mild psychedelics and melancholy brass - The Chester Records Picks of the week (Tame Impala and Beirut)

Tame Impala

the stuff is here, dig?

Beirut's Zack Condon



Great Regional Compilations of the U.S. Punk/Hardcore/Underground Era Part One: the CLEVELAND CONFIDENTIAL 7" (1980) and LP (1982)



Over the decades, the Cleveland punk scene of the late ‘70s/early ‘80s has developed a well deserved mystique. While Ohio surely had important goings-on statewide, particularly in Columbus and Akron, it’s really no argument that Cleve-o ruled the punk/u-ground roost, steadily secreting a dark and bilious strain of oppositional noise that reflected their locale’s rep for pollution, malaise and stagnation. Some bands practiced a pummeling and nihilistic pure punk brutality (The Pagans), others conjured up a potent blend of art and rock that someone coined avant-garage (Pere Ubu), and a few mixed these extremes into a harried mess of anti-social sound (Electric Eels). And it wasn’t just a handful of band’s on which the city’s rep rests.

The young Mike Hudson

The Pagans’ Mike Hudson formed the record label Terminal and did a fine job of documenting just what was happening in Cleveland at the dawn of the ‘80s with a couple of essential compilations, both titled CLEVELAND CONFIDENTIAL. The first was a six-song 7” EP, the latter a 15-track full length album, and the pair do a thorough job of documenting the area’s deep and varied activity during the period. By the point of their release the possibility of realizing any kind of widespread commercial success playing raw punk was basically nil, and these two comps avoid any last-gasp-grasping for that elusive/bogus brass ring and were instead clearly preoccupied with annotating the assorted personalities and styles of a community that was engaged in a small-scale, basically local exchange of ideas. The Overground label has combined the contents of these records onto one CD, but I don’t have it, and since the careless mislabeling of two tracks makes their endeavor seem rather mercenary (or at least lazy), I doubt it will ever fall into my possession. Plus, the CD places the 7” after the album, and that’s another error. Sure it’s a mistake that’s easily corrected with the pressing of a few buttons, but it seems rather obvious from simply listening to the records that chronological sequencing was the appropriate way to go. The EP serves as an attention-getting jab, and the LP still stands as a walloping haymaker full of the artful channeling of anger, alienation and dysfunction. But enough carping from me. The CD is no longer in print anyway, so if you don’t want to pay collector prices to hear this stuff a studious search of the internet is the smart way to proceed. And since petty theft and the illicit sale of amphetamines helped to fund the production of these records (so sayeth Mr. Hudson), it’s not like anybody can get all high and mighty if you just snatch the tracks from the web. And if you do, try to secure and listen to the EP tracks first, for that swell half-dozen deserve to function as more than just an addendum.

the 7''

Hell, The Clocks’ riffy rethink of The Stones’ attitudinal cornerstone “Time Is On My Side” displays a fine level of workaday invention, and things just roll from there with a nice diversity of texture and sensibility. That The Pagans’ “Cleveland Confidential” rules the roost here shouldn’t be a surprise, since they were one of North America’s greatest punk bands (and still unheralded relative to their level of quality), with this track being no exception, featuring wall-to-wall guitar throttling (and a gorgeous solo), a brilliantly basic rhythmic attack, and wailing/squealing vocals via Hudson that pierce the air like a slightly less overwrought Bobby Soxx. It’s some seriously primal huffing. Invisibles explore a similar zone, but their wigged-out rave-up ultimately feels a bit like a more punk-reverent Midwest-version of Urinals. Broncos really stick out with an arty/oddball mix that falls somewhere between shambling and catchy. “TKO” eschews distortion, embraces the vocal style of a sleepy nerd (which is a great vocal style to embrace) and rides a loping mid-tempo into territory that’s not far from what was happening in UK DIY during the same period. The Impalers and AK-47’s both utilize a sludginess that became a major component in u-ground rock roughly a decade later, though the former’s “Hit and Run” is a femme-voxed belter (makes me think in the gal-wing of the ‘90s Pacific Northwest scene) and the latter’s “Accident” is more of a slow grinder (recalls “My Dad’s a Fucking Alcoholic” by Denver’s The Frantix, though no, it’s not as great as that classic).

The Pagans

What these six tracks emphasize is a general disinterest in the streams of developing punk orthodoxy, particularly the need for speed over time-tested rock dynamics. Hardcore never really gathered much steam in Cleveland, at least not to the extent of igniting any kind of historically relevant scene. What caught on instead was a mix of classique punk spirit crossed with various strains of stark subterranean rock invention. And the results still kick out sparks and shards of heavy relevance. The LP’s level of misanthropy starts strong with “Cry 816” by The Womanhaters, who were essentially a brief Mike Hudson affair between the first two incarnations of The Pagans.

The LP

They avoid standard punk qualities in favor of pulsating blues-like slide guitar swampiness, and the atypical throb helps to register the band’s moniker as darkly literary ala Jimbo Thompson (and prescient of Pere Ubu’s 2006 CD WHY I HATE WOMEN) instead of just a cheap ploy for attention through shock value (My!! Those boys sure are misogynistic!). And the song features vocal assistance from Laura West and Mary Hudson (Mike’s wife), their growl really helping to thicken the stew. So it’s doubtful they hated women all that much. Impressive stuff for starters. The band Severe feature Broncos’ vocalist Keith Matic and bassist Tim Allee, and they tone down the quirk in favor of a quick and heavy grind that’s not that far away from early Cali beach punk. But weirder. Since I don’t have Hudson’s notes in front of me, I’m not really sure how Menthol Wars fit into this picture. Soon to be famous artist Robert Longo was the Wars’ singer, and much info points to them as a New York band.

