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.

Single Minded

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

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

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

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!