CRAIG WEDREN @ BROWNIES

Live Reviews

Craig Wedren/ Brownies/ Feb. 2, 1999

Wearing a black full-length skirt (no b.s.) and white sleeveless t-shirt, former Shudder To Think singer/ guitarist Craig Wedren had fun entertaining this sold out, sardine packed Avenue A venue this Friday eve. With an experienced, well-integrated band of po-mo vets in tow – guitarist Lee Mars (former Nine Inch Nails keyboardist), bassist Brad Vanderark (Verve Pipe), and drummer Kevin March (Dambuilders/ Shudder To Think) – Wedren dropped his stinging, muscular Neil Young-ish hard rock propensity for artsy Bowie-esque theatricality directly in line with his old bands’ two eccentric songs from the ‘98 glam-rock pic Velvet Goldmine.

A few technical glitches (sound system crackles, pops, and feedback) might have momentarily wrinkled some newfangled tunes, but their impact was increased by flawless instrumental delivery. Wedren seemed at ease between songs, offering hilarious quips, playful innuendoes, and a short dedication to a friend prior to the expressive “Lovely Girl.” Throughout, Wedren’s dramatic operatic swoops and surreal poetry were enhanced by burbly electro squiggles, flailing axework, and a strong rhythmic thrust throughout.

One of my faves this night was “Red Hot American Summer,” a hook-filled feel good number. But a shimmering electro-fuzzed version of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Hey Tonight” and the melodic, Ziggy Stardust-clipped Velvet Goldmine track “Ballad Of Maxwell Demon” also ranked high.

Though the quartet unquestionably succeeded in this small club setting, their stylish post-fab maneuvers and multi-dimensional arrangements cried out for glitzy, elaborate large scale production. Wedren’s final studio set with Shudder To Think, ‘97s 50,000 B.C., garnered critical raves and made a wider following possible, so faithful fans (and there were plenty at this gig) should look out for his next New York City appearance sometime in March or April. Hopefully a solo disc with these musical partners is in the works. Word is Wedren’s been laying down tracks in his living room. Stay tuned.

MICHAEL FRANTI HEADS SPITFIRE TOUR @ WETLANDS PRESERVE

Live Reviews

Michael Franti Heads Spitfire Tour/ Wetlands Preserve/ March 28, 1998

Hardcore spoken word activists railing against hypocritical politicians, multinational corporations, antiquated drug laws, and anti-human economic policies kept the environmentally concerned Wetlands club positively energized with reactionary sighs of “let freedom ring!” at the first annual Spitfire tour. Each of Spitfire’s messengers strove to take the power back, educate the masses, and as Spearhead’s Michael Franti said, “enrage, empower, and inspire.”

Franti delivered his revelations in rap style, getting several audience members to clap along to catchy lines such as the vindictive “fully marinated/ now I’m ready for the fire.” After an extended introduction concerning the tribal feuds Arizona’s indigenous Big Mountain Reservation have suffered through assimilating American culture, Franti gave corporations the finger and launched into a ‘boom-bap’ streetwise re-interpretation of “The Sound Of Music.”

Former MTV VJ/ Seattle radio host Kennedy, self-proclaimed “mouthpiece for the right,” went on an anti-Social Security rant which was too straightforward and in need of a wry twist of humor. Preaching to the converted seemed like overkill. Nevertheless, she relayed a tale about her hemp growing Romanian grandma and neatly linked this to the irresponsible 1930’s bill outlawing marijuana in the States.

A short film about medical marijuana patient Todd Mc Cormick’s battle with cancer and unjust imprisonment followed.

Fragile, lispy Newsradio host Andy Dick (fresh from a Howard Stern grilling and author of the rectal folly “Little Brown Ring”) then took to the mike, proclaiming himself a “poster child for drug abuse” who had the “long arm of the law crammed up (his) ass” for the “luxury of smoking pot.” Accompanied by acoustic guitarist Andrew Sherman (and currently on probation in a Drug Diversion Program), Dick told of his mother’s last days on earth when her fearful ‘chronic’ taboo faded and she cooked a few joints to improve her quality of life.

As heartfelt as it was absurd, his hilarious “Cock And Balls” left the male audience in hysterics. After philosophizing about the Seven Deadly Sins, he tore into a poignant toilet vignette and then played a love-obsessed stalker in a geeky Jonathan Richman manner.

Obscure Village Voice cartoonist Tom Tomorrow came on-stage following his parodic film strip “This Modern World,” deflecting mainstream media biases and complaining about “blind trust democracy” while regurgitating conventional anti-establishment wisdom.

Outspoken hyperintellectual anti-censorship advocate and Green Party presidential hopeful Jello Biafra has continuously railed against political sloth’s and misguided Washington Wives (led by bubble-headed PMRC dimwit Tipper Gore). A former San Francisco mayoral candidate and Dead Kennedys frontman, Biafra received an enormous applause before pitting feudalistic gun-toting parasites against grim proletariat serfs. Pronouncing “insurrection can be fun!,” Biafra warned of short-term radical fundamentalists being as dangerous as blow job king Bill Clinton (whom he accused of treason for his pro-World Trade Organization stance).

He condemned bovine growth hormone “Frankenfood,” proposed amnesty on student loans and decriminalization of drugs, supported pirate radio and t.v. and raised awareness of the “frontier sabotage” of the internet. But he went off the deep end with anti-capitalistic Socialist rhetoric – mandating a $200,000 maximum wage. On the current legal front, former Dead Kennedys members have decided to sue Biafra and his Alternative Tentacles label over royalties because he “refused to put “Holiday In Cambodia” on a Levi’s commercial.”

While Biafra didn’t condemn taxation collected for poor and suffering, he realized America’s corrupt politicians allow taxation without representation. Don’t forget, America told Britain to fuck off over a 2% tea tariff 200 years ago. Let the revolution begin!

GALACTIC HOPE AMERICA’S NOT ‘LATE FOR THE FUTURE’

Interviews

Image result for GALACTIC BAND

FOREWORD: In 1996, New Orleans Jazz-funk outfit, Galactic, invited local respected singer, Theryl ‘Houseman’ de Clouet, to join. Though they never got as popular as the Meters and Dirty Dozen Brass Band, their national following grew during the ‘90s. Unlike their peers, Galactic resourcefully added hip-hop and electronica elements to the musical mix.

After 2000’s Late For The Future, hip-hop producer Dan The Automator helped out on ‘03s Ruckus. When de Clout departed the band, several rap artists came aboard for ‘07s From The Corner To The Block. Meanwhile, de Clouet self-released The Truth Iz Out the same year. I spoke to de Clouet about his music, politics, mainstream media scum, and iconic funk jammers, Parliament-Funkadelic, in an ’00 interview. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Crescent City funk jam band Galactic first gained exposure when their delectable instrumental, “Black-eyed Pea,” was included on Ubiquity Records’ Is That Jazz compilation. By ‘96, the New Orleans combo released the full length debut, Coolin’ Off (Fog City Records) and managed to get local soul singer Theryl “Houseman” de Clouet to add his expressive, aged-in-the-wool baritone to a few numbers. After a fortuitous show at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, Galactic signed to Capricorn Records and came up with ‘98s contagious Crazyhorse Mongoose.

Recorded at a converted 19th century mansion in the French Quarters (Kingsway Studios), Late For The Future further refines Galactic’s invigorating groove-oriented approach. Similar in scope to contemporaries Medeski, Martin & Wood and reminiscent of the Meters, this friendly sextet tempers its funk with smooth melodic textures and skilled improvisational thrift.

Stylistic diversity abounds on Late For The Future. Ben Ellman’s skronk-y sax pumps juice into a new version of the live staple “Black-eyed Pea” and the blurting soul-jazz confection “Doublewide” (a track which wouldn’t seem out of place on Herbie Hancock’s landmark Headhunters). Drummer Stanton Moore’s second-line Mardi Gras Indian beats rhythmically propel the highly charged “Bakers Dozen” (given a heady thrust by guest baritone saxophonist Roger Lewis of Dirty Dozen Brass Band) and the mellow, Buddy Miles-like “Running Man.”

