MINDLESS SELF INDULGENCE FIND ‘FRANKENSTEIN GIRLS SEXY’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Elektra Records saw them coming, but didn’t know what to do with ‘em. Promulgating euphoric intrigue through crazily carefree commotion, shameless shock rockers Mindless Self Indulgence played cardboard and plastic instruments when I saw ‘em at church-like Manhattan venue, Lust, in the spring of 2000. And when I went to interview them post-show backstage, my tape recorder wouldn’t work ‘til I slammed it onto the floor. Oh, and some chicks in fishnet skirts with silver dollar size nips and some guy with a snake-like two-foot dick were hanging out near me upstairs. Such is the life of a busy music scribe. ’05s You’ll Rebel To Anything and ’08′s  followed suit for MSI. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Taking the low road to the anti-revolution, outta control Jeckyl & Hyde phantoms, Mindless Self Indulgence, pulverize hard rock candy and hyper Industrial techno like demented speed freaks. Following the self-released, Atari-crazed arcadia, Tight, this quirky New York quartet signed to Elektra, recorded the explosively whack mindfuck Frankenstein Girls Will Seem Strangely Sexy, and received the opening slot on Korn’s current tour.

On-stage at gothic Chelsea club Lust, Little Jimmy Urine parades around in a USC band suit holding a baton before changing into a maid outfit with featherduster. He does jumping jacks, leapfrogs, and stage dives, sparking the unplugged bands’ theatrical shoegazer karaoke. Green antenna-haired guitarist Steve, Righ? prances around like a menacing, traumatized nerd. Radiant bassist Vanessa Y.T., a robotic blonde wind-up doll in silver hot pants and ripped net stockings, spews water at the sold-out crowd while drummer Kitty assaults her kit like a manic Sheila E. Rumor has it Urine once drank his own piss before passing it around to excited CBGB fans.

As head nutcase, the animated Urine burps “I been denied all the best ultrasex” in a slivery Adam Ant-like rant corrupted by Righ?’s Killing Joke-gone-berserk axe fury on the schizoid “Faggot.” The insanely ludicrous suicidal tendency, “Backmask,” bends Frankie Goes To Hollywood Euro-disco into scurvy Six Finger Satellite rancor while the Beastie Boys-ish “Bitches” whips nu-metal with a wicked hip-hop frenzy only German poli-sci visionaries Atari Teenage Riot would dare attempt.

In the audience at Lust were several mega-pierced, tattoo-flaunting punks, a few spike-haired weirdoes, and the stunning cunt standing next to me wearing only a net to show off her protruding, erect, pink nipples (yummy!).

Fun loving, sarcastic bastards with cracked retro-futuristic Devo-esque pizzazz and humorous, unsophisticated, Sparks-like inertia, this fearless foursome offered me snippy, trite remarks not unlike what the early Beatles gave dipshit conservative press darlings in ‘64.

How’d you guys meet?

STEVE: I met Jimmy at a batting cage. He was the bat.

So you’re using him.

STEVE: Yes.

Do you guys get stoned?

STEVE: No. You can. We want to be free not to.

KITTY: You could do usage of any kind. We don’t care. We encourage it. The music is so fast, the depressant’s no good. I’m all about Coca-Cola and sugar-based products. I watch a lot of t.v. It’s my drug of choice.

Do you offer any apologies for lewd behavior?

STEVE: No. It’s just a body odor thing. We gotta air it out. I got skidmarks on my tights. I just bust that out right now. We deny things and people make up shit and it sounds better anyhow.

JIMMY: Like the time I ate the walrus.

STEVE: I’m just doing this to get money for the liposuction, then I’m out-ee. Then I’ll do anti-fashion on MTV.

You guys are like cartoon characters.

JIMMY: Yeah. But it sucks because when we play outside our ink runs.

How do your song arrangements come about?

JIMMY: We jam for four hours and cut it down to a minute and a half of our best shit. And the album is one long boring… (at this point, Jimmy leaves the room as a fan claims his girlfriend will go down on him)

KITTY: He don’t care if she’ll go down on him. Will she wash his clothes and do his laundry?

STEVE: Ever smell my feet. (he offers a disgusting whiff) That’s how we stay so fucked up. Forget about rolling that doobie.

Do you get nervous before performing such wicked sets?

STEVE: We’re too dumb to be scared.

KITTY: We don’t know any better. (Jimmy leans his head in the door)

MERCURY REV @ BOWERY BALLROOM

Live Reviews

Mercury Rev/ Bowery Ballroom/ April 19, 1998

Sometimes a live show is so compelling, enlightening, and transcending the entire experience just becomes surreal. Playing a sold out Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Rev achieved such grandiose heights with their really massive, sonically swirling art-affected rock. Under impressionistic opaque yellow and orange stage lights, the spirited combo began their tidy set with the splendid “Funny Bird” and followed it up with nearly every song from the highly acclaimed Deserter’s Songs. Instead of merely applying moody instrumental textures for recreational backdrop, Mercury Rev composes imagery-laden, fully formed songs from sweet, lingering guitar abstractions and lush keyboard melodies. If, say, the Moody Blues lush dreamscapes had retained a subtler warmth and were more reflective and thoughtful, they’d be natural precursors.

Vocalist/ guitarist Jonathan Donahue effortlessly constructed beautifully resilient orchestral maneuvers. His fragile, mournful tenor and cracked emotional sentiments were gorgeously shaded by Grasshopper’s six-string pleasantries and Justin Russo’s marvelous keyboard flourishes. A mesmerizing peak came during the billowy ballad “Endlessly,” which glided ever so gently into a fluttering synth riff snuffed from “Holy Night.” Perhaps only Spiritualized comes off so marvelously mellifluous in concert. Everyone I casually mingled with at Bowery’s balcony level felt the same way I did. This was truly a Monday night to remember.

ATHENS’ GLANDS SWEATING FOR ATTENTION

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I have no clue what happened to the Glands, whose self-titled ’01 album proved to be scruffily charming in a non-threatening honky tonk sorta way. Capricorn Records (home of the Allman Brothers catalogue) must’ve thought the Glands had a decent chance at AOR radio. I enjoyed the hell out of their 50-minute live set on an early Satuday evening at a discreet lower Manhattan club (prior to going to Katz’s deli and chowing down a fatty pastrami on rye with long-time pal, Al Gutierrez). I also caught them at Knitting Factory weeks before (as described below). But alas, I’ve spent fifteen minutes internet surfing and I can’t find a damn thing about this bands’  whereabouts nowadays.

Athens, Georgia continues to churn out exciting new musical talent twenty years after REM and the B-52’s put the kindred-spirited college town on the map. There’s retro-country rednecks Drive-By Truckers and Red River Dave, plus multi-culti experimentalists Macha and drone pop improvisers Japancakes. And on their self-titled Capricorn Records release, The Glands provide that expansive University of Georgia scene with a topnotch pop-rooted combo.

“Bar None released our debut, Double Thriller. That one came off lo-fi, but was actually recorded hi-fi,” good humored, self-deprecating lead singer/ guitarist Ross Shapiro claims as we plow a few brews backstage at Knitting Factory prior to The Glands well received 45 minute set. “It came out sounding weaker, but this album is a bit more polished. There was a little more thought involved. Some of it was recorded live in the studio as a five piece. We attempted things on the first album that didn’t work.”

Meshing retro-rock mannerisms with thrice-removed blues and a smidgen of moody rural escapism, The Glands’ crooked, unkempt swagger seems to emulate from some long lost post-Beatles stoner daze. Yet some subtle modern gestures creep into the mix.

