Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/27/12- Bola and Allo Darlin'

While the heyday of world music on LP may be long past, there have been enough recent appearances of new global sounds on vinyl to make one hope they represent the beginnings of a sustained trend. One such record is by the Ghanaian kologo player and vocalist known as Bola; his Volume 7 is a forceful and organic blend of the traditional and the contemporary.

Of course it needs to be said that the digital age has swung the doors wide open on a massive outpouring of previously unavailable music from all over the world, giving the casual listener access to a disparate selection of sounds that in prior eras would’ve only been heard by pure accident, if at all. The proliferation of blogs hosting MP3s is viewed by many with jaundiced eyes, but if done conscientiously these websites can exist not as an exercise in freeloading but instead as an educational resource, a platform for communication and most importantly as an instigator of further possibilities.

One such is example is Brian Shimkovitz’s Awesome Tapes from Africa. Way back in 2006, his website began exposing listeners to a steady stream of mostly cassette sourced obscurities obtained largely through his travels to the African continent. By this point, it would take even the most determined listener many months to appropriately absorb the content on his site, but it doesn’t seem to be Shimkovitz’s intention that his visitors hear everything; instead, hopefully a visitor will be captivated by just one discovery from an array of choices that would’ve not crossed their path otherwise. And as testament to those further possibilities mentioned above, Awesome Tapes has begun releasing records, the first being La Grande Cantatrice Malienne Vol. 3 by Malian musician Nâ Hawa Doumbia, and the second being the subject of this review.

Bola Anafo is from the Upper East Region of Ghana and his instrument the kologo is a two stringed lute with a calabash gourd resonator. It’s been likened to the banjo, an instrument which came to America (and the Caribbean) from Africa. But Bola is also a vocalist of potent intensity as well as a musician unconcerned with (or perhaps oblivious to) the often persnickety Western standards of tradition. To specify, in addition to his the omnipresent kologo, Volume 7 also features the use of drum machine, keyboard and synthesizer, and if this fact inspires encroaching dread in the reader, it shouldn’t. It’s immediately clear that the inclusion of programmed rhythms and synthetic additives hasn’t been thrust upon Bola by an outside producer working in the interest of increased record sales.

Instead, the use of recent (if appealingly “inexpensive” sounding) tech quickly situates that listeners desiring an antiquated expression of “tradition” should look elsewhere, for while Volume 7 indeed features a deep connection to Ghanaian culture through the employment of the kologo, it’s far from a museum piece. In a sense, Bola is comparable to the wild junkyard aesthetic of Congolese group Konono Nº 1, in that they share a willingness to incorporate whatever’s necessary to advance the music they play. It’s just that Bola is less eccentric in his developments and more “pop”; one of his biggest influences is King Ayisoba, a fellow kologo player who worked with musicians from the hiplife style, a form that combined hip hop with the longstanding genre of Ghanaian highlife.

The music on Volume 7 is hard-driving dance music that’s matched by the impressive power of Bola’s voice. Singing in the Frafra tongue, his ability as an explosive shouter is only amplified by the difference in language, bringing the sheer passion of his vocals to the forefront and (in my case, anyway) greatly relieving the desire to know the exact meaning of his words. Bola’s singing could accurately be said to lack variation, but that’s surely by intention, matching up well with the qualities of the kologo.

As an instrument with only two strings, the kologo doesn’t possess the wide expressive range of its descendant the banjo, but with one string tuned to bass and the other to treble, it easily possesses enough tonal variance to get the job done. And what’s immediately apparent is that Bola’s playing of the instrument is assured and methodical, the result of long study and dedication. If the eight songs on Volume 7 are initially quite different in sound from the norms of Western music, they are no less complex in conception or precise in their delivery.

And that lack of variation could be a stumbling block in appreciation for some listeners, though I think there is enough overall depth (and a few curve balls, like the brief bit of auto-tuned vocal at the beginning of “Tigantabame”) to keep well-disciplined ears from getting too restless; circular patterns of electronic keyboard that grow in infectiousness, an insistent rigidity in the low-tech drum machines that also establishes a momentum of tight grooves, and the rich mixture of melody and rhythm from the kologo. Again, these songs are plainly conceived as dance music (though quite different in execution from the tight elasticity of American funk); every track on the record save for the last is over six minutes long, and what the raw drive of Volume 7 lacks in variety it makes up for with verve and finesse. This is repetition by design, and the more time spent with it the more it grows.

And there are some very pleasant extra-musical vibes going on with Volume 7, starting with the very title of the record, which underscores that what’s on display is a straight reissue of one of Bola’s numerous cassette releases. That may not seem like a big deal, but from my perspective it indicates a level of sincere respect for this musician and his work. Bola has at least six previous tapes under his belt and very likely has additional subsequent volumes. From these sources, Shimkovitz could have easily assembled a compilation with the intention of spotlighting growth and an artificial (or at least misleading) sense of variation. Though not being privy to his other recordings, it’s certainly possible that Bola burst onto the Ghanaian tape scene fully formed, with each release exploring a unwavering sonic terrain, a hypothetical possibility that I actually find quite attractive.

But if this were the case, I’d likely be reviewing Volume 1. No, Shimkovitz obviously felt there was something special about this particular cassette, and by making it available on LP/CD/download for curious consumers outside the sphere of the musician’s homeland, the integrity of Bola’s art is retained without any needless tampering. And perhaps it’s not a big deal, but when coupled with the fact that Bola is getting fairly compensated in this agreement, the whole endeavor feels like a relationship between equals. After expenses, it’s a 50/50 split between artist and label. Nowhere to be found is that all too familiar aftertaste of the First World capitalizing on the Third.

Along with recent issues of new and old sounds by Sidi Touré (two albums on Thrill Jockey), El Rego (via Daptone), the aforementioned Nâ Hawa Doumbia release on Awesome Tapes and numerous records on labels like Soundway and Strut, Volume 7 makes a strong case for lending an ear to the diverse sounds of Africa.

