THE BLANK GENERATION

Bands that ape '70s rock severely depress me. For starters, the '70s probably did more good for rock music than any other decade, deversifying rock's boundaries with exciting new subgenres like punk, psych, metal and southern rock. So, for a modern band to simply just regurgitate the style and sounds of the '70s seems to fly in the face of the growth that period symbolized for rock. Take a band like The Datsuns, for example, who pen odes to Zeppelin, Bad Company and MC5. They might be a band that I would find cool if I was at their concert, had just finished drinking my weight in beer and was unlikely to have any memory of them the following morning. But, in the sober environs of my apartment, I found no reason to give their breakthrough album a second listen. Blah. Now that their 15 minutes of fame is up, why don't they just learn the Zeppelin catalog, rename themselves Misty Mountain Hop and tour the States? I'm sure they could triple their take-home pay overnight.

There really are only a handful of modern bands that are doing anything interesting with '70s rock. The Cherry Valance, Magnolia Electric Co. and Comets on Fire—today's subject matter—come to mind. These are talented groups that either utilize exceptional songwriting or attempt to maybe not reinvent the wheel but at least improve upon its design. They've got balls, whereas other bands stuff their collective crotch with socks (or something else entirely).


Comets on Fire 

Comets on Fire really love that vintage stoner rock. And when I say those words—stoner rock—please don't think of Monster Magnet. Monster Magent, White Zombie and bands of that ilk perform commercially-motivated outsider metal that for some reason the lazy music press has taken to calling stoner rock. Comets on Fire is the real deal—a dash of Japanese noise-rock, a hint of Hawkwind and Deep Purple, a dabble of Stooges, and a healthy heaping of the uncontrollable urge to fuck shit up. I hesitate to call Comets on Fire "metal" in the traditional sense of the term, but I've no reservations about calling them "heavy".

While Blue Cathedral might show the band mellowing some as they age (introducing a more prevalent role for analog keyboardist and effects-savant Noel Harmonson), there’s certainly no shortage of hell to pay on the group’s third release. Guitarist Ben Chasny (of Six Organs of Admittance) has joined the band full-time after guesting on a previous album, giving the Comets a dual six-string attack that intensifies the aural assault. But before we jump into the maelstrom, lets examine the calm eye of the storm. “Pussy Foot the Duke,” song two, introduces the band’s aforementioned textural dexterity on Cathedral. Beginning with a cascading organ riff that is soon drenched with additional similar keyboard voices, “Pussy Foot” keeps its focus largely off the fire and brimstone and on rock and roll’s introverted self. It’s the group’s most, dare I say, charming composition to date.

Coupled with the following song, “Whiskey River,” Comets on Fire deliver a jab to the ribs followed by a knee-wobbling left hook. “Whiskey River”—most definitely not a cover of the country song that Willie Nelson popularized in the ‘70s—holds nothing back. In the space of eight minutes, the listener is splattered with all the blood, guts and gore in the Comets on Fire arsenal. We begin with the kind of muscular riff one expects from a group of guys whose sole purpose is imposing tonal carnage on weaklings. Masquerading as howling celestial voices over the top of the chaos is Harmonson’s echoplex—a tape-delay device that originated about 45 years ago and creates a more natural echo effect than modern digital devices. By resembling the sound of a theremin, Harmonson uses his echoplex to produce otherworldly sounds. “Whiskey River” harnesses its frenzied tendencies at the midway point to strip the song down to its Stonesy riff, introducing an acoustic guitar into a lengthy break that eventually reaches climax with the echoplex bleeping over the top of a frenetic electric guitar solo and Tim Daly’s tenor sax. Fans of Mudhoney’s recent foray into the world of Blue Cheer-meets-Stooges blooze, Since We’ve Become Translucent, will totally dig this shit.

A bluesy, sublime intermission, appropriately titled “Organs,” gives way to the album’s second half. “The Antlers of the Midnight Sun” (mp3 available here) picks right back up where we left off, with disobedient drums being smacked around while wailing, pissed-off guitars grapple with Ethan Miller’s mucous-flinging, larynx-wrecking yelps. As the album winds down, we're treated to a pretty little psychedelic ditty before the oncoming slaughter of the record's closer, "Blue Tomb". Based on a Blue Cheer-ish riff, "Blue Tomb" assaults the amps with Sonic Youth-like bravado before giving way to the verse, in which Miller and the band channel Hendrix from beyond the grave. At eight minutes in, the intensity is turned up a notch as the echoplex drills a hole through the listener's skull before the entire song collapses in exhaustion.

Blue Cathedral breaks new ground for this fearsome fivesome, and in doing so stakes Comets on Fire’s claim as a band with as much mind as muscle. For fans of rock’s rough, psychedelic fringes, that’s a very good thing. I'm ranking this near the top of my 2004 list, just a notch below the previously discussed Dungen.

Not to sound overly melodramatic, but this seven-day stretch could end up being the lowest point of my adult life. And, it has nothing to do with music. (I mean, it's a good week for music when Moby and Eminem bury the hatchet, no? See the reason why.)

