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(Seed, 1994)
Oh criminy. Craven, contrived alt-powerpop for dummies (on an Atlantic-affiliated label) that goes as far as sticking a broad who does an uncanny Kim Deal impression on the mic. The two non-LP songs on the B, “Thurber” and “Country Song,” introduce some shitkick/drawl elements that are marginally more interesting than the heard-it-before cash-in of the A-side, and I’ll admit to not minding the latter’s casual backroads swing. Too little, too late, though; I’m ultimately left wondering whether, if I was in college in 1994, I would have been enough of a simp to actually fall for this silliness.
(Mind Expansion, 2001)Say what you will about Randall Nieman and his beard, but you can NOT say that he’s failed to collaborate with the creamiest of the croppiest when it comes to spacerock perfection over the years. FUG! This single has the then-semi-retired Telescopes on the A-side lending their vocal hands to a dense, cooing psych-out, and then Sonic Boom contributing synth and voice to a crackling, organ-heavy Suicide cover (“Girl”) on the B. Perfect perfect PERFECT nod-off stuff. More recent Fuxa partnerings with the likes of Dean Wareham have been similarly successful, but nothing else has achieved the streamlined, absolute fuzzhead grace of this single. If down to your last penny, do whatever you can to turn that copper into this slab o’ non-nonsense. And food.
(Burnt Hair, 1995)The first Fuxa-only 7” (there had been a prior split with Windy & Carl), and a fine introduction to Randall Nieman’s stoned, stay-puft clouds of blisspsych – on “herb green vinyl in support of the legalization,” no less. Bongos, moogs, tribal drums, and reverbed guitars ooze out an instrumental mix of Playing With Fire Spacemen 3, Flying Saucer Attack, and the Silver Apples that makes for a nifty summation of much of the prominent head music of decades past, all a-driftin’ and a-burblin’ and a-floatin’, just like it should. All six tracks are compiled on the 3 Field Rotation CD, and whether you hear ’em here or hear ’em there, try to make sure you set aside the time to hear ’em somewhere before death comes creeping. Is good!
(Warner Bros., 1978)I’m partial to the gritty sweatguitar-funk of Maggot Brain over the whimsical synth-heavy discoisms of late-’70s Funkadelic, so take this unenthusiastic review with whatever size grain of salt you wish. The band included this record as a conceptually-baffling freebie in the One Nation Under a Groove LP, two eight-minute sides that (aside from the dirty, chugging “Lunchmeataphobia”) offer a laid-back, introspective counterpoint to the LP as a whole. First, the lengthy, weepytime guitar-solo insanity of “Maggot Brain” gets revisited in a virtuosic live recording, serving, if nothing else, as a vinyl torch-passer to new-ish Funkadelic guitarist Michael Hampton. Then, after a few minutes of the half-baked “Lunchmeataphobia,” “P.E. Squad/Doo Doo Chasers,” otherwise a boring and unfunny poop joke, pops up as a truncated instrumental – a version that reveals what’s in fact a quite satisfying, slow acid-rock/blues moodpiece that had been obscured by excruciating lyrics on the album proper. Still, nothing here is in any way “revelatory” or exciting, and these songs have all found their proper home, in the CD era, as bonus tracks tacked onto the end of the program, where expectations will be appropriately lowered for newcomers… a standalone 7” EP suggests far more intrigue than this material can deliver.
(Die Stasi, 2007)Happy Presidents’ Day Eve, everybody! Do you have your Prezzy Day tree set up? I sure do, and I’m hoping that upon waking tomorrow I’ll see that the ghost of Thomas Jefferson brought me everything I asked for this year (leather-bound edition of the Federalist Papers, Jimmy Carter action figure, knife). Luckily I didn’t hafta ask Tom for the wunnerful Frustrations 7” that Die Stasi put out in ’07, what with me having already bought it on discount at Academy Records a few months back; as I always say, anything I can do to lighten the sack of a gift-bearing ex-prez, I’ll gladly do. But I betcha, extra weight or no, our badass forefathers would be keen to check these goofs, cuz the Frustrations are twitchy Cleveland-style punk with some overtly psychedelic elements – wordless, echo-heavy chorus on the A, for example – that edge ’em towards early Flaming Lips (circa Oh My Gawd!!) turf, a turf too rarely trod by today’s noisemakers. A manly, xylophone-laced Devo cover (“Freedom of Choice”) and a paranoid horror-show stomper (“Evil Twin”), all of which feature barely-controlled guitar vroom, seal the deal. No sir, my ears wouldn’t kick these guys outta bed, not now and not never.
