kind of sound, i.e. just right for taking the highly caffeinated, sleep-deprived edge off an extremely sunlit morning; it’s relaxing, yet possessive of a strong backbone. And that’s just O’Halloran’s first two records. I haven’t even heard all of his most recent, highly touted stuff (though 2010’s solo live VORLEBEN is after a half dozen listens proving to be a true killer), mainly because I’m sorta stuck on this A Winged Victory for the Sullen collab. Frankly, it’s proving a disc as strong as its name is wordy (which perhaps influenced my bookshop scenario up above, heh). My first impression upon sitting down with this record (and while not exclusively a “sit-down” [or “lie-down”] LP, I can’t imagine it appropriately connecting with non-stationary listeners without the aid of headphones) was that without hints I’d likely never guessed Wiltzie’s involvement. And yet the tangible difference in sound doesn’t register as disconnected from the general evolution of Stars of the Lid’s impressive dronescapes, mainly because SotL’s numerous flights of extendedness, while occasionally abrasive and agitated, were more often inclined toward spacious, relaxing and borderline ethereal motifs. Like the best of Stars of the Lid (and I should mention that Brian McBride is an equal part of that duo’s considerable success), A WINGED VICTORY FOR THE SULLEN’s seven pieces lend themselves quite easily to the possibility of soundtracking the bold non-linearity of experimental film. But where movies employing SotL would ideally be projected onto a large wall during a hip, smoky gathering in some saucy boho’s loft, AWVftS feels far more suited for exhibition in a smart museum’s program of new film or even in the hallowed halls of academe. Indeed, during that first listen my thoughts did occasionally turn to Eno’s MUSIC FOR FILMS, a comparison still worthy of mention with the big caveat that while AWVftS’s music is pointed in the approximate direction of the ambient zone it never really gets there. Instead, it generally examines an appealing three-way split between gestures of ambient motion, the unique depth of feeling that’s sometimes achieved by chamber classical, and a string section driven post-rock sensibility that’s loosely related to groups like Sigur Rós and Godspeed You! Black Emperor. And this is cool since A Winged Victory for the Sullen, the nature of their moniker aside, smartly avoids repeating the melancholic bombast of those two bands. Again, the post-classical aura of O’Halloran’s piano really sets the tone here; while “We Played Some Open Chords and Rejoiced, For the Earth Had Circled the Sun Yet Another Year” (did I say something about wordy?) opens with a slow wash of tough string ache, by the one minute mark the piano has begun establishing that AWVftS is disinterested in reaching for emotional extremes in favor of cultivating an atmosphere of gentle, if occasionally tense and even sometimes subtly ominous beauty. But please don’t infer that fans of Sigur Rós and Godspeed won’t find AWVftS right up their alley. Anybody into the more un-rock side of post-rock should certainly queue this record up for inspection. Same goes for those into the more un-rock side of vintage Krautrock (say Cluster or Popul Vuh) or even Fripp and Eno’s EVENING STAR. ‘Tis true that my younger self would’ve surely derided A WINGED VICTORY FOR THE SULLEN as so much New Age hoo-hah, but back in those days I was far more prone to making shortsighted and even inaccurate statements. Please don’t fall prey to the same mistake. Adam Wiltzie and Dustin O’Halloran have crafted a fine and thoughtful debut album smartly co-released by the imprints Kranky (US) and Erased Tapes (UK). In fact, I can claim with confidence that it’s one of the best new records to hit my ear canals in all of 2011.

