Category Archives: Interviews

MEDESKI MARTIN & WOOD’S GROOVE MACHINE GETS ‘COMBUSTICATION’

Interviews

FOREWORD: New York City’s scrappily experimental Jazz-funk trio, Medeski Martin & Wood, inventively enjoined hip-hop rhythms and jam band sauntering to its eclectic musical stew. When I caught up to them at Manhattan’s enormous Hammerstein Ballroom in ‘97, I saw one overdosed hippie, two naked large-nippled girls, and drank three Heineken beers as they played to a capacity crowd. They’ve continued to release many live, acoustic, or studio LP’s since. MMW’s members have offered their services to many artists, including Chris Whitley, John Scofield, North Mississippi All Stars, and Phish head, Trey Anastasio. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Taking the title of their newest disc, Combustication, from public TV personality Dr. Julius Sumner Miller, downtown New York City improvisationalists Medeski Martin & Wood prove great camaraderie and intuitiveness equals a successful democratic fusion of jazz and funk. Meeting at avant-garde Mecca, the Knitting Factory, around 1990, keyboardist John Medski, bassist Chris Wood, and drummer Billy Martin share a love for provocatively daring instrumentals.

MMW’s fifth album, Shack-Man, gained respect for its abstract post-bop acid Jazz amongst post-modern prog-rock fans and intelligent indie rockers alike. Those who really wish to explore uncharted territory are immediately directed to the trio’s self-released Farmer’s Reserve, a straight-up, unedited improv experiment available on the internet.

Following the unlikely success of Shack-Man, the more stylistically diversified Combustication also attempts to broaden the palette of the combo’s avid fans. Guest turntablist DJ Logic valiantly adds scratches, electronic textures, and sampled loops to the organic mix.

Keeping busy on the side as a studio hand, Medeski recently produced the new Dirty Dozen Brass Band album, wrote Dave Amaran’s musical score dedicated to beat poet Jack Kerouac, and composed a traditional organ piece with guitarist Marc Ribot for a Windham Hill sampler. He has previously played with the Lounge Lizards, Either/Orchestra, and the late-great bassist Jaco Pastorius. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

What type of music did you listen to as a kid?

JOHN: At age five I first started playing Classical music. Then I got into playing old Jazz and pop tunes from the ‘40a and ‘50s. When I was eleven, my neighbor’s older brother played me Oscar Peterson and I realized there was a whole other way of doing this stuff. That’s when I began getting into Jazz. I attended the New England Conservatory of Music part time while I worked for five years. I switched over to more improvisational music after that when I bagged Classical. I didn’t see the point of going to school for Jazz when you could learn privately and go out and play. I’m not a big fan of school.

In comparing Combustication to the previous set, Shack-Man, I’d say it’s less funk and more expansive.

JOHN: I think Combustication is more of a studio record. It’s more expansive. It might be more Jazz in feeling. But it’s more funk and hip-hop the way it’s mixed. It’s a different combination of what we’re about: grooves and improvisation. Shack-Man’s very live in terms of recording style.

Some fans claim Medeski Martin & Wood are avant-garde-ish, but your music is easier to approach and more accessible.

JOHN: I have no idea. Avant-garde music is an inspiration, but we play more and more grooves. We love groove music. Many of the current avant-garde artists have great spirit and are expressing themselves well.

I find your melodies easier to follow than Ornette Coleman’s or Henry Threadgill’s.

JOHN: Yeah. I guess. Actually, we don’t dwell on catchy, strong melodies. Sometimes we are criticized for that. In general, the vibe comes from New Orleans funk as much as avant-garde.

And now you’re signed to legendary Jazz laberl, Blue Note. How’d that come about?

JOHN: They’re great. They treat us good and put no artistic pressure on us. Their approach is very hands-off artistically. And it’s not working out for them business-wise, they simply drop you.

Much like Booker T & the MG’s during the ‘60s, MMW could probably make a secondary career backing other intelligent likeminded musicians.

JOHN: Yeah. We do play on a couple peoples’ records. We get calls from time to time to do that. We did John Scofield’s Au Go Go record and singer Oren Bloedow’s record. Chris Wood and I recently played with Mark Anthony Thompson on his Chocolate Genius LP. I love playing all kinds of music with all types of people. As for our band, it’s very democratic. Like Bill Evans Trio, who started it, we have a bass, drums, and piano lineup.

Plus, turntablist DJ Logic adds electronic enhancement and weird sounds to Combustication.

JOHN: He fits in the cracks. Not a lot of DJ’s could play live. You’d think it would be an obvious thing but very few people could do it, especially when you’re improvising around it. We take a lot of left turns and he stays right there with us. He fits into what we do more than just about anyone ever has. He adds elements without changing our direction. He’s from the Bronx and we met him playing with Vernon Reid. We called him up to do a few Shack-Man parties that we did at the Knitting Facoty and that was it.

