We’re hanging out at MC Paul Barman’s lower Manhattan apartment listening to Beatles tunes on a secondhand disc player his chatty son, Felix, commandeers. Barman shows me a mint condition vinyl version of urban fiction mentor Iceberg Slim’s defunct masterpiece, Reflection, and forthrightly comments, "Iceberg was a master of the English language and pulp novels. His verbing nouns were brilliant, economical, and descriptive. He was slick talking, had depth of feeling, and a large personality."
The same could be said of egalitarian Ridgewood, New Jersey native, Barman, a savvy Brown University-educated rapper, humorist, illustrative artist, and now, Househusband Records proprietor.
It’s been seven years since Barman dropped fascinating linguistic labyrinth
Paullelujah, due to family obligations, part-time jobs, and music-related art in the interim. But he’s come back stronger than ever on ‘09s epic-sized
Thought Balloon Mushroom Cloud.
"My structural layering, triple meanings, and speed of rhyme are intended for longevity and nourishment. It’s not available for surface clarity. The consensus was
Paullelujah followed up (2000 debut)
It’s Very Stimulating with talking Blues and word Jazz in an attempt to make a more emotionally wide ranging work. Although at the time I wasn’t good at it," the modest erudite rhyme master quips. "I’m better at doing serious works now then with
Paullelujah."
An ambitious artisan, Barman enjoys setting his audience up for the unexpected, whether through music, on-line sketches, handbooks, resplendent limited vinyl, or the intriguingly prismatic
Buck Moon Kaboom Mixtape. A nimble-tongued jester that could hold court with anyone, he’s shown appreciation for satirical cartoons as well as underground comic book legends R. Crumb and Harvey Pekar.
Despite some serious-minded apparitions spread across
Thought Balloon Mushroom Cloud’s comprehensive oeuvre, Barman’s jollier tunes in collaboration with long-time hip-hop pals, Prince Paul (ex-Stetsasonic architect/ celebrated artist-producer) and MF Doom (Brit-born KMD protagonist/ rapping metal-faced Nuyorican poet), retain an instant like-ability easing mainstream access. The former helps out on spry ‘70s-styled pop charmer, "Get Along Gang," commissioned by American Greeting Corporation for a cheesy revamped TV show that never came into fruition but wouldn’t feel out of place next to the Banana Splits’ catchy "Tra La La Song."
Meanwhile, Doom’s featured on playful dual rhyme scheme, "Hot Guacamole" (initially titled "Bullocks," abandoned for
Paullelujah, then snuffed again by Doom’s euphonic cuisine enticement
Mm Food). The playful teaser, utilizing Creedence Clearwater Revival’s jaunty "Down On The Corner" (
Mushroom Cloud’s only obvious sample), gets equaled in insouciant splendor by snazzy Barman-Doom accord, "Go Sane," a suavely posh New York-bound springtime chime.
In actuality, Barman’s not only returned to collect some "Props," he’s here to snub ‘hate to laugh novelty acts’ and take a stance against hardcore rap’s compromised commercial gimmickry. But he’s not above snickering lowbrow slapstick a la the genitalia-connected triad bounding therapeutic injunction, "Get Help."
His chameleon-like stylistic proclivities match his burning desire to delightfully transform and cleverly modify each successive endeavor undertaken. "Aids" jokes aren’t off-limits, even when Doctor Joyce Wallace’s involved. Yet "Drug Casual-T" seems grimly sobering. Barman’s prismatic propensities prove positive.
"My favorite logo is (cable network) Nickelodeon. They’ve created a recognizable brand that changes all the time through font and color. It’s
aspirational," he imparts.
Thought Balloon Mushroom Cloud was originally available via your website, www.mcpaulbarman.com, November ’09. There’s now limited vinyl and a listener’s manual (lyric book).
PAUL B: I liken the slow role out to an egg with some shit and feathers still stuck to it. We were so constipated with this project we practically had to give the chicken a C-section. It’s using the working title for
Paullalujah, but with the crucial chorus containing the words in "Science," wherein I’m not only rhyming about splitting the atom but also doing so in Morse cadence, which is long and short syllables that spell out
Thought Balloon Mushroom Cloud underneath other words. That’ll be the subject of YouTube’s "Pellet #2," where I’ll explain how this rhythm/ rhyme operates. Another working title was
Tears Of Joy – also not the greatest title. In retrospect, I should have called the album
The Moon. It’s simple and relates to the songs and fits on YouTube’s 16X16 square pixal thumbnails of album covers; the graphic adjustment which I’m still working on.
You’ve squeezed so many diverse ideas into a single hour disc. It’s impossible to figure it all out in just a few tertiary listens.
Nobody rhymes like me. I don’t even rhyme like me. I don’t repeat what anyone, especially myself, has done. DJ Qbert is constantly twittering good words of advice like ‘just as a rolling stone gathers no moss, a focused artist deflects both positive and negative criticism.’ All I cared about was talent, vision, point of view, originality, directness, expression, and innovation. One day someone will notice I worked with total unknowns that were the most famous people in the world.
Point being, I have to contradict myself because L.A.-based Open Mike Eagle, part of Project Blowed at the Bay, whom I’m gonna work with, has a song on his "Another Roadside Attraction" EP, called "The Financial Crisis Song," a tight edu-tainment rhyme about the bailout debacle. His understanding of the information in a really tricky lyric is in some ways what I tried to do with "Oil," "Radiation," and "Owl Pellets," which in a way, may not be different than the KRS-One songs inspiring us.
Do you feel like an appreciable underground artist rising up against today’s trendy fashionistas?
