Category Archives: Interviews

JOE HENRY OUT TO GET ‘BLOOD FROM STARS’

Interviews
JOE HENRY - BLOOD FROM STARS Branching out beyond reflective folk-based singer-songwriter to artful Jazz-affected rhapsodist, multi-talented acoustic guitarist-pianist Joe Henry’s a roving chameleon who has become entrusted producer for several veteran singers. Fact is, the unrivaled Los Angeles transplant refined and redefined his widening artistic profile over the course of a dozen evolving albums while commendably reintroducing respectful aged-in-the-wool vocalists who’d been unfairly neglected in recent years.
Finding solace wherever he roams (then calls home), Henry’s developed a deeply engrained Americana perspective reflected in his keenly broad lyrical observations and even-keeled temperament, slowly gaining access to a laundry list of reputable musicians from across the country. Esteemed crooning Civil Rights activist, Harry Belafonte, and venerable Delta folk-blues pianist, Mose Allison, Henry’s latest clients, benefit from the same minimalist studio technique previous high-profile customers like soul singer Bettye Lavette, ‘60s folkie Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, and New Orleans funk legend Allen Toussaint, found integral regenerating their dissipated careers.

 

JOE HENRYFollowing three formative, conventional folk-leaning albums, the affable Henry attained a higher profile when alt-Country architects, the Jayhawks, offered backup for ’92 breakout, Short Man’s Room, and ’93s even better Kindness Of The World. Jazz titans Ornette Coleman and Don Cherry, who’ve ‘blown’ on a few solo sessions, left quite an indelible mark on Henry, as subsequent sets (‘99s Fuse, ‘01s Scar, and ‘03s Tiny Voices) delve into the type of eloquent Jazz he’d soon fully explore.

 

 

By ‘07s Civilians, Henry became a raspier crooner whose intimate JOE HENRY - CIVILIANSinterpretive abilities, evocative character sketches, cautionary intimations, and shadowy candlelit sonatas sharpened his investigative poetic conviction. Seeking restitution along the trail to contentment, he acquired an unconfirmed taste for Leon Russell’s maudlin heart-on-the-sleeve drawl, sometimes adapting Bob Dylan’s crusty sonorous croak as a reliable tactical device utilized best on grievous battle-scarred requiems. Beat-thickened dirge-y lament, “Time Is A Lion,” handily articulates mortal’s hard luck survival. Dour rumination, “Our Song,” decries America’s Yellow Alert state through a Willie Mays encounter at Home Depot and may be Henry’s most powerful political tune.

Cut from the same cloth, ‘09s valiant Blood From Stars features what Henry called “oddly translated Country-Blues” reanimating long-gone traditionalists Willie Mc Tell, Robert Johnson, and the Carter Family. August studio ace, Marc Ribot, a studied flamenco guitarist, once again adds poignant textural nuances to Henry’s romantic orchestral meditations.

Introspective down-and-out cocktail lounge threnody, “The Man I Keep Hid,” sets the somber tone, creating a slumbering moodscape anchored by a slowly evolving New Orleans piano arrangement interweaving fat Louis Armstrong trumpet through sullen sax and sweet clarinet. Withered and weary broke-down Blues forecast, “Death To The Storm,” continues the funereal march as Ribot’s clipped 6-string lines hang in the dense post-midnight air. Even more harrowing (and elementarily similar in stylistic approach), grievous anecdotal portrayal, “Bellwether,” refuses to surrender even as the end draws near.

Drawing from many musical wells, Henry’s sad-eyed slow-grooved acoustical wanderings retain a liberating thoughtfulness aimed straight at the heartland. His rich legacy, not yet fulfilled, may include future film scoring.

 

Are many of your song ideas based on fictional characters?

 

JOE HENRY: There’s all kinds of life experiences happening around us. You don’t have to reference your own particular narrative. To a degree, like Woody Guthrie famously claimed, ‘All you could write is what you know or see.’ But I don’t think he meant you could only write about your own life experiences. Instead, you could only write about what you’ve invested yourself in to feel empathy or sympathy for. It doesn’t have to be your own story to give legitimacy to the point of view. As humans, no matter how diverse we are, we all grapple with the same problems and expectations. It doesn’t have to be a downer to address these things. But those are common threads snaking through everything we do. How do you live vibrantly when you know there’s gonna be an end upon death.

A melancholic Prohibition Era sententiousness inhabits Blood From Stars.
 

 

 

That’s because I can’t play fast. It’s true. I write a lot of the piano, but I don’t know enough to play briskly. In truth, the songs people go back to historically are the melancholy ones. “One For My Baby” will outlive “Good Day Sunshine.” It’s very human to spend very little time celebrating our successes and more worrying over the tiniest things gone astray. From an artistic standpoint, I’d be first to admit I’m not depressed. It’d be disingenuous to claim my life’s a struggle compared to anyone else. I’ve been surprisingly successful and have a wonderful family I’m deeply devoted to. But what struggle reveals in humanity is interesting as an artist.

Besides Bob Dylan, have you tried emulating songwriters or novelists for source material?
 

 

 

At the beginning, you’re emulating whoever’s a mentor. The longer you do it, for better or worse, you develop your own vocabulary. I have a funny accent I’ve been told. I was born in the South, came of age in the Midwest, lived in New York and now Los Angeles. That’s corrupted my original speech pattern. I’m helpless to be conscious of it any longer. As a writer you get visited upon by any number of influences. You could initially keep track of how one has changed the color of another. At a certain point, it’s impossible to see that within a perspective. I find myself frequently inspired by art that has nothing to do with what I do for a living. I don’t reference other songs while I’m at the crossroads working on a piece in the studio. It doesn’t offer a new vantage point. But I may very well be revitalized and rejuvenated in a moment of artistic crisis by seeing a great movie or painting or read a great short story.

The plasma-gleaned galactic title, Blood From Stars, evokes many abstract meanings.
 

 

 

It came to me over the course of the work. I’m loath to attach meaning. I had an intrinsic response to it the same way I did to the photo cover or an image or line in a song. If I muse on it, it may refer to our desire to imagine some ethereal distant future and trying to embody it. People have short lives to make sense out of existence looking to the heavens. We try to make something real or concrete out of the imagined.

Is this album more thematic than past endeavors?
 

 

 

All my records are thematically connected within themselves. My desire’s to make a record that operates as a whole just like a movie instead of a collection of disparate, unrelated scenes. There’s definitely an overall environment that runs through. I’m past the point of touching every base on a record. I’m providing what the story needs, not a comprehensive evening’s worth of entertainment. If you need something upbeat or downtrodden, put something else on. I don’t worry about creating the right peaks and valleys. I want to form an arc.

Do you allow the experienced Jazz musicians to dictate the mood?
 

 

 

Most of the musicians I’ve worked with frequently. There’s an unspoken bit of communication. To a large extent, I’ve dictated a tremendous amount of policy to the overall sonic atmosphere by inviting those people to a room. Everyone involved with the exception of pianist Jason Moran knew exactly what I was after. They know what excites me about the process. I’d never show up at the studio with something, in my estimation, that wasn’t fully realized. But I take tremendous delight putting my songs in front of people to see where they could go. I have no interest in having a preconceived notion of what’s sonically possible. Nothing makes me happier than when a song – within a few takes – identifies itself as being whole other than I’d imagined it. It makes me think the song had enough character to dictate its own policy. Then, I’m quite enthralled. I’m always encouraged by improvisation and generous creativity within the song structure. That’s your greatest resource as a record maker. I could go back to the demos if I get stuck, but why would I limit Marc Ribot? I want to hear what his contribution might be. I wanna hear Jay Belrose illuminate a song.

What was the most difficult arrangement to flesh out due to its complexity?
 

 

 

It’s about finding a way in. I don’t make fleshed out demos that suggest what the ensemble should sound like. I make the most basic demo just so I’ll remember the song. I don’t write music. Musicians know the basic song shape, words, and how many verses there may be. I’d much rather discover, mutually, in real time, what we sound like and where the songs may go as an ensemble. I love bringing in creative musicians and getting a take as early into the discovery process as possible. There are many loose threads hanging and nobody’s doing anything by rote. Everyone’s listening intently to each other. The only song we might have changed for awhile was “Channel.” I’d just written it days before the session. I wrote it on the airplane coming back from New York. There’s a certain simplicity to it as a piece of writing. There’s a guitar figure that drones through it and a certain rock tonality to the chord changes that’s different from many of the other songs which might be more Tin Pan Alley in structure. The trick was to find a way to play that still sounded a little unhinged or floating off the ground. I’ve never been interested in playing a rock song like a rocker. I’ve never referred to myself as a rock musician. Even though I was referencing a rock tonality the same way I reference a Jazz tonality but would never pretend to hold myself up as a Jazz musician. There’s certain strengths in those musical vocabularies. I tried to make “Channel” as dream-like as the other material – true to itself but authentic to the whole piece. It got strange and unmannered – past the point of anything easily readable. It was very abstract, loud, and messy before landing in a way that maintained the simplicity of the writing but was appropriately unhinged and had enough weather in the room.

“The Man I Keep Hid” inadvertently blends Doctor John’s New Orleans voodoo funk, Leon Russell’s pop accessibility, and Tom Waits’ old timey rasp into a tightly wrapped shroud.
 

 

 

That’s a song we didn’t discuss at all. I played a demo of it on guitar with everyone standing around. It felt more like Reverend Gary Davis Country-Blues the way I knew how to articulate the guitar changes. I didn’t want it to be driven by guitar though. Everyone went to their places and that was a first take. No conversation except when I said when it gets to the break, whatever has happened before it, it should sound like Fellini’s “Satyricon.” Then we just played the song. The engineer was still moving microphones in the drum room and you could completely hear the door slam. There was no point to go beyond that. We played it once more for fun. But it was appropriately widescreen from the beginning.

When I originally interviewed you a few years back, you said you were hoping to work with rap vet Dr. Dre. Was that just a lark?
 

 

 

I have not been able to do so. He’s one of the people who said no to me. I don’t hold it against the good Doctor though for being unresponsive. He makes great sounding records.

As a producer yourself, you’ve worked with some heavyweight Blues and folk artists. How’d that come about?
 

 

 

Every scenario’s different whether finding myself in a studio with Solomon Burke or Bettye Lavette. I’ve done four full projects and a couple straggling things with Allen Toussaint. That’s a life-changing relationship that continues. Historically, he’s a producer’s producer. It’s humbling to continually work in his services as a producer. Even in the simplest conversations I come away with something even if it’s intangible. He’s unique and remarkable. I first met Ramblin’ Jack Elliott in ’87 and crossed paths on tour in Italy. I happened upon him unexpectedly when I was working on the soundtrack to Tom Hanks film I’m Not There while working with several other artists – John Doe, Richie Havens. I asked the director if I could do something with Jack Elliott. He has a longer history with Bob Dylan professionally than anybody. Bob began by emulating Jack’s interpretation of Woody Guthrie. So I brought Jack into my home studio to do a track. in the course of the day I compacted the idea of what it would be like to do a full record with Jack – what concept we’d need to lead us to the right songs that he hadn’t done before but would be authentic to him – not to rehash anything.

-John Fortunato

 
 

 

 

 

 
  

 

 

JASON LYTLE GOES SOLO FOR ‘YOURS TRULY, THE COMMUTER’

Interviews,

Ex-Grandaddy mastermind, Jason Lytle, relies on beautifully textured symphonic moods and swooning sad-voiced ethereality to reach nirvana. Taking a surrealistic pilgrimage beyond the Flaming Lips astral weeps, Grandaddy’s subtle orchestral provocations attached Lytle’s diligently detailed compositional mastery and gorgeously sequenced keyboard regalia to main comrade Jim Fairchild’s interlaced fuzzy guitar gauze, helping define the minimalist computer-generated rock landscape of the late ‘90s.