You completely reconstruct Sly & The Family Stone’s “Everyday People.” Your version has an ethereal Gospel feel.

JOHN: I love that song. Name a better composer than Sly. He’s up there with anybody. We’ve reinterpreted John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk, King Sunny Ade. We like to pay homage to great musicians that inspire us. We started doing that tune a while back. It felt good to play “Everyday People” the way we did.

SAW DOCTORS GLAD TO ‘SING A SIMPLE SONG’

Interviews
FOREWORD: Working class Irish folk-rock combo, the Saw Doctors, gained a huge international cult following thanks to exuberantly festive live shows. In New York, they sold out Irving Plaza countless times. I saw ‘em there during autumn, ’97. Since then, they’ve released infrequent studio recordings such as ‘98s Songs From Sun Street, ‘01s Villains?, and ‘06s The Cure. I interviewed co-leader Davy Carton to promote their durable compilation ’97 compilation, Sing A Simple Song. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Hailing from Tuam, a nearly rundown factory town outside Galway, Ireland’s Saw Doctors nostalgically reinforces original Celtic-flavored universal anthems in disguised rock settings. By assembling the greatest tracks from’91s If This Is Rock And Roll I Want My Day Job Back debut, ‘92s All The Way From Yuam, and the belated ’96 release, Same Oul’ Town, this pub-friendly act hopes to conquer the world with their Sing A Simple Song comp.

Ever since the Saw Doctors debut, “I Useta Lover,” became the biggest selling single ever in Ireland they’ve maintained critical acclaim and massive fan enthusiasm while staving off early local media exploitation. It seems some disgruntled conservative-minded religious zealots disapproved of “I Useta Lover’s” provocative line about the ‘glory’ of some chick’s ‘ass.’

Meanwhile across the ocean, New York’s Irish bars stuffed jukeboxes with the catchy ditty while the nightclub Tramps had to dela with a capacity crowd of loyal, cultish fans (quite an accomplishment considering they had no US record deal). Authentic Irish folk rockers with solemn hometown odes, chanted work songs, Gaelic tunes, and love ballads, friendly vocalist-guitarists Davy Carton and Leo Moran keep the home fires burning with earnest sentiments and wry humor.

I spoke to Carton over the phone one late October afternoon. His band was getting ready to come to New York to play Irving Plaza (a venue Carton admits he has never been to).

What initially inspired you to pursue a music career?

DAVY: I just loved music and always liked a good song. I’m a self-taught guitarist without a major music background.

Would you agree the Saw Doctors songs work so well because the arrangements are so tight.

DAVY: We do spend a lot of time arranging. But you’ve got to have a knack to correctly arrange a song. There’s a lot of good songs that lose their appeal if they’re not arranged well. It’s fortunate for us that people like our songs. But first we have to like them ourselves. We’re like guinea pigs testing them out.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask how the Saw Doctors first single, “I Useta Lover,” gained such universal appeal.

DAVY: It caused a small little revolution within the Irish Catholic church. But the thing about it was the church wasn’t against it because it brought people back to the church. It’s weird how it almost changed the face of music in Ireland. It was originally seen as taboo to rhyme ‘the glory of her ass’ in that song. But we get a kick out of it gets people to laugh at themselves. I used to play that song in a power pop band called Blaze X in ’79. But the main chorus was added later in ’84. Me and Leo then put extra lyrics in it and it became a huge hit. The chorus is catchy but it developed over time. It’s still the biggest selling single in Ireland, which is an achievement in itself.

Your sold out show at Tramps had people hanging from the rafters.

DAVY: Tramps was a strange venue because they keep the people from getting too close to the stage. We encourage audience participation. I can remember loads of times when we didn’t have enough P.A. from the soundman because the audience was singing along so loud. That happens regularly in Scottish Celtic places. It’s like a big choir. They must think we’re a karaoke band.

How is the current Irish scene doing?

DAVY: Ireland is a very small, close community. A city like Dublin has only 700,000 people. But it’s always thriving with traditional music. Bands spend weeks there playing local clubs. But Dublin is the base for Irish rock music since the influence of U2 is still felt. It’s a really healthy scene, but not on the grand world stage.

I was intrigued by your first albums’ wry title, If This Is Rock And Roll I Want My Day Job Back. Was that a rip at the relentlessly tiring and monetarily unstable lifestyle musicians live through?

DAVY: Exactly. It was done tongue in cheek. When we started out doing it for a living it was rough to make money. Then again, I used to be a cotton and material weaver.

Although your Celtic-influenced rock couldn’t be considered punk, the Saw Doctors seem to have that type of raw energy.

