July 2004 Archives

Born from the still faintly smoldering ashes of Versus (the favorite band of most of my Asian friends), +/- began as something of a surprise for most that band's anxious following: an ethereal trash heap of half-thoughts and scattered ideas that would eventually go on to a more traditional, predictable alternative rock format. But for a brief second, +/- seemed like they could do almost anything.

forming in the downtime of Versus' indefinite hiatus, James Baluyut began self-recording a confused song cycle of one-off numbers he'd been amounting and along with Versus drummer Patrick Ramos, started playing out. the record that followed, self-titled long playing debut album, was an uneven mess of laptop pop, balladeering, and indie rock, with no particular clarity outside that of Baluyut's impossible love woes. but with enough loose ends to fuel a half-dozen lesser records, +/-'s debut was one of seemingly incredible potential, and with a live show that only improved upon the albums erratic ideas, the follow-up was certain set the groundwork for Versus' next chapter.

Teenbeat soon released the full-band follow-up Holding Patterns EP, a more focused, conventionally indie rock release that, though possessing a clarity unseen on their debut, also suggested a perhaps less compelling future for the band. With a world of possibilities at their disposal, it seemed that +/- had gone the easy route, falling into the comfortable patterns of their former band.

By the time of the release of You Are Here, the deal was sealed, +/- had scrapped disparity for formula: radiohead rock. And though their sophomore record was certainly a more cohesive statement, it was clear that +/- was going to be little more than the new Versus, a comfortable title, to be sure, but one not to befitting the Greatest Band of All Time.

Here's the thing about Galaxie 500: you have to buy the whole package. It's a hard prospect, and one I've had a great deal of difficulty with in the past. It's how a friend of mine describes the MC5--a band I've classically had problems with: if you question it, you'll never understand it. They're a package. the music is just an extension of that greater consciousness. Which, all in all, sounds like something of a cop out to me. but it's the only way I can describe Galaxie.

Like Dinosaur Jr., the Galaxie folks fell into that slacker archetype, though of the distinctly collegiate variety. Dean Wareham, Damon Krukowski, and Naomi Yang met as teens in New York, and reacquainted in New England of the mid-'80s while the trio attended Harvard. Dean and Damon played together in a former band, which became Galaxie 500 after Dean's reluctant acceptance of Damon's girlfriend, Naomi, as a novice bass player.

The trio began playing an ephemeral, opiated rock in the tradition of lighter Velvet Underground and Television. The difference, of course, is that Galaxie 500 were staunchly anchored by something those bands could never really be accused of--Galaxie 500 were just plain boring. and over the course of their three proper albums, they never really got any more exciting. Wareham's guitar playing was a beautiful wash, his lyrics lazy and obtuse. the rhythm section of Damon and Naomi serviceable, but never really rising above simply going through the motions. but that's the whole thing--that's the Galaxie 500 hook. There's a simple progression amongst their albums, but honestly, their entire catalog could have been recorded in one sitting. it's such a compacted, effortless vision--and it makes for one of my favorite bands of the 1980s. They make me pine for a time I never knew. Ivy leagues. the early '80s. New England in the woods.

Galaxie 500 dissolved in 1991, with Dean forming the similarly effortless Luna and Damon and Naomi forming, well, Damon and Naomi--but the beautiful simplicity had pretty much already run it course. Galaxie 500--the Greatest Band of All Time to pass out to.

Ambient electronic music is a faceless, personality free music. It's meant to be that way. It's such a different way of expressing than rock'n'roll or rap. It's not about making a statement with words or even with music. It's sorta about not making a statement. The vibe that the music sets doesn't give you something to think about, instead, it gives you the opportunity to think. Instead of providing words to ponder or giving a specific topic, it just provides a setting for thought to happen. Ambient music, dude, it's a total tryp and allows a dude to go deeply deep.

Loscil (pronounced Low-sill or Lah-sill) is Scott Morgan, of Vancouver, BC, Canada. Scott also plays drums in the band, Destroyer(a very good band as well). He makes this very good amibent electronic music, though. Seems like he has for awhile. I don't know very much about it. I don't know. Seems sorta better to keep this kind of music more of a mystery. I don't know how he makes it, where he makes it, when he makes it, why he makes it. All I know is that he makes it and it takes me.

The facts are that he made some self released cds or soemthing, the dudes at Kranky heard it, they said we want to put out your music and now he has put out three cds on Kranky. End of story. Doesn't really seem like he tours. He will never be a big superstar. No huge fame. I'm sorry, I'm just sorta thinking about these things today: about fame, why people make music, and about messages presented by musicians.

Loscil's second album, Submers, is a beautiful dark record that I probably listened to more than any other record of the last five years. Submers theme is submarine and being underwater and you can hear it on the record with the echoing gurgling rhythms and beats. The synths wash over you like rushes of water and the beats are appropriately quiet and at times you don't even realize they are there. Submers has an intense claustrophobic feel to and it is one of the best records ever to close your eyes to.

First Narrows, Loscil's 3rd album, was just released a few months ago. It is the first Loscil to feature live instrumentation. It has more of a focus on melody and is much more of a spring/summer record compared to Submers deep winter vibe. The live instrumentation is not very obvious on some tracks as it has been deeply processed, but it is quite noticible on others. It's a gorgeous, soft, and lilting record and another step for Loscil.

Music is a special gift. It provides us with so many different ways to relax, or get pumped. It takes us to zones that we aren't normally able to get to. I'm especially thankful for Loscil because it gives me something more special than other music....myself. Whoa, did I just say that?? Any music that can music me say that must be The Greatest Band of All Time.

GBoAT is taking the day off because it's over 100 and we can't be in these non-AC houses writing about music. SORRY. We be back tomorrow.

Former Georgian currently rolling in MASS., Carolyn Berk's songs are bruised with an impossible sentimentality, every couplet is a romance, marred with an awkward nostalgia for everything in its wake. Sort of like with real lovers, I suppose. Strange, that. With Lovers, Berk's occasional band, every body part, from wrist to gums, becomes a landscape of locked memory. A landscape that she traverses with a literate, evocative grace, somehow transcending the sap that inherently mires the subject matter of love, loss, hopelessness, and everything else mediocre songwriters tend to muck up.

I spent nearly a year of intensive morbid depression listening to Lovers' Star Lit Sunken Ship, and it was enough to keep the lights out for at least another six months. Every song is a lament of disappointment marked with hopeful defeat, classic "music to slit your wrists to" sentiments over admittedly adult-contempo soundscapes. one of my few truly secret bands.

With The Gutter and the Garden, the band's recently released sophomore number, Berk reconfirms the lyrical prowess initially established with its criminally overlooked predecessor, expanding her disheartened vision with a peppering of conditional optimism. As dreary and droning as ever, The Gutter and the Garden expands the band's sonic scope ever so slightly, minor becomes major a little more often, arrangements elaborated, while maintaining the slight Southern sensibility that grounded their previous effort.

Lovers bum me out more than nearly any other band in my CD collection, and considering my loyalties, that's a feat deserving of the Greatest Band of All Time.

