Ecstatic Wax

Wretched records and crappy covers

2012-02-20T14:02:00.002-08:00

This record goes to show that you can stuff a schlock-slinging goober into a leather jacket and put him on a motorcycle and he’ll still be a schlock-slinging goober. When kids tore the wrapping paper from this record on Christmas Day, their parents saw good, clean, rockin’ fun, where they saw a figurative and literal square.

This was released hot on the heels of Ruth Welcome's worldwide smash hit, Lo-Fi Lute.

Sadly, ol’ Dizzy Fingers never made another record. While promoting his LP in Africa, Cope was gunned down by ivory poachers who wanted his teeth.

“Hey, boys, before tonight’s gig, why don’t you say we all head down to the Sears Portrait Studio for our album close-up? We can shop for Toughskins afterward.” This so-called auspicious debut is so good that the LP’s original owner didn’t crack the seal—no doubt to keep it “mint.”

For every new album being stamped on wax there seems to several more being reissued. Somehow I don’t think this record will ever get its 180-gram colored vinyl deluxe redux.

California Raisins: Still Ripe After All These Years

2012-02-16T11:18:00.000-08:00

We’ve all been hearing about the existential and aesthetical crisis besieging the music industry these days. It’s scary out there. Rampant illegal downloading, collapsing CD sale, shuttering retail stores, Lana Del Ray, that mystery substance seen running down Christina Aguilera’s leg at Etta James’s funeral, and now Whitney Houston’s death on the eve of the perhaps the most impotent, I mean important, music event of the year, the Grammys. Oh, the Grammys. Admit it, you watch it. Remember how you cheered when Natalie Cole beat out Nirvana for album of the year in 1992 by duetting with her dead dad? Unforgettable!

Today’s apocalyptic collapse reminds me of a time, not long ago, when the music industry last found itself teetering on the brink. It was the late 1980s. Michael Jackson was busy erecting Neverland. Madonna was making great films. Bono was brainstorming ways to capitalize on the AIDS crisis in Africa. Phil Collins was opening tanning salons across the U.K. Unsure their leading lights would ever return to the spotlight, label heads, industry insiders and that vampircal U.S. lobbying organization, the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), met secretly in a White House bunker brainstorming a plan to save their jobs and restore their six-figure bonuses. Their solutions: Kip Winger and Milli Vanilli. Strokes of genius to be sure, but those short-term fixes would prove to be long-term headaches the beleaguered industry had not anticipated. Milli Vanilli were outed as fakes, and the popularity of Winger’s “She’s Only 17” had the unintended effect of causing an increase in statutory rape cases through middle America.

Meanwhile, Ahmet Ertegun, who had co-founded Atlantic Records and who, along with his brother, Nesuhi, had presided over some of the greatest recordings of all time from John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Ray Charles, Buffalo Springfield, Led Zeppelin and John Astley, was quietly nurturing a new act behind the scenes, a young yet wrinkled group of musicians bent on launching a back-to-basics revival of pop music. That act was the California Raisins.

Having successfully reintroduced America to the poop-stimulating wonders of rotten grapes via one of the most unforgettable advertising campaigns in history, the California Raisins, composed of Stretch, Beebop, A.C. and Red, sought to capitalize on their meteoric rise to fame. Now that they were in the spotlight—they weren’t about to wither; after all, they’re raisins! They entertained sitcom offers, clothing deals, merchandising agreements, attaching their image to line of best-selling colon-cleansing products, including Super Colon Blow cereal. Alas, none of those things held much appeal. The California Raisins wanted to perform; they wanted to make music; they wanted to be onstage. The desire for rotted grapes, whether boxed in snack-sized portions or harvested in various states of decay from dumpsters, was surpassed only by the demand for a legitimate vinyl release of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” the song heard in all the TV and radio ads.

The interest was not surprising. “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” was a song that represented so much promise when Marvin Gaye first recorded it 20 years earlier. But his version fell well short of the upper reaches of the pop charts. The problem was that Gaye wasn’t a grape, or a raisin. He lacked the emotional intuition, conviction, not to mention street cred, needed to transform the song into transcendental masterpiece.

Atlantic Records boss Ertegun recognized this and seized the opportunity of packaging the California Raisins into a pop music snack that would not only flush the bowels of a constipated music industry, but also delight and nourish music fans for decades to come. He invited the Raisins to his Los Angeles home studio under the auspices of having them record some low-key demos. He simply instructed them to have fun, play around with their favorite tunes, explore the space, etc. Later, if all went well, he’d sign them and bankroll the production of a proper studio album.

The California Raisins didn’t need to test the waters; their chemistry was undeniable, their musicianship unbelievable, their deliciousness unbeatable. They were ready. Nevertheless, they indulged Ertegun, and went about recording a dozen or so songs, including a stripped-down take on “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” In the small basement studio, the Raisins worked fast, faster than the raisin’s effect on the human digestive system. Within an hour, they delivered an album’s worth of songs with a working titled of Led Zeppelin 1. Ertegun was stunned by what he heard. The Raisins’ recordings of “Green Onions,” “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” “Tutti Frutti,” “Cool Jerk” could no longer be claimed by the forgettable artists who originally “popularized” them. No, these songs, especially the searing reworking of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” now belonged to the California Raisins.

Released in 1988, the Raisins’ debut LP, now titled Meet the Raisins, bowed at No. 1 and stayed there for three years. Every song on the album, including the studio outtakes, rehearsals, false starts and abandoned demos, topped the singles’ charts. In fact, for three straight weeks in 1989, all 40 songs in America’s Top 40 belonged to the California Raisins. The Raisins won a record 78 Grammys in three years. And their debut album was so good that it won Best Album three-straight years.

Everywhere they went, the Raisins were mobbed by fans—the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the Beatles. But the Raisins soon grew spoiled, figuratively speaking of course. Legend has it that they required that all raisins be removed from the trail mix and raisin bran they ate backstage. While the Raisins weren’t about to eat their own, raisin consumption throughout the world was such that grapes were no longer used for wine, juice, jelly or even grapes. To keep up with demand all harvested grapes were dehydrated and rotted into raisins. Naturally, greenhouse gasses quadrupled, setting off some pretty catastrophic environmental catastrophes across the globe. Oceans, rivers and lakes all turned brown. Cloud formations now consisted mostly of methane. Humans now had to submit to monthly emissions checks. And the smell, oh the smell.

Finally, the backlash came in 1992. We won’t get into all the details, scandals and betrayals here—not today at least. Suffice it to say, the sweet sun-ripened treat turned foul, its shelf life expired. And that was that. The California Raisins were no more—and were never to be seen in public, together or separately, again.

Now, some 20 years later, with the music industry again spiraling down the toilet bowl, who better than the California Raisins to flush out the toxins and bring about a renaissance? Sadly, the Grammys blew a huge opportunity last Sunday. Following Whitney Houston’s death, the Grammy people should have asked the Raisins to perform in her place so that, just as pioneering Natalie Cole did with her deceased Nat King Cole, the California Raisins could have duetted with a jumbo-tron animation of Whitney Houston. They could have sung a medley of Houston favorites, including “I’m Every Raisin,” “I Wanna Dance with Some Raisin” and her signature signature “I Will Always Love Raisins.” It would have been a poignant tribute—as well as an effective passing of the torch. There wouldn’t have been a dry eye (or nose—ah, cocaine) in the audience. And it would have been the most watched, instead of the second-most watched, Grammys ever.

And so the question remains: when can we expect the second coming of the California Raisins? Only Stretch, Beebop, A.C. and Red know for sure.

Set the Twilight Reeling

2012-01-08T18:13:00.001-08:00

Greg Dulli Finds Redemption in the Twilight Singers
By Joe Ehrbar

EDITOR’S NOTE: This interview originally appeared in final edition of The Rocket, in October of 2000. I’m republishing it here, because, well, it was one of my favorite interviews. During my time as a rock music inquisitor, I often avoided interviews with artists and bands of whom I was a big fan—I didn’t want to come off like a sycophant; I also wanted to spare myself the eternal embarrassment and disillusionment I’d no doubt feel should an idol interview end badly. This particular interview went pretty well, as I recall. Conducted by phone, my conversation with Greg Dulli lasted about an hour; maybe one day, I’ll transcribe the entire tape—before it crumbles to dust.

I’ve long admired Greg Dulli’s work, first as an Afghan Whig, then as Twilight Singer, later as a Gutter Twin. I regret not going to see him and his bands perform in the last decade. Perhaps I’ll resolve to get out more in 2012. One thing’s for sure, I’m excited by the recent news of an Afghan Whigs reunion. The band will make their grand re-entrance as the headliners of the ATP festival in Asbury Park in the spring. A tour will follow. Given the Whigs' Seattle history—they were among the original Sub Pop bands and Dulli lived here for a time—perhaps they’ll give us an encore.

Q&A with Greg Dulli. The latest issue of Chunklet magazine has been stirring up a bit of controversy for its cover story on the "The 100 Biggest Assholes in Rock." Charting high on the list is the Afghan Whigs' Greg Dulli at No. 24 (he beat out the likes of Isaac Brock and Mark E. Smith). While Dulli is down seven places from last year's posting, he's still considered a big asshole by the editors of Chunklet because, they say, "He thinks he's God's gift to women." Having only interviewed Dulli just once and over the phone-for this particular piece-I can't say that Greg Dulli is an asshole. During our recent conversation about his latest musical endeavor, the Twilight Singers, the singer was quite pleasant and candid and acted interested. I also can't vouch for Dulli thinking he's "God's gift to women"; the subject just never came up. If Dulli is guilty of anything it's his ability to make women swoon (or maybe, just one woman-my wife). As an Afghan Whig he's made some incredibly sexy soul music-all be it dark and tormented, but sexy rock 'n' roll nonetheless. Now with the Twilight Singers-a project that's involved the likes of crooners Shawn Smith (pigeonhed, Brad) and Harold Chichester (Howlin' Maggie) and English dance music kingpins Fila Brazilla, Dulli is immersing his soul singer talents into the wrinkled silk sheets of the night-where many romances begin and end. Much like the records cranked out by Motown in the '60s, the Twilight Singers' debut, Twilight as Played by the Twilight Singers (Columbia), is a bittersweet album, but it's also a bearer of soul music the likes of which you're not hearing these days.

The Rocket: How are you doing, Greg?
Greg Dulli: I've been better actually. I fucked up my back last weekend taking a bath.

The Rocket : Were you alone?
Dulli: Yeah, I was, actually [laughs]. I slipped in the tub and grabbed a towel rack and wrenched my back and spent all day Saturday in the hospital. It's bad. I've got to have an MRI in about an hour.

The Rocket : You must be swallowing some pretty sweet painkillers?
Dulli: Yeah, they're pretty sweet. They gave me Dilaudid on Saturday. I was in a Drugstore Cowboy state-of-mind all day Saturday, know what I'm sayin'? But since I had to do press today, I haven't taken any pills today. Right about now, though, I should take one.

The Rocket: So you're living in L.A. these days. How come you left Seattle?
Dulli: Honestly? The rain finally got to me. I love Seattle; I was there for six years, but for my health and state-of-mind I needed a little more sunshine.

The Rocket: While you were here, you began work with the Twilight Singers. How did this record come together?
Dulli: It took awhile. I started working on it three years ago.

The Rocket: Didn't the Twilight Singers start as a collaboration with Shawn Smith and Harold Chichester? Or, was it your idea?
Dulli: Oh, no, it was my idea. One thing I will state on that subject: Never try to get three lead singers in the same room.

The Rocket: I've had a bootleg copy of an early version of the album for about a year and a half-
Dulli: Oh, you have the demos? Uh-oh.

The Rocket: What I was going to say is that the final product of Twilight as Played By the Twilight Singers is significantly different and better in places than the original demos. It doesn't sound like it buckled under the weight of three distinct egos.
Dulli: It didn't because over the course of things one ego was destined to take over anyway. And I don't say that in an egotistical way, but it was my vision. And, honestly, I was bringing all of my best songs that I had at the time to the table and the other guys were kinda second-stringing it. And when you second-string it, the first team's gonna eat up the second team. It's not that those guys didn't have great songs in them, I just don't think that they were willing to part with them.

The Rocket: How much of the album was re-tooled in England with Fila Brazilla?
Dulli: The majority of it. Two songs got taken off: one of mine and one of Shawn's. Three songs ["Railroad Lullaby," "Annie Mae" and "Last Temptation"] took their place. I did three new songs in England. And of the eight original that remained, I re-did five of them.

The Rocket: What inspired this record?
Dulli: It was reclamation project. And what I was out to reclaim was a certain amount of my musical innocence. I felt like I was starting to bow under the expectations of a record company [Elektra] to the point of where it got so ugly that I had to leave said record company. And as a parting gift, they let the [Twilight Singers] demos out so that people such as yourself could hear them. It got so negative to point where I was starting to forget why you play music in the first place. A lot of music for me started out in a self-gratifying way. I made up songs that I wasn't hearing but wanted to hear. I think [this project] was to get back to that. I think Harold Chichester, in particular, who's been through the same wars I've been through, he was the most inspirational. He said, "Why don't you write songs that you want to hear again." That seemed like an anachronistic thought, but it was so right on that I took him up on his offer.

The Rocket: To me, it sounds like the soul record that no one's making today.
Dulli: Yeah, I was finally able to articulate what soul singing means to me. And to me soul singing is if the singer can make you feel like he feels when he's singing that particular song. That's what I really got in touch with. There's no chart toppers on this record, but it's probably the most pure recording I've done since I was a teenager.

The Rocket: It's funny, the liner notes to the advance promo CD of the album says that it was "conceived in your bedroom."
Dulli: That's where my recording equipment was set up.

The Rocket: Nice double entendre.
Dulli: It definitely is a double entendre. A lot of people have told me-and I've started to feel this way as I started workin' it out-"Well, this is kind of a mood record." And the mood is definitely sexual. And I've heard from people that they have used it in their seductive pursuits.

The Rocket: And with varying degrees of success? Or was it unanimous?
Dulli: I think a lot of these guys who are using it are using it on people that stuff like this has worked on before. So they're preaching to the converted.

The Rocket: As long as the seductees aren't listening too closely. The lyrics betray the music's sultry, sexual tone. It's full of heartache and heartbreak.
Dulli: Lyrically, I've always sort of been like that, which is why I think I was so drawn to Motown music in particular. There's a lot of jaunty musical tracks in the Motown repertoire. But if you strip away the words and read them on their own, they're pretty heart-breaking. A lot of Supremes songs are on a real jaunty, kind of doot, doot, doot, but when you take the words out....That's why Uptown Avondale [an EP of soul covers the Afghan Whigs recorded in 1993 for Sub Pop] was a big experiment for be because I started to hone in on that. I'm like, "These words are sad. What if you took these words and put them in a sad setting? You get a really devastating heart-breaker of a tune. More than anything, I think [the Twilight Singers] is a continuation of the Uptown Avondale principle.

The Rocket: It's that betrayal or underlying sadness or bittersweetness that makes the music compelling and affecting. Reggae and rock steady utilized the same formula.
Dulli: Oh yeah. People will hide heartbreak behind anything that will conceal it. I think it was pretty ingenious what they were doing, especially in Detroit.

The Rocket: Twilight as Played By ends on kind of an ambiguous note, with you repeating the chorus "Everything's gonna be all right." It can easily interpreted as something positive, uplifting. What do you think?
Dulli: There's a point in the "Everything's gonna be all right" where I start to wonder if it is going to be all right. I sort of wonder if it's not a desperate man trying to convince himself of a lie. In the time that I wrote that song, I was desperately trying to convince myself of a reason to continue on because I was psychiatrically in trouble-though, thankfully, I do not find myself in that spot right now. Bob Marley popularized that phrase, at least musically. It was definitely done with the full knowledge that he had done it. To me, it's a universal statement and one I could hang my hooks into. Honestly, the record helped me purge a lot of things, helped me move on, if not musically then palpably.

The Rocket: How difficult was the process of writing and recording the material while wrestling personal demons?
Dulli: I don't know what a nervous breakdown is, but from what I've heard I think I had one and was having during the writing as I was able to revisit it with the three new songs ["Railroad Lullaby," "Annie Mae" and "Last Temptation"]. These songs give the record some levity without taking it out of its context. The three new songs helped it sound more cohesive. They were strategically placed in the repertoire of the album to give it that feel it has now.

The Rocket: Was it painful trying to complete this record this year, to tap back into the mindset you had a couple years ago?
Dulli: Yeah, but when you confront something, you don't fear it anymore. Had I kept running from it-which, I'm sure the record company would have been fine with if I left it on the shelf.... I'm a completion junkie, I have to have closure on something in order to move on. Going back and listening to some of the [album's songs] and the B-sides, too, I was like, "Whoa, who is that guy?" I felt bad for him. When you can go back and have pity on yourself-but it's not self-pity because it's another version of you-that's kind of interesting. It was the sound of a person who did not like himself at all. Thankfully, I've overcome that. So, on the new songs, I had to go back to that other guy a little bit and help him out, help him at least connect the dots.

Chilling, Racist Sounds of Halloween?

2011-10-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

You’ve probably seen this album over the years. Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House is the cornerstone of the horror soundtrack/sound effects genre; from what I can tell it’s been in print the longest and is perhaps the only horror LP relic to live—undead—in the digital age. If you’re as old as me, or older, you probably had a scratched-up, dog-eared copy of the LP that Dad would dust off every year and blast from an open window to unsuccessfully frighten trick-or-treaters from your front porch.

Released in 1964, the record contains all the predictable audio chills, thrills and spills of a Halloween record. There are dragging chains, howling winds, baying hell hounds, groaning monsters, creaking doors, blood-curdling screams and more. On side one, a narrator sets up each scary scenario before letting the sound effects take over to illustrate the protagonist’s demise. It’s all pretty hokey and predictable—and low-budget.

But how is Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House racist? Glad you asked. At the end of side one is a track titled “Chinese Water Torture.” The narrator opens the track with an explanation of the torture method’s origins and then shuts up to let the technique do its job on the protagonist’s mind. With ten seconds remaining, the narrator returns one last time, and, under the spell of bad taste, she speaks in stereotypical, monosyllabic fake Chinese, rather exaggeratedly, too. “Ming, my, ywai hoi….” She goes on like this for a few moments before catching herself and feigning surprise, ”What am I saying? I’m not even Chinese.”

Indeed, Chilling, Thrilling Sounds… was a product of 1964, a time when perhaps few considered such xenophobia to be, well, xenophobic. In the ensuing 50 years, attitudes have changed. We’re hypersensitive about race and culture. We go out of our way to out-PC one another. There’s no chance in Disneyland that anyone would let something of this ilk into today’s marketplace. (South Park’s another story.) Remember Song of the South? Disney pretends not to. So one might think that Disney would keep "Chinese Water Torture" forever buried in its storied haunted vaults (along with the bones of Walt). Song of the South it ain’t, but it’s still racist.

Curious, I decided to see if Chilling, Thrilling Sounds… made the leap to digital. It did. It’s currently out of print on CD (though not hard to find), but it’s readily available for download on iTunes. Spotting “Chinese Water Torture” in the album’s sequence, I paid a buck to download it and see if the original piece remains intact, fake Chinese and all. I skipped to the track’s final seconds and to my surprise, “Chinese Water Torture” hadn’t been edited. Everything’s still there just as it was in 1964, a stupid, undead relic of Cold War xenophobia. Chilling, indeed.

Freaks, Geeks and Other Human Oddities

2011-10-18T13:12:00.000-07:00

Tom Waits has spun a tangled web of yarns unlike any other singer/songwriter, in a career that spans four decades and two-dozen albums. Along his twisted, idiosyncratic journey through L.A.’s dingy piano bars, into the red-light districts of German cabarets, over the rusty chain-link fences of roots music junkyards, and into a howling din of some post-apocalyptic carnival, Waits has introduced us to a motley crew of unforgettable characters. On October 24, Tom Waits releases his first studio album in seven years with Bad As Me, and to celebrate the occasion, I thought I’d dig through the dusty stacks of Tom’s old songs and gather the assorted, often colorfully named characters he’s given life to over the years. What follows is a list of people who haunt his songs. Not everyone’s been included, but most of them are here, together in one place for the first time—grouped by theme, occupation, physical exploit, title, etc. So without further adieu, "Ladies and gentleman, under the Big Top tonight, Human Oddities!"