(Schizophrenic, 2007)Reissue of the 1980 debut from these young Cape Codders. Can’t say that I have any real beef with the tourist set, except when they clog the subway turnstiles, but I guess I can see how there might be some resentment on the Cape when you’re a kid working a lousy service job and getting treated like dirt by some yahoo up from Connecticut. Anyway, the boys in the Freeze score revenge by running dudes off the road and then getting their carnal kicks with all the visiting daughters. Melodic punk with some hup-hey shouting in the choruses; a swell novelty, even if the sound isn’t as tough as one might like. And speaking of “not tough,” the other side, oddly enough, is actually a bubbly, sentimental yet snot-faced new-wave ditty called “Don’t Forget Me Tommy.” No need to be too hard on them for not having their business totally together at this early stage, though, considering the fellas were still in high school at the time. Besides, I have a sub-mediocre album from the early ’90s that boasts plenty o’ cohesion and muscle, but loses the fun and innocent pissy-kicks of this single.
(Paula, 1967)Do you like the caps lock? You do? Good, get ready to LOVE this next sentence! MAY THE LATE JOHN FRED BE FOREVER PRAISED FOR THIS SINGLE, HIS ONE PERFECT CONTRIBUTION TO THE WORLD OF RECORDED SOUND. And really, do records get much better than this unfugginforgettable and totally-outta-nowhere blast of – here, lemme put on my adjective hat – loopy strings, punchy brass, weird moaning, and nonsensical lyrics? Well, I can tell you that I’ve spun a whole lotta spinny-discs in my time and have heard few hits that come anywhere close to matching the nutso joy of “Judy in Disguise”’s randy, out-there soulpop, so my money’s definitely on ‘no.’ Even the backstory on this one’s a hoot, as Fred apparently misheard the lyrics of “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” and was so disappointed upon later learning the actual words that he went off and wrote his own song… which then went on to bump “Hello Goodbye” off the top of the singles chart. Haw! Really not much else to say here; “Judy” is simply one of the best, ballsiest, and brassiest left-field hits of the psych-pop era, and any world in which such a thing becomes a radio fave and continues to get played 40 years later is a world in which I want to breathe air. Lucky guy, me!It’s just too bad that nothing else on the Agnes English LP comes anywhere near the footloose wackiness of “Judy in Disguise” – what we get instead (as on B-side “When the Lights Go Out”) is a blend of Boyce & Hart’s teenyboppery and the psychedelically-informed blues-pop of the Animals’ mid-period. The rest of the record suggests a competent party band that was in a little too far over its head as it tried to change with the times, but for that one song where it all comes together… MAN!!!
(Capitol, 1957)Now, I’m a fun-lovin’ youngster who busts the occasional gut over novelty records both old and new, but this Stan Freberg disc, which exists musically/conceptually somewhere between Weird Al and Culturcide, just does not in any way DO it for me. The targets of Stan’s skull-smashing wit here are those twin, satire-demanding, late-50s devils that were, yep, you GUESSED it… beatniks and TV. So yeah. If a start-stop version of “Banana Boat” featuring a too-chilled bongo player, and a mildly-offensive calypso accent-abuse ditty about the brainlessness of the telly (“Tele-Vee-Shun”) don’t sound quite like your cup of piss, take my word for it that they AREN’T. And I admit that I’m probably being unfair, since 50 years have passed and, sure, maybe this shit was timely as the second-hand back in’57, but heck… that’s neither my fault nor my problem, world of grampses. Look, you: I’ll take my yuks – all several of them – elsewhere.
