Category Archives: Interviews

DROPPING DIRTBOMBS ON HOBOKEN

Interviews,

Who doesn’t love Detroit City Rock??? Be it the jamming Kiss tune or the entire designated scene. There’s ‘60s-inaugurated legends such as Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels, Ted Nugent & the Amboy Dukes, Iggy & the Stooges, the MC5, Bob Seger, even early Alice Cooper, just to name a few top shelf components. Then there’s a host of lesser known contemporary garage-rock inheritors who’ve roguishly popped up in the last decade or more, such as the Hentchmen, Paybacks, Sights, Detroit Cobras, The Go (where Jack White got his start), Von Bondies, and another durable combo, the Dirtbombs.

 

One thing these legends and semi-popular artists have in common is they define what a motor city madman (or woman) love to do best, strut their stuff in front of a sweltering partisan audience as a labor of love. Asking no quarter and barely receiving one, the latest crop truly ‘dig’ Detroit’s lasting historic figures, be they homespun rockers or renowned Motown soul singers.

Inarguably one of the most energetic live crews now making the rounds in small clubs nationwide, the Dirtbombs, fronted by Mick Collins, a casually-dressed roughly-bearded sneaker-wearing punk-nurtured black man with a beat-up 6-string and rangy voice, rely on frenzied axe exchanges and dual-kit rhythmic fury to start the party. Make no mistake. Collins merits much more exposure on the grand scale.

But he ain’t one to complain just as long as he’s grooving. Wearing shades throughout his mid-October Maxwells showcase, the fully confident powerhouse (tenured in seminal ‘80s underground group, the Gories), took complete control of tunes both old and new. That is, with the exception of an opening balladic retreat, where Collins remained in the wrong key, mumbling through the heartfelt lyrics ‘til freshly added bassist, Zachary Weedon, quickly dispatched the words until the song finally did breakdown only to come back into fruition later this crisp autumnal eve. While less experienced performers would’ve been seriously troubled by such a dubious malfunction, the friendly headman laughed hysterically and burst into a smokin’ version of ranting boho rampage, “Get It While You Can.”

According to their jocularly unbound bandleader, the Dirtbombs have played this renowned Hoboken backroom about four times already during ’08. Apparently, the good rapport shared by Collins’ latest troupe has further heightened their spirited presentation.

Rhythm guitarist Ko Melina hearkens back to the golden age of psychedelic aestheticism when she places fuzzy phase-shifting riffs and sustained tremolo tones against Collins’ beefy leads and Weedon’s spunky bass. Dual drummers Ben Blackwell (owner of boutique label, Cass Records) and Pat Pantaro (ex-Come Ons), usual suspects in the Dirtbombs contingent, are fellow urban dwellers with solid reps. Their job’s to double up persistently restive cadences.

Beat-hardened blazer, “Motor City Baby,” a band staple, got the Maxwells crowd huddled next to the stage shakin’ that ass early in the program. Collins’ most sensitively realized lyrical styling came during “Sherlock Holmes,” a gleefully sneered glitter-rock update of curious ‘70s-related Brit-pop tarts, the Sparks, retrieved from the ‘Bombs most recent long-player, We Have You Surrounded (In The Red Records).

As the sweat mark around Collins’ neck collar drifted down towards his belly by set’s end, the hundred fans on hand must’ve known they witnessed one of the very best high energy rock and roll outfits they’ve see in awhile. Under urging, the ‘Bombs came back for a two song encore that included a winding electrical blues scrum corrupting Curtis Mayfield’s martial arts-procured ‘70s soul hit, “Kung Fu,” and hook-filled “Train Kept A’ Rollin’” shuffle, “I Can’t Stop Thinking About It” (used in a Buick commercial).

Helping to keep Detroit’s always fertile rock scene as vibrant as possible, the Dirtbombs proved they’re still the perfect high-quality cellar-dwelling blue-collar workingman’s band. No mere boogie woogie honky tonk hootenanny’s, this explosive ensemble heads down the open road jettisoning any obvious stylistic derivatives. It’s just ‘50s-baited ‘60s-mated rock and roll all night glorification.

A mangy, cheaply recorded assemblage of 8-track recordings, ‘98s formative Horndog Fest became the self-produced rough draft Collins unleashed on the public as a primordial snapshot, cranking up the volume for several raw, undiluted, oft-times live, pieces. Engineered by respected local producer, Jim Diamond (who’d go on to play bass and tweak knobs for future Dirtbombs recordings), its best moment may be the buzzy organ-guitar blazer, “Pheremone Smile,” a tidy reinvigoration of Blues Project/ David Allen & the Arrows psychedelia.

‘01s resilient Ultraglide in Black thoughtfully regenerated thirteen rip-roaring ‘60s/’70s Rhythm & Blues numbers, creating smashingly dynamic rockist templates for some well known and less obvious fare.

Two years hence, the decisive Dangerous Magical Noise found Collins going for broke on a set of nifty originals. Frenzied footstompin’ frolic, “Start The Party” (with its chilly castrated falsetto), commanding existential anthem, “Get It While You Can,” and glam-soaked T. Rex knockoff, “Motor City Baby,” deserve classic status and left me awestruck when rendered at Maxwells.

But as Collins and the gang leave the stage following a durable one-hour-plus set, all that’s left ‘til they venture out east again is the music between the grooves (or etched into a CD or streamed live on-line). Happily, the Dirtbombs sturdy ‘08 output, contained on We Have You Surrounded, finds them fully retooled, greased-up, completely retooled, and ready to roll, never straying too far from their roots-y brethren cruisin’ the Detroit freeway in high gear late at night post-gig.

An echo-voiced distress warning of ‘you got what you wanted’ gets pummeled home by the turbo two-chord guitar riffs and twin horsepower tom-cymbal percussion invigorating Surrounded’s reeling opener, “It’s Not Fun Until They See You Cry.” Searing jungle-beaten Amboy Dukes-like rampage, “Fire In The Western World,” could be the ultimate engine-driven highlight. But tenaciously chuggin’ rumble, “I Hear The Sirens,” and solid-bodied reverb-crazed rumpus, “Leopardman At C & A” (comic Alan Moore’s short story put to music), also kick up a lot of dust, as does the accusatory quick-spit rhyme scheme aligning forceful tremor, “Wreck My Flow.” A befitting catch and release tension fuels “Ever Lovin’ Man,” where a female Gospel choir backs up Collins’ demonstrative bellowing.

Never forgetting where he came from and proud as hell of it, the resolute Collins may not turn his revolving first-rate unit into a household name anytime soon, but that’s probably not what he had in mind anyway when he christened them the Dirtbombs. So sit back, grab a few suds, light some herb, and let these mightily explosive Detroit denizens zoom through the expressway to your mind. And then go see ‘em live next time they come ‘round. Be ready to get blown away.

CRYSTAL STILTS TREK BROOKLYN, REVEAL ‘ALIGHT OF NIGHT’

Interviews

Meeting in Boca Raton through mutual friends, Velvet Underground fans Brad Hargett (voice) and JB Townsend (guitar), moved to New York City with no serious plan except to get the hell out of South Florida’s placid doldrums. After settling into Brooklyn’s presently thriving and oft-times peculiar art community, they began fooling around with music, practicing frequently, then recording a formative 7-inch 8-track single, “Shattering Shine,” under the absurdist moniker, Crystal Stilts. But while a crystal stilt, by definition, is bound to crumble, these independent garage-psych aesthetes, who’ve traveled north for inspiration, managed to stay upright.

 

“JB would come into the record store I worked at. He had a job across the street at a coffee shop. We’d talk about music and moving to New York. My sister and former girlfriend lived up there. Then we moved at the same time,” Hargett explains prior to the bands’ penetrating 40-minute set at hip West Village club, Le Poisson Rouge.

He adds, “Besides, there was only a small group of people down there in Boca who had common interests in the bands we liked.”

Upon becoming Big Apple residents, Crystal Stilts’ founding members inevitably hooked up with Boston-bred bassist Andy Adler, a similarly minded individual who’d solidify the lineup alongside keyboardist Kyle Forrester. By October ’08, their charmingly crude debut, Alight Of Night (Slumberland Records), would surface and garner positive reviews.

Adler, whose melodic chord structures may be informed by cherished ‘60s icons Lee Hazelwood and Rick Danko, recalls, “I worked in an art library. I knew Brad because he had a job at Rocks In Your Head record shop in Soho. Then, I met JB. I had a guitar in high school, but was self-taught. Crystal Stilts always had a rotating cast and I joined the group to play drums for a month. They liked the grooves I laid down, but eventually I was moved to bass.”

Hargett admits he benefited from having a circle of friends who just happened to be in bands. When he saw Adler play, he wasn’t so much impressed with his ability as he was drawn to his compatibility.

“Yeah. We wanted him to come aboard,” Hargett affirms. “I mean, it mainly has to do with being friends. You’re around people a lot in a band so you don’t want some total dick to be the guitarist even if he’s amazing. If you have similar tastes, get along, and have a sense of humor… that’s how we came together.”

Fortuitously, Hamish Kilgour (of respected Australian ‘80s underground band, The Clean), was in the audience during Crystal Stilts first show. A friend who has since left the band had hooked them up with an opening slot for Kilgour’s latest meritorious outfit, Mad Scene. Already quite familiar with the beguiling Aussie pop harbinger as well as many related Flying Nun artists, Crystal Stilts took this as an early blessing for future success. And the live shows only got better.

Onstage, Hargett’s stark prowess, lurking hung-over whine, and longing droned moans closely recall suicidal Joy Division pilot, Ian Curtis. There are no verbal exchanges with his mates and between-song chattering is non-existent. It’s pure business for Crystal Stilts, as they deliver each tune in a more cryptic, less styptic manner. The energy level is pushed upward and the arrangements are a tad elongated. Whereas Alight Of Night feels a bit unsettled, adrift, and far off, there’s a pervasive urgency and veritable immediacy bringing up each tracks’ intrinsic worth in concert.

On record, Hargett’s voice is too low in the mix, but live, that problem’s been resolved. Townsend’s tenacious guitar lattice works up a storm as Forrester lurches over a cheap Casio and Adler’s surf-styled and spaghetti Western-imbibed bass notes weave in and out. Newest member, Frankie Rose, bangs out a stompin’ tribal beat, striking a snare-drummed tambourine for chimed accentuation and standing for the set’s entirety.

A noticeable addition, Rose certainly met her match with Crystal Stilts, leaving promising female trio, the Vivian Girls, in the process. Comparisons to legendary Velvet Underground drummer Moe Tucker (another percussive lass anchoring an otherwise male band) are palpable, since she places heavy emphasis on toms and forsakes cymbals. Originally from San Francisco’s Mission District, a cultural arts hotbed, Rose evidently yearned to live on the East Coast.

“She had show biz Hollywood pizzazz,” jokes Townsend.

“She prefers New York and has the right ‘tude,” Hargett confirms.

