PROTEST THE HERO’S METALLIC ‘FORTRESS’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Got to speak with mushroom-headed metal-edged Protest The Hero composer-bassist, Arif Mirabdolbaghi, during late ’07. He only had ten minutes to speak over the phone before a show, but he set me straight about his bands’ bohemian ways. This article was refined and reedited for HighTimes.

Drubbing older hard rock peers with cocksure instrumental adeptness and stunningly synergetic craftsmanship, Protest The Hero sought to broaden the complexities rendered on staggering ’06 debut, Kezia. Riveting follow-up, Fortress, finds the empirical post-adolescent quintet continually jettisoning masturbatory 6-string wankers and regaling agitated smash-mouth metal minions with concise phantasmagoric requiems.

Expansive compositional prowess, taut time signature changes, and cataclysmic mushroom-clouded lyrical insight foment PTH’s conceptual prog-Goth designs. Despite lead vocalist Rody Walker’s tungsten steel toughness, his harrowing shaman-like exhortations and operatic wails rely more on punk radicalism than heaving metalloid insurgency. Stouthearted bassist, Arif Mirabdolbaghi, penned each allegorical verse under the influence of hallucinogenic psilocybin mushrooms, entangling his experiences ingesting the “friendly psychotropic vegetable” with surreal mythological grandeur.

Growing up in a sequestered Ontario suburb where boredom led to torrential narcotic experimentation, Arif snubbed conventional religiosity for paradoxical goddess worship and the ancient Celtic tradition of hunting down red-capped white mushrooms Vikings once consumed. Imbuing feminine deities, “Limb From Limb” furiously scampers as Tim Millar and Luke Hoskin’s caliginous scale-climbing axes set the stage for Walker’s murderously howled lamentation chiding a preying huntress.

Musty Iron Maiden-laden shredder, “Bloodmeat,” gets thematically threaded to schizoid heretical mordancy “The Dissentience,” conceived while Arif vaporized herb at Toronto hemp haven, Kindred Café. Then, flailing riff shards pierce sinewy “Bone Marrow” before sweeping harmonies erupt from the dungy din of molten existential mantra “Palms Read,” a riotously ranted Mother Earth genuflection. Perhaps Arif’s right about “youth culture someday being permeated by shrooms; taking rationality to the edge.” Revelatory, if not wholly revolutionary, PTH’s ambitious assault is undeniable.

POSIES BLOOM THEN ‘PLUG IN’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: Got chummy with fab pop melodicists, the Posies, at Maxwells in 2000. I first met ‘em a few years earlier at Mercury Lounge’s backstage basement. Talk about mainstream radio missing out on an exuberant straight-ahead rock band. In the ‘70s, they’d kill for the Posies. Then again, Big Star died on the vine at the time.

Nonetheless, charismatic singer-songwriter-guitarists’ Jon Auer and Ken Stingfellow, who’d met at the University of Washington, never met a contagious pop hook they didn’t like or try to enthusiastically emulate. The dynamic pop duo, who’d go on to shelve the Posies name for awhile, finally reunited in the studio for the first time in seven years for ‘05s reliable Every Kind Of Light.

Since then, the married Auer has laid low while Stringfellow continues to make efficient solo records like ‘97s This Sounds Like Goodbye, ‘01s Touched, and ‘04s Soft Commands. I’ve included my 2000 interview supporting a live Posies disc and an ’01 phone interview with Stringfellow concerning Touched. Both articles originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Prior to Seattle’s ‘91 grunge explosion, retro-minded pop-rooted bands such as the Young Fresh Fellows, the Fastbacks, and Hammerbox seemed poised for large-scale success. Born out of a burning desire to re-create the fertile era of post-Beatles rock and roll, these highly charged individuals maintained an ambitious DIY spirit that indirectly rubbed off on 4-track lo-fi home recording heroes such as Sebadoh, Liz Phair, and Pavement.

Coming on like some long lost Hollies tribute band, the Posies, led by multi-instrumentalists Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow, seemed like the perfect harmony-related combo to break out of the cozy confines of the Pacific Northwest when their second release, Dear 23, hit the shelves. But besides the benefit of having an enormous rock radio staple with Frosting On The Beater’s catchier-than-hell “Dream All Day,” the Posies never managed to break out of the box like most of their grunge peers. Yet despite being somewhat overlooked, the Posies went on to deliver the more visceral Amazing Disgrace and its ironically titled ‘98 follow-up, Success.

But how did one of the most revered underground pop treasures originally form?

Auer fondly recalls, “Ken and I were involved with different bands and we’d always make fun of the bands we were in. Eventually, all those people fell by the waste side and there was just the two of us left.”

Done on a whim, the live In Case You Didn’t Feel Like Plugging In succinctly refines some now vintage studio favorites for a small, encouraging hometown crowd at Seattle’s Showbox, inspiring an appreciable acoustic tour that followed. Featuring a nifty version of “Grant Hart,” the sensitive “Every Bitter Drop” (dedicated to “all the alcoholics”), and a pure, stripped down take of the shoulda-been a hit, “Flavor Of The Month” (which gains subtle strength from its tear-stained vocalizing). Interestingly, the earthy harmonies on “Believe In Something Other (Than Yourself)” could be mistaken for prime David Crosby and Graham Nash.

Taking advantage of their large catalogue of original songs, Stringfellow and Auer recently played and sang for nearly two hours at Maxwells in Hoboken. FYI: On his own, Auer recently released a single and an EP while Stringfellow recorded the “Saltine” EP. I spoke to the duo about the Posies past and present over dinner prior to their set.

Did the early ‘90s grunge explosion in Seattle inform Frosting On The Beater? That album was much harder-edged than its ‘89 predecessor, Dear 23.

KEN STRINGFELLOW: The difference was we worked with British producer John Leckie for Dear 23. He gave us a lush sound. There was a real dichotomy between how we sounded as a band. Since he was in charge, he put in his influence. Whereas, on Frosting, Don Fleming’s production was closer to how the band sounded naturally. He gave us a weird sonic landscape.

The next album, Amazing Disgrace, had a venomous tone. Did that reflect disillusionment felt by the Posies for never receiving full-scale recognition like scenesters Nirvana, Soundgarden, or Pearl Jam achieved?

KEN: I think we were probably edgier people at that point. We were probably mad at each other. We’re always as honest as we can be.

Tell me about the last Posies studio set, Success. I missed that one.

KEN: That was a record we made after we decided this is where we get off. Most of those songs were recorded for other records or we had done live. It was time for something different. We didn’t do a lot of touring for that record.

What was it like hitting the road as members of Alex Chilton and Jody Stevens’ re-incarnated Big Star during the ‘90s? Chilton had been a very volatile character prior to that.

KEN: He stopped drinking during the ‘80s. When Frosting came out, that’s when I started playing with Chilton and Stevens in the re-formed Big Star. It was at Columbia, Missouri, April 27, 1993, I believe.

Tell me about the 4 CD box set, At Least…At Last, coming out soon on Pop Llama Records.

KEN: There’s nothing from previous albums on it, except maybe demos that turned into album tracks. Box sets are fun. It makes us look like we’re important. It’s not like they’re bad songs. They just couldn’t fit on our other records.

How about the acoustic live set, In Case You Didn’t Feel Like Plugging In?

KEN: There’s a fine version of “Grant Hart” on it. Our songs were written as acoustic pieces. So this is how they were before the band got a hold of it. Plus, it’s easier to travel without a band.

Was it your love of ‘60s pop music that brought both of you together?

JON AUER: Sometimes we try to deny stuff about our influences. It gets annoying. But when CD’s first started coming out, and they were re-issuing Beatles albums my parents had owned, we bought Rubber Soul and Revolver. It was the first time we had listened to the British versions all the way through. Ken and I were sitting there listening intensely. Then, through that and knowing people working at record stores, we got into Odessey & Oracles by the Zombies, The Move, Left Banke, and Small Faces. At this point, we’ve got all of that in our collections. But we also relate to early New Wave and Goth like the Smiths. They were really great songwriters. On the Posies’ Failure debut, I was only sixteen. You look at the back cover and it looks like we could be the Cure. You’ll probably cringe when I say this, but Depeche Mode had a record called Black Celebration which was all written on guitar. Anyway, the songs sounded great. My point is a good song is a good song is a good song. It doesn’t matter. As for the Hollies comparison, we got so baked with that. But it’s totally fair. We did a version of their song, “King Midas In Reverse.” We’re just good music fans.

Did you ever feel cheated because the super catchy “Dream All Day” didn’t become a bigger mainstream hit?

JON: It doesn’t bother me that it didn’t sell a lot of records. What bothered me was DGC Records predicted we’d sell all those records then dropped the ball. They had Nirvana and Sonic Youth. I thought we had a lot of worthy singles. During our European Teenage Fanclub tour, we were debating what would be the next single. And it never happened. We got a big fan base out of it and I haven’t had a day job since I was sixteen. I travel, produce music, and make music when I want to. When the blitz of alternative band signings happened in ‘91/ ‘92, everyone thought bands like the Posies and the Afghan Whigs were going to be huge. But they pumped money into all these bands and then just gave up.

 

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KEN STRINGFELLOW GETS ‘TOUCHED’

 

Dressed casually with hair dyed red, San Francisco-born singer-guitarist Ken Stringfellow sits conspicuously at a piano and then proceeds to illuminate Manhattan basement club, The Fez, by running through nearly a dozen new songs and a nifty take on the Beach Boys’ “Good Timin’.” Though between songs he’s self-deprecating discussing his skill at tickling the ivories, this co-founder (along with Jon Auer) of charming Seattle power pop combo, the Posies, plays elegantly as he sings along with utmost passionate and sincerity.

Besides revealing his most penetrating lyrical observations, Stringfellow’s belated solo debut, Touched, also unleashes his most flexible vocals. Whether whispering amorously, swooning majestically, or gliding gracefully, his fragile tenor celebrates joy and ecstasy or, conversely, exorcises dark anxieties and internal strife. Though he snickers about “looking like Edward Scissorhands” on the cover drawing for Touched, he goes on to say how music remains a lifetime compulsion he just can’t shake.

Stringfellow’s feathery vocal mellifluence caresses the solemn “This One’s For You,” a lightweight highlight layering Cathedral organ drones above Hammond-styled pipe organ blurbs. His gorgeous multi-harmonies layer the absorbing “Find Yourself Alone.” Guest Ron Preston’s pedal steel decorates the Country-licked heartfelt confession, “Down Like Me,” Melodee Karabin’s cello soothes the coil-y guitar confection “Spanish Waltz,” and Stringfellow’s harpsichord underscores the semi-Baroque grandeur of “Uniforms.” Only the chuggy folk acoustic “One Morning” and the orchestral toast, “Here’s To The Future,” lean on the usual six-string strum.

Somehow, during his busy schedule of solo piano performances, acoustic and electric sets with Auer, and the formation of the short-lived band, Saltine, Stringfellow has also found time to produce Damien Jurado’s critically acclaimed ‘99 album Rehearsals For Departure and temporarily join R.E.M. as a backup singer-instrumentalist.

