FIREWATER ‘GET OFF CROSS’ TO SEEK ‘PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGY’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I’d become friendly with Firewater brainchild, Tod Ashley, pre-911, before he moved out of the World Trade Center-cited apartment shared with his Jetset Records-owning girlfriend and into the safer confines of Brooklyn. His underrated klezmer-gypsy-inspired band, Firewater, prefigured like-minded multi-ethnic Americanized combos Gogol Bordello and DeVotchka. A veritable supergroup of smartly collected indie rock talent worked with Tod throughout his career.

Their ’96 show at the Knitting Factory was a complete knockout. I’d first spoke to the former Cop Shoot Cop bassist during ’96 to promote Firewater’s audaciously-titled debut, Get Off The Cross…We Need The Wood For The Fire, at ex-bandmate Dave Ouimet’s NYC studio. Five years later, just before 911, I visited Tod at Jetset headquarters to discuss the equally enthralling Psychopharmacology.

I gave Tod my old stereo receiver since his was always on the fritz. We walked his dogs after one visit. Though I wasn’t as captivated by ‘03s The Man On The Burning Tightrope or ‘04s covers LP, Songs We Should Have Written, Firewater came back strong with ‘08s The Golden Hour (a collection of songs made during a three year stint in Pakistan, India, and Indonesia). These two articles originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Former Cop Shoot Cop leader, Tod Ashley, and ex-Motherhead Bug’s Dave Ouimet (pronounced wee-may) left behind their previous New York bands to concentrate on klezmer and gypsy music (with a dash of inventive rock tossed in for good measure). The perfectly obnoxious and stylistically courageous Get Off The Cross…We Need The Wood For The Fire (Jetset Records) features a tastelessly hilarious cover photo of Jesus Christ smoking a cigarette and holding a Miller beer. Naturally rightwing radicals such as the Christian Coalition, the 700 Club, and the Catholic League, along with a few retail stores, objected to the mockingly blasphemous illustration. Yet I sincerely doubt any of these humorless organizations know about the respective paths both of these creative artists took before creating this rewarding project.

Except for the paranoiac “Some Strange Reaction,” the cabaret-like “Bourbon And Division,” and the lonely contemplation, “I Am The Rain,” Firewater rely solely on klezmer and gypsy styles. Recorded at RPM Studios on 12th Street with old fashioned gear from midnight to 9AM over three days, Get Off The Cross has a warm, disquieting sound that sinks in permanently after a few quick listens. Fellow Firewater members include guitarist Duane Denison (Jesus Lizard), percussioinst Yuval Gabay (Soul Coughing), sex-o-phonist Kurt Hoffman (Band Of Weeds and the Ordinaires), drummer Jungle Jim Komball (Laughing Hyenas and Mule), violinist Hahn Rowe (Foetus Inc.) and vocalist Jennifer Charles (Elysian Fields).

At Ouimet’s basement studio on Elizabeth Street, carnival music plays as he hands me a Budweiser Tallboy. Before my tape starts rolling, Tod A. comes strolling in from the wintry weather.

What made several highly respected underground artists decide to shift focus and attention to klezmer and gypsy music?

TOD: Dave and I tried to make a baby but created Firewater instead. (laughter)

What distinct differences separate klezmer from gypsy music?

DAVE: MY band Motherhead Bug was gypsy-influenced. Originally, most nomadic gypsies traveled from India to the United States with a strange mixture of ethnicity and culture. On the other hand, klezmer is basically from a Jewish traditional background. But many forms in the sense of improvisation and scales have been developed. Klezmer was used as Jewish wedding music and was Eastern European based. And although Tod nor I are Jewish, we became fascinated with its intricacies.

Was it difficult to drop the unique dual bass and drum sound of Cop Shoot Cop for Firewater’s eccentric sound?

TOD: Dave brought in most of the ideas for the songs. His influence was the main contributing factor.

DAVE: It seemed perfectly natural to me. It’s nontraditional rock like my former band, Motherhead Bug, which was a 12-piece circus.

TOD: Everyone and their uncle was in that band.

Would you consider the album cover appalling or offensive?

DAVE: Maybe it’s a bit juvenile, but if you have no sense of humor, why bother?

TOD: The funniest letters we’ve received have come from Southern inmates. They had time on their hands to write us and we gave them the proper response. The inmates could use some spelling help, but they provided entertainment for us.

So Jesus Christ was placed on the cover for shock value?

TOD: No. Jesus was a drinker but whether he smoked cigarettes is highly unlikely. The cover is not offensive. We’re bringing Jesus to a whole new generation. Jesus was a Jew. So it all fits.

DAVE: Early Boz Scaggs records used klezmer. Now the Klezmatics are doing it with success.

Dave, I read a quote claiming you couldn’t stand Jesus?

DAVE: Mainly I just can’t get into this religious bombardment from TV and media.

TOD: He has been overexposed to Jesus. (laughter) Jesus was an interesting historical figure. It’s amazing this rabbi from Israel affected 2,000 years of civilization. Saint Paul was his P.R. guy spreading the message. Paul was a tent maker preaching against early Christians with his doctrine. He appealed to non-Christians.

Do you believe Jesus died for our sins and rose from the dead?

TOD: There’s a theory he was drugged. That the wine he was given at the cross had opiates. It put him so out of it he appeared to be dead. But they never broke his legs like they normally did back then. He came off the cross after only four hours, got out of his drunken stupor and his friends helped him escape to live an normal life elsewhere. He had his own family. But it’s all conjecture. And frankly, the concept of God is ludicrous – though you can’t argue with ‘do unto others.’

Is the klezmer and gypsy music Firewater make in the traditional realm?

TOD: No. We fuck it up. Klezmer rocks! There’s a lot of different styles and influences involved. The inspiration is serious but we’re not taking it serious. We do it with more power and make it heavier, We live in New York where there’s a constant barrage of different sounds influencing us.

Who are some early non-klezmer influences?

TOD: First, I was into the Beatles, then punk like the Sex Pistols and the Stooges and early hardcore and Industrial. Now I like weird, obscure shit like soundtrack music.

What about no wave artists like DNA and Teenage Jesus?

TOD: No, not so much. Maybe Throbbing Gristle and Die Haut.

What current New York bands grab your attention?

TOD: Valentine 6. They made ‘50s film noir with sexy sax. They have a couple singles out.

DAVE: Barkmarket. They make structurally amazing songs mapped out like an exercise. Their leader, David Sardy, is an uncompromising genius. L. Ron is an amazing record which beats their previous projects like Gimmick. His label doesn’t know what to do with him. They’re dumbfounded. He’ll probably be rememebered in the long run like Captain Beefheart. But people don’t recognize him now.

Which clubs best suit Firewater’s sound?

TOD: (only half-joking) There’s a synagogue up the street and a Lutheran meeting hall. We’d like to do private functions. You’ll have to get an invitation in the mail in order to come.

What if you’re asked to do “Macarena” or the Bunny Hop?

TOD: Homey don’t play that.

Will people be moshing to the klezmer and gypsy beat?

TOD: I would expect so. Anything goes!

What other endeavors are you currently involved in?

TOD: I’ve written some spy tunes in the John Barry vein, As far as Hollywood movies go, it’s a tight-knit boys club which Danny Elfman of Iongo Boingo and Ennio Morricone have broken into. When I complete the score I’m working on, Dave and I will work out what direction the second Firewater album should go in. We’ll probably tour with Skeleton Key at some point, open for Jesus Lizard in the midwest, and then Soul Coughing in the east.

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FIREWATER INDUCES MINIONS WITH ‘PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGY’

As we sit at a table outside tiny Tribeca bar, Yaffa’s, Firewater vocalist-bassist Tod Ashley chain-smokes Pall Malls and half-kiddingly describes his band’s third album, Psychopharmacology (by definition: the study of psychoactive drugs affecting the chemical balance of the brain), as sounding like “Brain Wilson on the wrong medication” before ascertaining, “The Beach Boys Smiley Smile was also a bizarre record with high peaks and low valleys.

Ever since Tod’s older sister turned him on to the Beatles, Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, Tom Waits, and prog-rock (which he indelibly labels “pot smoking music”), this terminal underground rock maven has been intrigued by a wide array of music forms. Before leading the visceral industrial punk trio, Cop Shoot Cop (formerly noise mongers Dig Dat Hole prior to enlisting trombonist Dave Ouimet), Tod was in the short-lived Shithouse with future Blues Explosion frontman, Jon Spencer. Although he admits they had fun, there were “too many chiefs, not enough indians.”

When Cop Shoot Cop ran their course, Tod, Ouimet, and a handful of indie rock friends (including Jesus Lizard guitarist Dave Denison and Soul Coughing percussionist Yuval Gabay) created Firewater as a gypsy-klezmer collective. As Tod insists, they were trying to be a “kind of wedding band gone wrong” when 1996’s dauntless Get Off The Crooss…We Need The Wood For The Fire taunted churchgoers with sacrilegious fervor.

Minus Ouimet, ‘98s equally compelling The Ponzi Scheme lyrically dealt with illegal pyramid scams in a fascinating “Peter Gunn” meets Spy Vs. Spy way. Haunted by the recent tragic demise of two depression-bound friends, Tod returned to the studio for the cryptic masterwork, Psychopharmacology.

