All posts by John Fortunato

SUPERSUCKERS SUCKLE ‘THE EVIL POWERS OF ROCK AND ROLL’

May 14, 2009InterviewsSUPERSUCKERSJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: Hard-partying Tucson-originated Seattle-exposed rockers, the Supersuckers, sure like to live the ‘high life.’ In ’99, I had the great fortune to have a late afternoon chat with the fellas over many free beers. And I hung out with them previously during some industry party where my High Times friends took hold. But by ‘03s Motherfuckers Be Trippin’ the party was almost over for them. Who knows if front man Eddie Spaghetti and twin guitarists Dan Bolton and Ron Heathman will re-form their fantastic boho combo. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Wearing an ever-present beige cowboy hat and rock star shades, Supersuckers vocalist/ bassist Eddie Spaghetti detailed The Evil Powers Of Rock ‘N’ Roll (Aces & Eights/ Koch) for a sardine-packed September 1st Tramps show. Bold enough to pull out the opening bars of AC/DC’s “For Those About To Rock, We Salute You” as an eye-opening introduction, this fiery, unrestricted Seattle-by-way-of-Tucson quartet pumped out a steady stream of revved up punk, honky tonk, and Texas boogie.

Feeling compelled to sing about liquor and narcotics, Spaghetti’s “couldn’t care less” boho attitude infiltrated riotous fare like the fist-shakin’ “I Want The Drugs” and “Drink & Complain.” Between the raucous Southern-bound twin guitar riffage by Ron Heathman and Dan “Thunder” Bolton and the driving propulsion of drummer Dancing Eagle, the Supersuckers live show offers brash swagger and unbridled urgency. With a tip of the hat to ‘70s rock, they rip up Thin Lizzy’s “Cowboy Song” (dedicated to the memory of Phil Lynott) and unleash a dead-on instrumental encore of James Gang’s “Funk #49.”

Knowing no musical boundaries, the Supersuckers teamed up with living Country legend Steve Earle for a ‘97 EP and topped that with the high lonesome Western folk of Must’ve Been High. And as great as the 90 minute Tramps set was, nothing could beat the time they pulled off double duty delivering a Country-rooted set before returning for a full hour of heavy rock at Coney Island High.

After recording with respected producers Jack Endino (‘92s dazzling The Smoke Of Hell), Conrad Uno (‘94s restless La Mano Cornuda), and Paul Leary of the Butthole Surfers (‘95s Sacrilicious Sounds of the Supersuckers with ex-Didjits guitarist Rick Sims temporarily replacing Heathman), they decided to leave the knob twisting of Evil Powers to Fastbacks frontman Kurt Bloch. Concurrently, an ace compilation, The Greatest Rock And Roll Band in the World, trudges through LP highlights, EP tracks, B-sides, soundtrack trash, a hard-to-find version of Ice Cube’s “Dead Homiez,” and acoustic side project the Junkyard Dogs’ “Wake Me When It’s Over.”

I spoke with the band at Manhattan’s Gramercy Park Hotel two days prior to the Tramps show.

Tell me about The Evil Powers of Rock ‘N’ Roll.

RON HEATHMAN: It’s a return to rock and roll. We recorded a country record and then a rock record which got held up by our label. So we re-recorded Evil Powers and began doing what we should be doing. There’s not an acoustic guitar to be found. The songwriting process is the same and it’s the best LP we’ve ever made.

How did Kurt Bloch’s production affect Evil Powers?

RON: It was a blast working with him. We had recorded a version of this album with Tom Werman, who has worked with Cheap Trick and Ted Nugent. But Interscope has the record and won’t release it. Kurt just let us be the Supersuckers. Conrad Uno and Kurt have a similar production approach.

Interestingly, many Supersuckers songs have a hard-nosed Texas rock sound.

EDDIE SPAGHETTI: We kill ‘em in Texas, too. We listen to lots of ZZ Top. Our influences are all the same. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Many bands are formed because two people with conflicting tastes work together and have this great explosion. We’re a weird aberration, like the Ramones always pretended to be. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same high school (“Santa Rita High”), graduated the same year, and went to the same live shows.

What did you guys grow up listening to?

EDDIE: Early ‘80s hard rock like Ozzy, Motorhead, Iron Maiden, and Kiss – lots of metal. Through that process, we discovered punk. Of course, now I like a good punk song better than Metallica. But you’re a product of your environment. Kids today like wearing baggy pants and listening to quasi-rock. It’s killer. Every generation needs that.

Was it difficult recording straight Country tunes for the excellent Must’ve Been High?

EDDIE: I’ve always been against country-rock bands, though I’m getting to like them as I get older. I wanted my country separate from the rock. Any band that mixed them up didn’t seem transcendentally great and made me cringe. But Gram Parsons kicked ass. Steve Earle kicks ass.

How come the initial Black Supersuckers spaghetti Western blues direction of the Captain Beefheart-ian compilation track “Monkey” was never pursued again?

EDDIE: The production on that song was killer and the performance amazing. It’s haunting because the lead singer (Eric Martin) on “Monkey” died. He wanted to do Rolling Stones/ Tom Waits and we wanted to be the Ramones or AC/ DC. We were young and it wasn’t working out so we parted ways. I was struck by how good that song was because it broke up the band. We hated “Monkey” because he was blatantly flaunting drug use and there were tensions involved. I wallow in regret over his death now. If we hung in and persevered the clash of styles would have resulted in something new.

You’ve covered Ice Cube’s “Dead Homiez.” Do you think rap artists have advanced the reckless crazy lifestyle rock musicians were always known for?

EDDIE: I say kudos to that. Rap artists are having a blast. I don’t like the shooting and killing part of it. But I love the livin’ large, livin’ beyond your means, livin’ fast, dyin’ young ethic. They’re doing a great job making money, kicking ass, and screaming into a microphone.

VELVET CRUSH MAXIMIZE POWER POP ON ‘STEREO BLUES’

May 14, 2009InterviewsVELVET CRUSHJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: Velvet Crush mainstays Paul Chastain and Ric Menck make more money backing up power pop icon, Matthew Sweet, than they did leading their own exuberant combo. But that’s life in the music biz. They haven’t collaborated on a new recording since I did this interview promoting ‘04s worthy Stereo Blues. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Just as Canada’s Sadies and Arizona’s Calexico make a living headlining and sidelining, multi-instrumentalists Paul Chastain and Ric Menck concurrently front indie pop combo Velvet Crush and backup pop luminary Matthew Sweet. Though Chastain (Bloomington, Illinois) and Menck (Los Angeles) reside in different states now, they found time to craft dynamic studio triumph, Stereo Blues.

Meeting in Champaign, the duo moved to Boston, suffered abject poverty, then ultimately built Velvet Crush from the ground up in nearby Providence, Rhode Island, where a supportive ‘80s fringe scene developed around Scarce and Medicine Ball.

“We were isolated from that, kept to ourselves, but it was a cool little community,” Chastain maintains. “A couple local clubs opened. We developed a Philly, New York, and D.C. fan base, put out two singles, the pre-Velvet Crush tune “It’s Not True”, made at Matthew Sweet’s Princeton house (prior to now-departed bassist Jeffrey Underhill’s tenure) and (‘80s collegiate rock throwback) “Ash & Earth,” which appeared on our debut.”

Cheekily titled In the Presence of Greatness, prescribed as “maximum power pop,” navigates retro-rock contours with tuneful precision. Vibrant opener “Window To The World” imbues the melodic assuredness of ‘70s semi-legends Badfinger and Big Star. “Drive Me Down” gets a buzz-y Replacements-like vibe; jangled “White Soul” recalls prime REM; and upbeat “Die A Little Every Day” conquers despondency. Menck, who’d preliminarily bonded with Lincoln, Nebraska, native Sweet in Athens, Georgia, got him to work the boards.

“Ric drove down during school break in Iowa. They hit it off; had similar tastes. Then Ric came back to Chicago where I met him. When Matthew got a development deal for (‘86s) Inside, he needed to put together a band, which included us. We opened for Toni Childs. I played occasionally with him since. (‘88s) Earth was slick sounding, but (unqualified ’90 masterpiece) Girlfriend was organic, raw, and open,” Chastain ascertains.

Operating vanity label, Action Musik, Velvet Crush re-released all albums except ’94 major label effort, Teenage Symphonies To God, produced by mastermind Mitch Easter (ex-Let’s Active). Recorded at North Carolina’s Drive-In Studio, REM’s old digs, Easter’s guitar fortified the final mix. While the absolutely infectious “Hold Me Up” tangled Big Star and Beatles riffage, seasoned vet Greg Leicz (Bob Dylan/ Joni Mitchell) plied pedal steel to revamped Gene Clark comp “Why Not Your Baby,” laid-back Americana respite “Faster Days,” and earthy folk pledge “Keep On Lingerin’.”

“Mitch was one of our pre-Crush heroes. He’s multi-talented with cool rock sensibilities, awesome guitar-bass skills. We then made (‘96s) Heavy Changes, a very different record, with him,” Chastain admits.

By ‘98s Free Expression, Velvet Crush signed to tiny Bobsled Records, but lost some momentum.

“It’s a complicated path winding your way through our records,” Chastain chuckles. “Bob Salerno started a label, put our record out, but it wasn’t successful. We parted ways. As Sweet’s sidemen, you get paid, whereas sometimes on your own, you don’t. Ric’s toured with Pernice Brothers, Liz Phair, and Marianne Faithfull.”

Vindictive sad-sack lyrical indictments aside, ‘04s long-awaited mercurial Stereo Blues harnesses insidious hooks and zesty harmonies. Given a robust electrifying thrust, irresistible “Rusted Star” may be the niftiest hi-energy blast since Cheap Trick’s “Surrender.” Less torrid, though nearly as contagious, “Want You Now” culminates in a charmingly euphonious release.

“We take our songs as far as they’ll go, then get input and instrumental support from our resourceful producers. We could make songs in-house, but that’d be boring. On Stereo Blues, we worked with (criminally neglected singer-guitarist) Adam Schmitt. We’d known him 20 years, lost touch, then re-connected. Ric got together for basic tracks, bashed out demo arrangements ‘til everyone knew them, and afterwards went back to L.A. Adam and I then finished at his studio. As we got further along in the recording process, money tightened, so I’d overdub at home,” confides Chastain.

Long-time pal, soloist Nick Rudd (synthesizer), Weird Summer’s Bob Kimbell (detuned slide), and others assist, but Chastain handles much of the load, taking a sideways approach to the sessions.

“Interestingly, I was in four stages of different songs at various times. It was crazy; everything took longer,” he recollects. “Primarily, this album takes us back to the guitar rock feel of our first album, but has Teenage Symphony’s production value. We made accessible songs that aren’t as stripped down as originally envisioned. We wanted a trashier live sound to take us in a slightly divergent direction.”

Supporting Sweet’s recent Living Things jaunt, the duo play two hours straight, no break, peculiarly contributing Velvet Crush tunes mid-set.

Chastain concludes, “We were afraid Sweet’s fans would be turned off by us going alone a half hour, but didn’t hear any complaints.”

-John Fortunato

WILDHEARTS U.S. INVASION ‘MUST BE DESTROYED!’