DAVY: The punk attitude keeps us on the edge and givers us an anarchistic touch. Punk doesn’t have to be a particular brand of music. We’re just working class guys, not royalty. We’re small town local heroes. Some people define punk as just mohawk hairdos and violence. But there’s more to it. We’re a whole generation of self-motivated thinkers. Some people believe punk is not intelligent. But if people enjoy it, that’s fine.

The band seems to shy away from major political concerns. Why?

DAVY: We have our own attitude. People should make up their own political opinions. The way I vote is strictly my own. I am not a politician and cannot solve country’s problems.

In your opinion, should Northern Ireland be free from British nationalism?

DAVY: I’m not sure. People take it to the extreme, pitting Unionists against Nationalists. But what about the people in the middle who want a well-run system without fear of getting hurt? History has to change for something positive to come from it. Extremists are not fair. We need a policy across the board that will work. Instead, it still comes down to power and money.

I thought it was cool how the Saw Doctors purposely came to the US while Ireland played in the World Cup Soccer Championships. Did you go to the Meadowlands and watch Ireland upset Italy?

DAVY: No. I was in New York that night watching the game. But I went to see Ireland lose to Mexico in Orlando afterward. The heat is tough down there in Florida during summer.

What musicians inspired you when you were growing up?

DAVY: My first big influence was Creedence Clearwater Revival. John Fogerty’s quite a strange3 character, I hear. But I do like his singing. His new songs seem glossy and pale and not as hooky compared to Creedence, but here it is nearly 30 years later. I like most pop music singer-songwriters like Bruce Springsteen. And also I love the Ramones. Leo likes Woody Guthrie.

“Macna’s Parade” is one of the Saw Doctors most authentic Gaelic tunes. What inspired its creation?

DAVY: That particular song is about an annual Galway festival parade. Macna’s Parade is a street theatre company that has grown with us over the years. They were responsible for the heads used in U2’s Zoo TV.

I heard your original accordion player quit the band a few years back because he won the lottery.

DAVY: Yeah. The lottery in Ireland ranges from one to four million pounds. He won 850,000 pounds, which is like a million dollars. Eventually, after eight months he felt he couldn’t work with us anymore. He had extra money he wanted to spend and the band restricted him. That suited us because his replacement, Derek Murray, played keyboards too. And now everyone involved is much happier.

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.

 

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?

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.

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.

CORNERSHOP: INDIAN GIVERS RELEASE ‘WHEN I WAS BORN FOR THE SEVENTH TIME’

Interviews,

Cornershop - In Session 1993 - Past Daily Soundbooth – Past Daily: News, History, Music And An Enormous Sound Archive.

FOREWORD: Cornershop frontman Tjinder Singh has a natural talent for crafting great cut-and-paste Punjabi-flavored pop kitsch. ‘97s “Brimful Of Asha” boiled down Cornershop’s hybridized sound to its essence. But since then, they’ve remained low profile except for ‘02s handily accessible Handcream For A Generation. Cornershop has promised to release Judy Sucks A Lemon For Breakfast in ‘09. This article originally appeared it HITS magazine.

 

Cornershop’s Tjinder Singh, a gifted London-based Indian singer-songwriter, uniquely blends Punjabi folk, bhangra, lo-fi post-punk and electronic embellishments on his quartet’s third full-lengthg disc, “When I Was Born For The Seventh Time.”

Wide open to a cultural exchange of ideas, Singh challenges and delights listeners with joyously uplifting songs. More polished, stylistically congealed, and melodically captivating than ‘95s very fine Woman’s Gotta Have It, this follow-up deals with spiritual rebirth, but sidesteps cultural roots exploitation with rebellious world music collages.

Linking intriguingly untrendy, unfashionable, song structures with cut-and-paste arrangements, Cornershop pursues excellence through diversity. An undeniably friendly insouciance abounds on the instantly appealing “Brimful Of Asha” and “Sleep On The Left Side.”

I spoke to Tjinder Singh via phone, Thankgiving eve, 1997.

How has Cornershop grown musically from its early, experimental singles to this most recent long-player?

TJINDER: Our first EP, In The Days Of Ford Cortina, had four songs that were varied. We’ve tried to build on that by making each song different. By the time we did our third EP, we honed in on a sound. Some people say it’s East meets West, but that’s very short-minded. What we do is delve into different types of music and take elements of each. We don’t break our music down so much as keep it open.

Cornershop has succeeded by writing good songs that connect on an emotional level.

TJINDER: We try to put as much effort into each track as possible. But albums are difficult to do these days. We’re aware that with programmable CD’s, people pull only a few tracks off the album. So we were very conscious of trying to keep the listener occupied for the whole duration.

