If you listen to Captain Beefheart’s mid-70s albums such as Unconditionally Guaranteed or Bluejeans & Moonbeams it can be pretty depressing just how limp they sound. “Party of Special Things to Do,” the opener on Bluejeans, is better than everything else on the album but still manages to just be OK. And while most put blame on the lack of any real Magic Band members, the sense of musical castration is made even worse by how phoned-in Beefheart sounds. His lyrics are still just as wonderfully bizarre and he does all of his hiccup-y vocal tricks and there’s a sort of cool spoken word intro and so on, but it just doesn’t feel right. Everything is where it should be, but the passion you’d normally be hearing seems completely drained.
This disappointment might have been why Jack White decided to cover “Party of Special Things to Do” as the A-side to their only single on Sub Pop and transform it into one of the most hard-hitting songs the White Stripes ever recorded. In their standard fashion the song is stripped down to its bluntest parts, something that White surely learned from Beefheart’s own arrangements on albums like Trout Mask Replica and Lick My Decals Off, Baby. The weak riff to Beefheart’s version gets re-born with White’s monstrously heavy guitar and turned into a brilliant hook that carries the song while White shouts over Meg’s pounding drums. The White Stripes made possibly the best tribute to one of their big influences, not by covering Beefheart’s best or most famous material, but by taking one of his few, forgotten duds and turning it into stunner.
1977-84: Bearns & Dexter - The Golden Voyage
The critical recuperation of new age music is an old story by now, but six years on, we still find ourselves in the midst of it. What began as a somewhat ironic gesture, a postmodern reclamation of the disposable kitsch of a previous generation, has evolved into a serious preoccupation. A raft of cassette and digital labels have cropped up in the past few years following the template established by James Ferraro’s New Age Tapes label in 2006. Synthesizer-based ambient music, especially that which is filtered through the time-distorting haze of 4-track tape hiss, is more visible now than ever, with many of the most advanced practitioners making the jump to larger indie labels.
It took a while, but this renaissance has begun manifesting in reissues of important works from the original wave of new age. First was the Rotifer Cassettes facsimile edition of the groundbreaking Inter-Dimensional Music Through Iasos. Then came Jürgen Müller’s Science of the Sea, which made considerable waves (heh) in the blogosphere last year, finding its way onto many year-end lists. (That the Müller album is a most likely a hoax, the work of a contemporary artist masquerading as an unearthed rarity, is just more evidence that listeners have become highly responsive to the idea of arcane new age from the past.) This year, reissues of work by Suzanne Ciani and J.D. Emmanuel demonstrate that the trend is showing no sign of dissipation. Blogs such as Crystal Vibrations (run by Greg Davis) have become popular destinations for avid consumers of first wave new age.
As a longtime fan of synth-based music and a collector, this has been a mixed blessing. For years, vintage new age was well under the radar; cassettes and LPs could be snatched up for bargain bin prices, most record resellers only too happy to be rid of them. New age was a secret world for the advanced music nerd: while a first pressing of a desirable Tangerine Dream or Ashra record could be prohibitively expensive, you could snatch up an equally amazing Steven Halpern or Emerald Web LP for practically nothing. The fact that the term “new age” was most often employed by critics as an insult made it especially thrilling to be part of a cognoscenti that understood its allure. That is starting to change now, and just like the krautrock resurgence of the 1990s, it’s a double-edged sword: bargains and new discoveries are increasingly difficult to come by, but the steady stream of reissues and renewed critical interest is undoubtedly a cause for celebration.
That is why it is such a treat to discover a completely untapped phenomenon like Awakening Productions. Operating from 1977 to 1984, Awakening Productions was the California-based vanity label of Robert James Bearns and Ron Dexter, a pair of burly, mustachioed spiritual brethren who developed their own hermetic world of wide-eyed metaphysical expression across a series of obscure LPs collectively entitled The Golden Voyage, releasing five volumes over a seven year period. The project had its genesis in a self-published book of mystical poetry by Bearns entitled The Awakening Electromagnetic Spectrum (1974), in which he explored an intuitive symbolism based on the light spectrum for a series of drippy musings on life, love, and the eternal now. The book is most notable for its illustrations, also by Bearns, which incorporate butterflies and hummingbirds into complex hexagrams that echo the forms of sacred geometry. Bearns’ unique drawings also appear on the beautifully hand-drawn album sleeves and j-cards for the Golden Voyage series, which was what caught my eye in the first place.
