LANGHORNE SLIM’S ON THE BRIM

Interviews

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FOREWORD: For a couple weeks there in the summer of ’05, I became friendly with mod folk rascal, Langhorne Slim. I caught a few shows (one with my college bud, Jeff), quaffed a few brews, and took some quotes on the run. His self-titled ’08 album is nearly as good as ’05 long-play debut, When the Sun’s Come Down. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Tackling interpretive folk and talkin’ blues in a dignified roots-y rock manner, young buck Langhorne Slim proves a simple song goes a long way. Taking his adopted first name from the rural Pennsylvania town he departed following high school, the sprightly Slim (a.k.a. Sean Scolnick) feels perfectly at home composing scanty hobo lullaby’s, convivial old timey treatises, and assiduously finger picked hillbilly hoe-downs.

Drawing a passing resemblance to soulful Philly peer Amos Lee, the adroit Slim delivers post-adolescent confessionals in a slightly nasal tone prudently located to the right of strangely scraggly baritone grumbler Tom Waits and wild West Virginian warbling weirdo Hasil Adkins.Leaving the agrarian farmlands of Bucks County to attend SUNY-Purchase in Westchester, Slim then moved to Jersey City and Brooklyn before settling in New York’s Chinatown district with his girlfriend.

Brought up by his mother and grandparents, he discovered theatrical soundtracks, Jazz, and Barbra Striesand as a child. On Sundays, his divorced father would visit, exposing him to Chuck Berry and the Rolling Stones.

“I’ve seen Richie Havens live more than any other performer. Last time I saw him, he played a haunted Pennsylvania hotel. His hands are enormous. Because he didn’t break any strings banging away I asked what kind he used. He said, ‘D’Addario,’ so I’ve used them ever since. But I break them all the time. In fact, when Havens was at Woodstock, he broke a bunch during “Freedom.” He plays in such a rhythmic way,” Slim instructs. “As for Doc Watson, he’s maybe my favorite guitarist. I find comparisons to him to be huge compliments. Tonight, someone said early Dylan. However, that’s probably only because he played acoustic guitar and took inspiration from the same American folk roots music.”

“My grandfather taught me about Lionel Hampton and I was doing community theatre – Guys & Dolls and famous ancient plays – but I was never any good at being directed, so I decided to make my own kind of show,” Slim shares. “At thirteen, I picked up a guitar and began writing.”

After college, Slim made minimalist self-released home recording, Slim Picken’s, with friend Charles Butler on banjo. Soon, indie label Narnack signed him for the introductory Electric Love Letter EP, a less laid-back, more festive, yet hastily assembled project that gained the attention of neo-traditionalists and anti-folk contemporaries alike. Slim’s eyes light up when compared to interpretive post-Dylan strummer Richie Havens and bluegrass icon Doc Watson.

Onstage at quaint NoHo Manhattan club, Joe’s Pub, his unwavering confidence, facetious wit, and quickly quipped asides kept the seated audience captive. Allowing for some minor eccentricities, pork pie-hatted Slim donned an ash-colored velour shirt while quivering through melodramatic sad songs, keeping tongue firmly in cheek during several impish curiosities.

Slim’s cracked bari-tenor, expressive if not rangy, brought a delicate chill to poignant allusions and a relaxed playful demeanor to milder sentiments. Prancing across the stage strumming fast jangled chords, he had the sanguine saunter of a salty troubadour, spitting exasperated verbiage and relating silly anecdotes when not busy fronting the bare-bone rhythm section (bassist Paul De Figlio and drummer Malachi De Lorenzo). He put on the gas face or wore a goofy smirk to squeeze more passion out of each whimsical piece.

A week later at Maxwells in Hoboken opening for Crooked Fingers (ex-Archers Of Loaf guitarist Eric Bachmann’s pensive solo venture), the skinny Semite, dressed down in guinea-t and casual gray slacks sans band, attempted fewer new songs, unleashing a short itinerary of older material. Adding rambling interjections and funny narratives to keep his repertoire fresh, Slim tries to never play originals the same way twice, much like mighty icon Bob Dylan. Yet Slim admits he could listen to AOR standards such as The Who’s Baba O’Riley (“teenage wasteland”) every day without hesitation. Plus, he gives respect to another well-known ‘60s Brit-rock crew, the Kinks, whose “Waterloo Sunset,” he adores.

“I think the Kinks deserve more credit. Ray Davies is the man, but I think he pissed off a lot of people.” Slim grins then remarks, “I was humming “Happy Jack” after hearing it on a television commercial and actually met someone claiming he didn’t like The Who. Who the fuck wouldn’t enjoy The Who?!!”

But despite his admiration for revolutionary post-Beatles archetypes, truth is, Slim’s Narnack Records long-play debut, When The Sun’s Gone Down, is indubitably informed by traditional Country blues, rustic bluegrass, and Dust Bowl era ballads instead of any weightier classic rock impetus.

Spindly acoustic and expeditious banjo linger above bustling percussive beats on urgent love-struck opener “In The Midnight,” breezy affectionate gush “The Electric Love Letter,” and hokum organ-splashed hootenanny “Set Em Up.” Chiming pedal steel-aided adoration “Mary” and shuffling fiddle-ensconced “Loretta Lee Jones” maintain mint-y freshness. The latter recalls Buddy Holly’s zippier rocking snapshots while retaining a concise folk-y resonation.

Though oft-times lyrically obsessed with solitude, as per abrupt harmonica-fuzzed chant “And If It’s True” (‘I was alone but not lonely’), brusque lo-fi scruff “Drowning” (‘I’d kill to be alone’), and the scratchy tear-stained drifter’s lament “I Ain’t Proud,” he downplays any significant underlying defeatist attitude with restrained jocularity.

“I’ve been in a few relationships so I sing about the painful aspects, which is easier than sharing the happy parts,” he advises.

Akin to its humble back porch serenity, the sumptuously bucolic When The Sun’s Gone Down artwork appropriates suitably modest black and white dusky photographs.

Slim asserts, “The front cover features my friend Mike’s Jersey house. The back shot is from the house I grew up in. Inside, there’s a puzzle of the world’s strongest man, Louis Cyr, which my father, an amateur body builder, left in the basement when my parents split, along with the sailfish on the paneled wall.”

Nevertheless, when all is said and done, it is Slim’s pliable perspicacity of every man’s joyous wonders and, conversely, isolationistic defeats that seep deeply into the mind. And when an existing arrangement needs color splashed on for a cheerier mood swing, Slim goes and fetches accordionist Brendan Ryan to perk up verbose assurance, “Hope And Fulfillment.” In summary, he brings a greatened noble sense of integrity to a bygone generation’s most fertile ideals, whether ceding down and out allegories or rendering snugly devotional keepsakes.

DUNGEN VAUNTS TWO NORDIC PSYCH-GARAGE FREAKS

Interviews
FOREWORD: Dungen have to be one of the most inventive bands to come down the pike in recent years. I interviewed dexterous guitarist Reine Fiske just before ’05s Ta Det Lugnt took hold underground. I’ve also included a High Times review I did for ’07s incredibly awesome Tio Bitar – which received a four hemp leaf rating, as you’ll see below.  This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly. The brainchild of multi-instrumentalist Gustav Ejstes, Nordic combo Dungen (pronounced doon-yen) came into existence in its earliest version as a one-man band aided by several eager school pals. A farm-raised southern Sweden villager, Ejstes studied with accomplished local fiddler Jonny Soling, a significant mentor and role model.

After meeting ambitious lead guitarist, Reine Fiske, at folk school, the stage was set for Dungen to develop into one of the most meaningful experimental bands’ now cavorting through the universal nightclub scene. Originally, Dungen fooled around with different chord structures, exploring the catalog of Jimi Hendrix Experience at intervals, deftly attempting to figure out the dexterous psychedelicized fretwork as well as Mitch Mitchell’s thunderous drumming in a dank, dusky basement.

“I was forced to play guitar in music school,” the fleet fingered Fiske recalls. “Sweden used to have a scheme where if you’d pick up an instrument and join a band the government would pay.” But he promptly confesses, “Ultimately, it’s all in your system. I’ve been programmed with so many things. I don’t consider myself a very blues-y guitar player. I’m more into melodies. You always indirectly borrow ideas from people, but in the end, they’re your own.”

Dungen’s limited edition fuzzed-out ’01 self-titled vinyl debut sold out its initial 500 copies, and along with their more cohesive second album, Stadsvandringar (described as ‘a promenade with observations on city summer life’), has been re-released on CD with unreleased material added, creating quite a stir amongst well-informed subterraneous residents. Could fame on par with fellow Scandinavians the Hives, or at least Sahara Hotnights, be far off?

Fiske may laugh at the thought, but he offers, “I’ve been into Swedish underground music forever. The first incarnation of International Harvester (whose feral fusion of raga, folk, jazz, and nature sounds coalesced best on ‘68s dependable Sov Gott Rose-Marie) played complex, haunting drone-rock with tribal beats. They were a very big cult band in a more free form improvised genre.”

Though denying any first-hand prog-rock influences, Fiske admits to having early Yes albums in his collection, albeit not the late-‘70s symphonic investigations of Tales of Topographic Oceans. He finds beauty in some of it, but has otherwise “grown tired of it.”

Yet the self-assured young maverick does touch upon some enthrallingly proggish inclinations, as he noodles around abstrusely, moving through wacky offbeat dementia and outrageously fanciful excursions in increasingly intriguing ways. Gratefully, notwithstanding the fascinating tripped out hi-jinx daubing a few clever suites, ‘05 breakout, Ta Det Lugnt, finds Dungen remaining surprisingly affective constructing euphonious hook lines and subordinate symphonic orchestral grandeur; mutating cosmic styles while astonishingly singing in their native tongue instead of commonplace English. Piercing trebly guitars reach punk-metal pandemonium during unexpected intervals, subverting several protracted decorous extravaganzas with spacey electronic manipulation any old school King Crimson fan would recognize. However, at the core of these galactic expansions lie the hearts and minds of true garage-rock freak’s resourcefully handling primal studio gadgetry and primary tools (guitar-drum-bass).