Gonna go uptown so I can get myself straight

Gonna go see my mama see if I got myself a date

Time is runnin’ out I’m comin’ right down to the wire

Gotta go do something to get myself higher

Lou Reed- “I’m Gonna Move Right In”

The music of Bare Wires requires a certain nonchalant swagger. And with a few exceptions, most of them from New York in the ‘70s (see above), I tend to think this blend of attitudinal rocking is best exemplified by bands hailing from the American West Coast, particularly it’s southernmost state. Yeah, if you have a jones to itch some post-Stones, post-“Search and Destroy”, post-Dolls expressions of trashy white-boy cool replete with cheap shades, cigarettes perpetually smoldering and dangling, and maybe even a scarf or denim jacket to help sell the strut, then indeed California is the place you ought to be. Some will quibble with this idea, and that’s more than alright. It’s in no way a stone tablets kind of concept. But here are three examples in favor of my thesis; The Dogs’ KBD-classic “Slash Your Face”, a big helping of mid-period Red Kross, and Dream Syndicate’s atypically silver-tongued “John Coltrane Stereo Blues”. Bare Wires are from Oakland, though they originally formed in Memphis, and the reality of this coastal commute only adds to the allure of the band’s glammy, power-popish early punk goodness (The Dogs also left Detroit for Los Angeles). Now lots of folks dismiss this particular strain of rock as the regressive stuff of posing and dilettantish small-scale rockstar-ism, but I frankly disagree; smarts in rock music shouldn’t necessarily equate to intellectualism or in lieu of that to an explicit punk-derived non-arrogance. I’ll acknowledge that stepping into this harry playground without the needed songs or chops is a recipe for disaster. With the right sound, this sort of approach harkens all the way back to the true badassery promulgated by the original R&R impulse (Berry, Lewis, Little Richard, Presley), but without it the whole endeavor will quickly become besieged with a whole lotta emptiness that inevitably leads to the catcalls of preening and poserism. That’s why to this day so many bad memories linger over ‘80s glam-metal (and to be fair, lots of those bands had okay songs, it’s just that hackneyed delivery and overzealous production sank most of them like an, um, lead balloon). But Bare Wires thankfully hang out on the unabashedly punk side of the street; on their debut, 2009’s ARTIFICIAL COLOR, they did a great freshman job of alternating a hyperactive melodic tendency with the gusto of streetwalking cheetahs with hearts full of if not napalm then some unidentified but surely harmful fluid. Nothing exceeded the three minute mark, often barely eclipsing two, and its 12 songs formed an assured and concise statement of purpose. Their second full-length effort, 2010’s SEEKING LOVE did nothing to mess with the program, though it was quickly clear that bandleader Matthew Melton was hitting his stride as a songwriter; instead of the tunes vaguely alternating between the poles of power-pop and punk, he was becoming far more adept at integrating those elements into each track. Plus, the guitars were fuller and loaded with gnawing riffing, and the rhythm section continued to be unfalteringly on the spot. Well, last year found Melton and co knocking out a 10 song 10-inch titled CHEAP PERFUME (the best kind, natch) on the South Paw label and the results besmirch the Bare Wires name not a bit. In fact, I’m ready to crown ‘em as one of the best unheralded straight-up rock units currently on the scene. And PERFUME really helps underscore the casual shrewdness behind Melton’s mode of operation. Not only has he gotten even more able at blending the power pop and the punk chug, but it’s suddenly clearer than ever that maybe Melton’s slickest trick is how he successfully grapples with the brazen and addictive insubstantiality of glam-rock’s more doofus side (think Slade or Sweet, not Bowie or T. Rex) with the everlasting depth of goodness from names like Arthur Lee, Alex Chilton, Johnny Thunders and Richard Hell. Those four names hopefully make it plain that Bare Wires are tapping into a direct rock tradition; there is nothing twisted or