Go Metric

Are You Receiving Me? #65 – The Mummies

By Mike Faloon

The Mummies
“Just One More Dance” b/w “I Don’t Like It” 7”
Pre-B.S.

Like many people, I found that my early twenties were a great time to be a music fan. By that point, I’d learned a little about the pop and punk rock underground that I enjoyed so much, and I was more open minded than I’d been in high school. It was the early ‘90s and I was also getting into the world of zines and had a growing network of friends with similar tastes.

All of these factors led to lots of lists. Flying Nun bands like the Chills and the Clean that I wanted to hear. Popllama bands like the Young Fresh Fellows and Fastbacks and their infinite offshoots. Local New York bands like the Sea Monkeys and Iron Prostate. There was also the burgeoning budget rock scene (Mummies, Supercharger). Like I said, good times. But I was also wading through the world of part-time work and was usually broke, so the lists generally just got longer.

The Mummies are one of those bands I read about but I couldn’t afford to track down their countless singles and hard-to-find albums. It was years before I bought my first (and so far only) Mummies album (Play Their Own Records!). I have a good paying job now (thank you, collective bargaining!) but Mummies records have become collector’s items, so they remain elusive (temporary end of parenthetical clauses).

Enter the 2016 Burger Boogaloo festival in Oakland. This was a chance to see the Mummies play live and—surprise, surprise—they had a new single for sale, reasonably priced at five bucks. Yes, please!

Both of the songs have quickly become summer favorites. I’ve listened to them five times today alone, which has generated another list.

Reasons I recommend the new Mummies single:

1. The Mummies have sealed the sleeve on all sides using “Budg-edge” technology. It needs to be cut in order to access the single. A little more work before the payoff.
2. The Mummies have included plenty of gags on the sleeve. They’re better seen up close than described.
3. The Mummies have included their mailing address: 30 Westline Dr., Daly City, CA 94015. I don’t know that I’ll write to them but I appreciate the sense of geography, being able to place them on my mental map.
4. The Mummies claim that this single was only available at the Burger Boogaloo, though these songs will probably be available again sometime soon. I base my claim on this disclaimer on the back of the single: “This here record is exactly the same as this one (image of “Go Ass Crazy” single). If you have a problem with that don’t buy this record. We don’t care.” (Ralph Nader seal of approval.) They’ve released ‘em twice, why thrice?
5. The Mummies rock; there’s substance here, too. Both tunes are ripe with high energy, big hooks, and low budget fidelity—cut from the same sweaty bandages as the band’s ‘90s output. Heck, maybe these are Clinton-era leftovers. I can’t say for sure. They’re new to me and they rip.

I look forward to my next Mummies purchase in 2026! 

 

 

 

Are You Receiving Me? #64 – Spokenest

By Mike Faloon

Spokenest
Gone, Gone, Gone LP
Self-released/Drunken Sailor

Part 1: The First Three Listens

The other day at Grand Central Station, I attempted to buy a train ticket, a 10-pass, to be more specific. Summer’s here and the time is right for more frequent trips into my favorite city. Though expensive, $119, I consider the purchase of such a ticket to be routine; upstaters like me buy them all the time.

The bank my wife and I use, People’s United, disagreed that this purchase was routine. Their algorithms sensed some manner of wrongdoing was afoot and unbeknownst to me they suspended our account when I tried to buy the 10-pass. The ticket machine’s screen read “Unable to complete transaction.” I attributed this to a mechanical problems with the machine. Allie found out about the suspended account the next day at the grocery store when her card was declined. She called the bank.

Allie: “You have no idea what a disruption this is.

Bank rep: “We’re trying to prevent fraud. Fraud is a much bigger disruption.”

In addition to running through the “how”s and “why”s of what happened, the bank rep said that we could prevent this problem from happening again by calling the bank when we plan to visit the city. Financial institutions will tell you all kinds of things. I believe few of them.

Spokenest, comprised of Adrian (drums/vocals) and Daryl (guitar/vocals), make a lot of claims, too. One of them is that they sound like Superchunk. I don’t believe this. Daryl’s guitar sound is harsher; I hear more Sonic Youth in the six strings. And the dirgy breakdown in “Sense,” that’s SY > SC as well. Not that Spokenest lean too much in the direction of Kim and Thurston. Spokenest often opt for breakneck tempos, like they can’t play fast enough, like the whole thing is going to careen over the cliff and maybe part of them wants it to.

Part 2: Subsequent Listens

You know, on fourth thought, there is some early Superchunk here—like when they play steady eighths. And the slower part at the end of “Lose” with the poppy “oohs” sprinkled in. A bit of No Pocky for Kitty? Sure. And Spokenest’s lyrics are far too earnest to cozy up to Sonic Youth’s detached sneers. So maybe Spokenest can be trusted on this whole “we’ve got a bit of Superchunk” thing.

But now I’ve implied that Spokenest are a couple of Superchunk diehards aping their favorite band. There are traces of that on Gone, Gone, Gone but they have got moves a plenty of their own. “Tell Me” punches and kicks and tries to shake it all off, while “Reasons” mixes these elements—snarling and stomping and oohing and aahing—to a whole different effect. This one makes the summer playlist.

Ten You May Have Missed in 2015

by Gary Pig Gold

Just on the off chance you’ve already made it through all 18 discs, 20 hours, and/or 379 tracks of Bob Dylan’s Cutting Edge Collector’s Edition, then may I suggest you now turn both ears immediately towards (in, as always, strictly alphabetical order)...

DRIFTING SAND
Summer Splash
Piña Colada Records

To fill that sonic gap in a year which saw exactly zero new Beach Boys or even Laurie Biagini albums, Rick Escobar and all his fellow Surfer Spuds from the far left coast produce thirty-four-minutes-thirty-four of sounds, sights and even aromas which conjure those Modern Lovers of yore hijacked by Keith “Beachcomber” Moon. Bravely mixing a clutch of entirely too-cool-for-words instrumentals – Dan Burdick’s lonely trumpet being particularly effective – with Muscle Beach Party-pedigree songs to evoke your fave rave Surfaris B-side, Drifting Sand can, will, and do rhyme “splash” with “such a gas,” “July and August” with “Robert August” (!) and, on “Beach Tour USA” alone toss an M.Love-ly sax solo over carnival barking unheard since our last visit to “Amusement Parks USA.” Top with an ultra-vibra-spaghetti-slappin’ cover of Hazlewood/Sinatra’s “Sand” and the end result may well be the sophomore Fantastic Baggys LP we never thought would ever reach shore.

P.S.: and guys? When you’re ready to do your next album, lemme know. Coz have I got a song for You!!

THE FLESHTONES
Wheel Of Talent
Yep Roc Records

Technically speaking, this 2014 beaut didn’t arrive in the sty, courtesy of our pals over at Rock Beat International, til just a few months ago. But no problem! ’Cause any year’s an ideal time for those Fabulous F-tones. And as ever and always, these veteran garage czars’ unfailing, unflinching embrace of all things rock and naturally roll are intact from the very get-go herein: “Available” blasts direct into the backyard on wings of brazen brash ‘n’ trash …yet with some incongruously appropriate cellos and violas to boot. Likewise, a good half of this talented Wheel – notably “The Right Girl,” “Tear For Tear” and “For A Smile,” the latter featuring the Southern Culture Skid-vocals of Miss Mary Huff – somehow bring a Shadowy Meek sheen of pure pre-Beatle UK pin-up pop to the proceedings (attention! John Waters) without sacrificing one iota of the oomph. Elsewhere, “Roofarama” speeds Jimi’s “Crosstown Traffic” all the way downtown, “Hipster Heaven” sounds tailor-made for the nearest USB latte turntable, and “It Is As It Was” manages to spin the entire Fleshtone fable in a Schoolhouse Rock! as opposed to School of Rock manner; Ghetto Recorder Jim Diamond professorially sees to THAT. And, for anyone left out there who all these years later still doesn’t get the message? Right there on Track 4, “Remember the Ramones.” Got it!

