1999: Alex Chilton - Loose Shoes and Tight Pussy
A few years ago, a good friend of mine turned me on to Big Star. Although I had heard some of the band’s songs here and there, he lent me his vinyl copies of Number One Record and Radio City, explaining that most of my favorite artists were already devoted Big Star fans. After that, it was all over. I spoke with him about my developing obsession with the group, and he sagely informed me that Big Star is not the kind of band you just like. He couldn’t have been more right. Years later, I’m the kind of guy spending $30 on import copies of Thank You Friends: the Ardent Records Story for the Rock City and Ice Water tracks; the kinda guy grooving on songs by The DBs and Chris Stamey written about members of Big Star (“Paper Hat,” anyone?); the kind of guy seething with righteous fury as the DJ at my favorite bar tells me he scored an original pressing of the “I Am the Cosmos” single for 99¢ at the record store where I work. The cultish nature of the band naturally leads to a peculiar kind of rock ‘n’ roll archeology, where any desperate scrap of Big Star lore is dug up, be it apocryphal or disputed. Unearthing each pop gem associated with the band prompts a same rush of giddy excitement, like a desperate religious fanatic uncovering some new piece of scripture.
But even among us true believers, the solo work of Big Star main-man Alex Chilton is a mixed bag. With the exception of his art-punk, deconstructionist debut Like Flies on Sherbert, Chilton’s solo work has largely been written off as trite genre exercises in jazz, soul, blues, and polite pop (and plenty of of fans despise Like Flies on Sherbert, too). Chilton’s lyrics are often especially suspect, and that’s when he even bothers to write songs, with most his records containing more than a few covers. Tight Shoes and Loose Pussy, his last proper solo effort, contains no originals and, sure enough, finds Chilton taking on a collection of jazzy, blues-beholden soul tunes. Those put off by this sort of breezier fare will find plenty to despise. There’s nothing as golden-hued as the first two Big Star records, and those looking for the immaculate bummer vibe of Third/Sister Lovers will be offended; all 12 tracks here are upbeat, even the country-soul, tear-in-my-beer numbers. There’s none of that famed Chilton anguish, and the sparse accompaniment of bass and drums is all that’s left to embellish Chilton’s vocals and guitar work.
But if one can separate the man from the myth for a moment, it becomes apparent that Loose Shoes... isn’t a bad record. In fact, it’s mostly a pretty good one. Opener “I’ve Never Found a Girl” does well to set up the record. Yes, it’s breezy, informed by a swaying, jazzy lilt and a perfectly bouncy bass line, but those writing Chilton off as a mellow standards singer really aren’t listening: Chilton’s singular voice oozes a certain punkness, a raw quality that sounds the way Elvis’ sneer looks. His guitar playing is aggressive, too, a tangled mess of jazz chords and whammy bar leads, delivered with biting treble and a bit of overdrive. It’s not often that people note Chilton’s six string prowess, but tracks like his take on Johnny “Guitar” Watson’s “Hook Me Up” and the albums instrumentals, “April in Paris” and “Shiny Stockings,” all reveal a nuanced, deft player, not afraid to get a bit nasty, as if the madman approach of Like Flies... was subtly integrated into his traditionalist leanings. Chilton works tiny wonders with his selected pallet. On “The Oogum Boogum Song” he offers pure pop, while “I Remember Mama” echoes the thumping, yearning rustic soul of The Band. “If You’s a Viper,” a cute ode to weed fueled runs to the liquor store, snakes and twists like its namesake. It’s all far more subversive than cursory listens suggest.
But it’s not all fantastic. “You Got a Booger Bear Under There” goes for a raunchy, sex-soaked vibe, but sounds as awkward as the title suggests. Maybe Isaac Hayes could pull this kind of thing off, but Chilton doesn’t, and it’s the album’s longest track, painfully dragging on two minutes longer than it should. “Lipstick Traces” sticks too close to a formula, illustrating why Chilton’s solo work is so problematic for many of his followers. The guy practically defines a genre (with much respect to his Big Star writing partner Chris Bell), but here he is, cranking out such plainly uninspired stuff. At least in the instance of Loose Shoes and Tight Pussy, the bad doesn’t outweigh the better, more surprising fare, which helps establish the album as one of the finest of his solo canon, a sort of grown up, medicated Like Flies on Sherbert minus the false starts and James Luther Dickinson (sadly).
