IRON & WINE READY TO MAKE ‘WOMAN KING’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Sam Beam (a.k.a Iron & Wine) began as a nocturnal lo-fi bedroom dabbler and ended up garnering unexpected critical success on a semifamous level. An affable indie folk minimalist utilizing an intimate approach reminiscent of tragic ’70s icon Nick Drake’s haunting acoustic durges, the bearded Floridian  is a good-natured soul with a great sense of humor as it turns out. Following this ’05 interview promoting the Woman King EP, Iron & Wine went on to record ’07s poignant symphonic masterpeice, The Shepherd’s Dog. In ’09, he dropped the two-disc live/ rarities collection, Around The Well. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Now living in Miami with a wife and three kids, heavily bearded troubadour Sam Beam attended Florida State, taught cinematography, and only strummed guitar as a hobby before reluctantly deciding to share his tenderly sublime musings under the incongruent guise, Iron & Wine.

Remarkably, the cordial slack-drawled Columbia, South Carolina, native hadn’t attempted to record his wispy minimalist folk-rooted incantations ‘til age twenty-one. Peculiarly signed to hallowed Seattle label, Sub Pop, an affluent indie better known for exposing clamorous grunge acts, Iron & Wine continues to gain acceptance among awed admirers, ushering comparisons to the abstruse fatalism Nick Drake and Elliott Smith’s vivid melodic wordplay and somber twilight laments once projected.

Yet despite a penchant for mortality yarns, the relaxed, easygoing Beam harbors no disturbingly extant death wish. Instead, his earnest postcards from the edge and sedate acoustical trinkets transport sullenly restrained lyricism to majestic heights, contentedly expressing delicately mesmerizing serenity, beautifully hypnotic imagery, and ephemeral tropical splendor while avoiding descent into the dire disconsolateness, destitute delusions, and downbeat dissuasions depressing the above mentioned suicide coalition. Though casting similar vulnerability, Beam’s conventional lifestyle and lyrical apparitions appear to be more grounded and centered.

On Iron & Wine’s highly regarded, preposterously titled ’02 debut, The Creek Drank the Cradle, the one-man bands’ formative homespun hushed lullabies arrive pure as the driven snow. Beam’s gentle slide guitar earthiness and subtle 6-string phrasing surround his seductively poignant eggshell-soft whispers and breathlessly flinty coos, genuinely evoking a warm summer breeze blowing jasmine through your mind.

At this precocious juncture, Beam’s intimately economical, plainly detailed elocution proffers deliberately constraint succinctness, taking no chances getting across uncomplicated chord structures to accompany his ethereal beatnik folk informalities. Rural railroad regalia “The Rooster Moans” retains an uncanny post-war folk-Blues authenticity not far removed from the slivery banjo-soaked Piedmont Blues consuming sighed vignette “An Angry Blade.” More often, Beam’s exquisite dewy-eyed meditations hinge on the slowly swaying understated pop tranquility these tidily modest inaugural hymns deserve.

After ‘03s interim EP, The Sea & The Rhythm, Iron & Wine returned with the autumnal melancholic masterwork, Our Endless Numbered Days (infrequently supplemented by sister Sara’s high-pitched harmonies). Gaining greater confidence while moving away from the hyper-precise reverent treatments of his valiant initial entree, Beam now ably displays effortless assurance delivering stunning elliptical impressionism.

The dusky tribal rhythm subsuming the hauntingly ticking “On Your Wings” recalls mentor Tom Waits’ bedeviled dead of night dirges. Spindly manifesto “Naked As We Come” and ominously hummed zephyr “Cinder And Smoke” have a woodsy feel the pristine campfire sonnet “Sunset Soon Forgotten” and dulcet murmur “Love And Some Verses” preserve. On the folk-Blues tip, the banjo-slide slither “Teeth In The Grass” and old timey ukulele desolation “Radio War” suffice. Embracing neo-Classical ripple “Each Coming Night” recalls Simon & Garfunkle’s “The Boxer” or, perhaps, the eternal duo’s surreal demure canticle “Scarborough Fair.”

On ‘05s magnificent 6-song EP, Woman King, Beam’s most varied project thus far, he uses hip historic independent women as storied metaphors for intriguing euphonies and also delightedly widens the instrumental expanse a tad. Lubricious violin eventually contrasts the satiny tenor-bound whisk “Gray Stables,” harpsichord tingles the antediluvian dissent “Jezebel,” and a fuzzy electric guitar midst amplifies the circularly designed “Evening On The Ground.” Trickled tambourine pacifies the foreboding piano-sketched tale “My Lady’s House.” “Freedom Hangs Like Heaven” drifts safely into elegiac Appalachian territory. The title track, a spruced mantra underscored by clickety percussion, brings stately bottleneck guitar to a nearly exotic glisten, summoning the gingerly transience of mod bard Mark Eitzel.

A soon-to-be-released EP utilizing ubiquitous Tucson mavericks Calexico, will revisit some of Beam’s oldest songs, written prior to his debut.

“It’s a collaboration in the truest sense of the word,” Beam concludes. “It’ll have a slight Mexicali bent.”

Were you aware of or encouraged by intuitive lo-fi bedroom recorders such as Liz Phair and Sebadoh when you began privately recording your own stuff in the late ‘90s?

SAM BEAM: I was, but only peripherally. I didn’t hear much of it. But I listen to lots of music and knew it was out and about. I was into heavier stuff like Nirvana when they came out. My tastes are all over the place. I thought what Sub Pop was doing was great. I was into skate punk then. I was in school at Richmond, Virginia so nearby DC punk by Fugazi influenced me.

Over the course of a few albums and EP’s, you’ve opened up your arrangements slightly while retaining allegoric compositional depth.

For variety’s sake, as well as for this recent record, we went to the studio and tried to change the sound a little and make it more playful to keep things interesting for myself and the audience.

“Evening On the Ground” is subtitled “Lilith’s Song.” Why?

Lilith is from Jewish mythology. She was the first wife of Adam cast out of Eden because she wouldn’t let Adam lie on top of her. She wanted to fuck him on top. So he got rid of her and got Eve, who was more compliant. The whole Lilith Fair concert series is based on that character.

“Jezebel” is somewhat based on a shameless Biblical matron, too.

She was the most wicked queen of Israel. She made her husband, who was king, worship idols instead of God. They eventually killed her.

Are you a spiritual person?

No. But I’m interested in watching the news. There are plenty of topics of interest. And if you spend time in the Carolinas you’ll get affected by religion, either positively or negatively and how it plays itself out with people.

Much like contemporaries Okkervil River, mortality plays an important part in your music. But it’s never done in a gruesome manner like, say, Nick Cave’s darkest material.

I’m definitely into mortality, but not in the morbid sense. Woman King’s songs are based on strong female characters I was drawn to while writing narrative stories. The historical content is merely a reference point for the audience to pick up on but at the same time, it’s not really about those historic figures.

On Our Endless Numbered Days, you seemingly stepped beyond mythical, transitory, and romantic boundaries for the portentous sociopolitical assertion “Free Until They Cut Me Down.”

Totally. I tasted societal mores. (laughter) It’s about a character who knows he’s done something that’s not right, but doesn’t want to fess up to it. He urges his father, ‘don’t tell me what to do,’ but knows he’s gonna have to pay for it down the road.

Are you into old Blues artists, such as Elmore James, who I thought might’ve affected your slide guitar playing?

Elmore’s great. All those old Blues guys were amazing. I listen to African, Balinese, and Classical music. It’s a big world with a lot of different kinds of music.

Will you ever change direction and make a loud, rocking record with angular guitars spewing hefty wattage?

I wouldn’t rule anything out if the song calls for that. But I’m not gonna write a rocking jam record just for the sake of it. There’ll just be a sensible evolution. Through the process of writing, you find out how to make the songs work.

Where does the paradoxical Iron & Wine moniker come from? Does it contrast a heretofore-unforeseen metallic thickness hedging against the soothing vinous warmth of your songs?

Well. Iron Maiden. That’s where it came from as inspiration. No. I’m just kidding. I thought it was more interesting than my name. It’s showmanship. Which is more interesting, that or Sam Beam?

ROBBIE FULKS / RAY MASON BAND @ MERCURY LOUNGE

Live Reviews

Robbie Fulks / Ray Mason Band / Mercury Lounge, July 9, 1998

Possibly the best solo artist of the so-called ‘neo-traditionalist country movement,’ Chicago-based Robbie Fulks proved to a passionate Mercury Lounge audience just how significant his roots-y original songs are. By emulating legends such as Hank Williams (whose microphone mannerisms Fulks has down pat), Lefty Frizzell, and George Jones, this lanky, sometimes hilarious, blonde-haired singer-guitarist offered an untainted slice of Americana.

A genuine purveyor of the Nashville sound, Fulks deserves widespread attention much more than the complacently hokey cosmopolitan cowpokes currently watering down C & W in that once vital six-string capital. Admittedly, Fulks has not broadened the scope of Country music, but his talent as a songwriter and performer is undeniable. And his ’97 LP, South Mouth, and its sterling follow-up, Let’s Kill Saturday Night, affirm his worth.

At the Merc, he impressively delivered weepy tear-stained ballads countered by humorous upbeat ditties like the ringing “I Told Her Lies.” With tongue firmly in cheek, he had the audacity to attempt a slow, deliberate version of Abba’s sugarcoated pop kernel, “Dancing Queen.” It’d be criminal and shameful if this wonderful artist didn’t receive the accolades he rightly deserves.

Longhaired aged-in-the-wool Massachusetts native, Ray Mason, delivered a clean, crisp set of down home pop and blues-y rock confections beforehand. So popular amongst the roots-rock community that a tributary collection of his originals, It’s Heartbreak That Sells, was recently released, Mason crafts stylistically eclectic tunes that come in all shapes ‘n sizes. Providing comforting details about rural New England, he sang about “Mailbox Blues,” his answering machine, and a girl going “Out Of Her Mind.”

Backed by an experienced combo, Mason scruffed up some neat guitar licks and sang in a baritone not far removed from John Hiatt or Counting Crows’ Adam Durwitz. Many highlights from this Friday night show could be found on his marvelous Castanets long-player. Nearly fifty, this avid record collector has more spirit, spunk, and charm than artists half his age.

ROBERT FORSTER & GRANT MCLENNAN @ MERCURY LOUNGE

Live Reviews

Robert Forster & Grant McLennan / Mercury Lounge / June 9, 1999

FOREWORD: Since watching the Go-Betweens’ dual front men perform acoustically at this Mercury Lounge gig, they returned to the foray with ‘03s fine Bright Yellow Bright Orange and ‘05s better Oceans Apart. However, McLennan died in ‘06, making the Go-Betweens an amazing relic from the ‘80s and ‘90s.

