DEXATEENS “TOO DUMB TO QUIT” ON ‘HARDWIRE HEALING’

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Dozens of worthy ‘Confederate’ garage combos place emphasis on real or imagined liquored-up bravado to push across their assertively masculine clamor. Unlike notorious ‘70s-sojourned Alabama slammers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, astoundingly undervalued present-day denizens such as white-knuckled cow-punks Slobberbone, backwoods blues-hounds the Neckbones, folk-blues truck-stoppers North Mississippi Allstars, and, offhandedly, sci-fi surf rockers Man Or Astroman, never received the recognition due them. Hopefully that may change somewhat with the latest round of younger Dixie dwellers.

Dexateens frontman Elliott McPherson is a working class cabinetmaker with a wife, two kids, and three (or more) band mates. Formerly in developmental group, the Phoebes, as a post-pubescent adolescent, he and long-time drinking pal, Craig ‘Sweet Dog’ Pickering soon began jamming together in respected college town, Tuscaloosa. Attending University of Alabama alongside kindred spirits, bassist Matt Patton (Who-fueled Model Citizen axe man) and guitarist John Smith (ex-American Cosmic), the spunky crew became youthful protégés of local rebel rousers, the Quadrajets.

“Pay The Deuce is one of my all-time favorites,” McPherson maintains. “It sounds like it was recorded with the tape and band literally on fire. When we heard that, we ended up using the same staff for our self-titled debut. (Experienced Texas garage-punk lynchpin) Tim Kerr did production. We were so inspired by that record. Thank goodness we got entirely different results. That Quadrajets lineup was completely off the hook live.”

Some have compared the Dexateens formative ’04 debut to ‘60s psych-rock legends, the 13th Floor Elevators, but McPherson claims it was closer to “gritty shit kickin’ punk.” As the band progressed, they tended to gradually mellow over time, as ‘05s Red Dust Highway leaned towards humble Southern-fried hoe-downs.

Simialrly, ‘07s diversified breakthrough, Hardwire Healing (Skybucket Records), presents a trusty collage of earthy Blues contrivances, lazy 6-string strolls, and delicate acoustic turnabouts. Nevertheless, hard-hitting Neil Young-distilled grinder “Makers Mound” brings the noise counteracting simmering changeups such as ‘Downtown,” a sleepy-eyed respite suggesting tragic lo-fi minstrel Elliott Smith’s pallid tranquility.

“I wasn’t allowed to listen to (modern) rock as a kid,” McPherson admits. “I had a bunch of my dad’s old 45’s by Elvis Presley and Lesley Gore. I remember listening to lots of Waylon & Willie in the early ‘80s. But John Smith’s always been the cool kid on the block, even though he’s not a hipster by any stretch of the imagination. At 17, I was in a band with his brother. John turned me on to Velvet Underground and the Stooges. He’s responsible for most of the stuff I know. I was completely sheltered not having rock in my house. My family didn’t think it was morally correct.”

That, of course, changed when McPherson started college and met friends who’d open his mind. Though there was no formal Tuscaloosa scene, defunct club, The Chukker, provided limited exposure. However, Athens, Georgia, 100 miles northeast, had many bands sharing a special camaraderie with much larger audiences.

McPherson explains, “They were making soulful music in Athens. You take things away from every relationship developed and it enhances what you do creatively by getting sucked into it. Besides, Tuscaloosa has become real corporate and they’re trying to fit in as many people as they can lately. Our football coach (Nick Saban) we’re paying millions.”

Co-producers David Barbe (Sugar alumnus and Son Volt board man) and Patterson Hood (Drive-by Truckers mastermind) helped guide Hardwire Healing towards broadened versatility, permitting sundry melodious colors and sonic textures to forge a wide-ranging musical spectrum.

“We knew we’d have a fun vibe – drink beer, laugh, tell stories, and roll tape,” McPherson informs. “It was very laid-back and peaceful, done in one day, eight songs. People compare us to Drive-By Truckers. Patterson laid his hands on our songs, but not specifically. He knew how to let us groove on a beat.”

Nonetheless, strangely sedate saunter, “What Money Means,” and twangin’ agrarian allegory, “Fyffe,” undeniably recall DBT’s grimaced hillbilly grime.

About the latter fictitious song, McPherson says, “In Buhl, where I live, there are crazily paranoid rednecks who feel the government is holding out on them. Fyffe is a nearby area with various UFO sightings. Patterson had a great song about putting people on the moon. But this was a completely different and comical stab. Patterson’s a fan of E minor and that song’s in that key.”

Another Hardwire Healing highlight, “Neil Armstrong,” sustains a rural alt-Country contentment reminiscent of reticent ‘80s trailblazers, Uncle Tupelo. Written by Smith for his old band, the resonantly euphonious tune begs an individual to get real, be honest, and come back to earth as pastoral slide guitar glides through sensitive vocalizing in a manner indicative of the Flying Burrito Brothers. Also redolent of the Burritos, specifically their revered Country-rock pioneer, Gram Parsons, is undiluted acoustical folk retread, “Own Thing.” Perhaps most appealing, lead track “Naked Ground” plies coil-y Southern rock twin guitar lattice to dirtied-up Delta Blues ruggedness.

McPherson accepts the last notion, avowing respect to a few distinguished folk-Blues septuagenarians. “We spent a lot of time with T-Model Ford and Paul Jones. We got to do short tours with both. I remember hearing T-Model the first time. I’d never heard anyone play guitar like that. He didn’t have a clue what the pentatonic scale was. There are all these asshole Blues guys doing Stevie Ray Vaughan guitar licks. Here you got this guy from the country who learned guitar in his 50’s and has more soul and heart than any of those fakes.”

Next on tap for the Dexateens is an EP entitled “Lost & Found,” featuring Smith’s Big Star-influenced songs written while he was away from the band. Plus, an ‘08 full length monster truck-enthused disc, Single Wide, recorded in Nashville, will showcase totally acoustic songs with live vocals, no drums, but varied percussion affects. They evidently overdubbed the hell out of it.

“We’re not a band that writes ballads,” McPherson shrugs. “It’s just a natural progression coming out of our teen years with fire and energy and piss and vinegar. We’re together a long time and our music has morphed into what it is. But I don’t want Single Wide to come out like Hotel California.”

Auspiciously, several indigenous players fill in onstage when McPherson’s core members need to take care of homebound business (or family) obligations. The traveling troupe variably includes Woggles drummer Dan Electro, Model Citizen bassist Craig Gates, Benders guitarist Tommy Sorrels, and charismatic Spidereaters leader Taylor Hollingsworth.

Disturbingly, CMJ Music Marathon has put the Dexateens on the backburner for its annual October New York shindig. McPherson snips, “We’re on standby. Fuck that!”

He concludes, “I don’t know. We may be too dumb to quit. But we certainly have retained a good amount of interested fans. We’re not willing to trade our families to go out on the road for an extended period of time. We go to Europe occasionally and have received a nice response. But we haven’t made it to New York City yet.”

THE COMAS REAWAKEN FOR ‘CONDUCTOR’

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Born in Oklahoma, graduating high school in Knoxville, then settling in Chapel Hill, Andy Herod was the eldest son of two adventurously roaming hippie parents. Now temporarily living in Brooklyn for several years and contemplating a Hollywood move, Herod leads radiant combo, The Comas.

Conceived in North Carolina with gifted guitarist Nicole Gehweiler in ‘98, the extended duo initially grabbed attention when ‘99s formative Wave To Make Friends garnered local praise. Signed to local boutique label, Plastique, The Comas would soon set the underground rock world afire with ‘00s magnificent step forward, A Def Needle In Tomorrow.

“Our initial recording was a little rough. We weren’t serious. There were a couple good songs,” Herod shares in my van prior to hitting Luna Lounge’s stage for a sterling hour-long set. “Then we got Brian Paulson (Jayhawks/ Wilco/ Son Volt) to produce Def Needle, and Yep Roc Records signed us.”

“It cost $1,200 to record the debut, done in two weeks on 16-track. The next was $4,000 and was a sheer labor of love. By the end, we almost killed each other, but it was worth it. It was bigger than the band. I’ve never felt the records had to necessarily represent exactly what the material make up of the band is. It’s more like what do you want the record to sound like, then try to achieve that live. It should be as lush as you want, without thought of how to replicate it live. It should be a big, fun mesh.”

Contrasting soft eroticism against loud multi-tiered guitar shards, the densely viscous shoe-gazed hailstorm, Def Needle, validated The Coma’s compellingly suspenseful expression. Powerfully moving in terms of sunken feelings yielding moody heartbreak, its sonic fuzz-toned cacophonies, starry-eyed glam-pop maneuvers, and temporal Goth-glanced orchestrations accurately supplemented Herod’s well-articulated melancholic sentiments. At times, withered harmonies thaw inside sublime cathedral organ drones.

Next came an unexpected therapeutic undertaking to “kill the pain” of lost love. Depressed by the breakup with sweet-faced Dawson’s Creek starlet Michelle Williams and reeling from then-label Warner Brothers’ blunt rejection of his material, the stunningly fervid dirges Herod composed for ‘04s uniform Conductor slipped into a dark abyss. Accompanied by a perfectly surreal semi-animated DVD utilizing automatons, army figures, mannequins, and snowflake designs to steel gird hazily shadowed Industrial scenes (including cutesy ex Williams on gloomy SWAT-teamed apocalyptic swoon “Tonight On The WB”), its dimly-lit imagery unravels with flashback-sequenced acoustic epilogue, “Falling.” Buzz-y beat-driven psychosis, “Invisible Drugs,” became the colossal implosive highlight.

Herod claims, “At that point, we were under pressure to make something more cohesive and grounded to get the songs across. We tried to get a real producer but the results were awful and slick. We learned patience the hard way and that not everyone knows what’s best for us. My friend, Alan Weatherhead, an amazing guy from band, Sparklehorse, then did the production – a lovely recording experience at Richmond’s Sound Of Music. It was more personal. Warner didn’t care for it anymore, but we made what we wanted. The movie has a different perspective. In L.A., I met a bunch of people who watch it regularly projected on walls while eating mushrooms floating in pools. But the movie never connected with me. Hopefully, it was above and beyond the sum of its parts. I get a vicarious thrill through its success.”