For starters, my beloved Redbirds not only lost the World Series last night, they were swept by the Boston Red Sox. I could just see the Sox' vaunted curse leaping from their bodies—suddenly alive with vibrant, childlike energy—and and landing in the Cardinals' lifeless corpses. We were demolished by the Sox. The best offense in the major leagues—so advertised—looked absolutely helpless against the Sox pitching staff. Now, Curt Schilling—bloody ankle and all—I can understand. He's licked our hitters in postseasons past. And Pedro "Who's Your Daddy?" Martinez I can certainly understand as well. The man is only the greatest righthanded pitcher of the past decade. But, Derek FUCKING Lowe? C'mon! I know he crushed the Yanks in this postseason as well...but, C'mon! The guy hardly has unhittable stuff. Yet, with our backs against the wall, the Cardinals slumped down to a crouch and by the sixth inning had all but curled up in the fetal position. What a disgusting series. I'd tip my hat to the Red Sox if I wasn't still busy vomiting on my shoetops.

But there's something even more stomach-wrenching that could turn this week into the worst of the worst. And I think you probably know just what that is. If Bush wins fair and square, I'll be incredibly disappointed in the majority of America. But, if Bush wins by cheating and bending the rules and throwing his weight around in the higher courts of the country—well, I might just make a drive to D.C. and find a doorstep to protest on. It's looking more likely that we won't know the victor for some time, so maybe my week-long prognosis will be inaccurate and the uncertainty will be extended into a dreary holiday season. Who knows at this point just what tricks are up Bush's sleeve? I can only hope that Kerry can stand his ground and that for once, the true victor will prevail.

Sad news this morning: BBC Radio 1 DJ John Peel has died of a heart attack at the age of 65 while vacationing in Cuzco, Peru. Oddly enough, last night I saw the movie Motorcylce Diaries, in which Cuzco, Peru is a setting.

Peel exemplified the huge gap between the music climate in the States and the UK, where people still purchase seven inches in great part due to Peel's tireless promotion of the radio single. (The Undertones' "Teenage Kicks" was his all-time fave.) Peel was the BBC's longest tenured DJ and had championed countless great bands over the years, from Beefheart to The Fall. His commentary, always sharp, was simply unmatched amongst commercial DJs. He leaves behind a legacy of "Peel Sessions," the on-air performances which became a staple of his show.

At the age of 14 in the year of 1989, I gave up on my dream of becoming a major league baseball pitcher. I was a lefty pitcher for the traveling “B” team, and on one particular day some neighboring small-town kids lit me up. They were supposedly the same age as me, but they didn’t look anything like me. These kids were ogre-like, with tree-trunks for arms and oil barrels for torsos. All I could throw at the time was a 69 mph fastball—straight as an arrow. The kid who was pitching against me was 6-foot-3 and threw 82 mph with a filthy curveball that he liked to break out when we feigned to make contact on his fastball. I think the final score was 22-0, and not in our favor. I was only responsible for about half of those runs, but I did give up two gopher balls (both to the opposing pitcher, who could hit a little, too) and struck out twice at the plate.


 

On that day, I could have channeled my anger along with what inner-strength I possessed and decided to make it my life’s mission to beat the snot out of thick-chested, pea-brained baseball players. But, I had other priorities and an overabundance of interests—girls (Lana Berardi), basketball (tallest kid in 8th grade that could successfully dribble the ball off the court and not his knee), and music (anyone remember Mother’s Milk?)—which I could easily divert my attention toward in my everlasting occupation with defining my life.

Yes, even at the age of 14 I spent far too much time thinking—rarely out loud—about what I had to do to feel comfortable in my own skin. I had all this passion and imagination, but no real, tangible thing to channel it into. I had just begun to get into music, partially because I found it mildly amusing (and possibly arousing?) that the girl whose locker was right next to mine spent most of her school day pretending to be Axl Rose’s girlfriend, and partially because of junior high school rebel Wayne Hayes. Hayes told just about every one of his teachers to fuck off at some point or another that school year. Like most of my science class, I wish I would of turned his solo “fuck you” into a chorus when he spouted off at the haggard, pruney and ever-so-bitchy Mrs. Scantron (as we called her). Every day in P.E., against the school’s rules, Hayes sported the same faded Faith No More t-shirt. Sure, it may not sound like a big deal, but keep in mind that I grew up in a small Midwestern town of 14,000, isolated from any big city of note and leaning on K-Mart as our cultural sponge. Hayes was a badass motherfucker—a long-haired skate punk in a town with ten stoplights.

Yet, Hayes isn’t really responsible for much—if any—of my musical development as a youngster. He just opened my eyes to a world that I had been isolated from (yes, I grew up without MTV). A significant development did occur for me at the age of 15, when I discovered my two older brother’s record collections. There was a 13-year gap between me and my closest sibling, so to put things in perspective my older bro was buying Led Zeppelin I on vinyl before I was even an “oops” in my parent’s eyes. Through their collections I was introduced to rock and roll legends—Hendrix, Cooper, The Stones, The Who, Aerosmith—and the alternative mainstream—The Clash, Bob Marley, Squeeze, The Cars, The Police, The Ramones. Without my older brothers, I doubt I would have ever developed such a love affair with music. But I don’t want to give them too much credit for their actions. After all, it’s not as if they encouraged me to listen to their records. Rather, their records were sitting in my parent’s basement, long-since abandoned and just waiting for me to discover them. So, with that—their inaction, their willingness to part with the musical heritage of their youth—they led me to the path of discovery that I still find myself aimlessly wandering down on October 22, 2004.

