Greater Manchester’s most in the know radio host Shell Zenner broadcasts the best new music every week on the UK’s Amazing Radio and Bolton FM. You can also catch Shell’s broadcast right here at TVD, each and every Thursday.
“For this week’s ROTW we hurdle across Yorkshire from Sheffield to Leeds to another band I’m rate keen on! They’ve been special to my ears since the first handful of tracks I played on radio—they are Hookworms and their second album The Hum is another incredible release. I’ll be playing three tracks tonight.
This week’s #Shellshock is by Kate Boy. It’s called ‘Open Fire’ and it fills my ears with energy—let’s fill yours with it too!” —SZ
Tompkins Square’s excavation and compiling of 20th century American gospel continues with When I Reach That Heavenly Shore: Unearthly Black Gospel 1926-1936, 3-discs selected by esteemed record collector and producer Christopher King. Containing assorted vocal groups, guitar players, small bands, and ardent preachers with responsive congregations, the assembly is extensive and details one aspect of the post-slavery pre-Civil Rights black experience in America. The 3CD is out now; gospel loving vinyl nuts mark your calendars, for the 3LP hits select indie shops on Record Store Day this coming April.
When I Reach That Heavenly Shore is the fourth multi-disc various-artist gospel comp released by Tompkins Square, and when sets devoted to Bessie Jones and Arizona Dranes get factored into the equation, (with respect to Dust-To-Digital) the label sits at the head of the African-American gospel reissue class.
It’s definitely not a growth industry. This collection in particular is at a remove from the contemporary religious mainstream, and as the title of this and previous Tompkins Square gospel items show, the enterprise targets their product to the intersection of the musical and the historical (which is where this writer has a small but personable residence).
Well maybe not entirely, for Christopher King has chosen to forego the expected scholarly notes, instead including appropriate thematic verses of scripture from his father’s 1939 King James Bible. While dispensing with variations upon the phrase “very little/nothing is known about” probably made King’s decision easier, his approach is worthwhile in its reinforcing how these selections weren’t created for fringe music aficionados and that many of these pieces exist outside prevalent notions of artistry if not necessarily entertainment.
Have you ever loved something to death but were unable to tell anyone why? A particular mangy bong, a certain flashing array of exterior bar lights, that chimney atop the old house on the corner, your asshole boyfriend? Well that’s the case with Lambchop—the band, not the famous sock puppet sheep—and yours truly. I adore them, but I’ve always been loath to review them, because I’m afraid I lack the words to tell you just exactly what it is that makes them so goddamn great. Some things, as Samuel Beckett would have said, are Unnamable.
The Nashville-based Lambchop are singer, guitarist, and songwriter Kurt Wagner—who is never to be seen without some manner of non-baseball-related baseball cap and a graying soul patch—and a constantly shifting cast of musicians who on any given day may number as many as 14. They play an indescribable scramble of rock, funk, R&B, gospel, country, lounge music, and vintage folk that generally leaves you feeling either a lingering sense of melancholy (“Your Life as a Sequel,” “Slipped Dissolved and Loosed”) or joyously uplifted (“All Smiles and Mariachi,” “Your Fucking Sunny Day.”)
But those are just words; I love them because, because: hell, all I can say is check out “Give It (Once in a Lifetime)” from 2009’s Live at XX Merge on YouTube, and you’ll know why. (And if you don’t like it, we’re different species. You’re a wombat.) Or listen to “Garf,” which begins as a recollection of childhood only to make an abrupt left into this: “And I could be sitting/By the telephone tomorrow/To receive a call/By the overweight Garth Brooks/Who would then try to offer me/Like a hundred thousand dollars/Just for me to go the fuck away.” I laugh at the preposterousness of those words every time I hear them, but I don’t think that’s why I adore Lambchop either.
