2006: The Magik Markers - The Voldoror Dance
Sometimes I just don’t even know what to think about the idea of rock music. At this point, the all-encompassing definition of rock has become a joke; I’ve had it with dubiously intentioned attempts to rescue this dying lumbering dinosaur that’s been limping around lethargically since whatever comet of corporate greed and middle-American complacency decided to ruin the free-spirited fun for the rest of us. I mean, we have some folks who can be allowed to participate in metaphorical near-necrophilia; if you’re in a band with noticeable talent and vigor, like, say, The Dirtbombs or Comets On Fire or Major Stars, who can make head-crackingly excellent rock ’n’ roll, this is by far a much needed respite. But I’m through with those rock elitists who are trying way too hard to define rock as the one domineering genre above all others or as a piece of narcissistic abstract comfort that makes whatever schmuck with a guitar or flashy stage moves feel he is a special and clever being amongst his petty escapades of sex, drugs, and his dying mistress. I don’t even need to start naming names, but if you turn on your TV or radio, it’s there: a fairly repulsive and vile rotting corpse of “authentic” rock idealism that rings nauseatingly narcissistic and cliquish.
Since we really can’t save it, we just need people to destroy rock ’n’ roll from the inside out, to the point where it will potentially become vibrant again to those willing to think outside earthly constraints. And as too many self-consciously hip guitar bands have shown us as of late, you can’t invigorate anything with doses of stagnation; try telling that to whomever thinks some power chords, coke, and backstage oral sex is a great statement of purpose or valid artistic sentiment in and of itself, and you may get hostile stares. I mean, Jagger and Page had a lot of lurid and despicably hedonistic fun in their day, but they were also mad geniuses. I don’t know what kind of debauchery the Magik Markers get up to – maybe none for all I know – but at least by listening to The Voldoror Dance, the latest release in a never-ending series of tour CD-Rs, weird vinyl, and unofficial CD randomness, they’re probably having a seance or destroying things living or inanimate, even if only in the fantasies that dart through their synapses while drudging up such glorious mess. In the process, they gouge rock 'n' roll inside out, and what seems like a damaging overhaul is in actuality a violent life force that rock as a whole so desperately needs.
I’ve written about the Markers before, and I really can’t offer much more in the way of new approaches to these geniuses other than that they are my only uninhibited dream of a band that’s materialized in my young life. My generation produced a lot of commodity that was supposed to make me feel like throwing chairs and throwing a fist in society’s jaw, but this music actually delivers on such promises of daydreamed and internalized rebellion. It all feels beautifully destructive and powerful, which I’m told by the elders of rock music is what it had set out to do all along. It’s vicious and cacophonic, and there are barely any chords or riffs or any of that, but it’s honestly far from a criticism. Any rock snob who wants to downplay what the Markers do is overlooking that rock ’n’ roll isn’t supposed to pat us on the head. The people who wanted safe rock got their Pat Boones and their Breads and their Air Supplys; this contentious mess is potentially of the most freeing scuzz produced since no-wave and Ron Asheton made their respective marks.
But I digress. This is about the Markers. The Voldoror Dance is their most “professional” recorded piece, in that it was set to tape in an actual studio, and you can hear their tantrums in full clear sonic glory in the now, rather than echoing in your head after attending one of their shows. As most everything Elisa, Pete, and Leah have put out, it’s paradoxically beautiful and repulsive and flooring all at once; “Binary For Carey Loren” is 26-and-a-half minutes of what it means to have enjoyed punk rock, or, as a young and disillusioned music fan, to have a record in your collection that at least appears to encompass the thrill it was to have heard Kick Out The Jams or No New York when they were first unveiled. Amidst all of this id relinquishing, we also get the psychedelic-dubbed wonderment of “Ab’R-AChad-Ab’ Ra” and an honest-to-god filth rock death chant in “Pinkie Brown Goes To The Shore,” as great a nugget of bile as any since Pussy Galore vomited all over their garage.
Each day going into 2007 I see a steady stream of chaos, whether it be more corporate idiocy that urges us to rank our friends, a clueless and shortsighted populace willing to let pixelated representations of cartoon characters constitute a terror scare, or just the general mass vile stew of political and religious tomfoolery and everyday selfishness that permeates our culture. The Voldoror Dance is as confusing and bewildering a representation of our tumultuous new century as we may get, and since everyone is frowning and panicking about how dire the state of being alive has become, at least now we have musicians who, intentionally or not, are soundtracking and, ironically, relieving the headache I get everyday from turning on my television.
