Monie in the Middle

Once April is over you’ll no longer be witness to MTV’s most face-saving decision in years -- the airing of vintage Yo! MTV Raps episodes in place of banal reality shows and worthless modern videos. Oh wait, they have three other channels on which to broadcast that junk. Why they don’t have separate channels that loop shows like 120 Minutes, Headbanger’s Ball, Buzzkill, and Remote Control is beyond me. VH1 Classic picks up the slack, and the new series Miss Rap Supreme shows Viacom at least investing trust in creative types like Ego Trip and whoever programs Metal Mania. This time around, along with the actual intros and outros hosted by Fab Five Freddy, Ed Lover and Dr. Dre, live performances, and extremely unknown videos, the team behind this marathon added topical segments – “best high-top fade,” “best rope chain,” etc. Genius for a kid like me who spent more hours at the Record and Tape Outlet near the Salem Mall at 9 than the baseball card shop (spent some time there as well). I would pay an extra $10 a month on top of my already ballooning cable bill if I got to see the Superlover C and Cassanova Rud do “Girls I Got ‘Em Locked” daily.

Which brings me to Monie Love, after MC Lyte my second love in hip-hop. I was probably smitten by all female rappers at the time, hitting puberty and the like, but Monie had such charm – she came from London, wore Cross Colors, hung with the De La Soul, the Jungle Brothers and Queen Latifah (making her an official member of the Native Tongue family), and could spit lightning quick rhymes on par with her male counters. Prequels like the verse in De La Soul’s “Buddy” or sidekicking on Latifah’s fierce, 7th Wonder-sampling “Ladies First” showed definite promise, a future superstar still only a teenager. Her hyper-syllabic delivery (a precursor to Das Efx, Eminem, Twista?) was certainly a bit naïve, and her themes somewhat silly and femme-preachy (see “It’s a Shame”), for a few months in 1990 though all her trappings were fitting. Having the distinction of being the first international female hip-hop artist signed to a major label and coming up when surgically safe pop-rap was fusing with New Jack Swing, her “Monie in the Middle” single is an ephemeral classic from the era – pocket change beats, horns, and chants. It has an edge that I could only wish for when re-trekking through Down to Earth, her debut album and a record indicative of the filler that littered full-lengths of the genre at the time (and pretty much beyond).

The fire fizzled out quickly afterwards, a lame-duck follow-up, a “hit” from Class Act (the Kid and Play movie) and eventually landing a gig as a disc jockey in Philadelphia, Monie has found herself fighting the recent maxim that hip-hop is dead, only to find her own career dead in the water. Maybe, no fingers crossed, Mo’ still has some playing power left. Highly unlikely though.

Unholy 2 - The Gutter Religion

The Unholy 2 debut still feels like a specter in my hand, a figment of my imagination, even though I’ve had it in possession over 24 hours and listened to it about four times it’s nearly invisible. It might be the same way the cum-guzzlers feel after a long, sloppy, night with Lutzko the Saudi Prince. In theory this 7” was never supposed to happen, live shows were never supposed to take place, an actually band was never supposed to be – instead of a tragically hip implosion though, the Unholy 2 have survived, and the product of that union, that fortitude and perseverance, defies the schlock rock and public displays of horn-dogged narcissism that preceded it. But if you looked close enough, you would have seen that Lutzko has been an auteur from the beginning. It was all part of one elaborate joke, only now we have to take serious notice.

Remember how he would blow his wad in those nihilistic early performances that usually ended in chaos? That was to make you believe he had no scruples. Those antagonistic, hate-filled (but hilarious) diatribes from the stage? Well, now he’s been given the right to say just about anything within ten feet of baby rape. You might blush or bat an eye, but you pretty much regard what comes out of his mouth as the all-encompassing-anti-establishment abstract gospel, with a pair of girl jeans to match. The fact that his vision started as a duo – drummer Bo Davis banging on junk – and now has bloomed into a formidable trio with Adam Smith just as much a part of the action (blasting altimeters and sonic buzz around the shitstorm), proves actual practices might take place. At first the low-brow art-damage was nearly unbearable AMREP copy, these days, any appearance and they’re the dark-horse marquee. It was part of the plan, a sleeper cell terrorist plot to burn down the beach from within.

And now? Now you get a tangible piece of art for putting up with this trash. What a beautiful piece of art it is too, every little detail taken care of by the hands of county’s favorite masochist – the nervous, off-center, type on the label, the carefully procured clip art of a naked Kate Moss (after a coke) Xeroxed with just the right amount of fuzz, the absence of a name, a title, or even a Columbus Discount logo on the cover. Herein, it is all about the entire package – not just the brazen slab of music.

Even back when they were named a Band to Watch, “Kutter” was a staple, the song about girls who can’t cook, can’t fuck, just slice. On wax it burns - magic stab wounds blown out, the Jim Jones funeral march towards the gas chambers. In the studio the band can thrive on endless scraps of gristle and scummy noise, Smith’s rightly choreographed phase waves match the atonal grind of Lutzko and Davis’ clatter like a wizard in penance.

The b-side “Porkys” follows a similar two-chord formula, and it should, just now it’s sped in the mode of Suicide on 45, a bit indie even. This, until now pretty much unheard, is the symbol of progression (Masons Unite!), and goes back to the role of Lutzko as director. “Porkys” is a cock-out concoction of guerilla film in aural form – 80’s slasher flicks with Teen soundtracks, a documentary about Steve Albini finally getting head, a dash of French New Wave leaning into the dive bar, Putney Swope in Technicolor, and Skinemax Snuff for good measure. Maybe I’m only adding to the mythology, I hope, because it simply makes it increasingly more fun. Enter at your own risk.

