JVA

Let’s Make a Problem
Thon Music

I’m pretty sure we went all through this about six or eight years ago when I reviewed one of Jim Walker’s albums (Terrible Pictures of Harriet, 2005), here and (earlier, in 2003) here, for Two Louies in what we at Buko refer to as “the waning days.” I remember that Walker had been going by the name Jeroan Van Aiken when he arrived in Portland from Los Angeles in the early ‘90s. He’d pretty much done it all, as far as a SoCal musician can do it—forming a band that achieved modest notoriety, performances in community theater, songs and scores for films, voice-over work for high-profile clients—pretty sweet deal.

Bosch 1 — Hieronymous Bosch, Self-Portrait

But, he ended up coming to Portland, as all musicians eventually must, where the livin’ is easy and the competition less fierce for all those influential gigs where you get paid what you were paid in 1992. (Fortunately, all musicians in Portland are independently wealthy and not availed of the necessity of “making a living,” as you people call it). So Jim came to Portland and he was Jeroan Van Aiken for a while. He probably was completely unaware of the fact that a variation of that name coincidently belonged to Hieronymus Bosch five or six hundred years earlier. It’s amazing how quickly these things depart the collective consciousness.

garden — Garden of Earthly Delights – Bosch

Then, about five years ago, a Virginia band named Gregor Samsa (named, of course, after Kafka’s man-bug) released the lovely song “Jeroen Van Aken” to marginal response. It would not seem that their election to tribute Mister Bosch by name had anything to do with Jim Walker’s determination to stop using the name, seeing as how he made that decision many years in advance of the Samsa’s release. However it remains unclear as to whether Bosch’s people had been in touch with Jim at some earlier date. Word is they can be a tough bunch.

Whatever the case, at some point Jim Walker as Jeroan Van Aiken became JVA. The significance of all this is beyond my scope as a “reporter” to further elucidate. Those are the facts. Arrive at your own conclusions.

The consummate songwriter, Jim has been plying his craft long enough to understand the structural components of a pop song and the proficiency required to fashion something original from them—a process not unlike the composition of haiku, wherein a certain precision and attention to detail are necessary just to get one of the damn things off the ground. Jim’s songs are familiar in context, but they tend to zig when you expect them to zag. After one hundred years or so of songwriting in the popular musical vernacular, I believe that is the highest compliment one can be paid.

Here we are given fourteen Walker originals. This is a true solo album, wherein Jim plays all the instruments and provides all the vocals (except backing vocals by Tiffany Carlson on a couple of tunes). The arrangements are uncomplicated, straightforward, succinct and varied in presentation, in some cases almost jarringly so.

The title of this endeavor, Let’s Make a Problem, might lead one to conclude it to be a biting polemic regarding the vicissitudes of unprotected sex. So, perhaps appropriately, we begin with “Sin.” It’s an acapella all-percussion accompaniment number, sort of Bobby McFerrin in nature, but much steamier than anything Bobby ever did (especially impressive is the tambourine)—and the “jungle” knob is dialed up to about 11. The dubby, “Baby, would you do that?” section is especially exotic. A memorable hook. Unusual.

“Concrete Hearts” moseys off in a whole ‘nother direction. It’s a twangy Tele, western-tinged tune with subtly supple piano and acoustic guitar backing. Vocally, here and elsewhere, Jim demonstrates the gritty edge of Glenn Frey and Don Henley with a touch of Timothy Schmitt sweetness. Eaglesesque. That’s a nice word for this song. A well-honed bridge sharpens the focus—“The days fall hard as rain and I can’t stand it/no place to go nothing to do/Each night’s an empty space, just how I planned it/Just passing time without you.” Walker’s Mark Knopfler-inspired guitar solo lends a windblown winsome quality.

Returning to a more modern production approach, “Kiss of Glass” rumbles with tumbling hand drums, creating an atmosphere rife with tension. Eerie. Rubbery bass and tightly clenched guitar play against a ghostly ‘80s synth wash in the turns. A middle-eastern flavored middle section adds to the smoky, mysterious atmosphere.

Acoustic guitar, piano and a big drumbeat drive “Come and Gone,” a Paul Simon-like composition. In a boyish tenor, Walker sings “Don’t tap the thin glass in my head/Coz the blackbirds circle there again/I see her faces in my sleep/So crowded in my dreams, I count a million fucking sheep” in a memorable bridge. “Bones” could be the work of “Dirty Laundry” era Don Henley—coarse in texture with a creamy pop center. Fine vocal harmonies and a catchy hook make this a memorable tune.

A solitary piano introduction leads the tender ballad “Oranges” toward a more uncomplicated backing of light drums, bass, and dueting acoustic guitar. Lyrically, Walker weighs his world from a William S. Burroughsian perspective “Oh Maria, dressed in black/Desert heat and vodka thin/Empty seed pods scuttle in/Dead palms shade like insect wings.” Dig it.

“Into the Sea” is dead ringer Eagles, circa Hotel California. Jim’s grainy voice is buoyed upon a wave of foamy acoustic guitar and sinister electric guitar fills. A familiar twine of melody wraps sinuously around the arrangement. Nicely turned. “Love Coming Through” is tougher in context, the grit in Jim’s voice more metallic, while the sentiment is softer. “Once” is mellower still, as Jim sounds like Glenn Frey uttering quiet confessions over simple acoustic guitar backing.

Dark apparitions shadow the lovely “Carry the Ghost” “I breathe my last in the cloak of the night/cold as a grave…” A moving chorus follows, then Jim’s most ambitious bridge of the set. “Don’t make me walk this lonely, lonely earth.” Well hewn.

Latin percussion, a Rhodes-toned keyboard and Spanish guitar decorate “Human Sea,” the most lyrically complex song among the fourteen. It’s an in-depth study of human nature, an immoral morality play, resembling somewhat Marty Robbins’ “El Paso,” in its thematic admixture of dark, carnal passion and heroic outlaw justice. “He stayed behind so carefully/Far enough so she didn’t see/And I stayed several paces down from him/I knew what he was waiting for/That electric moment where/He’d catch her for an instant in the din/Finally she turned a corner/Instantly he was upon her/Covering her mouth before she screamed/I put my blade up to his throat/Pulled back hard and watched it flow/Tipped my hat to her and made my way/Back to the human sea.” Nice.

Simple, unadorned piano supports the quiet love song “Perfect Idiot,” creating a mood of heartfelt intimacy. A Tom Pettyish “Learning to Fly” acoustic guitar jangle informs “Z.” The pacing of the song is quick, yet halting—akin to something the Eel’s Mark “E” Everett might create. Vocally, Jim sounds like E on this song, as well. Tasty backing vocal harmonies (some provided by Ms. Carlson) and a different feel from the rest of the material make of this one of the best songs on the album.

“Luxury” bathes in low-string pathos akin to the intro guitar line on Boy George’s “The Crying Game.” Walker meets the atmosphere with an evocative vocal, quietly delivered. Here again, another fine bridge helps to take the song to a higher level. Jim displays a keen understanding of the purpose of a bridge and how to use it.

tim & jim 4b — Long-time musical partner the Zesty Tim Ellis and Jim Walker

Let’s Make a Problem is a wonderful exhibition of technique and skill. Jim Walker’s abilities as a songwriter are a cut above most. He creates refined compositions that bear clear evidence of careful attention to detail. His arrangements are simple, but direct and to the point. Jim’s not a great musician, but surely quite good—and a fine technician. Besides, great musicians never made for a great song. But a great song has made many good musicians sound great. Consider Jim Walker to be among the latter contingent.

Various Artists

PDX a Go-Go
Acme Brothers Records

You wouldn’t think a little town this size could sustain more than a couple of surf bands. There’s certainly nothing wrong with the genre, and Portland has always had a history of providing some pretty good ones over the years. Satan’s Pilgrims and Surf Trio come readily to mind. But there have been many others lurking in the margins of the local music scene. Since the ‘80s anyway, there have always been a few surf bands playing around.

Which is sort of weird. Think about it. This is Portland not Malibu, man. There are probably more surf bands here than in all of Orange County today and there ain’t nobody ridin’ the wild surf of the Willamette. Doubtless this is a contributing factor in what makes our dear Portlandia the eccentric outpost it is so widely known to be.

So, I don’t know, should it come as any surprise that this compilation features five really great local instrumental surf bands? I guess not. Because this quintet of combos are each slick and tight and unique in their performances. A heapin’ helpin’ of spaghetti (western) is served, to be sure. And, yes, it’s true that surf music isn’t particle physics, but it’s a musical form, like the blues. It has its place in the rock vernacular. It’s valid, or whatever.

Surf rock has a concisely definitive history in the annals of popular music. Purists point to the Rendezvous Ballroom on Balboa Peninsula in sunny Newport Beach, Orange County, California, as the surf band seminal loci of the early ‘60s. In the summer of 1961 legendary left-handed guitarist (he played his left-handed Strat—called “the Beast”—strung upside down as if a right-handed guitar—you figure it out) Dick Dale launched his career at the Rendezvouz. Employing distinctive staccato notes in the lowest register and utilizing Arabic pentatonic scales from his Lebanese heritage, Dick Dale altered slightly (but noticeably) what was the prevailing guitar instrumental sound of the day. His “Miserlou,” released in 1962 and a hit, and later revived in the 1994 film Pulp Fiction, continues to be widely imitated to this day.

Dick Dale did have a few antecedents—Duane Eddy and Link Wray probably the earliest. Duane Eddy had a more country feel to his playing, derived, to an extent from Chet Atkins’ approach. But, in very early 1958 he put out a tune called “Moovin’ ‘n’ Groovin’” (produced by Lee Hazelwood) that featured the bass-note twang sound that became his signature. Hazelwood fashioned an echo-chamber out of a two thousand gallon water tank, which added a familiar reverb effect for which Eddy was also to become renown. The follow-up, “Rebel Rouser,” a rebuild of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” was his biggest hit of all.

At nearly the same time as Duane Eddy released his single, another guitar player bestowed upon the world one of the most revered and influential pieces of rock of all time. The instrumental had originally been called “Oddball” and was the result of a jam from a live show a few months earlier. When Link Wray issued “Rumble” (name suggested by Phil Everly) in April of 1958 all of popular music became forever transformed.

With overdriven amp, vibrato via whammy bar, tremolo set to stun, holes poked in the amp speakers (a trick used by Ike Turner’s guitarist Willie Kizart on “Rocket 88” in 1951, and later exploited by the Kinks’ Dave Davies on “You Really Got Me” in 1964 ) for distortion, Link Wray strummed the first power-chords—creating a sound that has been imitated in one way or another by every rock band to come along since.

Then there was “Apache” by Jorgen Ingmann, a soulful instrumental that appeared in June of 1960. Supported by galloping tom-toms, Ingmann explored the gamut of available popular effects, with the addition of echo, to effectively lay the groundwork for all rock guitar to follow. The elements of the firmament were fixed: reverb, distortion, vibrato/tremelo, echo. Thus rock God rested.

Well, not quite. Rock may have been created in the musical cosmos, but surf was not yet formed. It took a little combo from Tacoma, Washington to suss out that final foaming crest. In the fall of 1960 the Ventures turned out a number Chet Atkins had recorded in 1957, called “Walk, Don’t Run.” And that tune had something that its predecessors did not. It had a beat. Not just any beat. A surf beat. A little syncopated skip on the snare. Voila! Dick Dale, you may proceed.

The Ventures had such a big hit with “Walk Don’t Run” in 1960 that they released an updated version in 1964. By that time, bassist Nokie Edwards and lead-guitarist Bob Bogle had exchanged instruments (Bogle soloed on the original version). Nokie Edwards was one of the first to make use of a fuzz distortion pedal, as well as the electric twelve-string guitar. After late 1961 (especially with the addition of drummer Mel Taylor in early 1963), the Ventures rocked, standing out as the premier instrumental surf band, even though they never contended to be anything more than an instrumental guitar act. The Ventures’ influence became bigger than the band.

The next generation of surf rockers started to appear. While the vocal surf bands, in particular the Beach Boys, grabbed the national spotlight, instrumental bands such as the Marketts (“Out of Limits”), the Chantays (“Pipeline”) and the Safaris (“Wipe Out”) were able to maintain interest in the genre, though, by the mid 60s the unique guitar stylings had been appropriated for the mainstream—as witnessed by every spaghetti western film ever distributed, and (member of the Wrecking Crew) Billy Strange’s reworking of Peter Gunn into a version of the James Bond theme, as well his generating the Batman and Munster television series themes.

At that point national musical interest moved on to more lyrical and more intricately executed fare: Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull and the like—though it was clear that the old masters were plainly owed a debt of gratitude for pioneering the craft and the sound that the metal guys later furthered into the stratosphere.

Surf music underwent revivals from time to time over the years, owing to a movie or a television commercial advertisement or just to the American propensity for recycling its artistic successes (in lieu of generating something original: sincerest form of flattery and all that). A resurgence of the surf beat appeared in the new wave movement of the 1980s and led to a new generation of admirers.

In the 90s, surf saw yet another renaissance, with a host of bands—many space age oriented—pumping out a new, nitro-laced version of the stuff, all feuled up for the new millennium. Bands, such as Man or Astro-Man? The Space Cossacks, Laika & the Cosmonauts, The Mermen, and Los Straitjackets were prominent in the resurrection. So surf rock has never fully disappeared from American pop music consciousness. It’s merely been fully assimilated.

The references on PDX a GoGo are both obvious and subtle. There is a lot of variety among the five bands in approach and presentation, with roots spreading across a wide swath of surf space and time. But each band displays its own individual variation on the style.

We profiled WaveSauce earlier in the year here. Guitarist Pete Vercellotti displays versatility in his guitar playing, capturing a mostly ‘60s sensibility. Drummer Doug Powers and bassist Joel Boutwell provide solid support for Pete as they explore a sound they describe as “spyfi-pulp,” which covers a lot of sonic turf, to be sure.

What separates WaveSauce from the others are Michele “Cookie” Heile’s abilities on the theremin (there is a fairly detailed description of the device in that same article). The exotic sound of the instrument mirrors a couple of oddities sprung from the early ‘60s: “Telestar” by the Tornados from the UK, who made use of a clavioline, and “More” the theme from Mondo Cane, by Kai Winding, which offered the airs from an ondioline. As with synthesizers, which eventually followed, the theremin was essentially father to all those pieces of electronic gadgetry.

The two tracks WaveSauce present in this compilation give full reign to the theremin. Pete’s heavily tremeloed guitar opens “Phantom Strut” with a touch of menace, which Cookie intensifies with her entry into the mix at the turnaround. Powers provides “Die Laughing” with a big rock beat, over which Pete power chords, while Cookie supplies an eerie electronic wail that sounds like a woman screaming. Now that’s rock‘n’roll!

