Make Believe – Goin’ to the Bone Church
(Flameshovel)

After the dissolution of fondly-regarded Chicago band Cap’n Jazz in 1995, an alternative revisionist history of the group formed as their legend grew. The Wikipedia credits them as a significant chapter in the development of the genre which shall not be named. In reality, Cap’n Jazz were a collusion between a group of high-school friends who happened to play some extraordinarily energetic and undeniably messy punk rock in the vein of their hometown heroes Gauge. The complete discography of Cap’n Jazz continues to sell thousands of copies worldwide and even with a decade of hindsight, the music they created continues to impress. After the schism, the members of Cap’n Jazz formed several bands, the most visible of which were the modestly successful Promise Ring and the eternally frustrating Joan of Arc. However, better albums have been made by different but lesser-known combinations of the same personnel. An all too brief reunion of the original Cap’n Jazz quartet re-dubbed Owls produced one astonishingly brilliant record in 2001. Former bassist Sam Zurick and guitarist Victor Villareal also formed an excellent instrumental quartet called Ghosts & Vodka. After both projects came to an end, Zurick decided to form a new band with fellow-musicians from the touring wing of Joan of Arc. Since that band had moved into electronic experimentation and studio manipulation, the quartet of Tim Kinsella (vocals), Sam Zurick (guitar), Bobby Burg (bass) and Nate Kinsella (drums & wurlitzer) decided their new group would deliberately limit themselves to the classic rock band format and maintain a traditional rehearse - record - tour schedule.

The band Make Believe was formed with this agenda in mind. Thematically, the group could also be considered a concept band of sorts. As the name implies, chief vocalist and lyricist Tim Kinsella’s words are often concerned with the disparity between the real world and what situationist thinker Guy Debord called `the spectacle’. The fantasy or `make believe’ aspect of modern human existence as experienced by the average western-society dwelling individual as coloured and informed by the self-interested mass media and bookended by a ceaseless procession of advertising. As per his previous outfits, Kinsella’s lyrics weave together disparate fragments of societal detritus, popular culture, surrealist counter-philosophy and the dichotomy between information transmitted and perceived. On the song `Amscaredica’, from debut album Shock of Being, Kinsella invokes images of the undead as a simile for the transparency and vapidity of modern life. “Browsing naked girls like used sports gear,” howled the frontman amidst the commotion. “Do you feel at home at home?” The centrepiece of the second album Of Course was `Pat Tillman, Emmitt Till’, a playful reflection of the chronic hypocrisy within the incumbent Republican administration, the refutation of Evolution by right-wing Christians and the continuity of unlawful killings. “Of course they lie and deny science,” sang Kinsella over a purposefully naive melody.

Appropriately, the musical end of Make Believe is also somewhat fantastical. The taut interplay between the three musicians develops like a fastidiously executed magic trick. Most of the time it is hard to envisage how such boisterous music can be committed to memory, let alone replicated in the live environment. Zurick’s playing is electric in the literal sense of the word. By utilising the one handed tapping technique, Zurick creates a fluent stream of legato notation which serves as the focal point for most of the band’s compositions. Likewise, Nate Kinsella is an exceptionally busy and restlessly inventive drummer, providing dense fills which on occasion sound like he is striking every surface of his kit simultaneously. Even more impressively, Kinsella often discards a stick to provide a demented one-handed counterpoint on the wurlitzer he keeps over his bass drum. The resulting sound falls somewhere between the firmly defined autonomy of Dischord heroes Lungfish and the anything-goes instrumental prowess of Don Caballero. The music is rigid in composition but frenzied by nature. Amidst the recent trend of prog-revivalists, a certain amount of restraint is to be admired. Make Believe thrives on the simple sense of exuberance in being abruptly duped by a song which refuses to continue in the direction it has been travelling for several beats. Honed by honest grass-roots touring over the last few years, the band is undeniably one of the most compelling acts currently active.

Given that the group was initially formed with simplicity in mind, the last few years have been needlessly complicated and frustrating. In 2005, the band were forced to cancel shows after Nate Kinsella broke his wrist after being knocked off his bike by a car. Months after recovering, the drummer found himself in trouble once again. While playing a show in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, Nate removed his shorts and wrung out his sweat over the audience. Unfortunately, this was a violation of the states’ obscenity laws and he was immediately arrested. Facing ten years and a possible fine of up to $20,000, Make Believe became secondary to keeping Nate out of jail. When the verdict came through, the drummer was sentenced to two months in jail and fined one thousand dollars. Whilst awaiting imprisonment, Nate and his band-mates recorded the excellent Of Course. When Kinsella had served his sentence, the band was once again thrown into disarray when Tim Kinsella decided to quit, ostensibly to concentrate on other projects such as Joan of Arc and the motion picture Orchard Vale. Friction had also arisen when the singer tried to introduce auxiliary piano parts into new Make Believe songs. The rest of the group resisted and for several months, it looked as though Make Believe would be in the market for a new frontman. Thankfully, Tim Kinsella returned for a six day recording session at Electrical Audio studios with engineer Greg Norman.

