Author Archives: Joseph Neff

Celebrating Fred Schneider on his 70th birthday. —Ed.

Fred Schneider is famous for his work in The B-52’s, but over the years he’s also released a pair of solo LPs, the second of which found him in some unexpected company and delivering a set of pumped-up, punked-out mania. But ‘96’s Just…Fred isn’t really an outlier in the man’s discography, standing instead as a brief manifestation of an alternate career possibility that also reinforces how the ‘90s produced all sorts of unusual musical documents. The record’s charms could easily encourage a little bit of the ol’ pogo and might even inspire a few appropriate laughs, so in the end it’s very much a part of Schneider’s MO.

I can still remember quite clearly the reaction of certain friends and acquaintances over the arrival of Just…Fred, the out-of-nowhere solo record from instantly recognizable vocalist Fred Schneider. The general idea expressed by these folks was that in deciding to record an LP with a certain highly opinionated and defiantly indie-minded producer and a bunch of oft-noisy underground rockers as his backing, Schneider had suddenly, out of the blue, gotten “hip.”

To put it kindly, that assessment only made any kind of sense if one’s historical perspective spanned back to around 1988 or so. To put it less kindly, it was simply malarkey, a belief wrapped up in denigrating The B-52’s mainstream breakthrough Cosmic Thing and its smash hit single “Love Shack” as unworthy of any serious consideration.

That song’s ability to cross nearly any kind of social lines in its soundtracking of celebrations of all sorts has almost turned it into a cultural inevitability. If you’ll be attending a wedding party any time soon, the smart money is on hearing “Love Shack,” and maybe more than once. The groom’s grandma might even start a conga line. In this writer’s perception the tune has become so associated with revelry that imagining a person listening to it while alone in their abode, simply sitting in a chair and perhaps eating an apple, seems rather ridiculous.

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Extant for over two decades, Snowglobe has been described as a Memphis indie rock institution, with the foundation of this esteem grooved into a pair of fresh reissues. Listening to their first album, 2002’s Our Land Brains, which hit vinyl for the first time last November as a double set, and its follow-up, 2005’s Doing the Distance, also debuting on wax July 2, it’s easy to understand why folks would get behind them, or more accurately, stand facing them as they play a set of tunes; the sound is vibrant, also tough, and yet personable. The reissue of Snowglobe’s first album is out through Nine Mile Records of Austin and their second via Black & Wyatt of Memphis. Observations on both are found below.

The scoop with Snowglobe is that they formed not in Memphis but in Athens, GA in 1999 and with connections to the Elephant 6 neo-psych scene of the time. Specifically, there were ties (i.e. shared living spaces) with Elf Power and the Olivia Tremor Control. To put a fine point on it, Snowglobe aren’t an official part of the Elephant 6 Collective, as there’s no listing of them amongst the 47 acts ordered alphabetically at the E6 website, but their strain of psych-pop, regularly seasoned as it is with horns and strings, solidifies the association, nonetheless.

Circa these two albums, Snowglobe was (and appears to still be) comprised of Brad Postlethwaite, Tim Regan, Brandon Robertson, Jeff Hulett, and Nahshon Benford. On Doing the Distance, Postlethwaite and Regan play six instruments each (not including vocals), with Robertson playing five, so I’m dispensing with individual credits here, though I will note that additional hands do help out with strings and pedal steel.

I didn’t hear Snowglobe when these two records were first released (though I was aware of the band’s existence). Being introduced to both records now undeniably alters my point of view. To elaborate, I feel confident that the grade awarded to Our Land Brains below is higher than it would’ve been had I been exposed to the album in 2002.

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Based in Hoboken, NJ by way of Midland, MI, and with time spent in Chicago, New Orleans, and Albuquerque along the way, Tim Foljahn has amassed considerable credits as a guitarist, including Cat Power, Thurston Moore, and Half Japanese. But he’s also a singer-songwriter, with his skills in this regard fortifying the discography of the band Two Dollar Guitar (with Sonic Youth’s Steve Shelley on drums) and releases under his own name, of which I Dreamed a Dream is his latest. It offers writing as confident as the instrumentation is rich, and with diversity the ace in the hole. The album is out now on 180 gram black vinyl, compact disc, and digital through Cart/Horse Records.

