MOONEY SUZUKI TEAR IT UP ON ‘ELECTRIC SWEAT’

Interviews

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FOREWORD: Mooney Suzuki really kick ass live. I mean, seriously. I’ve seen ‘em three times and each time they did different astounding routines – like singer Sammy getting carried around by his guitarist while still yelping into a mike. But of course it’s the loud garage rockin’ hell raising that carries ‘em forward. The following piece promoted Electric Sweat, arguably their finest half-hour. ‘04s Alive & Amplified was cool, too. I’ve also included my High Times record review for ‘07s Have Mercy.

Absolutely nothing beats the frenzied primal fury New York City’s Mooney Suzuki unleash live. Drawing inspiration from the Japanese cartoon heroes in Voltron, the Jersey-born frontline of Tenafly-bred Sammy James, Jr. (lead vocals-rhythm guitar) and flashy Livingston sidekick, Graham Tyler (lead guitar), create a giant, unstoppable, indomitable force united as one to conquer all. They destroy people’s notion of what rock and roll bands should be by combining the Motor City Madness of ‘60s hard rock pioneers the MC5 and the Stooges with the retro-rock post-punk of ‘80s underground denizens the Lyres and the Fleshtones.

Clad in black wraparound shades, black matching suits, and black pointy shoes, these sharp dressed men invaded America with ‘00s muscular People Get Ready and a string of enthusiastic Cavestomp! shows opening for reunited legendary ‘60s combos the Zombies, Pretty Things, the Standells, and the Monks. The highly charged anthemic chant-along “Yeah You Can” and the exhilarating, harmonica-driven “Make My Way” immediately became action-packed fuzz-toned garage rock staples.

Sustaining the spontaneous intensity while taking a few more chances, the scrappy Electric Sweat increases Mooney Suzuki’s amplitude, wattage, and range. Blazing originals like the youth-induced “In A Young Man’s Mind” and the pithy “It’s Not Easy” re-invigorate vintage Pete Townshend axe wielding and Who-like attitude while “A Little Bit Of Love” hedges closer to the neo-psychedelic bubblegum of the Music Machine.

Finishing up another string of U.S. tour dates at Tribeca’s Knitting Factory in early April, these bratty, beat-driven dynamos energized a sweat-drenched audience with unbridled recklessness and tenacious resilience. Tyler grinds out rugged riffs with a pelvic thrust, sometimes grinding his head into the stage floor upside down as James, Jr. soaks the mike with hurled screams and R & B-influenced testifying. Drummer Jody Stone and bassist Mike Michaels kick out a spiffy, ruffed-up rhythmic pulse that’s always dead-on and startlingly cataclysmic.

Throughout the one-hour set, Tyler throttles his six-string inches away from Asbury cutie-pie on-line fanzine entrepreneur, Rachel, and jumps into the crowd to kick out more jams. The highlight comes when James, Jr. gives Tyler a piggyback ride across the clubs’ perimeter while they continue to ferociously strangle their dangling guitars in an awesome display of dazzling acrobatics.

I spoke to James, Jr. and Tyler via the phone a week after the Knitting Factory spectacle.

Besides Detroit City Rock, what early influences informed your musical upbringings?

GRAHAM: I’ve always been into James Brown and Sly & the Family Stone. The reason we both picked up the guitar was we had the same Who Fakebook. It’s their greatest hits condensed into four easy chords.

SAMMY: For people with learning disabilities.

GRAHAM: We were able to play “I’m Free” over and over.

SAMMY: When I was a child, I liked Van Halen. Then, after a year trying to be Pete Townshend, that shifted to being obsessed with Jimmy Page in the Yardbirds and Zeppelin. Once, I had those four chords down, it was time to learn the Blues scale.

GRAHAM: We developed the chops to play some of the Page and Hendrix stuff, but I never progressed past The Who’s easy chord book. I wanted to play Hendrix and more intricate stuff with the group at school, but I was so frustrated. I threw the guitar down in disgust. When I heard the Detroit stuff by the MC5 and the Stooges, it was so basic and stupid on guitar it was inspiring to see you could still convey the same emotion, immediacy, and energy of The Who without being a technical wizard.

I never realized how fast-fingered you were on guitar until I saw you play at the Knitting Factory show.

GRAHAM: I wish our drummer could be hearing this. His whole thing is speed equals success. He’d be proud to hear I’m one of the fastest guitarists on the scene. It sounds cheesy, but it’s not what you play, it’s how you play. Miles Davis could play three notes that’ll make you shit your pants while Yngwie Malmsteen could play a thousand and you wouldn’t take a second notice.

On Electric Sweat, Mooney Suzuki manage to maintain the spontaneity of the debut, People Get Ready, but there are some cool changes of pace. The banjo-like acoustics, “Psycho Killer” groove, and “Roll Over Beethoven” bridge of the less manic “Oh Sweet Susanna” brings to mind honky tonk music.

SAMMY: We were disappointed we forgot to bring quality acoustic guitars to the session. (Producer) Jim Diamond had some piece of shit acoustic toy guitars lying around the studio. I liked the banjo tone when we were recording it.

What are some of the differences between indie rock guru Tim Kerr’s production for the debut and Jim Diamond’s (White Stripes/ Detroit Cobras/ The Go) on Electric Sweat?

SAMMY: The sweeping difference was Tim is very hands-on with the material, suggesting arrangements and vocal parts. He’s spiritual and motivational. There’s no stopping Tim. He’s gonna tell you what he thinks whether you want to hear it or not and will kick your ass. Jim was very hands-off. At first, we thought he didn’t like us. But it’s his style. I loved working with both.

GRAHAM: We learned from Tim to document a good time, which is what a lot of great records do – not taking it too serious.

On “It’s Showtime Part II,” Sammy’s organ groove adds a Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels groove.

SAMMY: Everyone mentions the Detroit sound, but forget about Mitch Ryder. But again, the same way we try to sound like the MC5 less than we try to sound like James Brown, we sound similar because the MC5 was also trying to sound like James Brown. We don’t sit down and try to sound like Mitch Ryder, but like Mitch, we try to sound like Booker T. & the MG’s, Ike & Tina Turner, and older R & B. That track was our Stax fantasy. It was just a joke. We were in tears thinking how ridiculous we could make it. The organ sound I get for that song is my favorite sound on any Mooney Suzuki record.

Staying with the Detroit theme, “Natural Fact” has a fuzz-toned Amboy Dukes assertion. Are you a fan of the Nuge?

SAMMY: We used to play “Baby Please Don’t Go” and get Amboy Duke and Ten Years After references. I’m not a fan of Ted Nugent, but “Natural Fact” is more Arthur Lee (of Love fame) inspired.

I take it you think rock and roll is less revolutionary, in the sense of visiting new, uncharted, avant-garde territory, than evolutionary, building upon the blueprint that already exists.

SAMMY: Hendrix is mentioned as revolutionary, but I see him as an example of why the idea of revolutionary music is ridiculous because something completely avant-garde as criteria is empty at the end. Hendrix created things we’d never heard before. Yet in his mind, he was a Blues traditionalist. He was derivative, but his personality, spirit, and distinct energy came through what he did. That’s what affects people. It’s communicative.

You’ve both been arrogant claiming Mooney Suzuki as New York’s finest live band. Is there any competition?

SAMMY: I would say no.

How about in the studio? Do the Strokes do anything for you?

SAMMY: Sure. I like their songs. People put us in the same category because we wear the same jackets and are from New York. There’s no musical similarities. It’s not invalid to group bands together based on style, but musically we don’t sound like the Cure, the Smiths, U2, or Pulp. Why would people think we sound similar to the Strokes? The distinction is the only time there’s a blue note in a Strokes song is eight bars of a guitar lead. Our music is based on the Blues. Based on that, how could there be a common thread.

GRAHAM: I wouldn’t even say in approach or attitude.

I agree. Their roots are in New York City ’79 circa Television and Richard Hell and yours are closer to Detroit ’69. I’m curious what it was like to play alongside re-grouped ’60s bands such as the Pretty Things and the Zombies.

GRAHAM: It’s surreal to play with the Zombies after you listen to their records a million times. It’s great to see bands like that come back with the sound you originally loved. It makes you happy. But there are some that should stay in retirement.

SAMMY: The Zombies aren’t one. Colin Blunstone’s voice came to life. It was unreal.

Did they have organist Rod Argent in tow?

SAMMY: Yeah.

Unreal. Did you learn anything from those legendary bands?

SAMMY: When we’re fifty and do our reunion tour, I’m not going to play a headless Steinberger or put an aqua sock on my guitar. I’m not gonna wear a doo-rag and fanny pack.

What’s an aqua sock?

SAMMY: A neo-preen wet suit custom fit for a lucite Stratocaster you don’t want to scratch.

GRAHAM: It’s like a guitar diaper.