Penetrating the skull with horrifying cinematic suspense and armed with Oren Kaplan (guitar) and Tamir Muslat (Percussion), Tod’s latest Firewater excursion hurls “an oxygen cocktail” at societal ills, as he bellows ‘all you want is peace/ all you get is pills’ on the chilling title track.

Yet despite the fact the downtrodden “Bad Bad World” (a whiskey barroom duet with Elysian Fields singer Jennifer Charles), the incidental “Car Crash Collaborator,” and the paranoiac mindfuck “Get Out Of My Head” reek of misery and pain, Tod quips tongue-in-cheek, “Firewater fans are a glum bunch who’ve criticized me of being too upbeat on this record.”

Then again, he smirks, “There should be some glimmer of hope in there.”

True fans should track down Jamie Staub’s (skeleton Key/ Everlast) remix of “Get Out Of My Head,” which Tod prefers over the album version. “It successfully captures a Moroccan wedding band meeting the punk rock aesthetic.”

I thought Psychopharmacology was a semi-thematic head trip into the misery and melo-traumas’ of a person’s glum life.

TOD: That describes everyone I know, myself included. It was an interesting couple of years. Two people I knew decided ‘this movie sucks, I’m walking out.’ It makes you re-examine the way you look at the world. I definitely want to stick around. But a lot of artists and musicians aren’t the most stable, happy individuals – which probably leads them into the field of self-expression in the first place. So it’s not surprising these people have trouble dealing with the world.

Did these two now-deceased people have troublesome lives?

TOD: One girl was depressed and couldn’t take it anymore. The other had what others would call an ideal life but still wasn’t happy. It goes to show you, it’s all inside your head. If there’s any kind of theme, it’s ‘Do you accept the brain God gave you,or do you try to do something about it and risk losing whatever spark of individuality you have?
One song I wrote was about a guy I met who was an inspiring saint who had his head together accept the fact he led this spartan life of a monk reading the Bible and living on the street. He gave everything up to devote himself to the spiritual life. He was interesting because he didn’t seem to look like he was on drugs or an alcoholic. He was smart and humorous, but happened to be homeless. We hung out a couple nights, and he told me his life story. It inspired “7th Avenue Static.”

Sprituality has informed Firewater ever since the wryly ‘scarilicious’ wit of Get Off The Cross. On this album, you lyricize, ‘God is great/ God is good/ but he is also made of wood.’

TOD: That line is a jab at organized religion. If God is supposed to mean anything in the 21st century, he has to be more flexible. The concept or portrayal of God is an anachronism. It doesn’t fit today. God has to come up-to-date or be left behind. There’s a lot of evidence Christ, as a historic figure, existed. I don’t think he ever wanted to be God. He was supposedly a radical rabbi teacher with great ideas and good things to say. But building a religion around it was against what he wanted to do.

The parameters of organized religion are man-made and thus subject to interpretation.

TOD: How do you explain the Holocaust? What’s the purpose of disease? If God exists, he’s a sadist. (laughter)

I was highly intrigued by the depression-bound missive, “Woke Up Down.”

TOD: “Woke Up Down” is basically the anti-school, anti-organization educational anthem I was never able to write and finally found the right words. I did two years at Rhode Island School of Design and Film and that was enough. I had to make a decision to raise several thousands to make afinal project or quit. At that point I knew how to load the camera, shoot a movie. I realized I didn’t have anything important to say, so I started a band instead. I’m a frustrated filmmaker, I guess. Music takes less patience and is more direct.

Your suspenseful music seems perfect for cinematic purposes.

TOD: I like spy themes. Morricone and Mancini. I had offers but they haven’t been anything I believed in. I’m a little precious with my songs.

“The Man With The Blurry Face” has a frightening espionage moodiness.

TOD: “The Man With The Blurry Face” is the American everyman that snaps and goes postal. Living the American dream of your 15 minutes of fame through blowing away your boss, your wife, and family. I like the idea when they blur the face of a perpetrator. It represents all of us.

ENON’S ‘BELIEVO!’ CATEGORIZED UNDER NONE OF THE ABOVE

Interviews

FOREWORD: Avant-pop New York-originated combo, Enon, came together after the tragic death of Brainiac leader, Timmy Taylor. That’s when Taylor’s ex-band mate, John Schmersal, left Ohio for the Big Apple to start a band with ex-Skeleton Key members Rick Lee and Steve Calhoun (who left early on). After Enon’s convincing ’99 debut, Believo!, was recorded, Calhoun left to be replaced by Blonde Redhead bassist, Toko Yasuda. ‘02s High Society and ‘03s Hocus Pocus went unheard, but I doubt they top ‘07s pleasurable straight-ahead pop rocker, Grass Geyser … Carbon Clouds. I interviewed the experimental trio during ’99. This article originally appeared in Aquarin Weekly.

 

Making Brooklyn their adopted hometown, former Brainiac guitarist John Schmersal and Let’s Crash drummer Matt Schultz (both from Ohio) hooked up with ex-Blonde Redhead/ The Lapse bassist Toko Yasuda (originally from Japan) and Skeleton Key drummer/ Butter08 guitarist Rick Lee (An Arkansas native) to create mind-expanding avant-rock. Taking their moniker from what Schmersal claims to be an “intergalactic manufacturer of kitchen appliances,” or quite possibly, “none spelled backwards,”

Enon’s radically skewed, unconventional sound utilizes all types of gadgetry (digital samplers, MIDI equipment, 3-millimeter video players) to corrupt disjointed rhythms, blustery treble, buzzing radio frequencies, and amp distortion on the impressive debut, Believo!

Schmersal goes into a Prince-like falsetto on rumbling opener, “Rubber Car,” which packs a bass synthesizer drone reminiscent of John Entwistle’s “Boris The Spider” or some unspecific crusty Melvins track. For “Get The Letter Out,” psychedelic Beatles-esque harmonies get buried beneath a muted Archers Of Loaf-ish canopy. A sci-fi ‘push the button’ vocal loop forecasts nuclear holocaust on the murky “Matters Gray,” while over-modulated guitar rises above Schmersal’s muzzled groans on “Conjugate The Verbs.” And Barkmarket mastermind, David Sardy, adds his production wizardry to Believo! As well.

Under the name John Stuart Mill, Schmersal recently released the interestingly lo-fi set, Forget Everything, an informal, narcotic, lyrically opaque mindwarp not too far removed from Syd Barrett or Nick Drake’s acoustically obtuse ‘70s works. Perhaps these compelling, seemingly unfinished remnants were created to exorcise the demons that haunted him after Brainiac partner Tim Taylor died in an auto crash a few years back.

Many Enon tracks seem to subvert melodies and harmonies in exchange for a thickened rhythmic pulse and heavy treble boom.

JOHN: Basically, everything is of equal importance. The melodies are there. It’s more like the music has other sound textures, but you don’t know where they’re coming from. I like to think my melodies are catchy and hold people’s attention. The rest of the sounds are difficult to place.

Matt, how’d you originally get involved in music?

MATT: My parents grew up in the late ‘60s.My father turned me on to Jimi Hendrix and Sly & the Family Stone. Then, he got into punk and introduced me to the Clash. On my own I got into Ornette Coleman. I could hear the lamest music on the radio and take something from it. We grew up in a good time when hip-hop was heard in grade school.

Rick, how’d you become so proficient on guitar? When I originally met you as a member of Skeleton Key, you amazed me by efficiently banging trash containers, tin cans, a red toy wagon, and other percussive junk onstage.

RICK: I didn’t do music until I was seventeen. I thought I had to take this Algebra II course, but when I found out I didn’t have to, I took guitar classes instead. I always dreamt about playing music. I loved Kiss. I learned “Smoke On The Water” like everyone else.”

Toko, you’ve been involved with innovative band, Blonde Redhead, as well as the lesser-known The Lapse. How’d you get involved with such heavy hitters?

TOKO: I graduated from high school in Japan, and I wasn’t doing anything, so I moved here. I grew up playing classical piano. Then, I got into punk music. I just met people in the city, became friends, and joined bands.

The twisted “Conjugate The Verbs” may be the most impressive track on the album. But its muzzled vocals are difficult to comprehend. How’d that track come about?

JOHN: When I was in grade school, some teacher was obsessed with conjugating. But it taught me nothing about anything. So it’s about doing things you don’t have to do. As for the vocals, I don’t like it when they are ‘super’ on top of the music. But I’m not from the school that believes they should be buried like an emo guy. I’m not afraid of the lyrics being heard, but I don’t think it’s necessary to print lyrics on the record. It’s the rhythm of the words that matters. But the melody should have a hook.

Do Enon’s arrangements usually come from improvisational ideas?

JOHN: For “Conjugate The Verbs,” all I had was the melody. I built around that. I worked the melody through. “Come Into,” with its ‘you’re evil and you know it too’ lyric is the most pop like music I could possibly make.

How was Believo! Enhanced by David Sardy’s production?

JOHN: He had the stigma of being a metal producer. But he has done Soulwax with string arrangements. He’s the head guy at See Thru Records and he works with no metal bands now. Our songs have lots of layers. Half the basic traks were recorded live and some were from demos. There’s a lot of lower, darker sounds mixed together with some bright stuff. Drum tracks are actually sampled loops we played along with or sequenced sounds behind. It’s a well-captured, fucked-up sound he put down.

What does the near future hold for Enon?