Newfound assuredness seeps into ‘07s glossy psych-pop masterpiece, Spells, made with vital newcomers Matt Sumrow (piano-organ), Jason Caperton (bass), and Nic Gonzales (drums). A hazy melodic glaze consumes the hook-filled opener, “Red Microphones.” Streamlined emotional purge “Come My Sunshine” and lusciously resonant “Stoneded” soothe the soul while sad-sack confessional “Thistledown” bestows backwards flutes a la “Strawberry Fields Forever.” A molasses-thick Jesus & Mary Chain-like melting-in-the-sun synthesizer-guitar sheen coats disheveled serenade, “Now I’m A Spider.” Spectacular anthemic blazer, “New Wolf,” scampers along like an insanely penetrating gothic nightmare. Spells’ overall melodramatic intrigue seems redolent of the Dandy Warhols, one convenient inspirational influence amongst many less obvious ones.

Herod admits, “I got into the Beatles through my parents. But the Pixies got to me in high school. I started The Comas afterwards. Seeing Spiritualized a few times was amazing. I realized that after Jason Pierce joined Spaceman 3, he’d put something together that was trippy and mellow, yet heavy – heartbreaking love songs. We don’t sound like them, though.”

Lyrically, Herod’s extremely coy and moderately caustic, allowing listeners to find hidden abstract meanings in each tune and possibly, every album appellation.

“I was stuck for Def Needle’s title when I mistakenly heard the phrase from friend, Laird Dixon, of band Shark Quest,” he says. “We were drunk outside the bar and I asked when I’d see him again and he said “definitely tomorrow.” Conductor, as in conduct electricity or conductor of an orchestra or running a train engine, had several interpretations. After its recording, the movie story concerns a scientist obsessed with the moon who goes off the rail. I saw him as conducting madness through the moon put back out at the world. Spells, as in ‘put a spell on,’ in conjunction with the panic attacks I was having at the time from anxiety building up, and the fact it hadn’t been used as an album title before, seemed to suffice.”

Not one to sit in limbo, Herod spent ’06 downtime playing bass in anachronous pop romantics, Bishop Allen.

“Our release date for Spells was months away. So I went out with them on tour. They’re some of my best friends. I’m in trouble drinking too much if I’m bored,” the part-time bartender asserts.

Onstage at Brooklyn’s Luna Lounge, bearded chestnut-haired Herod’s expressive facial smirks and darting eyes prove captivating as he casually shakes a tambourine or adds rhythm guitar. At one point, he breaks out a megaphone to exude the sagacious profundity of climactic whir, “Wicked Elm.” Blonde-haired Gehweiler, wearing a silken lavender skirt (with hemmed floral prints), looks delicious purveying ferociously dynamic impressionistic leads above the tidy rhythm section. Both seem extremely poised, emphatically jumping up and down when not offering verbal symmetry or digging deep for expeditious instrumental phrasing.

“I moved to Brooklyn because I wanted to make the most out of making a record. Mission accomplished,” Herod confesses. “But it’s easy to get wrapped up in New York City, so I’m leaving for L.A. There’s ten times the love for The Comas out there. It’s more of a sunny party vibe. I know the Rentals and Earlimart as friends. I could get free studio time, and our label, Vagrant, is there. The band may stay in New York, but I’m light. I could pack up and go easily.”

Will the change of venue modify The Comas sound?

“I hope so – onward and upward. I’m really optimistic about moving. It’s a beat-down here to pay rent or have a car.”

GET UP WITH THE GO

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Image result for THE GO

Though singer-guitarist Bobby Harlow grew up in “super-cushy” Detroit suburb, Royal Oak, with future musical partners Marc Fellis (drums) and John Krautner (rhythm guitar-bass), their nascent musical offerings favored scrappy urban-drudged working class spunk. Thrust forth by the heralded late-‘90s Motor City retro rock revival, the triad’s tersely named outfit, The Go, once included a greener Jack White – but that’s just a well publicized back story.

Truth is, The Go began as a tattered teen band looking for a killer lead guitarist to fully energize their noisily apoplectic garage leanings. Over time, their scruffy elemental restlessness would be superceded by more melodic tunefulness while White became a shining red and white-attired star.

“I try to be as creative as possible. The new album title, Howl on the Haunted Beat You Ride, means anything goes,” Harlow allows. “In ’96, John and I were in Mark’s basement making demos – thirty songs no one’s ever heard. Who knew what would happen. I enjoy taking art seriously, but I also like cultivating the ability to laugh at the ridiculous.”

And what might be construed as ludicrously comical is the whole world endorsed the White Stripes without taking a good look at its trailblazing leaders’ past – until now. White helped The Go shape the raw ‘60s-informed amateurism ramshackle ’99 debut Whatcha Doin’ so determinedly accrued.

Murkily menaced voices and cryptic sonic cacophonies lurked inside every gritty fuzz-toned scamper. Gusty feedback scrum, “You Can Get High,” musty guitar-sputtered “Suzy Don’t Leave,” and searing howler “Meet Me At The Movies” recalled the wild primitivism of fellow Michigan precursors the Stooges, MC5, and early Alice Cooper. Chug-a-lug broken-down boogie, “Summer Sun Blues,” willfully defied illumination.

Foreshadowing the trademark six-string stammer Jack White’s popular rudimentary duo (with drumming ex-wife Meg) would make fabulously ubiquitous, the repetitively hook-driven “Keep On Trash” induced the loudest shotgun blast.

“We wrote “Keep On Trash” together in rehearsal. I did chorus and words. Jack had verse and riff,” Harlow affirms. “Jack was good friends with our old bassist, Dave Buick, the James Dean of Detroit and genius behind Italy Records. John and I had stood stage-front watching his old country-styled band, Two Star Tabernacle, once. So we went to Dave’s house to get Jack to join. He was on the couch, said yes emphatically, and was thrilled to join a rock band. It was his dream”

He continues, “ Trouble was, he may’ve worked it out separating church and state doing both the Raconteurs and White Stripes, but when it came to The Go, he couldn’t. His vibe was too strong. So is his routine with red and white, the number three, and the (faux) sister-brother boy-girl act. We butted heads. We were young bulls trying to run down that hill.”

In fact, some leftover unreleased Jack White sessions with The Go will see the light of day soon. Harlow calls them bad tape recordings that don’t relinquish or diminish the combo’s initial primal lo-fi splotch.

Luckily for The Go, the loss of White was improbably short-lived as talented lead guitarist James Mc Connell stepped in. An extremely exciting musician who’d maybe bounced around the underground bar circuit, he praised blues masters Hound Dog Taylor and John Lee Hooker as well as virile rockers Mick Taylor (ex-Rolling Stones) and Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith (MC5). Mc Connell’s buttressed leads aided The Go’s self-titled ‘03 sophomore disc (on tiny Lizard King), bringing aboard a germane dirtied-up R & B resolve pivotal to The Go’s development.

But Harlow recounts how he scrapped the original sessions, feeling averse to its polished sheen.

“The ‘red album,’ as we call it, was done in England and was too pristine. The whole London experience, setting up shop in Whitney Houston’s studio for ten days and being catered by a house cook, was too much. You can’t give rockers anything they want and expect the album to sound good. We went into a smaller nearby studio, fixed it, went back to Detroit, threw it on cassette, and gave it to the mastering engineer.”

Moreover, former label Sub Pop had rejected the soon-to-be-latently released Free Electricity three years hence, claiming it was ‘too noisy.’ But a laughing Harlow differs. “No. It was more of a pissing war. I mean, they signed (cataclysmic noise-mongers) Wolf Eyes.”

No such perilous obstructions got in the way of Howl on the Haunted Beat You Ride, issued by local pal (and Dirtbombs drummer) Ben Blackwell’s boutique Cass Records. A newfound cordial lyricism and richly dynamic melodiousness pervade Harlow’s sneering misanthropic deviance. Krautner’s paradoxical love tryst, “You Go Bangin’ On” leads the barrage as Harlow’s boogie piano and foggy “Shortnin’ Bread” harmonica underscore its crackling exuberance, peculiarly imbibing ‘80s garage lynchpins the Chesterfield Kings and Fleshtones more than any specific pre-punk fountainhead.

Then again, similarly constructed dispatch, “Down A Spiral” beckons underrated surf-inspired ‘60s hot rod instrumentalist David Allen. Further diversifying the fine set are psychedelic sun-drenched six-string snicker, “Help You Out,” and the reluctant “Smile,” a laid-back echo-drenched restrainer crossing Velvet Underground’s tranquil “Sunday Morning” with the Association’s wispy harmonic pop bromides. Earnest dreamy-eyed charmer, “Caroline,” explores a heretofore unbeknownst soft side and balmy countrified soul chestnut, “Yer Stoned Italian Cowboy,” hearkens back to simmered Small Faces/ Humble Pie blues-rock. Pastoral entreaty, “Maryann,” clips the Four Seasons’ sadly wooed “Rag Doll” harmonies for spiffy accentuation.

Most unexpectedly, The Go give beat poet Allen Ginsberg’s “Refrain” a suitably spherical, highly hallucinogenic, stony-eyed, Woodstock-era glaze.

Harlow says, “That’s a beautiful poem. Awhile back, I was playing lots of Ginsberg’s poems. I wanted to put one to music without forcing it. I found seven that’d work as songs instead of a corny poem put to music. That one sounded like someone at a kitchen table recording at 6 A.M. It’s what we wanted.”

Glad to be totally DIY via production and recording, Harlow insists, right or wrong, it’s the only way for him to go right now.

“There’s no interpreters standing between us and the machines. These are our decisions and ideas come to life. Sometimes engineers made decisions- shape of bass or tom tone, but this music came directly from our minds,” Harlow proudly declares. “There’s a place in the world for this. It sounds like classic rock and roll, but it’s new, same for the White Stripes. Some say they’re Led Zeppelin rip-offs, but I feel sorry if that’s all you get out of them. Don’t rob yourself of the experience.”

Though the influence seems indirect, Harlow admits being a fervid fan of The Who. Wearing mod suits on occasion might be a trivial giveaway, but it’s obvious many legendary rockers have profoundly influenced The Go’s blaring intensity.

“The structures, arrangements, and pop formula may be different, but it’s the same process,” Harlow notifies. “We absorb classic records while searching for obscurities. On a recent long drive, we found The Who’s Live At Leeds for $10. And A Quick One While He’s Away may be their best. Abbey Road I could still listen to end to end. I can’t get over it. I’ve been listening to Sgt. Pepper with headphones on forever. It’s magic. The Beatles were four poor kids who grew to make beautiful records. The first Velvet Underground and Jimi Hendrix albums are brilliant. Focusing on that positivity is key when approaching our music instead of being self-defeated and saying no one will ever make another Beggar’s Banquet. Why not?”

Understandably, Harlow awaits the next Age of Aquarius, due to hit the universe, according to his estimates, in 2012.