GARFIELDS BIRTHDAY
You are Here
Pink Hedgehog Records

Another holdover from ’014, “recorded mostly at home with files winging their way from Dorest to Yorkshire via Bristol then back again” in the words of the handy enclosed press sheet. In other words? The fourth, and positively most welcome to date collection of smart, stylish poppin’ rock from the British brothers Felton, Simon and Shane, this time with none other than Lucky Bishops/Schnauser man Alan Strawbridge on drums. And that’s an important factor indeed, lest the Feltons’ files end a tad too GarageBanded as they travel the virtual UK. To wit, as soon as their “Magic Bike” gets rolling we are finely assaulted with a great big meaty and beaty bounty – yes, this being Century 21 the Magic Bus has been downscaled somewhat, but the drive is every bit as present and potent. “Carpet Ride” similarly soars Armenia City’s skies with, and I quote, “one eye on the future and one foot in the past.” Witness as well how “It’s Your Lucky Day” somehow Cyrkles clear ’round those Basement Tapes while “Lunar Eclipse” happily weds Kurt Cobain verses to killer-kilter XTC choruses. Shane Felton’s fearlessly inspired lead guitars are a vital part of the equation throughout, but particular notice must also be paid to the other Felton, Simon’s, magnificent vocals …on “Oxford” (most importantly); a masterful performance, and song, whose files deserve to be shared this very instant with Art Garfunkel for starters. Which reminds me: visit the Pink Hedgehog for a copy of Simon Felton’s recent Emotional Feedback as well. You will be doubly glad you did.  

THE GRIP WEEDS
How I Won The War
Jem Recordings

With their latest release, the Grip Weeds have gone and done, by my count, two outstanding things: (1) claimed full lineage at long last to their Richard Lester-ized namesake, and even more importantly (2) made the best album of their career. Here’s how: As no less an authority as Phil Spector once explained, some artists sing ideas, and that the Grip Weeds always have. And it helps immensely, to say the least, that they most fortunately number within their ranks a member who is equally talented on the other side of the microphones too. That would be Kurt Reil, who once again has twiddled knobs brilliantly inside the band’s own House Of Vibes studio to create textures that are lush but not cluttered; bright but never brittle. Overall, the sounds this time out contain much more bite and snarl – in Kurt’s vocals, pointedly – which suits to a “t” the confusion, conflict and, yes, warfare which always seems to boil below the surface. Several short, mainly instrumental segue pieces play a key role as well in making this disc an end-to-end singular experience. Ah! The long-lost art of the Album as a totality. What a concept! But then about two-thirds in, beginning with the completely Zombie-able “Heaven and Earth,” comes a trio of more nuanced numbers which relax things to a whole loftier level. In fact one of these, “Over and Over,” not only serves as a much-needed truce during this great War, but thanks in big part to the lead vocal of Kristin Pinell – always the Grip Weeds’ not-so-secret-anymore weapon – may honestly be the highlight of it all. Which reminds me, Kurt and brother Rick: Where’s HER album already?!!    

RICK HARPER
Pop Spaceman
HiVariety Recordings

Hey, have you noticed everyone and their roommate lately is not only a singer/songwriter/player, but a bonafide home recordist in addition it seems? Well, listen: Rick Harper, in case you hadn’t noticed – and you certainly should have by now – has been toiling at all that and so much more since ’way back in the primordial pre-laptop daze, I kid you not. Which is why he’s so damn good at it, dammit, as Pop Spaceman, the latest in his Demo Teasers series, surely demonstrates. Along with Erich Overhultz’s occasional keyboard, Rick sing/write/plays up a one-man storm of not only undeniable Songs for our far-gone Times (“Pax: Kiss of Peace,” “Wind Idiot,” and “Ca$h Poor,” you bet) but offers as well an unusually good selection of classic Rickenharper-clever chord and monumental chorus compositions (“Not About Us” and my favorite “Pretty Fool”). Each note is not only expertly played, but oh-so-properly placed as well: a supreme proficiency at the fine art of orchestration which is even more apparent during the 14-minute “Music From the Film, Cue 1,” a score of truly cinematic proportions which, for best results, requires secure headphones, a recline position, and lights right off. Interesting how this Pop Spaceman appeared on the ol’ Pig Player right alongside Eddie Cochran just the other night …and fit in just fine.

THE LEMON CLOCKS
Time To Fly
Jam Records

Rather than attempt myself to adequately describe the tight ‘n’ tart dayglo delights of this disc, let us turn instead to the wise words of the three Clocks themselves, Stefan Johansson, Todd Borsch, and Jeremy Morris: In the land of ELECTRIC TOMATOES we can always find the TIME TO FLY. When the FUTURE IS THE PAST we can bend the clock and make time last. We hear the RAINBOW ECHO all around. Our ring is a promise that is growing underground. We will WALK UPON THE WATER because you just CAN’T KEEP A GOOD MAN DOWN. It all happened JUST IN TYME during an UNDERWATER DREAM. AND I FOLLOW in TIME until we’ve FINALLY FOUND OUR HOME. Our lemon clock life is like a GROOVY MOVIE with a very happy ending. It’s full of peace and love coming down from above. So LET THE SUNSHINE IN and let it in your heart. You’ll be really glad you did! It’s THE BEGINNING OF THE END and it’s also THE END OF THE BEGINNING…

MIRIAM
Down Today
Norton Records

As if co-launching Brooklyn’s greatest-ever funzine (Kicks) then coolest go-to music stop (Norton), as well as providing big beats behind the Cramps, Zantees and A-Bones wasn’t more than enough already the one, the only Miriam Linna again steps from behind her Pearl’s to deliver what must be 2015’s rock-candy ear necessity #1! Alongside producer/multi-musician Sam Elwitt, a dozen sweet Sixties slices of strictly 7-inch caliber are fully reheated and served anew… but with nostalgia thankfully taking a distant back seat to respect and utmost finesse in both arrangement (Gregor Kitzis’ occasional strings, for example, always augment; never swamp) and performance (Miriam has added a definite Bazooka Joe as opposed to Bubblicious snap to her Lisa-Jenio-meets-Mary-Weiss pipes). To wit, the Dave Clark Five’s “Don’t Be Taken In” now sounds more like one of December’s Children, while “One More Rainy Day” – the flip of my favorite Deep Purple (!) 45, by the way – quickly turns, somehow, into a full-on Joey Ramone-opus. But after reveling in a half hour of such Evie Sands, Terry Reid, Neil Diamond et al chestnuts, it’s actually one of Mr. Elwitt’s two own compositions, the wholly ’67 Gibb-worthy title track, that just might steal the show. Yes, in yet another year when words like “power” and “pop” continue to be thrown around far too liberally, Miriam shows not only how it’s done, but precisely how it should be SUNG. Hear, here, for yourself.


ANDY REED
Relay Vol. 1
Futureman Records

This little seventeen-minute EP demonstrates the absolute best case imaginable for the wealth of miracles found lurking, quite regrettably, in the nether regions of that musical so-called subculture. Relay 1 happens to be Bay City, Michigan one-man audio factory Andy’s first solo release since 2008 (in the meantime, he is also a member of the Legal Matters who I raved of as one of 2014’s Missed); it, and Vol. 2 are apparently due together soon on an up-coming Futureman vinyl release. Til then, this digital trailer recalls, on say “Dreaming Of The West Coast,” Bruce Johnston by way of Eric Carmen… BUT, luckily, with only the most attractive vocal characteristics of both. “I Love A Long Goodbye” features an octave-leaping melody of Jimmy Webb proportions – and that’s one comparison I rarely get to make anymore! – while “Darlin, You Don’t Know” is a drop-down wonder; an around-the-wide-world trip of sound in three and a half minutes flat. In all, Andy’s work is smart and detailed, sometimes stark, sometimes dense. Someone get this man a gig scoring indie films, quick! Meanwhile, as we await that Relay vinyl, you should seek and love his Oddities And Entities collection as well, which holds over thirteen years’ more rare and precious gems.
    