Thirty years ago, the imperative of world music was shared between major labels, smaller companies (often with government or philanthropic connections, e.g. Ocora from France), and extremely cool indies like John Storm Roberts’ Original Music imprint. Flash forward to right now and the independents are just about all we have left. That might seem worrisome, but with guys like Brian Shimkovitz on the case bringing the music of Bola and others into sharp global focus, it appears that we’ll be just fine.

The finest examples of indie-pop manage to feel deliciously out of step with current trends, leaving their mark by confidently being themselves in a sea of records spinning variations on the latest thing. London’s Allo Darlin’ has a secure handle on this tradition, and their second long player Europe is not only a well-done expression of what makes the genre so appealing, but also bodes well for the band’s future.

In a manner not unlike how zydeco is identified with Louisiana or no-wave is described as a style of New York development, indie-pop is essentially thought of as a form born from the United Kingdom, for that is where its generally acknowledged roots (the melodically inclined punk of The Buzzcocks, pop-savvy post-punkers such as Television Personalities, Josef K and Orange Juice) are all located, and it’s also the locale that really kick started the whole movement in earnest (think The Smiths, C86, and both Sarah and Creation Records).

Sure, there were certainly a few likeminded groups across the globe (say Beat Happening in Olympia, Washington, The Cannanes in Sydney, Australia and Shonen Knife in Osaka, Japan) but these outliers weren’t really integrated into the scheme of things until indie-pop spilled out into a global movement in reaction to the post-grunge ‘90s (one instance of a parallel scene, New Zealand’s proliferation of small bands centered largely around the Flying Nun label, rests almost entirely on its own merits and should be looked upon as a scene unto itself).

So it makes sense that Elizabeth Morris, a native of Australia, would end up making records as a London migrant. Allo Darlin’ is led by Morris, and from the quiet beginnings of a few self-released EPs while also serving as a member of Tender Trap (a band with a solid indie-pop pedigree, featuring three members of Marine Research, most notably Amelia Fletcher, also formerly Heavenly and ‘80s legends Talulah Gosh), she and her group have grown in confidence and scope to be one of the better examples of indie-pop currently operating.

And the connection to Tender Trap is a significant one, for along with a similarity in sound, Morris’ singing and songwriting displays the same sort of confidence and smarts that Fletcher has exhibited in both her fledgling and mature work. Curiously, when first noticing the title of Europe’s standout track “Tallulah”, my kneejerk reaction was that it was in reference to Fletcher’s first band. But no; there is indeed an extra letter l in the name, and the track instead refers to the fifth album by that most excellent Australian band The Go-Betweens, who in a manner similar to Morris spent a fair amount of time in Great Britain in the earlier stages of their career.

Nostalgia is a big part of the indie-pop trip, in particular the pining for or the idealizing of a time and place from before you were born. For instance, the use of old photographs was a recurring motif on indie-pop album covers like Television Personalities …And Don’t the Kids Just Love It and needless to say, pretty much the whole run of Smiths’ records. This has resulted in some observers painting over indie-pop with a brush soaked in conservatism, but that line of thinking usually has some sort of agenda, most frequently either rockist (i.e. they don’t have the “right” attitude) or in service of a constant flow of innovation (they’re not playing music the “right” way). There’s a reason why Orange Juice, those Smiths, C86 and Beat Happening all inspired sizable waves of often mean-spirited detractors, and it’s why when Nirvana openly expressed admiration of The Vaselines through covers of “Molly’s Lips” and “Son of a Gun”, so many Black Sabbath-loving observers very openly couldn’t deal.

Europe absolutely possesses this by now well established inclination to look back, but like the best of the prior work in the style that embodies this outlook, it’s far more than just an exercise in yearning. The biggest quality in Morris and company’s favor is that she’s not operating from a sense of simple nostalgia; rather, her songs depict an often bittersweet recollection of the past and how those memories interact with the present. Marcel Proust may not have loved Europe (had he somehow lived to hear is charms), but he would’ve certainly understood it.

While their self-titled debut from 2010 was a pleasant affair that set the context for Allo Darlin’ rather nicely, Europe is a big step up in both songwriting quality and in the assurance of delivery. Opener “Neil Armstrong” not only shows off the bands’ strides extremely well, but it will also establish to newbies exactly what Allo Darlin’ are about; it’s the kind of song that can easily tempt a listener into donning a moth-eaten cardigan while puffing on a clove cigarette and gazing at a black and white photograph of Tom Courtenay. How fragile, and yes, how winsome. And the track that follows it, “Capricornia”, begins with some almost requisite achy strum before kicking into a crisp up-tempo slice of indie-pop that’ll likely charm the trousers right off longstanding fans of The Wedding Present.

From there the album just rolls. The title cut really drives home how the majority of Europe’s tracks exist essentially as audio letters or confessions to characters (either real or fictive, setting up a sweet ambiguity) that Morris  as narrator holds close. Plus, its use of strings is quite tasteful, complimenting the songs’ pleasant rainy day jangle, never overwhelming it. This is followed with “Some People Say”, which features the terrific ukulele strumming of Morris, this element helping to define Allo Darlin’ as something much more than just a standard bunch of indie-pop idolaters.

And the uke is employed to magnificent effect on “Tallulah”, again Europe’s standout cut. In both its melodic simplicity and the open vulnerability of its storytelling it can feel like a readymade for some aspiring filmmaker with a digital camera, a handful of eager if outwardly blasé cast members and a trust-fund just waiting to be whittled down to nothing. And this is cool, except for one thing; the movie has already been made by Elizabeth Morris. All that’s required to watch is the closing of the eyelids.

A song like “Tallulah” requires a certain level of bravery to pull off, for if it fails its much worse than a misstep. It’ll be downright embarrassing. And while this song succeeds wholeheartedly, it’s also quite nude in its emotionalism, and listening to it can feel a bit like eavesdropping. Of course, this is absurd. It is a record, after all. But that’s the power of music for you.

