Hi folks!
Here’s a third round of reviews posted here and nowhere else!
(And below there’s a stirring tribute by our longtime writer Marcel Feldmar to the late Lux Interior of The Cramps who passed away recently in Glendale, CA, about five miles from where I have been the last six months.)
In case you missed my last “round two” post from two weesk ago, we had a nice backlog of several dozen reviews that there was not room for in the current issue 63, or we received the albums right as we were going to press. So again, I thought, let’s put them here for you for now so that you can still read them—and to give those of you who have not seen one of our issues before a taste of what we have been doing in our pages these last 29 years (wow, that’s a long time, isn’t it?). As promised previously, I will try to post them all, a dozen at a time, in this space. So keep checking back every few days and you will find more!
Note: I only wrote about half of these, so the author of each review is identified at the start so you will know who you are reading.
And if you missed the last two groups, those two dozen reviews can be read here:
http://www.bigtakeover.com/reviews/a-dozen-reviews-debuted-here-aids-wolfkoenjihyakkei-a-storm-of-light-behexen-between-the-buried-and-me-blackmarket-mac-blackout-bushart-california-guitar-trio-paul-collins-beat-the-crowd-dora-flood-and-mike-edison-breakthru-radios-live-studio
and
http://www.bigtakeover.com/reviews/a-dozen-more-reviews-debuted-here-eddie-the-subtitles-equimanthorn-the-furious-seasons-half-light-hellhole-hospital-ships-the-jealous-girlfriends-the-jet-age-juniper-lane-kid-montana-knitting-by-twilight-and-koufax
and the reviews were of: Aids Wolf/Koenjihyakkei, A Storm of Light, Behexen, Between the Buried and Me, Blackmarket, Mac Blackout, Bushart, California Guitar Trio, Paul Collins’ Beat, the Crowd, Dora Flood, Mike Edison, Eddie & The Subtitles, Equimanthorn, The Furious Seasons, Half Light, Hellhole, Hospital Ships, The Jealous Girlfriends, The Jet Age, Juniper Lane, Kid Montana, Knitting By Twilight, and Koufax
Regards!
Jack R
Here’s this week’s fresh dozen!
—
Kreator
at the pulse of kapitulation (double cd/dvd)
(SPV)
(by Bryan Swirsky) These German thrash metal gods have been around since the early ‘80s and even though they’ve just one original member, there is just no stopping them. Kreator remain one of the finest bands of any period in metal, and 2009 will be the band’s most productive year yet. In the meantime, headbangers will have this DVD containing the oft-sought-after, professionally-shot 1991 Live in Berlin concert to keep them sated. Also included is a documentary as well as the notorious horror movie the band had a hand in directing, humbly entitled Hallucination Comas. The CD is the DVD soundtrack and is a welcome bonus. Brilliant and deserving of many hails! (spvusa.com)
The Lines
memory span
(Acute/Car Park)
(by Terry Banks) Plumbing the depths of obscurity to find artists worthy of a second look (or even a first one) has always been a prime tenet of alternative culture. You’ve heard the rap: “So and so was so great, it’s ridiculous he/she/they never got any further.” Sometimes it makes for great discoveries — other times, less so. Here are two fairly contrasting examples: Late ‘70s London art-poppers The Lines are simply aces – then, now and tomorrow. Spartan, aloof, and understated — but downright catchy about it — the 18-track Memory Span (covering the years 1977-81) needs to snuggle up with your old Cure, Only Ones, and Gang of Four platters and just, y’know, be. What a great record this is (for the stirring, funereal-but-sugary “Nerve Pylon” alone) — and extra points for the cool, info-packed booklet.
