Elvis Costello fans were at dire straits in 1994; it had been a good ten years since their man had recorded anything remotely resembling his rock masterpieces. Some of his non-rock records of the period -- 1986’s folky King of America and 1989’s quirky Spike -- were great, while others were, well, Mighty Like a Rose. So when Brutal Youth reunited Costello with his beloved Attractions, fans were more than ready for it.
Of course, there was no way to live up to the fans' expectations, and the album didn’t. As “returns to form” go, Brutal Youth is pretty lousy -- nowhere near as brilliant as This Year’s Model or Armed Forces. It’s not bad for an Elvis Costello record. For a record judged on its own merits, however, it’s damn good.
Opening track “Pony St.” is a declaration of intent: the piano-driven intro lets us know we’re not in punk territory, yet there’s a charming wonkiness about it, like a shopping cart with a faulty wheel. The rest of the song is pure Costello, matching a meandering, yet precise melody with a whiff of desperation. It's as if he's sheepishly appealing to fans who deserted him with the (great) orchestral experiment The Juliet Letter a year before. These elements remain for Brutal Youth’s entirety.
Micthell Froom’s production is overly finicky, and it dilutes Costello’s atonal moments (such as the kinda-sorta garage-rock interlude of the otherwise sedate “Rocking Horse Road”), but the songs are some of the best the man has written. From fever dream “This Is Hell” (“‘My Favorite Things’ are playing again and again/ But it’s by Julie Andrews and not by John Coltrane”) to the playful “Clown Strike,” which sounds like Costello’s Stax-aping Get Happy!! work, there's a lot to like.
Brutal Youth may not be the "comeback” fans were hoping for, but it was the beginning of a new era for Elvis Costello -- with a few exceptions, he's been mostly excellent since the album's release. Costello fans tend to either favor his older or newer sound, but despite successful experimentations, his best music splits the difference.
Once upon a time, Carlos Santana was a guitarist with lofty thoughts in his mind. Loftier than playing soulless licks over Michelle Branch and Rob Thomas hits, anyway. In 1972, under the tutelage of Shri Chinmoy, he teamed with John McLaughlin, guitarist and leader of the fusion pioneers Mahavishnu Orchestra, to put together an album celebrating the themes of Chinmoy’s teachings. Their intent was to create a work of art that dedicated itself to God and man, and love and dedication to both.
Love Surrender Devotion is the resulting work. The album finds the two with a seasoned group of their buddies: Khalid Yasin (Larry Young) on organ, James “Mingo” Lewis and Armando Peraza on percussion, Doug Pauch on bass and Billy Cobham, Don Alias and Jan Hammer on the drum kit.
The album opens with a raucous take on Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme”, which sets the template for everything that follows. McLaughlin supplies his usual speed-demon technique, sweeping furiously across the fretboard with plenty of overdrive, while Santana opts for more elongated arcs, often bending and stretching notes in a restrained, yearning fashion. Another Coltrane reading follows, and “Naima” finds the two guitarists hushed and reverent, employing acoustic guitar and fingerpicking. It’s the first (and last) time the album relaxes before the end, and it's over before you realize it.
McLaughlin’s composition “The Life Divine” closes side one, and from its first, stuttered drum beat, one can hear the template for everything The Mars Volta are still trying to pull off. The bass guitar pulses in sync with the galloping drums, while Santana and McLaughlin hold absolutely nothing back. Over prayerful vocal incantations, the two play tug of war with each other, occasionally allowing their parts to dissipate to mere feedback before roaring back to life. It’s brilliant and terrifying, the kind of statement you might expect from Pharaoh Sanders or Sonny Sharrock, not the guy who played “Oya Como Va.”
“Let Us Go Into the House of the Lord” also echoes Sanders, who would later go on to try his own hand at the song. It features touches of the Latin rock sound that Santana was employing to great success with his own group. Here Young’s organ playing gets as far out as either of the guitarists, pushing the song into near atonal territory, while McLaughlin and Santana plow through aggressive runs, mimicking with their guitars the qualities Coltrane and Davis exhibited on their instruments. While the MC5 talked about the same thing, and helped invent punk rock in their attempt, their approach lacked the spirituality Santana and McLaughlin are dealing with here. I want to call it destructive, but that’s just not the right term. Passionate, frightening, fierce; all fall short of describing just how on fire these two guitarists sound.