Going way back to the Kalamazoo hardcore scene, Tim Foljahn was in Strange Fruit (aka Strange Fruit Abiku) with Steve Shelley, though like much of the best stuff associated with the HC era, their 7-inch from 1983 doesn’t play by the loud fast rules. Purchasable and perusable digitally with bonus cuts via the Bandcamp page of Shelley’s Vampire Blues label, it’s better described as an inspired mashup of dubbed-out post-punk, no wave abrasion, and art damage in general. There was a full LP, Sin Eaters Picnic, released the following year, but sadly, I’ve yet to hear its contents. Maybe one day.

Foljahn first entered my consciousness around a decade later through Two Dollar Guitar, and roughly simultaneously (I can’t remember which I heard first), as part of Mosquito, an intensely creative trio, again with Shelley and rounded out by Jad Fair, the estimable leader of Half Japanese, the u-ground institution Foljahn also joined during this very fertile indie rock period.

But to drive home Foljahn’s association with Shelley even further, along with helping to back up Chan Marshall on Cat Power’s first few terrific records, they comprised yet another trio, this time with Thurston Moore, releasing one 7-inch (plus a couple comp tracks) as Male Slut in 1995 before recording Moore’s solo LP Psychic Hearts, which was released the same year.

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Across two decades and seven LPs, Cécile Schott, who records as Colleen, has grown into one of contemporary music’s most reliably interesting creators. Schott, a native of France currently living in Barcelona, Spain, recorded her latest at home from October 25 to December 1 of last year, producing and mixing the record along with playing everything herself; the instruments include a Yamaha organ, assorted analog electronics, Moog effects, and her voice. That makes The Tunnel and the Clearing a truly solo pandemic experience, but it never registers as a compromise, nor does it even connect as an outlier in the fertile Colleen discography. It’s out now on LP, CD and digital through Thrill Jockey of Chicago.

Cécile Schott recorded The Tunnel and the Clearing last autumn, but only after a significant delay, having initially commenced her follow-up to 2017’s outstanding A flame my love, a frequency the very next year, only to be stricken by fatigue brought on by illness. Treatment followed, as did coping with the ensuing life changes. And then more. After Schott moved home and studio to Barcelona, the Covid-19 lockdown came, and then finally, there was the end of a longtime partnership.

By any reasonable metric, that’s a tough stretch. Although not autobiographical or confessional in nature, The Tunnel and the Clearing reflects these personal circumstances through emotional richness that’s heightened by Schott’s well-established attention to acoustics and her dedication to a wide instrumental palette, as she’s previously utilized the viola da gamba, classical guitar, vintage music boxes, crystal glass singing bowls, clarinet, spinet, and melodica.

It’s also noteworthy that recording truly solo is standard practice for Schott, though that doesn’t mean this time wasn’t distinct, as she has related how the long stretches of lockdown silence intensified her perception of music’s ability to express the range of human emotion. It’s also not her first time tapping into the potential of electronics, as A flame my love, a frequency featured two Critter & Guitari brand synths, the Pocket Piano and the Septavox, plus a Moog delay.

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As The Fall’s constant fount of creativity, vocalist-songwriter Mark E. Smith has attained a rare position in the rock pantheon, with the man and his band exhaustively covered in print form. And so, the publication of Excavate! The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall might seem an inessential item. However, the objective of editors Tessa Norton and Bob Stanley isn’t biography, but is rather to assemble between hardcovers a series of ambitious essays plus photos of front and back album covers, flyers, correspondence and much more. Delivering vivid portraiture of and perspectives into the environments that shaped Smith and his art, it’s out in the USA today June 22 through Faber Books.

