1989: Inner City - “Good Life”
Kevin Saunderson got into music making a few years after his high school friends Derrick May and Juan Atkins, opting to spend the early 80s focusing on college, while they worked on a new sound that people were calling techno. Thankfully he did get into music because, aside from the fact that “The Belleville Two” wouldn’t sound nearly as cool, Saunderson’s late 80s work is responsible for creating the popular breakthrough his friends had been working towards. Saunderson’s greatest contribution to the sound came from his Inner City collaborations with Paris Grey, and while their debut single “Big Fun” is the track that skyrocketed techno to the top of the dance charts, the follow-up “Good Times” is even bigger and better.
While Saunderson’s beats are fantastic*, Paris Grey and her stunning voice are the reason why these songs had such a major impact. Originally a gospel singer in Chicago, Grey began doing vocal tracks for house singles during the 80s, and eventually was invited to Detroit to put vocals over some tracks that Saunderson had made. The pairing worked together like some sort of perfect chemical reaction: a Chicago house-diva and one of the early techno producers joined forces to create something that helped elevate both music scenes to tremendous popularity. Grey’s voice is an amazing combination of soulful and sexy in the verses of “Good Life,” leading into her electronically tweaked chorus that effortlessly glides over Saunderson’s pumping 909 programming. It makes sense when you watch the very dated (but still pretty charming) music video that Grey seems incapable of taking that cocky grin off her face; after debuting with a big hit, nothing’s more satisfying than blowing everyone away with an even bigger one.
*So fantastic in fact, that Hercules and the Love Affair heavily sampled “Good Life” to make their own take on 80s house, “You Belong.”
1996: Fiona Apple - Tidal
If you approach Fiona Apple’s early music without context, you’ll think she’s a seductive songstress who dares to go a little further to the extreme, both thematically and sonically. But in 1996, when her debut album first appeared, Fiona was a subversive figure in the music world.
She was an artist too young to be so serious and mature in her subject matter, one who never thought twice when speaking her mind (see her “the world is bullshit” rant she gave during her MTV Awards acceptance speech). The video for her song “Criminal” reeked of illegal activity even though nothing controversial is shown. But, most importantly, the reason she was a such a stark and heavy artist was reflected in the way Apple could hiss and whimper a melody that, at key moments, could be full of pain and sexual desire.
Tidal isn’t a concept album, it’s also not a confessional song cycle. It’s simply an old fashioned record, taking a setting and touching a bunch of subject matters within it, related with each other only because the author’s voice is so clear throughout its lyrics. Fiona reflects on past relationships in a remorseful way, confronts present lovers on their undoings and speaks about sexuality that is both painful (“Sullen Girl”) and pleasure seeking (“The First Taste”).
Armed primordially with a piano, Apple uses a virtual army of sounds and instruments to make her songs, thanks to partner in crime Jon Brion. Her tunes are not only showcases for her voice, lyrics and songwriting skills; they are also fully developed instrumental tracks that complement the themes and vocal melodies. The album features a very specific sound with certain touches that make it stand out.
But it’s her voice – a seductive sound on the lower register – that really makes this album stand out. It’s every word she didn’t write, every mental image that didn’t make it to the lyric book, everything that’s implicit by the protagonist: her raised eyebrows, smirks, and every single tear she sheds for her lover and herself. Like the music that carries it, her voice is not bound by range alone; sometimes it reaches high places, but most of the time it works by sheer force and emotion. “Tidal” is a perfect word to describe the ebb, flow, and power of her main instrument, not to mention the impact of the songs that use it to feel and become real. Fiona Apple might be another singer seated behind the piano, but her debut makes it clear she is a force to be reckoned with.
By the end of the 1970s, the hangover had worn off and underground psych entered a problematic phase, a second adolescence. If psychedelic rock had ever been a movement, it certainly wasn’t anymore, having undergone fragmentation and dispersal into the comparatively humorless realms of progressive rock and heavy metal. At the end of the decade, punk began to rear its ugly head, borrowing the DIY ethos of underground psych toward its own polemical ends. Though (post-)punk eventually addressed the need for music that appealed to the “higher” four circuits of human consciousness, in 1978 it was a stripped-down, primitive snarl without so much as a lysergic residue.
