JOE HENRY’S HEARING ‘TINY VOICES’

Interviews

FOREWORD: I remember Joe Henry getting his new silk shirt burnt by the ashes from an incense stick at Southpaw in Brooklyn during my interview. He was not amused but at least thanked me for letting him know I saw it happening. Anyway, Henry’s been on the cusp of fame for years. He married Melanie Ciccone, Madonna’s sister, who thankfully convinced the enduring bard to give the pop superstar, “Don’t Tell Me,” for inclusion on her fabulous Music LP. I bet that song’s made Henry more money than his entire output. ‘07s excellent Civilians was followed up by ‘09s passionately mesmerizing Blood From Stars. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

As singer-songwriter Joe Henry stands at the foot of Brooklyn’s Southpaw stage, guitar slung to the side before performing another fresh Tiny Voices track, he calmly quips, “I thought this song (the urbane “Flag”) was too political, but my wife said, ‘Your songs are so obtuse, no one will notice.’” The mostly seated audience politely chuckles, then afterwards give the seasoned rhapsodist resounding applause, beckoning him for a merited encore following a perfectly poignant stream of distended hymnal odes flaunting sundry emotional angles.

Though neither overtly political nor outlandishly askew, Henry’s expansive oeuvre does reveal an oblique Bob Dylan influence. At age eleven, his older brother traded a Steppenwolf album for Highway 61 Revisited. It was a galvanizing moment that spoke to him instantly. A fearlessly creative troubadour residing in Los Angeles since ’90, Henry found initial acceptance while living in New York City when his earliest demos were pressed to vinyl as Talk Of Heaven by Profile Records (a local label branching beyond rappers Run DMC).

“I’d always been infatuated with music. I grew up in the South listening to Dusty Springfield, Ray Charles, Johnny Cash, and Buck Owens. At seven, I obsessed over Glen Campbell doing Jimmy Webb songs. “Galveston” was the first 45 I purchased,” the eager maestro shares. “My parents had a great appreciation for authentic Country, but they never went out to find it. They were incredibly hard working – not people of leisure. The only three records they had were Dionne Warwick’s Greatest Hits, Delaney & Bonnie’s Motel Shots - a fantastic record, and an Andy Williams’ Christmas record.”

Signed to A & M Records, Henry’s next step was to record ‘89s promising Murder of Crows. Initially conceived as producer Anton Fier’s latest Golden Palomino project, featuring ex-Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor and Allman Brothers keyboardist Chuck Leavell, the set hearkened to ‘70s classic rock radio. ‘90s ensued Shuffletown pared down Henry’s acoustic moodiness for finely wrought blue-eyed soul. Firmly in charge and acutely aware of the intricacies involved with compositional construction, his tuneful signature could be felt firsthand.

“When you’re young, you think of songs as potatoes coming out of the ground fully formed, thus the idea where someone is treating a song, producing it, and giving it a sonic perception becomes reality later,” declares Henry.

Hooking up with prestigious alternative Country band, the Jayhawks, the re-stimulated Henry’s melancholic hopefulness invigorated ‘92s widespread breakthrough Short Man’s Room and its battle-scarred follow-up, Kindness Of The World. Through a hazy ominous daze, his intimately reedy baritone rasp poured out wounded sentimentality, intuitively forecasting ‘all news will be good news from now on’ during the deeply felt pedal steel-mandolin-fortified “Fireman’s Wedding.”

About the prophetic merger, Henry recollects, “I had lost my A & M deal and the Jayhawks were between labels. It was a marriage of convenience. They lived in Minneapolis where there was a serious, disparate music community including the Replacements, Soul Asylum, and Twin Tone bands they felt part of. They approached music as a band, but I was touring for Shuffletown, which featured Jazz artists Don Cherry and Cecil Mc Bee. I found it hard for the Jayhawks to play those songs. They didn’t fall into their bag very easily. The songs were claustrophobic onstage while their thing was loose and open. So I tried to do something that was authentic to them and wrote Short Man’s Room as an idea of working within a bands’ mindset.”

Recruiting Page Hamilton of metallurgists Helmet for ‘96s broad abstraction Trampoline furnished Henry’s drifting lovelorn dirges with tremolo-ensconced dissonance and symphonic drones.

Henry admits, “We were both Miles Davis freaks. Helmet had opened for Henry Rollins at L.A.’s Olympic Theatre and he had great midtempo and slow grooves reminiscent of Miles’ electric period. I thought to invite him onboard would give me a whole new perception and he responded in a way that was authentic to him.”

By ‘99s loop and sample-aided Fuse, he convened with respected producer Daniel Lanois to appease a growing fan base heeding every whim.

“The songs wouldn’t arrive as they have if I was thinking in a fully Country lexicon. If those were the only colors in my palette I couldn’t write the way I do now because there’s no context for them,” he observes.

So despite retaining his contemplative maudlin tone on distant abstruse dreamscapes, Henry moved forward once again for ‘01s eloquent Scar, enlisting Jazz icon Ornette Coleman to blow free form sax above the wearily morose opening profile “Richard Pryor Addresses A Tearful Nation” and an unlisted bookend solo excursion. Aiming past the boundless confines of modern folk flirtation with help from ‘jazzbos’ Brad Mehldau and Marc Ribot, Scar gained critical plaudits but confused eager minions readied for acoustic retreat.

Henry ascertains, “It’s been many years since I’ve played anything pre-Trampoline onstage. Those songs don’t lend themselves to the interpretation I’m interested in now, which is why my writing style has shifted some. I’m looking to write songs that are more open with fewer chord changes, not constricting musicians. My records may not be connected in a linear way, but the thematic point of view should come through like a movie.”

Still enamored by the vast breadth of improvisational spontaneity, Henry signed to burgeoning indie Anti Records, securing esteemed clarinetist Don Byron and limber trumpeter Ron Miles for ‘03s deviously genteel Tiny Voices. His compellingly dreary lamentations desolately flutter in the wind with David Palmer’s languid piano ripples and overcast orchestral compensation richly adorning understated metaphoric ambiguity. An atmospheric lull befalls the transcending title cut, the crestfallen “Sold,” and the somber “Animal Skin.” A murky midnight gloom worthy of Tom Waits affects “This Afternoon,” a temperate soulful saunter that’d fit comfortably alongside lowdown alt-rock drones Lambchop, Tindersticks, and Nick Cave. Henry’s most dramatically elliptical utterances complement the relaxed groove.

Concerning his keen lyrical propensity, Henry insists, “Lyrics have never been a sidebar. I’ve always taken them very seriously and I’m a savage self-editor. I enjoy that stage of writing when a song has identified its character enough so you could step away. It’s not gonna evaporate, but it’s still viscous and pliable.”

As for the Jazz-informed meditations consuming Tiny Voices, he surmises, “I have a great love for Jazz, but I’m not trying to make Jazz music. I’m trying to incorporate certain Jazz tonalities because I appreciate those colors and that approach to freedom. When rock started, Little Richard made records when this was a maverick industry. It wasn’t so cut and dry. Look at The Clash, they improvised within the structure of a song until it gelled. That’s how Jazz players used to work, though they frequently don’t anymore.”

Besides his own work, Henry produced Soul legend Solomon Burke’s triumphant ‘02 comeback Don’t Give Up On Me and wrote his famous sister-in-law Madonna’s hit single “Don’t Tell Me.”

“I wanted Solomon to be a bandleader with his big voice,” he says of Burke. “Initially, he was spooked by how exposed his vocal was. He was used to chicken scratch R & B guitar, not acoustic guitar – which had a different function. I stuck to my guns and kept it immediate and raw.”

But his most lucrative payday came when pop diva Madonna struck gold with Henry’s “Don’t Tell Me.”

He concedes, “It was written quickly and dashed off in a half-hour. I listen to tons of Sinatra so I was working it in a Classic standard way. She responded to it instantly. I certainly didn’t think it would be a single. I thought it was trivial.”

As for future endeavors, Henry shockingly concludes, “I’d like to work with (hip-hop trailblazer) Dr. Dre. I think he’s bad ass. I’d be curious to see what he’d do with someone like me.”