Now a venturing soloist after an uneasy breakup with his fellow Californian pals, ex-skateboard pro, Lytle, still manages to dazzle auricular senses with majestically grandiose wanderlust. A consistently transcendent mysticism sweeps over his wondrous solo debut, Yours Truly, The Commuter. Though he’d rather admit allegiance to ‘70s Classical pop icons, Electric Light Orchestra, or ‘90s complaint rock lampooners, Pavement, Lytle’s lathering oeuvre continues to radiate with the same crestfallen melancholia Radiohead and their contemporary British ilk (Coldplay/ Travis) judiciously spume.

Originating from the once-agricultural blue-collar metropolis of Modesto, Grandaddy’s refreshingly coherent and surprisingly mature ’97 debut, Under The Western Freeway, brought a Luna-related lysergic intimacy to static-y reflective lullaby’s and lushly ornate epiphanies, giving Lytle’s resolute combo instant indie-rock club cred.

Three years forward, wryly titled sequel, The Sophtware Slump, an interestingly intricate technology-bent suite, was even better, conveying utmost tranquility, especially when sweeping ELO-styled strings adorn lustrous tone-dialed euphony “The Crystal Lake.” Invigorating guitar-driven standout, “Broken Household Appliance National Forest,” is a gloriously discombobulated obfuscation that’d serve as a high water mark.

More endearingly heartfelt and nearly as challenging, ‘03s Sumday retained Grandaddy’s spellbinding warmth. “El Caminos In The West” should’ve been the great mainstream radio crossover but had to settle for being one of the catchiest tunes ever about traveling far away from home. Another contagious electro-rock dreamscape, “Stray Dog And The Chocolate Shake,” maintained an infectious uplifting glimmer. Lytle’s introspective misanthropic sensitivity reaches a zenith on resoundingly eloquent “The Group Who Couldn’t Say.”

For ‘05s home-recorded 8-track 30-minute EP, Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla (influenced by a lazy-ass cheese-ball hillbilly and a Tahoe-bound Monster truck), Lytle’s troupe kicked serious ass on clangorous emotional hardcore wrangler, “Florida,” and frazzled Cheap Trick-informed hard-candied bombast, “Pull The Curtains.”

But uncertainties surrounding Grandaddy’s reflective final album, Just Like The Fambly Cat, led Lytle, a self-described “diehard realist,” to wonder if his best ideas were running out. Contemplating whether or not he was in a holding pattern, Lytle moved to expansive northwest hideout, Montana, and struck out on his own with ’09s restorative Yours Truly, The Commuter.

The one constant amongst Lytle’s solo and band endeavors is the way his soothingly caressing falsetto butters interstellar lyrical alienation atop soft-focus arrangements resplendently utilizing Casio, analog synth, and vintage keyboard gear to create picturesque pirouettes. Title track, “Yours Truly, The Commuter,” merges liquid-y Ventures guitar reverb with oscillating Joe Meeks-inspired synthesizer and a distant audio transmission for a cool pre-British Invasion flashback. The pristine acoustic constancy of “Brand New Sun” gets inundated by sympathetic Impressionist notions and drifting piano dirge, “Forget It,” unwittingly heists Eden Ahbez’s cosmic cocktail lounging. He also celebrates the weekend with a raucous turnabout before finally crawling back into Montana’s blithe seclusion by album’s end.

I spoke to Lytle over the phone, June ’09.

Does the solo album feel like a reprisal following the demise of Grandaddy?
JASON: Grandaddy had a good thing going – label money to spend. We had good ideas but the label essentially ran out of money and eventually we ran out of steam on a number of levels. There were no reserves and I felt it was time to pack it in and start a new chapter. I had my first ultra-bout of exhaustion with ‘02s Concrete Dunes. We had a run-in with a smaller label and that got released without our consent. For every record sold, he got money. Once we got on tour and made Sumday, I was worn down. Just enough time went by for him to put that out with no approval. I never saw artwork or small minutiae. People liked it even though it was a bummer I had no extra input.

I thought Sumday may’ve contained your best low key abstractions and had more of a thematic flow than Sophtware Slump.

The closer I got to finishing Sumday, the more I felt I was sealing my own fate. I was afraid to hand it off because once that happens the whole program starts again and the treadmill fires up. There was pressure following up Sophtware Slump. I retreated the only way I knew how, going inward and making simpler, cleaner, more concise songs. My being addicted to an album having balance – I tried to branch out but felt tired during the recording process. To make it seem enjoyable, I made it heartfelt. I found myself digging deeper than if it was a lighthearted, fun process.

The alpine artwork for Sophtware Slump seemed to prefigure your move to Big Sky Country a few years hence.

If anything, that’s just fate, proving where my head was at. Even in California, I’d spend free time in mountains or open spaces. It’s a clearinghouse process of getting my head right. I knew then I’d be surrounded by scenic wilderness. I believe Sophtware Slump’s art was taken from a big coffee table book which, coincidentally, features Montana’s Glacier Park. That was a happy accident.

The solo debut alludes to a new beginning.

That played a part but I wasn’t trying to be too exact about references. If anything, it’s nice to have something valid to write about. You’re not just pouring out cliches. If I’m lucky, something will resonate for a long time. That means I’ll be able to sing the songs for years to come. It’ll mean a lot to me. I won’t feel full of shit wasting peoples’ time. My downtime’s pretty quality. I’m able to reflect and figure things out. I could deal with everyday stuff, people, and business for awhile and then I shutdown. Proximity-wise, I’m now ten minutes from being in the middle of nowhere. It’s a good way to recharge, reenergize. In Modesto, downtime wasn’t productive or healthy. I was bummed, depressed, and tried stifling that.

Ambitious title track, “Yours Truly, The Commuter,” seems fixated on pre-Beatles electronic experimentalism.

I love primitive on-the-cusp recordings that seemed on the verge of something exciting. People were fascinated by what came out of their speakers back then. Innocently, they were messing around with sounds. I like getting to the point where I lose myself in the studio. That prods me along when I’m failing to find interest.

Just smoke a joint to get motivated.

(laughter) I’ve got wine stains on my console. I’m not a big pot smoker. It makes me hide in the corner paranoid.

I felt comforted you didn’t take any left turns away from Grandaddy’s gossamer tone.

For a hot minute, I was considering going all over the map. But I reeled it in since it was my only opportunity to make a solo debut. My compromise was to make it well-balanced. The second’s gonna be a complete mess. (laughter) I consider this one a nice compromise of concise songs and instrumental bits. The next will be a little more lopsided. My career had become imbalanced in a bad way. Everyone was reasonably concerned about money. Keeping the machine going was suffering because the cart was ahead of the horse. The cart was a bunch of shit I had to dump and I had to get a new horse.

Was “It’s The Weekend” written on an emotional high. Its zooming arena rock guitars and ‘80s synthesizers really soar.

I’m still confused by that song. I called a few people to offer apologies. I had to fit it somewhere. I remember being on a backcountry hike with an annoying melody in my head and the chord progression. All I could equate with the feeling was how stoked and happy you were as a kid when morning cartoons came on and there were endless possibilities for the weekend.

Grandaddy’s been graciously called America’s version of Radiohead much the same way the Byrds were considered America’s Beatles in the ‘60s.

I wish there was more Pavement in what they do. Thom Yorke’s too damn dark and serious. No humor. But in terms of what they did with OK Computer, this new era of experimentalism mixing trash with elegance and making use of multi-tracking turned things on its ears. I was only half a fan before. When that came out, I was like, ‘Thank you.’ Afterwards, my fan-dom petered out. I tend to forget what a huge Cars fan I was coming out of that Classic/ prog-rock phase of too-long songs. The Cars were tight, well-produced, and blended synths, guitars, and big Roy Thomas Baker drums with purposely confusing lyrics that impacted me alongside heavily produced new wavers A Flock Of Seagulls, The Cure, and Depeche Mode. Then, the Pixies came around and screwed things up in a good way. I realized there was this experimental punk energy blended with slightly more orchestral arrangements that were just wrong enough. I also had brothers and sisters subconsciously pumping the Beatles, Beach Boys, and Pink Floyd into my head via headphones as a child.

AU REVOIR SIMONE SPARK UP ‘STILL NIGHT, STILL LIGHT’

Interviews

Au Revoir Simone are three long-legged long-haired lasses living in Brooklyn who weave gossamer pillow-talked seductions through minimalist melodic symphonies, futurist lounge pop, celestial ambient abstractions, and buoyant cybernetic Kraut-rock. Customarily using vintage manual input devices, their most accomplished set yet, ‘09s Still Night, Still Light, refines the ethereal Casio-glazed gauzy linearity, buzz-y electro whirs, and pulsating crystalline balladry previously put forth.

Heather, who’d been watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse religiously, took their French moniker from a line in the movie and put it on a poster. Meanwhile former shoegazing art-schooled greenhorn, Erika, told her multi-instrumentalist keyboard teacher, Greg Peterson, they were seeking exposure. So he offered a spot opening for his respected indie-based Hoboken combo, The Scene Is Now.

 Soon, Au Revoir Simone was playing Manhattan clubs such as the Baggot Inn, Sine, and Mercury Lounge. Along the way, boutique label, Moshi Moshi Records, delivered ‘05s Verses Of Comfort Assurance & Salvation and ‘07s sterling The Bird Of Music to positive reviews – plus their cutesy homespun videos didn’t hurt matters.

Hooking up with veteran producer, Thom Monahan, proved karmic. ‘09s Still Night, Still Light maintains a glossier professional sheen than Au Revoir Simone’s earlier records. Shimmered soft-toned opener, “Another Likely Story,” journeys aboard a fragile programmed disco-marimba cadence with the greatest of ease. A melting hopefulness consumes pleasant synth-pop jaunt “Only You Can Make You Happy.” And the steadily motorik beat propelling “Shadows” underscores its beautifully billowy Teutonic eloquence. Often singing in delicately shaded mezzo-sopranos, Erika, Annie, and Heather cozily embrace adventurous easy listening music, or what Stereolab once labeled, “Avant Garde M.O.R.”

At Brooklyn’s Music Hall of Williamsburg, Au Revoir Simone bring a definite post-adolescent innocence to mystifying calliope catacombs, haunted Jazz-pop junkets, and metronomic disco-beaten reverberations – even ditzy twee pop euphonies. Annie and Heather, for the majority of time, bookend Erika, as the threesome’s hushed harmonic restraint embodies nearly every studio number done live. Erika rudimentarily plucked a bass over a snake charming jungle rhythm just for kicks. On another tune, her sultry Kate Bush-mannered voicing rode above alluring Serge Gainsbourg-like cocktail lounging.

The gal pals passed out chips to stage-front fans during their encore, which included sunshiny baroque heartthrob, “The Lucky One” (reminiscent of ‘70s prog-rockers Renaissance). Like an electrified Shaggs, only with better fashion sense, haircuts, and performances, Au Revoir Simone bring palpable schoolyard innocence to fully realized synthesized adaptations.

I spoke to the cordial Erika prior to their one-hour set.

 

Have you ever heard of ‘60s New York duo, the Silver Apples? Brainchild Simeon Coxe used primitive homemade synthesizers, an audio oscillator, and other contraptions to make textural psychedelic elixirs in an obliquely roundabout way not far removed from Au Revoir Simone.