tweaked or ironic about them, and that’s refreshing. I also really like how this band blatantly cribs/quotes from previous songs like it ain’t no big deal (and you know what? ‘tis not). On ARTIFICIAL COLOR it was a sly variation on Devo’s “Gut Feeling”, on SEEKING LOVE it was the grand unlikelihood of The Drifter’s perennial “Under the Boardwalk”, and on CHEAP PERFUME it’s a nab from ABBEY ROAD. Which song? Not telling. Some things you just have to find out for yourself. Anybody that’s ever been blissed-out by some paunchy shop clerk’s selection of The Records’ “Starry Eyes” while flipping through titles in a dank but delicious basement wax shack shouldn’t hesitate to check out Bare Wires. And any ears equally slain by the first batch of KILLED BY DEATH volumes and Numero Group’s YELLOW PILLS: PREFILL compilation should find this band a real peanut butter and chocolate combination. Even if you “just” dig pre-crap Replacements I’d say give them a shot. It’s rare for a band of this ilk to knock out three long players of such high quality; that CHEAP PERFUME is Bare Wires’ best one yet only increases the impressiveness of their achievement.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 1/27/12 - Charles "Packy" Axton and MISSISSIPPI BLUES 1927-1941

With a subject as wide as music, it should come as no great surprise that a ridiculous number of indispensible volumes are currently stuffing library shelves and cluttering up the coffee tables of connoisseurs all over this tirelessly spinning globe. But on top of that mountainous stack of worthy texts sits a few select titles that simply inhabit a class all by themselves; Robert Palmer’s DEEP BLUES, Nick Tosches’ UNSUNG HEROES OF ROCK ‘N’ ROLL, A. B. Spellman’s FOUR LIVES IN THE BEBOP BUSINESS, Peter Guralnick’s FEEL LIKE GOING HOME and SWEET SOUL MUSIC, Valerie Wilmer’s AS SERIOUS AS YOUR LIFE, Greil Marcus’ INVISIBLE REPUBLIC (aka THE OLD WEIRD AMERICA)and Clinton Heylin’s FROM THE VELVETS TO THE VOIDOIDS are amongst the books in this stratum all possessing the three essential ingredients, namely depth of knowledge, controlled passion for the subject and an abundance of prose skill, that ultimately combine to form a very rare and valuable thing. Another entry in this singular zone is IT CAME FROM MEMPHIS by Robert Gordon, a sort of celebratory alternate musical history of the city that covers everything from blues survivor Furry Lewis to lunatic DJ Dewey Phillips to southern hipster/musician extraordinaire Jim Dickinson to horribly underrated post-bop pianist Phineas Newborn to u-ground rock scene mainstays Alex Chilton and Tav Falco. Charles “Packy” Axton also gets essential documentation in the book, and in fact the pages of MEMPHIS served as my introduction to this true outsider legend. But it’s a cinch that millions have been touched by the guy’s sphere of influence even if the majority of those listeners haven’t a clue to the significance of his name. For starters, tenor saxophonist Axton’s mother Estelle and Uncle Jim Stewart founded Stax records, one of the cornerstones upon which the foundation of 20th Century music is based. And anybody that’s grooved to the delirious instrumental nutriment of “Last Night” by The Mar-Keys has heard the quality of his horn. A notoriously hard drinker (dead in ’74 from cirrhosis of the liver) with a difficult temperament to match, a big part of his posthumous reputation is how he relegated himself to the margins of a musical legacy, but an equally interesting aspect of his story is how he played a role in the demolition of the barrier of segregation through everyday associations across the color line and did so with nary a trace of saintliness or righteousness. People like Charles Axton are often retroactively assessed with the descriptor “colorblind”, but that sort of rubs me the wrong way. I can’t help but feel it proposes many integrationist individuals (both well known and marginal) as being somehow unable to really identify cultural and racial differences in their fellow man. In the case of Packy Axton however it’s pretty obvious that the dude was simply out searching for the life-affirming variety (also known as kicks) that is so often desired by young, open-minded, artistically