Members of the Surf Weasels have been playing around town for decades. Drummer Paul Barrall (Pauli Weasel) has backed scores of bands, including the Die-Jobs, and many others. Tri-Met hero, Ageless Arthur Beardsley (El Bajo) has been the bass fulcrum for a ton of local bands as well, including Walkie Talkie, New Creatures and Pink TV. Kyle Alaniz (El Monstro Surfer) from the Verbtones, Planet Crashers and the Del-Rods, serves as rhythm guitarist. Weasel guitarist and chief songwriter James Davis (Jaime Redondo) learned to play surf music watching Steve Bradley and Jim Mesi performing in the clubs when he arrived in Portland in 1981. He and Paul Barrall formed the Surf Weasels about around the year 2000 and they have been riding that wave ever since.

Owing to an absolutely disastrous chain of events this year the two tracks submitted here were recorded under duress (although you wouldn’t know by listening). First, Jaime Redondo, who wrote both the tracks, sustained a brain injury in May and was unable to attend the recording session (he is now on the mend). So, in an emergency, Mister Micky Tiki Tavi Weasel (aka Mike Dion) sat in on lead guitar for these tunes. Pauli Weasel fought through a severe spinal cord injury and Alaniz was forced to play bass when El Bajo was unable to make the recording gig. Jeesh!

The Weasels’ brand of surf tends toward the Duane Eddy end of things, with a ladle full of spaghetti sauce on the side. “El Nino” evokes Billy Strange’s ‘65 take on “Secret Agent Man.” Over Barrall’s intense, classic surf beat, Dion launches the sauce, slathering on the reverb as if it were extra mozzarella cheese. Think of Mel Taylor from the Ventures bashing behind Alessandro Alessandroni’s memorable “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” guitar lick and you get a feel for what’s going on. “Ponderosa,” of course calls to mind, “Bonanza” and guitarist Al Caiola who made that tune memorable, but also a couple of Duane Eddy numbers as well.

Susan Yasinski (Susan SurfTone) has been rockin’ it for about as long as the Weasels, going back to the ‘80s. Her guitar tone and style are not always so much surf as a crystallization of Chuck Berry and other early rock groundbreakers poured over ‘60s punk backing (think “Talk,Talk” by the Music Machine). She has her own approach. For the two tracks submitted for this venture, Wave Saucer Doug Powers serves as the drummer, while SurfTone sidekicks—bassist Dan Ferguson and Avory Gray on Farfisa—contribute well-oiled backing.

Cookie Heile from WaveSauce joins the band for “Rock Candy.” A brief Dick Dale meets the B-52s’ lobster intro gives way to tough power chording and whiny keyboard, creating an atmosphere similar to that of “Liar, Liar” the hit from ‘65 by the Castaways. Cookie enters, delivering the theremin suprano love call, as Susan breaks into an “Out of Limits” segment that eventually circles around to a Berry-ish two-string guitar solo.

“Salt Water” weaves Ferguson’s sprinting bassline with a rock-y guitar solo rooted mostly around chords (ala Berry). Susan has an original and easily-indentifiable sound, that bespeaks the many years she has spent plying her craft.

Shade 13, who hale from Bend, play their surf with a bent toward Man or Astro-man?’s penchant for using audio samples from obscure films. Bassist Bob Warrenburg and drummer John Sterling lend sturdy support to guitarist Mitch Johnson’s energetic surf excursions. Johnson and his mates demonstrate a firm grasp of the genre.

“Tucu’s Law” samples a fragment from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly before sliding into the faithful requisite of Dick Dale-isms—generated with impressive gusto. A nicely executed Link Wray-on-Four Red Bulls twang bar wang at the end of several phrases is well placed. In the middle section, Johnson sort of launches off into a metal realm unknown to the early pioneers, but that would seem in keeping with influences perhaps acquired from second generation ‘90s surf revival bands.

The autobiographical instrumental “Shade 13” begins with a hammer-on low-string salvo worthy of Jimmy Page, then resolves into a fast-paced romp built around the old one-four-five in a minor key. The tempo here is more along the lines of Los Straitjackets or Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet: vigorous.

outerspace heaters 2 — Outer Space Heaters

The most exotic of the five bands contributing to this project, Outer Space Heaters, cite Pink Floyd and Explosions in the Sky as influences and you can hear that in what they do. But they at times implement their own, far more complex interplay with admirable skill. Their sound is familiar, but quite original. Guitarists Chad Van Dyke and Andy McMillan interact very precisely with drummer Will Veale and bassist Auston Jubb.

Most of the credit to the band’s characteristic sound goes to Van Dyke, whose dexterity on the guitar is really quite amazing, in an uncommonly eccentric way. Les Paul’s early work in his experimental multitrack studio comes instantly to mind on “Aphelion.” It would appear that Van Dyke is either inordinately nimble-fingered ala Fripp/Belew King Crimson, or his guitar intro is doubled in speed via Paul’s technique—probably the former. More familiar ground is covered following that interlude: a spectacular Dale-ian overture with a hunk of pulpy Ventures lopped on for good measure. This is some cool shit.

“Space Cowboy” starts off sounding like Interpol’s “The Lighthouse” from Our Love to Admire, capturing a supremely Italian sensibility with a very heavy accent. Van Dyke’s lonesome low-slung theme shakes palsied over McMillan’s wobbly tremolo-washed backing guitar. Then all hell breaks loose with Van Dyke screaming through a shadowy thicket of hyper For a Few Dollars More thematic brambles at a sustained gallop. Then, out of nowhere, the dust settles and the end of the song resolves sort of like Clapton and Allman winding down “Layla,” with country-flavored suspended-chords and slide guitar sighing. Ah.

For what it is—a compilation of music by local instrumental surf rock bands—PDX a Go-Go is really great fun. All five bands demonstrate originality in their presentations, while adhering to the intensely devoted surf ethic. The musicians are all quite adept and play well together. Tight. This is the perfect album for a summertime get-together or impromptu beach party—nothing more to ponder than the next gnarly wave. Cowabunga, dude.

Duffs Garage is featuring a PDX a GO-Go CD release party on Friday, August 17^th starting at 9PM. WaveSauce, SusanSurftone, Outer Space Heaters and others are scheduled to perform.

Nu Shooz

Kung Pao Kitchen
NSO Music

I’m late in getting to this album, as it was released at the end of May. But seeing as how these previously-unreleased tracks were originally recorded between 1989 and 1992, it didn’t seem like an extra month or so would matter a whole lot one way or the other. In the case of Kung Pao Kitchen, “I Can’t Wait,” will not be appearing. John Smith and Valerie Day waited twenty years for this one.

I remember Nu Shooz from day one. My recollection (always subject to dispute) is that in the spring of 1980 I heard them in their formative stages over at my girlfriend’s house. Her roommate, Jonathan Drechsler, was the bass player in the band and they were rehearsing in the basement. Well I think it was their basement. It might have been some other basement—basements being what they are. Many of them (especially in inner southeast Portland in the early ‘80s) are amazingly similar.

NS FELICEDADES — Felicadades with John Smith, Scotty Wardinski, Danny Schauffler and Dave Graffe, among others.

Be that as it may, those were the seminal days of the Nu Shooz concept. John Smith was the bandleader. It seems like he might have been a horn player then (sax?), and that he was in the process of picking up the guitar—although that may have just been my perception at the time. He’d been a self-taught keyboard player and arranger with the salsa/soul band Felicades in the ’70s. I didn’t know the man and the band were going to evolve into Portland legend thirty years later, or I would have taken better notes. At the time, they were just another band in a basement. With a horn section, the Shoe Horns. And back-up singers, the I-lettes.

Back then, with punk and new wave fully formed and advancing on a tide of musical change, with the disco balls still twirling to Donna Summer, Madonna and the Village People. With Michael Jackson. Van Halen, Journey. Etc. There really wasn’t a big call for horn bands. Earth, Wind and Fire were pretty much the end of the line for that musical movement. But John Smith seemed to know what he was after. He wanted to develop a sort of blue-eyed soul funk revue/orchestra. In and of itself, that combination did not initially generate a lot of local response. Interest in existing local soul bands was already on the wane.

Smith’s artistic vision evolved over the years. At first he employed a female lead singer named Molly Ingram who had briefly sung with another stalwart Portland soul band, Slow Train. Though he tinkered with the structure of the band many times, the horn section remained, in one form or another. However, due to financial concerns, the I-lettes were abandoned. John did keep one I-lette on board: his wife Valerie Day, who played congas and sang back-up with the band.

NS Can't Turn — Can’t Turn It Off (1982)

Subsequently, Ingram left and David Musser joined the team to assume the singing duties. His paring with the diminutive Smith made the band appear to be like Hall and Oates west, which, at that time, wasn’t necessarily a bad comparison for the Shooz. That version of the band released an album called Can’t Turn It Off in 1982, while slowly cutting a swath toward prominence in the Portland music scene. Musser eventually left the band to become a chef and Valerie stepped from behind the congas to front the band.

It wasn’t immediate, in fact it was a perfect example of “overnight success” requiring endless hoop jumping over several years of struggle. But in 1984 the band recorded and released an EP called Tha’s Right, which happened to have a song called “I Can’t Wait” as its lead track. By the Spring of 1985, the single “I Can’t Wait” was beginning to generate heat locally and regionally.

In their attempt to either cash in or ruin the band (something for which the label displayed an amazing propensity) Warner Brothers entered into a demo deal with the Shooz, but later passed on them with the curt statement, “We’ve already got Madonna.” Whatever that was supposed to mean. No one ever accused major record companies of knowing anything about music. Bunch of accountants and lunch takers.

But, fate always being the unseen hand in these sorts of things, in late 1985 some Dutch guy went and re-mixed “I Can’t Wait,” and it immediately started receiving heavy dance club rotation all over everywhere. And with that success, the Atlantic label promptly entered into the picture. And thus began for John and Valerie and Nu Shooz the magical, whirlwind year of 1986.

By the spring of that year, the band had completed recording Poolside, their debut album for Atlantic and by September “I Can’t Wait” was sitting at # 3 on the Billboard Hot 100. In October the album went gold. In November, “Point of No Return,” their second Atlantic single release began climbing the Hot 100 chart, stalling at #28, though topping the Billboard Dance charts for a few weeks. At the end of the year the Shooz were nominated for a Grammy for Best New Artist, losing to the madcap Bruce Hornsby and the Range who had a hit with “The Way It Is” and not much else.

After six months of touring, the Shooz returned to the studio to record their follow-up album for Atlantic, Told U So. It took another six months before the album was completed. And in the Spring of 1988 the first single off the new album “Should I Say Yes,” was unveiled—soon peaking at #41 on the Hot 100 charts. The follow-up “Are You Lookin’ For Somebody Nu?” was a bona fide dance hit, but failed to make any of the broader charts. The album broke the Billboard Top 100, but went no further than #91.

Late in1988 the label picked up the option on a third album from Nu Shooz, demanding it forthwith; despite the fact that they had been working incredibly hard, without a break for the preceding four years, and really needed some time off. But, doggone it, you know how those darn major labels are. They don’t have much interest in that whole “creative” thing. They’ve got projections to meet, y’know?

It took four years for the band to complete the tentatively titled Eat & Run in 1992. In that time, however, the national music mood had turned again and Nirvana had arrived in a big way and everything had changed. Nu Shooz really weren’t the flannel types. Four years in real time is like twenty-eight years of label time. Things change very quickly. Empires are built, princes are crowned and it all falls to waste in the snap of a finger. In four years, the members of the team at Atlantic that were behind Nu Shooz were long gone and a new regime was busy looking for the next Pearl Jam. The label unceremoniously dumped the band from their roster before even attempting to release the first single from the album, “Time Will Tell.”

At that point John and Valerie retired the band. It had run its musical course. Times had changed. They each explored their own separate musical inclinations, before John evolved the Nu Shooz Orchestra in 2007, a sort of Pink Martini affair. That organization put out an album a couple of years ago called Pandora’s Box that was a distinct departure from all that had gone before.

Over the intervening years, many have wondered whatever happened to the Eat & Run material, which has never seen the light of day. According to John and Valerie, it’s not likely to. That album, those songs, belong to Atlantic one would suppose. But, during those four years putting the album together, the band gathered together a ton of songs, recording a lot of them.

What we have here in Kung Pao Kitchen is some of the best of that demo material, remixed and re-realized earlier this year. The result is a long walk down a twenty-five year old musical memory lane for a lot of people who might not be able to otherwise remember that far back.

But, before we begin our journey, the lay of the terrain should be established. The songs here were recorded up until 1992. Ostensibly there were overdubs and sweetening that took place this year, but they were done with such care so as to be indistinguishable from the original tracks. With all that in mind: these songs sound dated.

Not the songs so much. The instrumentation and arrangements are really from about ‘87, ‘88. All the brrrpppp-whap-a-kunka drum-machine drums you could want (I believe all drums are programmed here, no drummer listed, though there are human percussionists involved) and a lot of smoochy, squeaky, rubbery synth bass (there are real bassists participating too—good bassists, including Phil Baker). The keys are mostly programmed and sequenced, but Jeff Lorber is in there too among the zeroes and ones. Ultimately, they’ve got that mechanical precision that was so cool at the dawn of the MIDI era.

NS VALERIE — Valerie day (new millennium)

Nu Shooz music has been described elsewhere as a “suburban pop/freestyle hybrid.” I have not the slightest whit of an idea as to what that might mean. But whatever it is, this material resembles, stylistically and instrumentally, the band’s golden days, circa “I Can’t Wait,” “Point of No Return,” and “Should I Say Yes.” The musicianship is impeccably tight and precise. And Valerie Day’s voice sounds great. It’s possible that she recorded some new vocals as in a few places her voice sounds warmer and fuller than in her more girlish epoch. As if Madonna evolved into Ella Fitzgerald. Well, that’s a bit dramatic, I suppose. But there is a sense of maturation in her voice that comes out from time to time.

The album kicks off with the infectious “Anytime.” The accompaniment is driven by drippy, squirty synth-bass lines and basic slap, smack, and dash drums—with a lot of cool percussion: cowbell in particular, of course. Valerie sings in the sort of muted coo Paula Abdul (later bequeathed to Britney Spears) manifested at about the same time as this song was recorded. Seductive in a moany, purry sort of way. You know the drill.

Melodically the chorus reminds of En Vogue’s “Free Your Mind” (which also came out around just that time, as well), which isn’t exactly much of a coincidence, given that we’re talking about two notes, so what the hey? This song would have made a fine single.

“I Would If I Could” is completely different. The bass sounds real, as do the snare and percussive accoutrements, laid over not a whole lot more than a click track and some squirty keys. But it’s Valerie’s vocal that particularly stands out—Ella buttery—richer and more refined. My guess is these tracks were recorded more recently over the bed of chiming dithery synths. Not a great song, but the band did everything they could do to make it work.

And “Didn’t Want to Tell Ya’” more or less combines the two previous cuts. Valerie in her more smooth voice, fronts the funky motif, propelled by Smith’s slippery slick rhythm guitar phrasings. A nice single-line chorus, fairly memorable, if a bit non-descript. I’m not sure why, but the groove (especially the exotic vocal theme repeated a few times) to “You Put a Spell on Me,” sounds like something Donna Summer might have employed—with the Earth, Wind, and Fire horns thrown in for good measure. Mostly groove, not a lot of content.

