ATMOSPHERE SEEKS RESOLUTION BY PAINTING SHIT GOLD

Interviews,

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

Minneapolis artists seem to relate well to contemporary pop culture.

 

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

DANIELLE HOWLE’S TANTRUMS ‘DO A TWO SABLE’

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

What’s the first concert you attended?

 

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

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

 

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

JONATHAN FIRE EATER SWAGGER THRU ‘WOLF SONGS FOR LAMBS’

Interviews

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

You sound either really stoned or really tired.

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

That’s probably so.

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

 

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

Are you impressed with any new bands out there?

 

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

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

 

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

A few of your songs have a spiteful sadistic nature.

 

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

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

 

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

 

 

FRANK BLACK HEADS TO NASHVILLE FOR SOLO RETREAT

Interviews,

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Your crooning was unexpected. Did you practice octave scales?

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

Some of your Catholics songs were made in one take.

 

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

What have you been listening to recently?

 

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

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

 

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

 

LORI CARSON STAYS TRUE TO HER SENSIBILITY

Interviews

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

Did your parents introduce you to music?

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

What hobbies take up your spare time?

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

BUTTHOLE SURFERS ‘ELECTRICLARRYLAND’ BEGETS ‘WEIRD REVOLUTION’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Wacky Texas boho mofos, the Butthole Surfers, concoct a toxically chronic stew from radically skewed psychedelia-encrusted noise-seared punk rock and haywire electronic gadgetry. After more than a decade in the murky underground, they got their one post-grunge commercial radio break when dusky slacker anthem, “Pepper,” caught everybody’s attention and got people in the stores to buy their seventh studio LP, ‘96s Electriclarryland.

I got to see the Buttholes at Roseland Ballroom in ’96 with my friend, Frank, consuming rum and cokes with the band long after their resounding loud-as-fuck hour-and-a-half set. The next day, those anuses at Capitol Records (not including Bobbie Gale) scheduled an 11 AM interview. Guitarist Paul Leary, nursing a hangover, was pissed at those dumb-asses. And the Capitol rep tried to keep me from discussing singer-keyboardist Gibby Hayne’s heroin problems even though it was Gibby that began taking the conversation that way. Anyway, much herb was cooked and we all had a fuckin’ blast.

Since ’01, Butthole Surfers have remained dormant. Gibby got married and lives in Brooklyn. Paul had already become an in-demand producer working boards for Sublime, Meat Puppets, Daniel Johnston, and Reverend Horton Heat in their prime. Drummer King Coffey did well with his boutique label, Trance Syndicate, releasing discs by pre-fame And They Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead and ex-13th Floor Elevator psych-garage schizo, Roky Erickson (amongst others).

The following piece is comprised of that late morning conversation and appeared in Brutarian (a great DC mag with superb underground articles and even better illustrative drawings started in the ‘90s by Dominick Salemi). Afterwards, I’ve added a Paul Leary interview from ’01 promoting Weird Revolution that originally ran in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, the Butthole Surfers: singer Gibby Haynes, a six-foot-six longhaired gutter rat who’s not nearly as stark, grim, or demonic as painted by the mainstream press; guitarist Paul Leary, who, truth be told, is much more frightening than the aforementioned, ready to unleash his ornery angst at any given moment when not letting loose with frank observations and candid retrospection; and King Coffey, a drummer anchoring not only these Buttholes, but his own record label, Trance Syndicate.

Recording since ’81, the Buttholes know the rock and roll game well and now stare national stardom in the face thanks to the burgeoning popularity of ‘96s maladjusted pop-slopped sleaze, Electriclarryland.

Since I’ve followed Texas music for quite awhile, I’d like to know if the Butthole Surfers have ever met respected underground legends, 13th Floor Elevators?

 

HAYNES: Yeah. Roky was a great guy. We put a record out on his label.

COFFEY: You could make an argument that if you look at Texas popular music, there’s a weird element running through it. Some of the musicians from the ‘50s, like Roy Orbison, certainly looked weird. Buddy Holly kinda sounded weird when he came out with his heavy drum roll and the toms. He was one of the most original white musicians. You could look at the ‘60s with ? and the Mysterians and “96 Tears.” Then even the Texas psychedelic scene was weird by psychedelic standards. In the ‘70s there was ZZ Top, one of the strangest bands on the planet. They have a successful repertoire that could be considered mainstream.

HAYNES: Well, Willie Nelson just totally fucked off everybody. He totally did his own thing differently. I mean, there’s just something about Tex artists.

COFFEY: Like Mr. Haynes just pointed out, Willie Nelson, is considered a Country singer, but really he’s a Jazz singer. He may do Country, but he’s a Jazz player. Willie could do what he wants. And he’s never had a successor.

LEARY: (just walking in the door half asleep) Goddamn…

COFFEY: There’s Paul Leary.

LEARY: Who fucking scheduled this shit so early? Is this Capitol Records idea of a goddamn joke? I just think this is retarded. (calming down) Oooh, I had such a good dream going. I was dreaming I was sleeping.

HAYNES: Within the last year, I actually had a wet dream. I actually woke up with the semen all over my tummy. I even called Bill Carter and told him. (laughter)

Have your songs become more reflective as you’ve grown up? Like “Pepper” deals with several interesting characters.

 

HAYNES: (laughing) Oh, I thought you were gonna say it sounded like Beck because I use the word ‘like’ in it.

Do you guys think of yourselves as unpretentious vulgar bohemians who’ve never been involved or related to any one scene?

 

HAYNES: I think it’s just the name of the band. I can’t think of a truly vulgar song. The name is a sophomoric junior high joke. And I think people just assume we’re stupid, goofy, immature males – which we are – but there’s humor in there. It’s generally not a punchline, one liners. We hardly ever have any foul language on our records.

Do you feel more comfortable with your songs than you did back in ’83?

 

LEARY: I think the best pop riff we ever wrote was on our ’81 song, “Hey.” Everyone of our albums has one justifiable pop song on it. We’re a pop band.

And a very unconventional one at that. Who came up with the theme for the “Pepper” video with Erik Estrada?

 

COFFEY: Video directors come up with videos.

You had nothing to do with the story line?

 

HAYNES: No. Record companies won’t have anything to do with artists directing – unless you’re some huge star. It’s a lot more involved than it looks. But I would include “Pepper” as being another shitty video. It’s as good as 90% of the stuff on MTV, but it’s disappointing not to get a real good video done.

COFFEY: I specifically asked to have Michael and Janet Jackson in our video going through space watching us perform. But Capitol turned it down.

So why bother doing a video then? Did you guys get too big and Capitol needed some more promotional material?

 

LEARY: Well, it was a top tune on the MTV playlist. That’s why you do it. It translates into sales. Plus, it’s fun to make.

HAYNES: You know what I like? If you’re a big band you can smoke and drink booze in your videos. If we had two or three platinum records on the walls, we could be slamming dope in our videos.

Do you guys ever go onstage fucked up before sets and wonder what the hell you’re doing up there?

 

HAYNES: All the time. Just kidding. No one can go onstage and play better if they’re all doped up. If I smoke pot before I go on, I get real paranoid about how the kids are getting ripped off. It just freaks me out.

