All posts by John Fortunato

MONSTER MAGNET LEADER TAKES VEGAS ‘POWERTRIP’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I first saw jolting Jersey jammers, Monster Magnet, play live at Irving Plaza in the mid-‘90s. I was amazed by the flexible gumby-like bodily contortions singer-writer Dave Wyndorf could manage while still spitting out venom inside metal-edged arena rock tunes.

After some ’89 demos and a cheap Glitterhouse Records EP, these evil space rockin’ metal-plated combatants made ‘92s undeniable stoner rock doctrine, Spine Of God. But in all honesty, it wasn’t until ‘93s Superjudge that I became aware of Monster Magnet. ’95s Dopes To Infinity made me a fan for life.

So when it came time for me to interview Wyndorf at a discreet Manhattan pub to discuss his bands’ latest endeavor, Powertrip, I was stoked. While he smoked cigs and I plowed beer, I listened and marveled at his boho idealism and then sent the following article to a topnotch girlie mag.

After Powertrip, Monster Magnet’s ’01 LP, God Says No, kicked harder ass than ‘04s better-titled Monolithic Baby! In ’06, Wyndorf overdosed on prescription drugs but came back to the fold for ‘07s 4-Way Diablo. In ’04, guitarist Ed Mundell’s side project, Atomic Bitchwax, found favor with High Times stoners at midtown Manhattan-based Doobie Awards. This article originally appeared in Gallery Magazine.

 

During a Las Vegas jaunt, Monster Magnet singer Dave Wyndorf spent two weeks leering at strippers, observing gamblers, and writing (from the confines of his hotel room) the 13 muscular, full-throttled tracks served up on Powertrip – the bands’ fourth album.

Like a nomadic warrior trapped inside a hard rock war zone, Wyndorf taps into the unbridled sexual energy sapped from the soul of rock and roll.

“The rappers do what they want in Vegas. They get the chicks, the money, and the guns. I loved watching them. They were like a bizarre dream. They own rock and roll,” Wyndorf admits. “But the rockers have given the press very little to write about besides Marilyn Manson. Much of what’s picked up by national radio stations is disposable, artificial and slick. It’s all just manufactured energy.”

Since the late ‘80s, rock radio has saturated the market with overblown heavy metal practitioners (is that a dirty word?) such as Posion, Motley Crue, Winger, Ratt, and glam-rokers Bullet Boys (including a legion of watered-down, forgettable, no-talent hair bands). It has been an uphill battle revitalizing the once thriving scene. When Nirvana hit the big time, grunge infatuated the impressionable teens that were once proud fist-waving metal heads.

Unscathed by such trends, Monster Magnet sough to incorporate psychedelia, punk, and a dash of sitar into its adventurous and ambitious metal-edged sound.

Wyndorf, who grew up 45minutes outside Manhattan in Red Bank, New Jersey, joined the punk-metal band, Shrapnel, before forming Monster Magnet and releasing several singles and EP’s during the late ‘80s. Monster Magnet exploded on the national scene with ’93 stoner nightmare, Superjudge, a grueling Mountain/ Black Sabbath-derived long-player with power (and weed) to burn. ‘95s more assured Dopes To Infinity found the group on the brink of worldwide success. But as they found out – achieving mass acclaim in the ‘United States of who gives a shit’ (a line taken from Powertrip’s cock tease “3rd Eye Landslide”) becomes a Catch 22 experience.

“Radio is afraid to lose sponsors and advertisers,” says Wyndorf. “MTV has already bowed down to Tipper Gore’s PMRC, an organization that manipulated the media. Now rock and roll rebels take it up the ass. The first sign of rock and roll losing its cultural power was when punk rockers started to clash with rockers (in the late ‘70s). That’s when rock fragmented and lead to further niche marketing. Most kids who are now in their twenties have no sex and take no drugs, but they’ll explode when they reach forty.”

He insists, “Miscommunication gives these kids an excuse to swerve off and internalize, avoiding real life and surrendering to asshole propaganda. When they gravitate towards conservatism, they’re admitting they’re afraid of life.”

Although Dopes To Infinity’s visceral slammin’ anthem, “Negasonic Teenage Warhead” was a radio hit in ’95, Wyndorf realized the drawbacks that conservative commercial radio programmers and multinational music conglomerates imposed on their multilevel exposure. Like most big corporations, they’d rather play it safe and appeal to an already dulled-out audience.

Still, Wyndorf seems fully capable of challenging the opposition by reclaiming rock and roll’s lost territory thanks to Powertrip’s defiant songs. An astonishing accomplishment and a fine sonic successor to Tool’s convulsive Aenima, its dramatic metal-blazed epics unleash frustration and anxiety with unbridled intensity. He insults emasculated politically correct slime with the snide declaration: ‘So won’t you put my dick in plastic and put my brain in a jar’ (taken from “Atomic Clock,” a corrosive knockoff of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs”).

But he’s also not afraid to admit having to overcome his own shortcomings. The searing guitar freak-out, “Tractor,” refers to self-imposed pill rehab (‘I got a knife in my back and a hole in my arm when I’m driving my tractor on the drug farm’).

Voyeuristic fascinations also dominate the stampeding “Bummer,” a raunchy pre-metal spasm ridiculing vulnerable, narrow-minded Confederate Southern belles with scathingly sordid lines like ‘You’re looking for the one who fucked your mom…It’s not me.’

“While touring the deep South in ’96, I became aware of how the local girls were looking for someone like their father. It’s a bummer. They go after the image and feel guilty afterwards if they give in to sex. It comes down to taking emotional responsibility,” he explains.

The mescaline-fazed “See You In Hell” recalls the psychedelic daze of the conceptually naïve LSD-laced mind-trip “Incense And Peppermints” by Strawberry Alarm Clock (or quite possibly, Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gada-Da-Vida”). Its lyrics deal with downsizing preconceived notions of peace generation hippies of yore.

“On a bus ride, a hippie broke into this story about how his wife unintentionally had a baby, freaked out, and buried it in a Jersey swamp. It’s a total ‘60s horror tale. Hippies I met in the past were always confrontational and self-centered. They’d sell their girlfriends for speed,” Wyndorg explains.

Although he admits working in the studio on a new record is never a comfortable experience, instead calling it “controlled disaster,” Wyndorf does insist there is a method to his madness.

