1982-1992: V/A - Monster Ballads
I have friends who snicker when they catch me listening to Monster Ballads. Why? Because the late-night advertisements for it showcase the most audacious personalities this side of 1985 — because they lack the requisite level of self-awareness to pull off high irony? Fuck that. Monster Ballads is awesome. That should be the only argument you need. At least, that’s the only argument the artists featured on this compilation are prepared to offer.
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Hair metal is so shallow that it genuinely aspires to nothing more than kicking ass and getting laid. In that way, the genre is enigmatic; never do its musicians attempt to consider originality, authenticity, or any other muddying, meaningless concept. They just don’t care. Essentially, the whole genre boils down to how strong your tunes are, and nothing else matters.
Now, I’m sure we’re all familiar with this collection. Among “serious” music patrons, Monster Ballads is mostly a joke. One listens to hair metal ironically while drinking with friends and scarcely touches the stuff when it’s time to bring out the headphones. But when its sounds are actually taken earnestly, their affective qualities feel unlike those of any other genre. As a collection, Monster Ballads is melancholy in the grandest sense of the term — not only are the choruses independently sentimental, but their utter transparency further intensifies the bummer. Each progression is just plain miserable; the music may be founded exclusively through cliché, but its superficial ubiquity only allows the sound to impress upon a wider range of emotion. And the shit comes easy. What’s humorous is that plenty of contemporary musicians are attempting to thoughtfully realize this brand of downheartedness when, as it happens, bummer tunes are as thoughtless as hairspray and cigarettes.
1996-2003: Carissa's Wierd - They’ll Only Miss You When You Leave: Songs 1996-2003
I came to Carissa’s Wierd from an odd angle. Before 2006, they were a name I saw in show listings or glimpsed in the margins of Seattle scene reports. Their name, with its odd spelling, always caught my eye, but never quite enough to listen to a song or give up $12 for an album. But after watching a pair of spot-on Band of Horses sets in the spring of 2006, I made the leap. At the time, Band of Horses’ lineup included a pair of Carissa’s Wierd alumni: Ben Bridwell and Mat Brooke. (Brooke would be gone by the next time I’d see the group.) Ebullient from the energy of the band I’d just seen, I made it my mission to seek out their predecessor, ordering copies of two of their albums. A week or so later, I unwrapped them, found myself drawn in, and immediately regretted that I’d missed seeing them alive and kicking. Four years later, I’m staring down at the spine of They’ll Only Miss You When You Leave, reading the title, unpacking what it means. I have the distinct feeling that, on the other side of the country, someone is ruefully laughing.
This collection serves as a prelude to Hardly Art’s autumnal re-release of the Carissa’s Wierd discography. Thankfully, it’s arranged out of chronological order, unfolding like an album rather than a more traditional retrospective. “Low Budget Slow Motion Soundtrack Song For The Leaving Scene” opens things in a hushed tone, the voices of Jenn Ghetto and Mat Brooke blending, one pained and one a whispered echo. From there, it’s on to “Die,” the contrasts starker, the emotions more bitter. You could call it “chamber pop,” and the piano and violin do soar, but there’s a savagery just below the surface.
One Carissa’s Wierd album has the title Ugly But Honest, a phrase that might well have served as the roots of a manifesto — not in how these songs are received, but in conveying emotions, no matter how messy they might be. Some of the titles here tell stories by themselves: “Brooke Daniels’ Tiny Broken Fingers,” “All Apologies And Smiles, Yours Truely, Ugly Valentine,” “Ignorant Piece Of Shit.” Elsewhere, “The Color That Your Eyes Changed With The Color Of Your Hair” ebbs and flows like a punk-rock Mojave 3, while the frayed, nervy “So You Wanna Be A Superhero” is perhaps the one song here that evokes the group’s Northwestern base and the period in which these songs were recorded.
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The groups and projects that arose from Carissa’s Wierd don’t sound much like their predecessor. The debut from Jenn Ghetto’s S, Sadstyle, could have been mistaken for Carissa’s Wierd demos, but it was recorded during the time when Carissa’s Wierd was still an active band (subsequent albums brought in programmed beats and a stark use of space). Brooke’s Grand Archives occupy a more laid-back, opulent region, alternating between anthems and subdued sketches of the outskirts of city life. Onetime drummer Sera Cahoone’s solo work has been solid alt-country; Ben Bridwell’s Band of Horses work has aimed for a more mountainous catharsis. (Although the chemistry between Bridwell and Brooke in the days before the latter left the band did suggest something of their previous unpredictable charm.) It’s cliché to say that Carissa’s Wierd defies classification, but they are indeed the kind of group for whom microscopic subgenres were created.
Unfold the booklet of the They’ll Only Miss You When You Leave reissue and a collage results. Tour photos and flyers; lyrics and set lists, handwritten and typed out; recording credits and press clippings. There’s a whole history here. If you missed out on it the first time, this collection isn’t a bad way to become acquainted with Carissa’s Wierd’s work, their music, and their lives.
