Category Archives: Interviews

BE YOUR OWN PET RETAIN RADICAL STANCE

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Despite all the critical underground exposure and popularity Be Your Own Pet got in its short tenure, its volatile front lady, Jemina Pearl, put an end to this terrific punk band in 2008. Could this radical chick overcome the reckless partying for a second shot she rightly deserves?

Could there be a better punk-devised outfit coming out of Nashville these days than the charmingly vicious bohemian quartet, Be Your Own Pet? Sure they may be politically naïve, socially ambiguous, and economically challenged, but as rebellious post-adolescent dervishes, they’ve secured a spot at the upper echelon of radically aggressive idealists.

Meeting at noteworthy Nashville School of the Arts as wet-behind-the-ears teens with familial ties to music (Country-based singer-songwriter Robert Ellis Orral’s sons are departed founding members), the impressionable punk brigade have continually wowed audiences nationwide.

My first face-to-face encounter with Be Your Own Pet was following a terrific November ’07 Mercury Lounge gig, where cutesy platinum blonde vocalist Jemina Pearl was so fucking drunk her head was lodged between the brick wall and bathroom floor of the basement backstage lounge. She’d just given it her all during a deliciously roughhewn 45-minute set, prancing the wooden stage with a reckless shambling prowess perfectly befitting the noisy rollick longhaired fleet-fingered guitarist Jonas Stein, nimble Afro-domed bassist Nathan Vasquez, and daringly dexterous drummer John Eatherly furnished. Pearl was so trashed she blacked-out, carried off to the band’s touring van by security and never to be seen again this frigid autumn eve.

Nonetheless, the spunky spitfire made an audacious impression beforehand, blasting out lovesick lyrics and frosty philandering phrases like a fierce lioness, threatening anyone disliking opening Stones-y band Used To Be Women to lick her asshole, mercilessly putting down her jaded hometown, and falling ass backwards twice during the final segment. She recollects everything leading up to the final drunkenly deranged dropdown episode.

Though it’s doubtful her Catholic father, Jimmy Abegg, a former guitarist better known as a video director-photographer, would approve, he never smothered his daughter or pressured her to attend church against her will. So where’s the salacious stage rage and unbridled frenzy coming from?

“Ever been to East Nashville in ’92? The shady part of town?” she asks with a teasing smirk. “I’m a teenage girl – well now I’m 20. I need to grow up.”

Although there’s no sign of petulance, frustration, or tortured-artist venom to be found prior to a febrile February ’08 performance, Pearl matter-of-factly explains getting into a recent altercation with a boisterous pub bum.

“I got in a fight at a place called Spraywater ‘cause this guy was trying to touch me. I said, ‘I don’t know you.’ He called me a bitch so I got kicked out for beating the shit out of this horny guy.” She then adds, “I think I’m gonna try to take boxing classes.”

If overwhelming fame comes her way, and it certainly may, she better get used to people wanting to touch, feel, and plug her, especially since the natural beauty jokingly provokes confrontation. Case in point: an hour after our conversation, the sexy heartthrob’s performing again at the Merc, boasting how ‘this is our sober show,’ when halfway through in a gasping out-of-breath voice, she invites any random patron onstage for combat. Scarily, a tall, bear-like, bearded man enters the fray stage right. But instead of trying to fight Pearl, he leans over for a kiss and gets socked in the face by our lovable black mascara-lined, red lip-glossed, party-shirted vixen. The fully buzzed fellow falls into Stein’s gear, stands up wearily, shakes Stein’s hand, then disappointedly disappears.

“That’s punk rock,” someone nearby chortles.

A frantic filly with bratty snot-nosed brashness who gobs onstage, Pearl proudly struts her stuff live, galvanizing mannerisms from “X Offender”-era Debbie Harry, X-Ray Spex gyrator Poly Styrene, and X-rated grunge scavenger Courtney Love. Albeit somewhat shy, insecure, and demure whilst chilling out, there’s a healthy confidence beckoning within. Her hardcore rants, snippy chants, and garrulous descants provide a spastic cartoonish mess-around given fiery pizzazz by the efficient arrangements, flawless execution, and blazing determination of her male counterparts.

Stein, whose dad Burt manages several high profile artists, strokes his axe with ferocious fervor, leading a rip-roaring rampage rhythmic raiders Vasquez (whose pa is famed Tejano Jazz guitarist, Rafael Vasquez) and Eatherly (Stein’s partner with bassist Max Peebles in impulsively ancillary trio, Turbo Fruits) mutually and murderously enforce.

On Be Your Own Pet’s viscously gnarled eponymous ’06 debut, the feral foursome (anchored at the time by percussionist Jamin Orral) relied on primal garage fury to put across candidly wicked 2-minute-and-change snapshots. Signed to Thurston Moore’s boutique Ecstatic Peace label, they became a frontrunner for the entire contemporaneous Stooges-invigorated manic rock insurgence. Pearl’s anguished caterwauls, nervy carnal subversions, and queasy self-destructive anxieties slammed into the pervasively terrorizing vertebrae-rattling assault of unendingly masticated power chords and profuse roughrider beats.

Pearl’s ‘having a blast’ throwing tantrums, laying it on the line with real or imagined riotous acrimony, yelping about being an ‘independent motherfucker here to take away your virginity’ and readily able to ‘burn your house down.’ She’s a thunderously crackling stormtrooper on nasty rambunctious fuck-offs such as rancorous abolition “Love Your Shotgun” (nastily, hastily craving ‘a room at the Hyatt!’) and darting rail “Bunk Trunk Skunk,” gruffly huffing, puffing, and spewing verbose aspersions. Buzzsaw guitar, rubbery bass, and bustling traps fortify pulverizing snipe, “Girls On TV,” while angular six-string sassafras rips through bashed cymbals on demanding dominatrix decree “We Will Vacation, You Can Be My Parasol” (whence Pearl bites Karen O’s scarifying Yeah Yeah Yeahs styling).

Stein contends, “I haven’t listened to the first record in awhile. We play the tracks live, but I forget the essence of the studio sound. We’re better writers, more experienced now.”

Building upon that momentum, Be Your Own Pet’s ambitious ’08 sophomore endeavor, Get Awkward, avoids being a smashing letdown, even though sponsoring major label, Universal Records, dubiously pulled three of its most maliciously vital tracks. Dizzying hard partying runaround, “Super Soaked,” crassly spurts piss and vinegar. Choppy rhythms induce “Bummer Time,” a chain-sawed heartbreaker with Sham 69-filched oi boy chants. Moody menstrual mayhem ostensibly conjures “Bitches Leave.” Conversely, a newfound sensitivity (previously breached on the Pretenders-tinged serenade “October, First Account”) deluges the straight-sung heart-shattered payback, “You’re A Waste.”

But why should their record company concern themselves with the hollow death threats of a few tunes when the sex-minded weapon, “The Kelly Affair,” expounding a bad breakup, promotes pill-poppin’ promiscuity? Inspired by ’70 sexploitation spoof, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, and sung as the main character, Kelly Mc Namara, it relates real life animosity towards a jilted ex.

Pearl defiantly insists, “Drugs are apparently o.k. But excessive violence is deemed offensive. One left-out song dealt with how I hated everyone at school. They thought it promoted school shoot-ups. Another had the line, ‘I’m gonna choke myself with a telephone chord,’ so that caused problems. Also, “Becky,” a slow ‘60s girl group song, is a fake murder ballad where I’m mad at a friend so she gets a new best friend I kill and then go to jail.”

Luckily, all three discarded tracks will show up on an EP XL Records will soon unleash. However, one could argue that censoring these rogue warriors unfairly neuters their essential cagey onslaught and brain-eating savagery (courtesy of punkabilly raid “Zombie Graveyard Party”). Haven’t the powers-that-be heard formative ’03 single, “Damn Damn Leash,” on tiny boutique label, Infinity Cat? Sans homicidal vehemence, it’s still an exhilarating DIY exhortation condemning the relentless wrath of an extremely possessive lover.

So I daresay, don’t hinder Be Your Own Pet’s meteoric rise from the Volunteer State’s weary tomb with pointless anger management. An inebriated, vengeful loudmouth from the wrong side of town just having fun is better than a stifled juvenile delinquent crying suburban blues with a couple thousand bucks to spare and an expansive trust account.

DAPPLED CITIES NO GRAPPLED NINNIES IN ‘GRANDDANCE’

Interviews

FOREWORD: This article appeared in Aquarian Weekly during 2006 in support of Dappled Cities breakthrough, Granddance. By 2009, they’d score bigger with Zounds, which found little success in America but had great chart action Down Under.

  Could another Australian band capture the hearts and minds of mainstream America the way Men At Work, Midnight Oil, and Inxs did during their early ‘80s heyday?

Perhaps youthful Sydney quintet, Dappled Cities, will vault its country’s expansive barrier reef to universal greatness. The potent troupe’s sadly sweet twilight ruminations extend the newly vintage orchestral pop lineage linking Flaming Lips, Radiohead, Coldplay, and Interpol, admirable forerunners who’ve determinedly accrued genuine weightiness in the past decade.

Issuing one promising long-play entrée as mere adolescents, dual harmonizing guitarists Dave Rennick and Tim Derricourt, plus bassist Alex Moore and drummer Hugh Boyce, who’d grown up and attended high school together, began to see the world as its oyster. Soon, they’d become reacquainted with homegrown companion, keyboardist Ned Cooke, and attain heightened cult status.

In 2006, Dappled Cities took a monthly residency within outlying proximity of the Hollywood studio where two well regarded indie artists waited to tweak knobs, lend a sympathetic ear, and broaden their tranquil luminescent melodies.

And so it was. Jim Fairchild, formerly of ingenious laptop experimentalists Grandaddy, and his sometime collaborator, haunted solo artisan Peter Walker, furnished crisp production, elegant textural flourishes, sturdier resonance, and sound advice to the resolute combo’s humble fare.

Jointly, they brilliantly rose to the challenge, constructing the fiercely compelling and beautifully eloquent stunners cementing the ambitious Granddance. So now’s time for Dappled Cities disarmingly seductive odysseys to be wisely endorsed by at least the vital underground sector here in the US and A.

At Manhattan hotspot, Mercury Lounge, on a brisk November eve, each successively flawless Dappled Cities tune deepened the dynamic magnitude and overall emotional impact of their absolutely assured 50-minute set. Pretty astral swirls glistened through many swoon-worthy pieces, summoning fellow Aussies the Go-Betweens’ ripened post-punk subtleties as well as the plush New Romantic pastiche dreamy-eyed ‘80s castaways Simple Minds, Thompson Twins, and Spandau Ballet once dabbled in. Derricourt possessed a chirpier falsetto than Rennick, who’s unafraid to counter his own lithesome high-pitched wails with husky baritone jabs. A brand new composition inspired by New York City, “The Night Is Young At Heart,” placed a kickin’ drum beat next to lucid spaghetti western-derived 6-string twanging while Rennick poured out a wellspring of heartfelt sentiments.