For openers, “Livin’ Was Easy” finds Shapiro drawling and whining like Pavement’s Steve Malkmus over a purposely warped slide guitar arrangement that begs comparisons to Beck’s bluesier, less popular stuff. Next, “When I Laugh” slips into hazy, non-specific folk-blues much the same way England’s Gomez does. While it could be argued that “Swim” recalls early ‘70s one-shot Thunderclap Newman, a better guess would suggest it’s closer in ‘feel’ to fellow tour mates Elf Power.

In fact, they bring it all back home on the go-for-broke “Work It Out,” reclaiming some of the amateurish spirit and unfinished backwoods rawk of vintage REM.

Though each song flows perfectly into the next, track placement is apparently a point of contention amongst band members.

“It’s always a battle between us. They always say put the best three songs first, but on the debut, we wanted to start with an instrumental and Bar None made us use “Two Dollar Wine.” They thought it sounded like a hit. It’s got wah-wah guitar and keyboard and a hacked-up, busy bassline,” Shapiro inquires.

Indeed, the corrosive “Two Dollar Wine” proves to be a crowd fave half an hour later when they entertain a sold out crowd opening for dynamic Elephant 6 collective, Elf Power. Both bands share an affinity for ‘60s rock and popular music in general.

“We just listened to the Byrds’ Untitled record in our van today. Three-fourths of it is live,” Shapiro maintains. “I probably listen to the same things any kid my age did while growing up. First, AM radio before I had a stereo. Then, when you’re seventeen, you just emulate The Clash. But by the time we started recording, I was a bit older. I’m a late bloomer. I only started writing songs about five years ago.”

It seems as if multi-faceted engineer/ musician Andy Baker has now become an integral part of The Glands lineup. On this tour, he’s playing bass (taking the place of Craig Mc Quiston) alongside guitarist Doug Stanley, keyboardist Neil Golden, and drummer Joe Rowe.

Known throughout Athens as owner of the premier local studio, Baker learned to play guitar before heading to high school. “Then, I found out I wanted to do recording. I started doing live sound in my hometown, When a friend of mine moved to Athens to do music, I got a four-track. There’s so many bands in Athens that I learned to use it as I went along.”

Shapiro adds, “It’s such a closely knit community which supports its bands. There are no critics around Athens, so people come in from Alabama and some small podunk towns.”

When asked about production influences, Baker offers, “I actually like Steve Albini’s recordings a lot. I like a roomy sound instead of an ‘80s production where it’s really dry with fake reverb. I like a natural drum sound.”

Baker joined The Glands permanently when Mc Quiston was leaving. But it’s also worth noting that he currently resides with Shapiro.

Through a smirky smile, the otherwise reserved Baker quips, “Out of all the bands I record, I like The Glands best. That’s why I joined them.”

MELVINS’ KING BUZZO RULES AFTER ‘HOSTILE AMBIENT TAKEOVER’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: The Melvins prefigured grunge and have outlasted every Seattle band they inspired (except Mudhoney and Pearl Jam). Led by freaky afro-laden Black Flag fan, Buzz Osborne (a.ka. King Buzzo), this batty combo piles on the radical noise.

After this ’02 phone interview, I caught up with the Melvins at Bowery Ballroom, where they slashed and burned through a loudly turbulent set. Originally intended for High Times, this piece ended up online at a friends’ cool site, Kittymagic, instead. It turned out Buzzo was fiercely against using narcotics despite his own peer’s reckless dope-fueled behavior. ‘06s (A) Senile Animal was a terrific onslaught, though less worthy ’08 follow-up, Nude With Boots, ain’t bad.

SIDEBAR: I saw the Afro-kinked King Buzzo at San Francisco Giants World Series game. His hair stuck out like nobody else’s.

Inspiring Nirvana as well as the entire early ‘90s Seattle grunge scene, the legendary Melvins came out of Aberdeen, Washington, with a radically abstract and uncompromisingly intimidating metal-sludged attack way beyond their less sophisticated peers. Beginning with ‘87s Gluey Porch Treatment, guitarist-vocalist King Buzzo and lifelong pal, percussionist Dale Crover, have had a major impact on the revitalized independent spirit and non-conformist attitude sweeping modern rock culture. Though Buzzo (born Roger Osborne; nicknamed Buzz by his parents) has remained straightedge since the Melvins took off, his profound influence could be heard on Queens Of The New Age and their ‘stoner rock’ ilk.

“Don’t blame stoner rock on us,” the slightly dismayed Buzzo offers. “Those ideas were interesting 30 years ago. They’re not injecting new ideas to the old formula.”

Growing up, Buzzo enjoyed Black Sabbath, Queen, and ZZ Top, calling them “great musicians and songwriters,” but it was hardcore bohemians such as Black Flag, the Butthole Surfers, and Venom that struck a nerve when he hit his rebellious teens. An avid experimentalist with eighteen full-length albums under his belt as leader of the Melvins, the respected icon admits to enjoying prog-rock visionaries King Crimson as well as avant-garde musicians Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart.

When grunge exploded internationally, the Melvins were signed by Atlantic Records and released ‘93s mind-boggling Houdini (co-produced by Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain) and the monumental follow-up Stoner Witch (its title a derogatory term for hippie-ish drugged out girls). Though Cobain was stoked to help out his favorite band, he eventually succumbed to heroin and a shotgun. But Buzzo believes Cobain’s serious drug addiction could not have been curbed by intervention.

“He wasn’t exactly hiding it. If people are gonna get fucked up, they’re responsible for themselves. You can’t get people to quit. I don’t think you can or should,” Buzzo explains.

A former pothead who ran wild and performed his share of unspecified unlawful activities as a teen (half-kiddingly smirking, “if a kid isn’t a criminal and breaking laws, there’s something wrong”), Buzzo remains tolerant of marijuana users, but derides alcohol and hard drug use. Though he believes the green-leafed herb could be a gateway drug, he doesn’t denigrate Melvins fans prescribing to that lifestyle.

“I guess I dabbled in recreational drug use like most kids. As a kid, it makes more sense and you go crazy. Later, it’s a burden interfering with getting things done. People would be surprised the Melvins are more conservative than they think,” the graying Afro-maned North Hollywood resident insists. “Alcohol use is worse than drug use. It’s more prevalent and accepted. More shit passes through the liver. Emergency room statistics prove OD deaths are disproportionately more alcohol-related than cocaine or heroin. I’ve never heard of pot-related heart attacks, but I know people who are hard to deal with when they don’t have marijuana.”

On ‘00s The Crybaby, Buzzo controversially hooked up Leif Garrett to sing a rousing version of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” but soon realized the former teen idol was still haunted by his drug-addled past. Buzzo insists “Leif’s a charming, smart, interesting guy who’s still got demons holding him back.”

Recently, Buzzo teamed up with non-straightedge death metal masters Fantamos, consisting of Mike Patton (ex-Faith No More), Dave Lombardo (former Slayer drummer), and Trevor Dunn (Mr. Bungle bassist) for the Fantomas Melvins Big Band’s veritable smorgasbord, Millennium Monsterwork.

Concurrently, the Melvins released probably their most accessible work on Patton’s Ipecac Records, Hostile Ambient Takeover. From the manic Metallica-hardened lunacy of “Black Stooges” to the spasmodic Beefheartian wackiness of “Dr. Geek” to the Twilight Zone imagery of “The Brain Center At Whipples,” Buzzo maintains the virility and spontaneity of his edgy punk-rooted past.

However, he concedes, “I resent the elitist punk crowd that dislikes metal. People have a condescending attitude about that music because of the terrible nu-metal shit.”

Never afraid to get sociopolitical, the caustic Buzzo offered thoughts on several hot topics. He insists there’s a blurry line separating whether drug testing for jobs is an invasion of privacy. “It depends on the job. It’s the employers prerogative.”

As for military drug use, he blames some of it on Nazi Germany. “Hitler invented methadone as mighty fine military-designed speed for himself and troops. I’m sure our military use drugs.”