When it comes to fashionistas, the underground is a losing proposition. We grew up wanting to be the first to hear Nirvana. When they blew up, people weren’t as attached to them, even though that didn’t take anything away from their records. Then, there’s the Dead Kennedys. Even if their music wasn’t what it was, the name of the band alone makes sure you’d never get divorced from underground status. You could root for the underdog as a kid and get attached to that, but then you believe only underdogs are valuable and shoot yourself in the foot in life. However, I have no interest in fashion, be it underground on not.
…As Paul wears his dress pants with yellow army boots, jacket, vest, and hat that don’t match. (laughter)
If fashion is about surfaces, of course, I have no interest. It’s not that I’m in opposition to fashion, it doesn’t (come into my radar).
Did you ever feel your abstract lyrical twists were too sharply worded for the proletariat or possibly over regular people’s heads?
Regular people are smart and don’t like to be spoken down to. The fast food proletariat is gonna fall apart. Have you seen the new study saying Monsanto corn, which is all corn AND most food, causes organ damage? It’s genetically engineered to do well with a certain herbacide. Point being, strategy and creativity have very small overlap so I don’t have a choice about what I do.
You deal more with serious social issues
and less with hilarious sexual innuendoes on Thought Balloon. Has your perspective matured since being married with two sons or have you seen too much bad shit in the world?
Both. (laughter) Also, I don’t only have to use my own ideas anymore. I can collect things that appear to be the truth and throw them in the mix.
Do you still think ex-prez Bush knocked down the towers on 911?
When I said that I was convinced there was an order to not send planes to intercept the terrorist planes in illegal airspace. My understanding was it’d require a presidential order not to send planes to knock those planes out of the sky. Did Bush knock them down? I don’t know.
Tell me about Beer, the loose musical collective you and famed movie director Michel Gondry (animation/ piano/ optigan) put together.
It’s just us – not to take anything away from the fabulous collaborations. It’s a mind melt and we’ve hired awesome musicians. Gondry wanted to call it Beer Machine, but I just wanted Beer. We should do shows with Can. (laughter) "Leafbird" is a new kiddie song. There’s a few unfinished.
Weird Al Yankovic does the horror-filmed ‘weird owl’ outro for "The Moon" (featuring deep-voiced dramatist Master Ace). Have you discussed doing any future projects with popular musical satirist, Weird Al?
Nas did an unauthorized biography of Rakim that was brilliant and blew a lot of heads back. I thought, "Wouldn’t it be crazy to do one with Weird Al. So I researched him and put it together in similar format to a beat that could be a cousin to the Nas song and I did that years ago. I also reached out to him when his parents died inexplicably (in a car accident). Incredibly sad. Then I sent him the song. He said, "That’s awesome." But it needs updating because I did it after Al’s
Poodle Hat and before
White & Nerdy. It exists on my
Buck Moon Kaboom. I also did an interview with him for
Village Voice. I wrote an unauthorized KRS-One bio. It was actually Gondry’s first assignment for me to translate into rhyme – what I call Rhyme Slating. I’m working one for Joe Strummer and Obama as well.
The emotionally compelling tracks ending Thought Balloon, beautiful moonlit sonata, "Divorce," and post-recession reflection, "It Can All Be Taken Away," seem to reminisce about the struggle to survive.
But it ends positively with marriage. It’s about my parents divorce and the triumph over that. We take everything for granted. We make art ‘cause life hurts.
Will you sign artists to your boutique label, Househusband Records?
But who’d sign with me when I won’t sign with anybody. (laughter) Grand Royal Records were great taste makers… I’d love to write for people like King-Goffin did in the ‘60s. We’re making kid’s books and elaborate lyric books for Househusband Books & Media. The label will involve me, but not always as performer. Also, I have dreams of overseeing other people’s projects. Maybe tweaking rap demos with some outside direction to bring it up a few notches.
-John Fortunato
A fortuitous meeting at an Ivy League radio station partnered schoolmates Ben Knox Miller and Jeff Prystowsky in a worthy musical venture that has provided some great dividends along the way. Uniting in 2002 as Brown University on-air staffers at WBRU, the dynamic multi-instrumental duo became interested in learning everything they possibly could about compositional construction, studio production, proper miking, and other technical aspects from the outset.
Four years down the road, the humble Rhode Island twosome would hit the road as The Low Anthem, finding a national audience with their sympathetic travelogues, rustic road odes, and hexed lover’s concertos. In 2007, Jocie Adams came aboard full time and the skillful troika received great underground exposure with the convincing What The Crow Brings.
By this point, The Low Anthem had secured their status as one of the best Americana-related acts, comparing favorably against en vogue folkies such as North Carolina’s Avett Brothers and New York’s Felice Brothers. A more direct contemporary comparison with Seattle’s baroque rock-oriented Fleet Foxes is fair, but the dramatic pathos wafting through the drifting rural pastures this alluring Rhode Island troupe sojourn cuts deeper and goes further on ‘09s magnificent Oh My God, Charlie Darwin.
An ambitious achievement reliant on plaintive Country folk restraint and countered perfectly by feverish roadhouse Blues, Oh My God takes place in the 19th century when English naturalist Charles Darwin’s scientific theories on the transmutation of species were being developed. And despite Miller’s pragmatic lyrical perspective, his solemn requiems cannot escape dipping into spirited religiosity.
"The interest in Darwin is less with his historical figure and more with the way he challenged the idea of survival of the fittest. Especially when you look at morality and the teachings of Christianity," Miller asserts during a phone call from a secluded Oklahoma village on route to Texas. "It’s a record about how our ideas and values are subjected to survival of the fittest. I’m not anti-religious, but the album recognizes the church has a missionary arm and the church is spreading itself and its ideas like an animal reproduces and the genes are passed on. There’s the reference that Darwin’s acknowledged that sort of analogy - looking for something to hold on to as far as values or identity."
