DIRTY THREE TAKE AUSSIE CHAMBER FOLK UNIVERSAL

Interviews

FOREWORD: Dirty Three were an Australian instrumental trio whose poignantly Classical-inspired Chamber pop piqued the interest of more adventurous post-rock explorers. Live, at Tramps in Manhattan, they played their intensely moving tunes and followed them up with some welcome, but unexpected, comic relief in the form of dirty jokes, disgusting fake song titles, and audience baiting routines. Fuckin’ great stuff. They followed up ‘03s She Has No Strings Apollo with ‘05s lesser-known Cinder. Dirty Three’s members have backed up Nick Cave and Cat Power since then. This article originally appeared in Auqarian Weekly.

 

Poignant wordless emotionality, provocative sadness, and beautiful ethereal imagery define the solemn neo-Classical requiems prescribed by Melbourne, Australia’s debonair instrumental trio, Dirty Three.

Fronted by violinist Warren Ellis, this investigative ensemble has made five illustrious albums while its individual members concurrently appeared on a bevy of recordings by independent-minded artists such as Will Oldham, The Cruel Sea, Tex Perkins, Ute Lemper, and Black-Eyed Susans. An admirer of bluegrass and traditional Scottish-Irish music, Ellis studied piano and accordion as a child, learning standards such as “I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts” and “Roll Out The Barrel” as a pre-teen in school.

In the early ‘90s, following a stint in unheralded These Future Kings, Ellis met guitarist Mick Turner, formerly of respectable punks, the Moodists, and drummer Jim White, who’d collaborated with Turner in local legends, Venom P. Stinger. Turner and White brought punk’s independent creative aesthetic to the delicate Baltic melodies and plaintive Celtic influences Ellis discovered as an impressionable youngster.

As Dirty Three, they’ve released ‘94s startling self-titled debut, ‘96s chaotic amble, Horse Stories, and ‘98s acoustically pure Ocean Songs to the delight of open-minded alt-rock intellectuals. By ‘00s more efficient Whatever You Love, You Are, their reflective moribund dirges were getting increasingly complex, leading to the pristinely jumbled pulchritude of ‘03s diligent She Has No Stings Apollo.

I caught up with Ellis via phone while he was doing laundry in France during a hailstorm before an evening show. The band will be featured in an upcoming concert film and Ellis hopes to recruit a large ensemble of diverse instrumentalists for unspecified future concerts.

Compare US audiences to their European counterparts.

WARREN: Each country is an entity unto itself. Italy – we get a good response, but Germany, we don’t have much of a following. In the States, we probably have our best following.

I thought Europe’s 500-year Classical music history would make Dirty Three more popular there.

WARREN: Eight years ago, when we left Australia, I would’ve thought the same thing. We’re set up better in the States with Touch & Go and booking agents.

I was surprised you made hilarious off-color comments between each serious piece Dirty Three played at Tramps in ’98 to loosen up serious-minded fanatics.

WARREN: It breaks up the tension. I find our songs uplifting. I feel good after we play. I’m not depressed.

Tell me about Dirty Three’s pre-debut cassette, Sad & Dangerous.

WARREN: We recorded that in Mick Turner’s living room so we could remember the songs. At that stage, we wouldn’t have had our act together enough to send it to people and put out. A record store employee sent it to America and told us they wanted to release it on vinyl. We did things on the fly then. I got invited down to a pub where Kim Salmon (of Aussie icons the Scientists) had Monday night residency. He had this melody (which became the eponymous debut’s “Kim’s Dirt”) he played in my kitchen and when Dirty Three had its first show we worked out a bunch of songs. When he heard us do that background music that night he said we should take it.

Apollo’s song titles seem ironically satirical. The twinkly piano delicacy, “Long Way To Go With No Punch” seemingly boasts of lacking a climactic punch line.

WARREN: Titles could be spot-on or red herrings. Like Bob Dylan, who hides his greatest songs on Biograph or bootlegs, we try to mislead people. If you listen closely to this album, there are many different layers and it’s adventurous. We’re playing tighter than ever. We recorded it after touring with these songs we didn’t quite know. It put the fear of God in us again playing live and made the songs stronger. We’d recorded 20 songs from 35 or 40 ideas and worked down to seven, hammering them out onstage.

“Sister Let Them Try To Follow” takes joy in daring listeners to keep up with its heady arrangement, as guitar and violin move in separate distinct patterns above freeform drums.

WARREN: Yeah. It’s a lesson for the young kids. Don’t fucking come anywhere near us. (laughter)

“No Stranger Than That” seems flippantly influenced by Western music.

WARREN: That’s solely inspired by Hungarian violinist Felix Lajko, probably the greatest living violinist. It’s a tip of the hat to the master.

You should consider doing film work.

WARREN: We did the soundtrack to an Australian film, Praise, It’s based on a successful book and the film came together well. We were offered to do an HBO documentary score on serial killer doing art in prison. We had a dilemma. People offered strong opinions. We felt the images were so strong people related to our songs in such a personal way that we left it at that and didn’t want corpses being dug up while we’re playing.

Do your songs build from improvisations?

WARREN: It depends which record and what year. We started from small, humble beginnings, taking anything as far as we could. After years in pubs, we learned how to play better as a group. With each album, we’ do something different as a matter of maturing. There’s no divine intervention. We’re just banging away. I tried to work more parts into what I was playing on Whatever You Love. And Ocean Songs was a lesson in dynamics, trying to create intensity with no amps. Horse Stories was a giant, ugly fuck you to the world.

The hushed ambiance of In The Fishtank, Dirty Three’s captivating one-off collaboration with Low, peaks with Mimi Parker crooning Neil Young’s “Down By The River.”

WARREN: We had done a double headlining tour with Low for Ocean Songs. They’ve been friends for ages and invited us to play without working anything out. We met outside an Amsterdam farm studio for two days and captured the whole atmosphere. It was effortless, enjoyable, and certainly influenced how we play.

People compare your trio to early ‘90s slo-core band, Slint.

WARREN: I obviously know the band, but I don’t know what slo-core id. The problem with labeliong music is people go, ‘I don’t like that.’ Or maybe, ‘I don’t like Jazz.’ But there’s much good Jazz. John and Alice Coltrane, Miles Davis, Ornette Coleman. We’re still discovering them. I also like Classical composers Eethoven, Shastokovitz, Haydn, and Bartok. In the rock field, I like early AC/DC and Neil Young.

Your playing on Nick Cave’s solemn No More Shall We Part seemed to prominently affect his devotional songs.

WARREN: Nick could go pretty deep on his own. I helped write string arrangements with Nick Harvey on that. But I don’t listen to things I do so it’s hard to be judgmental. I listen when I’m done to see if it’s all right. The new one I listen to quite a bit because it continually surprises me. We worked hard at this and it was difficult. We were grateful afterward.

CORNERSHOP: INDIAN GIVERS RELEASE ‘WHEN I WAS BORN FOR THE SEVENTH TIME’

Interviews,

Cornershop - In Session 1993 - Past Daily Soundbooth – Past Daily: News, History, Music And An Enormous Sound Archive.

FOREWORD: Cornershop frontman Tjinder Singh has a natural talent for crafting great cut-and-paste Punjabi-flavored pop kitsch. ‘97s “Brimful Of Asha” boiled down Cornershop’s hybridized sound to its essence. But since then, they’ve remained low profile except for ‘02s handily accessible Handcream For A Generation. Cornershop has promised to release Judy Sucks A Lemon For Breakfast in ‘09. This article originally appeared it HITS magazine.

 

Cornershop’s Tjinder Singh, a gifted London-based Indian singer-songwriter, uniquely blends Punjabi folk, bhangra, lo-fi post-punk and electronic embellishments on his quartet’s third full-lengthg disc, “When I Was Born For The Seventh Time.”

Wide open to a cultural exchange of ideas, Singh challenges and delights listeners with joyously uplifting songs. More polished, stylistically congealed, and melodically captivating than ‘95s very fine Woman’s Gotta Have It, this follow-up deals with spiritual rebirth, but sidesteps cultural roots exploitation with rebellious world music collages.

Linking intriguingly untrendy, unfashionable, song structures with cut-and-paste arrangements, Cornershop pursues excellence through diversity. An undeniably friendly insouciance abounds on the instantly appealing “Brimful Of Asha” and “Sleep On The Left Side.”

I spoke to Tjinder Singh via phone, Thankgiving eve, 1997.