A true blue American, Buzzo thinks America “is still the best country,” adding “the damage caused by 9-11 was less than what people think. It was a lucky shot that didn’t accomplish much. We’ll just build more. Only 5% of the people at World Trade Center at its peak died. Most got out fine. It was a tragedy, but not on a grand scale. We’re bigger and tougher. People get emotional, but the terrorists weren’t successful.”

MEKONS TAKE ETERNAL ‘JOURNEY TO THE END OF THE NIGHT’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: The Mekons have been around forever, it seems. And they continue to release albums and work with many respected underground artists. Led by mainstays Jon Langford and Tom Greenhalge, the Mekons intuitively incorporate folk and country into righteous political punk. I’ve watched them perform at CBGB, Bowery Ballroom, and Mercury Lounge over the years. And they’ve always hit the spot.

Remarkably, Langford’s found time to be involved in ‘90s-initiated bands, the Waco Brothers and Pine Valley Cosmonauts, as well as sassy ‘80s crew, the Three Johns. Living in Chicago for a long spell, British-born Langford’s paintings have been displayed at Maxwells in Hoboken and been used as artwork for seminal Delaware microbrewery, Dogfish Head. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

The term ‘underground rock’ might as well have been coined specifically to describe legendary underrated band the Mekons. Relying more on rootsy folk and rural country than just amateur ambition and flailing guitars, this Leeds combo bridged the gap separating British pub rockers Brinsley Schwarz, Love Sculpture, and Ducks Deluxe from late ‘70s punk nihilists the Sex Pistols and the Clash.

Founders Jon Langford (vocals/ guitar/ melodica) and Tom Greenhalgh (guitar/ piano/ autoharp), plus charter members Sally Timms (vocals), Susie Honeyman (fiddle), Rico Bell (accordion), Sarah Corina (bass) and Steve Goulding (drums), have maintained a respectable cult following by making consistently compelling albums while continually riling against new age rhetoric.

From its mellow, Old World fiddle ballad, “Myth,” to its chanted closer, “Last Night On Earth,” the understated 12-song Journey To The End Of The Night (Quarterstick) further refines the Mekons ambitious sound. Timms’ quivering voice counters Langford’s cigarette-stained baritone on both the pristine orchestration “Last Weeks Of The War” and the anthemic “Cast No Shadow.” She soars majestically on the ominous lament “City Of London,” then solemnly purrs through the cinematic trip-hop noir of “The Flood.” The accordion-laced “Neglect” comes closest to capturing the sinister folkloric revelations of their early Sin recordings while the atonal autoharp confessional “Out In The Dark” (featuring Langford’s gravelly, laryngitis-affected growl) appears in its raw demo form.

The Mekons astonishing canon includes ‘85s Fear & Whiskey, ‘86s The Edge of the World, ‘88s So Good It Hurts, and ‘93s I Love Mekons, to name a few faves. A short stint with major label A & M resulted in the staggering Mekons Rock ’n’ Roll and the quirky “F.U.N.” EP, but never afforded the combo the mass exposure they so rightly deserved. Timms has recorded a few swell country-imbibed discs in her spare time while Langford moonlights in the Pine Valley Cosmonauts and the Waco Brothers (and spent time during the ‘80s in the fabulous Three Johns). For a neat compilation of demos, remixes, and lost tracks, try the recently issued two volume Hen’s Teeth.

How’d you become interested in pursuing music full time?

TOM GREENHALGH: Before punk happened, I never really thought it was possible to be in a band. But when we heard punk, we thought some of us could do that.

JON LANGFORD: I was playing in bands since I was 15 because when you’re playing football, it’s all guys. We’d do cover versions of Black Sabbath and Hawkwind. In ‘77, with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and the Damned, possibilities seemed unlimited. The shockwave was so great because everyone was affected by it. It’s so different now. Things happen now and nobody ever knows. Everyone’s looking in different directions. The major labels suck so bad.

The latest album benefits from a certain restraint.

JON: We restrained ourselves from recording it too fast and putting stuff on we wouldn’t be happy with – which we do sometimes when we run out of money. We thought about it a little more. The album hangs together tight. Different styles filter through the band, but the tone of the album may be stylistically different from song to song. There’s a pitch to it that’s pretty level. But we never made up our minds and said ‘this one is going to be a reggae (number).’ We never really jam.

How do the Mekons latest songs generally come about?

JON: This album has some simple melodic ideas that were pretty specific. We got Kelly Hogan, Neko Case, and Edith Frost in to record for only one evening. But that set off the album quite nicely because we were concentrating a lot more on vocals. There was a specific movement with this record to write songs that were more personal, confessional, and immediately engaging. I like songs I can sit and play on acoustic guitar. But that bloke from Wire, Bruce Gilbert, said ‘I can’t understand why you have a need for songs anymore.’ He thinks it’s year zero and with techno it’s obsolete to carry a guitar. I don’t like the idea of people thinking we’re too old to rock. That’s why people get into the folk thing. You could do that until you’re very old. It’s a career move. We’re all gonna peak when we’re 65.

Is it more comforting being on a respectable indie label rather than a corporate major?

JON: We’re finally turning the corner and making money. The majors are really unpleasant. You get a lot of people poking around in your life. It’s much easier now. There’s absolutely no pressure on us. I hope the majors go out of business. Internet access is fine but I worry about its faddishness. I think it will wither and drop off. I’m worried about corporations hiring all these drones to extract money from internet technology. We don’t see a need to go to a studio to record our next album when we can record at home now.

How’d you become interested in pursuing music full time?

TOM GREENHALGH: Before punk happened, I never really thought it was possible to be in a band. But when we heard punk, we thought some of us could do that.

JON: I was playing in bands since I was 15 because when you’re playing football, it’s all guys. We’d do cover versions of Black Sabbath and Hawkwind. In ‘77, with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and the Damned, possibilities seemed unlimited. The shockwave was so great because everyone was affected by it. It’s so different now. Things happen now and nobody ever knows. Everyone’s looking in different directions. The major labels suck so bad.

Tell me about the reggae-splashed “Tina,” which seems to be a politically motivated song?

JON: It was just some bits of words that got pushed around and re-arranged well. Tina means There Is No Alternative. That’s the Margaret Thatcher/ Tony Blair slogan. It’s like nothing else will work so this is the way to do things. It’s very anti-democratic. You do think the world will get better, but through socialism eventually. But the corporate people are changing quicker than the people on the left. They’ve moved the goal posts so far. We don’t need chest beating right wingers going on about immigration. They’re an anachronism. You don’t have to say you hate immigrants, you just fuck them over. The right clings to the idea that it’s about the nation’s state when it’s really about corporations. It was amazing when the apartheid struggle ended in South Africa and Nelson Mandela was freed. But it was a battle that had already been fought.

Would you consider yourselves anarchists or existentialists?

JON: I’m definitely a socialist in a broad sense in believing society should take responsibility. In America, the baby boomers were afraid they’d get drafted for Viet Nam, so rich kids protested. When the war was over, they weren’t radicals.

TOM: We have a suspicion against subscribing to one notion of democracy. There’s no need for people to die of poverty. People take for granted that society has to rely on Thatcherism.

-John Fortunato

MARAH / DAMNWELLS / BILL MC GARVEY @ MAXWELLS

Live Reviews

Marah / Damnwells / Bill Mc Garvey @ Maxwells / June 3, 2004

Three durable combos representing nearby locales Philadelphia, New York City, and Jersey merged for one solid show at Maxwells in Hoboken this Thursday evening. ‘Singing drummer’ Bill Mc Garvey (formerly of underrated indie pop band, Valentine Smith) led his Good Thieves through a diligent hometown set. Supporting recently released gem, Tell Your Mother, Mc Garvey’s troupe relied on honeyed melodic conviction, meaningful heartfelt lyrics, and gauzy textures. He wove tenderly engaging baritone inflections across salient guitar-bass-violin-flute arrangements with relative ease.