When I Was Born For The Seventh Time seems more joyous and positive than Woman’ Gotta Have It.

TJINDER: You’re right, we preempted Tony Blair’s election victory in England and are celebrating the end of the century. I just think in a small amount of time he’s tried to push some positive ideas. He has opened up to arts and entertainment.

What are your thoughts on the royal family?

TJINDER: I really don’t give a fuck whether the Royals should exist. What I do realize is people in positions of power and influence should use their status positively.

How does your background as a designer correlate with Cornershop’s music?

TJINDER: I worked for William Morris, who was a founder of the arts and craft movement. His poetry was great. He had a forward-thinking policy of learning to do things differently. That’s how we feel about Cornershop – not in terms of big hit records, but by giving every bit of ourselves to achieve success. William Morris even coined the phrase “Born To Be Wild.” That’s where Steppenwolf got it from. They had five years of good rocking. We used to drink at a local pub and put on “Magic Carpet Ride.”

What are some other musical influences?

TJINDER: The first things I heard were Punjabi folk and Sikh devotional music. Bhujangi groups from Birmingham in the late ‘70s were rocking. Then I was into the Spinners. After that, it was a matter of developing a record collection. I went to a Sikh temple and within walking distance was a black Christian Gospel church. I’ve always liked religious music because it puts over a genuine feeling in people very quickly. I’m not that religious. But my influence from religion is based on a lack of self-confidence.

“Funky Days Are Back Again” has a happy, embracing sound that feels pretty spontaneous.

TJINDER: We recorded it on a DAT in a Vermont hotel the same day we bought a keyboard. It was made on the spur of the moment. It’s good that the feeling of “Funky Days” reflects the gap of where we are now after the ‘80s.

Have you made any music videos lately?

TJINDER: The Light Surgeons did a video for “Good Shit.” A friend of ours, Phil Harder, did one for “Brimful Of Asha” – which has been getting quite a bunch of airplay. It’s a very bright, bold-colored video and it absolutely rocks.

The guitar licks on “Brimful Of Asha” reminded me of Lou Reed’s “Dirty Boulevard.”

TJINDER: It’s more Jonathan Richman. We’ve always liked him. The B-side of his “Roadrunner” single was “Angels Watching Over Me,” which was very much in that Gospel vain.

How did you get Allen Ginsberg to add a poem to “When The Light Appears Boy”?

TJINDER: We were using his spoken word pieces, like “Howl,” after gigs. He also got into Woman’s Gotta Have It. He seemed to be into the idea of working with us after we met. So he showed us his modest apartment and then we recorded it. It has references to William Blake’s “Vision Of Death.” Ginsberg was very frail at the time and knew he was going to die, so that made it more poignant. Instead of making it a rock song, we put in Asian elements I recorded in India to reflect where his spoken word influences were from, especially with “Howl.”

What did you learn from touring with the likes of Beck and Los Lobos?

TJINDER: That it’s pretty tough being at the bottom – which is where we are. And that’s where we’ve been for the last few years. We know how hard we’ve tried and I suppose, the more we get into it, the harder it may get for a band like ours. Maybe we’re better left where we are…in obscurity. Three years ago, Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore said he didn’t like any new music, but mentioned that Cornershop interested him. That’s remarkable.

As an Asian Brit, do you feel discrimination still exists?

TJINDER: I certainly think so. As Cornershop, how much do we have to do to be taken seriously? It’s quite difficult to move units when you’ve got a black face. We’ve slowly received credit. We continue to make music to prove those people wrong and let them run with their tail between their legs.

What are you up to these days?

TJINDER: I recorded some B-sides recently with more strings. There’s also something I wrote for the multi-artist The God, The Bad & The Ugly album.

SWERVEDRIVER NEVER SNOOZE THRU ‘99TH DREAM’

Interviews

Image result for swervedriver


FOREWORD: Oxford, England-based Swervedriver brought hard rockin’ enthusiasm to whirred surrealistic capers in a uniquely fascinating way. Record company problems plagued the band. ‘95s fantastic Ejector Seat Reservation went unreleased in America and by ‘97s admirable 99th Dream, they called it quits. Singer-guitarist Adam Franklin went on to start the just-alright Toshack Highway. In ’08, Swervedriver re-formed to play Coachella Festival. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Swervedriver’s psychotropic dreamscapes and provocative allusions comine Raw Power punk energy with sheer noise rock on the trippy escapade, 99th Fream, their fourth long-player since ’91. Defying logical genre identification, this Oxford, England quartet offer impressionistic escapism, twisting melodic psychedelia above huge slabs of searing guitar textures and ruptured rhythms.