“First, I make four-track tapes with guitar, bass, vocals, and drum machine. Then, I bring them to the band (Ed Mundell, lead guitar; Joe Calandra, bass; Jon Kleiman, drums, Tim Cronin, visuals and propaganda) and have them critique the songs and possibly rearrange things. I like to start with a slow groove, then let it build to a fucking explosion. I usually abandon the songs at some point. Otherwise, I’d be refining them forever.”

While in Vegas, Wyndorf saw a rainbow of humanity. He’d see shiny happy people come in for the first time – psyched up and ready to gamble – only to be drained of all their money.

“That place is brutal. You’d see people come in one day, and by the next, they’d be getting dragged out, all washed up. But there was also a lot of honest emotional psychoanalyzing going on in my head. It made me realize that the best thing about Monster Magnet is that it’s all about rock. If I didn’t get to jump around onstage every few months, I’d be in an insane asylum.”

After the bands’ worldwide touring, Wyndorf sought seclusion away from the other Monster Magnet members and the wintry northeast. He headed for the heat and settle in the blazing Vegas desert in ’97.

“Las Vegas is the ultimate symbol of all the shit I was worried about concerning Monster Magnet’s place in the entertainment world, like maintaining a cool lifestyle. It’s where money, advertising, and imaging get scaled to the success of Titanic and Jurrasic Park. Monster Magnet was initially designed to appeal to just a few people, but now it is millions,” he says while lighting a cigarette.

“On Powertrip, I reacted on a gut level. Instead of trying to mastermind a record for the lowest common denominator – which would have neutered half the cool ideas – I tried to avoid mental breakdown by putting myself on a writing schedule. The more records I do, the closer I come to distilling a potent diary of my life experiences. I can’t fantasize, so I write what’s inside of me. I wanted to make Powertrip a very physical record that operated from the groin first, unlike Dopes, which was very cerebral. It has more action, tension, and spontaneity, not a lot of dreaming.”

As the sixth of eight children, Wyndorf admits he struggled to overcome a teenage identity crisis before becoming the virile entertainer his avid fans adore. He went through a weird gestation period, failing miserably when it came to picking up hot-to-trot chicks.

“But my love of music had a healthy, hypnotizing effect. I’d lock myself in a room with a bag of pot and listen to every obscure rock album like a total mutant,” he recalls, adding that the single most powerful force is when nature commands you to stare at girls’ asses.

“In Vegas, I’d go to strip clubs for the awesome temptation. As frustrated as I’d get, the more intrigued I’d become. And since I was raised Catholic, it teaches you how to become a dirty bastard. You have to overcome the guilt. It’s hard to put your trust in manmade organized religion.”

Now that grunge has died down and electronica has failed to take America by storm (as many had thought it would) maybe good old straight-up rock ‘n roll bands will become all the rage again. Who knows? Maybe leather jackets, biker boots, and long hair will replace nose rings, buzz cuts, and sneakers. If so, look for Monster Magnet at the top of the heavy metal heap.

 

VICTORIA WILLIAMS @ THE BOTTOM LINE

Live Reviews

Victoria Williams / The Bottom Line / February 5, 1999

Dressed hippie-chick casual for this special Bottom Line industry showcase, fragile-voiced pianist-guitarist-banjoist Victoria Williams assembled an adaptable Classical-folk ensemble (with a vibraphonist to boot) to complement her sweet childlike sentiments and sublime imagery.

Williams’ idiosyncratic singing caresses choice covers and several serene gems off her recently released Musings Of A Creekdipper. Although outwardly appearing ditzy and naïve, she assuredly orchestrated the on-off band through affectionate and earthy compositions without losing composure over such an ambitious undertaking.

Despite the informal presentation and some of the instrumentalists’ lack of preparation, each member seemed totally ‘in synch’ with Williams’ oeuvre. For posterity, thankfully, the show was videotaped in its entirety.

Perched at the pinao, she led off with the heartfelt “periwinkle Sky,” then switched to acoustic guitar to succinctly deliver the compelling ballad, “Kashmir’s Corn.” She entrusted the expansive arrangement of the rustic “Train Song” and the mellow “Nature Boy” (written by deceased eccentric lounge Jazz vagabond Eden Ahbez) to the very competent troupe and came out a winner.

“Hummingbird” adventurously crossed acoustic bluegrass picking with Classical violin, as gentle harmonica and atmospheric flute filled the softer spots splendidly.

Throughout, Williams combined genuine warmth with angelic innocence, bearing her soul while retaining a sincere ‘aw shucks’ giddiness. Between songs, her whimsical wit and playful teasing (with band and audience) comforted everybody. She left us with a spare piano-accompanied version of Louis Armstrong’s uplifting “What A Wonderful World.”

Though Williams’ delicately fractured high-pitched singing could be an acquired taste, she easily won over the audience with earnest, good-natured charm, sharing homespun stories ‘bout relatives, friends, and acquaintances. In a world full of underachieving complainers and slack loiterers, and despite being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (currently in remission), Williams’ endearingly and courageously follow her muse, living a peaceful life in the California desert with her husband, ex-Jayhawks leader, Mark Olsen.

ICONIC ROCK PHOTOG MICK ROCK GETS HIS DUE

Journalist,

FOREWORD: I met peerless glam-punk photographer, Mick Rock, at a downtown Manhattan studio on a rainy night in 1998. Afterwards, I gave him an herb-induced ride uptown. He was a sweet guy who made a living shooting pix of famous glam-rock and punk idols – not knowing at the time these artists would be the cultural centerpieces they became. Though he nearly died from two decades of cocaine abuse, Rock’s still with us. This article originally appeared in Smug Magazine.

British photographer Mick Rock helped expand ‘70s counterculture through instinct and intuition. After studying revolutionary French literate at college, he worked for enigmatic designers Hipgnosis (whose cover art for Pink Floyd, Genesis, Led Zeppelin, etc. is legendary) before becoming a full-time photographer. As his career progressed, subjects such as David Bowie, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, and Talking Heads found a place in front of his lens.

Rock emerged from the sexual and chemical indulgences of the ‘70s with a long list of accolades, including four Grammy nominations and numerous gallery exhibits. His erotic works have even been published in Penthouse. To truly understand the breadth of Rock’s work, log on to mickrock.com or peruse greatmodernpictures.com. His book, Mick Rock: A Photographic Record 1969 – 1980 is also recommended.

 

 

One of the first people you photographed was Syd Barrett. What was he like?

