The Evangelist, by Robert Forster

We didn’t know how important he was to us, until he was gone.

In Australia, not so long ago, it was accepted practice to make fun of Grant McLennan, or at least to not take him seriously. Before we all re-discovered the Go-Betweens, before the nation embraced them and recognised them as one of the best bands the country has ever produced, it tended to be a reflex action to dismiss McLennan. His song-writing partner Robert Forster got a bit more respect: even if you didn’t like his music, he was at least interesting to look at, a kind of Australian Bryan Ferry. McLennan just looked like a bloke. Anyone can be a bloke. Blokes with guitars make music that nobody really wants to listen to. Nobody paid much attention to McLennan’s post Go-Betweens solo releases.

Then Forster and McLennan revived the Go-Betweens, the band’s albums were all reissued in fancy new packages, some French magazine named them the best band in the history of pop or something, and Australia fell in love with the band almost everyone had forgotten about. Then, even more amazingly, brand new Go-Betweens albums started to appear, everyone who was suddenly an expert got over their initial “But where’s Lindy Morrison?” snobbery, Forster and McLennan took their show on the road, and we all lived happily ever after.

Well, not quite, because this isn’t a fairy story, it’s real life. In 2006, at the age of only 47, Grant McLennan died of a heart attack in his sleep one afternoon. The news was unbelievable. We didn’t know how important he was to us, until he was gone.

Robert Forster must have known, though. Since he and McLennan reformed the Go-Betweens there had been three new albums by the band, and it’s probably safe to assume that the Evangelist, or something in its place, would have been the fourth. Instead, the tragedy of McLennan’s death has forced the album to become Forster’s fifth solo album.

It’s impossible to escape the memory of McLennan when listening to the Evangelist – not that Forster shies away from that memory, with the opening page of the booklet explaining in detail precisely which lyrics on the album were written by McLennan. We can only imagine what Forster must have felt when singing those lyrics, but there’s a palpable heaviness, a weariness, to the first three songs on the album in particular. Not, I hasten to add, that the music sounds tired: just older, sadder, and wiser – the kind of wisdom that can only come through pain. Listening to these performances almost feels like an intrusion, especially on “Demon Days”, the second song on the album and the first of those partly written by McLennan. Forster sounds withdrawn and half-broken, as if it’s almost unbearable for him to sing the song – it very well may be, especially given the hauntingly prescient chorus McLennan wrote: “Something’s not right/Something’s gone wrong”. Very wrong indeed; it surely wasn’t meant to be this way. It’s the single most powerful performance on the album, but also the most uncomfortable: there’s something too private here.

After “Demon Days” the next song, “Pandanus”, arrives like a balm, telling a simple story of the healing powers of nature: the song starts “It was one day at five thirty – I went down to the beach”, and concludes “The sun has gone and it’s taken your troubles somewhere, somewhere”. We can’t know who Forster’s addressing when, on the second-last line in the song, he suddenly changes the personal pronoun from “I” to “you”, but it might as well be the listener.

Because of the tragic events foreshadowing its creation, it’s impossible to approach the Evangelist objectively, and it’s true that the fact of Grant McLennan’s death lends much of the album an emotional weight that it perhaps wouldn’t otherwise have. But it would be misleading, too, for me to suggest that sadness and tragedy dominate the album. Indeed, many of the songs have nothing whatsoever to do with McLennan; and not all of those that do involve him, or the memory of him, are sad: one of the album’s highlights comes just after the half-way point: “Let Your Light In, Babe” charges along, driven hard and fast by Glenn Thompson’s drums, as Forster sings another simple story that has something of the quality of a Biblical allegory – and not just because of the prominence of a church in the narrative – of a man (presumably) offering his house to a woman and child “new to this town”. The chorus, written by McLennan, urges: “Let your light in, babe, and don’t you be afraid.”