After a few early EP’s gained underground popularity overseas, Swervedriver debuted with the developmental Raise. In’93, the resiliently challenging Mezcal Head extended the futuristic vision of sonic aggro-pop pioneers Jesus & Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine. Then A & M dropped the band and ‘95s critically acclaimed Ejector Seat Reservation never saw the light of day in the States. Thankfully, New York’s Zero Hour records signed Swervedriver, providing drooling fans with 99th Dream.

In January ’98, Swervedriver played a sold-out industry showcase at Manhattan’s Mercury Lounge, mesmerizing the crowd with newly-waxed gems and a few distended versions of vintage tracks. That afternoon I spoke to guitarist Jimmy Hartridge about the new album, touring, favorite artists, and various other points of interest.

Many fans want to know if ‘95s Ejector Seat Reservation will ever get officially released in America.

JIMMY: It’s a complicated issue. Our American label, A & M, dropped us after Mezcal Head for financial reasons – like it didn’t make a million dollars. When things go wrong, everything does. Then Creation dropped us and made the record a collector’s item. If a Bryan Adams album comes out at the same time as Swervedriver, they’ll put their money on the proven product.

Were you intrigued by music as a kid?

JIMMY: In England, we have Top Of The Pops, When I was 14, Sweet, Slade, and T. Rex were on. And everyone in England wants to either be a pop star or a football player.Later, when punk came along, anyone could be in a band. You didn’t have to be a virtuoso guitarist. Me and Adam (Franklin: singer-guitarist) grew up in a small village, hung around, and got a band going.

Swervedriver’s music is remarkably impressionistic.

JIMMY: We don’t plan to have anything come out a certain way. We usually have a basic riff and analyze it when we mix it. Then we texturize it. There’s some interesting Crumar keyboard sounds – an instrument I picked up at a junk shop – and some warbly stuff. We have our own studio in London now. We get to experiment with guitar pitch, feedback, and sustenance. And use some wah-wah guitar. You don’t want to make music too flat and dull.

What bands were early inspiration for you?

JIMMY: We did a gig in Australia and someone said our power chords reminded them of The Who, but they’re probably more concise then us. Everyone likes The Who. They’re one of those classic bands. I liked their first few punkish, straight down the line albums. They got pompous after Who’s Next.

What guitarists inspire you?

JIMMY: Keith Richards and Kames Williamson and Scott Asheton (the latter two of the Stooges). I could never get into that Jimi Hendrix thing ‘cause I wasn’t good enough. Keith Richards took his bottom string off and made it into a flat chord. I just play what comes naturally to me.

On Mezcal Head, noise seemed more important than melodies. Has that shifted for 99th Dream?

JIMMY: Yes. That’s true. We tried to expand a bit. We started off being influenced by Sonic Youth and the Stooges, which play noise-oriented music. We still get our kicks with noise, but it’s more melodic. On the Raise album, we were just learning our own muse. We mixed it ourselves and made mistakes. It has got its charm and reminds me of the Stooges Raw Power. It’s gonna take years for fans to hear all the sounds on the new album. We try to avoid c

THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS HIT THE ROAD IN ‘MINK CAR’

Interviews

FOREWORD: I fell in love with They Might Be Giants from the beginning. Their cartoon video for the silly “Hotel Detective” and the quirky bounce of “Don’t Let’s Start” made their absurdly funny eponymous ’86 debut a dandy, one of the most wittily humorous rock albums since Steve Martin did “King Tut.”

Fronted by the Two Johns (Flansburgh and Linnell), TMBG then became extremely prolific, something you wouldn’t expect from a few loose novelty-writing class clowns. ‘88s Lincoln brought forth the totally catchy hard rockin’ “Ana Ng.” ‘90s Flood boasted the equally hooky sentimental embrace “Birdhouse In Your Soul.” ‘92s Apollo 18 and ‘94s John Henry kept the ball rolling.

Used to performing tersely titillating tunes, it wasn’t a far stretch for TMBG to work on film songs, TV themes, and children’s records, and those are sprinkled amongst subsequently fine LP’s such as ‘01s Mink Car and ‘07s The Else. TMBG also offered Dial A Song phone jingles almost a decade before ring tones got popular. I originally interviewed Linnell for Smug magazine in ’88, but the following ’01 piece with Flansburgh is richer. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Growing up in the shadows of Harvard Square as an architect’s son, suburban Bostonian, John Flansburgh (vocals-guitar), met up with future They Might Be Giants partner, John Linnell (keyboards-accordion-sax-vocals) at their high school newspaper. They wrote articles, drew cartoons, and learned photography at an action-packed pace their fun-filled future band would benefit from.