How has Cornershop grown musically from its early, experimental singles to this most recent long-player?

TJINDER: Our first EP, In The Days Of Ford Cortina, had four songs that were varied. We’ve tried to build on that by making each song different. By the time we did our third EP, we honed in on a sound. Some people say it’s East meets West, but that’s very short-minded. What we do is delve into different types of music and take elements of each. We don’t break our music down so much as keep it open.

Cornershop has succeeded by writing good songs that connect on an emotional level.

TJINDER: We try to put as much effort into each track as possible. But albums are difficult to do these days. We’re aware that with programmable CD’s, people pull only a few tracks off the album. So we were very conscious of trying to keep the listener occupied for the whole duration.

When I Was Born For The Seventh Time seems more joyous and positive than Woman’ Gotta Have It.

TJINDER: You’re right, we preempted Tony Blair’s election victory in England and are celebrating the end of the century. I just think in a small amount of time he’s tried to push some positive ideas. He has opened up to arts and entertainment.

What are your thoughts on the royal family?

TJINDER: I really don’t give a fuck whether the Royals should exist. What I do realize is people in positions of power and influence should use their status positively.

How does your background as a designer correlate with Cornershop’s music?

TJINDER: I worked for William Morris, who was a founder of the arts and craft movement. His poetry was great. He had a forward-thinking policy of learning to do things differently. That’s how we feel about Cornershop – not in terms of big hit records, but by giving every bit of ourselves to achieve success. William Morris even coined the phrase “Born To Be Wild.” That’s where Steppenwolf got it from. They had five years of good rocking. We used to drink at a local pub and put on “Magic Carpet Ride.”

What are some other musical influences?

TJINDER: The first things I heard were Punjabi folk and Sikh devotional music. Bhujangi groups from Birmingham in the late ‘70s were rocking. Then I was into the Spinners. After that, it was a matter of developing a record collection. I went to a Sikh temple and within walking distance was a black Christian Gospel church. I’ve always liked religious music because it puts over a genuine feeling in people very quickly. I’m not that religious. But my influence from religion is based on a lack of self-confidence.

“Funky Days Are Back Again” has a happy, embracing sound that feels pretty spontaneous.

TJINDER: We recorded it on a DAT in a Vermont hotel the same day we bought a keyboard. It was made on the spur of the moment. It’s good that the feeling of “Funky Days” reflects the gap of where we are now after the ‘80s.

Have you made any music videos lately?

TJINDER: The Light Surgeons did a video for “Good Shit.” A friend of ours, Phil Harder, did one for “Brimful Of Asha” – which has been getting quite a bunch of airplay. It’s a very bright, bold-colored video and it absolutely rocks.

The guitar licks on “Brimful Of Asha” reminded me of Lou Reed’s “Dirty Boulevard.”

TJINDER: It’s more Jonathan Richman. We’ve always liked him. The B-side of his “Roadrunner” single was “Angels Watching Over Me,” which was very much in that Gospel vain.

How did you get Allen Ginsberg to add a poem to “When The Light Appears Boy”?

TJINDER: We were using his spoken word pieces, like “Howl,” after gigs. He also got into Woman’s Gotta Have It. He seemed to be into the idea of working with us after we met. So he showed us his modest apartment and then we recorded it. It has references to William Blake’s “Vision Of Death.” Ginsberg was very frail at the time and knew he was going to die, so that made it more poignant. Instead of making it a rock song, we put in Asian elements I recorded in India to reflect where his spoken word influences were from, especially with “Howl.”

What did you learn from touring with the likes of Beck and Los Lobos?

TJINDER: That it’s pretty tough being at the bottom – which is where we are. And that’s where we’ve been for the last few years. We know how hard we’ve tried and I suppose, the more we get into it, the harder it may get for a band like ours. Maybe we’re better left where we are…in obscurity. Three years ago, Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore said he didn’t like any new music, but mentioned that Cornershop interested him. That’s remarkable.

As an Asian Brit, do you feel discrimination still exists?

TJINDER: I certainly think so. As Cornershop, how much do we have to do to be taken seriously? It’s quite difficult to move units when you’ve got a black face. We’ve slowly received credit. We continue to make music to prove those people wrong and let them run with their tail between their legs.

What are you up to these days?

TJINDER: I recorded some B-sides recently with more strings. There’s also something I wrote for the multi-artist The God, The Bad & The Ugly album.

SWERVEDRIVER NEVER SNOOZE THRU ‘99TH DREAM’

Interviews

Image result for swervedriver


FOREWORD: Oxford, England-based Swervedriver brought hard rockin’ enthusiasm to whirred surrealistic capers in a uniquely fascinating way. Record company problems plagued the band. ‘95s fantastic Ejector Seat Reservation went unreleased in America and by ‘97s admirable 99th Dream, they called it quits. Singer-guitarist Adam Franklin went on to start the just-alright Toshack Highway. In ’08, Swervedriver re-formed to play Coachella Festival. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Swervedriver’s psychotropic dreamscapes and provocative allusions comine Raw Power punk energy with sheer noise rock on the trippy escapade, 99th Fream, their fourth long-player since ’91. Defying logical genre identification, this Oxford, England quartet offer impressionistic escapism, twisting melodic psychedelia above huge slabs of searing guitar textures and ruptured rhythms.

After a few early EP’s gained underground popularity overseas, Swervedriver debuted with the developmental Raise. In’93, the resiliently challenging Mezcal Head extended the futuristic vision of sonic aggro-pop pioneers Jesus & Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine. Then A & M dropped the band and ‘95s critically acclaimed Ejector Seat Reservation never saw the light of day in the States. Thankfully, New York’s Zero Hour records signed Swervedriver, providing drooling fans with 99th Dream.

In January ’98, Swervedriver played a sold-out industry showcase at Manhattan’s Mercury Lounge, mesmerizing the crowd with newly-waxed gems and a few distended versions of vintage tracks. That afternoon I spoke to guitarist Jimmy Hartridge about the new album, touring, favorite artists, and various other points of interest.

Many fans want to know if ‘95s Ejector Seat Reservation will ever get officially released in America.

JIMMY: It’s a complicated issue. Our American label, A & M, dropped us after Mezcal Head for financial reasons – like it didn’t make a million dollars. When things go wrong, everything does. Then Creation dropped us and made the record a collector’s item. If a Bryan Adams album comes out at the same time as Swervedriver, they’ll put their money on the proven product.

Were you intrigued by music as a kid?

JIMMY: In England, we have Top Of The Pops, When I was 14, Sweet, Slade, and T. Rex were on. And everyone in England wants to either be a pop star or a football player.Later, when punk came along, anyone could be in a band. You didn’t have to be a virtuoso guitarist. Me and Adam (Franklin: singer-guitarist) grew up in a small village, hung around, and got a band going.

Swervedriver’s music is remarkably impressionistic.

JIMMY: We don’t plan to have anything come out a certain way. We usually have a basic riff and analyze it when we mix it. Then we texturize it. There’s some interesting Crumar keyboard sounds – an instrument I picked up at a junk shop – and some warbly stuff. We have our own studio in London now. We get to experiment with guitar pitch, feedback, and sustenance. And use some wah-wah guitar. You don’t want to make music too flat and dull.

What bands were early inspiration for you?

JIMMY: We did a gig in Australia and someone said our power chords reminded them of The Who, but they’re probably more concise then us. Everyone likes The Who. They’re one of those classic bands. I liked their first few punkish, straight down the line albums. They got pompous after Who’s Next.

What guitarists inspire you?

JIMMY: Keith Richards and Kames Williamson and Scott Asheton (the latter two of the Stooges). I could never get into that Jimi Hendrix thing ‘cause I wasn’t good enough. Keith Richards took his bottom string off and made it into a flat chord. I just play what comes naturally to me.

On Mezcal Head, noise seemed more important than melodies. Has that shifted for 99th Dream?

JIMMY: Yes. That’s true. We tried to expand a bit. We started off being influenced by Sonic Youth and the Stooges, which play noise-oriented music. We still get our kicks with noise, but it’s more melodic. On the Raise album, we were just learning our own muse. We mixed it ourselves and made mistakes. It has got its charm and reminds me of the Stooges Raw Power. It’s gonna take years for fans to hear all the sounds on the new album. We try to avoid c

THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS HIT THE ROAD IN ‘MINK CAR’

Interviews

FOREWORD: I fell in love with They Might Be Giants from the beginning. Their cartoon video for the silly “Hotel Detective” and the quirky bounce of “Don’t Let’s Start” made their absurdly funny eponymous ’86 debut a dandy, one of the most wittily humorous rock albums since Steve Martin did “King Tut.”