inclined individuals; he wasn’t trying to change the world or make a statement, he was simply grabbing life by the horns. But Axton did actually end up making a statement (of sorts), and it’s just been issued by the fine folks at the Light in the Attic label as LATE LATE PARTY 1965-67. Its 17-songs add up to a huge sum that serves as essential augmentation for any right thinking individual’s collection of ringers form the vaults of Stax and Hi. Featuring tunes released under the names Martinis, L.H. & the Memphis Sounds, The Pac-Keys, Stacey Lane, and The Packers, with this last a rapidly assembled band whose “Hole in the Wall” was Axton’s second brief collusion with chart success, reaching #5 R&B (and #43 Pop) in 1965. As his second most popular song, “Hole in the Wall” sheds important light on Packy’s performative range; recorded in Los Angeles (where Axton had bailed after tiring of the difficulties with Uncle Jim) with Steve Cropper, Al Jackson and Booker T. hisself (all out touring with the Stax Revue), the song toes a suave line between the M.G.’s and the sort of non-crap pop-jazz proffered during this incredibly fertile period by guys like Ramsey “The In Crowd” Lewis. And I’m happy to report that “Hole in the Wall” sticks out not a bit qualitatively on LATE LATE PARTY, the album cohering into a very satisfying package. The Martinis and The Pac-Keys (featuring members of the superb Bar-Kays of “Soul Finger” fame) take up over half of the LPs tracks and to fine effect, with the former group leaning somewhat toward M.G.’s style riff as groove as eternal love and the latter hitting upon the horn based gorgeousness that later defined the post-Axton Mar-Key horns (who backed up Otis dontcha know). But there are all sorts of twists in store; “Hung Over”, a tight little frat-party intsro by The Martinis holds some of the goofus spirit of fellow Memphis weirdo Travis Wammack, L.H. and the Memphis Sounds shoot for a Motown-esque vocal group dynamic and score with ease, The left-field kazoo solo on The Pac-Keys’ “Hip Pocket” just oozes a post-4AM in the studio screw it let’s do it verve, and singer Stacy Lane rumbles like Edwin Starr on the locomotive “No Ending”. LATE LATE PARTY 1965-67 is simply a no-brainer acquisition for serious soul collectors but it’ll more than spike the juice of mere dabblers. In fact, it might just turn those dabblers into flat-out aficionados. What a nice possibility.

It’s fitting that the Mississippi blues, a form largely born from severity and often performed as a means of emotional survival in the harsh Jim Crow environment, should be one of this county’s most lasting cultural artifacts. And many folks automatically equate the blues of Mississippi with the region of the Delta, which is easy to do since the dominant innovators from the state (Charlie Patton, Son House, Skip James, Robert Johnson) all hailed from that region, but this associative jump doesn’t accurately encompass the sheer bounty of what transpired within those borders in the early portion of the 20th century. For a strong taste of the state’s diversity of style please investigate Yazoo Records’ 1967 compilation MISSISSIPPI BLUES 1927-1941, a truly mind-blowing document that’s just been given a fine repress on 180 gram vinyl. Yes, each of the abovementioned heavyweights is included here, with the mesmerizing and iconoclastic styles of the four being simultaneously buffered and accentuated by a sweet slew of lesser known but crucial names. The proceedings start strong and suitably uncharacteristically with “Gang of Brown Skin Women” by Harvey Hull and Long Cleve Reed (aka the Down Home Boys), playing a tune from ’27 that’s described in Bradley Sweet’s liner notes (through the source of Skip James) as spanning as far back as the early 1800s, though the song is boldly outfitted with a then up to date (if still decidedly rural) veneer replete with scat-singing gestures and a general good-time post Vaudeville atmosphere that feels more in line with the general M.O. of Memphis. The song is an obvious and delicious bit of lively fantasizing that would’ve fit right into the songster repertoire of Cannon’s Jug Stompers, the Memphis Jug Band, or even fellow homeboys the Mississippi Sheiks. In other words, great stuff for parties and barbeques. Fiddle-man Henry “Son” Sims’ is best known today for being a key accompanist for Charlie Patton (and later for pre-Chicago Muddy Waters), but on the buoyant if keening “Be True Be True Blues” it’s Patton backing up Sims to beautiful result. Over the years I’ve been unable to shake the song’s unschooled street-corner vibe from reminding me of unpolished pre-blues glory as peddled by such legends as Henry “Ragtime Texas” Thomas. You however might feel differently.  