Mining the Motherload Railroad

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

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

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. 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

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...?

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

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

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.