SAMMY: A lot of these older bands come back, hire these hot session guns, and then guys show up with wireless rigs and guitar diapers and it kills the original vibe.

Graham, do you get lots of teenage girls who want to fuck your brains out when they see you gyrate and dry-hump your guitar in a sexually suggestive manner on-stage?

GRAHAM: (speechless, cracking up)

SAMMY: You bring up a good point. There are. They seem to love it.

What are your favorite New York venues?

SAMMY: The Bowery Ballroom is a great room to play and has a professional staff.

GRAHAM: Maxwells in Hoboken is my favorite place to go. I love Todd (the promoter/ booker), the sound people, the bar, and the food. I grew up going to shows there wishing I could play there. The first time Todd put out CD in the jukebox, it was a lifetime dream come true. It’s the coolest New York vicinity venue.

 -John Fortunato

MODEST MOUSE EXPOSE ‘THE MOON AND ANTARCTICA’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I found out after trying to interview Modest Mouse singer-songwriter-guitarist Isaac Brock in 2000 that he shied away from journalists’ due to a false rape charge levied against him. It wouldn’t be the first time. I know firsthand from being at a High Times front cover shot with Staind’s sensitive metal singer, Aaron Lewis, that he was upset with Rolling Stone’s similar decision to use off the record quotes about an uncle’s molestation for titillating fodder.

So I feel for Brock. Anyway, a less obtusely seafaring version of Modest Mouse went on to aboveground MTV-sponsored fame. Who would’ve thunk it at the time? While ‘04s Good News For People Who Love Bad News gained additional plaudits, it was ‘07s We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank, that broke things wide open, helped along by Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr’s strong showing. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

I admit. I was duped! Heading backstage at Bowery Ballroom to interview Modest Mouse architect Isaac Brock, I met a bearded techie pretending to be Brock. Ever the gullible one, I fell for it. The joke was on me and nearly everyone in Les Savy Fav and Califone (the opening bands) had a good laugh.

After Les Savy Fav’s snarly glam-punk captured my attention, thanks to blonde, werewolf-like Brooklyn singer Tim Harrington’s outrageous antics and mindless audience participation (he distributed silky gold fabric found in the garbage to fans more than happy to receive them), I was sidetracked by another fake Brock. After a few more Heineken’s, I really was convinced this was Brock. It wasn’t.

Califone then went on-stage and kept the increasingly growing audience grooving to their deconstructed blues. Led by former Red Red Meat leader Tim Rutili, these Chicago-based denizens kicked up some dust.

As I settled into a friendly conversation with Modest Mouse bassist Eric Judy and drummer Jeremiah Green, I figured the real Brock would never appear. But what the hell, drinks were flowing and there was something in the air. I was feelin’ good.

“How’d Modest Mouse initially hook up?,” I asked Green.

“I met Eric at a hardcore show. I think it was Undertow or some straight-edge hardcore band,” Green remembers.

“Isaac originally played bass and he talked about being in this double bass band,” Judy says.

“Like Cop Shoot Cop?” I inquire.

“We were all psyched about the music in this place, the Party Hole, that had all ages shows with straight-edge bands. I saw Neurosis in that place. It’s the size of two bedrooms,” Green counters.

Judy admits, “We were still learning to play our instruments. I’ve still got a long way to go.”

“I feel less confident about playing drums than when I was 15. We continually work on our songcraft,” claims Green.

By this time, the booze was soaking up the backstage area, where a bottle of Jack Daniels was devoured. Finally, minutes before he’s due to go on-stage, Brock appears wearing a hooded black pullover shirt.

“Holy shit! You look like the grim reaper,” I quip.

In a slow, pirate-like voice, he drawled, “I need four fingers of whiskey with coca-cola. So if you’d just… give me… four fingers of whiskey.”

After Brock shakes hands with some friends, I ask “How’d Modest Mouse gain its initial exposure?”

He shirks the issue. “You see, I was building this castle out of shit, mud, and straw. We added a whole moat. It was 12 feet high, built from fresh scorpion shit.”

“Scorpions?” I responded. “They take small shits! How could you build from that.”

“It’s rare indeed, my friend. Rare indeed,” he surmises.

A few moments later, I spoke to Brock off the record. But by that time the boozy haze was making everything seem so surreal. He did seem to accept my claim that The Moon and Antarctica may be “conceptually designed.” And I was able to relate how well I thought he was able to lyrically relate to teenage confusion and adolescent awkwardness.

In ‘96, Brock’s Issaquah, Washington, trio released the smirking This Is A Long Drive For Someone With Nothing To Think About on local indie Up Records. By ‘97, The Lonesome Crowded West found Brock refining his cracked, post-hippie naiveté and dysfunctional whiny rants, placing Modest Mouse at the top of the underground rock heap.

A rarities compilation, Build Nothing Out Of Something, preceded the thematic opus, The Moon And Antarctica. It’s a startling set that traipses down to a garden of earthly delights on childlike sleepyhead lullabies “Gravity Rides Again” and “Third Planet,” then goes to the farthest recesses of the “Dark Center Of The Universe.” Along the way, Brock provides a rainy day panorama of routine, mundane, everyday concerns.

Anyway, it was somewhat ironic Modest Mouse’s Bowery set would begin with a folkish beatnik song reminiscent of Bob Dylan (since the living legend began his meteoric career only a few blocks away in the West Village during the early ‘60s). But it’s Brock’s allegorical words and reflective delivery that make him so relevant and important to today’s collegiate computer geeks. Plus, in a live setting, it’s remarkable to witness Brock’s keen ability to coax difficult melodic riffs and affects-laden textures from his collection of acoustic and electric guitars.

A scorching “Do The Cockroach” had heads bobbing and feet stomping until Brock casually whispered afterwards, “I didn’t expect to be doing that one.” Then, he chewed on the strings of his axe for a few codas; wished an interrupting girl “happy birthday”; and kept the crowd in hysterics with loose, soft-spoken interjections.

If you believe the band, The Moon And Antarctica was inspired by the American folkloric oddities of Edgar Graham. An obsessed, neurologically deranged fan who had made numerous homemade tapes, Graham (under the pseudonym Ugly Casanova) would pretend to be Brock at various local gigs. However, since Graham wounded himself breaking a window at a Modest Mouse show at Denver’s Bluebird Theater, he somehow vanished off the face of the earth.

What we do know as fact is Brock remains a clever songwriter on an eternal quest for the promised land. He skews early Pink Floyd post-psychedelia with an innate indie rock thrust on “Alone Down There.” The obtuse abstraction, “Tiny Cities Made Of Ashes,” hearkens back to the avant-crazed San Francisco art-rockers the Residents while the berserk, grunge-fueled “What People Are Made Of” brings back the excitable punk anxiety of Crowded West’s clusterfuck “Shit Luck.”

On the ride home, I came to realize that what was “rare indeed” was not Brock’s castle built of scorpion shit, but his unquestionable talent.

SCOTT MC CAUGHEY’S MINUS 5 PLUS R.E.M. ‘IN ROCK’

Interviews, , ,

FOREWORD: More of a biography of longstanding Seattle DIY artist, Scott Mc Caughey, than anything else, the following piece goes through the busybody’s rambling career fronting indie rockers Young Fresh Fellows and Minus 5 and his stint in REM. He became the bassist in Robyn Hitchcock’s band, Venus 3, and on occasion, puts out Minus 5 albums for his cult audience.

About a decade before grunge sprouted wings in Seattle, there were two terrific bands hopping around the West Coast displaying their homebred DIY skills: the Fastbacks, led by confectionery pop genius Kurt Bloch, and the Young Fresh Fellows, fronted by frolicking marvel Scott Mc Caughey. Reliant on good time rock and roll and insouciant revelry rather than the clinically depressed lyrics and sonic noise pandemonium of serious-minded grunge pupils the Melvins, Mother Love Bone, and Nirvana, the Fastbacks and Fellows were party troopers sharing beers with migrating Tucson-bred hillbilly-bent country-rock jesters the Supersuckers.

Despite differing social outlooks and life experiences, a common regional bond and two renowned producers – Conrad Uno and Butch Vig – united these thriving disparate artists. Ironically, Scott and Kurt’s feel good bands outlasted downtrodden financially successful proteges Soundgarden, Nirvana, Alice In Chains, and Hole (though Vedder’s Pearl Jam and Buzzo’s Melvins still stand). Meanwhile, Mc Caughey’s side project with REM’s Peter Buck, the Minus 5, are making rounds with some pretty cool sounds themselves.

“Seattle has a self-deprecating beer drinking attitude,” Mc Caughey insists. “It’s not that they don’t take music seriously, but it’s not a big city. It’s a modest atmosphere. No one takes success for granted.”

