WOLF PARADE PEEKING ‘AT MOUNT ZOOMER’

Interviews

There’s quite a hot indie scene goin’ on up in the resplendent Canadian province of Quebec. Worthy bohemian groups have been springing up in the city of Montreal in record numbers since 1999, giving worldwide exposure to Arcade Fire, the Dears, the Stars, the Stills, and the Islands.

Started as an indigenously British Columbian outfit now residing in the bustling Saint Laurent-bound Mile End neighborhood of Canada’s so-called Sin City, Wolf Parade’s illusionary conveyances are fully front-loaded with peculiar twists, deceptive bends, and incipiently, opaque mariner imagery. Even their elaborate rhythmic cadences and pliant percussive patter persistently perplex rank and file rockers.

 

“My father was a musician. He got me whatever instrument I wanted. I settled on the drums,” percussionist Arlen Thompson confides. “He played trumpet and was into horn-based bands like Chicago and Sly & The Family Stone and classic rock by Hendrix, Zeppelin, the Beatles and Stones. He set me up with my first hi-fi stereo system at age two with an Aprilwine 8-track. We grew up in Victoria, where there was not much of a scene going on.”

On ambitious ‘05 debut, Apologies to the Queen Mary, Wolf Parade were set in motion. Perhaps taking inspiration from producer Isaac Brock’s nervously anguished mutiny-bound capitulation’s fronting indie rock mainstays, Modest Mouse, mysterious sea shanty “Modern World” and dramatic hook-filled orchestral “Grounds For Divorce” (with its jittery pulse and euphonious electronic bleats) receive urgently hiccuped vocalization second-handedly reminiscent of Andy Partridge’s early XTC quipping. “We Built Another World” extends the rallying cry of its preceding breakup manifesto, driving a harder rhythm into interstellar overdrive. Gyrating calliope-like whirl, “Same Ghost Every Night” slips into the ether whilst maintaining a determined beat, hearkening back to Bowie-Eno’s chilly late ‘70s automaton investigations, only with an earthbound blue-eyed soul emotionality.

If it’s the seaworthy apparitions that drew comparisons to Modest Mouse and served as Apologies prime theme, then so be it. But it was the famous large ocean vessel they were booked onto for entertainment purposes that encouraged Wolf Parade to utilize the repentant epithet as titular fodder. Drummer Arlen Thompson won’t go into specifics, but it sounds like a drunken affair ensued on the majestic Queen Mary.

“We were playing parties before Apologies came out,” Thompson recalls. “We then put everyone on this ship and that ultimately summed up where we were at – getting kicked off the boat and having to apologize for how badly we behaved. It had a Sir Winston Churchill Ballroom. He was a drunk, but as Canadians we’re supposed to act aristocratic for the queen.”

‘08s astoundingly paradoxical At Mount Zoomer (Sub Pop) renders quirkier tracks that can be difficult to follow at first, but reward high-yield dividends over repeated listens. Neither obscure nor obtuse, yet relatively oblique and casually ostentatious, Wolf Parade’s second set never directly relies on any faddish contemporary stylistic formulation. Like many new-sprung Montreal outfits (Arcade Fire/ Godspeed You! Black Emperor), the artful quartet’s subtle complexities are just a bit complicatedly skewered for straight-up modern rock influences to shine through the entangled adaptations. Maybe the reason for such amiable dislocation is the continual influx of each individualistic member’s contrasting ideas being redesigned and retrofit to suit the collaborative ensemble.

For example, although main songwriters Spencer Krug (keys) and Dan Boeckner (guitar) pen the variably unraveling compositions, they entrusted Thompson with production and arrangement chores for At Mount Zoomer, giving them the chance to concentrate on what they do best.

“Dan does the more immediate, direct stuff while Spencer provides more windy, unstructured figures,” Thompson suggests. “It’s just us evolving. There could have been a time after Apologies when we began playing more professionally and got to develop quicker. We keep it real loose on the new record whereas Apologies was more Dan and Spencer bringing fairly solid song ideas. At Mount Zoomer was really unrestrained in approach to writing and arranging. The instrumental sections more or less came together before the lyrics and vocal melodies. On Apologies, the vocals were woven in like traditional songcraft.”

Helping to secure overall tonicity, Michigan native Hadji Bakara joined these capable Canucks in 2004, interlacing his interloping electronic wizardry with Krug and Boeckner’s cleverly cunning compositional constructs. The uncanny end result often leads to a commingled metamorphosis launched from external sources never willfully conceived as tributary fare.

“We tend to assign a song’s working title to what it initially sounds like,” Thompson reveals. “One of our songs, Costello,” which we perform live, was called that because people thought it sounded like Elvis Costello, even though by the end it sounded nothing like the name we assigned it. For some reason, “Fine Young Cannibals” just stuck. We had a weird slick groove and made a falsetto harmony pop song.”

On Zoomer’s closing 10-minute opus, “Kissing The Beehive,” the ensemble’s prog-rock aspirations are revealed in an askew 9/8 time. Its alarming ‘fire in the hole’ midsection picks up a forward marching gallop as squiggly synthesizer, wiry 6-string, and thick drum rolls ride out to the fulminated finishing crescendo.

Thompson explains, “That got formed into a stomp. It’s a good example of where we’re at now. It’s taken from three different loose tracks. The proggy aspects probably came from everyone listening to Fleetwood Mac’s early recordings done with guitarist Peter Green, before they made the ubiquitous Rumours. But I don’t see a resemblance to (obvious ‘70s beacons) Genesis, Yes, or Pink Floyd.”