Dum DumDum DumDum DooDooDooDoo "Groove is in the DUUUUDDE!" I swear I'm not kidding. I really believe this. From how GBoAT is going, it seems like Zac will inform you about deep historical dudes you've probably never heard of that have a lot of very interesting history, while I will mostly be talking about bands with one huge hit that has been driven into the ground with a fairly boring history and our amazing new contributor Marisa, well no real trend has developed yet (as she has only written two) but it is clear Marisa's will be interesting and well written. Oh, and it's just starting folks as I feel more comfortable talking about my more awkward musical loves it may get ugly, but stick with us here. There really is something there.
So, yeah, Dum DumDum DumDum DooDooDooDoo, "Groove is in the DUUUDE! YEAH YEAH!" Greatest Band Of All Time. Swear. Totally Swear. Dum DumDum DumDum DooDooDooDoo. It's on every "Totally Fun Party Songs From the 1990's," and every "NOW! That's What I Call The Totally Fun Party Songs From the 1990's" compilation CDs. It was even probably on the amazing "MTV Party To Go" CDs. "Groove Is In The Heart" is an amazing song. It still sounds great when it comes on, even though you've heard it a million times. I mean, it totally does the trick of making you want to dance. It's sorta goofy but with a great bassline from Bootsy Collins, hot horns, very legit guest appearance from Q Tip of A Tribe Called Quest, and that lovable Lady Miss Kier doing it up. Alas, one great song does not a The Greatest Band of All Time make, but when their debut album is really solid, AND they have a hugely underappreciated third album that spoke on all things trippy and ravey then YES, well maybe, but PROBABLY!!!

Lady Miss Kier, Super DJ Dmitry, and Jungle DJ Towa Towa (later changed to just Towa Tei) formed Deee-Lite in 1986 in New York. Leaders of the whole New York club scene they worked the clubs and excited the crowds. One thing I don't know, but would love to know is how a band like Deee-Lite gets signed to a major label. I mean being a phenomenon in NYC will get almost anyone signed, but I have never seen anything about recorded material prior to their major label debut. Do they get signed based off of the live show, or are there demos or what? Anyhoo, they get signed and release their debut album, World Clique, in 1990. The album featured their mega hit, "Groove Is In The Heart," and so many totally good vibes. Vibes, baby, that's what I'm all about now, and Deee-Lite are the best at bringing the vibes. On, World Clique, the vibes are of positive rap style production of the late 80s early 90s variety kinda like De La Soul or A Tribe Called Quest mixed with diva vocals and positive horns. Some songs roll in a traditional dance manner like an early house but feature a heavier layering of instruments and interesting tones over the house base. World Clique sold bunches of records, due to the hit single, and played a big part in bringing back the 70s retro thing that happened in the early 90s. Visually, at this point in their career, Deee-Lite was all lava lamps and deep fashion and wacky fun.

In 92, Deee-Lite dropped a dissapointing second album called Infinity Within. It veers to close, musically, to simple vocal house like you find on all the euro style dance cds of the early and mid 90s. The sound was like some of World Clique but the production was simpler and lost some of its energy and magic. The lyrics became much more political as we entered the days of The Gulf War and George Herbert Walker Bush's depression. I respect the intent, but the lyrics come off sounding pretty trite.

Dewdrops in the Garden was Deee-Lite's last studio album (a remix album dropped later) and was released in 1994. It was a pretty drastic re-imagining of the band's vibe and sound. Towa Tei left the group to work solo, which was a huge blow according to some people who viewed Tei as the musical force behind the band. They added a new member, DJ Ani, and took it so rave. Always pushing the connectedness of humans and earth they took it to another level with Dewdrops in the Garden. The album is filled with ruminations on romance, love, drug references (including a song called DMT, the most intense of psychedelic drugs), and hippy speak. It all works so well. The album is incredibly eclectic, with much more chilled out stuff, and focus on mood, albeit there still is some diva style stuff for those who wouldn't love Deee-Lite without Lady Miss Kier wonderful wails. It does reek of the 90s, but in a nice way. Dewdrops sold poorly and Deee-Lite packed it in. I saw Lady Miss Kier DJ in 1998 or something, and that was not a good show, the good vibes were gone replaced with a very confusing ethos entitled "Bitch" which stood for Being In Technological Courageous Harmony (whu?), I hope it's a movement for more women to DJ, but I'm not sure what it is. She was spinning really garbage drum'n'bass, and it just was sorta gnarly. I sound like a goober, but I WANT THE GOOD VIBES, and Deee-Lite were the best at bringing the good vibes, and good vibes = The Greatest Band of All Time, right? Right?

Ain't nothin' like a bonafide legend to inflate a forgotten musician's historical worth. It's too often in these cases that it's an artist's story, and not their musical legacy, that compels their discography. and there's hardly a stranger legend than that of Scott Walker.

After several years recording forgotten teen pop songs under his Christian name, Ohio-born Scotty Engel moved out to Hollywood where in 1964 he met aspiring singers John Maus and Gary Leeds. The threesome christened themselves the Walker Brothers for some reason or another, and made the somewhat unprecedented decision to move to the U.K. to try to hit it big. Within a year, they had a number one hit in the England, we're nearly as big as the Beatles, and became, strangely enough, a part of the British Invasion. A sort of boy band in the traditional sense, the Walkers weren't really a creative force--rarely playing on their own records, rarely writing their own songs--but with Scott's comically crooned baritone, the group had half a dozen U.K. hits, though largely ignored in the U.S. They weren't really much of a rock band, inspired more by passe American crooners than the reckless Brits, but somehow they managed a respectable cult through the mid-sixties.

In 1967, as the Walker Brothers' stock began to wane, Scott released Scott, his first solo album, to wide critical acclaim and even greater record sales. Weird thing is, Scott is a super dark, morbid, bizarre pop record, filled with covers of his idol, Jaque Brel, like "My Death" and "Amsterdam," not to mention its ridiculous arrangements, with obscenely over-dramatic strings, horns, and other orchestrations composed merely to support Scott's deathly croon. Scott, though a little too much to get used all at once, revels itself to be the work of a true eccentricity: that somehow managed to hit #3 on the U.K. charts at the height of the psychedelic era.

For the next three years, Walker continued his solo streak with three more amazing records, Scott 2-4, each release affording him more control than the last. By the time he recorded Scott 4, his first album comprised entirely of originals, Walker had produced three top ten albums (with Scott 2 hitting number one), and gotten more and more obtuse with every release. Scott 4, though widely acknowledged as his greatest work, sold considerably less than his previous solo records. Still, Walker was popular enough for the BBC to give him a short-lived television show, and to remain a very public celebrity, in spite of most of his material reflecting morose subject matter like suicide, prostitution, and, um, Stalin.

Then came the '70s.

between 1970 and 1974, Walker recorded five unsuccessful (both musically and financially) records in a row, scared off by the misfortune of his own songwriting on 4, the records were largely covers, and without the adventuresome morose of his previous output.

in 1975, the Walker Brothers reunited to little fanfare, recording a six minute emo brood called "No Regrets"which, somehow, became yet another inexplicable hit for Walker. Three reunion records followed with little success, despite being celebrated by folks like Eno, Ferry, and Bowie (who famously covered "My Death" in a very Walker-like fashion).

and then Walker simply vanished.

A famed recluse, Walker wasn't seen in public for nearly twenty years. Releasing a single record in the 80s, 1984's surprisingly modern Climate of Hunter (an exploration of ambient minimalism), Walker was absent for another 11 years with nary a public appearance.

then it got really weird. In 1995, Walker re-emerged at the age of 52 with a release on Drag City, of all places, called Tilt, which may very well be one of the most alienating pop records ever recorded. Gone is Walker's rich, full baritone. Gone are the boisterous orchestrations. Gone is any sense of hope whatsoever. In there place are a strained, angry tenor, bloodcurdling sparsity, and the sound of a broken soul. The record, one of the late century's greatest anomalies, is simply amazing, like a modern day Marble Index. four years later, he recorded the soundtrack to Pola X in much the same vein, and at the beginning of the century, persuaded by Walker-phile Jarvis Cocker to produce Pulp's most recent record, We Love Life (whose single, "Bad Cover Version," actually takes a jab at one of Walker's early records).