LEARY: If music is not real, then pot is not a drug. If we were to take cocaine, then you couldn’t play an instrument if you hadn’t before. But with pot, you could believe the lie that you could play. And it makes it much more enjoyable. Driving is a little easier when you’re stoned, but heroin and cocaine are not driving drugs. I’m much safer in my car when I’m stoned.

How could you describe the Buttholes’ sound to a musically unhip person?

 

LEARY: We’re a pop band. Listen to our first motherfucking album. We rhyme ‘love’ with ‘dove.’

COFFEY: Just listen to the very first song on the very first album. We’re a pop band as we’ve already noted.

LEARY: It’s only recently that we’ve been doing bullshit rock music because of what people demand.

Why do you differentiate between pop and rock music?

 

COFFEY: Ah, let’s not. They’re both the same. Now bullshit rock, that’s different…

LEARY: Grand Funk Railroad was a pop band. Still, it doesn’t rock harder than that.

Is it true Walmart decided not to carry Electriclarryland because of the cover having a picture of a cartoon character with a pencil shoved in his ear?

 

COFFEY: No. They’re carrying it now. You never know. Best Buy had a campaign a couple years ago where there was a son talking to his mom about bands he likes, and one of the bands he mentioned was the Butthole Surfers. No one thought twice.

Who are some guitar influences, Paul?

 

LEARY: Mark Farner of Grank Funk, Roy Clark, Gene Simmons… I don’t care what kind of music they play, as long as they’re good.

On the other hand, the media has made you guys much bigger monsters than you come off as. Do you think the image is justified? Do you think the fans see it this way?

 

LEARY: The Butthole Surfers don’t really have an image. Like you look at the band Psychotica with the guy with no penis who comes out in a silver suit and they have colored smoke – that’s an image. ZZ Top has an image. We are without image. We are all surface area with no volume.

COFFEY: And so therefore, people have not distorted our image enough.

So it’s time to distort your image more?

 

COFFEY: It’s up to you to distort our image.

HAYNES: If we can be said to have an image, it’s a creation of the press.

Well, I think with some of the things you do, you push the envelope a little bit. You’re anti-image so you sort of create an image.

 

HAYNES: It’s really difficult to not have an image.

COFFEY: Hey, remember that guy who had that really shitty pickup truck in Austin? And on the back window on the top written in dust was “Dino De La Hoya”?

LEARY: I saw a Plymouth with custom lettering. The guy spelled Plymouth ‘P-l-i-m-o-t-h.’ It was all crooked. But pachucos, to me, are the most influential artists in the world. A pachuco will take anything and turn it into something great to reflect his own unique and individual style. It’s usually a reflection of him sniffing the glue. If you’ve never hung out with some guys sniffing a red rag… that’s so fucking cool.

HAYNES: Like a guy who wears his jockstrap on the outside of his pants. Now that’s art.

Low Rider magazine would appreciate this. They had an issue devoted solely to airbrush art.

 

LEARY: That’s a smokescreen because the true art is the bitter art within. Have you ever heard a pachuco say ‘Hey hippie, suck my peepee?’ I bet they didn’t put that in Low Rider. They weed out the guys who call themselves artists and flush them down the commode. I’m from San Antonio and I worship pachucos. My goal in life is to be a pachuco. But I was really bummed out when I couldn’t be a pachuco. I had all that Irish heritage I had to deal with.

HAYNES: As a band one time we tried to become pachucos. We had these khaki pants that were about twenty inches too big in the waist, and extra extra large flannel shirts and white undershirts and hairnets. King looked good in a hairnet.

LEARY: We went and bought those pointy shoes that were called Delega-tays.

COFFEY: They were fake Stacey Adams.

LEARY: Yeah. We couldn’t afford the real ones.

COFFEY: Actually, they were called Delegates. We preferred to call them Delega-tays.

HAYNES: Little roach killers.

You have a problem with roaches?

 

LEARY: Gibby nailed two of his cockroaches to the wall of his tool shed in San Antonio where we recorded our first record. And they appeared to die from time to time. But a few minutes later you’d hold a lighter to it and it’s dance.

HAYNES: I had a pet roach one time and all he ate was one bean and a human hair. Then he finally died. You could tell he was eating the bean because just a little bit of it would be gone.

How do you guys feel about being made poster children for the Christian Coalition?

 

COFFEY: I think it’s cool how the Christian Coalition is the key to the Republican party now. I think that’s rocking. They couldn’t win without them so Dole had to pick someone who was anti-abortion.

So I doubt you’ll be voting for the Republican ticket in the near future.

 

COFFEY: You’ll never catch me in a voting booth. The only booth you’ll catch me in is the one you got to put quarters in.

Well, I voted for myself. I think Clinton’s a dick and a liar.

 

LEARY: I think his wife is a bigger dick and a liar.

HAYNES: I like Hillary Clinton because she refuses to be made fun of. She’s the sexiest thing in the White House since Jackie O.

LEARY: No. I disagree. The sexiest thing in the White House is Chelsea. She’s got so hot lately. She’s really come into her own.

Wouldn’t you like to find out she’s a Butthole fan?

 

LEARY: I’m sure she likes “Pepper.” I did meet Amy Carter. And she was wearing a Psychedelic Furs t-shirt.

COFFEY: She, on the other hand, is more intellectually attractive.

And Chelsea inspires thoughts of debauchery! If she had invited you would you have played at one of the inaugural balls?

 

HAYNES: I think it’s sick when bands do that. If I ever see Michael Stipe I’m gonna give him shit. Natalie Merchant and Michael Stipe up there singing for the President of the United States!

COFFEY: We had a bass player years back who lost all respect for the Turtles when they played at Trisha Nixon’s party.

Playing at a birthday party, even Trisha Nixon’s is different from playing an inaugural party.

 

HAYNES: Nixon was a good president.

COFFEY: Yeah, but he had a potty mouth.

HAYNES: LBJ had a potty mouth.

LEARY: He used to bark his orders to his aides from the toilet. I used to work for a guy like that at a lumber yard.

COFFEY: LBJ was the coolest because if he ever had a problem with anybody, he had one simple solution. He’d take off his clothes and his problems would go away. All his detractors would disappear.

Didn’t you guys go onstage naked once? Was that a political statement?

 

HAYNES: No. It was because I forgot to wear underwear. Otherwise, I would have been underwear clad.

LEARY: Take off your clothes and go stagediving until you realize there’s a finger up your butt. You can get your dick snapped. You ever been dick snapped?

Not that I can remember. And speaking of snapping, what about the Turtles? You’ve covered stuff before, ever had any desire to do a Turtles song?

 

COFFEY: No, because the Turtles are pricks. The whole De La Soul thing with the samples was bullshit. They wrote some great songs. But I’m not going to contribute any money to them because they’re fucking assholes. Plus, they were doing that Six Flags amusement park tour thing. I met some people who went to that and they said the Turtles really sucked hard.

So in the twilight of your career you couldn’t see yourself playing a park like New Jersey’s Great Advernture?

 

COFFEY: I’m really looking forward to the Holiday Inn days. That’s the ultimate gig. Maybe those Vegas clubs. We’d just play loud as shit in the lounge.

LEARY: What about that Gospel group who was making too much noise in that one hotel we were at? Those fucking assholes wouldn’t shut up, singing gracefully to the Lord. I told them joyfully to shut the fuck up.

Still, our readers want to know: are there any songs you’d pick as covers?

 

HAYNES: Soft Cell.