Touched indirectly reminded me of ‘70s singer-songwriters such as Carole King, James Taylor, and Cat Stevens with its sensitivity and personal revelations.

KEN: I certainly didn’t think of it that way. I don’t analyze myself that way. I would say I’m not attached to only one era. I listen to all kinds of music. I’m not particularly focused on one, but it’s all in there. I’d agree these are my most sensitive and open songs. One of the over-arching themes of this record is people having real emotions. That’s why the album is called Touched, to some degree. It hopefully helps people locate their most real feelings.

There’s a kind of relaxation that happens when you indulge yourself to the greatest degree. You’re free to go in any direction when you’re on your own. It’s hard to find a band situation everyone could indulge themselves 100%. You run out of space.

How does this compare to the “Saltine” EP you released last year.

KEN: That was just a 7″ with two songs. What’s interesting is both songs, “Reveal Love” and “Find Yourself Alone,” appear on this album in different form. The problem I had with Saltine is things were limited. It was guitar alternative music and I was thinking a little more broad. Hence, “Reveal Love” doesn’t have much guitar on the album version.

I thought “Find Yourself Alone” might have had something to do with your newfound solo status.

KEN: Yeah. Where is everybody?

Were there difficulties recording solo – having your ass on the line.

KEN: I didn’t encounter any problems. The whole thing was easier. I didn’t worry about hurting anyone’s feelings. When you’re in a band, you’re stuck with your role and some rules. You could be flexible, but to a point. It was great to have a huge amount of freedom. It was a relief. Tony Shanahan, a New Yorker who’s worked with Patti Smith, laid down some great bass on half the record. The drummer, Eric Marshall, is from North Carolina and Mitch Easter introduced me to him.

What did producer Mitch Easter add to Touched?

KEN: Technical skills. I wouldn’t say he produced the record. The main conceptual directions were from me. But he was the perfect technician and recordist. I’d have an idea how I wanted something to sound and he did it through different methods. He was dead on and did a superb job. There’s no way I could record myself like that.

“Uniforms” has one of the best hook lines you’ve ever written.

KEN: Awesome. It’s an interesting song about the ability or bravery of how we present ourselves and how much that could get compromised. It takes place in Germany in the 1930’s and he’s a military officer with a boyfriend. He thinks everything is going along great until the political thing gets ugly and he’s put in a situation where he has to make this total compromise and put his boyfriend to death.

Wow. Tell me about the new Posies EP, Nice Cheekbones & A Ph.D.

KEN: The title is an inside joke. Jon and I were talking about what every woman wants and what we don’t have. (laughter) The music is an interesting hybrid of being totally acoustic and being electric. There are really no drums per se, just some drum machine. It’s an in between band and duo type thing. We did it as a present to a friend of ours in Spain who’s celebrating the anniversary of his label. It was recorded in one day in Spain. Taking on a full length album comes across as being real serious, which I can’t be now due to time.

Do you ever feel cheated by pop radio never exposing the intrinsic pop of the Posies?

KEN: I don’t take it personally. When I was younger, these things seemed more important. But it’s not a reflection on the music. It would be nice if there were more outlets for music. We need an outlet in the middle of commercial and college radio.

 

PONYS NOISY SQUALOR ‘LACED WITH ROMANCE’

Interviews

 

Image result for PONIES JERED GUMMERE

FOREWORD: Sure did have fun with the Poys during their ’04 Maxwells in Hoboken stopover. Lotsa drinkin’ and cavortin’ and jokin’ ‘round. Who could ever forget that annoyingly disruptive drunken bitch that insulted bassist, Melissa? That was precious. (read below) These noisy shoegazin’ Chi-town neopunks returned for ‘05s more uniform but slightly less exuberant Celebration Castle and ‘07s polished-up Turn The Lights Out. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Playing alongside Detroit’s finest garage bands – the Henchmen, Sights, Go, Dirtbombs, Soledad Brothers – has helped make Chicago quartet the Ponys one of ‘04s great underground discoveries. So don’t let their laid-back demeanor and genuine warmth fool you into thinking they can’t rock your world with the primitive fury, daring commotion, and steely eyed assurance of the best street punks.

On their fascinating debut, the wryly-titled Laced With Romance, singer-guitarist Jered Gummere, guitarist-singer Ian Adams, bassist-keyboardist Melissa Elias, and drummer Nathan Jerde prudently construct an efficiently eclectic array of noisy DIY throw-downs, raging psychedelic blues, and readymade spangled pop.

Originally in dirty balls-out punk band, Guilty Pleasures, Jered learned to play drums, then guitar, as a teen, becoming infatuated with the Misfits before leading high school band the Defilers (whose white t-shirt he sports). While the Ponys wholly respect punk progenitors the Heartbreakers and Ramones, Jered and Ian (ex-Happy Supply) also share a deep affinity for Link Wray and pre-Beatles surf music.

“It’s amazing. The guitars from that period (1959-1963) are loud as fuck, blowing out the speakers for that tape-distorted surf-y sound,” Jered shares as we sit in Maxwells basement an hour preceding their fiery show.

When I mention surf lynchpin Dick Dale, whose Deltone single “Let’s Go Trippin’” informed the West Coast vibrato tremolo wave, Michigan-raised Ian seems somewhat dismissive.

“Dick Dale thinks he invented everything. He’s so arrogant. He thinks he taught Hendrix guitar and claims to have discovered metal,” Ian opines. “I love everyone who copied him from that era more. I like the Fender 4, Eddie & the Showmen, and Jim Messina’s first band (prior to Country-rockers Poco and ‘70s pop duo Loggins & Messina), the Jesters. It’s way heavier than anything Dick Dale did. And Link Wray had a tighter sound and more ideas. After that, I got into (raw-boned ‘80s rockers) the Milkshakes and Thee Headcoats.”

Though those influences merely scratch the surface of the Ponys muse, drummer Nathan’s inspirations, including Detroit legends Iggy Pop, MC5, and Alice Cooper, are more obvious. Initially in long-lived straight-ahead rockers, the Mushuganas, led by gruff-throated vocalist Cookie Monster doing Rod Stewart covers, Nathan solidifies the tense rhythmic thrust Melissa weaves her bass through.

With big green eyes glaring my way, Melissa tells me cadaverous psychobilly combo the Cramps, art-damaged trio Suicide, and surrealistic amblers Spaceman 3 consumed her teen listening.

“I’ve also been influenced by Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon and…,” Melissa reflects before disruptive solo opener, Birdbrain, whose pill-popping drunkenness matched the screeching guitar-vocal shrillness of her patience-testing set, aims this immodest tidbit at her when I suggest women in bands oft-times get short-changed: “She’s probably fucking one of the guys in the band.”

Misunderstanding my intention, Birdbrain then utters aimlessly, “You don’t respect Kim Gordon?”

The Ponys remain mild-mannered despite the unexpected interrogation, but enjoy my innocently hurled comment about Birdbrain looking like a septuagenarian’s beautician wearing the black garbage bag that she’ll soon don onstage.

With that (un)pleasantness out of the way, we begin discussing Laced With Romance, a delectably neurotic celebration seemingly snidely snickering over serious and silly observations. Take the suicidal put-on, “Let’s Kill Ourselves,” which surges forth with such inherently gleeful exuberance humorless emo fans may mistake its jaundiced facetiousness for self-righteous mutilation. Or, better yet, the shamelessly cheeky Ian-sung “I Love You ‘Cause (You Look Like Me),” a self-absorbed vignette worthy of The Fall, which provides farcical relief stashed between the darkly bluesy early Rolling Stones pilfered “I’ll Make You A Star” and the jingled vilification, “Virus Human.”

Perhaps the most resourceful slice of retro Stones fungus, “10 Fingers 11 Toes” co-opts Jered’s fierce “Street Fighting Man” lead-in with Ian’s jangled Rickenbacker guitar melody; revealing a passion for CBGB touchstones Television and Richard Hell whilst summoning ‘70s glam-rock predators, the New York Dolls, in the process. Meanwhile, Jered’s mewl-y hiccuped yelps express disheveled desperation.

“That’s just about being different,” Jered concludes.

Conceding he was “no jock,” maybe Jered felt misunderstood during his awkward adolescence, affecting the wittingly divulged lyrical dichotomies expounded in the maniacally vituperative “Sad Eyes.” A ticking espionage scheme ripping through “Secret Agent Man” uncannily provokes Devo’s maddening high wire tension or X.T.C.’s duskier moments.

Jered laughs at my “Sad Eyes” critique, casually offering, “Every little twangy guitar thing has been done at some point, but people grab on to that. We’re drawn to that echoey sound so that ends up being utilized.”

Despite purging emotional anxiety in the truest punk fashion, happily he still finds time to completely loosen up, as on the puckish Velvet Underground-ish parody, “Little Friends.”

“It’s about our house pets. We have a cat who pisses everywhere,” Jered explains. “I’m interested (in writing about) shit going on around me daily. I get most of my ideas from the television, crazy people walking down the street where I live, or from traveling.”

When asked how the Ponys arrangements reach fruition, Nathan interjects, “Some songs, especially lately, someone will come up with a riff and everyone finds a way around it. If we have something cool going on, Jered will start mumbling stuff to get to the essence of the song.”

“Sometimes it’s a big collaborative frenzy,” Melissa adds.

In fact, Melissa gets to sing lead on a new tune they worked out, “She’s Broken,” at Maxwells this evening. Delivering blues-drenched lyrics in a ravaged manner, she recalls the urgency of a snarling Patti Smith. One of the highlights for tonight’s crammed crowd is the ascending garage rocker, “Trouble Trouble,” where Melissa’s murky organ signature invades the sticky soulful beat, rendering a psych-garage fervor mindful of the 45’s or the Greenhornes.

“Some of the early songs we hadn’t committed to the debut were more blues-based,” Jered admits. “But we wrote so much new stuff we liked that we stuck with them. We still may go back and flesh out some of those tracks. They may resurface in a different form.”

For this night’s encore, the Ponys employ the sonic “Only One,” a thrillingly spewed electroclash bash with a visceral edginess the Yeah Yeah Yeahs would recognize and enjoy. During its blustery performance, Jered does his best to wring dissonance out of his axe, bending its neck backwards on the floor and letting the distortion bounce off the nearby floor speaker. For a second, I thought he’d destroy the six-string in malevolent Pete Townshend fashion. But alas, Jered’s probably too content and well balanced to go that far.

“I like that song. It’s fun. But the whole time I’m thinking about how much radical noise I’m gonna make at the end,” Jered confesses.

Following the Ponys sweat-drenched program, I overheard Jersey underground rock maven Bob Bert (Sonic Youth/ Knoxville Girls) say they were the best new band he’s seen in awhile – a promising endorsement, indeed!

As I’m leaving I hear a voice calling from behind at a distance. As I look back, lanky Jered appears amongst the fog, rain, and oak trees he’s nearly as tall as.

“I just want to thank you for coming out,” he sheepishly avows as if I was doing his eager and talented assemblage a favor.

