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

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

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



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 10/7/11 - Girls and Egg Hunt

At the moment quite a few bees are all abuzz over the big strides, leaps even, that San Fran’s Christopher Owens-led Girls has made from ALBUM, their exceptional ’09 debut, to the freshly released FATHER, SON, HOLY GHOST, and I can understand the hubbub. ALBUM was a breath of relatively basic if extremely well written and delivered guitar-pop air, holding undisguised nods toward Beach Boys, Spector, Costello and even My Bloody Valentine. To be blunt, it was just swell to hear some new music so openly tackle such a classique form while also being boldly contemporary in personality; thusly Girls sounded old yet remarkably up-to-date simultaneously. But guitar-pop isn’t really a genre that lends itself to longevity or even a prolific discography; Jersey’s kings of post-Velvet’s stun-strum The Feelies have only managed five full-lengths in thirty-plus years (yes, with a twenty year hiatus thrown in). It can indeed be great when bands adopt a stubborn/hard-line stance to the often exultant parameters of the guit-pop style, but an undeniably more sensible stance for working musicians to take is to open up and expand a bit (or a lot) beyond the basic paradigm: hence Yo La Tengo. With last years’ EP BROKEN DREAMS CLUB Owens jumped fully into broadening the scope of Girls’ sound. Just as smartly, he didn’t betray his initial template with those long six songs, and with this confidently ambitious sophomore effort he still possesses a loose grasp upon the style that bore the fruit of his earliest expression. The strategic use of horns and Owens’ vocal mannerisms pointed BROKEN DREAMS CLUB toward an intersection of Beirut and Bright Eyes, and that wasn’t a bad place to be (not at all), but FATHER, SON, HOLY GHOST is strikingly bold in the span of its integrated influence. “Honey Bunny”, the two and a half minutes of Spector-esque jangle that opens the album, is noteworthy not only for its individual qualities, but additionally for how it differs from the rest of the record, being a succinct bit of pop exuberance that contrasts sharply with much of the expansiveness that follows. A lot of noise has been made over how FATHER’s large, methodical production canvas and the layered adornments that it occasionally flaunts are in direct reference to the Floydian ‘70s. Well, sure. That ‘70s influence is surely part of what makes this 2nd Girls record such a bold stroke of sonic flair. But that decade, namely Costello again, was part of Girls’ make-up kit from the start, and it’s not the only card he’s holding. On FATHER Owens’ gleans, possibly in some cases unconsciously, from a wide variety of sources spanning over thirty years of pop/rock history; hints of Neil Young, Jonathan Richman, Dinosaur Jr. and Teenage Fanclub all assert themselves in the mix. Sure, “Vomit”, the first “single” from the record, can be directly connected to Pink Floyd’s early ‘70s studio exploits, complete with gospel-oid diva vox, but (to my ears anyway) it also feels just as indebted to ‘90s Flaming Lips (and yeah, I do realize the Lips were/are deeply influenced by the Floyd, oh yes indeedy). Additionally, “Die” is a wah-wahed-out hard-rocking throttle (the Deep Purple comparison is apt), but it’s also screwy enough to register more like a ‘90s indie-rock update/subversion/commentary upon ‘70s heavy-rock dynamics (dude). But these ‘70s/’90s juxtapositions, while quite prevalent on FATHER don’t really feel dominant. Other vibes sneak in; the opening of “My Ma” directly quotes a Mission Of Burma song (maybe by total coincidence) and whole big hunks of the record feel descended from the ranks of the sharply-dressed early-‘80s singer-songwriters. Again, this is a very post-Costello state of affairs; “Love Like a River” actually sounds more than a little like early Squeeze having a blue-eyed soul moment. And that’s not something I’d like to see become a habit, but it goes down okay in this instance. While it includes a small handful of ringers (“Honey Bunny”, My Ma”, “Vomit” and most def the Jon Richman slow dancing with Randy Newman closer “Jamie Marie”) FATHER, SON, HOLY GHOST is the type of record that is destined to be embraced by large numbers of listeners, but for vastly different reasons. Some will clutch a blatantly accessible, electric piano driven pop confection like “Magic” to their hearts and others will be drawn to the more misshapen yet still approachable weirdness of “Just a Song”. So this isn’t a perfect record, but I’m really impressed with how Owens’ songwriting prowess and the group’s talent as players succeeds at reigning in his diverse textural and stylistic interests, so that the LP, alternately smooth, hard, heavy and light, also resists being categorized as deeply flawed or even unfocused, particularly in the harsh light of the dreaded sophomore slump. FATHER, SON, HOLY GHOST is loaded with fine moments, and while I’m still undecided on the tally of its long-range worth it is most assuredly a keeper.