MICK: Syd was an eclectic individual. I remember the first time I saw Pink Floyd in ’66 at the Cambridge Art College party. There was no particular reference for what I heard that night. It didn’t come from Rhythm & Blues or Country & Western. You couldn’t pin it to European avant-garde. They were definitely unprecedented. I suppose that’s why Syd retains his legendary status as a flawed, fucked up, burnt-out genius. There’s the beauty of the fact he’s still alive. (Editors note: Barrett died in ’07) He might just as well have died in 1970. I interviewed Syd for Rolling Stone in ’71, but he hasn’t done another one since. His phrasing influenced David Bowie. I remember swapping stories of Syd with David so he’d exchange stories of Lou Reed and Iggy Pop.

Your photographs for album covers and magazine articles introduced an entire generation to the glam-rock scene.

MICK: That was in the late hippie period. There was a different mentality. It wasn’t about ambition. There weren’t many magazines or retro documentaries. You couldn’t sell a print at an art gallery. There was no great design. I was looking for the edge, not fame and money. Lou Reed wasn’t well known back then. Bowie and Iggy were obscure and Queen hadn’t had a hit when I shot their LP cover. Syd acquired a reputation because Pink Floyd became the preeminent English psychedelic band along with Soft Machine. When I first met David, it was the start of his Ziggy Stardust period. If I showed the earliest Ziggy pictures, you’d see how unsophisticated they were. He had done the Greta Garbo thing prior, with Hunky Dory.

Any crazy Bowie adventures you’d like to share?

MICK: These kids were like animals in Liverpool and dragged him offstage. He came down with legs in the air and head on the floor and laid there for a couple minutes. That was a trip. He got up, shook his head, and said, ‘That’s the luck of the draw.’ Bowie was the synthesizer who absorbed lots of influences. Igyy, Lou, and Mott The Hoople were going nowhere until David gained attention. By ’73, it was another story. David built his own mystique. There was a buzz about him in England, but it took a couple US tours with his androgynous look. Truckers would call you a poof or sissy. The feminine thing was in the air and mutated out of the hippie period and caught the imagination of the ladies. We’d get frequent sex with girls because of that and it coincided with the ‘coming out’ of the gay community.

What kind of influence did drugs have on Iggy & the Stooges?

MICK: It took them off into a million directions. Drugs, when you’re young and experimental, can have creative values. Of course, there are limitations. I never witnessed Iggy cutting himself onstage or throwing up. I saw him throw himself into the audience to get mauled by sticky young men. He had a dislodged personality. It took three near-death experiences for him to want to live.

Were you affected by the drug culture of the ‘70s?

MICK: In the beginning, it was LSD. The first pictures I took were on an acid trip with a young lady. I was hanging with rockers as a pothead college student. Back then you could get seriously busted for a joint. There was a direct link between sex and drugs – especially for those who mainlined. When I was in college, I let someone shoot me up on two occasions. I could have died. I threw up everywhere. A couple times I inadvertently snorted or smoked it. It’s different today. Media has expanded and AIDS scared everyone.

One of your most stark photographs graces Lou Reed’s The Blue Mask.

MICK: That came out of the Transformer period and was used eight years later. Lou’s a very nice person. He’s a bit paranoid about talking of kinky sex and drugs. That’s another time in his life. He’s very suspicious of journalists. But when I had bypass surgery, the first flowers I got were from Lou.

Why’d you have bypass surgery? Natural causes. (laughter)

MICK: I doubt that! I’m sure the cocaine I did and the cigarettes I smoked affected me. For 21 years, I was a serious cocaine addict. The good thing was I remained creative. The downside was it made me completely balmy when it came down to business.

In the mid-‘70s, you began shooting punk rockers when they became the new underground rage.

MICK: I saw the Sex Pistols first ever show at Chelsea Art College. Johnny Rotten insulted the audience. He was funny. But at the time, I thought, ‘What the fuck is this?’ They couldn’t play their instruments. While the Ramones moved the music forward, the Pistols moved the culture. I always thought Johnny Rotten was Ziggy. He had the same red hair.

What were the Ramones like?

MICK: I remember sitting with Dee Dee Ramone when he was complaining that he wrote “Chinese Rock” instead of Johnny Thunder. They spent time doing heroin together so who knows. Once I saw Patti Smith getting in trouble with bouncers at a Ramones show for shouting and throwing up. She was a wild one…

ELLIOTT SMITH’S SAD DEPRESSIVES CONQUER UNIVERSE

Interviews

FOREWORD: Tragic singer-songwriter Elliott Smith began his fruitful musical in Portland, Oregon’s locally popular Heatmiser, a grunge-affected alt-rock band he left to start an aboveground solo career. Singing in a softly whispered drone, his literate transcendental folk-based self-examinations found a larger audience when several tracks were prominently used in Hollywood films Good Will Hunting and The Royal Tannenbaums.

Living in L.A., Smith continued to suffer from depression and had to deal with an ongoing heroin problem. He became quite a reclusive by the time ‘97s melancholy masterwork, Either/Or, gained popularity, and its ’98 baroque pop follow-up, XO, solidified his growing fan base.

However, while taking a train to Manhattan in order to convince Avalon Publications to give me a book deal, I had heard the grieved troubadour committed suicide. Found dead in his apartment from stab wounds, Smith’s ardent admirers wondered ‘til now if foul play was involved. Fab indie label, Anti Records, put out his final disc, From A Basement On The Hill, in 2004. This article originally appeared in HITS magazine.

 

Gloomy composer Elliott Smith’s fourth solo album, XO, should quickly put him on the verge of mass acceptance. Initially a major underground buzz started building in ’97 when Smith’s Either/Or received critical acclaim, and the plaintive, “Misery,” featured on Hollywood smash, Good Will Hunting, was nominated for an Oscar Award.

On XO, Smith continues to build a more dynamic sound, taking advantage of multi-layered instrumentation, wonderfully embellished harmonies, and sweeping melodies. Great lyrical depth, provocative imagery, and impressionistic subtleties flow through the droll baritone’s unerringly infectious songs.

“Sweet Adeline” slips comfortable from a folk-acoustic opening to a crescendo-heightened chorus. Piano-based “Waltz #2 (XO)” builds a mysterious aura as Smith’s gurgled processed vocals recall the Beatles’ experimental “Flying.” Maintaining a shady pleasantness throughout, XO hits its fertile peak with wispy “Bottle Up And Explode” and shimmering sparkler, “A Question Mark.”