THE WIND
Re-Wind
Cheft Records

Though it seems more like 300, it’s actually “only” been around thirty years since the original Queens-by-way-of-Miami, Lane Steinberg/Steve Katz/Stephen Burdick-model Wind last made us an album. And it HAS been worth the wait, for the trio’s deftly under-troubled skinny white approach serves as even more urgently-needed fresh air against our current century’s assaults upon ear canals. F’rinstance? “Fight Like A Girl” needs less than three whole minutes to perfectly encapsulate, then broaden wildly upon its Buddy ‘n’ Beatles For Sale history of every little AM radio thing. Spin the dial further and “Think On Your Feet” crouches in some recessed corner of an Emitt Rhodes session, “Which Part Of Goodbye?” really could be The Great Lost Wings B-side we’re still queuing for, “Baby, I Can Take A Punch” finds Todd Rundgren pillow-fighting Squeeze while “There’s A Clamoring” and even more so “Let Me Show You How It’s Done” point Badfingers in thoroughly the right direction. Still, Messrs. Katz and Steinberg roll their tan sleeves all the way up to mix “ambivalence” and “after-dinner mints” with some lo-gummed “Sugar Sugar” keyboard for “Yes And No” …and isn’t “Weak Spot” the theme from Craig Ferguson’s late late, extremely great talk show?! Whatever the cases may be, David Grahame’s co-production keeps all sounds – vocals first! – ice-clean, clear, and to-the-heart at all times; it does take a brave man, not to mention fabulous material, to mix this way. But that’s always been, and apparently continues to be, The Wind. Hopefully it won’t be another thirty years before another album blows our way.  


FRANK ZAPPA
Roxy: The Movie
Eagle Rock Entertainment

Delayed even longer than the mighty Wind is this nifty, sometimes tough, and often quite bitchin audio/video record of Frank and his Mothers’ three-night stint at the Roxy Theatre in Hollywood during December of ’73. Why it’s taken sooo long to reach us is – Surprise! – NOT the usual legal morass ‘n’ molasses which coats most things Zappa. No, this time it was a simple [sic!] case of technology sufficient to sync the Roxy audio with the Roxy video not being at hand until just a couple’a years ago. Meaning we can all finally not only hear, but see FZ sucking down endless Winstons, seated on-stage in chair having make-up touched up as George Duke pulls a “Big Swifty,” watching Ralph Humphrey drum duel Chester Thompson with a lot of “Cheepnis,” then even manning an extra set of traps himself to help beat off the “Uncle Meat” variations. Later Bruce Fowler and Napoleon Murphy Brock go trombo-a-saxo too all over their “Be-Bop Tango” before Carl and Rick and Jane (then Lana, Brenda et al) are coerced on stage to, um, dance to it …a sight even more unsettling than I’d imagined all those years ago under headphones spinning Side 4 of Roxy & Elsewhere when I should have been doing my homework. Caveat Emptor however: as Gail Zappa (RIP) of the esteemed Zappa Family Trust says (admits?) in the accompanying liner notes, Frank indeed “shows up here at his geekiest,” as many of the fiercely wrought arrangements, not to mention between-song “announcements” attest. Of course, a mere five years pre-Roxy such a disclaimer would NEVER have been necessary regarding the original Mothers of Invention and those things they did, but…         

The Other Night at Quinn’s: Mary Halvorson & Ches Smith

By Mike Faloon

“No more guitar heroes!”
—The Clash, “Complete Control”

The pine tree outside our dining room window is being cut down today. Last winter its branches—sagging with snow and ice—started snapping off and plummeting, falling fifty or sixty feet and spearing the ground. My son and I are glued to the window when the tree cutters arrive, hypnotized by the crew chief’s ascent and the sight of the first broomstick branches falling. As he scales skyward, the chainsaw clipped to his belt, slowly swaying, always running, hangs a few feet below his boots. He digs his ankle spikes into the bark and pushes higher.

***

Ches Smith’s equipment forms a semi-circle. The drums face stage right, electronics straight ahead, vibraphone stage left. A cross section of the inner sanctum, like a Jack Kirby diagram of the Baxter Building, or those scenes in Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou that show a cut away of Zissou’s ship, the Belafonte.

Smith concocts snare/bass combinations that pulverize, and the way he favors syncopation over speed allows you to savor each pop and punch. When he rotates to the synth/iPad, he plays with one stick, holds the other in his armpit, goes into a holding pattern, before emerging on the other side with something completely different. Then he returns to the set, this time with mallets, digs into increasingly abstract rhythms, climbs upward.

***

The larger branches have dinner plate diameters. The crew chief ties off them off and lowers them to the ground. The other crew members guide the branches to graceful landings. The sky opens up, shades of blue replacing browns and greens, the ground illuminated by direct sunlight for the first time in decades. The crew chief reaches the top of the tree and slices into the trunk, cuts into the very structure that’s keeping him aloft. The falling pieces grow larger, the thumps louder, the sunlight brighter. 

***

Smith rolls on his snare, discharges a blast of synthesizer then turns to the vibraphone. He runs tests and gathers results, takes stutter steps before unleashing full runs. He starts a rhythm, repeats and alters it, plays along with one looped rhythm, then two. Smith builds on and tears down traditions, cuts into the structures he’s leaned on.

Seeing him move from one instrument to another is like watching Steve Zissou aboard the Belafonte, leading a quest to find the jaguar shark, going from station to station, checking on the sauna and the lab, up to the library, and down to the editing room. Each has developed a unique system, fueled by the unpredictable, in the relentless course of running down, engaging with, and releasing something bigger than himself.

***

In the late 80s my cousin was stationed in the navy in San Diego. Near the end of his hitch he needed to get his car back to Syracuse but only had a few days. I flew out with his brother and the three of us drove back across the country, sprinted east to west in just under three days. We spent a day at Mission Beach and then drove through the night, arriving at the Grand Canyon just before dawn.

***

Mary Halvorson moves from side to side, rocks back and forth behind a hollow body guitar. Her glasses slip to the tip of her nose as she dips and dives, rises and rolls across the covers from her solo debut album, Meltframe. There’s something hypnotic yet barbed in the tones she summons. Her songs have an intimacy that might seem at odds with their circuitous paths. She moves full steam ahead before skidding to a stop, smearing the sound, momentarily reversing course before resuming forward motion, like a DJ scratching a record.

***

The park was cloaked in darkness as we approached the canyon. We pulled out blankets and waited, chilly and bleary-eyed from the all night drive, second guessing the wisdom of spending so much time on a sight that remained hidden beneath the night’s shadows. Then the expanse began to reveal itself. As first light trickled in we were struck by the depth, twenty, fifty, hundreds of feet down, no bottom in sight. Then we became aware of the width, yards then miles then lifetimes stretching further and further. Then came the awe. The dimensions melted together, could no longer be considered in isolation. We were speechless before the splendor.

***

Halvorson’s next piece opens with distress signal urgency, exhilarating fretboard dances that quickly evolve into free form freak outs, on the precipice of being too much to ingest. Then she jump cuts, slows the pace and allows her tone to mushroom, wondrously large and enveloping, inducing a subdued euphoria. A rack of pint glasses rattles beneath the counter as Halvorson continues conjuring a six-string version of that Grand Canyon sunrise.