I spent my twenties in bars. And not high-class bars either. No, I exclusively frequented old man bars with glum duffers leaning silently over their drinks and paying no attention to the ancient television sitting atop a tower of beer cases, hole in the wall bars with big glass jars of pickled eggs dating back to the Kennedy Administration, dim dive bars with broken furniture piled in the corners, small town Maryland bars with stickers reading “The KKK is Watching You” in the urinals (for real), and best of all, a bar in a bad neighborhood in North Philly where you had to be buzzed in and which was run by a sullen bullet-headed old man who was guilty of WWII war crimes, I’m certain of it, and who put up signs prohibiting every known form of barroom amusement, including dancing, swearing, sitting on the pool table, spitting, and for all I know laughing. You could have a good time there, if you sat very still and didn’t mention the Nuremburg Trials.
I bring all this up because Providence, Rhode Island’s Deer Tick is responsible for one of the greatest bar room tunes I’ve ever heard. It’s called “Let’s All Go to the Bar,” and it captures precisely the minor league Bukowskian spirit of my younger years. It comes off their 2011 LP Divine Providence, which I like better than its predecessors because it’s raucous and high-spirited, or at least its best songs are.
And that’s no accident. The band wanted to release an LP that captured the “the raw and spontaneous kerosene blaze” of their live shows, and they’ve succeeded, for the most part. The album includes plenty of good time bordering on maybe I ought to go to rehab music, and if that bullet-headed old war criminal’s bar had had a jukebox, “Let’s All Go to the Bar” would have provided the perfect accompaniment to popping pills and drinking shots of cheap tequila. Alas, there was no jukebox. I suspect he was afraid it would tempt people to dance.
To find her voice as a musician, Rosanne Cash had to work diligently to move beyond the long shadow cast by her iconic father. In that journey, she felt compelled to move away from her native South and become a New Yorker, reveling in the creative chaos of Manhattan.
However, a series of life-changing events drove her to get in a car and drive across the South, visiting historic sites and touchstones of her early life. As she did, songs began to flow and she and her husband John Leventhal began writing what would become her new album, The River and the Thread, a concept album chronicling her recent travels.
Did moving away from the South help draw it into sharper focus for you?
Oh, yes. I think I pushed it away for a long time, it felt a little suffocating to me. In my mind, I was a New Yorker and I had to get away from it. I thought the South was in my past except for the people I love who are still there and I’m connected to. Two of my daughters live in Nashville, my sister lives in Nashville, my cousins live in Memphis, so I have family scattered throughout Tennessee in particular. But having a perfect storm of events happen in my life between 2011-2013 gave rise to a lot of songs.
Could you have written this record if you still lived in Nashville?
No. I do not think so. You have to get perspective. To try and write these songs there, it would have been too close. I had to let my heart expand and let down my defenses. That was crucial and my heart did expand when Marshall Grant died, when my friend Natalie Chanin taught me to sew, when I took my son to Sun Records in Memphis and to the place where I was born…those things were powerful.
What is it about the South that makes it such fertile ground for music, literature, and art?
I wish I had the answer. A huge part of this record is the mystery of that situation. As we say in “Money Road,” “we left but never went away”– that haunted quality stays with you. Why did Faulkner come from right down the road from where Emmett Till was killed and the Civil Rights movement began? Which is just down the road from where B.B. King, Charley Patton, Howlin’ Wolf, and Pops Staples started, which is next to where Eudora Welty grew up…you can’t help but be flabbergasted! My husband John and I kept saying, “What is it about the Delta? What is it?”
“I didn’t listen to vinyl when I was growing up. I listened to the Beatles on cassette in my Dad’s car. I listened to Jimi Hendrix on CD in my room for hours trying to learn how to play guitar. Then when I was about 16 my friend showed up at my house with a copy of The Police, The Singles on vinyl that he had bought at a garage sale for a dollar. He knew I was a big fan of Sting and The Police, and he just handed it to me and said, ‘Check this out, it’s a REAL album!’ In my head I thought, ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard about these.'”
“We took it over to my grandfather’s house (the only person we knew who had a record player) and cranked it up. His 1950s California ranch-style home had a speaker in every room; when the drums kicked in on “Roxanne” I felt like I got punched in the chest. The sound had this richness and texture I had never heard before…I fell in love right away.
