Category Archives: Interviews

BUTTHOLE SURFERS ‘ELECTRICLARRYLAND’ BEGETS ‘WEIRD REVOLUTION’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Wacky Texas boho mofos, the Butthole Surfers, concoct a toxically chronic stew from radically skewed psychedelia-encrusted noise-seared punk rock and haywire electronic gadgetry. After more than a decade in the murky underground, they got their one post-grunge commercial radio break when dusky slacker anthem, “Pepper,” caught everybody’s attention and got people in the stores to buy their seventh studio LP, ‘96s Electriclarryland.

I got to see the Buttholes at Roseland Ballroom in ’96 with my friend, Frank, consuming rum and cokes with the band long after their resounding loud-as-fuck hour-and-a-half set. The next day, those anuses at Capitol Records (not including Bobbie Gale) scheduled an 11 AM interview. Guitarist Paul Leary, nursing a hangover, was pissed at those dumb-asses. And the Capitol rep tried to keep me from discussing singer-keyboardist Gibby Hayne’s heroin problems even though it was Gibby that began taking the conversation that way. Anyway, much herb was cooked and we all had a fuckin’ blast.

Since ’01, Butthole Surfers have remained dormant. Gibby got married and lives in Brooklyn. Paul had already become an in-demand producer working boards for Sublime, Meat Puppets, Daniel Johnston, and Reverend Horton Heat in their prime. Drummer King Coffey did well with his boutique label, Trance Syndicate, releasing discs by pre-fame And They Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead and ex-13th Floor Elevator psych-garage schizo, Roky Erickson (amongst others).

The following piece is comprised of that late morning conversation and appeared in Brutarian (a great DC mag with superb underground articles and even better illustrative drawings started in the ‘90s by Dominick Salemi). Afterwards, I’ve added a Paul Leary interview from ’01 promoting Weird Revolution that originally ran in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, the Butthole Surfers: singer Gibby Haynes, a six-foot-six longhaired gutter rat who’s not nearly as stark, grim, or demonic as painted by the mainstream press; guitarist Paul Leary, who, truth be told, is much more frightening than the aforementioned, ready to unleash his ornery angst at any given moment when not letting loose with frank observations and candid retrospection; and King Coffey, a drummer anchoring not only these Buttholes, but his own record label, Trance Syndicate.

Recording since ’81, the Buttholes know the rock and roll game well and now stare national stardom in the face thanks to the burgeoning popularity of ‘96s maladjusted pop-slopped sleaze, Electriclarryland.

Since I’ve followed Texas music for quite awhile, I’d like to know if the Butthole Surfers have ever met respected underground legends, 13th Floor Elevators?

 

HAYNES: Yeah. Roky was a great guy. We put a record out on his label.

COFFEY: You could make an argument that if you look at Texas popular music, there’s a weird element running through it. Some of the musicians from the ‘50s, like Roy Orbison, certainly looked weird. Buddy Holly kinda sounded weird when he came out with his heavy drum roll and the toms. He was one of the most original white musicians. You could look at the ‘60s with ? and the Mysterians and “96 Tears.” Then even the Texas psychedelic scene was weird by psychedelic standards. In the ‘70s there was ZZ Top, one of the strangest bands on the planet. They have a successful repertoire that could be considered mainstream.

HAYNES: Well, Willie Nelson just totally fucked off everybody. He totally did his own thing differently. I mean, there’s just something about Tex artists.

COFFEY: Like Mr. Haynes just pointed out, Willie Nelson, is considered a Country singer, but really he’s a Jazz singer. He may do Country, but he’s a Jazz player. Willie could do what he wants. And he’s never had a successor.

LEARY: (just walking in the door half asleep) Goddamn…

COFFEY: There’s Paul Leary.

LEARY: Who fucking scheduled this shit so early? Is this Capitol Records idea of a goddamn joke? I just think this is retarded. (calming down) Oooh, I had such a good dream going. I was dreaming I was sleeping.

HAYNES: Within the last year, I actually had a wet dream. I actually woke up with the semen all over my tummy. I even called Bill Carter and told him. (laughter)

Have your songs become more reflective as you’ve grown up? Like “Pepper” deals with several interesting characters.

 

HAYNES: (laughing) Oh, I thought you were gonna say it sounded like Beck because I use the word ‘like’ in it.

Do you guys think of yourselves as unpretentious vulgar bohemians who’ve never been involved or related to any one scene?

 

HAYNES: I think it’s just the name of the band. I can’t think of a truly vulgar song. The name is a sophomoric junior high joke. And I think people just assume we’re stupid, goofy, immature males – which we are – but there’s humor in there. It’s generally not a punchline, one liners. We hardly ever have any foul language on our records.

Do you feel more comfortable with your songs than you did back in ’83?

 

LEARY: I think the best pop riff we ever wrote was on our ’81 song, “Hey.” Everyone of our albums has one justifiable pop song on it. We’re a pop band.

And a very unconventional one at that. Who came up with the theme for the “Pepper” video with Erik Estrada?

 

COFFEY: Video directors come up with videos.

You had nothing to do with the story line?

 

HAYNES: No. Record companies won’t have anything to do with artists directing – unless you’re some huge star. It’s a lot more involved than it looks. But I would include “Pepper” as being another shitty video. It’s as good as 90% of the stuff on MTV, but it’s disappointing not to get a real good video done.

COFFEY: I specifically asked to have Michael and Janet Jackson in our video going through space watching us perform. But Capitol turned it down.

So why bother doing a video then? Did you guys get too big and Capitol needed some more promotional material?

 

LEARY: Well, it was a top tune on the MTV playlist. That’s why you do it. It translates into sales. Plus, it’s fun to make.

HAYNES: You know what I like? If you’re a big band you can smoke and drink booze in your videos. If we had two or three platinum records on the walls, we could be slamming dope in our videos.

Do you guys ever go onstage fucked up before sets and wonder what the hell you’re doing up there?

 

HAYNES: All the time. Just kidding. No one can go onstage and play better if they’re all doped up. If I smoke pot before I go on, I get real paranoid about how the kids are getting ripped off. It just freaks me out.

LEARY: If music is not real, then pot is not a drug. If we were to take cocaine, then you couldn’t play an instrument if you hadn’t before. But with pot, you could believe the lie that you could play. And it makes it much more enjoyable. Driving is a little easier when you’re stoned, but heroin and cocaine are not driving drugs. I’m much safer in my car when I’m stoned.

How could you describe the Buttholes’ sound to a musically unhip person?

 

LEARY: We’re a pop band. Listen to our first motherfucking album. We rhyme ‘love’ with ‘dove.’

COFFEY: Just listen to the very first song on the very first album. We’re a pop band as we’ve already noted.

LEARY: It’s only recently that we’ve been doing bullshit rock music because of what people demand.

Why do you differentiate between pop and rock music?

 

COFFEY: Ah, let’s not. They’re both the same. Now bullshit rock, that’s different…

LEARY: Grand Funk Railroad was a pop band. Still, it doesn’t rock harder than that.

Is it true Walmart decided not to carry Electriclarryland because of the cover having a picture of a cartoon character with a pencil shoved in his ear?

 

COFFEY: No. They’re carrying it now. You never know. Best Buy had a campaign a couple years ago where there was a son talking to his mom about bands he likes, and one of the bands he mentioned was the Butthole Surfers. No one thought twice.

Who are some guitar influences, Paul?

 

LEARY: Mark Farner of Grank Funk, Roy Clark, Gene Simmons… I don’t care what kind of music they play, as long as they’re good.

On the other hand, the media has made you guys much bigger monsters than you come off as. Do you think the image is justified? Do you think the fans see it this way?

 

LEARY: The Butthole Surfers don’t really have an image. Like you look at the band Psychotica with the guy with no penis who comes out in a silver suit and they have colored smoke – that’s an image. ZZ Top has an image. We are without image. We are all surface area with no volume.

COFFEY: And so therefore, people have not distorted our image enough.

So it’s time to distort your image more?

 

COFFEY: It’s up to you to distort our image.

HAYNES: If we can be said to have an image, it’s a creation of the press.

Well, I think with some of the things you do, you push the envelope a little bit. You’re anti-image so you sort of create an image.

 

HAYNES: It’s really difficult to not have an image.

COFFEY: Hey, remember that guy who had that really shitty pickup truck in Austin? And on the back window on the top written in dust was “Dino De La Hoya”?

LEARY: I saw a Plymouth with custom lettering. The guy spelled Plymouth ‘P-l-i-m-o-t-h.’ It was all crooked. But pachucos, to me, are the most influential artists in the world. A pachuco will take anything and turn it into something great to reflect his own unique and individual style. It’s usually a reflection of him sniffing the glue. If you’ve never hung out with some guys sniffing a red rag… that’s so fucking cool.

HAYNES: Like a guy who wears his jockstrap on the outside of his pants. Now that’s art.

Low Rider magazine would appreciate this. They had an issue devoted solely to airbrush art.

 

LEARY: That’s a smokescreen because the true art is the bitter art within. Have you ever heard a pachuco say ‘Hey hippie, suck my peepee?’ I bet they didn’t put that in Low Rider. They weed out the guys who call themselves artists and flush them down the commode. I’m from San Antonio and I worship pachucos. My goal in life is to be a pachuco. But I was really bummed out when I couldn’t be a pachuco. I had all that Irish heritage I had to deal with.

HAYNES: As a band one time we tried to become pachucos. We had these khaki pants that were about twenty inches too big in the waist, and extra extra large flannel shirts and white undershirts and hairnets. King looked good in a hairnet.

LEARY: We went and bought those pointy shoes that were called Delega-tays.

COFFEY: They were fake Stacey Adams.

LEARY: Yeah. We couldn’t afford the real ones.

COFFEY: Actually, they were called Delegates. We preferred to call them Delega-tays.

HAYNES: Little roach killers.

You have a problem with roaches?

 

LEARY: Gibby nailed two of his cockroaches to the wall of his tool shed in San Antonio where we recorded our first record. And they appeared to die from time to time. But a few minutes later you’d hold a lighter to it and it’s dance.

HAYNES: I had a pet roach one time and all he ate was one bean and a human hair. Then he finally died. You could tell he was eating the bean because just a little bit of it would be gone.

How do you guys feel about being made poster children for the Christian Coalition?

 

COFFEY: I think it’s cool how the Christian Coalition is the key to the Republican party now. I think that’s rocking. They couldn’t win without them so Dole had to pick someone who was anti-abortion.

So I doubt you’ll be voting for the Republican ticket in the near future.

 

COFFEY: You’ll never catch me in a voting booth. The only booth you’ll catch me in is the one you got to put quarters in.

Well, I voted for myself. I think Clinton’s a dick and a liar.

 

LEARY: I think his wife is a bigger dick and a liar.

HAYNES: I like Hillary Clinton because she refuses to be made fun of. She’s the sexiest thing in the White House since Jackie O.

LEARY: No. I disagree. The sexiest thing in the White House is Chelsea. She’s got so hot lately. She’s really come into her own.

Wouldn’t you like to find out she’s a Butthole fan?

 

LEARY: I’m sure she likes “Pepper.” I did meet Amy Carter. And she was wearing a Psychedelic Furs t-shirt.

COFFEY: She, on the other hand, is more intellectually attractive.

And Chelsea inspires thoughts of debauchery! If she had invited you would you have played at one of the inaugural balls?

 

HAYNES: I think it’s sick when bands do that. If I ever see Michael Stipe I’m gonna give him shit. Natalie Merchant and Michael Stipe up there singing for the President of the United States!

COFFEY: We had a bass player years back who lost all respect for the Turtles when they played at Trisha Nixon’s party.

Playing at a birthday party, even Trisha Nixon’s is different from playing an inaugural party.

 

HAYNES: Nixon was a good president.

COFFEY: Yeah, but he had a potty mouth.

HAYNES: LBJ had a potty mouth.

LEARY: He used to bark his orders to his aides from the toilet. I used to work for a guy like that at a lumber yard.

COFFEY: LBJ was the coolest because if he ever had a problem with anybody, he had one simple solution. He’d take off his clothes and his problems would go away. All his detractors would disappear.

Didn’t you guys go onstage naked once? Was that a political statement?

 

HAYNES: No. It was because I forgot to wear underwear. Otherwise, I would have been underwear clad.

LEARY: Take off your clothes and go stagediving until you realize there’s a finger up your butt. You can get your dick snapped. You ever been dick snapped?

Not that I can remember. And speaking of snapping, what about the Turtles? You’ve covered stuff before, ever had any desire to do a Turtles song?

 

COFFEY: No, because the Turtles are pricks. The whole De La Soul thing with the samples was bullshit. They wrote some great songs. But I’m not going to contribute any money to them because they’re fucking assholes. Plus, they were doing that Six Flags amusement park tour thing. I met some people who went to that and they said the Turtles really sucked hard.

So in the twilight of your career you couldn’t see yourself playing a park like New Jersey’s Great Advernture?

 

COFFEY: I’m really looking forward to the Holiday Inn days. That’s the ultimate gig. Maybe those Vegas clubs. We’d just play loud as shit in the lounge.

LEARY: What about that Gospel group who was making too much noise in that one hotel we were at? Those fucking assholes wouldn’t shut up, singing gracefully to the Lord. I told them joyfully to shut the fuck up.

Still, our readers want to know: are there any songs you’d pick as covers?

 

HAYNES: Soft Cell.

LEARY: I want to do Glen Campbell’s “Dreams Of The Everyday Housewife.”

You should do “Wichita Lineman.”

 

HAYNES: Jimmy Webb is a pretty cool writer. (The band breaks into a hip-hop version) Jimmy Webb was an acid shaman genius. Anyone who wrote both “Wichita Lineman” and “Up Up And Away” is just… I just discovered Jimmy Webb. I’m not that musically literate. But I know the real deal when I see it.

Which one of you saw John Mc Laughlin at his first live gig?

 

HAYNES: That was me. Dr. John, Mc Laughlin, and the Allman Brothers. The show started at 11:30 in the morning and was over at 3:30 in the morning in Dallas. My dad was waiting in the car from midnight until 3:30. Didn’t get mad, just asked how I enjoyed the show.

LEARY: The police escorted me out of my first two shows. Grand Funk Railroad and Creedence Clearwater Revival. We got to shoot the finger at the pigs. We had my dad drop us off behind the arena so we could jump the fence and get in.

