Category Archives: Interviews

DALEK BRING ‘GODS AND GROITS’ TRIP-HOP GRATUITY

Interviews

FOREWORD: Newark-based hip-hop duo, Dalek (freestyling MC Will Dalek and sound designing producer Oktopus), make caliginous atmospheric ghetto music out of Industrial, metal, and noise rock elements, constructing brave ‘glitch-hop’ experiments independent of fly-by-night trendsetters. I got to speak to Will Dalek to promote ‘02s From Filthy Tongue Of Gods And Groits. Since then, Dalek released ‘04s Absence and ‘07s Abandoned Language, two equally fine LPs. ‘09s Gutter Tactics piled on further sonic shoegaze fuzz for another round of symphonic requiems to the disenchanted. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

At multi-cultured Wayne, New Jersey-based melting pot, William Paterson University, emcee Will Dalek met engineer/sampler/ electronic wizard Oktopus and dropped ‘98s skillful debut, Negro, Necro, Nekros, to astounded underground denizens who’d witnessed their enigmatic live sets alongside worthy versatile combos De La Soul, Dillinger Escape Plan, and Rye Coalition.

Hooking up with creative turntablist Still, the trio, simply coined Dalek, respond with ‘02s insuppressible streetwise masterwork, From Filthy Tongue of Gods and Griots.

Born of Honduran genealogy, Will Dalek’s radical thoughts and imaginative rhymes pungently dismiss false idols in a ubiquitous funk-rap manner perhaps second only to Public Enemy. Inspired by Germany’s electronic musique concrete pioneers Faust as much as intensely dramatic inner city hip-hop, this Newark Jerseyite challenges listeners with conceptually designed urban truths sometimes hidden deep beneath shards of omnipresent atonal wall of white noise.

The skull-crushing bleating scree of the fierce “Spiritual Healing” comes crashing down hard, tunneling through a darkly troubled metropolitan landscape while praising black Jesus in the face of white oppression. Ominous gray clouds hover above the bombastic hardcore rant, “Classical Homicide,” a pissed-off, dangerously confrontational mantra delighting in snub-nose countercultural righteousness. For an unsettling abstraction nearly as surreal as the Beatles abstruse “Revolution 9,” try the nervy, bleating 12-minute “Black Smoke Rings.”

Check out more about Dalek at deadverse.com.

Were ‘70s rap progenitors the Last Poets an inspiration?

 

Definitely. They’re the shit. It’s funny. A year ago I got interviewed for a documentary that hasn’t come out yet. As far as political hip-hop by Public Enemy and Boogie Down Production, the Last Poets were the jump off point. Their use of words and rhythms were way ahead of what everyone else was doing in the early ‘70s. They were revolutionary.

They spoke of urban warfare in struggling minority communities. Did you face many of those problems growing up in Newark?

 

It’s all relative. I’m not here to cry about what I’ve been through. You deal with the cards you’re dealt. Unfortunately some people travel the negative path. Every life experience influences musicians and poets. If what you write is honest, even a person in the Midwest or Czech Republic could relate. The human experience is similar regardless of where you’re from.

Does your childhood influence the lyrics you write?

 

I came from a home with both parents, but they both worked. My grandmother raised me and my cousins in Passaic. My cousins were d.j.’s from far back. So I grew up with hip-hop house parties and disco breakbeats. I saw the shitty side of life and had friends that used drugs. I tried to stay away from that. I went to school in Belleville, which was pretty much all-Italian then. It was a good experience. I got a good education and got to see the flipside of life from both angles. I got introduced to metal and it helped my music. I’d have friends in an all white school telling me about niggers and spics but say “Oh, but not you.” Then, I’d have my Hispanic friends talking shit about white people. It put me in a position where I’m very suspicious of humans in general. Regardless of race, there’s definite flaws in human character that I explore in my songs.

On “Trampled Brethren,” you mention how much Black American history has been compromised or lost.

 

The fact that you’re Christian you’re expected to believe Jesus was blonde-haired blue-eyed. But what bugs me out is the establishment expects you to believe that with no argument. When you bring up the facts you could prove he’s black and everyone freaks out. What’s the big deal if there isn’t any racism? So whites pray to a black Jesus. But that’ll never sit right. But once the race barrier finally goes away, there’s always the economic barrier.

In elementary school, you’re taught about Egypt but never told it’s in Africa. They treat it like a far off land with no connections to African Americans. People talk about starving Ethiopians, but never talk about the beautiful culture that flourished. I’m Hispanic and a majority are Christian, but Christianity was forced upon us. Central Americans were Mayas, Incas, and Aztecs. We had beliefs of our own but the conquistadors placed their idea of civilization on them. It breaks my heart to see inner city African-Americans and Latinos struggling each day yet they hold on to Christianity. But all it promises is next time around it’ll be better. I say ‘fuck that.’ God’s given us this life and many people waste time praying to false idols.

The first time I heard the noisy mantra “Black Smoke Rises,” its gut-wrenching intensity lost me. Now it’s my favorite track.

 

That’s what we were hoping for. Honestly, it’s my favorite. We weed out the people who are really into the album and are not just in it for fun. It’s not easy to digest. Oktopus composed the music almost entirely. He was keeping that track from me because he didn’t think it was right for the album. I said, “what are you kidding me?”

Do you get into free Jazz?

 

No doubt. Ornette Coleman. Don Cherry. We worked with William Hooker and did 3 to 4 songs with him. We were part of his ensemble and recorded a live Knitting Factory show yet to be released. He was on drums conducting. Oktopus was on MPC and laptop. Still was on turntables and delay pedals and Mark Hennen on piano. Being around those musicians was insane for me.

Do you collect vintage vinyl?

 

No. But my friend bought a Charles Mingus record put out on his own label. Mingus’ house had burnt down so he only made a hundred copies and there was a hand written letter inside asking for money. He has it framed and paid like $600 for it.

Give me some information about the MPC3000?

 

It could be considered hip-hop musicians’ guitar. It’s a sampling drum machine. You could sample anything on to it and compose cold tracks. We also use computer-based software and I have a studio full of old samplers I’ve picked up. So we have quite an arsenal. We’ve taken sounds from everywhere. Just like you could record an entire guitar album without getting repetitive, you could manipulate the MPC much the same way.

HERCULES’ LOVE AFFAIR DANCES TO THE TOP

Interviews
 

 

First, ancient Greek drama gave us Hercules, the courageous mortal-turned-God. And now, hundreds of centuries later, a non-ancestral Colorado-raised impresario using the same handle currently dominates America’s sullied dance floors. As the reluctant brainchild steadying Hercules And Love Affair’s self-titled debut (DFA Records), techno warrior Andrew Butler has risen out of the windswept Southwest plains to acquire exalted club status in the Big Apple.

 

Encouraged by a teacher to do notation, Butler began constructing Classical piano-based compositions at a formative stage. At age twelve, the green pre-teen maestro purportedly discovered electronic music through Yaz’s ’82 new wave/disco smash, “Situation.” Soulfully sung by compelling British singer, Alison Moyet, its sleek flashiness and debonair seduction totally inspired the young obsessive musical architect. He became doggedly determined to streamline “Situation’s” luxurious New Romantic synth-pop extravagance.

Butler surmises, “I was writing in an academic setting for personal fulfillment. But this is the first time I released music I wrote. The Classical pieces I wrote at age twelve are probably in my mother’s Denver storage bin. They were done in teen handwriting as dear, sweet romantic music.”

Before putting together Hercules And Love Affair, Butler gained a solid reputation as one of Denver’s most respected club DJ’s, experimenting with synthesizers and getting fully into dance music. Although he still enjoyed the nightlife, he temporarily shifted focus away from the discotheques and back towards classical arts during his tenure at Manhattan’s prestigious Sarah Lawrence College.

He adds, “I’ve also explored some minimalist art music in the past two years and I’m interested in that as well as softer music styles. Probably some of that will surface on record sooner or later.”

While living in New York City, Butler befriended Hawaiian-born jewelry designing acid house DJ Kim Ann Foxman (hostess of lesbian nightclub soiree Mad Clams at the Hole). Eventually, Antony Hegarty (of renowned transgendered glam mopers Antony & the Johnsons) and native New York singer Nomi Ruiz got acquainted and these colorful pals helped conceive Hercules And Love Affair. Butler swears he knew Foxman was “on the same page aesthetically” from the get go. And he quickly realized Nomi’s positively illuminating voice was a stunningly radiant asset uncannily reminiscent of Moyet’s crystalline alto.

Butler reflects, “Going into the studio with Antony, we both loved Alison Moyet and that type of angelic singing. There’s so much pain and so many Blues in there. Alison Moyet, Kate Bush, Elisabeth Fraser of the Cocteau Twins, and even Sinead O’Connor have strong female voices – a gutsy soulful quality. I was excited to work with Nomi. She delivers the words like a more traditional Rhythm & Blues diva.”

A large coterie of house music denizens sniffed out the 12″ version of exotic electromagnetic mantra, “Classique #2,” prior to it being featured in long-play form. On it, Foxman infrequently inquires ‘do you really want me?’ in a recurring sultry soprano left floating inside the heavily cadenced beat-driven theatrics.

“When I went to make the record, I was interested in the words Classical and classic; classic dance music; a canon of dance. I looked to the past thirty years and pinpointed the music that was classic. That got coupled and paired with all this classical imagery. Call it Classical Grease,” he snickers. “There were all these long-named bands in the ‘70s – Crown Heights Affair and Love Unlimited Orchestra. Similarly, I thought Hercules And Love Affair had a nice ring to it. It’s referencing the mythological character Hercules, the one who’d traveled with Jason & the Argonauts. I just wanted to come up with a name that was evocative of that and rooted in the same story and meant to be something bigger.”

Benefiting greatly from his past occupation as a noteworthy participant in the thriving ‘90s Denver dance scene, Butler seemed destined to carved out his own retro-fashioned niche. Wholly appreciative of the trendy cross-pollinated bicoastal sounds other contemporaries shared, he then tried to combine these styles in a fascinatingly vogue manner while serving as a teen DJ living just east of the Rocky Mountains.

“It was like West Coast rave and the warehouse scene relating to Chicago and Minneapolis merging. They all had interesting nightlife,” he recalls. “Denver attracted West Coast DJ’s like (revered house legend) Doc Martin. Chicago’s house music scene came through. We were perfectly situated.”

Butler’s ever-changing aggregate of touring members provided flexibility in the past, but he believes future creative endeavors may be done with a stabilized lineup. He thinks some people will stay, others leave, though he’s not specific. But he insists there’ll be a freedom in terms of players and music itself. Such autonomy draws parallels with distinguished drum ‘n bass assemblage Roni Size & Reprazent, whose peerless ’97 album, New Forms, was a monumental achievement perhaps only one ‘jungle’ step removed from Hercules’ less funky Love Affair. In fact, Butler confesses having a soft spot for analogous Bristol-based trip-hop combos such as Massive Attack and Portishead.

Whether playing orchestral director on horn-speckled Philly soul-derived instrumental, “Hercules Theme,” or lending his monotone half-spoken come-hither baritone to alluring reverie, “This Is My Love,” Butler’s constantly in charge of Hercules And Love Affair’s sizzling eponymous entree. But he’s not afraid to shine the spotlight on an equally impressive array of comrades. On top of those mentioned, it’d be difficult to dismiss co-producer Tim Goldsworthy, another New York City immigrant, brought onboard as drum programmer. A renowned British DJ, Goldsworthy has lent his percussive skills to (DFA Records co-founder) James Murphy’s awesome LCD Soundsystem projects as well as James Lavelle’s alien cinematic crew UNKLE.

But inarguably the biggest draw in Hercules’ studio stable is unconventional underground celebrity, Antony, whose darkly reflective quaver brings melancholic eloquence to lilting opener, “Time Will.” His velvety androgynous tenor also buttresses “Blind,” a disco-beaten rumba given a snazzy treatment suggestive of Patrick Hernandez’s bustling ’78 dancehall hip-shaker “Born To Be Alive.” Its engrossing horn-ridged bass-boomed orchestration compares favorably to an innovative disco icon Butler holds in high regard – Italian techno-pop pioneer Giorgio Moroder, a forward-thinking producer whose clever manipulation of electronic studio gear, tape-looping machinery, and Epicurean faux-string adaptations preconceived the entire ‘80s club landscape that followed. He continues to be emulated by enthused modern day maestros. The bleating, bleeping, and braying intonations securing “Classique #2” edge close to the ample sidelong suites Moroder inaugurated for libidinous black diva, Donna Summer, disco’s primary glamour goddess.