Another McLaughlin composition, “Meditation” closes the album (it’s funny that this is listed as a Santana album, considering he didn’t actually write any tunes for it), allowing the peacefulness of “Naima” to return. Santana contributes graceful flamenco runs over McLaughlin’s subtle piano, and the two bring the album to a mellow close.
If Santana had kept up this sort of sonic freakiness up, you might hear his name tossed around more by esteemed noisemakers like Thurston Moore. And while McLaughlin is well regarded in jazz circles, allowing soulful collaborators like Santana to help balance his often overwhelming approach would certainly have endured him to the rock world at large. Rarely would their following work reach the heights of this album. McLaughlin would continue to hone his chops, and Santana’s work would spiral into the depths of commercial pop. Regardless of record sales, I find it hard to believe that Carlos is still “reaching” while he’s playing over that Nickelback dude’s jam. I guess he must have surrendered to someone or something other than God.
1985: The Replacements - Tim
The Replacements’ breakthrough record Let It Be is often called a masterpiece, and it’s easy to see why: it's far more accomplished than its predecessor, the (brilliantly) half-assed Hootenanny. Aside from “Gary’s Got A Boner,” the album showed that Paul Westerberg had serious songwriting skills. But despite Let It Be’s undeniable greatness, Tim is secretly my favorite Replacements album.
Why, you ask, is it my “secret" favorite then? Have you met Replacements fans? Sure, Let It Be's “Unsatisfied” is one of my all-time favorite songs -- how could it not be? -- and you can’t not-love the classic “I Will Dare,” but as a whole, Tim holds together better. This is not a popular opinion, but go ahead, look at the tracklist. There are no Kiss covers, no “Gary’s Got A Boner”; sure, there’s “Dose Of Thunder,” which has never done much for me, but I’d rather listen to that than Let It Be’s weakest spot, “Black Diamond.” Tim is simply cohesive, and despite the distortion and drum-bashing, it's wall-to-wall pop music.
Lead-off track “Hold My Life” is one of the band’s finest moments, with Westerberg pleading “Hold my life/ Until I’m/ Ready to use it/ Because I just might lose it” -- a line that, as anyone who's seen them live knows, captures The Replacements' vibe perfectly. They were continually on the verge of explosion or collapse, and this tension was what gave their music such potency. Next come the seemingly tossed-off (but emotionally insightful) “I’ll Buy” and then the record’s best track, “Kiss Me On The Bus.”
There’s probably no way to explain why “Kiss Me On The Bus” is also among my most beloved Replacements songs. It’s pretty inane, actually -- the title says it all, as do lines like “Your tongue, your transfer/ Your hand, your answer.” But filled with those incredibly melodic choruses, the last gloriously surrounded by sleigh bells, it all works perfectly. It’s stupid perfection.
Yes, Tim has a couple weak spots – the aforementioned “Dose Of Thunder” and throwaway “Lay It Down Clown” – but they fit the overall mood better than the misfits on Let It Be. People also complain about Tommy (Ramone) Erdleyi’s production, but I have no problem with it. It’s clean and shallow, but these songs -- oh God, the songs! How have I not yet mentioned “Left Of The Dial” or “Bastards Of Young”?! – sound amazing clean and shallow. As for closer “Here Comes A Regular,” the band’s song about their Minneapolis dive The CC Club (and about every dive on earth), just go find it and listen to it. Hear Westerberg’s voice crack as he sings “There ain’t much to rake anyway in the fall,” tear up a little, then play it again. Then remember: it’s not on Let It Be.