(Domino, 2006)I watched the Grammys tonight in between trips to the laundromat, and I was both pleased and a little depressed to see my old buddy Paul McCartney performing “I Saw Her Standing There” with a graying Dave Grohl behind him on drums. If Paul had a better sense of humor, it seems like he’d consider changing the word “seventeen” to “seventy” when croaking out that moldy chestnut these days in order to minimize the creepiness of his saggy yappings. Maybe next time; I’ll hold my breath. Still, big congrats, Paul, on getting two nominations for a limited-edition live 12” EP that trickled out via Amoeba Records. I’ll sleep easy knowing that heavy behind-the-scenes, glad-handing lobbying on the part of your label had nothing to do with that. Hey! Franz Ferdinand!Credit where due: This 7” has THREE non-album tracks, and that ain’t hardly bad a’TALL in these days of value-free singles galore. Thanks F. Ferdinand! And believe me now when I accuse YOU of someday in the past or future enjoying the rump-roast out of ONE side of the record, that being side B – the lead track is, sad to say, a worthless Justice remix of “The Fallen” that reduces an otherwise swell F.F. hit to tired, skittery dancefloor dum-dumminess while adding nothing of any musical or ass-shakin’ interest. HARUMPH. Buh buh buh but… newie “L. Wells” on the flip is a treat for sure, a mid-tempo love-fest that bridges the gap between the band’s standard all-out slink-fests and the sentimental slow’uns like “Eleanor Put Your Boots On.” Xylophone, bursts of harmony vox, and an unmistakable sincerity give it the heft it needs in order to achieve buy-me meritoriousness. Next up, “Brown Onions” is a dirty, slightly bluesy instrumental jam that offers a peek at the less-polished side of the group. Whether we need to see that side or not, I dunno, but here it is anyway… AND IT’S FINE ’NUFF.
(Domino, 2005)The first single from Franz Ferdinand’s second record is just the sort of glammy and obnoxious posturing that suits the band perfectly – they pull off the reptilian, hyper-entitled star thing with ease (“Lucky lucky! You’re so lucky!” is the amusing lyrical come-on to prospective groupies), and the music, hooky as ever, features beefier guitar and a groovier rhythm section than the rather streamlined, same-y debut LP. Pop trash as unabashed as it oughta be! “Get Away” is a short, Kinks/Pebbles-esque outtake that cues up the requisite pounding, plinky piano rhythm and la-la-la’s that mark it, yeah, as a formal exercise, but it’s still a fun throwaway that would’ve done its job well enough in the old days as mix-tape filler.
(Domino, 2004)“Take Me Out” was a huge bar-hit back in 2004, and its inescapability that semi-employed summer eventually led me to give in and seek out a physical copy after hearing my thousandth late-night play of the song. Luckily, I had a friend doing grunt work on the floor of the Virgin Megastore in Union Square at the time, so I was soon able to satisfy my curiosity by getting it and a handful of other Franz Ferdinand CD and 7” singles at steep discounts (as was necessary when living on babysitter wages). And while this one, “Matinee,” isn’t quite as towering a pop achievement as the half-Strokesian, half-disco-strut hybrid of “Take Me Out,” it’s yet another example of the band’s rather shocking ability to churn out songs that ALL SOUND LIKE HITS. No joshing: these guys were and are SMART and HOOKY as heck, what with those hi-hat boogie beats and stabby guitars, all wrapped in a crooning, fashion-conscious smarminess that is, I think, a wink-and-sarcasm-spiked update on the Duran Duran pretty-boy model. An excellent record. Absolutely! The B-side, like many of the extras on the early singles, is an alternate version of a song from the debut LP, this time a live recording of the gay-tease fave “Michael” on American radio that doesn’t differ enough from the regular to make it of any real worth. Not bad, however, and fine proof that the group can pull its shit off in concert, for those who care. And yet: the larger tendency towards Franz Ferdinand seems to be dismissal and/or an easy total-ignore due to the obvious chart-whoring and teeny-bop appeal. I’m not of that mind; for the most part, this is a guilty pleasure worth indulging. And if not now, certainly when the inevitable – and inevitably quite OK – best-of comes out. Might as well stay ahead of the curve, I reckon.