Concerning her old Left Coast environs, the independent dark-haired stick handler contends, “I think there’s a bit of a glass ceiling out there musically. Even getting on a tiny label out there is extremely difficult. I knew a ton of great bands that got no record signings but would if they came to New York. I feel like it’s a lot easier working out here.”

Rose’s primal stick work secures the duskily shaded foundation, fashioning a raw rhythmic rumble for the boys to rally ‘round. She provides ballast for each loopy, warped anodyne, girding the blush, sinewy textures and any ancillary reverb.

“I don’t think we’ll ever put out a record that’s totally pristine,” Hargett says. “The way I mixed this album, I thought I was being more accessible on purpose. I’d have no plans recording anything cleanly. Up until recently, I’d have lyrics and Andy would start playing a progression and then I’d start singing.”

Captive hexed opener, “The Dazzler,” sets the ghostly tone for Alight Of Night, as Hargett’s distant monotone voice flat-lines beneath a murky Velvet-y guitar figure that reappears for truncated Loaded-era grimace, “Verdant Gaze,” and dramatic finale, “City In The Sea.” Cadaverous narcosis, “Graveyard Orbit,” rides twanging surf riffs to an elliptical catacomb. Roughly up-tempo and wholly emotive, “The Sinking” earns points as the most approachable dalliance. And on their unofficial group anthem, “Crystal Stilts,” climactic organ ripples through a lo-fi Wall of Sound veneer while Hargett bellows about ‘courting… snorting… distorting… recording dreams to disturb the procession preserved in our mind.’

He declares, “I’m not gonna recite my lyrics, but “Crystal Stilts” is a theme song. I don’t want the lyrics to be apparent at first. If someone wants to get into the lyrics, fine. I labored over the songs’ order – a lot of choosing what to sing in a song. There were thoughts as to where each should go on the record to make things click. It’s all pretty specific. There’s a trajectory running through Alight Of Night, but it’s not necessarily a theme. I tried not to over-think.”

Adler chimes in. “It’s more impressionist than specific. I always push for long jams.”

Hargett agrees, “When we first started practicing, that’s more along the lines of what we did. He would drum on a ten-minute jam and we’d condense it and start writing tighter songs.”

Before heading to the stage for tonight’s presentation, I ask Hargett what he’s been listening to for the last few months. He responded quickly, naming a few ripened and diverse artists.

“The three things I’ve been listening to recently are (‘80s goth-punks) the Gun Club, Sierra Leone singer-guitarist S.E. Rogie, and (nascent ‘50s rocker) Bo Diddley’s first two records. We have a couple new songs that are probably more like Bo Diddley.”

And as I watch the band perform, those Bo Diddley influences seem to emerge at frequent intervals. Perhaps that unrefined approach suits them best after all.

MELBOURNE’S DRONES HONE BOLD TONE ON ‘HAVILAH’

Interviews,

Over the course of five albums in eight years, the Drones have honed their dauntless apocalyptic sound. Current subterranean champs of Australia’s wide-ranging Melbourne scene, they mangle psych-punk lamentations with epic Goth meditations, creating enough funereal gloom for the doomed, swooned, and lampooned creatures being lyrically subverted. Though supporting musicians have come and gone at a brisk rate since ’02, original brainchild, Gareth Liddiard, continues to improve and diversify his bold artistic endeavor.

 

Following a self-titled ’02 EP, formative long-play debut, Here Come The Lies, found the Drones honing their bewitching craft. After ‘05s forebodingly titled Wait Long by the River and the Bodies of Your Enemies Will Float By, misbegotten third album, The Miller’s Daughter, offered menacingly provocative fare such as audacious fetus-scraping lampoon, “She Had An Abortion That She Made Me Pay For.”

But it was ‘06s refined Gala Mill, recorded in a haunted Tasmanian factory, that really put ‘em on the international underground map. Terrifyingly grim mantra, “Jezebel,” with its squealing-to-wankering 6-string feedback and overcast orchestral stridency, recalled intriguing dark-toned rockers such as the Swans, Birthday Party, and Psychic TV. Better still, the apocalyptic video version of “Jezebel” benefited greatly from its willfully confrontational penchant, rustling up mostly old black and white film marked by torture, punishment, and wartime oppression. Combining Sex Pistols snarl with battering hardcore vindication, “I Don’t Ever Want To Change” may be the most accessible cut the Drones devised to this point.

Equipped with his best lyrical abstractions and recorded at his remote “home in the woods,” Liddiard gets personal on ‘09s momentous Havilah, gathering a series of intensely remorseful songs that’ll scare pop-charmed lightweights. Many maintain the stark vulnerability Nick Cave’s meandering post-Birthday Party requiems once delivered, but at times, they’re as tranquil as Bon Iver’s riveting contemporary portraits (like the creaky-voiced divorce-bound folk retreat, “Drifting Housewife”). Astronaut Neil Armstrong gets referenced in numbing acoustic repose, “Penumber,” a sympathetic Red House Painters-like memento Iver’s lackey’s would simply eat up. Similarly, whiny Mick Jagger- modeled ballad, “Cold And Sober,” reaches a reclusive piano-plinked climax meant to shoot out the lights.

Tangibly, each dirge-y low-key turnabout seems to trigger the heavier discordant arsenal the Drones exceedingly showcase. Begging forgiveness and searching for emotional rescue in a cold-hearted universe, opening salvo, “Nail It Down,” breaks free of its familiar “I Want Candy”-styled foundation with several electrifyingly seared solos before going completely berserk. “I Am The Supercargo,” concerning the acquisition of cultist John Frum’s god-like powers, features a lonesome guitar figure straight out of Neil Young’s dissonant ‘70s backlog.

Another backdated keepsake, nightmarish guitar-entangled scree, “The Minotaur,” recalls Captain Beefheart’s mangled cryptic flanges. Though Liddiard’s apparently destitute by the downtrodden “Careful As You Go,” claiming ‘the end is drawing near,’ hopeful mid-tempo closer, “You’re Acting Like The End Of The World,” prompts poignant acoustical Country-folk uplift.

Giving each distended tune a richer resonation at Manhattan club, Pianos, in April, lanky goatee-d front man, Liddiard, provided a deeper baritone sneer than the recordings indicated. Expectedly, his feedback-drenched guitar arpeggios tore into each number with oozing resilience. Stage right, newest affiliate Dan Luscombe looked like a young mod greaser, laying down ancillary roughshod riffs in a determined manner. To the left, bassist Fiona Kitschin rubbed out rhythmic chords from her low-slung four-string, facing vigorous drummer Michael Noga for nearly the entire set.

Blending fertile catalogue material with several Havilah highlights such as “Nail It Down,” the dusky 50-minute performance captivated avid fans and caught the uninitiated off-guard. Steadfastly, Liddiard’s cacophonously amplified ‘beautiful’ noise rose above the steadfast rhythms, lunging in and out of wiry fibrillation’s while wrangling a mess of dirty blues to fiery heights. For wandering 8-minute heartache, “Luck In Odd Numbers,” Liddiard told the scrunched audience, ‘you can dance to it.’ Well, yeah, if you can go from a waltzing crawl to death march stroll during the protracted seance.

Are the lyrics on Havilah more personal and less political – or am I nuts?

 

GARETH LIDDIARD: A little bit of both, I guess. (laughter) Some is historical Australian stuff. I think my political lyrics are more about the state of affairs. They’re pretty obtuse, weird…

Desolate?

 

Yeah. Desolate – but in an abstract way. It leaves people more open to interpretation, especially now.

Would you agree with online assessments claiming Neil Young’s protracted guitar jams and Tom Waits’ bleak antediluvian theatrics serve as effectual influences?

 

I don’t disagree. I did a bit of growing up in London in the era when Pink Floyd’s The Wall and Blondie were big. Back in the days, pop music was quite aggressive. That was the stuff I first thought, ‘Wow! What is that?’ Later on, I got into Led Zeppelin, Black Flag, and Suicide. And all the Australian stuff like the Nuns, Birthday Party.

I thought the Swans and Psychic TV’s outré musical experiments may’ve been influential?

 

Yeah. Yeah. I had a few Psychic TV live records. It was the year they were releasing one live record every month. Genesis P. Orridge was really cool. But only a little bit of the Swans, though Michael Gira played Australia recently.

How’d you hook up with Fiona?

 

She’s been around since the first album. We moved from Perth to Melbourne – which is a better music town. Perth was like a smaller version of San Diego, but more remote. It’s cool for surf waves, but we moved to Melbourne and Fi came with us. We’ve known each other ten years.

I heard Gala Mill was recorded in a haunted Tasmanian factory.

 

We didn’t see any ghosts, though. It was in one of the first Australian farms built in the 1900’s. Australia is only as old as California, so… It was in a middle-of-nowhere farm. It was a custom-made studio waiting to happen. All it needed was recording equipment. It was like being on holiday and getting a record done. It worked out good.

How would you compare Gala Mill to its subsequent follow-up, Havilah?

 

Gala Mill is heavier, but not in a depressing way or in its sonic assault.

Several of Havilah’s slow songs compete favorably against the usual expeditiously blitzing savagery. There’s “Cold And Sober” plus caliginous breakup lament, “The Drifting Housewife.”

 

As for “The Drifting Housewife,” there was a gazillion love songs, so I figured I’d write a divorce song. We could do all sorts of stuff. It doesn’t have to be political.

What are some of your political views? Are they as bleak and portentous as your lyrics sometimes indicate?

 

The world is pretty complicated. It’s a lack of people having enough knowledge of what’s happened before that really makes them freak out about shit. Obviously it’s not good to have these current economic conditions. But we’re not living in the streets and we’re not all gonna get killed by terrorists. It’s unnecessary hysteria.

There’s room to be philosophical, but it’s not the first time financial institutions have collapsed. It’s not the first recession anyone’s been bogged down in.

I was quite intrigued by “The Minotaur,” with its scraggly Captain Beefheart-like anxiety and scruffy elegiac characters.

 

It’s about modern day losers. “The Minotaur” is the offspring of a bull sent down by the gods. He’s just in a maze. And that sort of predatory depressive weirdness happens all the time, a progeny of a fucked up relationship – like the kids locked in their bedrooms getting into porn and ultra-violent video games. It’s just mysterious anti-social behavior. They’re entertaining the worst traits humans have. It’s relatively harmless, but in a stupid way. It’s all about buying a bunch of useless shit that’s obsolete in a week and you’re bored with it so you have to buy more.

You’ve mentioned online how much Blues artists such as Blind Willie Johnson fascinate you.

 

Blind Willie Mc Tell, too. Everybody talks about Robert Johnson, and he’s cool, but there’s quite weirder, more dexterous, and stranger dudes, like Mississippi John Hurt, Fred Mc Dowell – the finger picking and the song structures. Take Hubert Sumlin, Howlin’ Wolf’s guitarist. We did a song, “De Kalb Blues,” an old Leadbelly song. We’ve done Blind Willie Johnson’s “Motherless Children.” I’m into all that fucking amazing stuff. That’s what got me into songwriting originally, rather than just Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Page’s pyrotechnic stuff.

