My buddy Steve “Pearly” Hettum has been running an Open Mic for a long time now. For many years he hosted the Wednesday Night Open Mic at Eugenio’s on Southeast Division to ever-increasing success. Steve’s good-natured affability and knack for commanding attention always served as the foundation for those affairs. Many of the nights that I was in attendance the room was filled with an appreciative audience for the long list of musicians who waited for their turn to play.
It’s been an ongoing battle for quite some time, one that Eugenio’s finally lost. Always low-key, usually acoustic in nature, live music at Eugenio’s has still been a relentless bone of contention between the restaurant and their neighbors: a recording studio. Ironic perhaps. Like a nut processing plant next to an allergy clinic.
And it’s well known that the hours between 7PM and 11PM are incalculably valuable in the area of music creation—that being the only time of day that many musicians are conscious and functionally cogent, to the extent that such a thing is possible. So the collision of forces would seem obvious. Here’s a clue to the outcome. That recording studio makes a helluva lot more money than the restaurant. Just sayin’. Game over. Money talks.
The upshot is that Pearly had to move his Wednesday Night Open Mic to another location. That’s easier said than done, I might say. Location. Location. Location. But, destiny and providence conspired when the owners of Duff’s Tavern recently opened up a cozy little club on the suddenly vibrant and hip Foster Road (we’ve seen it happen before on the eastside, first on Belmont then Hawthorne, now Division. Apparently Foster will be next).
The Starday Tavern at 65th and Foster is a narrow room with comfortable booths arranged down one side of the building and a bar running the length of the opposing wall. There’s a small stage to the left, just inside the entry and a game area at the very back. The place can’t hold a lot of patrons. But neither can Eugenio’s. That doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t jam a lot of people inside the place if the night is right.
So Pearly has moved his Wednesday Night Open Mic operation to the Starday. I think he’s been up and running about a month now. It takes a while for the energy around those sorts of hootenannies to take shape. Not all of the Eugenio’s regulars are likely to make that two-mile trek. But every week, so far, there has been a new twist to the proceedings, with an incremental increase in participation and a comparable membership upsurge in audiences of appreciative listeners.
On the last Wednesday in January, toward the end of the night, some newcomers took the mic. I’d seen Matty Charles around. He’s the good-looking, tattooed bartender at the Starday (I came to find out he also does guitar restoration and repair). Consequently, he’d poured me a few beers on a couple occasions, for one thing. I was also told that he has been a bartender at Duff’s, but I don’t remember him when I’ve been there. That, however, means absolutely nothing.
Matty Charles and Katie Rose
Thus, it came as a bit of a pleasant surprise when the evening’s bartender surreptitiously sat down at the mic with his guitar to perform an all-Americana duet with a tall, pretty, dark-haired woman named Katie Rose. And from the first syllables out of their mouths to the final note, their short set was entrancing. It just goes to show.
They reminded me most of Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris during the Grievous Angel period, although Matty has a better voice than Parsons, and Katie has less of Emmylou’s hickory pliancy, but a purer tone.
Still think of Parsons and Harris singing Lowell George’s “Willin’” (from Linda Ronstadt’s Heart Like a Wheel) and you get a good feel for their presentation in the plaintive “Glorietta.” “Had a drunk in Reno/Got a flat in San Antone/Met a girl in Chino/But I ended up alone.” I think we’ve all been there (figuratively, at least).
I didn’t get around to asking if their songs were originals, but I never heard them before, so my guess is probably yes. That being the case “What I Want” affords Matty the opportunity to explore the lower end of his reedy baritone register, recalling the forlorn nomadic reserve of Townes Van Zandt (“Pancho and Lefty”). He and Katie share a country twang in the rendering.
It’s a love-gone-wrong type of country song that tells a bittersweet tale of heartbreak, remorse, and regret-filled reflection. As a song, it could benefit from a bridge (an interesting twist might be a turn from the woman’s perspective, sung by Katie), but a strong chorus brings it home, nonetheless.
Though Matty Charles has been playing music for quite some time (in Brooklyn, apparently), he and Katie have only been working together for six or eight months, so it’s a bit of a new enterprise. Still the precision in the delivery of their vocals indicates obvious care and attention to detail in the creation. Having only heard them once, and briefly at that, I am not sure of their entire repertoire, but I would like to hear Katie in the lead vocal role occasionally.
And there is certainly no denying their very special vocal blend.It will be fun to watch the progress of Matty Charles and Katie Rose in the weeks and months to come. Look for them to open for Birds of Chicago at the Alberta Rose Theater on March 6th.
Photo by Jesse Newell
Look, too, for Pearly Hettum’s Wednesday Night Open Mic at the Starday on Foster to continue to grow and thrive. Since his days as manager for Billy Rancher and the Unreal Gods, way back when—Steve has always had the propensity for bringing people together to work in harmony. As we all know: that’s a real gift!
The width and breadth of talent that he helped to showcase at Eugenio’s is sure to follow him to the new digs. It’s only a matter of time. Matty Charles and Katie Rose have already shown up for a showcase and I expect they will be returning again quite soon. After all, it’s a very short walk for Matty from behind the bar to the mic.
Drew Norman is a lofty balsam among the abundant flora in our local music scene— one whose own magnetic roots burrow back the better part of twenty years. We remember him as guitarist of notable shreddery for Porcelain God, and the subsequent mach-two version: the Cow Trippers. There, he occasionally contributed the odd song, typically delivered in a gruff, somewhat salacious manner, perhaps in a community neighboring Tom Waitsville. It was back in 1999 when the Cow Trippers first introduced the strange character Professor Gall to the world, with their album of the same monikker.
Professor Franz Josef Gall, the Father of Phrenology
As the Cow Trippers’ linked review notes, Professor Franz Josef Gall, born during the enlightened era of the mid-eighteenth century, was a German physiologist, reputed have to have been the Father of Phrenology—which was quite a thing of which to be parent back in the day, one would assume: a footnote of medical quackery devoted to the study of brain functions attributable to the shape of one’s skull. And, certainly, who is there among us to dispute such a claim to paternity? Certainly not you, Bulbhead!
Anyway, as these things often go, about eight years ago Drew decided to grab the wheel of his destiny and steer his own ship through the turbulent seas of the regional music business, first with a solo album Safe at Home in 2001. But Professor Gall is now the captain of this odd little craft, one manufactured from some bodgy materials first milled in that Cow Trippers album back in 1999.
Professor Gall by RJB Photo
It’s not a sailing vessel, mind you, it’s a riverboat. There’s crazy cajuns wailing Hasidic Dixie niguns in a smoky, pre-flood 4th Ward dive. There’s cool jazz cats backing a honky-tonk cowboy aboard a beer bottle prairie schooner. The album’s only about half an hour long, which is just as well. You couldn’t take much more of this arid voodoo voogum in one sitting anyway. Wear a helmet, Easy Rider, you’re likely to fall on your head.
This is the Professor’s third voyage up the Nung with Colonel Kurtz to hang out in the Star Wars cantina. In 2006 he took the rig out for her maiden voyage with Intravenous Delusion. Then he followed with The Psychology of Booze & Guilt in 2010. It would seem obvious that the Professor does not view life lightly, but he confers his surly sermons with unique gusto and aplomb, so one is not always aware of the esoteric undercurrent flowing in the murky river beneath the hull. Cerebrate. Cerebrate. Dance to the music.
Andrew Alikhanov
“Nola” is precisely what you’d expect from the title: a big-beat zydeco jazz concoction of Dr. John vaudvillian proportions. Scott Johnston’s decorative sax and Andrew Alikhanov’s burbling clarinet bob and weave around a lyric that speaks to the soul of a proud city unwilling to surrender to nature or man. “Evidently no desire is too costly/to rebuild the spirit of this sacred place/ where every face is exempt from labels and the rant/where the raves are put into a pole position/and ageless grace is in full motion /and it’s through this code of humanity/that breaks the proverbial chain/and the wind never blows strong enough to turn that freedom train.”
The Professor in Action
Dark, prickly banjo pizzacatos bleed against John Stewart’s pounding kick drum, before “Somewhere Else” swings into a steamy Nuevo Piazzolla tango, sax and clarinet in lieu of strings and bandoneons, though producing a similar effect. The lyric wanders across existential terrain with the occasional ethereal turn in the road. Tricia Beck warmly embosses the vocals—perhaps expressing the basic duality of Man’s nature, singing “I’m a, a a fake/ and you’re not a REAL/and we’re not a here we are/Somewhere Else.” We shall be availing ourselves of this piece again later, in a different form.
With the longest introductory motif heard in a pop song in quite some time, “Nature vs. Narcissism” saunters along pastorally for over a minute and a half before finally kicking it up a few notches. One would be inclined to think the second section as the more Narcissistic between the opposing forces, Nature seemingly far less willing to put much energy into Narcissism—pretty much defining beauty and all.
But that’s where we would err in our suppositions, as that paradoxical introduction is fulcrummed by the telling verse: “as we peer into the reflective pools /we fall in love with ourselves /well Freud was in love……….with his MAMA.” From there Nature rampages a stampede fueled by the vanity of Humanity— not so much a didactic inquiry as a battle to the death. “So what on earth makes us think we can be one with nature /with what’s left of our heavenly place /in a forty foot recreational vehicle /a comfy starless living room on wheels /with a built in DVD /and a remote and a useless shelf /and basic Ode to Self, HA!” Rawhide meets Fiddler on the Roof, fronted by Captain Beefheart grabbing the bull by the Delta klezmer horns. No problem.
Monte Skillings (Photo by Chris Campbell)
The title track, a bracing instrumental, is a banjo-driven handclap hoedown barndance, augmented by crazy Dixieland horns: Johnston’s sax and Monte Skillings’ trombone, all propelled by some weird-assed strangled tom, presumably a bongo struck with a drumstick, veering like a drunken wooden-legged cowpoke with a bladder problem. [It would appear that the percussion was generated by Norman on a stombox and a banjo head, which in no way diminishes the quality of its impact, in fact, only enhances it].
Scott Johnston (Photo by Casey Campbell)
Off in a different direction, Doctor Drew moves into a Byrne-ian/Bowiesque vocal guise, gruffing and chortling rhapsodically over jingly acoustic guitar and a relentless locomotivic two-step rhythm. An XTCish sort of exposition, with an Hasidic nocturne of Steely Dan-style horns punctuating the onslaught. That is, until you reach the troubled prancing waltz of the midsection. At that point in the proceedings who’s to say where the hell you are, musically? This is uncharted territory. Every man for himself. “The unsacred cow will lead a miserable life/Devoid of cud and covered in mud/Reaching with his head through that aluminum fence for hay.” Sure. Then Johnston launches on an extended squirrely sax solo. Thank you very much.
The Professor revives “Somewhere Else” from earlier in the show, this time to invoke as a bleak, spoken-word incantation that treads turf trod by Tom Waits (oh, say “Chocolate Jesus” for starters) and Jim Morrison in their moments of sheer shamanic poesy. The mood and milieu of the Doors’ “You cannot petition the Lord with prayer” from “The Soft Parade” or the entirety of “Horse Lattitudes” from Strange Days, blows a windswept, prairie-wide breeze across the Professor’s fervent ghostly lines: “And there is no missing link to rid ourselves of this misdirected God/And there is no upright monkey, with a past address on Mars/Only the stars have infinite dirt.”
Standard Handcar
Last, but not finally, “Funky Water” serves as a satisfactory summation of all that has gone before. And there’s definitely been something going on here, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. The setting for the conclusion of our festivities: a Dixieland cabaret, infused with the essences of Raymond Scott and other jazz eccentrics (Carl Stalling comes to mind) who lent cartoons of the ‘30s and ‘40s their distinctive whacky soundtracks. Don Henson’s jolly rollicking xylophone, reeds, trombone, and Mark Chervin’s sassy muted trumpet ride Stewart’s energetic trap set like gandy dancers on a railroad handcar.
Professor Gall
Meanwhile the good Professor goes off like some crazy western yarnspinner character in an off-kilter acid-soaked rendition of Paint Your Wagon. “Well my boots are strapped with leather/but held together with shoe goo/If I had to skin a rat for dinner/I’d surely make the ghosts of Lewis and Clark drool.” It only coils off all Pynchon-like from there. The overall effect is stunning. Not quite like anything ever heard before that I know of.
It’s a metaphysical Dionysian steampunk gypsy caravan medicine show and I dare to ask, why not? Sure it would be easy to toss this album off as plain peculiar and just let it go at that, except this challenging music was entirely premeditated. It is articulated so precisely and with such gusto, and the lyrics are so mystical, in a genetically mutated, 21st century schizoid sort of sense, that there is no way in hell of explaining this rodeo—only to observe that it was all very carefully planned and executed with incredible proficiency.
It’s difficult music, not always pleasingly melodic, in the contemporary sense of the term. But then again Robin Thicke wouldn’t entertain the notion of calling his musical cartel Professor Gall, so all is well with the universe. But for those among of us who are tired of the same old thing, this heapin’ helpin’ of Bayou gefilte gumbo is sure to hit the musical palate in a spot it’s never been hit before.
It was in November of 1970 that notorious bon vivant and ferociously cranky rock critic Lester Bangs called Led Zeppelin the “ultimate Seventies Calf of Gold.” This was in the eleventh month of the first year of that decade, mind you. He wasn’t wasting any time. This proclamation came in reference to Led ZeppelinIII , which he was reviewing for Rolling Stone. And none too favorably.
Their third album deviates little from the track laid by the first two, even though they go acoustic on several numbers. Most of the acoustic stuff sounds like standard Zep graded down decibelwise, and the heavy blitzes could’ve been outtakes from Zeppelin II. In fact, when I first heard the album my main impression was the consistent anonymity of most of the songs — no one could mistake the band, but no gimmicks stand out with any special outrageousness, as did the great, gleefully absurd Orangutang Plant-cum-wheezing guitar freak-out that made “Whole Lotta Love” such a pulp classic.