The ballad “How Did We Fall in Love” alludes to the Smiths long marriage, dating back to the ‘70s. This song, too, seems to bear a sheen of more recent attention—the arrangement sounding not as dated as some of the others.

The funky “I Just Wanna Talk About You” is driven by a syncopated, kissy synth figure vaguely reminiscent of that on “I Can’t Wait.” A satin sax flurries up at times, in a wailing moan, in all likelihood generated by Maceo Parker (James Brown, Parliament-Funkadelic, etc), because he gets an extended solo in the middle, and he’s listed in the liner notes as taking part in the project. It’s a hot solo, whoever played it. The vocal breakdowns are fresh and a step forward. But, unfortunately the chorus falls flat and doesn’t really go anywhere. C’est la chanson.

Another nice ballad is “Different Kind of Love,” with mellow percussion, including congas, and a nice interplay between keys and rhythm guitar. Atypically, Valerie places her voice up in her throat and face, nearly achieving Madonna’s adenoidal throttle, but the mood is closer to Sade. The band claim this song was inspired by Cheech and Chong’s ‘70s classic, “Basketball Jones,” but, honestly, I can’t hear it.

“Stop Pretending” features several musical flourishes anomalous to much of the rest of the record. In many ways that’s a shame. Because this is really good stuff, of which there should be more. The arrangement here is tougher than the other songs. The drums are punchier than elsewhere. Smarter horn/key charts, not so derivative. Even John’s slinky rhythm guitar has more body and definition. And Valerie sings the verses paired with a male counterpart pitched an octave lower. It all makes for a very solid song—the best execution of the nine songs presented.

The rudiments of “When I Think of You” call to mind Roberta Flack’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love.” Its laid back atmosphere and chromatic chord progressions provide a similar foundation for the Shooz number. Sparse, block-chord keyboards and a funky drum rhythm augment Valerie’s sweet, seductive lead and the ethereal backing vocals. Out of the blue, another sax solo makes an unanticipated appearance, as there are no other horns anywhere else on the track. This again may be Maceo Parker, the intent being: “Hey, he’s here and there’s an open space, go for it.” It’s a bit of a non sequitur, a flagrant solo, comprised primarily of burbling squonks. Odd. Especially for such a low-key, sexy number. If it wasn’t Parker playing, there seems no other reason for the solo to even be there.

Kung Pao Kitchen is very much like a Chinese dinner. There are dishes from Column A and dishes from Column B, with an assortment of sides. Fans of Nu Shooz will really like what’s here, as there are several good singles to be found and plenty of great music, the band sounding just as you remember it. And it would seem that the intent of this release was to appeal to just those fans of the band, not necessarily to seek new converts. Otherwise, ditching some of the drum machine and synth tracks for more modern (and exotic) loops would have been in order. It might have been interesting to hear one cut given to such an experiment.

Still, this is a good, fun album that is bound to remind you of the ‘80s, whatever your references and associations for that might be. And it will remind you too that Nu Shooz was a fun band in a strange, musically transitional era.

Valerie Day’s recent bout with breast cancer, and an appendectomy in June, show no sign of slowing her down. Nor is John retired from the business, moving ahead with the Nu Shooz Orchestra—producing music that continues to evolve and renew itself.

Sally Tomato’s Pidgin

Planets
Severe Recordings

It seems like every century some composer decides he wants to take a crack at the solar system as artistic inspiration. Over the years this has gotten successively more difficult to create. In 1916 when Gustav Holst completed his orchestral suite, The Planets, Pluto hadn’t even been discovered yet. So his view of our little corner of the universe was decidedly incomplete and a tad bit smaller than our more enlightened satellitelian digital vantage point of today. In the past 90 years or so, Pluto has undergone the indignation of being batted about like a cosmic badminton birdie. Today it’s a planet, tomorrow maybe not. Actually, today it’s not a planet (I don’t think). However that is the topic of another story.

Holst crafted his planetary vision from an astrological standpoint, most likely owing to the fact that astronomy hadn’t really changed a whole lot in the preceding three hundred years since Galileo. Certainly William Hershel (a composer himself whose interest in mathematics actually led him to astronomy from music) livened things up at the beginning of the 19^th century spotting Uranus and its two largest moons, Titania and Oberon—he had a thing for Shakespeare. But that was about it until 1930 when the new generation of telescopes allowed young Clyde Tombaugh to confirm “Planet X” at the Lowell Observatory in Kansas.

After a big contest it was decided that Pluto was its name-o. Now, after like twenty-five years spent searching for the damn thing throughout the early 1900’s, the International Astronomy Union has determined that Pluto should be demoted to the status of “dwarf-planet,” as if it were some asteroid like Ceres or Eris (granted, Eris is slightly larger than Pluto and even farther out there—but hey—maybe Eris should be a planet too! No, no, no. The IAU has its rules, even though they shift polarity every so often). There may be extreme pressure from the astrology lobby. Who can say?

So it’s hard to guess if Holst would have made a run at today’s solar system. Hell, at first he didn’t even name The Planets, The Planets. That didn’t come until late in the game. At first the suite was called Seven Pieces for Large Orchestra and referred not at all to the planets in play but only to their astrological presentations. Strange how these things evolve.

That brings us to Carlos Severe Marcelin. Carlos has been playing around our happy little mizzle-stop for the better part of twenty years. In the ‘90s he was lead guitarist for intellirockers, Silkenseed. Then, in the early Oughts he married fortunes with Sally Tomato, whose eponymously named band has been the source for a lot of strangely inimitable artiness over the years—Carlos responsible for a great deal of it. As a guitarist especially, but also as a controller of keyboards, Carlos has consolidated his considerable talents for the formidable task at hand.

Carlos wrote “Earth” about ten years ago, as a stand-alone piece. It’s pretty obvious that most of us don’t think of Earth as a planet necessarily. It’s simply the only place we know. It’s just here. Planets are out there, out yonder. Look, there’s Venus in transit across the sun! Carlos had always admired Holst’s attempt at the subject. About three years ago, he started to launch various pieces into orbit. And from there things seemed to slowly fall in line. Voila. A concept album was born.

pidgin — Eric Flint and Carlos Severe Marcelin

Thus Carlos created the planets and the firmament. But he didn’t do it completely alone (although he probably could have). He is joined in places by Ms. Tomato herself (as well as by a few other special guests). And longtime Sally Tomato drummer Eric Flint dispenses his usual spot-on sonic rocketry. But even by Tomato standards, this project is pretty impressive. In this configuration they call themselves Sally Tomato’s Pidgin. I don’t know why.

Though he professes not much familiarity with the genre (and at age forty he is too young to have been around for the original manifestations) of prog, Marcelin’s work has much in common with the artistic leaning of many well-known prog guitarists—including, especially, Andrew Latimer of Camel.

But one can hear stylistic similarities to the work of Robert Fripp (King Crimson), Martin Barre (Jethro Tull), David Gilmour (Pink Floyd), Robin Trower (Procol Harum and solo), John McLaughlin (Mahavishnu Orchestra), Steve Hackett (Genesis) and the two guys from Wishbone Ash (Andy Powell and Ted Turner).

Subsequent guitar heroes, such as Steve Morse (Dixie Dregs, Deep Purple), Steve Vai, Joe Satriani and Yngwie (of course) are also represented, it would seem, in one way or another. Carlos touches all the bases without being in the least bit imitative. He’s his own player.

In a display of acute astronomical awareness Carlos elects to begin our journey with the sun—old “Sol.” He could have, of course, followed Holst’s lead, which was astrologically Copernican in construct. But Carlos chose the more accepted course, unless you are among those yayhoos who believe that the earth is the center of the universe, and only six thousand years old, and man walked with the dinosaurs etc. If that is the case, you probably aren’t reading this masterpiece in the first place.

As might be expected, Sol is a rather bright and majestic object of real gravity in the musical construct. After a brief spoken prologue, intoned by Ms. Tomato, Carlos launches a fiery flare on guitar, evoking the prog-ish nature of Hot Rats era Zappa. Zappa would seem on the surface to be a touchstone influence—but that is hard to fully ascertain. I know for a fact that Carlos has never heard of Camel or Andrew Latimer. So there you go. In this context the theme is a soulful one delivered with great élan.

The next stop on our trek would be “Mercury.” Over Flint’s merciless polyrhythms, Carlos wields the sound of twin guitars (cue the Wishbone Ash reference), which soar in close precision. “Venus” is given a more exotic treatment—squishy guitar-synth driving the piece—possibly elementally derived from somewhere around Discipline era King Crimson. The brief “Luna” could easily have been composed from random frequencies generated by the cold, cold orb. Talk about trickle down!

A compendium of detritus is carefully inventoried (“Lepers, cartoons, and spiders. Men and women in intimate positions”) on “Earth.” Reverend Tony Hughes (Jesus Presley) delivers the benediction, sounding not unlike Fee Waybill of the Tubes: “Welcome to our not so humble abode in the cosmos—a flying chunk of dirt called Earth.” His observations are alternately punctuated by a chorus singing “We have it all” like an ad for an all-night convenience store. Reverend Hughes further elaborates. “It’s the human condition. Life after death: the ultimate mission. Black velvet paintings. Corn dogs and cotton candy. Mysterious scenes, novels, theater and TV in 3-D!”

The Reverend later returns, reporting “World of Now, twenty-four, three sixty-five. We all come back for a sigh or a laugh or something we lack. It’s the missing link. It’s hard core funky. Come on down and see the singular monkey.” From there the bugs come out and tell a tiny story of their own, while a disinterested voice injects, “Infinity is not a destination, it’s a state of mind.” Au revoir.

Concluding our tour of the four “inner planets” Marcelin’s portrayal of Mars as less martial in intensity and more reflective of rivers of red dust and perhaps a civilization long ago gone by. Dense keyboard pads and Flint’s precisely complex drumming underscore Carlos’ ornate pointillistic riffs and staccato lead figures. For some reason the Denny Dias/Jeff “Skunk Baxter twin-guitar solo intro of Steely Dan’s “Bodhisattva” comes to mind. You be the judge.

Next up: the asteroid belt. Honestly, I would have plotted the asteroid belt out farther, out around Neptune. But then, I have always thought Michigan lay east of Wisconsin and that Indiana and Iowa abutted, so what the hell do I know about geography, earthly or terrestrial? Anyway, the asteroid belt officially circuits between Mars and Jupiter. Deal with it.

As asteroids go, most of them are pretty damn flimsy and only of interest if we need to get one out of our way, or if there is some mineral or ice deposit worth going after. Profit motive, etc. But there are some (four) larger asteroids out there. They’re not that big—the largest being about a quarter the size of the moon (or of Pluto, for that matter). But Ceres and Pallas are two that often draw the most attention.

Ceres, the largest chunk in the asteroid belt—at six hundred miles across (Earth is about 8,000 miles in diameter)—was discovered in 1801 by Giuseppe Piazza and became designated as a planet not long after that. Assigning planet status was pretty much the only alternative to calling these bright objects in the sky comets or stars, until William Herschel coined the term (and concept) “asteroid.” And voila! Pallas was spotted in 1802 and was also given the planetary nod until the mid 1800s when astronomers cleared the deck—setting ground rules for planethood and the like. Always so formal, those sky guys.

All three brief “roid” sections interlock among the debris. Carlos introduces us first to “Pallas,” which can be found sort of in the middle of that spatial spread. The rest of the belt follows, en masse. Then “Ceres” concludes the excursion. All three pieces are quite regal and chipper in their own right, showcasing in spots Carlos’ more metalic persuasions.

As we journey on toward Jupiter, we stop off at Io, the largest of the “Gallilean moons” and nearest to the giant gasbag; the fourth largest moon in our solar system (vying with our very own moon). The volcanic nature of that orb is given ethereal treatment: a ghostly instrument—e-bow? sax? synth? all three? interprets the subtle colors of the clouds of dust and ash.

The scope of “Jupiter” befits the massive planet known since antiquity. A giant red spot of distorted guitar rumble lumbers across the sparse atmosphere of helium and hydrogen. It’s a big body with no density. Ephemeral. Somewhere past mid-point a whizzy fizzy synth comes in to effervesce the scene, before resolving into a pensive mist, which recalls Mozart’s “Jupiter” Symphony No. 41.

Onward we fly toward “Titan,” the largest of Saturn’s fifty-three known moons. It’s thought that life could possibly exist on Titan, speculation underscored by the stately dignity of Ray Woods’ keys on the short piece. Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s take on “Picture’s at an Exhibition” is reflected here.

Soaring intervals bound across “Saturn.” Endless guitar sustain (Ebow?) swirls and slides like a siren call, glissading from one note into the next. A second section chords its way through a little Pete Townshendish (circa Tommy) sort of endeavor.

220px-Dione_and_Saturn — Dione and Saturn

Leaving Saturn we pass by another of his many moons, “Dione.” As a compositon, the short piece is rooted in a sound-collage derived from signals sent back by the Cassini spacecraft in 2007. Again Ray Woods adds subtle keyboard support.

Slowly approaching the blue ice giant “Neptune,” we note in awe its windy surface. Carlos offers a pastoral depiction— indistinct as hydrogen and helium, sketching parameters upon a lighter than air acoustic guitar—evolving into a more orchestral pastiche augmented by synth strings.

Now, I know what you’re asking right about now. Why is Neptune portrayed here in planetary order before Uranus, when in actuality it lies beyond? I asked Carlos Marcelin this very question.

Some people think they switched about a billion years after the formation of our solar system. We have them in this primordial order on the album for thematic purposes—it was more fluid to have Neptune follow Jupiter before moving into the chaos and weirdness that is Uranus and Pluto.

In (what many will recognize as) a tremendous show of restraint, I will forgo my usual litany of Uranus jokes and just move along. Nothing to see here. Except Uranus.

With a short statement from our sponsors we fly swiftly by big, old, hard and chilly Oberon, the Uranian moon mentioned earlier, discovered by composer William Herschel. Uranus is atypical in that its axis is tilted sideways in relation to the sun. So its poles are where our equators are, and vice versa. Trying to work that out in your head will freeze it up pretty good.

Flint’s crazy, Phil Selway-influenced, cross-time drumming neatly sums up the arcane perturbations that comprise the planetry components of the coldest spot in all the solar system: Uranus. Carlos steers us with a strange, perky permutating theme. Overblown guitar skips merrily at times in the planet’s rarified atmosphere, before going all magisterial in the alternating passages. A schizophrenic piece, to be sure.

Approaching the outer reaches of our little corner of the galaxy, here comes poor, much-maligned Pluto. Pluto is a planet, a dwarf-planet, a plutoid, a plutino—or just a big ball of rock spinning around, way the hell out there, pick yer poison. Pluto’s orbit is so eccentric that sometimes it slides inside that of Neptune. I’m telling you: it’s a wacky galaxy. To capture Pluto’s mood (low self-esteem?) Carlos employs a music box scenario to back the other-worldly voice (text borrowed from the Society for the Preservation of Pluto as a Planet) that delineates the belief structure surrounding what used to be the ninth planet. It’s very confusing out there.