BLACK KEYS’ DAN AUERBACH STEPS OUT TO ‘KEEP IT HID’

Interviews,

 

As one-half of dusty white blues duo, the Black Keys, fleet-fingered guitarist Dan Auerbach never had to worry about what profession to pursue as an impressionable greenhorn. Growing up in what he describes as “the broke-dick post-Industrial town” of Akron, Ohio, known for its odorous rubber factories and substandard blue collar jobs, he enjoyed listening to his father’s big record collection, learning piano from his mother, whose family played and sang in local blues and bluegrass bands.

 

It wasn’t long before Auerbach hooked up with lanky skin-basher, Patrick Carney, gaining early local attention as an exciting live band. Though the Black Keys formative roughhewn ’02 entree, The Big Come Up, received only limited notoriety, ‘03s sinewy Thickfreakness, truly put ‘em on the map nationally. Full of overcast buzzing guitar riffs and efficient rudimentary drum patterns, Thickfreakness made these greasy blues-punk scavengers very popular amongst arena rock heads and gritty soul searchers. On these early sessions, Auerbach’s murkily parched vocal snarl barely rises above the blustery din of “Set You Free.” Minor mood, texture, and tempo tweaks provide enough variation to differentiate each scraggly boogie, confessional testimonial, and down ‘n dirty discharge.

Less tentative, more resilient, and clearer production-wise, ‘04s tauter Rubber Factory relied on trashier gut-bucket metal to slightly differentiate it from preceding ventures. “10 A.M. Automatic” really opens up the Black Keys sound, as Auerbach’s axe cranks out louder, sturdier, crisper shards of noise. The intensity level increases twofold on “Girl Is On My Mind” and “Stack Shot Billy,” a few swampy psych-blues threnodies reminiscent, at times, of indie-approved blues septuagenarians, R.L. Burnside, T-Model Ford, or more specifically, Junior Kimbrough.

On top of its supreme stripped-down Howlin’ Wolf-imbibed Chi-town R & B vibe, ‘06s lethal Magic Potion gives its spare city-folk retrenchments a shinier studio glaze, sharpening any rough or dull edges without sacrificing any raunchy feedback and crude reverb. The finest moment comes with stammered beat-driven rampage, “Your Touch,” which neatly boils down the Black Keys basic elemental design to one extremely infatuating elemental arpeggio groove, striking a rare balance between Bad Company’s ‘70s-based hard rock and the White Stripes economical garage rock.

For Auerbach’s next two revisionist projects, one an unlikely alliance and another a latent solo debut, he proves to be quite malleable, advancing and broadening his musical range. Bass, Moog synthesizer, clarinet, and harmonica add extra dimension to ‘08s tidy Attack & Release, a monumental accord pitting hip-hop studio wizard, Danger Mouse, against Auerbach’s musty 6-string labyrinths and Carney’s rhythmic patter. He’s a rock and roll hustler on the stormy “I Got Mine,” then foresees trouble brewing on skulking urban drama, “Strange Times.” Seasoned session ace Marc Ribot’s dusky fretwork conveys sheer panic in ghostly requiem, “Lies.” Draping well-oiled axes across a booming bass-drum frenzy, “Remember When (Side B)” may be the most rockingest thing the Black Keys have yet attempted. The future looked so bright Auerbach decided to veer off the strict blues-rock trail even further.

Tantalizing solo turnabout, Keep It Hid (Nonesuch Records), explores various new avenues with friends and family. Recorded at Auerbach’s home studio with local Akronite drummer Bob Cesare, rhythm guitarist James Quine (the uncle who taught him six-string), and fellow Rust Belt singer Jessica Lea Mayfield (on plaintive symphonic tranquilizer “When The Night Comes”), it finds our main protagonist handling percussion and keyboards as well as guitar.

After traditional acoustic blues retreat, “Trouble Weighs A Ton,” Keep It Hid empties the floodgates. Fuzzy organ-doused remake, “I Want Some More,” commendably bridges Mississippi Delta voodoo to Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightnin’.” “Heartbroken, In Disrepair” works shuttered guitar resonance into an anguished dirge. “Whispered Words (Pretty Lies)” shows off Auerbach’s sensitive side in a languid tear-stained letter written by his father, Charles. Soulful church organ guides emotionally compelling ballad, “Real Desire,” where ‘clouded skies have lifted/ and voices ring out from the choir.’ And that’s just the first half. Hand-clapped stop-start honky tonk rambler “Street Walkin’” verifies the rest best.

Is there any thriving musical scene in Akron?

 

DAN AUERBACH: I don’t hang out much. There are a lot of bands, but none do the blues. And there is no one particular style or scene.

In your opinion, how have the Black Keys progressed over the years?

 

Each album is just a snapshot of one period in time. If we’d taken the same songs and recorded them a week before or after, they’d sound totally different. We try to be as spontaneous as we can when entering the studio. It’s a document of that period in time of us recording. Patrick and I have been playing together for over ten years and we’ve been growing while being influenced by different things. The music has changed and progressed and moved around a little bit. There’s all these core elements at the root of what we do because that’s how you learn how to play. It’s like the way you learn how to speak English. I learned how to play bluegrass and blues-based stuff. So that’s at the foundation of what I know how to do.

Which blues artists in particular have a large influence on you?

 

I was a big fan of awesome one-man-band, Joe Louis Hill, (Memphis rockabilly singer-guitarist) Auburn Pat Hare, Willie Johnson, and Howlin’ Wolf. Any of those people usually recorded at Sam Phillips place in Memphis. That was early, before Chicago Blues was popular. I was really into that raw country stuff – finger-picked electric blues.

On ‘08s Attack & Release, the Black Keys sometimes move away from the expectant primitive blues jams. Much of that has to do with producer Danger Mouse asserting his hip-hop influence. Yet the plainspoken opener, “All You Ever Wanted,” retains a desolate folk-blues feel that’s even more crudely archaic than past endeavors.

 

It felt right. You can’t always do what’s expected. It helps make the next song even more powerful when it hits in. So we started off with a slow, quiet song to set the mood and get you ready to listen.

“Strange Times” may be the most accessible track the Black Keys stumbled upon. It seems to parallel America’s current hard times.

 

I wrote that song a couple years ago. I had the lyrics and when we were in the studio we came up with the parts – the guitar line – and added drums. We worked on the arrangement for awhile since it took some time to get down. Like everything we do, we tried to make it as spontaneous as possible. As such, the recording of that song happened during the first day we attempted it together.

“Lies” is a typical depression-bound Black Keys mantra. Is there a search for salvation guiding that song, or for that matter, the entirety of Attack & Release?

 

I’ve always been influenced by dark tones or any kind of music, humor, or poetry that has a dark side. That’s what attracts me. I don’t really like happy music. I don’t trust happy people. (laughter) Those dark sounds I find uplifting. You know how Gospel music is mournful but the overall affect is to uplift.

Did you get to meet legendary blues man Ike Turner before he died? Rumor has it Attack & Release would’ve been a collaborative effort.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration. That was separate. That was just the way we were introduced to Danger Mouse. It had nothing to do with our album except it was a separate entity that got disrupted by death. We were sending songs to Brian (a.k.a. Danger Mouse) to take to Ike. We never met Ike though. After our record, we were gonna work with Ike. A month later, he passed away.

On your solo debut, Keep It Hid, were the lyrical concerns more personal in tone?

 

I wrote all the lyrics on the Black Keys albums. So I wasn’t trying to make some kind of grand statement. I just wanted to make a good album. The similarities will be there, but it’s way more personal. I’ve written some story songs, which I never did before.

“When The Night Comes” could’ve fit in snugly on Van Morrison’s subtle nocturnal masterpiece, Astral Weeks. Was that a mellotron being used on that tune?

 

Definitely. The mellotron is an analog instrument. Each key on it has a piece of tape with prerecorded sounds of string sections. It’s a really weird, arcane instrument that sounds magical and surreal.

“Heartbroken Disrepair” has a tremolo-related psych-blues tone not unlike Cream. Were you a British Blues fan?

 

I did like Cream. But we’re not as affected by psych-blues as much as old blues. As far as people like John Mayall go, I never was into that stuff.

You’ve chosen to cover country guitarist Wayne Carson Thompson’s hypnotic “I Want Some More.” The results are phenomenal. But why revisit that track?

 

It’s just a great song. If you listen to the original version Jon & Robin did, there’s fuzz bass on it that punctuates the chorus. I always wanted to do that song.

MT. ST. HELENS VIETNAM BAND’S PSA’S CAUSE SEATTLE ERUPTION

Interviews

Sometimes the most popular band member isn’t the group leader, as was the case with the Beatles when they first hit the shores of America. Good-humored drummer Ringo Starr drew more attention than John, Paul, and George, even though his role was subordinate. And now, 45 years later, in similar, yet lower-scaled fashion, Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band’s own thirteen-year-old skin basher has out-gained the attention of their guiding light.

The curious drawing card, drummer Marshall Verdoes, was asked to join the core group by his 27-year-old vocalist-guitarist brother, Benjamin Verdoes, the bandleader, whose wife Traci Eeggleston plays keyboard and percussion. Also onboard are Ben’s high school friend, Matthew Dammer (guitar-moog-mandolin) and long-time buddy, Jared Price (bass-accordion-chimes), respectfully filling out Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band.

 

Moreover, there’s another inquisitive peculiarity making the Seattle quintet quite fascinating. Going ass backwards, they got a foothold in the music biz by designing a comical MySpace Public Service Announcement featuring snippets of music before recording any full tracks for their fertile self-titled debut on boutique Bloomington, Indiana, label, Dead Oceans Records. Taking advantage of internet technology in a cleverly artful manner actually gave them a nice heads up other new-sprung bands may soon mimic.

Ben Verdoes, an admitted “math-rock and prog fan,” had previously played in formative band, In Praise Of Folly, with a revolving cast that at onetime included Matt and Jared, as well as his older sibling, Peter. Though this overlooked collective barely registered a slim buzz, their next endeavor, minus Peter, would prove absolutely worthwhile. Anchored by teen neophyte, Marshall Verdoes, Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band has caught on with the college crowd, garnering adulation from scribes and fans alike while joining the concert circuit.

Getting things going for their eponymous entrée, searing affair of the heart, “Who’s Asking,” finds curlicue guitars sprinting forward to a dramatic pause anticipating an eloquent choral harmony passage. Blazing 6-string abrasions set off the Baroque-styled “Masquerade,” where heavenly voices impinge the neo-orchestral break. Seafaring narratives inundate the aching “Anchors Dropped” and the attack and release guitar-squelched chirp, “Going On A Hunt.” Fluttery flute-like synthesizer underscores the acoustic-to-electrified mad dash, “A Year Or Two.” But it’s the acrimonious “Albatross, Albatross, Albatross” that really catches fire. Nearly as hot, the flickering “El Fuego” counters its tranquil Classical guitar styling with rascally electric guitar flights of fancy while ‘our hearts are set to burn.’

