Pie. Metal. Love.

What I've Been Listening To All Week

2008-07-26T10:07:00.000-07:00

Gene Clark - No Other (I feel bad for this album, because I never actually play the second side. I'm so wiped out after the one two punch of "No Other" and "Strength of Strings" that I can't or won't go on. Which is a shame, because the second side is great. It's just that I need a couple of moments to reflect after hearing those two songs and then when I'm done reflecting I put something else on. Or play the first side all over again. A quick shout-out to Ivo Watts-Russell for turning me on to Roy Harper, Tim Buckley, and Gene Clark in the 80's. And Big Star too, come to think of it! What a guy.)

The Pozo-Seco Singers - Time (A sublime album. Harmonies to die for. Impeccable Bob Johnston production. You start out adoring their single "Time" and their cover of "Tomorrow is a Long Time", but it's what they do to "If I Fell" that will have you on your knees. Ooh la la. Or to quote the liner-notes: "Like Wowsville!"

Sly & Robbie - Rhythm Killers (Another album where the second side just lies there sadly waiting for me to play it. For years! I'm so cruel. But I get my fix of "Fire"/"Boops(Here To Go)"/"Let's Rock" and I'm done. Completely satisfied. Still one of the all-time great line-ups of the 80's. Sly, Robbie, Bootsy, Mudbone, Shinehead, Rammellzee, Henry Threadgill, D.S.T., and more. My question is: Do I need that Defunkt album from 1981 that sits in the record store week after week. It's cheap. I like Lester Bowie. Is it a no-brainer?)

Hank Crawford - Help Me Make It Through The Night (CTI magic. "Uncle Funky". Bernard Purdie. And one track, "Ham", that features Eric Gale, Idris Muhammad, Airto, AND Pepper Adams. Hot damn!)

Mudhoney - Superfuzz Bigmuff (Hahahaha, one more time! I know "No One Has"/"If I Think"/"In 'n' Out Of Grace" like the back of my hand, but I have no clue what the other side of this record sounds like. I never ever play it. Someday I will. I've been busy. In 1988 I bought a new all-in-one stereo system for cheap at one of the dodgy electronics stores on Chestnut Street in Philly and I lugged it home about ten blocks in the summer heat and this was the first record I played on it. I still remember exactly how it sounded through those cheap-o speakers. KInda crappy and also kinda awesome.)

Heifetz-Piatigorsky Concerts (From 1966 on RCA. They play Arensky - who I know nothing about other than he was Russian - Vivaldi, and Martinu. Ditto for Martinu. I think this might be the only album I own with any Martinu music on it. His Duo for Violin and Cello kicks ass though. And these dudes shred on it. By 1966, I don't think either of these guys were at their "peak", but, you know, an off day for Heifetz is a career highlight for most anyone else. The Vivaldi concerto on here is like a big fat plate of awesome. So beautiful.)

The Stonemans - In All Honesty (Never get tired of this album. One of the first families of country music goes 60's pop. Sorta. This album is still plenty country. And they make the CCR covers they play their own. The Townes Van Zandt tune "I'll Be Here in the Morning" and Tom T. Hall's "Hang Them All" are the highlights. The Poor Stoneman family look soooooo uncomfortable in their hippy gear on the cover.)

J.J. Cale - #8 (I always forget how good this album is. I tend to give less time to 80's and 90's J.J., but whenever I play the 80's and 90's stuff I find them to be just as good as all the 70's stuff that I love. The songs, the playing, those great arrangements. A shout-out to Audie Ashworth. An unsung hero if there ever was one.)

West - S/T (I could go on and on about the two West albums on Epic. And on. And on. Why do I love them so? Most people would find them pleasant 60's folk/pop and carry on with their day. Me, I play them over and over and marvel at these minimal pop miniatures. Each song is only two minutes and change. Bob Johnston rules. Even the cover of friggin' "Dolphins" rules. Actually, most covers of "Dolphins" are pretty good. There are only about 300 of them.

Come - Near Life Experience (I was at a wedding not that long ago and Chris Brokaw was there - and he played guitar too with a local band here at the wedding and it was awesome - and I didn't mention my love for Come. Just didn't come up. I would say that they were one of my top five rock bands of the 90's. I don't know who the other four are. Denim. Eyehategod. Um, Masters of Reality? I forget. Red House Painters! I really liked them. I didn't listen to Codeine much when they were around. But Come, man, they were the bomb to me. Every song was seemingly yet another variation on the theme of "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" by The Beatles. And as "I Want You" is one of the cornerstones of downer rock, metal, and my life, how could I not love Come? If I were a musician I would start a tribute band called Came and play all those great Come songs live. People should hear them. They are too good not to hear out there in the air. Which brings me to yet another album with one side played over and over and the other side pristine in its unplayedness! Though I like the second side of this album just fine, the first side with "Hurricane"/"Weak As The Moon"/"Secret Number"/"Bitten" is PERFECT. You heard me. Perfect. Not a note or hair out of place. "Secret Number" just might be the best Chris Brokaw Come song too. By the time I get to "Bitten" I am on the ground wondering what hit me. Then I play it over again. And get hit again. I'm a masochist like that.)

The Impressions - Finally Got Myself Together (Sometimes I honestly wonder whether there is anyone alive right now capable of making an album this good. And this isn't even, like, the greatest album ever made. Making music this deep and spiritually strong almost seems like a lost art. I know there are people out there doing great things, but...)

Corelli - 12 Concerto Grossi Op.5 (Stunning!)

Bohannon - Keep On Dancin' (An album that will be buried with me. Or burned with me. I haven't decided yet.)

The Stranglers - Skin Deep (Extended Version) (One of my favorite 12 inches of the 80's. I've played it at least a hundred times since 1985. It's ALL about the remix version too. I was stuck in a Stranglers Youtube K-hole a while back and, man, all I know is if they were from Germany every hipster in the world would be a wearing a Stranglers t-shirt right now. One of the greatest art-rock bands of all time. That's all I'll say.)

Redeye - S/T (Essential psych/pop/folk/country release on Pentagram. You can probably find it for two bucks used. AMAZING production. Superior harmonies. Kind of an odd band all around. Odd ideas. odd POP ideas.)

The Savage Rose - S/T (Also essential)

John B. Spencer - Out With A Bang (One of those Brit poets/folkies I would probably know all about if I were from the U.K. and who doesn't even exist in the U.S. I know he wrote fiction. And I'm pretty sure he's dead. This 80's album is strange and very very downbeat. I don't even know who to compare him with. This album is on Topic.)

October Country - S/T (Scorpio reissue of a great stoned Cali psych harmony group's one and only album. I think. "My Girlfriend Is A Witch" is a keeper for sure.)

Don Agrati - Homegrown (Baffling solo effort by ex-My Three Sons son and ex-Mouseketeer better known as Don Grady. He was also in bands prior to this album. Most notably The Yellow Balloon. Homegrown is all over the place. Maudlin piano man stuff, faux ragtime stuff, crazy orchestrated pop and rock. It's a mess, but a listenable mess. "Protoplasm Blues" and "Bloodstream" are the most listenable. You can tell that Don fancied himself another Brian Wilson, but...Yeah.

Benny Gallagher & Graham Lyle - S/T (super blissed-out folk rock guitar duo on Capitol. Lots of interesting ideas. Produced by Glyn Johns.)

SS Decontrol - Get It Away (Honestly, this is art rock to me too. So beautiful and epic. Springa one of the great throats of all time. It always amazes me how much "Glue" reminds me of Rudimentary Peni. And don't get me started about the song "Get It Away". It's one for the ages.)

Verbal Assault - Trial (Still love this album. Still one of the greatest live shows I ever saw. Though I only saw them in 1987 after the Gorman brothers joined. Never saw the original line-up.)

Sun Dial - Reflector ("Tremelo")

Bo Diddley - Where It All Began ("Bad Trip")

David Blue - S/T (The Dylanisms can actually be quite cloying and I'm a fan of most Dylanisms. This album is best when it approaches garage rock territory. Which is does often enough.)

Acrostichon - Engraved In Black (On Modern Primitive Records. One of the best metal albums I ever bought for 99 cents. They were Dutch, I think. Very cool thrash/death. And, by far, one of the greatest female death metal vocalists I've ever heard. Fierce!)

The Disparate Cogscienti - V/A (Mark E. Smith's comp of some of his fave 80's bands/artists. I hardly ever play it. It's really not all that memorable. It always makes me a little curious about the further adventures of John The Postman & The Legendary Lost, but then I forget about it again for another half decade or so. The one track by God on here is way clunky too.)

Hey Colossus - Project:Death

2008-07-23T08:40:00.000-07:00

I still haven't heard the newest album by Hey Colossus, but that's okay, because I'm still digging in to Project:Death. Project:Death was put out by four, count them, FOUR labels. How crazy is that? Four fairly tiny labels too. Shifty, Jonson Family, Rimbaud, and Under Hill Records. Okay, you got me. I'm really only familiar with Shifty, probably the premier sludge label in the U.S. And I'm really glad that they had a hand in getting this record to the states. Why no bigger labels would want to put out a Hey Colossus album is beyond me. Or maybe the band likes to keep things manageable. As far as I'm concerned, they are truly one of the finest rock bands I can think of from the U.K. Their heaviness is so deep and satisfying. If they toured a bunch in the states, I'll bet they could convert hordes of malnourished children to their cause. I can't recommend Project:Death enough. Like that Vog album on Shifty that I adore so much, Hey Colossus make a mighty roar that is never dull. This is inspiring music. What will it inspire you to do? Hmmm, I don't know. Maybe it will simply inspire you to get out of bed in the morning. Hey, that's a start! Anyway, you rarely hear sludge this mind-expanding. And I will be on the look out for that new album!

Grave In The Sky - Cutlery Hits China: English For The Hearing Impaired (Heart & Crossbone - 2007)

2008-02-09T17:47:00.001-08:00

How many times can I possibly rave about this album? Hmmm, a lot, I guess! It's beyond great. It's exciting! And alive with possibility. Psychedelic dub-crust warfare never sounded so cool. Samples, fx, vocals, bass, drums. That's it. Couldn't be simpler. Yet, the sound is so dense. So thick. So fierce. It's the kind of album you want everyone to hear. I definitely have done everything I can to spread the word about it. The Israeli label, Heart & Crossbone, sent me some of the best music I heard in 2007. Just vital and essential stuff that makes you hopeful about the future. The future of extreme music. The future of creativity. The future of rage channeled into art. Abrasive and noisy as hell, Grave In The Sky nonetheless prove to be an often cathartic and cleansing force in my life. Hey, not everyone is into yoga. I crank this up and I get a total mind and body scrub that lasts for days.

My Filthy 50 List In Decibel Magazine

2008-01-11T10:17:00.000-08:00

This came out last summer. It was a lot of fun to do. It got a fair amount of bitching from internet doomheads, but what the hell. I'm only human. It's really just a list of albums that I love. I never meant for it to be some sort of DEFINITIVE list of proto-metal. Of course, it reads like this was my intention in the magazine. Anyway, I know for a fact that people bought Groundhogs albums because of this list. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. And, just in cased you missed it:

The Filthy 50 - Story by Scott Seward

Decibel unearths 50 forgotten late ‘60s/early ’70s thud-rock masterpieces.

Basically, it goes like this: Chuck Berry—British Invasion—Garage Rock—Cream—Hendrix—Led Zeppelin—Black Sabbath—the last Hate Eternal album. OK, it’s not quite that neat. Nothing ever is. Which brings us to this completely biased and unscientific list of late ’60s and early ’70s heavy stuff that time (mostly) forgot. Proto-metal albums that had one supreme goal: to blow your little mind. To make this list, an album had to fit one or more of the following criteria:

• Thud: Does it make you want to fight or fuck?
• Crud: Is it unsavory in some way?
• Mud: Is it a bummer that stabs the hippie dream in the face?
• And, finally, Sticky Sticky Bud: Is it drug-induced and do you know where we can get some?

Apologies to hipster faves Toad, Bang, Sir Lord Baltimore, May Blitz, Black Widow and a zillion others that we forgot. The list-making process got a little, um, fuzzy, and we’re just glad we remembered how to count to 50. If you can remember to look for some of these the next time you hit the used bins, then you probably need a new dealer.

01 Groundhogs,Thank Christ for the Bomb
Groundhogs are a religion and Tony McPhee is the pope. Every solo and riff is the end of the world as you know it.
Liberty | 1970

02 Grand Funk Railroad,On Time
Underrated despite their ubiquity, this is the Funk at their earliest, fiercest and most doom-laden, and it makes most overhyped greaseballs sound flabby by comparison.
Capitol | 1969

03 Toe Fat,Two
Kick-ass, unattractive and totally bad for you. In other words, thud-rock at its most essential. The most elemental riffs known to man. Grab the debut while you’re at it.
Rare Earth | 1971

04 Road,Road
COMPLETELY drug-drenched killer hard rock from ex-Experience member Noel Redding on this—like Toe Fat’s Rare Earth label—Motown subsidiary. Somewhere, Smokey Robinson wept.
Natural Resources | 1972

05 Bloodrock,U.S.A.
All Bloodrock albums are worth owning, but only one has the song “Don’t Eat the Children,” where spirits invade your skull like Satan’s festered hand. You know?
Capitol | 1971

06 Epitaph,Outside the Law
In the states, these German hard-rockers shared a label with kraut space-cases Neu! and the ever-popular Lucifer’s Friend, but their own brand of fancy fretwork shouldn’t be overshadowed. Dudes could shred.
Billingsgate | 1974

07 Dust,Dust
Superior power-trio blast featuring future Ramone Marc Bell (“Marky Ramone”) and the incomparable stoner doom anthem “From a Dry Camel.” Marc made two great Dust albums and the excellent Estus album on Columbia before going all CBGB’s on our ass.
Kama Sutra | 1971

08 High Tide,Sea Shanties
So ludicrously loud and violent that you gotta wonder what the hell punk rock was supposed to be saving us from. Oh yeah, ELP. Whatever. Most punks couldn’t hold a candle to the nihilistic fury of High Tide. Liberty | 1969

09 The Litter,Emerge
Their first two albums are garage-punk classics, but on their third, the Litter had become a fierce fuzzy beast and a harbinger of hard rock to come.
Probe | 1969

10 The Head Shop,The Head Shop
Speaking of harbingers, the Head Shop’s lone psych semi-classic is likewise a breath of foul air filled with woozy—and supremely heavy—bad acid moments that would reflect the coming waves of dirt metal that the ’70s had to offer.
Epic | 1969

11 Cactus,Cactus
Vanilla Fudge’s rhythm section plus the godlike blues rock guitar of Jim McCarty makes Cactus’ debut the bone-crunching and highly influential album that it is. Heed the advice on the back cover: “This album should be played at ‘high’ level.”
Atco | 1970

12 Edgar Broughton Band,Wasa Wasa
The mud-caked bastard offspring of Captain Beefheart and U.K. acts like the Deviants, Edgar Broughton Band pisses all over your flowers and then proceeds to pass out. Now THIS is grunge.
12 Harvest | 1969

13 Randy Holden,Population II
This album is fucked. Randy Holden is a god. The electric guitar has never been abused so thoroughly since.
Hobbit | 1969

14 Atomic Rooster,Death Walks Behind You
The title track kicks so many kinds of ass that it’s kinda hard to even focus on the rest of the album. And the rest of the album is fucking great.
Elektra | 1971

15 Armageddon,Armageddon
Just in case you were wondering what tech-death sounded like in 1975, former Yardbird Keith Relf and Captain Beyond drummer Bobby Caldwell would like to show you. One of the GREAT major label releases of the 1970s.
A&M | 1975

16 Leigh Stephens,Red Weather
Randy Holden wasn’t the only former member of Blue Cheer to feel the need to get something off his chest in 1969. Red Weather is a singular, drugged and supremely bummed-out epic by this stoner rock pioneer. Amazing and haunting.
Philips | 1969

17 Crow,Crow Music
Not a great album, but Crow deserve a nod for their straight-up biker rock, the seriously doomed proto-metal of “White Eyes” and for providing Black Sabbath with their first single (“Evil Woman”).
Amaret | 1969

18 Smoke Rise,The Survival of St. Joan
While they might not have been the greatest hard rock band in the world, they are, as far as anyone knows, the only band high enough to think that a double album stoner boogie opera about Joan of Arc was a good idea. And that’s got to count for something.
Paramount | 1971

19 The Open Mind,The Open Mind
Brit power-psych with a huge bottom end and deathless, doomed proto-metal vibe that can’t be beat. You can FINALLY get this as an official release with decent sound and no longer have to shell out a thousand clams for the original.
Philips | 1969

20 Gun,Gunsight
Gun was guitar hero Adrian Gurvitz’s first chance to show his stuff via hard rock gems and jams that are as wild and wooly as his huge red afro. The dude is genius.
Epic | 1969

21 The Damnation of Adam Blessing,Second Damnation
One of the greatest US rock bands that hardly anyone has heard, TDOAB lay down a serious hurting on their second full-length.
United Artists | 1970

22 Peter Green,The End
of the Game Ex-Fleetwood Mac guitar god goes down a very steep cliff and just keeps falling and falling and falling…
Reprise | 1970

23 Valhalla,Valhalla
TDOAB labelmates (UA’s hard rock roster was unfuckingbeatable) Valhalla effortlessly blend prog, psych and jaw-dropping heavy stuff on their lone, nearly-forgotten LP.
United Artists | 1969

24 The Hook,Will Grab You
Exemplary post-Hendrix power-trio blast.
Uni | 1968

25 Thunder and Roses,King of the Black Sunrise
Exemplary post-Hendrix power-trio blast. Vol.2.
United Artists | 1969

26 Puzzle,Puzzle
Exemplary post-Hendrix power-trio blast. Vol.3.
ABC | 1969

27 Eden's Children,Eden’s Children
Exemplary post-Hendrix power-trio blast. Vol. 4.
ABC | 1968

28 The Grodeck Whipperjenny,The Grodeck Whipperjenny
James Brown put this funky beast out because he didn’t think you had enough fuzz in your life. Now you do.
People | 1970

29 Bubble Puppy,A Gathering of Promises
Yeah, it’s a psych milestone, but it’s also one of the great progressive hard rock albums of the ’60s. When Bubble Puppy changed their name to Demian, they repeated the trick with their lone album on ABC-Dunhill.
International Artists | 1969

30 West, Bruce & Lang,Whatever Turns You On
Jack Bruce knows power-trios, and the one he put together with Mountain man Leslie West was a beefy, greezy beast.
Windfall/Columbia | 1973

31 MC5,Starship
Keeping away from the better-known names on this list for the most part to give the neglected their due, but this live Five set from ’68 is a wind tunnel of viciousness and needs to be studied by the Department of Homeland Security in the hopes that they can stave off any future attacks of sonic terrorism.
Alive/Total Energy | 1998

32 Wishbone Ash,Wishbone Ash
Before they floated off into the UK rural prog jam band ether, Wishbone Ash delivered seriously smoking and locked-in boogie rock fire. Their first three albums are essential.
Decca | 1970

33 Jade Warrior,Released
Dude, flutes and horns? What is this shit? Oh, wait, that guitar solo just sliced my face off. My bad.
Vertigo | 1972

34 Mad River,Mad River
If the song titles “High All the Time” and “Amphetamine Gazelle” don’t give you an idea of where Mad River were at, then the furious and tense bad trip Quicksilver-esque head-nodding devil music on their debut most certainly will.
Capitol | 1968

35 Fear Itself,Fear Itself
Awesome and powerful Zeppelin-esque blooze grunge with singer and guitarist Ellen McIlwaine playing the part of Robert Plant. A sadly short-lived group that still impresses.
Dot | 1969

36 Mott the Hoople, Brain Capers
Everyone ON EARTH should own the first four Mott albums, but JUST IN CASE someone has never heard “Death May Be Your Santa Claus” or “Darkness, Darkness,” well, there’s still time to make something of your wretched life.
Atlantic | 1971

37 Captain Beyond,Captain Beyond
Bobby Caldwell is god and this is hands down the greatest southern space rock boogie metal album ever made.
Capricorn | 1972

38 Banchee,Banchee
Pristine, hypnotic and driving hard rock that mesmerizes with ease. They don’t make bands like this anymore.
Atlantic | 1969

39 Sam Gopal,Escalator
Lemmy invented metal. And then he invented god and the devil and then he ate them.
Stable | 1969

40 Terry Brooks & Strange,To Earth With Love
DIY astral guitar superhero melds Hawkwind and his own demented charm until sparks fly. Recorded in 1979, but it was always 1971 in his world.
Star People | 1980

41 Humble Pie,Rock On
Steve Marriott is a legend, so let’s take this time to give a shout-out to Suck, JPT Scare Band, Nitzinger, Budgie, the Frost and Pentagram! A&M | 1971

42 Ursa Major,Ursa Major
The mighty Dick Wagner of the Frost would make this amp-burning screamer before heading off with best bud Steve Hunter to add crucial fierceness to Alice Cooper and Lou Reed albums.
RCA | 1972

43 The Bob Seger System,Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man
So fuckin’ cool. Heavy, rockin’, in your face and HUNGRY. Bob has long been considered a garage rock legend, but you gotta hear this shit to believe it.
Capitol | 1969

44 Ten Years After,Stonedhenge
Again, legends, but not an album you hear every day. Stoner minimalism and an x-ray of the blues creates late-night lysergic bliss.
Deram | 1968

45 Savoy Brown,Looking In
This. Is. How. You. Do. It.
Parrot | 1970

46 Pink Fairies,Kings of Oblivion
The rock is out. The cock is out. Larry Wallis shows no mercy. It’s like listening to the birth of a planet. You need this like you need air and water.
Polydor | 1973

47 Glass Harp,Glass Harp
Epic arrangements, Phil Keaggy’s guitar heroics and seriously brainy jammage.
Decca | 1970

48 Bitter Blood Street Theatre,Vol. 2
Alice Cooper supposedly stole this group’s theatre of the absurd shtick. Recorded at the dawn of the ’70s, Vol. 2 has crazed spoken word interludes, raggedy horror-filled rockers like “The Monkey Wolf” and “Gutter Children” and a unique drug-soaked energy unlike most albums of the day.
Vetco | 1978

49 Frantic,Conception
Crude and rude and heavy on bar band-friendly covers, Conception is a degenerate soundtrack. It’s really LOUD, has no socially redeemable qualities and it will make you pine for the days when Quaaludes grew on trees.
Lizard | 1971

50 Three Man Army,A Third of a Lifetime
Post-Gun, Adrian Gurvitz just cranks up the heat and the speed to deliver Mach 3 jams that reverberate for eons.
Kama Sutra | 1971

Red Harvest - A Greater Darkness (Season of Mist - 2007)

2008-01-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

In the better late than never department, I STILL can't get over how great the last Red Harvest album was/is. Honestly, the best Neurosis album might have come from Norway in 2007. And with all due respect to Neurosis, a band I adore, A Greater Darkness got a lot more play from me than Given To The Rising. And I liked Given To The Rising! And it's not as if Red Harvest are some sort of carbon copy Neur/Isis wannabe. They are better than that. But the comparison is still valid. And it's a compliment, really. The idea of making an album sound like some sort of catastrophic weather pattern - a storm to end all storms - and the almost mythical levels of dramatic tension, are, for both bands, ways to tap into something much much larger than themselves. Which, you could say, is metal's job. Or what most metal strives to achieve. But the best bands go beyond "big" or "loud" or "epic". They create their own oversized mythos. Red Harvest do this handily on A Greater Darkness. It's everything you could ask for from a modern metal album. Such a satisfying and rightous roar. Just in case anyone missed this blast, here's an album that, in retrospect, deserved a better showing on my top 20 list for the year. Sorry, Red Harvest! What can I say? It was a strong year with a ton of strong albums.

Vog - S/T (Shifty Records)

2008-01-05T08:37:00.001-08:00

It just hits me and hits me and keeps on hitting me. Ow! Honestly, I’m not that masochistic, but sometimes it really does hurt so good. Music that sounds like a fist. A sloppy drunken fist in the case of Vog. Vog are from Virginia. I recently did a write-up in Decibel on Shifty Records and Shifty sent me all kinds of cool sludge and home-grown doom. I liked most of it. Maybe I was in the mood. Almost every band affiliated with Shifty goes for the gold when it comes to dementia. They walk that extra mile. They give 110%! The Vog album might have impressed me the most though. I like albums that sound out of control. But what I might like even more are albums that never quite lose their shit. They hurtle down a steep hill and they somehow never crash. They have a drunk’s luck. Or maybe they actually do have amazing self-control and only sound as if they are desperate and unclean. They’re faking! Which is fine. However you get to A to B is all good with me. I enjoy the ride. I enjoy the relentlessness of Vog’s album as well. And the way that they combine all my favorite well-worn sounds and genres. The sludge and the punk and the doom and the psychedelia. I love Eyehategod enough that I’ll happily listen to bands who steal from them and leave it at that. Bands that don’t take EHG’s sound any further. It’s a great sound! And it works. It’s heavy and sprawling and it defines freedom through lethargy. Vog want their sludge to be more epic in scope. And the welcome addition of heavy psych divorced from the pain and grit of heavy sludge makes the band stand out. They also go for a leaner up-tempo punk sound at times that could no doubt outrun any member of Eyehategod. The tandem vocals – deep inhuman belch on the one hand and pitbull shrieker on the other – work well. Vog know the power of filth. And the power of riffs that are bigger than a bread box. They get down and dirty and impress you by never once coming up for air.

Isole - Bliss of Solitude (Napalm - 2008)

2008-01-03T17:57:00.001-08:00

I thoroughly enjoyed Throne of Void, the 2006 album by Sweden's Isole on the always interesting I Hate Records. I Hate has impeccable taste when it comes to all manner of doom metal, and Isole, while not as down and dirty as some bands on the I Hate roster, can hold their own with any group of gloom-mongers and are worthy in all respects when it comes to making memorable epic doom. It's possible I'm too easy on bands that remind me of the 90's heyday of U.K. doom a la My Dying Bride, Paradise Lost, Cathedral, etc. I live for that stuff. Isole make no bones about their worship of Candlemass and other 80's and 90's masters. And Throne of Void definitely struck me as well-made homage. (Isole have been around forever, however. And I came to them late. They used to be known as Forlorn before changing their name to Isole. So, in a sense, they are pioneers as much as anyone else who started playing in the early 90's.) Anyway, I love the new album - on new bigger label Napalm - Bliss of Solitude so much, that I'm definitely going to re-investigate Throne of Void and try and find a copy of Forevermore, their 2005 album that I've never heard. Bliss is just so solid and massive. The production is, for the most part, strong and complimentary. Good doom is only as good as the sound of the guitars you build your doom castle with, and Isole make their six-strings sing sweetly as well as dig deep for that unholy bottom that hardly anyone ever reaches. That's the goal, really. To get to the bottom. Many have tried to prove that they're slower and they didn't last and they died as they tried. Doom metal will live forever simply to give new generations a chance to reach the bottom. Isn't that sweet? On Bliss, Isole have definitely outlived and outlasted the comparisons to Solitude Aeternus and Candlemass. They are their own distinct entity. And Bliss is very much a MODERN epic doom album. My 90's nostalgia is rarely fed while listening. Oh, it's all there somewhere. But album-opener "By Blood" is so immediately exciting and gratifying and so very NOW that nostalgia is the last thing I feel when it's playing. And it's been playing a LOT at my house. Isole have made a career album. This is a band that knows EXACTLY what they are doing and what their strengths are as a unit. This is satisfying, professional, uncompromising, and HEAVY music.

Upon Listening To Amok's Necrospiritual Deathcore

2008-01-01T16:58:00.000-08:00

I listen to a lot of music. Tons. It is one of the great joys in my life. And you never really know what is going to hit you the hardest next. Or at least I don't. Not all the time anyway. Sure, I have a good idea by now what I will like and what I won't like based on prior listening and descriptions. Some things definitely sound enticing to me when I read about them beforehand. And I know I will probably be turned off if I read certain warning sign words in a review or article or whatever. "post-Soft Bulletin Flaming Lips", "emocore", "Death Cab For Cutie", "Amerindie pop with a dash of electronica". Stuff like that. Basically, 90% of the junk promo e-mail I get reads like a worst-case scenario to some degree. And I definitely anticipate loving certain things before I hear them. I was so blown away by French band Deathspell Omega's Kenose album that I really couldn't wait to hear their next album. Lots of people felt this way. Kenose was special. It FELT genuinely evil. The darkness surrounding it is the kind that is not easily duplicated or faked. You have to commit wholeheartedly to making music like that, and you have to give of yourself to receive something so, in some ways, repellent. Or abrasive. Well, not if you are a metal fan you don't. Not usually. Abrasive and repellent is par for the course. But some records work so hard to push against you. Push you away from the music. For adventurous listeners, this means that it's time to push back. To dive in and see how far under you can go. Try and figure out what the hell is going on in there. This is me, anyway. This is what I like to do. I allow the music to take me over. To have its way with me. Which is one reason why I listen to music louder than most people do. I don't want it to be background. Wallpaper. Something to wash dishes too. Don't get me wrong. I do wash dishes and listen to music. But I want to HEAR it. And the women in my life have been turning it down for decades.
Anyway, the follow-up to Deathspell Omega's Kenose came out in 2007 and I enjoyed it a great deal. But it didn't suck me in like Kenose. I didn't grapple with it. Ultimately, it's probably a more "listenable" album. It's still crazed and heavy and nuts and all that, but it doesn't create that perfect storm of atmosphere that Kenose whipped up in its tsunami of blackness. Fas - Ite, Maledicti, in Ignem Aeternum, the latest album, suffers a bit from Kenose's success. This band has already BEEN to the other side. So what do you do for an encore? It's a tough trick. A trick that many bands before them have tried to pull.
Norway's Amok was one of the bands that pulled me down to new depths in 2007. Their Necrospritual Deathcore album on the Planet Satan Revolution label threw me for all kinds of loops. Here's my review from Decibel Magazine:

Color me impressed! Amok’s first full-length is a helluva malevolent beast. A big shout-out to Necrocum, Goatpromoter Lava, Iscariah and… Stanley. Sigh. Attention, dudes in bands: Just GIVE your drummer a cool name, OK? Apparently they have a hard time coming up with one on their own. Anyhoo, these Norse noise boys serve up the blackened death-thrash hybrid with scary aplomb. With their heavy, heavy super-repetitive riffs that sink below ground in a swirling depressive spiral, you can see why the band name-checks olde-tyme demonic thudmasters like Von and Sadistik Exekution. But just when you think you’re in for simple heads-down mid-tempo thrash or proto-BM, they throw in a what-the-fuck echo-laden blues guitar solo or some other disorienting effect and top it all off with some modern BM flair. Suffice it to say, there’s more than meets the eye here.

And this leads you to the three-part showpiece of the disc. The creepy Jim Jones samples in between songs are another harbinger of the dementia to come. After a long-ass intro of tubular bells and monk chanting comes a completely sick guitar line that sets the mood for this mini-epic. Lots of spoken word shouting—Jim Jones transcripts?—culminates in the drone-like repetition of the line “No way out/ There is never a legitimate reason for leaving” amid all manner of unearthly sounds, time-changes and that sick sick guitar. So cool! Also, it sounds like a different band entirely from the first half of the album. Then things get really weird. More of these fucked noises, please! And a shout-out to Nazipenis Hoest, who plays drums on this “Goatflesh Removal” trilogy; he’s always there when you need him. Apparently Malfeitor Fabban from Aborym is on this thing somewhere too, but all is chaos, and who can tell what’s going on? Highly recommended for fans of all things mysterious and spooky. Or just for Satanists with a taste for bad-ass guitars. You aren’t all into cheesy keyboard action, right? —Scott Seward

So, yeah, that's how I felt about the album at the time in spring of 2007. Translated into Decibelese, of course. And I kept coming back to it. The guitars on Amok's album...ooh la la. They are everything over-distorted guitars should be. Just glorious. But it's that album-ending "Goatflesh Removal". Man, I just can't explain it properly. The spoken vocals that are at complete odds with the rest of the album. The mantra-like calm. One of the missions for Amok as a band was to take things back to that old school of 80's scuzzbucket death and (actually fairly rocking) destruction of yore. And it is mission accomplished until this last bit. Because the last bit doesn't remind me of any Cro-Magnon proto-death acts I can think of. When I'm listening to the Goat Removal Trilogy, and Necrocum and Goatpromoter Lava and the rest are firing on all cylinders, I realize that I want everything to sound like this forever. That I want it to last forever. The song. This music. I never asked for these sounds. I had no idea what to expect when I put the cd on. I had never heard Amok before. The last albums by Primordial, Harvey Milk, and Converge have made me feel this way as well. It's as if time has stopped. The sounds these bands are making are simply archetypal sounds that act as perfect illustrations of what their music is and what their time on earth sounds like and what their creative goals are and what has come before them and what will come after them. I mean, PERFECT. The noises they are making are historic noises. They are making history in sound. Not for record books. I mean, that they are making history in the way that a tree makes history when it grows another ring. Their growth has enabled them to perfectly actualize their moment in time and space. Your most perfect day on earth may beat these albums by a mile, but nobody, as of this moment, has devoted a 100% cotton hoodie to your perfect day. And I never SAW your perfect day. So I must report on phenomena as it reaches me through whatever means are at my disposal. You can send me pictures of your perfect day, but I can't promise anything. Okay?

