This track from Great Bloomers’ forthcoming full length is well worth a listen. The track is called The Young Ones Slept and the new LP has been named Speak of Trouble. It is being released on Maple Music Recordings, a tip of the hat to Canada’s burgeoning music scene. The recording and production of their new material is much more polished, possibly a sign that they have left behind some of the more Pavement-esque song structures that require a calculated measure of unevenness and low fidelity. Of course we will have to wait and see when the record is released in April. If The Young Ones Slept is any indication, we eagerly anticipate another taste of this indie-pop confection.
Walking along Grand Ave in Williamsburg, I spotted a street lamp absolutely covered with advertisements. There, among a what looked like thousands of posts for everything from 4 Men and a Truck to Spanish speaking attorneys, was a paper-bag-brown flyer with a bare bottomed vixen dressed in nothing but boots sitting over the words The Whiskey Go Go’s.
It was an ad for a show at an unknown location with Canadian band Inward Eye on February 18th. I suppose the only reason that I noticed the flyer at all was that I happened to see the Whiskey Go Go’s last week at The Trash Bar. They topped a list of bands that began with the beautiful and extraordinarily talented Cabiria, as well as the remarkably out of place Astronaut Down. The Whiskey Go Go’s are from Melbourne, Australia where they were signed to a major record label before they were dropped to fend for themselves in the most tumultuous of industry climates. This brought them to tour New York City where they are generating interest in their yet to be released record Whiskey Rain. They have fought a number of hardships in their endeavor. The importation of Americana to America from an Australian band is at once suspect; I cannot approve of the term southern-rock to describe this band. Certainly some unknowing person might believe them to be natives of Louisiana, but that only speaks to the worldly prism through which their take on American music is made. For Australian listeners, the love of Bob Dylan and Neil Young, himself a Canadian, cannot be supplanted by the intonations of a couple of upstarts struggling to combat poverty, free agency, and a sound that some have alleged is not their own.
I have resisted the temptation to call out other reviews that parallel Matt Hutchinson’s voice with another band, one that has so utterly disintegrated and removed themselves from the realm of good taste that they are not worth mentioning. To make my own comparison, I would have to say that the Whiskey Go Go’s love David Bowie’s Hunky Dory. While to some, this comparison may be as every bit as insulting as the one I just denounced, let’s be clear, there is no plagiarism at work here folks. Simply said, “Give these guys a fucking record deal!”
While I’ll have plenty of time to review both their debut, Proud Tales to Them of Us, and Whiskey Rain, it would be best at this point to tell all of New York to go see their show. Tonight the Whiskey Go Go’s play again at The Trash Bar and tomorrow, Wednesday March 4th, at Union Pool, also in Williamsburg. The band, particularly Mr. Hutchinson, have an extraordinarily unpolished performance style. His eyes are wide and terrifying, exerting every ounce of his presence toward the audience. The show is full of charming imperfections that belie the uniqueness of this act. I have much more to write in the coming days, meanwhile may I suggest attending their show either today or tomorrow…
Just two days ago on January 27th Peasant’s debut record was again released. Paper Garden Records continues to support this extraordinary artist, accommodating an ever growing fan base spurred by Damien DeRose’s touring and the music’s appearance on the television shows Kyle XY and Bones. He has also recorded live sessions for the impressive Daytrotter on-line music magazine and WOXY. Anyone who questions Mr. DeRose’s ability to translate his recorded material into a real and authentic experience is obligated to listen Peasant’s Daytrotter session. Click here. Peasant is somber, intimate, and melodic—infusing an appreciation of plain spoken poetry and honest emotional truth into music that can best be described as simply beautiful. In many ways I feel vindicated for having such faith in this guy. From the first day I saw him play at a 2007 CMJ loft show, it was clear to me that as long as people had the opportunity to hear him, they would continue to do so.
National Snack
Apply Machine EP
December 8th 2008
Scatty Cat Records
National Snack- Working for the Devil
There is something offensive about a lofi band with fuck-you aesthetics. London based National Snack exudes this ethos unapologetically. Their music is a messy discharge of rock and roll not meant for paradigm friendly genre definitions. Listen people, they are called National Snack—you think they care what you think of them? I am barely able to write a review that doesn’t simply mention that they exist. Not because they aren’t distinct or impressive, but because their music is made entirely on their terms; listen and think of them what you like. National Snack have no problem making sexually solicitous songs. Their guitar is fuzzed over and basic. Loud gristle is the only concern for these mungrel music makers. The band is fronted by singers Gemma Storr and Joe Carlo, both of whom guiltlessly execute their tracks. They aren’t here to induce awe or weigh the heavier philosophical quandaries of life; they want to be loud, energetic, and foul mouthed. Although, “We are the disillusion, too well fed for a revolution” from Self Conscious is a pretty damn good line.
