THE BLANK GENERATION

File under things I've been listening to recently: Shellac.

Ahh, those fleeting memories can run, but they can't hide. Shellac—presumably named after the resin-like substance used (along with beeswax) to make old 78 rpm records—made quite an impression on me as a freshman in college. I drove three hours to Chicago to see them play a benefit show in 1995, headlining a bill that included Gaunt, Melt-Banana, and Brainiac (my first time seeing them as well!).

At that point in my life I found Steve Albini to be absolutely fascinating. Elite indie record producer whose touch had turned both PJ Harvey and Zeni Geva to gold; angry little man who birthed Songs About Fucking into existence; skinny, bespectacled, dorky-looking dude that strapped his homemade guitar around his waist with a thick leather belt; DIY purist of uncompromising ideals...Albini was all this and more. Plus, he was "funny". Every song that night, by Steve's admission, was either called "Fuck Canada" or "Fuck Wicker Park"...hahaha! I had little-to-no idea as to what precisely he was going on about, but damn was he witty.

But on that eve, it wasn't Steve Albini that truly wowed me. And as I revisited Shellac's debut album, At Action Park, a couple days ago for the first time in a long time, it again was not Albini who impressed me most. In both cases, it was Todd Trainer, drummer extraordinaire for Shellac of North America. To see Trainer perform live—sweat glistening off his butchered charcoal-black hairdo, arms flailing like an electrocuted octopus—was a thing of beauty. People used to say that Dave Grohl played "hard". I saw Nirvana in 1993, and I agree. Grohl abused his drums. But no one that I've seen live has beaten their drums to death like Todd Trainer. The man simply persecutes his drum heads. And I swear I can even hear how hard he plays on record. (Albini would chalk that up to his mastery of analog recording.) Trainer's playing—so simple and yet so exacting—only adds exclamation to Shellac's already punctuated, propulsive music.

Trainer, along with the rest of Shellac, performs with a business-like efficiency that some have called "cold" or "distanced". But I've yet to find anyone willing to dispute that Trainer finds great joy in pounding the skins into submission, much like a car salesman finds pleasure in selling a sucker the tack-ons: cargo net, rear spoiler, alloy wheels, car mats and an undercoating for good measure. It's not about just going through the motions for Trainer—it's about maximizing the damage.

So, thanks Kipp for requesting (or maybe I forced it upon you?) a copy of At Action Park during our discussion on the merits of Helmet. Listening to Shellac again sure did the body good.

Sweden's Dungen, aka Gustav Ejstes.

I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit that I find greater satisfaction in listening to records that prove difficult to discover, or headstrong on first listen. Hence, a lot of the albums you’ll find me writing about are probably not going to be records that are hyped to no end, like the new Interpol for example. Plenty of other scribes can wax endlessly on the chic cool of Paul Banks. That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes agree with them; I’d just rather make use of my thesaurus in describing bands buoyed a bit further out to sea. Or, in the case of Jens Lekman and today’s subject, across the ocean in Sweden.

You may never read a word about Dungen in a popular U.S. rag. (Pitchfork notwithstanding.) The reason has nothing to do with the quality of songwriting, the brilliance of execution or just plain poor distribution. It’s far easier to explain: Dungen—aka multi-instrumentalist Gustav Ejstes—doesn’t sing in English. He sings in his native Swedish tongue. And because of that, I doubt the American press will waste much ink on him.

I was a bit skeptical of the Pitchfork review, which assigns this album a 9.3 rating and says “I doubt 2004 will birth a more blissful sonic encounter than Ta Det Lugnt.” Surely, if this album were as good as advertised then I would have heard at least a peep about it, right? Against my better sense, I ordered the damn thing, which is currently available only as an import and can be purchased from sources like Parasol, Other Music, and Forced Exposure. What the fuck, I’d just struck it rich with Jens Lekman, so I was feeling particularly kind to our Swedish musical brethren.

Less than $20 later, I pushed play.


Ta Det Lugnt, Dungen's third album.

Song one, “Panda”: A sloppy drum fill gains strength. A hyper bass line joins under a ragged guitar riff. And 30 seconds later the entire bottom drops out as the verse begins. A mellow guitar passage drowns itself in reverb as layered, harmonized vocals wash over the top. Dare I say just a minute into the album that Dungen has already managed to sound like Neu! and Cream, with Keith Moon on drums? Fuck, this is good stuff.