Flansburgh then attended hippie-alternative Antioch College during the late ‘70s while Linnell spent a semester at Umass and played in savvy pop band the Mundanes (with future Beavis & Butthead producer John Andrews). By ’81, they caught up with each other in New York when Flansburgh was a Metro North-employed Fine Arts student at Pratt and Linnell, by chance, moved into the same Brooklyn building. They begam making home tape demos as a side project and began establishing a loyal local following with campy, frolicsome shows.

A sparkling self-titled debut of addictive mindless pop insouciance such as the bouncy “Don’t Let’s Start” and the cheesy “Hotel Detective” put They Might Be Giants on the map. Their cheery trinkets, sunny disposition, and rapturous spirit made a fiercely complicated world a little easier to take by offering an infectious remedy to relieve minor aches and pains.

Lincoln’s spiffy, guitar-clipped ’88 splurge, “Ana Ng,” and Flood’s casually swaying ‘90 heart-throbber, “Birdhouse In Your Soul,” chugged along with the same melodic escapism the WMCA good guys stumbled upon as fast-moving DJ’s in the innocent craze of jingly jangly ‘60s AM radio. Amongst a dalliance of euphoric ephemera (Several EP’s, ‘98s Severe Tire Damage compilation, etc.) were full-length releases such as ‘92s Apollo 18, ‘94s John Henry, and ‘96s Factory Showroom.

Recently, TMBG finished up a two-month tour for the brand new Mink Car at historic Manhattan theatre, Town Hall. By shuffling the fabulous three-piece Velcro Horns around backup guitarist Dan Miller and bassist Dan Weinkauf (both formerly of the band, Lincoln), the Two Johns have expanded their whimsical domain.

Playing the part of a busy MC, Flansburgh’s jagged jokes, wacky wisecracks, and impromptu radio surfing (the band broke into an impromptu take on Argent’s “Hold Your Head Up” and an unspecified Latin jam as he kept searching ‘round the dial) were given expediency by Linnell’s punctual multi-instrumental dexterity. One unexpected highlight came when amazing drummer Dan Hickey (Joe Jackson/ B-52’s) merged style-shifting drum solos ranging from Jazz legend Buddy Rich to lunatic mod rocker Keith Moon with pizzazz.

On record, the exuberant “Bangs” and the rubbery “Cyclops Rock” get Mink Car off to a fast start. By combining Giorgio Moroder’s robotic ‘70s disco beat with the Pet Shop Boys ‘80s new wave, “Man, It’s So Loud In Here,” gets swept away by club-bound romanticism. After the puppy love ballad, “A First Kiss,” things get rockin’ again. The bass-bustling Blues-siphoned “I’ve Got A Fang” gains exotic flavor from its snake charmer keyboards while the fuzzy take on Georgie Fame’s “Yeh Yeh” (mixed by Fountains Of Wayne pop idol Adam Schlesinger) will get fingers snappin’ and spines shakin’ in no time.

Besides gaining further exposure with the punk-throttled Malcolm In The Middle theme song, “Boss Of Me,” the dynamic duo previously licensed “Dr. Worm” for the kiddie animation Kablam! and created “Doctor Evil” for Austin Powers’ The Spy Who Shagged Me. Acclaimed filmmaker AJ Schnack will celebrate TMBG with their 20th anniversary documentary Gigantic (A Tale of Two Johns) in 2002.

Do you feel They Might Be Giants provide humorous social critique for an audience too caught up in post-modern irony?

FLANSBURGH: In our culture, if you’re not caught up in proving your authenticity, it’s hard to say where your pop consciousness begins and ends. I don’t feel we’re commenting on our culture. I realize we touch on familiar ideas, but the general impulse comes out of the same impulse any songwriter would have. If people label you ironic, it’s one step away from being cynical. We’re extremely un-cynical, especially compared the popular music on the horizon. I feel we’re uncalculated and distant from the notion of being some snarky, sarcastic thing. There’s joy in what we do; a celebratory aspect. It’s the power of a good time party band. I don’t mind being pigeonholed, but I get the impression we’re summarized as being mean-spirited. We’re a complicated band with a range of songs and intentions.

The hopeless romanticism of simple pop goiofs like your debut’s weak-hearted “Don’t Let’s Start”, Flood’s affectionate trinket “Birdhouse In Your Soul,” and Mink Car’s heartbroken “Cyclops Rock” get to me emotionally the same way bubblegum staples “Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes” by Edison Lighthouse and Bobby Sherman’s “Easy Come, Easy Go” once did.

FLANSBURGH: I did a cover of “Love Grows” with my college band, the Turtlenecks, in Ohio. We did half-originals, half-covers.

I first got into TMBG after watching a cartoon version for the ditty, “Hotel Detective.”

FLANSBURGH: That was the third video we did. After being a local band for four years, we started touring in ’86 and became almost a viable national act.

Your live show continues to evolve.