In his defense, Bangs did go on to offer faint praise for a couple of songs as being “not bad at all.” And he was especially fond of the tender ballad “That’s the Way,” wherein “Plant sings a touching picture of two youngsters who can no longer be playmates because one’s parents and peers disapprove of the other because of long hair and being generally from ‘the dark side of town’.”
Through the dark glass of retrospect, some forty-three years later, that Zep album, in particular, is universally recognized as something of a turning point for the band. It set them free from the strictures of the blues—which had been their lot as the “New Yardbirds” of their first two records. It pointed the way toward the epic songs that were soon to follow: “Stairway to Heaven,” “Battle of Evermore” and “Kashmir” and all the others that incorporated traditional folk and middle Eastern music in new and unique ways that are still revered today.
Lester Bangs
Lester Bangs couldn’t have foreseen at the time what would fully follow with the legend of that band or with music in general. He died in 1982, just before the children of Zep (Van Halen, Metallica, Scorpions, etc) came into full recognition. That bunch was followed by another generation, ie Guns and Roses, and, uh, Kingdom Come, Black Crowes, Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots, and Porno For Pyros.
After them, yet another generation was begot in 21st century bands such as Wolfmother, White Stripes, Black Mountain and Rival Sons. It would seem Lester didn’t fully anticipate the extensive herd that Seventies calf of gold would propagate—before their reign was abruptly terminated with drummer John Bonham’s death in October of 1980.
Sally Tomato “Soup”
I first ran across Sally Tomato (named after a character in Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s) back in the summer of 2001 when I reviewed their debut album, Soup, for Two Louies—a recording that knocked me out for its originality and flair for the unique. I knew of Carlos Severe Marcelin. Before Sally Tomato he had been a guitarist for the folk/rock band Silkenseed, who put out a couple of albums in the ‘90s.
When Silkenseed broke up, flautist/vocalist Monica Arce retired to parenthood, as her husband guitarist Edwin Paroissien and vocalist Hamilton Sims went on to form Little Beirut, while Carlos and drummer Eric Flint joined vocalist Toni Severe Marcelin (Carlos’ wife—whom most know to be Sally herself) to create Sally Tomato.
Sally Tomato in Toy Room
In the years since their inception, in addition to releasing conventional recordings, Sally Tomato have regularly pursued non-traditional projects. In 2008 they produced the semi-autobigraphical rock opera Toy Room, which they performed that spring for three nights at the Wonder Ballroom, involving a cast and crew of many dozens. Critics deemed the musical’s effects “Bjorkish,” and the concept and production comparable to a “female-centric version of Tommy.” Combine those two elements and you have a good idea of the impact of the play. The DVD version of Toy Room has won awards at prestigious film festivals all around the world.
The Planets
Last year Carlos and drummer Eric Flint, “Sally Tomato’s Pidgin,” created an ambitious instrumental album, The Planets. That album served as a showcase for both musicians’ precocity, as well as a primer into the machinations of our very own solar system. For that release the band assembled a performance art installation, which they displayed for one day at Buckman Park in southeast Portland.
Sally Tomato
After preparations for a film were shelved for the time being, the Marcelins and Flint began looking for a new project for Sally Tomato. Last spring they hatched the plan to record Led ZeppelinIII in its entirety. Now, there have been countless Led Zep “tribute” ventures over the past few years, just in Portland alone. And that’s great. There cannot be enough Led Zeppelin tributes.
But, typically, there are two approaches to such things. The first and most common is to find a guy who sounds and/or looks like Robert Plant, learn a bunch of Zep songs and put on a show “bringing back the live experience,” etc. The second method is to gather a bunch of acts together and have them do their interpretations of Zep songs. Both techniques have their obvious advantages and flaws.
Carlos Severe Marcelin
Sally Tomato decided upon a third strategy. With Carlos performing as Jimmy Page and Eric as John Bonham, the duo pretty much re-recorded Led ZeppelinIII in the Tomato basement studio. The guitar tones are spot on. Execution near flawless. Other musicians were brought on board, as were needed, to fill out the occasionally complicated orchestration. Owing to the expert musicianship, the resultant instrumental recording is very close to the original in every way, without being a mere copy.
What the band chose to do at that point was something very unusual and it turned out to be a great decision. They brought in guest vocalists to sing Robert Plant’s parts. The result is that every song is instantly recognizable by its accurate instrumental environment. But then some other voice starts fronting the band. In most cases that voice is drastically different from Bob’s.
In some instances that voice is almost better suited to the particular song than Bob’s. It’s utterly familiar music you’ve never heard before. This is not a tribute album. Not in the least. This isLed Zeppelin III. But Robert Plant took a holiday for this version. So John, Jimmy, and John Paul invited friends over to do the job instead. This album certainly stands on its own merits and rivals even the original for impact.
Steve Wilkinson
Besides Sally herself, Carlos sings a song. Steve Wilkinson of Wilkinson Blades makes an appearance. James Faretheewell (of the Foolhardy) jumps in for a song. Former Silkenseed bandmates Hamilton Sims, Edwin Parroissien (of Little Beirut) and Monica Arce take turns at the mic. And Drew Norman (Professor Gall, Porcelain God, Cowtrippers) commands the spotlight for one song, as well as adding banjo and an array of guitars to several other songs. Among modest appearances by numerous guest musicians, Ben Schroeder is the key musical addition, contributing mandolin and violin to a couple tracks, and rock solid bass throughout.
Dave Friedlander
In an A/B comparison of the original with this version, the first thing one notices is that compression has come a long way over four decades. Engineer extraordinaire Dave Friedlander (see Pink Martini review last month) positively slams the mix for “Immigrant Song,” actually generating more power than Zep could muster (in 1970). The only thing missing instrumentally is a little tremolo-laden figure Jimmy lays in places on the right. Otherwise, this is it. Sally, supported by the eleven member Valkyrie Choir, gives the vocal a decidedly feminine perspective, but in the same vocal range as Bob’s “orangutan Plant” bellering.
The Tomato take on “Friends” is a slight variant, perhaps like an outtake. Schroeder’s violin is different in texture from the thicker violas found in the primary model. Sally’s vocals and the Valkyrie Choir lend the song a more ethereal component not heard in the Zep rendition. Friedlander’s magic is clearly evident here, with tricks at his command only dreamt of in those primordial days of rock. He adds subtle effects that contribute greatly to the otherworldly nature of the cut. Very cool.
Eric Flint
“Celebration Day” lacks a bit of the hectic, sloppy urgency of its predecessor. Sally’s vocal actually seems like an improvement over Robert Plant’s (her pitch is better). He sang the song at the uppermost range of his voice, sounding pinched and whiny. A woman singing in that register is not nearly so annoying, although no Zep head worth his salt would ever own up to that shortcoming in our golden boy’s vocal arsenal. Carlos carries out the prototypical Pag-ian pyrotechnics with characteristic aplomb. And Flint’s Bonzo excursions are certainly worthy attempts (if considerably less alcohol fueled), though far less squeaky.
Things heat up quickly with “Since I’ve Been Loving You,” the song the Zeps found one of the most difficult to render when they recorded it (essentially) live in the studio. Full disclosure, truth in music reviewing be told, I played the elementally innocuous organ part on this track—and it is obvious from the start that I don’t hold a candle to John Paul Jones’ classical training. Fortunately, Ben Schroeder’s bass more than adequately handles JP’s pedal work to rescue the day.
And in the end it’s probably just as well—as Carlos and vocalist Steve Wilkinson need all the sonic space they can get. Wilkinson absolutely melts the ones and zeroes with his searing interpretation of the lyrics. His is different, even darker than Robert Plant’s reading. Steve clearly makes the song his own (who’s this Robert Plant guy anyway?), wringing raw power and passion from every phrase, every guttural utterance.
Carlos’ molten guitar excursions rival Page’s for intensity. In the extended intro solo Jimmy rushes the timing before settling in with a fiery burst. Carlos is more of a controlled burn, soulful in tone and relaxed in implementation, calling to mind Carlos Santana.
Jimmy’s solo in the middle is considered one of the greatest guitar displays ever rendered in recorded music (check out what he does—rather effortlessly—around the 4:00 mark). That solo alone made of the song a staple of the band’s live shows for many years. Carlos holds his own in that battle, though his style is different and not nearly as blues centered as Page’s always was. Still, in the end the Tomato version of this Zep chestnut is certainly radio-friendly on its own terms, because of Carlos and Steve. It kills!
Valkyrie Choir
Carlos takes over the lead vocals on a groovy little excursion through the riff heavy “Out on the Tiles.” His sneaky, snaky cool delivery is an octave lower and diametrically opposed in demeanor to that of Robert Plant. The Valkyrie Choir return for the memorable sing-along chorus. Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah-ah. A fun romp.
A number derived from some of what Lester Bangs called the “acoustic stuff,” that has stood the test of time is “Gallows Pole.” Without the help of the internet, Lester probably didn’t know the centuries old history of the song (“The Maid Freed From the Gallows,” “Child Song 95”). The Tomato’s version is a bit shorter, with a bit less country jam. Still, it’s quite spectacular, nonetheless.
Hamilton Sims
Hamilton Sims fronts the procession, with Carlos on acoustic guitars and Ben Schroeder on mandolin and bass. Sims’ treatment is mellower at first, more quietly desperate in seeking his redemption. He begins the song an octave lower than Bob’s torn sheet shriek, before jacking things up midway to a fevered plea—Friedlander adding ghostly effects to amplify the impact.
Locomotion gathers increasing steam, with Flint joining Drew Norman as he steps in to pluck a banjo sprint over agitated electric guitar comping—provided by fourteen-year old Keelan Paroissien-Arce (Edwin and Monica’s daughter). Coming down the homestretch, Keelan knocks out a gnarled solo, portending for the foreseeable future a positive outlock for rock and roll.
Edwin Paroissien
The Tomato rendering of “Tangerine” is actually something of an improvement, in that Carlos is perhaps a bit more focused in the implementation of his guitars than Jimmy Page was when the song was originally recorded—the instrumentation and production are much cleaner. Edwin sings the lead vocal, joined by Monica for the high harmonies in the chorus. Edwin’s treatment adds a wistful quality and a boyish longing to the context.
Ben Schroeder (Photo by Chris Berry)
Carlos nails the 12-string guitar motif—though with electric instead of acoustic—that yields to the harder middle section (a harbinger of “Stairway to Heaven”). Drew Norman returns with flamethrower lap-steel guitar in the soaring solo (calling to mind Duane Allman), exceeding even the Pagemaster himself in sheer awesome force. Riveting. Schroeder’s hard-driving bass and Flint’s adamant drums propel the production forward. It’s another stellar performance, unique, yet instantly familiar and contemporary.
The band handles “That’s the Way” in similar fashion: a loving laudation with just enough special detail to make the arrangement quite distinctive in its own right, without departing far at all from its model. What’s different here is precisely what makes it special. Sally and Hamilton Sims share lead vocal duties, poignantly alternating verses. In the process they transform a “touching picture of two youngsters who can no longer be playmates” into a song about star-crossed young lovers—a moving duet between Romeo and Juliet.
She sings “I don’t know how I’m gonna tell you/I can’t play with you no more/I don’t know how I’m gonna do what mama told me/My friend, the boy next door,” to which the heartbroken lad despondently replies “When I’m out I see you walking/Why don’t your eyes see me/Could it be you’ve found another game to play/What did mama say to me?”
The instrumental components here are identical to the antecedent. Over Sally’s introductory intonations, Carlos’ acoustic guitar is matched with Schroeder’s mandolin and Drew Norman’s lap-steel guitar—more mournful and less busy than Jimmy Page’s. The aural composition is earthier, less airy and dry. Very nice.
Drew Norman
After Carlos deftly glides through the fingerpicked mastery of the extended intro (on electric rather than acoustic guitar), Norman steps forward for the scrappy tour de force “Bron-Y-Aur Stomp.” Invoking his Professor Gall personae Drew commands the vocal voodoo voogum with a bit more gravity than Plant’s more tentative assertions. He sets the mojo to “Stun,” working against his slithery resonator guitar (a perfect addition to the setting), pounding swamp stompbox, and the insistent march of Flint’s militant snare. Though not that far from the Zep edition, there are a lot of minor features in this presentation that are decided enhancements: specificially Drew’s gruff vocal and the delta guitar phrasings. Great.
James Faretheewell (Photo by Chris Berry)
Finally, what was a throwaway for Zep, the traditional blues-based “Hats Off To (Roy) Harper,” with just Page on bottleneck acoustic guitar and Plant on muffled harp-mic vocals, is transformed into a hard rocker with a sunny California sound. After a brief introductory interlude reminiscent of Dominic and the Dominoes’ take on “Little Wing,” James Faretheewell comes on like Sky Saxon riding tandem with Mike Love on a psychedelic surfboard, mumbling soulfully over the old I-IV-V.
The middle breaks sideways into a spoken word interlude (recited by Reverend Tony Hughes of Jesus Presley) called “I Hate the White Man,” written by the actual influential British musician, Roy Harper to whom the Zep song is dedicated, before veering back onto the Pacific Highway. Of the ten, this song sounds the least like the masters—not so difficult, seeing as how it didn’t have much of an identity to begin with.
Lester Bangs aside, Led Zeppelin III now stands as a groundbreaking album. It brought into clear relief aspects of English traditional music performed in a rock setting, a milieu soon imitated by the likes of Jethro Tull, Steeleye Span, Yes, Strawbs, Genesis and a host of others who used elements of British folk music in their presentations to greater or lesser degrees. Ultimately this album is father to all that.
In it’s primordial state, the parent album is a little loose. Performances are occasionally sloppy or spontaneous, or both. But the spirit of invention—especially present in Jimmy Page’s inspired feats of musical majesty are indelibly inscribed upon the pillars of rock and roll.