What I’ve Been Listening To

2008-01-01T16:36:00.000-08:00

The Sensational Alex Harvey Band – The Impossible Dream (Vertigo – 1974)

Mark Moogy Klingman – Moogy (Capitol – 1972)

L.G. Scott & The Lee Scott Singers – Peacemaker (Nashboro – 1972)

It’s A Beautiful Day – Choice Quality Stuff/Anytime (Columbia – 1971)

Ennio Morricone - Sacco & Vanzetti OST (RCA – 1971)

Esperanto Rock Orchestra – S/T (A&M – 1973)

Mickey Newbury – Harlequin Melodies (RCA – 1968)

Red Kerns & his Rocky Mountain Boys – Just a Pickin’ and a Grinnin’ (Round – 196?)

The Temptations – Cloud Nine (Gordy – 1969)

My Favorite Albums From 2007

2008-01-01T14:46:00.000-08:00

Hell, I cut and paste this list everywhere and anywhere, I might as well put it here too. My Decibel list and other stuff that I liked a lot. A great year for metal!

My Decibel list:

1 – Caina – Mourner (Profound Lore)

2 – Grave In The Sky – Cutlery Hits China: English For The Hearing Impaired (Heart & Crossbone)

3 – Dodheimsgard – Supervillain Outcast (The End)

4 – Moonsorrow – Viides Luku: Havitetty (Unruly Sounds/The End)

5 – Necrodemon – Ice Fields of Hyperion (Open Grave)

6 – Sun Of Nothing - …in the weak and the wounded (Venerate Industries)

7 – Ulver – Shadows Of The Sun (The End)

8 – Procer Veneficus – A Summerhaze Array For August Nights (God Is Myth/Ars Magna)

9 – Amok – Necrospiritual Deathcore (Planet Satan Revolution)

10 – Novembers Doom – The Novella Reservoir (The End)

11 – Blood of the Black Owl – S/T (Bindrune)

12 – Virgin Black – Requiem – Mezzo Forte (The End)

13 – Alcest – souvenirs d’un autre monde (Profound Lore)

14 – Portal – Outre (Profound Lore)

15 – Deathspell Omega – Fas-Ite, Maledicti, in Ignem Aeternum (Norma Evangelium Diaboli)

16 – Tharaphita – Iidsetel Sunkjatel Radadel (Nailboard)

17 – Metsatoll – Terast Mis Hangund Me Hinge 10218 (Nailboard)

18 – Earthless – Rhythms From A Cosmic Sky (Tee Pee)

19 – Baroness – The Red Album (Relapse)

20 – Ensiferum – Victory Songs (Spinefarm)

Stuff I also liked/loved that I feel needs mentioning (including reissues and possibly stuff from late 2006 that I only heard this year):

Harvey Milk - The Pleaser (reissue)

Harvey Milk - My Love Is Higher Than Your Assessment Of What My Love Could Be (reissue)

Art 238 - Empire of the Atom

October Falls - The Streams of the End

The Angelic Process - Weighing Souls With Sand

Monarch! - Dead Men Tell No Tales

Mehkago N.T. - Demo

Nagelfar - Virus West (reissue)

The Ruins Of Beverast - Rain Upon The Impure

Manes - How The World Came To An End

Blood Tsunami - Thrash Metal

Funeral - From These Wounds

Morsure - M.A.D. et Acceleration Process (reissue/archival)

Dead Conspiracy - Gore Drenched Legacy (archival comp)

EA - Taesse (Came out in late 2006. GREATLY regret that this isn't in my top 20 list. i forgot it.)

Laethora - March of the Parasite

Guttural Secrete - Reek of Pubescent Despoilment

Heinous Killings - Hung With Barbwire

Endless Dismal Moan - Lord Of Nightmare

Magane - Mortes Saltantes

Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound - Ekranoplan

Lietterschpich - I Cum Blood In The Think Tank

Kult - Winds Of War

Shining - V - Halmstad

Merciless Death - Evil In The Night

Toxic Bonkers - Progress

Obituary - Xecutioner's Return

Vorkuta - Into The Chasms of Lunacy

Rotting Christ - Theogonia

V.E.G.A. - Cocaine

Car Bomb - Centralia

Red Harvest - A Greater Darkness

Defiance - Insomnia (3-disc reissue box)

Artillery - Through The Years (4-disc reissue box)

post-rock post-rock who's got the post-rock?

2008-01-01T12:33:00.000-08:00

spent almost the entire first day of the new year listening to post-rock bands and music from 2007. why? i have no idea. i was intrigued. the godspeed/mogwai stuff was, not surprisingly, the most boring. but there is some good music being made under that banner and i'm completely out of that loop. well, now i'm not. now i'm an expert on latter-day post-rock and neo-classical electronic math rock. i started a thread on ilm about these two year-end lists that got me curious. lots of pretty album covers:

http://www.ilxor.com/ILX/ThreadSelectedControllerServlet?boardid=41&threadid=60822#unread

Marooned Book Reading At Housing Works Bookstore

2007-08-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

Had a great time the other night. Met lots of cool folks for the first time. Maria and I had a great time hanging out with her sister and her brother-in-law and with my brother and my parents. My brother's Bunnybrains show later that night at Cake Shop was excellent as well. I wrote something at work the night before the event, and that's what I read. I just didn't feel like reading parts of my essay for some reason. Anyway, there were lots of people there and that was nice. Here is what I read (excluding my idiot opening remarks - which I also wrote down! I leave nothing to chance.) I went with the blood theme that was a big part of my Seattle metal paper. You can't go wrong with blood. Didn't Henny Youngman say that?

Blood & Treasure by Scott Seward

I’ve prepared a statement. I’ve decided not to read from my essay in Marooned. I wouldn’t want its beauty marred by the less than dulcet moan of my speaking voice.

Instead, I’d like to briefly discuss how I went about writing what I ended up writing. How I dug deep, and hopefully paid homage and lasting tribute to a work of art that deserves more attention.

A couple of weeks ago, I was cleaning a bloody toilet in labor and delivery at the hospital where I work and I was trying to imagine what it must feel like to be in labor, bleeding profusely, and having to pee really really bad. I couldn’t imagine it. I could imagine sitting on the toilet and wondering how in the hell I got in this situation. I do that on a daily basis. But the combination of factors: It would be like having a gunshot wound to the head, being really hungry, and have a nagging hangnail. The life-altering and life-threatening combined with the mundane and banal. And, as others, mostly priests, like to tell us, the simultaneous extremes of almost transcendent pain on the one hand and everyday annoyances on the other hand are a constant reminder of our often humiliating and somewhat ludicrous humanity. Okay, maybe priests aren’t always telling us that. I’ve never actually been to church. Possibly one of those shaggy scatological priests from 400 years ago who lived in caves and worshipped their leavings like Howard Hughes. You know the ones. Wild-eyed. Had that wind-swept desert-chic kinda look.

At any rate, I was cleaning the blood on the outside of the bowl and using some of the fine non-toxic products delivered to me by the good people at the Deirdre Imus Environmental Center for Pediatric Oncology – say what you will about her husband, but the woman knows from blood-stains – when my thoughts traveled to more familiar terrain: The surge. How I hate when he says “the surge”. How I don’t generally hate when people pronounce vehicle “vee-hick-le”, but that I hate it when he does it. 40 1980’s Disco DJ Promo Single LP 12” Record Lot – Shipping 20 dollars – International bidders please contact me for shipping costs prior to bidding. Pie. What kind of pie I was going to buy. Would it still be warm when I went to the bakery to buy it. Should I call the bakery and ask them the best time to pick up warm pie. You know, the usual daydreaming you do at work.

That’s when I noticed two round masses inside the toilet clinging to the bottom of the bowl. They were red. Deep red. Not just blood. But some sort of actual pre-baby tissue. They were both about the size of three half dollars if you melted them down and then used that melted metal to make one really big half dollar. They glowed a little. They looked like jellyfish. They even had those wispy tendrils that waved slowly in the water like ancient sea life. They reminded me of constellations or stars. These thick – and yet somehow delicate – deep red blobs of protoplasm.These harbingers of more life to come. I stared, transfixed, into the toilet. Mesmerized by how life can be so simple and yet so amazingly complex at the very same moment.

And then I tried to flush the little fuckers down, but they just wouldn’t budge! So, like the cave man, or a not particularly bright monkey, I just kept flushing away. They held on admirably. They were indeed made of tough stuff. Which meant that I would have to use a toilet brush, which is what I was trying to avoid with all my idiot flushing, because then you’ve got cosmic life matter on your toilet brush and that’s a whole ‘nother thing, etc, etc.

But it had to be done. I wasn’t going to leave it there. And I wasn’t about to name them and keep them as pets. So, I got to work. A couple of days later, someone was complaining to me about whatever people are always complaining about. Job. Sex. Death. Whatever. And at some pause in the grousing I tried to make a point and I said: “Well, you know, sometimes you have to scrub if you want the hard blood to go down the drain.” I don’t know what I was thinking. Even as I said it, I knew it was like the worst piece of folk wisdom that anyone had ever uttered in their life. Will Rogers, on his deathbed, drooling into a cup would have never said anything so stupid. Or as bizarre. Well, what can I say, it was on my mind.

And thinking about coming here and what I wrote for Marooned made me think of it too. Scrubbing away at the detritus of my past honestly and creating something lasting and memorable (hopefully) in honor of someone I admire. That’s what I wanted to achieve with what I wrote. When we lie about who we are and were to ourselves and others, and play tricks with memory to change what our past was actually like, even if we only do it to make the present more tolerable, then we end up chipping away at what makes any life compelling in the first place. Which is everything. Blood, guts, everything. And when we wipe that blood away to make things clean, we’re not denying that it was ever there. We’re just moving on to the next step. In a hygienic environment free from harmful bacteria, possible contagion and the risk of viral infection.

Thank you and God bless America.

Kylesa Rule

2006-12-09T08:19:00.000-08:00

Kylesa Rule.

I Listened To Some Records Yesterday

2006-08-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

Key Largo – Saner Days (Mercury – 1978) Not so powerful trio that nonetheless had some pretty nifty trad rock moves. Mostly breezy & easy. Cover shot: Old man and child searching for shells on the beach while another child peers at us with binoculars and a superimposed sunlit shot of palm trees behind them for no reason other than the band’s name is Key Largo.

Max Webster – Universal Juveniles (Mercury – 1980) Super hard-rocking Canuckrock fest with too many highlights to mention. “April in Toledo”, “Juveniles Don’t Stop”, “Battle Scar”. All wonderful. The Geddy Lee duet is just icing on the cake. Cover shot: Easily one of the most ludicrous album covers of all time. Kim Mitchell in unflattering yellow spandex unitard jumpsuit and flames coming from his guitar pick.

Allan Clarke – I've Got Time (Asylum – 1976) Workaday crooner takes on “Blinded By The Light”, and tunes by Janis Ian, Dan Fogelberg, Chinn & Chapman, and others. Nothing special happens. Bonus points for getting Jimmie Haskell out of bed to futz with the horns and strings. Cover shot: Photo collage of Allan smoking and smiling.

The Lydia Taylor Band – S/T (Passport – 1981) Not bad cutie pie whiskey-voiced singer and her nerdly band do hard rock a la Benatar. And they DO rock. Choice cuts: “Cut Throat” and a surprisingly strong cover of “Highway To Hell”. Cover shot: Colorful illustration of a shapely female robot shooting laser beams thru the heart of a male robot. But he’s loving it.

Robert Byrne – Blame It On The Night (Mercury -1979) SERIOUSLY smooth crooner makes a strong strong album that not even his mother would end up buying. This album is like butter on the other side of the pillow. It melts in your mouth AND your hand. Despite the tight fit of his white painter pants, Robert never sounds anything less than mellow. Use of the Aphex Aural Exciter at the Wishbone Recording Studio in Muscle Shoals may or may not have contributed to the overall warm vibe of this worthy addition to the 70's honky loverman canon of fame. Cover shot: Several polaroids. An ashtray, a glass of wine, the american flag on t.v., a foxy laydee, an owl, balloons tacked to the wall, a neon parking sign, red panties hanging on the wall, another shot of the stone fox, and a heart with an arrow thru it scrawled in magic marker on a hairy human chest.

Tantrum – S/T (Ovation – 1978) Tantrum were a groovy bunch of kids. Great smiles. Their formula was disco + rock, and you can’t beat that with a stick. Highlights: “Flash Commander”, “Kid Brother”, “Night On Main Street”. Tantrum would like to thank the Hilton Hotel staff at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Cover shot: A somewhat photorealistic illustration of a pink chair being thrown thru a window. There is a pair of pantyhose wrapped around the chair.

Mistress – S/T (RSO – 1979) Lite southern-style rock and pop. “High On The Ride” is some catchy stuff. One of these days I will listen to the second side to hear their version of “Cinnamon Girl”. Mistress would like to thank the Aphex Aural Exciter. Cover shot: Completely white cover with raised letters that spell Mistress. Wouldn’t you just know that the M in Mistress takes the form of long lovely legs in high heels.

Flower – Heat (MCA – 1979) Pure, unadultrated disco. Deep disco. If you cut this record it would bleed cocaine. Not for dilettantes. Cover shot: Foxy disco lady in fur and bathing suit.

Trefethen – Am I Stupid Or Am I Great? (Pacific Arts – 1980) Completely deranged piano wizard makes supreme weirdo move. What a record! Three cheers! This one ya gotta hear. Andre Crouch, Alan Parsons, Jim Keltner, kicking puppy guitars, plywood box & broken snare, bionic drumset, etc. Alternate title: It's All Mom's Fault. There were no synthesizers used to make this album. Cover shot: I don't know what's going on. Trefethen and some wet young woman riding a turbine? Some sort of giant instrument of mass destruction? I have no idea what it is. They are ready to go though.

Pauline Murray & The Invisible Girls – S/T (Illusive – 1980) I don’t have much to say about this. Pauline’s voice is nice. I like the song “Screaming In The Darkness”. But then I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up and it was still playing. It was pleasant. Vini Reilly was involved somewhere. I will try to spot him next time around. Cover shot: Peter Saville body geometry.

Arlyn Gale – Back To The Midwest Night (ABC – 1978) What the fuck? How come you major dudes never told me about this guy? Complete missing link between Phil Lynott and Craig Finn. Springsteen wannabe? Yeah, so what? I’ve already HEARD all HIS songs. I dig this mightily. Cool band. Long rambling rock and R&B excursions tied together by Arlyn’s slick yawp. Check it: "I crashed on that crowd like my soul had a debt to pay/So those Hollywood kids braced up for a one man invasion/I pleaded hard wired blues, turned it all into cannon-blasted energy/I strut a mad man's fandango, reeled 'round that axis and rode out the night". Or this: "Indiscreet, bittersweet/It's her deal, give her the wheel/She’s in the driver’s seat/Dutchess of Earl, Mother of Pearl/She’s leaning on the off beat/Nylon hose, crossed-leg pose/So inviting, delighting/Got me reciting prose/Hypnotic, narcotic/A shape so melodic/I wanna know how it goes”. I know what you’re thinking, he's no Tonio K, but still...Cover shot: Arlyn standing in front of his ride at sunset. The headlights are blazing. The bridge behind him stands mute.

Honorable mention to these other albums I listened to that I don’t feel like going on and on about:

Patrick Moraz –Um, the title is a symbol that looks like an upside down exclamation point. came out in 1976. deranged. schizo electro prog bombast fused with Brasilian percussion and carnival noises.

Gentle Persuasion –S/T (Warner – 1979) Sweet soul trio. Nice arrangements. Meco was involved. “Litterbug” is a highlight.

Glass Moon – Growing In The Dark (Radio – 1982) Nice power pop that actually rocks a little! Picks: “Simon”. “She’s On”, “Political Action”.

Alan Gordon – Alley & The Soul Sneekers (Capitol – 1978) Good soulful stuff. I dig it. Dude’s voice is unreal. You will swear he is a stone fox. But he’s a dude! Pretty epic in spots. Jack Nitzsche production.

Show Of Hands (Formerly Anthrax) (Elektra – 1970) Cool power trio. jazzy. Nice guitars. Hyperactive cover of “Moondance”.

Mike Corbett & Jay Hirsh with Hugh McCracken – S/T (Atco – 1970) Sweet folk rock. Some nice dreamy tunes. Sitar. Children singing. Great production. Awesome guitars.

Dudly records I played:

Sherbet – Howzat! (MCA – 1976) These fluffy Aussie dudes in the too small satin jackets riding in the dayglo hot air balloon are no Rollers. They should have paid for some chinnchapman and/or vandayoung action.

David James Holster – Chinese Honeymoon (Columbia – 1979) One kinda interesting song, “Teenage Tragedy Queen”, and some decent session work from the usual suspects can’t hide the fact that this dude wrote some songs for Three Dog Night and John Denver and thought he could make a go at the 70's cool guy raffish loverman who can rock and be sensitive with the best of them a la Jackson Browne routine only he’s kind of a drip and I just keep staring at the weird Chinese finger thingys that David and his girlfriend (presumably Chinese) are wearing and the empty cartons of Chinese food and thinking that the dude had a shot but he kinda blew it and now his album just seems sorta racist and dumb.

Rob Carlson & Jon Gailmor – Peaceable Kingdom (Polydor – 1974) Even hippies weren't dumb enough to buy this album. Nice harmonies though. A couple of cool dreamy moments, but mostly curdled drippiness that even I can’t justify.

David A.Winter – Falling In Love (Able – 1977) This album is a monstrosity. So over the top. So cringeworthy. Words fail me. A spoken word tear-jerker called "The Letter”. Bad high energy bloat called "Wham, Bam Thank You M'am". Just...weird...and bad...and...not good. I don't even have the heart to tell you about the song entitled "Old Black Man". It's so wrong.

My Friend Chuck

2006-04-20T21:14:00.000-07:00

If you clicked on a link that you found on a website or blog and it led you here and you are reading this now, you can blame Chuck Eddy. It’s all his fault. He was the one who put the idea in my head that my opinion was worth a damn and EVEN worth reading, and I take no responsibility for this turn of events. All I did was write him a fan letter.
I had been a fan of his music writing for years. So much so, that when I bought a magazine that he wrote for, the first thing I usually did was look for his reviews in the back of the book. Rolling Stone, Spin, Creem, Creem Metal, Entertainment Weekly. This was in the 80's and 90’s and the "golden age" of rockcrit had passed (perhaps), but Chuck kept the flame lit for those of us who had laughed our heads off reading Klassic Creem in the 70's and found it harder and harder to find writing about rock that was funny and smart and full of life (there are always exceptions. Spin and the Village Voice even employed some of these exceptions during the Reagan years. And there were zines that also tried to keep the ball rolling). Chuck stood out. He was funny as hell, for one thing. And he had a way with words that often boggled my little mind. And he was always decisively HIMSELF without that being a detriment to whatever he was writing about. Even in Entertainment Weekly of all places, he managed to hold on to his voice despite the lack of space and restrictions of the company style. This always amazed me. He was the only writer you could pick out of a line-up in that mag at times.
Anyway, I was a fan cuz I treasure good writing wherever I find it, and Chuck’s first book, *Stairway To Hell*, put him over the top for me. This thing was borderline-genius. It also brought home what it was that really made me dig his brand of crit, and what he had to say. It’s kinda corny so you might want to hide your eyes for this part: He made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the world! Somebody else out there actually cared about the same stuff that I did. And took it seriously! Just in case people have forgotten, a pre-internet world could be a lonely place for Wide Boy Awake fans.
When his second book, *The Accidental Evolution Of Rock & Roll*, came out in 1997, I devoured it in record time and I knew I had to do something. I had to write this guy. Just to thank him and let him know that his stuff was much appreciated. I'm not a fan-letter writer kinda guy. It's only been recently that I have made a point of telling the people who have made a difference in my life that I appreciate what they have done. Better late than never! I was always too shy when I was younger. This can backfire, of course. The look of horror on George Carlin’s face as I ran around the counter and accosted him at my last job in Philadelphia – a Korean deli off of Rittenhouse Square- is something I wish I could blot from my memory. "Thanks for all the years, George!" i stammered after FORBIDDING HIM TO LEAVE THE STORE UNTIL I COULD SHAKE HIS HAND! Oy vey. I only hope I gave him 5 good minutes on how annoying people are for a future T.V. special. Thanks for all the years? I'm still fucking mortified.
But I wrote Chuck. I knew he lived in Philly, and there he was in the phone book. Not long after, I got a call at home and it was him. I was awestruck. No, really, awestruck. My ever clever tongue was busy at work. “How did you get my number??!!” (I thought he was magik like Madonna) What do you know. Turns out I was in the phone book too! We talked for a good long time and I could tell that he was happy to talk with someone who not only got his stuff, but who dug so much of the same music. Music is good like that. We kept in touch and he invited me to his parties and I got to ogle his record collection and I was just happy to know someone new in Philly who I admired and that was genuine and funny and weird. (I don't make friends easily)
Fast forward to 1999. Chuck tells me that he might be getting a new job and moving, but he can't talk about it. He does get the job and it’s music editor at the Village Voice and he will be moving to New York. Wow, what a gig. And if anyone is made for it, it's Chuck. On the job for about a week, he gives me a call at work. "Scott, guess what?” What? “I want you to write for me.” I’m speechless. Then I remember something: “You know that I’m not a writer, right?” It doesn’t matter to him. He is obviously insane. Based on our conversations and one fan letter, and possibly another letter that I sent along to him with a mix-tape, he wants me to write for the Village Voice ( In the two years that I had known him, we had never ever discussed writing. Ever!). And the Village Voice actually MATTERED to me. I grew up reading it thanks to a hepcat dad who always had to know who was playing at the Blue Note. But I hadn’t written ANYTHING since my one and only (miserable and failed) year of college in the go-go 80’s! And those were, you know, book reports and such. But I had to do it. I wasn’t gonna chicken out. I had nothing to lose! I had a lonely apartment, a shit job that paid me under the table, and a blossoming booze habit. Nothing to hang on to. Plus, it was for Chuck!
So, I did it. I was petrified. This wasn’t some little blurb either. This was a full page in a major newspaper! He was completely insane. What was he thinking? It took us forever to edit it over the phone. I can look at that first piece today without cringing too badly (okay, some of it makes me cringe. But there is a glimmer of hope in it), but boy was it rough. However, I surprised myself. And I might have even surprised Chuck. I don’t know if he thought I would want to keep at it or not, but he didn’t discourage me and that’s all the encouragement I needed. And I got better at it in a hurry. The editing sessions were no longer so lengthy. Those first couple of years were a whirlwind. I wrote a LOT! For me. Someone who never wrote much of anything before. It started to become truly fun too. I played with it and didn't hold back. And Chuck TRUSTED me like crazy. I worked a lot too, so most of my writing had to be done AT work, and I ended up writing on the backs of paper bags and cigarette cartons and later transcribing the stuff I had written at home (yes, I could afford a notebook, but I wanted it to look like I was working at work!). Maybe for the first time in my life I felt like I was a part of something truly worthwhile and good. I loved what Chuck was doing with the section. The chances he was willing to take. And I got to know, via e-mail, some great writers and like minds like Don Allred and Frank Kogan. Fellow oddballs. I was tickled when Chuck told me that he would have the same CDs sent to me, Frank, and Don when he knew it was something that other people might pass on or ignore and when it was something that HE really liked. I really did give it my all. I wanted to do good work cuz I saw so many others doing good work around me. I had never felt like this about anything before. I had never wanted to try so hard before.
Nothing will ever beat those first two or three years of writing for Chuck and the Voice. I was so lucky to have been able to do the stuff that I did. I never took it for granted for a minute either. I learned a lot in a short period of time. It got to the point where for the last 3 or 4 years…shit, i hope I'm not telling tales out of school. Chuck is an amazing editor and any time that he made a change in something I wrote he ALWAYS made it better and he ALWAYS asked me about it before he did it. Basically, I let him do whatever he wanted to my stuff. Cuz it was never much…but, anyway, for the last 3 or 4 years he hasn’t really touched anything I have written at all! A snip here and there for length, maybe move a sentence up or down or around every blue moon, but basically, when you get right down to it, we are talking word for word from my pen to the printing press. Long kinda convoluted pieces that ran EXACTLY as I had written them! This, in case you don't know, is rare. And it's all about trust and faith and knowing when to leave something alone. And I completely understand the editor’s urge to get a fingerprint on the finished product. But I have also been a party to fingerprints that left unsightly smudges, and Chuck NEVER did this. (And fingerprints or no, I certainly understand the need for good editing). I am not crowing by the way. I’m just pointing out that we were simpatico and he knew what he could expect of me and I tried to deliver as often as I could. There were times when I definitely dropped the ball. But hopefully not too many times (I will let others judge).
A while back, the Voice cut the space for the music section and this kinda took the wind out of everyone’s sails. I know Chuck was miserable about it. There wasn’t as much room for longer, involved pieces and I missed that. And not for ego reasons either. I missed READING other people’s long pieces and can safely say that I am better writing long than I am doing the short stuff. Writing the capsule-sized stuff and doing it well is a journalistic skill that I’m still trying to get a grip on. Robert Christgau, George Smith, and Chuck himself are amazing practitioners of the 200 words or less review. All three are fine newspaper journalists as well as critics, and I think this might have something to do with it. Even with my Decibel reviews, I can go over 400 words and this makes all the difference in the world to me. One of these days, I will write the perfect 200 word review!
I’m writing all this, in case you don’t know, because Chuck was given the boot by the new management at the Voice. Ironically, there were a few times in the last couple of years when I wanted to ask Chuck why he didn’t quit over what the “old” management was doing at the Voice. But I knew why. It's hard to leave a job you were born to do. Well, either editing the Voice music section or editing and writing for a cool music magazine a la Creem (a job that I know he has always dreamed about). Heck, the only two times I have ever been fired from a job was when I stayed too long after new owners/management came along. And I hated those jobs. And I KNEW I should leave them before the switch. It's hard sometimes. Especially when you have spent so much time and energy creating something so cool like Chuck did for the last 7 years at the Voice. It wasn’t perfect. But at it’s best, there was some amazing writing going on there with life and wit and ideas and a whole slew of amazing contributors, not all of whom were pros or lifers or "name" critics, but just people who had a way with words and who were given a chance by a great writer who happens to believe that almost anyone can tell a good story, be funny, or share what they hear to others in an interesting way if you let them and give them the space.

Here Are Some Old Voice Reviews

2006-02-27T06:57:00.000-08:00

Here are some old Voice reviews. So fun to write. So proud to have been a part of America's favorite Communist newspaper over the years. I figured it couldn't hurt to have the ones I like all in one place on this blog:

Expose Yourself
Nine Inch Nails
by Scott Seward
October 13 - 19, 1999

Dear Trent,

How's it going, dude? Long time no see. (Ha Ha Ha) But seriously, as much as I loved your excellent soundtrack work, I thought I'd never get my hands on the follow-up to the holiest of relics, The Downward Spiral. I worried that the pressure of performing those one of a kind hymns to the eternal sadness live so many times would drive you from the music business altogether. I'll bet those jerks in Orgy would have liked that. Those guys suck! Trent, we both know how sacred a song like "Blue Monday" by New Order is, and they treat it like yesterday's meatballs. It makes me sick! Peter Hook should hit them over the head with his bass. By the way, I always thought Hooky was the cutest member of New Order. I know, I know, everyone thinks Bernard hung the stars and the moon, but he has no passion. (Did you know he takes Prozac now? That's no way to write sad songs!) Anyway, did you know Orgy's guitarist used to be in '80s hair-metal band Rough Cutt? It's true! I have to admit their song "Kids Will Rock" was pretty hot, even if the subject matter was a tad cliche. Trent, as much as I'm aligned with the inner misery of your haunted lyrics, I love how loud and anthem-like your rockiest songs are. The other day MTV played Slaughter's "Up All Night," and even though Slaughter were pretty silly, they sounded awesome coming out of my Optimus brand Radio Shack speakers. Then they played some Smashing Pumpkin thing, and it sounded like ants. And not the good kind of ant, as in Ant Music for Ant People! (Adam rules!) But annoying, buzzing, tiny, ugly ants from Hell!

Oh my god, I haven't even told you how much I worship the new album. It totally rocks! The highest compliment I can give is that when I close my eyes it's as if I'm listening to the last album all over again. I think you were right on in duplicating the same groundbreaking sound you came out with five years ago. Now that everyone has caught up with your brilliance, you can show them how it's done! (Um, Filter? I don't think so. I know that guy was a friend of yours, but he will never fill your leather pants.) And I love how you haven't given up on the way your songs start off really slow and creepy, and then GET REALLY LOUDAND ANGRY, and then get soft and sad again. You must do that like 20 times on the new album. "The Mark Has Been Made" starts out all dreamy like a 4AD album cover and then kicks ass like Queen's "We Will Rock You"! Trent, I know it took you over two years and a whole lot of tears and black nail polish to record this epic of decadence, but it was worth the wait.

This may be in bad taste, but do you ever feel bad that you weren't mentioned as the reason behind all those school shootings? If it makes you feel better, Marilyn Manson was, and you made him what he is today! I know you guys aren't talking, and your totally rockin' "Starfuckers, Inc." is supposed to be about him and his band. Maybe you can bury the hatchet someday. You two were such good friends! Did you know the Rolling Stones (Gag!) had a song called "Star Star" that was about the same thing—I think it was about Warren Beatty (Double gag!!). Anyway, your CD has just come out (I thought CDs'n'Such at the mall would start selling them at midnight like they did with the Limp Bizkit album, but they're such retards there), and once again you are pioneering the marriage of heavy guitars, moody atmospherics, electronic drones and beats, and aggressive singing. Just like Killing Joke 20 years ago. Weren't they great! I just know that your albums will sound as fresh and exciting someday as their 1980 debut does now. (I know you'll think I'm queer, but Youth their bass player produced one of my fave Bananarama singles, "Long Train Runnin' "—a Doobie Bros. cover!) Just imagine what they could have come up with if they'd had a ton of money and two years in the studio. Back then, they made records in like two days.

Your album truly runs the gamut of styles. All the way from With Sympathy-era Ministry, to "Cold Life"-era Ministry, to Twitch-era Ministry, to The Land of Rape and Honey-era Ministry, to current-day Ministry. Wow! That's a lot to take in. Trent, I'm sending a gift with this letter. It's a creepy amulet that my total Goth friend Prince Ivor got on eBay. The guy who sold it says Charles Manson gave it to Terry Melcher, the record producer, in the hopes that Paul Revere would record a song he had written, called "Girl, You'll Be a Raider When You Die." But get this, Terry Melcher gave it to Sharon Tate as a housewarming gift when she moved into his old house. The legendary house where you created The Downward Spiral! Isn't that awesome!