COFFEY: My most influential early show was the Ohio Players’ “Love Rollercoaster” tour featuring K.C. & The Sunshine Band and Hot Chocolate. And my dad and I were the only people there wearing blue jeans and sandals. It was really amazing…

I assume you guys are making money now. How are you using it to better your lives?

 

LEARY: That’s rich. We’re on MTV. You get a hit on the radio and everyone thinks the mailman just starts bringing in the fucking checks. I love that.

COFFEY: Well, I like people who are confused. They see Erik Estrada on TV in the video and they’re like, ‘Wow, they’re making money.’

Do you make money touring?

 

LEARY: That’s another great myth.

COFFEY: Horrible year for tours.

LEARY: I haven’t seen a check for any of this shit.

COFFEY: We would have made money if we didn’t take out any lights or any musical equipment or any crew or any trucks or vehicles.

LEARY: Our next tour is going to be a wax museum. You could smoke a fake joint with your favorite wax rendition of the Butthole Surfers backstage.

COFFEY: Wow. That looks just like King Coffey!

So what do you guys plan on doing in the future?

 

COFFEY: I think we’ll direct.

—————————————————

BUTTHOLE SURFERS RETURN FOR ‘WEIRD REVOLUTION’

 

Lovable degenerates when they debuted with ‘83s constipated mindfuck, Brown Reason To Live, Austin, Texas-based Butthole Surfers heightened their avant-dementia by ‘87s cacophonous Locust Abortion Technician. After a five-year layoff due to protracted legal battles with former label, Capitol Records, these boho mofos return to action with the less twisted, but equally lysergic Weird Revolution. As with ‘93s Independent Worm Saloon and ‘96s mainstream breakthrough, Electriclarryland, the Buttholes latest venture may lack the colossal mayhem and grizzled debauchery of timeless EP’s such as ‘84s Live PCPPEP and ‘85s Cream Corn From The Socket Of Davis, but the inventive fury of its mutated triumvirate remains solidly intact and wholly committed.

The three-headed monster consisting of singer-keyboardist Gibby Haynes, guitarist Paul Leary, and percussionist King Coffey (each involved with their own side projects and/ or production work) continue to improve upon technical skills and computer experimentation. While Weird Revolution’s underworld provocations and cultural future shock may be less outre, stark, and grimy than ‘86s railing Rembrandt Pussyhorse (and its thematic scheme undeniably more discernible and closer to the surface), the Butthole Surfers still ‘out-freak the normal man’ as infernal ‘messenger(s) of strangeness.’

Lanky, ratty-looking frontman, Gibby Haynes, gets on the soapbox for the Zappa-esque title track, then provides a scuzzy frog-throated rap on the truly accessible “Shame OF Life” (co-written with Kid Rock). He sounds downright pop-friendly on the ultra-catchy “Sweet Jane”-ish anthem, “Dracula From Houston.”

Sometimes irascible and short-tempered (at least with scurvy press types), self-proclaimed Grand Funk fan, Paul Leary, links resonating riffs, grinding axework, and swervy whirs of abstract noise to Weird Revolution’s sometimes unpredictable arrangements. And bald-headed calm-mannered King Coffey anchors the latest oeuvre with a bevy of sharp rhythmic detours and syncopated trip-bop electro-beats.

So the twisted geniuses who first received exposure with an abominable, tasteless admission, “The Shah Sleeps In Lee Harvey’s Grave,” now take on a Beirut bombing “Jet Fighter,” an “Intelligent Guy,” that’ll ‘rock me baby all nite long’ much like Steppenwolf promised in ’69, and a loopy spaceship-bound “Last Astronaut.” For kicks, they’ve appended the Mission Impossible II laser beam, “They Came In” to fill the tail end.

Last time I spoke to the Buttholes was during the morning after a sold-out Roseland Ballroom show in ’96. Despite a record label rep quashing a conversation concerning Gibby’s prior drug habit and Paul’s disgust at Capitol setting up such an early interview following a long night of drinking, the result was a fun-filled weed-laced hour with three of America’s weirdest revolutionaries.

More reserved and less volatile than last time we spoke, Paul Leary offered thoughts on terrorism, current musical influences, and his combo’s latest disc.

The title, Weird Revolution, is ironic considering the World Trade Center terrorist attacks. Since you’ve touched on topical social issues such as the Gulf War on your early ‘90s solo album, History Of Dogs, what’s your take on the current tragedy?

 

PAUL: I think there’s aliens inside the moon wondering when they should step in and straighten this mess out. (laughter)

What do you think about fellow Texan, G.W. Bush?

 

Gosh. Do we have to claim him? I don’t know. I wish people would get more introspective and figure out why this stuff happened. We could go bomb the shit out of whoever, but there’s reasons for everything. That’s the sad part. New York got shit on for the way we, as a country, all are. It’s a hate crime. But we have to put ourselves in their position no matter how strange and outrageous that is. But it doesn’t solve the problem. Why do they feel the way they do? It turns my stomach to see how many SUV’s are driving around. The price of gas went down so everyone goes out and fucking buys as much as they could instead of trying to ween ourselves off dependence to the Middle East. Who’s the enemy? At least in Pearl Harbor we knew who did it. What’s next?

A computer war where the U.S. wins. In fact, the Buttholes have implemented that advanced technology to Weird Revolution.

 

Digital recording is in its early phase. The way we recorded twenty years ago and the way it’s done now makes for a whole new creative realm.

You seem to use more technical guitar skills rather than meaty fast-fingered riff patterns.

 

It’s a compelling process that sucks you in. We’re getting mixed reviews. Some like it, some don’t.

There’s a strange dichotomy working. This is your best sounding and most accessible album, but avant-garde fans may fell it’s less Dadaist and less eccentric than past endeavors. Still, Electriclarryland had already moved in a more centrist manner.

 

We’ve always been intrigued by pop music. Look at the Cult’s “Sanctuary.” That was a pop song but it’s still cool today. It was one of the best mixes with a real monstrous kick drum. Now, everyone has monstrous kick drums.

The Buttholes early ‘80s stuff was far more demented, lo-fi, and underground.

 

There are influences now that weren’t in effect back in the days. Back then, we made records without any outside influences. There was nobody standing over shoulder, going ‘Gee. You should do this.’ Now, we have our songs and the first question is ‘Do we have two radio hits on it?’ We keep going ‘til we get it.

Not that it’s all reliant on commercial considerations. The title track seems influenced byFrank Zappa’s Lumpy Gravy or 200 Motels.

 

Uncle Meat was my favorite. Hip-hop has influenced us for awhile. Overall, I’m more guided by Glenn Miller. I love that stuff. He’s a true American hero. (Note: Swing Jazz pioneer, Miller, performed for WWII troops and died in a mysterious plane crash) I get laid listening to that music.

How ‘bout Benny Goodman?

 

I haven’t been listening to that, but I need to. I’ve been listening to Nat ‘King’ Cole and Texas Swing by Bob Willis.

Yet you’ve also produced adventurous rockers like Sublime, and recently, the Long Beach Dub All Stars. What did you add to their sound?

 

Because I know those guys, they have an awful lot of trust in me. The Dub All Stars music gives me a vintage feeling. Their songwriting is a throwback rather than new alternative. I wanted their record to be a collection of songs in an old-fashioned sense. Production is a utilitarian thing. You show up in the studio, work on songs, edit it, and mix it. It was mixed on an old AMAC board in Redondo Beach at Total Access Studio. We recorded some stuff with Spot there in ’82. So it was funny walking in that place again.

Was the Butthole debut EP, Brown Reason To Live, recorded there?

 

No. We owed Spot a few hundred bucks and we were too poor to pay. He ended up with the tapes and we re-recorded them in San Antonio. I’d love to get my hands on those tapes. It’s pretty funny stuff. Back then, most bands in the punk scene were on their own tangent. Now, we’re in a place in music where we were during the mid-’70s, when there were all these conceptions that had become solidified. It had become stifling. You keep expecting someone to breakout and tear the whole thing down again. I wouldn’t mind seeing that right now. Rock radio is hard to listen to these days. I don’t know what the business structure is to keep it the way it is, but it’s not in touch with what people want to hear. Hopefully, they’ll rebel and come up with something that puts those motherfuckers out on their asses. Look at the independent promotional business. That’s gross and still is. That’s how you get on the radio.

Did the four-year layoff since the Buttholes divorce from Capitol Records allow the band time to tweak with Weird Revolution?

 

The first couple years were spent in shock. We couldn’t believe we had our asses handed to us. We had a big hit with “Pepper” and a successful album. We thought we were good to go next time around. All of a sudden, we weren’t musicians anymore and were living in a world of shit. Once we got settled with Hollywood Records, we were able to access what we were working on and put a fresh perspective on it. (Co-producer) Rob Cavallo had ideas of what he wanted to do and the last bit of tweaking was hard work. Rob wanted radio songs and didn’t consider the album done until “Dracula From Houston” and “Shame Of Life” were included. He did a lot of work with those songs and put us in a situation to get this done – bless his heart. The next album will be a radical departure.

MEKONS GO OUT OF OUR HEADS WITH ‘OOOH!’

Interviews

FOREWORD: This interview with the Mekons marvelous leader-by-default, Jon Langford, promoted the combo’s celebratory ’02 LP, simply entitled OOOH! In September ’02, the Mekons played three theme nights, each concentrating on a different era. I caught the CBGB set (early period Mekons) and the Mercury Lounge one (late period), but missed Maxwells. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Taking their name from TV’s Dr. Who, resilient British rockers, the Mekons, began as disaffected art school counterrevolutionaries from Leeds living the questionable punk rock dream. Barely able to play their instruments, the amateurish combo began recording what founder Jon Langford described as “vaguely irrelevant overlong songs” way back in 1977, culminating in ‘79s developmental, if awkward, The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strnen.

After an early breakup, the Mekons regrouped for Country-folk-inspired post-pink classics such as ‘85s Fear & Whiskey, ‘88s calypso-reggae-tinged So Good It Hurts, and a series of resounding ‘90s albums that broadened their formidable reach and built upon an already avid cult status.

To celebrate their 25th anniversary as recording artists, this revolving lineup of Chicago transplants, grounded by Langford, guitarist Tom Greenhalgh, vocalist Sally Timms, fiddler Susie Honeyman, and drummer Steve Goulding, have unleashed the penetratingly triumphant OOOH! (short for Out Of Our Heads).

 

Reaffirming their position as fanciful warriors strutting beyond doomsday gloom, the Mekons follow up ‘00s brilliant Journey To The End Of The Night with another undeniable accomplishment. Dealing with the spiritual dislocation of our present tumultuous world climate, OOOH! drifts through turmoil and volatility in a sorrowful manner, offering hauntingly anthemic white Gospel illuminations amidst the fury and tension.

The solemn communal requiem, “One X One,” courageously pits united vigilance against the discontentment propagated by overzealous war monarchs. The war-torn, Timms-sung “Hate Is The New Love” whispers heart rendering resolve while the Fairport Convention-styled Gaelic folk of “This Way Through The Fire” shines a dim flashlight beyond the ominous post-Apocalyptic flames.

Between breaks from mixing new tracks for an upcoming record by the Sadies, which sets Langford’s lyrics to their Country-affected arrangements, I spoke to the unqualified leader of the band via phone.

I thought OOOH! dealt primarily with the religious warfare surrounding the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

 

JON: I don’t wanna be like Courtney Love and say we predicted it. But the songs were written and recorded before 9-11. It’s funny how things take on different resonance’s afterwards. An alternative title was Dangerous Bibles, but we didn’t want to make it too topical.

There’s a hymnal religiosity throughout.

 

I grew up in Wales, where people sing at football (soccer) and rugby games. That was the sort of soundtrack. They’re really good folk songs. Tom (Greenhalgh) and I have been listening to a lot of old Alan Lomax prison and church songs. We’d been doing some art and thinking of putting text and words together. So inevitably we were looking at social historian, E.P. Thomspon’s Witness Against The Beast, which goes into a Lipstick Traces-like look at where poet William Blake came from (examining cultural milieu).

Critic Bob Christgau credits the Mekons with prefiguring alternative Country and the whole No Depression era. Do you get respect form Jeff Tweedy and Jay Farrar, former Uncle Tupelo progenitors?

 

We get no respect from Jeff Tweedy at all. No. I’m kidding. I’ve done kid’s concerts in Chicago with him and Tim Rutili from Califone recently. We have an occasional trio, the Dads Of Wiggle Worms. We have singing classes our kids have joined in a Chicago folk school.

The same Mekons lineup that recorded ‘85s recently re-released Fear & Whiskey did OOOH! as founding member Ken Lite has returned.

 

Ken’s been involved with the Mekons, but not live. He’s a collaborator with ideas and we’ve done art together. Being in a band during the ‘90s seemed boring (Ed. Note: due to DJ culture). So we got into art.

What are you trying to express through your art?

 

I’m trying to express the difficulty of self-expression. (smirky laughter) What’s interesting about the Mekons is we’re a smaller model of a way of working which is on the fringes and not about fame and money. A group of people working together doesn’t have to be about a battle of egos, but instead a community-based surrogate family. The only way to leave is in a box. We’ve been loved and regaled in England. People say we’re the greatest band in the world. Then we confound expectations by not delivering the goods commercially. People would say we’re the next big thing. Then we’d fly off on different tracks, so there was revenge for us to remain in existence.

Well. Mainstream radio could lick my ass. Are you telling me OOOH!’s enchanting sing-along, “Thee Olde Trip To Jerusalem” can’t be enjoyed fully next to spiritually awakened moldy oldies like “Oh Happy Day” or the Byrds “Turn! Turn! Turn!” It has a catchy hook line that’d be nestled next to the Beatles, Kinks, and Doors in the ‘60s.

 

That’s the trouble. Those were different times. When I was a kid, radio was the main outlet playing new stuff by Roxy Music and David Bowie. That turned me around. Even the Sex Pistols hit Britain’s Top Of The Pops with “Pretty Vacant.” Now, radio has the lid on very tight. The solidity of constipation of mainstream corporate rock radio actually helps people like us since we have our own clearly defined space to move around in now. The structure of that industry bares no resemblance to what we do.

The spiritual awareness of the melancholic, low key testament, “Take His Name In Vain” and the snappy “Only You And Your Ghost Will Know” counter the sexually deviant titillation of the explicit “Tourettes” (from ‘98s Me) and “Come And Have A Go If You Think You’re Hard Enough.”