Yet Butler shrugs off the thought of any thematic conception being put in place for Hercules entirety.

“I wrote a lot of the pieces isolated from each other,” he digresses. “But just the fact I’m penning the lyrics gives it a thematic subtext. However, some people said the last part of the LP dragged.”

While the easier-to-grasp hook-filled tunes strengthening Hercules front load score higher than the gratuitously noir-ish backend retreats, the expansive retro-futuristic experimental jams at album’s end do at least create an irrepressible rudimentary groove. Still, it’s hard not to be more impressed with the dazzling three-four punch of “You Belong” and “Athene.” The former features Nomi’s fluctuant scale-bending vocal scheme weaving in and out of a syncopated rhythm and the latter finds Foxman, setback in the mix, simmering invariably through a pleasingly percolating percussive pulse.

It’d be cool if Hercules & Love Affair hooked up with Heloise & the Savoir Faire, another ace New York City retro-dance combo. Both wordily designated outfits not only have an accessible dance rock tangent, but also a link to flaxen post-punk idol, Deborah Harry (of Blondie fame), who rapped on a few Heloise tracks and invited Nomi to sing backup on her latest solo album. So let’s hope for a future Hercules-Heloise-Harry midnight gala. That’d be special enough for any Greek God to venture down from Mount Olympus and attend. Until then…

THE WEEK THAT WAS COMES AND GOES

Interviews

Taking their sloganeering moniker from a satirical ‘60s British newsreel hosted by David Frost (who was recently popularized in acclaimed Frost-Nixon movie), The Week That Was is the outstanding offshoot project of Field Music co-founder Peter Brewis. A former drummer in quirky indie-pop enthusiasts, the Futureheads, the 31-year-old Sunderland native grew up just outside England’s historic harbored metropolis, Newcastle, listening to his parents’ Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin, Police, and Peter Gabriel albums as an impressionable youngster.

As the sole musical architecture of The Week That Was, Brewis has created an episodic orchestral suite in which he appropriates Stravinsky’s thematic classical provocations, Van Dyke Parks’ skewed pop idiosyncrasies, and Left Banke’s oblique psychedelic tranquility. Making what may be deemed ‘magical outsider art,’ he has moved beyond ma and pa’s efficient album collection and away from Field Music’s somewhat rockier guitar-based purges with The Week That Was. Darkly illuminating piano embellishments, eloquently detailed violin and cello anesthetics, plus recurring Oriental-styled gamelan and marimba ornamentation secure Brewis’ resourceful dramatic musings.

 

“There are many variations upon the melancholy theme,” the cautiously conferring Brewis submits. “All of the songs are about missing certain things, whether it be people or things you’re used to, like voices on the radio and t.v. The songs imagine if a certain thing wasn’t there. I try to put myself into different frames of mind like I’m a character – which I don’t do in Field Music.”

Auspiciously, Field Music remains an ongoing priority partnering Brewis with his brother, David (currently promoting stripped down ‘freak pop’ combo, School Of Language), and school pal Andrew Moore (keyboards), but has been left to simmer while each brother concentrates on separate endeavors. The amicable trio’s eponymous ’05 debut and its improved ’07 Towns On Town follow-up camouflaged deceptive cheerfulness with substantive grief, using intricate pop constructions to get aggrieved messages across.

“On our first Field Music album, I guess we tried to figure out a way of creating language for ourselves through the music we knew and experimented with,” Brewis presumes. “It has a dry, clinical sound, but was quite nice in a nostalgic way. The second has a more luscious sound. It was done democratically and was concise in a non-conventional way. Then, when Dave and I wanted to do something outside of Field Music, I started The Week That Was.”

Using a laptop as a compositional tool to arrange songs, Brewis began navigating through material selected for his succinct one-off undertaking. On the resulting self-titled The Week That Was entree, he drapes debonair baritone sweetness atop duskily contemplative abstractions, fashioning an ambitiously symphonic allegory. On the album’s proverbial ‘stress track,’ an old school ‘50s-dated black-and-white video affixes itself to the sweeping Industrial-bound marimba-imbued bass-drummed gauntlet, “Learn To Learn.”

Brewis contends, “Sonically, that was meant to be placed in the past. I wanted a big feel for the “Learn To Learn” video. There were some free black-and-white videos that fit the idea of a very domineering classroom feel. Like one grade school teacher told me, ‘You’ll be taught how to learn and it’ll be what the teachers decide.’”

Although leftfield comparisons to Pink Floyd’s similarly sullen schoolmaster scheme in The Wall are tangible, there’s a warmer solace inundating Brewis’ mannerly homecoming travelogues and chilly neo-Classical road odes. So, unlike that conjectured prog-rock masterwork, instead of getting caught up in any real interrogative didacticism or fascist manifestos, Brewis projects lonesome anguish, delighting in caliginous meditative moodiness. Suspenseful rain-dropped piano clusters and harpsichord flutters deluge the rat-a-tat rhythmic pulse fastening the dawdling “The Airport Line,” a reflective elegy yellowing “Yesterday’s Paper” and supervening the ‘daily grind’ of Beach Boys-harmonized synthesizer-textured madrigal, “The Story Waits For No One.” Hazy narcotic enchantment, “The Good Life,” peppers prodding rhythms through its mannered baroque slipstream.

“I enjoy things that are harmonically different – not always major and minor chords. Duke Ellington provides nice fertile ground to get ideas from. I can’t play his hot tempo stuff. It’s too difficult. But Ellington stole from Orientalism and that may have some bearing on the album,” Brewis explains before adding, “I don’t listen to much contemporary music. But the album’s I do like have a certain flow, sometimes narrative, unlike John Coltrane improvisations.”

He also admits that a ripened absurdist Brooklyn-based novelist proved to be a valuable source of inspiration for the expressive versifying drafted onto the indelible The Week That Was.

“I wrote lyrics when I was reading Paul Auster books. I probably appropriated some catch-phrases from his mystery crime fiction.”

Despite being unable to furnish a string section for US touring, Brewis should feel safe as home with his brother and two chummy bass-drum cohorts lending a hand. He claims they’ve responded superbly, giving a wider dynamic muscularity to each and every tune.

“My brother did the most to help. He’s the only person left in the band (from the original studio sessions). It was a totalitarian record,” Brewis laughingly quips. “On tour we’ll bring a basic quartet. Two other friends who have helped us out for fives months and toured Europe are coming to the States. That will close the chapter on The Week That Was. It was an intense record, lots of pressure.” He then jokingly concedes, “I wanna be in a democracy again.”

As for his upcoming Mercury Lounge show in New York, March 9th, Brewis says, “We did a gig as Field Music there in the recent past. I’m gonna play The Week That Was in its entirety and then probably a few other songs. We don’t want to overstay our welcome so we’ll do 30-minutes.”

TK WEBB’S VISIONS BOLSTER ‘ANCESTOR’

Interviews

Presumably on a whim, singer-guitarist TK Webb came to New York City looking for exposure. But whether the Kansas City, Missouri, native really landed in the Big Apple due to “lack of a better idea” or just because he sought to be a part of its vital music scene could be debated. What is known is the promising Midwesterner originally performed solo acoustic sets at small Brooklyn lofts but soon found himself “surrounded by bland half-baked folk acts.”

Shortly thereafter, the burgeoning Webb threw together some initial four-track demos for someone working at Vice Magazine who failed to launch the record label she intended to inaugurate. Those inauspicious tracks were then assembled as The Ungodly Hours, a self-released debut that’d lead to the two-tracked-to-one-inch-tape sessions for KCK, a forlorn homage to Kansas City, Kansas, done in a proper studio over a long weekend. Signed to ambitious boutique label, The Social Registry, Webb would go on to sell a few thousand copies of KCK to loyal followers.

 

Exploring the options of working with a fulltime band, Webb drafted Blood On The Wall vocalist-bassist Courtney Shanks and keyboardist Jared Eggers for his next undertaking, ‘07s Phantom Parade, receiving critical praise for its drowsy stoner Blues mantras.

Given a chance to constructively collaborate, Webb quickly blew off his one-man band days when finding the right audience wasn’t always easy to locate. Though desolate and less dynamic than his forthcoming project with a stable group of musicians, Phantom Parade found the young troubadour plying formative folk-rooted inspiration to ten originals. Webb had inherited many traditional Delta Blues recordings during his late teens and these historic documents greatly inform his six-string technique.

He admits, “Stuff like that struck close to the bone. As a guitar player, I thought I could naturally play the Blues, which isn’t really that normal for a weird white kid from the suburbs, but…”

Many of Phantom Parade’s best moments rely on the coffeehouse folk inflections of veteran outré stylists such as cigarette-stained baritone John Prine and warbled crooner Tom Waits. Then again, the ponderous dual guitar clang of “Which Witch” replicates early Velvet Underground via “Heroin.” In the same ‘vain,’ the slower “You Got Faded” tones down the VU beat and relies on a single honey-dripped guitar figure for a hazier narcotic trip. Webb eventually breaks out a harmonica to give a proper archaic feel to the train-whistled Depression Era Blues redux, “Wet Eye’d Morn.”

True, Webb’s primordial indoctrination to the Blues affects the majority of his compositional undertakings. But he didn’t quite come out of the cradle singing gritty Leadbelly standards or faithful Jordanaires spirituals. Though his mother listened to Elvis Presley and Gospel, he spurned those lofty musical beacons as an impressionable pre-teen.

“At the time, I thought that shit was hideous. Obviously, that’s not how I feel about it now.” He continues, “Then, my big brother gave me a bunch of Led Zeppelin tapes and we pilfered this Hammer Of The Gods Zeppelin story from my buddy’s weird junkie sister. I could barley read at age nine. But that shit was rad. I started playing guitar with neighborhood kids.”

Coming back even stronger on ‘08s Ancestor, and supplanted with his first fulltime band, TK Webb & The Visions upped the energy level, tightened the crisply rendered arrangements, and forged a well designed cryptic model.

Gathering ex-Love As Laughter guitarist Brian Hale, bassist Jordan Gable, and drummer Ben Mc Connell (replaced by Nic Gonzalez, a trailer-parked West Virginian who’d handling chores for Philly-DC outfits), Webb has now permanently left behind Brooklyn’s self-righteous neo-folk ghetto.

“Well. The band happened because someone asked to be in the band and I finally found the right dudes to work with,” Webb says. “It got really odious to be like ‘Oh cool man, we’re gonna play in this loft. You guys are fucking hippies.’ No. They’re not. They’re fucking zeros. Just because you can afford an acoustic guitar doesn’t mean you could make me listen to you play it. There weren’t a lot of options as far as different people to play with at the time. Hopefully, when I go out there we’re playing something a little more genuine that people could dig into.”

Ancestor’s cover art depicts a giant Gothic doorway with sun peering beyond its arched dome, a simulated gateway to shadowy enlightenment, perhaps. Inside its musical portal lies a slew of disoriented delusional threnodies and discordantly desiccated moodscapes. In accordance, adverse spoken verses probe an unsettled existence on the commencing slide guitar-shredded psychedelically-illuminated glam-rock slumber, “Teen Is Still Shaking.”

“That’s probably one of my favorite songs on the album, especially lyrically. It doesn’t really tell a story. But it’s a mixed bag of shit,” Webb offers without going too deep. “It’s about the shit I think of when I wake up in the morning.”

Meanwhile, ominous eight-minute epic, “God Bless The Little Angels,” goes from doom metal flurry to lurking death march until Webb’s droll vocals show up and outline a bleak divinity.

He suggests, “That’s a complaining song, like, ‘Oh God. Get me out of here. I have to do this again today!’ Especially in New York City, you might feel like someone hit you with a car. You’re chomping at the bit. It seems claustrophobic.”

An insomniac’s late night contusion, “Closed Caption Slang” could be mistaken for Drive-By Truckers’ gloomier exploits, as could the downtrodden “Hope You All Are Gone,” which forfeits its inceptive six-string uplift for an oncoming gray-clouded disenchantment consuming Webb’s otherwise sanguine utterance of ‘Don’t worry baby/ trouble won’t last forever.’

“There’s some gnarly stuff exposed,” Webb ascertains. “That’s what music’s for. So you could get feelings out of the way instead of yelling at some guy about it.”