Anyway, the new album is the best. It's right up there with the greats: Red Lorry Yellow Lorry and the Leather Nun. I love how the two CDs are entitled "Left" and "Right." It's like the left one represents aggression and sadness, and the right one represents anger and depression. And I love how "Please" is like Skinny Puppy without any of their icky bits about dead animals and boring politicians. It's about real life! Especially when you sing, "All the flesh—All the sin—There was a time when it used to mean just about everything." And "Where is Everybody?" is almost like your own wicked version of rap. When you bust a move and sing, "Pleading and needing and bleeding and breeding and feeding exceeding," I want to shout, "You go boy!" (Do you like rap?) Too bad most "normal" people couldn't begin to understand the depths of your tragic soul. You expose yourself to the world! Your songs sound like a hundred guitars are playing an elegy for the madness of humanity. Just don't wait another five years to put out another masterpiece, or you will have to compete with the new Guns N' Roses album. (Ha Ha Ha)

Yours in blood, One devoted fan

PS: My friend Baron Olaf says your new haircut makes you look like that Garth Brooks comedy character, Chris Gaines. But the Baron is so lame.

*

Thoughtful Florida Rapper Knows What the Alligators Know
Pitbull's Unleashed Vol.3
by Scott Seward
July 26th, 2004 7:00 PM

I never believed all those T-shirts that read, "Why do you think they call it Flori-duh!" For one thing, alligators live there, and alligators have been around for millions of years, so they must know something we don't. Hip-hop mixtapes concocted in swamps probably won't be around as long, but who knows? I've been wrong before. Florida's great hope for the future, besides the alligators, is Cuban American MC Pitbull (who also has a new regular non-mixtape album called Miami with a hit called "Culo" featuring Lil Jon out these days, but never mind). What's he got to say on his latest mixtape, Unleashed Vol. 3? Oh, you know, stuff like: "Welcome to Miami, motherfuckers." "Wherever you're from, represent. Your county. Your city." "Pineapple Life Savers." "Dreads and gold teeth." "It don't make dollars and it don't make cents." "M-I-A-M-I till I die." "The crack game ain't everything it's cracked up to be." "Your feelings are like pussy, so fuck what you feel." "It's like basic math, one cat's gotta get subtracted." The usual.

What I need more of that Pitbull provides us with on his tape: more rapping over the music from "Hey Ya!" More freestyling over the music from "Jump Around." More remixes of "Salt Shaker" where people start singing "Din Daa Daa." More Miami bass where we are dipped and you are dipped and they are dipped in crunky goodness.

What I maybe don't need more of: what-the-fuck bonus tracks featuring dead white misanthropes. Even if I do like the way that "Imagine"—John Lennon F/ Pitbull & Nas looks on paper.

John Lennon: "Imagine there's no heaven." (Ha ha! Heaven-hater!)

Nas: "Mothers stop cooking, take off your aprons. Fathers stop looking at every sports station. Take a second and think of every poor nation." (Aw, you a sweetie!)

Pitbull: "We're taught to believe in religion, but religion's the reason that the twin towers are missing."

Last but not least, I'm gonna say it if nobody else will: Playing messages that friends leave on your voicemail is not the same thing as a "skit." Summer anthem that will not be denied, though (at least at my house): the Diaz Bros.–produced track "Don't Stop the Rok" It's electro-pitbull F-L-A fun that you can sink your canines into.

*

Heard It on the X
There Is No Such Thing as Nü Metal, and It Has an X-Tremely Funny Face
by Scott Seward
August 22 - 28, 2001

In light of its 20th anniversary, it would be sheer overkill for me to criticize MTV for all the same reasons that everyone else does. You know the drill: that most of their programming is slapdash, hectic, edited by monkeys, and seemingly held together by Elmer's glue and advertising. That their half-hearted attempts at social responsibility are nullified by softcore kiddie porn and reality-based date-rape primers/how-tos. That their growing library of feature films is on pace to beat the all-time ineptitude records held by Lorne Michaels and National Lampoon. That instead of working with their strengths and building a better cable network, they're busy creating MTV-brand gun-metal mercury desk lamps. That their plan for invigorating youth culture has always been to mimic the colorful palette of Japanese pop commercialism without any of the wit, fashion sense, or anarchy. That their one, true talent of discovering one-hit wonders and novelty acts à la Dr. Demento is overshadowed by their penchant for beating stillborn horses with bad haircuts. I'm not gonna walk down those well-traversed alleyways.

Instead, I'd like to focus on one of the more positive aspects of a network often reviled by even its most faithful demographic (Butterfinger-eating white males aged between two and six in single-parent homes out there somewhere). That is, MTV's, and its sister channel MTV2's, and its hermana channel MTV Spanish's, and—more to the point of this article—its angry lil' brother channel MTV X's ability to unload hour after hour of brain-dead repetitive programming and yet occasionally, accidentally, show some stuff worth watching.

It is this very ability that has kept me tuning in throughout the April Wine years, the Mission U.K. years, the Ned's Atomic Dustbin years, and the Reel Big Fish years. For every 50 airings of Cheyenne's latest drippy canción de amor on MTV Spanish, I get a moment like the other night when they unleashed a Manu Chao rock-block that had me tripping over the divan in an effort to find a blank videotape. This, in fact, has always been MTV's genius: to make people feel like they're missing something if they don't keep their eyes glued to the tube.

I pay $437.50 every month for the right to watch digital cable, and—along with the channels I've mentioned—I get VH1, VH1 Classic, and VH1 Country. Not to mention 30 audio channels, including Musica Latina, Tropical, Mexicana, Tejano, Folklorica, Boleros, Brazilian Pop, and Brazilian Beat! (If you don't have access to any of these, well, what can I say—when has it not sucked being you?) But I find myself drawn to the hard-rock MTV X more than the others for three simple reasons: (1) I'm an idiot. (2) I like to point my finger at the screen and howl at bad rock bands (who I inevitably end up loving—see No. 1). (3) There are no commercials, and I'm a masochist.

MTV X is dominated by that nearly lame horse called, for reasons unknown to me, nü metal. Nü metal isn't really metal, and it's been around for years, so you can understand my confusion. It's just a convenient tag for hard rock that uses metal riffs and crunch, hardcore punk barking, occasional ersatz rapping (although this seems to be disappearing), and occasional new-wave crooning over synths and electronics. The song structures roughly follow the "grrrr/la la la/grrrr/la la la" model. Forefathers of the genre would include Faith No More, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nine Inch Nails, and Ministry. The convenient tag, however, may be a bit too convenient, as it tends to lump a lot of groups together, fairly or unfairly, into a category that is all too easy to dismiss and avoid if you happen to despise the two main gods of nü metal, Korn and Limp Bizkit. Just as heavy metal is a tag that many fine groups find stigmatizing, nü metal bands also find . . . no, wait, most of them are pretty lousy.

At this point, I feel I must divulge certain facts before proceeding. I am not 14 years old, and my interest in pro wrestling started to wane around the time that I saw Chief Jay Strongbow best the Iron Sheik in my high school gymnasium. (The chorus of boos that erupted when the Sheik lifted the Iranian flag over his head still reverberates in my ears.) Having said that, there is no one on earth who loves loud, obnoxious rock as much as I do. But having said that, what am I to make of a band like Spineshank and their video for the song "New Disease"? (Disease, sickness, malady, invasive surgical procedures, goo, muck, filth, and icky gunk all being prevalent nü metal themes.)

First of all, why "Spineshank"? Why not just "Spine," or plain old "Shank"? The music strives for such Reznorian anonymity that you begin to think the whole thing was cooked up by some aggro-rock Muzak company looking for video-game, action-flick, and X-game promo dollars. Not to mention that the memory of the video lasts only as long as the video itself. (Luckily, in between the crappy stuff, MTV X throws some BÖC, Joan Jett, or Judas Priest your way. Mostly for kitsch value, I suppose, but it does help to cleanse the palate after watching, say, an extra-long adventure in spine-tingling claymation by prog-plod dorks Tool.)

Or how about Finger Eleven, whose name must be a reference to some sort of creepy extra finger that only truly creepy people have. Their song "Drag You Down" has the NIN midtempo march of the slugs thingy down pat. The lyrics sound like stuff Trent Reznor writes down in the middle of the night to help him remember his dreams better: "Teething," "It's biting," "I'm bleeding." And the video itself, much like Spineshank's and a whole lot by other nü-by bands, takes place in one of those haunted machine shops that evoke NAFTA more than they evoke some blasted postapocalyptic vision of decay. Blame it on Einstürzende Neubauten, or maybe Janet Jackson. Or Helmet, whose prescient 1992 "Unsung" video introduced warehouse space, lockstepped dude-friendly Big Black riffs, skater shorts, and Dischordian X-estential vagueness to a generation of future Finger Elevens whose previous delvings into metal consisted of their big sister's Ratt collection. Anyway, Finger Eleven's bass player, like most bass players, has one of the lamest hairdos on earth. And the guitarist is still wearing X-tremely huge pants which everyone will agree are like
so over.

Godsmack's "Voodoo" video has more on the ball. Its voodoo beat is lame, and the song itself is very slow and un-metal; in a way, it's sort of a second-rate approximation of one of those dark doomsday folk bands banging drums over in Europe. But the video has everything you need: cool belt buckles, a promising Viking intro, naked guys running through the woods, a moss-covered drum kit, Medusa, top hats, bonfires, zombies on bicycles, and a wolf that jumps out of the singer's stomach. And the singer looks like Ed Grimly! Before I saw this one, I'd written Godsmack off as just another band with bad dye-jobs, bad tattoos, and throbbing neck veins. Kinda like Creed—only swarthier, and less in touch with their inner, upper, lower, and higher godhead.

And speaking of Godhead, their karaoke-level aggro-industrial version of "Eleanor Rigby" isn't even as good as Orgy's cover of "Blue Monday." Godhead's singer tries desperately for a Mephisto/Nosferatu look as he wanders the streets aimlessly. Disturbed do a much better job with their same-sounding techno-hard-rock version of Tears for Fears' "Shout," even if I can't stand their Mussolini monkey-man singer (though I do acknowledge that he's a worthy heir to Udo-of-Kraut-leatherboy-outfit Accept's homoerotic fascist throne).

In brief: Second Coming's "Soft" might not technically be nü metal, cuz they have excellent beards and rockabilly hair plus a beat that shuffles with a satisfying kerchunka-clunk that might even be danceable! (Nü-bys are usually too miserable and sluggish to dance.) I think they might be X-ian, but the way the singer screams, "Don't touch my friends!" in this performance vid had me screaming "Cool!" Mudvayne's "Pig" is Slipknot-inspired lunacy. The music is almost beside the point cuz the band has horns, which is all you need to know. (Check the spoken-word outro on their other vid, with the little kid burying her granny in the sand! Dude, it's beatnik goth genius!) Much to the dismay of my loved ones, I can't wait for Slipknot's new album, Iowa, which could very well prove to be their Nebraska. What can I say, three drummers and a singer who can do the tortured-boy croon as good as the punk-rock growl is cool by me. His growling is worthy of Ian MacKaye back in the day, or even Ray from Youth of Today. (Speaking of homoeroticism, Ray's current band, Shelter, has a new vid where he plays a butch cop, and it makes me wonder how straight-edge punk got written out of the queer-culture history books—abstinence, sobriety, and slamming could make for some awfully steamy all-ages shows.)

Speaking of homoeroticism yet again, you have to see the vid for "I'm a Cloud" by Boy Hits Car. It starts with a group hug between band members, features Frippertronic geetar breaks, Doorsian psychodrama, and a scary Treat Williams-as-Berger-in-Hair lead singer in a Nehru jacket who out of nowhere screams, "They tried to fuck me from behind!" Yowza! As nü metal begins its death march, things finally get interesting!

But then you get Grand Theft Audio's "Stoopid Ass,"a promo clip for the homoerotic flick Dude, Where's My Car?, and musically an incomprehensible hybrid of Fatboy Slim, the Stereo M.C.'s, and Sham 69. (Which sounds groovy, I'll admit, but just ends up being noisy and sad and something else for me to somehow blame Beck for.) Or Cold's "End of the World," where some guy who looks like Moby's older, unhealthier brother sings a lament about how fake and plastic everyone at the strip club he hangs out at is, in that fake, plastic SoCal-by-way-of-Bombay-or-Babylon Matchbox 20 "smooth" diction that's as wack as it is weird.

The saving grace for a lot of these pierced, pissed stylists is how they often let their inner Savage Garden shine through the mud. Making you wonder if they somehow ended up in the wrong band or something. Professional Murder Music and Stabbing Westward have serious Ultravox tendencies yearning to break free. Fuel's "Bad Day" vid, with its mundane litany of "spilled her coffee and broke a shoelace" moments, wouldn't be out of place on the country channel or on a Goo Goo Dolls album.

But do you wanna know what really sticks out like a sore fourth thumb on MTV X? Every new video that isn't nü metal. Whether it's new AC/DC, Stone Temple Pilots, At the Drive-In, the Living End, Snake River Conspiracy, or Sum 41's already classic nerf-punk clip for "Fat Lip/Pain for Pleasure." The coolest pop-punker and non-nü hard-rock vids have one thing in common that make them more memorable than just about any humpbacked, eyeless dwarf Marilyn tosses our way: real people. Other than the band. Kids. Fans. Friends. People dancing and goofing around and having a party cuz they can't believe they've been asked to show up and act dumb for a stupid video that's gonna be on fuckin' MTV.

The middle-of-the-road malaise that the nü-bys ponder alone in their caves is nowhere to be found in a Rancid or Green Day vid. Korn and—God help me—Limp Bizkit certainly have their moments, and just like their spiritual predecessors Mötley Crüe and Bon Jovi, it's not their fault if they've spawned monsters who made their sights and sounds commonplace. And the Reznor-Manson aesthetic will get most of those bands through album two. But that end-of-the-world shtick will begin to make those spooky empty sets look mighty empty indeed for groups who are primarily pop to begin with. In other words, the rotting flesh metaphors get harder to come by unless you're a true freak or a proud metal warrior resigned to your fate in the hell of underground fandom, like Eyehategod or King Diamond. Translation: Get plan B ready now, boys. Think techno. Or calypso.

*

I Want My B-E-T
Let Us Now Praise Famous Gangstas (and Their Videos)
by Scott Seward
September 29 - October 5, 1999

Puff Daddy is winking at me. He is slowly disrobing and his teeth glisten in the moonlight. My heart starts to beat a little faster as he points to his drawers and sez, "I call my pee-pee p-diddy, cuz it's so pwecious!" He sounds like Tweety Bird. That's when I hear a voice in my ear: "Don't believe the hype!" "Whozat?" I mutter, "Harry Allen?" But no, it's Stanley "The Grouch" Crouch, naked and unashamed. "The rap isn't any good for you," he bellows. "You gotta listen to what Wynton's been working on. It's a six-hour jazz opera based on the life of Zora Neale Hurston, comprised of 43 renditions of 'Satin Doll.' " Puffy is slowly putting his pants back on. Stanley can see my eyes glaze over, but he won't give up. "That devil rap will never last, my son." I turn to look at him. "Stanley, that Sermon on the Mount Menckenstylee might fly in the groves of academe, but there's something you got to recognize: ain't nothing like hip-hop music!" I can hear Puffy laughing as he and Stanley disappear in a cloud of smoke.

Then I wake up. Sean Combs is laughing on late-night Black Entertainment Television, which I keep running 24-7 in case there's an episode of Amen on that I haven't seen. I should have learned my lesson a month or two ago when I had a truly frightening dream featuring my mom, Big Pun, and Lil' Kim. I just can't stand to miss anything on a channel that rarely makes mistakes and always comes correct. Chuck D called rap the black CNN, but to me, BET is the black Weather, Sci-fi, and Independent Film channels all rolled up into one ball. One scrappy ball— I've been watching Rap City on BET for a decade, and they're still spending the same five-dollar bill on every episode.

Not that it matters. Rap City, just like my second favorite television show of all time, MTV's Headbanger's Ball (canceled because of the grunge explosion— just one more thing to blame those dirty hippy bastards for), is all about the videos. And what videos! Rap and metal vids share a few things other than young women in bikinis. They are all about wish- fulfillment and ego-trippin'. Some people, believe it or not, think the very things that make these videos so much fun (gangstas, gats, diamond-studded walking sticks) are somehow harmful to children. What some people forget is that most chidren are so stupid that as soon as they change the channel they forget what they just saw.

And to be fair, for every Westside Connection video (West Coast thug life nonsense starring Ice Cube of all people— his days of swarming on any motherfucker in a blue uniform long over— the video is him and his beefy pals looking ominous at a picnic), there's something like Gang Starr's "Discipline," a cautionary tale of playas getting played, and apparently blindfolded in toilet stalls by twin hootchie girls who steal wallets. Guru's hook is the line "Instead of preaching death in my songs, I breathe life." For every dumbass video like "Rap Life" by Tash and the Wu's pu-pu-platter-lovin' Raekwon— redeemed only by a trip to the racetrack where the jockeys are all, you guessed it, hootchie girls— there's "U-Way" by dirty south Outkast krew members, Youngbloodz. Just some old-fashioned rapping and a wholesome football game in this video. That is, until the whole thing stops dead for a full-length commercial featuring Bolt 45, the first 40-oz. sports drink for the serious drinker. The thing is so damn clever even Bill Bennett would have to chuckle.

Without the yin and the yang, any art is dead in the water. And rap, it should be noted, is the only art form to both acknowledge that the war on drugs is a form of genocide and hail the dancing prowess of the Smurf. You need the gangstas, thugs, and smugglers to offset the damage Q-Tip does by being such a cutie-pie. If the evils heaped upon the inner cities of America create an anger upsetting to some (check out Ja Rule's "4 Life," the in-your-face hyperkinetic camera angles of which are practically designed to scare the argyles off of Whitey), too bad. And when one of the most creative expressions of rage popular music has ever known gets dismissed as noise, that's just sad. Perhaps, like Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor, the freaks and wackos of hip-hop will someday be lionized, and rap will transform itself into toothless chamber music.

Rap music gives you a chance to see and hear something that is still growing and changing at this very moment. It may take one step forward and then two steps back depending on what week it is, but you will always hear something you've never heard before. So, to quote the Afrocentric Sprint long-distance ad, you don't want to sleep on this offer.

Which brings me to Juvenile. When I listen to this Louisiana ruffneck and stretch-Humvee habitué I am reminded of what 16th-century composer and Master of Music at the Vatican basilica, Giovanni Pierluigi Da Palestrina, wrote in a letter to the Duke of Mantua about music's divine purpose: that it should "give a living spirit to the words." This definition of a boombastic liturgical style fits the genius of Juvenile to a T. And if the only three gifts this screwed-up, bad, and beautiful country of ours ever gave to the world were Billie Jean King, Rita Moreno, and Juvenile, we would be conspicuous in our largesse. Having said all that, I should mention that Juvenile is one of the biggest mumblemouths in rap and I only understand about half of what he says. He also owns BET. On any given day, you can see him in the Hot Boys' "We on Fire" (will Juvenile and his Cash Money crew outfox the ATF?), or watch him in B.G.'s "Bling Bling" practicing the latest rap video cliché of throwing wads of cash on the ground (but not riding around in a speedboat), or catch him in his own smash, "Back That Thang Up," wherein all booty is homegrown like Juvenile himself and definitely not from central casting. Or you may catch one of his earlier ghetto tableaux where the pit bulls are picture perfect and the glass on the sidewalks shines like diamonds.

Along with his down-home N'awlins drawl, Juvenile makes good use of the early-'80s electro that's all the rage. Similar juxtaposition of techno-robots in the henhouse helps the sawdust-floor sound of a lot of dirty south recordings thrive. But going from nada to Prada, this month's champ in the Kraftwerk minimalist sweepstakes is Noreaga's "Oh No." It's an amazing song, and its Hype Williams video features arguably the greatest pound-for-pound fighter in boxing, Roy Jones Jr. Williams, the don of rap video, has been lambasted in the past for his odes to the good life. But his dreamy pace and many shades of blue would make he-man director Michael Mann envious.

There really is so much out there it's hard to keep up. Mariah Carey's video for "Heartbreaker" has animation, a ninja catfight, and Jay-Z in a tub. Mary J. Blige's equally mind-blowing "All That I Can Say" has Mary riding an escalator to heaven dressed in a pink cowboy hat and tutu only to find a nekkid Adonis hanging on a cloud. Busta's girl Rah Digga (who says she's "hotter than a region of Ghana") makes a right-fierce 21st-century splash in her "Tight" video. And hell, it ain't even winter yet! I have it on good authority there's going to be one or two more Charli Baltimore videos, and at least 40 more Juvenile videos, before Christmas.

*

Mental Machine Music
by Scott Seward
May 17 - 23, 2000

Whenever I listen to electronic classical music, or the avant of any garde for that matter, I always employ my own patented form of "deep listening," which combines the I Ching, game theory, 600 milligrams of yohimbé extract, and 40 well-positioned woofers. It kinda works. Inspiration, fear, and trembling inevitably ensue.

Thus did I sit myself down recently to sample Ohm: The Early Gurus of Electronic Music, a new three-CD box set put out by the ever elusive, enigmatic, and ineffable Ellipsis Arts label (which I'd never heard of before). Producers Thomas Ziegler and Jason Gross have created one swell-looking package: The 96-page companion book alone will surely test your smartypantsitude with its eyewitness accounts of pioneering German radio broadcasts and Area 51-like starry-eyed faith in the new math. This compilation is the perfect stocking stuffer for your pacifier-sucking offspring who think electro-frippery begins and ends with Aphex Twin. And lest you think school is for fools and that any chronological catalog of the grandpappies of synthesized sound must be some dry litany of bleeps and blips that time forgot, let me tell you that there isn't a snoozer or loser in the bunch.

Ohm begins pleasantly enough, and at the beginning (sort of), with Clara Rockmore's perfectly sublime rendition of Tchaikovsky's "Valse Sentimentale," played on that space-age hurdy-gurdy, the theremin. Mad Russian Leon Theremin, who invented this temperamental gizmo in the '20s, needed a diva to work her mojo on it, and Clara rocked his shit like Jimi would later rock an axe. (Not too many other of the fairer-gendered science-fair winners show up on the Ohm box, but the ones showcased are all [inter] stellar: Bebe Barron, Pauline Oliveros, Maryanne Amacher. No Wendy Carlos, but she's a cheater anyway.)

Things go smoother still with master blaster Olivier Messiaen's "Oraison" (1937), scored for the all-but-forgotten Ondes Martenot (early electronic keyboard—if you want a history lesson, go ask Stereolab). It's a lyrical wonder, but then I love everything this organ king ever did. Messiaen was the headmaster of the Avant/Electro School for Boys, his star pupils including Pierres Henry and Boulez, Luc Ferrari, Iannis Xenakis, and Karlheinz Stockhausen—thus, all high-tension wires lead to him. The Web's All Music Guide (indispensable to me 'cuz I steal from it so much) reveals that the divine, mystical Messiaen gained inspiration from the same sources that keep me going: Catholic religious themes and birdsong. The AMG also numbers among Olivier's followers Henryk Mikolaj Gorecki, Lalo Schifrin, and Björk—Wow, talk about your holy trifectas for hipsters on the go!—and makes special mention of his "Quartet for the End of Time," composed in a German prison camp. Essential listening, obviously, for anyone interested in life on earth.

One thing I dig about a lot of these (for the most part) classically trained composers is that their natural curiosity for all things modern won out over their highfalutin scholarship and spurred them on to search their nightmares for alien sounds and fiddle with tape recorders accordingly—thus setting the stage for those wild sounds you hear today in rock, funk, disco, hip-hop, soul, new age, techno, and Muzak. In other words, one might expect my nerves to be rattled by the groundbreaking slice 'n' dice tape experiments of Musique Concrete founder Pierre Schaeffer's 1948 "Etude aux Chemins de Fer" (lots of train whistles) and all-around-great-guy John Cage's subsequent 1952 "Williams Mix" (lots of of frog snippets, as if to say, "Vive le France!"), but I've been corrupted by too many groundbreaking Biz Markie records. Plus I have cable. So mostly, I just admire the determination involved in these guys taking months to do what any 12-year-old can now do in minutes on her computer.

Some of the folks included on Ohm are already firmly entrenched in the history books: Stockhausen, Cage, Xenakis (Buy all the Xenakis recordings you can find!), Edgard Varèse (whose 1958 "Poem Électronique" sounds like the reason headphones were invented), Steve Reich (whose 1968 "Pendulum Music" Sonic Youth sure did make swing on Goodbye 20th Century last year). And like T.O.N.T.O.'s headband, forever expanding, excerpted portions of their longer pieces no way detract from the flow created by a deft track selection that unravels and builds seamlessly. Which is to say the 6:20 edit of Stockhausen's "Kontakte" (1959-1960) still floats down as the sound resounds around the icy waters underground.

What really awakens me from my oscillator-generated stupor, though, is Tod Dockstader's "Apocalypse II" (1961)—a mere two-minute excerpt of doom-rock genius. Tod was punk as fuck and sexy to boot. Eno and Moby couldn't hold a candle to his chrome-domed electro-god looks. (Patti Smith was quoted somewhere as saying that she doesn't listen to music by anyone she wouldn't sleep with, so I'm guessing electronic classical music isn't her bag, what with most of the form's gurus looking like unpopular physics professors. I'm just glad that's not my criterion, or I never would have heard Radio Ethiopia!)

Anyway, I've gotta give a random chronological shout-out to a few other tracks especially worthy of immediate shortwave transmission:

# Raymond Scott "Cindy Electronium" (1959) Robert Moog (bless his heart) helped the silly symphony maestro build the clavivox, thus ensuring that a life-size statue will someday be built in Japan on behalf of Scott's tireless crusade for whimsy in music.

# Pauline Oliveros "Bye Bye Butterfly" (1965) Through tape manipulation and a peck of pinched Puccini, this piece invents postpunk nurses with wounds 13 years ahead of schedule.

# MEV (Musica Elettronica Viva) "Spacecraft" (1967) How my greasy loner friends who I trade Crispy Ambulance bootlegs with never turned me on to these acid-soaked freaks I'll never know. Looked them up on the Net, but all I found was a site for a radioactive ion-beam facility.

# Terry Riley "Poppy Nogood" (1968) The full title of this one is "Poppy Nogood and the Phantom Band Purple Modal Strobe Ecstasy With the Daughters of Destruction." That's all you really need to know.

# David Tudor "Rainforest Version I" (1968) Pianist and muse to the stars, Tudor envisions an electro/worldbeat fusion full of gnashing teeth and tsetse flies: nothing at all soothing or N.P.R.-ready.

# Laurie Spiegel "Appalachian Grove I" (1974) Kudos must again go to Ohm's compilers, cuz Disc 3 (1972-1980) in no way wanes in quality (which I thought it might, since so many de rigueur synths and devices of that era have come to sound so Kitaro-y and Vangelis-y today). This computer-made track sounds as cool and alien as the day it was hatched. I played it on my computer, and my computer told me it loved me.

# Robert Ashley "Automatic Writing" (1979) The walls are melting, my brain is on fire, Throbbing Gristle are exposed as the frauds that they were. These physics professors are getting downright fucking spooky.

Which reminds me: Did I mention yet that all of these artists were completely insane? More than one of them based their compositional theories on ancient religion or metaphysical philosophy. Most had grandiose ideas of some perfect forum for their music to be heard, preferably with hundreds of loudspeakers involved. A 31-year-old Karlheinz Stockhausen, speaking in 1960, envisioned a time when every major city would have an auditorium specifically designed for the appreciation of "space music." If he had only known then what time and Emerson, Lake, and Palmer would bring!

And somehow, someway, every one of these egghead eccentrics managed to create (despite their often convoluted quantum mechanics fixations, crude yet mind-boggling inventions, and reliance on tin cans) a spontaneous-sounding and vibrant form of music, all but bypassing the always fashionable and almost always boring world of George Crumb wannabes and academic/atonal/serial/Schoenbergian federally funded "modern" classical music that exists to this very day. Perhaps when you're playing something called an "electronic sackbut" it's harder to get into a stylistic rut.

Or perhaps the answer lies in the warning that fad exploiter and '60s electronica icon Richard Hayman (who rearranged the hits of the day for sci-fi fans by adding synth burps and farts to "The Windmills of Your Mind" and "The Look of Love") includes in the liner notes to his Vietnam-era Genuine Electric Latin Love Machine LP: "Beware the Ides of Moog." Even in those dark samplerless, modemless days of yore, electronic gadgets and boxes provided the user with limitless possibilities to create unheard and unheard-of sound. Thus the greatest influences on today's music that no one has ever heard of—guys like La Monte Young in 1969, giving their masterpieces bizarre names like "31/69 c.12:17:33-12:25:33 pm NYC"—could screw with time and space via piercing sine waves that can still back up your sinuses for a week. So pin back your ears, mate. Piss off your dog!

*

Armageddon It
Neurosis; the Gathering
by Scott Seward
August 4 - 10, 1999

On the eve of the new millennium, you will find me at the gates of Neverland Ranch, praying for the mortal souls of all humanity. I just read on the Web that the Antichrist is, in fact, the boy-child of Michael Jackson, one Prince Jackson (so named by Satan in cruel mockery of the Prince of Peace, and also of the living incarnation of Jesus Christ, Prince Rogers Nelson—a/k/a the Artist himself changing his name to a symbol decipherable only by the archangel Gabriel and his winged min ions). There will be a battle fought betwixt heaven and hell for the fate of earth and all of us on it. All we can do now is pray.

For those of you strong enough to search for further portents of the end-time to come, I suggest you delve into what is commonly referred to by biblical scholars as "heavy metal." Through all of metal's many twists and turns over the years there is one constant thread that unites the most disparate styles of this hallowed heathen music: man is evil and he must pay. Not even evangelical Christians have so much faith in the fact that we are doomed and that apocalypse is around the corner.

Take Neurosis. Starting life years ago as punk rock brutalists in the Bay Area, they have, through the fine art of metal plod, churned out album after album of music that is positively Kleboldian in its vision of doom and gloom. Their newest, Times of Grace, whittles the plod and violence down to the very essence of blue-eyed sludge. Aided and abetted by Steve "Crazy Legs" Albini (who's really paranoid that you're not going to hear the drums, so as usual he takes extra care to make sure that you do, even if it means everything else takes a shellacking in the clarity department), Neurosis sustain a strangely poetic mood of anguish (for what or for whom isn't really clear) that makes for pretty compelling listening.

The members of Neurosis also record as a more "experimental" group under the name "Tribes of Neurot." (You should be scared, but don't be.) The new Tribes disc, Grace, is a companion piece to the Neurosis album, designed to be played simultaneously for, and I quote, "a multi-dimensional sound experience." I'm guessing that just combining the two elements in the first place on one re cord might have been a bit heady for the bone-and-gristle set that is the heavy-touring Neurosis's bread and butter. (Since I couldn't find a copy of Grace, for the purposes of research I played the Neurosis disc simultaneously with The Best of Maggotron: Early Maggots, thinking the Miami bass legends would provide an added depth to the eternal sadness of Neurosis. It did, in fact, provide a "multi-dimensional sound experience.") I only hope that on their next album the two sides of this band do merge. Mono chromatic fury goes just so far, especially if you've been doing it for a decade. Aside from some strings and a killer bagpipe solo, Neurosis plod valiantly, but they plod all the same.

If you can't wait for the next Neurosis album, however, and you want both sides of the coin, and your local black-metal shop is out of the new Ulver (black-metal legends who have followed up their werewolf song cycle with an indescribable double-disc based on William Blake's The Marriage of Heaven and Hell), and you're tired of listening to the best rock al bum of '98, Katatonia's Discouraged Ones, and you don't care about the end of the world, and you just want to hear something heavy, beautiful, innovative, modern, and Dutch, then go buy the Gathering's How To Measure a Planet?

Once upon a time, even the Gathering were scary monsters and super creeps. But when they found their Lilith fair, singer Anneke van Giersbergen, their mood lightened, and all was good. Their last two albums, while pretty as a picture, were merely a training ground for this 3-2-1 blast-off rocket of a record. I'd give it a 10 if I gave 10s.

