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(Drive-In, 1997)
…And meanwhile, halfwit John McCain is a serious candidate for President. Wha?? How?! The guy’s a buffoon and a phony, an elderly tough-talker who couldn’t chest-puff his way out of a rhetorical paper bag. Can this race POSSIBLY be as close as the polls say it is? Will any of you ACTUALLY stand up for a hawkish McCain administration (given how well a hawkish Bush administration has worked out)?? And will anyone ACTUALLY dare to play the “Obama is inexperienced” card after months of bizarre McCain foreign policy gaffes and Republican scrambling that ultimately results in the right trying to co-opt Obama’s positions?! YEESH!! But I’ll give you this: Perhaps you and your fetishized future dead soldiers would rather have a beer in heaven with Bush and McCain than with Kerry and Obama. Well, congrats, morons. You really showed ’em!
And this single? Shucks. It can’t possibly get me as worked up, cuz it’s just an inoffensive gtr-pop twee moodpiece that goes for nasal rainy-day mopiness in yer standard wimp-pop vein, leaving no real impression either way. Except! The brief violin breaks on “Archipellago” (sic!) give the song the kind of “sure, yeah” emotional resonance that the Rentals achieved every now and then, and that’s, uh, whatever, a nifty feat for a few seconds. But: was the song ever tortured by the Viet Cong? I THINK THAT’S THE REAL QUESTION HERE. Argh. Please wake me when we’re all D-E-D.
(Nuf Sed, 1991)Culturcide was a group of punk weirdos and smarties from Houston which, while often missing the mark with its experiments, at least had IDEAS up the arse that allowed it to break out of the pissed-off-youngster norm to occasionally interesting effect. The Wolf Eyes-endorsed Tacky Souvenirs of Pre-Revolutionary America album – on which the band simply sings over tapes of major hits from the early 1980s – is probably the perfect half-funny, half-obnoxious, mostly-dumb example of the group’s work, but this single (recorded in 1984, released in 1991 on the godly Nuf Sed label) goes beyond that gimmick to show what else the goofs in Culturcide were capable of churning out.
“A Day at My Job,” which sounds like it was recorded live, is noisy social commentary with a decent beat and some OK guitar skree; the lazy, sardonic vocals are the weak link here and hold it back from being a minor knucklehead classic. Split over a side and a half, the delightfully annoying “Mommy and I are One” shows a degree of studio and/or sampler creativity, its looped “check…check…check” providing an introductory beat of sorts to the disturbingly phrased titular sentiment, which repeats endlessly over wisps of non-instrumental field recordings. A jerkoff minimalist’s “Revolution #9,” designed more as piss-take than high-falutin’ art; make of it what you will – Culturcide probably doesn’t care. Absolutely buy the aforementioned LP for yuks and groans, then check this thing out if you absolutely must dig deeper.
(Nuf Sed, 1992)
Another Cul de Sac single rescued from the WERS dumpster (total airings listed on the enclosed log-sheet: zero), and again we’ve got ourselves a loopy amalgam of sounds and influences spread over two instrumentals. But while the guitars still play in that surf-derived style heard on “Sakhalin,” there’s a fine overriding dreaminess to “…His Teeth Got Lost in the Mattress…” thanks to the gauzy production and burbling electronics (which seem to be a nod to the 13th Floor Elevators’ electric jug). Flipping the script somewhat and making the disc a gotta-get, “Doldrums” is a roaring psych-out, Can’s hypnotizing rhythm section plus the Creation’s searing guitars – great great great! Comes packaged in a velour cardstock sleeve and is limited to 1,000, with 100 of those signed and numbered.
(Shock, 1992)An unusual pair o’ instrumentals from these technique-minded oddballs. “Sakhalin” has a surf/spy feel in the bass and guitars, but also features Kraut-y drums and dreamy waves of feedback – an interesting combo that the band pulls off quite nicely. The cleverness continues unabated on “Cant,” whose queasy circus-time synths and little drum-rolls make for a sinister number that oughta be piped into some Bradbury-esque nightmare funhouse. All in all, it’s an intriguing record, but one that clearly didn’t set the world on fire: I own the copy that once belonged to WERS in Boston, and even they, the band’s hometown college station, only gave the B-side a single play before dumping it. Ouch!And say, isn’t the Savage Pencil drawing on the cover awfully reminiscent of the eyeball-licking that’s going down on the Flaming Lips’ Wastin’ Pigs EP?