William the Pleaser, Dave the Butcher, Blind Bob the Raccoon, Reba the Loon, Slam the Crank, Jo Jo the Dog Face Boy, KoKo the Bird Girl, Sealo the Seal Boy, Gyp the Blood, Lea Graif the German midget who sat in J.P. Morgan’s lap, Zuzu Bolin, Molly Hoey, George Schmid, Montclaire de Havelin, Zenora Bariella, Coriander Pyle, Evelyn James, Everett Lee, Joel Tornabene, Whitfield Faraday, Edna Millions, Scullion Childs, Eddie Grace, Melanie Jane, Bobby Goodmanson, Charlie DeLisle, Dicky Faulkner, Milton Malone, Shane Mahoney, Joey Navinski, Ronnie Arnold, Paul Body, Bill Bones, Red Pants, Pale Face, Ice Man, Black Rider, Eyeball Kid, Rosie, Charlie, Frank, Nash, Alice, Monk, Hans, Cath, Kathleen, Jezebel, Marie, Martha, Muriel, Matilda, Lucinda, Wilhelm, Willard, Miss Kelsey, Mr. Henry, Mr. Siegal, Mister Sorrow, Mrs. Carroll, Mrs. Strom, Mr. Knickerbocker, Mr. Weiss, Mr. Brown, Philly Joe Remarkable, Peoria Johnson, Saginaw Calinda, Georgia Lee, Dudlow Joe, Jockey La Fayette, Mike of the Weeds, Little Joe from Kokomo, Satchel Pudding, Lord God Mose, Golden Willie, Panther Marten, Bird Lundy, Chun King, Father Cribari, Captain Charon, Reverend Judd, Doctor Bliss, Doctor George Fishbeck, Horse Face Ethel, Poodle Murphy, Piggy Knowles, Birdy Joe Hoaks, Scarface Ron, Graveyard John, Funeral Wells, Bowlegged Sal, One Eyed Myra, Big Eyed Al, Tabletop Joe, Humpty Jackson, Knocky Parker, Buzz Fledderjohn, Falling James, Yodeling Elaine, Bum Mahoney, Golden Willie, Dutch Pink, Punk Sander, Tip Little, Dot King, Vic Rail, Peg Leg, Bill Bones, Boney, Shorty, Mighty Tiny, Poor Edward, Jack Chance, Jessey Frank, Aunt Mame, Uncle Emmet, Aunt Evelyn, Uncle Vernon, Dan Steel, Johnny Eck, Johnny O’Toole, Louie Lista, Robert Sheehan, Martin Eden, Grady Tuck, Abdel Madi Shabneh, Spidey, Cora Belle Lee, Grace McDaniels, Gerd Bessler, Mortando, Big Mambo, Big John Jizzum, Big Bull Trometer, Big Joe, Big Black Mariah, Big Black Ford, Big Black Johnny, Little Son Jackson, Lil’ Caesar, Old Brown Betty, Old Widow Jones, Old Blind Darby, Blind Jack Dawes, Blackjack Ruby, Nimrod Cain.

Rocky Mountain Sigh

2011-08-25T13:55:00.000-07:00

Do you remember where you were when John Denver died? Me neither. Anyway, a year before Denver's airplane made an unscheduled water landing in October 1997, I had the pleasure of interviewing him by phone in advance of a Spokane concert appearance. The John Denver I remember from the interview was an insufferable, miserable prick, not the lovable nature boy who sang “Sunshine on My Shoulders” and “Rocky Mountain High” and made a couple records with the Muppets. He was such an ass, his replies to my questions so testy, that I wrote, “John Denver has come down from his Rocky Mountain high,” as the lead of my story.

That was 15 years ago, when I was trying to make it as a journalist and music critic at Spokane’s daily paper, the Spokesman-Review. Had I the choice I would have gladly punted and let someone else write about the singer/songwriter/environmentalist/stunt pilot/wannabe astronaut. I remember at the time being worried about my credibility with the local punk rock scene and how writing about a washed-up middle-of-the-road folk singer wasn’t going to help it. (Stupid, I know, especially since very few in my perceived target audience read the paper.) But the editor assigned it to me and I accepted. I made arrangements with Denver’s publicist for a phone interview, and John agreed to speak with me from his Colorado home the following Monday at 8 a.m., which was a little bit early—I preferred rolling in to work at 9.

The only problem was that I think John thought we were to chat at 8 a.m. his time, Colorado time, Rocky Mountain time. And so he started calling at 6 a.m. while I was still dreaming (probably about being the next great music writer—so much for that). By the time I arrived to work at 7:30, I saw the red light on my phone flashing angrily at me—informing me that I had a message. Three messages, actually, all from John Denver. Not sunshine-on-my-shoulders John Denver either, but a you-just-clear-cut-the-old-growth forest-surrounding-my-palatial-estate John Denver.

6:01 a.m.: “Joe, this is John Denver calling,” said the voice, clearly annoyed. “I’ll try back.”

6:15 a.m.: “Joe, this is John Denver calling,” went the second message, the voice now sounding only few degrees cooler than piping-hot angry.

The third message came at 7. It sounded as friendly as the second.

As I hung up the phone, it started ringing, sending a hot flash of panic coursing through my veins. With some trepidation, I answered the call.

“Joe, this is John Denver calling.”

His tone had only a hint of irritation. But I could already intuit that this interview was going to be a disaster. Trying to force a little cordial small talk, I threw out the first cringe-worthy softball: “So what are you up to?”

“Heh-heh,” he chuckled incredulously, “talking to you.”

I don’t know what was going through John Denver’s mind at the time. Clearly it was more than a scheduling foul-up. As the interview progressed, it became more apparent that he was not nearly as angry with me as he was bitter toward the music business. John Denver had sold millions of records in his prime, charted numerous hits in the 1970, made a lot of people, including himself, rich. But by 1996, the hits had long since dried up, and he was unsigned in the U.S. and couldn’t secure a deal beyond one-off gimmicks—children's records or new recordings of the old hits. (Denver had other problems beyond music, most notably a bitter divorce and two DUI arrests.)

Here’s what Denver had to say about the state of affairs with record companies: “I did an album for Sony a little over a year ago—The Wildlife Concert—and it’s pretty funny to me,” he said, no hint of humor in his tone, “that that album was a double album and it sold a quarter of a million copies. That’s a gold album. You know, it’s a double CD. That’s a big project, pretty successful, but not where they want to sign a record deal with me. Isn’t that interesting?”

Sony did however want Denver to make another album, an album that, as Denver described it, sounded a bit, well, sad. “[Sony] do want me to do another album and what they’re talking about—the example they’ve given me is something Kenny Loggins did, which ended up being a million seller—is a children's album.”

That album actually materialized. Released it 1997, it was called All Aboard!, a children's album about trains, and it earned Denver a posthumous Grammy—his only Grammy.

The interview wasn’t a total disaster, but it was clear Denver wasn’t all that interested in my line of questioning. Perhaps I was too inexperienced or shy to ask more thoughtful questions. As this interview was to function as a concert preview, I hadn’t prepared to ask him more probing questions. Or maybe Denver just didn’t want play along that morning. Witness the following exchange:

“What is your Spokane concert consisting of—are you–”

“John Denver songs,” he blurted, before I could even finish my question. He didn’t elaborate.

Flustered, I countered with: “Are you gonna do another record with the Muppets?”

Denver softened, but only a bit. “Actually we’ve talked about that a little bit,” he said. “That was one of the most enjoyable things I ever did was working with the Muppets, and the thought of doing another television special with them along with an album is a great idea.”

Lucky for me (and John), the interview was a few minutes from its conclusion. After reading the resulting concert preview, my editor opted not to have me review the show. I didn’t argue with her.

Burning Man

2011-06-13T16:14:00.001-07:00

If you’re a record collector, particularly one who haunts thrift stores, garage sales and swap meets seeking out the bizarre and obscure, you’re probably familiar with the pair of Incredibly Strange Music books from RE/Search Publications from the 1990s (out of print). These books feature long Q&As with numerous record collectors—including Jello Biafra, Lux Interior and Poison Ivy of the Cramps and Billy and Miriam Linna of Norton Records—who show off their records while sharing interesting stories and anecdotes about the artists who made them. Both volumes are invaluable repositories of music from the fringes, particularly between the 1950s and 1970s. And by fringes we’re talkin’ about private press records, ill-conceived novelties, assorted kitsch, Jesus-freak music, third-tier rockabilly, outsiders—anything meeting the incredibly strange description.

Among the thousands of records and/or musicians covered in the two books, one artist in particular stoked my curiosity. His name’s Merrill Womach, a gospel singer and former undertaker from Spokane.

Besides having an extraordinary voice, Womach also has an extraordinary face, the result of third-degree burns sustained in a plane crash in 1961. What might have snuffed out the lives of others served to energize Womach’s. Legend has it that Merrill sang all the way to the hospital after being pulled from the flaming wreckage. Naturally (or Supernaturally), Merrill credited his survival to Divine Intervention. Following a long spell in the hospital where he endured painful skin grafts and facial reconstruction, Merrill emerged a new man, more determined than ever to share his God-given gift with the world—not to mention his man-made face.

And so it would be that for the nearly 20 albums he recorded between 1967 and 1985, Merrill would never shy away from making his miraculous face the focal point of their covers. On one album, In Quartet (shown below), four Merrill Womachs appear, striking poses in their polyester lounge-lizard disco suits—one Merrill for each of the four octaves of his glorious tenor.

Judging by his Wikipedia page, Womach is alive today and resides in Spokane. He’s 84 and still making music—albeit canned Muzak for funeral homes. He was an undertaker after all. (Surly, there’s a joke in there somewhere.) What follows are some of the Merrill Womach records I’ve acquired over the years, including one I picked up just last week from St. Vincent DePaul in Lynnwood. As you’ll see, one of the records, My Song, depicts Merrill before the plane crash. (Actually, it shows 42 Merrills—a full chorus!) Merrill Womach records aren’t all that hard to come by; you can always find a dozen or so listed on eBay—at pretty reasonable prices, too. But if you hunt around, you’ll likely find some at the junk shop for a $1 or less.

Also, for your enjoyment, you can watch a video here, taken from a documentary about Merrill’s accident and recovery called He Restoreth My Soul. In this scene, Merrill sings one of his signature songs, “Happy Again,” to a roomful of hospital patients. Is it just me or would this song make a decent flipside of a Scott Walker single? Maybe not.

My Song (1960) -- Acquired from Value Village in Ballard. This is Merrill Womach one year before his face went up in flames.

I Believe in Miracles (1967) -- Purchased at St. Vincent DePaul in Lynnwood. This is Merrill Womach's triumphant comeback album. The illustration does not show Womach inside plane. You'll just have to take him at his word that he was singing the Lord's praises. Believe it or not this is the second pressing of this album -- I also own the first, which was issued by a different label.

A Time for Us (1969) -- I don't remember where I got this one. On this album, Merrill gives the gospel a rest to bring us the good news of show tunes and weepy love ballads.

Surely Goodness and Mercy (1970) -- I think this came from a Texas thrift store where it was acquired by my friend DH.

I Stood at Calvary (1973) -- Purchased from eBay. Little-known fact, but Merrill was there at Jesus's crucifixion. This 2000-year-old painting proves it. Merrill was also believed to have introduced polyester and pleather to the nascent Christian movement.

Happy Again (1974) -- Found at the Goodwill in Lynnwood. This is the soundtrack to the aforementioned He Restoreth My Soul and is probably the most famous Womach record cover.

Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory... (1976) -- I don't remember where I found this one. I love the way Merrill's purple fly-away collar matches the scenery.

In Concert (1977) -- Picked this up at St. Vincent DePaul in Seattle. Merrill doesn't make his face the focal point of this cover, but it's there.

In Quartet (1977) -- Found at a Texas thrift store by my friend DH. Notice how Merrill mixes and matches two suits to make four. Genius.

I'm a Miracle Lord (1981) -- Found at a record store in Montreal, Quebec, of all places.

Thar She Blows

2011-05-19T06:39:00.000-07:00

Thirty one years ago (yesterday), Mount St. Helens blew its top. One year later, with volcanic ash still blanketing large swaths of the Pacific Northwest, the not-so-legendary Seattle trad-jazz combo the Uptown Lowdown Jazz Band issued the hardy-har titled Hauling Ash. That the LP failed to blow up on the national (or even local) scene can be attributed to multiple factors, including the man-made disaster of its horrendous cover. Which as you can see simply blows.

Hooray for Record Store Day? Nah.

2011-05-06T10:50:00.000-07:00

I skipped Record Store Day this year. (Yes, I know it was three weeks ago—forgive me for being slow.) I just wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Sure, there were records I really wanted, like the Fucked Up punk compilation LP, David’s Town (limited to just 750 copies), or the Beach Boys 78 rpm double 10-inch, or the Radiohead 12-inch (which turned out to be a U.K.-only release). I just couldn’t will myself to get out of bed on a Saturday morning and queue up for the mad scramble to the limited-edition vinyl RSD display and the subsequent wrestling match/feeding frenzy for the store’s one copy of Nirvana’s Hormoaning—which would be flipped mere minutes later on Ebay for five times the original list price. I don’t need records that bad.

I did the Record Store Day thing last year. I hit a local shop (not one I normally frequent, but the one closest to home), thinking I’d easily get my hands on a couple RSD exclusives I wanted. I got there just before the store opened only to find a mob of about 40 people massing at the store's entrance. It looked like Walmart on Black Friday—albeit on a smaller scale, though the crowd was just as pathetically dressed. Anyway, most of what I had come for had already been snapped up by the time I squeezed inside. I still managed to acquire a handful of records I was interested in and picked up some decently priced non-RSD used records as well.

However, most of the hour I spent in the store was focused on observing the activity and behavior at the dedicated RSD-exclusive vinyl display. One fashionably disheveled dork indiscriminately grabbed one of every release and then walked off with a massive stack toward the counter, where he flipped through his bounty and cast aside the ones he didn’t want—which themselves would get snatched up by circling vultures who had followed him. It was ridiculous. Mostly what I witnessed was disappointment from late arrivals (i.e., the sad sacks who got to the shop 10 minutes after it had opened) and found the RSD carcass virtually picked clean of its exclusives—save for those Hole 10-inches, overpriced Wilco box sets and assorted other major label crap. Another observation: most RSD shoppers never left the RSD quarantine area to browse the store’s impressive (though mostly overpriced) vinyl inventory, as well as the small section devoted to the remainders (or dregs) of 2009’s Record Store Day.

I admit it: I have record problem. I have a fairly large collection of LPs, 7-inches, 10-inches, etc., and I’m always tempted by such events as Record Store Day. But the corresponding ugly consumerism, greed and Ebay flipping that accompany such an event are a real turn-off. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for events that help preserve the dying business of the record store. I just don’t wish to be part of the collector scum scrum.

Tales from the Thrift Store

2011-03-16T14:58:00.000-07:00

For 2010, I resolved to do my record shopping at the thrift store. It wasn’t so much a financial decision—though I saved a few bucks in doing so—but a fun experiment to see what I could unearth or be turned on to. In this age of instant gratification, music can be had with a simple click or tap, and elusive records are within easy grasp on eBay. But for me, and I’m sure most every other record collector, the hunt is just as thrilling as getting your grubby hands on that desired LP.

Ever since I started shopping at thrift stores in college, I would always thumb through the records. Occasionally, I’d find something worth spending 50 cents or a dollar on. But never had I considered the second-hand store to be my main source of music. And for good reason: If you’ve shopped for music at Goodwill, Salvation Army, Value Village, et al., you know that most of what they have is the pop culture waste of previous generations. The Al Hirts. The Andy Williames. The Art Garfunkels. That and much worse: Grandma’s crappy classical collection? Check. Ten copies of Firestone Christmas? Check. Ferrante and Teicher? Check. Mitch Miller? Check. All that crap, no matter which day or what store—the thrift store is where the bad records go to die. So I knew that getting some decent LPs was going to be a hell of a task.

You're likely familiar with the smell of thrift store. It’s not a good smell. Yet, every time the musty-dusty scent of the second-hand shop greeted me at the door, anticipation would pulse through my arteries, so excited I was by the prospect of finding some forgotten castoff or maybe a decent copy of a well-known favorite. Mostly, though, after rummaging through the usual detritus of moldy oldies, that feeling would soon yield to disappointment, and I’d inevitably leave empty-handed. But undaunted. If it’s treasure you’re hunting in the junk store, well, you have to be patient and persistent. Even then, you’ve got to be lucky, and on several occasions over the last year, I got lucky.

For these next several posts I am sharing some of the highlights of my 2010 vinyl thrifting. Have a look.

Today’s entry is Dark of Light (Buddah) by Norman Connors.

I won’t lie to you, I had no idea who Norman Connors was prior to seeing his face look back at me from the dusty stacks at a Value Village (location classified). Upon close examination of the LP’s cover, though, I saw that the record features a who’s who of jazz luminaries, including Herbie Hancock, saxophonist Gary Bartz, bassist Cecil McBee, trumpeter Eddie Henderson, et al. (a good sign) and was recorded in 1973 (an even better sign—I’ll get to that in a moment). Seeing that the actual vinyl was is far better shape than its well-worn (or well-loved) only made me happier. Indeed, I had high expectations for this record, expectations which were easily surmounted once I dropped the needle on it.

Dark of Light comes from an era when jazzbos, be they avant-gardists, hard boppers or free jazzniks, explored the outer limits of electric funk, drifted off into mystical meditations, freaked out in the cosmos or improvised deep into the unknown. It was an interesting period for jazz—at least to my ears. A time before all that sonic exploration was synthesized and diluted into the catch-all commercial ghetto of fusion. Accordingly, what flooded from my speakers were sounds both exciting and expected: cosmic, mystical jazz, a head trip of mood- and mind-altering mellow gorgeousness and ecstatic fire, tugging grooves that bubble up to the surface, and some truly inspired improvisations.

Dark of Light was Norman Connors’ first album as a leader. But he was hardly a newcomer. Connors, a drummer, most notably created percussive thunder behind two jazz legends, Archie Shepp and Pharaoh Sanders. As his solo career progressed, though, he changed his tune from jazz to more commercial-friendly R&B, creating super-smooth soundtracks for singers such as Michael Henderson and Phyllis Hyman, scoring several hits late into the ’70s. However, if I come across any of those records in my future thrifting, I’ll leave them well enough alone.

Welcome Back, Wanda

2011-01-26T15:26:00.000-08:00

First it was Loretta Lynn. Now Jack White is bringing out singer Wanda Jackson for another bow. The rockabilly queen has a new album out, The Party Ain’t Over—which was produced by White and released this week on his Third Man label. And the record is actually quite good, a hillbilly hootenanny of country, rockabilly and gospel, energized by Jackson’s signature voice and matchless spirit. She’s still got it, all right. (Check out an interview with Jackson and listen to the album at NPR).

I interviewed Jackson nine years ago in advance of a Seattle appearance at the Tractor Tavern. It was indeed career highlight for me. We talked by phone for about 45 minutes. She was awesome, and I was pretty pleased with the resulting story I wrote for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer (though I might have gotten her age wrong). So in celebration of her return to the fore, I give you my short feature on Wanda Jackson.

March 15, 2002

Club Beat: Jackson Still Blazing a Rockabilly Trail

By JOE EHRBAR
SPECIAL TO THE POST-INTELLIGENCER

In his book The Unsung Heroes of Rock 'n' Roll, author Nick Tosches declares rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson to be "simply and without contest, the greatest menstruating rock 'n' roll singer whom the world has ever known."

No truer words have been put so eloquently. Jackson is a rock pioneer. She is living, screaming, guitar-strumming history who turned country on its head and broke new ground in the 1950s with a feisty growl and signature songs like "Fujiyama Mama," "Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad," "Mean Mean Man" and "Let's Have a Party." The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame may snub her, but the historical and cultural weight of her music cannot be denied.

At 62, Jackson is still at it, performing with a vigor and abandon that belie her age. Whether preaching to the faithful in concert halls in Sweden or reaching out to young converts in American clubs such as Seattle's Tractor Tavern, where she's set to appear on Wednesday along with the Donettes (9 p.m.; $12), Jackson is all too eager to share the raunchy gospel of rockabilly.

Jackson exudes just as much enthusiasm when telling her story. Speaking to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer by phone last week, Jackson recounted what it was like to be a teen star, to work with Elvis Presley, to pave the way for rock 'n' roll as a woman before later being paved over, to be rediscovered in Europe and finally recognized in her own country.

"It's been a heady trip for this old lady," summed up Jackson with a chuckle.

Jackson's trip began in Oklahoma City in the 1950s. Just in high school, she was discovered on a radio show by country star Hank Thompson, who got her signed to Decca Records. Jackson soon charted her first hit, in 1954, a duet with Thompson's bandleader, Billy Gray, titled "You Can't Have My Love." Upon graduation, the budding star, chaperoned by her father, piled into the family car and motored onto the concert trail, never to look back.

Jackson logged thousands of miles with her father in those early days, performing on one multiact caravan after another. While it was exciting, her life was anything but glamorous. "It was harder in those days when you' re just starting out," Jackson said. "We had to travel by car mostly. I didn't make enough money to fly.

"I used to have to put on my stage clothes in service station restrooms," she continued. "Some of them were so bad, I'd have to stand up on the toilet stool lids."

It was on one of those tours that Jackson met Presley, himself a newcomer, recording rockabilly songs for tiny Sun Records. The two became friends, and later dated. "Elvis was always an exciting person to be around. He had charisma. I always looked forward to working with him. We dated when we could on the road. He asked me to be his girl and wear his ring, and I did."

Jackson's relationship with Presley marked a turning point in her career. At Presley's urging, Wanda went rockabilly. "My dad and Elvis just lit in on me that I needed to be doing this music," she said. "Elvis kept saying it was gonna be the next big thing. I could tell that by working with him, with all the girls screaming."

"It took me a while to get the nerve to do it," said Jackson, "but I found some songs." She also found her voice, described by Tosches as "a wild fluttering thing of sexy subtleties and sudden harshness, feral feline purrings and raving banshee shriekings." In 1956, Jackson and her wicked set of pipes helped usher in rock's golden age by cooking up a spicy number called "Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad." "Fujiyama Mama" and "Mean, Mean Man" followed in 1957 and 1958.

As groundbreaking as they were, these bombshells fell on deaf ears. "I couldn't get any airplay," Jackson said. "No one seemed to recognize what I was doing. America wasn't ready for a girl hollering, singing this raunchy, soulful and exciting music." Ironically, Japan was. "Fujiyama Mama" went No. 1 there in 1958, despite its politically incorrect lyrics: "I been to Nagasaki/Hiroshima too/The things I did to them, baby/I can do to you."