May 14, 2009InterviewsGINGER OF WILDHEARTS, WILDHEARTSJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: I took my eleven-year-old son, Johnny, to see demonic English rockers, the Wildhearts, at Philadelphia’s South Street club, Theatre Of Living Arts, in February ‘04. They were opening for grateful nouveau rich proteges The Darkness. Though my son kept me from enjoying a guaranteed night of post-show debauchery, I still had a helluva good night throwing back Heinekens at the densely populated stage left area. Over the phone during our interview weeks before, Ginger giddily warned the public, “We’re gonna stick to your shoes like dogshit.” A self-titled ’07 album followed. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Passionately encapsulating the lethal rogue excess of over-the-top arena rock and flashy glam-metal, protean English wunderkinds, the Wildhearts, hope to finally gain major stateside approval with their ruffled ‘70s-bound shuffles. Tempestuous mainstay Ginger (a.ka. David Walls) originally formed the Wildhearts when former band the Quireboys kicked him out for unruly behavior. Instantly, ‘93s long-play debut, Earth Versus the Wildhearts, took Europe by storm, profoundly influencing forthcoming riff heavy Brit-rockers Dogs D’Amour, Yo-Yos, Senseless Things, and Sugarplum Fairies.

Critics labeled the riff heavy combo’s filth and fury ‘bazooka metal,’ declaring ‘Metallica Meets the Beatles’ in one headline. Though the Wildhearts and their worthy successors never found American fame, ten years hence platinum upstarts the Darkness have made tousled long-haired glamorous rock fashion accessible again, convincing Ginger to re-form his virile outfit “for the millionth time” to open well-received US tours.

“We just rip off our favorite bands from Cheap Trick to Metallica. It’s all good big guitar riffs and choruses and nice melodies. A fine mix of piss and vinegar,” blurts Ginger.

Shacking up with former Fluffy drummer Angie Adams (guitarist in new-sprung Darling), Ginger sired two children recently. Though less reckless and more sober, he remains tenacious, bringing the noise both on-stage and in the studio.

Quelling numerous changes and surviving a mid-‘90s descent into drug hell, the classic Wildhearts lineup (ex-Tattooed Love Boy guitarist CJ Jagdhar, bassist Danny Mc Cormack, and drummer Andrew Stidolph) has thankfully resurfaced for ‘04s celebratory The Wildhearts Must Be Destroyed. Resonating with good time bohemia best epitomized by the cocksure encore “Top Of The World” and the toxic hardcore scramble “Get Your Groove On,” Destroyed tears through major cities like the leathered barbarian bikers depicted on its brilliant apocalyptic cover. Therapy screamer Andy Cairns and the Darkness’ Justin Hawkins (who’d befriended Ginger over time) make appealing vocal cameos.

A walk through Ginger’s spicy past uncovers the veritable madman fulfilling a party hard prophecy Andrew WK would appreciate. Earth’s cunningly expletive follow-up, PHUQ, which Ginger describes as “a cacophony of sonic mayhem” and “the noisiest album you’ll ever hear,” kept the momentum going.

Next, Endless, Nameless earned Ginger’s acute disclaimer “don’t play in the dark ‘cause it’s quite scary.” ‘98s b-sides and unreleased tracks compilation Landmines & Pantomimes pre-dates the recent fantastic Gearhead scrap heap Riff After Riff while the fanclub-only Fishing For Luckies collects long experimental tunes.

Released only in Japan as a semi-solo set, the one-off Silver Ginger 5’s Black Leather Mojo gathers a great batch of gritty originals and offers spirited interplay and solid production. The tossed-off medley “Cheers” (from Gut Records obscurities compendium, Coupled With), which encrusts jazz musician Bob James’ Taxi theme with the uplifting jingle “When Everybody Knows Your Name,” may be the Wildhearts most exuberant pop exultation.

After many road bumps, you’ve reassembled the classic Wildhearts lineup.

GINGER: We’re all good boys now, and professional. We used to put cocaine on the corn flakes in the morning. It was a steadier diet of crack and heroin and, of course, ecstasy. It got too expensive. When being drunk occupies more daily hours than being sober, then you’ve spent a whole part of your life pissed.

Did your parents offer any formative influences?

GINGER: My parents were into Tom Jones, “Gentleman” Jim Reeves, and Shirley Bassey. But the generation gap was wider then. Kids are brought up now on parents Sex Pistols records. But I did get into Abba and my love of melody got me into glam-rock by Sweet and Slade. That set me off for life. It was exciting music in ’73 after everyone got over the hippie movement. They were the most ugliest guys you ever saw – with lipstick – on the telly. Shit. It looked like fun. I used to absolutely fall in love with bands hook, line, and sinker, like the Starz, Cheap Trick, Angel, Sparks, and Babys, even Eddie Van Halen, who’s really pop.

Destroyed’s sparkly glitter anthem “So Into You” reminded me of Sweet.

GINGER: To me, it’s a mixture of homage and lip service to educate fans as to what to buy. Some bands rip us off but don’t admit it, which does nothing to further the education of rock and roll. I openly admit I’m an absolute plagiarist, but I shop at all the best stores. I’ve got really good roots I’m not afraid to expose in public.

You mention Elvis on three of the first four Destroyed tracks.

GINGER: Elvis managed to waggle his way in so it all falls into some weird synchronicity. I came from the generation that watched his movies Saturday afternoon. He was hardly a rock star to me then. Elvis was going down while Muhammed Ali was moving up when I was a kid. I liked the big white suits and Vegas shorts. Everyone says you’re either a Beatles or Elvis fan.

I thought that was Beatles or Stones fan.

GINGER: Right. But the Beatles were only around for a short time – the period it takes Def Leppard to record an EP. Yet they did all that work. But the durability of the Stones, who were most likely to die before age 21, is remarkable. They stayed through thick and thin. I didn’t know John Lennon was so into heroin. I’m reading the Stones book, Off The Record. They were scoring for Lennon all the time. I was thinking, ‘Lennon was a smack head!’ He’s singing ‘I’m so tired/ my mind is on the blink,’ you think, ‘fuckin’ hell, he’s a junkie.’ Yet you still get a wholesome image of the Beatles.

At least they weren’t dreaded insecure “Nexus Icon’s.”

GINGER: That’s about people that love themselves as much as they think the audience does without realizing the audience have bills and work on their minds instead of idols. Even Ali and Elvis had weird mother fixations. They crave attention due to psychological childhood problems and probably had bad parents. Shit! I sound like Korn. We’ve got the benefit of hindsight watching ‘70s rock stars die in hotels sad and lonely on heroin or turned into a big fat version of themselves losing their wives and cars. It’s silly prancing around in a video charging a fortune for tickets while claiming you’re not a rock star.

For the grungy anthemic declaration, “Vanilla Radio,” you snub your nose at the formulaic fodder increasingly assaulting conservative mainstream airwaves.

GINGER: Bland beige crap radio forces the public to want it. It’s obvious the record buying majority allow rubbish to proliferate. I was a Jason & the Scorchers fan in the ‘80s, but couldn’t find their records. Meanwhile, Milli Vanilli was on every store’s racks. If the public wants mincing miming boys, they’re gonna take you right to hell.

In ’02, you recorded the rootsy “One Less Heartache” for Jason’s solo disc.

GINGER: He’s one of the most influential and lovely men in the business. There’s a lot of dickheads. When you meet someone like Jason, you’re like, ‘Fill my tank with goodness. Give me some fuel to get through this barrage of assholes.’

Why was your current Top 20 Brit hit, “Stormy In The North, Karma In The South,” only made available on Gearhead’s Riff After Riff comp?

GINGER: On Must Be Destroyed, I wanted to concentrate choruses to get a big anthemic vibe and “Stormy” didn’t have that. Plus, I wanted a 30-minute album, which takes balls in an industry of testosterone-fueled kids complaining how mom and dad hit them. So “Stormy” didn’t fit the theme. But I shouldn’t have been so possessive and put it in anyway.

But the sentimental monogamy ode, “One Love, One Life, One Girl,” goes against that thought.

GINGER: We thought, ‘Oh fuck, sounds like the Police! Could we get away with it?’ Yeah, if we admit it sounds like the Police. And it’s got that early U2/ REM vibe which is cool as fuck. It was just us bearing our sappy pop souls. There’s something deliciously hideous about pissed off blokes singing nice pop songs because pissy rap-metal Linkin Park songs are from the most well groomed, well grounded, happy band you’ll ever meet. They scream like their house is on fire and we’re four pissed off Northern guys singing ‘bout sticking with your girlfriend. There’s irony there that tears the fuck out of me.

GOOBERS & RAVEONETTES STAY ‘PRETTY IN BLACK’

May 14, 2009InterviewsRAVEONETTESJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: The Raveonettes really took off internationally after ‘03s Chain Gang Of Love served notice on a major label. When ’05s controversially cleaned-up pop flop, Pretty In Black, came out, I was still intrigued and did a phoner with vocalist-bassist Sharin Foo. But at this early juncture, the cordial Dane duo had received only underground exposure in America. That changed a bit with ‘08s amped-up minimalist retreat, Lust Lust Lust, which recaptured all the dusty excitement of ’02 debut, Whip It On. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

At this juncture, you’d figure only bald, aging, anachronistic Anglophile goobers would be interested gobbling up seminal early ‘60s reverb-saturated pop once seemingly doomed in a bygone era caught between Chuck Berry’s primordial ‘50s rock deluge and ‘64s astounding Beatlemania. But as newer generations discover the enthusiastic amateurism and captivating simplicity of early surf, hot rod, and space age bachelor pad music, the more musicians try to replicate and rejuvenate its vibrant resonant twang, masqueraded lyrical sexuality, and lost innocence.

During the ‘90s, Danish sojourner Sune Rose Wagner traveled to the States searching for like-minded musicians, residing in Manhattan’s then-perilous Hell’s Kitchen before moving to Hollywood. Ironically, only when the guitarist-vocalist headed back to Denmark did he find his perfect future partner, beautiful waxen blonde vocalist-bassist Sharin Foo. Together, the pretty pair parlayed their expansive ‘60s-styled chops to Wagner’s marvelously archaic originals, forming the Raveonettes (its moniker combines Buddy Holly’s anthemic “Rave On” with the Ronettes effeminate second syllable) and releasing ‘02s impulsively primal 8-song debut, Whip It On, for sprouting local indie, Crunchy Frog Records.

“We’re both nostalgic hopeless romantics,” Foo informs. “And ‘60s music has always been an inspiration.”

On their introductory EP, the maturing Copenhagen-based duo bleed ‘80s-etched shoegazer distortion into nifty psychobilly (“Attack Of The Ghost Riders”), a spellbinding ‘sultry sexy’ serenade (“Veronica Fever”), and the frenetic fuzz-festered frolic “Do You Believe Her.” Siren guitar-bass detonation “Cops On Our Tail,” a shimmering hallucinogenic car chase escapade climaxing with its creamy billowing ‘fuck you’ sendoff, became the rancorous kinetic pillar.