It’s hard not to be reminded of another power-pop icon, Rivers Cuomo, who crafted his Third as his sophomore record with Weezer, Pinkerton. It famously tanked like its spiritual forefather, and while both records have grown to cult status in the years following their release, it’s hard to blame Chilton and Cuomo for retiring into the confines of pop recipe: less heart, more theory. The risks and naked honesty to these beleaguered songwriters just didn’t pay off, no matter what us basement-dwelling rock critics say to the contrary. Luckily, Alex Chilton still has the knack for a catchy tune, which constantly hints at a once obvious greatness. He’s still around, tossing us little bones like this record when he feels like it. There’s not a lot of meat, but if you gnaw for awhile, there’s certainly some tasty marrow.
1. I’ve Never Found a Girl
2. Lipstick Traces
3. Hook Me Up
4. The Oogum Boogum Song
5. If You’s A Viper
6. I Remember Mama
7. April In Paris
8. There Will Never Be Another You
9. Single Again
10. You’ve Got a Booger Bear Under There
11. Shiny Stockings
12. Goodnight My Love
2004: Velvet Cacoon - Genevieve
Spreading hype and rumors about your own band is a ballsy move that can be viewed in one of two ways; either as a creative PR trick, Kaufman-esque in intent, or as a deceptive, dishonest way to amass a fan base. For years, bands like The Residents have lived in anonymous infamy, and in this age of bedroom projects, one-man bands, and home-recorded albums, it has become almost commonplace for artists to bolster their own sense of mystery and intrigue.
Velvet Cacoon have built their career on a foundation of mystery, hype, and rumors -- most, if not all, self-generated. Many of these tales can be sourced back to front man Josh (possibly the group’s only member) who initially set about creating a rich tapestry of stories to sucker/allure legions of metalloids into Dethklok-like levels of devotion. For those who haven’t heard the yarns, here are just a few regarding their 2004 cult classic Genevieve: the album was written and recorded under the influence of vast amounts of dextromethorphan (which, for the layman, is the active ingredient in some cough syrups); due to the band’s politics of “deep ecology,” an eco-fascist philosophy espousing the theory that nature is more important than humans, no electricity was used in the recording of the album; instead, front man Josh “invented” a diesel-powered guitar called a “dieselharp” that was “amplified and recorded underwater in various sized aquariums” (reminds me of an episode of Metalocalypse).
In addition to these claims, early interviews with Josh and band partner Angela (possibly a figment of his imagination?) tell stories of intensely violent live shows, including public bloodletting and mutilation, the death of their drummer from falling off a cliff while drunk, communication with the spirit world through electronic voice phenomenon, and many other bits of ballyhoo. Of course, the metal world is no stranger to fabricated tales. By now we all know the story of the bound and tortured midget from Abrubtum was a hoax, and the whole dead drummer thing was already done by Spinal Tap.
In the wake of these tales of mayhem surrounding Velvet Cacoon, metalloids have spent countless hours on internet message boards discussing and debunking rumors with the zeal of an especially neurotic conspiracy theorist poring over the Zapruder film. Now, many of the hoaxes have been admitted, including the diesel-powered guitar that never was. The supposed intensity of their live performance is also difficult to corroborate considering the lack of any real evidence of the group ever playing a show at all. In addition to all this, VC was exposed as having plagiarized large parts of their discography from the Black Metal sound, which only angered metal purists more.
The only aspect of their personal mythology that may be true is the band’s alleged drug use. Taking cues more from William Burroughs than DJ Screw, Josh and Angela claim to have snorted a pre-prepared powder of dextromethorphan rather than drinking it in a cough syrup or crushing pills of Mucinex DM, like a junior high school student would. They say their music is inextricably connected to the disassociation brought on by the drug and that to really “understand” VC’s music, one must at least be on the “fourth plateau” of a DXM trip, where communication with the spirit world begins. For me, boasting about drug use is about as juvenile as wearing corpse paint, but perhaps there are those out there impressed by the ability of pretentious USBM’ers to guzzle cough syrup.