He does admit listening to conceptual Brooklyn-via-Chicago sibling-based duo, Fiery Furnaces, whose curiously epic escapades curve, swivel, and swerve, taking as many deliriously detailed detours as his own expansive foursome does. But the similarities are otherwise unintentional, if not far-fetched. Despite having to learn how to properly manipulate all these confounding twists and turns, Wolf Parade’s colleagues manage to somehow stay involved with several sundry troupes.

Some of the better outside projects include Krug’s Sunset Rubdown, Swan Lake and Frog Eyes, Bakara’s DJ duo Megasoid, as well as Boeckner’s ongoing project with his wife, Alexei Perry, the Handsome Furs. Thompson just mastered and produced Handsome Furs second disc, another relentless pop-related endeavor with heavier drum machines and a colder feel moving it into a more up-tempo mode perfectly apt for East Berlin circa 1982. Thompson’s also in Transylvania, a weird psych-noise collective with a pair of Sunset Rubdown band mates making unbound jams – “Nothing a label would put out,” he cracks.

As for future Wolf Parade recordings, Thompson says, “There’s nothing new yet. We didn’t work out anything different. We’re using all the songs we’ve played on the last tour. I don’t know when we’ll get around again to create new material. Everyone’s so busy at top speed.”

RETRO-STYLISH VIVIAN GIRLS ROCK SUBTERRANEAN UNIVERSE

Interviews

Although the Vivian Girls took their Arthurian mademoiselle moniker from outsider artist Henry Darger’s protracted novel regarding a gang of sisters fighting evil, they’d much rather battle it out instrumentally onstage then confront any mischievous wrongdoers.

Guitarist Cassie Ramone and bassist Kickball Katy, two youthful Ridgewood, New Jersey natives now residing in neoteric music haven, Brooklyn, have impressed sundry college age fans as well as a few recognizable underground bands with their shambolic musings. Along with founding drummer Frankie Rose, who recently departed to join similarly bare-boned local outfit Crystal Stilts, the Vivian Girls have further enlightened an already fertile Williamsburg scene happening just across the Hudson River east of Manhattan.

 

“Our live shows are more immediate (than the studio tracks). It all comes from punk. We’re actively involved in the scene,” Cassie reveals. “We used to do the Wipers “Telepathic Lover” live when Frankie was still in the band. We’ve covered the Beach Boys “Girl Don’t Tell Me,” also. We definitely have a lot of other songs. Nowadays, we do only five or six from the EP. The rest are newer songs.”

On their garage-molded 10-song 21-minute self-titled debut EP for In The Red Records, the Vivian Girls show off a wonderfully amateurish adolescent enthusiasm, keeping song ideas short, simple, and sassy. Murkily monotone vocals barely peak above jangling guitar, over-modulated bass, and rudimentary drums. Primal cellar-dwelling production provides the proper archaic setting for each crudely drafted do-it-yourself tune.

But don’t let the unfinished veneer and dungy geek harmonies scare away true blue indie pop fiends. These sweet and innocent Kings County babes put all their hooks in the right place, beside the beautifully muddled clutter. Dig the catchy naiveté of nasally repetitive riposte, “No,” where shuffling drumbeat anchors scurried guitar trots. Marvel at the echoed ‘60s girl group-styled voices (redolent of the Shangri-La’s) running through the lustily booming bass melody consuming chiding roughhewn smear, “Such A Joke.”

Then hold on as bashing cymbals crash into clangorous 6-string chaos on cattily wailed embarkation, “All The Time.” And get the hips swaying as Cassie’s clanging chain-linked guitar goes non-stop perforating stimulatingly droned hum-along “Tell The World.”

At times, the Vivian Girls beg comparisons to ‘80s twee pop lynchpins, the Pastels, or sound like cutesy cuddle-core courtesans courting Calvin Johnson’s boutique K Records. Saccharine rockabilly-derived lullaby “Where Do You Run To” best distills the unprepossessing girlie trio’s pale emotional vivaciousness. Yet more often, the revivified grunge-suffused riot grrl influence of Bratmobile or Bikini Kill seems aptly forthright.

Then again, going way beyond conventionality and into tousled peculiarity, they recall freakishly dorky late-‘60s minimalists, the Shaggs, when rendering cymbal-slashed bass-ruptured 104-second cacophony “My Baby Wants Me Dead” during a YouTube-clipped Vancouver show.

Presently, the Vivian Girls (rounded out by Katy’s college pal, Ali Koehler), are brainstorming ideas for a full-length disc to be initiated, March ’09, with waggish indie pop bellwether Steve Mc Donald (of Redd Kross fame) at the helm as producer.

Cassie gleefully affirms, “We’ll get to go out to Los Angeles for the recording. It’ll be nice to escape the cold New York weather and hang out amongst palm trees.”

Here’s hoping they retain the same unsophisticated charm that got ‘em where they are now – opening for fellow hotshot Jerseyites the Feelies and Yo La Tengo, New Years Eve, at Montclair’s newly refurbished Wellmont Theatre.

How’d the Vivian Girls come into fruition?

 

CASSIE: Me and Katy were best friends who went to high school together. When I moved to Brooklyn, I met Frankie, hung out in her loft with loads of people, and one day, at brunch, Frankie inquired about starting a band. I got Katy to join, but in July ’08 Frankie left (to join Crystal Stilts). Ali Koehler promptly joined.

Who were your formative influences?

 

I liked emo – the Get Up Kids, Braid, Cap N’ Jazz, Saves The Day. Also, indie rock like Pavement. I was bored as a kid and listened to whatever I got my hands on. Katy listened to early punks, the Germs, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. But when we started the band, we were fully into the Wipers, Ramones, Dead Moon, and the Descendents.