MATT: The songs we’re working on now don’t sound like our other ones. They’re built on pieces of things coming from everybody. Before I go home to Ohio tomorrow, I’m gonna put down some drum tracks. Before you know it, the band will put it together and when I come back to New York, it’s going to be a song.

PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: FRONTRUNNERS FOR SUCCESS

Interviews

FOREWORD: Seattle’s Presidents of the United States of America played dorky hook-filled minimalist pop. Bassist Chris Ballew had played in an early version of Beck’s band and alongside the late Mark Sandman (of Morphine) in unheralded Supergroup before the Presidents got crowned temporary pop princes in ’95. Though ‘96s II didn’t do as well, it still had several catchy ditties, but none could match the nifty one-worded novelties from the colorful debut (the pussy-petting “Kittie,” goofy dry-humping “Lump,” and “Peaches”). They’re playing out a string with three albums released since 2000. This article originally appeared in New Review, a small NYC mag gone bankrupt. It was my first cover story.

 

On their cover of the MC5 classic, “Kick Out The Jams,” the Presidents of the United States of America make their rock ‘n’ roll pledge: ‘Well, I been elected to rock your asses to midnite!’ And though they hail from distortion-packed grunge capital, Seattle, this good-natured trio (Chris Ballew on two-string bass, Dave Dederer on three-string guitar, and Jason Finn on drums) has a less abrasive, brighter, and gimmicky sound.

Their self-titled debut on Pop Llama sounds more like the ‘60s-era Sonics than any present-day Northwest band.

“We have no dark, brooding songs,” Dave emphasizes. “We want our music to be listened to by little kids and old ladies alike. When we play live, we want people to walk away from our show with a couple of good choruses ringing in their heads. The Beatles were great because they turned pop music into an art by being total studio masters. Another band that did this was XTC. I loved them. And yet XTC refuses to tour and play their songs to a live audience. They prove that music doesn’t have to be a mainly live thing. Unfortunately, two or three generations of kids have made studio-crafted pop music that lacks urgency when performed live.”

In stressing how important good live shows can be for establishing a following, Chris recalls, “When I was in Beck’s band, we did a show with a bunch of acts. Green Day got up to play a twenty-minute set after us. Their show was so incredible they decided not to stop. The crowed went wild.”

Though such events qualify the band as witnesses to rock history, Dave is aware of how people’s tastes change over time. “Who knows what will come next? Whatever tickles people’s fancy is fine, even if it’s sometimes unpredictable. It doesn’t matter what music you listen to. It’s all valid on some level. But sometimes there’s too much editorializing in music. People try to break it down into simply defined categories. Our attitude is this: Here’s our roots, you decide what you think it is.

As to what will come next from these Presidential ‘officials,’ Dave says, “We have a whole albums’ worth of material and we’ll release it within a year. There will not be any lush, pretentious songs in the bands’ future.”

When asked if there were any artists he’d like to record with, Chris replies, “Ringo Starr because he was the humorous Beatle; he had no big head trip. He just played well and supported his band.”

“All of us have a sense of humor, and it comes across in our music,” Chris continues. “I write most of the lyrics. The imagery I use comes from daydreams and boredom, tapping into typical fodder like boy-meets-girl type of songs.”

Of the bands’ arduous-sounding name, he says, “Dave and I were searching for a name while playing live without the benefit of a drummer. In between songs, we’d make up names, and this one stuck. I like it because it’s long, odd, memorable, and dorky. It almost has the sound of a jet plane taking off.”

 

FOLK IMPLOSION FIGHT THE BACKLASH

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: What happens to a side project that has a freakish hit single from a movie soundtrack? They break up when further success proves unattainable. Sebadoh lo-fi prince, Lou Barlow, began Folk Implosion with pen pal fan, John Davis, scoring big with the anodyne “Natural One” and then fading into underground obscurity.

I had interviewed John Davis after work at my Lodi, New Jersey office – which would be flooded with ten feet of water by the next morning. If I hadn’t taken the tape I recorded the phone conversation with back home that evening, this conversation would be lost forever. I may remember the problem with Davis was he didn’t want to tour. Since then, Barlow reestablished the Folk Implosion for ‘03s The New Folk Implosion (with three new members), but even I haven’t heard that comeback LP yet. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Getting together initially in 1988, four-track bedroom pioneer, Lou Barlow, and fellow Massachusetts native, John Davis, gained national attention as the Folk Implosion when narcotic ’95 mantra, “Natural One,” became a hit single from the Kids soundtrack. As a viable side project for Barlow, whose regular gig is co-fronting indie stalwarts, Sebadoh, Folk Implosion issued several limited edition lo-fi cassettes before boutique label, Communion Records, scooped up the duo for ambitious ’94 long-player, Take A Look Inside.

In ’97, the equally promising Dare to Be Surprised suppressed intentions for further commercial exposure with a set of relatively abstruse concoctions.

Making good use of Pro Tool studio gear, Davis and Barlow recorded the impressive mood-shifting follow-up, One Part Lullaby for today’s finest major label, Interscope Records.

From the hypnotic buzz of “My Ritual” to the feel good ‘60s spirit of “Back To The Sunrise,” One Part Lullaby revels in the sneering psychedelia of the creepy “No Need To Worry” and the horoscopic grandeur of the harmony-clad “Chained To The Moon.”

Barlow celebrates his current residency on “Easy L.A.,” then floats into the foggy mist with the transcendental “Mechanical Man.” The synthesized orchestral excursion, “Gravity,” takes the boys on a quantum journey beyond the realm of space and time while a fluid drum and bass groove filters through the acoustically centered “Someone You Love” and eerie instrumental “Serge.”

I spoke to Davis via phone from his Massachusetts home late September, 99.

How’d you hook up with Lou Barlow in’88?

JOHN: I got a hold of an early Sebadoh cassette through Conflict magazine. Iwas a big fan, wrote Lou a letter, and sent a tape. He was still in the band, Dinosaur. We developed a pen pal relationship.

Compare One Part Lullaby to Take A Lok Inside and the low-key Dare To Be Surprised.

JOHN: We had more time to work on the songs. Specific songs that grew out of past songs come to mind. You could go from “Palm Of My Hand” to “Pole Position” to “Free To Go,” or put “Someone You Love” next to “Take A Look Inside” and I’d know specific parts that led into each other. Obviously, there’s more programming on this record. The Kids soundtrack, because we recorded at home, actually used four-track recordings to make our own samples. We mixed them with higher-fi computer stuff. We try to mix and match different elements. There’s definitely a ‘70s studio pop vibe on the new album. When acoustic guitar and electronic synthesizers are put together, it makes me think of Fleetwood Mac.

How’d you initially get into music?

JOHN: I was born in 1970. My parents had Rumours and Cat Stevens albums. I don’t think it’s anything I listened to as a teenager, but it’s in my memory. I took folk guitar lessons for two years in sixth and seventh grade. Then I learned on my own by listening to records. I like Leo Kottke and John Fahey a lot. I also like standard ‘80s rockers like Peter Buck (R.E.M.), Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth), and the Feelies. I also like the simplicity of Steve Miller and AC/DC. I guess I try to combine art-rock with hard rock or obscure stuff. Jimmy Page did that for Led Zeppelin. He’d listen to the Blues, but was also into acoustic players like Bert Jansch.

Was it shocking when “Natural One” got played on commercial radio?

JOHN: We were in a unique position since we were staunchly indie and did the Kids soundtrack without signing a record contract. Certainly, we knew this stuff had commercial promise. We thought, ‘this should be played during a basketball game.’ There was a certain amount of innocent fun to it. But when it came time to decide how to finish Dare To Be Surprised, we wanted to protect what we had as an organic team, instead of becoming a hit-making machine. We’ve done a good job steering clear of that situation.

Does a lot of pre-arranging go on while making a Folk Implosion song?

JOHN: Hardly any. We build from bass and guitar, then add layers of percussion. We’ve learned through trial and error that making fewer plans before recording makes things catchier. I could take what’s spontaneous and dynamic and let Lou interact. Pro Tools allowed us to record on a computer without the tinny sound of DAT (Digital Audio Tape). It has better frequency response. It’s like word processing for sound. You could cut and pastethings and make tracks longer. We couldn’t do that on four-track. We’re overdubbing odds and ends and nonstandard instruments after the initial guitar-bass-drum parts. On “Free To Go,” there’s a part Lou played with a half-full glass of water tuned to the pitch of the song.

“Free To Go” seems influenced by hip-hop with its heavy bottom end.

JOHN: The bass line is very important to it. I don’t know where it falls. The guitar part is rockier than “My Ritual” and “Easy L.A,” but then we put in so many rhythm tracks for fun. Lou’s a great bass player and we let him step out on this record. The bass holds down the chord changes, but it’s cool to use for melodic purposes. As a guitarist, it allows me to play lines that are less busy and more sparse.

What new bands interest you?

JOHN: I like Quasi, Belle & Sebastian, and the last Sleater-Kinney record. I like Timbaland’s production, especially with Missy Elliott. I enjoy Jay Z’s “Can I Get A…” and I’m not above saying Beck’s really great. The Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty was their best in nine years. It’s diffuse. But I’m not into the Beasties punky stuff. That doesn’t wash with me. I’ve been on an older music kick for the last year. I’ve been into Sun RA and Cecil Taylor and older Jazz by Duke Ellington, Jelly Roll Morton, and Count Basie. I like the Secret Museum Of Mankind indie folk collection of ethnic 78 RPM recodings from faraway places like Madagascar and Poland done in the ‘20s. It’s not pretentious Peter Gabriel world music.