Former co-leaders of Australia’s finest underground rockers, the Go-Betweens, singer-songwriter-guitarists Robert Forster and Grant McLennan put on a dazzling acoustic set for a sardine-packed Mercury Lounge crowd.

While both artists went their separate ways during the ‘90s (Forster released the melodic Danger In The Past while McLennan countered with the stylistic Watershed and its masterful follow-up, Horsebreaker Star), they’ve remained friends, penning a few intriguing gems featured this fortuitous New York night.

Perfectly suited for this small backroom club, Forster and McLennan had no problem getting across their intrinsic harmonies, mournful pop reflections, and warm Gaelic-tinged folk (mostly derived from ‘86s outstanding Liberty Belle And The Black Diamond Express and ‘87s Tallulah).

Avid fans were hanging on every word. In fact, during the joyous “Love Goes On,” from ‘88s major label breakthrough, 16 Lovers Lane, nearly everyone in attendance joined in at the sweet chorus.

After a perfect one-hour set, the dynamic duo from Down Under took a few minutes to recoup before surprising patrons with a poignant extended encore. Hardly anyone left as they presented nearly another full hour of somber reflections and soft pop fare, creating an even more intimate atmosphere than they had for the original set.

Though they insist the Go-Betweens remain a dead issue, the newest unrecorded compositions performed should offer a positive sign of future studio collaborations.

THERMALS SPRING FORTH WITH ‘MORE PARTS PER MILLION’ THEN PLAY DEAD ON ‘NOW WE CAN SEE’

Interviews

FOREWORD: I made quick friends with Thermals front guy, Hutch Harris, at Mercury Lounge supporting fantastic ’03 debut, More Parts Per Million. We conducted a weed-hazed interview in my wife’s van with then-member, Ben Barrett, while Harris’ paramour-bassist, Kathy Foster, worked the merch table.

Afterwards, I called Harris at home for an ’09 interview promoting the equally fine Now We Can See. Then, I caught the Thermals headlining Bowery Ballroom, spending a few minutes prior to the show laughing it up with Kathy, her brother, a publicist, and finally, Hutch. Both following interviews originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Just east of Portland, Oregon’s downtown district across from the winding Williamette River and past its Industrial banks lies the bucolic region indie-minded combo, the Thermals, call home. Capturing the energetic vitality of reckless post-collegiate uncertainty, these scruffy erudite rockers bend muzzled vocals, durable rhythms, and clanging distortion into crudely skewed 2-minute-per-song efficacy.

Live at NYC’s Mercury Lounge, elastic Thermals frontman Hutch Harris spews perceptive literary-bound lyrics in a spastic sputter while restlessly limbering across the stage. Bespectacled ex-girlfriend Kathy Foster dexterously plucks her bass, supplying plenty of punch. Bald, skullcap-wearing guitarist Ben Barnett (of 4-track minimalists Kind Of Like Spitting) nervously jerks his head up and down to the punctual beat, sweat pouring down his prominent forehead as he rips at the axe with feral determination. Behind the kit, Jordan Hudson slashes away mightily, pounding skins and bashing cymbals with hands flailing wildly in every direction.

On the Thermals blazing 27-minute/ 13-song debut, More Parts Per Million, lo-fi production belies jittery roughhewn morsels scrappy enough to induce spiky-haired punks and musty garage fanatics alike. Like a paranoia-stricken Drill Sargent, Harris barks out commands above the perfectly frenzied tension of “It’s Trivia.” The dismissive “No Culture Icons” wittily destroys false ideals, as Harris excitably scurries his way through the twisted obfuscation of the slobbered couplet, ‘hardly art, hardly starving/ hardly art, hardly garbage.’ While the swiftly swaggering “Born Dead” invites comparisons to the Strokes on speed, the scuzzy urban grit of “My Little Machine” obliviously collides virile Jon Spencer Blues Explosion acrobatics with The Cure’s Goth-glam gloom.

Despite random similarities to Steve Malkmus, such as your facial structure, literary acuteness, and shared hometown, I find it difficult to compare the Thermals lo-fi savagery to his esteemed ex-band, Pavement.

HUTCH: I have Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain and Slanted & Enchanted, but they weren’t a band I had real affection for. I’d never put them down. I’m a tall skinny white guy with brown hair like him. I’ve served him lattes at a coffee shop hipsters frequented.

Do you enjoy literature?

HUTCH: Music was my third passion. First was writing, then acting. But music, you have the most control over and the most freedom to be what you want to be. Writing and acting are confining, because you’re using what someone put before you. But I don’t want lyrics to come across literary. Bad Religion’s lyrics end up alienating people because they’re posing themselves as teacher. I don’t want to sound preachy. I’m a Hunter S. Thompson, Kurt Vonnegut fan. Joseph Heller, George Orwell – really classic universal stuff. When you’re writing as a youngster, you’re re-enforcing the fact you’re a nerd and have trouble in social situations. Whereas in music, even if you suck, you’re in a band getting cool girl action. Writers don’t get the superficial benefits of being in a band.

Ben, what are your influences?

BEN: The same things that knocked me out as a kid is what knocks me out about the Thermals. If I was 16, I’d say Sepultura, Dark Angel, Forbidden, early Anthrax. At 18, the Smiths, REM, Samiam, Dinosaur Jr., Jawbreaker. Now, at 27, I realize there’s an energy that drove me to those bands – The Descendents, Drive Like Jehu. Stuff I go for as far as guitar aesthetic is the Buzzcocks, Joe Jackson, Elvis Costello, because you have to have a big right arm and go for it. For the melodies, I go to Phil Ochs, Leonard Cohen, the Mountain Goats.

How’d you two hook up?

BEN: At a New Years Eve party at Hellgate House. I remember Hutch and Kathy were in Urban Legends. Kathy sat down at the drums, I looked over at my friend, and said, “Who the fuck’s that?” Hutch was someone I admired but I was weirded out that he liked me. All four of us could play each other’s instruments. Jordan’s got a recording project, Opera Cycle. We came together to do something simpler, more streamlined. We each concentrate on one thing. Jordan knows his way around countermelody in a rad way. He’s an amazing vibes and piano player, drummer, and singer. He’s the hidden talent.

HUTCH: The secret weapon, the shining star.

The Thermals music is too fast to be arty like the Talking Heads.

HUTCH: I like that we’re not arty. It’s the same as the lyrics not being too literary. I feel it’s alienating if the audience thinks you’re too smart or too cool. Keep it simple.

Don’t be contrived.

BEN: Yeah. The idea is to know what you could pull off. If I see a band that looks supercool, I might not find them pretentious if they actually pull it off. Otherwise, you won’t buy it.

HUTCH: I think I know my limits. I know I’m not the cool guy ‘cause that’ll just look stupid. So if I be myself, stay nerdy and spazzy, that’s fine.

The Thermals capture that pure, wet-behind-the-ears, youthful indiscretion well. Production lacks, lyrics sound fuzzy, but the feeling is right.

HUTCH: Totally. We’re not naïve, but we’re innocent in some ways. We’re not 19 going out for the first time.

BEN: We know how shows go, how they’ll progress, and we’ll be fine with it.

HUTCH: We’ve met dads at all ages shows that tell us we make them feel young again. The best compliment on tour is older people saying we’re refreshing.

BEN: Nothing’s worse than a band coming out saying they’re gonna save rock and roll.

The Hives and Datsuns insinuate that, but they’re being cheeky with their brawny arrogance.

HUTCH: If you like that, it’s fine. But it’s not garage. The Hives record is huge, crisp, clear. That’s fine. But it’s not garage, and neither are the Vines. I could see how the Strokes are garage, but the Vines are just a radio band.

I like the deceptive idealism conjured on “No Culture Icons,” whether or not it has deep meaning.

HUTCH: The greatest thing about this record is the songs were written off the cuff without knowing Sub Pop Records’d pick us up. It’s terrible to recycle yourself as you make it, but since I wasn’t thinking anyone would hear it, I didn’t give a shit. That gave me the freedom, when I was writing, to have no self-reference. That’s why everything after the first verse is hypercritical, railing against everything the song goes for. But you start the song by talking about yourself.

BEN: I thought you wrote it from a critic’s perspective criticizing your work up to that point and you’re blowing up at them.

HUTCH: I feel we’re surrounded by mediocrity in Portland. There’s good and bad stuff, but somehow no one’s going for it. So it’s a criticism of that. But I’m humble enough to say I’m just like them.

What Portland bands do you like?

HUTCH: People go out to see the Swords Project – instrumental with some singing and post-rock soundscapes. 31 Knots people are into. They keep getting better over five years. Karate makes extra math-y deconstructions. People going to Portland shows complain nobody’s dancing.

BEN: That’s because nobody’s giving it to them the way Iggy did, the MC5 did, or the Sex Pistols did. That’s just punk. You could look at any genre and what bands kicked my ass – Forbidden or Braid, all very different crews with a raw essence of greatness that makes you move. That’s how hip-hop beats rock in many respects. It’s more about the people. That’s why Bjork is so amazing. Her records blink at you. There’s lot of popular bands that look and sound fine, but are they great bands? We’re trying to be.

—————————————————————–

THERMALS PLAY DEAD ON ‘NOW WE CAN SEE’

Coming out of the Pacific Northwest indie rock scene fully formed, the Thermals mainstays, singer-guitarist Hutch Harris and bassist Kathy Foster, received paltry exposure in a folk-y boy-girl duo (annoyingly labeled twee-pop), a few unheralded combos, and surprisingly, a long-defunct stoner rock outfit. But as the Thermals, the now-married duo (plus several semi-popular local musicians) stormed the weighty underground scene in 2002 with a roughhewn, sometimes muffled, homemade cassette recording legendary Seattle grunge label, Sub Pop Records, saw fit to release in its primal, unfinished state.

 

Hitting the ground running with crudely sketched debut, More Parts Per Million, the Thermals’ charmingly upbeat two-minute drills came across as itchy, twitchy epistles just far enough removed from emo-core melodramatics to advance their self-described ‘post-power pop.’ Hutch’s brashly blurted shout-outs and demonstratively flailed riffs outshone the greener competition, gaining his band national attention. “No Culture Icons” captured all the pent-up frustration of a starving artist trying to find an audience willing to move beyond trendy MTV mediocrity. Searching for safety in an “Overgrown, Overblown” universe and hoping to survive past springtime in “Back To Gray,” Hutch’s clanging jingles resembled a cataclysmic cyclone slamming the shoreline. And his unkempt, whiplash 6-string prowess proved menacingly exhilarating through and through.

Benefiting from proper studio production without sacrificing the manic energy of their stripped down precursor, ‘04s Fuckin A dissects and bisects human suffering. An unmistakable furor extends from its bleak nuclear power plant cover art to its disgruntled subversive passages. Hutch’s best vocal performance adorns full-fledged rock anthem, “How We Know,” his most clear-headed, vibrant, provocative, and absolutely heartfelt pledge yet.