It is this background that makes a record like The Happy Dragon-Band — the sole album released by the eponymous Detroit band led by composer Tommy Court — such a unique case. It was recorded and released at a time in which there was barely any context for what it offered, an eclectic mashup of apocalyptic psych-folk and brain damaged groove glued together by a no-budget production with occasional side trips into abstract electronic noise. It was an idiosyncratic response to void times by a composer who was aware of the adventurous periphery of psychedelia. Captain Beefheart, Chrome, and Comus are a few of the possible reference points, and those are just the “C”s. This is not to suggest that the album is derivative. On the contrary, it is remarkably coherent and assured. That confidence of tone is especially true of the vocals, which alternate between the starry-eyed euphoria of first-wave psych and the acidic sneer of punk. Even as the band fumbles and trips over itself, the vocals carry the weird banner of The Happy Dragon-Band ever forward.
Released on the tiny Michigan-based indie Fiddlers Music, the album made very little impact and was quickly forgotten until a later generation of rare psych collectors retroactively recognized it as a lost classic. This led to a digital reissue in 2005 by bootleg label Radioactive. Due to poor research and the echo chamber quality of the internet, the record has frequently been incorrectly attributed to the Detroit group who recorded the Doors-esque album Phantom’s Divine Comedy in 1974. Listening to the two albums side-by-side should confirm the lack of even a slight similarity between the two. Phantom is derivative and staid, an avant la lettre throwback with the pedantic overtones of art rock thrown in for bad measure. The Happy Dragon-Band, for all their flaws, were startlingly original, and completely in step with the flux of their particular moment. Look no further than the album’s opening track “3-D Free,” a loping reggae jam with lyrics that evoke a bizarre apocalyptic vision: “All the buildings started to fall/ I saw police shooting rats swarming in the drains.”
The album ends with a chaotic squall of noise that purports to be an electronic version of the same song, but comes closer to a nightmarish re-vision. Nearly three minutes of tribal percussion, swirling synths, and distorted screams suddenly cracks and dissolves into a solo acoustic version of the song that somehow manages to be ten times as fucked and sinister as the original.
The growing influence of Ariel Pink and his milieu has meant that vintage lo-fi oddities by artists such as Donnie & Joe Emerson and Cleaners From Venus have recently received the reissue treatment along with a flurry of critical attention. The Happy Dragon-Band would seem to be ripe for this kind of reappraisal, despite the fact that their brand of psych retains an irreducible pessimism that does not mesh particularly well with the blithely Pollyannish outlook of much borrowed nostalgia. I would like to claim that The Happy Dragon-Band is an album whose time has come, but I’m not sure there is any one time in which it would sit comfortably.
Short-lived projects like the Del Byzanteens are often great ways of entering the archives of discarded culture. When Deleuze and Guattari first inflicted Jung’s concept of the rhizomatic nature of history on generations of college students, they were trying to suggest that you could get into history through the side door; that if you used the less stately entrance you might be exposed to a more complex, indeed more ‘Byzantine’ world of connections. The main point of entry for music scene historians into world of the Del Byzanteens is the internet factoid that their keyboard player and vocalist was film-maker Jim Jarmusch.
If you only listened to the labyrinthine garage of “Girl’s Imagination” for its ‘byzantine charms’ it might be enough; the track hits you with the feeling you get when you know you’ve found yourself some genuine old and dirty underground hit – a tune that actually got played at parties. But if you limited yourself this way, you’d miss out on other highlights of a great one time album; for example Supreme’s cover “My World is Empty Without You” or the keyboard experimentalism on “Apartment,” not to mention the 60s garage hustle of “Welcome.” Likewise if you assumed that Jarmusch is the mad genius behind all of this, just because he’s the only recognizable name, you’d be missing the eclectic influences that fed the Del Byzanteens.
As a band that only had one LP, their history was typically rhizomatic – lateral rather than deep. And as a New York band, with many connections in a tightly squeezed city of millions, we can assume this may have been more true for them than for most. Guitarist Dan Braun played with Glenn Branca and Michael Gira; the brothers Brown became film producers and horror comic archivists in later life (already in the 80s the Del Byzanteens were cultivating a horror B-Movie garage sound similar to The Cramps, also New York based). Phil Kline was to become a maverick experimental composer. The band’s sound itself was not correspondingly eclectic. Most tracks were characterized by an active pogo-ing baseline and tight straightforward drumming, with deranged honky tonk belly dancer keyboards and other curious flourishes thrown in to keep it interesting.
But it also happens for our generalizing purposes that Dan Braun’s high school band was called Spinal Root Gang, featuring none other than the protean Madonna Ciccone. In an interview with The Washington Post in the 1980s Jarmusch claimed that his free film-making was influenced by the spirit of a music scene that was DIY rather than professional. Sometimes when you turn over a stone, a scene is crawling with connections that seem to have had a lifelong influence on careers that at first seemed unique and entirely self-created.