Apply Machine is a mixed bag. The opening track Mischief is all funk-punk energy, but something about it sinks below board. I love all the talk about mouths, but there are times when Joe and Gemma vocals are poorly intertwined. Disjointed, it certainly does not prepare the listener for what is to come. The four tracks that follow Mischief are what make Apply Machine succeed. Had Working for the Devil been a single with three bonus tracks—Self Conscious, My Head Hurts, and This is Not Enough—the release would have been perfect.
From the moment My Head Hurts begins, it is entirely apparent that this band’s idea of a national snack is piss and vinegar. Their angst against life is tempered by self assertive declarations.
“Cause every fucking day, it’s all the fucking same.”
-This is Not Enough
Gemma’s center pieces—Working for the Devil and This is Not Enough—are the glitter of Apply Machine. These tracks are excellent, showcasing National Snack’s best qualities. The EP retires with Rock n Roll, a track full of punchy guitars and clever melodies. Again though, Joe and Gemma’s vocals do not seem to work the way they were intended. Perhaps what alliviates this concern is that while there are thousands of bands that will spit in your face as much as look at you, few show the potential of Gemma and her boys. They are funding the release of their full length by selling space on the back of their record for £10. If it tells you how many of contributions the band needs, and indeed are receiving, to finish their record- you get a magnifying glass with your contribution so that you can amuse yourself at parties by telling other people that you helped develop this British trio’s album art.
Zephuros
The Drowned Coast
August 23, 2008
Unsigned
Over the last month or so, I have been trying to settle my opinions of a lone singer/song-writer from Athens, Ohio named Kevin Meyer, known to the music world as Zephuros. He makes no secret of his man-love for Chicago musician Andrew Bird; and I can’t say there isn’t a sort of apprentice quality to Meyer’s newest release, The Drowned Coast. The album unabashedly revolves around the animal kingdom. Every song lauds the bucolic life of feathered critters among or some other doey-eyed tree or sea dwellers. It is as if Zeph imagines his arranged flutes, clarinets, and strings have the ambiance of Peter and the Wolf. He wanted to produce something intrinsically beautiful. The album is segmented by instrumental movements meant to melodically capture the soft pink shades of sunrise, sunset, and all the waking life in between. This grandeur is only reinforced by comparisons from friendly home media.
“By the impression left by his music, Meyer comes off as the type of person who, despite eye-rolling annoyance from certain friends (read: the articles author), would just feel wrong setting up mouse traps or squashing a bug.
Perhaps what feels wrong above all, however, is that The Drowned Coast‘s seemingly simple acoustic songs about animals can, and at some point probably will, bring listeners to tears. The reason for this is simple: Zephuros’ wildlife lyrics reflect more insight into human nature than those of many young singer-songwriters today.”
Hyperbole permeates every letter of the above review—and I love hyperbole. However, this does a severe disservice to Zephuros’ most attractive attributes. Zephuros doesn’t need another review that explains to the C.S. Lewis reading, coffee house egos why they should listen to him.
This record says very little about human nature.
This record will never make me—or any of you—cry.
The lyrics are interesting, ranging from nondescript platitudes to observational non sequiturs. Seeing a snowflake on a leopard’s spine is an image of novelty; it is one among many that work to create a folksy sense of Earth-as-Art. Oceanic emeralds and tender touches from the brisk breeze exemplify a body of lyrics concerned more with aesthetics than content. But that is the extent of Mr. Meyer’s troubles. If only the rest of us were lucky enough to be flawed only by an absurd obsession with form.
Zephuros’ collection of crystalline melody is near perfect. The orchestration is at once humble and gigantic. The opposing forces of The Drowned Coast underscore Zephuros’ most exceptional quality. He is able to write and arrange with depth and charisma, while maintaining an aura of wonderment and innocent ambition. When I hear this man and his band, I am reminded ofSchroeder, or an unsure, unsteady Nick Drake. The likeness comes not from any obvious influence, but from an underlying spirit of contemplative adventure. All of Zeph’s worth is invested in that spirit—what is unknown and inquisitive to human nature. The Drowned Coast does not reveal anything to us. Rather more descriptively, it comforts our lost and inextricably incomplete sense of self. His words are not experiential, they are observational. Zephuros does not write about wildlife, he writes about the most mundane and beautifully banal humanlife.