(Ratfish, 1995)
Hiya friends, sorry to keep you waiting so long on this Creeper Lagoon review for which I asked you to hold your breaths. Thing is, I was at the Jersey Shore Monday night, and then on Tuesday the MLB All-Star Game electrified me so much that I needed to fall asleep early on the couch. But all of that’s in the past now, because tonight NOTHING will stand between me and this review, not even a thousand bullets or a million bombs. People, no number of catapults or cannons or dangerous armored vehicles will prevent this average-to-good record from spinning. Neither dogs nor horses nor apes nor elephants will tear me from my keyboard. A sea of sharpened sticks a-slicing and a-stabbing? Not a chance! I’ll type with my stumps! OK, now, having spat upon every weapon through history, LET’S GET TO IT!! READY???
…Oh, hey! Hang on. Guess what? This is the first single to be played on my Brand New Record Player – a true honor! Unfortunately, the needle has already been sullied by the vomitous John Cale Comes Alive LP, but I’m confident that better days are ahead for that machine. And for my ears!
Now. Guitars- n vocals-wise, we’re often in loosey-goosey GBV land with Creeper Lagoon, but small touches like simple keyboard parts, doubled vox, and competent harmonies elevate the songs to a certain catchy/goofy level of okey-doke (esp. “August Pascal”). A slow happy one + a slow sad one + a fast one + a sub-sophomoric one = bases COVERED, all in a lo-fi fuzzy pop/rock style that strives to keep it casual. And succeeds, at that, so another apt comparison might be the earlier Home records, pre-XIV. Anyway, here’s an embarrassing but accurate statement: Things don’t come much more “stereotypically ’90s indie” than this sucker. Truth.
And ah, right, one last tidbit. The title’s a joke, so Dead C fans shouldn’t be running through the streets burning and killing in order to find a copy of this 7”. However, if you would really like to determine for yourself whether or not Bruce Russell contributes, I’ll happily sell you mine for a princely sum.
(Hit-Ton, 2005)
Import re-ish of a 1967 German single with a nifty sleeve-pic taken in a gun shop, the boys surrounded by a buncha artillery. These Brits had a good thing going through most of their career, mucking around as they were at the intersection of mod-pop and psych, and this single (despite the unexciting and un-guitary soul of “If I Stay Too Long” on the B), was as right-on as it ever got. “How Does it Feel to Feel” is a monster, with total power in those drums and rightly-worshipped guitar mania, a crackling power surge that does chunky and watery equally well. Stands tall next to “I Can See For Miles” in the pantheon of great lysergic creepy-crawlies, and it stars on every Creation comp out there, so close your eyes and pick at random.
(MGM, 1970)
What was up with MGM in the early ’70s?! As if it wasn’t glorious enough that Coven and Osmonds records bore the distinctive blue and gold labels in those days, here comes “The Prophecy of Daniel and John the Divine,” which is surely the best of ’em all – lord a’mighty, this is an out-and-out CLASSIC from start to finish. We’re talking about the Book of Revelations set to pop music by the Cowsills and a fellow named Remo Capra, done so skillfully and without any obvious concession to the Top 40 marketplace that mouths MUST hang agape whenever this number is first experienced. The arrangement is admirably ambitious, with some Eastern instrumentation, intricate vocal parts, spoken passages, and more distinct musical sections – both dark/doomy and jarringly bouncy – than one normally finds in a 3:37 single. A laudable bit of work, but it’s nevertheless the lyrics that truly carry the song. And buddy, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard these sweet children sing about Babylon and the Mark of the Beast. The massed chants of “six-six-six” throughout the track are astonishing, and when wedded to that dense apocalyptic-psych backing, the total effect makes for perhaps the most chilling pop record I’ve ever heard. Seriously, it’s a masterpiece.
(Insipid, 1992)
I have a funny – no, HILARIOUS – feeling that these are the same versions of the songs that appear on Cunning Stunts, but if you have the need to hear them in inferior fidelity on Australian 7” vinyl (and who hasn’t felt that need?), consider this your golden ticket to the land of happiness. Now, these aren’t my favorites from that LP, so let’s get that straight right away. Yeah? Still, they both have that smart blend of rawk nastiness and humor that makes the Cows, even at their average-est, so likeable. Take “Woman Inside,” for example. It’s a pummeling hardcore nightmare that goes from dopey-voiced to anguished, thanks to some funny/clever lyrics: the “woman inside” is AN ACTUAL WOMAN living inside of the screaming and horrified singer! HAW, right? And on the other side of the coin, an unexpected cover of the spaghetti-fave “Theme From Midnight Cowboy” goes for a wobbly-guitared drunk feel that shows the Cows could win even when they weren’t going full throttle; it’s total melodic loveliness. All of which makes a nice single, but there’s just no reason not to get these songs in their larger context – along with rumploads of better tracks! – on the full Cunning Stunts LP.
