Culturespill » 2010 » December

Meet Lloyd’s Garage, “the antidote to Autotune”

20th December

banner1.jpg

Lloyd’s Garage is what happens when Adam Duritz rides a time machine back to 1973 to lay down some tracks for Neil Young’s Tonight’s the Night. It’s what happens when R.L. Burnside lunges out of his grave to cut a postmortem record with Pearl Jam. It’s Steve Earle jamming in his living room with Jimmy Page as Chris Robinson shows up at the door with a new song scribbled on his palm. And if Seth Heitzmann is to be believed, Lloyd’s Garage aims to be the “WTF?” inside the text cloud that blooms in the brains of people who go to Richard Thompson shows and hear that 60-something guitar god drop acoustic covers of tracks like Brittney’s Spears’s “Ooops! I Did it again.”

“You hear people say, ‘That song sucks.’ But usually it’s not the song that sucks. It’s the producer that decided to treat the song like a 6-year-old beauty contestant,” Heitzmann says as he explains the reasoning behind his cover of “California Gurls” by–(cough)–Katy Perry. “The frustration comes from sensing that there is something beautiful in there, but it’s been covered in goop by some bozo with bad taste. Well, we’ve done our best to strip away the bad taste to give you a chance to hear “California Gurls” performed by actual human beings.”

On the “California Gurls” cover and just about any Lloyd’s Garage song you can find, Heitzmann’s vocals indulge the warbling vulnerability of a Counting Crows ballad (think “Goodnight Elizabeth“) laced with a bruising, stripped-nude and rootsy brand of rock ‘n roll. And with drummer Lloyd Lewelyn hammering out his unending homage to John Bonahm on track after track, this San Francisco duo’s songs swing by like bloody fists in an old-fashioned ass-kicking contest. That appears to be the point, after all–to beat the shit out of bad taste, one song at a time.  And if that is indeed the objective behind Lloyd’s Garage, then consider bad taste as Rocky Balboa begging Mick to cut a slit in his swollen eyelid so he can see what he’s swinging at. The only difference is that in this version of the movie, Rocky is pronounced D.O.A. at the hospital.

“With Autotune, it seems like the transition from music to noise is nearly complete,” Heitzmann laments. “We can now take all of the humanity out of a voice. WTF is going on?”

The band says that the video for their Katy Perry cover–which really is less a cover than it is an ambulance summoned to rescue the song from its fake plastic jailers at Capitol Records–is storming the internet like a wind-swept fire threatening the mansions of Malibu. But even if the video hasn’t quite done all that just yet, one thing is almost certain: you will watch it more than once, and you may even hear it sneak through the backdoor of your mind as you’re slurping down another low-budget lunch of Ramen and Fritos in your cubicle tomorrow. Check it out; I dare you to prove me wrong:

Gianmarc Manzione
gmanzione@culturespill.com

Best Albums of 2010 Series: “Le Noise,” Neil Young

19th December

 

neilyoung_1000_nn_0011.jpg

No matter how many “Best Albums of 2010″ lists you read on the web this month, somehow you just can’t shake the feeling that you’re reading the same one over and over again. There’s a pretty good reason for that: You are, and it’s sad. Most lists read like they were composed by a cadre of 20-something Vampire Weekend roadies who crowded the local wheat grass bar and nursed their flax and spirulina smoothies as they chattered in passing about music. In most cases the albums they discuss reflect only a narrow sliver of the year’s creative bounty. And almost invariably, they acknowledge only bands that are at least as young if not younger than they are, bands they overheard fellow pseudo hipsters praising over Venti Spelnda-sweetened extra dry skim-milk Americanos, or bands whose music sounds like somebody just blasted three pterodactyls out of the sky all at once with a thousand-pound nail gun.

That’s one of many reasons why Neil Young’s Le Noise is both right for the cultural moment in which it was released and why, pitted against so many of the year’s lesser but lauded records, it smacks of a creative desperation that in eight brief tracks obliterates the pervading cynicism and emotional catatonia of the “indie only” crowd that has ignored it. These songs were all recorded in one or two takes so as not to dilute the immediacy of the creative impulse from which they emerged, and that Young has managed at age 65 and after countless records to do something he has never done before–a solo electric album–is a testament to the restlessness of his muse and to his enduring standing as one of rock ‘n roll’s genuine mavericks.

Young has been crucified for that very “restlessness” over the past decade, as uneven and therefore characteristically fascinating releases like Are You Passionate, Greendale or Fork in the Road earned a reception which, like Le Noise, exposes even his most longstanding fans as crybabies who hold him personally responsible for the fact that it’s not 1972 anymore.  Even the most casual glance at customer reviews of Le Noise on Amazon.com reveals a host of whiners crying that it doesn’t sound enough like something they heard when they were 12 and their mothers still sported beehive hairdos.  It’s not enough like On the Beach, or it doesn’t sound like Harvest, or it isn’t the same as Rust Never Sleeps. They don’t hear a “Pocahontas” or a “Cortez the Killer.” Many of these complaints begin with “I’m the biggest Neil Young fan in the world, but . . .”