With a sound as big as the great outdoors, their version of metal bears absolutely no resemblance to a Dokken T-shirt or a Limp Bizkit sing-along. They're often lumped in with continental European Goth weirdos like Tiamat and Moonspell. (I tried to explain how Gothic-type metal sounds to someone I work with, and she said, "You mean like 'Stairway to Heaven'?" And I guess that sums it up pretty good!) But the Gathering don't traffic in the bugbears of Goth: to die is gain, the beauty of death, death becomes you. The Gathering just want to get a good night's sleep, and every one can relate to that. Traveling, dreaming, longing, swooning. The space-travel theme and romantic mood of the album only lend more gravity to the guitars when they decide to kick out the dikes. It all ends with a 20-minute blast that out-revs the Mercury Project, and there's no where left for the Gathering to go but up.

*

Lo-Fi Dead in O-hi-o?
Guided By Voices
by Scott Seward
September 1 - 7, 1999

Guided By Voices have the keys to the alt-rock kingdom. They are adored by thousands of critic types (and even some people who don't live in their mom's basement) for adhering to the Indie Music Purity Act signed in Geneva in 1986 by Bob Mould, Paul Westerberg, and various members of Killdozer— provisions of which entail being honest in an impoverished and obscure manner, showing a strong nondenominational midwestern work ethic, traveling in a van, being shafted by record labels, and recording albums with a Mr. Microphone and a Radio Shack boom box in your bass player's rec room.

In the past, the fact that the pride of Ohio, Robert Pollard (and whoever he could get to play with him), released albums simply as an excuse to come up with as many goofy song titles as possible only made him more endearing to cranky fanzine editors and art-garage aficionados the world over. And Guided By Voices were arty and of the garage— the best of their early stuff sounded like unreleased demo tapes some acid-rock casualty might have made in Dennis Wilson's guest house.

G.B.V. also spawned a DIY movement of sorts. It was composed of vinyl junkies of a certain age, who, although enamored with the rarefolkpsychmonster aspect of the '60s, had also learned a thing or two from postpunkers the Fall and Wire. (I'm thinking of Thinking Fellers Union, the Grifters, the Strapping Fieldhands, Sebadoh, Pavement.) And even though English majors need glorified bar bands as much as anyone else, most if not all these groups have since learned to embrace actual stereophonic recording studios, leaving room for a new generation of record-store clerks to dazzle us with the crudity of their art.

Robert Pollard, whose music hasn't sounded like an AM radio at the bottom of a well for years now, has gone further than any of his partners in production-value crime on Do the Collapse, his 400th album. Thanks to used Car Ric Ocasek's production job, this ex-schoolteacher's hobby band has a shiny new coat that would have been unimaginable five years ago. Ocasek makes rock so clean you can eat off it, and a lot of this album even has the punch and energy of the Cars' wondrous debut. (An energy not found on G.B.V.'s last two G.B.V. releases, although they both had their share of keepers, like for instance "Learning To Hunt" on Mag Earwig, an uncharacteristically poignant song about fatherhood that reminds me of "Kooks" on David Bowie's Hunky Dory. At least I think it's about fatherhood— it might be about hunting.) On
Collapse, "Teenage FBI" has those rinky-dink synths that Cars cover-band the Rentals revived not long ago, and the sweet guitar leads that waft in from nowhere on "Much Better Mr. Buckles" rank with powerpop's greatest gifts. Sturdy, dirt-simple riffs start off 95 percent of the album. (I never liked the Nirvana/grunge jangly-bumpkin intro approach; you just knew any second they were gonna stomp on their effects pedal, set for "long hair.")

I'm not going to get into band members here besides our hero Mr. Pollard. You can look up their tangled family tree on the G.B.V. Web site, and who knows, you might even be on it! I like the band shots that adorn the new album, though. What with the guys dressed up in custodial-crew gear, the pictures don't convey the long-standing indie chic of trucker hats, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and somebody else's work clothes so much as they resemble promo shots of cleaned-up Ohio pub-rockers the Rubber City Rebels, circa 1979.

And G.B.V.'s on TVT now— same label that

gave long-in-the-tooth Aussie punk Chris Bailey of the Saints a new lease on life, and the label that made Nine Inch Nail Trent Reznor so mad he spit out a million-selling record. I guess their former label, Matador, now a cutting-edge dance imprint, didn't hear enough drum 'n'/or bass in the new G.B.V. sound (but there's plenty of both!). Has this band sold out its underground cred by creating a slick pop-rock album on a label founded with sitcom theme-music money?

First of all, nobody cares. Second of all, Robert Pollard is old enough to be your father's older brother. More important, he lives in Dayton, Ohio. What's he gonna do, buy the swankiest house in Dayton with all that dough TVT throws around? Put a moat around his above-ground pool? People from Ohio are incapable of selling out. Just ask Devo, the Bizarros, Pere Ubu, and the Dead Boys— all major-label heavyweights in their day. The only way you can do it is if you move away to England like Chrissie Hynde and dis your smelly shores from afar. And so what if Do the Collapse has the best Collective Soul song ever recorded ("Hold on Hope") on it? You'll still never hear it on the radio. In a perfect world, the cliché goes, kids would flip their lids for whatever collegiate rock icon is being neglected this week. In the real world, somebody with a flair for language and a good hook should be able to earn a happy living without ever leaving home.

*

New Hampshire Rap Nerd Invents Whiter Shade of Radiation
Passage's The Forcefield Kids
by Scott Seward
June 7th, 2004 7:20 PM

Passage is all wrong for me. He's too young, more doofus than youfus, and from New Hampshire. Which means by law he must live free or die. Which scares me. However, his Beckian folktronic lo-fi histrionics intrigue 'cuz there is tension and pain (or squirreliness or Ritalin) lurking beneath the pathological logorrhea that comes with the territory of detritus-collecting rap-addict hipsters who paint extra-pale pictures of their fidgety nerdball lives as beat-driven outcasts in love with the def soundz of their youth and who make no apologies for their lack of accreditation from Hard Times High. Dude's catchiest chorus: "White boys ain't got no slave song/So we invented radiation." What the hell? Fucker don't give a damn if you get it. A man's gotta eat. Last line of a recent newspaper live-show write-up: "Most of the crowd was white." White. White. White. That echo just doesn't mean what it used to. Fifty years from now all the beige babies will be saying: "That Passage was wild, Poppy!" "Yes, Son, he was onto something with that shit."

*

Total Eclipse of Art
Noises on: Thurston and more
by Scott Seward
June 2 - 8, 1999

Does anyone remember laughter?" When human codpiece and supposed former infatuation junkie Robert Plant posed this rhetorical question to a roomful of drug-addled, glue-sniffing, Gremlin-driving, white-bread, chickenshit motherfuckers, what he really should have said was "You don't really take this stuff seriously, do you?" Which would have been more to the point, as most in attendance that night did little more than smoke tons of bad pot and laugh their asses off. But even given the fact that mid-'70s American youth knew how to party, they sure as heck did take Zep seriously.

Of course, rune-reading, lyric-deciphering, and generally taking rock'n'roll way too seriously didn't start with Zep. It started with the Beatles, drugs, social upheaval, J.R.R. Tolkien, and the plaster cast of Jimi Hendrix's penis. But as far as rock for art's sake goes, I'm just going to blame everything on the Velvet Underground. The Velvets were arty and weird, they hung out with exotic albinos, and their live shows featured one-note guitar-and-fiddle drones that lasted for fortnights.

This is where the trouble starts. Because in Germany at the end of the '60s, there was a seemingly endless number of engineering students looking to break into the music biz. Taking their cue from early VU and Pink Floyd, and serious as a heart attack when it came to psychedelic gnome worship, bands like Can, Faust, Amon Düül, and Ash Ra Tempel held rock'n'roll as alleged intellectual pursuit to its highest standard. Rolling jazz, classical, raga, electronic, folk, and sheer ear-splitting cosmic sloppery into one big Teutonic ball, the Krauts made music for really pissed-off hippies.

If you could still hear an echo of Wa-Watusi backbeat in Lou Reed's VU output, the Germans made sure any such links to rock's golden years were wiped off their boots. Germany as a country was all about forgetting the past and not asking Daddy what he did during the war, so why not make noises that beforehand had only been heard in space and in Karlheinz Stockhausen's fever dreams?

Which brings us to why so many eggheads nowadays can't get over this roughly seven-year period ('68'75) in Germany's musical history. Even though the post-music crowd is already, as I speak, mining other rich veins of lost treasure (Serge Gainsbourg, Lee Hazelwood, Italian vampire movie soundtracks, rare jug band 78s, King Diamond picture discs), Krautrock is still king for those who will not allow themselves to dance. To simplify matters further, I'm just going to blame Thurston Moore.

In the almost-30-year career of Sonic Youth, if Thurston only told two people a week to buy a Cluster or Achim Reichel LP, I figure that constitutes about half the U.S. sales of Krautrock to date. And if only half of those people formed bands, that would at least explain why Blur threw away their Ian Whitcomb albums and started experimenting with "sound."

But at least Blur have songs, which Thurston and his posse of E.S.P. and Actuel skronk fiends often neglect in their search for the ideal soundscape or whatever. Krautrock was more than just building walls of skree und sludge, and a lot of the people who feed off the Kraut korpus seem to be missing the joy of making stuff up that those original cosmic jokers had in spades. Instead, they ride their wave of feedback until we're all just a little bit seasick.

If you're into noise, atmosphere, and alien life-forms, though, I heartily recommend the new Faust CD, Ravvivando. Revived as an act like so many other indie totems over the last few years (Scott Walker, Tom Rapp, Silver Apples, Cher), Faust manage to sound current, if not as groundbreaking as they once were. Their records from the early '70s achieved some sort of apex of fucked-up guitar violence and off-the-cuff lunacy. On the new one, low-end fuzz, shortwave buzz, and psych-meltdown scuzz prove these oldheads ain't dead yet. The fact that they were making a racket like this when today's Syd Barrett grave robbers were in utero must say something about the restorative powers of LSD and sauerbraten.

On the other hand, if you're like me and view rock as serious fun and all of life as art, and also believe the greatest technical achievement in pop was the release of "Surfin' Bird," the British Empire (of all places) has just sent over two other new post-Kraut albums you
really gotta hear.

The first is from Scotland's Beta Band, who are by turns languid, goofy, dreamy, empty-headed, and a shambles. Their first full-length is a jungle of pomo Beckisms that include music-hall sing-alongs, human beatboxes, lo-fi geetar rave-ups, Casio abuse, hand clapping, bongos, steel drums, and a healthy irreverence for rap music. When you least expect it, though, the Spike Jones pennywhistles and Bonzo Dog Band sound effects give way to moments of true beauty and spacey as well as spacious harmonies. "The Hard One" even manages to be both a dramatic set piece and a loving tribute to Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart"!

Some groups have the ability to come up with the right combination of sounds that almost instantaneously hit the pleasure center of your brain. Beta Band do this more often than not. Beck can do it too when he's not playing the po'boy. I've heard people call the Betas funky, but really, Santana were a lot funkier. Pilfered beats don't make you funky unless you steal good ones and use them right, or unless your feet stink. But they've still got a rare rhythmic sense— that mad Scottish flow, yo. (Maybe they grew up listening to Rufus Harley's jazz bagpipes.) You could remix their shit to death, which explains why they're more aligned to rave culture than to jam-band culture, their ideal fan a shag-adelic lad in an anorak with a tech-step Mogwai 12-inch under his arm. Not that the spotty and bearded Phish-head with Ozric Tentacles bumper stickers on his tent at the outdoor Hawkwind show couldn't dig the Betas' nature scene either. (By the way, I plead ignorance, but are any of those newfangled jam bands funky? I don't think you could get any un-funkier than the Dead. Maybe those two drummers confused each other.)

It's remarkable to me how fully realized Beta Band's sound has always been, from their 1997 debut EP until now. (Their early '99 compilation The Three E.P.'s is even better than the new album, and the new one's groovy like in the movies.) It's also remarkable to me how more people haven't managed to make their droniness and repetition at least a little more fun and worth following as Beta Band does. (Not everyone can be a master at it like Giorgio Moroder or Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, but it's worth a try.) Organic and folky even when working with beats and a full-time turntable twiddler, the Betas have cracked the Kraut code: having hipster leanings work hand in hand with idiot hippie charm.

But where Beta Band's new record is a variation on their past (happily pointless) themes, Add N To (X)'s second album is a huge improvement over their last London-based blast of Moog madness. Their first album, On the Wires of Our Nerves, got on my last one. They did come up with some pretty innovative ways to annoy me with analog electronics, though. Avant Hard, I'm happy to say, rocks harder than it avants, and I'm going to wait all night for tickets when they play the Garden. Majestic, loping, driving shit, I don't know— it's really cool, and loud. Powerchords with not a guitar in sight (although live human drummers) and with humor! (Best song titles: "Ann's Eveready Equestrian," "Machine Is Bored With Love.") These guys have made a great rock'n'roll album that could conceivably come from some form of the future. (The new Future World disc by Chicago thrill jockeys Trans Am tries this too, but sounds a little more like Jeff Beck if he had been born underwater and elected president of the Jonzun Crew fan club.)

Add N To (X) have learned to use their past algebraic abrasiveness for the greater good, and have more chance of ruling the world than actual Kraut white-noise fit-throwers Atari Teenage Riot. Galloping hoofbeats, Valkyrie vocals, military snares, vocoders, all united into happy, upbeat melodies: what's not to like? Even the worrywarts and math majors might get up and shake a leg when "Metal Fingers in My Body" hits the airwaves. Soon to be a smash— on Neptune, at least.

*

Gossamer Wings of Poop
Monster Magnet, God Says No
by Scott Seward
April 5th, 2001 6:30 PM

And on the eighth day, God created Black Sabbath. And the Stooges, the MC5, Blue Cheer, Led Zeppelin, Keith Richard's teeth, and Leslie West's belly. And it was good. For the white devil had taken the black devil's devil music and made of it something twice and sometimes three times as devilish. Just ripped that stuff right out of the fertile Mississippi mud and defiled the shit out of it. The blues begat the blooze and it was ugly, bloated, and loud. And Petey Wheatstraw wept.

If the blues was a music of tension and release born from an anguished cry of joy and pain amid the toil and strife of an often embittered existence, and enjoyed during its prime by solid folks who used their backs and hands to carve out a spot for themselves in an unfair world, then heavy metal (in all its not so subtle variations) was a constant orgasm that would enthrall mostly orgasm-plagued teenagers in search of the eternal buzz. All of which begs the question: Will Moby and Tortoise destroy rock and roll?

I tend to think that they won't. Bad dance music and bad jazz-prog will never win out as long as millions of teens are still listening to bad rap and bad metal. The rock of iniquity just keeps on rolling down the proverbial hill of deviance in search of the lake of inebriation to slake its thirst in preparation for yet another round of Dionysian bacchanals. No, the golden age of rock and roll will never die as long as kids want to laugh and kids want to cry. (For further proof, in England they're no longer listening to bad techno and bad trance: The hottest thing is something called U.K. Garage! Yeeeah, baby—bust out those Seeds and Count Five records and have yerself a right corker!)

This is all just a roundabout way of saying that the new Monster Magnet album is kinda crappy, and they'd better check themselves before they quite irrevocably wreck themselves. We need these American doper-rock icons now more than ever, if only to combat some of the more tedious artyfartifications of rock-based forms. What we don't need are semi-so-so songs that are samey in a bad way as opposed to gamy in a good way.

In the past, Monster Magnet and their leader, "Diamond" Dave Wyndorf, were always game for good-to-go cartunes best played on the Jersey Turnpike at midnight in August with the top down during a holiday weekend with the thermometer at 90, a bad hangover, and half a case of Pabst to get through. You know, the good life. Crappy mescaline, dirtweed. Another rerun of Cops. Monster Magnet could whisk you away on gossamer wings made of poop. The collective unconsciousness of Iggy, Paul Stanley, and the Sab emanating from a brain raised on Wacky Packs, Creepy magazine, and the Silver Surfer. In a word: retro. Their sci-fi lyrics completely at odds with their earthbound creationist thud.

No lyricist has ever explored the many moods of his penis as eloquently as Dave Wyndorf. So God Says No, along with anything by Dave's spiritual and philosophical cousin Rob Zombie (the Rat Fink to Wyndorf's Boo Boo), is still a must-have for any self-respecting stripper. But for non-polesliders I'd say stick with any of Monster Magnet's earlier, funnier, stoopider offerings. Start with '98's Powertrip, where Dave's lyrics achieved some sort of idiot genius, and then work your way back if you're so inclined. The further back you go, the guitars just get louder and meaner. (Speaking of ax murder, if you find Monster Magnet a little posh for your taste, definitely pick up Magnet guitarist Ed Mundell's albums with boogie separatist outfit Atomic Bitchwax, and re-create a time when Toe Fat, Tucky Buzzard, and Status Quo ruled the land with a ham fist.)

Truth is, God Says No just ain't stoopid enuff. It falls flat where it should fall to its knees in a Benzedrine benediction. It's like the hawk without the wind. Like Uriah without the heap. It's got a serious lack of cheap thrills: about two memorable riffs, some nifty slide guitar, a song that melds the Strawberry Alarm Clock with Dick Dale and Filter, some fairly uninspired goat-god dick jokes, and processed beats (which I got no beef with, and if they're trying to duplicate the success of '98's "Space Lord" with some MTV-friendly fare, that's fine by me—somebody has to bring the rock to the kids, even if a reference to dead funny-book illustrator Jack Kirby will most likely have them scratching their pea-filled noggins).

I've always seen Monster Magnet as the essential middle ground for rock fans turned off by "real" heavy metal on the one hand, and lacking the patience or lung strength necessary to appreciate the heavier acid sounds to be found under bridges and behind methadone clinics on the other. And I'll definitely be looking for more bong-worthy material from them in the future.

They've had such an inspired take on what makes squalling guitars, blooze bastardization, and gung ho boosterism of drug abuse, nihilism, and debauchery such an integral piece of our national fabric. That knowledge, and the deft implementation of said knowledge, is a treasure that will be embraced by generations to come. For Satan's sake, someone has to ride the tractor on the drug farm! Plus, at this very moment, the Sea and Cake or Mogwai are in the studio recording yet another album. Wait, do you hear that? Is that an oud? Quick, to the fuzzbox!

*

All Dat
What's up with DAT?
by Scott Seward
July 21 - 27, 1999

Billboard trumpets MP3 and streaming audio feeds, but I'm high on DAT. Specifically, "Who Dat" by JT Money and "I'll Bee Dat!" by Redman. Perfecting the DAT technology pioneered by proto-rap superheroes the Pipkins in their 1970 smash "Gimme Dat Ding" (they were a mysterious bunch: What if they never got dat ding? And what would they do with dat ding once they got it?), JT Money (no relation to Eddie), who by his own admission is the pimpingest pimp who ever pimped, takes a cue from his predecessors in rhyme, T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, by incorporating ancient traditions with the new to create a poetic voice for the future. "Who Dat"'s hypnotic use of tribal call-and-response is as old as Africa itself, and the "who dat" mantra has already been embraced by the fine dancehalls of Kingston. Even lyrically the song reinforces the idea of tribe, as JT tries to keep his crew free of triflers and knuckleheads. Rap has to be the only art form today that can call on voices so ancient and distant, yet remain the most modern sound on earth.

Redman's "I'll Bee Dat!" single, my second fave of the year after JT's, has the same undercurrent of dread as "Who Dat"...not to mention an undercurrent of dreads, thanks to a Beenie Man sample. (FYI to all you soccer moms: Beenie Man sells limited edition Beenie Man Beenie Babies at all his shows!) As with a lot of rappers, Redman's genius is his confusion—that classic identity crisis (who is he? Redman, Doc, Reggie, the fool, the player?) best illustrated in Invisible Man by rockin' Ralph Ellison (whose story "Cadillac Flambe" serves as the spiritual and psychic template for all hip-hop). Redman's all dat, he ain't shit, he's a cartoon, he's a man. In his own way, he asks the two questions that black people and artists in America have always asked themselves: "Who am I?" and "Where do I stand?"

*

Do Dew the Crabtown Clam
Baltimore Breakbeat House Trax Are the New Everything
by Scott Seward
April 9 - 15, 2003

"My neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack," sped up Bagdasarian style over the omnipresent crabtown kick drums. She wants to bust a nut all over your face, and who's to argue? Ring, Ring! "Hello?" Shades of Michel'le, who was sped up and fed up from birth 2 Eazy Street. "Holla back baby!" Human disko train whistle wooo wooo's trump beatboxes. Here comes the scratching of the train down the trax. "East side!" "West side!" Are they all right? Are their hands in the air? I don't know east from west cuz the last time I was in Baltimore Brooks Robinson was skinning knees and flipping it to first with alacrity. "If you hate your boss say whoa!" "Where my e-pill niggaz at?" "Where my e-pill bitches at?" Perhaps on the east side, but then again . . . someone starts shouting "Right here!" So he was right there the whole time! Why is "Latin Grove" called Latin Grove when it sounds like an Afro-kinder choir singing in Swahili backed by Ms. Pac-Man and Disco Tex?

Then the whole thing bleeds elegantly into "Let the Beat Rock," which rips "The Dominatrix Sleeps Tonight" and then goes straight into DJ Technics' rollin' deconstruction of "Mr. Postman." That one's for all the bootleg-lovin' dudes who believe that appropriation must come at arm's length. But why? Subcultures are just neighborhoods you don't live in. Places too far away to go. But they're there all the same, and they're open for business. They take credit cards.

Remember D.C. go-go? Well, you remember "Da Butt" anyhow. Kinda sounded like some cats got together and said, "Let's be Bambaataa, but we'll let Uncle Leroy play the spoons." Or some shit like that. Oh hell, DJ Erik is mixing rump-worship histrionica into Sanford and Son cut-up harmonica. Wasn't that jazz champeen Toots Thielemans on that number? "You Big Dummy" kills me every time, till I join Elizabeth and Redd up in the clouds and then Tina Turner brings me back to life with the intro to "Proud Mary" sliced and diced into Nutbush stew. DJ Erik maneuvers the manipulated "andwe'regonnatakethebeginningofthissongandmakeiteasy" right into the Dixie Cups in the chapel gettin' married 'cept Rob Base's breakbeats are the wedding band. . . . But anyway, about go-go. They had the drums and then some. Baltimore house trax are almost all drums. The absence of bass can freak ya out a little.

Hold on, the staccato trumpet break of "Ride My Pony" is turning into the Eurythmics. To make a long story short: Louis Jordan + Motown + the Meters + Fatback + go-go + Miami bass + Detroit techno + Chicago house + I-wanna-go-back-how-far-ya-wanna-go-back-way-back-era rap + Hennessy = Baltimore breakbeat doo dew trax music. I could draw you a picture of a big fat juicy ass if that'd help you any.

"If you believe in having sex, say hell yeah!" Kick drums and moldy breaks moving at magnificent speeds around the universe. "When I say S, you say E, when I say X, you say sex!" You haven't lived till you've heard Diana Ross snipped and trimmed like Lee Perry's head at the barbershop alongside the Funk Brothers. A two-dollar click track, and a hi-hat set on kill.

When'd I get hooked? Musta been when I bought DJ Sixth Sense's contribution to the Unruly Tapemaster series in '99. Right after Frank Ski's "Whores in the House," scream queen (lotsa queens help make this scene) Ms. Tony had me beggin' with the good vibration exhortation "Martha Wash, pull ya gunz out! Whitney Houston, pull ya gunz out!" I was done! That disc hit my solid-gold wall of doo dew that is done so well. Right up there in the pantheon with my Warlock Warparty comp, my KMS Techno 1 comp, my Hot Mix 5 '88 Windy City jack track best-of, Miami Bass Wars II: Operation Overload (Maggozulu Too with "Zingen, Zangen, Gezungen"! Baltimore is still rockin' the Kurt Schwitters/George"Ramalamadingdong" Kranz dada beat along with that aforementioned dom-domine-dom-domine-dominatrix), and those two-for-a-dollar JDC mixer tapes I used to buy where the electro is a direct descendant of the Universal Robot Band and my dream lover Giorgio and made for disco dancing not breakin' or looking sad in a London Fog trenchcoat. These ain't random shoutouts. All this stuff is right there in the ballpark. Not Camden Yards, the other one. Whatever the hell it was called. Like I said, I wouldn't know Baltimore/D.C. from Minneapolis/St. Paul. But I love how there are so many streets I haven't walked down yet. It ain't like I'm Alan Lomax sprouting wood at the sight of any toothless, bearded hag sporting a cowbell, either. I just adore yokelism. And trax sounds are block-by-block constructions.

Hold up! Where's Erik B at? "Blow your whistle!" "Blow your whistle!" Shit kills me. That solitary disco whistle sample repeated over and over while Bernard Herrmann trombones of doom lie in wait beneath the water until the whole schmear explodes like 50 Cent at the end of a long line at Popeyes. Rep-rep-rep-repetition is the key to my kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. Like I said in my seminal essay (go ahead, Google me baby, you know you want to) "Why Baltimore House Music Is the New Dylan": "Some people call dance music mindless, but that's just another word for transcendent." Oh yeah, I'm deep, kid. Erik B is spinning someone's remake/remodel of the Coasters' "Charlie Brown." The bitchslappery of '50s and '60s a.m. gold being a newish development. But if you're thinking tired-ass Moby shit, think again. Autechre or Aphex Twin would be filling out job applications at Verizon Wireless if they ever heard this stuff. Don't believe me? Good. Don't. See if I care. I hear Bores of Canada have a new album coming out. Start lining up, Poindexter. I'll be listening to DJ Technics' King of Club Tracks Vol. I and II. They have "Green Doo Dew," "Doo Dew Dance," "Supa Zing Zing," "Doo Dew Ding-a-Ling," and "Disco Dukey" featuring Dukeyman on them. How can I lose?

*

Elephant Men Exhumed
Not Imaginary Like a Snuffleupagus
by Scott Seward
April 16 - 22, 2003

As any food section in any paper will tell you: Everyday life in post-9-11 times is all about comfort. Things are so bad, restaurants have started taking the garlic out of already quite comforting garlicmashed potatoes so as not to disrupt our newly infantile constitutions. Which brings us to the Atlanta quartet Mastodon and Remission, their big-fat-bloody-porterhouse-steak-with-a-baked-spud-on-the-side-the-size-of-your-head-smothered-in-extra-fat-butter of an album. And why I feel no shame in mainlining its riffs, power chords, and tar-pit attack in the exact same way that I did Sabbath's as a 12-year-old in the hinterlands.

Come to think of it, seeing how I long ago came to grips with my spiritually unenlightened entropy, I really don't need war, destruction, terrorism, and a failing economy as excuses to burrow deep underground with childhood totems. I live for family, french fries, the Gilmore Girls, and loud, obnoxious music. Mastodon combine Necros shout and muscle, in-tune (and much better played) Sonic Youth instro beauty, late-period Entombed swing, and the Viking metal bite and execution of, oh, I don't know, Amon Amarth.

So the mathematical formula for a song like "March of the Fire Ants," while surprisingly simple, is sure to be duplicated. Crunch times fire ants divided by a disregard for the recording techniques of the century we now live in equals a bass that sounds like a rock with strings attached to it played through an X-ray machine. A heavy balm for your souls, brothers and sisters. Sometimes the same old same old can knock your ear on your ass.

*

Snowplow You Bad Elephant!
Godspeed You Black Emperor! "lift yr. skinny fists like antennas to heaven!"; Jackie-O Motherfucker fig. 5
by Scott Seward
December 27 - January 2, 2001

I quit smoking cigarettes recently and I've been making do with Gummi Bears, the patch, and tons of righteous weed. So between Kid A, Madonna, and that new Doves album, I've been enjoying a summer of love in my mind. The Doves' mantras of desolation are even trippier than the first couple Cranes records (though maybe not as lysergic as prime Swans or Ravens), Madonna's new one makes the 13th Floor Elevators sound like the Weavers, and Kid A doesn't have a thought in its head, always a plus with stoner rock. (Laddish punter Nick Hornby recently lambasted Radiohead for making an album only 16-year-olds could enjoy because apparently adults who have to work and buy food don't have time to be "challenged" by rock records. What seems to be lost on Hornby is that the biggest challenge most listeners would have with Kid A would be getting the plastic wrap off the CD. I hope somebody bought Mr. Hornby some Lucinda, Victoria, and/or Dar Williams records for Christmas.)

Never previously one to partake, I am loving the reefer. And I highly (get it?) recommend that everyone do the same when listening to the two bands currently on my cannabis hit parade: Godspeed You Black Emperor! and Jackie-O Motherfucker. As it happens, I first heard about Godspeed from my Swans e-mail discussion list (our watchwords: Power & Volume). The list has never steered me wrong, so I picked up the previous Godspeed releases (f#a#(infinity) and Slow Riot for New ZerØ Kanada), and the band became my dark Canadian masters.

I actually tried to write about GYBE!'s new "lift yr. skinny fists like antennas to heaven!" while I was high as a kite, but I lost the plot (there's a lesson for you 16-year-olds: Don't get stoned unless you do your homework first). Here are some notes I took after inhaling a spliff as big as the Ritz: Montreal/multi-member/ multi-membered?/multi-orgasmic/do people have skinny fists?/maybe babies/Savage Republic/Lebanese surf spaghetti doom guitar/ummagumma!/they are genius/Canadians are slow/I like slow/2112 takes a long time/bytor you black snow dog!/if the Dirty Three made out with Ennio Morricone at a Glenn Branca concert . . . /If Savage Garden made out with Glenn Branca at a Banana Republic . . . /Buy more ice cream.

Oy vey! What was I thinking? "Lift yr. skinny fists" is the best movie I've seen all year. The Morricone reference rings true in the way Godspeed scatters taped voices, sound effects, and a general dustbowl dynamic around the outskirts of their symphonies to godlessness. No singer! Maybe I am getting old. The anguish of the instrument is all I need to hear. On Godspeed's new one, there's a minute or two of Harry Smith-anthology-outtake rehash, but overall, they shut up real good. Vocals would just ruin the whole epic rising-tide wall o' bombast thing anyway.

Godspeed's records will either blow your head off or leave you shrugging, depending on where your personal quest for freedom is taking you. They are uplifting in the same way that "TV Eye," "Marquee Moon," and "Expressway to Yr. Skull" were when I first heard them. GYBE! sometimes get tagged as a sort of doomsday cult with a bleak worldview. Yeah, well, so's your mom.

A like-minded consortium of faceless anti-heroes can be found on fig. 5 by the allegedly-from-Portland Jackie-O Motherfucker. Like GYBE!, they sport a cast of thousands adept at creating a setting conducive to both contemplation and fireworks. Electro-acoustics give way to pretty postrock, which makes room for a faux-yet-effective a cappella choir reading of ancient death folk, which propels the group (who are they? Beats me! Apparently they put out two vinyl-only releases before this one, thus reducing their potential audience at the time by about 99.9 percent) into a rousing facsimile of skronk and free-love meandering that I don't hate despite my solemn vow never to listen to anything that smells like jazz but isn't. Sounds like J-O M recorded fig. 5 in a church. I hope their utopianism (or Unitarianism, maybe?) is never stunted.

*

Romeo's Tune
Interpol's Turn on the Bright Lights
by Scott Seward
October 7th, 2002 3:00 PM

Are Interpol the Steve Forbert of postpunk revival acts? (See www.nerdmagazine.org/forbert.html.) Are they, as The New York Times would have it, the beginning of the end of the New York rock underground? Is Matador the Steve Forbert of indie rock labels? Will Interpol teach us to dance again? Are Interpol and the Strokes the Stray Cats of a new era? (Loved the Stray Cats, by the way. And the Polecats! In fact, Jack White could do a helluva cover of their "Make a Circuit With Me": "Diode, cathode, electrode, overload, generator, oscillator/make a circuit with me!") Do I prefer the postpunkatronicacore of the Doves over Interpol? Probably not. No. Maybe. Perhaps. I don't see why not. Yes.