A sensitive, low key singer-songwriter, Smith may open the mainstream floodgates for underrated male acoustic artists such as Ron Sexsmith, Freedy Johnston, David Poe, Bill Callahan (Smog), and Anders Parker (Varnaline). I spoke to him about his latest masterpiece one hot summer day in ’98.

Wasn’t the new album, XO, originally titled Grand Mal?

ELLIOTT: I wanted to call it XO at first, but I thought it was too close to the name of my last album, Either/Or. But it turned out Grand Mal was the name of a band and there was going to be a problem. So I changed it back to XO. It’s just what people write at the end of letters after they sign their name.

Actually, many of your songs could be described as plaintive dispatches. What differentiated these songs from Either/Or’s batch?

ELLIOTT: I played more instruments on XO because there were more around in the studio. Other than that, I don’t know how these songs differ from the others. I’m glad they are stylistically different. As long as I don’t make the same record twice, I don’t think about it much.

What unique quality did producers Rob Schnapf and Tom Rothrock add to your songs?

ELLIOTT: They’re really good at helping me filter out the stuff that isn’t adding something to the song, but rather, is sitting around on top of it. I usually do a good job at that myself, but they helped refine songs.

Do you need to be spurned by love to write about heartache and misery?

ELLIOTT: No. Not at all. I’m not coming from any particular emotion. Someone could live ten minutes and have plenty of material to write records for. There’s no subject more interesting to write about then another subject.

Have you gained more composure as a writer and performer over the last few years?

ELLIOTT: Maybe. Anything someone does a lot they’re bound to get more comfortable doing. But I don’t think about it in terms of getting better or worse. I just like to do it.

What will be the initial stress track from XO?

ELLIOTT: The song they’re gonna focus on is “Waltz #2 (XO). It’s the title track.

I thought that song sounded like long lost Beatlesque ‘70s solo artist Emitt Rhodes?

ELLIOTT: I hadn’t heard of Emitt Rhodes until a few weeks ago. We were trying to make it kind of Beatles White Album-ish. That was one of my favorite albums, along with Magical Mystery Tour.

Did you listen to a lot of radio as a kid? Did your parents turn you on to music?

ELLIOTT: I grew up listening to classic rock. I liked melodies, so as a kid I liked the Beatles. My folks listened to Country and Western since I grew up in Dallas, Texas. It was a lot of redneck stuff that nowadays I could like, but at that time I didn’t dig it at all. I wanted to listen to my Kiss records instead.

On “Baby Britain,” you mention Tommy James’ ‘60s pop smash, “Crimson & Clover,” and it sounded like you sampled the guitar part from the Beatles’ “Getting Better.”

ELLIOTT: That’s me playing that guitar part. And Rob Schnapf plays one of the other guitars. It’s one of those un-syncopated downbeat octave guitar parts that has a cool vibe people don’t usually do. The song is about someone who couldn’t get out of a depressing loop. And it’s long and repetitive, which makes it parallel to the way “Crimson & Clover” was.

Perhaps the most ambitious song is the mesmerizing opener, “Sweet Adeline.”

ELLIOTT: Most of its music is derived from a song I made up a long time ago when I was 17. The words are all different, but the chord progression is not. I wanted to do something with the song, but it never worked out until now.

Are there any songs you’ve given to other artists?

ELLIOTT: I gave away a song called “Figure You Out” to Mary Lou Lord. Actually, she figured it suited her. I was into easy accessible pop at the time and I thought it was a throwaway.

What type of literature do you enjoy reading?

ELLIOTT: Right now I’m reading Tolstoy’s Resurrection. People seem to think some of the old great writers are really heavy and difficult to read. That’s not true. I like a lot of Russian novelists. I’m not into the self-conscious modern books. The old books seem to be written by people who wrote because they loved to and not to impress their friends. They weren’t trying to be cool bohemian writers.

Do you have any funny Oscar Awards stories to relate?

ELLIOTT: Oh yeah. Everything that happened there was funny. It’s just a silly situation. It’s an awards show, you know?

POLVO / TRANS AM @ TRAMPS

Live Reviews

Polvo / Trans Am / Tramps / January 10, 1998

This enjoyable sold-out show placed prog-rock in a semi-thematic multigenerational metamorphosis. Tickets went fast as word spread that Chapel Hill, North Carolina’s Polvo may be playing their final New York date as a band. Even ex-Cop Shoot Cop Firewater leader Tod A, in search of a ticket, didn’t attempt to get inside the packed 23rsd Street club.

In support of the recent album, Shapes, Polvo started their enthralling, if sometimes problematic, set with a few skewed inside-out Blues riffs stylistically described in song as “Rock Post-Rock.” Throughout, a one-hour-plus gig, guitarists Dave Brylawski and Ashley Bowie struggled to keep their sporadic, nearly inconsequential vocals above the impressive instrumentation.

Perhaps one early epic-length eruption temporarily lost focus, but beyond that, Polvo gained composure with each distended piece. An inverted version of “Purple Haze” rampaged into The Who’s Tommy underture, “Sparks,” tempting a sinister Brylawski to comment ‘classic rock will be all over the radio in two years. I’m sure.’

On the implosive “Enemy Insects,” guitars surged while Steve Popson’s rattling bass shook the foundation, giving this evening its high watermark. For an encore, Polvo came full circle with a medley of commingled classic Led Zeppelin, Yes, and Jimi Hendrix riffs. Sure, everything didn’t go Polvo’s way, but they took chances and proved their appreciation for Baby Boomer album-oriented rock matched their assertive, gutsy approach to original post-Gen X progressions.

Exceptional DC trio, Trans Am, proved to be perfect openers, deconstructing rock-Jazz excursions that seemingly broke down the sophisticated, kaleidoscopic experimentations of Soft Machine and king Crimson. Multi-instrumentalists Nathan Means and Phil Manley curried wiry, syncopated electrodes from stacked keyboards, cranked out dual buzzsaw bass clusters, and scattered a few guitar textures atop web-like instrumental passages.

Climaxing in a shuttered noise-rock rumbler, Trans Am splashed resourceful feedback and syncopated rhythms into a tense convulsion. At the closing, guest Chapel Hill guitarist Grant Tennille came onstage with the boys to shake up a sly quasi-blues Zeppelin medley centered around “The Song Remains The Same.”

