The Auteur Files #3a: Samuel Fuller's I Shot Jesse James (1949)

Samuel Fuller

Nobody made films the way Samuel Fuller did. While he toiled for the earliest and most prolific part of his career in B-movies and genre pictures that were mostly either ignored or looked down upon by mainstream critics and middlebrow arbiters of taste, he nonetheless was discovered and championed in the early 1960s by Euro cinephiles mostly aligned with the Nouvelle Vague, an awakening that coincided with an interest in his films from the early Auteurists in the United States. This resulted in his oeuvre becoming one of the most contentious bodies of work to emerge from Hollywood in the period between the end of World War II and the decline of the studio system. Those who opposed the Auteur theory and disliked the rulebook jettisoning upstarts of the New Wave often used Fuller’s films as evidence against the very movements that championed him (in this regard, he’s similar to Jerry Lewis and Douglas Sirk). Many people found his work to be emblematic of unappealing aesthetics or dangerous ideology. A random movie by Fuller could be tawdry and sensationalistic while also being empathetic and progressive. These flashes of conflict are part of what makes the films so interesting, but I’m guessing that many people just saw inconsistencies and contradictions. The redemption of Sam Fuller into a cornerstone of personal filmmaking from within an impersonal, profit minded system fits perfectly with other transformative reevaluations that developed as the 20th century wound down: various pulp fictions, formerly disreputable strains of rock and pop music, comic books, outsider art etc. It was the blurring of the three brows, high low and middle. In 1958 the vast majority of people who professed to care about motion pictures as art were likely to view Fuller’s work as escapist and potentially harmful fare. In 2008 his films are a staple in the Criterion DVD collection.

The Eclipse series is a sideline of Criterion that specializes in affordable box sets sans extras that thus far are devoted to groupings of films by director, some canonical, others obscure or in need of reassessment. Series 5: The First Films of Samuel Fuller includes three works, indeed his earliest as director, that gain significance when grouped together and viewed in close proximity. Watching them projected from a quality print in a theatre would have certainly been preferable to home viewing, but I’ll take what I can get. And what I got was great. I’m going to opine on the films separately, in the order they were released, giving an individual post for each movie, and then down the road I’ll hopefully deal with some of Fuller’s awesome later work.
I Shot Jesse James is a low budget film released in 1949. One of its biggest points of interest is in locating the presence of Fuller in his debut as director. Much of what is associated with him is already here: the tabloid sensibility (flying newspaper headlines), the almost flaunting engagement with his lack of budget (the obvious and rugged use of day for night), and the striking structural decisions (the film opens in the middle of a bank robbery). The first shot of the film is a close-up of Jesse James, and it’s a telling indicator of what will be a large part of the movie’s visual motif. While a large portion of westerns are concerned with space and landscape (movement and geography and how people react to it and change it), the story here doesn’t really engage with these issues at all. Most of the movie takes place indoors. It would be tempting to just chalk up the focus on interiors with the lack of budget given to the film, but that doesn’t explain the recurring and very effective use of close-ups.
I Shot Jesse James is largely about neurosis. Robert Ford wants to quit the gang and start a farm with his old sweetheart Cynthy, but he’s cash-strapped. Catching wind of the $10,000 reward on James’ head (dead or alive), he eventually succumbs and shoots Jesse in the back in his cabin. After a trial, he finds himself denied the reward, and has a sticky emotional encounter with Cynthy, who is disturbed by his actions and more than a little fearful of his emotional fervor over the two of them making a life together. Cynthy has caught the fancy of John Kelly, and she eventually rebuffs him, though it seems that her actions are more motivated for Kelly’s safety than in a lack of interest in his affection. Kelly leaves town for Colorado, hoping to strike gold, and narrowly avoids a confrontation with an angry Ford. After finding himself unable to reenact his shooting of James in the traveling theatre show in which Cynthy is the star, Ford also heads to Colorado, hoping to get rich and secure his life with her. Against the odds, Ford does strike gold, and sends for Cynthy. Ford and Kelly have established a respectful if distant association by this point, and after Cynthy’s arrival, Frank James arrives, not to kill Ford as everyone assumes but instead to inform him that his gal and Kelly are sweet on each other. Naturally, there’s a showdown in the street. Ford is shot and while dying in the road declares to Cynthy that he’d always loved…..Jesse.





Uh-huh. That last revelation might just seem like a mild quirk if it weren’t for the blaring homoeroticism from earlier in the film, where a pre-death Jesse, taking a bath with a nervous Robert in the room, presents his back and says Go ahead. This is first presented as a taunt to Robert to shot him, but then is wonderfully twisted around to reveal that Jesse just wanted him to wash his back. How could Robert say no?
Now, this is more than just some kooky accidental double-entendre. When asked, Fuller stated that the homoerotic aspect of I Shot Jesse James was intentional, and that his producer Robert Lippert was so hopelessly square that the then-subversive content slid right passed him. It was integrated in such a way that it made it through the Film Board as well, and now stands as a fine example of Fuller throwing a curveball right by the censors ala Hawks’ Bringing Up Baby and Hitchcock’s Rope. For in the movie, Robert Ford’s killing of James seems less inspired by a deep love for Cynthy and more motivated by the intense need for some sort of acceptable life in societal terms. Robbing banks isn’t a suitable way to live, even less so when you have all these bewildering feelings about the leader of your gang and end up scrubbing his back with a brush when he asks you to. What better way to put an end to all these weird, socially unacceptable feelings then by corking the source in the back, collecting ten large, and living the farmer’s life with a comely wench, i. e. Fitting In. After the fact, when he’s vilified as a coward by almost everyone, his desire to succeed in his plans with Cynthy takes on the pitch of pathology. He sees the killing of James as an act of betrayal, and the only thing that can stop the self-corroding power of this betrayal is to achieve the goal which motivated him in the first place. Only when he’s dying and no longer need worry about the opprobrium of the community at large can he look the woman he dragged all the way out into the mountains of Colorado in the eye and tell her that he always loved not her but Jesse. How ‘bout them apples, baby?




The character of Cynthy is one of the most interesting elements of the film. Barbara Britton does a nice low-key job with a role that’s essentially presented as a feminine ideal. To put a finer point on it: not only does Robert Ford kill with the intention of gaining the financial wherewithal to marry her, but the John Kelly character falls for her, and when she makes the trip to Colorado her manager/show producer Harry Kane follows her there. Cynthy is a real paradigm. She contrasts strikingly with Jesse’s wife in the beginning of the movie, whose function is to nag, nag, nag, and generally serve as at least partial impetus to why James was so eager to go off robbing banks. Cynthy is a free woman who expresses herself creatively and is quite unencumbered from the burden of responsibility. Where Ford obsessively clings to her as a way to help counteract his own dysfunction (which only serves to make matters worse), the attraction between her and Kelly seems based more healthily on sincere human affection. He’s a bit of a free spirit himself, and his character is presented as decent and nonjudgmental (he’s one of the only people in the film that doesn’t treat Ford like a pariah). It’s important that I Shot Jesse James ends with Ford dying in the street instead of with a concluding sequence of Cynthy and Kelly making inroads to some future union. After all, this is a film about Ford’s actions. If Cynthy is given the importance in the narrative that I think is intended, then the ending isn’t so much a confession as it is a declaration of acceptance. It’s a bitter pill that he couldn't come to terms with who he is until he’s a dying man lying in the dirt, but that’s the movies for you.


Fuller’s story is brought to life by his visual choices. They are superficially in line with his future reputation as a primitive but upon consideration posses a depth and consistency that reveals him to be a less intuitive, seat of the pants director than some people claim. The use of close ups bears mentioning again, as does the choice of dispensing with a suspenseful buildup to the opening robbery. The opening sequences of debut films are often indicative of what will come later in a filmmaker’s career, but rarely are they as strong as they are here. If Fuller doesn’t want it and it can be dispensed with, then out the door it goes. No need for establishing shots or needless exposition, for the title of the movie does plenty to clue in the viewer to what they are going to see. And because this material is left out, all the thematic musing in the above paragraphs gains credence. It becomes obvious that Fuller wasn’t really interested in making a standard western at all, but was far more inclined to start with a mythic part of American history and then bend it to his own ends (which puts him in line with all the great directors of westerns from Ford and Hawks up to Peckinpah and Leone and perhaps Eastwood). Based on I Shot Jesse James, it seems clear to me that if Fuller is to be labeled an intuitive director it is only because his creativity corresponded so well with the rapid-fire pace of low-budget film production. There are plenty of little moments in this movie that point to Fuller as a robust artist. Just a gesture like filming Ford alone in a room with his shadow splashed on the wall behind him (which I like to think suggests something about the man and his conscience, something that can be communicated to the viewer pictorially instead of with dialogue) is enough to signify that he wasn’t just making unconscious decisions that would be injected with meaning by writers, scholars, and film-nuts. He was able to absorb the often brutally raw sensibility of modern life (in the process injecting then-contemporary vitality into a period film) and was able to spit it back out in an idiosyncratic manner that was bursting with energy and conviction. Fuller didn’t make a masterpiece with his debut, but he did lay the groundwork for a bunch of them. To see him at this early stage in his development as a fly in the ointment of the tidy and dismissive impulses of good taste is a real pleasure, as well as an opportunity to correct received wisdom with first-hand experience.

Argentine poster for the film.