Carlos and Toni Severe Marcelin (Photo by Chris Berry)
Some might perceive an effort to reproduce that album to be an act of naive hubris. But, performed from a perspective of profound reverence and respect, there is genius here. Sally Tomato and Friends didn’t copy the original so much as assimilate it. They have made it their own and reconfigured, while never losing sight of the original blueprint. The arrangements, while instantly familiar, are not identical when compared directly. There are alterations and enhancements along the way—vocals being chief among them, but not the sole instances of divine kismet.
Led Zeppelin III is not a simple tribute album, but a sincere homage honoring the innovation that the original version spawned. What’s old is new again. And this recording neatly bridges the many years between old and new in inventive ways, panegyric to a legacy that seems secure for generations yet to come.
When Blitzen Trapper first came to the fore in 2007, with the release of Wild Mountain Nation, the band had already been in operation as a recording entity for four years with two releases prior to that. All the same their visibility on a national scale escalated incrementally from that point, with key support from Pitchfork online magazine, especially.
Before that third album had even hit the streets the Trappers had already signed on with Sub Pop to record a fourth, Furr, which they released in 2008. They made two more records for Sub Pop before leaving last year. Last spring on the band label LidKerCow, they re-released their eponymous first album on 180 gram vinyl, some versions of which contain five extra tracks (!). This is their first release for Vagrant Records.
So, that is to say that the band is now ten years old studio wise, and VII is their (as the title might suggest) seventh LP. Seven albums is quite an achievement for an eccentric little band from Salem—Typhoon also originally hale from Salem too. Perhaps there’s something in the Willamette down there. Whatever the case, Blitzen Trapper have managed to survive and thrive while remaining relatively anonymous in Portland.
The band’s career arc seems to closely resemble that of the Decemberists or the Shins (maybe on a somewhat smaller scale) in that they went national before they even had a chance to really go local. Esperanza Spalding erupted out of a vacuum, of course.
Some in the national press have lately remarked that the band has shucked its “Northwest roots” (however one might try to define those) in favor of embracing a more universal pan-Americana sound. But anyone familiar with Blitzen Trapper know that the evolution for the current species of the band began in the swamps of their earliest recorded efforts and are easily traced. So all that talk is a load of editorial hooey.
Eric Earley
Leader, singer/songwriter Eric Earley is renowned for his homespun, campfire canticles. Though he denies having been exposed much to popular music in his formative years, and admits to being impervious to most forms of media, trying to toss a lasso around his musical inspirations would require quite a lengthy rope. But Americana would certainly be a logical point from which to start pitching the twine. Still, the field of influence widens obtusely from there.
Perhaps it would be more simple to list where Blitzen Trapper do not go musically than where they do go (if, at times, only briefly). I have never heard them play classical music, jazz or showtunes. No world music. So far no musique concrète or dodecaphony. Uh… They don’t really do death metal.
To an extent, the band have become comfortable with themselves, with their musical niche. That much is true. Although there are always instances within any Blitzen Trapper production where one can find indications of experimentation. This complaint of “complacency,” which I have seen registered around, can be made of just about every rock band. Very few are able to move very far from their comfort zones. Some do better than others. But how far did REM get in thirty years, for example?
Blitzen Trapper
Blitzen Trapper have been lumped by some as mere ‘70s rehashbacks, which misses whole decades of intrinsic musical influence. So, I’m not sure anybody really knows anything about the band (including yours truly). Perhaps they serve as the perfect musical mirror. You hear your own eclectic tastes in what they play—a little something for everybody. I don’t necessarily agree with all the references others hear in their music, but I’ll defend to the expiration date of my driver’s license their right to hear it that way. Here’s what I hear.
The band tosses in the proverbial musical kitchen sink on the first cut, “Fell the Chill.” It’s a standard issue Earley fable, something about wandering in the woods with a rusty pail and stumbling across a woman in her underwear. Just the usual BT modus operandi. Vocally, Eric renders his usual Bob Dylan-like growl. But here a fine, gritty texture in his voice recalls all the best things about the late JJ Cale.
A cool, incongruent synth figure punctuates the turns, occasional harmonica wails for emphasis, while prickly country Tele and what sounds like a Clavinet mingle in a very unique melange. The not unexpected banjo peeks in and out in the hoedown near the end. Gifted engineer Gregg Williams makes Brian Koch’s drums sound like rocket fire—which makes sense since he drums with Quarterflash, as well as having served as engineer on many great recordings by top local bands. Ubiquitous musician/producer/engineer Danny O’Hanlon (a member of the Minus 5 aggregation among many other enterprises) is also on board to lend his expertise.
Eric Earley and Marty Marquis
A faint funk underpinning in the rhythm section drives the cheery “Shine On.” Eric Earley doesn’t really have much of a voice, but that being said, these guys do a lot with what he’s got. Here it’s as if Steve Goodman or Lyle Lovett were fronting the Black Keys. It’s a Column A/Column B thing with this band. Choose one style from each column and throw them together. It is true however that the Trappers often do create additional Columns of influence from which to draw on any given song.
This one has a feel as if it were performed by an Americana blues version of KC and the Sunshine Band. Ms. Liz Vice contributes soulful backup vocals. Slippery slide guitar textures take the song in a completely different referential direction. But that’s what it’s all about. A really fiery harp solo drives the blues supply side of this equation. Blitzen Trapper at their best! Ziggin’ and a zaggin’.
The parabolic quality of Earley’s songs is brought into clear relief with “Ever Loved Once,” wherein the band render one of what he calls “those songs I keep writing over and over again, with all its regrets and tragic lost love.” The lyric is matched with an urgent vocal melody driven at first by acoustic guitar, Neil Youngy harmonica and guest Paul Brainard’s (Richmond Fontaine, among many) familiarly mournful pedal steel guitar. Spry banjo and “Witchy Woman” era Eagles harmonies kick in windily after the catchy chorus. Classic Blitzen Trapper.
Here’s an observation as to why Blitzen’s music is misperceived by the rest of the nation. Most of the country has no idea what Oregon really is. They think it’s Portlandia and hippies and the Willamette Valley (Go Ducks! Go Beavs!). They don’t know what a hick state this truly is at its core. Look. I was raised here. I have lived among them. I am one. It’s a state full of hicks. Just about everything south of Eugene and east of the Cascades. You got it. Own it.
John Day, Oregon
So when the music aficionados of the world opine that the band must be breaking free of it’s so called “Oregon roots,” they do so not fully understanding that Americana, folk, bluegrass and especially country music, in all its various forms and formats, has always been rampant in this part of the world, they fail to acknowledge that Blitzen Trapper’s real growth has come in its ability to express those particular idiosyncrasies within the true Oregon lifestyle. They haven’t moved from Salem to Appalaichia or Nashville. They’ve moved to John Day.
“Thirsty Man” is a marvelous confection filled with juicy little details. A soft samba nylon-string guitar vamps hairpins while tinkly, harpsicordic keys, staccato rhythm guitar, and hummingbird mandolin flit among flares of distorted guitar and siren harp calls. All this going on, yet the arrangement is as wide open as the Oregon high prairie—another testament to expert production (Earley and bassist Michael Van Pelt) and facile engineering.
The wool sweater of Earley’s vocal is inspired not only by Dylan and John Lennon (who started sounding like Dylan by late 1964), there is the second ‘70s layer that includes Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty in Stealer’s Wheel (“Stuck in the Middle With You”), and Don Henley of the young Eagles. Later, the Dylan and JJ Cale (which begat latter-day Clapton) features wove themselves into Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits. From that point thirty years hence, among the myriad permutations of the above, we arrive at Eric Earley.
The song itself rousing, gospel infused at its soul, with a stirring chorus of biblical proportions. “I let you slip away like water right through my hands/Baby your love’s like rain in the desert to a thirsty man.” A blistering psychedelic organ solo, worthy of David Cohen of Country Joe and the Fish, or Ray Manzerak of the Doors follows. This is Blitzen Trapper at the top of their game mining three or four veins simultaneously—sluicing gold. That’s how they roll.
The mythic biblicality of “Valley of Death” maintains that lyrical reference point—perhaps from a bit more of a drunken perspective. Over a sparse, barren arrangement, Eric spins his tale, similar instrumental elements as its predecessor charting wide-open terrain. From there we dissolve into “Oregon Geography,” which might best be described as Beck’s “Loser” strained through the film Deliverance. Banjo over drum samples and rapped poetry. From there we river through the banjo stilted drum rapids of “Neck Tatts, Cadillacs.”
An exotic string loop is accompanied by classic wah-wah guitar phrases to set an Isaac Hayes mood for “Earth (The Fever Called Love),” from which the band immediately depart at the top of the verse. From there they head into more Mellow Gold era Beck, with Eric rapping over dobro and banjo straight from old Rocky Top. The middle break heads off in a completely different direction, but only briefly. And the ending digs into that soul vibe even more deeply with squawking sax nailing it down.
“Drive On Up” changes gears, capturing some of the same spunky momentum as “God & Suicide” from Furr. But here there is more of a Black Crowes meet Joe Tex attitude punctuated by wiry Clavinet, a squirty synth riff, sassy saxes, and gritty guitar: all resembling one another in the mix. Great interplay between harp and guitar in the solo. Nicely done.
Serving as the requisite Blitzen Trapper rewrite of the Dead’s “Casey Jones” for this outing, “Heart Attack” covers poppier ground while sticking to the primarily acoustic flavor of this album. Eric vocalizes a sweet, McCartney-like falsetto in the lead role not heard elsewhere. After the oddball solo section is concluded, I could be convinced this was a latter-day Badfinger song. Though this song’s chorus is not among the band’s best.
Michael Van Pelt
Maybe the most interesting spin of the dozen is the smoky “Faces of You,” which harkens vocally to JJ Cale or Mark Knopfler on the first Dire Straits album. So does the snaky groove, reminiscent of the Zombies’ “She’s Not There” mashed with the Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” motivated by Van Pelt’s rolling bassline. A memorable chorus sticks like gum to the bottom of the mind’s shoe. On an album that at times sounds a little like a band in search of a direction, this is one definitely worth continuing to explore—maybe, in some cases, without the exuberant solo. Different for Blitzen Trapper.
Finally, with “Don’t Be a Stranger” the band goes all California hippie country in the tradition of the Byrds, the Burritos, the Eagles and the Dead, et al. Merry banjo and the chuckling slap of electric guitar vie for the aural spotlight backing Earley’s capoed acoustic guitar and Priney Dylanesque vocal presentation. High vocal harmonies in the chorus mirror not only the Dead, but fall in the tradition other country rock bands from the formative years, such as Poco, the Eagles, Pure Prairie League and Firefall.
Blitzen Trapper
Blitzen Trapper have evolved in an atypical way over the past six years and the three albums between Wild Mountain Nation and this one. In essence they have devolved. If we were to view this geographically, it would be as if the little rock outfit (with Americana jam band roots) moved east from their home in the Willamette Valley. About as far east as La Grande. In other words, they have devolved from an off-kilter Oregon rock band into an off-kilter Oregona band as Pickathon ready as they come.
And while some may mourn the band they left behind, there is yet still much to love about Blitzen Trapper. For one thing the sound quality of this record is impeccable and it is readily apparent that a lot of care and attention to detail went into the composition of these tracks. And for just that reason, any “label” one might be inclined to attach to the band is inapplicable.
They have one foot in the ‘60s and “Rainy Day Women” period Dylan, another on hallowed Dead ground; one in the ‘70s and the dawning of “country rock,” and yet one more in the desolate “Western” territory that is home to lonesome cowboys like Richmond Fontaine. That’s four feet—like a coyote.
Photo by Robbie Auspurger
Fans of the old rock rendition of Blitzen Trapper of the Oughts probably don’t have much use for this one. Though the band is no less experimental, their experiments are fewer, if no less jarringly unexpected. But the truth of the matter is that they rarely rock anymore, instead yield to the sort of contemplation one is prone to over the course of a decade of living life.
Then again, Neil Young is free to make these zigzag transitions at will, so it’s difficult to question Blitzen Trapper’s artistic decisions. What they are doing now, they are doing quite well. But there is the sense of a band treading water here, looking for a new musical destination, while exploring uncharted directions, but only tentatively—as if marking territory rather than establishing new ground.
Eric Earley has never been the most profound of poets, though he bestows a homespun discernment that lends his tales authenticity, as well as often achieving a similar windswept context as Willy Vlautin for Richmond Fontaine. Earley’s lyrics are perhaps a bit more magical or fantastical in context. And, as an instrument, his voice is no more nor less capable than all those to whom he has been compared, with a skill for expression perhaps greater than the actual words themselves.
This isn’t a great album. But several songs, possibly half of them or more, are very solid. The musicianship is, as always, subtly spectacular throughout. The guests added for the project help to extend the paths of exploration, if only incrementally. They add texture and hue. And that flair for the immediacy of aural tactility and color, as much as anything, is what distinguishes Blitzen Trapper from the run of the mill.
I’ve told the story before, probably more than once. Quarterflash and I go way back. Way back. Back before Seafood Mama. Before Beggar’s Opera. Back before Jones Road. Back to the days of Oregon College of Education. You won’t find that school listed in any current register! It’s called Western Oregon State University now. It’s in Monmouth, which is west of Salem and north of Corvallis, on the road to somewhere else.
It was there, sophomore year I think, I saw a young woman with wire-rim glasses play acoustic guitar and sing a Joni Mitchell song on the steps outside the Student Union. I think it was “Clouds,” but it might have been “Michael From Mountains.” I remember thinking she was pretty good. Nice voice. Clearly, she stood out from the other performers that day. I don’t remember any of them.