JON SPENCER BLUES EXPLOSION / DELTA 72 @ CBGB

Live Reviews

Jon Spencer Blues Explosion / Delta 72 / CBGB/ September 28, 1996

The line of fans stretched around the block to see jon Spencer Blues Explosion on this pleasant Sunday evening in New York. Those lucky enough to get inside had to fight their way through the pit area for close-up glimpses. One girl fought dehydration brought on by intense heat while others waited for the charitable two-hour Blues Explosion set to end in order to get to the downstairs bathrooms.

Perched above a two-foot platform fronting the main right speaker behind three lovely women, I sweat through Delta 72’s white soul confections anxiously awaiting the Blues Explosion. Guitarist-singer Jon Spencer thrilled the packed crowd with his friendly demeanor, playful kitsch, and assertive axe wielding. His lips pressed against the mike as he leaned back to sing crusty metallic blues-rockers, swampy rockabilly raveups, offbeat R & B, and countrified soul.

A dozen testosterone-fueled motherfuckers in front of the stage proved to be somewhat hazardous during slamming jams such as the scorching Skunk,” the hook-crazed “Bellbottoms,” and the Rufus Thomas shuffler “Chicken Dog.” But the bassless trio kept piling on dramatic intensity, pausing only to take a short break before an extended encore enveloped by “The Blues Explosion Theme.”

Second guitarist Russell Simins and drummer Judah Bauer never wavered, providing the GQ-looking Spencer with solid support throughout. Impressive! Fans should also check out their latest recording, Now I Got Worry.

Led by steely-eyed, acrobatic guitar slinger, Gregg Foreman, DC quartet Delta 72 ground out a tenacious soul-drenched groove with fine results. Foreman’s raw-throated assertions were colored by Sarah Stolfa’s persistent Farfisa beat, drummer Jason Kourkounis’ busy stick work, and Kim Thompson’s Replacements-ripped bass thump. By mixing ruptured instrumental frenzies with zombie-like meditations, Delta 72 did a wonderful job supporting Spencer’s headliners.

REEL BIG FISH / MR. T EXPERIENCE @ IRVING PLAZA

Interviews

Reel Big Fish / Mr. T Experience / Irving Plaza / March 3, 1996

 

Though they play different styles of loud, catchy West Coast pop, California’s Reel Big Fish and Mr. T Experience unified a highly energized, fully appreciative teen-dominated audience at Irving Plaza. While brassy seven-piece Reel Big Fish speed up Two Tone Brit ska and give it an assertive kick in the pants, bouncy ‘70s-flavored rockers Mr. T Experience unleash adrenaline-fueled, feisty pre-Green Day punk.

Several energetic fans went crowd surfing while others gleefully moshed non-stop, creating an intense buzz that further stimulated both bands.

To get the boys and girls juiced up, Reel Big Fish led off with the goofy Animal House-imbibed “Trendy,” throwing caution to the wind by cheekishly begging ‘please don’t hate me ‘cause I’m trendy’ and chanting the infectious catchphrase ‘everybody’s doin’ the fish, yeah yeah yeah.’ Their self-effacing humor and hilarious bohemian sloganeering dotted nearly every song.

Gleeful fans connected instantly with each little ditty, joining in on silly choruses and a few casual, curse-filled verses. Playfully mocking the so-called third wave ska scene and their own teen-reckoned insecurities, RBF offered a constant stream of exuberant adolescent laments to remedy schoolyard blues. And when they tossed out a new song, they had no problem getting a thumbs up from the crowd.

Rarely does a band get the complete audience eating out of its hand, but it became customary this fortuitous night, especially during the anthemic “Everything Sucks,’ and the daringly obvious “Sell Out.”

Perfect frat-boy fodder for misguided youths, RBF fully understood the plight of its followers. As silly pranksters, they never met a trend or heartbreaker they couldn’t sufficiently razz. They snubbed rapper “Snoop Dogg Baby” on an innocuous teaser and a former lover on the lesbian-licked “She Has A Girlfriend Now.”

Mr. T Experience delivered hard rock candy and bubblegum-chewed power pop that received a dense bass-thickened tone at this spacious venue. Guitarist-vocalist Dr. Frank struck crooked knee poses and jumped up and down while his cheesy harmony-doused two-minute tune shimmied forward. Strangely, after asking the crowd if they wanted to hear a ska song, Dr. Frank broke into the Lurkers’ punk classic, “Sonic Reducer.”

Taking the best elements of ‘60s/ ‘70s AM radio smashes (a cool cover of Elton John’s obnoxiously sassy “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” and the ultra-catchy original “Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba”) and sharp-witted Bay area punk, MTX proved they could still get excited over simple pleasures.

ELLIOTT SMITH @ IRVING PLAZA

Live Reviews

Elliott Smith / Irving Plaza / May 18, 2000

 

Experiencing Elliott Smith live with an electric band is very different than watching him perform solo acoustic or hearing his early 8-track recordings. Though the difference isn’t as dramatic as night and day, the polarities are worth investigating. Gone are most of the Beatlesque harmonies and gently melodic vocal inflections saturating the marvelous trio of albums, Either/Or, X/L, and the brand new, Figure 8, that provided the judicious material for this sold-out Irving Plaza date.

In a solo setting, Smith’s tangled-up-in-blue lyrics are more emotionally riveting, digging deeper into affairs of the heart, while offering medication for the soul. Although his innate sense of melodramatic brooding is all but lost in an electric environment, each original song was sparked by harder rock-edged (instead of pop) arrangements this warm spring evening.

Instead of getting mired in gloomy solitude, desperation, and alienation, the mood was melodically upbeat and the textural embellishments more varied.

Asking for no quarter, and wasting nary a second for between-song patter, Smith rushed through the one-hour set without interruption. Perhaps he was trying to squeeze in as many songs as he could in the allotted time frame.

Smith plucked and strummed a large Rickenbacker throughout, layering heavy guitar resonation over his expressive baritone. The t-shirt clad tandem of keyboardist/ second guitarist Asaron Embry, drummer Scott McPherson, and bassist Sam Coomes (from the band Quasi) elevated the urgency of every three-minute number.

No one in the crowd seemed to mind the fact that Smith’s folksy confessional intimacy was forfeited for a louder, more pungent approach to his songs. And after a resounding, well-deserved applause, Smith and company came back for a carefree two-song encore.