What is it about Christianity that inspires such bland, uncreative, unthinking, and unfeeling art? While undefined strands of spirituality are often cited in conjuncture with rousing free jazz, heavy psych, or mystic folk, doctrinally defined "Jesus-music" seems to come in only two forms: there’s browbeating proselyting -- more concerned with creating propaganda than art -- and there’s generic mumbo jumbo that drapes messages in a barrage of bad metaphors, with vague poetic license obscuring any real concession to the subject matter.
That hippie/folkie/Jesus-freak outsider Larry Norman is often referred to as the “Father of Christian Rock” is baffling. Here we have a crazy long-hair who was also crazy about Jesus, but rather than following course and pumping out bland praise and worship, he cranked out consistently electrifying rock ‘n’ roll. Instead of handing out easy-to-digest “God is Love” anthems, we have a dude who passionately gave a middle finger to the church-going status quo -- whose vision of Christianity included letting in the hippies, prostitutes, and unwashed. His music was creatively restless, positively un-white in its incorporation of blues and gospel sounds, and, even when he left the psych rock band People! in 1969 to start making solo albums, utterly unlike what was expected of a Christian singer-songwriter.
Larry Norman is best remembered for Only Visiting This Planet's “I Wish We’d All Been Ready”: a creepy, end-times number, made all the more foreboding by Norman’s creaky, high voice. It’s the kind of Rapture warning that gives right-wing wack-jobs like Tim LaHaye (author of the alarmingly popular Left Behind series) a hard on, but its context in the album is easier on the skeptic. Only Visiting paints a more complex picture. “The Outlaw” portrays Christ as a true outsider, while “I Am the Six O’clock News," a fuzzy psych/blues jam, vividly describes the bloodshed in Vietnam from the view of an observant but uninvolved news reporter. “Why Should the Devil Have All the Good Music” is a hilarious Little Richard style scorcher, putting conservative Christians on blast for giving Norman grief about his hair.
“The Great American Novel” describes the state of the nation in ’72, with all its racial strife and political upheaval. “You say you beat the Russians to the moon/ I say you starved your children to do it.” It rambles on in true Dylanesque fashion: “You kill a black man at midnight just for talking to your daughter/ Well my phone is tapped and my lips are chapped from whispering through the fence.” Ironically, Dylan would later go on to cop Norman; his “Christian” albums -- Slow Train Coming, Saved, and Shot of Love -- all owe a considerable debt to Only Visiting.
It’s hard for the lyrical content not to overshadow the sonics of the album, but Norman and producer George Martin (yeah, that George Martin) made sure that their record was just as interesting to listen to as its message was to ponder. Fuzz guitar, strings, piano, and hard-edged drums underscore Norman’s singular voice; at once comforting yet unsettling, melodic yet discordant, plaintive but never pandering. The Pixies' Frank Black was one of the most outspoken appreciators of Norman’s music, his own songs often concerned with the sacred and profane, but he’s also joined by Steve Albini, U2, and Van Morrison as members of a wide fan base.
Larry Norman passed away in February, and Arena Rock Recording Co. recently issued the stellar Rebel Poet, Jukebox Balladeer, an anthology of his work. While that set might serve as a fantastic jump-on point, Only Visiting This Planet remains the definitive Larry Norman album -- almost frightening in its relation to these modern times. Christian rock wants its performers simple, digestible, and uncontroversial. Norman refused to be any of those things. He was interested in caustic humor, stinging wit, disarming tenderness, and passionate humanitarianism, and he was too rebellious to be placed in a box. In those ways, he was a lot more like Jesus Christ than the industry he accidentally helped spawn, and regardless of one’s religious convictions (or lack thereof), that’s a hell of a trick to pull off.
Listening to Ariel Kalma, it becomes clear that the 1970s French composer was something of a world traveler. While his 1977 classic Osmose featured synthesizers integrated into the tonalities of the rainforest, Le Temps des Moissons (technically predating Osmose by two years), finds him reflecting on his musical studies during an extended trip to India. Environment has everything to do with what influences Kalma’s music, and he once again proves to be a master at hybridizing modern technology with sounds that predate his existence. My purist instincts usually draw a red flag when it comes to "world music" crossovers (you don’t have to try hard to get me talkin’ smack about Tabla Beat Science), but Kalma maintains his own identity, using the Indian influence in ways similar to John Fahey, ’60s minimalists, and contemporary artists like Matt Valentine.