ERIKA FORSTER: Yeah. He wrote some offbeat surreal stuff. Being in a keyboard band I had to do my homework. So I found out.

Were you into ‘90s lounge-core sophisticates, Stereolab, as well?Yes. I worked at college radio and someone gave me a pile of CD’s and I got into them. Annie was more of a punk kid, but Heather loved Stereolab and Bjork. I’m a huge David Bowie fan who enjoyed all his different eras.

Bowie’s late-’70s ‘Berlin Trilogy,’ Low, Heroes, and Lodger, were successful experimental projects with avant electronic artist, Eno. Some of Au Revoir Simone’s weird interludes seem affected by his work.

Thanks. We listened to each of the new tracks by themselves and realized we’re all the same age and came from similar backgrounds and in the scheme of things we had the same spiritual and personal philosophies. So Still Night, in similar fashion, became a concept. But we’re separated from it because we’re in it. So it’s hard for us to answer ‘Who are you?’ But it turned out to be thematically connected.

How’d Thom Monahan’s production help make Still Night better?

Thom’s a brilliant guy. He’s real good at listening to and interpreting music. He really captured each sound and made it beautiful. He was using two or three different mikes so we could decide later what to use. He knew which corner or space in the room would make certain sounds. He also knew so much about keyboards. We’d go to a dusty Chinatown apartment to borrow equipment that’d make us sound way cooler. We did recording at my apartment, Thom’s apartment, and (his wife) Shirley Halperin’s parents place.

How did you decide who sang lead on each tune?

A lot of the songs come from a certain place to begin with. Someone would sing a part they came up with – it’s never-ending. Everyone has their own style to bring to the table and we weed through it and figure out what’s good.

How’d you decide to have the same long hair, same clothing style, and similar slim-size dresses?

(laughter) We get asked if we’re sisters and kid around by saying we’ll only hang around people who look like us. Honestly, it’s like a marriage where you start to look like each other. We always had long hair. The fashion stuff has become more homogenous ‘cause we’re constantly asking each other if something looks good. But we are very different people.

I found it remarkable that The Bird Of Music’s “Sad Song” video, where you bake cookies, had half a million internet hits despite the fact you’re a relatively new indie band.

It’s a great song. (laughter)

(Jokingly) Wow! That’s informative. “Fallen Snow” (with an amazing one million hits) benefited from a Beach Boys-like Pet Sounds synthesizer groove with Heather’s soprano taking the silky lead. In the video, you’re at a bucolic stream in the country.

That was done up near Woodstock. We heard it was pretty up there. That had a retro vibe.

Is Still Night, Still Light getting more critical attention due to your past successes?

People like it better. There’s less silliness and more cohesion. It’s all about the textures.

Are you aware of Bats For Lashes’ Natasha Khan?She’s a cryptic Goth artist whose keyboard synthesis has a correlative tone.

We played with her at South By Southwest two years ago. We’re in the same world. We have a lot of friends in common. Her new LP, Two Sons, really tricked me sounding like Kate Bush. She’s from London but lived in Brooklyn for a few months.

Notwithstanding all the keyboard swells, Au Revoir Simone’s songs have a striking folk feel.

That’s what Thom says. It’s a folk album without folk instruments – which is what we wanted and why we wanted to work with Thom (whose ‘90s band with Joe Pernice, the Scud Mountain Boys, crafted rural alt-Country material).

Have you thought of adding guitar or neo-Classical orchestration to beef up future endeavors?

We thought about using strings, but we didn’t need it. We didn’t go there. We started as an all keyboard band and that’s what we do. But we’re open to those ideas and up for the challenge. Annie’s a big fan of Bach and I’m into experimental music by Phillip Glass.

-John Fortunato

THE FIELD ARRIVE ‘YESTERDAY AND TODAY’

Interviews,

Under the unassuming pseudonym, The Field, minimalist Swedish electronic music designer, Axel Willner, makes some of the most hypnotizing transcendental meditations and brusque instrumental contraptions currently making the rounds worldwide.

A brilliant laptop-toting tape-manipulating loop-sampling mastermind splattering cold robotic machinations onto lavishly warm hypnotizing euphoria, the formerly Stockholm-based architect corrupts majestically mellifluent processed sound-waves with surrealistic shoegazer-informed sonic droning (pioneered by ‘80s icons My Bloody Valentine and Jesus & Mary Chain) to create fascinatingly ambient symphonies.

The Field’s most popular track making the rounds on Myspace, “Over There” embellishes many of the engagingly inorganic elements put forth by Willner on cerebral ’07 debut, From Here We Go Sublime, a highly praised club-land exhibition. Soothingly indicative as a neat reference point, “Over There’s” becalmed disco-derived rhythm tethers a pulsating light Industrial groove central to a noir-ish dance floor shuffle.

Throughout, From Here We Go Sublime retains a uniform, smooth-as-menthol, flow. The frazzled metronomic pull of “The Little Heart Beats So Fast” imbibes a steadily throbbing orgasmic purr. “A Pain In My Face” adds a lucid guitar figure straight out of romanticized ‘70s soul purveyor Barry White’s silvery Love Unlimited Orchestra. The pace quickens for the tinsel-y neo-orchestral percussive sweep of heat-up cool-down chill-out session, “Silent.”

At proper intervals, a distant diva’s serene moans caress the relaxed mood. Synchronized kick drums and cymbals rewardingly link the steamy hot-processed Industrial grid to free-falling breathtaking swoops, gorgeous tidal wave flourishes, and gooey liquefied residue.

In the same vein, electronic rock components, Kraut-rock maneuvers, and new wave dalliances provide elliptical imagery and whirly oscillations to ‘09s busier, richer Yesterday And Today. Expanded arrangements stretch out compositional structures to no ill effect. In fact, Yesterday And Today floats by like a thematic intergalactic retreat.

Less dance-dependent and more mood-altering, voices enter the fold on the sensitively retooled version of unheralded ‘80s band Korgis’ whirring balladic sanctuary, “Everybody’s Got To Learn Sometime.” Coming up from the foggy mist and lathered into dreamy elongated climactic suds, “I Have The Moon, You Have The Internet,” finds Willner shooting ‘for the stars’ while some unspecified introverted onlooker sits at home twittering and googling, perhaps ironically for The Field, contrasting active listening versus passive listening.

Upping the tempo and reinforcing the Industrial beat with chiming percussive undertones and a billowy synthesizer apparatus, “Leave It” debunks its winsome pastoral urges over the collage-like eleven-minute escapade. Then, barely rising above the illustrious din of the title track is an upbeat three-note female utterance, adding a shimmering glow to the metric beat that gets more electronic as it progresses. The glimmering “The More That I Do” continues to ride the LP’s oft-times gauzy thread and may be the most exhilarating piece. Lastly, on mammoth fifteen-minute-plus finale, “Sequenced,” perpetual computer generated percolation’s infiltrate a swirled dreamscape where tubular cylindrical blurbs slip into a syncopated Giorgio Moroder-obtained digitized cadence.

By going a bit organic in approach, Willner utilizes the services of multi-instrumentalist Andreas Soderstrom and bassist-percussionist Dan Enquist for Yesterday And Today - two skillful musicians who’ll join The Field for an American tour.

In conclusion, The Field successfully crafts reliable mood music for shuffling club feet as well as passive background fodder.

Who were your early musical influences and how have they shaped your style?

AXEL: Early musical influences include punk. I don’t know if that shaped my musical style but maybe the production has.

What do you see as the musical growth starting with From Here We Go Sublime and going to the new LP?

AXEL: The bringing in of different instrumentation. To work with other people in the studio and also to just keep it like it has always been, to just do it and keep it open.

Is there a current Stockholm scene that exists and how does it affect you, if at all?

AXEL: There’s a lot of good things going on in Stockholm, but nothing that really affects me. Since I moved from the town now it’s also hard to keep up with what’s going on there. But of course, there’s a few names that I always keep my eyes open for.

Who are some artists you currently enjoy listening to?

AXEL: Talk Talk, Manuel Göttsching, John Carpenter, Harmonia, Sunn o))), and Ultravox, Cocteau Twins, Riz Ortolani, amongst others.

Have you ever thought of doing soundtrack work?

AXEL: I’ve been thinking about it but just got the request once. I would love to do it. A dream is to make music for a horror film!

You’ve done remixes for 120 Days, Annie, and others. Are there future remixes planned and with whom?

AXEL: There’s nothing in progress at the moment…

Is it nerve-wracking to do concerts solo and how will your new band mates help the live show be more exciting?

AXEL: It used to be tough and that’s why I changed it all a year ago. The music gets more organic, more fun for me and for the audience, and it’s back to the roots for me playing.

Were you influenced at all by modern Classical artists such as Steve Reich, Phillip Glass, or John Cage?

AXEL: I’m a huge fan of Steve Reich, and of course, he has influenced me – the repetition…

What made you cover “Everybody’s Got To Learn Sometime”?

AXEL: As a lot of the things I do, I collect bits and pieces of others but this time around during the recording at a break it came on and we decided to make a cover out of it. It turned out well and we worked more on it and decided to keep working on it.

How’d the collaboration with John Stanier of the Battles come about for Yesterday And Today’s title track?

AXEL: We met around the world and had been talking about doing something together and once in Cologne we went to a studio to jam around and we recorded a sketch. From this sketch a song came. And John put the drums in at Cologne while I was in Berlin, but then went to Stockholm to record the bass.

Do you enjoy Giorgio Morodor’s late ‘70s mechanized disco?

AXEL: I love his things! All the way from Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” to Limahl´s “Never Ending Story.”

What would you like to accomplish with future recordings or endeavors?

AXEL: I have no certain agenda but to make music as it is right now. I’m very happy as it is!

NEW YORK DOLLS MIX IT UP ‘CAUSE I SEZ SO’

Interviews,

Predating punk by a few years, the New York Dolls’ blues-y glamour rock bridged the gap between the Rolling Stones early ‘60s primitivism and the Sex Pistols late-‘70s ruff ‘n tumble amateurism. Lascivious androgynous singer, David Johansen, blurted out defiant lyrics with snot-nosed adolescent authority, creating a tremendous furor his frenzied combo magnanimously embellished. Wearing tight skinny-legged trousers and sporting a devilishly smirked grin, the charismatic Johansen was the perfect greased-up bubble-lipped swivel-hipped Mick Jagger clone posing as a diabolical warlock onstage.

Surviving the drug-addled ‘70s, Johansen and guitarist Syl Sylvain proved resilient coming back touring and recording a few albums nearly thirty years after forming the Dolls. Amazingly, even in his late fifties, Johansen continues to lustily sneer through new tunes like a spoiled brat. In fact, the best thing about the Dolls is they’ve never changed. Fully confident in their musical ability, aging mannequins Johansen and Sylvain never had it easy and suffered a few deaths along the path to stardom.

Dressed in drag on their eponymous ’73 debut (produced by obliging studio wiz Todd Rundgren), the high-heeled makeup-caked lipstick-reddened quintet identified with the transvestite social misfit dirtying-up raging manifesto, “Personality Crisis.” Masterful guitarist, Johnny Thunders, a traumatic junkie-to-death, had the seeds planted for his best-known solo tune, “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around A Memory,” on the poignantly balladic acoustical Johansen original, “Lonely Planet Boy.” And the deliriously infectious novelty, “Trash,” evoked the Dolls mashed-up Bowery seediness in typical dungy fashion.