The Volunteers
Spectrophilia
October 23rd 2008
Unsigned
The Volunteers- FckMyGhost
It seems as though Volunteers front man Dan Goddard took on a wager. I imagine he boasted, with inebriated mettle, that he could write a song about anything…just name it. In this concocted explanation of mine, a whiskey pickled friend shouted back a reply, one that would truly challenge the stature of Goddard’s authorial prowess… “Ghost fucking; write a song about ghost fucking!” Not one to go back on his word, Goddard took pen to paper and rattled out the little masterpiece FckMyGhost. In usual style, the song is laden with debauchery and the most splendid male chauvinism. In terms of rock ethics, Goddard makes it clear that he fucks even when he is dead. My favorite thing about this band, other than the punchy, expletive laden folk-rock, is their videos. Featuring scantily clad women always wins in my book. I don’t know what is going on between Death and Mr. Goddard, but I know I like that bikini. The Volunteers exude a particular hedonistic aura that will always be appreciated. They embody Dov Charney’s work ethic to a tee.
The Brooklyn band released their newest record Spectrophilia in late October. Topically, the band branches out. They explore the art of political diatribe in Danger Everywhere You Turn and mention their amusing scenester woes in Namedropper, but these sincere moments are sparsely strewn between gravelly expressions of booze adulation. The Volunteers occupy an interesting space between idealized maturity and recklessness. They are a worthwhile slice of New York Americana. I can’t wait for their next video…
Our initial interest in this Brooklyn band comes not so oddly enough from the group’s front man, Emanuel Ayvas. When listening to his earlier works, it is immediately clear that he has a talented imagination and an ear for composition. Ayvas’ juxtaposition of acoustic piano and synthesized layers is always a beautiful thing. Now, playing as Emanuel & the Fear, Ayvas has cut a new demo that incorporates a legion of musicians into the fold. The result is an ultra polished soundscape that deviates slightly from the more barebones approach employed thus far. If Alright (We’re All) is any indication, Emanuel & the Fear now walks the finest line of pop revelry. On the one hand Emanuel’s voice is modulated with the bionic specter of Todd Fink, and on the other the emulsion produced could be easily sampled by the likes of Daft Punk. The song continues his initial project of the acoustic-synth love affair, with flutes and violins layered between ephemeral flourishes, but its production injects a sense of volume and body not present previously. The expansion is fitting considering the futuristic robot uprising the song chronicles. Emanuel sings “We’re All Alright” as an artificially subdued witness to the shocking events around him. It mimics the ideology discussed in THX 1138 (strange how Robert Duval is an ardent McCain supporter). Emanuel & the Fear compose from a creative space that I am extraordinarily fond of. I look forward to hearing what else they have cooked up.
Wax Fang
La La Land
Don’t Panic! Records
October 14, 2008
Wax Fang- World War II (Pt. 2)
It has been erroneously said that Wax Fang’s music is “otherworldly,” perhaps because of their Brian Eno and David Bowie fascination. No tastemaker’s descriptives can challenge the fact that neither Scott Carney’s voice nor the band’s high powered style is alien to our ears. It would not surprise me in the least if I were to turn the radio on while driving on N71 through Southwest Cork only to find Wax Fang blaring through the speakers. Carney has an imposing voice that is oddly reminiscent of a masculine Marianne Faithful. The music is a saturation of Irish invasion 70’s guitar driven rock, produced with the energy of the Pogues’ pummeling punk. The only reason I even dare to compare these magnificent musicians to anyone at all is because I have yet to read a satisfying description of the band that does not resort to non sequitur comparisons or to the false, though flattering suggestion that what they offer has never been offered before.
La La Land has the grandiosity of a carnival’s main event. Carney’s voice belts like a ring leader’s supplication to a timid crowd waiting to be brought to life by the theatrics of the Big Top. Wax Fang certainly do not lack originality, but their open display of influence is important when gaging who would or would not enjoy their music. One cannot claim Wax Fang to be a carbon copy of anything. They cleverly assemble their music on a foundation of hyper melodic power riffs and drum-line snare pops. The tired and tiring genre of indie-pop lacks Wax Fang’s controlled brashness. While keeping almost entirely away from the schizophrenia of bands like Animal Collective or The Annuals, Wax Fang exudes a vociferousness that is on par with any of indie rock’s more raucous acts. The defining aspect between Wax Fang and others would be that their brashness is contained; it is structured and constrained by their melody’s affinity for stability. The band never strives to make noise or involve themselves in cacophonous tangents that some might consider excessive, while other more discerning listeners might understand to be an unwillingness to take risks.