Kuiper Belt and the Clouds of Oort — Kuiper Belt and the Oort Cloud

Pluto spins around in the Kuiper belt. The Kuiper belt is similar in construct to the asteroid belt, but it’s quite a bit more massive. And it’s located three times the distance from Earth as Pluto! Way the hell out there. The belt is about as far from the sun as it gets in our neighborhood. Most of the stuff floating around out there is either ice balls, or chunks of planet-like items that got smashed up once upon a time, long ago. There are a few more “dwarf planets” drifting around out there too.

haumea_ and moons nasa — Haumea and moons

One of those dwarves is called Haumea, a potato-shaped object with two irregular moons. Carlos gives “Haumea” an exotic voice—mystical. Yoko Ono-esque. Another of the dwarves is Eris, the final stop on our trip. Eris is bigger than Pluto, so for a long time there were astronomers who wanted to bring Eris into planethood. But that opened up the can of worms that eventually got Pluto kicked out of the club, so there you go.

eris_and_dysnomia_485 — Eris and moon Dysnomia

Anyway, Eris (formerly known as Xena) is possibly involved in the upcoming Nibiru cataclysm, accepted as gospel by Doomsday fans everywhere, and occasionally linked to the whole Mayan calendar deal on December 21^st of this year. So Eris has been presumed to be lurking out there, just waiting for the big day so it can come on in and pop earth a good shot. At least that explanation would account for why the Mayans decided to cut things off at that date. “Oh yeah, that mystery planet’s going to smash into earth on that day, so why bother?”

But back in 2003, just when the typical American sense of mindless, groundless fear generated by some unfounded rumor was about to ramp up, grumpy Mister E.C. Krupp, director of the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles, stepped in to quell the hysteria.

In particular, several threads of irrational thought have created an internet phantom, the secret planet Nibiru. It’s the bowling ball, and Earth is the pin. There is no such planet, though it is often equated with Eris, a plutoid orbiting safely and permanently beyond Pluto. Some insist, however, that a NASA conspiracy is in play and that Nibiru, looming in on the approach, can already be seen in broad daylight from the Southern Hemisphere. It was supposed to become visible from the Northern Hemisphere, too, by last May, but like a fickle blind date, it stood up those awaiting it.

Damn fickle planets of Doom. If you can’t count on them, who can you count on? For Carlos’ part, he decided to go Lost in Space with “Eris,” lots of actual loops of the original Class M-3 Model B9 exclaiming. “Danger, danger, Will Robinson. Warning, warning.” Idiosyncratic guitar stylings, reminiscent of Adrian Belew, color the piece.

As ambitious as this project is, Carlos Severe Marcelin can only go outward if he wishes to continue along these thematic lines. The Milky Way. Norma and Outer Arm. Perseus and Cygna. Although, one would suppose, he could go inward and explore theoretical physics or cells, molecules and atoms and all the sub-atomic particles. Quarks and Bosons and Hadrons. Oh my!

Mention must be made of engineer Diamond Dave Friedlander’s contribution to the sonic grandeur here. Clean and pristine, his mix is as uncluttered as space itself. The perfect complement—truly spatially open and expansive.

Planets is certainly grand in scope. Big. Real big! Carlos combines the familiar with the futuristic in uncommon ways, approaching this mission with musical exuberance and lucidity, sounding as the culmination of forty years of progressive rock guitar exposition. He isn’t showy. But he is consistently diverse and ineluctably imaginative in embroidering each of the twenty tracks with a distinctive design, while maintaining a cohesive conceptual aggregate. Not easily done.

But he does it almost effortlessly. The fluid sureness of his execution, supplemented by Eric Flint’s always compelling drum accompaniment, makes for a robustly stellar experience—difficult to compare in a rock context. Far more comprehensive than Gustav Holst’s treatment of the subject, Carlos Marcelin finds the music in the spheres that astronomer/composers such as Herschel always sought. This is a worthy effort toward that aim.

Wilkinson Blades

4:00 AM
Shiftone Records

Singer/songwriter/frontman Steve Wilkinson has been plying his craft around Portland for going on twenty years. Jeez. I remember him as a young pup with Gravelpit, back in the days of Belmont Inn. Why do I recall Steve as the original drummer in the band early on? And a different lead vocalist? Or maybe he sang lead from the drums. Or maybe it was a different band. Thrillbilly? It was a long time ago. Anyway, when Steve took over the duties as front-man, that was in the earlyish mid ‘90s, Gravelpit seemed to jell as one of Portland’s chief purveyors of Post-Nirvana grunge.

Steve has always projected a Vedderian sense of operatic grandeur. With Wilkinson Blades, his angst seems to have mellowed to a ragged apprehension. Whether or not that is a positive psychological arc, I am in no position to judge. But, here we are.

grant — Grant Cumpston (Photo by Kirsten Fussell)

Gravelpit had to change their name, when it was discovered in 1998 that there was already another Gravelpit in Godknowswhere, West Virgina—or some place. Hell, there’s gravelpits all over the country—I grew up near one. Well, so our Gravelpit ended up becoming Mission 5. And Mission 5 went on, in one formation or another (always with Steve as loci and guitarist Grant Cumpston orbiting very near by), until just a year or two ago. Which brings us to the recently formed Wilkinson Blades.

One wonders why in the hell a band would name themselves after a relatively well-known British manufacturer of razor blades. Especially after having already been through the whole “Gravelpit” debaucle. But some seem doomed to repeat history until they finally learn something about litigation.

By the way, that’s “Wilkinson Sword Classic Double Edge Razor Blades [which have been] improved by Wilkinson’s famous triple coating process of chromium to resist corrosion, ceramic for added durability, and PTFE for less irritation.” Hey man, if anybody’s gonna score some cash off of this fiasco, it might as well be yours truly. If I can swing a promotional deal with the real Wilkinson Blades, why, ka-ching!! Watch for a link coming to this page soon.

Where was I? Oh, yes. This Wilkinson Blades. Apparently the razor blade company has yet to notice the tarnishing of their good name by these nefarious grizzled misfits. At least not so much as to bother issuing a routine cease and desist order. Be that as it may, the newly created Shiftone label, a Portland via Austin collaboration (the commutes must be horrendous) have chosen to throw in their lot with the Blades, for better or worse.

With the weight of all this TMI bearing down upon us like some Sisyphusian boulder, we are given to this place. 4AM . It’s a familiar stop along the weary highway, a dusty outpost for the misbegotten where troubles are coin of the realm. There’s a certain gray brown aspect to all of this, similar in shade to Richmond Fontaine’s Wily Vlautin’s perspective. Although the material here (let’s start with the two covers—Lee Hazelwood’s “Some Velvet Morning” and Chris Newman’s “Crippled Mind”) is absolutely cheery by comparison.

Long ago, before he was an American music icon, Neil Diamond was a Solitary Man. He spoke to the brooding (primarily male) loner in all of us, writing and recording an incredible number of great songs—many of them hits—for the Bang label. Songs such as, “Solitary Man,” “Cherry, Cherry,” “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon,” “Kentucky Woman,” “Red, Red Wine,” “I’m A Believer,” “Shilo,” and many more. An amazing string.

And that is where we pick up our tale. Because on “No Exit” Steve Wilkinson sounds a great deal like a young Neil Diamond, specifically singing “Shilo.” Matt Berninger of the National comes to mind as well, but Neil Diamond is the one. There is a yearning quality in Steve’s barren baritone. A sense of resignation and remorse etches the chiming drone of guitars. Grant Cumpston’s fiery solos burnish the song to a polished sheen.

The first time I heard “Bug River Blues,” I thought it was Fernando Viciconte singing. Jagged electric guitar ripples across the western skyline with rustling acoustic guitar beneath. The song’s style and setting vaguely recall Greg Kihn’s “The Breakup Song” from the early ‘80s, while capturing that traditional prairie wind of songs like “Ghost Riders in the Sky” and “Thunder Road.”

There is also strong melodic and structural resemblance to Townes Van Zandt’s “Rake” in there somewhere—and Steve’s voice and delivery bear some similarity as well. On top of all that, the slashing guitars of the bridge sound very much like early-day Love, circa “7 and 7 Is.”

The shimmering, electric 12-string descending bass line of “No One Alive” calls to mind that on the Byrds’ song “Chestnut Mare,” with a Tom Petty veneer overlain. A hint of Vedder-like intensity creeps into the vocal, intense, but not angry. A sparkling guitar solo in the middle ratchets up the zeal factor by a power of ten.

prof gall — Professor Gall/Drew Norman (photo by Scott Docherty)

A horse of a completely different color is the old-time, blues-on-acid voogum of “Scared of You.” Some sort of mini-marimba, along with eerie banjo and slide guitar from Professor Gall (Drew Norman) lend a general creepiness to this short piece. Vocally, you have Steve portraying a young John Lee Hooker. Cool.

The Blades’ take on Lee Hazelwood’s “Some Velvet Morning” is faithful, but Steve’s voice is more tuneful, like Johnny Cash, and guest Sara Jean Zito is everything Nancy Sinatra wished she could have been (on pitch, for one thing). Wendy Berner’s plaintive cello instills a sense of wary mystery.

Chris Newman’s “Crippled Mind” is rendered with consummate grunge oblige, smoother perhaps than Chris himself might do it—but there is no doubt that Steve makes the song his own with great power. The arrangement sews a thread of Neil Young’s “Helpless” into the cloth. And, speaking of Love, there’s an element of “Signed, D.C.” from their first album in Chris’ original composition as well. It’s a deep and heavy song. Very real.

anthony by foxxy cotton — Anthony Lambright (Photo by Foxxy Cotton)

It might seem sort of weird, but the verse of the poppy “Sunshine Now” vaguely hints at the verse of Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son,” but with more of a Wilco/Jeff Tweedy feel. Yeah, see? Weird. Anyway, guest Anthony Lambright fires off a rocket of a guitar solo, while regular Blades stage drummer John Beyer contributes solid punch in the breakdown. The outro is solid Hollies, “Bus Stop” era.

“Holding Me Down” walks on the country side of town, a touch of classic Glen Campbell croonery and John Hartford deadpan, filtered through the darkened glass of Drew Norman’s prickly banjo and moony slide guitar phrasings. Steve’s somber assessment of the passage of time and emotional tide reflect hard-worn regret without spite or rancor.

Storming onto the audio landscape like Peter Buck on REM’s “Driver 8,” Lambright shines on “It Might Hit Me” with lead guitar that sounds like a bucket of bolts rattling around in the back of an old pick-up truck—amplified multifold. A brittle, broken cry creaks into Steve’s weary voice as he mutters solemnly, not unlike Soul Asylum’s Dave Pirner or Paul Westerberg of the Replacements mixed with Michael Stipe. Lambright’s brief, fiery solo in the middle compliments the tension created in the arrangement—in which Steve plays all of the other instruments. Powerful and memorable.

Tinges of remote bitterness and detached, introspective anger shade Steve’s lower vocal range, that early Neil Diamond-meets-Matt Berninger brusque edge, on “Wishing I’d Never Known You.” Rich Landar’s whining B-3 organ tones and Pete Vercelotti’s low-slung twang guitar add ambient angst to a tale of incipient drama. “Eyes are shut the mind is racing through the hours of the day/Time is moving slowly, I somehow find a ride to move away/Drifting off, faded out, washed-up in the center of our space/Wishing I’d never known you then.”

Producer/engineer Rob Stroup’s militant snare and haunted, moaning lead guitar cry supplement the pretty ballad “Walking In the Snow.” Vocally, Steve moves well beyond his comfort zone into new, very satisfying territory, displaying depth of feeling and a range of emotions he has previously not explored with such intensity. It’s his own voice. It doesn’t sound like anyone else. By George, I think he’s got it. A beautiful song beautifully rendered.

Steve Wilkinson isn’t re-inventing himself on this album. The actual band, the Wilkinson Blades, never actually perform together here. This is a solo album with benefits. In that regard, it is perhaps the most accessible album he has ever produced. While he does so occasionally, Steve isn’t required to at all times compete with the sonic onslaught provided by a complete rock ensemble. The more restrained instances afford him the opportunity for vocal reflection—which occasions the comparisons to Neil Diamond, which he would not necessarily otherwise receive.

Wilkinson Blades 2 Photo by Kirsten Fussell resize — Wilkinson Blades (Photo by Kirsten Fussell)

The songs here are solidly written, delivered earnestly and with substantial command. At this point Steve Wilkinson is a seasoned veteran. He is not likely to alter his musical stance or perspective much. Still, if he continues to mine the vein he explores in “Walking In the Snow” it is quite possible that there may yet be a diamond of his own to be discovered.

Wilkinson Blades celebrate the release of 4AM on June 9th at Secret Society Ballroom

Photos from Wilkinson Blades CD release show 6/9/2012

The Muse of Y La Bamba

It is late February, seasonably chilly and wet. Luz Elena Mendoza and I are sitting amidst the noisy clatter of the busy Barista cafe in Northeast Portland. Luz is the extraordinary vocalist and passionate, shamanic presence fronting the nuevo Latino folk band Y La Bamba. The release of their second album Court the Storm (produced by Steve Berlin of Los Lobos) on February 28th, heralds a new level of excellence within the band. Clever, unique musicianship neatly matches the ineffable majesty of Luz’s timeless voice. I meet with her as she and Y La Bamba prepare to head to Austin to play several events at South by Southwest.

: (Photo by SPinPDX)

Very tall and slender, longish, straight black hair, swatched in gray, Luz has a location-perfect, life-sized heart embossed upon the book that is her tattooed body. But where her heart truly lies is with her family. She measures the world in family. Her brothers, her immigrant parents. Her family. Music and her family. Mexico and her family. Her culture, her heritage, and her family. The band. It is all family to Luz. It is all interconnected in her world. She is constantly in process, tracing her Mexican American heritage in Oregon back to its cultural headwaters in Mexico.

Luz speaks in a lilting sonorous cadence, in a lulling rhythm very similar to the way she sings. Though her mind works so fast that she often abruptly deserts a thought mid-sentence to change course in some other direction—her passion for the subject matter always burns through with laser-like clarity.

You grew up in California, is that right?

I grew up in Oregon. But I was born in San Francisco and I spent a lot of summers and other times of the year down in California with my family. I grew up in Medford. And Ashland in my adult years.

When did you move there?

I moved to Ashland after the Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City [2002].

What did you do in Ashland?

I was working in a body-piercing tattoo shop.

I find that hard to believe. So, did you play your first gig in Ashland, then?

No, I was playing everywhere. I was playing in Medford. Like, Osprey.

Do you remember your first gig?

It was at Jackass Café, I think. But that was, like—I was playing at churches and stuff and other events. The first gig I did was Jackass Café in Medford. It was like a little open mic.

But you were playing in a band in Ashland before you moved to Portland?

I was playing in a band called Romance Forgery. It was very high energy. Rock’n’roll. Really, just kids.

You played original material?

Zapato-Electrico3-300x225 — Zapato Electrico

Always. And then after that Mike Kitson, the drummer we have now, and Sean Rogers, my boyfriend at the time on bass and Indeara Rose, who played concert harp. We all played together in a band called Zapato Electrico.