How’d Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band form from the ashes of In Praise Of Folly?

 

BENJAMIN VERDOES: I grew up in Seattle. But when I was a junior in high school, a weird sequence of events during a visit to my aunt in Wisconsin made Marshall, my mom, and my sister want to get away from the Pacific Northwest and try something different. It was a great experience. Matt and I went to high school together in Wisconsin and we got to play in a few different bands. Then, when I moved back to Seattle, he followed. At some point, we thought In Praise Of Folly had run its course. We had done it for five years. My older brother, Peter, was once involved. Jared joined towards the end. Now, playing with Marshall in Mt. St. Helen is such an incredible thing. It seemed like a good fit between family and a few best friends.

Despite being from Seattle, I initially assumed your distinguished literary-bound verses and enchanting seaworthy laments were earmarked for nearby Portland, where skilled singer-songwriters Isaac Brock (Modest Mouse) and Colin Meloy (Decemberists) mix similar lyrical content with fresh melodic pop ideas.

 

I never heard that before. In terms of fitting in, perhaps that’s true. I’m fond of Portland band Talkdemonic, a two-piece instrumental combo that toured with the Decemberists. Up here in Seattle, (acoustic folkies) Fleet Foxes are making international waves. So maybe we do fit in better down there. (chuckles)

What song started the whole MySpace PSA buzz?

 

We were recording a demo, sent it to clubs, and our future publicist got one. We were waiting to record with producer Scott Colburn (Animal Collective/ Arcade Fire). But he didn’t have studio time ‘til May (’08). So we were gonna make a music video for fun. Matt, Jared, and Traci had joined but we had no game plan. We made a PSA called “Homeostasis.” We used a really small piece of the demo as a clue at the end of it, but didn’t release our music until after the PSA. We only released a couple seconds of the song on PSA’s as an introduction for people to peruse.

How’d you first become interested in pursuing music?

 

I got into music by way of my older brother primarily. We had an evangelical background and listened to music at the church we went to. There were kids around us playing music so even though we didn’t come from a particularly musical family, we dabbled with instruments. At thirteen, my older brother and I started to enjoy rock bands like the Smashing Pumpkins and whatever was popular. I played drums most of the time when I was young. As I got older, I got fascinated working on songs. As far as literary references, I try to read a lot of Russian classics like War & Peace. That was one phase I was in, absorbing all I could. Then, I began reading Steinbeck. I studied at Seattle Pacific. I grew up in the church so there’s a lot of biblical literate I became aware of. Some narrative comes from that.

I can’t honestly say I picked up any religiosity in your lyrics, mostly I feel a sense of love loss. But the seaworthy chants could be influenced by Steinbeck’s slice of life tales.

 

Right. That religious element doesn’t usually come through. A lot of it is narrative fiction. Another portion is little slices of life experiences. There’s a few autobiographical things. But it wasn’t my intent to use the religious realm. It’s more interesting to write from whatever sparks the tangible experiential realm.

“Albatross, Albatross, Albatross” has many of the components that work so well for the band – a freaky stop-start arrangement as well as entertaining slow-fast tempo shifts.

 

That song, lyrically, is about people wearing lockets of significant others. That necklace-locket concept is kind of influenced by the rhyme of the ancient mariner, where the albatross is worn and is essentially saying that one person has a bird around their neck – an albatross, and taking that metaphor and suggesting they should lose that extra weight burden.

“Anchors Dropped” has an archetypal nautical motif and its aching vocal chant recalls Modest Mouse. But more interestingly, Matt’s guitar seemingly references ‘70s axe masters Brian May (Queen) and Phil Lynott (Thin Lizzy).

 

Definitely on that song, but specifically on “Masquerade” and “Little Red Shoes,” there’s that Brian May riffage. A lot of times I’ll write these harmonized parts and Matt’s a big classic rock fan. He has a knack for pulling that sound out of a Brian May song and adding to it. We’ve enjoyed that. But I didn’t know about Thin Lizzy until recently and now I really enjoy listening to their music. People have compared us to them. We also get Wolf Parade comparisons. I don’t own any of their records, but fans brought me to them.

“Cheer For Fate” may be your most accessible song.

 

We made a music video for that recently. It’s emblematic of our style. It was a good starting point for us. Lyrically, I wrote it about people obsessing with someone. There are some people around me in different spheres who understand what the song addresses. There’s a sense of freedom I wanted people to grab onto. You know the feeling when you obsess over someone and start to believe it was meant to be. That informed the title.

Is there a broken thematic flow running through your debut album?

 

Yeah. There’s a bit of a theme that keeps resurfacing. With “Anchors Dropped” and “Masquerade” there’s this sense of pursuit to find something out about a relationship. There’s also this theme I picked up on that was an impacting character I don’t fully know how to describe. He’s this fictional character that makes a big impression then disappears or gets bogged down.

CAGE THE ELEPHANT BRINGS DYLAN TO HIP-HOPPED PUNKS

Interviews

Raised in a mystical Christian commune and confined to Gospel music, Cage The Elephant’s five young members grew up uninformed about even the most basic indie punk bands. When singer Matt Shultz’s parents finally found out he had a Green Day cassette, they destroyed it, finding the rebellious trio offensive. But Matt and his pals soon broke free of their parents’ tight grip and prevailed, discovering the invigorating joy of the Ramones, Bad Brains, Black Flag, Butthole Surfers, Pixies, Mudhoney, and Nirvana. They learned to play hard and eventually got to open for Queens Of The Stone Age, a prestigious beginning, indeed.

 

Growing up in Bowling Green, Kentucky, 45-minutes north of Nashville, Cage The Elephant’s big break came when major label, Jive Records, signed them. By sending them off to England for a year to promote ‘08s promising self-titled debut, the quixotic quintet quickly realized they’d also missed out on several outstanding new wave and ska bands that never got a fair chance in America, such as Gnag Of Four, English Beat, and The Jam.

Fronted by the wily Matt Shultz, Cage The Elephant includes his brother, guitarist Brad Shultz, and long-time pals Lincoln Parish (guitar), Daniel Tichenor (bass), and Jared Champion (drums). Together, they concoct a potpourri of stylistically diversified rock, representing musical ‘food’ groups from Cake to Phish to Red Hot Chili Peppers and beyond.

Painting a grim picture of hard time white-boy blues, Matt ain’t no ‘phony in disguise/ tryin’ to make the radio.’ Up-front, his Dylan-influenced raps dig deep into the heart of each song’s matter. He’s ‘talkin’ shit’ on rousing ‘60s-psych powered anthem, “In One Ear,” criticizing our compromised culture with the soaring engine-driven rampage, “Tiny Little Robots,” and summoning R & B great, “James Brown,” for a full-on rocker indubitably usurping Johnny Rotten’s underclass lyrical drawl. The funky reserved-to-explosive Chili Peppers-spiked corruption underlying the snappy choral charge of “Lotus” leads to the soothing guitar groove and addictive half-rapped refrain summoning Cage The Elephant’s most accessible number, “Back Against The Wall.” When those two funky wafts recede, it’s the smell of death that consumes anguished paean, “Drones In The Valley,” where buzzy 6-string riffs unintentionally cop to Billy Squier’s metal-pop ditty, “Everybody Wants You.”

Making use of the fairly spacious Zumiez Stage at Bamboozle, Cage The Elephant motivated the appreciative audience to join in. Matt jumps into the crowd, mike in hand, to get the party started during a booming hardcore opener (presumably a new tune). He then lets out another loudly yelped rip-snorting punk-inspired discharge, working his mojo, prancing ‘cross the stage, nodding his head, eyes closed, mouth gaping, and dropping to his knees pleading for vindication as perspiration drips off his reddish tanned face. Lincoln’s Appalachian Blues riffs introduce “Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked,” where Matt’s anxiety-charged rap lays it all on the line. A banged-up slam-dunk version of “In One Ear” got fans clapping along freely, without the band having to urge them on. On top of that, fresh cut, “Sabre Tooth Tiger,” contained a catchy ‘run away’ chorus that rode above the scrambling guitar furor and rumbling bass clusters.

Cage The Elephant may be musically adventurous and profusely intuitive, but safely within the limits of orderly constructed folk-rock-blues schemes. At the core, they maintain cohesive song structures while avoiding wasteful jamming and distended solos. It’ll be interesting to see how these Christian-schooled Bluegrass State natives make out in the long haul and which musical directions lie ahead.

Recently, Cage The Elephant headed back to the studio to begin work on a second long-player. Matt claims “We’ve progressed as people. The newer songs are more melody-driven and have a positive vibe. We feel better about them.”

I spoke to the 25-year-old Matt and guitarist Lincoln Parish inside Giant Stadium while music blared in the parking lots’ collapsible stages during May ‘09s Bamboozle Festival.

How did Cage The Elephant come together?

 

MATT SHULTZ: Me, Brad, and Jared were in a high school band. After graduation, the lead guitarist and bassist quit to pursue college. Lincoln came along to jam and our bassist, Dan, just showed up at practice with a bass and amp before he even knew how to play.

You seem to write about sad characters a lot.

 

I write about people because I’m around them a lot. Bob Dylan’s a big inspiration, as well as John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, and Frank Black. A lot of times people want to blame the state of society on the government. They control groups of people looking at themselves for a lack of self-control – manipulation. A lot of our songs are written about people ‘close to decay.’ We tend to make them into riddles more than straightforward stories.

“Judas” seems to rip apart greedy Satan-like gunslingers. And I notice it’s presciently followed by the knife-wielding “Back Stabbin’ Betty.”

 

“Judas” isn’t about any particular person. It’s more about the mentality of someone who loves money more than anything else and will pursue it at all costs. “Betty’s” a personal story…

Are you ripping on Generation X on “In One Ear”?

 

No. I wouldn’t be ripping on them. It’s about people who live in the shadows talking behind people’s backs – like Chinese Whispers.

Your rap flow on “Tiny Little Robots” reminded me of Everlast.

 

Many people ask about my raps and where they come from. It’s more Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” –‘mom’s in the basement/ mixing up the medicine/ I’m on the pavement/ thinkin’ ‘bout the government.’ That’s where the rhythmic flow comes from. I’ve never been a huge hip-hop fan. I like some of it though.

Some of your nifty song ideas remind me of the band Cake. And the mini-improvisations could be informed by Phish.

 

I love Cake. I’m not a huge Phish fan, but I respect what they’re doing. They’re phenomenal musicians. I’ve always been more of a songwriting musician like the Beatles, Pixies, and Nirvana. They were terrific writers. I could always respect people who have a gift or talent for improvisation, but I like a well-crafted song. And Dylan’s one of the greatest songwriters of all time.

Lincoln, who were you influenced by?

 

LINCOLN PARISH: Growing up in Bowling Green, we weren’t exposed to a lot of different music, just Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, James Brown. But when we moved to England, we got into Gang Of Four and the Pixies. I really like old Delta Blues – Robert Johnson and Blind Lemon Jefferson.