Guitarist Jeff Raines faces off against Hammond B-3 player Rich Vogel on the prog-rockish “As Big As Your Face” and the percolating “Thrill.” Bassist Robert Mercurio’s deep soul groove underscores the L.A. bound “Century City” and the Cajun-spiced, Meters-etched booty shaker “Vilified.”

For a clever turnabout, the fuzzy slide interlude “Jeffe 2000″ and its revamped, harmonica-laden blues shuffle “Bobski 2000″ inject the same kind of lo-fi Mississippi Delta barroom raucous Fat Possum Records artist R.L. Burnside has become associated with.

Given more lyrical free reign and supported by his experienced a capella group, Holly Grove, de Clouet’s gruff voice blankets several Galactic excursions, most notably the righteous Gospel-soul gumbo “Action Speaks Louder Than Words.”

How did the recording of Late For The Future come about?

THERYL DE CLOUET: New Orleans’ a great town, but it only has a few quality studios. We were lucky to get into Daniel Lanois’ personally built Kingsway Studio, where he cut Yellow Moon for the Neville Brothers. They closed it now and sold it. But it was a great experience. Before, we financed Coolin’ Off and Crazyhorse Mongoose. This time we had more time with real people who are part of this business everyday, like Nick Sansano (Sonic Youth/ Manic Street Preachers).

You’ve been described as a Cajun-styled singer, but I think you’re more influenced by soul music.

THERYL: I’m R & B. I came from an a capella group, Holly Grove, who sang background on “Century City,” “Thrill,” and “Actions Speak Louder.” I love doo-wop. I’m New York all the way. It was integral in shaping my idea of the business. We were on Amateur Night at the Apollo. New Orleans is great for learning many genres of music, putting them in a potpourri, and making your own style. But my love for New York will never die.

Do you write most of Galactic’s lyrics?

THERYL: Most lyrics I write and I oversee the singing. I try to make sure the songs are about things people who come to our gigs could relate to. We have a huge Grateful Dead following of hippies. When I talk to them, I like to see what they think. They express worldviews and what happened in Seattle (at the World Trade Organization debacle). They know me from the first Galactic song I wrote called “There’s Something Wrong With This Picture.” It was about the racial make-up of the U.S. and the great racial divide that’s happening again. Since the ‘60s, history has repeated itself. You don’t see protests, but there’s a great big divide I see on the underside since I’ve been in every state.

I blame the mainstream media mongrels for hyping racial biases and creating unwarranted turmoil.

THERYL: The media perpetuates it by showing it in a mean, vindictive manner. It’s all nasty shit. The media could soften the bluntness, but it has to start with people’s moral character through religion and music. Everyone gets burnt out by racists, but I think at the basic fiber, when it’s time for this country’s culture to change we’ll pull together. That’s why my songs are hopeful. I’m always optimistic that despite all the meanness, everyone wants to get along. We want to save what we have, which is the greatest country in the world.

Is the current record titled Late For The Future because America’s slow to grasp sociopolitical concerns?

THERYL: That’s it. Plus, we’re in 2000 but we have that retro sound. I’m an old soul man from the ‘70s and they’re playing like the Meters. So we’re late for the future.

How did you develop your vocal skills?

THERYL: I started singing at seven. I had a stage mother who was a singer/ musician taught piano by Professor Longhair. I started Holly Grove in ‘69 and came to New York with the soul group the Manhattans. The ‘70s were a time of snake biting though. We broke up because one of the guys had a weapon charge and was on the run. We had a dry period of seven years when I sang with Ivan Neville and Renegade. We got back in ‘84 to do the New Orleans Best Kept Secret LP and broke up again. Then, we started working on a project for five years in ‘91. My mentor’s name is Winfred “Blue” Lovett, the originator of the Manhattans who started on Carnival Records out of New Jersey. Also instrumental in my career was a writer named Allan Felder, Blue’s brother-in-law, who died recently. He composed “Just Let Me Make Love To You” for the O’Jays and songs for Lou Rawls. He was a staff writer for Gamble & Huff in the ‘70s and worked with Blue Magic and the Delfonics.

Tell me about the June 6 Central Park Jazz Series Show Galactic will play with Parliament/ Funkadelic.

THERYL: We love the P-Funk. They came to New Orleans where street funk is played, and George Clinton refined it and then defined it. He added a little James Brown to it. We’ve always dreamed of playing Central Park since we’ve only seen it on t.v. It’s in honor of our fans who can’t make the Irving Plaza sold out dates. It’s all about love and booty shakin’ with us.

R.L. BURNSIDE WELCOMES ALL TO ‘COME ON IN’

Interviews

FOREWORD: R.L. Burnside was a good-hearted Delta bluesman whose career was revived when dedicated Oxford, Mississippi label, Fat Possum Records, began putting his creaky bare-boned guitar-based blues into contemporary rock and techno settings. His most approachable LP for newcomers may be ‘99s Come On In. I spoke to Burnside at this time. Afterwards, he released ‘00s fine Wish I Was In Heaven Sitting Down and ‘04’s Bothered Mind. A year later, he died from complications due to a heart attack. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Along with the recently deceased Junior Kimbrough and the still viable T-Model Ford, rural Mississippi blues singer-guitarist, R.L. Burnside began recording for Matthew Johnson’s tiny contemporary label, Fat Possum Records, as a senior citizen. Despite being in his seventies, the revitalized Burnside remains a vital link to traditional pre-World War II blues. He tours constantly and during the ‘90s has dropped critically acclaimed long-players Bad Luck City, Too Bad Jim, A Ass Pocket Of Whiskey (with blues-y punk renegades Jon Spencer Blues Explosion), Mr. Wizard, and the just-released Come On In.

Extending the cryptic heritage of Delta bluesmen Fred Mc Dowell, Bukka White, Son House, and Robert Johnson, the experimental Burnside reluctantly, at first, took backwoods folk-blues down a courageous new path by imposing his stripped-down primal songs with ‘90s electronic technology. By acquiring a considerable reputation in post-alternative rock circles, Burnside has helped expand the once impenetrable boundaries of historic Mississippi hillbilly folklore to an otherwise completely removed audience.

Featuring grandson Cedric Burnside (drums) and Kenny Brown (guitar), Come On In continues to flexibly integrate the old with the new. Over simple, repetitive riffs and rustic beats, Burnside’s stoically scraggly baritone conveys gut-level emotions dripping with juke joint passion and chilly swamp-rooted raunch.

While most septuagenarians are too set in their own ways, Burnside stays relatively fashionable by trusting artists less than half his age to juice up his primal musings. German techno-hardcore maven, Alec Empire, remixed the fervent “Heat”; producer Tom Rothrock programmed the discofied version of “Rollin’ Tumblin’” and the spooky reverberation, It’s Bad You Know”; and Beal Dabbs added clavinet and organ to the clustered “Don’t Stop Honey.”

I spoke to Burnside via the phone in January, 1999.

Tell me about the records you made before Fat Possum came knocking.

R.L. BURNSIDE: They’re not that different except maybe the singing.

Did you originally sing Gospel before reverting to traditional blues like many artists do?

R.L.: Yes. I was singing spirituals in the church with my sisters. I learned to play guitar by picking it up from Fred Mc Dowell and Randy Barnett.

Gospel purists once considered the blues to be the devil’s music. Did you?

R.L.: No. I feel the Lord entitled me to sing the blues.

Then why don’t you touch upon religion in your songs?

R.L.: I think playing the blues is about feeling. See, the blues came from slavery times and spoke about what people were feeling. You couldn’t tell ‘the man’ what you wanted to, but you could sing about it, you know. And if you got a woman and somebody takes her, you got the blues. If you drive up to your house when you’re married at about 2:30 in the morning and get out of the car and meet your cat comin’ out of your yard, and you hear, ‘heel, heel,’ you got the blues.

Was there radical hatred when you were growing up in the heart of Mississippi?