In one sense, Egg Hunt is but a small moment in the storied history of Dischord Records. The “band”, which consisted of Ian MacKaye and Jeff Nelson, both formerly of Minor Threat and the co-owners of Dischord, is most accurately described as a brief studio project that recorded just four songs in ’86 while they were visiting in England. But if a small moment now, the pair of tracks they ultimately chose to release as a 7-inch in that hazy gap between Revolution Summer (Rites of Spring, Beefeater, Embrace) and the next big burst of District-wide creativity (Ignition, Soulside, Fire Party, Shudder To Think, Fugazi etc) once loomed much larger in the scheme of DC affairs. To elaborate, MacKaye’s work between the break-up of Minor Threat and the commencement of Fugazi sort of felt, to those outside his home base anyway, as a succession of fits and starts. Embrace released one very good album. Ian collaborated with Ministry’s Al Jorgensen in Pailhead, for a long time the most intriguing of MacKaye’s ‘80s projects but in retrospect the least musically successful. That leaves Egg Hunt, essentially one half of Minor Threat (the best half, some pals and I were once fond of saying), to whip out a couple tunes that in hindsight aren’t world changing or even all that revelatory regarding the artistic capabilities of MacKaye or Nelson, but at the time felt big as a billboard for partisans of the DC scene. By the point of Fugazi’s mid-‘90s stride Egg Hunt had settled into its true historical stature as a momentary yet thoroughly worthwhile musical digression. Both songs are actually very well conceived and quite diverse in execution. The A side “Me and You” is a study in slow-boiling post-HC bombast, eschewing verse/chorus structure in favor of a slow collective chant and a nicely growing lather of instrumental dynamics. I’ll probably never manage to shake Byron Coley’s description of the song as being a perfect fit for playing over the PA during time-outs at large-scale sporting events, but that’s cool. Truthfully, I’d be gassed to the gills if I heard this from way back in the cheap seats during the 4th quarter of a very tight Washington Wizards game. Take it to the hole and draw the foul. On the other side of the record “We All Fall Down” finds Ian at his most vocally straightforward, the song's gush being mildly reminiscent of Minor Threat’s “Salad Days” and more tangibly in line with the work of Embrace, for which the tune was originally written. Nelson’s drumming on both tracks is up to his usual high standard and MacKaye’s guitar burns with its reliable precision. ‘Tis true from one perspective that Egg Hunt is but only a snapshot in Dischord’s extremely well documented discography, so newcomers to the sound of this vital scene’s first decade are advised to start with a few of the label’s weightier canonical releases; anything by Minor Threat, the FLEX YOUR HEAD compilation and the blistering Rites of Spring LP top my personal list. But from another vantage point, Egg Hunt falls into a worthy batch of ‘80s underground-centric side-projects, collaborations and other ephemera, the whole unwieldy heap of it serving to greatly broaden the essence of the era beyond simply the essential, most influential releases. Some of these activities were large and conceptual in scope (the Sonic/Watt/Mascis messaround Ciccone Youth), others were indulgent, extreme and fascinating (the Butthole Surfers curated/produced blotter nightmare A TEXAS TRIP, the Birthday Party/Lydia Lunch excursion into bad-vibes HONEYMOON IN RED), and still more were attempts to join forces, if only briefly, in the desire to craft a fresh vibrant thing (MINUTEFLAG, the EP collaboration  by Beat Happening and Screaming Trees). Egg Hunt differs from all of this in its appealing modesty of scale; the decision to release these two cuts was made only after it became clear that Egg Hunt would not evolve into a larger, working band (Nelson went on to the wildly underrated Three; MacKaye to Fugazi), and the stripped-down approach they offer is a natural expression of the player’s lack of excess and pretension. Lastly, these songs not only