Bare Wires “Young Love” b/w “Keep Your Love” 7” Southpaw
The Half Rats “For the Sake of Love” b/w “The Girl” 7” Douche Master
Midwest Beatare in the lead off spot. Baseball wisdom says put the best hitter third in the line up. Pop fans know better: best goes first, and the Midwest Beat have to be one of the best bands on the planet right now. They bring together three of my favorite elements: pure pop hooks, punk rock energy and country twang (the third isn’t so evident but I swear it’s there in spirit and it enhances the EP). Now to the specifics. Whenever I hear guitars jangle like this I think of the Byrds but the Sunset Strip bands of the late 60s always buried the drums (or at least their producers did), they were felt more than heard. That’s where Midwest Beat update the sounds of old. The snare is front and center, ride cymbal too, washing over the whole mix. The result: these guys are faster and looser than their predecessors (but not careless and sloppy). Couple all of the above with spot-on backing vocals (they know just when and how to “ooh” and “aah”) and the Midwest Beat deliver another terrific EP.
Bare Wires: Your mom would hear this record and storm into the living room wagging her finger, all fired about because you’ve got her Who albums out—again—and this time you didn’t clean the needle and she can tell because poor Roger’s vocals are all distorted. Kids these days! Then your older brother gives you grief because he thinks you snagged his Cheap Trick records again. And you think to yourself that mom’s comparison is more apt. Meanwhile, I live in some fantasy world where parents know the Who and siblings know Cheap Trick. I’ll work out those issues. You check out this single. It’s a corker. (And if you want to play up the Cheap Trick angle some more, check out the cover art. Cool dude on the front, leaning against his motorcycle. Nerdy, vulnerable guy on the back. Only it’s the same guy. First take: arms crossed, confident, Robin Zander. Second take: hair in his face, fingers tangled up, Rick Nielsen. We are all, each one of us, both cover boy/front man and geek. At least as far as image is concerned.)
Half Rats: Early Beatles. Kaisers. Neatbeats. It’s Mersey, baby, and it’s done in right fine fashion here. Ugly Things readers will take issues with the broad strokes I’m using—hey, mate, you got your fab in my gear!—but hopefully the gist is conveyed. I say "inspired by" you might say "derivative."
It’d been a busy past few months recently, with writing, and recording. I’d been working on some marathon writing sessions and needed a break. Luckily my friend Craig was in town to manage the 2010 National Air Guitar Championships, and invited me to come out for it. I’d gone before, and always had a good time. If there’s one antidote to spending hours typing away in front of a computer screen, it’s a night of yelling at guys on stage in spandex, yet too nerdy for pro-wrestling. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.
I’d first met Craig a few years back, through his non-air-guitar bands – most recently Love Songs, Conquest For Death, and This Is My Fist! And was exposed to the world of Competitive Air Guitar through him. I’ve been to a few competitions over time, starting with a National Championship where he was defending his title (but unfortunately lost, to the local favorite). He’s since recovered his national champion status, and “retired”, and apparently now opts for a more of a production/management/professional role.
I was invited to a “Pre-show press conference” where the contestants try to explain their “background stories,” and more importantly there’s some kind of free food. But my invite was very last minute, and I wasn’t sure on the details so when I showed up to the box office at six, I was told to come back at 7:30. I walked around the neighborhood to kill time, and when I came back there was a line around the corner full of eager air-enthusiasts. Fortunately for me, there was a separate guest list line, which I was second behind the family of the local favorite, who had custom made shirts and no less than three different signs to hold up. It took me a while to get in, but I did get to witness the spectacle of a stretch limo pulling up and dozens of contestants getting out, at least one with a full entourage.
By the time I finally get inside, the opening band is in the middle of playing – I can’t help but find it somewhat ironic that an air guitar competition is opened with a real band, but they usually find some interesting choices; this time it’s a marching band, of all horns and drums, playing mostly hard rock and metal covers, with a few originals sprinkled in for good measure.
Waiting for the actual show to start, I do some people watching. One of the things that fascinates me is how I can never really figure out the crowd in attendance, like at most shows. For example, nothing but hipsters at the indie rock show, the hardcore dinosaurs that come out for the punk reunion show, and so forth. But at the air guitar championship, there are people of all ages; from the most beautiful people you’ve ever seen, to some of the biggest nerds you’ve ever seen. Years ago, as “ironic” argyle prints and horn rimmed glasses came into fashion, I’d thought to myself “It would be kind of funny to start up a ‘Riot nrrrd movement’, for “the real nerds try to reclaim what’s theirs.” As I continue to look around I can’t tell if that’s already happened, or the exact opposite has already happened.