It was love at first sight. I spent a year just devouring everything they owned—from CCR to Big Country—without any real knowledge of what the music press had deemed to be “good” or “bad”. That would come later. First, there was work to do… I spent—and my longtime friends can attest to this—countless hours and about twenty 90-minute cassette tapes attempting to record the "Top 500 Rock and Roll Songs of All Time". Yes, I was that stupid. (I would like to think back on that as a moment of simple naivety, but the facts are the facts.) Utilizing only the records that I had in front of me, I first constructed the list of 500 songs, fretting over whether “Iron Man” was a better candidate for the Top 50 than “Tainted Love”. (Some might get a good laugh out of the truth that The Sex Pistols, Television, and The Velvet Underground—along with countless other heralded bands—were nowhere to be found on those tapes.) I don’t recall what my number one rock song of all time was, but I’m sure it was probably a worse selection than VH1 would make, and that’s saying something.

I wish I still knew the whereabouts of that masterful collection of rock’s brightest moments, but alas they’ve fallen into the abyss that is either my parent’s basement… or a landfill. And it’s probably for the best that I don’t relive that moment again. It’s better to just move on and unsuccessfully attempt to erase that moment from my timeline.

I’ve spent the past 13 years continuing my lustful addiction to Mistress Music. I tend to be far more historically focused than the casual fan, something that I attribute directly to the goldmine of old records that I dug up as a 15-year-old which taught me that looking back is often better—and more fun—than looking forward. And I tend to be what I call a fringe collector. I’m no obsessive-freak when it comes to tracking down original copies of obscure seven inch records, and I don’t have a room in my home that’s filled to the brim with CDs. But, I do spend a good portion of my yearly income—more than I care to share—on purchasing recorded music. I like to keep up with the times, but I’m more interested in studying the past than I am in cashing in my hipster cred at the trendy indie rock bank on Fridays.

It’s that love of old music—which seems to provide me with a galaxy of possibilities—that keeps my motor running at age 28. In part, it was my brothers’ inability to discover that galaxy—along with life forces like marriage, kids, a mortgage and a career—that caused them to abandon their relationship with music. (Today, one of them still listens mostly to that same old classic rock but hasn’t bought a new album in years; the other has switched from The Clash to contemporary country.) Oh well for them. I became a welcome benefactor at their expense.

I spend a good deal of time—at work, in the shower, falling asleep at night—pondering what my life will be like in ten years and whether I’ll still have this indispensable desire to listen to music. I suspect it’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Or at least, I’m not ready to let go just yet. Thinking along those same lines, I also ponder my future in terms of a career—the job that pays the bills. I hate what I’m doing right now. My displeasure doesn’t come directly from the fact that I’m a book editor—or even a sports book editor—but from the fact that I work for a company that doesn’t share my values, can’t earn my respect, and hence will never provide me with a satisfying job.

Luckily, I consider this job nothing more than a stopgap. But it’s what is on the other side of that invisible gap that causes me great concern. What will I do with the rest of my professional life and will it provide me with grief or happiness? Will I dread going into work every day, or will I thank my lucky stars when the alarm goes off at 7 a.m.? These are certainly questions that many of us grapple with, so I know I’m not alone in this struggle to define my life. (Yes, I do consider my professional life to be an extremely important part of defining my entire life. After all, I spend at least 40 hours a week earning my paycheck, and my job has an immense impact on the rest of my life—whether it’s from a monetary or psychological standpoint.)

Of course, I know I wasn’t foolish in giving up my dreams of being a major league pitcher. (Although as a lefty I might have had a decent chance to stick with a major league team as a reliever, something the Cubs, for example, could have used this year.) And I’ve also accepted the fact that at the age of 28 and the height of 6-foot-1, my days of playing professional basketball are probably numbered at best. So, that leaves me with girls and music, I suppose. Barring more naivety (read: stupidity), I hope to have the “significant other” end of things settled. Which leaves me with music. Anything is possible (well, maybe not while living in Champaign-Urbana, but you catch my drift…), and maybe it’s time that I consider the rest of my life in the same way that I consider the world of music—as a vast galaxy still left to be discovered. Maybe one day I’ll re-record the Top 500 Songs of Rock and Roll. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll get paid to do it?

That’s wishful thinking, and that’s my new attitude on life. That’s why I started this blog, to really define how emotionally attached I am to not just listening, but also writing about music. When I was 18 I created a mental list of three ideal jobs that I would love to have during my life. They are: 1) record store owner, 2) music editor, and 3) publisher/editor of a music magazine. Now, I don’t consider the two photocopied issues of my long-defunct fanzine to meet the requirements of No. 3. But, I am lucky enough to have already scratched No. 2 off the list thanks to my time at the local weekly. And, the more I think about it, the more No. 1 doesn’t seem to be the most feasible of dreams. I’m all for dreaming big, but owning a record store in today’s musical climate seems more like a death sentence than the opportunity of a lifetime. (Unless, of course, I had an investor with deep pockets, a love of the arts and no interest in a return on the investment. Shit, anyone have Teresa Heinz-Kerry’s phone number?) So, that leaves me with No. 3. Time will tell…but while I wait, I'm going to have some fun with this little corner of cyberspace. Hopefully, you will too.