Fronted by the Two Johns (Flansburgh and Linnell), TMBG then became extremely prolific, something you wouldn’t expect from a few loose novelty-writing class clowns. ‘88s Lincoln brought forth the totally catchy hard rockin’ “Ana Ng.” ‘90s Flood boasted the equally hooky sentimental embrace “Birdhouse In Your Soul.” ‘92s Apollo 18 and ‘94s John Henry kept the ball rolling.

Used to performing tersely titillating tunes, it wasn’t a far stretch for TMBG to work on film songs, TV themes, and children’s records, and those are sprinkled amongst subsequently fine LP’s such as ‘01s Mink Car and ‘07s The Else. TMBG also offered Dial A Song phone jingles almost a decade before ring tones got popular. I originally interviewed Linnell for Smug magazine in ’88, but the following ’01 piece with Flansburgh is richer. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Growing up in the shadows of Harvard Square as an architect’s son, suburban Bostonian, John Flansburgh (vocals-guitar), met up with future They Might Be Giants partner, John Linnell (keyboards-accordion-sax-vocals) at their high school newspaper. They wrote articles, drew cartoons, and learned photography at an action-packed pace their fun-filled future band would benefit from.

Flansburgh then attended hippie-alternative Antioch College during the late ‘70s while Linnell spent a semester at Umass and played in savvy pop band the Mundanes (with future Beavis & Butthead producer John Andrews). By ’81, they caught up with each other in New York when Flansburgh was a Metro North-employed Fine Arts student at Pratt and Linnell, by chance, moved into the same Brooklyn building. They begam making home tape demos as a side project and began establishing a loyal local following with campy, frolicsome shows.

A sparkling self-titled debut of addictive mindless pop insouciance such as the bouncy “Don’t Let’s Start” and the cheesy “Hotel Detective” put They Might Be Giants on the map. Their cheery trinkets, sunny disposition, and rapturous spirit made a fiercely complicated world a little easier to take by offering an infectious remedy to relieve minor aches and pains.

Lincoln’s spiffy, guitar-clipped ’88 splurge, “Ana Ng,” and Flood’s casually swaying ‘90 heart-throbber, “Birdhouse In Your Soul,” chugged along with the same melodic escapism the WMCA good guys stumbled upon as fast-moving DJ’s in the innocent craze of jingly jangly ‘60s AM radio. Amongst a dalliance of euphoric ephemera (Several EP’s, ‘98s Severe Tire Damage compilation, etc.) were full-length releases such as ‘92s Apollo 18, ‘94s John Henry, and ‘96s Factory Showroom.

Recently, TMBG finished up a two-month tour for the brand new Mink Car at historic Manhattan theatre, Town Hall. By shuffling the fabulous three-piece Velcro Horns around backup guitarist Dan Miller and bassist Dan Weinkauf (both formerly of the band, Lincoln), the Two Johns have expanded their whimsical domain.

Playing the part of a busy MC, Flansburgh’s jagged jokes, wacky wisecracks, and impromptu radio surfing (the band broke into an impromptu take on Argent’s “Hold Your Head Up” and an unspecified Latin jam as he kept searching ‘round the dial) were given expediency by Linnell’s punctual multi-instrumental dexterity. One unexpected highlight came when amazing drummer Dan Hickey (Joe Jackson/ B-52’s) merged style-shifting drum solos ranging from Jazz legend Buddy Rich to lunatic mod rocker Keith Moon with pizzazz.

On record, the exuberant “Bangs” and the rubbery “Cyclops Rock” get Mink Car off to a fast start. By combining Giorgio Moroder’s robotic ‘70s disco beat with the Pet Shop Boys ‘80s new wave, “Man, It’s So Loud In Here,” gets swept away by club-bound romanticism. After the puppy love ballad, “A First Kiss,” things get rockin’ again. The bass-bustling Blues-siphoned “I’ve Got A Fang” gains exotic flavor from its snake charmer keyboards while the fuzzy take on Georgie Fame’s “Yeh Yeh” (mixed by Fountains Of Wayne pop idol Adam Schlesinger) will get fingers snappin’ and spines shakin’ in no time.

Besides gaining further exposure with the punk-throttled Malcolm In The Middle theme song, “Boss Of Me,” the dynamic duo previously licensed “Dr. Worm” for the kiddie animation Kablam! and created “Doctor Evil” for Austin Powers’ The Spy Who Shagged Me. Acclaimed filmmaker AJ Schnack will celebrate TMBG with their 20th anniversary documentary Gigantic (A Tale of Two Johns) in 2002.

Do you feel They Might Be Giants provide humorous social critique for an audience too caught up in post-modern irony?

FLANSBURGH: In our culture, if you’re not caught up in proving your authenticity, it’s hard to say where your pop consciousness begins and ends. I don’t feel we’re commenting on our culture. I realize we touch on familiar ideas, but the general impulse comes out of the same impulse any songwriter would have. If people label you ironic, it’s one step away from being cynical. We’re extremely un-cynical, especially compared the popular music on the horizon. I feel we’re uncalculated and distant from the notion of being some snarky, sarcastic thing. There’s joy in what we do; a celebratory aspect. It’s the power of a good time party band. I don’t mind being pigeonholed, but I get the impression we’re summarized as being mean-spirited. We’re a complicated band with a range of songs and intentions.

The hopeless romanticism of simple pop goiofs like your debut’s weak-hearted “Don’t Let’s Start”, Flood’s affectionate trinket “Birdhouse In Your Soul,” and Mink Car’s heartbroken “Cyclops Rock” get to me emotionally the same way bubblegum staples “Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes” by Edison Lighthouse and Bobby Sherman’s “Easy Come, Easy Go” once did.

FLANSBURGH: I did a cover of “Love Grows” with my college band, the Turtlenecks, in Ohio. We did half-originals, half-covers.

I first got into TMBG after watching a cartoon version for the ditty, “Hotel Detective.”

FLANSBURGH: That was the third video we did. After being a local band for four years, we started touring in ’86 and became almost a viable national act.

Your live show continues to evolve.

FLANSBURGH: We want to rock the crowd, but that tempers the amount of slow songs we like to do. There’s a tyranny to the uptempo song. They dominate because they work on such an immediate level. Happily, we haven’t had a career where one song eclipses what we do. We’ve had minor successes which makes it easier to do an entertaining full length show. But if we don’t do “Birdhouse” or “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” people would think we were being prissy. We’re obligated to do those because they hold a place In people’s minds and hearts. But I don’t feel any distance from our earlier stuff.

Mink Car may contain your catchiest songs since the debut.

FLANSBURGH: Thanks. That’s high praise.

“Bangs” has a highly accessible multi-layered ‘60s-styled feel-good flow.

FLANSBURGH: We worked on that with Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley (respected Brit-pop producers who’d previously worked on “Birdhouse”) spending time figuring out how to build the song up. It’s surprisingly simple considering how thick it gets by the end. I love that song.

What does the crazed female scream for “Cyclops Rock”?

FLANSBURGH: Cerys Matthews of huge British band, Catatonia. She’s a notorious wild girl in England. They were working with Clive on their LP at the same time. We were gonna get Joe Strummer to do a chant section, but we finished before that could happen.

Besides cool rhyming by Soul Coughing’s Mike Doughty, “Mr. Xcitement” features Elegant Too. What’s their background?

FLANSBURGH: They’re a production crew who are all over that track. They’ve got great ideas on how to approach electronic music. They do TV and soundtrack work. Chris Maxwell (ex-Skeleton Key) is a great guitarist and I worked with drummer Phil Hernandez on my side project, Mono Puff. It was a gas doing sessions with them. We had a bunch of horn blasts created for us to manipulate experimentally in the computer. It takes the driving beat of “Peter Gunn” and morphs it into a drum ‘n’ bass idea.

You cover Georgie Fame’s late ‘60s British #1 hit, “Yeh Yeh” on Mink Car.

FLANSBURGH: The original was done (by second-tier pop trio) Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. I’ve never heard it, but have heard of it. It’s impossible to locate. The Georgie Fame version is even faster than ours. It’s hopped up and manic.

You did a song “In The Middle” at Town Hall. You said it was to be released on a children’s album. Who was the female singer onstage?

