GANG GANG DANCE REGALE SAINT DYMPHNA

Interviews

It’s lamentable how often death provides meaningful stimulus for musicians of all stripes. Sometimes it redeems otherwise reluctant artists to dig deeper for that extra motivational spark that puts them over the top. Yet it’s a sad predicament understood all too well by New York-based acid house enthusiasts, Gang Gang Dance.

An early Gang Gang Dance comrade, Nathan Maddox, was struck to death by lightning on a Chinatown rooftop in ’02. Since then, the posthumous teen has provided inspirational guidance from beyond the grave. Post-haste, the surviving members became far more effective transferring their picturesque embryonic concepts into transcendent ‘theatre of the mind’ abstractions. A challenging self-titled ’04 album appeared and the band improved so quickly they were eventually spotted supporting clever underground heavyweights Sonic Youth, Massive Attack, and TV On The Radio.

 

Vigilant Gang Gang Dance front man Brian Degraw shirks at any high-brow notion of sophisticated shrewdness and insists, “It’s not a super-intense intellectual process we’re unloading.”

A promising Washington DC art school student, Degraw had developed a liking for local post-punk renegades Fugazi and Nation Of Ulysses, then met Michigan native Tim Dewit, another creative alchemist struck by the deep emotional intrigue consuming both visual and audio arts.

Upon moving to New York City, the percussive duo soon hooked up with guitarist Josh Diamond and eccentric vocalist, Lizzi Bougatsos, using borrowed instruments, looped samples, and impromptu jams to design constantly evolving musical templates at a practice space shared by innovative peers, Black Dice and Animal Collective. As they got proficient melding spontaneous musical sequences into minimalist orchestral constructions, the experimental foursome precipitously gained a foothold as subterraneous vanguard luminaries.

Following ‘05s relatively conventional God’s Money, Degraw’s crew spent a good portion of the next year constructing the chillingly variegated 3-song 20-minute EP, Rawwar. Here, they tossed Middle Eastern elements into fantastical bombastic dreamscape “Nicoman,” reveled in synthesized Industrial-strength electronica on dramatic cloudburst “Oxygen Demo Riddim, and submerged fluttery electrodes beneath the paradoxical mind-boggling liturgy “The Earthquake That Frees Prisoners.” But this was just a deserving primer for the Gang.

With Retina Riddim, a spare 24-minute instrumental, Degraw combined his abstruse musical objectives with potent cinematic ambitions, creating a mesmerizing half-hour DVD as a ceremonial adaptation. An air of brooding mystery and unsettled anxiety camouflage this apprehensive art-damaged requiem. Sound-wise, glacial violins intertwine with dreamily ambient oscillations, abrupt sine waves, and faux-orchestral bits, detonating into a choppy rhythmic deluge.

An increasing amount of humbled admirers eagerly awaited Gang Gang Dance’s next endeavor, especially since each preceding release had subsequently advanced their compact legacy fashioning mutated modernistic mosaics. Named after the patron saint of sufferers, ‘09s urbane portraiture Saint Dymphna (Warp Records) opens up and brightens the dynamic scope of Gang Gang Dance’s pan-cultural adventuring. A crisper, livelier production sheen enhances thoroughly efficient stylistic ideas. It’s undeniably a significant step up for Chinatown transplant, Degraw, and his impressive crewmates. No doubt Lower Manhattan’s diverse multiethnic art scene again enlightened him in a forthright manner. As always, Degraw’s striking cover artwork helps visualize the painstakingly perfected project.

Computer generated bleats and burbles get inside the exotic jungle groove of tribal sub-Saharan opening jolt, “Bebey.” Ensuing syncopated Afro-funk shuffle, “First Communion,” a click track reminiscent of goodly Malian duo Amadou & Mariam, showcases Lizzi’s arousing goth caterwaul, which rises out of the abyss with a brayed trill, upending the linear percussive stomp and overblown bass contortions. Though its sympathetic instrumental preponderance and No Wave electronic squiggles lack an enigmatic African influence, the neo-Classical faux-string ethereality of “Blue Nile” does apply distantly sequestered primordial voices to mirror its titular meandering river.

Lizzi takes complete control on arrhythmic wasteland distention, “Desert Storm,” attaining majestic operatic heights merging Bjork’s diva-esque hysterics, Lene Lovich’s hiccuped gulps, and Poly Styrene’s adolescent rage. On accessibly posh mantra, “House Jam,” her childlike quaver reaches its stratospheric zenith, recalling Kate Bush’s monastic rendering of “Running Up That Hill” a tad.

Onward, an extraterrestrial motif underscores the balance of Saint Dymphna’s surrealistic ensemble. Interplanetary sounds beam in and out of “Princes,” a showcase for unrenowned Brit rapper Tinchy Stryder, whose urban flow grounds the aerobic electro-dance pulse and credibly filches the conversationalist routine of better-known countryman, Mike Skinner (a.k.a. the Streets). Further otherworldly collations abound when laser beams zoom across muted percussion during “Inners Pace,” where tubular sound effects fade out then reestablish the jittery horn-punctuated scheme.

Degraw truly opens up during conversation when examining his deceased friends’ extemporaneous narrative woven through Rawwar’s “The Earthquake That Frees Prisoners.”

“The closest we come to having a theme is Nathan. He was a close friend who joined up when he was sixteen in DC. Basically, he was the most mystical, otherworldly person I’d ever met. Since he left, everyone has been living better, so he fills the role of a shaman. He brings a strong spiritual aspect to the band – his energy, personality. The way he lived life was inspiring.”

How does your visual arts background positively affect Gang Gang Dance’s music?

 

BRIAN DEGRAW: It’s a big influence on our music, almost more so than music, but in a strange way. It’s something that’s relative, ‘visual music,’ seeing it as well as hearing it – the shapes and the colors.

When did you become involved with the club scene?

 

When I was sixteen, I moved to DC. That’s when I got more influenced by that culture. I’d attended raves, but never really liked it. When I started hearing London grime, house, and garage music, that was my first positive exposure to club music around 2003. That’s when I started investigating that realm.

GGD’s studio tracks seem deliberately structured, yet freeform in approach. Do your songs usually come from improvisational jams?

 

Almost always they do. That’s how we started. We didn’t write any structured pieces. Now we compose structured pieces but it all stems from improvisation. We don’t go into the studio with parts and ideas. We just play for hours, listen back, find a spot we like, and continue building upon that.

Were you encouraged in any way by obtuse ‘80s experimentalists such as Psychic TV, Throbbing Gristle, or Einsterzende Neubauten?

 

Yeah, for sure. At one point in my life, that was exciting, but I don’t get to listen to that stuff anymore. However, their approach affected my direction.

Were Rawwar and God’s Money semi-conceptually designed?

 

It’s all about exploration. We get bored easily and won’t be happy doing something over and over. We listen to so much different music we’re interested in and get influenced by that. We hate stagnation. The shows we’ve been playing lately don’t feature songs from the new record. We’ve already written new stuff and got bored with the new album.

How has Gang Gang Dance grown or evolved since its inception?

 

I’m not sure how it happened. There’s no line to be drawn. No matter how much time I take looking back at each record, I can’t figure out how or why. (laughter) It’s more on instinct than any conscious methodology.

“Bebay” and “First Communion” both utilize tribal African beats. Are these newer influences showing up firsthand?

 

Those are things we’ve listened to for a long time but we’re very gradual in compositional approach. We don’t rush anything. We basically start out making noise music – banging on things trying to emote something. When that felt redundant, we considered structure more. But God’s Money was the first time we did that. Again, it wasn’t conscious. It was done out of frustration and boredom. Improvising became limiting in a way so we started having repetitive parts. From there, it’s been a hodgepodge of all these elements. It’s about being ‘in the moment’ and capturing it on tape. I think there’s a theme for Saint Dymphna, but I don’t know what it is. It’s more on a spiritual level than anything we can describe as progressive.

Where’d you find rapper, Tinchy Stryder, whose flow saddles “Princes”?

 

When I first heard grime music, a friend from London gave me a cassette of pirated recordings. It was hours long. These MC’s did their thing over tracks. It’s more mainstream now but at the time there was a very good underground movement. When I first heard the tapes, I was completely blown away by the eastern melodies, rawness of the beats, and off-ness of timing. One of the first MC’s I heard was Tingy. I was an instant fan. He was only fifteen at the time. He blew my mind. It was alien music to me. We toured London, a kid found out we were a fan, and tracked him down. He freestyled over some beats and then we refined it into a more finished song.

Have you ever contemplated doing cinematic scores?

 

Yeah. We’d love to. That would be perfect. So much of what we do is based on feeling. It would be very appropriate. Tap into the film’s emotion and put it into shape.

GUIDED BY VOICES: THE ’97 BOB POLLARD INTERVIEW

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Before I got to hang out with Guided By Voices pilot Bob Pollard a few times in New York during the next few years, I did this phoner with the celebrated Midwestern lo-fi craftsman. His casual humor comes along just fine in this interview to support ‘97s vibrant Mag Earwhig! Damn, this guy’s a lot o’ friggin’ fun. Wish he lived in Jersey. This article originally appeared in Aquarium Weekly.

 

Tragically disregarded by mainstream radio and relatively unknown outside an ardent cult audience, Dayton, Ohio’s indie-pop kingpins, Guided By Voices, continue to exist just outside of the general public’s musical radar range. ‘97s loud and shiny pop grab-bag, Mag Earwig!, finds multi-faceted singer-songwriter Bob Pollard heavily supported by Cleveland underground pro-rock mainstays, Cobra Verde. But while ‘96s Under The Bushes, Under The Stars gave guitarist Tokin Sprout his most prominent role in GBV, he has been relegated to guest appearances this time around, due to fatherhood and a solo career.

Releasing embryonic homemade recordings since the mid-‘80s, former elementary school teacher Pollard hit stride with ‘93s Vampire On Titus. Then came highly prized collections Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes, two indispensable lo-fi gems permanently securing GBV’s position in nineties rock history (alongside sensational DIY indie rebels Sebadoh, Liz Phair, and Pavement).

Pollard offered his firm opinions on a wide range of topics during a friendly chat. Besides being a prolific composer and easygoing conversationalist, he’s also an avid Kraut-rock fan, skilled boozer, and caring family man.

Are you disappointed by mainstream radio and MTV’s reluctance to expose Guided By Voices on a grand scale?

 

BOB: Well, my hometown of Dayton threatens to play our stuff when we do radio shows and kiss ass. They like us, but the main cat at the top won’t give in and play our stuff. We now record our stuff properly in a big studio. It’s no longer lo-fi. We’ve even re-recorded songs to get them on the radio. But they still don’t play it. I don’t understand it. Every LP we put out has three or four worthy songs. Maybe in the past the four-track stuff didn’t meet the standards of what they think the kids want to hear. I don’t know the formula or have charts and graphs. I’ve just decided to make music I like and I don’t give a fuck what they think. (laughter)

“I Am A Tree” has to be the most universal power pop anthem I’ve come across recently. Its captivating hook line and climactic release make it seem reminiscent of dynamic ‘70s-era rockers, bursting forth with full-blown sonic combustion and sweaty emotional vigor.

 

It’s a Doug Gillard song his band Gem never issued. I think he wrote that in ’93 after listening to Bee Thousand. He was a big fan of that album at the time. It’s a nursery rhyme Gem may have thought was immature. But I adopted it because it fit in well with what we do. And now, there’s a little controversy. My label is pushing for it to be a big hit by getting a big record producer to do it again so that it’ll be radio friendly and I’m slightly upset by that because I’ve had songs in the past, such as “The Official Ironman Song” and ” Striped White Jets,” that I thought were also worthy of a push and hadn’t got it. So I love “I Am A Tree,” but it’s getting on my nerves now. In the same respect it would be tragic if that song was forgotten and never heard. It could stand up to the Foo Fighters on the radio.

Are new songs such as the ‘60s-cultured “Can’t Hear The Revolution,” the Beatlesque “Bulldog Skin,” the steely-eyed “Portable Men’s Society” or “Now To War” political snipes?