“It was cut together as a montage. We worked real hard on it. Certain movements are spontaneous. The jams blend together,” declares Fiske. “The last song, “Sluta Folja Eiter,” has Gustav on all the drums during a heavy night. We were just drunk, had a good time, and were loose. I put the guitar notes down and it was crazy. Nothing but the basic track was planned.”

Even if, as Ejstes claims, Ta Det Lugnt was made in the midst of an angry drunken stoner hangover, its nervous tension allows room for multitudinous spiffy pop embellishments. Unconventionally beginning with a nifty swing-styled drum solo, the upwardly mobile sorcery of “Panda” imbues a similar celebratory European harmoniousness ‘60s legends, the Monks, once exposed. Perhaps another hazy reminder of a long-lost psychedelic-crazed Sixties relic, the echoed vocals and six-string sustenance fortifying the congenial “Gjort Bort Sig” reference The Creation, aiming at the frazzled skull before heading straight to the stratosphere. Folk-acoustic spiral “Festival” then settles into the semi-aquatic neo-orchestral glaze of emotional ballad “Du E For Fin For Mig” (where Fiske’s fiery guitar coda seemingly mingles Hendrix distortion techniques with dazzling Frank Zappa-sponsored fluidity). And the soothing “Lipsill” slips into voyaging lounge-y ambiance better than the velvety piano-strolled morsel “Det Du Tanker Ideg Ar Du I Morgon.”

“There’s always a kernel of hook-y melodies – something to grab onto,” Fiske shares. “When I listen to the record, I get very connected to the way the record turned out. The mixture of songs is interesting. There are all kinds of moods that go lots of places you couldn’t imagine. New things are happening all the time.”

Even while rejecting the notion that the mid-section of barreling sashay “Bortglomd” touches upon some swiftly stroked riffs drawn from The Who’s Quadrophenia, Fiske does unequivocally acknowledge their windmill-armed axe master.

“Pete Townshend was important for me as an angry teen not knowing what to do. But I wasn’t thinking about them. Instead, the inspiration comes from certain (established) Swedish bands. The drum patterns were from a jam.” He continues, “We function well together in a recording situation. I’m handy in the studio. Live, to some extent, we’ll break into jams. There are times we head off in any direction.”

Dungen have been recording some new ideas, but no particular songs have been finished yet. Will Fiske risk the venture into solo artist territory in the near future?

“I’m not a song man. But it’d be nice to get together with people I love and have he same attitude towards playing. I’d definitely want good people,” he avows.

Best of all, Dungen has already caught on here in the States thanks to a recent spate of nationwide club dates. At Maxwells in Hoboken this September, Fiske, whose frizzy shoulder length blonde locks covered his bespectacled face, displayed technical proficiency way beyond his twentysomething years. Curly-haired Ejstes, meanwhile, did yeoman’s work adding rhythm guitar segments, manipulating keys, shakin’ tambourine, providing decorative tidbits, and taking on lead vocal chores. Bassist Mattias Gustavsson held the fort as athletic drummer Fredrik Bjorling proved to be mightily sufficient banging out engrossing rhythms and perplexingly distended fragments. Mars Volta’s fabulous protracted jaunts came to mind as well as Soft Machine’s strenuous Jazz-informed free form meanderings (especially on spectral flute-interspersed epic “Om Du Vore En Vakthund”). Only a little blurry over-modulated distortion during the dramatic harmonic refrain of “Panda” marred the otherwise magnanimous set.

Fiske concludes, “We did two weeks in America in July. We basically sold out the smaller venues. We got good press, too. It’s almost odd how we got that kind of exposure.”

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DUNGENTio Bitar(Kemado Records)

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Reclusive studio rat Gustav Ejstes may shun interviews and appear shy onstage (despite the beautiful noisy racket he creates), but the industrious multi-instrumentalist cannot be denied his place amongst the top modern rock surrealists. Masterminding Swedish combo Dungen (pronounced doon-yen) with a little help from fellow Nordic hotshot guitarist Reine Fiske (and an equally compelling touring unit), they blend myriad textural elements into a heady brew of kaleidoscopic psychedelia.

Coming off dazzlingly cosmic ’05 U.S. debut, Ta Det Lugnt (recorded in the wintry daze of what Fiske described as “an angry drunken stoner hangover”), Dungen’s latest resplendent offering, Tio Bitar, reaches a tantalizingly melodic pinnacle without sacrificing abrasive metal-edged angularity. Conveniently holding heavy-handed proggish tendencies in check, Dungen allow piercing sonic feedback, Goth keyboard drones, jazz-fusion percussive milieu, illustrious acoustic-violin tranquility, and fluttery flute nuances to paint a rich canvas of contrasting dark and bright hues.

Indirectly informed by Classical Swedish folk and singing in his native tongue, Ejstes may make music mag headlines for devising astoundingly complex arrangements, but it’s ultimately his majestic emotional linguistics that seal the deal. On autumnal piano-plinked climax, “Svart Ar Himlen,” Ejstes’ warmly mesmerized lyricism rings out clearly, conveying a universal message way beyond restrictive cultural boundaries. Moreover, during the siren “Intro” and then elsewhere in Tio Bitar’s blissful narcotic midst, Fiske lets his freak flag fly, showing off a full-on Jimi Hendrix compulsion by scattering a blurry cavalcade of sustained riffs, gruff turbulence, and jagged distortion into the most far-out abstractions. In summary, it’s a hip opiate-encrypted trip picked to grip the underground nation.

-John Fortunato

CINCY’S GREENHORNES CONQUER & DIVIDE

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I did this ’05 interview just before Greenhornes bassist Jack Lawrence and drummer Patrick Keeler provided rhythm for Loretta Lynn’s Van Leer Rose comeback. Her producer, White Stripes guitarist Jack White, had recommended them. Afterwards, White, Lawrence, Keeler, and indie pop sensation Brendan Benson formed the Raconteurs and gained further endorsements. Following a decent ’05 album, Sewed Soles, the Greenhornes parted ways with guitarist Craig Fox and may be in limbo (possibly due to Lawrence-Keeler’s busy session work schedule)

Liberated by the idea to create original music while shrewdly cognizant of the predetermined mandate forcing exceptional artists to reckon with scanty left of the dial airplay as compliant pabulum-puking mainstream vipers saturate commercial radio, many disparate independent-minded neophytes still continually seek such limited, yet reassuringly meritorious, exposure. One of the best purveyors of energetic ‘60s-related garage rock, alongside Mooney Suzuki, Reigning Sound, Von Bondies, and the Dirtbombs, Cincinnati-based combo, the Greenhornes, got together some time in ’96 under similarly confounding circumstances. But thankfully, as lissome bands such as the Hives and Franz Ferdinand break beyond the constrictive boundaries of leveraged college stations and make waves on satellite radio and MTV2, numerous lesser-known talents may have larger access to broad-based audiences.

In ’99, the Greenhornes debut, Gun For You, gave the gritty combo early exposure with its raw, stripped down barroom stomps. Soon, Telstar Records, a terrific Hoboken boutique label with a solid reputation (run by Maxwells’ booking agent/ supervisor Todd Abramson), signed the youthful lads. But it wasn’t the Seeds, Vagrants, Castaways, Count Five, or any specific Nuggets–related ‘60s artist that got drummer Patrick Keeler into rock’s archaic cellar-bound minimalism, but instead, heavy metal thunder.

“The first concert I saw was Deep Purple,” the reticent timekeeper from St. Leon, Indiana, “twenty minutes outside of Cincinnati,” recalls. “That made me want to get into music. My parents had lots of records and my dad’s brother was a drummer. That started it. I took music lessons early on.”

Guitarist Craig Fox’s scrappy blue collar testifying, soulful moans, and dungy riffs linger above a tousled clump of viscous beat-driven tension that’d define sundry singles and future full-length endeavors. Keeler and bassist Jack Lawrence got so much respect from fellow musical buddies they were able to make the rounds accompanying some major players, including White Stripes front man Jack White, who then introduced them to Country icon, Loretta Lynn.

Comparisons to post-Beatles touchstones the Sonics and Thirteenth Floor Elevators notwithstanding, the Greenhornes initial self-titled ’00 Telstar entrée caught on nationally in club land, led by the brilliant primal rock authenticity of exhilarating opener “Can’t Stand It.” Evoking the Animals R & B groove on “Shadow Of Grief,” and the Doors cryptic dirges as well on “Stay Away Girl,” the formative coterie, then a quintet, also delivered a blistering rendition of Spencer Davis Group’s “High Time Baby,” arguably the set’s rousing highlight. Yet despite its crude exuberance, the balance of the album doesn’t maintain the same anxiety level or retain the sweaty excitement their thrilling live shows do.

On the other hand, ‘02s magnificent Dual Mono never lets up. Lawrence’s greatest compositional contribution yet, the stimulating honky tonk anthem “Satisfy My Mind,” chugs along with a definite sense of purpose. The Greenhornes show unwavering conviction herein, successfully experimenting with increased electronic manipulation and lots of vocal reverb. Interestingly, the jet-propulsive lock-grooved instrumental “Pigtails And Kneesocks” rejoices in its Yardbirds-circa-’66 twin guitar rancor.

Providing unexpectedly poignant contrast, Brit vamp Holly Golightly croons like Peggy Lee atop the haunting Rickenbacker-like slither of “There Is An End,” a nifty Lee Hazelwood inspired spaghetti Western knockoff. Though organist Jared Mc Kinney is gone and rhythm guitarist Eric Stein replaced Brian Olive, the Greenhornes preserve the archetypal rudimentary retro-rock resonance that incipiently made them semi-famous. Once more, former Afghan Whigs bassist John Curley handled production chores. Before long, Olive left and the Greenhornes carried on as a basic trio.

“We’re now working as a three-piece, so the sound itself has changed because of that amongst all the production,” Keeler insists. “There was different space in between the instruments. Everything breathes a little more and you play differently to accommodate that space and lack of rhythm guitar or organ not being there full time.”

For eclectic ’05 5-song EP, East Grand Blues, the Greenhornes recruited Detroit chum, solo artist Brendan Benson, to supervise production on a few admirable deviancies. Some of Fox’s darkest, most vulnerable lyrics secure “Shelter Of Your Arms,” a contemplative Spaghetti Western brood reminiscent of Lee Hazelwood. Whereas a spooky understated vibe imbibes “At Night” and a voodoo gypsy spell mystifies the flute-embellished “Shine Like The Sun,” the all-out psych-garage slammer “Pattern Skies” will please previously entrenched fans. A laid-back Byrds-like Country-rock reticence conquers “I’m Going Away.”