Signed to major label, Columbia Records, the Raveonettes hired accomplished producer Richard Gotteher (Go-Go’s/ Blondie/ Joan Armatrading) to man the boards on fabulous ’03 full-length treasure, Chain Gang Of Love, a more diversified affair sporting a black & white The Wild One-derived biker flick cover. Reflective balladic paean “Remember,” warped Country lament “”Love Can Destroy Everything,” majestic Wall of Sound cruiser “Heartbreak Stroll,” and syncopated chant-like resonation “The Love Gang” (with its immaculate “Chapel Of Love” harmonizing) offer slight departures from the overall scree proclivities. The elastic 007/James Bond hook guiding “Dirty Eyes (Sex Don’t Sell),” overrides a squelched synthesizer beat and the roaring Buddy Holly-aimed sequel “Let’s Rave On” finds Wagner duping Eddie Cochran’s engine-driven gee-tar rumble.

For ‘05s understated retreat, Pretty In Black, the Raveonettes settled at Joe Blaney’s retro-friendly Greenwich Village studio to re-create the more noir aspects of cautious pre-British Invasion guilelessness. Remarkably, the brittle weightlessness, scaled down tonal temperament, and feedback-free fretting plainly serve to broaden their rewarding collective vision.

Determinedly written as a post-Army Elvis salute, somber acoustic Pretty In Black opener “The Heavens” retains a heartfelt “Love Me Tender” ambiance perfectly underscored by crackling old vinyl static. Apropos sleigh bells and shakers fill out the vibrato guitar lullaby “Seductress Of Bums” and the blissful Ronnie Spector-modeled homage “Ode To L.A.” Interlocking surf and hot rod guitar slip into “You Really Got Me” interplay during psych-garage aphrodisiac “Love In A Trashcan.” Woo’s enticing moan haunts the staccato beatbox pulse consuming the cover of the Angels timeless girl group classic, “My Boyfriends Back.” And the extraterrestrial “Twilight” reinvests the Marketts unearthly “Out Of Limits” to keen effect.

Furthermore, Martin Rev (of gloom-punk mavens Suicide) offers ghostly keyboard spurts to dreamy sedation “Here Comes Mary” (an Everly Brothers knockoff bettering the similarly affectionate Hawaiian guitar-aided “If I Was Young”) and Moe Tucker (ex-Velvet Underground) brings a light percussive touch to several alluring throwbacks.

Pretty In Black is quite an enchanting semi-departure from your initial two releases.

SHARIN: We have moved away from the minimalist approach of playing all the songs in the same key with the same three chords. But the fact that there’s no fuzz, noise, and distortion and it sounds more organic and bigger just happened naturally. We actually recorded many more songs. When we went in to do the demos, initially we didn’t have the gadgets (we’d normally utilize). The songs ended up being written with clean guitars that were twangy rockabilly sounding. We thought it was charming. “Seductress Of Bums” was inspired by early rock duets like “Some Velvet Morning” (Nancy Sinatra & Lee Hazelwood) and Mickey & Sylvia.

Then there’s the “Apache”-like echoed guitar drone of “Sleepwalking,” a bustling turnabout.

SHARIN: When we were done, we realized how quiet the album was – low tempos, mellow sections – so we decided we had to have an up tempo song so we went in and recorded “Sleepwalking.”

Well, the remake of the Angels “My Boyfriend’s Back” also brightens the mood.

SHARIN: We were asked to do that for a computer game, Zombie. So it came together in a strange way. The soundtrack is ‘50s-‘60s songs reinterpreted by new bands. Doing “My Boyfriend’s Back” was quite ironic since we worked really close with the guy who wrote the song. We thought it’d be fun to work with Richard (Gotteher) in the studio again. It turned out to be a charming pop song we couldn’t resist putting on the album.

How has Richard Gotteher’s production helped the Raveonettes achieve the desired studio sound for the last two releases?

SHARIN: We fooled around in a friends’ studio we borrowed in Denmark for the EP, then found Richard. I met him in Berlin at a news conference and we started chatting. I knew about his experiences with Blondie and Richard Hell & the Voidoids. We stayed in touch. So I sent him an album with the Raveonettes on it and he absolutely loved it. We now have a close friendship. He’s our supervisor and guide to how to navigate this strange music industry. He’s an amazing source of energy and has great stories from back in the day. He’s really old school. He’s not into seedy sexy lyrics. He’ll say, “Why don’t you sing ‘a kiss on the cheek’ instead of ‘I’ll stain your sheet.’” He’s very old fashioned, a great music lover with an amazing approach to giving us the confidence to do what we do. We had grown up in small Denmark countryside towns and didn’t know each other. I grew up with music. My father was a rock and roll guitarist. He brought me on local tours so I got exposed to a lot of Velvet Underground, Beatles, and the Sonics. But Sune had to discover music himself, growing up in a non-musical environment. We ended up meeting each other in the small Copenhagen music scene and wanted to do the same thing.

Did the White Stripes success as a two-piece convince you to go out as a duo instead of a fuller band?

SHARIN: No. Sune wrote some songs in ’99 while traveling the States. When we started out we didn’t know the White Stripes existed. When we found out, we thought, “Cool!” More groups popped up and suddenly there was a scene. We thought maybe there’ll be an audience for music like this. But when we play live now, we’re a five-piece.

Going back to Whip It On for a sec. Was the harrowing “Cops On Our Tail” based on a true encounter?

SHARIN: (wild laughter) We didn’t exactly experience that. But like all the songs on that EP, it’s got a cinematic quality we shoot for – like a suite. It’s part fiction, part autobiographical. It’s not like we were actually held up by the police.

Wouldn’t Copenhagen police be more lenient towards petty crimes than the ever-conservative US cops?

SHARIN: Yeah. But those songs were written in L.A. and New York. So they’re more inspired by pseudo-Americana.

Was Chain Gang Of Love inspired at all by ‘80s garage legends the Lyres, Chesterfield Kings, and the Nomads?

SHARIN: The main inspiration goes back to basic songwriters like Buddy Holly. And if you listen to our vocal harmonies, it’s very Everly Brothers. And of course, the whole girl group era and all the noise bands like Jesus & Mary Chain were inspiring. We just wanna write good vintage pop songs. We reference great film noir, Alfred Hitchcock, and B movies – all that. It’s pastiche with a bit of homage and some parody maybe. Obviously, I love the Ramones and punk too. It’s all the good stuff mashed together and brought up to date.

CHRIS WHITLEY READILY JOURNEYING INTO ‘TERRA INCOGNITA’

May 14, 2009InterviewsCHRIS WHITLEYJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: The late Chris Whitley was a magical guitarist whom I was mesmerized by at the Knitting Factory in ’95. By that time he had become inspired by New York’s growing noise rock scene. Prior to ‘97 s Terra Incognita, I met Whitley at a lower Manhattan café to shoot the breeze. He was sincere, forthright, and smoked a lot.

Tragically, lung cancer killed him by age 45. Up to his untimely demise, he had continually put out great, yet under-recognized, albums. They include ‘98s earthy Dirt Floor (done in a Vermont log cabin), ‘00s Perfect Day (a covers LP done with Medeski Martin & Wood’s rhythm section), ‘04s poignant War Crimes, ‘05s Soft Dangerous Shores, and ‘06s Reiter In. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Immersed in mythical imagery and obsessive pathos, New York-based singer/ guitarist Chris Whitley smears obscure visions of Americana across desolate terrain. At a young age, his art-directing father and sculptor mother provided encouragement and support, allowing their son the freedom to develop his muse. A self-described “undisciplined musician,” he quit high school, became a street minstrel (way back in 1971!), and spent a few years in Belgium before releasing his critically acclaimed ’91 electronic folk gem, Living With The Law.

Following a four year hiatus, Whitley managed to put the restrained acoustic atmosphere of his debut aside for the abrasive, distortion saturated Din Of Ecstasy, an enterprising second set somewhat akin to the noise-rock experiments Neil Young managed on Freedom and Ragged Glory. He may’ve lost some of his less adventurous fans in the process, but its challenging 6-string prowess was undeniable.

On his latest, Terra Incognita, his slightly nasal baritone gently wavers in the wind, giving each original song even more distinction, clarity, and genuine sense of purpose than previous efforts.

“When I quit school, I was screwing around with semi-bluesy Muddy Waters/ Led Zeppelin/ ZZ Top stuff. I had practiced sight-reading and sight-piano but never kept it up. Instead, I learned the hard way – by playing notes and writing songs. I never found out where scales fit in nor was I theoretically inclined. But structurally, my music and lyrics are the architect of dynamics. I always believed the second verse could do as much as an inverted chord, but I had no practical note knowledge,” Whitley admits.

At age 17, his mother gave him $200 to go to New York, where his father would visit him from Vermont on weekends. Playing for change at Washington Square, Whitley worked at a deli before getting a gig at Mills Tavern in the Village.

Living in girlfriends’ dorm rooms and sometimes in the park, he broke down and rented an American Legion Hall “closet” for $130 per month by the time he was 21 years old. He moved to Europe and played blues-y funk in a contrived band, then made an independent record overseas that he claims “naively tried to be groovy mixing Ultravox with Kraftwerk using analog sequencers and Fairlight synthesizers.” After six years in Europe, he decided to go back to New York. He worked at a factory job and got a basement apartment for his Belgian wife and daughter.

“For two years I played a gig a week,” Whitley surmises. “One was a Saturday afternoon matinee gig with Blues Traveler before they were popular. At the Ludlow Cafe, I got back to playing slide guitar because I thought I had diluted myself. I focused on playing simple solo material. I didn’t care if I fit in with the folk-blues crowd, but I tried to be as clear as possible with the lyrics. Most of Living With The Law was written in Belgium when I tried to get away from designing songs and become more basic with my approach. Thanks to that albums’ “Poison Girl,” I found that I could get across to club patrons without spectacle. I was shocked when I got signed to do the first album. In New Orleans, I met producer Daniel Lanois, cleaned his house, and hung out with other musicians. But while Lanois was busy doing Peter Gabriel and U2 albums, I met Malcolm Burn, a young producer who didn’t intimidate me as much as Lanois.”

Hiring Burn to produce his stateside debut gave Whitley confidence, though he has a few misgivings about the project. He enjoyed the bleak, desert-like sound Bill Dillon played on the majority of guitar parts,but retrospectively, the lush tone could have been edgier for Whitley’s taste.

He claims, “The debut had a Canadian psychedelic folk element like a Robbie Robertson record. I had wanted a more stark, beautiful sound that was both scary and beautiful. But by Din Of Ecstasy, I was in position to have a trio which was like my icons of rock & roll: Cream, Hendrix, and Mountain – stuff I grew up with. The guitar hero thing died off, but appealed to me as a kid. Hendrix was so fluid with his whacked-out guitar. But he merged lyrics with music, the two essential forms of expression.”

With his marriage dissolving, Din Of Ecstasy became a personal statement about internal conflicts. Its blues-y metallic intensity and complicated structures gave it an edgy, unsettled feel.

Whitley recalls, “I learned to better link lyrical ideas with “Din Of Ecstacy.” It was a natural, organic growth that was aesthetically quite different from the first album. It’s not post-modern, but instead extreme soul music.”

Closer to the misty seclusion of Living With The Law, the brilliantly conceived Terra Incognita is Whitley’s most accessible, stable, and well constructed disc yet. Led by the woozy Dylanesque opener “Power Down,” the balmy, dramatic “Automatic,” the sonic retreat “Weightless,” and the implosive “Clear Blue Sky,” he whittles down each vignette to its bare essence. The spliced harp on the skewed “On Cue” and the creepy banjo on “Still Point” add spice to acoustic arrangements.