The legend of Scott Walker is matched only by his amazingly polarizing discography, so impenetrable, so bizarre, and some how, however briefly, so commercially successful. Scott Walker's transformation from teen idol to British pop star to bizarro-world Tom Jones to experimental pop senior is a little far fetched, even in the spectrum of the British 60s, but it's all as true as his title. The Greatest Band of All Time.

Seems like the world has gone fantasy crazy. Oh, you know, you got your Lords on the Rings and your good old Harold Potters with their fantastical creatures and their heros and villians and you know, like magic and stuff. I actually know very little about it. I'm not really a fan of the fantasy genre of books and movies. I've never been enchanted by wizards or scared by dragons (I did once had a great affinity for the great half real action/half animated Disney classic Pete's Dragon). Meanwhile, I have quite enjoyed the funny ha ha fantasy aesthetic of such bands like Surface of Eceyon. In the context of a band like Surface of Eceyon the fantasy element is much easier to digest because they are a mostly instrumental deep psych jam style band and it just fits in with the vibe. While listening to the music you aren't hit over the head with the fantasy vibe. Now, on the other hand, you have a band like Dragon, which is the solo project for Dick Baldwin, member of Landing and Surface of Eceyon. Dragon is a folk pop band with just a touch of psych or maybe it's better to call Dragon a song cycle and not a band. Dragon brings the fantasy full on.

You see the only release under the Dragon name to the right here. Each of the edition of 120 or so of the Dragon CD were hand stitched by Dick Baldwin and it really feels like an amazingly intimate package. Dragon is a 5 song, 9 minute CD telling the story of a Dragon and and his wrath upon a Kingdom. You hear things from the viewpoint of the villagers, the dragon, a brave warrior, and a narrator. The songs, beautiful and simple, reminds me of Daniel Johnston. Baldwin's soft voice sincerely speaking of these events is so pleasing and it feels so fresh. Dragon is done with an amazing amount of sincerity, and Baldwin is putting himself "out there" to an extent which is rare these days.

The Dragon legacy continues on with a new song cycle entitled Magicorn. Magicorn is about a failed wizard who happens upon a unicorn who is brimming with magical powers. The story, much like Dragon, ends tragically. Baldwin injects these mythical creatures with a great deal of dignity, and sadness that makes these simple songs which tell simple stories feel so important to me. I saw Dragon perform last night for the first time, and it really made my year. Dick described the stories between the songs and had an audience filled with cynical rock'n'rollers rapt in attention as he sang from a Dragon's viewpoint, "As I swoop down toward the small village, people run and houses burn. What I'd give for one fine night to dance and drink with them. A taste of love would fill my heart. But instead I must kill." I hear that Baldwin will create two more song cycles in the series based on mythical creatures. It really seems amazing to me, as I said before dragons and potions and clerics are not my cup of tea, but, "despite the crushing odds," (from "Fallen" on Dragon) Dragon (and Magicorn) are The Greatest Band of All Time.

Dragon is exclusively availale at Yarn Lazer.

Sincerest apologies to our latest regular contributor, Miss Marissa Meltzer, for the tardiness of this post. Due to technical difficulties, and my own gross negligence, our sister in arms makes her regular debut in a less than totally awesome form, an I apologize for that. So, without further ado:

I like to tell people that the most punk rock thing I've ever done happened at age sixteen, when I skipped my junior prom to go to a show at Gilman Street. This story isn't a lie--it was the night of my junior prom and I did instead go see bands play--but it wasn't as if I was leaving some tuxedoed date at my doorstep, corsage in hand. But date or no date, what kind of band lures a hot-blooded American girl away from her prom? Antioch Arrow, perhaps the greatest band of all time.

Antioch Arrow were five cute boys (Aaron Montaigne, Mac Mann, Ron Anarchy, Jeff Winterberg, Andy Ward) from San Diego, which was a pretty prolific place for music in the mid-90s. Their albums were released by Gravity Records, who also put out records by Angel Hair, Clikatat Ikatowi, and Heroin. Gravity was the sort of record label that encouraged slavish devotion in some ("some" meaning "me") and utter indifference to many. The band's music has been described as an "overwhelming art explosion of noisy poems sprayed in your face in one minute bursts" and "like someone emptying cans of Mace in your eyes." Both of these descriptions are apt enough, but I will add this: Antioch Arrow sounded the way it felt to be a teenager.

My problem here is that I really want you to love Antioch Arrow the way I do. I want you to get beyond the dyed black hair and white belts (to their credit, though, that was a pretty hot look in 1994). It's difficult to listen to Antioch Arrow for the first time as a wizened resident of the 21st century. So, let's pretend we are endlessly bored teenage girls from suburban California. One day were sorting through the mail and a friend from LA has made us a mix tape and on it is the song "Conspiring the Go-Go". It's awesome. Were in.

"Conspiring the Go-Go" is so good I cannot even recall anything else on the mix tape. The song, with the repeated screaming of "I'm sorry but I can't sit still" (at least, I think that's what they're saying) sounds like the music version of ADHD and sort of feels like being hit in the stomach repeatedly with a dodgeball, but in a good way. Their first two albums, The Lady is a Cat and In Love with Jetts, are short but unstoppable, each song clocking in at around 50 seconds and featuring more erratic drumming and more spastic singing. "Angels Lawn" is a memorable song for many reasons, only one of which being the word "virginity" dragged out to seven syllables. Whats not to like?

And then their third (and last) album, Gems of Masochism, dropped. I bought it, but immediately knew something was amiss. The cover featured the band members looking vaguely goth. The song titles ("Gotta Love the Lights", "Introducing Elizabeth") seemed all wrong. And listening to it confirmed all my suspicions: the music was dark, slow, piano-driven, and claustrophobic. There were songs about mascara. I may have cried.

It's ironic because their first two albums do sound a bit dated and--dare I say--emo, though my devotion doesn't waver. And Gems of Masochism, so reviled by me and my friends, was actually re-released to universally complimentary reviews earlier this year. For me, they'll always be the band that made me ditch my prom and then broke my heart a year later. Sounds like the Greatest Band of All Time. MARISSA MELTZER.

(My greatest friend is moving away tomorrow. It makes me sad but we will still be great friends and she will better her life. It is an amazing honor to have her amazing writing on this website I call home. God bless Marianna Ritchey.)

I have known Led Zeppelin was the greatest band of all time for about 3 years, though my relationship with them stretches all the way back to the late eighties, when I was given a cassette copy of "Houses of the Holy" for Christmas in 7th grade. That album, along with Bob Marley's "Legend," blew my mind for a full year, until I lost it in the great Boarding School Move of 1991. After that, Zep didn't resurface in my life until senior year, when I realized that I should have lost my virginity to "IV," rather than to some terrible Jimmy Buffet album.

It's hard to put your finger on the essence of what makes Led Zeppelin the greatest band of all time. Is it the musicianship? Sure, each member is almost preternaturally gifted at playing their instrument; from the brainy reclusiveness of John Paul Jones to the outrageous, hairy, tank-topped and mindfucking power of the late John Bonham to the gentle vibe control of golden-maned Robert Plant to the life-altering brilliance of silent and hostile Jimmy Page, of whom Katy Davidson once said, "thinking about him sitting in his room writing those riffs makes me literally cry," no one could argue that Led Zeppelin doesn't showcase a bewildering display of technical skill. But so do a lot of bands. Eddie Van Halen once claimed he could play 164th notes, which, aside from the fact that the speed of note subdivisions is not concrete and therefore impossible to brag about (since 164th notes could conceivably be played at the rate of one per minute, for example), is a really dumb thing to say. But even if it were true, and not dumb--that's not special. It's sure as hell not enough to make something The Greatest Of All Time. Think of it this way: I type 117 words per minute. That's pretty goddamn fast. But does it make me the greatest WRITER of all time? No. No, it doesn't. So it must be something else that makes Led Zeppelin better than all other bands in this or any other century.