How do the arrangements for Cage The Elphant’s songs usually come to fruition?

 

We’ll basically take inspiration from everywhere. Sometimes I’ll write something, bring in a guitar part. I try to work a melody in. Every song is different. Some songs take time. Others, like “Back Stabbin’ Betty,” we recorded that song in one take on the first day. That was one of the rare songs we wrote with everyone there. The thing we always loved about great art was the element of surprise. Being able to take it to different places and create landscapes, textures, and tones. There’s so much input going into each of our songs from constant individual inspiration.

THE CRIBS ROCK THE CRADLE OF LOVE

Interviews,

Emerging from the urban West Yorkshire metropolis of Wakefield, the Cribs continue to rise above cookie cutter British knockoffs with ‘07s exuberant youth manifesto, Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever (Warner Bros.). Truly a family affair, agile Jarman twins Ryan (guitar) and Gary (bass) compose and sing the English trio’s instinctively tuneful punk-informed oeuvre while younger brother, Ross, emphatically bangs the drums. While the Cribs eponymous ’04 debut and enticingly better ’05 follow-up, New Fellas, set the tone for the ambitious siblings, forthright comparisons to simultaneously fashionable peers, the Libertines, only served to piss ‘em off and heighten their resolve.

 

Flowing seamlessly from the bouncy harmonic opener, “Our Bovine Republic” (with its scruffy Strokes-like guitar), to somber acoustic vignette, “Shoot The Poets,” the brotherly troika stay pleasingly affable on US breakout, Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever. Between those bookends, shimmered six-string lucidity and jittered stick-work enliven “Girls Like Mystery,” tone-dialed melodic guitar efficacy coils anxiously fixated, “Men’s Needs,” and fretted beeps cluster ruptured bass rumblings on emotional hardcore reprisal, “Moving Pictures.”

Ostensibly spunkier and more talented than fly-by-night mimickers, the Cribs remain genuinely confident. Yet their skeptical lyrical exploits could be summed up in “I’m A Realist,” an instantly addictive number pelting a cuckold loser as effectively as the Offspring’s “Self-Esteem” did a decade hence, defensively spewing advisory sideswipe ‘I’m a realist/ I’m a romantic/ I’m an indecisive piece of shit.’ The longing desperation seems to reach full froth on resonant baritone-deepened snag “Major’s Titling Victory.”

Challenging collaboration, “Be Safe,” crosscuts legendary Sonic Youth mainstay Lee Ranaldo’s ghostly misanthropic spoken word sentiments with the Jarman’s melancholically wailed harmonic intervals of ‘I know a place we can go where you’ll fall in love so hard you’ll wish you were dead.’ And the recessively downcast ‘cut off your nose to spite your friends’ disclosure lamenting “Shoot The Poets” closes the set on a sentient retreat into gloomy nightfall.

Blue-collar romantics facing the same highs and lows as average pimply-faced Brit teens, the Cribs gladly shun the spoiled suburban faux-punk mentality of upper crust kids crying in their coffee living safely at home. Lurk back to New Fellas repetitively interjected chant, “Hey Scenesters,” for further evidence of the Cribs content poseur snubbing.

More significantly, it’s the Cribs celebrated live shows that unmistakably separate them from the New Musical Express-sponsored vogue-ish crap pack. Their energized performances sustain a ruggedly scurried boisterousness first-wave punks would surely appreciate.

Who are some of your early musical influences?

 

GARY JARMAN: The first band I got into was Queen. But I don’t see them as a profound influence in our style of music. When I met with Wichita, the label we were initially signed to, they asked what my first single was. I said it was by Aztec Camera. They were cool fans of Glasgow pop so I was lucky to say that. Also, I enjoy Orange Juice. Edwin Collins produced our second record. Well into my teens, I got into late ‘70s punk – Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks, and especially, X-Ray Spex, then later, Sonic Youth and Nirvana. By ’92, my favorite was Brit band, Comet Gain, who I’d get to drum for. They do few gigs now and then. They’re like a ramshackle version of Television Personalities.

How do your first two albums compare to Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever?

 

This little label, Worlds Fair, released them in America. The first album has a very apparent Beat Happening influence. It’s reminiscent of K Records stuff. It was naïve. We weren’t as aggressive live. We started out as a beat band. Gradually, our punk influence came through. The second was written on the road real fast as a knee jerk reaction to the fact we were three guys from Wakefield who’d never seen the industry. It’s a friendly fuck-off. I love that record’s cynicism.

I’ve heard former Smiths guitarist, Johnny Marr, now part of Modest Mouse, has been working on some tracks with the Cribs.

 

Our original intention was to get together, write songs just for fun, and of course, we just love him. We wanted to do a single and it came along quickly. He definitely fits into our plans. I’m good friends with the Modest Mouse guys so I don’t want to create any problems there. (laughter)

What kind of abstract designs or studio techniques did Franz Ferdinand front man Alex Kopranos bring to the production?

 

We had a few ideas but had never been with a professional producer. The first record we self-produced, though Bobby Conn did a track. We didn’t want some big shot producer. I didn’t want to be in the position where you’re just another band in the production line. Alex was enthusiastic and passionate. That’s what we wanted. He had lots of the same references. We had a fun time and worked well. His opinions were valid. He’d write real pop songs and hide them in lo-fi. I wanted him to make our music sound more fully realized. I was scared of going to a big studio. I didn’t want it to sound sterile. But it was easy to trust him.

“Our Bovine Public” seems to be a snippy l’il opener.

 

The more upbeat punk songs are generally my brothers. In the UK, there’s so many bands springing up trying to capitalize on the current trend of the scrappy indie guitar aesthetic. But that song has more literal meaning. Where we grew up in Wakefield, due to the amount of drinking and fighting on Saturday nights, it’s a commentary on people being treated like cattle, but acting like pigs. They reserve the right to act like animals, but complain when they get (skewered like one). Also, it’s frustrating to be compared to bands like the Libertines. It’s fine, but we started at the same time they did in 2001. We’d never heard of each other. Our labels tried to put us on tour together. But it’s annoying people think we sound the same. They’re our contemporaries. Now there’s a million generic bands we don’t want to get lumped in with. Most are ignorant copycats the UK press serves up.

How did the loose concept juxtaposing “Women’s Needs” against “Men’s Needs” come about?

 

It was never our idea to conceptualize the record. Before the band started, I was involved with Ladyfest – a feminist empowered, independent, not-for-profit, DIY festival. A lot of our songs are about self-examination. But a lot of dumb rock and roll cliches are inherently sexist. I’m proud to be against that, not bluntly or overtly, but politically.

“Shoot The Poets” seems to aim for the gut.

 

My brother had an idea for a long time that he didn’t want to live in big cities. He’d moved to Leeds and was bummed out. He wrote that in an ancient hotel in the middle of nowhere in a creepy town. The title comes from the frustration of seeing generic bands singing about nothing. They think they’re poets ‘cause they write dumb-ass pretentious pop punk. We don’t want to be thought of as rock stars craving attention. We have nothing in common with most UK guitar bands. Some are good, millions suck. America will be spared, but in the UK we’re confronted with dire, watered down bands.

How do you keep your renowned live shows exciting?

 

We try to keep things spontaneous and leave some things to chance. When touring for a long time, some bands become a well-oiled machine. It seems boring. I can’t imagine working like that. It’s like punching the clock. That’s the attitude we have.

ATMOSPHERE SEEKS RESOLUTION BY PAINTING SHIT GOLD

Interviews,

Take one of the best rhyme flowing freestylers, hook him up with an equally talented hip-hop producer, mix and match delicious beat samplings, and stir sufficiently throughout the course of a decade. The result: Atmosphere – a premier Minneapolis underground rap alliance initially revealed on a few impressive homespun cassettes.

 

Given early exposure at some outstanding local shows, conscious word designer, Slug (Sean Daley), and his reclusively conspiring beatmeister, Ant (Anthony Davis), devised harrowing urban tales venerating regional misfits, dispossessed souls, and societal outcasts with trenchantly detailed observations. Shunning the now outmoded shoot-‘em-up gangster styling of richer rap scallions while pensively sympathizing with hard-knock lifers, Slug’s empathetic disclosures meticulously articulate the mainstream struggles of the down and out proletariat.

Nationally, Atmosphere gained high accolades with ‘01s high-minded exposé Lucy Ford: The Atmosphere EP, where smooth operating love assassin, Slug, expresses female adulation alongside cultivated anecdotal narratives concerning dysfunctional street denizens. The self-promoting “Guns And Cigarettes” deviously states Slug’s lofty ambition to be ‘bigger than the Beatles/ bigger than breast implants’ above a lazy rudimentary beat and syncopated synthesizer reverb.

While ‘02s resplendent God Loves Ugly had a nastier attitude, its wickedly brooding temperament and righteous indignation was only a temporary departure considering the sauntering civic entreaties unveiled nearly synchronically on ‘03s Seven’s Travels.

Two years hence, Slug’s satirically fronting on the retro-spirited You Can’t Imagine How Much Fun We’re Having – head nestled wearily in hand for the plaintive cover shot. His character sketches absolve psychos, barflys, and fall guys, the same maladjusted individuals that’ve always been the source of his crustiest ruminations. Perhaps a little too reliant on Ant’s old school breakbeats and turntable scratching for mod rap heads (mentioning extinct inspirations such as 2Pac and the Moonwalk), it nevertheless overflows with the same contemporaneously fast tongue-tied anxiety of yore.

On the retrenching vestige, “Watch Out,” Slug admits wanting to be like LL Cool J ‘til he started making records strictly for the girls. Female Gospel voices reinforce the ominous ‘bleeding heart’s club’ scurrying across “Say Hey There.” Polluted indictment, “Musical Chairs,” besmirches a psychotic bitch in heat and may’ve inspired Gnarls Barkley with its hazy flow. Flutes echo below the rhythmic boom of guitar-buzzed bass drum-boomed homecoming chant, “The Arrival,” a good time celebration of the first order.

Dropping sampling technique for real instrumentation, Ant surrounds his lively beats with Nate Collis’ shrewd guitar phrasing and Erick Anderson’s variable keyboard alchemy on ‘08s instructive decree, When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold. Its cocktail lounge piano opener absorbs Ant’s latest storyboarded directives, plying delicate ‘70s soul elegance to De La Soul-clipped Daisy Age mysticism. Before getting all plush and cushy, the pressure-fueled hand-clapped dirge, “Puppets,” and funky lowdown easy rider, “The Skinny,” come aboard, leading to the even funkier “Dreamer.” The snappy beat and squelched bass consuming the upbeat “You” makes it as sweetly appetizing as Outkast’s unforgettable hook-filled trinket, “Hey Yeah.” Sad slide guitar inundates reserved alcohol-doused comedown, “Your Glasshouse” and electrified acoustic 6-string befits the cautionary “Guarantees.” Rajiah Johnson’s melodious Herbie Mann-like flute accents the bass-bottomed Tom Waits beatboxing of “The Waitress.”

