Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sunday, Bloody...
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Book? Who’d Read It?
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….
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Same Goes for Christopher Cross
Friday, October 30, 2009
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
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
Initially, the White Stripes recorded a couple 7-inch singles, released in small runs by tiny labels, and played few shows outside
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
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Drawing Flies
History of Trench Records Part 3It 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.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Boycott vs. the Boys Club
History of Trench Records Part 21994
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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
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!