At times, Webb’s hot combo wittingly (or unwittingly) revisits ‘60s/’70s hard rock abstractions while staking claim in the blues-rock future. The fuzz-toned guitar break from the punchy “Year 33” emulates Ted Nugent & the Amboy Dukes while the buzzing axes battling inside the stoner rock template of “Shame” formulate a sort of Black Sabbath-seared Blue Oyster Cult-laminated laceration. Interestingly, an attenuated stoicism envelops “1,000 Horns,” an ostensible Phantom Parade holdover, at least in terms of gaunt execution.

Webb denies writing within a strict thematic framework for Ancestor, explaining, “It’s a group of songs. I always loved albums that came from a certain point where you could say, ‘Obviously this dude got freaked out within the matter of six months, wrote a bunch of songs, then got a snapshot of what took place and after a couple weeks of recording, it’s out there.’ Then, he’s onto his next divorce or whatever happens and makes the next record.”

Displaying forceful conviction and unfailing teamwork at notable Manhattan club, Bowery Ballroom, mid-September, the perspiring longhaired cohorts tore it up – whether delving into yowling Southern Blues, snarling howled rockers, or sparer downbeat retrenchments. Webb’s starkly provocative narratives and intermittent harmonica gusts innervated his darkest vestiges.

Before leaving Webb backstage prior to his bands’ gratifying 45-minute set, he shares one final thought. “There’s great camaraderie within the Visions. It’s family styled. Our band isn’t ruled by me with an iron fist. These guys all have input. After years of feeling like I was beating the same dead horse, I just wanted to change. There’ll be plenty of time to play the Blues straight when I get old – God willing.”

I jokingly query, “You mean you don’t wanna die before you get old like The Who’s “My Generation” insisted?”

Webb counters, “No way. Fuck that!”

 

 

DYNAMIC PHILLY DUO GAMBLE & HUFF GET ABOARD ‘LOVE TRAIN’

Interviews,

 

Let’s go back to a different time when vinyl singles’ sales were the barometric metier judging most popular artists’ mainstream success. It was an era, nearly forty years removed from the modern internet age, when composers and arrangers still constructed tunes for various singing groups, the way Motown did it in the ‘60s and Jazz artists had done prior to the dawn of ‘50s rock and roll. Though strict Blues numbers were generally written and performed by the same artist, its more accessible offshoot, Rhythm & Blues, relied on not only the lyrical pen of a songwriter, but the master craftsmanship of an arranger and the interpretive voices who brought the song to life.

And so it was, legendary R & B maestros Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff made their livings as well-conditioned behind-the-scene setup men, providing a Classically trained orchestra for some of the greatest singing groups of all-time during the ‘70s. Just as Motown’s hit singles by the Temptations, Supremes, and Four Tops ruled the ‘60s charts (alongside the Beatles and the Stones), Gamble & Huff’s Philadelphia International Records dominated the ‘70s (beside Elton John, Stevie Wonder, and discotheque music). Directly responsible for igniting the enormously uplifting dancehall fad, known to all as the much-maligned Disco Era, this accomplished dynamic duo then set out to clean up their hometown Philadelphia slums with some of the proceeds received while sitting in the shadows at the top of the musical world.

 

It all began in the early ‘60s, when Camden-born Huff got a job hustling for Johnny Madera & David White’s music firm, playing piano on the Ad Libs posh soul delight “Boy From New York City” and co-composing Patty (LaBelle) & the Emblems’ pining hand-clapped lament, “Mixed Up Shook Up Girl.” While working at the same Manhattan building, Gamble would meet Huff in the elevator, eventually developing a partnered relationship that’d ultimately crown them as the sonic architects of classic Philly soul.

Prior to becoming the foremost stylistic magnates in the City of Brotherly Love, they assembled unified in-house orchestra, MFSB (a.k.a. Mother Father Sister Brother), a robust entourage whose instrumental scores augmented a wide variety of first-rate singers at historic Sigma Sound Studio. Scribe Lynell George called Gamble & Huff’s musical style ‘sweaty, gritty, elegiac, sensual’ in the well-annotated 64-page booklet complementing ‘08s praiseworthy 71-song 4 CD collection, Love Train: The Sound Of Philadelphia. Simply the culmination of all that’s good about doo-wop, smooth Jazz, be-bop, and satiny funk, Love Train holds up well against Stax-Volt Singles and Motown: The Classic Years as a time-honored compendium.

Gamble’s favorite movie, The Glenn Miller Story, celebrating the venerable Swing Jazz bandleader, provided inspiration for prospective enlightenment. Correspondingly, Gamble formed MFSB, an ensemble that quickly became his and Huff’s creative engine for aspiring vocal groups such as the Delfonics, Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, the O’Jays, and dozens more. The pair’s inaugural Top 10 smash was Soul Survivors congested exasperation, “Expressway To Your Heart,” a Rascals/ Righteous Brothers blue-eyed soul knockoff spurred to fruition by Schuylkill Highway’s heavy traffic. An obscure collaborative ’70 album, Gonna Take A Miracle, enjoined reticent white lyricist Laura Nyro with esteemed black songbird Patti LaBelle. Soul legend Jerry Butler’s strapping ’69 anecdote, “Only The Strong Survive,” and Wilson Pickett’s beaming omen, “Don’t Let The Green Grass Fool You,” preceded a string of green-labeled Philadelphia International best-sellers. Commencing with the O’Jays wickedly foreboding ’72 breakthrough, “Back Stabbers,” and moving through to rugged baritone dignitary Teddy Pendergrass’ winsome ’80 confection, “Love TKO,” these were salad days for diehard soul fan.

In between, Gamble & Huff ran boutique labels, scored several gold-selling pop and soul hits, and even taught Michael Jackson some studio tricks that’d help the King Of Pop devise dual masterpieces, Off The Wall and Thriller. Three Degrees’ classy lipstick-traced love trinket, “When Will I See You Again,” broke overseas in Japan, winning the prestigious Tokyo Song Festival before spreading to Europe, topping the British charts, then conquering America. Party jams such as the Jacksons “Enjoy Yourself” and the O’Jays “Livin’ For The Weekend” countered topical civic-minded reflections such as Hrold Melvin & the Blue Notes “Wake Up Everybody.” And everyone sang glory hallelujah for the whole wide world to hear on the O’Jays Gospel treatise, “Put Your Hands Together.”

Ably combining the search for peace with a bright-eyed salutation that stands the test of time as a timeless freedom-ringing testimonial, the O’Jays magnificent “Love Train” needs no introduction (and has none). It starts cold with a cymbal-crashing bass-boomed beat, irresistible symphonic radiance, swooned Moog sway, and sliding hi-hat, then soars to the majestic fraternal order Sly & the Family Stone’s devotional “Everybody Is A Star” and the Beatles lucid “All You Need Is Love” ambitiously achieved previously.

Inspired by ‘60s civil rights marches, activist freedom fighters, and the black nationalism popularized by James Brown’s “Say It Loud, I’m Black And I’m Proud” as well as the Impressions “People Get Ready,” Gamble soon became a noble community leader. All-star charity single, “Let’s Clean Up The Ghetto,” primed Gamble for his extraordinary mission to purify urban domains through schooling and work experience. Gamble bought and restored many condemned and vacant South Philly properties for low-income families, concurrently opening local charter schools.

Gamble humbly explains, “The program we have is centered around education and our slogan is ‘when you know better you can do better.’ Without a great education, you can’t comprehend this environment at all. Be around people who motivate.”

Adds Huff, “Teddy Pendergrass did “You Can’t Hide From Yourself,” pledging how everywhere you go, you are there. You look in the mirror. You can’t run from yourself. There’s issues in the world. Everybody’s gotta do a little. Nobody’s a savior.”

Reecently, Patti LaBelle and singing partners Nona Hendrix and Sarah Dash got together with Gamble & Huff to record earnest melancholy manifesto, “Tears For The World.”

“All the violence in the world makes you wanna cry,” Huff says. “Humans have enough info nowadays to understand war, poverty, and violence should be beneath us. We’re destroying the earth ‘til there’s no air and water. People gotta be more like their maker, more peaceful.”

To mark the release of Love Train: The Sound Of Philadelphia, a same-named two-part PBS special will be aired around Thanksgiving. Featuring Gamble & Huff-related artists such as Jerry Butler, the O’Jays, Delfonics, Intruders, Three Degrees, and MFSB, it was taped at Atlantic City’s Borgata Casino-Hotel for a loving audience.

Peering back, you must be content with the fabulous output you’ve rendered.

 

 

GAMBLE: While we were recording many of these songs, we listened for mistakes from a critical ear. Now I listen to the music we made and just enjoy it. I say, ‘Huff, I can’t believe this record.’ I’ll put on “Love Train” and say, ‘Wow. That’s unbelievable.’ It’s hard to believe we were able to do so much quality music in such a short time.

HUFF: New artists, I guess they’re writing from their own experiences like we were back then. They’re reflecting on the world they’re living in.

Do you feel there are a lack of topnotch vocalists these days?

 

 

GAMBLE: I’m not gonna condemn today’s singers but there’s a difference – Gladys Knight, Aretha Franklin. Do you see another Wilson Pickett on the horizon who could scream? I don’t know. We were fortunate to work with some of the best singers the music biz had to offer – Jerry Butler, Dusty Springfield. We produced a Nancy Wilson album that’s one of my favorites. Singers like Teddy Pendergrass, Eddie Levert, Walter Williams – there’s no comparison.

It’s hard to beat the warmth of Gamble-Huff orchestrations with sampler machines.

 

 

HUFF: You can never top the human factor. There’s nothing like being in the studio with a live guitarist and drummer. It’s a stroke of genius how they produce records today. But I’m glad I experienced in my time, as a pianist, performing with a live band. Can’t beat it. It don’t have the same dramatics now. That machine just drones along. With live musicians, you have all these dynamics.

GAMBLE: Plus, the records we did, there were certain elements you can’t have with machines. People worked so hard they’d be sweating. The biggest thing you had were mistakes that may come and you say, ‘leave it like that ‘cause you could never do it again.’ It’s the human factor that makes our music harmonize with your body. A lot of today’s music, you could put a drum machine on, fly to London, and the drum machine’s playing the same thing. There’s nothing like a live drum fill.

HUFF: I still love the new music. Young guys sample a lot of our music. We appreciate them. It keeps us current in the business and shows us they really listen to our music.

GAMBLE: But do you think they could’ve produced a record like “Me & Mrs. Jones” with a machine?

When “Me & Mrs. Jones” came out, I never thought it’d appeal to the mass public. Billy Paul’s wailing bellow had a novelty-like quality that surged far beyond the plush string arrangement.  

HUFF: I’m with you. I was in the studio listening to playback. It was so different. The orchestration was much more Jazz since Billy was a Jazz artist. That’s his roots. But it was a different type of production. It didn’t strike me immediately like Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes’ “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.” It had a different feel.

GAMBLE: What made that such a hit was the story was real. People related to it. I knew it was a hit before it was released. Billy played it at a small Philly club, The First Nighter, which held 150 people. He performed one night and did “Me & Mrs. Jones” and turned the place out. Nobody heard it before and he had to play it two times people loved it so much.

Russell Thompkins, Jr. of the Stylistics had a gorgeous bell-toned falsetto captured brilliantly by your associate Thom Bell.

 

 

HUFF: Thom Bell and Linda Creed wrote all their songs. Hugo & Luigi owned their label, Avco. Now there’s two different Stylistics touring overseas.

GAMBLE: Russell had a distinctive voice. I remember listening to the Stylistics first single, “She’s A Big Girl Now,” and being impressed.

Phillipe Wynne of the Spinners, on the other hand, had a flexible freestyle bari-tenor approach that indirectly affected rap.

 

 

HUFF: He ranks up at the top. Not only was he a great recording artist, but also a great performer. People loved him. He had a lot of energy. His life came to an end too soon. He had tremendous potential. Thom struck a groove with the Spinners.

My favorite albums Gamble & Huff produced were the O’Jays Ship Ahoy and Spinners Pick Of The Litter. What’s one of yours?

 

 

GAMBLE: Unmistakably Lou by Lou Rawls. “Lady Love” and “Groovy People” were real good for Lou’s comeback. Getting back to the track, “Ship Ahoy,” through the sound affects you could almost feel the struggle, agony, and pain people on slave ships had on Atlantic journeys. That arrangement was a challenge.