Norton and Stanley’s objectives for Excavate! are admirably bold, but it still feels right that the book’s final piece is a eulogy, by Richard McKenna, that was published on January 30, 2018, six days after Smith’s death, for the website We Are the Mutants, of which McKenna is senior editor. It’s also fitting that his opening line functions a bit like tripwire for writers covering this hefty tome who might not have finished the text or indeed even bothered to begin: “Mistrust all eulogies containing the words ‘contrarian,’ ‘curmudgeon’ and ‘national treasure’: these are inevitably the work of hacks.”

It’s pretty clear the author was referring to those either choosing to or fulfilling the given task of eulogizing Smith in the period shortly after his passing, so that hopefully the next sentence in this paragraph will escape McKenna’s harsh judgement (but if not, them’s the breaks). If by now so well-established as to be considered clichés, in the admittedly short interval since his passing, “contrarian” and “curmudgeon” (we’ll set “national treasure” aside for a bit), along with an unquenchable thirst for booze, remain dominant aspects of Mark E. Smith’s persona.

Norton and Stanley’s book doesn’t refurbish his reputation but instead complicates the issue by delving into the outside forces that helped shape Smith’s perspectives and his art. That means the man isn’t always front and center, with the shift of emphasis onto influences artistic, cultural, and environmental driving home that Smith’s antagonisms weren’t kneejerk or for the sake of just being difficult (well, mostly), and that his grumbling and grousing ultimately stemmed from the same complex worldview that shaped his art.

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Celebrating Paul Mccartney on his 79th birthday. —Ed.

Paul McCartney was the member of the Fab Four that so many used to relish knocking around. Whether it was in spirited bar chats or animated discussions at parties, when the tide turned to The Beatles somebody could always be counted on for a hearty jibe at Macca’s expense. And in my above use of “so many” I’m generally referring to males and by “somebody” I’m specifically speaking of those who indisputably considered John Lennon to be the Best Beatle.

While for those truly devoted fans of the band there could simply never be a Worst, for many Paul was the Square Beatle, a designation not borne out by the facts, for he was as interested in the avant-garde as any member. Hell, in ’68 he co-produced “I’m the Urban Spaceman” by The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band for Pete’s sake, an act that places him rather high up on the meter of cool. However, others derided him as the Corporate Beatle. And yeah, it’s true that Paul never lost track of the business aspect of the whole affair, but his behavior in this regard hasn’t really played out as particularly odious in comparison to other rock star types of not even half his stature or talent.

But both Paul’s image and the assessment of his post-Beatle solo career has rebounded in recent years. Much of this might have to do with the constantly regenerating fanbase of the Four consistently growing older and perhaps letting go of the rebelliousness that inspired easy identification with Lennon or Harrison. It also might be related to the race for Coolest Living Beatle being down to him and Ringo “No More Mail, Thanks” Starr.

But seriously. In my estimation Paul’s general critical resurgence is a welcome phenomenon, if only because his first two solo records have finally gotten something approximate to the proper level of respect. And yes, for years I bought the baloney regarding the collective underwhelming nature of McCartney and Ram, too.

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Copenhagen, Denmark’s The Tremolo Beer Gut describe their sound as Surf & Western. That means not only do they emphasize the twang, but they burrow deep into the pasta variations of cinematic oaters. You Can’t Handle…The Tremolo Beer Gut is the band’s fifth studio full-length but first in six years, offering 16 cuts and a load of guest spots. While the sound can be assessed as unapologetically retro, there is a high level of smarts enhancing the sharpness of attack. As with their prior output, the Crunchy Frog label is handling this release in Europe, but in the USA, it’s coming out on June 18 via the combined efforts of MuSick Recordings of Los Angeles and No-Count Records of Seattle.  

Although I remain appreciative of bands that are dedicated to roots styles and general R&R simplicity this deep into the 21st century, I will confess to approaching the fruits of their labor with varying degrees of trepidation, as disappointment frequently arises. But it’s not a total wasteland. Preferable are the raunchier and more destructive approaches, but occasionally, a well-honed act acquits themselves through astuteness and sheer energy.