If “Tallulah” is Europe’s best moment, it’s also an album with no bum tracks. Penultimate cut “Still Young” is the closest the disc comes to straightforward rocking, and it can’t help reminding me of what Velocity Girl might’ve sounded like if they’d resided closer to the River Thames than the River Potomac. Another similarity throughout the record (especially on “Some People Say”) is Glaswegians Camera Obscura, though Allo Darlin’ are just a wee bit more spritely. For fans of indie-pop, Europe will be a welcome addition to the library, and it just might tear the wig off newcomers to the style.

I can easily envision some of those listeners glancing to the bottom of this review and wondering why Europe didn’t receive a higher grade. And in a sense, they’d have a point, since the text above is loaded with praise and lacking in faults. To elaborate, this is indeed an LP without any glaring flaws, but it is also a record that’s very much “in the tradition”. Allo Darlin’ fit into the Slumberland roster like long, thin torso snuggly hugging a thrift store sweater, and their sophomore record is one of the best femme-fronted indie-pop slabs to grace my ears in quite a while.

And if it were readily apparent that Allo Darlin’ had outdone themselves and hit a qualitative ceiling in the making of Europe, a higher grade might have been called for. But in this case, it’s obvious that Elizabeth Morris and her cohorts are capable of far more than just putting their own superb spin on a fine genre; if they keep at it, they could very likely play a role in defining the indie-pop sound for a whole new generation. With this possibility in mind, my highest marks are being saved for if and when.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week Record Store Day Edition 4/20/12- Mississippi John Hurt and Pussy Galore and Patti Smith

Mississippi John Hurt is one of the few bluesmen whose talents endured undiminished over the often cruel span of time. He never made an album that was less than superb and his Last Session, freshly reissued for Record Store Day, presents the possibility that recording technology captured only a portion of his relaxed and always approachable style.

Simply put, Mississippi John Hurt is a treasure of the blues. His absolutely mandatory 1928 recordings for the OKeh label not only provide an ample survey of an assured artist captured in the music industry’s wild early days, but their enduring brilliance additionally served as the impetus for his ‘60s rediscovery, where he held court like a benevolent giant. Those OKeh sides present a musician initially dealt a bum hand by the circumstances of history; if record companies of the era would record just about anything in hopes of a hit, they also weren’t very invested in artist development. If his first release was successful enough to get him to New York City on OKeh’s dime for another session, his subsequent five 78s didn’t capture the public’s interest in a manner acceptable to the label, and no more recordings were made.

Hurt might’ve easily found another company willing to issue his music, but as a farmer he essentially looked upon the blues as a sideline. Unlike many of his notable contemporaries, Hurt wasn’t a restless soul easily adaptable to the rough and tumble lifestyle of the transient musician. Instead, as the quiet, unperturbed nature of his work attests, he desired little more than to make an honest living in the comfortable environment of the town where he was born. And if his unconflicted personality greatly reduced the likelihood for further recording opportunities, the harsh realities of the Great Depression essentially put the kibosh on them outright. Any record company not driven out of the business was suddenly much more cautious over what they released, and since the blues theoretically appealed to poor people its frequency on disc was greatly diminished. If Hurt hadn’t uttered the line “Avalon my hometown, always on my mind” in his “Avalon Blues”, it’s very likely his rediscovery would’ve never happened.

But folk musicologist Tom Hoskins used that clue to track him down, in the process setting in motion what’s probably the most fruitful of all the ‘60s folk era rediscoveries, his only real rival being fellow Mississippian Skip James. The reasons for this are multifaceted. To begin, the particulars of Hurt’s art lacked the complexities and intensities that would’ve surely been diminished by age and the effects of lifelong toil. If the reappearance of Son House, Bukka White, Furry Lewis and others was quite welcome, their latter day recordings also cast little doubt upon the superiority of their earlier musical activities, though some who prefer the cleaner sound afforded by advanced technology might disagree. And in the case of performers like Robert Pete Williams, Mance Lipscomb and John Jackson the point is moot since none of these worthy names had been presented with the opportunity to record in their younger days.

But Hurt’s ability actually seemed to ripen with age, mainly due to his music’s non-reliance on emotional desperation and stylistic extremes. If James was still an able musician, he was a significantly less accessible one than Hurt, who was tailor made for the folk festival circuit; his material was a veritable call to walk right in and sit right down, and his presence left audiences feeling good. This isn’t to imply that Hurt’s playing was inferior to that of James, though it’s clear that James felt this way; the notoriously difficult figure just didn’t consider Hurt to be a serious blues artist. But if Hurt’s fingerpicking style gave off an easygoing surface veneer, it was actually quite deep in conception, and in fact it sits at the core of the American Primitive guitar movement as led by John Fahey, Leo Kottke and Peter Lang. The leadoff track of Fahey’s superb 1968 LP Requia is titled “Requiem for John Hurt”, and through this direct association the influence of the by now mythic artist born in 1892 can be heard in a contemporary player like Glenn Jones.

After being located by Hoskins Hurt’s musical activities recommenced with vigor. He relocated to Washington DC where in addition to extensive recording for The Library of Congress under the auspices of music scholar Dick Spottswood he completed a pair of albums for the Piedmont label that were later reissued by Rounder under the titles Worried Blues and Avalon Blues. Hurt then entered into a relationship with the prominent ‘60s folk label Vanguard, and that’s where his reputation as a rediscovery justly rests. The four records issued through Vanguard found him nimble fingered and in strong voice, and in addition to becoming a hot property on the folk scene he even appeared on national TV via The Tonight Show. If listeners understandably migrate to his first two studio efforts Today! or The Immortal Mississippi John Hurt it’s largely because they radiate with the same energy and warmth that’s in evidence on his numerous live recordings, of which the misleadingly titled Vanguard double-LP The Best of Mississippi John Hurt is arguably the finest example.