Miller’s parents were highly influential music informants. As a pre-teen, basic roots rock and acoustic folk artists topped the list of formative compositional inspirations.
"The stuff I heard as a kid were Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, and Pete Seeger. That’s what I heard at home," he advises. "Certainly, I found the Beatles and Rolling Stones, but Pete Seeger was always on whether at school or wherever. I learned his songs at a young age."
Projecting gloom, agony, and longing with his strikingly melancholic fragile tenor and nasally droned baritone whine, Miller’s trembled quiver stirringly haunts stripped-down meditational ruminations such as the whispered opening dirge, "Charlie Darwin," and desolate Cathedral-bound Cowboy Junkies-like threnody, "Cage The Songbird."
"Those are arrangements we came up with at the end of the process," Miller informs. "We tried them different ways, changing the tempo, instrumentation, and who’s playing what instrument. That happened right at the end of the studio session. We said, ‘OK. Let’s do them an octave higher.’ There’s this choral quality where we all sing the harmonies together. It’s just a small fraction of what we do, but it’s an important part of our sound. I’m not sure whose idea it was but it came at the end of a long process of figuring out how to (make the songs gel)."
An air of desperation also bedevils poignant muzzle-voiced maunder "Ticket Taker." Similarly, the barren atmospherics of comforting campfire command, "(Don’t) Tremble," and mystical yearn, "To Ohio," recall Nick Drake’s ghostly empyreal ‘70s recordings. Forlorn train-whistle harmonica, pump organ, banjo, clarinet, and saxophone help increase the magnitude of Miller’s solitary grief-stricken hymnals.
"Charles Darwin has a better live feel. What The Crow Brings was self-produced and engineered. Jeff and I did it as a duo and everything was overdubbed. We were learning to do basic production. It was a modest production," Miller admits. "Because it was just the two of us, we spent a lot of time adjusting microphones and recording each other. Besides the first two tracks we laid down, there wasn’t much of a live feeling to the record. There weren’t as many hands on deck so we couldn’t experiment with these wild arrangements. You had to go one step at a time to see how the combination of things sounded. But when there were three of us (with the addition of Adams), you could try different things."
Interestingly, the Low Anthem’s ethereal moniker could be seen as a teasingly sly referral to Minneapolis slo-core enchanters, Low, and the hushed anthemic lamentations thereof.
My hypothesis has Miller laughing before he jokingly quips, "That only occurred as an afterthought."
Then again, he’s not so dismissive of my intimations that "Ticket Taker" alludes to Simon & Garfunkle’s majestic "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" (via lyrical tidbit ‘I will be your arc to float across the storm’) or equally resplendent neo-Classical elegy "The Boxer" (as per the agonized ‘boxer felt no pain’).
"Those are all references I’m very familiar with. But there’s a lot of other songs about boxers like Dylan’s "Hurricane." So it’s not a direct reference," he surmises.
Thankfully, The Low Anthem never feel relegated to only delivering drowsy Country & Western-procured entreaties a la the reverent "Will The Circle Be Unbroken" knockoff, "OMGCD." They prove just as successful reinterpreting Mississippi Delta Blues, tearing it up with the best of ‘em on whiskey-bent junkyard rumble, "Champion Angel," an electric guitar-driven number that’d fit alongside the Black Keys, North Mississippi All Stars, and early Kings Of Leon.
"That song shows a seriously different side to the band. Why should we be restricted when we’re able to use so many vintage instruments," Miller maintains.
Moreover, scraggly gravel-voiced omen, "The Horizon Is A Beltway," and Beat-derived Kerouac poem, "Home I’ll Never Be," indulge Tom Waits’ raspy beatnik scruff. Another mournful pledge, "To The Ghosts Who Write History Books," begs for consolation while indirectly exorcising demons.
Perhaps Charlie Darwin unintentionally mirrors America’s current economic woes with its downtrodden hard-times-in-the-land-of-plenty proverbs. One good listen will convince the unsure, and probably uninsured, proletariat that we’re all mere castaways betwixt the Atlantic and Pacific shorelines. It’s sometimes comparable to the bleak caliginous sundowners underscoring two of ‘09s finest long-play indie releases - Grizzly Bear’s divine revelation Veckatimest and Animal Collective’s equally enlightened Merriweather Post Pavilion.
The main difference is The Low Anthem’s reliance on established roots-based folk (dust bowl balladeering and old timey Appalachian anecdotes included) instead of conventional pop techniques. They inventively redirect present-day narratives and pave the way for a looming apocalyptic future with a few choice acoustical renditions. Their grim, bleary-eyed accounts plead for salvation in a world full of fear and pain and disintegration.
-John Fortunato 
Admirable anti-fascist South American hippie, Sergio Dias, gained international acclaim fronting Os Mutantes, rebellious bossa nova-based folk surrealists whose ceremonial Beatles-influenced Tropicalia clashed against politically-empowered authoritarian traditionalists during Brazil’s turbulent late ‘60s uprising. The Sao Paola-raised Dias, alongside percussionist-brother, Arnaldo Baptista, and female singing counterpart, Rita Lee Jones, helped devise an enduring musical style rooted in their country’s cultural heritage and inspired by contemporary absurdist pop.
Credited with being unintentional innovators of cut-n-paste technology, a sample-based technique utilizing electronic affects and tape loops made fashionable by ‘90s hip-hop heads, indie rockers, and bhangra tenets, Os Mutantes have been gloriously resurrected as a newfangled septet under Dias’ direction. Joining him on ‘09s kaleidoscopic elixir, Haih or Amortecedor (after several post-Mutantes ‘80s solo records) are fellow ‘60s Tropicalia rivals, Tom Ze and (to a much lesser extent) Jorge Ben. Together, they’ve updated, modernized, and redirected Tropicalia’s melodic sun-dazed ebullition and trenchant sociopolitical ambitions.