But first of all, my choice for post-pre-punk cowpunk act of the year is the Dixie Chicks. "Long Time Gone" takes the pre-punk punk energy of bluegrass and infuses it with a postpunk lyrical delivery that is matchless, peerless, and so artful as to render the artless among us speechless. (Remember the old saw: If you put 100 undergrads who can't play a lick in a room with 100 instruments for 100 days, you get a postpunk electro underground revival every time.) Now if I could just get Natalie and the girls to sing "Sex Beat" by the Gun Club. "I, I know your reasons/and I, I know your goals/we can fuck forever/but you can never get my soul!" Yikes, I think I just wet myself. (And don't get me started on Shakira. She's so Lene, I Lovich! The post-Nina Hagen preprandial corn muffin we've been starved for.)

If the Strokes and Interpol remind me of anyone, though, it would have to be forgotten '80s sailor-core combo Roman Holiday. They, like the Strokes and Interpol, used retro tunes and snazzy duds to re-invigorate rudderless music scenes: in Roman Holiday's case, the wonders of doo-wop and Broadway show tunes; in the Strokes', five-year-old Britpop tunes and the wonders of the bygone Madchester scene of Inspiral Carpets and Ride. And Interpol? Why, they're just the cutest li'l things to come down the Hudson since the Dutch and their adorable shoes. And if they remind people of a band like Joy Division, a group that combined the spirit and energy of U.K. punk with the art-rock futurism of Bowie/Eno/Stooges, well, there's a reason for that. They're trying to.

If you listen to "Untitled," the first track on their debut, Turn On the Bright Lights, squint your eyes, stand on one leg, cover an ear, and pretend that the bass, vocals, and tune are better than they are, you'll even swear you're hearing Joy Division. But that song is really just a snippet—an unfinished idea, or perhaps just an extended intro.

The first proper song, "Obstacle 1," is more confusing but also more interesting. Confusing because it starts out sounding like that Chili Peppers song all over the radio that goes "standing in line at the movie show with a monkey, heavy load," or something, but then it switches to the famous guitar intro from "Marquee Moon" by Television. What makes this confusing is that I love the TV song but I hate the Peppers song, so I don't know what to feel. Plus, I keep thinking the singer dude is gonna break into that Pixies song that goes, "Is she weird, is she white, is she promised to the night?" . . . but he doesn't. Black Francis was a great goth lyricist, and this guy's good too—like, there's something about getting stabbed in the neck. All Interpol songs have some cool one-liner or meaningless non sequitur that's good for a laugh.

"NYC," their best song by far, has the great line "Subway she is a porno" that also sounds like Black Francis in his old fake-Mexican role. "NYC" is the reason I bought the album, because when I heard it I thought it was such a stunningly beautiful thing. It sounds exactly like a lost Kitchens of Distinction epic, and it's worthy of being in a CSI autopsy scene (although Sigur Rós's would be hard to beat). Or at the very least background music for a cool HBO perils-of-heroin documentary.

"PDA" opens like "This Charming Man," which is charming when you think about it. We need more Smiths enthusiasts, if only to take back the '80s from R.E.M. and U2. (One of the benefits of retro-rock is that it helps determine which sounds are worth keeping around and which ones need to be forgotten.) And it ends with a coda that sounds like the Chameleons song "Nostalgia"! Are Interpol cheeky, or what?

"Say Hello to the Angels" starts off like one of those other cowpoke Smiths songs, then proceeds to sound like every Smiths song all at once. Kind of a greatest-hits homage in one tune. It also sounds like the singer is saying "Move into my assface," which I don't think even Morrissey could get away with. (He also says "This is a concept." Which makes sense.)

"Hands Away" is pretty, like a Simple Minds B side from around the time of Sister Feelings Call. But again, it's just a snippet. Not really a song.

"Obstacle 2" sounds like what I like to call "post-Interpol" music. It's what the singer's album will sound like after Interpol breaks up and he starts a new band called Scotland Yard. All their retro tricks in one track!

"Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down" is more Chameleons, and really good Chameleons! (Though, well, it was all good, wasn't it? Jeez, you guys own all the Chame-leons records, don't you? No?? Well, whuddya waiting for? And buy those reissues of the first three records by the Sound while you're at it. And Section 25, too! Although they might be harder to find. I could tape you what I have.)

I think Interpol are my new favorite New York rock underground band. "Roland" is great—it actually deserves the Joy Division comparison. Or hell, even a Bauhaus comparison. How many bands in 2002 are even as good as Bauhaus were? How about: none! Well, there is my beloved Katatonia, whose last three (!) albums were better than any rainydaysandmondaysgetmedownadelica you could mention. (And in fact they're my favorite band, but technically they're metal and not on Thrill Jockey, so you probably haven't heard them because metal is a ghetto and we like it that way so stay the fuck out if you're just gonna gawk, stupid Spin magazine. I'll give you a metal issue—right in your smug snoot!)

Anyway, Interpol are tops! For this week, anyway. And no matter what happens to them in the future, they'll always have "NYC" to hang their skinny ties on. If I like them because they remind me of eating bad bathtub mescaline in the woods and listening to Cure singles, well, that'll do. You might like them for completely different reasons.

*

Psychedelic Seers of the Abominable Snowman Lay Waste
Ghost's Hypnotic Underworld
by Scott Seward
February 13th, 2004 5:30 PM

And lo, after five long years, they returned from the east bearing gifts of wisdom and nourishment for starved psychedelic souls. Their mother-temple brothers—with many tainted Japanese offerings of their own—endeavored to wear the sacred crown that rightfully belonged to these weary kings who traveled restlessly thru the spirit world and beyond searching for lost chords and majik unimagined. No carnivals in Babylon for these royal seers. Instead, like the Yeti, these ancient warriors ascended forbidden peaks in deathsome climes, forever growing stronger, biding their time for the day when they would lay waste to pretenders and fools with the one true tone. And destroy they did.

Yeesh, sorry 'bout that; must've been the fumes. Anyway, if Ghost's new Hypnotic Underworld is an ever expanding lotus blossom that grafts past prog desires and the will to propagate on its petals whilst consciously demanding collective pre-history antidotes and anecdotes in exchange for post-war/post-'68 letdowns and lessons learned that have forever addled the brains of impressionable seekers, then so be it. I'm in. History is written by the victors, but the beauty of desolation and dreams of rural idylls far from the bomb blasts are written by those who died for farce.

*

Werewolves of Norway
Los Lobos Tienen Mucho Frio
by Scott Seward
May 7 - 13, 2003

Ulver are not your grandfather's lycanthropic rock band. They are something much more complex and . . . well, let them explain it, as they do so eloquently in the notes to their Metamorphosis EP from 1999: "Ulver is obviously not a black metal band and does not wish to be stigmatized as such. We acknowledge the relation of part I & III of the Trilogie (Bergtatt & Nattens Madrigal) to this culture, but stress that these endeavours were written as stepping stones rather than conclusions. We are proud of our former instincts, but wish to liken our association with said genre to that of the snake with Eve. An incentive to further frolic only. If this discourages you in any way, please have the courtesy to refrain from voicing superficial remarks regarding our music and/or personae. We are as unknown to you as we always were."

1997's Nattens Madrigal (or The Madrigal of the Night: Eight Hymnes to the Wolf in Man) was a savage lo-fi/bedroom/demo-quality slab of Norwegian hell-metal so intense that even Anthony Jr. of the Sopranos had a poster of its cover on his wall. (In their notes, Ulver don't mention part two of their hallowed trilogy, Kveldsfanger, because it was obviously an all-acoustic set devoted to haunting choral-like vocal works and classical-style guitar and strings. Kind of like a Nonesuch ancient music sampler, but with Norwegian substituted for Latin and werewolves for Jesus.) So what was the devotee of the blasphemous blast-beat and worshiper in the house of the unholy that is black metal to think when he or she picked up Metamorphosis and played it in his or her tomb? The titles look promising. Even if the cover art is suspiciously futuristic. "Of Wolves and Vibrancy" and "Of Wolves and Withdrawal" sound about right. (Did I mention yet that "ulver" means "wolves"?) Until you put it on and find out it's a techno album. And not just techno, but arty techno that could come from, ick, Belgium or something. Maybe those shitty-sounding, demo-craving, by-the-time-you've-put-an-album-out-on-an-actual-label-you're-already-dead metal purists had been scared off by Ulver's previous release Themes From William Blake's the Marriage of Heaven and Hell and never even got as far as Metamorphosis. It's been a while, and I'm still trying to figure out what Themes is. You could file it under spoken word, electronica, metal, pop, or art songs, and be right every time. It's Ulverific!

A sporadic frozen stream of releases put out by head Wolfman Garm (a/k/a Kristoffer Garm Rygg, a/k/a Trickster G. Rex) on his Jester label has seen Ulver grow ever more minimal in their electro chill-out pursuits. Little and/or no vocals, repeating pulses, whispers, and washes of warm drone-tones reveal that at heart the wild canine is a shy and lonely beast. (Garm still gets his rock on from time to time, though. Check out his work with Norse prog-metal supergroup Arcturus on last year's
The Sham Mirrors. Boy, do those guys have fun! Are ya ready Steinar? Uh-huh. Hellhammer? Yeah. Knut? OK. All right fellas, let's gooooo!!! On second thought, if you do check them out, don't sue me. They are insanity par excellence. Out-there art-metal riffs played alongside what sounds like Ramsey Lewis banging away on "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Futurama touches and power-metal flourishes just can't hide the circus-carousel keyboards doing an imitation of Rick Wakeman doing an imitation of the intro to Elton John's "Love Lies Bleeding." Nor can they hide Garm, credited with "voices of ghosts and monkeys," and his best capital-M-metal falsetto that may elicit an initial response of "Owww! Hey Lady!! Make the nice man stop with the singing and the screeching and the hurting . . . " And that's all before Ihsahn from Emperor adds his stately growl, and before the 10-minute closer that will have you tearing your hair out, clearing the room, and making your cat puke. It's not even heavy. Just relentless and madcap. You feel as if you are being chased by ghosts, monkeys, and wolves. The lyrics say it all: "Police, police, police/please stop the euro/from binar bin Laden/IO paramount pan/IO paradox pan." (God, I love that album.)

Ulver's latest, Lyckantropen Themes, a soundtrack for a short film about, well, I'll let you use your imagination, is truly a culmination and perfection of the techniques used on their previous album, Perdition City, and its companion EPs. (Be on the lookout for two new releases this year as well—including a remix album where Merzbow, Kid 606, and Third Eye Foundation make weird music even weirder.) An almost imperceptible forward motion and layering of sound reaches, if not heights, then a wholeness of intent where every element fits seamlessly into the next for the entire length of the disc. Instead of the white noise of their inception, Ulver now cover you with a white blanket of no-two-are-alike snowflakes and microchips. That is, if microchips were white. Some may cry "Wyndham Hill!" or "colonic irrigation waiting-room music!" upon hearing Lyckantropen Themes. And I say: whatever. Maybe my isoflavones need realigning. Plus, I know how long this wolf has run, and how much farther he has to go.

*

Sophisticated Biscuit
Super Furry Animals' Rings Around the World
by Scott Seward
April 3 - 9, 2002

The Welsh are 50 times more mysterious than even the Scottish in their use of ancient language and knowledge of elfin lore (just kidding—I actually don't know shit about the Welsh), and I can't step out my front door these days without being bombarded by Welsh supergroup and self-described "enigmatic panda team" Super Furry Animals. On TV and in the magazines, nothing but nonstop coverage of Gruff, Dafydd, Huw, Guto, and Cian and their various doings . . . wait, I'm thinking of U2. And uggh, I hate U2! Maybe SFA haven't donated a billion dollars to the UN like Bono has (or was that Tina Turner?) or pushed legislation that would ban the electric spanking of war babies, but still. Not only would I take SFA's premise that people are barmy, naff, and loony over U2's thesis that people are lost and need saving any day of the week, but SFA's latest, Rings Around the World, runs rings around any yahoomanist hoo-hah that U2 could poop out of their blarney-filled butts.

It also beats just about any recent pop or rock release that this great lame-ass country of ours has to offer. On my worst days, I think that if it weren't for Timbaland we'd be France. And Rings Around the World often suggests a possible collaboration between Timbaland and Brian Wilson. But hey, don't puke! What I mean is, SFA uses 21st-century tools to achieve pop timelessness. Here and abroad, it seems, bands strive to emulate Wilson's beach-baby tiny-toon brand of curdled naïveté and/or lush and dopey bombast via strings and banjos, but they never make the end result mean anywhere near as much as the source. (As much as I dug the last two Mercury Rev albums, I nonetheless realized that they—and the Flaming Lips and a gazillion others—were simply trying to idealize and perfect a long-gone genre of melancholy echo-chamber wooziness. They came up with the best Beau Brummels albums ever, but nothing that contributed to the here-and-nowness of life on earth. Which is fine, because, just as with baroque music recitals, bluegrass, and garage rock, I'm all for beauty and keeping flames lit.) The point: Brian Wilson (using the Crystals as a launching pad) tried to create something new and bigger than himself. And so do SFA.

For instance: Try and track down the version of '97's Radiator on Flydaddy that comes with an extra disc of early singles and Welsh rarebits sung in the mother tongue. You'll get the full effect of SFA's nascent Viagra folk, Red Bull punk, warped Brit-pop, and blissed-out space truckin' in one not-so-tidy package. The psychedelic parts are elastic and frazzled rainy-day-on-the-summer-shed-tour spasms of acid-drool. Yet peppy! As for the pop sounds' inverted buzzkills—all awkward arms and legs jostling for attention and balance—the Soup Dragons they ain't.

And do I even need to mention the conceptual madness of SFA? The elaborate packaging and '60s-era goofball anti-globochem shaggy-dog ethos? Maybe I do. On the vinyl release of Rings, side three starts at the end of the record and ends at the start, and the thing also comes with a bonus single with no music on it. Very Moby Grape. And the album has been simultaneously released with a DVD that includes videos for every song as well as remixes and other vid-geek tricks. The clips, for the most part, are hallucinogen-ready and quite lovely—lotsa purty colors and not-too-sledgehammery messages about nuclear destruction and the supremacy of druids. Coulda done without the one made by webheads that misuses the best song on the album by throwing out anti-Christian fun facts in a manner that makes black-bloc tactics look subtle; it's just kinda sophomoric, and not in a good way. The thing as a whole, though,
is engulfed in flames with groovy glowing crosses pulsing in the background. So all is not lost.

The two groups that SFA bring to mind most are Public Enemy and 10cc. Lyrically and harmony-wise, over and over again, whether consciously or not, these guys hit the same delirious notes that 10cc once hit: "I'm Not in Love," "Silly Love," and "Wall Street Shuffle" could be SFA B sides in a minute given some techno tinkering. The two bands share a good-natured pessimism, not to mention an oblique poetry that is both surreal and homely. And PE, like SFA, had an immediacy and sense of purpose that gave their best work an electric glow that grew brighter with every step they took toward a future-world that always seemed just beyond their grasp. All three groups likewise combine fear and loathing of big biz and gov't with sonic brilliance and tricky, shifting time signatures. Occasional incomprehensibility, too. And most importantly, an over-abundance of ideas and creativity that sometimes gets the better of them.

SFA's earlier records suffer a bit from this. They would try to cram as much noise, invention, chatter, and forward motion as they could into every song. Their hurry-up-Harry bumrush and Blur-ry beersoaked/x-tabbed music-hall tirades could be exhausting. Having said that, the best moments from their back catalog would make a helluva comp—one that would make you wonder why you subjected yourself to the last 15 Robyn Hitchcock albums when you could have been having fun instead.

On Rings Around the World, the urge to bulldoze is absent. Every moment seems to fit seamlessly into the next, whether transforming from a moody buzz or into a controlled chaos that never loses the plot. There is insane craft and skill on display here that I long ago forgot about and stopped expecting from bands with funny names and crazy album covers. (The Moldy Peaches have their charms, but 10 years from now, guess whose album will be festering in the box with Jose Jimenez and Karen Finley.)

There is nothing sexier than music so bold and confident in its silliness, so willing to leap off the moon. "Sidewalk Serfer Girl," "Juxtaposed With U," and "Run! Christian, Run!," especially, are future-rock not ahead of its time, but of it. This is new wave music happening right now in front of you that has nothing to do with Depeche Mode. It could be that bedhead nation continues to follow Radiohead's lead and set the snooze button for the heart of the womb; never mind that there are so many planets left to explore. (My own message to indie-mope miniaturists? Put your pants on! Do better drugs! Stop looking over your shoulder! Think big! Dare to dream!) SFA, for their part, know that the universe is vast. The only thing that can hold them down is gravity.

*

Fight Songs
Hardcore for the Headstrong: The New Testament—Continuous Mix by Omar Santana; 667 Neighbor of the Beast—lenny Dee Presents Uneasy Listening
by Scott Seward
November 28 - December 4, 2001

"Delta Bravo Foxtrot Charlie Roger, Blackhawk! WWWWAAAAARRR!!" . . . OK, great, but it's not quite the proper soundtrack for our howling commandos and budding Nick and Nora Furies to get juiced up on, is it? They need something fierce and malevolent. Ya gotta fight evil with even eviler evil. Right? (I dunno. After the world—or my world or your world, anyway—had seemingly ended, I shot a fax to the prez with the idea of sending 100,000 Muslim, Jewish, and Christian clerics to kneel and pray on the streets of Kabul for the soul of every man, woman, and child on earth. Musta got lost in the hubbub.) Anyway, if you're gonna bomb rocks to make even smaller rocks and send them Talibastards a-runnin', you better be listening to some sick stuff. I'm thinking hardcore gabber death-techno oughta do the trick.

60 Minutes recently aired a glowing infomercial for the U.S. Army about special-ops soldiers. They interviewed all these old dudes drooling over their great adrenaline-filled days in Vietnam, where they hung from helicopters and got all sneaky and shit. I kept waiting for the disclaimer that would tell the viewer that the Vietnam War lasted like 30 years and that we lost, but it never happened. Then it hit me. Those ancient soldiers were listening to pantywaist stuff like Hendrix and Martha & the freakin' Vandellas over there. We can't—nay, we won't—let that happen again.

So I sent the prez copies of Hardcore for the Headstrong: The New Testament, a mix CD by Omar Santana, and Lenny Dee's 667 Neighbor of the Beast. Both are comps of 4000 bpm overkill techno that really only has one message: I'M GONNA FUCKIN' KILL YOU WITH MY JACKHAMMER! The musicians on these mixes are probably only known to a select group of ravers with bloody trainers. Da Predator? Dummy Plug Conspiracy? Siege & Menace? You got me. All I know is that this crunky crud rocks most unhealthily. If you make a habit of going to your step class on ketamine, then this is Walkman action you could groove to. For the rest of the world, it would be an endurance test best used to heighten an already really bad mood or headache.

There are plenty of precedents for the electro-aggro fugliness of hardcore techno. You got your empire that Alec built, your Japanoise, your power-tool pugilists from way back. Any Whitehouse or Brighter Death Now CD could probably clear a room faster. Same for the gore-grind metal cultists that hardcore gabber techno guys resemble, what with their horror movie doom and unceasing threats to life and limb. (Song titles like "Human Blood," "I Hate You," "Kill," and "Total Annihilation" wouldn't be out of place on a Relapse records sampler.) There's just something creepy about dance music gone bad.

The psychedelic repetition of disco or old-timey techno is groovy and often transcendent. It's when you speed that repetition up a million times and add what sounds like wasps trying to burrow their way into your skull and multiply until your eyeballs pop out that you've got trouble. If I were to single out one track with all the most salient characteristics of hardcore gabber—say "Robotz" by DJ Cybersnuff—I feel I would be doing a great disservice to everyone involved, seeing how everyone involved does such a good job of sounding like almost everyone else involved. Which is great! They're all on the same page. The same scary, grimy, violent page. (Actually, "Get the Fu#k Up" by Rob Gee is my fave—speed-metal samples, moldy hip-hop drums, and then, and only then, does the murder begin.)

The second CD of the 667 set is jaw-dropping in ways that jaws can't even really drop: berserker metal meets freak-show bass meets my bowels. Who are these people, and what have they done to their drum machines? Just in case I'm not making myself clear about what this stuff sounds like, it goes like this: thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump—KILL! KILL! KILL! EVERYTHING YOU SEE!—thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump. Etc.

At its best, this music reminds me why I loved Slayer and the Young Gods. At its worst, it reminds me why my Atari Teenage Riot albums gather dust in history's unmarked grave of discarded lies. That initial burst of aggression that makes me vacuum the rug really really fast grows tiresome in the long run. Everyone's inner ear is different, though. My capacity for hours of Baltimore house music, Bananarama mega-mixes, and the Viking war metal of Amon Amarth is limitless. One woman's extreme noise terror is another man's extremely terrible noise.

In the apartment directly below me is a neighbor who's a lawyer, but I'm guessing he's not a very good one, cuz I've played this crap at top volume a couple of times and it made ME want to call the cops. Just to have someone to talk to. To tell me everything was gonna be all right. Is there a type of human out there for whom tension itself is a form of release? Must be. Lenny Dee and Omar Santana (and the members of Goreguts and Cannibal Corpse for that matter) are feeding an unrelenting appetite for unrelentingness.

Which is why this stuff would be natch for army bases and boot camp (most of the vocal samples are gory battle-related glory). The techno deathheadz who are grossing each other out with schoolboy glee have designed an insidious bayonet rock for a new world order. Although, of course, it goes without saying that it was nicer when the killers inside them could be played strictly for laughs.

*

Are Friends Electro?
Space Raiders Don’t Be Daft ; DMX Krew We Are DMX22288
by Scott Seward
February 9 - 15, 2000

Do you have a bitchin' stereo system? If you don't, go get one. Then go out and buy Space Raiders' Don't Be Daft, and play their song "Monster Munch" at top volume. Yes, that is a sample of Sweet's 1974 "Teenage Rampage" (previously covered by Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods!) played in tandem with fat-boy glam beats and an electro-guitar army that simultaneously rawks and raves. Then play "Song for Dot," where changes in direction and tempo and a well-placed Fats Domino snippet (reminding one of Moby's appropriated field hollerers and two groovy trance trax via Alan Lomax that I heard while mistakenly watching John "Extra Bacon With That!" Travolta's The General's Daughter) foil the most stalwart of erstwhile dancing fools and give a reason for the words collageand pasticheto remain in a critic's vocabulary.

Then play "Glam Raid," where you are exhorted to "Dance to the rhythm of the rock'n'roll sound," and then play "Raiders Rock the Nation," where the stinky and slinky boogay of Marc Bolan's (R.I.P.) "Chrome Sitar" smacks its bitch up against the 21st Century Boy's idea of a groove thang writ large in latter-day technological graffiti. Then, last but not least, listen to "(I Need the) Disko Doktor," and revel in a machine-made re-creation, straight to CD-ROM, of that sacred American art form so revered by the Swiss: disco! Every quirk and cliché of this golden moment in time is touched upon (including the ever endearing use of robotic computers feeling human emotion and wanting nothing so much as a hug) in a truly clever display of virtual reality genre-worship.

And that's it, really. After you've listened to those songs, I don't know, go to work or water your plants or something. If I were cruel, which I am, I would call Space Raiders Daft Punk Lite or Fratboy Slimmer. But there is something about the way they take everything mindless and fun about '70s dance and/or electronic and/or Bazooka rock and twist it with such precision and authority that I can't help but be engaged by the result.

And while I'm at it, I might as well tell you about one of the greatest ignored albums of late 1999 that will take you well into the new millennium with a sound straight from 1982. It's DMX Krew's We Are DMX. (And come to think of it, aren't we all DMX? What with our shaved heads and love of oratory, and our paradoxical need for blood, pussy, benjamins, and the love of God? But no, this is a different DMX altogether.) And "Oh, no!" I hear you say at the mention of the '80s. "Didn't I just live through a decade where every year saw a return of the '70s?"

Yes, you did. But don't be scared of DMX Krew. Like Space Raiders, they are retro so good it's a little scary. The Krew's "Street Boys" is not just a great song (those synth lines, that drum machine, that dreamy deadpan boy voice singing about dreamy boys on the street!), but a pitch-perfect tribute to the cream of new romantic pioneers, and on the same high ground as "Fade to Grey," "Enola Gay," "This Wreckage," "Moskow Discow," and "Get the Balance Right" (by Visage, OMD, Gary Numan, Telex, and Depeche Mode, respectively). "Release My Dub," where the often forgotten marriage of new wave and Arthur Baker electro street beats is made readily apparent, is the eerily accurate instrumental B side to a Heaven 17 12-inch that never was, complete with semi-wordless fake soul divas in the background. "Konnichi Wa!" could go head-to-head with any of the Yellow Magic Orchestra's more danceable offerings, fascination with the Orient being yet another forgotten theme of early-'80s Brit-pop.

Do you need to listen to music that looks back on a time when Japanimation meant a new David Sylvian performance on Top of the Pops? Yes, you do. At least if DMX Krew are involved. Novelty records are not my bag. As much as I respect Weird Al, Ray Stevens, and Rolf Harris, I don't make a habit of spinning "Sheik of Araby" or "The Streak" more than thrice a year. (Although Rolf's "Sun Arise" is a stone-cold classic that bears repeated listening.) But there is something magical about the fun and enthusiasm of how DMX Krew songs like "The Glass Room" and "Hard Times" both look behind to an era when Anglo-beats and A.R.P. manipulations were an edgy commentary on man's uneasy relationship with machinery, and look ahead to a time when the sins of fabulousness and melodrama perpetuated by the likes of Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Sigue Sigue Sputnik are forgiven and understood as the grandstanding attention-seeking acts of high-pop self-invention/creation that they were.

DMX Krew, like a lot of nuevo-retro-electro acts nowadays, make warm and kitschy sounds out of once disposable music that was nevertheless filled with dread and anxiety. Gary Numan, at one time, was an agent, a vapour, had dreams about wires, and needed to be reminded to smile. DMX Krew on the song "We Are DMX" sing: "It's the sound of tomorrow/It's the look of the future/Too bad if it don't suit ya!/We are DMX/We never make mistakes."

The certainty and optimism with which DMX Krew ply their trade of trading on past trends and sounds to achieve modernity can only minimize and mock those past wavers' reliance on the fear and anger people felt in relation to the various machines and conveniences which have since been taken to heart and bonded with. (As quaint as it may seem now, in the not-so-distant past people were actually frightened of the computer age and changes it would bring.) There are no alien sounds anymore that can make us fear Big Brother's hand on our shoulder. Among an increasingly sophisticated populace, there is only entertainment, and entertainment masquerading as homework.

*

Dirging Down Under
If All Your Mammals Had Pouches You'd Be Depressed Too
by Scott Seward
September 24 - 30, 2003

The year isn't over yet, so I suppose it's a tad premature to call Virgin Black's newest album, Elegant . . . and Dying, the fabbest, most metallurgically shiny, and liturgically doom-encrusted goth opera to come from Australia

in 2003. But I'm throwing caution to the wind. Especially when the first lines on their album—which deftly mixes the faux-Roman hymnal-book vocals and church-lady bombast of countrymen Dead Can Dance with the sleek Bavarian musikal werkings and über-riffs of German epic and/or power metal—are these whoppers: "A thousand tears, a thousand eyes/My friends and I we cry/Religion has raped us." And then, like the man says, they really go down and under.

Seventy-five minutes of wavering shadows, muted children, savage priests, choirs, flutes, guitars, and enough eternal sorrow to fill the river Styx. No lugger-shepherd-boozer sing-alongs for these Aussies. Just endless grandiose dirges that stop, start, lurch, and flail gloriously, and with Byzantine construction and undead marching-band tempo that would give the jammiest jam band fits. If prog is the love that dare not speak its name when it comes to some of the most interesting metal bands these days, then count Virgin Black in with that lot whether they like it or not. By substituting sacrilege and stigmata wounds for dragons and Roger Dean dreamscapes, they end up creating dark, spacey suites where every day is like Sunday and the kangas weep in pain.

*

Heaven, Hell, and Jersey
Dälek's From Filthy Tongue of Gods and Griots
by Scott Seward
November 27 - December 3, 2002

Every once in a while some lazyass future NPR-fodder Bob Costas wannabe idgit nostalgic for a past he barely remembers comes up to me and says, "Yo, Scott, so like, um, uh, have I missed anything this year, cuz like it don't seem like anything's any good man, cuz like it's all been done and shit, and like do you think the new Jay-Z will be good, and did you hear that Wilco album?"

After I stop crying, I tell them to buy some Dälek, be it '98's debut, Negro, Necro, Nekros, or this year's already seemingly forgotten From Filthy Tongue of Gods and Griots. And then I run home and lock the door. I know it's a lost cause (these are the same people who complain about Clear Channel and major labels even though they never listen to the radio or buy CDs), but I keep trying anyway.

For you see, whereas most mod prod is one big fat dead monochrome wave of compressed hot air blasting out of my CD player, Newark trio Dälek (which is to say Dälek, Oktopus, and Still) use washes of sound over and under (and even sideways down) the rudiments of beat and rhyme. They play all sides sonically as if they've actually heard of the words "stereo" and "separation." (You laugh, but most recent rock and rap could be put out in mono and no one would be the wiser.)

Despite the four-year gap, their new one takes up where the last one left off. What first strikes you is the heightened drama of their sound. Every track seems to grow larger and reach for noises that weren't there a second before. Like for instance, brown gods and Bomb Squad-worthy skrees of sirenage and downtempo (de)tuning let "Spiritual Healing" roll down hills where it gathers momentum and speed until it lands in a pit with drowning rednecks who die in their attempts to turn black rock into gold, whereas "Speak Volumes" travels up into heaven, cuz feedback and distorted bursts of fuzz speak in a language the angels truly understand.

" . . . From Mole Hills" is where the evil axis of Flying Saucer Attack/Jack Dangers/New Kingdom meet to form blocs of commie beauty from bongs of fury. (Are Dälek singular? Unique? In select company at the very least. New Kingdom's '96 Paradise Don't Come Cheap could be their template, given its similar tonnage and heft capable of moving mountains and minds. If you check out Dälek's collab with Kid606, Kid606's collabs with Techno Animal, and Justin of Techno Animal's collab with New Kingdom on his Ice project, you'll learn a lot about people with a bass-heavy hunger for transcendence thru the reverberation of soul via ion-smashing decibel levels.)

The sitars 'n' tablas 'n' slow-mo preaching in "Trampled Brethren" equal cough-syrup retribution from the ghost of DJ Skrew on any cat willing to shake your hand whilst rummaging through your 401(k) behind star-spangled curtains. And "Forever Close My Eyes" and "Classical Homicide" say so much so loudly and brilliantly that it's hard to keep from shouting at the boobs and whiners who always say there's nothing going on: "You were waiting for what? A new My Bloody friggin' Valentine album? Dälek = New Jersey. Bruce Springsteen = Dubya! Get yur head out yur ass, fanboy! At least they're fucking trying! What the fuck have you done?" (Um, apologies to Minor Threat.) Dälek will smile when Dälek's dead. I'm smiling for miles knowing their beauty, bloodshed, and art are meant to be a lasting tribute to the futility of beauty, bloodshed, and art in the face of smiling indifference to beauty, bloodshed, and art in this here krispy kremey land of ours. Plus, they're great to listen to when you're stoned.

*

Checkin’ Out the Weather Chart
Go-Kart Mozart Instant Wigwam and Igloo Mixture
by Scott Seward
October 25 - 31, 2000

One of the most important folksingers (he's not really a folksinger) of the late-20th and earlyish-21st (and mayhap 22nd) centuroonie has never heard of For Carnation or Basement Jaxx. (Basement who? Yeah, same here. But let's try and keep up.) His name? Lawrence Heyward. His latest meme? Go-Kart Mozart. Last known whereabouts? Hell, or thereabouts. Kitchen-sink kult kitsch for dandyish layabouts (my specialty and raison duh'tre—visit Momus's Web site for further elucidation, but visit at your peril; my firewalls are strong, my encryption software a Korean family named Kim), or kultur-klashing kid-stuff for Warholian jackanapeses, Instant Wigwam and Igloo Mixture (Lawrence's latest, full to the brim but short on length), is simultaneously infuriating, annoying, confused, hilarious, and dumb. There is no reason for it to exist, and no one will ever buy it (ever!—and if you did you would feel like a big, fat idiot!). So let's just call it art.