It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I got my own turntable and started buying vinyl of my own. I bought a fresh new copy of OK Computer (one my favourite albums of all time), but otherwise it was all thrift store finds: Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti, Pink Floyd The Wall, Tom Petty, some Bjork, some Tom Waits stuff.
Any discussion of ‘70s-era pop-rock is incomplete without due time spent on Blondie, and vinyl mavens unversed in their essence can now play catch-up in one fell swoop for Universal has just reissued as a box set the six LPs from the group’s original run. As no-frills as its title, Blondie offers exact reproductions and absolutely nothing extra; the totality captures the heights and depths of a highly successful and influential band.
If the most commercially solvent entity to emerge from the ‘70s New York City punk/new wave scene, Blondie’s style, at least for a significant portion of their ’75-’82 existence, is most aptly compared to the Ramones. Purists may balk, but honestly I’d be perplexed if by this date on the calendar there are more than a handful of bitter goats clinging to the notion that Blondie were hangers-on or sellouts.
Spearheaded by vocalist Debbie Harry and guitarist Chris Stein and after early personnel changes solidified through keyboardist James Destri, bassist Gary Valentine, and drummer Clem Burke, in December of 1975 Blondie’s self-titled debut appeared via fly-by-night independent Private Stock Records. It didn’t shift many units, but their popularity surged once Chrysalis scooped them up, releasing Plastic Letters in the fall of ’77 and reissuing Blondie in the bargain.
There were lineup adjustments, with Valentine out and replaced by Frank Infante, who promptly switched to guitar upon addition of bassist Nigel Harrison. The membership remained stable until ’82, when disappointments revolving around The Hunter inspired a breakup. This collection doesn’t include everything; missing are the five illuminating ‘75 demos cut with Alan Betrock and the ’80 Giorgio Moroder collaboration “Call Me” from the soundtrack to Paul Schrader’s American Gigolo; instead it simply boxes-up the half-dozen long-players devoid of editorializing.
All of these platters were once extremely cheap and relatively easy to pick up used (though I’ve never glimpsed a Private Stock edition of Blondie), and I can’t imagine the situation has changed. But I realize there’s a breed of vinyl connoisseur equivalent to those licensed drivers who wouldn’t stoop to buy a second-hand car; bluntly, this set is for them.
As we noted last month in our conversation with Simple Minds’ frontman Jim Kerr, the ‘80s nostalgia circuit is the stuff of his nightmares. The co-founder and frontman of Simple Minds has been on a creative tear, breathing new life into his band with a brand new album that’s already being hailed as one of the best of their nearly forty-year existence. Big Music, out digitally on November 4 in the US (and November 24 on vinyl), is the band’s sixteenth album and is already garnering heaps of praise and comparisons to their experimental, moody, synth rock roots.
The Glaswegian band has undergone many personnel changes over the years, reinventing themselves out of necessity, evolving creatively as all good bands should, and doing their best to escape from the orbit of their “breakthrough” hit, the iconic ‘80s anthem “Don’t You (Forget About Me).”
While that song may have cemented Simple Minds’ place in popular culture, the band’s storied career spans sixteen albums—six of which were recorded before a single scene of The Breakfast Club was filmed.
“Vinyl to me is an event almost similar to cinema. You drop the needle and you’re in it, you sit down and stay for the whole show. Listening in a format that just draws you in.”
“My earliest memory of vinyl is sitting in a smoke-filled basement, at a local musician hangout, in my home town of Mifflintown, Pa. We were listening to Robert Johnson and Nat King Cole and I felt like I was transported back in time. The warmth and the scratching of the needle on an old record was so comforting and cool. These memories are fleeting, due to circumstances better left unsaid, but I will never forget that first, very vague, yet at the same time extremely specific moment in my life.