Highly inventive and endlessly lauded, Os Mutantes originally suffered at the hands of Brazil’s oppressive government, which imprisoned, then exiled to Britain in ‘69, esteemed activist musicians, Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso. In fact, Gil-Veloso’s rejoicing tribal affirmation, "Bat Macumba," may best represent Os Mutantes, as its distorted guitar bluster, punctual rhythmic core, and catchy titular chorus coalesces past strategic ideas with newer studio elements.
Strangely, amidst Brazil’s chaotic unrest and in spite of suffocating military crackdowns, sinisterly hallucinogenic mantra, "Ando Meio Desiglado," translated as ‘I feel a little spaced out,’ became their biggest Brazilian hit, despite surreptitiously illustrating marijuana’s narcotic uplift.
Reintroduced via David Byrne’s culturally diverse Luaka Bop label, fabulous ’99 compilation, Everything Is Possible!, definitively captures the distended trio in all its early resplendence. Cryptic bedevilment, "Ave, Lucifer," and phase-shifting sub-aquatic fugue, "Dia 36," defy easy categorization. "Baby (1971)" finds redheaded temptress, Rita Lee, purring suggestively above Spanish guitar and cocktail lounge piano. On "Fuga No. 11," a two-part neo-Classical orchestral, her reverberating multi-tracked coo reaches angelic heights. Elsewhere, a blistering Electric Prunes riff anchors "A Minha Menina," an enchanting hand-clapped Trini Lopez knockoff entwined with "Peppermint Twist" shout-outs. And the entire ensemble goes percussive on electric-guitar injected escapade "Cantor De Mambo."
Os Mutantes fans acknowledge ‘72s Mutantes E Seus Cometas No Pais Do Baurets was inspired by Santana’s Latin rock pyrotechnics. A few follow-up releases, continuing through to ’78, leaned evermore towards prog-rock ‘til Dias pulled the plug and began a prolific solo career beneath American radio’s tenuous narrow radar. Spurred to reunite by a new audience that included Beck and the Flaming Lips, Dias’ newly transformed Os Mutantes began appearing live in ‘06, receiving rave reviews.
Listening to Haih, it’s easy to relish these morphed mutants unexpected reawakening forty years beyond their Sixties commencement. Commanding cinematic opener, "Querida Querida," offers fiery rock-driven six-string combustion and a busy cymbal/ hi-hat groove to juxtapose the silent-loud acoustic-electric exchanges permeating musty catacomb, "Teclar."
Operatic gypsy folk diva, Bia Mendes, quick-spits rhymes opposite Dias on delightfully obtuse circus-like Vaudevillian scamper, "2000 E Agarrum." Chanted organ-droned samba, "O Careca," poses as smooth Jazz fusion and lovely summer retreat, "Anagrama," sung by Mendes in a windswept mezzo-soprano, betters sentimental campfire lullaby "O Mensageiro." Wispy soul-injected calypso, "Neurociencia," gives salsa a psych-induced boost.
Beginning with a pithily offbeat version of "New York New York," the rapturous South American crew held court for a sold out Webster Hall audience, October ‘09. Their captivating musical celebrations were delivered in a fun loving smiley-faced manner wherein the combo felt completely at ease.
Dias, the delighted, ripened, 58 year-old minister of Tropicalia, jokingly blamed the audience for demanding his reunion and comeback tour "thirty-five years later." Dressed in scarf, long black coat, and knee-length boots, Dias strummed acoustic guitar, got electric for a few psychedelicized moments, and urged his minions to "get high" and enjoy some music.
Chipper harmonic exchanges between Dias and Mendes brightened the melancholic sentiments. Her operatic theatricality, wide-eyed facial expressions, and sassy sensuality deepened lounge-pop relaxants as well as surreal Beatles-informed rock. A few swaying bossa nova ballads drifted gorgeously into floral sun-parched romanticism. They even saluted Prez Obama with a catchy Latin cha-cha.
I spoke to Dias a few days after Os Mutantes’ invigorating Webster Hall show.
You’ve never lost your political edge. Clarinet-fluttered espionage blues investigation, "Baghdad Blues," takes Saddam Hussein to task.
SERGIO DIAS: We always talk about things we see. The idea we had with Scheherazade and 1,001 Nights was basically what Baghdad was beforehand, flying carpets and all. Then you have so much destruction and ugliness. It’s a big loss to have Baghdad’s culture, the cradle of mankind, be devastated. I understand what it’s like in dictatorships because I was in Brazil. But the US has lost world respect since the Kennedy coup d’etat. When he died, Brazilian students went home from school for three days of mourning. I was 12. That’s the respect America was given. This wouldn’t happen now due to the overseas American policies. The fears and troubles America went through after World War II with Stalin and Communism pushed people to react. Brazil’s a sub-product. The coup d’etat we suffered was staged by Brazilian military and American government. America was unprepared to deal with a Cuban crisis the size of Brazil.
I understand the fear during nuclear proliferation but Baghdad’s not that kind of threat. The Gulf War is sadly more economical than political. Oil. Sometimes you’re accepted by another country, but America can’t force that. It’s worrisome due to negative antagonistic aspects. Everyone wants to be respected and America’s in a tight position. At the end of Haih, we merge the US, Russian, and Brazilian National Anthems to remind people how it was when the US had a match in terms of the world chessboard. Kennedy blockaded Cuba, snubbing Kruschev, who helped stop Nazi invasion but wanted foreign missiles. Much was at stake. There was a world threat. Now, I don’t think force is the best way to spread idealism.
