I don’t remember where I’d been camping. I was thirteen years old, a boy scout. One of my best friends at the time, Greg Angel, was having a birthday party and because of a scout trip I wouldn’t be there. There was a Plimsouls show at Perkins Palace in Pasadena, California. The party bus captained by Greg’s mother would be leaving before I returned. A blowout between me and my parents probably erupted at some point, but my father, ever the peacekeeper, ever the politician, negotiated an early pick-up from the campground and offered to drive me out to the show. I don’t remember many of the details, but I do recall: the pure stoke I felt towards my father as he drove our orange, ’73 Ford Pinto up some L.A. freeway, headlights illuminating the road ahead of us, the seemingly cavernous venue, the sweet stink of marijuana smoke clouding the room, the raw energy of live drums, guitar, and the bass setting the pace of my heart, Peter Case in the flesh, cocked pigeon-toed at the mic belting out the songs I’d sung to myself hundreds of times before, the epiphany of rock and roll. And now these resurrected feelings of youth, stirred to life by this live album from that same tour, ordain my middle-age. Now what? Do it all again, this time with my own kids in tow.
David Bazan
I don’t listen to David Bazan as much as I should. The reason why is pathetic. And definitely one a musician never wants to hear—that you love one album, or maybe just one song, so much that anything else from that artist pales in comparison, according to that person’s narrow, small-minded, myopic point of view. Guilty. My two favorite song’s from Bazan come from his Pedro the Lion album It’s Hard to Find a Friend: “Big Trucks” and “When They Really Get to Know You They Will Run.” I’m enamored by the way those songs sound like snippets from short stories, more narratives than lyrics. And their tempos, their simplicity, and Bazan’s young, quiet earnestness on that first record. I realize this is no excuse and I need to dig deeper into his catalog—especially if I plan on attending one of his upcoming West Coast living room shows (Tickets go on sale today. Only 30 are available for each show). I don’t want to be that chump in the corner only singing along to or requesting older material. I hate those people.
The Cinematics
Imagine the Smiths on Ritalin. The Cinematics play peppy angst-filled post-punk pop—especially on “New Mexico.” They slow it down and gloom it out on “Love & Terror,” building the track around the guitar riff of “Personal Jesus.” The Glasgow band seem happy to reside sonically in that peculiar time period between the ’80s and ’90s. This fits my theory that many sounds of popular music tend to rotate on a twenty year cycle. It matters less when the music emerges; the quality of sound and song reign supreme and regardless of their influences, The Cinematics seem to be settling into their own space on this sophomore release.
The Depreciation Guild
Favorite new song alert! As soon as I heard their new single, “Dream About Me,” I rushed to alert my friend Chet who’s a big fan of Ocean Blue and Prefab Sprout and while he hasn’t reported back yet, I expect to hear that The Depreciation Guild is right up his alley. The band’s sound transports me back to the early nineties, the years Chet and I were in radio together. The band takes the lush, dreamy pop sounds of early 4ad bands and distresses them a bit with fuzzy electronics and gentle reverb. Lots of other folks are taking note as well—they’ve sold out of their new single and Kanine records just reissued their 2007 album. Speaking of friends who’d like this band, I’m surprised our own Clay Calloway didn’t beat me to the punch on this one, especially considering two-thirds of the band also play in The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, one of Clay’s recent crushes he’s gushed about on this site. The moonlighters will be extra busy as both bands head over to play the UK later this month. The band has some Midwest and East Coast dates before then, so if you like what you hear do some homework and catch them live, geography permitting.
The Sky Drops
Sean and I were just trading jabs this week on Facebook regarding MBV comparisons on these pages. So it’s ironic that I’m gonna keep it going.
You gotta love it when a band fulfills its promises. How many times have you heard, “The new album will be out by the end of the year,” only to have it come out two years later or (in the case of MBV, a frequent reference when talking about the Sky Drops) not at all. The Sky Drops promised that despite a medical problem, their full album would be out in 2009, and they did it. Out now, the Sky Drops debut full length Bourgeois Beat, self-released on Fridabear Records, has them further fleshing out their wall of guitars with some mighty catchy hooks, moving from shoegazer fuzz-pop to fuzz-rock. I long ago gave up hope of another MBV album; with Bourgrois Beat filling that space, who needs it now?
From October 13, 2008:
Why didn’t someone tell me? Seriously, I feel like an idiot. My Bloody Valentine played somewhere where I actually live, and I MISSED it! Sure, I saw they were going to play some dates, but did I pay close attention? No. This review almost had me breaking my hand punching my desk. Next time, will someone please email me?
So in my misery, I turned to the Sky Drops for some comfort. These two songs are from last year and show them moving away from their MBV-infuenced shoegaze into their own territory, but the wall of guitar is still the focus. Their debut album, expected earlier this year, has been delayed due to Rob being unable to play the guitar, but they promise us it’ll be out in 2009.