(Tho I reckon the outrageous prices that that alb goes for these days might be a legit deterrent.)
(Amphetamine Reptile, 1992)
Degenerate scum, this wacky Cows band! Always fun, always crazy, always goosing the ass of Johnny Expectations and Suzy Goodtaste. In a departure from the teeth-gnashing norm, it’s some disconcertingly dreamy vocals on the A-side’s snappy motorpunker, aside from the mean-ass chorus, which seems to be about…rape?? I suppose?! No such ambiguity on the filthy horn-tootin’ boogie of “In the Mouth,” which clearly concerns the forcible insertion of sumpin into the oral cavity of anyone – shrink, teacher, boss, gal-pal, landlord, you – who has had the fool notion to rub the vocalist wrong. It’s kinda like a swingin’ new take on “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer”! Neither song is as good as the best of tight albums like Sexy Pee Story and Cunning Stunts, but both are exclusive to this single, so sure, why not buy a copy today?
(MGM, 1973)
Oh MAN I love this record. A fife and drum intro swells into a horn-soaked joyride as this brassy broad with a nice set of pipes belts out an O Henry-style life-lesson concerning peace and cooperation. The whole thing, from the vocals to the trumpets to the drumming to the slight hint of novelty appeal, is full-bodied and spectacular – a perfect single. Just for fun, I prefer to ignore the song’s actual message and focus on the startling “Go ahead and hate your neighbor / Go ahead and cheat a friend” chorus, which is quite dramatic as it blares from the speakers (the evil-sounding Killdozer really nails these lines in their For Ladies Only cover). There are a few versions of this song floating around: the one I own features the full Coven lineup, the other – from the soundtrack of Billy Jack – just the vocalist and an orchestra. The original, for the record, is by Original Caste, and Coven largely remained faithful to that arrangement.
Meanwhile, the twangy, lazy B-side “I Guess it’s a Beautiful Day Today” lets some male vocalists get in on the action and sounds like something Mike Nesmith might have attempted as the Monkees wound down. It’s a fine wisp of a song – the lyrics mostly consist of the title – but it is of course overshadowed completely by the awe-inspiring A-side.
(F-Beat, 1980)
Punchless dreck from the eternally-overrated Elvis Costello. I never understood the love this guy receives from all corners of the universe; I don’t hear any of that alleged cutting wit in his lyrics, and the unremarkable music is glorified pub rock that only occasionally flirts with jagged punkiness. “I Can’t Stand Up For Falling Down” is an especially dull exercise, with shades of the E Street Band in that tootling organ and sleek, jovial bar-band muscle. Mediocre as can be, and the less said about it the better. On the other side, “Girls Talk” seems promising with its rhythmic oomph, but it’s all tease… there’s no payoff in the end. What, if anything, am I missing when it comes to Costello? I’ve heard all of the records on which he built his rep, and aside from the odd single that sounds good coming through a jukebox, I find this snoozer of a 7” to be pretty much representative of his early work. But we can all agree that his late-’80s collaboration with Paul McCartney, “My Brave Face,” is fun, right?
(Kill Rock Stars, 1999)
I don’t know nothing about these Corrections but AAAAGH WHAT’S THIS LI’L BUG CRAWLING ROUND IN MY BED?! Oh OK it’s just some mini guy with stripes on his shell, not a bedbug or a gawshdamn roach or anything. KILLED now, just in case. So these Corrections. Lotta guitar scree (+ some drums) that sounds like it’s coming through over the telephone lines or a disintegrating cassette. Thrash and wiggle, nothing hardassed enough to be considered confrontational or even challenging. Yawn; I’ve heard fluppin’ Neutral Milk Hotel songs that work the strings rougher than these guys do. Stuff’s some total bedroom tapedeck wank in the least satisfying possible way. A found-sound joke perpetrated on KRS singles-club subscribers? I can’t believe 2,000 copies of this record exist.
(Matador, 1998)
So I was all set to get back on track with writing these reviews, but then, last night, my laptop decided that it had had enough of life on this planet and committed suicide. It was a dignified death, at least: The screen suddenly went black, and now it simply won’t turn back on. Fried motherboard or something, according to tech support sites. Anyway, I guess I’ll just start writing these out longhand and then type them up while I’m on my lunchbreak at work.