Those influences don’t show up on your debut EP as much as more obvious ones such as the Beat Happening or Thee Headcoats, maybe even Sleater-Kinney or X Ray Spex.

 

That’s funny. Everybody says we sound a certain way outside of our influences. But those were our guiding lights nonetheless.

How do you usually construct the songs?

 

A lot of our songs, I write guitar parts and words simultaneously. I bring them to the band, who add parts and flesh out the songs with me. Other songs may start with a bass line Katy brings in. So we’ll work off that and compose a song together. I think what we care about most is song structure. We try not to mess around with that. We’re not the best musicians or best singers. We can’t get a complete sound experience at our disposal, so we spend time arranging songs properly.

You did the cover design for the Vivian Girls inaugural EP. Do you have an interest in visual arts?

 

I was an illustration major at Pratt. I’m mainly interested in drawing. That’s my artistic forte. I like pen and ink and pencil drawings. That drawing on the cover is actually an art project done for senior class. I was hanging out with Frankie and Katy showing schoolwork. Frankie liked the drawing so we used it.

Was the recording done lo-fi because you couldn’t afford a proper studio?

 

I don’t think our music would work if it was overly produced. We’re fans of lo-fi sound. We recorded the debut for $900, which was all we could save to make a record. So we had to do it quickly.

Will future recordings be done in a bigger room where voices could be brought up-front? Or are you afraid you’d lose some of that unique primal feel?

 

We’re gonna try to stay raw. We still wanna use a lot of reverb in the foreseeable future. Our sound will pretty much stay the same.

Is “No” the first song the Vivian Girls ever recorded? It’s so skeletal and unadorned and seems like it was done in one take.

 

It was second. It was on a demo CD-R. Our first single was “Wild Eyes.”

Will you keep making short, sweet tunes or will you expand the arrangements?

 

I think the main problem with long songs is they overstay their welcome. A lot of ‘em get redundant for the sake of length. We don’t want you to get bored with a song. If you like one, you’ll quickly play it again. (laughter) Someday, if we could write a song that’s interesting for five minutes, we will.

As a band, do twee pop lynchpins such as Belle & Sebastian affect the soft-toned jingles?

 

Well. We don’t really draw any influences from twee. I think Belle & Sebastian’s songs are pretty cool, but maybe a bit wimpy.

To defer, I’d say Belle & Sebastian’s music is artful whereas yours is artless.

 

Out of all those types of bands, I think the Beat Happening’s real cool. But I don’t think those bands directly inspire us.

Many times, your group harmonies are reminiscent of legendary ‘60s girl group, the Shangri-La’s.

 

Thank you. They’re probably my favorite girl group.

Likewise, I thought “Such A Joke” tapped into Tommy James & the Shondells’ giddily lustful “I Think We’re Alone Now.”

 

Oh cool! That song’s really cool but I like Tiffany’s version better. (laughter)

Yuck! Tiffany’s pre-teen novelty version lacked the sexual immediacy of the Shondells original. It’s like most virginal contemporary pop fabricated for compromised radio stations’ boring playlists.

 

I usually listen to CBS-FM oldies. But they’re stuck on Christmas tunes already. I understand doing an all-Christmas playlist a week before the holiday, but in November it’s overkill unless it’s once an hour.

TRAIL OF DEAD’S TRIUMPHANT RETURN IN THE CENTURY OF SELF

Interviews

Overcoming extreme adversity and a healthy dose of animosity, proggy Texas-sprung hardcore experimentalists, And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, have picked up the pieces and moved on. Fully revitalized and free from major label concessions, they’ve returned strong with the mindful self-released reclamation, The Century Of Self.

Formed by two waywardly kindred souls determined to forsake Hawaiian ‘island fever’ by going inland, Trail Of Dead’s Conrad Keely and Jason Reece soon trekked to Olympia, Washington, playing in local bands until the nearby Seattle scene, once internationally revered, went cold.

After the grunge phenomena faded and provincial mentor Kurt Cobain committed suicide, a dark cloud hovered over the Pacific Northwest. According to Keely, “doom and gloom hit so hard many bands moved away.” Keely and Reece took residence in musical hotbed, Austin, Texas, perusing the vibrant coffeehouse scene benefiting dozens of native bands.

 

Born in the United Kingdom, raised in Thailand, and uprooted to Hawaii, Keely received a long musical tutelage in Washington. While there, Keely witnessed the impending grunge scene firsthand, catching a badly attended local show featuring the Melvins, Beat Happening, and the soon-to-be-ubiquitous Nirvana during 1988. This exposure to the burgeoning cultural phenomena in Seattle provided plentiful stimulus for his inevitable endeavor.

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, whose protracted appellation was snatched from a Mayan ritual chant as a reactionary response to one syllable contemporary bands such as Blur and Hum, came into fruition quickly in the Texas capital. Joining the fray were guitarist Kevin Allen, bassist Neil Busch (replaced by Danny Wood, then Jay Phillips), and drummer Aaron Ford.

An incredible live band apt to wreak havoc, break instruments, and overwhelm audiences, Trail Of Dead eventually signed to Merge Records, blowing away audiences while opening for renowned Carolina indie combo, Superchunk.