help to complete the portrait of Dischord’s early years (it was the label’s twentieth release), their very availability on vinyl in 2011 also points to the label’s survival via an unimpeachable ideology and well-grounded decision making. Factor in the ever fluctuating landscape of contemporary music commerce and the harsh global economic climate to get a real sense of Dischord’s achievement. Some folks used to complain that the label’s strict adherence to only releasing DC bands was a mistake, claiming it limited their relevance on the music scene, making them a "local" label in the midst of global operators, but time has proven that thinking to be faulty in the extreme. Where nearly every other punk label from the period has ceased operation, Dischord is still solvent, not only adding new titles to the catalog but also doing a stellar job of caretaking its legacy. Unreleased stuff has being hitting the racks with frequency over the last few years and the remastering and reissuing of key entries in the discography, with this Egg Hunt 7-inch as just one example, is quite simply a bonus move.

Joseph's Picks Of The Week 9/30/11 - Wilco and Trash Talk

If it didn’t feel so organically conceived, the opening track on Wilco’s new record could easily be mistaken as a musical retort to those who felt the band’s last two albums were a slip-slide into unchallenging middle-aged laid-backness. And organics be damned, maybe it is anyway, because when “Art Of Almost”’s static swaddled Krautrock begins, it initially gives the impression that SKY BLUE SKY and WILCO (THE ALBUM) never happened. Now I like both of those records just fine; for me they scratched the same itch that’s relieved by such major if ultimately non-ambitious works as Dylan’s NASHVILLE SKYLINE, Beach Boys’ WILD HONEY and Love’s FOUR SAIL. But put out too many albums like that and you risk being pegged as the band or artist that gets played when the musically unadventurous friend(s) come over for a visit. So it’s a mild relief that THE WHOLE LOVE gets willfully dirty in the same experimental sandbox that produced the fitful growing pains of BEING THERE and (in retrospect) hit a qualitative apex with the big, confident brushstrokes of A GHOST IS BORN. A huge part of WHOLE’s tangibly more progressive orientation is due to Nels Cline’s guitar-wrangling being all over the thing; on “Art Of Almost” alone his gets an extended opportunity to strut some positively Fripp-like stuff. And I like how instead of following up this track with a mood shift into a more acoustic number, they smartly counter with the very nice mid-tempo stomper “I Might”, a tune loaded with fuzz-bass, emphatic organ and a graspable desire to just rock the joint. To pontificate further, “Sunloathe” finds Wilco’s sound as overtly tied to late-Beatles songcraft as anything since SUMMERTEETH (a record I’ve not listened to in a couple of years, geez), but with a pleasant lack of backsliding; the more I dig into  THE WHOLE LOVE the more I’m finding it hard to shake how whole big chunks of the record (like “Dawned On Me”) radiate the historical impossibility of a George Harrison album circa ’71 being produced by Brian Eno circa ’78 (so it might actually be accurate to say they are displaying solo Beatles influence). And gestures like these strongly point to how crafty these gents have become; initially this record feels like a major shift away from the last couple albums, but it quickly becomes apparent how Tweedy and co are still mucking pleasantly around in the great big ‘70s AOR expanse that marked their recent activities. They’re just wisely shaking up the program by reintegrating those happy tides of experimentalism. “Black Moon” flashes the best kind of ‘70s singer-songwriter sensibility, being essentially acoustic based but sneakily weaved into all sorts of instrumental studio-bound magic; it’s almost like Buzzy Linhart and Lenny Waronker were hanging around Wilco’s recording loft for guidance. “Born Alone” is one of my early favorites from THE WHOLE LOVE, maybe as well conceived a percolating brew of late-indie-rock style (concise, dynamically sound and melodically