“I think the songs flow together well. It started as a full length but Brendan got busy when it was ready to come out,” Keeler explains.” We didn’t know what we were gonna do with the songs, but then we were asked to do this White Stripes tour. So we put it out to get some exposure. We liked the way it sounded so it felt right.”

Furthermore, on her Jack White-produced comeback, Van Lear Rose, Keeler and Lawrence became the rhythm section for Loretta Lynn, a dormant former C & W idol unjustly ignored in recent years. Though showing true restraint on Lynn’s delicate balladic weepers and the traditional sunny Appalachian chant, “High On A Mountain Top,” the pair also got to rock out a tad on Lynn/ White’s demure roadhouse duet, “Portland, Oregon” and the stop-start slide guitar-saddled “Have Mercy.”

Keeler shares, “It was amazing working with her. The call came from Jack White for us to come down to Nashville. It was a surprise – a good one at that. She was so nice and writes great songs. She had worked with some real experienced people. It was an honor and kind of nerve wracking. But she made us feel comfortable. She’s just amazing to watch.”

Now comes word that Keeler and Lawrence will support Jack White and Brendan Benson on a forthcoming collaborative album being credited to the Raconteurs. Keeler agrees the new tunes will mix the White Stripes blues-y scrum, Benson’s pop smarts, and the Greenhornes own scruffy garage influences.

“It’s coming along good. Our touring schedules are busy, so we’re just trying to find time to get together. Brendan and Jack are co-writing the songs, Keeler quips.

On top of all these current activities, the puissant twosome may record with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs trash-fashioned punk-chic singer Karen O.

“We talked about some stuff. We’re not sure exactly what we’re gonna do,” Keeler laughs. “It’s speculation and rumor right now. But I hope it works out.”

Fox, meanwhile, has been occupied composing new Greenhornes tunes while the rhythm section toils in divergent outside projects. Hopefully, they’ll work with Benson again, perhaps with confidante John Curly engineering, in the more familiar surroundings of Ultrasuede Studio. In the meantime, they’re trying out new songs on the road.

“We’ve done ten shows so far with the White Stripes. They’ve been great. We just did Denver’s Red Rocks. We got our first warm up standing ovation,” Keeler proudly declares. “Watching Jack and Meg out there is like experiencing organized chaos. Brendan came out one night to back them in L.A. But they’ve really got it down as a duo.”

In conclusion, he says, “Our goal is to make a record we want to listen to again and again. Songs come different ways. Craig plays with his 4-track and jams around during down time. At practice, songs could come in any direction. We might even play Ren & Stempy-like Jazz.”

DIALS GYRATE THROUGH ‘FLEX TIME’ DESPITE TRAGIC EPISODE

Interviews,

FOREWORD: It happens all too much. A band on the rise loses a member or more due to an automobile (or plane) accident. Chi-town’s Dials suffered that sad fate just as they were making musical progress. Nevertheless, they soldiered on, releasing ‘05s sturdy Flex Time and, after this interview, capricious ’09 follow-up, Amoeba Amore. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

In the late ‘90s, up and coming Florida band, For Squirrels, were about to shake up the underground when a horrifying overturned van accident killed singer Jack Vigliatori and bassist Bill White. Suffering through similarly grim circumstances, The Dials lost their energetic drummer, Doug Meis (as well as singer-bassist-guitarist Rebecca Crawford’s husband, John Glick, and Silkworm percussionist Michael Dahlquist), in a grievous crash caused by a suicidal motorist. Despite that terrible episode, The Dials chose to carry on with several local friends picking up drum chores part-time.

“We’re gonna continue to play shows because that’s what Doug would’ve wanted us to do,” the prematurely widowed Crawford avows.

Obsessed with music while growing up in rural Illinois, Crawford was a vinyl junkie who’d lock her bedroom door and go wild listening to new wave and kitsch-y ‘60s girl groups, two stylistic influences now informing her femme-fronted band.

“I like catchy music ranging from the Go-Go’s to Joy Division. I was a teenager in the ‘80s and worked at a record store during college, when all that post-punk and power pop was around,” she declares.

Now residing in the Logan Square section of Chicago, west of the Wicker Park scene that produced ‘90s lynchpins Liz Phair, Smashing Pumpkins, and Urge Overkill, where “there’s cheaper rent,” Crawford met Miami-bred guitarist Patti Gran through a Chicago Reader ad. The duo settled on a lineup rounded out by Meis and Emily Dennison following the departure of several previous drummers and keyboardists.

But just as the foursome began to really click, tragedy struck on July 14th after the recording of breakthrough ’05 full-length showcase, Flex Time (Latest Flame Records), was finished. An earlier EP, Sick Times, done with a former drummer, featured six songs that grew into fruition and got redone for their sterling debut.

Crawford explains, “We wanted a chance to re-record those demo-like tracks and rescue them as we came into our own. They sport a few different lyrics and had minor structural changes. Greg Norman worked at (famed grunge producer) Steve Albini’s studio and now has his own basement studio that had a handy laid-back atmosphere and was less expensive. He’s a friend of Patti’s as well. It was just good timing.”

Capturing the attention of fresh fans with exciting gigs cross-country, The Dials feed off each other’s charismatic energy, building to a frothy head of steam by keeping the bustling rhythm strong and the zesty melodies intense. But the impulse to rock out in front of an eager audience has been there for Crawford since she was in an unheralded, but respectable, Wisconsin band. Starting her career with Meis in unheralded Madison, Wisconsin band, the puta-pons, “a more eclectic unit with lots of punk-ish Slits staccatos and artsy Devo mannerisms,” Crawford soon became very confident in the role of front person.

On Flex Time, The Dials create fast, efficient, multi-harmonized adolescent punk that vivaciously veers towards enthusiastically sleazy teenybopper pop. Rubbery bass threads through bouncy organ shuffles undercoating the fidgety “Stuck Inside,” meshing alarming Sleater-Kinney-like high-pitched vocal yelps with the same teen dream alacrity new wave drama queens Josie Cotton, Missing Persons, and the Waitresses once brought forth. Dennison’s frolicsome Farfisa drives the electronic space age whirl “Do You Want Me” as well as the snazzy Ramones-fashioned ditty “Bye Bye Bye Bye Baby.” Jittery jingle, “Phone Line,” may be the best phone-related tune since Blondie’s urgent “Hangin’ On The Telephone.” Lamentably ironic, the hyperactive organ-shuttered opener bears the title, “Dead Beat.” Though wholly insouciant, its lyrics eerily ponder ‘where do we go from here?’ In defiance, the only thing the remaining Dials knew how to do was to keep on keepin’ on in the best tradition of fatality-stung rockers.

“We’ve got a few songs ready for the next album. One’s a herky-jerky thing. Another’s more melodic yet steeped in the ‘80s groove – our own brand of that.” Crawford continues, “Patti’s more metal influenced, but brings a surf-y guitar sound forward since one of her favorite bands is the Beach Boys. Emily is a Clasically-trained pianist whose interests are all over the board. She likes (Chi-town pop eccentric) Bobby Conn. We’ve discovered our sound, but some of it may depend on who our next drummer becomes. The songwriting remains collaborative. We wanna continue to make catchy, fun rock and roll songs. I love the Valley Girl soundtrack.”

“AMERICAN BEER” – JERSEY BOYS MAKE GOOD SUCKING DOWN SUDS

Interviews, , ,

Image result for PAUL KERMIZIAN

AMERICAN BEER TRAVELOGUE

Taking a 12,000-mile expedition cross-country to sample some of the USA’s best brewers, director Paul Kermizian and crew assembled the interestingly educational low-budget travelogue, American Beer. Since then, I’ve befriended Kermizian and his trekking buddy Jeremy Goldberg, telling them how I’ve got an upcoming website reviewing thousands of bottled-canned beers and dozens of brewpubs. The brew-some twosome later attended a High Times softball game to drink some Canadian beers I found on a Niagara Falls family trip. Pre-Thanksgiving ’07, I visited Kermizian at his arcade-fueled Brooklyn-based watering hole, Barcade, with renowned Ipswich brewer, James Dorau. Meanwhile, Goldberg’s busy making fine beers under the name Cape Ann Brewery up in Massachusetts. The rest is history.

AMERICAN BEER

Leaving behind his production management day job for an informative 40-day excursion across the United States sampling sundry beers and ales, New Jersey native Paul Kermizian sought to enlighten and entertain the ever-growing population of cultivated brew-hounds with his own ‘bockumentary,’ American Beer. Traveling to 38 intercontinental microbreweries and brewpubs over 40 days, Kermizian, Somerset-based Rutgers Prep buddy, Jeremy Goldberg, and three other brave souls, headed for the road in June 2002. Released on DVD by respected small label, Narnack Records, in 2005, Kermizian edited the 100-minute film piecemeal over 18 months from approximately 200 hours of footage, spending $25,000 plus post-production cost.

“We were running on $600 a day, did a year of film festivals, got a great response, and even made a collector’s edition for real beer geeks with one-and-a-half hours of additional scenes and brewery interviews,” Kermizian offers.

A huge beer drinker with a skinny frame, the recently married Brooklynite first directed 2000’s wild narrative adventure, Calling Bobcat, hooking up with Goldberg, Syracuse University film school chum Jon Miller (photographer), Robert Purvis (Miller’s soundman), and Richard Sterling (Kermizian’s former History Channel associate) for American Beer thereafter. Nowadays, he runs Barcade, a Williamsburg pub featuring only handcrafted American beers on 24 taps (plus one revolving cask conditioned brew).

“The ultimate goal was to take a snapshot of the craft beer industry,” Kermizian avows. “At the same time, we wanted to turn people on to craft beers. We didn’t want to be too technical, but we had to find common ground (between connoisseurs and amateurs). Experienced drinkers wanted more about brewing processes while casual observers thought there wasn’t enough road trip scenes.”