Lacing prog-rock intricacies into energized punk assaults, ‘99s astounding Madonna proved to be an expert blend of metallic guitars, symphonic explorations, and psychedelic intrigue that went far beyond generational post-grunge angst. Perchance a spunky response to Cobain’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” satirical hard-driven rampage, “A Perfect Teenhood,” is an explosive fuck-off with a disconcerting meltdown utilizing the same fast-loud choruses and slow-soft verses Nirvana indelibly employed. The frightful epileptic screams buttressing squalling feedback-laden breakdown, “Totally Natural,” musters perplexingly brain-twisted anguish, funneling Fugazi and Minor Threat’s devious ‘80s-based emotional hardcore desperation through Nirvana’s equally gruesome arsenal raids.

Fans and critics alike hailed the bands’ savage concert performances and were awestruck by Madonna’s primordial creative brilliance. Then, the majors came knocking in the form of Interscope Records. The resulting album, Trail Of Dead’s time-honored Source Tags & Codes, exceeded expectations, bringing further clarity and uniformity to the adrenalized ensemble by intensifying the taciturn pauses with rapturously raucous recoveries. The toxic “Another Morning Stoner” invites comparisons to foremost noise-rock kingpins, Sonic Youth, an obvious Reece influence. The same goes for the buzzing 6-string scrambler bearing the name of decadent French poet, “Boudelaire.” Similarly, atomic powderkeg, “Days Of Being Wild,” plies mangled shrieks to a lashed-out anthem saluting adolescent rage. Audaciously seething manifesto, “Mark David Chapman,” the lone Busch composition, caused outrage since its objectionable namesake cold-bloodedly murdered John Lennon.

But times got tough. Continuing to storm the broken barricades of conventionality while heading for a confounded detour betwixt with tribal, Medieval, and tropical wildlife sounds, ‘05s over-intellectualized Worlds Apart came up short as a premature magnum opus. Its ranting title cut cuts too close to neoteric emo as suburban worries concerning BBC, MTV, and celebrity status get snippily bashed. Thankfully, it’s meant as a snippy rip instead of a droll homage. Elsewhere, interconnected drawn-out mantras rule the roost, but some prolonged exoduses barely escape melodramatic mush.

On ‘06s reeling So Divided, the bell tolls for the band on its opening number. Caught in a “Wasted State Of Mind,” they may’ve streamlined overwrought Epicurean grandeur and prosaic Chamber pop dirges at the expense of mystical ceremonial imagery. But there’d be a light at the end of the tunnel as Trail Of Dead left Interscope for well-deserved independence. However, they’ll leave some early fans in the dust and nearly give it all up after getting unfairly chastised on an ill-suited bill supporting faddish Cartoon Network retinue, Dethklok.

These disturbing developments temporarily haunted then halted Trail Of Dead, but better days were just beyond the horizon. Like the proverbial down-and-out artist struggling to maintain footing, Keely gathered his troupes, nourished their collective soul, regained compositional poise, and began fulfilling a real or imagined prophesy. Standing at the precipice of a dazzling resurgence, Trail Of Dead started their own label, Richter Scale Records, and delivered the fully confident ‘09 masterwork, The Century Of Self.

Religiosity has always been at the heart of Trail Of Dead’s weighty lyrical sensibility. On The Century Of Self, faith takes center stage above social and personal matters. The momentous opening overture, “Giants Causeway,” may appear ominous, but an endearing positivity underscores the remainder. Perhaps seeking a glorified afterlife, the escalating climactic outburst of siren emo-core blazer “Far Pavilions” investigates unclaimed lands that ‘await us beyond the wall of cantonment.’

Though reminiscent of Modest Mouse’s exhilarating seaworthy chants, the sugar-rushed entreaty, “Isis Unveiled,” searches for ‘secrets of the grand design.’ Salvation may fascinate these seasoned warriors, but although they’d be cheerful drafting ‘the song of the ages,’ they just ‘felt like raging’ during sweeping teen-spirited keepsake “Halcyon Days,” revealing a torrential downpour of unfeigned emotionalism. Electrified Pete Townshend riffs infiltrate the core of “Fields Of Coal,” where Keely and Reece wail ‘don’t let him runaway’ with unison impassioned vigor.

The tension mounts from beginning to end for this uninterrupted epic. Feelings of doubt get deliberated upon, especially when the perils of a sustainable musical lifestyle get discussed in song. The suspicious versifying and soared melancholia of “Inland Sea” reluctantly probes the semi-famous lifestyle by inquiring ‘is the price you’ve paid to live this little dream worth the pain you’ve been suffering?’ Pushing aside past insecurities, it’s very likely Keely could now answer affirmatively.

The Century Of Self seems to take on mortality as its central motif.

 

CONRAD KEELY: In the context of childhood perhaps – which I tried to illustrate with the cover artwork. It’s a boy looking at a skull and it’s supposed to represent a moment when a child realizes he’s mortal and will grow up and die. The lyrics, overall, were a reflection of the change we’re undergoing.

Does Trail Of Dead usually extrapolate conceptual themes to enhance each album’s entirety?

 

Source Tags & Codes explored the dichotomy between hi-tech society and agrarian society. The idea of somebody who moved away from a farm, conceived while touring Chicago, when we went Midwest into the fields, was the inspiration. The next two concentrated on frustration. Worlds Apart railed against our musical environment and peer groups. So Divided reflected frustrations with our label. The big difference with Self is more positive inspiration, starting a new chapter getting away from a major label.

That’s an oversimplification. We use multiple themes and try to make them recur. Theology is close to Jason and I. His family’s Christian. Mine’s completely spiritual, studying Buddhism, Hinduism, and indigenous religions. I can’t help returning to that theme of higher spirituality. “Inland Sea” deals with transcendental meditation, which my parents let me take active part in. “Isis Unveiled” is based on a book I’d see on our bookshelves, flip through, and read. It indicted science and religion. There’s three separate viewpoints from Old Testament God, Lucifer, and finally, Jesus. Each told their story. But it also references unorthodox Christian belief that there were two gods, an Old Testament war-like God who’s overthrown by the peace and love New Testament God.