Robert Longo

Well, there’s always been a NYC/Cleve-o connection, so it all feels right. On “Even Lower Manhattan” Longo’s vocals sound a bit like a slightly more agitated Ric Ocasek and the music lands somewhere between keyboard-driven wave-oid herky-jerk and an anonymous Coyote Records’ band. It kind of makes me want to pin badges (or buttons) onto a threadbare thrift-store suit jacket. How trendy of me.Defnics’ “Suicide Trip” offers inspired riff-chug bombast augmented with extended slashing soloing and a saliva-drenched microphone. Grouchy stuff.

Robert Griffin is known by some as the guy who started Scat Records. Many more people know Scat Records at least indirectly as the label that helped propel Guided By Voices to international fame and countless hops-inspired bathtub slumbers. But back before that, as a young teenager, he joined up with a bunch of other youths (13-15 years of age) to form The Dark. And if you’re hoping for Red Cross you’ll be disappointed. Instead, “I Can Wait” features some thick doomy crunch before undergoing the sort of up-tempo shift that countless ‘80s punk bands so heavily embraced. Any city or region with a sizeable scene likely had a band or three that sounded like The Dark, and at this late date that’s pretty okay. I’m sure it would’ve been even better live. On the other end of the spectrum, there were very few bands anywhere that sound like The Styrenes. Formed in 1975 from the ashes of the brilliant proto-punk band Mirrors by Paul Marotta and Jamie Kimmik, The Styrenes played a major role in Cleveland’s proletarian art attack, and any history of the city’s soundscape that doesn’t address their importance is woefully incomplete. The track included here, Marotta’s “Jaguar Ride” differs radically from its previous appearance in the discography of Electric Eels, where it existed as a caustic dose of street-punk in the lineage of The Stooges. Here it’s nicely mut(il)ated into a choppy, strummy shout-along with vocals that suggest a Noo Yawk drug-friendly incarnation of J. Richman, cosmopolitan/slummy scarf wearing attitude and all. At under a minute thirty they provide the record’s most concise and yet most expansive statement. At least up to this point.

The Styrenes

If the Styrenes seem like a hard act to follow; well, yeah. But Invisibles make a return appearance from the 7”, and frankly those fuckers have moxie, giving more of that insistently minimalist Happy Squid-like sound, with fi as lo, at least on the punk front, as anything this side of The Injections’ “Prison Walls”. The band’s sole discography consists of these two comp tracks, both recorded live, and the lore surrounding them suggests difficulties of artistic temperament contributed mightily to their scarcity of catalog. Drinking in one long look at Bernie Invisible (see here) radiates a vibe not unlike that produced by a character from an unfilmed early Jarmusch screenplay, the kind of snarky miscreant that drives everyone in his proximity half-batshit. Yet leeway is given for it’s understood that the skinny, obnoxious urchin just might be capable of great things. And in their own small way Invisibles proved up to the task, opening for Talking Heads at CBGB and Cramps in their own backyard. I’d love to hear the rest of those live tapes, if they weren’t impulsively chucked into the flaming Cuyahoga. Lab Rats close side A with a faithful yet cacophonous cover of the Shocking Blue warhorse “Venus”. Appearing roughly four years prior and to absolutely no fanfare, it’s still almost enough to wipe my memory banks clean of the ’86 “hit” version by those glitzy models in Bananarama. Where the excellent original has always felt a bit like Grace Slick trying for a solo one-off pop hit from back before the Airplane so horribly crashed and morphed into the ungainly thing that was Starship, this version is more like late ‘70s Patti Smith attempting the same sorta feat but without the songwriting auspices of that Fonzarelli-wannabe Springsteen. There are wheezing horns, a wheedling synth and a general high level of racket, so high in fact that any pop potential is most assuredly illusory (But I ask, can we not, should we not dream?). Opening side B, Keith Matic steps out front with his third contribution to the record, “I Really Want to Stay (Lost In Rome)”. It’s his most fully realized effort in conventional rock terms, though it still has its punk roots showing through the toughness of the instrumentation. Songwriting wise, it hints at a slightly poppy ‘60s inclination, which fits well with the sorta-nationwide tendency in this period as many grew upwards from basic punk beginnings and started moving beyond the standard proto-punk cornerstones (think Paisley Underground and the early Athens and Hoboken scenes). At its best, this movement forward by looking back avoided the trappings of phony post-new wave posturing, and Keith Matic is a fine example. The guy’s collected tracks share definite commonalities (alienation over anger, popish bedrock) yet are still distinct. It’s enough to make him appear like a neglected figure. Wow, another one. To be blunt, a name like Jazz Destroyers basically demands that Borbetomagus-like levels of clamor and scree be attained. Or at least Last Exit. Well, the band falls so short of this mark that I kinda feel like a jerk for even bringing it up.

Dave E. circa-Electric Eels

Where Dave E.’s previous band Electric Eels did create quite a bit of momentary noise-skronk havoc that acknowledged the exquisite mayhem of free-improv (without actually being comparable to the genre), “Love Meant to Die” is ultimately far too mannered and flat out structured to disrupt much more than a church picnic. It is a good tune, though. They just set themselves up for derision with their provocative name. Offbeats have gathered a bit of retrospective panache over the years as one of ‘80s Ohio’s more traditionally minded punk acts, and their slightly poppy and highly speedy “I’m Confused” shows that their oeuvre is more than worth the effort. At those times when nothing but unfettered punkoid velocity and tunefulness will do the trick, Offbeats should fit the bill quite nicely, without leaving the impression of wasted time.