Almost coincidentally, Dylan went electric when Os Mutantes concocted ‘60s Tropicalia. These revolutionary maneuvers were, at first, misunderstood. Worse, Brazil’s government exiled several promising artists.
Dylan’s problems weren’t as menacing as being tortured, getting deported, or my father being arrested working for a politician. Viet Nam was difficult, but men drifted into Canada as protest. In Brazil, if you insult the government, you die. After the Cold War, America had to deal with this crescendo of nuclear power, guns, and war. My first Casio organ was $200 but the price of technology came down. It’s the same with weapons. It’s not healthy how Israel is armed against Arab states. Third World countries need stability and look up to America’s leadership. When America thwarted the French Revolution and rid the grip of Britain, Lafayette returned to France and Jefferson’s ideas got deeply rooted in the French community. It created history much like ‘60s music did.
What’s "Samba Do Fidel" about? Its Latin percussion, vibes, and plinked piano create a red-hot Cuban rhythm.
We were in Miami when Fidel Castro fell ill. So there was a party happening. In reality, the song's about the Brazilian government. It’s more political-oriented being that football still runs the country. They have elections the same year as the World Cup. It’s like a circus.
Explain the silly impromptu ditty you did about Obama at Webster Hall.
Obama’s already part of Brazilian folklore – Obama superstar. The poor guy just entered the kitchen and he has to cook with the instruments he’s been given. It’s great and liberating, an Afro-American in power. But so far, we have no idea what he wants to do. So I sang, ‘Obama, oh please, help us.’ There’s starving Third World people. What’s he gonna do? It was spontaneous.
Where’d you find exhilarating singer, Bia Mendes?
I’ve known her for 20 years. She sang backup for Rita Lee but lacked the license to kill which I gave her. I had to push her to center stage where she shines. It’s beautiful to see someone bloom in that way.
Her counterpoint on "2000 E Agarrum" is truly remarkable.
It’s an answer to "2001," a song we did with Tom Ze. He’s my new partner for this album. We decided to do "2002." When I counterpoint her, I’m invoking bossa legend, Dorival Caymmi, Brazil’s BB King. It’s a very famous trademark song of his so it’s a big collage.
What were Tom Ze’s general contributions?
The lyrics. I met him in 2006 when we did our first comeback Brazilian show. We invited him onstage to do "2001." He’s very active and we became like peanut butter and jelly – one of my best collaborators. When we started in the ‘60s, I was 17. There was a huge seven-year age gap. I wouldn’t know how to talk to him. That’s no longer an issue. Songs flowed easily.
Where’d the title of the album, Haih, come from?
It’s Shoshone Indian language for raven. I wanted to get a raven as a pet to best my cat, who thinks he’s the center of the universe. I was checking if it was possible to get a raven but I think they’re an endangered species. So I stated making jokes about the raven idea. When it comes down to putting together an album cover, I was watching the Lewis & Clark Expedition. And this Shoshone girl who was saving all these diaries had a father named Lightning Crow. So this got tied together and one day while playing in the States, I was joking about transforming into a raven – letting out a loud caw. The band was cracking up. So it became an identity. Ravens are so close to the magical and mysterious. It has a lot to do with Os Mutantes. The LP originally had a butterfly, but that didn’t have the punch of the raven.
Was Gilberto Gil a mentor?
He had the Brazilian traditionalist style whereas Os Mutantes were into rock and roll forged through Tropicalia and technology. In terms of contributions to the movement, he was more tropical sounding. Gil’s a genius and probably enabled me to do a song like "2000 E Agarrum" due to his influence. On the other hand, he now plays electric instead of acoustic. It’s like a marriage. Who influences more, the husband or wife?
How much of an influence were the Beatles?
Beatlemania was very strong in Brazil. First time I heard "I Want To Hold Your Hand," I immediately cut my hair like theirs. I wanted to be a Beatle and was in love with their amazing music. George is my Beatle. It took five tries to watch Concert For George. I was sobbing. He was part of my life that went away. An artists’ life is hard, being bombarded with so much. People expect so much then suddenly you’re dust like George Harrison or Ray Charles. Why didn’t the world stop when Ray Charles died? He invented Soul. His rendering of the Beatles "Yesterday" and "Eleanor Rigby" were perfect. Paul Mc Cartney must’ve been on his knees thanking God for Ray bringing those songs to earth.
Word has it your mother was a concert pianist. Did she put you on your musical path?
Yes. We were cradled on Classical music. She was one of the best pianists I ever heard. She was the first woman to write a concerto for piano and orchestra. My father was a great poet and tenor opera singer. So my brother and I were always surrounded by the greatest Sao Paolo musicians and their culture.
Has Brazil’s social system improved since the Sixties?
Business fixed a bunch of problems, but socially we still have forty years of catching up. We were in the Middles Ages for years. There’s no democracy. Just the legacy of a corrupt government. It’s ugly and awful to see the new generation deal with this. But for three generations, Brazil was basically shutdown. Brazil needs to be freer and more honest despite economic problems. Culturally, piracy and the internet have ruined the record industry – which stopped the monopoly of twenty people in Rio De Janeiro. They had determined what people listened to. But payola still exists. The legacy of Brazil needs to be revitalized. We have to regain our identity and pride. We cannot accept the image being shown of police shootings and political turmoil. The mess must be cleaned up or politicians will continue manipulating votes. The Sixties gave us small seeds of what things could’ve been like if we were more loving instead of egotistical.
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Rocking all over America since age seventeen, contentious bad-ass punk diva, Jemina Pearl, hit the ground running in the now-defunct Be Your Own Pet before hijacking their drummer to co-compose a few tunes as lead guitarist in a solo venture she only hoped would satisfy loyal minions. The oldest daughter of churchgoing Jesus-worshipping hippies whose father played in a local rock and roll band, Pearl’s cutesy snot-nosed tomboy image and volatile onstage disposition proceed her.