Although received with great fanfare upon reissue, Osmose was ultimately better in conception than execution; the album now sounds closer to new age than psychedelia or 20th Century art music. But Le Temps des Moissons hits the nail on the head both sonically and through artistic mastery. Taking direct cues from Indian form and aesthetic, Kalma builds pseudo-tamboura drones for his saxophone to solo over. And the term “solo” is to be taken loosely -- Kalma has a strict regiment of modal patters which he always comes back to.
Taking advantage of delays and multitrack recording, simple melodies weave in and out of each other, creating magnificent valleys and crescendos. Only on the album's closer, “Reternelle,” does Kalma remove his ornately short leash, allowing room for just a touch of free jazz sax skronk. Additionally, Kalma warns that he prefers a fairly pure and raw sax tone, which translates to a nasally sounding high-midrange on record. He even recommends adjusting the EQ to your desired liking, maintaining that his tone could be off-putting to some. And while it may be a distraction to most Western ears, Kalma's timbre isn’t so much harsh as it is a reflection of natural Eastern tonalities.
The most interesting parts of Le Temps des Moissons are the bonus tracks, sandwiched between the longer works that make up the album. While the titled songs find Kalma sticking closely to the basic principles of Indian music, he tends to cut loose and experiment more on the extra material. Sounding more like a predecessor to Sunburned Hand of the Man than any Shankar acolyte, these tracks cater to the “strung out on ‘ludes” style of improvisation that's more prevalent in contemporary music. Believe me, I intend that as a compliment. Even a primitive drum machine makes its way into the mix, reminiscent of the sounds on the recent Sun Ra Disco 3000 reissue.
One thing drastically missing from the reissued CD is the locked groove which originally ended side two of the LP. Beta-lactam Ring gives the track a slow, two-minute fade out, and while it sounds nitpicky, the lack of the real ending is indeed a bummer. No, I wouldn’t want to sacrifice the rad bonus tracks (in fact, I want a bonus disc of bonus tracks), but Le Temps des Moissons is one of the rare albums that could conceptually occupy infinite time and space. While the main pieces swell and decay over time, they don’t cater to a beginning, middle, or end in a traditional Western sense, and the locked groove that originally declared the album's finish was without a doubt part of Kalma’s vision for this music. It’s just a tiny (mix tapes) reminder of the shortcomings of the digital medium. That being said, Beta-lactam Ring has spared no expense in their beautiful, gatefold-style LP packaging. Clearly, they still see advantages in a physical product versus the download and have made a package that is as much an art object as it is music. It couldn’t be more appropriate, for Kalma proves himself once again to be an underappreciated visionary, one who deserves a proper archive for his work.
2001: Jon Brion - Meaningless
Like Phil Spector in the ’60s or Glyn Johns in the ’70s, Jon Brion seems to produce everything and anything. That’s him behind the wheel for The Wallflowers’ “One Headlight” and Rufus Wainwright’s self-titled debut. There he is turning knobs for Fiona Apple, then, famously, not. Finally, he shows up for Kanye West’s Late Registration, a pairing that is as surprising as it is fruitful.
Brion is also a ridiculously accomplished musician with a superhuman ear. His weekly stints at L.A.’s Largo, at which he plays obscure instruments and takes audience requests for impromptu covers, are legendary. Some of his songs have shown up on movie soundtracks, but his best work can be found on the self-released Meaningless.
Meaningless shows off everything Jon Brion has to offer. It’s a meticulously produced, arranged, and written endeavor, with an endless shelf life. The disc starts with “Gotta Start Somewhere,” with its sardonic opening line “I may not have anything to offer you/ I may not have anything to say that’s new/ But you’ve gotta start somewhere.” It’s a throat-clearing of sorts, a comment that Brion knows what you’re thinking: this is all bullshit. But, he’s adding, it’s inevitable, so why not?