 

I write stream of consciousness songs that are post-analytic and whatever the listener wants to read into them is fine. My lyrics just flow. Kids on the website like to talk about the lyrics. But my songs are just like a painting. Interpret them as you must. Actually, most of my songs are about internal conflict – maybe unconsciously about me – but more often about the industry and Guided By Voices. But I think that’s interesting you thought those songs were political.

“I Am Produced” and “Now To War” seem to re-create the style of The Who’s Tommy era.

 

Yeah. There’s something melancholy and sad about those songs. The Who were probably my biggest influence, especially Sell Out, Tommy, and Who’s Next.

Do you ever get the feeling Guided By Voices will remain a lost treasure from the late 20th century underground much like under-appreciated, yet highly respected, ‘80s bands the Minutemen, Replacements, or Husker Du have become?

 

I definitely would not mind being put in the company of those great bands. We get compared to the Replacements all the time. Fans think we’re on the same level they once were. And that’s flattering and it makes me totally happy. I though the post-punk stuff by Devo, The Police, Wire, and XTC was some of the best music of all time in the early ‘80s. It’s been downhill ever since. And I don’t know what caused MTV and radio to become so lame. MTV won’t play your video because radio won’t play your song. I have a 16-year old son who’s subjected to all that shit. And I try to tell him there’s other stuff out there. When I first put out Guided By Voices first five albums on my own I was just content to put out songs without anticipating anything happening. So I’m extremely proud of what has happened since then. Maybe we’ll get to the next level, but our guitarist, John Petkovic, says he’s seen the next level and it’s not pretty. (laughter)

Was there a certain point when you were convinced Guided By Voices might take off commercially?

 

Our fifth album, Propeller, which I jokingly titled after telling the band that it would ‘propel’ us and lead to success, really lifted us off. I thought it might be our last album at the time because I couldn’t afford to finance them anymore.

How did you get hooked up with Cleveland-based rockers Cobra Verde?

 

We got together when we did a ’93 tour showcase for Scat Records, the label our bands were on at that time. We had mutual admiration for certain eras of rock music. We tried to do some recording together, but it never happened until recently. They bring in a technically refined sound that Tobin and I didn’t quite have the ability to achieve. When we used to need a cool lead guitar part, we’d seek outside help. But now, with Doug Gillard, an amazing guitar player, and John Petrovic, we’re a fully realized rock band – not just alternative or indie.

What initially inspired you as a youngster to possibly pursue music?

 

Well, I’ll be forty in October. I saw the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show in the ‘60s. That’s when I began looking in the mirror and practicing poses. But I initially gave up hope because I didn’t think I had the ability and my father was pushing for me and my brother to be jocks. It became a secret thing collecting records at age 13. My dad got into the Columbia Record Club and got twelve albums for a penny. Then I became a vinyl junkie. One of the albums I got from the club was 10 Years After’s Ssssh. I started writing songs back then, but thought it was just a silly hobby. It wasn’t until people from Cleveland and New York recognized Guided By Voices’ first five ‘80s albums we put out to convince me I might make a career out of it. But I wouldn’t have been able to handle it as a youngster because too many people in Dayton, where I’m from, thought my music was shit. Now it’s nice to hear people chanting the Guided By Voices chant at concerts.

By the way, I saw Guided By Voices play the Academy Of Music in ’94. How do you remember all the lyrics and musical progressions of all those two-minute songs performed live?

 

Plus, I’m usually drunk when I get onstage. But I think that if I were sober, I’d probably forget the words.

What do you normally drink before a performance?

 

I’m an old-fashioned Midwest Budweiser drinker. But I could drink just about anything. I’ll do shots but I stay away from whiskey. I drank Rolling Rock for awhile when we were trying to get an endorsement but it never happened. Besides, it’s pretty nasty and seemed to induce hangovers. Then I went to Bud Lite. But I don’t like that anymore. Certain places like Portland have microbreweries. But I like to drink something I can constantly pound.

What are your favorite hobbies?

 

I love to go to vinyl record shops. I trade my test pressings and masters of Guided By Voices to acquire all the Kraut-rock stuff. I like Faust and Can but I don’t have a deep record collection with a bunch of old ‘50s and ‘60s stuff. I wish I did.

What does the future hold for of Guided By Voices?

 

I think Mag Earwhig! may be the starting point for our next phase. I’ve written some new songs that go back to the semi-shorter two-minute form. The next album, I think, will be like Alien Lanes, but recorded in a big studio. After every tour I think about hanging it up, but some of our fans are such fanatics they keep us going.

BEACHWOOD SPARKS RETURN WITH ‘ONCE WE WERE TREES’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Inactive since ’02, L.A.’s Beachwood Sparks received indie pop and alt-Country notoriety for colorfully integrating Beach Boys harmonies with Byrds and Buffalo Springfield-related folk-rock. Formed by bassist Brent Rademaker (concurrent vocalist-guitarist with fab indie pop group, The Tyde) and guitarist Christopher Gunst (along with Rademaker, originally from respected ’90s outfit, Further), these West Coast denizens rely on ’60s-pop for inspiration. Their final studio recording, ‘02s Make The Cowboy Robots Cry, I have not heard. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Gaining direct inspiration from cosmic Country-rock pioneer Gram Parsons, Los Angeles-based quartet Beachwood Sparks take Southern-accented Americana down a rustic path as expansive as the Arizona plains and as deep and wide as Grand Canyon. Following a Bomp! Records single, “Desert Skies,” revered indie grunge label Sub Pop took a chance with Beachwood Sparks, releasing the follow-up, “Midsummer Daydream.”

By early 2000, a brilliant self-titled Sub Pop album emerged, capturing the rural-bound attention of the No Depression sect. A sun-baked treasure owing its earthy hippie sensibility to Parsons as well as ‘60s Haight-Ashbury psychedelia by the Grateful Dead and Quicksilver Messenger Service, the Beachwood Sparks debut gave away its vintage “Freedom Rock” idiosyncrasies by featuring bright graphics of an old VW van, butterflies, and rainbows.

Less beholden to Country & Western and mountain folk, ‘01s Once We Were Trees expands B-Sparks range while maintaining a revered rootsiness. A newfound somber spirituality blankets the organ-doused transcendental sermon “Close Your Eyes” and the Gospel confection “By Your Side” (an outside composition written by R & B chanteuse Sade and showcasing guitarist Chris Gunst’s affectionately fragile falsetto).

But Parsons continues to get exploited in a good way. The sentimental heartland ballad “Hearts Mend” and the sweet-toned title track recall the Parsons-fronted Flying Burrito Brothers while the lively bluegrass ‘indirectness’ of the banjo-filled “Yer Selfish Ways” (graced by ex-Dinosaur Jr. mainman J. Mascis’ lucid guitar) brings back memories of the Byrds’ landmark Sweetheart of the Rodeo (a groundbreaking Country-styled gem Parsons played a pivotal role in). A few quieter introspective numbers delve into the relaxed soulfulness of G.P. and Grevious Angel; early ‘70s solo Parsons projects with harmonizing former love interest Emmylou Harris in tow.

B-Sparks keyboardist Dave Scher’s slide guitar resonates brightest on the pretty melodic folk-pop charmer “The Sun Surrounds Me” while ex-Lilys drummer Aaron Sperske and ex-Further bassist Brent Rademaker fill out each track with dynamic rhythmic punctuality. Engineer Thom Monahan (Pernice Brothers’ bassist) helped facilitate ideas and capture Once We Were Tree’s magic at Mascis’ Levrett, Massachusetts studio.

Since Once We Were Trees was recorded at J. Mascis’ studio and he added guitar to two songs, what common influences did you share with him besides Neil Young?

 

CHRIS GUNST: Old time rock and roll, the Incredible String Band, and Love we all like. And all punk stuff.

It’s ironic you bring up San Francisco flower power band, Love, since there’s a psychedelic strain running through your music and album artwork. “The Hustler” and “Old Manatee” are reminiscent of the legendary Grateful Dead.

 

We share some of the same instrumentation as so-called hippie groups, like banjo. I didn’t listen to the Grateful Dead much until recently. But then I read a review that said two of our songs sounded like the Dead and I thought that was crazy. Since then, I’ve listened to American Beauty.

You should search for a copy of American Beauty’s equally compelling early ‘70s bookend, Workingman’s Dead.

 

I will.

On Once We Were Trees, Beachwood Sparks sound less reverential of Gram Parsons. It’s more expansive and there’s more tonal color.

 

Definitely. When we recorded the first one, we were barely a four-piece. We played a few gigs and were young. Now we have more of our sound developing. You’ve got to stay together and make it through. I was a college DJ at Loyola Marymount’s KXLU in Los Angeles. It’s all underground music. I love all music. When I was young, it was only punk and indie. I wasn’t even looking for older music. But once you find bands you like that are modern influences, your record collection starts growing quickly.

Going beyond the ‘60s references of the Byrds and Dylan, are you also indirectly influenced by ‘50s Country-folk legends Hank Williams, Merle Travis, and Woody Guthrie?

 

Most definitely. We love the Louvin Brothers, Johnny Cash, and Hank Williams. Any time I hear old country or bluegrass, I love it. Now, I’m getting into old folk-Blues like Mississippi John Hurt. Anything on the Arhoolie Record label is the best thing I ever heard. I love Nina Simone. She’s a huge influence on me because she’s very emotional musically. I’m a big vinyl collector when I have the money.

There’s a homily-like religiosity to the new album I didn’t recognize on the debut.

 

Yeah. “Close Your Eyes” definitely. It’s just the group turning into a vehicle for that. There’s a lot of stuff people have their eyes closed to. An increased consciousness lends you to inner thought. If you want to be a better person, it takes a lot of self-examination.

How’d the reflective Once We Were Trees title come about?

 

It came from a period in our lives when we were more stable and things were more beautiful. Now, it’s harder to find beauty in anything. People have their minds turned off.

Amongst its melancholia lies a sunnier lyrical perspective the debut only hinted at.

 

In our own heads, we look for hope and global happiness. We’re looking for some soul and spirit. It makes the music sound happy and triumphant, even if the words are sad. You’re looking for something to save you and the music inside my mind is outrageously glorious. The sentiments of Gospel make me feel better.

Does Beachwood Sparks have a big redneck following in the Deep South?

 

It’s hard to say. Playing with the Black Crowes, we’ve seen normal Joe’s, instead of indie rockers. I don’t have prejudice against anyone who sees us. Some kids come because they like everything on Sub Pop or small labels and others come because they like Merle Haggard. The more, the merrier.

What roots-based covers have B-Sparks played live?

 

We do the Louvin Brothers’ “When I Stop Dreaming” and Aretha Franklin’s “Do Right Woman.” The Burrito Brothers did a version of (the latter). “Close the Door Lightly” by Fairport Convention is a folk song written by Eric Andersen we do. Also, the Equals “Good Times Are Gone Forever.”

PISSED JEANS CREASED THEN BATTERED

Interviews

 

Radical anti-commercial Dadaist pranksters, Pissed Jeans, prove boisterous vertigo-inducing art-damaged delirium and grimy rough-hewn gruffness could still rule the subterranean jungle. Sordid passive-aggressive business professionals by day, they’d rather be stuck in the scummy muck of stinky broken-down clubs than relish the cushy comfort their restrictive money-making traditional jobs proffer.

 

Though Pissed Jeans call God’s Country home, these misanthropic non-conformists make a turbulent hell-bent racket the devil would dig way more than any heavenly divinity. Formed from the ashes of formative combo, the Gate Crashers, and incipiently coined Unrequited Hard-On, Pissed Jeans self-described ‘slow dirge-y punk’ maintains an abrasive edge seemingly antithetical to hometown Allentown, Pennsylvania’s rural environs. High school pals Matt Korvette (vocals), Bradley Fry (guitar), and Dave Rosenstrauss (bass), joined by like-minded noise monger and ex-Navies drummer Sean Mc Guinness, ply brassy post-hardcore mayhem to savagely mangled aggro-rock brutality.