The Week in Listening 12/1 - 12/7

12/1/08- Various Artists- A Million Dollars Worth of Doo-Wop Volume One
Al Grey- Snap Your Fingers LP 1962
Various Artists- Free Jazz in der DDR- Musik in der DDR 1950-2000 CD
Anthony Braxton- Five Pieces LP 1975

12/2/08- Vic Chesnutt Elf Power and the Anonymous Strums- Dark Developments CD 2008
Bon Iver- For Emma, Forever Ago CD 2007
Animal Collective- Sung Tongs CD 2004
Conner Oberst- self titled CD 2008
Bob Dylan- A Tree with Roots Volume 1 CD

12/3/08- The Feelies- Crazy Rhythms LP 1980
Mercury Rev- Deserter’s Songs CD 1998
Wire- Chairs Missing LP 1978
Wire- 41°N 93°W b/w Go Ahead 7” 1979
Wire- Swimmer b/w Midnight Bahnhof Café 7” 1981
The Jam- In the City b/w Takin’ My love 7” 1977
Yo La Tengo- President Yo La Tengo-New Wave Hot Dogs CD
Slovenly- Thinking of Empire LP 1986
Dr. Janet- Ten Years Gone b/w Starry Eyes 7” 1990
Radar Bros- The Fallen Leaf Pages CD 2005

12/4/08- Mississippi John Hurt- Avalon Blues: The Complete 1928 Okeh Recordings CD
High Places- 03_07 – 09_07 CD 2007
Wye Oak- If Children CD 2008
Yo La Tengo- Mr. Tough b/w I’m Your Puppet 7” 2006
Harry Nilsson- Nilsson Sings Newman LP 1970
Jake Holmes- The Above Ground Sound of Jake Holmes LP 1967
Iron and Wine- The Creek Drank the Cradle CD 2002
Igor Wakhevitch- Logos (Rituel Sonore) LP 1970
Human Hands- Hereafter LP 1988
Randy Newman- The Randy Newman Songbook Volume 1 CD 2003

12/5/08- Crystal Stilts- self titled EMusic EP 2008
Peter Bjorn and John- Writer’s Block CD 2006
No Age- Weirdo Rippers 2007 CD
The Decemberists- The Tain CDEP 2004
Sonic Youth- Rather Ripped CD 2006
Jim O’Rourke- Long Night 2CD 2008

12/6/08- Redd Kross- Teen Babes from Monsanto 12” EP 1984
Scars- Adult-ery b/w Horrorshow 7” 1979
Various Artists- Bloodstains Across California bootleg LP
Savage Republic- Tragic Figure b/w The Empty Quarter/The Ivory Coast 7” 1984
The Better Beatles- I’m Down b/w Penny Lane 7” 1982
Rema Rema- self titled 12” EP 1980
Afflicted Man- Afflicted Man’s Musical Bag LP 1979
Tales of Terror- self titled LP 1984
Bikini Kill- The CD Version of the First Two Records CD 1994
Raincoats- self titled LP 1979
Will Oldham- Seafarer’s Music CDEP 2004
Guided By Voices- Devil Between My Toes LP 1987
Petra Haden- The Who Sell Out CD 2005
Kev Hopper- Whispering Foils CD 2000
Silver Jews- The Natural Bridge LP 1996
Silver Jews- American Water LP 1998
Smog- Dongs of Sevotion CD 2000
The Gordons- self titled LP 1981
The Verlaines- Doomsday b/w New Kinda Hero 7” 1985
Various Artists- Killing Capitalism with Kindness- An Xpressway Records Compilation CD 1992
Anthony Braxton- For Alto LP 1968
Derek Bailey- Ballads CD 2002

12/7/08- Blind Willie McTell- 1927-1935 CD
Muddy Waters- Muddy Waters at Newport 1960 LP
Various Artists- The Secret Museum of Mankind Volume 1 Ethnic Music Classics 1925-1948 CD
Michael Hurley- National Weedgrowers Association b/w Slippery Rag 7" 1993
Dos- The Bob Lawton EP 7” 1991
Dadamah- Scratch Sun b/w Radio Brain 7” 1991
Mantis- Drülerrb/w Travellin’ Fist 7” 1993
Strapping Fieldhands- Albacore Heart b/w Neptune’s World 7” 1995
Table- Gag Box b/w Unwind 7” 1993
Labradford- Everlast b/w Preserve the Sound Outside 7” 1991
Matthew Shipp/Harry Bertoia/Loren MazzaCane Connors- split 7” 1996
Tortoise- Mosquito b/w Onions Wrapped in Rubber/Gooseneck 7” 1993
Atavin- Modern Gang Reader b/w Larkin 7” 1996
M/Monade- Vol de Nuit b/w Witchazel/Ode to a Keyring 7” 1996
Sun City Girls- Eye Mohini/Gum Arabic/Lemur’s Urine b/w Kal El Lazi Kad Ham 7” 1993
Truman’s Water- Hey Fish/Mr. E b/w Empty Queen II 7” 1993
Sugartime- Awestruck b/w Gemini Enemy 7” 1992
Gastr del Sol/Tony Conrad- The Japanese Room at La Pagode b/w May split 7” (with bonus 7” featuring excerpt from Conrad’s Ten Years Alive On the Infinite Plan performed by Conrad, David Grubbs and Jim O’Rourke)
David Grubbs- Rickets & Scurvy CD 2002
Weird War- Illuminated By the Light CD 2005
Lungfish- Pass and Stow CD 1994
Unrest- Malcolm X Park LP 1988
New Order- Low Life LP 1985
The Psychedelic Furs- self titled LP 1980


MONDAY 12/1- There are twenty installments in the A Million Dollar$ Worth of Doo Wop Series, thirty tracks a volume, and just listening to one of them is a hard lesson in form as content. None of these songs were hits (hence the title of the series), but that doesn’t mean a whole bunch of them won’t sound familiar. The doo-wop formula (if you will) was fairly strict, and since it was essentially a bunch of guys (sometimes girls) mixing/melding vocal chords into the soundtrack for make-out/dry-hump (amongst other activities, sure), originality wasn’t really the point. This is a huge part of doo-wop’s appeal.
I’d never heard of Al Grey before downloading this out-of print LP on a Chess Record’s subsidiary label. The fact that he recorded for Argo (and not Blue Note, for instance) is probably a big part of why I didn’t know him; another reason is his instrument, the trombone. Hey, I love the ‘bone. But it wasn’t a very popular axe in ‘60’s mainstream jazz circles. That didn’t stop Donald Byrd, Herbie Hancock, or Bobby Hutcherson from playing on the record. It’s a good one.
The German free jazz comp is a great one, with a mix of familiar and new names and a hunk of music that, while not as ragingly out as might be expected (considering that Germany is the homeland of Peter Brotzmann), is still quite engaging and complex.
Braxton’s LP from ’75 is part of Mosaic Records limited edition doozy of a box set collecting all the Arista recordings of an amazing mind. A box set I can’t afford. Oh, well. Braxton combines abstraction and direct forward motion like it’s nobody’s business. He’s an incredible collaborator, his compositions are wickedly complex, and he’s a freakin’ genius.






TUESDAY 12/2- The new Vic collab isn’t as great as his last one with the Constellation crew, but that’s okay. For one thing, it’s a little more psych and notably less dark (though it’s still plenty acerbic). It’s a grower, I think. I’m sure I’ll have more to say later.
The Bon Iver release is a fine slice of slightly bent folkishness. It’s maybe somewhere between a scaled down Sufjan Stevens and a more muscular early Iron and Wine, but those are only parameters. This largely has its own glow. New EP coming soon or maybe it’s out already.
If Animal Collective doesn’t somehow fuck the pooch, they’re going down as one of the best half dozen indie bands of this decade. Yeah, you probably didn’t hear it here first.
The new Oberst is a really good listen. Okay, it’s a great listen. It nicely shuffles between more boisterous material and his expected down-in-the-mouth gush. Wish he’d get that collab with M. Ward and Jim James out like yesterday.
Dylan’s Basement Tapes are as deep as a Bergman flick, but way more funky. Not Bootsy Collins funky. Like Warren Oates in an ascot and yellow sweater, driving a GTO funky. Sue me, I’m not Greil Marcus. Yet.




WEDNESDAY 12/3- Crazy Rhythms is a monster of post-Velvets riff construction sans any pose whatsoever. For a long while, the Feelies were the coolest nerds in Hoboken. A stone classic.
Mercury Rev happen to be a really great band that I’ve sort of lost track of these last few years. Deserter’s Songs is likely in my top five albums of the ‘90s, a record that is eclectic yet accessible, melodic yet meandering, while Van Dyke Parks (hopefully) smiles and nods in approval.
Wire’s classic second LP, followed by a single from the equally amazing third record (154), and another one from shortly before they went on hiatus. It’s quite astounding how well the early Wire material still holds up. It’s all amazing stuff.
The Jam’s In the City is my favorite song from them. I think it’s perfect in its righteous pissed-off brevity. Sure they inspired tons of adults to play dress-up, but that’s better than working in an office somewhere.
Matador’s doubling up some early Yo La Tengo records on disc is a pretty swank move. I’m most familiar with New Wave Hot Dogs (I wore out a cassette of it). It’s another fine example of Jersey VU adulation.
Slovenly were (are) one of the great lost SST bands. Thinking of Empire isn’t their earliest stuff, but it is the first thing I heard. The whole thing absorbs such great influences as Pere Ubu, MX-80 Sound, and even Television and makes it sound like no other band before or since. Quite an achievement, I’d say. Too bad almost nobody cared. Dr. Janet was a super group of sorts. I say of sorts because they only released one single, and didn’t get much attention. Grant Lee Conner of the pre-shit Screaming Trees, Matt Sweeney of too many goddamned bands, Lyle Hysen of Das Damen, and Yo La’s Ira Kaplan on bass! How’s that for ye olde bait and switch? They throw down a cover of The Record’s power-pop chestnut Starry Eyes, and if that song were a woman, I’d kiss her. Many times.
Radar Bros are one of indie-dom’s best kept secrets, which is weird because they release on one of the biggest indie labels around, Merge. The Fallen Leaf Pages is a great entry point to what they do, which is down-tempo, almost psychedelic trio dynamics that really rely on expert playing and production smarts. It’s like all the great parts of post-Meddle Pink Floyd, except instead of fucking them up like Floyd almost always did in that era, these guys manage to stretch and bend and craft it into something sustained and stellar. Top notch, I tell you.