A year or so later, either Fred or Tom or Doug dragged poor young unsuspecting Marv Ross into the madcap living fray we shared at the L-shaped house on the S-Curve. Oh the stories one could tell, and I’ll try one day if I have the time. But, for Marv’s part, his stay was fortuitously brief, maybe only three months or so. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to fully corrupt him.
Still, in that time, he and I developed a songwriter’s guild of sorts, frequently jamming together and showing off our latest masterpieces. Soon a couple of his high school musician friends started visiting. Lew Jones and Allen Whipps became my lifelong friends, both talented musicians in their own rights. We mixed and matched among us for a few gigs over the next year or so.
Jones Road circa 1974
When Marv moved out, he moved in with Rindy, whom I recognized to be that young woman I had seen singing at the Student Union. Already by then, Rindy and Marv were a team. And even then, Marv was a great songwriter, though not terribly prolific. Ever the perfectionist, he was methodically meticulous about every song he wrote. When he would finally reveal a new song it would be a complete gem.
But Marv was always a little self-conscious about his singing voice. In Rindy he had the ideal complement. She sang like an angel. And in Marv she found her perfect partner—he wrote great songs for her to sing. They formed a band and got married, or vice versa, I really can’t remember the sequence, and honestly—it’s none of our business, don’t you think, people? Give it a rest!
And it wasn’t all that easy. There were a lot of other musicians involved over the years and not all of those years were spent basking in the spotlight of unmitigated success. Still, in the span of a only a decade, my transitory roommate and his talented wife were suddenly signed to Geffen Records and responsible for a Top 10, platinum (selling over a million units) album, and were everywhere to be heard and seen on the radio and that fledgling MTV thing.
Platinum selling: Quarterflash (1982)
They had a certifiable hit in “Harden My Heart.” That song made it all the way to #3 on the Billboard Hot 100 in the spring of 1982 and—though coming in behind Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” and Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me”—at #13 in the Top 100 for the Year 1982 “Harden My Heart” outshone such classics as Tommy Tutone’s “Jenny 867-5309,” the Go-Go’s “We Got the Beat,” Journey’s “Open Arms” and a lot of other memorable classics from bands such as Fleetwood Mac, Earth Wind and Fire, The Police, Paul McCartney and the Rolling Stones.
Quarterflash were by no means one-hit wonders, with several follow-up chart breakers. But they conformed to a familiar band trajectory back in those days, when it came to major labels—three and out. Our own Nu Shooz suffered a similar fate at about the same time. Even with several gold records under your belt, if your band couldn’t demonstrate reliably consistent chart action, with every album, you quickly became a liability and were cut out of the herd of corporate rock livestock.
Girl in the Wind (1991)
Back then, getting dropped by a label was pretty much the kiss of death for a top band. The other labels wouldn’t touch you. Or if they would, it was through some shoddy deal. Rather than go through that, Quarterflash disbanded around 1986 after sales for their third Geffen release failed to meet expectations. About five years later, Rindy and Marv re-formed the band to create a fourth release for Epic. But because of sudden upheaval in the label hierarchy, that album ended up only getting released in Japan and Europe.
Quarterflash went into deep hiatus in 1991. Rindy and Marv then quickly became involved with the Trail Band. Inspired by Marv’s fastidious attention to historic detail, a total of eight versatile musicians chronicle the settlement of the pioneer West and Northwest. Through the course of eleven albums, including several Christmas/Winter themed works, they present traditional and original material in an accurately antique context.
The Trail Band
In 2007came the culmination of Marv’s interest in Native American culture, with the presentation of his musical The Ghosts of Celilo. The production won awards for “Best Original Song,” “Best Original Score,” and “Best Original Musical.” What’s more, the music of the Trail Band has won for them widespread recognition and numerous honors as well, and that group is truly the subject for another article entirely.
Goodbye Uncle Buzz
In 2008, after seventeen years in hibernation, Marv and Rindy reconvened as Quarterflash for Goodbye Uncle Buzz. Considered something of a departure, that album featured laid back performances and was more like a bridge between the Rosses two very different bands. Quartertrail. With lyrics addressing such adult themes as cancer, suicide, broken homes and the shortcomings of the music business, the album was musically subdued, focusing foremost on Rindy’s vocals, with instrumentation serving as supplementary augmentation and distinctive coloration. It was close to being a Rindy Ross solo album.
Some fans of ‘80s Quarterflash—the rockers—found difficulty in adjusting to the new, more contemplative band—despairing the glut of mature topics and the dearth of the vengeful female-empowering shitkickers ala “Harden My Heart” and “Find Another Fool.” That only goes to show: you can’t please all the people all of the time.
Rock of Ages (What could go wrong?)
While “Harden My Heart” occasionally appeared on ‘80s Hits compilations and the like, the Quarterflash brand received a boost when the song was included in the highly hyped and much maligned 2012 feature film Rock of Ages. Country singer/actress Julianne Hough and soul singer Mary J. Blige delivered a surprisingly straight reading of the song before the weird-assed, over-emoted breakdown in the second half. But it won for the band renewed recognition all the same.
And, most likely, no matter what Rindy and Marv do as Quarterflash, they always will be measured against their big hit. It could be worse, mind you. They could have no hit by which to be measured. There could be no one interested in making the measurement. They could be like most bands, playing in a vacuum with no expectations to fulfill.
Quarterflash 2013 (Photo Keith Buckley)
So with all that artistic baggage the band totes coming into this new album, the faithful fan might rightfully be unsure what to anticipate. The short answer is that all camps should find great satisfaction in what Quarterflash have created. For it is an unqualified success on all levels.
Lyrically, Love is a Road is a less personal narrative than Uncle Buzz—though still reflective of interpersonal relationships, meditations on life, and bitingly topical, socially astute insights. Marv Ross is nothing if not introspective. What’s really different is that, unlike its predecessor, this album rocks.
Sure, it’s got a scattering of the requisite tender Quarterflash ballads. But the heavy folk and Americana flavors are gone for this outing, replaced with straight-ahead acoustic and electric guitars. Big, brilliant, thick, tasty layers of them. Here several songs exhibit a new, funky, bluesy edge that’s only just hinted at on Buzz. And the album sounds fantastic! Certainly in a league with other big name acts such as Fleetwood Mac, Tom Petty or Pat Benatar. Totally pro.
The first song of the set, “I Can’t Help Myself,” features Rindy smartly rapping the stacatto verses, which seem almost at the opposite end of the telescope from the lyrical message Marv was imparting with “This Business of Music” on Buzz. More upbeat and resolutely circumspect: “Yeah, we’ve been blessed and we’ve been conned/Had success and yes, we’ve bombed/And the only thing that keeps me hanging on/Is letting go, letting go.”
The familiar, triumphal chant of the memorable chorus reinforces a stadium-sized hook. Condense Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock n Roll” with Teena Marie’s “Lovergirl” and you’re part of the way there. Get your lighters out. The album is off to a bright start!
L-R Front: Bixby, M. Ross, Fraser; Back: Williams, R. Ross, Kubik (Photo Keith Buckley)
Over Denny Bixby’s funky bass-line, Gregg Williams’ slamming beat, Marv’s jagged, Lennon-like electric guitar foundation, and sighing breeze background vox, Rindy again hopscotches a quick-paced lyric with “All Diamonds.” An anthemic feel drives the chorus, with faint antecedents, perhaps, in Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield,” though more philosophical and less confrontational.
“We are—one flame. We are—one arc/We are—all embers from the same spark/We are—all god. We are—one soul/We are—all diamonds from the same coal.” A short solo breakdown between Marv and lead guitarist Doug Fraser is certainly worthy of Zep in their prime. A pretty spectacular sixteen bars!
“I Want You Back” is the sure-fire hit of the nine songs offered. If the song got any more radio-friendly it would have to start its own station. If it got any more infectious it would require quarantine. Buh-boom. It lives up to any sort of hype. Over a wobbly guitar finger cluster intro, Williams’ Mick Fleetwood-like tom-fill accents hit like punches to the gut. Rindy enters the song with a big, strong voice, nearly unrecognizable in its lower register. She has never sounded so good.
Abbey Road Melotron
What sounds like a melotron enters at the second verse, to wonderful affect. When asked how Quarterflash acquired a melotron Marv replied “The melotron is the one still sitting in Abbey Road Studio. As bizarre as it sounds Abbey Road sampled all the sounds on that melotron and you can purchase the right to use it over the internet. I was actually listening to ‘2000 Light Years From Home’ to dial in the sound we wanted ” That inimitable sound is easily identifiable the instant it is heard.
An unforgettable chorus moves the song into the major leagues. Fleetwood Mac-ish. Rindy sounds like Stevie Nicks (when she still had a voice)—a low, woody, windy cry. Terrific hook! You’ll be singing along by the second time through.
The melotron doubles Doug Fraser’s scorching lead guitar in the middle, calling to mind the textures of the Moody Blues. And the minute-long magical finale is so Revolver/Pepper Beatle-esque, one pictures the band dressed in silk marching band uniforms as they played it. Rindy even quotes the sax line to “Harden My Heart” as the circus unwinds ala the Beatles in “All You Need is Love.” (Most likely an edit of) this track is sure to make serious noise on some or all of the many variants of the Adult Contemporary charts.
Quarterflash 2013 (Photo Keith Buckley)
In many ways this new song is the perfect bookend to “Harden My Heart.” But where the theme of the original was confrontational in nature, this new effort is conciliatory. Mature. And while parts of the arrangement have elements in common with Mac’s “Go Your Own Way,” this cut is far better than anything Mac has done since then. Probably the best Quarterflash song ever.
Trail Band violinist Eddie Parente guests with ornate filigrees on the title track, a lovely ballad whose melody evokes the verses of Cat Stevens’ “Wild World.” Here Rindy sounds like the woman who sang “Harden my Heart,” though all grown up perhaps. Her Joni Mitchell yodel trill nicely oiled, she controls the song the way Linda Ronstadt would have at her zenith. Again the final minute fade is an intriguing Eastern-tinged instrumental interlude—adding depth to the presentation.
Marv’s vocal on the clever “More” captures the rhythmic enthusiasm of Dylan (“Subterranean Homesick Blues”), or Elvis Costello (“Watching the Detectives”) or Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Anthony Keidis (“Give It Away”), spittin lyrics with the best of them. “I caught the saints hiding in the steeple/Trying to squeeze a camel thru a needle/I said, ‘Won’t your miracles get you into heaven’?/They said, ‘No, we only got ten. We need eleven/More…’”
Marv Ross (Photo Holly Johnson)
His gritty voice and Neil Youngy squawk guitar are met with the soul-drenched smoothness of background vocals from Rindy and second sax player Mel Kubik—who also plays the “Chopsticks” piano part here. Fraser absolutely burns Brian May through a quick solo. Kickin’!
Marv rocks an abrasive “Cold Turkey” riff over Williams’ solid, loping beat for the bluesy “Say What You Want About Love.” Rindy puts the hurt on the sassy verses sounding nearly unidentifiable as her former self, while she and Kubik duet on a buoyant chorus that would make Bonnie Raitt proud. The pair play clipped Phenix Horn-type punches in the break, before Fraser launches into another big, beefy solo.
Denny Bixby (Photo Tom Downer)
Bassist and background vocalist Denny Bixby is afforded the opportunity to dispense the most mordant lyric of the set, with “Adios (The Funeral Song).” With the band sounding precisely like Steely Dan, circa Katy Lied—not an easy feat, as any major dude will tell you—Denny’s droll vocal emulates Donald Fagen at his most acerbic. A breezy, smooth jazz arrangement belies a biting sentiment. “You would have laughed at things they said/It seems you’re much more loveable/Now that you are dead/And if you were here you’d be half-plastered/Show up late and play the bastard/Leaving me to clean up after.” Adios, indeed.
It does not relent from there, though the band skates through the changes like bad sneakers and a pina colada, my friend. Over Marv’s curious glottal-toned Leslie-effected guitar, Fraser fires further Les Paul flame, reviving the memory of Skunk Baxter’s finest licks. I dare anyone to identify this music as Quarterflash’s without being prompted. The makeover is complete!
Marv and Rindy Ross
The forlorn ballad “Little Miracles (The Songs Rained Down)” is perhaps the most personal of the lot in context, a desolate gray narrative. “Though dad played down the end of our world/The truth cut like a knife/So, I went to my room to write that tune/And stayed there all my life.” In the mid section, a Band on the Run feel breakdown, with Rindy providing the gorgeous nightengale sax, heads off into miracle angel land.
Vocally, Rindy is the grown up version of the young woman I heard singing the Joni Mitchell song on the Student Union steps forty some years ago. She sounds like Joni Mitchell here as well, maturing in similar ways—a rich, burnished quality to her voice. Marv’s melody is deftly sculpted to the contours of that voice, each enhancing the other with expert facility.
“Rock On Little Brother” has a Lennon sense akin to “Power to the People,” with a similar intent to rouse and inspire. The clumpy thump of Williams’ kick and the clappy snap of his snare are as reassuring as Ringo’s, propelling the rhythm out to Norman Greenbaum sprint of biblical proportions. Buzzy slide guitar and gospel gang vocals add to the sparkling ambience.
Picasso After Velazquez
As the years have passed, I’ve come to think of Marv Ross as similar in many ways to director Ron Howard. There are the obvious clean-cut qualities they share, of course. But both are very assiduous in the way they approach their crafts. Both are students of their art forms—producing consistently solid work. Both display the utmost respect for the traditions and influences that have helped to shape their work.
Musical allusions are lovingly employed on Love is a Road. The accoutrements of many songs imply music from a former time, in order to create a setting. Not in a nostalgic way, not in the least. It is more as if Marv Ross and co-producer Gregg Williams are attempting to recreate environment and atmosphere, giving deeper enhancement to the production. These ornaments are used as many musicians now use samples. However the riffs here are original. They merely bear some sonic similarity to the “source material.” Marv and Gregg use those colors and textures to engineer mood or milieu—nuances tailored specifically for the material.