Influenced by ‘80s Dischord punk (Soulside; Minor Threat; Bad Brains; Hoover), 26-year-old Mc Guinness was too young to cheer on the original scene-makers, but admits to attending ten Fugazi shows since. His brawny pile-driven beat simply pulverizes – adding to the implosive tumultuousness Korvette’s head-spinning psychotic neuroses capitulates.

“I moved from DC to Philadelphia two years ago. Matt, who runs the small White Denim label, had a straight-up noise band, Air Conditioning, that I’d wanted to join,” Mc Guinness remembers. “But when I got in touch with him, Matt asked me to join Pissed Jeans. Everyone felt it’d work.”

Beforehand, Pissed Jeans had released a self-titled 2-song 7″ and long-play debut, Shallow, a gritty start-to-finish semi-thematic record with nary a bad song. Shallow’s squealing atonal contortions, crass squalor, and droll degradation came to a boil on contemptibly sniveling depravity, “Ashamed Of My Cum.” Overall, its wretchedly maniacal fury and chaotic lambasting set the imminent tone.

Less airy, spacey, and open-ended than that rudimentary disc, ‘07s mightily apoplectic Hope For Men (its appellation stolen from a neighborhood missionary) also topples rigid verse-chorus compliance with the same brazenly bloodthirsty zeal as fellow Sub Pop subversives, Wolf Eyes.

Mc Guinness remarks, “We didn’t get caught up wondering if people would like it. It’s a fucking raw punk record. Some songs were written in the studio and came together nicely. I tried to get Hope For Men on a local jukebox with lots of noisy recordings and the guy said it was too experimental.”

Shouting strangulated stanzas beyond the messy din, Matt Korvette spews venomous gut-bucket barbs atop dissonant molten metal sludge and puke-green grunge slime in a manner David Yow (Jesus Lizard), Jim Thirwell (Scraping Foetus From The Wheel), and Michael Gira (Swans) once yelped. His disheveled caterwaul bellows above ominously cataclysmic “People Person,” while thumping toms ceaselessly underpin the scree guitar lunacy, bringing vigorous vehemence to a satirical putdown mocking conservative dullards such as Korvette, a daytime claims adjuster.

“That and the last track, (the bowel-grating desecration) “My Bed,” are two of the same type song.” Mc Guinness offers, before inquiring, “Is it even music? Matt’s a nine-to-fiver dealing with people constantly yelling on the phone. But you don’t have to like what you do if it allows you to do things you like. That’s even more of a ‘fuck you’ to the man.”

Korvette’s belched-out groveling sprawls across discordantly volatile muffled shuffle, “Secret Admirer,” where crashing six-string contortions mutilate bone-crushing rhythmic thwacks. The portentous calamity continues on furiously grinding hullabaloo “A Bad Wind” and farcical dessert-craving growler “I’ve Still Got You (Ice Cream),” all of which possess blistering rancor and scabrous feedback redolent of early Butthole Surfers.

“People latched on to “Ice Cream” the most. It’s kind of a cult song in DC,” Mc Guinness claims. Nevertheless, he seems more enthralled by seditious Industrial gloom swoon “Jogger” and loner drone “Fantasy World” (a childhood anamnesis of pizza-eating soda-drinking impassivity). “To me, “Fantasy World” is like a freight train plowing right through. It’s a straightforward mind-boggler. There’s part of that ‘outcast making his own devises’ theme. But there’s also jealousy, hatred, and disdain, like when neighbors have a cool swimming pool and all you want is to be invited over to swim. “Jogger” was the first song written for the record. Brad took painstaking efforts to make the guitar speed up the way it did. You could compare it to a joggers heart rate.”

On the charging “I’m Turning Now,” Korvette’s gruffly howled croak gets skewed inside Fry’s scurried “Sabre Dance”-derived dawning and supervened Blue Cheer-whirled psychedelia. Fry, an affirmed surf guitar devotee bewitched by legend Dick Dale, relies on emotion instead of technical ability.

“My playing has always been sloppy. It’s developed, but I did it more on feeling than know-how,” Fry avers. “Over the years, it has evolved. I hate to do things twice. The songs, done live, are different. The basic structure and the fills I rip through on the fly. Some nights it’s good, sometimes, not so hot.”

Live at dingy Brooklyn storage facility, Death By Audio, Fry’s spontaneously misshapen, brayed shrills hang densely in the gusty murk as stationery bassist Randy Huth (who has replaced diesel mechanic Rosenstrauss) renders gruesome ruptured swells. Korvette and Mc Guinness go topless to beat the sweltering 100-degree heat in the white brick-walled cubical space. A sweat-drenched Korvette grimaces atop a chair, pulls off a few bad muscle poses, and fakes seizures in an absurdist display prior to stage diving into the booze-soaked crowd. Mc Guinness anchors the cantankerous cacophony with trampling railroad track beats and combative rat-a-tat constancy, fastening and quickening the reckless wrangling. Each crusty connective mantra collides into the next disfigured disembowelment, gathering steam and resolute irritability.

“My willingness to put up with the bands’ orneriness (was important),” Mc Guinness snickers. “I’m a good performer who doesn’t put on a suit or become a different person. My dedication to music is clear and evident. I don’t force anything. I want my drums to be stripped down and basic as possible without becoming wanky – nothing flashy. The sense of morphing, changing, and evolving appeals to me.”

Fry concludes, “A lot of the stuff we do in the studio, there’s an idea laid down naturally. We may use the first take if it’s unique enough. It’s significant we don’t repeat ourselves.”

ROSENBERGS ‘MISSION: YOU’

Interviews,
FOREWORD: I haven’t heard from the Rosenbergs since Mission: You, a fabulous ’01 power pop entrée that created quite an underground buzz at the time. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Rosenbergs frontman David Fagin’s self-effacing wit surfaces quickly when I discover he’s busy with another call before we begin our interview.

“Maybe I should call later,” I tell him.

“No. I’m not busy. I’m just a typical loser who likes to hang out and watch porno,” he quips.

Born and raised in suburban Fair Lawn, New Jersey, Fagin and his band of “hard working road dogs” may be the most influential figures on the current underground pop scene. Strangely, that may have more to do with their business acumen than record sales.

Unlike typical artists out for the glory of a major record deal, the Rosenbergs have drafted a new model for the record industry. They’ve signed with maverick guitarist Robert Fripp’s independent Discipline Global Mobile label, where they’ll be guaranteed full ownership of their recordings and a much higher royalty rate in exchange for DGM getting a percentage of concert revenue, merchandising, and internet distribution. As a value-added bonus, the Rosenbergs will give away one free CD of Mission: You with each purchase.

“It won’t hurt us financially one bit,” Fagin confidently mutters. “We’re hoping buyers will give the free one to friends to share their music file.”

Furthermore, Napster is featuring the band on their front web page and is set to sponsor the Rosenbergs upcoming tour.

So what’s all the excitement about?

The Rosenbergs do more with bright, shiny guitar licks and magical harmonies than most power pop charmers. Hopeful teen-driven lyrics rife with melodic appeal penetrate the surface with youthful vigor. But there are just enough dark tones to keep Mission: You sounding ‘East Coast,’ specifically South Jersey/ Philly (like antecedents the Hooters or Smithereens).

The fun-tastic “Sucking On A Plum” and the synth-drenched dynamo “Paper And Plastic” open up the set with a determined immediacy. Bursting out of the speakers with full-on emotional impact, the shimmery “Houseboat” may well be the finest pop song to come out of Jersey since the Smithereens “A Girl Like You.” Its resonating guitars, sparkling harmonies, and spiraling synth clusters crescendo in sheer ecstasy.

On the dark side, melancholic self-doubt mires the otherwise punchy “A Little Lie,” a streamlined rocker aimed at some deceitful ex-lover. Closing Mission: You on a subtle, pensive note, the epic Brit-pop-influenced ballad, “Overboard,” shows off Fagin’s sensitive side.

Could Fagin, guitarist Joe Mahoney, bassist Evan Silverman, and drummer Joe Darone be the next ‘big thing.’ Time will tell.

Despite recent success, Fagin lost his girlfriend and claims he’s “currently homeless, crashing out at my sister’s pad or a friends’ place.”

How does Mission: You differ from the Rosenbergs debut?

 

DAVID FAGIN: Ameripop started as a collection of demos and had a charm that could never be replaced. It served its purpose and we’re hoping to get it re-released through Rykodisc.

How’d you decide on the unlikely moniker “The Rosenbergs”?

 

Basically we’re named after my friends grandfather. I was over her house and he was talking about skiing and playing racquetball over the weekend. I was hoping I’d be that cool at eighty years old. So we took his name.

The vibrant “Sucking On A Plum” is a wonderful lead track. Its refreshing spirit sets the tone of the album.

 

You got it. That’s what we were trying to do. We picked a song that starts off with big guitars, big drums, and big vocals and shows what direction the record would be heading in. That’s what we aimed for.

There’s an adolescent sincerity that infiltrates your best lyrics.

 

I guess it just comes out. All I know is there’s a child in all of us. Being in the music business and playing in a band makes you an eternal adolescent. I used to write really dark ‘why did you leave me’ ‘girl dumps guy’ lyrics, but in a down kind of way. Some girl who thought one of our records was cool asked ‘Have you ever thought of writing a song about going to get a slice of pizza?’ I said ‘No.’ All my songs then were like six-minute epics. That was a catalyst that took our songs in a more tongue-in-cheek direction. We started writing about going down to the corner store, sucking on a plum…whatever. That made it more fun. It was a weird, strange transaction from those first demos. We were a different band five years ago. The songs were verse-chorus-verse melodic, but were darker and less enlightened. Now we bounce around like monkeys.

Who are some of your early influences?

I was a late bloomer. When I was thirteen years old it was Styx, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Kansas, and Rush. Then I got into Judas Priest’s Screaming For Vengeance. But I never was a metal head or hung out with the burnout’s. I was into Ratt and Dokken by seventeen. I discovered REM in ‘90 when Out Of Time came out. Then I went back to Murmur. That’s when my taste switched to Lindsay Buckingham, Mark Knopfler, and Screaming Trees. I got into Springsteen’s Born To Run in ‘87. A lot of people thought I listened to underground pop by 20/ 20 or the Shoes. But I never got into that until a few years ago. Recently, I started listening to a lot of female stuff, like Jonatha Brooke, Aimee Mann, and Juliana Hatfield. My favorite pop album of all time is the Posies’ Frosting On The Beater. I live for that record.

Do you enjoy local pop bands like the Wrens, Grip Weeds, Thin Lizard Dawn, and the Candy Butchers?

 

I love Howie from Thin Lizard Dawn, but they broke up. We’ve played with the Grip Weeds, Mike Viola & the Candy Butchers, and Fountains Of Wayne. I was primed for pop when Oasis and Fountains Of Wayne hit big. It took me a long time to write good songs. We searched around for a deal and were wondering why all our friends were getting signed instead. But everything happens for a reason. We saw each of them get dropped and pushed back. Nada Surf and Superdrag had lawsuit after lawsuit for a couple hundred thousand dollars in lawyer fees. The Honeydogs went four years without a record.

The major labels have been fucking off artists for decades. They offer secretaries and office staff health benefits, but not their lifeblood, the artists. Corporate heads are always twenty years removed from what the fuck is ‘street cool.’

 

Absolutely. We’re not naive enough to think they’ll go away overnight. There will always be the artist that wants to sign on the dotted line for money up-front. They don’t care about a full-time career in music. In this day and age, you should think twice before you sign a crappy contract. With the internet, there’s a little union. They can’t keep bands segregated from one another.

Let’s hope the charade is over for the majors. When those shitty kiddie bands go away they’ll be clueless as to what to sign. That’ll be the deathblow.