But Hurt was far more than just a crowd pleaser. He was also a serious player, and that’s what makes the often neglected Last Sessions so valuable. Upon initial casual listening, the contents of his final studio album (not released until 1972, six years after his death) essentially register as just one more example of what Hurt did with stately aplomb. But there are differences, at first subtle and gradually becoming more pronounced, that mark it as a work by a man disinterested in resting on his laurels. While his repertoire had always been peppered with songs of traditional origin, Last Sessions opens with a cover of Bukka White’s “Poor Boy, Long Ways From Home”. If Hurt immediately remakes the song in his own image, that’s no matter; his inclination to interpret the work of his peers is highly indicative of this album’s lasting importance.

For instance, on “Boys, You’re Welcome” his voice attains a loose assertiveness that while still within the range of gentleness that defines his stature as a blues singer, still feels distinct from the body of work that led up to it. Certainly adding to this is the extremely close production technique utilized by Patrick Sky (who also served as occasional second guitarist); not only is Hurt heard with unusually sharp clarity, but his occasionally audible breathing and whispering greatly increases an already high level of intimacy. And on “Joe Turner Blues” that closeness combines with his typically fleet playing and a not so typical exploration of dark themes (“policeman, you better not let him ‘round/If you do I’m sure gonna shoot him down”) to greatly accentuate that Last Sessions is a document of a musician that fired on all creative cylinders to the very end of his life.

And yes, you read that above parenthetical correctly. Last Sessions indeed features additional guitar. Perhaps this aspect has caused some blues fans to regard this album with a measure of detachment. If so, that’s a big mistake. Sky’s accompaniment blends seamlessly into the record’s grooves, and it’s readily apparent that the choice for added string work was in no way due to any faltering skills on the part of Hurt. Rather it’s quite clear that Hurt and Sky (who in addition to producing the entire run of Hurt’s Vanguard studio stuff had his own extensive career as a NYC folkie; he’s a worthy but essentially forgotten name) established a strong working relationship that was entering into a new phase with Last Sessions.

It’s a record that’s simply an unbroken string of highlights. And as testament to its thoughtful symmetry, the album closes with a second cover, Leadbelly’s warhorse “Goodnight Irene”. This is a resonant selection, for John Hurt and Huddie Ledbetter were two of the most successful blues artists to cross over into the folk music sphere. “Goodnight Irene” is given a fine reading, but it’s the tune “Funky Butt” that really points to the breadth of what Hurt brings to the table on Last Sessions. The song, which many jazz buffs will instantly recognize as “Buddy Bolden’s Blues”, is openly and unashamedly in the tradition of the bawdy (“you see that girl with the red dress on/she got the funky butt, the stinky butt sure as you’re born/’cause I don’t like it no how”). While Hurt had recorded the song previously for the Library of Congress, it was quite the new wrinkle for him to present this aspect of his work in a commercial context. Maybe it was Sky’s suggestion, or possibly Hurt just felt the time was right. Either way, “Funky Butt” isn’t a study in risqué double-entendres, but instead is very direct in its subject matter. The unaffected delivery really serves to amplify that Hurt was a full man easily in touch with the entire range of human experience.

And Last Sessions richly details the assuredness with which Hurt expressed that range. Whether it was regal blues or heartfelt gospel, songs of his own origin or wisely chosen cover material, rich crowd-pleasers or statements of a more personal quality, Hurt’s music shined with vitality on any record that bears his name. I’m pleased as pickles to see this album get a fresh vinyl pressing for Record Store Day. It’s a superb closing chapter to one of the great sagas of 20th Century American music.

While Jon Spencer is most celebrated for his front-man duties with the Blues Explosion, in some ways his role in divisive ‘80s noisesters Pussy Galore is his most interesting gig. That band’s discography is getting an overdue reissue treatment on vinyl starting this Record Store Day with their 7-inch debut Feel Good About Your Body, and anybody desiring to be bombarded with malevolent cacophony need look no further.

To this day, many people persist in considering Pussy Galore as a mere provocation instead of a smartly conceived conceptual unit. From their earliest moments the band specialized in making many listeners unhappy, mainly because their music was drenched in calculated immaturity and brazen racket that connected with about as much subtlety as a brick to the head. If a large segment of the late-‘80s punk community was wrapped up in positivity, Jon Spencer, Julia Cafritz and a revolving door of additional members were having none of that. The dividing line was between those who found Pussy Galore to be regressive, deliberately antagonistic snots and those who thought their pummeling, anti-social din to be a needed breath of noxious air. If punk rock had initially redefined the standards of musicianship away from virtuosity and polish, by the time Feel Good About Your Body first hit racks in 1985, the u-ground punk scene had somewhat unconsciously reestablished a paradigm of expectations regarding appropriate musical behavior.

While there was certainly exceptions, by the second half of the decade hardcore was largely dead in the water. Pussy Galore’s first great achievement was in engaging with the no-frills anybody-can-do-it sensibility of garage bands and then acquainting it with the just-blossoming aesthetics of noise rock. Now, the ‘80s was surely full of (some would say polluted with) retro garage bands that played the role full-tilt, all the way down to taking their fashion tips from the Shadows of Knight or The Count Five. Stumbling into a hole in the wall club as one of these groups was playing was akin to falling into a time warp and being deposited onto the set of a Roger Corman-produced drive-in flick that’s entire aim was to opportunistically cash in on the thriving youth market. Think paisley shirts, brightly colored maracas, granny-glasses and necklaces of wooden beads. Witnessing these bands wasn’t a horrible experience by any means, but it was very far from cutting edge.