The famous rap term ‘gangster lean’ was actually first used in William De Vaughn’s one big hit, “Be Thankful For What You Got.”

 

 

HUFF: Right. ‘Diggin’ the scene where the gangster lean.’

You prefigured the shuffling disco beat that would sweep ‘70s America with the Trammps “Where Do We Go From Here,” predated only by Hues Corporation’s hip-shaking aversion “Rock The Boat” and Ohio Players slinky “Skin Tight.”

 

 

GAMBLE: They were on Golden Fleece Records. That was part of our Philly group of labels – TSOP, Tommy, Gamble.

Gamble Records released the greatest Mother’s Day song ever, the Intruders fervent childhood reminiscence, “I’ll Always Love My Mama.”

 

 

GAMBLE: It’s a classic. Those kinds of songs will be around forever.

Was it difficult assembling the MFSB orchestra for studio rehearsals?

 

 

GAMBLE: No. They looked forward to coming in the studio. It’s funny. Most of the string players were in the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. They were playing Bach and Beethoven to “Love Train.” Same musicians, but none of our artists sounded the same. Jerry Butler didn’t sound like Lou Rawls and Harold Melvin’s Blue Notes didn’t sound like the O’Jays. There was a range of styles, grooves, arrangements, angles, and a wealth of ideas. Yet we had the same ingredients and same studio. We even had a #1 LP with the MFSB orchestra and “T.S.O.P.” became Soul Train’s theme. Ballads, cha-cha’s, uptempo music, I used to go to ‘70s discos just to watch people dance to that music. It amazed me how we did so many styles.

“Bad Luck” was one of disco’s earliest creations. Sociopolitical ballad “Wake Up Everybody,” also a hit for Melvin’s Blue Notes, came later. Both were written by the relatively unknown, Victor Carstarphen.

 

 

HUFF: Victor grew up in Camden where I lived. I knew him since he was pre-teen. I told Victor to come over and work with Mc Fadden & Whitehead (of “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” fame), who were looking for a pianist. He’s a very talented keyboardist who’s been in the Trammps road band for years.

A few black ‘70s girl groups copied Gamble & Huff’s studio styling – First Choice and Ecstasy Passion & Pain.

 

 

HUFF: I think with First Choice, some people from our band, like Norman Harris, produced them and used some of our ingredients – “Armed & Extremely Dangerous.” They were good. Norman and them may’ve done Ecstacy Passion & Pain’s “Ask Me.”

“Love Train” blasts off curtly. Did the band have to play a section of music before tapes rolled to get that song chugging along so instantaneously?

 

 

GAMBLE: No. There was a count off then everyone came in. The most important part of the production is the introduction. We were very serious about the intro. That’s when you put the needle on the record. You gotta capture a persons’ attention from the beginning, capture the imagination of radio programmers. I got about 40 seconds to knock him out. Ten to twelve seconds for intro, another ten for the hook, and another ten or so for the first verse. If you don’t have him by then, the record’s gonna go in the trashcan.

Leon Huff’s dancefloor masterpiece “I Ain’t Jivin’ I’m Jammin’” seemed based on the lurking piano rhythm bottoming Johnnie Taylor’s divorce-crossed “Cheaper To Keep Her.”

 

 

HUFF: When I was doing that record, I wasn’t thinking ‘bout that. That was spontaneous. I told the musicians to follow me on upright bass and drums. That record just kept growing. They’re still dancing to it. It’s big in dancehalls where they do line dancing.

Joe Simon’s hauntingly grieved, gruff-voiced “Drowning In The Sea Of Love” appears on Love Train. I didn’t know Gamble & Huff had an association with Spring Records.  

GAMBLE: Not only did we write and produce it, me, Huff, and Bunny Sigler sing on it. Spring was a label run by Roy and Julie Rifkin. They were our friends we’d see in New York. They asked us to cut Joe Simon. We did “Power Of Love,” too. That doesn’t appear on this compilation. That’ll be on our next comp. (laughter) Joe Simon was a helluva singer. He’s doing Gospel now. He could’ve been an opera singer.

How come Gamble & Huff didn’t hook up with Spring’s bawdy rap progenitor, Millie Jackson?

 

 

GAMBLE: I think she had her own li’l crew. Plus, we weren’t trying to do a lot of independent stuff because once we got our own label, that’s what we concentrated on. It gave us autonomy. We could pick singles without third party A& R men.

Going back to ’63, Leon Huff did keyboards for Candy & the Kisses little-known dance-crazed ditty, “The 81.”

 

 

GAMBLE: That’s the first record me and Huff worked on together! I hired Huff as a studio musician. I was working with Jerry Ross. Ross was a writer-producer who’d done the Sapphires “Who Do You Love” with me. He had the Dreamlovers “When We Get Married,” his own label, Heritage Records, then went to MGM and started Collosus Records (Tee Set’s “Ma Belle Amie” and Shocking Blue’s “Venus” were hits). He did Jay & the Techniques “Apples Peaches Pumpkin Pie” and “Keep The Ball Rollin.’” He was also an A & R man for Mercury. That’s how me and Huff got in there to record Dee Dee Warwicke’s “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me.” He also produced Jerry Butler. That’s how we got to cut him. Anyway, we wrote “The 81” and Huff did the B-side, “Two Happy People.”

HUFF: “The 81” was a helluva groove, wasn’t it? Those girls were from Brooklyn.

Unlike Motown big wig Berry Gordy, who influenced Gamble & Huff’s production technique, your artists were given proper royalties.

 

 

GAMBLE: We tried to be examples ourselves. Be conservative and keep in mind we know from past experiences nothing lasts forever.

HUFF: Pay your taxes. Read the contract. A lot of musicians are so anxious to make a record they forget to read the contract.

– John Fortunato

BLITZEN TRAPPER GO PASTOR ‘FURR’

Interviews

OK. The headline is an old joke concerning a pastor’s member going ‘past her fur,’ if you get my meaning, if you catch my drift. All kidding aside, Blitzen Trapper’s psych-folk sound embodies a modicum of religiosity. After all, leader Eric Earley met fellow guitarist Marty Marquis at Covenant College, a Presbyterian school in Georgia. Plus, Marquis admits his father, an actor, listened to church music as well as AM Top 40 and show tunes. Besides, it may be a stretch, but the eerie “God + Suicide” seems to hit upon misbegotten spirituality.

 

“That’s a subject that’s important for all-time, like love, death, and nature,” Earley confides.

Marquis concedes, “Faith has a broad influence in American society. Kids brought up in the church get imprinted with that. On our records, Eric makes it his own. But I don’t think he used any institutional alliance. It’s just one person’s way of understanding America’s religious heritage.”

It’s true. A certain pietistic solemnity slips into various secular tunes on Blitzen Trapper’s kaleidoscopic fourth album, Furr (Sub Pop). Though taking more inspiration from elder statesman, Bob Dylan, and the timeless folk tradition, this countrified Portland quintet take that acoustic heritage in unexpected directions without losing topical focus or abandoning general indoctrinated themes.

Many specific reference points get blurred moving beyond mere archival reverence, but Blitzen Trapper surely wear their influential vestiges well. Whereas the teenaged Marquis worshipped the Beatles, an apparent source for his troupe’s musical leanings, Earley discovered John Denver, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, and bluegrass through his father. Constructing sweetly artful indie pop from a stripped-down rural Americana foundation stretching back to the Great Depression may’ve been less effectual had these reluctant hipsters, except Marquis, not grown up in the formerly agrarian confines of Salem, Oregon.

“We’re Salem natives,” Earley concurs. “It was like any other American po-dunk place. Growing up, there were farms, now there’s strip malls, Wal-Mart, and no city center. We got out as fast as we could.”

On Furr, these congenial northwestern pals put their best foot forward on infectious soul-drenched mini-opus, “Sleepytime In The Western World,” grafting The Band’s “Up On Cripple Creek” organ motif to mid-period Beatles guitar fills and tremolo bass, coming up with a cacophonous glam-affected “Eight Miles High” swirl perfect for sunset.

“That’s actually a song within a song. It drops down into a dreamy story,” grants Earley.

Nearly as complex and just as hooky, “Gold For Bread” takes broken-down suburban Blues on an upward pre-choral electro-guitar ride.

Earley laughs, then states, “Everybody describes my stuff differently. At this point in rock, the Beatles and Byrds are so ingrained those come out without us thinking about it. If you worked at a pizza parlor or corner store, that was on the radio or at dances. It’s easy for us to mix that in with all the new directions in musical progression. Beck’s early records blended folk with hip-hop and soul. I think you have to be literate in the history of rock if you want to make something true nowadays. If not, it may lack substance or familiarity.”

Easy flowing title track, “Furr,” perhaps an appellation combining a bear’s burr with its craved prey’s fur, serves as an adolescents’ campfire retreat that’d fit alongside Conor Oberst and Iron & Wine’s best soliloquized mementos. Then again, Earley’s high-pitched harmonica dupes Dylan and moreover, his breezily understated vocal detachment and murky self-examination recalls shy heroin-addled suicide victim, Elliott Smith.

Earley doesn’t disagree with this blown-up assessment, yet disputes claims concerning post-grunge neo-folk luminary Smith’s self-inflicted stab wounds. “Did he kill himself? That’s questionable.”

What’s not disputable is the literary sway Earley’s songwriting, and taciturnly, contemporary Portland peers such as Stephen Malkmus, the Decemberists, and Modest Mouse, luminously reflects. Western sci-fi and respected American authors such as Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Mc Carthy occupy a special place in his heart.

Earley quips, “It rains a lot in Portland. We’ve got tons of time to read – with few distractions. But most people emigrate here.”

Setting up shop at the turn of the 21st century, Blitzen Trapper, filled out by tight brethren Erik Menteer (Moog-guitar), Drew Laughery (keys), Michael Van Pelt (bass), and Brian Koch (drums), create what’s been described as an ‘eccentric mosaic’ of country waltzes, folk ballads, and freaky experiments. They record in an old Willamette River building at Sally Mack’s School of Dance, using an ad hoc studio and cheap gear. Weighing heavy on their choice of space are elements of comfort and informality.

“Our first self-titled album was a compilation of music that came before. It’s not that cohesive and the music’s not that good. There are a few songs I really like, though,” Earley explains. “The second one, Field Rexx, is like the beginning of lo-fi folk rock while Wild Mountain Nation is the culmination and did real good. Furr is more hi-fi and consistent as far as the sound goes, but probably not the style of the songs. People think it jumps around quite a bit. But it’s all-American music at heart.”

Wild Mountain Nation gave ‘em a radically ambitious breakthrough. “Devils A Go-Go” mingles complicated Beefheart spasms, choppy deconstructed rhythms, and fracturing guitar splinters onward towards its sunny climactic vista. Contrasting this somewhat unconventional opener is the title track’s country bumpkin rural escapism and the melodic piano appeasement, “Futures & Folly.”

But ultimately, as the distortion-pedaled static-doused rummage “Miss Spiritual Tramp” proves, the decision to stay ‘wild’ inside this ‘mountain nation’ outdoes any notion of tangible roots-based connectivity. Offering further evidence, the euphonious bleating sound waves usurping “Sci-Fi Kid” suggests a zany Zappa zestfulness. On the other hand, dulcet flute and earthy harmonica ensure pastoral retrenchment, “Summer Town,” while honeyed steel licks and an acoustic fireside chorus saddle “Country Caravan.” It’s when they go straight down the middle and try their hand at power pop that the results benefit both countrified minions and hardened experimentalists alike. At least that’s the case with “The Green King Sings,” a fairly perplexing dual axe hoedown loosely reminiscent of underground ‘70s legends Big Star until its molten meltdown.

It’s this apparent yin and yang approach that unfailingly consumes Blitzen Trapper. Don’t put any pigeonholed tags on them or suffer the consequences. Musically advanced, conscientiously aware, and loaded with boundless apparitions, the defiant sextet are absolutely unapologetic in respect to the tangled webs they weave.

Earley concludes, “I hate doing the same thing twice.”

 

MEMPHIS SOUL LEGEND AL GREEN COMES TO MONTCLAIR

Interviews

Veteran Soul Star Finally Getting His Dues

FOREWORD: I was supposed to do a phone interview with Al Green while he was in Europe and I was vacationing in Naples, Florida. It never happened. But I got to take my parents and wife to Montclair’s Wellmont Theatre to catch the living legend doing his thing in December ‘08. That’ll have to suffice. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

In my estimation, the greatest male soul singers propelling the creative early ‘70s peak period were Stevie Wonder, Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, Phillipe Wynne (of the Spinners), and arguably the best of ‘em all, Arkansas native Al Green. During that highly competitive era, pop and soul radio stations couldn’t stop playing the sensitively romantic Rhythm & Blues numbers Green laid down for Memphis-based indie label, Hi Records.