Speaking of punk, Pagans’ “Boy Can I Dance Good” is so infused with vocal snot, guitar snarl, bass throb and spot-on drumming that it’s a dead ringer for this comp’s best straight-up punk cut. And with backing vox from Pere Ubu’s own David Thomas, it has much added historical interest. Now, Red Decade’s “Scars of Lust” is where the situation really takes an unexpected turn. Over eight minute’s worth of riffy, angular instrumental hoo-hah that utilizes the usual rock lineup with saxophone added, it’s a tour de force of being stuck between cyclical holding patterns and forward momentum. As such, it’s more than slightly reminiscent of No Wave, except Red Decade doesn’t really appear to have any Noo Yawk-style chips on their shoulders. Hudson favorably compares them to Glen Branca, and yeah I can hear it, but I don’t think I would’ve made that connection without his assistance. It might also be appropriate to compare this to the outsider Cali art damage that hung around the fringes of that state’s punk scene in the early ‘80s. Not so much the L.A.F.M.S but more so the sweetly weird shit that was splattered upon the side 2’s of those long lost LIFE IS…. comps. “Scars of Lust” is much more fully realized than that stuff though. So, hey. Hey! I just know there was a busload of folks scratching their heads and cursing over the inclusion of this one.  What a cool prospect. Now, cool of an entirely different sort is John Lovsin’s slice of guitar-pop brilliance “Key of E”. So unapologetically polite in comparison to everything else here that it sticks out like a sore something or other, it’s also a flat out joy. That politeness factor also keeps me from corralling this into the arena of power-pop; instead of exuberant attitude it excels at the elevation of a downtrodden sensibility. But since this is pop, it never gets too caught up in its own emotions. And not even a blip of artiness. What a standout. Now to wrap things up, let me just say that in my estimation there is only one Jim Jones. That Guyana Cult guy? Dead to me. The real Jim Jones was a Cleve-o fixture, adding luminous invention to not only early Papa Ubu and the excellent Home and Garden, but also to the justifiably legendary Easter Monkeys, whose “Cheap Herion” wraps up this LP.

Easter Monkeys

A molten slice of advanced avant-garage mulch, the tune grinds and bruises into a mid-tempo groove, with the doom laden pulse leaving spacious room for an extended dialogue between a scathing, agitated guitar and a squealing, anguished synthesizer. Urban disaffection doesn’t get any better. One of the most galvanizingly lost of all lost bands, Easter Monkeys prove in one cut that all the hot air and drool spent over the rarified status of the Cleveland Ohio underground has been well deserved. If anything, the city (and state) might still be a mite underestimated. Times have certainly changed and the environment(s) that helped shaped the type of hyperactive regionalism on display here is likely gone forever. Most of the folks on CLEVELAND CONFIDENTIAL probably had a difficult time connecting (both emotionally and in the flesh) with people on the other side of their forsaken city, much less on the other side of the globe. But they managed to dodge the slings and arrows of fucked-up circumstance and get it all done anyway. Good job, Hudson. You can rob me anytime.

The old Mike Hudson

Two dishes from the Dischord kitchen- The Chester Records picks of the week (Joe Lally and Fugazi)

Joe Lally with Emanuele Tomasi and Elisa Abela. Photo by Antonia Tricarico

the relevant passages can be found here

Fugazi

The Auteur Files #13: Adventures in the Criterion Collection Part Five; Or, Life Is Ephemeral -- Yasujirō Ozu's EARLY SPRING (Eclipse Series 3a)



“I tried to avoid anything dramatic, and instead piled up scenes where nothing at all happens, so as to let audience feel the sadness of their existence.” Ozu on EARLY SPRING

I’m quite candid over Yasujirō Ozu’s TOKYO STORY being my all-time favorite film. It’s certainly possible that some masterpiece will one day enter my consciousness and topple it from this position, but the quiet, sublime humanism of this enduring classic from 1953 affects me on such a profound level that I’m quite doubtful. For years in my little nook of the globe Ozu was brutally hard to see, so when the opportunity presented itself to watch STORY, a film that was consistently bandied about in serious critics-polls as one of the greatest ever made, I didn’t hesitate. That its beauty far exceeded my expectations is credit to its placement in the cinematic canon. One of the sweetest turns of events over the last few years is the increasing availability of Ozu’s films both early and late, with Criterion’s Eclipse series knocking out two boxed volumes of the man’s work for cinephiliac consumption. LATE OZU, a five disc set dedicated to a large chunk of his masterly final period, is simply an essential document that’s sheer value is incalculable. EARLY SPRING, the film that directly followed TOKYO STORY in Ozu’s oeuvre is included in the set, and while a gap of three years occurred between the works it’s quickly apparent that the director suffered no diminishment in his creative powers.