***

I assume that Halvorson’s set is the end of the show. She and Smith are on a “double solo” tour, traveling together but playing solo. Except tonight. While setting up earlier they overhear Steve and James talking and realize that the Quinn’s contingent thinks that the guitarist and drummer will be playing together. “There was a generous spirit in the house and they responded by doing a third set together,” Steve later says. “Everything I’ve seen about their subsequent shows seems to indicate two solo sets and no more. We were privileged.”

There’s so much momentum from the previous sets that I expect the duo show to be bigger, more explosive, a relative summer popcorn blockbuster. Instead Halvorson and Smith opt for a character driven collaboration; it feels like we’re privy to a private dialogue. Across the way a woman shakes her head in disbelief while the man beside her closes his eyes and nods just behind the implied beat. The guy next to me orders a hot dog but doesn’t eat until the set’s over, waits for Halvorson and Smith to finish before taking a bite. We’re mesmerized—staring, basking, monotasking. The music gradually expands and the collective astonishment dilates in synch, Halvorson and Smith breaking down and building up, fostering continuous cycles of depth, width, and awe.

The Other Night at Quinn’s: Daniel Levin, Juan Pablo Carletti

By Mike Faloon | Photos by Michael Bogdanffy-Kriegh / Studio MBK

Some improvisers warm up, take a reading or two at the start of a set, check their bearings.  Others plunge into fathomless depths, react and respond more than think as they plummet, pulling all bystanders, innocent or otherwise, in with them.  Daniel Levin (cello) and Juan Pablo Carletti (percussion) have clearly chosen the latter.

Levin thumps his fist on the body of his cello, then saws away, excavates intensely satisfying, reedy sounds.  How does the wood withstand such pummeling, not splinter?  Carletti’s mallets roll like thunder across his floor and rack toms.  I need a chance to breathe but Levin and Carletti will have nothing of it.  The surface world is quickly fading from view and with it so many of the elements we usually use to guide ourselves.  We’re sealed in for a delightfully disorienting ride.

***

Comic book artists use the term “gutters” when referencing the white space between panels.  I’d never given them a second thought before reading Douglas Wolk’s Reading Comics.  He details howgutters give greater definition to the panels that precede as well those that follow.  They also call on the reader to do some of the lifting.  “The gutter is where the fun happens…readers get to fill in the lapse in time.”

***

Every time I look at Carletti he’s moving something different across the top of his snare drum—bells and chimes and cymbals.  He even leans back and puts his foot up there to mute the drum before bending out of sight to uncork something that I mistake for a harmonica.  When he pops up, still on high alert, he’s back to the brushes.  Meanwhile, Levin bear hugs his cello, and shakes his head from side to side as he wildly pursues rich, dark sounds.  He and Carletti push each other downward, past the point where sunlight reaches, down near the hydrothermal vents where water gushes out at 850 degrees.

***

Maine, part one: One of my first record buying experiences was in Bangor, visiting my fraternal grandparents.  We went to a department store, and I found a bin of  $3.99 albums.  I bought two.  The Genesis record, …and Then There Were Three, was clogged with gobs of syrupy keyboards; I couldn’t find the songs.  The E.L.O. record, an early best-of, was full of Roy Wood’s mad man cello antics; I couldn’t escape the songs—those woofer-punishing frequencies glued themselves to my psyche.

*** 

The duo pulls back.  Levin plays it lullaby sweet and soothing, then delicately plucks.  Carletti rotates his sticks, holds them vertically, and stirs the perimeter of his floor tom, then trades for a mallet to gently tap the top hi-hat cymbal.  Calm at the center of the storm, a gutter. 

***

Maine, part two: My friend Mike lives in Orono.  He had friends visiting from New York and they went into a gas station convenience store (ironically called The Big Apple).  The friend, accustomed to city-sized delis and bodegas, was blown away by the amount of unused space in the store, the vast acres between and at the end of aisles.  He felt like he’d landed on another planet. 

***

I used to have an aversion to white space.  In music, on the screen or on the page, blank space amounted to wasted opportunities.  I sought out music that was full throttle, full time.  When friends and I worked on fanzines every square inch was crammed with material—clip art, lists, captions, random minutia.  I loved zines like Rev. Norb’s Sic Teen, hand-stapled pages buzzing with squint-till-it-aches four-point fonts and impenetrable layers of clip art, marathon sentences and parenthetical clauses that were like funhouse mirrors.  I disliked, maybe even resented, the abundance of empty space often employed in fancier, bound magazines like Punk Planet.  The choice seemed egregious, almost boastful—We’ve got space—and by extension, money—to burn.  I didn’t recognize the thought and expression in their aesthetic, nor did I see my opportunity to slow down and absorb.

***

Carletti removes the top hi hat cymbal, strikes it as it hovers like a slow motion flying saucer and sets it on the floor tom.  Levin reaches down and pinches a string near the bridge.  A moment later he lifts his cello on to his lap and pushes his bow across the leg that usually supports the cello.  Now he’s holding two bows, playing above and beneath the strings.  The duo’s first set is comprised of three pieces.  The second, so far, just one.  Fewer gutters.  Quicker pace.  More time beneath the surface.

***

Jacques Cousteau once tried, in the early-to-mid sixties, to develop an underwater colony.  The first of these continental shelf stations, Conshelf I, was set ten meters below the surface off the coast of France.  The goal was to allow small crews—aquanauts—to live and work there for weeks at a time. 

***

The way Levin and Carletti exchange ideas so fluidly, so often without pause, sounds like two parts of the same instrument.  Talking with Levin he says, “it’s like I think (Juan Pablo) is playing cello.”  Or at least I think that’s what I hear.  Later I follow up with Levin.  “I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it is more to do with navigating our improvisation using a common language of rhythmic ideas and gestures rather than cello vs. drums like a traditional tenor sax vs. drums scenario.  Much more like I use the cello percussively.  Juan Pablo provides a backdrop landscape and I paint over it in large brush strokes.” 

 

Their collaborations feel like a very long, very wide panel, a panel continuously drawn on paper as it comes off the roll.  Or maybe a Wes Anderson scene where the camera leads a character across the horizon, allows us to move with them.  Or perhaps the inverse, a Spike Lee dolly shot, the character stationary and the camera back pedaling toward us, allowing us to see their world as it passes by.

***

Costeau’s underwater experiments were largely successful.  The researchers were active and content as they conducted experiments within and beyond their underwater dwelling.  But they learned that they were unable to remain submerged indefinitely because they couldn’t live without sunlight.

Tonight Levin and Carletti have built the latest version of Conshelf: Quinn’s, and even now, as the show comes to end and we hang out and run post-game analysis, it seems sustainable.  I see Eric for the first time in weeks, finally pass along the book I’ve been keeping in my car.  Steve gives an update on his house renovations and introduces me to Dan who knows the same pool of Central and Western New York punk bands that I came up with in the nineties.  The night moves on and we’re content in the cozy confines Conshelf: Quinn’s.  Then this:

“Every shing-a-ling-a-ling

That they’re starting to sing’s so fine”

Damn it.  Someone’s playing the Carpenters.  Sincerely and loudly.  We’ve sprung a leak.  The bubble’s going to burst, and there’s no choice but to resurface.

The Other Night at Quinn's: Ben Monder

By Mike Faloon | Photos by Michael Bogdanffy-Kriegh / Studio MBK

“If I walk quiet
I hear the bird’s pretty tune
High in the hills
Me and this beautiful moon”

Kim Deal, “Beautiful Moon”

***

Winter hates jazz.  That’s the latest joke.  Last week’s show was cancelled due to snow.  The previous week’s, too.  Until a couple of hours ago tonight seemed slated for the same fate.  We had an early release at school and I spent the afternoon shoveling the driveway and raking the roof.  I had to use a baseball bat and hammer to break up the ice clinging our front porch.

