Thursday, July 23, 2009

Songs of the Void



It's summer. Like the young music freak that I am, I'm staying inside all night wigging out over drone-doom metal band Sunn O))) while every other 20-something-year-old in the city is out frolicking till dawn starts to creep through the sky. Here are some nonsense phrases that floated through my skull whilst on the adventure into the void that is their newest slab of tunes, Monoliths & Dimensions (Southern Lord).

"Ringwraith lullabies"
"the soundtrack to the formation of the earth"
"nightmare-wrapped dreams"
"aurora borealis in slow motion"

"+the cosmos"
"descending into the Nothing"
"music that beards and trees like to grow to"
"what was playing on loop inside Nico's head."
"frozen brain"
"long shadows"
"medieval prom music"
"building a castle out of black bricks on Venus"
"Satan's doorbell"
"WWLBD?"

Catch them August 8th at the Independent.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Iron Maiden: Flight 666

One of the last movies I snagged from Netflix before I put my account on hold to save money was Iron Maiden: Flight 666, and I think it changed my life. Since I first laid ears on Maiden in high school (first song heard: "Revelations"), I've only become increasingly possessed by their music as the years have unfolded. Not to mention that I will forever rue the day I chose to not see Maiden in Concord, CA in May 2008 so I could buy tickets to Judas Priest & Motorhead!!!

The unadulterated passion dripping from every note (and the sheer heights they reach with their musical virtuosity) boggles my mind each time I listen to any of their songs, from "The Prisoner", to "Infinite Dreams", to "The Clairvoyant", to "Transylvania", to "Where Eagles Dare", to "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" to "Powerslave" and on and on and on--and their music has more universal meaning to people than almost anyone to come before them besides like, Bob Dylan. Each song is so vastly conceived and executed that it seems wrong not to go absolutely batshit crazy when any of their songs come on, whether you're stone-cold sober or sipping on midnight soda.

I don't want to give any precious detail away (EXCEPT THAT SINGER BRUCE DICKINSON IS THE PILOT OF THEIR JUMBO JET ED FORCE ONE!), but let me just say this: seeing these six regular dudes from working-class England rip, shred and plunder every night on stage--when they're all well into their 50s--and the way the tens of thousands of hopelessly rabid fans from all across the globe (who are often reduced to tears after their shows are over, grown men and all) who come each night to experience them nearly brought tears to my little eyes. It's too much. Long Live Maiden.









Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Top Ten: Bad Brains




H.R. AIRBORNE!

1. I, Bad Brains, 1982
2. Re-Ignition, I Against I, 1986
3. Right Brigade, Bad Brains, 1982
4. Riot Squad, Rock for Light, 1983
5. Fearless Vampire Killers, Bad Brains, 1982
6. Rock For Light, Rock for Light, 1983
7. Don't Need It, Bad Brains, 1982
8. How Low Can a Punk Get?, I & I Survived, 2002
9. Big Takeover, Bad Brains, 1982
10. Secret 77, I Against I, 1986

This post is in commemoration of this fact: I just learned this morning that Bad Brains is playing two nights at Slim's on September 15 & 16. Coupled with Motorhead in October, I might just blow my brains out in a fit of excitement. Waiting for two of the most brutal bands on the planet to descend upon our city is gonna be so, so hard. Can't I just be cryogenically frozen for two months instead?

Monday, July 20, 2009

The New Nexus of My Universe

is the Woodsist label. The future-gazing folks behind the scenes there really have their eyes on the prize right now, putting out avalanches of saliva-inducing releases by artists such as Ganglians, Woods, Psychedelic Horseshit, Wavves, the aforementioned Kurt Vile, Blank Dogs, Sun Araw and Magic Lantern, to name a few. The whole of the lot spray their quirks all over their music, an amalgam of mega lo-fi art rock that swing a pendulum from artful sludge riddled with ennui to epically unbridled fountains of frothy sonic glee.

But let's pause at Ganglians for just a minute:

"Hair"


"Never Mind"


I'm addicted to their bullets of psych folk rock. These bearded Sacramento freaks are really on a roll right now, having just released an LP and EP simultaneously to much positive press. There's a spontaneity to their music, found in their absurdist use of bizarre sound effects and all-over-the-map group vocal acrobatics, that really turns my brain on--and I still only have their self-titled EP. Next up is Monster Head Room, their other Woodsist bag of tricks I can't wait to put into my ears--an adventure surely to be documented on these pages. Look for them onstage as well, grinding with Frisco's own Hospitals at Amnesia.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Mail Time Mail Time Mail Time

Look what arrived in the mail today:



One of my first-ever blog posts described Mayyors briefly after seeing them for the first time by accident at the Eagle Tavern last year. The Sacramento band eschews any and all internet presence, except for releasing some of their singles (one of which I was lucky enough to score at said show) through their distro, Mt. St. Mtn., which sell out immediately because they usually only press like, 200 copies. It's difficult for me to encapsulate their sound. My mind wanders over terms like psycho-garage, psychedelic two-step, psych-thrash punk, demonic psych-punk. It's all of these things (their almost avant-garde use of feedback and distortion their gold star): demonic-psycho-garage-thrash-punk.