La La Land is a record worth the buzz that it has received. This Kentucky trio is destined to become one of the great pub rock bands of our time. If they live up to their destiny, we will soon be hearing Carney’s bravado as we down pints of Guinness. It strikes me as odd that the band does not consider their sound to be rooted abroad. I am excited to see the theatrics. When they visit NYC again I’ll certainly be there to watch the circus live. Wax Fang’s explosive energy is highly addictive. They are fist-in-the-air, scream-out-loud melody mongers whose force is focused and unapologetically deliberate. As a side note, drummer Kevin Ratterman comes to Wax Fang from his previous band Elliot, whose short lived career was extraordinarily influential to the indie scene. We are glad to know that life after Elliot can be so good.
Oh My God
Fools Want Noise
October 14th 2008
Split Red Records
Oh My God- Facewash
Oh My God- Houston
While I have loved many bands over the years, there have only been few that I really give a shit about. Would you believe it, Chicago’s Oh My God is one of them. I first met Bish, Ig, and Billy many, many years ago when they played Duffy’s Tavern back in Nebraska. I had seen them a few times prior and was very impressed with their performance. My sister also happened to be in town from Chicago and I wanted to take her to a great show at my favorite dingy bar. They did not disappoint.
Rumors circulated that there would be an afterhours party with the band. Memory from that night being hazy, I can’t exactly remember how I scored the address, but I later found myself with my sister and a friend parked in a gravel lot outside a big house in the country. There didn’t seem to be anyone around and our first instinct was to scram, but the van was there and I was determined to meet these freakishly performative people. I don’t remember much about the night save the phrase “flying fish farm”, a bottle of Makers Mark, absolutely delicious vegan lasagna, Ig’s massive hair, and the extremely kind company of Ig and Billy as we sat around a living room table discussing who knows what. My sister, my friend, and I were thrilled to have imposed on their late night festivity.
Later, when booking a show at a venue in Lincoln named Knickerbockers, I learned that Oh My God was on tour again and that my band was to open for them. This had my gut in knots. There was certainly no way we were going to compare. But we suffered through it, knowing what was to take place on the same stage only moments after our breakdown. It was a blissful evening, regardless of the sad circumstance of less than capacity attendance. Eventually I moved to Chicago where I saw them at the Double Door for their tour’s homecoming. This time I brought my cousin and a few friends. They were equally impressed with the band’s visceral performance.
Oh My God is aggressively eccentric. You haven’t ever seen a scissor kick until you’ve seen Billy fling his body around the stage. To give you any idea of their antics, Billy often begins shows dressed as a clown or plays the show in a kimono, or a clown in a kimono. As the show progresses he loses an article of clothing here and there, until he ends up in his skivvies, sweat run makeup, and a white tee-shirt that has some handwritten social critique such as “legalize prostitution” printed across the chest.
I always liked Oh My God’s combination of instruments. Their songs are structured around the drums, bass, and organ. The drums are often schizophrenic, the bass is distorted and fuzzed to excess, and the organ is tweaked beyond recognition. Since those days in Chicago and Nebraska, they have added guitar to the amalgamation. Tragically, while on the road in Ohio during a recent tour in 2007, a car collided with their van head on. Every member received terrible injuries. Billy shattered a kneecap, cracked a few vertebrae, and broke three ribs. Bish broke his left wrist and Ig broke his right. Matt, playing guitar on tour, broke his tibia, nose, and thumb. To be honest, I thought the band was through. It is extremely difficult to tour year in and out, record after record, only to be forced to postpone an upcoming record release and take a year off for physical therapy, psychologically to start again. I can only imagine the difficulties they encountered. I wished them the best in a dire situation.
So imagine my surprise when Frederick Foxtrott received a copy of their new record for review. The triumph of this band only underscores their tenacity and energy. While I have always said that Oh My God’s live show never quite translates onto plastic, their newest effort Fools Want Noise comes closest to capturing the frenetic display on stage, although I will always have a place in my heart for Interrogations & Confessions. New to the band are drummer Dathan DeVore and guitarist Anthony Gravino. While I have not witnessed Oh My God play in their current incarnation, I assume they will have all the excess that my memory reports.
