MAN MAN’S ‘RABBIT HABITS’ LEAPS AHEAD

Interviews,

Circus-like Man Man bandleader, Honus Honus (born Ryan Kattner), is the perfect pied piper, a worldly troubadour adrift in strange towns on a never-ending vagabond journey, perhaps suffering privately to assemble pensive lyrical twists and scatological musical turns executed like some ravaged Blues-croaked Captain Beefheart disciple.

 Though he didn’t learn piano ‘til he was in his twenties and despite Man Man’s early merry-go-round lineup changes since formative ’04 debut, The Man in a Blue Turban with a Face, Honus’ crew is now tight as hell and more secure than ever.

 

Brilliantly bizzaro and thoroughly enjoyable, Man Man’s ‘06 salvo, Six Demon Bag, featured a startling blend of satirical heartbreakers, wayward waltzing, thrashing metal, melancholic abstractions, and psycho honky tonk. The clustered cling-clang percussive counterpoint outfitting facetious pirate-yowled chant “Spider Cider” recalls subterranean ‘90s bohos Skeleton Key, who, like Man Man, were a hip assemblage of pragmatic art schooled existentialists extending conventional pop boundaries beyond mere enthusiastic recreation.

Likewise, each abundantly diffuse tune they touch is given a properly designated contextual scheme to work within on this estimable package. Most inventively, cracked baroque closer, “Ice Dogs,” conjoined by a rallied doo wop motif, goes from electrified flute-flanged metal to trumpeted second line New Orleans Jazz. Moreover, intrinsic Baltic oom-pah rhythms gird the euphonious melodica consuming “Banana Ghost.” And if that’s not resourceful enough, the catchiest cut, “Black Mission Goggles,” dupes hoary Carnival cabaret to kitsch-y effect.

But as much nonconforming fun as Six Demon Bag proved to be, the taut collective improved twofold for maniacal abstraction, Rabbit Habits (Anti Records), a magnanimous follow-up finding Honus perched somewhere between cultish beatnik bard, Tom Waits, and some dingily nebulous swamp-rooted vagabond. At times, Honus Honus’ troupe seems to nip at the heels of gypsy punk, as on “Easy Eats or Dirty Doctor Galapagos” and fascinatingly playful snub, “Top Drawer.”

They even dip into vamped Vaudevillian theatricality on obtuse Beefheart-styled free-fall “Mister Jung Stuffed” and bodacious swing band obscuration, “Big Trouble.” Downcast villagers lament, “Poor Jackie,” gathers ‘tragic violin,’ pondering piano, and melodic clarinet to become Man Man’s most accessible derivative. Syncopated bass lubes outré synthesized segue, “Elazteca,” which glides directly into the black-hearted piano-strolled title track.

Honus claims fellow Philly-based artist, innovative Jazz legend Sun Ra, inspired the doo wop-informed “Harpoon Fever,” a schoolyard jump-roped nursery rhyme with sweetly innocent girl group chants and ‘60s surf guitar rumble.

Undoubtedly, Rabbit Habits is a wildly ambitious cluster bomb combining an amazing breadth of ideas in one daringly delirious derangement. In total, its cavalier revelations peruse oblique freeform contrapositions in a downright definitive manner, giving Man Man a decisive edge as one of my favorite albums of 2008.

M. WARD’S REVERENTIAL ‘HOLD TIME’ IGNITES SPIRITUAL QUEST

Interviews

 

Singer-songwriter Matt Ward grew up in Ventura County a few miles north of Los Angeles. A big Beatles fan, he picked up a guitar at fifteen and began toying with a four-track thereafter. His short-lived project, Rodriguez (with Little Wings’ unheralded Kyle Field), offered an opportunity of a lifetime. During an opening performance, Ward impressed Jason Lytle, guiding light of defunct Modesto-based bellwethers, Grandaddy. This led to Lytle producing their lone album, Swing Like A Metronome. Ward received some local recognition and before long moved to Oregon.

 

Residing in Portland, he met Howe Gelb, founder of desert-rock oddities Giant Sand. He gave the ageless patriarch a self-recorded demo during a Seattle stint. Soon, the now-christened M. Ward made his formative fingerpicked debut, Duet For Guitars #2, on Gelb’s boutique Ow Om Records. An ’01 follow-up on Future Farmer, End Of Amnesia, led to Ward’s signing with foremost Carolina label, Merge Records.

On ‘03s unalloyed breakthrough, Transfiguration Of Vincent, Ward’s understated minimalist tunes, frequently delivered in a sheepishly intimate tenor, proved to be captivatingly therapeutic confessionals with convincing introspective insight. His scruffy prairie wanderings and somber campfire retreats had the intrinsic pastoral beauty of what fellow Portland artist Stephen Malkmus once coined the “Range Life.”

A delicate folk charm resonates from Ward’s hushed cigarette-stained baritone identity, actualizing the forlorn bellow of a drowsy grief-stricken loner straddling the precipice time. Betwixt haunting romantic lamentations lurk plain Western preludes, interludes, and prologues; fastidious instrumental tracks that’d also bedeck the ensuing Transistor Radio.

Still singing in an artlessly unaffected monotone drone, but utilizing cleaner production, better songs, and a more relaxed atmosphere, Ward doubled his spellbound audience with Transistor Radio. Rooted more in rural folk-blues tradition and solemn old timey ballads, its highlight has to be the wistful “Radio Campaign,” where Ward serendipitously repeats the choral ‘come back my little piece of mind’ with the same uncanny tossed-off slacker delivery inevitable pal Conor Oberst emitted for Omaha counterparts, Bright Eyes.

Tempered piano boogie ditty, “Big Boat,” turns up the bass turbines and lays on the slashin’ cymbals. “Hi-Fi” welcomes the purified bossa nova elegance Ward’s apt to dabble in. And “Four Hours In Washington” works as an insomniacs twisted nightmare offhandedly presaging another indirect Capitol City homage, Post-War.

Concerning personal politics in spite of its expediently combative Middle East-affected epithet, Post-War scuttles opportune anti-militaristic effrontery by way of a tactful procession of desperate lovelorn limericks swept away when the cagey Ward tackles cracked Texas eccentric Daniel Johnston’s rejuvenating, “To Go Home.” A rustic homecoming with a prescient Neko Case vocal cameo, its dark piano grandeur and plodding bass inexplicably evoke semi-famous Montreal contemporaries Arcade Fire. As usual, Ward’s powerful interpretive ability makes it possible for him to push across Johnston’s triumphal lyrics with preferable candor.

On the instrumental front, there’s the majestic “Neptune’s Net,” a reverberating Hawaiian surf guitar orchestral. And without making too much of a fuss, celebrated My Morning Jacket bard, Jim James, contributes tender backup vocals to dreamy elegy, “Chinese Translation,” as well as snickering acoustic trifle, “Magic Trick.”

As a nostalgic sidestep, Ward’s striking ’08 collaboration with Hollywood actress, Zooey Deschanel, a reluctant piano-playing singer-songwriter, caught the attention of grass roots enthusiasts as well as the pop masses. Under the trite moniker, She & Him, the resourceful pair have a good time embracing innocent Country-blues eclecticism, endearing Deschanel’s uplifting bell-toned contralto to Ward’s meditative six-string adaptations. Dusty Springfield’s friendly ghost hovers above the lilting whistled symphony, “Thought I Saw Your Face Today” and Patsy Cline’s wayward drama compels the moving Country & Western torch song, “Change Is Hard.”

Redemption and hope consume ‘09s prodigal Hold Time, originating with hastened acoustic deliverance, “For Beginners,” which peers down from Mount Zion in search of salvation. Perhaps aching for spiritual guidance, “Jailbird” finds Ward summoning supreme powers to ‘help me, help me now’ over nectarous orchestral strings and Spanish guitar. The resolute “To Save Me” spells out his philosophical beliefs inside an approachable, upbeat, echo-laden Wall of Sound re-creation employing streamlined piano and nifty Beach Boys harmonies.

The seemingly secular fare brings further dramatic impact and added coloration. Glistened keyboard burbles go asunder as oncoming six-string, bass, and drums awaken chimed horoscopic summit, “Stars Of Leo.” Spaghetti Western guitar and a down-along-the-railroad bass scheme suitable for Johnny Cash (yet somehow indicative of Buddy Holly’s Texas two-step rock and roll) reinforce the folkloric ode, “Fisher Of Men.” And the same hand-clapped kick-drummed snare beat embedding Gary Glitter’s ubiquitous glam anthem “Rock & Roll Part 2″ secures love-struck jubilation, “Never Had Nobody Like You.”

Part of Ward’s success thus far could be attributed to his aspiration to “keep feeling like I’m making my first album each time out.” That perseverance has paid off.

Do you see a thread connecting the lean John Fahey-like guitar pickings of your earliest endeavors to the latest generously arranged symphonic works?

 

M. WARD: The record’s have more in common than there are differences. They all fit together because I have no perspective. I’m still inside this long tunnel. I love the process I’m inside of – as far as making records goes. There’s enough variance for me to keep it stabilized and not make any drastic changes. I know the Rolling Stones could fly to Jamaica to make a record in ten days. For me, it takes two years. It depends on the passage of time to tell me which things to harvest and what to keep in the manure.

You seem to be incorporating the instrumental guitar passages into vocal songs more often. And the songs seem more hopeful.