THURSDAY 12/4- I’m tempted to say that Mississippi John Hurt goes down like great whiskey. Thing is, I don’t drink the stuff. I simply can’t abide it, honestly. I’m more of a beer and wine man. If the spirits come a calling, I prefer the clear stuff, or I might go south of the border. So instead I’ll declare that Mississippi John Hurt is BETTER than whiskey. Hell, he’s better than doughnuts. Or Coney Island hot dogs, for that matter. He was nimble and deceptive, often delivering dark messages with smooth warmth, and his sound is as addictive as pure heroin.
High Places are in a somewhat post-Animal Collective bag, but they bring some gal-presence into it, which ends up making the whole affair sorta K Records like. At times. I really dig them, and recommend their stuff to people on the search for cool current sounds.
The Yo La single is an album cut from the I’m Not Afraid… album with a super ‘60s soul cover on the flip. Tasty.
I can’t say I’m a big Harry Nilsson fan, but he does a very good job singing Randy Newman. Not as good as Newman himself, but I’ll get to that in a minute. The version of Vine Street that opens up Nilsson Sings Newman is quite choice, and the rest is as slick as something or other.
Jake Holmes wrote Dazed and Confused. It’s on The Above Ground…LP but it is quite different from Zeppelin’s behemoth, and frankly his record fights with a datedness that it really doesn’t conquer until its last three tracks. I mean, the only band I can think of that could not make me wince at a song titled Genuine Imitation Life is the Lovin’ Spoonful. It’s is a good record, though. At this point I can’t take the plunge and call it great.
The debut by Iron and Wine is a great record, however. Fragile folk of this stripe is perfect wintertime music, so Sam Beam is likely to get some considerable play in the upcoming months.
The best way to briefly describe Igor Wakhevitch is as psych-classical. He rubbed elbows with rock musicians, and parts of his debut sound like the more out moments that occurred on many psych and prog records from the same era. Logos (Rituel Sonore) is a wild listen, what people used to call head music. It wasn’t your grandparent’s classical music, that’s for sure. Fine stuff.
The Human Hands’ posthumous LP is one of my favorites. They recorded in the early ‘80s, and were a great example of punk energy filtered through a focus on more mature songwriting that harkened back to early Roxy Music and also integrated arty touches that rubbed elbows with the Los Angeles Free Music Society and The Residents. They had many flashes of brilliance and should be better known.
Randy Newman is a guy that some people think should be lesser known, what with all those movie soundtracks, but his early stuff is some of the finest satirical songwriting this country (this globe) has ever seen. He’s complex and surprising while also being incredibly catchy. The above CD is him solo in the ‘90s, which is far later than I’d ever ventured into his work before, and boy I’m glad I took the chance. The recording of I Think It’s Going to Rain Today that’s included here is just devastating. The whole thing is a treat, and it’s almost enough to make me forgive that Toy Story song. He has a new album. I haven’t heard it. Stephen King loves it. I guess that’s something.




FRIDAY 12/5- Crystal Stilts and Peter Bjorn and John work in roughly the same territory, but the former are proudly low-fi, and the later use contemporary studio sheen to flesh out a more varied sound. PB & J can excel at downtrodden style guitar-pop riffing with lyrics to match that’s descended from the fertile British ‘80s, and they can also pull off some quirky dance-pop moves that actually work. The Stilts on the other hand are more single-minded. They seem more concerned with doing one thing as well as possible. If somebody had played their EP for me and said it was a lost album from some forgotten Manchester band from ’81 that played one gig opening for The Fall, I’d have bought the lie and tried to buy the record.
The Tain is The Decemberists’ most oddball release thus far. I use that qualifier because they have a self-described rock-opera coming out. On this brief one they steer into a heavy rock playground, at times almost Zep-like, and combined with all their other resources (excellent musicianship, sweet vocalizing, lofty concepts, and a collective tendency to self-edit just when you think they’re not) it’s a very nice eighteen minutes or so.
Rather Ripped is Sonic Youth in fantastic form. Kim has never sounded better, at times almost Nico-ish, and the band can pull off moments of substantial group interplay that’s just achingly beautiful. What a band.
Jim O’Rourke left Sonic Youth a while back to focus on other things, and a bunch of his experimental pre-SY, pre-Drag City solo stuff is getting unleashed for public consumption. Long Night is a double CD drone piece, a little over two and a half hours of the kind of sustained minimalist sonic head-fucking that people either take a bath in or avoid like the clap. I happen to think it’s fascinating and very approachable stuff if the expectations are not set to receive sound that moves from point A to point B with a lot of inescapable variant activity happening along the way (i. e. drummers drumming, singers singing, pluckers plucking). People will remark that nothing happens in this music, but a whole fuck of a lot DOES happen, it’s just not as immediately tangible. The activity CAN be graspable if the focus is instead on the variety of little sounds that are going on simultaneously, often repeating or sustaining and making up the total palate, and when that happens, IF you are drawn in, then it can often be startling when a step back is taken and it’s discovered that a perceptible change, a major shift, has occurred. Movement. Drones, baby. Over two and a half hours. Sweet.