bright) as I’ve heard since big sections of Sonic Youth’s masterpiece RATHER RIPPED. That they follow “Born…” up with “Open Mind”, an alluringly chatty passage of weary-but-hopeful strum-junk that should bring at least one pretty smile to any face positively disposed to prime Outlaw Country or rumpled East Coast city folkies going introspective is absolutely jake. “Capitol City” is more Beatles for the buck (I mean, the damn thing ends with church bells for cryin’ out loud), and speaking of stompers, instrumentally “Standing O” feels a whole lot like THIS YEARS MODEL Attractions kicking Costello to the curb and pulling out some huge moves from the problematic dawn of Arena Rock; that Tweedy presides over it all by sounding like nothing but a mildly sleepy version of his own dang self is quite a treat, kinda like what I always hoped Warren Zevon would sound like, but ‘twas not to be. Forget about it: "Standing O" is my early fave from this record. It’s great but not especially surprising that THE WHOLE LOVE lacks a single dud in its track listing, but special mention should be paid to the vinyl version’s last two cuts. At twelve minutes, “One Sunday Morning” is the record’s longest piece by a considerable margin (“Art Of Almost” comes in a distant second at seven and change), but it doesn’t rely on jamming or even cyclical motorik motion ala A STAR IS BORN’s “Kidsmoke”. Instead, it simply combines a fantastically pretty musical motif and Tweedy’s by now bedrock vocal ability into a lengthy, deceptively casual excursion that could appropriately serve as the record’s close. Indeed, the CD configuration does culminate with this very song, a wise move by any measure. But those privy to the 2LP release get the additional treat of “Sometimes It Happens”, a superb cover of lovely UK folk maven Linda Thompson’s adaptation of Brit poet Brian Patten’s simply immaculate words, a piece originally included on the very rare ’76 LP VANISHING TRICK; the track was actually recorded in ’72, early in Thompson’s career, and many may know it by its inclusion on the ‘96 collection of her underrated solo work DREAMS FLY AWAY. It’s quite a great song in the original and Wilco do right by it, providing this version of THE WHOLE LOVE with an excellent coda. But upon reflecting a bit, “Sometimes It Happens” points to a deeper thematic consistency in the work of Tweedy (and as great as all the members are as performing individuals, I consider Wilco to be his band); namely the sincere appreciation of literature on Tweedy’s (and by extension Wilco’s, duh) musical gist. Whether it’s the blatant Jerzy Kosinski reference in the title of BEING THERE, Tweedy’s initial intention to include the first chapter of “The Franchiser” by the late (oh how I miss him) master writer Stanley Elkin in the liner booklet to YANKEE HOTEL FOXTROT or this latest gesture in celebration of the written word, it all points to the guy’s admirable aims in the direction of quality writing as one of the four cornerstones in the grand artistic panorama. Not to wax too heavily romantic (or poetic [or what have you]), but once upon a time any small press zine worth its weight in cheap pulp included a solid book review section to keep readers up to speed on a wide variety of text both fiction and non. And so it was with art, and so it was with film. These days even the best music-centric internet websites rarely give coverage to writing as an integral part of a well balanced artistic diet. Sure it’s all out there on the folds of cyberland (not nearly; you understand my point I hope), but I really miss the curatorial connectivity that comes with the close inclusion of musicians, painters, writers, filmmakers etc into an essentially endless garden of delights for discovery and educational nutriment (and I’m not talking about name dropping. The key word used above in relationship with Tweedy’s interest in lit is sincere). Come to think of it, the full title of “One Sunday Morning” includes the awesome parenthetical “(Song For Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend)”. Man, these dudes are positively highbrow. I mean like moo, baby.