R.L.: There was some, but it wasn’t that bad. It’s a whole lot better now. You can go anywhere you want to. Back then, when I was getting raised, you had to go in through back doors. But now a lot of white women are married to black men and black women are married to white men. It’s all around.

Songs like “Don’t Stop Honey,” Come On In (Part 2),” and “Heat” deliberately introduce technical wizardry to rural blues in a groundbreaking manner. Did you initially balk at having your traditional songs electrified and remixed?

R.L.: I didn’t think much about doing it, but the record company said they wanted something like the Jon Spencer record (A Ass Pocket Of Whiskey). I said all right. At the time, I didn’t like the mix. Then it sold so well and I like it now. And more young people come to my shows now – people who would have never seen me. The first place I played with Jon Spencer, a guy asked me, ‘Have you ever played with these guys before?’ I said no I hadn’t. So he bought me a package of earplugs and said, ‘You’re gonna need these. They play loud.’

You also mix in strict folk-blues like “Just Like A Woman.” Was that done in one take?

R.L.: That’s a song from the hills, and I think it was done in one take. It’s something like a boogie, you know.

How has the live music scene changed in Mississippi since the ‘40s and ‘50s?

R.L.: Now everybody be in their partying. Now there’s more white people than blacks. A long time ago, there’d be only black people at the house party.

Is the county in which you live as poverty-stricken as it was during the ‘60s?

R.L.: No. It got a whole lot better. After Martin Luther King died, it made times better for us.

I read in an article that you have 13 children with 11 different women. How could you afford to feed and clothe them?

R.L.: Well, one died in a car accident about 10 years ago. I worked on a plantation, did commercial fishing, drove concrete trucks and containers. Once or twice a year, I’d have to do extra work. 12, 14 years ago, I got where I could make a living out of playing music.

What’s the difference playing US clubs as opposed to European ones?

R.L.: They like the blues more in Europe because they ain’t heard it as much as Americans. They’ve heard it on tape, but haven’t seen it live too much. And I think they like it good. The places be sold out a lot of times. When I first went over there, they were hollering when I came out to play. I asked someone, ‘Why do they like the blues so much when 90% of them can’t speak English?’ He said, ‘They just like the rhythm.’

DEXTER ROMWEBER PLAYS ‘BLUES THAT DEFY MY SOUL’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Frenzied rockabilly throwback, Dexter Romweber, once led Chapel Hill’s well-respected Flat Duo Jets, a thrilling guitar-drums act whose passion, vitality, and determination was best showcased at smoky honky tonk joints and dank rock clubs. Under his own name, ‘04s Blues That Defy My Soul packed most of the energy of his live act on a solid-bodied studio recording, something Flat Duo Jets also did best on ‘93s White Tree. ‘06s Piano and ‘09s Ruins Of Berlin, Romweber’s follow-ups, remain uncovered by yours truly. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

If Reverend Horton Heat was the ‘90s most feverishly liquored up rockabilly revivalist going then surely the finest primal garage rawk combo could’ve been the Flat Duo Jets. Pairing greasy-haired Silvertone guitarist Dexter Romweber with devilish crony Crow, this crazed Chapel Hill, North Carolina, twosome first took hold in Athens after REM and the B-52’s put that friendly Georgia college town on the map.

Initially invigorated by the cadaverous Gothic punkabilly of the Cramps, the Flat Duo Jets hootin,’ hollerin’ mixture of dusty classic rock stomps, front porch Country hoe-downs, raucous skiffle-flavored knockoffs, and schizoid boogie rumblings caught on with trendy stray cat strutters and “Hound Dog” lovers alike. Oft-times spewing growling baritone spunk like raving lunatic satirist Mojo Nixon, Romweber’s minimalist approach harks back to aging backwoods hillbilly wildman Hasil Adkins.

Following a primordial ’84 6-song fiesta, In Stereo (re-released in ’92), rustic relics Romweber and Crow returned to Carolina, made a far better surefire self-titled masterwork, then offered ’91s undisciplined grab bag, Go Go Harlem Baby, a year hence. Arguably the busy Duo’s most accomplished set, ‘93s handily diversified White Trees jumbled stylistically antiquated originals in a cohesively dignified manner.

But drug addiction, personal issues, and money troubles took their toll, halting the spiffy dualistic throwbacks by ’98. However, that did allow Romweber to hook up with Virginian pal Sam Laresh. A nutty stooge perfectly suited to replace Crow’s instinctual rhythmic rampage, Laresh had played regional dates with the Dexterous marvel in the past.

So the newfangled partners, recording under Romweber’s name, charged forth with ‘97s covers-only roots rock remedy Folk Songs and ‘01s scurried surf-garage wrangler Chased By Martians.

Picked up by sturdy Yep Roc Records, Romweber hopes better promotion and wider exposure will catapult ‘04s fascinatingly feral Blues That Defy My Soul beyond the reach of his loyal minions.

Perhaps Romweber’s tastiest treat yet, Blues gets the party cooking with hip Gene Krupa-like swagger on the scuffling anthem, “Rockin’ Dead Man.” Two zesty instrumentals, the Spaghetti Western-tinged “Nephretite” and the fierce fast-fingered shuffle “Nabonga,” boast radical gee-tar proficiency while the nasally snarled “Unharmonious” connects the yokel twang of unkempt folk freak Michael Hurley with the mannerly elocution of Johnny Cash. The bellowing outcry “You Broke My Heart” brings back memories of Eddie Cochran by-way-of Buddy Holly. On the tender side, “I’ve Lost My Heart To You” borrows its sentimentality from Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling In Love.”

Who were your earliest musical inspirations?

DEXTER ROMWEBER: My brothers were into Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones. So I got into that. Like a million American teens, Kiss had this whole idea of getting onstage and making a spectacle – wow! It’s actually pretty bad music, but Kiss kicks ass. But when I listen to the Stones, that moves me emotionally. When they were starting to write their own stuff – “Heart Of Stone,” “Ruby Tuesday,” and “Out Of Time” –they were fantastic. An older musician that lived nearby taught me the 12-bar on guitar, which is the basis for rock and roll. So it wasn’t long before we were playing and doing gigs. My first band was the Remainz. We were a ‘60s garage-styled band playing the Stones’ “Fortune Teller” and the Monkees’ “I’m A Believer.”

My old drummer, Crow, was on rhythm-lead and my sister Sara, drums. Hunter Landen was the singer. He’s been in local bands like the Bad Checks and now the Chrome Plated Apostles. Our old band evolved into Crash Landon & the Kamikazes. We did whole sets – 16 songs. Remember the ‘80s rockabilly revival – we learned that stuff. Then, I bought re-issued Sun records and got rockabilly by Sonny Burgess, early Roy Orbison, and Billy Lee Riley. We started covering their songs. Then, it got more intense. We got into early rock and roll by the Coasters, Elvis, and Johnny Cash.

After Flat Duo Jets gained a stronghold in Athens, you moved back to Chapel Hill when Superchunk, Polvo, Archers Of Loaf, and Dillon Fence became elite indie rockers.

DEXTER: Those bands didn’t play the music I listened to. I was into Nick Cave, early Blues, especially Leadbelly, and Classical by Chopin and Bach. On my first solo record, Folk Songs, there’s some Classical.

I don’t own your first two solo endeavors.

DEXTER: They were on Permanent Records (an oddly ironic label name since they quickly went out of business). Chased By Martians was recorded during a turbulent period, but there’s good stuff on it. Not having the Duo Jets around to work with was difficult. Crow had to deal with personal problems. It was infringing on what we tried to do. Rock and roll, when you get into it, is a fucked up lifestyle. We broke up the band.

Going back to the Flat Duo Jets, Go Go Harlem Baby was recorded by famed producer-pianist Jim Dickinson.

DEXTER: It was a treat to work with Jim since he’s a rock legend. He saw us early on live and knew what we were trying to achieve. That record improved over time. I wasn’t crazy about it when it came out. Producers are weird, but he sat back and did his job with lots of spirit. My favorite albums include Safari, which at the time, we lied to the label and said the tracks were from ’84 to ’87. If we said they were new, the label would own them. There’s 32 songs, live, solo, and unreleased performances capturing all aspects. Wild Blue Yonder was strictly live, recorded during a tremendous ’96 tour where we came alive. Portions of White Trees I like. Then, (the last album) Lucky Eye, which had good stuff.