1. The Scream Of The Horses Glowing White
2. Binary For Carey Loren
3. Pinkie Brown Goes To The Shore (The Hero Of The Sea Is A Hero Of Death)
4. Ab’R-ACHad-Ab’ Ra
1996: Herbert - 100 Lbs.
“With techno, breakbeat, and the beginnings of jungle, there was a lot of very male, macho, aggressive music. My work was meant to be an alternative to that.” - Matthew Herbert
I’m no math whiz, but from what I’ve heard, at a certain point, mathematics becomes much less regimented and much more playful than the algebra and trig I grappled with in high school. Numbers and equalities start giving way to curves and alphabets novices have no hope of breaking back down into simple digits. Appropriate, then, that techno -- a particularly mathematical music, with its reliance on machines and computers and rhythm -- has a natural stage in the club, where people are perhaps at their most playful, thanks to that music (and the chemicals, themselves products of no small amount of math). In this sense, Matthew Herbert is perhaps the ideal producer; his music has always struck me as particularly ludic: even the most aggressive Herbert tracks don’t jack -- they scoot.
The wily Brit started his career trying to recast house as a less muscular and more frisky genre. His first record, 100 Lbs., came out in 1996, and K7 has now re-released it with a sweet disc of bonus material. It’s a choice moment for a retrospective: a decade-plus into his career, Herbert last year released Scale, his most confident and charismatic work to date. The man has become a bona fide chronicler of pop history via his sprightly, conscientious compositions. Albeit a bit wonky at times, his albums pack both attentive political messages and ample dancefloor impetus.
With his recent accomplishments in mind, listening to 100 Lbs. now is a bit like seeing a clip of a master mathematician as a seven-year-old, furrowing his brow as he tries to carry the remainder in an arithmetic exercise. The songs are skillfully, if somewhat overtly, constructed, and Herbert is largely successful in taking some of the piss out of aggro house and replacing it with suave perfume. Be it a patient vibraphone melody or those quirky rhythms scattered around the obligatory 4/4 bassbeat, you can hear snatches of the Herbert to come here, despite the conspicuous absence of some of his later sonic trademarks. 100 Lbs. provides a satisfying listen, offering pleasures both present and nostalgic.
If the first disc shows Herbert in the rather artificial mask of straight-up house producer, the bonus disc presents the listener the variety of original guises the man has worn since then (although many of them still bear traces of 1990s cosmetics). The tracks span work from 1996-2000. “Back to the Start Back Back Back Back” bounces playfully like any number of Herbert tracks from yesteryear, and the sadness of the vocal sample creates the chipper-melancholy juxtaposition he continues to exploit in contemporary releases. It’s a good representative track, and it comfortably introduces the listener to the disc’s ensuing eccentricities. “Fischcoteque” crackles and squelches through five minutes that would be right at home on an Autechre record; immediately following is “I Hadn’t Known (I Only Heard),” which evinces Herbert’s knack for compiling sundry pop influences in a track whose generous funk momentum belies its latent glumness.
Altogether, it adds up to a characteristically sporting and very worthwhile release. Can serve as a nice addition to the collection of longtime fans and a competent introduction for newcomers.
1973: John Cale - Paris 1919
As The Velvet Underground seemed to be reaching the zenith of its artistic potential in 1968, there was unfortunately another type of escalation that the band was experiencing; the rift between frontman Lou Reed and the overlooked, yet essential architect of the more experimental and daring aspects of VU's unique sound, John Cale. The chasm between the two grew until Reed threatened to leave the band, thus resulting in the remaining members' begrudging decision to cast Cale out of the band.
After Reed himself eventually left The Velvet Underground in 1970, the contrast in the burgeoning solo careers of both men at this early stage reveals a curious dichotomy between Lou Reed's 1972 hit Transformer and John Cale's Paris 1919, which followed only one year later. For as timely and glossy as Lou Reed's walk on the wild side of the glam movement was, Cale's Paris 1919 was diametrically opposed in its sweetly anachronistic flavor and earnestness, taking its cues from the mellow warmth of soft rock and chamber pop. Given Cale's avant-garde pedigree, having worked with artists such as John Cage and LaMonte Young's Dream Syndicate, this album was certainly a jarring shift, especially for listeners who might have been expecting that his previous effort with minimalist Terry Riley, Church of Anthrax, would have been a return to form for him and a comfortable niche to settle into.