 

I feel like a good record should feel like a good movie. People should be able to laugh and cry at the same experience. Every song is a balancing act between light and shadows. Hopefully the balance is somewhat representative of the happiness and sadness in your life. I grew up listening to the Beatles’ White Album. I never looked at records as needing to be in one steady mood or chord progression. The records are a chance to see how far you could take these different emotions. I keep them tied together. I’m just using the voice to carry a story across a melody. I still look to the guitar to take the listener to those incredible Roy Orbison moments where vocals reach operatic heights. I gravitate towards the guitar to make those statements.

You’ve increasingly used heavier beats on each successive album, culminating in Hold Time.

 

In general, I wanted to take the rhythms and the sounds of Post-War and basically dissect it and make rich sounds richer and thin sounds thinner as an experiment to see if they could live within a song.

Do you write the symphonic arrangements?

 

Yeah. I started on Post-War. It’s a newfound joy for me to be able to write string arrangements and see them come to life. Strings are such a touchy element of production because it’s easy to go over the top and make something sappy. But with enough vinegar you could keep something sweet from being saccharine.

On the other hand, there’s the spare Robert Johnson-styled lowdown folk-blues of “One Hundred Million Years.”

 

Absolutely. I still have a great fascination with old Robert Johnson records. That simplicity I love in equal measure to the big Phil Spector/ George Martin productions. To see if they could live together on the same record was an experiment worth pursuing.

Renowned Western-folk minstrel Lucinda Williams sings descant on your whispered dirge-y version of Don Gibson’s “Oh Lonesome Me.”

 

During the production of that song I started to hear her voice. I had never met her. But when asked to do a duet she said yes. Since I was in high school she’s been an influence, especially Happy Woman Blues. To have her voice on my record is a great thrill. Lucinda’s voice, in some ways, reminds me of Billie Holiday. It’s raw. She was a joy to work with.

How did your project, She & Him, with Zooey Deschanel, come into fruition?

 

We both grew up listening to KROQ, a groundbreaking L.A. radio station. In the ‘80s, they introduced me to British bands, Sonic Youth, and SST bands. Zooey’s an incredibly talented person. She & Him is entirely different from my solo stuff. I take a backseat and let her sing. Her influence is felt on the Hold Time record, too. We plan to do Volume 2, which is in the demo stage presently.

You construct a narcotic version of Buddy Holly’s “Rave On” with Zooey doing background vocals.

 

Buddy Holly’s writing has been an influence since day one. I discovered him through the Beatles, realizing later how they didn’t write some of their earliest songs I grew up and learned guitar on. That was a revelation. It’s the simplicity I love most about his writing. The mystery that keeps his songs so durable is something I can’t put a finger on.

How much did the Gulf War and contemporary conservative politics affect Post-War?

 

It’s the time I was in, but not necessarily where my head was in. I felt a similarity between New York Times articles I’d read and my favorite books about previous wars. Part of the fun about making a record is you get to play with time and space. It’s gonna mean something different to everyone. There were different interpretations for the new record. I wanted to breakdown time more and not have a specific or vague backdrop. That’s part of the reason I like having cover songs inside a record, to breakdown any chronological time the listener may feel they’re in.

Why does Portland house so many literary songwriters? There’s the Decemberists, Modest Mouse, and Thermals.

 

It must be the coffee. (laughter) Over the last decade, Portland’s no doubt the cheapest West Coast city. Affordable rent makes it easier to do what you love. L.A.’s only a two-hour flight. In San Francisco, you’d have to live in a roach motel. It’s open-minded and you could create without the pressure of too much or not enough media.

M. Ward headlined the Apollo Theatre on February 19th, 2009.

DROPPING DIRTBOMBS ON HOBOKEN

Interviews,

Who doesn’t love Detroit City Rock??? Be it the jamming Kiss tune or the entire designated scene. There’s ‘60s-inaugurated legends such as Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels, Ted Nugent & the Amboy Dukes, Iggy & the Stooges, the MC5, Bob Seger, even early Alice Cooper, just to name a few top shelf components. Then there’s a host of lesser known contemporary garage-rock inheritors who’ve roguishly popped up in the last decade or more, such as the Hentchmen, Paybacks, Sights, Detroit Cobras, The Go (where Jack White got his start), Von Bondies, and another durable combo, the Dirtbombs.

 

One thing these legends and semi-popular artists have in common is they define what a motor city madman (or woman) love to do best, strut their stuff in front of a sweltering partisan audience as a labor of love. Asking no quarter and barely receiving one, the latest crop truly ‘dig’ Detroit’s lasting historic figures, be they homespun rockers or renowned Motown soul singers.

Inarguably one of the most energetic live crews now making the rounds in small clubs nationwide, the Dirtbombs, fronted by Mick Collins, a casually-dressed roughly-bearded sneaker-wearing punk-nurtured black man with a beat-up 6-string and rangy voice, rely on frenzied axe exchanges and dual-kit rhythmic fury to start the party. Make no mistake. Collins merits much more exposure on the grand scale.

But he ain’t one to complain just as long as he’s grooving. Wearing shades throughout his mid-October Maxwells showcase, the fully confident powerhouse (tenured in seminal ‘80s underground group, the Gories), took complete control of tunes both old and new. That is, with the exception of an opening balladic retreat, where Collins remained in the wrong key, mumbling through the heartfelt lyrics ‘til freshly added bassist, Zachary Weedon, quickly dispatched the words until the song finally did breakdown only to come back into fruition later this crisp autumnal eve. While less experienced performers would’ve been seriously troubled by such a dubious malfunction, the friendly headman laughed hysterically and burst into a smokin’ version of ranting boho rampage, “Get It While You Can.”

According to their jocularly unbound bandleader, the Dirtbombs have played this renowned Hoboken backroom about four times already during ’08. Apparently, the good rapport shared by Collins’ latest troupe has further heightened their spirited presentation.

Rhythm guitarist Ko Melina hearkens back to the golden age of psychedelic aestheticism when she places fuzzy phase-shifting riffs and sustained tremolo tones against Collins’ beefy leads and Weedon’s spunky bass. Dual drummers Ben Blackwell (owner of boutique label, Cass Records) and Pat Pantaro (ex-Come Ons), usual suspects in the Dirtbombs contingent, are fellow urban dwellers with solid reps. Their job’s to double up persistently restive cadences.

Beat-hardened blazer, “Motor City Baby,” a band staple, got the Maxwells crowd huddled next to the stage shakin’ that ass early in the program. Collins’ most sensitively realized lyrical styling came during “Sherlock Holmes,” a gleefully sneered glitter-rock update of curious ‘70s-related Brit-pop tarts, the Sparks, retrieved from the ‘Bombs most recent long-player, We Have You Surrounded (In The Red Records).

As the sweat mark around Collins’ neck collar drifted down towards his belly by set’s end, the hundred fans on hand must’ve known they witnessed one of the very best high energy rock and roll outfits they’ve see in awhile. Under urging, the ‘Bombs came back for a two song encore that included a winding electrical blues scrum corrupting Curtis Mayfield’s martial arts-procured ‘70s soul hit, “Kung Fu,” and hook-filled “Train Kept A’ Rollin’” shuffle, “I Can’t Stop Thinking About It” (used in a Buick commercial).

Helping to keep Detroit’s always fertile rock scene as vibrant as possible, the Dirtbombs proved they’re still the perfect high-quality cellar-dwelling blue-collar workingman’s band. No mere boogie woogie honky tonk hootenanny’s, this explosive ensemble heads down the open road jettisoning any obvious stylistic derivatives. It’s just ‘50s-baited ‘60s-mated rock and roll all night glorification.

A mangy, cheaply recorded assemblage of 8-track recordings, ‘98s formative Horndog Fest became the self-produced rough draft Collins unleashed on the public as a primordial snapshot, cranking up the volume for several raw, undiluted, oft-times live, pieces. Engineered by respected local producer, Jim Diamond (who’d go on to play bass and tweak knobs for future Dirtbombs recordings), its best moment may be the buzzy organ-guitar blazer, “Pheremone Smile,” a tidy reinvigoration of Blues Project/ David Allen & the Arrows psychedelia.

‘01s resilient Ultraglide in Black thoughtfully regenerated thirteen rip-roaring ‘60s/’70s Rhythm & Blues numbers, creating smashingly dynamic rockist templates for some well known and less obvious fare.

Two years hence, the decisive Dangerous Magical Noise found Collins going for broke on a set of nifty originals. Frenzied footstompin’ frolic, “Start The Party” (with its chilly castrated falsetto), commanding existential anthem, “Get It While You Can,” and glam-soaked T. Rex knockoff, “Motor City Baby,” deserve classic status and left me awestruck when rendered at Maxwells.

But as Collins and the gang leave the stage following a durable one-hour-plus set, all that’s left ‘til they venture out east again is the music between the grooves (or etched into a CD or streamed live on-line). Happily, the Dirtbombs sturdy ‘08 output, contained on We Have You Surrounded, finds them fully retooled, greased-up, completely retooled, and ready to roll, never straying too far from their roots-y brethren cruisin’ the Detroit freeway in high gear late at night post-gig.