“I stayed in Denver with people who introduced us to the Dalai Lama. This woman explained how they’ve traveled non-stop for a peace group helping refugees get clean water and such. In the Age of Aquarius, anything can happen. Male-female energy could be in perfect balance or something could go tragically wrong.” He concludes, “Back to the timeless ‘60s, we’re intellectual slaves to those artists’ conquests. Maybe it’ll happen again. How’d Lou Reed hook up with Jim Morrison and hang out in the same place and become legends. We had glimpses thereafter, perhaps (Joy Division’s) Ian Curtis, maybe my old buddy Jack White.”

THE HIGH STRUNG ‘GET THE GUESTS’

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This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Though singer-guitarist Josh Malerman’s pursuit to be a respected novelist remains in check, his brilliant wordplay sustains the High Strung’s malleable pop-rooted sprightliness. Perhaps too garrulously fey to be cool enough for punks and too weirdly discursive for mainstream acceptance, his sturdy midwest trio simply craft contagiously hook-filled tunes in a playfully eclectic manner.

Malerman’s father, a doo-wop and Buddy Holly enthusiast, introduced the pre-pubescent tyke to early rock and roll while living in affluent Detroit suburb, West Bloomfield. But his son seemed more interested in being track and field captain than wily composer. A former museum curator with a keen eye for canvas paintings, he began playing music at an overripe age, acquiring his skills attending lengthy do-it-yourself basement sessions. In accordance with his fidgety nervous energy, Malerman provided the bands’ suitable moniker, the High Strung, in 2000, a distinctive designation verified by schoolyard buddies Chad Stocker (bass), Derek Berk (drums), and ex-singer Mark Owen (who subsequently quit).

“I didn’t learn guitar ‘til I was twenty, but I had tremendous enthusiasm” Malerman affirms.

Now thirty, he has completely transformed into one of underground pop’s best compositional architects.

“Chad and Derek originally said, ‘You write, we play. Let’s get together.’ We initially did instrumentals,” he happily recollects. “They bought me a Farfisa organ and we sat in the basement and I learned it. After a year, I thought it was limiting, but I was smitten with writing songs. It was exhilarating. They were into the Ramones, Eno, and Flaming Lips. It was a latent hardcore education. Was I reliving adolescence or was I just stuck there?”

The High Strung’s developmental debut, These Are Good Times, got the ball rolling for ‘05s captivatingly upbeat and splendidly imitative Moxie Bravo (deservedly endorsed as a masterpiece by Guided By Voices indie pop lynchpin, Bob Pollard).

Malerman’s warbled bari-tenor quaver burrows through buzzy guitar-bass scruff on inviting ‘60s-styled garage rocker, “Never Saw It As Union,” variably evoking comparisons to early Beatles, a scrappier Marshall Crenshaw, and the Nightcrawlers’ foremost bubblegum smash “Little Black Egg.” Taut hip-shakin’ power popper “Anything Goes” charges out of the gate with a customarily slick three-chord angularity while organ-saturated celebration “The Luck You Got” has a spat-out lo-fi rollick primordial hipster Gary U.S. Bonds once embraced.

Pete Townshend’s Who-like guitar flange, Steve Marriott’s Small Faces-laced half-spoken raggedy flutter, and the Kinks satirical conservative bash “A Well Respected Man” all seep into paradoxical send-up, “The Gentleman.” Recalling pre-LSD-soaked psychedelia with its echoplexed six-string fury, freaked-out neurotic lyrical admissions, and mod-derived Keith Moon-y drum spasms, Moxie Bravo’s curvaceously tension-filled escapades, shrewdly updated ‘60s Brit-rock sniggles, and prettied up anthemic raves splatter engagingly clever euphonies across a rich sonic tapestry.

Soon, word spread that the High Strung would embark on a very unusual promotional expedition. Then, in ‘06, the troika audaciously booked an unconventional 60-city library jaunt documented by National Public Radio’s This American Life. Besides having a strong emotional connection to the music he has grown to love, Malerman’s totally psyched about hitting the highway so frequently.

“It’s easier for us to go out ten months a year on tour. We already went through the ‘fuck you’ stage in eighth grade (instead of working out the kinks as young adults),” Malerman says. “Our tour with Son Volt was unbelievable – 1,000 people per night in every city. We drank so much I was wore out and exhausted afterwards. It was a heightened tour, but we drove our little bus just like we did to libraries.” He adds, “That Minutemen (touring) video, We Jam Econo, blew our minds. I didn’t disagree with one goddamn thing they stood for, said, sang, and played. It was insane. That’s how I feel about music.”

Continuing to improve upon the High Strung’s winningly resourceful backdated entrenchment, ‘07s stellar Get The Guests parallels the deliciously retro zest new Park The Van label mates Capitol Years and Dr. Dog favor. The quirkier arrangements seem strangely reminiscent of art-rockers 10 CC’s cynical buffoonery and the more acoustical vignettes veer towards Guided By Voices most casual toss-offs.

Astonishingly, pixilated vestige “Maybe You’re Coming Down With It” epitomizes Spanky & Our Gang’s mystic hippie-aged Summer of Love preponderance and is sung in a range more womanly masculine than manly falsetto. Church organ drives home somber memoir, “Childhood,” as Malerman innocently sabotages Robyn Hitchcock’s seafaring lyrical phrasing and Sufjan Stevens’ lonesome rural tonality. Catchy scampered ditty, “Raise The Bar,” stingingly outlines the drunken demise of a failed goal setter. On histrionic metal-edged emblem, “I Recognize That Voice,” Malerman’s pliable vocalizing brings to mind the flamboyantly yelped hysterics of negligible ‘80s arena rock marvel Billy Squier. And stupid cupid gets impaled on the dreamily amenable “Arrow.”

Obliviously commingling Carnaby Street pop with Sgt. Pepper-era horns, metaphoric scandalmonger “What A Meddler” grovels over gabby grapevine gossip. Its dejected subject fools around, falls in love, and gets fucked over.

Malerman concedes, “At the end of every library show, we’d write a song with young kids. I strung chords together, hummed something wild, and wrote the melody and chords on the spot. Derek helped the kids get lyrics from a library book. We were ecstatic. We wrote a song by accident.”

Compellingly complex caricature “Rimbuad/ Rambo,” written in a Denny’s parking lot in Miami, turned out to be the most divisively decisive disquisition, adroitly juxtaposing the famous French poet with Sylvester Stallone’s military rogue and surreptitiously contrasting the yin and yang of the band.

Malerman avers, “I wanted to write a “Hokey Pokey”/ “Hanky Panky” song. I was onto something. The narrator wasn’t sure what he wanted to be. Like our band, it’s too soft for hard rockers and too bombastic for indie shoegazers.”

His approach to music may change, but going down unexplored avenues might be difficult for such a masterful songster.

“I go into each album thinking this is gonna be far out. This is gonna be our angry song, this, our dark song, and this, our pop song. No matter what I do, it always ends up pop. I love pop songs. I love working on them. But we have that other bone to fuss it up to a climactic whole,” he confesses.

As I allude to the Elephant 6 collective (by way of Apples In Stereo) being an effective reference, he harks, “My drummer bought me an Olivia Tremor Control record. We didn’t know bands were still making awesome psych-pop. It blew our lids.”

Proving to be an estimable component of the High Strung’s totality, famed producer Jim Diamond, whose work with esteemed Detroit combos the Sights, Dirtbombs, and Hentchmen has been highly commended, offered experienced studio supervision.

“We left Detroit, lived in New York for a few years, got The Go’s album (with Jack White in tow), and thought, ‘this sounds insane!’ Who’s Jim Diamond?,” Malerman remembers. “In college, in a much worse band, we got to play at a radio station and he recorded it. I called him, but he was booked for a year. Then I saw his name on a White Stripes album. We got in with him and even did a demo and an album we scrapped after the first one. At the time, we had another guy who sang lead and didn’t sound exciting. They were dull versions of the songs. When Mark left the band, we started from scratch and made Moxy Bravo.”

Now residing in the historic Boston-Edison district (where Motown proprietor Berry Gordy lived), Malerman is firing on all cylinders, penning a few thrillers whilst leading the life of a subterraneous pop luminary.

He concludes, “I had been trying to write books for awhile. I made it to 200 pages once, then stopped. I made 100 through a whole story I thought was good and believed it started to work. Then, a few years went by, and after Moxie, I sat down and had an epiphany. I tried to create my philosophical book – and it sucked. So I worked on a story about a sex witch in the woods. 28 days later, it was 350 pages. I talked about it non-stop, finished it, and wrote a few more. It’s the same thing as learning to play guitar and sing at the same time. All of a sudden, you could do it forever.”

EMBRACE SHAPE STUNNING POP SYMPHONIES ‘OUT OF NOTHING’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Believe it or not, before Coldplay got famous as tenderhearted well-orchestrated neo-Classical pop balladeers, there was Embrace (not to be confused with same-named ‘80s US hardcore band). In fact, Coldplay front man Chris Martin liked them so much he lent them instant chart hit, “Gravity,” from their gorgeously rendered ’04 album, Out Of Nothing (making number one in England). Yet despite overseas success and a solid critical rep, Embrace’s fifth long-player, ‘06s This New Day, sold shit in America. Too bad. Someone’s really missin’ out. I found a comprehensive piece on the bands’ history at www.embrace.co.uk/history/. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

For those not yet aware, English combo Embrace were formative catalysts prefiguring the entire late ‘90s British orchestral pop explosion. They conveyed nakedly evocative confessionals enveloping sincere torch songs, widescreen dystopian epics, and stunningly provocative ruminations highly praised post-shoegaze Radiohead offshoots Coldplay, Doves, Travis, and Starsailor scrutinized, internalized, and affirmatively regurgitated.

Beginning with exquisite ’98 debut, The Good Will Out (its aborted American release disrupted momentum), singer-guitarist Danny Mc Namara and his brother, lead guitarist Richard, struck a nerve constructing poignantly majestic anthems that’d soon become comprehensive blueprints for many adherent cathartic brooders.

Following an extensive layoff in the wake of more experimental, less distinguished albums, ‘00s Drawn From Memory and ‘01s If You’ve Never Been, the Mc Namara’s, plus keyboardist Mick Dale, bassist Steve Firth, and drummer Mike Heaton, return in fine form with ‘04s brilliant illumination, Out Of Nothing. To gain belated stateside support, Embrace toured the states, landing in Manhattan’s commodious Bowery Ballroom during March for a sold out gig. Playing their first ever New York date was a dream come true, rendering ardently gracious Danny Mc Namara to exclaim halfway through an astounding set, “I saw the Doves play Irving Plaza awhile ago, and I said, ‘God, just once.’”

