My 2009 Hit List (part 1)

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...

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?

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

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

White Light, White Heat, White Trash

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

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

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.