Who were your early influences?

 

I got my music sensibility from my parents. I grew up with the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and Frank Zappa. When my mom got remarried, my stepdad was into prog. He was a drummer. I got into Steve Hillage and Mike Oldfield’s Incantations – a double LP with four sections. Oldfield worked so hard on that record he wore down the 2-inch reel and had to start from scratch. When I was eight, my parents took a trip to England. We lost some money and stayed for two-and-a-half years as a break from Hawaii. That’s when I heard Kate Bush’s “Never Forever.” I had a poster of her in my room that friends would ask about.

In Coventry, where we lived, the whole ska scene happened. Madness were so popular in my school. There was the Specials and English Beat. It was such an interactive lifestyle. Back in America, kids were into Kiss, but didn’t necessarily dress like them. In England, third graders would go to school in trench jackets with The Who stenciled on back. Flight jackets with all those buttons with band names. They took fashion seriously. I got my first pair of Doc Martens at age nine. We looked like thugs. It was hilarious. That was a big musical ingestion. I went back to America and those things weren’t happening yet. Nor would they until my twenties. I never heard Adam & the Ants in America. I got into Classic Rock in high school. But meeting Jason was key. He turned me on to the Replacements, Husker Du, Descendents, Dag Nasty, Cali skate punk. I shifted out of my Pink Floyd-Yes-Genesis mode and embraced it.

Over the course of six albums, including an unheralded self-titled ’98 debut, your lyrics have gotten more deeply romanticized.

 

Source Tags was very sentimental. There’s songs about the breakup I went through, like “How Near How Far” – the idea of letting go of a muse. There’s no mystery about that. It’s as close as we’ve come to writing a romantic record. The new one’s sentimental, but there’s no love theme. It doesn’t mean we won’t go back to that in the future. Worlds Apart was real political, but not well-timed. Maybe it was three years early. Those things I was pointing my finger at on Worlds Apart were about consumer society, which consumes The Century Of Self. There was a sense that Worlds Apart was informed by the ongoing Gulf War. I tried to address it but the album suffers from being overly ambitious. We were really reaching hard to make a testimonial that’d push our abilities as writers. But we were going through personal stress with Neil leaving the band. That took away from us achieving everything we wanted with that record. I’m proud to have the courage to say those things at the time but I didn’t think anyone wanted to hear them.

Was So Divided a haughtier extension of Worlds Apart?

 

Except it had no political statement. It didn’t try to reach out to the world. I still think So Divided was a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone. I didn’t want to connect. I wanted to withdraw into our own world and say ‘screw you if you don’t like it.’ I was disappointed with its reception amongst peers and the label. The idea of working on a major label wasn’t working so maybe it was a self-indulgent attempt to get dropped. But The Century Of Self couldn’t have been made if we didn’t do So Divided.The hardest record we ever made was So Divided, especially the painful lyrics. In contrast, The Century Of Self felt easier – the way the songs came together naturally. There were technical challenges with the producer and the studio, but the creative part was unified.

Yet despite So Divided’s muck and mire, there was an unexpectedly upbeat and accessible Carnaby Street-styled Paisley Pop turnabout, “Eight Days Of Hell,” replete with kitsch-y ‘60s multi-harmonies.

 

I think that would’ve been accessible in the ‘60s or ‘70s. We were basically trying to make our own little Beach Boys song. I had just gotten into Brian Wilson’s Smile record. But it’s more akin to the Hollies “Carrie Ann” or “On A Carousel.” It was fun. The darkness came from its serious lyrics. They’re about a horrible experience opening for Audioslave in the UK. The original lyrics were so dark and mean I was talked into toning them down. Sometimes the whole Shakespeare ‘pen is mightier than the sword’ comes into play. There’s no reason to lash out unreasonably. But it’s fun to get out.

How’d Trail Of Dead get involved with the soundtrack, Hell On Wheels, a documentary about Austin’s new-sprung roller derby scene?

 

We knew some of those crazy girls. We even performed at one of the roller derby matches. I even sang the national anthem. Austin started the resurrection of roller derby. There was a league that split off and there was a dramatic rivalry.

Speaking of dramatic, have you designed all the eloquent artwork for Trail Of Dead’s album covers?

 

I’ve done all the design. For the first record, I stole the image from National Geographic. On Worlds Apart, I had someone paint it from a collage I made. So Divided was all done digital. The Century Of Self I did all the art by hand with a ballpoint pen. It took the better part of two years and that’s the stuff I showed at an October ’08 New York exhibition.

Will you remain a transplanted New Yorker for good now?

 

I loved Austin. One day I’ll go back. There’s an ease to living there. It’s the good life. I was drawn to New York because I felt closer to Europe. I’m still an Irish citizen. I’m not a naturalized American so there’s a yearning to go back to Europe. New York’s supposedly for drunken parties like it’s 1999, but it’s more of a nose-to-the-grindstone-try-to-get-by-and-make-rent city. I’m inspired by everything here. “Halcyon Days” is about making that transition.

At this point, our conversation drifts into the apex of what truly became the premier regenerative thrust of Trail Of Dead’s renaissance. It seems an unwise tour with a Cartoon Network ensemble nearly drove Conrad to quit music before once more getting rejuvenated.

