Author Archives: Joseph Neff

Featuring Jon Schlesinger on banjo and guitar, Michael Kiefer on drums, and a dude named Steubs on mandolin, guitar, and electronics, More Klementines are far from a typical excursion into rock-rooted improvisation (if standard examples of the form do indeed exist). The self-assessment of the music as a “sort of Appalachian Krautrock” reinforces this, as does the trio’s use of non-standard instrumentation; along with guitar and drums, there’s banjo and mandolin. The results jazzed the participants, and it should also gas lovers of improv, psychedelia, and yes indeed, even roots mavens who like to take it “out.” It’s available October 19 as a co-release from Twin Lakes and Feeding Tube Records.

In its commingling of abstraction and intensity, a lot of hardcore improvisation can strike listeners who’ve thus far subsided on a musical diet of recognizable patterns and progressions (in a nutshell, form) as an arduous experience. After soaking up this eponymous offering of two side-long untitled tracks by the Connecticut-based More Klementines, I feel confident in declaring it a suitable point of entry for the improv-curious as it’s simultaneously poised to offer satisfaction to fans of the heavy-duty stuff.

This is in part because the players are no strangers to free-rock endeavors. Kiefer runs Twin Lakes, a label that’s activity might register as modestly underground, that is, until ya’ stumble upon Michael Beach’s Golden Theft, which stands as one of the best, and most slept-upon, riffs-and-songs rock records of this decade, but he’s also the drum half of the free-rock duo Rivener, whose releases on Twin Lakes have brought pleasure to many ears with a predilection for rock expansiveness.

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Distinguished for co-founding Throwing Muses, Kristin Hersh’s 21st century musical thrust has been dominated by the trio 50FootWave, and even more so her increased solo activity; six of the ten albums released under her own name have emerged post-2000. Recurring and ambitious, as Hersh’s prior set presented what seemed a hard act to follow. Rather than fall victim to the pitfalls of the repetitive (or the willful avoidance thereof), the noted self-multi-tracker just rounded up some frequent playing partners (including her son Wyatt) and tore into ten fresh ones. If it lacks the breadth and heft of her last, Possible Dust Clouds is tidy, tough and strong, and it’s out now through Fire Records.

Kristin Hersh’s previous full-length, 2016’s Wyatt at the Coyote Palace, combined two CDs with a hardback book featuring lyrics, notes, essays, and photographs (released through the music-related book publisher Omnibus Press), though a standalone 2LP version came out the following year (offered by Athens, GA’s Happy Happy Birthday to Me). In either iteration it connected as a major career statement. What it wasn’t was any kind of return to form.

It wasn’t even Hersh’s first music-book combo; that would be Crooked from 2010 (and regarding standalone tomes, she has more than a couple). Wyatt at the Coyote Palace did shape up as a highly personal statement that cemented the artist’s creative longevity as both remarkably consistent and persistently urgent (scenarios that have proved elusive for a significant portion of her Alternative-era contemporaries). And after time spent, it additionally registered as a hard act to follow.

The success of Possible Dust Clouds comes through adjustments in scale and delivery that are no stretch for Hersh. Therefore, they feel natural. Specifically, there’s a focus on a smaller trad-album length batch of songs, something she’s done more often than not in Throwing Muses and 50FootWave, as she opens up the recording process to additional players, an operating procedure (it should go without saying) of which she’s no stranger, though Hersh was in fact the only contributing musician on Crooked and Wyatt at the Coyote Palace.

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One can rest-assured that the reservoir of contemporary old-time artistry far exceeds the supply of new recordings, in part due to the participants valuing community, and live playing in particular, over establishing some sort of foothold on a pro career. Rather than watering things down or gussying them up for consumption, the best current wax in the old-time style manages to capture this emphasis on social music like a snapshot, and the self-titled debut from the Kentucky duo The Other Years is a fine example. Anna Krippenstapel and Heather Summers aren’t affectedly rustic, however. Theirs is a rich potency expressed largely through striking original songs, and it’s available now through No Quarter.

Some neo-old-timey stuff leans so heavily into authenticity that it begins to feel like theatrics; at the very least, an ear will find it extremely difficult if not impossible to misplace that it is young people playing music that’s significantly older than they are. Older than their grandparents, even. This quality isn’t absent on The Other Years, but by its end numerous moments have accumulated where the primacy of the old-time objective is augmented with creativity that’s considerably, and at a few points, arrestingly beautiful, and in a manner not at all discordant with the contemporary.