A few years later a friend loaned me a portable record player while out of town working on a film. I was living in a house on Kingsland Avenue in Brooklyn at the time, and lucky for me it was stocked with crate after crate after crate of records. Once I had my own personal turntable I locked myself in my room for a few weeks, and this is when I developed a true understanding and appreciation for these magical little grooved out disks.
There are a few musicians with the ability to use snark and satire to bash down the walls of conventionality surrounding our national obsessions. Tonight the guitarist tears into his annual “17 Strings of X-mas” presentation with characteristic aplomb at Snug Harbor.
DeGruy is at his best around the more commercial holidays whether they be sacred or secular. Describing his show as a “special assault on x-mas CULTure,” I expect humor, wit, and dervish-like attacks on his 17-string creation, which is known as a guitarp. Plus several well-known Christmas songs with “dubbed” lyrics as in the video below.
A master of the pun, DeGruy’s between song commentary, filled with sotto voce asides and “I just thought of this” comedic improvisational riffs, mixes a deadpan approach with more over the top witticisms than most “professional” comedians can muster in a month’s time.
Joni Mitchell’s discography gathers 19 original albums spanning from the masterful to varying degrees of flawed, a range highlighting her lack of artistic complacency. She’s had her share of compilations, and Rhino’s Love Has Many Faces: A Quartet, A Ballet, Waiting to be Danced is the third box set devoted to her work. Containing four CDs curated by Mitchell from a long stretch of productivity, it eschews chronology for a quite personal and sometimes frustrating thematic vision.
The first inapt tag I’ve read applied to Love Has Many Faces is “career-spanning,” its usage positing Mitchell’s musical activity beginning with 1971’s Blue. Indeed, nothing from ‘68’s Joni Mitchell/Song to a Seagull, ‘69’s Clouds or ‘70’s Ladies of the Canyon is included here, and it leads me to a minor quibble in the casual use of “greatest-hits” to describe this collection; a few of her larger singles did make the cut, but absent is “Big Yellow Taxi” from Ladies or “Help Me” from ‘74’s Court and Spark.
Given the specifics of this box, the omissions make sense. Artist-assembled and love song-themed (the subject nowhere near as constrictive as a Joni newbie might suppose), these 53 tracks essentially underscore what Mitchell’s made clear since the arrival of Blue; in particular, she’s anything but just another strumming folkie, and as Love Has Many Faces’ accompanying book rounds up 54 poems and six new paintings, at this late date it’s hard to imagine anybody lumping her into that bag.
“I am a painter who writes songs,” Mitchell is quoted in the press materials, and after spending time with the entirety of this set, at less than a minute shy of four hours long no small undertaking, I consider the key portion of her statement as “writes songs.” Over the years she’s done a good job transcending mere writing to enter the realm of robust musicality, though her self-assessment does differ, and at points substantially, with this reviewer’s evaluation of her oeuvre.
“Growing up my dad would often play his vinyl collection while me and my siblings would run around like maniacs. I remember The B-52’s playing in the background when I was very small.”
“When I was a little older I became interested in vinyl itself. I was looking through our vinyl collection and came across The B-52’s self-titled LP. I had to ask my dad how to use our record player, and once the music started I yelled, “Why didn’t you tell me about this band! I love this music!” Obviously I had heard this album before when I was young, but finally could appreciate it. This album was my idea of musical perfection. To this day I listen to this album and get those same butterflies. Thank you dad, for being awesome.
As a teenager I became captivated by the Detroit art-punk scene. Bands of this scene included Whirlwind Heat, Jaime Easter, Adult., Tamion 12-Inch, and Genders. I became friends with Evan Johnson, who played in the two-peice avant-garde band Genders. Being a very shy girl it was difficult for me to discover new music. Evan introduced me to a lot of the bands I still call my favorites to this day. He introduced me to new music as well as the classics: The Slits, T.Rex, Throbbing Gristle, and Delta 5, to name a few.
All jokes aside, New Jersey is a pretty great place. While it has a lot of offer as a state, it also has a rich musical history that many people remain unaware of. Everyone knows about Springsteen and Sinatra, but there’s more out there too, including a diverse current music scene.