But Green and Wynne never became as recognizable as the first four listed household names, possibly because they didn’t have identifiably nostalgic ‘60s backgrounds. Yet alongside Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Nat King Cole, Green is an undeniable world class majestic crooner.

 

Initially, the future Reverend recorded ‘67s wholly derivative Back Up Train for Bell Records at age 21. Overly reliant on older stylists and produced by songwriting high school chums, Palmer James and Curtis Rodgers, the soon-to-be-esteemed minstrel unfurled urbanized James Brown funk, “Shout”-clipped Isley Brothers gunk, hedonistic Marvin Gaye spunk, and tentative Sam Cooke junk. He hadn’t yet found his true inner voice. Yet his free-styled falsetto laments and enticingly wooed decrees were beginning to fall into place.

In late 1971, Green’s lithesome pipes filled the airwaves when he intrinsically caressed the devotional dialogue of classic venerating serenade, “Let’s Stay Together,” a compassionate pledge of love delivered in a rapturous conversational tenor one step beyond the torch singers he once emulated. On the heels of ‘70s almost equally seductive “Tired Of Being Alone,” this tender-hearted lover’s concerto became one of the premier make-up anthems of all time.

At its foundation, “Let’s Stay Together” featured the distinguishable schematic that made Green a reliable chart topper: tantalizingly orchestrated horn and string sections complementing the singer’s effortlessly inflected and distinctly elucidated vocal lines rendered so perfect other interpreters would be unable to modify the elemental lyrical ebb and flow. His signature climactic falsetto shrill, with its aching emotional ember, is unduplicated.

‘77s challenging The Belle Album signaled a temporary termination of the Green-Mitchell partnership. Alongside ‘78s Truth ‘n Time and Love Ritual, these ambitiously divergent self-produced masterworks combined his funkiest beat-driven jabs with resolute Blues constructions, placing Green’s rangiest vocals in the center instead of on top, lessening the drawn-out fervent shrieks, curbing his bedtime libido, and occasionally giving due respect to the almighty.

Despite Green’s unjust obscurity amongst ‘80s-raised kids in America, the humble soul icon courteously accepted his merited ’95 election into the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame. But even that noble glorification failed to gain the courteous descendant of a sharecropper proper present-day recognition when compared to the harder rocking six-string-dependent peers making louder noise. After all, Green’s meditative musings were blessed with a distinguished Gospel-derived subtlety, class, and eloquence exploitative hip-grinding axe-wielding longhaired hipsters never dared imitate for fear of being derided by lunk-headed fans or easily dismissed by cognitive black brethren familiar with bellowing wailer, Otis Redding.

So it was truly pleasurable to see Green belatedly receive a Lifetime Achievement Award at ‘08s Black Entertainment Television ceremony. Spending forty years inside the music industry without getting the widespread acclaim he so clearly deserves, the still-vital singer went ahead and performed a few well-chosen nuggets in celebration. Showing off a raspier baritone husk on the low end, the veritable sixty-something vocalist encouraged the crowd to sing along to sumptuous chestnuts “Let’s Stay Together” and “Love & Happiness.”

That BET telecast offered a little enlightening information, too. According to legend, Hi Records producer-arranger, Willie Mitchell, convinced the then-aspiring Southerner at the onset to stop relying on the stylish methodology of masterful ‘60s idols such as Jackie Wilson, Sam Cooke, and James Brown, telling Green to start singing naturally instead of duping influential troubadours.

This forthright advice proved to be immeasurably advantageous. Green’s time-tested lover’s testimonials, always accentuated by smoothly syncopated lounge Jazz percussion, were constantly rewarding chart contenders. He personifies the dedicated springtime suitor on “Look What You Done For Me,” the balmy summertime daydreamer on “I’m Still In Love With You, and the politely purring equinoctial paramour on “You Ought To Be With Me.” The dependable deacon also acts the part of a debonair distant lover on “Call Me (Come Back Home)” and “Sha-La-La (Make Me Happy).” An unparalleled lady-killer, Green’s gushing spellbinding eroticism is most effectively arousing on the yearning “Here I Am,” the fetching “L-O-V-E (Love),” and the desirous “Full Of Fire.” All these libidinous tracks on wax came out in a brief three-year span, securing Green’s exulted status. Many of the B-sides were nearly as penetrating.

But tragedy struck on October 18, 1974, when an aggrieved liaison with a crazed married woman led to a hot grit-tossing incident, causing third degree burns on Green’s back and culminating in her suicidal shooting. It was a despairing moment in time that may’ve convinced Green to spread the word of God as an ordained minister at the Full Gospel Tabernacle and ultimately switch focus to religious musings. When ‘77s sterling masterpiece, The Belle Album, his first effort without guiding light Mitchell, and remarkably, his eleventh studio album in eight years, didn’t sell well, he began recording well-regarded Gospel material full time. However, by the mid-‘80s, Green slowly got back into romantic secular music, hitting the charts with ex-Eurythmics diva Annie Lennox on a splendid duet of ardent ‘60s peace treatise, “Put A Little Love In Your Heart.”

Recently, he put out the magnificent Lay It Down, a beautifully retro long-player ‘laid down’ by Roots mainstay Guestlove, whose crafty production technique hearkens back to Green’s glorious ‘70s epoch. High profile cameos by fashionable R & B enthusiasts John Legend, Corrine Bailey Rae, and Anthony Hamilton do not interfere with the master’s gently soothing gracefulness.

Green’s sensual charcoal-stained tenor has developed a richer resonation that’s as intriguingly modern and resiliently vibrant as it was during his heyday. Archetypal brass blasts and soulful organ get dispersed throughout, lending Quiet Storm warmth to “Just For Me.” Lucid Jazz-allayed rhythm guitar pulls the listener in as elegant horns inundate the coital ecstasy of “You’ve Got The Love I Need,” his best matrimonial hymn since ‘76s durable “Let’s Get Married.” There’s just enough urban grit in the groove to counterbalance its delicately cushioned Moments-Delfonics assimilation.

Onward, “No One Like You” borrows Sam Cooke’s wispy ‘baby’ refrain from “You Send Me,” as Green smacks down, then pulls back, the embracing chorus. And “What More Do You Want From Me” neatly revitalizes the stimulating adoration of “Look What You Done For Me,” another crown jewel in Green’s illustrious catalogue. The rest follows suit as each flawlessly executed soft-toned meditation brings forth a genuine intimacy.

More authentic recreating Green’s golden era than the triumphant 2003 comeback collaboration he did with long-time comrade, Willie Mitchell, Lay It Down successfully advances the Hi sound not only Green, but lesser known soul interpreters such as Ann Peebles and Syl Johnson, once dabbled in acquiring a blacker audience.

But let’s not downgrade worthy Green-Mitchell predecessor, I Can’t Stop, since its eclectic tone proves more affably multihued than the steadfast Lay It Down. Tranquil flute embellishes the title track while funkier rhythm guitar and female voices emboss horn-spurted BB King/ Bobby Womack-indebted blues truce, “Play To Win.” Poignant strings shower Green and his backup female chorus on the anguishing “Rainin’ In My Heart.” “I’ve Been Waiting On You” utilizes Stax horn blurts and punchy Muscle Shoals rhythms, yet it’s more in line with the subordinate contemporary blues artists now roaming major cities in slick fashion. Assertive Tower Of Power-styled horns and Jimmy Smith-procured organ embolden the snubbing condemnation “My Problem Is You” (where Green lets out some of his finest high-pitched shrieks). “Million To One” comes closest to reaching the satiny pillow-talked sentimentality of Green’s peak years. And he’s fancy free on “I’d Write A Letter” (which flows like a less aggrandized version of Blood Sweat & Tears “Spinning Wheels”) and insouciant circus payoff “Too Many,” the two venturous closing tracks.

If Lay It Down gets the edge over I Can’t Stop, it’s due to the heartwarming dedication Green’s allied admirers, such as Guestlove, had for him as they sought to recapture the timeless spirit of yesteryear’s foremost interpreter.

Every time the man takes the stage, he elevates his legacy, retaining the same charismatic allure and polished showmanship displayed from the outset. Transcending his enabler’s – Cooke, Redding, Ray Charles – Green has become a revered American music icon no singer in the last twenty years can hold a candle to. He’s simply divine. Spread the word.

WOLF PARADE PEEKING ‘AT MOUNT ZOOMER’

Interviews

There’s quite a hot indie scene goin’ on up in the resplendent Canadian province of Quebec. Worthy bohemian groups have been springing up in the city of Montreal in record numbers since 1999, giving worldwide exposure to Arcade Fire, the Dears, the Stars, the Stills, and the Islands.

Started as an indigenously British Columbian outfit now residing in the bustling Saint Laurent-bound Mile End neighborhood of Canada’s so-called Sin City, Wolf Parade’s illusionary conveyances are fully front-loaded with peculiar twists, deceptive bends, and incipiently, opaque mariner imagery. Even their elaborate rhythmic cadences and pliant percussive patter persistently perplex rank and file rockers.

 

“My father was a musician. He got me whatever instrument I wanted. I settled on the drums,” percussionist Arlen Thompson confides. “He played trumpet and was into horn-based bands like Chicago and Sly & The Family Stone and classic rock by Hendrix, Zeppelin, the Beatles and Stones. He set me up with my first hi-fi stereo system at age two with an Aprilwine 8-track. We grew up in Victoria, where there was not much of a scene going on.”

On ambitious ‘05 debut, Apologies to the Queen Mary, Wolf Parade were set in motion. Perhaps taking inspiration from producer Isaac Brock’s nervously anguished mutiny-bound capitulation’s fronting indie rock mainstays, Modest Mouse, mysterious sea shanty “Modern World” and dramatic hook-filled orchestral “Grounds For Divorce” (with its jittery pulse and euphonious electronic bleats) receive urgently hiccuped vocalization second-handedly reminiscent of Andy Partridge’s early XTC quipping. “We Built Another World” extends the rallying cry of its preceding breakup manifesto, driving a harder rhythm into interstellar overdrive. Gyrating calliope-like whirl, “Same Ghost Every Night” slips into the ether whilst maintaining a determined beat, hearkening back to Bowie-Eno’s chilly late ‘70s automaton investigations, only with an earthbound blue-eyed soul emotionality.

If it’s the seaworthy apparitions that drew comparisons to Modest Mouse and served as Apologies prime theme, then so be it. But it was the famous large ocean vessel they were booked onto for entertainment purposes that encouraged Wolf Parade to utilize the repentant epithet as titular fodder. Drummer Arlen Thompson won’t go into specifics, but it sounds like a drunken affair ensued on the majestic Queen Mary.

“We were playing parties before Apologies came out,” Thompson recalls. “We then put everyone on this ship and that ultimately summed up where we were at – getting kicked off the boat and having to apologize for how badly we behaved. It had a Sir Winston Churchill Ballroom. He was a drunk, but as Canadians we’re supposed to act aristocratic for the queen.”

‘08s astoundingly paradoxical At Mount Zoomer (Sub Pop) renders quirkier tracks that can be difficult to follow at first, but reward high-yield dividends over repeated listens. Neither obscure nor obtuse, yet relatively oblique and casually ostentatious, Wolf Parade’s second set never directly relies on any faddish contemporary stylistic formulation. Like many new-sprung Montreal outfits (Arcade Fire/ Godspeed You! Black Emperor), the artful quartet’s subtle complexities are just a bit complicatedly skewered for straight-up modern rock influences to shine through the entangled adaptations. Maybe the reason for such amiable dislocation is the continual influx of each individualistic member’s contrasting ideas being redesigned and retrofit to suit the collaborative ensemble.

For example, although main songwriters Spencer Krug (keys) and Dan Boeckner (guitar) pen the variably unraveling compositions, they entrusted Thompson with production and arrangement chores for At Mount Zoomer, giving them the chance to concentrate on what they do best.