He toys with late-‘70s ‘oi’ punk yelping on ascending decree, “Our Trip,” answering the Sex Pistols urgent “Anarchy In The UK” plea with the same vigilance given venomous desecration, “Here’s Your Future,” the gloom-shaken highlight from ‘06s post-apocalyptic manifesto, The Body, The Blood, The Machine. A benchmark third album hosted by a blindfolded Jesus in second coming stance, The Body’s brassy romp, “An Ear For Baby,” and aggressive fuck-off, “Keep Time,” beg for a ‘new first world order’ away from America’s oppressive regime.

And then… the Thermals spoke from beyond an assumed grave (with Say Hi drummer Westin Glass now onboard), returning poised and readied to battle once more on ‘09s eulogizing Now We Can See (ironically, on Kill Rock Stars record label).

A parched afternoon setting can’t hide the hailstorm force of opening sepulchral proclamation, “When I Died.” Then, brazenly savage memento, “We Were Sick,” distinctly contrasts torturous teen angst against the joy of being high – its hooky chorus only overmatched by the instantly contagious title cut. Ranted testimonial, “When We Were Alive,” and hard-driving garage rocker, “When I Was Afraid,” hearken back to Detroit’s gloriously heady late ‘60s dynamos, the MC5 and the Stooges. And perky abrasion, “You Dissolve,” gives these nihilistic teasers an obvious dust-to-dust epilogue.

Even in faux-death, Hutch and Kath’s resolve remains intact. After all, a much-awaited resurrection was definitely in the cards. Far from actual extinction, the Thermals are now at the top of their game.

So, you haven’t lost your piss and vinegar even though your man, Obama, was elected.

HUTCH: True. But we wrote it before Obama was elected so we thought we were gonna soundtrack the first four years of Mc Cain-Palin.

Now that the Republicans have lost the White House, how will you continue to compose cantankerous political missives?

HUTCH: We’ll have to move beyond politics. We were already trying to but it kept creeping back in. We’ll have to find something new to whine about. A lot of our songs are about arrogance. And they’re arrogant themselves. Usually it’s a metaphor for humanity. We’re looking back on life and the history of people on earth who are arrogant, violent, and stupid. Our songs try to reflect that. The songs celebrate fucked up things. It’s not just to get down on everything.

On “Now We Can See,” you go from Garden of Eden to junkyard of debris, but there’s a happy chanted chorus.

HUTCH: Totally. We got to have a good time even if the world’s going to shit. Usually the songs we work on the longest and hardest, people think, ‘That’s just OK.’ But the things we just throw out there work better for us.

What were the most difficult tracks to complete?

HUTCH: “When I Died” had a lot of lyrical re-writing and editing. But then you have a song like “When We Were Alive” which I sat down and wrote from start to finish and didn’t touch afterwards. That was the first song written for the record and truly got us started – the whole ‘we were alive and now we’re dead’ concept.

“Liquid In Liquid Out” seems to remark upon the adage ‘garbage in/ garbage out,’ but in a stinky urinary manner.

HUTCH: When we were recording with John Congleton (Modest Mouse/ Explosions In The Sky/ Polyphonic Spree producer), he turned to me after that song and said, ‘That’s really disgusting.’ I said, ‘Thanks.’ That’s not really what I had in mind but we wrote a lot of this out on the Oregon coast and it was constantly pissing rain on us. So it makes sense there’s so much liquid on this record. We also had the most snow here in 50 years.

I see you as an underrated melodic guitarist stuck in indie-land with Matthew Sweet or Ted Leo. Who would you list as under-recognized axe slingers?

HUTCH: I’d put the Strokes’ Nick Valensi in there. He has some real good melodic songs. Kim Deal for her ‘90s Breeders stuff more so than what she’s doing these days. Last Splash and Pod are two favorite records – hard to top.

Who are some early influences?

HUTCH: The obvious one is the Ramones – that bubblegum punk angle with no blues riffs – just really major chords. Kath and I were raised in California’s bay area so Green Day were massive. The Pixies, of course. It doesn’t show in our sound, but I especially like the second wave of punk – Minor Threat, Subhumans, Exploited.

How about literary influences?

HUTCH: I don’t consider myself as that much into literature. But some writers are big for me, like Joseph Heller, Catch 22 and Something Happened. Hunter S. Thompson was huge. He’s the most influential on my early lyrics and the attitude – celebrating the world’s problems instead of complaining about them. And getting real high.

You’ve moved from the simple catchphrase stanzas of the debut to fully drawn-out verses.

HUTCH: It was intentional at first to write off-the-cuff and do no editing. I’d sit on my porch, write the song, come back inside, sing it, and it’s done. The first record was supposed to be about writing a verse, repeating it, and use very few choruses. I look at it as cheap poetry. Nail something into listener’s heads and repeat it. That’s what makes a catchy song. For Fuckin A, I wrote most lyrics while touring. We made a real effort not to slow down at all or think too much. Many bands eat shit on their second album so it was really a chance to move super-quick. We recorded it in three days. I don’t think it was our best record, but it was immediate. It was supposed to be a good, quick follow-up that didn’t lose any steam. As we went on, The Body, The Blood, The Machine was about taking that beyond, writing stories with an arc that’d be smarter. The lyrics were a good way to challenge myself. We’re kids from the suburbs. At first, we hated being called punk. It made us feel like posers. If you put on our songs, you’ll find it’s not mohawk-and-leather-jacket punk.

Are you railing against tyranny on The Body, as per the line, ‘I might need you to kill’?

HUTCH: It’s defensive. The lyrics are about escaping the clutches of a fascist machine out to get us. It’d be in justified self-defense.

There’s a continual struggle between existentialism and religiosity throughout your works.

HUTCH: I’m more existential. The new record reflects that even more. Kath and I were brought up Catholic. I was a good Christian ‘til I left high school and fell out with the church. The Body had a lot to do with what went on in the Bush administration and church and state. That got into this whole fantasy of its overall plot.

You enjoy ironic satire, don’t you?

HUTCH: Totally. It’s real important to keep it sarcastic and humorous. Many bands take themselves too seriously and it’s laughable. We’re saying what’s on our mind, but not to get on a soapbox – just to talk shit. That’s punk. Lyrically, I’ve had a natural progression. With guitar, I have to bust my nuts. I’ve played for 15 years but it sounds like it’s been five. I’ve never been a virtuoso and I’m always fucking up my solos live.

 

THALIA ZEDEK’S ‘BEEN HERE AND GONE’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I always had utmost respect for Thalia Zedek, former leader of caliginous Boston combo, Come. And I’ve met her on several occasions. There were Maxwells shows fronting Come and backing Steve Wynn and a few interviews between. She went solo when I conducted the following interview in ’01. Since then, she’s released ‘04s wordily scrabbled Trust Not Those In Whom Without Some Touch Of Madness and ‘08s better Liars And Prayers. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

After four dark-hued, long-playing diamonds in the rough as leader of Boston band Come, Thalia Zedek assembled a few talented local friends for her haunting solo debut. Another hard luck, despair-ridden psychotic journey into the dank duskiness of a desolate, whiskey-soaked urban evening, Been Here And Gone invokes seamy, archival folk mysteries without getting over-indulgent.

Whether intentional or not, Zedek’s gravelly, cigarette-stained opening salvo, ‘everybody knows’ (from the cryptic “Excommunications”) quotes a song title from her mentor Leonard Cohen’s ‘80s comeback, I’m Your Man. That sense of hard-fought survival continues through the long distance sendoff “Strong” and the redemptive “Treacherous Thing” before drifting into Cohen’s own “Dance Me to the End of Love” (which spins into a circular gypsy waltz perfectly suited to beatnik troubadour Tom Waits).

Pianist Beth Heinberg (who’d played on Come’s Near Life Experience and Gently, Down The Stream) gives a stripped down cabaret-styled melancholia to the stormy moodiness of re-visited compositions “1926″ and “Manha de Carnaval” while David Michael Curry’s plaintive viola provides an eerie beauty to several numbers. Perhaps only Bad Seed frontman Nick Cave and post-suicidal Marianne Faithfull could plunder into cracked romantic obsessions and broken-hearted premonitions with such fervor.

To add an ominous afterthought, Zedek took a bus to NYC on the day of the WTC attacks. Since there was no access to Manhattan and Brooklyn, she was left off at the 3rd Street Bridge and had to walk into the temporarily crippled Cultural Capitol of the World.

I thought Been Here And Gone had a bleak literary darkness reminiscent of Tom Waits.

THALIA ZEDEK: I took time off, did solo shows, and sang in different styles with different people. There’d be piano or viola accompaniment and we’d do covers. I started writing songs for those arrangements and there was more room for vocals and melodies rather than guitar riffs. That was hard to do with Come. We had quiet stuff, but I had a better chance to do more with that. I wasn’t listening to Tom Waits, but instead, quieter stuff like Chet Baker.

This album fits in well with low key fare by Spain and Low. Your cover of “1926″ reminded me of the somber album Patti Smith did after the death of her husband, Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith in the mid-’90s.

THALIA: Yeah… Gary Gogel wrote “1926.” He’s from Boston and had an early ‘80s band, Vee, that put out a 4-song EP before breaking up. Their singer was Susan Anway, who was the first Magnetic Fields singer. They were great. I always loved that song. I sent Gary a copy of my cover.

It fits in well tucked next to Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love.”

THALIA: I had never heard his original studio recording on Various Positions until after we made the record. But I took it from a live arrangement he did on a European tour.

On “Temporary Guest,” David Curry’s viola arrangement reminded me of the work Jane Scarpantoni did on Dylan’s Desire.

THALIA: David Michael Curry is a guy from Boston I’ve been playing with. He’s now on tour in Europe with Boxhead Ensemble. He’s done stuff with Will Oldham. I play clarinet in his band Empty House Co-Operative, an improvisational group. He also plays full time in Willard Grant Conspiracy. He’s a good friend who’s extremely talented. He plays trumpet, viola, and guitar.

Who’s Louise Banfa, the composer of “Manha De Carnaval”?

THALIA: That was written a long time ago for this Brazilian movie, Black Orpheus. It came out around 1958. It’s a well-known song Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and many Latin singers covered. It’s a Latin standard. Beth is usually an accompanist so she had the sheet music. I said, “Why don’t you pick a new cover.” Then, we discovered how popular it was.

The orchestral departure, “De-Sanctified,” is quite a turnabout for yo

SUPERDRAG DEMAND ONE ‘LAST CALL FOR VITRIOL’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Superdrag truly knows how it feels to almost reach aboveground fame and then get dropped by its major label and live off of a respectable club audience for a decade running. Their urgent ’96 semi-hit, “Sucked” (‘who sucked out the feeling’), opened doors for the good-hearted crew.