Yes. Ashlee Fucking Simpson

Working the stone, I'm constantly sucked into New Country and Pop Radio (101 included), and somehow always find the bright side of a good song. You could play Gordon Lightfoot all day and I'd be a happy man -- good songs. That makes me a constant sucker for pre-fab top forty. Constant love for current benders that might just have a chance at becoming something playing out of windows come summer. Hopes like Santogold and My Morning Jacket's new one (amazing interview and live show download here), plan for an interesting season. I still however give the heavyweights the benefit of the doubt. Mariah Carey's "Touch My Body" is irresistible if reheated and Madonna gives into Timbaland for a single that could potentially work well in a roller rink.

I'm intrigued though by Ashlee Simpson, yup, Bittersweet World is a painstakingly produced put-on of a career-gone-haywire that most seem to care less about. Her long struggle to hybridize everything from Amy Winehouse (on the title track) and Prince (the bumping "Boys") actually paid off, even if she had 10% to do with it (there's a mighty list of collaborators here, like Disney imagineers). I'm guilty of falling for it (you missed the Britney, jump onboard). The album is a brilliant Mechanical Animals reanimation, with a different type of androgony (she's sexy, but willing to just kick it and listen to records), less Gwen Stefani harikuju soft-porn and instead Cindy Lauper She's So Unusual, atop a rubik's cube singing "I can't here me now..." (???) A puppet, granted, playing the part quite convincingly. Her non-voice could be replicated by machines, but the plastic surgery and precise beats make her pop robotic enough. Hey, I'm also addicted to American Idol.

Happy Record Store Day

For most of my readers, today, National Record Store Day, was redundant -- but participating in such a fabricated event was salvation. I've never seen Used Kid's so crowded, almost like it was a Toys R' Us with the Breakdancing Elmo. Kids lined up with arms-full of dollar Carly Simon and ELO between the bands, and random dudes who would actually make their transaction while the band was playing (see the video) buying cds. Kinda' glorious. The readers know the value of the independent record store. They're the same people that go there week by week, and treat the internets with the same consistecy.Why? Cause we'll find it one way or another. I cut each and every one of my teeth in that store, whether it was underground or a story above.

I suppose the rest of the world (who are on the internet more than on the street) need an alarm call that a vital resource to the community is being laid waste to the instant-free-access of P2P and MP3. Hence, Record Store Day. It's certainly a holiday I can get behind, if only it makes cute girls buy vinyl for their dorm room's new turntable.

Wil Foster of the Guinea Worms certainly knows the importance. The record store is the crossroads between the living room, the bar, and the library. Here Guinea Worms do "In My Area" by the Fall.



BONUS: Go Here for the new Guinea Worms reggae jam -- "After Our Party," living proof that they're finally listening to Journey. Or my favorite "Electric Moreland Funeral" -- Foster doing Sabbath. Maybe So, Maybe Not.

Jay Does the Wedding Present

Now that Mr. Reatard is branded with the distinctive Matador logo (not that there was ever a problem with Goner, Empty or In the Red), is he expected to provide more for the underground, worldwide culture, the teens, the kids, the collector scum? Is he expected to go above and beyond the call of duty? Is he expected to become one of “America’s Greatest Songwriters”? These are questions that need to be answered with an emphatic hells yes. I expect a decade of flawless singles and nothing less. I expect Tiger Beat stardom, fold-out posters, pins with his curly locks busting out the sides. He’s the been-there done-that idol – the brat that got beat (b-side “Screaming Hand” has some daddy issues), the glue sniffer, the boombox-recording pre-pubescent Ramone, the drop-out, and the gutter snake.

My love/hate relationship with the man stems from many corners. I was never a huge Reatards or Lost Sounds fan. I saw him in Digital Leather one night baiting hatred and violence to no avail. The kids just want to have fun. All that rage seemed to taper off with the Angry Angles and his solo triumph Blood Visions - the latter a head-to-toe, Eno influenced, skate-punk, shocker, stocked tight with hook’s sharp as chum drags. The underwear and blood cover was a selling point in itself, as if saying “I made a record by myself. Ended up naked and brain damaged.”

With “See-Saw,” the first of six singles that might just define my summer, consider it nothing but love. Jay Reatard possesses a bubblegum soul. Every little nuance of his phrasing throughout this nitrous aim at nursery rhyme (the play on words, the reflection of his indifference to stardom?), the Wedding Present meets Circle Jerks pointillism of his trend towards scrappier, bright, guitars sounds, the fist-raising outro, all make for the most joyous three minutes I’ve heard so far this year. Could he purposely be ripping from Superchunk’s On the Mouth? If you head over to his blog, you’ll bear witness to his obsession with XTC (see “Tiny Little Home”) or attempts at black metal (see “Forest of Blitzkrieg”), it’s a testament that might just reveal too much, too soon -- but the guy’s recent prolific streak is flawless. An equation for “Screaming Hand” is likely to involve Queen and the Wipers, we shouldn’t get there yet. Another time? We still have three weeks till the next installment.