Quarterflash Arrived 2013 (Photo Keith Buckley)
The songs here touch a lot of bases, both stylistically as well as thematically. All of them are the work of a highly evolved band. There is nothing re-tread or rehashed here. This is all new ground for Quarterflash. And it’s great! Without reservation, it can be said that this is their best and most satisfying album of all time. It touches all the bases—witty and wise songs, all cast in uniquely diverse settings, performed by absolute professional musicians. Voila.
A band doesn’t get there overnight, most bands never get there at all, but most assuredly Quarterflash have gotten there—they have at long last arrived!
In one way, it’s hard to believe that Pink Martini are nearly twenty years old. In another, it seems like they have always been here—a living compendium of all easy listening music that has ever gone before. Music historians or gaudy anachronisms—opinions differ on their place in the realm of popular music. But one thing is certain: there is no other musical aggregation in the world that can approach the incredible feats of sonic perfection Pink Martini regularly demonstrate. Whether you like them or not, there is no denying that their music is always pitch perfect, spot on and impeccably pristine. In that regard, this new record is their crowning achievement.
Prolific is one thing this band is not. This being only their fifth album since 1994 (they have also released a Christmas disc, A Retrospective—a compilation of Martini favorites, and 1969, a collaboration with Japanese singer/actress Saori Yuki), it could be said that they approach the recording process with a certain leisurely indifference. That, combined with bandleader Thomas Lauderdale’s legendary perfectionism and notorious attention to minute detail, and it’s a wonder anything at all has ever emerged from the recording studio.
But with that said, it would appear that the group have managed to average three-year intervals between their last three releases—Splendor in the Grass(2009) and its predecessors, Hey Eugene (2007) and Hang On Little Tomato (2004). So perhaps that’s the band’s flight path. Three years circling the runway. We should be happy with that. It beats Kate Bush or Peter Gabriel by ages.
And Thomas Lauderdale is no ordinary perfectionist. He is attempting to replicate eras (if they ever actually existed) that generated music and sound no longer available to today’s typical listener. At least not without an extensive primer—which is precisely what Lauderdale intends to offer. His music is not easily defined. But the four cardinal points would have to be in the directions of the exotica of Martin Denny, the space age bachelor pad sensibilities of Juan Esquivel, the flash and dash of Liberace and the champagne comportment of Lawrence Welk.
There are numerous tertiary points, including obscurely campy and kitschy popular and traditional musical references gathered from all over the world: China, Japan, Romania, Turkey, Iran, France, Cuba, Brazil—as well as a broad selection of material culled from the American standard songbook. Thomas Lauderdale and Pink Martini are out to change the world the old fashioned way. They are going to entertain you. Forget your troubles, c’mon get happy! That’s about as far from our times as a musical entity can get!
Storm Large and China Forbes
This new release marks the first recorded return of vocalist China Forbes since her vocal cord surgery in 2011. It’s also the debut for vocalist Storm Large, who substituted at live engagements for Forbes during her extended convalescence. And, as has become Pink Martini custom, several guest vocalists make appearances, most endearingly, Phyllis Diller, who only months before her death last year, recorded with Thomas a delightful version of Charlie Chaplin’s song, “Smile.”
Lauderdale and his orchestra create a world of their own, a world of crystal aural clarity and fine-cut dynamic refringence. It sounds better than the music to which it pays homage, with equipment and techniques undreamt of in prior technologies. And the wizard behind that sonic curtain is one generally unheralded Dave Friedlander, engineer deluxe (and here credited for the first time as a co-producer).
Across the Universe – Trip Shakespeare
Dave works at Kung Fu Bakery studios—he now even has his own room there (where, he emphasizes, he’s offering “affordable rates”). I’ve known him for over fifteen years, but he recently came to mind earlier this summer when I was rummaging through the 6,000 CDs in my garage trying to get them organized. In doing so I ran across my long lost Trip Shakespeare album, Across the Universe, one of my favorite albums of all time. I’d been looking for that thing for six or seven years. Finally had it back.
I set about to playing it and checking out the CD booklet, as it had been so long, it was like it was brand new all over again. As I perused the back cover I noticed something among the names in the “Recorded By” category. One was David Friedlander. First among the names of “Engineers” was that same David Friedlander. Then I remembered that before he came to Portland in the mid-90s Dave hailed from Minneapolis—where he worked on a few Prince albums in the same capacity. Across the Universe was released in 1990 by a Minneapolis band (a few members later became Semisonic, who had a hit with “Closing Time” in 1998). Hmm. It was great to see his name on one of my favorite albums, but not surprising.
Dave Friedlander
And, though he has served Pink Martini well through all of their previous stellar recordings, Dave Friedlander outdoes himself here—so much so that beyond co-producer, it is almost as if he is another member of the band. He plays parts in the quiet of space, that add subtle touches which most listeners might not realize they’re hearing, though knowing that what they do hear sounds absolutely incredible.
So for this album, it’s all come together for Pink Martini. The ten-piece instrumental ensemble—together with the regular inclusion of the vibrant strings of the Harvey Rosenkrantz Orchestra—is in fine form, navigating musical styles drawn from all over the world. It includes, for the first time on any recording, both female vocalists. The material is first rate, the prestigious guest stars, tastefully employed. If you’re a Pink Martini fan—and let me tell you there are a lot of them across the nation!—prepare to be knocked out. If you’re not a fan, this album is worth auditioning, if only once, just to hear what a perfect recording sounds like. This one is absolutely flawless.
We begin our journey in Germany, with “Ich dich liebe,” and China in the role of starlet Mamie Van Doren in the 1964 German B-movie released in the US as The Sheriff Was a Lady. This is a truly faithful version of the spritely original, with bright, cheerful horns and lullaby strings. It’s a great song, especially wonderful considering how bad the movie is—but the kitsch factor is incredibly high here. China plays it straight, giving her all, demonstrating straight-off that her voice has returned to its former grandeur.
Storm steps to the mic, as we jet to Brazil for a brilliant reconstruction of “Quizás, quizás, quizás,” first performed by Maysa Matarazzo (who, because of her troubled life, later became known as “the Janis Joplin of Bossa Nova”) in 1964. Storm’s sultry delivery matches Matarazzo’s, registering similar heat on the vocal Scoville scale—an arrangement lovingly duplicated from the original version.
Meow Meow
Australian cabaret star Meow Meow takes the lead on “I’m Waiting For You,” a number derived from ‘40s Chinese vocal legend Bai Guang. Bai’s version has been sampled and re-mixed by DJs several times in the recent past. Pink stick faithfully to the spirit of the original, but they add unique touches of their own, sounding like music taken from a Bogart film. Gavin Bondy’s silky muted trumpet solo contributes a smoky essence to the mood.
Authentic Persian instrumentation provides the backing for Storm on “Omide zendgani.” Utilizing santoor (like a hammered dulcimer), kamache (violin) and setar (guitar) the ambience is struck in an extended introduction. Thomas’ dramatic piano and chirping brass are prominent as Storm delivers a warm, straightforward reading of the lyric. This rendition is modeled after a Dinah Shore performance on NBC in 1965, although her original lacks the vibrant intro and Storm’s far more passionate vocal. Who knows where in the hell Thomas saw the Shore clip in the first place to be inspired to learn the tune!
Ari Shapiro and Storm Large
Lush piano and stirring strings set the scene for NPR personality Ari Shapiro’s operatic guest reading of “Yo Te Quiero Siempre,” composed by famed Cuban pianist Ernesto Lecuona. It’s a somber song expressed with grave solemnity. What we here in the states refer to as a real bringdown. But tastefully done. A modern day Canio from Pagliacci. Laugh, clown, at your broken love.
“Je ne t’aime plus” features China paired with the eccentric French pop star Philippe Katerine, who has long been recognized in his homeland for his absurd (sometimes political in context) videos. The two of them composed this song, a sort of Franco bossa nova with dappled harp, evoking Joao and Astrud Gilberto’s “Corcovado.” A French bossa nova is entirely in keeping with a tradition dating back to the ‘50s and Henri Salvador. Here, the banter between the two vocalists consists of some poor schmuck berated by, and defending himself from, an (ex?) girlfriend. In other words, typical French fare—ça va.
Timothy Nishimoto (photo by Amaren Colosi)
The jaunty presentation of “Zundoko-bushi” belies a rather downcast lyric. Pink percussionist Timothy Nishimoto leads a large supporting guest chorus through a rousing interpretation of a Dorifu (the Japanese Drifters comic troupe, who performed a forty-second long opening set for the Beatles in Tokyo in 1966) classic from the late ‘60s. The song rocks—or at least in a Pink Martini landscape it rocks—propelled by Anthony Jones’ high-impact kit work. Bassist Phil Baker’s prickly sitar solo lends oddball character to the proceedings as well.
Dave Friedlander
The Romanian torch song “Până când nu te iubeam” was made to order for Storm Large’s vocal talents. What’s more, this track is Dave Friedlander’s true moment in the aural sun. Opening with pert piano chords and trotting pizzacato strings, an Arabian cum gypsy theme is voiced by the orchestra, soon joined by a skittering balalaika-like mandolin figure not to be heard on the original by Maria Tanase. Subtle, other worldly effects usher in the triangle and tambourine augmentation in the second verse.
Storm Large (Photo by Jennie Baker)
There is a timeless majesty to this track. A golden twilit glow swirls around Storm’s seductive voice. Though Maria Tanase (known as the “Romanian Piaf”) sets a very high vocal standard for this song, Storm matches it with slow, simmering intensity. The arrangement here far exceeds the simple treatment, Tanase’s version received for her recording in the ‘50s.
Like so many of the pieces featured here, Pink Martini use the original arrangements from these very obscure songs only as basic templates for their own very respectful interpretations. And it is Pink’s inherent ability to embellish and enhance the arcane source material that makes the orchestra so special. No one else in the world does what they do with such faithfully staunch dedication. A labor of pure love.
Check out their loyal reproduction of Chet Baker’s take on the Rodgers & Hart chestnut “She Was Too Good to Me.” Trombonist (and co-producer) Robert Taylor delivers an uncanny imitation of Baker’s wan singing voice, while Gavin Bondy’s flugelhorn solo casts a darker shadow than the ’74 edition. The only real difference between Pink’s and Chet’s is that Thomas plays an acoustic piano where Bob James played electric piano—and this recording sounds even better than Creed Taylor’s original production on the CTI label.
China Forbes
With the Turkish delight of “Üsküdar’a Gider İken,” China takes her shot at a Maysa Matarazzo reproduction. Rich flavors of koto, harp and flute float through the mix. It’s a cinematic performance suggestive of some Bond soundtrack from the ‘60s.
The familiar mambo “Sway” probably has more in common with Rosemary Clooney and Perez Prado’s 1959 rendering than Dean Martin’s from 1954. With Storm taking the lead, Thomas’ prancing piano commingles with Maureen Love’s harp in glistening arpeggios, as chunky Latin percussion and low-humming reeds pool beneath. The Pacific Youth Choir breezes a soft moonlight chorus—captured in all its radiance by the ever-adept Dave Friedlander. His mixes are always spacious and panoramic without a lot of obvious gimmickry.
Thomas, China, the Von Trapps and Rufus Wainwright
Members of the Von Trapp family (of The Sound of Music fame) provide angelic vocal support for guest Rufus Wainwright’s touching performance of his aunt Anna McGarrigle’s very strange ballad “Kitty Come Home.” Over subdued full-orchestral backing the vivid piece unfolds over Wainwright’s quavery vocal—with some (probably intentional) lyrical ambiguity as to whether the Kitty in question is human or feline.
China’s take on the Irving Berlin chestnut “What’ll I Do?” is straightforward, the instrumentation replicated by arranger Stephen Taylor to conform to Nelson Riddle’s score for the 1974 film adaptation of The Great Gatsby. Wainwright and China join to re-create the famous duet between Barbra Streisand and Judy Garland for her 1963 television show, braiding together the depression-era nuggets “Get Happy” and “Happy Days Are Here Again.” And while Rufus and China aren’t quite up to the level of those two celebrated divas, they give the songs their best efforts.
Thomas Lauderdale
A brief instrumental interlude follows, primarily Thomas at the piano, with a simple setting of Scott Joplin’s composition “Heliotrope”—which serves as introduction to Phyllis Diller’s final recording, “Smile.” With simple backing from Thomas at the piano, Phyllis, sounding old and frail, still manages to bring to sparkling life the bittersweet lyric. In my case, hearing her voice made the hair on my arms stand up rigid. No song could possibly better suit her, nor be a better salute to her life and career. Very touching.
A Pink Martini album is like a film. There are scenes and acts. It is not simply the work of (an indeterminate number of) artists directly affiliated with the organization, but with the additional input of countless other musicians. A cast of hundreds! Few popular music bands in the world can pull off what they do. A simple rock band is incapable of such musical flights of fancy.
Pink Martini
Pink Martini elevate nostalgia to the level of historical reference. They do not take their source material lightly. In all cases they appear intent on improving upon the originals. Sonically, they succeed in nearly every case. It’s a perfect recording.
As a critic once opined of Lawrence Welk, “This is the squarest music this side of Euclid.” Get Happy is Euclid ska-ware, no doubt. Euclid square SQUARED, perhaps! And while some of these cuts border on outright (better sounding) forgery, they stand as the sincerest form of flattery for music nearly lost, but not forgotten—not as long as Pink Marini remain in existence.
For most people the title of this album, White Lighter, would connote an inexpensive incendiary device of no pigmentary value. A white lighter is certainly something with which the average human might be familiar. You see lighters every day. Some of them may be white.