Perhaps the most admirable aspect of the new age movement in all its forms is a glorious resistance to formal dogma. New age practitioners are encouraged to become their own gurus, collecting bits and pieces of metaphysical speculation and pseudo-scientific nonsense from a myriad of post-theosophical systems, tying it together with a feel-good brand of self-empowering humanism that does not insist on objective reality, preferring instead to focus on supernatural energies as visualizations for meditation. Bearns and Dexter exemplify this trait in the most charming possible way. Their delightful disregard for prescriptive spirituality carries over into their music, which evinces a unique indifference to pop structure, combining environmental field recordings with scattered percussion and amateurish neoclassical keyboard doodles, weaving it together conceptually with crankish ideas about “celestial harmonics” and “isotonic sound.”
It helps to remember that this comes well before the new age formula was established. Like Iasos before them, Bearns & Dexter were intuitively creating a musical accompaniment for their beatific world of Rainbow Light Ships and Electromagnetic Hexagrams. New age had not yet become a niche category with its own set of clichés, so the duo were drawing only from their own imagination. As time went on, the music became more compositionally sophisticated, arrangements more complex, but an irreducible naïveté remained. Part of this naïve atmosphere is undoubtedly due to the production style, which is primitive but always texturally interesting, yet another example of the way in which the “excess” of outsider music is often more appealing than the music itself.
By the time the final volume was released in 1984, the duo had developed their own unique brand of idiosyncratic, spaced-out pop schmaltz. The fifth volume, subtitled The Heralding, features a striking black and white sleeve and a suite of mawkishly sentimental love songs, topped off by the swan song “Being Here With You.” The album, with its relentless positivity and cockeyed futurism, has the feel of an unreleased EPCOT ride soundtrack (EPCOT being perhaps the only American equivalent to the vintage British pop-futurism that informs the hauntological audio of Ghost Box and fellow travelers). The album is an outsider classic by any measure.
Due to the romantic content of the lyrics, their San Francisco origins, and the 70s gay porn mustaches, there has been speculation that Bearns and Dexter were a couple. Their sudden cessation of activity in 1984 has led to further conjecture that they were early victims of the AIDS epidemic. Though there is no reliable information to support these rumors, it is interesting how the vacuum of information leads to this kind of blind speculation. While interesting, I find it preferable to allow the mystery to remain, focusing one’s attention on the content rather than the margins.
A distribution deal with classical label Moss Music Group meant that the Golden Voyage LPs ended up in shops across the country, and they are still quite easy to find in cutout bins and flea markets. I found an autographed copy of the book online for only 75 cents, and it has since become a prized possession. In the final analysis, Bearns & Dexter is one of those record collecting phenomena that is difficult to defend purely on merit, even though the duo produced admirable work with relatively limited means. Like a lot of crate-digging finds, it’s at least partially about the sensation of having discovered it for oneself — rather than through a blog or a reissue — and that sensation is impossible to duplicate, and increasingly rare.
Acnalbasac Noom (Casablanca Moon backwards) is one of many lost European albums recorded during the 70s and then rejected by a record label for its lack of commercial appeal. In the early 70s with Faust, Polydor Germany was somehow a safe space for avant-garde musicians who were part of the burgeoning German creative community. Anthony Moore, co-creator of the group Slapp Happy, had moved from London to Germany precisely with the hopes of joining this community. While Polydor Germany put out his first two minimalistic avant-garde albums, they rejected a third album he’d recorded because it wasn’t commercial enough. So instead he suggested a commercially friendly pop-oriented project with one of his friends/bandmates from London, Peter Blegvad, who had been visiting Moore in Germany at the time.
Moore’s German girlfriend at the time, singer Dagmar Krause, wasn’t originally supposed to sing on the album. But when Blegvad started doing the vocals, producer Uwe Nettelbeck (the founder of Faust) asked Krause to take over the vocals for the project. With Krause’s cabaret pop voice at the forefront, Blegvad and Moore, two young musicians who strayed toward complex experimental compositions, tried to approach the Acnalbasac Noom album as a primitive type of pop music or “naive rock.” Polydor Germany still refused to release it. Even though it was a collection of catchy art-rocker takes on pop music, the label still didn’t think it would sell. So the band moved back to London to put it out with the then-upstart Virgin Records who’d also corralled Faust from Polydor Germany. Virgin agreed to put it out only if they rerecorded the album with new musicians and more commercial production. So the rerecorded version of Casablanca Moon was released while the original sessions weren’t released until 1980 by Recommended Records.