FLANSBURGH: That’s my wife, Robin Goldwasser. She sang “Doctor Evil” for Austin Powers’ soundtrack. We’ve got an all-original children’s album, No, due in spring. Though people wouldn’t think of it as a departure from TMBG, it really was. It took awhile to crack the code of keeping kids interested. We bought various rock-related children’s records, but some were too repetitive. We wanted it to have a ‘Seussian’ quality.

How did the perfectly obnoxious parent-dissing Malcolm In The Middle theme, “Boss Of Me,” come to fruition?

FLANSBURGH: We just had a top 20 UK hit with that. That song is like the son of “Twistin’” from Flood. It’s structurally different, but in terms of energy, it’s not uncharted territory. We wrote it a few years before the show came on.

Do you feel an affinity with Mark Mothersbaugh (ex-Devo) or Danny Elfman (ex-Oingo Boingo) since they do the Rugrats and The Simpsons themes and formerly led humorous underground rockers like TMBG?

FLANSBURGH: It’s strange that it has become a path for alt-rockers. But it’s not a big surprise. The only thing you need to have going for you is an open sense of musicality. We’ve done background music for Malcolm and incidental music for The Daily Show with John Stewart and ABC’s Nightline. They’re all different gigs. Much of it is hard to recognize as TMBG. It’s fun to stretch out and do orchestral work not leaning on lyric writing. It’s an interesting challenge and a natural progression.

Tell me about the internet-only Long Tall Weekend.

FLANSBURGH: You can’t get it in stores. It was made for an entirely different generation of college kids downloading material. Because not everybody is wired, there are barriers. But there’s no manufacturing costs or physical component and it sold 20,000 of pure profit. Mink Car is a straightforward LP with wide ranging material. Long Tall Weekend was a crazy compilation like The Who’s Odds & Sods with unusual songs like “Edison’s Museum.” Factory Showroom (’96) was our last studio album. The first place our newer songs show up are on the ‘Dial-A-Song’ phone service. But the MP3 monthly subscription service on E-music – They Might Be Giants Unlimited – features a dozen songs per month with 3,000 subscribers. There’s an unquenchable thirst for new material. But the best songs go on our proper albums.

Give me the scoop on the seasonal Holidayland.

“Santa Clause” is a ‘60s cover from garage band, the Sonics. It’s a rough recording that captures the vibe of the Sonics. “O Tannebaum” is very close to its original German version. There’s toy piano on “Feat Of Lights.”

PAVEMENT @ ROSELAND BALLROOM

Live Reviews

Pavement / Roseland Ballroom / May 11, 1997

 

Historic Roseland Ballroom may be the most sterile sounding New York venue due to its monstrously high ceilings and under-whelming sound system. Happily, Pavement and their sound crew did enough solid preparation to overcome any venue limitations. Mixing in tunes from ‘97s Brighten The Corners alongside several fan faves, the critically raved Pavement proved to be at the top of their game on the way to glorious alt-rock heaven.

Dressed in collared shirts, the frontline of literary-bound singer-songwriter (and indie rock idol) Stephen Malkmus, guitarist-singer Scott ‘Spiral Stairs’ Kannburg, and bassist Mark Ibold provided sharp riffs, wry humor, and a relaxed atmosphere for the attentive crowd. Behind them, Moog playing percussionist Bob Nastanovich’s electronic textures and drummer Steve West’s sturdy beat kept the rhythm strong. And the sparkling tinsel backdrop gave Pavement’s moody reflections and climactic stanzas an abstract aura.

In a roundabout way, Malkmus’ cranky, whining vocal tendencies recall the naïve plaintiveness of cracked folk-rock waif Joanthan Richman. But unlike Richman’s twerpy, defeatist anthems, Malkmus mirrors his anxieties with sarcasm and alluring provocations (not all of which are meant to be clearly understood). He screams excitedly of initially hearing his song on the “Stereo,” then casually lifts Richman’s famous “Roadrunner’ hook line (“I got the radio on” conveniently shifted into “got the radio active”) for the down ‘n dirty “Best Friends Arm.”

Heads in the crowd were bobbing to the intense “Conduit For Sale” (loosely dedicated at this hometown show to the Knicks’ John Starks), as Nastanovich stepped up from behind his kit and forcefully screeched the nervous refrain over a sizzling beat. The refreshing “Shady Lane” was a power pop blast that gave West a chance to sport a spooky skeleton mask from behind his drum kit. With breezy harmonies and cool summer night imagery, “Starlings Of The Slipstream” retained a pleasant acoustic atmosphere.

After a three-minute break, Pavement returned for a generous encore. It began with the delicate, cracked sentiments of “Stop Breathing” and concluded with the endearing “Grounded.” Despite a few slightly extended guitar excursions (which could have been sliced to allow for a few more vintage tracks) and unintentionally muted harmonica passages, Pavement’s courageously open-ended songs pleased the underground enthusiasts and smart pop fans on hand this Sunday evening.

SKELETON KEY OPENS MANY DOORS ON DEBUT E.P.

Interviews

FOREWORD: Skeleton Key is the brainchild of ex-Lounge Lizards multi-media semi-celebrity, Erik Sanko. They were easily one of the best New York City art-damaged freeform rockists hitting the scene in the mid-‘90s. And they deserved better exposure.

One of the best live bands I’ve come across, each individual member had their own distinct personality (at least the first version of this ever—changing entourage). In’97, I got to speak to the entire band prior to a Knitting Factory gig. They were demure off-stage; totally uncontrollable onstage. Sanko’s Skeleton Key went on to record ‘97s Fantastic Spike Through Balloon and ‘02s Obtanium (pictured below postage-stamped EP), but neither caught fire the way they should’ve. Sanko creates marionettes when he’s not busy playing out. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

On their clever self-titled six-song EP for boutique label, Motel Records, found sound architects, Skeleton Key, widen the ever-shifting parameters of contemporary rock, melding rudimentary instrumentation and offbeat ideas into organized noise. Though its four members formed the band in New York City, they’re all originally from scattered parts of America.

Arkansas-bred guitarist Chris Maxwell, DC-via-Texas drummer Stephen Calhoun, Oregon junk percussionist Rick Lee, and Staten Island bassist Erik Sanko each bring separate, but intricate elements to Skeleton Key’s disparate sound. And with any luck, they’ll reinvigorate what cynical ‘rock is dead’ doomsayers claim is a stagnant rock scene. Without compromise, their puzzle-like songs hang together with surprising cohesion, challenging listeners by upsetting the apple cart just a bit.

“I’ve been doing artsy music forever,” claims Maxwell, an admitted Captain Beefheart fan. “If you sign a band like ours and bring in a producer to weed out the idiosyncrasies, the final product ends up being an empty husk. But we get no outside interference. The only criteria we have is to find whatever sounds good and manipulate it, I play a $25 Silvertone guitar. Rick plays junk and Erik uses a cheap bass. Our gear is from the technology that preceded the computer generation – somewhat like an abacus.

Perhaps most importantly, Skeleton Key’s angular songs bend the transparent barriers confining trendsetting bands. They remain unpredictable, unassuming, and unusual while maintaining an acceptable sound.

“If we’re not careful, our music could sound pretentious,” Maxwell confides. ” But we have a sense of humor we use like a bag of salt. And we sprinkle our songs with it. We each have small egos and are willing to listen if someone has a better song idea. We have disagreements. But it’s a pleasure to work with people whose opinions are valued. Some songs come together easily while others need time to be fixed.”

With all the intricate elements assembled into such a fascinating studio smorgasbord, it would seem Skeleton Key face difficulties bringing their ambitious sound to a live audience.

But junk player Rick Lee confides, “Originally, we tried to make the record sound like a live show. It’s tough to get my trash into the live mix, but people say they can hear the flavoring. Our soundman, Kevin McMahon makes sure that sonically the ideas come across. If I don’t have the equipment to create a certain sound, I’ll use something which closely resembles what needs to be expressed. Hell, one of our samplers is a toy! And anything on 16 RPM sounds completely satanic when it’s sampled. My feeling is if it sounds good, it’s in. There’s no discrimination.”

As we get into a conversation about art, Maxwell insists, “For me, it’s easier to discuss our sound in terms of sculpture rather than articulate it in the realm of music. It’s art with a capital F. It’s fun, dangerous, visceral, and hopefully, moving and intriguing.”

Lee, sitting on a couch with a smirk, counters, “I don’t know if Charles Bukowski would consider his writing art. I think sports may arguably be the only real art of self-expression.”