Downing adult beverages until 4 a.m. is apparently just not something I should be doing any more. (If I listen to my body, that is.) I can't remember the last time I slept in till one in the afternoon. The scary thing is, I probably could have slept longer seeing as I was napping again just three hours later. But damn, The Blackouts and The Situation were great last night. The former's new material, of which I now have a demo copy of, is simply spectacular. Even more complex (now with vocal treatments) and darker and more psychedelic too! The later is really beginning to come into their own. Luke is becoming more confident as a frontman and his guitar playing and arranging has also been elevated since the band's lineup shift. I picked up their EP, but haven't listened to it just yet.

Today may be about recuperation, but tomorrow is reserved for more splurging. I'll be seeing Ms. Joanna Newsom tomorrow eve in Chicago. She's opening for the Incredible String Band at Logan Square Auditorium. If you still haven't purchased her delightfully quirky debut album, The Milk-Eyed Mender, I gotta question your priorities. Get with the program! Words to be posted post-concert.

Jason Molina of Songs: Ohia 

I caught Magnolia Electric Co. in concert tonight. For those keeping score at home, that’s the full-band version of Jason Molina’s Songs: Ohia. Molina may be short in inches, but he’s hardly short on soul. Yes, he’s got a bit of the Springsteen Syndrome. He might be six foot tall, standing on top of a milk crate. But like Springsteen, Molina makes up for any height disadvantages with a deep, bucket-less well of a soul. Molina and his backing band have got it going on. Tonight the band shined, despite sounding at times like a glorified bar band. (Will I ever hear another legitimate rock band cover Seger's “Still the Same” without a hint of irony?)

You locals might know what I mean when I say that modern rock and roll needs more Zac Ray. We’re not just selling jeans here people. We’re talking about good old rock and fuckin’ roll. It’s one of the few musical forms that us Americans can say is a part of our fabric. Some of us would rather ignore that fact; but the smart ones among us prefer to embrace it. And if America had any balls we’d be voting GW out of office in three weeks and signing Jason Molina to a fat recording contract. Do yourself a favor and pick up his fine 2003 release, The Magnolia Electric Co, for it does not disappoint. The whole wide world of rock and roll would be a lot better off if we had a few more Jason Molinas and several fewer Kings of Leons.

Luna is breaking up in the year 2005. Their upcoming October release, Rendezvous, will be the group’s last, although they’ll be touring in support of the record throughout the fall and winter.

I interviewed Dean Wareham a couple years ago at the time of Luna’s last release, Romantica. I really thought that Romantica was a solid record, definitely one of Luna’s better efforts. In my interview with Wareham, he agreed, saying: “I am very happy with Romantica... which is not always how I feel after making a record. ... I think Romantica has the best songs of any Luna record.” Wareham didn’t stop there, either, praising his lyrical efforts on Romantica as superior to his earlier days. By earlier days, he meant his time with Galaxie 500, the band in which Wareham staked his reputation on in the late ‘80s.

Now, with the news of Luna’s upcoming departure, I got to thinking about Romantica, and the fact that I haven’t listened to it in quite some time. I don’t miss it. Even though it was a pleasant record to listen to, Romantica lacked any staying power. And that’s been a criticism that I’ve heard—but don’t agree with—in reference to all of Wareham’s albums dating back to Galaxie 500.

Galaxie 500 formed in Boston in 1986 when drummer Damon Krukowski and Wareham recruited their old high school friend Naomi Yang to play bass with them. Yang, whose unique, melodic approach to the bass would become one of the band’s signatures, had no previous musical experience. All three were attending Harvard at the time.


Galaxie 500 

The group was shortlived—releasing three albums and a handful of singles over the course of just four years—but nevertheless incredibly influential to both the slowcore movement (Bedhead, Low, Codeine and the like) and to a lesser degree the shoegazer movement. Despite their influence, Galaxie 500 went largely overlooked even though they were recording for the venerable Rough Trade label. Shortly after the release of Galaxie 500’s third ablum, This Is Our Music, in 1990, Rough Trade went bankrupt, hence killing the band’s momentum, signaling the end of the band (Wareham bowed out shortly thereafter) and ruining any chance for the band to earn any royalties off their releases. Then, as Wareham’s subsequent band, Luna, became a critical darling, interest in Galaxie 500’s difficult-to-find releases grew and culminated in Rykodisc re-releasing the albums as a box set in 1996.

To describe Galaxie 500 is both an easy and complex task. The easy way out is to say that they—like about one-hundred thousand other bands—were greatly influenced by The Velvet Underground. But unlike so many of those other bands whom reviewers love to compare to VU, the comparison actually holds up when it comes to Galaxie 500. Where a rock band like The Strokes takes after Lou Reed’s swagger (lets face it, he put the “cock” in VU), Galaxie 500 looked to the delicacy of John Cale, Moe Tucker, and Nico for inspiration. Considering each of their contributions to VU—or more importantly what Nico and Cale did immediately after leaving VU—it’s easy to see that they supplied the fragility, restraint, and beauty to balance out Reed’s macho charisma.