One Part Lullaby has two very viable smart-pop contenders in “Chained To The Moon” and “Back To The Sunrise.” Do they stand a chance on watered down radio?

JOHN: I can’t stand listening to the radio. It’s a pretty bleak landscape. It’s difficult for musicians to carve out a lasting identity if they worry about what radio wants. People think there aren’t as many good bands now as there were before. Maybe iut has to dso with culture instead of a general lack of good stuff. There was a window of opportunity for different, cool songs around the time of “Natural One.’ There’s more of a backlash against creative rock on radio now. It’s weird to compare substantial ‘80s stars like Madonna, Prince, and Bruce Springsteen to fake ‘90s non-musicians like the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears.

GERALDINE FIBBERS DECONSTRUCT DIVERSIFIED ‘BUTCH’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Vigorously diversified Los Angeles-based combo, Geraldine Fibbers, spread their alt-Country leanings into indie rock, blues-y funk, and gusty folk-pop like no other band. It’s a shame they didn’t last longer (though a promised belated return may be imminent).

Big-throated emotional alto, Carla Bozulich (ex-Ethyl Meatplow), puts a lot of heart and soul into everything she sings. And by ‘97s superb Butch, the Fibbers had recruited extraordinary avant guitarist Nels Cline for additional stimulus. But the douche-y major label the Fibbers were on dropped them and Bozulich stepped into the 9-to-5 workforce. However, her performance art and fictional poetry kept cultists satisfied, as did solo albums Scarnella (’04) and Evangelista (’06). But I admit I know nothing of these latter works. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Inspiringly variegated Geraldine Fibbers’ singer-composer Carla Bozulich projects distraught and apprehensive feelings with utmost emotional endurance. Gaining exposure and experience through unheralded California bands Neon Veins and Invisible Chains before joining post-core techno-tipped hip-hop pop crashers, Ethyl Meatplow, Bozulich empowered herself as leader of the stylistically diverse Geraldine Fibbers on challenging ’95 debut, Lost Somewhere Between The Earth And Home.

On their second endeavor, Butch, Geraldine Fibbers burst at the seams with Sonic Youth-skewed obsessions (the hyper-tense “I Killed The Cuckoo,” the visceral “Seven Or In Ten,” and the dazed rage “Toybox”) as well as lonesome Country & Western waltzes (“Swim Back To Me” and “Pot Angel”). For further variation, swirl-y experimental deconstructions (“The Dwarf Song” and “Butch”) counteract veiled bluegrass (the earnestly down home “Folks Like Me”).

Withered by life’s cruelties (the AIDS epidemic) and possibly some deep-rooted stress, Bozulich may seem bleary-eyed and disgusted, but hopefulness and reinvigoration manage to seep through each of her compelling songs.

What was the impetus that made you decide to compose and perform music?

CARLA: Well, I never got into music thinking it’d be a career. When I started playing in bands, we never thought about making money. The bands I was in early on, like Neon Veins and the Invisible Chains – the names just happen to rhyme – never got money at gigs. We were shocked when we did get paid. That’s how all the people we knew were doing it. Small labels like New Alliance, the Minutemen label, put out an Invisible Chains album and it cost only $500 to record. I’m only shocked when we get paid. Mostly I just think about art and music and feel like the luckiest person in the world.

What artistic hobbies outside music interest you?

CARLA: Sculpting and painting, though I haven’t sculpted for so long. I did that when I was younger and had spare time. I was really into painting, but now I tend to focus my attention and energy in only a couple directions. I know things are there if I want to go back to them. I like to write fiction and articles that aren’t music related. But that’s on the backburner priority-wise. Maybe I’ll pick up some of that when I’m touring and have time in the van.

You seem theatrically inclined. Would you consider directing or acting?

CARLA: I directed our new video for “California Tuffy.” It was fun. I wanted to direct it because I didn’t trust anyone else to make a video I could stand to look at.

Do you think MTV will pick it up?

CARLA: That would be just fine. We basically abandoned or completely defiled all the standard parameters which are usually expected to be enforced.

You mean we won’t be seeing the outline of your nipples through a skimpy blouse?

CARLA: There’ll be none of that. There’s no edits or lip synching, except one line which is done by a small latex cat. And most of the bands’ performance is done on broken or burning instruments. So there’s no sharp contrast focus moves done with the camera, like when the background comes into focus while the foreground is out of focus. You won’t see that. You won’t see flashes of big light for a false sense of epilepsy. We try not to use those manipulative ideas. The problem is, that’s all been done and it’s so ridiculous. But it’s all that’s allowed in most music videos these days. So we tried to make a video that had a sense of humor about NOT doing that. The point was to have a good time not doing the same thing.

Why did you choose “California Tuffy” as the initial single and video?

CARLA: I guess it seemed like an obvious choice. It’s a fun summer tune that’s upbeat. I didn’t want to release a real slow song as a first single because… I don’t like to do that.

Another cool fast one on Butch is the frenzied “I Killed The Cuckoo.” I thought that sounded scintillatingly similar to late ‘70s arty Brit-punks, X Ray Spex.

CARLA: I love X Ray Spex. They should’ve rules the world back then. However, the most interesting bands were lost in the shuffle. Punk rock just never caught on because radio couldn’t deal with the anti-establishment part. They took it personally and never gave punk any airplay. And now, basically, it has turned into generation after generation ignoring the underground. But what did you expect?

Commercial radio truly eats wretched shit in New York City. That’s why Howard Stern is able to beat those jackoffs with his wild antics.

CARLA: Well. KRCW Los Angeles is national public radio so that doesn’t count. But there’s no commercial station worth jack shit anymore. They base playlists on graft and politics, making sure nothing powerful comes through.

Right. It took Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” to shove grunge up radio’s narrow ass.

CARLA: Beck’s on the radio. He’s amazing. He’s the hero of the world. He’s great!

Many of your songs seem based on internal rage and turmoil. Are you really that angry?

CARLA: I’m not really that angry. But there is one thing that gets me really pissed off, and that’s AIDS. The main factor for rage on Butch is that my friends are dying from this disease and I think it fucking sucks. What’s obvious is that if it wasn’t a disease affecting homosexuals and junkies, we’d have a cure. If it was touching rich white men with families and political ties at a more extensive level, we’d have some action.

How have you matured as an artist since recording with Ethyl Meatplow a few years back?

CARLA: I don’t know. Ethyl Meatplow was one side of my character. It was frustrating because I didn’t get to exercise all my strengths. The band operated within the confines of certain limitations. I did write some songs I really liked that were truly mine, like “Ripened Peach” and “Queenie.” I came through loud and clear on those tunes. But it still was a situation where there were a lot that didn’t work. I still think the Geraldine Fibbers have an annoying tendency to be all over the place. But I made sure everyone in the band knew we’d have no limitations. We go from style to style without blinking an eye.

Are you afraid you’ll abandon some fans with the eccentric deconstructed songs near the end of Butch?

CARLA: I’m not afraid. I don’t give a crap. “The Dwarf Song” is cool. I love the last few songs, like the cover of Can’s “Yoo Doo Right.”

You get solid support from violinist Jessy Greene and guitarist Nels Cline. How’d that come about?

CARLA: Jessy is a woman who recently quit the band. She was really good at giving me what I wanted in the studio, regardless of her personal tastes. That was realy cool. Nels, on the other hand, has played on records by Charlie Haden and Thurston Moore. And he has his own band, Nels Cline Trio. He’s an angel from heaven.

Tell me what makes your live shows so special?

CARLA: I think there’s a very unexpected mania that occurs. It’s probably wirth the price of admission just to see me leave my body while I’m onstage. I generate nervousness before I go onstage, trying to resist the urge to go hide under a table. It’s my own personal way of dealing with stage fright.

BOB MOULD READIES ‘LAST DOG AND PONY SHOW’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Celebrated post-punk indie rocker, Bob Mould, co-led Minneapolis’ stupendously frenetic hardcore trio, Husker Du. Internal bickering and drug abuse forced Husker Du to close up shop by 1987, but not until they set rock clubs ablaze. ‘84s excellent Zen Arcade, ‘85s quite-possibly-better New Day Rising, and ‘86s not-far-off Candy Apple Grey were the best items in their catalogue.

Mould went on to lead the more accessible, but no less energetic, Sugar, before going solo. I got to speak to the provocative underground icon in ’98 to promote his fourth solo LP, Last Dog And Pony Show. In private, Mould discussed writing scripts for wrestling, something I found interesting when it actually happened.

Since then, Mould has released more solo stuff: ‘02s electronic rock exploration, “Modulate,” its tidier successor, ‘05s Body Of Song, and ‘08s worthy District Line. In ’09, he dropped aggro-rock revisal, Life And Times. Now a glad-to-be-gay same-sex-advocating bald-headed fifty-year-old, Mould remains an honest-to-goodness rock luminary. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

After piloting pioneering noise rockers, Husker Du, in the ‘80s, Bob Mould went solo and then formed explosive indie pop trio, Sugar. Able to kick it loud by pushing the distortion pedal to the floor, this iconoclastic singer-songwriter may not be a household name, but those who grew up with college radio truly admire his entire body of work.