The result of these sessions is the new album, entitled Goin’ to the Bone Church. Compared to the stiff, densely packed Of Course, the new album is a much looser affair. On occasions, there is a definite sense of spontaneity, be it the occasional outbursts of hilarity between and during songs or the informal group harmonies which spring up here and there. However, despite the relatively ramshackle aesthetic, as with all Electrical Audio records the sound quality is absolutely pristine. Between this album and Of Course, it’s a wonder Greg Norman gets any sleep. By rights bands should be knocking on his door at all hours begging to work with him. Throughout Goin’ to the Bone Church, the clarity of recording is superb and the songs glow with analogue warmth. The sense of wilful primitivism remains from the previous album but the songs have been stripped back even further. Bobby Burg’s bass is definitely more prominent in the mix and the result is an album which is at times borderline danceable. While `Ooo Yum’ doesn’t deviate enormously from the trademark Make Believe template with its squealing guitar assault and Tim Kinsella’s bestial grunting, there are some deliberate stretches of sound with just enough repetition to promote some impulsive ass-shaking. The following `Just Green Enough’ sees Zurick open a roaring canopy of static beneath which his band-mates explore the sonic landscape. ‘Sam Roller-Skating Backwards’ is as brow-furrowing as its title suggests but it is also the first indication that the titular guitarist is learning that on occasion less is more. The space when Zurick isn’t playing is punctuated by bobbing bass fills and one-handed wurlitzer motifs which provide a welcome sense of relief amidst the usual confusion.

This stripped-back compositional approach pays massive dividends on the genuinely excellent `For Lauri Bird’. Comparatively slow in tempo, the band concentrates on servicing one satisfyingly gradual crescendo. This song amongst others revisits the post-modern funk of Talking Heads’ More Songs about Buildings and Food but stretches the instrumental interludes over several minutes. Whether the song is actually concerned with Art Garfunkel’s former muse is anyone’s guess. Or at least until we see a lyric sheet, that is. `Wearin’ Torn’ shows how the wurlitzer playing of Nate Kinsella is becoming an intrinsic part of songs rather than the occasional novelty it was early on in the band’s recording career. The best moments are when the instrument is used as a counterpoint melody to Zurick’s guitar, a technique repeated on the funky `Garden Stencil’. The percussive title track is largely instrumental until Tim Kinsella recites a brief spoken word outro and the band adds some hilariously inept free-styling for good measure. One would hope that with moments of good humour such as these that the group has reconvened permanently. Especially if the there will be more songs like the unexpectedly melodic `Taste, Touch, Smell, Deceit’. Once again, the bare-bones approach serves to heighten the underlying harmony and the result is relatively anthemic. On the closing `People Laughing’, Zurick’s playing once again dominates proceedings, his guitar spitting and convulsing as Tim Kinsella leads a choir inspiring us to “Protest the Vietnam War”. In Kinsella’s mind this is most likely a stinging rebuttal of current overseas events but to the rest of us, it provides little more than a memorable hook to sing along to as the album fades out. Whilst this isn’t the best album to serve as an introduction to Make Believe, it is another undeniably exciting episode of what has been and will hopefully continue to be one of the most invigorating rock bands out there right now.

-Tommy Dski

Lungfish – Amphibious, Apocalyptic, Occult, Yellow
An appreciation in three parts - Part I