 

Usually when we start an album, we have a theme in mind for the collection of songs written. There are ethical issues going on within the subject matter of how you exist.

Singer Sally Timms’ rhyming scheme for “Dancing In My Head” vaguely reminded me of Pussy, King Of The Pirates, the album you did with poet Kathy Acker.

 

The influence Kathy Acker had on us was clear. But the album was one of our least understood and most disliked albums. Yet we had a great time working with her.

“Bob Hope And Charity” seems to be an ironic paean concerning Hope’s touring duties entertaining wartime American troops.

 

There was a myth concerning a Welsh king who had his head chopped off while fighting the Irish. He said, ‘Cut my head off and carry me back to Wales’ and he went on to entertain the troops for eighty years. There’s all sorts of myths about the singing head and the magic of the power of voice – like Bob Hope entertaining the troops.

Do you hope downloading will destroy major label greed?

 

(Sinister laughter) I’m interested in getting paid but the majors are the enemy. Downloading is cool in the sense that Wilco put out their album on the internet and then when it came out, everyone bought it. The majors are too retarded to benefit from it and generate money for artists. All they think about is penalizing artists and keeping the sweets for themselves. They’ll get washed away as they get more extreme ideas how to squeeze money out of people and prevent the free passage of music and information. You can’t stop people from finding good music, but they keep pumping out crap for radio.

TRACY BONHAM’S RIOT GIRL-SPURRED BOSSTOWN SOUND

Interviews

 

FOREWORD: Boston-based singer-songwriter Tracy Bonham received major alt-rock airplay in ’96 thanks to frantically foreboding frolic, “Mother Mother,” the lead single from dazzling debut, The Burdens Of Being Upright. Her one-hit-wonder radio success outperformed more popular indie female artists of the day (Ani Di Franco, Indigo Girls, Sarah Mc Lachlan). Though she never again attained such riot girl-informed aboveground success, 00’s Down Here and ‘05s Blink The Brightest secured her status as a slightly idiosyncratic damsel whose partial reliance on violin is oddly deviant. In ’09, Bonham was preparing a new album. This article originally appeared in HITS magazine.

 

Singer-songwriter-guitarist Tracy Bonham grew up in Eugene, Oregon, where she learned piano and Classical violin. While performing in the Boston area after a spell at Berklee College of Music, Bonham developed an uncanny ability to convey poignant emotions with sharp-eyed relevance and demanding assuredness.

Live in front of a capacity Irving Plaza crowd, her spunky, vibrant personality shines through as her band opens for Spacehog. Dressed in a puffy recycled ostrich silk blouse and light blue slacks, Bonham’s pigtailed girl-next-door looks make her appear half her age.

Her powerful debut, The Burdens Of Being Upright, delivers sharp indictments in an effervescently upbeat manner, deceptively hiding venomously sarcastic characterizations under well-focused melodic-harmonic awareness. Frenzied anthem, “Mother Mother,” subconsciously explores Gen X concerns such as paranoia, social confinement, and instability, screaming the mock-hopeful refrain ‘everything’s fine.’

On “Navy Bean,” a rumbling rhythmic undercurrent intercepts Bonham’s rubbery guitar. The reserved “Tell It To The Sky” builds to a psychedelicized choral climax, but her major breakthrough may be “The One,” an undeniably catchy tune with bright vocals, riveting instrumentation, and a snazzy ‘70s-styled ring radio should snatch up in a heartbeat. “every Breath” and “Kisses” faintly recall the hypnotic imagery of Liz Phair and the playful “Bulldog” gets a loud power pop treatment.

Seasoned by years of small-level touring perfecting her craft – she played violin on a few Page/ Plant dates – the peppy 5’3″ sparkplug has become the unexpected chart topping starlet of ’96.

Hello.

 

(Heavy breathing and panting)

Don’t try that phone sex with me, Tracy. It doesn’t work.

 

Oh come on, you love it. (laughter)

Why’d you sign with Island Records?

 

They were down to earth and had enthusiasm from top to bottom. I didn’t always get that sense from other labels. Island has loads of great artists like Tom Waits, PJ Harvey, and William Burroughs. I feel they won’t try to drop me if I choose to be different or if I don’t sell millions of records. (editors note: guess again, within a year she was looking for a new label)

What pressures did you face recording The Burdens Of Being Upright?

 

It’s stupid, but I put pressure on myself. I’m already worried about the next album. What If it sucks? I really have no idea what I want to do. Probably, I’ll just do something different and whack. Maybe I’ll have more violin, but not in the Classical sense.

Are you comfortable in the recording studio?

 

It depends on the situation. The studio is a weird mind trip. I try to make sure I know what I’m doing every step of the way. But it’s difficult. I’ve finally learned to speak up and say what I want done. I want to be free to create in the studio. I have an eight-track at home. I got a little demo-it is. (laughter) I fell in love with the messed up parts.

What does the title of the album mean? Couldn’t it just as easily be called The Burdens Of Being Uptight?

 

There are so many burdens being human. But you can’t just whine and complain. When I write in my journals, I don’t write about things I enjoy, but instead about things that bug me. Actually, the album is vengeful towards one specific person who’s bound to run across me saying this in an article soon.

What did producers Sam Slade and Paul Kolderie add to the recording process?

 

Wonderful guitar sounds. They had already produced Radiohead, Hole, and Morphine with success. I ran into them numerous times while performing in Boston, so I felt comfortable. They had seen me play live and I almost felt I had a history with them.

Do you feel confined when compared to fellow Bostonians Jennifer Trynin or Julianna Hatfield?

 

It’s bizarre. We’re all different. I feel great when compared to someone I like. But when it’s someone I don’t like, it swims in my head. Last night, I was in Ottawa, home of Alanis Morissette. I felt like everything I did onstage was getting compared to her. I just don’t want to be part of this angry female thing I read about in New York newspapers. If it’s just the next phase, I’ll eventually flop.

Why was your previous Cherrydisc EP named Liverpool Sessions?

 

The title was a big joke about playing clubs for a long time. We finally got a buzz going around Boston and received lots of attention. One prospective title was “Live At Madison Square Garden.” I thought, “Liverpool Sessions” was a good record, but I’m not as proud of it as I am of the new album. The EP was a rush job and a little immature.

Tell me about the passionate discontent of “Sharks Can’t Sleep”?

 

It’s about people hurting each other. It’s also a collage about life and death. You know, one day life is over – it’s scary. Life sometimes seems meaningless. And it doesn’t help that there are all these indie rock kids who only like what others don’t like just to seem different. They hate anything that may be a potential commercial fixture on the radio…no matter what group does it.

What did Boston’s Berklee College of Music teach you?

 

That reputation isn’t everything. Berklee can be great for the right person. But certain people I went to school with were only playing their instrument for six months. Obviously, money had a lot to do with that. Their parents supported them.

Who are the members of your current touring band?

 

The bass player, Drew Parsons, who is the only touring member to record with me on the album. He’s been with me two years. Shayne Phillips is our drummer and Phil Hurley plays guitar. The January show at Irving Plaza was either his first or second night with us. He’s real enthusiastic and has a great ear for music.

What do you think of Liz Phair’s music? She led a small female empowerment rebellion a few years back.

 

I really enjoy her a lot. I used to listen to Exile In Guyville day and night when it first came out.

There were a lot of people backstage after the Irving Plaza show. In the frenzy, you unknowingly prevented Sean Lennon from coming in.

 

I was told to keep some people out. The first person I kicked out was Sean Lennon. I didn’t know it was him. My guitar player told me who it was and then asked me if I was crazy.

THE CORAL CUTS UP BRITISH CHARTS

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I got to hang out with British pop idols, the Coral, during their first American tour supporting ‘02s rewarding eponymous psych-folk mod rock debut. Stargazing guitar group revivalists, the Coral went on to reach number one in England with respectable sophomore set, Magic And Medicine, but were jilted by US lack of interest. I’m unfamiliar with ‘04s The Invisible Invasion and ‘07s Roots & Echoes (which wasn’t released in the States). Lead singer-guitarist James Skelley proved to be a rather shy, soft-spoken person offstage. But the rest of the band was more outgoing. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Onstage at Manhattan’s crowded Mercury Lounge, Britain’s latest press darlings, the Coral, prove worthy impressing stateside informants through the relentlessly frenetic sea shanty opener, “Spanish Main,” to the distended Searchers-obliged closing mantra, “Goodbye.” Musically sophisticated beyond their years (ages 18 to 21), these cleverly resourceful thick-accented Merseyside villagers shun post-punk conventionality by dousing intricate arrangements with crusty Yardbirds-styled riffs, twanged surf rock borrowings, psych-garage organ motifs, and doo wop-influenced harmonies.

Now proud college dropouts, Hillbury High pals James Skelley (vocals-guitar), his brother, Ian (drums), Nick Power (organ), Bill Ryder-Jones (guitar-trumpet), Lee Southall (guitar), and Paul Duffy (bass-sax) have garnered massive UK media attention since their self-titled debut sold an impressive 100,000 copies in Great Britain alone.

Whether chanting simple nursery rhyme schemes on the nifty “Simon Diamond,” drifting into the reggae-fried “Dreadlock Holiday” abyss of organ saturated “Shadows Fall,” or slipping through scampered Madness placation’s such as the soulful “Dreaming Of You,” and the anxiety-riddled “I Remember When,” the Coral consistently scramble jumbled influences in intentionally awkward ways.

Perhaps the most inextricable illustration of their deranged diversification comes via the spasmodic “Bad Man,” a frazzled espionage-themed elixir with fluctuant time signatures, sinister clipped guitar clusters, and burbling wheeze-box undercurrent.

Are the Coral part of a thriving Liverpool-based scene?

 

BILL: It’s going through a transition and turning itself around. It’s a bit of a positive place to come from. It still has its flaws. Local bands like the Bandits, who are into ska-skiffle sounds like the Clash-meets-the-Sex Pistols. The Stands are more like the Byrds’ Sweetheart Of The Rodeo country-folk.

PAUL: Then there’s two lads called Hokum Clones that do bluegrass ragtime with two acoustic guitars. The Irish band, Zutons, is on our label. When we started getting into music, we weren’t serious at fourteen years old yet. The band Madness was cool.

LEE: At that stage, you’re not sure what you’re into. The bands we initially liked were the Beatles, Oasis, and the La’s. The La’s made the best pop songs of the ‘90s. We’ve been playing some of our songs for four years, so the problem becomes ‘How do you play the songs with the same feeling?’

How do your diligent arrangements usually come about?

 

BILL: Most songs are collaborations that are created out of chords. It’s not really a set way. We go over what the feel of the song is and it comes together.

LEE: We could write a few lyrics and put two chords together and a whole song comes out of it. It’s just us.

Your closing song at the Mercury Lounge gig, “Goodbye,” was stretched out live. Its stinging leads reminded me of the Yardbirds while the harmonies

seemed influenced by the Searchers.

 

PAUL: We like to freak out on that. It’s completely selfish and indulgent. We just like to jam out.

The obtuse “Skeleton Key,” with its Captain Beefheart-skewed rhythmic complexity, nearly resembles the music of the New York City band with the same name.

 

PAUL: There’s also a band named Shadows Fall.

On that song, “Shadows Fall,” you play a reggae bass line.

 

PAUL: To be honest, I was on vacation when they wrote that song. It’s not just standard reggae. It skips through styles. The words Nick wrote and the theme called for that bass. But it wasn’t premeditated.

Nick, what’s the inside scoop concerning the lyrics to your song, “Simon Diamond”?

 

NICK: It’s kind of tragic. At the end of the song, he changes into a plant. He has arms to wash himself, but he can’t because he’s a plant. It’s philosophical. Sometimes you sing the chorus until it fits into your liking and that’s the essence of it. Sometimes, they’re made up on the spot.

Are you into Northern Soul?

 

NICK: That’s what we’ve always done. We listen to everything. But we’re so bored because there’s so little to do where we live, so we sit in our bedroom. There’s a high population of old people. So you have to amuse yourself in some way. The first thing I got into was Bob Marley. Then, there was John Lennon and Bob Dylan. They’re the biggest icons. I also like Captain Beefheart and Scott Walker.

The neo-orchestral parts on some songs are reminiscent of Scott Walker’s early ‘70s singer-songwriter stuff.

 

NICK: It’s never preconceived how we’re gonna write. We get an idea, go into the practice room, then whatever happens…you chuck a load of ideas around. If you’re in a band and you’re getting paid for it, you should get everybody involved.

How’s the second record coming along?

 

JAMES: It’s more refined than the first. The quality of songwriting and the arrangements are better and we’re better players now. It’s more within one mood. It’s not as chopped together as the first was.

NICK: The parts of the debut you hear that you can’t relate to any other band is what the whole of the second album is like. It’s more like in ten years time it’ll have a more obvious sound. Our first album was a great, weird representation of where we were then. The next is a more of a mood album like one of those thematic Hawaiian albums that take you someplace else. It’s like the quiet after the storm with some severe Can jams.

(The interview moves downstairs to the Mercury Lounge basement area where James Skelley confides)

I notice your vocal arrangements seem influenced by the purity of doo wop.

 

JAMES: Doo wop is rock and roll, isn’t it? Just like Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers and “Red Sails In The Sunset” or the Spaniels or the Impressions. It’s all feel-good music. I think those were the things I was into, but now everybody in the band is into it.

Did you and your brother, Ian, grow up in a bohemian household with creative parents?

 

JAMES: No. They were just never really in. They were always out. There was no one to tell us what to do. My mom got into the Beatles, Stones, Small Faces, the Kinks, the Who, and David Bowie. But they were into shit music as well. However, they were also into soulful American artists like Jackie Wilson, Smokey Robinson, and Sam Cooke. And stretching back before that, Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, the Ronettes, the Teddy Bears, and “Mr. Sandman” by the Chordettes. Bo Diddley is future music. There’s been nothing as contemporary as Bo Diddley since.

Where do you draw lyrical influences?

 

JAMES: Bob Dylan, Smokey Robinson, Lennon-Mc Cartney, Arthur Lee and writers Dylan Thomas, William Wordsworth (Tintern Alley), John Steinbeck (The Grapes Of Wrath).

So you have quite a few literary influences?

 

JAMES: Yeah. I got The Old Man And The Sea and I just started reading stuff like Tom Sawyer.