Early Shows and the Starbaskets

I’m not sure it mattered who played last Sunday night at the Boo Boo, cause it was an early show - an excuse to curl up in the remaining sunlight at 7 p.m. with a Bulleit and water, a few friends, not too many lot lizards, and lil’ bro being peanut. I was on the trail towards bed around 10, just buzzed enough to roll the window completely down, and satiated in Sunday rock religion.

it just so happened that Jerusalem and the Starbaskets , a duo from Columbia, Missouri, were playing -- spreading the gospel from the Ozark foothills. Spiritual, droning, slacker blues – they drifted through The Howling like nomads through the Badlands, some roads dusty and bruised, the longer ones barren, endless, stretched to a hazy horizon. I’ve been slagging the latest Dead Meadow record simply because I find it boring, grinding into a backwoods niche is fine, just don’t put me to sleep. If you’re going to dig deep in those roots, those Mississippi River or Appalachian Post-Church or Primal Stonehenge hymns, tossing in banjo and porch clap for authenticity, you’d better dirty it up, walk in high waters, overalls and muck boots. “Steeple Against the Sky” is grungy, dirt-pop, sewing the pair of Jeremy and Kim together into a brittle cocoon of exuberance. At album’s end, the live performance of “Everybody’s Dig Accounted For,” they wind up a lengthy, psych-tinged bummer. The Sun and the Dawn, indicative of a night spent with them. Brightback Morning Light might have recorded the purest rays of the prism with Rhodes and reversed ascension, the Starbaskets are the crystals shattered, picked through, amplified, and treasured.

This isn't so much about the The Howling, a late-night stunner btw (which you can purchase at the aforementioned Myspace link) as it is how Jerusalem and the Starbaskets make for perfect Sunday music, replacing the cracking Steely Dan LPs, that's a good place to be.



Look in the Mirror. More Sunday shows please.

Polvo? Really? Polvo?

Chris Woods would scoff – “This is total fucking garbage.” He was Polvo’s harshest critic. As the always divisive, North Carolina band reunite this year, the torrent of indie 90’s nostalgia has reached a lame threshold. Will the masses buy a new Love Battery album, is it too soon for a Number One Cup whirlwind tour, did anybody actually listen to Duster? Sure, I’d be happy to see this show in some small capacity, feverish and wound up – I’m as guilty as the others in the enclave of devotees that possess all the records, they were one of those fringy second-tier bands (Silkworm, Elf Power, Bevis Frond) that made you feel like you were part of the club and hence had to have all the collectible cards.

Polvo weren’t that prolific, but they did manage to glide through some expansive and tricky terrain during their tenure. Blending Middle-Eastern echoes with imbalanced rhythms and time shifts, thousand-yard stares and full-frontal guitar skronk, they made albums that were woozy and relentless at the same time. It was in the EPs though that Polvo shined. Particularly the point where I theorize they peaked, the This Eclipse extended player that fell right between Today’s Active Lifestyles and what many consider their epic Exploding Drawing. I’m a fanboy for everything, personally I adore Cor-Crane Secret (perhaps just for the honesty and scruffiness of the recording), and Exploded Drawing has thee best songs of the catalog but is marred by blind ambition. This Eclipse though is the perfect concentration of a band that must be ingested in moderation.

Chris Woods is kinda’ right after all, the detuned strings and oft-putting shredding do rattle and disorient -- they try hard to meditate at times but rarely come up for air. These five songs though, tend to go down easy. “Bat Radar” a cleaner, polished, take on the quirky math rock of the beginning, better paced and readable, maybe the first time they actually thought of themselves as compositional guys and not just stoned travelers. This goes right into perhaps my favorite song by the band, “Bombs That Fall From Your Eyes” is Polvo’s “Grounded,” a prosaic exercise through the post-rock wasteland and the chunky proto-metal mirror (solidifying them as a group as good as Slint and Chavez), gorgeous and brutal. This Eclipse present them with chops, plenty different cuts too, they could hold their own in jazzy instrumental cheek-talk and monolithic sparkling sludge. Treat it as one sonically conceptual piece, an iceberg even, and warm up to it.
But back to these reunions…

If you’re in a band contemplating re-uniting…don’t drag it out unless you planning on recording an album that’s at least as good as your good band’s worst (Lemonheads, Dino Jr., Mission of Burma). Play one or two shows. Here Polvo get a pass, but I’d love to hear something new, as Shapes I thought was going to an interesting place that never was found. Oh well, me, I’m holding out hope for a full-scale Olivia Tremor Control tour, complete with new album.

A Conversation About Thomas Function

The random awakening. The Sunday afternoon realization that the "regional mexican, visual, southern rock" of quite an obvious band from Alabama (believe me, I was thur last summer and ZZ Top was playing next to the hotel) could give me goosebumps. My inner snobbery didn't want to indulge in such indulgence, but here's how the conversation went on a glorious trip to the first Cincinnati Reds game of my season:


(the players -- MH = Mike Hinze, KM = Kellie Morgan, DE = Douglas Elliott, KE = Wumme Wenders)

MH: I've got your coffee and a burn of the Thomas Function CD. For some reason it reminded me of you, and I thought you might like it.

(hours in the car, an hour in the alley, an air-tight, offensively heavy, Reds win, and another 20 minutes before I allow the Thomas Function disc to enter the fray.)

DE: This is my morning album. I've listened to it every day this week.

KE: This sounds pretty generic. The singer sounds exactly like the guy from Clap You Hands Say Puke (backlash has happened and gone, anyone trying to find virtue in their second album is a hoax-ghost).

KM: Yeah, I agree.

(MH and KM keep the back end of the Yaris bumping despite the obvious, Celebration by the Thomas Function continues to play, certain songs are played twice.)

DE: This band has soul.

KE: Like the Delta 72. We used to like it but it reminds of the (Go!, the Deadly Snakes, the Catheters) now. Too little, too late.

DE: Think of it as Television recording in Muscle Shoals. I bet they could record in Muscle Shoals if they wanted.

KE: Yeah...he does sing like Tom Verlaine...and the guitars are all over the place in the right places.

(I think about the whole TV/VU/MS connections and have to agree totally, silently.)

The next day I instinctively replay the album on my 45 minute commute. The annoying NPR fund drive is on, so music is a given. I listened to it again on the way home. That's how good it is. Not fresh, it's honestly most linked to the Exploding Hearts, just irresistible, substantive, candy.