Seeming like a great way to convey the state of independent-minded brewing, the quaffing quintet’s drunken journey began at hometown fave, Brooklyn Brewery, going north to Harpoon Brewery (Massachusetts), Mc Neill’s and Magic Hat (Vermont), and eventually heading through mid-America’s heartland to the West Coast, and finally, New Orleans. Though the guys got along well, living in close quarters at mostly cheap hotels caused “waves of hatred.”

“Doing laundry and figuring out where to eat were sometimes problems. But we’d just turn the camera on and get as drunk as we wanted,” Kermizian suffices. “We got pulled over in Massachusetts early on, but tried to be careful. Luckily, we didn’t get into trouble. A car sponsorship was sought, but drinking cross-country didn’t sit well with the auto business.”

One eye-opening scene at California’s North Coast Brewery revealed former ‘70s president Jimmy Carter as the man behind legalizing home brewing, leading to the microbrew revolution headed by Samuel Adams Brewery.

“Carter’s brother, Billy, probably had a great influence on that decision. I’ve seen unopened cans of his Billy Beer for sale. But they’d taste rather skunk-y at this point,” Kermizian chuckles.

Though they could only sojourn to select breweries in such a limited timeframe, some of Kermizian’s preferred beers came from Mc Neill’s (Imperial Stout), Dogfish Head, Hale’s, Hair Of The Dog, and, my premier selection, Rogue.

“We sat down with (Rogue head brewer) John Maier and had a lengthy tasting go on forever. He was a good sport. We drank all night and they put us up at a suite above the bar. The seals in the bay woke us up in the morning,” he says. “The most inspiring breweries to visit were small operations, where it’s like a guy in a garage set up, such as Jersey’s own Climax Brewery. Those guys are basically home brewers.”

Being from the New York vicinity, Kermizian’s annoyed that the anti-corporate attitude amongst civilians hasn’t carried over to the beer market, where better, more interesting beers get shunned for macrobrewed drivel. Instead of supporting local brewers with a regional flavor, the misguided proletariat continues consuming substandard piss water.

“There are beer styles people don’t realize exist (lambic/weiss/porter/stout). They’re drinking shit. There are more possibilities (whiskey, oak, or cedar-barreled) with beer brewing than wine making. There are fruity Belgian beers to suit wine lovers. We tried to educate as many people as possible to show options beyond Coors, Bud, and Miller.” He adds, “Many brewers expressed the ideal situation being working at a brewpub without worrying about bottling. They’d serve satisfied customers with fresh liquid daily.”

THE GOLDBERG AFFECT

During my High Times softball game mid-August, Goldberg met Kermizain and I at Central Park to imbibe a few Wellington beers I’d just brought in Niagara Falls after touring Rochester, Syracuse, Buffalo, and Finger Lakes brewpubs along the way. Goldberg, a University of Miami economics major and former Wall Street bond trader, left the financial world to do American Beer, opening Cape Ann Brewing Company in northern Massachusetts recently. He was possibly the heartiest partygoer of American Beer’s unkempt bunch.

“In the movie, the guys bust my balls for wanting to start a distribution company. Then, my brother-in-law had a warehouse I looked at and I saw some brewing equipment on EBay. I wanted to brew in a viable community. So along with my fathers’ financial help, I opened a place in Gloucester,” Goldberg submits.

Along the Atlantic coastline, Cape Ann now bottles the “nicely caramel, hoppy finishing” Fisherman’s Brew, an American amber lager. By the end of October, “a nutmeg-cinnamon-molasses” flavored Winter Double Bock will be available. An admitted gin lover (“Tanqueray 10”), he was happy to find San Francisco’s Anchor Steam Brewery now dabbling in the juniper berry-spiced liquor. His favorite breweries attended included Hale’s, Anderson Valley, Dogfish Head, and one fabulous Michigan mainstay, Kalamazoo Brewery.

“Larry Bell (proprietor of Kalamazoo) got us intoxicated. He said he’d go out for one beer. But one beer turned into a few. Everyone wore funky hats in Bell’s brewpub.” He forewarns, “Afterwards, we went to a nearby bar. We were so hammered we walked back to the hotel room. Then you find me sleeping in the van with a blanket over my head the next day.”

Goldberg, who put on ten pounds during the first twelve days of travel, was a super trooper, never turning down a beer.

“My goal was to try all the good beers on the trip. I had one bad night laying on top of the toilet bowl. That was in Kalamazoo,” he reiterates before soberly stating, “Strangely, halfway through the trip you forget places you’ve been.”

In conclusion, Kermizian says, “We were pretty beat by Abita Brewery in New Orleans. The idea was to make the film look like we jumped in a car visiting all these breweries. But it was heavily scheduled and getting places to meet people on time was hard. I don’t know if my liver could handle another trip.”

WARLOCKS RISE LIKE A PHOENIX

Interviews,

FOREWORD: When I interviewed the Warlocks inside their tour van parked outside Mercury Lounge in 2002, reticent mastermind Bobby Hecksher was nowhere to be found. I caught up with the reclusive Californian thereafter on the sidewalk and got some quotes I tossed into a piece supporting their Phoenix album. Since then, I saw them at the Merc again when ‘05s psych-skulking dirge, Surgery, came out (its review is at bottom). Two years later, the equally analgesic Heavy Deavy Skull Lover appeared. ‘09s The Mirror Explodes was right in line with past endeavors. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Verging on the edge of garage, goth, and slowcore without specificity, the Los Angeles-based Warlocks take Spiritualized post-psychedelic rock on a Codeine-induced acid trip through the mind’s deepest recesses. As bewitching as their sorcerer-inspired pre-Velvet Underground moniker implies, this large conglomerate cast a magic spell with mind-numbing mantras like the 14-minute meditational epilogue “Jam Of The Witches” from ‘01s invigorating Rise And Fall. In the same dark, dense, narcotic mode as fellow West Coast denizens Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, but never as calamitous as ‘70s post-punk schizoids Suicide, the Warlocks hauntingly eerie oeuvre usually evoke thoughts of fear, desperation, and desolation.

On ‘02 follow-up, Phoenix, the echo-drenched “Cosmic Letdown” simulates a heroin binge gone awry while the hazy ordeal, “Hurricane Heart Attack,” gets lost in whirlwind psychodrama. Singer Bobby Hecksher’s creamy utterance of “it’s nothing at all” on the open-hearted, harmonica-doused “Stone Hearts” seems plucked directly from the Velvets’ “Sunday Morning.” Yet there’s also life-affirming positivity to be found on two nearly upbeat opiates entitled “Shake The Dope Out” (a vibrant organ-grooved track hedging close to ? & the Mysterians) and “The Dope Feels Good” (a climactic fuzz-toned phantasm). But nothing beats the insular beauty of “Baby Blue,” a glistening shimmy hanging on a narcotic T. Rex groove.

The Warlocks continue to gain exposure from ceaseless stimulating live performances. The present touring crew includes Hecksher (guitar-bass-keys), Jeff Levitz (guitar-lap steel-sitar), J.C. Rees (guitar), Corey Lee Granet (guitar), Bobby Martine (bass), Danny Hole (drums), and Jason Anchondo (percussion). Guitarist Sonic Boom, organist Laura Grisby, and drummer Mike Mc Hugh provided extra studio support for Phoenix.

Here’s our question and answer session.

Some people have compared the Warlocks to the Rain Parade minus the pesky Paisley Generation tag.

JEFF: I was friends with people in that band and enjoyed them as people, but I wouldn’t say we were influenced by their music. I’d say we’re influenced by the same music they were influenced by. But this isn’t the third coming of the Paisley Underground.

How do your lengthy, drawn out compositions usually get initiated?

JASON: Bobby comes out with an idea, sometimes very simple ones, and brings it to the studio and we work on it.

JEFF: The cool thing is everybody in the band is so creative on their own, they write their own parts.

JASON: It’s like being married to six other people.

J.C.: There are far reaching, wide ranging influences that affect our music.

BOBBY HECKSHER: I bring a basic idea to the table and these guys either like it or they don’t. If they like it, they put their magic into it and it sounds as bitchin’ as it does because of them. I just bring the basic starting platform and they tell me if it sucks or not. I don’t have any ego or feelings about ditching an idea for something else. We try some new stuff instead.

What are some of the lyrical inspirations?

B.H.: It comes from people I meet. They’re very simple, straightforward, honest lyrics.

Phoenix doesn’t seem as downcast as last years’ Rise And Fall.

B.H.: It’s a little more upbeat, I guess.

BOBBY MARTINE: We’re a very spirited, happy group right now.

Did you need to be stoned to compose the uplifting “The Dope Feels Good”?

B.H.: (laughter) No. Again, that’s about a person. It’s not about drugs. I’m not being ironic. I didn’t need many words for the person that song is about.

Does your band draw influences from slowcore bands like Low and Codeine.

J.C.: Sure. We do like them. We like that kind of repetitive groove to take you someplace else.

“Baby Blue” has the most accessible feel, but happily never drifts into formulaic pop pabulum.

B.H.: That’s the way it came out. It started with some chords. All my songs are written about people, or groups of people. It could be about a girl and a boy or just girls.

(The interview moves from in front of Mercury Lounge to nearby Katz’s delicatessen to the bands’ tour van.)

What’s the difference between Greg Shaw’s Bomp recording sessions for Rise And Fall and Birdman’s sessions for Phoenix?

J.C.: Phoenix was recorded at four different places and mixed by three guys while Rise And Fall was done in just one place.

DANNY: You don’t always get the perfect mix and you still may not be satisfied after.

J.C.: That’s why on this record we shopped around to get a different style and sound. It may all sound the same after awhile, but the songs stand out.

Were you guys into King Crimson, Soft Machine, and ‘70s prog-rock?

JASON: It’s not like any of us sit around and listen to a whole King Crimson record. But when you hear those good cuts, you’re feeling them. But I don’t think they’re a conscious influence. Even with the same instrumentation going on, there’s so much difference between each song we do because we all try to get a different feel, texture, or sound.

Following “Minneapolis Madman” on the Phoenix EP is an intoxicating 25-minute mantra that put my kids to sleep before I could say good night.

J.C.: That’s our aural asphyxiation. Pure studio shenanigans. (fits of laughter)

JASON: Someone called it VU (i.e.: Velvet Underground) malarkey.