Jackson's big moment in the States came in 1960, when "Let's Have a Party" screamed up the charts with all the unbridled glee of a party blower on New Year's Eve. Its successors "Right or Wrong" and "Riot on Cell Block #9" kept up the front, though by this point, Jackson had all but abandoned rockabilly. "I gave it a run, and then had to kind of back down into country to get airplay and keep my name out there so that I could work."

Jackson rode out the 1960s as a commercially successful country singer. But when she felt a tug to do gospel music after converting to Christianity, her label, Capitol, wouldn't hear of it, so ending their relationship and Jackson' s days on the charts.

Then in the 1985, spurred on by a rockabilly revival in Europe, Jackson made a comeback and started touring and recording again. America, late to the party as ever, rediscovered Jackson in the mid-1990s as the rise of insurgent country and reissues of her work (such as Capitol's 1996 anthology Vintage Collections) increased awareness of the singer. Jackson has since been in hot demand and she spends many of her days as she did when she was just starting out -- on the road. This time, however, she's usually flying first class.

"I'm always coming and going," Jackson said. "That's my life and I love it. It's the only life I know. It has probably taken its toll. I tell people, 'When you look at me, just remember, maybe it' s not the age but the mileage.'"

Case of the Half-Written Blues

2011-01-17T14:08:00.000-08:00

I've got a bunch of new posts in the hopper for the new year. Sadly, this is not one of them. No, the new stuff just isn't quite there yet. So while I agonize over the nascent posts, I thought I'd tide you over with the covers of two uncommonly awful recent thrift store acquisitions. Dig in.

James Lockridge Sings Joy in My Heart (1974)

James' love interest on this record is ... Jesus. But of course.

The Wheeler Family City of Gold (197?)

Looks like a perfectly innocent album of Christian gospel hymns sung by a pleasantly homely and inept quartet of siblings, until ...

... you take a gander at the back cover. This is the Wheeler Family's "Dad" as he appears on the back cover. Kind of makes Murry Wilson or that puppeteer father of the sisters Shagg seem almost rational, reasonable, loving even.

In Death Gerry Rafferty Gets Last Laugh

2011-01-05T10:52:00.000-08:00

Gerry Rafferty's pickled liver finally walked off the job this week, so denying any further comeback attempt or call for one last round by its owner. While this might be seen as tragic (how can death deny a very thirsty man a final drink ... or two dozen?), few of us are shedding tears about Gerry's slightly premature checkout. Some of us are even laughing -- because the accidental prankster hit the road toward the great gig in the sky and left us with the master tapes to "Baker Street," whose distinctive porno sax solo, with its stained sheets of sound, is sure to ooze into the sleazy motels of our minds for many years to come. Damn you, Gerry! What a kidder.

Thrift Store Scores

2010-11-23T12:33:00.001-08:00

Ninety percent of all music I've purchased this year has come from thrift stores. It was one of my New Year's resolutions -- to acquire any and all music from the junk store. Had it not been for Record Store Day or new albums from Refused, Melvins and Sun City Girls, I might have kept my resolution. But nine out of ten ain't bad.

In my quest for new, moldy tunes and the discovery of vinyl gold, I haunted thrift stores like a hunter stalks his prey. My searches were often frustrating and fruitless, but in eleven months I managed to acquire almost 200 records -- some good, some rare, most mildewy and awful, and all cheap. As for what I'll buy, sometimes it just comes down to the cover. So for this post, I give you some of the best/worst album covers I temporarily spared from their inevitable date with the dumpster.

Hmm ... why is Brother looking at Sister that way?

I love Jesus people. Their records never disappoint.

I know what it looks like, but the guy on this record is not Will Ferrell. As far as I can tell, this was the only Peters and Lee album. At least these lounge losers had the good sense to make their first album their last. Or maybe there are other Peters and Lee recordings. I'll keep looking.

More like Bobbin' for Crapples. Who thought a photo of this goober would sell records? Presumably the goober himself.

A reflective "Frankie Chop" looks back on his career. Despite his violent-sounding handle, Frankie was not a hit man but a polka twat. By the way, there's something so masculine about posing with your hands under your chin.

All My Favorite Singers Couldn't Sing

2010-10-25T10:16:00.001-07:00

But Spiral Stairs was not one of them.

I've been digesting a lot of Pavement lately; specifically, the deluxe versions of Slanted and Enchanted, Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, Wowee Zowee, and Brighten the Corners. You see, I have the long-ass commute to and from work, so most of my auditory consumption is done during this time. Beats drinking and texting. Anyway, spending two weeks with the forgoing albums (each one is two CDs--and completely maxed out with the original album, B-sides, outtakes, radio sessions, live cuts, and other random odds and ends) has led to the following epiphany: Spiral Stairs was a lousy "vocalist." He did not sing well. At all. Oh, but how he tried to, which makes enduring his efforts all the more painful. Stephen Malkmus, on the other hand, the guy who sang most of the songs, was better suited to lead the Pavement vessel--even when he couldn't be bothered to care. Indeed, I'd rather listen to him shipwreck "Type Slowly" or "Range Life" or "Fight This Generation" with his asleep-at-the-wheel delivery than hear Spiral "Scott Kannberg" Stairs utter a single on-key syllable (because likely the very next one will be markedly off). S. Malkmus had talent where S. Stairs had only will.

(Lest you think I hate the guy, I don't. I just don't care for his vocal contributions to the Pavement oeuvre [his guitar work, conversely, is unimpeachable]. And the two post-Pavement albums he made under the guise of Preston School of Industry hardly offend me. But his solo album? Now, we're talking. Released a year ago, the eponymous Spiral Stairs is a fine record, certainly better than the three stars All Music Guide assigns it, evidence that Mr. Stairs may have finally found his voice.)

The Cave Man Cometh

2010-10-19T13:57:00.001-07:00

I've forsaken this page for too long. To the three or four of you who read this thing, I apologize for the dearth of updates in recent months. Life, again, has gotten in the way--which is no excuse, I know. And though I have dozens of ideas for posts floating around in the ether of my mind, I have failed to make any real progress in committing them to virtual paper. But good stuff is coming. Really. Soonish, I think.

For now, allow me (or my former self) to wax ecstatic on the subject of Nick Cave. It would seem with Halloween looming on the horizon, Cave, his Bad Seeds, and his latest invention, Grinderman, provide the right kind of thunder, lightning, and dark clouds to your haunted days and lives. The following is a concert review I wrote nine years ago. On that night long ago, Nick Cave and company were every bit as good as I said they were.

Nick Cave with Warren Ellis, Jim White and Susan Stenger at the Paramount Theatre, March 29, 2001

“Intensity Never Flags in Spare Cave Concert”

By Joe Ehrbar

Pasty-faced London singer Nick Cave, long and lanky and dressed in a jet-black suit that matched his slicked-back hair, emerged from the shadows of the Paramount Theatre's backstage Thursday night, moving forward beneath the red lights with a purposeful gait, acknowledging his applauding audience with a simple wave, before situating himself behind a black grand piano.

Seated, he took a long draw from his cigarette, placed it carefully in an ashtray and, without warning, banged his hands on the keys and wailed with his deep voice a furious, welt-licked rendition of "West Country Girl," a song that was supposed to be about love, but was instead swollen with unbridled rage.

His haunting presence and monstrous baritone cast an ominous pall over the evening, to the delight of a transfixed sold-out crowd. Cave was soon joined by the three members of his band, violinist Warren Ellis and drummer Jim White, both of the Dirty Three, and bassist Susan Stenger.

Indeed, it was a scaled-down Cave show, in stark contrast to his 1999 Seattle appearance with the Bad Seeds. Some songs, such as “Henry’s Dream” and “Do You Love Me? (Part 2),” had to be reworked to fit the sparse setting. Even so, Cave and company rendered an astoundingly intense and theatrical 90-minute performance, with the climaxes more pronounced and the subtleties more fragile.

At the piano, Cave faced his dark, tempestuous material—consisting primarily of his four most recent albums, including the forthcoming No More Shall We Part—with all the cruel enthusiasm of a night stalker lurking in the shadows, hunting his prey, his band co-conspirators urged him onward with a roots-tinged clamor.

Highlights abounded. “Stagger Lee,” about the "baddest man who ever lived," said Cave, hit with as much psychotic force as the crazed original from 1996's Murder Ballads.

“The Mercy Seat,” a Cave original which he introduced as a Johnny Cash song (Cash recorded it for his latest album, Solitary Man), simmered to a boil as desperately and dreadfully as its studio sibling, with Ellis, back to the crowd and silhouetted by the golden lights above him, tugging and tearing his bow across the violin, echoing the cries of Cave’s protagonist, who’s being cooked by the “mercy seat”—the electric chair.

The Johnny Cash reference was hardly coincidental. Like those of the other Man in Black, Cave's songs are populated by cold-blooded killers, lovelorn misfits and God-fearing innocents, most of whom are searching for some sort of redemption for their cursed existence.

Many find deliverance in love. And it's the love song that is at the very core of Cave's music. However, as emphasized Thursday, Cave's idea of love isn't the trite pap heard on the radio. His songs embraced a gothic romanticism steeped in sorrow (“People Ain't No Good,” “Sad Waters”), longing (“Darker with the Day”), obsession (“Love Letters”), lust (“Do You Love Me? Part 2”) and crimes of passion (“Henry Lee”).

Sure, he surrendered to the chirping birds of love's sweet melody with the ballad "Into My Arms," but for him to accept love’s warm embrace, he had to plumb its colder, murkier, even macabre depths.

The night wasn’t all dank and dour, though. Cave allowed his devilish sense of humor to play for a bit and even bantered with the crowd. “How old are you, Nick,” a female fan called out between songs. “I’m very old ... too old for you,” returned the 42-year-old singer. With that he played the opening notes to a new song titled “God Is in the House,” a seemingly earnest hymn, with a big ironic grin.

And at the end of his set, when dozens in the audience blurted song requests, even requesting one another to shut up, Cave drew the curtains on the evening with “People Ain't No Good.”

And the Dark Man disappeared, as quickly as he had arrived.

Originally published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, March 31, 2001.

Help Me Out Here...

2010-08-25T13:52:00.000-07:00

Do people actually enjoy the music of Todd Rundgren? Really, do people park their butts on the couch and say, "Phyllis, fetch my slippers--tonight, I'm gonna re-cline and bathe in the bittersweet melodies of the Todd." Is there some joke that I'm not getting?

I've tried to listen to this clown for years, and every time I'm left to wonder, "What am I doing this for?" Honestly, I don't know. Perhaps it's because people (friends, writers, connoisseurs) whom I respect mention his name from time to time--and not as a punchline, either! (What do you get when you cut cocaine with hairspray, VD and the eyebrows of George Harrison? Todd Rundgren. Or: What's the difference between a bucket of poop and Todd Rundgren? Todd Rundgren plays keyboards. Not very funny, I know, but I'm not getting paid for this.)

Anyway, last night I gave this so-called pop music genius/studio whiz another shot, dropping the needle on his 1978 opus, The Hermit of Mink Hollow. Three songs into this slick-as-shit, pop-goes-the-fart crap fest, I yanked the LP off the turntable, returned it to its jacket, and tossed it in the box of castoffs about to make the final leg of their round-trip journey from the thrift store.

Maybe I'll have better luck with the Alan Parsons Project.

Sing Along No More

2010-08-03T10:29:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, July 31, Mitch Miller finally died. After 99 years! As I write, his corpse is being reunited with his music career.

Sadly, I'm sure to be haunted by Mitch's stupid smirk and goober goatee for years to come, for every time I treasure hunt for vinyl gold at the thrift shop, while flipping past cat-urine-scented classical LPs and mildew-stained Art Garfunkel albums, I'm greeted by a glut of "Sing Along with Mitch" records. And there are dozens of them. I haven't been to every thrift store in this fine country, but every thrift store I've been to, from Jacksonville to Spokane, Seattle to Santa Barbara, has had a stash of Mitch Miller records. Which isn't all that surprising since he was said to have sold 17 million albums by 1966!

And, really, the thrift store is where his music belongs--gathering dust and mold along with the rest of the consumer detritus and cast-offs we so charitably donate. It's justice for the sing-songy gimmicky crap "the maestro" shoved down America's throat in the 1950s and '60s. Back then, when rock 'n' roll was king, Miller, in his vain yet futile attempt to conform America's impressionable ears to his own bad taste, said famously, "[rock 'n' roll] is not music. It's a disease." Which wouldn't have been a big deal, had ol' Tin Ear not been running the show at Columbia Records. For the record, it wasn't Mitch who signed Bob Dylan; it was John Hammond.

Mitch made a brief comeback in 1993, when his music was taken out of mothballs and applied in a new, more suitable context when it was played at ear-splitting volumes to drive out David Koresh from his compound. Sadly, Mitch's music wasn't an effective enough irritant and ended up becoming background music for a pretty spectacular barbecue. Anyway, should you happen upon a Mitch Miller LP at the thrift store, leave it. Don't listen to it; don't even trash it--our dumps are already overflowing with Andy Williams records.

Besides the millions of pounds of toxic waste generated from the polyvinyl chloride used in the manufacture of his foul-tasting pop music confections, Mitch Miller is survived by his ridiculous goatee.

Jody Stephens Is a Worried Man

2010-07-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

A reunion of the original Big Star is gaining steam.

Atoning for My Sins: Mr. Ehrbar Regrets (part 4)

2010-07-12T14:24:00.000-07:00

I regret...
...telling a relative at a family Christmas party back in 1991 that grunge was pretty much here to stay.

Dead Rocker Returns to Underground Roots

2010-05-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Actually, Alex Chilton never really made it above the underground. He was the co-leader of Big Star, the Velvet Underground of the 1970s, after all. So I guess it’s fitting his corpse becomes a permanent fixture of the underground (or maybe Al was cremated — which means this stupid little thing I’m writing might be a tad inaccurate). Since I’m a little late to the funeral on this one (Alex's heart quit beating on March 17; he was 59), I won’t belabor the greatness of the Alex Chilton, solo artist and singer, songwriter and guitarist of Big Star, a band that stands as the second or third most overrated underrated band in history (after the Velvet Underground, of course).

I wrote the following Big Star puff piece for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer almost 10 years ago. Alex said it was one of the best stories he ever read about his band. No joke. OK, you got me; Alex never read it.

Big Star a little band that shined brightly, briefly
Friday, December 22, 2000

By Joe Ehrbar
Special to the P-I

VH1 couldn’t have scripted a better story.

In the era of the sensational “Behind the Music” rockudrama, the legend of Big Star would make great TV. The Memphis band of four gifted, visionary musicians—guitarist/vocalist Alex Chilton (more famously of the Box Tops—“The Letter”), guitarist/vocalist Chris Bell, drummer Jody Stephens and bassist Andy Hummel—conspired to make a trio of brilliant albums in the early ’70s, but were derailed by bad luck, bad habits and bad timing.

Yet the chances of VH1 telling Big Star’s tragic tale are slim, since no film or video footage of the band exists. Just a handful of photos and the band's recordings are all the artifacts remaining of its brief career (1971–75). Not to mention the group had no radio hits, sold hardly any records and was largely unknown outside Memphis.

It’s been said of the Velvet Underground that the few people who bought its records during the band's lifetime either formed a band of their own or became a rock critic. The same thing can be said about Big Star. Its influence, although insubstantial in the annals of pop music, has revealed itself in the music of others. Artists such as the Posies, Jeff Buckley, R.E.M., the Bangles, the dBs, the Replacements and Elliott Smith have all seen Big Star's light and been forever changed.

“Hearing that music the first time, it really felt like a better executed version of what [the Posies] were trying to do, with possibilities explored that we hadn’t even come close to imagining,” said Posies guitarist/vocalist Ken Stringfellow in a recent e-mail conversation from Australia, where he and Posies co-founder Jon Auer were touring. “Big Star definitely opened up some doors in our heads.”

Later, it also opened the door for Stringfellow and Auer to join Chilton and Stephens in a reincarnated version of Big Star for a reunion appearance at the University of Missouri in Columbia in 1993 (released on CD as Columbia: Live at Missouri University). The two have since remained onboard for subsequent reunions, including this year’s Bumbershoot concert and tomorrow’s much-anticipated Big Star appearance at The Showbox (9 p.m.; $20 at Ticketmaster).

Big Star recorded just three albums during its principal run: the ironically titled #1 Record, Radio City and Sister Lovers (alternately known as Third). In that tiny window the band conceived a glorious sound, music that was as fragile as it was formidable, as forlorn as it was joyous, as raucous as it was melodic. It was power pop the likes of which no one had ever heard.

Like the Beatles, this fab four dared to take rock 'n' roll down new artistic avenues. But in a region that was all Skynyrd and Allman Brothers, Big Star fell on deaf ears. It didn’t help that the band was signed to Stax Records, an imprint famous for its output of soul music (Isaac Hayes, Sam and Dave, Otis Redding, Booker T. & the MGs, etc.), not rock ’n’ roll.

Making matters worse for the band was the strain of inter-band turmoil and personal demons. Bell and Chilton had engaged in a battle of the egos during and after the recording of #1 Record. Bell, struggling with drugs and depression, quit the band and died a few years later in a car crash. Chilton, meanwhile, forged his own path of self-destruction and debauchery, which he parlayed into a wrenching, if superb, record titled Sister Lovers, an album every bit as poignant as Nick Drake’s Pink Moon and the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds.

Despite going boldly where few bands had gone before, Big Star collapsed (though the end was more like a prolonged dimming than a supernova). Hummel quit after Radio City and dropped out of musical together. Stephens remained until the bitter end, before pursuing work as a studio engineer. And Chilton went his own erratic way with a prolific, if elusive, solo career.

In the 1980s, the band’s music was unearthed by musicians and rock journalists. The Bangles recorded “September Gurls.” R.E.M.’s Peter Buck and Chris Mills were singing the Big Stars praises in the press, as were the dBs’ Chris Stamey and Peter Holsapple. The Replacements put a song called “Alex Chilton” on 1987’s Please to Meet Me. And then the Posies happened across Big Star’s albums.

“In 1989 Jon was working in a record store in Seattle [and] discovered a vinyl copy of Radio City ... so he checked it out. At the same time, Rick Roberts and Mike Musburger, our bass player and drummer at the time, were turned on to #1 Record by their co-workers at another record store,” Stringfellow explained. “If only I had worked at a record store then, I could have been turned on to Sister Lovers.”

Not surprisingly, the sublime cascading Chilton/Bell harmonies were assimilated into the Posies’ punchy power-pop, becoming one of its vital signatures.

Big Star may never gain wider recognition, but its extraordinary work continues to influence modern music. “Big Star aren’t important to everyone, and never will be,” Stringfellow said by way of summary. “But anyone who hears them really holds them close to their hearts. What I love about the records is the heartbreaking aspect ... the emotions expressed are really affecting. Listen to almost any multiplatinum record of today, and try to tell me what the performer is feeling—or if they are feeling.”

Journey Through the Past

2010-05-05T10:38:00.000-07:00

The following interview originally appeared in The Rocket 11 years ago. Lately, I've been rummaging through my archives in an effort to rehabilitate old stories in need of a good edit. It's been an interesting, if sometimes painful exercise: revisiting the past, seeing the flaws you were once blind to, and then attempting to correct them. The writings that can be salvaged will be salvaged. The ones that can't will be chucked. In the end, I hope to self-publish a collection of my music writing—it would just be a small run, maybe 20 copies. I'm not sure the piece you're about to read makes the grade; it's at least in better shape than the original. The other reason you're reading it: relevance. Soundgarden has reconvened after a 13-year hiatus, and The Rocket page on Facebook has attracted a decent following.

Conspiracy Revealed!
Inside the Mysterious World of the Wellwater Conspiracy

Music journalists love to shine some light on new or previously obscure bands. Their paltry paychecks depend on it. After all, it’s a trend-driven business and if music writers are to stay ahead of the curve, they must constantly seek out ripening talent.

But what if the band isn’t so eager for the exposure?

Such could be said for Seattle’s modern psych-healers Wellwater Conspiracy, who have long been among the Northwest’s most promising bands, but have also been one of its most invisible. Since forming in 1992, the troupe's movements have been more covert than that of an intelligence spook. Very little evidence of their existence can be traced: Wellwater Conspiracy’s public performances can be literally counted on one hand; their early 7-inches are out of print (though they sometimes surface on eBay), and their 1997 debut album, Declaration of Conformity (Third Gear/Super Electro), is nearly impossible to find. And until just recently, with release of their latest album, Brotherhood of Electric: Operational Directives (released two months ago), the band's members had concealed their identities.

Well Water Conspiracy had just cause for staying underground. Co-conspirators Matt Cameron and Ben Shepherd constituted the rhythm section of Soundgarden and guitarist John McBain was an alumnus of Monster Magnet. Lest they be marginalized as a side-project curiosity or over-hyped as a “super group,” WWC wanted people to focus on the music—not the personnel. There was also a legal reason to stay low-key: until 1997 Cameron and Shepherd were under contract with Soundgarden’s label A&M. The fact that none of the band's initial recordings appeared on A&M could have caused legal complications.

But now, in 1999, having struck a deal with the major label-distributed Time Bomb Records, Wellwater Conspiracy, presently a duo of Cameron (vocals, guitars, drums) and McBain (guitars), appear more willing to reveal themselves to a wider audience. And so should they. Their sophomore album, Brotherhood of Electric, is an involving, at times magnificent, work.

By comparison, Wellwater Conspiracy share little with Soundgarden or Monster Magnet, or even Pearl Jam, for whom Cameron now plays drums, beyond a taste for guitar-based songs and classic rock. Wellwater sources its inspiration from low-fidelity basement musings, 4-track experiments and obscure psychedelic voyagers of the 1960s. If all this sounds like a fruitless exercise in self-indulgence it’s not. The proof is in the new record.

