Category Archives: Interviews

BROOKLYN’S NATIONALS GO UNIVERSAL

Interviews

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FOREWORD: It was at Mercury Lounge’s basement backstage area after a truly rewarding set that I met friendly Brooklyn-via-Cincinnati combo, The National. They were touring to support Alligator, the soothingly noir breakout album that’d bring ‘em an international audience. During ’07, The National released stunningly accomplished masterpiece, Boxer, and got to play with their idol, Bruce Springsteen, rendering a Woodie Guthrie number in concert. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

What happens when two Ivy League brothers hook up with two equally schooled siblings and a maudlin baritone singer in the Carroll Gardens section of Brooklyn? They form judicious combo, The National, self-release an eponymous ’01 debut before ever playing a single show, and get red hot Interpol producer Peter Katis to work on a few very consistent follow-ups. Strangely, all five members are long-time pals hailing from Cincinnati who’d moved east looking for conventional jobs instead of a risky music career.

“We were in New York City five years before we began hanging out doing music,” singer Matt Berninger recalls.

Luckily, the gravitational force bringing these Ohio buddies together was compelling enough to beget the embracing pop grandeur they so intimately surrender. Much like Jersey band, The Wrens, a cohesive, tightly knit unit with only one set of brothers, The National takes a democratic approach to building lathered arrangements. This balance of power deters each individual from going off on a tangent or becoming too precious about any singular influence on the entire oeuvre.

Columbia University grad Aaron Dessner (guitar-bass) and Yale alumnus Bryce Dessner (guitar) must’ve been taught the fine art of interdependency since their beautiful melodiousness resonates so mellifluously alongside Berninger’s fellow University of Cincinnati graphic design major Scott Devendorf’s four-and-six string illuminations and Soho Press employee Bryan Devendorf’s pliant percussive patter.

For the record, Berninger and Scott Devendorf had made one unheralded record under the feminine moniker, Nancy, doing a few small local gigs/ parties ‘round ’91, then temporarily drifted apart. Meanwhile, the others were in Project Nim making soft-toned 10,000 Maniacs-like folk-pop. Though The National’s initial recording offered restrained alt-Country leanings, ‘03s Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers diversified the stylistic presentation.

“I’d compare the first one to the Silver Jews. It was made up in the basement. After touring a bit and feeling the adrenaline of going onstage, we began playing more aggressively,” Berninger lets on. “But we’re still finding out what type of band we are. As good as Sad Songs was, it’s not as comprehensive or competent as the widely varying third album. Song structures have improved.”

Now signed to Beggars Banquet, Alligator finds the moodily deep-voiced frontman becoming hauntingly introspective rendering the shrouded “Secret Meeting” (‘in the basement of my brain,’ no less). On delicate acoustic-folk serenade “Daughetrs Of The Soho Riots,” he almost sounds like a grim Morrissey dolefully gesticulating ‘break my arms around my love.’

Of the latter, Berninger explains, “That’s about holding on to something too tight – ‘til it snaps. And although there never were ‘soho riots,’ it’s an ironic reference to the Daughters Of The Revolution, living in Manhattan’s fancy Lower East Side hipsterville, and getting lost in the middle of (fashionistas) massing the streets.”

In loud contrast to the gloomier episodic ventures, the outwardly exuberant “Lit Up” rushes forth with youthful buoyancy and circular jangled riffs entangle dapper helix “Looking For Astronauts.” Resounding “Abel” revs up the amps before subtle symphonic retreat “Geese Of Beverly Road” returns to introversion.

“We’ve had a version of “Abel” for awhile. It was a more subdued dark ballad drastically changed by a snappy drumbeat. We made it more interesting. It’s a whole different monster,” Berninger confides.

Undoubtedly, The National had great outside assistance putting the expansive Alligator together. Peter Katis mixed the disc and did some recording after engineer Paul Mahajan (Yeah Yeah Yeahs/ TV On the Radio/ Liars) set up practice spaces and captured the five-piece on Pro Tools.

Berninger contends, “Peter has an integral part – cleaning up our sound, whereas Paul was the captain of our ship.”

Furthermore, Australian composer Padma Newsome (from the Clogs) orchestrated neo-classical elements, adding textural complexity via oboe, cello, violin, viola, clarinet, and French horn. Both “Baby We’ll Be Fine” and “Val Jester” recall the half-spoken reflections and spare dourness of Tindersticks’ Stuart Staple, whom, like Berninger, draws on the brooding monotone melancholia Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen seemingly crave. Better still, the reverberating triumphant finale, “Mr. November,” with its crashing cymbals and bashing skins, penetrates deeply as the resolved choral summit ‘won’t fuck us over’ and lucid guitar intensity swell.

“The truth is, seeing regional Cincinnati band the Afghan Whigs get popular nationally was incredibly inspiring,” Berninger gladly opines. “They broke out of the small music scene to become semi-legendary. When I was living there, the Ass Ponys, Tiger Lillies, and Guided By Voices (from nearby Dayton) had a healthy support contingency. Everyone did their own thing. Brainiac was groundbreaking making totally out of nowhere stuff. Maybe living in the midwest gets people looking far and wide for exciting music from all different corners. They look outside Cincy for inspiration. Plus, radio station 97X have a lifeline to underground music. That had a lot to do with aspiring artists gaining access to good radio. There’s not a station like that in New York.”

So where’d they come up with the punchy title, Alligator?

“We took it from (the somber) “City Middle,” which references ‘I wanna go gator round a warm bed.’ Like a predatory male reptile, we hope it matches the undercurrent of tension.”

MERCURY REV UP ‘SECRET MIGRATION’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Couldn’t get surrealistic Mercury Rev front guy Jonathan Donahue to do an interview, so I let lead guitarist Grasshopper (a.ka. Sean Mackowiak) fill me in on his long-time partnership with the reluctant bard. Onstage at Bowery Ballroom touring for ‘05s The Secret Migration, impressionistic lighting and various cinematic images provided recreational background for the Rev’s massive art-affected musical subtleties. Mercury Rev have been low key since then. I’ve yet to hear ‘08s full-length MP3 download, Strange Attractor. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Compelling and enlightening, Mercury Rev’s highly spirited symphonic constructions pleasantly glide above routine earthly delights. Meeting at a Buffalo lecture concerning Airto, Brecht, the Fluxus Movement, and modern surrealists, singer-guitarist Jonathan Donahue, lead guitarist Grasshopper, and soon-departed lead vocalist David Baker shared a love for the Velvet Underground in the late ‘80s. The trio ended up making incidental music and ambient sounds for a platypus nature film, then started composing more song-oriented fare.

“I was studying about minimalist performer Tony Conrad. He’d come up with the name Velvet Underground and had played with John Cale,” former film school alumnus Grasshopper offers. “I was into Television, Suicide, the Ramones, West Coast punk, and Sonic Youth. Jonathan liked classic rock, which I knew from my older brother. Jon and I went to see Echo & the Bunnymen and Psychedelic Furs concerts and that’s when we wanted to start a band. But we also liked Neil Young and The Band.”

Now residing in the Catskills, Donahue’s shyly malleable eggshell coo renders fragile sentiments with a quivery vulnerability and introverted reluctance. His fey falsetto warmth, plaintive speakeasy baritone drone, and mournful tenor lurk inside Mercury Revs penetrating lovelorn entreaties. Musical partner Grasshopper’s efficient six-string resonance and gauzy textures ravishingly vacillate beneath the enticing agrarian settings and, at times, punctilious delirium.

“Jonathan and myself have always been into reading ancient texts like the Old Testament. We don’t subscribe to any religion but we’ve scoured through Hindu and Buddha documents and read tons of literature. So I guess a lot of that shit is coming out,” Grasshopper informs.

Following the cosmic ’91 debut, Yerself Is Steam (pronounced ‘your self-esteem’), Mercury Rev assembled ‘93s more coherent affirmation, Boces, utilizing violin, French horn, and trombone to sublime effect. Anchored by frenzied 10-minute montage “Meth Of A Rockette’s Kick,” a whirring kaleidoscopic cacophony reaching mercurial ascension, Boces established the Rev as serious neo-Classically inclined indie rock contemporaries alongside surreal moodists, the Flaming Lips (the better-known outfit Donahue played with on ‘88s superb In A Priest Driven Ambulance). Eventual single, “Something For Joey,” the completely stratospheric flute-warbled climax, found the still-maturing combo reaching heavenward before getting completely unsettled by the darting feedback-skewed mantra “Trickle Down” (taking the experimental troupe as left of center as they’d ever be). Bassist Dave Fridmann became resident producer and promptly found notoriety working the boards for the aforementioned Lips.

As a notable side project, Grasshopper and Donahue created the Harmony Rockets, whose lone ’95 album, Paralyzed Mind of the Archangel Void, was described in Trouser Press as a pseudonymous 40-minute ‘arcane trans-rock meditation.’