WARLOCKS MIND EXPANDING EXPERIMENTATION

For a stormy summer afternoon at the beach, L.A.’s Warlocks sure do make the perfect haunting moodscape. Led by neurotic front man Bobby Hecksher and a revolving cast of psych folk, their latest, Surgery (Mute), aims to create “some new rock ‘n roll hybrid: sonic space age doo wop.” If ‘03s stultifying Phoenix grabbed at the gut, then the irrepressible Surgery will melt your insides out, as sheets of distorted guitar noise crash down upon stony heads, reverberating straight down to their toes. Several narcotic jams re-create the post-midnight gloom pervading ’01 debut Rise & Fall.

FRUIT BATS REACH DEWIER PASTURES BEYOND INDIE PULP

Interviews

Though born in Lake Michigan port town, Kenosha, Wisconsin, home of genius movie director Orson Welles, multi-instrumentalist Eric Johnson grew up in expansive Chicago suburb, Naperville, where he listened to my alma maters’ college station, WONC-FM. So it’s intriguingly heartening to find the Fruit Bats leader claiming to be very enlightened by North Central College’s somewhat esoteric evening radio programming, especially since I once toiled there as music director way back in ‘78 when Captain Blotter, Doctor Quaalude, and Professor Amphetamine ruled the airwaves.

“I definitely found out about alternative music from WONC. They’d play b-sides and I learned to enjoy offbeat stuff like Captain Beefheart. They played weird cool tracks and had a late night psychedelic hour,” Johnson concedes. “My friend Steve and I would call straight through to the d.j.’s to make requests. We’d disguise our voices and use different names, not to make crank calls, but simply to get songs played on the air.”

As a pre-teen, Johnson’s favorite artists included Queen, Steve Miller Band, and subsequently, fleeting Aussie posse Men At Work. After glam-metal icons Motley Crue caught his attention in junior high, he discovered classic rock legends Bob Dylan and Neil Young, two important cultural figures still affecting the Fruit Bats oeuvre.

“Of course, discovering Velvet Underground was a landmark moment. My friends’ older brother had Loaded,” he admits.

Working with abstruse Red Red Meat mastermind Tim Rutili in more pop-minded Chi-town combo, Califone, whose label Perishable Records released the first Fruit Bats album, Echolocation, Johnson learned the ropes quickly during the ‘90s. He even concurrently fronted I Rowboat, a humble 4-track band started with fellow Fruit Bats guitarist Dan Strack and friend Brian Belval in tow.

“Califone made artier pop with drowsier droning,” Johnson smirks. “I’d started the Fruit Bats beforehand (as a sidebar to I Rowboat), but toured with Califone and guested on an album. But I never wrote a single note for them. I was never really a force or full time member. Tim and I are different musically. He takes pretty ideas and fucks them up and I do the opposite. I take twisted ideas and pretty them up. The songs come from exactly the same place with a totally antithetical means to an end.”

Though a vocal resemblance to Beach Boys legend Brian Wilson seemingly haunts Johnson’s muse, he downplays the connection. Yet the beautifully lush harmonious backdrop informing “A Bit Of Wind” (from ‘03s Mouthfuls) truly does simulate the Californian surf-rockers sensibility.

He yields, “I’ve got compared to Brian just like my friend James Mercer of the Shins has, but I’m not much into the Beach Boys. However, if you sing in the high tenor range like we do and write melodious songs, the analogy gets made.”

Instead, Johnson confirms having an affinity for similarly surreal moody contemporary combos the Flaming Lips, Eels, and Grandaddy.

“Yeah,” he corroborates. “Mercury Rev, too. They all do this grandiose Classical-informed pop usually with high vocals. I don’t mind being compared to them. I love the Flaming Lips, one of my favorite modern era bands. My very last show with Califone we opened for them. I got to meet leader Wayne Coyne. I was actually star-struck by him.”

On the Fruit Bats gorgeous second album, Mouthfuls, a majestic pulchritude and celestial ebullience detail the comely lullaby-like folk-pop pulp. Reflective acoustic-piano contemplation “Rainbow Sign” sets the stage with its creamy narcotic flow. But the sentiments put forth often deal with love-struck pain and anguish in the wake of relationship turmoil as per the spindly 6-string banjo-aided wisp, “Seaweed,” which tenders the serrated line, ‘If I broke my jaw for you I’d find a bloody tooth and rip it out.’ Quite strikingly, the questioningly confessional closing “When U Love Somebody,” a duet with then-partner Gillian Lisee (bass-keys-mandolin), proved to be the Fruit Bats most accessible memento.

Picked up by prestigious indie enterprise, Sub Pop Records, Johnson then moved his revolving troupe out to Seattle’s rainy grunge haven March ‘05, determined to attract a wider audience. While Echolocation only managed to sell 2,800 copies and its follow-up, a mere 10,000 units, the Fruit Bats nevertheless got to be known as ‘that Chicago band that seems more successful than they are.’ Hip college discjockeys, underground press, and boutique record stores hailed the band, but fame and fortune were out of reach.

“We’re still poor with day jobs,” he maintains. “I do craft services. I’m an all day on-set caterer for film sets, television commercials, and shows. They have lots of money to throw around to make snacks. In Chicago, they have a couple studios. The new Batman movie came through town recently. But it’s mostly commercials that are cushy because they have large ad agencies for Nike and Mc Donald’s, big old juggernauts.”

Perhaps the Fruit Bats third full length, Spelled In Bones, completed with ample care down in Strack’s studio basement, will finally put some money in Johnson’s pocket. The ambitiously arranged, harmonically sumptuous “The Wind That Blew My Heart Away” hacks into Pet Sounds’ debonair eloquence. On poignant piano ballads such as melancholic neo-orchestral dirge “TV Waves” and fragile adoring elegiac pledge “The Earthquake Of ’73,” the dusky ivory tingling bring back memories of John Lennon’s early ‘70s recordings.

“Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band is a huge record for me. But on “TV Waves,” I ripped off prog-rockers Genesis. I stole the feel from “Carpet Crawler” from The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway,” he divulges, absent-mindedly failing to convey that Mouthfuls’ “Magic Hour” likewise mentions a ‘carpet crawler.’

Sometimes Johnson’s literary seafaring abstractions and metaphoric man versus nature themes recall the compositional propensity of Modest Mouse comrade Isaac Brock, whom he toured with in one-off side project Ugly Casanova.

He offers, “I’d become acquainted with Isaac through Califone. He’s a great contemporary songwriter. Just because he’s not holding an acoustic guitar sitting down, people don’t think of him as a songwriter. But as a rock musician, he makes the best lyrics for a platinum selling artist.”

Assuredly, Johnson’s warm meteorological proclivities shine brightly in spite of some disparaging lyrical vignettes. Though shooting for a darker tone than Spelled In Bones ultimately consumed, he wasn’t necessarily looking to make a defiantly bolder statement.

“I’d like to do another 4-track record. I have some songs on tape in a shoebox and some were on Tragedy Plus Time, a limited edition ’04 EP. I want to do simple rock – two guitars, bass, and drums. We’ve been such an eclectic band putting every instrument possible on every song. There’s nowhere to go but backwards unless we play with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.”

THE GIRAFFES’ NECK OF THE WOODS

Interviews

FOREWORD: Outrageously cynical art-damaged metallic punks, the Giraffes, really put on a spectacle in concert. The fear and danger alert at their shows is on high at all times. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. Though ‘06s Pretty In Puke EP and ‘08s Prime Motivator didn’t assault the senses in the same way as the Giraffes self-titled ’05 long-player did, I’d recommend checking these guys out live.

Raised in a blue collar Midwestern town, howling Giraffes vocalist Aaron Lazar had to overcome a near-fatal heart ailment before his bands’ self-titled breakthrough Razor & Tie debut saw the light of day. Getting into graphic designing “by accident,” the N.Y.U. Fine Arts major worked as a bouncer at Lower Manhattan musical landmark, the Knitting Factory, prior to stumbling across comrades Damien Paris (guitar) and Andrew Totolos (drums).

“When they asked me to join, they were pretty much an alternative instrumental outfit,” Lazar recalls. “They didn’t think they needed a lead singer. What lyrical stuff they’d done was minor.”

But when a few Texas bred art buddies he’d met attending Kent State in the ‘90s asked to be introduced to the Giraffes while visiting the Big Apple, Lazar acquainted his pals and soon gained enough approval from Paris and Totolos to showcase his wares up-front and center stage. Bassist John Rosenthal then linked up with the boys in ’02.

“I saw them play a couple times and got to know them,” the front man says before describing his surreal ritualistic performances. “It’s a blur to me. I’ll get sick, puke, or throw something at the audience. Then, I gradually come through afterwards. I don’t usually remember anything about the shows. Someone might hit me with an object. It’s not compulsory. Typical rock stars are pretty stale. So fuck aping the danger.”

Raised in Youngstown, a nice place to live until the ‘60s when the steel mills shut down, Lazar escaped the depressing Industrial decay while crack-driven lawlessness had risen, decreasing the city’s population from 250,000 people to a mere 40,000.

“It’s almost a ghost town now – a shit hole. People from Ohio go there to score drugs. So I moved to New York. But once I saw the Manhattan art world up close, I didn’t want much to do with it,” he shares.

After the Giraffes issued ‘96s exploratory self-released debut, Frank’s Quilt, with a previous bassist, Lazar came aboard for the better, harder rocking Helping You Help Yourself, enhanced by Colt 45 Malt Liquor buzzes. An EP side project, A Gentleman Never Tells, followed shortly thereafter, featuring a stirring mix of surf grooves, Tex Mex shuffles, and Spaghetti Western motifs, and like its predecessor, strangely recorded underneath a Hasidic dry cleaning shop.

“We made a self-conscious effort to just rock out hard on our new album,” Lazar admits. “A long time ago we had this idea to alternate each record between straightahead rock and weird concoctions. Trans Am kind of does that but they confine it. We felt less limited in approach.”

Lazar’s handlebar moustache, savage lyrical thrust, and Transylvanian background provide a unique persona to the Giraffes whirred power chords and recklessly adventurous arrangements. At Brooklyn’s Studio G, experienced engineer Joel Hamilton was brought in to produce the Giraffes thrilling ‘05 endeavor, thankfully nabbing the same furious energy their live shows attain.