1980-1986, 2001-2004: Icons of Filth
Anarcho punk, to many of its fans, is linked to a message of peace and disorder, defiance of authority through quiet riots and finger-pointing, raging against the establishment without rocking the boat. They’re punks who are actually hippies dressed in patch-covered black clothing.
Of course “hippies dressed in black” automatically conjures images of the almighty Crass, who for better or worse dictated not only the look but also the message and sound of fellow Brit-bands who were against everything — from violence to sing-along football chants — in great part because some of the best singles of the scene were produced by Crass’ own Penny Rimbaud and released through their self-named label. Yet bands like Amebix, Rudimentary Peni, and Zounds — as well as lesser-known outfits like Antisect, Lack of Knowledge, and The Cravats — escaped the tiny sounds of midrange-y guitars and martial snare drums to forge their own form of expression.
These bands are often overlooked within the anarcho scene because they don’t sound as “true” to the norm, therefore not actually part of the whole camp (yep, I’m connecting the dots between anarcho punk and black metal; no matter how opposite their politics, they are brothers in sonic orthodoxy), but you still find people who embrace bands that not only thought like Crass, but tried to sound as close to them while presenting their own personal flair. And that’s what makes Icons of Filth so damn peculiar and worthy of revision: they played the notes and sang of the themes like the premiere black-clad outfits (your Flux of Pink Indians, Dirts, and Subhumans), yet they performed with such ferocity and aggression that you want to start slamdancing around the room without a care of McDonald’s foreign policy. Not to mention they displayed some of the best artwork within the subgenre this side of Gee Vaucher and Nick Blinko.
Coming from the land of Prince Charles (of Lady Di fame), the countryside of Wales gave way to one of Brit-punk’s most intense frontmen in the form of Andrew “Stig” Sewell, who penned poetic lyrics that spat battery acid and farted soy oil in an oblique and passionate way hardly heard anywhere near the black flag proselytizing pack. He was supported by guitars puking out riffs that were desperate, heavy, and rooted in the Class of 77, which resulted in exciting music that did without the experimental fervor of Crass, yet wasn’t so atonal it resembled something entirely different. There’s a feeling of desperation that goes beyond simple anger that makes Icons of Filth seem vital and fresh; even though it’s obviously recorded on cheap gear from 30 years ago, you can feel that something is bothering the band, something much more personal than global politics and more contagious than the majority of loud protest music. Or perhaps it really was global politics that inspired the venomous vitriol that the Icons poured as fuel for their passion. But if so, then they took animal abuse and corporate greed as personally as a member of their family dying. It is music to scream to, to get excited about, and to listen to while cooking really angry vegan meals.
In their time, the Icons recorded a brilliantly-named demo (Not on Her Majesty’s Service), three 7-inch singles (one for Crass affiliate Corpus Christi, the others for Conflict-owned Mortarhate), and one amazing long-player, Onward Christian Soldiers, each one better than the last. The band has sadly vanished in punkdom obscurity, only briefly reuniting around 2001 when they were persuaded by Go-Kart Records to make a comeback album, Nostradamnedus, which they toured behind as if they had just starting to exchange xeroxed zines for sandwiches. Sadly, this new surge of activity ceased completely when Stig died after a gig in a squat.
Let us remember Icons of Filth and their frontman, the roar they committed to tape, and the proof that great, scorching, and heartfelt bands have roamed among the washed masses. You get two videos: the studio version of the song “Brain Dead” and another from the reunion, showing that even if they seemed tamer than what they used to be, they could still sound like rabid dogs, creatures for which they surely played tons of benefit gigs.
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1974: Robert Wyatt: "Little Red Robin Hood Hit the Road"
Stepping out into the world with headphones on can be a strange experience, like deciding to swim under water for a couple of strokes — especially if you’re listening to the weirdo strains of Robert Wyatt’s 70s masterpiece Rock Bottom. Maybe it’s alienating and irresponsible to disengage with the everyday even on the most quotidian stroll to the park or shop — there are probably many members of your community willing to chat, swap houseplants and stories; Grandmas needing help with their bags etc. Ah, Pa, people don’t care! Most ordinary days involve more humbug than hobnob. The underwater world of Rock Bottom is thus a most suitable companion for a walk to the park on a dry hot day, but also a weird one — a school-skipping dope carrying companion. The way in which the music deviates so gloriously, so shiftily, from the ordinary really kicks in on the final track “Little Red Robin Hood Hit the Road.”