The album itself presents a diverse collection of musical styles – cabaret, tango, chanson, fuzzy psych, lounge, cabaret. The odd lyrics stem from the band’s interests in semiotics, surrealism, and Weillian expressionism. For an example, the title track is a tango tune about a spy being murdered.
“Half Way There” is my favorite track, fitting more into the loungier side of Slapp Happy’s catalog. Elsewhere “Me and Parvati” channels Harry Nilsson, fully embracing 70s pop while the Virgin version of the song ended up much darker. “Michelangelo” has a whimsical melody and a powerhouse organ solo. Standout “The Drum” has the best of Blegvad’s fuzzy psych-rock guitar work. Yet it still retains the feel of a classic rock song filtered through the lens of experimental musicians. Of course, the Virgin version of the song butchered the feel of the original session. “Charlie and Charlie” has to be one of the weirder pop songs about a man with a multiple personality disorder. “Slow Moon’s Rose” is another example of the band’s careful adoration of pop music and their dissection of it. Wilting vocals haunt a descending riff for the whole song but there’s always some sense of dissonance working through the guitar parts and the tambourine accompaniment. Around the one-minute mark, the descending melody always reminds me of the Twin Peaks theme song’s much moodier descent.
I love Acnalbasac Noom, the original recordings, because it’s a much better and more interesting record than the rerecorded version of the album that came out on Virgin years later. Slapp Happy embraced pop much better as a trio with minimal direction or interference from a record label. When they rerecorded it, the primitive rock aspect that Blegvad, Moore, and Krause intended was lost and replaced by a slower, moodier, dreamier cabaret-pop sound. Looking around the internet to find more information about the original sessions, it’s been kind of amazing that in the end the people, not the record labels, have championed the original sessions as superior.
What am I about to review is impossible to acquire legally through normal means. One may purchase The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu’s 1987 (What The Fuck Is Going On?) through eBay via second-hand sellers at an exorbitant cost due to its rarity, but it is impossible to buy new. This is because, after a copyright infringement complaint from ABBA, the corporate non-profit Mechanical-Copyright Protection Society (now known as PRS for Music) banned the store sales of 1987 (What The Fuck Is Going On?) after its first couple of weeks in June of 1987, and ordered the destruction of the remaining copies. As such, the only effective way to listen to this album is to download it illegally at torrent sites such as What, Waffles.FM, The Pirate Bay, and Demonoid. The writer himself downloaded the album off What.CD. We at TMT cannot legally even stream it, which is why there is no audio provided. 25 years after its release, in a year that has witnessed a massive political fight against the end-user on copyright through the SOPA/PIPA laws, a question for the artists that The JAMs asked remains unanswered, both legally and logistically: “” Or, by the same token, “When is sampling just plagiarism?”
These questions aren’t without merit. 1987 (What the Fuck is Going On?) was many things at once. It was the first attempt at a mash-up, at a time when sampling as an art form was still in its infant stages. It was two Scottish men sitting in a studio trying to exert all their emotions and stupidity into a form that had only recently acquired an identity that wasn’t theirs, with all the polish of a chainsaw to marble. It was a stark criticism of the late Thatcher era, and the media’s deference to utter banality over actual matters of importance. It was working out samples such as “Hey, Hey, We’re the Monkees” and “Superstitious” at a time when sampling was hard to comprehend to most people, who may have just thought of it as simple playback, and where a system of “clearing” samples had not even existed yet.
Bill Drummond (aka King Boy D) made for the most unlikely and perhaps undeserving rapper: a mid-30s, white, Scottish former A&R man-turned artist at a time when the Beastie Boys had only recently been accepted into the rap mainstream. And at times, he clearly missed his mark, sounding like he was reading off lyrics. But his lyrics, trashing everything from the press’ frothing over Princess Diana’s fashion sense (“The Queen and I (99 bpm)”) to the initial response to what was then the AIDS crisis (“All You Need is Love (108 bpm)”), maintained an honesty and earnestness in line with most rap artists at the time, with a dash of ridiculousness that made it clear he was just kind of bored. There are also a few moments where the lyrics gain a certain rare emotional sentiment for the time, as pointed in “All You Need Is Love (108 bpm),” which addressed the epidemic in chilling terms. More importantly, though, a small, offbeat set of lyrics at the end of the opening track “Hey Hey We Are Not The Monkees (100 bpm)” laid the foundation for what became the theme song of the duo, “Justified and Ancient.”