“Joel is one of the most adept professionals and also one of the funniest fucking guys you’ll ever meet. He’s a rocker in (brutish) band the Players Club. He’s not a clique-y producer. He knew how to capture our sounds because he knew the tricks to work the studio.”

Much of the mischief and mayhem gets credited to the punctual braniac riffs Paris spackles across Lazar’s guided visceral banter, scruffy glam-rock splurges, and basement bound Blues rues. Two better tracks deal with money as the means of expression. Scurried rant “Million $ Man” explodes out of the box, settling down for a soulful ‘do do da do’ refrain before going haywire. And the perilous “Wage Earner” bends galloping heavy metal guitar into hell bound Sabbath-descended drudgery. Similarly, “Sugarbomb” scatters lethal doses of cosmic debris along lofty bridges and extended jams. Better still, the resonating tryst, “Haunted Heaven,” brings to mind Blue Oyster Cult’s premium artfully deployed acid rock.

Though “Junior At His Worst” seems to emulate Alice Donut with its black magic voodoo stomp, Lazar appears to have no specific knowledge of the fellow underground Brooklyn denizens. In a manic gruff-throated growl, Lazar plows onward with unhinged rage, brutally screaming ‘there’s nothing in the whole wide world that could hold its own’ over a demented lament the Butthole Surfers would enjoy.

“If I could write like Gibby Haynes, that’d be the best, but I’m not as good as him,” Lazar modestly explains while referencing one of his heroes. “Maybe art school gives you an existential viewpoint because it makes you think of stuff you shouldn’t waste time on. I try not to care too much about the lyrics. It’s like that old David Byrne line, ‘lyrics are just what help you listen to the song.’ As far as rock and roll goes, good lyrics are not an absolutely necessary part of the equation. I try to write something I won’t laugh out loud at too often. I made up “Junior At His Worst” on the spot. It came out impromptu onstage one night.”

On the penetratingly anxious “Man U.,” Lazar props up a bogus soccer fight as instigative fodder while Paris scarfs up old Iron Maiden licks with Frank Zappa-like dexterity to embolden its terrifying cryptic blaze and anthemic chanting.

Lazar concedes, “That song has a more world weary sensibility. We’re never overtly political, but the soccer riot was a joke. It’s like savvy AC/DC politics. I’m not Zach de la Rocha. I can’t stand this black and white rhetoric. The lyrics take on scarier stuff like the neo-conservative bloodbath. But it’s not like I’m trying to make a big statement.”

With all the local excitement created before the Giraffes eponymous breakout even hit the stores, you’d figure things were going very nicely now. However, just as the Giraffes were ready to unleash their latest album, Lazar suffered two premature heart attacks from a congenital defect. Now sporting an expensive defibrillator, he’s back on the trail going full out entertaining a growing legion of fans.

“I got a little jolt doing our tour with Local H in Chicago. Other than that, my little metal buddy has helped me do fine except for that shock,” he contentedly claims. “If my heart rate goes up above a certain level, the defibrillator sends thirty jolts straight to my heart. We were onstage and I was drunk and felt like I got electrocuted. I took twenty seconds off, the jolts stopped, and I finished the show. I had to go to the hospital.”

In lieu of any unforeseen health risks, Lazar promises to continue performing as wildly as ever. Besides that, he imagines the Giraffes will gladly feel the need to investigate different avenues in the near future.

“My favorite actual song didn’t make it on to this album. We’re just trying to find new ways to explore. Maybe we’ll do Pancho Villa-like Spaghetti Westerns next time. Some new songs may take a decadent Marquis de Sade Italian detour. Our weird stuff and the straight rock stuff are talking to each other. So we’re trying to bring those together without becoming an overblown fusion rock band,” he informs. “After all, Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir,” as rocking as it is, is difficult to properly duplicate.”

WILLOWZ BLOOMING IN ANAHEIM

Interviews

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FOREWORD: I first met Cali garage punks, the Willowz, at a stunning Mercury Lounge show during ‘05s Talk In Circles tour. Two years hence, I was really in their camp, driving them to the city for afternoon setup at, I think, Bowery Ballroom. Richie’s mom got us all lunch that day. Anyway, we had loads of fun drinkin’ beer and cookin’ herb. I turned that li’l venture into an ’07 High Times interview session. But I missed a late summer show a few months later due to a bloodied finger. Sorry, Willowz. I await another solid album. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Juvenile products of the working class, the Willowz just may be saviors for disenchanted, disheartened minions waiting to subvert those sterile compromising get-rich-quick drones ruining America’s musty airwaves.

Boasting a wide range of molded, twisted, and warped contemporary and traditional influences, the fiery foursome’s super-charged tunes run the gamut from crash and burn self-righteous punk to thunderous balls-to-the-wall MC5/Stooges-informed Motor City mayhem with a quick stopover for laid-back farmhouse tranquility (spare acoustic plink “Blind Story”).

Never sticking to one identifiable style too long while garnering a great assortment of timely hooks and shifting chord structures, this fresh-faced, broad-minded Anaheim foursome retain a scampering wet-behind-the-ears amateur spirit to match their post-pubescent hyperactive restlessness.

A contagious punch drunk anything goes attitude courses through the veins of the Willowz charmingly over-the-top, hefty 20-song Talk In Circles, their breakout second album for virtuous indie label, Sympathy For The Record Industry.

Cleverly integrating garage rock inertia to the overall jubilant tunefulness, the Willowz muck up and pulverize any poppy tendencies, settling for a harder sound than nearby Los Angeles’ shiny happy scenesters such as Rilo Kiley and their growing legions. And they’re brainier than hometown Anaheim headliners, No Doubt, and, for that matter, any pedestrian local emo and hardcore rip-offs. Voices jettison in and out of bustling arrangements, interlocking whiny male-female shrieks that fall just short of Robert Plant hysteria.

Undoubtedly, lead singer-guitarist Richie James Follin’s punk-rooted auspices inform the long-haired loose-limbed combo’s aggression, whether beckoning a presumed slacker to ‘wake up you sleepyhead’ or fervently delivering a ‘fascist plastic song’ like the metallurgic “Cons & Tricks.”

“My step-dad was in early punk band Youth Gone Mad with (producer/ art illustrator) Paul Kostabi, who made our first two records,” Follin explains. “Afterwards, Paul had a band, Psychotica, who toured with Tool and Iggy Pop. They were on Lollapalooza’s main stage with Devo, Soundgardern, and the Ramones. That was obviously an introduction to Nirvana, too. So I began discovering punk stuff early on.”

Once elusive Posh Boy Records owner Robbie Fields gave the then-teenaged Willowz his stamp of approval in ‘02, doors immediately started opening. Their well-received 20-minute eponymous 9-song Dionysus Records EP, which controversially won Record of the Year from SoCal’s OC Weekly, piqued long-time Village Voice critic Robert Christgau’s interest.

Thereupon, French director Michael Gondry used loose Velvet Underground-prompted “Something” and pallid anti-folk number “I Wonder” for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’s fine soundtrack. Then, though they were still barely able to manipulate their instruments, appeared initial long-player, The Willowz Are Coming. Its basic ideas came from listening to loads of diverse records and half the songs were written in the studio while they were being learned, giving the project a startlingly skewed, scattershot rawness.

“Jessica (Reynoza: bass-vocals/ abstract painter) got all her dad’s classic records, mostly Soul like Jimmy Smith. Alex (Nowicki) actually played drums in a band with Greg Gagne of the Adolescents son’s band. Dan (Lowe: guitar) got into music playing in a church band,” informs the seemingly shy Follin. “I’d always made up songs as a little kid, but this was the first time I ever did anything substantial.”

With a cheap budget, producer Kostabi not only got the Willowz to rehearse properly and tighten up, he also brought along fellow old school punks to flesh out some songs for Talk In Circles. Cartoonish punk idol Keith Morris of the Circle Jerks added phoned-in vocals to Reynoza’s roughhewn X Ray Spex-gone-to-the-beach ramblings on “We Live On Your Street” and odd mod Jimmy Vespa (from swamp Blues-reggae-informed Mad Juana and trance experimentalists Hypnotwist) provided a smidgen of trumpet.

Follin recalls, “Keith began coming to our shows and became a fan. He’s working A & R at V2 Records now. Paul got the other guests, a few New York City guys he’s known for awhile, to help us out.”

Though Follin admits having an affinity for trend-setting Detroit garage rockers such as former tour mates, the Dirtbombs, as the Willowz became more proficient on their instruments a blues-y semblance crept into the admix. During the stammering “Toy,” a slow counter-melodic guitar peppers the scampering surroundings.

“Those are all B.B. King chords. I don’t feel guilty about it because everyone gets ideas from him,” Follin permits. “I’m also into Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Howlin’ Wolf, and Muddy Waters. But I also like reggae. I love Jimmy Cliff (of The Harder They Come fame) a great deal.”

Beginning with the impulsive vexing sneer of “Ulcer Soul,” a visceral adrenaline rush where Follin whines the frantic catchphrase ‘take me hoooome’ in a nasal tone Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan would recognize, Talk In Circles springs forth as predominant wankering guitars crash into dangerously expeditious drum convulsions. Similarly, “No Name Notes” shimmies and shakes ‘til the chafing rhythm quakes. And the rudimentary free form psychedelic keyboards buzzing across the chewy harmonic convergence of “Dead Ears” get neatly set aside for Lowe’s inevitable crunchy guitar explosion.

Throughout, Follin seeks romantic assurance; hoping love will conquer ambiguous feelings of insecurity and uncertainty in an insane universe blighted by derision and divisiveness. The world weary “Unveil” decries ‘modern girls’ nagging him in the ‘modern world’ with a counteractive hesitancy weaving indeterminate lo-fi indie rock candor into abstruse Velvet Underground paleness. Closing instrumental cathedral organ epilogue, “We Can Die Now,” is a fitting finale. It not only confirms the excruciating lyrical malignancy Follin reveals from top to bottom, but by way of its contented title, contrarily celebrates what the Willowz must, beneath it all, realize is an astounding accomplishment that’ll be difficult to best.

To bring a bit of civic pride to the proceedings, and perhaps snub those who’d believe the Los Angeles area only venerates hollow secondhand corporate rock sellouts, the Willowz had photographer Johann Wall randomly document their Anaheim digs in pictorial form for the encased CD leaflet.