HELOISE’S SAVIOR FAIRE GOES EVERYWHERE

Interviews

No one expects a Jazz-affiliated ex-Phish associate to come out of leftfield and set the underground dance community afire. Yet it’s glaringly apparent now that a very astute, literary-minded vocalist who’s a tad edgier than her booty-shakin’ contemporaries has accomplished just that. Bristling with nervous energy and readily causing a commotion, this seasoned starlet continues to gain notoriety via exhilaratingly action-packed gigs.

Buxom Amazonian bleach blonde, Heloise Williams, intriguingly bolsters ‘80s-derived new wave and ‘70s-styled disco by plying powerful pipes to multihued arrangements, reckoning the past with an over-the-top frivolity indicative of raunchy electronica chum, Peaches (whom she once chauffeured and body-guarded). Accordingly, every deviant nut job in her loosely twisted ensemble, Savior Faire, boasts a distinctly off-kilter personality – some more so than others.

As we squeeze all six members into my ’99 Lincoln to chat, I’m convinced there’s tremendous camaraderie holding these half-dozen sassily sharp scruffs together. Heloise (ex-Viperhouse) moved to Brooklyn a few years back, doing local shows at trusty downtown venue, Don Hills – singing, manipulating a laptop computer, and doing waggish dance routines with lubricated Vermont pals Joe Shephard and Sara Sweet Rabidoux (proprietor of erstwhile modern dance company, Hoy Polloi). As a sidebar, it’s worth noting multiethnic gypsy punk comrades, Gogol Bordello, have similar New England nurturing and dual dancer setup, though totally different musical approach.

Soon, Heloise brought boyfriend, guitarist James Bellizia, into the fold alongside early fan, lanky drummer Luke Hughett, and bassist Jason Diamond. Meeting Diamond (an incipient guitarist) through Elijah Wood (Lord Of The Rings/ Everything Is Illuminated) proved fruitful when the famed actor decided to launch Simian Records. In conjunction with Yep Roc Records, Heloise & the Savior Faire released their powerful ‘electro-rock’ debut, Trash, Rats and Microphones, on Wood’s new-sprung boutique label early ‘08.

Though initial live performances included chewed-up covers of disparate material by the Tubes (“White Punks On Dope”), Roberta Flack (“Feel Like Making Love”), AC/DC (“For Those About To Rock”), and Britney Spears (“Toxic”), these couldn’t better the sexed-up originals Heloise promptly build a small catalog around. Set changes, stage props, and kitsch-y clatter further characterized and elevated the eccentric sextet. And Bellizia’s rock solid New Order compulsion nicely thickened the finest efforts.

Despite the murky sound system bogging down Lower East Side club, The Annex, Heloise & The Savoir Faire took the totally bitchin’ crowd on a romping joyride through the urban dancehall jungle. I shortly hung out beside foxy Gogol Bordello dancer, Elizabeth Sun, as the colorful troupe began enthralling the sardine-packed patronage with rip-roaring coital fugues. Illuminating the stage with daring sexual prowess far removed from her tertiary Phish swish, Heloise’s lascivious rhymes and slyly promiscuous mannerisms challenged archetypal politics of dancing. Dangling impudent innuendoes atop catchy-as-fuck dance-rock (and ancillary orgiastic mantras), her lone cat moans and queen bitch quavers killed the fanatical audience ‘til friskily febrile finale, “Givin’ U The Bizness,” reached maximal white soul strut integrating ravishing pale-faced damsel Annie Lennox with swaggering blaxploitated diva Tina Turner.

The flamboyant Shepard, wearing gay pirate apparel and bandanna, worked in casual Casio tones and scant backup vocals when not gyrating hips like a frolicsome warlock. On the opposite side of magnanimous goddess, Heloise, erotic emissary Sara Sweet (whose swiveled Egyptian belly dancing ruled) sashayed as if she was a darlingly kittenish nymph. Wearing heavy mascara, eyeliner glaze, and flashy makeup, the extravagantly tattered frontline shimmied and shook – utilizing syncopated steps, fluttered arm gestures, and oddly flippant affectations. Heloise randomly donned a sparkling metallic sequence top and raccoon shawl during the eye-popping 50-minute set. Behind the fearsome threesome, Diamond laid down funky Larry Graham-inspired bass lines suited to Hughett’s leathery discotheque percussion while guitarist Bellizia rendered randy power chords. Bellizia and Hughett acknowledge Gang Of Four as stylish influences and oft times it’s revealed. Bellizia, peculiarly a big fan of ‘60s folkie Bert Jansch, also takes inspiration from Talking Heads’ snazzy ’80 classic, Remain In Light.

Born in Boston’s Beth Israel Hospital to British parents, Heloise lived in Minnesota as a youngster, moving back east to attend Middlebury College for literary studies. Yet it’s doubtful the future versifier learned to craft provocatively libidinous lyrics during scholastic English.

“I was an aspiring poet,” Heloise recalls. “I worked from anger. I’d wonder, ‘Why am I so mad?’ Then I’d write. But I want to make it sound like candy and let kids learn in a weirdly obtuse way.”

Subsequently, she was in formative Vermont-based Jazz bands ‘warbling Mingus, Monk, and Sun Ra.’ Then, Phish guitarist Trey Anastasio recruited the enthusiastic lass to sing at concerts and on ‘98s Story Of The Ghost.

“I couldn’t turn that down,” she admits, prior to divulging, “I’d always enjoyed Joni Mitchell and hoped I’d be able to learn to compose. But I can’t put as many words to a song.”

“She also liked Prince,” interjects Sara Sweet, “I was thinking the other day, Heloise’s lyrics are set apart in an artistic scholarly way like Beck’s crazy stories. How she describes dreams. The ‘do me’ lyrics aren’t pretentious. She doesn’t cram views down your throat.”

But Heloise need not always rely on insidious roundels. Opening Trash salvo, “Illusions,” nostalgically summoning Romeo Void’s fleshy come-ons and punk icon Siouxsie Sioux’s hiccuped delivery, sneers at cringe-worthy music biz sleaze. Ruptured bass, staccato drumming, and squiggled bleating electronics coil Heloise’s revelatory snip: ‘It’s all smoke and mirrors in a house made out of cards.’

“We’d been courted by record labels. It was all cheese-ball disillusionment,” elucidates Heloise. “We went to Japan and this big label guy was such a messed-up alcoholic we were actually taking care of him. Could you imagine that? The labels were promising shit and not following through.”

Furthermore, posh metro nightclub snub, “Members Only,” cattily deposes self-centered snot-nosed weekenders, the worst kind of crassly curmudgeon conformists sojourning Manhattan’s arrogant poseur scene.

Heloise explains, “I’d just moved to New York and there’s a giant club, Exit. I was in a huge line. People around me thought I’d cut in front. I was like, “I’m sorry. I don’t know where my friends are.” They said, ‘I could see why they want to lose you ‘cause you’re a loser.’ They were super-cool Williamsburg kids who were so mean. I was crying. So I got in the club and it was full of people not having fun posturing and posing for each other trying to be cool. No one was laughing.”

When corroborating about poseur gals having rusty pussies from underuse, the entire group chuckles. Then Heloise goes into a story ‘bout Southern boogie tilter, “Po’ T,” a.k.a. ‘poor thing,’ being based on a spring break trip to Mobile, Alabama, with a high school buddy and her hook-armed ex-marine father sailing the Gulf of Mexico.

“We met this kid, the youngest of twelve children, got drunk, played with guns – scary stuff. We were super-wasted on wine coolers. So “Po’ T”’s imaginary lyrics are wistful.” Heloise then reflects, “I had terrible cold sores and didn’t get to make out at the officer’s club doing karaoke.”

I obnoxiously counter, “Did the hook-armed father try to finger you?”

Heloise nods no, but without missing a beat, Shepard opines, “That’s how underused pussies get rusty.”