“Dan does the more immediate, direct stuff while Spencer provides more windy, unstructured figures,” Thompson suggests. “It’s just us evolving. There could have been a time after Apologies when we began playing more professionally and got to develop quicker. We keep it real loose on the new record whereas Apologies was more Dan and Spencer bringing fairly solid song ideas. At Mount Zoomer was really unrestrained in approach to writing and arranging. The instrumental sections more or less came together before the lyrics and vocal melodies. On Apologies, the vocals were woven in like traditional songcraft.”

Helping to secure overall tonicity, Michigan native Hadji Bakara joined these capable Canucks in 2004, interlacing his interloping electronic wizardry with Krug and Boeckner’s cleverly cunning compositional constructs. The uncanny end result often leads to a commingled metamorphosis launched from external sources never willfully conceived as tributary fare.

“We tend to assign a song’s working title to what it initially sounds like,” Thompson reveals. “One of our songs, Costello,” which we perform live, was called that because people thought it sounded like Elvis Costello, even though by the end it sounded nothing like the name we assigned it. For some reason, “Fine Young Cannibals” just stuck. We had a weird slick groove and made a falsetto harmony pop song.”

On Zoomer’s closing 10-minute opus, “Kissing The Beehive,” the ensemble’s prog-rock aspirations are revealed in an askew 9/8 time. Its alarming ‘fire in the hole’ midsection picks up a forward marching gallop as squiggly synthesizer, wiry 6-string, and thick drum rolls ride out to the fulminated finishing crescendo.

Thompson explains, “That got formed into a stomp. It’s a good example of where we’re at now. It’s taken from three different loose tracks. The proggy aspects probably came from everyone listening to Fleetwood Mac’s early recordings done with guitarist Peter Green, before they made the ubiquitous Rumours. But I don’t see a resemblance to (obvious ‘70s beacons) Genesis, Yes, or Pink Floyd.”

He does admit listening to conceptual Brooklyn-via-Chicago sibling-based duo, Fiery Furnaces, whose curiously epic escapades curve, swivel, and swerve, taking as many deliriously detailed detours as his own expansive foursome does. But the similarities are otherwise unintentional, if not far-fetched. Despite having to learn how to properly manipulate all these confounding twists and turns, Wolf Parade’s colleagues manage to somehow stay involved with several sundry troupes.

Some of the better outside projects include Krug’s Sunset Rubdown, Swan Lake and Frog Eyes, Bakara’s DJ duo Megasoid, as well as Boeckner’s ongoing project with his wife, Alexei Perry, the Handsome Furs. Thompson just mastered and produced Handsome Furs second disc, another relentless pop-related endeavor with heavier drum machines and a colder feel moving it into a more up-tempo mode perfectly apt for East Berlin circa 1982. Thompson’s also in Transylvania, a weird psych-noise collective with a pair of Sunset Rubdown band mates making unbound jams – “Nothing a label would put out,” he cracks.

As for future Wolf Parade recordings, Thompson says, “There’s nothing new yet. We didn’t work out anything different. We’re using all the songs we’ve played on the last tour. I don’t know when we’ll get around again to create new material. Everyone’s so busy at top speed.”

RETRO-STYLISH VIVIAN GIRLS ROCK SUBTERRANEAN UNIVERSE

Interviews

Although the Vivian Girls took their Arthurian mademoiselle moniker from outsider artist Henry Darger’s protracted novel regarding a gang of sisters fighting evil, they’d much rather battle it out instrumentally onstage then confront any mischievous wrongdoers.

Guitarist Cassie Ramone and bassist Kickball Katy, two youthful Ridgewood, New Jersey natives now residing in neoteric music haven, Brooklyn, have impressed sundry college age fans as well as a few recognizable underground bands with their shambolic musings. Along with founding drummer Frankie Rose, who recently departed to join similarly bare-boned local outfit Crystal Stilts, the Vivian Girls have further enlightened an already fertile Williamsburg scene happening just across the Hudson River east of Manhattan.

 

“Our live shows are more immediate (than the studio tracks). It all comes from punk. We’re actively involved in the scene,” Cassie reveals. “We used to do the Wipers “Telepathic Lover” live when Frankie was still in the band. We’ve covered the Beach Boys “Girl Don’t Tell Me,” also. We definitely have a lot of other songs. Nowadays, we do only five or six from the EP. The rest are newer songs.”

On their garage-molded 10-song 21-minute self-titled debut EP for In The Red Records, the Vivian Girls show off a wonderfully amateurish adolescent enthusiasm, keeping song ideas short, simple, and sassy. Murkily monotone vocals barely peak above jangling guitar, over-modulated bass, and rudimentary drums. Primal cellar-dwelling production provides the proper archaic setting for each crudely drafted do-it-yourself tune.

But don’t let the unfinished veneer and dungy geek harmonies scare away true blue indie pop fiends. These sweet and innocent Kings County babes put all their hooks in the right place, beside the beautifully muddled clutter. Dig the catchy naiveté of nasally repetitive riposte, “No,” where shuffling drumbeat anchors scurried guitar trots. Marvel at the echoed ‘60s girl group-styled voices (redolent of the Shangri-La’s) running through the lustily booming bass melody consuming chiding roughhewn smear, “Such A Joke.”

Then hold on as bashing cymbals crash into clangorous 6-string chaos on cattily wailed embarkation, “All The Time.” And get the hips swaying as Cassie’s clanging chain-linked guitar goes non-stop perforating stimulatingly droned hum-along “Tell The World.”

At times, the Vivian Girls beg comparisons to ‘80s twee pop lynchpins, the Pastels, or sound like cutesy cuddle-core courtesans courting Calvin Johnson’s boutique K Records. Saccharine rockabilly-derived lullaby “Where Do You Run To” best distills the unprepossessing girlie trio’s pale emotional vivaciousness. Yet more often, the revivified grunge-suffused riot grrl influence of Bratmobile or Bikini Kill seems aptly forthright.

Then again, going way beyond conventionality and into tousled peculiarity, they recall freakishly dorky late-‘60s minimalists, the Shaggs, when rendering cymbal-slashed bass-ruptured 104-second cacophony “My Baby Wants Me Dead” during a YouTube-clipped Vancouver show.

Presently, the Vivian Girls (rounded out by Katy’s college pal, Ali Koehler), are brainstorming ideas for a full-length disc to be initiated, March ’09, with waggish indie pop bellwether Steve Mc Donald (of Redd Kross fame) at the helm as producer.

Cassie gleefully affirms, “We’ll get to go out to Los Angeles for the recording. It’ll be nice to escape the cold New York weather and hang out amongst palm trees.”

Here’s hoping they retain the same unsophisticated charm that got ‘em where they are now – opening for fellow hotshot Jerseyites the Feelies and Yo La Tengo, New Years Eve, at Montclair’s newly refurbished Wellmont Theatre.

How’d the Vivian Girls come into fruition?

 

CASSIE: Me and Katy were best friends who went to high school together. When I moved to Brooklyn, I met Frankie, hung out in her loft with loads of people, and one day, at brunch, Frankie inquired about starting a band. I got Katy to join, but in July ’08 Frankie left (to join Crystal Stilts). Ali Koehler promptly joined.

Who were your formative influences?

 

I liked emo – the Get Up Kids, Braid, Cap N’ Jazz, Saves The Day. Also, indie rock like Pavement. I was bored as a kid and listened to whatever I got my hands on. Katy listened to early punks, the Germs, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. But when we started the band, we were fully into the Wipers, Ramones, Dead Moon, and the Descendents.

Those influences don’t show up on your debut EP as much as more obvious ones such as the Beat Happening or Thee Headcoats, maybe even Sleater-Kinney or X Ray Spex.

 

That’s funny. Everybody says we sound a certain way outside of our influences. But those were our guiding lights nonetheless.

How do you usually construct the songs?

 

A lot of our songs, I write guitar parts and words simultaneously. I bring them to the band, who add parts and flesh out the songs with me. Other songs may start with a bass line Katy brings in. So we’ll work off that and compose a song together. I think what we care about most is song structure. We try not to mess around with that. We’re not the best musicians or best singers. We can’t get a complete sound experience at our disposal, so we spend time arranging songs properly.

You did the cover design for the Vivian Girls inaugural EP. Do you have an interest in visual arts?

 

I was an illustration major at Pratt. I’m mainly interested in drawing. That’s my artistic forte. I like pen and ink and pencil drawings. That drawing on the cover is actually an art project done for senior class. I was hanging out with Frankie and Katy showing schoolwork. Frankie liked the drawing so we used it.

Was the recording done lo-fi because you couldn’t afford a proper studio?

 

I don’t think our music would work if it was overly produced. We’re fans of lo-fi sound. We recorded the debut for $900, which was all we could save to make a record. So we had to do it quickly.

Will future recordings be done in a bigger room where voices could be brought up-front? Or are you afraid you’d lose some of that unique primal feel?

 

We’re gonna try to stay raw. We still wanna use a lot of reverb in the foreseeable future. Our sound will pretty much stay the same.

Is “No” the first song the Vivian Girls ever recorded? It’s so skeletal and unadorned and seems like it was done in one take.

 

It was second. It was on a demo CD-R. Our first single was “Wild Eyes.”

Will you keep making short, sweet tunes or will you expand the arrangements?

 

I think the main problem with long songs is they overstay their welcome. A lot of ‘em get redundant for the sake of length. We don’t want you to get bored with a song. If you like one, you’ll quickly play it again. (laughter) Someday, if we could write a song that’s interesting for five minutes, we will.

As a band, do twee pop lynchpins such as Belle & Sebastian affect the soft-toned jingles?

 

Well. We don’t really draw any influences from twee. I think Belle & Sebastian’s songs are pretty cool, but maybe a bit wimpy.

To defer, I’d say Belle & Sebastian’s music is artful whereas yours is artless.

 

Out of all those types of bands, I think the Beat Happening’s real cool. But I don’t think those bands directly inspire us.

Many times, your group harmonies are reminiscent of legendary ‘60s girl group, the Shangri-La’s.

 

Thank you. They’re probably my favorite girl group.

Likewise, I thought “Such A Joke” tapped into Tommy James & the Shondells’ giddily lustful “I Think We’re Alone Now.”

 

Oh cool! That song’s really cool but I like Tiffany’s version better. (laughter)

Yuck! Tiffany’s pre-teen novelty version lacked the sexual immediacy of the Shondells original. It’s like most virginal contemporary pop fabricated for compromised radio stations’ boring playlists.

 

I usually listen to CBS-FM oldies. But they’re stuck on Christmas tunes already. I understand doing an all-Christmas playlist a week before the holiday, but in November it’s overkill unless it’s once an hour.

TRAIL OF DEAD’S TRIUMPHANT RETURN IN THE CENTURY OF SELF

Interviews

Overcoming extreme adversity and a healthy dose of animosity, proggy Texas-sprung hardcore experimentalists, And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, have picked up the pieces and moved on. Fully revitalized and free from major label concessions, they’ve returned strong with the mindful self-released reclamation, The Century Of Self.

Formed by two waywardly kindred souls determined to forsake Hawaiian ‘island fever’ by going inland, Trail Of Dead’s Conrad Keely and Jason Reece soon trekked to Olympia, Washington, playing in local bands until the nearby Seattle scene, once internationally revered, went cold.

After the grunge phenomena faded and provincial mentor Kurt Cobain committed suicide, a dark cloud hovered over the Pacific Northwest. According to Keely, “doom and gloom hit so hard many bands moved away.” Keely and Reece took residence in musical hotbed, Austin, Texas, perusing the vibrant coffeehouse scene benefiting dozens of native bands.

 

Born in the United Kingdom, raised in Thailand, and uprooted to Hawaii, Keely received a long musical tutelage in Washington. While there, Keely witnessed the impending grunge scene firsthand, catching a badly attended local show featuring the Melvins, Beat Happening, and the soon-to-be-ubiquitous Nirvana during 1988. This exposure to the burgeoning cultural phenomena in Seattle provided plentiful stimulus for his inevitable endeavor.

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, whose protracted appellation was snatched from a Mayan ritual chant as a reactionary response to one syllable contemporary bands such as Blur and Hum, came into fruition quickly in the Texas capital. Joining the fray were guitarist Kevin Allen, bassist Neil Busch (replaced by Danny Wood, then Jay Phillips), and drummer Aaron Ford.

An incredible live band apt to wreak havoc, break instruments, and overwhelm audiences, Trail Of Dead eventually signed to Merge Records, blowing away audiences while opening for renowned Carolina indie combo, Superchunk.