Beginning… NOW.
Which means that Cornelius, the Japanese Beck (with Caribou as the Canadian Cornelius??), has the honor of being the first to receive this exciting, time-wasting new treatment. And hullo, what have we here? Why, it’s Robert and Hilary from the Apples In Stereo bringing a decidedly Elephant Sixy flavor to “Chapter 8 (Seashore and Horizon),” a song that switches back and forth between summery acoustic strumming and gentle, twilit electronic psychedelia. Lush vocals harmonizing and weaving around each other are the whipped cream on an absolute pop beaut that could fit on any Apples or Olivia Tremor Control record. Outstanding! “Count Five or Six,” a highlight of the Fantasma-era live A/V extravaganzas, is on the B-side, its turbo-garage robo-countoff providing a dirty JSBX-esque counterpoint to the soothing A while maintaining that layered vocal loveliness. Eliminating the need for this 7” (unless you happen to like the artwork), both songs appear on Fantasma, a record I just realized I’ve been meaning to buy for a DECADE now. Might have to wait a little longer on that, too, cuz for the next few whenevers all funds are going to be diverted to hard drive recovery and the purchase of a shiny new computing machine. Doggone.
(Table of the Elements, 1993)
Two outtakes from the 1972 Outside the Dream Syndicate sessions, with Tony Conrad on violin and a few members of Faust (Werner Diermaier, Jean-Herve Peron, and Rudolf Sosna) helping out on bass, drums, and synth. These tracks don’t have the intensity or the insane focus of the two long pieces that make up the LP; those were mind-melting endurance tests, with Conrad’s drone shrieking above the most basic two-note, boom-thwap boom-thwap accompaniment for an entire album side. These recordings feel like outtakes, like slightly-bored jam-session noodlings accidentally caught on tape between the white-knuckled epics that actually saw release in ’72. What I love about Outside the Dream Syndicate is the stylistic tug of war that goes on between the players: the discipline of Conrad’s vision/method meeting the loose ’n’ wacky Faust makes for a tense and exhausting listen as the violinist imposes strict order on his hairy pals. Much of that is lost here, as the rhythm section is allowed to get livelier, even heading into funky territory on “The Death of the Composer Was in 1962.” It’s an interesting pair of recordings that fills out the Conrad/Faust picture a bit more, but neither track rates as must-have. Anyway, the material from this rare and oft-pricey 7” was later included on the double-CD 30th anniversary edition of Outside the Dream Syndicate, so the smart move is to go find that thing and just get all of the recordings from these sessions in one nifty package. After that, cop the live version from 1995 (Outside the Dream Syndicate Alive), which is brutally heavy and thus pulls off the shocking trick of actually topping the original.
(Gern Blandsten, 1998)
I received this as a toss-in with an order from Spirit Of Orr a few years back, assumed it was jive, and stashed the thing away without playing. Too bad for me! Both sides are tight with Wire-style jaggedness and discomfort, guitar aggression that lurches instead of swaggers. The vocal squawking on the more violent B (sides are labeled only with the number of beats per minute… no song titles) is a bit over the top and threatens to ruin an otherwise fine track, but the A gets it together just right with its terse, sweaty dance-punk that’s more about paranoia than partying. Bust out the latter in order to impress your rock buddies the next time you find yourself in charge of a turntable.
(SharkAttack!, 2001)
Lockgroove bassist Dave Doom (a.k.a. Compass) takes a strut down solo-gentleman lane, and it’s certainly a different trip from the spacerock blast-offs of his SharkAttack! friends. Rather than guitars, beats are the key here, tinny beats all a-snappin’ and cracklin’ and poppin’ alongside keyboards and electronic loops. It’s not “dance” music, though, and there’s something vaguely unsettling about the grimy, densely-layered “Antonio Rumori” as those peppy rhythms skitter underneath Doom’s faraway vocals. There’s definitely a late-night, druggy fog around both songs (particularly the languid pop-collage “Estacion Especial”), which means that Compass, mood-wise, doesn’t stray so far from the Lockgroove/Charlene reservation as to be totally unrecognizable as a product of that scene, but it’s still an interesting attempt to stretch out and cover some new sonic turf.
Compass later released a full-length that I have yet to hear… I got nuttin for you on that front.