LEARY: I want to do Glen Campbell’s “Dreams Of The Everyday Housewife.”

You should do “Wichita Lineman.”

 

HAYNES: Jimmy Webb is a pretty cool writer. (The band breaks into a hip-hop version) Jimmy Webb was an acid shaman genius. Anyone who wrote both “Wichita Lineman” and “Up Up And Away” is just… I just discovered Jimmy Webb. I’m not that musically literate. But I know the real deal when I see it.

Which one of you saw John Mc Laughlin at his first live gig?

 

HAYNES: That was me. Dr. John, Mc Laughlin, and the Allman Brothers. The show started at 11:30 in the morning and was over at 3:30 in the morning in Dallas. My dad was waiting in the car from midnight until 3:30. Didn’t get mad, just asked how I enjoyed the show.

LEARY: The police escorted me out of my first two shows. Grand Funk Railroad and Creedence Clearwater Revival. We got to shoot the finger at the pigs. We had my dad drop us off behind the arena so we could jump the fence and get in.

COFFEY: My most influential early show was the Ohio Players’ “Love Rollercoaster” tour featuring K.C. & The Sunshine Band and Hot Chocolate. And my dad and I were the only people there wearing blue jeans and sandals. It was really amazing…

I assume you guys are making money now. How are you using it to better your lives?

 

LEARY: That’s rich. We’re on MTV. You get a hit on the radio and everyone thinks the mailman just starts bringing in the fucking checks. I love that.

COFFEY: Well, I like people who are confused. They see Erik Estrada on TV in the video and they’re like, ‘Wow, they’re making money.’

Do you make money touring?

 

LEARY: That’s another great myth.

COFFEY: Horrible year for tours.

LEARY: I haven’t seen a check for any of this shit.

COFFEY: We would have made money if we didn’t take out any lights or any musical equipment or any crew or any trucks or vehicles.

LEARY: Our next tour is going to be a wax museum. You could smoke a fake joint with your favorite wax rendition of the Butthole Surfers backstage.

COFFEY: Wow. That looks just like King Coffey!

So what do you guys plan on doing in the future?

 

COFFEY: I think we’ll direct.

—————————————————

BUTTHOLE SURFERS RETURN FOR ‘WEIRD REVOLUTION’

 

Lovable degenerates when they debuted with ‘83s constipated mindfuck, Brown Reason To Live, Austin, Texas-based Butthole Surfers heightened their avant-dementia by ‘87s cacophonous Locust Abortion Technician. After a five-year layoff due to protracted legal battles with former label, Capitol Records, these boho mofos return to action with the less twisted, but equally lysergic Weird Revolution. As with ‘93s Independent Worm Saloon and ‘96s mainstream breakthrough, Electriclarryland, the Buttholes latest venture may lack the colossal mayhem and grizzled debauchery of timeless EP’s such as ‘84s Live PCPPEP and ‘85s Cream Corn From The Socket Of Davis, but the inventive fury of its mutated triumvirate remains solidly intact and wholly committed.

The three-headed monster consisting of singer-keyboardist Gibby Haynes, guitarist Paul Leary, and percussionist King Coffey (each involved with their own side projects and/ or production work) continue to improve upon technical skills and computer experimentation. While Weird Revolution’s underworld provocations and cultural future shock may be less outre, stark, and grimy than ‘86s railing Rembrandt Pussyhorse (and its thematic scheme undeniably more discernible and closer to the surface), the Butthole Surfers still ‘out-freak the normal man’ as infernal ‘messenger(s) of strangeness.’

Lanky, ratty-looking frontman, Gibby Haynes, gets on the soapbox for the Zappa-esque title track, then provides a scuzzy frog-throated rap on the truly accessible “Shame OF Life” (co-written with Kid Rock). He sounds downright pop-friendly on the ultra-catchy “Sweet Jane”-ish anthem, “Dracula From Houston.”

Sometimes irascible and short-tempered (at least with scurvy press types), self-proclaimed Grand Funk fan, Paul Leary, links resonating riffs, grinding axework, and swervy whirs of abstract noise to Weird Revolution’s sometimes unpredictable arrangements. And bald-headed calm-mannered King Coffey anchors the latest oeuvre with a bevy of sharp rhythmic detours and syncopated trip-bop electro-beats.

So the twisted geniuses who first received exposure with an abominable, tasteless admission, “The Shah Sleeps In Lee Harvey’s Grave,” now take on a Beirut bombing “Jet Fighter,” an “Intelligent Guy,” that’ll ‘rock me baby all nite long’ much like Steppenwolf promised in ’69, and a loopy spaceship-bound “Last Astronaut.” For kicks, they’ve appended the Mission Impossible II laser beam, “They Came In” to fill the tail end.

Last time I spoke to the Buttholes was during the morning after a sold-out Roseland Ballroom show in ’96. Despite a record label rep quashing a conversation concerning Gibby’s prior drug habit and Paul’s disgust at Capitol setting up such an early interview following a long night of drinking, the result was a fun-filled weed-laced hour with three of America’s weirdest revolutionaries.

More reserved and less volatile than last time we spoke, Paul Leary offered thoughts on terrorism, current musical influences, and his combo’s latest disc.

The title, Weird Revolution, is ironic considering the World Trade Center terrorist attacks. Since you’ve touched on topical social issues such as the Gulf War on your early ‘90s solo album, History Of Dogs, what’s your take on the current tragedy?

 

PAUL: I think there’s aliens inside the moon wondering when they should step in and straighten this mess out. (laughter)

What do you think about fellow Texan, G.W. Bush?

 

Gosh. Do we have to claim him? I don’t know. I wish people would get more introspective and figure out why this stuff happened. We could go bomb the shit out of whoever, but there’s reasons for everything. That’s the sad part. New York got shit on for the way we, as a country, all are. It’s a hate crime. But we have to put ourselves in their position no matter how strange and outrageous that is. But it doesn’t solve the problem. Why do they feel the way they do? It turns my stomach to see how many SUV’s are driving around. The price of gas went down so everyone goes out and fucking buys as much as they could instead of trying to ween ourselves off dependence to the Middle East. Who’s the enemy? At least in Pearl Harbor we knew who did it. What’s next?

A computer war where the U.S. wins. In fact, the Buttholes have implemented that advanced technology to Weird Revolution.

 

Digital recording is in its early phase. The way we recorded twenty years ago and the way it’s done now makes for a whole new creative realm.

You seem to use more technical guitar skills rather than meaty fast-fingered riff patterns.

 

It’s a compelling process that sucks you in. We’re getting mixed reviews. Some like it, some don’t.

There’s a strange dichotomy working. This is your best sounding and most accessible album, but avant-garde fans may fell it’s less Dadaist and less eccentric than past endeavors. Still, Electriclarryland had already moved in a more centrist manner.

 

We’ve always been intrigued by pop music. Look at the Cult’s “Sanctuary.” That was a pop song but it’s still cool today. It was one of the best mixes with a real monstrous kick drum. Now, everyone has monstrous kick drums.

The Buttholes early ‘80s stuff was far more demented, lo-fi, and underground.

 

There are influences now that weren’t in effect back in the days. Back then, we made records without any outside influences. There was nobody standing over shoulder, going ‘Gee. You should do this.’ Now, we have our songs and the first question is ‘Do we have two radio hits on it?’ We keep going ‘til we get it.