Musically, Genevieve is nothing groundbreaking, but you’ll recognize aspects of your favorite black metal bands (Burzum, Darkthrone, Blut Aus Nord). A fairly standard back and forth sway of vacuum cleaner narcosis permeates the entirety of the album. The militaristic stomp of drum machines meshes well with Josh’s vocals, which, when pushed way back in the mix, sound like a spot on Smeagol/Gollum impersonation (precious). While some aspects of the album are derivative, others are more inventive; nearly every track ends in an almost resurrective ambience. For instance, "P.S. Nautical" culminates with what sounds like a drowning piano and a symphony of miniature bells, while "Avalon Polo" drawls on victoriously before trailing in the sweet strumming of an acoustic guitar. VC's strength lies in straddling the line between metal and ambience (like all good black metal should), which is no more evident than on "Bete Noir," a 17-minute dark ambient track that closes the album in the most ominous and Stygian of ways.
What we have in the end is a decent metal album overshadowed by the controversy and lies, which begs the question: was all the hype needed to sell an otherwise pedestrian album? I'll let you know when I get to the fourth plateau.
1. 1
2. P.S. Nautical
3. Avalon Polo
4. Laudanum
5. Fauna & Flora
6. Genevieve
7. Bete Noir
1958: Mike Nichols & Elaine May - Improvisations To Music
Every culture, subculture, genre, and category has its wonks. Improvisational comedy is no exception; its biggest snobs scoff at Robin Williams’ zany talk show antics, and they eschew the hackery of television shows like Whose Line Is It Anyway? by decrying the lack of characters and scenework. I am one of those snobs.
I know, I know: there are other, more important things worth defending, such as root canals and the oeuvre of Milli Vanilli. When done poorly, improv is an interminable, execrable experience. However, when improv is done well, it is downright transcendental. Scenes, characters, objects, motivations appear out of nowhere. Long-form improv is less about laughs than it is about creating worlds out of nothing; the laughs come naturally when appropriate (or inappropriate) objects, people, and settings suddenly appear with clear, natural motivations. Simply put: long-form improv is about story and characters, while short-form improv is about games and zingers. Not that I’m biased.
End snob rant, enter Nichols & May, two of the most capable and brilliant long-form improvisers in history. Their second record, An Evening With Mike Nichols And Elaine May, is considered their best, but you can read about that elsewhere (and do, because it’s flat-out amazing). Their debut, Improvisations To Music, is a different matter, because it’s a snapshot of two stage actors trying out their craft in the studio for the first time, with mixed results.
Mike Nichols and Elaine May honed their abilities with the Compass Players, a Chicago theater group that later became Second City. They brought their improv act to clubs and eventually became a Broadway sensation (a period partially documented on An Evening With…). Improvisations To Music finds them between these milestones.
What works best on the album are the variations on genre: the Hitchcockian spies of “Mysterioso” who speak in increasingly ridiculous code (“Go to the Good Humor man... order a Fudgicle”), the dentist and patient stuck in a Douglas Sirk melodrama (“If I can teach one Saudi Arabian the rules of dental hygiene as I have learned them…”). Each highlight, especially the dentist scene, are exercises in pace, and they build to climaxes with subtle endings. Credit is also due to pianist Marty Rubenstein, who provides perfect, unobtrusive accompaniment.
What doesn’t work just feels arbitrary, such as the jaunty “Everybody’s Doing It,” a questionable parody of beat poetry using corporate and ad speak. It is either unfunny or simply too dated to work. Other skippable tracks are simply dull, such as the conversational “Tango” and the father-daughter scene “Chopin,” which gets points for sad drama but not much else.
Improvisations To Music is interesting for everything it is not: namely, a fitting start to huge careers. Mike Nichols especially flowered shortly after the duo broke up in the mid-’60s, going on to direct countless Broadway hits, as well as films such as Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? and The Graduate. Elaine May became a successful screenwriter and playwright (and teamed again with Nichols on The Birdcage and Primary Colors, which both featured May’s screenplay and Nichols’ direction). For the duo’s masterpieces, and to see what happens when ridiculous situations build naturally to absurdity, check out An Evening With Mike Nichols & Elaine May. For the moment before it all exploded, start here.