Song two, “Gjort bort sig”: Bright, classic rock guitar hollers over Ejstes, who on this song has taken a liking to Ray Davies. Masterful guitar noodling embellishes the song throughout, lending “Gjort bort sig” a trippy feel that’s similar yet more ethereal than fellow countrymen The Soundtrack of Our Lives. Several songs on this album bare comparison to TSOOL, except that Dungen’s songs are way more mindfuck psychedelic, like an untamed Iron Butterfly rockin’ a house party hosted by The Electric Prunes.

Song three, “Festival”: “Festival,” an upbeat, acoustic folk-rock song that wouldn’t sound out of place on Zeppelin III, finally pushes Ejstes’ vocals all the way to the forefront, forcing the listener to grapple with whether they care about his non-English lyrics. I sure don’t. The music and singing are both more than capable of holding down my interest. (And singing in a foreign language actually adds to the mystique.) The song eventually turns on its ear as a piano is pounded into submission and smothered in reverb. Like a fresh, still-life watercolor being hosed down, the instrumental bridge completely reinvents the song.

Song four, “Du E For Fin For Mig”: (Pardon my inability to properly add the umlauts; I’m clueless when it comes to keyboard shortcuts.) A melancholy string arrangement performed by Ejstes, who as I said earlier is a multi-instrumentalist, suggests that a transitional song is in the workings. However, the strings soon fade away, and we’re left with a song within a song—another acoustic folk song built with sturdy strumming, handclaps, and layered vocals. Ejstes reintroduces the string theme before flirting with a warped flute passage. The style of this song—which creeps back and forth throughout the album—is reminiscent of the moody genre-bending pop-rock of Brazil’s Os Mutantes. At this rate, I have to expect Dungen to break into Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow” anytime soon. Then, the song within a song bends around a curve and becomes…a song within a song within a song? Seriously, we’re only six minutes into this tune and now Ejstes is wailing away on his electric a la Hendrix while his backing band makes a raucous—or at least as much noise as they could muster with a cowbell, an acoustic guitar, drums and bass. The jam disintegrates to leave us with the guitar solo, which at this point sounds as if it’s being attacked by a sonic machine gun. The song closes with a weary guitar droning to its defeat. All this in a shade over eight minutes!


Dungen rocks, dude.

As the album progresses—splashing hints of avant-garde jazz, Left Banke-inspired pop, euro-trash Vampyros Lesbos, Bjorn Olsson-like ambient and Krautrock into the sonic landscape like acid rain—it becomes clear that Dungen is accomplished both in terms of musicianship and songwriting. It’s also clear that their schizophrenic tendencies are to be encouraged. Ravaging several moods within a five-minute song, Ejstes and company find success where several others dare to go. Much like Olivia Tremor Control—known for their own ambling neo-psych-pop masterpiece …Dusk at Cubist Castle—Ejstes rarely conforms to traditional sense when it comes to constructing a rock song. That Dungen’s ambition rarely slays the song is a testament to how fucking wonderful of a record Ta Det Lugnt is. This is the closest we’re likely to come in modern times to re-envisioning the radical sense of freedom the rock and roll community experienced as the ‘60s bled into the ‘70s and one drug gave way to another. That a 20-something kid from Sweden has tapped into this kind of emotion and captured it in a recording that sounds of that time is…frighteningly genius.

I could go on, but words can only stretch so far, and I already feel like I’ve lost a battle in trying to describe this record to you. I guess I’ve won the war, however, if you choose to buy it.

For more info on Dungen or to listen to some songs, see.

Jens Lekman, conqueror of Sweden, ponders world domination.

Jens Lekman is the most awkward crooner you’re likely to hear this year. He’s all of 23 and bloated with the sort of naïve confidence one associates with a six-year-old who just completed the inaugural trip around the block on a banana-seat bike freshly liberated of its training wheels. His voice—which can hop between comparisons to Morrissey, Jonathan Richman, and Stephin Merritt like hiccups—and his good looks—a fey Beck?—are his two biggest assets. And in America he’s looking to cash them in at a favorable exchange rate.