The first thing that should be said, indeed the first thing that is often said regarding Ozu (in order to prepare the curious and scare away those with insufficient attention spans or inappropriate expectations), is that his cinema is slow. This slowness doesn’t register in the manner of art-film/indie/experimental tropes, methods that often strive to aestheticize alienation and existential stasis to varying degrees of success. No, Ozu’s slowness is much closer to the grammar of classic film style, the sturdy deliberate quality and the quiet stateliness joining in deep harmony with his themes, ideas deeply concerned with the emotional effects of human relationships instead of the often flashier intrigues of plot. Contrary to the quote above, many things do happen in the films of Ozu; people wake, rise, work, converse, eat, laugh, play, argue, sleep. And while these activities unfold and provide the characters with quiet dignity, the story’s weight unfolds. EARLY SPRING is easy to describe in terms of its core narrative. Shoji and Masako are married. They’ve lost a son, and both are somewhat dissatisfied with their marriage and with life in general. Shoji is a “salaryman”, a non-skilled office worker who commutes to Tokyo by train. He establishes friendships in his daily routine and eventually succumbs to an affair with a fellow commuter. Masako shoulders the weight of domesticity and begins to suspect Shoji’s infidelity as he grows more distant. Eventually the fact of his adultery drives a wedge between them, with Masako leaving their home and Shoji accepting a transfer to a small town and departing alone. The film ends with Masako making the trip to rejoin her husband and the two resolving to make a fresh start, a denouement that lacks any sense of false hope or “happy ending” triteness, instead working in perfect agreement with Ozu’s intentions.

Yes, stuff is happening in EARLY SPRING, but it’s often the same stuff; he expertly uses structural repetition, depicting the same or similar activities as commentary on the mundane cycle of daily life. The soundtrack music during the opening credits is reminiscent of old Hollywood style, but once the film’s action begins the scoring is minimal, mostly used in scene transitions. In contrast, Ozu favors incidental music, the singing of characters or none at all. As the narrative gradually unfolds the film is peacefully respectful to how these characters carry on through the commonplace activities of their lives, and much information is communicated to the viewer without needless dialogue. The way the camera captures the routine of workers preparing for departure on the Tokyo train shows a life that is burdened by the necessity of daily ritual, for one instance, or the atmosphere of non-dynamic repetition that is office work for another. When his workers converse and attempt to inject spontaneity into their lives with a Sunday hike, the activity is shown to be hampered by familiarity; there is mild comedy here, but Ozu’s overall intention is to give portraiture to the malaise of life. When Shoji and the woman of his eventual affair, named Goldfish due to her large eyes, hitch a ride unexpectedly, their action departs so much from the expected sameness of the hike that it inspires a large commotion in the rest of the group.

The main focus of the story is how one couple deals with a marital indiscretion, but the overwhelming theme of the film concerns a large cast of characters coping with the inevitable disappointments of human existence. And they are truly well fleshed out characters, not symbols or stereotypes; the amount of time and care that Ozu gives in their depiction is absolutely essential. Early in the film, there is an easy conversation between Shoji, his older visiting friend Onodera and the proprietor of a local milk bar. All three express dissatisfaction with the paths of their lives’ vocations and the general atmosphere feels like a collective indulgence in a round of “the grass is always greener”. Late in the film, after his marriage has splintered and a close young friend has died, Shoji partakes in another conversation, the subject similar to the first but this time much more grim in tone.

There is profound sadness over this sick man dying at age 32, overdosing on sleeping pills while living with his mother. When the line “We live on, but we’re not happy” is delivered and it is suggested that the dying man may indeed have been lucky, it is the depth of the characters, the truth of their experiences and the precision with which Ozu moves them through his world that allows them to register not as callow or self-centered but to instead strike a universal chord that one character succinctly states as “life is ephemeral”.

The way Ozu composes shots of humans in rooms is a joy, as is EARLY SPRING’s long shots of city buildings that feel like B&W paintings; but the form is always securely tied to the content, the connection as deep as it is in the work of any old Hollywood master. It’s no surprise that Ozu was an admirer of Ernest Lubitsch, and in fact TOKYO STORY was at least somewhat inspired by Leo McCarey’s masterwork MAKE WAY FOR TOMORROW. And the director is fantastic at showing us sides of the human condition that transcend borders or cultures. A mother is concerned for her daughter, curious without being meddlesome. There is woman talk over spinsters, widows and the idea of remarrying. A line of dialogue succinctly expresses being taken for granted (“Wife is just a cooking machine”) while a husband, angry over an unprepared dinner, goes out to hang with the boys. We see the seemingly universal ritual of group-singing and revelry and drunken shit-talking. And gossip permeates the air like a foul wind. Just one aspect that makes Ozu’s cinema so amazing is even with all this common human ground his cinema is still profoundly Japanese, existing as a true doorway into another culture and time. Another interesting element is that the film holds not only no villains, but also no overt indicators for audience sympathies. Yes, I suppose it’s easier to identify with Masako than Goldfish, particularly since the latter is volatile and somewhat immature, but this tendency is part of our preconditioning, not anything coded into the film. No music accents Goldfish’s statement that “I hate you’re wife now” or tugs at our heart strings to take sides when Masako and Shoji drift apart.