Duly note that Shepard’s hilariously gregarious. Upon latently entering my car, he interrupts the conversation with scandalously juicy gossip: “There’s a giant gay guy down the street running through a hallway yelling, ‘I’m a fucking faggot. I just broke up with my boyfriend and I’m really emotional right now. I’m sorry!’ Poor guy. Who’s gonna suck his dick?”

Jokingly, Sara Sweet bellows from the backseat, “I will!”

Such is life for this jocularly juvenile thirty-something assemblage whose curvaceous singer recently impressed chic punk, Debbie Harry, so much she ended up purring the Eartha Kitt epilogue on rumbling retro-disco anthem, “Downtown.” It seems the renowned Blondie front woman gave her seal of approval to Heloise at a Knitting Factory show where fashion designer Todd Thomas acquainted the two flaxen felines.

Getting back to Trash, the ecstasy-laced existential exploration, “Disco Heaven,” with its computer-generated voicing and typical spanking two-step disco beat, inhabits a blissful Shangri-La wondrously denigrated by scintillating metal guitar- razed car tune, “Datsun 280Z,” where Heloise assents to ‘grinding my gears down there.’

“That’s about sex in the car, driving fast around corners,” she says candidly. “Put your hand on that stick shift and grind those gears. Then you need to be re-virginized.”

Whatever.

Elsewhere, timbale lends a Latin feel to horn-y party jam, “On Fuego.” Burbling keys deluge buzzing shuffle “Pick ‘n Choose,” a savory li’l confection. Closing Euro-clashed rave, “Odyle,” finds Heloise emphatically yelping and pleading with an overwrought aggression R & B vets would relish.

“My high school director had me do Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.” I thought I couldn’t, but he thought I had the personality to pull it off,” Heloise informs before solemnly concluding, “I should return to vocal lessons. I need to learn how to warm up and cool down, especially if we do a lot of shows in a row.”

“Yeah right,” ball-busting brat Shepard quips. “Vodka up, vodka down’”

PJ HARVEY CURES ROMANTIC INDIGESTION WITH ‘UH HUH HER’

Interviews

Image result for PJ HARVEY

FOREWORD: You know what – fuck the powers that be for not letting me get an interview with enigmatic British singer-songwriter PJ Harvey. The imbecilic jerk-offs at her record label only gave limited access to soon-defunct magazines like Spin, Rolling Stone, and Blender.

And all those antiquated rags wanted to do was paint her as a shy passive-aggressive bitch. When ‘04s amazing Uh Huh Her came out, I spent many hours on vacation at Sunset Beach, North Carolina, going through her back catalog to assemble the following piece. I’ve put this piece under the ‘interview’ section despite never having spoke a word to her. Live with it. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

By the way, PJ Harvey’s crowning achievement may’ve come in 2011, with the release of her most compellingly political statement, Let England Shake. Showing remarkable restraint and subtle eloquence, she adds sax and zither to the guitar-etched war-torn sketches. Its bewitching title track invokes Eastern mysticism with its disquieting xylophone. But it’s the dirgey graveyard sentiments of flatulent sax-aided “The Last Living Rose,” the bleary-eyed death marches, and woeful balladic reminiscences such as “On Battleship Hill” that really squeeze every ounce of passion out of the lanky diva’s thematic, anxiety-filled, 12-song war protest. A muted cavalry horn sounds off during anti-war mantra, “The Glorious Land.” Like early rocker Eddie Cochrane spewed in “Summeretime Blues,” she’s gonna take her ‘problem to the United Nations’ (from “The Words That Maketh Murder”).  

Alongside modern Buffalo folkie Ani Di Franco, Chi-town post-punk lynchpin Liz Phair, and audacious riot grrrl Kathleen Hanna (Bikini Kill/ Le Tigre), Britain’s bewitched white Blues brooder Polly Jean Harvey represented early ‘90s female independence. Fearlessly taking the initiative to compete against testosterone-fueled counterparts, they altogether left bold signature marks on the next generation of lauded lasses.

Igniting outrage, passion, and fury, each sturdily determined maverick indirectly helped autonomous Lilith Fair matrons and defiant lesbians Melissa Etheridge and the Indigo Girls gain accessibility on a grander level. Unlike hypocritical Kurt Cobain siphon, Courtney Love – an unstable contemporary accepted, then rejected by Hollyweird – these individualistic femmes retained conviction and reluctant sex appeal, savoring romance without becoming condescending drug-addled control freaks or domineering bitches.

But while Di Franco now simmers underground in political purgatory, Phair glimmers aboveground crafting questionable pop toss-offs, and Hanna shimmers in urban funk dirt, PJ Harvey hovers steadily overhead in a more linear rockist fashion. Her curious indiscretions, unnerving erudition, and naked emotionalism marked the desolate urgent rumblings of a youthful, naïvely liberated Brit on the cusp of brilliance.

As blurred and unguarded as its tit-garbled front cover, the former art college students’ idiosyncratic ’92 debut, Dry, hurled wounded epistles at unspecific lovers. Fulfilling its titular prophecy, acrid instrumentation and tart retorts belie this veritable masterpiece. The workings of a dark, oppressed, paradoxical temptress not beholden to steadfast rules, Dry’s vicious spitefulness and hostile responsiveness express desperate vulnerability without sacrificing bitter righteous indignation. Although Harvey’s penchant for woeful regret and haunting anguish may relate inner fears and frailties, those aching feelings only tend to make her more determined to achieve freedom from male-dominated alt-rock stereotypes.

Vengeful love spurned attacks are met with painstaking reprieves best appropriated on the conflicted “Happy And Bleeding,” which stresses strong sentiments more assuredly as the song winds down. Betwixt eroticism and throbbing neuroticism wither inside the violated gloryhole of the stark “Oh My Lover,” trembling with the same seething ecstasy and pain her thunderous guitar venom injects into “O Stella.” Newfound adolescent sexual discovery elevates the subversive “Sheela-Na-Gig,” celebrating an Irish fertility goddess with excitable conversational invocations such as ‘look at these/ my child bearing hips/ look at these/ my ruby red lips’ before shouting the calamitous exclamation ‘you exhibitionist!’ at apathetic admirers.

Throughout, Harvey’s whirlwind voice hits jaunty heights, ripping apart soulful metaphors as her stinging guitar cuts like a dagger. Hurried hoe-down “Joe” splatters 6-string sparks in every direction while violin glissando spears the meandering retrenchment, “Plants And Rags.” Lurching lustily like punk godmother Patti Smith, she valiantly maintains the feisty feminist froth of Chrissie Hynde.

‘93s equally compelling Rid Of Me preserved the destitute primitivism and pensive moodiness of its predecessor. Its distinguished title track goes from seductive whisper to vehement scream as lone guitar, kick drum, and buzzy bass saddle the daringly insinuative refrain, ‘I’ll let you lick my injuries.’ “Legs’” implosive wails, “Man Size Sextet’s” Classical rails, and “Yuri-G’s” curdled entrails endow Harvey’s quivered salutations, feisty pleads, nagging howls, and whiny screams. The itchy “Rub Til It Bleeds” and the Tarzanian jungle-beaten “Me Jane” capture the dichotomy between difficult self-reliance and mired subservience. An obscure remake of Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited” merely touches the surface of her poetic influences. But it’s the brazenly claustrophobic “50 Ft. Queenie” that highlights this scintillating set, as its ravished banshee moans may’ve inspired Yeah Yeah Yeahs no wave anti-fashion derelict Karen O. as well as a host of lesser (known) talents.

The sparer 4-Track Demos, rough drafts of Rid Of Me’s investigative Steve Albini-produced interrogations, adds the siren “Reeling,” the mobile “Driving,” the contemplative “Hardly Wait,” the swooping “Easy,” and the jittery “M-Bike” to eight previously unleashed originals. Defiantly tossing aside grungemeister Albini’s sludgy Melvins/Mudhoney-smudged soundboard, Harvey, still employing bassist Steve Vaughan and drummer Robert Ellis, proves her worth in salty pre-interpretations.