Not that it’s all reliant on commercial considerations. The title track seems influenced byFrank Zappa’s Lumpy Gravy or 200 Motels.

 

Uncle Meat was my favorite. Hip-hop has influenced us for awhile. Overall, I’m more guided by Glenn Miller. I love that stuff. He’s a true American hero. (Note: Swing Jazz pioneer, Miller, performed for WWII troops and died in a mysterious plane crash) I get laid listening to that music.

How ‘bout Benny Goodman?

 

I haven’t been listening to that, but I need to. I’ve been listening to Nat ‘King’ Cole and Texas Swing by Bob Willis.

Yet you’ve also produced adventurous rockers like Sublime, and recently, the Long Beach Dub All Stars. What did you add to their sound?

 

Because I know those guys, they have an awful lot of trust in me. The Dub All Stars music gives me a vintage feeling. Their songwriting is a throwback rather than new alternative. I wanted their record to be a collection of songs in an old-fashioned sense. Production is a utilitarian thing. You show up in the studio, work on songs, edit it, and mix it. It was mixed on an old AMAC board in Redondo Beach at Total Access Studio. We recorded some stuff with Spot there in ’82. So it was funny walking in that place again.

Was the Butthole debut EP, Brown Reason To Live, recorded there?

 

No. We owed Spot a few hundred bucks and we were too poor to pay. He ended up with the tapes and we re-recorded them in San Antonio. I’d love to get my hands on those tapes. It’s pretty funny stuff. Back then, most bands in the punk scene were on their own tangent. Now, we’re in a place in music where we were during the mid-’70s, when there were all these conceptions that had become solidified. It had become stifling. You keep expecting someone to breakout and tear the whole thing down again. I wouldn’t mind seeing that right now. Rock radio is hard to listen to these days. I don’t know what the business structure is to keep it the way it is, but it’s not in touch with what people want to hear. Hopefully, they’ll rebel and come up with something that puts those motherfuckers out on their asses. Look at the independent promotional business. That’s gross and still is. That’s how you get on the radio.

Did the four-year layoff since the Buttholes divorce from Capitol Records allow the band time to tweak with Weird Revolution?

 

The first couple years were spent in shock. We couldn’t believe we had our asses handed to us. We had a big hit with “Pepper” and a successful album. We thought we were good to go next time around. All of a sudden, we weren’t musicians anymore and were living in a world of shit. Once we got settled with Hollywood Records, we were able to access what we were working on and put a fresh perspective on it. (Co-producer) Rob Cavallo had ideas of what he wanted to do and the last bit of tweaking was hard work. Rob wanted radio songs and didn’t consider the album done until “Dracula From Houston” and “Shame Of Life” were included. He did a lot of work with those songs and put us in a situation to get this done – bless his heart. The next album will be a radical departure.

MEKONS GO OUT OF OUR HEADS WITH ‘OOOH!’

Interviews

FOREWORD: This interview with the Mekons marvelous leader-by-default, Jon Langford, promoted the combo’s celebratory ’02 LP, simply entitled OOOH! In September ’02, the Mekons played three theme nights, each concentrating on a different era. I caught the CBGB set (early period Mekons) and the Mercury Lounge one (late period), but missed Maxwells. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Taking their name from TV’s Dr. Who, resilient British rockers, the Mekons, began as disaffected art school counterrevolutionaries from Leeds living the questionable punk rock dream. Barely able to play their instruments, the amateurish combo began recording what founder Jon Langford described as “vaguely irrelevant overlong songs” way back in 1977, culminating in ‘79s developmental, if awkward, The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strnen.

After an early breakup, the Mekons regrouped for Country-folk-inspired post-pink classics such as ‘85s Fear & Whiskey, ‘88s calypso-reggae-tinged So Good It Hurts, and a series of resounding ‘90s albums that broadened their formidable reach and built upon an already avid cult status.

To celebrate their 25th anniversary as recording artists, this revolving lineup of Chicago transplants, grounded by Langford, guitarist Tom Greenhalgh, vocalist Sally Timms, fiddler Susie Honeyman, and drummer Steve Goulding, have unleashed the penetratingly triumphant OOOH! (short for Out Of Our Heads).

 

Reaffirming their position as fanciful warriors strutting beyond doomsday gloom, the Mekons follow up ‘00s brilliant Journey To The End Of The Night with another undeniable accomplishment. Dealing with the spiritual dislocation of our present tumultuous world climate, OOOH! drifts through turmoil and volatility in a sorrowful manner, offering hauntingly anthemic white Gospel illuminations amidst the fury and tension.

The solemn communal requiem, “One X One,” courageously pits united vigilance against the discontentment propagated by overzealous war monarchs. The war-torn, Timms-sung “Hate Is The New Love” whispers heart rendering resolve while the Fairport Convention-styled Gaelic folk of “This Way Through The Fire” shines a dim flashlight beyond the ominous post-Apocalyptic flames.

Between breaks from mixing new tracks for an upcoming record by the Sadies, which sets Langford’s lyrics to their Country-affected arrangements, I spoke to the unqualified leader of the band via phone.

I thought OOOH! dealt primarily with the religious warfare surrounding the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

 

JON: I don’t wanna be like Courtney Love and say we predicted it. But the songs were written and recorded before 9-11. It’s funny how things take on different resonance’s afterwards. An alternative title was Dangerous Bibles, but we didn’t want to make it too topical.

There’s a hymnal religiosity throughout.

 

I grew up in Wales, where people sing at football (soccer) and rugby games. That was the sort of soundtrack. They’re really good folk songs. Tom (Greenhalgh) and I have been listening to a lot of old Alan Lomax prison and church songs. We’d been doing some art and thinking of putting text and words together. So inevitably we were looking at social historian, E.P. Thomspon’s Witness Against The Beast, which goes into a Lipstick Traces-like look at where poet William Blake came from (examining cultural milieu).

Critic Bob Christgau credits the Mekons with prefiguring alternative Country and the whole No Depression era. Do you get respect form Jeff Tweedy and Jay Farrar, former Uncle Tupelo progenitors?

 

We get no respect from Jeff Tweedy at all. No. I’m kidding. I’ve done kid’s concerts in Chicago with him and Tim Rutili from Califone recently. We have an occasional trio, the Dads Of Wiggle Worms. We have singing classes our kids have joined in a Chicago folk school.

The same Mekons lineup that recorded ‘85s recently re-released Fear & Whiskey did OOOH! as founding member Ken Lite has returned.

 

Ken’s been involved with the Mekons, but not live. He’s a collaborator with ideas and we’ve done art together. Being in a band during the ‘90s seemed boring (Ed. Note: due to DJ culture). So we got into art.

What are you trying to express through your art?

 

I’m trying to express the difficulty of self-expression. (smirky laughter) What’s interesting about the Mekons is we’re a smaller model of a way of working which is on the fringes and not about fame and money. A group of people working together doesn’t have to be about a battle of egos, but instead a community-based surrogate family. The only way to leave is in a box. We’ve been loved and regaled in England. People say we’re the greatest band in the world. Then we confound expectations by not delivering the goods commercially. People would say we’re the next big thing. Then we’d fly off on different tracks, so there was revenge for us to remain in existence.