The second-last track on the album, “It Ain’t Easy”, has a very similar melody and feel to “Let Your Light in, Babe”, and also boasts a chorus by McLennan – but lyrically it’s a tougher song. The chorus states “It ain’t easy, when that love is blue, the love is blue”. More significant, though, are the opening words – Forster’s words:

“And a river ran and a train ran and a dream ran through everything
that he did
There was melody, there was harmony, there was sweet Sherrie,
But it was melody he loved most of all.”

We can’t, of course, impose our own meaning upon somebody else’s work and claim it to be the absolute truth. But these three lines are as good a memorial of Grant McLennan, the man who gave us songs such as “Cattle and Cane”, “Bachelor Kisses”, and “Bye Bye Pride” as one could hope for. For fans of the Go-Betweens, new and old, the pain of McLennan’s tragic loss still hasn’t gone; perhaps it never will, but with the Evangelist Robert Forster has at least given us something beautiful to hold on to. It might be easier for us to forget some things in life, but sometimes it’s better to remember, and to mourn, and to celebrate.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCbyByY-A6w

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_nn90p-tIg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpRFuADsdxc

Villette Sonique Festival
Samedi 7 Juin

Shellac
Mission of Burma
Melt Banana
Bottomless Pit

Retrospective live reviews can be infuriating or completely pointless from the perspective of a reader who wasn’t at the show in question. However, in this circumstance this article is a tribute and a recommendation to four bands that have been playing out live for a long time and are still worth travelling a fair distance to see. In this particular instance, Chicago-based super trio Shellac were given a day to pick the line-up for an evening show at the Villette Sonique Festival in Paris, France. They chose reformed Boston-based legends Mission of Burma, the incredible Melt Banana from Tokyo and the relative newcomers Bottomless Pit, also from Chicago. With a bill like this, you can understand why a trip across the channel into France was a small price to pay. In reality, it wasn’t any kind of price to pay at all because Paris is downright wonderful. Our hosts and comrades in France put on a truly amazing show and it was a refreshing change to the sparsely attended, inevitably aggressive shows we seem to foster here in the UK. After this experience, I confess I’m checking for shows in Paris rather than London because the difference in travel time is negligible.

First but by no means least to hit le Espace Charlie Parker’s stage are openers Bottomless Pit. There’s an inevitable sense of nervous expectation before seeing a group that you have personally expended no small amount of hyperbole on for the first time. Although all four members of the Pit are veterans of the indie rock community (Tim Midgett and Andy Cohen from Silkworm, Brian Orchard from .22 and Chris Manfrin of Seam) it’s never entirely certain whether a new band will live up to the memory of their former groups. Fortunately, it’s clear from the first notes that the Pit are an absolute master-class in restrained but highly kinetic rock. As good as last year’s impressive Hammer of the Gods sounded on vinyl, it seems timid in comparison to the band’s excellent live show. The sound in this arena sized venue is surprisingly accommodating and the band gives the impression of a well-drilled unit even after this short period of time. Here the songs sound less like New Order and more like the lovechild of mid-period Silkworm and latter-day Seam. A crucial difference between the former (an inevitable comparison considering the band shares two of the same songwriters) and the Pit is that whereas Silkworm were usually akin to a wrecking ball in the live environment, Midgett and Cohen’s new band is more like a surgically precise cutting laser. In particular, the interplay between Midgett’s baritone guitar and Andy Cohen’s telecaster is a lot more visible than on record. Fittingly, the material they showcase from the forthcoming Congress EP already shows signs of evolution and you’d be well advised to pre-order it from the Bottomless Pit site as a matter of urgency.