Growing up a San Franciscan Beach Boys-Beatles fan and now proudly part of REM when not busy with the latest Fellows lineup and the increasingly popular Minus 5, Scott Mc Caughey began 4-tracking reel-to-reels at home by the early ‘80s.

“Back then, you’d get by if you were in a cover band playing taverns. Original bands were in the punk scene and they’d have to hand out flyers to play the Odd Fellows Hall,” Mc Caughey remembers. “You’d play for an hour, then the police would shut you down. At Roscoe Louie Art Gallery, there’d be punk shows in Pioneer Square downtown.”

Worthy early recordings such as ‘85s ludicrously amusing Topsy Turvy, ‘87s more melodically assured The Men Who Loved Music (featuring the kitschy motorific slingshot “I Got My Mojo Working”) and its collateral Refreshments EP (with the ridiculously juvenile “Beer Money” and unjust leftovers) gave Young Fresh Fellows a core audience. Mc Caughey, balking stylish image and teen idolatry, managed to survive those lean years by recording spontaneously and touring moderately.

“It was DIY by necessity then,” he explains. “People got good at making their own records. We made a record with Conrad Uno and stations played it. We rented a van, drove cross-country, and played before there was an (underground) circuit.”

‘89s fabulously nerve-wracked This One’s For the Ladies achieved an embryonic apex, gathering the horn-rasped ska rip-up “TV Dream” and a spunky cheery-eyed spoof on white gospel singer “Amy Grant.”

“This One’s For the Ladies was the first Fellows record with Kurt Bloch. We were all revitalized (after ‘88s lesser Totally Lost). We were inspired and prolific, recording 35 songs, keeping 16. Kurt’s one of my best friends, one of the best guitarists, and a great songwriter with the Fastbacks. It was great how he added three to four songs to forthcoming Fellows records for extra flavor,” Mc Caughey offers.

Following ‘91s flimsy Electric Bird Digest, the Fellows got to work on several tracks with famed Memphis-based Hi Records producer Willie Mitchell and legendary local lo-fi Sonics engineer Kearney Barton for ‘92s livelier It’s Low Beat Time.

Mc Caughey recollects, “We were really into‘60s instrumentals Willie did, like “30-60-90,” and his work with Al Green. He warned, ‘You don’t wanna do instrumentals. No one listens to them anymore.’ But once he saw we were sincere, he agreed to work with us. We told him we weren’t looking for a hit record. He thought we were nuts.”

But Barton understood the Fellows no-hit predicament and glass-ceiling dilemma first-hand. Though the Sonics had a great provincial following and now qualify as garage-rock progenitors, their notoriety grew subsequent to minor national ‘60s missives.

“We’re huge fans of Barton’s records. He operated a studio a few blocks from Conrad Uno. We recorded straight to 2-track. He mixed everything on the fly. I took Teengenerate and the Smugglers there for sessions,” Mc Caughey interjects.

Concurrently, Mc Caughey and REM’s Peter Buck assembled revolving unit Minus 5 with indie pop wunderkinds the Posies (Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow), setting the stage for an initial self-titled ’93 EP and ‘95s capricious Old Liquidator.

“Peter had just moved to Seattle and I had all these downer quiet songs that were different – forming a psychedelic folk core,” Mc Caughey recalls. “Bizarrely, a friend of mine working Hollywood Records A & R signed us for (‘97s) Lonesome Death of Buck Mc Coy. When he switched to Mammoth, he eventually brought the Fellows along. But I started working with REM and couldn’t promote the records well. Schedules conflicted, but we had modest expectations and a small budget.”

Along the way, Mc Caughey became a pivotal figure in deserving underground outfits such as singer Ernest Anyway’s loopy Squirrels and Barrett Martin’s Jazz-tweaked troupe Tuatara. During ’97, he spent one weekend hooking up with Smithereens drummer Dennis Diken for ‘99s solid solo set, My Chartreuse Opinion.

From there, ‘01s uniquely fascinating twin split discs, Let The War Against Music Begin (Minus 5 with a boatload of collaborators) sidled by Because We Hate You (Young Fresh Fellows with Presidents Of USA’s Chris Ballew in tow), reached an effective dual peak. The former favors moodier retreats such as sensitively optimistic “John Barleycorn Must Live” and karmic Beach Boys-spiked “Great News Around You.” The latter recreates exuberant ‘60s AM radio pop with spiffy Boyce-Hart remake “I Wonder What She’s Doing Tonight,” terse punk expulsion “She’s A Book,” and sly psych-garage reinvention “My Drum Set.”

“I try to have a thread running through records. Because We Hate You was gonna be a return to Men Who Loved Music with references to bands and the music scene. “The Ballad Of You & The Can’t Prevent Forest Fires” concerned a fictional ‘60s band I made a song about. “Fuselage” was about my basement studio and (the self-congratulatory Pet Sounds knockoff) “Good Time Rock And Roll” is about touring with the Presidents. “Your Truth Our Lies” we tried to make sound like early punks Sham 69,” he shares.

As for Let the War, Mc Caughey avows, “I wanted it to be pretty, poppy, and upbeat, though the lyrics are sad and horrible. I wanted that dichotomy. Originally, it was gonna be a weird downer record where things fell apart. But I saved those songs for (‘03s German mail order-only) I Don’t Know How I Am.”

Arguably Minus 5’s finest album, ‘03s illuminating Down With Wilco flips the script as a rootsy therapeutic low-key retreat. Given free reign to mold faultless acoustic adaptations, the subtly complex laid-back digressions and serendipitous neuroticism of nimble alt-country Wilco luminaries Jeff Tweedy (guitar-keys) and John Stirratt (bass) fit the extended combo’s oeuvre without alienating pop-minded supporters.

Released in limited quantity during 2000, Minus 5’s vigorous In Rock (Yep Roc) received proper distribution in ’04 (with the addition of four new tunes). Starting with the fuzz-toned neo-psych 87-second blazer, “Bambi Molester” (honoring same-named Croatian surf instrumentalists), a skewered titular horror theme ensues. There’s the grave “In A Lonely Coffin,” cynically perplexed organ-deepened “The Night Chicago Died Again,” accusatory “Lies Of The Living Dead,” and demented Doors-draped diatribe “Dr. Evil.”

For festive relief, the bouncy glam-rock ascension “Cosmic Jive” befits nouveau Seattle garage denizens Visqueen while “The Forgotten Fridays” glides through Byrdsian choral harmonies and Tommy–era Pete Townshend guitar chords before drifting into the ether.

‘60s prodding aside, Mc Caughey deduces, “It’s like the Rutles. They made fun of the Beatles but captured their early innocence. You may say “The Girl I Never Met” summons softer Beatles fare like “Norwegian Wood” or “Michele.” In Rock’s vinyl version includes “Little Black Egg” by the Nightcrawlers.”

Making cameos alongside Minus 5 mainstays Mc Caughey, Buck, and Bloch on In Rock are Death Cab For Cutie’s Ben Gibbard, singer-songwriter John Wesley Harding, and old pal Ballew. Veterans Bill Rieflin and John Ramberg furnish a sturdy rhythmic foundation.

But touring is out of the question since Mc Caughey’s recording a new REM album in the Bahamas.

“I’m proud to be part of REM,” he humbly admits. “I met Peter after he got our ’84 record (the Young Fresh Fellows developmental debut, The Fabulous Sounds of the Pacific Northwest). While in Seattle, he mentioned us in a college interview. I saw REM play, then gradually over the years I’d give him records and we’d become friends. In ’91, I stayed at his house after an Athens show. In ’92, REM did Automatic For the People in Seattle. We hung out and he moved here. So it made sense when they toured to ask me to join since we got along well.”

Though Mc Caughey’s retro-minded eclecticism and carefree bohemian idealism may preclude a distinct persona, his alert compositional skills and uncanny ability to emulate re-fried tasty riffs make him an unsung working class hero perched below today’s tacky trendsetters and tomorrow’s flossy pop pabulum. So pump up the volume, relax, and let the real Mc Caughey take you on an unending journey to some distant past existing outside yesterday’s marketing scheme.

One Sub Pop employee maintains, “You can’t heckle a band in Seattle without pissing him off.” -John Fortunato

MINDLESS SELF INDULGENCE FIND ‘FRANKENSTEIN GIRLS SEXY’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Elektra Records saw them coming, but didn’t know what to do with ‘em. Promulgating euphoric intrigue through crazily carefree commotion, shameless shock rockers Mindless Self Indulgence played cardboard and plastic instruments when I saw ‘em at church-like Manhattan venue, Lust, in the spring of 2000. And when I went to interview them post-show backstage, my tape recorder wouldn’t work ‘til I slammed it onto the floor. Oh, and some chicks in fishnet skirts with silver dollar size nips and some guy with a snake-like two-foot dick were hanging out near me upstairs. Such is the life of a busy music scribe. ’05s You’ll Rebel To Anything and ’08′s  followed suit for MSI. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Taking the low road to the anti-revolution, outta control Jeckyl & Hyde phantoms, Mindless Self Indulgence, pulverize hard rock candy and hyper Industrial techno like demented speed freaks. Following the self-released, Atari-crazed arcadia, Tight, this quirky New York quartet signed to Elektra, recorded the explosively whack mindfuck Frankenstein Girls Will Seem Strangely Sexy, and received the opening slot on Korn’s current tour.