And the scene of a drunken home invasion by Shoji and two old army buddies is brilliantly depicted, with the viewer left to struggle with moments of comedy (the small gesture of the hand of an inebriated man caressing the ass of a mannequin is simply perfect) amidst the despair and resolve of Masako, dealing with not only her crumbling marriage but the eve of the anniversary of her son’s death. And earlier, the grace with which that army reunion switches from alcohol-fueled camaraderie into something far more somber is a trait that shows Ozu’s sheer skill with acting, space, composition and the rare ability to use silence as an expressive tool. Along the way, Ozu is powerfully evenhanded in regard to gender. Men are shown as being possibly the worst gossips, and no way is domestic life belittled. On the contrary, the women, particularly Masako and her Mother, are possibly the strongest characters in the film. This fairness to gender spreads over to the concept of age. While older characters like the Mother and Onodera are possessed of wisdom and acceptance, this is in no way pitted against the inexperience of the young. Goldfish’s problematic immaturity is given as much dignity as anyone in the story. Even a meddling neighbor holds human dimension. When this woman describes to Masako how she discovered her husband’s infidelity with his mistress in a rented apartment, going so far as to divulge the food he was preparing at the time (tofu and bonito), it at first feels aberrant in the midst of Ozu’s grand human scheme. But when she leaves to join her husband, the irony that they are going to partake of the same meal, and prepared by him no less is a beautiful leveler, suggesting that her actions and surroundings speak far louder than her words. But three scenes in the film really bring home Ozu’s commitment to humanist filmmaking.

First, at the moment Goldfish and Shoji are consummating their affair, the camera turns away to study the movements of an electrical fan. Instead of prudish, this decision feels non-judgmental, an acknowledgement of human weakness, and also a gesture of respect to his characters dignity in the face of our possible judgment. Second, in a conversation between Shoji and a co-worker, there is a powerful contrast between the loss of Shoji and Masako’s son and this co-worker’s fears over the unplanned pregnancy of his wife. Shoji shares his experience with total understanding and respect for the co-worker’s worries over money and the change this child will bring, the two ultimately bonding over the unexpected inevitabilities of their lives. Last and most important, Shoji and Masako’s reconciliation registers as sincere, again not as a shallow happy ending but instead as the admittance and acceptance of a mistake and furthermore as a way for the two to battle the existential pain of life together, a regeneration of energy through union after the solitude of their estrangement proved worse for the them both. There is no false sense of optimism. The unavoidable nature of existence is still very much in front of them, and now they must face it for three years in a small, unappealing town full of huge, billowing smokestacks. Ozu’s film shows life as it is; an endless struggle, with fitful moments of joy in the midst of pain, disappointment and uncertainty.

These two lovely but unexceptional representatives of humanity’s beauties and faults choose two of the most affirming of all actions, sincere regret and forgiveness, in hopes of moving forward, and in so doing give this wonderful film a truly appropriate sense of closure. It’s been said that Ozu’s cinema is out of step with the times, but the more of his work I see the more I think that’s bullshit. I’m gonna make it plain. Ozu isn’t out of step with anything; he died in 1963. The reality is our times are seriously out of step with the eternal qualities of his work. Attentively watching EARLY SPRING, meeting it on its terms instead of demanding it conform to contemporary expectations, it’s impossible to not be absorbed on some level by the rendering of the human condition, but sadly that’s in direct opposition to the overload of sensation, stimulation and distraction that is such a large part of contemporary life. Can’t see the forest for the overabundance of fake plastic trees. But I don’t want to come off like some sort of cultural grump-ass, so enough. Some will love him, most will never encounter his name, but Yasujirō Ozu is NOW.



Yasujirō Ozu

Picks For Chester Records - The Early Weeks (LCD Soundsystem, James Brown, Dag Nasty, The Stanley Brothers, Deerhunter, Muddy Waters)



These six pieces were my first group of picks for Winchester, VA vinyl shop Chester Records, completed for the store's blog before I started sensibly linking them each each week in this space. Naturally I want them here, so below you shall find....

The growth of producer/musician James Murphy as documented by his activities via the DFA label has been impressive. Initially, his group LCD Soundsystem was just one of a hot handful of names under the DFA umbrella dedicated to combining dance music aesthetics with a punk/experimental edge. All that worked out surprisingly well, with Murphy and partner Tim Goldsworthy becoming in demand remix specialists, tackling tunes from sources diverse as The Blues Explosion, The Chemical Brothers and Justin Timberlake. Along the way, LCD slowly kept gathering momentum, getting nominated for Grammys while expanding the scale of the group’s sound. I use the word group loosely; Murphy is the creative force behind the LCD moniker, and the Top Ten charting THIS IS HAPPENING finds him attaining a consistently high standard. Utilizing a smart set of influences is a huge part of his success, but songwriting has also come to play an increasingly important role. THIS IS features a handful of cuts that display a maturing pop sensibility married to Murphy’s sonic attack. “All I Want” features the sort of anthemic melancholia that’s reminiscent of and a worthy successor to Bowie’s “Heroes”, and “I Can Change” feels like what might’ve happened had Vince Clarke replaced Gary Numan in The Tubeway Army. Lotsa soaring high notes and boing-boing robotics, ya dig? Other parts of the record fuse this popishness to Murphy’s now well-established off-the-cuff quirk with fine results. Album opener “Dance Yrself Clean” is the best example of this savvy combination, feeling like an early version of Depeche Mode that honed their chops not in England but in the dank New York clubs of the early ‘80s. And those who love the making it all up as he goes along mouthy quality from the earlier records have nothing to worry about. “You Wanted a Hit” and “Pow Pow” continue the development of LCD’s more extemporaneous side, with the later displaying sonic touches of the youngish New Order until the arrival of a down and dirty bass-line seamlessly shifts the focus to percolating techno-funk throb, and all the while Murphy’s talking and talking. While it’s nice to name check the influences (amongst other elements, Eno is a major implicit presence, there are touches of Kraftwerk’s techno-pop period, and the cover photo is obviously inspired by artist Robert Longo), what’s more important is how these reference points are assembled. As a 40-year old dude, Murphy heard a whole lot of his inspiration as it happened, and he’s had a whole lot of time to reflect on just how to integrate those elements. The punkish vibe of LCD (and DFA in general) has nothing to do with snarly snotty posing and everything to do with reverence for a period in the punk chronology where Suicide were considered as legitimate an example of the form as The Ramones. Experimentation as one part of a well-balanced diet. Another major factor in the success of the sound lies in the avoidance of the use of computer software. Murphy has a stated preference for analog sound (the synths he uses are the kind you play, not program), and that really makes a difference, since a longstanding aspect of LCD’s success is the sort of clinical iciness that has inspired black-clad pale-skinned boys and girls to mope around for roughly three decades. Underneath that icy quality however is warmth provided by the instrumentation. This mix of cold/hot goes all the way back to Cabaret Voltaire and The Normal’s “TVOD”/”Warm Leatherette”, and it’s a big reason why Depeche Mode and New Order still resonate with people born after those band’s formative years. On THIS IS HAPPENING James Murphy has set his personal bar extremely high, with nary a dud or a tangible dip in quality, and it’ll be interesting to see if he continues to mine this fertile territory or lights out in a different direction.