 

Those bands probably had to sign away their entire lives and future earnings to Clive Davis. They’re basically puppets. What we’re doing with DGM and Rykodisc might create an alternative. We still own our music. Our ex-manager wanted to put up twenty grand to start making the record, but we didn’t want him to have a say in what songs we recorded. He’s a great guy, but he was definitely Modern Rock radio hit-oriented. He would have taken this record in a different direction. So he pulled his money out.

We were sitting there with no money or studio to make a record until we found someone on our e-mail list who gave us money to put a deposit down for the studio time. We recorded in Big Blue Meanie in Jersey City. They were so nice. We recorded well over $100,000 worth of time and they only took about half. They said, “we really like your band and the record so forget about the money.” Plus, we had time to make the record we wanted to make and to see what would fly. Without our producer, Dan (Iannuzzelli), it would probably have come out like a clusterfuck. He let us change lyrics, re-arrange choruses. Plus, we were going through ridiculous shit on the road. I had problems with my girlfriend. Our drummer’s father was dying of cancer. Our guitarist had financial problems. Evan had problems at home. Dan kept his wits about him and put it together like a ringmaster.

Do you think there will ever be a Jersey scene like Hoboken had in the early ‘80s?

 

We like to play outside the New York/ New Jersey area. We’ve found everyone’s jaded. The Crayons and the Setzers – before they broke up – are really good bands. But a lot of people are in it for all the wrong reasons. The best pop scene we’ve seen is in Camdentown, England. We were hanging out with Blur, Supergrass, and Travis. Places like that are few and far between. These days it’s a vicious circle. There’s so many clubs, but 98% of them have shitty sound systems. Even in New York, the owners of some clubs would rather fix up their boat than put $2,000 into a PA system to respect the musicians. We were on the road last year for a long time and only got to meet a few guys who could walk the walk.

DALEK BRING ‘GODS AND GROITS’ TRIP-HOP GRATUITY

Interviews

FOREWORD: Newark-based hip-hop duo, Dalek (freestyling MC Will Dalek and sound designing producer Oktopus), make caliginous atmospheric ghetto music out of Industrial, metal, and noise rock elements, constructing brave ‘glitch-hop’ experiments independent of fly-by-night trendsetters. I got to speak to Will Dalek to promote ‘02s From Filthy Tongue Of Gods And Groits. Since then, Dalek released ‘04s Absence and ‘07s Abandoned Language, two equally fine LPs. ‘09s Gutter Tactics piled on further sonic shoegaze fuzz for another round of symphonic requiems to the disenchanted. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

At multi-cultured Wayne, New Jersey-based melting pot, William Paterson University, emcee Will Dalek met engineer/sampler/ electronic wizard Oktopus and dropped ‘98s skillful debut, Negro, Necro, Nekros, to astounded underground denizens who’d witnessed their enigmatic live sets alongside worthy versatile combos De La Soul, Dillinger Escape Plan, and Rye Coalition.

Hooking up with creative turntablist Still, the trio, simply coined Dalek, respond with ‘02s insuppressible streetwise masterwork, From Filthy Tongue of Gods and Griots.

Born of Honduran genealogy, Will Dalek’s radical thoughts and imaginative rhymes pungently dismiss false idols in a ubiquitous funk-rap manner perhaps second only to Public Enemy. Inspired by Germany’s electronic musique concrete pioneers Faust as much as intensely dramatic inner city hip-hop, this Newark Jerseyite challenges listeners with conceptually designed urban truths sometimes hidden deep beneath shards of omnipresent atonal wall of white noise.

The skull-crushing bleating scree of the fierce “Spiritual Healing” comes crashing down hard, tunneling through a darkly troubled metropolitan landscape while praising black Jesus in the face of white oppression. Ominous gray clouds hover above the bombastic hardcore rant, “Classical Homicide,” a pissed-off, dangerously confrontational mantra delighting in snub-nose countercultural righteousness. For an unsettling abstraction nearly as surreal as the Beatles abstruse “Revolution 9,” try the nervy, bleating 12-minute “Black Smoke Rings.”

Check out more about Dalek at deadverse.com.

Were ‘70s rap progenitors the Last Poets an inspiration?

 

Definitely. They’re the shit. It’s funny. A year ago I got interviewed for a documentary that hasn’t come out yet. As far as political hip-hop by Public Enemy and Boogie Down Production, the Last Poets were the jump off point. Their use of words and rhythms were way ahead of what everyone else was doing in the early ‘70s. They were revolutionary.

They spoke of urban warfare in struggling minority communities. Did you face many of those problems growing up in Newark?

 

It’s all relative. I’m not here to cry about what I’ve been through. You deal with the cards you’re dealt. Unfortunately some people travel the negative path. Every life experience influences musicians and poets. If what you write is honest, even a person in the Midwest or Czech Republic could relate. The human experience is similar regardless of where you’re from.

Does your childhood influence the lyrics you write?

 

I came from a home with both parents, but they both worked. My grandmother raised me and my cousins in Passaic. My cousins were d.j.’s from far back. So I grew up with hip-hop house parties and disco breakbeats. I saw the shitty side of life and had friends that used drugs. I tried to stay away from that. I went to school in Belleville, which was pretty much all-Italian then. It was a good experience. I got a good education and got to see the flipside of life from both angles. I got introduced to metal and it helped my music. I’d have friends in an all white school telling me about niggers and spics but say “Oh, but not you.” Then, I’d have my Hispanic friends talking shit about white people. It put me in a position where I’m very suspicious of humans in general. Regardless of race, there’s definite flaws in human character that I explore in my songs.

On “Trampled Brethren,” you mention how much Black American history has been compromised or lost.

 

The fact that you’re Christian you’re expected to believe Jesus was blonde-haired blue-eyed. But what bugs me out is the establishment expects you to believe that with no argument. When you bring up the facts you could prove he’s black and everyone freaks out. What’s the big deal if there isn’t any racism? So whites pray to a black Jesus. But that’ll never sit right. But once the race barrier finally goes away, there’s always the economic barrier.

In elementary school, you’re taught about Egypt but never told it’s in Africa. They treat it like a far off land with no connections to African Americans. People talk about starving Ethiopians, but never talk about the beautiful culture that flourished. I’m Hispanic and a majority are Christian, but Christianity was forced upon us. Central Americans were Mayas, Incas, and Aztecs. We had beliefs of our own but the conquistadors placed their idea of civilization on them. It breaks my heart to see inner city African-Americans and Latinos struggling each day yet they hold on to Christianity. But all it promises is next time around it’ll be better. I say ‘fuck that.’ God’s given us this life and many people waste time praying to false idols.

The first time I heard the noisy mantra “Black Smoke Rises,” its gut-wrenching intensity lost me. Now it’s my favorite track.

 

That’s what we were hoping for. Honestly, it’s my favorite. We weed out the people who are really into the album and are not just in it for fun. It’s not easy to digest. Oktopus composed the music almost entirely. He was keeping that track from me because he didn’t think it was right for the album. I said, “what are you kidding me?”

Do you get into free Jazz?

 

No doubt. Ornette Coleman. Don Cherry. We worked with William Hooker and did 3 to 4 songs with him. We were part of his ensemble and recorded a live Knitting Factory show yet to be released. He was on drums conducting. Oktopus was on MPC and laptop. Still was on turntables and delay pedals and Mark Hennen on piano. Being around those musicians was insane for me.

Do you collect vintage vinyl?

 

No. But my friend bought a Charles Mingus record put out on his own label. Mingus’ house had burnt down so he only made a hundred copies and there was a hand written letter inside asking for money. He has it framed and paid like $600 for it.

Give me some information about the MPC3000?

 

It could be considered hip-hop musicians’ guitar. It’s a sampling drum machine. You could sample anything on to it and compose cold tracks. We also use computer-based software and I have a studio full of old samplers I’ve picked up. So we have quite an arsenal. We’ve taken sounds from everywhere. Just like you could record an entire guitar album without getting repetitive, you could manipulate the MPC much the same way.

HERCULES’ LOVE AFFAIR DANCES TO THE TOP

Interviews
 

 

First, ancient Greek drama gave us Hercules, the courageous mortal-turned-God. And now, hundreds of centuries later, a non-ancestral Colorado-raised impresario using the same handle currently dominates America’s sullied dance floors. As the reluctant brainchild steadying Hercules And Love Affair’s self-titled debut (DFA Records), techno warrior Andrew Butler has risen out of the windswept Southwest plains to acquire exalted club status in the Big Apple.

 

Encouraged by a teacher to do notation, Butler began constructing Classical piano-based compositions at a formative stage. At age twelve, the green pre-teen maestro purportedly discovered electronic music through Yaz’s ’82 new wave/disco smash, “Situation.” Soulfully sung by compelling British singer, Alison Moyet, its sleek flashiness and debonair seduction totally inspired the young obsessive musical architect. He became doggedly determined to streamline “Situation’s” luxurious New Romantic synth-pop extravagance.

Butler surmises, “I was writing in an academic setting for personal fulfillment. But this is the first time I released music I wrote. The Classical pieces I wrote at age twelve are probably in my mother’s Denver storage bin. They were done in teen handwriting as dear, sweet romantic music.”

Before putting together Hercules And Love Affair, Butler gained a solid reputation as one of Denver’s most respected club DJ’s, experimenting with synthesizers and getting fully into dance music. Although he still enjoyed the nightlife, he temporarily shifted focus away from the discotheques and back towards classical arts during his tenure at Manhattan’s prestigious Sarah Lawrence College.

He adds, “I’ve also explored some minimalist art music in the past two years and I’m interested in that as well as softer music styles. Probably some of that will surface on record sooner or later.”

While living in New York City, Butler befriended Hawaiian-born jewelry designing acid house DJ Kim Ann Foxman (hostess of lesbian nightclub soiree Mad Clams at the Hole). Eventually, Antony Hegarty (of renowned transgendered glam mopers Antony & the Johnsons) and native New York singer Nomi Ruiz got acquainted and these colorful pals helped conceive Hercules And Love Affair. Butler swears he knew Foxman was “on the same page aesthetically” from the get go. And he quickly realized Nomi’s positively illuminating voice was a stunningly radiant asset uncannily reminiscent of Moyet’s crystalline alto.

Butler reflects, “Going into the studio with Antony, we both loved Alison Moyet and that type of angelic singing. There’s so much pain and so many Blues in there. Alison Moyet, Kate Bush, Elisabeth Fraser of the Cocteau Twins, and even Sinead O’Connor have strong female voices – a gutsy soulful quality. I was excited to work with Nomi. She delivers the words like a more traditional Rhythm & Blues diva.”

A large coterie of house music denizens sniffed out the 12″ version of exotic electromagnetic mantra, “Classique #2,” prior to it being featured in long-play form. On it, Foxman infrequently inquires ‘do you really want me?’ in a recurring sultry soprano left floating inside the heavily cadenced beat-driven theatrics.

“When I went to make the record, I was interested in the words Classical and classic; classic dance music; a canon of dance. I looked to the past thirty years and pinpointed the music that was classic. That got coupled and paired with all this classical imagery. Call it Classical Grease,” he snickers. “There were all these long-named bands in the ‘70s – Crown Heights Affair and Love Unlimited Orchestra. Similarly, I thought Hercules And Love Affair had a nice ring to it. It’s referencing the mythological character Hercules, the one who’d traveled with Jason & the Argonauts. I just wanted to come up with a name that was evocative of that and rooted in the same story and meant to be something bigger.”

Benefiting greatly from his past occupation as a noteworthy participant in the thriving ‘90s Denver dance scene, Butler seemed destined to carved out his own retro-fashioned niche. Wholly appreciative of the trendy cross-pollinated bicoastal sounds other contemporaries shared, he then tried to combine these styles in a fascinatingly vogue manner while serving as a teen DJ living just east of the Rocky Mountains.

“It was like West Coast rave and the warehouse scene relating to Chicago and Minneapolis merging. They all had interesting nightlife,” he recalls. “Denver attracted West Coast DJ’s like (revered house legend) Doc Martin. Chicago’s house music scene came through. We were perfectly situated.”