So it is with The Tremolo Beer Gut, who, save for the infrequent hoop, holler or repeated phrase, is an instrumental outfit that was founded by Jesper “Yebo” Reginal and Sune Rose Wagner back in 1998. Some may recognize Wagner’s name from The Raveonettes, whose popularity required him to step away from the Gut, with the lead guitar duties then assumed by producer The Great Nalna. He’s still in the band along with guitarist Jengo, bassist Per Sunding, and Yebo on drums.

However, this LP’s “Hot! Hot! Heatwave!” features some guitar playing from Wagner, his presence likely to deliver an added treat for fans after the long wait for this new record. And as the intensity of the track’s chiming motions rises, the thrust gets further boosted by the guest vocal interjections of Flavia Couri and Martin Couri, the duo that comprises contempo Danish-Brazilian guitar-drum bashers The Courettes.

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Chicagoan Thomas Comerford is releasing his fourth solo album, Introverts, on July 18. He’s drawn comparisons to early Wilco, which is apt as his work benefits from the heft and interactive spark of a multi-piece band, but more striking is the stated influence of Gene Clark and Tim Hardin, acknowledgements that reinforce his singer-songwriter bona fides. Like many who fortify the annals of the vocalizing tunesmith, Comerford’s compositions possess an instantaneous allure that only grows with repeated listens. His latest, which offers eight selections on vinyl and digital, is available via Spacesuit Records.

The immediate appeal described above is indeed right there in Introvert’s opening track “Not Like Anybody Else,” specifically through guitar strum that hangs halfway between Loaded-era Velvets and the biggest hit by Stealers Wheel (you know the one). However, the largeness of Matthew Cummings’ bass playing favors the VU side of the equation (definitely a positive), while the vividness of Comerford’s words establish him as an uncommonly astute exponent of the singer-songwriter tradition. Adding to this is distinctive inflection that at times recalls Bill Callahan and David Berman.

Don’t let those comparisons insinuate that he’s aping either of the two. It’s just that Comerford has a tone, likeably unsmooth, that’s well-suited for the flowing musicality of his delivery. Setting him apart is a lack of awkwardness or the idiosyncratic in his singing, as he alternates laidback flirtations with impassioned crescendos in “Cowboy Mouth,” a combination that’s complemented by the song’s almost soft rock feel, and with this ambience itself tweaked with effects-laden backing vocals.

As Introverts progresses, an alt-country-tinged sensibility does occasionally take shape, though it’s to Comerford’s credit that his strain of the style resists the orthodox. In “Three Sisters” for example, the hovering synth suggests a mellotron and by extension, offers a brief dalliance with cosmic country, though together with the brisk tempo, the track simultaneously gestures toward guitar-pop.

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When it comes to Modern Jazz trumpet, few were better than McKinley Howard “Kenny” Dorham. His credits are vast, including support roles, membership in cooperative combos, and as a leader. One of the best of the latter, Quiet Kenny, recorded in November of 1959 and released in February of the following year, is getting reissued by Craft Recordings for the June 12, 2021 drop of Record Store Day. Featuring an unimpeachable quartet with Dorham the sole horn, the record’s seven tracks transcend any titular insinuations of the tranquil. Instead, it’s a non-ostentatious display of collective mastery with Dorham in the driver’s seat. In other words, it’s a joy for the ear.

In my short capsule rave of Quiet Kenny written for this very website back in 2017, I offered that Dorham’s “stature as a major post-bop trumpeter has flagged not a whit.” Giving that statement some further thought, I’m confronted with the possibility that the high regard to which I referred applies mainly to heavy-duty jazz heads, a regenerative community that has kept Quiet Kenny and indeed much of Dorham’s output in print (on CD and now digitally if not necessarily on vinyl) for decades.

This consistency of availability can propose a consensus of esteem for the trumpeter, but it occurs to me that some folks in the here and now who are curious about jazz might not even know who the guy is. This is worth ruminating upon, for it was Dorham who stepped into Charlie Parker’s Quintet in 1948, replacing Miles Davis (Dorham’s recording debut began in 1945 on a 78rpm disc cut for the Musicraft label by Mercer Ellington and His Orchestra).