Grasshopper reveals, “At that time, we were listening to Teddy Riley’s lengthy jams, Miles Davis’ ‘70s electric albums, and Don Cherry’s Jazz. They had rules as to what key to play in, but improvised. So we tried to build a long piece, some planned, some improvised. Different music events would change the flow and it was recorded live at the Rhinecliff Hotel. We’re talking to the Chemical Brothers about doing another one with them onboard. That happened when they asked Jon to play on “Private Psychedelic Reel” (from Dig Your Own Hole).”

Curmudgeonly caterwauling primary singer David Baker left before ‘95s knottier complexity, See You On The Other Side, handing the reigns to Donahue and Grasshopper for a less cluttered, more disciplined, focused, and charmingly mystical set. Donahue’s bowed saw (a wand-like oscillator) took a prominent role bestirring the wandering incandescent abstractions and darkly rapturous anecdotes. Piano-plunked childlike escapade “Everlasting Arm” inadvertently provoked illuminating Pet Sounds comparisons.

Grasshopper opines, “That album was influenced by (German prog-rock conceptualists) Can with a tip of the hat to Phil Spector and Jack Nitzsche. We had met with Jack at V2 Records offices and were gonna work with him on a few tracks. A week later he called Jon and said he liked our demos. Two days after, he passed away. Very strange.”

Despite stolen equipment, misplaced merchandise revenue, and internal friction burdening the Rev, they soldiered on, procuring fellow upstate legends from The Band (Levon Helm drums on sedately perplexed “Opus 40” and Garth Hudson plays tenor and alto saxophone on glistening rainy day ode “Hudson Line”) for ‘98s majestic Deserter’s Songs. A brilliantly resilient and eloquently tranquil affair, this stunningly poignant magnum opus reaches luxuriant heights with the pristinely mellifluent glimmer “Goddess Of The Hiway.” Jimy Chambers’ clavinet and harpsichord, guest Adam Snyder’s B3, mellotron, and wurlitzer, plus Grasshopper’s timely woodwinds, bring orchestral lushness to Donahue’s hushed voice and Chamberlain string arrangements. The celestial “Silent Night”-swiped repose, “Endlessly,” employs these gorgeously grandiose elements best.

“With Deserter’s Songs, we had this desperation after being beaten down. I don’t know if it was dusk or dawn we were trying to capture. We went through drug problems so that record was a meditation on that.” Grasshopper adds, “When you romance with drugs, the next thing is girls.”

Sans Chambers (replaced by keyboardist-percussionist Jeff Mercel) and minimizing flutist Suzanna Thorpe’s status, ‘01s windswept masterstroke, All Is Dream, floats on thin air. The elaborate “A Drop In Time” drifts across with astral balladic effervescence like a ray of sunshine ‘gliding through your hair.’ Any desolate bleakness is washed away by surging euphoric radiance and allusions to dewy meadows, open poppy fields, and hilly pastures.

Operating out of their own Kingston, New York, rehearsal space instead of paying exorbitant sums for an outside studio, the Rev return in ’05 with the plangent suite-like jewel, The Secret Migration. Initially released in separate three-part fragments, this adventurously streamlined spectral achievement retains a somniferous post-midnight neo-psychedelic transience confirming its wondrously meditative romanticism.

“We always had simultaneous releases of our records the world over,” Grasshopper admits. “We have a good European following, but felt the frustration of being there instead of in America (upon release date). So we wanted to have Secret Migration available online when it came out. But a lot of record stores freaked out so we were flying by the seat of our pants and thought, ‘Why can’t we release it in three different segments leading to the release date when the hard copy comes out?’ It was a website experiment. And the American version has extra tracks on a bonus disc.”

Beautifully ethereal ‘waves of emotion’ caress the tenderly melodic “Across Yer Ocean” and the reconciliatory heartwarming lullaby “My Love.” Equally seductive, the ornate vibe-imbibed “Vermillion” and airily swirled dreamscape “Secret For A Song” head for the ozone with angular guitar and nimble piano. “Arise” awakens from the awestruck bedtime moodiness with a fleet drumbeat and sheets of sonic density.

“Romance has its ups and downs,” Grasshopper laments. “Sometimes you’re happy together and other times, there’s lots of friction. Some negative aspects come through our music, but it usually ends up positive.”

Written for the opening sequence to the film, Laurel Canyon, rural memento “In A Funny Way” gets transformed by a Phil Spector-related Wall Of Sound as veiled angelic moans seep into a percussive “Be My Baby”-styled tympani-tambourine backdrop tinged by Fugs member Scott Petito’s sitar.

“We’re also doing the soundtrack for Bye Bye Blackbird. It’s done by a French director and may be featured at the Cannes Film Festival. It’s about the tragic unraveling of a circus due to the film age, which began in 1912,” Grasshopper lets on.

RIDIN’ ALONG SLEATER-KINNEY BROWSING AT ‘THE WOODS’

Interviews, , ,

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FOREWORD: I found it extremely difficult to get an interview with Sleater-Kinney frontline Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker. Album after album went by with no luck. Damn, I really tried reaching out. I caught these iconic feminist punk mavericks at Manhattan’s now-defunct club, Tramps, where they belted out tracks from ‘97 apex, Dig Me Out.

Eight years and four well-received albums later, The Woods broadened S-K’s scope without getting bogged down in desecrated jamming. But they disappointed some faithful fans with its elaborately elongated compositions. Anyway, I finally got newly recruited drummer, Janet Weiss (of keyboard-heavy pop eccentrics, Quasi), to do this ’05 interview. Within a year, the gals disbanded. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Swindling the name of a popular road in former home base, Olympia, Washington, Sleater-Kinney may be underground rock’s most ambitious combo. Forming at the height of nearby Seattle’s grunge scene, the liberated trio almost single-handedly carried the torch for estrogen-fueled punk independence throughout the late-‘90s. Continuing to take chances over a decade hence with little serious competition, raggedly charming singer-guitarists’ Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker (incipient drummer Lora Macfarlane was replaced by Janet Weiss) gained attention delivering boisterously somersaulting rock scrums coalescing guttural call and response wails with responsive choral tantrums.

The universally revered all-female outfit preliminarily brought a stimulatingly chaotic assault and fervently amateurish immediacy to DIY autonomy, lifting the deeply felt feminist empowerment and authoritative railing of seminal local riot grrrls Bratmobile, Bikini Kill, and Team Dresch (at odds with misogynist cock-rock suckers) to inform their veritable individualist attack. Persevering despite a few surprisingly cordial concessions to near-mainstream possibilities, Sleater-Kinney has nevertheless managed to retain their rowdy energetic roar and roughhewn action-packed minimalism, exuding the mindful emphatic adolescent romp and desperate emotional bloodletting influential ‘70s-commenced punk lasses Poly Styrene, the Raincoats, the Slits, and Delta 5 once relished.

Following a formative self-titled debut, the first condemnatory words uttered on Sleater-Kinney’s magnificent ’96 breakthrough, Call The Doctor, were ‘they want to socialize you/ they want to purify you/ they want to dignify you/ analyze and terrorize you.’ Its portentous provocation and sociopolitical snubbing hearkened directly back to the Sex Pistols snottily steadfast sneer, Never Mind the Bullocks.

Throughout, Seattle native Brownstein and Eugene-bred Tucker’s torturously haunted nagging voices and unbridled wiry 6-string mingling charged forth with gale force intensity, building a frantically gritty urgency frothily underlying the imminently claustrophobic maelstrom. Raspy scintillating plea, “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone,” with its sniping dovetailed harmonies, remains the most riveting, best-known composition concocted by these distressed damsels. When all the hit and run frenzy subsides, the restrained “Heart Attack” shows off a lighter side that’d affect some latter recordings.

By ‘97s equally fierce Dig Me Out, Quasi percussionist Janet Weiss came aboard, supplementing the ululating quavers and strangulated sentiments with skin bashing, cymbal slashing fury. ‘Motorific’ sonic grumbler “The Drama You’ve Been Craving” and feedback-sizzled “Heart Factory” complement the flanged riff circularity of battering-ram “Words And Guitar.” Though Sleater-Kinney still fire up the amps, oft-times more controlled verses counter the anticipated explosive choral flights.

Originally from Hollywood, California, Weiss found solace listening to L.A. radio as a teen, gravitating to Portland (the threesome’s current hometown) after a stint in San Francisco. A big music fan, she joined a nondescript band “off the cuff” at age 22, learning their songs in two weeks time.

“I was in over my head on tour having not played drums regularly beforehand,” the gracious black-haired Weiss offers following a ten day European jaunt playing festivals and clubs. “I then met Carrie and Corin through a mutual friend. We got together and sounded great. We were enamored by the rawness of punk and the early ‘90s were influenced by that rebelliousness. The first song we worked on, “Dig Me Out,” they had wanted to put drums to.”

Widening impulsive conviction, more elaborately extensive arrangements, and improved tempo and setting variations consume ‘99s artfully disparate fourth album, The Hot Rock. Sleater-Kinney’s usual frontline screaming yelps take a back seat to actual tenderhearted singing while the pro forma confrontational edginess becomes sideswiped by contemplative sympathy as their archetypal doubt and despair reveal more questions than answers.