Loney, Dear
sologne
(Dear John/Rebel Group/ADA)
(by Jack Rabid) Now that Sub Pop has exposed this Swedish kitchen-sink-recording (nearly literally!) solo sensation Emil Svanängen, providing a U.S. issue earlier this year for his 2005 fourth LP,_ Loney, Noir_, it makes splendid sense to go backwards from there. And go you should: Sologne (named after a region in North Central France betwixt the river Loire) is the multi-instrumentalist extraordinare, angelic singer, and self-producing genius’s third LP, from earlier in 2005. And for those of us catching up in this reverse manner, it shows nil falloff in imagination, fragrant melodies, sweetness, crafted folk-pop arrangements, and Svanängen’s crowning immediacy. In my review of Loney, Noir, I drew comparisons to The Beach Boys’ last gasp of greatness, the Sunflower/_Surf’s Up_/_Carl & the Passions_/_Holland_ early ‘70s superfecta. But with now two Loney LPs to appraise, I discern some of the astonishing tenderness of the least fey/twee Sarah Records artists, the lightest late ‘60s Brit folk and baroque-pop, and more classic secular-spiritual Brian Wilson then the above-referenced four Beach Boys LP actually showcased. (He was too mentally diminished/incapacitated by then to run the show any more.) Svanängen’s perfect English and church ambiance remain strenghts, along with his impeccable, hushed engineering. And grandest of all, for all his approach’s stillness, his high, clear, boyish voice (like Ian Masters of the Pale Saints) keeps bursting through, like a rush of human warmth that fits as snugly in its environment as a kitten dozing in a fuzzy sweater. Sologne is again for fans of Nick Drake, Wilson, Bert Jansch, Donovan, Weather Prophets, High Llamas, and, for more contemporary orientation, Sub Pop’s brand new signing, Seattle band Fleet Foxes— judging from their one EP via Bella Union to date (might we humbly request a double bill on tour, since Svanängen has a regular touring band he uses?). It’s also, well, for anyone who wants to lose themselves in a charming record—again. Can the U.S. release of 2004’s Citadel Band and 2003’s The Year of River Fontana be far behind? (Therebelgroup.com)
Mindless Self Indulgence
if
(The End)
(by Chip Midnight) So this is what passes for punk rock with the kids these days, huh? Of course, punk has become a marketing term, and it’s being peddled to pre-pubescent kids every time they turn on the TV or go mall shopping. It’s not a surprise then that an electro-industrial-pop band with humorously naughty lyrics, programmed drum beats, and hyperactive guitars is gaining market share at a rapid rate amongst Generation ADD. The songs are catchy, particularly “Never Wanted to Dance” and “Get it Up” (featuring guest vocals from frontman *Jimmy Urine*’s wife, Chantal Claret of Morningwood), but really have little substance. If the idea of Orgy covering Marilyn Manson sounds appealing, this is the band for you. (theendrecords.com)
Pete Molinari
a virtual landscape
(Damaged Goods UK)
(by Jack Rabid) Although you’d think Chatham, Kent’s Molinari was a filly, not a colt, from his strong girlish voice, his throwback sophomore album has its pleasures. This friend of Billy Childish (whom he covers here) has been taken to task for channeling the post-electric ‘60s Bob Dylan. But I don’t hear so much of that outside of the near-tribute (“Absolutely”) “Sweet Louise” and the chilling, excellent closer “Lest We Forget,” which is also reminiscent of Jacques Brel’s “Amsterdam”—and, again, his singing sounds more like Joan Baez!— although I suppose he shares Dylan’s historic sphere of influences dating back to Depression-era Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly. Particularly the ‘50s, given the Everly Brothers’ sway of “Oh, So Lonesome For You” and “Look What I Made,” the pure Charlie Rich country (with lap steel from BJ Cole, whose resume goes back to 1970 Elton John through The Verve!) of “There She Still Remains” and “Dear Angelina” and the shuffling country-blues-folk of the opening standout “It Came Out of the Wilderness” and “Adelaine. Since the album is recorded at London’s Toe-Rag studios with its vintage analog EMI gear, these too-few up-tempo old-time boppers come off like something Sam Phillips might have produced for Carl Perkins at his famous Sun Studios. (Or Guy Mitchell’s “Singing the Blues.”) This would be a treat for anyone who thinks the American South in the late 1950s left an ultimate legacy, especially the gold Phillips set down on 706 Union Street in Memphis, and Molinari’s nostalgic bent is for a second time redeemed by his actual ability as a songwriter and Liam Watson’s piquant production. (damagedgoods.co.uk)