I don’t know all that much about Turkish jazz-funk music, but the good thing about an album like this is that you don’t really need to know the stories behind the (in this case proggy-soul) bands before they went a whole different direction, broke up, or descended into relative obscurity. The songs stand on their own without context. Or maybe the lack of context just makes the whole listening experience better, by casting that sense of mystery and myth that eludes some bands you already “know.”
What I can tell you about this compilation is that it was curated by Roskow Gretschman, a German hip-hop/club music DJ associated with the Jazzanova project. It’s fitting that the songs stray toward jazz throughout the album much more than they approach full-fledged funk. Needless to say, the choices are diverse and flat-out fun.
Ferdi Özbeğen’s “Köprüden Geçti Gelin” has been the track I’ve returned to most often just because it was sampled for an Action Bronson song and I have a friend who’s obsessed with the food-obsessed rapper. The song contains a wonderful hi-hat riding drum arrangement, and it’s easy to understand why a rap producer would want to chop it up. Erkin Koray is the name on here you may actually have heard of. His album Elektronik Türküler came to my attention years ago, because it is a masterpiece of Turkish-folk-infused psychedelic prog music. I’m pretty sure his is the only song on the compilation to use a Bağlama.
Besides that, I had to dig for information about each band. Most of them are fronted by percussionists it seems. Aksu Orkestrasi reach toward Sun Ra’s “Space Is The Splace” with “Bermuda Seytan Üçgeni” — opening the song with sounds of the seashore and closing it with crescendoing spacy keyboard jabs. Drummer Erol Pekcan contributes two excellent tracks. The first is a sprawling modal piano-centric jazz number (“Şenlik”) while the second (“Gel Sevgilim”) is more of a traditional call-and-response soul song equipped with a killer horn section. Drummer Okay Temiz probably contributes the most well-blended fusion of Western soul-jazz and Turkish folk for his track, while another drummer, Durul Gence, leads his group through “Hilal,” which is apparently a famous Ottoman military march jazzed up, disassembled, and put back together again. Gence, having worked with experimental-leaning artist Sonny Sharrock, frames the album’s context for those who need that kind of thing. This isn’t traditional jazz or traditional funk music. It’s just a pretty damn great collection. Check out Volume 2 here.
Who says noise can’t be fun? Because “fun” perfectly describes the sound of Kazumoto Endo’s While You Were Out, a record that feels like a great realization of the first two decades of Japanoise as it had been growing into a large music scene. Endo’s level of creativity and enthusiasm, frankly, make a lot of similar artists sound boring in comparison. It’s no surprise that when C. Spencer Yeh released his primer of Japanoise last week he chose to end his mix with Endo’s “Itabashi Girl.” His music acts like a swan song for a very niche group of music that expanded into a far wider audience once the new millennium started.
The great example to start with is “Shinjuku Kahki Pants” which (like many of the best parts on While You Were Out) warps sampled pop music into a mountain of noise, while retaining the form of the original sources. Distorted loops will constantly change up and reveal themselves as a disco groove, or a drum fill from a rock song will dart and disappear before you know it. The most thrilling and funny (Endo’s wonderful sense of humor pops up all over this record) moment comes when all of the cacophony disappears and from the silence a little harpsichord melody dances into your ear. A smooth bass line comes with it, followed by a Japanese girl delicately laughing, and right as your thought process manages to form “what the fu…” − BAM we’re pulled back into another blast of pulsing distortion. The first time I heard it I couldn’t help but laugh and find it weirdly charming.
“Itabashi Girl” remains Endo’s most memorable and loved song, by taking that same bait and switch to a gleeful extreme with his expert sampling. Endo cuts up an obnoxious disco loop endlessly, constantly interrupting it with his dense waves of distortion, but always returning back to that same repetitive loop. The call and response grows more frantic, and as the sample keeps returning you begin to question what has more value. Endo’s sections are certainly atonal, but there’s variety, incredibly original timbres, complex rhythms, and a liberating sense of musical freedom against the same glitzy hook repeated ad nauseam. It’s a cool idea, sort of, but the conclusion of the song reveals Endo not just as another great noise artist, but a true innovator and genius of the genre. The two sections which were separated begin to overlap, and melt into each other. Eventually the disco and the noise are all the same, all equal, and as the song grows louder and denser and builds and samples of shouting girls grow in speed and volume… everything cuts out and we hear an orgasmic declaration to “MOVE YOUR BODY!” And it clicks that that’s exactly what this song, this “harsh noise,” has been making you want to do the whole time. It’s becomes not about what type of music has more value but that all music, sound really, can be ugly, stupid, beautiful, clever, funny, and touching often all at once.