“I haven’t listened to that album all the way through in years. I was upset by the way it sounded,” confides Weiss. “It was a hard record to make and emotionally wrenching. I didn’t like the drum sound. So many parts were really rigid.”

A convenient holding pattern ensued with delectable ’00 pop bromide, All Hands On the Bad One, a consistently harder rocking affair that’s less idiosyncratic, yet more vulnerable and conventional, scandalously exploiting the cuter side of S-K’s appeal. Hand-clapped cavort, “The Ballad Of A Ladyman,” even utilized violin, a sign of the broader instrumentation soon-to-be decorating future endeavors.

Guest keyboardist Steve Fisk (storied Seattle producer), string arranger-cellist Brent Arnold (now a semi-successful solo artist), Quasi’s Sam Coomes (theremin), and, on the thumping shakedown “Step Aside,” trumpet, alto and tenor sax, alter the sweet ‘n sour soulful sass of noisier insurrection, One Beat. Personal tribulations as well as 9-11’s tragic circumstances (befitting the restive “world explode in flames” explication) embolden the implacable lyrical poison. Tucker’s double duties as working mother vitalize the impatient “Faraway,” demandingly chirping ‘7:30 nurse the baby on the couch.’

“No Sleater-Kinney record will ever be totally positive because of the two viewpoints of our main writers. Carrie’s always gonna have a dark outlook at the end. Corin’s more hopeful. The contrast is built in. Their take on 9-11 was even different. It was impossible to make a happy record after your whole country is turned upside down,” Weiss admits.

Back with a new producer and coarser cacophonous concussion, the gal pals returned in ’05 for valiantly distorturous scrambler, The Woods. Opening skewered parable, “The Fox,” brings fuzzy guitar suss to a scavenging romp not unlike ex-Helium front lady Mary Timony’s exploratory hot licked solo projects.

“She’s definitely a comrade. We’ve toured with her for years and are great fans. That’s a comparison no one minds. She has that weird allegorical fairytale styling,” Weiss agrees.

Discontent lingers across the cynically auspicious neo-Classical folk-inaugurated barrage, “Modern Girl,” placing earthy harmonica next to buzzing amplifier clamor to thicken its resolve. Lyrically vindictive “Jumpers” seemingly ponders a nervous breakdown. And the protracted finale, “Night Light,” develops into an unexpectedly unrefined long jam where Weiss gets to display her limber chops.

“I got to flex my muscles more,’ Weiss says about the experimental closer. “It allowed me to try different things. The more space there is, the easier it is to fill. We did that in one take. It’s two songs combined with an unplanned middle improvisation. We thought, ‘Where is this going?’ It’s very of-the-moment.”

The feeling of being completely fed up and close to the edge of lunacy drifts inside heavily aggressive, sometimes autobiographical renouncements. This ballsy approach invariably suits The Woods mood shifting dissatisfaction.

“It’s not the most settling of times, inwardly, outwardly, politically, or sonically. We felt the same things and wanted to ground people by not making a passive record. A lot of bands are being quiet and doing what’s expected of them and we wanted to be defiant,” Weiss confides. “It’s slightly uncomfortable to listen to our own records. But I’ve enjoyed the last two more than the previous ones.”

Instead of having mainstay John Goodmanson at the helm, S-K decided to change producers in order to capture The Woods’ ferociously rambunctious heft. According to Weiss, Dave Fridmann (Flaming Lips/ Mercury Rev) had the requisite tools to devise a more abrasive, over the top craziness.

“The songs were more expansive and there were guitar solos. We wanted to really rip people’s ears open and wanted someone to push us to make something different then One Beat and as good.”

SCOTS DON’T LET DOGS DIE IN HOT CARS

Interviews

FOREWORD: In 2004, Scotland’s Dogs Die In Hot Cars released kaleidoscopic ‘80s-vintage stimulator, Please Describe Yourself. Things looked up. But internal squabbling lead to a breakup before a second album could be completed. Nevertheless, there’s still hope they’ll reconcile or hire some new members. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Getting their start playing local Scottish pubs and covering Nirvana’s savage requital “Rape Me” at preliminary shows, Dogs Die In Hot Cars then bought decent equipment, moved from tiny town, Fife, to big city, Glasgow, and began concentrating on composing original material. In actuality, they do for Brit-pop geniuses XTC what Futureheads recently did for zany artsy wags Devo – resourcefully exploit similarly stylistic ‘80s new wave proclivities through expressive harmonic interplay, cheerily melodic scurries, and perky rhythmic quirks while maintaining integrity, passion, and ambitious youthful exuberance.

True, singer-guitarist Craig MacIntosh’s bari-tenor flights, hiccuped phrasing and fidgety whimsicality recall XTC front man Andy Partridge when he’s being deceivingly apprehensive on opener “I Only Love You Cause I Have To,” but his dry humor and nifty 6-string hooks readily draw the listener in without nostalgic reservation.

“I’ve known our drummer (Laurence Davey) and guitarist (Gary Smith) since I was eight years old,” bassist Lee Worrall says prior to performing their last U.S. tour date at Hollywood’s Avalon Theatre along with newest buddies, French noir co-headliners Phoenix. “We met Craig when we were twelve and started making some noise with his high pitch voice up-front. He writes the lyrics and we come up with musical ideas on computer, jam with it, pull it apart, and put it back together.”

Saddled by latest acquisition Ruth Quigley’s mealy organ squeals, Dogs Die In Hot Cars affably snub societal idiocy in an ironic manner doubtlessly understood by its post-adolescent minions.

“You’ve got to have a sense of humor,” Worrall realizes. “It’s been ten years of serious shoe gazing in the Glasgow scene. We wanted to do something more upbeat you can dance to instead of staring at your shoes. Craig likes to argue with himself when he’s writing. He’s not preachy. But most artists lyrics are shit.”

It’s easy to take the titular Please Describe Yourself as a smug mock aimed towards mainstream British press bastions New Musical Express and Melody Maker, ragtag media blitzed trendsetters that have the tendency to narrowly define multiple genres for corporate sales purposes. But that’d only partially explain its derivation.

Worrall comments, “It seemed appropriate on many levels. It was written about living in the same house together and watching people on a t.v. show with a camera in their face sitting in a booth who’d describe themselves in five words or less – ‘happy go lucky’ – they’d all say exactly the same thing. No one ever said, ‘I’m manic depressive’ or ‘I’ve got a tiny penis’ or ‘I killed someone once.’ Also, we had a B-side using that title. So that’s how the title came about.”

As for the weirdly elongated precautionary Dogs Die In Hot Cars moniker these friendly Scots picked to click, he says, “We used to make up fake stories of its origin. The truth is my dad saw it on the back of a car and thought it was the perfect name. It looks good in print, on tee shirts, and always sparks a reaction.”

Joyously resonating “Godhopping” may not deal directly with the Almighty, but its tart sentiment depicts a hint of animosity tossed at flaky spiritual wavering. Yet it’ll definitely put a hop in your step and some sass in your ass.

“It’s got all these obscure words in Mrs. Byrne’s dictionary that Craig was reading while taking a shit,” Worrall notes sans sarcasm. “The theme of changing your religion to fit with the times underlies, out of context, how these people behave.”

Frequently, the choppy rhythms suggest reggae or ska beats, but Worrall dismisses such whimsical thoughts as hasty. “It doesn’t sway us more so than anything else. I think the Police, especially Stewart Copeland, who used reggae styling, is one of the best drummers. We’re into their early stuff. Red Hot Chili Peppers we respect. The influences on the rhythm affects us as we’re doing three-hour funky jams.”

Appreciatively working the studio boards for their meritorious debut were veterans Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley (Elvis Costello, Madness, Morrissey).

“They’ve done so much different stuff,” he adds. “We had a bunch of producers interested, but we weren’t basing it on their track record. We met Clive and Alan after going in the studio to do ‘04s Man Bites Man EP. We did a track to see if we could get along. The songs were already there and the structures and ideas we had were on the same wavelength with them. When we made the album, we’d grown pretty close and they had a good angle. I only wish we had a U.K. record company that’d put it out on vinyl. It’d be a lot more satisfying listening to it on 12-inch.”

Cheeky Anglo-accented salute, “Paul Newman’s Eyes,” with its snappy groove, dinky harmonica break, and classically trained Quigley’s boogie shuffle and soprano descant, relates a poor man’s dream of living the high life. Topical bedroom fantasy, “Celebrity Sanctum,” cleverly connects I Love Lucy’s ditzy red-headed misfit with modern screen actresses Lucy Liu, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Angelique Jolie while penetratingly conjoining the songs’ lovely crescendo peaks to billowy descending valleys.

MacIntosh’s most engaging lyrical expressiveness soothes somber requiem, “Somewhat Off The Way,” a spindly lullaby with stately piano and majestic church-like chant. Spryly tuneful “Apples & Oranges” applies sunny day ambiance atop fruitful metaphors. The overseas version of Please Describe Yourself inexplicably doesn’t include blazing goofball “Who Shot The Baby,” a rumbling encore informed by the Talking Heads and the Move’s jittery riff-chopped stammer.

