It's nearly springtime. What better way to enjoy the new season than to listen to 4th in our series of podcasts featuring nothing but vintage late 70s and early 80s punk rock?
It will provide the perfect soundtrack to to strapping on your Converse® sneakers, which you can now wear without fear of stepping in a pile of slush and freezing your foot as it soaks through the canvas. Converse®: bringing you great sneakers for certain kinds of weather and the concept of anarchy®.
Earlier installments of our series are available here, here and here.
I'm fairly certain that nearly everyone who reads this blog is familiar with WFMU. Yesterday the station is began its annual fund-raising marathon, which will carry through the next two weeks. For those that know the station, I will remind you not to take it for granted and pony up some cash. Those who haven't... well, you've been missing out and I hope I can convince you to send them a couple of bucks.
WFMU is an outlet for creativity that exists entirely on its own terms. It's a cultural touchstone completely removed from the mechanisms of industry. In this day and age, this is nothing short of remarkable. I don't want to slip into punk rock/pinko cliché here but so much of mass entertainment media is controlled by small group of corporations less concerned with presenting the public with quality work than fiscal prudence. This is especially true of radio, where playlists are generally limited to a handful of already commercially proven artists lest listeners tune out upon hearing something unfamiliar. Even independent music blogs, ostensibly a forum for individual ideas, have become increasingly little more than outlets for publicists. The results aren't always pablum, but they are often enough to make one suspicious and cynical about the entire enterprise.
WFMU is a real alternative to the above, airing work by artists who are not, in the terms of the music industry, unit shifters. Each DJ is an unpaid volunteer who programs his or her own weekly block of the schedule. There's no "format," no program director dictating what goes over the airwaves. Thus, every DJ's show is a reflection of his or her personal tastes, varying wildly in content from person to person. The station accepts no advertising, which ensures that WFMU's DJs are unencumbered by any restrictions that could be imposed by commercial interests. For those who volunteer there, the only motive is passion to offer the world the type of programming they want to hear. It's a shame to know that culture presented by human beings rather than conglomerate groupthink is the exception rather than the norm. WFMU is not the only exception but it may well be the most prominent. Their continued existence is an inspiration to anyone who values art over commerce and the unique tastes of individuals over focus group reduction.
Of course, the ethics granted by the station's lack of underwriting comes with the price of having to ask their listeners for monitory support. So tune in (91.1 FM in the New York area), listen to their extensive archives, check out their innovative iPhone app and, above all, send them some money.
There's all kinds of prizes and thank you gifts for your donation. And if that's not enough, one of the finest rock bands of all time will be playing your requests in exchange for pledges on Friday night.
On Tuesday, Merge Records released Stroke: Songs for Chris Knox. The 2-CD tribute album is a benefit for Knox, who suffered a stroke last year. I'm not sure what New Zealand's health care system is like (I'm going to assume it's still better than that of the US), but all proceeds are going to Knox, who could apparently use the money.
The album is sure to receive some degree of attention, being that it contains cuts from the recently-departed Jay Reatard and the always-reclusive Jeff Mangum of Neutral Milk Hotel, his first official release since God-knows-when. Also contributing are many of Knox's New Zealand contemporaries (The Chills, The Bats, The Verlaines, David and Hamish Kilgour of the Clean) and more than handful of current indie rock superstars (AC Newman, Yo La Tengo, the Mountain Goats among others), all of which gives credence to Knox's influence over the past three decades.
Hopefully, this will not only ameliorate Knox's recovery but also garner him some additional fans. Knox's discography with the Tall Dwarfs, Toy Love and as a solo artist is extremely impressive, hitting a sweet (but not sugary) spot between perfect pop melodies and lo-fi noisy weirdness more consistently than just about anyone since. In particular, the Tall Dwarfs' Hello Cruel World (which collects their first four EPs) has long been a favorite in my household and is perhaps the best entry point for the world of Chris Knox.
Below are a pair of videos for songs both available on Hello Cruel World. Also, be sure to check out Merge's Stroke page for clips of each song from the tribute album. Full versions are, of course, available for purchase.
I've never been a particularly prolific blogger but I have to admit the infrequency of my posts has become a bit ridiculous of late. I mean even the Siltblog has outpaced me thus far in 2010.
So, I think it's time I made just a few changes around here. I don't know if there will be an "Indie Hottie of the Day" as I prefer to keep my self-gratification fodder private.
I had some ideas the other night after smoking some pot. (An annual event for me.) The following morning, I concluded that a few of them were actually decent. Also, there seemed to less peanut butter in my home than there was a day prior.
What's that line from the Effigies song? "When things fall short of expectation, it's time to redefine." Stay tuned.
French artist Céleste Boursier-Mougenot simultaneously creates something more rockin' than most of her countrymen who were actually attempting rock, and reminds me that I never should have bothered to pay money to go to the Cooler at any point during my youth.