What’s in a name? Well, a moniker like Trash Talk fostered in my mind a first impression far more in line with sleazy dance pop or a rediscovered bunch of scarf-clad power-pop degenerates, not hulking mosh-pit instigating, spittle-spray sing-along inspiring nouveau-hardcore. I’ll admit to being a bit slow on the uptake regarding this band, mainly because I’m (perhaps overly) cautious regarding anything of recent vintage that’s touched by the precedent of the HC genre. To be blunt, I was leery of updates to the style as far back as the late ‘80s, less than a year after being first being introduced to the form’s highly potent bouillabaisse of density, speed, anger, adrenalin and, no bones about it, testosterone. I’ve previously stated in this space (and will so again, mark my words) that hardcore’s best stuff occurred early in the chronology of the style; in fact part of the genre’s appeal, at least to this listener, lies in how the music’s documentation in many instances seemed to contribute to its undoing. Quite a lot of this is specifically caught up in context. Hardcore was very much a social music; what could sound absolutely vital while thrashing yourself senseless along with an energy-addled pack of half-rabid teens in a podunk Knights of Columbus could understandably lose something (a lot of things) in the translation to a 12-song 7-inch. To be sure the ability to transcend the limitations of recording remains a big part of the hardcore litmus test that separates the truly great from the also-rans and by ’87 or so there wasn’t much on the scene that qualified to my ears as much more than a ritualistic diminishment of returns. Part of this relates to my near universal disdain for New York-style hardcore. One big factor in HC’s lore (a somewhat romantic one, no doubt) is how it exploded from geographical locations where indigenous rock-scenes were either non-existent or riddled with leather pant/skinny-tie haircut posers of the worst sort (not that HC didn’t have its own fashion issues. As the late great Claude Bessy aka Kickboy Face might say, au contraire). In comparison New York sorta had it all; well, not really, but it sure had a bounty of opportunities compared to East Lansing, Michigan. When Bad Brains skipped out on the District and landed in the Bowery they influenced a whole bunch of local denizens, mostly to negative effect. Hardcore music was immediately prey to the excesses of ritualism, but New York seemed to take pride in the act of going through the increasingly stale motions. Not to beat up on the city, but the aura of intolerance and conformity (sort of a Boston thing in the early days, though my beloved DC undeniably had its moments of noodle-brained behavior) that came to plague hardcore was sometimes worn by New Yorkers like a badge. Straight-edge, once a liberating alternative to going through life drunk and stupid (hats off to you, Dean Vernon Wormer) became an insufferable wasteland of rules and regs. I just know that reading to this point has inspired a bunch of Revelation Records fans to rub the graying stubble atop their domes with unbridled disgust. I’m sorry. ‘Tis just the way I was raised. And it wasn’t only me; I can vividly recall reading an interview with Beastie Boys where the subject of hardcore was broached. One of the members mentioned that when they heard Agnostic Front’s VICTIM IN PAIN they realized that the city’s hardcore scene was taking a path divergent from their (and my) point of interest (though, oddly both POLLY WOG STEW and VICTIM were initially released by the same label, Rat Cage, whose finest moment would easily be the 14-song HASSIBAH GETS THE MARTIAN BRAIN SQUEEZE 7-inch by Victoria B.C. Canada’s blazingly fast and appealingly strange Neos). This didn’t stop the Beasties from being snookered by Murphy’s Law (Oh, snap!!!), but I digress. Actually, fans of Trash Talk probably consider this review to be little more than one codger’s big frustrating digression, but hold on. My point about hardcore being (somewhat loosely) qualitatively tied to the suburbs and outlying cities relates to Trash Talk rather well, me thinks. Sacramento CA is from where they hail, a locale large enough to have its own NBA franchise but unable (or maybe disinterested) in cooking up any sustained rock scene action; great bands have been formed there (indie rhythm riders !!!) and great musicians have been born there (jazz Hammond B-3 behemoth Jimmy Smith), but most historical roads seem to lead out. Fittingly, Trash Talk has a song that concerns this very circumstance titled “Sacramento is Dead” and this fact bodes quite well for the cut of their jib (Straight edge? No. Blunts, beer and energy drinks? Yes). The 2009 SHAME LP collects four of the group’s earlier releases, drops two on each side of the platter and comes up with a heavy half-hour of gruff, metallically informed, spring-action scorch that avoids erring as either too cohesive (tightness being a great underminer of quality rock music) or too sloppy (combining overly loose and blindingly fast usually results in unimpressive generics). SHAME locates Trash Talk as being tied to more recent developments in hardcore stylistics, which is cool by me, but they also have a well-honed Black Flag influence (circa-DAMAGED, primarily) and a somewhat Bostonian muscle-throated chug/burn aesthetic (think DYS, SS Decontrol, Negative F/X and Last Rights, but on performance enhancing drugs) that seems to connect them to the start of the whole tumultuous shebang. Another aspect of Trash Talk that feels simpatico with early hardcore’s sonic blitz is how SHAME’s two sides rely far less on the strength of individual songs and instead are presented as a pair of breakneck suites of pummeling brutality; in this way the album reminds me of how Minor Threat’s first two 7-inch records were each packed onto separate sides of a now classic LP and additionally how the sum total of that record was presented in full on both sides of the release’s cassette format. Taken individually, hardcore songs are often over before the working mind can really get a solid grasp on the specificity of their method. Listening to one track repeated numerous times will certainly provide a handle, but a much smarter approach is to contend and then come to terms with whole steaming hunks of the music in substantial but not exhausting gulps. SHAME’s thirty songs in thirty-one minutes is just the right dose of the band’s well-calibrated mayhem. And where countless bushels of hardcore songs encourage big group vocal bonding, Trash Talk’s imposing mic-guy Lee Spielman largely eschews this tactic, instead incarnating an enraged, bulging-necked blabbermouth slobbering syllables over all and sundry. That’s the spirit! Special mention should be made for the band’s mauling precision, and extra credit needs to be awarded for “Revelation”, a long track (at 4:30 it’s practically “In a Gadda Da Vida”) that’s surely had many listeners wandering to the turntable to check for a dirty stylus. But the final cut “East of Eden/Son of a Bitch” features none other than ex-Black Flag/ex-Circle Jerks/ex-pizza delivery guy/current OFF! honcho Keith Morris, and it closes the proceedings with suitably primal élan. Trash Talk has a whole lot working in their favor at the moment; fresh off a tour with the fellow hardcore-descendents Fucked Up, a split 7-inch with the decidedly non-hardcore-descended Wavves and an upcoming release on the label True Panther Sounds (home of such diverse contemporary quality as Girls, Hunx and His Punx, Real Estate, Ty Segall and Fly Girls). Here’s hoping these cats keep up the good work. SHAME has not only withstood over a half-dozen consecutive listens, but it’s also hung tight in a rotation with such worthy (and now that I contemplate it, disparate, and that’s a word that I can’t recall weilding with this genre) HC antecedents as early UK spike-meisters Discharge, the indispensible THIS IS BOSTON NOT L.A. compilation, D.R.I.’s DIRTY ROTTEN EP, Negative Approach’s TOTAL RECALL, the first LP by The Crucifucks, and even the twisted low-fi skuzz found on the sole 7-inch from Seattle’s legendary Solger. Trash Talk is of course louder and heavier than so many of their predecessors, partially due to production (some of SHAME was recorded with Steve Albini) but more so because the band has the advantage of hindsight, evaluating previous models and then taking that knowledge a few crucial steps further (i.e. exactly what so much late ‘80s hardcore didn’t do). And after the dust has settled here I sit pondering just how maniacal Trash Talk’s sound would be minus the relaxing properties of weed. If these guys embrace straight-edge, we could all be in a world of hurt.