They are playing a house party in Columbus next week. More details to follow.

Moviola and the Broken Horse No One Heard

Dead Knowledge requires less head scratching than the ramblin’ faux-psych of Howlin’ Rain or the woodland soft-rock of Midlake, that’s what made it 2007’s preeminent unheard roots record. It has since made more ears perk up (Mosurock’s writing about them now) and a serious survey of their career necessary. Broken Horses arrives at an opportune time for anyone looking to make the trip between 1994 and 2001 (means there’s another 6 years of material?). Longtime conspirator Spirit of Orr unlock a little chest of odds and ends the band has accumulated over the time – stepping stones between fuzzy collegiate earnest, sparsely spun folk, and the sublime domestic clarity of now. Call it maturity, the evolution of aging, but through the years it never sounded like were too concerned if they ever crossed a line that made them old and in the way. Maybe it’s from always teetering on the “ledge of the weekend,” always shifting slightly without straying, recording by any means necessary (lots are these songs are 7” and 7” “meant to be”) to perhaps get it all out even when it was unnecessary.

I’m guilty of not listening during the Rumors of the Faithful to Durable Dream chapter, it was the span before those album’s that Moviola seem their most prolific, here shown in many guises – the near kiwi floater-pop of the title track, the amphetamine jangle of “Air Out the Motorcade,” or the recently discovered “Signals Crossed,” a heady adventure through Grifter’s country. Housh and Shouse do share similar drunken laments and worn edges, but Moviola are far from a poor man’s Grifter’s, a poorer man’s Yo La Tengo maybe, but nothing as tragic and bluesy-bruised as Crappin’ You Negative. I guess it’s a regional thing, a mid-western bent, a university magnet. I’m suggesting the Dead Knowledge follow-up be recorded in Harrisburg, lovingly fucked with by Mr. Rep and Mr. House (who writes the liner notes here). A craggy, forcibly noisy, cleansing, could be penultimate -- fruitful.

Anyway, Magnetic Planet, Wabana, the High Street ssshuffle, Tobin Sprout, the secrets and stories, all play a factor – it’s all worth your attention, your time, just for the history lesson. It would be easy to go on and on regarding how there are genomes connecting the shit-folk of “Rockbottom Falls” to the Whitehurst (he prolly has no idea who Moviola is, unfortunately), this is a proto-boo boo you have to experience as if you were smoking in Stache’s. You been there (sic) ? By now, not many that you will talk to were actually there (is we old?), but Moviola wuz there, in the basement, smoking dirt weed, tapping into the spirit of the indie age, and had some damn good songs to write home about.

As far I as I know, the next time you can get a dose of Moviola is Saturday, April, 19th, during Record Store Day at Used Kid's.

The Ongoing Try at Being Dazzled by the Reds

And on Day Three God gave us J.C.

Another Piece of the Xuxa Empire...(And More)

My wife is a goddess and a saint. Not only did she allow me a trip to geek out on bands in Austin, but she has learned that the fastest way to a man’s heart (or collector scum’s black curdling heart) is through vinyl. I’m getting under the impression that the lot of original Brazilian vinyl press from the late 60’s and early 70’s is lost to Westerners, and strangely enough to the citizens of Brazil. On my frequent trips down there I’ve searched, perhaps not hard enough, but there’s not much of a used record trade in Rio or Sao Paulo, prolly cause (like I said) the lot is lost. What I have found are fairly worn and flimsy comps of various MPB (musica popular brasil) hits, or mass produced samba from Carnaval groups.

Carol went digging again on her recent visit home. No Transa, though Veloso is a national hero, no Rita Lee Fruito Proibido, though the Os Mutantes comeback without her pageant voice, what she did find is treasure enough.

A quick re-cap:

Elis Regina - O Pretegio De -- A compilation of the live-fast/die-young, “little pepper” from Porto Alegre. This is her late period, right before her death, a vibrant and tragic voice over what sounds like the Brazilian Steely Dan. Bonus – Two similar comps by Maria Bethania (Caetano’s sister)and Nara Leao, two incredible if inferior female singers I have now learned.

Various Artists – Lambateira Tropical 2 – According to Carol, the Lambada dance craze originated in Brazil, further research finds that to be true. This was made in 1989, it’s a worn and flimsy comp of the Lambada radio hits of the time (she knows all the words the same way I would know a Black Box song I suppose). Indicative of the slick production of Brazil in the late 80’s, about five years past our 80’s top 40 radio pop. So overproduced and oversaturated with arrangements, it would be hard to place this in the world canon were the origins unknown. Falling somewhere between Saharan Desert guitar surf and Bollywood send-ups, the variety and up-tempo flavors astound me even if the recordings leave something to be desired.

Barbie and the Rockers - A Estrella do Rock -- Yeah, you heard it right. I’m not sure how far the Barbie as a rocker play date ran in the states – did she have a cartoon? an album like this? – but in Brazil, Barbie and the Rockers were dangerously close to being a real band. I do remember that the Barbie “rocker” doll did come with a cassingle of their theme song (wonderfully indulgent power metal riffs, catchy chorus), but this is a full record of covers, sung in Portuguese by a studio band posing as Barbie and the Rockers. Top Tape really has a relic on their hands. “Incluindo musicas de John Lennon e Paul McCartney, John Sebastian e Cat Stevens entre outros.” Absolutely worth the $00.20, if only for the cover art and the group’s rendition of “There Goes My Baby.”
And last but not least……

Xuxa - Karaoke de Xuxa -- Perhaps my favorite Brazilian icon made an extremely rare record of instrumentals complete with lyric sheet, background children’s choirs, and frequent encouragement from Xuxa. She made pop music that sounded like ABBA dipped in the sacred waters of the Amazon. Every note a slide down a rainbow. It’s not all delicious, but if she can teach me the language and keep me entertained at the same time I’ll follow along.

