The Reports
“Bill Wyman Metal Detector” b/w “Attleboro Trailers” 7”
Ride the Snake Records
On the a-side the vocals drip with Ian Curtis cynicism but the drums push the tempo way past Joy Division speed. The bass is high in the mix, like a rhythm guitar track, and the lead guitar is firing off sixteenth notes that sounded like Dick Dale at first but now sound more like the early Chills (the former: noon, the latter: midnight). It’s one of those rare songs that grabbed me the first time and reveals something different each time. The b-side is good, though it lacks the twists and turns of “Bill Wyman.”
Thee Fine Lines
“She’s Kind of Evil” b/w “It’s Over Now” 7”
Ken Rock
Last time Thee Fine Lines were reviewed here at GM it was the band’s most excellent all-instrumental EP. These songs bring them crashing and stomping back to the Bo Diddley/Kinks/Billy Childish style they’ve used so well over time. It’s amazing how well and how often they find variations on such a simple sound. The benefits of doing so are so obvious to me that I’ve had a difficult time coming up with things to say about this fine platter. Brevity may the soul of wit but when it comes to writing music reviews, it, brevity, getting to the point, carries the implication that something is lacking in the subject matter; can’t be very good because it didn’t provoke much thought. My favorite exception being this assessment, taken from some guitar magazine, of Yes’ Big Generator: “No.” Back to Thee Fine Lines: cool record with equally cool cover art that looks like early MAD.
Having never seen an episode of Jersey Shore, I nonetheless felt I knew Snooki, the Situation, and the rest of the gang. My only question: what kind of pizza would a Jersey Shore personality eat when not tanning, getting drunk in a hot tub, or tanning? (Apparently, not Dominos.) Even a shore novice like myself knows the answer is probably Mack & Manco, a boardwalk tradition as ubiquitous as a weathered Bon Jovi tour shirt.
It’s the middle of a long cold winter, but we nonetheless headed down the shore to see what pies were available off-season on the boardwalk. Amidst the shuttered arcades and surf shops only a few pizzerias were open for business, each attracting a smattering of intrepid dog walkers and bikers.
One of the boardwalk’s three Mack & Manco locations was open on this chilly winter day, so we sidled up to the counter for two slices at the shore’s most famous pizzeria, established in 1956 by Anthony Mack and Vincent Manco in Ocean City.
Having been to Mack & Manco once previously — waiting in line for a seat on a glorious summer day — I remembered the buzz of watching the “piemen” hurling dough and making their patented upside-down pies in front a throng of excited shore goers. Maybe it was the bitter cold, or the fact that we ordered slices instead of a full pie, but today’s pizza was a soup of cheese and sauce with a soggy crust unable to support its weight. Much of the toppings ended up on the paper plate.
Mack & Manco hailed from Trenton, which in the 1950s became known for its “tomato pie,” a term used regionally by Italian-Americans in the Philadelphia and south Jersey area to describe a yeasty, saucy pizza with a minimal amount cheese served at room temperature. The variation known as the “upside-down pizza” was born in South Philly in 1951 as a cheeseless pie. Today’s upside-down pies typically have thinly-sliced fresh mozzarella under the sauce (Mack & Manco uses shredded cheese, which may be why our pie was so soggy), though many old timers still order the traditional sauce-only version.
Mack & Manco’s upside-down variation is not a shore classic for nothing, and perhaps off-season is not the time to sample it. So, we’ll be back next summer to take another crack.
A pleasant surprise was our Walt’s Original Primo Pizza the following day, which we ordered takeout from the Somers Point location (the boardwalk location was closed for the season). Walt’s sauce-to-cheese ratio and crust crispness was just the tonic needed to erase the disappointment of Mack & Manco’s winter slump.
The Hextalls embody the exactly what I like about pop punk. They write catchy songs, are lots of fun to listen to, and they don’t take themselves seriously (Have you ever seen a pop punk band that DOES take itself way too seriously? I have, and it’s always TERRIBLE). They use goofy humor and references, and have songs about hockey, video games. There’s a few inside jokes as well, but they can still be mildly appreciated by someone on the outside, if for no better reason they seem to enjoying themselves so much. Conversely, when they do get serious for a moment, it makes them all the more charming. And while I understand that ultimately a band like The Hextalls isn’t for everyone, I hold them in the same regard as I do their fellow Vancouver, B.C. Canadian Nardwuar the Human Serviette; If you’re not into it, you’re probably no fun, and I don’t want to hang out with you.
The Mojomatics
“Another Cheat on Me” b/w “Down By the Graveyard”
Douche Master
The key to this single is the vocals. They’re easy to hear but difficult to understand. I have to lean in close, listen harder to figure out the lyrics. Or at least I would if I cared about what garage bands are actually saying. I don’t care much about the content but I want the sounds to be easy to decipher because I love to mumble and hum along. Too many garage bands bury their vocals and rid their songs of melody—hard to hear and impossible to understand. That won’t land you on the Nuggets box set, mate. The Mojomatics are a wiser lot. Plus, when you re-read the song titles it’s clear that these guys know what bands of their ilk are supposed to sing about: 1) I’ve been wronged or, 2) I hang out in creepy places.