“We’ve had a portable studio to chuck ideas into a laptop. We’ll be flying home tomorrow for a week off. Then, we’ll head to Australia for a small tour and disappear during the summer to put together our second album,” Worrall infers. “But we have no clue what it’ll sound like.”

Do annoying comparisons with XTC bother the capable combo?

“We realize now we come from a familiar place. But we had no conception of them at the beginning. English Settlement and Drums & Wires (are touchstones). At least they’re not comparing us to shit bands. Instead, it’s the Proclaimers and Talking Heads.”

BRENDAN BENSON HEDGES AGAINST ‘LOVE’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Versatile instrumentalist-composer-producer Brendan Benson was not only excited by the prospects of ‘05s The Alternative To Love when we spoke, but also the new indie rock supergroup he helped integrate with White Stripes luminary Jack White and the Greenhornes’ ace rhythm section. Together, as the Raconteurs, the decisive quartet sired ‘06s excellent Broken Boy Soldiers (with the readymade knockout “Steady As She Goes”) and ‘08s less thrilling Consolers Of The Lonely. As of ’09, the Michigan native had moved to middle Tennessee. A new solo album with backing by local Nashville cats, the Features (whose ’04 disc, Exhibit A, contained their best oddball psych-pop), is due in ’09. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Brendan Benson’s illuminating pop consistently reveals an undeniably infectious exuberance felt throughout both quirky panoramic propulsions and, on the dark side, dusky lovelorn shimmies. A native of bucolic Detroit suburb, Royal Oaks, Benson’s finest tunes expose innermost neuroses as he gushes sentimental hygiene trying to overcome plaguing emotional insecurities and relieve relationship stress. But deep within his wound heart lies a ‘70s-prescribed medication to cure the pain of anxiety.

“My parents were young and listened to cool stuff like T. Rex, the Stooges, and David Bowie. I just like classic rock. Bowie’s a big influence, though it doesn’t show up in my music. I didn’t really get into the Beatles til after my first record, One Mississippi. Then, I got seriously into them,” Benson claims.

One Mississippi compatriots, producer Ethan Johns and ex-Jellyfish soloist Jason Falkner, not only had a profound influence on Benson, but also helped him find comfort finagling the gadgetry and gear that’d soon bedeck the pop-rooted multi-instrumentalists’ home studio.

“I loved Jason’s demos more than his band recordings. I felt honored to work with him. Ethan was more of a studio head. I was interested in recording music and wanted to make my own records. He taught me how to for about a year. Maybe next time I’ll go to a proper studio, but I’ve recorded the last two alone in my own home studio,” Benson volunteers.

But first, Benson had to deal with the depressing fact that major label, Virgin Records, dropped him soon after his debut tanked commercially. So following an extended six year hiatus, he finally returned with ‘02s critically celebrated Lapalco. Thoughtful melancholia, impeccable licks, and swelling keyboard passages add brilliant coloration to this significant achievement, highlighted by the motorvating guitar-driven workout, “Good To Me.” Soon, good news was on the horizon in the form of a contract with lauded V2 Records.

“The only big difference between Lapalco and the new record is I wrote and recorded The Alternative To Love relatively fast. It took five months compared to four to five years. Lapalco was basically a collection of songs whereas the new one is more focused and reflects a shorter period of time,” he admits.

‘05s The Alternative To Love opens with the urgent melodic guitar burner, “Spit It Out,” possibly Benson’s perkiest, hook-heaviest riff romp, which by the way, compares favorably to respected Jersey tunesmith Ted Leo’s best bristling rockers.

The gracious one-man-band explains, “I wanted to set the tone and come out with a bang. I’ve always tried to make songs sound like a band instead of some guy doing a singer-songwriter thing.”

An orchestral Baroque flare embodies “Biggest Fan,” where spindly harpsichord counteracts woodwind-like synthesizer affects. Sturdily uplifting pop nugget “Get It Together” is simply a perfect Big Star re-creation somehow reminiscent of other lost ‘70s oddities such as Jay Ferguson’s “Thunder Island” or Emitt Rhodes obscure self-titled masterpiece. Wistful acoustic yarn “Cold Hands (Warm Heart)” finds Benson beggin’ for a second chance at love, utilizing synth-topped toy xylophone for extra melodic texture. And uplifting sugar rush “Feel Like Myself” adapts the Cars new wave synth vroom for aggregate durability.

When told the salient “Gold Into Straw” recalls the Soft Boys crisply whimsical neo-punk rush, Benson excitedly exclaims, “I love Robyn Hitchcock but never thought that song sounded like his old band. Lyrically, that deals with nonsensical searching. Its stream of consciousness is like King Midas in reverse.”

Then, there’s the naïve uncertainty underlying the chiming early ‘60s Wall of Sound knockoff, “The Pledge,” which employs programmed castanets and sampled tubular bells to intensify the resolving notion: ‘maybe I’m just damaged goods/ maybe you’re just a babe in the woods.’

Benson recounts, “The idea for a full-on Phil Spector arrangement came from Chris Shaw, who originally mixed it. We didn’t use the mix he did, but the concept was his.”

Wandering the dark end of the street contemplating marital bliss, “What I’m Looking For” quests for domesticity while surviving life on the road.

“There’s that conundrum where part of me wants a tamer lifestyle and the other side is wild and doesn’t want to settle down. But it’s not an option now. I’m touring and it’s never ending.” He adds, “When you can’t have something, like a regular home life, it becomes super desirable. But I’m a big complainer so it’s the perfect excuse to write a song.”

At Manhattan’s Bowery Ballroom in April, Benson, longstanding touring drummer Matt Alijan, bassist Michael Horrigan, and guitarist Dean Ferita executed spot-on interpretations of new and old repertoire. Displaying an entire spectrum of original contemporary content, the combo broke into International Submarine Band’s obscure “Stronger” mid-encore, bringing forth the same ‘60s roadhouse spirit that early Gram Parsons outfit once did.

Despite traveling the country two-thirds of the year, Benson recently found time to produce tracks for Cincinnati garage-rockers the Greenhornes. But he had to leave halfway through to prepare for his latest promotional tour.

“Hopefully they’ll finish it,” he says hesitantly. “I don’t know if it’ll come out. I may not have finished one whole song. It’s a little different for them, less garage-y. They’ve expanded their horizon and become more soulful, yet there’s a poppy commercial side too.”

But the real big news happens to be Benson’s collaboration with White Stripes leader, Jack White, a partnership billed as the Raconteurs, that should yield terrific sales results a la Loretta Lynn’s White-aided triumphant comeback, Van Leer Rose.

“It’s weird, if you can imagine balancing my pop with his Blues. Sometimes it’s cut and paste or I’ll sing and he’ll do the chorus,” he points out. “Patrick and li’l Jack from the Greenhornes are the rhythm section. You can’t get any better.”

GOTTA RESPECT HEIRUSPECS

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Many of you haven’t heard of indie Minneapolis hip-hop crew, Heiruspecs, but they’re undoubtedly one the most thrilling live acts I’ve ever witnessed. I caught up with DJ Felix in ’04, weeks before watching Heiruspecs knock out a capacity crowd at Tribeca’s Knitting Factory. In ’08, a self-titled, self-released long-player proved commendable. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

While so many hip-hop heads merely dupe ole riffs rhymes n’ riddims for suitable affectation, St. Paul, Minnesota quintet Heiruspecs create wholly authentic new beats without resorting to sampling. Formed in the ‘90s by DJ Felix and apropos-nicknamed bassist Twinkie Jiggles, at first with random musicians, these shrewd schoolboys spread rap gospel like the evangelical soothsayer their Roman moniker derives from.

DJ Felix recalls, “We started jamming in Central High School’s Jazz Room, doing improvisations – not songs per se. We thought we should organize an impromptu band. We put out a tape years ago that we hope goes away. It had bad sound quality. Our drummer (Peter Leggett), interestingly, the youngest member, played a Battle of the Bands we were celebrity judges at. His band sucked but he was great. There’s a pretty huge hip-hop scene in Minnesota. The Rhymesayers are from St. Paul. Other crews on the way up are Kancer, Unknown Prophets, and Doom Tree. I could walk from my house to Minneapolis in five minutes.”

Though DJ Felix admits having a propensity towards contemporaneous rap stars Nas, Jay_Z, and Gift Of Gab, early on his father’s eclectic taste invigorated the impressionable youth.

“I was into the metal my dad had exposed me to. But then he had Run DMC playing in his van. Those two guys rapping turned me on to hip-hop culture and opened new doors,” he recounts. “But at age seven, I had old tapes of indie rockers Husker Du. (Local hero) Prince could always be heard on the radio so I didn’t bother buying his records. The Twin City scene had many funkier bands that didn’t go too far, but provided my first exposure to the local scene. Abstract Park turned me on to regional prospects. Their member, Glorious, was a big inspiration as far as our sound goes. Then came NWA’s West Coast gangsta rap. The first CD I owned was public Enemy’s The Empire Strikes Black. I couldn’t stop listening to it.”