But Galaxie 500 were a band that brought a good amount to the table with or without the VU inspiration. For starters, Yang was an accomplished bassist whose lack of formal training was probably her best asset. She spent a great deal of time exploring the bass’ upper register, a good two or three octaves above where her contemporaries preferred to toil. But it’s not just the octave that makes the difference; Yang also looked at the bass as an instrument that could provide significant melody for the trio. While Wareham spent most of his time chug-chug-chugging along, Yang offered a wandering melodic counterpart for the listener. Her warm, glowing bass lines were truly authentic.

Galaxie 500 also benefited from Krukowski’s sparse drumming, which slowcore drummers copied to a T. Krukowski rarely rocked out behind the kit. Instead, his drumming aided in shaping the band’s sound palette more so than most drummers can claim. Fond of the floor tom (like Moe Tucker) and able to make a ride cymbal flutter like the wings of a butterfly, Krukowski’s piece of the Galaxie 500 puzzle is an equal one-third.

Then, we’ve got Wareham himself, whose awkward voice and strange slice-of-life lyrics were the centerpiece of the band’s sound. Wareham has never been a shabby songwriter—I’ve enjoyed a good deal of the Luna catalog—but his work with Galaxie 500 has always seemed more vibrant than anything he accomplished thereafter. And, while some detest his voice (he’s hardly a choirboy), it was his rough edges and eerie falsetto that lent Galaxie 500 that slightly uneasy feeling. Call it nervousness. Call it a queer feeling in the gut. But Wareham kept the listener on edge with the best of ‘em.

Perhaps the biggest reason that Luna has never had the staying power for me and Galaxie 500 has endured my test of time is also the most obvious one: Luna has always been Dean Wareham’s band, whereas Galaxie 500 has always been a group whose individual parts created a greater whole.

While the news of Luna’s demise gave me the kick in the rear, it was actually a reader of The Blank Generation who asked me to write about Galaxie 500. I’m not certain if he was looking for a recommendation or not, but I’ll provide one without giving an in-depth critique of each of their three albums. I’ve always preferred the group’s first two albums, Today (1988) and On Fire (1989), to the later one, This Is Our Music (1990). And, if I had to take one of those two to the desert island with me, I’d choose Today because it features my two favorite Galaxie 500 songs (“Parking Lot” and “Oblivious”) and a great cover of The Modern Lovers’ “Don’t Let Our Youth Go to Waste.” But, there’s really no wrong choice; I think all three are great albums. I’d recommend any of them over Rykodisc’s 1998 compilation Portable Galaxie 500, which suspiciously doesn’t include some of the group’s best work (like my two faves, for example).

Galaxie 500 were an odd bird. (How many other bands covered not one, but two Yoko Ono songs? Not to mention Young Marble Giants and Joy Division? And covers never grew old for Wareham; since starting Luna he has covered Guns n’ Roses, Serge Gainsbourg, Beat Happening, Kraftwerk, The Rolling Stones and, yes, VU.) Galaxie 500 inspired a good share of covers as well, not to mention an entire school of thought in ‘90s indie rock.

So, in retrospect, I’d beg to differ with Mr. Wareham. He might have been onto something with Luna’s Romantica, but he really hit his stride a decade prior. And there’s no shame in that, whether he wants to own up to it or not.

Go-Go Blackouts @ Little Steven's RnR Festival. 

For you rock and roll pretenders living in the Champaign-Urbana area, I've got good news: The Blackouts are back in black. After zeroing in on a new bassist and shacking up together four nights a week for the past few weeks, CU's own rock and roll insurgency will be playing live for the first time in six weeks—which in townie time seems like a year-and-a-half. Catch a band on the rebound as they open for The Makers, Sub Pop's answer to 107.1 adding the New York Dolls to its playlist. Locals The Situation also open, complete with their own recent addition, Matt Filippo, on bass. And, in fine fashion, The Highdive has dropped the admission fee from eight bones to five! Not too shabby, even if the go-go girls aren't guaranteed to show. Monday, Oct. 18, 10pm, The Highdive.

 

My second love in life—the first, of course, being music (with friends, females and family excluded from the conversation to keep things simple)—is baseball. Last night I was driving home from St. Louis, where the Redbirds captured Game 2 of the National League Divisional Series by the same verdict as the first game: 8-3. Somewhere around 2 a.m. (or, the town of Mattoon), after my second pull-the-car-over-to-the-side-of-the-road-to-stretch-the-legs-and-wake-the-fuck-up, I switched the MP3 player over to Scottish band Life Without Buildings. If any band was going to be able to hold my attention during the wee hours, it would be these purveyors of mid-‘90s American indie rock. (I’ll explain specifically why in a bit, but first allow me a tangent.)

My girlfriend claims that baseball, like most sports, is full of simple-minded athletes. Despite the existence of complicated statistical formulas to explain their abilities, baseball players describe their performance on the field in the most vague of terms. (“I was in a rhythm.” Or “I’ve been seeing the ball well lately.” Or “He’s got great ‘stuff’ for a young pitcher.”) And more often than not ballplayers acknowledge that their gift for hitting a baseball that is thrown from 60 feet, six inches away at a speed of 93 mph is due to god.