Is it the songwriting? Sure, it's good. It's VERY good. For a band which relied so heavily on sexual innuendo, alcohol abuse obtuse JRR Tolkien references and 7 minute prog songs about heaven for their lyrical content, Zep remained incredibly fresh and innovative throughout its career; constantly challenging previous conceptions of what their "sound" was; changing, progressing, moving through dirty blues to painfully long stoner jam sessions to tight, crystal-clear concept epics to all out rock and fucking roll. But lots of bands have amazing songwriting. Cat Stevens is an amazing songwriter. But he's not the Greatest Band of All Time. Hildegarde of Bingen was inspired by visitations from angels, demons, and apocalyptic visions of the fall of Lucifer--but she's not the Greatest Band of All Time. Dmitri Shostakovich wrote the "Leningrad" symphony while Nazi bombs fell all around him, but he's not the Greatest Band of All Time.

It's not popularity, either. Though it's hard to argue with the legions of wall-eyed, swaying hippies that packed Madison Square Garden during John Bonham's 20 minute drum solo in 1973, the fact remains that Motley Crue packed the Civic Auditorium in Los Angeles with thousands of screaming fans before they had recorded a single note or been approached by a single label--yet they're not the Greatest Band of All Time.

No, it's something else that makes Led Zeppelin so special. It's something else that causes the band to rise from the mere brilliance wherein so many great bands languish, that causes them to ascend, glistening, to the top of the smooth pedestal upon which they stand, alone, as The Greatest Band Of All Time. And it's something I find impossible to explain.

My friend Adam Forkner and I share this love of Led Zeppelin, along with an undying appreciation for Ween in a time when most of our friends claim to have "outgrown" them. Perhaps my assertion that Led Zeppelin is in fact the Greatest Band of All Time is best affirmed by the following statement, which Mr. Forkner sent to me via email:

"when i was a kid my parents went to the store and left
me alone in the house so i took out my dads zep one
record, turned the stereo up all the way and started
rocking out with a spoon for a mic and then, in the
middle of a jimmy page solo with my foot on the back
of the couch, ready to do some theatrical flip in time
with 'whole lotta love" they came back and i was
embarassed but they were mostly proud to have raised a
son who knew the meaning of rock and fucking roll."

Nineties rock block week continues with a brief exploration of the career of Los Angeles' pocket violinist, Miss Petra Haden. One of the three triplet daughters of Ornette Coleman bassist Charlie Haden, Petra began her career in earnest in the early Nineties when she and her sister Rachel began working with high school friend Anna Warnoker. the trio added a drummer and an incredibly shitty band name--that dog. (note: lower case, with punctuation)--and soon became a "staple" on the L.A. "club circuit" as hangers-on to the burgeoning alternative rock movement.

Amidst the early nineties Alt-rock buying frenzy, that dog. somehow got themselves a contract with powerhouse DGC in time to release their self-titled debut in 1994. An average, formulaic alternative rock band, that dog. hold a special place in my personal affections, and though I can't in good conscience really offer an affirmation of their recorded works, I think it's fair to say that the elements of the band most worth noting can nearly all be attributed to the doubly-powerful Haden sisters. Between their mutual vocal harmony explorations and Petra's signature violin playing, that dog. was elevated just above mediocrity--a C+ average best evidenced on the band's final album, the throughly alright Retreat From the Sun.

With that dog. still kicking, Petra began to become quite a commodity all over Los Angeles--as most string players in rock bands seem to--moonlighting for the likes of Mike Watt, Beck, Spain (her brother's band), and Green Day. It was at about this time that Petra also began working with Weezer bassist Matt Sharp on his Numan-ian side-project the Rentals--a partnership that would evolve into that band's celebrated Return of the Rentals, and that would continue loosely through the band's demise.

About a year before that dog.'s break-up, Petra compiled a tape of her wordless, largely a cappella four track experiments--tapes she had been making since she was a girl--into an album called Imaginaryland. A marvel of interlaced vocal harmony, the record is comprised almost entirely of wordless singing--in places emulating specific instruments, otherwise just hollow consonants. it's a joyful, willfully naive experiment, and the result, though extremely narrow, are haunting enough for me to pine for the record for a number of years.

With the demise of that dog. in 1997, Haden's future was in a sort of upheaval--a listlessness that lead to her briefly relocating to Portland. Along with Accordionist Miss Murgatroid, Haden began work on Bella Neurox, expanding the ideas she began on three years earlier on Imaginaryland. With considerably fuller instrumentation, Neurox was largely a collaborative effort, and though not quite as pure as her solo debut, it was a welcomed maturation.

In 2000, Petra was struck by a car while crossing the street in Venicean accident that sent her briefly into a coma that woke to phenomenal medical bills for the uninsured musician. An outpouring of support from all of her rich ass friends (including Beck, Tenacious D, Stephen Perkins, The GoGos, Vincent Gallo, Sean Lennon, and Weezer) soothed a bit of the costs, and soon she was back on her feet.

In the time since, she's recorded an as-yet-unreleased, fully a cappella version of the Who's landmark The Who Sell Out (which, despite feeling a little like Rockapella or whatever, is actually pretty awesome), a collaborative record with Bill Frisell (with a bunch of cheesy shit like a cover of Coldplay's "Yellow"), and a follow-up to Bella Neurox called Hearts & Daggers--also unreleased.

Her studio credits are impossibly long and rarely reliable, but you can usually bet that her contribution to anything she touches will likely be the most memorable moments therein. like a fine seasoning salt (and bad metaphors), Petra just makes everything better--like you'd expect from the Greatest Band Of All Time.

Little disclaimer: we are in the middle of the busiest week of the year probably for us here at GBoAT because of festivals and concerts and new jobs and best friends moving away and being on vacation. Therefore, we will not have an entry for Saturday, but we will be back at full strength next week (with some great stuff from the likes of Marianna Ritchey and Marisa Meltzer). Thanks for the patience. GBoAT is just starting.

Oh man, another day 90's alternative rock band to heap praise upon. I'm sure one day I'll be heaping praise on Marcy's Playground and Seven Mary Three. To quote Zac, "I heard somewhere" that most people's favorite music of all time is the music that they liked from age 14 to 18, and therefore you fine people are inundated day after day with bands that I was into during this period. Personal biases aside the 90s were an amazing and unique period for music. Never was there such a time where so many pre-existing bands who were creating music locally and independently were sought after, signed by major labels, and played on the radio. Possum Dixon was from Los Angeles and they were just dudes with jobs, who started a band, and recorded music. There were no agents no managers, no booking companies, until they got signed and then there's were swarms of them.

The project of Rob Zabrecky, Robert O'Sullivan, and Celso Chavez was a energy filled art pop group with driving keyboards and guitars. Showing strong new wave and Modern Lovers influences the band always put on super live shows. Possum Dixon brought a film noir aesthetic to it's album artwork and to it's lyrics. The band's lyrics also leaned towards broken hearted angst and job talk making for a more complete picture and lyrical depth.