Then came another dazzling protopunk artifact, ‘74s delightfully nostalgic Too Much Too Soon. Produced by seasoned Shangri-La’s impresario, Shadow Morton, co-composers Johansen-Thunders increased the flashy glimmer-pop pandemonium and gave a few popular ‘50s/ ’60s numbers a shrewdly schizoid spin. Bamboozled Stones-derived kicker, “Puss ‘n Boots,” reveled in cheesy bubblegum-styled buffoonery. And ranted rallying cry “Who Are The Mystery Girls?” tingles nerve endings before Archie Bell & the Drells soulful “There’s Gonna Be A Showdown” readies for battle.

Following an extended layoff that found Johansen making big screen appearances, drafting worthy solo projects, and receiving peculiar aboveground fame under pseudonym Buster Poindexter (whose Uptown Horns-assisted calypso, “Hot Hot Hot,” became an overdone wedding, banquet, and karaoke staple), the remaining New York Dolls re-formed in ’04. During the interim, Syl Sylvain kept busy releasing a self-titled ’79 solo breakthrough and its fine ’81 follow-up, Syl Sylvain & the Teardrop. But Thunders (whose post-Dolls punk group, the Heartbreakers, received major plaudits) and drummer Jerry Nolan would soon die, the former under strange narcotic circumstances and the latter from a pneumonia-induced stroke. To add insult to injury, original depression-bound bassist, Arthur Kane, then succumbed to leukemia after the Dolls first reunion concert.

But whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger and the Johansen-Sylvain-led New York Dolls (rounded out by Hanoi Rocks bassist Sami Yaffa, guitarist Steve Conte, and drummer Brian Delaney) came back strong with ‘06s ambitiously fulfilling (and teasingly titled) One Day It Will Please Us To Remember Even This. Its plushy pink-on-black cover art, uproarious femme fatale attitude, and sexually skewed fixations nicely duped their stylishly sinister ‘70s sleaze. Busily beat-driven bustle, “We’re All In Love,” found Johansen insistently yelping ‘jump around the stage like a teenage girl’ and confronting 9-to-5ers with the taunting ‘they go to work/ we got to play.’ A “Lust For Life”-nipped groove propels acrobatic hoedown, “Dance Like A Monkey.” And that same mischievous pagan ‘monkey,’ Johansen himself, reappears ‘in a dress’ on the odious rogue rampage, “Fishnets & Cigarettes.” Plaintive contemplation “I Ain’t Got Nothin’” counters shuffling Farfisa ditty “Rainbow Store.”

Retaining their ruffian outlaw stance, the Dolls returned for ‘09s inordinately diversified Cause I Sez So. Johansen’s snootily pouted demands toughen the smokin’ title track and his great emotional depth reinforces the twin guitar-fueled “My World.” Hysterical broken-down romantic dalliance, “Better Than You,” recalls pre-Beatles balladeer Gene Pitney. Lowdown broke-dick rudimentary post-World War II blues dispatch, “This Is Ridiculous,” and twanging spaghetti Western-informed whistler, “Temptation To Exit,” offer two extremes. And if the cryptically surreal “Drowning” reminds some of the Animals early R & B recordings then the harmonica-doused “Nobody Got No Bizness” surely recaptures J. Geils Band in their prime. Strangely, a becalmed ska version of “Trash” revisits the Specials giddily portentous Brit hit, “A Message To You Rudy.”

What changes differentiate Cause I Sez So from One Day?

SYL SYLVAIN: We adapt songs from our live show and performing arts period. Some people spend a whole day on one note. We try to finish an entire album in one day. We procrastinate right down to the last minute – get in the studio and play whatever feels good. We work organically. It’s not rocket science. We know the Blues. If you take the Beaujolais what you get is three chord Blues progressions that could be interpreted forever – improvised solos. The show’s different every night like the Blues.

Who were your formative influences?

Eddie Cochran was the real deal. He could write ‘em, sing ‘em, play guitar. He looked good doing it. When punk started, Sid Vicious did “C’mon Everybody.” ‘50s rockers stretching from Little Richard to early ‘60s girl groups like the Shangri-La’s and Ronettes mixed with T. Rex. When David first introduced “Looking For A Kiss,” it wasn’t like when he first played it. I T-Rexed the shit out of it. We melanged everything together and became this skyscraping soup of things we loved. It turned out to be the Dolls. We opened up doors and smashed the walls. The norm was stadium rock operas. It got so damn boring. We had a Little Rascals approach. What could we do? We got makeup and put on a show. We thought if it lasted two weeks, it’d be great. We became East Village darlings. England put us on the centerfold of their biggest papers. We became stars overnight. But we got our asses kicked and it took three years to get a record contract. Once we got signed that was it – Talking Heads, Blondie, Patti Smith, the Ramones. And that’s only New York. Across the pond, Joe Strummer watched us on BBC. The whole scene changed. We spawned bands and a whole generation of clothes, style, fashion. Clubs opened up. We now have longhairs next to super-punks who’d never talk to each other at shows.

Your only competition may’ve been Bomp! Records.

We spawned Greg Shaw’s Bomp! There’s always good bands if you keep eyes open. Bands still complain, which never changed. Record labels complained about the ghetto box with the cassette player, radio, and speakers. On Friday, I’d tape the Top 40 so I wouldn’t have to buy it. Today, it’s downloading. Industry never wants to embrace change and we were all about change. You have to have a vision and not wish you were born thirty years ago. There were no clubs. We had to invent places or steal them from Velvet Underground and Andy Warhol. They didn’t have open arms at the time. We wore makeup but weren’t gay. We’d sell out Max’s Kansas City’s performance space twelve times in six nights – which was amazing. We’d get 86’ed downstairs for smoking a joint, then go play upstairs.

You did have a profound fashion influence.

Johnny Thunders was wearing motorcycle jackets and ripped-up jeans way before the Ramones.

Thunder’s Heartbreakers never got the exposure they deserved.

I taught Johnny to play guitar in ’69. We all went to Newtown High together and were getting thrown out because the mainstream thought we were gay wearing bellbottoms. So we went to Manhattan’s Quinones school for young professionals – models and musicians. My first band was the Pox, as in ‘catch the Pox at Greenwich Village.’ Johnny wanted to do bass because it only had four strings. Then he learned lead guitar and I moved to rhythm. We’d hang out at Nobody’s on Bleecker Street. Jimmy Page and Rod Stewart were there grabbing our girls. We met Arthur Kane. He had a bad time with his father in Long Island. He moved in with drummer Billy Murcia’s mom who rented out rooms in Queens. He had a great record collection. We started jamming. The nucleus was Billy, Johnny, Kane, and myself. Another renter was a Colombian immigrant like the Murcia’s. He got a job, moved to Manhattan, and told us about a cool guy on 6th Street who played harmonica and sang. That’s how we got Johansen.

We broke up in ’75 but were individually successful, unlike other bands who didn’t have that luxury. I got signed by RCA. But no one’s gonna sign a super junkie. The only thing I’d take away from the Dolls was heroin. There’s such a thing as an instant junkie. We were so popular everyone wanted to hob-knob. We were naïve and open to drugs. Show biz is nasty. I had to stop seeing Johnny onstage. He was young, clean, and fun before that.

Any new bands you like?

We’re on tour with Black Joe Lewis from Austin. They mix Motown and Blues like Muddy Waters with Wilson Pickett horns. I dig everything that’s good but too much of the same thing gets me down. They’re a breath of fresh air in a sea of mediocrity.

BROTHER ALI SPARES A BROTHER SOME TIME

Interviews

Brother Ali, a highly regarded music hustler informed by old school hip-hoppers KRS-One and Rakim, relates tales of troubled youth on fascinatingly detailed magnum opus, The Undisputed Truth. Victimized at the hands of an immaturely irrational society unconscionably ill-equipped to deal with anybody deemed too weirdly preternatural, the pigmentation-challenged ghost-faced north-westerner seeks affirmation on his own terms. Contradicting the misconceptions aimed at a bald buck who’s a whiter shade of pale, the enterprisingly emancipated emcee peddles a tremendous cross-section of rap, soul, rock, and folk not completely dissimilar to black-busting honky bonkers Everlast or Aesop Rock.

 

Legally blind albino, Brother Ali (born Jason Newman, 1984), now a devout Muslim, has continued to struggle against many unjust foils. Misunderstood by childhood peers, beat up in high school, once divorced, sporadically homeless, and probably stronger emotionally, if not physically, from all the lowdown hard times, the well-versed rapper somehow managed to keep a cool head. Originally from Madison, Wisconsin, Ali settled in the humble confines of Minneapolis by age fifteen. Fortuitous meetings with Ant and Slug, semi-famous mainstays of bona fide underground hip-hop duo, Atmosphere, cleared the way for the visually impaired pale-faced jabber.

Though he admits to loving Eminem’s “real,” as opposed to “fantasy-related” rap, Ali’s main influences are clearly African-American, whether Rhythm & Blues veterans or Jazz luminaries. His husky coal-stained baritone, redolent of super ‘70s soul singer, Joe Simon, retains a thick-skinned assertiveness. Having been pushed around as a juvenile, he soon found solace with the black homeboys more so than the less accepting white kids who’d oft-times give him strange looks.

Initially, he impressed throngs at the 2000 Scribble Jam Festival rap battle. Soon, Ali’s well-received demo cassette EP, “Rites Of Passage,” doubtless a self-portrait, got the ball rolling. Rhymesayers Entertainment entrepreneur, Slug, quickly befriended him, eventually signing the chunky red-eyed wordsmith to his flourishing indie label.

Astonishingly, he gives big-ups to early Blues legend Son House and ace ‘60s soul star Syl Johnson, but admits, “I’ve had to start over so many times in my life that my record collection is shit. But I collect it in my head and I have friends whose records I borrow.”

Brother Ali’s articulate flow commands attention, whether divulging personal matters of the heart, flaunting common sense righteousness, or spewing ill-willed condemnation aimed at evildoing haters (a favorite rap subject). Usually, his sharp-witted, choppy rhyme scheme goes against the penetrable clap-tracked rhythmic thrust. Now remarried with a son, Faheem (from his first marriage), he admits the Muslim community “has its problems,” but respectfully believes the holy scriptures convey a positive message beyond religious affiliation. And this faith instructs his entire muse.

‘03s psychoanalyzed showdown, Shadows On The Sun, opened some more doors, exposing Ali to a limited national audience. Still ridiculously overlooked (by the masses anyway), ‘07s strikingly gritty breakthrough The Undisputed Truth, dangles valiantly sociopolitical outrage above nastier gangsta leanings. His rapid-fire elocution deepens resolve on testier fare. Raging dragon slayer, “Lookin’ At Me Sideways” confronts the sinisterly confounding resentment he’s faced and obviously takes umbrage at. Investigative verity, “The Truth,” huffs its slumming ghetto demand ‘til jailed Bronx rapper, Slick Rick, utters some whack gibberish before poignantly admitting sometimes ‘the truth is detrimental’ at the disturbingly defeated finish.

Though not as dangerously rampaging, “The Puzzle,” with its sped-up squirrelly chorus about ‘the state I’m in,’ easily holds up next to brash skull-bangers Public Enemy and Boogie Down Productions. Clever retort, “Pedigree,” slams disbelieving rivals, as slack guitar-bass rhythm, punctual car-horn toots, and soulful female descants garnish boastful dispatch: ‘your pedigree don’t hold up to mine/ I’m a thoroughbred.’

He ain’t afraid to get religious on your ass, either. Dedicated to the prophet Muhammad, “Daylight’s” sharp intermittent brass crosscuts ‘70s blaxploitation drama as distant Gospel singers unceasingly wail a sunshine-y refrain and our reluctant hero laments ‘you have no idea how to frame me.’