1. Cocktail Piano
2. Mysterioso
3. Second Piano Concerto (The Dentist)
4. Everybody’s Doing It
5. Bach To Bach
6. Tango
7. Sonata For Piano And Celeste
8. Chopin
1967: Tim Buckley - Goodbye and Hello
In the 1960s, the idea of music as an outlet for those struggling to find their place in a materialistic and corrupt world was becoming especially pronounced. Goodbye and Hello, in this sense, is certainly a product of its time; these melancholy folk tunes highlight the feelings of disappointment and disenchantment resulting from the tumultuous ’60s. Still, on this album, Tim Buckley delves beyond folksy reactions to politics.
That depth resides in Buckley’s soft-spoken, lyrical delivery. With a multi-octave range of possibilities and the gently wailing, melodic capability of his voice, he transcends the then-familiar sight of a man and his guitar, speaking to a people, a country, and a time. In “No Man Can Find the War,” the poetry is undeniable throughout. Yet when he finally asks “Is the war inside your mind?” we shift from the political to the individual, from the physical manifestation of war to a metaphorical one. There is a war in Tim Buckley’s mind.
In fact, Buckley is at his very best when confronting the torment buried within, rather than in the politics or war going on around him. “I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain” references his failed marriage with Mary Guibert (mother of Jeff Buckley), the “Flying Pisces.” The tune is undoubtedly epic, filled with queens and charming dancers and seascapes. Ultimately, however, Buckley abandons the fantastical for safe and steady ground, as the song culminates in a series of pleading howls: “Please come home.” Who pleads is not made clear -- the Flying Pisces? the abandoned child? Buckley himself? Yet the grief and desperation remains personal and, above all else, human.
The voice of protest comes from a place packed full of emotion and turmoil, yet adding politics to the mix hardens and toughens any outcome. The war outside is something to talk and sing about, but considering the war in Tim Buckley’s mind, Goodbye and Hello becomes not only a product of its time, but a product of human experience, in life, love, and loss.
1. No Man Can Find the War
2. Carnival Song
3. Pleasant Street
4. Hallucinations
5. I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain
6. Once I Was
7. Phantasmagoria in Two
8. Knight-Errant
9. Goodbye and Hello
10. Morning Glory
1999: Franco Godi, Enzo Jannacci, and Paolo Tomelleri - Signor Rossi
In the movie Booty Call, Jamie Foxx’s character, Bunz, relates a story about growing up with a cheap TV on which it was impossible to read subtitles; therefore, he watched a lot of movies with only foreign-language accompaniment, particularly kung-fu flicks. After a while, he tells acquaintances at dinner, “I started being able to understand the motherfuckers.”
I’m not going to claim that after dozens of listens to Signor Rossi – a reissue of an out-of-print collection of soundtrack music from the animated TV show of the same name – I can understand Italian any better. I can still only make out the words that mirror their counterparts in the Spanish language. That’s it. However, now that I’ve absorbed a SHIT-ton of these delightful cycles of cheeky voices, sounds, and instrumental blurts, I feel a certain kinship with the characters and, especially, the tunes.
Part of their charm is that they simply couldn’t have been created in any other environment. This is cartoooon moooosic throooo and throooo, and as such it’s technically one of the only examples I’ve heard of its kind. There are snips and snatches of Ennio Morricone flourishes and other signatures I’m sure many-a soundtrack composer used back when this batch of songs was whipped up, but, for me, the constituent parts have no clear precedent, which is a mind-blowing thing if you’re used to being pelted by four-member units with a singer-guitarist-bassguy-drumdude lineup.
The lack of linguistic understanding even allows me to focus more closely on the instrumental deviations and the actual sounds being made by the singers’ mouths. Which is to say, my mind is uncluttered by the need to make sense of what's being said, a state of purity that’s more liberating than you might think. Not to mention that there’s a lot of ‘bop-ba-bop-ba’ stuff that’s as communicable as the International Language.