On-stage at gothic Chelsea club Lust, Little Jimmy Urine parades around in a USC band suit holding a baton before changing into a maid outfit with featherduster. He does jumping jacks, leapfrogs, and stage dives, sparking the unplugged bands’ theatrical shoegazer karaoke. Green antenna-haired guitarist Steve, Righ? prances around like a menacing, traumatized nerd. Radiant bassist Vanessa Y.T., a robotic blonde wind-up doll in silver hot pants and ripped net stockings, spews water at the sold-out crowd while drummer Kitty assaults her kit like a manic Sheila E. Rumor has it Urine once drank his own piss before passing it around to excited CBGB fans.

As head nutcase, the animated Urine burps “I been denied all the best ultrasex” in a slivery Adam Ant-like rant corrupted by Righ?’s Killing Joke-gone-berserk axe fury on the schizoid “Faggot.” The insanely ludicrous suicidal tendency, “Backmask,” bends Frankie Goes To Hollywood Euro-disco into scurvy Six Finger Satellite rancor while the Beastie Boys-ish “Bitches” whips nu-metal with a wicked hip-hop frenzy only German poli-sci visionaries Atari Teenage Riot would dare attempt.

In the audience at Lust were several mega-pierced, tattoo-flaunting punks, a few spike-haired weirdoes, and the stunning cunt standing next to me wearing only a net to show off her protruding, erect, pink nipples (yummy!).

Fun loving, sarcastic bastards with cracked retro-futuristic Devo-esque pizzazz and humorous, unsophisticated, Sparks-like inertia, this fearless foursome offered me snippy, trite remarks not unlike what the early Beatles gave dipshit conservative press darlings in ‘64.

How’d you guys meet?

STEVE: I met Jimmy at a batting cage. He was the bat.

So you’re using him.

STEVE: Yes.

Do you guys get stoned?

STEVE: No. You can. We want to be free not to.

KITTY: You could do usage of any kind. We don’t care. We encourage it. The music is so fast, the depressant’s no good. I’m all about Coca-Cola and sugar-based products. I watch a lot of t.v. It’s my drug of choice.

Do you offer any apologies for lewd behavior?

STEVE: No. It’s just a body odor thing. We gotta air it out. I got skidmarks on my tights. I just bust that out right now. We deny things and people make up shit and it sounds better anyhow.

JIMMY: Like the time I ate the walrus.

STEVE: I’m just doing this to get money for the liposuction, then I’m out-ee. Then I’ll do anti-fashion on MTV.

You guys are like cartoon characters.

JIMMY: Yeah. But it sucks because when we play outside our ink runs.

How do your song arrangements come about?

JIMMY: We jam for four hours and cut it down to a minute and a half of our best shit. And the album is one long boring… (at this point, Jimmy leaves the room as a fan claims his girlfriend will go down on him)

KITTY: He don’t care if she’ll go down on him. Will she wash his clothes and do his laundry?

STEVE: Ever smell my feet. (he offers a disgusting whiff) That’s how we stay so fucked up. Forget about rolling that doobie.

Do you get nervous before performing such wicked sets?

STEVE: We’re too dumb to be scared.

KITTY: We don’t know any better. (Jimmy leans his head in the door)

MERCURY REV @ BOWERY BALLROOM

Live Reviews

Mercury Rev/ Bowery Ballroom/ April 19, 1998

Sometimes a live show is so compelling, enlightening, and transcending the entire experience just becomes surreal. Playing a sold out Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Rev achieved such grandiose heights with their really massive, sonically swirling art-affected rock. Under impressionistic opaque yellow and orange stage lights, the spirited combo began their tidy set with the splendid “Funny Bird” and followed it up with nearly every song from the highly acclaimed Deserter’s Songs. Instead of merely applying moody instrumental textures for recreational backdrop, Mercury Rev composes imagery-laden, fully formed songs from sweet, lingering guitar abstractions and lush keyboard melodies. If, say, the Moody Blues lush dreamscapes had retained a subtler warmth and were more reflective and thoughtful, they’d be natural precursors.

Vocalist/ guitarist Jonathan Donahue effortlessly constructed beautifully resilient orchestral maneuvers. His fragile, mournful tenor and cracked emotional sentiments were gorgeously shaded by Grasshopper’s six-string pleasantries and Justin Russo’s marvelous keyboard flourishes. A mesmerizing peak came during the billowy ballad “Endlessly,” which glided ever so gently into a fluttering synth riff snuffed from “Holy Night.” Perhaps only Spiritualized comes off so marvelously mellifluous in concert. Everyone I casually mingled with at Bowery’s balcony level felt the same way I did. This was truly a Monday night to remember.

ATHENS’ GLANDS SWEATING FOR ATTENTION

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I have no clue what happened to the Glands, whose self-titled ’01 album proved to be scruffily charming in a non-threatening honky tonk sorta way. Capricorn Records (home of the Allman Brothers catalogue) must’ve thought the Glands had a decent chance at AOR radio. I enjoyed the hell out of their 50-minute live set on an early Satuday evening at a discreet lower Manhattan club (prior to going to Katz’s deli and chowing down a fatty pastrami on rye with long-time pal, Al Gutierrez). I also caught them at Knitting Factory weeks before (as described below). But alas, I’ve spent fifteen minutes internet surfing and I can’t find a damn thing about this bands’  whereabouts nowadays.

Athens, Georgia continues to churn out exciting new musical talent twenty years after REM and the B-52’s put the kindred-spirited college town on the map. There’s retro-country rednecks Drive-By Truckers and Red River Dave, plus multi-culti experimentalists Macha and drone pop improvisers Japancakes. And on their self-titled Capricorn Records release, The Glands provide that expansive University of Georgia scene with a topnotch pop-rooted combo.

“Bar None released our debut, Double Thriller. That one came off lo-fi, but was actually recorded hi-fi,” good humored, self-deprecating lead singer/ guitarist Ross Shapiro claims as we plow a few brews backstage at Knitting Factory prior to The Glands well received 45 minute set. “It came out sounding weaker, but this album is a bit more polished. There was a little more thought involved. Some of it was recorded live in the studio as a five piece. We attempted things on the first album that didn’t work.”

Meshing retro-rock mannerisms with thrice-removed blues and a smidgen of moody rural escapism, The Glands’ crooked, unkempt swagger seems to emulate from some long lost post-Beatles stoner daze. Yet some subtle modern gestures creep into the mix.

For openers, “Livin’ Was Easy” finds Shapiro drawling and whining like Pavement’s Steve Malkmus over a purposely warped slide guitar arrangement that begs comparisons to Beck’s bluesier, less popular stuff. Next, “When I Laugh” slips into hazy, non-specific folk-blues much the same way England’s Gomez does. While it could be argued that “Swim” recalls early ‘70s one-shot Thunderclap Newman, a better guess would suggest it’s closer in ‘feel’ to fellow tour mates Elf Power.

In fact, they bring it all back home on the go-for-broke “Work It Out,” reclaiming some of the amateurish spirit and unfinished backwoods rawk of vintage REM.

Though each song flows perfectly into the next, track placement is apparently a point of contention amongst band members.

“It’s always a battle between us. They always say put the best three songs first, but on the debut, we wanted to start with an instrumental and Bar None made us use “Two Dollar Wine.” They thought it sounded like a hit. It’s got wah-wah guitar and keyboard and a hacked-up, busy bassline,” Shapiro inquires.

Indeed, the corrosive “Two Dollar Wine” proves to be a crowd fave half an hour later when they entertain a sold out crowd opening for dynamic Elephant 6 collective, Elf Power. Both bands share an affinity for ‘60s rock and popular music in general.

“We just listened to the Byrds’ Untitled record in our van today. Three-fourths of it is live,” Shapiro maintains. “I probably listen to the same things any kid my age did while growing up. First, AM radio before I had a stereo. Then, when you’re seventeen, you just emulate The Clash. But by the time we started recording, I was a bit older. I’m a late bloomer. I only started writing songs about five years ago.”

It seems as if multi-faceted engineer/ musician Andy Baker has now become an integral part of The Glands lineup. On this tour, he’s playing bass (taking the place of Craig Mc Quiston) alongside guitarist Doug Stanley, keyboardist Neil Golden, and drummer Joe Rowe.

