Monthly Archives: May 2014

Some albums are born to ignominy; others have ignominy thrust upon them. 1978’s Shakedown Street was born to it. An album this lukewarm, piss-poor, and downright vapid required the collective efforts of a band of once-innovative musicians turned consummate studio hacks, deadicated to the lowest possible common denominator. “France”? “If I Had the World to Give”? Didn’t anybody bother to inform the Grateful Dead you can’t smoke ‘em if you ain’t got ‘em?

No wonder Dead Cheerleader in Chief Robert Christgau was moved to write sadly, “I remember Robert Hunter when he was making up American myths.” And Bob Weir, whether he knew it or not, was speaking for the entire band on “I Need a Miracle.” Unfortunately, “I Need a Miracle” wasn’t the miracle the Grateful Dead needed. What the Grateful Dead needed was something more along the lines of a burning bush.

Shakedown Street hardly marked the beginning of the Dead’s slow decline from greatness. The slide began with 1973’s Wake of the Flood, and went from slide to freefall with 1977’s Terrapin Station, with its slick prog-rock, album-side-length title track and awful dancing turtles. To say nothing of the abominable “Dancin’ in the Streets,” which is less song than generally acknowledged symptom of complete artistic defeat.

I considered myself a Deadhead back then, and remember dutifully purchasing and listening to Shakedown Street and thinking something was wrong with me. Namely, that I was hallucinating. Could the Donna Jean Godchaux tracks be for real? Was the band’s cover of that hoary old atrocity “Good Lovin’”—which isn’t quite the last refuge of a band in the grip of utter creative exhaustion that “Dancin’ in the Streets” is, but you couldn’t slide a needle into the mediocrity gap between the two of them—really coming from my turntable? And was it possible this sad excuse for a Dead album was actually produced by the great Lowell George?

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Hype Machine-topping single “Anxieties” was a slice of blissed out British pop that came with the goods to back its meteoric rise. The newcomers have returned with a trippy little ditty that showcases their calming voices and penchant for soothing melodies.

Though “Pale Blue” sounds sort of like elevator music from Mars, there is something endearing about the earnest falsetto and pulsating drum machine. Interestingly enough, as the song moves along it wears out its electronic influence, turning into an acoustic lounge space odyssey through the stars. Half Mario Paint, half Kings of Convenience, all glorious warmth and color.

The combo kind of has a spiritual bent going on and it is nice to hear from such a baby band. One hopes to see more signs of this on their “We Are” EP which will be out digitally on May 13th.

of Montreal frontman Kevin Barnes is a highly accomplished musician. Each album he releases contains lyrics that represent a part of his emotions—heartbreak, depression, bitterness, whimsy, and joy. He attracts a large amount of fans due to his sincere, personal lyrics combined with catchy and danceable tunes. As former band member Dottie Alexander says in the trailer for of Montreal’s upcoming documentary The Past is a Grotesque Animal, “Either you’ve never heard of us, or we’re your absolute favorite band.” 

Each show is special and unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Seeing of Montreal live is like stepping into Kevin Barnes’ mind and experiencing the power of his imagination. It’s a psychedelic, theatrical experience. of Montreal’s show at the Ottobar over the weekend quickly sold out. The small venue was crowded with college kids who most likely grew up listening to Hissing Fauna, which is the ultimate of Montreal masterpiece and soundtrack to modern teenage angst.

Kevin Barnes was introduced onstage by David Barnes, his brother, who appeared wearing a luchador-type outfit. The rest of the show was filled with people onstage dressed as skeletons, a lizard woman, stage diving, and feathers shot from cannons into the audience. It’s hard to realize that although most of the songs the band performs have a joyful tune and can turn the show into a huge dance party, the lyrics reveal a harsh reality of despair and madness.

The band is currently finishing up their North American tour after being on the road since the beginning of the year. Before their stop at Baltimore’s Ottobar, I was fortunate enough to be able to speak to Kevin about the band’s documentary The Past is a Grotesque Animal, Georgie Fruit, and their most recent album, lousy with sylvianbriar. 

Jason Miller’s documentary The Past is a Grotesque Animal is screening in June in which you document your personal struggles. What made you decide to share such a personal aspect on film? 

Well, I think everything is basically available anyways, you know, because I sort of expose my personal life in my music and I don’t really have that many secrets. I guess I don’t really feel like I have to hide it anymore.

It seems like there’s a common theme about failed relationships in your albums. Is it easy for you to open up about your personal issues, especially when it involves talking about other people’s as well?

I think that how my music relates to life is a way for me to sort of work on things, so if I’m going through a difficult period in my personal life or psychologically or whatever, it’s put into the music, and when I’m writing I’m not really thinking about the outside world or thinking about how, you know, what they may think about the song being released or anybody listening to it and playing it.

And so, when I’m finished, I feel good about it. I feel like it’s a well written piece of music and there, the lyrics are in some way engaging or powerful, or whatever, you know I tend to just release them without really worrying about how, uh, it might affect someone else’s life. Which I guess I not very nice of me. But, at the same time it’s just the way it goes, ya’ know.

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I have hated Rush with a passion since the first time I heard Rush, or for 40 years, give or take a year or so. Rush exemplified everything I despised about rock: it was a show-offish band eager to demonstrate its sheer technical prowess and prog chops, fronted by a lead singer who screeched like a giant bird of prey. I reserved my greatest loathing for Geddy Lee, whose voice drove me nuts and whose bio I always felt should include a wingspread.