Twaddlepuss and prince of peas Stuart Murdoch, of Donovan cover band Belle and Sebastian (everyone in B.S. is called Stuart, by the way), swears by the legacy left by Lawrence's band-as-art-installation Felt, and rightfully so. Felt, the greatest rock and roll band of all time (well, if you define rock and roll as I do they were the greatest: an expert collision of lounge jazz, flamenco guitar, '60s fetishism, and the drearier vocal characteristics of Bob Dylan and Lou Reed refracted thru a prism of self-loathing and egocentric myth-making that rivals the Sistine friggin' Chapel in pomposity), echoed one whole roomful of people's disdain for technopop in the '80s by naming their albums after unreadable Kerouac novellas and subscribing to an aesthetic (thanks in part to that whole Dutch East/Rough Trade/Cherry Red/Creation/Shanghai Packaging Co./Factory/Peter Saville weltschmerz going on at the time) that may have sometimes been too too, and sometimes very very, but was always precious and cerebral.

Many people (I don't know who, so for the sake of argument, let's say me) applauded the 360-degree turnaround and mind/body split that was Lawrence's next project, Denim. Abandoning the chamber/drawing-room rock he perfected, and bitter at the success of no-talent scum like the Jesus and Mary Chain, he decided to become Gary Glitter and give shout-outs to council housing, job centers, Ducks Deluxe, the Hair Bear Bunch, Le Corbusier, George Best, Bell Records, dental dams, and the Osmonds. How this subject matter, coupled with rousing glam rock stylings and Lawrence's deadpan delivery (that only rouses itself long enough to announce a synthesizer solo—much the same as Marc Bolan yelling "Rock!" right before he starts rocking), failed to win him the position of Ironist Laureate and lorries filled with fivers is anyone's guess. I'm not just anyone, though, so here's my guess. He was mos def on da chicory tip, and the BlurSuedePulp crowd couldn't hang with a loon who would have made Ivor Cutler and Viv Stanshall proud.

So, whither Lawrence? (For that matter, whither your mom? The bitch owes me 10 bucks!) All I know for sure is that the Go-Kart Mozart album is a complete piece of shit. All you can do is shake your head at the idea that it's actually playing and not just a bad dream sweated out after a night of sipping syrup and smoking Dutch Masters laced with bad boo. Wait—on second thought—it's brilliant! (Abfab, I.M.O.—I can't help but L.O.L. at Lol's larf riot.)

What you get with this CD is a soundtrack to a porn flick starring Lolliwinks, Smurfs, and Teletubbies. What you get is Mandrax for minx cats, four-track recordings of e-z listless piano, synthetic flutes, relationship ballads bitter as tainted Toffifay, creepy kids, alligators rockin' with Zulus, the queen mum's hip operation, an ode to Wendy James (former singer for Transvision Vamp who apparently is second in coolness only to the very, very great Joan Jett), thoughts of murder, fluff on the mallow, the greatest song title yet ("Wear Your Foghat With Pride," with the greatest lyric yet, "There's a turgid cacophony emanating from the music biz's backside"), synthetic banjos, synthetic string quartets, and maddening tempos that set sail with Jean Genet as he goes down on Lawrence amidst absinthe and crime. All in 30 minutes. Mad dog, Englishman, one-man band, Lawrence does everything he can with low-brow '70s kindergarten rock to make you forget that, in his baroque youth, he was the bard and dismantled king of a throne as regal, single-minded, and gorgeous as any U.K. indie music worth remembering or celebrating.

*

Ear, Nose, and Throat
Ho ho hee hee ha ha to the funny farm where life is beautiful
by Scott Seward
November 19 - 25, 2003

Are you now or have you ever been a Rush fan? Does the sound of Billy Corgan, arguably the most successful novelty singer since Tiny Tim, make you cringe? On a scale of one to 10, whose effluviant proboscisity most comforts you: Joe Walsh, Leon Redbone, Jad Fair, or Jimmy Dale Gilmore (known in Texas as "Ol' Lonesome Nostrils")? Needless to say, a full battery of clinical tests could easily determine your nose-to-ear compatibility quotient, as well as tolerance for various keens, yips, mewls, grunts, and whimpers.

Of course, there is a scale, and then there's beyond the pale: Ubu difficulty ratings rank in the 95th percentile or higher. As do the yo-yo snorts and warbles of Beefheart, borne from the unholy croakus behemoth Howlin' Wolf and "I've been trying to cough this bullfrog up for years now to no avail" glossolalia of Bobby "Blue" Bland. Ditto the burbling insanity-just-around-the-bend laughing-boy creepiness of Napoleon XIV. And the weirdo sounds of ex-Homosexual, Brit DIY legend, and eBay gold standard L. Voag, whose mysterious guitar tunings and high-pitched off-key yelps would unwittingly become the template—along with Ohio-bred dub house legends and everything-precursors Pere Ubu, turn-of-the-'80s Buckeye gods Ron House and Mike Rep, and come to think of it Ohio-lamenting Canuck-of-a-thousand whines Neil Young—for a large portion of modern indie stuff too geeky to be called punk. Rapider Than Horsepower, for instance: They iz freeky and through being cool, and probably sick of people who still wanna be Iggy's dog. (Ironic, since Iggy's the biggest geek of all.)

My quirk standard is easy to suss: I like people who used to know Zappa. And I like Geddy Lee, but not Primus. And Rapider's music, see, is as far from the curdled musings and Uncle Miltie-in-drag pursed-lip meanness of abstemious, titty-joke-obsessed longhairs as can be. The "everyone is icky, stupid, and foul" aesthetic is, unfortunately, an American tradition that goes back to Cotton Mather. But out-there kids aspire to the more open-ended Beefheart microverse.

The wank-prog shifts in tone and time in Rapider's songs connect to newer leaps in whimsy brought to you by Modest Mouse, Devendra Banhart, maybe even such ramshackle '90s no-fi twee sea-salt-seasoned Siltbreeze loons as the Shadow Ring or Alastair Galbraith: impeccably timed hoots and group hollers, even a cheerleader-style shout-out spelling the band's name and growing more desultory with each passing letter. Shaggy enthusiasm, twisty guitar lines, and a voice that shakes and breaks and cracks—my idea of idiot fun, but just maybe a deal breaker for those enamored with low-register attempts at sobriety. Or those who insist they were terrified of clowns as children.

Stage Fright, Stage Fright has moments where Rapider seem to bottle the poetic essence of ex-Zappa pal Wildman Fischer. He had an inimitable way of taking a line like "Jimmy Durante is coming to town" and giving the word is an extra push up the cliff until it gasped for breath at the summit of deranged inflection. I might be so bold as to say Rapider are the is from "Jimmy Durante." Others might say they're the babies from the line "screaming babies" in Eve Libertine's deathless reading of "Shaved Women" by Crass. Maybe they're both.

Rapider Than Horsepower should move to Ohio, if they don't live there already. Their song about caterpillars goes "POP! Tttttt POP! Tttttt POP!" Their song about babies is called "Rock Against Mapquest." Another song has a great line about C.L. Smooth & L.L. Cool J. Stage Fright is less than 25 minutes long, and is part one of a projected two-part series. The band ambles and stumbles and makes a racket. They aren't that funky, but they make real silly sounds with their mouths. They could do a killer cover of "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!" if they wanted.

*

Tigers in a Spotlight
EL-P's Fantastic Damage; Non-Phixion's The Future Is Now; Blackalicious's Blazing Arrow
by Scott Seward
July 10 - 16, 2002

Even when I was a child in short pants, Mumsie always impressed upon me the importance of practicing a cheerful and impersonal version of noblesse oblige whenever dealing with the common man. The workers who fixed our fences and who took care of our horses (my beloved Buttermilk among them), rough men all with large and sinewy hands, were touched by the mistress's offerings of fresh water or some extra ginger snaps from a batch that Cook had burnt earlier. It is her example that has stood me in such good stead to this very day. It is with her eye toward charity that I peruse Fantastic Damage, the latest offering from rapper/producer/Definitive Jux label-head and ex-Company Flow frontman El Producto.

Alas, even Mumsie's kind eye would have to admit the inevitable: El-P's rhymes are as wack as a lumberjack swinging an ax made of wax from the ears of Tears for Fears after they drank all the beers and found Britney Spears in arrears for illiciting too many middle-aged leers and hipster sneers. On the other hand, instrumentally, he's good. Toyota commercial good. He's devilishly adept at creating what my colleagues like to deathlessly call "soundscapes." All foreboding beats that clank like the chains from a run-down carnival fun house, or else emit all manner of buzzing noises as if his vision owed more to faulty wiring in his Crooklyn hideout than any sense that a dystopian view of a Blade Runner universe wouldn't be complete without rain invading Hades' own infernal boom-bap machine.

Nowadays, unfortunately, there is only one response to a one-man drizzle maker with RZA-sharp claws and muddy floors: Big deal. Anyone can do that. Even me. Give me a Sony Professional, an old ceiling fan, a tin can, and a recording of James Joyce reading Finnegans Wake, and I'll make ya quake. Scare ya so bad your ass will be Farrah and your drawers will be Cheryl Ladd. If I threw a rock, a clock, an A.I. Reebok, or a polyurethane cock out my door I'd be sure to hit four avant-rap beat scientist bores or maybe more. And there's another thing: I take my rap uncut and unpunctuated by the punk-ass sci-fi prognostications and illuminations heightened by El-P's brain salad surgery—his trepanning for old-school glory holes like a mole or a vole and dissing my Rolls cuz it's got fly rims, de-luxe trim, and a glove box filled with the British country-house novels of Barbara Pym. On top of that, I can't find one reference to cognac, brandy, or fine French bubbly anywhere on his new album. Does he even make rap records? It's more like rap-rock for rappers who don't like to rock. The whole mess stuttering and jittery—refusing to swing. Like Skinny Puppy made a record and let their plumber sing.

There are no doubt mass quantities of Finlandian djorks who will tell you quite politely that Company Flow, El Producto, and half the Def Jux roster mean more to them than their 200-dollar vintage Puma Clydes and autographed David Axelrod sides. So why would I rather listen to The Future Is Now by the nonsensical fictional gangstas Non-Phixion, who light up their neck of Brooklyn like Pee Wee Reese kicking some Yankee keister, meester? They—and their little brudda, the horror/sex/drug rap artiste Necro, whose "I Need Drugs" was the fookin' funniest shit you never heard—are about as popular as a duck selling farts at a pie-eating contest, but they deserve more attention cuz they've got MF Doom and Beatnuts backing them up and the clarinet sample on "Black Helicopters" is divine and "The C.I.A. Is Trying to Kill Me" rocks bells (and it's true, cuz the C.I.A.'s trying to kill you too!), and their beats are legion and steep and the record oughta come with a Jeep. (It's deep. Like an X-rated schizophrenic reading of the Pentagon papers mixed with Katzenjammer capers.) El-P's sound tries to come across like some William Burroughs cutup of the B-boy's Bhagavad Gita but turns out more like Nabokov's Lolita holding down a slab of Velveeta so it can get fucked by Chester Cheetah. Non-Phixion, on the other hand, flunked lyrical science and just wanna get high in the bathroom.

Yo, kid, what about El's label Definitive Jux and his roster of all-stars like Y@k Ballz and Aesop Rock? Lemmetellya, the latest label comp DJXP2 has one good DJ Shadow Jr. instro onit (RJD2's "I Really Like Your Def Jux Baby Tee"), plus the best album track from Fantastic Damage, "Stepfather Factory" (the one and only song that sounds like it started with an idea instead of a sample and the prerequisite vomitory voluminousness). You see, what the pencil-necked geeks who run the pages and zines, and who found nirvana when Company Flow released Funcrusher (a more appropriate title you'll never find), won't tell you about all their fave back to basics heavenly break dancing cyborg dome-expanding experimental indie non-mersh hip-hop is this: The shit's boring! A real yawner. Burn or steal the new Soundbombing III comp from Rawkus and see how fast your third eye falls asleep. And that goes for The Roots, Common, and Mos Def too. Talib Kweli will make you snooze like you're drowning in booze wearing concrete shoes. On the Rawkus comp, during their guest spots, Missy Elliot and Zap Mama sound like they're waiting to get off the phone and go catch a movie or something. Let me say this once: Anybody who can make Missy Elliot and Zap Mama sound like a waste of time oughta be thinking of a future with the United States Postal Service.

I call it grad-school rap, cuz you need a Ph.D in bullshitology to grasp the phrenological implications and orgone accumulating dissertations. (There are exceptions. The new Blackalicious album, Blazing Arrow, is not only good for you but good to go. I hate most "positive" rap cuz I'm a rotter and a realist. Plus, I don't like having to eat my Black Eyed Peas before I get dessert. I always thought that Arrested Development were feds with dreads sent to destroy hip-hop from within. If the gov't could make rap boring enough it would set the stage for safe, bland crap that wouldn't make people think too hard. Maybe even a swing revival! The left coasters have better pot though, so their indie approach not only rocks harder but is shot through with hippy psych elements that make their sounds truer to the astral-punk-power-to-the-people-fuck-you! lifestyle I've been living ever since I started doing Vicodin pills with Beverly Sills. From Dre to the Piklz to Styles of Beyond to Divine Styler to Blackalicious, Cali makes mucho grande head music that'll stomp yur buzz with bront-y-saur beats. Listen to the beat on "Passion" from Blazing Arrow and tell me it needs to be dunked in scuzz and covered in fuzz. That shit's as tight as Betty White getting a love bite on the tit from Katarina Witt. That beat just is! Naked and unashamed. Plus, how many people can get me to buy an album that actually sez, "Featuring Ben Harper," on the back? And not only buy it, but like the song with Ben Harper on it!)

All El-P et al. offer are dirty bombs, and I wanna go nuclear. If I'm riding around town, I don't want people scratching their heads and running home for their thesaurus. I want them to think I'm cooler than Mort Sahl and Thor Heyerdahl hanging out in Nepal with The Fall and Lucille Ball in the midst of a summer squall. Fuck the hardcore bookworms. They got mad syllables, and in El-P's case, some righteous sound-lab expertise—Company Flow's all instrumental. Little Jimmy From the Hospitul is probably the greatest slab he's released. All Shadow-esque fantasy film-score freakouts with chill and cool to burn. But if you're like me, you want a beat that'll move feet like an exhibition of Napoleon's pecker on the isle of Crete.

*

Panda Not Dubya
Indie Kids With New Chords Need Love Too
by Scott Seward
May 14 - 20, 2003

When I'm not dreaming of a Canadian-led invasion of the U.S. and a subsequent regime change that results in free nationwide health care and a Tim Hortons on every block, I ponder the enthusiasm I have for Killer Mike videos and whether or not it's appropriate for me to enjoy so much art and rock in a world that has been recently devastated by so much violence, hatred, and Aaron Brown.

It only takes me a few secs to scream from my fire escape, "Hell, yes!" Art and rock and art that rocks and rock that arts will always be more important than murder in my book. Ya gotta keep the torch of life lit even in the shadow of Dubya's mountain of bullshit. Even if it's the cutesy pocket hymns of ersatz Brill Building popsters the Aislers Set? Or the Hello Kitty skronk of Deerhoof? Sure! Why not? Indie kids need lovin' and big ups and an occasional pat on the back when they learn a new chord on their guitar, too.

The Aislers are led by Amy Linton, who used to be in a band called Henry's Dress, and their latest album, How I Learned to Write Backwards, was recorded in Amy's garage. If I had a garage I would want it to sound like Amy's! All echo and space and hush, like she took out the rakes and lawn mower before letting the tape roll. Any phony Tinkertoy girl group sounds with Spectorian drywall and wan straight A's-and-hair schoolgirl warblings are by this point in time not only homages to Leslie Gore or Wendy & Bonnie, but also haunted by the specters of '80s icons Marine Girls, Oh Ok, Shop Assistants, and even the Adult Net or Fuzzbox. Heck, even the spirit of Let's Active's Faye Hunter could be haunting Amy's garage—from the ghost of Mitch Easter's garage! It blows me away when someone can make nostalgia for the '60s or the '80s, or in this case both, sound relevant or recent or worth swooning over. I just can't decide whether my theme song is "Mission Bells" with its urgency, sunshine, doubt, and ability to make me feel like Rory Gilmore dreaming of Dean, Jess, and my future at Yale, or any of the songs that feature blocks of wood, fuzz guitar, and sleigh bells. It'd make the perfect soundtrack for director Owen Anderson's next foray into Franny & Zooey-land.

Deerhoof don't make me nostalgic for anything I can put a finger on, unless it's my Troubleman Mix Tape's melange of gangly good-natured noize boyz and girlz, but that's too new to pine over, right? I like how their song "My Diamond Star Car" on Apple O' reminds me of a punk-rock instrumental version of Dizzie Gillespie's "Salt Peanuts." And how sometimes I feel like I'm hearing the Japanese version of the Breeders' Pod. Only singer-bassist Satomi Matsuzaki is Japanese, though, and she's got the kitschy broken-English nonsense words to prove it (full lyrics for "Panda Panda Panda": "China panda/Bamboo panda/I like panda/Bye bye panda/Panda road"). This would make me nostalgic for Frank Chickens, Shonen Knife, the Plastics, and Ann Magnuson & Bongwater's version of "Dazed and Confused" if I had ever stopped listening to them. Deerhoof's discordant axes, crazed riffs, drumrolls, and stop-start chirping do make me think wistfully about the greatness of the all but forgotten Dogfaced Hermans, though. Sigh. But I'm being unfair, as usual. Deerhoof make Deerhoof music. And it makes me jump up and down to the delight of the ankle-biter in my house. Both the Aislers Set and Deerhoof make my spring with their new albums, and I'm gonna throw Apple O' in the Walkman and go buy all the old stuff that I missed from these bands the first time around. 'Cuz I'd rather buy art than a gas mask, or a load of crap from whoever's lying to me today.

*

Philly Pub-Rockers Present Daring Alternative to Difficult Art
Marah's 20,000 Streets Under the Sky
by Scott Seward
June 21st, 2004 7:10 PM

Nick Hornby is full of shit. Actually, this is unfair to shit. At least life grows from shit. In his recent half-page essay printed on the Op-Ed page of The New York Times, the lad-lit author stunned the music world with this revelation: They don't make 'em like they used to! At least, I think that was the message. The thing is near incomprehensible when it comes to writerly bugaboos like logic and thought. In Hornby's sad, blinkered, midlife-crisis-as-a-lifestyle-choice world, music is only worth listening to if it reminds him of all the classic rock that made him feel funny in the tum-tum when he was 10. The demons of his modern world: Britney and "difficult" art rock. Our hero cries: No way! I'll take Marah, the humble Philly bar band! Though Hornby's monthly column in The Believer is blissfully bereft of such bozo-isms, his Times piece manages to discount all the great crunk, grime, house, rap, metal, and dancehall that Kelefa Senneh has been writing so wonderfully about for the Times. Note to Op-Ed editors: Stick to Bush-bashing, ya friggin' nitwits!

But what about Hornby's great white hopes from the city that loves you back? Marah, and their founders, Dave and Serge Bielanko, have been making Springsteen-esque local-color roots rock for years, and they do it as well as anyone ever has. The rinky-dink piano, phlegmy semi-snarl, dirty streets, pizza boxes, and tattooed girls are all there on their new one, 20,000 Streets Under the Sky. Cars are "burning chariots," and the past is ever present. It's folk music for aging city boys with all the mythos and tedium of backstreet life writ purple. (I take issue with the line "The river smelled like a fishmonger's hands," though, since really it's the other way around.) "Goin' Through the Motions" sounds like an older, wiser Smashmouth. "Freedom Park" 's jungleland has a breezy going-down-the-shore vibe and nifty shimmy-shimmy-coco-pop chorus. I'd actually like to hear the Boss sing the one about the drug-addicted transvestite hooker whose dick between his legs makes him want to cry; it's pretty catchy!

One thing Hornby must love is that Marah are not only of the bar, but of the pub. Their plain slice of Philly doo-wop sounds like early Joe Jackson, and elsewhere it seems they're gonna bust out a Graham Parker or Boomtown Rats medley. They are one of those bands you'd probably love if you were drunk and they started playing sloppy Replacements-style covers (which they do). Sound-wise, they've split the difference between their early lo-fi playfulness and their previous album's studio sheen. Marah have always struck me as a band who just love to play, making no great claims for themselves. Which is why they don't need to be propped up as an example of all that is good and holy in the heart of rock and roll that is still beating in Cleveland.

*

Dada Salamanders in the Beer Hall, Pissing the Night Away
Alvarius B And Cerberus Shoal's The Vim & Vigour Of
by Scott Seward
September 3 - 9, 2003

If you've always felt that the only thing missing from Leonard Cohen was a little Charles Manson, then let me direct you to Alvarius B—a/k/a Sun City Girl Alan Bishop—and his reworking of down-easter creaky-barn-door-core combo Cerberus Shoal's track "Ding," off of the recent Cerberus and Al split Vim & Vigor Of EP. It's a mildewy stream of creepy unconsciousness and Dada as death-folk that will warp your floorboards. Trying to pick a favorite line is almost as hard as choosing your favorite member of Acid Mothers Temple. "We'll drink newt urine slingshotting candles into the firmament" is hard to beat, however.

Two solo Alvarius tracks are next. And then his simple, bare-to-the-chopped-up-baby-bone takes on rural dementia are subsequently fleshed out by the Shoalsters, twice. The first of these numbers, "Blood Baby," is given the old Weimar Republic/Weill treatment that's all the rage; the second, "Viking Christmas," is given a more modern beer-hall treatment—it sounds like it was recorded at a desolate T.G.I. Fridays at a particularly unhappy hour.

Finally, Cerberus retake "Ding," renaming it "The Real Ding," and give it their own inimitable stamp. Their version—with its female vocals, haunted youth-camp chorus, beautious harmonies, crowd noises, chitty chitty bang bang percussion, and clacking typewriter—just keeps blooming and writhing and snaking its way down a dark path. It's a pleasure to keep up with.

*

Sabbath Prayer
Feuding Mideastern factions agree on Israeli metal band
by Scott Seward
May 10th, 2004 1:45 PM

Some purists decry what they see as half-assed experimentalism in some modern metal as an aesthetic dead end and as a trend that prizes novelty over the perfection of form dictated by the unwritten laws and constraints of whatever sui generis subgenres a band aligns itself with. Unfortunately, I was cursed with a funny bone, a belief that exploration can often trump orthodoxy, and have never been much interested in the comfort and faith that purism provides and requires.

Plus, you never know what's gonna come of anything. If Chuck Berry had known that his innovations would someday give birth to the Boredoms, he probably would have videotaped them. And if Israel's Orphaned Land, beloved by Arab and Israeli alike, manage to service the long-overlooked segment of society that are fans of Fiddler on the Roof, Ofra Haza, and death metal with their album Mabool: The Story of the Three Sons of Seven, then all I can say is hurrah for the Holy Land!

I happen to enjoy their mixture of Jesus Christ Superstar choral work, death-barking, epic Semitic desert riffs, Mideastern folk warbling and plucking, triumphal hi-diddle-diddle-la-la-la-la choruses, temple-mount rock-god solos, and a cappella prettiness mixed with spoken-word portentousness. Heavy metal is folk music, so combining it with trad ethnic hootenanny action makes perfect sense. And there ain't nothing half-assed in the way that Orphaned Land go about it. Do I care that the three sons pictured on the album cover are a snake, an eagle, and a lion, and that these animals represent Judaism, Islam, and Christianity? No, I don't. The song is the thing. What Orphaned Land do make me think about is that metal—and music!—is a land you are free to roam, even though there will always be people who choose to stay close to home working the same plot of ancestral soil year in and year out.

*

2006

2006-02-20T07:22:00.000-08:00

Hey, It's 2006. What have i been doing for godz sake??? I've been busy like beez. Writing. Working. Ebaying. Whatever it takes. I just finished writing this long-ass thing on Divine Styler. I'm pretty happy with it. I'm getting ready to start a new long-ish project. I'm still happy writing for Decibel every month. I'm looking to freelance more. I need the money. Does anybody know anyone with money? I'm gonna post here more. I know, EVERYONE says that, but I do like it here. My attention has been elsewhere is all.

Scott's Hyperbole-Riddled Metal Reviews!

2005-09-08T17:26:00.000-07:00

These are some of the reviews I have written for Decibel. Satan bless them. Just in case you don't subscribe to one of the only great music magazines now being published in this rotten country.

BEARVSSHARK – Terrorhawk (Equal Vision)

Not unlike a young Mandy Patinkin trying to decide whether or not to capitalize on his critically-acclaimed performance as Che Guevera in Andre Lloyd Webber’s smash hit musical Evita by taking to the stage again and solidifying his position as one of the true rising stars of the American stage or hightailing it to Hollywood where the paydays and fringe benefits are oh so rewarding, today’s post-post-post “emotive” “screaming” “hardcore” bands are left with a similar art/mammon choice of their own. Do they help to extend and build and transform the post-hardcore canon a la Fugazi by refusing to bow to the marketplace and steadily become more “difficult” and less “catchy” or “fun”? Or do they realize, with a sinking feeling in their stomachs, that being assless, gasless, and grassless, while making for good tortured lyrical set-ups, gets old in a hurry and that, yes, while you can try to deny it for a little while, nobody rides for free. Or is there a third choice? One that doesn’t involve large amounts of eyeliner, a date with Avril, or a steady starvation diet of van-food and skate-shop fill-in work. Sure there is! This is America, the land of three choices! And lots of bands have realized by now that you can kinda sorta have your cake and then, you know, eat it. Occasionally. Bearvsshark are one of these bands. They are plenty peppy and poppy and there singer-dude has one of those archetypal tough but sensitive screams that now sound as indigenous to these shores as cowboysvsindians, but they zig instead of zag just enough to keep things interesting for smelly badgeless and bookbagless dopes like me. A warped guitar tone here. A classic rock move there. Hell, even a baritone sax put to good use. These non-genre elements are what makes Terrorhawk good instead of just typical. I’d like to see them expand their sound even further. Go out on a limb, so to speak. So many bands are afraid of leaving their self-imposed ghetto and it’s nice to see a group taking baby steps toward something grander. A more expansive and mature sound that fleshes out and makes fuller the caffeine-core that they can obviously play adeptly in their sleep. I’ll be rooting for them. At least they’re fucking trying! What the fuck have you done?

Blut Aus Nord – The Work Which Transforms God / Thematic Emanation Of Archetypal Multiplicity (Candlelight)

“Aw yeah, we are back! I’m Hellion, and you’re watching Black Metal Dance Party on MTV. Today’s special guests are none other than those fearsome French funkmasters Blut Aus Nord, and they are here to get this party started rightly! As you may remember, Blut’s 2003 release The Work Which Transforms God dropped like a bizzomb on the black metal universe with its mix of searing misanthropic guitar fury, industrial ambience, belief and praise for evolutionary theory, and passages of dub-like psychedelic headfuckery a la Controlled Bleeding or some such shit. The whole thing was sweeeeeet! And now, with the re-release of that album comes a bonus ep that will have da headz buggin’! Some straight-up EBM Darkwave-stylee shit along with some hella-dopetastic funky monk chanting and some crushing doom that’ll have the hotties beggin’ for mizzercy! So, let’s take it to the stage, playa! Blut… there it is!!!!”

“Greetings, mortals. It is our extreme displeasure to be here. It is is true what this human says. Our new extended play release is a departure from our past unmitigated fury. Do not judge us, however, as you would a lesser weaker musical performance unit. We are beyond your terrestrial realm. We will not be put in your earth boxes to be probed and dissected like so many tiny earth rodents. Our mission is the total and complete annhilation of past thought and if the path to this goal is revealed to be the motherfunkiest dance beats your ears have ever been blessed with, then so be it. Our word is law. At the proper time, I would like everyone in the room to raise their arms in the appropriate manner and scream: Go Satan, Go Satan, Go! After that, I would very much like the crowd to scream Hell Yeah! in response to my leading exhortation of: If You Believe In Hell On Earth, Say Hell Yeah! Is all of this understood? I should hope so. But first, we are going to slow things down a little and play what I believe you humans call a “storm of quiet” from our masterpiece Thematic Emanation Of Archetypal Multiplicity”. This one is for the female of your species.”

Candlemass – Candlemass (Nuclear Blast)

The ‘Mass is back and they’re ready to attack! The legends of 80’s doom are taking names and handing out asses on platters! Their return to the metal arena is nothing less than a stone cold masterpiece! Oh, wait, I don’t write for a metal webzine. Fuggit, this is too much fun. BLACK DWARF!!! “Black Dwarf” owns! ANY band who starts their album off with a song called “Black Dwarf” and then proceeds to bang that mother down with a badass choo choo train kept a rollin’ riff of plenty has already won my love. The rest of the album is an afterthought. I’m easy too please though. Basically, any band that ever played the game of “what if we lived in a world where everyone just remade Paranoid FOREVER” has my vote. Even if they aren’t running for anything, I’ll still vote for them. Trouble, Candlemass, Cathedral, St.Vitus. It didn’t matter. They all spoke to my heart. Granted, you could listen to the new Candlemass (With the classic line-up! Messiah on vocals! Viva Sweden!) and throw words around like “cryogenic chamber”, “time machine”, and “senior citizens discount”, but when they get their groove on, there are few things sweeter. Oh sure, there are those humorless, hepcat art-metal nerdz who say: “Dude, that old-timey doom metal malarkey is played out. There’s a new album out on Southern Lord that is so heavy and played at such a low frequency that you can’t even hear it!” And that’s when I say: “Dude, if I wanted to go to fuckin’ M.I.T., I would have gone to fuckin’ M.I.T. (Yeah, right.), and if I want to hear some fuckin’ metal than I play some fuckin’ metal!” Then I hand him his weed, leave the high school parking lot with my tires squealing, and “Black Dwarf’ or “Born In A Tank” blasting from the Kenwood. All hail the dwarf-slaying spellbreakers from planet Doomicus!

Circle Of Dead Children – Zero Comfort Margin (Willowtip – 2005)

Hollywood would like you to believe that creepy kids – whether alive or undead – either recite stupid-ass nursery rhymes all day long, or else spend their time looking up at people and intoning, in a totally unscary whisper, cryptic stuff like: “There are dead people in my diaper…mostly.” This kind of thing always freaks Nicole Kidman out. But how on earth is this creepier than any *actual* grabby, nonsense-spewing, fluid-leaking, bacteria factory of a child? And given the choice, who wouldn’t rather have one of those creepy dead movie kids with their perfect posture and diction at home than the real-life feces machine they’ve already got? Which brings us to Circle Of Dead Children and their new 20 minute mcd. CODC are like the mysterious eye goo dripping down a soggy infant’s face. You aren’t sure if it’s an infection or if it serves a purpose. The same could be said for the band. They are a grindcore band’s grindcore band. Afficionados of the form will find much to delight in. Naysayers will laugh at the funny vocals and the speed with which the music is played. Their loss. This time the experts are right. There is an exhilarating frisson that one gets from their 50 second blasts. These slabs of sound seem to encapsulate eons of time and travel light years thru space. If they ever decided to become a black metal band, they would blow every tom, dick, and knut off the stage. Those short, sharp fusillades of splatterbeatnarcoterror fury extended any further could provide a listener with transcendental levels of cosmic consciousness that would unfold within them unto infinity. But there is something to be said for the economy of a “no wasted motion” ethos and the wisdom to know that imparting your truth a little at a time, so as not to frighten the unenlightened, and to cloak said truth in the garb of the shocking and the ridiculous, may be the smartest move. This is the purest essence of metal and these songs are all about the stuff of life from which we all have sprung. There are also probably some songs about corpse-fucking too, I didn’t read the lyrics.