Dorham was also a Jazz Messenger (early, before that aggregation essentially became the Art Blakey Allstars), played with Thelonious Monk and Sonny Rollins, joined Max Roach’s Quintet after the untimely death by car accident of the trumpet phenom Clifford Brown, and to jump ahead to the ’60s, contributed to one of the true masterworks in the jazz canon, Andrew Hill’s Point of Departure.

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It’s the 21st year of the 2st century (if you haven’t already noticed), and Van Dyke Parks could really rest on his laurels. But no. Hell no. Instead of loafing during quarantine (which would’ve been totally understandable), he spent the time productively, collaborating with singer-songwriter and harpist Verónica Valerio on the 4-song EP “Van Dyke Parks Orchestrates Verónica Valerio: Only in America.” The two worked separately with their chosen musicians, exchanging ideas and building the finished songs over distance without having met in person. The music is as warm as a loving embrace, however. It’s out June 11 on 10-inch wax with cover art by Klaus Voormann through BMG subsidiary Modern Recordings.

Verónica Valerio hails from Veracruz, Mexico. Along with studying music at home and in NYC, she’s guest lectured on vocal folk music at Boston’s Berklee College, and has performed in Mexico, the USA, Europe and Asia. Valerio is well-versed in son jarocho, the Veracruz-based regional variant of the folk style son mexicano, but as explained in this EP’s promo text, from a young age she has sought to expand beyond the son jaracho tradition.

That Valerio initiated this collab is ultimately related to Parks’ talent and rep, but it also pertains to his continued relevance as an artist, this significance stemming in part from persistent open-mindedness (progressiveness if you will) that has allowed him not only to work with stalwarts of his generation such as Brian Wilson, Randy Newman, and Harry Nilsson, but also with younger musicians, and with seeming ease. His credits include The Chills, Silverchair, Rufus Wainwright, Vic Chesnutt, Inara George, Grizzly Bear, and notably in regard to “Only in America,” Joanna Newsom.

Parks’ excellence in the role of producer and arranger on Newsom’s Ys might’ve made an impression on fellow harpist Valerio, though the songs that comprise “Only in America” are stylistically distinctive. They are also beautifully sung in Spanish, with her vocals and harp (and occasionally additional instrumentation, such as percussion and violin) having served as the root Valerio sent to Parks for orchestration.

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Celebrating Gordon Gano on the day of his birth. —Ed.

If the 1983 self-titled debut by Violent Femmes is one of the hot half-dozen expressions of Teen Angst American Style ever waxed, then Hallowed Ground, the group’s still divisive second effort from the following year is one of rock music’s core texts in how to successfully flout expectations. It still succeeds greatly as a document of nervy conceptual growth and as a major breakthrough in terms of individual musicianship.

A lingering wisdom about Violent Femmes’ first album is that it inevitably landed squarely in the lap of any ‘80s teen that had grasped just how inescapably miserable was the struggle of growing up; the isolation, the hopelessness, the short highs followed by extended lows, the sexual overload, the distasteful omnipresence of authority. Instead of just internalizing this knowledge many naturally flaunted their alienation over this unrelentingly oppressive environment via haircuts, clothing choices, and most importantly artistic taste.

The strategic reading of Catcher in the Rye on park benches aside, music has proven a startlingly effective way of expressing that unsubtle concept of Not Fitting In. Indeed, music has long been synonymous with youth in revolt, and if circa 1985 one spied a surly, disheveled teen sauntering along the sidewalks of some suburban landscape with a sticker covered backpack and a Walkman, it was a safe bet that they were carrying a cassette copy of Violent Femmes in the pocket of their tattered thrift-store trench coat.

A true rite of passage, it was also an LP so ubiquitous that I have no recollection of hearing it for the first time; once someone was identified as belonging to the great brigade of young non-conformists it was inevitable that a more experienced member of this community would lend a helping hand and expose the newcomer to the alluring strains of Midwestern anxiety.

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