From the sublime to the ridiculous, up next are Melt Banana. By ridiculous, I mean ridiculously good. No slight to any of the other bands playing this evening but in the live arena, there are pitifully few groups that can hold a candle to the quartet from Tokyo. If Bottomless Pit are a surgical laser, Melt Banana are a laser cannon. Any sense of subtlety is abandoned in the face of a fusillade of hyperspace punk rock which at times reaches such an astounding velocity that it resembles a mesmerising wing of the techno movement. This is the first time I’ve seen the group in half a decade and in that time, they have grown in every direction simultaneously. Tonight, it seems that Melt Banana have discarded obvious provocation and settled into a private niche which can only be reached by knowing that there is a sense of profound glory in blowing the minds of practically everyone who ever sees you live for over fifteen years. Guitarist Ichirou Agata could more accurately be classified as an effects player who happens to have a guitar strapped to his convulsing frame. If there is any justice, Yasuko Onuki will be permanently regarded as one of the most compelling front-women in the history of rock music. Her vocals are a combination of a deafening shriek and an urgent speak-sing which may well have its roots in the early hardcore movement. As with all Melt Banana shows, there is a point whereby you start to believe that you have actually taken leave of your senses and the whole of creation is about to be revealed as some private joke at your expense. There is a guitarist onstage wearing a surgical mask which is billowing in and out like some facially mounted artificial lung, a petit lady who appears to be creating low end by literally wringing sound from a bass guitar, a sleeveless automaton at the drums who has only one facial expression and a beautiful pixie dancing to the wings of the stage shrieking like a patient on day release from a mental institute. You can’t bring yourself to look away because where would you go? What would happen if you stepped outside at this point? Would the world even be there to welcome you back to normality? Purists might well scoff but I actually thought Cell-Scape and Bambi’s Dilemma were the best records of the band’s discography. These albums represented not so much a step sideways as a momentary shift horizontally to enable the band to plunge headlong into a new gear which is faster and more fluid than before. The next time anyone lauds their laughable Clash re-runs as an example of Punk Rock, please introduce them to Melt Banana with my blessing. They are a band you desperately need to see at some point with the added bonus that they are currently operating at the absolute height of their powers.

Mission of Burma are left with a mountain to climb after the inspirationally superb Melt Banana. For all of a minute, it does seem like this might be an off night for the reunited heroes of artfully broken post-Punk. However, as soon as the band acclimates to the nuances of the venue, they instantly establish that invigorating sense of tension which has always arisen whenever these three musicians share a stage together. Truth be told, I’m not a massive fan of their most recent output but this evening makes me want to revisit these albums anew. Another truth is that the Mission of Burma onstage tonight is every bit as effective as they were in the early eighties. If anything, the band seemed to grow in stature during their prolonged hiatus. Tonight is a magical tug of war between three gifted songwriters, their combined output lovingly warped by offstage soundman Bob Weston, on loan from Shellac to replace original tape manipulator Martin Swope. Inevitably, the older songs are a nostalgia overload for everyone in the building. In particular, ‘Trem Two’ and ‘Micah’ are absolutely glorious to behold, reminding us that Burma were just as capable of tugging the heart-strings as they were of providing a visible intersection between post-modern art and punk rock. This is probably the best time to be introduced to Burma if you aren’t already familiar with the music because their early discography has been reissued, they are currently touring and another new album is imminent. If they pass near your town, it’s definitely worth going to see them.