Instead, we find John Cale abandoning the mesmerizing rigidity of his former projects, adopting a sound with a softer, more refined focus. Cale's ethereal Welsh lilt is framed by the leisurely, pastoral sprawl of guitars and pianos and, on several songs, orchestral accompaniments that masterfully pirouette between being baroque and sprightly. The atmosphere of Paris 1919 is one of curious opposites, as one can hear the echoes of naked folksy earnestness so prevalent in his early '70s contemporaries, such as Cat Stevens, Neil Young, and James Taylor, yearning to break the tense surface of gentlemanly restraint. The understated sway of "Hanky Panky Nohow," with its surehanded fingerpick twinkle and sleepy strings, evokes Nick Drake being channeled through the warm glow of a golden AM radio, while "Graham Greene"'s buoyant horn stabs, off-kilter piano, and jaunty vocal phrasing come off as one of the best songs Belle and Sebastian never wrote.
While we may wonder and mourn what could have been if the wills of Reed and Cale had not forced them apart all the way until the short-lived "reunion" in the '90s, we are left with two artists whose respective approaches to reinvention were unsurprisingly different. While Lou Reed became a professional chameleon of sorts, overtly signaling any marked shifts in his sound, John Cale seemed to enjoy a more subtle method. If being avant-garde is the act of subverting common expectations, then Cale slyly crafted a brilliant achievement in Paris 1919 by utilizing a mournful gentility to catch his original target audience unaware and hiding in plain sight.
1972: Lou Reed - Transformer
In 1972, just two years after abandoning The Velvet Underground, frontman extraordinaire Lou Reed decided to embark on a solo odyssey just as the sleazy slither of the glam-rock movement had begun to win over the hearts, minds, and grinding hips of a generation when bands such as Mott The Hoople, David Bowie, and T-Rex became painted, androgynous deities.
After his adequate but unspectacular eponymous debut, Reed was savvy enough to sense the growing popularity of glam and its potential to be the vehicle for his musical rebirth. He also utilized the immense talents of David Bowie and Mick Ronson as the figurative midwives for the delivery of his first masterpiece, Transformer. While listeners will no doubt hear the more overt trappings of glam throughout the album, it becomes apparent that Reed's intentions are far more interesting than simply aping the horny frills and ass-shaking grooves of his contemporaries, instead simultaneously embracing and subverting the conventions of what some might have considered a fun, yet frivolous, sound.
Within the tightly wound genre of glam-rock lies a core of showy exuberance, and while Bowie and Ronson's tutelage may have led him to embrace their sound, Reed's natural personality and drowsy, dispassionate delivery gently mock listeners' expectations by defying our predetermined notions of sexy excitement with a familiar backdrop blended with elements of winking irony and anti-theatrics. Opening track "Vicious," for example, finds Lou monotonally drawling verses about suffering absurd cruelties: "You hit me with a flower/ You do it every hour/ Oh baby, you're so vicious," as the periodic punch of Mick Ronson's guitar lines throw up showers of golden sparks between lines, finally culminating in a wah-wah-fueled solo that dances and contorts like a serpentine livewire, playing up the disparity between the song's lyrical content and its title and music. Reed's brand of irony is not completely relegated to the humorous or offbeat, as evidenced by the morose piano ballad, "Perfect Day," which juxtaposes the seemingly pleasant and sedate activities of a couple in love with a melancholic dirge steeped in a black cup of ennui and defeat stirred by the swelling of bittersweet strings.
Despite all of that, Reed is just as adept at playing the genre straight for the eyeliner set. He churns out a couple of gems replete with fuzzy riffs and soulful background singers on "Andy's Chest" and "Wagon Wheel." Most impressive, however, is “Satellite of Love,” a dreamy cabaret-flavored piano ballad whose Hunky Dory-esque tone eventually dissolves into a sublime melange of subtle finger snaps, insistent horns, and spacey background vocals that sound like a handful of helium-filled Bolans being released into orbit.
Looking back on the diverse body of Lou Reed's work, it turns out that not only was the title Transformer the name of the record that put him back on the map, but may also have been a prescient wink from a man who always knew that his greatest strength would be that of fearless adaptability.