 

FRANK BLACK’S CATHOLICS DEBUT WONDROUS TWO-TRACK DEMO

Interviews,

 

FOREWORD: I first interviewed ex-Pixies main man, Frank Black, in ’98, to support his first album with backing band, the Catholics. He’d already done three decent solo albums, but wanted to get back to his primal rock roots and chose Miracle Legion’s bassist and drummer to offer fine support. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

After disbanding innovative ‘80s Boston rock quartet, the Pixies, Frank Black (a.k.a. Black Francis) began a solo career while his former partner, Kim Deal, formed the Breeders with her twin sister. Following a formative self-titled solo debut, Black released pop-styled The Cult Of Ray and equally swell Teenager Of The Year.

Keeping his loud, raunchy guitar riffs sweet ‘n sticky, and his constipated moans harmonious, Black’s recently waxed Frank Black & the Catholics is a two-track demo so good it had to be released in its raw state. Helped greatly by Miracle Legion’s David Mac Caffrey (bass) and Scott Boutier (drums), plus respected session man Lyle Workman (guitar), the songs from this three-day session may be Black’s finest work since the Pixies.

Highlights from the Catholics’ entrée include the love sticks/ life sucks verdict “Back To Rome” (which cleverly uses the decline of the Roman Empire as a metaphor), the Lou Reed-ish “I Gotta Move,” and the seductively charming “King & Queen Of Siam.” But my fave is the absolutely cool Who knockoff “Suffering.”

Presently living in Los Angeles, Black called me one hot afternoon, August, ‘98. He was getting over a cold as he spoke of the Catholics, life in the Pixies, and his love for rock of ages.

You seem to get back to your roots on the new album. Why?

 

FRANK: What you’re hearing is an expensive demo. We decided after a few days of recording this was the way to go. The producer who was going to work with us thought it sounded great the way it was so we stayed with the live-to-two-track. We were in the studio three days. After the first two, I had grand thoughts this would be the album. But it wasn’t intended that way.

Do you see this album as a logical progression from your first three solo efforts?

 

FRANK: You could categorize the first two solo albums as a relaxed period which progresses from the Pixies. I was still working with Eric Feldman, who worked on the Pixies’ Trompe Le Monde. We goofed around and had fun with the arrangements. We were enjoying ourselves using players we regularly listen to. The Cult Of Ray and the new album are the result of going out on tour a lot and eventually ending up with the band we already had. We were more true to a pure rock ethic. Certainly The Cult Of Ray is very different from this one, but the instrumentation is very similar

Your only cover song is Larry Norman’s honky tonkin’ “Six-Sixty-Six.” Why cover that song?

 

FRANK: Larry Norman is an obscure artist who’s considered the father of Jesus rock. In his late ‘60s heyday, I used to listen to his records. I decide to cover one of his songs and “Six-Sixty-Six” was the one I went for.

What early ‘50s/’60s rockers do you enjoy listening to?

 

FRANK: Certainly a lot of ‘50s and ‘60s recordings have become very holy and important to me. I have more respect for those records than I do for most records made in the ‘80s. It’s closer to the rock explosion in 1955, which was its nucleus. There’s something mystical about that. I’m a big Del Shannon fan. I’m also into Freddy Fender, whose music is rooted in the ‘50s. And Johnny Horton, who did “North To Alaska” and “Battle Of New Orleans.” ‘60s artists like Leon Russell, Doug Sahm, and Sam The Sham & the Pharaohs I also love.

You seem to like those cool three-minute pop tunes.

 

FRANK: Originally, piano rolls and wax cylinders allowed the mechanics of a song to be leveled down to three minutes. That may have given birth to the conventional pop song. It’s a really strong pillar early rock relied on. As it developed over the years, that cornerstone of music fell. Rules are meant to be broken, but to let a song casually slip into the ten-minute mark, I think, is a bad thing.

Your former band, the Pixies, were influenced by prer-grunge icons. Some critics claim your solo albums are too conventional. What are your thoughts?

I just do what I do. When I was with the Pixies, there was no attempt at being progressive other than we weren’t trying to be like Journey. It wasn’t contrived. We were trying to express rock music as best as we could. Pretty quickly we met with sucess. Along with that came a lot of demands, like touring, making more records, and doing soundtrack songs. Of course, there’s a lot of hype from English magazines declaring us the greatest band in the world and all that shit. You dont’ believe the hype, but you go along with it. So you end up cranking out songs. By the end, I was unhappy with the situation. But I don’t know, it’s different now. You just learn more about songwriting. Development, for me, isn’t planned. It’s like gravity pulling me along.

Would you consider yourself more pop-rooted than Kim Deal?

 

Maybe yes. But that’s for someone else to decide. I wouldn’t know.

How’d you hook up with David and Scott from Miracle Legion for this album?

 

The Miracle Legion is basically defunct. I played shows with them over the years and John Stewart had a television show and I needed a pickup band since I fired my band and was floundering around. I was opening for They Might Be Giants when I asked John Stewart if I could use his rhythm section since I was invited to do his show. But they were doing Conan O’Brien that night so I called up David and told him to bring down his rhythm section. So that was my cue to work with those guys. They have a certain glue from having played together in other bands and having been roommates. They make a fat sound in a consistently skewed fashion. Maybe their drums rush by and the bass lags behind. Nothing is overplayed. But nothing is too precious or delicate. They play at full volume like I do. We get along well. I rarely made suggestions on how to deliver a song in rehearsal. I’d have a new song, show them the chords, and a very natural, unspoken relationship developed.

Your singing seems to have more emotional resonance these days.

 

I’ve always been a singer, not a screamer. I concentrate on singing in tune. I ended up singing on a tribute record with Gary US Bonds. He’s a real soulful, legitimate singer. And here I am, some young punk. David Bowie asked me to sing “Scary Monsters” and “Fashion” for his 50th birthday party. I’m not nearly as good as he, but you just try to be good.

Radio dismissed ’80s indie rock. Would you agree Nirvana opened the doors for indie rock on a commercial level during the ’90s?

For a minute, maybe. But now you can’t get played unless you have one of the fifteen songs on the playlist. I call the post-grunge copycats hamburger bands. I can’t listen to all that crap. And when they do play something on modern rock that’s good, it’s the same Clash song. I can’t deal with those stations. They suck. It’s all about marketing, crunching numbers, and dwindling down to lowest common denominator. I’m not bitter about it. If they want to get ratings playing shitty music to shitheads who think it’s wonderful, it’s their loss. One-hit wonders aren’t passionate about music. They’re obsessed with being famous and it shows. But they make quick money, so so good for them.

-John Fortunato

ECHO & THE BUNNYMEN BRING ‘FLOWERS’ OF ROMANCE

Interviews

 

FOREWORD: Working class post-punk Liverpudlians, Echo & the Bunnymen, were part of the ‘new psychedelia’ movement local antecedents, the Teardrop Explodes, helped fortify with ‘80s universally acclaimed Kilimanjaro. Guitarist Ian Mc Culloch had been in the Julian Cope-led Crucial Three before Cope started up Teardrop Explodes. But Mc Culloch split and went on to find success leading Echo & The Bunnymen, whose exceptional debut, Crocodiles, maintained an eccentric cleverness captured best on suspenseful Brit smash, “Do It Clean.” Though ‘81s middling Heaven Up Here further secured an enlarged cult status, it was ‘83s lissome goth-gloom masterpiece, Porcupine, with its stark symphonic sharpness and icy violin crescendos, that secured aboveground acceptance inside and outside Europe. ‘84s equally compelling, magnificently orchestrated Ocean Rain, replaced any leftover macabre apparitions with a confident melodic splendor.

After a three-year layoff, ‘87s self-titled fifth album produced the pop schlock dandy, “Lips Like Sugar,” while ‘88s Pretty In Pink movie soundtrack offered finely-detailed moody retreat, “Bring On The Dancing Horses.” But Echo & the Bunnymen were temporarily halted while Mc Culloch went solo with worthwhile ’89 LP, Candleland.

 Despite reuniting for ‘90s brooding Brit-pop mediocrity, Reverberation, Echo & the Bunnymen once again withdrew, waiting seven years before the valiant comeback, Evergreen. A steady stream of average-to-good LP’s followed, including ‘99s What Are You Going To Do With Your Life, ‘01s Flowers (which I promoted with the Ian Mc Culloch phone interview below), ‘05s Siberia, and ‘09s The Fountain. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Ever since the late ‘70s punk explosion, Echo & the Bunnymen have possessed an artful quirkiness and stylish Romanticism that countered the primal, raw virulence of first wave reactionaries the Sex Pistols, The Clash, and the Dead Boys.

Lead by rhythm guitarist Ian Mc Culloch, a debonair singer with a piercing caterwauled wail, and lead guitarist Will Sergeant, these gothic Liverpool-based post-punks helped invent a ‘new psychedelia.’ Boasting a more informed, sophisticated, and formal approach than its roughhewn competition, Echo & the Bunnymen soon became one of England’s greatest ‘80s bands.

The baroque grandeur and majestic orchestral drama of ’80 debut, Crocodiles, and ‘81s less intriguing Heaven Up Here ushered in the visionary breakthrough of ‘83s gorgeous Porcupine (featuring the throbbing evocation, “The Cutter”) and ‘84s arguably better Ocean Rain.

After a self-titled ’87 album assisted by former Doors keyboardist, Ray Manzarek, Mc Culloch went solo for ‘89s plaintive beauty, Candleland, and its worthy follow-up, Mysterio.

Re-formed and reinvigorated, Echo & the Bunnymen came back strong with two more lushly textured albums: ‘97s mood-struck Evergreen and ‘99s difficult-to-find What Are You Going To Do With Your Life.

Still searching for salvation in a world offering little spiritual guidance, the liquefied guitar swirls and billowy synthesizer smoothness of ‘01s promising Flowers offered further evidence of Mc Culloch and Sergeant’s combined genius. From the glistening curlicue guitar feedback of the faith-riddled “King Of Kings” to the tongue-in-cheek sarcasm of “Everybody Knows” to the glimmering vibes and backward tape loops of “Make Me Shine,” Flowers may be the most exhilarating step forward yet.

Though their music hasn’t changed much since the elegiac provocation, “Do It Clean,” they remain seminal figures of the underground rock scene.

I spoke to Mc Culloch for a half-hour via phone.

Who were some of your formative musical influences?

 

IAN: The first thing that floored me was David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust. Then I went back and got Space Oddity and Hunky Dory – which is now my favorite Bowie album. I couldn’t wait for his albums to come out. They kept me sane and insane and got me through that weird time between ages 13 and 15 when all I cared about was football and Bowie. It made me want to be a singer. He’d mention in interviews Velvet Underground, Iggy Pop, and Jacque Brel as influences. That sounded intriguing so I got hooked on them.

Then the Doors came later through Will. He’d play their stuff and I’d think ‘this is the missing seed in the pack.’ I love Leonard Cohen. I consider him part of the lineage or family tree from Bowie. I always liked the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Kinks. But I was more fascinated with the more decadent, dark songs by the Doors, Lou Reed, and Iggy & the Stooges. I always looked for that atmosphere in music.

Were you an original member of fellow post-punk Liverpool band, Teardrop Explodes?

 

IAN: I wasn’t. There was one time when the band was called Shallow Madness. I was meant to be the singer because I suppose I looked the most likely for the part. But the music wasn’t the kind I wanted to do. Therefore, I didn’t show up for many rehearsals even though they were held in my flat. I’d disappear the night before. I was too shy to sing; too shy to tell them. They got fed up with me, and Julian Cope started singing.

The Bunnymen’s first few albums dealt with heavier topics such as politics, depression, and agony. Over the years, your lyrics became more reflective and personal.

 

IAN: That started when I made two solo records. After that, I didn’t want to go back. Early on, it was more metaphysical and existential. Then I realized the songs that touch you more are more personal, like Bowie’s “Changes” and “Heroes.” His most personal record, Hunky Dory, sounded like a bloke with a guitar rather than a bloke from outer space. What I wanted to get across was that one to one, when a line hits you. The early albums skirted around those things. It was more superficial angst than personal lyricism.

What do you like best about the way Flowers turned out?

 

IAN: The warm, affected guitar sounds are quite clear and crisp. There’s not layers and layers of things going on – which I may have been guilty of in the past. We became aware how it sounded like Crocodiles more than any of the others. Also, there was a touch of the Doors first album with the guitar affects. You just go instinctively for what you fancy.

I heard it cost less money to make Flowers than it did to record Crocodile over twenty years ago.

 

IAN: We never spent fortunes. You could spend months unnecessarily. This was written and recorded with Will’s main guitar lines in twelve hours. Over the course of a month, he’d come around for two hours and we’d come out with four basic songs or the beginning of a song. We’d be like, “Wow! We’ve got six songs now.’ That didn’t include lyrics, but the basic melody lines were going well. We thought it would take ages for the rest of the band (keyboardist Ceri James; percussionist Vincent Jamieson; and bassist Alex ‘Kong’ Germains) to feel comfortable, but they found it easy to come up with spontaneous bits at this funky little fourth floor floorboard studio with big windows opposite an old police station in Liverpool.

I’m not yet familiar with the previous album, ‘99s What Are You Going To Do With Your Life?

 

IAN: It’s the closest in sound to Ocean Rain in terms of songwriting style. It’s very orchestrated. It’s hard to tell with Will, but I think it’s the album he’d have liked more if it were a solo album by me. His involvement wasn’t that great. It’s acoustic based in the main but with lots of strings. Most people don’t know it’s around. It shows how bad the previous record company people were. People who’d been with us since 1980 had no idea of its existence.

 

BUFFALO TOM ‘SMITTEN’ WITH REFLECTIVE EXPOSITION

Interviews

 

FOREWORD: Queens-bred Boston-based guitarist Bill Janovitz is the leader of Buffalo Tom, a band whose friendship with J. Mascis allowed the semi-legendary Dinosaur Jr. frontman to produce their first two formative albums. ‘93s Big Red Letter Day bettered Buffalo Tom’s initial offerings and ‘98s tightly-composed Smitten gave it a run for the money. Since then, Buffalo Tom went on hiatus while Janovitz released a few solo discs, including ‘97s hit-and-miss Lonesome Bill and bittersweet folk-rooted ’01 disc, Up Here. Under the pseudonym Crown Victoria, he did ‘04s Fireworks On TV! Happily, Buffalo Tom reunited nine years after Smitten for ‘7s Three Easy Pieces. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Since meeting at the University of Massachusetts in 1986, Buffalo Tom guitarist-vocalist Bill Janovitz and bassist-vocalist Chris Colbourn (along with drummer Tom Maginnis) have released six consistently pleasing albums. Moving further away from the gritty sonic guitar thrust of their self-titled debut, ‘90s Birdbrain, ‘91s Let Me Come Over, and ‘95s Sleepy-Eyed – and closer to the dramatic folk-pop of ‘93s dynamic Big Red Letter Day and Janovitz’s solo entrée, Lonesome Bill – ‘98s charming Smitten puts reflective lyrics, sweeping melodies, and cushy harmonies up-front and foremost.