Known throughout Athens as owner of the premier local studio, Baker learned to play guitar before heading to high school. “Then, I found out I wanted to do recording. I started doing live sound in my hometown, When a friend of mine moved to Athens to do music, I got a four-track. There’s so many bands in Athens that I learned to use it as I went along.”

Shapiro adds, “It’s such a closely knit community which supports its bands. There are no critics around Athens, so people come in from Alabama and some small podunk towns.”

When asked about production influences, Baker offers, “I actually like Steve Albini’s recordings a lot. I like a roomy sound instead of an ‘80s production where it’s really dry with fake reverb. I like a natural drum sound.”

Baker joined The Glands permanently when Mc Quiston was leaving. But it’s also worth noting that he currently resides with Shapiro.

Through a smirky smile, the otherwise reserved Baker quips, “Out of all the bands I record, I like The Glands best. That’s why I joined them.”

MELVINS’ KING BUZZO RULES AFTER ‘HOSTILE AMBIENT TAKEOVER’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: The Melvins prefigured grunge and have outlasted every Seattle band they inspired (except Mudhoney and Pearl Jam). Led by freaky afro-laden Black Flag fan, Buzz Osborne (a.ka. King Buzzo), this batty combo piles on the radical noise.

After this ’02 phone interview, I caught up with the Melvins at Bowery Ballroom, where they slashed and burned through a loudly turbulent set. Originally intended for High Times, this piece ended up online at a friends’ cool site, Kittymagic, instead. It turned out Buzzo was fiercely against using narcotics despite his own peer’s reckless dope-fueled behavior. ‘06s (A) Senile Animal was a terrific onslaught, though less worthy ’08 follow-up, Nude With Boots, ain’t bad.

SIDEBAR: I saw the Afro-kinked King Buzzo at San Francisco Giants World Series game. His hair stuck out like nobody else’s.

Inspiring Nirvana as well as the entire early ‘90s Seattle grunge scene, the legendary Melvins came out of Aberdeen, Washington, with a radically abstract and uncompromisingly intimidating metal-sludged attack way beyond their less sophisticated peers. Beginning with ‘87s Gluey Porch Treatment, guitarist-vocalist King Buzzo and lifelong pal, percussionist Dale Crover, have had a major impact on the revitalized independent spirit and non-conformist attitude sweeping modern rock culture. Though Buzzo (born Roger Osborne; nicknamed Buzz by his parents) has remained straightedge since the Melvins took off, his profound influence could be heard on Queens Of The New Age and their ‘stoner rock’ ilk.

“Don’t blame stoner rock on us,” the slightly dismayed Buzzo offers. “Those ideas were interesting 30 years ago. They’re not injecting new ideas to the old formula.”

Growing up, Buzzo enjoyed Black Sabbath, Queen, and ZZ Top, calling them “great musicians and songwriters,” but it was hardcore bohemians such as Black Flag, the Butthole Surfers, and Venom that struck a nerve when he hit his rebellious teens. An avid experimentalist with eighteen full-length albums under his belt as leader of the Melvins, the respected icon admits to enjoying prog-rock visionaries King Crimson as well as avant-garde musicians Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart.

When grunge exploded internationally, the Melvins were signed by Atlantic Records and released ‘93s mind-boggling Houdini (co-produced by Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain) and the monumental follow-up Stoner Witch (its title a derogatory term for hippie-ish drugged out girls). Though Cobain was stoked to help out his favorite band, he eventually succumbed to heroin and a shotgun. But Buzzo believes Cobain’s serious drug addiction could not have been curbed by intervention.

“He wasn’t exactly hiding it. If people are gonna get fucked up, they’re responsible for themselves. You can’t get people to quit. I don’t think you can or should,” Buzzo explains.

A former pothead who ran wild and performed his share of unspecified unlawful activities as a teen (half-kiddingly smirking, “if a kid isn’t a criminal and breaking laws, there’s something wrong”), Buzzo remains tolerant of marijuana users, but derides alcohol and hard drug use. Though he believes the green-leafed herb could be a gateway drug, he doesn’t denigrate Melvins fans prescribing to that lifestyle.

“I guess I dabbled in recreational drug use like most kids. As a kid, it makes more sense and you go crazy. Later, it’s a burden interfering with getting things done. People would be surprised the Melvins are more conservative than they think,” the graying Afro-maned North Hollywood resident insists. “Alcohol use is worse than drug use. It’s more prevalent and accepted. More shit passes through the liver. Emergency room statistics prove OD deaths are disproportionately more alcohol-related than cocaine or heroin. I’ve never heard of pot-related heart attacks, but I know people who are hard to deal with when they don’t have marijuana.”

On ‘00s The Crybaby, Buzzo controversially hooked up Leif Garrett to sing a rousing version of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” but soon realized the former teen idol was still haunted by his drug-addled past. Buzzo insists “Leif’s a charming, smart, interesting guy who’s still got demons holding him back.”

Recently, Buzzo teamed up with non-straightedge death metal masters Fantamos, consisting of Mike Patton (ex-Faith No More), Dave Lombardo (former Slayer drummer), and Trevor Dunn (Mr. Bungle bassist) for the Fantomas Melvins Big Band’s veritable smorgasbord, Millennium Monsterwork.

Concurrently, the Melvins released probably their most accessible work on Patton’s Ipecac Records, Hostile Ambient Takeover. From the manic Metallica-hardened lunacy of “Black Stooges” to the spasmodic Beefheartian wackiness of “Dr. Geek” to the Twilight Zone imagery of “The Brain Center At Whipples,” Buzzo maintains the virility and spontaneity of his edgy punk-rooted past.

However, he concedes, “I resent the elitist punk crowd that dislikes metal. People have a condescending attitude about that music because of the terrible nu-metal shit.”

Never afraid to get sociopolitical, the caustic Buzzo offered thoughts on several hot topics. He insists there’s a blurry line separating whether drug testing for jobs is an invasion of privacy. “It depends on the job. It’s the employers prerogative.”

As for military drug use, he blames some of it on Nazi Germany. “Hitler invented methadone as mighty fine military-designed speed for himself and troops. I’m sure our military use drugs.”

A true blue American, Buzzo thinks America “is still the best country,” adding “the damage caused by 9-11 was less than what people think. It was a lucky shot that didn’t accomplish much. We’ll just build more. Only 5% of the people at World Trade Center at its peak died. Most got out fine. It was a tragedy, but not on a grand scale. We’re bigger and tougher. People get emotional, but the terrorists weren’t successful.”

MEKONS TAKE ETERNAL ‘JOURNEY TO THE END OF THE NIGHT’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: The Mekons have been around forever, it seems. And they continue to release albums and work with many respected underground artists. Led by mainstays Jon Langford and Tom Greenhalge, the Mekons intuitively incorporate folk and country into righteous political punk. I’ve watched them perform at CBGB, Bowery Ballroom, and Mercury Lounge over the years. And they’ve always hit the spot.

Remarkably, Langford’s found time to be involved in ‘90s-initiated bands, the Waco Brothers and Pine Valley Cosmonauts, as well as sassy ‘80s crew, the Three Johns. Living in Chicago for a long spell, British-born Langford’s paintings have been displayed at Maxwells in Hoboken and been used as artwork for seminal Delaware microbrewery, Dogfish Head. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

The term ‘underground rock’ might as well have been coined specifically to describe legendary underrated band the Mekons. Relying more on rootsy folk and rural country than just amateur ambition and flailing guitars, this Leeds combo bridged the gap separating British pub rockers Brinsley Schwarz, Love Sculpture, and Ducks Deluxe from late ‘70s punk nihilists the Sex Pistols and the Clash.

Founders Jon Langford (vocals/ guitar/ melodica) and Tom Greenhalgh (guitar/ piano/ autoharp), plus charter members Sally Timms (vocals), Susie Honeyman (fiddle), Rico Bell (accordion), Sarah Corina (bass) and Steve Goulding (drums), have maintained a respectable cult following by making consistently compelling albums while continually riling against new age rhetoric.

From its mellow, Old World fiddle ballad, “Myth,” to its chanted closer, “Last Night On Earth,” the understated 12-song Journey To The End Of The Night (Quarterstick) further refines the Mekons ambitious sound. Timms’ quivering voice counters Langford’s cigarette-stained baritone on both the pristine orchestration “Last Weeks Of The War” and the anthemic “Cast No Shadow.” She soars majestically on the ominous lament “City Of London,” then solemnly purrs through the cinematic trip-hop noir of “The Flood.” The accordion-laced “Neglect” comes closest to capturing the sinister folkloric revelations of their early Sin recordings while the atonal autoharp confessional “Out In The Dark” (featuring Langford’s gravelly, laryngitis-affected growl) appears in its raw demo form.