Live, charismatic heartthrob Danny pranced slowly across the stage with utmost confidence and ease, stretching his arms to the heavens in a shamanist manner, a gesture of solidarity mope-rock luminary Morrissey would dig. To his left, sibling Richard eloquently fingered the fret-board, applying sundry pedal affects for stirringly surrealistic intrigue. Second song, the enduringly enthralling UK hit, “All You Good Good People,” got an awestruck fanatical audience to merrily sing along. Happily, Danny’s empowering lyrical fervency and resplendently solemn soft passages lacked the drippy sanctimoniousness miring descendant emo brethren.

Filled with beautifully symphonic ascensions, Out Of Nothing marks the second phase for the re-focused Embrace. Opening with the positively reassuring ‘rise up’ chant of “Ashes,” the immaculately resonating, pristinely detailed 10-song comeback commemorates a virtual rebirth. Lushly textural colossal monument, “Gravity,” written by chummy Coldplay protégé Chris Martin, and grandiose choral resolution “Someday,” with its forthright ‘a light is gonna shine’ benediction, fortify the sentimental uprisings gloriously manifested throughout. Breathless lullaby “Spell It Out” and subdued lamentation “Wish ‘Em All Away” allow Danny’s honey-dripped tenor flights to seductively linger above delicately restrained, masterfully crafted arrangements.

How’d your swimmingly symphonic sound initially transpire?

RICHARD MC NAMARA: By accident. It was the easiest, most natural way to get our songs to work – making them as big as possible. The bigger it got the better we sounded. I started playing guitar when I was twelve. I’d been in straightedge metal bands but never got signed. I decided to get into a band more akin to what we’re doing now. So I’m trying to get to sleep one night and Danny was telling me what he’d do if he was in a band.

DANNY: I had no discernible talent so I became the singer. (laughter) When we came out, we were hailed as Brit-pop’s great next thing. We were seen as an anecdote to all the bands informed by the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Kinks, and Who. We had American influences like the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds and Phil Spector’s Wall Of Sound. We came from a family background listening to Motown-Tamla and old Soul. The Northern Soul clubs in England play modern alt-rock next to that. So it was a natural progression. When we came along, there were no bands doing that – maybe Manic Street Preachers. We were the first to bring a big orchestra to a seven-and-a-half minute single, like the Beatles did with “A Day In The Life.” It’s a massive honor to have Coldplay and Doves get their impulse from us since they’re fantastic bands. It seems like the mainstream chose us instead of us compromising, which is weird because we always considered ourselves outsiders.

Were your parents involved in music?

DANNY: My dad was big into Motown singles. There was a club in Manchester called Twistaville that played Martha & the Vandellas, the Supremes, and Temptations. He loved that. So the records we grew up with were Sly & the Family Stone and that ilk.

RICHARD: I liked Adam & the Ants a lot. They were a kid’s punk band. Then I followed the Smiths, U2, House Of Love, and Stone Roses.

What growth has there been since Embrace’s startling debut, The Good Will Out?

DANNY: Fans always said we were better live then on record. This is our first record where I’ve felt we captured some of that live sound. That’s mostly due to our producer, Youth (The Orb/ Killing Joke). He was a total genius – unpredictable – but he had the ability to capture the magic moments in two, three takes what would’ve taken us fifteen tries. Our first album, we did the Phil Spector aesthetic and built a big wall of righteous noise. Bands like My Bloody Valentine and Ride that were around when we started did that, but we wanted to do it with orchestras instead of big guitars. From there, we lost our ambition. We needed to get off the dole originally, but once we got signed, we began enjoying being in a band and the second and third albums were adrift. We didn’t care how they did commercially. But we’ve gotten stronger since being dropped by our label. Our ambition came back after that bite in the ass. At this point, we raised the bar to a level that’s so high we couldn’t see from the ground. That’s why it took so long to get these ten songs together.

Making orchestral pop is more difficult than just playing three chord rockers.

DANNY: The first album, we probably spent four years writing, the second only two, and the third, maybe one.

Do you have to live through the bittersweet emotions the lyrics project?

DANNY: (hearty laughter) I usually write the lyrics and it takes a week or so of sitting down before the pen starts working and I get in that frame of mind. Then it all pours out and I could write five songs in a day. An analogy is you’re with a girlfriend, three years go by, one night you have too much to drink 3 o’clock in the morning, and she says, “I don’t like the color of your shoes.” Five hours later, the whole fucking thing gets turned on its head because all these emotions pour out. Most of the time, you’re civilized and don’t wanna go into deep feelings. But when they work their way to the surface it all gushes out. Pretty much every song we’ve done that I love, little truths come out that really hit you and I cry.

Is it difficult to deliver such emotionally compelling songs onstage?

DANNY: What tempers it onstage is the crowd. Away from our records at the gigs there’s a celebratory aspect ‘cause the songs are quite epic and the crowd sings along. It’s like a gospel choir. That takes away the dark edge and makes it easier to get through the songs without bursting into tears.

Is there an awakened spirituality at work?

DANNY: “Someday” is quite twisted. It’s about someone who needs to believe in themselves to such an extent they believe they’re the second coming. I wanted to give that a cult-ish celebratory joy and I like the contrast therein. It’s also about how we’re all different, important, and need to feel special. But I have no solid answers. I’m just asking and I’m restless about it.

How’d you get Chris Martin to hand over heartfelt piano ballad, “Gravity”?

DANNY: Before Coldplay released Parachutes, we became good friends straightaway and we’re quite a lot alike. We’ve written songs together. I thought “Gravity” was one of the best songs he’d written. So when I’m in the mixing stage, he called up and said he had a big favor. He wanted to know if I wanted “Gravity.” I said, ‘Why aren’t you recording it?’ He thought it sounded too much like us. He was too shy to ask so (wife) Gwyneth (Paltrow) convinced him. I initially said no, but the band said if the recording turned out well, we’d use it. Our third album dealt with the breakup of an ex-girlfriend. I didn’t want to revisit that and “Gravity” seemed to fit perfectly.

So have you matured enough to appreciate your second chance at fame?

DANNY: Nowadays, we’re enjoying the experience more and taking it as it comes. We let the label worry about marketing and the engineer worry about recording. We’ll worry about the songwriting. It’s less dangerous, the ground we’re standing on. But I haven’t wised up, grown, or learned anything new in ten years. I’m very set in my ways.

EX MODELS DABBLE IN ‘OTHER MATHEMATICS’

Interviews

FOREWORD: As you’ll see by the following 2001 interview, Brooklyn-based Ex Models have a wildly sordid sense of humor. And they were, at the time, my favorite band coming out of the thrilling ‘no wave’ Williamsburg scene. ‘03s Zoo Psychology perfected their riveting perplexities. But ‘05s Chrome Panthers was minimalist to the extreme, as only guitarist Shahin Motia and bassist Zach Lehrhoff were left from the former quartet. It’s likely the band will see some more action post-’09. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Across from Manhattan’s skyline lies remote Williamsburg club North 6, where Bridgewater, New Jersey natives the Ex-Models get ready to storm the wooden platform stage for another revelatory high tension set this cold Halloween’s eve. The catastrophic assault begins when lone bassist Zach Lehrhoff (who splits time in local denizens the Seconds) stares off into the crowd hitting the same cautionary note ad nauseum until the Motia’s (Shahin and Shahyar) step up and deliver a demonic frenzy of axe wielding ferocity. Anchored by headphone-wearing drummer Jake Fiedler’s savage attack, the Iranian-American brothers’ leap through the air hitting nearly impossible notes as Lehrhoff continually stabs at his 4-string while scarily leering at no specific victim. During one fierce break, Shahyar ruffles together some speedy notes while bending backwards humping his instrument.

Placed alongside fellow Brooklyn no wavers the Liars, Black Dice, and the Rapture, jittery quartet the Ex Models take contrapuntal deconstruction to explosive heights by condensing ideas and cramming in as much interesting information into as little time as possible. On their masterful debut, Other Mathematics, they display instrumental complexity without getting lost in complicated time signatures, tossing off tersely truncated 2-minute bursts of fury while mocking the overused ‘math rock’ designation in its smug titular reference.

Comparisons to admirable post-punk minimalists DNA, the Contortions, and ESG aside, these savvy nonconformists continually step out of the boundaries of conventional pop structure, broadening their horizons at every turn. Shahin’s yelped quips reach contralto hysteria unmatched since art-punk mastermind David Byrne fronted the Talking Heads during nearby CBGB’s historic ‘70s punk craze.

Sitting in Brooklyn’s North 6 basement lounge following their dazzlingly acrobatic 40-minute jaunt, these zealous, wry-humored experimentalists unexpectedly reveal they can’t sit through “an entire Captain Beefheart album,” then shrug off Frank Zappa’s experimental excursions and deny comparisons to abstruse ‘80s Minneapolis trio the Minutemen. Nevertheless, husky red-head Fiedler gives respect to free Jazz pioneer Miles Davis and conceptualist John Zorn while the others offer support to local faves Les Savy Fav, the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s, and the Liars.

AW: What formative influences developed your childhood interest in music?

JAKE: I was into Twisted Sister and drummers who played well in bands instead of virtuosos. I like Gang of Four’s Tito Burnam, Phil Rudd (AC/DC), and Dave Lombardo (Slayer) just for the sheer brutality and violence.

SHAHYAR: We have bands we admire, but we’ve been goofing around so long together we play our instruments in a certain way. We wrote songs by arriving in a room and recording what came out and sequenced them later. Shahin and I got involved playing guitar at a young age. As a kid, you go through a lot of phases. You cut your teeth on Iron Maiden. You learn to study Metalli-riffs.

JAKE: I learned to play air drums to Master Of Puppets before I even had a drum kit.

SHAHYAR: When we began, we’d play as many notes as possible to keep ourselves entertained. Now we try to play as few notes as possible to make it interesting.

Did the Minutemen’s keen chops, 90-second half-songs, and abrupt endings influence the Ex Models? How ‘bout the minimalist approach of late-‘70s no-wavers DNA?

ZACH: I don’t think any of us own Minutemen records. I’m not saying they’re not great. And DNA sucks! We’re basically better than all of them. (everyone laughs) I don’t figure out songs listening to music. Our influences are more chemical. I think I’m going deaf.

SHAHYAR: (jokingly mocking Zach) You heard him play tonight!

Other Mathematics’ final song, “The Mechanic,” is an aberration since it’s 5-minutes long and easily approachable.

SHAHYAR: That’s actually the oldest song on the album.

SHAHIN: I don’t think we’ve played that live in two years.