Soliciting memories of the Northeast twilight, Janovitz’s acoustic trinkets like “Postcard,” the lushly string-laced “Scottish Windows,” testimonial lullaby “The Bible,” and tender piano ballad “Wiser” delicately melt their way into your heart. The earthy dual harmonies of Colbourn and guest Carol Van Dyk (from respected Dutch band, Bettie Serveert) sweetly coalesce on the imagery-laden “Under Milkwood.”

Countering the softer songs are the blustery Replacements-like “Walking Wounded,” the propulsive rocker “See To Me,” and the organ-doused beat-driven “White Paint Morning.” But undoubtedly, the most infectious track on Smitten has to be the power pop opener, “Rachael,” with its swooning harmonies and flirty schoolyard naivete.

A big vinyl junkie, Janovitz recently purchased a few Miles Davis albums at a yard sale; and he was listening to a ‘70s Raspberries song right before calling me up at work one hot August afternoon.

Would you consider Smitten a natural progression from past albums?

 

BILL: I suppose so. The bottom line is we don’t want to put out the same record twice. We try to make each record somewhat different than the one before and make them unique. We can’t be like AC/DC. They found a winning formula and kept putting out the same song. But that’s not what keeps us together. We have the same lineup, but try to see what we could do with the balance of Buffalo Tom. Sleepy-Eyed was a little noisier than the album before it. So I don’t think our progression has been linear. We’re not shoegazers or even bellybuttom gazers.

Does the title of the album have to do with being ‘smitten’ by some real or imagined love interest?

 

BILL: We always have a long drawn-out fight over which title to choose. Smitten was inspired by the albums’ artwork. It has a narcissistic woman looking at the reflection of herself in the pond. It’s more of a dark play on the word smitten.

Where do you draw most of your inspiration for song ideas?

 

BILL: Most are personal, or even biographical. They tend to be about snippets of conversations or images from my life, but they’re not necessarily about me. They form as loose composite sketch. The song, “Register Side,” is probably one of the few narratives I’ve written.

Your voice has gained an emotional richness over the years.

 

BILL: On our first record, I wasn’t even paying attention to my voice since it was more like a garage record. Over the course of a few records, I care more. The turning point was Big Red Letter Day. We spent an inordinate amount of time with our producers, the Robb Brothers, who let us pay attention to pitch. Then, on the next record we were able to do vocals live in the studio. Before Big Red Letter Day, we did records with different combinations of Fort Apache guys. They were done relatively quickly. Then we toured with Let Me Come Over and it took a long time to make Big Red Letter Day. We tried to make a timeless classic instead of an over-the-top guitar record. So we went to California with our guitars, rented amps, and came up with sounds we weren’t used to. It changed up the whole format. Then we pared it down and did more of a garage record with Sleepy-Eyed.

Do you consider Buffalo Tom part of the still thriving Boston scene?

 

BILL: When we started out, Galaxy 500, Pixies, Dinosaur Jr., and the Lemonheads were getting big. I don’t go out as much as I used to, so I’m not as close to it now. Actually, back then we’d see those bands more often in Germany than in Boston. We’re still all friendly. I went to dinner with Tonya Donnelly the other night.

The lead single off Smitten, “Rachael,” has an effervescent youthfulness that adds to its catchy pop appeal. It’s perfect radio fodder.

 

BILL: Chris wrote that after being inspired by a movie (editor’s note: specifically, it was inspired by Guilletta Massina’s role in the Fellini film, Nights Of Cabiria). It may have a schoolyard romantic notion, but I can’t say for sure. It gives you this Lolita-type vibe.

Was there a conscious effort made to diversify the album by switching from fast to slow and soft to loud?

 

BILL: Yeah. There always is. We want the songs to flow together, but we had different ideas about the rotation. Some lightweight pop is tossed in near the end. But the arena rocker, “Walking Wounded,” seemed like the perfect closer since you could almost hear ‘thank you, good night’ at the end of it.

What did guest keyboardist Phil Aiken add to the songs?

 

BILL: He’s a local guy in his thirties. It’s funny. We were dipping our toes in the keyboard waters before. We only used them on previous records as an afterthought. This time we rearranged songs with traditional keyboards in mind. We were confident enough to expand beyond the basic rock instrumentation of guitar-bass-drums. I’ve always been into highly produced studio projects like 4AD Records. We mess with the keyboards so they don’t sound so roots-y and maybe closer to the atmosphere of early Rolling Stones records.

Chris has composed music for theatre productions of Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and John Steinbeck’s Of Mice And Men. Would Buffalo Tom consider soundtrack work?

 

BILL: We’ve been dying to get on a soundtrack for a long time. But we’d rather do scoring for films as opposed to just tossing in a song. Chris did locally based theatre for a friend, but he sees more movies than anyone I know.

 

ROCK-A-TEENS TURN UP FUZZY REVERB

Interviews

FOREWORD: The Rock-A-Teens were one of the finest ‘90s garage rock purveyors from the South, competing favorably against Detroit’s fertile retro throwbacks thanks to their fierce determination. A formative self-titled ’96 debut, ‘97s better Cry, and ‘98s Baby, A Little Rain Must Fall gave the Rock-A-Teens a firm club following across the US. But ‘99s Golden Time and ‘00s Sweet Bird Of Youth were pretty cool, too. It’s a shame they’ve since departed. I interviewed singer-guitarist Chris Lopez in ‘98 via phone. Never got to see ‘em play live, regrettably. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

Based just outside Atlanta in Cabbagetown, Georgia, swampy reverb addicts, the Rock-A-Teens twist compelling dramatic tension out of pale ‘60s garage rock and reliably cryptic ‘50s rockabilly. Rather than worry about proper chord structures and muddled echo, this menacing trio retains a crude, raw sound that just gets better with each album. Taking their cool moniker from a one-hit-wonder from the ‘50s (whose claim to fame was the rollicking “Woo-Hoo”), singer-guitarist Chris Lopez, drummer Justin Hughes, and bassist Brandon Smith scruff up a dizzying array of material.

On their self-titled debut and sophomore set, Cry, the Rock-A-Teens sounded like they recorded each tune inside a tunnel, giving the beat-driven songs a faraway feel perfectly suited to their primitive style. But the newly assembled Baby, A Little Rain Must Fall, the microphones actually sound like they’re in the same room as the instruments.

Footstomping “Teen Muscle/Teen Hustle” leads into the thumpin’ “Don’t Destroy The Night” and “N.Y.By Helicopter” (a simple little no-fi ditty concocted from home tapes). The emotionally drenched “I Could’ve Just Died” and “Leave What’s Left Of Me” semi-counter the forward marching “Carla Anne” and the fast-paced charged-up “Ether Sunday.” And the dirge-y static-filled “Stardust 680 AM” sounds like a delectable leftover from one of the Rock-A-Teens first two albums. Producer David Barbe gives the songs better dynamic range but never intrudes on the bands’ roughhewn appeal.

Chris Lopez shared a few ideas with me over the phone from his front porch.

Have you lived in Cabbagetown, Georgia, your entire life? Is that where you first discovered your love for music?

 

CHRIS: No. I’ve only lived there half my life. I’ve lived all around and had a normal childhood. During my misspent youth, I listened to a lot of records in the basement. My older brother used to play drums when I was real young. There’d be tapes of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Neil Diamond lying around, but when I really got into music as a teen it was punk rock. The Ramones were one of the first non-basketball arena concerts I attended at age fifteen. Before that, I saw Ted Nugent and these Sha Na Na auto shows.

Would you consider the Roc-A-Teens a lo-fi band?

 

CHRIS: Our first album could be considered lo-fi, but not in the traditional Sebadoh style. It wasn’t four-track lo-fi because it was actually recorded in a big gymnasium. The second album, Cry, was as hi-fi as it could get. But it’s the organ and reverb that get people freaked out.

In an article, you mention the Rock-A-Teens have an ‘Orbisonic’ sound. I thought that was a rather profound observation.

 

CHRIS: It’s just that kind of Roy Orbison aesthetic. His hits outside “Oh, Pretty Woman” were massive ballads with strings, like “Crying” and “Only The Lonely.” Our slower numbers are like that – almost operatic and over-the-top.

Why do you love to soak your songs in loads of reverb?

 

CHRIS: Reverb is standard on most amplifiers. I have an old shitty Epiphone amp that I put the volume way up on. It gives me a very deep sound that’s hard to re-create live because it gets lost.

Where’d you come up with the depression-bound album title?

 

CHRIS: I think it’s from a record by Vern Gosdin, who’s known as the ‘Voice of Country Music.’ (Actually, I think they nixed it from Glenn Yarbrough’s ’65 hit, “Baby The Rain Must Fall”) It just had a goofball ring. I was gonna name it Cokes + Cakes + Stomach Aches, but that got shot down. This album has a little more pop to it. It’s just a natural progression on our old shit. But a friend of mine was taken aback by it and then couldn’t explain why. Actually, “Teen Muscle/ Teen Hustle” is a glam-rock song we hope will replace Gary Glitter’s “Rock And Roll Part 2” at sporting events and make us lots of money. (laughter)

What did producer David Barbe’s experienced hand add to the new records’ sound?

 

CHRIS: Naturally he pressed buttons and turned knobs in his Athens studio, splitting time at the production board with Andy from Servitron. He offered suggestions and cheerleading. He played the fake Hawaiian guitar on “I Could’ve Just Died.”

What was that depressed morsel about?

 

CHRIS: Most of our stuff is black humor. “I Could’ve Just Died” is the story of a guy going to a wedding who drinks too much, makes a fool of himself, kicks himself in the ass, then falls down on the glass table. But that’s not something I’ve ever done.

How have the Rock-A-Teens improved since the first gigs in the early ‘90s?

 

CHRIS: We never thought we’d come this far. We never thought we’d make a record. There was this neighborhood honky tonk we’d play with other local bands. We just kept writing songs, making tapes we’d send around. We toured with Cat Power before our first album came out. We’d go to New York and exclusively play the Cooler on Monday nights. We played Brownies once, also.

The Rock-A-Teens transcend simple categorization, but I’d like to think there’s some garage-y ‘60s connection.

 

CHRIS: We’re our own little entity. We’re not like Olivia Tremor Control or Neutral Milk Hotel. We’re inadvertently creating our own niche. We don’t consider ourselves a garage band or strictly rockabilly. There’s a whole history book of music from 1900 forward that blows our mind and all gets sucked in.

“Carla Ann” seems to have an eerie Brit-pub rock tone. Am I way off base?

 

CHRIS: That’s the most straightforward rock song we’ve ever done, bordering on pop. There’s a Jesus & Mary Chain-like bridge. Their album, Psychocandy, had a profound influence on me with all that filtered feedback. Underneath the noise were classic, simple, three-chord pop songs. I used to live with a record addict who’d trade stuff all the time. He bought Jesus & Mary Chain’s first single, “Upside Down,” which had a squealing opening and catchy little riffs. I remember reading an interview where they claimed the greatest song of all-time was the Shangri-La’s “Leader Of The Pack.” Then I picked up the Shangri-La’s Greatest Hits and got myself hooked. They had strings and rhythms and soaring notes you could attempt to capture on guitar.

Your newer songs have an increased emotional impact. Are you writing about first-hand accounts more often?

 

CHRIS: I guess so. Some songs start with truths and run into fiction. I love to make listeners weep and get drunk with melancholy. It’s emotional purging. Thematically – not to sound goofy – I now expound on subject matter. On “Leave What’s Left Of Me,” I find myself laying on the battlefield wounded, telling someone to leave me there to die and just move on. That was inspired by Kelly Hogan (a former bandmate and solo artist) who moved away to Chicago to work at Bloodshot Records. By the way, she has a split single of Gospel songs with Neko Case coming out soon.

What does a live Rock-A-Teens show generally sound like?

 

CHRIS: We try to keep it separate from the studio sound, but it’s a crapshoot. In Austin playing the South By Southwest Conference recently, we were sitting in the van drinking Wild Turkey before the show. We went on to play hard and just have fun. But the small stage we played on had a curved corner and one of our guys kept falling off the stage. We just like to keep it raw live.

 

MIKE WATT PONDERS MINUTEMEN WHILE ‘CONTEMPLATING THE ENGINE ROOM’

Interviews,

FOREWORD: There truly is no other like ex-Minutemen icon, Mike Watt. My friend Al and I are convinced he’s the most approachable and fun guy in all of music. His solo debut, Ballhog Or Tugboat? featured a cornucopia of underground sensations who had befriended the very personable Watt – Eddie Vedder, Evan Dando, Meat Puppets, Sonic Youth, Dave Pirner, Flea, Pat Smear, Frank Black, etc.

At a pre-show party in Manhattan, Watt was drinking bourbon and coke before what he called “an overly efficient waitress” took his drink away before it was done. We walked him to the venue he was gonna play at but had to stop at some sidewalk-decked restaurant because the owner recognized him and wanted to say hi. We never stayed to see him play because the club was streaming hot and overcrowded with douchebag industry types.

Last time I saw Watt, he was playing bass in J. Mascis & The Fog at the Bowery Ballroom around ’05. He was skinny as hell since he’d just gotten an enlarged perineum drained and had to relearn his instrument. Still, Watt soldiered on, releasing his third solo disc, The Secondman’s Middle Stand in ’04 (featuring vocals by Petra Haden). When Iggy & the Stooges re-formed, Watt joined on bass for decent ‘06 comeback, The Weirdness. He also has a regular internet radio program, The Watt From Pedro Show. What follows is a weighty conversation with Watt concerning punk’s early days, the Minutemen, and his solo stuff.

This article originally appeared in Brutarian (a cool Washington DC magazine with great illustrations as well as articles) to support ‘97s Contemplating The Engine Room. I’ve also included, at the bottom, a concurrent Smug Magazine article concerning Watt’s conspiracy theories.