“I don’t trust abstract lyrics. Early David Byrne songs with the Talking Heads were not specific, but they were intent in clarity. Some of David Bowie’s records were also like that. Dylan could be too literal, but he has a sensual, subconscious resonation,” he explains. “If I could mumble into a Walkman before even thinking about what I want to say, I could almost hear the words I’d like to write. They don’t necessarily have to make sense. I also loved Nat King Cole, Burt Bacharach, and Gershwin because they favored intuition and instinct over intellect.”

As for his new songs, Whitley offers a few excellent assessments.

“The song “Automatic” just popped out one day when I was wondering why I couldn’t have it so easy. It’s cynical, sardonic commentary on disposability and the paradox surrounding people who are afraid to love. And “Clear Blue Sky” was written in Belgium during the ’80s while I was in bed crashing with my ex-wife. I had just broke up my band and was ready to move back to New York. It’s a blues song with a swing beat. I just wish it built up heavier on record. I tried to make it white noise with a repetitive riff emulating a hip-hop John Lee Hooker. And “Gasket,” originally my take on Industrial country jug band blues, has an inverted Howlin’ Wolf riff. It’s a modern greasy blues tune originally about how I never used condoms as a teen.”

RUFUS WAINWRIGHT’S GAY MESSIAH SURE TO ‘WANT ONE’

May 14, 2009InterviewsRUFUS WAINWRIGHTJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: I’ve spoken to Rufus Wainwright on several occasions at other musicians’ shows. He’s friendly, polite, and was reared by two semi-famous musical parents. So I was looking forward to speaking to the stylishly serenading tunesmith when the gorgeously orchestrated Want One dropped in ‘03. When we left off, the environmentally conscious gay-rights advocate was hoping to become more politically aware in order to rebuke fascist Republicans. After ‘04’s Want Two, Rufus came up with ‘05s splendid guest-filled Release The Stars and ‘07s Rufus Does Judy At Carnegie Hall (a ripe tribute to the late, respected Judy Garland).

Chasing away personal demons to rid deep depression becomes cumbersome, but soon skies brighten and beams of sunshine re-invigorate lost souls. Happily, composer Rufus Wainwright overcame the trauma of alcohol indulgence and speed abuse to return stronger than ever. Musically gifted son of satirical singer-songwriter Loudon Wainwright III and folk romanticist Kate Mc Garrigle (one-half of Montreal’s resplendent Mc Garrigle Sisters), the resurrected Rufus reconvened his recording career after a short October 2002 rehabilitation.

Learning to play piano at age six, Rufus Wainwright toured with the Mc Garrigles alongside sister, Martha (also a respected performer), by thirteen, getting nominated a year hence for the equivalent of a Canadian Oscar with the composition “I’m A Runnin.’” By ’98, his self-titled first album of original ‘modern standards’ turned heads due to its oblique pre-rock leanings, baroque elegance, Chamber pop twists, and informed Classical nuances. Recondite string conductor-producer Van Dyke Parks (fresh from his ’95 Brain Wilson collaboration Orange Crate Art) and French Canadian multi-instrumentalist Pierre Marchand (who’d scored hits with crooner Sarah Mc Lachlan) lent a hand, as did veteran rock sessionmen Jim Keltner (drums) and Benmont Tench (keyboards). The gorgeously yearning serenade, “April Fools,” found radio daylight, securing an eclectic audience for the eccentric, seductive tenor.

For ‘01s evocative Poses, Wainwright’s baritone gained further assuredness as he nailed leftover material from his promising debut. Now living in New York City’s Chelsea District, the fragile artist succumbed to reckless self-destructive behavior by the time 9-11 shook the foundation surrounding his pacific neighborhood. While finalizing rehab, Wainwright began drafting “Want,” the auspicious titular theme framing an exciting new chapter.

Linking ecstasy, passion, and pain, the Manhattan transfer courageously exposes his most vulnerable lyrics on the reflective Want One (a second installment, Want Two, is expected shortly). Experienced producer Marius deVries’ rich orchestral tapestries – whose embellishments adorn the works of top-notch pop artists such as Madonna, Bjork, Massive Attack, and David Bowie – give a sweeping dramatic splendor to Wainwright’s thoughtful vistas and complex arrangements.

The hymnal bolero “Oh What A World” drifts through childhood remembrances, the New York skyline, and Broadway show tune “Memories,” building to a plush string crescendo. “Movies Of Myself” embraces more innocent recollections, gaining sturdy guitar resilience from guest Charlie Sexton while comparing favorably to Todd Rundgren’s best beat-driven Something/Anything tracks (ironic, considering both albums were made at Woodstock’s soon-to-be-closed Bearsville studio). Penned as a lovingly bitchy lament to his Boston Public father and featuring his mother on accordion, the gently swaying “Dinner At Eight,” confronts heartbreaking rebelliousness compassionately.

How did Want One shape up?

RUFUS WAINWRIGHT: I definitely pulled out all stops for this record and its follow-up, Want Two. I went into the studio, none of this was planned, and the war was starting in Iraq. Marius is an extremely efficient, polite, diplomatic producer. I had dealt with some major personal issues. We just started working and shot out thirty tracks. We ended up with two records. At first, I wanted to do a double LP. The record label was weary and I don’t want my listener’s heads to explode. So I thought of an installment deal because it reminds me of a Victorian novel. In terms of marketing, we didn’t want any strikes against Want One. There are certain songs my fans know from concert, like “Gay Messiah,” that are on Want Two. I didn’t want to edit, cut down, or bleep anything and I wanted to get into Wal-Mart, at least the first part. Then, the second part, you could sell at Barnes & Nobles.

Are you the “Gay Messiah”?

RUFUS: No. I’m Rufus the Baptist. I won’t be the one baptizing in come. It’s my take on religious right wing attitude towards the politics in the world. I can’t even enter into the debate because in terms of those religions, gays don’t exist. So I created the “Gay Messiah,” who rectifies the situation.

Were you brought up religious?

RUFUS: I was never baptized, but I was brought up in a very Catholic environment and school – not so much household – but I had to go to church. I wasn’t allowed to take Communion. I wasn’t allowed to do Confession. I think my mother wanted to put me through extreme hell. (laughter) In a weird way, I wasn’t part of the church, but the Bible stories are pretty amazing. I’m happy I went now. At least I know the enemy.

Your mother and Aunt Anna have angelic hymnal voices. Did they sing church choir?

RUFUS: Quebec is haunted by the Catholic Church as a province of mind. There was a cultural revolution in the ‘60s – no, that was China. It was maybe the Silent Revolution. It was real anti-Catholic. They went from having the highest birthrate in the world to the lowest. So the church haunts everyone.

Did the circumstances of 9-11, rehab, and other adversities play a part in Want One’s development?

RUFUS: It did. You’re right. I don’t think it’s necessarily adversity so much as dealing with adversity, getting out of adversity, and realizing life is worth living and regaining hope. This record’s positive in many ways – on the upswing. I was practically born onstage. My first crib was a guitar case and I always associated performance with love and songwriting with social standing. For many years, I wasn’t aware I was a person like everybody else. That person who was ignored came back and whipped me in the ass when I hit thirty.

The flourishing orchestral dirge “Go Or Go Ahead” resonates with personal defeat.

RUFUS: That song was a gift from hell. I definitely had to pull in a lot of favors from a vast amount of mythological tales or lessons taught by my father. I had to grab all those things in my life to keep it together. That song encapsulates much of that.

On the other hand, radiant piano and prominent horns give “14^th Street” a celebratory feel.

RUFUS: That’s the triumphant return. I was recently in Paris. They put me up in the Arc of Triumph, and that reminded me a lot of that song – a big triumphant arch. The knight returning home from battle.

The vocal arrangement for “Vicious World” reminded me of Todd Rundgren.

RUFUS: That’s in homage to Brian Wilson. Hats off to Brain for the harmony parts.

Pure vocalists are hard to find nowadays.

RUFUS: I like Thom Yorke (of Radiohead). Beth Orton is great. I also love Edith Piaf, Serge Gainsbourg. Then again, I’ve been listening to Chicks On Speed’s “We Don’t Play Guitars” for fun.

Cole Porter has been mentioned as your mentor.

RUFUS: He’s the man in terms of molding lyrics and music into one big fat punch. I definitely love Cole Porter’s ability to on the one hand be dry, calculating, and economical and on the other, really rip your heart out – which I think, is completely lost these days.

Besides Schubert, who are Classical influences?

RUFUS: I’m enamored with Schubert because he was basically the first songwriter ever, especially on the piano. He took the song form out of the folk realm and made it into a powerful epic journey. He performed a lot of his songs alone at the piano. He’s the seed or plant I grew out of. I owe him a lot. There’s more emotion, guts, and beauty in one moment of his music than there is in entire operas by other composers. He has these little supernatural gems in his music. So I aspire to him. But my main love is Russian, French, and German opera by Puccini, Verdi, Wagner, and Strauss. It literally happened overnight. I relate to opera in terms of my life as a teenager because when I was 14 I knew I was gay and AIDS was making its first big noise. Being gay was related with death. So I related to that desperation.

How do Van Dyke Parks string arrangements on your debut compare to deVries work on Want One?

RUFUS: Van Dyke Parks basically wrote string arrangements for the first album. He’s responsible for me being signed. He heard my tape through a friend and said, ‘This guy has to be signed’ and went straight to Lenny (Waronker-label exec). I owe everything to Van Dyke. Marius, after many debacles, became the perfect producer for me. I have lots of ideas before going in the studio. I just spew out tangles, which some producers hated, or were intimidated by. Marius was excited by what I had to say and enjoyed the process. I’d get my rocks off and go away, he’d do his thing, and by the end, we’d get out big machetes, chop stuff out, and make a sculpture.

What hobbies do you have outside music?

RUFUS: I go to the opera and enjoy cross-country skiing. I read more to get smart so I could argue better against Republicans.

Have you read Al Franken’s Liars and the Lying Liars That Tell Them?

RUFUS: I just bought that book. I think it’s all out war next year against the bad guys in the Bush administration. It’s important to have certain ideals; otherwise they’ll be taken from you.

If you need satirical sociopolitical advice, go to your father, Loudon.

RUFUS: (laughter) I probably will. He’s living in L.A. now.

WRENS WINNINGLY SALUTE ‘THE MEADOWLANDS’

May 14, 2009InterviewsNEW JERSEY ROCK, WRENSJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: Here’s a great local Jersey crew I’ve been friendly with since ’96. I remember taking Jerry Mac Donnell out to look for a place when I did real estate by day. Unfortunately, the owner thought it was wiser to rent to an old lady instead of a few young kids.

But it sure took the Wrens a long time to get the respect they so rightly deserved ever since they started home recording in the mid-’90s. Their formative ’94 debut, Silver, showed promise, but ‘96s splendid Secaucus, admired by underground plaudits, failed to connect beyond cult status. Happily, ‘03s masterful The Meadowlands reached a wider audience that paid concert dividends. Since each member maintained a regular job when we hooked up to promote The Meadowlands, that’s undoubtedly the reason the release of their fourth LP has been delayed.