(Fierce Panda, 1996)Back now from San Francisco and its gentle homeless hippyisms, and OH do I have wonderful tales to tell, tales of pegged-jeans green-punk bike-riders, and neighborhood-luvin’ chain-store freezeouts, and inclusive party-time swapmeets filled with DIY craft-stuffs! Nyuk nyuk sneer! Good old other coast: you’re so plucky and cute and different from the frozen, unhappy east, what with your progressive weeklies and pedestrian-friendly roadways! But! This east is my east, beardy, and I’ll stick by it til death (which won’t be long now, griff willing!), so let me get to the totally-unrelated record review thingy at last and, like the greatest NY group once said, proudly SHOUT IT OUT LOUD that Formula One is A SHITTY BAND. Electronic Brit-blurp and thriftstore beats mixed with a poppy fuzz-blues – like a really sugary late-period Spiritualized or, horror, Darkside meets Stereolab – is no winning brainpoop, nor is any bio that includes the “ex-Cornershop” descriptor. Not that I’m suggesting I hate Formula One… no! Seriously: it’s hard to get it up quite enough to ever muster such strong feelings for a band so uniformly zzzz.
(Magic Bullet, 2003)I acquired this record as a promo about five years ago, during the period in which I was trying to scare up some cash by writing about music (HA!). Can’t say that I have much nostalgia for those poverty-stricken days of terrible freebies and faked enthusiasm, but this Forensics single, while only getting played perhaps twice over the years, is at least OK enough to have avoided both the garbage can and the resale shop. “Boat Day at the Marina” is heavy and lively aggresso-chug that moves from near-boogie to fist-pump to introspective head-bob to full-on roar, while the B-side is reasonably violent whatever-wave metal with a dollop of mathiness. It’s pissed, it’s taut, it does what it needs to do. Sure, I don’t expect I’ll be digging this record out again anytime soon, but I’ll betcha muscular genre-lunks worldwide could get behind the _____ these cats are ______ing. And maybe that’s a line you’d want to be in?
(Rock is Hell, 2008)We get a much-improved and totally-focused Foot Village on this single, doing its particular thing MORE faster and MORE furiouser and MORE fucked-up’er than ever – dudes are a PCP-crazed drum corp still willing to make room for the pep squad on the chant-based “Chicken N’ Cheese 2,” and happy to inexplicably toss a little Vanilla Ice (“Ninja Rap”) into “Bones.” “Iceland” is a bit more abstract and “free” than I’d like, but everything else here is absolute wall-shaking head-crush. Proves that a buncha drums and screaming are about all you need in order to make a good record. Oh, and for maximum convenience and obtainability, this one’s available exclusively as an Austrian import in a rumored edition of 167.
(Oedipus/Deathbomb Arc/Silencio, 2005)These crazies make the hall of fame for releasing – no shittin’ – the only record to which I’ve ever had an allergic reaction. Foot Village’s World Fantasy 10” came packaged in a large cardboard box, with the vinyl nestled among pine needles, leaves, and various tree-leavings of the naked west. After taking it into my home, I was sneezing and red-eyed for a week, and eventually had to wipe down both the record and the box with a damp paper towel, as they were coated with an air-polluting, pollen-rich film. Lo! I suffered mildly for their art!No such hijinks with this debut 7”, I’m afraid (am I?), but the band does do a fine job, live on the radio, of laying out the freaked aural-splatter and stoned whatsis it’s been pursuing from “go”: Four drummers, a few screamers, and a conceptual framework that involves collecting info on other countries so that the group can eventually form its own. And even if the kit insanity hasn’t quite reached the full-on assault of later album Friendship Nation, there are some ultra-satisfying blasts of percussion and yowl on “Mexico” that made it real clear at release time that future records were gonna be worth a listen. And they have been! Early-days catch-all Fuck the Future includes these three tracks as well as other nascent tub tantrums, and then the intensity leaps for the aforementioned (and scatalogical) Friendship Nation record and triple-12” Pisspounder drum-band collection.