But in direct contrast to Slug’s previously overwhelmed Midwestern strife, When Life Gives You Lemons has an earnestly sentimental fortitude that redirects the steadily depressing mind-messing daily blues Atmosphere’s notorious for. The heartfelt “Yesterday” mourns the loss of Slug’s dad in extremely reverent fashion. And refreshingly, the splattering trumpet blasts bedecking “Wild Wild Horses” give positraction to the synth-driven Rhythm & Blues fervency Earth Wind & Fire and the Moments once delivered. All in all, it’s a less caustic, more profound scrapbook.

I own all the Atmosphere long-players except ‘97s self-released homemade debut, Overcast!, and ‘03s Seven’s Travels, your first official record for Epitaph Records.

 

SLUG: You don’t need Seven’s Travels. It sucks. It’s my least favorite. It’s so disjointed that when we tried to glue it together, the glue stands out and is better than the album. It’s like when someone hands you a toy to play with and you could see the glue creeping out around the corners. As a kid, you put everything in your mouth.

Lucy Ford: The Atmosphere EP’s reminded me of De La Soul with its minimalist tone and thoughtful lyrics.

 

That’s funny. I refer to Seven’s Travels as my De La Soul album because it’s all over the map. But we try to do each record differently than the preceding one. We have these weird rules we attempt to follow. We literally take the last song on prior records and let it fit the tone for the next record. It’s not a relatively fun road to do that. De La Soul had an optimistic tone even though there wasn’t necessarily optimism in the songs.

Right. Your songs tend to psychoanalyze daily problems. I try to find restful resolve but it’s oft-times difficult to uncover.

 

This particular record, I tried to instill resolution all over the place. I did look at my past material and realized the story could be over if there was no resolution. Not to sound corny, but I love Common. One of the best things he does is offer resolution. A lot of rappers just offer the story and say ‘this is what happens,’ especially in this ‘keep it real’ mind state we live in with hip-hop. Even though we know it may not be a true story – we know they didn’t shoot anyone, they’d be in jail – but we accept the story for what it is. But we never get resolution. What happened to the gangster next week when he got arrested? It’s just these quick glimpses and I realized that was all I was doing. Grant it, you could only get a fats glance in three-and-a-half minutes. But I wanted to leave more room to let it seem like something worked out on When Life Gives You Lemons.

The solemn reflection, “Yesterday,” in remembrance to your father, offers some resolve.

 

He passed away shortly before we started making this album. There’s a lot of stuff I wrote that’s purely autobiographical but doesn’t make the cut for the record. “Yesterday” surprisingly made the cut. Normally, songs that ‘real’ don’t make it. I wasn’t doing anything too clever inside its word scheme. It was straightforward.

It’s reflective in a similarly didactic manner as Eminem’s fan-stoked “Stan.”

 

And it doesn’t need a big huge beat to push the message across.

What’s the skinny on “The Skinny”? I thought the rhythm drew comparisons to George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog.”

 

I’ll accept that. It’s funny. I just lit a cigarette and that’s what that song’s about. When we first wrote the song it was over a beat that was like a Too Short track. Because of the genre of hip-hop I’m boxed into, I can’t really write songs about pimps. I’m not in your traditional rap pimp manner. But the beat was begging for a pimp song. So I wrote “The Skinny” for it and used the pimp as a metaphor for cigarettes. That’s probably one of my favorite songs musically and lyrically.

“You” is one of the most uplifting pop songs I’ve heard this summer. How’d that come into being?

 

We were looking to write a Prince song. A lot of that song we were trying to model around Minneapolis. For years, people would accuse us of representing the Minneapolis sound. But I never really got it. I always thought the Minneapolis sound was not knowing what you’re doing. I look at what the Replacements and Husker Du did for their rock movement. I just think they got together and made these songs that production-wise were super lo-fi. Some of the writing is simple – it works. It’s catchy. It’s luck. Then I look at Prince and see he was making it up as he went along. Producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis – look at some of the drum noises they were creating in the ‘80s. It was ridiculous, but it worked. People gravitated towards it and danced to it. But in the real world, I bet they were just doing their imitation of George Clinton when he started fucking around with synthetic drums.

So when people give us credit for making up a sound, I’m like, ‘not really.’ We’re getting credit for not knowing what we’re doing. There’s no mentor-ship in Minneapolis and the world of making music. It’s all self-taught. So this is our version of making a Gang Starr record just as Prince made his version of Jimi Hendrix shit just as The Time were making their version of Parliament. The Replacements were making their version of the fucking Rolling Stones.

Minneapolis artists seem to relate well to contemporary pop culture.

 

There’s a lot of folks here just making art for art’s sake. But for the most part, prior to the internet, Minneapolis only got what it got through pop culture sources – magazines and standard media. There weren’t people moving here from Berlin to expose us to German disco.

DANIELLE HOWLE’S TANTRUMS ‘DO A TWO SABLE’

Interviews
FOREWORD: Folks-y South Carolina-based singer-songwriter, Danielle Howle, deserves the same accolades thrown at similarly stylized lasses such as Lucinda Williams and Neko Case. Often described as an off-kilter Southern storyteller, Howle’s musical career may’ve reached a peak with ‘98s Do A Two Sable.
 
Since then, she released a few underrated gems such as ‘02s Skorborealis and ‘08s Thank You Mark (featuring bluegrass vet, Sam Bush, and a duet with fellow Carolinian singer, Darius Rucker – ex-Hootie & the Blowfish). During ’98, I caught Howle at the now-defunct Coney Island High club on St. Mark’s Place. She played the smaller, more intimate upstairs space, delivering humorous one-liners between agreeable acoustical offerings.
 
Nowadays, she’s just as likely to be involved with college educational programming as she is with her own isolated solo career. She still plays local dates from time to time. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Giving acoustic folk music a serious kick in the pants, Columbia, South Carolina native, Danielle Howle, deals with emotional politics, inserting casual humor and giddy asides to a diverse range of otherwise serious material. A self-taught guitarist, provocative conversationalist, expressive singer, and evocative songwriter, Howle fronted artsy folk-pop band Lay Quiet Awhile before setting out on her own.

Besides recording ‘95s swell solo acoustic set, Live At Mc Kissick Museum (which showcased her goofy in-between song rants, endearing social commentary, and stream-of-consciousness numbers like the ditzy nursery rhyme “Frog Song” and the snippy “Big Puffy Girl Handwriting”), she acquired local band, the Tantrums, for half the studio debut, About To Burst.

For her third and most ambitious album, Do A Two Sable, Howle divides her time between spirited rockers (the kitsch-y Bo Diddley shuffler “You Came A Knockin’” and melodic head knocker “Where Were You”), traditional Country (“If You Wanna Leave”), and dramatic pop (the posh “Host For The Notes” and sensitive “Feel So Bad”).

Whether writing spontaneous first-hand ditties, spinning whimsical romantic notions, or disguising melancholic moodiness in pleasant poetic settings, Howle proves to be one of the most gifted artists currently on the scene. She howls, yodels, whispers, moans and soars in a lovely fluttering voice that teeters between Joan Baez folksiness and Joni Mitchell artfulness.

I spoke to the girlishly charming Howle via phone while she was touring D.C. After my interview, she went to visit her friend, ‘80s emo-core rock legend, Ian Mac Kaye (of Fugazi fame).

Since I originally missed out on the debut studio set, About To Burst, describe how it differs from Do A Two Sable.

 

DANIELLE: About To Burst was freaky and totally different. There were eight acoustic songs made at a D.C. studio and eight made when the Tantrums were a fledgling band three years ago. Two of the musicians, bassist Bryan Williams and guitarist John Furr, were in a band, Blightobody. I was in Lay Quiet Awhile, which had drummer Troy Tague. So we merged. That’s my gross, sick, sweet story.

The new album gets off to a rockin’ good time with “You Came A Knockin’” and “Feel So Bad.”

 

That’s just what I was writing at the time. We got in the mode of joyously rocking out.

Was the mesmerizing “Feel So Bad” actually a firsthand account?

 

Yes. I was sitting on the corner of Phillips Street and St. George in Charleston, SC. We have these trees with big moths on them in the south. They’re so cute. And in the mist of all this beauty two people were fighting on such a pretty day. I had to get that down since it made such a huge impression on me. It’s those little things in life that I fall in love with. My songs are just about snips of time – like “Host For The Notes.”

I’ve been to the University of South Carolina campus once. Did you play the local clubs to get started?

Mc Kissick Museum is there. That had such a wonderful intimate atmosphere. We’ve played the Elbow Room and Rockefellers. I was 17 when I wanted to be in a band. But my first band lived an hour-and-a-half away. Then I got in a local band called the Blue Laws. We got our name from the Sunday liquor laws which don’t permit alcohol sales. I didn’t originally have any serious intentions. I never went to other towns to play. We never made any money. But the bars did $900 in bar sales. I loved Rockefellers. It was cool. Then I played in Lay Quiet Awhile and went solo. So I’ve been on tour the last four years. I just love to play.

As an experienced local performer, did you find it difficult recruiting musicians as seriously committed as you were to start a band?

 

Yes. Also, it’s hard to find people willing to hit the road and bear with the poverty. As the Tantrums progress as a band, I hope other members will write some things. For now, I always want the albums to sound the way I want them to.

Many of your songs disguise melancholy feelings of uncertainty. You seem to be compensating for shyness.

 

It’s true. That’s why I talk so much onstage. I was so scared my songs would sound awkward because I wasn’t secure about my guitar picking and my singing. Telling stories makes me feel more comfortable. We’re all just vessels for what’s going on. I try real hard not to try too hard. When I wrote this album, I thought the songs I’m writing may not flow together. But I don’t like the laws that rule and stereotype albums. You’re taught brown doesn’t go with green, but the tree trunks are brown and the grass is green and they look good together. Some artists just want to stay within the boundaries of one style.

Did your parents encourage you to pursue music as a career?

 

My mother said I’ve been writing Country tunes my whole life. My parents listened to Glen Miller and Chuck Berry. My dad was a Jazz musician and I’m a self-taught musician. Everyone in my family is from small South Carolina towns near Darlington. We live two miles from Darlington Speedway on a little farm. We can hear the races from there. I come from a strange genetic pool of Country folk. Some are farmers. Some work in small town factories or the mills. Some are trapped in marriage and had kids early. They never got to pursue their dreams. Part of our job on this planet is to get to our dreams. I think some people are barren and it’s really sad.

What’s the first concert you attended?

 

I actually saw Toto when “Africa” was a big hit. My parents took me there while I was in high school. As it turns out, my producer, David Leonard, got a Grammy for that song. But I was always friends with the punk rockers in my school, checking out Black Flag and GG Allin. They kicked butt. I saw the Minutemen a million times. Mike Watt has truly inspired my music. And the Velvet Underground really honed me in. Through songs like Lou Reed’s “I Can’t Stand It Anymore,” which inspired me to pick up a guitar, I got to better understand all the punk that was coming out. So I quit college and learned to play guitar.