This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Maintaining integrity, purpose, and a sense of humor while defying the adverse temptation to call it a day becomes the vexing dichotomy many ripened musicians face. Against all odds, durable New Jersey quartet, the Wrens, persevered. Despite getting kicked out of the basement-flooded house they rented (accounting for the domicile title to ‘96s 19-song masterwork Secaucus), fleeing to Fort Lee for five years (sans married father, drummer Jerry Mac Donnell), and receiving lukewarm response by shifty label scouts, the vexed combo managed survival. Moreover, the closely-knit crew hadn’t dropped new material since ‘98s nifty Abbott 1135 EP and thereupon defiantly erased fresh tracks seemingly readied for release at a drunken ‘02 celebration.

“Do you quit your dream or continue to push forward? You don’t have to be a tortured artist to feel neglected. Our active reality is we have real day jobs,” singer-bassist Kevin Whelan surmises as we pound down two-for-one beers at the back patio of teensy Avenue A bar, Boxcars.

Seven years his senior, brother Greg Whelan (guitar-vocals) insists, “In the early ‘90s, it was hard to get a gig. Everyone wanted to hear punk-metal and we played geeky rock. We thought someone would discover us at every show.”

Befriending the band during their Secaucus daze, I feel a part of the Wrens admirable history, having conducted an earlier interview at the dank home studio built inside their former humble abode and later taking Mac Donnell out to look for rental housing prior to their Fort Lee move.

Way back in ’89, the Wrens first unveiled a formative demo and tried to open for new wave leftovers the Fixx, but the gig was up when Randolph club Obsessions cancelled the date due to lackluster ticket sales. Lady luck finally struck when Grass Records’ Camille Sciara got them signed, garnering fair attention for ‘94s commendable debut, Silver. As utterly timeless as better known post-Nevermind underground benchmarks including Liz Phair’s Exile In Guyville, PJ Harvey’s Dry, Guided By Voices’ Bee Thousand, and Jack Logan’s Bulk, the sprawling 23-song, 68-minute marathon hints at the compositional brilliance and melodic intrigue its impending sequels would expedite. The anxiously fastidious “Napiers” and siren guitar blaster “Darlin’ Darlin’” carry the torch passed on from local suburban ‘80s minimalist pop legends the Feelies.

Highly independent mutually bonded brethren, the Wrens truly exposed genuine bohemian spirit on the fertile Secaucus, a veritable magnum opus that disturbingly slipped below media radar. Distressingly, Grass folded into mega-millionaire Alan Meltzer’s Wind Up Records (responsible for ham-fisted rockers Creed), which stopped promotional support because the band rejected one-sided contract terms.

Guitarist-singer Charles Bissell admits, “After Secaucus, we made Abbott 1135 for Camille’s short-lived Ten 23 label. We were finished with our label and needed money generated so we could tour. So we decided to put out an EP. People latched on to the story songs so we figured out what we needed to do. The EP was like one giant story told five ways with different perspectives and characters.”

Initially slated for longtime advocates Richard and Stephanie Reines’ bustling Drive Thru Records, but wary of MCA’s corporate distribution, the Wrens overdue The Meadowlands finally found refuge at trusty chum Cory Brown’s tiny Absolutely Kosher. Trading the naïve innocence and playful insouciance of Secaucus for the assured candor and structural cohesion of its intricately detailed long-play follow-up, the Wrens once again stepped into public access.

Reliant more on delicately entrancing acoustic gems than fast-paced romps, The Meadowlands’ ethereal soft focus dreamscapes divulge deeper revelations in a compelling manner past endeavors only attempted. Incisively thoughtful lyrics and technically brilliant production replaced the adolescent exasperation and amateur DIY enthusiasm of yore.

“The House That Guilt Built” gushes ‘It’s been so long since you’ve heard from me/ got a wife and kid that I never see,’ an opening salvo which may only specifically ring true for Mac Donnell. But the overstated melancholy of the next couplet, ‘I’m nowhere near what I dreamed I’d be/ can’t believe what life’s done to me,’ toils in the nagging anguish most spurned artists endure.

“Jerry was a busboy at a casino. His wife got pregnant and he decided to step it up. We didn’t see him much during the making of the record. He laid down his tracks, left, and that’s what we used – the same drums from five years ago,” the younger Whelan explains.

“Which is why it took so long to write a record,” his older brother comments. “There’d be five, six versions. Your hands are still tied when you have to use the drums, but you change the melody and chord progression, especially now that it’s an entirely different song. It was a completely backward way to do things. You could lose your perspective after awhile. We try to mix in different songs and have the whole record tie in.”

It’s a trilogy,” Bissell jokes before seizing seriousness. “We changed “Miss You,” which went from a loud cock rock guitar explosion to a demure thing with much better vocals. Then, we did that to all the songs.”

Kevin adds, “It was crazy. We worked on the songs for four years, changed them almost completely, and said ‘fuck it.’ We thought what we’d done was a piece of shit. We’d lost perspective on what we wanted to do. But no one could tell we drifted up our own butts.”

As per The Meadowlands’ titular Garden State swamp roots, Greg infers, “It’s about writing what you know and the shit that goes down in our home state. We give so much credit to Jersey, but we get no respect. (The small town bruised romanticism of) “Thirteen Grand” celebrates Jersey. We talk about Cape May (where the Whelan brothers originated). “She Sends Kisses” (a neo-Classical respite) is about South Jersey. There’s one (the ticking dirge “13 Months In 6 Minutes”) where I’m meeting someone at Newark airport.”

In a similar vein, the jittery fuzz-toned flank, “Per Second Second,” matches perfectly inaudible blurbs to nightmarish Weird New Jersey gloom.

“That song bedeviled me,” Bissell testifies. “At the end, the guys said to make it an instrumental. It was literally a dream I had, top to bottom. Jesus pulled up from his car and I was dead and we gathered other dead people.”

“No. That’s real. This is a dream,” Kevin abruptly teases.

To roundup, Bissell’s bitter, twisted lullaby “Ex-Girl Collection” juxtaposes typical broken-hearted sentiments by fucking over the lass at hand. But fiercer still is the surefire sonic scrambler “Faster Gun,” a zooming stratospheric buildup contrasting, at least in sound, the sedate longing of “Happy” and the plaintive desperation of “Boys, You Won’t.”

Ironically positioned as warm-up act for long-time Omaha buddies Cursive, whose popularity recently surged with ‘03s magnificent The Ugly Organ, the Wrens kept a curious Bowery Ballroom crowd attentive mid-September. Though leaning on the compulsive hard driving numbers biting at the heels of appreciative fans, they varied tempos, fully surrendering to earnestly introspective sedatives when the mood struck. While the rest of the band concentrated on the song at hand with business-like acumen, wily Kevin took the edge off by acting the clown on-stage, jumping from speakers, giddily pilfering overused ‘60s rock maneuvers, and babbling quirky between-song innuendoes.

“Live, when you do the slower songs, you sometimes have to hit someone over the head to wake them up. So we rely on faster ones,” Kevin reckons.

As for future endeavors, he urges, “We don’t wanna make a Don Henley record where we’re boring people to tears,” perhaps referring to “Hole In The World,” the Eagles brooding comeback single. “We’ve moved into our next house and a large cloud has been lifted.”

VISQUEEN’S ‘KING ME’

May 14, 2009InterviewsRACHEL FLOTARD, VISQUEENJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: Visqueen’s lead voice, Rachel Flotard, rifles through hard rockin’ blazers with the best of ‘em. Her fiery declarations on ‘03s King Me capture lusty heart-wrecked emotions with first-rate furor and passion. On ’04 follow-up, Sunset On Dateland, Visqueen reliably bashed through another fine batch of high-energy tunes.

They opened for Cheap Trick and the Donnas, gaining some underground hype. I caught ‘em at Maxwells in Hoboken for a brisk ’03 headlining set. Afterwards, Ronnie Barrett, who backed another powerhouse female vocalist (the Muffs’ commanding Kim Shattuck), replaced ex-Fastbacks bassist Kim Warnick (who was then supplanted by the bands’ producer, Barrett Jones). But ’09s Letter To Garcia was released on a small boutique label and I haven’t heard it in full. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Growing up in Creskill, former Jersey girl Rachel Flotard escaped high priced Bergen County for the more affordable, affable Seattle during the ‘90s. It was there the neophyte rhythm guitarist got her first job at fabulous Pike Brewing before hooking up with drummer Ben Hooker and two femmes in local favorites, Hafacat. After a few respectable recordings, Hafacat disbanded, leaving Flotard and Hooker to find common ground with trusty bassist Kim Warnick, whose impressive decade-plus musical collaboration with Kurt Bloch in the Fastbacks had come to a close.

Taking their deviously regal moniker from a protective mobile home tarp, Visqueen quickly gained regional airplay with their inaugural 7-inch single, “Vaxxine,” an engine-driven guitar stinger backed with “His Way” – written for Flotard’s soul music-loving construction working father. In fact, the raucous A-side opens their frothily frenetic long-play debut, King Me, with a bang, as denim-clad Flotard’s excitable echo-drenched alto reverberates above clamorous instrumentation.

Recorded over a busy weekend, the whip-smart trio hired grunge producer Barrett Jones (Nirvana/ Melvins) to work on its ten truculent tracks, which perfectly combine spontaneous garage-rock spunk, cocksure molten metal crunk, and ramshackle adrenaline-fueled punk. Best blared loudly, each perky number rumbles through the cranium, hitting so hard it’s almost possible to feel the perspiration dripping off the clever combo’s collective brows.

Flotard disperses desperate exasperation on the boisterous “Last To Know,” exorcising skidmarks on her heart by heaving out the cantankerous choral climax ‘falling apart at the seams.’ Better yet, the bustling blast of ruffled riffs, “Zirconium Gum,” zooms through sociopolitical lyrics concerning black-lunged African diamond miners while the spectacular turbo-charged whirlwind, “Sailor,” spins out of control, crashing into a magnificent ascending ‘millenium’ crescendo.

Touring with vital underground luminaries such as the Supersuckers, the Muffs, and Mr. T Experience has provided valuable exposure. When I catch up with Visqueen, they’re enjoying the bucolic splendor of Mendocino, California’s wine country following a 12-hour ride from Eugene, Oregon on the way to a Los Angeles gig. During downtime, Flotard, Hooker, and Warnick hope to ride mules across the Grand Canyon.

Did you expect King Me to receive such critical acclaim?

RACHEL: We put this record out thinking our mom’s would hate it and our neighbor would be the only one to buy it. But it’s gone farther than we expected.

Who were your formative influences?

RACHEL: I listened to New York radio while living in suburban Jersey. It was the late ‘80s – Anthrax, Metallica – everything hot guys would listen to. I bought tapes and CD’s from Bob at Flipside in Closter. I loved ‘80s pop, new wave, Elton John, Led Zeppelin, and Classic Rock. I also enjoy hip-hop. That ‘80s rock-rap thing Run DMC and the Beastie Boys did was cool and Monie Love was great. It’s music that moves your ass. Anyway, the guys from Dog Eat Dog went to my school so I thought I’d love to play guitar. I learned from an ex-boyfriend, kept playing, moved to Seattle after a girlfriends’ wedding out there, and couldn’t believe people could actually afford to live in a house out there with a good size yard for $1,000 rent. I thought if I never saw Route 4 and 17 again, I’d be fine. If I ever get dragged through Filene’s Basement again with my mom, I’ll kill myself. So I sat in my Seattle basement apartment with a knife under my pillow in the safest neighborhood in the world. I made great friends and answered an ad for a rhythm guitarist in a hilarious band. It was the first time I played standing up in fron tof people.