Next, Brooklyn-based quartet the Damnwells – now receiving exposure for ‘03s acclaimed Bastards Of The Beat from Fordham’s heritage rock station WFUV – took the stage. Sporting shaggy long-haired and wearing similar black dress jackets (‘cept the drummer), singer-guitarist Alex Dezen drew the growing assemblage in with urgent flinty-voiced sentiments that drifted through restrained melancholia, poignant romanticism, and reserved uplift. But the Damnwells proved just as efficient delivering loud, assertive rockers as they did remitting debonairly twanged acoustic respites.

To get started, headliners Marah communicated penetrating sensitivity without getting sappy, uncovered a few wonderful new songs from their highly anticipated 20,000 Streets Under the Sky. A South Philly quintet led by Bielanko brothers David (lead vocals-guitar) and Serge (backup vocals-guitar), Marah confirmed eternal eclecticism could secure, rather than hinder, the joyously celebratory fare they pushed forth. Redolent of Springsteen’s E Street Band when unveiling hard driving working class rock ‘n’ roll, they blazed forward with raw energy and roughed-up edginess, oft-times letting more aggressive material perilously implode. Blending raucously upbeat R & B-derived coquetry with infectious acoustical retreats, they continually got partisan heads nodding in approval. Unexpectedly, Superchunk’s Jon Wurster has taken over drum chores, providing seasoned instinctive fortitude to each number. In several spots, Serge’s steel guitar detailed rural glint.

‘Tween songs, David offered charming tidbits of wisdom, claiming ‘if your band has one baseball song, you’re cool, but if you have two, you suck’ before breaking into a spare, harmonica-filled ode to America’s pastime. He even reminded the dumbfounded audience that the first recognized ball game took place in this mile-squared town. After bringing the house down with the nifty hand-clapped helix “Soul” (from ‘02s irrepressible Float Away With The Friday Night Gods), he suggested, ‘It’s hard to figure out what’s cool anymore. That’s the story of my life.’ Taken at face value, he may be right considering Marah would’ve been hailed as ‘mainstream’ rock heroes if they’d been around in the pre-punk ‘70s. Subsequently, David broke out a banjo for a harp-doused song concerning a faraway girl.

I’m convinced Marah will be one of the most exciting bands touring this summer. Guaran-fuckin’-teed.

JESSE MALIN TEMPERS ‘THE FINE ART OF SELF-DESTRUCTION’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: New York mainstay, Jesse Malin, could talk your ear off. And that’s a good thing if you’re interviewing the ex-punk maven. After his hot local band, D Generation folded, Malin started drifting into comforting singer-songwriter fare. ‘01s The Fine Art Of Self-Destruction gained some aboveground acceptance, but ‘04s The Heat, ‘07s glam-deranged memoir, Glitter In The Gutter, and ‘08s covers LP, On Your Sleeve, never took that extra step to qualified national stardom. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Fast talking Queens native Jesse Malin knows what it feels like to have doors shut in his face, recording demos denied by sundry labels, and the best night of his life ruined. But he had the courage, patience, and perseverance to refuse quitting music until a miracle happened. It’s a mighty long road from the suicidal madness of “No Way Out” from his former band D Generation’s self-titled leathery punk debut to the urban angst of ‘96s No Lunch and the reflective retreat of their hard-to-find, third and final disc, Through The Darkness.

Writing lyrically profound songs during a slight tenure away from recording, Malin couldn’t get a break until drinking pal, well respected bard Ryan Adams, came to the rescue and offered to produce what became the stunning solo project, The Fine Art Of Self Destruction.

A toned down urgency affects sad, brooding fare such as the introspective “Queen Of The Underworld,” the sensitive acoustic ballad “Brooklyn,” and the dirgey, regretful title track. Cathedral-like piano adds resonance to Malin’s moaned discontent on the peaceful sedative, “Downliner.” But the bemused mood shifts to upbeat for the thoughtful “Almost Grown” and the beat-driven bass throbber “Wendy.” Throughout, his whined baritone goes from tearful longing to celebratory, evoking heartache and pain with the same yearning commitment given joy and redemption.

At a wintry Mercury Lounge show, Malin offered sentimental thoughts between each well-received tune. He recalled the thrill of achieving a lifelong dream opening for Kiss at Madison Square Garden being quashed by the masked marvels cruelty towards D Generation and the post-gig arrest for public alcohol consumption. He dedicated an acoustic turnabout to dead idol Joe Strummer and the as-yet-unrecorded “Arrested” to kiddie porn-charged Who legend Pete Townshend before petitioning war-bent Republicans with the timely Nick Lowe-composed Elvis Costello smash “What’s So Funny (‘Bout Peace, Love and Understanding)” for a blazing encore. Joined by veteran keyboardist Joe Mc Ginty, bassist Johnny Pisano, drummer Paul Garisto, and guitarist Johnny Rocket, Malin captivated the spirit and essence of his Adams-produced solo chestnut.

In the early ‘90s, D Generation was at the helm of the downtown St. Mark’s punk scene. I remember getting toasted with you guys at defunct club, Coney Island High.

JESSE: Scenes are great, but they only last a certain amount of time. People burn out, bands expand. You gotta get out of your little town. Every night was an unwritten party. Who knew what would happen or where we’d go. Are we gonna break these bottles and knock this bar over. It was decadent good fun. I missed the ‘70s pre-AIDS Max’s Kansas City and CBGB’s scene. D Gen wanted to relive what we missed as kids. We were exciting, scheduling drinking at bars we’d drink for free at. We got signed. Things got wacky with EMI. We went around the country, came back, there was a bidding war, and we went with Sony. It was like going to college with friends. I toured with people I grew up with and went to Europe. I knew the D Generation guys since I was 12.

But it was time to change. Musically, the last two D Generation albums had a Neil Young cover (“Don’t Be Denied”) and an acoustic song. Danny, the guitarist, and I, would sit on the bus listening to Springsteen’s Nebraska, old Elton John, Johnny Cash, Tom Waits, Pogues, and Dylan. It’s about songs. I wanted to do something besides playing faster, louder for the mosh pit. It’s more about the lyrics and music. It’s still not singer-songwriter moustache-slippers-pipe stuff. It’s still coming from a rock place. I got into roots music through the Rolling Stones, Replacements, Dylan. I don’t have a Waylon Jennings album, but I’ve always been into songs and attitude. Good rock and roll makes you wanna quit school, run down the street with friends, fall in love, break up with someone – just react. Bands like the Clash did a lot of things while keeping it real.

So I did the solo thing and made demos for friends. One was Ryan Adams, a D Generation fan I met in Raleigh, North Carolina. He decided he wanted to produce the record and I didn’t have much money. We made it in five days instead of six. Once he didn’t show up because he had too many Nyquils or milkshakes the night before. (laughter)

What did Ryan add to the sound?

He comes from the South. I’m from the urban North. We don’t sound alike. Unless you’re Jimmy Page, it’s good to have a producer. It focuses you to be objectively. I’ve worked with Tony Visconti, Rick Neilsen, and Ric Ocasek. It helps to have an editor. Ryan added to the charm. He did it fast live in one big room like a ‘50s Sun Session or Ramones record. We’d do warm-ups and he’d say, “That’s it!” I’d say, “I was just warning up.” He’d say it had so much feeling. I was pissed he was taking first takes. He’d go play pool and I’d record another track and he’d go, “What’s track 11? Fuck you!” and erase it. Later, we put it on at neighborhood bar, Manitoba’s, and I thought we’d captured a snapshot of New York. Not just the sound of winter after 9-11 but being in the city in the cold.

Did these imagery-laden reflections come together piecemeal?