The arrival of this Xuxa gem prompted me to dig up this ol’ article that got lost in the internets and thought it was totally worth re-posting:
If there is an American equivalent to the Xuxa phenomenon in Brazil, I'd love to know about it.

"While her presence as the country's top entertainer has waned in the last decade, it's still hard to avoid seeing Xuxa in televison commercials, b-movies, cartoons, toy stores, and shopping malls. I've become so fascinated by her legend, I've made it a personal mission to visit O Mundo Da Xuxa the next time I'm in Sao Paulo.

In my pursuit to become a self-taught expert on Brazilian popular culture I came across an interesting article on the social impact of Xuxa in her native country.

Amelia Simpson writes in her essay titled "Xuxa and the Televisual Imaginary,"

"The Xou da Xuxa (the live 5-hour, six-days a week, program she hosted for over a decade) attracts because it dissolves unseemly differences of race, gender, and class in a televisual pandemonium of generic happiness and idol worship. Xuxa's image assembles in one tidy package a set of unweidly, mutually contradictory ideas. She celebrates an ideal of femininity that is both erotic and domestic. She relentlessly markets a consumer-driven model of modernity in a country where the basic needs of many citizens are not met. And she presents a white ideal of beauty in a nation with the second-largest population of African descent on earth. Xuxa's image thus reconciles, without resolving, the deep fissures of race, gender, and capital that divide Brazil."

Pretty heavy stuff. She goes on to say that Xuxa's persona became such a encapsulation of perfection for the uneducated, that many thought she was a celestial being and the second-coming of the Virgin Mary. In one case, a Xuxa doll was said to have wept blood.

Of course, American audiences weren't fooled when Xuxa made an attempt at an American version of her variety show. I vaguely remember when this debuted ; being caught completely off-guard by her kooky antics, sychronized dances, and failure to command the english language. All that said, her 1988 movie, "Super Xuxa Contra Baixo Astral" (Super Xuxa vs. Satan) is brilliant from beginning to end (think Labyrinth meets Rainbow Brite meets City of God). "

Eat Skull Get To "Clowning on Bitches"

I said no more SXSW posts, and I was serious, but Eat Skull was something, someone, some beings, that I completely ignored in my dispatches. Can’t figure out exactly why? It’s exactly two weeks to the day that I first saw them and the blaring, big bopper, organ irk of “Fucking Daddy,” or “Empty Eye Socket” (those titles are totally made-up btw) and is still eating at my inner skull. Like echoes I can’t pry from my head. If I could phonetically write it here I would. It’s still there. It’s still there. Hopefully this (precise moment in time) will be the first thing I’ll hear when the Siltbreeze LP hits my doorstep.

I did snag a copy of the Dead Families 7” on Skulltones (sold out before sold?) for stashing their gear and selling their ware, plus bible joint skills previously unknown – an artifact that encapsulates the Eat Skull experience – that four completely gentile and normal folk could come off as the anti-thesis of Psychedelic Horseshit but play right down the same vein. Every note could very well be the last. Rob (keyboards, guitar, vocals, man of life-affirming facial expressions) is animated to the point of being a cartoon -- a cartoon I would watch infinitely were reality a farce. Those organ blurts are melodic as fuck, but a surely a shield, a force field against the melodies warped in his perimeter. Mr. Lax called it something “the world’s not exactly ready for” (not his exact words) and members from the kid’s table quoted it’s the best record of the year – after of course, Rip it Off – but I’ve yet to hear this revolutionary document from the “clowning on bitches” genre (still preferring “shitpop” over all). So we’ll stick to the 3 songs I gots so far.

He’s preferring shitgaze, the other “clowning on bitches” (a family tree, pure evaluation forthcoming), I love shitpop. Eat Skull lump right in (more on lumping soon, promise) with the aesthetic, the fury. A-Side’ s always Haley’s “Rock N’ Round the Clokkk” – B-side’s the disfigured, gasping, reflection. Ladies and Gentlemen the constitution is to simultaneously be in on the “joke” and constructively in on the “conversation.” The lines def blur as Dadaistic barbs face battle vs. informed, progressive theories. Though from Portland, Eat Skull embody the 3 AM Columbus lifestyle, something I’ve fought hard to get out of, but am infinitely dragged into until the day I die. Mike Rep enjoyed it all “again and again.”

Back to the title track….and that brick wall Rob lays down, laying down on the keys, a kind of lovable limp death knell, punctuated with sugar spastic rock lines. I’m hearing the 50’s and 60’s, big room sonics -- when I certainly shouldn’t be allowed. Still he’s pushing back against the rest, the blurting bass line eventually crystallizes off something Sumner might trudge with through New Order, the breakdown and deconstruction might win out, but the balance of pleasure and catharsis is measurable. How’s that for gaze? My imagination runs wild like a pack of street runaways on rainy Portland streets. It’s gory and grotesque, completely charming at the same time, a beaming band of freewill. You’re in the family (as if I have permission). That album has a fuckton to live up too (the myspace link has some clues already).

FM3 = Levitation

Seeing what FM3 had developed for their first ever live performance in America (?) was pretty liberating. Perhaps the most hypnotic 45 minutes of my life (that’s with or without drugs, here stone sober). The occasion was also so left-field from the rest of SXSW that I had to give the duo their own post, the final post. Not sure if the Hideout on Congress was a normal venue for the experimentalists from China, it’s a coffee shop with a tiny, tiny, theater in the back. The kind of place that’s hard to leave once a show get’s started. I vividly remember Psych HS playing there last year and people filing out only minutes into it, the shabby retractable seats creaking then slamming, the abandonees forced to walk right in front of the band (and a sneering Matt Whitehurst) on their way out. For FM3 there were probably only 10 or so people to watch (a shame they didn’t get better press, they did come all the way from China?), problem being there was nothing to see (hence no pictures, the above picture is a performance from Sonar).