After Heiruspecs developmental self-released ’02 debut, Small Steps, took hold, respectable label, Razor & Tie, signed up the ambitious quintet for ‘04s progressive-minded rap attack, A Tiger Dancing. Loaded up-front with a scintillating barrage of diligently detailed joints, the crucial set eases into incisively uniform latter fare such as the sanguine “Positions Of Strength” and its cello-tinged reprimand, “Lie To Me.”

“It’s a more mature effort. On Small Steps, we were experimenting, trying to find our sound. There was more childishness,” DJ Felix explains.

Augmented by fellow St. Paul rapper (and feral human beat box) Maud’Dib and a trio of sterling instrumentalists, Heiruspecs have certainly come of age. Meatier beats, stronger opinions, and less gimmickry mark their perceptive sophomore endeavor.

Giving a shout out for brother-in-arms, Maud-Dib, DJ Felix discloses, “He’s a little older, but lived in the same neighborhood for a long time. He was always into music and came from more experimental hip-hop outfit, Twisting Linguistics. He pushed himself to do things others hadn’t done. The vocalized scratching element came out of that.”

Dissing corporate, religious, and neighborhood corruption, the insurgent epiphany, “I’m Behind You,” shoots a poison-tipped arrow at ripe wack targets.

Defending his sociopolitical stance, DJ Felix gushes, “The concept was to examine the criminal mindset from jaywalking to flicking cigarettes out car windows to regular people of elevated status doing appalling stuff. What’s the motive? So I play the devil’s advocate, asking, ‘Did you ever notice you killed that person?’ People of high moral standing constantly screw up. I took a slightly different twist and it made me understand my own surroundings better.”

Executing engagingly scatological investigations reliant upon precise rhymin’ elocution, Hieruspec’s creative depth, sturdy chemistry, and instinctive skills cultivate hip-hop’s discreet fundamentals. Vinegar-y linguistic pugilist Maud’Dib complements DJ Felix’s dexterous tongue-twistin’ gabs while the band reticulate the duos’ mike technique. Percolating rafter-raising beep-beaten anthem “Something For Nothing” grabs attention immediately. Fresh as the morning dew and giving big ups to the Lord, lounge-y keyboard sprinkles pontificating count-off “5ves.” Written out of urban frustration, lickety-split rant “Two-Fold” lets emotion dictate style, blasting forth with a delectably bleating cadenced melody.

Live at New York’s Knitting Factory post-midnight April Fools Day, DJ Felix and Maud’Dib provide an even more profound contrast than their curious white rhythm section. While bespectacled Felix seems almost nerdy, modestly playful, and non-threatening, menacing partner Maud’Dib’s guttersnipe street pounce, serious ghetto demeanor, and quick-spit tongue-lashings sometimes recall Iceberg Slim. They rapidly exchange succinct verses, but domineering Dib’s jittery-faced verbosity, confrontational staccato declarations, and brash bravado tend to hit hardest. Plus, he motivated the appreciable audience to jump along to the climactic mid-set boogie “Something For Nothing.” Occasionally Maud’Dib sprayed unique hyperventilating human beat box affects: brassy splutters, pouty-lipped turntable scratching, and one schizoid whiny scat.

The majority of fierce solo freestylin’ takes place stage right in front of sweat-drenched Rhodes keyboardist dVRG. Meanwhile, half-ton bassist Twinkie Jiggles’ instrument looks like a toy next to his large frame and drummer Peter Leggett’s Jazz-invested patter finds the groove beneath. Phat new joint “They Are” stammers rigidly and concisely. Adding icing to the cake, Berkeley, California rap icon Lyrics Born’s seasoned guitar-bass-drum-keys combo supplemented his terrific participatory call-and-response P-Funk beforehand.

Whether live or on record, Heiruspecs deliver the goods. So watch carefully as these Minnesota ambassadors add a new chapter to hip-hop history.

DEARS IN THE HEADLIGHT

Interviews,

FOREWORD: A black Canadian singer in a predominantly white British-American indie rock scene, Dears mainstay Murray Lightburn sings like Morrissey and couldn’t care less if that’s obvious. Since this ’04 interview promoting breakthrough album, No Cities Left, Lightburn’s rotating Dears cast has proved to be mighty efficient on ‘06s better Gang Of Losers and ‘07s nearly-as-good Missiles. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Though Dears singer-guitarist Murray Lightburn had no formal training, he took reading-writing courses at Concordia University to ably communicate with Classical musicians, an important step forward considering the highly orchestrated settings his quartet greatly employ. Initially, however, Lightburn had to hire university students through an ad to construct ‘01s debut EP, Orchestral Pop Noir Romantique.

“They came through and played the parts I wrote out,” Lightburn recalls. “But I met people along the way who’d read about the band and began collaborating. It was easier to get musicians in the studio. In a way, we’re book-ending the debut with No Cities Left.”

Though the sociopolitical implications of ‘02s harrowing mini-concept EP, Protest, portend No Cities Left, the morose helplessness of “We Can Have It” and spindly acoustic manifesto “Who Are You, Defenders Of The Universe” appear to be personal, instead of bureaucratic, attacks.

Lightburn avows, “I don’t want to go too far with my politics or I’ll lose some people. If you’re singing in English, keep it simple so it’s easier to relate. You have to speak in ways they understand despite any language barrier. They aren’t gonna listen to something that doesn’t convey meaning.”

Lightburn’s utter infatuation with Morrissey proved surreally fascinating when the Dears got to open for the dark-humored idol. Moreover, the pacifistic ‘beat the crap out of me’ despair of “Lost In The Plot” conveniently dupes the neurotically sympathetic baritone bellow of his mentor. Lyrically, the whirring theatrical ascension of soaring plea “Pinned Together, Falling Apart” depicts similarly terrifying lovelorn intrigue.

“Obviously, the thing that pains me most is what humans do to each other,” he says. “As a writer, I’m trying to bring to the table suggestions for everyone to chill out, be positive and loving, not greedy. I’d like to acknowledge there’s a better me inside. I want to be patient and not react negatively. That’s the challenge of life.”

Perhaps No Cities Left’s overall disconsolate theme, paranoiac proliferation, and estranged mortality could be summed up best in the title tracks’ deceptively hopeful queue: ‘Don’t you think that now is the time to move on/ if you don’t mind I’ll just keep holding on for good.’

“We’re looking to take it to another level sonically and do things more switched-on,” Lightburn contends. “It’ll still be epic and huge, but not as abstract. Our soul side isn’t as pronounced as on other works, but if you listen to the Bar-Kays work on Hot Buttered Soul, the rhythm section is disgustingly good – and a big inspiration. “Never Destroy Us” is what you’d get if David Bowie had them backing him.”

Brass, violin, and sax pad No Cities Left’s sullen inclinations, cushioning band mates Natalie Yanchak’s eerie organ vibe, Martin Pelland’s limber bass throb, and George Donoso’s meticulous percussive plod. Slipping into the ether, swirling sleep-deprived moodscape “Expect The Worst/ ’Cos She’s A Tourist” reaches mystical proportion. Furthermore, the rainy day ambiance enveloping “The Second Part” projects comparable sad-eyed longing.

Concerning the latter, the dark-skinned frontman says, “Live, we’re doing a slower, more soulful version, like the Pixies did with “Wave Of Mutilation.” People recognize the opening chords and react, but are taken aback by the different second verse.”

At Hoboken landmark Maxwells, leather-clad Lightburn seizes control with sheer vocal force; delivering pleading testimonials and riveting caterwauled declarations with eyes half-closed to enormous applause. If this emphatic response is any indication, the Dears may just overhaul America’s unconscionably mainstream conservatism.

STARS HELP BOLSTER SENSITIVE MONTREAL INSURRECTION

Interviews,
FOREWORD: I interviewed Stars leader, Torquil Campbell, the son of Shakespearean actors, in my wife’s van, following a great Mercury Lounge set.
 
His band was in town promoting ’05 US breakout, Set Yourself On Fire. He couldn’t have been more cordial as we chatted and drank some beers. Since then, he’s released ‘06s A Little Place In The Wilderness, with long-time New York City pal, Chris Dumont (under the guise of Memphis), put out another Stars record (the ‘apoc-timistic’ In Our Bedroom After The War), appeared in movies and on television, and directed local theatre. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.
Montreal’s spectacular burgeoning music scene has been graced with some highly intrinsic literate wits composing finely wrought symphonic triumphs. The consummate compassion displayed within the scene extends beyond developing heartfelt songs, forging deep personal relationships and a common bond amongst its newly elite competitive icons. One of the brightest Canadian combos, the Stars, formed when Toronto natives Torquil Campbell and Chris Seligman retreated north following a fruitless Brooklyn sojourn.

“It’s a happy coincidence how bands like Arcade Fire, the Dears, and Unicorns got their shit together at the same time,” Campbell insists. “Chris and I felt horrible about our lives, being 26 and living in New York City. So we began recording what had become the failures in our lives up to that point. That melancholy will always be there. The first album, Nightsongs, was me and Chris in his bedroom. We had no idea what we were doing, but wanted it to be different than the miserable existence we’d led. We wanted to make a cosmopolitan, glamorous, beautiful icy blue record.”