Short take: This book is remarkable. Maybe Shields’ best. Much like Jonathan Lethem’s Chronic City it digs into questions of what is real and what is fake. Like a documentary in book form, Reality Hunger incorporates dozens of voices. It presents high brow ideas so clearly and with such enthusiasm that it’s as fun to read as it is fascinating to consider. Send me your copy if you don’t love it.
Long take:
Exhibit A: “Have you ever heard a record that makes you feel as good as Stevie Wonder’s Fingertips — Part 2? I haven’t. It’s so real. When you listen to the record, you can hear a guy in the band yelling, ‘What key? What key?’ He’s lost. But then he finds the key, and boom. Every time I hear that guy yelling, ‘What key?’ I get excited.”
Exhibit B: “My intent is to write the ars poetica for a burgeoning group of interrelated (but unconnected) artists in a multitude of forms and media...who are breaking larger and larger chunks of ‘reality’ into their work.”
Both of the quotes above are taken from David Shields’ latest book Reality Hunger. For me they are the opposing forces that drive Reality Hunger, which draws on a stunning array of pop culture and high culture references. Exhibit A: just have fun with it. Exhibit B: take a sample, place it on the microscope, and analyze it. The risk of the former, for me, is failing to understand what draws me to a song/book/movie/joke; I really want to figure these things out. The risk of the latter, obviously, is spending too much time with my eye glued to the lens, missing out on life beyond the microcosm. (Lighten up, bub!) Thing is, I rarely strike the right balance. I tend to do one or the other. This doesn’t affect my ability to respirate or have a good family life, but reading a book like Reality Hunger, which embraces both, perfectly, is remarkable.
Reality Hunger looks at what is real and what is fake, what is fiction, what is non-fiction? Does it matter? Has it ever mattered? Shields addresses an astounding range of time periods and media. Hindu texts from the 14th century BC. Sonny Rollins. Bill Murray. Jessica Simpson. Emerson’s thoughts on the “cold, mechanical” nature of 19th century sermons. It’s all here and, amazingly, given equal consideration. With so many cultural references there is the risk of Reality Hunger turning into a text version of VH1 pop-ups — superficial name checking that has no accumulative effect. But Shields is so good at orchestrating all of the media considered that Reality Hunger is more like an excellent documentary.
I read Reality Hunger in three days — my version of a single-sitting — but I’ve spent three months thinking about how to concisely convey its hold on me. At this point I’m waving the white flag. I need at least one more read, maybe two, before I could offer a true review. This is more along the lines of my first impressions shared in the hopes that friends will read Reality Hunger and give me a chance to bounce my ideas off of them.
I wrote off Jay Reatard for the longest time. He seemed to be trying to hard to provoke, too calculated. I liked the ideas behind his previous bands more than the tantrums they stirred up. He reminded me of the kids in junior high who wore suspenders covered with ironic buttons. Weird for the sake of being weird, desperate for attention.
Then I read a review of Watch Me Fall. It claimed his new songs were poppier. It also compared the record to the Verlaines. That snared my attention. Verlaines comparisons are few and far between (a shame, that). I sampled two or three songs from Watch Me Fall and they made a quick impression. Either I had the guy wrong or he changed his act a lot. Or maybe we met halfway. Regardless, this is a remarkable record.
Watch Me Fall offers dozens of footholds for pop fans: the pretty acoustic guitar lead on “Wounded,” the gentle, Ray Davies vocals on “I’m Watching You,” the Peter Buck jangle that volleys with the Pete Townsend windmill action on “Before I Was Caught,” the Queen-like pomp and circumstance of “Nothing Now.” Every song has something to make it appealing. (As for the Verlaines reference I think the Chills, another long-running, overlooked New Zealand band is more accurate but that’s hairsplitting.)
So, is it a pure pop sell out? Hardly. The feedback on “Can’t Do It Anymore” is there to undermine the party, going on longer than it needs too. The guitars on the verse to “Nothing Now” buzz like a mosquito in my ear. And the drums, man, so stiff and mechanical, I have a hard time forgetting they’re programmed. (Are they?) The lyrics reach across three sub-genres: I Suck, People Suck, and Life Sucks. But he’s not wallowing in this dark state of mind or celebrating it or asking for pity. They’re more like an internal monologue that’s seeped out. (All of which might imply that this record reveals a more authentic side of Jay Reatard, as opposed to the cartoonish character of previous records. Could be. Just as likely Watch Me Fall presents another character.)
Pulling all of the above into cohesive songs is what makes Watch Me Fall so intriguing. Both sides—the crowd pleasing pop elements and the bratty antagonism—are given equal consideration. Longtime fans may find the record too easy to digest but newcomers should check out “It Ain’t Gonna Save Me,” “Wounded,” and “There Is No Sun.”