I became very friendly with the Knoxville cats, meeting them first at Elektra’s offices, then days later at an Elektra Records pizza party prior to a headlining Irving Plaza set, and thereafter, at a photo shoot for “Staggering Genius,” the stress track from ‘02s Last Call For Vitriol. Unfortunately, Superdrag temporarily disbanded due in part to Davis’ long-suffering alcohol problem. But they returned in top shape for ‘09s Industry Giants. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

During a vigorous two and a half hour Knitting Factory set, Knoxville, Tennessee-based quartet Superdrag pull out all stops, hitting highlights from their four resilient albums and leaving rabid fans sweaty and exhausted but not the least bit dissatisfied. Chances are you remember their hot ’96 semi-hit, the raw-throated, hook-filled, post-adolescent condemnation, “Sucked Out,” from the radiant Regretfully Yours. After that joyous major label debut put them on the map, lack of proper exposure left the fine Head Trip In Every Key lost in a sea of anonymity. This caused singer-guitarist John Davis to cynically respond with another batch of terse retro-rockers and hauntingly enchanted ballads on viciously punned indie release, In the Valley of Dying Stars.

Coming to terms with the fact they’ll probably never again break through boring corporate rock radio barriers, Superdrag overcame bad karma and have since built quite a tremendous New York City following. At the Knitting Factory, many fine young women stroll past me to the edge of the stage to bop along to a plethora of energetic 3-minute tunes. On-stage, Davis struts around then leans into the mike to let loose emotionally compelling lyrics. Outwardly re-invigorated and less reliant on his once-obvious John Lennon influence, Davis comfortably fits the role of casual front man.

Handler of band business affairs, bassist-vocalist Sam Powers keeps the band on time in song – and for interviews, dotting arrangements with rubbery rhythm patterns and resplendent harmonies. When he’s not sipping fine red wines, newly recruited former V-Roys guitarist Mic Harrison (stepping in for current Bare, Jr. tour mate Brandon Fisher) bangs out chewy riffs like a spectral music machine. Meanwhile, stocky Bud-guzzler Don Coffey Jr. provides a mighty thrashin’ of skin bashin’ and cymbal slashin’ sure to stir up the dead.

With an itchin’-to-be-lit single wooden match donning its cover, the ignitable Last Call For Vitriol blasts forth with the festive guitar-driven stomp “Baby Goes To 11,” borrowing its acoustic opening from The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes” before going electric and “shining a light brighter than a million suns.” Retaining a similar uppity power pop vibe, the antsy “I Can’t Wait,” the blistering “Remain Yer Strange,” and the dusky blues-tinged “Drag Me Closer To You” (with its boozy Lenny Kravitz flow) counter the snarling post-grunge venom of the urgently downtempo “So Insincere,” the spitefully snide grinder “Staggering Genius,” and the bleary-eyed sonic chugger “Feeling Like I Do.”

Earnest sentimentality overwhelms the reflective “Extra-Sensory,” the tenderhearted “Safe & Warm,” and the sly retreat “Way Beyond Here” (as pretty as any twangy Country-flaked Eagles ballad). In similar accord, the post-psychedelic surrealism of “Her Melancholy Tune” brings back the creamy melancholy harmonies of the Beatles’ “Michelle” or the Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon.”

At a video shoot in Chelsea prior to their show, the band and I enjoy some pizza while watching people freak out and dance erratically to the stress track, “Staggering Genius.” Since I’d befriended Superdrag long ago, the loose interview I conduct over a bite to eat is full of snippy quips and fits of goofy, nonsensical wit.

“Staggering Genius” is one of the toughest, rawest songs you’ve recorded thus far.

JOHN: The feel of it is similar to past stuff like “Do The Vampire” and “Cynicality.” The rockier songs on this record have very little mixing polish. The louder stuff is a bit dryer and more in your face. The last record, In The Valley… was kind of heavy and leaned in that direction.

What happens if MTV doesn’t pick up the video? You know how lame they could be.

JOHN: We have every reason to believe it’ll be on MTV2.

(jokingly) Is there a lot of payola involved?

JOHN: Oh, thousands.

Thousands? That doesn’t even scare me as you could tell by the mint condition red Eldorado I drove us here in.

MIC: We’ll recoup in spades by selling it on our website for $48. (laughter)

The yearning “Baby Goes To 11″ is another visceral rocker. What’s with its insinuative boner-bustin’ Spinal Tap title?

JOHN: The main thing is it rhymes. Also, I was trying to come up with ways to express my feelings for my wife. She kicks ass, but you can’t say it like that.

Sam, the song title “Remain Yer Strange” seems a bit suggestive. Whose ‘strange’ are you talkin’ about?

SAM: (laughing) It’s not necessarily about that kind of strange. It’s a salutary song about my wife from yours truly.

Wow. Headline: ‘Domestic bliss guides Superdrag.’ You’ve also written the crunchy “I Can’t Wait” and the sensitively sincere Kinks-styled “Stu.”

SAM: “Stu’s” definitely telling a story. Funnily enough, I had to change the name of the innocent. It’s about a friend that was in this hotel bar all screwed up with an Elvis impersonator who was married to a Tina Turner impersonator. He had to go on the road with them.

I heard Superdrag got to do a live song with Kinks mastermind Ray Davies. How’d that go?

JOHN: He was the South By Southwest keynote speaker. We had mutual friends and he expressed interest to get up off-the-cuff and jam with a couple bands that already had gigs lined up. They put a bug in his ear that we were big fans and one thing led to another. We hung out at his hotel and shot the shit, which was amazing. We were dumbfounded rattling off a dozen Kinks songs we knew how to play. It was funny. When we said “Dedicated Follower Of Fashion,” he said, “Pass.” But he told us he liked our record and we had good material, which makes putting up with the industry bull shit seem worth it. He’s someone you idolize. It makes you feel you’re doing something right. We didn’t know ten minutes before going on-stage if he’d show up. So these friends of ours said, “He’s here. He wants to do “I Need You.”" So we’re scared shitless. He’s standing ten feet away from the stage while we’re playing. At the end of the set, we said, “It’s a privilege to introduce one of the finest songwriters in the canon of pop music, Mr. Ray Davies.” There he was, bigger than shit. He came up, looked over, and said, ” Go for it!” It’s awesome. It’s like being the Kinks for three minutes.

Many lyrics on Vitriol seem toned down compared to the pissy moanings of In the Valley of Dying Stars.

JOHN: I went through a period where I felt frustrated. It’s a matter of getting older and hopefully, wiser. We see the situation (of being signed and dropped by Elektra Records) for what it’s worth rather than taking things so personally. Ultimately, the whole experience was totally positive. We had great exposure bands who bust their balls for twenty years never got. Some of that stuff’s a bit precocious. At 22, you don’t know shit about anything except playing in the band. In the past nine years, we’ve had a huge learning process. We’ve had to go back and do things like we did at the beginning. There’s more responsibility and hands-on work. But we enjoy that. The first record took off. We got a tour bus and crew and never lifted a finger. I can’t fault us for taking advantage of the situation. Anything we achieve rests on all four of us.

Don, as the jock-y drummer shunned at interview, who inspires your playing?

DON: I’m not necessarily influenced by individual players. I’m into power pop. I was at the age when metal was popular, but I hated it. I was listening to the Smithereens, Let’s Active, REM, and The Church. Dennis Diken of the Smithereens, Cheap Trick’s Bun E. Carlos, Ringo Starr, and Charlie Watts were favorite drummers. I feel more akin to guys who play simple and basic. I think Phil Rudd (AC/DC) is a genius who’s able to play the same beat for 20 years. It’s about the way it feels, not what you’re playing. I’ve never been a fancy Gene Krupa type. I have big drums because we used to play places and keg parties with no PA for the first five years. They’d turn the amps to 8 or 9. That’s why I have big drums. It’s like target practice to play the little ones. (Don then turns to Mic, asking) Mic, you’ve been playing guitar in Superdrag for a year now. What do you like about it?

MIC: Free beer.

YO LA TENGO ENJOY HOT ‘SUMMER SUN’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: Yo La Tengo are the most successful band to emerge from the ashes of Hoboken’s then fledging ‘80s scene. Main man, Ira Kaplan, an ex-rock scribe, learned to compose and play guitar from scratch while long-time girlfriend and part-time singer, Georgia Hubley, handled percussion duties. Nearly from the start, bassist James Mc New went along for the ride. Yo La Tengo’s sensational discography is wide and varied. They’ve helped local Jersey station WFMU’s annual fundraiser for years, doing impromptu cover versions for donations. And if you could find a ticket, their 8-night Hanukkah shows at Maxwells always feature special guests and comic relief. I’ve met Ira and Georgia on several occasions – after a Beacon Theatre show; at Maxwells; and on the ball field. Ira pitched against me in a Manhattan softball game in ’05. This interview originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Could there be a better representation of Hoboken’s bohemian independent rock scene than the fabulously evolving Yo La Tengo? Guiding light Ira Kaplan (lead vocals-guitar) and his percussionist wife, Georgia Hubley, gained admiration by challenging audiences with stylistically adventurous originals and well-chosen covers.

After the ‘60s-informed ’86 debut, Ride The Tiger, and a few solid successors traipsed through droning trance-rock and bludgeoned noise experiments, neighbor-bassist James Mc New joined the fold and the trio hit astral heights with ‘92s brilliant May I Sing With Me and ‘93s noisily majestic Painful. Following ‘97s amorous I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One, ‘00s serendipitous low key charmer And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out found Mile Square’s most enduring combo slipping further into the ether, leading to ‘03s hypnotic endearment, Summer Sun.

Kaplan’s crew understand the eternal learning process inquisitive artists experience, so instead of settling into one tried and true formula they constantly confound expectations whether on-stage or in the studio. An unassuming sophistication and casual restraint shrouds shrewd new Jazz-skewed meditations such as the lounge-y “pillow talk” flirtation “How To Make A Baby Elephant Float,” the hovering flute swirl “Let’s Be Still,” and the slumbering tropical breeze, “Winter A Go-Go” (hazily sung by Mc New). Moody guitar vibrato lingers across the blissful neo-orchestral retreat, “Little Birds,” exploring familiar ‘urban-noir’ terrain initially trekked on ‘95s Electr-O-Pura. For the finale, Lambchop’s Paul Niehaus guests on pedal steel as Hubley purrs her way through a sedate take of Big Star’s “Take Care.”

After nearly twenty years of existence, Yo La Tengo have attracted many serious-minded fans and played with many respected artists who’ve embellished their increasing repertoire. For Summer Sun, local New York friends Roy Campbell, Jr. (trumpet), William Parker (upright bass), and Daniel Carter (sax-flute) from virtuoso Jazz practitioners, Other Dimensions In Music, drop by to spruce up the mystified transcendental departure “Beach Party Tonight” and the twinkly piano confection “Don’t Have To Be So Sad.”