***

Ben Monder could not be more gentle as he coaxes sounds from his guitar.  His left hand strolls about the fretboard while his right hand hovers above the pick ups.  Yet the notes fly like sparks, spectacular oranges and reds too numerous to calculate.   He has a speed skater’s deceptive effort-to-movement ratio, seeming to coast great lengths on easy pushes.

Monder is seated, one foot on the floor, the other casually propped on a monitor.  He’s wearing a winter hat and unassuming pants and shirt.  He resembles Ian MacKaye (Minor Threat/Fugazi/Evens).  He looks like Emil, our plumber, too.  It’s like the old Electric Company segment—“It’s the plumber!  I’ve come to fix the sink!”—but refitted: “I’m the guitarist.  I’ve come to ease your pain.”  That could be construed on existential or philosophical levels, but right now, after the shoveling, raking, hacking, Monder’s playing brings on pure physical relief.

***

There was some solace in hearing the roar of my neighbor’s snow blower, chomping through the accumulation covering our shared driveway.  But the beast of a machine kept jamming up.  Keith had to stop every few feet, emphatically lift the handles and slam down the front to unclog the auger.  When we finished I asked if he wanted to go to Quinn’s.  He didn’t inquire who was playing, just asked when I wanted to leave.

***

The opening scenes of Debra Granik’s Winter’s Bone say so much, thanks in large part to the dearth of dialogue.  Ree Dolly (Jennifer Lawrence) moves through her world showing how she is surrounded by others, to varying extents supportive of and supported by them, but very much on her own journey.

***

James Keepnews sees Keith and me looking for a table and invites us to join him.  It’s his birthday.  Well-wishers stop by.  His phone pings like a PBS pledge drive.  He’s unusually amped for tonight’s show.   He’s been talking it up for weeks.  “You have to see this one.  Have to.”  Something about best or favorite or most important modern guitarist.  I forget the words but I’ve come to trust his recommendations.  Hard to believe that all of this—the place, the people, the performances—was new to me a year ago.

Quinn’s is closing soon, shutting down for a couple of weeks for renovations.  It seemed like a natural time to pause these columns, take stock, see what I’ve got, and begin shaping the book.  Keepnews’s enthusiasm won me over, though, so here I am, notebook in hand, transfixed by the sight of Monder’s fingers spider crawling back and forth.  The guitar neck seems so small in his grasp, so deceptively easy to navigate.

 ***

Of all Jackie Chan’s stunts, the one that comes to mind most often is probably the simplest.  He’s running down an alley, desperate to escape, as always.  The wall to his left is too high to scale, just beyond his reach.  He runs at the wall, leaps, uses his feet to push toward the parallel wall, which he then uses to propel himself over the first wall.  Frightened, fleeing human turned vertical pinball.  It’s probably the least risky of his stunts, but it’s a stunning display of will and ability.  Unlike his other stunts, this one—even just the memory of it—leaves me with the momentary impression that I too could scale walls.  Even when rational thought prevails I’m left with the comforting sense that one of us can pull off such feats.

***

Keith and I go back and forth as Monder plays on.

“It’s like two guitars.” 

“It’s like two guitars and a bass—do you hear that?”

“Yes. Two guitars and bass, and a viola, too.”

We’re watching the same show.  Arguably we’re hearing the same sounds.  But neither of us has a scorecard that matches up with the sonics; we’re coming up short in establishing any sort of one-to-one correspondence.  It’s like watching close magic—I’m just a few feet away.  I can see everything.  I can explain none of it.

Monder’s motivations are different obviously; he’s not out to be coy or deceptive.  Yet still we search and poke and prod, look for tricks or codes or patterns; try to make sense of something so far beyond our reach, humanize it.  All the while marveling more than minimizing.

“Did you see that double jointed pinky move?”

“Those are finger extensions, right?”

“How can one person do that?”

***

There I am, in a dream the other night, staring across a grassy, open field on a sweet spring afternoon.  To my left, the Metro-North train that’s left us stranded.  To my right, in the distance, a hill leading to a farmhouse.  Passengers flock across the field.  An elderly woman lies at the base of the hill, on her side, scratching her dog behind the ears.

***

“It’s not really jazz, is it?”

“No.”

“Free jazz?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But it’s not rock…”

“No.”

“Or classical.”

“No.” 

“But it’s kind of all of them.”

“Yes.”

***

Ree’s most viable option is to sell off the one asset at her disposal: the trees on her family’s property.  But she’s too proud, too defiant, duty bound to do right knowing that this will propel her down the path of greatest resistance.

 ***

Monder has a streak of that.  With his talent he could easily coast down more lucrative roads, delve into the ding dong world of guitar magazine pyrotechnics, lean into the flash and glitz.  I don’t want to reduce Monder to caricature, make him seem like a monk removed from the rest of us.  Granted, he talks less than Ree Dolly but his wit comes through when he does.

Ben Monder: (Appears to be speaking to the audience, but without a mic)

Keepnews: We can get you a mic.

Monder: (Speaking into newly acquired mic) Sounds the same to me but I guess I’m being amplified somewhere.  (To Rojo, the sound guy)  Can you cut the hi-mids?  I’m kidding.  That last song was ‘Windowpane.’  It was written for younger arms.”

***

The elderly woman is smiling, inviting, as people zig zag through the rock garden that leads up to her patio.  I assume there are buses waiting out front but no one in the line is speaking, so I’m not certain.  The line is calm, orderly, with a sense of reverence.  As I walk to the front door I think to myself, How could this fit with my next Quinn’s column?

***

Both of Monder’s feet find their way to the floor for the final tune, foreshadowing a different turn.  The flourishes are more demonstrative as the volume and speed and distortion build, ramp up to monolithic masses of sound, colors streaking by, distorting what I think I know of space and time.

James Keepnews, perhaps—no, certainly—emboldened by the confluence of such an ending to such a show on such a night, makes an on-mic request for an encore.

Keepnews: (To audience) Two words: jazz, mother-------!  (To Monder) I’ve heard you do it with a trio.  How about solo—“Wichita Lineman”?

Monder: I’ll try it.  Really might not work.  I don’t know.

Keith: (To me) Stay for another?

Are You Receiving Me? #62 – Night Birds

Night Birds
Monster Surf 7” EP
Wall Ride

There are many ways to know that the weather's improving.  Thermometers, calendars, and odometers can help.  Overlooked, however, is the arrival of one of those “These songs will go on every playlist for the next few months” records. 

Cue Monster Surf by Night Birds.

Typically the band’s records have one or two surf instrumentals.  This time out it’s 4-for-4, no vocals.  It's weird to hear an entire Night Birds record that is sans singing, but it's a welcome weird—the absence of singer Brian Gorsegner’s vocals is odd at first but easy to adjust to.  (Safe in the knowledge that he’s still on board.  In fact, he plays synthesizer on the EP.)  

For newcomers, it’ll help to know that Night Birds are a surf punk band.  Mostly.  They borrow from the conventions but never too rigidly.  Guitarist PJ Russo is in fine form throughout, opting for a slightly dryer sound than some surf guitarists.  (Perhaps therein lies the distinction between a surf guitarist and a surf punk guitarist—reverb dosage.)  Likewise for drummer Ryan McHale, whose rack and floor toms are booming, much more so than the typical surf record.

Then again, I’m arguing that this isn’t a typical surf record, so that should be obvious.  Joe Keller’s playing furthers this argument, but these crummy desktop speakers diminish his bass in the mix.  (Love the convenience of mp3 files.  Loathe what they do to the low end, especially now that my turntable is back in action and I can hear the difference.)