There are two movements, the first of which is a dirge-heavy presentiment of the second, beginning with Robert Wyatt intoning “In the Garden of England” in true prog style, and ending with the most amazingly evil-sounding electric guitars, played by Mike Oldfield. The second opens with a wall of intensity: harmonium and viola descending like a heat haze. The harmonium belongs to Ivor Cutler, the Scottish eccentric — poet, humorist, and children’s author — who recites a nonsense poem over the music in a flat, hypnotic voice, his uncompromising Scots delivery at times bizarrely resembling a Jamaican accent. See, for instance, “I reflect on the life of the highwayman, Yum Yum Yum” and “I fight with the handle of my little brown broom.” The effect of these obscure ruminations — bordering on village idiocy — is to bind a homely, peaty darkness with a bloodshot menace, both of which are perfectly set off by Fred Frith’s scratchy viola. Cutler got three record deals on the back of this ‘little’ poem: probably the most amazing, unsettling finale to an album I’ve ever heard.
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2007: Electrelane - No Shouts No Calls
Despite the trappings of being an all girl group, Brighton’s Electrelane rise to the challenge indie rock issues from time to time to a chosen few — that of being pure and staying that way. Androgyny is one of the pillars upholding this aesthetic, and the girls seem willing to lend their support — they dress up in Joan of Arc costumes, sing like choirboys, and make their guitars snarl, outdoing the angriest of young men.
Ultimately though, the various elements on No Shouts No Calls (2007) — twee vocals, Farfisa organs, and revving guitars — are combined in a way that is genteel rather than aggressive. The skillful manner in which these elements are layered recalls the deft hand of the pastry chef rather than the chubby paw which No Shouts No Calls’ occasional mud-pie-sculpting simplicity suggest was the shaping force behind the album.
“Cut and Run,” for instance, is a track that seems designed to stoke the wan flames of journalistic cliché. Viewed purely as an accomplishment, it’s your typical ‘refreshing slice of summery indie pop,’ but what is much more important for the endeavor/quest being undertaken on the album is that its heart is open and in the right place.
The girls are at their most girly on “In Berlin,” which opens with the melancholic diary entry lyric “there is thunder in Berlin” and a sad little rocking horse melody picked out on the upper reaches of an electronic organ. “Between the Wolf and the Dog,” by contrast, is an electric guitar snarlfest which allows the band to enjoy a mosh, shaking their mid-length pageboy haircuts for all they’re worth.
“No Shouts No Calls” was recorded at least partly in Berlin, and one of the things that makes the album not just smart but sophisticated is the way its urban backdrop meets and interacts with its indie rock ambitions: the result is a hopeful vision of the city (which in the last couple of years has been enjoying a ‘moment’ among young hipster expats) that is more primary colored than gritty. Thrifty, plucky East Berlin plays the role of new band member on songs like “Tram 21,” which begins with the clanging approach of a tram and morphs into a lazy reverie that unfolds in the capable hands of the reliable Euro public transport system. “Tram 21” manages to be modern in the spruce manner of a Swedish kitchen and in doing so it recalls one of Electrelane’s major influences, the sometimes blandly European electro-pop band Stereolab.
“No Shouts No Calls,” however, manages to mostly avoid the Euro influences of Stereolab, Neu, and the English whimsy that leaps out from the nautically themed album cover. So Electrelane stay clean not only through a good work ethic and curtailing their prog-out inclinations, but by avoiding overly hygienic electro-pop on the other end of the spectrum. Their 2004 album Power Out was released on “Too Pure,” but though Electrelane manage to elevate themselves to the state of grace Lou Barlow of Sebadoh sings about (in his case an ideal reached through chemicals), they thankfully avoid becoming holier than thou along the way.
1982: Charanjit Singh - Ten Ragas To A Disco Beat
Charanjit Singh found himself in an interesting position back in the early 80s. Working as a session musician in the Bollywood films industry, he was exposed to a wide variety of electronic musical devices. Two of the instruments he used, which would not have been made so readily available otherwise, were the Roland TB-303 and TR-808 synthesizers — the very same synthesizers that later generated all of those drippy sounds you hear on your acid house records. During the time he spent away from his work, Singh sought to re-contextualize the ancient music of his nation — the Indian ragas — using the most technologically up-to-date methods. So no, Ten Ragas To a Disco Beat isn’t some abstractly titled avant-garde record (which is what I initially thought); it’s actually ten ragas played over a disco beat. And no, it’s not one of those corny gift-shop albums marketed to rich tourists — it’s 10 hissing artifacts that represent an aurally flexible ancient culture.
Now, ‘hissing’ isn’t usually the word one uses to describe what happens when folks attempt to re-record old cultural music. Usually you’d call it “world music,” and usually you wouldn’t listen to it. But don’t be averted. Ten Ragas To A Disco Beat was originally released in super-limited quantities in 1982, but it’s recently been re-released by the Bombay Connection label, and it couldn’t be better. The melodies mesmerize, the rhythms pulse relentlessly. And the synthesizer… Oh lord, Singh’s synth makes sound that modern electronic producers should envy. Ten Ragas doesn’t come off gimmicky like one would expect from reading over its history, rather, it’s minimal and potent beyond measure. So get your ass over to the Bombay Connection, they’ve got a gift waiting for you.
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