SATURDAY 12/6- When it’s frigid, it’s a good idea to stay indoors.
The 1984 record by Redd Kross has never been reissued. As bad as these guys ended up, once upon a time they were a big punk rock deal. Teen Babes is six covers and one original song, and it’s not as on the money as Born Innocent, but it’s still worthy.
Scars were an obscure Brit group that released on Fast Product, the label that was home to Gang of Four and the early Human League. Adult-ery is a prime example of aggressive, arty punk. The singer is stressed, the guitars throb and wind and motor along, and the drums provide a consistent spark.
Bloodstains across California is one installment in a legendary bootleg series that helped to spread the word about the wealth of amazing underground punk singles released before the movement basically dissolved in the first half of the ‘80s. I’d heard some of this already via (viva!) the internet, but most was new to me. Known entities like Agent Orange (who basically named the series), The Plugz and The Gears rub elbows with new names (maybe you’ve heard of Silver Chalice or Destry Hampton?), and my favorites are probably The Child Molesters’ I’m Gonna Punch You (In the Face) and the Injections’ maddeningly low-fi Prison Walls. If you are at all interested in punk rock, this stuff is essential.
Savage Republic brings some vital art-clang, and they’re a band that I’ve frankly neglected over the years. Every time I hear them, I feel like a dummy for not spending more time acquainting myself with their sound. This 7” was quite early in their existence, and I’d imagine that anybody who gets excited over the heaviness of the first few Swans records (that’s me) should like this stuff as well (I do).
The Better Beatles are another internet discovery. They have a full retrospective release out that I really need to catch up with, but this single is something special. Two reinterpretations of Beatles tunes that I’m tempted to describe as genius, particularly the b-side. THIS is one of the first things I’d play for someone who wanted proof of the fertility of the u-ground imagination in the dark early days of Reagan. It was basically a forgotten single until one guy found a copy for sale cheap and went on a mad quest to unearth the story. How many more artifacts of this quality are out there, aging in boxes in attics and in the back of dying record shops?
Rema Rema put out this EP on 4AD. They’re championed by folks who have a strong affinity for England’s post-punk era, particularly those who are seriously stroked by the more abrasive/less mersh sub-scenes that popped up like toadstools on a cow-flop. This record is a nice one, I just wish there was more of it.
Afflicted Man was far more prolific than Rema Rema. The mastermind behind this shambling, stretched-out, oddball post-punk almost bordering on psych project was Steve Hall and this was the first of three LPs that were offered up in the bleak Anglo-80s. The others are supposedly even stranger. I can hardly wait.
Tales of Terror were a slightly off-kilter skate punk band from Sacramento. Partly because the record has yet to (and likely won’t) be reissued, it’s become somewhat legendary to those with a nose for this sort of thing. It’s a pretty happening affair, especially if you love the odd nooks and crannies of the punk-era’s tail end, but it’s maybe not as amazing as some have hyped it as. Green River aficionados will definitely find it of interest.
For me, Bikini Kill stands as one of the real highlights of the ‘90s. The band’s earliest stuff is infused with such manic energy and righteous desperation that they still manage to make the hair stand up on my arms while listening. This band’s very existence has so profoundly affected the shape of the current indie music scene that a case could be made that they were the most important (if not the best) band of their decade. If I had a dollar for every person who overcame the manacles of inadequacy due to this band’s clarion call, I’d buy myself an island.
The Raincoats were a precedent of sorts for Bikini Kill and the whole Riot Grrl experience. But where a lot of that movement was about tapping into the galvanizing fury of the punk form as a means to stomp on ingrained societal sexism, The Raincoats were more exploratory in nature (to the same means, natch). Their debut album stands as one of the greatest of all post-punk recordings, mostly because it didn’t neglect either side of the hyphen. Cathartic stuff, to this day.
Will Oldham is a prolific man. So much music has been released with his name on top of it that I can’t help letting certain things fall by the way. But that’s alright. For those neglected odds and ends are perfect on cold weekend evenings. This EP scoots by and leaves a rather elusive impression, which I think is the point. I like it.
First LP Bob Pollard, the beginning of the GBV juggernaut, and between then and now he’s drank more than you, me, and six alcoholics combined. The rudiments of what they were in their heyday are certainly here, but it’s nice to get a taste of Pollard still grappling with where he wanted to go. I’m not the first to say it, but there is even some REM influence at this early point. Just check out Discussing Wallace Chambers.
Petra Haden’s track by track cover of the Who’s classic album is made up of nothing but vocal sounds. It’s flat-out fucking lovely. Petra’s quietly involved herself in so many high quality projects that it’s going to take decades to fully assess the total scheme of her thing. Maybe if she didn’t hop around so much, she’d be better known. But then she wouldn’t be nearly as interesting.
Kev Hopper was in a kooky British band called Stump. In the ‘80s they had a few hours of hoopla surround them regarding their potential as a college-rock conduit to things Beefheartian. It was somewhat of a stretch, and the band was really up to something else, anyway. I’ve only listened to this a few times, but it’s intriguing. It lacks the humor/quirk that was one aspect of Stump, but it shares the aversion for rockist trappings. Stump was a lot of fun, great fun at times, but this record seems inclined to something deeper. I’ll be back.
Silver Jews, of the vintage represented by the two albums above, were one of the few bands of that (or any) period to do three things equally well. That is: songwriting, musical delivery, and lyrics. The last is the hardest, and it’s the easiest to forgive when the words aren’t up to snuff. But Berman is a smithing linguist of the highest caliber, and the sound of his voice gives his thoughts an added power. Two classic albums that are going to age extremely well, since they steer so clear of the standard reference points of the era in which they were spawned.
The Gordons are proof positive that there were precursors to the kind of progressions that early Sonic Youth were doling out. They share the heaviness, the thickness, and the dynamic sensibility, but they also sound like their own thing, which was markedly different from anything going on in their home country of New Zealand at the time. They eventually morphed into Bailter Space, an early Matador band that didn’t get enough love. Oh well.
New Zealand’s The Verlaines were rather well liked in their day, but I kind of think they should have been a much bigger deal. Doomsday is just staggering in its scope and in its defiant pop sensibility. Slop, noise, and amateurishness were rampant when this single was released, but The Verlaines flaunt a seamlessly crafted tune that is irresistible in is largeness. They had a batch of classic songs, but this one might be the best.
On the other hand, there is the Xpressway label. Any history of the indie low-fi era that doesn’t devote scads of time to this New Zealand concern’s massive imprint on that movement is an incomplete and rather fucked history. This comp is a big piece of what they did so well. Sandra Bell, David Mitchell, David Kilgour, Alastair Galbraith, and the sublime This Kind of Punishment are all well represented (amongst others), and I’ve yet to hear a peep from this label that was anything less than great. As interesting as American style low-fi was, almost all of its most celebrated practitioners ended up elsewhere. The Xpressway scene, possibly because so few people championed it (other than often insufferable fanzine dudes), or maybe because the root of what they were getting at was less definable and exploitable, never crossed over. They just kept on keeping on. Many are still around today (though Xpressway is long defunct), toiling in the underground.
Braxton’s For Alto was his second record, and it’s just him and his instrument. All of the pieces are dedications to musicians and artists, and the sound pushes into all sorts of directions. Dedicated to John Cage features some of the most furiously blown saxophone that I’ve ever heard. Its joyousness is simply mind blowing. The man’s music has traveled through so much development since the late ‘60s in Chicago that hearing him at this early stage is really striking. It’s also essential to the full picture of his artistry. Unlike musicians who served in more anonymous capacities in the bands of others, gathering chops and ideas along the way but not really revealing much of themselves, Braxton jumped with full force into the maelstrom. He was mulling over the greats, breathing in the fumes from his Chicago cohorts (AACM, Art Ensemble, Muhal Richard Abrams, etc), and working on the basis of ideas that continue to grow into the present day. For Alto is uncompromising record. Anyone interested in free jazz needs to hear it.
The late Derek Bailey is one of the few guitarists that can be described as having his own musical language without risking exaggeration. His free-improv style fully embraced abstraction, and he played in so many different contexts (solo, duo, small group, large group, collabs with dancers, turntablists, electronic artists etc) that it could be hard for more casual listeners to get a handle on his eclecticism. Ballads is Bailey examining traditional songs and traversing through recognizable structure, so while it’s certainly going to be more accessible to those who know little about avant-garde music, it still stands in the scheme of his overall work as an anomaly. But what a fascinating anomaly it is. Bailey’s general style was always so out there that know-nothings would be inspired to carp that he didn’t know how to play. This record will live for all time as a rigorous shutdown to the philistines. But it’s no compromise. It stands as a beautiful work and another surprise from a guy who was full of them.


SUNDAY 12/7- Blind Willie McTell was both an entertainer and an artist of considerable depth. The recordings on the above Yazoo CD really spotlight how versatile, rambunctious, and humorous he could be. Pre-war blues is an extremely varied genre, ranging from uptown and slick to down home and ragged, in addition to the more outlandish documents from guys like Skip James and Blind Willie Johnson. McTell’s music lacks the desperate, anguished aura that sits on the outer limits of early blues; instead it’s direct and approachable but still drenched in a rural sensibility, lacking the urbanite’s polish. Where some blues greats are best listened to a few songs at a time, McTell can successfully stretch over the length of a full CD and leave me wanting more. What a wizard.
This Muddy Waters’ show from Newport is a strong (though brief) one, showcasing the dense but streamlined sound of the post-Little Walter bands. He was going through a transition, declining as a charting singles artist and emerging on the folk scene, later to be a cause célèbre for scads of rock bands. As the show progresses the fire kicks up, and by the end they’re really cooking. Not the first Muddy record that a person should hear (the single disc Chess Best Of is where newbies should start), but it’s still a very worthwhile addition to his sizeable shelf.
One of the best aspects of listening to music made in the early years of sound recording is that so much of it was untainted by outside commercial interference. There was pop music, certainly. But the sellers had yet to really meddle into the affairs of the musician, since they were basically clueless as to what would sell and what would stiff. Therefore, all kinds of things were recorded. The Secret Museum series documents this unbridled lack of market savvy from the perspective of Ethnic music, which was still thriving in the first half of the century. This baby is loaded with beautiful sounds. And weird! Fiorassio by Effisio Melis (from Sardinia) creates a winding progression with the launeddas, an ancient triple pipe, that is sonically comparable to the sort of wiggy, wiggly sounds found in the experimental wing of last century’s six, seventh and eighth decades. The whole disc is a tour of a world that no longer exists. We can thank entrepreneurial cluelessness for at least allowing us to listen to part of it.
A whole bunch of vinyl 7 inch records were released in the ‘90s. I didn’t buy all of them. So thank the internet and the generosity of my fellow human beings for allowing me to hear some of those I missed. Starting with Michael Hurley and ending with the Gastr del Sol/Tony Conrad split was a nice way to bookend a tour through a batch of small platters that basically hang around in the fertile ‘90s underground. Much of this scene rubbed elbows with the larger indie/alternative crowd that flourished and struggled in the wake of Nirvana’s explosion. The u-ground of this period was spectacularly varied. In addition to post-rock (Tortoise, David Pajo’s M, Lebradford, Monade, Table, Atavin), which was one of the most prominent sounds of the era, there was low-fi (Dadamah, Strapping Fieldhands), free-jazz (Matthew Shipp), full on experimentalism (Conrad, Bertoia, Gastr del Sol), clattering noise spill (Truman’s Water), shades of more or less direct indie rocking (Sugartime, Mantis), and a batch of older hands entering the fray (Dos, Hurley, MazzaCane Connors, Sun City Girls). This open ended nature of this scene, taking in so many different types of sounds as well as having a deep interest in older music, makes it hard to define and encapsulate into a movement. Unlike the indie scene of the ‘80s, it’s doubtful that a book will ever be published about its importance. Too bad.
Weird War is a hell of a lot of fun. I’ve yet to encounter a project from Ian Svenonius that didn’t make me smile in reaction to the sheer conceptual grandiosity. The kicker is that everything he’s been involved in is cloaked in a tug of war between strident jabs of flamboyant originality and a deeply tweaked prolonged hommage. It’s often impossible to decipher what is sincere and what is tongue in cheek, and this deliberate muddying of the waters drives some people up the wall. Not me, though. Out of all the bands he’s fronted, this one is the most versatile, with an equality of ability spread across the membership. The real gist of the group is a celebratory nonconformity, funky as hell and letting it all hang out.
Lungfish are one of the best live rock bands I’ve ever stood in front of. They could bear down into transcendent repetition until it seemed like it was impossible for the music to get any more intense, and then it would. And then again. Live units of this quality almost always suffer in the translation to record. These guys are certainly not as explosive on disc, but they do a bang-up job trying. The records succeed in part because they differ so little from what they do on stage, lacking any kind of production embellishment that won’t translate while playing live. I have a bunch of art-books upstairs, and one thing I’ve noticed is that as great as a painting can look in reproduction, it’s nothing compared to what the real piece communicates while I stand and absorb it. This is no great revelation, I know. The painting on the page is a representation of the artwork to the closest detail: other than the obvious concessions, nothing about the subject is changed or enhanced to deepen the aesthetic response of sitting at home and staring into a book of photographs and this is how it should be. It is how Lungfish chose (chooses? Are they still an active band?) to document their music, the full essence of which can’t be encoded into plastic (this isn’t always true of ALL music, though. A lot of hip-hop, certain types of electronic music, some dub, and possibly even modern classical seem to be best experienced through recordings instead of in the flesh, though this is certainly a case-by-case thing). Instead of trying to embellish what they do, they just get it down on tape and let the chips fall where they may.
Unrest is one of the few examples of a band that has two easily defined eras that I dig equally. In most cases I find myself drawn to certain specific periods in the histories of groups that had significant personnel changes or shifts in sound: Velvets, Sonic Youth, Grateful Dead, Black Flag, and don’t get me started on the jazz end of things with Miles, Mingus, and Coltrane. Unrest’s lifespan is usually divided into two parts. The first, where Mark Robinson and Phil Krauth worked with a slew of other musicians to perfect a slippery sound that roved all over the place while keeping a loose grasp on group focus, was a perfect fit in the indie landscape of the second half of the ‘80s. The second, often described as the Bridget Cross-era, saw the music tightening its influences, refining its sound and thriving on the input of all three members, in the process crafting some of the best guitar pop (with art touches) I’ve ever heard. Malcolm X Park is from the first era, and it’s a mess of wildly divergent inspirations: DC hardcore, Kiss covers, Kenneth Anger, Brit post-punk and indie-pop, Henry Cow style art rock, goofus Elvis covers with fake sitar solos and more. While I do truly love the entirety of Unrest equally (their last record Perfect Teeth might just be my favorite, and I almost never say that about bands), I do wish more people were hep to this album. It’s been out of print for years, and when it finally does get reissued it deserves a whole new following, because it’s a raggedy masterpiece.
Good old New Order. Here’s the thing, people: When I was just a young lad Love Vigilantes was often derided by purple-haired ponces as being beneath consideration perhaps due to its unadulterated classic guitar pop sensibility combined with a modern delivery and its lack of the characteristic qualities that made the band such a big thing. This was to be expected, I guess. But the song wasn’t even released as a single. It was an efficient little detour that should have been embraced at the time, but was instead used as fodder for eye-rolling at neophytes who couldn’t help but by gassed by its grooves. HOGWASH, I tell you. Eye-rolling is a necessary activity, but should not be engaged in indiscriminately. Love Vigilantes, at this late date, sounds like one of the more shrewd stabs of its period. The rest of the record is a treat also, and this has not a damn thing to do with a stroll down nostalgia lane.
By the time I was really clued in, The Psychedelic Furs’ best days were over. They were running on the fumes of being appropriated as a major element in John Hughes’ most successful film, but the consensus was the band’s moment had passed. I never really had much opinion on them at this point, but flash forward about five years and some phantom figure at a party opines through the smoke that the Furs’ first album was a classic. I didn’t know if he was putting me on or what, so I just gave him one of those nods that can mean anything or nothing. Somebody started jawing about something else, and the topic never resurfaced. Except in my head later, after the smoke cleared. Was he serious or not? I asked numerous cats if they had the record, but nobody did or they wouldn’t ‘fess up. I was stuck. I couldn’t just run to my computer and download the thing for free, this was 1992. I tried to forget about it. Then a used copy turned up at my local record shack. For two dollars. Naturally I snatched it up. With a price that cheap it didn’t matter if he was jiving me. If it sucked, I could just file it, and if anybody decided to pull some classic shenanigans in my house, I could just pluck it from the stacks and say You mean this record? Well, turns out it didn’t suck. I don’t think it rates as classic, but I could see what he was driving at. Maybe if I’d heard it when he did, I’d feel the same way. I do pull it off the shelf occasionally, and I’m sure I will again. Shit you hear at parties, man.