From original post May 24, 2006:
Sean has baited me in the past making this comparison. I swore I would never do it, cause seriously, how can anyone ever approach the genius of Kevin Shields? Then I met the Sky Drops, Rob Montejo and Monika Bullette of Wilmington, Delaware. So when I make a My Bloody Valentine comparison here, I mean it. “Now Would Be” could be the last song on MBV’s Isn’t Anything, and “Green to Red” could have appeared on MBV’s Loveless right in between “When You Sleep” and “I Only Said.” Now, kind reader, a word. Please don’t assume I’m accusing the Sky Drops of plagiarism; au contraire, I’m paying them one of the highest compliments I can. And just think, they make all this racket with a guitar and drums!
Jimmy Ohio
Who says you can’t judge a book by its cover? Basic Black is not only the title of Jimmy Ohio’s first EP, but a fitting description of the raw, bluesy, and timeless rock ‘n’ roll found therein. Last year, the Brooklynite flew back to his one-time home of Detroit and holed up in a former Baptist church for four days with some old pals, Dan Kroha (The Gories, Demolition Doll Rods), Trevor Naud (Zoos of Berlin, PAS/CAL), and Tony Maimone (Pere Ubu). The four songs that emerged each paint heartbreak with a slightly different brush, and offer tastes of what might have come of a longer recording session. From the bristling energy of “Hello and Goodbye” to the delicate reflection of “Quiet Sound” — each track leaves you wanting more. So…when’s the long-player, Jimmy?
The Slew
Leave it to Kid Koala to roust me from my blogging negligence…well, Koala and friends. DJ extraordinaire Kid Koala and indie hip-hop producer Dynomite D had been working on the score to a documentary D’s cousin Jay Rowlands was making about an obscure ’70s psych rock band called The Slew. Known mostly among obsessive record collectors, who pay as much as $1000 for a copy of the band’s only album, Dust Collector, of which there are only 50 copies in existence. The documentary got shelved as enigmatic frontman (didn’t you just know there was an “enigmatic frontman” in this story?) Jack Slew backed out. Koala and D already had already remixed and retooled a lot of The Slew’s material. When Chris Ross and Myles Heskett, the former rhythm section of Wolfmother, heard the tracks, they offered to help perform the tracks live so the music could be heard by more ears. So this fall, they’re taking their show (reportedly involving six turntables) on the road, which is the only place where you can get this soundtrack-to-a-non-existent-movie-featuring-remixes-of-tracks-you’ve-probably-never-heard-before-by-a-band-you’ve-probably-never-heard-of-before, simply titled 100%.
Check Kid Koala’s site for tour dates. (Looks like the closest it’s coming to the Motor City is Chicago…or the Detroit Bar in Costa Mesa).
The Raveonettes
I don’t think I’ve been this excited about demos before. The Raveonettes last album Lust Lust Lust engendered exactly that in my aural cavity. Their fuzzy washes of surf guitars and garage rock immediately balmed the ever-present ringing in my ears and Sharin and Sune still lull me to sleep at night with their addictively sweet melodies. They’re so good that I don’t mind when I awake in the morning wrapped in headphone chord. Dangerous? Yep. Worth it? You bet. The tentatively titled “Last Dance” perfectly captures my fascination with these Danes: from the opening line (which I wish I’d written), “Your lipstick smeared sad,” to the Beach Boys-ish woo-woos in the background, to the theme of the song itself (Sune succinctly explains it: “how drug addiction interferes with love”). My addiction to The Raveonettes hasn’t interfered with my love life, rather with Alisa’s sleep patterns, specifically when the wall of guitars rush in between verses of their track “Hallucinations” and bleed from my ears. It hurts oh so good.
Brian Olive
Since I missed the ’70s and blindly followed the “Proud to be Drug Free” crowd in the ’80s, Brian Olive is filling in the blanks for me. If I fell asleep to this record I’m sure I’d dream myself into New Orleans sometime in the ’70s, chemical high and all. The music is as colorful as the album cover, and sounds like a stack of beatnik, jazz, and psychedelic records melted into one soundtrack to a ’70s brown-hued television show. I think I’m gonna need a brownie.
(by our friend Emily M.)
Son Volt
Oops. Looks like I missed posting anything in the month of May. Ah, how one gets lost. Which I guess is an apt comparison to my relationship with Son Volt. For an album or two in a previous century, Jay Farrar had what I was looking for. Grit, wistfulness, steel guitar. And then there was Wide Swing Tremolo, and I don’t know. When I saw that Son Volt had a new album out an a free and legal MP3 to post, my first though was something along the lines of hoping this track, “Down to the Wire,” was a Neil Young cover. It’s not, but after listening to it a few times, that’s o.k. Maybe American Central Dust, out in about a month, will offer a way back to Son Volt.