Butler’s ever-changing aggregate of touring members provided flexibility in the past, but he believes future creative endeavors may be done with a stabilized lineup. He thinks some people will stay, others leave, though he’s not specific. But he insists there’ll be a freedom in terms of players and music itself. Such autonomy draws parallels with distinguished drum ‘n bass assemblage Roni Size & Reprazent, whose peerless ’97 album, New Forms, was a monumental achievement perhaps only one ‘jungle’ step removed from Hercules’ less funky Love Affair. In fact, Butler confesses having a soft spot for analogous Bristol-based trip-hop combos such as Massive Attack and Portishead.

Whether playing orchestral director on horn-speckled Philly soul-derived instrumental, “Hercules Theme,” or lending his monotone half-spoken come-hither baritone to alluring reverie, “This Is My Love,” Butler’s constantly in charge of Hercules And Love Affair’s sizzling eponymous entree. But he’s not afraid to shine the spotlight on an equally impressive array of comrades. On top of those mentioned, it’d be difficult to dismiss co-producer Tim Goldsworthy, another New York City immigrant, brought onboard as drum programmer. A renowned British DJ, Goldsworthy has lent his percussive skills to (DFA Records co-founder) James Murphy’s awesome LCD Soundsystem projects as well as James Lavelle’s alien cinematic crew UNKLE.

But inarguably the biggest draw in Hercules’ studio stable is unconventional underground celebrity, Antony, whose darkly reflective quaver brings melancholic eloquence to lilting opener, “Time Will.” His velvety androgynous tenor also buttresses “Blind,” a disco-beaten rumba given a snazzy treatment suggestive of Patrick Hernandez’s bustling ’78 dancehall hip-shaker “Born To Be Alive.” Its engrossing horn-ridged bass-boomed orchestration compares favorably to an innovative disco icon Butler holds in high regard – Italian techno-pop pioneer Giorgio Moroder, a forward-thinking producer whose clever manipulation of electronic studio gear, tape-looping machinery, and Epicurean faux-string adaptations preconceived the entire ‘80s club landscape that followed. He continues to be emulated by enthused modern day maestros. The bleating, bleeping, and braying intonations securing “Classique #2″ edge close to the ample sidelong suites Moroder inaugurated for libidinous black diva, Donna Summer, disco’s primary glamour goddess.

Yet Butler shrugs off the thought of any thematic conception being put in place for Hercules entirety.

“I wrote a lot of the pieces isolated from each other,” he digresses. “But just the fact I’m penning the lyrics gives it a thematic subtext. However, some people said the last part of the LP dragged.”

While the easier-to-grasp hook-filled tunes strengthening Hercules front load score higher than the gratuitously noir-ish backend retreats, the expansive retro-futuristic experimental jams at album’s end do at least create an irrepressible rudimentary groove. Still, it’s hard not to be more impressed with the dazzling three-four punch of “You Belong” and “Athene.” The former features Nomi’s fluctuant scale-bending vocal scheme weaving in and out of a syncopated rhythm and the latter finds Foxman, setback in the mix, simmering invariably through a pleasingly percolating percussive pulse.

It’d be cool if Hercules & Love Affair hooked up with Heloise & the Savoir Faire, another ace New York City retro-dance combo. Both wordily designated outfits not only have an accessible dance rock tangent, but also a link to flaxen post-punk idol, Deborah Harry (of Blondie fame), who rapped on a few Heloise tracks and invited Nomi to sing backup on her latest solo album. So let’s hope for a future Hercules-Heloise-Harry midnight gala. That’d be special enough for any Greek God to venture down from Mount Olympus and attend. Until then…

THE WEEK THAT WAS COMES AND GOES

Interviews

Taking their sloganeering moniker from a satirical ‘60s British newsreel hosted by David Frost (who was recently popularized in acclaimed Frost-Nixon movie), The Week That Was is the outstanding offshoot project of Field Music co-founder Peter Brewis. A former drummer in quirky indie-pop enthusiasts, the Futureheads, the 31-year-old Sunderland native grew up just outside England’s historic harbored metropolis, Newcastle, listening to his parents’ Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin, Police, and Peter Gabriel albums as an impressionable youngster.

As the sole musical architecture of The Week That Was, Brewis has created an episodic orchestral suite in which he appropriates Stravinsky’s thematic classical provocations, Van Dyke Parks’ skewed pop idiosyncrasies, and Left Banke’s oblique psychedelic tranquility. Making what may be deemed ‘magical outsider art,’ he has moved beyond ma and pa’s efficient album collection and away from Field Music’s somewhat rockier guitar-based purges with The Week That Was. Darkly illuminating piano embellishments, eloquently detailed violin and cello anesthetics, plus recurring Oriental-styled gamelan and marimba ornamentation secure Brewis’ resourceful dramatic musings.

 

“There are many variations upon the melancholy theme,” the cautiously conferring Brewis submits. “All of the songs are about missing certain things, whether it be people or things you’re used to, like voices on the radio and t.v. The songs imagine if a certain thing wasn’t there. I try to put myself into different frames of mind like I’m a character – which I don’t do in Field Music.”

Auspiciously, Field Music remains an ongoing priority partnering Brewis with his brother, David (currently promoting stripped down ‘freak pop’ combo, School Of Language), and school pal Andrew Moore (keyboards), but has been left to simmer while each brother concentrates on separate endeavors. The amicable trio’s eponymous ’05 debut and its improved ’07 Towns On Town follow-up camouflaged deceptive cheerfulness with substantive grief, using intricate pop constructions to get aggrieved messages across.

“On our first Field Music album, I guess we tried to figure out a way of creating language for ourselves through the music we knew and experimented with,” Brewis presumes. “It has a dry, clinical sound, but was quite nice in a nostalgic way. The second has a more luscious sound. It was done democratically and was concise in a non-conventional way. Then, when Dave and I wanted to do something outside of Field Music, I started The Week That Was.”

Using a laptop as a compositional tool to arrange songs, Brewis began navigating through material selected for his succinct one-off undertaking. On the resulting self-titled The Week That Was entree, he drapes debonair baritone sweetness atop duskily contemplative abstractions, fashioning an ambitiously symphonic allegory. On the album’s proverbial ‘stress track,’ an old school ‘50s-dated black-and-white video affixes itself to the sweeping Industrial-bound marimba-imbued bass-drummed gauntlet, “Learn To Learn.”

Brewis contends, “Sonically, that was meant to be placed in the past. I wanted a big feel for the “Learn To Learn” video. There were some free black-and-white videos that fit the idea of a very domineering classroom feel. Like one grade school teacher told me, ‘You’ll be taught how to learn and it’ll be what the teachers decide.’”

Although leftfield comparisons to Pink Floyd’s similarly sullen schoolmaster scheme in The Wall are tangible, there’s a warmer solace inundating Brewis’ mannerly homecoming travelogues and chilly neo-Classical road odes. So, unlike that conjectured prog-rock masterwork, instead of getting caught up in any real interrogative didacticism or fascist manifestos, Brewis projects lonesome anguish, delighting in caliginous meditative moodiness. Suspenseful rain-dropped piano clusters and harpsichord flutters deluge the rat-a-tat rhythmic pulse fastening the dawdling “The Airport Line,” a reflective elegy yellowing “Yesterday’s Paper” and supervening the ‘daily grind’ of Beach Boys-harmonized synthesizer-textured madrigal, “The Story Waits For No One.” Hazy narcotic enchantment, “The Good Life,” peppers prodding rhythms through its mannered baroque slipstream.

“I enjoy things that are harmonically different – not always major and minor chords. Duke Ellington provides nice fertile ground to get ideas from. I can’t play his hot tempo stuff. It’s too difficult. But Ellington stole from Orientalism and that may have some bearing on the album,” Brewis explains before adding, “I don’t listen to much contemporary music. But the album’s I do like have a certain flow, sometimes narrative, unlike John Coltrane improvisations.”

He also admits that a ripened absurdist Brooklyn-based novelist proved to be a valuable source of inspiration for the expressive versifying drafted onto the indelible The Week That Was.

“I wrote lyrics when I was reading Paul Auster books. I probably appropriated some catch-phrases from his mystery crime fiction.”

Despite being unable to furnish a string section for US touring, Brewis should feel safe as home with his brother and two chummy bass-drum cohorts lending a hand. He claims they’ve responded superbly, giving a wider dynamic muscularity to each and every tune.

“My brother did the most to help. He’s the only person left in the band (from the original studio sessions). It was a totalitarian record,” Brewis laughingly quips. “On tour we’ll bring a basic quartet. Two other friends who have helped us out for fives months and toured Europe are coming to the States. That will close the chapter on The Week That Was. It was an intense record, lots of pressure.” He then jokingly concedes, “I wanna be in a democracy again.”

As for his upcoming Mercury Lounge show in New York, March 9th, Brewis says, “We did a gig as Field Music there in the recent past. I’m gonna play The Week That Was in its entirety and then probably a few other songs. We don’t want to overstay our welcome so we’ll do 30-minutes.”

TK WEBB’S VISIONS BOLSTER ‘ANCESTOR’

Interviews

Presumably on a whim, singer-guitarist TK Webb came to New York City looking for exposure. But whether the Kansas City, Missouri, native really landed in the Big Apple due to “lack of a better idea” or just because he sought to be a part of its vital music scene could be debated. What is known is the promising Midwesterner originally performed solo acoustic sets at small Brooklyn lofts but soon found himself “surrounded by bland half-baked folk acts.”

Shortly thereafter, the burgeoning Webb threw together some initial four-track demos for someone working at Vice Magazine who failed to launch the record label she intended to inaugurate. Those inauspicious tracks were then assembled as The Ungodly Hours, a self-released debut that’d lead to the two-tracked-to-one-inch-tape sessions for KCK, a forlorn homage to Kansas City, Kansas, done in a proper studio over a long weekend. Signed to ambitious boutique label, The Social Registry, Webb would go on to sell a few thousand copies of KCK to loyal followers.

 

Exploring the options of working with a fulltime band, Webb drafted Blood On The Wall vocalist-bassist Courtney Shanks and keyboardist Jared Eggers for his next undertaking, ‘07s Phantom Parade, receiving critical praise for its drowsy stoner Blues mantras.

Given a chance to constructively collaborate, Webb quickly blew off his one-man band days when finding the right audience wasn’t always easy to locate. Though desolate and less dynamic than his forthcoming project with a stable group of musicians, Phantom Parade found the young troubadour plying formative folk-rooted inspiration to ten originals. Webb had inherited many traditional Delta Blues recordings during his late teens and these historic documents greatly inform his six-string technique.

He admits, “Stuff like that struck close to the bone. As a guitar player, I thought I could naturally play the Blues, which isn’t really that normal for a weird white kid from the suburbs, but…”

Many of Phantom Parade’s best moments rely on the coffeehouse folk inflections of veteran outré stylists such as cigarette-stained baritone John Prine and warbled crooner Tom Waits. Then again, the ponderous dual guitar clang of “Which Witch” replicates early Velvet Underground via “Heroin.” In the same ‘vain,’ the slower “You Got Faded” tones down the VU beat and relies on a single honey-dripped guitar figure for a hazier narcotic trip. Webb eventually breaks out a harmonica to give a proper archaic feel to the train-whistled Depression Era Blues redux, “Wet Eye’d Morn.”

True, Webb’s primordial indoctrination to the Blues affects the majority of his compositional undertakings. But he didn’t quite come out of the cradle singing gritty Leadbelly standards or faithful Jordanaires spirituals. Though his mother listened to Elvis Presley and Gospel, he spurned those lofty musical beacons as an impressionable pre-teen.

“At the time, I thought that shit was hideous. Obviously, that’s not how I feel about it now.” He continues, “Then, my big brother gave me a bunch of Led Zeppelin tapes and we pilfered this Hammer Of The Gods Zeppelin story from my buddy’s weird junkie sister. I could barley read at age nine. But that shit was rad. I started playing guitar with neighborhood kids.”