And that’s when we started doing music together. And then we moved to Portland and we started playing around here.

You went by the name Elena Mendoza in those days?

On my birth certificate its Luz Elena, but I have used it both ways. I went by Elena for so long because it seemed like when I was growing up it was hard to say it all together.

When did you first start writing songs?

Always. Since I was a little chipmunk. I’ve been writing since I can remember, for whatever it was worth at the time. I have no idea. I was just doing, well see, that’s one thing I never learned, I mean how do I articulate this?

Writing music and that expression has always been a part of my being, my existence. So I never knew anything else. It’s the thing that’s been the most consistent. It’s never changed. It’s only gotten—well look where I am now.

Then when did you start taking them seriously? Writing them down?

I picked up the guitar when I was seventeen, didn’t really become acquainted with it until eighteen, like actually feeling confident. Chords. I taught myself.

You know those instrumentals? CD singles’ instrumentals. R&B songs? You’d get the single and there’d be an instrumental track. Well my big thing was to write my own melodies, or my own words to other people’s music. And I was. It was awesome. It was like Cherry Garcia band, but without the drama.

Did you play any instruments before you played guitar?

luz 1 nathan hazard — (Photo by Nathan Hazard)

I played violin when I was little. I played the clarinet. And I played around with a keyboard that my dad got for me. A Yamaha cream colored keyboard. It had programmed beats, certain things I would write songs to, like a drum machine. So, I’d do whatever. But it wasn’t until I picked up the guitar that I actually started to put music and words and actually be manipulating the sounds and how I wanted it to be. Getting to know that part.

But I’ve always written songs, even before I had—it’s not like I was writing songs on the violin. I was a little girl.

Is your family musical?

No. They’re not musical in the sense they play instruments. But music is a really big thing in our culture. So I was around music all the time. And my dad loves music. You could sit down and talk to him and he’d tell you about the differences between boleros, mariachi songs. Different kinds of styles. He knows about time signatures. He just knows all this stuff. Because he’s moved by it. He himself would have loved to be a singer. I always mimicked–he would sing really loud at parties, to music with all the other Mexicans, and I would sing along.

How does your family feel about your being a musician? Did they approve right away?

I think when I was younger, because I’m such a fiery person– They gave me, well they rented a violin and they encouraged that, but once they saw that I started to become myself—they got kinda freaked out and they weren’t as encouraging. But that goes along with other things too. They were just really paranoid and scared for their children to be exposed to the American influence. They were pretty strict about everything. I had to sneak out to start a basketball team! So, if it wasn’t music, it was something else. But music, they were just scared that something bad was going to happen to me. And they saw how much attention I was giving it, naturally. It’s not like I told them ‘I want to do that’. They just saw it. They were trying– They didn’t know. They didn’t know how to encourage me at all.

So, now that I’m older, I’m almost thirty, my mom’s like, ‘Oh, when are you gonna get a real job’? And my dad is–the last thing he said, when I saw him last year, he was like, ‘I want you to contact Emilio Estefan so he can help you’. But before that he’s always been quiet, far-watching, not really giving me his opinion. He’s real judgmental. He doesn’t really know how to accept it. I can see that now he knows. And he knows that he knows that that’s what I’m doing.

You said ‘the last thing he said’, is your dad still alive? From what I read, it doesn’t sound like your parents are still together. I read about your mom working in a sawmill.

Yeah, my pops is still alive. He lives in Atwater, California. They both have worked really hard in their lives. Still fucking going and it kills me. The sweat on their brow is what has inspired me to be who I am.

Have they ever come to hear the band?

Yes.

And you received a good response?

My pops doesn’t say much. He said something and I don’t want to say it. And that was just recently. Mostly he doesn’t— My mom’s a different story, more like, ‘You’re really doing this’? She thinks it’s funny.

How are you with them being so—

Aloof to it all? Well— I think there’s beauty behind the reality of things. There’s a reason why things happen the way they happen. For instance—I saw this Daniel Johnston interview, a documentary. They were interviewing his parents. And his parents just, like, had no idea, like how much attention Daniel Johnston was getting.

He’s just their kid.

But he was, like, a crazy kid. And he’s also a genius. But they never get it. They never spoke about it the way we get it.

I don’t know. I like it the way it is. Even though it sometimes torments me, like when I hear my mom, when I get sick, ‘Oh I just wish you had benefits’. And I’m all like, ‘Oh, I’m trying’. Sometimes it’s hard to do regular daily life things. I’m always living out— ‘Oh, we gotta create this, do this, dutta, dutta, dutta’. Then I’m hard on myself. It is what it is, right now.

I think what life is all about is to cultivate these relationships and I think with my family it’s all about convincing them of how people are perceiving me. It’s more like me evolving with the way it is. It’s something that I’m going through, trying to exist and be present with my family and life—and what it all means.

I’d think that with all the touring you’ve been doing it’s hard to maintain a center, your personal gravity.

I don’t mind touring. I love, love, love the boys in the group. We all get along. We’re all super different. But there’s this one thing that makes us jell. We all share the same ability to tap into our expression through music.

But it is hard to tour all the time and come back and be all ‘Oh, my cat’s sick’. ‘Oh, my mom’s mad or my brothers’re mad’ because the only time I get to see them is when I’m on the road and I stop in town and they get angry. They get, like, ‘You don’t make time’, for a day.

How many brothers do you have? Older? Younger? I know you’re the only daughter. Are you also the youngest?

I have three brothers—two older, one younger. Daniel Mendoza, Rolando Mendoza and Gerardo Mendoza. I am right in the middle of lovely hermanos. [Clarity lights in her eyes].

My big thing, after coming back from Mexico, my focus is, ‘Oh my gosh, I need to go back to Mexico.’ I need to be playing with these people. And I want to get closer and closer to, like, one day be on Spanish radio.

You were there recently, right?

Yeah, I just got back from being in Mexico for six weeks.

What part?

I was mostly in Mexico City. I had a friend who bought me a one-way ticket there and I just decided to go. It was really bad timing.

Bad timing?

Yeah, she just bought it and surprised me with it. So I decided to go and stayed in Mexico City. Traveled outside of Mexico City, but not that far. Saw Xochimilco, did all the tourist-y kind of things. The Pyramids of the Sun and Moon in Teotihuacán. So that, and then I hung out. I got to know the city in, like, the poorer areas, the middle class areas too and the music scene.

You’ve never been in that area before?

Well I went to Mexico City when I was a lot younger, with my parents—so not as an adult. And I don’t remember—and obviously I’m absorbing new things and my perspective is constantly being challenged and changed.

It was really cool to be staying at my friend’s aunt’s house on an old street in a barrio in Mexico City. It was humble and poorish. And the whole street, there were a lot of families that lived there for many years, a lot of generations. With them, and then leaving, and to go into the city center and have that experience. It was cool. I’m definitely going back.

Is there much of a music scene in Mexico?

The music scene there, especially Mexico City, they love music there. They love music in a way that’s different. And I know if Y La Bamba was to go to Mexico, I know people would, like, not—

They wouldn’t see you as posers?

No. We have our own aesthetic. Our delivery is different. They love music from the States. Like, you go to every single bar, you hear the Cure playing, or the Smiths. They love the Smiths.

It’s something I want to work toward. End of this year, beginning of next year or, shit, if it happens, ‘Oh, you got an international booking agent. It starts in Latin America’! Then I’m like ‘Sweet. I’m in’.

But in Mexico City there isn’t just the traditional folk. I think, in America, people are like, “Oh yeah. Mexican music. It’s ranchero, banda, cumbia’. Or if I said mariachi, they wouldn’t know the difference.

Your promotional material says some of the songs on Court The Storm reflect a mariachi style, but I didn’t really hear that.

074_Y_La_Bamba_03042012 — (Photo by Buko)

Yeah, well, we had horns and stuff. You know, it’s definitely our own thing. We add things, but different.

What I was saying about Mexico City, they have other music. The last few weeks I was there I was meeting people, went to a couple shows, got the chance to play a couple solo shows. Just by meeting those people.

And I was blown away how talented and intelligent these people are. Like, my people. The music. It’s not just the traditional folk. There’s— Check out this band called Hello Seahorse. They’re from Mexico City. Metric was playing Mexico City and Hello Seahorse opened up for them. They play with another band called Zoe.

Who were your musical influences growing up?

For the longest time, the only thing we would listen to as a family collective was Mexican music. That’s it. Classical Mexican music, folk. Everything.

And it wasn’t until junior high that I was starting to listen to hip-hop and r&b and Nirvana and the Cranberries. Northwest grunge. Totally into that, if it wasn’t Aliyah or SWV.

Any vocalist you really liked especially?

I was really drawn to the lead singer [CoKo Clemons] of SWV [Sisters With Voices]—the r&b girl trio. Loved them so much, and Aliyah, her first album [Age Ain’t Nothin’ But A Number] that came out in 1994. I used to sing along with that. This is American music. Vocalists, like Mexican? I loved Javier Solis, Gerardo Reyes, Vincente Fernandez, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete. When I was little I liked Selena. She really inspired me. She started the style called tejano. She was a huge inspiration. She really was. Me, as a little rascal, like growing up with my Mexican heritage, like being in America and seeing Selena. Selena was to girls my age what Lady Gaga is today.

Gloria Trevi. Loved Gloria Trevi. Crazy story about that woman. Crazy scandal. But she was also a huge inspiration. She wasn’t traditional Mexican music. She was, like, rock, crazy, like, grungy rock. Back in the late eighties, early nineties. Crazy, like, awesome vocalist. With an attitude. Every girl wanted to be like her

What prompted your spiritual quest, I mean, other than questing for spiritual—

Life is messed up, man [chortling rhetorically]. I think I’ve been on a spiritual quest since I was born. When you start developing your own philosophy and know what it actually means to you. Exploring new things. Exploring life. Making sure that you’re understanding the responsibility. And I grew up Catholic. That can get confusing. But it only gets confusing when you realize it’s getting confusing.

There’s a lot of ritual in the Catholic church.

Which I’m still stuck with the ritual. I’m just working with it. What I think it means where I am now.

How old were you when you traveled to New Zealand and India?

I was twenty—and I turned twenty-one. I was twenty-one.

Why New Zealand?

Because there was a school there. Actually this certain school is like everywhere around the world. In different parts of different countries and I chose New Zealand. Because the year before I left, I went to the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics and I met a couple of kiwis there. Kids from New Zealand. It was all Christian based. And we were teaching snow boarding to little kids during the Winter Olympics. And I was there for a month and I met all these people and they talked about this program called Youth with a Mission. YWAM.

I just fell in love with the idea of New Zealand. I just saw pictures and stuff. And all I did was to save up until I actually had enough to pay for this school. It was a school of biblical studies and I went. Non-denominational. And I went by myself. I went to India. Came back to New Zealand. And I stayed longer than I was supposed to on my quest. And I came back and I never went back to the church. That’s what all of that did to me.

What was in India?

Well, it was a mission. Only five of us from the school went. And we just worked with the people on the street. We built homes for widows. We did missionary work. We worked at the Mother Teresa orphanages around Calcutta. We didn’t know anything about India. It’s huge! Especially Calcutta. I think that’s where I got sick. I was in Calcutta and Vara Nasi. Vara Nasi was the place that started to change things for me, the perspective that was in my face. I was young. I was like ‘Something’s different.’

You have said you lost your faith there. Have you regained it?

You and I were talking about Catholicism. I’ve lost— Like, you’re married. Like, you’re born into this religion and married to this faith and you’re not second-guessing it. You’re always second-guessing your motives, if you’re right or wrong. But you’re not second-guessing God itself. And it was when I was there that I started second-guessing. What type of god and the information attached to it and what it all meant. I was questioning the God that I was being taught to believe in. Versus not questioning, I was questioning other things. And that was the first time ever that I had the opportunity to– Somehow, something opened up then in India like a sponge, soaking everything in. And I’m like ‘Man, this country is so out of touch! America is so— There’s no Americans here’.

[Tears of frustration well in her eyes]

And I’m here and we’re trying to teach these people our God. But I was so distracted by all their gods and their rituals and the way they. And all that stuff. Just quietly turned off. I sub-consciously turned off. I was just with the people, seeing the people. What they did. What they ate. How they ate, why they ate. Why they prayed to their gods. How many gods. What are all their names?

The poverty. The wealth. I was just so conflicted. When I got back to New Zealand I decided to still do the school of biblical studies. And I did it and we, like, read the whole Bible. I read every single book. We studied certain words in each book, because it changed the context. Like ‘love’. I can’t even articulate everything I learned. We did that, and like slowly but surely, because I made an effort and I wanted to learn more. I just became more—depressed. [Very sadly].

So I came back to the States after being gone a total of eleven months from America, not knowing what the heck to do.

I remember ordering these books on tape about creation versus evolution. So I was into that kinda thing. It was like—‘Oh, I need to know more’. I was stepping outside. I listened to a Bright Eyes album, like obsessively, around that time. Lifted… [Lifted or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground]. And the album helped me not– I just stopped going to church. And I just listened to the album over and over and over again.

That became your church.

012_Y_La_Bamba_03042012 — (Photo by Buko)

Totally. And I was really depressed that I couldn’t go back to church and feel the same high that I did before. I was like—‘why did the universe take this away from me’? I had been so happy. I was on a mission.

I was pissed off. I was mad at everything. And there were certain events that happened. Because I’m intense. When I fall in love, I fall in love. When I commit, I commit. And I’m faithful. Therefore I was faithful and committed and in love and I was like totally doing the work to be what I was being taught to be under the Christian religion. But I grew up Catholic. I did the whole Christian thing on my own.

Yeah, it was a heartbreaking thing. It was like divorcing my love.

It seems like that turmoil is still coming out in your music.

Oh yeah. Sure

Do you have any specific goals for yourself or for the band, going forward? From music, the music business, or a career. I hate that word.

What I would like to see, because we all have invested so much in doing this, but not– I think the original intention was just to have fun and hang out with homies. I mean, take it seriously for the sake of taking someone’s expression seriously. And because this is something I’ve always done, I’m always going to be doing what I’m doing. We have this intention and we’re at where we’re at.

What do I want out of the music business? Shit man, I don’t know. It’s flighty. Who knows what could happen? All I want is some sort of mental stability and perspective constantly, and just to grow. It’s just a growing experience, you know?

Do you see yourself as being a singer—a professional musician—all your life?

[Long pause]

Well, in this context— It’s so hard to answer that, because— I can see myself doing what I’m doing now, but it’ll change, I’m sure.

If you weren’t singing, what would you be doing?

Probably be dead.

Oh! That’s not the answer I anticipated.