 

CONRAD: There was this terrible tour we did with Dethklok. They’re an Adult Swim cartoon and the band plays in the shadows, like the Gorillaz. But it’s all about death metal. It’s called Metalocalypse. We were invited to go and all the shows were gonna be free, sponsored by Cartoon Network, and it’d be at all these colleges. Interscope dropped the ball on our college play so we thought it’d be a logical way to hit the market. But it went miserably wrong. All the kids wanted to see was Dethklok. They were awfully hostile audiences. We’d never had that. It was more reminiscent of a London audience when you’re opening for a bigger band like Foo Fighters. Sometimes, when we’d improvise, we’d stop the music just to hear the belligerent audience, then make disgruntled noise. Those were confrontational nights with pissed off fans. But we came out a totally different band. The aggressive battles provided energy and righteous anger. The experience helped unify the band.

MAN MAN’S ‘RABBIT HABITS’ LEAPS AHEAD

Interviews,

Circus-like Man Man bandleader, Honus Honus (born Ryan Kattner), is the perfect pied piper, a worldly troubadour adrift in strange towns on a never-ending vagabond journey, perhaps suffering privately to assemble pensive lyrical twists and scatological musical turns executed like some ravaged Blues-croaked Captain Beefheart disciple.

 Though he didn’t learn piano ‘til he was in his twenties and despite Man Man’s early merry-go-round lineup changes since formative ’04 debut, The Man in a Blue Turban with a Face, Honus’ crew is now tight as hell and more secure than ever.

 

Brilliantly bizzaro and thoroughly enjoyable, Man Man’s ‘06 salvo, Six Demon Bag, featured a startling blend of satirical heartbreakers, wayward waltzing, thrashing metal, melancholic abstractions, and psycho honky tonk. The clustered cling-clang percussive counterpoint outfitting facetious pirate-yowled chant “Spider Cider” recalls subterranean ‘90s bohos Skeleton Key, who, like Man Man, were a hip assemblage of pragmatic art schooled existentialists extending conventional pop boundaries beyond mere enthusiastic recreation.

Likewise, each abundantly diffuse tune they touch is given a properly designated contextual scheme to work within on this estimable package. Most inventively, cracked baroque closer, “Ice Dogs,” conjoined by a rallied doo wop motif, goes from electrified flute-flanged metal to trumpeted second line New Orleans Jazz. Moreover, intrinsic Baltic oom-pah rhythms gird the euphonious melodica consuming “Banana Ghost.” And if that’s not resourceful enough, the catchiest cut, “Black Mission Goggles,” dupes hoary Carnival cabaret to kitsch-y effect.

But as much nonconforming fun as Six Demon Bag proved to be, the taut collective improved twofold for maniacal abstraction, Rabbit Habits (Anti Records), a magnanimous follow-up finding Honus perched somewhere between cultish beatnik bard, Tom Waits, and some dingily nebulous swamp-rooted vagabond. At times, Honus Honus’ troupe seems to nip at the heels of gypsy punk, as on “Easy Eats or Dirty Doctor Galapagos” and fascinatingly playful snub, “Top Drawer.”

They even dip into vamped Vaudevillian theatricality on obtuse Beefheart-styled free-fall “Mister Jung Stuffed” and bodacious swing band obscuration, “Big Trouble.” Downcast villagers lament, “Poor Jackie,” gathers ‘tragic violin,’ pondering piano, and melodic clarinet to become Man Man’s most accessible derivative. Syncopated bass lubes outré synthesized segue, “Elazteca,” which glides directly into the black-hearted piano-strolled title track.

Honus claims fellow Philly-based artist, innovative Jazz legend Sun Ra, inspired the doo wop-informed “Harpoon Fever,” a schoolyard jump-roped nursery rhyme with sweetly innocent girl group chants and ‘60s surf guitar rumble.

Undoubtedly, Rabbit Habits is a wildly ambitious cluster bomb combining an amazing breadth of ideas in one daringly delirious derangement. In total, its cavalier revelations peruse oblique freeform contrapositions in a downright definitive manner, giving Man Man a decisive edge as one of my favorite albums of 2008.

M. WARD’S REVERENTIAL ‘HOLD TIME’ IGNITES SPIRITUAL QUEST

Interviews

 

Singer-songwriter Matt Ward grew up in Ventura County a few miles north of Los Angeles. A big Beatles fan, he picked up a guitar at fifteen and began toying with a four-track thereafter. His short-lived project, Rodriguez (with Little Wings’ unheralded Kyle Field), offered an opportunity of a lifetime. During an opening performance, Ward impressed Jason Lytle, guiding light of defunct Modesto-based bellwethers, Grandaddy. This led to Lytle producing their lone album, Swing Like A Metronome. Ward received some local recognition and before long moved to Oregon.

 

Residing in Portland, he met Howe Gelb, founder of desert-rock oddities Giant Sand. He gave the ageless patriarch a self-recorded demo during a Seattle stint. Soon, the now-christened M. Ward made his formative fingerpicked debut, Duet For Guitars #2, on Gelb’s boutique Ow Om Records. An ’01 follow-up on Future Farmer, End Of Amnesia, led to Ward’s signing with foremost Carolina label, Merge Records.

On ‘03s unalloyed breakthrough, Transfiguration Of Vincent, Ward’s understated minimalist tunes, frequently delivered in a sheepishly intimate tenor, proved to be captivatingly therapeutic confessionals with convincing introspective insight. His scruffy prairie wanderings and somber campfire retreats had the intrinsic pastoral beauty of what fellow Portland artist Stephen Malkmus once coined the “Range Life.”