The Mekons astonishing canon includes ‘85s Fear & Whiskey, ‘86s The Edge of the World, ‘88s So Good It Hurts, and ‘93s I Love Mekons, to name a few faves. A short stint with major label A & M resulted in the staggering Mekons Rock ’n’ Roll and the quirky “F.U.N.” EP, but never afforded the combo the mass exposure they so rightly deserved. Timms has recorded a few swell country-imbibed discs in her spare time while Langford moonlights in the Pine Valley Cosmonauts and the Waco Brothers (and spent time during the ‘80s in the fabulous Three Johns). For a neat compilation of demos, remixes, and lost tracks, try the recently issued two volume Hen’s Teeth.

How’d you become interested in pursuing music full time?

TOM GREENHALGH: Before punk happened, I never really thought it was possible to be in a band. But when we heard punk, we thought some of us could do that.

JON LANGFORD: I was playing in bands since I was 15 because when you’re playing football, it’s all guys. We’d do cover versions of Black Sabbath and Hawkwind. In ‘77, with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and the Damned, possibilities seemed unlimited. The shockwave was so great because everyone was affected by it. It’s so different now. Things happen now and nobody ever knows. Everyone’s looking in different directions. The major labels suck so bad.

The latest album benefits from a certain restraint.

JON: We restrained ourselves from recording it too fast and putting stuff on we wouldn’t be happy with – which we do sometimes when we run out of money. We thought about it a little more. The album hangs together tight. Different styles filter through the band, but the tone of the album may be stylistically different from song to song. There’s a pitch to it that’s pretty level. But we never made up our minds and said ‘this one is going to be a reggae (number).’ We never really jam.

How do the Mekons latest songs generally come about?

JON: This album has some simple melodic ideas that were pretty specific. We got Kelly Hogan, Neko Case, and Edith Frost in to record for only one evening. But that set off the album quite nicely because we were concentrating a lot more on vocals. There was a specific movement with this record to write songs that were more personal, confessional, and immediately engaging. I like songs I can sit and play on acoustic guitar. But that bloke from Wire, Bruce Gilbert, said ‘I can’t understand why you have a need for songs anymore.’ He thinks it’s year zero and with techno it’s obsolete to carry a guitar. I don’t like the idea of people thinking we’re too old to rock. That’s why people get into the folk thing. You could do that until you’re very old. It’s a career move. We’re all gonna peak when we’re 65.

Is it more comforting being on a respectable indie label rather than a corporate major?

JON: We’re finally turning the corner and making money. The majors are really unpleasant. You get a lot of people poking around in your life. It’s much easier now. There’s absolutely no pressure on us. I hope the majors go out of business. Internet access is fine but I worry about its faddishness. I think it will wither and drop off. I’m worried about corporations hiring all these drones to extract money from internet technology. We don’t see a need to go to a studio to record our next album when we can record at home now.

How’d you become interested in pursuing music full time?

TOM GREENHALGH: Before punk happened, I never really thought it was possible to be in a band. But when we heard punk, we thought some of us could do that.

JON: I was playing in bands since I was 15 because when you’re playing football, it’s all guys. We’d do cover versions of Black Sabbath and Hawkwind. In ‘77, with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and the Damned, possibilities seemed unlimited. The shockwave was so great because everyone was affected by it. It’s so different now. Things happen now and nobody ever knows. Everyone’s looking in different directions. The major labels suck so bad.

Tell me about the reggae-splashed “Tina,” which seems to be a politically motivated song?

JON: It was just some bits of words that got pushed around and re-arranged well. Tina means There Is No Alternative. That’s the Margaret Thatcher/ Tony Blair slogan. It’s like nothing else will work so this is the way to do things. It’s very anti-democratic. You do think the world will get better, but through socialism eventually. But the corporate people are changing quicker than the people on the left. They’ve moved the goal posts so far. We don’t need chest beating right wingers going on about immigration. They’re an anachronism. You don’t have to say you hate immigrants, you just fuck them over. The right clings to the idea that it’s about the nation’s state when it’s really about corporations. It was amazing when the apartheid struggle ended in South Africa and Nelson Mandela was freed. But it was a battle that had already been fought.

Would you consider yourselves anarchists or existentialists?

JON: I’m definitely a socialist in a broad sense in believing society should take responsibility. In America, the baby boomers were afraid they’d get drafted for Viet Nam, so rich kids protested. When the war was over, they weren’t radicals.

TOM: We have a suspicion against subscribing to one notion of democracy. There’s no need for people to die of poverty. People take for granted that society has to rely on Thatcherism.

-John Fortunato

MARAH / DAMNWELLS / BILL MC GARVEY @ MAXWELLS

Live Reviews

Marah / Damnwells / Bill Mc Garvey @ Maxwells / June 3, 2004

Three durable combos representing nearby locales Philadelphia, New York City, and Jersey merged for one solid show at Maxwells in Hoboken this Thursday evening. ‘Singing drummer’ Bill Mc Garvey (formerly of underrated indie pop band, Valentine Smith) led his Good Thieves through a diligent hometown set. Supporting recently released gem, Tell Your Mother, Mc Garvey’s troupe relied on honeyed melodic conviction, meaningful heartfelt lyrics, and gauzy textures. He wove tenderly engaging baritone inflections across salient guitar-bass-violin-flute arrangements with relative ease.

Next, Brooklyn-based quartet the Damnwells – now receiving exposure for ‘03s acclaimed Bastards Of The Beat from Fordham’s heritage rock station WFUV – took the stage. Sporting shaggy long-haired and wearing similar black dress jackets (‘cept the drummer), singer-guitarist Alex Dezen drew the growing assemblage in with urgent flinty-voiced sentiments that drifted through restrained melancholia, poignant romanticism, and reserved uplift. But the Damnwells proved just as efficient delivering loud, assertive rockers as they did remitting debonairly twanged acoustic respites.

To get started, headliners Marah communicated penetrating sensitivity without getting sappy, uncovered a few wonderful new songs from their highly anticipated 20,000 Streets Under the Sky. A South Philly quintet led by Bielanko brothers David (lead vocals-guitar) and Serge (backup vocals-guitar), Marah confirmed eternal eclecticism could secure, rather than hinder, the joyously celebratory fare they pushed forth. Redolent of Springsteen’s E Street Band when unveiling hard driving working class rock ‘n’ roll, they blazed forward with raw energy and roughed-up edginess, oft-times letting more aggressive material perilously implode. Blending raucously upbeat R & B-derived coquetry with infectious acoustical retreats, they continually got partisan heads nodding in approval. Unexpectedly, Superchunk’s Jon Wurster has taken over drum chores, providing seasoned instinctive fortitude to each number. In several spots, Serge’s steel guitar detailed rural glint.

‘Tween songs, David offered charming tidbits of wisdom, claiming ‘if your band has one baseball song, you’re cool, but if you have two, you suck’ before breaking into a spare, harmonica-filled ode to America’s pastime. He even reminded the dumbfounded audience that the first recognized ball game took place in this mile-squared town. After bringing the house down with the nifty hand-clapped helix “Soul” (from ‘02s irrepressible Float Away With The Friday Night Gods), he suggested, ‘It’s hard to figure out what’s cool anymore. That’s the story of my life.’ Taken at face value, he may be right considering Marah would’ve been hailed as ‘mainstream’ rock heroes if they’d been around in the pre-punk ‘70s. Subsequently, David broke out a banjo for a harp-doused song concerning a faraway girl.

I’m convinced Marah will be one of the most exciting bands touring this summer. Guaran-fuckin’-teed.

JESSE MALIN TEMPERS ‘THE FINE ART OF SELF-DESTRUCTION’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: New York mainstay, Jesse Malin, could talk your ear off. And that’s a good thing if you’re interviewing the ex-punk maven. After his hot local band, D Generation folded, Malin started drifting into comforting singer-songwriter fare. ‘01s The Fine Art Of Self-Destruction gained some aboveground acceptance, but ‘04s The Heat, ‘07s glam-deranged memoir, Glitter In The Gutter, and ‘08s covers LP, On Your Sleeve, never took that extra step to qualified national stardom. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Fast talking Queens native Jesse Malin knows what it feels like to have doors shut in his face, recording demos denied by sundry labels, and the best night of his life ruined. But he had the courage, patience, and perseverance to refuse quitting music until a miracle happened. It’s a mighty long road from the suicidal madness of “No Way Out” from his former band D Generation’s self-titled leathery punk debut to the urban angst of ‘96s No Lunch and the reflective retreat of their hard-to-find, third and final disc, Through The Darkness.

Writing lyrically profound songs during a slight tenure away from recording, Malin couldn’t get a break until drinking pal, well respected bard Ryan Adams, came to the rescue and offered to produce what became the stunning solo project, The Fine Art Of Self Destruction.