(X!, 2007)Loose garage stoopidity that seems more intent on making with the party-hearty than fellow Michigan travelers Tyvek, due to the inclusion of exciting lead guitar and those yelping dual-vox (though trash-epic “You’re Obscene” betrays a bit of bizarro ambition as it busts into multiple sections and a relatively long run-time). Plopping down a Stooges comparison is a pretty tired trick at this point, yes, but I do think it’s fair to consider these guys a cheerier update on the slam-bang primitivism of early Ig. Along with ultimate-idiot Jersey buddies Liquor Store, Fontana’s doing the style just right, thankya. Great sleeve on this one, and a great title, too.
(Domino, 1997)One more! “Coming Home” is a cover of a band called the Prisoners, done here in a very space-rock fashion, much like the Boston and Philly groups of the late ’90s, and not too far from what Spacemen 3 was up to in the early days. A terrific, repeating guitar part keeps the song in hypnotic head-nod territory while the ultra-basic toms and untreated voice give us a grittier and more human Flying Saucer Attack than we’ve heard in years past. And? Searing guitars and a languid tempo characterize the less satisfying “Hope,” which would exist as semi-aggressive filler on an LP had it been compiled – unlike all other FSA singles, these songs appear nowhere else, so you’d better pony up for this one if you want to walk proud among the Initiated.After this, Pearce would put out one more album – Mirror – and then retire the group name, seemingly for good. As far as I know, there have only been his Clear Horizon collaboration with Jessica Bailiff and VHF’s officially-sanctioned tape-scrounging live/rehearsal CDR (PA Blues) since then. Even if it’s only gonna be further archival whatsit, let’s keep those fingers crossed for more releases in the years to come; FSA’s material didn’t vary too widely, but it was/is consistently satisfying and exhilarating stuff that hangs together awfully well – aesthetically? vision-wise? – as a body of dense, lo-fi, post-psych work. Where you at, Dave Pearce?! COME BACK!
(Planet, 1995)
Funny how little I have to say about a band I like so much; I suppose there’s a finite number of times you can repeat the words “fuzz,” “feedback,” and “distortion” before you start to feel self-conscious about the poor quality of your writing. Lucky dog that I am, though, FSA is in gentle, reverb-soaked Britfolk mode for the lady-sung “Beach Red Lullaby,” so I don’t need to trot out those overused and not-too-helpful descriptions this time around. Haw! “Second Hour” puts us on more familiar, noisy ground, but it picks its way forward at a pace slow enough to make it a suitable companion to the watery space-folk of the A-side. Find ’em both on this obscure edition of 1,300 copies, or take the coward’s way out and nab the Chorus compilation. Jerk.
(Drag City, 1994)
“Land Beyond the Sun” is sort of an FSA love song (lyrically), with the usual reverb, distortion, and rudimentary drumming blasting things off into drugged-out brainspace, though with relatively discernable vocals. The B-side, “Everywhere Was Everything,” takes it even further, going for impenetrably dense, searing waves of guitar that shudder and slither all over each other as the song builds to a lo-fi psych climax. The latter is one of Pearce’s best, I reckon. Listening to these songs, it occurs to me that the genius of these records is that reasonably straightforward tracks are being dressed up – and I don’t consider this gimmickry – with fantastic layers of fuzz that allow you to either focus on or totally ignore the underlying melodic content. And different days bring different preferences, as far as these ears are concerned.
Ah! Special alert for completists! This 7” was released in a variety of sleeves by labels in both England and the USA, and its tracks later got issued in that hot digital format via the import “Outdoor Miner” CD single.
(FSA, 1994)The “Crystal Shade” single – Flying Saucer Attack’s third – takes a mood-/texture-based approach rather than a standard “song”-based one. On the trebly A-side, the rhythm section is more implied than present, and Pearce’s sighing vocals are buried in the distortion-drenched mix, MBV style, creating a track that, for lack of a better word, undulates instead of, uh, rocks. “Distance” is a ghostly, echo-heavy drum loop that gets slowly overwhelmed by buzzing, churning feedback – pleasant, though nothing spectacular. Overall, it’s not as strong a disc as “Soaring High,” but when the songs are woven into the Distance comp, they make for relaxing, zone-out mood-music well-suited to autumn and lengthy bus rides.
(Seed, 1994)