James Murphy

Lucky for us, since the dawn of recorded sound, history has handed us a steadily growing resource of music that can reasonably be described with the admittedly somewhat overused term “great”. Additionally, there exist a much smaller number of aural documents that sit at the highest level of esteem, what some would call essential listening and others might bestow as the absolute crème de la crème. The previous two sentences are a loquacious way of saying that there are records and then THERE ARE RECORDS: James Brown’s LIVE AT THE APOLLO is an example of the caps font variety. I’ll state the case and make it plain. This 1962 LP is almost certainly the greatest live recording of all time. Now, to expand a bit- the music found on this brief slab of vinyl is a rare glimpse of raw artistry distilled into a perfectly calibrated performance, where Brown, then at an early peak in his long career as a groundbreaking R&B bandleader par excellence, engaged in a glorious give-and-take/tug-of-war with his crack band The Famous Flames, their collective effort inspiring a feverish dialogue with a theater filled to capacity with passionate fans. It’s the personification of hard soul, and the ability of the band to navigate a varied terrain of raucous crowd movers/slow burners honed down to their very essence has lost none of its brilliance. Naturally, Brown presides over this dynamic showcase with faultless urgency and precision. Never is there any doubt that James is the crucial element of the show, and it’s his relentlessness, his joy, his anguish, his pleading that truly elevates the recording of this performance (just one of a weeklong engagement) to legendary status. The centerpiece of the record is “Lost Someone”, which takes up over a third of the album’s running time. Brown swings into a mode of extended gospel testifying before gradually shifting into a bout of call and response with the increasingly overwrought audience as the band sagely simmers and accents the proceedings, and then quickly, with an emphatic shout out of “Please Please Please”, the direction shifts into a medley of tunes that instead of feeling underwhelming or cheap (as medleys so often do), actually attains an aura of sensible grandeur. It’s almost as if playing the songs in their entirety would’ve caused The Apollo to spin into orbit from sheer euphoria. In the annals of soul music, there are two guys who basically invented it, Ray Charles and Sam Cooke, and then two other guys who took that impetus and ran with it full steam into the 1960s, Otis Redding and James Brown (we’ll discuss the girls another time). All four of these names deserve a monument at least the size of Rushmore. But it was Brown who seized upon the essence of this most communicative of pop music forms and boiled it down to a simple equation. Lungs + sweat + groove x (crowd) = Star Time. Are you ready for Star Time?

Mr. JB

 

 

Post-hardcore was a vague catchall term used in the late-‘80s to describe various advancements being made in the underground scene by aging punks looking for new kicks. Some of the noisier/artier bands that once fell under this description are now categorized as indie-rock, Dinosaur Jr. being a fine example. But many post-HC units were distinct from their peers in that instead of subverting or moving beyond the rudiments of hardcore punk they actively sought to expand the genre into something less rigid or predictable. Probably the two biggest locales for post-HC were Chicago and the Nation’s Capital, and this makes total sense. The Windy City’s geographical position made it less likely to fall victim to faddism or to develop niche scenes that were in direct opposition to the punk/hardcore impulse, and DC’s function as the nerve center of the Federal Government played a large role in shaping how many in the District elected to transform hardcore, which was quite often a very political genre, instead of abandon it. Dag Nasty were part of the initial wave of DC post-HC bands, and until the emergence of Fugazi, they were likely the most popular. Featuring Brian Baker (ex-of Minor Threat), Dag Nasty made a huge impression with the 1986 release of CAN I SAY, presenting a fresh sonic recipe--retain the heaviness, increase the melody and eschew rage and didacticism in favor of angst and introspection. I first heard CAN I SAY roughly a year after it hit the racks, and while it did play a big part in my personal growth away from standard punk and hardcore, I must confess it didn’t affect me the way their artier, wordier DC contemporaries Rites Of Spring did. The members of Dag Nasty were all veterans of other bands, and it’s obvious from listening to their debut that the shared goal was to play more accessibly and connect with a wider audience. In this case, that’s cool. By 1985, the standard hardcore scene had stagnated considerably. And at this point, their music retained much from Minor Threat circa OUT OF STEP and held flashes of influence from such worthy melodic trailblazers as Descendents and Hüsker Dü. However, there was an earlier, tougher period in Dag Nasty’s genealogy which featured powerhouse vocalist Shawn Brown (later of Swiz). The recordings of that lineup have been floating around for almost two decades, but I’d never made the effort to check ‘em out until now. My mistake. DAG WITH SHAWN, Dischord Records’ archival release of the Brown-era tapes shows how different the initial version was in both texture and velocity. The raw-throated sing-shout of Brown essentially necessitates that the band respond with something approximately as heavy, and in so doing the entire session falls much closer to the wilder, more abrasive end of the post-HC spectrum. The whole sweet mess is coated with the sturdy chug/throttle that became very common (and welcome) as the better hardcore bands learned how to stretch beyond the limitations of the form’s standard beats and riffs. This tightly wound release really hits a qualitative peak with the jackhammer delivery of the song “Can I Say”, which raises the bar on an already classic tune. To my ears, Brown’s brawny, vein bulging roar is preferable to subsequent vocalist Dave Smalley’s streamlined approach, though it must be stressed how that more well-mannered style fit his version of the band like a pair of stretchy bike shorts. To wit: CAN I SAY’s “What Now?” combines a tuneful, almost popish dynamic with earnest lyrical vulnerability, resulting in a sound that helped inspire legions of alienated teen punks to scribble endlessly into battered composition notebooks all across the land. I know, ‘cause I was one of ‘em. Due to these palpable differences DAG WITH SHAWN doesn’t serve as a replacement for CAN I SAY, but instead stands as its own entity, falling in with the bolder, more workmanlike DC bands such as Marginal Man, later-period Scream and Ignition. Listening loudly is like a passport back to a sweaty “3 bands for 3 bucks” gig in the cramped confines of the old 9:30 Club. If my memory of those days sounds like a good time I can assure you they definitely were, and by extension this record most certainly is.