Gun Metal Grey – Solitude (Indianola-2005)

If I had a little sister I would encourage her to listen to Cali metalcore bad boyz Gunmetal Grey. Why? Well, for one thing, they make a perfectly respectable racket via eurothrash riffs, never-overcooked noodly guitar solos, and a singer who alternates between a semi-serviceable death metal snarl and a Clay Aiken croon that aches with an inchoate and fumble-fingered emotionalism that is adolescence incarnate. They sound sorta bad-ass, but they are really just sensitive souls in need of a hug. Perfect for junior headbangers just getting into the heavy stuff. True, Sabbath, Priest, and Maiden would be PERFECT, but today’s teens need bands that speak their own language.( Just as a gay man clad in leather and chains screaming about electric eyes in the sky spoke to the longings of my generation.) I might not understand what Hernan “Eddie” Hermida means when he sings: “Your warm embrace eases me numb-Your cold shoulder makes me fear” (How can you be numb AND fearful? Or have a warm embrace AND a cold shoulder? Hmm..), but the kids, they get it. As for me, I’m way too debauched to fall for GMG’s brand of noize. I only really got excited by their cover of the Cro Mags’ “Life On My Own” which inspired me to dig out some Cro Mags demos I haven’t played in years. I must thank them for that! And for the possibility that they will be the gateway drug that leads an innocent child to heavier more evil music. Okay, I admit it, maybe it’s a good thing that I don’t have a little sister.

Immolation – Harnessing Ruin (Olympic-2005)

When I die and go to hell, I’m taking a copy of Immolation’s Harnessing Ruin with me. That and a toothbrush. In fact, I hope I die soon, because I really want to hear how the song “Challenge The Storm” sounds as I’m crossing the river Styx. It’s that good. One of the tendencies for a death metal band that has been around as long as Immolation has (17 years! Is that insane or what? I couldn’t sing like that for 17 minutes.) is to rest on past laurels (Of which they have many. Being one of the originators of NY death and influencing a ton of bands with their brutal –and tricky- maelstroms.), but Immolation’s sound has always progressed from album to album and they’ve never gotten stuck in a stylistic rut. They’ve also incorporated a liberal dash of black metal’s (dis)harmonic/atmospheric hoodoo over the years, which when combined with speedy death riffs and blasting beats gives the band a three-dimensional sound that never fails to warm my shrivelled heart. On “Dead To Me”, new drummer Steve Shalaty (Who’s a beast by the way. Sounds like a skinned-alive Buddy Rich.) stops the song on a dime and a lighning quick guitar duel breaks out that is so satisfying in a Slayerian way that it will simultaneously remind you why you love metal AND ellicit the most basic critical response to art there is: “That is so fucking cool!” The whole damned album is filled with moments like that. Heavy, epic, and as memorable as their classic 1991 debut, Dawn Of Posession. Harnessing Ruin is some seriously pleasurable and evil shit.

Primordial – The Gathering Wilderness (Metal Blade)

Fans of epic mid-tempo Irish pagan tree metal rejoice! All four of you! Primordial, those brooding sons of Erin, come thrashing back to life on their first album since 2002’s Storm Before Calm with that unique blend of blackened doom (Or doomed black metal, take your pick.) and hymns to the blood-soaked earth. It’s also their first release for Metal Blade which means you will actually be able to find this record at CDs & Such next to the food court. The opener, “The Golden Spiral”, is inspired. All tribal drumbeats (That double as disco beats for all you fancy dancers.) and a roar of hypnotic and subterranean riffing that builds in intensity around the anguished howls of tortured soul/vocalist A.A. Nemtheanga. Billy Anderson’s patented wall of sod production works like a lucky charm with a band such as Primordial, because they are all about the wearying trudge thru unforgiving landscapes. Lyrically, the band will appeal to any darkefolke-loving Hansel & Gretel-obsessed Wiccan princesses spooked and aroused by high winds and excess precipitation. Musically, A.A.’s fierce growl to near-operatic swoon coupled with massive war drums and the rising tide guitars that swell and roil will appeal to fans of latter-day Neurosis as well as all those people who still haven’t forgiven Anathema for becoming a Pink Floyd cover band. The Gathering Wilderness is a shaggy beast of a record, and there is nothing hip about it. Primordial have been following their own dark (And possibly treacherous!) path for years, and it has led them to possibly their strongest album yet.

Swarm Of The Lotus – The Sirens Of Silence (Abacus – 2005)

Okay, it’s official. Kurt Ballou of Converge is my new favorite producer. The dude made *three* albums this year that might make my top ten. Quite frankly, I think he’s a bit of a show-off. First, Transistor Transistor’s wall of awesomeness hit me between the eyes, then Gospel’s prog-metal album The Moon Is A Dead World put me into interstellar overdrive, and now he is behind the boards for Baltimore’s Swarm Of The Lotus, and the follow-up to their similarly massive debut, When White Becomes Black. The Swarm have a lot to recommend them. For one thing, they – Like Converge – know how to mix the swagger and technical expertise of metal with the snarl of hardcore without losing any of the urgency or vitality of either genre. They should teach a class! And I can think of 50 bands who should enroll in it. They also manage, on their speedier numbers, to be light on their feet in a way that Roy Jones Jr. could appreciate. They know how to bob and weave as well as crush and destroy. Fans of The Jesus Lizard (And Duane Denison’s rhythmic gymnastics) could love this album as much as a Mastodon fan could. Wait, are they the same person? I’m so confused these days. There is a grand total of one guitar solo on The Sirens Of Silence and the band should rethink this, because they could really benefit from some psych-metal solo blowouts. They have songs that are just begging for them. Don’t be afraid to flip your lid, kids! Otherwise you’ll end up a bunch of tight-ass old men like And They Shall Know Us By The Trail Of Our Hand-Distressed Dickies Workpants. But that’s my only complaint. Kurt Ballou puts some serious I-Kill-You-Now mojo onto the drums and guitars for maximum bonesplintering, and the band – while occasionally dipping into the Steve Von Till He-Man Desert Warrior Cookbook – have an identity that is wholly their own for the most part. Yes, they want to obliterate you into a fine dust, but they also add nuance and an eye for non-monochromatic detail that many bands of their ilk couldn’t be bothered with. And check out their name. It looks vaguely ominous until you remember that a lotus is a big pink water lily! Aw, they is just a bunch of sweeties after all.

The Unseen – State Of Discontent

The Unseen make punky punk for punks who believe that punk will never be dead because punk belongs to the punks. Got that, punk? They’ve been working the Boston street punk angle for years and their chugga chugga singalongs and freight car riffs are perfect for a night of Guinness and bloody noses. Also perfect is their current home at Hellcat, a label seemingly created with the unstated goal of inventing a world where it is always 1977 (Only this time all the bands can actually play their instruments and the riot goin’ on sounds more like a party.). The pogo-ready punter punk chants will keep you hopping. State Of Discontent, with its ear-punishing trebly sound provided by a Dropkick Murphy and the very, very old hardcore legend Brett Gurewitz, makes me do the dishes with a quickness! I’m sure weighty issues are being debated on songs like “Weapons Of Mass Destruction” and “Social Damage” (I didn’t say they would win any prizes for originality, did I?), and I’m sure the band would like me to hit the pavement and question some fuckin’ authority or something, but the only authority figure I see on a daily basis is my mailman and that dude looks like he lifts some serious weights. Plus, he brings me my Netflix. The Unseen are fast, good time charlie punk with spikey hair and they are blessedly free of any and all metal /dub/doom/calypso hybridization bullshit. Yesterday’s news never sounded so refreshing.

Zatokrev – Zatokrev (Earache/Codebreaker)

It takes a band to fuck a village. Wait, no, it takes four bands. And wait, it’s not a village, it’s modern metal. And those bands aren’t fucking modern metal as much as they are “inspiring” it, for better or worse. And those four bands are At The Gates, Neurosis, Dillinger Escape Plan, and Converge. 73.8 percent of all new bands sound a little like one of those bands. Most of the rest either sound like a combination of those four or a combination of Darkthrone, Slayer, Napalm Death, and Gentle Giant. Zatokrev – which loosely translated from the original Czech means “all the best names were taken” – sound, at times, like very heavy Neurosis combined with very heavy Godflesh. And if you are anything like me - and if you are, you would be stoned right now - the idea of this combination has your shorts as soiled as your grandma’s bloomers after an all-nighter at the Polish-American club. Repetitious hypno-sludge riffs are a dime a dozen. As are down-tuned thru the floorboards bass players who miss your face by a mile. As are stuck-in-a-beartrap caterwauling garglepusses. As are doped up drummers forced at gunpoint to play four beats per minute. But, as any suicidal day trader will tell you, it’s all about synergy and the different ways that unforeseen market forces can make everything come together. That last Cult Of Luna album? As Neur/Isis knock-offs go, it didn’t do much for me. But the new Callisto album? Groovy like in the movies. Go figure! And I’m adding Zatokrev to my all-star doom squad. These Swiss misters have got the plod that keeps on giving. And their slow motion stomp and mock pain is definitely my gain.

Aborted – The Archaic Abattoir (Olympic)

Belgian goregrinders Aborted must have eaten a baaaad batch of waffles, because they sound even more pissed off than usual on their latest, The Archaic Abattoir. (Why do Belgians make such great death metal singers? Because they’re Flemish! Hahaha! Sorry.) According to the predictably hyperbolic press notes, their new album takes things to the dreaded “next level”. Which begs the question: You are in a brutal straight-ahead grindcore band that plays at a million miles an hour, how many levels could there be? Did the band spontaneously combust after recording the last song? Is actual death the next level? I don’t know if I buy it. If they did take things to the next level, why are they still stuck in an archaic abattoir? Shouldn’t they be in a state-of-the-art killing facility by now? There is a cool stereo phasing technique used for about five seconds toward the end of “The Gangrenous Epitath”. I don’t know if this counts as level-jumping. Maybe the three indistiguishable guest singers from Illdisposed, Mnemic, and Hatesphere provide next levelness. Unreconstructed gore masticators who found new heroes in life when Aborted put out Goremageddon (Let’s face it, with that title, they would have bought it no matter how bad it was.) will no doubt hear the few added melodic guitar touches and those guest hardcore barkers and cry that the band has gone emo or something (They are an excitable bunch.). But to these ears, there isn’t enough variation for me to call The Archaic Abattoir anything more than what it is – A highly proficient and technically stunning slab of ultraviolence complete with crushing breakdowns, stupefying stickwork and bruised rib riffing. Which is nothing to sneeze at.

Blessing The Hogs – The Twelve Gauge Solution (Goodfellow – 2005)

When I first put on Blessing The Hog’s The Twleve Gauge Solution I thought to myself, who are these lamb-of-god-come-latelys? These johnny-one-growls? Don’t they know we’ve destroyed all the pigs? Didn’t they get the memo? Then I got drunker. And right around the song “Let’s Play Doctor…Kevorkian” (Ha ha, good joke. And one that I, myself, might have made…when I was six!), I could feel my thrash-love growing stronger. I started nodding my head a little. To a hip-hop fan, this means he’s done. Mission accomplished. “I am officially digging this” he says to himself. But to a metal fan, the nod is just the beginning. I noted with silent approval that BTH followed Geezer’s Law. The one stating that the wielder of a four string guitar must inflict as much damage as the wielder of a six-string guitar. Then I passed out with the cd still spinning. I woke up with a headache and the cd was still spinning! The pitbull growls, relentless riffage, and doom-caked shredding that was, quite honestly, not all that memorable. Heavy? Hell yeah. Menacing? Um, sure, I guess. Although I’m really only scared of that xian country dude’s song about kissing his daughter at night. “Butterfly Kisses”? Eww, yeah, that’s the one. The disc was still spinning, my humor was most foul, and that’s when I remembered the most hallowed dictate of them all. The Law Of 36:47! The one which succinctly states: If you make an album that is longer than South Of Heaven, you better have a good goddamn reason to do so! At 56:32, The Twelve Gauge Solution could do with a little trimming of the fat on that saintly pork loin. And, though I admire their ugly fortitude and obvious love for gutbucket thrashtasticness, alas, even after subsequent –sober- listenings, that nod of mine never evolved into the bang that my neck so sorely deserved.

Bruce Dickinson – Tyranny Of Souls (Sanctuary)

He’s the master of disaster. The king of the cod-piece. The super-dooper trooper who will run his sword up your pooper if you dare get in his way. Well, he used to be anyway. And I’d be lying if I said that I have been keeping close tabs on big, bad Bruce Dickinson’s solo career over the years (Or Maiden after, like, 1988. Sorry!) I could say the same about a lot of my fave boyhood yelpers. Dio runs a string of car washes, doesn’t he? They move on. I finally have sex for the first time. It happens. It’s great to hear his hearty, operatic pipes again, on this, his first solo album in seven years. Vocally, he hasn’t lost a step. Song-wise, the album is fairly subdued and slow-moving. Even up-tempo songs like “Power of the Sun” have somewhat mushy middles. “Devil On A Hog” (Great title! Definitely makes up for the horribly titled, “Believil”.) should be a rollicking biker-metal rave-up. But it’s not. And it’s all due to the, um, “fiscally conservative” sound and production. Mud, anyone? Which is a shame, because the songwriting is surprisingly (To me. At this late date.) strong. Dark, mythical, incomprehensible. All the things that made Iron Maiden great. Even that horribly titled “Believil” is a cool tune. Do you know what I would love to see one of these noble warriors of old do? Think outside the cage. Instead of trying to mimic their million dollar sound from decades past with two bucks and some change, they should hook up with some shit-hot euro power metal band (Who would probably do it for nothing just to work with their leige and lord.) and hang out at Albini’s house for a few days. Come on, wouldn’t that be cool! Eh, it’ll never happen. In the meantime, there is that voice. And if you were ever a fan, that might be enough for now.

Debris Inc. – S/T (Candlelight/Rise Above)

Shit. Dirt. Crud. Crust. Piss. Smack. Glue. Carlsberg. Blatz. Strongbow. Mad Dog. Sorry straightedgers, but these are some of the original ingredients of punk rock. The spirit and unhealthy by-product of those ingredients can be heard on the new Debris Inc. record courtesy of Saint Vitus’s Dave Chandler, ex-Trouble bassist Ron Holzner and a cavalcade of sludge champs on drums from bands like Crowbar, Goatsnake, and my hero Jimmy Bower of Superjoint Ritual/Eyehategod fame. As a whole, the album is lazy, dirty, drunken, stupid, sleazy, juvenile, and sounds like shit. I think you will really dig it. These dudes got together to make an inebriated goof of a thing that in no way sounds like anything other than an inebriated goof. Which is a novel idea these days. Sloppy as hell old-school punk shouters and grimy doom rock numbers that can barely stand up on their own two feet are given a one-take stuporcore workout by grizzled vets who have seen more shitty clubs in a year then most teeniepunk pipsqueaks will see in a lifetime. Used to be, bands would get together all the time for a rotgut hoedown, record some stoopid punk covers and put it out on tape for fans like it was no big deal. Now you’ve got stuff like Dave Grohl and his vanity Probot project. Dude probably spends five grand a week just for his personal whisker trimmer. Or else a drunken goof ends up being a profitable business like with Bloodbath. Yo, Swedish dudes, it isn’t a drunken goof if your albums sound better than most ACTUAL death metal albums. Or if you start making more money on Bloodbath belt-buckles than you do selling your real band’s albums. So, here’s to Debris Inc. Long may they puke! Just as long as they, you know, don’t do it forever.

Gorod – Neurotripsicks (Willowtip – 2005)

Thomas De Quincey once wrote, “Here, perhaps, the reader will exclaim – ‘Avoid, Satanas!’ to me, falsely supposing that I have some design upon his eyes, and wish to blind them with learned dust. But, if he thinks that, he is in the wrong box; I must and will express scholastic phrases; but, having once done this, I am then ready to descend into the arena with no other weapons than plain English can furnish.” Gallic gore-goons Gorod take this to heart. You may think, upon first listening to their epic assault on the ears, Neurotripsicks, that they are trying to confuse your senses with dizzyingly high-tech noodle-grind guitar solos of a sort that would no doubt incite Yngwie to unleash the fucking fury in a highly pressurized cabin if he ever heard them on his in-flight headphones. You may think that 4000 riffs and shifts in tempo per song is a tactic designed to keep you on edge – a little uneasy - and perhaps make you rethink that whole “college is for sheep” philosophy you’ve been working on at mom’s house for the last ten years. And, by the way, that’s not your bong you are filling, that’s the vacuum cleaner. But, no, Like De Quincey, Gorod put on their fancy duds – those prog-level displays of nimbleness that are every guitar-store cowboy’s dream – only to share simpler reveries in a plain English that anyone can understand. For instance: “Gutted/Minced/Mashed/Soiled/We stay horrified/We must find him/GOROD can release us/Damned as spectrums/Gorod open its stone door/To pillar Neurotripsicks/Easy to smell/Pig’s bloated face/Zero tolerance for uncunt creatures/Pig’s bloated face/Pityless under sauvagery.” An entire worldview as easy as you please. See, the Gorod is the ancient enemy of the Neurotripsick, and…but that’s not important. What IS important is that

France

is second to no nation when it comes to screwed-up grindcore. And they have 30 hour work-weeks, national health-care, and free wine and cheese for all citizens. So fuck you, Dubya!

Hand To Hand – A Perfect Way To Say Goodbye (Lifeforce-2005)

Ever get the impression that within the hearts of some of these “melodic” hardcore bands lies an old school power metal group yearning to break free from its emo bonds? Orlando’s Hand To Hand is a perfect example. Their debut features the de rigeur aggro scream into puppy dog swoon, but musically Hand To Hand sound sorta like a marginally heavy scandihoovian hard rock act with a stick up its ass. All in all, their riffs and power chords aren’t half bad. If they ever lost the stick and started thrashing you might get to hear something more notable. The A.D.D.-level shifts in tempo leave plenty of room for lengthy (slow) bouts of heartfelt emotional gook that passes for mosh material, which means you don’t get to enjoy a riff for very long. It’s kinda frustrating to listen to, but the lyrics are all about frustration so maybe it makes sense. The problem with a lot of melocore is that it’s hard enough to make halfway decent metal. Let alone write songs that have memorable hooks and melodies. To do both at once and do it well takes a lot of time and the kind of talent that you can’t absorb from a Trustkill or Equal Vision CD sampler. If you want down and dirty hardcore, follow the smell to a V.F.W. hall near you. If you want truly beautiful melodies with your metal, pick up a Katatonia or Opeth album. Bands like Hand To Hand need to decide whether they are gonna take things up a notch (heavy-wise or pop-wise) or ride this increasingly bankrupt hybrid genre into the dirt.

Phobia – Get Up And Kill! (Deep Six)

For everyone who has had it up to here with all those sine wave sludge metal art-project albums featuring 20 minute endurance test cuts with titles like “Contemplating A Speck Of Dust On God’s Ass, Parts 1-10” made by people too incapacitated by their bong collections to even realize that most folks don’t buy albums based on how long they think their next car crash-induced coma might last, have I got an album for you! Get Up And Kill! By California grindcore lifers Phobia is 17 songs in 18 minutes. That’s right, 18 minutes! That’s at least 4 hours shorter than your average Sunn0))) track. Phobia are beloved by the crusty crowd, and by extension the rail-riding and emaciated pitbulls that love THEM, and it’s easy to see why. Singer Shane Mclachlan’s artful hellspawn gargle is easily matched by his equally artful and tormented “Oh God, the vintage Terrorizer t-shirt I bought on Ebay is too small and there is no way in hell that I’m letting my girlfriend wear it until she removes her subcutaneous steel nipple implants!” yowls of pain. The guitar and bass on Get Up And Kill! are ably beat to death with hammers and thrown in a sewer by spirited cannabalistic humanoid underground dwellers and the drums, hoo boy!, let me tell you, hats off to the gang at the Blastbeat Propulsion Labs, because they have finally created one helluva half man/half cyborg grindcore drummer that they can be proud of. They call him:Bryan Fajardo. Funny name for a robot, but he really does the trick. And, even better, at live gigs he has no use for his drink tickets. They mess with his circuitry. And speaking of live gigs, Phobia are kind enough to give us 6 live tracks (Featuring yet another drummer. He must have blown a gasket.) equalling about four minutes of music which is plenty of time to take that Lords Of The Resin Hit triple doom-metal LP out of your Amazon shopping-cart and buy some Phobia and maybe listen to some real fucking metal for once in your life, you big stoner doofus.

Soilwork – Stabbing The Drama (Nuclear Blast)

If Soilwork were meaner, and not the fine upstanding Swedish lads that they are, they would have this to say to all the American metalcore bands trying to ape the sound that has made them one of the leading lights of the NSNWOSMDM (Not So New Wave Of Swedish Melodic Death Metal for those of you out of the loop.): “Hahahahaha! You wish!” Because one listen to their new album, Stabbing The Drama, will reveal to you, whether it’s your kinda thing or not, one thing: This is some state of the art shit. This album (And their last 2 or 3, come to think of it) could serve as some sort of reference standard for modern metal. The band has worked with Devin Townsend in the past, but on STD they opted for fellow Swede Daniel Bergstrand and he does right by the band by making their noise swing mightily.( I can’t help but feel that if Slipknot had taken some of their t-shirt money and gone to Sweden to record their last album that I might have listened to it more than twice. Why not go to the source?) Critics of the band will say that Soilwork make Volvo-metal:Suitably heavy, well-made, but it’s not gonna kill anybody. Plus, they’ve gone soft, Gothenburg-lite, blah, blah..And yet, there’s something so satisfying about an album with such a shiny well-recorded surface AND drums that kick ass AND guitars with bite and heft AND good writing/playing AND melodies that are actually MEMORABLE. Plus, Bjorn “Speed” Strid can sing his ass off, both as hardcore grunter and as moody boy blue. STD is as good as the very good Natural Born Chaos, “true” death metal fans will hate it (Just call it “melodic metal”, okay? Does that make you feel better?), and unfortunately it won’t be replacing the Hoobastanks of the world on American radio any time soon, so cool it with the sell-out talk.

The Locust – Safety Second, Body Last

To be a great spazzcore band, you need method actor levels of commitment. Case in point: Yamataka Eye of Boredoms fame is one of the sweetest guys you could ever meet, but on stage he has given unhinged performances worthy of Brando in his prime. He knows that there is a thin line between “inspired lunacy” and “some idiot running around in dirty underwear”. The moral: If you are gonna flail and gnash your teeth, flail and gnash your teeth like your life depends on it. Which is why the highest compliment I can give to a band like San Diego’s The Locust is: They could AMOST be Japanese. Because let’s face it, the Japanese have perfected the art of poop-happy dementia involving disorienting electronics and sub-atomic grindcore thrashing coupled with inhuman screams. But The Locust dress like bugs and they are young and have made great strides over the years. And their new 10-minute between-albums EP of stop/start atmospheric fury is on Ipecac which means they are now under the wing of that Pavarotti of annoyance, Mike Patton. Plus, they dress like bugs. Will they replace The Hanatarash in the hearts of scumsuckers everywhere? Maybe not. But I was so impressed by their Anti release, Plague Soundscapes, that I played it five times! That’s four more times than every Atari Teenage Riot album I was ever suckered into buying. So, let’s recap: If it’s noisy, insanely fast, dresses like a bug and never ever resembles Death Cab For Cutie in any way, shape, or form, it’s a good thing. AND, I think The Locust know the dudes in Racebannon. And Racebannon are fuckin’ great!

Ulver – Blood Inside (Jester – 2005)

Norway’s Ulver are better than you. Better than you, me, and everyone we know. They are the alpha and the omega. They live on air, menace, and tears. Their teeth are whiter, brighter, and sharper. They have delved deep into the heart of the wolf in man and they have come out the other side and lived to tell the tale. Once, on the street, many years ago, there was this exchange: “Hey, Garm, a.k.a. Kristoffer G. Rygg, a.k.a. Trickster G, you have created one of the greatest black metal albums the world has ever known, what are you gonna do now?” “I was thinking of making an entirely acoustic album of choral music, than maybe one more subterranean album of blackened torment, and after that maybe a double-disc set of progressive industrial art-rock based on William Blake’s The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell.Then, maybe some techno!” “Cool, seeya later.” Okay, that didn’t really happen. But it’s true. And then some. And then there was the atmospherica, the electronica, the whatthefuckica. A group taking the road less travelled. Afraid of alienating metal fans? Hah! Those fans were lucky if they could hang on for the ride. And now, Blood Inside. You won’t hear anything like it this year. It’s a, dare I say it, masterpiece. For real. It’s almost unclassifiable. It’s *profoundly* unfashionable. Here are some notes I jotted down while listening: Alan Parsons Project. Talk Talk, negro spirituals, the Alan Parsons Project and Talk Talk singing negro spirituals on the moon in Brian Wilson’s sandbox while high on helium and deadly nightshade, shit, this is heavy, need more cookie dough. See, it will baffle you. You need to listen over and over. If you heard the last Arcturus album, Garm’s side-gig, you will have some idea of what to expect. But this is no carnival-organ prog-metal hoedown. This is something even wilder. And even more out of step with everything around it. This is disorienting electro-acoustic circus music for the 21^st century of the highest order. Like Talk Talk’s Laughing Stock or Scott Walker’s Tilt, it stands alone as either the end of everything or the beginning of something really exciting. History will judge. It’s definitely Ulver’s crowning achievement as a group, and I’m someone who loves everything from their first bruising black metal demo to their haunting and sometimes breathtaking soundtrack work of the last few years. Ulver are evolution in action. You are going to have to use that thing that your skull is supposedly protecting to fully grasp it, but if you do, you will know greatness.

Hey, I Made A Tape!

2005-04-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

A theme of sorts. But one that materialized after the fact. I was originally planning on making a tape of forgotten one-named angelheaded dripsters, hippies tripping light and fantastical over cosmic rob petrie divans and zealots beyond simple description. But it really just ended up being about horn sections and Beatlestrings and things. For the most part. I cheated in some spots cuz my sister-in-law kept asking me who I was making a tape for and when I kept saying –“nobody in particular”- she wouldn’t let it go. What do you mean, nobody? What are you making it for? It went on like that for a while. There was beer. I got a little distracted. Not that it wasn’t lovely to see her. It was. She is a fan of Western Massachusetts psy-trance dj nites, and she is the future. But the past, on this night, was my concern. And the hidden pockets of resistance to the back-to-the-land handwriting on the wall during the late-60’s and early 70’s. Those ill-fitting cowboy boots weren’t for everyone. And neither were the walls of mud and thud, or the boogierock floods that would sweep the land like a rain-soaked denim blanket of starlessness. Some were too delicate. Some had had enough and were retreating into worlds of birdsong approximation. Some refused to let the dream die. Some were as dumb as posts. They were, almost all of them, candle-holders who held on to the flame for too long. They wouldn’t let it go out and it ended up burning their tootsies. But mostly, they couldn’t write a hit song to save their lives and they floated away into the faceless world of mortals. So, anyway:

Side 1

Kyle – “Red, White, & Blue” – Beefy crooner does gloop-de-loops round the bombastic glop-pop maypole on his self-titled 1973 L.P. The horns? Bold and oh so brassy. His secret weapon? Session-master Hal Blaine on the drum kit. On this track, military flourishes abound. Someone – presumably all of us – has done the dirty to Kyle’s red, white, & blue woman and he ain’t having it. There is blood on his brow. The final percussive blast of fife & bugle will jolt you awake and possibly make you choke on your freedom fries. I was actually gonna tape one of Kyle’s lean ‘n’ tender ballads to his flesh & blood lay-dee, but opted instead for this vigorous and patriotic (and bizarro) love letter to lay-dee liberty.

Ritchie Francis – “Song Bird” – Ritchie heard the strings. Ritchie heard the horns. Ritchie heard the piano. Richie heard “Mother Nature’s Son” and said to himself: “Ah, that’s the ticket.” But I worry about his health. Him and his friends. Hollowed-out cheeks. Circles under their eyes. They are burning. That fuzz-bass break in the middle. Whose idea? I know one thing for sure, those autumnal strings married to springtime lyrics of growth and renewal pay dividends that even Ritchie and his stoner pals couldn’t have anticipated.

Tony Kosinec – “Summer/Spring” – The brass section, to Tony, is a clarion/wake-up call to his muse and his subway-derived musings on life, love, and the smoke-filled rooms he haunts. To choose the one song on his Processes album that highlights the use of distorted electric guitar as a sample of his multiple gifts is not to downplay the tricky sophisticated pop to be found on the rest of the album or to cast doubt on the work of Tony and his powerfully heavy friends Skip Prokop, Harvey Brooks, Ralph Cole, and Patti Labelle & The Bluebelles or their ability to captivate on less acidic fare. No, the song was chosen for the forward momentum that pushes Tony’s words along and for the ace percussion solo that snaps the song in two like so much dry timber.

Jimmy Campbell – “In My Room” – I don’t even know if Jimmy’s Half Baked album on Vertigo is rated, let alone under or over or sidewaysdownrated by Mojologically-inclined historians of post-mod squad baroque pop, and I don’t really know if there is anything I can do –singlehandedly- to remedy this situation, nor do I know whether I even feel up to the task. My new motto, when I’m in my cups, is: “Screw it. I’ve got a copy.” Let them eat Badfinger. Or Eric Carmen. Or Al Stewart for all I care. I dig and I dig until I can’t dig anymore. I climb thru windows. I get down on my knees. I go thru the mold and muck of forgotten cellars. I reach out and up. My hands -literally- bleeding to find a piece of that sweet soothing sound that my dreams are not only infested with, soaked in, trembling within, but that my very soul requires to make light of the fear-crazed eyes I have seen in the past. In hospital beds. On the streets. In the mirror. “In My Room” is great. And not to be confused with Fatty Sandbox’s pity party of the same name.

John Villemonte – “I Am The Moonlight” – John is or was a member of the religion of the light and sound of God, Eckankar. The leader or Mahanta or living ECK master of Eckankar is Harold Klemp. And he LOOKS like a Harold Klemp. Which is kinda cool. He really does look like he should be giving you detention for not paying attention in algebra class, and yet, he is a total master of ECK. And you don’t just become an Eck master overnight you know. You have to study your ECK off. Sorry. Back to John. Some people have one great book in them. Or one album. Or one great day where everything they do and everyone they touch is filled with the joy of timeless and deathless unselfconsciousness. A perfect day can never be premeditiated. It must breathe on its own. John Villemonte had one great song in him. It aches with belief and sunshine. It moans with contentment. You could die or be born to this song.

Joe McDonald – “Hold On It’s Coming (#2) – Woodstock hangovers were common. Law school? The farm? Where to go? What to do?...Yeah, but what if you are Joe “F-U-C-K” McDonald? The weight of a microbus is on your shoulders and piles of bodies are getting higher at home and abroad. You can hear that tension on Joe’s post-Fish album of originals for Vanguard. On the title track (And I chose the more ramshackle version of the song from the two versions that begin and end the record. The vocals are clearer and more desperate.), Joe sounds scared. And more than a little burnt-out. Woozy. (there are some truly beautiful and cracked dark-night-of-the-soul moments throughout the L.P.) More humble. He’s picking up Satan from the side of the road. Or maybe its God. In any case, he’s freakin’ Joe out and there is menace on the highway and in Joe’s car. Wars too long. Travelling too far. How did Joe follow this album up? Why, the very same year he put out an enraged concept album all about the horrors of war! Appropriately titled, War, War, War. It’ll eat you up no matter where you live.

Jeff Monn – “She Is There For Me” – Jeff leaves his fiery garage band The Third Bardo and creates a record that is STILL ahead of its time. He doesn’t actually leave the garage. He just makes the first garage rock album for acoustic guitar and full orchestra. And he is just too cool. Biker snarl cool that mixes with horns and strings in ways that an evil flower sniffer like Scott Walker would never have thought to combine them. Jeff also sounds uncannily like Johnny Thunders at times. Or, I guess that should be, Johnny Thunders often sounded uncannily like Jeff Monn. However you slice it, they both had a lazy feline allure that can make a dirty look from one of them feel like a compliment.