For me the biggest surprise of the evening was that I ended up seeing by far my favourite Shellac show. Although I have seen the band on several occasions over the years, the last couple of times were marred by rented gear or poor audience attitude and I’d forgotten what an incredible live act they could be. Tonight they set up in a single line abreast with Todd Trainer centre stage and it was obvious from the off that we are in for a treat. With Shellac, the lack of a consistent set-list and a penchant for prolonged audience interaction can ruin the momentum of the show but on this evening, we are spoiled by back to back classics and little in the way of distraction. With the sound in their favour and a jubilant Parisian audience, Shellac are on absolutely scintillating form and for the first time in recent history is seems as though they are completely aware of it. They seem both confident and absolutely joyful to be playing at such an event, which is absolutely appropriate considering how happy we are to see them in such a setting. The obvious focal point of Shellac is that man Todd Trainer, with his frozen explosion of unkempt black hair held back by a single headband and what might as well be logs in his hands. Tonight was the first time that it occurred to me that his unbelievable power stems from the fact that every single one of his strokes rises all the way up over his head, the sticks meeting his shoulder blades before returning to the drums with improbable force. Although the older material is received with good cheer, songs from the better half of Excellent Italian Greyhound are definitely the most impressive overall. In particular, ‘Steady as She Goes’ is a contender for the best Shellac song ever committed to magnetic tape. In the live arena, the song becomes a hard-chooglin’, gut-bustin’ ox of a song. Likewise, ‘Be Prepared’ has all the mischievous magic which make Shellac such a unique group, as does ‘The End of Radio’ which tonight has Steve Albini conduct the introduction in surprisingly fluent French. The ever mesmerising ‘Wingwalker’ is unfurled in all its glory and for a moment we stand with our hands outstretched as Bob Weston encourages us to “be the plane”. As the set draws to a close, I realise that I’m standing with some of my friends from around Europe and we’re in a thicket of beautiful young Parisian women, hips swinging and butts shaking to Todd Trainer’s beats. It probably doesn’t get much better than this and it seems like a fitting conclusion to an incredible evening. Trainer doesn’t want to come off stage so the band dismantles his drumkit piece by piece until all he has is a lone snare drum, upon which he beats a triumphant closing tattoo. Absolutely fucking marvellous. Merci Shellac. Come back as soon as possible.

Tommy Dski

Liveblogging: Sloan -'Parallel Play'

1) "Believe In Me" (Patrick) - This song makes about three different attempts at starting before it gets off the ground but once it does it's probably one of the strongest Patrick songs in a while. A good jangle is always nicely offset by a rippin' solo. After that intro it doesn't really waste any time either.

2) "Cheap Champagne" (Jay) - Oh hey speaking of not wasting time, this song caught me off guard. I love when Jay lets an instrument other than the guitar lead his song, and while the acoustic guitars in this one are nice, they're really playing sidemen to the piano, which matches the hook nicely. "Ba-ba-dups" are a little intrusive.

3) "All I Am Is All You're Not" (Chris) - Okay now it's starting to get a little grating that there are no separations between tracks but there are no real transitions either, so it's just sharp and very jarring. Chris sounds a little more nasal on this one than I'd like and the chorus doesn't bite as hard as I'd like it to, but it exudes this air of low-key menace that kind of reminds me of the Stones.

4) "Emergency 911" (Andrew) - HOLY SHIT SO BADASS, GOD DAMN I LOVE ANDREW. And Andrew loves the Stooges. Such a great, badass, bluesy punk tune he's got here. Also, I don't think I heard any handclaps on "Believe In Me" but this is the third song in a row with 'em for sure.

5) "Burn For It" (Patrick) - Woah, this one takes me back. It sounds a lot like something that would have been on Smeared if it were a little more scuzzy. Not the strongest song on the record but oh wait that's some glam piano bashin' which is my number one weakness. Okay it gets a pass. You're lucky this time, Patrick.

6) "Witches Wand" (Jay) - Oh man, it's Belle & Sebastian. You know, the thing about Sloan - wait did he just say "facing the dragon" this song is totally about drugs - the thing about Sloan is that even if I say "Oh this sounds like Belle & Sebastian," it doesn't, really. It sounds like Sloan. This song hits on the AM radio rock sort of sound that B&S were playing with on The Life Pursuit but they've still got that dude-harmony, glasses-and-scarf, wicked-lightshow, instrument-switching rock'n'roll Sloan aesthetic behind it that tells you that what you're listening to is and will always inarguably be a Sloan song, no questions asked. So yeah, I like this song.

7) "The Dogs" (Andrew) - Andrew's songs on the last record threw me for a loop because he seemed to be going for this really awesome 70's psychedelic vibe, and that's what he's going for here, I think. It doesn't have the propulsion of "Golden Eyes" but it's a really neat, woozy sort of tune. It's also the longest on the album - at four minutes. What were you expecting? It's Sloan! The keyboards in the background are really nice - this is a big spacey rock song, definite hood-of-the-car-lookin'-at-the-stars-after-makin'-out-with-your-high-school-sweetie music.