Along with guitar and vocals, Anna Krippenstapel bows the fiddle here, while Heather Summers plucks the banjo and adds guitar and vocals of her own. To hopefully offset the potential romanticizing of the “social music” idea (the term in this context spanning back to the middle of last century as a category of the Harry Smith-compiled Anthology of American Folk Music), Krippenstapel has prior recording experience, contributing to releases by fellow Louisville residents Joan Shelley (a labelmate and old friend of The Other Years) and Freakwater (she can be heard on their latest release Scheherazade).

Further breaking down the old-time mystique, Krippenstapel played violin in Vampire Squid, which by reports (there aren’t many) was an arty-metal band. What she and Summers achieve on this debut lands decidedly nearer to the moments in Freakwater that zero in on Janet Beveridge Bean and Catherine Irwin; there’s also the timeless duo of Hazel Dickens and Alice Gerrard to consider.

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Houston’s Charalambides have amassed over thirty full-length releases since 1993, with their output (a large hunk on vinyl) navigating the realms of acid-folk, psych-rock, and improvisation. It’s a significant accumulation of sound, but newcomers shouldn’t be flummoxed over when and how to jump in, as there is no better time than now through their latest; it’s out October 12 via Drawing Room Records. Charalambides has trio incarnations in their history, but the title of the new one gets right at their enduring reality as a duo: Tom and Christina Carter. With six tracks spread across four sides of vinyl, the byproduct of their union is exploratory, at times gentle and distant but intense and never unfocused.

The genres of acid-folk and psych-rock cover a lot of territory, so it’s worth adding that the mention of improv in the paragraph above (all three terms borrowed from the autobiographical description on their Bandcamp page, where they’ve attached the phrase “outer limits”) establishes an undeniable rigor, even as the music on their latest (and as its title expresses, a good representation of their discography as a whole) isn’t antagonistic or abrasive in nature.

A good litmus test for receptiveness to Charalambides would be how a listener feels about Jandek (and with emphasis on the listening and not just an appreciation of the latter’s unusual backstory). Now, some will say that if a person doesn’t know Charalambides they are unlikely to know Jandek, but I disagree, as a documentary film has been made and book chapters have been written on the guy.

It’s not just the shared locale (Jandek hails from Houston). It’s not just that Heather Leigh, who is one of the two folks to have filled out the trio lineups of Charalambides (and also half of Scorces with Christina Carter) has played live and on record with Jandek. And it’s not just that on the 1995 compilation Drilling The Curve Charalambides covered Jandek’s “Variant.” But put all three instances together and you do have a worthwhile point of reference.

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Of the bands that transitioned from the late ’80 US indie rock scene to the early ’90s major label lifestyle, few if any embraced hitting the “big time” with more vigor than Chicago’s Urge Overkill. While a certain Neil Diamond cover endures as their most popular song, the band’s first album for Geffen did make some waves, and if they didn’t capitalize on its success, it remains more than a footnote or a relic of an unpredictable era. That is to say, in 2018 Saturation holds up fairly well. Its 25th anniversary reissue is out now through Porterhouse Records in a clear blue vinyl edition of 1,000.

As a byproduct of a scene where the band t-shirt became an increasingly common signifier of “regular guy” bona fides (to the point where it was almost a uniform), Urge Overkill oozed panache. And as they barreled forth into the upside-down musical landscape of the 1990s, the band progressively cultivated an image as exponents of the highlife, to the point where gazing upon their sharp threads and soaking up the air of confidence they exuded, one could reasonably expect them to offer a sound in the neighborhood of neo-loungsters Combustible Edison.

Urge Overkill rocked it heavy, however. Indeed, early on they were occasionally tagged as noise-rock, with their debut EP for Ruthless Records, 1986’s “Strange, I…” recorded by Steve Albini. His studio touch on the record is considerably felt, but even at this point, in contrast to some of their subterranean scene peers (a handful of them also from Chicago), it didn’t connect as if they were brutalizing rock forms, but rather just kicking things up a few notches in accord with the u-ground moment.

The “Wichita Lineman” b/w “Eggs” 45, the band’s first release on Touch and Go, came out the next year. At the time, some lumped in the disc’s a-side handling of the Jimmy Webb chestnut with the cover tune fun and games of their labelmates Killdozer, but it was somewhat nearer to the more stone-faced tactic as employed by Big Black. Really, it was a harbinger of things to come.