Sometimes I’m drunk in midtown old-man-bars and like a wallflower I listen to people talking and scribble things on napkins, matchboxes. I listen to people talk on great films and hear a phrase, adjective, cliché. It’ll stick with me. Some fit into stories. I distance myself from being too personal or exposed. “Almost Grown” is the first half of my life almost verbatim. I stole the title from Chuck Berry.

“Almost Grown” deals with youth-oriented problems but carries an upbeat tone.

I like that duality. Sam Cooke is one of my favorite singers. He’s able to convey happiness and sadness in the same note. So there’s festive music with a sad story. When I do that song acoustic live real slow it fits what the song is about better.

“Wendy” contrasts your defeated baritone whine against fast moving bass-throbbing urgency.

It’s a road song about someone who bailed out that had good taste in music, movies, and books and took off and we have no sense why. You wonder if they lost their mind or haven’t the guts to communicate. He’s like a fugitive running away from a relationship, friends, and maybe, himself.

You and your sister struggled growing up with a single mother who died of cancer. On Self-Destruction, you mention sprinkling her ashes in the water.

I could relate to sadness, abandonment, isolation, being an outsider – things rock and roll helps medicate and save you from blowing your head off. These songs are exorcisms and a release. People say it’s dark and sad, but I see hope. There’s some light at the end of that subway tunnel. You get a community through the music scene and find ways to survive. Thank God there’s an alternative way of living. Not alternative like great bands Pavement and Primus, but in ways you don’t have to be in a typical town at college with a job or car.

MAGNETIC FIELDS @ MAXWELLS

Live Reviews

Magnetic Fields/ Maxwells/ October 22, 1999

Touring to support highly regarded three-disc monument, 69 Love Songs, the Magnetic Fields’ nearly two-hour Maxwells set proved to be a true testament to the reasons why fans are so intensely devoted in their ardor for openly gay singer-songwriter-guitarist Stephin Merritt.

Singing broken down love trinkets in a deep baritone, an unkempt, casually dressed Merritt countered the sadness of most songs with sly wit and humor. His subtle confessions, shaded by thoughts of doubt, betrayal, and defiance, communicate love-stained affairs of the heart with chilling sentiments like “all the umbrellas in London couldn’t stop the rain.”

Oft-times lyrically sarcastic, Merritt’s sedate tearjerkers and cracked romantic visages conform to formal song structure, never resorting to extended solos or careless improvisations. At his most eccentric and oblique, comparisons could be made to the subdued chamber-pop of Tindersticks. When he’s sublime, some Velvet Underground affectations seep through. At times, he unloads brittle insecurities like a reclusive offspring of Jonathan Richman.

Hovering over the mike with either a cigarette or pinot grigio in hand, Merritt played the part of a confident cocktail lounge troubadour on several soft, spare reflections. Never overly sentimental or coy, he shared honest emotions through vivid imagery and wry observations. Cellist Sam Doval, percussionist Claudia Gonson, and guitarist/ banjoist/ mandolinist John Woo provided seemingly effortless support throughout.

Halfway through the set, the resilient quartet offered two British Isle-styled folk tunes: a hilarious, mandolin-accompanied beer drinking ditty sung ever so sweetly by Gonson, and a longing acoustic ballad. Sinewy bass resonated through the uplifting “L’ Amour,” which fully illuminated Merritt’s ability to see the sunny skies beyond the regret and desperation he so often evokes.

An enormous underground fan base has given the Magnetic Fields plenty of support. This night was no different. Many in the sold out crowd sang along softly, as they swayed slowly to the music in this smoke-filled back room club.

LUNA PERMEATES ‘THE DAYS OF OUR NIGHTS’

Interviews, ,

Image result for dean wareham

FOREWORD: I became friendly with Luna head, Dean Wareham, in ’99, interviewing him backstage at Irving Plaza prior to a persuasive set. I had spoken to the New York City transplant informally a few times in the past and gotten a few quotes from him for a Cover Magazine piece supporting ‘95s remarkable Penthouse.

Though 99s The Days Of Our Nights didn’t top Penthouse, its delicate slow-core features inspired ‘02s fine Romantica and ‘04s less worthy Rendezvous. In ’07, Wareham married Luna paramour, Britta Phillips (who’d joined the band in ’01). Though Luna broke up in ’04, Dean & Britta worked on film scores and completed soothing duo LP, Back Numbers, by ’07. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Ever since he guided dream-pop luminaries, Galaxie 500, to respectable underground status in the ‘80s, New York-via-New Zealand singer/ guitarist Dean Wareham has composed dramatic, psychedelia-induced dreamscapes. When he formed Luna, Wareham’s reflective imagery gained compelling introspect and lush textural grandeur, best demonstrated on ‘95s Penthouse (featuring guest guitarist Tom Verlaine and Stereolab vocalist Laetitia Sadier).

With The Days Of Our Nights’ balmy lucidity, Luna have perfected laconic late night chill music, unleashing a continuous stream of understated songs that flicker, then fade, into the abyss. “Dear Diary’s” shady surrealistic intrigue flows delicately into “Hello Little One” (which resembles Velvet Underground even more than the desolate Guns ‘N’ Roses cover of “Sweet Child Of Mine”). Soft-core delectables like the transient guitar-saturated bossa nova “U.S. Out Of My Pants!” and the billowy sedative “The Old Fashioned Way” recall the gently romantic excursions Arto Lindsay penned for Lust.

Along with Luna pals Sean Eden (guitar), ex-Chills member Justin Harwood (bass), and Lee Wall (drums), Wareham hangs out backstage at Irving Plaza while Atlanta’s Macha open up the evening. As I grab a Bass Ale from an icy crate, Wareham discusses Luna’s latest endeavor, The Days Of Our Nights, and shares thoughts about his influences and past recordings. Afterwards, Luna hit the stage and grabbed the attention of a highly supportive soldout crowd.

Trace Luna’s development since the ‘92 debut, Lunapark.

DEAN WAREHAM: We’re different now, but at no point did we make radical changes. We didn’t make a techno or dance record. For the first record, we weren’t even a band. We’d only played together a little while. We hit our stride with our third record, Penthouse. The next, Pup Tent, was a bit paranoid lyrically. It’s darker than the new one and was made under confusing conditions. I was taking too many sleeping pills because we were working until 4 in the morning. I was so wired. With a new drummer now, we’re a bit groovier.

How’d you initially get excited about music?

My older brother had Stooges, Lou Reed, and David Bowie records. When I came to New York in ‘77, I got into punk bands like Elvis Costello & the Attractions, the Clash, Talking Heads, Television, the Ramones. I loved some of the records my parents played. I like The Bee Gees Greatest Hits Volume 1, Sam Cooke, the Beatles. There’s a great record by Nina Simone, Here Comes the Sun, which purists don’t like because it wasn’t jazz or blues, but instead Dylan and Beatles pop songs. It’s hard to find.

Many of your songs seem Velvet Underground influenced.

I guess so. I don’t hear that as much as other people. Velvet Underground were noisy and dissonant while we’re mellower and poppier.

The Days Of Our Nights flows semi-thematically as a whole. Was that done consciously?

The way I write lyrics is by going through notes I’ve written for a year. Maybe there’s a theme. Living at night…regret…memories? I don’t know. We were gonna call it The Young And The Restless, but our lawyers said don’t do that. You can’t copyright a title, but you could trademark it. We didn’t want to infringe on the t.v. soap opera.

How would you compare your work in Galaxie 500 to Luna?