Brion also co-produced Aimee Mann’s masterful Bachelor No. 2 around this time, and the baroque production of Meaningless matches Mann’s record, detail for detail. Mann even co-wrote the record’s best track, “I Believe She’s Lying,” which is as frenetic as it is heartbreaking. Its chorus -- “I believe she’s lying/ I trust her to undermine my faith in her/ In time, I have every confidence she’ll dismantle mine” -- is quintessential Brion (and Mann): emotional, darkly funny, and concisely clever.
The genius of Meaningless is Brion’s use of his two greatest assets: production and songwriting. In providing the former, Brion knows when to make things charmingly complicated (as on “Lying” and the funnily confident shuffle “Walking Through Walls,” co-written by Grant Lee Phillips, which features Brion sweetly singing “motherfucker” in the background) or simple (the brutally intimate relationship ballad, “Same Mistakes”). These songs are nothing short of perfect. The McCartney-esque melodies are catchy enough to make an immediate impression, and the lyrics, seemingly simple, have meanings that permeate later. From “Hook, Line, and Sinker”: “I’m feeling for all the world like I’m feeling for all the world.”
Thematically, Meaningless sticks to what Brion School fans know well: addiction (emotional or otherwise), heartbreak, malaise, and tongue-in-cheek exuberance. In this way, much of the record calls to mind the best work Brion has produced, from Mann to Apple, Eels to Wainwright. There’s happiness in spots, but it’s cautious or ironic.
For kicks, Brion ends the disc with a cover of Cheap Trick’s gorgeous ballad “Voices,” and it’s then that you realize: what you’ve just listened to, with its esoteric lyrics and detailed arrangements, is still just pop music. At its core, it’s no different from Cheap Trick, Herman’s Hermits, or AC/DC. And thank god for that.
Perhaps The Fall's Mark E. Smith continually blasted Pavement because he knew, deep down, they were better than his band. It just seems thick to knock Pavement's “Conduit For Sale!” and “Our Singer” for ripping off “New Face In Hell” and “Hip Priest,” respectively, when these rip-offs are warmer, funnier, and catchier than the originals. The Fall were -- and are -- a great band, but in 30 years they’ve never come close to matching what Pavement did in 10 -- hell, what Pavement did in one.
The Watery, Domestic EP was Pavement’s post-Slanted And Enchanted release, their last work featuring original drummer Gary Young, and their first with bassist Mark Ibold and percussionist/keyboardist Bob Nastanovich. This incarnation of the band wouldn’t last past ’93 -- when the hippie-dippie Young was replaced by fresh-faced Virginian boho Steve West -- so these tunes aren’t exactly standing on solid ground. Stephen Malkmus had begun to pen better, bolder stuff (The Fall comparisons wouldn’t wash from here on out), which the new blood might have fleshed-out better with the help of a more dynamic drummer. But if Watery showcases a stiff, uncertain Pavement, the songs themselves are bright enough to overcome.
“Texas Never Whispers” begins with a wash of molten guitar spittle, but the noise is quickly shelved in the name of songcraft, a move the album's alternate title, Diluted, Tame, cheekily acknowledges. The opener lumbers into strange pockets of melody and wordplay before collapsing in a flurry of rubbery riffs, while the winsome “Frontwards” hints at Malkmus’ lyrical potential beyond opaque, Dadaist bunk (“I am the only one searching for you/ And if I get caught then the search is through”). “Lions (Linden)” is willfully slight, but “Shoot The Singer” is a corker, with its jangling arpeggios nicked from page one of Play Guitar Real Good With Peter Buck.
Despite the fade-out coda of “Don’t expect, don’t expect…”, Pavement followed up Watery with Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain: their masterwork and the absolute zenith of ’90s American indie. The seeds are here: “Lions” begat “Cut Your Hair,” “Shoot The Singer” begat “Gold Soundz,” and so on. The band truly did their growing up in public, and even in their transitional phases, they were still pretty close to untouchable.