It’s with “I’m Leavin’ Town” by William Harris that things start to take a turn for the familiar. With guitar assistance by Joe Robinson this masterful duet is at once among the greatest and most slept on of all prewar blues cuts, a loose, raw, shit-talking beast of a tune that’s justifies the price of MISSISSIPPI BLUES all by itself. That Harris is essentially a historical cipher has undoubtedly kept his legacy loitering out in the margins of blues history, and that’s a damn drag. He doesn’t have enough tracks to fill out a full release under his own name (only seven of his sides remain with us), and while his material is suitably tough it does lack the doom-laden starkness that’s turned those lingering four names into such mythic legends. One great reason for reissuing an LP with tracks that have subsequently been filtered onto hundreds of releases (at least) since this inaugural compiling way back in ’67 is how it gives Harris a fresh chance to be heard by as many people as possible through simple association with far more prominent artists like House and Johnson. That Harris is followed by two ass-flaying tracks by Skip James is just gravy. With his strained and stressed and at times harshly feminine vocal delivery weaving through the threatening aura of his playing style, James has long been one of the most fascinating and stylistically extreme artists in the vast sphere of the blues. Once the ear has adjusted to his unique delivery and emotional heft his work can become absolutely entrancing; it’s the epitome of Robert Palmer’s concept of “deep blues”, and it could easily be used as the dictionary antonym of “easy listening”. The music of Skip James requires attention and commitment, but it also offers a huge reward. Even in a genre that always seems to flirt with the monochromatic (which is frankly part of the music’s appeal), nothing else sounds like him. What a rare and wonderful thing. The three tracks included here by Delta behemoth Charlie Patton are characteristically varied, for he was a consummate performer slash entertainer and simply one of the most important names in all of American Music. The Delta blues basically starts with him. Just think of it this way; without him there would’ve been no Howlin’ Wolf, and without that raspy giant there’d be no Rolling Stones or Beefheart, and that’s just for starters. A truly scary thought. Patton’s “Hang it on the Wall” ( a redo of his earlier “Shake it and Break it”)  is a pure throw-down of party-time tomfoolery that surely raised many a house into pure rocking frenzies all over the region, his “Mean Black Moan” features the high-pitched bow of “Son” Sims along with bucket loads of surface noise (just think of it as ambiance, okay?) and the man working through some typically intense love-ache, but it’s the perfect balance of mood and dynamics resonating throughout “Pea Vine Blues” that really cooks up the gusto in my crib. Though her discography is scant (a mere six sides) Geeshie Wiley nonetheless ranks as one of the greatest female singers/players in the entirety of the rural blues. Beyond her actual recordings little is known of her beyond rumor; she might’ve came from the city of Natchez, maybe she was involved with Papa Joe McCoy, perhaps she married Casey Bill Weldon, etc. What’s indisputable is the quality of her work. On “Eagles on a Half” Wiley combines crisp, percussive guitar with a relaxed vocal style that gains emotional resonance through her ease of delivery. To elaborate, she eschews the often piercing tones of many early urban blues singers, with this lack of urbanity ironically making her sound far more modern. If almost nothing is known of Wiley than Mattie Delaney is a complete blank. Obviously influenced by Charlie Patton, “Tallahatchie River Blues” shows her wielding a strong, smooth guitar hand and a voice that while more assertive than Wiley’s (as befitting her range) still integrates quite well with her instrumental ability. 