What else do I have in terms of my “They’re a great surf punk band but this isn’t a surf punk record” argument?  There’s the synthesizers that lace “Agent Zero” and screech their way through “Pyongyang Bound.”  When I first saw the credits I thought, Synths?  Really, guys?  I’ve since done a one-eighty: more synths, pile on the weird!

There’s also the Mel Brooks cover.  Yes, the closing cut is a cover of “Hope for the Best (Expect the Worst)” from The Twelve Chairs.  Following consecutive albums with nods to John Carpenter, Night Birds redirect with a very satisfying (and relatively faithful) Mel Brooks number. 

So far my summer playlist has a lot of good geezer rock (Kim Deal, Guided By Voices, Bob Mould, Ed Crawford’s FOOD, the Baseball Project).  Soon it’ll be time to seek out newer bands.  Night Birds will be the perfect bridge.

(Note: I wrote this review several months ago.  I'm not sure why I forgot to post it, especially considering how many times I listened to this EP.)

Are You Receiving Me? #61 – The Safes

By Mike Faloon

Safes
Record Heat
Wee Records

Luther Perkins played guitar in Johnny Cash’s backing band throughout the fifties and sixties.  His style was laid back.  Some called it lackadaisical.  When asked about his approach Perkins responded that other guitar players spent their time looking for the right notes but he’d found them.  It was a confident declaration.  He knew what he wanted and how to get it; his internal sense of validation was good enough and he wasn’t distracted by extraneous pursuits (at least not on stage).

Record Heat (Wee Rock) is further proof that The Safes have that, too—an unflinching confidence in a simple, invigorating approach.   And passion to burn.  With songs like the opening track, “Hopes Up, Guard Down,” the Safes are as direct as ever rendering Record Heat easy to read and easier to like.  Pretty hard to forget, though.

The band’s driving, grab-you-by-the collar garage pop is colored with big hooks and laced with lyrics that celebrate the people who help them weather a world that continues to disappoint.  But they don’t allow frustration to yield to bitterness, and the band continues to find new takes on proven ideas, especially on side two where tracks such as “Ace for a Face” and “Hot Pursuit” breathe in unexpected places.  (Other nice touches include guest vocalist Kathleen Wilson kicking “K.O.” up a notch, and the band’s dad, Frank X. O’Malley, making a cameo on baritone sax.)

Thousands of bands are pursuing the brass ring of commercial success, trying to cook up a recipe with the right blend of songs, styles, and attitudes that will resonate, strike people as authentic.  Such guessing games yield a lottery seldom won.  They’re all looking for what the Safes have in spades.  You’ll never look back on Record Heat and have to make excuses.

Jason Kao Hwang’s Sing House

By Mike Faloon

Andrew Drury picks up a small, metal object, part of a sink faucet he got from a construction job. He leans over his floor tom, places the faucet on the drumhead and exhales. He works with care and precision, a jeweler placing loupe to gem, magnifying what lies within, revealing mournful, voluminous sounds. A solo sans sticks.

Sing House listens and waits. Bandleader Jason Kao Hwang brings his violin to his chin. Trombonist Steve Swell raises his mouthpiece to his lips. Drury continues. Hwang and Swell start nodding to the implied beat, they’re ready to come in. Drury continues. Hwang and Swell rest their instruments. Everyone has a voice in Sing House and right now Drury has more to say; a different way to give the drummer some.

* * *

I ask Drury how he thought to play drums like that. He says he wasn’t interested in a “grandiose display of cleverness.” He had a gig with cellist Peggy Lee in Vancouver. She couldn’t find her pick up and had to play unamplified, “which meant disaster…drum sets always bury cellos and (make) for some really boring-to-listen-to music.” Drury decided to focus “on all the quiet sounds…that drum sets make, like when you sit down and something creaks. I think I might have used sheets of crumpled paper as drum sticks that night.”

* * *

The stage is dense tonight, more so than usual. I’ve seen a lot of duos and trios at Quinn’s, along with a handful of quartets. Sing House is the first five-piece. More important than the number of names on the scorecard, though, is the scope and range of the personalities, and when everyone’s playing, thumping and bumping and wailing and flailing in wonderful unsynchronized unison, there is so much to take in, so many places for the eye and ear and mind to go. 

Yet for all the activity, the scene takes me back to one of Adrian Chi’s Bite the Cactus comics, a particularly pensive one called “Drawn to the Desert.” The panels depict the before and after of Chi’s move from the city of Toronto to the suburbs of L.A., from stimulating to numbing. Then she makes friends and starts taking weekend camping trips, discovers Joshua Tree and Matilija Falls, Death Valley and King’s Canyon. “The incredible majesty of these places made the suburbs seem far away and insignificant. There’s an indescribable ecstasy sitting in the desert, hiding in the shade of a boulder, that draws me back again and again.” 

* * *

Steve Swell’s eyes are closed. His face is clenched. His right hand, bandaged from a recent surgery, gives him the appearance of a boxer before the gloves go on. He jabs the air, strikes the space before him, rapidly, desperately pushing and pulling the slide on his trombone. But there’s more to Swell’s brand of the sweet science than just the number of punches thrown. Location and impact count too, especially when playing within the ambitious blueprints laid out by Hwang.

I run into Swell a few weeks later. He asks, “Those other things you write about, are you thinking about them while you’re listening to the music or do they come to you later?”

I’ve been writing these columns for a year. They’ve occupied so much of my thinking, but no one’s asked so directly about one of the basic building blocks of these pieces. I think he says something about schizophrenia.

“I don’t mean schizophrenia in all its bad connotations but, I believe this, there can be ‘good’ schizophrenia. When we play music or write poetry we are dealing with everything we already know or have been exposed to up to that moment just before the actual act of making music or writing poetry. It’s all we have to work with. We shut off the learning part and turn on the working part. All the information, disparate as it may seem, comes to the fore when we are creating.”

* * *

Chi’s comics appear in Razorcake, a non-profit punk magazine based in Los Angeles. Razorcake captivates me for a number of reasons. Their contributors embrace and repudiate the stereotypes of punk culture. They cover music that is loud and aggressive and filled with emphatic, thump-the-table-rattle-the-utensils lyrics. They also bring to bear considerable intelligence and a willingness to contemplate. In a recent column Razorcake co-founder Sean Carswell used the phrase “Meditate on this with me.” Not “react with me” or “get angry with me,” but rather “think with me.” They offer more than escapism; an invitation to engage in a search, one that resets, redirects. 

* * *

Bassist Ken Filiano solos. The fingertips of his left hand move in small increments, shifting and balancing on the strings beneath. His right hand goes Nadia Comaneci, leaping above and below his left—low then high, high then low, faster as he goes—plucking harmonics with each perfect landing.

The ensemble resumes, frenetic movement in all directions. Just when the whole thing might become too divergent, overextended, Filiano repeats a simple phrase, provides just enough foundation, doesn’t reign in the others but provides the background, the context, that offers shape, like Hercules digging a trench to redirect a river.

Between sets Filiano and I talk about books. I mention Larry McMurtry’s Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen in which he writes about being in his sixties, still searching for a way to balance life as a reader with life as a writer; when he reads a lot he feels that he’s neglecting his writing and vice versa. Filiano recommends Lonesome Dove. “He doesn’t create his characters, he listens to them.”

I wonder to what extent Jason Kao Hwang mirrors this approach with his Sing House compositions. It’s remarkable how well this cast of characters functions within Hwang’s structures. In that sense he reminds me of Gabriel Byrne’s character in The Usual Suspects, orchestrating a group of disparate personalities. I’m tempted to match up the five members of Sing House with their counterparts in The Usual Suspects. But who’d be the Stephen Baldwin?