Well. Mainstream radio could lick my ass. Are you telling me OOOH!’s enchanting sing-along, “Thee Olde Trip To Jerusalem” can’t be enjoyed fully next to spiritually awakened moldy oldies like “Oh Happy Day” or the Byrds “Turn! Turn! Turn!” It has a catchy hook line that’d be nestled next to the Beatles, Kinks, and Doors in the ‘60s.

 

That’s the trouble. Those were different times. When I was a kid, radio was the main outlet playing new stuff by Roxy Music and David Bowie. That turned me around. Even the Sex Pistols hit Britain’s Top Of The Pops with “Pretty Vacant.” Now, radio has the lid on very tight. The solidity of constipation of mainstream corporate rock radio actually helps people like us since we have our own clearly defined space to move around in now. The structure of that industry bares no resemblance to what we do.

The spiritual awareness of the melancholic, low key testament, “Take His Name In Vain” and the snappy “Only You And Your Ghost Will Know” counter the sexually deviant titillation of the explicit “Tourettes” (from ‘98s Me) and “Come And Have A Go If You Think You’re Hard Enough.”

 

Usually when we start an album, we have a theme in mind for the collection of songs written. There are ethical issues going on within the subject matter of how you exist.

Singer Sally Timms’ rhyming scheme for “Dancing In My Head” vaguely reminded me of Pussy, King Of The Pirates, the album you did with poet Kathy Acker.

 

The influence Kathy Acker had on us was clear. But the album was one of our least understood and most disliked albums. Yet we had a great time working with her.

“Bob Hope And Charity” seems to be an ironic paean concerning Hope’s touring duties entertaining wartime American troops.

 

There was a myth concerning a Welsh king who had his head chopped off while fighting the Irish. He said, ‘Cut my head off and carry me back to Wales’ and he went on to entertain the troops for eighty years. There’s all sorts of myths about the singing head and the magic of the power of voice – like Bob Hope entertaining the troops.

Do you hope downloading will destroy major label greed?

 

(Sinister laughter) I’m interested in getting paid but the majors are the enemy. Downloading is cool in the sense that Wilco put out their album on the internet and then when it came out, everyone bought it. The majors are too retarded to benefit from it and generate money for artists. All they think about is penalizing artists and keeping the sweets for themselves. They’ll get washed away as they get more extreme ideas how to squeeze money out of people and prevent the free passage of music and information. You can’t stop people from finding good music, but they keep pumping out crap for radio.

TRACY BONHAM’S RIOT GIRL-SPURRED BOSSTOWN SOUND

Interviews

 

FOREWORD: Boston-based singer-songwriter Tracy Bonham received major alt-rock airplay in ’96 thanks to frantically foreboding frolic, “Mother Mother,” the lead single from dazzling debut, The Burdens Of Being Upright. Her one-hit-wonder radio success outperformed more popular indie female artists of the day (Ani Di Franco, Indigo Girls, Sarah Mc Lachlan). Though she never again attained such riot girl-informed aboveground success, 00’s Down Here and ‘05s Blink The Brightest secured her status as a slightly idiosyncratic damsel whose partial reliance on violin is oddly deviant. In ’09, Bonham was preparing a new album. This article originally appeared in HITS magazine.

 

Singer-songwriter-guitarist Tracy Bonham grew up in Eugene, Oregon, where she learned piano and Classical violin. While performing in the Boston area after a spell at Berklee College of Music, Bonham developed an uncanny ability to convey poignant emotions with sharp-eyed relevance and demanding assuredness.

Live in front of a capacity Irving Plaza crowd, her spunky, vibrant personality shines through as her band opens for Spacehog. Dressed in a puffy recycled ostrich silk blouse and light blue slacks, Bonham’s pigtailed girl-next-door looks make her appear half her age.

Her powerful debut, The Burdens Of Being Upright, delivers sharp indictments in an effervescently upbeat manner, deceptively hiding venomously sarcastic characterizations under well-focused melodic-harmonic awareness. Frenzied anthem, “Mother Mother,” subconsciously explores Gen X concerns such as paranoia, social confinement, and instability, screaming the mock-hopeful refrain ‘everything’s fine.’

On “Navy Bean,” a rumbling rhythmic undercurrent intercepts Bonham’s rubbery guitar. The reserved “Tell It To The Sky” builds to a psychedelicized choral climax, but her major breakthrough may be “The One,” an undeniably catchy tune with bright vocals, riveting instrumentation, and a snazzy ‘70s-styled ring radio should snatch up in a heartbeat. “every Breath” and “Kisses” faintly recall the hypnotic imagery of Liz Phair and the playful “Bulldog” gets a loud power pop treatment.

Seasoned by years of small-level touring perfecting her craft – she played violin on a few Page/ Plant dates – the peppy 5’3″ sparkplug has become the unexpected chart topping starlet of ’96.

Hello.

 

(Heavy breathing and panting)

Don’t try that phone sex with me, Tracy. It doesn’t work.

 

Oh come on, you love it. (laughter)

Why’d you sign with Island Records?

 

They were down to earth and had enthusiasm from top to bottom. I didn’t always get that sense from other labels. Island has loads of great artists like Tom Waits, PJ Harvey, and William Burroughs. I feel they won’t try to drop me if I choose to be different or if I don’t sell millions of records. (editors note: guess again, within a year she was looking for a new label)

What pressures did you face recording The Burdens Of Being Upright?

 

It’s stupid, but I put pressure on myself. I’m already worried about the next album. What If it sucks? I really have no idea what I want to do. Probably, I’ll just do something different and whack. Maybe I’ll have more violin, but not in the Classical sense.

Are you comfortable in the recording studio?

 

It depends on the situation. The studio is a weird mind trip. I try to make sure I know what I’m doing every step of the way. But it’s difficult. I’ve finally learned to speak up and say what I want done. I want to be free to create in the studio. I have an eight-track at home. I got a little demo-it is. (laughter) I fell in love with the messed up parts.

What does the title of the album mean? Couldn’t it just as easily be called The Burdens Of Being Uptight?

 

There are so many burdens being human. But you can’t just whine and complain. When I write in my journals, I don’t write about things I enjoy, but instead about things that bug me. Actually, the album is vengeful towards one specific person who’s bound to run across me saying this in an article soon.

What did producers Sam Slade and Paul Kolderie add to the recording process?

 

Wonderful guitar sounds. They had already produced Radiohead, Hole, and Morphine with success. I ran into them numerous times while performing in Boston, so I felt comfortable. They had seen me play live and I almost felt I had a history with them.

Do you feel confined when compared to fellow Bostonians Jennifer Trynin or Julianna Hatfield?

 

It’s bizarre. We’re all different. I feel great when compared to someone I like. But when it’s someone I don’t like, it swims in my head. Last night, I was in Ottawa, home of Alanis Morissette. I felt like everything I did onstage was getting compared to her. I just don’t want to be part of this angry female thing I read about in New York newspapers. If it’s just the next phase, I’ll eventually flop.

Why was your previous Cherrydisc EP named Liverpool Sessions?

 

The title was a big joke about playing clubs for a long time. We finally got a buzz going around Boston and received lots of attention. One prospective title was “Live At Madison Square Garden.” I thought, “Liverpool Sessions” was a good record, but I’m not as proud of it as I am of the new album. The EP was a rush job and a little immature.

Tell me about the passionate discontent of “Sharks Can’t Sleep”?