Then again, Ali’s not scared to get stylish, draw upon similes, or make a grand statement. A truncated reggae groove sets the stage for orchestral curb, “Freedom Ain’t Free,” and indignant broke-down depression, “Letter From The Government,” makes an analogy paralleling Iraqi war vets to urban street soldiers. Similarly, laid-back hick-soul complaint, “Uncle Sam, Goddamn,” protests America’s prejudicial bureaucratic injustice in a mannered repartee reckoning ‘70s-based rap antecedents, the Last Poets, bemoaning, ‘welcome to the United Snakes, land of the thief, home of the slave.’

“I made a cheap thousand dollar video for “Uncle Sam, Goddamn,” which got played all over the place online then got me in trouble with homeland security,” Ali says. “It got me kicked off the tour by the corporate sponsor. It was right around the time Akon got kicked off the Gwen Stefani tour. The sponsors who made a lot of money off rap had too much say over what you can do. It happened with Pepsi and Ludacris beforehand. That was a trend.”

But Ali’s not all about the bad times. The nostalgic “Listen Up” is a minimalist ass wiggling ‘bang bang boogie’ party jam reminiscent of early Beastie Boys and Run DMC – with a testifying deacon breakdown for good measure.

But ultimately, the best cut has to be bangin’ car tune, “Take Me Home.” Its easy groovin’ off-the-cuff flow rides atop punchy bass drum and snare as a liquefied blues-y guitar saturates the folksy verses. The straight-up positive-minded anthem should’ve set the world afire.

“Guitarist Jef Lee Johnson (celebrated Philly psych-funk session man) was playing in a Paris-based free Jazz group that came to Minneapolis. I ended up joining that group. Afterwards, Jef came into the studio and played guitar on everything. At times, I didn’t know what to do so I just free-styled, sang, did beatboxing, and told stories. Based on that, we got a bassist and keyboardist. “Take Me Home” benefits from that. There’s still samples, but the instruments give it more texture.

Regarding the accumulative affect of The Undisputed Truth, Ali claims, “I was hoping to make it a cross-section and reach out to people who otherwise wouldn’t listen. We spent more money on one video than the album. But overall, I’d say I’m satisfied.”

In the end, Brother Ali’s perseverance paid well-earned dividends. Looks like the future’s bright ahead.

THE BIG SLEEP AWAKENS

Interviews

Clear-headed ‘ideas man’ Danny Barria is quick to acknowledge his Jersey roots. A graduate of Morris Catholic High School, the Dover native’s strict mother demanded he get a weekend job to keep busy. But at night, the curious Brit-pop admirer obsessively learned guitar. At 18, Barria headed to Philadelphia, attended college, and met future band mate Sonya Balchandani (bass-vocals). Upon moving to Manhattan’s increasingly expensive East Village thereafter, the pair got serious about both musical and personal endeavors. Now living in the more affordable Greenpoint section of Brooklyn, The Big Sleep’s frontline has begun touring in support of Sleep Forever (Frenchkiss Records), an ambitiously stirring sophomore breakthrough.

 

Appropriating the appellation of Raymond Chandler’s ominously noir detective novel (adapted to the big screen in 1946 and starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall), The Big Sleep evokes similar perilous uneasiness. Their recondite sepia-toned post-midnight milieu comparatively forges a disturbingly penetrating phantasmagoria, seizing enlightened intimacy from chaotic noise.

At Mercury Lounge late February, The Big Sleep shoots for a big, dramatic opening, delivering the ruminating piano-plinked mystical revelation, “Chorus Of Guitars,” under contrasting ellipsoidal light shading. Fulltime drummer, Gabe Rhodes, recovering from a fractured arm, one-handedly hits toms and snares, yielding regular percussive duties to propitious band friend, David Jack Daniels. Despite the extended troika’s quietly reserved aloofness, modest eloquence, and calculated performance, an ascending cathartic rage seeps into their stalwart instrumentation. Put across with precision-tooled efficacy, The Big Sleep’s doggedly determined, yet controlled, interplay absorbs a dependably stylish admixture of metallic wallops, psychedelic dollops, shoegaze bullocks, and prog-rock polyps.

So it goes for Sleep Forever, as the game trio revels in eruptive torrents of lofty guitar maelstroms, truculent bass patterns, and tempestuous drum thumps, devising a completely nourishing, endlessly mind-numbing assault juxtaposing recurrent tranquil diversions. Fuzzy guitar inundates bombarding bass for brazed grunge-y firearm, “The Big Guns,” while buzzing six-string distortion nearly drowns out Balchandani’s apprehensive lyrical paranoia fogging boisterously plasmatic extemporization, “Bad Blood.”

Likewise, Barria’s murkily laconic verbalized drone struggles to rise above the wrenching din of curdled flounce, “Pinkies.” And rock solid instrumental blazer, “Undying Love,” seriously scuffs up the frantic rhythmic baluster. Yet it’s the exhilaratingly bass-boomed Sonya-sung sonic cannonball, “Tigers In Our Hearts,” that most impressively impacts auricular perception, climaxing resolutely with a tantalizingly effectual cadenced punctuality closer to Led Zeppelin’s capacious metallurgic blast than the Pixies decisively bristling aggro-pop dissonance. Look for The Big Sleep to breakout and have it all in ’08, y’all – just like Bogie and Bacall.

I spoke to Barria via cell phone while he was stuck on line at the DMV.

How does The Big Sleep’s formative ’06 debut, Son Of The Tiger, differ from the recondite Sleep Forever?

 

BARRIA: We were younger, 25, at the time. I love the record, but it’s ‘of its time.’ It took three years to finish and half a year to come out. In that time, we wrote those songs. But since we met Gabe in 2004, we’ve matured quicker. He brought a certain intrinsic element and we became more locked in. We had two other drummers. At the Mercury show, David Jack Daniels (of local band, Levy) filled in since Gabe broke his arm a few weeks earlier. We seem to have drummer voodoo. We were in non-stop practice with David for that record release party.

The live show was nearly flawless, quite sterling actually, in my humble opinion.

 

There were missed, flubbed notes. (he laughs) We now use lights to make the show visually distinctive.

Who were your main primordial influences?

 

The Cure was my first love. They were the original band I was obsessed with when learning guitar at age fifteen. Brit pop bands Suede and the Verve are influences, but high above them is Led Zeppelin. A lot of people say we remind them of My Bloody Valentine, Sonic Youth, and Black Sabbath. While I love them, I don’t listen to them nearly as much.

What’s with the somnambulant album title, Sleep Forever?

 

It’s basically meant to be ‘us forever.’ There are a few different reasons for it. Gabe had twin sons last year and things are happening really fast now. This record captures a snapshot, a picture, of us at this moment.

“Bad Blood” sounds like a wild improvisation given a solid foundation afterwards.

 

I came up with a big riff, brought it to practice, and hammered it out in one week. Conversely, there’s “Organs,” which we had for three years and never played it out because it was not up to snuff. Then, we got that extra essential part and that’s when we knew it was done. Sometimes things fall out of the sky and into your lap, other times it’ll be worked at ‘til it’s right. “Tigers In Our Hearts” started with a chorus-y riff, then I worked on the verses for awhile. I’m a World War II buff and I was reading a book about racism during the war and they had words for an ancient Japanese war song. They were taken for that aggressive in-your-face guitar song. “Undying Love” was an almost cock-rock song so we named it something not at all what you’d expect.

The solemn acoustic lullaby, “Little Sister” was supposedly written as an ode to your younger sister.

 

She lived alone in Boston and got sick once and I was visiting the hospital for a week. It was sad to see my sister, whom I love, having a tough time. She’s way better now. I’m sure I took it harder than she did but I couldn’t help her in anyway and felt terrible.

The expansive Brooklyn scene has spread beyond the artsy punk heaviosity of the last few years. How do you see Big Sleep fitting in?

 

I wouldn’t call it a focused scene. The musicians I like and am friendly with are very different than us. Dirty On Purpose are doing real well but they’re pretty poppy. But I want to get away from that ‘heaviosity’ a little if it’s possible.

How are your newer tracks, slated for future endeavors, coming along?

 

I feel the unrecorded songs may have less distortion and more variety. The songs are already pretty rhythm based, but I want to scale back on the guitar-in-your-face all the time. We’ve been loud and heavy for awhile so I want to bring in some more melodies. For me, it starts with the music instead of the lyrics. I’m making room for vocals but I don’t know how they’ll change our overall sound. There’s a somber, almost dour mood, I want to change for more uppity, happy tunes. It’s not necessarily conscious, but it’s worth aiming for.

Many tracks have psychedelic components such as resonant reverb, flailing chords, and trippy undertones. Do you ever compose or arrange any tracks under the influence of recreational drugs?

 

No. I use no artificial intelligence. (laughter) There’s no altered inspiration. That may change, but not for now.

GANG GANG DANCE REGALE SAINT DYMPHNA

Interviews

It’s lamentable how often death provides meaningful stimulus for musicians of all stripes. Sometimes it redeems otherwise reluctant artists to dig deeper for that extra motivational spark that puts them over the top. Yet it’s a sad predicament understood all too well by New York-based acid house enthusiasts, Gang Gang Dance.

An early Gang Gang Dance comrade, Nathan Maddox, was struck to death by lightning on a Chinatown rooftop in ’02. Since then, the posthumous teen has provided inspirational guidance from beyond the grave. Post-haste, the surviving members became far more effective transferring their picturesque embryonic concepts into transcendent ‘theatre of the mind’ abstractions. A challenging self-titled ’04 album appeared and the band improved so quickly they were eventually spotted supporting clever underground heavyweights Sonic Youth, Massive Attack, and TV On The Radio.

 

Vigilant Gang Gang Dance front man Brian Degraw shirks at any high-brow notion of sophisticated shrewdness and insists, “It’s not a super-intense intellectual process we’re unloading.”

A promising Washington DC art school student, Degraw had developed a liking for local post-punk renegades Fugazi and Nation Of Ulysses, then met Michigan native Tim Dewit, another creative alchemist struck by the deep emotional intrigue consuming both visual and audio arts.

Upon moving to New York City, the percussive duo soon hooked up with guitarist Josh Diamond and eccentric vocalist, Lizzi Bougatsos, using borrowed instruments, looped samples, and impromptu jams to design constantly evolving musical templates at a practice space shared by innovative peers, Black Dice and Animal Collective. As they got proficient melding spontaneous musical sequences into minimalist orchestral constructions, the experimental foursome precipitously gained a foothold as subterraneous vanguard luminaries.

Following ‘05s relatively conventional God’s Money, Degraw’s crew spent a good portion of the next year constructing the chillingly variegated 3-song 20-minute EP, Rawwar. Here, they tossed Middle Eastern elements into fantastical bombastic dreamscape “Nicoman,” reveled in synthesized Industrial-strength electronica on dramatic cloudburst “Oxygen Demo Riddim, and submerged fluttery electrodes beneath the paradoxical mind-boggling liturgy “The Earthquake That Frees Prisoners.” But this was just a deserving primer for the Gang.

With Retina Riddim, a spare 24-minute instrumental, Degraw combined his abstruse musical objectives with potent cinematic ambitions, creating a mesmerizing half-hour DVD as a ceremonial adaptation. An air of brooding mystery and unsettled anxiety camouflage this apprehensive art-damaged requiem. Sound-wise, glacial violins intertwine with dreamily ambient oscillations, abrupt sine waves, and faux-orchestral bits, detonating into a choppy rhythmic deluge.