CORNERSHOP / THIEVERY CORP. @ IRVING PLAZA

Live Reviews

Cornershop / Thievery Corp. / Irving Plaza / November 19, 1997

Offering a wonderful evening of multinational, multiethnic musical escapism at the spacious Irving Plaza were Britains’ Cornershop and Washington DC’s Thievery Corp. Startlingly original and uncompromising, Cornershop’s cut-and-paste material kept up a positive vibe that completely captivated fans.

Playing only tracks from the superb recent release, When I was Born For The Seventh Time, Cornershop delivered each little melodic caper in a slightly simmered down,less mystical way, sacrificing the swirly veneer and flowery effervescence of the stuio versions for refined, slightly more folk-rooted interpretations. Though singer-guitarist Tjinder Singh has a shy, unassuming persona, his brilliant blend of Punjabi folk, bhangra, and indie rock styles showed off his distinct musical awareness.

The comfy “Sleep On The Left Side” was delivered less obtusely then the recorded version. The soothingly and spiritually awakened, “Brimful Of Asha,” seeped into the night air like jasmine and the sitar-laced carnival, “Butter The Soul,” sputtered and splintered through its skewed hip-hop groove with ease. The Indian raga, “We’re In Yr Corner,” respectfully approximated the mood and feel of George Harrison’s Within You Without You.”

A bright pinwheel backdrop enhanced the extended Punjabi jam that closed this joyous set, leaving their adoring minions begging for more. Cornershop’s songs take on many shapes and colors, remaining truly original while staying totally en vogue with underground pundits.

Warming upthe Irving Plaza crowd (loaded with an unusual amount of publicity hounds), hip-hop/ dub reggae outfit, Thievery Corp. delivered what seemed like a half-hour narcotic jam. Connecting songs within the confines of an anthemic “Thievery Corp. Theme,” two dreadlocked rastafarian rappers and a bongo-sitar player surrounded tape manipulating programmers Eric Holton and Rob Garza (both dressed in conservative suits and sitting on kitchen chairs mid-stage), captivated the swelling audience with sociopolitical messages and freedom songs, interweaving sampled flutes and brass to thicken the foundation of their cultural surrealism.

Projected film clips and still photography enhanced Thievery Corp’s condensed set. They enthralled open-minded listeners, but may’ve left commercial-minded patrons disillusioned in a futile search for an easy concrete riff or playful melody to hold on to somewhere inside the distended grooves.

SUPER FURRY ANIMALS’ POLY-SCI RUNS ‘RINGS AROUND THE WORLD’

Interviews
FOREWORD: Politically charged Cardiff combo, Super Furry Animals became an important cog in the wheel for the popular musical uprising fellow Welch bands such as Manic Street Preachers, and especially, Gore’s Zygotic Menisci, benefited from quickly. Making some of the greatest orchestral Anglo pop, yet receiving very little attention beyond sold out medium-sized clubs in the States, SA were easily one of the most dazzlingly resplendent UK bands in the ‘90s.
 
No one should be without excellent selections such as ‘96s Fuzzy Logic, ‘99s Guerrilla, or ‘01s Rings Around The World. All three showed off a great culmination of stylistic ideas. Since this martini-filled ’01 interview at a posh downtown Manhattan hotel, SA have released ‘03s nearly-as-good Phantom Power and ‘07s fair Hey Venus. By the by, these crazy fuckers actually owned and drove a military tank – no b.s. (read below). This article originally appeared in Aquarium Weekly.

 

It’s rare to find a sympathetic pop-friendly band with a liberal-minded sociopolitical consciousness bordering on socialism. Yet alongside fellow islanders, Gore’s Zygotic Mince, Wales-based Super Furry Animals hope to conquer the Western hemisphere.

After gaining first-rate European exposure with the sure-footed ’96 debut, Fuzzy Logic, and its respectable ’97 follow-up, Radiator, ‘99s tremendously diversified Guerrilla allowed the Super Furry Animals to invade the American shores (leading to a sold-out gig at Manhattan’s Bower Ballroom). Then, they had the poised audacity to assemble Mwng, a rarified Welch-sung turnabout available on the bands’ own Placid Casual label.

Recently, this egalitarian unit consisting of lead vocalist-guitarist Gruff Rays, bassist Gut Price, guitarist Huw “Bunf” Bunford, keyboardist Cian Ciaran, and drummer Dafidd Ieuan, unleashed their most provocative, vibrant work to date with the wholly seductive Rings Around The World.

Inspired by soulful ‘70s soundtracks and cinematic hip-hop, the bolshevistic quintet’s latest endeavor brings stirring harmonies and sweeping orchestral arrangements to exciting new heights. Whether mocking doomsday cultists on the heavenly lush “Run! Christian! Run!” or taking a friendly swipe at Monica Lewinski’s sordid affair with ex-pez Clinton on the string-laden neo-soul swoon “Presidential Suite,” SFA move beyond the politics of personal romantic intrigue whenever it strikes their fancy.

Yet the resolutely soft, accommodating balladry of the exquisitely romantic “It’s Not The End Of The World” and the hand-clapped Electric Light Orchestra-derived Classical rock of the mini-opus “Receptacle For The Respectable” stay within traditional pop confines without getting saccharin sweet.

Better still, the cheerful universality of the harmonically insouciant “(Drawing) Rings Around The World” offers a contrary indictment on communication overload.

Co-producer Chris Shaw provdied technical support on Rings while Jersey-based Eric Tew tweaked multi-harmonies and added random noise at the Pro Tools engineer. A simultaneously released 18-song Surround Sound DVD features commissioned films by hand-picked cinematographers.

I spoke to Gruff and Guto in the Big Apple one rainy afternoon about Rings and things.

“Juxtapozed With U” and “It’s Not The End of the World” remind me of the UK’s Northern Soul movement. Does soul music pique your interest?

GRUFF: We tend to regurgitate our record collections…sometimes exquisitely. A lot of the string sounds and references. I like the political consciousness of the whole ‘70s soul era. Gil Scott-Heron, the Impressions, and Curtis Mayfield.

How about the inner city ‘Blaxploitation’ films such as Shaft or Superfly?

GRUFF: Yeah. We like a lot of those soundtracks. We get off on the social tension those films portrayed to full affect. And how the music moved the films along.

The DVD that accompanies Rings had great theatrical quality.