Coming back even stronger on ‘08s Ancestor, and supplanted with his first fulltime band, TK Webb & The Visions upped the energy level, tightened the crisply rendered arrangements, and forged a well designed cryptic model.

Gathering ex-Love As Laughter guitarist Brian Hale, bassist Jordan Gable, and drummer Ben Mc Connell (replaced by Nic Gonzalez, a trailer-parked West Virginian who’d handling chores for Philly-DC outfits), Webb has now permanently left behind Brooklyn’s self-righteous neo-folk ghetto.

“Well. The band happened because someone asked to be in the band and I finally found the right dudes to work with,” Webb says. “It got really odious to be like ‘Oh cool man, we’re gonna play in this loft. You guys are fucking hippies.’ No. They’re not. They’re fucking zeros. Just because you can afford an acoustic guitar doesn’t mean you could make me listen to you play it. There weren’t a lot of options as far as different people to play with at the time. Hopefully, when I go out there we’re playing something a little more genuine that people could dig into.”

Ancestor’s cover art depicts a giant Gothic doorway with sun peering beyond its arched dome, a simulated gateway to shadowy enlightenment, perhaps. Inside its musical portal lies a slew of disoriented delusional threnodies and discordantly desiccated moodscapes. In accordance, adverse spoken verses probe an unsettled existence on the commencing slide guitar-shredded psychedelically-illuminated glam-rock slumber, “Teen Is Still Shaking.”

“That’s probably one of my favorite songs on the album, especially lyrically. It doesn’t really tell a story. But it’s a mixed bag of shit,” Webb offers without going too deep. “It’s about the shit I think of when I wake up in the morning.”

Meanwhile, ominous eight-minute epic, “God Bless The Little Angels,” goes from doom metal flurry to lurking death march until Webb’s droll vocals show up and outline a bleak divinity.

He suggests, “That’s a complaining song, like, ‘Oh God. Get me out of here. I have to do this again today!’ Especially in New York City, you might feel like someone hit you with a car. You’re chomping at the bit. It seems claustrophobic.”

An insomniac’s late night contusion, “Closed Caption Slang” could be mistaken for Drive-By Truckers’ gloomier exploits, as could the downtrodden “Hope You All Are Gone,” which forfeits its inceptive six-string uplift for an oncoming gray-clouded disenchantment consuming Webb’s otherwise sanguine utterance of ‘Don’t worry baby/ trouble won’t last forever.’

“There’s some gnarly stuff exposed,” Webb ascertains. “That’s what music’s for. So you could get feelings out of the way instead of yelling at some guy about it.”

At times, Webb’s hot combo wittingly (or unwittingly) revisits ‘60s/’70s hard rock abstractions while staking claim in the blues-rock future. The fuzz-toned guitar break from the punchy “Year 33″ emulates Ted Nugent & the Amboy Dukes while the buzzing axes battling inside the stoner rock template of “Shame” formulate a sort of Black Sabbath-seared Blue Oyster Cult-laminated laceration. Interestingly, an attenuated stoicism envelops “1,000 Horns,” an ostensible Phantom Parade holdover, at least in terms of gaunt execution.

Webb denies writing within a strict thematic framework for Ancestor, explaining, “It’s a group of songs. I always loved albums that came from a certain point where you could say, ‘Obviously this dude got freaked out within the matter of six months, wrote a bunch of songs, then got a snapshot of what took place and after a couple weeks of recording, it’s out there.’ Then, he’s onto his next divorce or whatever happens and makes the next record.”

Displaying forceful conviction and unfailing teamwork at notable Manhattan club, Bowery Ballroom, mid-September, the perspiring longhaired cohorts tore it up – whether delving into yowling Southern Blues, snarling howled rockers, or sparer downbeat retrenchments. Webb’s starkly provocative narratives and intermittent harmonica gusts innervated his darkest vestiges.

Before leaving Webb backstage prior to his bands’ gratifying 45-minute set, he shares one final thought. “There’s great camaraderie within the Visions. It’s family styled. Our band isn’t ruled by me with an iron fist. These guys all have input. After years of feeling like I was beating the same dead horse, I just wanted to change. There’ll be plenty of time to play the Blues straight when I get old – God willing.”

I jokingly query, “You mean you don’t wanna die before you get old like The Who’s “My Generation” insisted?”

Webb counters, “No way. Fuck that!”

 

 

DYNAMIC PHILLY DUO GAMBLE & HUFF GET ABOARD ‘LOVE TRAIN’

Interviews,

 

Let’s go back to a different time when vinyl singles’ sales were the barometric metier judging most popular artists’ mainstream success. It was an era, nearly forty years removed from the modern internet age, when composers and arrangers still constructed tunes for various singing groups, the way Motown did it in the ‘60s and Jazz artists had done prior to the dawn of ‘50s rock and roll. Though strict Blues numbers were generally written and performed by the same artist, its more accessible offshoot, Rhythm & Blues, relied on not only the lyrical pen of a songwriter, but the master craftsmanship of an arranger and the interpretive voices who brought the song to life.

And so it was, legendary R & B maestros Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff made their livings as well-conditioned behind-the-scene setup men, providing a Classically trained orchestra for some of the greatest singing groups of all-time during the ‘70s. Just as Motown’s hit singles by the Temptations, Supremes, and Four Tops ruled the ‘60s charts (alongside the Beatles and the Stones), Gamble & Huff’s Philadelphia International Records dominated the ‘70s (beside Elton John, Stevie Wonder, and discotheque music). Directly responsible for igniting the enormously uplifting dancehall fad, known to all as the much-maligned Disco Era, this accomplished dynamic duo then set out to clean up their hometown Philadelphia slums with some of the proceeds received while sitting in the shadows at the top of the musical world.

 

It all began in the early ‘60s, when Camden-born Huff got a job hustling for Johnny Madera & David White’s music firm, playing piano on the Ad Libs posh soul delight “Boy From New York City” and co-composing Patty (LaBelle) & the Emblems’ pining hand-clapped lament, “Mixed Up Shook Up Girl.” While working at the same Manhattan building, Gamble would meet Huff in the elevator, eventually developing a partnered relationship that’d ultimately crown them as the sonic architects of classic Philly soul.

Prior to becoming the foremost stylistic magnates in the City of Brotherly Love, they assembled unified in-house orchestra, MFSB (a.k.a. Mother Father Sister Brother), a robust entourage whose instrumental scores augmented a wide variety of first-rate singers at historic Sigma Sound Studio. Scribe Lynell George called Gamble & Huff’s musical style ‘sweaty, gritty, elegiac, sensual’ in the well-annotated 64-page booklet complementing ‘08s praiseworthy 71-song 4 CD collection, Love Train: The Sound Of Philadelphia. Simply the culmination of all that’s good about doo-wop, smooth Jazz, be-bop, and satiny funk, Love Train holds up well against Stax-Volt Singles and Motown: The Classic Years as a time-honored compendium.

Gamble’s favorite movie, The Glenn Miller Story, celebrating the venerable Swing Jazz bandleader, provided inspiration for prospective enlightenment. Correspondingly, Gamble formed MFSB, an ensemble that quickly became his and Huff’s creative engine for aspiring vocal groups such as the Delfonics, Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, the O’Jays, and dozens more. The pair’s inaugural Top 10 smash was Soul Survivors congested exasperation, “Expressway To Your Heart,” a Rascals/ Righteous Brothers blue-eyed soul knockoff spurred to fruition by Schuylkill Highway’s heavy traffic. An obscure collaborative ’70 album, Gonna Take A Miracle, enjoined reticent white lyricist Laura Nyro with esteemed black songbird Patti LaBelle. Soul legend Jerry Butler’s strapping ’69 anecdote, “Only The Strong Survive,” and Wilson Pickett’s beaming omen, “Don’t Let The Green Grass Fool You,” preceded a string of green-labeled Philadelphia International best-sellers. Commencing with the O’Jays wickedly foreboding ’72 breakthrough, “Back Stabbers,” and moving through to rugged baritone dignitary Teddy Pendergrass’ winsome ’80 confection, “Love TKO,” these were salad days for diehard soul fan.

In between, Gamble & Huff ran boutique labels, scored several gold-selling pop and soul hits, and even taught Michael Jackson some studio tricks that’d help the King Of Pop devise dual masterpieces, Off The Wall and Thriller. Three Degrees’ classy lipstick-traced love trinket, “When Will I See You Again,” broke overseas in Japan, winning the prestigious Tokyo Song Festival before spreading to Europe, topping the British charts, then conquering America. Party jams such as the Jacksons “Enjoy Yourself” and the O’Jays “Livin’ For The Weekend” countered topical civic-minded reflections such as Hrold Melvin & the Blue Notes “Wake Up Everybody.” And everyone sang glory hallelujah for the whole wide world to hear on the O’Jays Gospel treatise, “Put Your Hands Together.”

Ably combining the search for peace with a bright-eyed salutation that stands the test of time as a timeless freedom-ringing testimonial, the O’Jays magnificent “Love Train” needs no introduction (and has none). It starts cold with a cymbal-crashing bass-boomed beat, irresistible symphonic radiance, swooned Moog sway, and sliding hi-hat, then soars to the majestic fraternal order Sly & the Family Stone’s devotional “Everybody Is A Star” and the Beatles lucid “All You Need Is Love” ambitiously achieved previously.

Inspired by ‘60s civil rights marches, activist freedom fighters, and the black nationalism popularized by James Brown’s “Say It Loud, I’m Black And I’m Proud” as well as the Impressions “People Get Ready,” Gamble soon became a noble community leader. All-star charity single, “Let’s Clean Up The Ghetto,” primed Gamble for his extraordinary mission to purify urban domains through schooling and work experience. Gamble bought and restored many condemned and vacant South Philly properties for low-income families, concurrently opening local charter schools.

Gamble humbly explains, “The program we have is centered around education and our slogan is ‘when you know better you can do better.’ Without a great education, you can’t comprehend this environment at all. Be around people who motivate.”

Adds Huff, “Teddy Pendergrass did “You Can’t Hide From Yourself,” pledging how everywhere you go, you are there. You look in the mirror. You can’t run from yourself. There’s issues in the world. Everybody’s gotta do a little. Nobody’s a savior.”

Reecently, Patti LaBelle and singing partners Nona Hendrix and Sarah Dash got together with Gamble & Huff to record earnest melancholy manifesto, “Tears For The World.”

“All the violence in the world makes you wanna cry,” Huff says. “Humans have enough info nowadays to understand war, poverty, and violence should be beneath us. We’re destroying the earth ‘til there’s no air and water. People gotta be more like their maker, more peaceful.”

To mark the release of Love Train: The Sound Of Philadelphia, a same-named two-part PBS special will be aired around Thanksgiving. Featuring Gamble & Huff-related artists such as Jerry Butler, the O’Jays, Delfonics, Intruders, Three Degrees, and MFSB, it was taped at Atlantic City’s Borgata Casino-Hotel for a loving audience.

Peering back, you must be content with the fabulous output you’ve rendered.

 

 

GAMBLE: While we were recording many of these songs, we listened for mistakes from a critical ear. Now I listen to the music we made and just enjoy it. I say, ‘Huff, I can’t believe this record.’ I’ll put on “Love Train” and say, ‘Wow. That’s unbelievable.’ It’s hard to believe we were able to do so much quality music in such a short time.

HUFF: New artists, I guess they’re writing from their own experiences like we were back then. They’re reflecting on the world they’re living in.

Do you feel there are a lack of topnotch vocalists these days?

 

 

GAMBLE: I’m not gonna condemn today’s singers but there’s a difference – Gladys Knight, Aretha Franklin. Do you see another Wilson Pickett on the horizon who could scream? I don’t know. We were fortunate to work with some of the best singers the music biz had to offer – Jerry Butler, Dusty Springfield. We produced a Nancy Wilson album that’s one of my favorites. Singers like Teddy Pendergrass, Eddie Levert, Walter Williams – there’s no comparison.

It’s hard to beat the warmth of Gamble-Huff orchestrations with sampler machines.