“Girlfriend Is Worse” provides accessible guitar lattice to entice its full frontal rhythm assault.

SHAHIN: What happened is once we figured that out we had to ditch that too. (laughter)

Are you guys friendly with fellow Brooklyn avant-rockers the Liars and Black Dice.

SHAHIN: We now reside in the same borough and I like them a lot.

ZACH: It’s cool. We just wanna see more shitting and puking on-stage.

JAKE: It’s great to see a band you personally enjoy on a certain level do well.

ZACH: (kidding) And you could totally rip off their songs!

Getting ideas from respectable sources isn’t necessarily bad. Dylan’s folk guitar style profoundly influenced the Beatles Rubber Soul.

ZACH: We challenge Dylan to a cocaine sniffing dual and boy will he lose.

Well. He has a bad heart. (laughter) The Ex Models new 4-song split-single with the Seconds penetrates the skull like a chaotic mess of orgiastic flotsam.

SHAHYAR: Truth be told, Shahin played bass on the Seconds tracks and nobody knows I played bass on the Ex Models tracks. It was a transition.

JAKE: So we’re basically playing with ourselves. (laughter)

SHAHIN: Who’s the guitarist who only had two fingers?

SHAHYAR: Django Reinhardt had only two.

JAKE: No. Robert Johnson did.

ZACH: No. He had two dicks!

JAKE: Didn’t he have six fingers.

ZACH: No. That’s Steve Vai in Crossroads.

JAKE: Didn’t the guy from 6 Finger Satellite have six fingers?

ZACH: I saw this Discovery channel special that had a girl with two heads.

They were wearing helmets playing softball. I’ve wondered about their sexuality. Are they lesbian just ‘cause they jerk off? How about the Chinese Siamese twins who were both married?

ZACH: Their fucking wives had two heads apiece.

What are your future aspirations?

SHAHYAR: To get someone whose responsibility is to blow coke up my asshole.

FABULOUS DISASTER CAUGHT UP IN A ‘PANTY RAID!’

Interviews,

 Image result for fabulous disaster

FOREWORD: ‘Nother hard luck childhood story to success. This time, it’s formerly poverty-stricken Fabulous Disaster axe grinder Lynda Mandolyn. Struggling in Detroit to maintain sanity, she moved through a few rock bands before starting up Fabulous Disaster in San Francisco. Fat Mike of NOFX rightfully called them one of the best punk bands he’d ever witnessed. I did this phoner with Lynda prior to the release of ‘03s red-hot punk soiree, Panty Raid! Unfortunately, the band could never top that guileless bohemian gem. ‘07s Love At First Fight fell short and by the end of the year it was all over. But the memories are great. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Growing up on the tough streets of Detroit, future Fabulous Disaster guitarist Lynda Mandolyn was the youngest of five children. Abandoned by a now-deceased father at age eight, her mother struggled in the workforce after a 28-year marriage dissolved. Encouraged by the Motor City’s thriving music scene, Mandolyn led all-girl band Inside Out before moving westward to San Francisco in search of better exposure.

Initially, Mandolyn and drummer Sally Gess (then on bass), placed an ad for a singer, found Laura Litter, and put out ‘98s metallic high octane 7″ single, “Dyke Fight Tonight,” as Piston. They then met Mr. Nancy “one drunken night,” creating one-off all-girl band Female Trouble for an informal 9-song, 15-minute set at a local Bottom of the Hill show. After quitting their respective bands, these kick ass chicks formed Fabulous Disaster, releasing ‘01s adolescence-bound debut, Put Out Or Get Out on Fat Wreck Chords spin-off, Pink & Black, which urgently hurled cheap truckstop retro-punk at leather-clad denizens with a charming naïveté shining through even in the loudest, most furious moments.

Less than two years hence, Fabulous Disaster return with the startling Panty Raid! Improved rhythmic propulsion strengthens the impact of blistering hard rock chants like the bubble-gummy “Next Big Joyride,” the betwixt “Pain Kill Her,” and the shotgun blast “No Stars Tonight” (with its rollercoaster organ adding keen new wave sheen). The pummeling fast food fury of “My Addiction” nicely counters the heartbroken lullaby, “Nightliner.” By teasing the shimmered candy-coated bop of ‘80s post-punk femmes the Go-Go’s, the Bangles, and the Waitresses with the frenetic riot grrrl righteousness of snotty ‘90s gutter-punks Bikini Kill and Bratmobile, these tattered, tattooed tomboys are more rad than fad.

On the side, Mandolyn paints dark-colored collages exposing her obsession with UFO’s, aliens, and obscure pin-up girls. Though partially hung over prior to an upcoming European Deconstruction tour with NOFX, Bouncing Souls, and Boy Sets Fire, she found time to discuss the benefits of analog recording, the present Frisco rock scene, and voyeuristic fetish obsessions.

The contrast between harder and softer rock seems more profound on Panty Raid!

LYNDA: We all feel the songwriting on Panty Raid! grew by leaps and bounds from Put Out Or Get Out. We’ve gotten better as players. Sally is a madhouse drummer. Live, she beats the shit out of the kit. We also like the way Panty Raid! was recorded in analog instead of digital. That might adhere to punchier drums and bass. I don’t think digital captures the live feel of guitar-bass-drums as well.

Did producer Alex Newport (At the Drive-In/Sepultura) suggest going analog?

He’s been a friend of mine forever. I always wanted to work with him but I didn’t know if his m.o. would allow him to work with a band like Fabulous Disaster. But he saw us and loved us and said, “I’d love to do this. The thing is I don’t ever do anything in digital.” He had a cheap place in San Francisco to work at. He said it might take awhile longer, but it’ll sound a lot better. He had many great ideas.

What kind of ideas?

Mostly guitar stuff. Little pieces here and there we came up with – guitar melodies I wouldn’t have thought up. He also had a great ear for harmonies and made sure we kept perfect key. Fat Mike (of NOFX) was amazing helping us vocally on Get Up, but Alex helped out, too.

How’s the current San Francisco scene?

I love Hellfire Choir – three girls and a guy. Unfortunately, they don’t play out much because the lead singer just had a baby. When I moved here from Detroit in ’95, the punk scene was amazing. It was explosive. Then, in ’97, we started getting these stupid yuppies moving in and rent went sky high. All these assholes moved in next to clubs that were open for 20 years and had them shut down. We lost a lot of great clubs. But when the whole dot com thing crashed, everyone moved out. So the scene’s rebuilding. There’s stuff to do every night of the week here.

What was it like growing up in Detroit?

It was pretty fucking gloomy. But luckily the Detroit music scene is great and prepares you for anything. I started an all girl band at 16 called Inside Out. We were together 8 or 9 years. We played the Midwest, Canada, and New York’s Pyramid Club. We did a “Peel Session” overseas. We grew up with Demolition Doll Rods, Kuru – which is a laughing disease, the Gories, and the Colors. I just ran into my old friend, Pat Pantena (ex-Colors), who’s now in the Dirtbombs. It’s great that the Detroit scene is exploding now with the White Stripes, Sights, and Soledad Brothers. It’s not my cup of tea, but I’m happy the spotlight is getting shined on them.

What’s this about Fabulous Disaster being involved in the “fetish” and “biker” scenes?

I think we’re more into the fetish scene. The biker scene’s a bit of a myth. Fat Mike started that rumor. (laughter) There’s a lot of sex clubs out here me and Mr. Nancy frequent. It’s more like dressing up and playing the part.

Is it like New York’s Plato’s Retreat, where orgies crowd the floor?

It’s different here. That might apply more to gay men’s bathhouses out here.

Why? Are lesbians less risqué?

Fulsom Street fare has their share. But I’m not gay. That’s a rumor too. I’m straight and proud of it. We’re getting sick of all that lesbian crap.

Supposed lesbian bands like Sleater-Kinney, Tribe 8, and the defunct Team Dresch seem to have a more abrasive rancor than Fab Disaster.

You think they’re harder than we are?

Sure. Your songs have candy-coated centers akin to the Go-Go’s and Bangles.

I think you’re right. But we’re heavy hitters too. Someone said we’re an iron fist in a velvet glove.

Lyrically, you deal with lighter concerns – bad teen relationships and skidmarks on the heart.

Revenge on somebody – totally. But we’re not looking to rip someone’s throat out. There’s always an underlying darkness in our lyrics.

Will you do a video?

A friend of mine is working on an animated video for “Next Big Joyride.” I saw the drawings and layout and it looks awesome. We may do four or five videos. My husband does video stuff. Our friend who works for Boeing does videos and wants to do one. There’s a possibility of Bryan Archer from Fat Wreck Chords doing one. He did the Mad Caddies and can do good videos for cheap budget.

Any ideas what the next album will sound like?

Not sure. I had a weird fantasy that the Descendents’ Bill Stevenson would produce the next one. He likes us. He’s a fan.

FIERY FURNACES SAIL OFF ON ‘BLUEBERRY BOAT’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: After a nifty set at Maxwells in Hoboken, I told Fiery Furnaces multi-instrumentalist Matthew Friedberger that one of his epic numbers sounded like early Genesis. He didn’t appear pleased, but his sister, Eleanor, got a chuckle. Anyway, that was a few months after I did this interview with Matt in support of ‘04s audaciously unconventional full-length saga, Blueberry Boat. The brother-sister duo took an even bigger chance when they put their grandmother’s narrated stories to music on ’05s middling Rehearsing My Choir. Luckily, ‘06s brilliantly textural synth-pop masterwork, Bitter Tea, reached a high water mark, bettering ‘07s less dependable Widow City.

Growing up in the Chicago suburb of Oak Park, siblings Matthew and Eleanor Friedberger had little in common until they separately decided to head East for the Big Apple. Forced to study Classical piano and upright bass as a child, older brother Matthew soon became enamored with The Who’s riff heavy rock.

“My parents weren’t into contemporary pop. I remember going to the local library to rent a Beatles album and my father said, ‘Oh, Rubber Soul. “Norwegian Wood.”’ Besides that, he hadn’t given any indication to liking rock, though my mother listened to pop station WLS and played some piano,” Matthew spews.

After visiting Berlin post-high school, Matthew flunked out of University of Illinois, got further education, and became a Special Education teacher. He saved enough money to move to New York City and soon began the Fiery Furnaces with his sis.

“I used to play in local bands and Eleanor would come watch. She was into rock and that’s what we’d talk about to try to be friendly whiling away the boring hours talking during holidays. So other people encouraged her to pick up an instrument. As a Christmas gift one year, I bought her a guitar and drum set. At one point, I thought she’d be a good front person, but she didn’t feel comfortable doing that. Nothing happened for a long time. Later, when she did want to perform in front of people, she took the initiative and we moved out to New York a few months apart for no real purpose,” he explains.