An increasing amount of humbled admirers eagerly awaited Gang Gang Dance’s next endeavor, especially since each preceding release had subsequently advanced their compact legacy fashioning mutated modernistic mosaics. Named after the patron saint of sufferers, ‘09s urbane portraiture Saint Dymphna (Warp Records) opens up and brightens the dynamic scope of Gang Gang Dance’s pan-cultural adventuring. A crisper, livelier production sheen enhances thoroughly efficient stylistic ideas. It’s undeniably a significant step up for Chinatown transplant, Degraw, and his impressive crewmates. No doubt Lower Manhattan’s diverse multiethnic art scene again enlightened him in a forthright manner. As always, Degraw’s striking cover artwork helps visualize the painstakingly perfected project.

Computer generated bleats and burbles get inside the exotic jungle groove of tribal sub-Saharan opening jolt, “Bebey.” Ensuing syncopated Afro-funk shuffle, “First Communion,” a click track reminiscent of goodly Malian duo Amadou & Mariam, showcases Lizzi’s arousing goth caterwaul, which rises out of the abyss with a brayed trill, upending the linear percussive stomp and overblown bass contortions. Though its sympathetic instrumental preponderance and No Wave electronic squiggles lack an enigmatic African influence, the neo-Classical faux-string ethereality of “Blue Nile” does apply distantly sequestered primordial voices to mirror its titular meandering river.

Lizzi takes complete control on arrhythmic wasteland distention, “Desert Storm,” attaining majestic operatic heights merging Bjork’s diva-esque hysterics, Lene Lovich’s hiccuped gulps, and Poly Styrene’s adolescent rage. On accessibly posh mantra, “House Jam,” her childlike quaver reaches its stratospheric zenith, recalling Kate Bush’s monastic rendering of “Running Up That Hill” a tad.

Onward, an extraterrestrial motif underscores the balance of Saint Dymphna’s surrealistic ensemble. Interplanetary sounds beam in and out of “Princes,” a showcase for unrenowned Brit rapper Tinchy Stryder, whose urban flow grounds the aerobic electro-dance pulse and credibly filches the conversationalist routine of better-known countryman, Mike Skinner (a.k.a. the Streets). Further otherworldly collations abound when laser beams zoom across muted percussion during “Inners Pace,” where tubular sound effects fade out then reestablish the jittery horn-punctuated scheme.

Degraw truly opens up during conversation when examining his deceased friends’ extemporaneous narrative woven through Rawwar’s “The Earthquake That Frees Prisoners.”

“The closest we come to having a theme is Nathan. He was a close friend who joined up when he was sixteen in DC. Basically, he was the most mystical, otherworldly person I’d ever met. Since he left, everyone has been living better, so he fills the role of a shaman. He brings a strong spiritual aspect to the band – his energy, personality. The way he lived life was inspiring.”

How does your visual arts background positively affect Gang Gang Dance’s music?

 

BRIAN DEGRAW: It’s a big influence on our music, almost more so than music, but in a strange way. It’s something that’s relative, ‘visual music,’ seeing it as well as hearing it – the shapes and the colors.

When did you become involved with the club scene?

 

When I was sixteen, I moved to DC. That’s when I got more influenced by that culture. I’d attended raves, but never really liked it. When I started hearing London grime, house, and garage music, that was my first positive exposure to club music around 2003. That’s when I started investigating that realm.

GGD’s studio tracks seem deliberately structured, yet freeform in approach. Do your songs usually come from improvisational jams?

 

Almost always they do. That’s how we started. We didn’t write any structured pieces. Now we compose structured pieces but it all stems from improvisation. We don’t go into the studio with parts and ideas. We just play for hours, listen back, find a spot we like, and continue building upon that.

Were you encouraged in any way by obtuse ‘80s experimentalists such as Psychic TV, Throbbing Gristle, or Einsterzende Neubauten?

 

Yeah, for sure. At one point in my life, that was exciting, but I don’t get to listen to that stuff anymore. However, their approach affected my direction.

Were Rawwar and God’s Money semi-conceptually designed?

 

It’s all about exploration. We get bored easily and won’t be happy doing something over and over. We listen to so much different music we’re interested in and get influenced by that. We hate stagnation. The shows we’ve been playing lately don’t feature songs from the new record. We’ve already written new stuff and got bored with the new album.

How has Gang Gang Dance grown or evolved since its inception?

 

I’m not sure how it happened. There’s no line to be drawn. No matter how much time I take looking back at each record, I can’t figure out how or why. (laughter) It’s more on instinct than any conscious methodology.

“Bebay” and “First Communion” both utilize tribal African beats. Are these newer influences showing up firsthand?

 

Those are things we’ve listened to for a long time but we’re very gradual in compositional approach. We don’t rush anything. We basically start out making noise music – banging on things trying to emote something. When that felt redundant, we considered structure more. But God’s Money was the first time we did that. Again, it wasn’t conscious. It was done out of frustration and boredom. Improvising became limiting in a way so we started having repetitive parts. From there, it’s been a hodgepodge of all these elements. It’s about being ‘in the moment’ and capturing it on tape. I think there’s a theme for Saint Dymphna, but I don’t know what it is. It’s more on a spiritual level than anything we can describe as progressive.

Where’d you find rapper, Tinchy Stryder, whose flow saddles “Princes”?

 

When I first heard grime music, a friend from London gave me a cassette of pirated recordings. It was hours long. These MC’s did their thing over tracks. It’s more mainstream now but at the time there was a very good underground movement. When I first heard the tapes, I was completely blown away by the eastern melodies, rawness of the beats, and off-ness of timing. One of the first MC’s I heard was Tingy. I was an instant fan. He was only fifteen at the time. He blew my mind. It was alien music to me. We toured London, a kid found out we were a fan, and tracked him down. He freestyled over some beats and then we refined it into a more finished song.

Have you ever contemplated doing cinematic scores?

 

Yeah. We’d love to. That would be perfect. So much of what we do is based on feeling. It would be very appropriate. Tap into the film’s emotion and put it into shape.

GUIDED BY VOICES: THE ’97 BOB POLLARD INTERVIEW

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Before I got to hang out with Guided By Voices pilot Bob Pollard a few times in New York during the next few years, I did this phoner with the celebrated Midwestern lo-fi craftsman. His casual humor comes along just fine in this interview to support ‘97s vibrant Mag Earwhig! Damn, this guy’s a lot o’ friggin’ fun. Wish he lived in Jersey. This article originally appeared in Aquarium Weekly.

 

Tragically disregarded by mainstream radio and relatively unknown outside an ardent cult audience, Dayton, Ohio’s indie-pop kingpins, Guided By Voices, continue to exist just outside of the general public’s musical radar range. ‘97s loud and shiny pop grab-bag, Mag Earwig!, finds multi-faceted singer-songwriter Bob Pollard heavily supported by Cleveland underground pro-rock mainstays, Cobra Verde. But while ‘96s Under The Bushes, Under The Stars gave guitarist Tokin Sprout his most prominent role in GBV, he has been relegated to guest appearances this time around, due to fatherhood and a solo career.

Releasing embryonic homemade recordings since the mid-‘80s, former elementary school teacher Pollard hit stride with ‘93s Vampire On Titus. Then came highly prized collections Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes, two indispensable lo-fi gems permanently securing GBV’s position in nineties rock history (alongside sensational DIY indie rebels Sebadoh, Liz Phair, and Pavement).

Pollard offered his firm opinions on a wide range of topics during a friendly chat. Besides being a prolific composer and easygoing conversationalist, he’s also an avid Kraut-rock fan, skilled boozer, and caring family man.

Are you disappointed by mainstream radio and MTV’s reluctance to expose Guided By Voices on a grand scale?

 

BOB: Well, my hometown of Dayton threatens to play our stuff when we do radio shows and kiss ass. They like us, but the main cat at the top won’t give in and play our stuff. We now record our stuff properly in a big studio. It’s no longer lo-fi. We’ve even re-recorded songs to get them on the radio. But they still don’t play it. I don’t understand it. Every LP we put out has three or four worthy songs. Maybe in the past the four-track stuff didn’t meet the standards of what they think the kids want to hear. I don’t know the formula or have charts and graphs. I’ve just decided to make music I like and I don’t give a fuck what they think. (laughter)

“I Am A Tree” has to be the most universal power pop anthem I’ve come across recently. Its captivating hook line and climactic release make it seem reminiscent of dynamic ‘70s-era rockers, bursting forth with full-blown sonic combustion and sweaty emotional vigor.

 

It’s a Doug Gillard song his band Gem never issued. I think he wrote that in ’93 after listening to Bee Thousand. He was a big fan of that album at the time. It’s a nursery rhyme Gem may have thought was immature. But I adopted it because it fit in well with what we do. And now, there’s a little controversy. My label is pushing for it to be a big hit by getting a big record producer to do it again so that it’ll be radio friendly and I’m slightly upset by that because I’ve had songs in the past, such as “The Official Ironman Song” and ” Striped White Jets,” that I thought were also worthy of a push and hadn’t got it. So I love “I Am A Tree,” but it’s getting on my nerves now. In the same respect it would be tragic if that song was forgotten and never heard. It could stand up to the Foo Fighters on the radio.

Are new songs such as the ‘60s-cultured “Can’t Hear The Revolution,” the Beatlesque “Bulldog Skin,” the steely-eyed “Portable Men’s Society” or “Now To War” political snipes?

 

I write stream of consciousness songs that are post-analytic and whatever the listener wants to read into them is fine. My lyrics just flow. Kids on the website like to talk about the lyrics. But my songs are just like a painting. Interpret them as you must. Actually, most of my songs are about internal conflict – maybe unconsciously about me – but more often about the industry and Guided By Voices. But I think that’s interesting you thought those songs were political.

“I Am Produced” and “Now To War” seem to re-create the style of The Who’s Tommy era.

 

Yeah. There’s something melancholy and sad about those songs. The Who were probably my biggest influence, especially Sell Out, Tommy, and Who’s Next.

Do you ever get the feeling Guided By Voices will remain a lost treasure from the late 20th century underground much like under-appreciated, yet highly respected, ‘80s bands the Minutemen, Replacements, or Husker Du have become?

 

I definitely would not mind being put in the company of those great bands. We get compared to the Replacements all the time. Fans think we’re on the same level they once were. And that’s flattering and it makes me totally happy. I though the post-punk stuff by Devo, The Police, Wire, and XTC was some of the best music of all time in the early ‘80s. It’s been downhill ever since. And I don’t know what caused MTV and radio to become so lame. MTV won’t play your video because radio won’t play your song. I have a 16-year old son who’s subjected to all that shit. And I try to tell him there’s other stuff out there. When I first put out Guided By Voices first five albums on my own I was just content to put out songs without anticipating anything happening. So I’m extremely proud of what has happened since then. Maybe we’ll get to the next level, but our guitarist, John Petkovic, says he’s seen the next level and it’s not pretty. (laughter)

Was there a certain point when you were convinced Guided By Voices might take off commercially?

 

Our fifth album, Propeller, which I jokingly titled after telling the band that it would ‘propel’ us and lead to success, really lifted us off. I thought it might be our last album at the time because I couldn’t afford to finance them anymore.

How did you get hooked up with Cleveland-based rockers Cobra Verde?

 

We got together when we did a ’93 tour showcase for Scat Records, the label our bands were on at that time. We had mutual admiration for certain eras of rock music. We tried to do some recording together, but it never happened until recently. They bring in a technically refined sound that Tobin and I didn’t quite have the ability to achieve. When we used to need a cool lead guitar part, we’d seek outside help. But now, with Doug Gillard, an amazing guitar player, and John Petrovic, we’re a fully realized rock band – not just alternative or indie.