One might think that the fans of baseball, then, are simple-minded by extension. If you’ve ever been to a Chicago Cubs game, for example, you might agree with that assertion. But one of the surprising things about baseball—and one of the reasons I love it—is that a faction of the fans are dedicated to analyzing the sport in a specific, complex language we call sabermetrics (the statistical study of baseball for nerds). Your average fans—even fans of the Cubs—are familiar with the more common statistics: batting average, home runs, runs batted in, earned run average, etc. However, baseball theory and thinking is beginning to be revolutionized by the use of more complex measurements of excellence. From general managers who decide personnel all the way down to common fans like myself, baseball has finally encouraged a study of what lurks under the surface. Thanks to the work of baseball historians and “scientists” like Bill James, we now have even more descriptive statistics to evaluate, for instance, how far a player on defense is capable of ranging from a set spot in order to catch a ball hit into play. Or, how well a hitter performs compared to the league average. Or—and this is a personal fave—“pitcher abuse points,” which when broken down to their essence detail just how much wear and tear a pitcher endures on his throwing arm as a result of the number and type of pitches he throws.

So, baseball fans and scribes alike can utilize a wide array of data to study, or maybe scrutinize is a better word, the performance of baseball players. And many of these statistics—pitcher abuse points notwithstanding—are as essential to the average fan’s understanding of the game as a banana is to a banana split. Yet, when it comes to the critiquing of music, even the most experienced and professional of writers are often left with only indistinct terms to describe just how good a band is. In music journalism, we rely on the same nondescript terms—tense, emotive, sinister, stylized, fast-paced—that could be just as easily applied to the critique of film, theater, the visual arts or novels. Sure, in the context of each a writer does have some specific tools to his/her trade. (In music we might discuss time signatures or chord progressions or some-such nonsensical language that the average music listener does not comprehend.) But even a lengthy discussion of the lyrical merits of a particular songwriter really comes down to subjective—not factual—evidence. When we rate an album's worth or a band's merit, it's based on our subjective opinion.

There really is no effective language set that has been developed that is truly specific to music and accurate in looking at music in a more grounded sense. Even genres and subgenres, which have been created to help define that which we discuss, are often unsuccessful in pigeon-holing a band because the subgenres themselves are impossible to absolutely define. (Is Fugazi “punk,” “indie rock” or “post hardcore”? Is Sonic Youth “art rock,” “noise rock,” “experimental rock” or “post-punk”? Pere Ubu, Devo and Sonic Youth have all been called a post-punk band. Yet if I played the average listener a song from each, I doubt they would say that the bands share a whole lot in common other than a certain “strangeness”.) One can make the case that there’s really no need to have such a way to measure music because, unlike baseball, a successful band isn’t determined by the tangible method of wins and losses. Music is subjective, and the reasons that a person might identify with a band has little to do with any scientific reasoning. More likely, it’s tunefulness, style, media peer pressure, marketing and the like that cause us to latch onto an artist. But ultimately, it’s that lack of a specific, factual language to discuss music that makes bands so hard to describe, yet alone define.

All of this is just a long-winded way of bringing me to Life Without Buildings. This band is a good example of a group that drives music journalists nuts because they cause writers to struggle to find the words to relate just what this band “sounds like” or why this band is truly more interesting than their peers. Even if I created a “post-‘90s American indie rock” subgenre for these guys, just what in the hell would that tell you? Life Without Buildings sounds like an amalgamation of Versus, Unrest and Slint fronted by a Scottish Yoko Ono with an attention deficit disorder. There—did that do the trick? It’s not as easy as flipping over a baseball card in order to see that Albert Pujols has hit 30 or more homers in his first four seasons, thus making him a premier “power hitter” whose debut has been of historical significance.


 

Life Without Buildings’ debut, Any Other City, is of historical significance too, if only because there has been no record that I know of that’s come out in the past few years that sounds anything like it. Originally released in 2001 on Rough Trade imprint Tugboat, Any Other City was reissued domestically in 2002. That same year the group disbanded, despite receiving positive press from both sides of the ocean. Critics often compared Life Without Buildings to late-‘70s post-punk bands like Talking Heads, The Slits and The Fall. While those comparisons stick to some degree, Life Without Buildings’ music—which features clean, jangle-y guitars, round, simplistic bass lines, and crisp, active drumming—has an ever-present warmth missing from most of the late-‘70s post-punk lot. It’s that warmth that gives the band a sound more akin to modern groups like Unrest, C-Clamp, Dianogah, and Seam. Angular in nature yet never as adventurous as, for example, Television, Life Without Buildings are an easy band to fall in love with from a melodic, instrumental standpoint. Their music is cerebral without being too abstract, and in that delicate balance we find the group’s ultimate virtue: they know how to evoke emotion without stepping on the listener’s toes.

Yet it’s not that virtue that gives Life Without Buildings their unique sound. That reason is reserved for frontwoman Sue Tompkins, who is like no other. Tompkins isn’t so much a singer as she is a “scat speaker,” as Andy Kellman of Allmusic.com so aptly described her. That’s not to say she’s a shit-talker; rather, that she applies a bastardized form the jazz vocal technique of scatting to the art of speaking. Her stream-of-consciousness lyrics, sometimes delivered in a stuttering manner reminiscent of Mark E. Smith, are totally not of this world. It’s difficult to paste together a storyboard when listening to Tompkins’ lyrics. Yet, the hurried pace of her voice coupled with her soothing tone—she sounds like a “nice young girl” as opposed to a “mean woman”—presents an intriguing dichotomy which gives off the impression of gentle desperation. I suppose Tompkins bears a slight comparison to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Karen O. But in reality, Tompkins comes across as far more subdued when contrasted to O’s caterwauling. And Tompkins exuberant, anxious delivery and odd writing is unique to the nth degree. Take this passage from the song “Juno” as an example:

I don’t wanna be a player—hey!—for you. For you. I’m gonna raise it. …Remember. Already. I think about it already. Hey! For you. For you. Your behavior—shagging. Your behavior. I wonder you. Are you real? Are you real?