They rarely play shows because their members are off being cool engineering albums for fellow musicians around the Bay Area, but when they do play, watch the fuck out. People go absolutely apeshit for Mayyors as soon as they plug in, crushing eachother in their reverie. The singer John Pritchard wears noise-cancelling earmuffs, drools on himself and often gets pinned against the stage along with the rest of the poor souls in the front of the roiling trough of human bodies, croaking out the lyrics while trying to wriggle himself free. And now, BEHOLD THE NEW MAYYORS 12-INCH, DEADS.

The record itself is unlabeled, austere and enigmatic as the band itself, like the obelisk from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The ominous, reverbed clanging began the instant I set the needle down, then quickly unfolded into a balls-out maniacal boogie, Pritchard's voice sneering nonsensically amidst the sound effects and earth-shaking bass. Chris Woodhouse's guitar (along with an entire table of pedals) wastes no time reaching heights of shrill insanity, but just as soon as they lock into a sharp grind, the next track takes over (remember, ain't no song names or Sides A or B on this thing). This one seethes with aggressive, murky feedback, all other sounds fiercely competing to bubble up from the sonic oblivion the bass and drums have laid down.

The third track has that chugging, eardrum-invading bass that's a hallmark of their best songs, the shrieks and angry chirps of Pritchard galloping along with the rest of the bandmates. The fourth and last track, finds Pritchard absolutely wailing, his head probably reared back with his eyes rolled deep into his skull.

These guys are the force to be reckoned with right now in the Bay Area, and I'll fight anyone who begs to differ.


(please ignore the content of the video. just listen to the song and let the world around you melt away.)

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Love & (The Summer of) Hate

Is it ever okay to not know why you like or don't like something? Whenever I ask someone why they don't like something--be it music, art or even food--and they reply with "I dunno", I get impatient with them. I ask, "But. . . .why? WHY don't you like it?? Tell me!" It's like hitting a wall (the worst kind!), and some people just can't or won't respond any other way.

Saying "I dunno" is a cop out most of the time and I just can't get behind it. But lately I've been hitting the "I don't know" wall myself, thanks to the Crocodiles, who are living in a media maelstrom right now. Write ups in every magazine and blog under the sun compare them to Jesus & Mary Chain or Echo & the Bunnymen, mere 80s synth-pop/shoegaze worshippers who've lifted a sound so entirely that they can't even be taken seriously in elite circles. Yet their debut album, Summer of Hate (Fat Possum), has been on almost-constant repeat since I picked it up and I can't decide whether or not to be ashamed of that, because I don't know WHY I like it.



Maybe it's just the inherent and brazen self-indulgence of their hip credo that I identify with, and God knows I'm a sucker for gratuitous, ear-piercing feedback, buzzy, fuzzy overkill and claustrophobic distortion. In their catchy single "I Wanna Kill", the chorus drones "I want to kill tonight/I want to kill tonight" at length--a sentiment I can't deny sharing. Maybe I just need any chance for a bedroom dance-a-thon, especially on those San Francisco "summer" days when it's 55 degrees and cloudy.

"Here Comes the Sky" could actually be termed beautiful. It's a lovelorn surf ballad made hazy by sunstroke and maybe too many hallucinogens, a nod to the Beach Boys with their inside-out, arpeggio-ed finger picking and boyish vocals. "Refuse Angels", the most furious of the bunch, contains the bubblegum sneers of bandmates Charles Rowell and Brandon Welchez, mention of Leon Trotsky and the pulsation of tumbling bad-acid-trip synths careening at an almost-out-of-control 100 mph.

As the album's sinewy, saccharine aftertaste becomes more deeply embedded in my sun-starved brain, I've suffered the bitter realization that the album's dark, menacing sound and labrynthine mazes of Tremoloed distortion are what cloaks its true colors--meticulously crafted pop songs (the enemy? This will be explored later). I can forgive the Crocodiles for this clever feat of illusion now, but in a year I might be throwing this album in the trash as the high reaches of the "I don't know" wall begin to crumble. Or I might've purchased it on vinyl by then.