By ‘95s alluring respite, To Bring You My Love, the cynically luring diva uses schizoid confessional psychodramas to soothingly combat therapeutic resignation. Co-producers John Parish (whom she worked with on his bedeviled Dance Hall At Louse Point) and Flood (U2/ Nine Inch Nails/ Depeche Mode) join Pere Ubu keyboardist Eric Drew Feldman to nurture Harvey’s traumatic expositions with defiantly bristling tension. Playing the part of an ostentatious chanteuse, she routinely takes on various dispossessed caricatures. The fuzzy bass-boomed “Down By The Water” becomes a whispery parable of relinquished innocence, demanding an unnamed ‘big fish’ to ‘give me my daughter.’ It’s the perfect maternal setup for the distantly groaned dirge, “I Think I’m A Mother.” Persuasively suggestive, “Working For The Man” begs for salvation. Still trying to come to grips with the reality of abject sexuality, the flawed personalities herein developed suit the shady lady imagery she so enticingly projects.

Though ‘98s Is This Desire? sessions with Flood were initially halted halfway through two years hence, its agonizing anxiety seeps deep into perdition. Whereas preceding endeavors took flight in a chaotically oblique semi avant-garde manner unrestricted by trendy musical whims, this divergent venture surrenders to chic witching hour noir just left of Stereolab and their vogue post-disco ilk. Despite leaning closest to mentor Patti Smith’s constrained drowsy ballad styling on the lovely “Angelene” and ominously whimpering like a slithery torch singer through the lounge-y exotica of “The Wind,” lightly glazed techno-Industrial embellishments adorn mostly lulling arrangements. The ethereal drear drifting across “The River” slips into a languorous abyss, summing up this extremely vexatious experience best heard on a dank night cold and lonely.

Immediately, ‘00s quintessential Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea shifts away from the shattered dreamscapes of Desire, de-emphasizing lambasted leftover electronica derivatives for the vibrant guitar jangle of dynamic opener, “Big Exit.” The monumental angular guitar anthem, “This Is Love” (perhaps Harvey’s crowning achievement), and the strolling “Good Fortune” nicely dupe Patti Smith’s Manhattan renegade gypsy persona. The artful pop eloquence of Radiohead’s Thom Yorke bellowing below Harvey’s spoken verses on the truly resplendent “This Mess We’re In” fortifies and enhances this life affirming resurrection.

Some claim the irked petulance and cranky restlessness underlying ‘04s agitated Uh Huh Her dissects a dissolved relationship; countering the love-struck New York City parlance of Stories with confounding dread. Recorded mostly at home in Dorset, England, this latest batch of songs does more than offer tenderness on the block. The debilitating “The Life & Death Of Mr. Badmouth” temporarily cleanses her broken heart through tear-stained discourse: ‘your lips taste like poison.’ Its grief-stricken realness could be felt inside the stupefied dragged tempo and comatose bluesy mewl. On the sniping “Who The Fuck?” Harvey’s gusty guitar rifling seems informed by Nick Zinner, whose Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ partner Karen O. probably unknowingly profited from this tortured trailblazer. While “Pocket Knife” pierces like a dagger, the cataclysmic rallying cry, “The Letter,” and acidic lamentation, “Cat on The Wall,” eagerly repent. Classically arranged with percussive vibes, “You Come Through” cloaks a lipstick-traced sendoff. Wispy acoustic closer, “The Darker Days Of Him & Me,” appeals for redemption. Even though the vampish minstrel downplays the biographical nature of her musings, an undeniable sincerity surrounds these despair-ridden anecdotes.

Are my conjectures concerning this dissenting Pollyanna on the money? Should we believe Harvey’s living vicariously through the sadistic madness and voyeuristic intrigue of her grimmest songs? I doubt it. She’s too complex and delicately beautiful for that. Besides, instead of getting stuck in a loveless quagmire of self-doubt and disillusionment, this ravishingly leggy brunette keeps busy doing production work for fresh-faced singer Tiffany Anders and ageless gloomy rock dignitary Marianne Faithfull (whom she’s written a few tracks for).

Able to re-establish and sporadically re-invent her cosmopolitan image with only transient outsider assistance, Harvey remains a fascinatingly mysterious damsel in distress crosscutting obsessive carnal litanies with garish theatrical flare. Do you think Cleveland’s staid Rock And Roll Hall of Fame will redeem this iconic underground idol when the time comes? That’s questionable since the antiquated organization running the Hall of Fame has yet to confirm ‘80s pioneers Husker Du, the Replacements, the Minutemen, X, and Black Flag.

-John Fortunato

JOHN WESLEY HARDING AVOWS ‘THE CONFESSIONS OF ST. ACE’

Interviews

FOREWORD: When John Wesley Harding’s debut came out, everyone thought he’d find an aboveground audience for his intimate well-sung folk-rooted pop. But he ultimately had to settle for large cult status. ‘04s magnificent Adam’s Apple (reviewed at bottom) received heightened exposure and ‘09s Who Was Changed And Who Was Dead featured veteran indie staples, Minus 5. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Taking his professional name from the title of Bob Dylan’s classic ‘67 album, John Wesley Harding (born Wesley Stace in Hastings, England) made his critically acclaimed American debut, Here Comes the Groom, in ‘90 (following Demon Records little known live British recording It Happened One Night).

Initially disguising his Dylanesque leanings with gorgeous mainstream arrangements and striking melodies, this Seattle via San Francisco and Atlanta transplant continued to improve his muse over five penetrating, if less revered, releases. Spanning from folk-rooted intimations (John Wesley Harding’s New Deal and Trad Arr. Jones) to pop-induced fare (The Name Above The Title, Why We Fight, and Awake), he deserves wider aboveground recognition.

While in Nashville during ‘99, Harding assembled his greatest collection of songs yet. The Confessions of St. Ace (Mammoth Records), conceived as a cryptic parable, obsesses over romantic insecurities, jittery anxieties, and karmic revelations. Borrowing characters from centuries old novels, the metaphoric “Humble Bee” immediately pricks up your ears. The delicate beauty, “She’s A Piece of Work,” and the road weary, mandolin-laced Country & Western blessing, “Our Lady of The Highway” (featuring Steve Earle on descant vocals), possess a hypnotizing, solemn sadness deepened by the majestic, despair-ridden orchestrations “People Love To Watch You Die” and “After The Fact.”

Recent touring pal Jimmie Dale Gilmore drawls “it’s just a dream” beneath Harding’s haunted mewl on St. Ace’s carousing “Bad Dream Baby.” Playfully sarcastic, the electrifying “Goth Girl” references both Bauhaus’ Peter Murphy and Nine Inch Nails to whimsical affect. Gospel organ and female backup singers add a soulful edge to the carefree singalong “I’m Wrong About Everything” and the rousing, early Elvis Costello-derived “Old Girlfriends.”

Fans should look out for the re-released versions of the former Zero Hour discs Trad Arr. Jones and Awake now on Appleseed Records (featuring extra tracks). The latter boasts a cool duet with Bruce Springsteen on The Boss-penned “Wreck On The Highway.” Also, Harding’s Dynablob Records offers his fanclub several otherwise unavailable recordings.

The Confessions Of St. Ace seems to benefit from a brighter, fuller studio sound than the recent Zero Hour discs had.

JOHN WESLEY HARDING: It’s tough to make pop music without money. New Deal, Trad Arr. Jones and Awake were recorded on a minute budget. This was done for twice the budget of all three of those. I just scrimped and saved on the others.

How does the latest disc compare to its closest companion, Awake?

The production on Awake was the blueprint for this one. “Sweat, Tears, Blood & Come” is like a blueprint for “Too Much Into Nothing” and “Something To Write Home About” is like a blueprint for “After The Fact.” I think the songs were edited better on this one. I had better songs to choose from since Trad Arr. Jones had none of my own songs on it which meant there were a lot of songs waiting around to be used.

Your singing and instrumental support seem stronger on St. Ace.