PIPETTES READY TO INVADE AMERICA

Interviews

FOREWORD: The Pipettes are an early ‘60s pop geek’s wet dream – adorable dolled-up chicks doing synchronized dance routines fronting a sturdy melodic rock band that’s not afraid to get dirty. At the Gramercy Theatre, late November ’07, they rose to the occasion, getting fans to dance along and snicker at their sassy teen brashness. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Go back in time to rock ‘n roll’s musically conservative ’62-thru-’63 timeframe, a period dissolved by JFK’s assassination and preceding the Fab Four’s impending British Invasion of an unwittingly abstinent America. It was a safe haven ruled by harmless harmonizing archetypes such as pre-eminent West Coast surf-rockers, the Beach Boys, and serenading New York street corner popinjays, the Four Seasons, parentally approved softies pushing aside the putative erotic perils mid-‘50s icons Elvis and Chuck Berry once provoked. Joyously re-creating those cautious pre-Beatles years, enticing English effigies, The Pipettes, conjure the innocently charming uptown soul girl groups the Ronettes, Shirelles, and Crystals imparted and streetwise toughies the Shangri-Las emulated ‘64-‘66.

True, the Pipettes adolescent retro-rock love tokens similarly unveil yearning heartfelt melancholia, familiar multi-harmony swoops, and wintry Phil Spector-like Wall of Sound imagery. Yet despite such seeming reverence, they manage to stay real, committing to ‘90s riot-grrl empowerment while having loads of fun donning polka-dot party dresses, applying black eyeliner, sporting high-heel stilettos, and choreographing dance maneuvers.

Though many Pipettes tunes endearingly utilize the rhythmic finger snaps, unison handclaps, syncopated beats, synchronized go-go gyrations, and vivaciously cheerful chants of yore, there’s always a vixen-like nastiness juxtaposing the overwhelming affability on winning ’07 entree, We Are The Pipettes (Cherry Tree).

Guitarist ‘Monster Bobby’ Barry (pilot of 4-man instrumental contingent, the Cassettes), and original singer, photographer Julia Clark-Lowes, assembled the Pipettes in 2003. Sweet-faced flaxen-haired, RiotBecki, and cutesy brunette, Rosay, soon came aboard. When Lowe departed, enthusiastic bleach blonde Welch fan, Gwenno Saunders, entered the picture.

Bursting forth with the kittenish extraterrestrial transmission, “We Are The Pipettes,” a smirking braggadocio lead-in boasting catchy choral cheekiness, kitsch-y melodic illumination, and seeping keyboard swing, the perky septet jump stylistically like a wild serpentine fire on their sparkling debut. Cabaret hip-hop rock-sopped shout-out “Pull Shapes,” sympathetic call-n-response orchestral chime “Why Did You Stay,” and plucky B-52’s-careened “Dirty Mind” show off the diverse range of this happily juvenile outfit.

Euphoric teenyboppers will embrace the blissfully lighthearted elementary fare. Suspiciously harmonizing in excitedly chopped-up Anglo linguistics like Japanese pop idols Pizzicato 5 and Shonen Knife, flirtatious “Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me” dribbles Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Great Balls Of Fire” four-chord staccato riff over faux-strings and jingled bells, conveying strange white soul. Snazzy kid-rhymed ditty, “ABC,” a deliciously ‘1-2-3 XTC’ patty-wack, glows in its groovy downloadable animated video.

More soulfully struttin’ than Bananarama and, of course, the Spice Girls, harder hitting than cheerleader Toni Basil’s giddy one hit wonder “Mickey,” but not as tauntingly libidinous as early Bangles, the Pipettes energize the future while looking towards the past. They may re-imagine Phil Spector’s dynamic echoplexed creations on lascivious “Be My Baby” homage, “Sex,” and spaghetti Western-tinged “Tell Me What You Want,” a truly mesmerizing’70s Philly soul cop grooving to the Delfonics, but their snippy lyrical conceits maintain a chic mod elan.

That said, on several contagious tracks, keyboardist Seb proves to be enamored by pioneering “Telstar” producer Joe Meek’s conceptualist overdubbed ‘50s/’60s recordings, girding a few arrangements with astral Casio swirls and cosmic synthesizer ripples.

Before accusing the Pipette gals of being mere eye candy, be aware that the hooky songs delivered are constructed proportionately with backup crew, the Cassettes, in egalitarian fashion.

“It’s a very utilitarian process of seven people,” affirms Rosay. “One person may come to rehearsal with words or chords. We jam around to see what fits, have our own in-house editing team, and try to be as open as possible shifting things around and have gotten better as a band because our confidence is growing. Anyone who gives a song to the band knows it’s owned by all of us. It’s important to have a shared voice.”

Rosay’s broad range of influences extends from folk singer-songwriters Joni Mitchell, Tim Buckley, and John Martyn to the Beatles and Stones. Her mom, a Motown-reggae fan, bought Rosay a piano at age seven. She was initially attracted to the Pipettes autonomous nature.

“We were formed for a concept. That’s the bands’ foundation,” she says. “We all care for each other and fight like siblings. What’s great is there’s no individual egos. It’s about working towards fulfilling an idea and not worrying who’s gonna sing lead more or be a front person in pictures. That’s what attracted us to the band, especially when Gwenn joined. That was already set in stone. It’s quite a liberating experience.”

The Pipettes emancipated front women exist on their own terms, verifying feministic redemption through music.

“We’re not trying to be righteous. We’re reflecting what young girls feel about things and the lyrics are quite conversational,” Rosay explains. “That’s perhaps inherently political. We made a careful decision not to have three girls play instruments onstage, raising the question of what value people put on women in bands. We’re constantly undermined because we don’t have guitars strapped around our necks so how could we be musicians. They think there’s a male Svengali behind it all and we’re just silly girls dancing in dresses and surely don’t write songs. Everything we do is very deliberate, comfortable, and natural.”

Furthermore, she deems, “There’s a horrible trend where girls have to play harder and faster than boys to validate their position. That’s bullshit. Just do it exactly as you want. Let’s celebrate being feminine. I wear a dress onstage because I like to. It’s not that I want you to fancy me or I want to fuck you. Fact is it’s a male dominated industry. It’s important women know how far they’ve come in music and shouldn’t be stopped from doing what they want.”

Unfortunately, the Pipettes were devastated when British staple, Top of the Pops, came to an end recently. Along with former tour mates, the Go! Team, another fledgling pep-rallied coed Brighton-based clan, the demise of television-related programs showcasing seductively charismatic performers hurts their chances of superstardom, negating the full impact of zestful videos such as the one done for “Pull Shapes,” where the footloose Pipettes bash a square’s banquet.

Rosay believes the entire enterprise is overrun by boys with guitars, lowering the potential for talented starlets to receive larger exposure. Still, prime time outlets for pop performers of all stripes have been on the wane since vibrant ‘60s pillars Hullabaloo, Where The Action Is, Ready Steay Go! and Shindig went bye-bye.

She clarifies, “I reckon the entire industry needs a resurgence. We’re really into performance and want our shows to be as exciting as possible for our fans. We want our audience to dance. We can’t convince them to dance if we’re just standing there. We’re not interested in looking cool or posing. We made up these dance routines. Gwenn and Becky had dance training, but it’s all meant to be simple, interpretive, engaging, and physical with the music we’re making. After a song’s complete, we’ll dance around in our living rooms and if it makes us laugh, we usually keep it.”

So let’s hope the Pipettes and Go! Team’s thrilling retro-pop revivalism gains solid rep. If all goes well, they’ll boost the relevance small seaside resort community Brighton deserves.

“Brighton’s open to ideas and has venues who’ll put you on. There’s not a particular scene. It’s just very eclectic. Certain sensibilities run parallel. People, luckily, responded to us,” Rosay assents. “There’s actually a campy cabaret tradition there which fits in well with our slightly tacky act.”

PERNICE BROTHERS PROCLAIM ‘THE WORLD WON’T END’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Joe Pernice and I go back a-ways to his days in bucolic Scud Mountain Boys. I had done a piece on them for cool underground mag, Oculus, around ’95, and saw them play at my pal Mike’s former Avenue B club, Brownies. Then, as leader of the Pernice Brothers, I attended three different New York shows (two at Mercury Lounge and another at the old Fez) and wrote a few more articles praising the guy.

My friend, Shirley Halperin (Smug mag entrepreneur and former Rolling Stone/ US Weekly scribe), ended up marrying Joe’s producer-bassist, Thom Monahan. And Joe went on to release a few more excellent albums: ‘03s Yours Mine & Ours, ’05 Discover A Lovelier You, and Live A Little. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Between the last Pernice Brothers record, ‘98s orchestral pop masterstroke, Overcome By Happiness, and the recent, The World Won’t End, singer-songwriter-guitarist Joe Pernice remained busy recording under two ‘very’ anonymous pseudonyms. In ‘99, he released the beautifully understated, but lost-in-the-shuffle, Chappaquiddick Skyline, then followed it up with the yet-to-be-released in America, Big Tobacco (featuring songs originally intended for the Scud Mountain Boys, Pernice’s former Massachusetts-based rural Country-folk band).

Although gripping stanzas of apprehension, sadness, and fear cast a lyrical dark cloud over most of his work, Pernice’s impeccably precise pop arrangements retain a heart-rendering warmth and rarefied poignancy only a truly gifted musician could express so earnestly.

On The World Won’t End (Ashmont Records), he’s still willing to show on uneasy heart of darkness. And as usual, his honey-dewed, come-hither voice crests and falls with a balmy buoyancy, conveying a fervent serenity to the pastoral tranquillity multi-instrumentalist-producer Thom Monahan, percussionist Mike Belitsky, keyboardist Laura Stein, guitarist-percussionist Peyton Pinkerton, and Joe’s brother, guitarist Bob Pernice so elegantly provide.

I caught up to Pernice while he was doing some freelance work editing a Cosmopolitan spin-off. True pop fans will want to check out the Pernice Brothers live shows.

I heard you recorded the elegant strings for The World Won’t End at Smug Magazine’s spacious former headquarters on Canal Street?

JOE PERNICE: We were pressed for time and scheduling was madness. We had to get together string players and band members and (producer) Thom Monahan was making records with other people. We had a small two-day window to do strings or delay the record six months. Shirley (Halperin) from Smug had wide-open space and when they weren’t working during the weekend, we brought in the top notch recording equipment.

I must admit, your new song, “Let That Show,” caught my attention because of its similarity to Electric Light Orchestra’s ‘70s Chamber pop.

JOE: (laughter) That’s exactly what we were hoping for. I was just over in England and a guy who works on our label there said, “I don’t know the name of that song. It’s the ELO string thing.” It’s a disco flourish.

Is there a major difference between the Chappaquiddick Skyline and Big Tobacco side projects?

JOE: Big Tobacco will be out in America in October. It has different songs I wrote to be on the next Scud Mountain Boys record that never came. But I had just gotten out of my record deal and that was recorded during time off. I didn’t release it in America because I didn’t want to release two LP’s between the Pernice Brothers records. In Europe, they’re less concerned about the name. In America, I got this Palace Brothers comparison. I didn’t think musically they were anything like us.