 

 

Shawn Brown

The Stanley Brothers weren’t the originators of bluegrass, but they do stand as one of the earliest and finest exponents of the style, helping to expand the possibilities of this still quite popular genre in its formative period shortly after the Second World War, and anybody who wants a thorough picture of the movement away from old timey string band traditions toward the development of a more progressive and modern sound simply must contend with this pair. While it’s generally acknowledged that they really hit their stride with the 22 tracks recorded for the Columbia label starting right at the cusp of the 1950s, the material collected on EARLIEST RECORDINGS: THE COMPLETE RICH-R-TONE 78S (1947-1952) is still fascinating and in my estimation essential for numerous reasons. Foremost, it catches the Stanleys at a crucial moment where their style did more than just hint at the influence of their predecessors. I find it impossible to listen to this record’s opening cut “Little Maggie” and not hear the resonant style of Appalachian giant Clarence “Tom” Ashley, for just one instance. Also, it’s quite apparent that the expressive melancholy that forms a huge part of the stylistic makeup of bluegrass, a feel the form's progenitor Bill Monroe called the “high lonesome sound” (a term also used to describe the art of another old time master Roscoe Holcomb), was an inextricable part of the Brothers’ work from the very start. To elaborate, their vocal harmonies possessed a chilly gripping beauty that many later bluegrass players and groups sacrificed in favor of flurries of technical flash and modest slickness. The Stanley Brothers’ music at this point is emotionally direct and strikingly pure in form, though at this early date any purist notions are still a long ways away. They easily attain a natural ache and a well balanced instrumental vision while essentially responding to other’s advancements in this newfound roots style (Monroe’s “Molly and Tenbrook” is covered here, much to Bill’s then disdain). And those brotherly harmonies fall into an estimable progression of sibling country acts that include the Delmores, the Louvins and the Everlys. One only need listen to “Death Is Only a Dream” to understand just how vital this pair was not only to bluegrass but to the intricate and often undervalued fabric of country music as a whole. Anybody with an interest in the weave of that tapestry needs this collection pure and simple. And please note that only the first ten tracks here truly qualify as the Stanley’s earliest recordings. The last four were actually done in the short interim between their Columbia and Mercury contracts. So this is a real gap-filler for budding musicologists as well as an indispensible slab of gorgeous rural science. Getting familiar with the earliest work of an artist or group can sometimes be just a completist gesture. And that’s alright. I’ve gestured in a completist manner many times, and am far the better for it. But completism is not the case here. Ralph and Carter Stanley were great from the get-go, and it’s wonderful to see their early sides collected and readily available.