However, there are some walking among us (and I count myself as one) for whom the context is completely different. They are “white lighters.” They’ve seen the white light. Oh yeah, the vaunted white light at the end of the tunnel when you die. Sure. Most folks think that’s an urban myth, until they experience it for themselves. I began experiencing the white light at an early age and was availed of the occasion to experience it again a time or two through the course of my adult life. I think I know what Kyle Morton, leader of Typhoon, is talking about, and even though he refers to the BIC version a time or two, his thoughts seem not to be about firing up a joint or lighting a cigarette. He’s referring to what he calls “the pale light of certain death.”
Kyle Morton
It is fairly common knowledge that Morton was very sick throughout his childhood. Undiagnosed Lyme disease ravaged his body, resulting in organ failures and an eventual kidney transplant. He certainly courted death at a very young age. For some children, that sort of grave illness can produce a deep spirituality—a spirituality that arises from within and is not transmitted from the world outside. For many, the source of that spirituality is bathed in white light. It’s my guess that Kyle Morton is one of those white lighters.
Since their inception in Salem in 2005, Typhoon have moved in mysterious ways, in fits and starts. This is to be expected with a troupe that numbers in population somewhere near the dozen mark (plus or minus). It’s been over three years since the release of their well-received second full album, Hunger and Thirst and two years since their widely acclaimed EP A New Kind of House. Tremendous critical response to that recording led to an appearance on David Letterman’s show in August of 2011.
Early Typhoon
In some ways, Typhoon have something in common with the Decemberists, though musically they are very different. As performers Morton and Colin Meloy sound nothing alike. But what both bands do share is a propensity for drama. In the case of the Decemberists, that drama is a façade for the playwright in Meloy whereby he directs his various imaginary players as they strut and fret their moments on his musical stage.
Rarely breaking the fourth wall, Meloy is typically somewhat distanced from his subject matter, where Kyle Morton is inside of his. He has lived it. He is still living it. His drama is real. It comes from within. He and his orchestra create deep, dense, complex folk music that often perfectly articulates Morton’s thick, organic observations about relationships and life.
Their new album finds the band taking great strides in the creation of ornate musical tapestries, executing them with hard-earned facility and artistry. Beyond that they are clearly making an effort to carve for themselves a musical identity (as did Meloy and the Decemberists) that should stand them in good stead for many more albums to come.
With abrupt and disconcerting pauses, stark stops and stutters, the band utilizes silence somewhat in the tradition of John Cage. You’ll hear their music on their terms, the way they want you to hear it—delivering the subtle message: “Don’t get too comfortable, things can easily go sideways.” It’s a good musical lesson. It’s an even better lesson about life.
The opening track “Prelude,” a mere seventeen seconds in length, is unmistakable evidence that even the softest and most peaceful of moments can easily dissolve into static and distortion. Better fasten your seatbelts.
The concept of light, in all its various aspects and forms is addressed head on in “Artifical Light.” The orchestra—expansive, organic, pastoral—kalaidescopes majestically through Morton’s fanciful explorations of the subject. Plaintive strings, proclamatory horns, drums, bass, raindrop piano, delicate acoustic guitars, brusque electric guitars and chiming mandolin ring through an arrangement for which Sufjan Stevens would be very proud.
Sufjan Stevens
Like Stevens’ more symphonic endeavors, there is a certain looseness to the arrangements. It’s not the Oregon Symphony we’ve got here. Or even the Junior Symphony. Instead these aggregations sound most like highly urbane high school orchestras. That is in no way a slam. All involved are very sophisticated musicians, obviously dedicated, but at the same time, they are not necessarily first chair at their instruments (although they are improving fast). Besides, that ingenuousness is highly endearing.
So, over this rushing flood of delicate instrumentation, Morton contemplates manifold instances of light he has encountered through the course of his life. His voice, urgent, wincing, a broken glottal groan, initiates the ceremony: “In the beginning there was once a source of light/It would die and come back every night.” The song eddies and pools in places before coming to a dramatic conclusion: “Life goes on /Comes back on/We’ll all be here /In my familiar halls/ Empty jar/ Stolen song /Wait for the light /to come back home.” An auspicious beginning. A great start.
And if that first song were not epic enough in context, Morton goes one step further with the incredibly dense “Young Fathers.” How it is that Kyle so effortlessly logs long, winding narratives into four minutes of music, is a bit of a mystery. Nothing sounds crowded or compressed. The songs breathe naturally, without any sort of artificial respiration.
The introduction to the song is a tangled, mangled mess of sudden edits, head-on collisions—as if the recording software had gone awry, maybe it did. Or possibly, rather than to attempt to properly splice the parts together, they just leave it to the listener to put it together for himself. Whatever the case, the effect is quite jarring. But at the same time, the listener is forced to decide whether to actually listen to the song, or to simply conclude that he bought a defective recording.
The actual song eventually locks in, and the brief upheaval is soon forgotten—though a skittering hesitance remains embroidered within the unfolding of this Neo-Wagnerian saga. Jagged electric guitar, ringing mandolin, effervescent strings, acquiescent brass, luxuriant nylon string acoustic guitar, ragged slamming drums and faint backing vocals find surprisingly clear space in the mix in support of the weighty ponder for which Kyle is now renowned.
The lyric is nearly as lengthy as Ibsen’s Peer Gynt and almost as intense. In this instance the parable balances upon the fulcrum verse at its center. “Never went to church/thought a song was gonna save me/so I wrote a hymn on the guitar that you gave me/The signal once you spoke I built a fire with the spark/You know that hope is just a small thing.” It’s never altogether clear what Morton’s particular point is at any given time, as every verse is similarly open ended—in essence: lots of exposition and not a lot of summary. Just the same, there is a great deal of dizzy artistry in the steady beat of his conundrums. Mesmerizing.
The images of home, family, the flames of an exploding sun and general misfortune recur with “Morton’s Fork.” The cheerful, anthemic delivery of the chorus, betrays a far darker libretto: “And they’ll come through the fold/This is the sound of a wild pack of hungry wolves/I won’t lie to you /It’ll be painful/It’s in your nature to fear what is natural” And that’s the optimistic part! Even still, the uplifting choir of child-like voices hymn a winsome clarion.
The fixation with stars and existence continues with “Possible Deaths.” Sweet instrumentation—warm electric piano, a plethora of light string sounds in exotic pizzacato and more fairy-like backing vocals augment the presentation. “The Lake” is a monumental construct worthy of Carson McCullers, all fireflies and youthful passion, though beneath that lies a much darker confrontation with sickness and death. “And then as my body turned against itself/I prayed for death that I might come back as anyone else.” A harrowing number that easily could have been pulled from Sufjan Stevens’ Illinoize album, somewhere between “Chicago” and “John Wayne Gacy Jr.”
With “Dreams of Cannibalism” the morbidity evolves into Romantic pastiche, evoking My Morning Jacket most likely performing an obscure tribute to Charles Dickens in the process. Over a Morriconesque framework, Kyle emotes. “I fled the country/I thought I’d leave this behind/ But I built the same damn house/ on every acre I could find/ And I tried to fake my own death/ Just shake the devils from my mind/ I said/ Unhand me I am not a criminal/And if I am I paid the man just let me go/ Soon enough you will be dancing at my funeral.” It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…
Rip Van Winkle
Kyle Morton’s songs don’t really unfold the way most do. They amble. They meander. Often nearly formless they more resemble free verse poetry set to music, although there are occasional moments of traditional exposition. “100 Years” is an excellent example. Against instrumental calm and clamor, Kyle chronicles the tale of a futuristic Rip Van Winkle—a vision solemnly horrific as a morgue slab. “They laid me down and they stripped my clothes/They gave me a shirt that says/‘I survived my own life’/It was cold. It was cold. It was cold.” Later he serves as a Virgil to some other poor transmigrating soul. “We need heat where we’re gonna go/I have been there/I should know that/It was cold. It was cold. It was cold”
Virgil
“Prosthetic Love” reanimates the quadruplely amputated corpse of the previous song, perhaps with a gift of appendages crafted from pure affection. The music a haunted trembling stumble, piano driven with loudly reported drum forays, tries to keep step with Kyle’s lurching vocal. “This time I wake I’m still alive/Now in my expiration date imagine my surprise/Some backwards take on the book of Job/His life was a wager and mine’s a joke.” Possibly the most straightforward number of the bunch.
Basically a long instrumental interlude in support of a brief lyric, “Hunger and Thirst” is not nearly as ponderous nor as finely focused as the other pieces. The music moves from the hum of a brassy beeswarm to moaning Indian flavored strings, then into a cheery brass passage that introduces a short soliloquy—which seems to have no real core. From there, the music flows toward an oriental theme voiced by child-like sopranos and brilliantly executed, delicate electric guitar filigrees. The strings sweep in to herald a darker region toward the close.
The three compact verses (crafted with successive lines of four, five and six syllables) of “Caesar” contain a sequential consideration of the parameters of ambition and its ultimate uselessness. The final act of this passion play is enacted in the paean to the indomnitability of the human spirit, “Common Sentiments.” Over the smart, prancing gait of militant drums, in a pasture of bright guitar and verdant fiddle, Kyle sums a culmination of his difficult past to weigh against his pessimism going forward. “I’ve been trying to make myself better/So I can fare the fair foul weather/I write a song like a prison letter/I write a song maybe to make me feel better/It won’t break free my fetters.”
“Post Script” is just that—an epilogue concerned with the idea of unconditional love. In that study he discovers that there are no conditions to his unconditional love (this is not meant as sarcasm). And he requires none in return. The final two minutes of the song allow the strings to play a romantic, classically modeled piece that resolves upon a desolate single note on the organ.
Kyle Morton and Colin Meloy have a lot in common. Both are ironfisted captains of their ships. Whether Typhoon or the Decemberists, the two leaders present such strong personal visions in their work that the supporting cast is overshadowed entirely. It’s not that you don’t perceive the instrumentation here. It’s wonderful. Beautiful. Well-devised and expertly executed. But Morton’s persona is so powerful that he could draw the spotlight away from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. His ruminations are so deep and heavy, that, like Hamlet, he is constantly weighing the gravity of his very being.
Typhoon’s White Lighter is no romp through the forest with Maggie and Bill the transformed elk. This is hardcore life in the trenches—the stench of decay as thick as October fog. Not an opera, it’s a very precise song cycle, the order of the songs explicit. Where Colin Meloy is the cool, detached observer, Kyle is wrought with furious intensity, ripping out his soul. He sings as if every song may be his last. And, given his history, that possibility does exist.
But Kyle Morton is a smart guy, well acquainted with the other side. When his moment comes, he will know to join the other white lighters in the place of no dimension to reside where time is but the breath of wind.
Once upon a time in a Portland long ago and far away, there was a band called Providence. They didn’t play around town that much. They weren’t exactly a “bar band.” Actually they were many things the Moody Blues sought to be, and vice versa.
Whereas the Moodies used Mike Pinder’s mellotron—in most cases—to achieve an orchestral-like choral string ambience, Providence just went ahead and incorporated a real string trio with Bartholomew Bishop’s classically styled keyboards and ethereal, highly polished vocals (further enraptured by ephemeral harmony vocals from the other members).
That allowed the band to sound very much like young Moody Blues in waiting. Bishop had even acquired the breathless breaking cry that made Moody Justin Hayward’s vocal presentations so apparently effective, to the extent that it was often possible to mistake the two upon first hearing. Providence certainly weren’t the only guys pursuing that slightly proggy, arco rock format. Roy Wood and Jeff Lynne had been cooking up the first Electric Light Orchestra album for a couple of years, leading up to its US release in 1972.
Providence – Ever Sense the Dawn 1972
But Providence were the first band signed to the Moody Blues’ fledgling Threshold label imprint. Their only release Ever Sense the Dawn (also released in 1972) was one of the better albums the Moody Blues never released, but it went nowhere sales-wise. They disbanded after a couple of years after making no further waves—although the string trio subsequently went on to play with Justin Hayward on a couple of his solo projects in the mid-‘70s.
Proggier British bands such as Yes, Genesis, Gentle Giant and Jethro Tull and many others actually preceded all this by a few years. After quickly evolving in the late ‘60s from a troupe of sylvan blues rock elves, Tull spent many years and albums exploring the rockier side of prog folk rock. But by the late ‘70s Tull (reflecting the rural passions of leader Ian Anderson) turned decidedly bucolic and were back in the glen for a three albums, beginning in 1977 with Songs From the Wood. Heavy Horses and Stormwatch followed in succeeding years.
Bill James
With all this in mind, let us compile for ourselves a current-day composite assimilation that could conform to the elements contained therein. Let us consider Floating Pointe. In reality, the core trio of Floating Pointe has been together for about twenty years. So perhaps we should begin by considering all that.
Mike Draper
Singer/songwriter/guitarist Bill James, bassist Mike Draper and drummer/multi-instrumentalist Jason Mockley first met in 1990 while attending Pacific University in Forest Grove. They immediately formed a band, which by 1992 had become Sylvia’s Ghost—a sort of Goth-tinged band of dense specific gravity with a flair for the dramatic. In 1998, James moved to Montana to attend grad school, effectively leading Sylvia’s Ghost to its demise—though it did not affect the partnership between the three musicians, it merely modified the means of their interaction.
Jason Mockley
Upon James’ return to Portland in 2001 the trio resumed operation as Floating Pointe: the new name chosen to reflect a more electronic bent the music had acquired. They released their first, eponymously titled album in 2006. Between that time and now, the band have supplanted the electronica with organic elements that often approach a chamber music context. This second album reflects those changes quite distinctly and succinctly, while still maintaining a lineage that extends back two decades.
So, anyway, if Floating Pointe were Jethro Tull, this would be their Songs From the Wood. But in reality, Floating Pointe have just as much in common with Providence, so this album would also stack up as their Ever Sense the Dawn as well. Those albums are good starting point(e)s from which to access the work of this band.