(Kill Rock Stars, 1998)
More Comet Gain, and more comparisons drawn to groups through the ages: “Hate Soul” is halfway between The Monks and something off the One Kiss Can Lead to Another girl-group box, a sweet-n-sour, primitive stomper bustin’ out from the garage. Then it’s another stab at slow-and-soulful on “When You Come Back I’ll Feel Like Jesus Coming Off the Cross,” and the end result – though comparatively ragged – is disturbingly reminiscent of Primal Scream ballads like “Damaged.” Yikes! This is a bonus single included with the Tigertown Pictures LP, which is (with Realistes) one of Comet Gain’s best albums, for my money, a record that American descendents Saturday Looks Good To Me would kill to make.
(Kill Rock Stars, 1998)The September installment of Kill Rock Stars’ 1998 Mailorder Freak 7” Singles Club. “If I Had a Soul” is crammed with ringing guitars, mixed-gender harmonies, mini drum-breaks, and handclaps, which means it’s pretty much more of the same outta Comet Gain. And that’s no knock, cuz this is a catchy one that careens along effortlessly without doing much of anything wrong – Black Tambourine with more sophistication. Rest of the single is equally strong: “He Walks By Night” goes a heavier distortion-happy route, while “The Brothers Off the Block” is the clean, sensitive one that builds in volume with each “Sweet Jane”-copping verse. The single is a limited edition (of 2000?), but copies are still bouncing around and are worth the few bucks you’ll have to shell out for ’em; these songs beat hell on the sometimes overcooked retro-isms of other Comet Gain records.Now let’s talk about something different! While I was getting my coffee this afternoon, there was a grown-up adult woman ladyperson explaining to her boyfriend how she had recently lived in a haunted apartment and had had to convince her landlord to let her break lease because, well, the place was h-h-h-haunted. This was good stuff, so I eavesdropped for a while, waiting to hear the punchline. It never came, and I has left kinda stunned. People actually (a) believe in this nonsense, (b) will move over it, and (c) will talk about it in public?? Advice to the guy who was being told the tale: Run for the hills. If you stick it out, this imbecile could one day be RAISING YOUR CHILDREN.(Hopefully my sneering dismissal of this gal’s earnest story will not bring any sort of spectral retribution down on my head. Do ghosts use the internet?)
(Wiiija, 1997)
These U.K. modderfuckers have always done a credible impression of handclappy days gone by, with the organs, horns, girly backing-vox, yeah-yeahs, and heavy echo adding up to a certain kind of studied fashion-pop whose own reeking cleverness occasionally overpowers its winningly catchy affability. And, indeed, on “Strength” the sound is just too clean and antiseptic to hide the obsessive historical cribbing that went into every stage of the song’s life: it’s numbingly paint-by-numbers mod-/soul-pop. “A Film By Kenneth Anger” and “Letting Go” satisfy and avoid suffocating under frilly period touches, but still aren’t much more than moody thinking-fella’s pop that please the ears while avoiding making a knock-knock on the door of the ol’ memory banks. On this disc at least, we’re not talking about anything beyond a more rock-oriented Belle and Sebastian. Fun and carefully assembled, but it’s ultimately just empty ear-calories.
(Last Beat, 1995)
Given how much I love Comet’s seemingly forgotten Chandelier Musings album, which came out a year after “This is Freedom,” it’s hard for me to give this single the critical eye that it deserves; reflected glory and all of that, you know? Still, while the LP dealt in the towering, glistening orch-rock of Rollerskate Skinny and Satellite Heart/Clouds-era Flaming Lips, this 7” – though sonically dense – is a comparatively raw and less-majestic affair that leans on guitar effects and volume instead of trusting in the considerable melodic strength of the group’s songwriting. The B-side gives us a perfect point of comparison with the album, a demo-quality version of Chandelier-opener “Rocket Flare” that makes it clear that Comet had everything in place by the time of single #1 except for mastery of the studio (or, perhaps, just a steady cash flow) – the LP recording is rippling and dynamic, whereas this take feels flat and forced. Rather than the Ronald Jones Flaming Lips, a more accurate reference for this material might be the crunchy, rockier shoegaze that bands like the early Smashing Pumpkins were churning out at the beginning of the decade. But both songs on here are interesting, if rough, listens anyway, and the single is a worthwhile walk-before-you-run companion to the super-recommended full-length.
Comet’s work through Chandelier Musings was produced, appropriately, by David Baker – these discs are honestly what Mercury Rev would have sounded like if they had held onto their guitars and hadn’t stumbled off into fey electronic mysticism. After the album, however, the band sadly disappeared until 2005, when it reformed and put together a limited EP for Spune Productions called Feathers From the Wing.
(Drive-In, 1997)