Besides Sun Ra’s “Nuclear War,” Yo La Tengo recently covered the otherworldly Jazz ensembles’ “Rocket #9″ on an English label 7″ for Planet Records.

IRA KAPLAN: It’s got two “Rocket #9″ live versions we do better now plus a “Wig Out With Charlie Dapper” instrumental. There’s another cover on our 3-song Christmas EP made in conjunction with our Hanukkah shows called “It’s Christmas Time,” which is from Sun Ra’s singles collection. It was released under the Qualities band name.

Were the Christmas songs as somber as Summer Sun’s tracks?

IRA: Not by a longshot. (laughter) They were more fun loving and upbeat.

Was the “Some Other Dimension” 7″ record as moody and introspective as the new album?

IRA: Not at all. That was the first thing we did with Other Dimensions. We’d written this song after we did “Rocket #9″ that we called “Now 2000,” which was clearly a Sun Ra rip-off. (laughter) We were curious what it would sound like if we had real Jazz musicians playing with us on it. Those songs were much more jazzy than this record. It was more of a genre piece. We didn’t know they were gonna play on Summer Sun. Everything was recorded in Nashville. They came to a New York mixing session and did a bunch of recording. The only song we knew they’d be on was “”Let’s Be Still.”

While Inside Out seemed lyrically personal, perhaps reflecting on modern domesticity, Summer Sun seems, at times, seafaring or exotic. Have you been vacationing in the Caribbean?

IRA: Sadly, no. You made references to the lyrical content of the previous record and then the musical style of the current one and contrasted them. I don’t think this record is that lyrically different than the previous one. I didn’t think the last one was as dramatically different lyrically as people made it out to be. I think the lyrics got better on Inside Out and there’s something about the musical setting that made people notice them more. Perhaps because of the musical setting of this record, people are noticing them less, but it surprises me sometimes. I think there’s more of a consistency in the topics and point of view of the songs. The last one may have sounded more intimate, but I don’t think that necessarily made it more personal. It took on a different form. But I’d say, emphatically, this is no less personal.

There’s a tropical Martin Denny feel fortifying “Little Birds” and “Winter A-Go-Go.” But why title the album Summer Sun when the cloudy gray skies of the cover make it seem ominously dusky?

IRA: Well. Look out your window now.

It’s still overcast.

IRA: There you go. I think it doesn’t have to be exactly what it sounds like on the surface. It can have a number of meanings.

Most of your songs do.

IRA: Yeah. I hope so. A good friend of ours (Phil Morrison) did the cover. He did our videos for “Sugarcube” and “Rock School” in the past. He’s directed a lot of our videos. The setting was done in co-operation with him. The plan wasn’t necessarily to have that photo specifically taken. But we took a lot of pictures and thought that’d make the best cover.

What element has long-time Yo La Tengo producer, Roger Moutenot, added to the overall sound?

IRA: We like the idea of somebody coming at our songs from a different perspective. When we go to make a record, we’ve been living with the material already for months – the writing and rehearsing of it. I think a lot of these things we go to record we know how the songs got there. I like having fresh ears who could say ‘maybe you don’t need this or put something here.’ If you listen to something enough times, you look at it differently. His perspective is valuable. Occasionally, he’ll have suggestions. The piano part we brought in on “Let’s Be Still” he requested how it should be adapted to have a better feel for the album. A lot of times he encourages us to think of something new. Ideas are passed to him for an opinion.

Will Yo La Tengo ever get back to recording guitar-heavy sets?

IRA: Maybe. (laughter) We didn’t know Summer Sun would turn out like this.

I love its transcendental escapism, but couldn’t get to the bottom of “Season Of The Shark.” There’s an underlying soothing sweetness contrasting some curious mystery.

IRA: Basically, I was using that to say people have unreasonable fears. It’s the summer and everyone’s afraid to go in the water because they’re gonna get eaten by a shark, which is preposterous since all over the U.S. only one or two people are attacked out of millions swimming.

Georgia purrs her way through the Big Star cover, “Take Care” while Paul Niehaus plies pedal steel. Has his band, Lambchop, who you’ve toured with, affected the effervescent moodiness of recent records?

IRA: We’re good friends with them. I love them and think they’re a great band. When I listen to them, I secretly feel there’s stuff back and forth where we’ve affected them and they’ve affected us.

What’s it like having comedians such as David Cross and Jaaeane Garofalo opening for your band?

IRA: Other than those Hanukkah shows, the only time we’d done that was at Maxwell’s and Todd Barry opened. We tried to make the concept of these Hanukkah shows really spectacular. Those are some of the most exciting things we’ve been a part of. There was a wide range of entertainers. Sun Ra Orchestra came on-stage. Given the nature of these shows, we’ve tended to not mention much in advance. By the time people know these performers will be there, the shows are already sold out. People who are savvy enough and know what’s happened the first time know who might be there. But there’s no way of knowing who’s gonna be there each night.

Has James Mc New released any new Dump material since the Prince covers cassette?

IRA: Yes. There’s a brand new one, Grown Ass Man, on Shrimper Records. Sue Garner and Fontaine Toups (Versus) may be the only other people on the record besides James.

What’ve you been listening to lately?

IRA: The Great Plains Cornflakes has unreleased live things. I always liked that band. I like the new Janet Bean (Freakwater) album. I got a cool record in Norway of ‘60s/ ‘70s soul, like a cover of “Watermelon Man.”

 

REIGNING SOUND ROCK THE GARAGE WITH ‘TOO MUCH GUITAR’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Reigning Sound leader, Greg Cartwright, helped keep garage rock simmering in the early ‘90s (with Memphis-based bands the Oblivians and Compulsive Gamblers) before the whole Detroit scene, led by the White Stripes, took hold. During ’04, I spoke to Cartwright via the phone before seeing his band tear up Maxwells in Hoboken a month hence. Good to see he’s still at it, releasing ‘05s Home For Orphans, several live discs, and ‘09s as-yet unheard Love & Curses under the Reigning Sound moniker. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Oft times the most respected artists don’t get the incipient credibility truly deserved, but stick around living hand-to-mouth tryingly awaiting appropriate recognition. Though cordial garage rock titan Greg Cartwright found cult-like success leading Memphis-based Gospel-induced punks the Oblivians, the singer-guitarist broke up the band following a decade of unjust obscurity. Obsessed with the early punk mayhem of the Ramones, Saints, and DMZ as well as scruffy ‘60s one-hit-wonders, the Oblivians unwittingly helped revitalize subterraneous interest in primitive roots-rock rumbling.

By the late ‘90s, when compromised nu-garage stylists watered down the manic energy his mentors propagated, Cartwright decided time was right to throw a curveball, cooling his engines enough to unload 2001’s ballad-packed turnabout, Breakup Breakdown, under the guise of Reigning Sound. After that low-key debut re-invigorated the noble Tennessean, mixing Byrds-ian Country-rock with Lee Hazelwood’s rural Western slack, Sir Douglas Quintet’s Tex Mex psychedelia leanings, and Skip Spence’s obtuse lamentations, Reigning Sound then concentrated on re-focusing attention towards the loud rudimentary tumult the Oblivians once thrived upon.

The result, ‘02’s High School Time Bomb, pitted scrappy axe-wielding scrums against thoughtful toned down respites. Jazz standard “Stormy Weather” underwent a spastic reconstruction hearkening to shouted Beatles workouts and the engine-riffed “Straight Shooter” summoned blues-y Rolling Stones fare, countering the earnest sentimentality of organ-droned “Wait And See” and impulsive slow-grooved “I Don’t Know How To Tell You.”

Now living in the laid-back mountainous community of Asheville, North Carolina, with wife, Esther Oliver, and three kids, Cartwright continues to explore vintage Anglophile territory. Touring twice with raucous Swedish magnates, the Hives, who’ve become quick friends, Reigning Sound found acceptance amongst a larger fan base readied for ‘04s astonishing accomplishment, Too Much Guitar.

Getting an authentic analog studio resonance from a friends’ digital recorder, Too Much Guitar neatly captures all the distortion and saturation essential to primal white trash rock. Again backed by nimble bassist Jeremy Scott and savage drummer Greg Roberson, Cartwright incessantly spews defiant grit.

On the steamy screamer “We Repel Each Other,” Cartwright brings chaotic lo-fi looseness to a desperate ramshackle love-spurned declaration ‘60s denizens such as the Mojo Men and Seeds would relish. He swoons through the Carpetbaggers lost ‘60s classic, “Let Yourself Go,” adding explosive psychedelic sonics reminiscent of the Electric Prunes. The catchy, quick-paced “Your Love Is A Fine Thing” revives R & B-infatuated Brit-rock tenacity and “The Twist” composer Hank Ballard’s soulful scamper “Get It” receives an early Fab Four slash ‘n’ burn treatment. A sturdy “You Really Got Me” guitar lock-groove cuts across Isaac Hayes-David Porter’s Stax-waxed “You Got Me Hummin’.” Famed producer-composer-pianist Jim Dickinson’s “Uptight Tonight” procures a resolute honky tonk masquerade. And “Excedrin Headache #265,” with its brain-draining strain, fits right next to the Rolling Stones mind-bending tremolo-powered spellbinder “19th Nervous Breakdown.” So take your fast acting “Medication” pronto and get hip to Reigning Sound now!

As a sidebar, before forming the Oblivians, Cartwright teamed with band mate Jack Yarber for three bombastic singles as the Compulsive Gamblers. He also owned a cool Memphis record store during the ‘90s. During downtime, Cartwright strums guitar for local doo-wop group, the Dorchesters.

Interestingly, Reigning Sound’s debut relied on poignant ballads instead of ballistic scramblers.

GREG CARTWRIGHT: The band I had before, the Oblivians, were mainly punk. I just got burned out doing lots of rockers – high-octane stuff. I wanted to do something more moodier that way everything fits. You don’t have to worry about the dynamic if this ballad’s gonna go with this rocker. It worked well. Mostly originals.

How ‘bout the Compulsive Gamblers?

GREG: They pre-dated the Oblivians. Jack and I had the Gamblers in the late ‘80s, releasing a few singles. That was a more R & B organ, fiddle, saxophone-filled Stones-y bar band with weird elements. After the breakup someone offered to put out unreleased tracks, Gambling Days Are Over. Then, when the Oblivians broke up, Jack and I did two Gamblers albums.

Living in Memphis must’ve been inspiring. Soul and Country legends dot that renowned Mississippi River hotbed.

GREG: You pick up things quick. You hear bands play when you’re younger and emulate them.

Jim Dickinson told me there’s something in the Memphis air.

GREG: (laughter) Yellow fever! Maybe mosquitoes.

How’d you initially get musically inspired?