“We’re not the kind of band that says, ‘strap your belt on and go out and fight the power.’ We’re not singing anything as empowering,” Derricourt insists as we speak prior to Dappled Cities efficient performance. “It’s not a go-get-her we-can-change the-world voice. We see more ponderous things happening around us.”

Though Derricourt’s early influences are undeniably standard – the Beatles, Elvis, and the melancholic country-folk of Emmylou Harris and Neil Young – his incipient foray into music was more akin to Nirvana.

“When we formed the band, we were heavily into grunge mixed nicely with pop,” Derricourt declares.

“Grunge was in fashion and had a big impact,” Rennick agrees, though admitting its loud visceral vim doesn’t affect Dappled Cities’ current collective muse. He laughs, “We’ve got nothing to show for it. I wanted to be a rock star.”

Meanwhile, bassist Moore and drummer Boyce were not only enamored with grunge, but also weirder alt-rock affiliates such as Ween and Mr. Bungle. Classically trained Cooke, who recently came aboard to add symphonic breadth and faux-string nuances to the starry groove, believes “the more you hang out in the United States, the more your tastes converge.” He found spending time in Los Angeles recording Granddance with Fairchild to be very fortuitous since their musical inclinations intertwined nicely.

Rennick offers, “Fairchild was another brain in the works. In the studio, we worked well together and told lewd stories. We lived in a hotel in sunny Glendale, which was mall suburbia. The album may’ve been affected by the limitations of that environment. We were in a city we didn’t know and had to drive everywhere, which we don’t like.”

Rennick then ponders what Granddance would sound like if it’d been recorded at the beach a few miles west instead of in sycophantic Hollyweird.

But quickly, Cooke indirectly chimes in. “Every piece of equipment we used was historic. We used John Lennon’s mellotron.”

Derricourt funnily counters, “I think we used Pete Townshend’s dildo on one song.”

So how’d the waggish crew align themselves with such a wrangling ‘dappled’ moniker considering their music doesn’t seem dark and blotchy enough to warrant its bleakly urban validation?

“It’s more poetic than meaningful,” Derricourt suggests. “There’s purple and blue shades. You think of cities as grimy in New York City. But I think of them as cities in the sky.”

One thing’s certain, there’s not much Australian competition for the type of orch-pop Dappled Cities neatly craft. Augie March were arguably the best practitioners of this so-called symphonic rock Down Under, but after their first few albums, they became too clean, predictable, and boring, according to the band. At the same time, though, Augie March found overseas sales gains way past their ’96 outset. Then again, the U.S. could be quite constricting for anything too far left of Arcade Fire’s dirge-y slumbers, especially since some of the best modern works are inconveniently overshadowed by trendy fashion plates.

Derricourt complains, “It’s the same kit and caboodle in Australia. The top 40 is the same. You’d never know it by taking a glance at the place, but most of the greatest art ever created still comes from America.”

Written and recorded over four years when its members were 16 to 20 years old, Dappled Cities’ formative ’04 debut, A Smile, received local airplay and afforded the band much needed early exposure. Differing immensely, its majestic follow-up, Granddance, was done in one block of time, retained better cohesion, and collected a group of songs drafted over a succinct nine month period with Cooke’s keyboards augmenting the melodic grandeur. In general, Rennick’s compositional contour, chords, and lyrics appear more complicated contrasted against Derricourt’s enchantingly traditional acumen.

“The songs work in unison like two sides of a coin,” observes Rennick. “We spend a lot of time amongst the five of us structuring arrangements. The initial songwriting differences get fleshed out by the band.”

On clock-ticking wake up call, “Holy Chord,” spindly Strokes-like guitars adjoin an underlying syncopated rhythm gradually relinquished for full-on rhapsodic ebullition. And Derricourt’s fluttering trembled quivers go heavenward as he searches profusely for the sanctified lost chord.

The nearly balladic entreaty, “Work It Out,” rises and falls surreptitiously, swelling and contracting above marching drums while begging for reprieve. Sepia-toned “Beach” camouflages its desirousness with a bleak minimalist resignation Scottish depressants Blue Nile seemingly deserted nowadays. On the astonishingly effectual gem “Fire Fire Fire,” Rennick’s fervently whirred verses assimilate Morrissey’s debonair flamboyance as soothing angular guitars head skyward.

“Maybe we thought it’d turn heads more with its (scorching) title,” concedes Rennick. “It’s really just nostalgic feelings expressed there.”

As for outside and future endeavors, Derricourt says, “Dave and I did a short film or two each and music for a puppet show. Our music would also fit nicely in large cinemas. We want to keep touring America and develop over each album. With each new batch of recordings we’re gonna buckle down and strive forward.”

Surprisingly, Dappled Cities haven’t toured Europe yet. However, taking into account Granddance’s intrinsic minor key intoxicants and alluringly captivating upbeat transitions, can European success be too far off?

SEX, DRUGS, ROCK-CRAZED 1990S BRING FUN BACK

Interviews

FOREWORD: Wanna rock and roll all night and party everyday. That’s the slogan the 1990s tend to live by. Hung out with these guys prior to a smokin’ Bowery set in ’07. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Boozy working class trio, the 1990s, never sought praise outside the enthusiastic liquored-up Glasgow house party scene they fancied. But now they’ve gained club-sized international popularity due to delectable debut, Cookies. As an interesting sidebar, agile guitarist-vocalist John Mc Keown had played in the formative Yummy Fur, alongside Alex Kopranos and Paul Thompson, soon-to-be co-founders of renowned indie rockers, Franz Ferdinand. Hardly flustered by missing out on the international acclaim draped upon his ex-mates, Mc Keown temporarily quit the music biz, figuring the pursuit for mainstream acceptance was dumb anyway. Considered a more artsy, cerebral group, Yummy Fur may’ve lacked the visceral energy of the three comrades’ future endeavors, but it was only a humble beginning.

Before long, an ex-girlfriend told Mc Keown about an opening in former Can legend Damo Suzuki’s latest impromptu venture. He jumped at the chance to link up, befriending equally zany barfly, Michael Mc Gaughrin (drums), formerly of unheralded outfit, V Twin. The two became amazingly close drinking pals, but sensed Suzuki was too stringently constrained allowing heady improvisational mantras to clash with the frenetic high-energy blitzkriegs the youngish lads wanted to dispatch. Upon departure, they took bassist Jamie McMorrow along for the intoxicating ride.

“We were all friends who lived in the same mad Asian neighborhood. Damo Suzuki lived around the corner. He thought we’d get a band together. We did a couple gigs but Damo was doing the same routine every night.” Mc Keown then jokingly sneers, “We were playing good music but Damo was an old hippie. So we thought, let’s get the Kraut Jap hippie out of the band.”

He reclines a bit, then adds, “I’ve got a CD of the first gig we did with Damo Suzuki. Mike was off the one. His snares were where the bass drum should be and the bass drums were where the snares were supposed to be.”

“I was doing that purposely,” Mc Gaughrin sinisterly chimes in like he’s Doctor Evil with a Belgian dip moustache. “It was anarchic. I’d think you’d understand that.”

One primordial inspiration for the loony trio’s loose muse was Lou Reed’s profound urban leitmotif, Street Hassle. That radical ’78 platter thumbed its nose at conformist deadbeats and praised righteous indignation to the hilt, providing the 1990’s with nascent riotous spunk to spare. Gritty bohemian glam-rock lark, “Enjoying Myself,” with its shrewdly sniggered Reed-teed screed ‘fuck everybody else,’ convinced the Scottish scoundrels to turn their part-time hobby into legitimate original music. Though they had no ambition to record, tour, or compete with futilely trendy fads, they attended numerous private Glasgow gigs, took tons of recreational drugs, and had a helluva fun time.

“So one day I got really stoned and wrote five songs about what ridiculous things we’d been talking about,” Mc Keown explains. “In two weeks, we were suddenly onstage. But honestly, it wasn’t made for anyone to listen to. It was just for us. Next thing, we’re signed and we’re called the 1990s – the stupidest name in the world. Originally, we were gonna be the Sixties (a moniker more closely assimilating their garage rock sound). We changed that to the 1960s. We were trying to find a really bad name you’d never use.”

The 1990s are an awesome concoction channeling the spirit of visceral bad boy rockers while retaining a clandestine pop functionality tied to valued Beatles luminaries Big Star, the Raspberries, and the Romantics. As a welcome relief, these snotty mod punters display a cheeky sense of humor whether delivering quick-witted catchphrases, chewing up arena rock, or spewing filthy punk venom. On contagious debut, Cookies, the feisty crew rally ‘round tersely delinquent party jams. Opening salvo, “You Made Me Like It,” sets the frantic tone, bouncing hook-filled Hives-like ranting against a danceable ‘60s-charged cave-stomp. Energetic ‘70s-styled power pop stampede, “See You At The Lights,” piles exuberant harmonies atop ebullient melodies and a scorching rhythm. “Is There A Switch For That?” blends the Kinks, the Knack and Boomtown Rats into one snazzy new wave potion. Contemporaneous teen-preened lyrical innocence embeds nifty nick-nack patty-whacked acoustic divergence “Arcade Precinct,” relieving the drug-indulged glam-rock flippancy Cookies’ bulk so gloriously promotes.

Ex-Suede leader, Bernard Butler, handled production, stripping away any excessive masturbatory soloing or extended breaks while zoning in on each tunes’ salient point. He apparently reeled in studio overindulgence by telling them outright, ‘Save that for the stage, guys. Let’s find the song.’

Just when everything was coming to fruition, McMorrow abruptly quit. Curiously, famed Teenage Fanclub front man Norman Blake came aboard to play bass on a European jaunt. Afterwards, Dino Bardot joined the pixilated pair, embracing his inebriated cohorts’ rowdy vitality immediately. That said, beyond the 1990s goofy frat-boy veneer lies passionate musicians with limber chops hoisting a cavalcade of roughrider riffs.

Strangely, there’s sometimes no direct correlation between the musicians Mc Keown references as influences and the vigorous rumble he creates. His fret technique leans towards blazing hard rock gunfire, yet he truly admires Richard Thompson, an accomplished Anglo-folk icon whose clear-toned acoustical folk willfully lacks the soulful groove of other white contemporaries. Television’s unconventional post-punk legend Tom Verlaine, Blank Generation innovator Robert Quine (who toured with Lou Reed), and Fire Engines abrasively fertile Davey Henderson also intrigue Mc Keown.

Meanwhile, Bardot reveres artful four-string prog-rock masters Chris Squire (Yes) and Roger Waters (Pink Floyd). And though Mc Gaughrin claims he never became a drummer to emulate anyone specifically, he does respect The Who’s wildly maniacal Keith Moon and meritorious session men Jim Keltner and Hal Blaine.