There was an end table lodged into the aisle between the seats and one microphone hovering above it. For a while nothing happened. Then Zhang Jian appeared with a bottle of rum, two glasses with ice, a bag containing seven multi-colored Buddha Boxes, and a game-board painted with Chinese characters. Christiaan Virant then came and sat down, poured both of them a drink asked for the house to cut the lights asking to get close “if you want to hear”. What proceeded was a slowly evolving game of Buddha Boxing (sonic Mahjongg?) between the two, as explained later -- each side chose a box, a setting, a volume level, and a placement on the board (keep in mind all of these variables have different results whilst enjoying your Buddha Box), then the opposing player can either remove that box, move it, change the loop, or the volume – the only catch is they have to add one box of their own. Occasionally a pen light would be shined on the board so they could get a grasp on where they were in the game, but it was the darkness, the magnification of silences and little ice cubes clinking in their glasses that enhanced the experience. These guys are masters of their machines, manipulating the sound just by laying a box on upside down or on top of another box. The sounds from some far off astral plane -- the long, high-pitched, tone that ends by winding into a flutter was the first choice, but took a while to register. As they layered tone upon tone, sometimes removing one, sometimes trying to loop them all in unison, the miasma increased. I found myself actually drifting in and out of consciousness, waking back up when the dark, ominous, loop gonged. When completely alert, I would hallucinate around the tiniest specks of light that entered the theater. When closing my eyes, I felt like a child who journeyed to space by pressing hard on the lids.

A lot of talk this week centered on the future of the music industry (which all agreed is in dire straits) and the ways in which we’ll consume it. FM3 have shown me what a little ingenuity can do. Sure it’s only a plastic box that plays nine loops, but their twist on form and function, how people can interact, explore, and actually create other entities with what the duo call their “album,” is somewhat revolutionary. And of course if you’ve been reading here, the week was constantly teetering on the precipice of revolution, or if not revolution, than the destruction of stale ideas. Once the kids start making their own Buddha Boxes, and giving the public art that is built on primitive simplicity, that can be shifted to be what you want without sacrificing the artists’ intent, then the future of music tends to look awfully bright, blinding even. Really, fuck an MP3, viva la FM3. Amen.

SXSW Day Four: Bring Fruit...

...or He's the DJ, I'm the Rapper. If Friday was transcendental then Saturday was magic, first by accident, then by divine intervention. I had yet to indulge in some hip-hop, so the Fader Fort was a given (that giant print of Ad Rock jacking a beer is embedded in my mind forever), every inch of that place oozed with newage/oldskool love -- constantly brilliant bumpers courtesy of Fool's Gold, spray painted boomboxes stacked high, images of my adolescent heroes plastered everywhere. Let's be honest, anything Diplo touches turns to platinum, he turns water into cachaḉa, he's the one pulling the strings behind curtain of this revolution. It's a place where nothing's actually hip-hop per se, but simultaneously encompasses all of hip-hop in style and function. To make one dance, to make one always feel this party might be the last. All the best hip-hop feels like the cathartic near-future. Santogold is the latest realization of that revolution. But we'll get to her in a minute...

First things first. I thought I was rushing to get a chance to see D.R.I., but instead got Dri, not that big of a disappointment, but I've really nothing to say about the Dri except that she was perfectly acceptable indie jangle for getting crust out of one's eyes. Another set from Lykke Li followed. The fact that I stalked the Swedes to one more show is indicative to just how infectious they are.

Hly MF Jesus H. Christ though...David Fucking Banner stumped like he was running for president -- of the ultimate anarchist state. He spit, chucked beer bottles, started a mosh pit, spoke of topics ranging from current race relations to the price of gas...he was a fire-breathing dragon. With Mannie Fresh on the turntables and a live band behind him, he became an instant superstar with perhaps the most impassioned performance of the week. Granted a superstar in an alternate universe where a hip-hop artist from Mississippi rapping about clinical depression gets the same treatment as 50 Cent.


Exhausted...and made even more so by Telepathe's drolling, brown acid disco, I spied Diplo handing out new mixes, so I knew something incredible was about to take place. Sure enough he was there to assist Santogold, his latest ingenue who's being constantly compared to M.I.A. Not bad company to hold. Santogold, though surfing through world rhythms and flashy neon beats, is far from naive -- her songs are anthems with sung choruses and roughneck street knowledge. Here she brought along her female S1W's (maybe SNW's -- Security of the New World) who danced with tight, stern, choreography that matched the proceedings perfectly. By the time "Creator" rolled around, the tent was pure electricity. Remember way back in April when I said this could get huge?

The best part of this week has been our location, giving the ability to take regular breaks without having to walk for miles. I needed one after that (not to mention a cold shower). Cleaning up was necessary in order to go to church. Only two things stood in the way of SXSW's patron saint Roky Erickson, that was Duffy (not the webmaster but the latest British soul singer) and Okkervil River. Both were hindrances, as not being able to stand much longer started making me wish for home, my wife, and dog.


This is my third time seeing the "inventor of psychedelic rock," and even in the four year span since he's returned it's been a journey. By the grace of his brother, Roky looks completely recovered. He's gained a few, grown a Santa beard, but that voice has remained. See Roky solo now, see Roky belt out new songs, see Roky channel his inner demons and spirits for the benefit of the world. The Explosives, his backing band, kept chiming in about inducting him into the Rock Hall, but Roky's bigger than that. They should be begging for his approval. Being ten feet from a legend of his stature is what makes this fest so appealing -- magical.