For you sweet thing! For you he won’t notice! For you he won’t, something else.

…My lips are sealed. My lips are sealed. My lips are sealed!…

This might as well be mumbo jumbo (and this is actually Tompkins at her more discernible). But when you hear Tompkins deliver the lines, it’s like a sucker punch to the jaw. It seems relevant and on topic. Her words strangely make sense…as if you’ve discovered notes urgently scribbled on a discarded cocktail napkin by a sad ex-lover who’s been spying on her former better half.

Tompkins’ refusal to fit within the popular realm of what many consider to be a “singer” is probably what will make or break this band for many people. I know that not everyone will find her fits of verbal hiccupping to be to their liking. But for me, her irrational approach to the concept of a singer is precisely what lends Life Without Buildings a sense of genuineness. When I listen to Tompkins sing, I can’t imagine her voice sounding any different. It’s her uniqueness that gives this band their vitality. And it’s that "vitality"—not Sue Tompkins' slugging percentage or Life Without Buildings' ability to lead the league in wins—that looked after my heavy eyelids over the last 40 miles of my trip home last night. Whether you’re in need of a small dose of stamina or an awakening of a larger sort, I’d recommend checking this band out.

My girlfriend has fled for a week to visit friends and family in hilly PeeAy (as the Pennsylvania folks call it), leaving me and the needy black cat (currently in my lap) to fend for ourselves. So, I spent the past few days doing what any good-natured bachelor might do…eat popcorn for a meal, enjoy a rock and roll concert or two, forget to bathe and sleep in even later. But, alas, I’m bored. And boredom leads to reflection and reflection leads to guilt and guilt leads to depression. I’m afraid I’m horrible at distracting myself or passing the time. Sure, I could re-alphabetize my records (K-Z are in dire need). I could probably call up some friends and head to Mike & Molly’s to drink beer under the stars. Or, I could keep doing what I’m already doing. But, to be honest, I’m tired of watching my St. Louis Redbirds stumble to the regular season’s conclusion. And my attempt at watching season one of The Office is in a funk. It’s not the show’s fault; it’s simply hilarious. The characters are wonderful caricatures of people we’ve all worked with, kind of like a gutsier analysis of the shallow characters in Office Space. And the situations—from disciplining office pranksters to downsizing—are brutal in their accuracy. (Office Space gave us Milton and his red Swingline stapler. Meanwhile, The Office presents a different but equally hilarious take on those co-workers who take great pride in their prized tools of the trade. Here, we have a pair of polar-opposite desk mates, one a kidder and the other an all-too-serious middle manager. In this scenario, the witty one seals the somber one’s stapler in a Jell-o mold.) The problem is, my workplace recently downsized itself, and although I was spared I’m still not far enough removed from the situation to have a sense of humor about the selfish, incompetent decisions that are made at a time of reduction.

So, on to a more cheery subject…let’s talk about funerals. More specifically, The Arcade Fire’s debut full-length Funeral, released a couple week’s ago on Merge Records.


 

Apparently, the Montreal band signed to Merge after a bidding war among the nation’s super-Indies. (One would presume Sub Pop, Matador and Touch and Go were in the mix.) Seeing as the Canadian music scene has blown up recently on the indie level (Broken Social Scene, Stars, The New Pornographers, The Unicorns, Hot Hot Heat, Do Make Say Think, etc.), it’s no surprise that any Canuck capable of carrying a tune is going to get a look-see from the US of A. I mean, with the Patriot Act killing all creativity south of the Canadian border, American indies have been forced to look elsewhere for the next bright star. Joking aside, all this is a way of saying that after working as a music journalist for the past two-and-a-half years I’m weary and wary when it comes to hype. That’s not to say that a good deal of the healthy heaping of hype that is served isn’t deserved, but seriously…does anyone really think that The Fiery Furnance's Blueberry Boat is the second-coming of Tommy? And christ, do we really need a second-coming of Tommy in the first place?

But, like the good little consumer I am, I went to the record store and purchased Funeral after hearing wonderful comments about this lovely indie rock band from the Great White North which features a married couple and a pair of brothers (“family bands” seem to be the flavor of the year). And fuckin’ eh, wouldn’t you know it? The media was right. These Canucks do rock the party.

As you could probably guess, Funeral supposedly comes on the heels of the most pricey of inspiration—death. (Three of ‘em to be precise.) Who knows if The Arcade Fire, in their heart of hearts, is truly a gloomy bunch? What is certain is that Funeral is a restless, introspective album that deals a heavy dose of humility. While the record does, to a small degree, wrestle with death, it spends far more time tackling the awkward life issues of discovery, uncertainty, and confusion. Ultimately, it’s an album full of yearning, which done right can make for an endearing listen. And endearing is the best descriptive I could offer you to sum up The Arcade Fire in a word.