* * *

Christopher Forbes sits at his keyboard, momentarily on the periphery, moving slightly, sizing up the situation, contemplating his next move. He enters quietly, pulls his fingertips across the keys, one sensitive brush stroke at a time. Then he ramps up, plays at incalculable, seemingly reckless speeds, but always sure footed; nimble movements within the turmoil, a striking combination of velocity and grace. The classic game is set aside for blitz chess.

Visually Forbes fits the image I have of Lenny Angrush from Jonathan Lethem’s Dissident Gardens. It’s the combination of beard and glasses, upturned porkpie hat and jacket-less-than-pressed. Lenny’s a chess hustler and well-read idealist. He’s also a baseball fan who tries in vain to convince the new Queens-based team (the soon-to-be Mets) to adopt a pro-labor song as their anthem. But Lenny never finds a place where his efforts as a provocateur are welcome. Forbes, on the other hand, is building a place where his are essential.

* * *

Jodorowsky’s Dune is a documentary about director Alejandro Jodorowsky’s quest to make a film adaptation of the Frank Herbert science fiction novel. The project never makes it off the launch pad but in the mid-seventies Jodorowsky and his collaborators spend months recruiting cast members, including Salvador Dalí, Orson Welles, and Mick Jagger. They also develop a shot-by-shot breakdown of their proposed movie. “Fever dream” might be more apt—the book is comprised of 3,000 illustrations and the film-to-be has a running time of fourteen hours.

* * *

Explaining the band’s name, Hwang says, “Sing is a common sound in the Chinese language. Depending upon the tone, inflection, context and dialect, the meanings and the calligraphy vary greatly. I hear Sing as a sound.”

“So in that sense it’s like a syllable,” I ask, “a building block, a part of a larger whole?”

“Yes,” Hwang replies, “I should ask a linguist as to what sonic unit this sound would be categorized.”

* * *

As with any book-to-film adaptation Jodorowsky wants to make changes to the source material. Among them is an alternate ending in which Duke Leto’s son Paul is killed. Paul’s consciousness spreads among the masses and sparks a rebirth of the planet. Dune is transformed from a desert to a garden, vast and verdant. From one can come many. Sing House inverts that dynamic: within the one there are many.

* * *

Hwang motions, leans into the beat as he counts off. There are plans afoot. Follow me. His fingers slide along the strings, inward, toward him, evoking the highest, faintest, most fragile of pitches, the smallest specks of paint that prompt you to step closer to the canvas. I’ve been so focused on Hwang’s role as composer and conductor that I’d momentarily lost sight of the performer; overemphasized his ability to work Cerebro and overlooked what an asset he is in the throes of battle.

Then there’s an explosion. The band’s back in full force yet diverging. They’re in one place physically but sonically they’ve scattered, to each his own pursuit, like a Sol LeWitt wall drawing, so many lines radiating from a series of single points yet carefully placed within the larger piece.

* * *

Jason Kao Hwang: “The music is a house, with the score’s quintessential melodies, rhythms, harmonies and textures offering rooms in which musicians extemporaneously sing. In this dramatic architecture, the unique voice of each musician is empowered to individually interpret and also, transcend interpretation to become an originating spirit that is inextricably unified to the composition’s destiny. This is how music grows greater than the imagination of one to become a meta-language of memories, dreams and hope. This is how my compositions house imagination, identity, and greater purpose. This is the jazz of Sing House.”

Ten You May Have Missed in 2014

by Gary Pig Gold

BARRACUDAS  Mean Time  (Closer)
Having begun life when great white journalist Jeremy Gluck left Canada with his Jan & Dean collection, only to land smack-dub in the middle of post-punk London, The Barracudas by the time of their sophomore long-player had added quite a dollop of gnarl to their original surf-ish sound. Consequently, Mean Time continues to be cited – and quite rightfully, at least in the eyes of my ears – as the band’s true masterwork. Closer Records thusly celebrated their 30th (!) anniversary of its original release with a full 12-inch vinyl picture disc version, which thankfully retains every single bit of its vintage-’83 jump ‘n’ jangle. And no wonder: that’s none other than Flamin’ Groovie Chris Wilson Himself manning the Rickenbacker (his solo on “Middle Class Blues,” to name but one, could only come from such a wily player). Elsewhere, “Bad News” is an absolutely brilliant Beatle/Byrd big-beat ballad, “I Ain’t No Miracle Worker” easily could have extended Paul Revere and the Raiders’ career on record by at least a decade or two, and “Eleventh Hour” manages to wind the Chocolate Watchband up even tighter still thanks in no small part to J. Gluck’s splendidly Strummeresque howl. Now, it’s been said many times before, but I’m gonna say it again: This is an utterly fantastic record, end to end …which with this, its latest of many incarnations over the decades, leaves each and every one of you with NO excuse any longer to pass it by.          

BEACH BOYS  Keep An Eye On Summer: Sessions 1964  (iTunes)
Dylan does it. The Beatles do it too, though not nearly as creatively and/or completely (no real surprise there). Now the Beach Boys are doing it as well …and they’ll all probably have to keep doing it for another ten years or so, or at least until current Copyright protection legislation is amended – as in extended. Most fortunately for all of us, it was 51 years ago that the Boys in question embarked upon a most ambitious, to put it mildly, period of creativity which still continues to amaze and astound a half century later. Actually, make that Brian Wilson embarked, as it was basically he alone who, whilst touring the world and even making a movie with Annette, still somehow found the time to write, arrange, perform, produce, and release four – yes, I said FOUR complete albums during the twelve months of which we speak. And remember that while, to bring up those Beatles again, John had Paul, Paul had John, they both had George Martin plus co-operative fellow bandmembers and record labels, Brian was basically battling the good, melodic fight more or less solo. No wonder he needed a rest for a few years there in the early Seventies! That all said, perhaps the real revelation of the Keep An Eye On Summer collection is the accompanying, intricately detailed Sessionography which reveals once and for all (one can only hope) that it was the Boys themselves – yep, including Dennis Wilson on drums – who made and played on most of those records throughout ‘64: so Roll over Hal Blaine, and tell Carol Kaye the news. Please!       

RAY CARMEN  Recordiogram  (Cut And Paste) 
Neil Young? Jack White?? An old Voice-o-Graph machine and some almost-as-olde-time Canadian folk tunes?!! Well, after all’s been said and quickly sung into the nearest recording apparatus, Ray Carmen – as he quite often is, by the way – was there first. And best too, armed only with a couple’a Eveready AA’s, a Micro-cassette and a budget far tinier, I’d bet, than a single J. White-authorized lunch voucher. Far from just a bunch of stray guitar riffs tossed together, though there are a minute-and-a-half of ‘em gathered herein, “Big Mistake” and “Strawberries” taste wholly P. Townshend Scoop-worthy, while “Boettler Park” sounds just like the much-needed sequel to Paul McCartney’s “Glasses” (complete with an aerial fly-over direct from Zeppelin’s “Black Country Woman”). “Porch Chimes” similarly brings a SMiLE to one’s ears …and, speaking of everyone’s favorite B. Boy, Ray’s “Far Off Train” certainly recalls another classic album’s tag to boot. Yes, this all really is exactly what songwriters tend to sound like late into the wee hours …when struggling not to awaken their nearest spouses, kids, pets and/or neighbors whenever the muse comes knockin’. Take yours home today!