Possum Dixon self released and EP and a tape before they were signed to Interscope records in 1993. Later that year their eponymous major label debut was released. It was an incredibly uptempo affair that featured a number of the songs that were on their earlier self-releases. With sometimes goofy sounding vocals and simple song structurers the songs were kept afloat with their strong energy and catchiness. The band's second album for Interscope, 1996's Star Maps, was a much more complex, moodier affair. They pulled the energy back a few notches giving the songs much more space, allowing them to develop and show their strength. Star Maps was Possum Dixon's highest moment. One more album followed in 1998, minus keyboardist Robert O'Sullivan, New Sheets was produced by Ric Ocasek and it's easy to tell. New Sheets is much simpler and more power pop than Star Maps and it feels a bit uninspired. Possum Dixon's day was done like so many other band's signed during the roaring 90s they were dropped by their label due to underwhelming album sales and they called it a day. Right now thinking about Possum Dixon and all the other 90's bands that got signed and that had just the tiniest taste of success is depressing me. These bands were doing their own thing, making music for the right reasons, and then preyed upon by trend exploiting record labels. Sure, they had it good for a while but it's just sorta sad. Possum Dixon brought it. They brought it real good, but they were just one of hundreds of forgotten bands of the alternative 90s but they will always be The Greatest Band of All Time.

The second stage at Lollapalooza was apparently some sort of a golden appetizier tray for me from which I could pick bands that would stay with me for years and years ad this is the second band (the other being Shudder to Think) getting the GBoAT treatment from me that I had an enlightening experience with at a Lolla second stage. It was that 1995 Lollapalooza with Pavement and Beck and The Jesus Lizard and Hole and Sonic Youth. Man, good day, seriously, and the highlight of that good day was the 2 hours plus that I spent at the 2nd stage. I skipped a good portion of Cypress and all of Hole to hang out at that bastion of cool, the 2nd stage. The Roots were totally rad, Hum were so loud and amazing, and then Pavement played a second set of mostly requests. It was so great. Alright, enough of the embarrasing reminiscing, but the point is there was something important about that 2nd stage that I paid 28 bucks or 35 bucks or whatever to see. It was such an important step in the deepening and broadening of my music understanding. That Hum performance especially was one of those epiphaninal events. I was standing there dumbstruck looking up at this man who was one of the dorkiest looking dudes I had ever seen in my life. He was playing the crappiest looking guitar I had ever seen and leading his band in this incredibly loud and powerful music. I mean his guitar looked like crap. It was this crummy looking Yamaha or like Suzuki or something and it was an awful bright green and it was so scratched and carved. It looked like it was purchased for no more than what I paid to get into the concert and that was the most exciting thing ever. Man, it pumps me up just thinking about it. Just the concept of a 17 year old realizing that not everything has to be all Stone Temple Pilots is awesome. Standing there in the dusty field in the warm summer night air mouth wide open. All right, enough of the cliche teenage epiphany let's talk about the band.

Hum came out of the suprisingly legit music scene from Champign/Urbana, Illinois. The leaders of the scene, The Poster Children, took Hum under their wings and released their first two albums on their own label. Two members of The Poster Children even joined Hum. The first two albums had a lot of promise and the songwriting was interesting but the production really dragged the albums down. They were signed to a major label after touring with some big acts like Shellac, The Jesus Lizard, and Smashing Pumpkins. Bringing up the Pumpkins is interesting, because Hum is compared to the Pumpkins quite a bit. Both bands are heavy on the heavy and also bring the pretty. In 1995, everything went haywire. Hum released their major label debut, You'd Prefer An Astronaut, and the single "Stars" became a hit on alternative radio. They toured and toured and sold a bunch of records and then it sorta fizzled in a very classic mid 90s alternative sorta way. They took too long to record the follow up and the whole alternative thing died, you know, so Hum faded away. BUT, they did record the follow up, called Downward is Heavenward and it was released in 98, and it came out amazing. It's one off the most underrated albums of that period. It sold poorly though and the band had a van crash, and dissolved later that year. The members moved onto new projects (Centaur, National Skyline) and Hum will be mostly forgotten.
Hum put out two excellent albums of crushing guitars and soft mumbled vocals.
Most importantly, like all other bands to ever perform on a Lollapalooza second stage, they are The Greatest Band Of All Time.

Die Monitor Bats, known alternately as seemingly any arrangement of the letters that compose their name (Die Monitr Batss, Di MNTR BTS, etc.), are a Portland four-piece comprised of saxo-ma-phone, guitar, bass, the occasional dual vocal and drums. With a pedigree that includes members of the Gossip and Sleetmute/Nightmute, what could very well be just another of Nathan Howdeshell's "other bands" instead comes off as a shining tribute to its influences--the just-past-vogue No-Wave scene of the late 70s-early 80s. Clearly, the lineage from which Diiiie Mntr Batzz descend (sparing us all the list of no-wave pedigree) lays a groundwork of understanding for such a brand of ungodly racket--but even perspective doesn't really make their debut "album" Youth Controllers record any less ridiculous.

And when I say "ridiculous," I mean TOTALLY AWESOME.

It's a sloppy, masturbatory mess of chunky, dissonant guitars, jarring horn squelches, stutter-stops, and atonal screaming--and it just makes me so damned giggly. There's almost nothing at all cerebral in my unabashed appreciation of their debut; Dye Monitrrr Battz seem to have done the previously unthinkable--shoving an id-soaked sock in the mouth of my impossible long-windedness with the depth of their sheer awesomeness. I mean, come on--nine songs in under 15 minutes, plus the greatest chorus of all time ("Spread your legs! And release the Bats!")? How could you, with a clear conscience, resist this?

One of my very favorite show experiences was that of their tour kick-off show at the Fast Forward house in PDX (pictured above) in which the band got through about one and a half songs before all of their equipment was destroyed by the audience. I can think of no clearer an articulation of this band's deserved status as Greatest Band Of All Time.

There a lot of names that come to mind when I hear "Greatest Band of all Time". Many of them have extensive catalogs of impressive material: Bo Diddley, Unwound, Rolling Stones, Lesley Gore, Milkshakes, John Lee Hooker, the Fall, Webb Pierce, Holly Golightly, the Beatles, Betty Everett, the Impressions, George Jones, James Brown, Fugazi and Annette Funicello have all released album after album of music incredible, all qualify for the status of Greatest Band of all Time. But I am captivated by the work of a man who made only one album. It was all he needed to make. He is Jackson C. Frank.

I'd never heard of him before February when I was playing in Bristol, England. I walked into the house I was staying and my hosts Lisa and Tom had just put on a record. I stopped dead.

"What is this?"

"A folk singer from the '60s, Jackson C. Frank. It's produced by Paul Simon, I guess he was a big influence on Simon & Garfunkel".

What the wtf. The album they had was a bootleg reissue of the 1965 Columbia album Jackson C. Frank, his sole release, long out of print and impossible to find.

Don't know what got me so immediately about it. A man, a guitar, some songs, a legend. It was just clear and simple and spoke volumes. These songs, I can't get away from them. They really are nothing special except to me. And a bunch of people who met him, and some Brit folk types who don't mean much to me like Bert Jansch, Sandy Denny, Al Stewart. He was American, spent the mid-'60s in England, playing shows and influencing a generation of folk-rockers. Being a "major influence" doesn't mean a hill of beans; impressionable Brits come cheap. The songs though, they last forever and "Blues Run the Game", "Kimbie", "My Name Is Carnival" are immortal. He apparently recorded several sessions for the BBC. Why haven't these been released? Somebody get on that.