Two By Steve Lacy (a review/appreciation)

It’s creeping up on twenty years since I first heard the late Steve Lacy. I’d read about him in the context of the free jazz scene of the 1960s, learning that he was an early associate of Cecil Taylor, that he’d recorded an album on ESP Disk, that he’d moved to Paris in the late 60s and had continued to explore and grow musically, and that at that point (just after the dawn of the 1990s) he was still working and releasing records. By chance while record shopping, I found a then recent LP copy of The Door, released on RCA Novus, quickly bought it and wasn’t disappointed.
This was the beginning of my seduction by jazz, which coincided with a rekindling of interest by both record companies and a portion of the general public in less traditional modes of improvisation. Both Taylor and Sun Ra had new records out on A & M, Elektra was releasing the music of John Zorn and other New York Downtown artists on the Nonesuch imprint, Columbia had Tim Berne, a steady flow of indies (some with major label distribution) were releasing new jazz of an unabashed post-free stripe into the marketplace, and the availability of classic recordings on Impulse!, Atlantic, Blue Note, and Columbia made it possible to get frequent audible instruction into the huge and often uncompromising history of the music And Lacy threads through the post-50s portion of that history like a friendly but demanding snake.

Before the internet, the most reliable way to learn about the movements, personalities, and recordings in jazz’s long and varied landscape was by reading books. Martin Williams, Nat Hentoff, and Gary Giddins became familiar, reliable names. It quickly became easy to distinguish the large number of conservative books and opinions from those that were more attuned to the sounds of freedom. The cornerstones of my jazz infatuation at that point consisted of two genres and two artists: Free jazz, Bop, John Coltrane, and Charles Mingus. I had no time for revamped moldy-fig bullshit or upscale cocktail self-congratulation: groundbreaking and demanding music was what I was after, and the texts that accepted or celebrated the more controversial aspects of jazz in its slow commercial decline were my guide in buying the documents that served as the building blocks in my jazz education.
The curious thing about Steve Lacy is that he was given an unusually high level of respect from the more stodgy historians and critics when they actually deigned to write about him. The less forgiving or antagonistic treatment leveled at names like Albert Ayler, Anthony Braxton, Sun Ra, and Archie Shepp was mostly absent from the writing on Lacy. A big reason for this is his unique background, playing progressive Dixieland before hooking up with Taylor on the pianist’s early recordings, joining arranger Gil Evans in the late 50s and playing with Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk, and serving as the inspiration for Coltrane to pick up the soprano sax. Lacy was an inside/outside cat, and while he gravitated more to the outside as the 60s progressed, he never really became a flat-out wailing wildman on his instrument. He did participate in some rather intense large group improv sessions (The Jazz Composers Orchestra and Globe Unity Orchestra spring to mind) but in the parts of the man’s massive discography that are completely (solo sax records) or largely (extensive duos, trios and quartets) his Lacy exudes a contemplative nature that stands in contrast to the modes of full-blown anger/protest or ecstatic abstract joy. His choice of instrument certainly plays a big part in this, as does his extensive examination of the music of Monk. To call him an avant-garde traditionalist might seem like a contradiction, but after hearing a wide variety of his work it sort of makes good sense.