12-string guitarist John Byrd comes from the songster tradition and unsurprisingly for that lifestyle he moved around the country quite a bit. The majority of his work was documented in Kentucky, and that’s where this album’s “Billy Goat Blues” was recorded. This marks him (along with William Harris who moved to Chicago in the 30s) as one of the first Mississippi blues transplants. That his style differs so stridently from the Delta mold is an appealing complication. Bobby Grant’s “Nappy Head Blues” from ’27 is so reminiscent of Son House that its existence as a supposed case of parallel development is somewhat confounding (House apparently had no idea who Grant was). As a brilliant bit of undiluted Delta science, it makes total sense to follow it in the playing order with House his own regal self, heard here circa 1941 with “Delta Blues”. The jump in time is illustrative. This is the only track on the record to feature harmonica (superbly rendered by Leroy Williams) and shows the big jump the Delta style had made before taking another grand leap into the city of Chicago in the tail end of the decade. At the point of “Delta Blues”’ recording Muddy Waters was still on Stovall’s Plantation, and to play these tracks by Grant and House immediately before Muddy’s “Walkin’ Blues” from 1950 (a standard first recorded by House) is to get hipped quick to one deep stream of country to city developments. But another marker of rural to urban transmogrification is represented through the figure of Robert Johnson. The dark mythic aura that persists in surrounding this most famous of Delta artists continues to somewhat obscure the fact that he was simply an amazing one-man synthesizer of the form. Initially a protégé of House, he was also undoubtedly influenced by the more citified guitar playing of Lonnie Johnson for just one example, and this blend of styles can be clearly heard on this LP’s closer “Dead Shrimp Blues”. If Johnson was vital in the alchemy of down home and uptown modes (keep in mind that John Hammond wanted him for his first “From Spirituals to Swing” concert in December of ’38 [where he would’ve shared the stage with amongst others The Count Basie Orchestra] but unfortunately he was already cold in the ground), he wisely knew better than to soften the dark swagger of the Delta; the “shrimp” of this tune refers not to tasty crustaceans but to what Bradley Sweet describes as harlots, a term of slang already archaic at the time of Johnson’s recording. That makes the line “woke up this morning/all my shrimps was dead and gone” rather menacing to say the least, and it’s a particularly apropos way to end the album. MISSISSIPPI BLUES 1927-1941 isn’t the last word on its subject (check out Yazoo’s MISSISSIPPI BLUES MASTERS 1927-1935 for a more extensive look and with almost no overlap), but for many ears (like mine) it essentially was the first word. It’s great to have it back in the racks.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 1/20/12 - The OBN IIIs and Shannon and the Clams

It’s a natural circumstance that naysayers and grouches of all stripes will soapbox the end of quality sounds, croaking to any ears that’ll listen over the perceived diminishing returns of the contemporary musical landscape. It’s not a bit hard to find these joyless souls, for they often hold up barstools and lean on coffee counters looking to impart their faulty wisdom in the hopes of mobilizing a sad-sack army, and they might even be that wagging tongue nobody wants to run into at the worksite water-cooler. Indeed, these sour sorts can also be friends and family; if this is the case an early intervention can steer the individual back onto the true path, but please understand that knowing the symptoms is a MUST. For instance, if they bark that jazz has lost its gusto, play them some Peter Evans or Darius Jones and fast. And if they complain that nobody spits off sparks like the old-time musicians of yore, introduce them to Frank Fairfield or