An echo-voiced distress warning of ‘you got what you wanted’ gets pummeled home by the turbo two-chord guitar riffs and twin horsepower tom-cymbal percussion invigorating Surrounded’s reeling opener, “It’s Not Fun Until They See You Cry.” Searing jungle-beaten Amboy Dukes-like rampage, “Fire In The Western World,” could be the ultimate engine-driven highlight. But tenaciously chuggin’ rumble, “I Hear The Sirens,” and solid-bodied reverb-crazed rumpus, “Leopardman At C & A” (comic Alan Moore’s short story put to music), also kick up a lot of dust, as does the accusatory quick-spit rhyme scheme aligning forceful tremor, “Wreck My Flow.” A befitting catch and release tension fuels “Ever Lovin’ Man,” where a female Gospel choir backs up Collins’ demonstrative bellowing.

Never forgetting where he came from and proud as hell of it, the resolute Collins may not turn his revolving first-rate unit into a household name anytime soon, but that’s probably not what he had in mind anyway when he christened them the Dirtbombs. So sit back, grab a few suds, light some herb, and let these mightily explosive Detroit denizens zoom through the expressway to your mind. And then go see ‘em live next time they come ‘round. Be ready to get blown away.

CRYSTAL STILTS TREK BROOKLYN, REVEAL ‘ALIGHT OF NIGHT’

Interviews

Meeting in Boca Raton through mutual friends, Velvet Underground fans Brad Hargett (voice) and JB Townsend (guitar), moved to New York City with no serious plan except to get the hell out of South Florida’s placid doldrums. After settling into Brooklyn’s presently thriving and oft-times peculiar art community, they began fooling around with music, practicing frequently, then recording a formative 7-inch 8-track single, “Shattering Shine,” under the absurdist moniker, Crystal Stilts. But while a crystal stilt, by definition, is bound to crumble, these independent garage-psych aesthetes, who’ve traveled north for inspiration, managed to stay upright.

 

“JB would come into the record store I worked at. He had a job across the street at a coffee shop. We’d talk about music and moving to New York. My sister and former girlfriend lived up there. Then we moved at the same time,” Hargett explains prior to the bands’ penetrating 40-minute set at hip West Village club, Le Poisson Rouge.

He adds, “Besides, there was only a small group of people down there in Boca who had common interests in the bands we liked.”

Upon becoming Big Apple residents, Crystal Stilts’ founding members inevitably hooked up with Boston-bred bassist Andy Adler, a similarly minded individual who’d solidify the lineup alongside keyboardist Kyle Forrester. By October ’08, their charmingly crude debut, Alight Of Night (Slumberland Records), would surface and garner positive reviews.

Adler, whose melodic chord structures may be informed by cherished ‘60s icons Lee Hazelwood and Rick Danko, recalls, “I worked in an art library. I knew Brad because he had a job at Rocks In Your Head record shop in Soho. Then, I met JB. I had a guitar in high school, but was self-taught. Crystal Stilts always had a rotating cast and I joined the group to play drums for a month. They liked the grooves I laid down, but eventually I was moved to bass.”

Hargett admits he benefited from having a circle of friends who just happened to be in bands. When he saw Adler play, he wasn’t so much impressed with his ability as he was drawn to his compatibility.

“Yeah. We wanted him to come aboard,” Hargett affirms. “I mean, it mainly has to do with being friends. You’re around people a lot in a band so you don’t want some total dick to be the guitarist even if he’s amazing. If you have similar tastes, get along, and have a sense of humor… that’s how we came together.”

Fortuitously, Hamish Kilgour (of respected Australian ‘80s underground band, The Clean), was in the audience during Crystal Stilts first show. A friend who has since left the band had hooked them up with an opening slot for Kilgour’s latest meritorious outfit, Mad Scene. Already quite familiar with the beguiling Aussie pop harbinger as well as many related Flying Nun artists, Crystal Stilts took this as an early blessing for future success. And the live shows only got better.

Onstage, Hargett’s stark prowess, lurking hung-over whine, and longing droned moans closely recall suicidal Joy Division pilot, Ian Curtis. There are no verbal exchanges with his mates and between-song chattering is non-existent. It’s pure business for Crystal Stilts, as they deliver each tune in a more cryptic, less styptic manner. The energy level is pushed upward and the arrangements are a tad elongated. Whereas Alight Of Night feels a bit unsettled, adrift, and far off, there’s a pervasive urgency and veritable immediacy bringing up each tracks’ intrinsic worth in concert.

On record, Hargett’s voice is too low in the mix, but live, that problem’s been resolved. Townsend’s tenacious guitar lattice works up a storm as Forrester lurches over a cheap Casio and Adler’s surf-styled and spaghetti Western-imbibed bass notes weave in and out. Newest member, Frankie Rose, bangs out a stompin’ tribal beat, striking a snare-drummed tambourine for chimed accentuation and standing for the set’s entirety.

A noticeable addition, Rose certainly met her match with Crystal Stilts, leaving promising female trio, the Vivian Girls, in the process. Comparisons to legendary Velvet Underground drummer Moe Tucker (another percussive lass anchoring an otherwise male band) are palpable, since she places heavy emphasis on toms and forsakes cymbals. Originally from San Francisco’s Mission District, a cultural arts hotbed, Rose evidently yearned to live on the East Coast.

“She had show biz Hollywood pizzazz,” jokes Townsend.

“She prefers New York and has the right ‘tude,” Hargett confirms.

Concerning her old Left Coast environs, the independent dark-haired stick handler contends, “I think there’s a bit of a glass ceiling out there musically. Even getting on a tiny label out there is extremely difficult. I knew a ton of great bands that got no record signings but would if they came to New York. I feel like it’s a lot easier working out here.”

Rose’s primal stick work secures the duskily shaded foundation, fashioning a raw rhythmic rumble for the boys to rally ‘round. She provides ballast for each loopy, warped anodyne, girding the blush, sinewy textures and any ancillary reverb.

“I don’t think we’ll ever put out a record that’s totally pristine,” Hargett says. “The way I mixed this album, I thought I was being more accessible on purpose. I’d have no plans recording anything cleanly. Up until recently, I’d have lyrics and Andy would start playing a progression and then I’d start singing.”

Captive hexed opener, “The Dazzler,” sets the ghostly tone for Alight Of Night, as Hargett’s distant monotone voice flat-lines beneath a murky Velvet-y guitar figure that reappears for truncated Loaded-era grimace, “Verdant Gaze,” and dramatic finale, “City In The Sea.” Cadaverous narcosis, “Graveyard Orbit,” rides twanging surf riffs to an elliptical catacomb. Roughly up-tempo and wholly emotive, “The Sinking” earns points as the most approachable dalliance. And on their unofficial group anthem, “Crystal Stilts,” climactic organ ripples through a lo-fi Wall of Sound veneer while Hargett bellows about ‘courting… snorting… distorting… recording dreams to disturb the procession preserved in our mind.’

He declares, “I’m not gonna recite my lyrics, but “Crystal Stilts” is a theme song. I don’t want the lyrics to be apparent at first. If someone wants to get into the lyrics, fine. I labored over the songs’ order – a lot of choosing what to sing in a song. There were thoughts as to where each should go on the record to make things click. It’s all pretty specific. There’s a trajectory running through Alight Of Night, but it’s not necessarily a theme. I tried not to over-think.”

Adler chimes in. “It’s more impressionist than specific. I always push for long jams.”

Hargett agrees, “When we first started practicing, that’s more along the lines of what we did. He would drum on a ten-minute jam and we’d condense it and start writing tighter songs.”

Before heading to the stage for tonight’s presentation, I ask Hargett what he’s been listening to for the last few months. He responded quickly, naming a few ripened and diverse artists.

“The three things I’ve been listening to recently are (‘80s goth-punks) the Gun Club, Sierra Leone singer-guitarist S.E. Rogie, and (nascent ‘50s rocker) Bo Diddley’s first two records. We have a couple new songs that are probably more like Bo Diddley.”

And as I watch the band perform, those Bo Diddley influences seem to emerge at frequent intervals. Perhaps that unrefined approach suits them best after all.

MELBOURNE’S DRONES HONE BOLD TONE ON ‘HAVILAH’

Interviews,

Over the course of five albums in eight years, the Drones have honed their dauntless apocalyptic sound. Current subterranean champs of Australia’s wide-ranging Melbourne scene, they mangle psych-punk lamentations with epic Goth meditations, creating enough funereal gloom for the doomed, swooned, and lampooned creatures being lyrically subverted. Though supporting musicians have come and gone at a brisk rate since ’02, original brainchild, Gareth Liddiard, continues to improve and diversify his bold artistic endeavor.

 

Following a self-titled ’02 EP, formative long-play debut, Here Come The Lies, found the Drones honing their bewitching craft. After ‘05s forebodingly titled Wait Long by the River and the Bodies of Your Enemies Will Float By, misbegotten third album, The Miller’s Daughter, offered menacingly provocative fare such as audacious fetus-scraping lampoon, “She Had An Abortion That She Made Me Pay For.”

But it was ‘06s refined Gala Mill, recorded in a haunted Tasmanian factory, that really put ‘em on the international underground map. Terrifyingly grim mantra, “Jezebel,” with its squealing-to-wankering 6-string feedback and overcast orchestral stridency, recalled intriguing dark-toned rockers such as the Swans, Birthday Party, and Psychic TV. Better still, the apocalyptic video version of “Jezebel” benefited greatly from its willfully confrontational penchant, rustling up mostly old black and white film marked by torture, punishment, and wartime oppression. Combining Sex Pistols snarl with battering hardcore vindication, “I Don’t Ever Want To Change” may be the most accessible cut the Drones devised to this point.