Ralph & Carter Stanley

It’s becoming clear that Deerhunter, like their indie homefrys Liars and Dan Deacon (for just two vaguely analogous examples), are in it for the long haul. Flash-in-the-pans come and go, and the overhyped have a tendency to betray the true magnitude of their nature, but long haul bands and artists share the knack for cutting through all the extraneous distractions and temptations to get down to the brass tacks of making quality records. It can be a romantic notion to surmise that the long haulers are the true lovers of music and the hypers and panners are merely self-serving or careerist in purpose. Attributing qualities to those we don’t know is a dangerous activity however, and just because a record from a flavor-of-the-month is shallow or uninspiring doesn’t mean the intentions of those who made it weren’t pure. But in Deerhunter’s case, designating them as music lovers is quite appropriate, since their latest release HALCYON DIGEST is explicitly about being inspired by the lovely (and sometimes lonely) tumultuousness of musical passion and fandom. There are many facets to the terminal need for sound, and where Sonic Youth’s string of Geffen releases often attained an aura of hipster erudition, or You La Tengo’s continuing Matador run feels like the crystallization of the greatest used record store ever opened, Deerhunter’s new one pleasantly reeks for much of its duration like a very well programmed set of late-night college radio (remember college radio?) or an expertly crafted mix-tape handed down from an older sibling. There is tangible disparity from track to track, but also a considered thread of similarity, a connective tissue that erases any threat of facile genre hopping. No, the quality of the songs here is striking, and Deerhunter’s continued movement away from their more noisesome roots is frankly not the trajectory I would have predicted and also not the slightest bit disappointing. While they never really gave Wolf Eyes or Merzbow a run for the cacophonous money, Bradford Cox and Co certainly began more as experimenters/manipulators/disrupters of rock-based sound rather than subverters/extenders of essentially pop-oriented song form. This type of streamlining progression often results in diminishing returns, but happily not in this case, since it’s become obvious that Deerhunter couldn’t make a “normal” album if they tried. Again, they have been heading in this direction for some time, but never has the migration sounded this advanced and surefooted. What once felt like dabbling and growth has moved past the point of no turning back. And maybe it’s just the label switch to 4AD, but I’m detecting a hazy anglophile vibe on HALCYON DIGEST that if traced all the way to its origins would likely lead us into a walk-in closet full of Bowie’s high-heeled boots. What a clothes horse! Additionally there are flashes of ‘60s-inspired transistor radio guitar jangle mildly reminiscent of San Fran’s Girls, hints of the new-new-new-psychedelia (possibly due to producer Ben H. Allen) that continues to place these guys in the general proximity of Animal Collective and an overall commitment to quality that’s heartening in these days of shoddy or underdeveloped product. Closing with a very fine tribute/dedication to the late, much missed Jay Reatard, HALCYON DIGEST is a very necessary proposition, and any survey of the contemporary music scene is incomplete without giving ample time to these considerable cats. Deerhunter’s been at it now for over half a decade, which in contemporary indie scene terms is a real long time, and it seems like they’re just getting warmed up.





Deerhunter on a couch

 

Muddy Waters’ deserved reputation as one of the greatest of all bluesmen basically rests on his steadily evolving flow of exceptional material from the 1950s. By the middle of that decade, he’d essentially perfected the groundbreaking ensemble sound that would pretty much define the following twenty years of Chicago Blues (Buddy Guy, Junior Wells, Magic Sam, Charlie Musselwhite etc) and would additionally play a pivotal role in rock music’s fitful growth (ever hear of the Rolling Stones? How about Eric Clapton?). The sparks and grease of Muddy’s innovation actually transpired on the bandstands of clubs and joints, and when the Brothers Chess finally relented and let his working band unleash their stuff in the studio the results were pure, thick gravy. While amplification of the blues had been a practical maneuver, allowing the music to be heard over the din of clamorous nightlife, Waters’ band took it a vital step further by synching themselves into one huge, rhythmically pulsating entity that’s effectiveness was only enhanced by their growing facility with the elements inherent to electrification. Brilliantly combining density with agility, they also deftly mixed varying degrees of smooth, suave urbanity with the tough rural Delta roots that made up the core of Muddy’s sound. The boldness of tone remains astounding. SINGING THE BLUES 1954-1959 is twenty-four tracks spread across two LPs that successfully provide a deep immersion into the still vibrant power of this estimable man’s grand repertoire. It combines a sprinkling of well known ringers like “I’m Ready”, “Mannish Boy” and “I Got My Mojo Working” with a strong helping of less bandied but just as worthy numbers such as “Evil”, “Diamonds At Your Feet” and a cover of his rival Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightnin’”. Muddy’s guitar and vocals sustain a uniformly high level throughout, and the players surrounding him are in the top tier of post-war blues artists. The set extensively features the majestic walking bass of Willie Dixon, mouth harp by sublime blowers Little Walter Jacobs and James Cotton, the faultless piano of Otis Spann, sturdy second guitar from either Jimmy Rogers or Pat Hare, and the crucially unfussy drumming of Francis Clay. As the music’s power accumulates, nary is a note laid wrong. The majority of the songwriting is roughly split between Waters and Chess house maestro Dixon, who in addition to bass duties served as a songwriter, producer, and general all purpose conduit between the brothers Phil and Leonard Chess and the constant flow of talent they captured. The difference between Muddy’s Delta-descended stuff and Willie’s considerably more pop oriented material is complimentary, with Waters’ splendid delivery tying the strands together, and the sheer range on display means this sets’ listenability across four sides of vinyl is quite a rare achievement. Even the greatest blues artists can become a bit or a lot monochromatic as separately released sides are compiled and presented as a single entity, but by this point Waters was swinging so hard and wide that 1954-1959 solidifies and gains momentum as strongly as any long-playing release in the genre. “Good News” and “Evil” include some unexpected and not overdone tenor sax, and “She’s Into Something” finds the group finessing a wickedly shifting dynamic that’s about as progressively urban as Muddy ever got. Add in three cuts from the rather unheralded MUDDY WATERS SINGS BIG BILL BROONZY LP and the breadth of this mighty baby should be readily apparent. The man’s track record up to around ’65 or so is unimpeachable, and I’ll always have a serious soft spot for the diamond-tough extremity of the early material, but 1954-1959 is simply the stuff of legends. By this point Waters had the sure-footed swagger of a Mississippi man transplanted to Gotham and made good. And instead of slacking off, he just kept turning up the heat. What a benevolent mastermind he was.

 

 

Mr. McKinley Morganfield

Contemporary curveballs- The Chester Records picks of the week (Battles and Boris)



Battles

Stuff on new records by the concerned here

Boris