 

It’s about people hurting each other. It’s also a collage about life and death. You know, one day life is over – it’s scary. Life sometimes seems meaningless. And it doesn’t help that there are all these indie rock kids who only like what others don’t like just to seem different. They hate anything that may be a potential commercial fixture on the radio…no matter what group does it.

What did Boston’s Berklee College of Music teach you?

 

That reputation isn’t everything. Berklee can be great for the right person. But certain people I went to school with were only playing their instrument for six months. Obviously, money had a lot to do with that. Their parents supported them.

Who are the members of your current touring band?

 

The bass player, Drew Parsons, who is the only touring member to record with me on the album. He’s been with me two years. Shayne Phillips is our drummer and Phil Hurley plays guitar. The January show at Irving Plaza was either his first or second night with us. He’s real enthusiastic and has a great ear for music.

What do you think of Liz Phair’s music? She led a small female empowerment rebellion a few years back.

 

I really enjoy her a lot. I used to listen to Exile In Guyville day and night when it first came out.

There were a lot of people backstage after the Irving Plaza show. In the frenzy, you unknowingly prevented Sean Lennon from coming in.

 

I was told to keep some people out. The first person I kicked out was Sean Lennon. I didn’t know it was him. My guitar player told me who it was and then asked me if I was crazy.

THE CORAL CUTS UP BRITISH CHARTS

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I got to hang out with British pop idols, the Coral, during their first American tour supporting ‘02s rewarding eponymous psych-folk mod rock debut. Stargazing guitar group revivalists, the Coral went on to reach number one in England with respectable sophomore set, Magic And Medicine, but were jilted by US lack of interest. I’m unfamiliar with ‘04s The Invisible Invasion and ‘07s Roots & Echoes (which wasn’t released in the States). Lead singer-guitarist James Skelley proved to be a rather shy, soft-spoken person offstage. But the rest of the band was more outgoing. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Onstage at Manhattan’s crowded Mercury Lounge, Britain’s latest press darlings, the Coral, prove worthy impressing stateside informants through the relentlessly frenetic sea shanty opener, “Spanish Main,” to the distended Searchers-obliged closing mantra, “Goodbye.” Musically sophisticated beyond their years (ages 18 to 21), these cleverly resourceful thick-accented Merseyside villagers shun post-punk conventionality by dousing intricate arrangements with crusty Yardbirds-styled riffs, twanged surf rock borrowings, psych-garage organ motifs, and doo wop-influenced harmonies.

Now proud college dropouts, Hillbury High pals James Skelley (vocals-guitar), his brother, Ian (drums), Nick Power (organ), Bill Ryder-Jones (guitar-trumpet), Lee Southall (guitar), and Paul Duffy (bass-sax) have garnered massive UK media attention since their self-titled debut sold an impressive 100,000 copies in Great Britain alone.

Whether chanting simple nursery rhyme schemes on the nifty “Simon Diamond,” drifting into the reggae-fried “Dreadlock Holiday” abyss of organ saturated “Shadows Fall,” or slipping through scampered Madness placation’s such as the soulful “Dreaming Of You,” and the anxiety-riddled “I Remember When,” the Coral consistently scramble jumbled influences in intentionally awkward ways.

Perhaps the most inextricable illustration of their deranged diversification comes via the spasmodic “Bad Man,” a frazzled espionage-themed elixir with fluctuant time signatures, sinister clipped guitar clusters, and burbling wheeze-box undercurrent.

Are the Coral part of a thriving Liverpool-based scene?

 

BILL: It’s going through a transition and turning itself around. It’s a bit of a positive place to come from. It still has its flaws. Local bands like the Bandits, who are into ska-skiffle sounds like the Clash-meets-the-Sex Pistols. The Stands are more like the Byrds’ Sweetheart Of The Rodeo country-folk.

PAUL: Then there’s two lads called Hokum Clones that do bluegrass ragtime with two acoustic guitars. The Irish band, Zutons, is on our label. When we started getting into music, we weren’t serious at fourteen years old yet. The band Madness was cool.

LEE: At that stage, you’re not sure what you’re into. The bands we initially liked were the Beatles, Oasis, and the La’s. The La’s made the best pop songs of the ‘90s. We’ve been playing some of our songs for four years, so the problem becomes ‘How do you play the songs with the same feeling?’

How do your diligent arrangements usually come about?

 

BILL: Most songs are collaborations that are created out of chords. It’s not really a set way. We go over what the feel of the song is and it comes together.

LEE: We could write a few lyrics and put two chords together and a whole song comes out of it. It’s just us.

Your closing song at the Mercury Lounge gig, “Goodbye,” was stretched out live. Its stinging leads reminded me of the Yardbirds while the harmonies

seemed influenced by the Searchers.

 

PAUL: We like to freak out on that. It’s completely selfish and indulgent. We just like to jam out.

The obtuse “Skeleton Key,” with its Captain Beefheart-skewed rhythmic complexity, nearly resembles the music of the New York City band with the same name.

 

PAUL: There’s also a band named Shadows Fall.

On that song, “Shadows Fall,” you play a reggae bass line.

 

PAUL: To be honest, I was on vacation when they wrote that song. It’s not just standard reggae. It skips through styles. The words Nick wrote and the theme called for that bass. But it wasn’t premeditated.

Nick, what’s the inside scoop concerning the lyrics to your song, “Simon Diamond”?

 

NICK: It’s kind of tragic. At the end of the song, he changes into a plant. He has arms to wash himself, but he can’t because he’s a plant. It’s philosophical. Sometimes you sing the chorus until it fits into your liking and that’s the essence of it. Sometimes, they’re made up on the spot.

Are you into Northern Soul?

 

NICK: That’s what we’ve always done. We listen to everything. But we’re so bored because there’s so little to do where we live, so we sit in our bedroom. There’s a high population of old people. So you have to amuse yourself in some way. The first thing I got into was Bob Marley. Then, there was John Lennon and Bob Dylan. They’re the biggest icons. I also like Captain Beefheart and Scott Walker.

The neo-orchestral parts on some songs are reminiscent of Scott Walker’s early ‘70s singer-songwriter stuff.

 

NICK: It’s never preconceived how we’re gonna write. We get an idea, go into the practice room, then whatever happens…you chuck a load of ideas around. If you’re in a band and you’re getting paid for it, you should get everybody involved.

How’s the second record coming along?

 

JAMES: It’s more refined than the first. The quality of songwriting and the arrangements are better and we’re better players now. It’s more within one mood. It’s not as chopped together as the first was.

NICK: The parts of the debut you hear that you can’t relate to any other band is what the whole of the second album is like. It’s more like in ten years time it’ll have a more obvious sound. Our first album was a great, weird representation of where we were then. The next is a more of a mood album like one of those thematic Hawaiian albums that take you someplace else. It’s like the quiet after the storm with some severe Can jams.

(The interview moves downstairs to the Mercury Lounge basement area where James Skelley confides)

I notice your vocal arrangements seem influenced by the purity of doo wop.

 

JAMES: Doo wop is rock and roll, isn’t it? Just like Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers and “Red Sails In The Sunset” or the Spaniels or the Impressions. It’s all feel-good music. I think those were the things I was into, but now everybody in the band is into it.

Did you and your brother, Ian, grow up in a bohemian household with creative parents?