At their core The Arcade Fire are a simple, straightforward band: see the mellow textures of Yo La Tengo coupled with the playful indie pop of Broken Social Scene. Yet their sound has a healthy holistic glow, thanks in no small part to the lacquer they spread so thick in the form of synthesizer, accordion, xylophone, organ, violin, viola and cello. For locals, I’ll use a reference point that might strike a chord: imagine Murder By Death, minus most of the dreary pretense and grounded in more secular subject matters. Ultimately, The Arcade Fire possesses a delicacy that exposes their true nature. These guys (and girls) are interested in growth and healing. They bring to mind the old cliché of the musician that just has to write songs, whether it's for an audience of one or one thousand. Creating music is cathartic. It’s a coping mechanism. Sure, that might seem easy to surmise considering the album is called Funeral, but as I said before a good deal of the record deals with an entirely different subject. (And digging a little deeper, the group’s press release reveals that most of these songs were written and recorded prior to two of the three deaths.) It’s almost unfortunate that the band and the label have chosen to market the album under that pretense, because it’s misleading consumers into thinking that this is an album that only questions instead of reaffirms. Writing an album about death is in many ways far easier than writing an album about life. And this album is about life. Whereas death is concrete, life is fluid. Death may be a sobering experience to those who are left to grieve, but life is no less abusive or gripping to those who are left to live. To me, at least, life is just plain bewildering and devoid of any certainty. And that makes it far more difficult to put into words, emotions and music just what a captivating freefall life can be.

But enough of the soapbox philosophy. I’m going to once again be reprimanded by the blog gods for rambling for 1,000 words in a single entry. My point in all of this is simple: The Arcade Fire have released a stellar debut which you should purchase if only to hear the splendid melancholy of “Wake Up,” one of the year’s best songs and worth every penny you’ll drop on this disc. Sound samples can be searched out here and newsy stuff can be had here. They're on tour now, and Champaign-Urbana folks can catch them at The Highdive on Sunday, Nov. 21. Enjoy.

Okay, so I know that it may seem like I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to these obscure bands that I'm writing about. I mean, who in the fuck really has the cash to drop on these artists when there's new releases by Bryan Adams and Metal Church (yes, this Metal Church) to save up for? The fall is always a hectic time for the record industry, as it readies for release some eight billion records. Flooding the market with lots of crappy albums before the Xmas shopping rush begins ensures that moms in all 50 states can raid the shelves of Target for that new Hilary Duff CD. Insert gratuitous snapshot of hot teenybopper craze here...


Mothers approve! 

Anyway, here's to encouraging Security Moms to be a little more reckless when picking out a CD this Xmas for Johnny & Suzie. Try this one on for size: The Girls, Live at The Rathskeller, 5/17/79.

Okay, so they’re not girls. Nor are they as sexy as Hilary Duff. (Actually, nowadays they're probably all at least in their mid-40s.) Judging by the band photo that graces the inside of the booklet, back in 1979 they were going for that indie nerd look, completed by thick-rimmed glasses a la Elvis Costello and The Feelies.)

Regardless of whether they ever had "the look," The Girls never achieved cult status, settling instead for a footnote in the Mission of Burma-era Boston scene. The sad truth is that you can’t run out to the nearest online rare LP dealer and pick up a copy of their first album. They never had one. Matter of fact, The Girls’ studio output amounts to only a long-since-forgotten seven inch released in 1979 and a “reunion” twelve inch released in 1986.

Over the course of their relatively brief existence from 1977-79, they played approximately 40 concerts, mostly in and around Boston with bill-sharing bands like Pere Ubu, The Lyres (who they are opening for on this particular night), The Maps, and an infant Mission of Burma.

The Girls were the result of an experiment in an electronic music class, definitely not the kind of elective that one finds anywhere but a liberal college (the School of the Museum of Fine Arts). They were a collection of wildly-theatrical art school students—including Robin Amos, now of Cul de Sac—interested in pushing the punk envelope into new terrain. According to the liner notes, "they were probably the first interesting band from Boston who owed nothing to the Stooges." (That's debatable, and I'm guessing these guys would be up for the task.) The liner notes go on to describe The Girls thusly: “Their homemade costumes and aggressive interaction with the audience ... resulted in them being banned from most of Boston’s populist beer gardens.” If I had a scanner, I'd do the group justice by showing you a few of the photos in the packaging (sorry, nothing was available on the web.) You'll just have to trust me when I say they took pleasure in dressing the part of a wildly-theatrical art school student in a punk band.

As for their music, think a frenetic punk spinoff of Man or Astro-Man? informed by a healthy diet of noise rock and Pere Ubu. Ubu frontman David Thomas actually produced and released the band’s lone single. It’s obvious to see how the band influenced Boston peers like Mission of Burma in both sound and vision. It’s also easy to see how The Girls obnoxious art-punk was ultimately of little concern to anyone but a handful of fans. It's over-the-top and long on attitude, but ultimately short on tunefulness. These guys, er Girls, had no chance of breaking out of the underground.

At any rate, this adequately recorded concert is worth a listen if you, like me, are into dotting your historical i’s. But it's no Hilary Duff, so don't get your hopes up. See the label, Abaton Book Company, for ordering info.