Finally, its show time. It doesn’t take long for things to get going, and within moments I’m watching some fine air guitar, as well as heckling from the judges (though one makes a “show us your tits” type comment to one of the female contestants, and I can no longer tell which side of the irony fence we’re standing on). I notice that this year there seems to be more and more showmanship. In addition to wilder outfits, contestants take their time making their way to the stage. “The Bride Of Rock” is carried to the stage on a chair, from the back of the room. While I’m yelling at the top of my lungs, I’m also noticing that more and more people in the audience actually have favorites, where I can’t help but think, “You mean, you actually cheer for just one person?”
Perhaps these people all know something I don’t, because I end up tiring myself out faster than I’d like to admit. When contemplating what to do, the lazier half of my conscience (imagine a devil, laid back on a recliner in front of a television) starts to argue, “You’ve seen one air guitarist, you’ve seen them all.” It has been a long week; I’m tired of standing, and eventually take off just before the final round. It’s not that it’s not fun – I’m always a fan of a good spectacle - the timing just isn’t great tonight. As I walk down 14th Street towards the PATH making my way home, I can’t help but feel a little discouraged that Air Guitar (and my own endurance, really) got the best of me. But if nothing else, I have a better idea of what to prepare myself for next year.
Shannon & the Clams Paddy’s Birthday 7” EP Southpaw
The Splinters “Blood On My Hands” b/w “Hot Hands” 7” Southpaw
The Sandwitches “Makes Me Sick” b/w “Idiot Savant” 7” Southpaw
Shannon & the Clams: “The Special Powers of Blossom Culp.” Richard Peck. One of the best stories ever. Here’s the gist. Blossom’s new in town, loathed by her classmates, Letty in particular, because she is unkempt and outspoken. Also, she’s illiterate and takes to creating fantastic stories when asked to read before the class (one involves her dead Siamese twin, another her mother’s ability to track murder suspects using her “second sight”). Letty does her best to make life unpleasant for Blossom but learns too late that the real power in the story lies in Blossom’s ability to decode people. In the end, Blossom plots her revenge and destroys (psychologically) Letty’s birthday party. The a-side would make for the perfect soundtrack for that party—I ruined your birthday/I feel so bad. The apology is so long and so dramatic that the focus is clearly on the perpetrator not the victim, the Blossom, not the Letty; you’ve got the cake and the presents but you won’t mess with me again. That’s great material for a pop song and Shannon and the Clams really commit to it. They stick to a waltz the whole time. I kept waiting for the change to cut time, for the band to pause, the drummer to click off four and then everyone to come back in at the polka tempo. There’s no such relief in sight, folks, that would only let the party resume and the goal here wasn’t to snare a moment or a minute but to detonate the whole shindig. Pretty brilliant. The b-side blazes for thirty seconds then downshifts and dims the lights, packing Shangri-Las like tragedy into a tune that’s like 60s Brill Building pop but rendered through a lens that twists and distorts. This is how I first imagined Lou Reed’s pre-Velvet Underground singles would sound.
The Splinters: The a-side is heavy on the floor tom stomp, topped with simple and really catchy guitar lines, laid back, almost monotone vocals…sounds like Mo Tucker to me (again with the VU?) and it’s a wonderful thing. Kind of dark in tone but sunny at the same time. Both songs are gems. I used to think Mo was the only one who could pull this off but I stand corrected. The rare record that will appeal to my pre-school kids as much as Brooklyn hipsters.
The Sandwitches: A lot different than their last single (“Back to the Sea”) but perhaps better. “Make Me Sick” has a field recording vocal—notes bending and twisting like a long, lost Appalachian melody—supported by a well-placed combination of acoustic guitar and piano, all of which stands in perfect contrast to the venomous lyrics. “Idiot Savant” is neither like the a-side nor the previous single. For most of the song two notes ping pong on the acoustic guitar carrying a gentle melody with a sweet sentiment: Idiot savant, you’re the one for me. Unique, unusual, and quite good.