This dichotomy between art and music may be the impetus for the improvised instrumental jam, Hoboerotica.” Inspired by a pornographic stick figure a homeless Arkansas resident made, its skewed percussiveness and witchy moaning get tangled in a freeform exploration.

Both “The World’s Most Famous Undertaker” (a sordid and addicting piece of voodoo) and the Beefheartian “Nod Off” ping and pang and clang, allowing Lee’s enormous scrap heap of percussion objects to fill any open spaces or gaps in sound. “The Spreading Stain,” a fuzzy skullfuck, should satisfy and taunt grunge heads in search of something neatly resembling Nirvana’s most disturbing moments. The muzzled “You Might Drown,” with its transcending sitar and “Blue Jay Way” dreamscape, sounds so stark it practically stares death in the face.

“Well, “You Might Drown” was inspired when my girlfriend dumped me,” Maxwell explains. “I’m merely saying, ‘good luck with your fucked up decision.’”

Skeleton Key hope to break out in a major way on an independent label. By the way, fans should also check out New York underground cyber-punks, Ultra Bide- Skeleton Key gave them their seal of approval.

SKELETON KEY /AMBULANCE @ MERCURY LOUNGE

Live Reviews

Skeleton Key / Ambulance / Mercury Lounge / December 4, 2002

 

Prior to delivering a startling, long-forgotten ’96 six-song EP, I had missed the menacing Skeleton Key set at now-defunct Manhattan club, Tramps, but was tipped off by dearly departed Billboard editor, Timothy White, as to how ‘fucking great’ these dissonantly detached Soho dissidents were.

Antecedents of arty boho minimalists (Liars/ Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and no wave freaks (Ex-Models/ Seconds) now overtaking New York City post-Strokes exposure, vocalist-bassist Erick Sanko’s revolving troupe startled awestruck underground dwellers with rhythmically abstruse concoctions. Moving beyond the quaint seclusion of Tribeca’s tucked away Knitting Factory confines with ‘97s under-recognized Fantastic Spike Through Balloon, Skeleton Key’s delectably dysfunctional deconstructed dysphoria began to inconspicuously slither past the periphery of our great metropolis.

Dressed in color-coordinated coveralls, tall blonde frontman Sanko, guitarist/ backup vocalist Craig Le Blang, standing ‘junk’ percussionist Tim Keiper, and seated conventional drummer Matthias Bossi kept the medium-sized Mercury Lounge crowd awestruck with faves from excellent new release, Obtanium. Clanging percussion punched up the alarming “One Way, My Way,” a cacophonous corruption evoking the slanted swamp Blues of Captain Beefheart. Just as intensely immediate, “Kerosene” went ablaze with scree guitars and rumpled bass riffs. When they pulled out the explosively eruptive live staple, “The World’s Most Famous Undertaker,” its punchy volatility reverberated through our collective skulls, creating a wickedly disturbing sense of unease like everything’s gonna fall apart.

Beforehand, transplanted New York quintet, Ambulance, offered intricately multi-layerd Jazz-informed post-rock confections. Swerved echo-drenched keyboard swells underscored the lucid vibrancy consuming each moderately daring piece. Oft times eloquently understated dual guitar melodies and subtly complex bass-drum rhythms built up from sparse dirge-y auspices before swarthy lyrical gloom unfurled exhilarating cinematic emotional release. (Editors note: Ambulance is now Ambulance LTD.)

SONIC YOUTH HAUNTINGLY EMTOMB ‘NYC GHOSTS AND FLOWERS’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: Whenever you get the chance to interview an iconic band at the peak of their powers, you’re a lucky man, even if you’re a band hound such as myself. So when the chance came to talk with co-composing Sonic Youth drummer, Steve Shelley, I was happy as a pig in shit. After all, Sonic Youth enviously inspired two trademark generational scenes of historic proportions: England’s ‘80s shoegaze spectacle and ‘90s grunge mania. Relying on noisily distorted guitar disruptions, these no wave free-Jazzed navigators hit shimmering feedback-scraped heights then crashed and burned like the space shuttle.

The following piece was done in 2000 to promote NYC Ghosts And Flowers. ‘02s 9-11-affected elegy, Murray Street, and ‘04s Sonic Nurse merely sufficed, but ‘06s sturdily brawny Rather Ripped and ‘09s The Eternal struck back with lethal venom. Check out Thurston Moore interview for more SY stuff. This article originally appeared in Aqurain Weekly.

 

Extending the short-lived legacy of late ‘70s subcultural Bowery ‘no wave’ deconstructionists DNA, James Chance & the Contortions, Glen Branca, and Lydia Lunch further than anyone could have possibly foreseen, Sonic Youth were one of the most important, influential ‘80s bands (still thriving to this day). More astoundingly, the Bowery quartet inspired the entire Seattle grunge movement, introducing their atonal distortion (‘white noise’) to the Melvins, Nirvana, and Mudhoney.

By continuously exploring outer boundaries of freeform rock and slipping into minimalist Jazz territory at will, Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore (guitars-vocals), his wife, bleach-blonde dark temptress Kim Gordon (bass-guitar-vocals), Lee Ranaldo (guitar-vocals), and Bob Bert (drums) radically tore down conventional rock limitations.

After a few formative EP’s and albums, 1984’s Bad Moon Rising combined chaotic feedback with grating dissonance, forming fully jagged, dirge-y mantras.

Tired of touring, Bob Bert quickly exited. Steve Shelley took over drum chores for the twin pillars of strength, ‘86s menacing Evol and ‘87s similarly-themed Sister. These records provided the claustrophobic anxiety and lethal guitar shrapnel anchoring ‘89s triumphant Daydream Nation.

When Geffen records signed Sonic Youth, the investigative art-damaged Lower East Side bohos responded to major label accessibility with one of their least viable (and somewhat directionless) albums, Goo, a flawed gem which informed Dirty, its more feverishly powerful follow-up. ‘95s Experimental Jet Set, Thrash, And No Star loosened their spontaneous free Jazz impulse, while modern classical gestures crept into Washing Machine and the autumnal A Thousand Leaves.

Produced by post-rock instrumentalist Jim O’Rourke (Stereolab, Superchunk), ‘00s NYC Ghosts And Flowers markedly broadens the bands’ already wide scope, stretching into spoken word inspired by late ‘60s/ early ‘70s Cleveland radical freak drug poets. The late American poet, D.A. Levy inspires Moore’s freestyle rants on the fragmented guitar collision “Small Flowers Crack Concrete,” while the implosive “Stream X Sonic Subway” could pass as suspenseful beat poetry.

Ranaldo’s half-sung ramblings detail Big Apple woes above the increasingly intensified, repetitive, detuned guitar plink of the title track. Gordon’s cool detachment and seductive moans bring a coarsened urgency to “Nevermind (What Was It Anyway)” and her hushed, monotone, one-word thoughts spew across the eerie desolation of icy deluge, “Side 2 Side.” The cacophonous “Free City Rhymes” and cryptic death knell, “Lightnin’” bookend the adventurous disc with expectant freeform scree.

Before heading to France to record with French artist, Bridget Fontaine (Gordon’s favorite singer), I spoke to Sonic Youth timekeeper, record label entrepreneur, and Hoboken transplant Steve Shelley about his influences, the sprawling conceptual homage to minimalist composers called Goodbye 20th Century, and of course, NYC Ghosts And Flowers.

Do you see this album as an extension of A Thousand Leaves?

STEVE: Well, it’s the next one. (laughter) It’s a departure in a way, but there are similarities. They’re recorded in our home studio in New York City.

Many songs deal directly with the Lower Manhattan vibe.

STEVE: Yeah. It’s definitely more urban while A Thousand Leaves was a bit more countrified, if you could imagine that. It was more lush and relaxed, while this one is a bit more uppity. We worked with producer Jim O’Rourke on Goodbye 20th Century and NYC Ghosts And Flowers. He brings out different elements of the group that wouldn’t happen otherwise. He’s a real instigator and a fun guy to throw ideas off of. He’s up for anything.

Since you grew up in Michigan, were Iggy & the Stooges and MC5 major inspirations?

STEVE: No. I was too young for all that. They were from a generation before me. I didn’t hear of them until I left Michigan. I listened to commercial FM radio. The closest I got to the MC5 was Ted Nugent and Alice Cooper. But I grew to appreciate their stuff later on.

Do most of Sonic Youth’s arrangements come from improvisations or melodic clusterfucks?