This past month has been a rough one for the good guys. Between Conan losing The Tonight Show, the death of Jay Reatard, the tragedy in Haiti, the state of Massachusetts electing a right wing piece of beefcake to the Senate and our country's further devolution into corporate feudalism, this decade is shaping up to be even worse than the last one, which, by all reasonable standards, was pretty shitty. And, of course, there's the cold. Oh, the cold.
Perhaps we should all take some travel advice from the Young Canadians, who probably know from cold. Even if you can't afford a vacation to a warmer climate right now, this little slice of mildy profane pop-punk just might cure your seasonal affected depression.
Finally, each podcast is embedded in its parent post. Just click on the play button below (that's the button with the triangle pointing to the right) and you'll listening.
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When I first heard rumors of the passing of Jimmy Lee Lindsay, better known to the world as Jay Reatard, I assumed it was some nasty internet prank. With the recent Chuck Biscuits fiasco fresh in my memory and factoring in JR's propensity toward message board and Twitter feuds, it seemed like the most plausible explanation.
Sadly, the rumors turned out to be true. While many insensitively chimed in with some variance of "I'm not surprised," I have to say that I was. While the press deemed Jay Reatard as confrontational and self-destructive, I always felt that was a bit blown out of proportion for the sake of good copy. I saw him play at Cakeshop a few years back and he angrily confronted a fan, who had slam danced all over his pedals. Under the circumstances, "Get the fuck off my shit" seemed like a reasonable response. I figured that other scrapes he'd been in since were retaliations to much more pronounced baiting. I even thought urinating on his own bandmate while on stage was well within the realms of acceptable rockstar behavior.
There are certainly those more qualified than me to eulogize Jay Reatard. I didn't know the man. I'm not as familiar with his extremely prolific recording career as some. In fact, most of his formative work didn't do much for me. Upon hearing the Reatards many years ago, I was fairly unimpressed. It wasn't until a friend turned me on to Blood Visions shortly after its release that I finally recognized the guy as a considerable talent. I illegally downloaded Blood Visions upon recommendation and was instantly blown away. Mr. Reatard seemed to synthesize everything I love about punk rock in that one record, combining the angularity of Wire, the irreverence of Angry Samoans and the raw fury and velocity of bands like the Pagans and the Saints. After the album ended, I promptly got in my car, drove to the nearest shop and bought a concrete copy. I can't name another album that moved me to equal measures.
Blood Visions slowly gained momentum as a major release by a vital artist. Along with the praise, Mr. Reatard seemed to garner criticism from two opposing viewpoints. (Shot by both sides, as it were.) Some punk purists considered him a sellout, as he became more popular and his material became more melodic. Others dismissed his music outright as retrogressive trash. I can't speculate if any of these conflicts led to his demise.
What I can say is that I found his music incredibly exciting. His more recent "pop" direction may have lacked the immediate impact of his prior work but better showcased his ample skills as a songwriter. It also proved that Jay Reatard was not one content to rest on his laurels and simply churn out whatever made him famous in the first place, as so many lesser artists do.
In my review of his most recent album, Watch Me Fall, I opined that Jay Reatard had made a "reverse In Utero." I had no idea that similarly, its creator would be gone less than a year after its release. Watch Me Fall left me wondering what he'd do next. It's a great shame that the world will never know.
I had hoped to complete this best of 2009 podcast sometime before, you know, 2009 ended. However, I forgot that the time off one gets for the holidays are often just as exhausting as any working week.
Despite an informal year-end round up I posted, I have yet to compile a conveniently enumerated list of my year's top albums. And I don't think I will, for reasons better explained by Ben Tausig at Dusted. However, if you really feel you need a list, I will create and send you one upon request, though I must warn you that after the top spot occupied by Reigning Sound and a silver medal for Grass Widow, the order will be fairly arbitrary.
There are some folks whom I hold in high regard that did make list and contain a bunch of records that escaped my field of vision. (Field of earshot? Auditory range?) Check them out and see how many of these stragglers wander into my next podcast:
Or best new music vs best music of all time, Part II
December... when everyone around me seems to be participating in the same end-of-year activity while I procrastinate the inevitable. But enough about Xmas shopping.
Many music writers and publications are now releasing their Best of the Year and Best of the Decade lists. I suppose sharing mine is somewhat obligatory. I already did a preliminary best of the aughts earlier this year, which I am loathe to revise and rank despite the fact it might be the only list of its kind to not include Wilco, Radiohead or the Arcade Fire. I will, however, add a new category to spotlight a handful of albums I missed the first time around:
Oldie Indies Have Fundie Yo La Tengo And Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out Silkworm Italian Platinum Guided By Voices Earthquake Glue
I could probably also include a defense of the all-but-forgotten Hot Hot Heat's Make Up the Breakdown, which may have edged out the Strokes' debut for the best album of the last-night's-fucking-party, new-wave-of-the-new-wave, cocaine-and-tight-pants aesthetic so prevalent in the early 00s.