Digging deeper there is a tragic back story. The equivalent of one fourth of Frank's hard times has made legends of mediocrities with a tenth of Frank's magic. For instance, when he was a kid the furnace exploded at his elementary school, killing most of his classmates. He suffered burns that took over a year to heal. The insurance settlement from the accident was paid to him when he reached the age of 21, so he moved to London, where he shared an apartment with the aforementioned Simon & Garfunkel. His album was recorded in three hours and went nowhere. He married, his child died in infancy, his wife left him. He was homeless on the streets for years, lost the use of his legs and someone randomly shot him in the eye. None of this matters. He could have spent the years after recording Jackson C. Frank as a successful tax accountant, preparing to retire to his vacation home in Florida, wouldn't change the fact that the Jackson C. Frank album touches deep. He was only 22 when he made this record, but he sounds like he could have been 40. When he was 40, he looked like he was 60. He died at the age of 56.

One clue to Frank's genius: when he was 13, still recovering from severe burns, his family took him to Graceland because he loved Elvis Presley. He sat at the bottom of the driveway, and was surprised when Elvis came out, introduced himself and took Frank into the house to meet the parents. This was in 1956. Heartbreak Hotel. Jesus Christ. Could kill a man. Or make him stronger.

In a late entry to the other week's tragicomedy we called "Greatest Album of All Time," I offer another incredibly soft-handed record for your consideration. Please cut me some slack on this one—I've been doing these regular updates almost completely alone for a week, and I'm getting a little tapped. Anyway, without further ado: Frank Black.

("Wait, is he really writing about the effing PIXIES?!?! So this is what projected embarrassment feels like...")

In 1993, about a month or so before Charles Thompson broke the news to the rest of the Pixies that the seven year trip was officially over (a move that his pocketbook has clearly come to regret), he began spending some time holed up in a studio with Pere Ubu-ite Eric Drew Feldman to work on a handful of new songs written to escape the trappings of the Pixies sound. Things were looking hopeful for the duo's efforts, so upon disbanding the Pixies, Thompson put the finishing touches on his new songs, and Frank Black (an inversion of his long time stage name Black Francis) was officially born—with the resulting album, despite all of his efforts to the contrary, sounding a whole heck of a lot like the Pixies.

Though consciously more structurally diverse than the bulk of the Pixies oeuvre, Black's self-titled debut is largely a reflection of his particular contribution to his celebrated band—acting as sort of a perfect counterpoint to the Breeders' pre-break-up Pod, that together define the two most distinct halves of the Pixies (sans a little Santiago for good measure). The record is largely a celebration of America's pop dynasty—besides songs written in specific tribute to the Ramones ("I Heard Romona Sing"), Iggy Pop ("Ten Percenter"), and featuring a cover of the Beach Boys' "Hang On To Your Ego"—the record touches on a multitude of American pop mainstays. But in spite of its intentional divergence from the Pixies throne, I've always largely considered this to be the final Pixies record—if only because its relative consistency has a lot more in common with that band's output then that of Frank Black's widely disappointing solo career.

Widely available at our nation's finer thrift stores and pawn shops (I bought my copy in perfect condition for the sum of $1.50), Frank Black is, admittedly, a little uneven—but in much the same tradition of previous GAoAT ponyexpressrecord, its high points shine just shy of his finest work. Frank Black is certainly not the Pixies, nor even necessarily on caliber with the best of the post-Pixies records (Kim Deal's output being in places arguably better than Jesus himself)—and surely a record that charts the first mile-marker on the downward curve of his lengthy creative plateau (what would quickly become Black's meteoric decline) could hardly stand in the annuls of pop history as a creative high-water mark. But look it up in a tattered, poorly bound reference book called GBoAT? It's the Greatest Album of All Time.

I'm going to do my best to rope this back in. I've been getting a little off track lately.

On one of my first trips to Portland, then acquaintance Owen Ashworth and I spent an awkward, enlightening, and eventually life-altering 24 hours together on a whim--he was coming down to play a show and wanted some company, I was honored to oblige. The ride was a little rocky at first (conversation a bit stifled, as to be expected) but eventually hit its stride upon reaching the topic of--what else--music. We spoke at length of his failed record label, which included only two releases: the first his own, and the second a band he was briefly in called the Papercuts. As is often the case with Owen, the Papercuts were instantly awarded the title of his "favorite band," with much praise for his genius friend Jason Quever--a name I recognized from Owen's own records. "I've got a bunch of them left--I'll have to get you one." And that was the last I ever really heard about it.

A while later I was commissioned to throw together a rather ill-fated show for a man named Cass McCombs (another friend of Owen's) whose recently released EP Not The Way I had recently fallen in love with. And there was that Quever name again, producing and playing all over the thing. Now, if you're familiar with McCombs (I'll do a GBoAT on that dude sooner or later), you'll know that his records are captivating sonic statements--an all or nothing enveloping wash that works as an incredibly strong contrast to the bulk of the voguish hipster folk movement currently at hand. And, as I was soon to find out, this success is due in no small to the careful hand of Jason Quever.

The Papercuts is another of those revolving door projects, historically featuring folks like Cass and Owen, but for the most part just revolving around Quever alone. His first album, 2000's Rejoicing Songs (the one Owen was talking about), is largely a clunky affair--with Modest Mouse's heavy influence a little too felt throughout (apparently Quever doesn't think so highly of the record--I think I got my copy against his wishes). Since then his sound has evolved dramatically, taking on a beautifully timeless air that is simultaneously reverential of a number of likely sources of the folk era--pulling the curtain back a little bit on the wizardry of Cass' sound.

Since meeting him about a year ago, Jason has been circulating different versions of the Papercuts' self-titled EP on CD-R, I couple of which I have received and nearly worn-out--with particular regard for the song "Pan American Blues pt. 2." Simply put, one of my very favorite songs of the last couple of years--whose chorus just levels me everytime. There was talk (and even a release date) for the record (now titled A Fairy Tale) to come out on Cass' label Monitor Records, but after some reportedly shifty circumstances, the plans were axed--with plans for release on a smaller label in the near future. Plans are also being laid for Quever to collaborate on the next Casiotone For the Painfully Alone record--a notion that, as you can imagine, excites me a great deal. Unsung and underappreciated, we here at GBoAT pray that our man Q gets his just dues, and gets them quick.

UPDATE: wait a sec, did Urban Outfitters rip me? All of that info has been on the web for months, and then, suddenly, a day after we wrote about it, it's news? Weird.

Since the very inception of this whole GBoAT thing, our man Steve Schroeder has been hassling me. Just last week he sez to me, he sez, "Zac, pretty soon I'm gonna have to demand you write about something other than white dudes in a rock bands. You're looking like a chump. A racist chump. And I don't wanna see you writing about some kinda Japanese girl group, neither." So I sez to him, I sez, "Listen Schroeder, I fear what I do not understand. And i do not understand 'minority music.'" bad joke.

No, but seriously: I know I have a very narrow scope of "expertise." English dudes. That's pretty much all I got. I've never been much for Jazz, and (god forgive me for admitting this) traditional Raggae/Dancehall/Dub has never really done much for me either. It's not that I don't listen to other kinds of music--in fact, I pretty much exclusively listen to hip hop any time I'm in a car doing anything. But that addresses the root of the problem, I guess: I am primarily a fan of Commercial hip hop. And it's hardly worth it to spend GBoAT time on widely acknowledged artists like Jay-Z or J Kwon, or Ludacris, or whoever, as I don't think I could possibly illuminate anything everyone doesn't already know about these artists.