FLANSBURGH: We want to rock the crowd, but that tempers the amount of slow songs we like to do. There’s a tyranny to the uptempo song. They dominate because they work on such an immediate level. Happily, we haven’t had a career where one song eclipses what we do. We’ve had minor successes which makes it easier to do an entertaining full length show. But if we don’t do “Birdhouse” or “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” people would think we were being prissy. We’re obligated to do those because they hold a place In people’s minds and hearts. But I don’t feel any distance from our earlier stuff.

Mink Car may contain your catchiest songs since the debut.

FLANSBURGH: Thanks. That’s high praise.

“Bangs” has a highly accessible multi-layered ‘60s-styled feel-good flow.

FLANSBURGH: We worked on that with Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley (respected Brit-pop producers who’d previously worked on “Birdhouse”) spending time figuring out how to build the song up. It’s surprisingly simple considering how thick it gets by the end. I love that song.

What does the crazed female scream for “Cyclops Rock”?

FLANSBURGH: Cerys Matthews of huge British band, Catatonia. She’s a notorious wild girl in England. They were working with Clive on their LP at the same time. We were gonna get Joe Strummer to do a chant section, but we finished before that could happen.

Besides cool rhyming by Soul Coughing’s Mike Doughty, “Mr. Xcitement” features Elegant Too. What’s their background?

FLANSBURGH: They’re a production crew who are all over that track. They’ve got great ideas on how to approach electronic music. They do TV and soundtrack work. Chris Maxwell (ex-Skeleton Key) is a great guitarist and I worked with drummer Phil Hernandez on my side project, Mono Puff. It was a gas doing sessions with them. We had a bunch of horn blasts created for us to manipulate experimentally in the computer. It takes the driving beat of “Peter Gunn” and morphs it into a drum ‘n’ bass idea.

You cover Georgie Fame’s late ‘60s British #1 hit, “Yeh Yeh” on Mink Car.

FLANSBURGH: The original was done (by second-tier pop trio) Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. I’ve never heard it, but have heard of it. It’s impossible to locate. The Georgie Fame version is even faster than ours. It’s hopped up and manic.

You did a song “In The Middle” at Town Hall. You said it was to be released on a children’s album. Who was the female singer onstage?

FLANSBURGH: That’s my wife, Robin Goldwasser. She sang “Doctor Evil” for Austin Powers’ soundtrack. We’ve got an all-original children’s album, No, due in spring. Though people wouldn’t think of it as a departure from TMBG, it really was. It took awhile to crack the code of keeping kids interested. We bought various rock-related children’s records, but some were too repetitive. We wanted it to have a ‘Seussian’ quality.

How did the perfectly obnoxious parent-dissing Malcolm In The Middle theme, “Boss Of Me,” come to fruition?

FLANSBURGH: We just had a top 20 UK hit with that. That song is like the son of “Twistin’” from Flood. It’s structurally different, but in terms of energy, it’s not uncharted territory. We wrote it a few years before the show came on.

Do you feel an affinity with Mark Mothersbaugh (ex-Devo) or Danny Elfman (ex-Oingo Boingo) since they do the Rugrats and The Simpsons themes and formerly led humorous underground rockers like TMBG?

FLANSBURGH: It’s strange that it has become a path for alt-rockers. But it’s not a big surprise. The only thing you need to have going for you is an open sense of musicality. We’ve done background music for Malcolm and incidental music for The Daily Show with John Stewart and ABC’s Nightline. They’re all different gigs. Much of it is hard to recognize as TMBG. It’s fun to stretch out and do orchestral work not leaning on lyric writing. It’s an interesting challenge and a natural progression.

Tell me about the internet-only Long Tall Weekend.

FLANSBURGH: You can’t get it in stores. It was made for an entirely different generation of college kids downloading material. Because not everybody is wired, there are barriers. But there’s no manufacturing costs or physical component and it sold 20,000 of pure profit. Mink Car is a straightforward LP with wide ranging material. Long Tall Weekend was a crazy compilation like The Who’s Odds & Sods with unusual songs like “Edison’s Museum.” Factory Showroom (’96) was our last studio album. The first place our newer songs show up are on the ‘Dial-A-Song’ phone service. But the MP3 monthly subscription service on E-music – They Might Be Giants Unlimited – features a dozen songs per month with 3,000 subscribers. There’s an unquenchable thirst for new material. But the best songs go on our proper albums.

Give me the scoop on the seasonal Holidayland.

“Santa Clause” is a ‘60s cover from garage band, the Sonics. It’s a rough recording that captures the vibe of the Sonics. “O Tannebaum” is very close to its original German version. There’s toy piano on “Feat Of Lights.”

SKELETON KEY OPENS MANY DOORS ON DEBUT E.P.