Equipped with his best lyrical abstractions and recorded at his remote “home in the woods,” Liddiard gets personal on ‘09s momentous Havilah, gathering a series of intensely remorseful songs that’ll scare pop-charmed lightweights. Many maintain the stark vulnerability Nick Cave’s meandering post-Birthday Party requiems once delivered, but at times, they’re as tranquil as Bon Iver’s riveting contemporary portraits (like the creaky-voiced divorce-bound folk retreat, “Drifting Housewife”). Astronaut Neil Armstrong gets referenced in numbing acoustic repose, “Penumber,” a sympathetic Red House Painters-like memento Iver’s lackey’s would simply eat up. Similarly, whiny Mick Jagger- modeled ballad, “Cold And Sober,” reaches a reclusive piano-plinked climax meant to shoot out the lights.

Tangibly, each dirge-y low-key turnabout seems to trigger the heavier discordant arsenal the Drones exceedingly showcase. Begging forgiveness and searching for emotional rescue in a cold-hearted universe, opening salvo, “Nail It Down,” breaks free of its familiar “I Want Candy”-styled foundation with several electrifyingly seared solos before going completely berserk. “I Am The Supercargo,” concerning the acquisition of cultist John Frum’s god-like powers, features a lonesome guitar figure straight out of Neil Young’s dissonant ‘70s backlog.

Another backdated keepsake, nightmarish guitar-entangled scree, “The Minotaur,” recalls Captain Beefheart’s mangled cryptic flanges. Though Liddiard’s apparently destitute by the downtrodden “Careful As You Go,” claiming ‘the end is drawing near,’ hopeful mid-tempo closer, “You’re Acting Like The End Of The World,” prompts poignant acoustical Country-folk uplift.

Giving each distended tune a richer resonation at Manhattan club, Pianos, in April, lanky goatee-d front man, Liddiard, provided a deeper baritone sneer than the recordings indicated. Expectedly, his feedback-drenched guitar arpeggios tore into each number with oozing resilience. Stage right, newest affiliate Dan Luscombe looked like a young mod greaser, laying down ancillary roughshod riffs in a determined manner. To the left, bassist Fiona Kitschin rubbed out rhythmic chords from her low-slung four-string, facing vigorous drummer Michael Noga for nearly the entire set.

Blending fertile catalogue material with several Havilah highlights such as “Nail It Down,” the dusky 50-minute performance captivated avid fans and caught the uninitiated off-guard. Steadfastly, Liddiard’s cacophonously amplified ‘beautiful’ noise rose above the steadfast rhythms, lunging in and out of wiry fibrillation’s while wrangling a mess of dirty blues to fiery heights. For wandering 8-minute heartache, “Luck In Odd Numbers,” Liddiard told the scrunched audience, ‘you can dance to it.’ Well, yeah, if you can go from a waltzing crawl to death march stroll during the protracted seance.

Are the lyrics on Havilah more personal and less political – or am I nuts?

 

GARETH LIDDIARD: A little bit of both, I guess. (laughter) Some is historical Australian stuff. I think my political lyrics are more about the state of affairs. They’re pretty obtuse, weird…

Desolate?

 

Yeah. Desolate – but in an abstract way. It leaves people more open to interpretation, especially now.

Would you agree with online assessments claiming Neil Young’s protracted guitar jams and Tom Waits’ bleak antediluvian theatrics serve as effectual influences?

 

I don’t disagree. I did a bit of growing up in London in the era when Pink Floyd’s The Wall and Blondie were big. Back in the days, pop music was quite aggressive. That was the stuff I first thought, ‘Wow! What is that?’ Later on, I got into Led Zeppelin, Black Flag, and Suicide. And all the Australian stuff like the Nuns, Birthday Party.

I thought the Swans and Psychic TV’s outré musical experiments may’ve been influential?

 

Yeah. Yeah. I had a few Psychic TV live records. It was the year they were releasing one live record every month. Genesis P. Orridge was really cool. But only a little bit of the Swans, though Michael Gira played Australia recently.

How’d you hook up with Fiona?

 

She’s been around since the first album. We moved from Perth to Melbourne – which is a better music town. Perth was like a smaller version of San Diego, but more remote. It’s cool for surf waves, but we moved to Melbourne and Fi came with us. We’ve known each other ten years.

I heard Gala Mill was recorded in a haunted Tasmanian factory.

 

We didn’t see any ghosts, though. It was in one of the first Australian farms built in the 1900’s. Australia is only as old as California, so… It was in a middle-of-nowhere farm. It was a custom-made studio waiting to happen. All it needed was recording equipment. It was like being on holiday and getting a record done. It worked out good.

How would you compare Gala Mill to its subsequent follow-up, Havilah?

 

Gala Mill is heavier, but not in a depressing way or in its sonic assault.

Several of Havilah’s slow songs compete favorably against the usual expeditiously blitzing savagery. There’s “Cold And Sober” plus caliginous breakup lament, “The Drifting Housewife.”

 

As for “The Drifting Housewife,” there was a gazillion love songs, so I figured I’d write a divorce song. We could do all sorts of stuff. It doesn’t have to be political.

What are some of your political views? Are they as bleak and portentous as your lyrics sometimes indicate?

 

The world is pretty complicated. It’s a lack of people having enough knowledge of what’s happened before that really makes them freak out about shit. Obviously it’s not good to have these current economic conditions. But we’re not living in the streets and we’re not all gonna get killed by terrorists. It’s unnecessary hysteria.

There’s room to be philosophical, but it’s not the first time financial institutions have collapsed. It’s not the first recession anyone’s been bogged down in.

I was quite intrigued by “The Minotaur,” with its scraggly Captain Beefheart-like anxiety and scruffy elegiac characters.

 

It’s about modern day losers. “The Minotaur” is the offspring of a bull sent down by the gods. He’s just in a maze. And that sort of predatory depressive weirdness happens all the time, a progeny of a fucked up relationship – like the kids locked in their bedrooms getting into porn and ultra-violent video games. It’s just mysterious anti-social behavior. They’re entertaining the worst traits humans have. It’s relatively harmless, but in a stupid way. It’s all about buying a bunch of useless shit that’s obsolete in a week and you’re bored with it so you have to buy more.

You’ve mentioned online how much Blues artists such as Blind Willie Johnson fascinate you.

 

Blind Willie Mc Tell, too. Everybody talks about Robert Johnson, and he’s cool, but there’s quite weirder, more dexterous, and stranger dudes, like Mississippi John Hurt, Fred Mc Dowell – the finger picking and the song structures. Take Hubert Sumlin, Howlin’ Wolf’s guitarist. We did a song, “De Kalb Blues,” an old Leadbelly song. We’ve done Blind Willie Johnson’s “Motherless Children.” I’m into all that fucking amazing stuff. That’s what got me into songwriting originally, rather than just Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Page’s pyrotechnic stuff.

BLACK KEYS’ DAN AUERBACH STEPS OUT TO ‘KEEP IT HID’

Interviews,

 

As one-half of dusty white blues duo, the Black Keys, fleet-fingered guitarist Dan Auerbach never had to worry about what profession to pursue as an impressionable greenhorn. Growing up in what he describes as “the broke-dick post-Industrial town” of Akron, Ohio, known for its odorous rubber factories and substandard blue collar jobs, he enjoyed listening to his father’s big record collection, learning piano from his mother, whose family played and sang in local blues and bluegrass bands.

 

It wasn’t long before Auerbach hooked up with lanky skin-basher, Patrick Carney, gaining early local attention as an exciting live band. Though the Black Keys formative roughhewn ’02 entree, The Big Come Up, received only limited notoriety, ‘03s sinewy Thickfreakness, truly put ‘em on the map nationally. Full of overcast buzzing guitar riffs and efficient rudimentary drum patterns, Thickfreakness made these greasy blues-punk scavengers very popular amongst arena rock heads and gritty soul searchers. On these early sessions, Auerbach’s murkily parched vocal snarl barely rises above the blustery din of “Set You Free.” Minor mood, texture, and tempo tweaks provide enough variation to differentiate each scraggly boogie, confessional testimonial, and down ‘n dirty discharge.

Less tentative, more resilient, and clearer production-wise, ‘04s tauter Rubber Factory relied on trashier gut-bucket metal to slightly differentiate it from preceding ventures. “10 A.M. Automatic” really opens up the Black Keys sound, as Auerbach’s axe cranks out louder, sturdier, crisper shards of noise. The intensity level increases twofold on “Girl Is On My Mind” and “Stack Shot Billy,” a few swampy psych-blues threnodies reminiscent, at times, of indie-approved blues septuagenarians, R.L. Burnside, T-Model Ford, or more specifically, Junior Kimbrough.

On top of its supreme stripped-down Howlin’ Wolf-imbibed Chi-town R & B vibe, ‘06s lethal Magic Potion gives its spare city-folk retrenchments a shinier studio glaze, sharpening any rough or dull edges without sacrificing any raunchy feedback and crude reverb. The finest moment comes with stammered beat-driven rampage, “Your Touch,” which neatly boils down the Black Keys basic elemental design to one extremely infatuating elemental arpeggio groove, striking a rare balance between Bad Company’s ‘70s-based hard rock and the White Stripes economical garage rock.