GREG: My dad was a record collector who grew up listening to a broad spectrum of ‘50s/’60s rock, bluegrass, Country – mostly good white music – rockabilly, British Invasion, Harry Nilsson. That mixed with the stuff I heard on oldies stations influenced me. Then, I spent time with my grandmother, who was a heavy-duty yardsaler. So every weekend the first five waking hours I worked hard buying records. I’ve sold stuff I regret over the years.

How has the garage scene changed?

GREG: The Lyres and Romantics, by the ‘90s, went way underground. In the early ‘90s, Monomen were doing Lyres gigs. But it was a different scene from the late ‘70s/ early ‘80s first wave of neuvo-garage with Chesterfield Kings and Fleshtones happening. That stuff lost its momentum. In the early ‘90s, a whole different generation popped up with a similar synthesis, but different group of people. There was more of a receptive audience. CD’s came along and every type of music became available to everybody. In the early ‘80s, you were dealing with a handful of guys. We did everything for a small amount of fans. Memphis had Tav Falco, but outside of a limited group of people, the audience wasn’t big. Down the road, people began digging original ‘50s/’60s rock. Common sense says there’s gonna be more people knowing what’s going on. The Gories, Subsonic, Thee Headcoats, and Woggles – gobs of bands we played with were running the same circuit as us. Everyone did something a little different. But by the late ‘90s, that’d gotten homogenized. We weren’t strictly a retro band and neither were the bands we played with. Then lots of people got dressed up. The music isn’t 100% dead-on, but they’re more into image. It became a cartoon of itself. That’s when we stopped the Oblivians and wanted to do something else.

As Greg Oblivian and the Tip-Tops, you made one recording with side 1 featuring the prolonged “Self-Indulgent Asshole.”

GREG: That was a live show recording, a noise freak-out with screaming and a drum machine, as homage to Suicide. At the time, people hated it. The flip is li’l rock songs I wrote. The band included my wife Esther (drums) and anyone else. She had New York City’s Lamplighter label and released Prissteens and Mick Collins singles. We played ‘round town, then folded.

You’ve pulled off many great cover versions over the years.

GREG: I’m a record geek, so I love sitting around listening to music. But only 10% of the records you play you could really pull off or add something worthy to. I don’t want to mimic the original, but instead bring something new to it.

I’ve read how the Drifters’ prime vocalist Clyde Mc Phatter intrigued you. But who’s Nolan Strong?

GREG: He led the Diablos from Detroit in the ‘60s. He’s a strong influence. One of the greatest tenors I ever heard, in range with Smokey Robinson. When he sings, he sends shivers down your spine.

Who were the Carpetbaggers? You cover them on Too Much Guitar.

GREG: I found my first copy of their song, “Let Yourself Go,” a long time ago on the defunct LTD label from Atlanta. I traded it to a friend, then looked for years for a copy. I found one at a yardsale and got another at my record store. It was probably a regional ’66 Memphis hit. (Novelty singer) Ray Stevens produced.

“Medication” seems influenced by pre-punk legends the New York Dolls and Stiff Little Fingers.

GREG: Sure. Those first wave snotty punks were into ‘60s stuff as well – “Substitute” by The Who. The reason I liked punk right off the bat was because it reminded me of the stuff I listened to on the radio as a kid and connected with. But I never got into hardcore. It didn’t seem redeemable and was just fast and obnoxious. However, the Misfits sounded like ‘50s rock, only more aggressive. Their hooks I could relate to.

What are some of your favorite British Invasion recordings?

GREG: The Rolling Stones’ “Parachute Woman” from Beggars Banquet; the Kinks Something Else; Beatles “Don’t Bother Me,” written by George Harrison for Meet the Beatles; and The Who single “Pictures Of Lily.”

TINDERSTICKS STARKLY INQUIRE ‘CAN OUR LOVE…’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Can the white man sing the Blues? If you’re Roxy Music fan, Stuart Staples, the answer is an unequivocal yes. Speak-singing in a deeply resonant baritone, Tindersticks amiable frontman takes inspiration from Gospel-derived R & B legends and blends it into his bands’ lush orchestral settings.

I originally interviewed Stuart for HITS magazine in ’97 to promote the brilliant Curtains LP. In ’01, I met the band for dinner at Manhattan’s Time Café (with my friend, Rich Farnham), to support ‘01s even better, Can Our Love… We had a few laughs, gave Stuart shit about his stoic singing voice, and made innocently tasteless remarks about passersby. In ’09, Tindersticks returned with the intriguing Falling Down A Mountain. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Already admittedly informed by brooding crooners Neil Diamond, Leonard Cohen, and Frank Sinatra, Tindersticks frontman Stuart Staples has also developed into quite a serious Soul junkie lately. Following two eponymous albums of idiosyncratic folk-inspired cabaret, sublime Jazz-noir, and stark Chamber pop, this Nottingham, England, sextet continued their ascent with ‘97s beautifully draped Curtains. But due to an expired contract with their former label, ‘99s groundbreaking Simple Pleasures (influenced by ‘60s Rhythm & Blues from the Stax/ Volt vault) never reached US shores.

Happily, the indelible Can Our Love… further explores the soulful essence of its predecessor, stepping forward with moody orchestrations inspired by ‘70s Blaxploitation soundtracks such as Isaac Hayes’ Shaft and Curtis Mayfield’s Superfly while conjuring distant memories of Marvin Gaye’s “Trouble Man,” Bobby Womack’s “Across 110th Street,” and Joe Simon’s “Cleopatra Jones.”

Staples’ equally gifted partner, violinist/ pianist Dickon Hinchliffe, provides sweeping string arrangements to morose, suspenseful fare (the sullen “Dying Slowly,” the weary “People Keep Comin’ Around,” and the almost nightmarish “Sweet Release”) and the blissful serenity of Staples’ fertile poetic lullabies (the guarded “No Man In The World” and the warm-hearted “Don’t Ever Get Tired”).

Named after the famous ‘70s Chicago R & B group, “Chi-Lite Time” lathers Hinchliffe’s viola across burbling synth and a dirge-y beat for an epic-length closer worthy of its titular auspices.

At a sold out Bowery Ballroom show in July, Staples’ low-toned, cigarette-stained baritone brought haunting melancholia and barren sadness to Hinchliffe’s sympathetic settings. Staples’ dark revelations rang true with the same emotional tranquillity, flickering romanticism, and elaborate eloquence the respected crooners he admired once had. And when he clipped otherwise lingering, stretched syllables, his artful mannerisms recalled Bryan Ferry (which felt ironic since he planned on attending a Roxy Music show at Madison Square Garden after my interview at Time Cafe the night before).

How has Tindersticks advanced musically over the years?

STUART: We keep evolving. Looking back, after Curtains we wanted to find new ways to write songs and break things down. Simple Pleasures had a certain consciousness about it.

DICKON: It was planned meticulously and was well rehearsed. But for Can Our Love… we went into the studio to see what happens instinctively.

Why choose ‘70s soul to emulate this time out?

STUART: It’s not like we went back to ‘70s soul because we didn’t know what to do. We were growing. These are very melodic songs with rhythmic appeal. Curtains was such a complicated record with great big epic length songs. The records we listened to in order to get away from that were these simple Al Green records. We wanted to find that kind of simplicity and boil down the essence of six people. The influence of soul captured a feeling. We were pushing forward and we all enjoyed making Can Our Love… But some of those songs were originally 12 minutes long and were then edited down.

Tindersticks have continued to become more unified with each succeeding record.

STUART: We started off with no technique. Now there’s more of a flow to our music. Songs like “Sweet Release” are real personal, but everyone has those feelings.

Besides the usual crooning suspects, I’ve read Neil Diamond also influenced the tormented love songs you write?

STUART: He was one of my biggest influences, but not through choice. My mother, from when I was born until age ten, listened to him, Perry Como, and Jack Jones. It also has a lot to do with my sister. She’s four years older and in the late ‘70s I got all her music. She was a Northern Soul girl. That took over after my mom’s crooners until punk rock came along.

How about you, Dickon. Who influenced your style of arranging strings and playing violin?

DICKON: I’ve been playing violin since I was young. I suppose Sugar Cane Harris was an influence and the woman who played on Bob Dylan’s Desire (Scarlet Rivera). The arrangement skills came a little later for our second record. With the first album, we layered tracks of violin and viola. Then, I realized it would be better if a lot of people played. I’ve always listened to the arrangements of Nelson Riddle, Johnny Pate (Curtis Mayfield’s Superfly arranger), and Billy Strange.

What’s with the open-ended album title Can Our Love…?

STUART: I suppose the abbreviated song title grew into the album title in order to leave it open for interpretation. We didn’t want to pin things down too much with a description.

This album nearly parallels the recent stylings of Kurt Wagner’s Southern-based band Lambchop – minus the Countrypolitan influence.

STUART: Our first albums both came out very close to each other independently. They were long, sprawling works. Then, we made Simple Pleasures at the time they made Nixon. Something is kind of happening there. I am a fan. Lambchop has done very well in England.

STEVE WYNN PROCLAIMS ‘HERE COME THE MIRACLES’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I had the pleasure of meeting former paisley pop underground icon, Steve Wynn, many times in the late ‘90s and thereafter.

As a solo artist, Wynn offered a tremendous kaleidoscopic range of psych-daubed rock material. ‘01s Here Come The Miracles was one of his best and the following piece was done in support.

Afterwards, ‘03s Static Transmission hit the mark, but ‘05s even better tick…tick…tick rocked hardest. In ’07, Wynn and long-time associate, Linda Pitmon, formed the Hazel Motes. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

In the early ’80s, singer-guitarist Steve Wynn led the Dream Syndicate, an influential guiding light of Los Angeles’ short-lived, well remembered paisley underground (alongside the Rain Parade, Bangles, and Green On Red). On his latest solo record, the 2-disc Here Come The Miracles (Down There Records), he ventures into the past, reminiscing about Days Of Wine And Roses while maintaining a morbid view of mortality (declaring “the end of the world’s gonna be a mighty thing/ I’m gonna like the part where the angels start to sing” on the swampwater bluesrocker “Let’s Leave It Like That”).

Yet there’s a sinister playfulness and coy attitude that informs Here Comes the Miracles’ feedback-drenched “Sustain,” the illuminating rave up “Watch Your Step,” and the scraggly Dylanesque “Butterscotch.” He may not be overcome by happiness lyrically, but “Crawling Misanthopic” and the psychedelically glazed “Strange New World” inject a celebratory restlessness that adds to this stunning achievement. Helped along by Arizona desert pals such as organist/ guitarist Chris Cacavas (Green On Red), guitarist Howe Gelb (Giant Sand), and percussionist John Convertino (Calexico), plus guitarist Chris Brokaw (Come/ Codeine/ New Year) and drummer Linda Pitmon, this may be Wynn’s strongest release to date. In general, the first disc’s concise and tightly woven while the second draws outside the lines.