I do have a sort of guilt (colorless guilt, thank you) at the notion that my record collection is primarily composed of examples of cultural appropriation, with considerable fewer examples of their sources. When it comes to Hip Hop, however, I'm surprisingly comfortable with the lack of volume in my CD racks. Over the years I've owned a fair number of Hip Hop albums, the majority of them I have invariably sold after a few years. While this might suggest an extremely narrow appreciation for the art form, I would hope that a brief (if less than informed) explanation might clarify a little bit.

I have long viewed Hip Hop as an art form of disposability. Which, though perhaps wrapped in a negative connotations, is not meant to dismiss or malign it in any way. It's just that, more so than any other music medium, Hip Hop (commercial Hip Hop, anyway) is designed for the Now, the New, and the Fresh, with little regard for sonic longevity. Now, I know what you're saying: All commercial music is designed for the now. Granted. but it seems to me that the bulk of the disposable pop music just borrows it's cues from Hip Hop, fusing it's freshness with more tradition pop structures.

I have a great deal of respect for any media that eschews the future for the present, as I think that most media is far too often self-important and self-revelatory. But it seems to me (much to the embarrassment of my co-editor) that Hip Hop is designed to have a quick shelf-life.

Again, this coming from someone who gets his Hip Hop primarily from commercial radio. Anyway. Long story short, I really like Hip Hop (a phrase that, as i type it, sounds shockingly like "I have a lot of black friends"), I just have no business writing about it.

But that said, this entry is supposedly about Ol' Dirty Bastard, so here goes: though I think the Ol' Dirty saga (far overshadowing his actual music, the bulk of which i enjoy immensely) is now the subject of a VH1 Special or something, let me recount some of the highlights.

So, first there was Wu-Tang--the most important rap group of the 90s and beyond. Russell Jones and his cousins Robert Diggs (the RZA) and Gary Grice (GZA the Genius) began with a brilliant premise, even better production, and a plan: drop a bomb as a vast collective, and in the wake of the explosion, start as many solo careers as possible. The plan worked brilliantly, as the group's debut, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) was an out and out smash, and a certified classic. The Clan was also smart enough to manage an unprecedented contract that only allowed for the release of Wu-Tang records proper, which opened the door for ever member (and later, sub-member) to negotiate solo record deals individually.

Dirty was the second member of the Clan (after Method Man) to release a solo record, the wildly popular Return to the 36 Chambers--with its infamous welfare i.d. card cover--was released in 1995. RZA's production is on par with his best records of the period, allowing ODB a beautiful canvas on which to shit. The ODB's Wu persona is expanded herein to a shockingly manic degree--an early solidification of the mad clown that would soon take over his life. It sort of just sounds like they set him in front of a mic, recorded hours of random, ranting material, and taped all together into some semblance of a record. For example: "Shimmy Shimmy Ya," his biggest solo hit, is like a lot of the record, just the same verse repeated twice over RZA's masterfully minimal production. The subject matter--much like that of most of his work--is largely shockingly crass, scatological, nonsensical, and often self-depricating (typified in the single "Raw Hide" with lyrics like: "I came out my momma pussy/I'm on welfare/Twenty-six years old still on welfare!.../I don't give a fuck/I wanna see blood, whether it's period blood/Or bustin' your fuckin face/some blood!.../I'm dope like fuckin' heroin/Wu-Tang Bloodkin/a goblin/who come tough like lambskin/Imagine/gettin' shot up with Ol Dirty insulin/You bound to catch AIDS or somethin'/Not sayin I got it/but nigga if I got it you got it!!") Though not the greatest record in the Wu-Tang cannon, it was enough to create one of the most charismatic, memorable characters in hip hop's long line of crazies.

Then everything started to go famously wrong. in 1997, Dirty is arrest for not paying child support on three of his then-13 children. the next year, he became a (abbreviated) household name after bum-rushing the Grammy stage during Shawn Colvin's expectance speech to protest Wu-Tang's loss to Puff Daddy ("...Wu Tang is for he children. We teach the children. Puffy is good, but Wu-Tang is the best. I want you to know that this is ODB, and I love you all. PEACE."). Then his rap-sheet started to expand: an attempted assault charge from his ex-wife, a warrant for his arrest after missing court dates about child support, and an arrest for shoplifting (after trying to walk out of a shoe store with $50 dollar shoes on) that came one week after he walked out of a hospital, against doctor's orders, with a gun shot wound. He missed the court dates for this arrest, and another warrant was placed out for him. Later that year he was arrested twice for threatening to shoot people on two different occasions.

The next year, he was arrested for attempted murder after a routine traffic stop, in which they alleged Dirty fired shots at them, though no evidence of a weapon was ever produced, and the case was dismissed. over the next few months he was pulled over four additional times, all of which resulting in criminal charges: the first was possession of a bulletproof vest (which is illegal for a felon in LA, where he was at the time), the second was possession of Crack, and the third was driving without plates and a suspended license, and finally, for possession of marijuana and additional crack. like, a lot of crack. Dude kept avoiding court dates, and kept getting warrants out for his arrest.

During this time, he completed his sophomore record, 1999s uneven Nigga Please, with a wide cast of producers including the Neptunes and RZA. The record was financially successful, though nowhere near that of its predecessor, and spawn the CLASSIC single "Got Your Money," featuring Kelis.

After serving 10 months in court-ordered rehab for a million different violations, ODB (who was now also mysteriously known as Big Baby Jesus, Joe Bananas, Osiris, and later, Dirt McGirt) went on the lamb with only two months of rehab left--becoming a fugitive. in this time, he famously made an on-stage appearance at the crowded record release party for the W, the third Wu Tang Clan record, and escaped without arrest. a few days later he was caught, and was sentenced to only two-to-four years for the amassment of all of his charges.

In his two year jail term he gained a ton of weight, was largely on suicide watch, and spent a healthy chunk of time in a mental hospital. He's convinced that the FBI is monitoring him. His record company releases a "Best Of" record, despite only having released two proper full-lengths. a tiny record company releases a record called The Trials and Tribulations of Russell Jones, featuring vocals he recorded on the lamb, without his knowledge.

ODB--now Dirt McGirt--was release from prison in may of last year, and now has what appears to be a largely exploitative contract with the esteemed Roc-A-Fella records (no release date in sight that I could muster), a VH1 special, and has a 9 pm curfew. GBoAT gettin' EMO.

Since I've done absolutely nothing to establish Ol' Dirty Bastard's unique brilliance with this lengthy historical tirade (getting more and more like that, aren't I?), it's hard to aptly support my assessment of "Greatest Band of All Time." Blew that. Well, it is the name of the blog, after all. The first, and hopefully last, Hip Hop post I will ever write. Thank you for your patience.

[holy shit--this is like 1600 words! GBoAT was never supposed to be like this! We'll work this out.]

By the time they released 1998's Don't Cry Baby, It's Only a Movie, the last record they may ever record--Dan Treacy, the frontman and lone original member of the Television Personalities, was legally declared missing. A self-avowed schizophrenic and junkie, Treacy had for years been spiraling out of control--a fact that, in hindsight, is remarkably clear in the recordings of his final productive years. Treacy had spent years as a victim of an indifferent audience, bankrupt record companies, and regularly collapsing band line-ups--a far cry from the halcyon days as a teenager in Chelsea.