Lekman is from Goteborg, Sweden, where his music has recently been climbing the charts to the tune of a No. 2 radio single. In the States, he’s distributed by Bloomington, Indiana label Secretly Canadian. His music sounds distinctly un-American, both in terms of nuance and melodrama. That’s where the comparisons to Morrissey come in handy. Lekman writes almost exclusively about girls and the emotions they stir up in him. If we are to take his songs at face value, Lekman goes through women like a diner goes through dishwashers. There’s Lisa, Silvia, Julie, Maria, and “Psychogirl”—and those are just the ones mentioned by name. (Sara, I suppose, is the current fling as she earns a dedication on his new full-length.)

Possibly, being “the 15th sexiest man in Sweden”, as Lekman proclaims to be on his web site, has its downfalls. Like, fending off beautiful girl after beautiful girl. Or maybe it’s Lekman’s high standards that bring out the shopaholic in him. His choice of covers would indicate so. See “Someone to Share My Life With,” Lekman’s cover of a Television Personalities song that was also brushed off in the early ‘90s by Biff Bang Pow!:

I don’t want a girl who hangs on every word I say.
Shows me off to her parents over roast beef on Sunday.
I don’t want a girl who thinks she has to fake.
I don’t want a girl who laughs at every little joke I make.

I just want someone to share my life with.
…That someone could be you.

Ah, hopeless romanticism basking in ambivalence—it’s what Lekman does best. Sound familiar, fans of The Smiths? But Lekman’s musical personality shares as much common ground with Jonathan Richman’s lightheartedness and Stephin Merritt’s dry sense of humor as it does with Morrissey’s magnificent melodrama. The end result is an overarching approach that still ends up on-target more often than not.

Lekman has given his stateside critics plenty of chances to sour on his introspective bedroom pop over the past year—releasing three EPs and a full-length since February—and so far he’s walked away an indie media darling, garnering praise from Pop Matters and Pitchfork. On first listen of his full-length, I was sold after just four songs and hurriedly rushed an e-mail off to a friend bragging about my new find. “Buy it now!” would be a suitable summation of the note’s content. But, then I finished the album and felt suckered just enough to send a follow-up e-mail retracting my former praise. Now, I’ve had a chance to let the album soak up my conscious for the better part of a week. The conclusion?

Well, I should begin at the starting line, with the Maple Leaves EP released in February. I purchased Lekman's three EPs after I bought the full length. There’s some overlap between the other two EPs and his debut long-player, but Maple Leaves offers four exclusive songs and is the best of the three. We start with the title track, constructed with a flowery orchestral arrangement and rolling toms that give way to a sleigh bell-driven chorus. Somewhere, Scott Walker is shedding a tear. It’s a brilliantly catchy slice of airy chamber pop that—unlike many of Lekman’s other songs—takes emphasis away from his vocals by assembling a busy template to sing over. “Sky Phenomenon,” a sad-eyed piano ballad touching on the loss of a lover who’s flown off into the horizon, is a dead ringer for the somber, touching tones of The Cat’s Miaow. The delicate chord progression reminds me of Belle & Sebastian reduced to their bare minimum. Lyrically, Lekman hits a homerun, tugging on heartstrings with one-liners like, “You and I are not the same; we’re divided by the smoke of an aeroplane.” Luckily for the listener, vulnerability is never an issue with Lekman. “Black Cab” picks up the pace by combining a bright, clean, electric guitar melody with playful harpsichord to form a convincing number that wouldn’t sound out of place alongside any of the fine songs on The Magnetic Fields’ Distant Plastic Trees. And the EP closes with the aforementioned Television Personalities cover. All in all, Maple Leaves is quite a pleasant debut, worthy of the Swedes’ fifth Gold medal of 2004.