On the duo’s enthusiastic ’03 debut, Gallowsbird’s Bark, Eleanor’s stately mezzo-soprano coquetry endears tactful folk-art tunefulness and ancillary post-rock aberrations. Drifting across bouncy melodic promenades and striking rhythmic intricacies with flirtatious informality, this fabulous entree unintentionally hearkens to the undervalued pre-fame, post-blues Fleetwood Mac period of fascinatingly quaint endeavors such as Heroes Are Hard To Find and Bare Trees. Descending twinkling piano droplets and free falling whistle ensconce the plangent “South Is Only A Home.” Coiled guitar squawks and tumbling crescendos politely stimulate the pastel “I’m Gonna Run” while the rejuvenated conniption, “Asthma Attack,” saunters seductively. But the tweaked concubine carousel “Worry Worry” tops all with its darling enticement and shadowy reverb. These delicious highlights merely scrape the surface of what is a guilelessly gleaming, innocently enchanting, crystalline overture.

Valiantly trading elemental Epicurean efficacy for engagingly protracted eccentricities, the Fiery Furnaces (with bassist-keyboardist Toshi Yano and drummer Andy Kittles in tow) subsequently felt compelled to challenge conceptual limitations. Affectionately imitating the “Kit Lambert-influenced Who” of mini rock operas “Rael” and “A Quick One While He’s Away,” the more abstract Blueberry Boat takes listeners through a pastoral pastiche of adventurous prog-rock escapades chock full of contrapuntal medleys, nautical sea shanties, carefree cabaret, ruffled ragtime, and scurried skiffle. The percussive opening mantra, “Quay Cur,” ambitiously shuffles obsessive twists and oblique retreats, pitting the piano-laden neo-Classical grandeur of theatrical ‘70s visionaries Renaissance against early Genesis’ allegorical parables. The wondrous title track patches charmingly obtuse Zappa-esque befuddlement into bleating electronic hullabaloo while the sumptuously schizoid “I Lost My Dog” counters fast, busy snipes with slow, spare stanzas. On the exhilarating roundabout “Chris Michaels,” Matthew’s guitar arpeggios recall idiosyncratic mentor Pete Townshend. Only the compact “Straight Street,” with its luxuriant bluesy slide, reaches back to the radiant concision of Gallowsbird’s Bark.

Your arrangements seem affected by spectral ‘70s prog-rock bands such as King Crimson and early Genesis.

MATTHEW: I liked Peter Gabriel and Genesis, but I never had any of those records. I liked Eno as a teenager. I had his first four records and the pre-elevator music productions for Roxy Music. Roxy’s first two albums sound a lot like Eno’s Here Come the Warm Jets. But I was never a Yes fan. I liked King Crimson. They were cooler.

Were you aware of jazzier prog band, the Soft Machine?

I knew of them because they played on Syd Barrett’s solo debut, The Madcap Laughs. But I wasn’t a fan. I only had their Lark’s Tongue In Aspic record. When I was younger, I was afraid to like things that were too prog because in my immature mind I thought it went against anything cool like punk. When I was 14, you could like the Plastic Ono Band record because the Sex Pistols’ Johnny Lydon enjoyed it. But I was definitely a Who fan. The first tape I bought was Van Halen I, then Who’s Next. My favorite Who records are Quadrophenia and The Who Sell Out.

“Bow Wow,” with its pristine piano hooks, snaky bass, and symphonic synth, truly reminded me of Christine Perfect before she joined Fleetwood Mac. Were their pre-Buckingham-Nicks records an influence?

No. I was prejudice against Fleetwood Mac before they came to L.A. We’re trying to build off late ‘60s light psychedelic pop but with Blues stuff added.

I couldn’t get to the bottom of the rhythmically abstruse “Asthma Attack.”

That’s from an overheard conversation Eleanor picked up at work. They were talking about being in the Bahamas for vacation and someone had a story about how they cleared the beach because a shark was swimming in shallow water. Her co-worker said ‘I almost had an asthma attack.’ So it’s a silly lyrical quote translated onto a hectic beat.

Amazingly, Blueberry Boat’s lengthy opuses defy self-indulgence. You take some imaginative chances composing four 8-minute-plus tracks on it.

We had the opportunity to do more overdubs and thought it’d be just as risky making a record that sounded like the debut. Two-thirds of it was written before the first record came out. We hoped the two records would make more of an impression with the differentiation. They function as a demonstration of what we could do from simpler to not-so-annoying story songs. The funniest criticism of the debut was someone saying we should go to clown college because it sounded too much like a carnival.

Take me through the twixt text of “Blueberry Boat.”

That song is about Eleanor driving a Sunfish up to a party boat on Lake Michigan and stealing beer from a cooler. Then, it flashes forward to her being captain of a container ship bringing a cargo of American produce, especially blueberries, in from Hong Kong. They get attacked by pirates in the South China Sea so she scuttles the ship and won’t give up the blueberries and goes down with the ship.

Were you into the early ‘90s Chi-town alt-rock explosion, which incorporated North Side stalwarts Liz Phair, Urge Overkill, and Shrimp Boat?

I was into Jesus Lizard more because they’re harder rockin’ and singer David Yow is hilarious live.

What current bands float your boat?

Electrolane, who I saw in Europe. We toured with Franz Ferdinand. I think they’re brilliant. Their singer has a lower voice so he doesn’t sound like an Ian Curtis imitation and he doesn’t yelp like Duran Duran. Stylistically, it’s familiar, but they mix rock and pop elements well.

How will your next album differ from its predecessors?

We’re gonna do a record in Chicago with my grandmother, who’s gonna sing ballad duets with ‘50s rock and roll influences. We love Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley so we want to do our imitation of our idealized Chess records version. It’ll be about expectations going wrong, a time travel with Eleanor singing the young persons’ parts and my grandmother filling in the aging role.

ELF POWER STUMBLE UPON ‘CREATURES’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: Starting out as a fascinatingly melancholic lo-fi do-it-yourself combo, Elf Power soon became one of the most peculiar Elephant 6 ‘collectives,’ capriciously stuffing complex prog-rock eccentricities into orchestral melodies and grizzled psychedelia. I interviewed Elf Power’s Andrew Rieger to help promote ‘02s nearly brilliant Creatures. By ’04, they’d release countrified pop turnabout, Walking With The Beggar Boys, receiving little fanfare despite its wide-eyed accessibility. In ’08, Elf Power hooked up with wheelchair-bound cracked-folk enigma, Vic Chesnutt, for reputable despair-fueled collaboration, Dark Developments.

Elf Power singer-guitarist Andrew Rieger gained respect for rock music from his father, a Shakespearean professor with a good ear for modern sounds. Perhaps that explains why Rieger’s songwriting relies on acute literate metaphors and succinct verbiage.

During the ‘90s, this Athens, Georgia-based artist followed the viable trend towards recording sketchy, homemade, do-it-yourself cassettes for tiny boutique labels. Soon after, Rieger’s earliest full-length Elf Power CD release, ’95s Vainly Clutching At Phantom Limbs, was made privately on 4-track tape, leading to the equally trashy gem, When The King Comes, a semi-conceptual piece made by a “real band” and captured on an 8-track machine.

Word began to spread and a devoted cult following ensued. A solid bond with like-minded independent spirits, casually known as the Elephant 6 collective (Neutral Milk Hotel, Apples In Stereo, Olivia Tremor Control), afforded Reiger and long-time partner Laura Carter (keyboard-guitar) the chance to fully hone in on their post-adolescent psych-pop.

While ‘99s A Dream In Sound effectively condensed song arrangements and sonic ideas substantially, ‘00s The Winter Is Coming found Elf Power at the top of their game, caressing affectionate confessionals with the prettiest melodies yet. But when financial woes hurt former label, Sugar Free, the combo jumped ship, delaying the release of Creatures (SpinArt), their most efficient set of songs to date.

The evocative neo-orchestral landscape of Creatures embraces non-traditional rock instrumentation (Finch’s serene violin; Carter’s lissome accordion; and guest Heather Mc Intosh’s gliding cello) to enhance the melancholic surroundings. Shifting from the fuzzy electro-groove cacophony “Everlasting Scream” to the Celt-rock-tinged “The Modern Mind” to the full-blown rocker “Things That Should Not Be,” this easygoing bunch (currently rounded out by percussionist Aaron Wegelin and guitarist Adrian Finch) tame passive-aggressiveness with winsome transience in a well-balanced recreational manner. Ultimately, they prove lessons learned from previous ventures benefit those who bravely persevere.

AW: Who are some early influences?

ANDREW: My dad was a big record collector who got me into the Beatles, Stones, and Richard Thompson and the Fairport Convention. Being around him got me into music originally.

Does the title Creatures work as some secret metaphor for your muse?

It’s one of those things where I didn’t consciously notice how prevalently mentioned it was.

So let’s get this straight. (busting his balls) Andrew claims these “creatures” weren’t consciously part of the plan even though there’s two fucking songs with that title, a drifting seafaring tale about the sea, and some tryst with a sleeping serpent. Sounds like a scheme.

(laughing) I didn’t know it was there! There’s definitely supernatural imagery in the lyrics that always pop up in my songs. Maybe it’s from reading Marvel comics like Conan and Spiderman while growing up… I sold them when I needed cash to record.

“Let the Serpent Sleep” has a smooth Velvet Underground elegance.

Definitely. The cheesy organ and strolling patterns. I’ll admit to that.

Did you try to create a beautiful sequential lyrical theme? The last few songs seem consistent in moodiness and approach.

The last couple songs get mellower. That was a conscious way to wind it down.

Your arrangements have become more seamless as the textural splendor gets filtered into the lyrics better.

Our trick for that was using the combination of accordion, violin, and e-bow. We’d record the same parts on each instrument and after awhile you couldn’t tell which instrument was playing. It made a weird hazy sound and nice little fuzzy blanket for the songs. This time the songs influenced the extra instrumentation outside the guitar-bass-drums-keyboard standard. We tried to limit it to accordion and violin to give the songs uniformity and consistency.

I thought this albums’ warm lucidity harkened back to The Winter Is Coming, but it’s less brooding.

When we recorded The Winter Is Coming, we took our time and much of it was done over nine months. This time, we wanted to strip it down and make the songs more direct and simpler. We recorded them as we rehearsed arrangements instead of experimenting with a million overdubs like we usually do.

Smack dab in the middle is the catchy full-blown rocker “Things That Should Not Be.”