Continually analyzing inhibitions and frustrations, his stylistically diversified fourth solo album, The Last Dog And Pony Show, offers honest hindsight and at least some emotional reconciliation. Still willing to share insecurities and inner turmoil, Mould admits he “never learned to trust another person” on the acoustic reflection, “Vaporub,” and daringly confesses there’s “nothing left to conceal on the blustery “Skin Trade.”

Rollicking rockers like the amp-revved “Moving Trucks,” the streamlined “Taking Everything,” and the slashing “Classifieds” offer a serious Husker Du Sugar rush.

Now residing in New York City, Mould spoke frankly via phone about past, present, and future endeavors.

You covered some cool ‘60s songs in the past. Were you a big record collector as a kid?

BOB: My actual cognizant memory of knowing music and artists started when I was five or six with the Beatles, Beach Boys, and the British Invasion. I had all these jukebox singles as a kid. That made me want to start writing songs by age nine. In terms of the Bob Mould people think of, hearing the Ramones at age sixteen was great. I thought, this is simple and it all makes sense again. It was like the Beatles – only easier. That and boredom coupled as motivating factors for me to pick up a guitar. Before that, I played keyboards while my friends in high school were into unapproachable arena rock like Aerosmith and Ted Nugent – which seemed very distant. But the Ramones seemed so natural and less about image. There were the Steven Tyler and Stevie Nicks fans. Then there were the Patti Smith and Tom Verlaine fans at that age. So for me it was an easy choice. The punk music scene was very inclusive, as most good scenes are.

Husker Du’s early songs were chaotic and messy fun. Each succeeding release got better. How did you learn to write better pop hooks with more precise arrangements?

BOB: There are a lot of different steps. The first is the inspirational point, just creating sounds through voice and instruments. Sounds and ideas, if you’re not thinking about them, lead you to a place where you get a bit of clarity on a topic or subject. That process is pretty special but indescribable. The physical construct of a song, putting words and music together, is craftsmanship. It’s a learned process. How long do you dwell on a certain subject in a story and come to a resolution? What technique do you use? It’s hard to write words and music at the same time. Usually I have to graft the words for music, or write music for words that already exist. Words are like poetry. There’s a meter and form to it. But music is more flexible.

Do you feel more comfortable working with only a few musicians at a time?

BOB: When my life was less settled, it was more fun to have more people around. As I got older, I came to terms with my different roles and knew what I could do by myself. When I need someone to help get where I want to go with my vision, I find them and work with them. Lately, since I’ve been recording for twenty years, it seems like it’s more of a mentor situation – which is a little unnerving. Maybe someone doesn’t have enough experience, but I recognize the skills they have. Given devotion and discipline, I feel those people could learn a lot. It will also help me. Those are the arrangements I work in now as opposed to putting a band together. Bands require a lot of spiritual energy. I’m pretty clear as to how I want my songs to come across.

Were you as disciplined when you started Husker Du?

BOB: At the time, I was only twenty years old and had an endless supply of ideas and energy. You hate everything and you want it yesterday. It’s easy just to write on that. Husker Du, for a while, was very unfocused. I thought, until Zen Arcade, we were just looking for something. But when we did Zen Arcade, we thought we had the shit and no one else did. That was our moment.

Your lyrics are less ambivalent and more reflective now. You’re nearly loquacious on The Last Dog And Pony Show.

BOB: There’s some good stories in there. It runs a pretty wide gamut. It starts with an unconditional love song and ends with a similar sentiment. In between there’s bizarre fiction and autobiographical glimpses. It’s cool.

What’s with the electro-Industrial trip-hop collage, “Megamaniac”? Are you mocking an over-saturated music scene?

BOB: No. That was done in earnest. A couple weeks into making the record, everything was going as planned, which was kind of boring. So I just wanted to mess around with machines at home. I went off and did it for fun. It’s not a send-up. It actually got me refocused on the other songs.

“Vaporub” makes reference to the fact you’re misunderstood. Why?

BOB: A lot of people feel that way. I just lay out the premise that in this world where everything moves quickly and people have motives and don’t trust each other, one of the problems is, since they’re in a hurry, they don’t communicate much. There’s not much understanding. Words are a strange thing. Language and communication are fragile and often misunderstood. At the end of the day, it’s a bunch of songs. It’s the message, not the messenger.

What’s with the abstract artwork on Black Sheets Of Rain, the self-titled album, and the new one?

BOB: Black Sheets Of Rain features a photograph of a side of an abandoned car that was sitting on the shores of the East River for the longest time. Twenty minutes after the photographer took the pictures, they finally towed the car. On the self-titled album, I found a hubcap laying on the street. It looked good. One the new album, the photo is sort of a diseased cross between a horse and a dog, It’s modern art, dude.

Is the new album called the Last Dog And Pony Show because it’s your last electric album before settling into acoustic music?

BOB: It’s the last time around for a full band in a punk rock setting. I could give you ten reasons why it’s the last electric album. The title was a suggestion that came out of my mouth when a British publicist asked what I was going to do after this album. I said, ‘this is probably the last dog and pony show I do with a band. He suggested it would make a good title and it stuck.

What new artists do you find compelling?

BOB: The latest Neutral Milk Hotel is real neat. I’m always a big Rachels fan.

Why’d you leave Minneapolis for New York City?

BOB: Minneapolis is where I cut my teeth and spent eleven years. I was there at age seventeen to go to school. It was a great city that, at least through my eyes, was going to hell by the time I left. It ran out of energy. I came to New York in’89, then did a three-year sabbatical in Austin, Texas, before coming back to New York.

Do you hit the New York clubs with regularity?

BOB: I’m 37 now. I don’t like standing up for more than two hours at a time. My back starts to hurt. (laughter)

FLESHTONES KEEP GARAGE ROCK INSIDE ‘LABORATORY OF SOUND’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: The Fleshtones are a Queens, New York garage band that has survived since 1976, when they began playing hot Manhattan clubs such as CBGB and Max’s Kansas City. They’ve developed an avid cult following over thirty years of recording and touring. ‘82s Roman Gods and ‘83s Hexbreaker really got the momentum going. Snappy horn-imbued footstomper, “American Beat ‘84″ was prominently featured in Tom Hanks movie, Bachelor Party.

 Last time I saw the Fleshtones, they played at World Trade Center’s Windows of the World right before -11. When I met up with guitarist Keith Streng in Manhattan to support ‘95s Laboratory Of Sound, he spoke about music, but more so, his skeptical thoughts on contemporary celebrities. This article originally appeared in Top Secret, a cool Jersey biker zine with half-nude chicks, comic strips, cartoons, and some murky contercultural relevance.

 

Guitarist Keith Streng and vocalist-multi-instrumentalist Peter Zaremba have led New York City’s Fleshtones for close to twenty years. Personnel changes, various producers, and a couple side projects may have sidetracked these demon pop architects, but they remain the best party band on earth.

With grunge producer, Steve Albini (Nirvana’s former knob twister) at the helm, the Fleshtones have released their finest work yet. Laboratory Of Sound contains the same outgoing spirit their fans have grown to love.

The last time I watched these loose nuts play live was at the Fez in Manhattan. My brother Steve and I were plowing fuck-loads of beer and whiskey that night, waiting for the bastards to start. At 11:00 PM, Keith Streng finally appeared behind the bar we were standing at, cigarette in mouth and guitar in hand, leading off their set with loud, elongated riffs. When he found his way to the stage, the band joined in and rocked the small room for one action-packed hour.

Streng says Laboratory Of Sound is the most live-in-the-studio album since the late ‘70s, when they barely had a budget for their debut, Blast Off!

“Our producer, Steve Albini, managed to get our sound on tape with crisp clarity. He’s a super engineer – an incredible scientist of sound, hence the album title,” Streng insists. “The guy’s a genius. He made us sound like we were playing in your living room.”

Streng’s also brutally honest when I jokingly ask him what the worst song on Laboratory Of Sound is.

“If I had to pick the shittiest song on the album, I’d have to say our version of the Guess Who’s “American Woman.” It’s a cool kind of fucked-up. It would be a super B-side,” he notes.

Streng shares his memories of the worst venue the Fleshtones ever played: “It was some garage in Mississippi. It was horrible. There was no bathroom, just an outhouse. We were in the Deep South and not many people showed up. They couldn’t wait for us to leave.”

Some buttheads might think the invention of the CD was heaven sent, but I agree with Streng’s sentiment.

“CD’s were supposed to be superior quality. Indestructible. But they’re not easy to clean, and fresh vinyl sounds better. CD’s are a scam record companies invented to make more money. I used to love LP covers, but now they’re gone. You get these shrunken little fold out books inside the CD. The old Rolling Stones graphics used to be great,” he realizes.

Here are his thoughts on the worst Beatles song and most overrated current band.

“The worst Beatles song might be “Rocky Raccoon.” It’s just stupid. And “Octopus’ Garden” should’ve been done as a children’s song. It’s OK, but it’s silly,” he mocks. “I really don’t like Pearl Jam that much. They’re too contrived, probably because of the record industry.”

His thoughts on the recently indicted child molester Michael Jackson: “His new stuff is sheer bullshit. Basically, he went insane and got misguided. He wants to look like a white guy. His songwriting went straight into the toilet. He should just admit he likes little boys. Did you see his interview with Diane Sawyer? His wife, Lisa Marie Presley, comes off like she has no education. She’s very coarse. It sounded like she came from a slum because of her inarticulate statements.”