My favorite scene in Bullit, the 1968 cop flick staring Steve McQueen as Detective Frank Bullit, comes near the end of the movie: Shady Senator Walter Chalmers tells Bullit -- who’s been through hell and back, dodging death, knee deep in intrigue, and jumping up and down the hilly streets of San Fran in that ’68 Ford Mustang G.T.390 Fastback -- “We all must make compromises.” “Bullshit!” Bullit growls.
I like to imagine Alex Chilton saying the same thing when asked by some clueless record execs to tame down his 1980 debut, Like Flies on Sherbet. Maybe the label just didn't, you know, get it -- their unfeeling commercial aspirations unable to grasp the artistic boldness and significance of Chilton’s masterwork. This is his What’s Going On, his Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Bravely, Chilton decided to press a meager 500 copies of the album himself; 500 copies of no-compromise attitude, DIY grit, and triumphant artistic expression.
Yet listening closely to Like Flies on Sherbet reveals that, sadly, my imagined Chilton, creative and courageous, might be exaggerated. Likes Flies is one of the most damaged records I’ve ever heard; not damaged in the way Pig Destroyer sounds “damaged,” but I mean totally wrecked. It’s as if no one involved in the performance, production, mastering, or duplication of the album was sober at any time during the process. The playing is sloppy: in-the-red guitars blast-mask any subtlety underneath, the vocals careen out of tune, studio clatter remains audible, and vocal flubs are left brazenly on display. It’s so ruined it can’t be accidental. Gleefully out of control, the record sounds like someone exiting the New York punk scene, someone enamored with The Cramps (who Chilton had produced), inspired by that snot nosed attitude, aiming to deconstruct rockabilly, blues, and country music, and to rebuild them in his own image.
All of which wouldn’t be so surprising if it wasn’t for Chilton’s pedigree: At 16, the Memphis kid was fronting The Box Tops, gallivanting about the country on the strength of the group’s massive hit, “The Letter,” which found the young Chilton sounding impossibly gruff. Eventually, he left The Box Tops, frustrated by a lack of songwriting input, and headed home where he joined the fledgling Big Star. Over the course of three albums, Big Star would define American power pop; they laid the foundation for everyone from The Replacements to R.E.M. and garnered a cult following that still obsesses over every sound on those three records. But commercial success eluded the band, and by the time Third/Sisterlovers was released, the strain was audible. The final album to bear the Big Star name was haunting and disparate, created largely by Chilton alone. A fractured psyche is revealed, capable of chiming power pop as well as tortured balladry (listen to “Oh Dana” followed by “Holocaust”).
Despite an ongoing debate over Third/Sisterlovers' status as a one-man effort, Like Flies remains Chilton’s first definitive solo album. Holed up in Sam Phillips & Ardent Studios with Big Star producer James Luther Dickinson, Chilton leads a group of session musicians through a rambling set of covers and half-formed originals. “I’ve Had It” showcases the album's most out-of-key performance, with multi-tracked vocals stumbling across the room. KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Boogie Shoes” (the first track or not included at all, depending on which rare pressing you hunt down) features another glorious mistake: Chilton comes in with the vocals too early and in the wrong key. “Girl After Girl” goes for prime Elvis and ends up sounding like dead-toilet Elvis, while the Carter Family standard, “No More the Moon Shines on Lorena,” features some high, lonesome vocals that don’t entirely fail until Chilton begins uncontrollably laughing amidst the tale of slavery and loss.
It’s not that these tracks are without merit, though. The playing, still messy and loud, is positively gleeful and, on Chilton’s originals, surprisingly appropriate. “My Rival” stomps with Sonic Youth joy, driven guitars chugging along with complete abandon, and “Hey! Little Child” re-imagines Big Star’s lovelorn “Thirteen” as a Catholic school girl call out; with its repeated chorus of “Hey! Hey! Hey!” the song fits alongside “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night!” and “Hey ho! Let’s go!” in the pantheon of deliriously stupid and wonderful rock ‘n’ roll mantras. The album's title track, “Like Flies on Sherbet,” is an ace card: a pounding piano-driven rocker embellished by avant-garde synth and guitar squeals that sounds something like a Here Come the Warm Jets B-side covered by Badfinger.