It definitely has my best vocals. A good engineer makes your voice sound good. I think I have quite a nice natural singing voice. As for the instrumentation, I was just very inspired. There were 46 songs on the demo tape and Rob (Seidenberg), who signed me for the label, had a very specific vision. He thought it was great that I made the folk albums, but thought I could reach full potential with a pop record. He thought it would fulfill my position as a songwriter and musician amongst those who think I’m cool. So off the demo, we went away from the rootsier songs and more towards the poppier ones.

What’s with the faux-concept of the fictional St. Ace character?

The whole idea behind St. Ace started with my dad. He had just translated a medieval Latin text of saints lives called The Golden Legend. One saint had his head hacked to the floor and then God let him speak one more time. It was gory and strange. My last name is Stace, so I transformed it to St. Ace. Originally, I was going to use a band name for the title.

“Goth Girl” is ridiculous fun with its tale of a boyfriend who can’t afford to take his girl to a Nine Inch Nails show.

It’s about the guy who wants to look after her and fuck her. It’s a weird Randy Newman-esque turnabout. You don’t quite know if he wants to kiss her or wipe her lipstick off. Chris Mills, a singer from Chicago, saved me on that song. He thought it was great.

Is “She’s A Piece Of Work” a first-hand account?

Most of my songs are from my imagination. Some I find very moving to sing, but they’re not lessons from my public life. “She’s A Piece of Work” is a love song that complains about someone. When I sing it live I see people relating to the lines in the song. I see them point at each other.

Why did you move to America early in your career?

The pop scene was very different in England then. Very little acoustic guitar playing was happening. I hadn’t a fucking clue what I was doing in the studio for Here Comes The Groom. My drinking buddies from Elvis Costello’s band helped out and were just dynamite. Elvis wasn’t using them at the time and they were probably pissed off.

What do you hope to accomplish with your latest effort?

I’m quite Zen about these things. The record’s a success if it’s made and it’s out. Everyone I like or admire has had a freakish career going from label to label with maybe one fluke hit. It would be great to have that kind of career Loudon Wainwright, John Prine, or Steve Goodman had. It’s only the fluky people like Dylan and Springsteen who have had long careers on one label. I’m in the extraordinary position of not having a job while entertaining people. That’s a good start. So I have a responsibility to the fans to be as real as I could without watering down my music for the lowest common denominator.

———————————————————————–

John Wesley Harding

“Adam’s Apple”

(DRT)

Talented singer-songwriter-guitarist deserves better exposure for his heartfelt folk-inspired musings. Possibly Harding’s most tuneful endeavor yet, Adam’s Apple leans on illuminating psychedelic Beatles orchestrations to paint downtrodden sentiments hidden inside demurely upbeat arrangements, though the proudly strutting “Sluts” cuts through the tension with wickedly wry retrenchment. Poised, confident, and wholly appealing, Harding may never become as popular as the namesake 19th century gunslinger, yet respect is truly due this Brit troubadour.

-John Fortunato

W.C. HANDY ALL STARS @ B.B. KING’S

Live Reviews

W.C. Handy All Stars / B.B. King’s/ Nov. 9, 1999

Midtown Manhattan’s upscale dinner club, B.B. King’s, hosted an entourage of vital, cocksure bluesmasters, the W.C. Handy All Stars, this rainy eve. By no means a mere nostalgia showcase, these experienced performers have all been nominated for coveted Blues Foundation Awards. Most tore through a quirky, fast-paced opening jam countered by a slow, deliberate one.

As I sat back to devour salmon washed down by Stella Artois Beer, seasoned Memphis harp player/ guitarist Charlie Musselwhite soloed with a traditional 12 bar Delta Blues, a Lightnin’ Hopkins-like “Down By The River,” and a stark, desolate “Darkest Hour.” Virtuoso Rhode Island guitarist Duke Robillard then kicked out an upbeat number accompanied by Doug James (baritone sax) and Gordon Beadle (tenor sax) and a languid, down-tempo turnabout “learned from Stratocaster master Albert Collins.” A consummate showman, Robillard then teased the audience with a lowdown introspection that quietly faded into the dark recesses of this spacious club. His pained facial expressions and clenched teeth affirmed the intense, flickering moodiness as he let out gruff groans.

Joe Louis Walker stepped out for “Walkin’ Across the Floor,” decorated by Robillard’s tailgator licks and Musselwhite’s train whistle harp. A hip shaking, hand clapped boogie followed, featuring Walker’s raspy raps and a wailin’ dual sax break.

An unheralded musical pioneer inspired by T-Bone Walker, Johnnie Johnson went uncredited as a reluctant rock and roll originator in the ‘50s (co-composing most of Chuck Berry’s formidable hits). This night, the seasoned St. Louis native tickled the ivories with absolute grace. Wearing a brown suit and page boy hat, he soloed a juke joint catwalk before Robillard, the saxes, and the house rhythm section of bassist John Packer and drummer Jeffrey Mc Allister came aboard for a half-spoken “Kansas City” that showcased Johnson’s historic right hand melody. For a mood-stricken instrumental change-up, the slow groovin’ “Georgia On My Mind” preceded Johnson’s signature tune, the perky “Tangeray” (which benefited from Robillard’s sly solo and flatulent sax blurts).

R & B diva Trudy Lynn took hold, declaring, “Is everybody feelin’ alright!” The silver-haired sparkplug (dressed in tiger stripe bolero and eye-grabbing leopard-spotted gown) broke into Jimmy Reed’s oft-covered “Big Boss Man” prior to purring, moaning, and belting out a dusky medley of the risqué “Little Red Rooster” and the weathered “Stormy Monday.”

The only disappointment of the night was headliner Little Milton’s decision to milk one jazz-licked jam and a depression-bound mantra instead of relying on his awesome Stax, Sun, and Chess recordings. A hardy baritone whose astounding “If Walls Could Talk” and “Grits Ain’t Groceries” inspired the likes of Robert Cray and the Allman Brothers, Milton’s self-effacing humor and rambling confessions were fine, if a bit long-winded and exhausting.

Nevertheless, the crowd left in high spirits when the entire entourage (sans Walker) got everyone on hand to stand up, clap, and join in for the Gospel-styled rant, “Hey Hey The Blues Is Alright.” Respectfully, it was dedicated to the memory of W.C. Handy, the premier traditional blues icon.

HANDSOME FAMILY / JIM & JENNIE @ MAXWELLS

Live Reviews

Handsome Family/ Jim & Jennie & the Pine Barons / Maxwells / Feb. 25, 2000

Chicago-based husband/ wife duo the Handsome Family offered a post-midnight Maxwells audience drifting rural folk, thrifty country-laced dirges, and surreal soft-rock ballads. Besides performing a solid hour of lonesome prairie waltzes, desperation-bound vignettes, and contemplative down home morsels, the Sparks’ kept everyone in attendance in stitches with their sharp sense of humor and scrappy Sonny & Cher-styled bickering.

Making fine use of banjo, dobro, melodica, and autoharp, Rennie Sparks filled out beau Brett’s somber acoustic arrangements. Brett’s flexible voice ranges from a deep-toned Merle Haggard-like baritone to a stately Richard Thompson-like croon. Highlights from this Friday night set included the sonic guitar turnabout, “Amelia Earhart Vs. The Dancing Bear,” and several newly waxed trax from the ambitious, delicately orchestrated In The Air (Carrot Top).

Diligently coalescing beauty and sadness with similar haunting intimacy to the Mekons’ Jon Langford and Sally Timms (whom they’ve toured with in the past), the Handsome Family continue to refine and rejuvenate their understated musings.

Beforehand, Jim & Jennie & the Pine Barons enthusiastically re-created old-timey bluegrass and rural back porch Country & Western with heartfelt assurance and an uncanny authenticity atypical for such young, fresh-faced practitioners. Within the span of a few songs, the wholesome quartet from Croydon, Pennsylvania, had loosened up fans gathered around the formerly empty spot at the foot of the stage. Huddled behind a single mike with banjo, upright bass, acoustic guitar, and mandolin, the rootsy combo broke into a few Flatt & Scruggs-like instrumental hoedowns and traditional fare by the Carter Family, Frank Wakefield, and others. The quick-paced “Hot Burrito Breakdown” (credited to the Country Gazette), a few rustic originals, and some silly between-song patter kept the set moving along briskly.