This wasn’t Pussy Galore’s intention in the slightest. Jon Spencer didn’t want to replicate what he’d heard on compilations like Crypt Records’ massive Back From the Grave series, instead desiring to bring the essence of those collected obscurities screaming into a subterranean music scene that he and others felt needed a real kick in the pants. And if Pussy Galore was most definitely not alone in wanting to stir things up, they frankly stood apart in terms of image, choosing to come off like nihilistic cretins instead of hip art hounds like Sonic Youth/Swans or an acerbic autodidact ala Big Black’s Steve Albini. And this was apparently too much for some folks to handle.

It’s been said more than once that Pussy Galore was The Rolling Stones of the ‘80s underground; after all, they did release a scorching in-sequence demolition as tribute of Exile on Main Street. But it’s just as often said that Pussy Galore was a bunch of posers indulging in an over-studied badass swagger that was intended to dupe the gullible into thinking they were somehow comparable to the significance of the Stones. Actually, neither of these assessments is wrong. Calling them the Stones of the ‘80s doesn’t necessarily insinuate that Pussy Galore was as great a band, even if it’s a no-brainer that PG’s partisans cared far more about Sugarshit Sharp or Dial M For Motherfucker than Tattoo You or Steel Wheels. But what Pussy Galore in ’85 and The Rolling Stones in ’64 share is a take no prisoners approach. Both bands really didn’t care if you didn’t like the cut of their jib, and to an extent this atmosphere of disdain actually pleased them. And it wasn’t just adults that found Mick and Keef distasteful. Many teenagers were also put off by the band’s image and music; this is essentially the beginnings of the Beatles Vs Stones cliché. Likewise, I have firsthand experience with high school contemporaries that upon first hearing Spencer and crew reacted like the speakers were puking out the aural equivalent of toxic green bile. In this sense PG can also be likened to The Stooges or Sex Pistols, but it’s in their misanthropic, arrogant, in-your-face attitude that they beg comparison to the Stones.

And it’s also not inappropriate to describe Pussy Galore as posers, though most of the people that felt this way in the late ‘80s plainly believed anybody appearing in public in something other than blue-jeans and a t-shirt was guilty of shameless foppery. Accusations of slumming rich kids abounded, particularly after they bailed on DC for New York City. And if these allegations held some basis in fact (indeed, Spencer was a Brown University dropout), then Pussy Galore were posers of the finest caliber; their acting was all part of a non-rigid and non-lofty conceptual strategy. Especially after Bob Bert, Neil Haggerty, Christina Martinez and Kurt Wolf joined, they made seriously innovative music while confounding large numbers of listeners with what was often perceived as willful incompetence. Three guitars rarely in tune and no bass, a drum-set featuring an automobile gas tank, and lyrics that often seemed stolen from the wall of a truck stop men’s room. Their shows were notoriously hit and miss, but when they pulled it all together (as documented on the long gone Maximum Penetration VHS tape) they were rock ‘n’ roll theatre of the finest order (and somewhat comparable to the psychedelic-punk circus of The Butthole Surfers); threatening, head-strong and flirting with self-destruction.

If I’ve said little about the direct content of Feel Good About Your Body thus far, that’s mainly due to the 4-song record’s blunt efficiency as an inaugural statement of purpose. Or to put it another way, like many great debut records it provides only a taste and leaves the listener wanting more. In this case however, it obviously left many sets of ears wishing they’d never heard the infernal thing it at all. It takes only the rudest aspects of garage/punk and combines them with the disruptive metal-on-metal percussiveness nabbed wholesale from early industrial music (Einstürzende Neubauten in particular) and then spits it all back out with hostility and contempt. And if “Die Bitch” and “Constant Pain” revel in celebrating themes of undisguised (and not at all complex) negativity, “HC Rebellion” is at least tangibly methodical in its mocking of the contemporaneous punk scene’s proclivity for self righteousness and hyperactive identity mongering; to make this point, Cafritz simply reads from the letter’s section of Maximum Rock ‘N’ Roll. In order to actually understand what she’s saying, “HC Rebellion” also presents the band at their most tuneful, though needless to say nobody’s going to confuse this bunch with The Feelies. By the release of Pussy Gold 5000, the band has largely dispensed with any gestures of social-commentary, and for the better; this tactic couldn’t help feeling a mite reactionary, and honestly they were at their absolute best when appearing totally oblivious to any ideology except lowbrow classique. The very title of “Car Fantasy” really drives this home with panache; in the end, their particular brand of mayhem isn’t all that far removed from that of The Cramps.

If Feel Good About Your Body had somehow been the band’s only release it would essentially be looked upon as a clamorous curiosity of the early noise-rock scene. But it wasn’t their only record, and in fact this hypothetical circumstance is simply an impossibility. In retrospect it’s abundantly clear that Pussy Galore would simply not be denied, and because of this Feel Good About Your Body connects not as a minor, developmental work but rather as a suitably brief and highly caustic introductory screed from one of the ‘80’s shrewdest bands. To really absorb their thuggish evolution in full, it’s necessary to begin right here.

It might not be a tantalizingly obscure or doggedly underrated record, but it’s great to see Patti Smith’s debut LP Horses getting a fresh vinyl reissue for Record Store Day. If she’s not a “lost” artist or even one needing a boost in retroactive esteem, there’s always room for additional assessment. For when the supreme deity of musical affairs gave us this post-Beat proto-punk rocker-poet, well they simply broke the mold.

For those born too late, it’s a reliably interesting experience to hear the works of groundbreaking artists. Being all of four years old when Patti Smith’s Horses was released is a prime example. Initially, I had to contend with hearing and holding dear a whole gaggle of stuff that was obviously influenced by Smith’s massive precedent. For just a few like-gendered examples, I’d already been knocked sideways by Poly Styrene, Exene Cervenka and Kim Gordon, so when I finally spent some of my hard-earned part-time hash-slingin’ cash on a beat up copy of Horses circa 11th grade, I was very much impressed, but the chaotic disorder of time caused my introduction to lack the rarefied status of epiphany.