How’d you hook up with Sam Laresh?

DEXTER: When we’d play Virginia Beach, we’d sit around and talk. We had an affinity with each other. When me and Crow’d take a break, I’d sojourn to Virginia Beach and Laresh and I’d play clubs there. When the Duo Jets ended, he was right there as my sidekick. I didn’t want the end of the Duo Jets to end my career.

You’ve been considered the Godfather of modern guitar-drum duos, such as Local H, White Stripes, and Raveonettes.

DEXTER: I don’t take credit for that. On our records, we try to put bass and organ and not just make duo recordings. It’s a very easy set up. Buddy Holly survived on that. People would’ve done it anyway.

What’s the deal with your supernatural beliefs? You could let the eyes roll to the back of your head during performance. There’s a supposed obsession with Cajun voodoo. And rumor is you sleep in a coffin.

DEXTER: (laughter) I read spiritual literature, but it’s not voodoo. As for the eyes rolling back and the frenzy of it, that was in me anyway. When I gave up alcohol and drugs, it wasn’t as pronounced. But cigarettes are the most insidious drug of them all. Can’t quit ‘em.

Did you drunkenly amble through shows?

DEXTER: It was off the road when I didn’t have to work that I’d drink. I started fights, created a raucous. I was into whiskey and vodka. I haven’t drank in three years. Sometimes on the road I’d tie one on, but I’d try to hit the stage pretty sober.

Have you noticed any formative musical departures over your career?

DEXTER: Lucky Eye was a propulsion into something new. There was a time when the music was changing, but it was still original. It was in the vein of early rock but with something new added. Towards the end of the Duo Jets, that started happening. I went one step further to not sound fake. I tried to do away with tripped out role models that were self-destructive. I said, ‘I’m not gonna copy Lux Interior (of the Cramps), Jerry Lee Lewis, or Elvis. I’m gonna be myself.’ That made me feel more alive. I still do early rock screamers, but I don’t want to emulate anyone. The Cramps affected my life so much from age 15 to 18 – down to the black clothing, bones, horror stuff, and emeralds. They’re still really creative.

The title song, “Blues that Defy My Soul,” has a sinister Chi-town Blues groove and phlegm-y Screamin’ Jay Hawkins vibe.

DEXTER: I’ve been attracted to dark Blues, but I’ve found it hard to find. Big Band and folk Blues took over because I didn’t want to be conceived as rockabilly. There’s so many bands doing that. They have the look and everything. But it’s not the spirit of what it was originally about.

You’re not shy about doing obscure covers.

DEXTER: There’s an Andy Griffith ballad we do live no one knows about. He was in a really intense rockabilly movie, which the song is named after, A Face In The Crowd. He played a hellbent hillbilly-rockabilly guy.

CAT POWER’S CALIGINOUS ‘MOON PIX’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Both times I caught Cat Power’s solo act, she appeared just a touch psychotic and overwhelmed. But she never freaked out and left the stage (as she’d done in a few well-documented incidents). It turns out Cat Power suffered from a nasty drinking problem. Yet no one could take away the fact that when she truly gets lost inside her dark abstract music, Cat Power’s 100% irresistible.

After opening for Liz Phair in ’94, a fortuitous meeting with Sonic Youth’s Steve Shelley led to a musical partnership that produced ‘95s under-acknowledged Dear Sir and ‘96s starkly endearing Myra Lee. ‘96s What Would The Community Think kept the ball rolling for ‘98s Moon Pix, which I promoted with the following piece.

Temporarily controlling her alcohol plight, Cat Power felt empowered to make ’03 inspirational reflection, You Are Free. Then she partnered with Al Green guitarist Teenie Hodges for ‘06s monumental The Greatest, reaching a larger conventional audience. But she slipped into depression and suffered from mental exhaustion and that left her weakened. However, after she snapped out of it, another decent ‘covers’ album, Jukebox, arrived in ’08. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Over the course of four albums, shadowy singer-guitarist Chan Marshall (a.k.a Cat Power) has sculpted desolate, abstract, minor key trinkets that linger in the still air with the restive allure formless post-prog minimalists Slint, Rodan, and to a lesser extent, the Spinanes, also embraced.

Marshall’s voice has a delicate, cracked charm, giving the mysterious laments on Moon Pix, her latest offering, a hazy vulnerability and dry sadness. It’s also her first recording with Dirty Three’s Mick Turner (guitar) and Jim White (drums), whose neo-Classical ethereality adds a deeper emotional resonance.

Hiding under the Cat Power guise, Marshall sculpts beautifully somber textural designs for her depressive articulations. Backward guitar loops reminiscent of Jimi Hendrix’s Are You Experienced hover over Marshall’s flailing sentiments on the faded “American Flag.” Drifting flute cuts through her grief-stricken moans on the dire contemplation, “He Turns Down.” Lumbering acoustic lullaby, “No Sense,” and guitar-etched dirge, “You May Know Him,” reek of hopeless destitution. Ominous thundewr, gentle acoustics, and hypnotic lyrics give say a transcendental feel.

When speaking to the inquisitive Marshall about her intense muse, cutting to the chase sometimes becomes a difficult task. I think she’s more interested in talking about my kids, my softball team, and our mutual love of dogs rather than her latest album. But she does have a self-effacing charm and sly sense of humor that is completely endearing. As she waits for a train to pick her up in Germany, she’s confronted with a bottle of apple juice she purchased which has a pubic hair hanging off it. Such is life for her irony-teased Cat Power persona as well.

When I saw you play the Cooler in ’95, you barley looked out at the audience. Have you worked on stage presence and become more comfortable?

CAT POWER: I’m not much of an entertainer. The pretentiousness of being on stage and having people look at me is tough. But in my personal life, I feel more comfortable.

Does the longing and despair projected in your songs come from pain experienced in everyday life?

CAT POWER: Yeah. Many of my songs are observations of society or memories I have, but not always. “No Sense” is about being friends with a guy and playing music together. We enjoyed the fact we didn’t have to have sex to be friends.

Sonic Youth’s Steve Shelley and Two Dollars’ Tim Foljahn played on past albums. How do Australian musicians Jim White and Mick Turner differ as studio partners?

CAT POWER: The difference is they play differently and make different sounds work. I admire the way Jim and Mick interact with each other in their own band. And I care about them as people. They’re interested in what I do musically. There’s a looseness they provide.

How’d you hook up with them?

CAT POWER: I met them in Boston a couple years ago.

Are most of your songs improvised or firmly constructed?

CAT POWER: In the past, they were only known to me. I haven’t ever had band practice or trained skills. The songs are only in my little world, and when I go on tour, the band plays every night and the songs get a rounder sound. When I was in Australia, I was running around for two months. Then we sat around for an hour-and-a-half and put the songs down.

Who were some of your early influences?

CAT POWER: John Coltrane. Saturday Night Live. Redd Foxx. I don’t know. (laughter)

Are you into free Jazz? Your best arrangements seem unstructured at times.

CAT POWER: That’s sweet. That’s a compliment. I don’t feel closely related to it at all because of my lack of technology. Jazz artists know their instruments completely. I like the freedom of Jazz, but feel sad about the over-intellectualism it resonates because it seems exclusive. Jazz and blues are better understood by the pulse of those strict listeners. The problem with Jazz is there are no hymns to it. The difference between blues and Jazz is that there aren’t any role models making hymns. But the hippie revolution of the ‘60s seemed hymn-oriented.

Your song, “Metal Heart,” has a hymn-like quality. Its lyrics ‘once was lost but now am found’ touch on spirituality.

CAT POWER: That came to me 5:30 in the morning and I had a nightmare about the devil calling me to meet in the fields behind my South Carolina house. So that’s when I woke up and wrote that song.

Your father was a musician. What common traits do you share with him?