The sampling and production, the issues which caused the banning and destruction of the album, seems undeserving of its destruction, if only because it was so mediocre and slipshod that it did not merit the kind of drastic measures that the MCPS (and to a lesser extent, ABBA) demanded of it. Much of the production was at par with late 80’s electronic instrumentation, but without the polish or nuance of more accomplished acts. More importantly, it lacked any of the skill and talent inherent in the Cauty and Drummond’s later works as The KLF. The use of “Dancing Queen” in “The Queen and I (99 bpm),” itself the inherent source of the album’s non-existence, was ironically the most forced-in, lacking any and all meshing with the rest of album. That said, The JAMs’ toying with sample manipulation was a strong point, especially in “Next” and “Rockman Rocks (Parts 2 and 3).” The original instrumentation (and intermission-like vocal track “Mẹ Ru Con”) from KLF/JAMs ally Duy Khiem is an odd bend, but it mellows out some of the edge to this album.
And yet, it is this odd bend that is all you’re given (to a certain extent) with what The JAMs replaced it with, 1987 (The JAMs 45 Edits). The disturbing aspect of it is how samples were removed from the now-censored material: Given they were forced to give up the master tapes, and given the editing equipment of the time, the JAMs had to resort in removing the sound outright rather than the sample itself, akin to amputating a limb to remove a tumor. What appears, then, are periods of silence, often abrupt and varying in length (with one three-minute interlude, filled with “Top of the Pops” fragments, completely silenced), which all come across as very unnerving. Only a few samples survive from the original, in particular The Fall’s “Totally Wired.”
Now, were one to judge The JAMs 45 Edits as a piece of artwork outside the realm and the context of 1987 (What the Fuck is Going On?), there may be some merit. One could say that the periods of silence are meant to disrupt a listener’s perception of listening, and to take stock of lyrical value. Another could argue that the silences represent a censorship of a different kind all together, given the acidity of Drummond’s lyrics often between these moments of silence. One could say it’s just a complete joke, given the general silliness of the original album. However, to completely forget that The JAMs 45 Edits represents a “fixed” version of the original album only serves to propagate the goal of corporate censorship: Censorship with no checks, no balances, no recourse, and utter impunity.
July 2nd, 2010: North of America - Live at the Old Blue House
God bless the east and the cursed north
as we catch our breath and raise our sails the last time.
On a summer’s day in July 2010, I saw North of America perform in my friend’s living room. Somehow, it was one of three times I got to see my favorite band in all of Canada perform that weekend. While each performance was exhilarating, it was the secret house show that was truly special: packed together in a sweaty Calgary living room, down the narrow hall and into the kitchen, friends and artists from all across the country were anxiously poised to watch the reunited post-hardcore pride and joy of Halifax, Nova Scotia. Without exaggeration, I assure you: that nation-wide audience was louder than the band, and we knew every word.
But let’s back up a bit. North of America broke up in 2003, not long after releasing Brothers, Sisters on Level Plane. In early 2010, however, it was announced that the Haligonian group would be playing a pair of reunion shows in Toronto and Montreal, coinciding with both the release of 12345678910 (a rarities/compilation tracks/etc. cassette on Bart Records) and the tenth anniversary of the Blue Skies Turn Black record label. Also reuniting for the Montreal show was Rockets Red Glare, and that settled it: if you were a fan of Canadian post-hardcore and/or math-rock, you knew where you had to be. People flew not just across Canada, but across borders: as Michael Catano notes, “Someone flew here from fucking Japan.”
I’ve got plans for the future but plans never matter
because plans never ever work out.
I wasn’t able to make the trek across the country, but my chance to finally see North of America was nigh. On April 1st, I woke up to the buzzing of my phone receiving a text. The full line-up announcements for that year’s Sled Island festival had been announced that morning, and my girlfriend sent me a text with seven words: “North of America are coming for Sled!”
But wait, stop. It’s April Fools Day. “Is this real?” I texted back, scouring the Internet for confirmation. (Let this be a lesson to festival promoters: April 1st is never a good day to make lineup announcements). I showed her text to my roommate and he went straight to the source, contacting North of America guitarist/vocalist Mark Mullane. By lunch, it was no joke: holy shit, our favorite band in the country is coming!