 

I remember when I was young always wanting to hang out with the older kids who had cars, smoked dope, drank liquor, and were cool. Well, San Pedro native Mike Watt fits the mold of that wiser, more developed street kid. In the early ‘80s, he was in the Minutemen, a highly influential and unheralded avant-rock trio whose lead singer-guitarist D. Boon died in a van accident in ‘85.

At the urging of Ohio fan, Ed Crawford, Watt picked up the pieces, and along with Crawford, formed the ambitious Firehose. They put out six albums from ’86 to ’93 (Flyin’ The Flannel and if’n being personal faves).

In early September at a Columbia Records release party, I met the crazed Watt while he was drinking bourbon and coke. With cheap shit bass in hand (he bought it for $50 then had the nerve to return it the next day), we walked to NYC’s dismal, sweaty Elbow Room, where Watt showcased material from his second solo LP, the loosely-coined ‘punk rock opera’ Contemplating The Engine Room (made with Jazz-informed guitarist Nels Cline and drummer Stephen Hodges).

The basic Contemplating The Engine Room story according to Watt: “this guy runs away from a farm town, joins the Navy, finds a crew, they get their routine together, and pull into a port and have some R & R. They get drunk, konk out. The boilerman sleepwalks, falls in the water, and drowns. But it’s not a documentary: it’s mostly about the Minutemen. The boilerman is D. Boon. The fireman is George Hurley and I’m the machinist. The whole boat is like the old SST Records family. I mention Husker Du and the Meat Puppets. We were all on this one big boat.”

I respond to Watt: Yeah. The boat down the underground tunnel for bands not getting enough popularity even though they’re better than the dogshit infiltrating the airwaves.

WATT: Even with all the shit that went down, we always thought this was not supposed to happen. We played around, traveled about. So what if it was eleven guys in one van? At least we were doing it. I look back at those days and realize that’s what made me who I am now. Be true to yourself and let the freak flag fly. Fuck the people who hate punk. It was big in England, but over here in America everyone called you a fag. The people who really hated us were the rock and rollers. They were running the studios. We used to have to have to play Polish and Ukrainian halls.

Commercial radio and classic rock stars with big heads could eat my ass. Pretentious loads!

WATT: But we learned to be self-reliant and create our own little world. We made our own little record labels and own our little circuit. Ani Di Franco and the riot girls with Kill Rock Stars Records do that now. That spirit is still here. And I think we helped build that up. And I hope the doors never get shut.

How bad does MTV suck?

WATT: I look at MTV like a telephone pole everybody wants to put their flyer on. I heard its mostly game shows now. Are Jenny Mc Carthy’s tits plastic though?

They probably are. And that’s such an insecurity problem when you have to increase size. What’s the matter? Some guy isn’t going to fuck you because you’re flat?

WATT: A friends of mine who’s a talent agent in Hollywood told me almost every girl on TV has plastic knobs.

By the way, my friend told me to ask you if we should open trade with Cuba to get good cigars.

WATT: And help break the mafia – the cigar mafia. I think if we get half our shoes from Red China, we could lighten up with the cigars from Cuba. As soon as Castro’s gone, it’s over. He has a one-man system. People are starving. But the US just needs a country to kick around. I think we should open up the market completely. I think I should play there. Why should I have to go to Europe instead of playing Latin America?

Right. In fact, “Fireman Hurley” (from Engine Room) has Spanish guitar, Latin rhythms, and danceable bass lines.

WATT: I had been asked by people to use nylon strings on my record. I said OK. And that Nels is so easygoing. He’s no stuck-up motherfucker like most goddamn guitar players.

On Ballhog Or Tugboat?, J. Mascis plays a little guitar. I heard he’s a rather difficult character.

WATT: He’s just a shy kid. Well, he talks slow so people can’t handle that. They think he’s a slacker. I think he’s a good cat. He’s out touring again.

What was the first concert you attended as a kid?

WATT: T. Rex at the Long Branch Auditorium in 1971. D. Boon’s dad sat with us in the crowd. He was smiling. He didn’t know anything about rock. But Marc Bolan got killed in a car accident afterwards. I visited the tree in London that killed him. That tree is all bent over from the car hitting it. I think Joey Ramone is putting together a T. Rex tribute at CBGB’s for him.

How did you originally meet D. Boon?

WATT: We were twelve when we met. In the park, by accident, he jumped out of a tree and landed on me. He thought I was this guy Eskimo. He had memorized a whole George Carlin album. And I had never heard of George Carlin. And he’s reciting all these bits, and I’m like, ‘Jesus Christ, this is the smartest kid I ever met.’ The next day he took me over to his house and played the whole record. His dad was into Buck Owens, who had all these Country radio hits in the ‘60s and ‘70s. That was all Boon knew when I met him. I asked him, ‘Boon, haven’t you heard of The Who, Cream, and Creedence?’ That’s why Creedence was such a big band for us. They were a bridge for us since D. Boon’s favorite song was “Tall Dark Stranger” by Buck Owens. I told him, you got to hear some other shit. Then he liked T. Rex, Alice Cooper, Blue Oyster Cult, and Black Sabbath. We learned every Black Sabbath song.

Then how did you mix Jazz elements into the Minutemen songs?

WATT: I don’t know. We never listened to Jazz as kids. Jazz was punk to us. It sounded like noise. Imagine never hearing Jazz and then being turned on to Albert Ayler and John Coltrane. As a teen, the only bassists that mattered to me were Geezer Butler, Jack Bruce, and John Entwistle. It’s weird the way things turn out.

How come you’re not a flake like most Southern Californians are?

WATT: Because I’m originally from Virginia, where my father was a sailor. We got stuck in California because of the Viet Nam War. My mother got sick of moving and got divorced. She said my father married the Navy instead of her. The Navy is really fucked with the family. They move you every year. They yank kids out of school and tell you to report to this town in thirty days.

What would you have done after D. Boon died in ’85 if Minutemen fan Ed Crawford didn’t get you back into making music as Firehose?

WATT: I was in a really bad state. I didn’t want to play after D. Boon got killed. But then Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth came over with that Ciccone Youth idea. It was my idea to do Madonna’s “Step Into The Groove” and “Burnin’ Up” for a single. That was my way back into music. But the rest of the Ciccone Youth album is a joke. What happened is Sonic Youth told a lot of people they were going to make their version of the Beatles White Album. So what they did was take my Madonna songs and build a concept around it and called it The Whitey Album. But I wasn’t making fun of Madonna by covering those songs. It was a serious tribute. I went to a Madonna gig and I couldn’t get over all these little girls dressed like her singing along. I never saw girls flock to see a girl play before, unless it was Joan Jett. It was mind-boggling.

I own some of Joan Jett’s early Runaways singles, like “Cherry Bomb.” The only other girl band who rocked as hard as them in the ‘70s was Fanny.

WATT: Fanny was a total lesbian band with big Afros.

I didn’t know they were lesbians. Sounds delectable.

WATT: Oh yeah. They were pre-Indigo (Girls). Very k.d.

I bet k.d. lang’s got a bigger dick than me.

WATT: So does Joan, I heard. You know, k.d. is actually a performance artist. She’s singing torch songs now. She always reminded me of old school lesbian Phranc, who was in a band, Nervous Gender. They were these intense gay punk guys. A lot of them have since died of AIDS. They had a song with a chorus that went: ‘Jesus is just like me/ another cocksucker from Galileo/ Jesus Christ was a homosexual nymphomaniac/ a homosexual nymphomaniac.’ For a Pedro guy like me to come up to Hollywood and hear this was so fuckin’ bizarre. I never saw a band like that. Phranc only had one song in the band back then, and it was “My Mommy’s Chest.” Punk rock was a mind blow. It wasn’t these hardcore little kids from Orange County.

Who were some of your favorite punk bands from back in the ‘70s?

WATT: I loved the Germs. I loved the Dils, the old X, the Bags. I liked the whole scene. A lot of them didn’t have vans so they didn’t like to tour. That’s why I like Black Flag. They were about taking it to the people. I think the Hollywood bands thought they were all going to get signed and become famous. Other people knew it was just a fad and they were having fun with it. But Greg Ginn (of Black Flag) knew he was going to have fun with it and take it around. He literally built that club scene that didn’t exist. It was a domino effect. Kids would tell kids about gigs at their college these bands were coming around and it got bigger. That’s how I got signed by Columbia. We changed the way labels looked at us.

Did Columbia ever tell you how to make your albums?

WATT: No way. Our contract wouldn’t allow them to. They promised artist control with none of this demo shit. Some artists moan at interviews about control, but they let the record labels spend a lot of money on their pretty faces. A lot of these cats get into contracts and don’t protect themselves. Even Greg Ginn knew not to change the Minutemen.

What were some of the dilemmas you faced when the Minutemen were starting out?

WATT: A lot of times D. Boon would get pulled off the stage by bouncers when we’d start our gig because they couldn’t believe he was in the band. I think that opened things up. When people saw this huge guy in the band maybe they thought, ‘I could try this.’ That’s what I had originally thought with those punk rockers. ‘Those guys are up there. Why don’t we go for it, D. Boon?’ We thought being in a band was about good looks and costumes and knowing all the notes. We grew up with arena rock but could never see ourselves as arena rockers. Punk rock we thought we could do.

How do you get off calling Contemplating The Engine Room a ‘punk rock opera’? The only real punk-related item is “The Bluejacket’s Manual.”

WATT: Well. “The Bluejacket’s Manual” is about boot camp. I relate punk rock to boot camp. I compare my father leaving a farm town to the Minutemen bursting open and getting away from arena rock.

Part of the inspiration for the new album comes from Richard Mc Kenna’s naval novel, The Sand Pebbles.

WATT: The book is great. I read it before recording this while on tour with Perry Farrell. But the movie with Steve Mc Queen was always my favorite movie. So I try to link all these parallels. I called it a punk opera so these little kids would listen to it and give it a try. I wanted to blow minds. If I called it a concept album they’d shelve it next to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon. When I first heard the word punk used to express artists, I laughed. Where I live that’s a guy in jail who gets fucked for cigarettes. He holds the guy’s little belt loops and it a little wuss. I thought, ‘Why would anyone want to call themselves that?’ That’s a jailhouse sissy.

What’s with all the storm sounds towards the end of the album?

WATT: That’s when the guy on the boat drowns. Also, the Minutemen didn’t have a happy ending. D. Boon dies and I didn’t know how to sugar-coat it. So it’s like a tragic opera. See, you don’t know this stuff unless Watt tells you. That’s all Pedro waves in the background. Pedro people are all rednecks and not that enlightened. It’s a harbor town. I’m staying because of the geography and it’s proximity to Hollywood.

So did you return that bass to the shop you brought it from in New York City like you said you would?

WATT: Yes.

What type of bass guitar was it?

WATT: Lim-Gar. It was a pawnshop piece of shit. The night before I had to go on after that Cars guy Ric Ocasek at the Elbow Room – what a laugh that was. He stalls for an hour and fucking plays fifteen-year-old songs like “Just What I Needed.” The sound guy, Mr. Door Knob pony tail is like, ‘Come on Mike,’ rushing me. And I’m like, ‘Sony paid for this room so why are you rushing me?’ Ocasek was never in the building. He just drove up and went onstage.

I hope that place burns down.

WATT: So do I.

While you were trying to eat food in the dark at your record release party, what possessed you to drink bourbon with coke?

WATT: Why, is that not happening?

Oh, it’s happening to your gut.

WATT: Well the caffeine keeps you up.

Did you ever have to play a show while you were completely fucked up?

WATT: I can’t hear pitch and I can’t tune. I try to avoid that. A lot of kids think you’re drunk out of your mind. But playing Minutemen songs would be too difficult.

Yeah. Those Minutemen songs were only 90 seconds long.

WATT: With thirty parts.

How did your stint as bassist in Perry Farrell’s Porno For Pyros go?

WATT: I couldn’t have done this punk rock opera without spending ten months in the S.S. Porno. That was quite an experience. He’s kind of like D. Boon. He gets onstage and sings. I was getting into all the things he had us do, like get onstage in pajamas. I was watching him. He has a great way of getting his music over. He doesn’t use D minor chords. He uses movie words or theme words. That’s what I did with Nels.

Nels Cline did a great job on the Geraldine Fibbers latest album, Butch. What did his playing add to Watt’s sound?

WATT: He’s from the scene from twenty years ago, doing improv music as the Nels Cline Trio. Nels is a cat who’d never say ‘That’s not my style’ or ‘oh, that’s not me.’ On Engine Room, I’d say to him, the sailors are laughing, and he’d just get into it. He likes making music like theatre. At first, Hodges was really thrown for a loop. I wanted to bring in a new guy. And since he worked with Tom Waits, who turns his music into stories, I decided to bring him in. He has played Classical and Blues. He plays glockenspiel on “In The Engine Room.” But Nels knew what to do from the start. I had a little easel there with all the songs written down. And each song had a different time of day. This song takes place before dawn. And that was it.

——————————————————

MIKE WATT UNLOADS CONSPIRACY THEORIES FOR DUMB-AT-HEART

 

Singer-songwriter/ bassist Mike Watt became an underground champion when he played alongside the late guitarist D. Boon in the prolific avant-rock trio, the Minutemen from 1980 to 1985. After Boon’s death in a van accident, Watt formed Firehose with Minutemen drummer George Hurley and Minutemen fan Ed Crawford. Six hell-raising albums later, Watt collaborated with his many indie rock pals on his belated solo debut, Ballhog Or Tugboat?

Currently, Watt is riding high with his semi-autobiographical long player, Contemplating The Engine Room, a punk rock opera filled with instrumental deconstruction’s and nifty homage’s to D. Boon, punk life, and his naval father. He’s also featured in the one-off Wylde Ratz, a side project with Steve Shelley and Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth, Julian Lennon, and Ron Asheton (of the Stooges).

As a foremost authority on conspiracy theories, UFO’s, extreme politics, Internet newsgroups, and just about any other off-handed topic you care to bring up, Watt shared some profound insights before his Halloween show at NYC’s Tramps.

Will you be decorated for tonight’s Halloween show?

WATT: I’ve played nineteen Halloweens in a row. Tonight, I’ll be dressed in a sailors uniform. In the early ‘80s, when the Replacements were young, I remember playing this gig with them on Halloween. I had green shoes, a big red nose, a white face, and was dressed as a clown. And that fucking singer, Paul Westerberg, was giving me shit. And I said, ‘Who the fuck are you dressed like, a rock and roller?’ He was looking down on us. The bassist, Tommy Stinson, who was only fifteen, had painted his guitar strings bright orange, and his brother was wearing a dress. They go out there all fucked up and couldn’t make it through “Black Diamond” and some covers. But Westerberg gave me shit for wearing a Halloween costume I made with my own hands.