The second Steve Lacy record I bought was Soprano Sax. This was his debut as a leader, and I ordered it on a whim, knowing little about its contents. I did know that it came after he joined Taylor’s group, but since finding early Taylor records was a struggle at that point, I only had the idea of what those early Cecil groups sounded like as a possible indicator of what might come from Lacy’s first album. Upon taking Soprano Sax home, quickly disposing of the plastic (this was a CD reissue) and digging in, it just as quickly became obvious that any hypothetical notions I’d formed about the music were off the mark: it was a completely inside record. The firmly traditional approach to the music was handled with an appealing amount of depth, and I found myself returning to the album quite frequently, it's contents helping to play a large part in expanding my horizons to the more classic sounds that weave back to the music’s origins.
The sound of the soprano sax is an odd one. Even when it’s being used to examine standards by Duke Ellington or Cole Porter, the shrill, nasally, occasionally harsh tone sits in stark distinction to the warmer, deeper sounds found in the more regularly employed altos, tenors, and baritones. There was a reason that the soprano was almost completely abandoned in the bop era, relegated to the purgatory of Dixieland’s collective boisterousness: it’s simply a harsh mistress (Lacy once described it as a hysterical woman) that’s less forgiving and more demanding than most people are comfortable with. So while Soprano Sax makes no overt gestures to being avant-garde or out-of-step with the times of its creation, the unique sound of the titular instrument helps it to achieve an immediate magnetism, which is only increased by the fluidity and daring of a player like Lacy.
Having a great band plays a big part in being able to reach such heights. Wynton Kelly on piano is a heavyweight addition, a nimble player that contributed to landmark recordings by Miles and Coltrane and also sounded great in his own trio (who happen to be the accompanying group on Wes Montgomery’s ludicrously wonderful Smokin’ at the Half Note). Kelly had a lot of worthwhile contemporaries, but in my opinion few of them could have contributed as strongly to this album as he does, shifting from the roles of support to soloist with easy grace and attractive assurance. Bassist Buell Neidlinger is probably an unknown name outside of serious jazz-heads, but that doesn’t mean he’s a footnote: he played an integral part of Lacy’s and Taylor’s music during this period, culminating in important sessions for the Candid label, one of which was originally released under his name as New York City R & B (with Lacy, Taylor, Shepp, Billy Higgins, Clark Terry and others). He’s worked with classical groups and been an LA session musician, and he was a vital component of the period where the free-jazz dial was set to simmer, not yet turned up to full boil. I think he was a great player. I feel the same way about Denis Charles, the drummer in this group, another lesser-known but worthy figure, who in addition to the Lacy/Taylor connections (he appears on the Candid sessions as well) also recorded with Sonny Rollins, violinist Billy Bang and free-bassist extraordinaire William Parker. He was a native of the Virgin Islands, and the playing I’ve heard from him is quite vibrant, particularly his cymbal work, where he genuinely expresses rhythm creatively instead of just falling back on standard clichés. Charles’ career featured some lengthy drop-outs and periods of little activity, which is unfortunate, for like Higgins and Ed Blackwell, he was versatile and expressive, capable of contributing in a variety of styles. More recordings of his prowess would certainly have helped to tip the scales of notoriety in his favor. But what we got is all we have, and this recording is one part of that total.
Soprano Sax starts with a reading of Ellington’s Day Dream, with Lacy’s tone cutting and sometimes soaring while retaining a lightness of delivery that’s quite pleasing. He becomes more forceful in his solo without becoming showy or blustery. On this track he’s above all else about restraint while keeping tabs on the inherent beauty of the tune, managing to express something of himself in the process. Kelly gets a turn to solo, and sounds fantastic. The next song, Alone Together is a standard, and it finds Lacy’s blowing ranging from knotty to searching, with an especially well done solo in between great showings by Neidlinger and Kelly. Charles hangs back, giving the tune much more than just a pulse. Monk’s Work is tackled next, and shows Lacy to be adept at maintaining momentum while playing imaginatively. Another fine Kelly solo gives way to a brief and energetic (to say nothing of unusual) one by Charles, and then Lacy returns for more expressive forward motion. It is at this point that the record really kicks into high gear. Ellington’s Rockin’ in Rhythm is given a work-out, with superb ascents and declines by the horn, thrilling contributions by Charles, who really knows how to adapt to and accentuate the songs form (fucking fantastic cymbals), and more solo space for bass and drums (Kelly really making the most of his spot). A calypso titled Little Girl Your Daddy is Calling You is next, and Lacy is for the most part absent, only playing on the opening and closing of the tune, laying back so his band mates can shine: Kelly tears it up, roaming over his keyboard with a delicious dexterity, at times pushing at the tune’s tempo and at other moments falling back, flurries of sound flirting around with melody then returning to runs of notes, before concluding and giving way to the drums, which rattle around in some weirdly compelling almost marching band territory (with some cool attention to the hi-hat) before the song’s sweetly abrupt end. The last track, Cole Porter’s Easy to Love, serves as both a stretching out and as a winding down. Lacy gets extended solo space that he utilizes quite well, never running out of interesting places to go. For me, the best part of the song is Neidlinger’s strong walking rhythmic line and his seamless transition into a fine solo spot. But the overall strength of the whole record is the ease of communication between all the players. Lacy, Neidlinger and Charles all knew each other from working with Taylor. I’m going to take a leap and say that Kelly and Lacy were familiars from the circles of Evans and Davis. This level of group knowledge obviously encourages the individual players to take subtle chances while recording, bolstering the confidence and helping the finished work to rise far above just another solid recording date. For Lacy’s Soprano Sax is so much more than a collection of fine players who happened to end up in a recording studio for pay. It is both a lasting document of the reintegration of a neglected instrument into the fabric of jazz, and the beginning of a startling career, one that never displayed signs of coasting or apathy. Whenever another Lacy recording enters my eardrums, I almost always end up pulling out this disc, partly for the sheer joy of it, but also to see how far the man traveled over the course of his life. And Soprano Sax never sounds dated or bland. It is a record of its time, certainly, but its approachable, trad quality doesn’t for a second feel like coasting or compromise. These four guys were working things out the way they wanted to, coming to terms with the history of this music not just as listeners (a big enough task), but as players. This is something that Lacy never stopped doing, no matter how abstract his later work became.


Thelonious Sphere Monk was a big part of this constant process. Lacy’s next record as a leader consisted entirely of Monk compositions. It was the first album to solely feature the pianist’s work in interpretation. Reflections: Steve Lacy Plays Thelonious Monk is a landmark record for so many more reasons than just that: it is the end-product of a stellar band of Lacy, Neidlinger, pianist Mal Waldron, and drummer Elvin Jones, it is a sincere and successful investigation into the work of one of the greatest musicians of the 20th century recorded at a time when the artist was still a contentious figure, not yet the canonical influence who has inspired far too many tributes (some of which reek of opportunism, others being wounded by an agape idolization), and it serves as evidence to just how diligent Lacy (and pianist Waldron, but more on him in a minute) was, so early in his career, at utilizing the substantial depths of Monk’s work (he did the same to a lesser extent with Ellington, Mingus, and pianist Herbie Nichols) as a basis for his own groundbreaking music. This is likely why he was treated so well in those jazz books: again, the hooks of the past are explicitly in Lacy’s oeuvre, even when he’s at his most out. But the focus is always on new possibilities. It’s a bit like watching somebody make an awesome sculpture out of old car parts. The end result is this unique and tangible thing comprised of elements that are unavoidably familiar (we’ve all taken a car apart before, right?). In comparison, the slavish tribute albums (not ALL of them are bad, but that’s another blog entry) feel like eating an attempted facsimile of a really good meal where the chef abstained from using spices and substituted sub-par produce for fresh, organic ingredients. Lacy's work is alive and bursting where the tribs are flaccid and lacking. Another striking thing about Reflections is how it avoided Monk standards in an era when there weren’t any. That means no Round Midnight or Straight No Chaser, but not in the deliberate way that the omission of those tunes can’t avoid today. Four in One jumps out of the gate with stirring group interplay, the tune’s title lending commentary to the collective artistry on display. The first striking difference between this group and the one on Soprano Sax is Waldron: Kelly is a more direct player, with an energetic style that made him well suited for the steady flow of post-bop recording that didn’t really abate until the later half of the ‘60s. Waldron is a more contemplative pianist, directly influenced by Monk, less melodic in his soloing, and finally someone who was inclined toward the more progressive developments in jazz. His imprint is on the Eric Dolphy-Booker Little Quartet’s Live at the Five Spot recordings, which is reason enough to enshrine him in the halls of jazz glory, but in addition to that he continued to be a thought provoking player up to the end of his life, often collaborating further with Lacy in a variety of contexts. In many ways he’s shares Lacy’s mode of continually moving forward by deeply looking backward, but Waldron’s less appropriately tagged as an avant-garde player. The avant influence, at least from his music that I’ve spent time with, is more implicitly felt than explicitly stated, but this internal openness gives his later work (again, what I’m familiar with. The man was quite prolific) a vitality that many other pianists with more rigid, codified styles simply lack in their own late works. Like Lacy, he was another European expat, and perhaps the respect and relative freedom of that locale helped him to retain the spark.

Lacy and Waldron in performance circa 1980

Another quickly apparent difference in the band is Elvin Jones. Most of his posthumous fame comes from his membership in Coltrane’s groundbreaking later bands, but equally important to a full understanding of his abilities is his sheer adaptability to whatever style he was involved in playing. The list of musicians he connected with is rather astounding: Davis, Lee Konitz, Art Pepper, Roland Kirk, Andrew Hill, Rollins, Wayne Shorter, Grant Green, Larry Young, Bill Frisell, etc. Jones could function admirably in numerous contexts while always bringing the necessary ingredient of individuality that marks the great jazz drummers. His playing is the first thing heard on Four in One, but it’s what he does during Lacy’s excellent solo that really stands out. While he is never out of the support role, there is a disciplined raucousness to his playing, which downshifts noticeably when Waldron takes the solo spot, Jones focusing instead on expressive cymbals, letting the piano dominate the moment. The subsequent back and forth between Neidlinger and Jones is loose and surprising, lacking the triteness that 50s rhythm sections could often fall into. Something I’ve noticed in Jones’ early work is how bursting with expression it is, tilting to the explosions that would come later with Coltrane, but also how he never overtakes the other players, overstepping into showiness. This record, along with Rollins’ Live at the Village Vanguard albums, prove just how developed an artist Jones was before joining Coltrane.
The third noticeable difference between this record and Soprano Sax lies in Lacy’s playing. The challenge of seven Monk tunes possibly inspired him to a heightened level, for he sounds richer and displays more dexterity than on his debut, but the period of time between recording dates, nearly a year, is likely to have also played a part. Practice, performance, listening, and thinking (reacting) are all vital to a musician (you don’t have to be one to know this), and on Reflections Lacy is in exemplary form. On one hand, the playing seems more relaxed. But on the other, this relaxation also seems to bring more intensity to his sound through increased chance taking and the natural upper register timbers that his instrument possesses. What results is a beautiful glimpse of individual artistry. Lacy knew something fifty years ago that many don’t know or ignore today: that the true way to interact with the music of a master is to bring the idiosyncrasies of your own personality into the fray, and to have a discussion of sorts, instead of a monologue, an imitation.