And that’s just it: How on earth any self-proclaimed “fan” of Neil Young cannot exalt in the rich and anthemic riffs that open “Sign of Love” or “Angry World” on this album is utterly mystifying (to say nothing of the fact that the two acoustic offerings on this record, “Peaceful Valley Boulevard” and “Love and War,” are among the most stirring acoustic songs the man has done since the days of “Pardon My Heart” or “Look out for My Love“). If anything, these “fans” are the sort who mistake art for an anodyne, who think music should always palliate and never challenge, who bristle at authenticity because it doesn’t croon the lullaby that plays in the background of their nostalgic fantasies of long-gone days.

Dylan put together a documentary called Don’t Look Back in 1965 as he fumed across the world on a tour that saw fans shout “Judas!” because he wouldn’t play the monkey to their organ grinder, pounding them with “Leopardskin Pillbox Hat” when they paid to hear him sing “Blowin’ in the Wind” all night long. Le Noise is the latest evidence that Neil Young took the man’s advice. Fans endowed with the courage to look forward with him will hear in Le Noise the work of a creative spirit as much at war with itself today as it was when he was just the kid who played guitar for Buffalo Springfield.

Daniel Lanois’s presence on the project could have been an unadulterated disaster because Neil Young’ s music is a dish best served raw, and Lanois’s brand of voodoo atmospherics is anything but undercooked. But it turns out that it was Lanois’s idea to amp up the acoustic album Neil intended to record and turn it into a solo electric set instead. There are times when Lanois just can’t help himself, as he drags out the opening stunner “Walk With Me” with what seems like an eternity of aimless reverb and distortion that serves no purpose other than to lengthen an album that otherwise might have lasted no longer than a drink of water. But elsewhere he is pleased to step back from the songs and let the rage of “Old Black” have the floor.

The first six tracks here–from the primal, Rust-era grunge of “Walk With Me” and “Angry World” to the lonely reverbarations of Neil’s acoustic guitar on the desolate “Peaceful Valley Boulevard”–blaze with a creative fury that is at once disquieting and restorative. “Hitchhiker” and “Rumblin'” add nothing to what is achieved in the songs that precede them but it is at least nice to finally hear an official version of “Hitchhiker,” even if it falls well short of the majesty of the live acoustic version fans have come to know and love.

You won’t find Le Noise on the “Best of 2010″ list over at (enter favorite smarmy indie music blog here), but you will find it on the minds of music lovers a generation from now while so many fly-by-night bands currently enjoying a loving spotlight dwindle into the dusk of their momentary celebrity.The material on Le Noise boasts the strength, urgency and variety of Young’s finest records, and when the smoke of its mixed reception clears, it may well be ranked in that company.

Click here for Neil Young’s FB page

Gianmarc Manzione
gmanzione@culturespill.com

R.I.P. CAPTAIN BEEFHEART

17th December

captainbeefheart.jpg
1941-2010

If you find yourself browsing a site like this one on a Friday night, chances are you know by now that Captain Beefheart is dead, finally released from the horror of a prolonged battle with multiple sclerosis. Chances are also good that you’ve come across one of the many slapped-together obits crowding the web tonight, where you learned that Beefheart was frienemies with Frank Zappa and influenced Tom Waits. How boring. In most cases the people who wrote them know that because they read it on Wikipedia five minutes beforehand or borrowed from some one else’s blog post. It appears that that is largely the way Beefheart will be remembered–as the guy who struck a War-of-The-Roses kindship with Frank Zappa in the Mojave Desert and whelped a strangeling called Tom Waits.

But to confine the man’s influence on rock ‘n roll merely to his own era is to dishonor him. Listen to Joan Osborne’s “Right Hand Man” from her 1995 album Relish and you will hear the exact replica of the riff from Beefheart’s early 1970s gem “Clear Spot.” Listen to P.J. Harvey’s “I Think I’m A Mother” from her seminal LP To Bring You My Love and you will hear a half-sleeping and fiendish take on Beefeart’s “Dropout Boogie” from his uproarious debut with the Magic Band, Safe as Milk–perhaps the first “punk” record to ever hit the streets. It is no accident that “Right Hand Man” is likely the finest few minutes Joan Osborne has ever committed to tape, that the record on which Harvey paid her peculiar homage to the man is in all likelihood the one she’ll always be remembered for, that these disciples found inspiration in his work more than a decade after he left it in the dust following 1982’s swan song Ice Cream for Crow, almost never to be heard from again (Well, he did sing Happy Birthday to the Earth over the telephone for a benefit album produced by an environmental law firm in 2003).