Sing and dance with abandon discard pretension sin-to-sin and heart-to-heart we’re going down and getting off our party line is heading south again.
What happened after that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that during the house show, I knew I was witnessing something I would never forget. I wanted to capture at least one song on video for posterity, but I only managed to record a minute and a half of “Let’s Get Sick To Our Stomachs” before the battery in my girlfriend’s camera died. Aside from a collection of photos, it’s the only documentation of a show I still can’t believe happened. Still, even watching this brief excerpt — the ebullient joy spread across each shouting face, the unstoppable movement, and voices from across the country united with every word — it feels magical. July 1st may be Canada Day, but July 2nd? In 2010, that was North of America day.
Lost at sea but not alone we’ll survive it all.
(photo: Tom Kerr)
The Daisy Chain were four girls who – appropriately enough – recorded their only album during the daisy-chain threading heyday of the summer of love. Though their name and image couldn’t get any more San Francisco, they actually hailed from Orange County, and Straight or Lame displays awkward hankerings to sing grown-up, soul songs; two members later went on to form a hard rockin’ soul band called Birtha. There couldn’t be a greater contrast between the wanton, womanly soul of Birtha, and the awkward charming psychedelic experimentation of the early girl-band, The Daisy Chain. It’s difficult to say which direction would have suited the band better, but the best songs on Straight or Lame are tinged with a delicate, but oddly murky psychedelia, like a dejected teenage girl trailing home after dusk with no explanation for her parents as to where she’s been. On “Zzotto” and “Run Spot Run” the girls sing mostly in harmony, but on the other songs, the primary vocalists try out warbling solos that pass for R&B or soul. On “Run Spot Run,” however, minor chord changes take place against a background of twee, fluttering flutes. This song doesn’t even really have a chorus in the traditional sense, just a point where it breaks into a run like the lyrics (“Run, Spot, Run!”). “Zzotto” takes a similar approach, with farfisa organs weaving through harmonies led by a meandering vocal, stalling in a jarring farfisa ending. It’s an odd, vulnerable place to leave a listener – as if alone in the woods looking around for a vanished companion who has upped the stakes in a game of hide and seek.
Perhaps the Daisy Chain were influenced by standing on a fault line (pun not intended) between the crisp surf rock and folk that made their state famous in the 60s, and the more full-throated blues that was about to dominate during the 70s. It seems that a lot of bands at the end of the 60s felt the pressure to be gutsier and more soul driven, exchanging their own unique – but less strident – pop melodies for blues archetypes. It was a treacherous road for bands who dealt in white pop to bridge the gap and set aside ‘straight’ for the bluesy kinks of the 70s without sounding lame. The Daisy Chain are interesting for having the courage to try out both a fully developed psychedelic approach and a much more tentative soul/blues style on one album.
Howe Gelb has always done things differently. He’s one of those artists who is constantly traipsing within his own boundary-less creative labyrinth — recreating songs of his past, releasing albums every year, playing with friends in side projects, changing his band names every few years.
It’d be easy to write about his 2005 project, Arizona Amp and Alternator. Their bio is a poem by Gelb that starts off with the lines: “this band has no members/ no memberships is loud anymore. It is mostly a place to get things fixed.” The poem eventually ends with the chorus from his song “Arizona Amp and Alternator,” which is performed and reworked in the album no less than four times. The band did not widely publicize the members involved. M. Ward sings. Scout Niblett has a bizarre thirty second feature. Grandaddy is on a few tracks. There’s a creepy boy-girl duet cover of “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” The band doesn’t have a website anymore and they’ve long since disappeared as Gelb moved onto his next project.
As good as Arizona Amp… is, 2006’s ’Sno Angel Like You is my favorite stop on the career path of the musical enigma that is Howe Gelb. In 2003, Gelb was at an Ottawa blues festival and found himself playing between two gospel bands at a Baptist church. They inspired him to the point that he wanted to create a gospel album that day. So he went back to the church later to catch the band again and recruited them to be an integral part of his new album.
Gelb stands out from other musicians because he definitively owns his world — with a dusty, rambling folk croon that sometimes unexpectedly finds it’s way home to washy noise freak-outs. Yet even with his omnipresent voice and style, it never feels like he has guest musicians on his collaborative records. His contributors always come off more as musical partners with whom he has a shared intimate working relationship.