8) "Living The Dream" (Chris) - What the hell? What's going on with the percussion in this song? It's kind of annoying but when the tambourine kicks in it's rad. Once again Chris has not turned in his strongest material on this record but the chorus-like bit has a really great hook and this is a super-upbeat song about total disillusionment. "I don't dream for a living / I'm just living the dream" is a nice line.

9) "The Other Side" (Patrick) - Another track that would be right at home on Smeared, except that the guitars in it sound EFFING HUGE. Which is great, of course. Also, this is another strong Patrick song. Three in a row! Good show, Patrick. I bet this one is really great live.

10) "Down In The Basement" (Andrew) - There better be a fucking harmonica solo in this song or I will be declaring it a missed opportunity. It's a really great rollicking electric blues song. Probably getting a lot of Dylan comparisons but there's nothing wrong with that, especially since these are hands down the strongest lyrics on the record. NO BLUES HARMONICA = MISSED OPPORTUNITY.

11) "If I Could Change Your Mind" (Jay) - Jay has been listening to some serious yacht rock I guess. Those "Oooohs," so smooth! Yeah this definitely has Michael MacDonald written all over it. Not a bad thing but probably Jay's weakest song on this record. There's an old adage, though, that goes, "A weak Sloan song is a hundred bands' strongest songs." That applies here.

12) "I'm Not A Kid Anymore" (Chris) - Chris' strongest entry this record. The bridge in the middle of the song has some great harmonies and rad, sloppy power chords, which is the second time Sloan has gone that route this record. The old "just keep the acoustic guitar in the quiet bits" is great. Okay Chris, you've redeemed yourself. And by that I mean I never stopped loving you. Please be my dad.

13) "Too Many" (Andrew) - Andrew knows how to open a song - "Let's get one thing straight!" His hippie streak continues in this song but it's forgivable because it's catchy, though its placement as the last song is an absolutely awful idea. It's a little too low-key for a closing song. Actually I just talked to Tommy and he called it "reggae" which explains it. I hate reggae so much. SO MUCH

So that's the new Sloan record! Overall I think it's pretty good. Not their best, and probably not a great entry point for anyone unless they are exclusively interested in the works of Patrick and Andrew.

Opeth- Watershed first-listen impressions

I'm a pretty big Opeth dork so when I heard the new album had leaked, of course I immediately leapt to my BitTorrent client and grabbed a copy. Here are my initial impressions, typed live as I listened to the album for the first time. I have no idea whether this will be useful as a "should you buy this album" type of review but hopefully it will at least be entertaining.

01- Coil: Oh hey, more proggy acoustic stuff. This is pretty but the part of Opeth's stuff that always bores me. Nice faux-horns and female vocals, hey this kind of ended abruptly, I wonder what's comin-

02- Heir Apparent: OH HOLY FUCKING JESUS SHIT WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!?!?!?!?1!!. Possibly the most brutal thing they've done, ever. Somebody's been listening to their Deathspell Omega between albums! Nice interludes, this thing is gonna be murder to learn how to play. Holy god the palm muting. Opeth win the award for Longest Single Riff Ever at about 6:30 in.

03- The Lotus Eater: Cool vocal harmonies at the opening. This one reminds me of their My Arms, Your Hearse-era stuff. Main riff is almost more indie-rock than metal in its timing. Man, have they ever been this dissonant before? OH WHAT THE FUCK KEYBOARD SOLO holy crap guys it's interesting melodically but just SILLY timbre-wise. Stick to the guitars, the last chunk of this song fucking kills.

04- Burden: Wow this is proggy as hell. Two albums in, I continue to dislike the keyboardist. This track is like a slowed down, amped up Dungen tune. OH SHIIIIIIT IT'S BLOOZ SOLO TYMEEEEE!!! Nice detuning effect at the end.