“I was always physical so drums fit me. I didn’t know what to do with my hands,” Mc Gaughrin recalls, before jesting, “I didn’t discover my cock ‘til lots later.”

Onstage at Bowery Ballroom in October, the electrifying trio display pinpoint execution, stretching out only on hazily narcotic feedback-squealed retreat, “Weeds.” They shift into Jonathan Richman’s classic “Roadrunner” during the midst of rhapsodic nihilist rally “Enjoying Myself,” tonight’s celebratory highlight. There’s nary a note out of place as their constant boogie barrage assaults the cheerful audience. Mc Keown’s serrated guitar wankering gives infectious stomp “See You At The Lights” and rousing New York Dolls-hocked anthem “Cult Status” an even more dynamic lockstep groove than the studio versions. Fundamental rock and roll rarely procures this much ballsy aggression and rugged vim.

Concerning “Cult Status,” Mc Keown insists, “Everyone thinks it’s a satirization of the music scene, but it’s one of my most personal songs written about sitting around the house and having nothing to do. No band to play with.”

As for blunt-burning distention, “Weeds,” Mc Keown shares, “I wrote that on my three-string guitar at my flat. I was fucked up and all I could think about was weed. But it was written about a few friends I had that I’d partied with that stopped partying. Someone later told them, ‘Why don’t you take drugs anymore. You were never funnier than you were back then.’”

I guess the more some partygoers change the more others stay the same. Hanging with the gang after their set, I noticed a bottle o’ liquor making its rounds inside the tour van. And the smell of fresh herb filled the air. Maybe that’s how the 1990s are capable of relishing life on the road like the bohemian free-spirited journeymen they most certainly are. Say goodbye to abstinence.

THE TEETH SHINE BRIGHTLY ON ‘YOU’RE MY LOVER NOW’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: In 2007, it looked as if The Teeth would gain a firm grip on the indie rock biz with You’re My Lover Now. But it was not to be for the Philly boys, at least under that toothy moniker. After a March ’08 breakup, the main members announced plans to come back as The Purple. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Charismatic Philadelphia combo, the Teeth, never let loony pop eccentricities get the best of them despite relying on contagiously quirky jaunts and flippant ditties to coax maximum euphoria. Originally from the rural steel town of Bethlehem, fraternal twins Aaron (rhythm guitar-vocals) and Peter MoDavis (vocals-bass) and childhood pal, Brian Ashby (lead guitar) moved to the city of Brotherly Love then replaced initial drummer, Chris Giordani, with Jonas Oesterle.

Though lazy comparisons to The Who and Kinks ring true, the Teeth’s shadily skewed oeuvre alternates vintage Merseybeat exuberance, flamboyant Vaudeville theatricality, tattered orchestral rhapsodies, and punch-drunk honky-tonk into a whorled panache.

Attending Temple University as an art student, Aaron MoDavis soon gathered the troupe and began separately composing tunes alongside his brother. Both had an uncommon knack for embellishing a seemingly limitless supply of distinct melodic structures with solid hooks and converging riffs. Over time, the siblings would tighten up their endearingly madcap lyrical ideas while expanding the range of strange characters lurking around inside a briskly expanding catalog.

“Every song I write is supposed to be slow but somehow end up getting faster. And some of our stuff is so heavy it pays to have a sense of humor,” Aaron shares, before breaking down the Teeth’s earlier recordings.

“Our first record, ‘02s Send My Regards to the Sunshine, had lots of songs and not much focus as a whole cohesive collection. We were developing and hated on a lot of bands we knew, but weren’t confident enough with out own songwriting and overcomplicated its complexity. On the 6-song EP that followed, Carry the Wood, we felt more comfortable and didn’t try to push so hard reacting to everybody else,” Aaron earnestly reflects.

On the Teeth’s latest full-length disc, You’re My Lover Now (Park The Van), they manage to collide wry needling with serious conviction. Using the tone of American Southern novelists John Steinbeck (Of Mice And Men/ The Grapes of Wrath) and Sherwood Anderson to casually affect his barbed tales, Aaron became subconsciously struck by the well-designed fictional images masterfully detailed.

Faux-nautical expeditions such as the Decemberists-nipped violin-draped balladic shanty, “A Fight In The Dark,” and carnivalesque seafaring klezmer quandary “Molly Make Him Pay” have a cognate antediluvian feel. The latter, a maudlin pre-Depression-era styled waltz, tactfully impinges upon astonishing Philly peers Man Man’s freakishly experimental Zappa-Beefheart-Waits-informed creations. But that’s only an informed assumption.

“It’s hard to pinpoint the influence for “Molly,” but it’s not rock and roll. I listen to more Classical now than anything else. Yet it’s hard to admit that because you sound like an asshole going, that one’s by Beethoven,” Aaron snidely chuckles before confirming how none of the Teeth can actually read music. “Most of the chords I couldn’t tell what they were. We understand music well, but aren’t necessarily technical. Instead, we’re focused, active listeners.”

After trumpet and trombone accessorize the degenerate down-and-outer taxi standoff, “Yellow,” the Teeth get back to rockin’ in the free world on the spontaneous guitar-powered tambourine-shaken rampage, “It’s Not Funny.” Then, the boys take a breezy stroll with “The Coolest Kid In School” (a snide acoustic folk ode to the rad dude getting hot chicks against deviant wishes of a nerdy naïf) and ride chuggin’ percussion through melodic bass and siren six-string on awkward tryst “Walk Like A Clown.” Indeed, there’s a veritable cornucopia of style jumping goin’ on here.

“The first tape I ever owned was by Elvis,” Aaron says. “In high school, Pete and I got into the Beatles and David Bowie. From that point, we got led to lots of stuff. Brian’s background was Chuck Berry, James Brown, The Band, and blues music. He got us to appreciate that along with the Stooges…even 10 CC.”

Although Peter latched onto ‘60s rock quite firmly, Aaron began to also respect the operatic lamentations of Roy Orbison and the lounge-y Brill Building cocktail pop of Burt Bacharach.

“Bacharach’s one of the most original songwriters-arrangers. A lot of people think he’s got a lot of baggage because numerous hokey, overly theatrical singers made his music seem dated. The songs sound simple and silly, but when you actually backtrack to what he was doing, all the songs are strange, complex, and well done.”

Since many impressive early-to-middle-period rock and roll icons bedazzled the Teeth, I naturally assumed they maintained a good rapport with their record label’s disparate fanatical mod pop acts, which includes the emergent Dr. Dog, Capitol Years, Golden Boots, and the High Strung.

“Us and Dr. Dog are good friends. We all played in Philly before we were signed. We had a friendly competition and admired each other. There was a domino effect getting Park The Van’s attention. Dr. Dog gave them a tape of ours when the label started in New Orleans and we signed contracts there, but Hurricane Katrina blew it away. They moved to Schwenksville, Pennsylvania, which couldn’t be any different. Chris Watson used to run the label out of an apartment. Now it’s offices.”

Considering the wealth of abstract notions divulged within the Teeth’s semi-animated odysseys, fans may assume You’re My Lover Now’s cover design would be sprightly kaleidoscopic. However, Aaron favored an interestingly antithetical approach, affixing the unadorned black setting with a noir dark-haired couple smooching.

“It’s a reaction against all the bands with a deep meaning title for an album,” Aaron relinquishes. “Plus, we like classic soul with generic, simple titles like (Magic Slim’s) blues LP, Gravel Road. Eventually, by buying Bowie’s Young Americans, the next step was making connections and following the dots back. The Beatles Rubber Soul was the Fab Four trying to do Motown. The Supremes and even the Platters were influential. I like the throwback. You can’t read into it. The cover shot is just two people kissing.”

So what’s up with Aaron being a decapitated victim on the last page of the inside cover?

“It’s pretty lighthearted. We ran out of lyrics to fill the booklet, so we gave it a little throwaway feel,” he snickers. “We get too self-conscious about lyrics sometimes so to buffer the personal melodrama we mock it and it makes us feel less uncomfortable.”

DANISH FIGURINES NO PORCELAIN POP MILKSOPS

Interviews

Though the Hives led the Scandinavian garage rock revival initially promulgated by fellow Swedes such as The Refused and Hellacopters, primal Finnish mavericks the Nomads, plus doom-y Norwegian glam-punks Turbonegro, a less maniacal sound may upend these primal troupes as well as the puissant death-metal mavens crowding the Nordic underground. Hailing from Denmark, the smallest and least musically represented of these neighboring nations, the Figurines conveniently flirt with disparate Anglo-pop styles and assuredly merit the same immediate universal acceptance Copenhagen-based noise-pop peers, the Raveonettes, received a few years back.

“When I was a teen in the ‘90s, there were no good Danish bands at that time,” Figurines leader Christian Hjelm recollects. “I started playing guitar because of Creedence Clearwater Revival. At ten-years-old, I heard “Have You Ever Seen The Rain.” I asked my father who that was, and he said it was one of his favorite bands of the early ‘70s. He gave me one of their old tapes, brought down a worn guitar from the attic, and taught me to play.”

Matching playfully uplifting fare with softer love-struck reflections, Hjelm’s flexible histrionic voice and exacting artful arrangements have just enough opaquely hybridized eccentricities to escape straight-up revelatory comparisons. His high-pitched tenor rises and falls, then flutters and swoons, formulating paradoxical melodramatic theatricality to remedy opposing ghostlike scraggly baritone whimpers.

Trading his dandy Steve Malkmus-like lyricism and bell-toned Doug Martsch six-string lucidity for more surreal ‘60s-influenced psychedelia on the Figurines latest endeavor, When The Deer Wore Blue (The Control Group), Hjelm moves beyond such affectionate linkage while affably consenting to the preceding Pavement- Built To Spill analogy.

“Pavement was the first band we heard as part of the ‘90s underground. Steve Malkmus has always been a main source of inspiration,” Hjelm admits. “Beforehand, at age thirteen, we all listened to Nirvana and the grunge wave. But I never thought the music I listened to was only British or American. It was (ubiquitous). Denmark is a little country so we got music from the outside.”

Hjelm claims the Figurines rudimentary ’03 long-play debut, Shake A Mountain, had “our typical sound – clean indie guitar affects and all ten tracks were very melodic. It was a low budget recording, yet quite nice.”

But it was the fabulously beguiling ’06 breakout, Skeleton, that got the quintet subterranean worldwide acclaim. Although offhanded balladic opener, “Race You,” with its nakedly frail falsetto shrieks and laggard piano, compares favorably to righteously overemotional queer-folks Rufus Wainwright and Antony & the Johnsons, the rest frequently subverts stoic fragility for contagious hook-filled euphonies. The instantly striking dazzler, “Fiery Affair,” features all the right elements that make the Figurines great – sweepingly careening discursive aphorisms, emphatic guitar ramblings, and incessantly impulsive rhythms. Fastidiously quirky scrambler, “The Wonder,” heads skyward in frenetic fashion, surging forth as tantalizingly as its untamed Fugazi-scoffed brooding hardcore follow-up, “All Night.” Perhaps better still, the Creedence-clipped dark tale “Ambush” may not be born on the “bayou,” but it’s certainly swamp rooted enough to resemble a boggy delta joint, allowing Hjelm’s spectrally spiraled vocalizing to vertically warble. Indubitably, Skeleton’s an amazing achievement for such a young far-off outfit.