Lacing prog-rock intricacies into energized punk assaults, ‘99s astounding Madonna proved to be an expert blend of metallic guitars, symphonic explorations, and psychedelic intrigue that went far beyond generational post-grunge angst. Perchance a spunky response to Cobain’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” satirical hard-driven rampage, “A Perfect Teenhood,” is an explosive fuck-off with a disconcerting meltdown utilizing the same fast-loud choruses and slow-soft verses Nirvana indelibly employed. The frightful epileptic screams buttressing squalling feedback-laden breakdown, “Totally Natural,” musters perplexingly brain-twisted anguish, funneling Fugazi and Minor Threat’s devious ‘80s-based emotional hardcore desperation through Nirvana’s equally gruesome arsenal raids.

Fans and critics alike hailed the bands’ savage concert performances and were awestruck by Madonna’s primordial creative brilliance. Then, the majors came knocking in the form of Interscope Records. The resulting album, Trail Of Dead’s time-honored Source Tags & Codes, exceeded expectations, bringing further clarity and uniformity to the adrenalized ensemble by intensifying the taciturn pauses with rapturously raucous recoveries. The toxic “Another Morning Stoner” invites comparisons to foremost noise-rock kingpins, Sonic Youth, an obvious Reece influence. The same goes for the buzzing 6-string scrambler bearing the name of decadent French poet, “Boudelaire.” Similarly, atomic powderkeg, “Days Of Being Wild,” plies mangled shrieks to a lashed-out anthem saluting adolescent rage. Audaciously seething manifesto, “Mark David Chapman,” the lone Busch composition, caused outrage since its objectionable namesake cold-bloodedly murdered John Lennon.

But times got tough. Continuing to storm the broken barricades of conventionality while heading for a confounded detour betwixt with tribal, Medieval, and tropical wildlife sounds, ‘05s over-intellectualized Worlds Apart came up short as a premature magnum opus. Its ranting title cut cuts too close to neoteric emo as suburban worries concerning BBC, MTV, and celebrity status get snippily bashed. Thankfully, it’s meant as a snippy rip instead of a droll homage. Elsewhere, interconnected drawn-out mantras rule the roost, but some prolonged exoduses barely escape melodramatic mush.

On ‘06s reeling So Divided, the bell tolls for the band on its opening number. Caught in a “Wasted State Of Mind,” they may’ve streamlined overwrought Epicurean grandeur and prosaic Chamber pop dirges at the expense of mystical ceremonial imagery. But there’d be a light at the end of the tunnel as Trail Of Dead left Interscope for well-deserved independence. However, they’ll leave some early fans in the dust and nearly give it all up after getting unfairly chastised on an ill-suited bill supporting faddish Cartoon Network retinue, Dethklok.

These disturbing developments temporarily haunted then halted Trail Of Dead, but better days were just beyond the horizon. Like the proverbial down-and-out artist struggling to maintain footing, Keely gathered his troupes, nourished their collective soul, regained compositional poise, and began fulfilling a real or imagined prophesy. Standing at the precipice of a dazzling resurgence, Trail Of Dead started their own label, Richter Scale Records, and delivered the fully confident ‘09 masterwork, The Century Of Self.

Religiosity has always been at the heart of Trail Of Dead’s weighty lyrical sensibility. On The Century Of Self, faith takes center stage above social and personal matters. The momentous opening overture, “Giants Causeway,” may appear ominous, but an endearing positivity underscores the remainder. Perhaps seeking a glorified afterlife, the escalating climactic outburst of siren emo-core blazer “Far Pavilions” investigates unclaimed lands that ‘await us beyond the wall of cantonment.’

Though reminiscent of Modest Mouse’s exhilarating seaworthy chants, the sugar-rushed entreaty, “Isis Unveiled,” searches for ‘secrets of the grand design.’ Salvation may fascinate these seasoned warriors, but although they’d be cheerful drafting ‘the song of the ages,’ they just ‘felt like raging’ during sweeping teen-spirited keepsake “Halcyon Days,” revealing a torrential downpour of unfeigned emotionalism. Electrified Pete Townshend riffs infiltrate the core of “Fields Of Coal,” where Keely and Reece wail ‘don’t let him runaway’ with unison impassioned vigor.

The tension mounts from beginning to end for this uninterrupted epic. Feelings of doubt get deliberated upon, especially when the perils of a sustainable musical lifestyle get discussed in song. The suspicious versifying and soared melancholia of “Inland Sea” reluctantly probes the semi-famous lifestyle by inquiring ‘is the price you’ve paid to live this little dream worth the pain you’ve been suffering?’ Pushing aside past insecurities, it’s very likely Keely could now answer affirmatively.

The Century Of Self seems to take on mortality as its central motif.

 

CONRAD KEELY: In the context of childhood perhaps – which I tried to illustrate with the cover artwork. It’s a boy looking at a skull and it’s supposed to represent a moment when a child realizes he’s mortal and will grow up and die. The lyrics, overall, were a reflection of the change we’re undergoing.

Does Trail Of Dead usually extrapolate conceptual themes to enhance each album’s entirety?

 

Source Tags & Codes explored the dichotomy between hi-tech society and agrarian society. The idea of somebody who moved away from a farm, conceived while touring Chicago, when we went Midwest into the fields, was the inspiration. The next two concentrated on frustration. Worlds Apart railed against our musical environment and peer groups. So Divided reflected frustrations with our label. The big difference with Self is more positive inspiration, starting a new chapter getting away from a major label.

That’s an oversimplification. We use multiple themes and try to make them recur. Theology is close to Jason and I. His family’s Christian. Mine’s completely spiritual, studying Buddhism, Hinduism, and indigenous religions. I can’t help returning to that theme of higher spirituality. “Inland Sea” deals with transcendental meditation, which my parents let me take active part in. “Isis Unveiled” is based on a book I’d see on our bookshelves, flip through, and read. It indicted science and religion. There’s three separate viewpoints from Old Testament God, Lucifer, and finally, Jesus. Each told their story. But it also references unorthodox Christian belief that there were two gods, an Old Testament war-like God who’s overthrown by the peace and love New Testament God.

Who were your early influences?

 

I got my music sensibility from my parents. I grew up with the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and Frank Zappa. When my mom got remarried, my stepdad was into prog. He was a drummer. I got into Steve Hillage and Mike Oldfield’s Incantations – a double LP with four sections. Oldfield worked so hard on that record he wore down the 2-inch reel and had to start from scratch. When I was eight, my parents took a trip to England. We lost some money and stayed for two-and-a-half years as a break from Hawaii. That’s when I heard Kate Bush’s “Never Forever.” I had a poster of her in my room that friends would ask about.

In Coventry, where we lived, the whole ska scene happened. Madness were so popular in my school. There was the Specials and English Beat. It was such an interactive lifestyle. Back in America, kids were into Kiss, but didn’t necessarily dress like them. In England, third graders would go to school in trench jackets with The Who stenciled on back. Flight jackets with all those buttons with band names. They took fashion seriously. I got my first pair of Doc Martens at age nine. We looked like thugs. It was hilarious. That was a big musical ingestion. I went back to America and those things weren’t happening yet. Nor would they until my twenties. I never heard Adam & the Ants in America. I got into Classic Rock in high school. But meeting Jason was key. He turned me on to the Replacements, Husker Du, Descendents, Dag Nasty, Cali skate punk. I shifted out of my Pink Floyd-Yes-Genesis mode and embraced it.

Over the course of six albums, including an unheralded self-titled ’98 debut, your lyrics have gotten more deeply romanticized.

 

Source Tags was very sentimental. There’s songs about the breakup I went through, like “How Near How Far” – the idea of letting go of a muse. There’s no mystery about that. It’s as close as we’ve come to writing a romantic record. The new one’s sentimental, but there’s no love theme. It doesn’t mean we won’t go back to that in the future. Worlds Apart was real political, but not well-timed. Maybe it was three years early. Those things I was pointing my finger at on Worlds Apart were about consumer society, which consumes The Century Of Self. There was a sense that Worlds Apart was informed by the ongoing Gulf War. I tried to address it but the album suffers from being overly ambitious. We were really reaching hard to make a testimonial that’d push our abilities as writers. But we were going through personal stress with Neil leaving the band. That took away from us achieving everything we wanted with that record. I’m proud to have the courage to say those things at the time but I didn’t think anyone wanted to hear them.

Was So Divided a haughtier extension of Worlds Apart?

 

Except it had no political statement. It didn’t try to reach out to the world. I still think So Divided was a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone. I didn’t want to connect. I wanted to withdraw into our own world and say ‘screw you if you don’t like it.’ I was disappointed with its reception amongst peers and the label. The idea of working on a major label wasn’t working so maybe it was a self-indulgent attempt to get dropped. But The Century Of Self couldn’t have been made if we didn’t do So Divided.The hardest record we ever made was So Divided, especially the painful lyrics. In contrast, The Century Of Self felt easier – the way the songs came together naturally. There were technical challenges with the producer and the studio, but the creative part was unified.

Yet despite So Divided’s muck and mire, there was an unexpectedly upbeat and accessible Carnaby Street-styled Paisley Pop turnabout, “Eight Days Of Hell,” replete with kitsch-y ‘60s multi-harmonies.

 

I think that would’ve been accessible in the ‘60s or ‘70s. We were basically trying to make our own little Beach Boys song. I had just gotten into Brian Wilson’s Smile record. But it’s more akin to the Hollies “Carrie Ann” or “On A Carousel.” It was fun. The darkness came from its serious lyrics. They’re about a horrible experience opening for Audioslave in the UK. The original lyrics were so dark and mean I was talked into toning them down. Sometimes the whole Shakespeare ‘pen is mightier than the sword’ comes into play. There’s no reason to lash out unreasonably. But it’s fun to get out.

How’d Trail Of Dead get involved with the soundtrack, Hell On Wheels, a documentary about Austin’s new-sprung roller derby scene?

 

We knew some of those crazy girls. We even performed at one of the roller derby matches. I even sang the national anthem. Austin started the resurrection of roller derby. There was a league that split off and there was a dramatic rivalry.

Speaking of dramatic, have you designed all the eloquent artwork for Trail Of Dead’s album covers?

 

I’ve done all the design. For the first record, I stole the image from National Geographic. On Worlds Apart, I had someone paint it from a collage I made. So Divided was all done digital. The Century Of Self I did all the art by hand with a ballpoint pen. It took the better part of two years and that’s the stuff I showed at an October ’08 New York exhibition.

Will you remain a transplanted New Yorker for good now?

 

I loved Austin. One day I’ll go back. There’s an ease to living there. It’s the good life. I was drawn to New York because I felt closer to Europe. I’m still an Irish citizen. I’m not a naturalized American so there’s a yearning to go back to Europe. New York’s supposedly for drunken parties like it’s 1999, but it’s more of a nose-to-the-grindstone-try-to-get-by-and-make-rent city. I’m inspired by everything here. “Halcyon Days” is about making that transition.

At this point, our conversation drifts into the apex of what truly became the premier regenerative thrust of Trail Of Dead’s renaissance. It seems an unwise tour with a Cartoon Network ensemble nearly drove Conrad to quit music before once more getting rejuvenated.

 

CONRAD: There was this terrible tour we did with Dethklok. They’re an Adult Swim cartoon and the band plays in the shadows, like the Gorillaz. But it’s all about death metal. It’s called Metalocalypse. We were invited to go and all the shows were gonna be free, sponsored by Cartoon Network, and it’d be at all these colleges. Interscope dropped the ball on our college play so we thought it’d be a logical way to hit the market. But it went miserably wrong. All the kids wanted to see was Dethklok. They were awfully hostile audiences. We’d never had that. It was more reminiscent of a London audience when you’re opening for a bigger band like Foo Fighters. Sometimes, when we’d improvise, we’d stop the music just to hear the belligerent audience, then make disgruntled noise. Those were confrontational nights with pissed off fans. But we came out a totally different band. The aggressive battles provided energy and righteous anger. The experience helped unify the band.

MAN MAN’S ‘RABBIT HABITS’ LEAPS AHEAD

Interviews,

Circus-like Man Man bandleader, Honus Honus (born Ryan Kattner), is the perfect pied piper, a worldly troubadour adrift in strange towns on a never-ending vagabond journey, perhaps suffering privately to assemble pensive lyrical twists and scatological musical turns executed like some ravaged Blues-croaked Captain Beefheart disciple.