 

JAMES: No. They were just never really in. They were always out. There was no one to tell us what to do. My mom got into the Beatles, Stones, Small Faces, the Kinks, the Who, and David Bowie. But they were into shit music as well. However, they were also into soulful American artists like Jackie Wilson, Smokey Robinson, and Sam Cooke. And stretching back before that, Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, the Ronettes, the Teddy Bears, and “Mr. Sandman” by the Chordettes. Bo Diddley is future music. There’s been nothing as contemporary as Bo Diddley since.

Where do you draw lyrical influences?

 

JAMES: Bob Dylan, Smokey Robinson, Lennon-Mc Cartney, Arthur Lee and writers Dylan Thomas, William Wordsworth (Tintern Alley), John Steinbeck (The Grapes Of Wrath).

So you have quite a few literary influences?

 

JAMES: Yeah. I got The Old Man And The Sea and I just started reading stuff like Tom Sawyer.

 

FRANK BLACK’S CATHOLICS DEBUT WONDROUS TWO-TRACK DEMO

Interviews,

 

FOREWORD: I first interviewed ex-Pixies main man, Frank Black, in ’98, to support his first album with backing band, the Catholics. He’d already done three decent solo albums, but wanted to get back to his primal rock roots and chose Miracle Legion’s bassist and drummer to offer fine support. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

After disbanding innovative ‘80s Boston rock quartet, the Pixies, Frank Black (a.k.a. Black Francis) began a solo career while his former partner, Kim Deal, formed the Breeders with her twin sister. Following a formative self-titled solo debut, Black released pop-styled The Cult Of Ray and equally swell Teenager Of The Year.

Keeping his loud, raunchy guitar riffs sweet ‘n sticky, and his constipated moans harmonious, Black’s recently waxed Frank Black & the Catholics is a two-track demo so good it had to be released in its raw state. Helped greatly by Miracle Legion’s David Mac Caffrey (bass) and Scott Boutier (drums), plus respected session man Lyle Workman (guitar), the songs from this three-day session may be Black’s finest work since the Pixies.

Highlights from the Catholics’ entrée include the love sticks/ life sucks verdict “Back To Rome” (which cleverly uses the decline of the Roman Empire as a metaphor), the Lou Reed-ish “I Gotta Move,” and the seductively charming “King & Queen Of Siam.” But my fave is the absolutely cool Who knockoff “Suffering.”

Presently living in Los Angeles, Black called me one hot afternoon, August, ‘98. He was getting over a cold as he spoke of the Catholics, life in the Pixies, and his love for rock of ages.

You seem to get back to your roots on the new album. Why?

 

FRANK: What you’re hearing is an expensive demo. We decided after a few days of recording this was the way to go. The producer who was going to work with us thought it sounded great the way it was so we stayed with the live-to-two-track. We were in the studio three days. After the first two, I had grand thoughts this would be the album. But it wasn’t intended that way.

Do you see this album as a logical progression from your first three solo efforts?

 

FRANK: You could categorize the first two solo albums as a relaxed period which progresses from the Pixies. I was still working with Eric Feldman, who worked on the Pixies’ Trompe Le Monde. We goofed around and had fun with the arrangements. We were enjoying ourselves using players we regularly listen to. The Cult Of Ray and the new album are the result of going out on tour a lot and eventually ending up with the band we already had. We were more true to a pure rock ethic. Certainly The Cult Of Ray is very different from this one, but the instrumentation is very similar

Your only cover song is Larry Norman’s honky tonkin’ “Six-Sixty-Six.” Why cover that song?

 

FRANK: Larry Norman is an obscure artist who’s considered the father of Jesus rock. In his late ‘60s heyday, I used to listen to his records. I decide to cover one of his songs and “Six-Sixty-Six” was the one I went for.

What early ‘50s/’60s rockers do you enjoy listening to?

 

FRANK: Certainly a lot of ‘50s and ‘60s recordings have become very holy and important to me. I have more respect for those records than I do for most records made in the ‘80s. It’s closer to the rock explosion in 1955, which was its nucleus. There’s something mystical about that. I’m a big Del Shannon fan. I’m also into Freddy Fender, whose music is rooted in the ‘50s. And Johnny Horton, who did “North To Alaska” and “Battle Of New Orleans.” ‘60s artists like Leon Russell, Doug Sahm, and Sam The Sham & the Pharaohs I also love.

You seem to like those cool three-minute pop tunes.

 

FRANK: Originally, piano rolls and wax cylinders allowed the mechanics of a song to be leveled down to three minutes. That may have given birth to the conventional pop song. It’s a really strong pillar early rock relied on. As it developed over the years, that cornerstone of music fell. Rules are meant to be broken, but to let a song casually slip into the ten-minute mark, I think, is a bad thing.

Your former band, the Pixies, were influenced by prer-grunge icons. Some critics claim your solo albums are too conventional. What are your thoughts?

I just do what I do. When I was with the Pixies, there was no attempt at being progressive other than we weren’t trying to be like Journey. It wasn’t contrived. We were trying to express rock music as best as we could. Pretty quickly we met with sucess. Along with that came a lot of demands, like touring, making more records, and doing soundtrack songs. Of course, there’s a lot of hype from English magazines declaring us the greatest band in the world and all that shit. You dont’ believe the hype, but you go along with it. So you end up cranking out songs. By the end, I was unhappy with the situation. But I don’t know, it’s different now. You just learn more about songwriting. Development, for me, isn’t planned. It’s like gravity pulling me along.

Would you consider yourself more pop-rooted than Kim Deal?

 

Maybe yes. But that’s for someone else to decide. I wouldn’t know.

How’d you hook up with David and Scott from Miracle Legion for this album?

 

The Miracle Legion is basically defunct. I played shows with them over the years and John Stewart had a television show and I needed a pickup band since I fired my band and was floundering around. I was opening for They Might Be Giants when I asked John Stewart if I could use his rhythm section since I was invited to do his show. But they were doing Conan O’Brien that night so I called up David and told him to bring down his rhythm section. So that was my cue to work with those guys. They have a certain glue from having played together in other bands and having been roommates. They make a fat sound in a consistently skewed fashion. Maybe their drums rush by and the bass lags behind. Nothing is overplayed. But nothing is too precious or delicate. They play at full volume like I do. We get along well. I rarely made suggestions on how to deliver a song in rehearsal. I’d have a new song, show them the chords, and a very natural, unspoken relationship developed.

Your singing seems to have more emotional resonance these days.

 

I’ve always been a singer, not a screamer. I concentrate on singing in tune. I ended up singing on a tribute record with Gary US Bonds. He’s a real soulful, legitimate singer. And here I am, some young punk. David Bowie asked me to sing “Scary Monsters” and “Fashion” for his 50th birthday party. I’m not nearly as good as he, but you just try to be good.

Radio dismissed ’80s indie rock. Would you agree Nirvana opened the doors for indie rock on a commercial level during the ’90s?

For a minute, maybe. But now you can’t get played unless you have one of the fifteen songs on the playlist. I call the post-grunge copycats hamburger bands. I can’t listen to all that crap. And when they do play something on modern rock that’s good, it’s the same Clash song. I can’t deal with those stations. They suck. It’s all about marketing, crunching numbers, and dwindling down to lowest common denominator. I’m not bitter about it. If they want to get ratings playing shitty music to shitheads who think it’s wonderful, it’s their loss. One-hit wonders aren’t passionate about music. They’re obsessed with being famous and it shows. But they make quick money, so so good for them.