The Potential Johns “Can I Really Not Go with You” b/w “Past Due” 7” Dirtnap
I’ve heard that one or more of the Marked Menresent the suggestion that they sound like the Ramones. Fair enough. I get it. The landfills are choked with Ramones clones so devoid of imagination as to make a reasonable mind cast doubt on the godfathers from Queens. Still, the Marked Men have always reminded me of the Ramones (though they’re like the Godzillas of the bunch, looming large over the landscape, swatting aside challengers like gnats). To be specific the “California Sun” side of the Ramones, Johnny in check, Joey’s heart and harmonies in the spotlight. When the Marked Men are firing on all cylinders there’s a beautiful coexistence among the chiming guitars, the aching hearts, the candy-coated vocals and the furious eighth note action. Plus, the Marked Men always mix their records so that you could hear everything as a massive, nearly overwhelming whole or as distinct parts. I thought their last LP, Ghosts, sounded like they were running out gas but both sides of this single are stellar—mid-tempo up top, up tempo on the b-side. As good as any of the tunes on On the Outside. Now I have no choice but to revisit Ghosts. They’ve forced my hand!
We know what it sounded like when Phil Spector worked with the Ramones. I love End of the Century (and I’m intrigued by the “wanna see my gun?” lore). But what would have happened if notorious British producer and madman Joe Meek produced the Ramones? Musically, I mean. Imagine the Ramones roar in the hands of Meek, known for his other worldly approach to sonics. (The interpersonal angle would certainly have yielded multiple homicides.) I bring this up to put some variables in play. I don’t want to reduce the Mind Spidersto a nostalgia act. Worlds Destroyed is a remarkable piece of work with or without the fan fiction tangents. Mark Ryan borrows elements from his other bands (Marked Men, High Tension Wires) but repositions them perfectly. I listened to the title song four times before moving on to the others. It’s slower than I expected. The lyrics are clearer. Like a Marked Men song it’s built on a foundation of a wall of guitars and steady floor tom but the combined effect is surprisingly peaceful, expansive. (At various times I’ve pictured the lonely surfer, the lonely cowboy and lately, the lonely astronaut. Or maybe lone is more apt than lonely.) “Time Sucker” and “Dirty Secrets” are even better. I’m giddy over the prospect of the upcoming Mind Spiders album.
Potential Johns: “Can I Really Not Go with You” is loud, fast, and fun, a good tune that would fit well with any Marked Men album. “Past Due” is the song of note, though. Longer, simpler, more repetitive, it reminds me of Neil Young and Crazy Horse, those songs where they go verse/chorus/verse/chorus for a minute or two then lock into a loop that could drive on for 15-20 minutes. It’s not jamming because no one’s wanking; there’s no trading of solos to flash instrumental prowess, just a realization that they’ve come to a point worth lingering on—this rocks, dudes, let’s stay here awhile. The song doesn’t vary for the final two and a half minutes. It would be a shame if it did.
Succinctly summing up the 40-year-plus career of multi-instrumentalist-composer-improviser Fred Frithis nearly impossible. Since emerging in 1968 as a co-founder of the British progressive rock band Henry Cow, Frith has appeared on more than 400 recordings spanning idioms from chamber music to noise rock. It's his association with New York's “downtown” avant garde scene of the late 1970s and '80s, and his improvisational collaborations with John Zorn and Naked City, Henry Kaiser, Zeena Parkins, and Bill Laswell and Fred Maher in the experimental rock trio Massacre, that cemented his reputation as one of the music world's best improvisational guitarists. Today, Frith is as prolific as ever and is a professor of composition at Mills College in Oakland, CA.
Like other guitarists Frith likely probably goes to the gear shops but he’s likely to stop off at the hardware store en route, check out the paint brushes, scopes out the ball bearings, and make sure he’s stocked up on sturdy string and metal chains. Good chance he scrounged through the recycling bin before he left the house. With his guitar laying in his lap he drums the strings with brushes. He places a tin can on the fretboard and pours in small spheres. He pulls up a string and uses a bow. What Fred Frith applies to guitar strings isn’t just part of the performance, it’s the point.
On October 30, Frith played a solo improv show at the The Stone in New York City. Mike Faloon and Brett Essler weigh in on the performance.