Mount Eerie
black wooden ceiling opening (cd + 10”)
(P.W. Elverum & Sun)
(by Tucker Petertil) Phil Elverum of the Microphones/Mt. Eerie has fallen under the spell of Norway’s dark metal, and with the help of Norwegian drummer Kjetil Jenssen of The Spectacle and Jason Anderson of Yume Bitsu, recorded this metal version of The Microphones. Luckily, a lot of the intimacy and charm of The Microphones still shows through, and how much you’ll like this depends on whether or not you have love for hardcore metal. The package includes a 10” vinyl record of six studio songs and a CD with 10 live tracks. However, the live stuff, while it may have been fun for the musicians, might have you trying to remember what it was about The Microphones that you liked in the first place. (pwelverumnadsun.com)
Nadja
desire in uneasiness
(Crucial Blast)
(By Paul Lemos) Touched, one of my favorite records of 2007, introduced me to the lush, often intoxicating, occasionally terrifying sonic dread of Nadja. Immediately, I was addicted to the slow, pummeling rhythmic crawl, recalling Swans, Jesu and Sunn O))) in its pure black hole density. It has, however, been no easy feat keeping up with the band’s output since this breathtaking introduction. Nadja has issued dozens of full lengths, eps and split releases on the most obscure labels. At some point, the quality was bound to suffer… Sadly, this is the case with Desire. All the usual trademarks of Nadja’s sound are present, but the sound is not quite as sharp, the atmosphere isn’t quite as visceral, and the structures aren’t all that different from what we’ve heard before. Certainly, the group attempts to move forward, adding live drums for the first time, but in the process, Nadja has dulled the razor edge distortion that is so much a part of its sound. (crucialblast.com)
Milton Nascimento and Jobim Trio
novas bossas
(Blue Note)
(by Jack Rabid) This sure “sounded great on paper”: The internationally famous ‘60s/’70s Brazilian star Nascimento, of the famous falsetto and beguiling light touch singing in tres romantic Portuguese, is backed by a trio including the son and grandson of brilliant ‘50s/’60s Bossa Nova founder and giant, the late *Antonio Carlos Jobim*—doing a number of gramps’ most revered songs, other nice standards, and new compositions by all parties. Given how well other veterans fared this decade when invigorated by younger blood—not just Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson—visions of similar new timelessness danced in my head. So why does Novas seem timid, too polite, and sometimes almost tepid to ears accustomed to the old gold of the feted, eldest Jobim and his work with Joao Gilberto (father of Bebel) and that of Gilberto’s ex-wife Astrud? It isn’t the fault of the players. Guitarist Paulo Jobim clearly admired his dad’s foil Joao, and shows similar restraint/spice. And his own kid Daniel Jobim, a budding star, evinces the playful sparkle that made bossa nova the loveliest of samba offshoots. And Nascimento? Refreshing like a summer breeze. The fault, then, lies in *Ben Findlay*’s mix, and production that captures everything cleanly, but a tad too pristinely. The vocals seem separate from the instruments, even obscured by them, especially the piano which, however sweet, renders the bass and drums almost inaudible—so that their subtle sway of wistful mystery is lost. This needlessly diminishes the soul quotient, even on such beauties as “Caminhos Cruzados” (recommended!), “Inutil Paisagem,” and the Vince Guaraldi-like “Medo De Mar,” Otherwise, all is not lost, for when one does get used to the sound, there is some sublime ensemble work and heavenly vocals, here. So close…
Nico Muhly
mothertongue
(Brassland)
(by Steve Holtje) Horribly disappointing. Muhly’s first album, while not groundbreaking, was at least near the cutting edge in the recent pop/electronica/modern-classical hybrid, and thoroughly enjoyable in its fuzzy minimalist mood music. Mothertongue, however, is constantly annoying in its mangling of texts/vocals (maybe Muhly’s just not good with words) and completely derivative in its musical style (Steve Reich should get royalties for most of the tracks here).