05- Porcelain Heart: Judging by the title this will be another proggy track. Am I right? No. Opeth 1, me 0. The whole song is basically "The Grand Conjuration" only without the half-assed main riff from that song. An improvement!

06- Hessian Peel- Longest song on the record. Oh good, more acoustic guitar + blues solos + melodic vocals. Thank god that melody line is at least a LITTLE skewed or this would bore me to tears. Harmony guitar leads? Now it sounds like Skynyrd at a ren-faire. Oh man that synth-string patch sounds SO FAKE. Come on dudes I know you can afford to hire actual session musicians in the studio instead of faking it with keyboards. Pretty crazy-ass guitar picking- is he sweeping or just fingerpicking really fast? Transition to the heavy part halfway through feels forced, but the bridge immediately afterward is FANTASTIC. When Opeth do these really long riffs (6:45-7:20) they sound like an autistic Metallica. Whoever made the decision to give their keyboard player more of a role in this record needs to be taken out back and shaken until concussed. One criticism of Opeth I've heard a lot is that their switch between sections with very little in the way of transitions, leaving their songs sounding cold and arbitrarily structured. This track is definitely guilty of that offense.

07- Hex Omega: With a name like that this'd better be fucking GOOD. Opens as a transition from "Hessian Peel" which is ironic considering how disjointed that track was. DEAR OPETH: FLUTE PATCHES HAVE NO BUSINESS ANYWHERE NEAR A METAL SONG NO MATTER HOW "PROGRESSIVE" YOU ARE. Nice use of restraint in the quiet sections- it's really rare to hear any kind of open space in an Opeth track and it's quite refreshing. Almost sounds like something out of a June of 44 record. "Chorus" riff and the outro both sound like they'd be really fun to play, but leave me cold.

Tentative conclusions: It's really great to see Opeth continue to stretch themselves and try (relatively) new things. "Heir Apparent" is far and away the heaviest thing they have ever written. Absolute must-listen, even if you don't like the other Opeth you've heard. Totally brutal in parts, and I can even overlook the faux-flutes halfway in. It's a pity the rest of the record didn't match up. The goddamned keyboardist needs to go- he only occasionally adds to the songs and more often than not clutters them up with unnecessary stage-dressing. The synthesizer emulations of actual instruments (horns, strings, THOSE FUCKING FLUTES) are incredibly grating and absolutely have to go. You can get away with that stuff live, but I want to hear the real deal on a studio record.

Basically if I were in charge of Opeth, I would tell them to do more "Heir Apparent" and less "Hessian Peel." I also feel like their "best of both worlds approach" to mixing the metal and the acoustic stuff on albums is hurting them overall- it works within a song if it's well-structured, but too often they just bounce back and forth with no real reason guiding the changes. Also, and this is just my horribly biased and unprofessional opinion, I don't like quiet, pretty Opeth as much as I like loud, demonic Opeth. This record is worth listening to if only for the terrific (in the old sense of the word, ie "terrifying") onslaught of "Heir Apparent," but it still doesn't top My Arms or Blackwater Park in terms of the band's best work.

First impressions of Lie Down in the Light

After the glories of Superwolf and the Letting Go, last two “proper” Bonnie “Prince” Billy albums, expectations for Will Oldham’s work must be higher than they’ve ever been. For ardent admirers of those two albums, Lie Down in the Light might seem like a disappointment; but for those of us who can’t fathom why Oldham’s classic Ease Down the Road, from 2001, is so generally underrated, Lie Down in the Light comes also as a welcome return to that album’s sounds.

Of course, there’s a danger for any artist who returns to old, familiar styles: after being relatively easily pigeon-holed within the “alt.country” scene for just about all of his career, Oldham’s increasingly radical stylistic adventures over the last two albums seemed to indicate that he’d decided to move on; as such it’s impossible not to think of Lie Down in the Light’s return to older sounds as at least a little bit regressive. Furthermore, ever since the generally poorly regarded Bonnie “Prince” Billy Sings Greatest Palace Songs, fans of Will Oldham could be forgiven for greeting the news that he’s returned to his country routes with more than a little alarm.