I spend more time on lyrics and singing. With Galaxy 500, it was one vocal take on everything. That was the way our producer, Kramer, worked. Next…next…finished. He was in a hurry to get done by 6 P.M. everyday. He had lots of stuff going on, his label and crazy stuff in his life. Galaxy 500 was m

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LUNA’S MAJESTIC ‘ROMANTICA’

Seeking relief from today’s hustle ‘n bustle and relationship uncertainties? Then skip transcendental meditation, quick-fix remedies, and self-help books to get comforted by the winsome majesty of Dean Wareham. After leading Velvet Underground-inspired Boston combo Galaxy 500 during the ‘80s, New Zealand-born New York transplant Wareham formed Luna with well respected indie pop denizens Justin Harwood (ex-Chills: bass) and Stanley Demeski (ex-Feelies: drums).

‘92s understated debut, Lunapark, set the tone for the future. Wareham’s coy lyrics and coil-y guitar affects fluttered above distinct rhythms, peaking with the dense post-punk intimacy of “Anesthesia.” Guitarist-keyboardist Sean Eden came aboard for ‘94s Bewitched, expanding Luna’s instrumental prowess and Velvet-y touch for catchy trinkets like the jittery “Heroin”-influenced 6-string jangle “Friendly Advice” and the loving “Pale Blue Eyes”-like affectation “Tiger Lily.”

By ‘95s critically recognized masterpiece, Penthouse, the dependable quartet reached pure nocturnal bliss with heavenly illuminations like the light-hearted “Moon Palace” and the gorgeous “23 Minutes In Brussels” (featuring Tom Verlaine’s eloquent 12-string on the former and his vibrant electric guitar on the latter).

While ‘97s oft-times rewarding Pup Tent couldn’t match its predecessors high regard, the penetrating title track slipped nicely into the subconscious ether. ‘99s slightly better The Days Of Our Nights, highlighted by the soul searching “Hello Little One” and the enthralling remembrance “Four Thousand Days,” lacked the thematic ambiance, gauzy lushness, and post-midnight moodscape of Penthouse.

Nevertheless, new drummer Lee Wall and since-departed bassist Justin Harwood (replaced by former Ben Lee associate/ sweet-voiced harmonizer Britta Phillips) provided subtler rhythmic accentuation better suited for the soft pop translucence ‘02s Romantica (Jetset Records) would achieve. Drifting through dreamy post-psychedelia (the lucid “Black Postcards”) and transient moodscapes (the soothingly addictive “Weird And Woozy” and the chimy “Swedishfish”), this finely detailed gem sets adrift on memory bliss. Although sticking out like a sore thumb, the propulsive “1995″ puts the pedal to the floor between the atmospheric, synth-droned “Mermaid Eyes” and the sentimental tranquility of “Rememories.”

 

During the three-year break between The Days Of Our Nights and Romanitica, Luna played a significant amount of local venues and recorded the finely detailed Live. A convincing retrospective featuring all the pre-Romantica effluvia listed above, it also contains a French version of Serge Gainsbourg’s lounge-core “Bonnie & Clyde” and a few more winners.

For Romantica, you once again use a new producer. This time, it’s ex-dB’s semi-legend Gene Holder.

DEAN WAREHAM: I was a fan of the dB’s and we shared musical tastes, which is not why we did this. Someone recommended his nice studio (Jolly Roger in Hoboken). It’s not fancy like one’s we’ve worked in at Manhattan. The decks and mikes are just as good – the main ingredients. But he doesn’t have cable t.v. But you work harder if you don’t have basketball on t.v.

What did Gene add?

Someone has to be there to tell you which takes are good. If you play five different guitar solos, someone pieces them together. He had ideas and different production tricks. Even deciding what microphone to use is important.

Since Bewitched, Luna has expanded its textural flow with more instrumentation. Organ, mellotron, vibes, and cello grace various songs.

The guy who mixed this album, Dave Fridmann, did a string arrangement – we can’t afford real strings – on “Black Champagne.” He does the whole arrangement.

The arrangements for each Luna album continue to get a tad more complex. On Romantica, “Love Dust” finds your creamy conversational lyrics enriched by fluid guitar strokes and a nifty “Sugar Shack” keyboard bridge.

There’s a lot of texture to those songs. They’re very layered. This is my favorite album since Penthouse. I liked the second half of Lunapark, but I haven’t listened to it in awhile. You could tell if the record is good if when you get up there to play live it’s easy to do. If it’s a struggle and they don’t lend themselves to playing live, they may not be good. Some people say about Penthouse that the songs all sound the same. That could be a good thing if you get the mood flowing. You could say of the Ramones first album that it all sounds the same.

“Black Postcards” reminded me of Steve Wynn’s paisley post-psychedelia with the Dream Syndicate.

I’ve met him a couple times. Does he still live in New York? Last time I saw him was a few months ago. We were called about potentially being in a Miller beer commercial. I don’t know if we would have done it ‘cause it seemed damn cheesy. We showed up to see what we had to do. I think they were looking for completely unknown bands.

Rolling Rock was gonna use Bob Pollard of Guided By Voices until they saw his live performance, which didn’t fit their image. But Bob told me Rolling Rock gives him the shits, so fuck ‘em.

(laughter) That’s great. Miller ran a campaign in the mid-‘80s with the Del Fuegos when I was living in Boston. I think it did a little harm to their credibility. People thought, “this is ridiculous.” But times have changed.

What’s with the “Swedishfish” reference?

I named the song after one of my favorite candies. It’s gummy. The orange ones are real good. There was a line in the song about Sweden anyway. There’s some glockenspiel on that.

“Black Champagne’s” strings reminded me of Lee Hazelwood’s Western-tinged arrangements. You had interviewed Lee for CMJ when we last spoke.

Only part of that ran for CMJ. The whole piece will be published in BB Gun. It’s a fanzine run by Bob Bert, formerly of Sonic Youth and Knoxville Girls.

How’s your acting career going after making out with Family Tie’s Justin Bateman in Highball?

I did a movie that’s not out yet, Piggies. It’s written and directed by the woman who did Buffalo 66. I play a junkie credit card thief.

You don’t seem the type.

But I know people like that.

-John Fortunato

LOW GAIN MINIONS ‘TRUST’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Could a northwest Mormon couple make substantial underground inroads by playing languidly mesmerizing minimalist mantras sung in whispered voices? The answer’s unequivocally yes. Though irked by the notion, Low takes the formative slowcore approach first made acceptable by Slint’s esteemed Spiderland and give it a deeper emotional resonance. ‘02s Trust continued on the soft-focus path initially unearthed for a few earlier successful endeavors. But ‘05s The Great Destroyer and ‘07s Drums And Guns (both produced by Mercury Rev/ Flaming Lips associate Dave Fridmann) opened the sound up a bit and blew open the doors for Low. I spoke to guitarist Alan Sparhawk in ’02 to promote Trust. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Hailing from icy Duluth, Minnesota, married parents’ Alan Sparhawk (guitar/ vocals) and Mimi Parker (vocals/ percussion), along with bassist Zak Sally, create soft-toned minimalist abstractions under the logical moniker, Low. Surrealistic post-mod chill out lynchpins inspired by Velvet Underground and descendent of slo-core pioneers Slint, Low debuted with ’94s dirgey I Could Live In Hope and truly hit stride by ‘95s impressive Long Division and ‘97s equally compelling The Curtain Hits The Cast.

By 2000’s more expansive Things We Lost In the Fire, they became the most consistent purveyors of mesmerizing neo-orchestral sublimity, seamlessly weaving transcendent harmonies through sustained 6-string ambiance and multi-textural serenity.

Strengthened by thicker arrangements and increased suspenseful grandeur, Low’s most irresistible batch of songs invigorate ‘02s Trust. The tender acoustic charm of “It’s In The Drugs” (featuring harmonies by Gerry Beckley of ‘70s soft rock icons America) and the sleigh bell jangle of “Snowstorm” approach a heightened state of nirvana. Before slowly evaporating into thin air, these intimate delicacies leave a bright afterglow not soon forgotten.

I spoke to Sparhawk over the phone about his latest endeavor.