Keith – “Waiting To Be” – How troubadorable the Philly-born Keith was. He could amble and shuffle his way thru a breezy set of late-60’s pop rock gems like nobody’s business. And he’s really reaching on The Adventures Of…the album he made for RCA after leaving Mercury. Fat lot of good it did him, but I salute his efforts. Pre-RCA, when he was signed to Mercury, he had hits (Everyone loves the wonderful “98.6”, right?) and was the stuff of idolhood. He coulda just rode the pretty boy pop angle into the dirt and left the ambitious stuff to blowsier bellbottoms. But NO! This album has fab four-borne psych-pop nuggets like “Marstrand” and “Mr.Hyde”. Songs like “Elea-Elea” which sounds like a slow-speed chase between two sinking ships. It’s riveting even though it’s really just a drippy ballad at bottom. “Charley Cinders” is a perfect closer. Alternating between mournful folk tale and cutting guitar rave-up. And “Waiting To Be” is epic. Keith’s crack session band dirges mournfully behind his plaintive wails as strings rise from the sea to swell and fall like winter whitecaps as Keith’s falsetto rises and falls in greeting. A piano is played backwards. The drums insist on gravity. Whooooosh! What a ride. Keith had complete control over this album and it’s his finest moment. If you are me. Or the Japanese.

Terence – “An Eye For An Ear” – It’s almost painful for me to put Terence on a tape and not have the song be “Fool Amid The Traffic”, you know what I mean? I mean, you can see my predicament, right? Wait, what do you mean you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about? Fool has it all! The wail of that fuzz lead! If you ate that song you would not only be stronger, faster, and brighter, you would feel from your scalp to your fingertips to your toes a revelatory sense of permanence and rock-hard glow of solidity that could put Mount Everest to shame. But “An Eye For An Ear” need not step to the back for any song. It sings of itself mightily from the first blast of drums, horns (Ah, the horns. My trail of breadcrumbs has transformed itself into a trail of spit shaken from the valve of a horn. Those brass sections are reclaiming their place in the story of the rock and the roll. Their shrill bravado masking the fear that they will be forgotten…), and piercing six-string that prefectly accompany Terence’s blustery conviction that the world…the world is what, Terence?...That the world is…Going. Up. In. Flames.

Fargo – “Places Everyone” – More chamber-hippie-consort-concept finagling. These boys are not from Fargo. They are, however, Eleanor Rigby’s towheaded offspring. Not too saccharine, and when all is said and done, not too distinctive. But worthy of inclusion by virtue of their belief in the efficacy of rock miniatures carved out of clouds that resemble balloons shaped like clouds.

The Gentrys – “Stroll On” – This is one of those distractions. There isn’t a horn to be heard. And it is a flat-out rocker live and direct from fabled Sun Studios. The train keeps a rollin’, but not for long. About two minutes and change. But what a charge! I’ve been playing this Gentrys album for months now. Can’t get enough of it. And there are horns to be found on it too! I think their version of the Yardbird’s knock-off of the Johnny Burnette Trio’s “Train Kept A Rollin’” could fit anywhere, and it’s perch here on the end of side one is as good a place as any. Choo-choo-chooglin’!

Side 2

Mick Greenwood – “To The Farside” – Forgotten psych-folk ditty from a forgotten psych-folk album. Boy, I know how to sell them, don’t I? I oughta work for Amway. Well, what can I say? It’s pretty stuff. And Mick is backed up nicely by various Fairport/Fotheringay types. He’s fey. Almost Donovan fey at times. But not as whimsical. And not as gnomic or dippy as Donovan could be. And he likes jazziness more than Donovan. Give a listen, won’t you? I think you can even find this album, *Living Game*, on CD. He’s not as cute as Donovan though.

Jerry Corbitt – “Delight In Your Love” – Jerry is rough and tough. He is a hunter. A stringer of words and fish. He could be Jerry Reed’s surly, pot-smoking nephew. But every once in a while he lets his hair down and delights us with densely interwoven guitar tones that make us feel happy to be bugs lost in the brush of eternal sundown. And for that, we owe him a beer.

Charley D. And Milo – “Om Sweet Om” – If you mainline The Notorious Byrd Brothers into the vein marked “Precious Cargo” on a thrice-monthly basis cuz dirty feet and sun-kissed domes connect you to your fresh-faced id and remind you that the here is now and possibility is only another word for sofa, then you probably already own the Charley D. And Milo album. It’s next-level growth-chart stuff and reason enough to inhale/exhale your way thru jams traffic and romantic.

Brother Juniper – “The Answer” – Brother Juniper was a swinging and charismatic monk and would-be folk singer who wanted to speak the lingo freaka of the era, but who primarily existed so that teens with smoke fast escaping from their mouths could say: “Dude, what did he just say about the boob tube?” and then die laughing. A moment of levity, if you will indulge me. And he has a nice blissful stoned-on-jeebus tone as well.

Joe E. Covington’s Fat Fandango – “Your Heart Is My Heart” – The Jefferson Airplane had a LOT of friends. Loads of friends. Friends in every room. Friends hanging from the rafters! Friends here. Friends there. They were very friendly people. Reality D. Blipcrotch was their friend! He was just one of a thousand friends. And who do you call when you are in trouble deep? Papa John Creach! He was a friend. And Joe E. Covington. He was a very good friend. Soul Brother Number Zero they would have called him if they had thought of it. The boy could croon. He could rock ya. He could roll ya. And he was a very good friend.

Scott Fagan – “In My Head” – Think early Bowie with twice the amount of Newley-trademarked vocal tics. Ev-er-y syllable is as important as every other syllable. Kinda frightening, right? But the horns and the arrangement and Scott’s anal exactitude make it worth gasping at.

Harper & Rowe – “The Dweller” – Think the Rightous Brothers with a dash of We Five, Peppermint Trolley Co., and the original and still champeen Nirvana and you probably won’t get that good of an idea what Harper & Rowe sound like. All you really need to know is that when they first sang to me that they were the dwellers of caves and mountaintops, my immediate reaction was: “ Well, that sounds sorta strenuous. All that climbing from cave to mountaintop.” It hadn’t even occurred to me that a cave could, indeed, be located quite near the top of a mountain! I seemed to be under the delusion that all caves are holes in the ground. Weird, huh? The second time I heard them sing it, I thought: “Ahhhhh, Sandoz couldn’t package a greater little pick-me-up then this here number”. F.Y.I. Harper & Rowe’s self-titled L.P. has many gems to choose from. You could even pick one at random! It’s that strong. The Japanese could tell you this as well if you would only stop laughing at their revolutionary street fashions for five minutes and actually listen to them for once in your life.

Wichita Fall – “Hectivity” – Wichita Fall’s almost completely forgotten album Life Is But a Dream – Forgotten by everyone but me and my spiritual brothers and sisters on the island of Japan! Probably. It sounds like something they would worship. Like tuna. And Bix Beiderbecke. – is heavily orchestrated dreeeeeeem pop divided into four suites of music. Which makes for two pretty suite sides! Hahahahahahaha! Anyway, it starts in the morning and ends at night. Not that complicated a concept. And not even that novel by the time they did it. (See Shadow Morton’s Strange Night Voyage for one of my fave examples. It’s even better actually.) What makes rarepsychmonster shut-ins throw this album into the waste-bin that is their living room floor upon first listen is the almost total lack of guitar. Horns, strings, and vocal harmonies are dominant. Who needs a guitar when four trumpets and a piano will do the job with more oomph. Wichita Fall were a band, but the majority of their album is filled with the sounds of instruments that they, Wichita Fall, are not listed as playing. God bless their humility and Dallas Smith’s artful production. And God bless Shadow Morton. Wherever he is.

Jeremiah – “Hey Now Baby” – There is no Jeremiah. Okay, technically, there is a band called Jeremiah, but it’s really just a showcase for lead show-off David Brown and his maudlin brand of pop. When David’s band hit the studio they obviously weren’t cutting it, cuz listed under their names on the album is a whole other band playing piano, guitar, bass, and drums! Oops! Their faces must have been red. But, what the hey, they were only making a marginally interesting pop-rock record with two or three tracks worth hear hearing more than once. This is one of them. And even this song is possibly compromising the quality levels of the tape. I do like the strings though. By 1970, the hangover was becoming intolerable. The badly drawn cartoon illustration on the cover of Jeremiah’s album of a gypsy woman gazing into a crystal ball that has Jesus inside of it holding out a bible and flashing a peace sign makes this plain.

Magna Carta – “Give Me No Goodbye” – I was lying about Wichita Fall. Me, the Japanese, all of it. I’m so sorry. I mean, it’s okay, and worth at least three dollars in the used bin, but it definitely pales in comparison to a band like Magna Carta. Magna Carta ache. Magna Carta break. They are exquisite and fine. And they are recommended heartily to advanced scholars of twee and also devotees of gossamer webs of sound spun from beet sugar and caterpillar eyelash.

Morning Glory – “Jelly Gas Flame” – Another distraction. Some straightahead Cali sunpsych. Morning Glory were so sunny they even named their album Two Suns Worth. They were some sunnier-than-thou motherfuckers. The quivering and semi-flightless Byrds guitars on “Jelly Gas Flame” absolve all sins.

Harumi – “Hunters Of Heaven” - Perhaps not as strange as Kali Bahlu Takes The Forest Children On A Journey Of Cosmic Remembrance, but strange nonetheless. Plus, Harumi was Japanese! I don’t know how the Japanese feel about him, but he did write “Caravan”, one of the all-time greatest songs ever performed by the Rotary Connection. So, he is pretty easy to love. The stand-out tracks on his double-album debut would have to be the 24 minute “Twice Told Tales Of The Pomegranate Forest” and the 19 minute “Samurai Memories”. They are indeed a “freakout easternese” and reason enough to own Harumi’s album. But I’m partial to his wibbly wobbly chemical-soaked orchestral pop and studio experimentation (Ten tons of phasing coming your way, hippie!). Now if Harumi and Kali had gotten together to make a record…Wow! The war may have stopped on its axis.

Spreadeagle – The last distraction that couldn’t be avoided and here we are at the end.(Again, I couldn’t help myself. I had been listening to THIS album for months as well. I was beered up and ready to roll. The sadsacks had no chance.) And we are looking to the future. Spreadeagle had an early bead on what the 70’s will bring for those adventurous enough to seek out the fruits of 2^nd gen Albert Hoffman wish-fulfillers. Folkish tidings. Art-rock wrapping paper. Extended locked groove noodle family picnics. It has been a long time since they did the twist in the White House. Do you mind if I finish off this roach?

Apologies To: Matthew Fisher, Tim Hollier, and a host of others who wouldn’t fit. Maybe next time, gang! (And Matthew’s “I’ll Be There” would have been a perfect closer, but if it had been perfect, I would have offended the devil.)

F.Y.I. – Japan was formed by subduction resulting in volcanic activity and the opening of the Japan Sea. It is composed of four (Or five) island arcs formed by volcanic activity where the Pacific Plate and the Philippine Plate subduct the eastern border of the Eurasian Plate. But, Japan was originally a part of the Asian continental mainland and was seperated off from it with the opening of the Japan Sea about 15 million years ago.

So, Anyway...

2005-03-10T08:18:00.000-08:00

So, anyway...where was I? Right now, I'm listening to The Paupers' Ellis Island album. What a great band. Underrated? Maybe. I don't even know what underrated means these days. Underrated by who? The public at large? Other musicians? Music writers? I don't think I care anymore. I like it. And if I play it for someone else, they might like it too! That's good enough for me. "South Down Road" is admirable American psych-rock. I never want that song to end. The string arrangement on it works like a charm up against the wiggy guitars.
So, anyway, I'm so happy to be writing for Decibel Magazine. Extremely happy. Shit, I don't know how confessional I should be on here. I don't go out of my way to slag people. Let's just say that my feelings about writing for Decibel are the polar opposite of my feelings about writing for another magazine recently that shall remain nameless. Not because of anything that nameless magazine did! I'm always very flattered whenever anyone shows an interest in my stuff. I mean, who wouldn't be, right? Just that they weren't the right fit for me. Or vice versa. Plus, they paid almost nothing. And that has to be something I consider if I'm gonna be writing for someone that I'm not all that into. Right? That's the other thing. My new hero over at Decibel asked me to interview a band and for various reasons I didn't end up doing it (band-member didn't get back to me in time, etc.), and I realized that even though doing that kind of thing meant making more money than writing reviews, that it wasn't the kind of thing I wanted to do. I'm not a journalist. I hate talking to people. It was kind of a relief to realize that. I just want to have fun! Not that I couldn't do that sort of thing. I could. It just doesn't interest me much. It kinda sucks to turn down free money (see, at the last possible minute i coulda CALLED one of the band-members on their cell-phone and THAT'S when it hit me like a ton of bricks that I had a really big aversion to this kinda thing. I don't even answer my own phone. It all ended well. The band-member appreciated the kind words about their band that I wrote in the e-mail to them and they were interviewed by someone else and I'm sure they did a great job.), but what are you gonna do when you've spent 36+ years creating a vaguely misanthropic persona for yourself? Where am I going with all this? I just wanted to say that Decibel is the coolest and I never thought I would be able to write the way I like to write for a magazine like that. They are a mighty big exception in the field. Long may they reign or rule or wave or something. I'll cross my fingers. I can't remember the last time I saw a magazine start out so good. When Chuck Eddy made me a writer in 1999, I had no idea what I was doing or where it would lead. I still don't really know what I'm doing, but it has definitely led to some interesting places.
So, anyway..."Yes I Know" by The Paupers is one of the coolest songs you could ever hope to hear.

I'm Back And I'm Better Than Ever!

2005-02-17T06:10:00.000-08:00

Or maybe not. Who can say for sure. I've been busy absorbing and living and trying to figure out what my place in the scheme of things is. It isn't always easy, as I'm sure you are aware. I've been obsessively listening to mucho amounts of old and new music for weeks now and I'm not exactly sure why. Or to what end. When I say "obsessively", I mean that I've been digging deep into the stuff I am hearing. I feel like I'm searching for something. A clue? Inspiration? Probably inspiration. Right now I'm listening to For Fox Sake Vol.1 by The Fox on Crewe Records. (Bob Crewe's brother ran the general store across the street from my house growing up. I was always a little scared of him for some reason. He used to have a promotional Bob Crewe mobile hanging in the store for whatever 70's-era Bob Crewe album was out at that time. Probably that wacky disco-opera he did. (Street Talk? I have it here somewhere) I used to hang out with his sullen son who was around my age. Both Bob Crewe's brother and Bob Crewe's brother's son looked a bit like Bob Crewe.) The Fox are a long-forgotten 60's psych/pop/rock band heavy on the hammond organ. It's a nice little record. "Butterfly" is a great acoustic guitar/heavily-echoed vocals flower-power weeper. "Madame Magical" is their nine-minute jaunt to the heart of the sun. I don't think they ever put out a Vol.2 . Lots of 1 strike and yer out stories in the 60's. Lots of "We don't really know what this shit is, so let's throw EVERYTHING against the wall and see if it sticks". Which is kinda cool in retrospect. Lotsa cool stuff got on record. For posterity. And freaks like me. Before The Fox I was listening to Songs Of The Auvergne, a two-album set that Vanguard put out in 1972. French folk songs arranged for orchestra and heavenly soprano. Said soprano provided by Netania Davrath. Translated lyrics to "Lou Boussu" aka "The Hunchback": Jeanneton was resting under a shady apple tree. A hunchback came by. He looked her over and said, "Ah! Jeanneton dear, will you be mine?" "Why should I be yours? Get rid of the hump on your back." "Ah, the devil with it! I will keep the hump on my back." Yeah, really. Fuck you, Jeanneton. Anyway, pretty stuff. Got a record in the mail on Level Plane records that I really dig. *Transistor Transistor - Erase All Name And Likeness* Apparently, if you are genius enough to combine punky punk with hardcore punk and screaming and a general dull roar/feedback/squall and metallic overcoat I will love your album no matter who you are. See, I am easy to please! It's why I loved that Das Oath album on Dim Mak so much last year. It's why I dig Converge. And on a sludgier level, Eyehategod. Actually, this isn't true. Not too many bands can approach the levels of insanity that Eyehategod have. And I don't like most of the bands who try and sound like Converge. And there are a lot of them. Most of them just combine the screaming with a diluted brand of metalcore that is boring with a capital B. And if they combine that with the emocore meodic shit that is so very rarely memorable or worth humming, I'm the one who runs screaming. No, I have to hear a glimmer of unhingedness that belongs to the band playing. No second-hand delirium for me. I mean, screaming IS a vocal "style", and not all screams are created equal. I can tell when yer faking it.
Now I'm listening to Care by Shriekback. Not an album I play very often. I do like that old Shriekback stuff though. Yesterday I played Mesh & Lace by Modern English. I'm a sucker for that stuff. Nostalgia and all that. But it's good music too. The Modern English album is a Joy Division revival from 1981! I also listened to Twitch by Ministry yesterday. So, anyway, the 80's revivalism has been going on in music for, what, 10 years now? I can't even remember. I actually think the form of 80's-retro peaked with Blur's girls who like boys who like girls who are boys single. I really do. They got it just right. Great catchy song. Better than "House Of Jealous Lovers" and almost any other latter-day example I can think of. And that right there is my problem with all the recent (last 3 or 4 years or so) stuff that I've heard that apes the soundz of da 80's: My bar is set too high! Cuz unlike most people who grew up in the 80's and who went on to live normal, productive lives and who probably forgot all about the stuff they listened to when they were younger, I never stopped listening to that stuff. I never forgot about any of it, cuz it has been a part of my life since the 80's. So, my memory of the music has stayed current. Does that make any sense? There are too many times when I hear something that just mimics the sounds and rarely builds on them. When I saw the Faint 3 or 4 years ago it was cool to hear all those technopop sounds in their songs and they really did do a good job of creating the vibe and the aura, but none of their songs were in any way memorable. The only song they played that was memorable was a cover of "Enola Gay". So, it might just be a fashion thing. Maybe these folks thought it would be easy to make a Gary Numan record. It isn't! Some of the guitar-based groups have come close in a time-warp way. Interpol, The Killers, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. But I don't think any of them have hit it out of the park. If you have great songs, I don't really care who you are ripping off. And if your sounds are cool enough, I can overlook the lack of hooks. Maybe I haven't heard the really cool 80's-derived stuff. I liked that Lansing-Dreiden album a lot cuz I felt like they did have songs that were stong enough to withstand their pillaging of even greater songs and bands. It's a tough trick to pull off. Just ask the Bloodhound Gang! (No, really, ask them. I think they may have done it better than the majority of hipster doofuses out there.)
Okay, last but not least (for now): The only thing creepier than the YingYangTwinz song "Wait(The Whisper Song)"? The acafuckingpella version of "Wait(The Whisper Song) that comes with the single. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! Robert Ashley would be proud. And 1000 avant/creepout/soundscape bores WISH!

ANOTHER Michael Franks Album Review? Okay, If You Say So.

2005-01-27T10:12:00.000-08:00

Michael Franks - Tiger In The Rain (Warner Brothers-1979)

Slowly but surely, the debauchery of the 70's is catching up with M.F. He hasn't hit rock-bottom yet, but the album opener, "Sanpaku", is one helluva hangover song. He used to chew the root until his brain was fried, chop the line, wake up red-eye from the wine. He can't even remember all the highs he tried! A regretful string-section lies quietly in the brush and Paul Griffin lets loose with a lovely organ solo. An exotic jungle lay-dee takes him by the hand and warns him away from the low life. (F.Y.I.-For better or for worse, Rousseau is one of M.F.'s fave painters and is praised in the sleeve-notes for his "innocent directness". Lock up yer daughters, America.) "When It's Over" is the shortest, sweetest kiss-off you've ever heard: "All those books on your shelf...Did they teach you how to cure yourself? Not even Sigmund Freud can save you from the love you destroyed." Ouch! "Living On The Inside" is a much more tranquil and domestic scene. The tea is from Tibet, Michael plays the scales, and his lady protects the whales. They make love listening to Satie, they paint the rooms, the pumpkins bloom. "We're so francais/With lime & Perrier." Ooh baby baby. Stellar slow jam cast too: Ron Carter, Bucky Pizzarelli, Kenny Barron, and weeping (with joy) string-section. This is just a great getting away from it all jazz-pop album. The emphasis is definitely on the "jazz" too. Beautiful arrangements for brass and the (regretful & weeping) strings. "Tiger In The Rain" is -sigh- a love song to Michael's cat, but it's such a pretty tune with such a strong melody that it more than transcends its precious/homely sentiments. Sick of the zombie trains, and stews and critics that are too acidic, M.F. ends up in Brazil under a banana tree by the end of side one. By side two he's underneath an apple tree (In, hey!, whaddya know, a song called "Underneath The Apple Tree".) shooting up summertime and drinking tea instead of wine. In the nude. Most memorable lines award would have to go to either: "Let's play pin-the-tail-on-the-bunny/Let's play grizzly bear finding honey/Let the lukewarm milk of precaution be spilt-It's full-tilt." OR "When I saw you there in your Danskin/Then the wolf jumped out of the lambskin/And a blush came over your cheeks/In the room filled with freaks". The overlong cliche-riddled "Lifeline" that closes the record is the only dud. The nautical metaphors used to describe a love-affair sink this leaky ship. M.F. doesn't sound at ease on the sea. He's a bossa nova baby at heart and needs to be on the beach to really make his luverly ditties swim.

Top 11 Of The Day

2005-01-18T15:09:00.000-08:00

1. Heavenly Bodies - Stars Collide

2. Altered Images - I Could Be Happy (12 Inch Version) (As if there IS another version.)

3. Scritti Politti - The Word Girl (Flesh & Blood) (Scritti Crush Crew C/O Reperata M/C, P.O. Box 120, London NWIOJD)

4. China Crisis - The Highest High

5. Nick Haeffner - You Know I Hate Nature

6. Blue Orchids - The Long Night Out

7. One Plus One - Nite Time Rhythm (Like Softcell. From New Jersey! From 1982! And they do a synth & drum machine version of "Time Has Come Today"! Viva local yokel new wave!)

8. The Lemon Pipers - Catch Me Falling

9. George Michael - Father Figure

10. Cocteau Twins - Shallow Then Halo (when they were true stoner doom!)

11. The Collins Kids - Rock Boppin' Baby (A toss-up between this and "Soda Poppin' Around")

Scott's Saturday Night Hit-Parade

2005-01-16T14:40:00.000-08:00

Here is what I listened to last night. All the songs are the last songs on an album/single. Okay, I was bored. Some are throwaways and some are goofy and some are great songs that should have been first.

Coven - One Tin Soldier (The Legend Of Billy Jack) - Why wasn't this first on the album?? Nothing else even approaches it in terms of greatness on the album. I'm seriously considering getting Coven's Sunshine Snake Records logo as a tattoo.

Skids - Peaceful Times - Backwards masking! Maybe the Skids were satanists like Coven. I like the backwards guitar action. I like the Skids! More than Big Country anyway. Although I was a fan of that first album when I was young. Hey, did satan have anything to do with Big Country's success? Ah, but then Stuart Adamson died kinda young, so maybe not. Anyway, this one verges on throwaway.

Smiths - Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want - No throwaway here! But it is short and sweet and quite a contrast to "How Soon As Now" the song that precedes it on the 12-inch. Heck, you couldn't ask for two greater b-sides to a single. Could you? No, I don't think you can. Mine even has the original Rough Trade cover! One more thing: Sire can blow me for the crappy
sound on u.s. Smiths vinyl and the crappy packaging and the crappy u.s. single covers. They deserved better than that. Okay?

Section 25 - Up To You - Almost a throwaway, but i dig this band so much that I enjoy even their sketchiest b-sides. The perfect band for people who are too lazy to be Wire fans. You don't really have to pay attention too hard. Just let the bass and guitars wash over you.

F.U.'s - Rifle - Throwaway! And it's actually just an ok "punk" cover of "We're An American Band" by Grand Funk. With Cowbells. Punkers are famous for ending their records with sloppy covers and other such detritus. They just can't help themselves.

The Phones - Comme L'Amour - Dutch post-punk from 1982 is cooler than me or you. And that's even before the horns and the shortwave radio noise comes in.

Hermeto Pascoal - Cherry Jam (Geleia De Cereja) - Noodle-noodle-skronk!-ding-ding-ding! Maria: "Can you put something else on? Or maybe you could close the door?"

Orpheus - Of Enlightenment - Short! Sweet! Nerd-psych! Okay, it is kind of a throwaway too. But a pretty one. And very brief like I said. And, listening to the rest of the album, there is virtue in this.

The Flying Burrito Brothers - Hippie Boy - Dated silliness! Complete throwaway. And not even very funny actually. The rest of the album is pretty fab though.

Rigormortis - Noise Addict - Punky punk punk from U.S. punks circa 1986. "Does your mind die when your body's stiff?" Um, yeah, it does. And sometimes when you are playing generic hardcore in 1986 too.

The Fall - Cab It Up! - I heart Brix! No throwaway here.

Adolescents - Kids Of The Black Hole (Live) - Did you know that Steve Soto, bass player for Adolescents, was the original bassist in Agent Orange?

James White & The Contortions - Bedroom Athlete - I admire his pep.

Stockhausen - Carre: Fur 4 Orchester Und 4 Chore - Und 4 sofa und 4 lager. Did you know that Stockhausen and Yellowman have recently collaborated on a piece entitled: "Zungguzungguguzungguzengagotterdammerung"? It's true!

Battles - Dance - Snazzy!

David Blue - Train To Anaheim - Shaggy!

Hollies - Mighty Quinn - Spirited!

Point Blank - Waiting For A Change - Slow groover from backwoods screenporch skeeter beaters. Git yer twang on. (I'm more partial to their rockers though)

Wishbone Ash - Phoenix (Live) - You don't have to dig the mystical rural progressive boogie grooves to appreciate Wishbone Ash. Actually, you might. If it's a problem I can dig it for you. For all of you.

Slapshot - Killing Frost - Oh yeah, and if it isn't a cover then the 80's hardcore band will sometimes put their longest slowest song last too. To take up room when they realize they only have 13 minutes worth of songs. or maybe they would like to play slower, but they don't want to alienate their fans who will be too jacked up on crystal meth to even PLAY the second side. Or something. But mostly I think it's a time-killer to fill up a side. Not a bad tune though. Boy, did this bunch have rocks in their heads. Hahahahahaha!! Ah, to be young and pissed-off in Boston with a hockey stick in your hands. Good times.

The Last Mix-Tape I Made (89 Minute Running Time On A C90 Cassette) And What I Had To Say About It

2005-01-09T20:25:00.000-08:00

Side A

1) Teen Dream - *Slip-Slide (Extended Remix)* Teen Dream are underrated by many, long forgotten by many more, and never remembered or heard of by many many more than that. This doesn't have to be the case though. They had some fine 12 inch singles that are well worth the dollar you will pay for them. "Slip-Slide" in particular benefits from the ace R&B disco dance teen-pop remix machine. A fine song made finer. Where are Teen Dream now? They are undoubtedly somewhere.

2) Gangsters Of House - *Let's Play House (The Remix)* Jack Mix on Obscure Records by Farley Jackmaster Funk & Mickey Mixin' Oliver. If I had to do it over again, I would have taped the instrumental instead. The music is jackalicious to be sure, but the perfunctory jackin' exhortations, while never ruining a good track, aren't really needed (by me!) unless you are having a really hard time getting properly motivated to jack.

3) The Brat Pack - *So Many Ways (Do It Properly II - The Wild Style Dub)* This track is fucking intense. Fucking. Intense. Lemme say that one more time: It's fucking intense. Cole & Clivilles attempt to reach the godly heights of their original anthem and while that's all fine and good and good luck to them, this freestyle slice & dice courtesy of the godly Chep Nunez and Luie Rivera blows everybody out of the water. I probably peaked too soon. It shouldn't be the 3rd track on a mix-tape Oh well. By the time the bongos come in at around 6/7 minutes and the little kid sez: "If You're good you'll live forever, and if you're bad you'll die when you die" you will be ready for the emergency room.

4) Princesa - *Nasty Girl (Sky's Underground Mix)* This is one of my fave rap/club hybrids courtesy of 4th & Broadway. Princesa's got attitude to spare, namechecks The Beatles, declines to eat meat, and Gail "Sky" King lays down some seriously slinky techno grooves underneath. What could be simpler?

5) Peter Brown - *Crank it Up (Funk Town) (Radio Disco Mix)* This is disco. T.K. Disco! And it's very economical and minimal. It will fit in your pocket. Nice drum breaks and cool as ice synth sounds. To Be specific: B.P.M.-135, Drum break intro-1:28, Second drum break-1:28, Total time-8:00 SPIRALS INDICATE DRUM BREAKS

6) Espresso - *Ping Pong* Espresso make ping pong noises with their synthesizers. And they do it very well! On the other side of this Maxi Records single there are two mixes of the song Let's Get Down. One is the Bleep Mix. And it has lots of bleepy sounds in it! And the other mix is the Drum Mix. It has extra drums added to it! But Ping Pong is cooler. It doesn't ACTUALLY go "ping pong ping pong". It's more of a "boop, bloop, beep, bloop" sound. File this under: Table Tennis Techno.

7) Trance Trax - *Odd Flute (Original Mix)* This is one my fave singles. I bought this and another Trance Trax single at Sound of Market in Philly when they came out and I had no idea what they were. I took a chance. I don't have that other single anymore. That makes me sad. It was the one with the great "fuck...you!" chorus on it. This isn't like that sample-heavy Belgian newbeat stuff. This shit is grinding. I love the way they grind! You could put the vocals of the song "Grindin'" over "Odd Flute" and you would have the grindingest techno-rap song ever made! I always mean to look for more Trance Trax stuff, but then I forget. The U.K. remix on this single by one "scotty t.jones" isn't as hot as the original though. He smooths it out to much. I think he was on aceeeeed or something. If I were a dj I would play "Odd Flute" EVERY NITE! I really would.

Side B

1) Tone Band - *Germany Calling* Wacky German electro with lots of radio/shortwave sounds and a super-catchy chorus. I need everything they ever did. For Telex fans and the people who love them.

2) Jungle Wonz - *Jungle Mix* This is Marshall Jefferson after he popped something really grooooovy. The "Jungle Mix" is better than the more breathy vocal side "The Jungle". Plus "Jungle Mix" has lots more jungle noises. Which is always a bonus. It's a dreamy and druggy delight.

3) The Reel - *Percussion* I wasn't gonna put this on the tape cuz it's kinda cheesy and their are sax solos and horn sections, but there is just something about it that captivates. I think it's about half-way through when the italo-disco (by way of Germany) vibe devolves into some weird space invaders drum machine spiral until you kinda forget how the thing started. That and the female chorus of "I like to feel percussion/Per-cush-in tonight!" put it over the top enough to merit repeated listenings.

4) Maria Venchura - *My Heart Holds The Key (Charlie's Heart Attack Dub)* Long long before Omar Santana was making some of my fave death-techno mixes (Hardcore For The Headstrong series) he was a lil' latin rascal making cool freestyle singles for the kids. Omar's dub mix on this single is great, but the real winner is this one. It's another fucking jawdropper. Courtesy of Charlie "Dee" Diaz. He slices, dices, mixes, flips, rearranges, and disfigures this song until you are begging for mercy! The man's a fucking surgeon! It'll bring a tear to your eye.

5) Full Beat featuring Afroside & Jovanotti - *Beat Bop To Bicycle (Fleshy Mix)* Even the stoopid "Axel F" synth fart on this tune can't kill it. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when Afroside, Jovanetti, and Faber Cucchetti got together to discuss their plan for world domination via a weird house piano and horn heavy African/Italian answer record to "Pump Up The Volume".

6) The Mood - *Don't Stop* Don't be fooled by this single! Judging from the cover, The Mood want you to think that they are good friends with Duran Duran or Spandeau Ballet. New wave suits, ties, and haircuts. Meanwhile, "Don't Stop" is a total Moroder-inspired disco stomper! With new romantic vocals, but still..... I like it anyway.

7) P-Funk All Stars - *Hydraulic Pump Part III* As if the first two parts of this Hump Records single aren't weird enough, the third part is just fucking chaos. This song is literally the sound of mounds and mounds and mounds of cocaine. Sly Stone is on here doing something. Crying, maybe? Don't know if this is a proper end to a tape, but what the hell.

8) Telex - *Temporary Chicken (Dub Version)* This is the actual end. The only thing within reach that fit. But it's fitting. Lunacy, chickens, men in love with their shiny computers.