I’m so dramatic. I don’t know how to answer that, because I don’t know anything else. To be honest with you, right now, because we have down time right now, I’m like ‘what the fuck am I doing’? ‘What the fuck am I gonna do’? And everyone’s encouraging me: ‘No. This is what you’re supposed to be doing’. Well I know this is what I’m supposed to be doing, I’ve been doing it my whole life. Now I’m getting old. Like, what am I doing? I’m scared. You know? It’s kind of a scary thing. But this is my perspective. And I’m hoping, like, that something changes, but it’s up to me. But that’s because I’m sensitive and emotional. I hope that I’m able to understand the music business well enough where I’m not so aloof to it. And get really upset, and not know how to—like, because the business— I’m not, like, a business oriented person.

I’ve frequently contended that it’s called the ‘Music Business’ for a reason. Capital M, capital B. Most capital M musicians are terrible capital B businessmen and vice versa.

When I see musicians who are business oriented, and they’re good musicians, and they’re doing really well, I’m like, ‘why is it that I can’t be…’ For instance, we’re supposed to be turning this thing in, and there’s a deadline. I have no idea what the fuck it is. And there’s a deadline today at one [within about forty-five minutes] and it’s my fault, because it’s hard for me to understand all these little nooks and crannies of what you’re supposed to get done and, like, I don’t know and I always beat myself up for it because I don’t know how to do that. If you were to ask me if I see myself as a professional musician, I would like to learn how to be that, but I don’t consider myself as a professional, like it’s my profession. I still don’t consider myself like that. I don’t. I need to learn to understand all that and then maybe, you know? Once I understand it, maybe we can talk and I’ll answer you. Do I want to do this? I don’t know. I’m doing this because it’s all of this. And it’s, like, my family. Like writing—I see my mom and my dad and my brothers—

That really comes across.

Well there’s so many things coming up to the surface all the time.

If you look at popular music in general—most of it is pretty shallow. There’s not a lot of that introspection out there.

Well, those people are really good at the business side of things and they really know how to work it.

[Returning to the original question]

I mean, I’m gonna try. It’s not like I’m gonna sit there, ‘Oh woe is me. Blah, blah, blah’. And there’s people—we’re helping each other and there’s people in the band and like that who know how to do certain things that the others don’t know.

But it can be draining, because then those people get stuck doing that shit all the time. I’m trying to learn how to do all that.

Why?

Because I have to. Because other people are not going to—

Is that what they say? Or is that what you—

047_Y_La_Bamba_03042012 — Luz Elena Mendoza and Paul Cameron (Photo by Buko)

I can’t just sit there. And I do that. I do just sit there and, like, ‘Oh, they’ll figure it out. They’ll figure it out because I don’t know how’. It’s enabling me. I should at least try to learn. And I am. But it’s so hard. I mean, interviews and like that. I don’t mind interviews. At least they don’t have to do the interviews and I do. Paul’s [guitarist Paul Cameron] in the same boat. Paul and I—we’re just like ‘I don’t know what’s going on’.

Like, I’ve had this job right down the street at Zilla. I’ve been working there the past four years. And it’s, like, a family business. We’re all family there. We’re like super tight. They’ve been really, really nice about my touring schedule. I come back and I always have a job—that security. This year, however, because of how much I’ve been gone, and I took that personal trip to Mexico [the aforementioned “bad timing”]. I don’t have a full schedule there anymore. So the reality check is, I’m only working there two days a week.

And everybody knows in this town that we’re in a band, and that, if we were trying to get another job—like, it’s hard to find a temporary job. And, like, that’s where we’re at right now.

So, trying to be psychologically stable. And be like, “Okay, is this going to work’? And try to figure out how to pay rent and have food on. It’s a reality. Eric [accordion], he has a family, but he also has a job where he can, like, leave and do it on the road. So can Mike [drummer]. And Scott [percussion]—he has so much work. He’s a DJ. He can do so much stuff. Then, as for me, I mean, I can, like, do what I do there, but really, my job is to wake up in the morning, and, like, play my guitar and, like, be really hard on myself and rewrite it five times and then ask Paul to come over and we just play and then we’re supposed to be looking for a job. Chances are they’re not going to hire us, because we’re…

Because you’re flakes [Sarcstically].

Well, not like that! We can’t— We’re like, ‘Oh yeah, can you hire us, but we’re gonna be gone all of March. But we’ll be back in April. And maybe in May we’ll be gone for two weeks’. So how do I make that work? I don’t know. It’s not like I have anything to compare it to. I’m adding it to my adult learning experience memory files. Maybe next time I’ll learn how to do it better.

You still have a long way to go. You’re not…

If this works— I’m just being blunt. But it’s all coming. At the end.

You know, I think you and the band have a real bright future. Just keep doing what you’re doing and trust your musical instincts. I think you’re on to something.

Thank you. That’s really encouraging. We’re all just homies trying to get by and stay true to our expression and not be so hard on ourselves. Keep confidence and keep doing it.

When did Paul join the band?

Two years ago. That’s so crazy! Two years ago. Yeah. But the band as a whole has been together for five years.

But some members who were on Lupon left after it was recorded, right?

Just one. It was David Kyle[David Kyle and the Invisibles, The Shadow Grounds], the guitarist.

And what happened to Sean Flinn?

Sean has his own project [Sean Flinn & the Royal We]. And what happened was that both of the bands were receiving similar attention at the time and there were scheduling conflicts and Ben Meyercord and myself were singing with Sean too.

We had to make a very conscious decision and try to do what was best for both projects—he should focus on his stuff and we should focus on ours. You know what I mean? Here in Portland everyone’s playing in everyone’s band and it gets frustrating, but at the same time. How can you not? You’re constantly inspired. And then we’re all super-sensitive on top of that.

Super-sensitive musicians. Imagine that!

We take it to a whole new level. There’s plenty of things to be— Things are pretty intuitive.

Your vocal blend with Paul is amazing in places on Court The Storm. ‘Hughson Boys’.

On ‘Hughson Boys’, when we originally wrote it, we had this vocal blend. It was synchronized and smooth. Then after performing it for some time, we kind of lost the original way we sang it. Then when we recorded it, I remember Paul pulled me aside, and he said let’s try to sing it like we did at first. And we were really in tune and we ended up doing it live together in the studio. That was awesome!

Well the thing about the Beatles and the Beach Boys and the classic r&b vocal groups of the ‘60s was that they all sounded related when they sang. Their harmony and blend was that close. It sounded like family members and you two sound like family members.

We are!

How did you guys hook up with Neko Case?

Neko Case was on a personal trip. She came to Portland. And she was hanging out, you know? Whatever. On her own. She got tattooed. And she was downtown strolling around and she walked into Tender Loving Empire, looking at the music and our album was playing in the store. This was, like, September of two years ago. She was, like, ‘Who is this’? ‘Oh, it’s Y La Bamba, duh duh duh. They’re record is actually coming out next week’. [Lupon was released in late September 2010]. So she buys it and tweets about it. And she’s ‘Oh my God. Portland music lover’. Blah, blah, blah. And then next day we got an offer to tour because of that. I had friends say, ‘Did you see? Neko tweeted about you’. It went from that to the next day to the next day. It was pretty cool. Last year was really a good year for us. And we didn’t have this album out yet. And Neko did sing on one song, ‘Court the Storm’.

I can hear a bit of attitude in places toward the end of the album. There’s that energetic, more traditional…

135_Y_La_Bamba_03042012 — Luz, Ben Meyercord and Mike Kitson- Eric Schrepel obscured (Photo by Buko).

‘Viuda’. I love playing that one live. We all love it. It’s our jam. [laughs]. One of my favorite songs is ‘Idaho’s Genius’. Ben Meyercord sings lead on that.

I like ‘Bendito’ a lot.

That song’s fun. It’s going to be our second single. The first one is ‘Squawk’. On the twenty-eghth [February 28^th],the day of our CD release, ‘Bendito’ is going to be released on Latin I-Tunes. And that is exciting and I hope that that song, and I don’t hope for much, but I hope that song reaches Mexico City. I hope something happens. I hope something is manifested with that tune. If it doesn’t, whatever, oh well, I’ll do what it does. Whatever it wants to do. It’s just because I got back from Mexico and I feel so inspired.

Can you say something about the polyrhythms and polymeters on the new album? Court the Storm is rampant with that stuff.

Just wait ‘til the next album! We have like, ‘River in Drought’, ‘Clarijs,’ and ‘Pictures of a Dog’.

Did you record this album here in Portland?

Yeah. I think it’s called Acoustic Alchemy [Audible Alchemy]. Alchemy Studio on Mississippi.

And Steve Berlin’s [Los Lobos, producer of Court the Storm] in Portland now?

Yes. Yeah, he has his family here and stuff. His daughters live here. He has a beautiful family.

How did you guys run into him?

There was a New Seasons thing— Mississippi Studios? The album release for the last album. That’s when I first met him. From there he was like homie.

Any plans to go back into the studio?

We have this thing we really want to do it this year. An EP with Nick Delffs. Old Shaky Hands? We wanna do stuff with him somehow. We wanna do at least an EP this year. I would love to and I think the band wants to too. Keep the momentum and the stamina going.

You guys all seem very free of ego.

You should see us all on tour. In the van, they’re always doing Scrabble and nerdy nerd. And I’m, like, in the back—

Worrying about everything?

[She laughs sheepishly]

We all want to take care of each other and understand the fruits of life. It’s what makes us human—to create and be inspired. One van, one girl, five dudes, crossword puzzles, coffee, herbs, and limes.

091_Y_La_Bamba_03042012 — Photo by Buko)

The Shins

Port of Morrow
Aural Apothecary

It’s been five long years since James Mercer and his band the Shins released the Grammy-nominated Wincing the Night Away. In those intervening years Mercer (that’s Mister Shins to you) divorced his longtime band mates and set off on numerous musical adventures. Those took him all over the world, real and conceptual. With the release of Port of Morrow, we find James Mercer exploring a deeper sense of introspection. His insights are now more resonant and mature. And now he is armed with a new batch of songs and a new bunch of Shins to help him play them live. Cool, right?

So in today’s lesson, students, we are going to study the fine art of the musical hook. What is a hook you may ask? In music, a hook is anything that drags you kicking and screaming into a song. Hence the fish allusion. You’ve been getting reeled in by hooks since your parents were kids. Hell, even “Silent Night” has a hook. Several of them actually. First one is “all is calm.” Second one is “sleep in heavenly peace.” There you go.

A hook is usually some unexpected turn in the music of a song. It might be an instrumental phrase, a lead line, a riff. Or it might be some slight change of course in the melodic bearing of a song (ala “Silent Night”). A hook can be a little thing, but if it’s a good little hook, you’re going to get caught all the same.

In the broad scheme of things, the whole era of the popular song has been dominated by hooks. The early blues and the ragtime jazz days of the early 20th century. The smooth days of big band jazz. All the Cole Porter/Irving Berlin standards and everything in rock ever since. Hooks.

I guess when you get right down to it: all music is based on hooks. You are attracted to your favorite songs or pieces of music because of them. You recognize them instantly because of them. Hooks. Beethoven’s Fifth: Dun Dun Da Dun. Hook.

A lot of hooks come in the chorus, the memorable part. Sometimes you’ll find them in the bridge. Guys like Thom Yorke have the ability to write songs with endless chains of them. That’s a real gift. Still, think of your five favorite songs. The guess is that you can pretty much sing the lines you love the most from each of them. Hooks, baby.

And why are we investigating the Art of the Hook today? Well, I’ll tell you why. James Mercer, that’s why. That guy throws out some serious hookage. Unique. Memorable. When you recognize a song as an old friend the second time you hear it in your life, you’re getting hauled onto somebody’s boat. In this case it’s James Mercer’s and it’s a forty minute tour aboard the tiny ship, the Shins.

James Mercer excels in two aspects of musical hookery. He has the intrinsic ability to craft instantly familiar songs, siphoning bits of melodies and themes from hundreds of sources that went before, stretching back over the preceding forty or fifty years. He is also very strong at creating unexpected, subtly sumptuous rhapsodies at the very moment the momentum of one of his familiar themes begins to lag. That sort of artistic intuition is quite rare, and it’s a songwriting strength for Mercer.

The first cut among the ten found here, “The Rifle’s Spiral” has a momentum and feel very similar to Arcade Fire’s “Ready to Start.” A sense of urgency pervades as the driving beat (James did his own drumming on this track) pushes the arrangement forward.

Mercer’s lyrical perspective reflects a certain quiet desperation: “You pour your life down the rifle’s spiral.” When he sings that line, it sounds as if the subject is descending down a rabbit hole of some terrible consequence. Musically, the melodic hook is pretty instantaneous with a neat little minor third ascending interval in the opening line. You will like and remember that interval. It’s inevitable.

The segue section, not really a chorus, is memorable for it’s majestic musical architecture, and the careful precision of the instrumentation. Lyrically, one can almost put together a story, though vital details seem hard to decipher in the telling. It is possible that Mercer is addressing the song to an unborn child regarding the experience of being born, though that interpretation could be far from the mark.

The first single off the album, “Simple Song,” is already receiving mainstream airplay, so perhaps this is the song to break the Shins to the public at large–out of the indie eddy and into the mainstream. Who’s to say?

Guest drummer Janet Weiss provides intense Moonian drum volleys to the lurching power-chords of the intro, which sound like an amalgamation of Tommy-era Who condensed with a Phil Spector Latin feel reminiscent of “He’s a Rebel” or “Spanish Harlem.” The verse, with James intoning low resonant notes (before leaping an octave to the customary upper register in the second verse), could be something you might hear from Beck’s Guero period. This is all part of Mercer’s knack for the “gee, I’ve heard this somewhere before” hook.

The bridge is where his ability with a melodic hook takes over–with the line “I know that things can really get rough/When you go it alone.” That section will be running through your mind for a while after you hear it, especially the “a-low-oon” melisma (I’m still trying to place the origin of that familiar little trill). With variations on two hook motifs in a single song, one may safely proclaim: It’s a hit!

With a memorably pretty keyboard intro, the gorgeous golden luster of “It’s Only Life,” conjures Sea Change Beck and Hunky Dory Bowie in the verses, before launching a luscious falsetto chorus entirely worthy of the Thom Yorke of OK Computer days–and then into the pretty singalong section of the back half of the chorus, singing “It’s only life, it’s only natural.”

From there on, it’s just a recirculating series of those choruses, broken by a totally cool spaghetti western guitar low-string guitar solo– as if the song wasn’t infectious enough. This one is a home run. And James touches all the bases.

A Latin feel invests the soul of the verses of “Bait & Switch” before turning quickly toward Andy Partridge territory in the jazzy middle sections. Another twangy guitar solo more or less continues what was established on “It’s Only Life.” It’s a tidy little number. Over before you know it.

“September” is James Mercer summoning threads of his own musical history to weave a rich new tapestry– a plaintive hauntingly joyful tune. Again he evokes a sense of birth in the mood of the lyric, like a song of newborn infancy. The western country cradle in which the song swings makes of this one sweet little ballad.

What would be another great choice as a single, “No Way Down” features all the stalwart charms that James Mercer imparts to his music. Boiled down this would amount to an endless chain of nice changes, culminating in a really memorable chorus (I can name that tune in three notes). And in the bridge appears one of the better lyrical lines of the album: “Make me a drink strong enough to wash away the dishwater world they said was lemonade.” Try to wrap your mind around that one and report back later.