For Auerbach’s next two revisionist projects, one an unlikely alliance and another a latent solo debut, he proves to be quite malleable, advancing and broadening his musical range. Bass, Moog synthesizer, clarinet, and harmonica add extra dimension to ‘08s tidy Attack & Release, a monumental accord pitting hip-hop studio wizard, Danger Mouse, against Auerbach’s musty 6-string labyrinths and Carney’s rhythmic patter. He’s a rock and roll hustler on the stormy “I Got Mine,” then foresees trouble brewing on skulking urban drama, “Strange Times.” Seasoned session ace Marc Ribot’s dusky fretwork conveys sheer panic in ghostly requiem, “Lies.” Draping well-oiled axes across a booming bass-drum frenzy, “Remember When (Side B)” may be the most rockingest thing the Black Keys have yet attempted. The future looked so bright Auerbach decided to veer off the strict blues-rock trail even further.

Tantalizing solo turnabout, Keep It Hid (Nonesuch Records), explores various new avenues with friends and family. Recorded at Auerbach’s home studio with local Akronite drummer Bob Cesare, rhythm guitarist James Quine (the uncle who taught him six-string), and fellow Rust Belt singer Jessica Lea Mayfield (on plaintive symphonic tranquilizer “When The Night Comes”), it finds our main protagonist handling percussion and keyboards as well as guitar.

After traditional acoustic blues retreat, “Trouble Weighs A Ton,” Keep It Hid empties the floodgates. Fuzzy organ-doused remake, “I Want Some More,” commendably bridges Mississippi Delta voodoo to Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightnin’.” “Heartbroken, In Disrepair” works shuttered guitar resonance into an anguished dirge. “Whispered Words (Pretty Lies)” shows off Auerbach’s sensitive side in a languid tear-stained letter written by his father, Charles. Soulful church organ guides emotionally compelling ballad, “Real Desire,” where ‘clouded skies have lifted/ and voices ring out from the choir.’ And that’s just the first half. Hand-clapped stop-start honky tonk rambler “Street Walkin’” verifies the rest best.

Is there any thriving musical scene in Akron?

 

DAN AUERBACH: I don’t hang out much. There are a lot of bands, but none do the blues. And there is no one particular style or scene.

In your opinion, how have the Black Keys progressed over the years?

 

Each album is just a snapshot of one period in time. If we’d taken the same songs and recorded them a week before or after, they’d sound totally different. We try to be as spontaneous as we can when entering the studio. It’s a document of that period in time of us recording. Patrick and I have been playing together for over ten years and we’ve been growing while being influenced by different things. The music has changed and progressed and moved around a little bit. There’s all these core elements at the root of what we do because that’s how you learn how to play. It’s like the way you learn how to speak English. I learned how to play bluegrass and blues-based stuff. So that’s at the foundation of what I know how to do.

Which blues artists in particular have a large influence on you?

 

I was a big fan of awesome one-man-band, Joe Louis Hill, (Memphis rockabilly singer-guitarist) Auburn Pat Hare, Willie Johnson, and Howlin’ Wolf. Any of those people usually recorded at Sam Phillips place in Memphis. That was early, before Chicago Blues was popular. I was really into that raw country stuff – finger-picked electric blues.

On ‘08s Attack & Release, the Black Keys sometimes move away from the expectant primitive blues jams. Much of that has to do with producer Danger Mouse asserting his hip-hop influence. Yet the plainspoken opener, “All You Ever Wanted,” retains a desolate folk-blues feel that’s even more crudely archaic than past endeavors.

 

It felt right. You can’t always do what’s expected. It helps make the next song even more powerful when it hits in. So we started off with a slow, quiet song to set the mood and get you ready to listen.

“Strange Times” may be the most accessible track the Black Keys stumbled upon. It seems to parallel America’s current hard times.

 

I wrote that song a couple years ago. I had the lyrics and when we were in the studio we came up with the parts – the guitar line – and added drums. We worked on the arrangement for awhile since it took some time to get down. Like everything we do, we tried to make it as spontaneous as possible. As such, the recording of that song happened during the first day we attempted it together.

“Lies” is a typical depression-bound Black Keys mantra. Is there a search for salvation guiding that song, or for that matter, the entirety of Attack & Release?

 

I’ve always been influenced by dark tones or any kind of music, humor, or poetry that has a dark side. That’s what attracts me. I don’t really like happy music. I don’t trust happy people. (laughter) Those dark sounds I find uplifting. You know how Gospel music is mournful but the overall affect is to uplift.

Did you get to meet legendary blues man Ike Turner before he died? Rumor has it Attack & Release would’ve been a collaborative effort.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration. That was separate. That was just the way we were introduced to Danger Mouse. It had nothing to do with our album except it was a separate entity that got disrupted by death. We were sending songs to Brian (a.k.a. Danger Mouse) to take to Ike. We never met Ike though. After our record, we were gonna work with Ike. A month later, he passed away.

On your solo debut, Keep It Hid, were the lyrical concerns more personal in tone?

 

I wrote all the lyrics on the Black Keys albums. So I wasn’t trying to make some kind of grand statement. I just wanted to make a good album. The similarities will be there, but it’s way more personal. I’ve written some story songs, which I never did before.

“When The Night Comes” could’ve fit in snugly on Van Morrison’s subtle nocturnal masterpiece, Astral Weeks. Was that a mellotron being used on that tune?

 

Definitely. The mellotron is an analog instrument. Each key on it has a piece of tape with prerecorded sounds of string sections. It’s a really weird, arcane instrument that sounds magical and surreal.

“Heartbroken Disrepair” has a tremolo-related psych-blues tone not unlike Cream. Were you a British Blues fan?

 

I did like Cream. But we’re not as affected by psych-blues as much as old blues. As far as people like John Mayall go, I never was into that stuff.

You’ve chosen to cover country guitarist Wayne Carson Thompson’s hypnotic “I Want Some More.” The results are phenomenal. But why revisit that track?

 

It’s just a great song. If you listen to the original version Jon & Robin did, there’s fuzz bass on it that punctuates the chorus. I always wanted to do that song.

MT. ST. HELENS VIETNAM BAND’S PSA’S CAUSE SEATTLE ERUPTION

Interviews

Sometimes the most popular band member isn’t the group leader, as was the case with the Beatles when they first hit the shores of America. Good-humored drummer Ringo Starr drew more attention than John, Paul, and George, even though his role was subordinate. And now, 45 years later, in similar, yet lower-scaled fashion, Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band’s own thirteen-year-old skin basher has out-gained the attention of their guiding light.

The curious drawing card, drummer Marshall Verdoes, was asked to join the core group by his 27-year-old vocalist-guitarist brother, Benjamin Verdoes, the bandleader, whose wife Traci Eeggleston plays keyboard and percussion. Also onboard are Ben’s high school friend, Matthew Dammer (guitar-moog-mandolin) and long-time buddy, Jared Price (bass-accordion-chimes), respectfully filling out Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band.

 

Moreover, there’s another inquisitive peculiarity making the Seattle quintet quite fascinating. Going ass backwards, they got a foothold in the music biz by designing a comical MySpace Public Service Announcement featuring snippets of music before recording any full tracks for their fertile self-titled debut on boutique Bloomington, Indiana, label, Dead Oceans Records. Taking advantage of internet technology in a cleverly artful manner actually gave them a nice heads up other new-sprung bands may soon mimic.

Ben Verdoes, an admitted “math-rock and prog fan,” had previously played in formative band, In Praise Of Folly, with a revolving cast that at onetime included Matt and Jared, as well as his older sibling, Peter. Though this overlooked collective barely registered a slim buzz, their next endeavor, minus Peter, would prove absolutely worthwhile. Anchored by teen neophyte, Marshall Verdoes, Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band has caught on with the college crowd, garnering adulation from scribes and fans alike while joining the concert circuit.

Getting things going for their eponymous entrée, searing affair of the heart, “Who’s Asking,” finds curlicue guitars sprinting forward to a dramatic pause anticipating an eloquent choral harmony passage. Blazing 6-string abrasions set off the Baroque-styled “Masquerade,” where heavenly voices impinge the neo-orchestral break. Seafaring narratives inundate the aching “Anchors Dropped” and the attack and release guitar-squelched chirp, “Going On A Hunt.” Fluttery flute-like synthesizer underscores the acoustic-to-electrified mad dash, “A Year Or Two.” But it’s the acrimonious “Albatross, Albatross, Albatross” that really catches fire. Nearly as hot, the flickering “El Fuego” counters its tranquil Classical guitar styling with rascally electric guitar flights of fancy while ‘our hearts are set to burn.’

How’d Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band form from the ashes of In Praise Of Folly?

 

BENJAMIN VERDOES: I grew up in Seattle. But when I was a junior in high school, a weird sequence of events during a visit to my aunt in Wisconsin made Marshall, my mom, and my sister want to get away from the Pacific Northwest and try something different. It was a great experience. Matt and I went to high school together in Wisconsin and we got to play in a few different bands. Then, when I moved back to Seattle, he followed. At some point, we thought In Praise Of Folly had run its course. We had done it for five years. My older brother, Peter, was once involved. Jared joined towards the end. Now, playing with Marshall in Mt. St. Helen is such an incredible thing. It seemed like a good fit between family and a few best friends.