It apparently took Endo some time to actually get into the noise scene. According to one bio written about him, he enjoyed it but found the recorded albums boring. Though his opinion did change eventually after hearing certain albums (thanks Merzbow!) that belief comes across when listening to While You Were Out. This record sounds like somebody who is restless, the same way artists from Charlie Parker to DJ Sprinkles’ on The Midtown 120 Blues were restless, and knew the music around them was so much more. Endo’s record, in his incredibly tiny discography (this is arguably his only studio album), shows an artist working without any boundaries and having a really fun time doing it. It remains an absolute peak for Japanese Noise.
The first and the last LPs in New Order’s 80s catalog are funny things. They represent two very different extremes from the band that crawled out of the mopey ashes of Joy Division to become acid-house indie-dance gods. While 1989’s Technique hardly has any trace of the dark post-punk origins of the band in its sunny dance-floor vibes, their 1981 debut Movement is the sound of three already gloomy musicians coping withe the suicide of their best friend. The result is understandably bleak.
Surprisingly, though, the first track “Dreams Never End” eschew much of the plodding moroseness that dominates the album in favor of a sound much closer to the dance music the band would make in years to come. Like one other song on the album, “Doubts Even Here,” bassist Peter Hook is on vocal duty instead of the group’s usual frontman Bernard Sumner. Though “Hooky” is known for melodic basslines rather than vocal chops his delivery is still solid, if a bit detached, and the song is an interesting snapshot of what could have been. But fret not, because what Hook lacks in vocal range he more than makes up for with the most expressive bass playing of any post-punk outfit. His riffs from Joy Division songs like “Digital” and “Love Will Tear Us Apart” are legendary and he delivers a similarly memorable and catchy performance here. Bouncing between only two or three notes, Hook’s bass adds a strong sense of motion and movement to the track and largely invents what would become New Order’s impossible-to-stand-still-to sound. The other trademark ingredients like Stephen Morris’ machine-like drumming and Sumner’s razor guitar lines are there too, but from beginning to end this is Hook’s show and holy hell does he deliver.
Movement is a good album, don’t get me wrong, but “Dreams Never Die” outpaces the rest of the record by a mile, showing much more than any other song the band’s deep desire to evolve and the sound of what New Order would become rather than what they had already been.
In the early 00’s several bands wanted to take back rock n’ roll from fusions and modern studio technology. It became a simple throwback instead of a renaissance, recreating the old looks and sounds, all done professionally. It was nice, melodic and well done but, to me, lacked the uniqueness and vividness that the original stuff had. It lacked what made it stand out in the 60s – what made people want to start the revolution in the first place.
Then again, if you turned off the radio around that time, looking for “real” rock n’ roll in terms of heat and excitement, you might have stumbled upon Zen Guerrilla’s masterful album Shadows On the Sun. This record not only brought back garage and R&B from the 60s but did so with such swagger, spark, and circumstance that you couldn’t help but getting up, shouting and dancing and popping someone in the eye. It’s the spirit of music repossessed by young musicians sounding like the pioneers did in between fistfights and sneaking a toke at the sock hop. Zen Guerrilla were not newcomers, they were on their fifth album and second for Sub Pop. They also shared their sense of desperation and fire with New Bomb Turks, but the way they played the notes and violently let their spirit loose is what gave bands like Zen their place. This makes them more than just music or – worse – product, they become a sense, a drug, an emotional state.
There’s nothing overtly original about their songs, except they are well executed, well written, and played like meteors that are falling from the sky – it seems that not only will there be no tomorrow, but we might not even see the end of today either. Others might have the radio hits and critical approval; Zen Guerrilla have the spirit of getting it on.
2011: Iceage - New Brigade
Somehow TMT managed to turn a blind eye last year on one of the most exciting/ass-kicking punk bands of 2011. Without a review or a spot on our year end list (a travesty, I know), Iceage has been painfully absent from our site and now it’s time to remedy that. Hailing from Copenhagen, Denmark, Iceage is composed of four angry dudes that are hardly out of their teens but already know their way around a mean hook and a fuzz petal or two or three. Inheriting quite a bit from the godfathers of furious sub-two-minute post-punk, Wire, their debut album New Brigade packs as much anger and ruptured eardrums into 25 minutes as any piece of music I’ve ever heard.