They have a great legacy, this supergroup comprised of members of the Ergs, Steinways, and Rivethead, but perhaps because of the similarity between their now-defunct bands, the whole of House Boat doesn’t seem to rise above the sum of its parts. That’s not to say that this band (or this record) is bad by any stretch, but The Delaware Octopus reads mostly like what the Steinways’ next release would have been, rather than a superhuman melding of styles that supersedes its components.
“I Work on the 13th Floor” is a standout track, a companion piece to the Steinways’ “Attaching Transmittals to Erection Drawings” — well-paced and just poppy enough, expertly capturing the desperation of the beleaguered temporary office worker, with plenty of fist-pumping chorus action to satiate those in want of more traditional Midwestern-esque pop punk.
The trading-off of lead vocals throughout keeps the sound fresh (see: “Battlestar Gallactica”), and come summer, you’re going to want to drive around listening to “My Life Hurts” really loud with the windows down. Zack Rivethead seems the most out-of-place on lead vocals, but works flawlessly in harmony, especially on “Alonelylonelylone.” Sporting innovative chord changes and interesting vocal arrangement, The Delaware Octopus is a solid album, but is more indicative of a Steinways record with exceptionally tight musicianship than of a brand new band called House Boat.
The Hextalls are the premiere Canadian silly-fun, kinda-crass, always-funny-even-when-sincere pop-punk band, and their new record Get Smashed lives up to all those hyphenated adjectives. While not as cohesive as their last full-length release, Call it a Comeback, Get Smashed has some of the catchiest songs ever released by the Hextalls, including “Pac Man” and “I Met Her At The Ropetow,” which boasts a three-part anthemic singalong outro that isn’t boring as well as standout bass work.
There are some skippable tunes that are more lyrically “generic” than I’ve come to expect from the Hextalls, which is even acknowledged in the title of “Generic Mid-Record Ballad.” This is evidenced again in “My X-Box Got the Red Ring of Death” but my annoyance with this song stems mostly from the piano quarter notes throughout that sound like a Honda somewhere has a door ajar.
Despite the somewhat-uneven flow of the record, in terms of production values and amount of musical talent, this release is the best yet for the Hextalls. If you like straightforward pop punk with strong harmonies and an irreverent tone — even if you’re not on the inside of the in-jokes; even if you don’t know (the man, the myth, the legend) Mark Wilson — it’s unlikely you’ll have a quarrel with this album. Four stars.
Once again in a most list-ful mood, this round-up certainly wasn't a very easy one to compile, I'll have everyone know. The pickin's were extremely, uh, thin, to say the very least.
Nevertheless (or should I say Nevermind)…
Number One: Mark Johnson12 in a room (1992)
Powerful pop most firmly rooted within the Brill Building anteroom.
Two: CowsillsGlobal (1998)
America's once-and-forever First Family of Song leave no Partridge unspurned.
Three: Brian WilsonSweet Insanity (1991)
Just to make sure the Nineties weren't ALL Pet Sounds re-issues.
Four: Dave Rave GroupValentino's Pirates (1992)
Wherein the former Soviet Union signs its first Western act, then promptly dissolves.
Five: Johnny CashAmerican Recordings (1994)
Rick Rubin produces a Johnny we thought only Sam Phillips could.
Six: Tiny TimRock (1993)
Includes possibly definitive readings of “Eve of Destruction” and “Rebel Yell,” I kid you not.
Seven: PuffyJet CD (1998)
Oh-so-effortlessly crosses ABBA, Sabbath, and Who's Next …and all by way of Jellyfish.
Eight: MonkeesJustus (1996)
Those Prefabs go out on a very high note (which, I'll have you know, they played all by themselves).
Nine: Shane FaubertSan Blass (1993)
Former head Cheepskate most definitely goes for baroque.
Ten: NRBQYou Gotta Be Loose (1998)
Proof very positive: The greatest live r-n-r band In The World.
Eleven: EvaporatorsI Gotta Rash (1998)
Before Ali G, Baba Booey, and most definitely Tenacious D.
Twelve: Neil YoungArc (1991)
Truly too cool – not to mention loud – for (many) words.
Thirteen: Go-NutsThe World's Greatest Super Hero Snak Rock And Gorilla Entertainment Revue (1997)
For once, the title says it all.
Fourteen: High LlamasGideon Gaye (1994)
More than filling that cavernous sonic gap between SMiLE and the XTC reunion.
Fifteen: Blue ShadowsLucky To Me (1995)
Hank Williams visits The Cavern by way of Big Pink.
Sixteen: Mojo NixonGadzooks!!! (1997)
Includes “Bring Me The Head of David Geffen” …and THEN some.
Seventeen: James Richard OliverThe Mud, The Blood and The Beer (1998)
alt. Country with a capital “Oh!”
Eighteen: Chesterfield KingsSurfin' Rampage (1997)
Upstate New York's finest give their Stones cloning a rest whilst hanging all ten.
Nineteen: JandekTwelfth Apostle (1993) So many Jandek albums; so little space.