Like the great psych records of the cosmic past, Brotherhood of Electric is an absorbing experience, a fantastic voyage of sound and song that navigates the scorched earth of terra firma and the hazy, dusk-shaded heavens above. And it’s Cameron and McBain’s brotherhood, their sonic union, that makes the record such fun. Cameron, who sings most of the albums songs, alternates his vocals between the evocative and dreamy, his drumming both grounding and propulsive, while McBain rewrites the laws of physics with his guitar work—he floats atmospheric melodies that drift like lost cosmonauts in space, or strike the surface with meteoric force. Together, and with the help of some friends like Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age and Cameron’s wife, April on violin, they offer a sprawling, somewhat disjointed, but ultimately satisfying collection of songs (highlights being “Compellor,” “Born with a Tail,” and “Red Light Green Light”) augmented by all kinds of hallucinatory surprises, synthetic weirdness, disorienting sojourns and curious discoveries.

Brotherhood of Electric is an album worth celebrating, and on the eve of its release, The Rocket managed to talk Cameron and McBain out of hiding and sit down for an interview, and some drinks, at a now-defunct Belltown café and night spot.

How did Wellwater Conspiracy start?
John McBain: I met Matt on the road when [Monster Magnet] toured with Soundgarden in 1992.
Matt Cameron: We started 4-tracking together at my house in ’92. We’d write things, record them, just mess around. Lo and behold, we amassed a collection of songs that sounded like something that resembled a record.
McBain: It was after I had moved from New Jersey. It actually started with a single. I gave a tape to Steve Turner [of Mudhoney and Super Electro Records] and I must have pressured him in some way to put it out because he was kind of wary about it. But it did well.

The resulting Declaration of Conformity just kind of turned up with no fanfare. Did anyone even know about it, much less buy it?
Cameron: Yeah, it did all right. It sold between 4,000 and 5,000 copies.

Was releasing your first album independently a much more inviting proposition than shopping it to big labels?
Cameron: It’s not a shop-able record at all. It’s got tons of 4-track cassette noise. It sounds really bad.
McBain: The fact that it came out sounding so bad made it authentic in a way.

It sounds like a lo-fi garage/psychedelic record. It sounds the way it ought to.
McBain: We did it in what, a half-hour in your [Cameron’s] basement?
Cameron: Pretty much. I didn’t know how to work my soundboard [at the time], so the mixes ended up being in mono.

Who was involved in the making of Declaration?
Cameron: John pretty much recorded everything. I sang on some of the stuff. And then we gave Ben some cassettes so that he could do it on his 4-track. That was pretty much it. It was just the three of us.

Matt, could you always sing?
Cameron: Yeah, I guess so. I never sang lead in a band other than like cover bands when I lived in San Diego. I guess I’ve always sang, just for the hell of it. I sang “The Sound of Silence” in high school. It was a duet with this girl I had a crush on. And then she saw me at a party later on and I was really stoned, and she had nothing to do with me after that. Yeah, I guess I’ve always kind of crooned.
McBain: Someone’s got to. Lord knows I won’t.

When you started this band, was it your M.O. to have this loose, pseudo-experimental nature about the band?
McBain: Yeah, totally.
Cameron: We got wider tape now to use—we just got a 24-track machine. We try to record fast to get the essence of the songs on tape. A lot of times, when you make records … like, over there [Cameron points across the street to the vacant building that once housed Bad Animals studio, where Soundgarden recorded their breakout 1994 album Superunknown], you gotta have a producer, you have to do demos, you have to work the songs to where there’s no life left in the recordings.

So is Well Water Conspiracy your reaction to that process?
Cameron: No, it’s not a reaction, it’s just a different way of approaching it.
McBain: It’s not wanting to do it the usual way. I think the secret goal is to avoid getting caught in that hamster wheel and going through that process.
Cameron: When we did Superunknown over there, it was that whole process of like a big-time producer. We did rehearsals. We did demos. We went through all this rigmarole. For some bands, you gotta do that. For me and John, we know how to play our instruments, we know how to write and arrange. We can forgo that whole process.
McBain: I remember when I used to visit you guys [at Bad Animals]—it seemed like there was nothing being done. Everybody was sitting around playing video games.
Cameron: And our engineer would be sitting on the couch, belching. And I was like, “So this is how a record’s done.” Hundreds of thousands of dollars later…

In contrast, how much did the first Wellwater Conspiracy album cost?
Cameron: My 4-track cost about $1,000.
McBain: It cost us about the price of half-inch tape and a DAT—a couple hundred dollars.

With Wellwater Conspiracy, are you able to express yourselves in ways you couldn’t in other/previous music endeavors? And who’s the garage rock fan?
McBain: I’m the garage geek. So I kind of brought that to the band. All my songs have that kind of feel to it.
Cameron: And I’ve just always 4-tracked, since 1984. I do it because it’s fun. I like to write songs. I’m able to play guitar. It seemed like a good pairing of songwriting and recording styles. That’s a big part of it. We like to record it ourselves.
McBain: There’s no egos. There’s no frontman. It’s the way to go.

But you are the lead singer, Matt.
Cameron: Sort of. I don’t really look at it that way.
McBain: If you listen to the way we mix the vocals, they’re [mixed into the music so that they’re] just another part of the song. I like that approach.
Cameron: Most of the time they’re in the music—as opposed to being all you hear and then there’s this background music. But on Brotherhood of Electric, we also have Josh [Homme] singing and my friend, Luke [St. Kimble], sang on one song. It’s kind of the same approach as the last one—we had two singers. But Josh’s vocals and my vocals are a little more similar than Ben and myself. Ben just has this unique, singular style that I haven’t heard in a long time.

Why wasn’t Ben part of Brotherhood?
Cameron: I don’t think it was the kind of project that he was really into. He likes to have control of the whole environment. He’s got a lot of his own songs and a lot of talent. We just kind of started out on our own and we had no problems doing it ourselves.

Will Wellwater Conspiracy ever play live?
Cameron: We’re working on that right now. We’ve had some offers for summer and fall to play Europe, so we’re trying to get a band together.
McBain: We just want to be careful about not getting into that overkill situation. It seems like bands who come out of Seattle or the area plaster themselves everywhere. We don’t want that.

So you prefer to remain anonymous?
McBain: Exactly. That’s what we want.

Even if no one pays attention? The first album wasn’t on anyone’s radar.
Cameron: We had a lot of interest in Detroit, Chicago, New York and the U.K. But here, if you don’t play live, people don’t really connect with you.
McBain: Not that it’s bad, but it;s the baggage that we brought with the band. We don;t want people to look at it and go, “Oh, those guys and that guy—whatever.” I’m sure that’s why people brushed aside that first record, because they had other ideas of what it would be like. That’s why leaving it anonymous has really helped.

Your record company prefers that you not be anonymous. The bio explicitly says “Matt Cameron formerly of Soundgarden” and “John McBain formerly of Monster Magnet.” The label makes it a selling point.
McBain: Well, it’s not a sticker on the CD.
Cameron: We definitely want this one to get noticed a little bit more, and that’s a way to get people to take notice.

How did you link up with Time Bomb?
Cameron: It was through knowing Jim Guerinot, who is head of Time Bomb. He was with A&M and worked with Soundgarden. We sort of shopped [Brotherhood] to a couple different labels and no one was really interested. We had a few people telling us, “You should try shopping it at a major, man.” And I’m glad we didn’t, because it would have been lost. A&M passed on it anyway.
McBain: At one point, before we signed to Time Bomb, we realized that no one wanted this record.... When [Guerinot] first got it, he didn’t really know what to do with it. I don’t think he really understood. But I think as it started to get around, they got a little more excited about it.
Cameron: We like that fact that there’s a good Internet buzz about it.
McBain: We get a lot of messages.

So Wellwater Conspiracy has some fanatics?
Cameron: All 19 of them, to be exact.

Originally published in The Rocket, May 12, 1999.

Beatles or Stones?

2010-04-07T17:24:00.000-07:00

Kinks.

Why Won’t Bob Seger Die?

2010-03-17T15:46:00.000-07:00

Recently, some friends of mine and I were reflecting on the music of Bob Seger. (I know, it was a productive use of time.) The consensus was that Bob's soulful voice had been pretty much wasted. Seger has a mighty, whiskey-soured voice. If he only had a decent song, you know he would have brought it — and in turn brought us to our knees. Instead, he opened up his asshole and let things like “Rock ’n’ roll never forgets,” “I’m goin’ to Katmandu,” “Today’s music ain’t got the same soul” come roaring out. “Just take those old records off the shelf…,” he once insisted. I’d like to take those old records off the shelf... and chuck them by the box load at ol’ Silver Bullet Bob. Only then might the lessons of those “old records” actually penetrate his hairy skull. (And by “old records,” I assume Seger isn’t talking about Andy Williams, Mitch Miller or all those mildewy records you find mixed in with Bob’s old records at the thrift store). Yeah, bearded Bob has such a good voice. Why the hell did anyone let him sing such crap? Why did he prostitute it to sell a junky brand of American truck? (I guess that makes sense, though, as both Bob and Chevy are worthy representatives of the post-industrial wasteland that is Detroit.) “Like a rock.” Bullshit. I wish I had a rock for every time I heard that song selling crappy pickup trucks — I’d stone Seger... and fuck up his Chevy truck, too. Short of dying the only good thing Bob Seger did was disappear into retirement, which, had he had any decency he never would come out of. I can't blame him for returning to music, though. How can one resist the riches and glamor of the casino circuit?

As I was saying, my friends and I were talking about Bob Seger — and his crimes against humanity. Why? Because we had just seen this video for the first time. You hear that? Bob could sing. And his old band could rock. You didn't know that, did you? So much for Bob’s “Rock ’n’ Roll Never Forgets” theory.

After watching Bob Seger and the Last Heard uncork some blistering garage rock in black-and-white, my friend Steve remarked, “He should have died immediately after the taping of that video.”

Kill the Queen

2010-02-24T10:42:00.000-08:00

I found him: the single person who claims ownership of one of the worst musical mutilations in the history of the world—the live rock ’n’ roll travesty known as Return of the Champions, by Queen + Paul Rodgers. That person, as I was dismayed to learn the other night, is my spin class teacher (yeah, I get my rocks off wearing tight shorts and sweating on a stationary bike). And on that night he showed no shame (or mercy), only unbridled enthusiasm, in using arena-rock afterbirth as a means to motivate his troops: he allowed three songs of that shit rain down from the ceiling-mounted Bose speakers during the hour-long class. As if Queen with the flamboyantly histrionic Freddie Mercury wasn’t awful enough — hell, why wasn’t their music tossed into the coffin with Mercury’s rotting corpse and buried forever? No longer would our sensitive ear hairs be bulldozed by the high-decibel battering rams of “We Are the Champions,” “Another One Bites the Dust” and of course “We Will Rock You” at all kinds of public events—dog shows, football games, public executions. OK, there’s no dethroning Queen. Fine. But, Paul Rodgers and Queen? Who arranged this summit of shit? Have you heard the live album I’m talking about? Probably not. Hopefully not. Hopefully, we 15 unlucky pedal-pushers are the only ones (besides the thousands of stupid Brits who paid money to have their cheers recorded between songs) to have had our aural cavities violated by this crap. It’s enough to suffer on a bike. But to suffer on a bike while Paul “I Still Feel Like Makin’ Love But Require a Heroic Dose of Viagra in Order to Be Makin’ Love” Rodgers is pushing you up an imaginary hill farting out karaoke-style renditions of “Another One Bites the Dust,” “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” and “We Will Rock You” is dreadful and depleting. Lucky for us, we were granted a reprieve — instead of Queen and Rodgers, we cooled down to “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.”

One footnote: I dropped in on Wikipedia for a little fact-checking. Curiously, the entry for Queen + Paul Rodgers does not credit my spin class teacher as the lone American owner of Return of the Champions. How could they have omitted this detail?

Softpoint Surprise

2010-02-10T13:30:00.000-08:00

Music criticism can be a pointless exercise. That’s partly why I don’t bother doing it professionally anymore. Who are you writing to? To the unenlightened? Nope, they don’t read. The clueless and the ignorant are all too happy skipping behind the pied piper of boring, all the way to oblivion. So is it the enlightened who care? Afraid not. (You think I care what Pitchfork says about my favorite new band AFCGT?) No, the “open-minded” think they already know better than you; of what benefit to their refined taste and deep knowledge would it be to wade through a review of something they were into like 10 years ago? Or if they do actually read what you write, it’s purely to make sure you got your facts straight. How about the fans? Surely they consume the sustenance that is music criticism. Yes, you’re writing to the fans--but they don’t want truth; they wish only to hear the things that affirm their unshakable faith in whatever sacred cow you’re milking (or eviscerating).

So why write this? Beats me.

Atoning for My Sins: Mr. Ehrbar Regrets (part 3)

2010-02-04T12:13:00.000-08:00

I regret...
...that when I was 12, I checked out the following LPs from the library: Cyndi Lauper She's So Unusual and Michael Jackson Thriller. Probably should have gotten a book or two instead.

Atoning for My Sins: Mr. Ehrbar Regrets (part 2)

2010-01-18T14:13:00.000-08:00

I regret...
...including one of the all-time worst power ballads ever recorded, Guns N' Roses' "November Rain," on a mix tape I made for my girlfriend in 1992. I regret making said tape late one night at the radio station where I volunteered and using the mixing board and mike so that I could pipe in my clumsy, inept dedication to introduce this weepy butt-rock nugget. Although, I don't recall actually making a dedication; I believe I spent a few moments during the song's opening notes justifying "November Rain"'s merits on what was quickly becoming a musical abortion. Typical. Oh, how my cheeks burn in embarrassment just thinking about this. The story has a happy ending, thankfully; my girlfriend overlooked my mix-tape mistake and let me subject her to future tapes before agreeing to marry me and turning over an entire bedroom in the house we share to my vinyl collection.

Atoning for My Sins: Mr. Ehrbar Regrets (part 1)

2010-01-13T11:26:00.000-08:00

I've done some pretty bad things through the years. Rather than talking to a priest, I thought I'd disclose some of my miserable misdeeds and missteps in this very space in an effort to unburden my guilty conscious, repent for my sins and perhaps earn some much-needed forgiveness. It takes a strong man to admit his mistakes and I'm as strong as they come. With that, I give you Part 1 in an ongoing serious of "Atoning for My Sins: Mr. Ehrbar Regrets."

I regret...
...that I counted myself a fan of the music made by Toad the Wet Sprocket, a cover band of the R.E.M. cover band, Guadalcanal Diary, in the early 1990s. Yes, I lapped up this cream corn of "college folk rock" as if it was precious protein that would sustain my existence and lead me to enlightenment. I purchased three Toad the Wet Sprocket albums, Bread and Circus, Pale and Fear, and was tempted to liberate the marble-vinyl promo copy of Pale from the radio station where I volunteered. (To my credit, I didn't jack it.) I draped an over-sized promotional poster of Fear on a wall in my bedroom at the college house I occupied in 1992. That same year I helped publicize (via radio) Toad's Spokane performance at the '80s hair-metal joint Gatsby's, which culminated in my appearance in the audience at said performance.

I don't know who or what set me straight, but some time around 1994 I orphaned my Toad CDs at the local used record depot and never looked back--for that I am not sorry. But I am sorry for briefly being enamored of this band's jingle-jangle crap rock. I was a victim of my own bad taste.

OK, No More 2009 Lists After This One. Promise.

2010-01-12T11:10:00.000-08:00

Top 10 Records (Not Vinyls) of 2009 That I Really Wanted to Purchase, but Didn’t Cuz Money Had to Be Spent on Other Things, too, Like Bills, Clean Underwear and a Bathroom Remodel (Sigh)

I’m not ashamed of accepting handouts. Therefore, should you, dear reader, wish to purchase one of these platters that matter and pass it along to me, I’ll be in your temporary debt.

1. Sunn O))) Monoliths and Dimensions (Southern Lord 2-LP)
2. Tom Waits Glitter and Doom Live (Anti- 2-LP)
3. The Jesus Lizard Liar (Touch & Go LP)
-tie- The Jesus Lizard Down (Touch & Go LP)
-tie- The Jesus Lizard Goat (Touch & Go LP)
-tie- The Jesus Lizard Head (Touch & Go LP)
7. The Fiery Furnaces I’m Going Away (Thrill Jockey LP)
8. Russian Circles Geneva (Sargent House/Suicide Squeeze LP)
9. Blakroc Blakroc (Blakroc/V2 LP)
10. Death For the Whole World to See (Drag City LP)

My 2009 Hit List (part 2)

2010-01-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

At last: Numbers 6–10 of...
The Top 10 Best Records/CDs/MP3s I Heard This Year (That You May or May Not Have) That Weren’t Necessarily Released This Year (Oh, and I Only Have Five to Share Right Now)

6. Fucked Up The Chemistry of Common Life (Matador LP)
This is one of the most invigorating records I’ve heard. If the band's moniker wasn't so juvenile, I bet more people should bask in the radiant fury of Fucked Up’s hardcore assault. Fucked Up is different from all the hardcore bands out there because they refuse to be handcuffed to its clichés. Sure all the hallmarks are present: adrenalized riffs, muscular sound, gruff vocals, punishing rhythms. But Fucked Up is more imaginative—and progressive. They have chops and can venture beyond the old 4/4 and are unafraid to deviate from formula: witness the moody ambient instrumentals or the use of congas and flute. Fucked Up also believe in song craft—they understand passion and conviction are wasted if the music isn’t memorable. And so what we get are 11 incredible chapters that comprise a sweeping epic. If you’ve yet to be consumed by the tidal onslaught of The Chemistry of Common Life, then do something positive for your personal well-being: Download the album’s explosive title track from iTunes (or someplace like that). Spend a buck. If “Chemistry” ain’t the accelerant you need to get you going, have someone call a paramedic for you.

7. Mastodon Crack the Skye (Warner Bros. LP)
My wife hates this album. She won’t let me play it in the car, in the house, or anywhere in her presence. She just doesn’t like metal, and she’s bemused that I do. So naturally, I kept Crack the Skye mostly confined to my iPod. No matter. Crack the Skye is Mastodon’s most overtly accessible album—it’s also the band’s most rewarding. Much of this can be attributed to Brendan O’Brien’s production as well as the band’s embrace of melody. Sure Mastodon unleash their vengeful wrath, but instead of simply setting you alight with a holy hellfire of molten riffs and roaring vocals, they keep you in their grips with melodic singing and stunning guitar heroics. My favorite track—and quite possibly my top song of the year—is the climactic sixth song, the title track, which features bassist/vocalist Troy Sanders and Neurosis’s Scott Kelly sharing lead vocals, simultaneously guiding the almighty Mastodon through the depths of hell and up toward the heavens, before physics rip their vessel apart, exploding it into nothingness.

8. Jawbox For Your Own Special Sweetheart (Dischord/DeSoto LP)
I don’t get all that nostalgic about the records I listened to at various periods in my life—especially those from the early/mid-1990s. As much as 2009 sucked, the yesteryears were far worse. So you might think I’d be apprehensive, then, to return vicariously to the scene of the crime by reacquiring the sounds that filled my miserable days of yore. Not so with Jawbox’s For Your Own Special Sweetheart. This album represented the D.C. band’s major label debut for Atlantic Records; and although the single “Savory” drew some airplay on MTV, the album didn’t do much commercially and eventually went out of print. Fifteen years later, Sweetheart is now in the hands of Dischord/DeSoto—the labels that launched Jawbox in 1989. It’s been given a new cover and an outstanding remaster from Bob Weston that’s fattened the bottom end, and is now ready for a new generation to gush over. I enjoyed this record in 1994, but I love it even more now. Sweetheart is crafty yet direct, maniacal yet restrained—it’s a noisy, melodic beast, one that bares its teeth of seething discontent but is not so angry and uptight to not offer some compassion and pleasure. Likewise, Jawbox temper their caterwauling guitars, lunging rhythms and sharp percussive jabs and bruising thumps with some delicious hooks (sorry for saying delicious). A solid, solid piece of work.

9. Cedric Im Brooks Cedric Im Brooks and the Light of Saba (Honest Jon’s 2-LP)
I’ve listened to a lot of reggae over the years, but I hadn't heard Cedric Im Brooks before November. And what a discovery. Brooks, who plays saxophone, led one a most unique Jamaican combos, one which drew from a variety of sources to arrive at its ecstatic inspiration: roots, rock steady, dub, nyabinghi, calypso, Afrobeat and free jazz—yes, free jazz. Brooks spent some time in the 1960s in Philadelphia seeking influence from John Coltrane among others. He got it all right and brought it back to Jamaica. No, you’re not likely to discern any Coltrane signatures in Brooks’ work. His approach sounds more like Sun Ra. It’s cosmic reggae and this anthology succeeds in creating a nice, clear portrait of the little-known virtuoso.

10. Donald Byrd Electric Byrd (BlueNote LP)
When Miles Davis got all high on electric jazz with In a Silent Way and Bitches Brew, lots of other jazzbos began toking from the same pipe. This is hard-bopper Donald Byrd’s contribution to the new vibration. I hadn’t heard this gem until this year, when I picked up a vinyl reissue of the 1970 album at a record shop. There is some wonderful stuff to trip out on with the lights out; all psychedelic and weird and not one bit gimmicky. Hard to believe Byrd would eventually put down the trumpet to become a dance choreographer.

Honorable Mention: Dinosaur Jr. Farm (Jagjaguwar LP)
Didn’t think they had a good record left in them. And then they had to go and prove me wrong. I’m OK with that. Favorite track: Lou Barlow’s “Your Weather.”