Drawing listeners in with prudently smoothed-up pop gloss while saving her best stripped-down punk gunk for closure, Pearl’s wide spectrum of songs show off a versatility only hinted at in her former band. Using glam-rockers Lou Reed, David Bowie and Suzi Quatro as well as ‘60s girl group pioneers, the Shangri-La’s, for inspiration, her impressive debut, Break It Up, gains mainstream viability due to Iggy Pop vocal collaboration, "I Hate People," a combative snip circumventing novelty status thanks to Pearl’s vicious misanthropic sneer.
Piss and vinegar run through Pearl’s coarse veins on pissy fuck-offs such as "Undesirable" and loose-y goosey glam slam, "Selfish Heart." Similarly, ‘black tears’ stain her pale face on the guitar-rumbled "No Good." On the more sensitive side, innocent love trinket "Heartbeats," melodic pop charmer "Band On The Run," and leathery black-hearted Joan Jett-enticed decree "Looking For Trouble" manage to ‘cut a little deeper.’ Meanwhile, "Ecstatic Appeal" could easily pass for a coquettish Go-Go’s new wave knockoff.
But it’d be unfair not to mention co-composing multi-instrumentalist John Eatherly, whose resourceful musical designs bolster Pearl’s venomous words of wisdom. As Be Your Own Pet’s mightily frenzied stick-handler, Eatherly provided raucous bottom end to Pearl’s rascally rampaging raunch. For Break it Up, he brought in fully formed song ideas perfectly suited for possible paramour, Pearl. Look at it this way. She’s sly seductress Mae West on a bender and he’s the guy willing to serve toxic potions to his bold gal pal. So come out and see ‘em some time.
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It seems as if you put the most conventional tracks up-front for greater accessibility while the greasy punk-snarled fury Be Your Own Pet dwelled in reinforce the albums’ backend.
JEMINA: We just tried to figure out a good flow.
JOHN: That way the kids will keep on listening. It may be more accessible. We were listening to a lot of ‘60s pop, getting into Classic ‘60s pop formulas for structure and hooks. That, in itself, was somewhat mainstream.
JEMINA: We’re really happy with it. We’re not necessarily gunning for a bigger audience.
Fervent confessional opener, "Heartbeats," relies on ‘60s-styled drum rolls and conventional love song etiquette.
JEMINA: I feel that’s more ‘70s-oriented. I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen for awhile and she hadn’t seen me play since Be Your Own Pet and saw us play and said, ‘Dude, it’s really awesome. You finally got to do all the stuff you love that you couldn’t do with them. It totally sounds like glammy ‘70s rock.’ That’s what it sounds like to me more than ‘60s pop. Maybe it’s a combination of ‘60s pop structure and orchestration with glittery David Bowie/ Suzie Quatro affectations.
Your latest songs seem more heartfelt, sensitive, and mature. Are you more in touch with your inner feelings?
JEMINA: Last year was really gnarly. The best way to deal with fucked up shit is to write about it so the lyrics dealt with messy situations I was in. Maybe it’s more heartfelt. But I wouldn’t say it’s prissy shit.
You got label colleague Thurston Moore, Sonic Youth’s guitarist, to lay down some licks for "Band On The Run."
JEMINA: Thurston played noisy backup guitar. He broke a string on that song and I said ‘Go get yourself another string.’ He said, ‘Why? I’ve got five more.’ He played the guitar up and down without the broken string. There’s not a lot of Thurston soloing. It’s like his version of a solo.
JOHN: He’s wandering around surfing the guitar.
How does John Agnello’s production on this solo project differ from what Steve Mc Donald (of Redd Kross) did for the Pet records?
JEMINA: Steve jump-started me to work on this record. After Be Your Own Pet broke up, he told me not to sit on my ass and to start writing. We grew up with Steve, but working with John was nice. We started at square one. He let us do what we wanted to do but tried to rein us in whenever it got too… He tried to keep us in check.
There’s a sassy contentiousness that seems to follow you wherever you go. You project black-hearted drama onstage.
JEMINA: I don’t know if I love controversy. I’m trying to be true to myself. I stick to my guns and don’t let people fuck me over. Like the time at Mercury Lounge (fronting Be Your Own Pet), that guy was heckling me, being mean, and came up onstage and I said, ‘What’ve you got to say to me now?’ He’s like, ‘I love you.’ He leaned in to kiss me and I said, ‘No!’ I slapped him across the face and then he proceeded to grab me. Immediately, the boys used their instruments as weapons. The club didn’t throw him out though. I have a tough girl image from growing up in a rough neighborhood. It’s not the same now. But drive-by shootings, transvestite hookers, and crackheads burning down houses were my favorite hits. But I’d rather not paint a sob story.
Does "Nashville Shores" touch upon your old neighborhood?
JEMINA: No. It’s closer to the airport in South Nashville with an amusement park and water park on a sandy lake. It’s really white trashy. Our bassist used to work at Nashville Shores as an alligator mascot one summer. It’s a joke to write a song about accepting the fact of where you grew up. You grow up hating where you live and just want to get out of there. Once I actually left, I thought Nashville wasn’t so bad.
Why’d you move to Brooklyn like a large percentage of well-known underground musicians recently have?
JEMINA: I always loved New York.
JOHN: We already had a bunch of friends here. It’s amazing. It made the most sense. There’s always something going on and I like that I don’t have to park. Everyone I work for is up here.