It’s punky aggressive. When we play live, we do Stooges, David Bowie, and Bad Brains covers. That rubbed off on the songwriting. We don’t try to represent our refined studio sound. We try to rock out and have fun.

Previous albums were back-loaded with noodling jams, unfinished ideas, and ephemera.

Yeah. I agree with that. That’s the problem when you have all the time in the world to experiment. Sometimes it works great and you get good parts. Other times, it’s self-indulgent. When you hear something new, it could sound good. Six months later, you’re wondering what you were thinking.

What has happened with the Elephant 6 collective of artists-musicians that shared ideas, band members, and studios and became all the rage a few years back?

It was a group of friends with similar aesthetic. Many of them played on our new record. But it’s not a record label, as some think. Apples In Stereo were in Denver, but are moving to Kentucky. Neutral Milk Hotel have splintered. One of them is in France.

AMERICAN MUSIC CLUB’S MARK EITZEL CONSTRUCTS ‘LOVE SONGS FOR PATRIOTS’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: First time I met indie cult fave Mark Eitzel, he was doing a solo acoustic set at CBGB’s 313 Gallery for now-defunct Smug Magazine’s 1st anniversary party. People were talking so loudly it ruined any chance of him being heard above the ruckus. In ’04, his resurrected American Music Club recorded Love Songs For Patriots, one of many career highlights. By ’08, Eitzel’s reassembled AMC clan continued to make evocative pastoral folk on The Golden Age. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Like many young ‘army brats’ living abroad, singer-songwriter Mark Eitzel spent his pre-teen years in faraway Asian spots Okinawa and Taiwan before calling Southampton, England home until age 19. When his father finally got transferred back to Ohio, the post-adolescent Eitzel began playing in Naked Skinnies, a feisty Columbus band inspired by avant-punks the Raincoats and Public Image Ltd. A huge Beatles fan impressed by Elvis Costello’s initial late ‘70s masterworks, he soon moved to San Francisco, forming, then reconstructing praiseworthy underground combo, American Music Club.

Purveying darkly sarcastic humor oft misconstrued as inescapably perplexing melodrama, the ceaselessly cynical troubadour’s early downbeat alcohol-fueled limericks were slapped onto American Music Club’s rushed ’86 debut, The Restless Stranger, and its preferred ’87 follow-up, Engine.

“We were all Anglophiles when we started the band. We did the first record in a hurry because our drummer was going to Germany and we wanted to go there with him to continue as a band. We put out 500 copies in Germany only, then Warner’s later re-released it,” he recalls, citing nascent trepidation. “By Engine, we moved back to America, took the band more seriously, and that album summed up what we do – combining loud distorted guitars with very quiet folk and Country-Western.”

Although American Music Club’s serenely melodious settings suit Eitzels’s disconcertingly deprecating sonnets, the lamenting Frisco transplant concedes to firmly embracing wily Brit-punks as an impressionable youth.

“The first show that blew my mind was the Adverts and the Damned,” Eitzel claims. “But nowadays, if I go out, it’s to a bar, not a club. The trouble is, when someone says a band is the greatest new thing, I’m like, ‘Yeah. OK.’ I’ve heard it before. It kicks ass, but it’s hard for me to get excited about.”

Perhaps Eitzel has trouble enjoying newer talent these days because he has toiled with numerous gifted instrumentalists over the course of several band-related and solo projects. An admirer of considerable pop songwriters such as Neil Young, Elton John, and Joan Armatrading (whose sedate jazzy folk styling embodied Tracy Chapman), the flinty baritone also acknowledges respect for arty prog-rockers Yes and their ilk.

“I listened to Genesis and liked King Crimson’s Red, but I hated ELP, Renaissance, Gentle Giant, and Jethro Tull,” he amends.

Perchance, these clever artful luminaries could’ve satiated Eitzel’s thirst for intricately moody ambience. An austere rural intimacy dominates ‘88s elaborate California, which runs the gamut from the rousing harmonica-doused honky-tonk “Bad Liquor” to the restrained acoustic somnolence “Last Harbor.” Seldom escaping the barren wasteland of confessional folk-y depressives, ‘91s brilliant Everclear boasted more expansive arrangements, noisier rock moments, and less constraint than past efforts, peaking with the crescendo-filled anthem “Rise” and the speckled “Royal Café.”

Better still, ‘93s wide-ranging Mercury fit whirly electronic textures into the mix. Out of its illuminating ashes came the lush piano waltz “Gratitude Walks” and the psychedelic cowpoke roadhouse rant “Crabwalk.” By ‘94s windswept homage, San Francisco, Eitzel broke up American Music Club to start a solo career. Though heartbreak, misery, and vulnerability saturate these endeavors as well, Eitzel appeared upset by concerned fans missing the witty satirical facetiousness his dour lyrics insinuated.

When confronted with the thought that his incipient agonizing shyness may’ve paralleled that of ex-Smiths frontman Morrissey, whose bleak elegies sometimes inform Eitzel’s sulking guise, he gladly proclaims, “Maybe that was true ten years ago. But I think I drank a lot more than Morrissey or I didn’t do the same drugs he did. I love his work, so that’s a compliment.”

Any discomforting reticence and debilitating anxiety seemingly subsided during his ensuing solo quest. ‘96s fine 60 Watt Silver Lining retained the expected inhibited subtlety of yore, but reduced the gloomy insularity and lovelorn despondency for more assured emotional containment. Jazz trumpeter Mark Isham and standup bassist Daniel Pearson offered light Jazz eloquence to Brill Building mementos. Soon after, Eitzel hooked up with Tuatara saxophonist-vibesman Skerik and percussionist Barrett Martin plus pianist-slide guitarist Scott Mc Caughey (Young Fresh Fellows/ Minus 5) and REM guitarist Peter Buck on ‘97s demurely lounge-y West.

“Peter Buck wanted to do a record together,” he explains. “He came to town, we wrote it in three days, and a month later flew up to Seattle. Tuatara was an amazing backup band.”

Taking its protracted title from the hook phrase of Elvis Presley’s heartrending “Suspicious Minds,” ‘98s Caught In A Trap I Can’t Back Out Because I Love You Too Much Baby’s spare tranquility comes closest to the crystalline melancholic flicker tragic ‘70s baroque-folk mystic Nick Drake once wrought. Sonic Youth’s Steve Shelley (drums) and Yo La Tengo’s James McNew (bass) provide poignant rhythm to four songs.

Then came the anguished sadness of ‘01s The Invisible Man, recorded in a living room with acoustic guitar, but later adorned by samplers and MAC G4 computer electronics.

Next, Ethan Johns (of H-Bombs fame) and Joey Waronker (That Dog/ Beck) added surreal backdrop to the mope-y treatments given ‘02s The Music For Courage & Confidence’s borrowed tunes.

In retrospect, Eitzel repents, “That was someone else’s idea. I was persuaded to do a covers-LP to make lots of money. Like a fool, I was left broke. But I love the record even if those aren’t songs I’d normally do.”

However, beautifully brooding pop ballads surveying Eitzel’s American Music Club period were commissioned for ‘03s The Ugly American, which benefited from a full-fledged Greek ensemble. Due to its overseas success, this led him to believe his former mates may want to take another chance in the recording studio. So he re-assembled the still-viable combo, but there was one important difference. Whether intentional or not, his latest songs reflected both the hopefulness and volatility of an unsettled world instead of the dismal sagas of a ravaged individual.

“I don’t know if there’s time left to be a sentimental fad songwriter. Everyone has to be a part of something. The world has changed,” he steadfastly advises.

Eitzel’s spirited maturation shines through the generally upbeat outlook his regenerated American Music Club encourages on ‘04s ambitiously cogent Love Songs For Patriots. The didactic “Ladies And Gentlemen,” whispery sunup resolution “Another Morning,” and fervently uplifting “Only Love Can Set You Free” counter the eerily sorrowful regret “Love Is” and the tangled damsel obfuscation “Job To Do.”

On the nearly symphonic stately piano dirge, “Patriot’s Heart,” Eitzel ostensibly addresses the dichotomy of misplaced allegiance, construing vengeance as a positive motivation against evil in a roundabout way.

He shares, “Columbus has the largest gay community in the Midwest beyond Chicago. So I was taking a tour of Columbus gay bars with a friend. There were a bunch of them, many down and dirty. The last one had all these trucks parked outside with American flags. All those guys probably have a wife and kids. Hey, that’s America. Peel back just one layer and you’ve got all kinds of weird shit.”

Though Eitzel tries to veer away from political opinion during conversation, the temptation to express his ideals is too great. Beneath the static guitar fuzz of “America Loves The Minstrel Show” lies a foreboding message listeners should heed.

“Everything that’s in popular culture in America is mediated. America doesn’t accept the real thing, only the cliché of what is real. So that seems how cultures get integrated into America. First you love to hate the cliché, then you hate to hate the cliché. Then, you accept the cliché and the people. But it just doesn’t end. You wish America was smarter than that,” Eitzel avows. “The 2000 national election was the ultimate. Both candidates pose as down home country folk when in fact they’re Harvard/ Yale educated millionaires. Americans love how these guys pretend to be like them when all they’re doing is speaking to the Lowest Common Denominator all the time. People like Bush get voted in out of despair (i.e.: Clinton’s ridiculous ‘I feel your pain’ manifest) People have ideologies but lack common sense.”

Going deeper into governmental contention, he abhors rightwing authoritarian control.

“Any fundamentalist religion is fascism. I don’t think Bush is fascist, but Pat Robertson is. Yet Bush is leaning towards fascist government. If they extend the patriot act, they could arrest you without giving any reasons or access to a lawyer. The arrests at the Republican National Convention – they picked people up who looked like terrorists. They could keep them in jail indefinitely. It’s terrifying.”

Less topically serious, “Myopic Books” finds an unconventional oasis in a snooty bookstore.

“That’s one of those songs the world gives you,” he snickers. “I was in Chicago walking down the street. I’d gotten off the phone with someone filling my ear with how bad their life was and I was like, ‘Fuck you!’ Then, I found a hipster bookstore where they were playing Dinosaur Jr. on the radio and the people were real skinny and unfriendly and I really loved it.”

Still able to conjure the dreary minimalist romanticism Bay Area protégé Mark Kozolek (Red House Painters) took as prototype and the barren stoicism death-obsessed Nick Cave flaunts, Eitzel’s intriguing oeuvre has now expanded beyond confining morose boundaries. He now counteracts dry innuendo with moist directness, exhibiting innermost feelings of glee, contentment, and hesitancy while circumventing the profound neuroticism afflicting earlier musings. Love Songs For Patriots reaffirms Eitzel’s (and thus, American Music Club’s) sordid sense of humor about misery while fondly propagating nationalistic pride and rejuvenating adoration for wizened mortals.