Eve James
The first song found on Floating Pointe2, “The Sun” is a perfect example of that cross-channeling. Chiming electric and acoustic guitars and slippery bass provide buoyancy over a strange (only in context) electronic bass tone, creating a bramble of green sound. James’ vocals have a trained, diaphragmatic quality, delivered in a manner very similar to Bart Bishop of Providence. His voice soars over the backing instruments like a prevailing wind. Bill’s wife, Eve James contributes very subtle, but effective harmony vocals. An anthem of measured optimism.
Furthering the antique ambiance, ”Pride” incorporates hand drums, mandolin, Eve James’ viola and/or Wendy Berner’s cello and accordion-like melodica into the mix, sounding very Tullish. But the chorus, such as it is, is straight out of the Providence playbook—not that any members of Floating Pointe have ever heard of their predecessors necessarily—bearing a striking similarity to Providence’s “Smile” (possibly impossible to locate on the internets) with the exception of the short, middle-eastern riff at the turns—which calls to mind Led Zeppelin. All the same, this lofty waterfall of a song is worthy of closer inspection.
Wendy Berner
The eastern motif is carried one step further on “Drown,” hand drums, Eve James’ droning viola, and Bill James’ sitar like guitar set the mood—until the song’s bursts into a dreamy, ‘60s inspired bridge, where Bill and Eve intertwine sweet vocal harmonies over a lovely chord progression. “Keyless Entry” is a vaporous arrangement that lifts and lingers with cat-footed hesitancy. Faint mandolin, Berner’s cello, organ and flute sounds resonate in the mist. The ‘60s vibe continues (in a good way): the song faintly resembling something Love might have created in their heyday, with the vocals calling to mind the Mamas and the Papas. Local bands, such as Loch Lomond and Typhoon exhibit similar musical characteristics. Floating Pointe falls somewhere in the midst of those examples.
Draper
Oud-like guitar decorates “You & Me.” Moaning cello and prickly electric guitar lead to a sweet chorus, replete with embroidered vocal harmonies. Another lovely chorus decorates “Lullabies.” As Jason Mockley’s insistently syncopated hand drums and standard kit waltz in 6/8 time, lilting acoustic guitar and Mike Draper’s sinuous basslines lend the song uplifting support. Bill James’ tenor vocals sometimes recall early Tim Buckley in the purity of their delivery.
Bill and Eve James
The piano figure from the Left Banke’s ‘60s hit “Pretty Ballerina” is clearly referenced on the intro to “Midnight,” a similar wistfully timeless mood achieved, although the Pointe’s head off in a different direction, again ethereally pastoral in context, dreamy Flower Power for the 21st Century. Three-part vocal harmonies nicely articulate a gorgeous chorus—which segues into a magical interlude driven by the piano against Draper’s bass and a cheery xylophone mirroring a glossy counterpoint. Then, in the middle, at the eye of the storm, swirls a sublime section that sounds like an organic Radiohead, broadcast from a far away transmitter. Beautiful.
James
Realistically timing out at about a minute and a half, “Frustration” is way too short. It is musically different from the other tracks. Not so ornate with overdubs, but more direct, as if performed by a band influenced by the Smiths. James’ bubbly Marr-ish guitar and the band’s more forceful presentation are a welcome boost of energy. More of this please!
James’ mother Lindy joins Eve on viola and Wendy on cello for “Yesterday,” which while it is not Paul McCartney’s song, contains many similar musical elements—notably a classical chamber setting. The subsequent song “Lindy Porter” sounds a part of its predecessor, as if from a song cycle, dove-tailing in feel, while more buoyant in presentation. The restless “Blue Skies” again sounds as if captured from some other ineffable time and place, melodically hearkening back to the dawn of pop: Jay and the Americans’ “She Cried.”
And herein is an example of the genetic musical absorption to which we all are subject. There are only so many chords and so many melodies available for any western culture “pop” song. It is the liquid beauty of the medium and needs to be accepted—critics of Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines,” especially, are a perfect case in point. Jeez get over it! Prince is the one who should be pissed, not Marvin Gaye. And Leo Sayer oughta be giving the Gaye estate a call, if you want to get serious about these things. Everything is simply a reference point for everything else, especially in rock music.
Mockley
The ballad “Shadows” conjures dark poetic desolation “I sit and watch you there with the shadows on the wall/The large ones, the small ones, the ones that aren’t there at all.” The instrumentation provides an acoustic gray wind to whirl wearily across the barren lyrical landscape. Intensely forlorn.
“She Waits,” the final track, is a live recording that nicely showcases all of the band’s strengths: as the four main members generate a lot of sound between them. Mockley’s drum work is especially note worthy. The inclusion of a live recording is appropriate for Floating Pointe, who over the past couple of years have managed to become the darlings of the McMenamin’s empire, pretty much touring their entire circuit. In September the Pointers will take up a regular Saturday Happy Hour residency for Ringlers at the Crystal Ballroom.
Mockley commented on the gig with candid introspection. “We are flattered that they like the music so much! It was super cool to get that request after they had tried other acts in that space. We seem to be a good blend of mellow groove, and rock for them.”
It’s true that Floating Pointe are mellow. Their music leans far closer to folk than it does to rock. There’s only one song on this album that even moves like a rock song. And it’s great! All minute and a half of it. And would that the band did more of the same. But it’s not likely. Because what they do, they do very well. Their music is anachronistic—which is not to say it is at all out of place within the realm of Portlandia. Hell, Portland is often just an anachronism with a population. Keepin’ it weird. Instead Floating Pointe follow closely in the footsteps of Providence, who first trod local stages forty years ago. And they are certainly worthy successors.
The rock music scene in Portland is fifty years old this year. To a certain extent 1963 is an arbitrary date. There were something like rock bands before that time, but they were combos who played sock hops and the like. Bands such as the Wailers and Paul Revere and the Raiders were already up and running in the Northwest. So were Portland’s Kingsmen, more or less. But in 1963, the rock music “club” scene first began to take shape. They were teen soda bars, to be sure. But live rock music was being played in them.
D Street Corral
The Headless Horseman downtown, the Chase out in Milwaukie, D Street (the Division Street Corral) and the Silver Skate Ballroom in the eastern quadrant, and a few others in the vicinity created something of a circuit for local bands. Combine gigs at those clubs with high school dances and various other opportunities, such as store openings, parties and the like, and an enterprising band could achieve something resembling a career. Or, at least a career from the perspective of teen-aged boys’expectations.
Though Paul Revere and the Raiders and a few other regional acts made minor national noise before 1963, there were no “rock” music acts calling Portland home. But that all changed when the Kingsmen ran “Louie Louie” out into the realm, and the story of the Portland music scene began
Over the ensuing fifty years, a few names (like, say, the Kingsmen for instance) have been accorded “royalty” status within the hierarchy of local rockdom. Most of those names have been enshrined in the Oregon Music Hall of Fame, but not all of them. Many members of that royalty, some going back nearly to the headwaters (Steve Bradley and Jim Mesi come readily to mind) are still playing today. And others who have been in the scene since the mid-to-late ‘70s are still playing (Dead Moon, Chris Newman, Sam Henry, anyone?) regular gigs and making an impact.
Dharma Bums
In the late ‘80s, about midway in the meandering course of our fifty-year musical history, the Dharma Bums from the Salem area began to appear in the local clubs. They exuded an earnest, woodsy sincerity that complimented fiery, youthful exuberance and spirited musicianship. Their songs often rang like anthems: perhaps in the REM lineage. Their sound and stage presence were predecessors to Seattle super-grungers like Pearl Jam and Nirvana (it is reputed that Kurt met Courtney [perhaps met her in a biblical sense] at a Bums gig).
John Moen
The Dharma Bums didn’t last that long, three albums and out in a cloud of dust in 1992. From there, various members went on to do different projects. Good drummers being in high demand (just ask Janet Weiss), Bums drummer John Moen played with just about everyone in town, it seems—Heatmiser and Elliot Smith solo, Spinanes, among countless others. In the 1993 Moen and Bums bassist Jim Talstra formed the Maroons), who won instant acclaim from the Portland music public and critics alike. It was in the Maroons that Moen first showcased his own material, singing and playing guitar in the band while Talstra played lead guitar.
The Maroons
The Maroons released a couple of albums before moving on in the early 2000s. From there, Moen launched another episode of peripatetica that has yet to relent after nearly ten years. He logged time with Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks after the Maroons demise in 2002. He became a member of the Decemberists in 2006 in time to record The Crane Wife and has remained a member of the band ever since. He contributed to Scott McGaughey’s Minus 5 collective. Somewhere along the line John began working with the Decemberists off-shoot bluegrass band, Black Prairie.
Boston Spaceships w/ Robert Pollard
Moen joined with Robert Pollard’s Boston Spaceships in 2008. That year, he released his first solo album under the band name Perhapst. That debut is a rather subdued affair, with a distinctly DIY vibe, wherein he played most of the instruments. The recording had its moments, bolstered by the presence of ex-Dharma Bum Eric Lovre, Mister Jick himself Steven Malkmus, and Jonathan Drews.
Drews is probably best known as guitarist for Sunset Valley, a quirky, Portland all-star outfit that, while achieving a modest regional notoriety, never quite lived up to expectations that they would follow in the Dandy Warhols’ footsteps down the path of national adoration. Instead they broke up in 2006, though a couple of years ago they did gig together. But long before that, he and Sunset Valley bassist Eric Furlong were in the Canaries. For a very interesting interview with Jonathan Drews, check this out.
The Canaries showed up in Portland in 1994 having emigrated to Portland from the Bay area (originally from Athens, Ga.). They were truly the predecessors to Sunset Valley although their canary lives were short lived. Speaking of canaries, it was somewhere around that time that Furlong and Drews began working with songstress Kaitlyn ni Donovan helping to guide her career through the rest of the ‘90s and into the ‘00s. Somewhere along the line Jonathan and Kaitlyn became an item. In 2007 they opened Last of the Explorers studios. And that is where this second John Moen album was recorded.
John Moen
Jonathan Drews is one of the few links between Moen’s first Perhapst album and this sophomore affair. In this instance, he plays an integral role in the success of the arrangements and production. And one thing should be made very clear from the start. This album is a rousing success. With able engineering and faithful instrumental and vocal support, Drews could rightfully be considered to be a member of Perhapst. But the fact remains that the focus of this album is locked squarely upon John Moen and at no time does he disappoint.
While distinctly contemporary, with elements of Fleet Foxes (especially J. Tillman), and hints of Ben Gibbard and Bon Iver—Moen’s music contains a strong undercurrent of ‘70s country/rock. Start with the fledgling Eagles and the latter day, White/Parsons countrified Byrds and work outward. There you go. Elements of bands such as Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Pure Prairie League, Firefall and Poco seem obvious enough.
Where the heck he had access to such a wealth of country/rock references is anyone’s guess. But there’s a ton of them—whether obtained in his formative years through familial acquisition, or from the subsequent creation of an intensive record collection. Moen’s music falls somewhere between what is now alt. country and Americana, and it falls lightly, but with considerable impact. It is the sum of all the various musical aggregates in which John has performed (though it sounds least like the Decemberists) over the years, with the addition of his own unique, original perspective.
The distant train of a haunted country slide guitar moans plaintively against a low-strung spaghetti rumble to open “Birds Off a Wire.” Moen’s flexible falsetto summons comparisons to Jim James of My Morning Jacket or Chris Martin of Coldplay in tone, and Thom Yorke in warmth, but Elliott Smith in the boyish innocence of his delivery. The song has no chorus, to speak of other than that low, muttering Peter Buck-ish guitar figure—but satisfies, none the less.
Drews’ soaring, Duane Allman-like slide guitar propels “Willamette Valley Ballad,” a song with a Neil Young After the Gold Rush era riverboat feel. Backing himself on drums, bass and acoustic guitar, Moen breezes through the down home verses with a warbling vocal, sounding like that shy kid from the next block over upon meeting a former crush at the ten-year high school reunion. At around the two-minute mark, something like a fuzz-guitar driven chorus finally comes to light, in the form of a canonical contemplation.
Lewi Longmire
“Ramble/Scramble” wheels on the spinning top of John’s piano riff, calling to mind Emitt Rhodes (McCartney by proxie) from the early ‘70s. Guest Lewi Longmire’s country twinged guitar licks and Black Prairie Decemberist Jenny Conlee-Drizos’ organ thicken the presentation without getting in the way of a simple song. A Small Faces vibe courses through the happy, summery chorus. Catchy! Scott McGaughey tosses in a ragged harp solo to bind all the elements together.
Nearly every musical configuration with which John Moen has ever played is represented somewhere on this recording—some member makes an appearance. But never do the guests sound gratuitous. Instead they contribute intrinsically to each song and add to the cumulative quality of the music presented.
Black Prairie Decemberist Chris Funk’s supple dobro and ringing mandolin, and Eric Lovre’s (former Dharma Bums, etc) jaunty basslines augment John’s piquantly pretty piano theme on “Revise Your Maps.” Moen, Drews and McGaughey combine for tight three-part harmonies on the luscious chorus, singing the mystical line: “Revise your maps, your color’s blue/Revise your maps.” A cartographic reference, one would suppose. Musically: think Beck circa Sea Change. Effortlessly performed.
“Sorrow and Shame” is a riley piece of rock—as if Steve Miller and Blitzen Trapper were jamming on a spirited version of the Beatles’ “Ballad of John and Yoko.” Moen sings and plays all the instruments on this rousing tune, but for Conlee-Drizos’ hard charging piano. A fun song.
The intro to “True Sparrow” sounds directly lifted from Jethro Tull’s “Songs From the Wood” era, with crackling acoustic guitar and soaring flute tones. In a similar context, the song’s melody resembles Steeleye Span’s version of “ Black Jack Davy.” John adds prickly electric rhythm guitar, Grisman-esque chiming mandolin and Rowan Brothers-style vocal texture to the proceedings, with a couple of Neil Youngian solos to top it all off.