-John Fortunato

ECHO & THE BUNNYMEN BRING ‘FLOWERS’ OF ROMANCE

Interviews

 

FOREWORD: Working class post-punk Liverpudlians, Echo & the Bunnymen, were part of the ‘new psychedelia’ movement local antecedents, the Teardrop Explodes, helped fortify with ‘80s universally acclaimed Kilimanjaro. Guitarist Ian Mc Culloch had been in the Julian Cope-led Crucial Three before Cope started up Teardrop Explodes. But Mc Culloch split and went on to find success leading Echo & The Bunnymen, whose exceptional debut, Crocodiles, maintained an eccentric cleverness captured best on suspenseful Brit smash, “Do It Clean.” Though ‘81s middling Heaven Up Here further secured an enlarged cult status, it was ‘83s lissome goth-gloom masterpiece, Porcupine, with its stark symphonic sharpness and icy violin crescendos, that secured aboveground acceptance inside and outside Europe. ‘84s equally compelling, magnificently orchestrated Ocean Rain, replaced any leftover macabre apparitions with a confident melodic splendor.

After a three-year layoff, ‘87s self-titled fifth album produced the pop schlock dandy, “Lips Like Sugar,” while ‘88s Pretty In Pink movie soundtrack offered finely-detailed moody retreat, “Bring On The Dancing Horses.” But Echo & the Bunnymen were temporarily halted while Mc Culloch went solo with worthwhile ’89 LP, Candleland.

 Despite reuniting for ‘90s brooding Brit-pop mediocrity, Reverberation, Echo & the Bunnymen once again withdrew, waiting seven years before the valiant comeback, Evergreen. A steady stream of average-to-good LP’s followed, including ‘99s What Are You Going To Do With Your Life, ‘01s Flowers (which I promoted with the Ian Mc Culloch phone interview below), ‘05s Siberia, and ‘09s The Fountain. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Ever since the late ‘70s punk explosion, Echo & the Bunnymen have possessed an artful quirkiness and stylish Romanticism that countered the primal, raw virulence of first wave reactionaries the Sex Pistols, The Clash, and the Dead Boys.

Lead by rhythm guitarist Ian Mc Culloch, a debonair singer with a piercing caterwauled wail, and lead guitarist Will Sergeant, these gothic Liverpool-based post-punks helped invent a ‘new psychedelia.’ Boasting a more informed, sophisticated, and formal approach than its roughhewn competition, Echo & the Bunnymen soon became one of England’s greatest ‘80s bands.

The baroque grandeur and majestic orchestral drama of ’80 debut, Crocodiles, and ‘81s less intriguing Heaven Up Here ushered in the visionary breakthrough of ‘83s gorgeous Porcupine (featuring the throbbing evocation, “The Cutter”) and ‘84s arguably better Ocean Rain.

After a self-titled ’87 album assisted by former Doors keyboardist, Ray Manzarek, Mc Culloch went solo for ‘89s plaintive beauty, Candleland, and its worthy follow-up, Mysterio.

Re-formed and reinvigorated, Echo & the Bunnymen came back strong with two more lushly textured albums: ‘97s mood-struck Evergreen and ‘99s difficult-to-find What Are You Going To Do With Your Life.

Still searching for salvation in a world offering little spiritual guidance, the liquefied guitar swirls and billowy synthesizer smoothness of ‘01s promising Flowers offered further evidence of Mc Culloch and Sergeant’s combined genius. From the glistening curlicue guitar feedback of the faith-riddled “King Of Kings” to the tongue-in-cheek sarcasm of “Everybody Knows” to the glimmering vibes and backward tape loops of “Make Me Shine,” Flowers may be the most exhilarating step forward yet.

Though their music hasn’t changed much since the elegiac provocation, “Do It Clean,” they remain seminal figures of the underground rock scene.

I spoke to Mc Culloch for a half-hour via phone.

Who were some of your formative musical influences?

 

IAN: The first thing that floored me was David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust. Then I went back and got Space Oddity and Hunky Dory – which is now my favorite Bowie album. I couldn’t wait for his albums to come out. They kept me sane and insane and got me through that weird time between ages 13 and 15 when all I cared about was football and Bowie. It made me want to be a singer. He’d mention in interviews Velvet Underground, Iggy Pop, and Jacque Brel as influences. That sounded intriguing so I got hooked on them.

Then the Doors came later through Will. He’d play their stuff and I’d think ‘this is the missing seed in the pack.’ I love Leonard Cohen. I consider him part of the lineage or family tree from Bowie. I always liked the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Kinks. But I was more fascinated with the more decadent, dark songs by the Doors, Lou Reed, and Iggy & the Stooges. I always looked for that atmosphere in music.

Were you an original member of fellow post-punk Liverpool band, Teardrop Explodes?

 

IAN: I wasn’t. There was one time when the band was called Shallow Madness. I was meant to be the singer because I suppose I looked the most likely for the part. But the music wasn’t the kind I wanted to do. Therefore, I didn’t show up for many rehearsals even though they were held in my flat. I’d disappear the night before. I was too shy to sing; too shy to tell them. They got fed up with me, and Julian Cope started singing.

The Bunnymen’s first few albums dealt with heavier topics such as politics, depression, and agony. Over the years, your lyrics became more reflective and personal.

 

IAN: That started when I made two solo records. After that, I didn’t want to go back. Early on, it was more metaphysical and existential. Then I realized the songs that touch you more are more personal, like Bowie’s “Changes” and “Heroes.” His most personal record, Hunky Dory, sounded like a bloke with a guitar rather than a bloke from outer space. What I wanted to get across was that one to one, when a line hits you. The early albums skirted around those things. It was more superficial angst than personal lyricism.

What do you like best about the way Flowers turned out?

 

IAN: The warm, affected guitar sounds are quite clear and crisp. There’s not layers and layers of things going on – which I may have been guilty of in the past. We became aware how it sounded like Crocodiles more than any of the others. Also, there was a touch of the Doors first album with the guitar affects. You just go instinctively for what you fancy.

I heard it cost less money to make Flowers than it did to record Crocodile over twenty years ago.

 

IAN: We never spent fortunes. You could spend months unnecessarily. This was written and recorded with Will’s main guitar lines in twelve hours. Over the course of a month, he’d come around for two hours and we’d come out with four basic songs or the beginning of a song. We’d be like, “Wow! We’ve got six songs now.’ That didn’t include lyrics, but the basic melody lines were going well. We thought it would take ages for the rest of the band (keyboardist Ceri James; percussionist Vincent Jamieson; and bassist Alex ‘Kong’ Germains) to feel comfortable, but they found it easy to come up with spontaneous bits at this funky little fourth floor floorboard studio with big windows opposite an old police station in Liverpool.

I’m not yet familiar with the previous album, ‘99s What Are You Going To Do With Your Life?

 

IAN: It’s the closest in sound to Ocean Rain in terms of songwriting style. It’s very orchestrated. It’s hard to tell with Will, but I think it’s the album he’d have liked more if it were a solo album by me. His involvement wasn’t that great. It’s acoustic based in the main but with lots of strings. Most people don’t know it’s around. It shows how bad the previous record company people were. People who’d been with us since 1980 had no idea of its existence.