New Radiant Storm King
drinking in the moonlight
(Darla)
(by Jack Rabid) Eight albums, and this Massachusetts/NY four keep rolling. Not that they keep repeating themselves; in fact, having kept tabs on NRSK since their 1994 third LP August Revital (on the much-missed Grass Records), I find Drinking a small surprise. It’s friendlier, warmer, glistening indie-pop sound, closer to a Nick Lowe sort of singer/songwriter power-pop unmoored from their gruffer post-punk past. The closing “Fall Prey” is even Beach Boys/Gilbert O’Sullivan piano-proud. At first blush, it’s hard to let go of the more bracing rock of their previous, heretofore zenith, 1996’s The Steady Hand. Especially since, two years later, they begin with more of that bigger noise on “Soporific Slump. But with one exception, thereafter the guitars ring smoothly, coaxing with bright and noodly pixie dust instead. And it works. Perhaps all these years backing Joe Pernice in Pernice Bros. has rubbed off in a major way on co-frontman/guitarist Peyton Pinkerton, as for the first time, one could easily imagine Pernice singing (in that aching voice of his) these enchantments such as “Islander,” “Little Ice Age,” and the rhythmic “Undignified.” Only the occasional clap of a vintage big lead contrasts the chipper, chimey, mood that dominates—until near the end, when “Clouds Cover Everything” provides a throwback louder reminder that they can still bring the bigger clubs to bash. But otherwise, this is the band courting with fresh-picked flowers instead, and that more amorous approach suits them as well. (darla.com)
Night Ranger
hole in the sun
(VH1 Classic)
(by Chip Midnight) Does anybody really want to hear new Night Ranger music? I was a fan of their first two albums (_Dawn Patrol_, Midnight Madness) but even I don’t want to hear anything new unless it sounds like “Sister Christian” or “Don’t Tell Me You Love Me” (both of which are included here in the acoustic format as bonus tracks). The new album is top loaded with heavy guitar riffs (“Tell Your Vision,” “Drama Queen”), which were never part of Night Ranger’s arsenal and a few limp piano ballads (“There is Life,” “Revelation 4AM”) that don’t hold a candle next to “Sister Christian.” It’s time for these rangers to motor on away into the sunset. (vh1classic.com)
1997
on the run
(Victory)
(by Marcel Feldmar) This starts out with a mash-up sounding melodic rock anthemic mix between Alkaline Trio, AFI, and Jimmy Eat World, with a little high note desperation kicking out like a confession from a dashboard. The drums kick and roll like punk love, the guitars cut sharp, and the vocals saunter along those dynamic harmonic lines that have been traveled before. There’s some harmonica action, all emo-dylan across the post-something landscape. There is also nice back and forth male/female vocals twisting around the themes of love and loss, pushing the ache into angst, into energy. (victoryrecords.com)
—-
Saying farewell to those Rockin’ Bones
(*Lux Interior*, R.I.P., October 21, 1946 – February 4, 2009) By Marcel FeldmarYesterday, Wednesday February 4th, 2009, I was sitting at work, unenthusiastically skimming through some recent Facebook updates, when my eyes caught on a post from a friend – a shared article saying that Lux Interior had passed away. I stopped breathing for a second, couldn’t move, couldn’t be true. I followed the link, and read an article followed by already a hundred comments that all shared the same opinion… “What? No! That can’t be true.” “How do you know?” “What are your sources?”
A truly depressing way to end the workday.