JOHNNY DOWD  That’s your wife on the back of my horse  (Mother Jinx)
Plastic Ono Dowd, Spanky and Our Dowd, Johnny Gunn, Beelzedowd, “Dowd Latitudes,” Johnny and the Juniors, Timbuk Dowd, 2 Live Dowd, Rank and Dowd (…actually, come to think of it, more – much more – like Blackbird), “When Johnny Met Sally,” “Johnny Teardrop,” Kraftdowd, Sonny and Dowd, Motördowd:  Here is a man, and yet another utterly dumbfounding album, that can go by MANY names.

ELECTRIC PRUNES  WaS  (PruneTwang)   
Since last we heard from those quite high priests of Woodland Hills, CA they may indeed have sorrowfully lost their founding bassman Mark Tulin. But on this, their not only latest but loudest release, James Lowe & Co. continue the reverb-ripped ‘n’ tremolo-dipped mission begun ‘way back when they… well, you know: had too much one night. In fact, right from the very opening 20-second KERRANGGG! which more than launches WaS – with “Smokestack Lightning” no less! – the Prunes prove they’re every single bit as, uh-huh, electric as ever. For example? “Between The Cracks” is much more potent a P-delic pill than even the young Neil ever offered, the contagiously subterrain “Don’t Sneeze On Me” sports an all-hands-on-the-pan-controls midsection that should even give Lindsey Buckingham pause (also, keep those headphones on tight for “Circles” as well!) and “Adoration Stuck” I’d sure love to see and hear The Zombies tackle one of these days very very soon. Then “TOKYO” sends no less than Puffy (AmiYumi) straight through the cooking glass once and for all, plus there’s even a live track – though not from Stockholm, but Brighton it sounds like – called “Bullet Thru The Backseat” that more than lives up to its threat. All in all, one of the increasingly rare cases of an iconic band from the dark distant recesses which somehow continue to act, and sound, as defiantly dastardly as always. Or, as Mr. Lowe himself would point out, “There is a fine line between ‘is’ and ‘was.’ If what you did is more important than what you are doing, you Was.” 

LEGAL MATTERS  The Legal Matters  (Futureman)
Good ol’ Wikipedia has, as countless dozens of others since ca. 1997, attempted to define “Power pop” as, and I shall quote, “a popular musical genre that draws its inspiration from 1960s British and American pop and rock music. It typically incorporates a combination of musical devices such as strong melodies, clear vocals and crisp vocal harmonies, economical arrangements and prominent guitar riffs. Instrumental solos are usually kept to a minimum, and blues elements are largely downplayed. Recordings tend to display production values that lean toward compression and a forceful drum beat. Instruments usually include one or more electric guitars, an electric bass guitar, a drum kit and sometimes electric keyboards or synthesizers.” Well, even by nudging Wiki’s “1960s” up a decade or two and bracketing their drum beat’s forcefulness one still falls far short of defining with any due exactness the pristinely pure, yes, p-o-p Keith Klingensmith, Chris Richards, Andy Reed and friends came up with over six days in a Michigan recording studio last winter. Sure, there’s lots of Straight Up Badfinger, “Ticket to Ride” rhythms, “Nowhere Man” “oooh-la-la-la”s, even some Gilbert O’Sullivan and hints of the great Emitt Rhodes / First National Band collaboration that, alas, never was. But it only takes three minutes in their “Outer Space” – without doubt one of the most delicately, meticulously nuanced gentle gems I’ve heard all year – to make you reach for your copy of The Cowsills’ Global yet again …which is a GOOD thing, by the way.

SATISFACTORS  The Satisfactors  (Bongo Boy)
Right from the big-kick-drum kick-off of “She Got Charm,” not only is it frightfully obvious this disc was recorded at none other than the legendary House of Vibes by Kurt Rei… I mean Curtis Roy, but that the tone and tenure overall for the next thirty-eight minutes shall be nothing but loud, lewd, leering and well, lascivious. See, the good folk over at Bongo Boy Records have gone and assembled an NJ-not-NY supergrope of sorts: a fab fourplay of undeniable New York Doll / Rick Derringer / Grip Weed / Mark Lindsay / Billy Idol even pedigree (…imagine, if you can, the Dictators carjacking the Traveling Wilburys’ RV somewhere out on the Jersey Turnpike and allowing only Lucky W. to stay on for the rest of the ride). The result, naturally, is big-bottomed r-a-w-k with lyrics to match; heavy on the anthemic choruses (“I Love Girls” and “Gimme My Rock ‘n’ Roll”? Nuff shouted) and dicey-dumb attitude (“Awrite!” “C’mon baby!”). And while “Had It With You” is most sorrowfully not the Dirty Work Stones track – now THAT would’ve been, um, interesting! – “Johnny Commando” is just about the best J. Cummings epitaph you’re ever going to hear during 2015 and counting. My only advice? These Satisfactors should head direct out of Jersey asap and take this criminally cretinous mess on the road already, to show what’s left of the music business just how it once was and, yep, can still be done.

PETE SEEGER  Sing Out America!  (Dynamic)
This above-generous 2-disc, 50 (!!) song overview, stretching all the way back to the Almanac Singers and Weavers, may indeed be quaintly subtitled The Best of Pete Seeger [RIP, one year ago]. But all you really need to do is just read off, for example, these iconic song titles: “Shenandoah,” “Ida Red,” “Rifleman of Birmingham,” “Casey Jones,” “Molly Malone,” “I Know Where I’m Going,” “Erie Canal,” “Talking Union,” “Where Have All The Flowers Gone,” “This Land Is Your Land,” “Turn! Turn! Turn!” Say no more.

SEX CLARK FIVE  WFMU Monster Session  (Records To Russia)
Wherein the Greatest Strum & Drum Band On Earth customarily takes a mere thirty-one-minutes-forty-five to deliver twenty – count ‘em! – new and unreleased songs for you and everyone just like you. Like those who like arrangements and chord digressions every inch worthy of the late-into-’77 Ramones (“Five Seconds Over Baghdad” and especially “That’s Where Liberty Sleeps”) or even The Hollies vs. the Tottenham Sound (“I Can’t Let Go” no less!) Then there’s the sound of Joe Meek inheriting the Earth …or at least the Air Warden’s Dream (“Searchlights”) and a version of The Who selling out “Odorono” …possibly quite ironic given this Monster Session’s co-production credit going to none other than Shel Talmy. Me? I’m particularly impressed that someone’s FINALLY fingered out exactly how to sound like The Searchers (“While I’m Here”) …and it only took a little over a minute! If for some unfathomable reason you’re still not on intimate footing with the gosh-almighty SC5, this disc just has to be the place to jump in with both ears open. (P.S.: several Bonus Points for cover art by Jack Davis)

SIMPLY SAUCER  Baby Nova  (Schizophrenic)
Over the past forty years, words such as acid, alien, aluminum, anomaly, apocalyptic, astounding, barrage, bite, bracing, brash, brawl-inducing, brooding, chugs, churns, cosmic, criminals, curveball, daydreams, delinquents, detached, droning, earth-shattering, eeriness, electro-damaged, enigmatic, epic, eye-gouging, ferocious, flatline, freakout, frigid, froths, fury, garage, gooey, gravel, greasy, grit, hardscrabble, haunted, humid, incongruous, Kosmische, Krautrock, marvel, melee, mercenaries, metalloid, monomaniacal, otherworldly, passionate, primordial, rabid, raddest, raw, retro-futurist, riveting, sadomasochist, scary/compelling, screaming, searing, seasoned, shamble, shredder, sideways, sinister, sirens, smasher, snarling, snotty, spaceways, stoner, strange, stunning, subterranean, surreal, UFO, unconsciousness, unhinged, unsung, vibrant, visionary, visions, wall-of-hair, weird-ass, wobbling, and wrangling have been used to (try to) describe Simply Saucer. Listening to the band’s latest EP of Detroit-recorded [insert any of the above] music may very well only add to the list. As well it should.