To say that Like Flies on Sherbert is a masterpiece of lo-fi punk would be a misnomer. Chilton wasn’t a punk rocker, even if he wanted to be. But to decry the album as an utter failure would be just as faulty. Chilton’s work has grown increasingly stale over the years, the oddball madness of early albums replaced by cool ambivalence and easy listening forays into jazz and blues. Modern Chilton doesn’t seem to care about anything, but the Chilton of Like Flies seems to care about not caring. What he found so exciting about punk was its engagement of the audience. Like Flies is G.G. Allin tossing excrement on his crowds; it’s Iggy Pop rolling around in broken glass and peanut butter; it’s Elvis Costello cutting the band off mid-song on SNL and launching into “Radio Radio” instead. Like Flies is the sound of a musician railing against the indifference he felt his career had endured.
Chilton may not be the “rock-hard” Bullit, refusing to compromise, but his album at least recalls that film’s famous car chase. There’s one scene where the camera is hit by one of the cars, causing the shot to shake violently before cutting out. The scene was left in the movie. Perhaps the director wanted to make it known that the chase was real, that there was tangible danger and risk involved. Like Flies on Sherbert is an entire album of that shot. It certainly isn’t perfect, but it’s absolutely real.
Recorded two months before the titular wunderkind (born Milo Aukerman of Lomita, CA) made the trek from Hermosa Beach to UC San Diego, Descendents’ first album sounded the demise of the band's original incarnation; it rivals X’s Wild Gift and Fear’s The Record as L.A.’s superlative punk document. By this point, the band was tighter than ever, and the songs were well-played indeed -- so much so that the gay-bashing and virginal-wrath-as-sour-grapes-neo-Puritanism would come off as merely figurative if not for Aukerman’s pubertal tenor.
His voice brings to mind a stalling El Camino and cakes each mote of pampered suburban ennui in requisite grime and gravel. The lyrics aren’t “funny” anymore than they’re “lyrics,” but an occasional insight along the lines of “You got a baited hook and you’re calling it your cherry/ You want to settle down and you want to get married” damn near elevates them beyond brain droppings.
Thirty seconds into the splatter and fuzz of “Myage,” you want the song to play over the opening titles of every movie you’ll ever see for the rest of your life. It’s a killer. And if the rest of the album doesn’t always match the opener on a hook-for-hook level, the more traditional pile-drivers benefit from Aukerman’s sharp wordplay and charmingly stunted worldview. Things he likes: fishing, The Beatles, true love. Things he hates: whores, posers, PARENTS!!! (three syllables). Things he is not: a loser, a punk, dead.
There’s some softening on the last four songs, both melody-wise (“Bikeage” actually jangles) and thematically, as M.A. pines for a girl looking for love in all the wrong places. On “Hope,” he tells her, “I think it’s right to want someone for all your own/ And not to share her love.” By “Jean Is Dead,” she’s killed herself. See where feelings get you?
During the time of year when all the leaves are gone and the nights are long, without flaw, I begin an annual shift into pensive hibernation. Three transformations take place in me that I neglect the rest of the year. First, I rediscover my oven and the delights of baked deserts; I crank out enough cookies, sweet breads, and pies to make your grandma green with envy. This comfort food fattens me up for coming winter months and lays the groundwork for the next metamorphous that takes place. Step two, I become a raging midnight hour film fanatic of the black and white persuasion. Night after night, I sit in the dark, wrapped in a fuzzy down comforter, nestled up with my chubby cat Delilah in a drooling semi-diabetic coma from all the of baked yumminess, and I watch movies from Tinsel Town's golden era, with an occasional Criterion Collection selection sprinkled in to appease my highbrow aspirations.