A toned down urgency affects sad, brooding fare such as the introspective “Queen Of The Underworld,” the sensitive acoustic ballad “Brooklyn,” and the dirgey, regretful title track. Cathedral-like piano adds resonance to Malin’s moaned discontent on the peaceful sedative, “Downliner.” But the bemused mood shifts to upbeat for the thoughtful “Almost Grown” and the beat-driven bass throbber “Wendy.” Throughout, his whined baritone goes from tearful longing to celebratory, evoking heartache and pain with the same yearning commitment given joy and redemption.

At a wintry Mercury Lounge show, Malin offered sentimental thoughts between each well-received tune. He recalled the thrill of achieving a lifelong dream opening for Kiss at Madison Square Garden being quashed by the masked marvels cruelty towards D Generation and the post-gig arrest for public alcohol consumption. He dedicated an acoustic turnabout to dead idol Joe Strummer and the as-yet-unrecorded “Arrested” to kiddie porn-charged Who legend Pete Townshend before petitioning war-bent Republicans with the timely Nick Lowe-composed Elvis Costello smash “What’s So Funny (‘Bout Peace, Love and Understanding)” for a blazing encore. Joined by veteran keyboardist Joe Mc Ginty, bassist Johnny Pisano, drummer Paul Garisto, and guitarist Johnny Rocket, Malin captivated the spirit and essence of his Adams-produced solo chestnut.

In the early ‘90s, D Generation was at the helm of the downtown St. Mark’s punk scene. I remember getting toasted with you guys at defunct club, Coney Island High.

JESSE: Scenes are great, but they only last a certain amount of time. People burn out, bands expand. You gotta get out of your little town. Every night was an unwritten party. Who knew what would happen or where we’d go. Are we gonna break these bottles and knock this bar over. It was decadent good fun. I missed the ‘70s pre-AIDS Max’s Kansas City and CBGB’s scene. D Gen wanted to relive what we missed as kids. We were exciting, scheduling drinking at bars we’d drink for free at. We got signed. Things got wacky with EMI. We went around the country, came back, there was a bidding war, and we went with Sony. It was like going to college with friends. I toured with people I grew up with and went to Europe. I knew the D Generation guys since I was 12.

But it was time to change. Musically, the last two D Generation albums had a Neil Young cover (“Don’t Be Denied”) and an acoustic song. Danny, the guitarist, and I, would sit on the bus listening to Springsteen’s Nebraska, old Elton John, Johnny Cash, Tom Waits, Pogues, and Dylan. It’s about songs. I wanted to do something besides playing faster, louder for the mosh pit. It’s more about the lyrics and music. It’s still not singer-songwriter moustache-slippers-pipe stuff. It’s still coming from a rock place. I got into roots music through the Rolling Stones, Replacements, Dylan. I don’t have a Waylon Jennings album, but I’ve always been into songs and attitude. Good rock and roll makes you wanna quit school, run down the street with friends, fall in love, break up with someone – just react. Bands like the Clash did a lot of things while keeping it real.

So I did the solo thing and made demos for friends. One was Ryan Adams, a D Generation fan I met in Raleigh, North Carolina. He decided he wanted to produce the record and I didn’t have much money. We made it in five days instead of six. Once he didn’t show up because he had too many Nyquils or milkshakes the night before. (laughter)

What did Ryan add to the sound?

He comes from the South. I’m from the urban North. We don’t sound alike. Unless you’re Jimmy Page, it’s good to have a producer. It focuses you to be objectively. I’ve worked with Tony Visconti, Rick Neilsen, and Ric Ocasek. It helps to have an editor. Ryan added to the charm. He did it fast live in one big room like a ‘50s Sun Session or Ramones record. We’d do warm-ups and he’d say, “That’s it!” I’d say, “I was just warning up.” He’d say it had so much feeling. I was pissed he was taking first takes. He’d go play pool and I’d record another track and he’d go, “What’s track 11? Fuck you!” and erase it. Later, we put it on at neighborhood bar, Manitoba’s, and I thought we’d captured a snapshot of New York. Not just the sound of winter after 9-11 but being in the city in the cold.

Did these imagery-laden reflections come together piecemeal?

Sometimes I’m drunk in midtown old-man-bars and like a wallflower I listen to people talking and scribble things on napkins, matchboxes. I listen to people talk on great films and hear a phrase, adjective, cliché. It’ll stick with me. Some fit into stories. I distance myself from being too personal or exposed. “Almost Grown” is the first half of my life almost verbatim. I stole the title from Chuck Berry.

“Almost Grown” deals with youth-oriented problems but carries an upbeat tone.

I like that duality. Sam Cooke is one of my favorite singers. He’s able to convey happiness and sadness in the same note. So there’s festive music with a sad story. When I do that song acoustic live real slow it fits what the song is about better.

“Wendy” contrasts your defeated baritone whine against fast moving bass-throbbing urgency.

It’s a road song about someone who bailed out that had good taste in music, movies, and books and took off and we have no sense why. You wonder if they lost their mind or haven’t the guts to communicate. He’s like a fugitive running away from a relationship, friends, and maybe, himself.

You and your sister struggled growing up with a single mother who died of cancer. On Self-Destruction, you mention sprinkling her ashes in the water.

I could relate to sadness, abandonment, isolation, being an outsider – things rock and roll helps medicate and save you from blowing your head off. These songs are exorcisms and a release. People say it’s dark and sad, but I see hope. There’s some light at the end of that subway tunnel. You get a community through the music scene and find ways to survive. Thank God there’s an alternative way of living. Not alternative like great bands Pavement and Primus, but in ways you don’t have to be in a typical town at college with a job or car.

MAGNETIC FIELDS @ MAXWELLS

Live Reviews

Magnetic Fields/ Maxwells/ October 22, 1999

Touring to support highly regarded three-disc monument, 69 Love Songs, the Magnetic Fields’ nearly two-hour Maxwells set proved to be a true testament to the reasons why fans are so intensely devoted in their ardor for openly gay singer-songwriter-guitarist Stephin Merritt.

Singing broken down love trinkets in a deep baritone, an unkempt, casually dressed Merritt countered the sadness of most songs with sly wit and humor. His subtle confessions, shaded by thoughts of doubt, betrayal, and defiance, communicate love-stained affairs of the heart with chilling sentiments like “all the umbrellas in London couldn’t stop the rain.”

Oft-times lyrically sarcastic, Merritt’s sedate tearjerkers and cracked romantic visages conform to formal song structure, never resorting to extended solos or careless improvisations. At his most eccentric and oblique, comparisons could be made to the subdued chamber-pop of Tindersticks. When he’s sublime, some Velvet Underground affectations seep through. At times, he unloads brittle insecurities like a reclusive offspring of Jonathan Richman.

Hovering over the mike with either a cigarette or pinot grigio in hand, Merritt played the part of a confident cocktail lounge troubadour on several soft, spare reflections. Never overly sentimental or coy, he shared honest emotions through vivid imagery and wry observations. Cellist Sam Doval, percussionist Claudia Gonson, and guitarist/ banjoist/ mandolinist John Woo provided seemingly effortless support throughout.

Halfway through the set, the resilient quartet offered two British Isle-styled folk tunes: a hilarious, mandolin-accompanied beer drinking ditty sung ever so sweetly by Gonson, and a longing acoustic ballad. Sinewy bass resonated through the uplifting “L’ Amour,” which fully illuminated Merritt’s ability to see the sunny skies beyond the regret and desperation he so often evokes.

An enormous underground fan base has given the Magnetic Fields plenty of support. This night was no different. Many in the sold out crowd sang along softly, as they swayed slowly to the music in this smoke-filled back room club.

LUNA PERMEATES ‘THE DAYS OF OUR NIGHTS’

Interviews, ,

Image result for dean wareham

FOREWORD: I became friendly with Luna head, Dean Wareham, in ’99, interviewing him backstage at Irving Plaza prior to a persuasive set. I had spoken to the New York City transplant informally a few times in the past and gotten a few quotes from him for a Cover Magazine piece supporting ‘95s remarkable Penthouse.

Though 99s The Days Of Our Nights didn’t top Penthouse, its delicate slow-core features inspired ‘02s fine Romantica and ‘04s less worthy Rendezvous. In ’07, Wareham married Luna paramour, Britta Phillips (who’d joined the band in ’01). Though Luna broke up in ’04, Dean & Britta worked on film scores and completed soothing duo LP, Back Numbers, by ’07. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Ever since he guided dream-pop luminaries, Galaxie 500, to respectable underground status in the ‘80s, New York-via-New Zealand singer/ guitarist Dean Wareham has composed dramatic, psychedelia-induced dreamscapes. When he formed Luna, Wareham’s reflective imagery gained compelling introspect and lush textural grandeur, best demonstrated on ‘95s Penthouse (featuring guest guitarist Tom Verlaine and Stereolab vocalist Laetitia Sadier).