Some spare Scud Mountain Boys songs were reminiscent of Palace Brothers. But you use more instrumentation now.

JOE: A lot of Scud songs from Dance The Night Away and Massachusetts could have been fuller. But that band existed for only a couple years and made three records in 18 months. We were just flying. We didn’t know what the fuck was going on.

What’s with the sarcastic The World Won’t End title?

JOE: What do you mean? I find it to be openly hopeful. (laughter)

Don’t give me that crap! (laughter) The songs sound upbeat, but the lyrics are bleak.

JOE: It matches the theme.

The aura reminds me of Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys when he was living in the sandbox following psychedelic drug misuse.

JOE: That’s because he was all hopped up on pills.

I’m just drawing shit out of you. I hope your personal life isn’t as depressing as these songs.

JOE: Oh no. It’s great making records. Who could ask for a better life.

Does it get easier to construct songs as you get older and wiser?

JOE: I don’t think about it being easier or harder. It’s about enjoying it. I articulate better. When I do it a lot and get in the zone, I get lost in it. I enjoy writing more than performing. It’s about trying to find the time while traveling so much. My schedule of writing everyday has been disrupted.

You’re able to write about mundane subjects like fear and love loss with renewed flare and new topicality on each album.

JOE: Thom and I realize we’ve recorded about 90 tracks together. We were counting them. I wrote them on a napkin and we were laughing.

Are you still writing songs on acoustic guitar?

JOE: Yes. But I’m thinking of writing on piano. I have a bunch of songs I want to record that may work better that way. But I don’t want a radical change, just a different angle.

Are you an avid reader?

JOE: I’m reading a Nick Hornby book now. When I was making the record I only had snippets of free time. So I read lots of poetry. I like reading about woodworking and I love the Hockey Encyclopedia’s stats.

So you’re a hockey fan, eh?

JOE: I’m a Boston Bruin fan. I was psyched watching the games late at night while I was in London. Ray Bourque (former Bruin) won his Stanley Cup finally. I didn’t think the Colorado Avalanche had a chance. New Jersey was better, but they caved. They got one goal in the final two games against Patrick Roy.

JOE PERNICE @ THE FEZ

Interviews

Joe Pernice / The Fez/ March 5, 2001

By John Fortunato

“I’d like to end with a hopeful cover song ‘cause I don’t have one of my own,” wry singer-songwriter Joe Pernice moans softly to a packed Fez crowd before the clock strikes midnight this frosty Monday. After a pause, he further cautions, “someday it’ll be all over.” The seated audience chuckles, then he easily slips into New Order’s “Love Vigilantes.” Very few artists could pull off re-interpreting Goth-rock drama without the full support of electric guitar, keyboards, and drums. Yet Pernice did it with only acoustic guitar and voice and did it well as a final encore.

Though I sincerely doubt the approachable transplanted New Yorker from the woods of Massachusetts has suffered the heartache, pain, and insecurities his lyrics employ, his rasped baritone whispered reflections that melted like butter on the brain. Most often, love set the tender trap for the poignant vulnerability of his metaphoric wordplay.

Standing alone on-stage wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, the casual, informal Pernice took advantage of this solo opportunity by offering songs from his entire decade-long career. There were the cherished rural remembrances of “One Hand” and “Glass Jaw” from his early Scud Mountain Boys daze. “All I Know” and the swooning title cut from the breakthrough Pernice Brothers disc Overcome By Happiness got saddled by the emotive “She Heightened Everything” from the courageous follow-up The World Won’t End. “Up In Michigan” and “Hundred Dollar Pocket” came from the anonymously monickered Chappaquiddick Skyline while the dope-escapism of “Prince Valium” was lifted from the equally inconspicuous, newly released Big Tobacco.

In a pinch, you’d swear the shadowy figure of Elvis Costello haunted Pernice. Both appear to be the same size, share awkward microphone mannerisms, wear black-rimmed glasses, and drape compellingly lovelorn sentiments with spare acoustics whenever the mood strikes. Whereas ‘70s era James Taylor could pull out the drug-stricken tearjerker “Fire & Rain” and few others to soothe his avid fans, Pernice has an expanding collection of despair-wracked homespun originals that may not be as simple and pure, but are always on the money. Besides, JT’s between-song banter pales next to the naked insecurities and puzzling humor this contemporary of Elliott Smith rattles off.

And when Pernice reaches back to the English Beat’s early ‘80s ska gem “Save It For Later,” the quiet solitude of his solemn delivery matches the weary-legged emotions of David Wakeling’s words. Quite frankly, his interpretive abilities are nearly as genuine as his adroit songwriting.

PERE UBU’S TRAVEL ODE TO ‘ST ARKANSAS’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Pere Ubu have been investigating bizarrely conceptualist avant-rock since their humble pre-punk origin in’75. Fronted by skewed art-damaged relic, David Thomas, they’ve released dozens of strangely divergent original albums, EP’s and singles over the years. I was supposed to see Pere Ubu when they played Warsaw in Brooklyn during ’04 (after I conducted this interview), but a foot of snow kept me away. But I heard the half-filled audience nonetheless loved every minute of it. By ’06, unheralded Keith Moline (of Thomas’ concurrent band, the whimsical Two Pale Boys) had replaced long-time guitarist Tom Herman for the R & B-soaked Why I Hate Women. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

“Rock is a folk music with a shared language building upon what’s gone before so you recognize it as such and realize it’s to be heard in that context,” claims dignified avant eccentric David Thomas. A fixture in Cleveland’s ‘70s underground scene under the alias Crocus Behemoth, the idiosyncratic, warp-quirked squiggly-voiced Thomas formed Pere Ubu with now-deceased guitarist-critic Peter Laughner from the remnants of bizarre, esoteric icons Rocket From The Tombs.

After the abstruse skull-fuckery of Pere Ubu’s ‘77 5-song single, “Datapanik In the Year Zero,” and the audacious long-play debut, The Modern Dance, ‘78s magnificent Dub Housing countered straightforward fare such as “Ubu Dance Party” and the funhouse chant-along “Caligari’s Mirror” with the obtusely out of tune “Drinking Wine Spodyody.” Synthesizer wizard Allen Ravenstine was given free reign to exploit sonic debris.

Though its ideas weren’t as compressed or compelling, ‘79s static New Picnic Time moved the ever-changing combo so far left that inventive psychedelic dadaist Mayo Thompson of art-damaged bohos Red Crayola came aboard for ‘80s far better The Art of Walking and ‘82s less thrilling Song of the Bailing Man.

Following a tumultuous breakup, Thomas formed the Pedestrians and recorded The Sound of the Sand with Brit-folk legend Richard Thompson and a host of Ubu-related pals. As David Thomas and the Wooden Birds, he unleashed the ecliptic Blame The Messenger with Ravenstine, Ubu mainstay Tony Maimone (bass), Jim Jones (guitar), and Chris Cutler (drums). This lineup became the new Pere Ubu for ‘88s re-energized The Tenement Year.

While ‘89s nearly perfect Cloudland refined their more pop-oriented approach, ‘91s gloomier Worlds In Collision added Captain Beefheart sideman Eric Drew Feldman to the clan. The hardest rocking, most accessible Ubu disc yet, ‘93s Story Of My Life led to ‘95s resilient 61-minute marathon Raygun Suitcase. Former guitarist Tom Herman was welcomed back into the fold for ‘98s obtuse Pennsylvania, securing the lineup (theremin-synthesizer player Robert Wheeler; bassist Michele Temple; and drummer-organist Steve Mehlman) that would make ‘02s fantastic travelogue St Arkansas.

Using the road as a metaphor, St Arkansas’ skeletal sketches scour scurried scatalogical schisms with stark psychosis. The gloomy visage, “Dark,” where ‘AM radio sets you free’ as the ‘ghost town rises,’ matches the haunting paleness of Ubu’s best material, as does the sinister “Michele.” The fast moving bass chugger “333″ and the beat-driven hitchhiking lament “Phone Home Jonah” provide motorific relief.

Just as the meek shall inherit the earth as cockroaches and locusts roam free, Pere Ubu not only set the stage for the independent late-‘70s do-it-yourself punk insurgence, but somehow managed to outlive relegated offshoots new wave, grunge, and alt-rock in the 30-year process. So meet the new boss same as the old boss.

Why was there a 4-year stretch from Pere Ubu’s last studio set, Pennsylvania, and St Arkansas?

DAVID: We’re not a professionally recorded rock and roll band. We do things haphazardly. We’re not a commercially successful band on a treadmill with a record company hoping for our next record. Nobody told us we had to go about our career a certain way. I did a few LP’s with my improvisational group. I did Surf’s Up with Two Pale Boys, and a Mirror Man opera.

Who were your early influences?

DAVE: It’s hard to re-create influences. Even t.v. and what goes on in the world affects music. At the time we were formulating what we were doing, rock was a thin, broad church. In the early ‘70s, a very exciting time when pigeonholing of music didn’t exist, after Hendrix opened for the Monkess – which nobody thought was terribly weird just slightly odd – we never found it difficult marrying art music with pop or simple ideas with difficult riffs. Groups were exploring synthesizers in concrete sound. We were forerunners of that movement. People were working towards that earlier like MC5, Velvet Underground, Terry Riley, and the Silver Apples. Everything from Krautrock to pop was influential at that point. Integrating concrete sound with non-musical analog synth into musical forms in a narrative voice was in its formative stage.

Fans back then paid attention to what was happening in the underground thanks to burgeoning free form FM radio.

DAVE: Cleveland was the nexus for music from all over the world. Record stores competed to have the most complete catalog. At the same time, it didn’t pay to be in a band that wasn’t a copy band. You’d play for yourself. It was an inwardly turning attitude of no one likes you so do what you want. It’s liberating and shaped our attitude since.

Would you consider yourself an avant-surrealist pitted in the historical timeframe between Captain Beefheart and New York’s No Wave movement?

DAVE: Sure. I like being called avant. That and a dollar get you a cup of coffee.

Eric Drew Feldman of Beefheart’s band played on Worlds In Collision and the live Apocalypse Now. Did you ever meet his infamous, now-estranged boss?

DAVE: Years before I met Eric, I interviewed Beefheart for a radio show. I was a journalist for the weekly rag, The Scene, and my connection with the station gave me access. I met him backstage and hung out as long as he permitted it to happen. The station changed formats next week so I don’t know if it was ever broadcast.

Pere Ubu’s early single, “30 Seconds Over Tokyo / Heart Of Darkness,” profoundly ushered in the age of independent recording.

DAVE: Television’s “Little Johnny Jewel” came out two months ahead of us. It’s like Pet Sounds coming out after Sgt. Pepper and Pepper gets the credit. No one would release our singles. It was supposed to be the end of Pere Ubu. Leave a record behind for someone to find in a Salvation Army record bin.

Whereas Pennsylvania was artily eccentric with lots of open spaces and not at all mainstream, St Arkansas seems more approachable and semi-thematic.

DAVE: It’s about driving Highway 49 from Conway, Arkansas to Oxford or Tupelo, Mississippi. The motive was to let the road write the songs. I decided to drive cross-country, visit someone in Arkansas, and on the way back to Cleveland, take this road.