A brief history is in order. After the Dream Syndicate’s demise, Wynn surprised the underground scene with ‘90s awesome solo debut, Kerosene Man. Then, it seemed as if half the indie rock community (including REM’s Peter Buck and Concrete Blonde singer Johnette Napolitano) played on ‘92s perfectly titled Dazzling Display (which included the mysterious “Bonnie & Clyde,” featuring music written by respected ‘60s lounge-pop master Serge Gainsbourg prior to the French composers’ belated acclaim as a revered lounge-core mentor). Somewhere along the way, Wynn found time to record the hit and miss scuzz pop side project Gutterball with then-semi-popular band House Of Freaks and Bob Rupe of the Silos.

Following the hard-to-find, staid folk derivation, Fluorescent, he hooked up with Thalia Zedek’s cathartic band, Come, for ‘96s brooding Melting In the Dark. Meanwhile, ‘97s less ominous, oft-times somber Sweetness & Light and ‘99s resilient My Midnight (which sidesteps murder themes for a softer tone) were recorded for New York’s now-defunct Zero Hour Records and may be temporarily out of print.

FYI: Crime fiction writer George P. Pelecanos (who has used Wynn’s songs as imagery in print) provides an excellent publicity bio that should have been included in Here Come The Miracles’ package. But that’s all that’s missing from this awesome double disc.

Here Come The Miracles features some of the bleakest lyrics you’ve wrote.

STEVE WYNN: My songs are always pretty bleak, scraping away at the tortured souls and the confusions and internal mess. I like writing about that. I came off a solid year of touring, came out, and spent six months writing songs at home. I’ve never been the type of person who could write a feel good song like “Do Wah Diddy Diddy.” That’s not my speed. I like these freaky dark songs.

I don’t remember you writing about suicide so much. “Southern California Line,” “Let’s Leave It At That, ” and “Sunset To The Sea” deal with pain and mortality.

STEVE: You get the apocalypse, suicide, self-destruction. The Manson Family comes up on “Topanga Canyon Freaks.”

“Topanga” is one of a few songs with recurrent car imagery. “Tequila-soaked backseats” and “Thunderbird Wine.” “Sunset To The Sea” mentions a “V6 engine” that’s “gonna be the death of me.”

STEVE: Cars and trains. There’s a lot of travel themes. I wrote the songs without knowing where I’d make the record. Most songs are about California or the Southwest desert. It was only through circumstances and recommendations that I made the record in Arizona. Once I was out there, I did a batch of sun-baked desert songs. I realized I coincidentally recorded it in the same location I was thinking about. Lyrically and musically, it’s really a West Coast record.

Right. It’s sometimes a reflection of your paisley Dream Syndicate daze. “Shades Of Blue” visits the past with the familiar “Tell Me When It’s Over” guitar riff while the line “if we had our wits and traveled back in time” harkens to Days Of Wine And Roses.

STEVE: It wasn’t really conscious. I wanted the record to move forward while combining places I’d been to before. It reminds me of previous records. A lot of writing I do has been nostalgic. But I’m not one of those people who sits around under a 40-watt bulb bumming out about the past. Let’s face it, you get older and you get nostalgic more so than when you’re 21. “Shades Of Blue” was my attempt to write a prototypical Steve Wynn song.

Your buddy from Green On Red, Chris Cacavas, is prominently featured on this album.

STEVE: We’ve been working together on and off for the last 20 years. I produced his last album and he played on a few tours with me. I knew I wanted this record to be a surprise and a challenge. I wanted to give the reins to someone else now and then. I thought Chris would be a perfect catalyst for that. He’s got a whacked out style and likes throwing a wrench into things and doing the opposite of what you expect. Which is an Arizona mentality. You don’t want to get too professional. You want to panic and have chaos so it’s not quite so settled. The feeling that this could fall apart at any second and catching lightning in the jar.

Along with that risky proposition, you had the audacity to make this a double length album. Happily, the open spaces don’t leave wasted notes in their wake. On “Good And Bad,” Cacavas plays an extended piano solo. Plus, a few songs have long introductions.

STEVE: Yeah. It fit together well. My favorite records have a sense of time and place. This record could only have happened at this time and in that place. At any other time or location, it would be a different record. I don’t like records made by machines that could be made anywhere. This record has a feel and a vibe. I wasn’t planning on making a double record. It just ended up being a good batch of material played well that had a lazy sprawl – this no-hurry-to-get-anywhere desert vibe. It needed space to stretch out in. It sounds like the way you feel driving an old car across the desert and you need a lot of space to get where you’re going. When you’re looking at 100 miles of Mojave Desert you need a lot of space to get where you’re going. You better enjoy the ride.

What’s your opinion on the difference recording on the East Coast as opposed to the West?

STEVE: New York is very no nonsense. The whole New York minute mentality of taking care of business. In the West Coast, especially Arizona, time doesn’t exist. It’s like “I’ll talk to you when the temperature cools down 30 degrees. Making records in New York, I work 16 hour days with a 10 minute dinner break and you have to drag me out of the studio 4:30 in the morning. That’s the energy and speed of New York. In Arizona, you work two hours, then somebody and their brother drop by to talk about cars and tacos for an hour. You go get food, hang out and have a beer. 12 hours go by and it feels like you worked three minutes. The fact of the matter is the laziness lends itself to a certain kind of music.

What have you been listening to lately?

STEVE: The new Buddy Guy record with the Junior Kimbrough songs. I’m a big Fat Possum Records fan. Ever see Kimbrough play?

No.

STEVE: Neither did I. There’s lots of good stuff out now. I bought the Pernice Brothers album and also Joe Pernice’s Big Tobacco record. My favorite record of the last year was the mind-blowing, life changing Primal Scream album XTRMN8TR. It didn’t even make the charts in America.

ZEN GUERRILLA HEAT UP ‘SHADOWS OF THE SUN’

Interviews

FOREWORD: It’s a goddamn shame that Zen Guerrilla broke up about two years after this interview with boisterous lead singer, Marcus Durant, took place to support the bands’ ’01 Shadows Of The Sun. They were one of the most energetically exciting live bands you’d ever wanna see. Durant, a towering Afro-puffed soul shouter, loved to bask in the spotlight and invigorate the crowd. So it’s a shame I have no idea what the hell he’s doing these days. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

How could I ever forget the first time I experienced the frenetic mayhem of Zen Guerrilla’s live show at former Manhattan hot spot Tramps. Opening for ‘fantabulous’ hard rockers the Supersuckers and the Hellacopters, this feisty, uncompromising foursome jolted the crowd with a wholly original brutal onslaught of heavily amplified distortion-mangled Gospel-Blues. Fronted by gigantic 6’7″ Afro-haired banshee wailer Marcus Durant, these mischievous San Francisco-via-Delaware troopers commandeered a gut-wrenching assault more raging than any raucous rockers I’d previously experienced. And they never bothered to change the accelerated tempo, volume, or intensity for the sweaty half-hour blitzkrieg.

Multi-cultured, wild-eyed, grungy-looking freaks regurgitating trashier psychotic noise than the MC5 once did, these University of Delaware graduates tore it up on-stage with an unmatched volatility, brevity, and malevolent fury. Taking inspiration from abrasive Touch & Go indie rockers like the Didjits, Laughing Hyenas, and Lee Harvey Oswald Band, as well as Rhythm & Blues, Zen Guerrilla succeeded in intimidating its awestruck audience.

After recording a few independent records, Zen Guerrilla made ‘97s raw-boned, fuzz-strewn Positronic Raygun for former Dead Kennedy Jello Biafra’s Alternative Tentacles. Signed to Sub Pop, ‘99s unnerving Trance States In Tongues retained the skewed post-psychedelia and infernal racket of past trips, climaxing with the explosive mindfuck, “Black-Eyed Boogie.” Durant’s brazen testimonials continued to receive broader dynamic arrangements by ‘01s magnificent Shadows On The Sun.

From the squealing harp and rankled Texas Blues of “Barbed Wire” to the Mississippi junkyard Blues (reminiscent of the late Hound Dog Taylor) of “Where’s My Halo?,” Shadows On The Sun shuffles along hot n’ nasty. Rich Millman’s lambasted guitar squalor enhances Durant’s strangulated deep-throated rasps and ferociously hurled vigilance while bassist Carl Horne and drummer Andy Duvall add pulverizing rhythmic blasts to the rancor. The skuzzy, soul-shackled “Graffiti Hustle” and the venomous “Smoke Rings” find Durant shouting like devilish wildman Screaming Jay Hawkins. But it’s Millman’s blazing guitar fervor and Duvall’s slashing stick work that rip apart the bloozy shuffle, “Staring Into Midnite.”

I woke Durant at noon with a call to his Vegas refuge. He’d been gambling and partying the night before with his soon-to-be-married Houston-based brother and his mom. In a scraggly-voiced, half-awake state, Durant claimed “it was a good excuse to drink and play Black Jack ‘til 6 A.M.”

How has Zen Guerrilla improved in the studio since Positronic Raygun?

MARCUS DURANT: One big difference is we self-produced the early records. I learned about technique from (our current producer) Jack Endino. We take his genius and keep pushing him to extremes, exploiting his full potential. It’s a good working relationship. He’s like a big brother we’re battling back and forth.

Did you listen to a lot of Soul music as a kid?

MARCUS: I grew up in Southern Delaware below the Mason-Dixon line. My dad is black, mom white. When my dad got back from Viet Nam, he couldn’t work, so he’d sit around and listen to the Motown Sound, the Stylistics, Ohio Players, and Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain over and over. On the flip side, my mom’s side of the family was from England, so we enjoyed the British Invasion. They were huge James Brown fans and were into Jazz. One of their big faves was Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On?, which left a huge impression on my life.

What a great place to come from. The genuine soulfulness and Cold War tension of urban music that existed then could never be matched.

MARCUS: You couldn’t copy that social and economic atmosphere of the black community.

Why’d you move from the East Coast to San Francisco?

MARCUS: Primarily the weather. Honestly, we required a change. Your environment influences the creative process. Also, our significant others at that time were pursuing law degrees and graduate school in San Francisco.

When I first heard Trance States In Tongues, I thought Zen Guerrilla was emulating Jon Spencer during his Pussy Galore daze. But I’ve read that your band may have existed before them.

MARCUS: We started around the same time. I saw Pussy Galore a long time ago, live. You can’t help but be influenced by everything. You can’t ignore his contribution to the Blues.

Your new album took more chances. “Evening Sun” is an unexpected acoustic turnabout and the instrumental interlude “Subway Transmission” changes the mood.