2004: The Intelligence - Boredom and Terror
Seattleite Lars Finberg might be better known as the drummer of the A-Frames. Or, if you're from Seattle but don't pay attention to quality music, you might know him as "that guy who used to work at Cellophane Square." Hopefully you know him for the first reason and not the latter. The Intelligence always seemed like the area's best-kept secret, even as the A-Frames were garnering more attention, but that was fine -- it just made the rest of us who knew of them seem cooler by comparison. Now? No one's cool anymore; sorry.
2005's In The Red-backed Icky Baby did a lot to get The Intelligence’s name out there. It also saw Finberg’s 'solo' project flesh out into a fully realized band as he was joined by Factums' drummer Matthew Ford and two members, Lee Reader and Nicholas Brawley, of the recently (at the time) broken-up Popular Shapes. While The Intelligence have been hanging around since 2000 with more changes in line-up than you might think, we get the stripped-down version on this release, which is Finberg, a guitar, drums, keyboards and a drum machine.
Over Boredom and Terror's brief 26 minutes there is enough variation to keep things fresh. But who really needs variation when you're doing something so perfectly? The drum machine and keyboard tandem of "Spellers and Counters" is an absolute gem. There's also the outright pop of the lively "Weekends in Jail," which features the most fleshed-out sound, and all without keyboards. "Telephone Wires" is the other more conventional sounding rocker, with more catchy guitar chords and a memorable chorus. Matter of fact, nearly every song on here has a great hook. They're great without being saccharine or trying too hard, and the weight of that success is mostly attributed to Finberg's delivery. For example, who knows what he’s saying on the driving "Guys"? It doesn't matter; it's how he's saying it that does. That might sound like a page from Pinback's playbook, but it's a safe bet that these lyrics aren't quite so oblique. They're just random.
In a perfect world, this would be popular music. Really, I can't think of many reasons why this band hasn't caught on. The music is ridiculously catchy, upbeat, clever, and you could probably dance to it if you were so inclined. Okay, there are a few f-bombs thrown in here and there, most philosophically on "The World Is A Drag," where Finberg asks the timeless question "Who gives a fuck if the world is a drag?" Certainly not I. The only track preventing Boredom and Terror from being a perfect album is “The Night Belongs to Microphones.” It's not a bad track -- not at all -- but it suffers from being surrounded by some amazing songs. This album was originally going to be released as a double CD, but someone at Omnibus convinced Lars to scale it back and stick to just one disc. The leftover material was issued as a bonus CD to be packaged along with the 12-inch version of Boredom and Terror that Narnack later put out. If only they would've switched out “Microphones” with "Darling, That Was A Lie" from that disc, then daaaaaaamn. That's all I'm sayin'.
2006: ESG - Keep On Moving
ESG get treated by journalists like a group that the right people took under their wing, somewhat condescendingly implying that everybody was charmed by these girls with rudimentary technical skills. The spirit of punk had just as much room for three sisters from the Bronx as it did four pseudo-brothers from Queens, but whereas punk and the genres it spawned represented an ideology tied to a style of music, ESG never seemed particularly rebellious, and consequently came off as kinda naive, making them outsiders to an outsider art form. Maybe the downtown scene found a bit of primitivism in them, which might have helped them placate their own intellectual insecurities.
While those early hits owe their appeal to an irresistible spunk, attempting to achieve similar sassiness 25 years later just sounds sad. It's like watching your mom try to be sexy or something, and just as embarrassing. Tracks like "Purely Physical" and "The Road" sounds like strip music for the saggy set. The music sounds dry and cheap, like they're still playing the same drum machine they've had since the '80s.
Denser numbers like "Everything Goes" and the title track come close to finding a groove, but are hampered by the sense that these ladies can still barely play their instruments. There's something far less charming about middle-aged women playing clumsy beats and simple bass-lines than teenage sisters forming a band with instruments their mom gave them. "Ex" is clearly trying to be a sensitive heartbreak song, but I don't want to hear that kind of trembly teenage stuff when I know these girls have been having relationships for 30 years. Call me sexist or ageist for saying women in their forties can't pull off what people half their age do, but the whole point of getting older is to become more mature, or at the very least more proficient.
It must be frustrating for bands to realize the hot new sound of now is what they were doing way back when. There's a weird irony that young people playing old instruments usually sound better than old people playing new instruments, so you'd better trade your nostalgia for defiance if you want to impress the kids. Then again, if you don't care about keeping your cred and just want to get paid to play music, who cares about broke hipsters.