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Johnny Cash endures as an archetype of American song, and his vast catalog is easily available for the hearing. It’s sensible to assume that every day new listeners are introduced to his work, but for those well-versed in it, the surprises are few. What about interpretations from other artists? Well, that can be a formidable task, but R&B vocalist Brian Owens is up to the challenge. With assistance from drummer Daru Jones and Robert Randolph and the Family Band, his new record gives a selection of Cash’s most beloved tunes a soul transformation, and the endeavor is not only an unstrained success, it’s often a delight. Soul of Cash is out October 6 through Soul Step Records.

I love Johnny Cash, but I don’t love him the way some folks of my acquaintance profess to. Those guys (and in my experience, guys it has always been) view any kind of non-reverent interpretation of Cash’s songs as a personal affront. As an example, once around 25 years or so back, I had a summer cookout, and a friend brought a friend. Can’t remember the cat’s name, but I do recall the look on his face when The Skatalites’ version of “Ring of Fire” started playing on the box.

It was like someone sauntered up and shat a big load right atop his plate of hot dogs. As the song continued playing he flatly stated something along the lines of “you just don’t do that to Johnny Cash.” I can only imagine what he would’ve done if it’d been Tom Jones’ (pretty dang good) reading of the same song. Spit out a lung, perhaps. This may seem a miniscule thing to remember after roughly a quarter century, but it’s remained in the memory because it relates to a broader question: exactly what kind of tribute befits a canonical artist best?

Straight covers of songs are often cool, but when it comes to stuff that’s been burned into the collective consciousness (with apologies to folks reading this who somehow aren’t yet familiar with Cash’s work), what would be the point? That kind of tribute isn’t interpretation, it’s impersonation. One can stick close to the source with fine results of course, but to do so out due to some sense of sanctity in my estimation is just bouge.

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Thelonious Monk was not only one of the most innovative pianists in the history of jazz, he additionally remains one of the vast form’s most well-known figures, though artistic achievement and height of profile still doesn’t guarantee that your live tapes won’t somehow end up in a dumpster. That’s reportedly what occurred with the documentation of the Monk Quartet’s March 5, 1963 performance at Odd Fellows Mansion in Copenhagen, Denmark. Along with the pianist, tenor saxophonist Charlie Rouse was on the bandstand. So were bassist John Ore and drummer Frankie Dunlop. Thankfully, the evidence was rescued, and it’s getting a multi-format reissue as Mønk on September 28 by Gearbox Records.

In pop, rock, and related genres, the live recording can occasionally encompass something great, but most often, the contents are eminently skippable, sometimes even by fans of the artists represented. In jazz however, performance documents are essential. Ellington at Newport. Coltrane’s Live at Birdland and his two sets from the Village Vanguard. Bill Evans’ Sunday at the Village Vanguard and Waltz for Debby. Wes Montgomery’s Smokin’ at the Half Note. Sun Ra’s Live at Montreux. A half-dozen by Mingus. Dolphy’s Live at the Five Spot. Shelly Manne’s At the Black Hawk volumes. Kirk in Copenhagen.

As the 20th century progressed, playing live (touring) in pop and rock became increasingly a promotional tool for record sales, but in jazz the gig (often extended residencies at specific clubs) was and remains integral; yes, as a way to pay the bills, but also as an endeavor in the betterment of the art. And as jazz’s commercial prospects diminished, players often went where the gigs were.

Europe was a common destination, even during jazz’s heyday, with Denmark especially receptive to the music. As listed above, Roland Kirk played there, and of course so did Monk, along with thousands of others; the amount of cash made by numerous small but dedicated labels in the reissue of recordings from Copenhagen alone would likely fill a few steamer trunks.

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Paul Collins is no stranger to this column. That’s because in the annals of power-pop, he’s one of the greats. But he’s also a cult figure, so the spotlight isn’t exactly preaching to stadium-sized choirs. Cult music can often be esoteric or challenging, but not Collins’; this is power-pop, after all. Cult subjects can also ooze loads of thorny personality, but the man seems like a nice, together guy. As an intro, one can check his classic stuff with The Nerves and The Beat, but Out of My Head, his latest available September 28 on vinyl, compact disc, and digital through Alive Naturalsound Records, won’t disappoint. In fact, by any yardstick through which melodic guitar action is measured, it’s a stone winner.

The thing, well, one thing about cult figures is that it’s often damn near impossible for them to conjure up new music that gets into the neighborhood of quality that spurred the belated “but have you heard” buzz in the first place. As said above, Paul Collins’ chosen genre works in his favor, as does the fact that he never had a Third/Sister Lovers period that leaves listeners agape with the tortured brilliance of it all.