What initially inspired you as a youngster to possibly pursue music?

 

Well, I’ll be forty in October. I saw the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show in the ‘60s. That’s when I began looking in the mirror and practicing poses. But I initially gave up hope because I didn’t think I had the ability and my father was pushing for me and my brother to be jocks. It became a secret thing collecting records at age 13. My dad got into the Columbia Record Club and got twelve albums for a penny. Then I became a vinyl junkie. One of the albums I got from the club was 10 Years After’s Ssssh. I started writing songs back then, but thought it was just a silly hobby. It wasn’t until people from Cleveland and New York recognized Guided By Voices’ first five ‘80s albums we put out to convince me I might make a career out of it. But I wouldn’t have been able to handle it as a youngster because too many people in Dayton, where I’m from, thought my music was shit. Now it’s nice to hear people chanting the Guided By Voices chant at concerts.

By the way, I saw Guided By Voices play the Academy Of Music in ’94. How do you remember all the lyrics and musical progressions of all those two-minute songs performed live?

 

Plus, I’m usually drunk when I get onstage. But I think that if I were sober, I’d probably forget the words.

What do you normally drink before a performance?

 

I’m an old-fashioned Midwest Budweiser drinker. But I could drink just about anything. I’ll do shots but I stay away from whiskey. I drank Rolling Rock for awhile when we were trying to get an endorsement but it never happened. Besides, it’s pretty nasty and seemed to induce hangovers. Then I went to Bud Lite. But I don’t like that anymore. Certain places like Portland have microbreweries. But I like to drink something I can constantly pound.

What are your favorite hobbies?

 

I love to go to vinyl record shops. I trade my test pressings and masters of Guided By Voices to acquire all the Kraut-rock stuff. I like Faust and Can but I don’t have a deep record collection with a bunch of old ‘50s and ‘60s stuff. I wish I did.

What does the future hold for of Guided By Voices?

 

I think Mag Earwhig! may be the starting point for our next phase. I’ve written some new songs that go back to the semi-shorter two-minute form. The next album, I think, will be like Alien Lanes, but recorded in a big studio. After every tour I think about hanging it up, but some of our fans are such fanatics they keep us going.

BEACHWOOD SPARKS RETURN WITH ‘ONCE WE WERE TREES’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Inactive since ’02, L.A.’s Beachwood Sparks received indie pop and alt-Country notoriety for colorfully integrating Beach Boys harmonies with Byrds and Buffalo Springfield-related folk-rock. Formed by bassist Brent Rademaker (concurrent vocalist-guitarist with fab indie pop group, The Tyde) and guitarist Christopher Gunst (along with Rademaker, originally from respected ’90s outfit, Further), these West Coast denizens rely on ’60s-pop for inspiration. Their final studio recording, ‘02s Make The Cowboy Robots Cry, I have not heard. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Gaining direct inspiration from cosmic Country-rock pioneer Gram Parsons, Los Angeles-based quartet Beachwood Sparks take Southern-accented Americana down a rustic path as expansive as the Arizona plains and as deep and wide as Grand Canyon. Following a Bomp! Records single, “Desert Skies,” revered indie grunge label Sub Pop took a chance with Beachwood Sparks, releasing the follow-up, “Midsummer Daydream.”

By early 2000, a brilliant self-titled Sub Pop album emerged, capturing the rural-bound attention of the No Depression sect. A sun-baked treasure owing its earthy hippie sensibility to Parsons as well as ‘60s Haight-Ashbury psychedelia by the Grateful Dead and Quicksilver Messenger Service, the Beachwood Sparks debut gave away its vintage “Freedom Rock” idiosyncrasies by featuring bright graphics of an old VW van, butterflies, and rainbows.

Less beholden to Country & Western and mountain folk, ‘01s Once We Were Trees expands B-Sparks range while maintaining a revered rootsiness. A newfound somber spirituality blankets the organ-doused transcendental sermon “Close Your Eyes” and the Gospel confection “By Your Side” (an outside composition written by R & B chanteuse Sade and showcasing guitarist Chris Gunst’s affectionately fragile falsetto).

But Parsons continues to get exploited in a good way. The sentimental heartland ballad “Hearts Mend” and the sweet-toned title track recall the Parsons-fronted Flying Burrito Brothers while the lively bluegrass ‘indirectness’ of the banjo-filled “Yer Selfish Ways” (graced by ex-Dinosaur Jr. mainman J. Mascis’ lucid guitar) brings back memories of the Byrds’ landmark Sweetheart of the Rodeo (a groundbreaking Country-styled gem Parsons played a pivotal role in). A few quieter introspective numbers delve into the relaxed soulfulness of G.P. and Grevious Angel; early ‘70s solo Parsons projects with harmonizing former love interest Emmylou Harris in tow.

B-Sparks keyboardist Dave Scher’s slide guitar resonates brightest on the pretty melodic folk-pop charmer “The Sun Surrounds Me” while ex-Lilys drummer Aaron Sperske and ex-Further bassist Brent Rademaker fill out each track with dynamic rhythmic punctuality. Engineer Thom Monahan (Pernice Brothers’ bassist) helped facilitate ideas and capture Once We Were Tree’s magic at Mascis’ Levrett, Massachusetts studio.

Since Once We Were Trees was recorded at J. Mascis’ studio and he added guitar to two songs, what common influences did you share with him besides Neil Young?

 

CHRIS GUNST: Old time rock and roll, the Incredible String Band, and Love we all like. And all punk stuff.

It’s ironic you bring up San Francisco flower power band, Love, since there’s a psychedelic strain running through your music and album artwork. “The Hustler” and “Old Manatee” are reminiscent of the legendary Grateful Dead.

 

We share some of the same instrumentation as so-called hippie groups, like banjo. I didn’t listen to the Grateful Dead much until recently. But then I read a review that said two of our songs sounded like the Dead and I thought that was crazy. Since then, I’ve listened to American Beauty.

You should search for a copy of American Beauty’s equally compelling early ‘70s bookend, Workingman’s Dead.

 

I will.

On Once We Were Trees, Beachwood Sparks sound less reverential of Gram Parsons. It’s more expansive and there’s more tonal color.

 

Definitely. When we recorded the first one, we were barely a four-piece. We played a few gigs and were young. Now we have more of our sound developing. You’ve got to stay together and make it through. I was a college DJ at Loyola Marymount’s KXLU in Los Angeles. It’s all underground music. I love all music. When I was young, it was only punk and indie. I wasn’t even looking for older music. But once you find bands you like that are modern influences, your record collection starts growing quickly.

Going beyond the ‘60s references of the Byrds and Dylan, are you also indirectly influenced by ‘50s Country-folk legends Hank Williams, Merle Travis, and Woody Guthrie?

 

Most definitely. We love the Louvin Brothers, Johnny Cash, and Hank Williams. Any time I hear old country or bluegrass, I love it. Now, I’m getting into old folk-Blues like Mississippi John Hurt. Anything on the Arhoolie Record label is the best thing I ever heard. I love Nina Simone. She’s a huge influence on me because she’s very emotional musically. I’m a big vinyl collector when I have the money.

There’s a homily-like religiosity to the new album I didn’t recognize on the debut.

 

Yeah. “Close Your Eyes” definitely. It’s just the group turning into a vehicle for that. There’s a lot of stuff people have their eyes closed to. An increased consciousness lends you to inner thought. If you want to be a better person, it takes a lot of self-examination.

How’d the reflective Once We Were Trees title come about?

 

It came from a period in our lives when we were more stable and things were more beautiful. Now, it’s harder to find beauty in anything. People have their minds turned off.

Amongst its melancholia lies a sunnier lyrical perspective the debut only hinted at.

 

In our own heads, we look for hope and global happiness. We’re looking for some soul and spirit. It makes the music sound happy and triumphant, even if the words are sad. You’re looking for something to save you and the music inside my mind is outrageously glorious. The sentiments of Gospel make me feel better.

Does Beachwood Sparks have a big redneck following in the Deep South?

 

It’s hard to say. Playing with the Black Crowes, we’ve seen normal Joe’s, instead of indie rockers. I don’t have prejudice against anyone who sees us. Some kids come because they like everything on Sub Pop or small labels and others come because they like Merle Haggard. The more, the merrier.

What roots-based covers have B-Sparks played live?

 

We do the Louvin Brothers’ “When I Stop Dreaming” and Aretha Franklin’s “Do Right Woman.” The Burrito Brothers did a version of (the latter). “Close the Door Lightly” by Fairport Convention is a folk song written by Eric Andersen we do. Also, the Equals “Good Times Are Gone Forever.”

PISSED JEANS CREASED THEN BATTERED

Interviews

 

Radical anti-commercial Dadaist pranksters, Pissed Jeans, prove boisterous vertigo-inducing art-damaged delirium and grimy rough-hewn gruffness could still rule the subterranean jungle. Sordid passive-aggressive business professionals by day, they’d rather be stuck in the scummy muck of stinky broken-down clubs than relish the cushy comfort their restrictive money-making traditional jobs proffer.

 

Though Pissed Jeans call God’s Country home, these misanthropic non-conformists make a turbulent hell-bent racket the devil would dig way more than any heavenly divinity. Formed from the ashes of formative combo, the Gate Crashers, and incipiently coined Unrequited Hard-On, Pissed Jeans self-described ‘slow dirge-y punk’ maintains an abrasive edge seemingly antithetical to hometown Allentown, Pennsylvania’s rural environs. High school pals Matt Korvette (vocals), Bradley Fry (guitar), and Dave Rosenstrauss (bass), joined by like-minded noise monger and ex-Navies drummer Sean Mc Guinness, ply brassy post-hardcore mayhem to savagely mangled aggro-rock brutality.

Influenced by ‘80s Dischord punk (Soulside; Minor Threat; Bad Brains; Hoover), 26-year-old Mc Guinness was too young to cheer on the original scene-makers, but admits to attending ten Fugazi shows since. His brawny pile-driven beat simply pulverizes – adding to the implosive tumultuousness Korvette’s head-spinning psychotic neuroses capitulates.

“I moved from DC to Philadelphia two years ago. Matt, who runs the small White Denim label, had a straight-up noise band, Air Conditioning, that I’d wanted to join,” Mc Guinness remembers. “But when I got in touch with him, Matt asked me to join Pissed Jeans. Everyone felt it’d work.”

Beforehand, Pissed Jeans had released a self-titled 2-song 7″ and long-play debut, Shallow, a gritty start-to-finish semi-thematic record with nary a bad song. Shallow’s squealing atonal contortions, crass squalor, and droll degradation came to a boil on contemptibly sniveling depravity, “Ashamed Of My Cum.” Overall, its wretchedly maniacal fury and chaotic lambasting set the imminent tone.

Less airy, spacey, and open-ended than that rudimentary disc, ‘07s mightily apoplectic Hope For Men (its appellation stolen from a neighborhood missionary) also topples rigid verse-chorus compliance with the same brazenly bloodthirsty zeal as fellow Sub Pop subversives, Wolf Eyes.

Mc Guinness remarks, “We didn’t get caught up wondering if people would like it. It’s a fucking raw punk record. Some songs were written in the studio and came together nicely. I tried to get Hope For Men on a local jukebox with lots of noisy recordings and the guy said it was too experimental.”

Shouting strangulated stanzas beyond the messy din, Matt Korvette spews venomous gut-bucket barbs atop dissonant molten metal sludge and puke-green grunge slime in a manner David Yow (Jesus Lizard), Jim Thirwell (Scraping Foetus From The Wheel), and Michael Gira (Swans) once yelped. His disheveled caterwaul bellows above ominously cataclysmic “People Person,” while thumping toms ceaselessly underpin the scree guitar lunacy, bringing vigorous vehemence to a satirical putdown mocking conservative dullards such as Korvette, a daytime claims adjuster.