I was impressed at how Low hushed the Knitting Factory crowd a few years back. It reminded me of the ’60s, when Dylan, Joan Baez, and other folkies received the undivided attention of their audience. Have you ever had to project over disinterested or disrespectful crowds?

Alan: When we first started doing shows, the audience would immediately be divided. Most people hated us, but there were always a few who “got” what we were doing. It was strange once we started headlining shows and people were so attentive. I’ve sensed something in the music that, given a chance, could transform an audience, but I figured we’d never see that happen. We still have shows every once in a while where the crowd isn’t cooperative. It doesn’t offend us as much as it’s frustrating knowing there are people who paid money to hear us and because of the noise, it’s maybe not as good of a show. It’s nice that people are quiet, but the minute we think we deserve it is a turn in the wrong direction.

Have your spellbinding, tranquil harmonies been affected by the mantra-like chanting or a capella singing at High Mass?

Mimi and I go to church. I suppose that may be some amount of influence. The slowness of the music makes the simple changes sound very large and mantra-like, but if you speed them up, they’re fairly indicative of hymns or even Country-folk harmonies.

Was Low influenced by the Cowboy Junkies’ Trinity Sessions. That was recorded in a church and had such a minimalist vibe.

They were stylistic influences on us when we first started. Joy Division, The Cure, and Velvet Underground were also influential. However, we were trying to create something new to go against the grain of what was prevalent in the early 90′s. Now we just want to make good music. The Church recording, Parallel, is not one I had thought of, but perhaps there is a certain mood that certain space inspires. The space we did this in was certainly an influence.

What artists are you currently listening to or affected by?

Without oversimplifying things, we listen to all kinds of stuff. Sometimes we don’t listen to anything. Every once in a while we’ll get hung up on certain records, but I can’t say as to whether they’re influences on our own music. I’ve been impressed with the latest Pedro the Lion, Wilco, and Gillian Welch records. Each Low album has more introspective, poignant lyrics and deeper emotionality.

Is it easier creating harmonies as husband-wife?

You have to realize, I’ve known her since I was 9 years old. As we’ve written songs over the years and done so many shows, we’ve slowly become more confident. Most artists are very bold when they’re young. As they age they become more toned down and “artistic”, but I think we’ve become more pointed and less adorned as we’ve aged. I thought after becoming a father, I would be stressed out about the world and the future. On the contrary, I’m not scared of anything. We’ve always treated each record as the last thing we’d do. I always think any day now nobody will want to hear what we’re doing. I think this approach has put a little desperation in everything we do.

 
How has famed producer Steve Albini influenced Low’s music?
Steve is not an arranger or producer. His very straightforward, fast-paced recording style has been great for us. He was always very supportive of anything we wanted to try. Working with him gave us a bit of an edge. “It was Albini. It had to rock!”

Has John Prine heard the song named after him? How does it relate to him?

I don’t think he knows about it, but I have a friend who is going to be tour managing him this fall. Maybe I’ll send a CD along for him. I need to get a copy to Gillian Welch, too. We sing about her on “Candy Girl.” I saw John Prine on t.v. one night and was impressed with his performance. Later that night, I wrote a few lines that ended up in the final song. I felt like his thing on t.v. was such an influence on the song that I named it after him. It’s my epitaph – and I don’t mean that in a morbid way. Even the “sha la la la la” part.

How’d The Gap find Low to do an ad based around “The Little Drummer Boy”?

Near as I can tell, someone who worked for the ad agency that pitched ideas to The Gap actually had the record in their personal collection and thought they’d give it a try. We were not “pitching” the CD to people. It was a strange surprise when we got the call. We’ve been around for nearly 10 years. At some point, the kids who were into us in college back in the 90′s are bound to get jobs where they wield a little power. You just wait – we’re going to rule the world any day now…

Give me the scoop on the Spring Heel Jack “Bomb scare” EP and the 7″ split with Vibracathedral Orchestra.

The “Bombscare” EP was basically Spring Heel Jack coming up with the music and Mimi and I coming up with the vocals. It’s more sample-based, sorta electronic music. It was fun. The Vibracathedral split is a song Calvin Johnson of Beat Happening/Pop Narcotic/K Records recorded several years ago. I feel bad it’s so short because the VCO song is long and great. We have done shows with them and we love ‘em.

-John Fortunato

 

LONGWAVE BREAKOUT ‘THE STRANGEST THINGS’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Longwave may never move beyond underground praise, but they compete favorably against fellow mood-rock ambassadors Radiohead, Coldplay, Flaming Lips, and Mercury Rev. Formed in ’99, Longwave’s self-released debut, Endsongs, and a string of dates at tiny New York club, Luna Lounge, provided early exposure. Signed to major label, RCA, they were put on tour with more popular label mates, the Strokes. ‘05s introspectively melodic, There’s A Fire, and ‘08s straight-ahead pop endeavor, Secrets Are Sinister, expanded their audience a bit. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

On their breakthrough major label debut, The Strangest Things, New York City-based Longwave lather emotionally penetrating lyrical concerns with luxuriant atmospheric moodscapes full of sonic angular guitar bluster, bell-toned melodies, and probing rhythms. Before touring Europe in 2002 as openers for audacious Aussie rockers, The Vines, this refreshing quartet developed their repertoire and built a firm reputation performing at small Manhattan clubs CBGB, Baggot Inn, and Sidewalk Café (with an accordionist). Singer-guitarist Steve Schlitz even did a solo acoustic set warming up for Elbow at the larger Bowery Ballroom once.

Originally from Rochester, Schlitz and soon-to-be Longwave drummer Mike James (formerly guitar and vocals) began local band Native Kin at age 14 and within a few years had opened shows for jam bands Moe and Screaming Cheetah Wheelies. When Schlitz moved to New York City in search of musicians, he met Queens-based bassist Dave Marchese through a bulletin board ad and then hooked up with Petuluma, California-bred guitarist Shannon Ferguson, who set up a recording studio for initial demos. Soon after, James moved from the rural confines of Rochester and came aboard.

Compare The Strangest Things to Longwave’s self-produced indie-released full-length set.

STEVE: We had a different drummer at the time. Shannon recorded it in our rehearsal space with an engineer. Midway through the recording, Shannon joined the band and we became more serious. Then, we did a 5-song EP and Jim Merlis became our manager and got us signed to RCA. My singing changed from the debut to the EP. There’s another jump in vocals because we’d been playing shows all the time and I had greater confidence.

I like how “Wake Me When It’s Over,” builds from minor chord dramatics to full-on dirge.

STEVE: We wrote that together in London in a rehearsal space. I went up to go to the bathroom. Then, I was talking to one of the guys in the Libertines to see if he had anything good to say, and halfway through our conversation I had to break it off because these guys (Mike and Dave) were playing a beautiful piece of music downstairs. I heard it through the floor. I thought, “who’s that?” Dave played this great bass line that’s like 8 minutes long. We were gonna close the new record with it.

Instead, the beautiful wordless lullaby “Day Sleeper” got to be the lucky closer.

STEVE: It’s an old one. At the eleventh hour it went on the album. The day we mastered the record is when we decided to put it on.

Despite its U2-ish angular guitars, “Everywhere You Turn” reminded me more of ‘80s symphonic new wave by Orchestral Maneuvers In the Dark or Simple Minds.

DAVE: I don’t think that really came into play. I grew up on (Long Island station) WLIR and listened to those bands, but I don’t look to them as influences. It’s more from modern rock like U2. “Wake Me” came together in ten minutes, but that one took about twenty.

“Pool Song” has a jangly resonation. Is that song about lessons learned from teenage indulgence?