But Streng enjoys Howard Stern’s radio antics when he has time to listen.

He reasons, “Howard’s pretty funny. I only get to listen early in the morning on the way to gigs. He’s cynical and sarcastic and very talented. To a degree, his thinking leans to the right, though he’s not your usual boring conservative.”

As for OJ Simpson, Streng comments, “That court case has gotten more insane. How much evidence do we need to see? I mean, why keep the case going on – so TV and lawyers can make money. The killing was premeditated. He knew what he was going to do. There’s really no doubt. What’s funny is that I was getting ready to play a gig in Atlanta that night he drove around in the Bronco. Before the chase, I jokingly said ‘wouldn’t it be funny if OJ was making a break for Mexico.’ Sure as hell, that’s what he must’ve been doing with the $9,000 and a gun.”

Streng’s opinion on Hollywood movies?

“Fuck Hollywood! The movies are so cliché and formulaic. Why bother spending so much money? I’m not a fan of Kevin Costner. Everyone aid how great a movie The Fugitive was, but I liked the TV show better. The Batman movies pretty much suck. I do like Reservoir Dogs and I want to see Pulp Fiction soon.”

We agree drugs should be legal so banks stop lending money to drug traffickers, who then get off because the FBI needs to sustain their existence.

Streng adds, “But the government might let the quality go down. And ig they’re overpriced, what good would that do?”

His favorite drinks are vodka and Canadian Whiskey, but he also dabbles with Molson Ice Beer. He hates gin because it used to give him horrible hangovers.

Anyway, if you’re in the mood for some fun and cool party music, catch the Fleshtones live. You won’t be disappointed.

JOLIE HOLLAND MOVES PAST ‘CATALPA’ TO ‘ESCONDIDA’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Texas-bred singer-guitarist-violist, Jolie Holland, champions superannuated old timey music for newly enthralled mods. In ’04, I caught up with the amiable bespectacled gal at Maxwells in Hoboken to promote her second LP, Escondida. She has since continued to gain popularity, as ‘06s Springtime Can Kill You and ‘08s The Living And The Dead (with guitarists’ M. Ward and Marc Ribot onboard) received critical plaudits. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Sometimes the past refuses to recede into our collective memories, reassuringly taking us back to an innocent time when skies were bluer, air was cleaner, and grassroots music, more genteel. Bringing back the spirit of those witheringly weathered days is Jolie Holland, whose old timey visage and euphonic inflections revisit, rekindle, and re-acknowledge well begotten olden relics.

Born and raised in Houston, the singer-guitarist-violist then spent adolescence in a family-owned east Texas home just a few hours northwest of musical Mecca, the Big Easy. Her initial public performance in a local band (as rhythm guitarist) happened at the tender age of sixteen, before she subsequently secured several local solo gigs. Though Holland’s parents assumed she’d attend college and land a high-powered corporate job, the free-spirited bohemian began paying more attention to the ragtime Blues of guitar pickers Blind Willie Mc Tell and Elizabeth Cotten.

Yet Holland didn’t get deep into the Blues until she left the Lone Star State for San Francisco, meeting many respectable musicians who shared similar interests. Thereupon, she inhabited Vancouver’s drug-addled ghetto as lead songwriter for the earthy Be Good Tanyas. After splitting from the group over creative differences, Holland made a staggeringly admirable bare-bones demo that reached the hands of reputable bard, Tom Waits, an undeniably meritorious role model.

Captured in a living room, the resulting Catalpa was then given proper release by Waits’ current label, Anti (a subsidiary of established L.A.-based indie, Epitaph). Interspersing hokum Country alongside modern folkloric peculiarities, its courageously naked rural-bound compositions express intimate confidentiality and draw frank comparisons to Alan Lomax’s archaic field recordings.

In November ’03, Holland entered a formal studio with vetran Jazz drummer Dave Mihaly, fellow six-stringer Brian Miller, and other recruits for the lovely Escondida. From delightful Cajun waltz, “Sascha,” to flickeringly tingled sedation, “Darlin’ Ukulele,” to lonesome bluegrass refuge, “Faded Coat Of Blue,” her cherished cabaret poignancy reveals astoundingly plaintive vulnerability. In spite of its home-y upbeat Tejan feel, “Goodbye California” deals with untimely suicide, perhaps paralleling the Piedmont-forged death tales of yore.

Wearing an antiquated petticoat dress, knee-high stockings, golden brown shawl, and black granny shoes, the bespectacled full-figured bumpkin held the half-seated crowd in the palm of her hand at Maxwells in Hoboken, hypnotizing the awestruck minions with understated poise usually reserved for torch song bearers twice as experienced. Holland’s witty self-deprecation, genuine wide-eyed smile, and hippie-ish vagabond countenance kept the audience engrossed despite flubbed improvisational attempts at familiar rudimentary originals and one temporary mid-song bungle.

Notwithstanding these few errors, Holland’s sweetly demure voice possessed this backroom club whether serving up back porch folk, melancholy Western swing, or operatic Jazz. She broke out a violin for a native American instrumental dirge that slipped into the somber “Alley Flowers.” When her violin fucked up during another number, she recovered brilliantly, succinctly freestyling a cappella lyrics to eventual applause. The sullenly majestic “Drunk At The Pulpit” satiated silenced attendees as a supinely restrained encore.

Why’d you move from the Louisiana-Texas Jazz-Blues hotbed to San Francisco?

JOLIE: I love New Orleans, but to live there, what job would I have – working in a bar around drunken people. I settled in San Francisco and was introduced to amazing musicians I wanted to work with.

Then you moved to liberal-minded marijuana vista, Vancouver, to be in the Be Good Tanyas. Were you also a stoner?

JOLIE: No, I’m extremely moderate. I lived in a rough neighborhood – 50% HIV rate. It was hard to go out at night because there were junkies everywhere. But I met great people and wanted to see what the city was like. I’m back in San Francisco living at the Golden Gate panhandle. It’s a tourist-y area.

Are Jazz-folk singer-songwriters such as Joni Mitchell or Rickie Lee Jones influential?

JOLIE: I hate Joni Mitchell’s music. I respect that people like her but she’s not singing to me. I can’t stand Rickie Lee Jones music. I’d like her if I could understand what she was singing. I’m from the street so I wanna hear what you’re singing or I won’t drop money in your hat. When you mumble, it makes people think you’re not serious. But I look forward to hearing her new album. Most radio songs are bad and the Blues stations play boring new stuff. I didn’t even realize there was good roots-y Blues music until a friend turned me on.

Since Catalpa was recorded in your living room, will those songs ever be given proper studio treatment?

JOLIE: My band’s really creative and versatile. Every song I’ve recorded I’ve done twenty different ways. I’ve done Catalpa songs with huge horn arrangements or with guest rappers. I probably will re-record some differently. “Sascha” and “Poor Girl’s Blues” are the oldest songs I’ve ever recorded.

Getting to Escondida’s nitty gritty, you begin with “Sascha,” a diva-esque torch song.

JOLIE: That’s an early Jazz-pop-styled tune. It’s inspired by anarchistic New York writer, Sascha. We hung out and had a sweet relationship that motivated me to move out of Vancouver. “Sascha” represents me having a melody in my head and not knowing how to put chords behind it. It had seven chords – which is a lot for a song. I learned more about musical theory before I finished that song.

“Old Fashioned Morphine’ reminded me of Billie Holiday, who struggled with heroin addiction.

JOLIE: I love Billie Holiday. But that song doesn’t refer to recreational morphine use. I’m using it metaphorically. I wrote that to amuse myself while waitressing. I’d just read a book about medicine history and my grandfather had just spent his last six months on morphine.

Its post-midnight trumpet setting comes closest to Tom Waits oeuvre.

JOLIE: It’s funny you mention that. The trumpeter is my friend, Ara (Anderson), who was lucky enough to get called by Waits to play on his last two records.

Are you into similarly styled folk troubadour, John Prine?

JOLIE: I’m not a fan of his (nasally Dylanesque) voice, but I love his songs. I do “Christmas In Prison.”

Does the lilting, velvety piano ballad, “Amen,” come from Gospel spirituals?

JOLIE: The most direct inspiration is (acid folk weirdo) Michael Hurley. I love his records. He inspired “Amen’s” wacky arrangement. When you listen to his songs, structure seems to make sense, but then it jumps out of key in strange moments. His songs have an internal sense, tight flow, and strong nucleus communicated in a strong way. He’s so inspiring. “Amen” was written off the top of my head on a full moon night on piano at a crazy practice with his principles in mind.

Then there’s “Poor Girl’s Blues,” a down home Appalachian folk-Blues tune.

JOLIE: At the time in’95 (when it was written), I was listening to early Dylan, like Freewheeelin’ or Another Side.

The quietly strummed gentle persuasion, “Do You?,” has a hushed lilt Norah Jones would appreciate.

JOLIE: I don’t know her but I have ten friends in common with her. I was in a band with someone who wrote “If I Were A Painter” for her first album. I’m also a friend with her first manager. She’s in the family, coming out of a musical circle I stepped into in San Francisco. People are annoyed they hear her too much. But she’s younger than me and I’ve been around longer so she’s not an influence.

Are you into British Isle folk by Fairport Convention or Richard Thompson?