Now, he didn’t know me, we never met, but on my side –*The Cramps* were like family. Extended family, sure, but alongside all the other musicians and bands that I love and listen to and have stood by me through the years, through growing pains and emotional changes, family nonetheless. My heart breaks as I think about those who were truly close to him. I think of his real friends and family, his band mates, both past & present, and especially Poison Ivy. My heart goes out to her right now, wishing her strength and love from those around her.
I feel like I have to; if for no other reason than to get some of this sadness and frustration out, write a little about what Lux meant, about what the Cramps meant, to me. About why I will miss Lux Interior, and why the Cramps will always remain musically close to me.
I do not feel the need or the urge to write every time a musician passes away. Some of the time it saddens me, some of the time it upsets or depresses me. I wrote for Joey Ramone. I wrote for Mark Sandman. I write for Lux Interior.
For me, Lux is tied to the Cramps. I don’t know him in any other capacity, just that of his voice, his music, his recorded iconographies and personal mythologies. I know that there was more to him than the Lux he showed us, but who he showed us was a part of him, and it will be missed. It will all be missed.
I’m sure I heard the Cramps in the later parts of elementary school, but I wasn’t really paying much attention to music at that time. That had changed by the time I hit high school, and when I started high school, the Cramps had just released their Smell of Female album. I had already missed, other than the random song here and there, the Gravest Hits EP, Songs The Lord Taught Us, and Psychedelic Jungle. I was a little busy adjusting, doing the high school high, so I didn’t get to actually hold a Cramps album in my hands until probably 1985 or so. The previous year saw the release of Bad Music for Bad People, and that’s the album my 15-year-old eyes hit upon. It was just a regular Saturday afternoon in Vancouver as I was doing my weekly Comic Shop to Zulu Records crawl. I was still a little on the geeky comic book side in those days, but my geeky music side was starting to get into full swing. I had joined my first band, I was listening to Velvet Underground, Jimi Hendrix, Flipper, Skinny Puppy, and My Dog Popper (who at the time I only knew from their one song on the It Came From Canada compilation – Acid Flashback – but oh what a song that was). Meanwhile, pretty much everyone else at school was either being all stoner cool and listening to Led Zeppelin, playing hacky-sack hippy with the Beatles and Bob Marley, or going the Miami Vice route and grooving to Tears for Fears (and not in a good way), Spandau Ballet, and A-Ha.
So when I saw that album, the bright yellow cover with the black drawing grinning psychobilly zombie skull punk (drawn by Stephen Blickenstaff on Halloween of 1983), I knew that it was an album to have. And I was right. The Cramps hooked me from the first note of “Garbageman”, and never let go. I never dressed the part, but from that moment on, there was always a little swampy psychobilly in my soul. Over the next couple of years, as my musical tastes were changing, I started hitting Nick Cave pretty hard, and going with the Gun Club. Maybe experimenting with a little Nurse With Wound and Black Sabbath (a nice mix if you get right). I went back and got the earlier Cramps albums – feeling so envious that Kid Congo Powers was a part of every band I absolutely adored – and I was loving every song. Psychedelic Jungle became my new favorite album, with “Greenfuz”, “Rockin’ Bones”, or “Green Door” making it on to every mixtape I made for at least a couple of years.
With every change I made, every city I lived in, every band I joined, every girl I dated, The Cramps were right there with me. They didn’t change like I did, but they were a constant and comfortable familiarity and steady source of enjoyment. It’s hard to trust someone who doesn’t like the Cramps, y’know.
There was nothing better than hanging out with my friend S. as we went on our late night walks through the graveyard near his house and then ended up back on his couch, listening to “Human Fly” and warming up with some whiskey, or walking downtown oblivious to everyone around me with “New Kind Of Kick” blaring through the headphones. There were moments when we would jam on a “Garbageman” at practice between songs or during a string change at our rehearsal space.