During the eighties, Washington DC became something of a beacon of underground music, in no small way due to the efforts of the steadfastly independent Dischord Records. The label was founded by Ian Mackaye and Jeff Nelson of the seminal hardcore band Minor Threat as a way to document the burgeoning punk rock scene in DC. An early flyer for the label humorously boasting that Dischord Records was ‘Putting DC on the Map’ now seems oddly prescient; such is the widespread effect this initially tiny label has had on the independent rock community as a whole. With an emphasis on affordable records and a much-vaunted do it yourself ethic, a small caste of artists, musicians, family and friends set a template which has inspired countless bands and labels around the world. Dischord Records is inexorably linked to Washington DC. Over two decades of operation, many of the bands on the Dischord roster have played hundreds of benefit shows to raise money or awareness for local charities or support groups. Since 1987, the label’s standard bearer was Fugazi, a band formed as a collaboration between Mackaye, Joe Lally and Rites of Spring alumni Brendan Canty and Guy Picciotto. The legacy of Fugazi is one of restlessly creative music, endless grass-roots touring and a fiercely independent ethical stance which extended into the nineties and beyond. Mackaye himself is a fifth generation Washingtonian and would introduce each Fugazi show with the words “We are Fugazi from Washington DC”. It’s something of an oddity that one of Dischord Records’ longest-running and most well regarded bands was not from DC but from the neighbouring Baltimore, in the state of Maryland. Furthermore, throughout the nineties Lungfish were the most consistently evocative and thoroughly absorbing band in North America.

Like Fugazi, Lungfish were formed in 1987 as a collaboration of musicians from other Baltimore area bands Reptile House and Null Set. After the demise of Reptile House, singer Daniel Higgs decided to step away from music and dedicate himself to writing poetry. Inspired by Higgs’ readings, former Null Set man John Chriest started to make tape loops to accompany recordings of Higgs. Eventually, guitarist Asa Osborne joined on the pair’s informal jam sessions with Chriest playing bass. A revolving cast of guest musicians passed through early incarnations which saw the band playing under seemingly random names like the Immortal Living Lung of the Esoteric Patriot. After a few shows, drummer Mitchell Feldstein signed on and the line-up solidified under the name Lungfish. Even prior to their relationship with Dischord Records, Lungfish were clearly never going to play the music industry game. Their name was a veiled reference to this fact. A Lungfish can burrow in deep mud for weeks without water during droughts. The quartet of the same name would go through periods of prolonged dormancy and then emerge for tours with yet another new record in tow. For the first few years of their existence, Lungfish didn’t even record any music. Eventually friends and peers encouraged them to visit the studio, if only to document their songs. Through word of mouth, Lungfish had attracted the attention of Ian Mackaye in DC and he offered to record an album at Inner Ear Studios in 1989. The resulting record entitled Necklace of Heads was released as a split between Dischord and Arlington, VA based micro-label Simple Machines, who also issued several early singles for the group. The following year, Lungfish cut their second album Talking Songs for Walking, which was released exclusively on Dischord Records. This album would be the first in a run of ten full length albums in around fifteen years.

Lungfish are a unique band in the truest sense of the word. The music is familiar and yet quite different from all that came before or since. Although in sonic terms, they exist somewhere between hard rock and punk, they defy specific categorisation. In truth, Lungfish is closer to hymnal or tribal music set in a classic rock format. A never-ending ode to the sounds that have existed long before electricity standardised popular music. Lungfish stands on a four-cornered bedrock which provides the foundation for every song. Mitchell Feldstein’s powerful but locomotive drumming provides a solid backbeat for the steady pulse of whoever happens to be playing bass at any one time (the band have had three bass players – John Chriest, Sean Meadows and Nathan Bell). Guitarist Asa Osborne’s playing is truly organic, alternately rich and harmonically textured or downright thunderous. On occasions throughout the group’s considerable discography it is almost as if Osborne is drawing from an untapped well of bio-electricity at the very core of the Earth and distributing it in measured, hypnotic tones or crushing seas of rhythmic distortion. The final cornerstone is the lyrical poetry of Daniel Higgs. A gregarious bear of a man, Higgs is both mouthpiece and an undeniably provocative visceral element during live shows. Sporting an unkempt beard and riddled with tattoos, Higgs is part carnival barker, part ancient mariner. Soft spoken and eminently reasonable in person, onstage he seems possessed – like a futuristic transient sent back through time to warn humanity of some impending peril but also robbed of the power to communicate outside of indecipherable mantras and cryptic poetry. Lost in shamanistic reverie, Higgs would prowl the stage in layers of thick clothing, shadow boxing an unseen foe forever tugging at his collar, always behind and just out of reach. As a unit, Lungfish are absolutely remarkable both on record and onstage. Four distinct strands pulled taut into absolute cohesion. One surging, gargantuan rhythmic force in total harmonic convergence.