I never expected to derive such pleasure from a complication such as this, and now that I’ve finally allowed myself to look up a few of the cartoons themselves, I’m convinced this stuff might have influenced The Critic. Or maybe not.
1. Herr Rossi Sucht das Glück - Millerc
2. Rossi Easy Background
3. Parapapa "Perepepe" Choir
4. Sicura E Trac, Pts. 1-3 - Nichetti
5. Bim Bum Bam Patabum Choir
6. Qua Qua Qua - Marrow
7. Tutankamen Cha Cha Cha
8. Wild Wild West
9. Viva Happiness - Nichetti
10. La Canzone di Merlotto - Nichetti
11. Bu Bu Buana Bu
12. Krimi Slop
13. Gatto Blues
14. Vita Da Can - Nichetti
15. Rossi-Polka
16. Signor Rossi Chac Chac Chac
17. Doctor Frankenstein
18. Arabia
19. Salamek Zumpalla
20. W La Felictà - Nichetti
21. Ogni Estate Za Za Za - Nichetti
22. Fish Song
23. Qua Qua Qua
24. Marcia Della Fattoria
25. Spooky Twist
26. L' Allero
27. Hills & Guitars
28. Ol' Man Rossi
29. W La Felicità - Nichetti
30. Sicura E Track - Nichetti
31. Qua Qua Qua - Marrow
32. W La Felicità - Nichetti
33. W La Felicità
2008: White Zombie - Let Sleeping Corpses Lie
At least for me, Geffen Records' release of a White Zombie boxed set was the most shocking yet eagerly-anticipated musical event of 2008. After decades of longing for the seminal heavy metal group's self-released ’80s material to receive a CD reissue, most of us had grown resigned to its unlikelihood. Horror film icon and rock ‘n’ roll "boogieman" Rob Zombie has done little to disguise his dislike for his band's early work, including their major-label debut La Sexorcisto: Devil Music, Vol 1. And yet, against all odds, here it is: a compilation of the band's entire (well, almost-entire, but more on that later) output in a neat, handsomely-packaged set of five discs.
Each CD functions as a snapshot of the band's evolution, beginning with their earliest, hardcore-influenced EPs. Zombie's voice is recognizable but still far from the hell-hound growl that would become his trademark. The way he skates over the full-speed-ahead guitar shredding recalls the lo-fi brilliance of T.S.O.L. or Earth A.D.-era Misfits. Queasy, lurching numbers like the Birthday Party-esque “True Crime” or the crashing, frenetic “Cats Eye Resurrection” got the band lumped in with the New York no-wave scene, yet one need only turn to tracks like “Pig Heaven” or “Eighty-Eight” to know that, even then, White Zombie had more in common with Slayer than Swans.
The second disc captures both the best and worst of White Zombie's pre-Geffen output. In 1987, Soul Crusher was considered a minor masterpiece, being embraced by such rock luminaries as Thurston Moore and Kurt Cobain. The debut album's 10 songs are consciously dissonant, replete with disquieting tempo-shifts, staccato drum-fills, and layers of squealing multi-tracked vocals. It marks Zombie's first use of B-movie sound-clips, an embellishment that would eventually become their hallmark.
Next to the roiling madness of Soul Crusher, Make Them Die Slowly is a bit of a yawner -- understandable considering Caroline Records gave the band just a few days to write and record an entire LP. The result is a hodge-podge of poorly-produced, overlong, and often indistinct songs. While a few tracks rise above the din -- the plodding “Murderworld” does a groovy about-face at the midway point before dissolving into thrash-metal bar mitzvah theme -- the most compelling reason to listen is to hear Rob Zombie's voice finally mature.
The set's biggest stylistic leap occurs between the second and third disc. The addition of Chicago's Jay Yuenger solidified White Zombie around a far more groove-oriented sound. Within the space of a single EP, God of Thunder, the whiplash-inducing approach to songwriting was abandoned in favor of a funkier, more technically polished style. The title-track, a superb cover of the Kiss song, is the work of fully confident, self-assured group of musicians. Along with “Love Razor” and a reprise of “Disaster Blaster,” these could have been lost tracks from their Geffen years.