More personal and straightforward sans some of the cryptic situational superstitions, When The Deer Wore Blue digs deeply into passionate requiems, juxtaposing its serendipitous pensiveness with jumpy jamboree jaunts. Moonlit moog-burbled metaphoric serenade “Good Old Friends” and poignant love dirge “Angels Of The Bayou” prove to be midnight blue. Chirped lullaby, “The Air We Breathe,” commences with long harmonic ‘aaah’s’ lifted from the Beatles’ exquisite “Because,” then slips a dainty harpsichord melody beneath oncoming symphonious Beach Boys crooning. Between the recessive contemplative slowdowns and grandiose Goth retreats are quick-paced psychedelic scamps unafraid of showing off their capricious rusticity. Mystical Carnaby Street-styled pop changeup, “Half Awake, Half Aware” summons the ‘60s best while lightheartedly vivacious “Let’s Head Out” and organ-gurgled stop-and-go scoot “Hey Girl” hurriedly pick up the beat. Catchy danceable jingle, “Bee Dee,” shimmies and shakes all over the place.

“I get the will to write songs by hoping to get better. I want to keep creating good original material. We always want to challenge ourselves,” offers Hjelm. “The song, “The Air We Breathe,” was done over two different periods. The wordless intro had basic up-front harmonies with the following verse written first in my apartment. We liked the idea, but felt it needed more, so we got together and wrote the ‘out in the street’ section and arranged it dynamically like the rest. It’s difficult to find the right tracks to create proper moodiness. Too many slow songs could get boring. It was quite a task to get a coherent feel. We worked on it a long time.”

Putting “Childhood Verse,” Deer’s most perplexingly complex convolution first, would’ve been a mistake if not for its stimulating three-part neo-Classical enchantment. Hjelm’s and band mate Claus Johansen’s lubricated polychromatic fretwork clings to the profusely sung metronomic stanzas. Bassist Mads Kjaergaard adds rubbery reverberation below Jens Ramon’s tingly piano droplets and above drummer Kristian Volden’s tempered cadences.

“That’s very fragmented. You could call it grand. The different movements of “Childhood Verse” have a straight borderline between them- which I find interesting,” relates Hjelm.

It remains to be seen if Deer has as enduring a shelf life as its precursor, Skeleton, but this much is true, no matter which disc has longer legs, both deserve recognition for their undeniable pop-smarts and fantastical flare for the dramatic. And the occasional schizophrenic medieval visages stand up right alongside the less outlandish straight-ahead rock flashes.

Sure it may seem too early to predict the Figurines next move. Though they’ll probably build upon the successes of the last few esteemed albums. Could some of their cinematic orchestrations land in a few Hollywood movies as soundtrack fodder?

“Maybe,” Hjelm coolly concludes. “We’ll do whatever feels natural.”

DEXATEENS “TOO DUMB TO QUIT” ON ‘HARDWIRE HEALING’

Interviews

Dozens of worthy ‘Confederate’ garage combos place emphasis on real or imagined liquored-up bravado to push across their assertively masculine clamor. Unlike notorious ‘70s-sojourned Alabama slammers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, astoundingly undervalued present-day denizens such as white-knuckled cow-punks Slobberbone, backwoods blues-hounds the Neckbones, folk-blues truck-stoppers North Mississippi Allstars, and, offhandedly, sci-fi surf rockers Man Or Astroman, never received the recognition due them. Hopefully that may change somewhat with the latest round of younger Dixie dwellers.

Dexateens frontman Elliott McPherson is a working class cabinetmaker with a wife, two kids, and three (or more) band mates. Formerly in developmental group, the Phoebes, as a post-pubescent adolescent, he and long-time drinking pal, Craig ‘Sweet Dog’ Pickering soon began jamming together in respected college town, Tuscaloosa. Attending University of Alabama alongside kindred spirits, bassist Matt Patton (Who-fueled Model Citizen axe man) and guitarist John Smith (ex-American Cosmic), the spunky crew became youthful protégés of local rebel rousers, the Quadrajets.

“Pay The Deuce is one of my all-time favorites,” McPherson maintains. “It sounds like it was recorded with the tape and band literally on fire. When we heard that, we ended up using the same staff for our self-titled debut. (Experienced Texas garage-punk lynchpin) Tim Kerr did production. We were so inspired by that record. Thank goodness we got entirely different results. That Quadrajets lineup was completely off the hook live.”

Some have compared the Dexateens formative ’04 debut to ‘60s psych-rock legends, the 13th Floor Elevators, but McPherson claims it was closer to “gritty shit kickin’ punk.” As the band progressed, they tended to gradually mellow over time, as ‘05s Red Dust Highway leaned towards humble Southern-fried hoe-downs.

Simialrly, ‘07s diversified breakthrough, Hardwire Healing (Skybucket Records), presents a trusty collage of earthy Blues contrivances, lazy 6-string strolls, and delicate acoustic turnabouts. Nevertheless, hard-hitting Neil Young-distilled grinder “Makers Mound” brings the noise counteracting simmering changeups such as ‘Downtown,” a sleepy-eyed respite suggesting tragic lo-fi minstrel Elliott Smith’s pallid tranquility.

“I wasn’t allowed to listen to (modern) rock as a kid,” McPherson admits. “I had a bunch of my dad’s old 45’s by Elvis Presley and Lesley Gore. I remember listening to lots of Waylon & Willie in the early ‘80s. But John Smith’s always been the cool kid on the block, even though he’s not a hipster by any stretch of the imagination. At 17, I was in a band with his brother. John turned me on to Velvet Underground and the Stooges. He’s responsible for most of the stuff I know. I was completely sheltered not having rock in my house. My family didn’t think it was morally correct.”

That, of course, changed when McPherson started college and met friends who’d open his mind. Though there was no formal Tuscaloosa scene, defunct club, The Chukker, provided limited exposure. However, Athens, Georgia, 100 miles northeast, had many bands sharing a special camaraderie with much larger audiences.

McPherson explains, “They were making soulful music in Athens. You take things away from every relationship developed and it enhances what you do creatively by getting sucked into it. Besides, Tuscaloosa has become real corporate and they’re trying to fit in as many people as they can lately. Our football coach (Nick Saban) we’re paying millions.”

Co-producers David Barbe (Sugar alumnus and Son Volt board man) and Patterson Hood (Drive-by Truckers mastermind) helped guide Hardwire Healing towards broadened versatility, permitting sundry melodious colors and sonic textures to forge a wide-ranging musical spectrum.

“We knew we’d have a fun vibe – drink beer, laugh, tell stories, and roll tape,” McPherson informs. “It was very laid-back and peaceful, done in one day, eight songs. People compare us to Drive-By Truckers. Patterson laid his hands on our songs, but not specifically. He knew how to let us groove on a beat.”

Nonetheless, strangely sedate saunter, “What Money Means,” and twangin’ agrarian allegory, “Fyffe,” undeniably recall DBT’s grimaced hillbilly grime.

About the latter fictitious song, McPherson says, “In Buhl, where I live, there are crazily paranoid rednecks who feel the government is holding out on them. Fyffe is a nearby area with various UFO sightings. Patterson had a great song about putting people on the moon. But this was a completely different and comical stab. Patterson’s a fan of E minor and that song’s in that key.”

Another Hardwire Healing highlight, “Neil Armstrong,” sustains a rural alt-Country contentment reminiscent of reticent ‘80s trailblazers, Uncle Tupelo. Written by Smith for his old band, the resonantly euphonious tune begs an individual to get real, be honest, and come back to earth as pastoral slide guitar glides through sensitive vocalizing in a manner indicative of the Flying Burrito Brothers. Also redolent of the Burritos, specifically their revered Country-rock pioneer, Gram Parsons, is undiluted acoustical folk retread, “Own Thing.” Perhaps most appealing, lead track “Naked Ground” plies coil-y Southern rock twin guitar lattice to dirtied-up Delta Blues ruggedness.

McPherson accepts the last notion, avowing respect to a few distinguished folk-Blues septuagenarians. “We spent a lot of time with T-Model Ford and Paul Jones. We got to do short tours with both. I remember hearing T-Model the first time. I’d never heard anyone play guitar like that. He didn’t have a clue what the pentatonic scale was. There are all these asshole Blues guys doing Stevie Ray Vaughan guitar licks. Here you got this guy from the country who learned guitar in his 50’s and has more soul and heart than any of those fakes.”

Next on tap for the Dexateens is an EP entitled “Lost & Found,” featuring Smith’s Big Star-influenced songs written while he was away from the band. Plus, an ‘08 full length monster truck-enthused disc, Single Wide, recorded in Nashville, will showcase totally acoustic songs with live vocals, no drums, but varied percussion affects. They evidently overdubbed the hell out of it.

“We’re not a band that writes ballads,” McPherson shrugs. “It’s just a natural progression coming out of our teen years with fire and energy and piss and vinegar. We’re together a long time and our music has morphed into what it is. But I don’t want Single Wide to come out like Hotel California.”

Auspiciously, several indigenous players fill in onstage when McPherson’s core members need to take care of homebound business (or family) obligations. The traveling troupe variably includes Woggles drummer Dan Electro, Model Citizen bassist Craig Gates, Benders guitarist Tommy Sorrels, and charismatic Spidereaters leader Taylor Hollingsworth.

Disturbingly, CMJ Music Marathon has put the Dexateens on the backburner for its annual October New York shindig. McPherson snips, “We’re on standby. Fuck that!”

He concludes, “I don’t know. We may be too dumb to quit. But we certainly have retained a good amount of interested fans. We’re not willing to trade our families to go out on the road for an extended period of time. We go to Europe occasionally and have received a nice response. But we haven’t made it to New York City yet.”

THE COMAS REAWAKEN FOR ‘CONDUCTOR’

Interviews,

Born in Oklahoma, graduating high school in Knoxville, then settling in Chapel Hill, Andy Herod was the eldest son of two adventurously roaming hippie parents. Now temporarily living in Brooklyn for several years and contemplating a Hollywood move, Herod leads radiant combo, The Comas.

Conceived in North Carolina with gifted guitarist Nicole Gehweiler in ‘98, the extended duo initially grabbed attention when ‘99s formative Wave To Make Friends garnered local praise. Signed to local boutique label, Plastique, The Comas would soon set the underground rock world afire with ‘00s magnificent step forward, A Def Needle In Tomorrow.