Charlie Parr immediately. If the accusation is a more complex one, like the absence of truly unique and non-trad solo players-writers-voices, then just sit them down in a room with Bill Callahan or Joanna Newsom and watch the scales fall from their eyes. One of the most common bits of crotchety carping is a short bit of business; specifically the “punk is dead” screed. People have been saying this for nearly as long as the form has been around, but it’s obviously never been accurate. The complicating factor is that punk’s qualitative window of opportunity is so often very finite. People faultily assume that when a beloved band (or a bunch of them) hits the skids with inferior recordings it foretells the end of the genre as a whole. No, punk is largely the game of pissed-off, impolite kids banding together in defiance of the standards of old folks everywhere; it’s all explained with bold, succinct strokes in the title of The Dead Boys’ classic YOUNG LOUD AND SNOTTY. If you happen to discover someone fuming over punk’s obsolescence quickly play them anything by the OBN IIIs, particularly the band’s sizzling debut long player from last year THE ONE AND ONLY, released through prolific indie Tic Tac Totally. Said curmudgeon will either snap right back onto the trail of righteous thinking or you’ll know right away that sadly, you’re attempt at resuscitating a musical mind occurred too late, for this Austin TX band, led by and named for singer/screamer Orville Bateman Neeley III, pound down some of the finest, rippingest, unsubtlest Stooge-oid rumble and slam to have graced my long-violated ears since the heyday of the ‘80s Australian u-ground or even ‘85’s LAST TRAIN TO HAGERSTOWN by mighty Maryland maulers The Left. But the OBN IIIs are far from any sort of throwback, as THE ONE AND ONLY’s “When the Shit Fits” easily proves. It swaggers forth with the kind of mid-tempo muscle that was occasionally summoned by only a select handful of the most inspired post-Detroit bashers, but frankly none of those admirable bands possessed the attitudinal daring to open with what most people would choose as the closer. That’s what’s called chutzpah, and Mr. Neeley and co has it in buckets. Another swell reference point for the band’s sound is San Francisco’s first wave titans Crime. Like those monsters of “Hot Wire My Heart” fame, OBN III’s care not a bit about speed for the sake of it, instead choosing to simply buckle down and deliver dense slabs of riff crunch that add up to one huge wallop. Plus, these guys understand a few crucial factors about the peaks and valleys of rock dynamics as spread across two sides of a full length punk disc, a fact made clear by THE ONE AND ONLY’s dozen songs forming a scorching mass that suffers from neither sameiness nor unwise stabs at sonic or thematic variation. The OBN III’s basically do one thing and do it extremely well, and all importantly they recognize this not as a fault but as their core strength, at least at this stage in the game. It’s certainly possible they could slowly integrate disparate elements into the whole, for this is after all just their first LP. And based on this slab of righteous throb, any motions toward stylistic branching will be far more likely to arise as natural integrations and not ill-advised stabs at tonal variety. But the OBN IIIs’ songs flaunt such a high standard of unhyphenated punk quality that I’d like to see how long they can stay on this direct course; two or three more albums of this pure (but not purist) expression of heaving junk and golden snot would signify a true rarity in the punk continuum. As a truly heavy band (meaning they possess a bruising rhythm section that understands its role and works it to the hilt) they could prove up to the task. Perhaps the best track on THE ONE AND ONLY is “Get off Your Knees”, a gorgeously ragged bout of post-Heartbreakers throat rip and string burn, but the Eddy Current-like “Communicated to Death” isn’t far behind, nor is the moody Iggy-isms of “New Dark Age”. But the more I listen to this record the more I’m tempted to declare that the OBN III’s are the stuff of truly classic punk imbued with the vitality of the here and now, which means this gets my highest recommendation.