Purity of sound is also matched by a purity of vision. One overwhelming conceptual vision unites and envelopes the band’s extensive discography. Consistent themes emerge repeatedly within Higgs’ lyrics. Evolution, biological amalgamation, astrological phenomena and the cyclical nature of time all find their way into his dense, evocative poetry. The principles of evolution are also intertwined within the very fabric of the Lungfish sound. Evolution itself is a painstakingly gradual process stretching across millions of years. On a stage by stage basis, adaptation is completely invisible. Every Lungfish song is an acknowledgment of this gentle progress, a meticulously constructed microcosm of cellular development set to music. Riff after riff, beat after beat, Lungfish honed their sound through steady, persistent improvement over ten perfect albums. Extended bodies of song dedicated to trance inducing repetition. Patterns emerge within patterns as every note is given its due and explored to a natural conclusion. Repeated listens reveal fresh territories within the revolving cascades of cadenced symmetry. Changes are consciously slight to the point of ambiguity as the music becomes a deliberate mantra. Locked grooves in endless escalating cycles of dynamic concurrence. The oft-spoken truism that Lungfish have one song is semi-accurate. In actuality they have endless variations of the same song, a perpetual tribute to all infinite.

Those looking for a starting point would be well served to find the band’s debut record Necklace of Heads and the following Talking Songs For Walking. Thankfully, Dischord have packaged both on one handy compact disc but infuriatingly reversed the chronology. The debut is only eight songs in length but remains a vital introduction to the Lungfish sound. Contrary to the development of most rock bands, Lungfish made their most approachable music early on. Necklace of Heads is downright anthemic, brimming with the sort of earnest youthful exuberance one would normally expect from stadium rockers. `Come Clean’ is an apt demonstration of the sonic power and epic scope of Lungfish at this stage of their existence. Feldstein thumps his drums with precision force as Osborne creates enormous avenues of resonance between jagged riffs and chiming melodic motifs. Across the brisk thirty minute running time, Higgs gives an enormously compelling performance. At times his vocal sincerity is so alarming that one can vividly sense the gesticulations behind the words. In the frenzy of spiritual declamations, the frontman is buoyed by near Gospel fervour. On the opening track he states his intention to tear out the night sky and it sounds entirely plausible. Early highlights such as the surging `Not Only Long Ride Too High’ showcase the skilful compositional playing of Asa Osborne. The song lurches on a deceptively simple riff which allows Higgs to air his wares with characteristic aplomb. “I obey the laws of nature,” shouts the singer with seething conviction. The following ‘Parthenogenesis’ is an ominous retelling of the nativity which sees the self-reproducing Mary “pregnant with the ultimate weapon”. The uncharacteristically forlorn ode to ennui `Nothing is Easy’ remains the most conventionally-minded song the band ever produced but also one of the most emotionally affecting. The closing `Fambly’ might well be the most revelatory statement of intent. As the music slows to a sparse but solid backbeat, Higgs begins to shriek about the coming “revitalisation sound”.

Starting with Talking Songs for Walking, Lungfish more than live up to Higgs’ closing declaration. Less rocking overall but no less intriguing than the previous effort, the second album sees the quartet stripping back their sound to a minimalistic metallic clamour. Many songs are built from a basic percussive template with loping bass accompaniment which allows Osborne to weave in and out of the mix without losing the sense of song. The choppy, playful `Friend to Friend in the End-time’ is, like several other songs present, an elegy to communication - an integral aspect of all forms of relationship. The blistering `Broadcast’ is a veritable torrent of joyous sonic affirmation which continues this theme, albeit in the form of a treatise on the nature of inherited knowledge. “The brain is gone but the idea remains”, screams an incandescent Higgs. “And when the mind is gone, the broadcast will remain”. The title of the album could serve as a fitting maxim for many of Lungfish’s songs, which are often concerned with the idea of motion and how it relates to the passage of time. Other songs such as `Descender’ and `Non Dual Bliss’ are preoccupied by the actions of an unspecified Muse. `Reveal Me’ and `One Face’ open an account for Lungfish’s typically invigorating instrumental interludes whilst `Samuel’ and ‘Put Your Hand in my Hand’ are further depictions of robust and committed friendships. The densely packed `My Fool Heart’ is a glance at things to come, anchored by a repeating rhythmic device which would come to characterise the band’s later albums.