With The Days Of Our Nights’ balmy lucidity, Luna have perfected laconic late night chill music, unleashing a continuous stream of understated songs that flicker, then fade, into the abyss. “Dear Diary’s” shady surrealistic intrigue flows delicately into “Hello Little One” (which resembles Velvet Underground even more than the desolate Guns ‘N’ Roses cover of “Sweet Child Of Mine”). Soft-core delectables like the transient guitar-saturated bossa nova “U.S. Out Of My Pants!” and the billowy sedative “The Old Fashioned Way” recall the gently romantic excursions Arto Lindsay penned for Lust.

Along with Luna pals Sean Eden (guitar), ex-Chills member Justin Harwood (bass), and Lee Wall (drums), Wareham hangs out backstage at Irving Plaza while Atlanta’s Macha open up the evening. As I grab a Bass Ale from an icy crate, Wareham discusses Luna’s latest endeavor, The Days Of Our Nights, and shares thoughts about his influences and past recordings. Afterwards, Luna hit the stage and grabbed the attention of a highly supportive soldout crowd.

Trace Luna’s development since the ‘92 debut, Lunapark.

DEAN WAREHAM: We’re different now, but at no point did we make radical changes. We didn’t make a techno or dance record. For the first record, we weren’t even a band. We’d only played together a little while. We hit our stride with our third record, Penthouse. The next, Pup Tent, was a bit paranoid lyrically. It’s darker than the new one and was made under confusing conditions. I was taking too many sleeping pills because we were working until 4 in the morning. I was so wired. With a new drummer now, we’re a bit groovier.

How’d you initially get excited about music?

My older brother had Stooges, Lou Reed, and David Bowie records. When I came to New York in ‘77, I got into punk bands like Elvis Costello & the Attractions, the Clash, Talking Heads, Television, the Ramones. I loved some of the records my parents played. I like The Bee Gees Greatest Hits Volume 1, Sam Cooke, the Beatles. There’s a great record by Nina Simone, Here Comes the Sun, which purists don’t like because it wasn’t jazz or blues, but instead Dylan and Beatles pop songs. It’s hard to find.

Many of your songs seem Velvet Underground influenced.

I guess so. I don’t hear that as much as other people. Velvet Underground were noisy and dissonant while we’re mellower and poppier.

The Days Of Our Nights flows semi-thematically as a whole. Was that done consciously?

The way I write lyrics is by going through notes I’ve written for a year. Maybe there’s a theme. Living at night…regret…memories? I don’t know. We were gonna call it The Young And The Restless, but our lawyers said don’t do that. You can’t copyright a title, but you could trademark it. We didn’t want to infringe on the t.v. soap opera.

How would you compare your work in Galaxie 500 to Luna?

I spend more time on lyrics and singing. With Galaxy 500, it was one vocal take on everything. That was the way our producer, Kramer, worked. Next…next…finished. He was in a hurry to get done by 6 P.M. everyday. He had lots of stuff going on, his label and crazy stuff in his life. Galaxy 500 was m

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LUNA’S MAJESTIC ‘ROMANTICA’

Seeking relief from today’s hustle ‘n bustle and relationship uncertainties? Then skip transcendental meditation, quick-fix remedies, and self-help books to get comforted by the winsome majesty of Dean Wareham. After leading Velvet Underground-inspired Boston combo Galaxy 500 during the ‘80s, New Zealand-born New York transplant Wareham formed Luna with well respected indie pop denizens Justin Harwood (ex-Chills: bass) and Stanley Demeski (ex-Feelies: drums).

‘92s understated debut, Lunapark, set the tone for the future. Wareham’s coy lyrics and coil-y guitar affects fluttered above distinct rhythms, peaking with the dense post-punk intimacy of “Anesthesia.” Guitarist-keyboardist Sean Eden came aboard for ‘94s Bewitched, expanding Luna’s instrumental prowess and Velvet-y touch for catchy trinkets like the jittery “Heroin”-influenced 6-string jangle “Friendly Advice” and the loving “Pale Blue Eyes”-like affectation “Tiger Lily.”

By ‘95s critically recognized masterpiece, Penthouse, the dependable quartet reached pure nocturnal bliss with heavenly illuminations like the light-hearted “Moon Palace” and the gorgeous “23 Minutes In Brussels” (featuring Tom Verlaine’s eloquent 12-string on the former and his vibrant electric guitar on the latter).

While ‘97s oft-times rewarding Pup Tent couldn’t match its predecessors high regard, the penetrating title track slipped nicely into the subconscious ether. ‘99s slightly better The Days Of Our Nights, highlighted by the soul searching “Hello Little One” and the enthralling remembrance “Four Thousand Days,” lacked the thematic ambiance, gauzy lushness, and post-midnight moodscape of Penthouse.

Nevertheless, new drummer Lee Wall and since-departed bassist Justin Harwood (replaced by former Ben Lee associate/ sweet-voiced harmonizer Britta Phillips) provided subtler rhythmic accentuation better suited for the soft pop translucence ‘02s Romantica (Jetset Records) would achieve. Drifting through dreamy post-psychedelia (the lucid “Black Postcards”) and transient moodscapes (the soothingly addictive “Weird And Woozy” and the chimy “Swedishfish”), this finely detailed gem sets adrift on memory bliss. Although sticking out like a sore thumb, the propulsive “1995″ puts the pedal to the floor between the atmospheric, synth-droned “Mermaid Eyes” and the sentimental tranquility of “Rememories.”

 

During the three-year break between The Days Of Our Nights and Romanitica, Luna played a significant amount of local venues and recorded the finely detailed Live. A convincing retrospective featuring all the pre-Romantica effluvia listed above, it also contains a French version of Serge Gainsbourg’s lounge-core “Bonnie & Clyde” and a few more winners.

For Romantica, you once again use a new producer. This time, it’s ex-dB’s semi-legend Gene Holder.

DEAN WAREHAM: I was a fan of the dB’s and we shared musical tastes, which is not why we did this. Someone recommended his nice studio (Jolly Roger in Hoboken). It’s not fancy like one’s we’ve worked in at Manhattan. The decks and mikes are just as good – the main ingredients. But he doesn’t have cable t.v. But you work harder if you don’t have basketball on t.v.

What did Gene add?

Someone has to be there to tell you which takes are good. If you play five different guitar solos, someone pieces them together. He had ideas and different production tricks. Even deciding what microphone to use is important.

Since Bewitched, Luna has expanded its textural flow with more instrumentation. Organ, mellotron, vibes, and cello grace various songs.

The guy who mixed this album, Dave Fridmann, did a string arrangement – we can’t afford real strings – on “Black Champagne.” He does the whole arrangement.

The arrangements for each Luna album continue to get a tad more complex. On Romantica, “Love Dust” finds your creamy conversational lyrics enriched by fluid guitar strokes and a nifty “Sugar Shack” keyboard bridge.

There’s a lot of texture to those songs. They’re very layered. This is my favorite album since Penthouse. I liked the second half of Lunapark, but I haven’t listened to it in awhile. You could tell if the record is good if when you get up there to play live it’s easy to do. If it’s a struggle and they don’t lend themselves to playing live, they may not be good. Some people say about Penthouse that the songs all sound the same. That could be a good thing if you get the mood flowing. You could say of the Ramones first album that it all sounds the same.

“Black Postcards” reminded me of Steve Wynn’s paisley post-psychedelia with the Dream Syndicate.

I’ve met him a couple times. Does he still live in New York? Last time I saw him was a few months ago. We were called about potentially being in a Miller beer commercial. I don’t know if we would have done it ‘cause it seemed damn cheesy. We showed up to see what we had to do. I think they were looking for completely unknown bands.

Rolling Rock was gonna use Bob Pollard of Guided By Voices until they saw his live performance, which didn’t fit their image. But Bob told me Rolling Rock gives him the shits, so fuck ‘em.

(laughter) That’s great. Miller ran a campaign in the mid-‘80s with the Del Fuegos when I was living in Boston. I think it did a little harm to their credibility. People thought, “this is ridiculous.” But times have changed.

What’s with the “Swedishfish” reference?

I named the song after one of my favorite candies. It’s gummy. The orange ones are real good. There was a line in the song about Sweden anyway. There’s some glockenspiel on that.

“Black Champagne’s” strings reminded me of Lee Hazelwood’s Western-tinged arrangements. You had interviewed Lee for CMJ when we last spoke.

Only part of that ran for CMJ. The whole piece will be published in BB Gun. It’s a fanzine run by Bob Bert, formerly of Sonic Youth and Knoxville Girls.

How’s your acting career going after making out with Family Tie’s Justin Bateman in Highball?

I did a movie that’s not out yet, Piggies. It’s written and directed by the woman who did Buffalo 66. I play a junkie credit card thief.

You don’t seem the type.

But I know people like that.

-John Fortunato