 

 

HUFF: You can never top the human factor. There’s nothing like being in the studio with a live guitarist and drummer. It’s a stroke of genius how they produce records today. But I’m glad I experienced in my time, as a pianist, performing with a live band. Can’t beat it. It don’t have the same dramatics now. That machine just drones along. With live musicians, you have all these dynamics.

GAMBLE: Plus, the records we did, there were certain elements you can’t have with machines. People worked so hard they’d be sweating. The biggest thing you had were mistakes that may come and you say, ‘leave it like that ‘cause you could never do it again.’ It’s the human factor that makes our music harmonize with your body. A lot of today’s music, you could put a drum machine on, fly to London, and the drum machine’s playing the same thing. There’s nothing like a live drum fill.

HUFF: I still love the new music. Young guys sample a lot of our music. We appreciate them. It keeps us current in the business and shows us they really listen to our music.

GAMBLE: But do you think they could’ve produced a record like “Me & Mrs. Jones” with a machine?

When “Me & Mrs. Jones” came out, I never thought it’d appeal to the mass public. Billy Paul’s wailing bellow had a novelty-like quality that surged far beyond the plush string arrangement.  

HUFF: I’m with you. I was in the studio listening to playback. It was so different. The orchestration was much more Jazz since Billy was a Jazz artist. That’s his roots. But it was a different type of production. It didn’t strike me immediately like Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes’ “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.” It had a different feel.

GAMBLE: What made that such a hit was the story was real. People related to it. I knew it was a hit before it was released. Billy played it at a small Philly club, The First Nighter, which held 150 people. He performed one night and did “Me & Mrs. Jones” and turned the place out. Nobody heard it before and he had to play it two times people loved it so much.

Russell Thompkins, Jr. of the Stylistics had a gorgeous bell-toned falsetto captured brilliantly by your associate Thom Bell.

 

 

HUFF: Thom Bell and Linda Creed wrote all their songs. Hugo & Luigi owned their label, Avco. Now there’s two different Stylistics touring overseas.

GAMBLE: Russell had a distinctive voice. I remember listening to the Stylistics first single, “She’s A Big Girl Now,” and being impressed.

Phillipe Wynne of the Spinners, on the other hand, had a flexible freestyle bari-tenor approach that indirectly affected rap.

 

 

HUFF: He ranks up at the top. Not only was he a great recording artist, but also a great performer. People loved him. He had a lot of energy. His life came to an end too soon. He had tremendous potential. Thom struck a groove with the Spinners.

My favorite albums Gamble & Huff produced were the O’Jays Ship Ahoy and Spinners Pick Of The Litter. What’s one of yours?

 

 

GAMBLE: Unmistakably Lou by Lou Rawls. “Lady Love” and “Groovy People” were real good for Lou’s comeback. Getting back to the track, “Ship Ahoy,” through the sound affects you could almost feel the struggle, agony, and pain people on slave ships had on Atlantic journeys. That arrangement was a challenge.

The famous rap term ‘gangster lean’ was actually first used in William De Vaughn’s one big hit, “Be Thankful For What You Got.”

 

 

HUFF: Right. ‘Diggin’ the scene where the gangster lean.’

You prefigured the shuffling disco beat that would sweep ‘70s America with the Trammps “Where Do We Go From Here,” predated only by Hues Corporation’s hip-shaking aversion “Rock The Boat” and Ohio Players slinky “Skin Tight.”

 

 

GAMBLE: They were on Golden Fleece Records. That was part of our Philly group of labels – TSOP, Tommy, Gamble.

Gamble Records released the greatest Mother’s Day song ever, the Intruders fervent childhood reminiscence, “I’ll Always Love My Mama.”

 

 

GAMBLE: It’s a classic. Those kinds of songs will be around forever.

Was it difficult assembling the MFSB orchestra for studio rehearsals?

 

 

GAMBLE: No. They looked forward to coming in the studio. It’s funny. Most of the string players were in the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. They were playing Bach and Beethoven to “Love Train.” Same musicians, but none of our artists sounded the same. Jerry Butler didn’t sound like Lou Rawls and Harold Melvin’s Blue Notes didn’t sound like the O’Jays. There was a range of styles, grooves, arrangements, angles, and a wealth of ideas. Yet we had the same ingredients and same studio. We even had a #1 LP with the MFSB orchestra and “T.S.O.P.” became Soul Train’s theme. Ballads, cha-cha’s, uptempo music, I used to go to ‘70s discos just to watch people dance to that music. It amazed me how we did so many styles.

“Bad Luck” was one of disco’s earliest creations. Sociopolitical ballad “Wake Up Everybody,” also a hit for Melvin’s Blue Notes, came later. Both were written by the relatively unknown, Victor Carstarphen.

 

 

HUFF: Victor grew up in Camden where I lived. I knew him since he was pre-teen. I told Victor to come over and work with Mc Fadden & Whitehead (of “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” fame), who were looking for a pianist. He’s a very talented keyboardist who’s been in the Trammps road band for years.

A few black ‘70s girl groups copied Gamble & Huff’s studio styling – First Choice and Ecstasy Passion & Pain.

 

 

HUFF: I think with First Choice, some people from our band, like Norman Harris, produced them and used some of our ingredients – “Armed & Extremely Dangerous.” They were good. Norman and them may’ve done Ecstacy Passion & Pain’s “Ask Me.”

“Love Train” blasts off curtly. Did the band have to play a section of music before tapes rolled to get that song chugging along so instantaneously?

 

 

GAMBLE: No. There was a count off then everyone came in. The most important part of the production is the introduction. We were very serious about the intro. That’s when you put the needle on the record. You gotta capture a persons’ attention from the beginning, capture the imagination of radio programmers. I got about 40 seconds to knock him out. Ten to twelve seconds for intro, another ten for the hook, and another ten or so for the first verse. If you don’t have him by then, the record’s gonna go in the trashcan.

Leon Huff’s dancefloor masterpiece “I Ain’t Jivin’ I’m Jammin’” seemed based on the lurking piano rhythm bottoming Johnnie Taylor’s divorce-crossed “Cheaper To Keep Her.”

 

 

HUFF: When I was doing that record, I wasn’t thinking ‘bout that. That was spontaneous. I told the musicians to follow me on upright bass and drums. That record just kept growing. They’re still dancing to it. It’s big in dancehalls where they do line dancing.

Joe Simon’s hauntingly grieved, gruff-voiced “Drowning In The Sea Of Love” appears on Love Train. I didn’t know Gamble & Huff had an association with Spring Records.  

GAMBLE: Not only did we write and produce it, me, Huff, and Bunny Sigler sing on it. Spring was a label run by Roy and Julie Rifkin. They were our friends we’d see in New York. They asked us to cut Joe Simon. We did “Power Of Love,” too. That doesn’t appear on this compilation. That’ll be on our next comp. (laughter) Joe Simon was a helluva singer. He’s doing Gospel now. He could’ve been an opera singer.

How come Gamble & Huff didn’t hook up with Spring’s bawdy rap progenitor, Millie Jackson?

 

 

GAMBLE: I think she had her own li’l crew. Plus, we weren’t trying to do a lot of independent stuff because once we got our own label, that’s what we concentrated on. It gave us autonomy. We could pick singles without third party A& R men.

Going back to ’63, Leon Huff did keyboards for Candy & the Kisses little-known dance-crazed ditty, “The 81.”

 

 

GAMBLE: That’s the first record me and Huff worked on together! I hired Huff as a studio musician. I was working with Jerry Ross. Ross was a writer-producer who’d done the Sapphires “Who Do You Love” with me. He had the Dreamlovers “When We Get Married,” his own label, Heritage Records, then went to MGM and started Collosus Records (Tee Set’s “Ma Belle Amie” and Shocking Blue’s “Venus” were hits). He did Jay & the Techniques “Apples Peaches Pumpkin Pie” and “Keep The Ball Rollin.’” He was also an A & R man for Mercury. That’s how me and Huff got in there to record Dee Dee Warwicke’s “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me.” He also produced Jerry Butler. That’s how we got to cut him. Anyway, we wrote “The 81″ and Huff did the B-side, “Two Happy People.”

HUFF: “The 81″ was a helluva groove, wasn’t it? Those girls were from Brooklyn.

Unlike Motown big wig Berry Gordy, who influenced Gamble & Huff’s production technique, your artists were given proper royalties.

 

 

GAMBLE: We tried to be examples ourselves. Be conservative and keep in mind we know from past experiences nothing lasts forever.

HUFF: Pay your taxes. Read the contract. A lot of musicians are so anxious to make a record they forget to read the contract.

- John Fortunato

BLITZEN TRAPPER GO PASTOR ‘FURR’

Interviews

OK. The headline is an old joke concerning a pastor’s member going ‘past her fur,’ if you get my meaning, if you catch my drift. All kidding aside, Blitzen Trapper’s psych-folk sound embodies a modicum of religiosity. After all, leader Eric Earley met fellow guitarist Marty Marquis at Covenant College, a Presbyterian school in Georgia. Plus, Marquis admits his father, an actor, listened to church music as well as AM Top 40 and show tunes. Besides, it may be a stretch, but the eerie “God + Suicide” seems to hit upon misbegotten spirituality.

 

“That’s a subject that’s important for all-time, like love, death, and nature,” Earley confides.

Marquis concedes, “Faith has a broad influence in American society. Kids brought up in the church get imprinted with that. On our records, Eric makes it his own. But I don’t think he used any institutional alliance. It’s just one person’s way of understanding America’s religious heritage.”

It’s true. A certain pietistic solemnity slips into various secular tunes on Blitzen Trapper’s kaleidoscopic fourth album, Furr (Sub Pop). Though taking more inspiration from elder statesman, Bob Dylan, and the timeless folk tradition, this countrified Portland quintet take that acoustic heritage in unexpected directions without losing topical focus or abandoning general indoctrinated themes.

Many specific reference points get blurred moving beyond mere archival reverence, but Blitzen Trapper surely wear their influential vestiges well. Whereas the teenaged Marquis worshipped the Beatles, an apparent source for his troupe’s musical leanings, Earley discovered John Denver, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, and bluegrass through his father. Constructing sweetly artful indie pop from a stripped-down rural Americana foundation stretching back to the Great Depression may’ve been less effectual had these reluctant hipsters, except Marquis, not grown up in the formerly agrarian confines of Salem, Oregon.

“We’re Salem natives,” Earley concurs. “It was like any other American po-dunk place. Growing up, there were farms, now there’s strip malls, Wal-Mart, and no city center. We got out as fast as we could.”

On Furr, these congenial northwestern pals put their best foot forward on infectious soul-drenched mini-opus, “Sleepytime In The Western World,” grafting The Band’s “Up On Cripple Creek” organ motif to mid-period Beatles guitar fills and tremolo bass, coming up with a cacophonous glam-affected “Eight Miles High” swirl perfect for sunset.

“That’s actually a song within a song. It drops down into a dreamy story,” grants Earley.

Nearly as complex and just as hooky, “Gold For Bread” takes broken-down suburban Blues on an upward pre-choral electro-guitar ride.

Earley laughs, then states, “Everybody describes my stuff differently. At this point in rock, the Beatles and Byrds are so ingrained those come out without us thinking about it. If you worked at a pizza parlor or corner store, that was on the radio or at dances. It’s easy for us to mix that in with all the new directions in musical progression. Beck’s early records blended folk with hip-hop and soul. I think you have to be literate in the history of rock if you want to make something true nowadays. If not, it may lack substance or familiarity.”

Easy flowing title track, “Furr,” perhaps an appellation combining a bear’s burr with its craved prey’s fur, serves as an adolescents’ campfire retreat that’d fit alongside Conor Oberst and Iron & Wine’s best soliloquized mementos. Then again, Earley’s high-pitched harmonica dupes Dylan and moreover, his breezily understated vocal detachment and murky self-examination recalls shy heroin-addled suicide victim, Elliott Smith.