And it was surely similar for others from my age group. But her Dream of Life album was making some comeback waves around this time, with her single “People Have the Power” getting a good bit of MTV play and even some commercial radio airtime. That tune pairs up well with Lou Reed’s “Dirty Blvd” from his ’89 New York album (also something of a creative comeback), with both songs making the case for younger listeners that there was far more to Smith’s career and Reed’s solo work than her “Because the Night” and his “Walk on the Wild Side”.

This may all seem like elementary learning, but during the ‘80s Reed’s post-Velvet Underground career was not that highly regarded, some even calling him a creative washout. And while the period wasn’t unkind to Patti, the perception of her output up to that point, at least for many youthful upstarts, was that she was a surly early ‘70s proto-punker easily lumped in with the likes of Jonathan Richman and New York Dolls, except that Smith actually managed to negotiate a fleeting relationship with the mainstream.

And her geographical circumstances sorta compounded the issue, for in the late-‘80s the original NYC punk scene was, with the exception of The Ramones and to a lesser extent Richard Hell, looked upon with a degree of skepticism by youngsters bred on subsequent examples of the style; Blondie was too pop-savvy, Television was a bunch of jammers, Heartbreakers smacked of the failure of junkiedom, Talking Heads was too New Wave and nobody could initially figure out exactly what Suicide was up to.

The reality is that while punk rock is correctly identified as a movement centered on youth, the New York incarnation of the form was conceived almost entirely by adults, and it’s not that these deservedly renowned individuals didn’t want to grow up; expectations (and rents) were notoriously low in the weird and seedy boroughs of pre-gentrification New York City, and carving out an existence (if not necessarily a living) in a rock band was just one of many options. It just took a little bit of accumulated life experience for kids ten years hence to really get that Sonic Youth’s twin guitar attack was unimaginable without Television, that Nikki Sudden’s work in the Jacobites was deeply touched by the example of Johnny Thunders, and that a small army of industrial and experimental bands were directly linked to the work of Suicide. And if Patti’s defiant individualism has resulted in a lack of boldfaced stylistic descendants, the very nature of her groundbreaking if non-didactic feminism locates her as a godmother to over thirty years of righteous rock women.

While spending ample time with Horses, I managed to not only hear both “Hey Joe” and ”Piss Factory” from her killer debut single, but also the splendid live throttling of “My Generation”. Radio Ethiopia came not long after this, and all the components of Smith’s early work were in place. If these records didn’t provide an epiphanic experience, they did slowly reveal some very powerful truths, the foremost being that with the obvious exception of Bob Dylan, Smith had conjured up the most successful hybrid vernacular of music and serious literary aspiration to ever make it onto record (Leonard Cohen fans, please don’t take this personally, for he ranks third).

And while Dylan certainly influenced Smith, it’s still striking just how much of her formative work lacked clear-cut predecessors, though a few prior models did peak through, notably Lou Reed, who studied under poet Delmore Schwartz at Syracuse University and dedicated “European Son” from the debut VU album to his former professor. And in a sense early punker Smith can also be considered the tail end of a New York-centric movement that combined music and disheveled poetics, with The Fugs and Allen Ginsberg being prime examples.

But Patti Smith deeply loved rock ‘n’ roll, and that’s what set her apart as a literary musician both then and now. Beginning with Horses’ opener “Gloria” she and her coconspirators, the foremost being Lenny Kaye, slammed the essence of Nuggets up against the formidable spirit of Arthur Rimbaud and neither side loses, so everybody goes home a winner. And if Smith’s influences as a poet span a wide range of bohemian experience, she lacks any trace of the overblown or the obnoxious.

To elaborate, two nagging problems with rock music that aspires to a poetic sensibility are a lack of restraint and unchecked idolatry. For one example, picture a dude reciting some “first thought best thought” scribblings while accompanied by music that strives for inspired spontaneity only to flounder in a directionless mess. But “hey man, we’re in the tradition of Kerouac”. Actually, you’re more like that cartoon beatnik from The Flintstones. And guys who trip out on peyote and swill whisky straight from the bottle as they scrawl their insights onto a crumpled grocery bag in the desert are just as bad; while Jim Morrison was a lot of things, a role-model ain’t one of them. He died at 27, and if an occasionally great rock front man, his attempts at poetry aren’t exactly staples in university lit courses.

Meanwhile Patti Smith has received an honorary degree from Pratt Institute, a college that she couldn’t afford to attend. Instead she toiled in a factory, and like so many great proletarian artists, this mind-numbing work taught her discipline. If “Birdland” and “Land” (aka the title track) from Horses clock in at over nine minutes each, they are both, like Patti herself, exceedingly trim, with nary an ounce of excess fat or folly. And she mingled these more expansive numbers with buoyant bits of pop brilliance like “Redondo Beach” and “Kimberly”.

Debut records very rarely arrive with this much self assurance. And not to wax too autobiographical, but if the value of Smith’s work didn’t speak directly to my own teenaged experience, as I grew older and worked a succession of crappy jobs while seeking solace in the regenerative properties of music, books and art, her work communicated with me in ways I simply didn’t expect. She was there like a wise older friend, not giving advice but just setting a beautiful example.

Sometimes the succinct merely states the obvious. For instance, writing that Patti Smith’s Horses is among the small handful of debut masterpieces ever committed to magnetic tape feels like the borrowed accolades quoted in record advertisements or promo blurbs. But the better angels of elaboration be damned, sometimes the concise is the best avenue of persuasion. In the case of this brilliant document having thus far eluded you, I will offer one suggestion in response; please get thee to a music shack and remedy this circumstance post haste. You won’t be sorry.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/13/12 - Robert Pollard and Screaming Females

In a year that’s going to see (at least) two releases by the reformed “classic lineup” of Guided by Voices, it might seem feasible that Robert Pollard would relent just a little bit in his efforts to singlehandedly keep the nation’s record pressing plants in business. Nope. Mouseman Cloud is the latest entry in his solo discography, and with producer/multi-instrumentalist Todd Tobias in tow, it’s a strong if inessential effort.