“That and the last track, (the bowel-grating desecration) “My Bed,” are two of the same type song.” Mc Guinness offers, before inquiring, “Is it even music? Matt’s a nine-to-fiver dealing with people constantly yelling on the phone. But you don’t have to like what you do if it allows you to do things you like. That’s even more of a ‘fuck you’ to the man.”

Korvette’s belched-out groveling sprawls across discordantly volatile muffled shuffle, “Secret Admirer,” where crashing six-string contortions mutilate bone-crushing rhythmic thwacks. The portentous calamity continues on furiously grinding hullabaloo “A Bad Wind” and farcical dessert-craving growler “I’ve Still Got You (Ice Cream),” all of which possess blistering rancor and scabrous feedback redolent of early Butthole Surfers.

“People latched on to “Ice Cream” the most. It’s kind of a cult song in DC,” Mc Guinness claims. Nevertheless, he seems more enthralled by seditious Industrial gloom swoon “Jogger” and loner drone “Fantasy World” (a childhood anamnesis of pizza-eating soda-drinking impassivity). “To me, “Fantasy World” is like a freight train plowing right through. It’s a straightforward mind-boggler. There’s part of that ‘outcast making his own devises’ theme. But there’s also jealousy, hatred, and disdain, like when neighbors have a cool swimming pool and all you want is to be invited over to swim. “Jogger” was the first song written for the record. Brad took painstaking efforts to make the guitar speed up the way it did. You could compare it to a joggers heart rate.”

On the charging “I’m Turning Now,” Korvette’s gruffly howled croak gets skewed inside Fry’s scurried “Sabre Dance”-derived dawning and supervened Blue Cheer-whirled psychedelia. Fry, an affirmed surf guitar devotee bewitched by legend Dick Dale, relies on emotion instead of technical ability.

“My playing has always been sloppy. It’s developed, but I did it more on feeling than know-how,” Fry avers. “Over the years, it has evolved. I hate to do things twice. The songs, done live, are different. The basic structure and the fills I rip through on the fly. Some nights it’s good, sometimes, not so hot.”

Live at dingy Brooklyn storage facility, Death By Audio, Fry’s spontaneously misshapen, brayed shrills hang densely in the gusty murk as stationery bassist Randy Huth (who has replaced diesel mechanic Rosenstrauss) renders gruesome ruptured swells. Korvette and Mc Guinness go topless to beat the sweltering 100-degree heat in the white brick-walled cubical space. A sweat-drenched Korvette grimaces atop a chair, pulls off a few bad muscle poses, and fakes seizures in an absurdist display prior to stage diving into the booze-soaked crowd. Mc Guinness anchors the cantankerous cacophony with trampling railroad track beats and combative rat-a-tat constancy, fastening and quickening the reckless wrangling. Each crusty connective mantra collides into the next disfigured disembowelment, gathering steam and resolute irritability.

“My willingness to put up with the bands’ orneriness (was important),” Mc Guinness snickers. “I’m a good performer who doesn’t put on a suit or become a different person. My dedication to music is clear and evident. I don’t force anything. I want my drums to be stripped down and basic as possible without becoming wanky – nothing flashy. The sense of morphing, changing, and evolving appeals to me.”

Fry concludes, “A lot of the stuff we do in the studio, there’s an idea laid down naturally. We may use the first take if it’s unique enough. It’s significant we don’t repeat ourselves.”

ROSENBERGS ‘MISSION: YOU’

Interviews,
FOREWORD: I haven’t heard from the Rosenbergs since Mission: You, a fabulous ’01 power pop entrée that created quite an underground buzz at the time. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Rosenbergs frontman David Fagin’s self-effacing wit surfaces quickly when I discover he’s busy with another call before we begin our interview.

“Maybe I should call later,” I tell him.

“No. I’m not busy. I’m just a typical loser who likes to hang out and watch porno,” he quips.

Born and raised in suburban Fair Lawn, New Jersey, Fagin and his band of “hard working road dogs” may be the most influential figures on the current underground pop scene. Strangely, that may have more to do with their business acumen than record sales.

Unlike typical artists out for the glory of a major record deal, the Rosenbergs have drafted a new model for the record industry. They’ve signed with maverick guitarist Robert Fripp’s independent Discipline Global Mobile label, where they’ll be guaranteed full ownership of their recordings and a much higher royalty rate in exchange for DGM getting a percentage of concert revenue, merchandising, and internet distribution. As a value-added bonus, the Rosenbergs will give away one free CD of Mission: You with each purchase.

“It won’t hurt us financially one bit,” Fagin confidently mutters. “We’re hoping buyers will give the free one to friends to share their music file.”

Furthermore, Napster is featuring the band on their front web page and is set to sponsor the Rosenbergs upcoming tour.

So what’s all the excitement about?

The Rosenbergs do more with bright, shiny guitar licks and magical harmonies than most power pop charmers. Hopeful teen-driven lyrics rife with melodic appeal penetrate the surface with youthful vigor. But there are just enough dark tones to keep Mission: You sounding ‘East Coast,’ specifically South Jersey/ Philly (like antecedents the Hooters or Smithereens).

The fun-tastic “Sucking On A Plum” and the synth-drenched dynamo “Paper And Plastic” open up the set with a determined immediacy. Bursting out of the speakers with full-on emotional impact, the shimmery “Houseboat” may well be the finest pop song to come out of Jersey since the Smithereens “A Girl Like You.” Its resonating guitars, sparkling harmonies, and spiraling synth clusters crescendo in sheer ecstasy.

On the dark side, melancholic self-doubt mires the otherwise punchy “A Little Lie,” a streamlined rocker aimed at some deceitful ex-lover. Closing Mission: You on a subtle, pensive note, the epic Brit-pop-influenced ballad, “Overboard,” shows off Fagin’s sensitive side.

Could Fagin, guitarist Joe Mahoney, bassist Evan Silverman, and drummer Joe Darone be the next ‘big thing.’ Time will tell.

Despite recent success, Fagin lost his girlfriend and claims he’s “currently homeless, crashing out at my sister’s pad or a friends’ place.”

How does Mission: You differ from the Rosenbergs debut?

 

DAVID FAGIN: Ameripop started as a collection of demos and had a charm that could never be replaced. It served its purpose and we’re hoping to get it re-released through Rykodisc.

How’d you decide on the unlikely moniker “The Rosenbergs”?

 

Basically we’re named after my friends grandfather. I was over her house and he was talking about skiing and playing racquetball over the weekend. I was hoping I’d be that cool at eighty years old. So we took his name.

The vibrant “Sucking On A Plum” is a wonderful lead track. Its refreshing spirit sets the tone of the album.

 

You got it. That’s what we were trying to do. We picked a song that starts off with big guitars, big drums, and big vocals and shows what direction the record would be heading in. That’s what we aimed for.

There’s an adolescent sincerity that infiltrates your best lyrics.

 

I guess it just comes out. All I know is there’s a child in all of us. Being in the music business and playing in a band makes you an eternal adolescent. I used to write really dark ‘why did you leave me’ ‘girl dumps guy’ lyrics, but in a down kind of way. Some girl who thought one of our records was cool asked ‘Have you ever thought of writing a song about going to get a slice of pizza?’ I said ‘No.’ All my songs then were like six-minute epics. That was a catalyst that took our songs in a more tongue-in-cheek direction. We started writing about going down to the corner store, sucking on a plum…whatever. That made it more fun. It was a weird, strange transaction from those first demos. We were a different band five years ago. The songs were verse-chorus-verse melodic, but were darker and less enlightened. Now we bounce around like monkeys.

Who are some of your early influences?

I was a late bloomer. When I was thirteen years old it was Styx, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Kansas, and Rush. Then I got into Judas Priest’s Screaming For Vengeance. But I never was a metal head or hung out with the burnout’s. I was into Ratt and Dokken by seventeen. I discovered REM in ‘90 when Out Of Time came out. Then I went back to Murmur. That’s when my taste switched to Lindsay Buckingham, Mark Knopfler, and Screaming Trees. I got into Springsteen’s Born To Run in ‘87. A lot of people thought I listened to underground pop by 20/ 20 or the Shoes. But I never got into that until a few years ago. Recently, I started listening to a lot of female stuff, like Jonatha Brooke, Aimee Mann, and Juliana Hatfield. My favorite pop album of all time is the Posies’ Frosting On The Beater. I live for that record.

Do you enjoy local pop bands like the Wrens, Grip Weeds, Thin Lizard Dawn, and the Candy Butchers?

 

I love Howie from Thin Lizard Dawn, but they broke up. We’ve played with the Grip Weeds, Mike Viola & the Candy Butchers, and Fountains Of Wayne. I was primed for pop when Oasis and Fountains Of Wayne hit big. It took me a long time to write good songs. We searched around for a deal and were wondering why all our friends were getting signed instead. But everything happens for a reason. We saw each of them get dropped and pushed back. Nada Surf and Superdrag had lawsuit after lawsuit for a couple hundred thousand dollars in lawyer fees. The Honeydogs went four years without a record.

The major labels have been fucking off artists for decades. They offer secretaries and office staff health benefits, but not their lifeblood, the artists. Corporate heads are always twenty years removed from what the fuck is ‘street cool.’

 

Absolutely. We’re not naive enough to think they’ll go away overnight. There will always be the artist that wants to sign on the dotted line for money up-front. They don’t care about a full-time career in music. In this day and age, you should think twice before you sign a crappy contract. With the internet, there’s a little union. They can’t keep bands segregated from one another.

Let’s hope the charade is over for the majors. When those shitty kiddie bands go away they’ll be clueless as to what to sign. That’ll be the deathblow.

 

Those bands probably had to sign away their entire lives and future earnings to Clive Davis. They’re basically puppets. What we’re doing with DGM and Rykodisc might create an alternative. We still own our music. Our ex-manager wanted to put up twenty grand to start making the record, but we didn’t want him to have a say in what songs we recorded. He’s a great guy, but he was definitely Modern Rock radio hit-oriented. He would have taken this record in a different direction. So he pulled his money out.

We were sitting there with no money or studio to make a record until we found someone on our e-mail list who gave us money to put a deposit down for the studio time. We recorded in Big Blue Meanie in Jersey City. They were so nice. We recorded well over $100,000 worth of time and they only took about half. They said, “we really like your band and the record so forget about the money.” Plus, we had time to make the record we wanted to make and to see what would fly. Without our producer, Dan (Iannuzzelli), it would probably have come out like a clusterfuck. He let us change lyrics, re-arrange choruses. Plus, we were going through ridiculous shit on the road. I had problems with my girlfriend. Our drummer’s father was dying of cancer. Our guitarist had financial problems. Evan had problems at home. Dan kept his wits about him and put it together like a ringmaster.

Do you think there will ever be a Jersey scene like Hoboken had in the early ‘80s?

 

We like to play outside the New York/ New Jersey area. We’ve found everyone’s jaded. The Crayons and the Setzers – before they broke up – are really good bands. But a lot of people are in it for all the wrong reasons. The best pop scene we’ve seen is in Camdentown, England. We were hanging out with Blur, Supergrass, and Travis. Places like that are few and far between. These days it’s a vicious circle. There’s so many clubs, but 98% of them have shitty sound systems. Even in New York, the owners of some clubs would rather fix up their boat than put $2,000 into a PA system to respect the musicians. We were on the road last year for a long time and only got to meet a few guys who could walk the walk.