Instead, Collins just dishes out rocking songs loaded with catchiness and most importantly depth, which keeps the music from wearing thin after repeated play. Backing this up: Out of My Head sounds better to these ears on the sixth consecutive play than it did on the first. It’s also quite the classically informed LP (in the pop-rock sense of classicism) without being belabored about it. That is, while certainly recalling the ’60s, it’s not retro (or even neo) in comportment, but as it plays, more than a couple of the songs might lead one to wonder if they are covers.

They are not. For the record, Collins sings, drums, and handles most of the guitar playing, while Paul Stingo contributes bass, harmonies, and most-notably, is the writer of the trim set’s first track “In and Out of My Head,” which springs from the Everly-Orbison-Pitney-influenced wing of ’60s garage rock, with the guitar big and the solo ripping; in another way, it’s a bit like the Beau Brummels on a Duane Eddy kick.

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Vocalist, guitarist and songwriter John Graham Mellor, better known by his recording and performance handle Joe Strummer, was a co-founder of one of the most important, and in the view of some, the very finest band in UK punk rock’s original wave. That would be The Clash, but the man’s activities preceded and extended far beyond that group, and on September 28 the Ignition label spotlights the results with Joe Strummer 001 in a variety of formats: a 4LP set in slipcase, a 2CD in slipcase, a deluxe 2CD with book, and a deluxe box set containing LPs, a vinyl single, a cassette, the book, and a handful of additional goodies. Totaling 35 tracks, including a dozen unreleased, it’s a stone-cinch pickup for Strummer fans.

It can feel (and will surely be read as) contrarian to say it, but I’ve never been greatly enthusiastic over The Clash. Sure, the first two albums, ’77’s The Clash and the following year’s Give ‘Em Enough Rope, are essential, and the third, ’79’s London Calling arguably so, but when they took a nosedive in quality after that they did so with gusto, following up a double album with triple album Sandinista!, a display of excess that no matter how well-intentioned sent them into a tailspin from which they never recovered, though folks who discovered them through the rather tepid pop move Combat Rock might disagree.

The bigger problem, at least for me, was how the band came to represent what I’ll call the Springsteenization of punk rock. That is, the Clash were often, and well into the 1980s after their breakup, championed as the exception to the rule that punk rock sucked. By extension, certain folks frequently openly professed Clash-fandom as a way to prove they weren’t complete moldy figs.

Now, most of my punk-loving friends adored the Clash, and I could surely listen to them (the good stuff, anyway) without trouble; merely appreciating the group wasn’t a problem. It’s just that loving their output while deriding the Damned and Buzzcocks and the Lurkers and yes indeed the Sex Pistols (to limit myself to a short list of UK outfits) was and remains downright suspect.

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While the output of Ostinato Records is still small, through the guiding hand of founder Vik Sohonie the Grammy-nominated label has already unveiled a deeply researched wealth of enlightenment succinctly described by the endeavor’s mission statement: “Afrophone stories from the Atlantic to Indian Ocean.” Previously, they’ve delved into the sounds of Haiti, Cape Verde and Somalia, and in 2018 have continued to travel, with the excellent new compilation Two Niles to Sing a Melody: The Violins & Synths of Sudan Ostinato’s second release to focus on the country of the title. Available as a 3LP gatefold on 140-gram wax with a 20-page booklet and as a 2CD bookcase with 36-page booklet, it’s out now.

Ostinato isn’t one of those late-arriving cash-in-hand labels poised to simply scoop up and platter the results of others’ diligence while reclining back as the modest profits and larger plaudits roll in. No, the label’s driving force Vik Sohonie is a true world traveler holding the passion of a fan, the curiosity of an archivist, and the desire to share what he’s uncovered. To an extent, Ostinato reminds me of a cross between John Storm Roberts’ Original Music label and the info-rich approach of Smithsonian-Folkways, or more appropriate to the current moment, Atlanta GA’s Dust-to-Digital.

If you want to not just hear the music of various global cultures but understand its context, Ostinato is a still young but reliably solid resource, and Two Niles to Sing a Melody only deepens this circumstance. It documents the era in Sudan prior to the violent coup of 1989, a fertile period described by the collection’s co-compiler, Sudanese poet and actress Tamador Sheikh Eldin Gibreel as “a time for culture, writers, artists, sculptors, fine arts, the musicians, and the people in the theater.”

It was time under the rule of Gafaar Muhammad Nimeiry, who seized power in 1969. He instigated a long period of support for the arts, though it was a political maneuver that as hardline Islamists established a foothold in the mainstream, was also ended by Nimeiry; in 1983 he imposed Sharia Law in Sudan with matters only worsening after Omar Al Bashir took power in 1989 (a coup removed Nimeiry three years before).

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