STEVE: I wrote it as a joke and didn’t like the words. Ever hear “That’s Entertainment” by the Jam? So it’s got these two chords, A and F sharp minor. I thought it’d be great to have a song like that. So we were sitting next to a pool on tour and found our oasis in Phoenix, I think. We’d been driving all-day and night and decided to relax at this hotel pool. Mike asked me to play this guitar riff for him and I sang “when I was young.” It happened so fast. I came back to New York and finished the words but didn’t think it’d be any good. I liked the arrangement we came up with, but at the time I thought it was a rip-off.

There’s a naive innocence running through the album. “Tidal Wave” seems to be about surviving a damaged relationship and persevering.

STEVE: That’s another one I wrote that I didn’t think was any good. We put it on a 4-track tape and listened over and over and finally I came around.

“The Ghosts Around You” nicely layers sonic guitar sustenance above a pretty bell-toned riff.

STEVE: I thought it was a little like the Cure even though they don’t do that kind of guitar stuff. But it’s really dark in feeling.

How did Dave Fridmann’s production affect the new album?

STEVE: He wanted to work with us because he thought we had a proclivity for textural sounds. He thought we wrote songs he liked and we were interested in adding wacky sounds. To his credit, he left some songs alone because he thought they were great the way they were. But he made us change the endings to some songs.

DAVE: He added various accents, stressed release, and had good song sense. He helped us with the details of some drum and bass parts and tried to cut it completely live. A lot was first takes and no overdubs.

STEVE: I’d tell him I want to go back and re-do guitar and get it better. He’d play back the first take and say, “you’re not gonna do this better. It’s great the way it is.”

DAVE: I’d want to play things over because it was sloppy, but he thought it was great. “It’s how you play. It’s cool,” he’d say.

I think Longwave’s subtle rhythm textures are closer to artful Pink Floyd than modern rock-driven bands.

DAVE: I like that comparison. It becomes difficult sometimes to figure out what you’re doing because the guitars are really textural and very big on top of that. But it’s that ‘less is more’ philosophy.

Is there a broken thematic flow, perhaps concerning lost love, surrounding The Strangest Things?

STEVE: We thought about the sequencing a lot. I liked when there was even more of a thematic line but it wasn’t as good musically from start to finish so it was changed.

DAVE: (kidding) I thought our next album should be a rock opera of the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup.

-

John Fortunato

JACK LOGAN’S HERE TO ‘BUZZ ME IN’

Interviews

FOREWORD: A reputable motor repairman, Jack Logan moonlighted as a local Athens musician, composing scrappy originals from 1979 to 1996. When Logan’s massive lo-fi DIY collection, Bulk, caught the attention of now-deceased Billboard scribe, Timothy White, indie rockers lined up to check it out. Soon after, I attended the tail end of a’96 CBGB performance.

In ’99, Logan made time for me, pre-gig, to answer some questions about his latest project, Buzz Me In. Upon meeting the entrepreneurial Georgian, I was struck by his down-to-earth nature and sharp sense of humor. He has recorded sporadically since then. ‘06s Orthodox Garage was credited to Third Creature, Logan’s latest creation.

This article originally appeared in Cover Magazine.

“In my opinion, there’s more good, well arranged music being made now than ever before,” confident singer/ songwriter/ cartoonist/ motor repairman Jack Logan shares as we lean against opposite sides of a mailbox outside Maxwells in Hoboken.

The chameleon-like Athens, Georgia native, whose expansive 42 track Bulk debut became a high water mark for mid-90s indie lo-fi amateurism, has just released the intimate, Exile On Main Street-inspired Buzz Me In for Capricorn Records (produced by legendary Clash manager/ Jazz enthusiast Kosmo Vinyl).

Two years after Merge Records balked at its initial delivery, ’99s Buzz Me In effectively trades Logan’s raw, one-take earthiness for newfound dramatic grandeur (the orchestral “Hit Or Miss”), seductive County & Western poignancy (“Melancholy Girl,” “Anytime,” “Pearl Of Them All”) and swaggering soulfulness (the brassy “All Grown Up”). The explosive “Weren’t Gone Long” breaks the tension, giving fans the power chord rocker they’ve come to expect.

Along with band member/ entrepreneurial partner Kelly Keneipp, Logan runs local label Backburner Records, which concurrently issued his honky tonk-induced eleven-song sidewinder Tinker (with the Compulsive Recorders in tow) and the powerful folk-rooted melodic pop debut by the Possibilities.

Never one to stay dormant, Logan has been doing several tour dates with Scrawl.

“As we were loading out of the Knitting Factory last night, I watched this incredibly wack Jazz band at the downstairs stage with only three other people. New York’s so big and there’s so many shows to go see. But those guys were great,” Logan admits.

Buzz Me In relies more on somber first-hand accounts than any of your previous releases.

JACK LOGAN: A huge influence on it was Cosmo Vinyl. He leaned towards personal, atmospheric material. Left to my own devices, I’d have more raucous rock stuff. He has broad tastes and loves jazz and soul. Our common ground was we were both big Solomon Burke and Rolling Stones fans.

Will you disappoint hardcore fans because you’ve temporarily abandoned the off-the-cuff lo-fi approach of Bulk?

Yes. But at the same time, I released Tinker on the internet through Backburner Records. We’re pedaling that. It’s closer to Mood Elevator but has more offbeat, weird stuff. I prefer the crude method of guitars and amps since I can’t afford more gear. Me and Kelly put Tinker together as a small scale project. A lot of labels would have told us to hold off on the internet thing since they’re recording us, but Capricorn didn’t bother us.

You remain quite proficient. How do you decide which songs go on which album?

On Buzz Me In, Cosmo had more of a vision than I did. It was the first time I recorded in a real studio. He paid excruciating attention to tuning and pitch.

He gets you to sing in a deep, stately voice. On “The Possibilities,” you show off a jazzy lounge-pop tone closer to Anthony Newley or Scott Walker.

Cool. Cosmo was attracted to that side of it. He called me Mr. Soft and Smooth. Some people prefer that side of me since I’m not a great soul shouter. I worked within my limitations. Bulk had some songs in that vein and he wanted to make a more sophisticated record. Some fans complained this album isn’t as direct. But I’m stupid enough to think I could do loud rock, shambling country, and introspective songs. I owe it to myself to record in a serious, professional manner.

Commercial radio offers no support for many significant rock and hip-hop artists. Is there a way to circumvent that frustration?

Radio is the best way to get exposure. I don’t know who comes up with their formats. Back in the days, you didn’t have conservative shareholders to please. Dylan got signed because John Hammond thought he was good. AM stations used to mix British Invasion records with novelties and soul music. They didn’t worry if it didn’t fit together seamlessly for everyone to swallow. Major labels are not in that position anymore. They’re scared. So they throw ten bands against the wall to see which one sticks and has a hit. Costs are covered and they drop the other nine bands. But I’m resigned to the fact I won’t get much airplay. You deal with it and go forward. There’s better songwriters than me, like Mark Eitzel, who stands less of a chance than I do. He’s without a label. Tom Waits put out his latest album on Epitaph because his former label lost interest.

Most worthwhile music has been hidden underground since the Ramones defined the ‘70s. Friends I used to hang out with in my twenties became lame in the ‘90s, leaving behind their music interests when Stevie Ray Vaughan died in that plane crash.

Right. They’re listening to the Allman Brothers and whatever they liked when they were 18. Some people get smacked in the face by reality and use that as an excuse to become boring. I’ve retained my youthfulness by having a blast with my band. They’re the funniest bunch of motherfuckers.

I’ve enjoyed your masterful cartoon script for the Coolies best album, Doug, and the colorful illustrations you’ve done for the children’s album, Not Dogs, Too Simple (A Tale of Two Kitties). When did you develop an interest in that artistic mode?

 

I’ve been doing cartoons for years. I’m probably as good a draftsman as I was at 16 but I’m more comfortable – use what you’ve got and don’t let fears keep you from trying. It makes it easier to extend adolescence while you become more responsible.