Mike: Is there are genre of writing with less use for readers than live reviews? "Band X played heaps of the new album (to move product), tossed in a few rare nuggets (to appease the old fans), and closed with a cover (to wink knowingly at the audience or perhaps establish a bit of authenticity). Oh, and the rhythm section was tight." Under most circumstances, I'm skeptical. Fred Frith is a different matter.
Brett: Exactly. In trying to describe this Frith performance, I think it's necessary to talk about the space, the neighborhood, the sound environment — they all played a role. To dissect only the music coming from Frith's guitar misses the emotional impact of the performance.
Mike: First, the space. The Stone. Avenue C and 2nd Street. No tickets. No drinks. No food. Little ventilation.
Brett: Lately, there is a lot of nostalgia, or romanticizing, of what David Byrne calls "old weird New York." The Stone is John Zorn's space, which he opened after Tonic shut down in 2007, and it feels like as close as a newcomer to the city like me will ever get to a time when you would see someone like Philip Glass or Steve Reich in a small loft. I can't imagine this Frith performance taking place anywhere else, which is the beauty of improvised music — it will always belong to a particular moment.
Mike: I like that phrase — old weird New York — though I know that I never would have found myself on Avenue C in those old, weird days. When I got out of the cab last Saturday night I came upon a line of people. My first thought: they're lined up to score dope. Then I realized this is Bloomberg's New York, not Jim Carroll's. The street was well-lit and clean. Everyone in line was 45+, dressed well, thinning on the dome. Good thing they were in line, too. Otherwise I would have had trouble finding The Stone. The all-black door with microscopic sign is great for camouflage, a little tricky for new comers.
Brett: The Stone is all about the music. When Frith got on stage there was enthusiastic applause, then complete silence as he got he got ready to play. Total reverence. The way Frith started the piece — with a churning, quiet drone — it was almost like a draft coming in from an opened door, something you don't notice immediately. Right as he started to ramp the volume up a bit, he was greeted by sirens from outside. He was really playing the room, or using the room as a collaborator. Sitting in the back, I couldn't really see him; I had to imagine what he was doing, what treatment he was using to get certain sounds. I think that added to the mystique. I mainly just stared at one of the light bulbs near the stage or closed my eyes.
Mike: And this is one of the main reasons I wanted to work on a review together. I knew you couldn't see him whereas I was able to stand in the aisle and see everything. I was so mesmerized by watching him that sometimes I lost track of what I was hearing. I thought a tag team review might help me decode the experience.
Brett: I could hear him rustling through what sounded like a box of tools and he definitely made use of effects some pedals, maybe a digital delay. The most melodic section of the piece was him playing strings like a hammered dulcimer with sticks or mallets. At one point, he also did a bit of choppy strumming. How much of this performance do you think is prepared in advance in terms of structure? You know, "this is the part where I pour a dish of ball bearings on my guitar" or is this all in the moment, instinctual?
Mike: Playing a pure hunch: I think a general framework is set, such as take off and landing points, the rest is what my students love to do: make it up on the spot. At first I thought there was a pattern: play for a bit, loop the best part; then loop another part; then with both playing get the paint brushes and treat guitar like delicate drum kit.
Brett: We were lucky enough to see Ornette Coleman a few months back, when he guested at Sonny Rollins' 80th Birthday gig. It is interesting to me to watch him do his thing in the framework of a structured tune which can barely contain him — the other musicians were as curious as the audience as to where he was going to take the solo. Even if he goes completely off the reservation, there is a rhythm and a key to fall back in to and, generally, you know where it will end up. With a guy like Frith in a solo environment, he's totally without a net, which is thrilling in a different way. In that sense, it's like airplane travel through cloud cover: you know the ground is there, but it is not visible. The fear of heights is only triggered when you can see the ground.
Photo of Frith's set up from a 2009 Seattle performance, by ioate
Mike: Another great analogy. So how much of the time were you trying to guess how he was making the sounds?
Brett: Most of the time! But, I love being surprised or confused by a performance. These days, the element of surprise is mostly lost from art; by the time I see a film or go to a concert, I have a pretty good idea what the content will be. It's been blogged, Twittered, Facebooked, and so on. Did this performance square with what you'd heard previously, or since, from Frith?