Did you get to open up for anyone real cool down in Carolina while just starting out?

 

I opened for Bob Dylan in one of my first hometown shows and really sucked. But this guy in the Tantrums who was washing dishes with me helped me get through it by playing along. I didn’t get to meet Dylan though. But I bet he’s pretty cool.

JONATHAN FIRE EATER SWAGGER THRU ‘WOLF SONGS FOR LAMBS’

Interviews

FOREWORD: NYC-via-DC quintet, Jonathan Fire*Eater never lived up to the ridiculously massive hype given their major label debut. Though they had a good shot at enormous cult status, drug-addled lead singer Stewart Lupton would cause the band to fracture. But before it all went to shit, they played the World Trade Center’s top-floored Windows Of The World to introduce press relations to ‘97s inconsistent, yet artfully clever, Wolf Songs For Lambs.

Along with free beer and hors d’oeuvres, I got to chat with tropicalia-induced no wave trailblazer, Arto Lindsay (who, strangely, had a bandage on his forehead). Exhibiting tremendous confidence onstage, Lupton’s animated Jim Morrison-like Lizard King mannerisms and shady glam-rock poses caught the attention of all the industry types in attendance. After their quick demise, the remaining members (minus Lupton) formed the highly successful Walkmen. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

New York-based, Washington DC-formed Jonathan Fire*Eater ghoulishly link rock’s distant past (and beyond) to its distortedly twisted post-mod fabric. Sadistically bent on reinforced negativity, singer Stewart Lupton’s psycho-satirical and painfully sarcastic nightmares shoulder the weight of Wolf Songs For Lambs’ distended faux-cabaret numbers. Lupton’s whimsical, pixilated lyrical ideas surface above nifty debauched arrangements. Cryptic hallucination “When The Curtain Calls For You” and awkwardly offbeat “The Shape Of Things That Never Matter” crookedly ebb through organ-saturated undercurrents, offering a less soulful, more neurotic collage than fellow DC combos the Make Up and Delta 72 care to muster.

Life on the road hasn’t been a bowl of cherries for Jonathan Fire*Eater. Some audiences just don’t comprehend the skewed tendencies that make Lupton’s abstruse melodramatic theatricality and weird garage rock so fresh, exciting, and unlikely. Though they may not have complete post-grunge fan approval yet, they’ve definitely caught the ears of almost everyone in the record industry.

Friends since high school, Lupton, guitarist Paul Maroon, Farfisa organist Walter Martin, bassist Tom Frank, and drummer Matt Barrick debuted with ‘96s indie-acclaimed Tremble Under Boom Lights EP, creating an underground buzz that had eager major (and minor) record companies drooling to sign them. They performed with respectable once-indie bands the Breeders, the Cramps, Porno For Pyros, and Blur along the way.

At an October party at the World Trade Center’s Windows Of The World, a large gathering of press, label execs, relatives, and publicity hounds wait for elevators to bring them up to the top floor (my wife and I let fellow scribe, Shirley Halperin, cut in front to catch one). Joanthan Fire*Eater is due to perform a friendly half-hour set. Unfortunately, many of those waiting to get elevator access will be sadly disappointed by the announcement that only a chosen few will be allowed to see the band play.

I spoke to Lupton over the phone a few days after their show.

You sound either really stoned or really tired.

 

STEWART LUPTON: Yeah. I’ve had a little of the flu bug that’s been going around. I think I got rocked with pneumonia.

Too bad you didn’t have the boogie woogie flu. (laughter) Anyway, I saw you guys perform in October at Windows Of The World in Manhattan, but my wife, who listens to the pathetic horseshit on commercial radio, thought Jonathan Fire*Eater should play their songs straightforward instead of twisted and skewed.

 

It’s just the way we play and the way the songs come out. I don’t like straight-up radio songs. Songs that inspire us are always weird, like old folk from the ‘20s/ ‘30s. They are so natural, but somehow they manage to be weird.

Is there a Washiongton DC scene Jonathan Fire*Eater associated with before settling in New York? Delta 72 and the Make Up have an organ-based sound not completely removed from your bands’ sound.

 

Yeah. I think there is a scene, but we live in New York now and I’d definitely say we’re not part of it. There’s a band called Terro Bolero that I like a lot. They have some fun shows once in awhile.

Your music seems both nostalgically connected to the past yet refreshingly dipped in the future.

 

We have one foot in the traditional while working within the confines of rock. I mean, we’re a rock and roll band. We don’t have a fucking computer as a sixth member. Somehow I don’t think you have to use that kind of stuff to be futuristic. To me, it’s more exciting to exploit the rock and roll tradition.

Tell me about the New York ‘after hours’ scene in which Jonathan Fire*Eater was involved.

 

When we all lived together in Alphabet City in the East Village, we were just so miserable since we had an intrusive landlord that would wake us up. So we had to drink a lot just to get some sleep. We went to bars a lot for nightcaps. We didn’t have beds so we slept in futons on the floor. So I guess we became involved with the existing scene, but I don’t go our much anymore.

You’re very theatrically funky onstage. You appear to be having more fun than the average rocker.

 

It’s all spur of the moment. I have no idea where my theatrical nature comes from. I like to move around. If you’ve ever seen old tapes of bluesmen Leadbelly or Howlin’ Wolf, they’re singing and marching around. There’s a certain theatricality in Howlin’ Wolf’s overwhelming presence and gestures. We’re a completely hit or miss band live. And we’ve been missing a lot lately and that’s been getting on my nerves. When you’re out there playing, you want people to be paying attention. And so when I get ready to perform, I always picture myself out in the audience, thinking about what I’d want to see. Like the show at the World Trade Center was an intense night. I wish I didn’t have to perform though. We had friends visiting that I wanted to hang out with.

Why do you think Jonathan Fire*Eater are either hit or miss live?

 

Well. It’s not like we’re fucking up onstage. It’s just sometimes we can’t make a connection with the crowd. I went to art school and read Zen books about living for the moment, but sometimes I feel so far removed from the audience. But it’s special when a hip crowd feels their way around our music. That makes it all worthwhile.

Your band takes some risks. So it’s understandable some of the newer audience hasn’t figured out your stylistic derangements.

 

That’s probably so.

The spooky, rumbling “I’ve Changed Hotels” seems to deal somewhat with life on the road. Is it difficult touring?

 

It’s tough if you think about it too much. You have to completely surround yourself with the music. If you’ve ever seen the movie, Groundhog Day, it’s kind of like that. You go from town to town, but it feels like you’re waking up to the same day. Sometimes we’ll stop at a rest stop on the way to a show and people will think we’re nuts, but we’re just blowing off steam from being cooped up traveling. We were at a Quick-E mart and Matt and Paul got into a wrestling match and knocked over a whole aisle of Fritos. We got ejected from the store. That makes touring worth doing.

Are you impressed with any new bands out there?

 

Not really. Some are pretty good. My favorite band now is Spiritualized. They had a choir with them when I caught their show. I try to keep up wit the modern scene. Everybody keeps telling me about this Beck dude. I’m sure he’s great. But I’m not into him yet.

What musical growth has Jonathan Fire*Eater experienced since the debut, Tremble Under Boom Lights?

 

Some of the songs on the debut went on and on. So we tried to make the songs a bit shorter on the new album. I learned to sing better and more naturally since then. We also like the way the album was recorded at producer Mitch Easter’s house. And Jim Waters, a New York producer, did a great job too. Mitch was really cool. He let us use his house, gear, and instruments. He had a nice girlfriend and a few dogs.

A few of your songs have a spiteful sadistic nature.

 

I like being sadistic, but I can’t tell you it’s because I had a traumatized youth. Ask that after our third album when I do a Barbara Walters interview. (laughter)

What sound will you hope to achieve on the third album, if there is one?

 

This album has so many words so I will be doing less wordy songs. There’ll be better songs. We just recorded a new song during a day off that’s temporarily called “Do You Have A Light.” I could exaggerate and say we’re going to shape songs around what’s popular and make radio play them. What else could you do for exposure? Get a bullhorn and go around screaming from your car. Actually, I don’t even think about MTV and radio. I just do my job and play the shows at night.

 

 

FRANK BLACK HEADS TO NASHVILLE FOR SOLO RETREAT

Interviews,

As leader of Boston-based ‘80s indie rock icons, the Pixies, Frank Black inspired the entire ‘90s Seattle grunge scene as well as various British shoegazers and mod garage rockers from far and wide. Becoming a soloist for three fine albums and then leader of backup troupe the Catholics for six more prior to their ’04 demise, this gigantic Pixie continually mellows like fine wine. His early influences include ‘60s legends such as the Beatles, Donovan, Leon Russell, John Mayall, Jimi Hendrix, Paul Butterfield Blues Band, and most profoundly for his latest work, Bob Dylan’s Nashville-recorded Blonde On Blonde.

Taking the same linear path Dylan did in ’66, Black headed to Nashville in ‘05 and got a southerly soul producer, in this case, Jon Tiven (B.B. King/ Wilson Pickett/ Delbert Mc Clinton), to assemble a sterling cast of veteran musicians to lend a hand on his latest batch of tunes. The result, Honeycomb, probably goes better with a bottle of Chardonnay than the beer and a shot doubtlessly quaffed listening to his clamorous Catholics barroom stomps. Famed Muscle Shoals musicians, bassist David Hood and keyboardist Spooner Oldham, respected session drummer Anton Fig, and renowned Stax Records/ Booker T guitarist Steve Cropper provide solid assistance.

Black croons through lightly buoyant originals such as stormy Crescent City memento “Selkie Bride,” soothingly percussive soft-pop lucidity “I Burn Today,” and spookily hushed visage “Lone Child,” keeping the overall mood sedate. He brings an easygoing melodic shuffle to Tex-Mex organist Doug Sahm’s earthy “Sunday Sunny Mill Valley Groove Day.” Studio engineer-owner Dan Penn co-wrote R & B standard “Dark End Of The Street,” which Black learned from Country-rock casualty Gram Parsons’ version and herein receives a compelling blanched blues-y falsetto sensitivity. Meanwhile, Black also borrowed Elvis’ goofy Girls Girls Girls film track “Song Of The Shrimp,” giving the novelty a speak-sung interpretation acquired from deceased Texas Country-folk phenom Townes Van Zandt’s out of tempo live rendition.

Last time I tried to interview you, your vintage equipment had been stolen by some assholes. Did you ever get it back?

 

FRANK: Never found it. It was stolen outside Philadelphia. I’m sure it went straight into a container ship. But life’s worked out. I’ve accumulated more vintage gear. My brother bought me a nice ’54 Telecaster last year. It’s a lovely guitar.

How’d producer Jon Tiven bring you together with all those veteran Nashville musicians for Honeycomb?