My 2009 Hit List (part 1)

2009-12-18T16:18:00.000-08:00

So this year is as good as over. That’s all right by me. It wasn’t my favorite year. It wouldn’t even rate on my Top 10. Speaking of Top 10's, if you haven’t already had your fill of year-end top-10 lists, then I’ve got a little something for you to snack on. Over the next couple posts, I’m gonna share my favorite things of 2009 in good ol’ list form. For today’s post, I give you The Top 10 Best Records/CDs/MP3s I Heard This Year (That You May or May Not Have) That Weren’t Necessarily Released This Year (Oh, and I Only Have Five to Share Right Now).

1. Flaming Lips Embryonic (Warner Bros. LP)
The Flaming Lips have been making commercial music in recent years (I’ve seen at least four different TV ads using their music), but there’s nothing commercial about this effort. Most of Embryonic's 18 songs came together through spontaneous jams. And it shows—there are some solid grooves here that are immediate, raw, alive. But this is the Flaming Lips, remember—and as such their grooves are strange and contorted, as well as shaded with all kinds of weird noises and sounds. I love this record—because it’s so unexpected and gutsy.

2. Larry Young Lawrence of Newark (Perception LP)
This album was originally released in 1973, but it’s relatively new to my ears. Ever since having my aural cavities delighted by the trippy “Khalid of Space, Welcome Pt. 2,” I’ve been on the lookout for this album. So when I flipped to the LP in the jazz section of Portland’s Jackpot Records in November, I was elated. Lawrence of Newark is another one of those mind-blowing jazz records that came at a time when acoustic instruments were fornicating with electric ones and making sweet interstellar magic. This is psychedelic jazz on the cusp of fusion. But this one's more Sun Ra and Pharaoh Sanders than Headhunters or Weather Report.

3. Bellywipe Jello Tree Rough Mixes (unreleased demo)
This demo was recorded in 1994, but was finally disseminated to the Internets this year when my old friend David Hayes posted it on his Very Small Records Blog. Only one of these songs was released; the rest existed on but a precious few cassettes doled out by the band (I lost mine more than a decade ago). Bellywipe had a sound all its own: gritty, quirky, ragged, involved, smart. Back when I had a record label I wanted to put out a 7-inch for this band, but it never came to pass—Bellywipe broke up before I could come up with the money to pay for a record pressing. Give these songs a listen—the production quality ain’t the greatest; these are rough mixes of songs made digital from an old, low-bias cassette tape. If you can only listen to one song, point your clicker to “The Fucking Song That Made Us Famous.” Fifteen years later, I still want to engrave this thing into vinyl! (Download the entire demo here.)

4. Om God Is Good (Drag City LP)
God Is Good is Om mark 2, the first album sans original drummer Chris Haikus. Joining founder bassist and vocalist Al Cisneros is Grails drummer Emil Amos. But you won’t mistake this as the work of any other band—it’s pure Om. Brooding, undulating bass lines, vigorous, syncopated drumming and chanting vocals coalesce into repetitive, mantra-like grooves which wander a godforsaken scorched topography on an epic search for revelation. It’s spiritual drone music—as enchanting as it is entrancing. What’s different about God Is Good, however, is the inclusion of hand drums, piano, cello and sitar (the latter’s presence may sound like a cliché for drone music, but its addition is not unwelcome), further enhancing the music’s moody ambiance. (Download the God Is Good track “Cremation Ghat II” here.)

5. Obits I Blame You (Sub Pop LP) b/w One Cross Apiece (Stint 7-inch)
Rick Froberg’s adenoidal voice hasn’t aged much even if middle age makes itself right at home on his weathered face. His righteous scream does indignation and discontent better than most. I Blame You is relatively straightforward and less abrasive than Froberg’s ’90s work with Drive Like Jehu, and it’s not quite as frenetic and angry as early ’00s Hot Snakes. But it’s a satisfying and enjoyable collection from one of the leading voices in my record collection. The 7-inch single that preceded the album is pretty good, too, especially the ringing “Put It in Writing.” (Download three I Blame You tracks from here.)

Next time: albums by Mastodon, Donald Byrd, Cedric Im Brooks and more.

Sunday, Bloody...

2009-11-24T09:50:00.000-08:00

So I was listening to U2's "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" the other day. Not by choice, mind you. I've heard that song plenty and I don't think I'll ever find a reason to play it for my own indulgence--ever. I don't think I could ever impose such phony self-righteousness on my home fragile home stereo. It just so happened that Bono was wailing his moldy-oldy over the boom-boom system at the coffee shop I frequent. Unlike all the other times I've heard this staple of the almighty U2 canon, on this day, I found it to be quite thought provoking. No, it wasn't what the bleeding-heart leprechaun was singing about; I could never be bothered to actually pay attention to the words beyond the old "How long, how long must we sing this song" (conversely, how long must we HEAR this song?) and the well-worn chorus: "Sunday, Bloody Sunday. Suunnnnnnnnndaaaaaaaaay." In fact, all I needed was that chorus to grease the creaky cranks of my creative mind and dream up something big: two band names. The first is Sunday Bloody Stool. Impressive, I know. From there, I followed the whole poop 'n' blood train of thought to the second band name: My Bloody Stool. So if you're a band in desperate need of a handle, you now have options. Special thanks to Bono, Edge and the two guys with regular names.

A Book? Who’d Read It?

2009-11-18T11:33:00.000-08:00

Lately, I’ve been sifting through my archives looking through all the drivel I put down with the goal of assembling a book. My own Best of Joe Ehrbar anthology, The Joe Ehrbar Musical Companion, Select Writings from 1996-2003. Funny, I know. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to sell it to the wider public or foist it on any reluctant family members. It’s simply a self-serving vanity project, an older-school version of this blog, but printed on actual paper and packed between two cardboard covers. I’ll have a few copies bound and that’ll be it. That way, if I need to refer to something I wrote back in the day, it’ll be smiling at me from the bookshelf. No longer will I have to rummage through hundreds of newspapers and tabloids—I can simply pack up all the papers and send them off to their final reward: the recycling plant, where they can be spooled as toilet paper. I’m not sure when said book will be published, but I’m happy to know that you’re not actually waiting for it. There are many pieces to review—oh, and I’m not merely reprinting them verbatim; I'm editing them, making my problem children a little less problematic. And in some cases, I’m actually rewriting stories, or at least adding to them.

Which brings me to the little orphan below. I doubt I'll include it in the book. Lucky for you, you can read it here. I wrote it for the defunct Seattle rock magazine Backfire, which was published by Dawn Anderson. I don’t quite remember when the piece ran, probably in 2002. It was a revival of a column I did in The Rocket called Demo Joe, in which I’d ask bands to send me their demos and in return I would constructively eviscerate them, usually from a third-person point of view. I’d like to think that since none of these bands exists today or did anything of merit following their appearance in my inane little column that they took my advice and did something more meaningful with their time, like TV-watching or alcoholism. (I should talk.) Here's the copy:

Hey vocal guy of Pistol for a Paycheck, Demo Joe suggests you use it—point it at the feet of your sloth-ly band members and squeeze the trigger. Wake them up; put them on notice; whip them into shape; do whatever it takes to get their drooping asses moving. PFAP’s vocalist really wants to wage blitzkrieg bop, but the rest of his band isn’t so sure they want to get off the couch and join him, and as a result their demo suffers from mid-tempo malaise. Remember, loud and fast rules, boys…Blue Star Creeper have some promise and they’re trying to find their own voice in this great sea of mediocrity. But there’s no spark or spontaneity to be heard on their submission, and they sound bored. Come on, people, it’s supposed to be fun…Monkey and the Butt Puppet probably think their pretty hilarious, Demo Joe surmises, by mouthing such drivel as, “I didn’t mean to butt fuck you,” or, “I want to fuck your mom until the break of dawn.” Classy, guys. Demo Joe is just pleased as poop you molested a perfectly good acoustic guitar and masturbated all over an unsuspecting 4-track to render this musical abortion. But if you want to keep fisting your assholes with such stupidity, do yourself a favor and buy a Frogs record—maybe then you’ll learn how to truly shock your audience with lewd juvenilia that’s exponentially more clever…Horrible’s bio says it all; here’s an excerpt: "Khjkreraklelhnlirj; ekbfhklhb; lkj; kljwkljljw; ljeb; l; rlejb; ebrljbr!lj." Well put. Unfortunately, Horrible aren’t as bad as they’d like you to think. We’ve heard this power-trio-produced power-pop punk plenty, but the band actually cares about the music, and as a result cast songs that, while fishing conventional waters, are at least baited with serrated hooks…Daddies Little Girl are in need of a lyricist. As it stands, their songs are fairly stupid to be heard so prominently in the mix. Listen, guys, if you’ve got lame lyrics, at least sing them in French. At least then you’ll sound like Les Thugs, all be it like their retarded nephews, but anything’s better than this…As for Psychonaut, Demo Joe has this advice: Buy yourself a Throbbing Gristle album, tighten your lyrics, and ease up on the distortion. The electronic barrage is effective, but subtlety is a virtue. Also, if you’re gonna complain about the world sucking eggs, show some insight. Or maybe you are; it’s just that it’s hard to hear through all that distortion-saturated alfalfa obscuring the meat….

Same Goes for Christopher Cross

2009-11-11T12:50:00.000-08:00

Three words no one will ever get excited about: "Unreleased Pablo Cruise."

White Light, White Heat, White Trash

2009-10-30T10:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve been trying to clean up my archives lately. No easy feat considering I’ve published well north of a thousand articles in my career as a journalist, less than three per cent of which are actually worth keeping. I wrote the following article eight years ago, at a time when I was wrestling with my deflated ego, trying to figure out what I should do with my life since that earning a living as a music writer and editor was not only losing its appeal but also becoming less realistic. Frankly, I was burned out, and everything felt like work.

I don’t think aforementioned “following article” is terrible. It’s merely serviceable pre-show hype, significant only for its subject matter, the White Stripes. This story was published on the eve of the duo’s emergence from the garage rock underground to pop music showroom.

During my stint at the P-I, I did very few interviews—not that musicians didn’t want to talk to me; I just didn’t want to talk to them. Part of it was my own shyness; the other part was my not wanting to transcribe the same stock answers musicians would tell every other interview. I was a fan of the White Stripes, however, and so when I was offered a chance to chat with drummer and vocalist Meg White, I seized it. As for the interview, well, it wasn’t all that revelatory or interesting. Meg seemed almost bored to be talking on the phone—and perhaps she was. Don’t get me wrong; she was perfectly cordial and warm. Maybe she was just a bit reticent to talk about herself and the band she shared with “brother” Jack White.

Another reason I’m sharing this with you is simple relevance: The White Stripes are back in the news. They’re issuing a new record of outtakes from their 1998 debut on Jack White’s Third Man Records, and the band’s documentary of their 2007 Canadian tour, Under Great White Northern Lights, is making the rounds on the film festival circuit. As for the band’s future? Who knows—Jack is presently busying himself with the Dead Weather and his Third Man Records label and stores. With that, I give you the short concert preview from all those years ago.

The White Stripes: Fame comes rapping

By Joe Ehrbar

Special to the P-I

Meg White had no idea the garage-rock duo she and her so-called brother, Jack, formed a couple years ago—the White Stripes—would cause such a fuss.

“We never expected to go anywhere,” says Meg White, speaking by phone from Jack’s home in Detroit one recent afternoon in June.

As it stands, no other American indie band is generating a bigger buzz.

Based in Detroit, the White Stripes, who play Seattle’s Crocodile Café on Wednesday, July 11, have ignited both rabid fans and ecstatic critics with their unabashed blend of raucous R&B, deep-fried country blues and folk and howling garage punk. Virtually overnight, the band has escalated from an anachronistic phenomenon to a burgeoning movement.

Everywhere you turn, it seems, the penetrating eyes of guitarist/vocalist Jack and drummer Meg are staring back. They’ve been the subject of intense media frenzy and have been heralded as “the next big thing” on the pages Rolling Stone, Spin and Mojo, garnering the kind of coverage usually reserved for big-time acts, not ones on the cusp.

Naturally, Meg White, who prior to becoming a White Stripe had never played drums, is surprised by the sudden interest. “It’s a little overwhelming,” she says. “I never expected things to go this well,” she continues with a nervous chuckle. “We were sticking to music because we wanted to.”

With the band’s much-anticipated third album Red Blood Cells just hitting stores, a cross-country tour in full swing, and the major labels circling, White Stripes mania appears moments away.

Not long ago, life was much simpler for the White Stripes. After getting tossed from the high-octane Detroit combo The Go in 1998, Jack White decided to form his own band, using a stripped-down vehicle to remodel his favorite music: folk and blues, particularly the strains the emerged from the cotton fields of the Mississippi delta.

Initially, the White Stripes recorded a couple 7-inch singles, released in small runs by tiny labels, and played few shows outside Michigan. Word gradually spread on the pages of fanzines and internet chat rooms that by the time the band’s second full-length De Stijl was released in 2000 by Sympathy for the Record Industry, the White Stripes had infiltrated the indie music press. Now they’ve got a major indie rock PR agency, Girlie Action, evangelizing their cause.

What the White Stripes play isn’t new, just a scruffy new take on the scratchy old blues. At times, they strut with the stripped down R&B swagger of early Stones or the Kinks; at others, they recall bittersweet country blues of Blind Willie McTell and the provoked garage punk of the Seeds. Make no mistake, though: the White Stripes have a fiery personality all their own. And in Jack White, rock ’n’ roll has its first convincing and evocative blues interpreter in years.

With knuckle-dragging rap-metal and pre-fab pop maintaining its chokehold on pop music, the White Stripes’ back-to-the-basics revival seems like the right intervention.

But their appeal extends beyond the music. First, there’s the Meg and Jack’s curious relationship: They insist their siblings (and they certainly play up that angle), but in reality they’re ex-husband and wife. Then there’s their look—red and white and mod all over, with no detail spared from their post-Cubist, candy-cane psychedelia—from Meg’s kick-drum cover to Jack’s boots. Finally, there’s their size: a two-piece band—no bass, just guitar, drums and vocals. Taken together, these could be read as gimmicks—a sophisticated primitivism, if you will. But gimmickry doesn’t account for the raw power and sincerity of the White Stripes’ mighty din.

Yet despite their contrivances and the realities of current situation, the White Stripes are not interested in going mainstream and have thus far resisted major-label overtures, letting the diminutive indie Sympathy release Red Blood Cells instead. Or maybe they’re just holding out for the right deal.

“We’re pretty wary of major labels,” says Meg. “Their focus seems to be not on the music but the business end of things—making money. So you know they’re gonna have control over you, and their ideas are not necessarily going to meld with yours.

“Plus, we’ve heard all the horror stories. And for the most part we’re doing just fine without them.”

An abridged version of this story was originally published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, July 6, 2001

Drawing Flies

2009-07-22T15:18:00.001-07:00

History of Trench Records Part 3

It was a big deal when the Flies swarmed on the Spokane scene in 1993. Loaded with local luminaries, the Flies were a punk rock super group of sorts. Original vocalist Pat Smick was the town’s punk rock mascot, haunting the bars, all the shows and the one record store that carried his beloved Maximumrocknroll and punk singles. Guitarist Jon Swanstrom had cut his teeth in a promising hardcore outfit called TFL—a band which lasted long enough to record one hard-to-find 1990 single and a stillborn album shelved by the band’s label following the group’s implosion. On bass was Brian Young, formerly of the much-loved power-pop band the Young Brians—they, too, recorded a single and an album. Rounding out the Flies was drummer Dan Ellis, who had played in a couple bands—none of which I recall.

Smick was sacked early on, though, after just a handful of shows (I think), and the Flies buzzed on as a trio. Truth be told, I thought Pat made an excellent frontman. He certainly looked the part of 1970s-era New York punk, resembling a nerdy Ramone with his black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and requisite black leather jacket, black Converse All-Stars and blue denim jeans. He even played the part well—he was as animated as they come. The problem was, well, who knows what the problem was? Pat was simply dismissed and the remaining Flies took it upon themselves man the microphone.

Naturally, as is the case with just about every band, the Flies recorded some songs and circulated them amongst friends in the form of demo tape. However, as is not the case with just about every band, the Flies’ 12-song demo failed to suck. It was outstanding and merited a proper vinyl release. (See for yourself; download the original demo here.) Soon after securing my copy, I found myself interviewing the band for Spokane’s daily paper, The Spokesman-Review. That’s when I shook hands with Mr. Conflict of Interest: Following the interview and before the resulting article was published I asked the band if they would record a single for my label. I guess Jon, Brian and Dan didn’t hate the story I wrote (that or they didn’t read it) because they soon agreed to the project.

Months later, in the summer of 1994, the Flies convened at a friend’s home studio and knocked out an EP’s worth of material—a mixture of songs from their demo and recent staples of their live set. The result was six songs—six short exuberant bursts of punk rock bliss, clocking in at break-neck 10 minutes—just short enough that I could cram all six songs onto a 33-RPM 7-inch record. Sure, the mix was rough (perhaps even hastily done), and the fidelity low: Dan’s snare snaps and pops like popcorn, but the bass drum is muffled and barely makes a thud; the guitar sounds thin and spiny, and is often out-muscled by the bass; and the vocals all sound like first takes. Had the Flies used a decent studio, the songs might have come out better, but I can’t imagine this record any other way. It’s captures the band’s essence—spunk and spontaneity wrapped in guts and grit.

Titled Venus Man Trap, the Flies’ debut EP emerged in the fall of 1994. Five hundred copies of this record were pressed on burgundy red vinyl. The cover was screen printed by hand. One hundred copies went to the band in lieu of royalties, and within a couple years, the record had sold out (though I squirreled away a dozen copies—just in case someone offers me a suitcase of cash for them).

The Flies made a couple more records following Venus Man Trap, most notably Alternatoid, a full-length album on Too Many Records (1995), and Teen Challenge (1996), a 7-inch EP on Empty Records. A second full-length album was planned for Empty, but it never came to be.

Where are the Flies today? Pat Smick still haunts Spokane, presumably from the audience. Jon Swanstrom went on to form a fine band called Seawolf, and currently keeps time in Ze Krau. Brian Young plays in an insurgent country-rock combo called Burns Like Hellfire with his former Young Brians cohort Jamie Nebel (also of the Makers). Dan Ellis, meanwhile, is tapping on his high hat somewhere out there in the ether; sadly, he succumbed to brain cancer some years ago.

You can download Venus Man Trap, ripped from the actual vinyl, here.

Boycott vs. the Boys Club

2009-06-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

History of Trench Records Part 2
1994

In the early 1990s, the DIY ethic spread like a virus. Everyone it seemed was starting a band or cobbling funds together to start a fledgling record label. You’d thumb through maximumrocknroll or Flipside and their pages would be overstuffed with ads and record reviews of hundreds of bands you never heard of (and likely wouldn’t hear again). In fact, Flipside derided Trench Records’ first release, the Mother Load album, praising the first song before going on to say that the rest failed to justify the CD’s existence, complaining that “There are just too many bands...,” or something to that effect. Back then, Flipside was still relevant—and scoring a good review could mean the sale of a dozen or so CDs, which with only a thousand out there was nothing to dismiss. Although I disagreed with the reviewer’s assessment of Mother Load’s music (as I still do now), he was right about one thing: There were too many bands, too many records, too many labels. I did not want Trench to be a one-off, anonymous endeavor. I wanted the imprint to continue and eventually become a self-sustaining enterprise. “Every label has its first release,” I used to say. But most would go defunct before issuing a second record.

Looking back, perhaps Trench should have folded after its inaugural release. The Mother Load album more or less broke even in that we were able to pay back all the money we borrowed, but there wasn’t much left for a second release. But I didn't let that stop me. I was young, naïve and ambitious; I would see Trench Records to its second release even if that meant sharing a cramped two-bedroom apartment with three guys and working three jobs (I wrote the local paper at night, made pizza in the afternoon and worked at a record store in between). Fortunately, Spokane was a cheap place to live. Anywhere else I might not have raised sufficient funds. By spring 1994 I had saved almost $1,200 to finance the next record.

Enter Boycott. I had seen this band a dozen times open for some of the more established local punks and I liked them. Composed of Heidi on guitar and vocals, Britni on drums and vocals and Barb on bass and vocals (she replaced original bassist/vocalist Kim Campbell), Boycott were tough, brandishing a raw punk-metal sound—and they held their own against the boys. I don’t quite remember how I came into contact with the band or how I managed to get my hands on a six-song tape they had recorded with a future roommate of mine, Patrick Par, but I did. I remember liking five of the six tunes. They wanted all six on the record, but there just wasn’t room—Boycott’s record was to be a 7-inch EP, and even at the slower speed of 33 RPM, six songs was one song too many. I do remember the band being somewhat annoyed that the song I declined to release was “Red Ants.” They liked it; I didn’t (you can find “Red Ants” here. The five songs that made the cut for the EP that would be titled Barbie included “Greed,” “Phonecaller,” “Barbie Doll Death,” “Ghost Town U.S.A.” and “Whine”—angry, raw metallic punk in all its primitive glory. I pressed 500 copies of the record, gave a little more than hundred pieces to the band (in lieu of royalties), sold some to K Records, and once again, consigned them at stores all over the Northwest. Fifteen years later, I still have about 20 copies. So if you really must have this artifact, contact me. Otherwise you can download the entire record—ripped from the original vinyl—right here.