Adorably amorous ’03 breakthrough, Heart, found these incurable dream weaving romantics hitting majestic stride quilting lighthearted odes such as velvet-y flute-ensconced serenade “The Vanishing.” An entrancing windswept breathlessness and swelteringly restrained emotionality suavely tempered the wispy grandiose subtlety.

“Morrissey wanted to sound like the New York Dolls and Johnny Marr, the Smiths guitarist, wanted to the Ohio Players. The result of it, living in England where I was as a pre-teen, gave them a connection to their elegant, rough, totally unique, energetic fragility. That dynamic of three pot head instrumentalists hooking up with Morrissey – off in a corner writing in his book – captured my imagination. They changed my perception and led to Velvet Underground, the most underrated, important band ever,” Campbell concedes.

Embellished by real brass and strings, ‘05s stunningly seductive Set Yourself On Fire’s richer template allows the Stars admirable melodic illuminations to retain previous endeavors’ radiant warmth while serendipitously coaxing civic pride.

Campbell explains, “Part of what’s gone out of pop music is espousing a cause and showing some belief, even if it’s naïve and simplistic. People who know Chomsky understand it’s supposed to be emotional. Unlike artier experimentalists, Broken Social Scene, we’re tight, unified, very specific, and anal-retentive. There’s an urge to lose that, but it was like a project. We wanted to make an ornamental record put together perfectly. Now we’ll try to take chances doing other music.”

Proud to be part of “The Soft Revolution,” an inconspicuous peaceful uprising supported by fellow anti-war minstrels advocating radical nations to lay down arms for the betterment of society, Campbell and his minions profess merciful resolution. Accordingly, discordant screed “He Lied About Death” directly disses Bush’s “fascist agenda,” as Campbell’s whispered decree ‘bout ‘a devil born in paradise’ turns into a sneering jibe, ‘I hope your drunken daughters are gay!’

“We wanted to express the absolute chaos we felt the world is in, the sinister, devilish energy circulating around the world,” he offers. “The soft people who are losing must start to burn or it’s all over. Set yourself on fire, sacrifice evil and fear, before someone else destroys you. Rebel against the sons of archaic, cursed, soulless oil men doing business making millions killing people. They’re devils so divorced from society. You have to cry, sing, and be beautiful. As Lennon said, ‘A working class hero is something to be.’”

Donning a mix of casual wear and elegant attire, the Stars buoyantly furrow through Set Yourself On Fire’s many highlights with nonchalant assurance at Manhattan hotspot Mercury Lounge. Debonairly dressed Campbell mouths a harmonium or trumpet when not baring his soul. Eye-pleasing singing partner Amy Millan’s suave cat purr and feigned hip-hop maneuvers provide focal point. Friskily charismatic keyboardist Seligman reveals flamboyant flare and leather jacketed new guitarist David Ramsey applies rugged licks as weirdly head-cropped tiger t-shirted drummer Pat Mc Gee and sports-suited businessman-like bassist Evan Cranley furnish sturdy rhythms.

“I’ve known Evan since he was twelve. He was a sweet young boy who played in a Jazz group. He changed everything because he’s an amazing musician and integral part of Broken Social Scene alongside Amy. She came from a bluegrass-Country background. The mythical process of getting thoughts out of my mind, then inventing my whole little world – Heart was close to that mandate.”

Campbell may share a Morrissey fetish with the Dears leader Murray Lightburn, but both admit an affinity for prime Soul. “The Kinks were my first favorite band,” Campbell yields. “Then I felt more connected to Motown artists Curtis Mayfield and Marvin Gaye, Al Green, and black doo wop. They knew the potential and limitations of pop music on every level, played it to the hilt…and it’s sexual.”

-John Fortunato

HEARTLESS BASTARDS CLIMB ‘STAIRS & ELEVATORS’ ‘ALL THIS TIME’

Interviews,
FOREWORD: I became friendly with Cincy’s Heartless Bastards during an ’05 tour promoting eye-opening entrée, Stairs & Elevators. Lead voice, Erika Wennerstrom, proved to be a genuinely nice person, as were her two male band mates. I remember being upset when drummer Kevin Vaughn told me respectable Cincy brewpub, Barrelhouse, had closed down (happily, it’s now a local microbrewery). I’ve included my ’06 Aquarian interview with Wennerstrom (where she promotes second album, All This Time), as well as an earlier ‘05 Mercury Lounge club date review (with Stairs & Elevators review included). In ’09, the Heartless Bastards returned with The Mountain. Before opening for seasoned high-profile troubadour Lucinda Williams at Radio City Music Hall, upstart Cincinnati trio, the Heartless Bastards, seized the stage two nights hence inside Hoboken’s hallowed backroom landmark, Maxwells.

Taking advantage of transitory headlining status, the powerhouse blues-y triad delivered a well-received hour-and-a-half set filled to the brim with tersely performed tunes from their critically hailed debut, Stairs & Elevators, and its enduring ’06 follow-up, All This Time.

Inspired by Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and a boatload of subordinate Rhythm & Blues sanctities, singer-guitarist Erika Wennerstrom belted out original hard rockers in a convincingly husky contralto. Always verging on the edge of despair, volatile opener, “No Pointing Arrows,” oozed with drone-y sub-Sabbath guitar-bass sludge, reaching an excruciatingly determined zenith as Wennerstrom’s cigarette-coarsened moan crept up from beneath the floorboards to way above the sympathetic crowd. Despite their loudly pungent sound and ruthlessly villainous moniker, these ‘supposed’ Heartless Bastards are actually a shy, friendly cadre, offering very little ‘tween-song chatter and assuming no postures while Wennerstrom laid bear emotional conviction.

“I didn’t really listen to rock until about age sixteen. Nobody I knew really paid attention to it,” Catholic-schooled Dayton native Wennerstrom confessed afterwards. “I’m not into church, but I’m really into (Gospel legend) Mahalia Jackson. I heard of her from a Christmas album that had “Go Tell It On the Mountain.”

By way of Gospel, Wennerstrom felt secure plying her grandiose pipes to hard luck Blues, giving a firm woman’s perspective to the weathered “Feel So Old,” a gloomy minimalist mantra done in a scruffy timbre cognizant of southern R & B practitioner R.L. Burnside – an amazing feat (especially coming from the mouth of a diminutive midwest blonde). Yet she never succumbs to mere abrasive contemptuousness, maintaining sharp-knifed certitude while bleeding sorrow and pain.

“Everybody has their own pain. I think pain is relative,” she claims, deflecting any overbearing heartache endured then transposed through anguished lyrics. “I complain about a million things that happened to me. But I guarantee there are people who’ve suffered worse.”

Perchance, one of those sufferers was influential wheelchair-bound slide guitarist, Cedell Davis, a fellow Fat Possum Records artist whose latent career found a ripened ‘90s audience after years of neglect. Nonetheless, Wennerstrom also admits to having a hankering for fellow underground Ohio rockers Guided By Voices and Braniac – two prematurely defunct outfits that toured ceaselessly not unlike these busy Bastards.

Perhaps mostly reminiscent of tragic cosmic blues figure Janis Joplin, Wennerstrom sings with the same raggedy heart-on-the-sleeve fervor and converses in a similarly elucidated fragile twanged drawl. An unadulterated urgency constantly enriches her vitally projected haunted pining. Stormy polar discontent (“so cold in the winter”) and dusky escapism curdle bewitching numbers such as “Into The Open,” where she intermittently turns to piano for somber retreat. Quite possibly, her band may have sold millions had they existed right after Joplin’s exquisite Pearl dropped in ‘70.

Thankfully, the efficient rhythm section of bassist Mike Lamping and drummer Kevin Vaughn provide plentiful gusto, safeguarding their distressfully self-effacing primary damsel to the hilt. Together a mere four years, the Heartless Bastards have already accomplished plenty. Hanging around veteran performers such as Lucinda Williams and James Mc Murtry could only help seal their fate as semi-famous subterranean homesick blues-rockers.

HEARTLESS BASTARDS TAKE ON MANHATTAN

One cold March night at cozy New York club, Mercury Lounge, blues-y Cincinnati trio the Heartless Bastards warm up a thicket of curious patrons with a durable set of supple tunes from their excellent debut, Stairs And Elevators (Fat Possum). Led by Fender guitarist Erika Wennerstrom’s huskily whined contralto, the amiable combo flawlessly ran through a flurry of resolute bittersweet lamentations ripe for the picking.

Plying her skillful fretting to sparingly swelling arrangements, the bantam blonde-headed filly belted out aching emotion-drenched lyrics that captured all the heartache and pain a dreary existence as a Dayton teen could bring forth. Meanwhile, stoic bassist Mike Lamping stood hunched over, eyes almost closed, plucking dense chords. And hefty bald drummer Kevin Vaughn, buried behind his kit, splattered blunt beats and cymbal tings, filling any empty spots necessary to complement Wennerstrom’s sepulchral tear-stained squawks.