For many the concept of pop music is synonymous with hit singles, constant radio play and some aspect of celebrity. And this is certainly the dominant public role of pop, as a marketplace driven thing that weaves into the culture and enters the consciousness of individuals in ways far beyond the realm of personal choice: blasted over the public address systems in sports arenas or used on television as bumpers to commercial breaks as those same sporting events are transmitted to millions; used in trailers to movies where the actual song will never actually appear; and playing over the radio in the drug store while standing in line to buy cold medicine. This can be summed up as the transmission of pop songs as a sort of musical manifestation of a language virus as proposed by writer William S. Burroughs. It’s a concept that can actually be somewhat interesting from a distance but is assuredly less so after being broadsided by the (sorta intrinsic) banality of Katy Perry for the sixth time in one calendar day. To put a fine point on it, this isn’t the realm of musical discourse that appeals to me; I’m far more interested in subterranean pop, a concept first exposed to me through the early fanzine rumblings of a Pacific Northwest concern that eventually became known as the record label Sub Pop. Up to that point, as a young rockist lad I’d superficially identified the concept of pop as simply the enemy. And it was a long time before I truly shook off the bias against pop as form; for years I denigrated Motown slickness as inferior to the earthiness of Stax for just one example. Actually listening to a grip of Motown stuff outside the typical golden oldies radio rotation helped hip me to the reality of pop as an actual highly adaptable style and not just a signifier of chart success. Buddy Holly, Beatles, Beach Boys and Bowie helped out as well. Since the dawn of the 1980s there has been a fairly well documented pop underground birthed from the comely loins of post-punk as inseminated by the liberating ethos of DIY, and while this global scene has ebbed and flowed in both prolificacy and critical favor over the years, it’s always been a true alternative to the increasingly vapid and coldly corporate flavors of the pop mainstream. Right now subterranean pop, if not experiencing a boom, does seem to be in a fairly fertile, healthy period, and one example would be Oakland CA’s Shannon and the Clams. Fronted by Shannon Shaw, a name/voice some will recognize from participation in excellent fellow Oaktown residents Hunx and His Punx, the Clams are a boldly backward-looking proposition. They could even be described as retro, a term I normally employ as a negative. But the pop playground is quite receptive to the concept of tackling older, outmoded sensibilities and revitalizing them as new while never denying (and often celebrating) the appropriation; Adele, Neko Case and US. Girls are three wildly divergent examples of this practice (both in terms of style and popularity) that just happen to share the same gender as Ms. Shaw. So if Shannon and the Clams are retro they are shrewdly so, and the cut of their jib encompasses a limited base that still provides a plurality of possibilities, specifically pre-Beatles American pop and rock. On the Clams’ debut I WANNA GO HOME this meant a big dish of trashy rockabilly, some unabashedly punk moves lifted from no earlier than the Carter Administration and the sort of urban greaser vibes that still give Lou Reed a tentpole in his Speedos to this very day. No need for Viagra with that guy. Just ask Laurie. But on SLEEP TALK, last year’s exceptional sophomore effort, the Clams retain those elements and add Spector-esque girl group gestures and lightly applied doo wop nods to the equation. And it’s a good, spicy stew, opening with “Baby Don’t Do it”’s “My Boyfriend’s Back”-style handclaps and glorious echo-laden production, the whole thing lovingly screaming BACK TO MONO.  Now lots of folks will hear this record’s production and consider it affected. That’s simply a miscalculation inspired by hearing too much contempo radio pabulum. Just because Shannon and the Clams choose to eschew the gloss of tech in the delivery of their songs doesn’t mean their work is mannered or inscrutable in a present-day context. Frankly, SLEEP TALK is drenched with analog warmth that serves as an antidote to the sterility that often exudes from the digital realm. The real growing quality on this LP has thus far been its applications of not just doo wop but also the flashes of throwaway teenage trash from an era when rock ‘n’ roll held no real cultural capital. Specifically, I’m thinking of “The Cult Song”, with its growling “unga-bunga”-style vocal hi-jinks. And there are plenty of prickly pop confections on display throughout SLEEP TALK, but I also like how they’ve enhanced the ‘70s punk angle. On I WANNA GO HOME these motions sorta registered as indebted to The Rezillos (which is cool), but on this record's “King of the Sea” they inch toward the heaving worthiness of The Bags or even fellow Bay area residents The Avengers, the song forming a nice punkoid combo punch with the Mary Monday-esque “Toxic Revenge”. To sum up, I don’t have a problem with Best Coast working with Jon Brion; in fact I’m curious to hear what they come up with. But the idea of their artistic union just doesn’t stoke my coals like the unrefined charms of Shannon and the Clams, and I’d love to see Shaw and crew head out on a nice nationwide tour with Mark Sultan preaching the gospel of doo wop & girl group’s eternal disposability.