Afterwards, Ben and I were in Hafacat with two other girls. It was your typical Runaways punk rock. This girl, Mandy, wrote the songs. Then, I learned about structure and arrangements. But I didn’t have that edgy willfulness that punk rockers had. I was like, ‘Let’s listen to Blue Oyster Cult and Boston, go out in a field, and get high.’ So between Mandy and I, the punk became more melodic. I started writing songs myself, trusting my voice, and not being afraid to look like a complete jackass. Then, Hafacat broke up and I learned about recording from my friend, Barrett Jones (Nirvana/ Melvins/ Foo Fighters), who produced Visqueen. Ben and I got Kim to join.

There aren’t enough female rockers getting proper representation.

That’s true. There’s a few times you feel like, ‘Where is everybody?’ It’s like Planet of the Apes. Guys come up and say we sound like Veruca Salt or the Muffs, comparing us to any girl band because they have no reference to base it on. That’s annoying. But there’s such a limited vault of female bands. Then again, people think we’re a punk band. I don’t think so. We have the attitude. We’re going for it when we should know better. But I don’t know a lot of female fronted bands besides Pretenders, Go-Go’s, Patti Smith Group.

What else are you exposed to mainstream-wise? Someone compared Visqueen to melodic ‘70s punk bands Rezillos and Buzzcocks.

Sure. That’s in a similar vein. I don’t use guitar pedals. It’s straightforward, simple. I love singing more than I ever have. You can play a song that has basic chords, chuck them around punk style, but my trick is to find the melody and pull it out of a note that might not come to you originally. Then suddenly, it’s the only chord that fits there. That’s the ultimately satisfying finishing-a-crossword-puzzle kind of feeling. Find something that works where it couldn’t possibly.

The beauty is your terse songs encapsulate multiple moods in mere three-minute modules.

Thanks. I hope we don’t get boring. We’re getting ready to do a record in March ’04.

Will Barrett Jones produce it and will it be a slight departure?

I’m not gonna go all “Every Rose Has A Thorn” on you (referring to Poison’s balladic metal hit) We’ve got a year under our belts. Our song structures are a bit different but it’s still rocking. We’re trying different things. We want to record with different people to make each record unique. We’ve been talking to Phil Ek (Built To Spill). He’s from our way. Phil’s view may be different and he’ll have some tricks up his long, gangly sleeves. We’ve been playing four or five new tracks live. Some are in pieces in the closet.

Rumor is you re-recorded King Me because the initial version lacked spontaneity and energy.

Yeah. We’d done a killer demo with Barrett. But did you ever see Small Wonder with the robot girl who lives with the family from 20 years ago? It sounded like that chick recorded it. So we did it again. Barrett said, ‘Fuck this! We’ll do this over the weekend by just rolling tape for three hours.’

How’d the boutique label Blue Disguise get to release King Me?

Pete Hilgendorf, an artist-designer friend of ours, started it around our debut 7″ single. He came to a Visqueen show and said one of our songs reminded him of the Kinks “Better Things.” He thought one of our songs mentioned blue disguise, but it was ‘bluest eyes.’ He’s taken other local bands and started working the same formula for them.

I hear you like reading gossip on the road.

It’s hilarious. Fucking J-Lo and Ben Affleck need their heads checked. Once you get to the point where you’re living in an alternate universe, reality is forever gone. If I were Britney Spears living in hicksville Louisiana before being famous and got millions of bucks I’d flip out after a couple years. She ended up marrying someone for 55 hours. Dude, Chris Rock said it best: here today, gone today. Could you imagine the scumbags around Britney? I mean, I’m still trying to find a booking agent.

-John Fortunato

THE REPUTATION READY ‘TO FORCE A FATE’

May 13, 2009InterviewsTHE REPUTATIONJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: Another band that had so much potential but fell apart too soon. The Reputation, led by wailing soprano, Elizabeth Elmore, was rapidly touring to reach maximum accessibility on influential Green Day-sponsored pop-punk label, Lookout Records. But when Green Day left the label, Lookout’s money revenue dried up and the Rep called it quits after two potent albums. Elmore, who was working on a law degree at the time we spoke in ’04, no doubt pursued legal work after her bands’ untimely 2006 demise.

Growing up in a conservative Champaign, Illinois, family, The Reputation’s Elizabeth Elmore became politically savvy at an early age.

“I grew up knowing a lot of Republicans. So it’s easier for me to avoid the whole demonizing thing because my parents were socially liberal moderate Republicans,” left-leaning Elmore offers.

Happily, the prideful Democrat’s music interest gave her the emotional release needed to counterbalance Northwestern University law school studies. During the ‘90s, she fronted superb Chicago band, Sarge, recording three critically acclaimed sets: Charcoal, The Glass Intact, and Distant. Caressing engaging power pop melodies filled with pulsating hooks, Elmore’s provocatively pristine soprano flings volatile vitriol towards former acquaintances, eloquently elucidating inviting clear-toned harmonies that gain easy access to your heart before tearing it apart. A scrappy cover of Nancy Sinatra’s liberating “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’” convincingly emancipates Elmore. When Sarge broke up, the singer-guitarist-keyboardist subsequently recruited another batch of musicians christened The Reputation.

Quicker tempos, sharper trebly resonation, richer guitar radiance, and if possible, a more luxuriant sheen, mark The Reputation’s positively intoxicating ’02 self-titled debut. As with Sarge, the general upbeat tone gets beautifully contrasted by abrasively defiant verses.

For their tidy second disc, To Force A Fate, Elmore enlisted local pal Sean Hulet (guitar), Joel Root (bass), and Matt Espy (drums) to surround the abject remorse and seductive vulnerability she so desirously verbalizes. Slightly more diverse than its predecessor, To Force A Fate winningly blends fresh-faced streamlined pop (vibrant opener “Let It Rest”), triumphant orchestral laments (such as the homeward bound “Bone-Tired”), and shimmering acoustic retreats with profoundly enhanced confidence.

Tumbling piano anchors the steely-eyed conviction of the anguished “Follow-Through Time.” Stinging guitar momentum fires up the cranky love-scorned “Bottlerocket Battles” and shiny guitar jangling amplifies the soothingly constraint complaint “The Lasting Effect.”

I caught up with Elmore at her Chicago home following An ‘04 national tour to promote The Reputation’s latest work.

Compare To Force A Fate to The Reputation’s debut.

ELIZABETH ELMORE: I don’t listen to my own records. I’m too anxious and critical so I don’t have proper distance or perspective. There were bigger rockers on the first album. But I’m proud of the slower stuff on the new record. To Force A Fate was more collaborative. The bass-guitar lines are stronger. I like working with detail and nuance in the studio. On “Follow-Through Time,” Sean wrote the bass line and I wrote the rest of the song around it. I’d never done that before – writing around other people’s parts. But live, I like to do the faster songs.

How’d you meet Sean?

E.E.: He was in the band Marino when I got to know him. They had Hum-like undertones. Sean sings backup live. I’ve been pushing him to sing more since he left Marino. He was in a really heavy rock band and I got him to sing “The Lasting Effects” with me. He’s like, “Great. I’m singing on the wussie, touchy feely song.” On “Bottlerocket Battles,” we sing all the vocals together. It’s about us fighting. It provides really good release onstage every night because we could yell back and forth at each other.

How’d you get John Davis of Q And Not U to offer up the accusatory elegy “March”?

E.E.: We’re long suffering 4-track tape traders working under the name Cosmopolitan making geeky ‘70s light rock songs for the past five years. When the Rep started touring initially, we only had five songs of our own, so we covered friends’ songs. That one was never recorded and kids were asking for it so we decided to do it. It’s a pretty song.

You don’t sound like Liz Phair, but she’s also from the Windy City, independently free spirited, lyrically provocative, and intellectually expressive. Was she influential?

I was a huge Liz Phair fan. I got Exile In Guyville when I was 17. Within two months, I got to meet her at a Champaign bar and talk to her for a half-hour in ’93. She was lovely to me. That was a few years before I started writing. Her more provocative, dirty lyrics may be a little sensationalistic, but I have a high girly voice. So even though I have a tendency to sing what I think, I’m not that filthy. (laughter)Who else influenced you?

In college, I spent time listening to Jawbox and Shudder To Think. But I grew up on old Country and bluegrass. My dad would play guitar and there was a great alt-Country Chicago scene that exposed me to more stuff. I played Classical until I was 18 on piano. I didn’t discover nor have any concept of punk until I was 17. There’s some Sarge stuff that’s reminiscent of Velocity Girl or Small Factory. But I got into cheesy ‘80s classic rock and Fleetwood Mac. Everyone in Sarge liked Journey and I’d bitch about that. Finally, I gave Journey love. It’s good driving music.

Getting back to Fleetwood Mac, I think your soulful earnestness is similar to Christine Mc Vie’s, though your lyrics are more cutting.

The weird thing is many people think my lyrics are about romance. But only half the songs were. The last Rep record, there were only three romantic-type songs. For this one, there are only one or two specifically about romanticism. Some transcend it. Only “Follow-Through Time,” “Lasting Effects,” and maybe “Cartograph,” are about anyone I had a relationship with. I tend to have intense relationships with men that are problematic on many levels. But if you’re a girl and there’s a ‘he’ in the song, everyone thinks it’s romantic.

“The Ugliness Kicking Around” is an interesting neo-Classical dirge.

We cover (Elvis Costello’s) “Almost Blue” on the first record. That’s similar going into three minutes of French horns and strings. So for “Ugliness,” I’d just got a keyboard from Wilco’s Jay Bennett. I had it in my room and I’d go home drunk after the bars drinking beer and smoking and that song came pretty fast. Joel was an upright bassist originally. He did the string arrangement, which adds a lot.

You should give that tune to Rufus Wainwright. (laughter) After that, you end the album with “Bone-Tired,” a traveling ode with trumpet, tenor sax, and trombone.

We didn’t think we were gonna put that on the record because it had no lyrics. We weren’t comfortable with it and hadn’t played it live. Finally, we took it to the studio thinking we’d strip it down and save it for an acoustic version. I said, “Let’s try it. If it sucks, I won’t use it.” But we got a cool organ sound and the vocals down and everyone loved it. I thought “Ugliness” was such a dark song that I wanted “Bone-Tired” to lighten the mood. I didn’t think anything else would work.

What did producer Mike Hagler bring to the recording?

Mike had worked with Wilco, Neko Case, and other amazing stuff (by Billy Bragg, Handsome Family, New Pornographers). I thought he’d push us in the studio. He plays a mean tambourine and looks funny doing it. But since I haven’t listened to the record, I’m not sure how I feel about it. He was saying how big amps sometimes sound smaller in the studio. So literally every guitar track but one was done through vintage 10 to 15 inch combo amps. That was cool because I wanted the guitars to be more diverse and rangy. It’s sleazy to use Pro Tools, but I got to take parts from different things and punch them in.

Will you ever revisit Sarge’s material?

No. They were a totally different band. If I play solo, I’ll do those songs. Otherwise it’s disrespectful to the Rep. The first couple tours, someone would yell out for a Sarge song and I’d have to go, “I think you’re thinking of another band. Sorry.”