Where ‘AM radio sets you free’?

DAVE: I listen to everything on the radio. There’s double meaning to the chorus, which is usually the case with Pere Ubu. It’s a dark, obsessive song.

Each twisted Pere Ubu tune has a stylistically diverse abstract mission unto itself.

DAVE: That’s the way it’s supposed to be. You want to create unique stuff and pump more data down the data stream. The ambition is to cram more into less space and tell a story with fewer words.

What new bands do you appreciate?

DAVE: I like Yo La Tengo. (Band mates) Ira and Georgia saw my opera I was in on the West End. I like Spiritualized, Steve Earle, and Mark Mulcahy, formerly of Miracle Legion. He’s done a series of good solo releases.

PEDRO THE LION’S OTHER HALF NO ‘ACHILLES HEEL’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Since Pedro The Lion mainstay, David Bazan, was unavailable for comment in ‘04, I picked on new band mate, TW Walsh, for some info. Although Bazan’s band has always been a revolving door, Walsh, an experienced studio hand and goodly lo-fi recorder, was given the chance to affect Pedro The Lion’s minimalist folk sound. But I’m still waiting for their next move as of ’09. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

It’s been said Seattle-based Pedro The Lion adeptly funnel the idyllic springtime tranquility of Thomas Kinkade’s illuminating paintings and the detailed variations of novelists J.D. Salinger and Flannery O’Connor through their wounded songs. Brainchild of venerable singer-songwriter, David Bazan, a born again Christian with a litany of languid dirges and frustrated undulations, Pedro The Lion has grown to include its first truly permanent member, multi-instrumentalist/ recording engineer TW Walsh.

A former Bostonian, Walsh lingered in obscurity, but through mailed tape exchanges he befriended Bazan and began touring as his bassist-guitarist in 2000. The two hit it off well since Walsh’s Irish Catholic background complemented Bazan’s corresponding spirituality.

As a child, Walsh recollects hearing Graham Parker, Elvis Costello, and the Rolling Stones through his father, who’d go on to learn guitar as a fully matured adult. Perhaps this spurned his rock-based muse.

“My first band made our own recordings,” Walsh says. “I ended up being more interested in it than the others. I had a better job than my band mates so I accumulated microphones and stuff like that. I was a computer programmer, got laid off, but had money saved up. A friend of mine had a studio so I began trying to do recording as a living, but I didn’t make it financially. Not a lot of the bands I worked with are on record labels. There’s only a small budget.”

However, Walsh managed to record highly regarded Willard Grant Conspiracy’s country-tinged Regard The End, though he’s not convinced it turned out quite right. Recently, he worked with Emergency Music, whom he calls “a pretty good retro-pop band influenced by Belle & Sebastian, Velvet Underground, and the Beatles.”

Walsh admits, “I got interested in Pedro The Lion by reading a review of It’s Hard To Find A Friend in underground zine, Tape Op. Then, I bought the Seizure EP. For awhile, they had no specific lineup. It was difficult to keep up because there was no money. Dave kept doing it as a solo act. It just so happened our friendship developed over the years until we began composing together a bit.”

Backtracking, ‘98s intimately charming lo-fi debut, It’s Hard To Find A Friend, set the depression-bound tone Pedro The Lion’s future excursions would thrive upon.

On 2000’s spare Winners Never Quit, Bazan’s beautifully rueful pop constructions rendered appealingly melancholic restraint, but each plainly majestic arrangement holds weight under scrutiny. Bazan’s moody endeavors refuse the urgency to meander aimlessly despite elongated song lengths, securing similar crestfallen minimalism as quiet-core brethren Red House Painters, American Music Club, and Smog. For a changeup, the shimmering “A Mind Of Her Own” bursts wide open with a petulant spangled guitar angularity nearly matched in immediacy and pizzazz by “Never Leave A Job Half Done.” Ticking 6-string dangles above melodic bass murmurs on “Simple Economics,” which confronts electioneering sabotage. And the briskly strummed “Bad Things Happen To Such Good People” proffers folk-Blues repent.

The epic heartbreaking grandeur of ‘02s gloomier Control deals directly with mental anguish, divorce, adultery, and the afterlife. Perilous marital friction consumes the concerned “Option.” Roiled redemption “Rapture” finds the Lord’s presence during an intimate affair, counterweighing pious conscientiousness with lustful compulsion. Siren “Penetration” digs peevishly into cracked fault lines: ‘It’s priceless when you say you have to work late when we both know you’re at a motel.’

Compared to the thematically traumatizing Control, ‘04s more subdued Achilles Heel offers a finer varied sonic palate, leveraging its predecessors loud distorted bombast and conceptual prose for compelling somnolence. Moving farther away from its acoustic base, the expressive allegorical metaphors remit pathos and disillusionment through broader luxuriant contour.

Walsh contends. “They both have good songs, but Achilles Heel isn’t unified by a particular sound. It reflects David’s taste in music more accurately. Control’s only a snapshot.”

Achilles murder ballad, “”Discretion,” despite its morbid sadness, receives a profoundly unlikely upbeat treatment. The equally grievous “The Fleecing,” a “defense of faith against hipster detractors,” finds Bazan’s flinty monotone mope soaring opposite rubbery bass and elastic guitar.

“David’s faithful Christian fans have attacked him because he curses on (the piss-y complaint) “Foregone Conclusions.” He’s under scrutiny for songs he writes. These people try to control and criticize actions of others. They don’t understand the dynamic and try to back him into a corner,” Walsh ascertains.

Sometimes it seems Bazan’s pointed lyrics endorse an empathetic liberal perspective.

“He leans to the left of me. He believes in political and social justice. I’m a little more scatterbrained, not as informed,” Walsh chuckles, then discusses the national election for a sec. “I lived in Massachusetts and doubt Bush will win there. I voted for Nader in 2000, but now I’m in the swing state, Washington.”

Bazan proves capable of dealing with subject matter previously untouched. The sarcastic “Bands With Managers,” with its wiry guitar, sinewy groove, and funereal beat, mocks a particular band his friend once booked. Building upon its highly emotional gravity, Bazan hits some amazing falsetto squeals singing ‘bout a local group courted by major labels.

Though Walsh won’t be specific about which band the tune condemns, he cautions, “They broke ties with the people they worked with, became total opportunists, and tried to be the exception to the rule in terms of not getting lost in the shuffle.”

Retaining steadfast resolve in lieu of commercial concessions, Pedro The Lion continue to gain support amongst indie folk connoisseurs and perhaps, undeclared sanctified mortals.

“It’s easier for us to make it work on an interpersonal level now. We squeak by making a living. And there’s luckily a lower cost of living in the Seattle area. Plus, there are some local friends I’ve obtained who want me to help out doing mixing and mastering. I did the Crystal Skulls, but that’s not really a money gig. I just help when I can.” But, he adds, “If the bands aren’t friends, I have to justify it to my wife by charging them.”

While Pedro The Lion will be put on temporary hold for an offshoot project Bazan and Walsh have set up, the latter will also be busy pursuing solo interests.

“Right now, we’re working on a record for (boutique label) Suicide Squeeze under another name not yet decided on. I actually have three records out under my own name. My voice comes from a different place than David’s, but the songs come from the same influences. It’s pop music with dark lyrics and a classic rock sound. Next year I’m gonna tour as Pedro The Lion, on my own, and for the unnamed band.”

THE PAYBACKS KEEP GETTING’ ‘HARDER AND HARDER’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: The Paybacks are just another solid-bodied garage band from Detroit. Jarring lead singer, Wendy Case, battling back from years of drug abuse, became the hardest rockin’ chick in the midwest. By ’02, her bands’ rough ‘n ready Knock Loud zoomed forward in overdrive. Since then, ‘04s arena rockin’ Harder And Harder and ‘06s Love, Not Reason, came to the fore. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Born in Akron, Ohio, raised in the foothills of North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, and now a resident of Detroit, singer-guitarist Wendy Case grew up listening to American hillbilly folk before discovering Led Zeppelin as a Michigan teen. Deciding to become a full-blown rocker, she got involved with San Francisco’s radical ‘80s punk scene then retreated to her home state to get clean.

“I had a bad heroin problem in San Francisco. I didn’t have anywhere to go to clean up so I went to an ex-boyfriend in Ann Arbor. He tried to help me get back on my feet and offered a home.” She then snickers, “I wasn’t planning on being a rock star.”

Now a hard workin’ 41-year-old road dog whose early heroes were bluegrass legends Doc Watson, Bill Monroe, and Flatt & Scruggs, Case is the amazingly gruff-throated leader of the Paybacks. Determinedly resurrecting herself after a 13-year battle with drug abuse, Case has become one of Motor City’s most formidable talents. Her uncannily masculine raspy bark has the soulful scruff of early Rod Stewart and Steve Marriott. Like those two famous singers ‘70s-related bands, Faces and Humble Pie, the Paybacks loose boozy temperament rules the roost.

Living on the West Coast from ’82 to ’88, Case hung out with deviant outré rockers such as Flipper’s Will Shatter, Crime’s Frankie Stix, and her then-boyfriend, Jack Weird of Seizure. She was part of the hugely influential punk party scene while it was winding down due to substance abuse and under-exposure.

“I was like the kid and they were the older rock guys. Everyone was on drugs so that became my introduction,” she offers. “I went down the hard drug road for a considerable time.”

Case soon found sobriety in the multi-cultural melting pot college town she lived in as a teen. But that bucolic “hippieville” was full of addicts. In fact, Case says during the late ‘60s, people busted with weed would only have to pay a meager $5 fine.

“Ann Arbor is a Big 10 community with lots of art and culture. The Stooges and MC5 were from there at their apex. So it has significant music history. It’s where John Sinclair started the White Panther political movement.” She contends, “Great music doesn’t have to be made where hardened destroyed ghettos exist. It’s what happens in peoples’ minds and hearts. We had an ideal advantage over others because there was enlightenment, knowledge sharing, and spiritual empowerment.”

In high school Case hung out with the Cult Heroes and Destroy All Monsters at the end of the Sonic Rendezvous era. Her band, Ten High, along with the Rationals and the Ups, were pretty significant in terms of modern garage punk.

“Before it started happening in Detroit, where little bastions of manicured lawns go right into Crack Central, Ann Arbor was all over it. That was ten years prior to the Paybacks,” she informs. “We were doing obscure covers by Mark Martin and the Haunted, real garage pioneers. Then, bands like the Detroit Cobras began doing similar things. They were doing more of a garage-soul version. We had an entire little scene that migrated to Detroit.”

Along with Ten High, regional outfits the Hentchmen and Fortune & Maltese gained exposure in the early ‘90s. Soon, the Gories took hold, spawning the Demolition Doll Rods, whose primitive 3-chord rock minimalism was sufficiently crazed.

“I liked the novel sounding garage bands. I was into (‘60s psych-garage legends) the Sonics, Seeds, Standells, and Chocolate Watch Band. The Paybacks get lumped into this whole garage scene, but everything is called that now. So we were appalled. We were an arena rock band, so get it straight,” Case demands. “But fuck it! As long as they’re talking about us, we’ll go along with it.”