Mike: Conceptually, yes, sonically, no. I have two albums — one, a pretty good acoustic record with Henry Kaiser, the other, Speechless, an album of full-band instrumentals, really odd, yet really melodic. His set at the Stone was like neither record, which I saw coming. That said, like you, I had no idea how it would differ from those records. My favorite part was when he took a piece of kite string, looped it beneath one of the guitar strings, pulled said string an inch or so off the fretboard and then grabbed a bow. When I hear "bow on electric guitar" I picture Jimmy Page and reach for the antacid, but in Fred Frith's hands it was wonderful.
Brett: That must have been the passage when I was daydreaming about a mythological Hermit. When I was roused awake, the performance was over. Frith came back out for wave, then it was lights up. As we filed out, he was at the door, sending us off as if we had just been at his flat for a dinner party.
Mike: Yeah, that "thanks for coming" send off was the perfect touch. We joked about the likelihood of Thurston Moore doing the same thing but that aspect of Fred Frith adds to the appeal: for all of his avant garde, beyond-the-fringe approach to guitar there was no pretense in his set/song. One of my old bandmates used to say that every song was a battle with his guitar. With Frith it was more like a playful game or dance: "what else can I do with this sucker?"
Fred Frith: Excerpt from Step Across the Border (fast forward to 1:55 for a shopping trip)
I was in college when I started to really figure myself out. I liked punk rock and watching Saturday Night Live reruns all day. While these discoveries led to an increase in my confidence, no one else particularly cared about any of those things. But when my roommate Mike and I started cooking food in our bathroom (filling our countertop with a toaster over and two separate George Forman grills), we discovered that everyone loves food. It was pretty ridiculous I hadn’t noticed it more already – after all some of my favorite parts of the day involved sitting around with my roommates and friends for a communal meal.
Admittedly, I hadn’t really considered myself much of a “foodie,” and with my schedule, I’d spend more time ordering off the dollar menu wherever the shortest line was in the Penn Station food court. But after a while (and feeling like I was on the verge of death more and more often), I made a decision; I was slowly going to take what I ate more seriously. At the very least, pay closer attention, and try to branch out – after all, I spend roughly half my time running around New York City, where I’ve got a lot of options.
So I’m filling in with House Boat, the new incarnation of The Steinways; pop punk about working crappy temp jobs, and the fairer sex. Fortunately for me, I work temp jobs and have crushes on said sex all the time, so it was a natural fit. Unfortunately for me, it also means that it’s not in my best interest to spend a lot of money on food (and in turn, leaving young ladies relatively unimpressed). The plus side is that we’re playing at Lost and Found (actually, it’s called Lulu’s, but it’s bounced back and forth multiple times, and frankly Lost and Found is a better name), which is a good place if say, you haven’t worked in over a month, and have a budget that reflects that. I end up getting there pretty early, so I drop off my stuff inside, and walk to the bodega across the street to buy some ice cream. There’s some sort of weird Spanish things in tubes, while tempting, seeing I was playing a show and a little nervous of the unknown; I stick with something I know, a strawberry FrozFruit bar to eat outside while the sun set (and watched as the rain storm from earlier that day causing the manhole covers to start shooting up from the street).
The bar has a deal where if you buy a drink, you can get a free pizza, so naturally that’s what I did. For the fact that it’s free, it’s actually decent – after some remodeling, they took out a lot of the dank atmosphere, and put in a small pizza kitchen, so they’re freshly made and not just frozen. You can even get extra toppings for a dollar, which I skip in favor of saving a dollar. Sitting at a table eating by myself, I was reminded of getting personal pizzas from Pizza Hut as a kid from a school program, except now I’m being rewarded for playing music for drunken nerds instead of reading unchallenging books.
When the show finishes up, it’s too late for me to get back home to the suburbs, so I end up sleeping on the floor of my friend’s apartment out in Queens. The next morning, I make my way back home, trudging through the New York City subway and NJ Transit, but by the time I get to Hoboken to catch my final train, I’m feeling pretty ragged. I was hoping to avoid spending more money, but decide splurge and get some breakfast; an egg sandwich and a can of Arnold Palmer.
It’s pretty simple, but I figure getting a whole-wheat bagel would be a marginally healthier option. And it was fairly cheap, and thus up my alley. Sure, doing nothing but playing in bands often prevents you from doing things like, say, being able to afford an apartment. But, at least it affords you small pleasures like eating breakfast while enjoying a nice view.