The high points on this album are the opener discussed above, the infectious angularity of Bye-Ah, and the onslaught of thick communication and tense improv that is Skippy, the closing track. But that leaves four others that aren’t far behind. The whole thing is like a diamond tough testament to the greatness of Lacy, and it lumps together with Soprano Sax to shed lasting light on part of the early movements of one of music’s great improvisers.
Of all the players on both discs, only Neidlinger is still making music. All of the others have died, though the creative part of who they were continues to live through their recordings, and every time someone hears their music, either consciously or by chance, the opportunity for pleasure, for inspiration, for fulfillment (if only for a moment) is there. If the only real point to being alive is to live a life not wasted, then all these guys not only succeeded many times over, but they grabbed thousands of people by the ear canals and brought them along for the ride. How gracious.

The Auteur Files #2- David Fincher's Zodiac (2007)

I haven’t watched Se7en in over a decade, but remember it as a damn good movie, so good that I went to the theatre to see Fincher’s follow up, The Game, and found myself being a little let down. I don’t recall thinking that it was a bad film (I’d like to see it again), and I certainly didn’t place Fincher my personal purgatory of directors, but I must confess that I’ve not seen either Fight Club or Panic Room. I will eventually, sure. Fight Club quickly gathered a coterie of rather annoying male fans that gave me an aversion to the whole thing, and Panic Room just happened to slip by me.
The fact that I hadn’t been keeping up with Fincher made my recent viewing of Zodiac all the more surprising. It’s an ambitious movie that beautifully integrates a startling amount of elements into its long running time, never falling into heavy-handedness or self-indulgence. Marketed as a serial killer flick, it’s really something much more than that, instead a deft interweaving of police procedural and newspaper drama that chooses a true story that never came to any satisfying (i.e. predictably cinematic) conclusion. The film works superbly on so many levels that I’m not a bit hesitant to declare that I prefer it to 2007’s other critically acclaimed movie about modern violence, that being The Coen Brothers’ No Country For Old Men.
Zodiac scores big points for not following the standard path of most serial killer stories. The general trend since Silence of the Lambs has been to subtly turn the pathological into something sexy, with the killers taking on variations of dysfunctional superhero, fucked-up moral crusader (Se7en fits this description), or charismatic nutcase. By now the trend has become rather entrenched, and it’s gotten tiresome.
It seems that Fincher has made some serious strides as a filmmaker since Se7en, choosing to tackle the weird phenomenon of California’s Zodiac killer without any identification or romanticizing of the person responsible. The fact that nobody was ever caught might seem to play a big part in this at first, but the thorny complexity of the case and the killer’s bizarre self-promotion through the media really cry out for the kind of cinematic idealization that’s become the norm. Fincher simply eschews the temptation: the murders are filmed with ample violent intensity, but are not presented to the viewer as a series of trophy shots that ultimately serve as celebration of the acts, and while it would be false to describe the movie as humanist, it also lacks the contempt for humanity that many serial killer films (or films that feature killing in general) display, instead choosing a detached sensibility that is sympathetic to the characters without developing favorites. Zodiac isn’t about the killer at all, but uses his actions as a vehicle for a film that intensely examines information overload and human obsession. The violence is frontloaded in the movie, the flow of events always moving forward (no flashbacks).The importance of the murders isn’t the tension and release of the acts, but instead the lasting impact they have on other people. When a likely suspect emerges into the narrative, his presence isn’t at all engaging. Instead he’s a mostly bland (a little creepy) character with a pedophiliac past. Then he promptly disappears from the story (to return later, in one of the movie’s best scenes) as the focus centers on the march of time and how the lack of resolution affects the lives of the characters that make up the bulk of the film.
Fincher shot digitally, only apparently using film-stock in a few instances, but you wouldn’t know that from the structure of the film, which harkens back to a more classical style, using an economy of shots that are often quite beautiful in their construction. The visual texture is rich, with a great use of color, but it is also somewhat low-key, lacking grandstanding or hyperbole, which matches the acting. Mark Ruffalo, Anthony Edwards, Robert Downey Jr., and especially Jake Gyllenhaal all give outstanding, mature performances, and when the film’s judicious depiction of period is taken into consideration, it becomes clear that any shortcomings Zodiac has will only be revealed, if at all, by further more attentive viewing. Sure, some will be frustrated by its preoccupation with systems, procedures, and puzzles, and the almost three hours required to watch it might bug others, but I happen to find these elements actually work in the movie’s favor. The way the story deeply delves into how the characters do their jobs and struggle to come up with answers never feels mundane. It seems less about realism and more about the steady build up of information and momentum, which certainly requires time, and while I certainly noticed the film’s length it really added to the effectiveness of the whole thing (and to the points that were quietly made), starting in the late 1960s and ending in the early 1990s.
As far as similarities with other films, Zodiac’s attention to the detail of systems and procedures reminds me of Fritz Lang minus that director’s often caustic view of human behavior. It is also somewhat reminiscent of the ‘70s work of Alan Pakula (All the President’s Men) and the police centered films of Sidney Lumet. There is no homage in this movie though; instead it seems to exist as a standalone work that consciously resists the temptation to fall back on any specific earlier stylistic tropes (its general tendency to classical film style isn’t self-conscious or inclined to any particular filmmaker’s signature). To expand, the bulk of the film is set in the 1970s, and while Don Siegel’s Dirty Harry (a film also inspired by the string of Zodiac murders) becomes a brief part of the story, the film never reaches for the (anti)-conventions that are a large part of that decade’s most revered movies. This is particularly notable during the ending, which while leaning toward one suspect as the killer, still lacks the sense of closure that most Hollywood films feature. One recurring aspect of ‘70s cinema was how many pictures ended in one big question mark, sometimes successfully, other times with a ham-fisted attempt at profundity that would miss its mark by a wide margin (My, aren’t we deep?). Maybe the studio denied Fincher and Co the opportunity to end on this type of lingering ambiguousness, but my gut reaction is to credit the creators with the denouement’s mixture of no emotional closure and the attempt through written text on black screen to arrive at an ending that didn’t leave audiences with a shoulder-shrugging That’s it?. I really want to see the longer cut of this, because my suspicion is that the ending will be the same. It deals with its lack of a tidy emotional conclusion in a contemporary way, fitting quite well with the rest of the film. Zodiac mixes genres but isn’t a genre movie. It’s influenced by the past but not beholden to or infatuated with it. One of the strongest compliments I can give it is to describe it as being a film completely of its period. It’s not avant-garde (that is to say, ahead of its time) or cultish, though it uses state of the art tech to increase its effectiveness, its efficiency. Its maturity and knowledge of the past never for an instant leans toward stodginess or self-importance; instead it moves with a smart, smooth pace that is plugged into the specific complexities of right now.
Zodiac dumps a shit-load of information on us and then deftly pulls us along to a point where we are asked to swallow the lack of finality. Its characters spend the entire running time either refusing or finally finding ways to let go of the past, and when it’s clear that all the principals in the film have come to that crossroads, the credits are rolling, and then we have to make that choice as well. The choice that the film makes is clear, for like any truly contemporary artwork (lit, film, painting, music, etc) its direction is soundly delineated: Forward.

Eddy Current Suppression Ring's Primary Colours CD (Goner Records)- a review

While garage rock seems like a simple enough impulse, as the decades stack up on top of ground zero for Nuggets/Pebbles/Back from the Grave style rumpus, it gets to be a trickier proposition to pull off without falling victim to generics. The records that often result from this state of affairs can inspire smiles and head shaking at the sheer joie de vivre involved in their making, but repeated listens ultimately prove that the substantive stuff of the whole enterprise is essentially formulaic. A little bit of this plus a touch of that and throw in some other stuff ends up equaling an experience that sounds just ginchy while it plays but frankly lacks the inspirational residue that marks the truly worthwhile records, those that inexplicably land in the mind whist doing the most mundane things (waiting in line, walking the dog, raking the yard) and don’t leave until actively experiencing said song(s) provide(s) sweet release. You know, air guitar windmills in the living room, jumping on the couch (hey, it’s a sturdy old thing, more than able to withstand the weight and force), and dance moves that would look just FANTASTIC in public if I (or you, possibly) could only remember them when the opportunity presents itself. That’s what great records can inspire, and when a batch of tunes in the 21st century that are undeniably connected to the admirably blunt teenage gush of '60s garage-isms prove to be not only worthwhile but at times even borderline transcendent, well that’s just cause for some celebratory word-spew on my part.
Eddy Current Suppression Ring hail from Melbourne, Australia. They play a loud and quite sly brand of hip-shake that lands them in the fine company of numerous other Australian bands from over the last thirty or so years, many of whom zeroed in on ‘60s Detroit as their main source of inspiration. ECSR follow suit on Primary Colours’ opening track Memory Lane, which sounds like a no-big deal Stooges knock-off that was honed through intensive practice into a sharp instrument of tightly wound melodic urgency. This is great for starters, but it’s also true that the unabashed worship of Iggy and Co is one subset of the whole primal 1960s shebang that’s really obstinate in it’s application as an influence/template. Mine the territory for too long and everything ends up feeling like the stale motions of a tribute act. ECSR were/are obviously wise to this fact, because the subsequent nine songs on this record bounce around in all kinds of surprising areas: Sunday’s Coming is a bums-rush of precise guitar mania and rhythmic flailing with a nastily pulsing bass line thundering underneath, Wrapped Up is a tug of war between poppy, almost pretty guitar strumming/chiming and an aggressive all-levels maxed-out delivery, Colour Television seems to mine content from the tossed-off inspiration of thousands of early-‘80s Anglo post-punk groups but weds it with a sharp workmanlike style that’s really attractive, Which Way To Go has a kind of ragged construction that feels like a lost late-‘80s 45 which should have been on Homestead Records (minus the Aussie accent), We’ll Be Turned On displays some fine keyboard gusto that’s a bit reminiscent of the initial efforts of New Zealand’s The Clean, but the song never really expands on this in any kind of overt way, instead settling into a groove that rips like the ultimate set-closer for some forgotten band playing in a McCrory’s parking lot circa 1966. Naturally, it’s not the last track on the record. That would be too easy. ESCR seem like a collective bunch of music heads, the kind of guys who try to impress the girls at a party by playing The Troggs, and this kind of sensibility appears to have embedded itself into the band’s sound and additionally into their standards, which are quite high for the no-pretense style they engage in.
Sometimes records like this can hinge on one song. Without that one sustained passage infecting the totality the overall impact is lessened dramatically, missing the heights of the exceptional and instead hovering in an area that’s maybe on the cusp of greatness but seems to lack the one defining moment that pulls everything else together, sharpening the focus, elevating the whole. On this record that song would be That’s Inside Me, an instrumental landing not quite smack dab in the middle. It’s a freaking monster, absorbing the riff-happy sweetness of Crazy Rhythms-era Feelies and pushing it into repeato-delirium. And while that would be enough, this baby goes one step further, throwing in a little taste of expansive guitar soloing that’s like a hazy fragment from the stage of the Avalon Ballroom, the kind of precipice-of-discovery that Moby Grape, Big Brother, and early Quicksilver Messenger Service were dicking around with, the sort of sound that always felt (to me) more amphetamine fueled than pot influenced, and the kind of muddy sonic waters that are often erroneously described as being at odds with the uh, purity of direct and dirty and primal rock ‘n’ roll oomph, the kind of us vs. them crappiness that’s more invested in image and attitude instead of the admirable pursuit of good sounds, the kind of mindset that’s just plain hooey. ECSR prove it by jumping right over the bullshit line in the sand and grappling briefly with the loose, trailblazing aesthetic that the early Cali-psyche bands shared (along with those from Texas) before most ended up either losing the plot or shifting into other areas as the ‘60s closed. In 2008 this kind of gesture is less defiant and more just plain smart. That’s Inside Me benefits from a succession of diverse angles that never feel like a pastiche; the song has other unique elements that I haven’t even described, and its status as the defining track on Primary Colours is therefore sealed up tight.