They arrive at the Rickshaw Stop this August and these ears, eyes and legs will put them to the truest test.

A taste:



Friday, July 10, 2009

Ripping Up Old Things and Putting Them Back Together Again

One local band that is dancing in my spotlight right now is Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound. Picture this: a stoned quartet jamming on day dreams and sound waves both shadowy and sun-bleached that twist, bend and sometimes turn themselves inside-out. I have this vision of Assemble Head driving a rocket-fueled pick-up truck down some interstellar highway riddled with space dust, with Neil Young & Crazy Horse, Jefferson Airplane and Pink Floyd all riding in the back, blasting The Notorious Byrd Brothers and smoking weed. It's just too perfect.


(i guffawed when i saw how regular they look too!)

I have undoubtedly contributed about a hundred to the thousands of Myspace plays they've clocked in on their best tune "Two Birds" from their third disc When Sweet Sleep Returns (Tee Pee), which they recorded with fellow SF neo-freaks Sleepy Sun. The song couldn't groove harder: after the seamless, chemistry-laden boy-girl croons of Brett Constantino and Evan Reiss of SS get strung into a dreamy melody, the real fun begins four minutes in. AHISS sinks its claws deep into a skyward groove, turning up the solid bassline, keyboards and sound effects while guitarist Jefferson Marshall lays down a completely head-swirling solo that beats its wings until the song's final seconds.

After catching them live at Hemlock Tavern last night (it was a great show, but a verbatim performance of their recorded material--they probably could have gone on some truly wild jams, but I guess they didn't feel like it), I grabbed the album on vinyl and quickly went home to unwrap it. The disc is a sea-green, marbled thing and, needless to say, it sounds even more exquisite coming out of my pair of 1970s Harman Kardon speakers.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Track Review: Rolling Stones

There's a million and one Rolling Stones songs and a billion and one things that have been said about them, so I'm going to keep this short and away from the pulpit.

"Moonlight Mile", from the Stones' Sticky Fingers album, fills me with a wistful kind of sadness. Normally I would be repelled by songs with more than a minute of orchestral strings and piano, thinking it was bloated and a self-indulgent move on the artist's part so he could hear his grandiose thoughts come to life on the radio or whatever. But this song creates a cold wonderland with the soaring, wandering arrangements where even Keith Richards gets elegant; it turns into an end-of-the-road journey in song where we see Mick Jagger "with a head full of snow", but still tired, tired, tired of everything. Isn't it hard not to feel that way sometimes?



I can't help but imagine this song as a beautiful blues moan, just a flurry of impassioned acoustic guitar strums and ticks a la Son House, with Jagger stomping his foot and wailing about letting the airwaves flow and sleeping under strange, strange skies. It would be perfect--even though it's already perfect the way it is, a bookend to an immortal album.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

My Whole World's Coming Apart

I need you to go to this link immediately, then read on.

There. Glad we got that out of the way. You better be listening to it. Don't make me come over there. Sorry, it's just that I couldn't find a way to deliver to you this inexplicably intriguing song by one John Maus, a man I knew nothing about until about five minutes ago.

My friend Jon (same-name coincidence not my fault) bestowed this tune upon me amidst an online argument about music. I didn't touch it for a week until it bubbled up between giant blocks of Ronettes and Monks songs. Annoyed by the non-sequitir, I checked what the hell it was, then immediately found my legs and arms moving to the beat, without my permission. Skepticism melted into bliss. Everything in my room seemed to vibrate. Never have synthesizers felt so anthemic. JOHN MAUS WHO ARE YOU?!



It wasn't until I read his Wikipedia that I discovered my new purpose in life, the now-obvious reason I was put on this planet. John Maus is from (or at least lives and works in) Hawai'i. I'M FROM HAWAI'I. I'M GOING TO HAWAI'I IN A FEW MONTHS. I MUST FIND HIM AND MEET HIM. ASK HIM QUESTIONS. BUY HIM BEERS. KIDNAP HIM BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO. I haven't figured out what I would do with him next, but this is my mission. Force him to take me on tour with him? It could be an Almost Famous-type saga! Whatever happens, JOHN MAUS IS MY TICKET TO GLORY.

Friday, July 3, 2009

My New Imaginary Boyfriend

I have so many, but I think my new one has the best name out of all my other imaginary boyfriends. His name is Kurt Vile--and yeah, that's exactly what's stamped on his birth certificate. Immediately I am reminded of the Smucker's motto: With a name like Kurt Vile, he has to be good.