The tour of EPs picks back up with Rocky Dennis, released just two months after Maple Leaves. Lekman finds his sea legs on this release, searching to broaden his sound with the opener, “Rocky Dennis’ Farewell Song to the Blind Girl.” Stuttering bells and lazy oboe provide the ambience for a simple electronic beat. Lekman pilfers Saint Etienne on this particular track and cranks up the melancholy for dramatic effect. It’s the kind of pretty song that Lekman seems capable of writing in his sleep, but ultimately the song’s lyrics cross that thin line between sentimental and sappy. A slightly creepy Movietone-ish segue gives way to a pair of piano ballads: “Jens Lekman’s Farewell Song to Rocky Dennis” and “If You Ever Need a Stranger”. The later I’ll discuss in a bit, as it also appears on the full-length. The former features Lekman singing about Rocky Dennis, apparently a dearly-departed friend of the protagonist. Set to a tender drum beat, Lekman’s ballad again calls attention to his clever lyrics: “I wish I had a proper reason to cry—a reason not so abstract, more like a broken clause in a contract.” But reading his lyrics is one thing; hearing Lekman sing them is another. His imaginative phrasing is unique to but a handful of the best pop singers. And that’s partially why even when Lekman’s sonic warehouse is a bit low on inventory, his voice can often carry the listener’s attention and provide the needed hook. All in all, Rocky Dennis settles for the bronze.

By Lekman’s standards, his third EP came after a lengthy hiatus: four months. Released in August, You Are the Light features Lekman at his most bombastic. The title track—also one of the standouts on his subsequent full-length—bowls over the listener with a blaring cheesy horn intro that's more Herb Alpert than Memphis Horns before giving way to a tongue-in-cheek mid-tempo love song. The over-the-top effect of blending strings, horns, and a backing female chorus into a hodgepodge of white soul showcases Lekman’s darling sense of humor and provides his most memorable single to date. “I Saw Her in the Anti-War Demonstration,” a classic-sounding jangle pop number, finds Lekman rubbing shoulders with Belle & Sebastian. But, Lekman quickly shifts gears yet again by reintroducing a lone trumpet as the lead melody in “A Sweet Summernight on Hammer Hill”. A loosely constructed, sitting-on-the-stoop R&B tune, “Summernight” finds Lekman giving a wink and a nod to Jonathan Richman, as he is often apt to do. According to the liner notes, the song features a sample of a live performance (“bootleg” as he calls it—ha!) in providing a variety of backing voices. It’s a brilliant—and odd—decision that works wonderfully. It’s Lekman’s occasionally nonsensical choices—a whistle here, a reference to Mark E. Smith there—that add to his unpredictable charm. You Are the Light finishes with the silver…

(Note: Secretly Canadian is marketing these EPs at a ridiculously cheap price. I got all three through Parasol for around $10.)


"When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog".

Now, for the full-length, When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog, released in pre-9/11 September. Over the course of it’s 11 songs, …I Wanted to Be Your Dog collects songs recorded over the last four years. (If you’re dating Lekman, this puts him at 18 or 19 for some of these recordings.) As I said earlier, the beginning of this album floored me. Lekman kicks things off with “Tram #7 to Heaven,” a gentle lo-fi gem that recalls the best of Sarah Records. The imagery, like the music, is a silly kind of serene that finds the singer in a loopy state of mind that can only be brought on by true love: “I’m driving in my daddy’s car. Life is aching in my heart. If we someday have to part, where do I go when you take Tram #7 to heaven?” And that playfulness carries over to the next song as well. “Happy Birthday, Dear Friend Lisa” is just that—a pseudo-calypso song written for Lisa’s special day. The song’s absurdity—Lisa is warned to watch out for the Jehovah’s Witness that are soon to knock on her door—is its redeeming quality.

Lekman shifts from heart-on-the-sleeve to stake-in-his-heart with such ease that’s it’s impossible to ignore his strong similarities to Stephin Merritt. Case in point: “Do You Remember the Riots?”. Essentially an a cappella tune, “Riots” is a snapshot of a couple breaking up at a riot—of all places. “Your hand slipped out of mine. I couldn’t see no love in your eye. I knew what I had to do—burn the avenue. I’m not a political fighter. And I don’t even have a cigarette lighter. But I wanna see that fire.” In Lekman’s brain, love songs can take on the oddest of imagery. And yet he’s usually accurate in identifying disparate images that work well at illustrating his misery. “If You Ever Need a Stranger (to Sing at Your Wedding)”—which appeared on the Rocky Dennis EP in an altered state—is a fabulous bare-bones piano ballad of the Harry Nilsson variety. It’s difficult not to quote a lyric from every Lekman song. His offhand wit is remarkable. Let’s just say that Lekman’s take on the wedding singer puts Adam Sandler’s brashness to shame. Lekman has spiked the punch bowl with his slit wrist.