Lots has been made of Robert Pollard’s gobsmacking level of prolificacy and his seeming disregard for what’s been called quality control, but in my view it all ultimately shapes up as the workaday method of a musician determined to avoid answering the question “when are you going to come up with another Bee Thousand?” The constant flow of Pollard-related discs essentially cuts off that line of inquiry before it’s even asked; he’s obviously disinterested in recapturing the specificity of past glories (which are very much caught up in the particulars of long gone times and places, natch), instead being single-mindedly devoted to documenting his uncanny ability to soak up song ideas like a sponge and then spit them back out as if he’s being squeezed by some invisible godlike pop-obsessed hand.

This is not to say that Pollard is opposed to looking back and reengaging with the energies of former cohorts. Far from it; the “classic lineup” of GBV has indeed reunited and knocked out the appealing if by now typically expectations-defying Let’s Go Eat the Factory. And defying anticipations seems to be the underlying raison d’être of Pollard’s work over the last few years, in some way informing every release that bears his name. It seems the only expectation he’ll indulge is the one that accepts his prodigious output on its own terms. And Guided by Voices have another record scheduled for May, just five months after the appearance of the last one, so it seems this attitude has extended to the reemergence of the most-lauded lineup of the band that for many will always constitute his/their legacy.

And good for them, for with a few exceptions (like Dinosaur Jr. and especially Mission of Burma) indie rock reunions (and the phenomenon of playing albums in sequence live) holds an aura that’s decidedly more Branson than badass. That Mouseman Cloud pops up on the release schedule between two of the reconstituted GBV’s studio efforts only emphasizes their interest in (along with drinking copious amounts of beer) making records that first and foremost please themselves. And this will only serve to exacerbate the complaints that Pollard is profoundly screwing his frustrated fans.

But this situation has been going on for a while, so maybe his base of support has largely accepted that the glory days of Scat and Matador are very likely never coming back. I don’t haunt the GBV-related message boards and fan sites, and haven’t been to a Pollard-related live show since the booze-soaked victory lap that that brought Guided by Voices to a temporary close back in ’04. But somebody’s still buying the albums, and as long as that’s the case it seems very clear they will keep on hitting the racks.

Among the stream of Pollard’s recent efforts Mouseman Cloud is distinguished by its consistency, and in fact it’s more successful overall than the peaks and valleys of Let’s Go Eat the Factory. I’d rate Mouseman with Space City Kicks and the Boston Spaceships stuff as the guy’s strongest material to see release in the last four years or so. This doesn’t mean it’s perfect. But it shows enough inspiration and cohesion across its seventeen songs to be of possible interest to those listeners that have long given up on keeping track of every nook and cranny of Pollard’s output. And if not a must have (but there hasn’t really been one of those since ‘04’s Half Smiles of the Decomposed) it does make a good case for the general batting average of his “jewels amongst the pleasant ephemera” tactic.

Mouseman Cloud finds Pollard indulging the more rocking side of his personality and peppering the proceedings with some appealing psych-pop touches, though nothing here develops into the bold foofery of Let’s Go Eat the Factory’s “Doughnut for a Snowman”. Opener “Obvious #1” is a stripped down piece of classic guitar pop that establishes the tone of what’s to follow, not only from an instrumental standpoint but from a lyrical one as well; after forty odd seconds of his typically skewed wordplay, it finds him repeating variations on the phrase “it’s obvious” for the second half of the tune. This motif recurs occasionally throughout the album, most effectively on “Mother’s Milk and Magnets”, where he repeats the song’s title with the dispassionate air of a vocalist under mild hypnosis, and on “Continue to Break”, where the nifty bit of phraseology “grandfather blues continues to shoot up the six o’clock news” is chanted until it almost begs for an accompanying sing-along. On first listen, even.

This lyric strategy will surely be fodder for those that think Pollard’s output has far exceeded the proliferation of his ideas. And that would make sense if it didn’t feel so premeditated. For all of the truth in the assessment of the man as a highly-skilled if somewhat eccentric surgeon applying his scalpel to classic rock forms, the blade extracting the choice bits and then stitching them together into concise melodic nuggets that seem halfway between college radio and the long gone crackle of the AM dial, the oddness of Pollard’s stanzas have always been the thing that’s distinguished him from being simply another artist of savvy reassemblage. Sure, many of his words certainly derive from a Beatles-inspired pop-psyche precedent, but partly due to his proclivity for writing songs of such fleeting duration his lyrics lack the vivid descriptiveness and occasional grandiosity of those models. Instead, they often flow like stream-of-consciousness that’s been scribbled into and then torn out of a battered notebook, and Mouseman Cloud is a solid continuation of this method, repeated lyrics and all.

No, not every tune is up to the standard of his best stuff, but the record is also unsurprisingly rife with those brief songs, so the lesser ones don’t linger around for too long. In many ways (and like many of Pollard’s strongest efforts), Mouseman Cloud feels like one long tapestry, and this fact only helps in making the occasional dips in quality easier to swallow. When he chooses to stretch out it’s to fine effect; “Picnic Drums” and particularly closer “Chief Meteorologist” provide two of the record’s best moments. And please add to the album’s sum a few selections of truly tweaked disposition; “Smacks of Euphoria” finds Pollard barking out an acoustic number that’s halfway between addled folk-rock and regal, almost glam-like pomp. And the cheap keyboard wheezing of “Half-Strained” sets up an eerie psyche opening that gives way to a little bit of riffing and  some very twisted lyricism. And then it’s over.

Mouseman Cloud is ultimately a flawed record, but its problems are relatively minor. It’s surely not the finest entry in Pollard’s vast discography, but it’s much farther away from the shoulder-shrugging aura of his least inspired material. While all of his records are to some extent indicative of their creator’s fallibility as an artist that abjures the typical standards of restraint and refinement, it’s also true that within this context certain Pollard releases do a better job than others in cluing in the listener to what the fuss is all about. It’s not earth-shattering, but Mouseman Cloud falls into that category quite nicely.