No other group at the time even approximated the sounds that Beefheart and his band of crazies explored on Safe as Milk in 1967. Not the snotty riff that bites the pin off the grenade of “Plastic Factory” as Beefheart bathes it in some of the filthiest electric mouth harp you’ll hear this side of Little Walter, not the sweating acid trip that is “Zig Zag Wandeerer” or “Abba Zabba Zoom,” not those wickedly psychedelic licks of slide guitar that open the album on “Sure ‘Nuff ‘N Yes I Do.” Beefheart would never again cut a record as simultaneously accessible and defiant as Safe as Milk, and he would struggle to sell his brand of madcap fusion to consumers and critics alike over the years. But that’s how it is when you’re brilliant enough that your sculptures get featured on a TV show when you’re four years old and you earn a six-year full scholarship to study marble sculpture in Europe at age 13.

1969’s Trout Mask Replica is as famous today for nearly cracking the top 50 on Rolling Stone’s 2003 list of the 500 greatest albums of all time as it is for being gloriously unlistenable. It’s no starting place for novices but it’s a nightmare to savor over and over again when you’re ready to handle it.  A host of more accessible gems followed, some boasting song titles that make Ween albums sound like nursery rhymes–“Making Love to a Vampire with a Monkey on My Knee,” “I Wanna Find A Woman That’ll Hold My Big Toe ‘Til I Have to Go,” “Lick My Decals off, Baby,” “I’m Gonna Booglarize You Baby.”The Holy Grail of Beefheart’s oeuvre, though, is his Lick My Decals Off, Baby album of 1970, a record that saw a reissue in the early 1990s that flickered in and out of existence like a lit match flaming out in the rain and posts an asking price upwards of $100 on amazon.com. If you’ve got the dough, it’s worth every damned penny.

Beefheart’s final decades after lifting his middle finger to the music industry for good found him tending to the sculpture and painting with which his creative impulse began. Rumors of his impending demise swirled for years in the same way that rumors of Syd Barrett’s life after Floyd took on the credibility of whispers passed between school kids in an old fashioned game of telephone. But today, sadly, the most recent rumor turns out to be true, as Don Van Vliet, otherwise known as Captain Beefheart, took his permanent leave. Here’s a taste of some of the magic he left behind . . .

 

Best Albums of 2010 Series: “Warm Slime,” Thee Oh Sees

16th December

 

theeohsees.jpg

If Thee Oh Sees were a dorm room, it would be half-a-foot deep in paper plates stained with pizza grease and have a kitchen sink so bloated with the foul and crusted silverware of meals long past that it belches at you when you pass by. It also would likely reek of some unmentionable mixture of urine, unclean dogs and neglected laundry. And we may need to toss in a few condom wrappers thrown to the floor, walls yellowing with stains of bong smoke, and perhaps a stash of happy mushrooms hidden somewhere under the bunk.

Welcome, my friends, to the music of Thee Oh Sees.

This rioting pack of garage-psych brats hails from San Francisco, and they’re hell-bent on simultaneously resurrecting and razing the cultural stomping ground once lorded over by acts like The Sonics, The Electric Prunes, The Count Five and The Trashmen. The ‘60s script these kids read from is one they’ve studied hard and know by rote, even down to their propensity for cutting a new record every eight minutes or so (six LPs in the past three years alone, and a record in Warm Slime which they claim to have recorded in a single day).

The Kinks released three new albums in 1965 alone, and The Rolling Stones, not to be out done, released four new albums of their own that year as young bands scrambled to stuff the insatiable maws of slave-drivers back at the ranch of one big label or another. Thee Oh Sees don’t even have a distributor, no less a big-label slave-driver, but their Wikipedia discography reveals an extended rap sheet of LPs, EPs, 7-inch releases and the revolving door of labels they’ve thrown them to.

To top it all off, John Dwyer, the epicenter of this calamity who seems only to have gathered a band around him as an afterthought, has paraded through seven prior bands before arriving at the one he’s with. And even then he can’t seem to settle on a name.

“From the OCS to the OhSees to Thee Oh Sees, John Dwyer . . . has molted band names like some rare endangered bird determined to shake off pursuers,” Jayson Greene of Pitchfork remarks.

No wonder their video for “Meat Step Lively” from 2009’s Help seems to serve the sole purpose of inducing an epileptic seizure.

But in Warm Slime Thee Oh Sees have the record The Black Keys and White Stripes thought they’d been making all these years but were never unhinged enough to deliver. The record is an unrelenting siege of distortion, reverb and rage filtered through the sieve of the long-gone garage gods they worship in song. “I Was Denied” is a glorious romp that laces Sir Douglas Quintet’s “She’s About a Mover” with a few tabs of acid and sends it on its exceedingly merry way. The turbulent “Castiatic Tackle” amps up The Cramps’ “Goo Goo Muck” to a decipel even those godfathers of psychobilly didn’t know they had in them. And the title track clocks in at nearly 14 minutes of blistering abandon that will leave you panting for more.

These guys’ fingers may be dirty with the dust of your grandma’s vinyl collection, but with records like Help and Dog Poison in 2009 and now Warm Slime this past May, they leave absolutely no doubt whatsoever that this most certainly is not your grandma’s rock ‘n roll.

Gianmarc Manzione
gmanzione@culturespill.com