JOLIE: Be Good Tanyas’ “The Little Bird” was up for best song on BBC, but we lost to (Thompson’s ex-wife) Linda Thompson. I don’t know what she sounds like. I’m so broke I can’t afford records.

How might your future recordings differ?

JOLIE: I have different ideas. I have an unreleased live record. There’s an element of sketchy rock and roll not represented on either of my first two records so I wanna lay down that rock sound I represent live. I also wanna do a pristine Jazz-Country record with dance songs you could imagine couples dancing to wearing tight jeans.

OLD 97’S: TOO FAR TO CARE

Interviews,
FOREWORD: Old 97’s could’ve and should’ve been the band that blew open Country radio’s doors for the entire independent ‘alt-Country’ scene to come rushing through. In a fair world, Old ‘97s and their deserving contemporaries (Whiskeytown, Uncle Tupelo, Ryan Adams’ Whiskeytown) would’ve been the cream of the crop and picked to click at Country radio.
But the conservative twits at commercially-sponsored Country radio in the ‘90s would never offer airtime to rock-leaning contemporary artists that’d put a strain on the syrupy ballads feeding the system – even if they did get signed by a major label (you know, the guys who give payola, weed, and coke to lame Country DJ’s to play syrupy ballads).
But alas, Old 97’s fate was sealed and they kept selling out small clubs instead of stadiums. I got to speak to guitarist Ken Bethea and bassist Murray Hammond in ’97. I was originally hoping to talk to band-leading composer, Rhett Miller, but that didn’t happen. Anyway, his band mates knew plenty about Texas music (giving a shout out to the Butthole Surfers) and proved very resourceful.
After this piece (which ran in a highly popular porn mag), Old 97’s hit the studio again for ‘99s scrappy Fight Songs and ‘01s equally fine Satellite Rides. ‘04s raw-boned Drag It Up wasn’t up to snuff, but ‘08s Blame It On Gravity made a nice comeback. Rhett Miller, meanwhile, put out respectable solo albums such as ‘02s The Instigator and ‘06s The Believer, plus an eponymous ’09 full-length. This article originally appeared in Gallery Magazine.

 

 

Freewheeling neo-traditionalist alternative Country quartet, Old 97’s hail from Dallas, Texas. They pick up where early ‘80s cowpunk combos like the Del-Lords, Rank & File, and Jason & the Scorchers left off, forging through twangy Western guitar riffs and hip-shakin’ rockabilly beats with punk attitude and verve. Old 97’s proves roots music can exist outside of its specific time and place.

Copping their numeric moniker from a song made popular by Johnny Cash, “The Wreck Of Old 97,” these spirited hipsters recently released their third full-length disc, Too Far To Care. Gaining momentum from ‘94s Hitchhike To Rhome and its well-received follow-up, Wreck Your Life, Old 97’s seek acceptance among the underground rock and Country audiences spurned by mainstream radio. While banjos and mandolins were used on Hitchhike To Rhome, they’ve now become more relaxed with the standard bass, guitar, and drums format.

“Nashville accepts Garth Brooks over us because people are convinced that’s what modern Country sounds like,” bassist Murray Hammond insists. “But we like old-style Country music. In fact, I was always engrossed in the chugging ole-timey stuff. We atke a lump of rock clay and stick Country in it. And yet, we’re more influenced by simple Appalachian bluegrass tunes than George Jones and Merle Haggard. We twist ‘60s and ‘70s rock and punk energy. The stuff from the ‘80s and ‘90s hasn’t found its way into our sound yet.”

“As a guitar player, I was a big AC/DC fan,” admits Ken Bethea. “I was into Angus Young, but never liked Led Zeppelin, Neil Young, or Jimi Hendrix. I never listened to any Country besides Merle Haggard. I also loved listening to X because they meshed punk and rockabilly. Then I got into Joe Ely and Jerry Jeff Walker when I went to school in Austin.”

Clearly, Bethea doesn’t try to model himself after any other guitarists, whether rock-based or Country-Blues-based. “Basically, I try not to play, the melody of our songs, but instead go against the grain to give it a certain unique charm.”

Since Old 97’s are worried about being perceived as a straight-up Nashville Country act, they decided not to allow someone like Dwight Yoakam’s producer to record Too Far To Care. Instead, they let Boston-based Wally Gagel (who has worked with indie alt-rockers Sebadoh, Superchunk, and Julianna Hatfield) handle the chores.

“We never said we were indie until we die like the Minutemen did,” Bethea claims. “We just want to thrash and bash and make good-sounding records. The biggest difference between the new album and its predecessors is that we had three months – instead of two weeks – to rehearse. We had pre-production time to work on song ideas and give it more of a kick. Plus, we had a bigger studio to work in, better food, and a nicer atmosphere.”

Perhaps the trusty “Big Brown Eyes” best exemplifies Old 97’s sound. Guitarist-composer Rhett Miller sings the melancholy hearty-on-the-sleeve lyrics over rubbery bass and drummer Philip Peeples’ ticking rhythm. Its lonesome prairie ambiance and honky tonk attitude brings back the agility and delicate sentiments of deceased Country-rock legend Gram Parsons. “Big Brown Eyes” could be taken seriously or shrugged off as a tongue-in-cheek ditty.

‘We want to be fun, but not funny,” Bethea declares. “Rhett decided Too Far To Care would make a decent title, since it’s a vague reference to self-destruction. He’s being self-effacing about a broken relationship.”

Changing moods and styles from song to song, Old 97’s stampede down a whiskey-soaked highway on “Time Bomb,” hearken back to Country balladry on “Barrier Reef,” then shift despair-ridden “Broadway” into a rollicking garage anthem. Hammond’s hasty banjo gives the anachronistic “W. TX. Teardrops” a hillbilly boogie bent and the bouncy “Streets Of Where I’m From” perfectly balances its alternative rock ambitions with Country & Western savvy.

Due to its size and cultural diversity, Texas is home to a wide variety of Blues, folk, pop, rock, and Country artists. There’s T-Bone Walker, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Thirteenth Floor Elevators, and an endless list of musical progenitors. Why such a varied menu?

“Possibly because it’s so far away from both Coasts, Texas artists retain one unified identity with different subcultures, ” Hammond rebuts. “People are raised to think Texas is unique. Look at Butthole Surfers, the quintessential cool band that had its own thing going on since the early ‘80s. They may be hardcore, but they run the spectrum from soft to loud, hard to quiet. They have punchy rhythms and in-your-face lyrics. Some people think their wordplay is heavy-handed or insulting. I just think they have a commanding presence.”

In spite of Country radio’s disturbing lack of serious young artists on their play lists, insurgent bands such as Old 97’s, Moonshine Willie, Waco Brothers, Slobberbone, and BRS-49 continue to gain a foothold by playing smaller venues. Perhaps some day one of those combos will explode and everyone will ride their coattails to stardom.

Hell. Before the Eagles took Jackson Browne’s “Take It Easy” for a chart ride in ’72, Parson’s underrated Flying Burrito Brothers, Poco, and Emmylou Harris were caught in the same Catch-22 trap suffocating these modern visionaries. Let’s hope they’re not stranded too long.

GRIFTERS CHALLENGING AS HELL ‘FULL BLOWN POSSESSION’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Rousing Memphis-based ‘90s band, the Grifters, loved using subpar equipment to put across coarsely skewed, roughly hewn, Stones-copped slop-rock. I got to interview co-composing bassist Tripp Lampkins in ’98 when their final album, the corruptive Full Blown Possession, hit the streets. Utmost mofo bohos to the end, the Grifters didn’t last a decade but those who saw ‘em will never forget ‘em. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Borrowing their latest three-word title from The Exorcist, the Memphis-based Grifters achieve a singular sound by diversifying R & B, rock, swamp Blues, and Jazz elements on Full Blown Possession. Their malformed, depression-bound songs deal with regret, fugitives, loveless vagabonds, and life’s underside.

Beneath the unsettling guitars of Scott Taylor and Dave Shouse lies the great rhythmic thrust of propulsive bassist Tripp Lampkins and determined drummer, Stan Gallimore. As with the Grifters third album, ‘94’s Crappin’ You Negative, and its superb ’96 follow-up Ain’t My Lookout, the hauntingly demonic Full Blown Possession benefits from the increasing role of the rhythm section.

The muscular engine-driven “Re-Entry Blues” neatly matches a compelling melody with Pavement-happy choruses; the implosive “Blood Thirsty Lovers” features blistering ‘70s arena rock power chords; snake-bitten mantra “Cigarette” retrieves the heavy, loping guitar and pungent bass sound emanating from John Lennon’s “She’s So Heavy” and “Cold Turkey”; and the cosmically cryptic “Contact Me Now” flirts with LSD-era Beatles. But this is oversimplifying the Grifters evil-possessed half-inebriated psychedelically blustery sound.

Never afraid of a little debauchery or good clean fun, the Grifters began in ’89 as A Band Named Bud. Changing their moniker in time for ‘92s halfway decent debut, So Happy Together, they arrived at a truly original sound with ‘93s One Sock Missing. Along the way, constant touring, a cameo in the underground movie Half Cocked, and a few 45 RPM releases kept the Grifters busy.

I spoke to Tripp Lampkins by phone from his Memphis home.

Could you summarize the Grifters career and put it into perspective?