These guys have other stuff that precedes this album in their discography, but I’ve yet to hear any of it. It would be nice to see the singles and the album packed up and available for stateside consumption. The overall quality of this record (not a bum track in the bunch) leads me to believe I’d enjoy listening to where ECSR were before they ended up here. It also gives me hope that they can come up with a few more unlikely successes in the not too distant future. Explosions of air guitar and furniture gymnastics are never a bad thing, and I need all the dance moves I can get.

The Auteur Files # 1- Brian De Palma's Hi, Mom (1970) + a little warning about spoilers.

This is the first of hopefully many posts about films I have recently watched. If you are averse to spoilers, it's maybe a good idea to wait until you've seen the film to read these posts, since I often detail parts of the story as I flesh out my ideas in written form. I write primarily for my own personal satisfaction, and while I sincerely hope others dig it, I don't enjoy dancing around a film's elements while making my points. I don't think it's what a film's about that makes it great or good or average or bad, it's how the film is about it that matters. If that makes me a snob, well okay. Maybe I'll try drinking my tea with a pinky finger pointing straight up into the air. I've heard that really enhances the experience.

The relationship between the 1970s and auteurist criticism is quite interesting. Up to that point, the canon of great directors was rather secure, with room to move for individual preferences. The emergence of the film school generation coincided with the death of old Hollywood to bring a problematic relationship between director-focused readings of film and then contemporaneous work: Allen, Altman, Ashby, Bogdanovich, Boorman, Coppola, Forman, Friedkin, Hellman, Lucas, Penn, Polanski, Rafelson, Scorsese, Spielberg and many others divided opinions in a startling way. Critical tolerance for cynicism, homage, the audacity of youth, and for large cinematic gestures meant that any consensus on North American film from that period was pretty much impossible, especially from the perspective of auteurism. In the present, some of the above names have developed strong advocacy from auteur critics, while others are more fringe tastes, being championed by one or a few writers to the surprise or disdain of many.
Brain De Palma fits in this second group like a foot in a tailor-made sock. My own opinion is that he’s wildly uneven, sometimes obvious, often gaudy, frequently pretentious, and rarely boring. I prefer his 70s work to that of the subsequent decade, and certainly to the 90s, where he seemed to lose many of the qualities that made his films fascinating, of not rewarding to me personally.
Hi, Mom is one of his earliest efforts, made before he slowly integrated into the Hollywood system and became a directorial presence to the general movie going public. Before Sisters, De Palma was basically an underground filmmaker with an attitude to match. Hi, Mom is drenched with satirical intent, some of which succeeds while other parts fall flat, largely due to the radical shifts in tone, a deliberate state of affairs that seems designed to keep the audience from establishing any sort of comfort with the film.
For many, the main attraction here will be a young Robert De Niro. He’s great in a role that seems to be the prototype for Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver, but here he is working in far more jagged territory, his character essentially a prop in De Palma’s scheme, much of which would continue to appear in later films. The preoccupation with Hitchcock is evident at this stage, referencing Rear Window, as is the broad social commentary which in this case feels like a filmmaker trying to have his cake while eating it: the movie as a whole is one big middle finger to authority and good taste while simultaneously lampooning ideas like activism, radical activities like experimental street theatre and liberal bastions such as educational television. Playing both sides of the fence in this fashion says a lot about the frame of mind De Palma was in at the time, but it doesn’t leave a whole lot to chew on other than a general sense of his distaste for other people (Fuck the man, man and look at all those stupid saps who think they can actually change things). This attitude is deepened by the film’s constant mockery of its characters; when De Niro speaks the line “tragedy is a funny thing” the intent as commentary on the film as a whole is blunted by the fact that the character is clueless to the joke, the dialogue functioning as a gag played at his expense. This wouldn’t be such a big deal in a film containing roles that were fully drawn and held the possibility for sympathy or identification, but Hi, Mom is barren in this department. Everybody in this movie is set up for derision. I don’t necessarily consider this a shortcoming, for some of my favorite films employ this same tactic, but in this case it’s quite raw and shrill. It was possibly much more effective at the time of release, directly commenting on its surroundings, but nearly forty years later it feels a bit hollow and condescending.
In addition to Hitch, the influence of Godard is all over this thing. The film possesses so many conflicting elements that it’s hard to compare it to anything other than movies like Pierrot Le Fou and Weekend: a stridently anti-Hollywood opening scene, jump cuts, a title song (quite bad, foreshadowing later musical miscues by De Palma), inter-titles, abrupt detours into black and white pseudo-cinema vérité that anticipates later developments in the Cinema of Discomfort (Haneke, Noe, etc), improvisational scenes, and a sharpening sense of sarcasm that concludes in an blunt anti-ending. If it sounds like a mess, it sort of is, though it’s a rather deliberately designed one. In regard to Hitchcock, I’ve come to the conclusion that De Palma cheapens what he steals, but the Godard influence is more successfully applied, possibly because it was contemporary to his development as a director. It gives Hi, Mom a sort of time-capsule appeal, detailing a certain fractured mindset as the 60s petered out in all its dysfunctional glory.
This time-capsule aspect is heightened by the harsh judgment given to the bourgeoisie (more Godard), the examination of class warfare (more more Godard), the light-hearted romanticizing of De Niro blowing up an apartment building with dynamite (more more more Godard), and the overt commentary on Vietnam (ditto ditto ditto ditto). As a representation of a certain specific historical quagmire (the feel-good, hopeful 60s transmogrifying into the shit-hole 70s where Nixon wins the ‘72 election in a landslide), Hi, Mom can be quite riveting. But it could have been so much more; the blackness of its satire is lessened by the director’s withering view of human beings and what results doesn’t register as protest (which is what the best satire really is) but far more as a contemptuous screed. It’s tempting to call it nihilist, but then the problem arises over what De Palma’s getting so worked up about. Maybe it’s a nihilist recruitment film. If so, I’m not sold.
To elaborate, here is a moment that inspired groans from my couch: in a vérité segment, a group of radicals are arguing with some vaguely middle class denizens by a newspaper stand. The argument gets heated. Another altercation develops next to them between a man with a gun and the paper seller. The seller is shot. The rest of the group is so ensconced in argument that they don’t even notice, and the shooter slinks off camera. The documentation of seemingly random violence is straight out of Masculin-Feminin or Weekend, but the effect is less that of catharsis from the depths of disgust and more that of snide finger pointing toward the baseness and self-absorption of humanity.

Hi, Mom is certainly not a bad film, for it possesses an artistic ambitiousness that sometimes finds success, but it’s also far from satisfying. Some of this was obviously intentional, but at this late date, that fact doesn’t really count for a whole lot. It’s a bit like being cornered at a party by a strident and highly literate misanthrope. The guy’s dedication and communication skills are somewhat admirable, but it’s hard to understand why he didn’t just stay fucking home. I guess every get-together secretly cries out for a killjoy, and circa 1970, De Palma seems like a party-killing drag par excellence. Watching this movie will hopefully leave you with the impression that you’re not as bilious right now as he was back then. If not, then let me know, because I have some prospective shindigs that maybe you shouldn’t know about.