The kind of soulful folk standouts you’d expect from the album are mostly collected in the first side. Setting the tone, opener “Get To Leave” was recorded as a Giant Sand song fifteen years earlier. “Hey Man” and “Love Knows (No Borders)” are some of the slower-burning highlights. “But I Did Not” and “Paradise Here Abouts” both engage with driving rhythm sections and call-and-response choir vocals. The album is full of highlights though. The songs exist within the album’s own terms.
In 2009, Gelb released a live version of the album, while his newest features Gypsy musicians and was recorded on a rooftop in Spain over the last few years. Looking through the overall career arc of Gelb, this kind of thing is no longer surprising. Rather it’s part of the naturally evolving role he has as an artist — shifting genres, defying conventions, and spinning the web of his diverse creative endeavors.
Sonic Youth celebrated Y2K in a way most appropriate considering their avant-garde tendencies. The double-disc Goodbye 20th Century differed greatly from the three previous releases in the Sonic Youth Recording series, as well as all the releases that came after it. Sonic Youth saw off the 20th century by reinterpreting various pieces by 20th century composers. Many of the majors are featured here: John Cage, Steve Reich, and Pauline Oliveros are just a few of the composers they tackle (an obligatory version of Cage’s “4:33” is thankfully AWOL). The best part of this tribute album of sorts comes from the enthusiasm Sonic Youth have for these pieces, and it rings especially true on their version of Reich’s “Pendulum Music”.
By the sound of it, Sonic Youth cover Steve Reich with the same excitement that The Replacements had when they covered Kiss. The premise of the piece is to hang microphones, upside-down, above speakers and then swing them to produce feedback when they move. They are swung once, and then gravity does the rest as the arc of the swing slowly weakens causing the rhythm of the feedback shifts. It is a stunningly physical piece of music in spite of being musician-less.
Sonic Youth’s attempt at it is admirable, and makes one wonder how accurate the word cover is for it when nobody actually plays the instrument. So while it is not a piece of music that gets much of a “sonic-youth-spin,” the fact that they chose to take part in this musical process is really satisfying. This remains one of the most memorable instances of a popular experimental artist paying tribute to 20th century classical, and considering Jonny Greenwood’s recent collaborations with Penderecki, here’s hoping it becomes a more popular practice.
The Paris Sisters — Albeth, Sherrell and Priscilla — were born in San Francisco, daughters of an opera singer whose career ended with the birth of her first child. This is a familiar setup for the story of a pushy stage mom, and sure enough, the Paris girls were on stage from a very young age, dancing and singing in a sister act with their mother Faye at the piano. The girls were big fans of The Andrews Sisters, listening to their records and rehearsing pitch-perfect renditions of their most popular songs. When The Andrews Sisters came to San Francisco for a limited engagement, Faye kept her daughters out of school so they could attend every performance. Eventually the sisters were invited backstage, where they impressed the Andrews with their poise and impressive vocal harmonies.
They were signed to MCA in short order, thus beginning a long stretch of years in which the girls were experimented upon by various labels and producers, all of whom failed to find a niche for their unique talents. It wasn’t until Phil Spector got hold of the sisters in 1961 that they blossomed into a fully-realized girl group. Spector gave the girls two of his best early songs (“Be My Boy” and “I’ll Be Crying Tomorrow”), and created wistful pop-symphonic arrangements that emphasized their innocence and femininity. Most importantly, Spector encouraged them to abandon the outmoded close-singing style of The Andrews Sisters, to instead sing softly and sweetly, with youngest sister Priscilla taking the lead.
Another Spector production, “I Love How You Love Me” was released that same year and quickly became a massive hit, selling more than a million copies. Though they would never again experience success at that level, The Paris Sisters were a popular act, and continued to record and perform throughout the 60s, with subsequent producers following the same basic formula Spector had created for the group. In 1967, Priscilla struck out on her own as a solo artist, leaving Albeth and Sherrell behind. For years she had been writing songs on her guitar, and had a passion for songwriting and performing that her older sisters did not share. Priscilla’s solo career consists of two obscure albums: Priscilla Loves Billy, a strange little collection of Billie Holiday covers, and Priscilla Sings Herself, the culmination of her long-gestating desire to become a singer-songwriter. The latter album, released in 1967 on York Records, failed to ignite much interest on the part of the public, now in the throes of The Summer of Love. Priscilla eventually left the country and moved to her namesake city where she spent the rest of her days painting, playing guitar, and raising two sons. She died in 2004 at the age of 59.