Black Prairie
A ghostly pretty ballad, “Find Me” is simply arranged, just Moen’s acoustic guitar, Drews’ simple hand percussion and Black Prairie Decemberist Nate Query’s sinewy bass—either an acoustic stand up, or effected to sound like one— offering long, vaporous lines which sometimes melt into what sounds like a cello. This song radiates the same youthful innocence and simple beauty as Elliot Smith’s “Angeles” from Either/Or, with a vocal melody that faintly evokes equal parts U-2’s “Sunday, Bloody Sunday” and the Doobie Brothers’ “I Cheat the Hangman.”
Longmire reprises with bristly six-string interjections for the Dead-informed “Offering the Blues,” while Funk bequeaths smooth-polished lap-steel to the background. John’s slippery falsetto slides in and out of the sly lyric with elastic aplomb. Fun. The Byrds, of course, are instantly referenced by the plucky electric 12-string guitar figure that leads-off “Still (Mt. Zero).” John’s easy-going vocal evinces “Take It Easy” Eagles, Jackson Browne or Jonathan Edwards. Ah, the ‘70s!
John Moen
Query returns on upright bass for the simple acoustic number “Thousand Words.” John’s finger-picked acoustic guitar scatters like raindrops across the earthy substance of Query’s bass in the verses. At the chorus, John launches into a beautiful, Brian Wilson inspired aria, buffeted by a round cello sound and the warm wind of Kaitlyn ni Donovan’s violin. Moen’s piano unwinds like a music box minuet to introduce “Queen Mary.” Electric guitar arpeggios serve in counterpoint and underpin a vocal motif worthy of Chris Martin, resolving in a lovely, yearnful passage through the lullaby soprano chorus. Drews’ fiery lead guitar sears a raw scar across the musical terrain. Powerful.
Jonathan Drews, John Moen, Chris Slusarenko: Eyelids
“Highlife” twists on a knot of urgent chords, recalling the Gin Blossoms or early Smithereens. Chris Slusarenko’s (Sprinkler, Svelt, Guided By Voices, played with Moen in Boston Spaceships, and there is a rumor of a band called Eyelids comprised of Moen, Drews and Slusarenko in the works) churning bass paces like a quickened pulse through a mournful verse: “Highlife, baby/Your windshield saves me/from flying insects/Am I your best friend?” Things come to a monetary abrupt and complete halt. Then a corner is turned into a gorgeous wordless chorus worthy of the Dandy Warhols. The ubiquitous Annalisa Tornfelt (Black Prairie) joins for a solo midway, and angelic vocal harmonies in the back half of the song. Another winner.
Funk’s lonesome pedalsteel hovers around John’s wispy acoustic guitar and chunky piano chords like a fog of depression through the despondent verse of “Lightlow Nightowl.” As Moen demonstrates repeatedly throughout this album, he is a crafter of gorgeous, Smithian choruses and the one for this song is no different, buffeted by his plaintive vocal adolescence and knack for a catchy melody. Having a couple of vocal octaves to experiment with while creating those melodies is obviously of great benefit—here, as everywhere else.
John Moen
A good songwriter assimilates every song he hears—storing away the choicest morsels for later application. These fragments may reappear in a new original song as merely a faint and distant reference, or they may be more direct. As a songwriter, John Moen works in the former context. All of his songs, and all their arrangements sound instantly familiar. By the third listen, every song is indelibly implanted in one’s subconscious. Apparitions of his songs will well up through the course of a day. They are not so much remembered as absorbed.
What’s true is that John Moen and his aggregation, Perhapst, are equal to any of the other organizations with which he has heretofore been affiliated. He’s in their league. He has taken a little something from every one of them and made it his own. Each song here is a tiny gem—once heard, not to be forgotten.
Musical acts with a choral female vocal core have been a mainstay of popular music since the genre was inaugurated early in the 20th century. The Boswell Sisters, in the early ‘30s, come instantly to mind as purveyors of tight harmonies and blues-inflected jazz phrasing. Later the Andrews Sisters glommed onto those tight harmonies and, later still, it was the Chordettes singing “Mr. Sandman” in 1954 with bright, brassy barbershop harmonies.
The advent of rhythm and blues in the late ‘50s portended a change toward a new and different sound that came to full flower in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Although there are earlier examples (the Shirelles most prominent among them), the precise recording I will be referring to, in going forward, as the headwaters of what rivered down thereafter is “Sally Go ‘Round the Roses,” released in 1963 by the Jaynetts. That recording features no real lead singer to speak of. It is just a bunch of girls—at least sixteen of them, maybe more—singing mostly in unison, a spinoff of a well-known nursery rhyme.
The Primettes
For some reason, there is something very eerie about that muddled, muddy recording. Eerie in a good way. Happily eerie. Like when a warm breeze blows through you and you experience a chill. A chill of warmth, if you will. The Primettes had already become the Supremes by that time, so it’s a good bet they and Berry Gordy Jr. were listening to this record too, as it seemed to have a direct effect on their sound. It’s the sound of a bunch of girls singing in unison.
Oh, the Supremes improved upon it (“Baby Love.” You bet!), of course and Phil Spector built a career out of it. Then the sound became part of the soul and rock vernacular and it spun off in countless fruitful ways. From Laura Nyro to the 5th Dimension, from Sergio Mendez and Brazil ‘66 to Abba. Mamas and the Papas, the Association. Everywhere—you can hear the sound of unison. Yeah, there’s a little harmony at times, but it’s that sound of many voices singing the same note, turning that single note into harmonic sludge. Yup. That’s it!
Radiation City
Perhaps you are wondering where the hell I’m going with all this. I know I am. Radiation City. And all the above merely serves as reference to a single aspect, out of many that distinguish Radiation City from most any other band. Why?
Nancy Crater
Because Radiation City are able to absorb the essence of other bands like Nancy Crater sucks the salt out of people in the original Star Trek episode “The Man Trap.” Only in a good way. For world peace and the benefit of pop music, I guess. I don’t know. Radiation City seem to love music, to love playing it together and to have an uncanny knack for producing familiarly new and unique pieces of music that creep into your DNA in precisely the same way that their (grand)parents’ music has crept into that of the members of the band.
And if everything I have described up to this point could be considered as cake, then it would be safe to say that they have mastered the recipe. But where Radiation City truly excel is in the art of frosting. Their attention to composition and detail is keenly superb. In fact they are so dedicated to frosting that they tend to frost the first layer of their creations with a second, thicker, even more ornate layer of frosting. It’s thick. It’s rich. It’s Radiation City musical frosting!
Right from the start, with”Zombies,” you get a sense of where these guys are coming from—and where they’re going. Over quirky, Beach Boys-ish church organ, burbling percussive effects, Cameron Spies’ skittering rhythm guitar, and Matt Rafferty’s stacatto bass pumps, vocalist Lizzy Ellison broadcasts a verse with a melody faintly reminiscent of Alan Parson Project’s “Eye in the Sky.” And while you try to conjure that in your mind’s ear, mix in Abba doing “Fernando” when multi-instrumentalist Patti King joins in harmony vocals at the chorus. Consider an air of the Cocteau Twins (and all subsequent related elements) hovering an atmosphere all around. Let the frosted frosting surround you.
Optigan
“So Long” sounds as if it’s driven by an Optigan or a vintage Lowery organ or something of equal delightful tackiness, along with a squirrely ‘60s style psychedelic guitar and Randy Bemrose’s hard-hitting beat in the clinches. Strange vocals imply a Dodge commercial from 1963, produced by Raymond Scott. Ultimately, this is music for the 21st century Space Age Bachelor Pad where swinging bachelorettes are welcome as well.
The brief “Wash of Noise” creates a mood of angst and discorporation, with clever, intellectually astute lyrics. “I’ve got a proposition/Why don’t we change positions/I’ll take your physical prowess/You take this rabbit hat from me.” Heart-thump drumbeat and other drain clearing percussive sounds, elastic bass, and swooning melotron-like violin contribute to the stark, desolate ambience. A strange, mildly unnerving piece to be sure.
The fellas articulate the intro section to “Food.” But eventually a lilting double-tracked female voice (with harmonies the second time through) comes into the sonic picture to dally the choral seam aforementioned—recalling the timbre of the Brit girl duo, the Caravelles, from ’63. This is over a lazy Sergio Mendez-style samba, with spaghetti western guitar theme, mixed in with a feel sailed in from the early ‘80s, circa the band Berlin (slowed down—without the coke edge). These guys are nothing if not pliable!
It really isn’t until the entry of the burbbly chortling arpeggiating synth and soft, sandy acoustic nylon stringed guitar that float around the launch of “Foreign Bodies,” that the complex components to the elaborate confection that is this album begin to congeal into a full-fledged musical cake. Over that is spread a vocal with the consistency of Mary Wells singing a Laura Nyro song (produced by Phil Spector)—which never happened but it should have. When the drums kick in at the turns, the crew steals the echo effect from the Cowsills’ “Flower Girl,” while adding a ‘60s elevator element that is peculiarly all their own.
“LA Beach” maintains that laid back feel, well worthy of its sunny, blue-sky title, and maybe reminiscent, production-wise, of something from the Beach Boys’ Surf’s Up period. The brief “Entropia” extends that vibe. Hauntedly cool male voices somnambulently lead the listener through ghostly sand, sounding all Wilson-y in its ornate nakedness. The melody of “Wary Eyes” bears a direct reference to Joao Gilberto’s “Desafinado” (if Astrud Gilberto were ever to have sung it) and maintains a similar restraint—perhaps in a league with early Cocteau Twins.
Buckminsterfullerene
That Cocteau Twins affinity is further realized on the aptly (considering that faint connection) named “Buckminsterfulerene,” which even sounds like a Twins title. As we all know, Buckminsterfullerene was named after its resemblance to “Bucky balls,” and is the largest object to have been shown to exhibit wave-particle duality (it’s a quantum physics thing. Don’t worry about it), and, of course, solid and gaseous forms of the molecule have been detected in space. Right?
Anyway, consider this song as a possible out-take from Heaven or Las Vegas (with the addition of an array of electronically generated whizzy zizzy accoutrements) and you approximate the milieu. What would it sound like if Phil Spector produced the Cocteau Twins? Now that’s something to think about! You can get some idea by listening to this track.
“Summer Rain” maintains a 5th Dimension “Stoned Soul Picnic” antique soul sensibility, paired with uniquely spacey passages of a modest au current grandeur—leading to a piping “Chopsticks” section reminiscent of “Good Vibrations” Beach Boys meeting at Harry Nilsson’s Point. This is all pulled off with spectacular élan in the two minutes it takes to get that far into the song.
Then, in the middle section, they break into the sort of jazz-edged synth solo that Steely Dan might recognize, followed by a short symphonic breakdown worthy of Prince, and back to the Stoned Soulish verse. Three minutes flat. Radiation City work fast. And efficiently. As luxurious as the songs can often be, they don’t linger beyond the moment before flitting off to some other musical destination. You have to pay attention!
The lazy gaited ballad, “Lark,” provides a lush thicket of sound. Brambles of keyboards, with arpeggiating acoustic guitar play against delicately non-descript female and occasional male voices. If there is a criticism to be made of Radiation City it’s that on occasion their vocals, male and female, tend to be a bit bland. They are all very pleasant, to be sure—as everything is with this band—but at times these vocals sound as anonymous as one of those sixteen singing “Sally Go ‘Round the Roses.” Still, after all, the same could be said for Abba. So that’s no knock-out punch, by any means.
But fortunately they bounce back with the vivacious final track, “Call Me.” With frogs and crickets a-chirpin’, Spies’ Jobimian Spanish guitar serves as loci, with wiry low-synth set off by puffy nimbus cloud tones purring and whirring in support. Inside of that, the ladies embroider a vocal tapestry that slowly fades into an ephemeral fog, then into a frog.
Radiation City do what all good bands do, they assimilate and recast all that has gone before them. They do that in an unusual way. Their presentation is incredibly idiosyncratic. They fashion their musical pastries with great care and obvious fastidity—to the extent that the arrangements and production values often overcome the songs themselves.
But, upon close inspection, some of the songs themselves seem insubstantial. There’s too much frosting and not enough cake. And the cake we get is like angel food: mostly air. There is nothing wrong with angel food cake, until you try to apply two thick layers of frosting to the flimsy gateau. It’s too much.
Radiation City are not to that point. They show a great deal of promise in very promising ways. But, in order to create memorable music that stands the test of time, more important than arrangements or clever instrumentation well-executed—more important than the band or its performances, are the actual songs themselves. Without consistently solid, well-crafted songs, with lyrical depth to match a skilled melody, the center will not hold. The cake will collapse. Radiation City are too good at their craft to ever allow that to happen.
On the last Wednesday in January, toward the end of the night, some newcomers took the mic. I’d seen Matty Charles around. He’s the good-looking, tattooed bartender at the Starday (I came to find out he also does guitar restoration and repair). Consequently, he’d poured me a few beers on a couple occasions, for one thing. I was also told that he has been a bartender at Duff’s, but I don’t remember him when I’ve been there. That, however, means absolutely nothing.
Still think of Parsons and Harris singing Lowell George’s “Willin’” (from Linda Ronstadt’s Heart Like a Wheel) and you get a good feel for their presentation in the plaintive “Glorietta.” “Had a drunk in Reno/Got a flat in San Antone/Met a girl in Chino/But I ended up alone.” I think we’ve all been there (figuratively, at least).
Though Matty Charles has been playing music for quite some time (in Brooklyn, apparently), he and Katie have only been working together for six or eight months, so it’s a bit of a new enterprise. Still the precision in the delivery of their vocals indicates obvious care and attention to detail in the creation. Having only heard them once, and briefly at that, I am not sure of their entire repertoire, but I would like to hear Katie in the lead vocal role occasionally.