The-Shins-on-Letterman-608x346 — James Mercer and the Shins on Letterman

A Knopfler sensibility informs the guitar solo intro of “For A Fool,” where a laid-back country feel notions a direction, again reminiscent of Beck circa Sea Change. The Beck references are not by accident but are a result of the input from multi-instrumentalist co-producer Greg Kurstin, who has worked with (besides Beck) a veritable Who’s Who of music greats, beginning with Dweezil Zappa (Kurstin was twelve at the time) and including Flaming Lips and Foster the People, to name but two out of dozens and dozens. That is to say, beyond Beck, you can definitely hear elements of everything else as well. It’s a rich musical soup, to be sure.

The melody of the verse of “Fall of “82,” a song Mercer dedicated to his sister, refers liberally to Joe Walsh’s “Life’s Been Good,”with maybe a faint hint of the verse of Thin Lizzy’s “Boys are Back in Town” thrown in for good measure. A totally ’60s trumpet solo puts the cap on this one.

“40 Mark Strasse” refers to a street frequented by young prostitutes near Ramstein airforce base in Germany, where Mercer spent some of his youth with his family. The song is fittingly eerie in context, with banshee keyboard moans graying the background behind a solitary acoustic guitar. A fairly mundane verse gives way to a sumptuous chorus that makes the trip completely worthwhile.

The title track, which references the tiny port on the Columbia near Boardman in Morrow County, is a smoky bluesy jazzy sort of number with burbling keyboard sounds, synth strings and Mellotron, and what sounds like a guitar through a Leslie speaker, but that could just as easily be a patch on a keyboard too, one would suppose. An endearingly pastoral end to delightful tour.

In literature and in painting, to be sure, it is considered appropriate and even proper to quote or copy pieces that went before. Half the books written in the English language quote Shakespeare one way or another. The pose for Picasso’s Les Demoiselles D’Avignon owes in part its substance to the work of El Greco. Classical composers constantly borrowed themes from folk songs or from other composers to sew into new cloth.

But in pop music, the idea seems anathema, even though all of rock and roll is founded on a mere handful of chord progressions. Music is everywhere to be found, to be absorbed and recirculated. Hell, as a child, Mozart claimed to hear music in his oatmeal. One hopes there are no copyright infringements pending on that one.

But all melody in music is relative. Quoting other songs, even distantly, even unintentionally, is an indication of how liquid our society is. The past sixty years of the genre are readily accessible on the radio or the internet.

A truly talented composer can use this rich palette to his advantage, by drawing (possibly unconsciously) from all of these millions of songs to add rich referential context to a tiny three minute piece of fluff. Somehow, a song acquires a gravity and density through the incorporation of only a few notes. A hook emerges. A hit ensues.

James Mercer is a truly talented composer. His ear for a hook is impeccable. Every song among the ten here stick in one’s brain like gum on the bottom of a mental shoe. Every song sounds instantly memorable, even on the first listen. And listening to this album is like welcoming an old acquaintance. Warm and familiar.

Port of Morrow is not going to overpower anybody with its lyrical insights. Mercer can turn a phrase, but he sometimes wanders away from his topic, in search of a clever line or nifty rhyme. But as pop songwriters go, he’s Grade A. He is a song fisherman of the highest order. He’s got all the hooks he needs.

shinsgroupapprovedhighres — New Shins: They may be coming to your town (if you live in Bend)

Lost Lander

DRRT
Self-Produced

See, this sort of thing has been going on for some time in this town. Incest. Oh, not that kind. Although, it’s always been apparent in Oregon that there is a bit of that in the backwater towns. No, I’m talking about the intermarriage of bands. Over the past decade it’s only gotten worse. And the aggregation affiliated with the creation of this project (and its various predecessors) is the perfect example of this intermingling.

Lost Lander represents the collaborative efforts of former Menomena (and, recurringly, Ramona Falls) keyboardist and utility-man Brent Knopf, and the equally talented and musically multi-dimensional Matt Sheehy. The music here reflects, especially, Sheehy’s work with Gravity and Henry, and Knopf’s incisive elaborations as Ramona Falls.

Their tastes and artistic sensibilities are similar enough, that it is often hard to tell who is at the helm at any particular moment within the presentation. Apparently the balance falls to Sheehy, as he is responsible for the basic songs, and the member to lead the live Lost Lander team. Meanwhile Knopf is preparing Prophet, a new Ramona Falls release, which will debut on May Day. It would seem he serves more as producer and side-musician—especially on keyboards, for which he is renowned. There is a characteristic sheen to the musical proceedings that is unmistakably his.

Matt Sheehy ramona-falls-russia — Matt Sheehy starring in "Russia"

Knopf and Sheehy go back a ways. The first evidence of an alliance between the two seems to have appeared with Sheehy’s solo album Tigerphobia, released in 2008, where Knopf performed brilliant re-mixes for two tracks. And, for his part, as a guitarist and vocalist, Sheehy has since performed as a member of the touring ensemble for Ramona Falls, as well as starring in the wonderful 2010 video for the RF song “Russia.” One would suppose that a Ramona Falls/Lost Lander tour would make a lot of sense for everyone.

The fruit of their mutual labors here is pretty spectacular. World-class sound for sophisticated well-crafted songs, rendered with measured passion. As Lost Lander, they’ve already (deservedly) received a lot of comparisons to any number of popular musical artists. There will be more here. Anything you hear on this album is equal or superior to anything or anyone to which it is being equated. Rest assured. This is good stuff.

We begin, somewhat appropriately one would think, with “Cold Feet.” Ethereal vocal birds and a trace of tribal chant brindle the introductory phase of the song. Then a chorus of stringy, prickly percussive things enters the sonic scheme, accompanied by some additional heavy shelling from guest drummer Dana Janssen (Akron/Family). A brilliant twist of melodic turn and back to the birds of the intro: intimating the notion of arrival or return. As perhaps of a lander that had been lost but now is found. It would not appear to be too much of a reach to assign such symbolic meaning to the artistic choices made throughout this entire mission, here being the first opportunity. “Gotta turn it off.”

A distinct ‘60s feel imbues the combination of electric and acoustic guitars on “Dig (How It Feels To Lay in the Soft Light),” a sense of Jeff Beck’s searing guitar part on the Yardbirds’ “Heart Full of Soul,” is paired with an attitude reminiscent of the Zombies—one which certainly sounds far more the mood update and instrumental refitting than any sort of tribute. This, of course, could only have been accrued by these lads either by means of genetic bequeath, or an incredibly stellar record collection, or both.

Then into the mix insert some dynamite drum fills (executed by Janssen and Niko Kwiatkowski) to occasionally explode like landmines across the sonic scenery. Yeah, and induce, say, a John Vanderslice doppel to do a vocal over that sort of groovity and let it fly. There you go. Boom. Sophisticated and restrained—as if the arrangements had all the time in the world to unfold: which is absolutely true, up to about four minutes.

lost lander 1 — Lost Lander: the Touring Ensemble

The star brilliant “Afraid of Summer” sounds like a possible distant cousin to the Shins’ “Phantom Limb.” Over simple nylon string acoustic guitar accompaniment, a hauntingly beautiful song of deep longing upfloats like a single cloud on a sunny summer day. “I’m afraid of Summer, ‘cause you know I can’t swim/I get lost in the water when the tide pulls me in.”

At around the one-minute mark, the second section furls around subtle percussion from Kwiatkowski and Scott Magee (Y La Bamba, Loch Lomond), and an array of spectacular instrumentation—apparently all synthesized. Fairlight-like, Melotronish strings, plucky pizzacato harp or strings (maybe a koto patch), an expansive assortment of keyboards: bass, piano, and elastic, heavily-modded electric piano fashion a fine mist of the ‘80s (like Duran, Duran meets Tears For Fears) mournfully wafting above. A flash of Eels streaming through. Toward the end of the piece, galloping drums and trudging strings run up Kate Bush’s hill with no problems, while the watery piano of Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes” slides down the other side. If the song were to get any more wistful, it would wist itself right out of existence.

This sort of lonely lostboy moonery is nothing new. Paul McCartney and Paul Simon staked out the melancholy manchild landscape long ago, back in the ‘60s. By example, there is a song by Barclay James Harvest, a ‘70s British band, called “Galadriel” that is one of the obvious ancestors to “Afraid of Summer.” Certainly, production values and recording quality have changed drastically over the past forty years, but the sentiment is unmistakable. You can check that out here. Still, Lost Lander’s exploration of the territory is new and their impressions are fresh. And “Afraid of Summer” is simply a magnificent piece of work. A hit.

“Kangaroo,” is another keyboard driven number, with cool guitar moments from guest Seth Olinkski (also of Akron/Family)—the chorus powerful and moving. ‘80s keyboard fills dapple “Belly of the Bird.” The vocals call to mind Brandon Flowers of the Killers or Tom Chaplin of Keane. Janssen’s skittering toms drive the song, while angular string parts saw against an infectious chorus. From there one is hurtled into the crashwaltzing waves, cymbals splashing, and the grandeuresque piano of an extended coda, sailing to the close.

A seafaring shanty, of sorts, “The Sailor” launches on a familiar folky melody, “All my friends have gone away/They fell in love, oh they fell in love.” Janssen and Kwiatkowski provide relentless propulsion, rumbling toms and chattering closed high-hats. As with a few of the cuts on this album, the arrangement here may be bigger than the song it is holding up. But ultimately it’s great work, so you’ll get no complaints from this side of the monitor screen.

Another heavily folk-informed venture, “Wonderful World” sounds most like something you might have heard on Tigerphobia. Sean Flinn’s (The Royal We, Y La Bamba) doleful electric guitar wraiths ephemerally around simple acoustic guitar. As elsewhere, Holly Carmen Atreyah’s angelic vocal harmonies decorate the perimeters. Where the verse progresses with a pensive gait, the chorus flourishes prettily, hinging upon a tiny piano figure. Opulently precise.

Actual strings embroider “Through Your Bones” with sinuous sonic tensility. It’s a song worthy of Sufjan Stevens—though the ensemble arrangement is not so sloppy—or Elliott Smith, perhaps, but without the bleak black moribundity. Again there are references to time and tide, leading one to speculate as to the possibility of this project being some sort of concept album. There is a recurring nautical theme in many of the songs. A sense of voyage and expedition. If it is a concept album, it must be pointed out that the concept is buried sufficiently deep as to prevent detection on any but a purely subconscious level.

What sound like balalaikas (or dulcimer, maybe) ring out to usher in “Gossamer Wings.” It’s a gentle waltz, with a peculiar lyric. “Gossamer wings sprang from her shoulders/She said her goodbye and took to the sky/A quick icy grip took hold under the ship/And told all that she wanted to know.” Woozy strings and circus drums (Scott Magee) swirl around the middle section, before abruptly abutting into the final verse. Guest Nick Jaina’s sputtering bass putters beneath plunking piano, into a finale that ends all at once with no real resolution.

“Dead Moon” contains the only lyric specifically credited to Knopf and the possibility is good that he is the vocalist here as well. Whichever of the pair it is, the breaking falsetto instantly calls to mind Chris Martin, but cleaner here without the horrible Gwyneth Paltrow ambiance palling like car exhaust over the whole affair. It’s a quiet song with hardly any accompaniment. Percussion only enters at the extended fade.

The final number “Your Name is a Fire” could almost pass for an actual Coldplay song, except that it’s a bit more intricate, with rubbery synth bass; and the rhythmic foundation is more complex. Why, there’s even handclaps in the bridge! Handclaps guarantee a hit. That is a well-known fact. It’s a great song, if way too short.

In some ways, though they are stellar, the arrangements here are almost too concise. It sort of reminds me of the classical music device of “figured bass.” We are given the (highly produced) skeleton of a song, with no excessive augmentation whatsoever. It’s all gold. Make your own extended mixes. Maybe extended mixes is what a lot of this is about. Hmm.

Because, it’s all just great, really great. Nearly every song sounds like something ready-made for a film soundtrack. It’s about as well put together as an album can be. And every aspect is of the very highest standard: the compositions, the musical choices, the instrumentation, the presentation, and performances. All of it is brilliant. You may or may not appreciate the music that the group here known as Lost Lander create. It might be too poppy for some. Too mainstream. But no one can deny what an amazing piece of work this album is.

Y La Bamba

Court The Storm
Tender Loving Empire

It’s said that there are no straight lines in nature. If that is in fact the case, then this is the most natural album ever made. There’s no “shortest distance between two points” here. Nothing resolves as expected. Just when you think you’re moving toward something, you veer. No straight lines. Still, as beautiful as any tree. Songs as lovely as wind and birds.

That’s certainly the case with Y La Bamba’s new project, Court the Storm. Produced by saxophonist Steve Berlin of Los Lobos (who now lives in Portland), it’s as close as you’re likely to come to a perfectly recorded album. Nothing is wasted here. Not an instrument, not a part, not a voice, not even the silent spaces. This attention to detail results in a piece of sonic opulence we indie lovers don’t often get to hear. It’s cut like a diamond, clean and pristine.

Technically, this is Y La Bamba’s third release. But Alida St., which came out at the end of 2008, was pretty much a home-recorded solo effort for vocalist Luz Elena Mendoza. And Lupon, YLB’s debut for the Tender Loving Empire label, produced by Decemberist Chris Funk, was recorded by a version of the band that no longer existed by the time the album was actually released in September, 2010.

But for this endeavor the players more-or-less remained the same coming out as going in (with the exception of guitarist Sean Flinn, who recently left the band to pursue his own project, the Royal We. He does contribute to two tracks here, however). Still, the music for this production has been cooked down to its essential juices through a year of relentless touring. During that time they performed as opening act for several Neko Case shows, and she in turn makes a guest appearance on the title track.

For his part, Berlin pretty much took the band under his wing, serving not only as producer, but as engineer, side-musician, and co-arranger as well. His contributions are nowhere and everywhere to be found. He is the artificer of this creation. Though all trace of his proximity has gradually been erased from the sonic picture, faint stylistic shadows and trails remain which leave indelible marks upon the finished piece.

His approach to production is addition by subtraction—wherein silence serves as an instrument in the mix. There is not an overbearing note or chord to be found. The album springs with delightful touches, fleeting filigrees, brilliant artistic flourishes. Every instrument seems to be exactly the right choice for any particular musical moment. And, as mentioned, the arrangements never proceed in a straight line, but angle affably or circle and spiral majestically.

It is upon Luz and the band that at all times the spotlight falls. Luz means “light” in Spanish and that is precisely what she what she provides. Hers is an antique golden light, never harsh or glaring. She is an inadvertent bruja, whose shamanistic incantations transcend language altogether, entering into some far more intimate space in the human psyche and soul.

Her vocal presence alone in any song would guarantee a unique performance. But over the past couple of years, Y La Bamba have evolved to match Luz’s considerable abilities. This is no support act, but a real, if extremely subtle band. When second percussionist Scott Magee and guitarist Paul Cameron joined the core of the band a couple of years ago, they immediately began to help solidify the presentation. That both were adept singers meant that all six members of the band were available to contribute to the complex vocal harmonies that were already beginning to develop.