STEVE: It’s actually both. A lot of it’s just jamming to see what sticks. Because we have a rehearsal room/ recording studio, we could go in to roll tape and collect ideas. Sometimes Thurston will come in with a chord progression and we’ll start adding to it. I love going to different studios since they have their own separate atmosphere, but it’s great to have your own place and not be on the clock.

I’m especially intrigued by the colossal magnitude of the title track.

STEVE: That’s directly inspired by the sessions to Goodbye 20th Century. On that album, there’s one song that starts quietly, crescendos for four-and-a-half minutes, then reaches its peak and gets quiet again. It’s an exercise in dynamics and what could happen within that.

Are you ever afraid your expansive arrangements may lose some potential listeners?

STEVE: I guess you could ask that of free Jazz artists as well. I don’t think we’re worried about that. We want people to listen, but we’d be selling ourselves short if we started listening to those ideas. It’s difficult enough having four different people with four separate ideas trying to meld something together.

“Lightnin’’ seemed inspired by Miles Davis’ early ‘70s albums Bitches Brew and Jack Johnson.

STEVE; Wow. I love that Jack Johnson record. That song was just an exercise in freedom. Kim gets to play trumpet and I play the electric groove box. That’s just the four of us going at it in the studio. We were going to bookend the record with two versions, but decided on one. The one parameter we set up for this record was we weren’t going to make a long 60-minute record like A Thousand Leaves. There are so many distractions. It’s hard to sit down and concentrate on a 70-minute disc. People have to learn to edit themselves and put out 30-minute discs.

What was it like getting selected to replace Bob Bert in Sonic Youth?

STEVE: I was checking out New York. I wasn’t sure I was going to stay. A friend and I were subletting Kim and Thurston’s Lower East Side apartment while they were on tour with Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. I was wondering how I’d fit in. When they got back, they didn’t even ask to audition. I just joined the group. It was amazing. I got to tour with one of my favorite artists, Neil Young. It’s amazing how new and different things keep happening to us. Tomorrow, I’m going to Paris with the group to record with Bridget Fontaine. With all the renewed interest in French music and people discovering Serge Gainsbourg, it’ll be a trip to meet her.

Who are some of your favorite drummers?

STEVE: My first influences were typical. Ringo Starr, Keith Moon, Charlie Watt, and the king of drummers, John Bonham. When I play, though, I’m thinking about the song and trying not to overplay. I’ve tried to go in a minimal, understated direction lately. Some of that comes from my work with Cat Power and my own band, Two Dollar Guitar – being as skeletal as possible. I love Jazz drummers, too. But my initial influences were classic ‘60s rockers.

What’s up with your underground supergroup, the Wyldde Ratz, which includes guitarist Ron Asheton from the stooges, Mike Watt, Mudhoney’s Mark Arm, Thurston Moore, and Sean Lennon? Was it formed only to provide a song for the glitter rock soundtrack of the movie Velvet Goldmine?

STEVE: We recorded enough stuff for two albums. Originally, London Records was going to put it out. But I guess the soundtrack didn’t do as much business as expected. They paid for the recording, but they didn’t want to put out an LP yet. It’s funs stuff. Ron Asheton sounds amazing. We did some Stooges covers. Ron and Mark Arm wrote some songs together. It’ll see the light of day somehow. It’s pretty much down and dirty Detroit City Rock.

Did you ever consider Sonic Youth to be an extension of Jazz-rock pioneers King Crimson or Soft Machine?

STEVE: That’s probably the music I’ve heard the least of until recently. Thurston’s more familiar with that music. Interestingly, Gary, the drummer from Pavement, who was older than anyone in the band and was more of a hippie would always come up and say to us, ‘You must listen to a lot of Yes music.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about until the movie Buffalo 65 came out last year. I heard some amazing Yes music and understand what Gary meant. Robert Fripp and King Crimson had freedom and a certain awareness of other music, even though they didn’t adhere to rock structure, or sound like the pop-rock that was going on.

WEEN ARE THE WORLD

Interviews

FOREWORD: It’s always a blast doing a High Times interview at a downtown Manhattan location – especially with real life bohemians like Ween. This time it’s a wooden studio near Chinatown where me and the boys drank expensive beers and cooked some herb.

Ween is the long-time New Hope, PA duo of Mickey Melchiondo and Aaron Freeman. Friends for life, they carved out a niche crafting some of the best obtuse rock novelties since the mid-‘80s. Using aliases Dean and Gene Ween, these deconstructive lo-fi home recorders were DIY five years before it became fashionable. ‘90s well received The Pod was their big leap forward, deliciously smug in its salacious drug-indulged snicker. ‘92s Pure Guava featured Ween’s biggest non-hit, “Push Th’ Little Daisies.” ‘97s The Mollusk was a thematic seafaring marvel and ‘07s La Cucaracha may’ve topped anything they did in the last twenty years.

In the following piece, Ween make sense out of marijuana mumbo jumbo and admit alcohol kills but a li’l weed ne’er hurt no one. This article originally appeared in High Times.

 

Growing up in New Hope, Pennsylvania’s bohemian hamlet gave Ween vocalist Mickey Melchiondo (a.k.a. Gene Ween) and guitarist Aaron Freeman (Dean Ween) the freedom to become serious rock ‘n’ roll junkies and weed freaks. As teens, the maverick duo gained popularity with punk-influenced four-track home recordings, earning cult-like status with the sludgy, dope-encrusted The Pod. Their first commercial radio exposure came with the geeky ditty, “Push Th’ Little Daisies,” a wacky parody from Pure Guava.

“That song is about Guatemalan cherry,” Melchiondo jokingly quips. “Big, bad stinky weed.”

“Actually, it’s about not trusting a girl you just started dating,” Freeman counters.

Though no longer obsessed with smoking up all the ganja the world has to offer, the whimsical twosome still likes to party. But as we throw back a few beers at a newly renovated photography studio on New York’s Bowery, Ween seem more serious-minded and ambitious now that they’re settled down and married.

That maturity enhances the dynamic White Pepper, a diversified follow-up to their gloomy oceanic prog-rock opus, The Mollusk. Recorded in a proper studio by Public Enemy engineer Chris Shaw, White Pepper balances ‘60s psychedlic surrealism with the kitsch-y Beatlesque pop of XTC.

As a young child, Melchiondo was turned on by songs he’d hear while living on the road. “My father was a big hippie with an extensive record collection who’d drive me to countercultural ‘60s demonstrations,” he explains. “That’s how I discovered Jimi Hendrix and the Stones. But he never admitted to experimenting with drugs.”

While Melchiondo was attending protest rallies, Freeman was being urged by his mother to be a hockey player.

“I lost interest in sports when I started smoking pot and listening to music,” he says. We don’t smoke as much as we used to. When I was younger, it was like a religion. I’d smoke from the morning until the time I went to bed. It really twisted my brain.”

“I never had to buy a bag,” Melchiondo exclaims. “Then, it became less of a lifestyle thing. It peaked when Chris (satellite band member, Mean Ween) assembled a nitrous bong featured on the cover of The Pod. We’d fill up a gas mask with smoke and inject nitrous into it. You’d be in the mask covered with smoke, eyes burning, and the nitrous would clean out the pot smoke and force it into your lungs. That was the pinnacle. I felt I was permanently stoned for the rest of my life.”

On the issue of legalization, Melchiondo rationalizes, “I never really cared if they legalized it. “No one has trouble finding weed. It has been following us around forever. But alcohol is infinity more evil. People don’t smoke pot and go to the bar looking to kick someone’s ass. It’s kind of silly.”

“It’s not legal because the Mobil Corporation would have a hard time with it, and that’s the hub of America,” Freeman contends. “They don’t want anything to compromise oil fuel, like hemp fuel.”

Though they agree politics and music should be kept separate, Ween received negative publicity from anti-abortionists when they played a Rock For Choice benefit in San Francisco with the Foo Fighters.

“I want the listening experience to be more like a happy James Brown shake-your-ass experience,” Malchiondo admits. “But a pro-life Website warned parents not to buy our records because we supported the killing babies. So by being tied to a cause, we were misrepresented.”

Narrow-minded conservatives probably won’t be any happier about Ween’s Jimmy Buffett lampoon, the cocaine-laced “Banana & Blow” on White Pepper.

“That song started like a movie in our heads,” Melchiondo offers. “Our friend is married to a woman in Ecuador and her father owns a hotel. He was talking about the concept of recording an EP called ‘Banana & Blow” in the islands. A guy gets stuck in South America and spends all his money on coke. It’s “Margaritaville” times twenty.”