What will you be doing with your law degree?

I graduated four months ago. I got three weeks off. Then I have to get licensed in October. As long as the band is still going, entertainment law may be something I’ll do privately. I do have law school loans and I need money that isn’t going to come from the Reputation. I’m a big artists rights freak. I had a triple concentration on Civil Litigation and Dispute Resolution, Social Policy & Assets, and Public Interest. So functionally I’m interested in litigation. I can do the sleaziest litigation and be happy because I’m made to be a trial attorney. But I’d like to work in social policy.

-John Fortunato

ROONEY ‘CALLING THE WORLD’ VIA CALIFORNIA POP

May 13, 2009InterviewsROONEYJohn Fortunato

FOREWORD: Saw Rooney at the Meadowlands’ Izod Center March of 2008, opening for Jersey-born Disney idols, Jonas Brothers. My daughter, Nicki (a huge Jonas Brother fan) and I got to sit front row. I always thought I got special treatment that evening because the Jonas’ remembered me from an Irving Plaza interview. As for Rooney, their catchy hand-me-down pop really won me over before the screaming girls took over the arena for the latest teen dreams. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Sharing a mutual admiration for classic rock and roll at Winward High School, Rooney front man Robert Schwartzman and classmate, bassist Matthew Winter, honed their craft alongside Santa Monica Crossroads student, guitarist Taylor Locke. Son of Rocky actress, Thalia Shire (‘yo Adrian!’) and younger brother of famed actor (and Phantom Planet drummer) Jason Schwartzman, Robert learned to compose at age 16 when his mom bought him a 4-track demo machine.

On Rooney’s dazzling eponymous ’03 entree, the green California quintet sported mop-top Beatles haircuts, came off refreshingly naïve and slightly unpolished (compared to their next project) conveying a tangible ecstatic buoyancy elevating their urgent adolescent emotionalism, contagious retro hooks, and beaming flights of fancy. Mod Fab 4/ ELO-styled harmonies shored up indelibly posh neon signpost, “Blueside.” Throughout, Ned Brower’s sturdy elemental drumming and Louie Stevens’ varicolored keyboard textures efficiently girded the guileless effort.

Keeping pretty boy pretensions in check, these gleaming ‘70s-obsessed pop spires sculpt embracing melodic tunes full of scrutinized love-struck choruses countering heavy issues with cheery elocution. Fluctuating easily between fast-to-slow tempos and hard-to-soft tonal variance, Rooney’s transitory multihued mood shifts tidily in accordance with the expressively traversed elegies put forth. The long delay between their debut and belated ‘07 follow-up, Calling The World (Cherrytree), proved prudent, bolstering Schwartzman’s ebulliently restive self-examinations while reinforcing the immaculate totality threefold.

Calling The World’s convincing balladic title track opens the estimable set with solemnly climactic sensitivity, recalling serpentine Beatlesque knockoffs such as Klaatu and the Rutles. Earnest bass-thumped guitar-clipped orchestral, “When Did Your Heart Go Missing,” nicks Phil Spector’s Wall Of Sound. Teenybopper anthem, “Love Me Or Leave Me,” nips at the Cars familiar new wave keyboard riffing to energize its desirous intent while heavenly blissful trinket, “What For,” drapes “My Sweet Lord”-derived slide above a cozy retreat.

Though preciously smoother slow songs may turn off rock snobs, syrupy sympathetic allegory “Tell Me Soon” fervently drips sticky saccharine sweetness atop veteran conductor Steve Lu’s eloquent string arrangements and befuddled cry-in-your-soda tearjerker “All In Your Head” pleads for absolution. Piano-tinged violin-laden neo-Classical closer, “Help Me Find My Way,” also merits mainstream girly action.

Adorably heartfelt moderate-paced mini-opus, “I Should’ve Been After You,” an arty prog-leaning departure in which Stevens’ keyboards seem redolent of Kansas and the euphoniously uplifting voices resemble prime Raspberries and Big Star, manages to tug heartstrings as well as shake tail feathers. Just as charmingly lithesome, “Don’t Come Around Again” aims for straight-up pure pop nirvana, tossing Locke’s sunny arena rock styling next to insinuating T. Rex glam-rock harmonizing.

Devoutly, Rooney sends auspicious ‘thanks’ out to fabulously insouciant pop crusaders Weezer, Maroon 5, Pete York, Sloan, and Simon Dawes. In the ‘70s, these worthy artists would be contemporary lynchpins, but these days rigid radio formatting prefers lamely generic fare. Plus, if you missed out on less renowned ‘90s pop challenger, Jellyfish, don’t let these young turks slip into the ether.

I originally discovered some of Rooney’s latest tracks online via an acoustic radio performance done on a boat in Green Bay for radio contest winners. The stripped-down versions spoke volumes lyrically and melodically.

Who were your early musical influences?

ROBERT SCHWARTZMAN: I always loved my mother’s Broadway show tunes. My grandfather was a conductor and traveled with an orchestra. So I was always into emotional music with wild visual arrangements painting a picture. Lyrically and musically, Broadway tunes told a story. My favorite pop artists early on were girl groups, the Shirelles, Crystals, and Shangri-La’s. “Be My Baby” was one of the best pop songs ever. Phil Spector’s sound was huge. I loved Geffen-King compositions. I used to listen to oldies radio driving to school. We’ve covered Del Shannon.

How’d you and Taylor hook up?

ROBERT: Taylor, since he was 11, had interest in being a rock star. His passion for that spilled into my life. I only wanted to be a movie director. But my brother had a band I loved watching. So I began to like being able to write songs on my 4-track demo and listening back instantly. Taylor and I started jamming in his garage. We booked a show with my brothers’ band. By then, I enjoyed being onstage. Beforehand, I was afraid of going onstage.

How’d the long break between albums come about?

ROBERT: We’d spent a few years touring and promoting the debut. Then, a combination of not finding the right producer and the songs being too different from the first record, befell us. Some bands win over people changing the sound up, but we did it too quickly. We actually made three different albums with different material and producers and kept starting all over again. There’s all the demos that didn’t make it. I can’t remember them all. They’re blurred together. It was a frustrating, challenging period. It’s hard when you don’t have a record out. But we kept touring and explaining to the audience what happened. The label told us they weren’t happy with the initial recordings. We felt the material suffered from over-thinking. It was hard to overcome and I fought myself mentally and emotionally. The record we made that was supposed to come out in 2006 was never released. Then we made a whole new record in three weeks faster and cheaper. It was more spontaneous and came together in the studio, not pre-production. Songs should dictate production, not the other way around. We were so enamored with production, the songs suffered.

Your lyrical romanticism rings truer on Calling The World.

ROBERT: With every (unreleased) record, I had different relationships. When you’re going through hard times, you take it out on the girl. The first record’s stories were fictional creations. This record was written from experience. Lyrically, “I Should Have Been After You” had a cocky attitude. It’s about not finding the right girl to go out with until an ex’s friend proves best. Which pissed off my old girlfriend when she heard the demo after we broke up. She questioned if I liked her all along and it got me in a little bit of a pickle.

Dhani Harrison sang backup on “Calling The World.” Did that enable you to cop the “My Sweet Lord” slide guitar licks for “What For” from his dad, George Harrison?

ROBERT: (laughter) Taylor’s a huge George Harrison fan. He’s good at mushing and combining influences and making them his own. Many big rock bands, their tones and playing don’t have much character. “What For” survived our long delay unlike other unreleased tracks.

How’d John Fields production enhance the songs?

ROBERT: Before John, we worked with a credible engineer who’d worked with Beck and Brit-pop bands. He let bands do what they wanted. But, we wanted the producer to step in, have an opinion, and push us. The next producer was very mainstream big time. He wanted a paycheck the minute he walked in. John, conversely, was a fan. A friend gave me his number. I had some demos readied, told him I had a record we didn’t like, and his attitude was good. He knew where we were coming from musically. His thoughts were dead-on. We worked fast, sometimes using first takes, and felt he blended a big pop sound into something very organic.

You played Michael Moscowitz, the crush-worthy best friend’s brother in Princess Diaries. Will you seek future film roles?

ROBERT: That came out of nowhere. I was a high school senior. We were playing after school shows. I went for a reading, went back, and unexpectedly got this part. The movie became big while I was at college. Other people would’ve loved the opportunity, but acting isn’t something I was passionate about as much as music. I may re-enter the acting realm, but it’s hard when you’re pushing forward as a band. Maybe there’ll be time to explore other creative options in the future.

VET D.J. VIN SCELSA PLEADS ‘AIRWAVES BELONG TO THE PEOPLE’

May 13, 2009Disc JockeyVIN SCELSAJohn Fortunato

Vin Scelsa became a freeform New York radio legend at the old WPLJ and now-defunct WNEW-FM during the ’70s and ’80s. He continues to endure with his highly-praised Idiot’s Delight show. This article originally appeared in Aqaurian Weekly in 2000.

“Whatever happened to the airwaves belonging to the people?,” long-time free form discjockey Vin Scelsa wonders as we discuss the demise of commercial radio. While trendy playlists and stale programming have dwindled radio’s mainstream audience to the lowest common denominator, free form crusader Vin Scelsa’s Idiot’s Delight program continues to endure. Amazingly, he remains the only significant New York personality given complete control to chose what songs get played over the airwaves.

A pioneering music culture enthusiast, Scelsa’s WFMU show, The Closet, first aired at West Orange, New Jersey’s Upsala College in November 1967. When the conservative Lutheran college realized its fund-driven station was catering to the entire ‘60s countercultural upheaval (Viet Nam protests, drug culture, freedom of expression), Scelsa left to join independent-minded public affairs station WBAI prior to getting hired as Production Director/ discjockey by WPLJ consultant Larry Yurdin in ‘71.

At first, WPLJ flaunted an open ended avant-garde approach, allowing d.j.’s to mix free jazz with progressive rock and other subgenres. But as an increasingly restrictive format crept in, Scelsa left to join WNEW-FM, becoming Music Director before taking over the late night spot formerly belonging to the late, legendary “Nightbird” Alison Steele.

In ‘85, his well received Idiot’s Delight program debuted on K-ROCK. An informative show featuring an endless stream of records, live studio performances, interviews, and monologues, Idiot’s Delight catered to serious music junkies. By ‘96, WNEW (which recently changed its format to mostly ‘all talk’) acquired the informative music program which now airs Sunday evening from 8 PM to 2 AM.

Recently, Scelsa brought his free form show to the internet. Live At Lunch (http://www.artistent.com) airs from Tuesday through Thursday from noon to 3 PM.

Also worth noting is the fact Scelsa wrote humorous memoirs for this publication, Aquarian Weekly, during the early ‘80s.

Although Idiot’s Delight is now aired on WNEW, the station’s daytime programming switched to ‘all talk’ in ‘99. Why?