Rainbows From Atoms is definitely a step closer to the cohesion of sound often associated with Lungfish. The minimalism of the previous album remains but a deliberately restrictive mix pushes the instrumentation even closer together into a fluid, compacted sound; almost like the report of an idling engine. The production decisions (or lack of as the case may well have been) make this record sound like a belated tribute to the mid-period albums of Minneapolis stalwarts Husker Du. The tinny, treble heavy sound isn’t particularly conductive of Lungfish music but fortunately the songs are strong enough to force the experiment through. The sinuous opener `Instrument’ is a rumination on cause and effect; a theme that also colours most of the rest of the album. The concept of origin and reproduction is expanded on the dreary `Mother Made Me’. Higgs also broaches the fundamental interconnectedness between genetics and geography. “These tracks lead to the harbour where your grandmother swam”, sings Higgs with retrospective illumination. The following `Abraham Lincoln’ makes excellent use of double-tracking to create two subtly different lead vocal lines playing against each other, a favoured trick of Higgs. More so than on previous records, these songs sound very much cut from one piece of cloth. The busy stride of the evolutionary-minded `Animal Man’ is propelled forward to a spanking pace by Jon Chriest’s efficient bass. Overall, Chriest’s playing may well be the highlight of the whole album. He dictates and stimulates the brilliant `Fresh Air Cure’ with a rubbery, cyclical bass line that allows Osborne to chip away at the edges of the song. Similarly, `Open House’ sits atop an infectious, gyratory groove woven by some irregular fret-board mastery courtesy of Chriest. The highlight of the album is once again the most ambitious effort - the reflective, relaxed instrumentation of `Creation Story’ is the perfect foil for one of Higgs’ most expansive and evocative poems taking in the entire history of human evolution. “These are secrets that the world sung to me, truer than the truth,” intones Higgs as his band-mates create a gentle instrumental stratum for his spoken-word recital. Thankfully, a recent remastering of Rainbows From Atoms has dramatically improved the rather subpar mix.

Lungfish followed a year later with the superb Pass and Stow. Whereas the previous album had been relatively mired by a difficult recording, Pass and Stow brims with a formidable clarity. For the first time, Asa Osborne’s guitar is the focal point of the mix and he seizes the opportunity with gargantuan bombast. On the tumultuous opener `Cleaner than your Surroundings’, Osborne’s guitar is a monolith of impenetrable sound in either channel. The tone is dense but reflective, creating phantom harmonics that spill out over the rest of the instrumentation. The resulting din is like an armoured behemoth marching down a mirrored corridor. Higgs bellows to be heard amidst the clamour. The song itself appears to be a warning about the pride that comes before a fall and could well be a reference to the trends within music itself, albeit in a characteristically ambiguous manner. “I need songs about the music,” demands Higgs. “How many ways can you say that you’re speaking?” What follows is Lungfish’s most consistently brilliant run of song-writing form. `Washing Away’ is a surging, rolling shanty to spiritual cleansing that finds Higgs clawing at the “invisible bugs all over your skin”. The comparatively downbeat instrumental `At Liberty to Say’ weaves beautifully into the similarly-paced `Trap Gets Set’. “Your music falls just shy of shame,” intones Higgs with an air of weariness. The temptation to connect the lyrics to the sudden pillaging of independent music by major record labels runs particularly high here but it’s impossible to be sure if Higgs was even aware of such events, let alone willing to refer directly to them. The tempo comes back up for the nimble `Computer’, the psychedelic swirling of `Highway Sweetheart’ and the Eastern-tinged inflections of `Astronaut’s Prayer’. Although the louder songs are in themselves remarkable, the slow burning numbers in the later stages of the album bite the hardest. On `One Way All the Time’ Chriest plumbs the very lowest frequencies of his bass as Osborne builds a distant wall of shrill feedback which haunts Higgs’ spoken-word recital. The poem is deliberately esoteric but the words evoke images of paranoia-induced mental distress. “So you dreamt the end of the world,” speaks Higgs as the music slows to a standstill. “A calm public hurt, a last naked swim.” The song fades into the creepy `In Praise of Amoral Phenomena’ and once again, Chriest is given an opportunity to showcase his dexterous playing. Even better is the truly exquisite `The Evidence’, a rumination on the nature of acquired knowledge and inspiration. “Here are my findings, this is the evidence,” announces Higgs over a delicate, stark guitar figure. “This song bears witness to the total science.” Once again, a sense of inescapable hubris overcomes the frontman’s words as he ponders the poignancy of his own relative insignificance compared to the almighty plains of all existence. “The covered tracks of an invisible regime,” he sings tenderly. “Perhaps they tell me what to sing”. The epic closer `Gorilla Monsoon’ is a concrete Brontosaurus of a song, bringing to a conclusion what many still believe to be the band’s finest record to date. Certainly Pass and Stow would serve as an excellent introduction to the world of Lungfish.

Part Two will follow.

- Tommy Dski