“We met Johann in Canada. She came on tour with us,” Follin shares. “We just wanted to show where the music comes from. There’s not many bands from Anaheim and I think some people have particular prejudices against what they conceive as a narrow musical landscape.”

Proving they have the gumption to open up the stale auricles and polluted minds of a youthful generation reeling from constrictive regulated commercial radio fodder, the Willowz clobber the limpid anti-competition (lame as shit American Idol heroes; faddish teen pop zeros; faux hip-hop freeloaders; ceaseless emo-core deadbeats). At least some promisingly formidable local foes would be welcome as friendly competition at this precious moment in time, but I’d bet Silver Lake there ain’t one within a 50 mile radius.

SHOUT OUT LOUDS ROUT TAUT YANKS

Interviews

FOREWORD: Since their impressive American ’05 debut, Howl Howl Gaff Gaff, pop-rooted Swedish band, Shout Out Louds, have tightened up further, resulting in ‘07s lushly orchestrated grandiose pop stunner, Our Ill Wills. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Popular music has been in the blood of the Shout Out Louds front man, Adam Olenius, since he was a pre-pubescent Scandinavian schoolyard boy. His mother, a nurse who’d spent time in America as a teen, once dated the Zombies venerable Colin Blunstone, while his father, a surgeon, got him hooked on ‘60s/’70s radio hits straightaway.

Meeting fellow guitarist Carl von Arbin in art school, the pair soon hooked up with bassist Ted Malmros, drummer Eric Edman, and finally, “after booking their first show at a small Jazz club,” blonde knockout Bebban Stenborg (a Classically-trained pianist) came aboard to provide keyboards. But just ‘cause the passionate Swedish pop combo got a major label deal to obtain broad worldwide distribution doesn’t mean the awesome foursome have completely forsaken the thriving underground Scandinavian scene whence they came.

“I played in different bands since I was 13,” Olenius recalls. “I’d never been the singer or songwriter ‘til now. We tried everything but were bad musicians. I didn’t share all the same tastes in music. I had lo-fi indie pop records at home and they had more classic rock-oriented records. So I wanted to start a band that played music I liked. My inspiration came from my dad listening to ‘70s music like Chicago. Afterwards, I really enjoyed ‘80s/’90s Brit-pop from The Cure, Smiths, My Bloody Valentine, and Ride.”

So it’s not entirely surprising to find Olenius whining in an almost piercing register close to that of The Cure’s Robert Smith on spindly acoustic sanctuary, “Very Loud,” one of the Shout Out Louds’ finest tracks donning sturdy American debut, Howl Howl Gaff Gaff.

“But I’m more influenced by Neil Young’s high-pitched vocals,” he admits. “So maybe I went from Neil Young to Robert Smith. Other people say I sound like J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. So it’s a chain of musicians I truly enjoy.”

An incurable romantic with an oft-times snide slivery-tongued wit, the reliable songsmith acknowledges there’s still a thrifty hometown Stockholm scene motivating his cool egalitarian group.

“I think there was more of a rock scene due to the Hives success a few years back. But now it’s more of a bigger pop scene from electro to Jonathan Richman-like folk. It’s very Dexy’s Midnight Runner-like big soulfulness. These bands are trying to push it to the limits and see how far they could go with pop by experimenting,” Olenius consults.

Of course, an influx of new Swedish labels has helped expose this new wave of artists. Originally signed to local Bud Fox Recordings in 2003, the Shout Out Louds released two EP’s and an early domestic version of their long-player before hitting international seas.

“We kept six songs from the Swedish release and dumped the rest. Some songs we grew tired of since we’d performed other newer ones live. Producer Bjorn Yttling worked on a few new tracks (including desirous symphonic come-on “Oh Sweetheart,” post-Beatles folk-pop affectation “A Track And A Train,” and exploratory mantra “Seagull”). We just got better. You could hear our sound developing as we gained confidence in the studio. We were relaxed and unafraid to take chances,” Olenius explains.

Doing some introductory New York and Los Angeles shows prior to getting inked by stalwart Capitol Records, the Shout Out Louds built a solid overseas following, securing opening spots for esteemed contemporaries Kings Of Leon, Secret Machines, and the Coral in ’05. An appearance on The David Letterman Show in June no doubt increased visibility.

“Letterman seems to be a great guy – funny and intelligent,” Olenius says.

The first song Olenius ever composed, the triumphantly mellifluent petition, “The Comeback,” used as Howl’s catchy opener, has gained a fair amount of airplay here in the States. Above the grandiose bleating synthesizer crescendos and underlying guitar murmur, he fervently begs for reconciliation in a wearied raspy voice persuasively emoting regret, empathy, and finally, resolution, ultimately coming to terms with the frequently schizoid feelings wary lovers often experience during recovery.

“That deals with good and bad crazy emotions. Some songs are more of a collage concerning a time in my life. I could pick up different things and put it together in a song. Sometimes the chorus needs more love and the verses need more hate. So you put everything together in a singular song. It could sound really bad romantically, but it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s the dichotomy that makes them interesting,” Olenius confirms.

To bookend Howl, the elaborate flute-ensconced surrealism of “Seagull” recalls Mercury Rev’s beautiful neo-orchestral flourishes and, more specifically, the airy falsetto flights of Rev’s Jonathan Donahue, as Olenius confoundedly laments ‘I looked into his eyes and I saw myself… kissed his feet and broke his knees.’

“Those are things that go on in my head,” Olenius remarks. “I read a lot. I’m not really into poetry. I can’t focus on that stuff. But I like books. The first songs on our album were written four years ago. So some lyrics are older. But “Seagull” I wrote recently and worked harder on them. You could probably notice how the lyrics have changed over the course of the album. I wanted the lyrics to sound like a debut album – a diary of the few years in the band.”

As the focal point of the Shout Out Louds, Olenius submits the wording and basic foundation of most songs, but everyone has input into the arrangements. Understanding how to express the emotional context of the material overrides the need to be perfect as players. Besides, the profound impact of Olenius’ appealingly rendered love-struck verses doubles when the sympathetic mood thickens. With a lump in his throat the size of an Adam’s apple, he spreads devotional splendor. Beat-quakin’ tambourine-shakin’ “Please Please Please” and conversely, the xylophone-smitten slow ballad, “There’s Nothing,” both plead for sentimental clarity, though no solid conclusion gets rendered. One minute he’s flipping off and devouring a fem victim, the next, he’s gushing tearful apologies and searching for full-time commitment.

“In the future, we’ll try to find a new way to arrange songs and add Jazz elements and South American influences,” Olenius informs. “These are different cultures beyond indie rock. My girlfriend is from Brazil so I get music from there. Plus, a lot of old Swedish and British folk (intrigue me).”

So what’s Olenius listening to now that his band is on the road constantly?

“I really like Antony & the Johnsons. He’s good. Arcade Fire made a great album and they are a great live band.”

BROOKLYN’S NATIONALS GO UNIVERSAL

Interviews

 Image result for nationals band

FOREWORD: It was at Mercury Lounge’s basement backstage area after a truly rewarding set that I met friendly Brooklyn-via-Cincinnati combo, The National. They were touring to support Alligator, the soothingly noir breakout album that’d bring ‘em an international audience. During ’07, The National released stunningly accomplished masterpiece, Boxer, and got to play with their idol, Bruce Springsteen, rendering a Woodie Guthrie number in concert. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

What happens when two Ivy League brothers hook up with two equally schooled siblings and a maudlin baritone singer in the Carroll Gardens section of Brooklyn? They form judicious combo, The National, self-release an eponymous ’01 debut before ever playing a single show, and get red hot Interpol producer Peter Katis to work on a few very consistent follow-ups. Strangely, all five members are long-time pals hailing from Cincinnati who’d moved east looking for conventional jobs instead of a risky music career.

“We were in New York City five years before we began hanging out doing music,” singer Matt Berninger recalls.

Luckily, the gravitational force bringing these Ohio buddies together was compelling enough to beget the embracing pop grandeur they so intimately surrender. Much like Jersey band, The Wrens, a cohesive, tightly knit unit with only one set of brothers, The National takes a democratic approach to building lathered arrangements. This balance of power deters each individual from going off on a tangent or becoming too precious about any singular influence on the entire oeuvre.

Columbia University grad Aaron Dessner (guitar-bass) and Yale alumnus Bryce Dessner (guitar) must’ve been taught the fine art of interdependency since their beautiful melodiousness resonates so mellifluously alongside Berninger’s fellow University of Cincinnati graphic design major Scott Devendorf’s four-and-six string illuminations and Soho Press employee Bryan Devendorf’s pliant percussive patter.

For the record, Berninger and Scott Devendorf had made one unheralded record under the feminine moniker, Nancy, doing a few small local gigs/ parties ‘round ’91, then temporarily drifted apart. Meanwhile, the others were in Project Nim making soft-toned 10,000 Maniacs-like folk-pop. Though The National’s initial recording offered restrained alt-Country leanings, ‘03s Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers diversified the stylistic presentation.

“I’d compare the first one to the Silver Jews. It was made up in the basement. After touring a bit and feeling the adrenaline of going onstage, we began playing more aggressively,” Berninger lets on. “But we’re still finding out what type of band we are. As good as Sad Songs was, it’s not as comprehensive or competent as the widely varying third album. Song structures have improved.”

Now signed to Beggars Banquet, Alligator finds the moodily deep-voiced frontman becoming hauntingly introspective rendering the shrouded “Secret Meeting” (‘in the basement of my brain,’ no less). On delicate acoustic-folk serenade “Daughetrs Of The Soho Riots,” he almost sounds like a grim Morrissey dolefully gesticulating ‘break my arms around my love.’

Of the latter, Berninger explains, “That’s about holding on to something too tight – ‘til it snaps. And although there never were ‘soho riots,’ it’s an ironic reference to the Daughters Of The Revolution, living in Manhattan’s fancy Lower East Side hipsterville, and getting lost in the middle of (fashionistas) massing the streets.”

In loud contrast to the gloomier episodic ventures, the outwardly exuberant “Lit Up” rushes forth with youthful buoyancy and circular jangled riffs entangle dapper helix “Looking For Astronauts.” Resounding “Abel” revs up the amps before subtle symphonic retreat “Geese Of Beverly Road” returns to introversion.