GIRLS AGAINST BOYS @ MERCURY LOUNGE

Live Reviews

Girls Against Boys/ Mercury Lounge/ June 12, 2002

Since I last caught Girls Against Boys at a Bowery Ballroom gig a few years back, the NYC-via-DC quartet has become more visceral, assured, and compelling delivering vibrant, Industrial-strengthened post-punk seductions. Trading some of the suave, groove-oriented gloss of ‘98s Freak*on*ica for the sinister conviction and edgy tension of their belated follow-up, the bristling You Can’t Fight What You Can’t See, GVSB burst forward with a muscular sound as thick as this venue’s brick walls.

Allowing the electronic dance rock tendencies of its predecessor and ‘96s equally energetic, club-influenced House of GVSB to get kicked to the curb, the new tracks assaulted the audience like sonic reverberations emanating from a sweat-filled outer space metal lounge. At times, they seemed to be reverting back to the post-hardcore intrigue bedecking ‘93s breakthrough Venus Luxure No. 1 Baby. As usual, guitarist Scott Mc Cloud’s grainy voice had the same raw-throated grit and urgent determination Psychedelic Furs’ Richard Butler relied upon in the early ‘80s. And his sensual swagger, chiseled good looks, and comfortable stage presence quickly brought to mind Roxy Music heartthrob Bryan Ferry.

The rumbling low end of dual bassists’ Johnny Temple and Eli Janney seemed deeper and darker than ever while sure-handed drummer Alexis Fleisig increased the rhythmic propulsion immensely. But it’s the pervasive alluring sexuality, cigarette-stained lungs, and suggestive lyrical ennui of Mc Cloud that provided focus and gave this seasoned outfit a nearly unmatched emotional virility that makes girls cream their jeans and guys want to start a band.

BUDDY GUY @ BOWERY BALLROOM

Live Reviews

Buddy Guy / Bowery Ballroom / June 1, 2001

After an apprenticeship in Muddy Waters band, authentic blues guitarist Buddy Guy took inspiration from B.B. King and Elmore James to become an extremely talented solo performer with a never-ending body of respected studio recordings. Late ‘60s solo albums such as A Man And The Blues and I Was Walkin’ Through The Woods established his reputation as one of the greatest post-World War II Chicago blues masters. Years hence, Guy continues to release astounding albums that build upon his legendary status.

Dropping the contemporary slickness debasing the otherwise superb Damn Right I Got The Blues for the raw Mississippi backwoods earthiness consuming latent Fat Possum Records’ discoveries R.L. Burnside, T-Model Ford, and the late Junior Kimbrough (whose “Baby Please Don’t Leave Me” and “Done Got Old” Guy rendered convincingly live as well as on record), this sly 65-year old wizard gets back to the vintage sound of his rural Delta upbringing. And ‘01s tradition-minded Sweet Tea is the unadulterated result.

Wearing overalls (his usual attire) and a processed hairdo at this Lower Manhattan hotspot, Guy dug deep into his emotional reservoir, moanin’ and groanin’ ‘bout pain and suffering like it’s nobody’s business. He delved into a host of worrisome songs made richer by a terrific band of experienced bluesmen. It was during the solo break in the soulful mantra, “Tramp” (not the Otis Redding and Carla Thomas’ standard), that Guy did what he loves to do best: walk through the crowd while unleashing some blistering guitar chords that drifted into the foggy air.

Remarkably, Guy always knows how to counter despair-ridden moodiness with humorous, casual asides, teasing the audience while gaining their trust. He also knows how to build intensity by going from fast and loud to slow and soft within the confines of a song. To offset his thick, creamy baritone, he sometimes reached for quivering falsetto notes that handsomely recalled Al Green or Prince in their prime. For the contemplative “Stay All Night,” he balanced hope and desire with anxiety and loneliness like only the best blues men can. His generous two-hour set was so funky you could smell it.

When Guy realized the midnight curfew was closing in, he put together an economical medley of blues standards that included his former mentor’s “Mannish Boy.” Make sure you don’t let Guy slip by. He’s a must see with talent to burn and more energy and verve than performers half his age.

GORKY’S ZYGOTIC MYNCI @ MERCURY LOUNGE

Live Reviews

Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci / Mercury Lounge / November 6, 1999

Never hemmed in by conventional ‘90s indie rock boundaries, versatile Welch band Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci was in the Big Apple to promote Spanish Dance Troupe, their breakthrough American release. While fellow compatriots from Wales, the Super Furry Animals, clashed loud, fuzzy, sonic feedback with high voltage rock playing the more spacious Bowery Ballroom a few months back, Gorky’s sound usually drifts through soft acoustical retreats with melancholic folk melodies. They remain a diamond in the rough gigging at the much smaller, more intimate Mercury Lounge.

With brown curly hair that covered his eyes when he leaned into the mike, youthful lead singer Euros Childs manipulated the keyboard while sister Megan glided her down home fiddle into traditional country and Classical folk territory. A brilliant, still maturing songwriter/ arranger, Euros slyly managed to skirt easy comparisons to soft-focus psychedelia, paisley glam-rock, and subtly shaded Velvet Underground sub-pop. Though at times he sang in a carefree, romantic style reminiscent of Bryan Ferry circa Roxy Music’s For The Country or yelped in an anxious, epileptic tone reminiscent of David Byrne’s earliest Talking Heads daze, Euros terse, witty originals gained a hazy dramatic tension all their own.

Early on, Euros’ insouciance pervaded this nights’ most rockin’ tune, “Poodle Rockin’,” a goofy dance party ditty that would have fit in nicely on Talking Heads ‘77. His whimsical mannerisms, witty verses, and sadly romantic understatements were second only to his sharp musical instinct. Though the humble band never engaged the audience with comforting between song remarks, asides, or rambling banter to break up the delicate tension, they handled themselves (and sundry instruments) professionally.

Surprisingly, they never appeared for an encore, even though the crowd clapped in unison and the soundman waited a few minutes before turning on the house lights and cranking up pre-recorded music. Nevertheless, between Euros’ compelling songs and his bands’ austere ability to interpret them well, the work they put into six underrated albums may finally be paying off.

GOMEZ READY TO ‘BRING IT ON’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Mindful British pop quintet, Gomez, just keep “Getting Better.” After their ’98 debut, Bring It On, won several awards, ‘99s Liquid Skin kept the ball rolling for ‘02s In Our Gun and ‘04s even better Split The Difference. ‘06s How We Operate deserved wider exposure and got some from t.v. programs, Grey’s Anatomy and House. ‘09s A New Tide has been getting good rotation at Fordham University’s WFUV. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

1998 winners of Britain’s prestigious Mercury Music Prize for their brilliant debut, Bring It On, Gomez rely on an intimate four-track approach which never limits a profound ability to give each song its own individual complexion. Coinciding with their newfound exposure, the democratic, post-teen quintet found time to record a snippet of the Beatles’ upbeat “Getting Better” for a popular Philips Electronics television commercial.

Gruff-throated tenor Ben Otterwell’s soulful tone and dexterous guitar usually lead the way. But guitarist-keyboardist Ian Ball, guitarist-bassist Paul ‘Blackie’ Blackburn, percussionist Olly Peacock, and bassist-guitarist Tom Gray all contribute compositional ideas, fleshing out intriguing arrangements over the course of time. From the wistful pop wonderment of “Here Comes The Breeze” to the wracked blues-y obtuseness of “Love Is Better Than A Warm Trombone,” Gomez never gets overwhelmed by their diversification. “Bubblegum Years” seems to deride ‘60s/’70s nostalgia with sordid wit: “lost souls/ you and I my dear/ whiskey bottle and a .45.” The totally rad boozy chant, “Get Myself Arrested,” could become a barroom staple with the right promotion. “Whippin’ Piccadilly” gets a lo-fi acoustic treatment reminiscent of Pavement or Sebadoh circa ‘94; and the hushed “Make No Sound” has the same dusky, neo-Classical feel as the Pernice Brothers best tunes.

