1971: Franca Sacchi - “Danza, Mia Cara”
Franca Sacchi, one of the few female electronic composers of the 60s and 70s, was born in Milan in 1940. Along with her contemporaries like Pietro Grossi and Teresa Rampazzi, Sacchi defined the sound of the Italian experimental scene, a genre that is just now seeing the light of day thanks to some incredible reissues from the Italian label Die Schachtel. I first found Sacchi though recent CD reissues of her unreleased material from the late 60s and early 70s called En, and while the whole disc is pretty amazing — mostly consisting of quiet, sustained drone/meditation pieces — the final 30-minute track really steals the show.
“Danza, Mia Cara” (“We Danced, My Beloved”) is an odyssey through tape manipulation, backward loops, and sparkling walls of synthesized noise that jells beautifully into a seamless wash of analog warmth. The track is carried by bubbling modular synth figures that slowly warp in the background while chopped up and reversed tape loops flit from side to side. The whole mass of sound pulses along for 25 minutes until it breaks into a magnificent closing stretch, where multiple arpeggiated synths collapse on each other into a wall of gurgling electric noise. It’s a wonder how this track manages to absorb listeners so fully for a full half hour, but as soon as you hear the first wave of seemingly locked-grove synth gently drub your ears, all other thoughts melt away. Put away Soothing Sounds of the Rainforest; this is truly music for meditating.
1984: Siege - Drop Dead
Siege were an unknown hardcore band from outside of Boston who only recorded one demo in their existence. The demo, however, went on to change a lot of minds over the years.
The music was uncompromising and fast as hell, faster than D.R.I. and early Gang Green. Few bands could match their speed (Deep Wound, with young J Mascis, Lou Barlow, and Lärm come to mind). Siege, however, had a secret weapon in the form of vocalist Kevin Mahoney, who screamed and growled in a way few had tried before – it was frantic and incomprehensible for the most part. They just seemed heavier and balls-out crazier than your average thrasher.
The demo was recorded February 1984, produced by Lou Giordano, who manned the board for Hüsker Dü and Goo Goo Dolls but also recorded Boston Crew stalwarts SSD and Negative FX, yielding six songs of masterful destruction. In October of the same year, they went back to Giordano’s studio to tape three more for the very influential Cleanse the Bacteria compilation, put together by graphic artist and Septic Death main man Pushead. The band broke up the following year but briefly reunited in the early 90s with recently deceased Anal Cunt frontman Seth Putnam. That was the last we have heard of them.
Siege might not have single-handily started grindcore, power violence, and what-have-you, but their story is one of the most impressive in rock history: a band recording a demo without being part of a particular scene or touring relentlessly, yet becoming one of the most influential bands in the world. Napalm Death covered one of their songs, S.O.B. sang their praises, Carcass’ original singer used to write “Siege”on his hand, Dropdead even named themselves after the demo and it still influences bands who want to play in fast, short and intense bursts. All of this, from one demo and three songs in a compilation.
RIP Kevin Mahoney.
1989: The Charlottes - LoveHappy
Huntington, UK’s The Charlottes formed in 1988. They recorded a little over an hour’s worth of material in their relatively short existence, compiled and reissued in 2006 on Liar: The Best of The Charlottes. The quartet’s debut, LoveHappy (1989), is a brief affair, running through eight songs in 22 minutes.
Far more on the brash and noisy end of the shoegaze/noise-pop spectrum (as opposed to the atmospheric, dream-pop end), LoveHappy is remarkably upbeat and energetic. A song like “Keep Me Down” reigns in the energy for a slightly more dream-pop approach but, unlike some of their contemporaries in the late-80s, The Charlottes don’t tend to aim for the ethereal — everything here is firmly grounded within a guitar/drums pop foundation and, when they do get more ungrounded, it’s with guitar feedback and rapid, messy strumming. Vocalist Petra Roddis also has a sweet voice not unlike Pam Berry of Washington, DC’s Black Tambourine, to whom one could easily compare the British quartet with — saccharine melodies, bristly feedback and all.