Sadly, the second half of When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog doesn’t quite live up to the high standard set by side one. “Silvia” is a pleasant bore that’s ripped right out of the Jonathan Richman songwriting textbook. “The Cold Swedish Winter” sounds too close to Lekman’s Norwegian neighbors, Kings of Convenience. And “Julie," while both inspired and memorable, truly sounds like Lekman stumbled upon a Magnetic Fields demo that has yet to see the light of day. By the time we hit song ten, for which the album is named, Lekman has lost his tight grasp on near-perfection and is clutching at air. Then, as if to remind us to hit “repeat” before the disc ends, Lekman delivers the successful closing punch, “A Higher Power”. Welding blurry string arrangements together, he delivers yet another tale of young love—except this one ends on a promising note. Possibly singing of Sara, the girl lucky (or if history proves true, unlucky) enough to have an album dedicated to her, Lekman sings: “She said let’s put a plastic bag over our heads and then kiss and stuff until we get dizzy and fall on the bed.” By song and record’s end, Lekman has made up his mind that there must be a higher power.

Even though …I Wanted to Be Your Dog reached the Top 10 in its native Sweden, I’ll be surprised if this record even breaks the Top 10 of the CMJ charts. American history hasn’t always been kind to foreign singer-songwriters, especially those of the indie pop variety. Which is a shame, because while Jens Lekman’s debut is not without some minor weaknesses, it is proof that he’s capable of delivering an album’s worth of undeniable indie pop goodness. He’s someone to get excited about…and that’s a precious commodity.

For more info on Jens Lekman see.

Bonnie Prince Billy, not looking his best. 

As some of you know, I've been doing a bit of freelance writing for a NYC magazine called Skyscraper since Cityview closed 21 months ago. (Has it really been that long? I guess so, cause The Paper came and went and now we're left with this.) Skyscraper is a good quarterly music mag, available at your usual chain bookstores. But, I've had an itch to communicate with the outside world a bit more frequently than quarterly as of late, hence this brand-spankin' new blog. From time to time, I'll be posting some reviews I've contributed to Skyscraper on here, as well as plenty of new musings (I hesitate to call it "exclusive"...ha!). But, I digress. Back to beards and homos...

Many of you probably had the chance to catch Bonnie Prince Billy on his recent tour. Sadly, I was out of town when he played Chambana. So, not only did I miss Sir Oldham, but I also missed his opening act, Joanna Newsom (more on her some other day). I assume he was touring in support of his new LP, Bonnie Prince Billy Sings Greatest Palace Music. I haven't read any reviews of this tour, so I have no clue as to whether Oldham was performing live as a "country" band. But, that's precisely what his new album is...at least on the exterior.

About this new record...ambitious comes to mind. So does crazy. But neither adjective hits the nail squarely on the head when discussing Oldham’s new “greatest hits” record. For this album, Oldham—whose mystique has always been one of his everyday traits—decided to let his fans cast an online vote for which songs to include. I suppose that’s a gesture that Oldham wouldn’t have extended ten years ago…but then again, ten years ago you also couldn’t post a testimonial on Will’s friendster.com page (see: "Bonnie Prince Billy"). So, welcome to the new—dare I say improved?—Will Oldham. Audience participation appreciated?

Due to the bizarre nature of the song selection process, any fan of Palace will find plenty to bitch about as far as the track list is concerned. While it pulls heavily from Palace’s early material, there’s surprisingly nothing from the 1993 debut There Is No-One What Will Take Care of You. Meanwhile, Days in the Wake and Viva Last Blues boast a combined seven “greatest hits”. Both sides of 1994’s “West Palm Beach/Gulf Shores” single are included, as is the old benchmark “Ohio River Boat Song”.

As curious as the song selection is, it’s equally odd that Oldham chose to re-record the songs instead of simply reissuing the originals per standard. And, of course, why simply re-record them when you can re-envision the songs, breathing new life into each tune with the help of a cast of Nashville session musicians? So, Will enlisted an army of hired guns including drummer Eddie Bayers (Tanya Tucker, George Strait), fiddler Stuart Duncan (Rhett Akins), Mark Fain (The Chieftans), and elder statesman and legendary pianist Hargus “Pig” Robbins (George Jones, Patsy Cline, Bob Dylan). If you’re wondering whether these new interpretations sound like Palace gone Nashville country, the answer is a resounding “Yes!”. Female background vocals, fleshed out arrangements, the occasional saxophone—it’s all here.