What was D. Boon dressed as that night?

WATT: D. Boon had the funniest suit. He had all these layers of green on with fatigues. And he goes to me, ‘Posk,’ which was my private conspiratorial nickname, short for Poskeynitt, ‘Posk, what am I?’ And I said, ‘You look like D. Boon.’ ‘No. Really what am I?’ And I said, ‘I’m lost.’ He goes, ‘I’m an artichoke.’

What was D. Boon’s first name?

WATT: D. was short for Dennes. The guy in Blue Oyster Cult was E. Bloom, Eric Bloom, and since we were avidly into BOC, D. had his first name shortened. Before I met him, he had only listened to Buck Owens. His favorite tune was “Tall Dark Stranger.”:

Why don’t most conspiracies work?

WATT: Because the guys on top are totally beholden to their underlings, and their underlings lie to them. They’ll lie for money, or because they’ll be punished. Then the guys on top become more insulated while these ‘side mice’ start extorting money, setting them up and selling them out to other conspirators. Adam Smith, the inventor of Capitalism, said whenever two of us get together, we conspire against the rest. In right wing militias, conspiracies are the glue that holds it together.

(At this point, Watt looks up at Tramps exposed basement plumbing and becomes temporarily distracted)

WATT: Don’t you think turd pipes should be clear, so we could have raffles and see what everybody ate.

(laughter) What’s your take on the Kennedy assassination?

WATT: There could be many collusion’s linked to the JFK assassination. The mob and the Cubans had something to do with it –they even tried to kill Fidel Castro with a loaded cigar. LBJ took a step down from Speaker of the House to become Kennedy’s VP. And the mob lost a lot of money when Battista fled Cuba, because Cuba was the mob’s own little haven. Also, LBJ had these kickback programs throughout the States, and Bobby Kennedy was going to turn it over. And Oswald was a strange character. Why was he allowed to go to Russia to marry, come back and be stationed as a marine when he was supposed to be sporting Communist propaganda. Some silly game play was going on. Shit got out of hand and the CIA and FBI are afraid to open the files. It’s like a terrific car accident in the fog. Everyone is responsible, but everyone is in their own little car with their own agenda.

What about Russian conspiracies?

WATT: The Bolsheviks were a conspiracy. Lenin wouldn’t use Russian bodyguards. He used Latvians. He was almost killed by a Socialist revolutionary. Trotsky had sailors shot for wanting anarchy.

How about record industry conspiracies?

WATT: A guy puts together a band and wants them to be major rock stars. But all the radio stations, Spin, and Rolling Stone have to get involved. There’s lots of collusion’s, but it’s still a federalism… Hey, is there a heavy piss smell down here. At that big shoe box in Boston, the Middle East, there was a really bad ammonia piss stink yesterday.

Were the Minutemen a conspiracy?

WATT: Yes. It was a conspiracy against all rock and rollers. We were going to break our foot off in their ass and lay waste by taking it into our own hands. The great conspiracy for all punk bands is to find out how to stay young. The future belongs to the efficient. The word underground comes from Arcadia. It’s an old Greek idea that says all this shit could come to the surface, but the truth will be a river running underneath. And those who know where to dig the well will have a tap on the whole idea. All we have in this world is faith – I believe that’s a wall over there. I believe there’s a smell of piss in this room. We carry our own conspiracy around in our pants… the fecal soilettes.

What about UFO’s?

WATT: How could you not believe in UFO’s They’re unidentified, that’s all. We just need better words to describe what we see. When it comes down to math and science words are too inexact.

What conspiracies fo you face in your hometown of San Pedro, California?

WATT: San Pedro, Wilmington, and Long Branch make up the harbor. It’s all Latin and Catholic, but the eastside hates the westside. If you’re driving your car, and they ask where you’re from, say nowhere. I have a bullet hole in the back of my van. The town is very rough. Here’s how most shootings in my town start. There’s a wedding reception, some unwelcome cats come to the party, get thrown out, and come back with guns. Pride has a lot to do with it. You have to stick up for your homies. It’s a blood-brother bond that sets the seeds for the next great treason.

Amongst charges of sexual indiscretion, cocaine trafficking, and illegal campaign funds, was there also a conspiracy that elected Bill Clinton president?

WATT: It came down to looks. Former President Bush won the Iraq War one year too early. Bush lost it when he went into a supermarket and didn’t know what a barcode reader was. Clinton, on the other hand, was like vaudeville. He knew how to work the crowd and was from a one-party state, Arkansas, where he made deals with chicken farmers. He had to learn to finesse crowds like Hitler did.

Ig you had one Sunday sermon to give, what wisdom would you share?

WATT: I would talk about Christ being in doubt on the cross asking, ‘Why’d you forsake me?’

How could we achieve world harmony?

WATT: Jazz player John Coltrane wanted to find harmony and a spiritual place in his life. But he kept overreaching, poking out and grabbing. He was trying to get beyond imposed boundaries. He’d practice twenty hours a day. Where is the eye of the pyramid focused? We need conspiracies and collaborators because the world is too big for one of us. We need compadres. They help you write the story with some spiel.

PORTISHEAD’S CRUDE EPONYMOUS SEQUEL IS NO ‘DUMMY’

Interviews

FOREWORD: Portishead are the pride of Bristol, England. A fascinatingly consistent ambient lounge-pop combo led by strident soprano starlet, Beth Gibbons, they were at the epicenter of the mid-‘90s trip-hop explosion alongside Tricky and Massive Attack.

Phenomenal ’94 debut, Dummy, draped Gibbons’ starkly melancholic voice inside dramatic ambient lounge-pop settings and gained the band aboveground recognition. ‘97s belated self-titled follow-up heightened the climactic emotional intensity, unveiling a richer austere moodiness that reduces some of its precursors’ majestic Goth uplift.

Though I never got to speak to Portishead talking head, Beth Gibbons, I did manage to sneak in a one-hour phoner with multi-instrumentalist producer Adrian Utley to promote Portishead’s well-received self-titled second LP. After an eleven-year layoff (to pursue other projects), Portishead returned stronger than ever on ‘08s brilliantly realized Third. This article originally appeared in Cover magazine.

 

The smell of death lingers around Portishead’s gloom-obsessed eponymous second album. Significantly darker than their critically acclaimed trip-hop prog-dance ’94 debut, Dummy, their challenging, if belated, follow-up retains similar dirge-y thematic tension and dramatic exquisiteness as newfound European trip-hop competitors such as Morcheeba, Sneaker Pimps, Babyfox, Hooverphonic and Olive. But those groups lack a singer as breathlessly brooding as Beth Gibbons, whose voice begs for salvation with a chilly uneasiness enhanced by moodily ethereal theatricality.

Between recordings, Bristol-based Portishead filmed their first live appearance since ’95, auspiciously accompanying themselves with a 30-piece orchestra at Manhattan’s spacious Roseland Ballroom. In ’96, the band appeared in and composed the soundtrack for the black and white short film, To Kill A Dead Man.

A year earlier, Dummy received the prestigious Mercury Music Prize, awarded by British critics to the most accomplished album of the year. Struggling to attain a higher standard and stay one step ahead of the broadening ambient trip-hop movement, Portishead spent two years refining its idiosyncratic sound.

On “All Mine,” Gibbons’ shadowy moans evoke ‘60s film noir (or perhaps, a heroin-induced version of Shirley Bassey’s “Goldfinger”). String-laden nightmare, “Half Day Closing” places her muzzled liquefied melodramatics atop hazy swirls of feedback, found sounds, and witchy keyboard loops. And the operatic “Humming” delves deep into Gibbons’ emotional abyss.

Since they shared a common interest in hip-hop culture, Portishead programmer-keyboardist Geoff Barrow brought in seasoned multi-instrumentalist Adrian Utley. After the sessions for the second album were finished, they allowed Utley, a self-taught musician, to come aboard as a full time member. A Jazz enthusiast influenced by hard-ass rappers, Public Enemy, Utley had roamed England playing for many undistinguished bands during the ‘80s before meeting Barrow in a local recording studio.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Give me a short synopsis about the new self-titled disc.

ADRIAN: We approached this album as a thematic work. It’s important to us that the new album works as a whole. We gathered a bunch of songs and looked at areas where we could make the entirety connect. It took us just over two years to do this album. We changed our working methods. We no longer sample anybody else. But we got a bit lost and it took about a year to get anything substantial done. Geoff, Dave, and I were busy making our own loops. Then, our drummer, Clive Deamer, would come in and play. But it took us ages. It was an unwieldy way of working. We would get an idea for an eight bar segment and we’d work on a multi-track to make all the samples fit. This oversimplifies it, but we’d take beats, bass lines, verses, and chorus sections and then sample it and see if we could manipulate it. When we moved out of our own studio and into a residential studio, we mutually started writing. But we don’t discuss lyrical content with Beth. She’s in her own little world. We usually send backing tracks to Beth and she writes verses and choruses and molds it together.

The moodily stark lyrics Beth Gibbons provides for the second album provide a dramatically surrealistic sense of longing and despair only hinted at on Dummy.

ADRIAN: Some critics think both albums sound the same, but that’s completely untrue. Our feelings of being frustrated and not believing in ourselves anymore for awhile made us nearly lose our way on this album. The light nearly went out. I think you could hear that frustration coming through. We wanted to change what we were doing because we were hearing a lot of sounds that we had previously made on TV ads. We felt we needed a change. The sounds we made we cannot totally abandon, so it was difficult to overcome that. The frustration, anger, and bleakness in what we are doing now comes through on record.

Which guitarists intrigued you as a teen?

ADRIAN: When I went to school, I wanted to play guitar like Jimi Hendrix. His Axis: Bold As Love was massive for me when I was thirteen. It was a very exciting album. In fact, it was the only album I owned for years. I was given it while I was living in the country. My dad was into Jazz and he had some pretty hip records. I first heard someone using a wah-wah pedal at school while I only had an acoustic guitar. To hear that kind of talking sound coming from a guitar was truly unbelievable. So the guitar was really my destiny. Though know I also play other instruments. I went to art school, didn’t like it, and got involved in a band. I toured England with a few bands and learned my craft. In England, we have ex-World War II army camps that were turned into holiday camps where poor people paid a small amount of money and everything is theirs. In the summer, there’d be dance bands. It was brilliant. I learned how to read music and I earned a living. We made terrible, appalling music. Then, I went around playing with soul bands and Jazz musicians I truly admired. I got to play with Big John Pattin, the American organist. But with Jazz, nobody knew who these important musicians were even though they spent their whole lives doing it.

Right. Presently Henry Threadgill and Ornette Coleman fit that bill.

ADRIAN: Yes. Absolutely. Their completely dedicated and diminutive. And they remain unknown – like Hank Mobley, a brilliant tenor sax player for Blue Note who died completely broke, with no money. So I did Jazz for ten years and studied hard. I had enough of that because you lose everything you own and are unappreciated. It’s intense. Nine gigs out of ten would be terrible because improvised music could go both ways. So I had enough of that. Luckily, I was always interested in all kinds of music. And I loved synthesizers. But it was Public Enemy’s It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back that really turned my head and made me want to do something else. I still travel with that album and A Tribe Called Quest’s Low End Theory. These albums made me look elsewhere.

Is that when you hooked up with Geoff Barrow?

ADRIAN: I first met Geoff in a studio. I was making a recording and he was making tea and just starting out. He was only eighteen at the time. There was a huge age gap between us but we both liked hip-hop. He knew loads about hip-hop culture and we began talking. It was a new world for me. Then I didn’t see him for a year because he went off to London to work. But we both moved into the same pre-production studio and I was getting into the beats. So we just started working together.

Do you enjoy bands like Morcheeba, Babyfox, Sneaker Pimps, and Hooverphonic? They’ve all been influenced by Portishead’s newfound trip-hop.

ADRIAN: No. I haven’t really listened to them. And that word trip-hop I don’t feel comfortable being associated with. When we first started, I think a British newspaper coined that term. As we remember it originally, it referred to instrumental hip-hop. It was just ambient beats with noise layered over the top, like the Mo Wax recording artists. We never felt related to that because it was the songs that were always at the root of our muse. So we felt uncomfortable being associated with it. Ultimately, catalogs don’t really matter in music. Blues is Blues and Jazz is Jazz. I think the press is starting to call us Goth-pop now.

Portishead’s music has always been truly unique and iconoclastic. When you started out, did each member feel unified in the direction the music went on the debut?

ADRIAN: We were working on a buzz and busting to do something original. And it was all these influences coming together. Geoff, Dave, and Beth laid the groundwork by getting a record deal. We were happy to get together. There was no stress on us. We thought we’d make a record and have enough money to make another. It was a good creative time for us. We never thought it would sell as many records as it did.

SPACE NEEDLE EATEN BY ‘MORAY EEL’

Interviews, ,

FOREWORD: Space Needle composer Jud Ehrbar never got the respect he deserved as one of the ‘90s most adventurous progressive rock avatars. But due to his permanent New York underground stature, I was able to speak with him on several occasions before and after New York gigs. I found his cosmic escapades riveting. But after ‘97s The Moray Eel Eat The Space Needle, Ehrbar settled into a backup role as drummer in band mate Anders Parker’s solo project during the next decade. This article originally appeared in HITS magazine.

(I’ve also included an Aquarian Weekly piece that follows.)

 

Despite the deceiving Space Needle moniker, this trio does not live in Seattle, where the famous pinhead monument of the same name reaches skyward. Instead, Space Needle features Northport, Long Island natives Jud Ehrbar (arrangements-drums) and Jeff Gatland (guitar) with upstate New York pal, Anders Parker (guitar).

Formed during stints in Poughkeepsie and Providence, this valiant trio plays the gamut from sweet pop ballads to freeform instrumental excursions. They rely on drifting, extended improvisations at live shows, mesmerizing awed fans with their musical ability and cohesion.

In ’95, Space Needle dropped the sophisticated requiem, Voyager, what some call the Dark Side Of The Moon of modern rock. With the recent release of the moodily kaleidoscopic The Moray Eel Eats The Space Needle, they move further into a sophisticated noisy Jazz direction. But do not be scared off, fans of ardent pop. The elegant “Never Lonely Alone” and the gorgeous “Love Left Us Strangers” are tenderly affectionate ballads that leave Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, and Toni Braxton crying on their ill-deserved Grammys.