VIN SCELSA: Scott Muni fought against formatting NEW. He kept the formatters at bay because the station was highly successful. By the early ‘80s, the ratings were starting to slip and there was pressure on him to rein in the d.j.’s. Granted, we never went as far out as non-commercial stations or old PLJ did. We were mainstream on the countercultural, instead of Top 40, side. In ‘82, NEW had a management change. The d.j.’s who didn’t grow with the times were now becoming restricted by Richard Neer’s playlist. He was trying to make it work in a commercial way without altering the spirit of the station. They were going to format me, so I left. The presence, power, and influence of Scott Muni had kept the station loose. But the station went through a period of being bought and sold. Each time it was bought, new management and owners understood less of its heritage. So the image got eroded. By the mid-’90s, there was no soul left, but there was good will amongst the New York audience. It became misdirected instead of being adult, intelligent, interesting, educational, and a station that respects the music, instead of filling in the blanks between commercial breaks.

When I was a college discjockey, I felt the need to segue songs in thematic fashion. You’ve made an art of that with Idiots Delight.

VIN: The whole idea with free form is to take a variety of rock, Classical, folk, and Rhythm & Blues and blend them in a way where each song comments on the other and shows a relationship. There’s world music you could listen to and I defy you to tell me whether it’s from Ireland or China because the instrumentation and rhythms are similar. In addition, since so many songs are about emotions, you could tell a story with the lyrics and have the subject matter comment on each other. The whole becomes larger than the sum of its parts. My job is to take other people’s art and rework it – not the way Moby does with samples – and put it in a context that’s different from its original context.

Right. That’s how you advance the listeners tastes. I’ve heard you segue from Jay Z’s “Hard Knock Life” to the Broadway musical “Annie.” At the time, few hip-hop heads knew Jay Z took the songs’ chorus line from that stage production.

VIN: I have knowledge and a library. I’m able to bring a broad overview to the music. I could take Beck and Kurt Cobain and show where those guys got their influence from. When Kurt sings “In The Pines” from MTV Unplugged, it’s important to know it comes from Leadbelly. Kurt knew it so why shouldn’t fans know it. Back in the ‘60s and early ‘70s, when the Rolling Stones were being influenced by R & B, it was important to play Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Blind Lemon Jefferson since they influenced the English bands who were recycling the stuff. I mine eight decades of music that’s available to us and blend it together in an entertaining, informative way. I’m a filter for the people. Unless there’s a radio station guiding you, how do you find the music of Jimmie Dale Gilmore or Belle & Sebastian. My job is to be an informed tastemaker who will wade through the music. You may not like everything I play, but if we’re kindred spirits, you’re going to like a lot of it. Which is why I’m so successful.

I’ve held on to the belief that commercial radio began to suck around ‘77, when programmers missed the vital punk explosion.

VIN:Top 40 radio never played that stuff. There became a clear cut distinction between Top 40 and progressive rock. There was some crossover in the ‘60s with the Beatles and the Stones. But the Grateful Dead, English art-rock bands, and the San Francisco scene were huge and never received top 40 play. So when the punk explosion happened, both formats missed the boat. After all, progressive stations were filled with grandiose art-rock like Yes and Emerson, Lake & Palmer. That’s what the punks rebelled against. When the Ramones came along, most of the d.j.’s at NEW were insulted by them. There became a split in the staff between those who embraced the new stuff and those who were opposed to it.

I guess the graybeards became snotty musical retards. That led to the current Catch 22 cycle where only eight major corporations own nearly every commercial station and they play only the bands on the five major record labels.

VIN: Yes. It’s restrictive and insulting. Radio has become this enormous business that’s about real estate, ad dollars, setting up billboards. As radio became more formatted, serious listeners turned it off. It’s difficult to get these people back because they’ve gotten out of the habit of listening to radio. The younger generation listen to MP3 and Napster; older people listen to sports and news. Radio tries to capture the Lowest Common Denominator, like NEW’s male dominated Howard Stern-like shows. So you can’t say ‘fuck’ on the air. Is that all the FCC is interested in? How about the public trust? Government doesn’t care that radio doesn’t serve the public.

Tell me about your internet show, Live At Lunch?

VIN: The idea was to go back where I was in ‘67, when we were faced with a distinctly unfriendly radio environment to music. Now, it’s even more unfriendly. If you look at WABC’s Top 40 playlists in the ‘60s, they look brilliant because so much exciting music was being made. You’d go from Motown to the Beatles to Sinatra to the Temptations. It’s extraordinary what AM radio was. But that was unable to capture the whole underground scene. When Dylan finally got on radio it was when he went electric with “Like A Rolling Stone.” They weren’t going to play “The Times They Are A Changin’,” the folk Dylan. They weren’t going to play Leonard Cohen, Joan Baez, Jefferson Airplane. Now there’s a variety of music made that’s no longer reflected on radio. Luckily, we have the new internet world waiting to be utilized. Live At Lunch is an extension of Idiot’s Delight. Right now, you have to be tethered to your computer to get it. In the future, that’ll change. Internet audio will become available on devices not tethered to computer. Now, we’re an original station available to the whole world. The downside is there are millions of websites.

Will you do advertising?

VIN: We don’t have a budget for ads. We’re relying on word of mouth. Peter Wolf does an on-demand pre-recorded Hour Of The Wolf show every few weeks. Todd Rundgren will launch PatroNet, where you could subscribe through the internet for $50 a year.

RATATAT TAPS INTO ORCHESTRAL ROUNDABOUT

May 13, 2009InterviewsRATATATJohn Fortunato

Growing up in Shelton, Connecticut, 15 minutes outside New Haven, guitarist Mike Stroud, experimented with 4-track recordings during high school, frequented local shows, and went to New York City whenever possible to catch cool bands. He attended Skidmore College, met Cleveland-raised keyboardist-programmer Evan Mast, and by 2001, they’d conceive formative band, Cherry. For legal purposes, the sprouting twosome soon reconvened under the snappier appellation, Ratatat (an alarming discharged firearm connotation), and by ’04, released a promising eponymous debut boasting one massive breakthrough tune.

Recorded in Mast’s small Brooklyn-based Crown Heights apartment, the Teutonic techno shuffle, “17 Years,” earned Ratatat early recognition when it was used on a British ‘Accessorize’ Hummer commercial. Its success led to an opening spot on Daft Punk’s high-profile tour where the transplanted Brooklynites began impressing audiences pronto.

“Evan had a tiny bedroom with a laptop setup. We had one guitar, a distortion pedal, and we borrowed a bass from his roommate,” Stroud says. “It was totally minimal and we banged out “17 Years” in one day. We got pretty lucky receiving exposure. Our A & R guy from London found our webpage and got in touch with us.”

Having leveraged their initial rockist attitude and rave-cultured leanings a tad for ‘06s multi-dimensional investigation, Classics, Ratatat brought an ambitious soulful aesthetic closer to the surface. By ‘08s daringly expansive LP3 (XL Records), they’d discovered the joys of pan-ethnic resourcefulness.

“The first two we did in Evan’s apartment only had a couple sounds – guitars, keyboards. We did this one in a real studio with more instruments, adding strings, Grand piano, and organ tones. There were some cool World music elements like tablas. People think I only play guitar, but I did harpsichord, piano, and get annoyed when everyone thinks Evan’s the big genius who plays everything else,” the snickering Stroud informs.

Influenced by conceptual guitar wizard Robert Fripp and Queen’s bellwether axe-man Brian May as well as Jimmy Page’s acoustical solo endeavors, Stroud’s heavily processed and headily manipulated six-string constructions transfix or transcend the tidily detailed arrangements. The use of mellotron on LP3 serves to open up the savvy synthesized symphonies.

On the eloquent “Mi Viejo,” mellotron nuances thread the neo-Classical Spanish guitar melody, entwined autoharp coils, and swirled tribal percussion. A comparable tropical rhythm inundates “Munitaz Khan,” where pan flutes, pipes, and bongos bedeck sequenced guitar electrodes, creating a bizarre Bollywood landscape hipper Hindu films first formulated back in the silent era. Using a similar Eastern Asian template, Pakistani bhangra breakbeats swarm through the calliope-swiped keyboard loops, Nintendo game bleeps, and zooming Frippertronic mechanics consuming “Mirando.” Despite its apparent Anglo-Saxon auspices, “Flynn” flaunts an echoplex dub reggae groove.

Whimsically, song titles such as the latter are inconsequential, goofy derangements meant to provoke chuckles.

“The titles don’t have to mean anything,” Stroud chuckles. “Lots of times we’ll have funny working titles that stick.”

For instance, the soothing Baroque-inclined harpsichord-laden closer, “Black Heroes,” doesn’t necessarily venerate the uniquely salient African-American experience. Instead, its drifting mellifluent flutter is better described as pale-faced ambient seduction. Then again, Ratatat’s crafty pair is never hesitant to express admiration celebrating hip-hop’s wide-angled black-faced appeal.

“We both listen to a lot of hip-hop, especially Evan, who makes the beats,” Stroud admits. “My favorite rapper ever is Ghostface. I loved the first Raekwon record and all the descendant Wu Tang Clan ventures. I saw Wu a few months back and Raekwon did some ace freestyling. But I don’t listen to hip-hop as much now. I feel it’s kind of fucked. RZA’s the only one who seems to know the business.”

Perhaps more profoundly, the melodious Classical rock techniques of Electric Light Orchestra become motifs for several triumphal numbers. The glistening introductory gamma rays penetrating noir-ish opening dirge, “Shiller,” friskily pilfer ELO’s magnum opus, “Fire On High.” And swaying oscillated interlude, “Brulee,” would fit nicely next to the best atmospheric illuminations on the Brit-pop combo’s late-‘70s Out Of The Blue escapade.

“I love ELO, but I didn’t have them in mind for “Brulee.” I remember the first night Evan played me a couple of beats and that stuck out in my mind. I thought we were gonna go a different route with it but we put these happy sounding chords over it and it sounded kind of funny,” Stroud claims. He then deduces, “We wanted a psychedelic reggae-ish vibe.”

Just as intriguingly retrospective, “Gipsy Threat” beams in like an alien transmission from outer space, re-imaging Joe Meek’s fascinatingly innovative vacillating cybernetic flanges – magnified to perfection on the Tornadoes futuristic ’62 mega-hit, “Telstar.” Nonetheless, don’t expect any gypsy-cultured references beyond its intimidating designation.

Notwithstanding such interrogative ambiguousness, the delineation between real life Egyptian yank “Munitaz Khan” and the source material embodying the previously perused homage seems well suited for a friendly rug salesman’s theme.

Stroud explains, “We’d walk into Catskill – an upper New York town where there was nothing. It’s secluded – a half-hour from the original Woodstock concert. We took a walk on Main Street and found an Indian rug store. We visited it a lot while recording. The owner would invite us back to his office, give us free huge Indian dinners, and tell us crazy stories. We took its title from him.”

He goes on to say, “There was an instrument in the studio that you could put on a record – thin vinyl – with samples of organ and there’s an organ where you can play them. So we put a bunch of these records on top of each other and ended up with a bunch of organ-moog sounds. To me, it relates to Bollywood. And it has a “Hotel California”-like guitar solo.”

In the live setting, Ratatat enlists the help of Stroud’s pal, Martin, to handle organ, augmenting and magnifying their already illusionary musicality. Accordingly, future recordings and live shows may get other people involved. But a radical departure in style does not appear imminent. Maybe they’ll find some guest vocalists to spark up new musical ideas. Commendable remixes for a diverse array of artists including old school rapper Biz Markie, weirdo Icelandic diva Bjork, and sly Brit-rockers Television Personalities are already available to consume.

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