At Maxwells in Hoboken, besides rendering faves from Bring It On, Gomez blends in some interesting new material that may appear on their next album. Poised and confident, the young combo held the attention of its fans for a solid one-hour set. Beforehand, I spoke to ‘Blackie’ Blackburn.

Was it a struggle to construct such complex arrangements for Bring It On?

BLACKIE: Not really. A lot of the enjoyment was just messing around with the songs. At the same time, we try to get away with certain idiosyncrasies and keep it entertaining. But there weren’t any big problems with the tunes. It’s just a matter of putting parts together.

How do you feel Gomez manages to wondrously merge disparate styles into coherent songs without sounding like antiquated knockoffs?

Good question. You got me. (laughter) I suppose you take an approach to a song and take time to get it down. Like with “Get Yourself Arrested,” we had seven friends in a room strumming guitars and our agent came to the studio and asked someone to sing. We tried to get everyone involved. On the chorus, about eight people sing. That song was actually about a guy who started dealing drugs and took on the whole persona of acting and dressing like a dealer. In the end, he got himself arrested and realized how stupid he was. It’s a play on people who take on false images and then get incorrectly stereotyped.

The only song which truly recalls a specific artist is the cracked swamp blues tune “Love Is Better Than A Warm Trombone.” It definitely borrows its essence from avant-garde bohemian Captain Beefheart.

Its title is a play on “Happiness Is A Warm Gun.” That song got kind of peculiar as we worked it out in the studio.

What new music have you been listening to lately?

Beck’s Mutation is great. It takes his music down to its bare roots. I like Ben Harper’s latest disc as well. He is absolutely amazing.

Give me some background of the coveted Mercury Music Prize Gomez won in ‘98. Did it affect record sales and help get the band recognized?

Sales did go up a bit. The Verve, Pulp, Cornershop, and Asian Dub Foundation have been nominated in the last few years. We’re happy to be nominated for doing something good. I’m not sure how they come up with a winner. They like to promote stuff people haven’t heard of and get underground music out into the open for mainstream audiences.

How will your next full-length disc differ from Bring It On?

We finished the album after Christmas. We had an eight-track and put ideas together for about three weeks. I think essentially our music is an interpretation of what has come before us. We try to take it forward in our own way.

Did you try to capture a larger audience by recording a catchy, mass appeal song like “Getting Better”?

I don’t know. I suppose we have a better understanding of how to approach our music. We’re aware that more people will be hearing it. The working title for the album is God’s Big Spaceship.

 

HOLLY GOLIGHTLY PROVES ‘TRULY SHE IS NONE OTHER’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Relying on old-fashioned rock ‘n soul to strike a chord with subterranean homesick dudes, British singer-songwriter began releasing an album per year since ’95. Her recent three albums fronting the Brokeoffs made no headway in America, but were rightfully critically praised in England. I spoke to the diminutive lass in ’03 to promote multihued delight, Truly She Is None Other.

You’ve got to hand it to Holly Golightly for sticking around just long enough to finally receive decent American exposure. Thanks to her association with underground icon Billy Childish, the indie-minded Brit began Thee Headcoatees (with a few ex-Delmonas) as a female-led alternative to her mentors’ similarly scruffy ‘80s scrap-rock splinter groups Thee Headcoats, the Milkshakes, the Pop Rivets, and Thee Mighty Caesars. Soon, she befriended vintage garage-rock denizen Liam Watson, whose London-based Toe-Rag Studios delivered the finest rough hewn ‘60s-related output. Yet despite moderate success in her homeland, Holly Golightly had failed to garner much US success despite a choice stockpile of respectable ‘90s material.

Luckily, just as the White Stripes were gaining international stardom, they recorded ‘03s critically lauded Elephant at Toe-Rag; bringing in the charmingly adolescent-voiced Holly Golightly for the off-handed coquette ditty, “It’s True That We Love Each Other.” This happy accident gave her kaleidoscopic Truly She Is None Other the forward thrust necessary to attract American listeners. Incidentally, Jack White furnishes sincere liner notes.

Beginning with the echoing controlled exhortation “Walk A Mile,” Holly Golightly’s liberated nasal sneer brings back sexy memories of boot-kickin’ Nancy Sinatra. That is, when she’s not reminding us of ‘60s girl groups the Shangri-La’s and Ronettes on the Kinks go-go confection “Time Will Tell” or the spare dare “You Have Yet To Win” (which seemingly crosses Mickey & Sylvia’s “Love Is Strange” with the Mc Coys’ “Hang On Sloopy”). Interestingly, an unreleased Kinks song, the haunting “Tell Me Now So I Know,” she claims to have picked up from her father, who went to art school with Ray Davies. But the best bet may be her own “This Ship,” a melancholic bass-throbbed lethargy delivered in the manner of “To Sir With Love” singer, Lulu.

Furthermore, since Holly Golightly provided sultry lead vocals to the Greenhornes’ cryptic Dual Mono cut “There Is An End,” she was able to then borrow it as None Others’ twangy spaghetti Western closer and convince guitarist Eric Stein to play on a few numbers. Coming full circle, former Milkshakes drummer Bruce Brand handles drums throughout.

I’ve heard strange rumors via the internet. One claims you were a swinging New York City socialite on the ‘60s folk scene, but you’re too young for that to be true. Another says you got into fisticuffs after drinking Nick Lowe under the table at a British pub in the ‘70s. Lastly, you supposedly told Mick Jones to change the name of pre-punk rockers the 101er’s to the Clash.

HOLLY GOLIGHTLY: (laughing) No. Somebody made that up for lack of proper information. I started with Thee Headcoatees. I hooked up with Billy Childish when he was in the Milkshakes and I’d go see them play. We’ve known each other a long time.

Are there any major musical deviations from your ’96 solo debut, The Good Things, up until now?

I don’t think this album is that different from the first one. I don’t think the songs are that different. I chose the same kind of songs I did years ago. To me, they’re all different from one another, but from the same collection. ‘97s Laugh It All Up! was a covers LP with Ike Turner, Willie Dixon, and the Jaynettes songs. It was mainly Rhythm & Blues, though I did a Kinks cover as well. ‘98s Up The Empire and Live In America (from 2000) were live albums. Serial Girlfriend (’98), for the most part, was actually recorded at home. I took it to Toe-Rag to do overdubs. So they sound slightly different from each other.

After a rush of releases there was a two-year layoff.

I was living in San Francisco for nine months and wasn’t recording. I had a double album singles compilation, Singles Round Up, and a re-issued German release. They filled the gap while I was away.

You seem to pick up a few soul music influences along the way.

Yes, I don’t listen to much white music. Generally I listen to black music like old R & B, soul, and Blues.

Unlike most white female artists – give or take Susan Tedeschi, you interpret black bluesmen rather effectively. I believe Jesse Mae Robinson’s gloomy ‘40s dirge “Black Night” had never been recorded by another woman.

That’s right. I think that’s what makes it charming – what makes it interesting. I don’t buy contemporary music. In my CD player now is a Jimmy Mc Griff disc. He’s a Hammond organ Blues player.

How’d you come up with the medley, “You Have Yet To Win,” which reminds me of early Rolling Stones?

I got the idea for that from an old Little Milton soul track. It’s three songs pasted together, It’s probably the most complicated thing I’ve done in terms of it being original. I like monotony and keeping a song the same all the way through. That’s the exception.

Garage rock icon Sexton Ming joins you on the B-side to the “Walk A Mile” single, “Don’t Fuck Around With Love.” How’d that collaboration come together?

Sexton comes from the same part of the country and is friends with Billy. He was just hanging around and we thought it would be fun to do that as a duet. I’ve known him since I was 15. Sexton played drums with us in Hamburg a month and a half ago.

Have you been receiving better exposure due to the White Stripes track?

Yeah. Certainly. That’s a given. People read my name on their CD and buy my record. But what I do is very different. It’s gotten more people to come out and see us because they’re curious. I can’t think of anybody that’s doing the type of music we’re doing.