Mining the Motherload Railroad

2009-05-20T10:45:00.000-07:00

History of Trench Records Part 1 (1991-1993)

In 1991, I started volunteering at my campus radio station. My intention was to host a weekly reggae music program, sending a little-heard genre of music most foreign to station’s Spokane, Washington, listenership over the airwaves. Back then, the worldwide web hadn’t yet come of age, so even though reggae is ubiquitous, mainstream and can be heard on demand virtually anywhere, anytime, outside the tiny 100-watt radio station from whence I spun records, if you wanted to hear reggae in Spokane, you had to pin your hopes on the local college hippy band to incorporating a reggae riddim into their sociology 101-informed songs of injustice or on dog-eared copies of UB40’s Labour of Love or Bob Marley and the Wailers’ Legend washing up at one of the two music outlets that still sold vinyl.

But before I get too off-track, I should say that this article isn’t about reggae.

Although I was passionate to share my knowledge and my record collection with the one or two listeners who tuned into my “Reggae Revolution” show on Sunday nights (thank you, Ed and Dan!), my enthusiasm for the genre was on the wane. The reason? Suddenly, as a newly christened DJ at KAGU, I now had access to the station’s entire catalog, a fairly large collection of music that dwarfed mine. What’s more, hardly any of it was reggae. It was rock ’n’ roll, or what people once called “college rock”—very little of which had I ever heard, all kinds of records with all kinds of crazy covers containing all kinds of crazy sounds stamped on all kinds of crazy colors of vinyl. So while I was proselytizing the merits of dub to the Spokane public, I was immersing myself in this new world of independent and underground music—especially the pop, punk, garage and grunge sounds coming out of the Pacific Northwest—mind-blowing music for someone who listened mostly to roots reggae and ska. I was familiar with Soundgarden and Nirvana—and months later, Nevermind would be released and change the world. But I hadn’t heard of the Mono Men, Mudhoney, Tad, Beat Happening, Gas Huffer, Seaweed, the Young Fresh Fellows, Coffin Break or Cat Butt. Or record labels like Frontier, Estrus, Empty or K. Everywhere I looked were unfamiliar singers and songwriters and bands. What was hard to believe was the fact that most of the music was on vinyl—something that was supposedly obsolete.

Even more astonishing was that a few of the records were local releases. I was unaware that Spokane had itself a music scene. With all the attention that Seattle was getting, an impressive punk rock movement was bubbling up from the Spokane underground. There were 7-inch singles by the Young Brians, the Fumes, TFL, Waterstreet and a Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, band called Black Happy and a host of demos by bands like Nice World, Big Feeling, Huck and Waterman’s Hollow. The station’s most popular local release (and a high-charting record overall), was a funky pop-punk EP by a local band called Motherload. Songs titled “Liquor Store” and “My Sister” garnered several spins daily and constant requests. In terms of popularity, the songs were to KAGU what “Smells Like Teen Spirit” would soon become to MTV. Of course, that would come to haunt the band locally as they couldn’t seem to play a show without humoring their audience with a rendition of “Liquor Store” (and its catchy chorus: “Hope it’s not too late / To make another run to the liquor store/ We’re running out of time / So pick yourself up off the floor”). The record was good, but it undersold Motherload’s genius. Seeing the trio of guitarist/vocalist Scott Kellogg, bassist/vocalist Geof Templeton and drummer Brian Parnell from the stage of Henry’s Pub for the first time confirmed this. They were a monster—a prowling, growling beast of beer-fueled bliss characterized by herky-jerky syncopated rhythms, muscular melodies, uber-catchy choruses—a band influenced by the Minutemen and NoMeansNo but informed by a stronger pop sensibility typical of what was emerging from Northern California at the time. I was hooked—and I never missed a show. And when they took up practicing in the basement of the house next door to mine, I thought I’d gone to heaven (though I remember thinking that if there was a heaven, it sure wouldn't look like Spokane, Washington). Occasionally, the band invited me to watch them practice—an exclusive concert for one. Sometimes I’d even witness a new song take shape—and marvel how it would be completed and rendered perfect just one or two practices later. Other nights, I was happy just sit on my back steps, smoke cigarettes, sip cheap beer, and absorb to the sounds flooding from the non-insulated basement next door.

Indeed, Motherload captured my imagination, kindled a love for punk rock, and inspired me to be an evangelist for their cause. Meanwhile, we continued to spin Motherload’s one and only record at KAGU. The band eventually grew tired of hearing it, so Geof dropped off an eight-song tape of songs that would soon form part of their first album—which was due for release by the band’s Seattle label Empty Records. Naturally, we played the entire tape as soon as we got it—and it was amazing, containing songs already staples of the band’s live set. And all eight songs were superlative to their debut EP. This was spring 1992. By summer, the new record wasn’t out, and Motherload had left town on a three-month U.S. tour (evidently they hit the road before sending Empty the tapes). By the time they returned home, they endured a humbling marathon of payless nights, mechanical problems, couch surfing while racking up some serious debt. In late ’92, Motherload got word that Empty was no longer interested in releasing the batch of songs they’d recorded—it would hold out for new songs.

By then, my friend, radio station boss and fellow Motherload booster, Dan Cossette, and I toyed with starting a record label to give the recently orphaned songs a home on CD. Hell, all around us at the radio station were records on fledgling DIY labels—if they could do it, why couldn’t we? So in early 1993 we launched Trench Records (not sure how or why we settled on that name…). We had no money, no real plan, no idea how to make or distribute an album. But we knew we couldn’t move forward without first getting the band to agree to give us some songs for a CD. They were into it—they just wanted to get some new music out there even though they knew that an unknown label wouldn’t likely give them any more exposure. And since we couldn’t pay them any money, we offered the band 20 percent of the CDs we pressed, a little over 200 CDs, which they could sell at their shows.

So we cobbled up what little savings we had, asked a few friends for “investments” and I sold my stereo (which I wouldn’t be able to replace for five years—which made working as a rock critic a tad challenging). As soon as we had the money, Motherload gave us a DAT containing 11 songs—some familiar, some not. Brian created the artwork for the cover and CD, as well as our original logo. And we contacted some nice Canadians in Quebec to master the recordings, print the art and press it all onto CDs we could sell. In May of 1993, one thousand and fifty CDs were delivered to the door of the house Dan and I were renting, marking the arrival of Motherload’s longtime-coming Buck Toothed Dream on CD.

In the proceeding weeks, Buck Toothed Dream drew some favorable reviews in publications like The Rocket (the magazine I would later edit) and Maximumrocknroll. Positive press, however, didn’t quite translate into sales. To make the CDs available, Dan and I had to physically walk them into records stores and consign them—he drove to Portland; I drove to Seattle. Some places would take five copies, most as little as one. We had two distributors, the largest being K Records in Olympia (the label now known for its Beck, Modest Mouse, Karp, Microphones and Halo Benders releases), which bought a whopping 40 CDs. Gradually the CDs sold, and even though we didn’t quite sell out of the entire run, we viewed it as a success. We didn’t make any money, but we were able to pay back our investors and we got about 900 CDs out there within two years. By then Motherload had ceased being a full-time interest for its members—Geof went fishing in Alaska for a couple years, Scotty hitched a ride to Portland and stayed there and Brian moved to Seattle. And because the CD had pretty much run its course, we wouldn’t issue a second pressing of the album. (I still have five copies; highest bidders can have them.)

As for what I now think of Buck Toothed Dream’s music, well, I’m biased. I always liked this Motherload, so I can’t be objective. And while the album they gave us didn’t quite capture their live personality, their unhinged tenacity, it’s a decent facsimile. Among the standouts are “Run for Your Life,” “Fur Coat, “Too Weird” and “Chicken Froth”—ah, hell, they’re all pretty good. Even the ones I remember the band not being fond of, “Will You Wait,” “My Selves” and “Perfection” hold up well.

Incidentally, in 1994, Motherload recorded another record for Empty Records, this time with the now famous producer Phil Ek (Modest Mouse, Built to Spill), but the label declined to release that album, too. The recordings were eventually issued posthumously in 1997 along with other songs from the Buck Toothed Dream sessions (a couple of which, “Who Gives a Shit” and “M.L.R.R. (Mother Load Railroad),” I really wanted for the Trench release) on a CD anthology titled From Hillyard—an inside joke referring to a miserable, blighted neighborhood in Spokane.

I’ll revisit Motherload in a future post. In the meantime, you can download Buck Toothed Dream here. I’m also including the aforementioned “Who Gives a Shit” and “M.L.R.R.” as bonuses.

Special thanks to Motherload, David Hayes and Dan Cossette.

Next post: History of Trench Records Part 2: Boycott!

Goodbye, P-I

2009-03-27T15:46:00.000-07:00

Last week, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer rolled off the presses a final time, offering readers one last opportunity to savor the tactile experience of reading its printed newspaper, of getting newsprint on their fingertips, of following a jump that actually made the reader turn the page (not click a mouse). Then, for the 100,000-plus copies not kept for posterity, the final edition was consigned to the great trash heap of newspapers past. It marked a sudden and pathetic end.

The P-I’s demise was not unexpected. Nor is its story unique. Newspapers have been struggling for years. Circulations are dwindling and along with them precious ad revenues. The predicament of the P-I was particularly dire. It was one of two daily papers—the other being The Seattle Times—in a city that isn’t big like Chicago or New York, where it’s still possible for more than one daily to operate. Not in Seattle, though; there just isn’t enough ad money to go around. Or enough readers. And let’s be honest, were it not for a court-mandated joint operating agreement, one of Seattle’s two papers would have ceased publishing years ago.

Time is running out for the daily paper. Increasing demand for free, instant news and content, the rise of blogs, and the dominance of Craigslist over newspaper classifieds have made it hard for newspapers’ print editions to compete. Moreover, fewer and fewer people read the morning paper as part of their daily routine. Just as readers years ago abandoned evening papers in favor of the evening news TV broadcast, news readers today satisfy their appetite for headline news by clicking, touching, scrolling, browsing, tweeting on laptops and smartphones (never mind that they’re not getting the kind of depth and meaning that only a thick newspaper can offer).

Indeed, newspapers have lost relevance. So it goes. But you’re not reading this particular blog for an analysis of the decline of the daily paper. Let’s move on.

What I will tell you is that demise of the printed P-I has bummed me out in a big way. Part of my identity as a writer and a professional will forever be tied to its masthead. For it was the P-I that employed me at two crucial points in my career.

I came to Seattle in 1997 with few prospects—I had just left another newspaper, Spokane’s Spokesman-Review (which itself is in a world of hurt), but I never imagined I’d write for one of Seattle’s major dailies. Good writers and journalists work there. Hacks like me don’t. But a connection got me in the door and an interview. The P-I’s Features department was looking for a substitute calendar editor, which meant that I would be an on-call employee. Hey, it was something, a way in, and I thought I could supplement my income by contributing music features or concert reviews. The gentleman who interviewed me was the entertainment editor. Dusty was his name. He was a peculiar fellow and was quite terse. He had a poof of graying brown hair and funny little mustache to match. He came outfitted in a tie and neatly pressed dress shirt and slacks, which suggested a corporate bearing more suited for the business desk than the entertainment section of a daily paper in Seattle. As soon as I arrived at the reception area, Dusty pulled me into the break room to interview me. But it wasn’t much an interview—he merely thumbed through my clips. I remember homing in on his furrowed brow, which I took as a bad sign. After a couple of silent minutes, he offered, “Well, we’re not looking for any writers.” Gulp.

Dusty was only partly right, however. Sure enough, I wouldn’t be writing about music, but I would get to perform the tedious task of rewriting press releases for the paper’s various calendar sections. Which was fine, if moderately soul-depleting—I needed the work. And even though I only worked about two weeks a month, the pay was decent, enough to pay the rent on my 200-square-foot box of a studio apartment.

Most people were friendly enough in my department, the Features dept., but they were friendly in a way that was kind of stand-offish, if you know what I mean. I felt like they saw me as more of an administrative assistant: I wasn’t one of them, an editor or a reporter with a byline. But at least they were nice. That's not to say the rest of P-I’s editorial staff was unwelcoming—they just didn’t give me the time of day; I was merely another ghost walking among the cubes. I was accustomed to being ignored. I encountered similar treatment from the majority of The Spokesman-Review’s newsroom. (The Spokesman-Review may not have been The New York Times, but you wouldn’t know it from the egos.) If I had to guess why, I’d say it was simply because I was a features and entertainment writer, not a true reporter. In their estimation, very little of what I wrote mattered; I wrote fluff and was therefore unworthy of their attention. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for me to say hello to someone and not receive as much as a look of acknowledgment in return. So by the time I got to the P-I I was used to being snubbed. No big deal. I put my head down and got to work.

But respect would soon be gained. One Monday morning as I was sorting a fresh stack of press releases, faxes and mail, my editor, Dusty, walked over and said, “Saw your name in the paper yesterday. Congratulations.” My name was in the joint Seattle P-I/Seattle Times Sunday edition, in an article that listed winners of the annual Society of Professional Journalists awards. A story I’d written about the garage rock band The Makers for The Spokesman-Review the previous fall had garnered two SPJs. What’s more, not a single P-I writer was recognized in the two categories in which I received awards. Suddenly, everyone in the department knew who I was. The recognition didn’t net me any writing assignments, though. Then a week later The Rocket came calling and offered me a job as a senior editor. I seem to remember Dusty expressing disappointment, but I wasn’t certain over what. Did I inconvenience him in that he’d now have to find another replacement replacement (yes, I intended the double “replacement”)? Or did he finally regret not letting me write? (If it was the latter, I can certainly understand why I never got any assignments. Even when the economy wasn’t so dire, newspapers’ editorial budgets were tight; space even tighter. Even if Dusty could get me to do some writing, there wouldn’t have been much space since two writers already covered music more or less full time. More likely, however, it was the former.)

So ended my brief first stint at The Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

Three-and-a-half years later, while still at The Rocket, I got a call from the P-I's Peter Blackstock, also co-editor of the recently shuttered alt-country magazine No Depression, who asked if I’d be interested in taking over his weekly music column at the paper. Days later, I found myself back in the P-I’s breakroom with Dusty, the mustachioed entertainment editor, for an interview and a cursory look at my clips (which he reviewed with the same furrowed brow). This time, however, the outcome was better: I would get to write for the P-I, though it would be as a freelancer. Which was fine, I thought; at least I’d have a regular column and a steady paycheck. Plus I wouldn’t have to endure the ambivalence of the P-I’s writers and editors as I walked among them. The timing was perfect, too: The day Dusty offered me the column was the same day The Rocket went bankrupt and closed down (which is a story for another time).

So for the next three years, from 2000 to 2003, I filed about 150 weekly columns and an assortment of other stories for The Seattle Post-Intelligencer. During my second stint, I had little contact with my editor and copyeditor, and the chief pop music writer, Gene Stout (who, I should say, is one of the nicest guys with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of working) since I did all my work at home. By law, only official employees, not contractors like me, could work from the P-I's offices. So my second interview with Dusty was the last time I actually set foot in the newspaper’s building. My printed byline mingled with more writers than I did.

In assessing the work I did the P-I, I can’t say that I'm particularly proud of much. By the time I was done with a piece, I hated it, especially during this particular period of my life. I had grown tired of writing and writing on deadline. Eleven years of constant deadlines necessitated a break. So while I might not have enjoyed writing them, a few stories come to mind which came out fairly good: a decent review of a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds concert, a Big Star story I liked, an interview with Jawbox alum J. Robbins for his new band Burning Airlines (the story was slated to run the Friday after 9/11; it got killed), interviews with legends Wanda Jackson and Ike Turner (yes, I asked him if he abused Tina. He denied it), a profile of the White Stripes (Meg White wasn’t the best interview, but she was nice) and interviews with heroes Nick Cave, the Melvins and Stephen Malkmus. Maybe I’ll link to some of these columns in a future post (after all, an abridged online P-I lives on) or present the unedited originals (which weren’t all that different—one thing I loved about my editors is that they left my copy alone). We’ll see…

Farewell, Seattle P-I. You were very good to me.

Minding My Junk Heap

2009-02-23T10:16:00.000-08:00

I've been attempting a novel for several years now and have thus far been unsuccessful. It's hard to find the time, even harder to make the time. All the reading I do is only hindering any progress. The more I read, the less I want to write--so many have done are are doing it better than I can ever hope to. Which is true and bullshit at the same time. I know that. And while I'm not sure I'm ready to commit to seeing a novel-size work through to its completed end, I'm still pondering plot lines, dreaming up characters, and sketching out scenes. What follows is a short scene I had planned for story about a music journalist whose life was about to be unraveled by crisis and death. But after writing about 10 pages, I lost enthusiasm for the protagonist and his story. I recently rediscovered the aborted novel during a recent purge of electronic files, and decided it was worth saving a few scraps for my virtual dumping ground. What follows is 1,200 words that was written in one hour-long burst with no editing. Yes, I'm being self-indulgent by posting it, but what are blogs for?.

And so it goes:

I had no candles to blow out. For my thirty-fifth birthday, there would be no cake. There wasn’t even a special birthday dinner. Just a miserable meal that I thought had been wiped from culinary existence: rubbery Salisbury steak, wilted iceberg lettuce salad with French dressing from a plastic packet, bland au-gratin potatoes. Served up with on plastic tray, with plastic flatware no less (The airlines still considered the butter knife a deadly weapon. If you ask me, the hard plastic chopsticks—which passengers lucky enough to have pre-ordered the sushi were using—were just as dangerous). Evidently the airlines never got the memo. You couldn’t even find this shit in a hospital cafeteria. And you especially shouldn’t find this microwaved crap on a flight to Japan. What about sushi? I don’t care for it, but the taste of raw—and since we’re on a plane—most unsavory sushi actually sounded appetizing. No wonder American airlines are all going bust, they’re still living in the iceberg salad days of the 1960s—when the jet was coming of age. Salisbury steak. It was the butt of the South Park joke ten years ago. Eradicate it like the plague. And while you’re at it, do something about meat loaf, too.

But that’s just like me—misplaced anger. I’m getting all worked about the dinner menu of Flight 187, just so I don’t have to think about my birthday.

This suited me fine. I didn’t mind so much about turning 35. It sure beats being 25 again. I regard my mid-20s-era life with same esteem I reserve for post-1967 Beach Boys or post John Cale Velvet Underground, or Side 2 of Love’s Da Capo, for that matter—disappointing, uninspired, flagging, not as bold as the first half. Then again, at least it’s not 85, where death would most certainly be moving into one of my spare bedrooms for an imminent rendezvous, whereby I’d be stalling death recanting my accomplishments or glory days to the surrounding walls. Maybe I could lull it to sleep and by a few more uneventful years doing the equivalent of whatever the hell passes for TV some 50 years from now.

Still, I had plenty of time to contemplate the ramifications turning 35—we were barely two hours into a marathon 12-hour flight to Tokyo. It was 8 p.m. by my watch—or, who the fuck knows Tokyo local time? It was going to be long, hot flight. The airline, derogatorily slanged Northwerst, must have thought Japanese people still come in tiny packages because on this 747—the biggest one the fleet, the 747-800—the seats were no more than limp dick’s length apart. And if we’re to be stereotypical—that’s a Japanese…never mind. I’m not reading, though into the pocket of the seat in front of me I’ve stuffed some old issues The New Yorker, a Spin (just for Chuck Eddy’s column), and the punk rock oral history Please Kill Me, to get me in the mood for my next few weeks of work. But I can’t read on planes. Whatever it is, the thin, recycled air, the subtle yawing or rocking of the plane, or the intense lack of open space, when I crack a book mid-flight, the yawns command the eyelids close. And there’s nothing more uncomfortable than dozing off on a plane. That miserable half-sleep, half-dream state where every couple minutes your body starts joking around with you, twitching you awake and then dozing you off. Twitch. Doze. Drool. Snore-snort. Twitch! Excuse me, you say to your seatmate. Forgive my foot, and my hands—they misbehave when their owner is out to lunch.

My ears only complicate things further. As a baby, toddler, child, adolescent, I was prone to recurring ear infections. Something about my ears manufacturing too much fluid—wax—for my too tiny drainage tubes. Think of it as grease clog in your sink. The result in the short-term was constant earaches and strawberry-flavored antibiotics. My parents wouldn’t spring for the corrective surgery or the insertion of ear tubes, which could have compensated for my biological shortcomings until my body could catch up and grow bigger drain pipes. But for some reason my ears never improved. You can imagine then what it’s like to be flying with an ear infection, or double ear infection, something I’ve routinely experienced. The pain comes primarily during landing, though takeoff is no pleasure. As soon as the pilot announces the plane’s descent, you notice you can’t hear him/her loud-and-clear in the cabin anymore. Congratulations, your ears have begun to plug. You soon deafen to any sounds outside your head. Try talking to yourself—it feels like your voice is actually in your head. It’s muffled, but you know it to be yours. Think of the shock you’d feel if it wasn’t—going deaf and crazy at the same time—like Beethoven! As your inner ears fill with fluid and plug shut, the pressure builds…and builds…and FUCKING BUILDS until you’re going OW!!! THIS FUCKING KILLS while writhing in the most excruciating pain. You feel like you’re head is going to burst off your neck like a champagne cork. And twice, I’ve ruptured my eardrums. You know you’ve ruptured an eardrum when blood comes dripping out of your ear hole. And the deafness you experience—or I should say the hearing impairment—especially if your ear’s already infected will last many days to come. Of all the pain I’ve experienced in the first half of my life—and I’ve broken bones, dislocated joints, lacerated lots of body parts—nothing compares to the pain of bursting an eardrum. Incidentally, your eardrums are actually made to rupture, and they eventually repair themselves. But until they do, it’s no fun.