Fools Want Noise continues Oh My God’s irreverent tradition. Billy’s voice is steeped in rhythm and blues, imbuing the rugged bass lines and industrial organ with hooks and catchy phrases that snare even the most indifferent of listeners. The melodies were forged in a popcentric factory. Oh My God is a candy coated cog. Though this combination makes for an unlikely surfacing into the mainstream, make no mistake, Fools Want Noise is infectious. Oh My God is an indulgent, intense and socially seditious band.
Every track on this record attracts the listener as much as it challenges them. Billy exudes a libertine persona that shuns social standards with confrontational words. They don’t keep safe any particular agenda; they prescribe an abandonment of all extremes, all the while shanking the status quo. Even in some of their contradiction the band seeks beauty. Billy’s soliciting eyebrows and cocky form sing songs about failure, vulnerability, and tragic love. Oh My God’s words are provocative in that they judge against judgment, while at the same time projecting themselves as iconoclasts seeking to deliberately break from the cagey grip of modern expectations. This allows some of the more saccharine elements of Oh My God’s music to be enjoyed in an abnormal context instead from the inhibiting and trite perspective of the masses.
Other Music
Oh My God EP- 2000
Action!- 2002
Interrogations & Confessions- 2003
You’re Too Straight to Love Me- 2004
Tour
Sept 18, 2008 Founders Brewery Grand Rapids, MI
Sept 19, 2008 The Loading Dock Traverse City, MI
Sept 20, 2008 DIY Street Fair Ferndale, MI
Sept 20, 2008 The Belmont Hamtramck, MI
Sept 25, 2008 Midpoint Music Cincinnati, OH
Sept 26, 2008 (Scene) Metrospace Lansing, MI
Sept 26, 2008 Mac’s Bar Lansing, MI
Sept 27, 2008 Beauty & the Beat Flint, MI
Sept 28, 2008 Allegheny College Meadville, PA
Sept 29, 2008 Smog @ Bard Annondale On Hudson, NY
Sept 30, 2008 Daniel Street Club Milford, CT
Oct 01, 2008 Pianos York, NY
Oct 02, 2008 Mohawk Place Buffalo, NY
Oct 03, 2008 Casa Cantina Athens, OH
Oct 04, 2008 Howard’s Club H Bowling Green, OH
Oct 10, 2008 Doug’s Rockhouse Aurora, IL
Oct 11, 2008 Subterranean Chicago, IL
Oct 16, 2008 The House Dekalb, IL
Oct 17, 2008 Triple Rock Minneapolis, MN
Oct 18, 2008 Cactus Club Milwaukee, WI
Oct 23, 2008 Cowboy Monkey Champaign, IL
Oct 24, 2008 Bluebird St. Louis, MO
Oct 25, 2008 Record Bar Kansas City, MO
Oct 26, 2008 Duffy’s Lincoln, NE
Oct 27, TBA Pittsburg, KS
Oct 28, 2008 Hailey’s Denton, TX
Oct 29, 2008 Beerland Austin, TX
Oct 30, 2008 TBA Paso, TX
Oct 31, 2008 Hotel Congress Tucson, AZ
Nov 01, 2008 Modified Arts Phoenix, AZ
Nov 02, 2008 The Mint Los Angeles, CA
Nov 03, 2008 Bottom of the Hill San Francisco, CA
Nov 05, 2008 TBA Rapid City, SD
Nov 06, 2008 Nutty’s North Sioux Falls, SD
Nov 07, 2008 Maya Jane’s Vermillion, SD
Nov 08, 2008 Maintenance Shop Ames, IA
Head of Femur head back out on the road, possibly giving their last performances of the “season.” Although, I have a feeling that come late summer there will be plenty of clamor for them to get their asses into a van and drive eastward. In fact, let that clamoring begin right now!
May 15th- Minneapolis, MN @ The Uptown *
May 16th- Chicago, IL @ Schuba’s *
May 17th- Dubuque, IA @ Busted Lift *
May 18th- Iowa City, IA @ Iowa City Yacht Club *
May 20th- Lincoln, NE @ Box Awesome *
May 21th- Omaha, NE @ The Waiting Room *
May 24th- Kansas City, MO @ The Brick
May 25th- Des Moines, IA @ Vaudeville Mews
* with The Heavenly States & Poison Control Center