Well, if (like most people) you didn’t take to Greatest Palace Songs (for the record, I don’t mind it), then don’t worry: the country of Lie Down in the Light is not the pass at a semi-gloss Nashville sound that Oldham made with that album, but rather a much warmer twangier, more pining, and more emotionally genuine sound. There’s no need to try second-guessing Oldham’s motives for this album as there was for Greatest Palace Songs. As I’m writing this I’m listening to Lie Down in the Light for the third time, and it’s getting richer and stronger and better with each listen.

The first draft of this review was just a blow-by-blow account of each of the album’s twelve tracks, but to be honest I got bored just writing it so I can’t imagine how dull it would be to have to read it. So instead here’s a few personal highlights from the album: the stirring, even joyful first three tracks (with lyrics in the lyric sheet – hand-written – capitalising important words or lines); Dennis Solee’s beautiful clarinet playing on track four, “For Every Field There’s a Mole” – reminiscent of certain “chamber jazz” recordings of the 30s and 40s, and if I’m not mistaken the first time the clarinet has appeared on an Oldham album, at least as a solo instrument; the beautiful backing vocals throughout the album, sometimes by Ashley Webber (the latest in a long line of excellent female vocalists Oldham has employed), and sometimes by a mini-choir of Rod Fletcher, John Ryles, and Marty Slayton, culminating in the simply stunning (and brief) close to the album, where all the voices join together. Indeed, Oldham’s own singing is universally strong here – we’re a long way away from the Palace days, when it was generally accepted wisdom that Oldham couldn’t really sing.

One aspect of Lie Down in the Light that must be mentioned is the lyrics. The idea of “Oldham returns to his old ways” is spoiled rather by a glance across the lyric sheet: if musically this album most strongly resembles Ease Down the Road, lyrically it couldn’t be more different. That album was a beautiful, pastoral affair – until the listener stopped smiling and clued into the brutal lyrics, with their tales of mass-murder and suicide, and the persistent theme of adultery. Lie Down in the Light finds Oldham in a disconcertingly cheerful frame of mind. It’s like listening to the music of Ease Down the Road accompanied by the lyrics it was always meant to have. This inevitably makes the album a less complex, unsettling affair – but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. If I told you Will Oldham had written the lyric “For every man who will last/there’s nothing he can’t get past/no obstacle he cannot erase” you might not believe me; but it’s there on the album, and so’s “Now I want the world to see/Everybody look at me/I’m a good person and free/and O she loves me”. And plenty more where that came from. For all the story-telling (a.k.a. “making stuff up”) that has been a persistent feature of Oldham’s songs, a listener in the past couldn’t help thinking that sometimes he was genuinely telling us something about his life; that adultery theme on Ease Down the Road that I mentioned earlier popped up often enough to make me, at least, wonder what exactly was going on in Oldham’s life at the time. The warmth of the lyrics of Lie Down in the Light is the equivalent here: it’s so prevalent throughout the album that a listener comes away with the strong impression that things must be going pretty well for Oldham right now.

And why wouldn’t they be? It’s hard to think of another songwriter out there at the moment so universally admired and praised, so consistently at the top of his game. Ultimately, Lie Down in the Light will probably be marked down as a minor Oldham album, especially given the fact that it follows two albums of such boldness and magnificence as the Letting Go and Superwolf. Where those two albums, especially the Letting Go, were more often than not stunning and beautiful, Lie Down in the Light is more generally just pleasant. But there’s no reason not to get it, especially if you’re a fan, and though it might seem regressive it’s genuinely a pleasure to hear Oldham making this kind of music again; and it’s an unexpected and surprisingly welcome development that he should be writing songs so unambiguously full of – as the lyric sheet for the album’s opener puts it – LOVE.

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