“Our initial recording was a little rough. We weren’t serious. There were a couple good songs,” Herod shares in my van prior to hitting Luna Lounge’s stage for a sterling hour-long set. “Then we got Brian Paulson (Jayhawks/ Wilco/ Son Volt) to produce Def Needle, and Yep Roc Records signed us.”

“It cost $1,200 to record the debut, done in two weeks on 16-track. The next was $4,000 and was a sheer labor of love. By the end, we almost killed each other, but it was worth it. It was bigger than the band. I’ve never felt the records had to necessarily represent exactly what the material make up of the band is. It’s more like what do you want the record to sound like, then try to achieve that live. It should be as lush as you want, without thought of how to replicate it live. It should be a big, fun mesh.”

Contrasting soft eroticism against loud multi-tiered guitar shards, the densely viscous shoe-gazed hailstorm, Def Needle, validated The Coma’s compellingly suspenseful expression. Powerfully moving in terms of sunken feelings yielding moody heartbreak, its sonic fuzz-toned cacophonies, starry-eyed glam-pop maneuvers, and temporal Goth-glanced orchestrations accurately supplemented Herod’s well-articulated melancholic sentiments. At times, withered harmonies thaw inside sublime cathedral organ drones.

Next came an unexpected therapeutic undertaking to “kill the pain” of lost love. Depressed by the breakup with sweet-faced Dawson’s Creek starlet Michelle Williams and reeling from then-label Warner Brothers’ blunt rejection of his material, the stunningly fervid dirges Herod composed for ‘04s uniform Conductor slipped into a dark abyss. Accompanied by a perfectly surreal semi-animated DVD utilizing automatons, army figures, mannequins, and snowflake designs to steel gird hazily shadowed Industrial scenes (including cutesy ex Williams on gloomy SWAT-teamed apocalyptic swoon “Tonight On The WB”), its dimly-lit imagery unravels with flashback-sequenced acoustic epilogue, “Falling.” Buzz-y beat-driven psychosis, “Invisible Drugs,” became the colossal implosive highlight.

Herod claims, “At that point, we were under pressure to make something more cohesive and grounded to get the songs across. We tried to get a real producer but the results were awful and slick. We learned patience the hard way and that not everyone knows what’s best for us. My friend, Alan Weatherhead, an amazing guy from band, Sparklehorse, then did the production – a lovely recording experience at Richmond’s Sound Of Music. It was more personal. Warner didn’t care for it anymore, but we made what we wanted. The movie has a different perspective. In L.A., I met a bunch of people who watch it regularly projected on walls while eating mushrooms floating in pools. But the movie never connected with me. Hopefully, it was above and beyond the sum of its parts. I get a vicarious thrill through its success.”

Newfound assuredness seeps into ‘07s glossy psych-pop masterpiece, Spells, made with vital newcomers Matt Sumrow (piano-organ), Jason Caperton (bass), and Nic Gonzales (drums). A hazy melodic glaze consumes the hook-filled opener, “Red Microphones.” Streamlined emotional purge “Come My Sunshine” and lusciously resonant “Stoneded” soothe the soul while sad-sack confessional “Thistledown” bestows backwards flutes a la “Strawberry Fields Forever.” A molasses-thick Jesus & Mary Chain-like melting-in-the-sun synthesizer-guitar sheen coats disheveled serenade, “Now I’m A Spider.” Spectacular anthemic blazer, “New Wolf,” scampers along like an insanely penetrating gothic nightmare. Spells’ overall melodramatic intrigue seems redolent of the Dandy Warhols, one convenient inspirational influence amongst many less obvious ones.

Herod admits, “I got into the Beatles through my parents. But the Pixies got to me in high school. I started The Comas afterwards. Seeing Spiritualized a few times was amazing. I realized that after Jason Pierce joined Spaceman 3, he’d put something together that was trippy and mellow, yet heavy – heartbreaking love songs. We don’t sound like them, though.”

Lyrically, Herod’s extremely coy and moderately caustic, allowing listeners to find hidden abstract meanings in each tune and possibly, every album appellation.

“I was stuck for Def Needle’s title when I mistakenly heard the phrase from friend, Laird Dixon, of band Shark Quest,” he says. “We were drunk outside the bar and I asked when I’d see him again and he said “definitely tomorrow.” Conductor, as in conduct electricity or conductor of an orchestra or running a train engine, had several interpretations. After its recording, the movie story concerns a scientist obsessed with the moon who goes off the rail. I saw him as conducting madness through the moon put back out at the world. Spells, as in ‘put a spell on,’ in conjunction with the panic attacks I was having at the time from anxiety building up, and the fact it hadn’t been used as an album title before, seemed to suffice.”

Not one to sit in limbo, Herod spent ’06 downtime playing bass in anachronous pop romantics, Bishop Allen.

“Our release date for Spells was months away. So I went out with them on tour. They’re some of my best friends. I’m in trouble drinking too much if I’m bored,” the part-time bartender asserts.

Onstage at Brooklyn’s Luna Lounge, bearded chestnut-haired Herod’s expressive facial smirks and darting eyes prove captivating as he casually shakes a tambourine or adds rhythm guitar. At one point, he breaks out a megaphone to exude the sagacious profundity of climactic whir, “Wicked Elm.” Blonde-haired Gehweiler, wearing a silken lavender skirt (with hemmed floral prints), looks delicious purveying ferociously dynamic impressionistic leads above the tidy rhythm section. Both seem extremely poised, emphatically jumping up and down when not offering verbal symmetry or digging deep for expeditious instrumental phrasing.

“I moved to Brooklyn because I wanted to make the most out of making a record. Mission accomplished,” Herod confesses. “But it’s easy to get wrapped up in New York City, so I’m leaving for L.A. There’s ten times the love for The Comas out there. It’s more of a sunny party vibe. I know the Rentals and Earlimart as friends. I could get free studio time, and our label, Vagrant, is there. The band may stay in New York, but I’m light. I could pack up and go easily.”

Will the change of venue modify The Comas sound?

“I hope so – onward and upward. I’m really optimistic about moving. It’s a beat-down here to pay rent or have a car.”

GET UP WITH THE GO

Interviews,

Image result for THE GO

Though singer-guitarist Bobby Harlow grew up in “super-cushy” Detroit suburb, Royal Oak, with future musical partners Marc Fellis (drums) and John Krautner (rhythm guitar-bass), their nascent musical offerings favored scrappy urban-drudged working class spunk. Thrust forth by the heralded late-‘90s Motor City retro rock revival, the triad’s tersely named outfit, The Go, once included a greener Jack White – but that’s just a well publicized back story.

Truth is, The Go began as a tattered teen band looking for a killer lead guitarist to fully energize their noisily apoplectic garage leanings. Over time, their scruffy elemental restlessness would be superceded by more melodic tunefulness while White became a shining red and white-attired star.

“I try to be as creative as possible. The new album title, Howl on the Haunted Beat You Ride, means anything goes,” Harlow allows. “In ’96, John and I were in Mark’s basement making demos – thirty songs no one’s ever heard. Who knew what would happen. I enjoy taking art seriously, but I also like cultivating the ability to laugh at the ridiculous.”

And what might be construed as ludicrously comical is the whole world endorsed the White Stripes without taking a good look at its trailblazing leaders’ past – until now. White helped The Go shape the raw ‘60s-informed amateurism ramshackle ’99 debut Whatcha Doin’ so determinedly accrued.

Murkily menaced voices and cryptic sonic cacophonies lurked inside every gritty fuzz-toned scamper. Gusty feedback scrum, “You Can Get High,” musty guitar-sputtered “Suzy Don’t Leave,” and searing howler “Meet Me At The Movies” recalled the wild primitivism of fellow Michigan precursors the Stooges, MC5, and early Alice Cooper. Chug-a-lug broken-down boogie, “Summer Sun Blues,” willfully defied illumination.

Foreshadowing the trademark six-string stammer Jack White’s popular rudimentary duo (with drumming ex-wife Meg) would make fabulously ubiquitous, the repetitively hook-driven “Keep On Trash” induced the loudest shotgun blast.

“We wrote “Keep On Trash” together in rehearsal. I did chorus and words. Jack had verse and riff,” Harlow affirms. “Jack was good friends with our old bassist, Dave Buick, the James Dean of Detroit and genius behind Italy Records. John and I had stood stage-front watching his old country-styled band, Two Star Tabernacle, once. So we went to Dave’s house to get Jack to join. He was on the couch, said yes emphatically, and was thrilled to join a rock band. It was his dream”

He continues, ” Trouble was, he may’ve worked it out separating church and state doing both the Raconteurs and White Stripes, but when it came to The Go, he couldn’t. His vibe was too strong. So is his routine with red and white, the number three, and the (faux) sister-brother boy-girl act. We butted heads. We were young bulls trying to run down that hill.”

In fact, some leftover unreleased Jack White sessions with The Go will see the light of day soon. Harlow calls them bad tape recordings that don’t relinquish or diminish the combo’s initial primal lo-fi splotch.

Luckily for The Go, the loss of White was improbably short-lived as talented lead guitarist James Mc Connell stepped in. An extremely exciting musician who’d maybe bounced around the underground bar circuit, he praised blues masters Hound Dog Taylor and John Lee Hooker as well as virile rockers Mick Taylor (ex-Rolling Stones) and Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith (MC5). Mc Connell’s buttressed leads aided The Go’s self-titled ‘03 sophomore disc (on tiny Lizard King), bringing aboard a germane dirtied-up R & B resolve pivotal to The Go’s development.

But Harlow recounts how he scrapped the original sessions, feeling averse to its polished sheen.

“The ‘red album,’ as we call it, was done in England and was too pristine. The whole London experience, setting up shop in Whitney Houston’s studio for ten days and being catered by a house cook, was too much. You can’t give rockers anything they want and expect the album to sound good. We went into a smaller nearby studio, fixed it, went back to Detroit, threw it on cassette, and gave it to the mastering engineer.”

Moreover, former label Sub Pop had rejected the soon-to-be-latently released Free Electricity three years hence, claiming it was ‘too noisy.’ But a laughing Harlow differs. “No. It was more of a pissing war. I mean, they signed (cataclysmic noise-mongers) Wolf Eyes.”

No such perilous obstructions got in the way of Howl on the Haunted Beat You Ride, issued by local pal (and Dirtbombs drummer) Ben Blackwell’s boutique Cass Records. A newfound cordial lyricism and richly dynamic melodiousness pervade Harlow’s sneering misanthropic deviance. Krautner’s paradoxical love tryst, “You Go Bangin’ On” leads the barrage as Harlow’s boogie piano and foggy “Shortnin’ Bread” harmonica underscore its crackling exuberance, peculiarly imbibing ‘80s garage lynchpins the Chesterfield Kings and Fleshtones more than any specific pre-punk fountainhead.