A delicate folk charm resonates from Ward’s hushed cigarette-stained baritone identity, actualizing the forlorn bellow of a drowsy grief-stricken loner straddling the precipice time. Betwixt haunting romantic lamentations lurk plain Western preludes, interludes, and prologues; fastidious instrumental tracks that’d also bedeck the ensuing Transistor Radio.

Still singing in an artlessly unaffected monotone drone, but utilizing cleaner production, better songs, and a more relaxed atmosphere, Ward doubled his spellbound audience with Transistor Radio. Rooted more in rural folk-blues tradition and solemn old timey ballads, its highlight has to be the wistful “Radio Campaign,” where Ward serendipitously repeats the choral ‘come back my little piece of mind’ with the same uncanny tossed-off slacker delivery inevitable pal Conor Oberst emitted for Omaha counterparts, Bright Eyes.

Tempered piano boogie ditty, “Big Boat,” turns up the bass turbines and lays on the slashin’ cymbals. “Hi-Fi” welcomes the purified bossa nova elegance Ward’s apt to dabble in. And “Four Hours In Washington” works as an insomniacs twisted nightmare offhandedly presaging another indirect Capitol City homage, Post-War.

Concerning personal politics in spite of its expediently combative Middle East-affected epithet, Post-War scuttles opportune anti-militaristic effrontery by way of a tactful procession of desperate lovelorn limericks swept away when the cagey Ward tackles cracked Texas eccentric Daniel Johnston’s rejuvenating, “To Go Home.” A rustic homecoming with a prescient Neko Case vocal cameo, its dark piano grandeur and plodding bass inexplicably evoke semi-famous Montreal contemporaries Arcade Fire. As usual, Ward’s powerful interpretive ability makes it possible for him to push across Johnston’s triumphal lyrics with preferable candor.

On the instrumental front, there’s the majestic “Neptune’s Net,” a reverberating Hawaiian surf guitar orchestral. And without making too much of a fuss, celebrated My Morning Jacket bard, Jim James, contributes tender backup vocals to dreamy elegy, “Chinese Translation,” as well as snickering acoustic trifle, “Magic Trick.”

As a nostalgic sidestep, Ward’s striking ’08 collaboration with Hollywood actress, Zooey Deschanel, a reluctant piano-playing singer-songwriter, caught the attention of grass roots enthusiasts as well as the pop masses. Under the trite moniker, She & Him, the resourceful pair have a good time embracing innocent Country-blues eclecticism, endearing Deschanel’s uplifting bell-toned contralto to Ward’s meditative six-string adaptations. Dusty Springfield’s friendly ghost hovers above the lilting whistled symphony, “Thought I Saw Your Face Today” and Patsy Cline’s wayward drama compels the moving Country & Western torch song, “Change Is Hard.”

Redemption and hope consume ‘09s prodigal Hold Time, originating with hastened acoustic deliverance, “For Beginners,” which peers down from Mount Zion in search of salvation. Perhaps aching for spiritual guidance, “Jailbird” finds Ward summoning supreme powers to ‘help me, help me now’ over nectarous orchestral strings and Spanish guitar. The resolute “To Save Me” spells out his philosophical beliefs inside an approachable, upbeat, echo-laden Wall of Sound re-creation employing streamlined piano and nifty Beach Boys harmonies.

The seemingly secular fare brings further dramatic impact and added coloration. Glistened keyboard burbles go asunder as oncoming six-string, bass, and drums awaken chimed horoscopic summit, “Stars Of Leo.” Spaghetti Western guitar and a down-along-the-railroad bass scheme suitable for Johnny Cash (yet somehow indicative of Buddy Holly’s Texas two-step rock and roll) reinforce the folkloric ode, “Fisher Of Men.” And the same hand-clapped kick-drummed snare beat embedding Gary Glitter’s ubiquitous glam anthem “Rock & Roll Part 2″ secures love-struck jubilation, “Never Had Nobody Like You.”

Part of Ward’s success thus far could be attributed to his aspiration to “keep feeling like I’m making my first album each time out.” That perseverance has paid off.

Do you see a thread connecting the lean John Fahey-like guitar pickings of your earliest endeavors to the latest generously arranged symphonic works?

 

M. WARD: The record’s have more in common than there are differences. They all fit together because I have no perspective. I’m still inside this long tunnel. I love the process I’m inside of – as far as making records goes. There’s enough variance for me to keep it stabilized and not make any drastic changes. I know the Rolling Stones could fly to Jamaica to make a record in ten days. For me, it takes two years. It depends on the passage of time to tell me which things to harvest and what to keep in the manure.

You seem to be incorporating the instrumental guitar passages into vocal songs more often. And the songs seem more hopeful.

 

I feel like a good record should feel like a good movie. People should be able to laugh and cry at the same experience. Every song is a balancing act between light and shadows. Hopefully the balance is somewhat representative of the happiness and sadness in your life. I grew up listening to the Beatles’ White Album. I never looked at records as needing to be in one steady mood or chord progression. The records are a chance to see how far you could take these different emotions. I keep them tied together. I’m just using the voice to carry a story across a melody. I still look to the guitar to take the listener to those incredible Roy Orbison moments where vocals reach operatic heights. I gravitate towards the guitar to make those statements.

You’ve increasingly used heavier beats on each successive album, culminating in Hold Time.

 

In general, I wanted to take the rhythms and the sounds of Post-War and basically dissect it and make rich sounds richer and thin sounds thinner as an experiment to see if they could live within a song.

Do you write the symphonic arrangements?

 

Yeah. I started on Post-War. It’s a newfound joy for me to be able to write string arrangements and see them come to life. Strings are such a touchy element of production because it’s easy to go over the top and make something sappy. But with enough vinegar you could keep something sweet from being saccharine.