SXSW Day Three: Pissing Next to Keith Morris

...or smoking the bible with Bushwick Bill. Those starfuckers out there should be having a great time this week. Today Rachel Ray -- Tomorrow the world.


Say what you will about Pitchfork and their authority on modern music (the indie supreme court?) but they sure know how to fix a line-up. All one had to do is fashion a campsite at Emo's -- at least until four. I've never seen so many doods crouching and bouncing over tiny cities of junkyard electronic equipment (Playskool vs. Marshalls). The Animal Collective was mentioned yesterday, they are not playing here but their playful, mysterious, and transcendental composition is a common theme currently. High Places is the closest match fer sure. The boy/girl duo make make-believe out of tragic beats and found sound, sweetened with reverberated chipmunk vocals. Lykke Li (pictured above), a quartet from Stockholm, had a similar vibe, though she's an entirely different monster. Not monster, some wickedly beautiful cross between Joanna Newsom and Debbie Gibson. She was funky, fresh, dipping prog into pop, soul into pristine Swedish funk. Dance parties might not spring up at 1 PM in 89 degrees, still the band rode enough whimsy to challenge my feet.



Inside White Williams soldered stoner metal to Dayton street funk, all with blue-eyed passion. Then came Jay Retard, newly christened as a Matador Records recording artist. This is where the road started to shift and I was lead down an entirely dysfunctional avenue. I'm imagining Eno growing out his hair like Kirk Hammett, doing bubblegum thrash, raping the corpse of last year's garage rock wonders and spitting out the bones. Beware young children.



Ahhh....who else? Bon Iver did not fail to dissapoint. Anyone with a dry eye in the room didn't have a heart. Again, file under transcendental -- through perfect harmonies and rustic melancholy. Or Fuck Buttons, UK's rich privileged version of Wolf Eyes, only instead of diving into the bleak underbelly, they jet-set through rainbows.


Memo to Bradford Cox. I 100% prefer Atlas Sound over Deerhunter. Especially as you are flanked by chica bassist and chica drummer. Pushing cathartic rhythms towards a psych-punk maximum. Keep in mind, this was just my day, the clock hasn't even touched 6. We were met with whiffs of Enslaved, Matt and Kim, Fleet Foxes, and another triumphant TNV set before getting into nighttime.

I was happy to finally get a glimpse of Crystal Castles. Standing and stumbling on one leg they (now a trio with drums)drove white-hot Atari spikes through my skin, strobe lights and ecstatic din. I think I saw the future right before passing out. That album's gonna be addictive, the kids will soon fall in line.

If there's one thing that remains a constant, it's sticking with what you know. Now the essentialists are getting their profiles raised and bands like Psychedelic Horseshit and Los Llamarada are playing to packed rooms...being followed by Half Japanese (who are apparently going through their last go-round) and the Homosexuals and Bad Trips. The latter pummeling me into submission with "Sister Ray" reduxes to the point of saying uncle for the day.

Stay Tuned -- we're among the last throes of the insurgency.

SXSW Day Two: More Cameras in My Monitors

Last year seemed to be all 'bout self-abuse, every morning spent bloodied and bruised with a brain full of mush. Not this year (I'm happy to report a clean bill of health -- wife, mother, father, and middle bro) as the local Whole Foods has contributed to expensive remedies (Tangerine Pom) and glorious produce. So 2008 is more for chilling, riding the wave, and not concerning myself with seeing every band within earshot.

Thursday in the sun, Steve and I only chalked up two bands, and spent most of the time taking in the sites and smells. We did see an early set from No Age, a band highly anticipated. The duo ripped through a taut set of their metaphysical skate-punk, throwing riffs, scattered percussion and ocean noise towards the winds to see what floats back. I was under the impression a lot of what they do is a put-on, like scaling the speakers and taping mics together for no particular reason, but their sincerity shines bright and the batch of new songs slated for their Sub Pop debut are painted with a wide swath of melodic discovery. Here's a little something to get the hype for this long-player rolling.



My favorite band of the day was undoubtedly Los Campesinos, a joyous twee-punk septet from Cardiff, Wales. This is exactly what emo could've become had it been built with earnest and Pavement guitar scrawls. These kids are adorable, rocking melodicas, violins, xylophones, wood blocks, synths, and hyper-syllabic group chants. My favorite line -- "I never like Henry Rollins." It's the ethos of new punk (they still hand make zines in Wales) dished out with plenty of smirk and heart-on-sleeve dedication. Plus they are the nicest group I've met in years. Please, if you're reading this, go see them at any cost.

The Campesinos are also big fans of Times New Viking. At this point in the fest it will be hard to find anyone who isn't transfixed by the buzz. We've made it a mission to marathon through every TNV set this week. Why? Because each show just gets better. I'm the guy who keeps jumping around, singing along with all the sing-alongs that have now morphed from slogans to gospel truths. As dusk approached at the French Legation Museum, the trio played what was probably the best and most concise I have ever seen them play. Keep on rolling...



Which lead me to the ultimate in showcasing, the (aforementioned on this blog) Siltbreeze get-down. Lo and behold I've not much to report because this was my view the entire night.



That's not sour grapes at all. I'm eternally indebted to Mr. Tom Lax, thanks for everything, now let's party). I loved seeing a new generation emptying wallets to buy avant-vinyl. I was particularly impressed by label newbies Naked on the Vague and the indecently loud psych bluster of a giddy Mike Rep and his Times New Quotas. Oh yeah, then there was this......



I can die happy if I hear the words "Psychedelic Horseshit" spoken on TRL. Onward champions.