Despite being from Seattle, I initially assumed your distinguished literary-bound verses and enchanting seaworthy laments were earmarked for nearby Portland, where skilled singer-songwriters Isaac Brock (Modest Mouse) and Colin Meloy (Decemberists) mix similar lyrical content with fresh melodic pop ideas.

 

I never heard that before. In terms of fitting in, perhaps that’s true. I’m fond of Portland band Talkdemonic, a two-piece instrumental combo that toured with the Decemberists. Up here in Seattle, (acoustic folkies) Fleet Foxes are making international waves. So maybe we do fit in better down there. (chuckles)

What song started the whole MySpace PSA buzz?

 

We were recording a demo, sent it to clubs, and our future publicist got one. We were waiting to record with producer Scott Colburn (Animal Collective/ Arcade Fire). But he didn’t have studio time ‘til May (’08). So we were gonna make a music video for fun. Matt, Jared, and Traci had joined but we had no game plan. We made a PSA called “Homeostasis.” We used a really small piece of the demo as a clue at the end of it, but didn’t release our music until after the PSA. We only released a couple seconds of the song on PSA’s as an introduction for people to peruse.

How’d you first become interested in pursuing music?

 

I got into music by way of my older brother primarily. We had an evangelical background and listened to music at the church we went to. There were kids around us playing music so even though we didn’t come from a particularly musical family, we dabbled with instruments. At thirteen, my older brother and I started to enjoy rock bands like the Smashing Pumpkins and whatever was popular. I played drums most of the time when I was young. As I got older, I got fascinated working on songs. As far as literary references, I try to read a lot of Russian classics like War & Peace. That was one phase I was in, absorbing all I could. Then, I began reading Steinbeck. I studied at Seattle Pacific. I grew up in the church so there’s a lot of biblical literate I became aware of. Some narrative comes from that.

I can’t honestly say I picked up any religiosity in your lyrics, mostly I feel a sense of love loss. But the seaworthy chants could be influenced by Steinbeck’s slice of life tales.

 

Right. That religious element doesn’t usually come through. A lot of it is narrative fiction. Another portion is little slices of life experiences. There’s a few autobiographical things. But it wasn’t my intent to use the religious realm. It’s more interesting to write from whatever sparks the tangible experiential realm.

“Albatross, Albatross, Albatross” has many of the components that work so well for the band – a freaky stop-start arrangement as well as entertaining slow-fast tempo shifts.

 

That song, lyrically, is about people wearing lockets of significant others. That necklace-locket concept is kind of influenced by the rhyme of the ancient mariner, where the albatross is worn and is essentially saying that one person has a bird around their neck – an albatross, and taking that metaphor and suggesting they should lose that extra weight burden.

“Anchors Dropped” has an archetypal nautical motif and its aching vocal chant recalls Modest Mouse. But more interestingly, Matt’s guitar seemingly references ‘70s axe masters Brian May (Queen) and Phil Lynott (Thin Lizzy).

 

Definitely on that song, but specifically on “Masquerade” and “Little Red Shoes,” there’s that Brian May riffage. A lot of times I’ll write these harmonized parts and Matt’s a big classic rock fan. He has a knack for pulling that sound out of a Brian May song and adding to it. We’ve enjoyed that. But I didn’t know about Thin Lizzy until recently and now I really enjoy listening to their music. People have compared us to them. We also get Wolf Parade comparisons. I don’t own any of their records, but fans brought me to them.

“Cheer For Fate” may be your most accessible song.

 

We made a music video for that recently. It’s emblematic of our style. It was a good starting point for us. Lyrically, I wrote it about people obsessing with someone. There are some people around me in different spheres who understand what the song addresses. There’s a sense of freedom I wanted people to grab onto. You know the feeling when you obsess over someone and start to believe it was meant to be. That informed the title.

Is there a broken thematic flow running through your debut album?

 

Yeah. There’s a bit of a theme that keeps resurfacing. With “Anchors Dropped” and “Masquerade” there’s this sense of pursuit to find something out about a relationship. There’s also this theme I picked up on that was an impacting character I don’t fully know how to describe. He’s this fictional character that makes a big impression then disappears or gets bogged down.

CAGE THE ELEPHANT BRINGS DYLAN TO HIP-HOPPED PUNKS

Interviews

Raised in a mystical Christian commune and confined to Gospel music, Cage The Elephant’s five young members grew up uninformed about even the most basic indie punk bands. When singer Matt Shultz’s parents finally found out he had a Green Day cassette, they destroyed it, finding the rebellious trio offensive. But Matt and his pals soon broke free of their parents’ tight grip and prevailed, discovering the invigorating joy of the Ramones, Bad Brains, Black Flag, Butthole Surfers, Pixies, Mudhoney, and Nirvana. They learned to play hard and eventually got to open for Queens Of The Stone Age, a prestigious beginning, indeed.

 

Growing up in Bowling Green, Kentucky, 45-minutes north of Nashville, Cage The Elephant’s big break came when major label, Jive Records, signed them. By sending them off to England for a year to promote ‘08s promising self-titled debut, the quixotic quintet quickly realized they’d also missed out on several outstanding new wave and ska bands that never got a fair chance in America, such as Gnag Of Four, English Beat, and The Jam.

Fronted by the wily Matt Shultz, Cage The Elephant includes his brother, guitarist Brad Shultz, and long-time pals Lincoln Parish (guitar), Daniel Tichenor (bass), and Jared Champion (drums). Together, they concoct a potpourri of stylistically diversified rock, representing musical ‘food’ groups from Cake to Phish to Red Hot Chili Peppers and beyond.

Painting a grim picture of hard time white-boy blues, Matt ain’t no ‘phony in disguise/ tryin’ to make the radio.’ Up-front, his Dylan-influenced raps dig deep into the heart of each song’s matter. He’s ‘talkin’ shit’ on rousing ‘60s-psych powered anthem, “In One Ear,” criticizing our compromised culture with the soaring engine-driven rampage, “Tiny Little Robots,” and summoning R & B great, “James Brown,” for a full-on rocker indubitably usurping Johnny Rotten’s underclass lyrical drawl. The funky reserved-to-explosive Chili Peppers-spiked corruption underlying the snappy choral charge of “Lotus” leads to the soothing guitar groove and addictive half-rapped refrain summoning Cage The Elephant’s most accessible number, “Back Against The Wall.” When those two funky wafts recede, it’s the smell of death that consumes anguished paean, “Drones In The Valley,” where buzzy 6-string riffs unintentionally cop to Billy Squier’s metal-pop ditty, “Everybody Wants You.”

Making use of the fairly spacious Zumiez Stage at Bamboozle, Cage The Elephant motivated the appreciative audience to join in. Matt jumps into the crowd, mike in hand, to get the party started during a booming hardcore opener (presumably a new tune). He then lets out another loudly yelped rip-snorting punk-inspired discharge, working his mojo, prancing ‘cross the stage, nodding his head, eyes closed, mouth gaping, and dropping to his knees pleading for vindication as perspiration drips off his reddish tanned face. Lincoln’s Appalachian Blues riffs introduce “Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked,” where Matt’s anxiety-charged rap lays it all on the line. A banged-up slam-dunk version of “In One Ear” got fans clapping along freely, without the band having to urge them on. On top of that, fresh cut, “Sabre Tooth Tiger,” contained a catchy ‘run away’ chorus that rode above the scrambling guitar furor and rumbling bass clusters.

Cage The Elephant may be musically adventurous and profusely intuitive, but safely within the limits of orderly constructed folk-rock-blues schemes. At the core, they maintain cohesive song structures while avoiding wasteful jamming and distended solos. It’ll be interesting to see how these Christian-schooled Bluegrass State natives make out in the long haul and which musical directions lie ahead.

Recently, Cage The Elephant headed back to the studio to begin work on a second long-player. Matt claims “We’ve progressed as people. The newer songs are more melody-driven and have a positive vibe. We feel better about them.”

I spoke to the 25-year-old Matt and guitarist Lincoln Parish inside Giant Stadium while music blared in the parking lots’ collapsible stages during May ‘09s Bamboozle Festival.

How did Cage The Elephant come together?

 

MATT SHULTZ: Me, Brad, and Jared were in a high school band. After graduation, the lead guitarist and bassist quit to pursue college. Lincoln came along to jam and our bassist, Dan, just showed up at practice with a bass and amp before he even knew how to play.

You seem to write about sad characters a lot.

 

I write about people because I’m around them a lot. Bob Dylan’s a big inspiration, as well as John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, and Frank Black. A lot of times people want to blame the state of society on the government. They control groups of people looking at themselves for a lack of self-control – manipulation. A lot of our songs are written about people ‘close to decay.’ We tend to make them into riddles more than straightforward stories.

“Judas” seems to rip apart greedy Satan-like gunslingers. And I notice it’s presciently followed by the knife-wielding “Back Stabbin’ Betty.”

 

“Judas” isn’t about any particular person. It’s more about the mentality of someone who loves money more than anything else and will pursue it at all costs. “Betty’s” a personal story…

Are you ripping on Generation X on “In One Ear”?

 

No. I wouldn’t be ripping on them. It’s about people who live in the shadows talking behind people’s backs – like Chinese Whispers.

Your rap flow on “Tiny Little Robots” reminded me of Everlast.

 

Many people ask about my raps and where they come from. It’s more Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” –‘mom’s in the basement/ mixing up the medicine/ I’m on the pavement/ thinkin’ ‘bout the government.’ That’s where the rhythmic flow comes from. I’ve never been a huge hip-hop fan. I like some of it though.