No doubt about it, the Paybacks revved up debut, Knock Loud, was one of 2002’s greatest finds. Shotgun opener “Just You Wait” sets the tone for an explosive set of balls-out ballistic blasts. Fans of Muffs’ singer-guitarist Kim Shattucks will eat up Case’s demanding screamer “Thin Air.” AC/DC buffs should give the abrasive eruption “Tie Me A Knot” and forceful “Hot Shot” a try. “Hollywood” works as a reliably super-bashed take on Chuck Berry’s durably efficient ‘50s fare.

Though she enjoyed making Knock Loud, Case avows sophomore effort Harder And Harder is more cohesive. Skull-smashing cigarette-stained growls and scowled grunts hurl out of Case’s pretty mouth on the scalding vindication “When I’m Gone,” the slovenly liquor-doused double entendre “Scotch Love,” and the bitchy calamity “Me.” Rough hewn boogie stomp “You And Your Friends” drips sludgy feedback gunk into the proverbial street corner gutter while the snippy “Jumpy” is built atop a familiar Elmore James/ Muddy Waters-styled Chicago blues riff given plenty of horse-squealing shrieks. Intended as a formidable B-side Case thought would “be amusing while everyone else was doing Christmas music,” the carousing T. Rex-borrowed “Celebrate Summer” closes the disc on a fittingly ceremonial note.

“Our band sounds more established these days and the songs are more aggressive, but not by design. It just turned out that way. It’s a tighter sounding record without the big, shiny pop elements of the first one – which was a cruder recording with a different guitarist who was into lots of riffs,” she maintains.

That guitarist was Paybacks founder Marco Delicato, whose replacement (due to touring restraints), Danny Methric, was in estimable Detroit bluesrock trio, the Muggs. Also onboard are two celebrated local garage progenitors from the Hentchmen, bassist John Szymanski and drummer Mike Latulippe. They provide a ceaselessly crunchy rhythmic grind metal heads and punks alike could dig. Together or apart, these proud misfits have logged tons of hours playing scurvy Detroit dives such as the oldest, best known Magic Six, and the now-defunct Gold Dollar, which Case describes as “a hole in the wall that had transvestite shows and was located in the Majestic Theatre.”

Admirably, Case’s gritty tunes, charred shouts, and gutbucket guitar befit the grungy shit holes lining many crowded beer-drenched midwest cities the Paybacks often frequent. She composes her best brash trash whilst pissed off.

“The best ones happen in a rush in about five minutes. Lyrics and music come together at once. It’s pretty awesome when that happens,” she cautiously insists. “I just wish it happened all the time. Sometimes I’ll start with nothing but a song title and build on that. I only really write anything decent when I’m in chaos. So I wait around for the other shoe to drop ‘cause when I’m happy I write retarded cute happy songs. There’s got to be genuine passion.”

That lustful enthusiasm gets put to the test in every sweaty club the corrosive quartet regularly performs at. Luckily, exhaustingly extensive touring for three-quarters of the year hasn’t taken its toll on the Paybacks yet.

“The road agrees with me. It’s a cooperative effort – us against the world. We understand each other well and are respectful of each other. Plus, we were all friends, liked the same music, and had the same sense of humor before becoming band mates,” Case closes.

 

NO AGE TAKING IT TO THE STREETS WITH PROPER ‘NOUNS’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Undoubtedly one of America’s best young art punk outfits, No Age have continued to advance and expand their sound. 2010′s Everything In Between, influenced by sensational unheralded ’90s act Disco Inferno, shuns conventionality and evades most preconceptions. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly during 2008.

Living in a little rent-controlled Hollywood backhouse for the last nine years, No Age guitarist Randy Randall found interest in radical psychedelia and its related Los Angeles-based Paisley Underground thanks to his cool older brother. Modish ‘80s indie bands such as the Three O’Clock and Redd Kross informed the experimental 27-year-old musician as an impressionable teen. Around the same time, he discovered noise-rock icons, Sonic Youth, a more direct influence on his imminent musical ruminations.

After lauding luminary Sonic Youth axe man, Thurston Moore, Randall reflects, “I was looking for the most out-there guitar weirdo music by the Residents, Marc Ribot, and especially Captain Beefheart. I love Shiny Beast and Doc At The Radar Station. I know Trout Mask Replica gets its accolades but I feel Beefheart’s best band did those later recordings. They really locked into the groove.”

Riding atop a healthy local noise scene that includes mainstays Lavender Diamond, Abe Vigoda, and others, No Age cut their teeth performing at cavernous downtown L.A. warehouse club, The Smell. Soon, the dazzling duo of Randall (a part-time booking agent for The Smell) and percussionist-lyricist Dean Spunt decided to lay down some tracks for a few forthcoming extended play singles.

“Dean listened to hardcore, which I knew nothing about originally. He was into Minor Threat and obscure ‘80s punk,” Randall asserts. “I was more into feedback-soaked music. Somewhere in the middle we met.”

Initially getting together in formative trio, the Wives, the propitious pair released their first five No Age EP’s separately at the same time, a fortuitous ploy psychedelic San Francisco freaks, Moby Grape, tried unsuccessfully with various 45’s during ’67s Summer Of Love. Never believing they’d attain recognition beyond the West Coast, the curious twosome obligingly received critical national underground attention, hitting the road for an awesome tour, garnering a serious fan contingent, and ultimately assembling the early EP’s on triumphant ’07 entree, Weirdo Rippers.

“It was just us writing songs and then culling them for a collage-y full length,” he claims. “With Nouns (Sup Pop), we wanted to make a proper album that flowed. We wanted to see what we could do within our restrictions. It’s easier to work with two people. It cuts down band politics. We use samplers to make the most out of it. But we’re open to collaborations in the future.”

A gallery-styled prism-hued booklet accompanies Nouns ample package, serving as resplendent imagery and to break up the album’s literal thematic flow concerning people, places, and things playing a vital role in the duo’s lives.

Be advised. No Age may cause whiplash with their calamitous roughhewn commotion, at times limiting access to seasoned noise addicts and avant-garde aficionados only. Offering no easy way out, Noun’s clangorous subterranean opener, “Miner,” places a distant stentorian guitar inside a cellar-bound tin-canned drum scrum. Ensuing rampaged shakedown, “Eraser,” capitulates to a seismic garbled guitar quake halfway through. In fact, the auspices of this dirtily indeterminate 6-string scree had been sitting around since Weirdo Rippers dropped, waiting to be completed.

“We didn’t know how to finish “Eraser.” We played around with it long enough and it was made into something.” However, Randall insists, “Sometimes songs write themselves from beginning to end. Other times, you just have parts to try and fit in or ditch instead.”

Though savaged by thunderous discord, the salutary “Teen Creeps,” is less dirty and more accessible than those first two cuts. Awash in muffled fuzz tones, its simple beat and blistering guitar-bass provide instant satisfaction.

Equally conventional (by No Age standards), “Ripped Knees” shows off a familiar Strokes-strummed scamper Spunt constantly mocks Randall for unconsciously imitating.

“Dean’s been busting my balls for writing some stuff that sounds like the Strokes. I didn’t even know who they were. I’m probably ripping off whoever they’re stealing from,” Randall quips. “I’m a huge Velvet Underground fan, so maybe that’s where it comes from.”

Following the buzz-y Industrial shrill of deviant instrumental, “Keechie,” the macabre “Sleeper Hold” unloads prime Husker Du clamor, reaching stratospheric heights as its soaring feedback-flailed bass drum-rumbled scuzz-rock fracas builds.

“Husker Du are one of Dean’s favorite bands. He met Bob Mould in Spain and flipped his wig,” Randall says, utilizing one of the legendary Minneapolis band’s album titles to explain Spunt’s excitement meeting an idol.

Ominous mantra, “Things I Did When I Was Dead,” seems to end up on a hospital bed with a doubtful prognosis. A tape-looped defibulator spurts electro-beeps into flat-lined vocal droning as crickets eerily chirp near an imaginative graveyard. Correspondingly, distortion drenched stampede, “Errand Boy,” piles on obtuse lyrical gloom. But maniacally fast-paced foray, “Brain Burner,” a static-enhanced My Bloody Valentine knockoff, contains a jaunty melodic hook exceeding anything posed on the jarringly blared Weirdo Rippers.

The most straightforward number, “Here Should Be My Home,” doubles the sonorous voices, veers into traffic, then barrels down a bumpy road.

Retaining a restlessly subversive attitude, the uncompromising No Age have no trouble piercing rock’s wildly spectral boundaries. Looking backwards for a moment, their uninhibited approach completely emboldened the white noise disfigurements consuming Weirdo Rippers, hearkening back to the blaring cacophonous shimmer Jesus & Mary Chain perfected in the mid-eighties. Dissonant commencing overture, “Every Artist Needs A Tragedy,” plies shards of mangled metallic scraps to a tortured artist lampoon. Pounding drums and slashing cymbals drill across “Boy Void’s” trashy lo-fi tempest, going from shallowly muted to dynamically up-front. The same obtuse contrasts distinguish swinging rock and roll scrambler, “My Life’s Alright Without You,” as it vacillates between muzzled faraway dungeon blear to blazingly in-your-face intimidation. Coming out of three minutes of lazily meandering free form sludge, “Dead Plane” unexpectedly drifts into a blurry Ramones-styled adolescent frenzy before taking flight like a big ol’ jet.

But while Weirdo Rippers relied primarily on fascinatingly layered sheets of sound, Nouns brought aboard better melodic attributes and consistently streamlined production techniques. Nevertheless, the tidier follow-up does maintain street cred with the neuvo ‘no wave’ crowd circulating ‘round the City of Angels and beyond.

As our conversation concludes, Randall quickly accepts my praise then concedes, “We’d definitely like to get things more simpler. We want to do something that’s sparse, atmospheric, and has wide-open spaces. Sort of a minimalist project.”

MOJO NIXON’S WILD PARTY PRESIDENCY

Interviews

FOREWORD: Satirical nutjob, Mojo Nixon, should’ve become president in ’90. I put his name out there, but the ignorant public went with that sleazy dog, Clinton. Anyway, Mojo’s a happy miscreant ably mocking out America’s tabloid stars on a whim. In the ’80s, he snubbed MTV’s lackluster scum, or as he called it, gism, and in the ’90s, he continued to tour. After playing a hilarious  set at Wetlands in SoHo,  we got together and tried to get the Yankees long-term organist stoned in the dank basement area he was playing in. Nixon’s currently semiretired from music. The Nixon For Prez article ran in Aquarian Weekly and the follow-up was picked up by High Times in ’98.

 

NIXON for President! No, not Tricky Dick, but instead Mojo Nixon, a Mason-Dixon scoundrel whose appearance is closer to werewolf than man. His porkchop sideburns, unshaven face, unkempt hair, and vagabond clothes give Mojo that scruffy, hungover look. Devouring a bag of barbecue potato chips, our next President of the Untidy States is in rare form this early January afternoon in New York. As I reach for a Rolling Rock, this crazed, shaved monkey spits out derogatory comments concerning the ineffective government he plans to overthrow.