SXSW Day One: Jesus Gave Me a Migrane

Here I sit, high atop the Hilton with a headache. Blame it on the free Maker's Mark courtesy of John Norris and the extremely precise and professional staff of La Zona Rosa, who treated Times New Viking like they were three Bonos. Wow was their sound gigantic last night. I know for fact I'll see the "kids" play multiple times, this virgin set though couldn't have been better. I think the lack of enthusiasm from the crowd was due to awe -- most people at this fest have yet to be inundated with the "shitpop" phenomenon.

Sound issues and venue location plagued Columbus Discount once again, sadly. Night of Pleasure tore through their amphetamine punk without much regard to the troubles. As did the Unholy Two, who made more than enough mentions to the late great Dr. Martin Luther King. What a juxtaposition to have Chris Lutzko's heady feedback-laden crud blaring while blessed Austinites munched on overpriced BBQ. I could see the frustration in Adam Smith's eyes and wished I was technical enough to help with the technical difficulties.

Fortunately CDR's great white hopes, El Jeezy performed magically at high noon, with the sun beating down gloriously, and the free PBR already reminding the crowd of a late sweaty night at the Boo Boo. From there we headed to the Fader Fort (a loving nod to Harmeet Kala) where more free booze was the object of desire. Jeremy Jay was mediocre Jordan O' Jordan (where the fuck is that guy), shaky singer-songwriter flak that didn't impress. The Ruby Suns, who just released a great tropical topical record on Sub Pop, couldn't exactly translate live, coming off like a second-rate romper-room Animal Collective with none of the flair. The biggest surprise was the re-invention of the Kills, who I thought were dead in the water, but managed to present a new strain of icky thump coming through busted ghetto blaster. They got beats and soul. Beats and soul.



Speaking of beats, after the honeymoon with TNV the night took a turn towards electronics. Lindstrom from Oslo, Norway chilled a packed Thirsty Nickel into blissful submission. This was not the ideal venue for him unfortunately, he needed neon and darkness, smoke and weed, not body shots and white caps. Get this guy another show, someone. Our important last slot decision was to see Bon Iver atop Maggie Mae's, but the capacity crowd and undesirable setting forced to seek shelter elsewhere. So we took a risk and headed up to the Karma Lounge -- the best decision of the day. There we got a taste of Cut Copy's amazing skills as DJs(Diplo should be worried) and the riotous arrival of Tough Alliance, who basically lip-synced their entire album amid videos of dolphins and sickly sweet dry ice. It was wild, a pop filled mix of Bronski Beat and Wham! -- all the gay wonders I secretly adore.

The Countdown Begins...

I've been tempted the last few days to keep my regular posts alive. Something about Polvo nostalgia (coming soon), something about Cheveu (I missed the show but I'll see them six times this week, and I've listened to the album non-stop), but the only thing on my mind is the Siltbreeze Showcase coming up this Thursday.

So, in an effort to get every single person attending SXSW to cram themselves into the Soho Lounge I must use my patented hyperbole to pimp what might be the center of the SXSW "shitpop" universe this week. The Siltbreeze Showcase is nothing short of brilliant. Like Michelle Obama said two weeks ago it's the first time I've ever felt proud to be an American (or an Australian, or a Mexican, but alas Los Llamarada won't make it to the U.S.A. till Friday (go see them anyways).

The Line-Up:

8:00 - Ex-Cocaine from Missoula, MT

8:40 - Blues Control from Brooklyn, NY

9:20 - Naked on the Vague from Melbourne, AUS

10:00 - Eat Skull from Portland, OR

10:40 - Mike "Rep" Hummel from Harrisburg, OH

11:20 - Psychedelic Horseshit from Columbus, OH

12:00 - XNO BarbequeX from Sydney, AUS

12:40 - Pink Reason from Parts Unknown

1:20 - Times New Viking from Over the Edge, CA

Hopefully I'll get some free records out of the deal. Till' then, if you're in the Denver Airport tomorrow round 3 PM, I'll meet you at the freak lounge for drinks.

Check here regularly for up to the minute SXSW news, spews, pictures, and rumours about your favorite stars. Thus starts another fucking adventure.

A Times New Viking Movie ?

The Best X-mas Present Ever

Being in San Fransisco for a brief six months, Doug/Blonee/Middle Bro, brought few things back that were worthwhile besides stories about medical marijuana and the original full time innovator, Ben (a.k.a. Grandpa), and how the two interact. He did however spend plenty of time(and money)at Aquarius Records where he purchased the most self-less X-mas present ever for Adam/Huffy/Little Bro and myself. Of course he stashed a Buddha Machine for himself first but gave each of us one to treasure for a lifetime.

For those unfamiliar the Buddha Machine is a small plastic box, the size of a cigarette pack, with one speaker, and containing nine perpetual loops (my included battery has yet to die) that can be switched at random with a toggle at the top. The only other features are a volume wheel and an audio out plug. Sounds almost like a Family Dollar Ipod, but the ghostly atmospheres packed inside are close to magic. By themselves the loops are hypnotic, almost spiritual, after a length of time textures begin to appear, blow it through stereo speakers or a Marshall and the loops distort, engulf. As a piece of home entertainment the Buddha Machine is what you make it -- mood sound for meditation or, played somewhere in the room along with any competent psychedelic record it adds another intoxicating dimension. Perfect with anything by the Boredoms, Faust,
Grateful Dead, etc. etc. etc. There's a reason Brian Eno and Sir Richard Bishop both have bought dozens of these for live shows and experimentation. As a musical instrument, FM3 (the Chinese electronic duo who invented the thing) have made their art a tool that goes beyond the simple series of 15 second tones, it's being used in colorfully different ways. But they've recorded much more than this immortal artifact, and now playing SXSW I'm intrigued as to what they can accomplish with a live hour of music.