Journey Through the Past

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?

Kinks.

Why Won’t Bob Seger Die?

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

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?

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

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)

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)

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.