On the other hand, there’s the spare Robert Johnson-styled lowdown folk-blues of “One Hundred Million Years.”

 

Absolutely. I still have a great fascination with old Robert Johnson records. That simplicity I love in equal measure to the big Phil Spector/ George Martin productions. To see if they could live together on the same record was an experiment worth pursuing.

Renowned Western-folk minstrel Lucinda Williams sings descant on your whispered dirge-y version of Don Gibson’s “Oh Lonesome Me.”

 

During the production of that song I started to hear her voice. I had never met her. But when asked to do a duet she said yes. Since I was in high school she’s been an influence, especially Happy Woman Blues. To have her voice on my record is a great thrill. Lucinda’s voice, in some ways, reminds me of Billie Holiday. It’s raw. She was a joy to work with.

How did your project, She & Him, with Zooey Deschanel, come into fruition?

 

We both grew up listening to KROQ, a groundbreaking L.A. radio station. In the ‘80s, they introduced me to British bands, Sonic Youth, and SST bands. Zooey’s an incredibly talented person. She & Him is entirely different from my solo stuff. I take a backseat and let her sing. Her influence is felt on the Hold Time record, too. We plan to do Volume 2, which is in the demo stage presently.

You construct a narcotic version of Buddy Holly’s “Rave On” with Zooey doing background vocals.

 

Buddy Holly’s writing has been an influence since day one. I discovered him through the Beatles, realizing later how they didn’t write some of their earliest songs I grew up and learned guitar on. That was a revelation. It’s the simplicity I love most about his writing. The mystery that keeps his songs so durable is something I can’t put a finger on.

How much did the Gulf War and contemporary conservative politics affect Post-War?

 

It’s the time I was in, but not necessarily where my head was in. I felt a similarity between New York Times articles I’d read and my favorite books about previous wars. Part of the fun about making a record is you get to play with time and space. It’s gonna mean something different to everyone. There were different interpretations for the new record. I wanted to breakdown time more and not have a specific or vague backdrop. That’s part of the reason I like having cover songs inside a record, to breakdown any chronological time the listener may feel they’re in.

Why does Portland house so many literary songwriters? There’s the Decemberists, Modest Mouse, and Thermals.

 

It must be the coffee. (laughter) Over the last decade, Portland’s no doubt the cheapest West Coast city. Affordable rent makes it easier to do what you love. L.A.’s only a two-hour flight. In San Francisco, you’d have to live in a roach motel. It’s open-minded and you could create without the pressure of too much or not enough media.

M. Ward headlined the Apollo Theatre on February 19th, 2009.

DROPPING DIRTBOMBS ON HOBOKEN

Interviews,

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CRYSTAL STILTS TREK BROOKLYN, REVEAL ‘ALIGHT OF NIGHT’

Interviews

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MELBOURNE’S DRONES HONE BOLD TONE ON ‘HAVILAH’

Interviews,

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Desolate?

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

How’d you hook up with Fiona?

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

Interviews,

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is there any thriving musical scene in Akron?

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

Interviews

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

What song started the whole MySpace PSA buzz?

 

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

How’d you first become interested in pursuing music?

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

CAGE THE ELEPHANT BRINGS DYLAN TO HIP-HOPPED PUNKS

Interviews

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did Cage The Elephant come together?

 

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

You seem to write about sad characters a lot.

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Lincoln, who were you influenced by?

 

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

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

 

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

DONNA THE BUFFALO @ LION’S DEN

Live Reviews

 

Radio Woodstock 100.1 : Donna The Buffalo (

Donna The Buffalo / Lion’s Den/ Jan. 18, 2004

 

Upper New York sextet Donna The Buffalo navigated through an expansive range of roots-y Americana at this narrow, crowded, friendly West Village pub. Much like seasoned jam bands Phish and the Grateful Dead (but with a more pronounced Country & Western bent), they ask for no quarter delivering an exhaustive two and a half hour set.

But while several songs stretched well into the seven-minute mark, they never meandered into excessive, long-winded solo excursions. Instead, the tight, democratic ensemble benefited from an intuitive approach, stretching out over wide-open spaces within each penetrating arrangement, but never once becoming unhinged. Though their fine, recent full length, Positive Friction, represents the band well, Donna The Buffalo’s whimsical spontaneity and natural rural inclinations shine brightest in a live setting.

Loose multi-harmonies and the firm rhythmic foundation of bassist Jeb Greenberg and drummer Tom Gilbert secure many of their jams. And the murky, slightly undersized sound system of the Lion’s Den added rustic authenticity to Donna The Buffalo’s Dust Bowl-styled folk-blues, misty mountain hops, sedate heartland meditations, and one neat skiffle shuffle. Dixie-fried standard, “Bravest Cowboy,” became a beat-driven prairie-bound showdown in their hands.

Singer/ accordionist/ rubboard player Tara Nevins fiddled on a few two-step boogies, back porch country bops, a positive-minded bass-thumped reggae calypso, and a party-spirited Cajun-clipped honky tonk ditty. Ritchie Stearns’ organ and synthesizer drenched a kitschy ska-tinged number and otherwise provided backup for Jeb Puryear and Jim Miller’s clanging guitar chatter. After closing with the “Bo Diddley” beat-stricken “Learning Curve,” the dancing and swaying audience begged for an encore of the bands’ concert staple, “In Another World.” Then, the generous musicians tagged on a few more selections for great measure. Anyone ready to experience a red hot hootenanny should attend a Donna The Buffalo shindig ASAP.