Then again, similarly constructed dispatch, “Down A Spiral” beckons underrated surf-inspired ‘60s hot rod instrumentalist David Allen. Further diversifying the fine set are psychedelic sun-drenched six-string snicker, “Help You Out,” and the reluctant “Smile,” a laid-back echo-drenched restrainer crossing Velvet Underground’s tranquil “Sunday Morning” with the Association’s wispy harmonic pop bromides. Earnest dreamy-eyed charmer, “Caroline,” explores a heretofore unbeknownst soft side and balmy countrified soul chestnut, “Yer Stoned Italian Cowboy,” hearkens back to simmered Small Faces/ Humble Pie blues-rock. Pastoral entreaty, “Maryann,” clips the Four Seasons’ sadly wooed “Rag Doll” harmonies for spiffy accentuation.

Most unexpectedly, The Go give beat poet Allen Ginsberg’s “Refrain” a suitably spherical, highly hallucinogenic, stony-eyed, Woodstock-era glaze.

Harlow says, “That’s a beautiful poem. Awhile back, I was playing lots of Ginsberg’s poems. I wanted to put one to music without forcing it. I found seven that’d work as songs instead of a corny poem put to music. That one sounded like someone at a kitchen table recording at 6 A.M. It’s what we wanted.”

Glad to be totally DIY via production and recording, Harlow insists, right or wrong, it’s the only way for him to go right now.

“There’s no interpreters standing between us and the machines. These are our decisions and ideas come to life. Sometimes engineers made decisions- shape of bass or tom tone, but this music came directly from our minds,” Harlow proudly declares. “There’s a place in the world for this. It sounds like classic rock and roll, but it’s new, same for the White Stripes. Some say they’re Led Zeppelin rip-offs, but I feel sorry if that’s all you get out of them. Don’t rob yourself of the experience.”

Though the influence seems indirect, Harlow admits being a fervid fan of The Who. Wearing mod suits on occasion might be a trivial giveaway, but it’s obvious many legendary rockers have profoundly influenced The Go’s blaring intensity.

“The structures, arrangements, and pop formula may be different, but it’s the same process,” Harlow notifies. “We absorb classic records while searching for obscurities. On a recent long drive, we found The Who’s Live At Leeds for $10. And A Quick One While He’s Away may be their best. Abbey Road I could still listen to end to end. I can’t get over it. I’ve been listening to Sgt. Pepper with headphones on forever. It’s magic. The Beatles were four poor kids who grew to make beautiful records. The first Velvet Underground and Jimi Hendrix albums are brilliant. Focusing on that positivity is key when approaching our music instead of being self-defeated and saying no one will ever make another Beggar’s Banquet. Why not?”

Understandably, Harlow awaits the next Age of Aquarius, due to hit the universe, according to his estimates, in 2012.

“I stayed in Denver with people who introduced us to the Dalai Lama. This woman explained how they’ve traveled non-stop for a peace group helping refugees get clean water and such. In the Age of Aquarius, anything can happen. Male-female energy could be in perfect balance or something could go tragically wrong.” He concludes, “Back to the timeless ‘60s, we’re intellectual slaves to those artists’ conquests. Maybe it’ll happen again. How’d Lou Reed hook up with Jim Morrison and hang out in the same place and become legends. We had glimpses thereafter, perhaps (Joy Division’s) Ian Curtis, maybe my old buddy Jack White.”

THE HIGH STRUNG ‘GET THE GUESTS’

Interviews

This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Though singer-guitarist Josh Malerman’s pursuit to be a respected novelist remains in check, his brilliant wordplay sustains the High Strung’s malleable pop-rooted sprightliness. Perhaps too garrulously fey to be cool enough for punks and too weirdly discursive for mainstream acceptance, his sturdy midwest trio simply craft contagiously hook-filled tunes in a playfully eclectic manner.

Malerman’s father, a doo-wop and Buddy Holly enthusiast, introduced the pre-pubescent tyke to early rock and roll while living in affluent Detroit suburb, West Bloomfield. But his son seemed more interested in being track and field captain than wily composer. A former museum curator with a keen eye for canvas paintings, he began playing music at an overripe age, acquiring his skills attending lengthy do-it-yourself basement sessions. In accordance with his fidgety nervous energy, Malerman provided the bands’ suitable moniker, the High Strung, in 2000, a distinctive designation verified by schoolyard buddies Chad Stocker (bass), Derek Berk (drums), and ex-singer Mark Owen (who subsequently quit).

“I didn’t learn guitar ‘til I was twenty, but I had tremendous enthusiasm” Malerman affirms.

Now thirty, he has completely transformed into one of underground pop’s best compositional architects.

“Chad and Derek originally said, ‘You write, we play. Let’s get together.’ We initially did instrumentals,” he happily recollects. “They bought me a Farfisa organ and we sat in the basement and I learned it. After a year, I thought it was limiting, but I was smitten with writing songs. It was exhilarating. They were into the Ramones, Eno, and Flaming Lips. It was a latent hardcore education. Was I reliving adolescence or was I just stuck there?”

The High Strung’s developmental debut, These Are Good Times, got the ball rolling for ‘05s captivatingly upbeat and splendidly imitative Moxie Bravo (deservedly endorsed as a masterpiece by Guided By Voices indie pop lynchpin, Bob Pollard).

Malerman’s warbled bari-tenor quaver burrows through buzzy guitar-bass scruff on inviting ‘60s-styled garage rocker, “Never Saw It As Union,” variably evoking comparisons to early Beatles, a scrappier Marshall Crenshaw, and the Nightcrawlers’ foremost bubblegum smash “Little Black Egg.” Taut hip-shakin’ power popper “Anything Goes” charges out of the gate with a customarily slick three-chord angularity while organ-saturated celebration “The Luck You Got” has a spat-out lo-fi rollick primordial hipster Gary U.S. Bonds once embraced.

Pete Townshend’s Who-like guitar flange, Steve Marriott’s Small Faces-laced half-spoken raggedy flutter, and the Kinks satirical conservative bash “A Well Respected Man” all seep into paradoxical send-up, “The Gentleman.” Recalling pre-LSD-soaked psychedelia with its echoplexed six-string fury, freaked-out neurotic lyrical admissions, and mod-derived Keith Moon-y drum spasms, Moxie Bravo’s curvaceously tension-filled escapades, shrewdly updated ‘60s Brit-rock sniggles, and prettied up anthemic raves splatter engagingly clever euphonies across a rich sonic tapestry.

Soon, word spread that the High Strung would embark on a very unusual promotional expedition. Then, in ‘06, the troika audaciously booked an unconventional 60-city library jaunt documented by National Public Radio’s This American Life. Besides having a strong emotional connection to the music he has grown to love, Malerman’s totally psyched about hitting the highway so frequently.

“It’s easier for us to go out ten months a year on tour. We already went through the ‘fuck you’ stage in eighth grade (instead of working out the kinks as young adults),” Malerman says. “Our tour with Son Volt was unbelievable – 1,000 people per night in every city. We drank so much I was wore out and exhausted afterwards. It was a heightened tour, but we drove our little bus just like we did to libraries.” He adds, “That Minutemen (touring) video, We Jam Econo, blew our minds. I didn’t disagree with one goddamn thing they stood for, said, sang, and played. It was insane. That’s how I feel about music.”

Continuing to improve upon the High Strung’s winningly resourceful backdated entrenchment, ‘07s stellar Get The Guests parallels the deliciously retro zest new Park The Van label mates Capitol Years and Dr. Dog favor. The quirkier arrangements seem strangely reminiscent of art-rockers 10 CC’s cynical buffoonery and the more acoustical vignettes veer towards Guided By Voices most casual toss-offs.

Astonishingly, pixilated vestige “Maybe You’re Coming Down With It” epitomizes Spanky & Our Gang’s mystic hippie-aged Summer of Love preponderance and is sung in a range more womanly masculine than manly falsetto. Church organ drives home somber memoir, “Childhood,” as Malerman innocently sabotages Robyn Hitchcock’s seafaring lyrical phrasing and Sufjan Stevens’ lonesome rural tonality. Catchy scampered ditty, “Raise The Bar,” stingingly outlines the drunken demise of a failed goal setter. On histrionic metal-edged emblem, “I Recognize That Voice,” Malerman’s pliable vocalizing brings to mind the flamboyantly yelped hysterics of negligible ‘80s arena rock marvel Billy Squier. And stupid cupid gets impaled on the dreamily amenable “Arrow.”

Obliviously commingling Carnaby Street pop with Sgt. Pepper-era horns, metaphoric scandalmonger “What A Meddler” grovels over gabby grapevine gossip. Its dejected subject fools around, falls in love, and gets fucked over.

Malerman concedes, “At the end of every library show, we’d write a song with young kids. I strung chords together, hummed something wild, and wrote the melody and chords on the spot. Derek helped the kids get lyrics from a library book. We were ecstatic. We wrote a song by accident.”

Compellingly complex caricature “Rimbuad/ Rambo,” written in a Denny’s parking lot in Miami, turned out to be the most divisively decisive disquisition, adroitly juxtaposing the famous French poet with Sylvester Stallone’s military rogue and surreptitiously contrasting the yin and yang of the band.

Malerman avers, “I wanted to write a “Hokey Pokey”/ “Hanky Panky” song. I was onto something. The narrator wasn’t sure what he wanted to be. Like our band, it’s too soft for hard rockers and too bombastic for indie shoegazers.”

His approach to music may change, but going down unexplored avenues might be difficult for such a masterful songster.

“I go into each album thinking this is gonna be far out. This is gonna be our angry song, this, our dark song, and this, our pop song. No matter what I do, it always ends up pop. I love pop songs. I love working on them. But we have that other bone to fuss it up to a climactic whole,” he confesses.

As I allude to the Elephant 6 collective (by way of Apples In Stereo) being an effective reference, he harks, “My drummer bought me an Olivia Tremor Control record. We didn’t know bands were still making awesome psych-pop. It blew our lids.”

Proving to be an estimable component of the High Strung’s totality, famed producer Jim Diamond, whose work with esteemed Detroit combos the Sights, Dirtbombs, and Hentchmen has been highly commended, offered experienced studio supervision.

“We left Detroit, lived in New York for a few years, got The Go’s album (with Jack White in tow), and thought, ‘this sounds insane!’ Who’s Jim Diamond?,” Malerman remembers. “In college, in a much worse band, we got to play at a radio station and he recorded it. I called him, but he was booked for a year. Then I saw his name on a White Stripes album. We got in with him and even did a demo and an album we scrapped after the first one. At the time, we had another guy who sang lead and didn’t sound exciting. They were dull versions of the songs. When Mark left the band, we started from scratch and made Moxy Bravo.”

Now residing in the historic Boston-Edison district (where Motown proprietor Berry Gordy lived), Malerman is firing on all cylinders, penning a few thrillers whilst leading the life of a subterraneous pop luminary.