One element that sets The Charlottes apart from many other shoegaze bands of the era is Simon Scott’s messy, energetic drumming. Some of his scattershot tom-fills are a bit goofy (see opening track “Are You Happy Now?”), but Scott’s presence gives The Charlottes a far more aggressive rhythmic drive than My Bloody Valentine, Ride, and most other late-80s shoegaze/noise-pop acts (ignoring its distinctly late-80s guitar noise section, “In My Hair” could pass as a punk song, or at least as hyper-energetic twee). Scott joined Slowdive in 1990, and just released a new solo album, Bunny, in October.
The Charlottes broke up in 1991, releasing the much longer and more realized Things Come Apart that same year. LoveHappy, however, possesses a certain charm of effervescent naïveté that’s tough to replicate. It’s an off-kilter, wide-eyed debut that’s equally clumsy, endearing, and boisterous. Such charm can’t be manufactured, and it’s difficult to replicate — Beat Happening pulled it off a few times, but even they reached a point of dubious self-awareness.
This particular style of noise-pop continues to show up constantly (Slumberland Records, anyone?), with some of the best contemporary examples I can think of coming from Montreal’s Silver Dapple and New York’s Weed Hounds. Fans of earlier innovators like Black Tambourine would do especially well to give LoveHappy a listen — The Charlottes could fit snugly between them and The Vaselines on any post-C86 indie pop mixtape.
1978: Armand Schaubroeck Steals - Ratfucker
My favorite type of backing vocals usually occur in R&B music. There’s a passion in the ooh and aah’s and elongated sex sounds that feels inspired next to rock singers, who often seem bored behind a lead vocalist. I only mention this because there are backing vocals on all but one track off the 1978 album Ratfucker. And I cannot imagine anyone even being remotely bored singing along to the seedy fucked up insanity that is Armand Schaubroeck Steals.
Littered with expletives, pimps, drug dealers, statutory rapists, preteen whores, gigolos, and different types of contract killers, Ratfucker is as bizarre as it is filthy. The LP is arguably the pinnacle of Armand Schaubroeck Steals’ short lived career before retiring to run a famous vintage guitar store (House of Guitars) in Rochester with his brother.
Gospel choir backing vocals fuel the title track, and there’s a distinct sense of Catholic upbringing throughout the album that’s reminiscent of the Jim Carroll Band’s “People Who Died.” Musically, there’s some typical garage rock arrangements when the guitar riffs aren’t getting into Television/Dire Straits territory. Most notably though, the album’s processed sax sound is dripping in post-Velvets/“I Wanna Boogie With You” Lou Reed-era rock and roll.
Juxtaposed with Schaubroeck’s angry speak-singing, the centerpiece of the album is impossible to avoid. Using repetition, an antagonistic disgust, and stretched out atonal yells, Schaubroeck wears his depraved street characters in a disturbingly intense way. There’s a seedy cinematic quality surrounding the whole narrative and its cast of characters, particularly present in the ripped-off James Bond theme riffs during the last track — a theatrical 11-minute closer sung from the perspective of a hired killer who murders wives.
Schaubroeck is an actor as much as a singer, unafraid to veer off into crackpot ad-libs of hi ho’s or zip a dee do dah’s. It doesn’t seem so surprising that his impossible-to-find debut triple LP was a rock opera interspersed with spoken word dialogues about his teenage imprisonment for grand larceny (hence, the “Steals” at the end of his band name). Listeners can’t help but sense that, through his menacing sneers, Schaubroeck is processing some worthwhile exploration into the seedy underworld of urban life. The music is a case study as much as it is an artistic statement, and it’s easy to wonder whether Ratfucker could’ve been The Blue Mask or Street Hassle if the title and songs weren’t so explicit. Instead, it survives in the margins of rock and roll history as a deranged but brilliant cult classic.