Through the course of four albums, New Brunswick NJ’s Screaming Females has grown into one of the most interesting and promising young rock bands on the scene. Heavy, distinctive and featuring a legitimate guitar-hero in Marissa Paternoster, their latest record is called Ugly. Not only does it lack any signs of creative fatigue, it’s easily their best one yet.

The profile of Screaming Females has increased significantly in the last few years, and that’s almost completely down to the band’s hard work; they’ve played hundreds of shows since 2005, the majority naturally taking place in the expected locales of clubs, halls and music spaces. But quite a few of these gigs have also occurred in the basements of houses, their hometown lacking in the required amount of venues conducive to the Females’ ground-level punk-inspired sensibility. If your town doesn’t have enough stages to hold the presentation and growth of your thing, taking it to the basement is just what you do. And with the release of Ugly the group now has five full-lengths under their collective belt in just a smidge over six years, a circumstance that pretty much paints them as shameless busybodies, at least in contemporary rock terms. For some icing on the cake, Screaming Females are a trio, a power trio in fact; they excel in an environment where hard work is very much a given.

But from within the confines of their sound, it’s the galvanizing combo of Marissa Paternoster’s vocals and guitar that is clearly responsible for the band’s increased following. Once heard, she’s not likely to be soon forgotten. This is not a knock on bassist King Mike or drummer Jarrett Dougherty (there’s only one actual female in Screaming Females); both are a far sight more than just capable on their instruments, the pair quite adept at transcending the standards of a mere rhythm section, which is another element of the power trio that’s an absolute necessity. But with this said Paternoster is essentially the focal point of the band’s attack; her vocal delivery has been likened to that of Sleater-Kinney’s Corin Tucker and her guitar playing has drawn comparisons to J Mascis. To put it mildly these are big shoes to fill, and Paternoster does so not through calculated imitation but by forging ahead with nerve and impressive dedication to her craft.

Screaming Females have been called a punk band, and while that’s not a terribly inapt description, I do think they’re most appropriately described by the above nomenclature of punk-inspired. To put it another way, the band is definitely descended from the aggressive template of punk rock. What’s more their dedication to those basement gigs and allegiance to their local “scene” in lieu of moving to a more rock-centric city (New York is just a hop, skip and train ride away), when coupled with a tireless if appealingly offhand work ethic is easily identifiable as punk in attitude. But to simply call Screaming Females a punk band might erroneously suggest a focus on the rudimentary, and while not a overly complex unit inclined toward flash for flash’s sake, they are frankly too accomplished as a group to be comfortably labeled with the potentially misleading descriptor of unhyphenated punk.

Instead, Screaming Females are in league with the distinctive (and yes quite punk-informed) underground rock of the 1980s, a place where power trios flourished; think Minutemen, Hüsker Dü and indeed Dinosaur Jr. The Females don’t sound like the ‘men or Dü, but they share with those bands an anti-generic non-simplicity that was a step beyond the “anybody can do it” back-to-square-one ethos of punk rock. And if Paternoster’s guitar brings Mascis to mind (and it does, though she’s just as remindful of Eddie Van Halen), the music as a whole isn’t very suggestive of ol’ Dino. It’s really in the comparison to Corin Tucker that we cozy up to a direct point of reference for Screaming Females, specifically a heavy, liberating post-Riot Grrl vibe. It’s not a bit of a stretch to say the band’s entire discography could’ve easily fit into the release schedule of the fledgling Kill Rock Stars label.

Ugly was recorded with Steve Albini, a connection that’s almost become a rite of passage for bands specializing in this type of unabashed rock action. And since Ugly shapes up as Screaming Females best platter, it’s tempting to credit Albini as a large factor in the album’s success. That is, if the previous four discs hadn’t already established an uncommonly astute hand at record making. For many bands (particularly of this heavy inclination), a succession of releases can risk becoming something of an indistinguishable or interchangeable blur, which might be okey-dokey for fans satisfied with hearing one thing done extremely well, but it’s also undeniable that more casual listeners will be far less inclined to go back for a double dip. But in the case of the Females, each record holds traits that clearly define their stylistic progression; Baby Teeth is their strong if modest debut, What if Someone is Watching Their TV? finds them at their angriest and most shredding, Power Move displays real songwriting growth, and Castle Talk finds them nodding at times toward pop-punk.   

Ugly continues this practice of stylistic development, not only flaunting their boldest production sound but also finding them branching out in both song-length (“Doom 84” clocks in at 7:38) and album running time. These admirable aspects aside, Ugly’s success can almost entirely be credited to the uniformly high level of songwriting and the seamless rapport between the players. Paternoster is indeed the focal point, but her talents are surely greatly enhanced by the fluid familiarity that’s bloomed between all three principals.

The one aspect of Screaming Females’ sound that is undeniably punk in both intent and execution is the sheer hugeness of Paternoster’s vocals. Punk in intent because she possesses a tough take-it-or-leave-it quality, and punk in execution due to the sheer lack of prettification in her delivery; she’s not trying to sooth or tempt. Instead, she’s interested in shaking and stirring things up. As Ugly plays for the umpteenth time, I can’t help but think of her as a modern disciple of Patti Smith, and that’s because she’s so thoroughly invested in doing her own thing.

If there’s anything troubling in Ugly, it’s in the likelihood that it’s going to be a hard act to follow. However, closing track “It’s Nice” features Paternoster’s vocals and acoustic guitar accompanied by a string section that alternates between sinewy and lush. The sheer unexpectedness of this finale is quite welcome, and it’s a possible harbinger of rewarding developments in the band’s future. Here’s hoping.

With Ugly, Screaming Females have not only set themselves a lofty standard, but they’ve also placed the bar quite high for contemporary-minded power trio rock in general. Anybody curious over the current rock scene’s state of health should lend them an ear.