I now wear specially made earplugs that regulate the pressure on flights. They’re not like those you find in the airport gift shops; no I had my ENT doc (that’s lazy speak, which is what I call it when people speak in initialisms or acronyms, for ear, nose and throat doctor) make custom, flesh-colored plugs. Meaning: they look ridiculous, especially since the skin-tone coloring actually better resembles a hue of pantyhose. Is it control top 20? Nevertheless, they work. And for them to perform at their optimum best, the wearer must don them the entire flight—not just a takeoff and landing. And so I wear them, imagining me to look like some douche bag suit with two Bluetooth ear phones grafted onto each side of my skull. But I can’t afford not to wear them. My trip would be pointless if I couldn’t hear. I’m the lucky writer who’s been chosen to tag along with the Texas neo-psychedelic band Holy Three and chart their international ascent across the Land of the Rising Sun.

Anyway, I can’t read, I can’t sleep, and with these large gobs of rubber in my ears I can’t listen to my iPod. Even the movie headphones are useless. Which is a mighty shame: Northwerst has a trio of Jennifer Aniston movies lined up for tonight—and you can hear the audio in Japanese or English! I’m praying for severe turbulence, if only to impart a little variety during the drone to Japan. Hey, it’s not like a bumpy ride will send the plane spiraling down toward the almighty drink—most crashes occur on takeoff and landing. I should know, I follow plane crashes with the same enthusiasm I devote to music. Some terrific jolts would at least make this a birthday worth remembering.

Blues for the Jews

2009-01-29T15:12:00.000-08:00

The Silver Jews have lost their luster—at least that’s what singer/songwriter/ guitarist David Berman, the man behind the moniker, believes. So Berman is mothballing his critically acclaimed band—perhaps for good. According to a message board post credited to him on the worldwide bathroom wall last week, Berman suggested it was time to find a new line of work, that the band he started with Pavement’s Stephen Malkmus and Bob Nastanovich in 1992 had played its final note.

Coincidentally, around the time of his announcement, I was entertaining the idea of writing a post on the Silver Jews, just a quick little ditty to spotlight my favorite Berman lyrics. So that's what I’m going to do.

Normally, I try not to chase stories covered by all the other blahgs, so I won’t dwell on the whys, how comes and say it ain’t sos of this breakup story. What I will say is that Silver Jews have erected a magnificent and sturdy palace of sound in an ever-increasing ramshackle indie rock ghetto. Through six albums (including last year’s excellent Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea), three EPs and a handful of singles, Berman has explored humanity and all its banalities and absurdities from a most unique, idiosyncratic perspective. His songs, whether steeped in the absurd, the abstract, the droll, the metaphorical or the existential, have been routinely strange. But in their weirdness exists a thicket of simple truths. What’s more, Berman’s songs are impeccably crafted (he is an actual poet after all); they're unburdened by frills and cliches, favoring economy to deliver his peculiar profundities. Likewise, Berman’s dry, adenoidal, twangy delivery coupled with the organic, unadorned execution of a sympathetic band (think Velvet Underground meets Hank Williams) has made the perfect vehicle for his musings. With that, I give you my favorite Silver Jews lyrics:

“Repair is the dream of the broken thing.
Like a message broadcast on an overpass,
All my favorite singers couldn’t sing.”
‑“We Are Real” from 1998’s American Water (Drag City)

“Punk rock died when the first kid said
‘Punk’s not dead, punk’s not dead.’ ”
‑“Tennessee” from 2001’s Bright Flight (Drag City)

“There is a house in New Orleans.
Not the one you’ve heard about,
I’m talking about another house.”
‑“New Orleans” from 1994’s Starlite Walker (Drag City)

“In 27 years, I’ve drunk fifty-thousand beers.
And they just wash against me like the sea into a pier.”
‑“Trains Across the Sea” from Starlite Walker

“Hey boys supper’s on me.
Our record just went aluminum.”
‑“Dallas” from 1996’s The Natural Bridge (Drag City)

“So you wanna build an altar on a summer night,
You wanna smoke the gel off a fentanyl patch.
Aincha heard the news? Adam and Eve were Jews.
And I always loved you to the max.”
‑“Punks in the Beerlight” from 2005’s Tanglewood Numbers (Drag City)

“Time is a game that only children play well.
How can I love you if you won’t lie down?”
‑“How Can I Love You If You Won’t Lie Down” from Tanglewood Numbers

“I asked a painter why the roads are all colored back.
He said, “Steve It’s because people leave and no highway will bring them back.
So if you don’t want me I promise not to linger.
But before I go I have to ask you about that tan line on your ring finger.”
‑“Random Rules” from American Water

“My ski vest has buttons like convenience store mirrors in the L-B-C.”
‑“We Are Real” from American Water

Postscript: The Silver Jews made their final appearance on Saturday, January 31, in McMinnville, Tennessee. The venue was the Volcano Room, located in the Cumberland Caverns, some 333 feet underground. Said Berman of the location: “I always wanted to go out on top. I guess this works, too.”

Oh, Joy...?

2009-01-22T09:41:00.000-08:00

Tuesday was inauguration day. The country reveled, getting all drunk on hope and change. And in spite of the icebergs that continue to pierce the hull of our great ship, they partied and danced into the wee small hours of the night. My stomach danced, too, but to a different tune, what I call the “That’s Not Rain! The Sky Really Is Quite Falling in Three-Fourths Time.” Ever heard of it? It just might be the next craze, a waltz that moves at the pace of a funeral dirge and is characterized by unsettling rhythms, abrasive squalls of electric feedback and distortion, harsh stabs of strings, violent horn squawks and a tribal beat that thunders like a mythical death rattle. And you don’t need a partner to dance to this number, just a belly full of worry.

I hate to poop on the party, but my outlook is not too sunny. I do not see a beacon of hope and prosperity on the horizon—just dense fog and gloom fraught with strife and struggle and the feeling that better days are nowhere near. Sure, I’m being pessimistic. But it’s difficult to be optimistic when all around you the reality of change is more like losing your job, shuddering your business, going into foreclosure, sinking deeper into oblivion. And so my dance card is full as I swing to this miserable waltz.

Meanwhile, over at Pitchfork.tv this week, they’re screening Grant Gee’s rock-doc Joy Division, the 2008 documentary about, yes, Joy Division. The timing couldn’t be better. Nothing like a bleak story set in an eerie landscape of crumbling concrete and urban decay that typified Manchester in the late 1970s. And I thought times were tough here. They aren’t nearly as bad—at least in Seattle we have trees and shrubbery greening the grounds of our vacant buildings and closed warehouses and factories (although Manchester had better music than Seattle has now—sorry, Fleet Foxes). Anyway, the documentary is pretty good, but we all know how the story of Joy Division ends—with the beginning of New Order, of course. Oh, and Ian Curtis finally doing himself in (third time was the charm for him, sadly). And while Joy Division isn’t the life ring I should be reaching for, I’m certainly not gonna deny its company for a self-help book. I just want to wallow in the band’s anxious post-punk despair for a little while, and relish the grim brilliance of Curtis’s detached, cold moan over his mates’ jittery surges as they ride 1979’s Unknown Pleasures and 1980’s Closer into oblivion.

Soon, inevitably, the sun will finally make an appearance from behind the ominous curtain of clouds and fog and brighten my corners. At which point I’ll return my Joy Division records back to their rightful place on the shelf—right next to my beloved Wall of Voodoo records (talk about bleak—have you ever basked in the desolation blues of “Lost Weekend” from Call of the West?). That is until I lose my job or something.

Another Love Story

2009-01-14T10:34:00.000-08:00

Love Forever Changes Collector’s Edition

(Rhino 2 CDs, 2008)

Did we truly need another reissue of Love’s Forever Changes? Rhino Records—liberator of castoff sounds consigned to the music dustbins of time—thought so, obviously recognizing that Love fanatics (such as me) will lap up anything related to the best rock album of all time (if you disagree with such a hyperbolic assessment, you haven’t heard album—enough). Hence Forever Changes, the 2-CD “Collector’s Edition.” Or Forever Changes Redux Ad Nauseum. Honestly, this latest retelling of the classic 1967 Love story adds very little, despite the wealth of material presented across the two CDs (43 tracks in all). Love’s 11-song masterpiece was perfect to begin with. The new edition doesn’t change that. And it’s no more essential than the 2001 reissue of the album (it features same remastered album, the same added outtake and demo, the same inclusion of a 1968 single and B-side, the same session highlights—all quite good). But this iteration has a whole second CD to fill, netting the listener a few more session highlights and remixes (all unremarkable) and, in the absence of newly uncovered “lost” songs, an alternate, rawer mix of the entire album (as if the original mix was flawed or inferior ?). But, lest I forget, this is a collector’s album—it’s for fanatics (and suckers for extras and et ceteras, which is why I forked over the dough for its $25 price tag).

I love Forever Changes. It’s one of the few records that I keep going back to. And, yes, it really is as good as everyone says (everyone being us dorky record collectors and music “critics”). It’s also aged a lot better than most of what emerged from the psychedelic era (of which I’m a big fan): Instead of getting eight miles high like the rest of their dope-smoking, acid-dropping cohorts, Love, chiefly mastermind vocalist/guitarist Arthur Lee and guitarist/vocalist Bryan MacLean (who wrote and sang two of the album’s classic songs, “Alone Again Or” and “Old Man”), peered through the hazy, phony optimism of peace and love, and saw a world—their world—in turmoil. They wrote of longing, melancholy, death and decay (serious bad vibrations, man!), casting long shadows with their evocative, mournful tenors over a sweeping soundscape of beautifully conceived and masterfully realized psychedelic folk. It was (and still is) a gorgeous, heart-breaking work, a major creative feat more coherent than Sgt. Pepper’s, more poignant than Pet Sounds. It was also a commercial flop, ultimately spelling doom for the band.

A year ago when my own life was in upheaval, I turned to my old vinyl copy of Forever Changes. I placed it on the turntable, dropped the needle and turned up the volume, before settling back on the couch in my empty room. As the opening notes of “Alone Again Or” emerged from the crackles and pops of my well-worn LP, I set my mind adrift and let the ghosts of Love sweep me into their current. For 42 minutes I surfed atop the undulating swells and found some much-needed solace. I doubt the Collector’s Edition will have the same effect.

Spirit of 78

2009-01-09T10:49:00.000-08:00

Victrola Favorites: Artifacts of Bygone Days (Dust to Digital, 2008)

Giving the gift of music is a righteous thing to do, but it’s not nearly as awesome as receiving the gift of music—especially when the music you’re given is unexpected and superb. And by this I don’t mean the time my Mom gave me a tape of Air Supply’s Lost in Love for Valentine’s Day (I remember desperately (and futilely) fast-forwarding through this pungent pop turd looking for anything that rocked). No, a true example of a great gift of music is something like Victrola Favorites: Artifacts from Bygone Days, which a close friend so generously gave me for Christmas.

Victrola Favorites is a two-CD collection sandwiched in a gorgeously designed clothbound hardback book, and was released some months back on the excellent Dust to Digital label. If you haven’t feasted your eyes and ears on this fantastic anthology, do so—it’s well worth your time and money (even if I didn't actually pay for mine). Victrola Favorites dusts off the faraway sounds (both in proximity and in age) that were etched into old shellac 78 RPM disks, some 40 years of international music reaching back to the infancy of recorded sound and culminating with final scratchy years of the 78.

This superb collection was culled from the vast record collections of Robert Millis and Jeffery Taylor, the passionate souls behind an elusive and noisy combo called the Climax Golden Twins and the most excellent Seattle record store Wall of Sound. Both Millis and Taylor have searched the world—physically, mind you, not virtually via the Internets—in their quest to uncover (and conserve) exotic and obscure sounds—be it a field recording of African tribal music, hot jazz from the '20s, a traditional Persian folk song or seminal twang from the Appalachians. Think of Millis and Taylor as modern-day Harry Smiths or younger contemporaries of Joe Bussard (the Maryland man who’s made it his life’s work to mine rare 78 gold throughout the Eastern and Southern U.S.), but with a decidedly international bent.

Victrola Favorites offers one of the most interesting and intriguing musical journeys ever committed to plastic. Over the course of two hours of music, Millis and Taylor take us through many lands and possibly hundreds of years of musical tradition. Indeed, there is much to discover: a 1930s raga from India, a sacred chant from Buddhist nuns circa 1915 (the collection’s oldest-known recording), strange yodeling from Persia, hillbilly music (witness Goebble Reeves’s amazing gargle-yodel on the “The Cowboy’s Dizzy Sweetheart”), a West Indian stomp (jazz meets calypso) courtesy of Harold Boyce and the Harlem Indians, Qawwali music from India, Blind Boy Fuller’s swingin’ blues side “Step It Up and Go” and Roy Smeck’s slide guitar wizardry on the 1928 recording of “Laughing Rag.” There are 48 cuts total—all of them excellent. Equally fascinating are the dozens of images of the records’ original artwork, vintage 78 sleeves and labels, photos, advertisements and more that color the book’s 144 pages (there’s also a finely written essay by Millis and a complete track listing).

Sure, the music of Victrola Favorites sounds antiquated and distant—the scratchy static and distortion generated by the stylus dragging across these brittle disks, as well as the rudimentary methods in which they were recorded, contribute to this. But don’t let that hinder you from entering this unusual world of sound; for once you do, you’ll find yourself returning again and again.

Do yourself a favor: treat yourself to this gift of music. You can find Victrola Favorites: Artifacts of Bygone Days at Wall of Sound here or at the Dust to Digital store.

Single Minded

2009-01-08T14:03:00.000-08:00

Everyone's joining clubs these days, on account of it being the new year and all. I, too, joined a club, but not one of those. No, I now belong to the uber-exclusive Sub Pop Singles Club (well, I actually signed up last year). And I'm quite happy about it. For a one-time payment of $90, I can look forward to a vinyl 7-inch record arriving in my mail box every month for a year.

I missed the first go-around of Sub Pop's legendary vinyl clique. And the last one, too. During the original run, I was in college and broke. Not to mention, I didn’t know about Nirvana until 1990, so there was no way I would have been hip to the band’s eventual $1,000 collectable Singles Club offering, “Love Buzz.” I won’t pretend I was there from the beginning. Yes, I was living in the Northwest before almighty grunge eruption, but I was residing in Spokane, well east of grunge ground zero, and was pretty clueless, too, even though Seattle bands would occasionally stop through town (usually for a piss break, sometimes for a show) along 1-90, on their way home or eastward toward Minneapolis. As far as indie labels go, I was just discovering SST records, thanks to Bad Brains. I got into Bad Brains because somebody put I Against I in the reggae section at record store I frequented. Expecting a roots reggae experience I was instead stung by the sonic assault of hardcore Jah. And so began my entry into punk and hardcore and soon Sub Pop, grunge and indie rock.

After finally tuning into Sub Pop’s frequency, I still failed to register for its single of the month club (missing out on another Nirvana single, the Nirvana/Fluid split from 1991—and the only good record the Fluid ever had their name on). I was just too poor to subscribe. I did however manage to get my hands on some of the precious color sides when whatever surplus copies trickled into indie stores I started haunting. And when I was music director of a college radio station, Sub Pop occasionally sent me promo copies of Singles Club releases (I still prize that clear wax Dead Moon 7-inch). (By the way, my college station spun every Sub Pop release, no matter how bad, much to the chagrin of the radio guy at C/Z Records—Sub Pop’s Seattle junior competition at the time.)

In 1993, as the mainstream mutation of grunge continued to fascinate the “Alternative Nation,” Sub Pop pulled the plug on its Singles Club, citing waning interest. At its height, the club boasted almost 8,000 subscribers. By the end of the first run, fewer than 2,000 belonged. Malaise soon spread to the rest of the label. Sub Pop quit signing local bands. Its roster started to suck and the label no longer held sway as a proprietor of hip and cutting-edge music. Not to mention it courted with financial ruin more often than decent new bands. Sub Pop still had plenty of attitude, of course, just not the music to back it up (i.e., Jale, Hardship Post, Five Style, Mike Ireland, Hazel, Grifters, Chixdiggit, Green Magnet School, Heroic Doses, Six Finger Satellite, Combustible Edison, Blue Rags, Heather Duby, 10 Minute Warning, Trembling Blue Stars, Yo-Yo's, Plexi, Supersuckers—according to lore, every record the ’Suckers sold of 1995’s Sacrilicious Sounds... cost the label $50). Nevertheless, I still kept tabs on the label, both as a frustrated fan and as a music journalist. (Sadly, my friends the Makers failed to revive the label, and the Murder City Devils’ massive hype didn’t equate with strong sales.)

But even though the label had been “going bankrupt since 1988,” you could always expect Sub Pop to throw more money at a problem. So right around the turn of the century, just before bands like the Shins, Hot Hot Heat, the Postal Service and Beardo the Folk Singer (you’ve probably heard his songs in a commercial) rescued the label from certain doom, Sub Pop revived the Singles Club. True to form, I failed to enlist again. Not sure why—I could have made a fortune on eBay with that White Stripes single, or even the Bright Eyes, Death Cab for Cutie and Bonnie Prince Billy sides. Oh, I remember why I didn’t fork over the cash: I was barely eking out a living as a writer (surprises me, too). Which is how I managed to get my hands on a couple of these exclusive records—Modest Mouse, Ugly Casanova and Zeke (thank you, Chris Jacobs and Steve Manning!). Oh, and I scored the Kent 3 single, too (which is still very easy to get and very worth getting). But interest in Singles Club redux didn’t amount to more than 2,000 subscribers and went defunct after a couple years.

Like a true record-collecting dork, I’m in the vinyl trade. I collect and sell records. I’m one of those jerks who earns a decent return on limited-edition, mint copies of color pressings of whatever band you’re into presently, but didn’t hear early enough to have scored a copies of that band’s early output. So you bid and I make a handsome profit. Think Melvins, Ween, Mr. Bungle, Pavement, Guided By Voices, Modest Mouse, Sunny Day Real Estate, Murder City Devils, Desert Sessions, etc. (Though, truth be told, I haven’t actually hawked anything on eBay in almost a year.) As you might imagine, I was ecstatic when Sub Pop announced last summer that as part of its 20th anniversary commemoration, it would bring the Singles Club back for another encore—but only for one year. Twelve months, one single per month, starting in August, 2008. And they would only make 1,500 subscriptions available. Seeing instant profit potential, I didn’t hesitate to join this time (expectedly, all subscriptions were quickly claimed). Funny thing, though: in all my time peddling records on the Internets, I’ve only bid on and purchased Sub Pop singles, I’ve never auctioned any.

The first installment of Sub Pop Singles Club 3.0 arrived in August. It was “Gebel Barkal” b/w “Version” by Om, a band originally composed of Sleep’s rhythm section—bassist/vocalist Al Cisneros and drummer Chris Haikus—and whose recent album Pilgrimage (Southern Lord) was a favorite on the home hi-fi. This particular single—stamped on flesh-colored vinyl with a sleeve design that harkens back to the Sub Pop singles of yore—marked the first recordings with Grails’ Emil Amos who replaced Haikus on the drums. Within a week of its arrival the single was fetching as much as $50 on eBay—not a bad return when you think about the cost of each single (roughly $6.50 per). But I wasn’t about to part with it—even if it’s not quite as significant as anything off Pilgrimage. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but it’s not quite satisfying: Just as the tidal force of Om’s swelling rhythm is about to thrash itself on the rock, the band abandons ship. And the flipside is merely a dub rendering of the A-side, complete with the requisite, if cliché, drum reverb and melodica. But it’s single, after all, and one unavailable to the masses at that.

I’m also keeping the other SP singles that have since arrived on my doorstep, records by Unnatural Helpers (featuring members of the Catheters, Double Fudge and Kinski), L.A. girl punks Mika Miko (who get loose and lo-fi on two sides of opaque yellow vinyl), Black Mountain (thankfully minus Amber Webber’s vexing fake yodel) and most recently Brooklyn’s Blues Control (abstract in the abstract).

So far the only of the five Sub Pop singles eBay vinyl fiends aren’t clamoring for is Unnatural Helpers’ four-song pounder, “Dirty, Dumb and Comical.” I guess no one cares about the band’s pedigree or that the propulsive title track which kicks this thing into motion packs a mighty wallop—easily one of my favorite riffs in recent memory. My advice, bid on this one; you’ll get a hell of a bargain.

As for what’s on tap for January, who knows? I’ve yet to see anything new listed in the Discography section of subpop.com. Nevertheless, I’m happy to finally be part of the club.

Impulse Records for the Impulsive Collector

2008-01-18T15:31:00.000-08:00

How Not to Collect LPs

I was impulsive, when I should have exercised caution. Naturally, I’ve learned an important record collecting lesson I thought I had already mastered: When bidding on records on eBay, steer clear of sellers who offer vague descriptions of their goods, particularly if it appears these sellers rarely deal in the vinyl trade. Even if it seems like a good deal. Especially when it seems like a good deal. And especially when the item is minutes from closing and no one’s bid on it. Do so and you just might end up like I did, winning two collectible jazz records, one Coltrane, one Yusef Lateef. Records that, in spite of their descriptions, were all beat to hell and warped, with covers that were advertised as being in “great” condition, but instead had split seams, peeling lamination, mildew stains, and bent corners. Records that set me back about $45 with shipping.

I should have known better; I’ve been collecting records for more than two decades. I know when so-called “rare” records are priced too high, or too low. I know what to look for when examining LPs—how to find a seemingly undetectable warp when the shop won’t let you spin the record on their turntable. And I’m particularly suspicious of used records with a sticker that says “clean.” Just last week, I picked up a “clean” original copy of the Sonics’ 1966 LP Boom at a popular Seattle vinyl outlet; upon close examination, I saw that it was scored with all kinds of hairline scratches. Not surprising, the shop was asking a near-mint price ($225) for a VG record worth maybe $75. I swiftly returned the record to the altar of rarities—the display shelves high above the more common LPs, where all the other overpriced records wait for someone foolish or wealthy enough to grant them salvation from their predicament as precious pop-music artifacts.