Most of their tunes are merely short bursts, maybe one or two riffs repeated a couple times, but a mix of scathingly raw production and an embrace of some gnarly guitar noise adds layers to otherwise stark songs. The Steve Albini-ish production leaves almost all the bands energy intact, and whatever loss of fidelity is suffered is more than made up for by how immediate and large all the instruments sound – especially the guitar and drums. “Broken Bone” opens with a guitar that is hammered out until the strings sound like they’re about to break, a typical moment of highly wound tension where the band thrives somewhere between a new level of intensity and falling apart completely.
But sheer noise wouldn’t mean shit (or a spot as my favorite of the year) without something more to grasp onto – something that worms its way into your head. Surprisingly, many of New Brigade’s memorable hooks are found in the vocals and Iceage’s choruses can be downright anthemic. “You’re Blessed,” “White Rune,” and more or less all their songs forgo screams for whats best described as a deep below, carrying as much anger as pure shouts would but with loads more expression and melody. With these guys and Lower releasing debuts from Denmark in the past year, the post-punk scene has gotten a bit angrier and much much more exciting.
When I was a young kid in Catholic school, everybody knew if you were ever bored and looking for a good laugh you could always grab your Bible and flip to the back to find the weird-as-shit Book of Revelation. It was pretty entertaining for a young atheist, reading this book that has informed centuries of decisions and beliefs. I’ve gotten older though and really grown to appreciate the mythology found there. Try to put yourself in the time when this stuff was written. It is genuinely frightening, yet beautifully imaginative. They are such aesthetically conflicted stories entrenched in both sides of a spectrum; a sense of horror and rapturous bliss pervade all the characters regardless of whether they are good or evil. God does monstrously horrible things, while Satan is described as the most beautiful of all the angels. It envisions the End Times, the purging of the world, and one of the earliest definitions of catharsis.
That dichotomy is at the heart of what many call David Tibet’s best album. Thunder Perfect Mind sits at the top of Tibet’s catalogue despite, or perhaps because of, that conflicting nature that hearkens all the way back to the Bible. The gorgeous medieval sounding folk melodies always carry a creeping sense of ancient doom. It explains how Tibet can open his album with a song of tremendous beauty and faith even though it focuses primarily on Satan. The depth and complexity of his writing feels authentic and true to Gnostic tradition while countless Christian pop acts sound shallow and redundant in (an admittedly inappropriate) comparison.
Current 93 albums often grow from a seed of inspiration. It’s usually a theme, or even just a phrase, Tibet explained in a 2006 interview with Brandon Sosuy. The title “Thunder Perfect Mind” acts as that seed. A Gnostic poem filled with paradoxical statements that define the ancient Christian spirit at the heart of Tibet’s songwriting. The recitation and heavenly instrumental that make up the two sections of the title track make Tibet’s message clear even long after he’s implied it through the song cycle in the first of two LPs that make up the album.
Steve Stapleton (in addition to creating his own Thunder Perfect Mind the same year under his Nurse with Wound moniker) co-produced the album and added a wonderful assortment of studio touches under Tibet without ever overpowering him. The liner notes credit Stapleton with providing “corrugations,” or folds and ridges, and while that sounds abstract there’s not a better way to describe his contributions; his unsettling industrial touches and electronically manipulated vocals that sound like demonic children, and many of the otherwise traditional moments on the album. The centerpiece of TPM, “The Stars are all Dead Now,” remains one of Current 93’s most ambitious moments. After beginning with a Caretaker-esque intro and a looping foundation singing “Jesus heals with love,” Tibet spends the next nine minutes re-imagining the apocalypse through the spirit of William Blake. His terrifying chanting of “DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD” punctuates everything from Jerusalem to God to himself (the late John Balance ironically is one of the only characters in the song spared), yet he sounds downright ecstatic in his tone. The dirge-like beauty of the song is juxtaposed against Stapleton’s best manipulations of sound on the record. As Tibet shows the world ending the song cracks and breaks apart in a climax the whole record has been leading up to.
Thunder Perfect Mind digs deeper than most Current 93 albums. Though it sounds ancient in many of the sounds and obscure references Tibet makes, the bits of electronic trickery that Stapleton includes make it intensely Modernist. It brings to mind works like Eliot’s “Waste Land” and Ginsbreg’s “Howl” while maintaining Tibet’s mystic doom to create an album that doesn’t lean on its inspirations. I still remember being that kid snickering at the dragons, and 666s, and seas of blood found in the conclusion of the Bible, yet when I heard Thunder Perfect Mind all those years ago it shook me to the core; it still does.