Ehrbar’s musical inspirations include Eno’s Another Green World, Velvet Underground, and ‘70s prog-rock. He’s a musical chameleon able to fit into any popular style he desires. On the night of this ’97 interview, he was backing up the band, Long River Train, at lower Manhattan’s Pink Pony while band mate Anders Parker just happened to play an introspective acoustic set right afterwards. By the way, along with Anders’ brother John, who I’ve shared a few cocktails with in the past, Ehrbar and Parker also coexist in delectable indie pop band, Varnaline.

Since Space Needle’s mind-expanding experiments are sometimes difficult to grasp, have you ever encountered much jeering while on tour?

JUD: We had this guy from Little Rock, Arkansas, who must’ve surely disliked us. I had my drums set up near the foot of the stage and this redneck stood two feet in front of me and held his middle finger out for a few minutes. I just continued playing.

Rednecks are probably lost when you go beyond the third chord. What was your most confounding song on The Moray Eel?

JUD: The last track, “One Kind Of Lullaby.” We had been doing it live, playing it heavy and bombastic. Jeff (Gatland) said it sounded like a bad U2 song. So we had to reinvent it. It took several tries to figure out a better arrangement.

Has Space Needle ever been completely lost during one of its improvisational jams?

JUD: That can be a problem. But it’s also when we sometimes create our best songs. It’s really horrible and frustrating to be flopping through. It’s the worst feeling being onstage and sucking – which we’ve definitely done.

Has Space Needle played any real sleazy dives?

JUD: Well. Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between the shows we have and the clubs we play. We love New York clubs such as Mercury Lounge and Brownies, but… Hey, Anders, what was the name of that one place in the Midwest?

ANDERS: Oh, it was in Omaha. Either the Iron Cage or the Cog Shop. They had shitty flat beer and there was a cold straight-edge punk crowd. We went over quite poorly as you’d expect. And the sound system was bad. But the people working there were very nice.

What’s the toughest part of touring?

JUD: We all get along well. But we’re usually drinking quite a bit and it dulls the nerves. We’ve had some equipment problems. We’ll show up with broken equipment after doing a crazy show the night before. That happens when you pack up drunk. The next day you do a sound check and it’s like, ‘Jesus Christ, what happened to my drum kit?’ Sometimes we’ll show up and our guitars will be broken.

What will be the singles from Moray Eel?

JUD: “Never Lonely Alone” backed with a 10″ remix of “Love Left Us Strangers” by Paul Riordan. He’s from L.A. and was an engineer for the Geto Boys and Scarface. There’s even a demo version Anders did of “One Kind Of Lullaby.” I did “Never Lonely Alone” by myself on four-track. I didn’t try to make it as slick as “Love Left Us Strangers,” which we made with every intention of getting airplay. “Love Left Us Strangers” is a look at a failed relationship that was doomed from the start while on “Never Lonely Alone,” I wrote from the point of view of somebody who is a loner that goes to movies by himself. It could never be about me. At the time, I realized listeners might get tired just hearing me relate my own personal experiences.

What artists have you been listening to recently?

JUD: While I’m not deeply immersed in it, there are a few Bay Area DJ’s sampling things that I enjoy. Dr. Octagon, DJ Shadow, and even Goldie have put out some refreshing stuff. There are also some great songwriters not necessarily from the indie rock scene which I really like, such as Joe Henry and Freedy Johnston.

How’d you get together with Sean Thompson in Long River Train?

JUD: I was just filling in on tour. But I’ve played with Sean up in Poughkeepsie when Anders and his brother, John, were starting out with me. We’ve been friends for some time.

—————————————————————-

SPACE NEEDLE: THE AQUARIAN PIECE

Space Needle incorporate the avant-garde post-rock talents of percussionist-arranger Jud Ehrbar and guitarist Jeff Gatland, Northport, Long Island natives partnered with Varnaline frontman-guitarist Anders Parker. Together, this progressive trio rarely plays live. And when they do, instead of merely rehashing track from its Eno-esque space rock debut, Voyager, or shimmering sophomore set, The Moray Eel Eats The Space Needle, they either remit droning electronic orchestrations or blurry Jazz-related excursions.

“When I first started recording, I had no equipment. It was frustrating back then. I had all these expansive ideas but I couldn’t put them down. Maybe some of what we do is over people’s heads, but we have a fan base who know songs like “Where The Fuck’s My Wallet?” (a fascinatingly grueling 13-minute lead track on Moray Eel) from hearing it at earlier dates. If we worry about intimidating audiences, then it defeats the point of what we’re attempting to do,” Ehrbar explains as we sit on a couch downstairs at Knitting Factory before Space Needle’s alluring 45-minute set.

Whether or nor it’s risky to put an extended instrumental jam in the premier spot on an album is hardly the issue though. At the core of Moray Eel lies two tenderly crafted ballads concerning broken relationships. The warmly impassioned “Never Lonely Alone” fits contemporary radio like a ‘90s version of “Every Breath You Take.” And the synth-based soft-toned “Love Left Us Strangers” is one of the better moody contemplation’s in recent years. When Space Needle spruce up guitar fuzz and apply blurry sonics, they come up with the delicately murmured “Old Spice.”

When asked what the trio may perform on this cold January night at the Kntting Factory, Ehrbar looks up and frankly states, “I’m honestly not sure yet.”

Ehrbar’s cosmically esoteric material seems influenced by the Mahavihnu Orchestra and other Jazz-rock pioneers. But he’s also intrigued by ‘70s prog-rock legends, King Crimson, Yes, and Pink Floyd. He even recruited Yes album designer Roger Dean to draw the cover for Moray Eel.

Happily, Ehrbar’s not confined by the art for art’s sake gothic indulgences and lyrical pretensions which led to the downfall of prog-rock. Instead, he’s interested in the idiosyncratic introspection’s and eerie settings the relic style once relied on at its base.

Live, Space Needle break down the barriers separating noise from music. Lingering moods fluctuate unexpectedly and abandon formal patterns, resulting in enigmatically beautiful sounds.

As Space Needle slowly break into an improvised expedition so unstructured and atmospheric it took a few minutes to realize they weren’t just warming up, the crowd remained awestruck and mesmerized. The addition of Ithaca, New York violinist Max Buckholtz gives each instrumental a delicate tension. Then Buckholtz sat with his legs crossed and eyes shut at the edge of the stage, meditating while Parker and Gatland applied sonic guitars to Ehrbar’s hypnotic-to-frenetic percussion.

On Moray Eel, Buckholtz’s icy glissando battles back clustered drums on the teasing “Hot For Krishna.” And his galactic digressions give the exotic strip tease “Hyapatia Lee” proper soft porn imagery. His drifting passages somehow recall classically trained violinist Jean Luc Ponty’s celestial ‘70s solo recordings.

“We’re not good enough to be a Jazz combo so we do our best to make use of what instruments and skills we do have, “Ehrbar humbly and honestly insists. “Soemwhere down the road I’d like to maybe do soundtrack music. I think the Reservoir album I made by myself last year touched upon some of those ideas.”

VARNALINE GRAB ‘SHOT AND BEER’ BEFORE ‘SWEET LIFE’ KICKS IN

Interviews,

FOREWORD: I knew Varnaline frontman Anders Parker pretty well since his days with Jud Ehrbar in cosmic New York-via-Providence prog-rock experimentalists, Space Needle. I saw them play Mercury Lounge, Knitting Factory,  and Brownies within a year-and-a-half.

Varnaline was a roots-y singer-songwriter (side) project for Parker, who succeeded in mixing up contemplative laid-back orchestral wanderings with guitar-driven Crazy Horse-inspired moments. Before seeing him open up a show at Irving Plaza for Mark Lanegan, I interviewed the ‘bearded one’ to promote ‘98s nifty Sweet Life.

The last album he did under the pseudonym, Varnaline, ‘02s Songs In A Northern Key, really captured the essence of his honey-hushed baritone in soothingly lush, low key settings.

Since then, Parker’s released a few solo discs, such as ‘04s Tell It To The Dust (reviewed below interview), ‘05s The Wounded Astronaut, and a self-titled ’06 album. This article originally appeared in Aquarian Weekly.

 

Varnaline began as a home-taping venture for transgressive upstate New York roots-rock multi-instrumentalist Anders Parker in the early ‘90s. Moving to Brooklyn hasn’t altered the gloomy solitude of Parker’s elliptical rural introspections and endearing nocturnal dramatics. Sweet Life combines the modest, heartfelt acoustic intimacy of backwoods-y 6-song EP A Shot And A Beer with the expansive rhapsodic flurries of ‘97s Varnaline and ‘96s Man Of Sin debut.

Sweet Life’s autumnal “Gulf Of Mexico,” silky orchestral, “Northern Lights,” and dirge-y diatribe, Now You’re Dirt” open the valiant set with splendid conviction. “All About Love” recalls In The Court Of The Crimson King more than the downtrodden “Saviors” (featuring trombonist Dean Jones) hints at The Band’s “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore.”

Based on a Viet Nam vets rants, “Fuck & Fight” hedges against narcissistic ‘60s hippie lifestyles, and is a companion piece to the Moody Blues-ish “Tonite.” Written after a long night of partying, the poignant “Mare Imbrium” uses the moon as its referential metaphor.

Auxiliary members Jud Ehrbar (ex-Space Needle partner and Reservoir pilot) and John Parker (Anders’ brother) have now been installed as permanent fixtures for Varnaline’s current tour opening for Bob Mould.

Why’d you decide to move to Brooklyn from Upper New York?

ANDERS: My girlfriend lives in Brooklyn and I decided to move in with her. There’s a lot more people here and it’s close to Manhattan where something is always going on. But I can’t see living here forever. I like to go outside and not walk on concrete all the time. That doesn’t mean I want to live in a cave.

What musical artists inspired you as a kid?

ANDERS: Definitely the Beatles. Also, ‘50s rock and the Beach Boys I liked. My parents always had their records around. They were born in the ‘30s/ ‘40s, but they like the fact John and I cultivated our urge to get into the arts. They listened to the radio a lot. There’s still a stack of records at their house. My dad played guitar and piano. He went to school in the early ‘60s and liked folk revival stuff by Kingston Trio and the Weavers.

What instruments did you learn first?

ANDERS: I played saxophone in elementary school and drums in high school. After moving around, going to a few colleges, I realized music was the only thing I wanted to do. It meant so much to me.

Sweet Life seems to be more dynamic and better integrated than Varnaline’s first few releases.

ANDERS: It’s a more rounded record. It’s my version of a pop record. There were a lot of songs floating around, but these seemed to flow best. I demoed the songs extensively beforehand. There’s always work to be done. Each song has its own separate identity.

“Gulf Of Mexico” would probably sound good in the background of a dramatic movie. Would you consider soundtrack work?

ANDERS: It’s a very visual song. I wrote that while driving my car from upstate to Brooklyn. I liked the way the words sounded. It’s loosely about a person who’s waiting for everything to fall apart – possibly while that person is on a raft.

Do your songs deal with personal accounts or are they fictional characterizations?

ANDERS: It varies. It could be personal or something I overheard. Sometimes a sentence or a line inspires me.

Why title the album Sweet Life? That closing song is a sonic departure from the other tracks.

ANDERS: It encompasses some of the mood and it has some definite irony. Sweet Life was also the name of an upstate grocery store’s cheap brand of food which I subsided on up there.

“This Is The River” and “Underneath The Mountain” seem inspired by some of those rural upstate surroundings.

ANDERS: “Underneath The Mountain” was indirectly inspired by the movie Under The Volcano. It was about a drunk English guy at the end of his life and the frustrations he felt. I was thinking of how life is always on top of you. “This Is The River” was written right before we went into the studio. If you take away the production, it’d be like a folk-blues tune. I had this view of the river where people were swimming in a vaguely childlike imagery.

How does Sweet Life differ from previous Varnaline albums?

ANDERS: We got the opportunity to work in a great studio. The sounds of the instruments came out so well. Also, I used some of my folkier stuff with my rockier stuff. When we started out, we were more of a rock band. After doing this awhile, we brought in some acoustic ideas that were lying around but needed to be worked on. Sweet Life has more instrumentation and a more dynamic range. John plays upright bass and keyboards and we combine elements from the EP with elements from the first two albums. John Agnello was a great engineer who captured the sound we wanted. We talked to him about getting the full sound out of each individual instrument. Agnello had good ears and instinct. We felt we had a common language with him, and we were able to communicate with him well and trust him.

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STARKER PARKER

Anders Parker’s honeyed baritone isn’t far removed from Lou Barlow’s creamy hum, verbalizing hard won small victories, pent-up frustration, and itchy desperation in festering meditative verses. Thankfully, neither ‘newly coined’ soloist feels helplessly destitute or perilously distraught despite being overlooked by myopic mainstream nitwits while perched on an ever-narrowing limb in search of wider cult support.

An existential theme seems to bookend Parker’s Tell It To the Dust, going from the “built to rust” absolution of the scintillating title track (startlingly climaxing like Pink Floyd’s automaton “Welcome To The Machine”) to the blustery fuzz-toned mantra “Doornail (Hats Off To Buster Keaton).” The latter blasts Neil Young-endorsed 6-string distortion into a blistering liberation.

Between, Parker tailors accessible serenades such as calm bequeath “Goodbye Friend,” anticipatory organ-laced spellbinder “Something New,” and compassionate commiserate “Don’t Worry Honey, Everything’s Gonna Be Alright.” On dirge-y sad-eyed lament “Innocents,” Parker’s clear conscience allows him to assuredly glance beyond faulty conjecture and wish upon ‘sunbeams or maybe moonbeams’ in a doleful cracked tenor. For a resonantly uplifting counteraction, he offers mellifluent ‘let’s see a smile’ gem, “C’mon Now.”

Quite apropos, the sadly departing “Feel The Same” re-invests a few somber Lennon piano motifs to get its wearily somber mood across. When Parker remits heartbreaking campfire duet, “Keep Me Hanging On” (allied with Mascott alto Kendall Meade), he proves to be completely affecting as a contemporary Country crooner as well. Guests Jay Farrar (whose wicked harmonica screech usurps bass-rumbled, piano-tinkled highlight “Into The Sun”), Tianna Kennedy (cello), Joan Wasser (violin), and former Space Needle partner Jud Ehrbar (drums) decorously detail several stimulating numbers. Recommended.