"So Sick" is a virulent snipe I thought may’ve been a delectable Pet leftover.JEMINA: We were listening to the Plasmatics one night and thought it’d be fun to write a song like that. Also, I fucking hate having to have a computer to check e-mails. Now, everyone wants me to do a blog and twitter. Everything sucks! YouTube stars and modern life is gross and nasty. When we play shows, everybody’s so busy taking pictures with digital cameras instead of actually having fun enjoying the show. There’s so many great pix of ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s artists. But now it’s a clusterfuck of immature people who buy cameras and think they’re a photographer. That’s my mini-tirade. It’s great that MySpace made music so accessible. But there’s also such a downside. It clutters up the atmosphere – not to sound elitist and snobby. It takes away the mystery.
"Selfish Heart" is a two-minute punk slammer that seems totally impromptu.
JEMINA: It was pretty much written in two seconds. John had a guitar part reminiscent of Devo and I started to come up with a melody quickly about a dude I was dating. Those songs are usually my best.
Did you get to meet Iggy Pop after he added vocals to "I Hate People" in a separate Miami studio?
JEMINA: I met him in 2006 at an All Tomorrows Party festival Thurston curated. He was really friendly and said he saw me in Spin. He knew about Be Your Own Pet – which totally blew my mind that my hero knew me. I was more than a blip on the radar. He was my dream guy to work with. Then Thurston and Kim sent him the song and he sang on it. We didn’t sing together, which was bittersweet, because I didn’t get to sing in front of my idol on the same room.
In general, how do the arrangements differ from Be Your Own Pet?
JEMINA: We have more freedom. There was a strict sense of formula. Sometimes when one person stepped outside the line in Be Your Own Pet, someone would be ‘What was that?’ We wanted a wider variety. Now, there’s only two heads.
JOHN: I wrote a lot on tour with them, accumulating a bank of songs. Musically, I had all these new ideas figured out and Jemina wanted to use them.
-John Fortunato 
Though he’s known for spreading surrealist sociopolitical surreptitiousness in Brooklyn’s praiseworthy TV On The Radio, bespectacled wooly-bearded natty-haired singer-guitarist, Kyp Malone, strove to delve deeper, mining tearful expressions of the heart under the stormy nom de plume, Rain Machine. But it took the urging, benevolence, and planning of respected producer, Ian Brennan, to get Malone’s solo project as Rain Machine off the ground instead of staying on the backburner forever.
Creating harrowing apocalyptic symphonies-of-the-damned, TV On The Radio first found firm footing with ‘04s evocative Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes. Its daringly prophetic doom and gloom brought about an abstruse caliginous rage fueled by murky African tribal rhythms, righteous spiritual marches, and densely hazed urban prog-funk. Majestic intoxication, "Staring At The Sun," the glaring ritualistic threnody that put the band on the proverbial map, offered funereal post-911 prog-funk transcendence.
Upping the fuzzy sonic dissonance while broadening the scope of their brooding cavernous fugues, ‘06s Return To Cookie Mountain continued to expand outward, traversing a wider emotional landscape. Eerily creeping through perplexingly off-kilter beats, strobe-light electroclash jittering, and spastic contrapuntal cadences, this sanguine second set sought rejuvenation. Malone’s involvement and influence increased, as he helped refine and reshape Sitek and Adebimpe’s ‘piecemeal collaging’ by opening up the arrangements – which, at times, recalled the downbeat psych-pop of Brian Wilson’s Smile (whose echoed church harmonies get indulged).
On the precipice of worldwide indie-rock acclaim, the extended trio came back even stronger with ‘08s awe-inspiring Dear Science. Reaching ahead of euphonic post-millennial futurism, TV On The Radio proved the frothy underground hyperbole was completely palpable. Jazz-induced brass and string sequences adorn the fleshed-out harmonic interplay and luxurious textural flourishes of their best fully formed well-integrated tunes. Never mired in over-intellectualized avant experimentation, the heroic coterie, guided by Sitek’s scrupulous production, made soul-licked Gothic chamber pop transmutations that were surprisingly accessible and highly palatable. Polyrhythmic highlife communiqués by Fela Kuti-derived Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra distend the fierce symphonic dramatics. Brashly anthemic turnabout, "Shout Me Out," stumbles into frenetic blissfulness.
A modicum of fame allowed Malone to step out in ’09 and properly promote Rain Machine’s fervently self-styled obsessions. Over a tribal percussion stomp, commanding opener, "Give Blood," could be utilized as a commercial endorsement beseeching people to provide life-affirming crimson juice for necessitated transfusions. A bit of an up-front departure considering the more introspective fare that follow, this highly accessible epistle may divulge an overall thematic directive - united we stand, divided we fall.
The ghostly loneliness and profuse sorrow of "Love Can’t Save You" hearkens back to Syd Barrett and Nick Drake’s early ‘70s sobbing serenades, or perhaps, the beleaguered folk confessions of contemporary loner, Bon Iver. Inasmuch as that’s true, Malone nonetheless does what comes naturally, whistling in the dark on protracted discharge, "Desperate Bitch," and draping forlorn mandolin across closing 11-minute mantra, "Winter Song."
Soaring to penetrating operatic heights, Malone’s falsetto sweeps counteract intermittent husky baritone rasps and sporadic cackling yaks. Testing his highest vocal register during passionately riveting ballad, "New Last Name," he then grasps angelic bliss on candlelit acoustic sentiment, "Driftwood Heart." Another heavenly neo-soul grovel, "Hold You Holy," adds church organ and flatulent horns to the tambourine-shaken guitar-dribbled sanctity. There’s always an air of despair guiding these outward expressions of inner pain and the struggle to retain faith in an oft-times cold-hearted world. As if to stress the point, his emphatic six-string strumming unleashes pervious pent-up frustration on slow-building caustic lamentation, "Love Won’t Save You."
Malone believes TV On The Radio has the potential to expand their creative wizardry even further beyond conventional boundaries. And it seems imminent that the triumphing troupe will soon have another go-round in the studio. But he also admits to having a large back-load of ideas and material readied for another possible solo jaunt.