He concludes, “I had been trying to write books for awhile. I made it to 200 pages once, then stopped. I made 100 through a whole story I thought was good and believed it started to work. Then, a few years went by, and after Moxie, I sat down and had an epiphany. I tried to create my philosophical book – and it sucked. So I worked on a story about a sex witch in the woods. 28 days later, it was 350 pages. I talked about it non-stop, finished it, and wrote a few more. It’s the same thing as learning to play guitar and sing at the same time. All of a sudden, you could do it forever.”

EMBRACE SHAPE STUNNING POP SYMPHONIES ‘OUT OF NOTHING’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Believe it or not, before Coldplay got famous as tenderhearted well-orchestrated neo-Classical pop balladeers, there was Embrace (not to be confused with same-named ‘80s US hardcore band). In fact, Coldplay front man Chris Martin liked them so much he lent them instant chart hit, “Gravity,” from their gorgeously rendered ’04 album, Out Of Nothing (making number one in England). Yet despite overseas success and a solid critical rep, Embrace’s fifth long-player, ‘06s This New Day, sold shit in America. Too bad. Someone’s really missin’ out. I found a comprehensive piece on the bands’ history at www.embrace.co.uk/history/. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

For those not yet aware, English combo Embrace were formative catalysts prefiguring the entire late ‘90s British orchestral pop explosion. They conveyed nakedly evocative confessionals enveloping sincere torch songs, widescreen dystopian epics, and stunningly provocative ruminations highly praised post-shoegaze Radiohead offshoots Coldplay, Doves, Travis, and Starsailor scrutinized, internalized, and affirmatively regurgitated.

Beginning with exquisite ’98 debut, The Good Will Out (its aborted American release disrupted momentum), singer-guitarist Danny Mc Namara and his brother, lead guitarist Richard, struck a nerve constructing poignantly majestic anthems that’d soon become comprehensive blueprints for many adherent cathartic brooders.

Following an extensive layoff in the wake of more experimental, less distinguished albums, ‘00s Drawn From Memory and ‘01s If You’ve Never Been, the Mc Namara’s, plus keyboardist Mick Dale, bassist Steve Firth, and drummer Mike Heaton, return in fine form with ‘04s brilliant illumination, Out Of Nothing. To gain belated stateside support, Embrace toured the states, landing in Manhattan’s commodious Bowery Ballroom during March for a sold out gig. Playing their first ever New York date was a dream come true, rendering ardently gracious Danny Mc Namara to exclaim halfway through an astounding set, “I saw the Doves play Irving Plaza awhile ago, and I said, ‘God, just once.’”

Live, charismatic heartthrob Danny pranced slowly across the stage with utmost confidence and ease, stretching his arms to the heavens in a shamanist manner, a gesture of solidarity mope-rock luminary Morrissey would dig. To his left, sibling Richard eloquently fingered the fret-board, applying sundry pedal affects for stirringly surrealistic intrigue. Second song, the enduringly enthralling UK hit, “All You Good Good People,” got an awestruck fanatical audience to merrily sing along. Happily, Danny’s empowering lyrical fervency and resplendently solemn soft passages lacked the drippy sanctimoniousness miring descendant emo brethren.

Filled with beautifully symphonic ascensions, Out Of Nothing marks the second phase for the re-focused Embrace. Opening with the positively reassuring ‘rise up’ chant of “Ashes,” the immaculately resonating, pristinely detailed 10-song comeback commemorates a virtual rebirth. Lushly textural colossal monument, “Gravity,” written by chummy Coldplay protégé Chris Martin, and grandiose choral resolution “Someday,” with its forthright ‘a light is gonna shine’ benediction, fortify the sentimental uprisings gloriously manifested throughout. Breathless lullaby “Spell It Out” and subdued lamentation “Wish ‘Em All Away” allow Danny’s honey-dripped tenor flights to seductively linger above delicately restrained, masterfully crafted arrangements.

How’d your swimmingly symphonic sound initially transpire?

RICHARD MC NAMARA: By accident. It was the easiest, most natural way to get our songs to work – making them as big as possible. The bigger it got the better we sounded. I started playing guitar when I was twelve. I’d been in straightedge metal bands but never got signed. I decided to get into a band more akin to what we’re doing now. So I’m trying to get to sleep one night and Danny was telling me what he’d do if he was in a band.

DANNY: I had no discernible talent so I became the singer. (laughter) When we came out, we were hailed as Brit-pop’s great next thing. We were seen as an anecdote to all the bands informed by the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Kinks, and Who. We had American influences like the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds and Phil Spector’s Wall Of Sound. We came from a family background listening to Motown-Tamla and old Soul. The Northern Soul clubs in England play modern alt-rock next to that. So it was a natural progression. When we came along, there were no bands doing that – maybe Manic Street Preachers. We were the first to bring a big orchestra to a seven-and-a-half minute single, like the Beatles did with “A Day In The Life.” It’s a massive honor to have Coldplay and Doves get their impulse from us since they’re fantastic bands. It seems like the mainstream chose us instead of us compromising, which is weird because we always considered ourselves outsiders.

Were your parents involved in music?

DANNY: My dad was big into Motown singles. There was a club in Manchester called Twistaville that played Martha & the Vandellas, the Supremes, and Temptations. He loved that. So the records we grew up with were Sly & the Family Stone and that ilk.

RICHARD: I liked Adam & the Ants a lot. They were a kid’s punk band. Then I followed the Smiths, U2, House Of Love, and Stone Roses.

What growth has there been since Embrace’s startling debut, The Good Will Out?

DANNY: Fans always said we were better live then on record. This is our first record where I’ve felt we captured some of that live sound. That’s mostly due to our producer, Youth (The Orb/ Killing Joke). He was a total genius – unpredictable – but he had the ability to capture the magic moments in two, three takes what would’ve taken us fifteen tries. Our first album, we did the Phil Spector aesthetic and built a big wall of righteous noise. Bands like My Bloody Valentine and Ride that were around when we started did that, but we wanted to do it with orchestras instead of big guitars. From there, we lost our ambition. We needed to get off the dole originally, but once we got signed, we began enjoying being in a band and the second and third albums were adrift. We didn’t care how they did commercially. But we’ve gotten stronger since being dropped by our label. Our ambition came back after that bite in the ass. At this point, we raised the bar to a level that’s so high we couldn’t see from the ground. That’s why it took so long to get these ten songs together.

Making orchestral pop is more difficult than just playing three chord rockers.

DANNY: The first album, we probably spent four years writing, the second only two, and the third, maybe one.

Do you have to live through the bittersweet emotions the lyrics project?

DANNY: (hearty laughter) I usually write the lyrics and it takes a week or so of sitting down before the pen starts working and I get in that frame of mind. Then it all pours out and I could write five songs in a day. An analogy is you’re with a girlfriend, three years go by, one night you have too much to drink 3 o’clock in the morning, and she says, “I don’t like the color of your shoes.” Five hours later, the whole fucking thing gets turned on its head because all these emotions pour out. Most of the time, you’re civilized and don’t wanna go into deep feelings. But when they work their way to the surface it all gushes out. Pretty much every song we’ve done that I love, little truths come out that really hit you and I cry.

Is it difficult to deliver such emotionally compelling songs onstage?

DANNY: What tempers it onstage is the crowd. Away from our records at the gigs there’s a celebratory aspect ‘cause the songs are quite epic and the crowd sings along. It’s like a gospel choir. That takes away the dark edge and makes it easier to get through the songs without bursting into tears.

Is there an awakened spirituality at work?

DANNY: “Someday” is quite twisted. It’s about someone who needs to believe in themselves to such an extent they believe they’re the second coming. I wanted to give that a cult-ish celebratory joy and I like the contrast therein. It’s also about how we’re all different, important, and need to feel special. But I have no solid answers. I’m just asking and I’m restless about it.

How’d you get Chris Martin to hand over heartfelt piano ballad, “Gravity”?

DANNY: Before Coldplay released Parachutes, we became good friends straightaway and we’re quite a lot alike. We’ve written songs together. I thought “Gravity” was one of the best songs he’d written. So when I’m in the mixing stage, he called up and said he had a big favor. He wanted to know if I wanted “Gravity.” I said, ‘Why aren’t you recording it?’ He thought it sounded too much like us. He was too shy to ask so (wife) Gwyneth (Paltrow) convinced him. I initially said no, but the band said if the recording turned out well, we’d use it. Our third album dealt with the breakup of an ex-girlfriend. I didn’t want to revisit that and “Gravity” seemed to fit perfectly.

So have you matured enough to appreciate your second chance at fame?

DANNY: Nowadays, we’re enjoying the experience more and taking it as it comes. We let the label worry about marketing and the engineer worry about recording. We’ll worry about the songwriting. It’s less dangerous, the ground we’re standing on. But I haven’t wised up, grown, or learned anything new in ten years. I’m very set in my ways.

EX MODELS DABBLE IN ‘OTHER MATHEMATICS’

Interviews

FOREWORD: As you’ll see by the following 2001 interview, Brooklyn-based Ex Models have a wildly sordid sense of humor. And they were, at the time, my favorite band coming out of the thrilling ‘no wave’ Williamsburg scene. ‘03s Zoo Psychology perfected their riveting perplexities. But ‘05s Chrome Panthers was minimalist to the extreme, as only guitarist Shahin Motia and bassist Zach Lehrhoff were left from the former quartet. It’s likely the band will see some more action post-’09. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Across from Manhattan’s skyline lies remote Williamsburg club North 6, where Bridgewater, New Jersey natives the Ex-Models get ready to storm the wooden platform stage for another revelatory high tension set this cold Halloween’s eve. The catastrophic assault begins when lone bassist Zach Lehrhoff (who splits time in local denizens the Seconds) stares off into the crowd hitting the same cautionary note ad nauseum until the Motia’s (Shahin and Shahyar) step up and deliver a demonic frenzy of axe wielding ferocity. Anchored by headphone-wearing drummer Jake Fiedler’s savage attack, the Iranian-American brothers’ leap through the air hitting nearly impossible notes as Lehrhoff continually stabs at his 4-string while scarily leering at no specific victim. During one fierce break, Shahyar ruffles together some speedy notes while bending backwards humping his instrument.

Placed alongside fellow Brooklyn no wavers the Liars, Black Dice, and the Rapture, jittery quartet the Ex Models take contrapuntal deconstruction to explosive heights by condensing ideas and cramming in as much interesting information into as little time as possible. On their masterful debut, Other Mathematics, they display instrumental complexity without getting lost in complicated time signatures, tossing off tersely truncated 2-minute bursts of fury while mocking the overused ‘math rock’ designation in its smug titular reference.

Comparisons to admirable post-punk minimalists DNA, the Contortions, and ESG aside, these savvy nonconformists continually step out of the boundaries of conventional pop structure, broadening their horizons at every turn. Shahin’s yelped quips reach contralto hysteria unmatched since art-punk mastermind David Byrne fronted the Talking Heads during nearby CBGB’s historic ‘70s punk craze.