LAGWAGON / TRANSPLANTS @ IRVING PLAZA

Live Reviews

Lagwagon/ Transplants / Irving Plaza / May 5, 2002

A few stalwart Cali-punk veterans trekked East for Manhattan’s Irving Plaza to unleash highly energetic sets of post-hardcore aggression this warm spring night. East Bay guitarist-singer Tim Armstrong (ex-Operation Ivy punk-ska progenitor and present Rancid frontman) hooked up with former AFI roadie Rob Ashton for transitional quartet, the Transplants, a stylish working class outfit inspired by punk hellraisers G.B.H. and The Sham. Meanwhile, Santa Barbara’s decade-old Lagwagon relied on the amusing, easily digested pop-punk NOFX helped make semi-popular in the ‘90s to headline the show.

Though Armstrong received MTV exposure and sundry accolades fronting Rancid during the ‘90s, tour mates Lagwagon had only developed a cult fan base despite the fact that Blink 182 (whose drummer, Travis Barker, ironically anchors the Transplants) and their glossy ilk seemed to adapt their self-deprecating humor to invariable success. Vocalist Joey Cape’s sly wry wit and derelict attitude give a serrated edge to Lagwagon’s loud, catchy melodicism, avoiding the watered down, shallow-minded indifference of their compromising candy-coated copycats.

On-stage, Lagwagon’s precise stop ‘n’ go arrangements, twin turbo guitar fervor, and rubbery bass boom powered gleefully celebratory chants. Cape’s savage lyrical bite, crowd-baiting banter, and prancing stage prowl kept the crushed front-stage fans alert and the massive moshpit buzzing. Though ‘98s fiery Let’s Talk About Feelings may still be their pinnacle achievement, the newly waxed Blaze is no slouch, as this resounding one-hour set certainly proved.

As for Armstrong, after Rancid’s formative self-titled ’93 debut fully exploited his notable Clash fixation, ex-UK Subs guitarist Lars Frederiksen joined the fold for ‘94s economical Let’s Go (which reached exalted underground status with the rousing “Salvation”). ‘95s even better And Out Come The Wolves continued Rancid’s ceaseless entourage of quirky 2-minute rants, highlighted by the hooky ska anthem “Time Bomb” and the climactic Clash knockoff, “Ruby Soho.” While ‘98s horn-doused Life Won’t Wait held its ground, ‘00s vehement self-titled follow-up contained the cocky quartet’s strongest political messages and most pungently efficient playing.

Teamed with bald-headed vocalist Rob Ashton, guitarist Craig Fairbaugh (of the Forgotten), and the aforementioned Barker, Armstrong’s Transplants retain a more sophisticated, controlled restraint in the studio, incorporating hip-hop breakdowns, punctual piano, and electronic affects.

But live, they concentrated on tearing the house down. Tempestuous sing-a-long fuck-offs like “We Trusted You” re-created late ‘70s punk action with pinpoint accuracy and authoritative verve. They saluted like-minded bands Agnostic Front, the Ramones, H20, and Sick Of It All mid-set, then dedicated “Hard Luck Street” to respected deceased rockers. The ska-driven guttersnipe “Rude Boys” and the kitsch-y bluebeat catwalk “Johnny 2 Bad” may have lacked the vibrancy of the Transplants studio versions, but both burst forth with frenetic determination. And the snubbing Beastie Boys-derived closer, “Tall Cans In the Air,” despite drowned out vocals, crackled with undeterred resolve as Ashton got fevered fans to wave middle fingers at unspecified squares.

MARTIN NEWELL’S SLINKY ‘BROTHERHOOD OF LIZARDS’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Spectral subterranean British artist, Martin Newell, has made his mark in the deep underground with various hooky pop combos such as Cleaners From Venus and Brotherhood of Lizards, working with XTC’s Andy Partridge and Captain Sensible at times. Though he’s been happily stranded in obscurity, cultists will rightly claim Newell a lost genius. He’s been working more often on spoken word and novels since colorful ’93 solo album, The Greatest Living Englishman, came out. I got to speak to him via phone from England to promote the re-release of Brotherhood Of Lizard’s ‘89s LP, Lizardland, during ’95. This article originally appeared in New Review magazine.

 

British musician-poet, and organic home brewer, Martin Newell, hoped to re-ignite his recording career with XTC’s reclusive Andy Partridge on ‘93s gorgeous The Greatest Living Englishman. The duo didn’t sell tons of records, but critics praised their simple pure pop charm.

Now Newell’s rediscovered chestnut, Lizardland, recorded in ’89 with bassist Peter Nelson (formerly of Modern English and New Model Army) as Brotherhood Of Lizards, has been taken from the vaults and released by Atlanta’s Long Play Records. Featuring tunefully swaggering numbers helped along by Nelson’s sharp 4-string echo and clear studio dynamics, this gem shines intricate imagery into disarming recollections.

Sparkling with tasty pop sincerity, “It Could Have Been Cheryl,” the insouciant “The Happening Guy,” and the sunny “Dandelion Marine” are nearly as catchy as “She Dreamed She Could Fly.” In a fair world, these are top 5 singles, as the mainstream tone recalls the Beatles indirectly.

“I just like old music,” Newell explains. “I like to go back to my roots – the Beatles, Kinks, and Small Faces. I make records that sound like the music I liked when I was 10 years old. I call it twinkly pop. I’ve always been a bit scruffy, but I make music spontaneously.”

Beginning his musical career in punk-frenzied 1977 in London S.S., whose members splintered into three culturally important bands – the Clash, the Damned, and Generation X – Newell was left to his own devices.

“I was lead singer of a progressive rock band out of East Agnia,” he quips. “a town largely bypassed by the Industrial Revolution. Then, I formed my own band, Stray Charlie’s. We made a single in 1980 called “Young Jobless,” about England’s unemployment problem, but a scandal broke. A leftwing government was said to have given me money to record the song. It wasn’t true. I was broke.”

Following this, he recorded as the Cleaners From Venus, an engaging unit that released about ten homespun tapes in Europe from ’81 to ’88, aided by guests such as Captain Sensible (of the Damned).

Newell declares, The Cleaners From Venus never made any money and although The Greatest Living Englishman sold loads of records in Germany, I feel beholden to the sharks of the industry. When you’re young, it’s a joke, but my girlfriend has two kids. How much longer could I go on like this?”

Yet he’s full of plans.

“A new album which I may call The Off-White Album, a satire on the Beatles, may happen. Actually, Crowded House sounds more like the Beatles. My voice doesn’t sound like them. The record is a logical succession to The Greatest Living Englishman. A string quartet plays on a few songs. It’s very organic. Then, there’s a four-song Let’s Kiosk, recorded cheap and cheerfully in a garage in Colchester. I also have a satire written called In Search Of Ted Jarvis, a mythical rural poet who hates artists and Commies. He’s a hick who’s elevated to the status of rustic genius.”

Hopefully, he’ll go on long enough that we’ll hear these projects and many more.

THE NOTWIST: GERMANY’S UNKNOWN MUSIC MASTERS

Interviews

FOREWORD: Experimental German Industrialists, The Notwist, comingle Jazz, rock, soul, and noise elements to perfection. Though they only recieve limited underground support in the States, those in-the-know will tell you they’re an experienced combo with great shelf life. I’ve included my ’02 article promoting the sterling Neon Golden and an ’08 piece admiring its belated follow-up, The Devil You + Me. These articles originally appreated in Aquarian Weekly.

THE NOTWIST HIT STRIDE ON ‘NEON GOLDEN’

Arguably the most innovative German post-rock experimentalists since progenitors Kraftwerk, The Notwist design multi-dimensional, stylistically enigmatic music by manipulating a myriad of instruments, electronic machinery, and controlled feedback. Their American debut, 12, was partially reliant on metallic riffs, cluttered noise, and Industrial settings while ‘98s carefully constructed Shrink boasted better production and newfound intricate restraint. Shrink’s “Chemicals,” with its percolating synth-bleats, modulated short-wave frequencies, mechanical rhythm, and aquatic groove, may have inspired fellow Bavarian futurists Add N To X and Mouse On Mars.

After recording two instrumental trance-fusion Jazz albums as part of the sextet, Tied & Tickled Trio, The Notwist return with their most assuredly eloquent offering yet. The succinct Neon Golden confronts alienation and detachment, as guitarist Markus Acher’s flinty, invariable tenor embellishes gray urban settings with constrained vulnerability. The metronomic shuffle, “Pilots,” and the sorrowful “Pick Up The Phone,” hearken to the percussive warmth of past endeavors, but the banjo-picked “Thrashing Days” and the hypnotic “Neon Golden,” outlined by reserved trumpet, move into unexplored folk-rooted territory.