On Stairs And Elevators, inviting opener “Gray” finds Wennerstrom spewing anguish, leaning on the distortion pedal for emphasis. She drags out vowels like vamping punk dowager Patti Smith for the tart “Onions,” seeks clear-eyed “Autonomy” overcoming ominous obstacles and childhood tribulations, and remains hopeful atop the rippling percussive patter encircling doggedly empowered “New Resolution,” all the time steadfastly spouting cautious optimism. “Swamp Song” indirectly salutes Oxford, Mississippi’s rudimentary Country blues men, such as fellow label mates R.L. Burnside and T Model Ford, with blustery axe wielding tumult and adroit rhythmic execution. Similarly, lowdown hoedown “Done Got Old” leans closer to nearby Appalachian mountain folk tradition. Fans of the Heartless Bastards previous tour buddies, the Black Keys and Drive-By Truckers, will not be disappointed.

-John Fortunato

HOLD STEADY ROCK STEADY ON ‘ALMOST KILLED ME’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: After this ’04 piece, promoting Hold Steady’s sturdy debut, Almost Killed Me, Craig Finn’s Brooklyn-via-Minneapolis troupe became all the rage amongst underground pundits. I wanted to do an article on them for High Times, seeing that Finn is such an ardent pro-marijuana advocate, but got denied permission. Since then, Hold Steady increased their fan base with excellent follow-ups such as ‘05s pharmacologically conscientious, Separation Sunday, ‘06s exhilaratingly loyalist, Boys And Girls In America, and ‘08s broadened prospectus, Stay Positive. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Singer-guitarist Craig Finn tries to keep it real compared to what used to be before disco and punk exploded around 1977. Along with former Lifter Puller pal Tad Kubler, the Minnesota native originally assembled the Hold Steady on a whim to play vintage hard rock instrumental snippets for a New York improv comedy troupe. Now married and living in the Big Apple, Finn left behind his frigid Gopher State confines to explore “the big glamorous city” he had always fantasized, finding full-time work for a digital distribution company coding music.

After attending suburban Catholic institute Boston College in the ‘80s, an educational facility neighboring his Beantown birthplace, Finn returned to Minneapolis, finding comfort following the same respected underground bands he loved as a confused adolescent: the Replacements and Husker Du.

“I was into hardcore and punk. I went to many exceptional local concert events that would affect my future endeavors. There was definitely a lot of pride in that area,” he recalls. “There was a lot of personal stuff to deal with when I went to high school. But it was a cool time to grow up in and seemed like a logical place to base my songs.”

Though Lifter Puller maintained artier aspirations and barely gained a foothold beyond the wintry Land of 10,000 Lakes, the Hold Steady proved to be more approachable, straightforward, and thankfully, just as intense, establishing a truly mesmerized nationwide audience. Lifter Puller, over the course of three increasingly illuminating albums, reached their zenith on ‘00s garrulous Fiestas Fiascos, an utterly profound manifesto digesting an oddball cornucopia of mangy drug-fueled characters that’d appreciably inspire impending ventures peering into the soiled subterranean deluge shrouding mind-fucked gangsters, shady ladies, and liquored-up lowlifes.

Finn confesses, “Fiestas Fiascos was so much better than the others. The first one especially, where we made a generic indie rock record too soon. But the more we played together, a certain stylistic efficiency developed.”

Settling in New York City, Finn reconvened with fellow guitarist Kubler, plus bassist Galen Polivka and drummer Bobby Drake, to deliver the Hold Steady’s ruggedly impulsive zeitgeist, Almost Killed Me, an ambitious tour de force these humble Midwesterners never envisioned as the colossal breakthrough it’d quickly become. Immediately, the keen ’04 debut received gushing mainstream press glorifying its frankly detailed barfly portrayals.

Finn’s piercingly reflective narratives, verbose road tales, and seedy urban blueprints toiled as stark American travelogues capriciously intersecting arena rock bombast, punk-addled belligerence, and prog-rock elocution. His charismatic resplendence recaptured the unbound recklessness, party hearty revelry, and delinquent tenacity of the ‘70s Me Decade. Gladly acknowledging Bruce Springsteen’s extensive impact, he concocted heartwarming recollections and eminently quotable lines to don feverishly intuitive novellas.

Almost Killed Me’s vexing opening salvo, “Positive Jam,” offers cocksure determination in the face of perilously indignant domestic memoirs, serving as a semi-sarcastic revisionist history lesson descriptively reconciling the ravaged war-torn greed-impeded savagery abrasively blanketing the otherwise vanguard United States during the industrious 20th century. Moving into the present, Finn showers down sociopolitical acerbity on the existent amphetamine dilemma “Knuckles,” daringly tackling the harsh issue of chemical dependency facing modern post-teen rebels with snickering cynical jargon: ‘I been trying to get people to call me Freddie Mercury, but they keep calling me Drop Dead Fred.’

“There’s some defiant double entendre going on there. Crystal meth has ravaged Middle America. When Lifter Puller played Iowa shows, it was scary how wide the problem had become,” Finn explains.

Elsewhere, hard rocking derision “The Swish” amplifies disingenuous Beverly Hills decadence. Smirked barroom memento ‘Barefruit Blues” beseechingly bellows ‘half the crowd’s calling out for “Born To Run”/ the other half… “Born To Lose”/ maybe we were born to choose.’ And pithy piano underscores the railing guitar workout “Certain Songs,” highlighted by an expressive lyrical excursion insinuating Greetings From Asbury Park.

The inceptive schematic plot, a vital stab at appeasing ‘70s-assuaged neuroticism, gets convincingly consummated on ‘05s superior Separation Sunday. Surpassing the sparer predecessor by introducing a veritable boon of intriguingly deranged caricatures with deeper newfangled personality crises, the Hold Steady’s bittersweet emotional anecdotes steadfastly refuse dilution. Beginning with the growled vestige “Hornets! Hornets!,” these recoiling ambassadors of archetypal classic rock display a contagious enthusiasm name-checking displaced vagabonds and transitory locales.

Despite its glaringly reverential title, the pining ‘seventeen forever’ remembrance, “Stevie Nix,” only offhandedly references the vampish Fleetwood Mac singer, whose surname is resolutely misspelled. But the anecdotal twists therein depicted provoke a forlorn solicitude romanticism ever so closely related to Springsteen’s kaleidoscopic “Rosalita” rap strewn across pounding piano runs and a stammered guitar beat forebodingly retrieved from The Who’s stinging inquiry “The Seeker.” Incidentally, the elongated folk-rap passage “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” melds the same hyperbolic exhilaration atop chilly organ rejuvenation, utilizing the carnival-esque buildup Meatloaf borrowed from The Boss for hyperbolic exhortation “You Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth.” Astonishingly industrious boogie rumble “Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night” places jukin’ guitars above flashy horn blurts while the penetratingly sturdy “Banging Camp” resurrects Thin Lizzy’s celebratory sonic guitar clusters. Straggling adrift trekking the continent ‘high as hell,’ the compelling “Multitude Of Casualties” ultimately proffers rebirth.

Finn explains, “Most of my songs come from altered composite sketches meshed together. That’s a vision quest about a young girl who leaves an unspecified big city, travels the country with a guy as a troubled youth, then disappears. When she comes back, she’s born again.”

When told that the Hold Steady’s story songs also invigorate comparisons to a northern version of Drive-By Truckers sagaciously fulsome chronicles, Finn’s eyes light up.

“I’m amazed by Drive-By Truckers. Their album, Southern Rock Opera, took me back to a pre-internet time when bands had a mystique,” Finn opines. “When Led Zeppelin would come out with a new album, nobody had a clue what it’d sound like ahead of time. There were no press clippings or informative interviews given beforehand. I had to try to figure out what REM’s Fables of the Deconstructive was about on my own. Nowadays, there’s always a pre-release buzz since artists have websites.”

A-FRAMES ABUT NOISY GUNK TO ABSTRACT ART ON ‘BLACK FOREST’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Where the fuck’s the follow-up, dudes? That’s the question I’d ask the A-Frames, whose ambitious ’05 album, Black Forest, kicked open shuttered doors with a loud bang. Can hardly find shit about them on the internet, ‘cept some guy saying Sub Pop Records is sitting on some unreleased recordings. I’d call the label, but I’m afraid they’d say the band broke up. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

A-Frames guitarist Erin Sullivan first became infatuated with schizoid Texas punk while attending Colorado State University with Scratch Acid guitarist Brett Bradford, who turned the local Greeley native on to the Lone Star State’s rabid hardcore scene. Soon after, Sullivan migrated to the northwest, where he fortuitously met compatible music collector geek Min Yee and instrumentalist Lars Finberg in Seattle. The trio shared an affinity for experimental rock’s unconventionality and decided to form the A-Frames as an investigative project impulsively exploring beyond the restrictive three-chord fringes of readymade indie pop. As keen-witted neo-punk descendants, the A-Frames made sundry limited edition singles and an ‘02 long-play debut, followed by the more involving, plainly titled 2.

“Our debut was mostly garage-punk, stripped down and naïve. My singing is hidden through distortion and amps ‘cause I didn’t think I vocalized well,” Sullivan smirks. “It was fairly straightforward compared to 2, which is slicker, more rock and roll-y, but weirder.”