Sitting in Brooklyn’s North 6 basement lounge following their dazzlingly acrobatic 40-minute jaunt, these zealous, wry-humored experimentalists unexpectedly reveal they can’t sit through “an entire Captain Beefheart album,” then shrug off Frank Zappa’s experimental excursions and deny comparisons to abstruse ‘80s Minneapolis trio the Minutemen. Nevertheless, husky red-head Fiedler gives respect to free Jazz pioneer Miles Davis and conceptualist John Zorn while the others offer support to local faves Les Savy Fav, the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s, and the Liars.

AW: What formative influences developed your childhood interest in music?

JAKE: I was into Twisted Sister and drummers who played well in bands instead of virtuosos. I like Gang of Four’s Tito Burnam, Phil Rudd (AC/DC), and Dave Lombardo (Slayer) just for the sheer brutality and violence.

SHAHYAR: We have bands we admire, but we’ve been goofing around so long together we play our instruments in a certain way. We wrote songs by arriving in a room and recording what came out and sequenced them later. Shahin and I got involved playing guitar at a young age. As a kid, you go through a lot of phases. You cut your teeth on Iron Maiden. You learn to study Metalli-riffs.

JAKE: I learned to play air drums to Master Of Puppets before I even had a drum kit.

SHAHYAR: When we began, we’d play as many notes as possible to keep ourselves entertained. Now we try to play as few notes as possible to make it interesting.

Did the Minutemen’s keen chops, 90-second half-songs, and abrupt endings influence the Ex Models? How ‘bout the minimalist approach of late-‘70s no-wavers DNA?

ZACH: I don’t think any of us own Minutemen records. I’m not saying they’re not great. And DNA sucks! We’re basically better than all of them. (everyone laughs) I don’t figure out songs listening to music. Our influences are more chemical. I think I’m going deaf.

SHAHYAR: (jokingly mocking Zach) You heard him play tonight!

Other Mathematics’ final song, “The Mechanic,” is an aberration since it’s 5-minutes long and easily approachable.

SHAHYAR: That’s actually the oldest song on the album.

SHAHIN: I don’t think we’ve played that live in two years.

“Girlfriend Is Worse” provides accessible guitar lattice to entice its full frontal rhythm assault.

SHAHIN: What happened is once we figured that out we had to ditch that too. (laughter)

Are you guys friendly with fellow Brooklyn avant-rockers the Liars and Black Dice.

SHAHIN: We now reside in the same borough and I like them a lot.

ZACH: It’s cool. We just wanna see more shitting and puking on-stage.

JAKE: It’s great to see a band you personally enjoy on a certain level do well.

ZACH: (kidding) And you could totally rip off their songs!

Getting ideas from respectable sources isn’t necessarily bad. Dylan’s folk guitar style profoundly influenced the Beatles Rubber Soul.

ZACH: We challenge Dylan to a cocaine sniffing dual and boy will he lose.

Well. He has a bad heart. (laughter) The Ex Models new 4-song split-single with the Seconds penetrates the skull like a chaotic mess of orgiastic flotsam.

SHAHYAR: Truth be told, Shahin played bass on the Seconds tracks and nobody knows I played bass on the Ex Models tracks. It was a transition.

JAKE: So we’re basically playing with ourselves. (laughter)

SHAHIN: Who’s the guitarist who only had two fingers?

SHAHYAR: Django Reinhardt had only two.

JAKE: No. Robert Johnson did.

ZACH: No. He had two dicks!

JAKE: Didn’t he have six fingers.

ZACH: No. That’s Steve Vai in Crossroads.

JAKE: Didn’t the guy from 6 Finger Satellite have six fingers?

ZACH: I saw this Discovery channel special that had a girl with two heads.

They were wearing helmets playing softball. I’ve wondered about their sexuality. Are they lesbian just ‘cause they jerk off? How about the Chinese Siamese twins who were both married?

ZACH: Their fucking wives had two heads apiece.

What are your future aspirations?

SHAHYAR: To get someone whose responsibility is to blow coke up my asshole.

FABULOUS DISASTER CAUGHT UP IN A ‘PANTY RAID!’

Interviews,

 Image result for fabulous disaster

FOREWORD: ‘Nother hard luck childhood story to success. This time, it’s formerly poverty-stricken Fabulous Disaster axe grinder Lynda Mandolyn. Struggling in Detroit to maintain sanity, she moved through a few rock bands before starting up Fabulous Disaster in San Francisco. Fat Mike of NOFX rightfully called them one of the best punk bands he’d ever witnessed. I did this phoner with Lynda prior to the release of ‘03s red-hot punk soiree, Panty Raid! Unfortunately, the band could never top that guileless bohemian gem. ‘07s Love At First Fight fell short and by the end of the year it was all over. But the memories are great. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Growing up on the tough streets of Detroit, future Fabulous Disaster guitarist Lynda Mandolyn was the youngest of five children. Abandoned by a now-deceased father at age eight, her mother struggled in the workforce after a 28-year marriage dissolved. Encouraged by the Motor City’s thriving music scene, Mandolyn led all-girl band Inside Out before moving westward to San Francisco in search of better exposure.

Initially, Mandolyn and drummer Sally Gess (then on bass), placed an ad for a singer, found Laura Litter, and put out ‘98s metallic high octane 7″ single, “Dyke Fight Tonight,” as Piston. They then met Mr. Nancy “one drunken night,” creating one-off all-girl band Female Trouble for an informal 9-song, 15-minute set at a local Bottom of the Hill show. After quitting their respective bands, these kick ass chicks formed Fabulous Disaster, releasing ‘01s adolescence-bound debut, Put Out Or Get Out on Fat Wreck Chords spin-off, Pink & Black, which urgently hurled cheap truckstop retro-punk at leather-clad denizens with a charming naïveté shining through even in the loudest, most furious moments.

Less than two years hence, Fabulous Disaster return with the startling Panty Raid! Improved rhythmic propulsion strengthens the impact of blistering hard rock chants like the bubble-gummy “Next Big Joyride,” the betwixt “Pain Kill Her,” and the shotgun blast “No Stars Tonight” (with its rollercoaster organ adding keen new wave sheen). The pummeling fast food fury of “My Addiction” nicely counters the heartbroken lullaby, “Nightliner.” By teasing the shimmered candy-coated bop of ‘80s post-punk femmes the Go-Go’s, the Bangles, and the Waitresses with the frenetic riot grrrl righteousness of snotty ‘90s gutter-punks Bikini Kill and Bratmobile, these tattered, tattooed tomboys are more rad than fad.

On the side, Mandolyn paints dark-colored collages exposing her obsession with UFO’s, aliens, and obscure pin-up girls. Though partially hung over prior to an upcoming European Deconstruction tour with NOFX, Bouncing Souls, and Boy Sets Fire, she found time to discuss the benefits of analog recording, the present Frisco rock scene, and voyeuristic fetish obsessions.

The contrast between harder and softer rock seems more profound on Panty Raid!

LYNDA: We all feel the songwriting on Panty Raid! grew by leaps and bounds from Put Out Or Get Out. We’ve gotten better as players. Sally is a madhouse drummer. Live, she beats the shit out of the kit. We also like the way Panty Raid! was recorded in analog instead of digital. That might adhere to punchier drums and bass. I don’t think digital captures the live feel of guitar-bass-drums as well.

Did producer Alex Newport (At the Drive-In/Sepultura) suggest going analog?

He’s been a friend of mine forever. I always wanted to work with him but I didn’t know if his m.o. would allow him to work with a band like Fabulous Disaster. But he saw us and loved us and said, “I’d love to do this. The thing is I don’t ever do anything in digital.” He had a cheap place in San Francisco to work at. He said it might take awhile longer, but it’ll sound a lot better. He had many great ideas.

What kind of ideas?

Mostly guitar stuff. Little pieces here and there we came up with – guitar melodies I wouldn’t have thought up. He also had a great ear for harmonies and made sure we kept perfect key. Fat Mike (of NOFX) was amazing helping us vocally on Get Up, but Alex helped out, too.

How’s the current San Francisco scene?

I love Hellfire Choir – three girls and a guy. Unfortunately, they don’t play out much because the lead singer just had a baby. When I moved here from Detroit in ’95, the punk scene was amazing. It was explosive. Then, in ’97, we started getting these stupid yuppies moving in and rent went sky high. All these assholes moved in next to clubs that were open for 20 years and had them shut down. We lost a lot of great clubs. But when the whole dot com thing crashed, everyone moved out. So the scene’s rebuilding. There’s stuff to do every night of the week here.

What was it like growing up in Detroit?

It was pretty fucking gloomy. But luckily the Detroit music scene is great and prepares you for anything. I started an all girl band at 16 called Inside Out. We were together 8 or 9 years. We played the Midwest, Canada, and New York’s Pyramid Club. We did a “Peel Session” overseas. We grew up with Demolition Doll Rods, Kuru – which is a laughing disease, the Gories, and the Colors. I just ran into my old friend, Pat Pantena (ex-Colors), who’s now in the Dirtbombs. It’s great that the Detroit scene is exploding now with the White Stripes, Sights, and Soledad Brothers. It’s not my cup of tea, but I’m happy the spotlight is getting shined on them.

What’s this about Fabulous Disaster being involved in the “fetish” and “biker” scenes?

I think we’re more into the fetish scene. The biker scene’s a bit of a myth. Fat Mike started that rumor. (laughter) There’s a lot of sex clubs out here me and Mr. Nancy frequent. It’s more like dressing up and playing the part.

Is it like New York’s Plato’s Retreat, where orgies crowd the floor?

It’s different here. That might apply more to gay men’s bathhouses out here.

Why? Are lesbians less risqué?

Fulsom Street fare has their share. But I’m not gay. That’s a rumor too. I’m straight and proud of it. We’re getting sick of all that lesbian crap.

Supposed lesbian bands like Sleater-Kinney, Tribe 8, and the defunct Team Dresch seem to have a more abrasive rancor than Fab Disaster.

You think they’re harder than we are?

Sure. Your songs have candy-coated centers akin to the Go-Go’s and Bangles.

I think you’re right. But we’re heavy hitters too. Someone said we’re an iron fist in a velvet glove.

Lyrically, you deal with lighter concerns – bad teen relationships and skidmarks on the heart.

Revenge on somebody – totally. But we’re not looking to rip someone’s throat out. There’s always an underlying darkness in our lyrics.

Will you do a video?

A friend of mine is working on an animated video for “Next Big Joyride.” I saw the drawings and layout and it looks awesome. We may do four or five videos. My husband does video stuff. Our friend who works for Boeing does videos and wants to do one. There’s a possibility of Bryan Archer from Fat Wreck Chords doing one. He did the Mad Caddies and can do good videos for cheap budget.

Any ideas what the next album will sound like?

Not sure. I had a weird fantasy that the Descendents’ Bill Stevenson would produce the next one. He likes us. He’s a fan.