 

He’s got an extensive black book. He works with many musicians from all backgrounds. He’s 50 now, so he actually was a writer for Rolling Stone at age 15 or 16. So he’s been involved with music for a long time. He was even part of New York’s punk scene.

Did living out in woodsy western Massachusetts during your UMass college days inspire the folksy retreats?

 

I didn’t grow up there. I lived bi-coastal between Massachusetts and California. But certainly lots of people from my generation and hopefully people younger than me got exposed to a lot of folk, blues, Rhythm & Blues, and Gospel…especially Classic rock and roll. You hear it on the radio or through parents’ record collections. People get exposed to more classic music than they think.

When you moved from L.A. to Portland, Oregon during the ‘90s, did the literary scene there influence you?

 

I wasn’t involved in any Portland scene. I was learning how to live alone (after divorce). I lived in a big loft, but now I’m 100 miles south. When I split up with my wife I moved.

Peculiarly, your ex-wife sings on “Strange Goodbye.” Was that song based on true recollections?

 

Yeah. Absolutely. That’s our parting shot as the happy couple. We had a friendly divorce and love each other. We had a pact early in our relationship that if we broke up, we’d remain friends.

Some of Honeycomb’s more melodious moments reminded me of ‘70s soft rocker Andy Fairweather-Low. Do you know him?

 

I heard his name but don’t know his music.

Your crooning was unexpected. Did you practice octave scales?

 

No. It’s just the type of material that got written. I give a lot of credit to my singing teacher who has helped me in the past five years.

There’s a newfound sensibility and vulnerability adding dramatic intrigue to your latest song batch.

 

Sure. You go through something dramatic in your life – an old relationship ends and a new one is starting. You move from a city you’ve been in 12 years, break up a former band (the Catholics) and reunite another (the Pixies). So you feel beat up, give up, say ‘fuck it,’ and become inspired. It’s a good place to be now.

You’ve got to be proud of the Pixies accomplishments and the amount of fans coming out in droves for the reunion tours.

 

It’s wonderful. I was bragging about my new record to them but still begging them to please listen to it. It was probably a buzzkill for them. Here we are over a decade later on the verge of playing our first shows together and I’m caught up with my Nashville record. That’s what happens when you come out of the studio excited about something.

Will you support Honeycomb with any tour dates even though the Pixies are scheduled to be on the road all summer?

 

I guess by talking (to the press) I’ll get exposure. I’ve been talking to those guys about doing a tour but they’re all busy. If we do it, it’ll be later in the year. Steve Cropper does a lot of live work with Booker T & the MG’s and a band under his own name. Spooner Oldham was setting up a session with Neil Young tomorrow.

Spooner’s keyboard playing seemed to dictate Honeycomb’s mellow flow.

 

Those guys expressed a lot of restraint. He was shockingly almost absent for the first half of a section of a song. Suddenly, his hands would fall on to the keyboards in almost a bumbling way. He’s as soft and gentle as his playing, personality-wise. They all added to that poignancy. They’re not really about playing loud. They’re about the groove and playing off each other and the singer.

What did you learn from those seasoned musicians that will resonate for the rest of your life?

 

I suppose the greatest thing I observed, which is no great mystery, is they proved their prowess by listening to what I was singing and locked into what they were playing. They didn’t have to refer to the charts. They never even rehearsed the songs and many were done in one or two takes.

Some of your Catholics songs were made in one take.

 

Yeah. After solo debut, Cult Of Ray, the first Catholic record represented very few takes, but a lot of rehearsal. Sometimes we’d need 50 takes. At Dan Penn’s studio, we recorded some multi-tracks for this album. Technically, there were overdubs, but we were always playing together. Nashville is at the crossroads of America, whether it’s rock and roll, blues, or Gospel. It’s all been going on there for a hundred years. I didn’t have any clear vision. I wrote some songs and asked Tiven to hook me up with a band. I wrote chord charts with bassist David Hood, counted them off, and played them. I knew the situation I was getting into and it may have affected the type of songs I wrote semi-subconsciously. But it wasn’t a tailor made vision.

What have you been listening to recently?

 

I can’t say I listen to anything new, mostly Classical and Jazz for no particular reason. I got into older ‘30s Jazz combo things like Stuff Smith and jumpin’ jive. I like that because it’s closer to rock and roll and related to the popular song form – three minutes and lots of vocals. But I also love John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk, and Chet Baker.

How will the Pixies tour differ from last years’ excursion?

 

We’ll do a few different songs, but nothing worth reporting on. We just play the songs the way they went down in the ‘80s. We already wrote the songs. Now we’re just playing them live. We don’t know if we’ll record new songs. We haven’t booked a studio. We’re too busy driving around in our tour bus collecting briefcases full of cash. (laughter)

 

LORI CARSON STAYS TRUE TO HER SENSIBILITY

Interviews

FOREWORD: It’s absolutely criminal that more people haven’t discovered the joy of Lori Carson’s seductive rough-edged alto. While ‘90s contemporaries such as Ani Di Franco, Tori Amos, and Fiona Apple gained aboveground success, Carson is barely recognizable amongst the underground elite. Her beguiling heartbroken sentiments brought a funereal melancholic intimacy to impassioned dark-toned threnodies.

She lent her plaintive nocturnal voice to two worthy Golden Palominos albums, ‘93s This Is How It Feels and its nearly as good follow-up, ‘94s Pure.

‘I spoke to her via phone to promote ‘97s wonderful Everything I Touch Runs Wild. Afterwards, she released ‘01s House In The Weeds, ‘03s Stolen Beauty, and ‘04s The Finest Thing to little fanfare.

Last time I saw Carson, she was at a Victoria Williams show at the Bottom Line. When she asked Williams if she remembered her from some past endeavor (possibly as an opening act), Williams said ‘no.’ Such is life for an unfairly ignored artist. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Confessional singer-writer-guitarist Lori Carson’s therapeutic Everything I Touch Runs Wild was recorded in her bedroom to procure proper intimate atmosphere. Singing on the Golden Palominos’ This Is How It Feels and Pure gave this fragile-voiced exotic beauty the confidence to follow-up her flawed ’90 debut, Shelter, with ‘95s post-Palominos disc, Where It Goes and its fully mature successor.

Passionate, sensitive, and hopelessly romantic, Carson’ sympathetic odes on Everything I Touch Runs Wild retain a heartfelt lushness. Like a shy girl blushing, she tenderly caresses piano-based ballads and guitar-strummed lullabies. From the emotionally ticking “Souvenir” to the hushed version of Todd Rundgren’s “I Saw The Light,” her songs linger in the pale gloom of a quiet evening. She’s apologetic on the delicate “Black Thumb,” then seeks commiseration on “Snow Come Down.”

Carson took some time out to speak over the phone from a hotel somewhere down South. She is currently on tour with highly respected acoustic artist Richard Buckner.

Did your parents introduce you to music?

 

LORI: There’s absolutely nothing in my family that was musical. For me, it was a natural attraction. I guess it was inevitable. Music always sounded so very compelling. I’d make up songs and listen to old 45’s I found in the attic. I was fascinated by the ‘50s-era girl singers. There was this one song I used to play over and over that was a heartbreak song. Maybe I was indoctrinated by that song.

How do you compose your vulnerable post-modern make out tunes?

 

Is that how you describe it. (laughter) Composing is what happens when I pick up the guitar and play and sing. It’s in the way I feel time and rhythm. To me, quiet and pared down just feels right. It’s as I’ve been doing for a long time. It’s like your heart rate. I’m comfortable with it.

Describe your musical growth from the debut, Shelter, to the recent Everything I Touch Runs Wild.

 

I’d describe it as finding a way to be true to my own sensibility. When I made Shelter, I was new to collaborations. I let the process take away some of my personality. I very rarely would say, ‘this feels uncomfortable.’ That record was burdened by overdone arrangements. If I had opened my mouth, it could’ve been great. With Where It Goes, my second album, I fought for myself. I had just done two Golden Palominos and learned a lot along the way. But I didn’t quite hit the mark. On the new album, I had the confidence to take risks.

What was it like working with Anton Fier of Golden Palominos? He seems to be quite the perfectionist.

 

Anton’s a very talented man. And it was a tremendous experience working with him. He was there before I was in a position to defend my ideas. It’s just a fucking crime that he hasn’t experienced the success he deserves. Like Bill Laswell, he was so specific with what he wanted. I recently had the chance to collaborate with Bill on one of his new records – not that I know which one. Working with him was entirely different than working with Anton. Bill is easygoing and has a completely different production style.

What artists would you like to work with in the near future?

 

I’d like to do collaborations with artists in entirely different genres. I’d like to make a cool cinematic soundscape and possibly a collection of ambient music. I do have a number of ideas. I’ve approached the Dust Brothers. I want to work with creative people like Daniel Lanois or Paul Samwell-Smith, who produced the first Cat Stevens album after being in the Yardbirds.

Why did you decide to cover Todd Rundgren’s “I Saw The Light”? I’ve always thought he sounded suspiciously like Carole King on that song.

 

Well. Carole King’s Tapestry was one of my formative records. As for “I Saw The Light,” it’s an innocent pop song. When I was young I thought that song was about what love would be like. On a whim I recorded it. I used to use it at soundcheck.

The moodily hypnotic “Something’s Got Me” is a fave. I thought Steve Bernstien’s trumpet break really lifted the song.

 

I recorded that song in my apartment. I didn’t even know Steve at the time and I invited him to my apartment with his trumpet. Actually, I heard the song in my head the way it appeared in record. I did the four-track and gave it to Brian Gocher, a writer who works on R&B pop records. He looped simple guitar underneath and came up with something very basic. The song led to the arrangement. When you’re a songwriter, you want to serve the song.

What hobbies take up your spare time?

 

I read like crazy, do gardening, and ride around in a van trying to write songs on guitar. I read mostly contemporary fiction. I also read feminist Andrea Dworkin’s Life & Death. She’s such an important person for people to read. She addresses issues such as pornography and sexual abuse and how they affect our culture. She’s so profound.

Did you enjoy your short tenure in the Lilith Fair tour?

 

I really only played for a week of shows. And I did 15-minute sets on the third stage. It was fun. I got to see a lot of different women performers. I’d have loved to do it longer. I thought Fiona Apple and Julianna Hatfield were great. Truth is, I buy records women make to support them. We’re well over 50% of the population and what’s fucked up is women are not treated as equals in the music business or the outside world. Women are different than men, but many are afraid to rock the boat and speak up for themselves.

Do you have any animosity towards the oft-times heartless record industry?

 

I’ve had good and bad experiences. It’s structured so insanely. I’ve heard people talk about the industry both ways. Artists pay for videos, promotion, and the record. So sometimes no one sees a profit except the record company. But being on a small label, I have respect for BMG, the company distributing my record. And my lawyer has been wonderful, respectful, and fair. Artists make a living out of publishing and touring. I’d love to see it change. But why would the record labels give up their profit? It’s like the old Hollywood system was 50 years ago when actors made very little money.