Some of your nifty song ideas remind me of the band Cake. And the mini-improvisations could be informed by Phish.

 

I love Cake. I’m not a huge Phish fan, but I respect what they’re doing. They’re phenomenal musicians. I’ve always been more of a songwriting musician like the Beatles, Pixies, and Nirvana. They were terrific writers. I could always respect people who have a gift or talent for improvisation, but I like a well-crafted song. And Dylan’s one of the greatest songwriters of all time.

Lincoln, who were you influenced by?

 

LINCOLN PARISH: Growing up in Bowling Green, we weren’t exposed to a lot of different music, just Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, James Brown. But when we moved to England, we got into Gang Of Four and the Pixies. I really like old Delta Blues – Robert Johnson and Blind Lemon Jefferson.

How do the arrangements for Cage The Elphant’s songs usually come to fruition?

 

We’ll basically take inspiration from everywhere. Sometimes I’ll write something, bring in a guitar part. I try to work a melody in. Every song is different. Some songs take time. Others, like “Back Stabbin’ Betty,” we recorded that song in one take on the first day. That was one of the rare songs we wrote with everyone there. The thing we always loved about great art was the element of surprise. Being able to take it to different places and create landscapes, textures, and tones. There’s so much input going into each of our songs from constant individual inspiration.

DONNA THE BUFFALO @ LION’S DEN

Live Reviews

 

Radio Woodstock 100.1 : Donna The Buffalo (

Donna The Buffalo / Lion’s Den/ Jan. 18, 2004

 

Upper New York sextet Donna The Buffalo navigated through an expansive range of roots-y Americana at this narrow, crowded, friendly West Village pub. Much like seasoned jam bands Phish and the Grateful Dead (but with a more pronounced Country & Western bent), they ask for no quarter delivering an exhaustive two and a half hour set.

But while several songs stretched well into the seven-minute mark, they never meandered into excessive, long-winded solo excursions. Instead, the tight, democratic ensemble benefited from an intuitive approach, stretching out over wide-open spaces within each penetrating arrangement, but never once becoming unhinged. Though their fine, recent full length, Positive Friction, represents the band well, Donna The Buffalo’s whimsical spontaneity and natural rural inclinations shine brightest in a live setting.

Loose multi-harmonies and the firm rhythmic foundation of bassist Jeb Greenberg and drummer Tom Gilbert secure many of their jams. And the murky, slightly undersized sound system of the Lion’s Den added rustic authenticity to Donna The Buffalo’s Dust Bowl-styled folk-blues, misty mountain hops, sedate heartland meditations, and one neat skiffle shuffle. Dixie-fried standard, “Bravest Cowboy,” became a beat-driven prairie-bound showdown in their hands.

Singer/ accordionist/ rubboard player Tara Nevins fiddled on a few two-step boogies, back porch country bops, a positive-minded bass-thumped reggae calypso, and a party-spirited Cajun-clipped honky tonk ditty. Ritchie Stearns’ organ and synthesizer drenched a kitschy ska-tinged number and otherwise provided backup for Jeb Puryear and Jim Miller’s clanging guitar chatter. After closing with the “Bo Diddley” beat-stricken “Learning Curve,” the dancing and swaying audience begged for an encore of the bands’ concert staple, “In Another World.” Then, the generous musicians tagged on a few more selections for great measure. Anyone ready to experience a red hot hootenanny should attend a Donna The Buffalo shindig ASAP.

 

THE CRIBS ROCK THE CRADLE OF LOVE

Interviews,

Emerging from the urban West Yorkshire metropolis of Wakefield, the Cribs continue to rise above cookie cutter British knockoffs with ‘07s exuberant youth manifesto, Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever (Warner Bros.). Truly a family affair, agile Jarman twins Ryan (guitar) and Gary (bass) compose and sing the English trio’s instinctively tuneful punk-informed oeuvre while younger brother, Ross, emphatically bangs the drums. While the Cribs eponymous ’04 debut and enticingly better ’05 follow-up, New Fellas, set the tone for the ambitious siblings, forthright comparisons to simultaneously fashionable peers, the Libertines, only served to piss ‘em off and heighten their resolve.

 

Flowing seamlessly from the bouncy harmonic opener, “Our Bovine Republic” (with its scruffy Strokes-like guitar), to somber acoustic vignette, “Shoot The Poets,” the brotherly troika stay pleasingly affable on US breakout, Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever. Between those bookends, shimmered six-string lucidity and jittered stick-work enliven “Girls Like Mystery,” tone-dialed melodic guitar efficacy coils anxiously fixated, “Men’s Needs,” and fretted beeps cluster ruptured bass rumblings on emotional hardcore reprisal, “Moving Pictures.”

Ostensibly spunkier and more talented than fly-by-night mimickers, the Cribs remain genuinely confident. Yet their skeptical lyrical exploits could be summed up in “I’m A Realist,” an instantly addictive number pelting a cuckold loser as effectively as the Offspring’s “Self-Esteem” did a decade hence, defensively spewing advisory sideswipe ‘I’m a realist/ I’m a romantic/ I’m an indecisive piece of shit.’ The longing desperation seems to reach full froth on resonant baritone-deepened snag “Major’s Titling Victory.”

Challenging collaboration, “Be Safe,” crosscuts legendary Sonic Youth mainstay Lee Ranaldo’s ghostly misanthropic spoken word sentiments with the Jarman’s melancholically wailed harmonic intervals of ‘I know a place we can go where you’ll fall in love so hard you’ll wish you were dead.’ And the recessively downcast ‘cut off your nose to spite your friends’ disclosure lamenting “Shoot The Poets” closes the set on a sentient retreat into gloomy nightfall.

Blue-collar romantics facing the same highs and lows as average pimply-faced Brit teens, the Cribs gladly shun the spoiled suburban faux-punk mentality of upper crust kids crying in their coffee living safely at home. Lurk back to New Fellas repetitively interjected chant, “Hey Scenesters,” for further evidence of the Cribs content poseur snubbing.

More significantly, it’s the Cribs celebrated live shows that unmistakably separate them from the New Musical Express-sponsored vogue-ish crap pack. Their energized performances sustain a ruggedly scurried boisterousness first-wave punks would surely appreciate.

Who are some of your early musical influences?

 

GARY JARMAN: The first band I got into was Queen. But I don’t see them as a profound influence in our style of music. When I met with Wichita, the label we were initially signed to, they asked what my first single was. I said it was by Aztec Camera. They were cool fans of Glasgow pop so I was lucky to say that. Also, I enjoy Orange Juice. Edwin Collins produced our second record. Well into my teens, I got into late ‘70s punk – Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks, and especially, X-Ray Spex, then later, Sonic Youth and Nirvana. By ’92, my favorite was Brit band, Comet Gain, who I’d get to drum for. They do few gigs now and then. They’re like a ramshackle version of Television Personalities.

How do your first two albums compare to Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever?

 

This little label, Worlds Fair, released them in America. The first album has a very apparent Beat Happening influence. It’s reminiscent of K Records stuff. It was naïve. We weren’t as aggressive live. We started out as a beat band. Gradually, our punk influence came through. The second was written on the road real fast as a knee jerk reaction to the fact we were three guys from Wakefield who’d never seen the industry. It’s a friendly fuck-off. I love that record’s cynicism.

I’ve heard former Smiths guitarist, Johnny Marr, now part of Modest Mouse, has been working on some tracks with the Cribs.

 

Our original intention was to get together, write songs just for fun, and of course, we just love him. We wanted to do a single and it came along quickly. He definitely fits into our plans. I’m good friends with the Modest Mouse guys so I don’t want to create any problems there. (laughter)

What kind of abstract designs or studio techniques did Franz Ferdinand front man Alex Kopranos bring to the production?

 

We had a few ideas but had never been with a professional producer. The first record we self-produced, though Bobby Conn did a track. We didn’t want some big shot producer. I didn’t want to be in the position where you’re just another band in the production line. Alex was enthusiastic and passionate. That’s what we wanted. He had lots of the same references. We had a fun time and worked well. His opinions were valid. He’d write real pop songs and hide them in lo-fi. I wanted him to make our music sound more fully realized. I was scared of going to a big studio. I didn’t want it to sound sterile. But it was easy to trust him.

“Our Bovine Public” seems to be a snippy l’il opener.

 

The more upbeat punk songs are generally my brothers. In the UK, there’s so many bands springing up trying to capitalize on the current trend of the scrappy indie guitar aesthetic. But that song has more literal meaning. Where we grew up in Wakefield, due to the amount of drinking and fighting on Saturday nights, it’s a commentary on people being treated like cattle, but acting like pigs. They reserve the right to act like animals, but complain when they get (skewered like one). Also, it’s frustrating to be compared to bands like the Libertines. It’s fine, but we started at the same time they did in 2001. We’d never heard of each other. Our labels tried to put us on tour together. But it’s annoying people think we sound the same. They’re our contemporaries. Now there’s a million generic bands we don’t want to get lumped in with. Most are ignorant copycats the UK press serves up.

How did the loose concept juxtaposing “Women’s Needs” against “Men’s Needs” come about?

 

It was never our idea to conceptualize the record. Before the band started, I was involved with Ladyfest – a feminist empowered, independent, not-for-profit, DIY festival. A lot of our songs are about self-examination. But a lot of dumb rock and roll cliches are inherently sexist. I’m proud to be against that, not bluntly or overtly, but politically.