1989: Blind Guardian - “Valhalla”
I don’t play video games much, but the release and fanfare over “Skyrim” makes me wonder about the role of escapism in modern society. Really, almost all forms of entertainment exist to satisfy a desire to leave the present state and envision, even just for a few moments, a world teeming with mystery, excitement and intrigue.
Although everyone aspires for different things (mansions, women, dragon-slaying), ultimately they all boil down to one concept: intrigue. We all want to matter, we all want to be interesting. Nobody wants to play a supporting role in a movie about their own life.
Countless pop songs portray a life of riches, a heart-broken confession, or a wild night in the club. After all is said and done, they’re all the same as the power metal epics about fighting an evil sorcerer or restoring peace to some fantasy land. These songs place the listener in a new world, where they have some grand importance placed upon them and their deeds. They do things that other people want to hear about.
Although we can’t all be astounding figures, the right song helps us become those fantastic characters in our own heads. We become the people we read about, the heroes whose deeds line myths and storybooks. We cease to be ourselves, and become the people we always wanted to be.
1967: The Baroques - The Baroques
Enter The Baroques: yet another troupe of minor characters from the world of 60s psychedelia. A Milwaukee Wisconsin band, their garage/psych/blues reputation rested on a few accidents of their career. They were signed to Chess for their sole album in 1967, a blues label that needed a token act that would represent a more rock ‘n’ roll sound. A single of theirs, “Mary Jane,” got pegged as a drug song, and was banned. Nothing concrete was uttered to dispel the rumors at the time, allowing The Baroques to claim their place in the misappropriated archives of hazy psychedelia.
In actual fact The Baroques did exactly what they advertised they would do. They were moody, crabby, and minor in every sense of the word. Their intentions were baroque enough that they used a harpsichord, as if to prove that the contents of the tin were as described. Granted, they checked many of the boxes indicating psychedelia; for example their lyrics named objects in the environment as ‘purple’, or ‘tangerine.’ But only a few of the songs were true freakouts, like “Musical Tribute to the Oscar Meyer Wiener Wagon” – the closest The Baroques got to the loose, baggy, psychedelia of, say, The Red Crayola. “Iowa, A Girl’s Name” was a stab in this direction too.
Though it may seem redundant to narrowly define psychedelia during the gold-rush of experimentation that was the 60s, the reason for making the distinction is that The Baroques’ ambitions deserve credit for being of their time (only just). Growly freak-outs were not toppling off the bandwagon in 1967 as they were by the time ’68 and ’69 had made it obligatory to carry souvenirs of Eastern music and Jazz around as evidence of musical adventuring. The Baroques got their own sound by adding dimensions, rather than extensions, to the simpler structures of early 60s rock. This meant that the token tambourine player in the band was an effete and stylized gloom personified. There were fuzz guitars, there was frontman Jay Berkenhagen’s deep, toneless voice. The jaunty “Rose-Colored Classes” was like the portentous opposite of Nancy Sinatra’s 1967 hit “Sugar Town,” lyrically speaking (“She thinks that everything she does will turn out better in the end… she’s looking at the world through rose-colored glasses”).
In the end, The Baroques were harbingers not only of gloom itself but of gloomy musical movements to come. Those fuzz guitars are redolent of the innovations of lo-fi folk rockers of the 90s, whose stamp was felt in the sound, not necessarily the structure, of their songs. These were folk songs dipped in a tarry bloom, as if weathered by a less bucolic experience – updated from their origin, but not significantly altered. They were to folk as The Baroques were to 60s pop. Sixties bands were called a lot of wacky and unrepresentative things, so how could Chess have known that their first non-R&B act would dourly set out to do exactly what they had said on the tin and produce singular rock ‘n’ roll: neither fish nor fowl, neither foul, nor fair? The reason that The Baroques remain an interesting listen today is that they manage to bypass a dated sound with a good helping of ornery originality; a palpable curmudgeonliness that is difficult not to enjoy for its own sake.