 Though he didn’t learn piano ‘til he was in his twenties and despite Man Man’s early merry-go-round lineup changes since formative ’04 debut, The Man in a Blue Turban with a Face, Honus’ crew is now tight as hell and more secure than ever.

 

Brilliantly bizzaro and thoroughly enjoyable, Man Man’s ‘06 salvo, Six Demon Bag, featured a startling blend of satirical heartbreakers, wayward waltzing, thrashing metal, melancholic abstractions, and psycho honky tonk. The clustered cling-clang percussive counterpoint outfitting facetious pirate-yowled chant “Spider Cider” recalls subterranean ‘90s bohos Skeleton Key, who, like Man Man, were a hip assemblage of pragmatic art schooled existentialists extending conventional pop boundaries beyond mere enthusiastic recreation.

Likewise, each abundantly diffuse tune they touch is given a properly designated contextual scheme to work within on this estimable package. Most inventively, cracked baroque closer, “Ice Dogs,” conjoined by a rallied doo wop motif, goes from electrified flute-flanged metal to trumpeted second line New Orleans Jazz. Moreover, intrinsic Baltic oom-pah rhythms gird the euphonious melodica consuming “Banana Ghost.” And if that’s not resourceful enough, the catchiest cut, “Black Mission Goggles,” dupes hoary Carnival cabaret to kitsch-y effect.

But as much nonconforming fun as Six Demon Bag proved to be, the taut collective improved twofold for maniacal abstraction, Rabbit Habits (Anti Records), a magnanimous follow-up finding Honus perched somewhere between cultish beatnik bard, Tom Waits, and some dingily nebulous swamp-rooted vagabond. At times, Honus Honus’ troupe seems to nip at the heels of gypsy punk, as on “Easy Eats or Dirty Doctor Galapagos” and fascinatingly playful snub, “Top Drawer.”

They even dip into vamped Vaudevillian theatricality on obtuse Beefheart-styled free-fall “Mister Jung Stuffed” and bodacious swing band obscuration, “Big Trouble.” Downcast villagers lament, “Poor Jackie,” gathers ‘tragic violin,’ pondering piano, and melodic clarinet to become Man Man’s most accessible derivative. Syncopated bass lubes outré synthesized segue, “Elazteca,” which glides directly into the black-hearted piano-strolled title track.

Honus claims fellow Philly-based artist, innovative Jazz legend Sun Ra, inspired the doo wop-informed “Harpoon Fever,” a schoolyard jump-roped nursery rhyme with sweetly innocent girl group chants and ‘60s surf guitar rumble.

Undoubtedly, Rabbit Habits is a wildly ambitious cluster bomb combining an amazing breadth of ideas in one daringly delirious derangement. In total, its cavalier revelations peruse oblique freeform contrapositions in a downright definitive manner, giving Man Man a decisive edge as one of my favorite albums of 2008.

M. WARD’S REVERENTIAL ‘HOLD TIME’ IGNITES SPIRITUAL QUEST

Interviews

 

Singer-songwriter Matt Ward grew up in Ventura County a few miles north of Los Angeles. A big Beatles fan, he picked up a guitar at fifteen and began toying with a four-track thereafter. His short-lived project, Rodriguez (with Little Wings’ unheralded Kyle Field), offered an opportunity of a lifetime. During an opening performance, Ward impressed Jason Lytle, guiding light of defunct Modesto-based bellwethers, Grandaddy. This led to Lytle producing their lone album, Swing Like A Metronome. Ward received some local recognition and before long moved to Oregon.

 

Residing in Portland, he met Howe Gelb, founder of desert-rock oddities Giant Sand. He gave the ageless patriarch a self-recorded demo during a Seattle stint. Soon, the now-christened M. Ward made his formative fingerpicked debut, Duet For Guitars #2, on Gelb’s boutique Ow Om Records. An ’01 follow-up on Future Farmer, End Of Amnesia, led to Ward’s signing with foremost Carolina label, Merge Records.

On ‘03s unalloyed breakthrough, Transfiguration Of Vincent, Ward’s understated minimalist tunes, frequently delivered in a sheepishly intimate tenor, proved to be captivatingly therapeutic confessionals with convincing introspective insight. His scruffy prairie wanderings and somber campfire retreats had the intrinsic pastoral beauty of what fellow Portland artist Stephen Malkmus once coined the “Range Life.”

A delicate folk charm resonates from Ward’s hushed cigarette-stained baritone identity, actualizing the forlorn bellow of a drowsy grief-stricken loner straddling the precipice time. Betwixt haunting romantic lamentations lurk plain Western preludes, interludes, and prologues; fastidious instrumental tracks that’d also bedeck the ensuing Transistor Radio.

Still singing in an artlessly unaffected monotone drone, but utilizing cleaner production, better songs, and a more relaxed atmosphere, Ward doubled his spellbound audience with Transistor Radio. Rooted more in rural folk-blues tradition and solemn old timey ballads, its highlight has to be the wistful “Radio Campaign,” where Ward serendipitously repeats the choral ‘come back my little piece of mind’ with the same uncanny tossed-off slacker delivery inevitable pal Conor Oberst emitted for Omaha counterparts, Bright Eyes.

Tempered piano boogie ditty, “Big Boat,” turns up the bass turbines and lays on the slashin’ cymbals. “Hi-Fi” welcomes the purified bossa nova elegance Ward’s apt to dabble in. And “Four Hours In Washington” works as an insomniacs twisted nightmare offhandedly presaging another indirect Capitol City homage, Post-War.

Concerning personal politics in spite of its expediently combative Middle East-affected epithet, Post-War scuttles opportune anti-militaristic effrontery by way of a tactful procession of desperate lovelorn limericks swept away when the cagey Ward tackles cracked Texas eccentric Daniel Johnston’s rejuvenating, “To Go Home.” A rustic homecoming with a prescient Neko Case vocal cameo, its dark piano grandeur and plodding bass inexplicably evoke semi-famous Montreal contemporaries Arcade Fire. As usual, Ward’s powerful interpretive ability makes it possible for him to push across Johnston’s triumphal lyrics with preferable candor.

On the instrumental front, there’s the majestic “Neptune’s Net,” a reverberating Hawaiian surf guitar orchestral. And without making too much of a fuss, celebrated My Morning Jacket bard, Jim James, contributes tender backup vocals to dreamy elegy, “Chinese Translation,” as well as snickering acoustic trifle, “Magic Trick.”

As a nostalgic sidestep, Ward’s striking ’08 collaboration with Hollywood actress, Zooey Deschanel, a reluctant piano-playing singer-songwriter, caught the attention of grass roots enthusiasts as well as the pop masses. Under the trite moniker, She & Him, the resourceful pair have a good time embracing innocent Country-blues eclecticism, endearing Deschanel’s uplifting bell-toned contralto to Ward’s meditative six-string adaptations. Dusty Springfield’s friendly ghost hovers above the lilting whistled symphony, “Thought I Saw Your Face Today” and Patsy Cline’s wayward drama compels the moving Country & Western torch song, “Change Is Hard.”

Redemption and hope consume ‘09s prodigal Hold Time, originating with hastened acoustic deliverance, “For Beginners,” which peers down from Mount Zion in search of salvation. Perhaps aching for spiritual guidance, “Jailbird” finds Ward summoning supreme powers to ‘help me, help me now’ over nectarous orchestral strings and Spanish guitar. The resolute “To Save Me” spells out his philosophical beliefs inside an approachable, upbeat, echo-laden Wall of Sound re-creation employing streamlined piano and nifty Beach Boys harmonies.

The seemingly secular fare brings further dramatic impact and added coloration. Glistened keyboard burbles go asunder as oncoming six-string, bass, and drums awaken chimed horoscopic summit, “Stars Of Leo.” Spaghetti Western guitar and a down-along-the-railroad bass scheme suitable for Johnny Cash (yet somehow indicative of Buddy Holly’s Texas two-step rock and roll) reinforce the folkloric ode, “Fisher Of Men.” And the same hand-clapped kick-drummed snare beat embedding Gary Glitter’s ubiquitous glam anthem “Rock & Roll Part 2” secures love-struck jubilation, “Never Had Nobody Like You.”

Part of Ward’s success thus far could be attributed to his aspiration to “keep feeling like I’m making my first album each time out.” That perseverance has paid off.

Do you see a thread connecting the lean John Fahey-like guitar pickings of your earliest endeavors to the latest generously arranged symphonic works?

 

M. WARD: The record’s have more in common than there are differences. They all fit together because I have no perspective. I’m still inside this long tunnel. I love the process I’m inside of – as far as making records goes. There’s enough variance for me to keep it stabilized and not make any drastic changes. I know the Rolling Stones could fly to Jamaica to make a record in ten days. For me, it takes two years. It depends on the passage of time to tell me which things to harvest and what to keep in the manure.

You seem to be incorporating the instrumental guitar passages into vocal songs more often. And the songs seem more hopeful.

 

I feel like a good record should feel like a good movie. People should be able to laugh and cry at the same experience. Every song is a balancing act between light and shadows. Hopefully the balance is somewhat representative of the happiness and sadness in your life. I grew up listening to the Beatles’ White Album. I never looked at records as needing to be in one steady mood or chord progression. The records are a chance to see how far you could take these different emotions. I keep them tied together. I’m just using the voice to carry a story across a melody. I still look to the guitar to take the listener to those incredible Roy Orbison moments where vocals reach operatic heights. I gravitate towards the guitar to make those statements.

You’ve increasingly used heavier beats on each successive album, culminating in Hold Time.

 

In general, I wanted to take the rhythms and the sounds of Post-War and basically dissect it and make rich sounds richer and thin sounds thinner as an experiment to see if they could live within a song.

Do you write the symphonic arrangements?

 

Yeah. I started on Post-War. It’s a newfound joy for me to be able to write string arrangements and see them come to life. Strings are such a touchy element of production because it’s easy to go over the top and make something sappy. But with enough vinegar you could keep something sweet from being saccharine.

On the other hand, there’s the spare Robert Johnson-styled lowdown folk-blues of “One Hundred Million Years.”

 

Absolutely. I still have a great fascination with old Robert Johnson records. That simplicity I love in equal measure to the big Phil Spector/ George Martin productions. To see if they could live together on the same record was an experiment worth pursuing.

Renowned Western-folk minstrel Lucinda Williams sings descant on your whispered dirge-y version of Don Gibson’s “Oh Lonesome Me.”

 

During the production of that song I started to hear her voice. I had never met her. But when asked to do a duet she said yes. Since I was in high school she’s been an influence, especially Happy Woman Blues. To have her voice on my record is a great thrill. Lucinda’s voice, in some ways, reminds me of Billie Holiday. It’s raw. She was a joy to work with.

How did your project, She & Him, with Zooey Deschanel, come into fruition?

 

We both grew up listening to KROQ, a groundbreaking L.A. radio station. In the ‘80s, they introduced me to British bands, Sonic Youth, and SST bands. Zooey’s an incredibly talented person. She & Him is entirely different from my solo stuff. I take a backseat and let her sing. Her influence is felt on the Hold Time record, too. We plan to do Volume 2, which is in the demo stage presently.

You construct a narcotic version of Buddy Holly’s “Rave On” with Zooey doing background vocals.

 

Buddy Holly’s writing has been an influence since day one. I discovered him through the Beatles, realizing later how they didn’t write some of their earliest songs I grew up and learned guitar on. That was a revelation. It’s the simplicity I love most about his writing. The mystery that keeps his songs so durable is something I can’t put a finger on.

How much did the Gulf War and contemporary conservative politics affect Post-War?

 

It’s the time I was in, but not necessarily where my head was in. I felt a similarity between New York Times articles I’d read and my favorite books about previous wars. Part of the fun about making a record is you get to play with time and space. It’s gonna mean something different to everyone. There were different interpretations for the new record. I wanted to breakdown time more and not have a specific or vague backdrop. That’s part of the reason I like having cover songs inside a record, to breakdown any chronological time the listener may feel they’re in.

Why does Portland house so many literary songwriters? There’s the Decemberists, Modest Mouse, and Thermals.

 

It must be the coffee. (laughter) Over the last decade, Portland’s no doubt the cheapest West Coast city. Affordable rent makes it easier to do what you love. L.A.’s only a two-hour flight. In San Francisco, you’d have to live in a roach motel. It’s open-minded and you could create without the pressure of too much or not enough media.

M. Ward headlined the Apollo Theatre on February 19th, 2009.