“Shoot The Poets” seems to aim for the gut.

 

My brother had an idea for a long time that he didn’t want to live in big cities. He’d moved to Leeds and was bummed out. He wrote that in an ancient hotel in the middle of nowhere in a creepy town. The title comes from the frustration of seeing generic bands singing about nothing. They think they’re poets ‘cause they write dumb-ass pretentious pop punk. We don’t want to be thought of as rock stars craving attention. We have nothing in common with most UK guitar bands. Some are good, millions suck. America will be spared, but in the UK we’re confronted with dire, watered down bands.

How do you keep your renowned live shows exciting?

 

We try to keep things spontaneous and leave some things to chance. When touring for a long time, some bands become a well-oiled machine. It seems boring. I can’t imagine working like that. It’s like punching the clock. That’s the attitude we have.

ATMOSPHERE SEEKS RESOLUTION BY PAINTING SHIT GOLD

Interviews,

Take one of the best rhyme flowing freestylers, hook him up with an equally talented hip-hop producer, mix and match delicious beat samplings, and stir sufficiently throughout the course of a decade. The result: Atmosphere – a premier Minneapolis underground rap alliance initially revealed on a few impressive homespun cassettes.

 

Given early exposure at some outstanding local shows, conscious word designer, Slug (Sean Daley), and his reclusively conspiring beatmeister, Ant (Anthony Davis), devised harrowing urban tales venerating regional misfits, dispossessed souls, and societal outcasts with trenchantly detailed observations. Shunning the now outmoded shoot-‘em-up gangster styling of richer rap scallions while pensively sympathizing with hard-knock lifers, Slug’s empathetic disclosures meticulously articulate the mainstream struggles of the down and out proletariat.

Nationally, Atmosphere gained high accolades with ‘01s high-minded exposé Lucy Ford: The Atmosphere EP, where smooth operating love assassin, Slug, expresses female adulation alongside cultivated anecdotal narratives concerning dysfunctional street denizens. The self-promoting “Guns And Cigarettes” deviously states Slug’s lofty ambition to be ‘bigger than the Beatles/ bigger than breast implants’ above a lazy rudimentary beat and syncopated synthesizer reverb.

While ‘02s resplendent God Loves Ugly had a nastier attitude, its wickedly brooding temperament and righteous indignation was only a temporary departure considering the sauntering civic entreaties unveiled nearly synchronically on ‘03s Seven’s Travels.

Two years hence, Slug’s satirically fronting on the retro-spirited You Can’t Imagine How Much Fun We’re Having – head nestled wearily in hand for the plaintive cover shot. His character sketches absolve psychos, barflys, and fall guys, the same maladjusted individuals that’ve always been the source of his crustiest ruminations. Perhaps a little too reliant on Ant’s old school breakbeats and turntable scratching for mod rap heads (mentioning extinct inspirations such as 2Pac and the Moonwalk), it nevertheless overflows with the same contemporaneously fast tongue-tied anxiety of yore.

On the retrenching vestige, “Watch Out,” Slug admits wanting to be like LL Cool J ‘til he started making records strictly for the girls. Female Gospel voices reinforce the ominous ‘bleeding heart’s club’ scurrying across “Say Hey There.” Polluted indictment, “Musical Chairs,” besmirches a psychotic bitch in heat and may’ve inspired Gnarls Barkley with its hazy flow. Flutes echo below the rhythmic boom of guitar-buzzed bass drum-boomed homecoming chant, “The Arrival,” a good time celebration of the first order.

Dropping sampling technique for real instrumentation, Ant surrounds his lively beats with Nate Collis’ shrewd guitar phrasing and Erick Anderson’s variable keyboard alchemy on ‘08s instructive decree, When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold. Its cocktail lounge piano opener absorbs Ant’s latest storyboarded directives, plying delicate ‘70s soul elegance to De La Soul-clipped Daisy Age mysticism. Before getting all plush and cushy, the pressure-fueled hand-clapped dirge, “Puppets,” and funky lowdown easy rider, “The Skinny,” come aboard, leading to the even funkier “Dreamer.” The snappy beat and squelched bass consuming the upbeat “You” makes it as sweetly appetizing as Outkast’s unforgettable hook-filled trinket, “Hey Yeah.” Sad slide guitar inundates reserved alcohol-doused comedown, “Your Glasshouse” and electrified acoustic 6-string befits the cautionary “Guarantees.” Rajiah Johnson’s melodious Herbie Mann-like flute accents the bass-bottomed Tom Waits beatboxing of “The Waitress.”

But in direct contrast to Slug’s previously overwhelmed Midwestern strife, When Life Gives You Lemons has an earnestly sentimental fortitude that redirects the steadily depressing mind-messing daily blues Atmosphere’s notorious for. The heartfelt “Yesterday” mourns the loss of Slug’s dad in extremely reverent fashion. And refreshingly, the splattering trumpet blasts bedecking “Wild Wild Horses” give positraction to the synth-driven Rhythm & Blues fervency Earth Wind & Fire and the Moments once delivered. All in all, it’s a less caustic, more profound scrapbook.

I own all the Atmosphere long-players except ‘97s self-released homemade debut, Overcast!, and ‘03s Seven’s Travels, your first official record for Epitaph Records.

 

SLUG: You don’t need Seven’s Travels. It sucks. It’s my least favorite. It’s so disjointed that when we tried to glue it together, the glue stands out and is better than the album. It’s like when someone hands you a toy to play with and you could see the glue creeping out around the corners. As a kid, you put everything in your mouth.

Lucy Ford: The Atmosphere EP’s reminded me of De La Soul with its minimalist tone and thoughtful lyrics.

 

That’s funny. I refer to Seven’s Travels as my De La Soul album because it’s all over the map. But we try to do each record differently than the preceding one. We have these weird rules we attempt to follow. We literally take the last song on prior records and let it fit the tone for the next record. It’s not a relatively fun road to do that. De La Soul had an optimistic tone even though there wasn’t necessarily optimism in the songs.

Right. Your songs tend to psychoanalyze daily problems. I try to find restful resolve but it’s oft-times difficult to uncover.

 

This particular record, I tried to instill resolution all over the place. I did look at my past material and realized the story could be over if there was no resolution. Not to sound corny, but I love Common. One of the best things he does is offer resolution. A lot of rappers just offer the story and say ‘this is what happens,’ especially in this ‘keep it real’ mind state we live in with hip-hop. Even though we know it may not be a true story – we know they didn’t shoot anyone, they’d be in jail – but we accept the story for what it is. But we never get resolution. What happened to the gangster next week when he got arrested? It’s just these quick glimpses and I realized that was all I was doing. Grant it, you could only get a fats glance in three-and-a-half minutes. But I wanted to leave more room to let it seem like something worked out on When Life Gives You Lemons.

The solemn reflection, “Yesterday,” in remembrance to your father, offers some resolve.

 

He passed away shortly before we started making this album. There’s a lot of stuff I wrote that’s purely autobiographical but doesn’t make the cut for the record. “Yesterday” surprisingly made the cut. Normally, songs that ‘real’ don’t make it. I wasn’t doing anything too clever inside its word scheme. It was straightforward.

It’s reflective in a similarly didactic manner as Eminem’s fan-stoked “Stan.”

 

And it doesn’t need a big huge beat to push the message across.

What’s the skinny on “The Skinny”? I thought the rhythm drew comparisons to George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog.”

 

I’ll accept that. It’s funny. I just lit a cigarette and that’s what that song’s about. When we first wrote the song it was over a beat that was like a Too Short track. Because of the genre of hip-hop I’m boxed into, I can’t really write songs about pimps. I’m not in your traditional rap pimp manner. But the beat was begging for a pimp song. So I wrote “The Skinny” for it and used the pimp as a metaphor for cigarettes. That’s probably one of my favorite songs musically and lyrically.

“You” is one of the most uplifting pop songs I’ve heard this summer. How’d that come into being?

 

We were looking to write a Prince song. A lot of that song we were trying to model around Minneapolis. For years, people would accuse us of representing the Minneapolis sound. But I never really got it. I always thought the Minneapolis sound was not knowing what you’re doing. I look at what the Replacements and Husker Du did for their rock movement. I just think they got together and made these songs that production-wise were super lo-fi. Some of the writing is simple – it works. It’s catchy. It’s luck. Then I look at Prince and see he was making it up as he went along. Producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis – look at some of the drum noises they were creating in the ‘80s. It was ridiculous, but it worked. People gravitated towards it and danced to it. But in the real world, I bet they were just doing their imitation of George Clinton when he started fucking around with synthetic drums.

So when people give us credit for making up a sound, I’m like, ‘not really.’ We’re getting credit for not knowing what we’re doing. There’s no mentor-ship in Minneapolis and the world of making music. It’s all self-taught. So this is our version of making a Gang Starr record just as Prince made his version of Jimi Hendrix shit just as The Time were making their version of Parliament. The Replacements were making their version of the fucking Rolling Stones.

Minneapolis artists seem to relate well to contemporary pop culture.

 

There’s a lot of folks here just making art for art’s sake. But for the most part, prior to the internet, Minneapolis only got what it got through pop culture sources – magazines and standard media. There weren’t people moving here from Berlin to expose us to German disco.