Keyboardist-programmer Martin Gretchmann (a.k.a Console), onboard since Shrink, brings galactic techno-electronica flavor to each battle-scarred trepidation while meticulous drummer Mecki Messerschmid’s pliant rhythms anchor bassist Micha Acher’s contemplative horn arrangements and sundry dub plates.

Who are The Notwist’s early influences?

MARKUS: When we started, we were big fans of hardcore punk bands Rites Of Spring,  Minor Threat, Jerry’s Kids, Husker Du, and more melodic punks Moving Targets, Lemonheads, and Dinosaur Jr. – who totally changed our live with their first two LPs. But there was also a big love for Neil Young, Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake and early King Crimson. So we tried to combine the energy and loudness, the fast breaks and the distorted guitars of these hardcore bands with the melodies and singing of Neil Young – ‘cause I’m no good as a shouter anyway. There was a scene of flats and clubs, of fanzines and people, at that time, so we toured a lot with bands like So Much Hate and Fugazi. We’re still looking for music like this, and bands like van Pelt, Blonde Redhead, and Q and not U move us deeply.

Are The Notwist’s arrangements improvised or prepared?

MARKUS: It’s a mixture. We recorded a lot for Neon Golden. We wrote arrangements for strings and brass and played our instruments, but we also invited friends like percussionist Saam Schlamminger or keyboardist Roberto di Goia to improvise over songs, and looked for bits we can use to re-arrange. Lots of elements in our arrangements arise accidentally.

How do your first two albums, prior to 12 and Shrink, compare to later albums?

MARKUS: The first (eponymous) album is punk-hardcore. We recorded it as we played it live or in the rehearsal room. There was no money or time to work in the studio for more then a few days. For the second, Nook, we spent more time in the studio. We were interested in metal and experimental noise those days and tried to integrate it into our music. After we finished this record, a friend played us “Laughing Stock” by Talk Talk, and we decided to do everything different on our new record.

Compare Neon Golden to previous albums.

MARKUS: We decided, before we started to record, to spend as many days in the studio as it takes to find the right arrangement for every song. We wanted to record acoustic instruments and confront them with electronic sounds. The arrangements become more complex with every record, but the songs are still the same.

Would it be fair to say it’s more influenced by jazz than rock?

MARKUS: That’s fine with us. We listen to a lot to Jazz. Most contemporary rock doesn’t interest us because it lost its soul and vision.

“Off the Rails” has a great neo-Classical arrangement. Did any band member have Classical music training?

MARKUS: My brother Micha, who wrote the arrangement, studied Jazz trumpet. But we learned mostly by listening and trying to find what our favorite musicians do. Classical trained musicians wouldn’t like the way we arrange, I guess. They’re always taught what’s right or wrong. In music, there’s no right or wrong. That’s why my brother finally quit his studies.

How has new electronic technology influenced your latest music?

MARKUS: It influenced the electronic part of our music. We all took parts of the music and worked with them on our computers at home. On the other hand, we tried to record lots of stuff as simple and direct as possible. We used old amplifiers and microphones, acoustic instruments, recorded on tape machine and mastered everything in the Abbey Road studio with Chris Blair, the ex-tape engineer of the Beatles. Nowadays everything seems to be possible on the computer with all these plug-in-effects and instruments, but a good idea is more valuable than a new computer. So I think it’s better not to spend too much time in electronic technology because then one day you’ll start writing songs about plug-ins or computer-problems.

Would you consider doing another cover song like “Loup” EP’s mellow-to-metallic cover of Robert Palmer’s “Johnny and Mary”?

MARKUS: Not at the moment. I find it more interesting to compose songs then to cover.

Will Tied And Tickled Trio release another album? If so, how will it be different than he first one I have?

MARKUS: We just finished a new Tied + Tickled Trio album. We recorded some of the songs live with 11 people playing, with lots of brass and three percussionists. I hope this new record is rougher than the last one.

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DOIN’ THE NOTWIST AS SUMMER ENDS

As my summer of ’08 concludes and the body surfin’ waves at the Jersey Shore and Sunset Beach come to a close and the feel good memories slowly recede into the deep recesses of my mind, there’s a few truly fine musical remembrances that stick out. Some were from a veteran Bavarian band with a weirdly deceitful dance-jeering moniker known as The Notwist. There latest offering, The Devil, You + Me, may not get many plaudits, but believe me, it’s deserving.

Comin’ outta Germany some 20 years hence, The Notwist caught my attention when small New York indie label, Zero Hour, added them to an already impressive lineup of idiosyncratically talented mid-‘90s bands like Space Needle, Varnaline, and 22 Brides.

Though guitarist-vocalist Markus Acher, his brother Micha Acher (trumpet-bass), and longtime friend Mecki Messerschmid (drums) were incipiently a metallic grunge outfit, The Notwist’s ambitious ’97 U.S. breakout, 12, became a transitional step forward into experimental electronic rock. An eye-opening stripped-down display interlacing rudimentary beats, cling-clang percussive affects, liquid computer bleats, and intermittent guitar shredding, its fragile balladic vulnerability countered the implosive metal-edged volatility pummeling louder, assertive tunes.

The Notwist then went deeper into the Industrial chasm on ‘98s Shrink, skittering trip-hop beats alongside new wave guitar-keyboard figures, freeform trumpet catacombs, mellowed flute, and sonorous trombone. “Chemicals,” their most impassioned and accessible song yet, found Acher dropping emotional lyrical ruminations onto a static-y bottomed lamentation. And a reappearing espionage motif aids a few casual urban grooves. Expert keyboardist Martin Grestchmann, the singular maestro behind conquering electro-Industrial manipulators, Console, was brought onboard to widen the troikas’ musical scope.

Reportedly, The Notwist took fifteen months to devise 2002’s dramatic illumination, Neon Golden. The extra time spent was well worth the investment, as the band delivers a cohesively thematic epic stretched over thirteen Classically mood-stricken tracks. The precisely detailed whole benefits from cello, clarinet, and tabla flourishes as well as lilting techno-influenced clicks and bleeps. The crystalline title track shines brightest, layering hypnotic sitar atop majestic Anglo-folk.

Perhaps even more refined, ‘08s The Devil, You + Me may not be as radiant as its immaculate predecessor, but the thought-out arrangements and seamless flow form a sprawling thirteen-song epic. Perfect for late night summer listening, The Devil, You + Me glistens like a lone star in the cloudless sky. Although it must’ve been difficult trying to follow up Neon Golden’s glazing lucidity, the admirable eleven-song package actually broadens foregoing elemental designs and conceptual enthrall quite strikingly. The darker lyrics, courtesy of “Gloomy Planets” and ominous percussive percolator “Alphabet” bring an impending sense of trouble brewing. But ultimately, any sourly somber sentiments are whisked away by a sweet melodic intrigue that’s definitely The Notwist’s saving grace.

Acher’s deadpan Teutonic drone hasn’t changed much over time, though his upper register achieves better frilly flights of fancy. He’s effervescently sublime on “Gravity,” recalling Belle & Sebastian’s Stuart Murdoch on this pastoral acoustic retreat. Somewhere along the melancholic astral plane, Acher combines the elegant splendor of Donovan’s flower power mysticism with the hushed wisp of Nick Drake’s doomed anguish, particularly on the folk-rooted slumber, “Sleep.” The warmly sung title track contains a didactic chorus reminiscent of John Lennon’s earliest solo endeavors. Despite such estimable presumptions, Acher’s lovely outpourings are all his own, especially when conveying futuristic interplanetary escapism on the chilly string-laden bossa nova, “Where In This World” (which sways like Arto Lindsay’s most exotic charmers).

Thankfully, the experimental aspects never outweigh The Notwist’s common sense ability to rely on rich symphonic interplay and sharp rhythmic schemes. Just as seminal electronic metallurgists Kraftwerk became influential Kraut-rock architects during the entire ‘70s, The Notwist are carving out their own modern niche. They’ll probably fall short in comparison to those towering figures’ breadth of ideas, galvanizing influence, and album sales, but by continually gaining technical skills and artful assurance, The Notwist will occupy at least a modest spot amongst today’s top creative craftsmen. And that might be enough right there.