But recently I felt it incumbent upon me to give the Canadian power trio a second chance, probably because I’ve been so dead wrong about so many metal bands (e.g., AC/DC and Black Sabbath, to name just two) over the course of my long, strange career as a music critic. So I did something I’ve never done before: I listened to a Rush album in its entirety. I huffed Rush the band with the same avid dedication that I used to huff Rush the drug with my pal Dan “I’m Wasted Incorporeal!” Baker underneath the railroad bridge (now gone, alas) by the Littlestown Hardware and Foundry during the daily 9 a.m. coffee break, returning to the unspeakable tedium of my grinding machine with one walloping fandango of a skull-splitter.

And I’ll be damned; Rush isn’t half bad. Then again, Rush isn’t half good either. Let’s just say that Rush is better than I expected. Then again, I chose Fly By Night because it was recorded before the band started to devise 20-minute prog-epics with titles like “The Fountain of Lamneth,” and before lyricist Neil Peart’s hard-right turn towards science fiction and fantasy themes, to say nothing of the despicable objectivist philosophical notions of Ayn Rand. Such detestable subject matter—I’d sooner associate with Hirohito than a Hobbit, and that goes double for Ayn Rand—kept me at arm’s length from the band for eons, and I wasn’t sure I could give their later work a fair shake even now. When I hear the words “fantasy” or “science fiction” I reach for my Revolver—the Beatles’ LP, that is.

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If ginger-haired Ed Sheeran wants to sing, there’s not much I can do about it. Removal of a person’s vocal chords without their express permission is against the law, or at least it was the last time I checked.

Which is unfortunate in the perpetually breathless English singer-songwriter’s case, as his “Sing” just happens to be the most irritating song to invite itself into our eardrums in eons, thanks in large part to Sheeran’s annoyingly piercing falsetto and a cringe-worthy set of lyrics: “I want you to be my lady/To hold your body close/Take another step into the no-man’s land/For the longest time lady.” Hey, he called himself a no-man’s land, I didn’t. Having watched him on Saturday Night Live, I would have chosen “soleless, worn-out wallabee.”

I may as well confess to a prejudice against terminally pale gits who strive to get funky. In Ed’s case, this consists of singing “Oh oh oh, oh oh oh” over and over again. I count 73 “ohs” in “Sing,” which lasts exactly 3 minutes and 53 seconds, and that’s not good. Its number of “ohs” is almost exactly your annual recommended safety allowance, which means that if you listen to “Sing” but once, even by accident, you won’t be able to listen to another “Oh” all year long, at least without contracting incurable lip rickets.

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Born in Australia (where the Bee Gees and the Go-Betweens began), influenced by neighboring New Zealand (where the Flying Nun label sprang to life), extended visitors to New York (where The Velvet Underground forever altered music history) and England (where Syd Barrett lived with his Mum); The Moles surely have an interesting tale to tell. With Fire Records’ release of the enormously worthwhile retrospective Flashbacks and Dream Sequences: The Story of The Moles, their narrative is set effectively into motion through the label’s characteristically exhaustive aplomb.

Carl Zadro, Glenn Fredericks, Richard Davies, and Warren Armstrong formed The Moles in Sydney Australia in the late-‘80s. They kicked up a little dust, bailed on the home country for potentially greener pastures (like many Aussie groups before them), and issued some high-quality but underappreciated records as they reportedly got gobsmacked by the sheer bustle of Gotham.

From there they cut a Peel Session, only to have their selfish nogoodnik manager rip off the fee to fund his personal drug/sex/party weekend (I know, what an utter shit), and then inevitably broke up. Afterward, with the blessing of the other members, Davies made one more Moles disc essentially as a solo artist with some estimable guests including Hamish Kilgour from The Clean and David Newgarden of ‘90s indie supergroup Run On and then retired the name for good.

And as Flashbacks and Dream Sequences methodically unwound, I can’t deny that it inspired in me a growing sense of nostalgia. Indeed, as I get better acquainted with this very welcome and completely necessary collection of tracks, 35 of them in all completing an almost formidably abundant 2LP/2CD package, I’m reliably transported roughly a quarter century back to the moment, shortly before the explosion of Grunge, when lo-fi indie rock/pop and noise all colluded to put a massive drain on my bank account.

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“I grew up in a house filled with music. My father is an accomplished blues harmonica player, and my mom, while not a musician herself, is an enthusiastic music fan. Perhaps that is why they were drawn together and eventually ended up with me. But, I digress.”

“As a child I remember my parents having this huge Hi Fi system, and at its center, a record player. I used to leaf through shelves and shelves of records checking out all the cool artwork and inserts. Everything from Joni Mitchell to Muddy Waters and Talking Heads to Johnny Cash. I remember being mesmerized by these large, collectible pieces of art. Every time my parents would have a party or get together, this record player became the supplier of good vibes throughout the house.

When I reached my teenage years, I started to realize that music was really what I wanted to do with my life. After I started playing bass and jamming with a couple of my friends, my father introduced me to the origins of the music I was into at the time, which were Nirvana, Pearl Jam, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, etc. This entered me into my second wave of obsession with vinyl.

I remember finding The Jimi Hendrix Experience record and going crazy. I would take the records and record them on to cassette tapes and play them for all my friends. I always found that the sound was so much bigger when I listened on the record player. So I took to spending hours huddled around the record player with my friends, taking in records by Hendrix, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and, of course, The Beatles.

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