Interviews

FOREWORD: Skeleton Key is the brainchild of ex-Lounge Lizards multi-media semi-celebrity, Erik Sanko. They were easily one of the best New York City art-damaged freeform rockists hitting the scene in the mid-‘90s. And they deserved better exposure.

One of the best live bands I’ve come across, each individual member had their own distinct personality (at least the first version of this ever—changing entourage). In’97, I got to speak to the entire band prior to a Knitting Factory gig. They were demure off-stage; totally uncontrollable onstage. Sanko’s Skeleton Key went on to record ‘97s Fantastic Spike Through Balloon and ‘02s Obtanium (pictured below postage-stamped EP), but neither caught fire the way they should’ve. Sanko creates marionettes when he’s not busy playing out. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

On their clever self-titled six-song EP for boutique label, Motel Records, found sound architects, Skeleton Key, widen the ever-shifting parameters of contemporary rock, melding rudimentary instrumentation and offbeat ideas into organized noise. Though its four members formed the band in New York City, they’re all originally from scattered parts of America.

Arkansas-bred guitarist Chris Maxwell, DC-via-Texas drummer Stephen Calhoun, Oregon junk percussionist Rick Lee, and Staten Island bassist Erik Sanko each bring separate, but intricate elements to Skeleton Key’s disparate sound. And with any luck, they’ll reinvigorate what cynical ‘rock is dead’ doomsayers claim is a stagnant rock scene. Without compromise, their puzzle-like songs hang together with surprising cohesion, challenging listeners by upsetting the apple cart just a bit.

“I’ve been doing artsy music forever,” claims Maxwell, an admitted Captain Beefheart fan. “If you sign a band like ours and bring in a producer to weed out the idiosyncrasies, the final product ends up being an empty husk. But we get no outside interference. The only criteria we have is to find whatever sounds good and manipulate it, I play a $25 Silvertone guitar. Rick plays junk and Erik uses a cheap bass. Our gear is from the technology that preceded the computer generation – somewhat like an abacus.

Perhaps most importantly, Skeleton Key’s angular songs bend the transparent barriers confining trendsetting bands. They remain unpredictable, unassuming, and unusual while maintaining an acceptable sound.

“If we’re not careful, our music could sound pretentious,” Maxwell confides. ” But we have a sense of humor we use like a bag of salt. And we sprinkle our songs with it. We each have small egos and are willing to listen if someone has a better song idea. We have disagreements. But it’s a pleasure to work with people whose opinions are valued. Some songs come together easily while others need time to be fixed.”

With all the intricate elements assembled into such a fascinating studio smorgasbord, it would seem Skeleton Key face difficulties bringing their ambitious sound to a live audience.

But junk player Rick Lee confides, “Originally, we tried to make the record sound like a live show. It’s tough to get my trash into the live mix, but people say they can hear the flavoring. Our soundman, Kevin McMahon makes sure that sonically the ideas come across. If I don’t have the equipment to create a certain sound, I’ll use something which closely resembles what needs to be expressed. Hell, one of our samplers is a toy! And anything on 16 RPM sounds completely satanic when it’s sampled. My feeling is if it sounds good, it’s in. There’s no discrimination.”

As we get into a conversation about art, Maxwell insists, “For me, it’s easier to discuss our sound in terms of sculpture rather than articulate it in the realm of music. It’s art with a capital F. It’s fun, dangerous, visceral, and hopefully, moving and intriguing.”

Lee, sitting on a couch with a smirk, counters, “I don’t know if Charles Bukowski would consider his writing art. I think sports may arguably be the only real art of self-expression.”

This dichotomy between art and music may be the impetus for the improvised instrumental jam, Hoboerotica.” Inspired by a pornographic stick figure a homeless Arkansas resident made, its skewed percussiveness and witchy moaning get tangled in a freeform exploration.

Both “The World’s Most Famous Undertaker” (a sordid and addicting piece of voodoo) and the Beefheartian “Nod Off” ping and pang and clang, allowing Lee’s enormous scrap heap of percussion objects to fill any open spaces or gaps in sound. “The Spreading Stain,” a fuzzy skullfuck, should satisfy and taunt grunge heads in search of something neatly resembling Nirvana’s most disturbing moments. The muzzled “You Might Drown,” with its transcending sitar and “Blue Jay Way” dreamscape, sounds so stark it practically stares death in the face.

“Well, “You Might Drown” was inspired when my girlfriend dumped me,” Maxwell explains. “I’m merely saying, ‘good luck with your fucked up decision.’”

Skeleton Key hope to break out in a major way on an independent label. By the way, fans should also check out New York underground cyber-punks, Ultra Bide- Skeleton Key gave them their seal of approval.