Vile, an on-hiatus member of Philadelphia's War on Drugs has recently released his first sonic collage entitled Constant Hitmaker/God Is Saying This to You (Woodsist/Mexican Summer), and upon hearing it, the album instantly became a necessity for those tranquil summer nights when I'm not in a hurry to get anywhere fast.



These simple songs are fever dreams steeped in nostalgia for dusty highways and sunlit backyard parties. We find Kurt Tom-Pettying it up in a folksy, howling reverie on the opening stomper "Freeway" over an easy driving beat:




Constant Hitmaker is peppered with sound effects that alternate between psychedelically bleary and music box-pretty. You know when you dream, how people converse in cavernous, reverbed tones; words hazy and barely audible but hypnotizing nonetheless? Kurt's voice is that: straight out of a REM sleep fantasy. Add finger picking, dog-eared Philosophy textbooks, blue collar affinities, a bedroom shrine to the Holy Trinity of Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young and Bob Seger and marathon lo-fi home recording sessions, and you're picking up what Constant Hitmaker is laying down.

Kurt is playing with fellow Woodsist dwellers Woods at Bottom of the Hill on August 30. Once I've lived it, I'll let you know what it's like on the other side.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Snakeflower 2: Daydream City




In the Bay Area’s labyrinth of low-lit warehouses, cramped house parties and grimed-out dive bars, it’s a cacophonous tug-of-war for the three-chord crown.

This latter day resurrection of what was born in the late ‘60s--the Sears Roebuck guitars, the off key, offbeat attack, the new breed of onstage fearlessness--has fueled our scene for several years now with a mad flurry of unpretentious, all-for-one and one-for-all shows. Poised to snag a bit of the shiny stuff is Oakland’s own Snakeflower 2, a trio whose blistering, bare-bones repertoire seems as if it were dug from a dusty, attic-dwelling bin of decades-old, abandoned vinyl.

Vocalist and bassist Matthew Melton has lo-fi roots stretching all the way back to his hometown in Memphis, Tennessee, where he grew up playing in garage bands and jamming with prolific punk hero Jay Reatard.

Discontented with the lack of fire in the Memphis scene, he put together a ramshackle, road-ready outfit that would become Snakeflower’s first incarnation. They played what Melton, a lover of subgenres, describes as “art-punk non-songs”. Taking the new band and his musical dreams to California provided a gift-and-curse scenario.

“We decided almost overnight to go on tour,” he said. “It was really ill-conceived. We did a full US tour literally calling venues from the road, jumping on these bills and having pretty crazy shows along the way.”


The band reached their wits’ end by the time they made it to San Francisco, and Melton’s bandmates stranded him in the city and left for Los Angeles. He decided to stick it out and reform the band with new members, drummer Billy Badlands and guitarist Tim Tinderholt.

“Where I grew up in Memphis, you can be guaranteed that no one’s gonna pay any attention to you,” said Melton. “Here there’s so much more energy in the scene and plus, being surrounded by so many great bands is such a motivation to keep making great music.”

It’s easy to hear what the California scene has done for Snakeflower 2’s live shows and recordings; their aggression is undeniable. The band’s late-2008 release Renegade Daydream (Tic Tac Totally) is steeped in the dire urgency of a fragile heart under pressure. It grooves hard on dagger-sharp hooks and viciously airtight chord progressions, all hammered out at shit-hot speed to keep up with Melton’s nervy vocal swagger. “Memory Castle”, the album’s single, is awash in psychedelic, tunnel-vision reverb and ruminates on lost dreams and the courage it takes to get them back.

For the next album, due in Spring 2010 with their first European tour, Melton’s got his eyes on a new direction for Snakeflower 2. When his other brainchild, smooth-punk outfit Bare Wires, began to get hot, Snakeflower 2’s gigs took a hiatus. But during that time, Melton devoted himself to writing fresh and epic material unlike anything most garage bands have touched before.

“I’ve actually been working in secret to write and record a 14-minute long cantata called ‘Forbidden Melody’,” he explained. “I was really trying to find time to set aside to isolate myself for really pure ideas to work with. It’s something totally different, almost like a rock opera. I was taking choruses and refrains from songs and stringing them together. I’m trying to go a little bit further, really trying to come up with something new.”

Leave it to Melton and his mates to shoot the moon and score an album out of it, while the rest of the garage scene sticks to the ordinary.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the OG version of what appeared in the San Francisco Bay Guardian. Today I experienced one of the many varieties of potholes and shitstorms young writers must endure to get more than just their feet in the door: weird, unauthorized edits and a massively bruised ego. The ones my editors chose for the published piece came out of nowhere and fall flat on the page, and I almost involuntarily punched my boyfriend in the face because I was so overcome by anger.

My byline stands proudly here.