EELS DEPRESSION-BOUND ‘SOULJACKER’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: Eels brainchild Mark Everett has suffered for his art too long, enduring family and friends’ tragic deaths while absorbing sundry other calamities I’d wish only on Bin Laden and Hitler. His ’96 debut, Beautiful Freak, and its whimsical narcotic spellbinder, ”Novocaine For The Soul,” really broke through on modern rock and college radio in part due to Beck’s ‘chilaxed’ downcast suburban ditty, “Loser.”

Though ‘01s Souljacker pumped up the volume and increased intensity, its dark characterizations provided ghostly reminders. After this interview, ‘03s live-in-the-studio Shootenanny and ‘05s Country-styled acoustic retreat, Blinking Lights and other Revelations (with high-profile contributions by Tom Waits, Peter Buck, and John Sebastian), branched out within the folk-pop realm. The Eels ’09 disc, Hombre Lobo, kept Everett’s ambitious musical streak alive. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Last time I spoke with eels frontman Mark Oliver Everett (a.k.a. E), he was still recovering from the cancerous death of his mom and the concurrent suicide of his sister (documented on ‘98s eerily dirgey Electro-Shock Blues). Then, with the cautionary nursery crimes and unresolved riddles of ‘00s beautifully rendered Daisies Of The Galaxy, recorded with R.E.M.’s Peter Buck and Grant Lee Phillips, E delivered some of the most poignant and carefree tunes in his canon.

Two years hence, the loosely thematic Souljacker finds E relaying depressing accounts gathered from acquaintances while being enamored by the perilous thought of an individuals’ spiritual embodiment being stolen. Helped along by former PJ Harvey co-conspirator John Parish (co-producer/ multi-instrumentalist), Joe Gore (guitar), and Kool G. Murder (bass/ synthesizer/ clavinet), the inventive L.A.-via-Northern Virginia sage continues to spin glum tales concerning some “Dog Faced Boy” and “Bus Stop Boxer.” Beautiful illuminations such as “Friendly Ghost” and the melancholic “Fresh Feeling” show definite signs of uplift and hope amongst the ever-present glare of despair.

On Last Call with Carson Daly, the now full-bearded E, dressed in casual tee with eyes hidden behind shades, convincingly pile-drove through “22 miles of road” for a soaring guitar version of “Souljacker Part I.” Later on, he moved over to keyboards while one-handedly banging a drum for the fierce “Dog Faced Boy.”

In the past, E’s shaven face took on the look of a frail, insecure naif lost in an inevitable “World Of Shit.” Now, our reluctant hero has the somewhat secure fuzzy appearance of an older, wiser, rugged troubadour. Perhaps the facial hair covers up the emotional scars of a traumatic past. Either way, the revolving assemblage E casts as the eels remain one of indie rock’s hottest prospects.

AW: Did John Parish provide many of Souljacker’s cinematic moodscapes?

MARK: We have similar love for little noises that make people get up and see what’s wrong with their stereo. I don’t know how to describe what he does. It’s something that’s all his own. I thought it was a good match.

Give me some background on Kool G. Murder.

He’s been around awhile. He’s a Silver Lakes hipster. He plays around with a lot of people doing remixing and d.j.ing. I met him through a friend of a friend. He came over one day and never left. Now we can’t get rid of him.

I’ve heard of indie rockers like Beck coming from Silver Lake, but it’s cool hip-hoppers thrive there as well.

Silver Lake is a melting pot.

Why put the 4-song EP, “Rotten World Blues,” on a separate disc alongside Souljacker?

I’m against records being too long. Just because you could fit 74 minutes doesn’t mean your album should be that long. But I’m just an old crank. Every country has a different version of Souljacker. England has an extra track because they have such an import problem. Same with Japan. They wanted me to add an extra track until I made the suggestion of four extra tracks. To my surprise, they agreed.

You take on the persona of “Dog Faced Boy.” He seems to be a kid that got picked on and rejected in high school.

That song was inspired by a woman I know who was kind of hairy as a kid and was teased by classmates and called gorilla girl. She had a Christian fundamentalist mother. She begged her mom to shave her. Then, I turned it into a dog-faced boy to make it convincing to sing in the first person.

Did you have the tortured childhood many musicians complain about?

Everybody’s childhood was fucked up, it seems, in one sense. I guess some have an ideal childhood, but I don’t know anyone.

Sometimes the early struggles become their muse for life.

But I don’t want to make a life out of that. The gorilla girl has become the hottest girl in town. They always get the last laugh. The geeks shall inherit the earth. The girls that were hot in high school that you wanted to go out with become unattractive while the others become attractive. It makes you believe in God.

Does your bearded appearance reflect the “Dog Faced Boy” character?

No. It just sort of happened. I stopped shaving.

Was the searing “What Is This Note” put at the end of Souljacker because of its derivation from the preceding moodscape?

I don’t know if it’s that much different from “Souljacker Part II” and “Teenage Witch.” It’s just so aggressive. I love how it smashes you in the face after “Souljacker Part II.”

It seems as if Parish was highly involved with the bent cocktail jazz -bossa nova “That’s Not Really Funny.”

Oh completely. That’s all him. What I love about it is it really rocks out without having elements you’d expect in a rock song. There’s hardly any drums and no real bass guitar, yet somehow it really rocks.

The anguished dirge, “Bus Stop Boxer,” really hit me. It seems so earnestly depressing.

Every other song was inspired by a real life person. That was inspired by one of the record engineers we worked with. He made the mistake of telling me a story about his childhood. (laughter) Next thing, I wrote a song about it.

Do you enjoy other semi-orchestral contemporary mood rockers such as the Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev, Spiritualized, or Grandaddy?

Yeah. I like all of those. I haven’t heard Grandaddy, but everyone says I’d like them.

What’s this about a meditation retreat you went on? Did it help your writing?

Totally. I was in the middle of Electro-Shock Blues when I went on that. This album just had to wait in line.

What are you currently working on?

I’ve got a couple records in the can and I’m working on one. I’m also working on a Sam Shepherd film that’ll hopefully be shooting this fall.

EAST RIVER PIPE FIND ‘MEL’ ALONG HOMELESS TRAIL

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: Under the alias, East River Pipe, former homeless Jerseyite, F.M. Cornog, makes menial pay selling beautifully textured indie pop albums. In ’96, I got to speak to the shy, reluctant artist when breakthrough album, Mel, came out. Since then, he has slowly continued to release some of the most alluring neo-orchestral pop imaginable. ’99s The Gasoline Age bettered Mel while ’03s Garbageheads On Endless Stun and ’06s What Are You On were nearly as good. A vibrant storyteller who refuses to tour, Cornog is truly an enigmatic character. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Born in Norfolk, Virginia and raised in Summit, New Jersey, F.M. Cornog spent time homeless in Hoboken until he was apprehensively convinced to release the 4-track tapes he had made. Much like lo-fi indie rocker Jack Logan, Cornog never planned to make his private tape collection available for public consumption. And much like reflective, low-key acoustic solo artist Smog (a.k.a. Bill Callahan), he hides behind a peculiar moniker – East River Pipe. By combining Beatlesque psychedelia, Beach Boys-inspired harmonies, and vibrating modern electronics into pastoral guitar pop, East River Pipe is basically Cornog’s one man band.

Cornog maintains, “I tried working with other instrumentalists, but they approached music in a second hand manner. And I couldn’t get anything done. I have no time for lazy musicians. And much like my idols – Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Brian Wilson, Todd Rundgren, and Lou Reed, I decided to get serious and make beautiful, melodic songs on my own.”

But there were huge hurdles Cornog had to leap over before achieving any credibility or indie pop stature. Cornog reflects, “I was severely depressed and used drugs as an escape to obliterate my own ego. It became a vicious cycle. I had no friends and lived in the Hoboken train station. In the winter of ’86, all I had was a green windbreaker. My father had always told me to deal with the real world or it would kick me in the ass – and at that time, it did.”

But as fate would have it, an undisclosed person gave a 4-track tape of Kornog’s work to Barbara Powers, and it became a crucial stepping stone to his success. Powers, now Kornog’s girlfriend and business partner, started Hell Gate Productions (named after the Astoria, Queens bridge).

In ’91, she released Kornog’s East River Pipe single “Axl or Iggy / Helmet.” After several positive reviews, Kornog had a chance meeting with Bar None’s Tom Prendergast at Hoboken’s Pier Platters. Prendergast convinced him to send his single to Britian’s Sarah Records.

With “Helmet” now the A-side, Melody Maker gave East River Pipe single of the week honors. Kornog was then approached by several major labels, but decided he disliked the ‘high pressure bull shit.’ So he opted for Chicago’s tiny Ajax Records and his career has been on a slow, organic climb ever since.

Kornog declares, “You’ve got to put a stamp on your own music. The whole point of being an artist is to come up with new ideas and form a foundation. You should express your own personal vision. Even a retro song like Oasis’ “Champagne Supernova,” a guilty pleasure, was well constructed. Unlike grunge heads’ heavy bummer music, I’ve always written easy, heartfelt songs apart from any scene. Some of my songs are dark, but the music makes it seem less threatening. I’m aware of what music is currently out there, but some bands don’t know the difference between recycling music and making something original out of existing ideas.”

East River Pipe received a big boost when ’96s Mel found a sizeable indie audience with depressive suburban kids and the cool underground pundits supporting them. Jangled pop tunes such as the infectious “The Club Isn’t Open” and the chimy Robyn Hitchcock-like “Prettiest Little Whore” (a sincere assertion concerning a transvestite lover) cuddle up next to the country-folk “Guilty As Charged” and the cloudy tender-hearted “Beautiful Worn-Out Love” (a song Marshall Crenshaw would die for). And somewhere between Jazz lite, pop balladry, and art rock lies the expansive instrumental “New York Crown.”

“Originally, “New York Crown” had lyrics about a guy sitting in a strip bar staring at a girl he wanted as his queen. That song reminds me of the dream-like New York skyline at night. It’s incredible, scary, and beautiful,” Cornog says. “In fact, I’m attracted to edgy street personalities like the Taxi Driver and Midnight Cowboy characters. They lived dingy New York City lives.”

How did Cornog decide on the East River Pipe handle?

“One day I was walking by the East River and a sewage pipe had warm, steamy liquid pouring out of it. So I just decided that I am the pipe, society is the sewage, and my contribution is my music – or my crap, if you get my meaning.”