CAT POWER: We both write our own songs and were born in the winter. And we’re always single. We’re both playboys, I guess. But I have no skills at playing the guitar, so I just do what is elementary. Oh, I gotta go, my train is arriving.

 

BLACK KEYS STORM MONTCLAIR’S WELLMONT THEATRE

Live Reviews

Black Keys / Wellmont Theatre/ February 2009

On an unseasonably warm Sunday night in February, two capable Buckeye State outfits conquered North Jersey’s newest high-profile concert venue. Gaining a strong foothold aboveground, Akron’s Black Keys earned their respectable audience the ‘hard way,’ touring frequently to promote four reliable deconstructed ‘white blues’ albums. Meanwhile, opener Doug Gillard, learned to gain minor acceptance the ‘harder way,’ remaining, unjustly, an indie rock footnote despite acute songwriting skills and dynamic guitar work.

Last year, famed trip-hop producer (and Gnarls Barkley founder) Danger Mouse convinced the Black Keys to mold tracks for a prospective Ike Turner comeback album. However, when the troubled 72-year-old Rhythm & Blues trailblazer suddenly passed away, the dynamic duo decided to complete the project with Danger Mouse anyhow, utilizing a proper studio for the first time. The phenomenal result, Attack & Release, places the Black Keys roughhewn garage assault in various keyboard and synthesizer-enhanced settings without hindering Dan Auerbach’s nastily gnarly riffs.

Nevertheless, live at Montclair’s refurbished Wellmont Theatre, Auerbach and drumming partner, Patrick Carney, delivered their newest batch of tunes with all the scruffy minimalist energy they righteously deserve. Auerbach came onstage first, pushing up the amplified feedback on his monitor to feverish levels prior to strapping on a six-string. Carney joined in a flash, readying himself stage right at a slightly elevated percussion setup. Attack & Release highlight, “Strange Times,” sans moody orchestral textures, pierced skulls with its fuzzy psychedelic barrage, initiating a non-stop onslaught of greasy swamp blues and raw-boned refried boogie romps.

The audience closest to the stage seemed enamored with the sparks flying off Auerbach’s fleet fingers, as he let loose braying horse-squealed distortion and wiry Jon Spencer-ripped sonic sprees hardened by rough-shard baritone-wailed screeds. They revisited rudimentary ’02 debut, The Big Come Up, for knotty deluge, “The Breaks,” an early original recorded, naturally, in a musty cellar. Next came a slithering down-tempo mantra, a Mississippi Delta blues redux, a blazing distortion-packed shakedown, and a rampaging metal-prone scrambler.

As expected, the Black Keys (like renowned Detroit twosome, the White Stripes) created a gigantic sound for just one guitarist and one drummer. Auerbach’s tasty licks, on occasion, conjured legendary axe-burner Jimi Hendrix (and cunning disciple Robin Trower), but never directly. Making a helluva racket, he’s able to gather humble blue-collar black music enthusiasts as well as tattooed biker chicks with distended gutbucket junkets and corruptive chordal jams. Raging climactic blues-rock eruption, “Your Touch” (off primal ’06 concoction, Magic Potion), got the crowds’ collective mojo working while a sentimental lullaby sung in a nasal twang proved to be the only somber moment of the evening. Like a robust, full-bodied beer, they’ve got gusto.

Beforehand, Doug Gillard, a seasoned underground journeyman, delivered a tight set of pleasingly melodic rockers, unloading catchy hooks in all the right places. Admirable stints in ‘80s new wavers Death Of Samantha, ‘90s indie lynchpins Guided By Voices, and the more contemporary Cobra Verde have earned the Ohio native mod power pop eminence. Though he has ably fulfilled the role of prodigal sideman in the past, the diminutive wizard really benefits from the crack bands he has recently assembled. Propelled by dual guitar imbroglio and a solid rhythmic core, the transplanted New Yorker lead a hot combo of experienced musical denizens. Several tuneful nuggets festoon his latest solo endeavor, Call From Restricted. For an encore, he reached back to vital arena rock sure-shot, “I Am A Tree,” a propulsive anthem first recorded when Gillard fronted unheralded band, Gem.

CAT POWER / MICHAEL HURLEY @ KNITTING FACTORY

Live Reviews

Cat Power / Michael Hurley / Knitting Factory

May 11, 2000

Chan Marshall (a.k.a. Cat Power) may complain of stage fright and shyness, but she was up for the challenge at two sold-out Knitting Factory solos sets this Thursday evening. Showcasing the somber, mood-stricken The Covers Album, Marshall’s flickering moans and quivering paranoiac inflections may have been barely audible, but they never failed to provide compelling intimacy. While avid fans were instantly awestruck, her corpse-like dirges proved too one-dimensional for mere onlookers.

With brown hair covering her cute facial features for the entire performance, Marshall’s desperate, ghostly whispers hushed the audience. She paused only to ask the soundman to put the vocal monitor up and when she switched from acoustic guitar to piano, maintaining an impenetrable distance form the audience.

Marshall’s cryptic anguish was twice as sullen as Marianne Faithfull’s dour reflections on Broiken English and thrice as haunting as Margo Timmins’ stoic lyricizing on the Cowboy Junkies’ Trinity Sessions. A cadaverous version of Phil Phillips soul classic, “Sea Of Love,” drifted off into the night air like a silent retreat, as she purred the lyrics in a tortured, frail wisp.

It was only appropriate Tara Jane O’Neil (formerly of slo-core icons Rodan, Retsin, and Sonora Pine) would be lurking around in the balcony, since her lo-fi bedroom recording, Peregine, also has a weather-beaten atmospheric edginess.

It’s fair to say those unfamiliar with Marshall’s growing body of work may easily mistake her reclusive nature as narcissistic, but those who cherish her harrowing nightmarish indulgences find her mysteriously intriguing.

A grey-haired troubadour with an uncanny knack for scraggly traditional folk songs and Depression Era Dust Bowl ballads, Michael Hurley has been recording on and off since the ‘60s. Supported by an upright bassist and mandolinist, the vagabond-like neo-hippie provided roots-y Appalachian-based songs sung in a delicate, reflective baritone. While some of the younger audience members talked through Hurley’s soft-toned acoustic set and seemed indifferent to his laid-back eccentricities and carefree bohemian attitude, the elders patiently hung on every bizarre turn of phrase this idiosyncratic underground bard delivered.

He cooed through a spare version of “Woody Woodpecker” and used his mouth as a percussion instrument on a somber backwoods number. Long-time admirers sang along to the ridiculously shrill falsetto chorus of the drunken banjo parody, “Uncle Smoothface,” then were mesmerized by the dusky poignancy of Hurley’s live staple, “Sweet Lucy.”

Only Ry Cooder and John Prine preserve old timey American county folk with such neo-primitive authenticity. Fans should check out his recent Weatherhole LP.

ERASE ERRATA WASTE NO TIME ARRIVING ‘AT CRYSTAL PALACE’

Interviews

FOREWORD: I had a great time with San Francisco avant-punks Erase Errata in New York City during 2003. First, we walked over to Little Italy to eat dinner and pound drinks. Then, we headed back to the Bowery Ballroom, where they were headlining, cooked some hash, and had some good clean fun. I got to introduce the band onstage that night. While I did, vocalist Jenny Hoyston stuck her guitar between my legs and up into the groin area. Luckily, me and my penis survived the show.

Afterwards, celebrated Bikini Kill feminist punk, Kathleen Hanna (a friend of Erase Errata’s) appeared. She seemed demure, mature, and straight-edged, not quite what I’d expect. But she, as you’d figure, made great conversation and didn’t lack a sense of wry humor. Months later, Jersey guitarist, Sara Jaffe, left Erase Errata and they continued as a trio. In ’06, Nightlife found the post-riot grrrls in fine form. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Captivating underground hipsters and riot grrrl enthusiasts everywhere, Erase errata’s stunning ’01 debut, Other Animals, was completed in a mere two-and-a-half days. Literally working spontaneously in the studio on perfectly scruffy tunes until the last minute, vocalist Jenny Hoyston, guitarist Sara Jaffe, bassist Elle Erickson, and drummer Bianca Sparta inadvertently seized the chaotic confusion and weary uncertainty of post-computer boom San Francisco.