MARCUS: I’ve always played with sounds and tape loops. “Subway Transmission” touches upon my hip-hop influences. In my opinion, Terminator X was one of the greatest Jazz musicians. People will argue he’s not Jazz, but in 100 years when people look back at the hip-hop landscape… I’m emulating that. It’s like the frequency groove I put at the end of Positronic Raygun.

That Positronic groove thang reminded me of Curtis Mayfield’s Roots or Superfly era.

MARCUS: That was me playing with tape recorders and two old record players with Scotch tape. You create a loop that way. You use a piece of Scotch tape to hold the needle down.

What’s with the Motown-Philly screeched vocals of “Graffiti Hustle”?

MARCUS: You know, Philly’s got huge roots in Motown. I have a special place in my heart for Philly. I earned my wings in the ghetto. Me and my guitar player lived in deep North Philly writing music and absorbing the urban struggle. It was our first introduction to the inner city experience.

Did you buy instruments from Pat’s Music under the elevated trains?

MARCUS: (Enthusiastically) Yeah. Rich bought his Yamaha guitar there. I know Pat’s Music.

Rich’s scuttlebutt guitar groove sometimes reminds me of the late Stevie Ray Vaughan.

MARCUS: He’s a huge Jimi Hendrix fan and so was Stevie Ray. We’re all beggars and thieves in rock and roll. As a youngster, you’re exposed to many things. We’re only giving back what our personality allows us to give back to rock and roll. The roots and foundation have already been established.

I heard there’s a hyper-driven cover of Iron Maiden’s “Trooper” available on single concurrent to Shadows.

MARCUS: We were huge Iron Maiden fans when we were thirteen. Rich and I were in rival Maiden bands. I was in Flight Of Icarus and he was in Iron Eddie. It was all tongue in cheek and served as an introduction to “Sympathy For The Devil.” The duality of man and good and evil were important lessons learned. “Trooper” is out on Safety Pin Records. The B-side is “Mob Rules” by Black Sabbath in the Ronnie James Dio days.

Any good stories about debauchery on the road?

MARCUS: No. We reserve that for the stage show.

 

YEAH YEAH YEAHS HEAT UP WITH ‘FEVER TO TELL’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Yeah Yeah Yeahs singer, Karen O, is another well-reared Jersey girl from Bergen County (just outside NYC) with charming affability. But onstage, she becomes the perfect psycho slut from hell, dressed in trashy clothing and full of sexual energy.

When we spoke over the phone in ’03 to promote her trio’s highly anticipated Fever To Tell long-play debut, Karen O sounded like a spryly innocent valley girl. Meeting in person at Irving Plaza in May, she was gracious when I presented the following article to her prior to the show. I even met guitarist Nick Zinner’s mom at the balcony level.

Onstage, Karen O took charge immediately, spraying the crowd with mouth water, prancing the stage with unmistakable lascivious swagger, and belting out tunes with utter fervency. A few months later, heartbroken noir-ish lullaby , Maps, became a huge hit and secured the bands’ future. ‘06s Show Your Bones held up well and ‘09s It’s Blitz piled on the dancefloor friendly fodder. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Englewood, New Jersey-bred Karen O may be shy, demure, and coy off-stage, but given the requisite escapism fronting a salivating audience of rabid fans and the unkempt queen of the Brooklyn scene slips into drunkenly enraged carnality. Besides having a predilection for ripped fishnet stockings, ruffle-tiered skirts, and leather stiletto boots, the captivating Yeah Yeah Yeahs vocalist ransacks the primal punk savagery of the Slits Ari Up; the naïve adolescence of X Ray Spex’s Poly Styrene; the unbridled sexuality of the Plasmatics Wendy O. Williams; and the liberated indulgence of the Pretenders Chrissie Hynde.

Bluesier and sexier than early-‘80s minimalist South Bronx hip-hop funkateers ESG (and their rhythmically elemental house music contemporaries Liquid Liquid, Konk, and Delta 5), the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are also way more confrontational. During one “margarita-fueled” South By Southwest Conference showcase, the otherwise reserved Karen O and her trash-fashion designer Christian Joy stole Brit band Clinic’s blue surgical masks on the way to accidentally knocking down ill-humored ass Hole, Courtney Love.

Perhaps controversial behavior seals the deal for Karen O to be considered a true punk exploiting the dichotomy between New York City’s mid-‘70s rap and art-rock communities with no fear, inhibitions, or stylistic boundaries. Never contrived or prepossessing, she teases audiences like a sexually enraged scruffy art school prankster in non-conformist prime, playing flophouse rag doll with wanton enthusiasm. Romantically linked to rangy Lairs frontman Angus Andrews, Karen O brings shrewd erotic neo-primitivism to post-millennial tension.

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs contagious eponymous 5-song EP has become ‘01s most exemplary Brooklyn underground snapshot. Nick Zinner’s nifty knack for James Chance-inspired suits and obsession for Jon Spencer’s blues-frazzled speaker-shredding guitar prowess fit these twisted throwbacks perfectly. And drummer Brian Chase, who splits time in the Seconds, shifts speed on a dime.

Karen O cuts loose on “Art Star,” unloading implosive banshee wails around Zinner’s tick-tock rhythm guitar riffs. She cheekily hiccups “as a fuck, son, you suck!” over the choppy discoid scuttlebutt, “Bang,” then ambushes countercultural contradictions on the deconstructed blues dirge, “Our Time,” deriding jaded challengers with the tortured “I’m so glad we made it/ It’s the year to be hated.”

Released as a primer, ‘02s pale-toned “Machine” single pit crushing Industrial bleakness against Karen O’s desolate whine. But could the Yeah Yeah Yeahs highly anticipated full-length debut, Fever To Tell, top previous endeavors?

Following the extraterrestrial electro-bleat of the dominatrix whiplash, “Rich,” Karen O becomes a whirling dervish soaring out of control on the dyspeptic “Date With A Night,” colliding Boss Hog’s smirk with Lene Lovich’s quirk on the squelched screech “Man.” Zimmer’s frenetic chain-like licks anchor Karen O’s nasty fuck-offs on the emboldened “Black Tongue.” Even naughtier is the bombastic orgiastic froth of “Cold Light.” But the clincher has to be the heartfelt turnabout, “Maps,” a passionate ode combining the sensuality of her incidental foremothers, PJ Harvey and Chrissie Hynde.

Could you re-capture the primitive charm, sexual vigor, and naïve sense of discovery shown on the 2 EP’s and Fever To Tell on future projects?

KAREN O: I don’t know. We’re never quite sure what song is gonna come out of us next. That’s the one preserved innocent thing we have left after all the hype and attention that sucks it away. We’re not even at a millionth of the songs we’re capable of writing. Fortunately, we’ve met a lot of people and been to a lot of places as a result of the attention. But we haven’t had enough time to concentrate on songs. So it’s hard to gage what’s gonna come out of us next. It’s hard to anticipate. We could go in a lot of different directions but it’s not necessarily prepared. That’s the way we’ve been doing it. I guess it’s spunky.

Fever To Tell has a more ass-shaking danceable appeal.

KAREN O: From the beginning we were always more psyched on danceable stuff. One of the major influences on my voice that I could claim as an influence is ESG. That’s what I listened to when we got started. Their singer is so cool – so much attitude and sex. It made me feel good listening to and dancing to. One of our initial aims was to have a dancey tip.

The stomping “Tick” is fabulous. It reminds me of Bow Wow Wow’s orgasmic “Sexy Eiffel Towers.” How’d you learn to stretch your voice so many ways?

KAREN O: I don’t know. I guess when we started the band. The voice thing I’m really objective about – detached from. It’s more of an instrument for me and it was incredibly durable for awhile. But the last couple weeks, it’s been weaker than usual. I think I have to preserve it a little and take care of it. I usually do nothing. (laughter)

The voyeuristic “Black Tongue” captures some of the sexual anxiety Chrissie Hynde projected on the Pretenders ’79 debut.

KAREN O: When I go out, I expect to have a wild high time. I’m expecting the best and most genuinely pure experience. That’s hard to come by. The frustration to achieve that might give us a great aggressive, sexual, irreverent spirit that’s going on. It’s like you’re grabbing something that’s a bit out of reach.

Does the rage come from being a latchkey kid with too much freedom and not enough attention?

KAREN O: I guess so. It’s weird though, because I’m already in my own world anyway. I feed off of it. It’s a quest to feel more life. Nothing is more offensive to me than middle-of-the-road or mediocre. I think that’s what the 18th century dandy’s were doing and what (lauded 19th century Russian novelist) Dostoyevski, The Notes From the Underground guy, was doing. It’s wanting to feel more and the frustration of not being able to achieve it.

Do you go clubbing much?

KAREN O: Not much anymore. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m semi-celebrity status. So when I go out people come up to me and it’s a little strange for me to be in those situations.

If you’re anointed the next big pop culture icon, how will you avoid making concessions?

KAREN O: Everything is a contradiction with this band and my persona. We’re three very serious people in a very un-serious tongue-in-cheek band. That runs into a lot of conflicts when everyone starts taking it too serious. Because then the un-serious part gets drowned a bit and then everything gets confused. As a persona, I started off by making a parody of myself before anyone else could. It’s a little dishonest and manipulative, but really genuine in the fact that I don’t like bullshit. I’m trying to be an honest performer with honest intentions. So you see there’s a lot of contradictions. You gotta understand the disdain from the underground towards major labels and MTV. A lot of bands I know wouldn’t touch a major label with a 3,000-foot pole.

Since Nick’s into photography and you studied film at NYU, have the Yeah Yeah Yeahs made any videos?

KAREN O: Not yet. Actually, a friend of mine from film school is doing a video for “Maps.” He has a good vision for it. The kind of filmmaking I was into – I don’t know if it translates – maybe as amusement. It’s really ridiculous and way out there and I don’t think it would get aired.

Why’d you choose to initially attend small Ohio college, Oberlin, after high school?

KAREN O: I wasn’t a very good student in 9th or 10th grade, so I didn’t think I’d do so well. That skewed my vision of where I’d get into. So I only applied to four colleges, but got into all of them. Oberlin was the more challenging of the four. Bryan went there and was in five bands at one time. He’s such a good drummer. Never in a million years did I think I’d play with him. He’s like the major leagues.

What do you drink to calm down prior to hitting the stage?

KAREN O: It used to be tequila, but now it’s a bottle of champagne.

Have you prepared new songs for the upcoming tour?

KAREN O: We have a couple, but we haven’t had the headspace or time to be writing, which is the most disappointing thing about getting attention. I’m constantly writing songs even if it’s not for Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I was a big folkie Grateful Dead fan for a stretch. But now I’m in an environment where people are constantly making music ‘cause we have a studio downstairs in the basement. The Liars are recording a new album as we speak. It’s amazing. Their drummer and bassist (from the first album) are gone, so it’s a three-piece. They’re constantly changing their sound.