“We’ve had a version of “Abel” for awhile. It was a more subdued dark ballad drastically changed by a snappy drumbeat. We made it more interesting. It’s a whole different monster,” Berninger confides.

Undoubtedly, The National had great outside assistance putting the expansive Alligator together. Peter Katis mixed the disc and did some recording after engineer Paul Mahajan (Yeah Yeah Yeahs/ TV On the Radio/ Liars) set up practice spaces and captured the five-piece on Pro Tools.

Berninger contends, “Peter has an integral part – cleaning up our sound, whereas Paul was the captain of our ship.”

Furthermore, Australian composer Padma Newsome (from the Clogs) orchestrated neo-classical elements, adding textural complexity via oboe, cello, violin, viola, clarinet, and French horn. Both “Baby We’ll Be Fine” and “Val Jester” recall the half-spoken reflections and spare dourness of Tindersticks’ Stuart Staple, whom, like Berninger, draws on the brooding monotone melancholia Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen seemingly crave. Better still, the reverberating triumphant finale, “Mr. November,” with its crashing cymbals and bashing skins, penetrates deeply as the resolved choral summit ‘won’t fuck us over’ and lucid guitar intensity swell.

“The truth is, seeing regional Cincinnati band the Afghan Whigs get popular nationally was incredibly inspiring,” Berninger gladly opines. “They broke out of the small music scene to become semi-legendary. When I was living there, the Ass Ponys, Tiger Lillies, and Guided By Voices (from nearby Dayton) had a healthy support contingency. Everyone did their own thing. Brainiac was groundbreaking making totally out of nowhere stuff. Maybe living in the midwest gets people looking far and wide for exciting music from all different corners. They look outside Cincy for inspiration. Plus, radio station 97X have a lifeline to underground music. That had a lot to do with aspiring artists gaining access to good radio. There’s not a station like that in New York.”

So where’d they come up with the punchy title, Alligator?

“We took it from (the somber) “City Middle,” which references ‘I wanna go gator round a warm bed.’ Like a predatory male reptile, we hope it matches the undercurrent of tension.”

MERCURY REV UP ‘SECRET MIGRATION’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Couldn’t get surrealistic Mercury Rev front guy Jonathan Donahue to do an interview, so I let lead guitarist Grasshopper (a.ka. Sean Mackowiak) fill me in on his long-time partnership with the reluctant bard. Onstage at Bowery Ballroom touring for ‘05s The Secret Migration, impressionistic lighting and various cinematic images provided recreational background for the Rev’s massive art-affected musical subtleties. Mercury Rev have been low key since then. I’ve yet to hear ‘08s full-length MP3 download, Strange Attractor. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Compelling and enlightening, Mercury Rev’s highly spirited symphonic constructions pleasantly glide above routine earthly delights. Meeting at a Buffalo lecture concerning Airto, Brecht, the Fluxus Movement, and modern surrealists, singer-guitarist Jonathan Donahue, lead guitarist Grasshopper, and soon-departed lead vocalist David Baker shared a love for the Velvet Underground in the late ‘80s. The trio ended up making incidental music and ambient sounds for a platypus nature film, then started composing more song-oriented fare.

“I was studying about minimalist performer Tony Conrad. He’d come up with the name Velvet Underground and had played with John Cale,” former film school alumnus Grasshopper offers. “I was into Television, Suicide, the Ramones, West Coast punk, and Sonic Youth. Jonathan liked classic rock, which I knew from my older brother. Jon and I went to see Echo & the Bunnymen and Psychedelic Furs concerts and that’s when we wanted to start a band. But we also liked Neil Young and The Band.”

Now residing in the Catskills, Donahue’s shyly malleable eggshell coo renders fragile sentiments with a quivery vulnerability and introverted reluctance. His fey falsetto warmth, plaintive speakeasy baritone drone, and mournful tenor lurk inside Mercury Revs penetrating lovelorn entreaties. Musical partner Grasshopper’s efficient six-string resonance and gauzy textures ravishingly vacillate beneath the enticing agrarian settings and, at times, punctilious delirium.

“Jonathan and myself have always been into reading ancient texts like the Old Testament. We don’t subscribe to any religion but we’ve scoured through Hindu and Buddha documents and read tons of literature. So I guess a lot of that shit is coming out,” Grasshopper informs.

Following the cosmic ’91 debut, Yerself Is Steam (pronounced ‘your self-esteem’), Mercury Rev assembled ‘93s more coherent affirmation, Boces, utilizing violin, French horn, and trombone to sublime effect. Anchored by frenzied 10-minute montage “Meth Of A Rockette’s Kick,” a whirring kaleidoscopic cacophony reaching mercurial ascension, Boces established the Rev as serious neo-Classically inclined indie rock contemporaries alongside surreal moodists, the Flaming Lips (the better-known outfit Donahue played with on ‘88s superb In A Priest Driven Ambulance). Eventual single, “Something For Joey,” the completely stratospheric flute-warbled climax, found the still-maturing combo reaching heavenward before getting completely unsettled by the darting feedback-skewed mantra “Trickle Down” (taking the experimental troupe as left of center as they’d ever be). Bassist Dave Fridmann became resident producer and promptly found notoriety working the boards for the aforementioned Lips.

As a notable side project, Grasshopper and Donahue created the Harmony Rockets, whose lone ’95 album, Paralyzed Mind of the Archangel Void, was described in Trouser Press as a pseudonymous 40-minute ‘arcane trans-rock meditation.’

Grasshopper reveals, “At that time, we were listening to Teddy Riley’s lengthy jams, Miles Davis’ ‘70s electric albums, and Don Cherry’s Jazz. They had rules as to what key to play in, but improvised. So we tried to build a long piece, some planned, some improvised. Different music events would change the flow and it was recorded live at the Rhinecliff Hotel. We’re talking to the Chemical Brothers about doing another one with them onboard. That happened when they asked Jon to play on “Private Psychedelic Reel” (from Dig Your Own Hole).”

Curmudgeonly caterwauling primary singer David Baker left before ‘95s knottier complexity, See You On The Other Side, handing the reigns to Donahue and Grasshopper for a less cluttered, more disciplined, focused, and charmingly mystical set. Donahue’s bowed saw (a wand-like oscillator) took a prominent role bestirring the wandering incandescent abstractions and darkly rapturous anecdotes. Piano-plunked childlike escapade “Everlasting Arm” inadvertently provoked illuminating Pet Sounds comparisons.

Grasshopper opines, “That album was influenced by (German prog-rock conceptualists) Can with a tip of the hat to Phil Spector and Jack Nitzsche. We had met with Jack at V2 Records offices and were gonna work with him on a few tracks. A week later he called Jon and said he liked our demos. Two days after, he passed away. Very strange.”

Despite stolen equipment, misplaced merchandise revenue, and internal friction burdening the Rev, they soldiered on, procuring fellow upstate legends from The Band (Levon Helm drums on sedately perplexed “Opus 40” and Garth Hudson plays tenor and alto saxophone on glistening rainy day ode “Hudson Line”) for ‘98s majestic Deserter’s Songs. A brilliantly resilient and eloquently tranquil affair, this stunningly poignant magnum opus reaches luxuriant heights with the pristinely mellifluent glimmer “Goddess Of The Hiway.” Jimy Chambers’ clavinet and harpsichord, guest Adam Snyder’s B3, mellotron, and wurlitzer, plus Grasshopper’s timely woodwinds, bring orchestral lushness to Donahue’s hushed voice and Chamberlain string arrangements. The celestial “Silent Night”-swiped repose, “Endlessly,” employs these gorgeously grandiose elements best.

“With Deserter’s Songs, we had this desperation after being beaten down. I don’t know if it was dusk or dawn we were trying to capture. We went through drug problems so that record was a meditation on that.” Grasshopper adds, “When you romance with drugs, the next thing is girls.”

Sans Chambers (replaced by keyboardist-percussionist Jeff Mercel) and minimizing flutist Suzanna Thorpe’s status, ‘01s windswept masterstroke, All Is Dream, floats on thin air. The elaborate “A Drop In Time” drifts across with astral balladic effervescence like a ray of sunshine ‘gliding through your hair.’ Any desolate bleakness is washed away by surging euphoric radiance and allusions to dewy meadows, open poppy fields, and hilly pastures.

Operating out of their own Kingston, New York, rehearsal space instead of paying exorbitant sums for an outside studio, the Rev return in ’05 with the plangent suite-like jewel, The Secret Migration. Initially released in separate three-part fragments, this adventurously streamlined spectral achievement retains a somniferous post-midnight neo-psychedelic transience confirming its wondrously meditative romanticism.

“We always had simultaneous releases of our records the world over,” Grasshopper admits. “We have a good European following, but felt the frustration of being there instead of in America (upon release date). So we wanted to have Secret Migration available online when it came out. But a lot of record stores freaked out so we were flying by the seat of our pants and thought, ‘Why can’t we release it in three different segments leading to the release date when the hard copy comes out?’ It was a website experiment. And the American version has extra tracks on a bonus disc.”

Beautifully ethereal ‘waves of emotion’ caress the tenderly melodic “Across Yer Ocean” and the reconciliatory heartwarming lullaby “My Love.” Equally seductive, the ornate vibe-imbibed “Vermillion” and airily swirled dreamscape “Secret For A Song” head for the ozone with angular guitar and nimble piano. “Arise” awakens from the awestruck bedtime moodiness with a fleet drumbeat and sheets of sonic density.

“Romance has its ups and downs,” Grasshopper laments. “Sometimes you’re happy together and other times, there’s lots of friction. Some negative aspects come through our music, but it usually ends up positive.”

Written for the opening sequence to the film, Laurel Canyon, rural memento “In A Funny Way” gets transformed by a Phil Spector-related Wall Of Sound as veiled angelic moans seep into a percussive “Be My Baby”-styled tympani-tambourine backdrop tinged by Fugs member Scott Petito’s sitar.

“We’re also doing the soundtrack for Bye Bye Blackbird. It’s done by a French director and may be featured at the Cannes Film Festival. It’s about the tragic unraveling of a circus due to the film age, which began in 1912,” Grasshopper lets on.