If you thought the dregs took over the White House when Bill Clinton was elected, then sit back ’cause the plague is now upon us. As it gets closer to Armageddon, only cockroaches and locusts will survive. Which brings us to Mojo Nixon, a demented Virginia singer/ musician/ actor/ politician/ preacher whose latest distorted parodies corrupt his mop up compilation “Gadzooks!!! The Homemade Bootleg” (Needletime). He upsets conservative softheadedness with the spiffy honky tonk spoof “Are You Drinking With Me Jesus,” the charged up boogie woogie shuffler “Winnebago Warrior,” the swampy cock-rocker “King O’ Sleaze,” and the loony “Beer Ain’t Drinking.”

Yes, the man who covered MTV with gism, gave singer Debbie Gibson a two-headed love child, preached “Elvis Is Everywhere,” and stuffed VJ Martha Quinn’s muffin, plans to end government oppression by letting the meek inherit planet earth. Like former President Ronald Reagan, Mojo has appeared in low budget movies such as Car 54 Where Are You and Rock And Roll High School Forever. His latest film, Buttcrack: The Movie should take this zany hick to the crusty anal depths of ‘sucksex.’

But wait, before you think this charismatic fuck up is just crude, rude, tasteless, and scuzzy – guess again. His opinions, like Howard Stern’s, are actually relevant, insightful, and intelligent. As I guzzle down some brews, Mojo skullfucks my own sick mind with his non-rhetorical year 2000 Presidential campaign agenda.

Give me some of your family history so voters in 2000 could understand your logic.

MOJO: In the early 1700′s, my Scottish ancestors moved to an American county, refuseed to leave, and became preachers practicing interbreeding within a 15 mile radius.

Explain how a ‘turd’ party candidate will upset the two party system.

MOJO: It’s my genetic destiny to lead an armed insurrection to revolt in a desperate struggle against oppressive government. I, Mojo Nixon, will be at the hill with rebel allies. And the greedy boneheads leading our institution will then be swinging from lightbulbs. Newt Gingrich claims Bill Clinton is a sleazy liar with his campaign contributions. But there’s no clean campaign money. It’s given to a committee. What’s the difference? It’s like saying ‘I didn’t rape her, I only ass fucked her.’

What’s your opinion on abortion?

MOJO: I’d like to ask people against abortion who is going to take care and love these kids when they’re born. No one is pro-abortion. But the alternative is an unwanted child abused at a foster home who then becomes a criminal against society. Use some forethought and get protection. Nature is trying to get us to fuck all the time. Abortion should be safe, legal, and a last resort with no stigma attached. There’s no shortage of people. It’s not like we need more to fight Martians. These European Victorian Puritans are warped believing it’s assisted suicide. It’s self-determination and completely your individual right. State and government have nothing to do with it.

As President, would you get rid of the American Medical Association?

MOJO: The American Medical Ass Hole-Ciation is against unions but they are a union. And they’ve got a death grip on on society. Like lawyers, they origianlly tried to help those in need. Now they’re involved in a scam with the insurance companies. Actual surgery may cost $500, but it becomes $50,000 when they try to split up the free money pie. The A.M.A. is a country club with a hammer lock on politicians.

Right. And why vote at all when a Republican or Democrat is going to win thanks to that bull shit electoral college!

MOJO: Yes. I plan to rewrite the Constitution and get rid of the electoral college. It was meant to keep the two party system alive. We need third and fourth parties. And the your-mom’s-out-of-town-let’s-have-a-party. Or, I just got mushrooms, this is gonna be one helluva party!

Will you have an ass kickin’ party like Andrew Jackson had when he won the election in the 1800′s?

MOJO: He was great. His friends rode horses in the White House and hillbillies were getting drunk on the front lawn. Now we have political animals like Clinton. He would eat shit on national television if the public demanded it. Bureaucrats suck!

The Butthole Surfers told me President Lyndon Johnson used to parade around naked in his office in order to get the attention of his adversaries.

MOJO: Lyndon Johnson got people to do stuff they’d never ordinarily do. One time he scared a Secret Service guy when he was headed to the wrong helicopter. He told him ‘son, these are all my helicopters because I’m Commander In Chief. But if you insist I get into that one, I’ll go.’

I hate those asshole newscasters for convincing the dumb American public of a Soviet threat which never fucking existed.

MOJO: Most people bought that Communist bull shit. Russia was 90% Surfs until 1860. It’s like the Middle Ages over there. How the fuck were they going to invade America? They’d get halfway through Pennsylvania and say ‘I’m fuckin’ tired.’ Crazy Americans would be in the woods shooting their asses. In reality, the Russians are our friends. They like to drink. The Japs and Germans thought they were the superior race until our tribe known as We the People kicked their asses.

What are your thoughts on the Iraqi War?

MOJO: It was supposed to be Bush’s re-election showcase to completely annihilate a minor third world thug. We built Saddam Hussein up as Hitler. And we got Texaco and Union 76 to sponsor the war with campaign funds. It was nauseating to see us pick on that idiot, schoolyard bully.

What about human rights violations in foreign countries?

MOJO: Human rights problems are bull shit. It’s not the United States place to tell other countries what to do. This country had slaves. Cuba is a perfect example. Castro came to us in ’60 for help and we didn’t provide any so he went to Russia for support. Cuba has fine ballplayers, boxers, cigars, gambling, and women. But the U.S. is fixated on a non-issue. Cuba should be a giant Club Med, or Club Fidel.

What would you do as President to clean up our Judicial system?

MOJO: The Judicial System is a lie. The idea of an adversary system where truth is revealed and justice served is finished. Whoever has the most expensive lawyers wins out of attrition. Men are weak. If you dangle enough pussy in front of them, they’ll give in. We should have public executions at halftime of the Super Bowl for deserving scum.

How would you straighten out the tax problem and welfare?

MOJO: We’d have a true flat tax with no exceptions. And as for welfare, there would be one office and one form. There’s a lot of morons working for the government because useless jobs were created for them. I’d also dump half the military to balance the budget.

What restrictive pornographic boundaries would there be under your leadership?

MOJO: Pornography is nuclear bombs. Prudes hide behind feminism and religion. It’s not about violence to women. Some people’s sexual wires are just crossed.

Should the U.S. legalize drugs?

MOJO: Tomorrow! TV commercials stress how drug dependency is bad. But should casual users be punished because some genetically or socially messed up people can’t handle it. Drug enforcement police want drugs illegal so they could make money. Years ago, amphetamines were cheap to buy over the counter. But now there’s a longing for the fake ’50s way of life which never existed. Legalize drugs with the only restriction being they can’t be advertised. Hell, people legally drink themselves to death. Medical research companies are all about making money and manipulation. They’re untruthful ‘hypocrats.’

What are your thoughts on religion?

MOJO: Priests can’t marry and that only encourages perversion. Only a few people are not sexual or too mystical. Any hate preaching, mind controlling person telling people to fear God is not religious. Instead, they’re in the mind control business. Feeling guilty about something which we don’t know about is insane. I don’t believe in God in the traditional sense. Is some life force guiding our nature? I don’t know.

Who will be in your Presidential Cabinet?

MOJO: Hunter S. Thompson will be Minister of Produce. Richard Pryor will be Minister of Funny Shit. And like Clinton, we’ll have midgets. Maybe even some ugly albino black guys.

——————————————————-

MOJO NIXON: HIGH TIMES INTERVIEW

 

It’s Friday the 13th and the “High” Priest of extemporaneous pontification, Mojo Nixon, seems hellbent on kicking around several societal icons. His recent compilation, “Gadzooks !!! The Homemade Bootleg,” along with a starring role in “Buttcrack: The Movie,” continue to push this zany, demented character into public attention like a church pew fart. Propagating such hilarious diatribes as “Debbie Gibson Is Pregnant With My Two Headed Love Child,” “Stuffin’ Martha’s Muffin,” and “I’m Living With the Three Foot Anti-Christ,” Mojo sets Blues, bluegrass, and rockabilly innovations back 30 years.

HT: Who are some of the latest victims of Mojomania?

MOJO: Well, I was just in the middle of a litany of stuff. I was just in Detroit, home of Bob Seger. I like Bob, but if I hear that “Like A Rock” truck commercial one more time, I’m going to put a rock up his ass and explode it with dynamite. And does that guy in Oasis realize I have Beatles records. I’d like to send his sad ass back to England. I hate third generation pop music! Since Hootie & The Blowfish stole Huey Lewis & the News’ style, I figured I’d blend the two bands into shit stew – Huey & the Fish Blow. And I feel the guy from Counting Crows should have Van Morrison wipe his ass with that motley hair.

HT: Do you still believe “Elvis Is Everywhere”?

MOJO: After his daughter Lisa Marie married Michael Jackson, I figured he must be dead by now. How could she go to bed with that freak of nature who wanted to hang out with Webster and that monkey. It’s extremely odd. He had four number one records as a 12 year old, but hasn’t written a good song since “Billie Jean” – and it’s debatable whether he even wrote that. He acts like the sun is still shining out of his ass, but like Prince, he’s a washed up has been. It must be sad when you have to go to Burma to revive your career.

HT: Recently, I did a High Times piece on the late Country Dick Montana of the Beat Farmers. He even wrote the lyrics to “Gadzook’s” inebriated fable “She’s All Liquored Up.” How close were the two of you?

MOJO: I was friends with Dick but he was never a revelatory guy. I think I know three facts about him after all those years together. He was so psycho. I remember he had to get a thyroid cancer operation and he never told anyone. Then he called my wife, who is a nurse, and asked her if malignant was bad. However, he was the engine that ran the San Diego scene; promoting young acts and making himself available.

HT: Has American society become more ignorant in recent years?

MOJO: I agree they are stupid. Masses of people go to Mc Donald’s because they watch an ad they think was a well produced, good idea. But the food is bland and will kill you. But historically, 50 years ago we were in much worse shape. People died at 50, couldn’t read or write, and worked on assembly lines. Expectations now are higher, but not everyone’s a computer wizard, rocket scientist, or heart surgeon. We’ve got ESPN now, so something must be right.

HT: In November, 1980, while performing with your punk band Zebra 123, the U.S. Secret Service questioned your political motives. Why?

MOJO: We were celebrating the anniversary of Kennedy’s shooting death. We had posters of Reagan and Carter with their heads exploding. In Denver, hardcore music hadn’t happened yet. Everyone wanted to hear shitty, skinny tie bands. Anyway, the Secret Service thought we were trying to buy guns. And the local record store, Wax Trax, refused to put up the poster because they thought it was in bad taste.

HT: Should drugs be legalized?

MOJO: I firmly believe keeping drugs illegal hasn’t stopped anyone from using them. What we do is relieve ourselves by doing drugs. Should we be punished because one out of every five people gets addicted to cocaine. What about the other four people enjoying themselves. Like Donnie Osmond said, one bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch. It’s not like heroin should be marketed by Mc Donald’s. But there are definitely heroin addicts everywhere. The war on drugs is a joke. It never made a dent. And the stricter it becomes, the dumber it becomes. Some people feel if something is illegal, they’ve got to do it. People should be responsible for their own actions. If they’re told cocaine and heroin are risky and they indulge anyway due to peer pressure, that’s a decision they must live with.