What does this have to do with getting ripped off on eBay? I’ll get there, eventually.

For Christmas, I was given a copy of Ashley Kahn’s The House that Trane Built: The Story of Impulse Records (WW Norton, 2006). I’m a big fan of John Coltrane and Impulse Records. When I started collecting jazz LPs about 12 years ago, I began with John Coltrane. No baby steps with Brubeck or Kind of Blue, but straight to A Love Supreme, which I bought as a brand-new reissue, a faithful reproduction (gatefold and all) of the awesome original. I’ve picked up plenty more Impulse Records over the years, on those rare occasions when a record store isn’t charging a small fortune for a well-loved (er, slightly trashed) copy or in the even rarer instance an Impulse LP turns up at a thrift store. I found VG++ to NM original pressings of Coltrane’s Ascension (in mono) and Tom Scott’s Rural Still Life at thrift stores. Reading Kahn’s thorough and detailed portrait of Impulse, its players—from producers Creed Taylor and Bob Thiele to blowers like Coltrane, Sanders, Shepp and Ayler—and all the brilliant avant-garde jazz records it produced rekindled the collector in me. I got all swept up in the Impulse mystique, the mind-blowing music, the trademark orange-and-black spines. The only thing to do: fatten my Impulse collection.

That’s when I got impulsive.

Last week, I had my eye on 40 Impulse LPs on eBay. But as the auctions drew to a close, most of the LPs were bid up way beyond my budget (which wasn’t surprising—a mint first pressing of A Love Supreme is worth several hundred dollars). Jazz collectors know what they’re worth, which is why I only own about 25 Impulse LPs. However, to my surprise, three records I was watching had no bids and ridiculously low starting prices: Art Blakey and His Jazz Messengers, John Coltrane Quartet Africa/Brass and Yusef Lateef The Golden Flute, the latter of which I already owned, but the price was too good to pass up. All were being auctioned by the same seller. All three were original pressings. And yet all three had vague descriptions, like “great condition, but some wear” or “the cover looks great, the record plays well.” Missing, though, was your typical used record jargon: “slight ring wear,” “no seam splits” or “spidering,” “VG++.” Because all three auctions were about to close, there wasn’t time to quiz the seller further about the conditions of his records. So I bid on them—and won two.

Three days later, as I opened the box containing my new acquisitions, my excitement gave way to disappointment. Disappointment in the items. Disappointment in the seller. Disappointment in myself. The Coltrane record was trashed. The description said “has some wear”; in actuality, it was worn out, as if someone had sanded the record. I put it on just to hear how poorly it sounded only to discover it was warped, too! Meanwhile, the Yusef Lateef was in better condition than I expected—though the cover was not in “great condition”—it was a weak VG-. The record looked pretty “clean.” Playing it revealed audible wear (probably from a bad needle) and a significant warp.

Next time, I’ll ignore my impulses, if not Impulse Records. What works for musicians doesn’t work for collectors of their records. I’m just glad I didn’t win the Art Blakey LP.

Never judge a record by its cover (or photo of its cover): The above photo of John Coltrane Quartet Africa/Brass is of the record I won--and is the actual photo posted in the eBay listing.

Loony Tunes: Songs from the Rubber Room

2007-11-16T13:56:00.000-08:00

I wrote the following piece for the Seattle alternative weekly The Stranger in 2002. At the time, I was obsessed with musical outsiders, lunatics and eccentric oddballs--almost anyone who had a slippery grasp on reality but the wherewithal to shout into a microphone or concoct mind-boggling symphonies to God. Perhaps in a future posting, I'll expand the list: Loose screws are everywhere.

Hearing Voices
Music by the Ill and the Eccentric

Boredom drove me to the lunatic fringe. New music had gotten stale, the cutting-edge, dull. Eager to explore new frontiers, I immersed myself in the fascinating world of music made by artists with varying degrees of mental illness or eccentric behavior, music truly on the edge (and often, a few steps over). Whether they're crazy, troubled, or confused, these artists produce songs, no matter how crude, that are heartfelt, soulful, unpredictable, and often unaffected by outside influence. What follows is a short list of artists who rock my record collection.

Syd Barrett
The Madcap Laughs
(Capitol)
Barrett was the genius behind Pink Floyd until his Herculean intake of acid had him tripping right out of reality, never to return. In and out of lucidity, Barrett made this fantastic document of someone dangling over the threshold of sanity. As brilliant as it is, it's also upsetting when considering the future that Barrett dosed away.

Hasil Adkins
Poultry in Motion
(Norton)
The boogieman of Boone County, West Virginia, Adkins has been knocking out primitive rockabilly records from a shack since the '50s. Among his muses: chicken. Be it a dance craze ("Chicken Walk") or a culinary delight ("Cookin' Chicken 1999"), Adkins has built an impressive body of work clucking in the chicken coop.

Larry "Wild Man" Fischer
"Music Business Shark," The Fischer King
(Rhino Handmade)
A true raving loony, Wild Man Fischer was discovered by Frank Zappa, who produced Fischer's debut in 1968 (but apparently never paid him). Fischer could neither sing nor play an instrument, but he could improvise lyrics (with varying degrees of success) and bark them (like an angry, horny sea lion), which is what earned him people's pocket change on L.A.'s streets. This 1980s recording broaches a recurring theme in the life of Fischer: Having felt he was robbed by "music business sharks" (Zappa), he was ever paranoid of not getting paid for his "talents."

Daniel Johnston
"Walking the Cow," Continued Story
(Homestead)
The most heartbreaking and sublimely melodic pop song ever put to tape. Johnston, an obese manic-depressive man-child, penned this number in 1985 and it's still his best.

Crispin Hellion Glover
"These Boots Are Made for Walkin'," The Big Problem
(Restless)
Everyone saw this actor lose it on Letterman when he demonstrated his martial artistry and nearly grazed Dave with a kick. On Nancy Sinatra's "Boots," he totally unhinged. Glover doesn't sing the lyrics as Nancy would; rather, he sobs, wails, and screams them like one whose boots are marching straight toward a padded cell.

Wesley Willis
Greatest Hits Vol. 2
(Alternative Tentacles)
A chronic schizophrenic, Willis uses a canned synth track as the foundation of his songs. Predictable as the music is, what spills out of his mouth is anything but. Greatest Hits Vol. 2 is, so far, the definitive Willis collection, featuring a wealth of songs highlighting the tuneless singer's social commentary on street violence ("Birdman Kicked My Ass"), fashion ("Cut the Mullet"), and thuggery ("I Broke out Your Windshield").

T. Valentine
"Hello Lucille, Are You a Lesbian?"
Hello Lucille, Are You a Lesbian?
(Norton)
If a bloodline could be traced from Wesley Willis, it would lead straight to this R&B catastrophe, who in 1982 dedicated this song to his wife after she came out of the closet. "I hate all lesbians," T. Valentine emotes with a pronounced lisp (hmmm).

Beach Boys
"Fall Breaks and Back to Winter,"
Smiley Smile
(Capitol)
One can only wonder what was coursing through the troubled, drug-addled mind of Brian Wilson when he composed this strange instrumental. Alternating between haunted (the ghostly Beach Boys harmonies) and downright cuckoo (when "The Woody Woodpecker Song" chimes in), "Fall Breaks" was derived from the spooky Smile number "Fire."

Richard Peterson
"New Young Fresh Fellows Theme"
(PopLlama, 7-inch single)
You've probably seen the large-statured Peterson around town, blowing his trumpet with one hand, shaking a bucket of change with the other. Peterson, who should have played the lead in Sling Blade, has recorded four albums of off-kilter easy listening, as well as this 1992 single, in which he wrote and arranged a new theme for YFF (which is musically brilliant), insisting in the lyrics that YFF should add Peterson to the fold.

Joe Meek
It's Hard to Believe: The Amazing World of Joe Meek
(Razor & Tie)
Meek was the British equivalent of Phil Spector in the '50s and '60s, a producer who crammed more into a four-track than just a meager wall of sound. Sadly, the sexually frustrated creator of "Telstar" ended his brilliant career by shooting his landlord and himself in 1967.

Honorable mentions: Jandek, Tiny Tim, Lucia Pamela, Kids of Widney High, Roky Erickson, Skip Spence, Congresswoman Malinda Jackson Parker, Legendary Stardust Cowboy.

From the Nov 21 – Nov 27, 2002 issue of The Stranger

Meet Your Makers II

2007-11-06T08:51:00.001-08:00

This Makers cover shot comes from the defunct Seattle music magazine I edited, The Rocket. Design by Rocket art director Stewart A. Williams, the photo of Mike and Don snapped by Robin Laananen. This particular article, written by Seattle writer Kevan Roberts, appeared in the spring of 2000, a few months before The Rocket went defunct. At the time, the Makers had just released their Sub Pop debut Rock Star God, their most ambitious recording to date and a concept album, no less. Despite drawing a four-star review from Rolling Stone's David Fricke, the album failed to excite the indie landscape and further alienated the band's original garage rock fanbase. Their loss.... But what a cover!

All You Need Is Love

2007-10-07T20:45:00.001-07:00

I have to be honest, there's no reason to post this dusty old record review of CD reissue I wrote for a defunct magazine six years ago other than the fact that I just love this album and have been listening to it quite a bit lately. The thing about Love's Forever Changes is that it's one of those rare albums you could accurately call timeless. Forever Changes is often compared to all the great psychedelic albums that overwhelmed the young masses in 1966 and 1967: The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, Jimi Hendrix's Are You Experienced?, The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Pink Floyd's Piper at the Gates of Dawn. But I don't think of it as part of the great psychedelic canon. To me it transcends all time and space--and genre. Tell me Sgt. Pepper's doesn't sound a bit dated. No, like Bob Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited or Bringing It All Back Home, Nick Drake's Pink Moon, Marvin Gaye's What's Goin' On or Miles Davis' Kind of Blue (or even Bitches Brew), Forever Changes is a true classic. Unlike those records, Forever Changes may be more important today than it was when it first appeared 40 years ago. I'm glad its troubled creator Arthur Lee, who died a couple years back of Leukemia, lived to see his master work get its well-deserved recognition.

Love
Forever Changes
(Elektra/Rhino CD)

When Love entered the studio in 1967, they would summon all their strengths, talents, even demons for what would be their third album for Elektra Records. On the back of the proto-punk hit "Seven and Seven Is," Love's previous album, Da Capo, had enjoyed minor commercial success, and there were high hopes that this new LP would be Love's breakthough. And when the band finally emerged with an album titled Forever Changes, they managed to produce one of the great innovative records of not only 1967 (the year which brought radical rock from Pink Floyd with Piper at the Gates of Dawn, the Beatles with Sgt. Pepper’s, the Mothers of Invention with We’re Only in It for the Money and Tim Buckley with Goodbye and Hello) but the entire ’60s. It was an album that would forever change not just the band itself, but everyone who got tangled in its web of splendor and sorrows. A blockbuster release it was not.

Love's road to Forever Changes was rocky. When the psychedelic folk band convened at an L.A. studio to record it, it was just waking from a long stint of dormancy. The band -- composed of vocalist/guitarist Arthur Lee, guitarist Johnny Echols, guitarist/vocalist Bryan Maclean, bassist Ken Forssi and drummer Michael Stewart -- were lethargic, rusty, out-of-sync -- hardly up to the task of making record, much less a masterpiece. Lee, seemingly the only glue keeping Love together, wasn’t about to let his project crumble. He took control of the sessions (much like Brian Wilson) and became a relentless taskmaster, whipping the band into shape, coaxing some truly amazing work from his mates and thus realizing the brilliance to which this album and its song aspired.

But there’s a darkness that haunts Forever Changes. The album radiates with beautiful, mostly acoustic instrumentation, glorious string arrangements and evocative vocal stylings, but ominous shadows loom over songs, like big black clouds threatening grassy meadows on a spring day.

Much of the gloom stemmed from Lee, whose existential dread in a climate fraught with socio-political and racial tensions and empty hippie idealism forced him into seclusion deep in the Hollywood Hills. And while Lee was a youthful 22 when he began working on the album, he had already resolved that he would be dead by 26. (It never happened, of course.) Naturally, sadness, longing, dread, paranoia, heartache, madness and death infect his songs like a deadly virus. This is particularly felt on the hauntingly gorgeous “The Red Telephone” whose lyrics read: “Sitting on the hillside, watching all the people die, I’ll feel much better when I’m on the other side.” It’s a bad trip, all right, and there are more bad vibes ahead on this compelling work. Other black beauties include “A House Is Not a Motel,” “The Daily Planet,” “Bummer in the Summer” and “Live and Let Live.”

Lee wasn’t the album’s sole visionary. Brian Maclean, Love's most underrated member, brought two of his own songs to the sessions, “Alone Again Or” and “Old Man.” He sang both, casting them in fragile, evocative tenor, rendering sublime melancholy to an album that was already spectacularly sad and emotionally sweeping.

Considering the circumstances into which Forever Changes was born, it’s amazing just how together Love sounds on this album. It’s a stunning document created by the most unheralded band of the 1960s, and it perfectly captures the mood of the times, while offering a portrait of a band on the verge of collapse.

--Joe Ehrbar
Originally published in Backfire, July 2001

Where There's Smoke There's Flaming Lips

2007-09-26T13:10:00.000-07:00

Flaming Lips, Paramount Theatre, Seattle, September 20, 2007

Prior to tonight's show, I would have never guessed that I was allergic to smoke. Not dope or tobacco smoke. No, smoke exhaled by the Flaming Lips' mighty arsenal of smoke machines (Fog Hogs). Never in my 15 years of covering music have I ever been subjected to such an onslaught. So thick was the haze that it swallowed up the band's entire spectacle. Not even the laser lights could permeate the vaporous wall of fog. (You'd think we were on the set of an old Cheech & Chong movie). As soon as the fog enveloped the Paramount's balcony section, my eyes began to water and itch, my nose started to twitch and drip. On several occasions, when the veil dissipated, ringleader Wayne Coyne hoisted his hand-held smoker and filled the holes. My nose wept with snot.

The night wasn't about smoke and tears, though. There were also dozens of giant balloons launched into audience, massive explosions of confetti, an enormous video screen projecting strange films and close-ups of Wayne's nostrils, dancing Santas and aliens and giant inflatables. It was as if some crazed psychedelic band had joyously ransacked the local party supply shop.

As for the music? Well it was pretty great, transcendental even, in that the Flaming Lips didn't need the big-top spectacle. They didn't need Wayne's charming, aw-shucks between-song banter. All those balloons, all that confetti, all that gimmickry--totally unnecessary (though enormously amusing). The music stands on its own two feet, and that's what's important. It's also something that couldn't be said about a Flaming Lips performance a few years ago--back when they opted for a drum machine instead of real-life drummer machine named Kliph. Back when they were unable to equal the greatness and splendor of their recorded psychedelic suites. Back when they were transitioning from a madcap noise-rock band to a symphonic tour de force. Not so anymore. Initially, Wayne's vocals were a little rough, not quite hitting the high notes in the opening song, "Race for the Prize" (thank God for confetti and balloons). But that wasn't all that surprising considering he sings well above his natural register. What's more, instead of warming up backstage, Wayne spent the half-hour prior to the band's set actually on stage, preparing the set and testing equipment right alongside the roadies. (His hands-on approach--uncharacteristic of shows at this level--was as mind-blowing as any of the Lips' songs.)

Back to the music. The Flaming Lips seek to deliver their audience from all that ails it. They offer an uplifting experience that is part religious revival, part carnival, part arena rock revue. And on this night, you had to be pretty jaded not to feel touched by the cosmic joy and energy projected by their music. Sure, songs like "The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song" and "Free Radicals" focal points of the band's latest album, At War with the Mystics, are bogged down by trite political rants. And yet, live these songs radiated with undeniable immediacy and conviction--you couldn't help moving your ass and singing along. (Honestly, I changed my tune about "Yeah Yeah Yeah" and "Radicals" after hearing them live.) The highlight of the show was the closer, "Do You Realize," the catchy, bittersweet anthem about savoring the moment, loving one another, enjoying small triumphs--celebrating life. It served as a poignant reminder: Before we know it, the surprise party of death will greet us, and we don't know if we'll be showered with confetti or swallowed into a smoky abyss.

Like a Freight Train: Melvins Thunder the Showbox

2007-09-19T14:45:00.000-07:00

Melvins, The Showbox, Seattle, September 19, 2007

The Melvins have gotten a little rounder and a bit grayer (OK, Buzz’s gravity-defying mane is A LOT grayer). Middle age has indeed settled in and made itself at home. Sonically speaking, however, the Melvins haven’t gone soft. How could they? They’ve been bulldozing the rock landscape for more than 20 years—and bulldozers don’t tread lightly. If anything, their inimitable sound is nimbler and more muscular. Credit the recent addition of bassist/vocalist Jared Warren and second drummer Coady Willis (both of Big Business).

The Melvins’ appearance at Seattle’s Showbox Sept. 18, the kick-off of their fall 2007 U.S. tour, left no question as to the band’s vitality. On this night, they stormed the stage like a pack of mal-tempered pachyderms, trampling their admirers beneath the overwhelming blunt force of their heavy metal stomp. For 90 minutes, a sold-out crowd absorbed the cataclysmic tremors and serrated shockwaves—and delighted in the menacing punishment. So mighty were their swells of sound, so severe was their punch that one could have easily overlooked the genius of their song architecture, which can be unpredictable and deceptively complex. And yet it was this underlying brilliance that ultimately heightened the impact of their physicality.

As reflected by the new lineup, much of Tuesday’s set focused on material from A Senile Animal—the first album to feature this latest Melvins incarnation. “Civilized Worm,” “A History of Bad Men” and “Rat Faced Granny” highlighted the band’s time-honored signatures (bottom-end bombast, syncopated rhythms, slow-tempo drones, King Buzzo’s snarling vocals, Dale Crover’s percussive wallop) but were augmented by newly acquired strengths—Jared’s shrieking, higher-octave wails and harmonies and the violent, tenacious thrashing of the Crover and Willis tandem.

The Melvins are showing their age, all right. But they aren’t old.

Melvins Unleashed and on Tour!

2007-09-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

The following is a short piece I penned for the Seattle P-I, in which I interviewed Melvins co-founder and traps pounder Dale Crover. At the time, the Melvins were still a trio--it would be a few years before the enlistment Big Business partners bassist/shouter Jared Warren and drummer Coady Willis. The latest Melvins incarnation is again making a menace of itself in U.S. clubs through the fall. If you haven't had the pleasure of subjecting yourself to the savage splendor of the Melvins' latest LP, A Senile Animal, well, then what are you waiting for? Look for a lengthy Q&A with King Buzzo from 2000 (previously printed in The Rocket) in the coming weeks.

Club Beat: No Energy Crisis for the Melvins
Friday, January 26, 2001

By JOE EHRBAR
SPECIAL TO THE POST-INTELLIGENCER

"We're just lucky, I guess."

That's one way Melvins drummer Dale Crover explains his band's remarkable longevity of 17 years. And he's right, they are lucky. The Melvins, who, in Aberdeen, forged grunge by crossing metal (Sabbath) with punk (Flipper) and slowed the whole thing to a sludgy crawl, and who acted as a catalyst in the formation of Nirvana, remain standing, still aspiring toward new artistic heights, and showing no signs of fatigue. A mighty achievement for a band that only haunts the fringes of the mainstream.

The Melvins—Crover, guitarist/vocalist Buzz Osborne (a.k.a. King Buzzo) and bassist Kevin Rutmanis—perform tonight in the Sky Church at EMP, the museum their formidable sound helped build (8 p.m., $5). (But don’t call them a museum piece.)

"We've had our ups and downs, but we really enjoy playing with each other," says Crover, whose soft-spoken manner belies his bombastic drumming. "I still really like all the songs that Buzz writes. It's exciting, challenging, worth doing."

The Melvins, now based in Los Angeles, have survived in a hostile music industry largely because of the strong bond that exists between Osborne and Crover and their fierce devotion to the band's independence and craft. Even when they were signed to Atlantic for three albums (1993's Houdini, 1994's Stoner Witch and 1996's Stag), they maintained that integrity.
If anything, they grew more adventurous—not to mention dissonant—during their major-label stay and allowed their metallic mountain-moving sound to wander freely into more experimental realms.

By eluding convention the Melvins have kept things interesting for themselves. In doing so, they've befuddled their fan base, something in which the band undoubtedly takes great delight.
For instance, during 1999 and 2000 the trio released a trilogy of albums, The Maggot, The Bootlicker and The Crybaby (Ipecac), each bearing little similarity to the other. Maggot stomped around familiar Melvins noise-metal territory; Bootlicker delved into psychedelic madness and creepy ambiance; while Crybaby kicked and screamed through a disjointed mess of unusual collaborations with likes of Hank Williams III, former teen idol Leif Garrett, among others.

The Melvins' next wave of releases is equally perplexing. First up will be Electroretard (Man’s Ruin), an EP of covers and reworked—or mutated—versions of old songs, in February, followed by a live album of scalding-hot white noise titled Colossus of Destiny, in April. Crover calls Colossus "our Metal Machine Music album," referring to Lou Reed's infamous noise recording from 1975.

"We never know what to expect with our band," Crover admits. "So it's even a surprise to us."

While anything's possible at tonight's show, count on the Melvins not to consign themselves to EMP's permanent collection.

Go see the Melvins (tour dates): http://www.ipecac.com/calendar.php