Today, a mint condition copy of Priscilla Sings Herself can cost as much as $300. Many copies of the album were destroyed due to poor sales, increasing the rarity of the LP. The resurgence of interest in 1960s girl groups and Phil Spector productions has resulted in a steadily growing reputation for Priscilla and The Paris Sisters over the past few years. For proof, consider this: when I started researching this piece, the album was not available in any form, having never been reissued; even torrent sites and music blogs were no help. By the time I finished, Ace Records announced a CD reissue of Priscilla’s solo albums complete with outtakes, due next month. This reissue will be my first opportunity to hear Priscilla Sings Herself in its entirety. For years I’ve had to reconstruct the album in my imagination from fragments scattered across various bootlegs. The melancholic “My Window” appeared on Boyd Rice’s Music For Pussycats compilation, duped directly from his scratched-up LP. The haunting “Help Me” and “He Noticed Me” appeared on The Paris Sisters Story, an expensive bootleg CD. And my favorite, “Stone Is Very, Very Cold,” was uploaded to YouTube by a generous user who has consistently failed to answer my messages begging for a rip of the vinyl.
Perhaps it is the scarcity of the album — even in an age when we like to imagine that the entire history of recorded music is just a few clicks away — that lends it such a mysterious and enchanting aura. Maybe, but probably not. More likely it is Priscilla herself who is responsible for the fetish-object status of the record. At a time when soul phrasing was the fashion, Priscilla sang softly, mutely, strangely, unafraid to project a palpable sense of melancholy. Her songs were haunting and subtle, never sacrificing an essential fragility and sadness. This may be the reason many listeners today are uncomfortable with this brand of vintage girl pop; in the wake of feminism, how can we be nostalgic for a time when women were encouraged to play up their own lovelorn frailty?
Among girl groups The Paris Sisters stood out, possessing the restrained sensibility of an older generation, never adopting the forthright sexuality of groups like The Shirelles or The Shangri-Las. Although late 60s publicity shots played up her resemblance to French “sex kitten” pop stars like Brigitte Bardot, Priscilla never traded on her sexuality in her music. In hindsight, this chasteness is both admirable and estranging, perhaps accounting for the diminished reception her solo albums received. Part of the work of contemporary feminism is the critical reassessment of texts produced by women of past generations, especially those that were initially dismissed as the product of patriarchy. Listening to Priscilla Sings Herself in that charitable critical spirit may yield some interesting surprises.
2005 -: The Evens
Because The Evens weren’t Fugazi, a lot of people in 2005 thought they must be folk. NPR even found ‘lilting melody’ in the albums. But all the usual angular rhythms were there and the protest element was this time directed at the ire-friendly Bush administration. Whatever else they may have been, The Evens weren’t folk.
The combined chorus of Amy Farina’s voice and drums and Ian MacKaye’s guitar was on the surface bright and cheery, resembling a more traditional indie or college rock sound – but still, not folk. Instead of choosing the personal or introspective, MacKaye and Farina continued to make their punk statements about the rights, the limitations and the power of the individual human voice. Harmonies were there, but melodies were often sung in bold unison. On Get Evens MacKaye and Farina used their vocals to fight back with songs like “Everybody knows you are a liar,” which struck at the Capitol from the Capitol; one line proclaimed “This City is Ours;” reminding us that D.C. is also the city of hardcore (or post-post hardcore, as the Washington Post called The Evens – past caring about genre definitions even in 2005, though still recognizing that this was some form of hardcore – not folk).
In this strange context, I learned that Ted Nugent – the conservative bogeyman of the moment – was an influence of MacKaye. Nugent’s clean living, straight edge approach (before MacKaye coined the term) as well as his virtuosic guitar playing are interesting, slightly unexpected points of comparison for the music of Fugazi and The Evens.
Instrument Soundtrack was the last album Fugazi made before MacKaye started The Evens. For some it’s a footnote: a laid back collection of demos and doodles, but for me it was a stripped back affair that – like the long awaited documentary it was made to soundtrack – displayed the anatomy of Fugazi’s dense, well-sprung and off kilter rock ‘n’ roll. At times MacKaye’s later projects – like The Evens and Instrument – remind me of the ideas that an artist finally reveals when they release their sketchbooks to the public. Even if the music becomes less urgent, and we discover incongruous photos of denim-shirted Ted Nugent pasted up in this scrapbook, it seems to take us into the inner workings of an energetic collective of musicians in a way that previous albums only hinted at.