What are the former Headcoatees doing now? Getting pregnant?

One of them is. Another is a psychiatric nurse and the other is a potter. We’ve gone our separate ways.

Does it get more difficult to turn out so much material in a short stretch?

I just keep recording as I go on. I’ve got songs in the can ready for the next record. I’ll put them together in the studio when I have free time.

On your slower songs, you croon like a diva.

I think that’s something you have to aspire to. No. I just get up and deliver songs in a business-like manner. There isn’t much of a strategy at all.

Are you inspired by ‘60s pop singers such as Ronnie Spector or Nancy Sinatra?

I hope my music has a little more timeless quality than just emulating the ‘60s. Most of the songs have quite contemporary subject matter. The songs are about different things and go in more directions than that. I don’t want the songs to sound like they were made 35 years ago.

GOLDEN PALOMINOS NEVER FEEL ‘DEAD INSIDE’

Interviews, ,

Image result for GOLDEN PALOMINOS

FOREWORD: Golden Palominos were a revolving experimental troupe from Manhattan led by Cleveland-bred composer-percussionist Anton Fier and permanent fixtures Nicky Skopelitis (guitar) and Bill Laswell (bass). I met Fier in ’96 to promote Golden Palominos final album, Dead Inside, a one-time collaboration with feminist-poet Nicole Blackman. He has maintained a low profile since. His first and only solo disc, Dreamspeed, dropped in ’94.

As for the lovely Blackman, I befriended this adorably sarcastic vixen ‘round Dead Inside’s release, giving plaudits to her spoken word performances and Golden Palominos venture. I took my family to see her rather satirically squalid poetry reading during a tiny music fest at Tompkins Square Park. A decade forward, I caught up to her at a Girls Against Boys reunion show at Mercury Lounge. She was dressed to the nines. It seems she was right about her Karma Boomerang Theory (read below). Blackman, by this time, had gotten enough publicity from Dead Inside to audition for and become one of the most popular t.v. voiceover sales pitchmen, promoting Chrysler, Ford, Blockbuster, and Verizon (not that the Nicole Blackman I know really gives a fuck about these viper-like corporate dinosaurs). This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Anton Fier’s highly experimental Golden Palominos have successfully fused jazz, rhythm & blues, and rock elements into modern electronic music since 1983. A brief chronological history shows Fier collaborating with no wave guitar master Arto Lindsay, free form reedist John Zorn, funk bassist Jamaaladeen Tacuma, conceptual sound designer Bill Laswell, rock pioneer Fred Frith, and instinctive jazz/ rock visionary Nicky Skopelitis on the Golden Palominos sparkling ’83 debut. ‘85s Visions Of Excess and ‘86s Blast Of Silence followed, incorporating rock luminaries Michael Stipe, John Lydon, Richard Thompson, Jack Bruce, Syd Straw, and T-Bone Burnett. ‘89s ambient changeup, A Dead Horse took Bernie Worrell and Mick Taylor to task with Skopelitis and Laswell. ‘91s Drunk With Passion surrounded Stipe and Thompson with Bob Mould while both ‘93s This Is How It Feels and ‘94s Pure brought onboard exquisite vocalist Lori Carson.

But while Carson’s lyrical imagery and soft as a kitten voice sprinkled Fier’s dreamscapes with gold dust, spoken word ingenue Nicole Blackman helps Fier throw caution to the wind on the Golden Palominos eighth release, Dead Inside. By slinging mud at downsized American dreams and the victims left in its wake, Blackman recounts depressing obsessions and disturbing dilemmas with scatological intensity and unparalleled wit. Along with guitarist Knox Chandler and bassist Bill Laswell, Dead Inside may be the most ambitious step forward yet for Fier’s revolving unit.

“I see music as a religious cleansing,” asserts Fier. “With this record, I consciously changed directions out of the need to do it both musically and personally. I came to this point subtly. When my life starts to feel stale and I want to distance myself from what I’ve previously done, there’s a reaction involved. And at this juncture I wanted to make as pure a record as I could make. All my other collaborations seemed to be a compromise – which was only natural. I approached this record as if it was the last record I’d ever make. There was little compromise and it was less cliched.”

He ascertains, “Music is the language I feel most comfortable with when I’m exploring my own personality and problems. Music allows me to get in touch spiritually. Instead of going to church and praying, I do it by redefining my music.”

But lest any music critic term his music ambient, ‘illbient,’ or transient, Fier seems both apprehensive and fascinated with others labeling his music.

“DJ Spooky is representative of the illbient scene. My music is quite different. It’s inspired by Eno’s Music For Airports and Discreet Music. And before that, by people in the ‘30’s who experimented with drone. Terms like illbient are created to help sell something. If I had one hope, it would be to one day create music indigenous of itself. I’m just out here living a life as best I can. I’m a one-dimensional person. At 3, I became aware of music. And by 10 or 11 years old, I thought I wanted to be a musician. But the art of playing music is different than the art of making records. In recording studios, I learned how records were made. And I’ve been blessed with the people around me, both personally and musically. They made my childhood dream a reality. I’m not about to judge other musicians’ motives or intentions. To me, it’s how I deal with the world in an uncompromising fashion.”

When asked which records inspired him as a youngster, Fier admits, “As a kid, I responded to novelty records, then, the Beatles and Stones and psychedelic music. If I had to name a record that was a true influence, I’d say On The Corner by Miles Davis. It came out in ‘74 after Jack Johnson and Miles At Fillmore. When I first heard it, I found it to be a step in a transcending direction. It’s not rock or jazz. It was an electronic fusion with tabla and it was rhythm oriented. I still listen to it once a week. And it got negative reviews when released. But I once saw a great quote which stated, ‘all criticism is transient, only the work itself remains constant.’ And with my works, I try to respond instinctively to the process of recording. If it feels right, go with it.”

It was during the summer of ’95 when Fier hooked up with Nicole Blackman, a busy New York artist-publicist whose piercing diatribes and psychosexual analogies confront despair, self-doubt and hopelessness with pinpoint accuracy. After reluctantly appearing on KMFDM’s Xtort LP, and the subsequent tour, which brought her anguished nightmares to an international audience, Blackman was chosen over a few potential candidates to write lyrics for Dead Inside. Her liberating and disturbing images set the thematic flow of the disc in motion.

“With Nicole, I felt able to explore uncharted territory. She allowed me to have tremendous freedom. She didn’t bring a traditional songwriting sense to the project,” Fier says.

Blackman maintains, “At no time during the compositions did Anton say ‘ooh, that’s spooky’ or ‘what’s going on.’ Others would feel trepidation or nervousness about the emotional violence in my pieces. But it was incredibly thrilling and terrifying to be under such pressure writing for a score. I never knew when we would hit a breaking point. If we do another collaboration, I don’t know if we could get any darker. It may not be appropriate. Anton thinks maybe we should go in the opposite direction. Basically, every character on the record is in some form of transition, whether it’s to change their life or prepare for death. Maybe the next record will deal with people who’ve already made their decisions and people who have no more options.”

Blackman’s aggressive poetry has been compared favorably to a few male angst writers, but nary a female writer. She’s neither a traditional poet nor a typical spoken word performer. And sometimes her character pieces detail accounts she experienced firsthand. She ease drops on conversations and picks up tidbits of information, playing Harriet the Spy gathering evidence against unsuspected people.

“It’s very easy for me to separate myself from my works, “Blackman insists. “I hear Dead Inside as a snuff film watched with eyes closed. It’s very cinematic. Like a film score composer, I try to fit the mood of the basic rhythm track. I’d listen to 10-minute tape loops with my headphones on in the dark and link my lyrics to music. “Thirst,” in essence, is a love song. But its words were originally put to ‘Drown.” Then Anton decided to put the Lawrence Of Arabia epic sounds in there. It’s like a caravan with camels and billowy things.”

While Blackman claims money is not an immediate consideration, she believes in the Karma Boomerang Theory. “If you throw enough good energy around and help people for free, somehow it will come back to you and fall into your lap.”