La Sexorcisto and Astrocreep: 2000 are both very well-known albums and need no further praise from me. I'll only add that it's nice to have all of White Zombie's compilation and soundtrack cuts (of which there are surprisingly many) finally collected in one place. These constitute some of the band's best work, including the punishing “I Am Hell,” “Feed the Gods,” and “The One,” which displayed Rob Zombie's growing infatuation with electronics that would come to full fruition in 1998's Hellbilly Deluxe.
The set's videos and live footage are a mixed bag. Compared to the Nirvana boxed set, With the Lights Out, which featured home-movies of the band playing in their parents' basement and other memorable gems, the offerings here are a bit of a letdown. The videos range from outstanding (“I'm Your Boogieman,” “More Human than Human,” “Thunderkiss '65”) to forgettable (“The One” -- god, could they look a little more bored?). It's always cool to watch old concert footage and be reminded of what your favorite artists looked like way back when, but there aren't any recordings of the band prior to La Sexorcisto, and hey, how do they not have a single performance of “More Human than Human?"
The hardest of hardliners will point out the conspicuous absence of Super Sexy Swingin' Sounds and the KMFDM remixes of “Thunderkiss '65,” but both releases are readily available at any decent record store. I, for one, applaud the omission, but am a little irked they didn't include any of the unreleased demos that have been floating around the bootleg market for 20-some-odd years.
As for the packaging, it's everything you've come to expect from a Rob Zombie release: his lavish, Big Daddy Roth-inspired B-movie artwork with plenty of photography of the band through its various incarnations. Some kind of retrospective essay could have given context to the chaotic sounds of White Zombie's tumultuous beginnings, but it's a minor complaint.
When all is said and done, Let Sleeping Corpses Lie might not be the exact collection Zombie fans were been hoping for, but it's more than most of us ever expected. All those who followed Rob Zombie's career through the ’90s will find plenty here to sink their fangs into, and taken on their own merits, these recordings hold up well compared to other hardcore/noise rock/heavy metal contemporaries. I'm glad that Geffen saw fit to disturb this corpse's slumber.
CD 1:
1. Gentleman Junkie
2. King Of Souls
3. Tales From The Scarecrowman
4. Cat's Eye Resurrection
5. Pig Heaven
6. Slaughter The Grey
7. Eighty-Eight
8. Fast Jungle
9. Gun Crazy
10. Kick
11. Memphis
12. Magdalene
13. True Crime
CD 2:
1. Ratmouth
2. Shack Of Hate
3. Drowning The Colossus
4. Crow III
5. Die, Zombie, Die
6. Skin
7. Truck On Fire
8. Future-Shock
9. Scumkill
10. Diamond Ass
11. Demonspeed
12. Disaster Blaster
13. Murderworld
14. Revenge
15. Acid Flesh
16. Power Hungry
17. Godslayer
CD 3:
1. God Of Thunder
2. Love Razor
3. Disaster Blaster 2
4. Welcome To Planet Motherfucker/Psychoholic Slag
5. Knuckle Duster (Radio 1-A)
6. Thunder Kiss '65
7. Black Sunshine
8. Soul-Crusher
9. Cosmic Monsters Inc.
10. Spiderbaby (Yeah-Yeah-Yeah)
11. I Am Legend
12. Knuckle Duster (Radio 2-B)
13. Thrust!
14. One Big Crunch
15. Grindhouse (A Go-Go)
16. Starface
17. Warp Asylum
18. I Am Hell
CD 4:
1. Children Of The Grave
2. Feed The Gods
3. Electric Head Pt. 1 (The Agony)
4. Super-Charger Heaven
5. Real Solution #9
6. Creature Of The Wheel
7. Electric Head Pt. 2 (The Ecstasy)
8. Grease Paint And Monkey Brains
9. I, Zombie
10. More Human Than Human
11. El Phantasmo And The Chicken-Run Blast-O-Rama
12. Blur The Technicolor
13. Blood, Milk And The Sky
14. The One
15. I'm Your Boogieman
16. Ratfinks, Suicide Tanks And Cannibal Girls