Still as abstruse, askew, and unpredictable as ever, Erase Errata have returned with the better produced, tightly arranged At Crystal Palace. The motivational “Let’s Be Active” nips Le Tigre’s scantily chanted tuck and roll style while Hoyston’s muzzled chatter on the nearly accessible “Suprize It’s Easter” recalls insouciant Japanese pop-punk pabulum. Jaffe’s skittishly cerebral six-string friction engulfs the frazzled “Ca. Viewing” and the jittery scorcher “Go To Sleep,” emulating a wild bronco for the skronk-y schism “White Horse Is Bucking” and imitating the ear-piercing scree of the ‘bird of prey’ reckoned on the howling “Owl.”

At Mulberry Street’s La Mela, Hoyston, Erickson, Sparta and I settle down for dinner with opening Wisconsin trio, The Numbers, during Manhattan’s San Gennaro Festival prior to headlining the Bowery Ballroom. As plates of appetizers and bottles of wine crowd the table, Hoyston and I shamelessly take control of the conversation.

As a young teen, the outgoing front-woman enjoyed commercial pop like Bryan Adams’ “Cuts Like A Knife,” though her conservative parents listened to Country stalwarts Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, and Jerry Jeff Walker. By high school, she lost interest in collecting radio hits and began perusing local record stores, picking up vinyl by abstract avant-garde artists Yoko Ono and Captain Beefheart. To find acceptance living an alternative lifestyle, she left Texas for the hilly terrain of stylish San Francisco.

“My parents are from Nacogdoches, the town where the space shuttle fell. Some shrapnel went on to their property, and when federal agents arrived, my father came out with a gun,” she offers. “Now business is booming down there since the media, government, and tourists are filling the hotels and restaurants.”

A statistice major, Hoyston admits her college degree had nothing to do with pursuing music as a career.

“I just wasted moiney while I could’ve been buying drugs, having fun, or getting a house,” she half-jokes. “The first day I moved to San Francisco with a car full of shit and no place to live, I go to an Italian restaurant and the waiter is like, ‘Did you just move here? I’m gonna give you the local beer. So I tried Anchor Steam.”

But living on the dole makes it difficult to afford finer brews, so she admits feeling hypocritical purchasing neo-conservative Adolf Coors’ sudsy Colorado brews due to its cheaper cost.

“When the band started I was really skinny and started drinking Coors Light. It was my favorite but I felt so bad supporting that company. I shouldn’t drink it because they’re anti-union and anti-choice,” the feisty 31-year-old says.

Despite her unrestrained leftist views, Hoyston’s lyrics skirt political and sexuality issues.

“I don’t think you should mix…I mean, there’s subtle things. Of course, I’m going to color everything with my personal beliefs, but I’ve tried to write meaningful things. But not meaningful because I’m trying to tell somebody what they’re supposed to think,” she claims. “I try to think about a situation and really describe it in a way that fits in with what the rest of the band is

REDD KROSS ALWAYS READY TO ‘SHOW THE WORLD’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Redd Kross have been around since ’78 (as the Tourists). By the ‘80s, they were a leading independent L.A. pop band out of Hawthorne. I caught up with guitarist-vocalist Jeff Mc Donald in 97 to promote their second-to-last LP, Show The World.

My editor at Aquarian at the time, Michelle, hooked me up with him. After nearly a decade apart, the prime Redd Kross lineup reemerged for a few local ’95 performances. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

“I guess disposable pop isn’t all that disposable,” insists Redd Kross guitarist/ vocalist Jeff Mc Donald when confronted with the suggestion. Along with brother/ bassist Steve Mc Donald, Hawthorne, California’s unflappable Redd Kross has survived various setbacks and lineup changes (Bad Religion’s Greg Hetson was an early member) since “I Hate My School” and “Annette’s Got The Hits” appeared on the 1980 three band sampler “The Siren.”

Inspired by legendary pop, punk, and no wave artists, Redd Kross continually attract underground club heads undisturbed by melodically bright, alluring landscapes and charming simplicity. Skillfully skirting the current L.A. glam-rock scene, these sugarcoated smoothies craft infectious songs, bucking trendiness by remaining unassuming and predictably consistent in their search for the perfect pop song. The bands’ ebullient first single from Show World, “Stoned,” an electronically radiant montage contrasting dissimilar female characters – a Venice hippie, a troubled low rider, and a speed freak punk squatter – should make High Times’ Pot 10.

How has Redd Kross evolved since forming in ’78?

JEFF MC DONALD: Certain things such as playing and singing were made easier simply because we could now play our instruments well. And through better technologically, we’ve been able to expand. For some bands, that could be bad. But for us, it was good. Now we are able to translate how our heads hear the music. When we started, we got away with not being able to play. So we’re better musicians. As for the music, it’s like asking someone how their face has changed in 18 years. I don’t have a full perspective on it.

Redd Kross has been on record labels such as Posh Boy, Smoke 7, Frontier, Big Time, and Atlantic. Have you changed labels frequently because they tried to constrict your sound?

JEFF: We’ve never had to compromise on our creativity at any level. We’ve always been able to take responsibility for the success or failure of each record. We’re very good at being passive aggressive; pretending to give the label what they want while doing what we want to do. We never stayed with a label for more than one record because the label either folded or we were dropped. It was always circumstances beyond our control. We’ve experienced every facet of the business on large, medium, and small labels. The indie labels were unstable and Atlantic dropped us because “Third Eye” didn’t sell a million copies. But what did they expect from a garage band out of Los Angeles. Happily, “Show World” is our second release from Mercury – following ’93′s “Phaseshifter.”

How tough was it to gain exposure when there was no permanent company releasing your records?

JEFF: When you’re in a cult band such as ours, there are no platinum hits or MTV exposure. But cult bands are dedicated to fun and are more mysterious. In a perfect world, we would have written some million sellers. But when our breakthrough album, “Neurotica,” came out in ’87, rap, Motley Crue, and Ratt’s “Round & Round” were getting airplay. We had no fantasy of becoming a platinum success. Then again, we’re still around. We just started touring internationally 4 years ago. Most of our peers did it for years but we never had the financial support. But we do have a small audience which spreads across the globe now.

What songs and artists inspired you most?

JEFF: Two of my favorite songs are the Beatles’ “She Loves You” and the Flamin’ Groovies’ “Shake Some Action.” I would say the Beatles and Stones form our basic foundation. And Iggy Pop, the Velvet Underground, New York Dolls, Merseybeat pop, and the Beach Boys are inspirations. My brother and I were into no wave artists like Teenage Jesus – whose first single was “Orphans” on Pink Records – and DNA during the late ’70s. They remain influences. But I also enjoy novelty records like Annette Funicello’s beach period albums “Muscle Beach Party” and “Monkey’s Uncle,” which were produced by Brian Wilson. Another novelty fave is Jimmy Osmond’s “Long Haired Lover From Liverpool.” And I liked Lesley Gore and the Monkees, too.

Wait a minute. Redd Kross, a pure pop band, was influenced by the atonal minimalism of DNA and Teenage Jesus?

JEFF: We always liked noise. In ’87, our live shows became very spontaneous. We’d take a two-minute song and stretch it out to 20 minutes like Sonic Youth or Jefferson Airplane. On the road, first we’d get bored, feel bad, and get tedious. Then we’d feel lively and get spontaneous. If the audience walked out during a long song, we’d chill out. But we were more self-indulgent back then. We actually haven’t played live in two years now. So in ’97, we’re touring Europe and then the States.

You attended Hawthorne High School over a decade after Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys did. Is there still a buzz out there for the Beach Boys?

JEFF: It’s 95% black now. I don’t think they care about the Beach Boys. Or, for that matter, Emmitt Rhodes of the ’60s pop band Merry Go Round. He also attended Hawthorne High. I hear Rhodes is currently living with his mother. Amazingly, I picked up his first solo album from a small girl while I was in Asia.