TRIPP: In the beginning, there wasn’t any order to our sound. We reveled in the collision of our styles, which gave our songs meaning, but now we’ve learned to write to each others strengths as well, but that’s not necessarily a good thing. I like to think Grifters music is more exciting when everyone is challenged to do something they might not otherwise do.

The sturdily pervasive “Re-Entry Blues” seems symbolically open-ended. It could be about the Grifters struggle to follow-up Ain’t No Lookout, the need for Sub Pop to revitalize its once-mighty stature, or the mission to conquer new ground while fighting back the current trendy electronica phase.

TRIPP: (laughter) That’s a Dave song. Sometimes he has imagery he wants to use in song. Then he’ll come up with ways of skewing that imagery with some other kind of imagery and he makes up the meaning afterward. “Re-Entry Blues” could have something to do with the bands’ status at Sub Pop. It could mean one last chance.

Do the Grifters feel attached to Memphis’ deep-rooted musical past?

TRIPP: I like to think we have a little Booker T & the MG’s in us. Our drummer, Stan, has been compared to veteran Stax musician, Al Jackson, because of the way he meters out a song. He’s heavy-handed and beats the shit out of the drums. So it doesn’t help to write a song that’s laid back with a wispy beat. He unforgivingly holds down an unchanging tempo without showing off. I’d definitely say there’s some huge Big Star pop hooks in our music. Some tragically beautiful guitar riffs inundate “Contact Me Now.” But a lot of people say that song sounds like AC/DC. I think most bands feel connected to Memphis sounds from Stax and Sun Records. It’s cool to be from Memphis, but it doesn’t give us any divine right to the blues.

What blues artists do you enjoy?

TRIPP: I like Little Milton, who’s closer to soul than blues. 1930’s Big Band bluesman Jimmy Lunceford is really great, but his records are hard to find.

Do the Grifters find it difficult to arrange their somewhat complex compositions?

TRIPP: We don’t make the arrangements too involved because they’d be hard to remember. We keep it verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge. If a song sounds formulaic or if we’re aware it sounds like something else, we change it up so it holds its own ground. Scott has written the same Irish drinking song four times. We find ways to make them sound different. It’s a fun challenge to take “Centuries,” which is basically the same song as “Banjo,” and rebuild it.

Is there one song that epitomizes the Grifters sound?

TRIPP: We play “Bummer” all the time live. It starts with a great driving Scott riff. Dave add one of his classic mournful, tragic laments about a girl possibly, and it becomes a typical Grifters tune that doesn’t mean anything. Except for Ain’t My Lookout, Scott tends to write about his screwed up marriage. Quite a few colorful characters came out of that situation. We thought he’d be too happy to write fucked up songs after the divorce, but luckily that’s not the case.

What bands did you listen to as a kid?

TRIPP: My aunts and uncles were into the Beatles and Deep Purple.When I was four that’s what I listened to – along with Black Oak Arkansas. My first live show was Kansas when I was in fifth grade. It’s also the first time I ever smoked weed. You couldn’t help but get stoned at a Kansas show. I still get high, but I gave up on the psychedelic stuff. It just stopped working for me. I still enjoy mushrooms, but not LSD.

Give me one great fucked-up tour story.

TRIPP: Our road crew dealt out a little karma in Portland. This guy apparently rubbed everyone the wrong way. He was drinking on our tab and hitting on this girl all night and freaked her out. She came to our merch table seeking shelter while our road manager kept the guy at bay. Then the guy came over upset and yelled in her face, ‘you stop paying attention to them and start paying attention to me.’ After the show, our road manager took her to catch a cab and the guy walked up and told him, ‘we’re friends.’ Now tell your merch guy to lay off the chick.’ He caused a scene. It got physical and our sound guy who loves to fight proceeded to beat the shit out of him. He had it coming.

Did the Grifters ever get stiffed by a club owner?

TRIPP: Once in West Virginia, this owner was a real asshole. He didn’t buy us dinner or pay us like it said in the contract. We threatened a lawsuit and he was like, ‘I put on a GG Allin show, so I won’t put up with this shit from you guys.’ Finally, he paid us.

What are the Grifters favorite beverages on tour?

TRIPP: the booze of choice is Scotch. Johnny Walker Red. I’ve been broke lately so I’m drinking cheap Crawfords Scotch.

Could the Grifters outdrink Guided By Voices?

TRIPP: We toured with GBV and those guys would buy six cases of beer and the last one would go onstage with them. On the last tour I figured out how to control my liquor intake so I don’t get fat. I don’t drink until the first band starts. Then I have a few beers, switch to Scotch, and that gets me plenty drunk. But you could stay in control, make sense when you talk to chicks afterward, and not get too hungover.

Unlike decades past, many rock musicians tend to hit stride when they are thirty years old. Why?

TRIPP: Bands that form in their teens tend to write immature fast hardcore shit about hatred. Then they have trouble sustaining that fiery thrust. Lots of kids are into electronica now, which is cool, but I haven’t heard a song yet I could relate to. It’s a copout, but I like Prodigy because they write songs that affect me. Growing up, I listened to the Replacements and angst-rock, but I can’t go back to that because those feelings don’t affect me now.

What local Memphis bands do you enjoy?

TRIPP: The Oblivians are good friends of ours and are terrific. Erik Oblivian was responsible for us hooking up with Sonic Noise and Shangri-La Records. Then, there’s 68 Comeback, Lorete Velvette of the Hellcats, the Clears, and the Satyrs – who write soulful music. But Memphis can’t support anything because it’s filled with drunks who can’t get out of their chair. Bands come to Memphis thinking they’re in the home of rock and roll, but they get really low attendance. It’s an ugly scene. But it’s slowly getting better. There’s really only one cool club. The other is run by the mob. Then we have the huge venue called New Daisy where you have to make enough money to pay the lighting guy, the soundman, the security guards, and the doorman. And there’s no Country music worth a shit coming out of Memphis currently. As for Blues, the last thing I want to go see is white dudes with day jobs approximating the Blues. It’s supposed to be about suffering or exorcising demons through music.

JOHNNY DOWD @ KNITTING FACTORY

Live Reviews

Johnny Dowd / Knitting Factory / November 17, 1999

A weathered musical chameleon with a deep southern drawl and charmingly self-effacing wit, gray-haired troubadour, Johnny Dowd, captivated a polite Knitting Factory audience this cold November night. His dark, brooding dirges feel like black storm clouds stretched across barren plains while his cracked swamp Blues recall avant-garde enigma, Captain Beefheart.

He may forever linger in obscurity, but Dowd’s a true talent with great musical sense. His version of Hank Williams’ “A Picture From Life’s Other Side” had a smoke-filled barroom atmosphere reminiscent of Tom Waits. The stark “Hell Or High Water” (from a promised future album) got stricken by cowbell percussionist Kim Sherwood-Caso’s paling bellowed voice, perfectly capturing the desolate mood of Dowd’s late-night scree guitar and Justin Asher’s creepy organ. After some humorous down home asides, Dowd broke into the ominously destitute “Cradle To The Grave,” which dealt with lost hope and a severed relationship.

The absolute highlight, “Worried Mind,” got lost in Asher’s toxic organ groove and Bob Hoffnar’s darting pedal steel screech before bewitched Caso coos through the Cajun standard, “Jambalaya,” midway through the song. Facetiously introduced as a love song, Dowd’s scraggly muttering and flatulent guitar buzz inundate the chain-like rhythm of “Greasy Hands.” As an aside, Dowd read his own cryptic poems after “Four Gray Walls,” a warm folk-based duet with Caso.

Unrestricted by musical boundaries and more than daring to make his songs as obtuse and twisted as possible, Dowd proves old dogs can still learn new tricks.

DROPKICK MURPHYS @ TEANECK AMERICAN LEGION HALL

Live Reviews

Dropkick Murphys / Teaneck American Legion Hall / March 20, 1999

After a solid performance at Coney Island high to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, the Dropkick Murphys decided to give something back to suburban dwellers, playing a small town American Legion Hall for the kids who couldn’t make the New York venue.

Feeling out of place next to teens clad in studded leather, strange spiked mohawks, and some of the most unusual attire I’ve ever encountered, these well-behaved misfits were crammed tightly into the sweaty, tiny Legion Hall backroom. Despite the over-capacity crowd, kids body surfed and gleefully cheered on their Irish-bred Boston punk heroes.

Even though two rude, inconsiderate Legion members treated their strange-looking guests like absolute shit, calling the police to break up the mob, I praise the Teaneck cops not only for letting the one-hour set run its coarse, but for restraint, patience, and professionalism handling a tough situation.

Early on, the Dropkick Murphys got the kids raising fists in the air, covering Sham 69’s timeless youth brigade, “If The Kids Are United.” Though the sound system sucked, and it was difficult to comprehend lyrics, the resilient quartet overcame these problems by rampaging through supercharged, highly spirited tracks from 1998’s exhilarating Do Or Die album and the newly waxed Gang’s All Here.

Without a doubt, the Dropkick Murphys understand the youthful yearning and rebellious spirit of the fans, unifying them through positive anthems concerning freedom and righteousness.

However difficult it is to comprehend the reasoning behind booking this band at such an ill-suited non-club, the merchandise table seemed to do bang-up business afterward. I was impressed with the displays, t-shirts, records, CD’s and colorful paraphernalia. And yes, kudos to the Dropkick Murphys for keeping their fans positively enthralled.