Then came A Date With Elvis, Stay Sick and bikini girls with machine guns were everywhere. After that, I left Vancouver, and was busy moving, living, and trying to figure out the whole life thing – so while the Cramps still played, I wasn’t listening quite as closely. I got to Colorado in 1990, and I do know that the band I joined in Denver, the Radio Junkies, were very influenced by the Cramps. That’s where I learned that what Lux and his music had given me was so much more than just music. The Radio Junkies sounded much more like glam rock T. Rex psychedelic garage pop than anything that could be traced directly back to the Cramps. It wasn’t the visuals, though I appreciated all the imagery, the zombies, the sleaze-queens, the drug addled teenage angst horror show freakouts, the aliens and monsters and prehistoric sludge. I loved it! It was the attitude, the D.I.Y true punk rock aesthetic, the style – the love of doing what you love, the love of being alive, and hell with what other people think. It was the freedom, freedom to create your music, your sound.
“what I don`t know can never hurt me
I live a life that`s working for me
what I respect you just can`t see
what you expect I`ll never be…”
That’s what the Cramps helped give me, and that will always be part of everything I do.
Years moved, I moved, the Cramps moved with me. In 1997, I was working at a record store in Seattle and out came the Big Beat from Badsville. That album cover hung on my wall for a few years, and that album made me feel like my friends had been away for a little bit, but now they were back, and I was so happy. “Sheena’s in a Goth Gang,” I would say to my friends, and they would look at me as if I was nuts.
In 2000, I finally met one of my heroes – Kid Congo Powers – sitting at a booth at the OK Hotel after he had finished performing with Botanica. I was drunk, but not too drunk. Drunk enough to have the courage to actually go over and talk to him for a bit. It was actually a good conversation, and not just the ramblings of some annoying alcoholized fan. At least, that’s what I like to remember. I met him again a couple of years later when he came through town with the Knoxville Girls, and he remembered me, so I couldn’t have been that bad. I do remember that we talked a little about Lux and the Cramps, though at the time, I was more interested in having some Gun Club conversation, and he pretty much said that Lux and Ivy were always more like a family than a band.
Then 2003 hit with Fiends of Dope Island and I was still working in a Seattle record store, though a different one. I really wanted to do a huge display, but ended up with a small portion of a wall instead. Still – I did manage to throw up a nice handful of Dope Island imagery, which was appreciated by some. One of the kids I worked with around that same time, J., was playing drums with the Makers. I guess word got out, or drums were heard, and suddenly he was flying down to Los Angeles to audition for the Cramps. We all wished him luck, and about a week later he returned, wearing a leather jacket and drumsticks still in hand, and said “I’m in the Cramps!”
I would love, one day, to be able to say a sentence that feels even remotely similar to that. So he ended up being the drummer for the band’s 2004 European tour, and then back to banging with the Makers, but still, an experience forever. That was their last official studio release, I think, although there is a compilation of some nice and rare singles and B-sides that came out in 2004, called How To Make A Monster.
I think what is most difficult about this, is that it doesn’t matter when it was. It doesn’t matter if I was aware of a new album or not, the Cramps were never missing from my life. The music they made, the music they inspired, the music of theirs that I loved was never far from reach. While the earlier albums had the most impact on me, personally, I have a sense that every album, possibly every song, is a classic for someone.
They are a cult, they are psychobilly, they are punk rock, and they are alive in the heart and soul of everyone who dares to look at the shadows that live within the realm of rock ‘n’ roll. Lux Interior was the voice of that. Perhaps he was the heart and Ivy was the soul, perhaps it was the other way around, or they switched back and forth. I don’t know. I do know that if Elvis was the King, Lux was the Dark Prince. He was the psycho-sexual monster from outer space that hid under your bed at night and made love to your nightmares, while seducing you and convincing you that it was all okay. It was bad, but it felt so good.
He was the swamp spitting hell-bound biker that kept you awake and watching for the surfin’ skeletons and the sleaze pit witches that would do their cannibalistic jungle dances as the astro-werewolves howled at the forever full moon.
He was Lux Interior, and he will always be remembered and heard, loved and missed, and the Cramps will be playing loud and forever, causing chaos at the gates of heaven and mayhem across the road to hell.