But neither foray would match the unconstrained adventurousness, awesome depth, and clear progression of ‘05s fascinatingly inventive Black Forest. A headier non-conformity creeps through its minimalist no wave idiosyncrasies, fragmentary progressive rock abandon, and bristling automaton dance rhythms. Sometimes Sullivan’s ominously unwieldy baritone intuitively rails against fascism in a roundabout way or slithers into technological blather just for jest.

“The second record hit an apex with futuristic topics telling a story and then running with it. It was the first time I wrote lyrics that meant anything. Before that, it was all rock and roll filler,” he candidly reflects.

But it was the first single for the A-Frames own boutique label, Dragnet, which initially used science and technology as topical minutiae.

“That’s when I stumbled into the idea, on the “Neutron Bomb”/ “Test Tube Baby”/ “Radiation Generation” recording. But I still get criticized for my lyrics,” he claims. “I do research to make them more fun while trying to convey a small message.”

Sullivan’s biggest lyrical influence, Stickmen With Rayguns’ perilously spontaneous vocalist Bobby Soxx, had a knack for pissed off metaphoric intrigue. His loony apocalyptic humor and descriptive visualizations countered the heaviness of his Texas bands’ rollicking freakouts. But unfortunately Bobby Soxx died a total junkie on the streets, apparently “walking the talk,” as Sullivan so bluntly puts it.

“I loved the Butthole Surfers, Scratch Acid, and Teenage Queers, but Stickmen’s “Scavenger Of Death” is such a killer song about vultures picking at a corpse. There’s a picture of Bobby at a club with a mike stuck up his ass and there’s the Butthole Surfers’ Gibby Haynes, age 16, laughing hysterically in the background.” Sullivan excitedly adds, “Min scrounged up some hard-to-find Stickmen stuff and I’d bought the Texas hardcore compilation, Cottage Cheese On the Lips of Death. On it, Stickmen do “Christian Rat Attack.” There’s also a great early Cows tune, “Daddy Has A Tail,” which has an insane bass we’re trying to emulate.”

Captured on 8-track by perpetual A-Frames producer, Chris Woodhouse (ex-Karate Party), in a practice space where gear was brought in, Black Forest’s assemblage strangely came together piecemeal.

Sullivan explains, “We did a couple different sessions. The first ones we weren’t crazy about; didn’t like the mix. When we re-did it, Chris did a fucked up distorted mix that became (demented boogie) “Black Forest II,” with the toms. He plays the flamenco guitar on “Flies” since I couldn’t do it nearly as good.”

While the shuddering rumbled perdition “Death Train” recalls the comparatively straight-ahead tone of the A-Frames first two long-players, not to mention Gun Club’s skulking ‘psychobilly,’ Black Forest’s profound vigor relies instead on perceptively perplexing innovative designs. After an incessant Industrial clang envelops 68-second opener “Black Forest I,” a synth-derived bagpipe intro leads to elastic guitar razzmatazz and clanking mechanical percussion on curiously oblong probe “Experiment.” The ruggedly bass-bottomed volatility of “Galena” hearkens back to Mission Of Burma’s dense outré ‘80s output, but its metallic scheme reverberates more expeditiously. A medieval theme haunts “Flies,” a stationary counter-melodic duet with rad Aussie lass, Jo Clackston. Sullivan’s brawny feedback sustenance, Yee’s fuzzily psychedelic fretting, and Finberg’s punished skins frame the aggressively foreboding “Negative,” a ‘70s-styled political punk rant.

“We’re finally getting exposure. Nobody gave a shit about us. Now, our 7-inch singles sell for a fuck load on Ebay, between $40 and $90. At the time, we couldn’t get rid of them at record stores. It was embarrassing. We took time to catch on. We’re out of step,” Sullivan mulls. “Our live shows are hilarious. There’s the Chicago Blackout festival punk-porno magazine Horizontal Action does. We played with the Clone Defects and the Tirades. Somehow, we always get girls dancing up-front because our beats have a different groove than that of the punks. You know I don’t mind having girls shake their asses near the stage.”

Though signed to Sub Pop, the A-Frames maintain “a super half-ass record company venture,” Dragnet Records, which lacks proper distribution. Yet several worthy 45’s by underexposed acts like Los Huevos, Double Fudge, Piranhas, Twinkeys, and Michael Yonkers plus a full-length by San Francisco’s Vulvettes adjoin Finberg’s offshoot project the Intelligence. Calamitous Sullivan-Finberg spin-off, the Dipers, recorded ‘01s cacophonously walloped How to Plan Successful Parties on Omnibus Records with drummer Dean Whitmore.

“I’ve written a few new A-Frames songs,” Sullivan shares. “I wanna keep it simple next time. I have an urge to record on 4-track. It may be more extreme. For Black Forest, we used different source material to mix from, so the sound quality was unique, using different rooms at different times, creating dumb luck accidents.”

COACHWHIPS THRASH SUSPECTING VICTIMS ‘GINGER MINGE’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Some of the best things in life just crash and burn. San Francisco’s frighteningly belligerent Coachwhips were probably destined to fast burnout due to the mayhem and friction they evoked in everyone who experienced them. Before they fell apart at the seams, Coachwhips left us a great ’05 album that’d puncture indie rock’s sleazy womb with queasy spume. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Bringing their energetic living room celebration directly to the club, terrorizing San Francisco freakozoids the Coachwhips would rather perform vigorously bludgeoned rants off-stage in an unconstrained free-for-all frenzied fans could experience firsthand.

A scuzzy, yet heedlessly ambitious threesome, these mangy, feedback-fueled, Californicating experimentalists evoke the Butthole Surfers primordial mind-bending scum-pop contentiousness and Zen Guerrilla’s muffled blues-scraped unconventionality. The Coachwhips mutinously tear apart customary indie rock resplendence with a raging existential ire on ’05 breakthrough, Peanut Butter and Jelly Live at the Ginger Minge (its snickering title’s an ambiguous bloodied vagina allusion).

Following an out-of-print debut, Handle The Controls, plus ’03s 18-minute Bangers & Fuckers EP and the remoter Get Yer Body Next ta Mine, original architect John Dwyer (a Providence native) split with fellow conceptualist John Harlowe, but retained the unbridled distortion-laden intensity belying the Coachwhips finest whiplash implosions. Newcomers Val-Tronic’s spastic keys and Matt Von Hartman’s crushing percussion now suffuse guitarist Dwyer’s belligerently muzzled vocals with more extreme fuzzy sonic recklessness, strangely curdled readymade hook lines, and marvelously mutilated mayhem.

“Generally, a kernel of an idea gets expanded upon,” Von Hartman casually indicates. “John may have wrote pieces top to bottom beforehand, but now our material comes about by working a riff in practice or I’ll be screwing around with a drumbeat and whip out a song.”

Von Hartman grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, moved to the Bay Area in ’93, joined disjointed noise-pop outfit Henry’s Dress (“a blip on the radar”), provided alto sax in hardcore deconstructionists Total Shutdown, settled in loose Jazz improv offshoot Murder Murder, and briefly backed Chan Marshall’s provocative Cat Power. An impressionable pre-teen Kiss fan, he learned guitar to emulate those cartoonish face-painted travesties.

“At six, I’d go to local department store, Labelles, with my mother. They had a small record section,” he recalls. “I began poking through my father’s Big Band Era records, but I didn’t get much out of that. Meanwhile, my mom had a cassette collection of Neil Diamond, Carly Simon, Anne Murray, and Roberta Flack. I bought a sound affect record, Sounds Of Terror, which had a cartoon dracula with blood dripping out of its teeth. Its craziness appealed to my childhood horror fascination. On a subsequent trip to find something similar, I came across Kiss’ Love Gun, with its monster-mashed superheroes and women at their feet. When I got home I was surprised to see it was loud rock and roll. I’d put on Kiss Alive, break out tennis rackets, and jam. From there, I got into British new wave metal and picked up guitar at age eleven. I thought I’d replace Randy Rhodes in Ozzy’s band.”

Ultimately, the scrappy lo-fi garage angle taken by late ‘80s mavens the Gories and Pussy Galore would “scratch a soar itch” Von Hartman chafes on the Coachwhips 10-song, 21-minute clusterfuck, Ginger Minge. His beaten floor toms, whacked snares, and slashing cymbals anchor the messily scorched cacophony. Organ-pierced adrenaline rush “Did You Cum?,” grumbled three-chord scree “Ya Know Ya Wanna,” and contemptuously searing medical indictment “Letter 2 London” ferociously tear at the gut. Scampered apocalyptic bluster “Oops Uh Uh” perforates a festering guitar buzz while emboweled vagrant homage “What Do They Eat?” scathingly blurts ‘eat the blood and guts/ the meat of my memories.’

“We’re only gonna get noisier and dirtier,” Von Hartman concludes. “I can’t see us playing 6-minute DIY opuses. We want to keep the party atmosphere going, whether it’s a Who-Kinks vibe or another fucked up garage idiom.”