NIGHT MARCHERS N’ HOT SNAKES PICK UP REIS’ PIECES

Interviews, , ,

Image result for JOHN REIS ROCKET FROM THE CRYPT

Despite signing a self-mocked major label deal in the post-grunge ‘90s, San Diego-based singer-guitarist John Reis has stubbornly maintained his cherished do-it-yourself integrity. A reluctant guiding light rebirthing ‘emotional hardcore’ from the ashes of ‘80s DC trailblazers Fugazi, Reis piloted seminal combo, Drive Like Jehu, while contemporaneously commencing increasingly accessible faux-soul aggro-garage legions, Rocket From The Crypt. Some time thereafter, he prudently struck up dazzling ancillary outfit, Hot Snakes, an arguably more consistently tight collective, while keeping unheralded troupe, The Sultans, inconspicuously pertinent ‘til the demise of all the above-mentioned acts. Hitherto, the 21-year-old entrepreneur had dissolved formative band, Pitchfork, during 1990.

Although childhood ‘70s idols included Alice Cooper and Kiss (faddishly phantasmal costumed acts whose stage shows ruled), Reis soon caught onto renowned British blues-rock cadres Led Zeppelin and Groundhogs through a friend’s brother.

Known best as Speedo in super-indie assemblage, Rocket From The Crypt, the prolific boss man also runs boutique label, Swami Records (homing indie staples Beehive & the Barracudas, Demolition Doll Rods, and Penetrators). Recently, he reconvened recording with versatile sundowners, the Night Marchers (pictured above).

“It’s been educational. Our local scene had camaraderie,” he affirms. “The environment in California’s lazy, not apathetic. We won’t leave our flip-flops ‘til we’re guaranteed a good time. So it’s semi-numb. But San Diego’s surprisingly conservative. You have ‘the man’ to contend with. Influential Mexican culture’s hidden. It’s the land of mini-malls and the government’s eager to cover up Mexican history not deemed culturally acceptable.”

While Rocket From the Crypt employed a raw “back-to-basics ethic,” recapturing the muscular mangled mayhem of Detroit legends, the MC5, and redirecting the savory melodic impulse of L.A. provocateurs, Social Distortion, Drive Like Jehu toiled in spellbindingly cataclysmic guitar fury. Their epochal self-titled ’91 debut indisputably flaunted skull-shattering intensity as Reis and mutual partner Rick Froberg’s arpeggio axe duels spun stratospherically out of control, flailing skyward above busily rudimentary rhythmic patterns bassist Mike Kennedy and drummer Mark Trombino unfurled. A certain lubricated spontaneity creeps into its dense sludgy grind and discordant catacombs. Bitterly, the disc itself reads ‘CD’s really fucking blow.’

Rebuking the cold, sterile sound carrier, Reis rails, “Compact discs are controversial in many ways. It was the future wave we were forced to buy into it, less sonically, visually, and economically feasible – reeking of labels making more money because they were cheaper to make than vinyl. Everyone swallowed the purple Kool-Aid.”

On gear-jamming ’94 set, Yank Crime, Drive Like Jehu’s unyielding emphatic urgency surges, resulting in crustier unbridled exhortations filled with wildly ululating banshee yelps, dissonantly roughhewn jolts, and distended extemporaneous mantras.

“We got into a fierce democracy by then. Everyone put two cents in. Dischord stuff was a big influence. I loved Teen Idles, Minor Threat,” Reis admits, before downplaying his role in prefiguring ‘emo’ bellwethers Jawbreaker, Samiam, and Promise Ring. “We were apart from them. We’d never tag ourselves as ‘emotional hardcore.’ Neither would those bands. We were part of a loose group of piers influencing each other. As our music progressed, we kept in touch with what was happening, liking Beefeater, Rites Of Spring, and Dag Nasty. Fugazi’s probably the best live band I’ve seen, always exciting to check out and draw inspiration from.”

Synchronously, Reis’ less combative brainchild, Rocket From The Crypt (pictured in black & white), began taking form, delivering unheralded entrée, Paint As A Fragrance (on defunct local label, Cargo), before mighty Interscope scooped ‘em up for ‘94s scorching breakthrough, Circa Now! Recorded, according to liner notes, during martial lockdown due to racially motivated Rodney King riots, its catchy post-hardcore delineation’s had toughened resolve similar to the underclass protesters threatening the L.A. studio they inhabited. Damning straight-up rocker, “Short Lip Fuser,” chanted pub-crawler waltz, “Ditch Digger,” and blues-grooved lure, “Hippy Dippy Do,” find solace amongst blistering Husker Du-like growler, “Dollar.” Sporting an apropos slick-back pompadour, Reis rendered his clamorous version of guileless pre-Beatles rock n’ roll regalia.

By compressing grittier arrangements, ‘95s ghoulishly vibrant celebration, Scream, Dracula, Scream!, raged forth with Apollo 9’s blaring sax protruding against assertively trad-minded guitarists Reis and Andy Stamets, bombastic bassist Pete Reichert, and kit batterer, Atom Willard. Panicked rampage, “On A Rope,” uncannily electrified the responsive second stanza of Al Hirt’s titillating instrumental “Java.” A harbinger for future Crypt kicking endeavors, infectious jubilee, “Used,” discharged swashbuckling carnivalesque froth redolent of Springsteen’s E Street Band.

“Scream has a loose vibe – prominent horns,” Reis recalls. “Our debut’s first batch of songs were written, recorded in a few days. That was cool fun. For the second, there was a time gap. We’d evolved threefold, toured a lot, and adapted our sound. We found new ways to express ourselves sonically. By Scream, we’d digested, regurgitated, and incorporated many things deemed cool. Ultimately, you wanna make people feel the way you feel creating music you like.”

‘98s snazzy RFTC unveiled a vintage stripped-down dancehall assault, retaining an archetypal Fleshtones garage-soul exuberance highlighting snappy opener, “Eye On You,” raunchy horn-fueled R & B flank, “Break It Up” (where Reis’ garbled hurl is a dead ringer for Heat Treatment-era Graham Parker), and brassy makeup-applied sing-along, “Lipstick.” Trumpeter JC2000 makes his presence felt.

Assigned to bustling indie, Vagrant Records, ‘01s Group Sounds displayed Reis’ strongest lung bursting shouts and brought aboard drummer Ruby Mars. “Straight American Slave” charges out of the gate like a cyclone, setting the pace for the remainder and taking an unexpected sociopolitical stance.

“It’s a look at America’s mainstream acceptance of homosexuals being on television and seen as jesters – good to laugh at and entertaining to watch – but there’s still a contradictory homophobia,” Reis submits.

‘02s flashy departure, Live From Camp X-Ray, dispenses sarcastic deviancy, garnering tremendous high-energy neo-psych sendoff, “Too Many Balls,” and razor sharp frenzy, “Outsider,” a snarled fuckoff to trendy fiends.

Reis claims, “As a whole, we felt happy with what we did. X-Ray had a real dry ‘70s punk production – no frills, dead sounding. We weren’t flavor of the month, but wanted acceptance. We had to be who we were. Lyrically, we tried to stylize and mold ourselves to the Saints and Boys.”

Which brings us to R.I.P., an uplifting farewell capturing a great American band in their element at Westin Hotel Ballroom, Halloween ’05. Reis enters the stage in a coffin donning a blood-stained shirt as horns pipe out initiating licks to Screamin’ Jay Hawkins voodoo brood, “I Put A Spell On You.” The crazed “Get Down,” in particular, anxiously explodes full-throttle. Terse rockabilly boogies, camouflaged in studio interpretations, copiously benefit in this sweaty environment.

“I still get big incentive from (satirical Chicano Elvis impersonator) El Vez,” Reis avows. “The way he performs, his resourcefulness, and how he makes a shoestring budget look like a million bucks. He mixes fun with social relevance and is fulfilling on many levels – a super-cool guide dedicated to the art of putting on a show. When punk started, it was the reactionary antithesis to arena rock bullshit – the popes of rock people prayed to and bowed to with lighters raised and girls flashing tits. Punk was about everyone being part of the show on an approachable grassroots level. To have El Vez find medium-ground, elevate it, and not lose sincerity is awesome.”

Hot Snakes reunites Reis with Pitchfork/ Drive Like Jehu guitarist Rick Froberg, introducing thunderous drummer Jason Kourkounis (Delta 72/ Burning Brides) and adept bassist Gar Wood. DC hardcore bastions tenaciously inform ‘00s primal Automatic Midnight more so than ‘02s fiery follow-up Suicide Invoice, but both totally shred, evidenced by soaring whirligig “My Story Boy,” untamed yammering grumble “No Hands” and the latter’s jacked-up Wipers-ripped entirety.

“I do ape the down-stroke, cleaner textures, and a certain velocity from the Wipers,” Reis says of guru Greg Sage’s cult crew.

Meanwhile, super side project, the Sultans (with drummer Tony Di Prima and Reis’ younger brother, Dean, on bass), dropped overlooked relentless barrage, Shipwrecked, in ’04.

But Reis’ meritorious story doesn’t end there. Re-gathering Kourkounis and Wood while saddling ripened bassist Thomas Kitsos, he inaugurated the Night Marchers in 2007. Boasting well-rounded hard rock vehemence ascertained from Hot Snakes, See You In Magic (enkindling the Hawaiian phenomenon of ancient warriors reappearing as sacred spirits) unleashes scrappy blues scrums, recombinant psychobilly, and irascible cow-punk scamper, “Branded.” Steely-eyed sneer, “You’ve Got Nerve,” sung in a throaty whiskey-stained baritone, mannerly debunks a jilting ex.

“It’s a new band, new outlook, new things going on, but same guitar sound, fingers, vocal chords. Some things you can’t escape,” Reis smirks. “It sounds like all my bands rolled into one. In the past, they were compartmentalized with different casts who’d take songs and put trademark sounds together. Obviously, I’m only in one band now. We’re tackling material, realizing what can be done.”

At times, See You In Magic seems nostalgic. Scrabbled basher “In Dead Sleep” and rabid devotional pledge “I Wanna Deadbeat You” snatch syncopated riffs from Chuck Berry. Rousing prelude, “Closed For Inventory,” assuredly loots Dez Cadena’s hoarse Black Flag howl.

“Black Flag’s Damaged made a profound impact – half-joke, half-terrifying – made by criminally insane creeps. They were like a favorite horror movie,” he says.

Besides running Swami Records in spare time, Reis is fulltime part owner of San Diego joint, Baby Pink Elephant.

“It’s a classic dark lounge with strong cheap drinks served by capable bartenders. Get lubricated and lost in the dusky velvet booth,” remarks Reis.

So life goes on for the cocksure bard. “World domination is eminent. I’ll ride that to the bank. Night Marchers are decapitating people with fresh sounds.”