Redd Kross has previously recorded cover versions of Kiss, the Stooges, the Rolling Stones, Queen, the Beatles, and David Bowie. Were there any covers on “Show World”?

JEFF: Yes. We have one new cover called “Please Tease Me,” originally done by the Quick. They were an L.A. band produced by Kim Fowley.

Do you find there is a difference between East Coast and West Coast audiences?

JEFF: No, not really. Most people who enjoy Redd Kross are into the same things, whether they’re from Los Angeles or New York. They like the same books, movies, rock bands, and clothes. And we just communicate through the music. So it’s really mystical. While New York is more artsy glamour, Los Angeles is more power pop glamour. That’s probably because there was a huge explosion of glampop which began in the ’70s in L.A.

I heard your band originally got into trouble with the Red Cross because of copyright infringement.

JEFF: It was only a brief problem. We had played a local community picnic and someone snitched on us. So Red Cross located my brother Steve at school and told him they had the copyright to that spelling. They were really very cool about it. We chose it as just a dumb punk name. At the time we were rehearsing with Black Flag. It kind of stuck with us.

Are your songs generally fact or fiction?

JEFF: They are a little of both. Some are autobiographical and some are based on our own perception of reality.

Is the new album titled “Show World” because Redd Kross wanted to show the world how good it was or was it a spoof on ‘All the world’s a stage and we are merely players’?

JEFF: It’s definitely closer to the latter.

Those Rickenbacher guitars on the song “Mess Around” reminded me of the Byrds.

JEFF: Yes. But the melody, which was written in a car, has weird phrasing and was intended to sound like Chrissie Hynde doing that Kinks B-side “Stop Your Sobbing.”

“You Lied Again” has Beatlesque harmonies riding above murky organ and pulverizing guitars.

JEFF: I co-wrote that with our drummer, Brian Reitzell. We never had a drummer who didn’t worship Neil Peart of Rush. And I had never listened to Rush until I took acid with a friend a few years back and heard “2112.” We practically pee’d in our pants laughing. Geddy Lee’s gerbil tone was hilarious. And the lyrics are great. I hope “You Lied Again” is a smash so I could do a film version of “2112.” I’d make it into a movie without music and call it “Neil’s Vision.”

Give me the dirt on the hard hitting, snotty punk tune “Teen Competition.”

JEFF: I’m not sure what it’s about. But it’s co-written with Pat Fear, someone I know whose name is based on Pat Smear. We were dreaming up this cult where the Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan was a male Stevie Nicks figure. Like essential oil, Corgan’s the high priest and kids are trying to get his attention.

What previous Redd Kross album is your personal favorite?

JEFF: “Third Eye” may be my fave. But it alienated and annoyed a lot of people who thought it was slick. It made us instant pop lepers. Our old fans were freaked out and college radio wanted nothing to do with it.

What band truly changed your life?

JEFF: Definitely the Ramones. I was really into Black Sabbath until they released that shitty “Technical Ecstacy” album. Around that time, I heard the Ramones. They were like Black Sabbath, the Beatles, and the Beach Boys rolled into one.

Are there any stars who blew you away when you got the chance to meet them?

JEFF: Yes. Cher. I recently met her for an interview I did for Raygun. I found out she sang backup on lots of Phil Spector records like “Be My Baby” and “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.” She was cool.

THE RAPTURE HEAR MIGHTY ‘ECHOES’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I first heard of the Rapture when I was vacationing in Philadelphia, New Year’s Eve 2001, when a local college station claimed their EP was the number one album for the year. Their highly danceable tunes placed electronica and acid house elements into rockist structures without sounding overwrought or trendy. ’02 single House Of Jealous Lovers became their calling card. I interviewed the Rapture’s Vito Roccoforte in ’03 to promote their upcoming Echoes LP. ‘06s Pieces Of The People We Love was not quite as fascinatingly resourceful. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Growing up in a poor La Mesa neighborhood twenty miles east of San Diego beach, Vito Roccoforte met Hawaiian-born future band mate Luke Jenner in elementary school. They’d hang out, collect baseball cards, and by eighteen, started playing instruments.

Initially inspired by regional 91X alternative rock discjockey Mike Hollerin, who’d lived in England, then garage-soul mecca Detroit, before hitting sunny Southern California, the duo began listening to ‘80s Brit-pop obscurities Echo & the Bunnymen, New Order, and Jesus & Mary Chain, subsequently forming impervious dance rockers The Rapture.

Their debut single, “The Chair That Squeaks” backed with a cover of Psychedelic Furs’ “Dumb Waiters,” was recorded after tracks for Gravity Records ’99 EP, Mirrors, which had darker keyboard-driven tunes, less danceable rhythms, and more of a Krautrock feel, were already released.

Roccoforte explains, “We were into German bands Can, Kraftwerk, and (British fusion tape-loop experimentalists) This Heat, but Mirrors came off way noisier than that and was recorded in our friends’ living room. We were living in San Francisco then but had San Diego friends with little studios. So we’d book mini-tours going south to Santa Cruz, Santa Barbara, and then San Diego. Gravity Records was the main hardcore label. We were the first non-hardcore band they offered studio time. At the same time, another friend started a label and put out “The Chair That Squeaks” in ’98.”

Moving temporarily to Seattle for six months, percussionist Roccoforte, guitarist Jenner, and bassist Christopher Relyea got signed by Sub Pop Records, decided the Pacific Northwest wasn’t to their liking, bought a used van with a few thousand dollars advance money, and hauled equipment and records to New York City. Though the Big Apple offered no immediate job security, happily Brooklyn-based noise-rock band, Black Dice, put them up in their house.

“If we made $100 a show, we thought we were golden,” confesses Roccoforte. “It took awhile for shit to happen. We had no money, planned poorly, and were homeless. I’d sleep in the van sometimes. It took three months to get on our feet. By September ’99, I finally had enough money to live in some guys living room. I built a wall out of bookcases and made my own space. Jimmy, our bassist then, left when we reached New York so we had no functioning band. We were miserable, but I liked the city’s energy. At the end of ’99, Luke, a new bassist (Mattie Safer), and me began doing shows. In Spring 2000, we did the Out Of The Races and Onto The Tracks EP.”

Recorded in one day using few overdubs, the penetrating EP efficiently cross-pollinated urban dance culture with chic ‘80s new wave signifiers, girding chunky metronome rhythms against jaunty guitar cadences. Retaining a pure independent rock aestheticism, The Rapture uncannily cracked freeform college radio while concurrently swaying foot-shuffling discotheque patrons to catch the mighty buzz.

“It’s weird. The two worlds are becoming closer, especially in America. When we play live, we’re rockers, but doing dance songs. So the indie kids get into it and it’s not a huge shift,” Roccoforte concurs. “We’ll get kids at shows that like dancing, but the difference in the audience isn’t that obvious. However, we played the Winter Music Conference in Miami at the Ultra Festival and that was pretty extreme on the dance side.”

Oddly, the peripheral Out Of The Races exodus, “Caravan,” leaned towards prog-rock aspirations, a proclivity left unexposed by ‘04s sensational full length, Echoes.

“I’d love to explore that side again,” Roccoforte confirms. “That was made in our baby stage. It’s interesting. People either love or hate “Caravan.” But “Confrontation” moved closer to Echoes with its sniping guitar riffs, dense percussion, and spare setting.”

Helping The Rapture gain early acceptance was the developing Brooklyn scene spawning Radio 4, Interpol, Walkmen, and Yeah Yeah Yeah’s. Lower Manhattan’s now-defunct Brownies gave these disparate artists timely exposure. Opening for Radio 4 at that Avenue A club one night, The Rapture came in contact with James Murphy, the soon-to-be DFA proprietor alongside partner Tim Goldsworthy. Although Jenner and Murphy originally butted heads over the specific sound they sought to create, the meritorious union proved fruitful.