Though they had trouble getting off the ground and finding decent gigs, the White Rabbits worked hard at the beginning to get Fort Nightly proper indie exposure. Levinson added a great pair of hands to finish the album, helping the surging sextet strategize and conquer. As sweeping three-part harmonies abound, the guiding tambourine-shaken rhythm quickens the pulse of strolling roundabout, "The Plot" (recalling quirky ‘80s Brit-pop champions, XTC). A piano-based tango groove hexes the climactic multi-harmony swoon enriching Cabaret-darkened "Kid On My Shoulders." And a busy Afro-beat gallop consumes the sanguine vocalizing on "I Used To Complain Now I Don’t" (where Beirut’s Jon Natchez plies ska-derived sax to an unearthly delight with an arty Talking Heads penchant).
Returning two years hence, the White Rabbits have gained confident, increased conviction, and fulfilled their initial promise. It’s Frightening gives percussionists Levinson and Matthew Clark a more prominent role also afforded new bassist Brian Betancourt. A thunderous Burundi tribal stomp raids the bewitchingly sumptuous mantra, "Percussion Gun" (with its blistered guitar riff and ominous piano). Heightening the tension, sweet-voiced ascensions hover above the kick-drummed tambourine-slapped rumble, "Rudie Fails." Bastard Latino hybrid, "Company I Keep," offers a slow and sensitive bossa nova provocation while "The Lady Vanishes" indirectly recalls Beatles knockoffs such as Badfinger and Squeeze in its own unique way. A true cornucopia of well-defined musical ideas linked to, but never forged in, the recent past, give It’s Frightening a commanding presence its still-vital predecessor, Fort Nightly, more than hinted at.
Making the jump from the rural agrarian countryside of Columbia, Missouri to the musty city congestion of Brooklyn, the White Rabbits have made serious headway navigating their way through New York’s latest cultural evolution.
I spoke to Levinson via phone from Asheville, North Carolina, where his band had just completed a gig the hot August night before.
What growth has the band experienced since the debut, Fort Nightly, came out?
JAMIE: We did nothing but tour for two years when the debut came out. We’d been living together in a loft. It could be tough being in close quarters traveling with a band 75% of the year. But we cut our teeth on the road. We felt we were just playing a Wall Of Sound hitting as hard as we could every night. When we got done, we wanted to space things out a bit so everyone could hone in on what they felt comfortable with. That’s the attitude we took into the studio for the writing process of the second record. We wanted to streamline and not be balls-out every time.
I agree. "The Salesman" and "Leave It At the Door" are transcending. On the other hand, the staggering Burundi percussion keeps the momentum intense on a few choice cuts.
Oh yeah. In fact, the working title for "Percussion Gun" was "Burundi." That’s how it ends up on the set list.
"Rudie Fails" also benefits from the African-styled rhythmic flurry.
I actually used to work in Chicago record store, Dusty Groove. They have a website too, specializing in hard-to-find global music that was largely responsible for putting tropicalia back on the map with David Byrne. It was a very informative time for me to be around that music, absorbing it all day. Steve majored in playing Jazz drums. Everyone has a studied past with different rhythms. When we get together, it’s a very democratic songwriting process. A lot of that filters out. If there’s a beat someone knows, he passes it down to the rest.
White Rabbits music seems based on simple rock settings, but I can’t find specific referential sources – maybe Radiohead on "Lionness" and "The Salesman."
We could do worse than be compared to our ironic label mates, Radiohead, who put out In Rainbows on TBD Records. Around the time we were making the record, there were a few touchstones the band agreed upon, especially while driving around – The Clash and The Beatles. There’s so much economy in what they put across.
We concerned ourselves with being good at our craft as songwriters. We’re just trying to learn to be concise. With our first record, we put our influences on the table, but the new record – which we tried to not make as weird – was influenced by noisier elements and tried to be more experimental. Also, working with Spoon’s Britt Daniel was a great experience. He helped hone in on what we wanted to streamline and get across tempered with straight-up pop songwriting.
What did Britt add to the overall sound?
His involvement was organic. We toured with Spoon for a month-an-a-half and befriended him. He put out some classic rock records. We thought he’d be a good choice since he’s a musician instead of a traditional producer who’d take over the session and mold everything. We demoed the summer of ’08. He was in Portland. We sent demos he’d check out and bring in ideas – but he never took the reins. He put us first and encouraged us to experiment. He’s such a great gage of if it’s good or bad. When we’re unsure of an idea, he built up our confidence.
Is there a semi-thematic flow threading It’s Frightening? Are the songs more introspective?
It’s more personal than Fort Nightly. We wanted to make a complete piece where you don’t need to cherry pick. We consciously mixed the record with Mike McCarthy, who’d worked with Spoon. He’d gifted at creating a classic vibe-out headphone experience. We wanted the songs to be an experience unto itself instead of two singles held together by weaker fare.
Why use the title It’s Frightening?
(laughter) I like fairly ambiguous titles. We looked at a few in an all night session. In the wee hours of the morning, we picked it. It seemed cohesive. We keep songs open-ended so people could put themselves inside it.
Why move to New York City to find success? How’d the change of scenery make the band better?
There’s a limitation on how far you could take it in Columbia, Missouri. We were up for the challenge going to a place where we were unknown looking to make ourselves heard. Everyone packed up with the thought it was something we’d work for. It allowed us to get practice space without disturbing neighbors. A move to New York could tear a band apart. It’s stressful. But we made it through the hard times.
How’s the live show gotten better?
We tried to re-think new versions of Fort Nightly’s tunes, turning things around and on its head. Experiment – this is what we do 24/7.
-John Fortunato 