GRUFF: When you go to the cinema to see a film, it always sound amazing these days. Then you go home and put a record on and it’s underwhelming. Ultimately, the idea was if it takes of as a film we could stay at home and count the money. (laughter)

GUTO: We’ve been using Surround Sound at the concerts lately. Hopefully we could bring at least a quad system to America. We have a joystick machine that’s about a foot long. You stick speakers in it and you can spin songs around the room. If you have it onstage you could direct your voice to the back of the hall and put it in the right or left hand corner. It’s a way of getting a little extra out of our sound.

Your harmonies continue to improve as catchy pop tracks “Sidewalk Surfer Girl” and “Receptacle For The Respectable” instantly make clear.

GRUFF: We were trying to filter out our ‘B’ influences like the Beatles, Beach Boys, Badfinger and the Byrds – and get out those obsessions. It was intending to be a harmonic album. We wanted it to be a blockbuster like the Eagles megahit Hotel California. (laughter) Actually I don’t like them. But Don Henley bought our tank.

What tank?

GRUFF: A killing machine piled high with speakers and a sound system.

GUTO: We persuaded our record company in ’97 to give us a tank instead of money. We used to drive it around to rave festivals. It was a peace tank for shooting fruit at the hungry. It was covered with our name. But the gas was expensive and we couldn’t afford it. An anonymous buyer, who turned out to be Don Henley, bought it. He’s got it on his ranch in California.

Since the World Trade Organization is having its meetings protested one mile north in midtown Manhattan as we speak, what are your political views on that situation?

GRUFF: As I recline on a comfy chair at the Soho Grand. (laughter) These multi-conglomerate corporations have more power than some sovereign nations. The people we vote in don’t have the power of these corporations. So we’re effectively living in totalitarian states even though it doesn’t say that on the packet. Third world nations are still in debt, so it’s obscene to have this WTO. Our songs are political, but we get these ideas from TV soundbites. I’ll see the American President on the news in Wales more than I’ll see my girlfriend. When we recorded Guerrilla, the Clinton-Lewinsky affair hit the airwaves. At the time, Boris Yeltsin was in Japan. His bodyguards were staying at our hotel there, drinking vodka for breakfast. We offered them to come to a party. So these ten Yeltsin bodyguards joined us for some good times.

ERIC MATTHEWS CONCEIVES POCKET SYMPHONY IN ‘THE LATENESS OF THE HOUR’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Before going solo, California-styled musical designer Eric Matthews teamed up with Australian singer-songwriter Richard Davies to make wistful Chamber pop symphonies under the guise of Cardinal. Though their eponymous orchestral pop debut won serious plaudits, the co-leaders were too headstrong to continue as partners. Davies left to go solo on ‘96s wonderfully smooth There’s Never Been A Crowd Like This, 98s ambitiously surreal Telegraph, and ‘00s straight-up pop gesture, Barbarians.

Meanwhile, Matthews landed on his feet, too, putting out ‘95s lushly compelling It’s Heavy In Here and ‘97s equally sumptuous The Lateness Of The Hour. But I’m unfamiliar with ‘05 Six Kinds Of Passion Looking For An Exit and ‘06s Foundation Sounds. I interviewed Matthews via phone to promote The Lateness Of The Hour. This article originally appeared in Cover magazine.

 

Eric Matthews’ newest mini-pop symphony, The Lateness Of The hour, features acoustic pop vignettes and dreamy baroque tunes woven into a translucent semi-thematic opus.

Having gained exposure in the short-lived Cardinal with fellow singer-songwriter, Richard Davies, a lyrical Australian minstrel with similar tastes, the reflective twosome eventually moved on to separate solo careers. But it was Cardinal’s eponymous ’94 album, with its brilliant melodies and gorgeous arrangements, that gave them fervid cult status.

Matthews, an Oregonian tunesmith and former San Francisco Conservatory of Music trumpeter, released his pastoral debut, It’s Heavy In Here, during ’95. With a plush, smoky baritone that glides gently above neo-Classical settings, insouciant soft rockers, and billowy mood pieces, he handsomely exposes heartfelt yearning and ardent desire.

“What I’m doing is earnest music in the true tradition and spirit of the masters: Billy May, Gordon Jenkins, and Burt Bacharach. They were fabulous orch-pop arrangers that gave me something to shoot for,” Matthews confides. “I’m also inspired by Classical symphonic composers Rachmaninoff, Tchaikowsky, and Barber, along with film composers John Williams (Star Wars) and Rosa (Casablanca0. I’d like to think there are still some artists making real revolutionary pop records. But they’re not widely acknowledged presently. It’s like trying to fight against the tide.”

He claims The Lateness Of The Hour is a “soundtrack to a nice clear sky day.”

Its pleasant wistfulness recounts past relationships and imagery-laden incidents with acute hindsight. Helped along by Jellyfish composer Jason Faulker (electric guitar, piano, bass) and increasingly popular solo artist Spookey Ruben (bass), Matthews sprinkles flower power psychedelia, jangly acoustic vibrancy, and glass-like percussion into his expressive compositions.

“It’s a shame Faulkner’s excellent Author Unknown solo album didn’t sell many records. From my perspective, the better pop music of past generations went mainstream. But Nirvana got so successful, it changed what radio played entirely,” surmises Matthews.

The first single from Lateness, “My Morning Parade,” went to the chopping block at radio in July. Its friendly melody and upbeat horns give it the perfect sunny day ambiance. And the reliable Beach Boys knockoff, “No Gnashing Teeth,” gains strength from its Phil Spector-ish Wall of Sound studio atmosphere, polite piano undercurrent, and triumphant trumpet finale.

“People unfortunately believe Celine Dion and John Tesh make high quality, graduated symphonic pop. But it’s cheesy Night of 1,000 Strings gloss. I’d much rather listen to great singers, like Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, and Dean Martin. They had class,” Matthews concludes.

DIRTY THREE TAKE AUSSIE CHAMBER FOLK UNIVERSAL

Interviews

FOREWORD: Dirty Three were an Australian instrumental trio whose poignantly Classical-inspired Chamber pop piqued the interest of more adventurous post-rock explorers. Live, at Tramps in Manhattan, they played their intensely moving tunes and followed them up with some welcome, but unexpected, comic relief in the form of dirty jokes, disgusting fake song titles, and audience baiting routines. Fuckin’ great stuff. They followed up ‘03s She Has No Strings Apollo with ‘05s lesser-known Cinder. Dirty Three’s members have backed up Nick Cave and Cat Power since then. This article originally appeared in Auqarian Weekly.