Concerning the prolonged struggle, Roccoforte says, “It was more of a personal conflict. They’re both very controlling people. But without those great producers, we might not have gotten that great DFA drum sound. James and Tim recorded Radio 4’s Gotham, Primal Scream’s “Blood Money,” some David Holmes tracks, sundry remixes, and assembled LCD Soundsystem. So we got to record at DFA’s renowned Plantain Studio.”

On-stage at a packed Roseland Ballroom in March ’04, The Rapture dressed casual and maintained a hard-working blue-collar ethic, discarding flashy modern dance glitz for flaky pale-faced exuberance. Wearing t-shirts and jeans, these stylish chameleons jumped from the bouncy bleat-beat bass-throbbed “I Need Your Love” to the expediently elastic “Echoes” (with its fleeting vocal break-ins), sustaining a loose-limbed carefree attitude galvanized from constant non-stop touring. The majestic intoxicant, “Heaven,” with its naked choral count-off intermittently breaking up its jarring tribal rumble, served as a major highlight.

As Roccoforte pounded skins with tom-toms and drumsticks, Jenner thrust himself center stage, aiming pleading sentiments directly at the crowd, flinging the mike side to side. Atop muscular grooves, Jenner’s aching, serrated tenor flailed like The Cure’s Robert Smith. For the dirgey piano turnabout, “Open Up Your Heart,” Jenner struck a few Jesus Christ poses.

Roccoforte admits ‘80s no wave denizens such as ESG, Delta 5, and Liquid Liquid seep through The Rapture’s overall oeuvre, but claims that connection took time to develop. Echoes’ minimalist disco-pop masterpiece, “House Of Jealous Lovers,” molds these spectral influences into an instantaneous hip-shaking anthem. Its fascinating video, constructed by animator Shynola (check out Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song”), captures the band jamming inside superimposed flyers modeled after old punk show ads, seizing the attention of MTV2.

He recounts, “For lack of a better term, I was seriously into those bands a couple years before we started writing Echoes. We wanted to go a few steps further to find their broader based influences. We used guitars so it came out like Liquid Liquid. It was more of a subliminal or subconscious thing. A band like Public Image Ltd. was drawing from dub music. I liked no wavers DNA and Arto Lindsay’s full on Latin take. So we draw from all those influences. But with Echoes, we really tried to make straight up house music. The vocals to “Olio” sound like The Cure, but we were trying to emulate early Chicago house records with the 909 drum machine and 202 bass machine.”

Then again, techno-derived ecstasy-riddled late ‘80s Madchester hipsters the Happy Mondays also proved to be effectual instigators. Just listen to the drug-addled acid house provocation “Heaven” for solid proof. But what The Rapture may have benefited from mostly was the British rave scene’s uplifting devotional unity. Deciding to give co-writing credit to each member proved advantageous since many bands prematurely break up over publishing rights. This even split gives recently acquired saxophonist Gabe Andruzzi, sparsely utilized on Echoes, equal footing.

“We decided everyone in the band works hard contributing beyond songwriting. Sometimes Luke comes in with melodies or I’ll come in with a bass line or drum beat and we’ll write around that. It’s always different,” Roccoforte admits.

Now that they no longer need to live like destitute out-of-town vagrants and have experienced a modicum of international fame, hopefully The Rapture’s less volatile lifestyle won’t negatively affect future endeavors.

Roccoforte insists, “We’re different people now. Our personalities change. We’re never too comfortable and always push ourselves. I’ve been into ‘80s funk lately, like Sexual Harassment’s stripped down “I Need A Freak.” I’m on a huge Prince kick, too. I just saw him on an awards show with his band and they were great. He’s an amazing musician. And I’ve been feeling Michael Jackson’s classic pop dance music from Off The Wall and Thriller. It’s awe-inspiring.”

PROMISE RING HANDLES A ‘VERY EMERGENCY’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Back in the late ‘90s before emo got all sensitive on your saggy asses, there were a few really good semi-popular post-hardcore bands around that could rattle some bones without crying about the aftermath in song. Promise Ring was one of ‘em. Started in ’95 by Cap’n Jazz member, Davey von Bohlen, as a side project, Milwaukee’s Promise Ring hit on all cylinders for ‘99s Very Emergency, one of the key emotional hardcore recordings of its time. ‘02s wood/water fared less well, so von Bohlen and drummer Dan Didier began Maritime with Dismemberment Plan dissenters. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Influenced by DC hardcore (Fugazi, Minor Threat, Rites Of Spring) and conveniently lumped in with emo-core bands Jets To Brazil, Burning Airlines, and Dismemberment Plan by critics, Milwaukee’s Promise Ring gained widespread attention with their sophomore set, Nothing Feels Good. Their ascension continues with ‘99s provocative Very Emergency! (produced by former Jawbox leader J. Robbins).

Filled to the brim with swooping harmonies that tug at the heartstrings and cushion-y melodies that add tremendous emotional resonance, Very Emergency! slips gently from soft and vulnerable to loud and abrasive. Depressed post-teens will devour anthemic slacker ballads like “Jersey Shore,” “All Of My Everythings,” and the desolate “Living Around” (which offers the solemn chorus “it’s the end of the world today” and the verse “dropped a bomb on my birthday”).

On the upbeat side are the joyous celebration “Happiness Is All The Rage,” the urgent power pop blast, “Happy Hour,” and the Weezer-derived new wave ditty “Skips A Beat (Over You),” which features Tsunami’s Jenny Toomey on backup harmony. Another fave, the candy-coated kiddie-core come-on, “Arms And Danger,” is a cuddly rocker happily reminiscent of the Pixies or Jules Shear.

I spoke to guitarist/ vocalist Jason Gnewikow prior to the Promise Ring’s vibrant Knitting Factory set.

Is there a vital Milwaukee scene?

JASON: Yeah. The heyday was two years ago. (laughter) Most bands have been around the scene for years. They’re our age or older. There’s Compound Red. They broke up and then became Condition. Milwaukee is smaller and mellower than Chicago and New York City. When we go home, we’re lucky not to get surrounded by industry. On tour, with 500 or 600 fans per night, we see the affects of it. But no one knows us at home. There’s no fanfare. It’s pretty laid-back.

Does That ‘70s Show resemble real life in Wisconsin?

JASON: All those sitcoms like Happy Days and a few t.v. movies are set in Wisconsin. I guess it’s central America, the great median.

How did J. Robbins’ production affect Very Emergency?

JASON: He’s real good and easy to work with. He’s talented both musically and as a producer. Our personalities got along well. He brought out the best in us. It’s a combination of getting better and more prepared in the studio. We demoed songs and sent them to him beforehand. Instead of using big amps, he got us to use one speaker combo amps for parts we wanted to bring up, like percussion.

He seemed to bring up the vocals.

JASON: He worked on vocals for Davey (von Bohlen), getting him to do stretching exercises. I should add that Davey’s a brilliant writer. There’s a lot of artists who have the ‘eye.’ He’s one.

How did the siren title, Very Emergency, come about?

JASON: That came about as a matter of chance. A friend of ours got a phone call from someone who said, “It’s very emergency you call me back,” which was weird. When we picked song titles, we felt it was clever. The record feels ‘very emergency’ with its upbeat quirkiness. The song, “Emergency! Emergency!,” was one of the last songs we did. It was re-structured at the last second. I never thought it would turn out to be so good.

Along with your touring partners, Dismembership Plan, Burning Airlines, and Jets To Brazil, you are reluctant to be classified emo-core. Each band seems to share influences, but there are striking differences. Dismembership Plan seems to take more chances and be more experimental than Burning Airlines and Jets To Brazil, for instance.

JASON: They are our friends, our peer group. From our perspective, we just do whatever we do and let people have their perspective. Some bands are more similar or dissimilar. Your history brings you together more than the sound of your music. On a basic level, most bands do songs they think are worthy of being recorded and throw away what they don’t like. I went to a Francisco Clemente exhibit at the Guggenheim with a photographer friend recently. She was saying we know all these musicians and artists in our scene but it is possible when they are older, people will look back on their music like Warhol and Ginsberg. But those people know each other by chance. The public’s perception is different from those who created it. That’s what makes hero worship – crazy icons.