In addition, Magee lends occasional clarinet interludes to the mix. But it is Cameron who has proven to be most valuable. He has evolved as a vocalist to the extent that he expertly doubles Luz’s voice in places. And his efforts in working with Luz on the writing and arranging of the newer material should not be underestimated. So, all this to say that everything has tightened up and focused for this sophomore release. The results are truly stunning.

We open with the rousing, polymetric “Squawk,” a rhythmic foray that explores not only Luz’s Mexican mariachi roots, but augments with Afro textures as well. Sean Flinn’s syncopated, Afro Highlife-flavored guitar phrasings dance upon what sounds like threes on fives in the intro. This album abounds in unrelenting threes, even over and inside the fours (and fives), so: embrace the feel.

Luscious vocal harmonies blossom beneath the warmth of Luz’s sultry intonation in the lead, while subtle instrumentation bubbles beneath. Alternating time signatures create separate moods, colored by subtle vocal shadings. Hypnotic. Exotic.

And if the shifting time of the aforementioned were not impressive enough, check out the intricate interplay of key signatures on “Bendito.” Against cleverly complex rhythms of Magee’s toms and Mike Kitson’s snare, Luz coos away in Spanish (there are alleged to be several songs sung in Spanish on this outing). This is not immediately apparent, however, partly because of the vibrancy of the arrangement, but mostly because her voice is so fascinating. It’s similar to the experience of listening to Elizabeth Fraser of Cocteau Twins. Beyond words. Ethereal.

Cameron’s impeccable harmonies through the verses are a thing of wonder to behold. Seamless. Perfect. And in the turns, these guys rock out with just the adjunct of Eric Schrepel’s wheezy accordion and the hint of something resembling an electric guitar. Midway everything turns all dreamy—windy, angelic vocals. Thick vibes bubble and either a cello, or the accordion, sounding all cello-like, moans forlornly in the background. Kitson breaks in with a full kit for possibly the only time on the entire album, before the song quickly melts back into the first section and succinctly slams to a powerful close.

“Moral Panic” is a pensive ballad that has been in YLB’s repertoire for at a couple of years (one of the first Luz and Paul worked on together). Returning to the wistful mood of the middle of “Bendito,” vibes, accordion and arpeggiating guitar supplement the gorgeous vocals. Briefly the gait breaks faster before resolving in the same sweetsomber introspection as it started. Spectacular. “It’s nice to have a life of tribulation.” Indeed.

Cameron’s majestic folky finger-picking on acoustic guitar and magical vocal duet with Luz (recorded live in the studio) are the elegant ornaments surrounding the tender “Houghson Boys.” More luxurious vocal choirs sing exultantly in another lilting middle-section, displaying characteristic elegance and restraint.

The bouyant polka of “Como Ratones” twirls upon gentle, breezy percussion, the rhapsodic hum of accordion, the dusty romance of soft guitar and the plucked high plaint of what is possibly a charango (my knowledge of traditional Mexican stringed instruments is quite limited), the equivalent of a ukelele. Or it’s a ukelele. It’s a simple little song that creeps like a mouse. A quaint toy piano tone commingles with the accordion to create a satisfying antique effect in the final turns.

The somber “Idaho’s Genius” features bassist Ben Meyercord as lead vocalist. Cameron is responsible for the backing vocals below, with Luz above in the high harmony. As is often the case with YLB, the song does not really bloom to full flower until the middle of the song, with rumbling toms, military snare, and a tambourine providing impetus, vague stringed instruments flitting like hummingbirds and dragonflies at the edges of the mix—a xylophone dripping sunlight upon the swirling pool of wordless tones.

“Viuda Encabronada” retraces themes established with “Squawk,” combining burbling Latin exuberance with the clipped angularity of Flinn’s AfricanHighlife-style guitar (in conjunction with the accordion, approximating Paul Simon’s “Boy In A Bubble”). A jovial trombone enters in at the end of the song creating a street party atmosphere. Here, as everywhere, the vocals are simply superb. Seemingly effortless harmonies embroider a rich sonic fabric.

Fretting toms drive “Ponce Pilato,” as Luz and Paul again unite in a sweet duet beneath fluttering acoustic guitar phrasings. Honey-sweet guitars glisten and shimmer in the instrumental interludes as splashing cymbals and plashing tambourine flicker a gentle momentum.

Music gets no more exquisite than the irrepressibly catchy “Michoacan.” Luz exuberantly leads the ensemble through an enchanting arabesque, reflecting the rich essences of Mexican popular music. Her spirited delivery is buoyed by an array of instruments, softly floating butterfly flutes and bright mariachi brass, chiming mandolins (?) and even a tingling triangle. Fantastic.

The flamenco-like handclap/footstomp percussion of “Dialect of Faith” is suffused by apparent electric guitar, sinewy ukelele tones, insistent snare, and Schrepel’s dramatic accordion fugue. Supple harmonies nest beneath Luz’s soaring, gliding vocal flights. For Y La Bamba, drama and emotion are a given. Every song pulls at the heart and wrestles with the soul. Few bands command the sort of gravity that YLB routinely generate.

Of the eleven songs presented on this album, the title track “Court The Storm” is perhaps the only one that doesn’t have its feet squarely placed south of the Rio Grande. Neko Case’s sweet harmonies sweep along with Luz on the track. Upon a simple acoustic guitar progression, accordion, xylophone (?), banjo (?) pealing charango (or bandurria or…) and soft piano fall like rain around the women’s voices.

Here is a good example of the previously mentioned YLB arrangemental veer: About two minutes into the song, the drums build in tension—sounding for all the world as if they will explode. Instead it is as if a match were blown out. Back to the quiet. Poof. But forty seconds later a militant snare enters the mix like it was marching along the whole time. The song builds to a crescendo and then the choir slowly drifts off into the mist and fog. Vaya con dios.

What continually comes to the fore is the remarkable growth as musicians that Y La Bamba display on Court The Storm. Or, perhaps more accurately, it is not growth they display, but a denser sense of esprit de corps. Cameron’s presence obviously has much to do with this, as his chameleon-like ability to color himself into the scenery of the musical moment is a true gift, to be sure.

And Steve Berlin’s contributions and influence cannot be overstated either, in precisely the same ways. He’s so good you don’t even know he’s there. The result is a recording with nothing out of place. Nothing unnecessary. Not a note wasted. Perfect. There must be a Grammy out there somewhere with this project’s name on it. There must be.

But in the end, always, Y La Bamba is Luz. She could sing the repair manual of a 1988 Ford F150 pickup truck and make it sound vital and interesting. She is such a great vocalist it’s a marvel just to hear her larynx vibrating in the air. The fact that she writes (or co-writes) deep, thoughtful lyrics becomes almost immaterial.

Her phrasing is equal to that of Billie Holiday. Her tone spans Astrud Gilberto to Joan Baez to, I don’t know, Lady Gaga ( or whoever!) with everything in between, historical or contemporary. She’s the whole package. And that is just considering American greats. God knows she is probably easily equal to countless great Mexican singers as well. She stands out.

That’s the real key. Luz Elena Mendoza is in a class by herself. In the history of popular music, there are and have been a few truly great female vocalists. She is one of them—or can be, if she goes after it. She does not know this yet. Whatever musical form she chooses to explore will be enriched by her choice. She can do whatever she wants. She sings in the language of all humanity and it is only a matter of time before humanity hears her voice. It’s inevitable.

Y La Bamba on NPR

You can read SP’s review of Y La Bamba’s 2010 release, Lupon here

Live Review: WaveSauce at BYTE ME 2012

If you’re like me, you’ve probably been asking yourself “Why don’t more surf bands use a theremin in their act?” You also may be asking yourself, “What in God’s name is a theremin?” And for that you are to be forgiven. It’s not a common instrument in rock and roll. It’s not a common instrument in much of anything, but it seems to me like country music could possibly be a logical vehicle for such an apparatus. More on that later.

Oh, you know the drill. You’ve actually heard a theremin before, you just don’t know it. In essence, a theremin is a very, very primitive synthesizer. It generates that eerie siren-call you hear in old movies such as The Day The Earth Stood Still, Spellbound, and more recently in Ed Wood. The Beach Boys created a theremin sound for “Good Vibrations,” but that wasn’t actually a theremin they used. Some guy played a musical saw on a couple Neutral Milk Hotel songs. A musical saw sounds like a theremin, with similar creepy portamento and glissando. But a musical saw and a theremin have about as much in common as a hammer and a radio.

Leon Theremin invented the theremin in 1920 as part of a Russian government program researching proximity sensors. Soon thereafter, Theremin left Russia, touring Europe and the US, demonstrating to captivated crowds his new instrument. He received a US patent for his unusual creation in 1928. Remaining in the United States, he was apparently spirited away by the KGB in 1938 and taken back to Russia. There, he was obliged to work in a laboratory at a prison camp in Siberia for thirty years. He did not return to the US until 1991, two years before his death.

The best-known “thereminist” in the world is the late Clara Rockmore, who was originally a classically trained violinist, before physical problems forced her to abandon the instrument. She learned of the theremin and soon began working with the inventor to improve the sound and response of his device. She also developed the very subtle ballet-like technique of the hands and fingers required to actually play the instrument. You can check out a video of Clara Rockmore rockin’ the theremin here.

Michele “Cookie” Heile, a longtime percussionist and vocalist with Jesus Presley, first became interested in the theremin in 2005 after seeing the Leon Theremin documentary An Electronic Odyssey. She says she “became obsessed with the mystery, history, and beauty of the instrument.” She acquired one and slowly taught herself how to play.

In 2007, Cookie met Cleveland-transplant Pete Vercellotti, a musician since age thirteen and an avid collector of all things vintage Rock. Cookie and Pete hit it off instantly, personally and professionally. They formed the instrumental band WaveSauce not long after meeting—initially as just a duo. Pete already had in place the foundation of another band called Pale Blue Sky. Still in operation, Pale Blue Sky is a tough, eclectic quartet that plays a gritty combination of original songs and cover songs culled from Pete’s extensive LP collection.

Not long after WaveSauce formed, Pete and Cookie began to work with drummers and bassists. They eventually bonded with drummer Doug Powers. And about two years ago, longtime Pale Blue Sky bassist Joel Boutwell came on board and the quartet was set. They say they’ve “been influenced by ‘60s garage, pulp music, and B-rated horror, spy biker and hotrod films (which they refer to as spyfi-pulp). And surf.”

That sounds reasonable. When you hear them, the instrumental turf they tread is pretty obvious. Other citations, such as Dick Dale, The Ventures, Devo, Clara Rockmore and Leon Theremin, are totally appropriate in an attempt to capture a description of the nuances of their sound. I guarantee you will never again see those five names linked in a single sentence. It really is a weird musical world in which we dwell. And this is how weird I am, I can actually understand the relationships of those references and I think they define the parameters of this band quite precisely. In other words: Wow!

WaveSauce play a lot of originals. But there is a distinct advantage in playing obscure material that lies genetically embedded in the recesses of all human brains. If you play original stuff that sounds very familiar, it is easy to convince the casual listener (in this instance: me) that it’s all cover songs. Mais au contraire.

The addition of theremin to Surf songs is not as unsettling as you might think (but it sure as hell would be for Clara Rockmore, you can bet on that). For some reason it seems to lend itself to the wavy motion of the typical surf tune. It’s too bad more (any) B-movies didn’t utilize the theremin in their surf-themed flicks or spy (a wailing woman sound) or biker flicks (police siren allusion). It could have worked. It does work. Does anybody still make cheesy biker B-movies like Glory Stompers, Wild Angels, Devil’s Angels, or Hell’s Angels on Wheels? Maybe Robert Rodriguez?

WaveSauce maneuver through several classics (known and unknown)—such as with Pete’s nifty guitar on the thick, chord-heavy “Deep Surf” by Jerry Cole and the Spacemen (of which Leon Russell was a member) from 1964, and Cookie’s swirly-whirly take on the Chantays’ “Pipeline.” They carry off the persistent cheerleading clap and windblown momentum of the Routers’ “Let’s Go” with spunky aplomb: Boutwell balancing the arrangement on solid fulcrum low-end.

Among their originals, “Phantom Strut” and “Sonic Who,” stand out. The cool “Black Cat Strut” is punctuated by Pete’s cat-in-heat moan, while his crazy cackle gives “Die Laughing” a certain “Wipe Out” maniacal sensibility. With Powers muscling through the turns and driving the main theme, WaveSauce’s rendition of the Reekers’ ‘60s nugget “Don’t Call Me Flyface” is actually more appealing than the original. Cookie zooms through the expositional sections like a crazed zephyr—assuming zephyrs can become crazed.

WaveSauce’s version of Hank Mancini’s “Peter Gunn Theme” is very innovative. Cookie leads the band through the familiar curves with a slippery solo, while Pete vamps out punchy chords behind her. Nice. And their take on the endless sunset of Santo and Johnny’s “Sleepwalk” is especially interesting. Those familiar with the song are doubtless keenly aware of the exacting steel guitar precision of the melody line. The theremin does not allow for Cookie to articulate the nuances, but she hits the high spots. When the day comes that she finally masters this piece, she can consider herself a true theremin master.

They also do a pretty sharp version of Stan Jones’ “Ghostriders in the Sky,” a piece possibly harvested from another of their acts: Panhandle Pete and Cookie. In describing that duo Cookie says “Imagine a long dark highway stretching out through the Southwest desert.” Again, with theremin and guitar, they perform “country standards that set the soundtrack for a spaghetti western directed by David Lynch.”

My brain’s all over the place with this theremin thing. The surf aspect is great. It’s an outlet, but certainly limited in scope. The other musical areas that Pete and Cookie are exploring seem like a good idea. I’d love to hear a version of “Apache” either the Shadows or Jorgen Ingmann’s (depending upon where your sentiments lie) rendition would be fine. And a retread of “Walk Don’t Run” seems like a good idea. I can hear Cookie going off on that.

But I’d also love to hear her take a crack at something like Duane Allman’s slide solo in “Layla.” I guess that’s technically almost out in spaghetti western territory. Actually the theremin is more than a satisfactory replacement for those banshee soprano voices Ennio Morricone favored, such as for that movie named after this column. And what about country music? The theremin could more than satisfactorily replace a pedal steel guitar, at least in a single note capacity. Which brings us to bluegrass and the musical saw.

It will be fun to see where Pete and Cookie take this thing. There are many possibilities. A theremin is such a strange instrument, and rare to encounter, that it would seem there will always be occasional demand for such a curiosity. With WaveSauce, they have hit upon an unusual and successful delivery system. But they’ve got a lot of ways they can go, depending on the direction in which the trade winds blow.

By SP Clarke "I listen, so you don't have to."

JVA

Various Artists

Nu Shooz

Sally Tomato’s Pidgin

Wilkinson Blades

The Muse of Y La Bamba

The Shins

Lost Lander

Y La Bamba

Live Review: WaveSauce at BYTE ME 2012

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