The final phase of my march towards monastery-like introspection takes full effect: I dig into that forgotten attic of my record collection, the hidden corner that contains that most cerebral of musical art forms, the music that makes documentarian Ken Burns wet his starched slacks with glee -- the music known as jazz. Sure, some of you have your Mannheim Steamroller Christmas collections to sip eggnog to while wearing your holiday-themed sweaters. Not me. I prefer to transport myself to an imaginary Parisian nightclub thick with cigarette smoke, where Billie, Miles, Duke, and the like reign supreme. I suppose I could choose to watch an inspirational and heartwarming made-for-TV holiday movie starring Meredith Baxter Birney on one of those family-friendly cable networks like my mom does, but would Meredith Baxter Birney provide the appropriate acoustical ambiance I require for making a Bundt cake? I think not.
Oh, but don't think my appreciation for jazz lies only with musicians who grace U.S. postage stamps. This is where I seem to differ from the aforementioned filmmaker with starched slacks. You see, I also get my freak on to avant-garde jazz from the ’60s, where giant afros stare at me from the album covers. I weird-out to those art-damaged beatniks hanging out in the downtown New York lofts during the ’80s. I scan the pages of Wire magazine for the latest improvisations hitting the streets from some unheralded, underground maestro. This is my wintertime, get-out-of-bed-and-face-the-world music. This provides the jolt I need to shake the sugar hangover from the previous night's confectionery smörgåsbord. This is the fiery yang to my moonlight yin preference of bebop, ballads, and swing. That's where Ask the Ages by Sonny Sharrock comes in. But really, as fascinating a topic as I am, enough about me.
You might be familiar with Sonny's guitar sound already. He recorded the theme song for Space Ghost Coast to Coast, is featured on several Ron Burgundy-approved Herbie Mann records, and played with Miles Davis' early ’70s fusion band. But that only scratches the surface of what Señor Sharrock does when plugged in. Sonny shreds on the guitar. Not the sort of hair guitar shredding that is promised in the tabs of the glossy guitar mags with Joe Satrioni and Stu Hamm on the cover. If I were to make assumptions, I would guess that Sonny could shred after finding the glowing orb from the cartoon cult classic movie Heavy Metal lying in his backyard, which gave him the guitar power of Greyskull. It's kinda like if the love child from the respective worlds of Rod Serling and Lewis Carroll was given a guitar, these would be the sounds that it produced. Is it making sense for you yet? Sonny Sharrock is the guitar boss you've never had. I don't care how good you are at Guitar Hero, even if you have Thad Jarvis backing you up; there is no way you are producing the whacked-out sounds that come from Sunny's six string. Too bad for any of you wannabe Yngwie Malmsteen blowhards reading this; I'm not technical enough to be able to tell you what's going on from a theoretical point of view. (I do, however, have a great recipe for ginger snaps.)
Joining Sunny on Ask the Ages are two undisputed grand poobahs of free jazz, Pharaoh Sanders on saxophone and Elvin Jones on drums. Elvin is best known for propelling John Coltrane through his peak creative years, and Pharaoh has my second favorite name in jazz after former Jazz Messengers bassist Spanky DeBrest. Pharaoh howls and shrieks in all the right ways to compliment Sonny on his exploration of the stratosphere; there are moments when the intensity is at such a fevered pitch that you absolutely think one of them is on the verge of blowing an o-ring.
But this isn't a total skronkathon that can turn off many listeners to free jazz; there is a lot of variety going on here. On "Who Does She Hope To Be?" for example, the band simmers it down for a scorching electric blues. You know that obnoxious commercial where a bunch of baby boomers are sitting around singing Viva Viagra? I bet they crank out some electric blues while driving in their midlife-crisis convertibles -- but Sonny isn't playing the generic electric blues that would appeal to that crowd. This is the sort of soul searching electric blues that reminds me of Eddie Hazel's "Maggot Brain" from the Funkadelic clan. If I had to find a flaw in that song, it'd be its brevity, and that it isn't opened up enough to let Sonny totally rip into the ether as it's on the verge of doing. Meanwhile, on "Many Mansions," I hear Love Supreme-era Coltrane being channeled. Which reminds me of the time I went to the Church of John Coltrane in San Francisco and had some red beans and rice. Which just triggered my salivary glands and is making me aware of that delicious aroma coming out of my oven. Which is making this review come to an abrupt end. Godspeed, mix tape fans, godspeed.