I gotta say, it takes guts to do what Oldham—or rather Mr. Billy, who has so graciously decided to sing Palace Music—has done here. Guts aside, brains would tell you that Oldham is flirtin’ with disaster. But, there’s several things I’ve learned from following Oldham’s decade-long journey through countless monikers. For starters, he has no fear of facial hair. For seconds, his wry sense of humor is as self-effacing as it gets. For thirds, he’s turned plenty of doubters into red-faced fools with his mastery of musical spells both lyrical and melodic. And finally, if there’s anyone that can transform “I am a Cinematographer” into a bootstompin’ boogie, it’s this mischievous troll we’ve come to know as Bonnie “Prince” Billy.

Now, about those homos.

In case the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy comp didn’t quell your musical thirst, some kind soul has decided to dust off the master tapes and reissue of The Homosexuals’ debut (and lone release), The Homosexuals’ LP. It has come with as little fanfare as the album’s original, posthumous 1984 release. Despite 2003 being the year of the queer, no one knows who these Homosexuals are, and judging by the relative lack of press coverage, no one cares, either. But, you really should. It’s time for The Homosexuals to at least rule your CD player if they sadly can’t rule in America’s courts.

Here’s what you need to know about their history in cliff notes format. The trio formed in 1977 in the same British squats that birthed This Heat and Dire Straits, and began recording their debut seven inch at the Nigel Gray-owned Surrey Sound in 1978. Their gigs were irregular both in frequency and performance, as all three swapped instruments as they played. By 1980, the group was fragmenting into solo projects which, by 1981, had all but killed interest in the group.

As for The Homosexuals' music, it’s kinetic art-punk with a sense of humor and a nod toward the dance floor not unlike Magazine or Alternative TV. Unlike any of those bands, however, The Homosexuals preferred to shatter the glass ceiling of traditional pop convention at every opportune moment. (What would you expect from a group whose founders met while rioting at a National Front march?) Hence, the end result sounds like early XTC mobbed by crusty punks launching teargas canisters at anything that moves. Or, in other words, angular pop-punk performed by malcontents who really don’t give a fuck about conforming to NME standards of decency. The Homosexuals dabbled in amateur dub, jittery post-punk, and bizarre sound collages, but ultimately belonged to the same school of pop-rock thought as Nick Lowe. Beneath all their tongue-in-cheek humor and abrasive attitude is a pop band that just wants you to Orgasm. And, in that sense, The Homosexuals remind me of a young, naive Red Hot Chili Peppers. For better and usually not for worse.

You'll have to order this one (Parasol can get it). Or, see the responsible label Morphius for more info. They've subsequently released a career-spanning 3-disc set called Astral Glamour, which is probably a bit much for those seeking to get their feet wet.

...I lost what little interest I still had in completing the task at hand: finishing my edit of a poorly written "memoirs" book by a college coaching legend. As it so often happens, the internet became my cure for boredom. But on this particular afternoon, instead of playing mini-golf or cruising the forums at Garage Punk for interesting threads (sorta like hunting for a wrinkle-free portion of skin on Iggy Pop's face), I decided to do something that I've thought about doing for some time now—create my own blog.

I know, blogs are so...predictable. So...personal. So...21st century cool. So...everyone's uncle on their mom's side already has their own blog about the Grateful Dead. So...fucking EMO. But, I'd like to have a vehicle to share my thoughts on music & culture with my peeps—all five of you. So, we'll see if this thing works. Maybe I'll ditch it in a week. Or, maybe, if I can bring a bit of ELO to the world of EMO, I'll find it a worthwhile diversion. It shouldn't be too difficult to top mini-golf, should it?

In the coming days I'll be adding some thoughts on new albums by Swedish pop sensation Jens Lekman and Montreal's newest craze, Arcade Fire. Plus, part one (of two, or maybe three) of a review on some available DVDs on The Band which I've recently discovered.

P.S. Not to be confused with this Blank Generation, which hasn't been updated in over a year, THE Blank Generation is way cooler. The article is the key, kids!