As for the music of 09, this sort of wound up the year of records I liked but didn't love. The album I (and more than a few others) were most anticipating this year was Tyvek's debut full-length. The general consensus was that its somewhat scattershot and sprawling nature was a letdown after the focused brilliance of their initial singles. I can't necessarily disagree. It's "merely" one of the best records of the year instead of the life-affirming event for which some were hoping.
The very mild disappointment didn't end there. Meth Teeth debut full-length didn't match the excellence of last year's Bus Rides EP, despite duplicating a couple of its songs. Likewise, Thomas Function, Vivian Girls and Thee Oh Sees all put out decent records that weren't as good as 2008's respective efforts. The Thermals follow up to The Body, The Blood, The Machine didn't have the impact of that record. (Though, post-Bush's America, could we expect it to?) The Box Elders debut was fine but just a little on the pedestrian side for my taste. I suppose I was expecting something a bit more "out there" after hearing the band talked up such a degree.
Nevertheless, I liked all of the above well enough and recommend that you hear them. I'll still take them over the lo-fi-approximated-for-emo-kids of Japanadroids, that obnoxious Das Racist song or whatever the hell Pitchfork winds up choosing as its record of the year.
There were some records that didn't let me down though.
Bucking the above trend, the Nothing People's second album is arguably stronger than last year's debut. The new Reigning Sound was well worth the wait. I dug the Girls album in spite of the hype. The Mayyors 12" lived up to the hype. Ditto for Kurt Vile's Matador debut. Times New Viking returned to form. Jay Reatard finally delivered a proper (and worthy) follow up to Blood Visions. The Fresh and Onlys' Woodist album impressed. Grass Widow mixed angularity and melodicism in way that never fails to charm me. Pissed Jeans dropped another impressive chunk of ugliness on the world. The new (and final?) Marked Men album delivered exactly what you'd expect, which isn't a bad thing at all. Daniel Francis Doyle and Sally Crewe and the Sudden Moves both released albums that totally flew under the radar but are well worth your attention.
Well, it appears there are over 10 records above, which seems to be the minimum round number needed for an end of the year list. I don't really feel like itemizing though. Why don't you do it for me and I'll let you know how close you are? I even bolded the band names to make it easy for you.
While you're busy contemplating the 21st century, I'm going to push the clock back about 30 years. I suppose I should really stop being surprised that obscure bands from New Zealand have videos, even if no one in the US saw them at the time. The prior discovery of clips by the Verlaines and This Kind of Punishment yielded no small amount of amazement from me but you'd think they would have prepared me for the clip below. However, this song pre-dates either of those videos (and MTV, for that matter) and it's for song from 3-track single, not a full album. Plus, it's not even the A-side!
With this wealth of videos for Flying Nun bands, how come I never saw any on 120 Minutes when I was growing up and taking notes on the whole "alternative rock" thing. It would have saved me a couple of years, at least. Dave Kendall was holding out on us, the ponce.
The folks at Paste magazine have given us a real think piece in their best of the decade issue on the evolution of the hipster. This probably would have been a bit more potent had the the Hipster Handbook not already mocked these archetypes much more effectively six years ago. That's not very deck. It's also a bit ironic as I'm pretty sure that every one of their selections for the decade's best music, movies, TV shows and books are issued to one as soon as they sign a lease in Williamsburg. However, I suppose it's ultimately a brave move as they run the risk of alienating their core readership on hipsters who love to scoff at other hipsters while denying their own hipsterdom. See you all swingin' on the flippity-flop!
Doug Gillard has accumulated quite the resumé as the guitarist for Death of Samantha, Cobra Verde, Gem, Guided By Voices and many other artists. He's also the author of one of your favorite songs. (That would be GBV's "I Am a Tree.") Before any of those bands, the 19-year old Gillard formed Children's Crusade with Starvation Army's Fraser Sims. With Sims on vocals and Gillard playing all instruments, the pair recorded an 8-song cassette-only release in 1984. By the time of their second recording session the following year, the band has been fleshed out into a full lineup, but Gillard preferred to once again handle all the instruments himself. The session went unreleased at the time as Gillard joined Death of Samantha and the group faded into non-existence.
Five years later, Scat Records issued the cuts from the final Children's Crusade session as the inaugural release in their "Cleveland Archive Series." Upon listening to them, it's hard to imagine that songs as outstanding as these sat unreleased for years. The A-side, "Blue Venus Aflame," is a six-and-a-half minute epic, sounding something like rougher-edged Roxy Music. (Not a bad thing at all.) The two cuts on the flip are also remarkable: the anthemic straight ahead rock of "Your Time Is Through" and the weird Gang of Four/Captain Beefheart amalgam of "St. Jack's Bible." Though limited to only 1500 copies, the seven inch is still available from Scat and will only set you back 3 bucks.
It's nearly springtime. What better way to enjoy the new season than to listen to 4th in our series of podcasts featuring nothing but vintage late 70s and early 80s punk rock?