 

Poignant wordless emotionality, provocative sadness, and beautiful ethereal imagery define the solemn neo-Classical requiems prescribed by Melbourne, Australia’s debonair instrumental trio, Dirty Three.

Fronted by violinist Warren Ellis, this investigative ensemble has made five illustrious albums while its individual members concurrently appeared on a bevy of recordings by independent-minded artists such as Will Oldham, The Cruel Sea, Tex Perkins, Ute Lemper, and Black-Eyed Susans. An admirer of bluegrass and traditional Scottish-Irish music, Ellis studied piano and accordion as a child, learning standards such as “I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts” and “Roll Out The Barrel” as a pre-teen in school.

In the early ‘90s, following a stint in unheralded These Future Kings, Ellis met guitarist Mick Turner, formerly of respectable punks, the Moodists, and drummer Jim White, who’d collaborated with Turner in local legends, Venom P. Stinger. Turner and White brought punk’s independent creative aesthetic to the delicate Baltic melodies and plaintive Celtic influences Ellis discovered as an impressionable youngster.

As Dirty Three, they’ve released ‘94s startling self-titled debut, ‘96s chaotic amble, Horse Stories, and ‘98s acoustically pure Ocean Songs to the delight of open-minded alt-rock intellectuals. By ‘00s more efficient Whatever You Love, You Are, their reflective moribund dirges were getting increasingly complex, leading to the pristinely jumbled pulchritude of ‘03s diligent She Has No Stings Apollo.

I caught up with Ellis via phone while he was doing laundry in France during a hailstorm before an evening show. The band will be featured in an upcoming concert film and Ellis hopes to recruit a large ensemble of diverse instrumentalists for unspecified future concerts.

Compare US audiences to their European counterparts.

WARREN: Each country is an entity unto itself. Italy – we get a good response, but Germany, we don’t have much of a following. In the States, we probably have our best following.

I thought Europe’s 500-year Classical music history would make Dirty Three more popular there.

WARREN: Eight years ago, when we left Australia, I would’ve thought the same thing. We’re set up better in the States with Touch & Go and booking agents.

I was surprised you made hilarious off-color comments between each serious piece Dirty Three played at Tramps in ’98 to loosen up serious-minded fanatics.

WARREN: It breaks up the tension. I find our songs uplifting. I feel good after we play. I’m not depressed.

Tell me about Dirty Three’s pre-debut cassette, Sad & Dangerous.

WARREN: We recorded that in Mick Turner’s living room so we could remember the songs. At that stage, we wouldn’t have had our act together enough to send it to people and put out. A record store employee sent it to America and told us they wanted to release it on vinyl. We did things on the fly then. I got invited down to a pub where Kim Salmon (of Aussie icons the Scientists) had Monday night residency. He had this melody (which became the eponymous debut’s “Kim’s Dirt”) he played in my kitchen and when Dirty Three had its first show we worked out a bunch of songs. When he heard us do that background music that night he said we should take it.

Apollo’s song titles seem ironically satirical. The twinkly piano delicacy, “Long Way To Go With No Punch” seemingly boasts of lacking a climactic punch line.

WARREN: Titles could be spot-on or red herrings. Like Bob Dylan, who hides his greatest songs on Biograph or bootlegs, we try to mislead people. If you listen closely to this album, there are many different layers and it’s adventurous. We’re playing tighter than ever. We recorded it after touring with these songs we didn’t quite know. It put the fear of God in us again playing live and made the songs stronger. We’d recorded 20 songs from 35 or 40 ideas and worked down to seven, hammering them out onstage.

“Sister Let Them Try To Follow” takes joy in daring listeners to keep up with its heady arrangement, as guitar and violin move in separate distinct patterns above freeform drums.

WARREN: Yeah. It’s a lesson for the young kids. Don’t fucking come anywhere near us. (laughter)

“No Stranger Than That” seems flippantly influenced by Western music.

WARREN: That’s solely inspired by Hungarian violinist Felix Lajko, probably the greatest living violinist. It’s a tip of the hat to the master.

You should consider doing film work.

WARREN: We did the soundtrack to an Australian film, Praise, It’s based on a successful book and the film came together well. We were offered to do an HBO documentary score on serial killer doing art in prison. We had a dilemma. People offered strong opinions. We felt the images were so strong people related to our songs in such a personal way that we left it at that and didn’t want corpses being dug up while we’re playing.

Do your songs build from improvisations?

WARREN: It depends which record and what year. We started from small, humble beginnings, taking anything as far as we could. After years in pubs, we learned how to play better as a group. With each album, we’ do something different as a matter of maturing. There’s no divine intervention. We’re just banging away. I tried to work more parts into what I was playing on Whatever You Love. And Ocean Songs was a lesson in dynamics, trying to create intensity with no amps. Horse Stories was a giant, ugly fuck you to the world.

The hushed ambiance of In The Fishtank, Dirty Three’s captivating one-off collaboration with Low, peaks with Mimi Parker crooning Neil Young’s “Down By The River.”

WARREN: We had done a double headlining tour with Low for Ocean Songs. They’ve been friends for ages and invited us to play without working anything out. We met outside an Amsterdam farm studio for two days and captured the whole atmosphere. It was effortless, enjoyable, and certainly influenced how we play.

People compare your trio to early ‘90s slo-core band, Slint.

WARREN: I obviously know the band, but I don’t know what slo-core id. The problem with labeliong music is people go, ‘I don’t like that.’ Or maybe, ‘I don’t like Jazz.’ But there’s much good Jazz. John and Alice Coltrane, Miles Davis, Ornette Coleman. We’re still discovering them. I also like Classical composers Eethoven, Shastokovitz, Haydn, and Bartok. In the rock field, I like early AC/DC and Neil Young.

Your playing on Nick Cave’s solemn No More Shall We Part seemed to prominently affect his devotional songs.

WARREN: Nick could go pretty deep on his own. I helped write string arrangements with Nick Harvey on that. But I don’t listen to things I do so it’s hard to be judgmental. I listen when I’m done to see if it’s all right. The new one I listen to quite a bit because it continually surprises me. We worked hard at this and it was difficult. We were grateful afterward.