Tune in to Garden State Sound with Evan Toth to explore music with connections to New Jersey. You will hear in-depth interviews with some of Jersey’s best music makers and have the opportunity win tickets to some of the best concerts in the state.
Garden State Sound is hosted by longtime NJ radio personality and musician Evan Toth on WFDU.FM.
“Here comes winter. Thanksgiving is behind us and the Christmas holidays loom large. The highways are packed, the sales are vicious, and America’s children are making lists. It’s time to slow down and take stock; to stare into the abyss of the holiday shuffle in a removed and peaceful way.
This week, we calm down. We explore some NJ poets, talk about Sinatra, address the Yo La Tengo ticket giveaway, and cull through some NJ music, but with peace and serenity being the goal. Tune in and put your feet up.” —EZT
The self-produced, “Honey, Don’t” by NYC based singer-songwriter Katie Buchanan is an exercise in compelling and emotive pop.
In a striking move, the track opens with a thundering ambience, accompanied by Katie’s acoustic strumming and steady vocal. Before you have a chance to melt into its home-spun vibe, this deceptively sparse opening falls away and we find ourselves in the arms of a wide-open pop song equipped with a stuttering electronic beat and moody chorus.
Though “Honey, Don’t” is an exception with its rainy day atmosphere, Buchanan’s esthetic is usually steeped in sun soaked production nuances which border on alt-country; a genre that made a big impression on the songstress while growing up in Kansas. This crafty influence is subtly applied to Buchanan’s debut full-length, Glow which boasts an impressive knack for accessible ear candy, imbued with meaning and earnest sentiment.
“A John Waters Christmas” just might be the most genuine event of the holiday season. Coming up on its tenth year, John Waters’ one-man stage show has become a twisted annual holiday tradition. Inspired both by his avowed love of the holiday and his legendary drive to push the boundaries of good taste through humor, “A John Waters Christmas” is—like its eponymous star—warped, provocative, and deeply funny. (If you don’t have tickets already, don’t hesitate for long; many East Coast dates are already sold out.)
For those not in the know, John Waters made a name for making transgressive films before anyone coined the term, and is happily dubbed the “Pope of Trash” to this day. Not surprisingly, then, “A John Waters Christmas” is a showcase of the legendary (perhaps more accurately, infamous) filmmaker/artist/provocateur’s sardonic commentary on Christmas detritus, from hokey TV specials to holiday kitsch. But “A John Waters Christmas” also doubles as a method of catharsis for his audience—to those in the path of “the steamroller known as Christmas” which is, let’s face it, all of us.
John was happy to share his thoughts with us on the ironic and un-ironic joys of the holiday, his fascination with vinyl, and what it takes to get on his Christmas card list. We’ve also included his oddball holiday playlist to make your days merry and bright, if not a little bit tawdry.
As I was preparing for this interview, I recalled that my aunt let me watch Hairspray when I was probably about eight years old…
There’s nothing the matter with Hairspray. That’s okay to watch.
My parents were a little perplexed by that decision, but I think it started me on my appreciation for the bizarre and trashy. So, would you recommend that film to other kids?
Sure! I do! I get people now, all the time—and it’s really amazing on these tours—who’ll say to me, “God, my parents showed me Pink Flamingos!” When I was young, your parents had you arrested if you had Pink Flamingos. So, it has radically changed; it was probably their grandparents who saw [Pink Flamingos] the first time.
So, that’s changed and parents come now to my shows with their incorrigible children in a last-ditch effort to try to bond with them. [Laughs] I really respect that, but I always don’t know if it works or not because I never see them again! But I’m sort of touched by that they think, somehow, I might bring them together. It’s me or Columbine.
You’re one of those people whose desire to make fun of something is directly proportional to how much you love that thing—
But I’m never mean! I think that’s why I’ve lasted this long because I love everything I make fun of! I make fun of myself first! I mean, I started my career by calling my films “trash”—the local critics used to complain that I beat the critic to the typewriter.