Earley doesn’t disagree with this blown-up assessment, yet disputes claims concerning post-grunge neo-folk luminary Smith’s self-inflicted stab wounds. “Did he kill himself? That’s questionable.”

What’s not disputable is the literary sway Earley’s songwriting, and taciturnly, contemporary Portland peers such as Stephen Malkmus, the Decemberists, and Modest Mouse, luminously reflects. Western sci-fi and respected American authors such as Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Mc Carthy occupy a special place in his heart.

Earley quips, “It rains a lot in Portland. We’ve got tons of time to read – with few distractions. But most people emigrate here.”

Setting up shop at the turn of the 21st century, Blitzen Trapper, filled out by tight brethren Erik Menteer (Moog-guitar), Drew Laughery (keys), Michael Van Pelt (bass), and Brian Koch (drums), create what’s been described as an ‘eccentric mosaic’ of country waltzes, folk ballads, and freaky experiments. They record in an old Willamette River building at Sally Mack’s School of Dance, using an ad hoc studio and cheap gear. Weighing heavy on their choice of space are elements of comfort and informality.

“Our first self-titled album was a compilation of music that came before. It’s not that cohesive and the music’s not that good. There are a few songs I really like, though,” Earley explains. “The second one, Field Rexx, is like the beginning of lo-fi folk rock while Wild Mountain Nation is the culmination and did real good. Furr is more hi-fi and consistent as far as the sound goes, but probably not the style of the songs. People think it jumps around quite a bit. But it’s all-American music at heart.”

Wild Mountain Nation gave ‘em a radically ambitious breakthrough. “Devils A Go-Go” mingles complicated Beefheart spasms, choppy deconstructed rhythms, and fracturing guitar splinters onward towards its sunny climactic vista. Contrasting this somewhat unconventional opener is the title track’s country bumpkin rural escapism and the melodic piano appeasement, “Futures & Folly.”

But ultimately, as the distortion-pedaled static-doused rummage “Miss Spiritual Tramp” proves, the decision to stay ‘wild’ inside this ‘mountain nation’ outdoes any notion of tangible roots-based connectivity. Offering further evidence, the euphonious bleating sound waves usurping “Sci-Fi Kid” suggests a zany Zappa zestfulness. On the other hand, dulcet flute and earthy harmonica ensure pastoral retrenchment, “Summer Town,” while honeyed steel licks and an acoustic fireside chorus saddle “Country Caravan.” It’s when they go straight down the middle and try their hand at power pop that the results benefit both countrified minions and hardened experimentalists alike. At least that’s the case with “The Green King Sings,” a fairly perplexing dual axe hoedown loosely reminiscent of underground ‘70s legends Big Star until its molten meltdown.

It’s this apparent yin and yang approach that unfailingly consumes Blitzen Trapper. Don’t put any pigeonholed tags on them or suffer the consequences. Musically advanced, conscientiously aware, and loaded with boundless apparitions, the defiant sextet are absolutely unapologetic in respect to the tangled webs they weave.

Earley concludes, “I hate doing the same thing twice.”

 

MEMPHIS SOUL LEGEND AL GREEN COMES TO MONTCLAIR

Interviews

Veteran Soul Star Finally Getting His Dues

FOREWORD: I was supposed to do a phone interview with Al Green while he was in Europe and I was vacationing in Naples, Florida. It never happened. But I got to take my parents and wife to Montclair’s Wellmont Theatre to catch the living legend doing his thing in December ‘08. That’ll have to suffice. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

In my estimation, the greatest male soul singers propelling the creative early ‘70s peak period were Stevie Wonder, Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, Phillipe Wynne (of the Spinners), and arguably the best of ‘em all, Arkansas native Al Green. During that highly competitive era, pop and soul radio stations couldn’t stop playing the sensitively romantic Rhythm & Blues numbers Green laid down for Memphis-based indie label, Hi Records.

But Green and Wynne never became as recognizable as the first four listed household names, possibly because they didn’t have identifiably nostalgic ‘60s backgrounds. Yet alongside Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Nat King Cole, Green is an undeniable world class majestic crooner.

 

Initially, the future Reverend recorded ‘67s wholly derivative Back Up Train for Bell Records at age 21. Overly reliant on older stylists and produced by songwriting high school chums, Palmer James and Curtis Rodgers, the soon-to-be-esteemed minstrel unfurled urbanized James Brown funk, “Shout”-clipped Isley Brothers gunk, hedonistic Marvin Gaye spunk, and tentative Sam Cooke junk. He hadn’t yet found his true inner voice. Yet his free-styled falsetto laments and enticingly wooed decrees were beginning to fall into place.

In late 1971, Green’s lithesome pipes filled the airwaves when he intrinsically caressed the devotional dialogue of classic venerating serenade, “Let’s Stay Together,” a compassionate pledge of love delivered in a rapturous conversational tenor one step beyond the torch singers he once emulated. On the heels of ‘70s almost equally seductive “Tired Of Being Alone,” this tender-hearted lover’s concerto became one of the premier make-up anthems of all time.

At its foundation, “Let’s Stay Together” featured the distinguishable schematic that made Green a reliable chart topper: tantalizingly orchestrated horn and string sections complementing the singer’s effortlessly inflected and distinctly elucidated vocal lines rendered so perfect other interpreters would be unable to modify the elemental lyrical ebb and flow. His signature climactic falsetto shrill, with its aching emotional ember, is unduplicated.

‘77s challenging The Belle Album signaled a temporary termination of the Green-Mitchell partnership. Alongside ‘78s Truth ‘n Time and Love Ritual, these ambitiously divergent self-produced masterworks combined his funkiest beat-driven jabs with resolute Blues constructions, placing Green’s rangiest vocals in the center instead of on top, lessening the drawn-out fervent shrieks, curbing his bedtime libido, and occasionally giving due respect to the almighty.

Despite Green’s unjust obscurity amongst ‘80s-raised kids in America, the humble soul icon courteously accepted his merited ’95 election into the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame. But even that noble glorification failed to gain the courteous descendant of a sharecropper proper present-day recognition when compared to the harder rocking six-string-dependent peers making louder noise. After all, Green’s meditative musings were blessed with a distinguished Gospel-derived subtlety, class, and eloquence exploitative hip-grinding axe-wielding longhaired hipsters never dared imitate for fear of being derided by lunk-headed fans or easily dismissed by cognitive black brethren familiar with bellowing wailer, Otis Redding.

So it was truly pleasurable to see Green belatedly receive a Lifetime Achievement Award at ‘08s Black Entertainment Television ceremony. Spending forty years inside the music industry without getting the widespread acclaim he so clearly deserves, the still-vital singer went ahead and performed a few well-chosen nuggets in celebration. Showing off a raspier baritone husk on the low end, the veritable sixty-something vocalist encouraged the crowd to sing along to sumptuous chestnuts “Let’s Stay Together” and “Love & Happiness.”

That BET telecast offered a little enlightening information, too. According to legend, Hi Records producer-arranger, Willie Mitchell, convinced the then-aspiring Southerner at the onset to stop relying on the stylish methodology of masterful ‘60s idols such as Jackie Wilson, Sam Cooke, and James Brown, telling Green to start singing naturally instead of duping influential troubadours.

This forthright advice proved to be immeasurably advantageous. Green’s time-tested lover’s testimonials, always accentuated by smoothly syncopated lounge Jazz percussion, were constantly rewarding chart contenders. He personifies the dedicated springtime suitor on “Look What You Done For Me,” the balmy summertime daydreamer on “I’m Still In Love With You, and the politely purring equinoctial paramour on “You Ought To Be With Me.” The dependable deacon also acts the part of a debonair distant lover on “Call Me (Come Back Home)” and “Sha-La-La (Make Me Happy).” An unparalleled lady-killer, Green’s gushing spellbinding eroticism is most effectively arousing on the yearning “Here I Am,” the fetching “L-O-V-E (Love),” and the desirous “Full Of Fire.” All these libidinous tracks on wax came out in a brief three-year span, securing Green’s exulted status. Many of the B-sides were nearly as penetrating.

But tragedy struck on October 18, 1974, when an aggrieved liaison with a crazed married woman led to a hot grit-tossing incident, causing third degree burns on Green’s back and culminating in her suicidal shooting. It was a despairing moment in time that may’ve convinced Green to spread the word of God as an ordained minister at the Full Gospel Tabernacle and ultimately switch focus to religious musings. When ‘77s sterling masterpiece, The Belle Album, his first effort without guiding light Mitchell, and remarkably, his eleventh studio album in eight years, didn’t sell well, he began recording well-regarded Gospel material full time. However, by the mid-‘80s, Green slowly got back into romantic secular music, hitting the charts with ex-Eurythmics diva Annie Lennox on a splendid duet of ardent ‘60s peace treatise, “Put A Little Love In Your Heart.”

Recently, he put out the magnificent Lay It Down, a beautifully retro long-player ‘laid down’ by Roots mainstay Guestlove, whose crafty production technique hearkens back to Green’s glorious ‘70s epoch. High profile cameos by fashionable R & B enthusiasts John Legend, Corrine Bailey Rae, and Anthony Hamilton do not interfere with the master’s gently soothing gracefulness.

Green’s sensual charcoal-stained tenor has developed a richer resonation that’s as intriguingly modern and resiliently vibrant as it was during his heyday. Archetypal brass blasts and soulful organ get dispersed throughout, lending Quiet Storm warmth to “Just For Me.” Lucid Jazz-allayed rhythm guitar pulls the listener in as elegant horns inundate the coital ecstasy of “You’ve Got The Love I Need,” his best matrimonial hymn since ‘76s durable “Let’s Get Married.” There’s just enough urban grit in the groove to counterbalance its delicately cushioned Moments-Delfonics assimilation.

Onward, “No One Like You” borrows Sam Cooke’s wispy ‘baby’ refrain from “You Send Me,” as Green smacks down, then pulls back, the embracing chorus. And “What More Do You Want From Me” neatly revitalizes the stimulating adoration of “Look What You Done For Me,” another crown jewel in Green’s illustrious catalogue. The rest follows suit as each flawlessly executed soft-toned meditation brings forth a genuine intimacy.

More authentic recreating Green’s golden era than the triumphant 2003 comeback collaboration he did with long-time comrade, Willie Mitchell, Lay It Down successfully advances the Hi sound not only Green, but lesser known soul interpreters such as Ann Peebles and Syl Johnson, once dabbled in acquiring a blacker audience.

But let’s not downgrade worthy Green-Mitchell predecessor, I Can’t Stop, since its eclectic tone proves more affably multihued than the steadfast Lay It Down. Tranquil flute embellishes the title track while funkier rhythm guitar and female voices emboss horn-spurted BB King/ Bobby Womack-indebted blues truce, “Play To Win.” Poignant strings shower Green and his backup female chorus on the anguishing “Rainin’ In My Heart.” “I’ve Been Waiting On You” utilizes Stax horn blurts and punchy Muscle Shoals rhythms, yet it’s more in line with the subordinate contemporary blues artists now roaming major cities in slick fashion. Assertive Tower Of Power-styled horns and Jimmy Smith-procured organ embolden the snubbing condemnation “My Problem Is You” (where Green lets out some of his finest high-pitched shrieks). “Million To One” comes closest to reaching the satiny pillow-talked sentimentality of Green’s peak years. And he’s fancy free on “I’d Write A Letter” (which flows like a less aggrandized version of Blood Sweat & Tears “Spinning Wheels”) and insouciant circus payoff “Too Many,” the two venturous closing tracks.

If Lay It Down gets the edge over I Can’t Stop, it’s due to the heartwarming dedication Green’s allied admirers, such as Guestlove, had for him as they sought to recapture the timeless spirit of yesteryear’s foremost interpreter.

Every time the man takes the stage, he elevates his legacy, retaining the same charismatic allure and polished showmanship displayed from the outset. Transcending his enabler’s – Cooke, Redding, Ray Charles – Green has become a revered American music icon no singer in the last twenty years can hold a candle to. He’s simply divine. Spread the word.