The Television Personalities began in 1977 after 17-year-old Treacy attended his first punk show, was knocked around a bit too much for his tastes, and decided he could do better. Combining the then obviously very vogue Punk sound with more traditional tastes (most notably 60's psychedelia, mod, and British poptones like the Kinks), Treacy and schoolmate Ed Ball began writing and recording with friends the material that would become the first Television Personalities single. Too broke to release the material properly, Treacy pressed "14th Floor" to a handful of white label 45s without even an official name for the band. mailing one to--who else--John Peel, Dan jokingly listed the band members as various British soap stars, and Television Personalities were officially born. Peel naturally played the record a few times, and Treacy was motivated to release the record himself.

The band's uniquely British vision of refinement amongst the rubbish made for a compelling variation on the politics of punk--as there's is a vision more often of a cheeky, clever exploration of social politics than of true rebellion. Their next single, the "Where's Bill Grundy Now?" EP (about the British talk show host made infamous in the annuls of punk by his Sex Pistols interview) was again self-released for the price of 500 pounds (the math of which is clearly documented on the record's sleeve)--and on the strength John Peel's affection for of one of the record's 3 other tracks--the snide, self-deprecating look at Punk-chic "Part Time Punks"--became an incredible hit. the record sold 24,000 copies before the band signed to Rough Trade later that year, and promptly went on to sell another 24,000 upon its re-release.

Treacy and Ball soon went on to record ...and Don't the Kids Just Love It?, what will probably always be remembered as the definitive Television Personalities record, in late 1981--by which time the band's original line-up had already begun to crumble. The record's cover was a clear mark of the band's intention: a stark white backdrop with a black and white photo of supermodel Twiggy and the Avengers' Patrick McNee signifying their clear, minimal vision of 1960s Britain--the only reasonable starting point for the TVPs lengthy career. The album began their clever and career spanning dilettante-ism, with numerous references to popular art culture throughout ("A Picture of Dorian Gray," "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives," "la Grande Illusion," "Look Back In Anger," etc.). The record is amateurish in all of the best possible ways, and is a clear milemarker for so many bands that followed in its wake.

Following the disappointing turn out from the album's single--the precious twee-precursor "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives"--Ed and Dan convinced Rough Trade to help them set up their own label, Whaam! Records. The label released the debut of Ed's new band, The Time, an early single by the Pastels, the previously discussed debut by the Marine Girls, as well as the TVPs second record, the markedly psychedelic Mummy Your Not Watching Me. the record continued their pop culture exploitations with songs like "David Hockney's Diaries," "Painting By Numbers" and "Litchenstein Painting"--but did little to raise their profile in Britain. The Could Have Been Bigger Than the Beatles followed, which was more of a weird compilation that a proper record, yet still somehow coming out with about as much coherence as any of their previous records.

By this time Ed Ball had left the band to focus on The Time, and Treacy was left as the lone original member of the band. The two were offered a sum of money for the name of their collective label by people representing a young man named George Michael, and Whaam! soon reconvening under a new label they called Dreamworld. TVPs released one more record on Rough Trade, the celebrated The Painted Word, and took a long recording hiatus. By this time, former Swell Map-er Jowe Head had joined forces with Treacy, and with a handful of other players, toured Europe for a number of years; all while the bands of the C-86 movement--TVPs direct descendants--began to gain speed in the UK. When five years later the band finally began to record, it was decided that the album would be released on Dreamworld. Rough Trade gave Treacy a big advance of money to distribute the record, and neglected to sign a contract. The band got an offer from another record company, Fire, to put out the record, and Treacy accepted. Keeping Rough Trade's money.

The next several years were rocky for the band, as they released singles and songs on no fewer than 20 different labels, amongst innumerable line-up shifts. The band's final two records, I Was a Mod Before You Was a Mod and the previously mentioned Don't Cry... were largely solo Treacy affairs, the joy and buoyance of the band long faded.

Six years after his disappearance, Treacy sent a letter to a friend informing him that he was on his way to jail (the crime is never specified), but that he was interested in the potential of recording some new material if anyone would put up the money. The news of his continued existence is certainly greeted with excitement--but under incredibly emo circumstance, of course. A man so smart and so committed to his work that he trudged through twenty years of thankless indifference, all to end up broke, strung-out, and virtually alone.

They Should have been bigger than the Beatles. alas, Dan Treacy and extended company will just have to settle with being the Greatest Band of All Time.

A few months ago I grabbed a handful cds from my former employer's promo bin with the passive intention of making a few dollars on a record review, or if nothing else, trading in for in-store credit. The results were even more marginal than expected, and with the exception of a handful of keepers (Camera Obscura, Ghost to Falco), most everything ended up in the "wouldn't keep it for free" stack.

wait, let me explain (as if it weren't self-evident)--when sorting promos, there are three distinct categories that I have developed for clear, organized pilings: the "I'd buy it used" pile (these are keepers), the "Maybe, since i'm not paying for it" pile, and the "wouldn't keep it for free" pile. Now, with this particular promo round, there weren't too many keepers, and even less maybes. among them was a CD by a band called The Hold Steady entitled Almost Killed Mean ugly-as-sin promo from hit-and-miss New York label Frenchkiss. It came on high recommendation, and despite a few reservations, I held on to it.

One day I played it for my roommate, and his reaction was classic: "This sounds like the kind of music that only bored music journalists could get into." There might be some truth to that. But I was sold.

Following the break-up of their Minneapolis powerhouse Lifter/Puller (whose fans are famously obsessive), singer Craig Finn and bassist Tad Kubler moved to New York, and soon formed The Hold Steady. If you're familiar with/not particularly moved by Lifter/Puller, don't be scared away immediately--I've never really been a fan either. But what might rightly scare you are following (and very apt) phrases: bitchin' licks, sax solos, and "positive jams." And, well, I certainly can't blame you.

The Hold Steady is a self-professed reactionary statement: upon moving to NY, the Lifter/Puller's felt incredibly alienated by the predictability of the NOW New York movement (electro/disco/no-wave), and committed themselves to the noble task of "not writing anything for the sake of being weird, artsy, or unconventional." The result is even less cool than you might imagine--some place between where Classic Rock meets Bar Band--but with surprising earnesty. Where bands like the Darkness embrace irony as a means of distancing themselves from the responsibility of sincerity, there isn't a moment of Almost Killed Me that comes off feeling contrived. And that includes songs that sound like Meatloaf anthems. and songs that sound like the E Street Band.

Now, you must remember: I hold no nostalgia what-so-ever for the majority of Classic Rock's musings, nor patience for irony-based musicianship, but for some reason, The Hold Steady really strike an unfamiliar chord with me. The thing that keeps the Hold Steady from toppling over into the ridiculousness of these seemingly insurmountable trappings are the rasped vocals of frontman Finn--a literate storyteller with rapid-fire, surprisingly compelling narratives. He's brash, abrasive, and funny, but never pandering. The result feels surprisingly like the better moments of their Minnesota brethren Husker Du, and their little brothers the Replacements, who are quite possibly the greatest Bar Band of all time.

So, while the Hold Steady may not be moving mountains, it's an admirable calling to take on the "silliest and most predictable musical movement since the third wave Ska revival of the late 90s"--however fruitlessly. Keep on keeping the 'Mats alive, Greatest Band Of All Time.

Man, the last couple of weeks have been effed. Steve's out of town right now, so I'm sorry if updates aren't so daily. I'd also like to formally apologize for the strict over-abundance of Y chromosomes present on GBoAT authorship thus far, an issue I would like to begin to correct starting today with our latest guest writer, Miss Marisa Meltzer. Enjoy.

Do you ever suspect that the universe is trying to tell you something? Maybe I'm more susceptible to this than most. Just the other night, I was taking a break from work, and as I turned on the TV, I wished more than anything that Wet Hot American Summer was on. And lo and behold, it was. And get this: towards the end of the movie, there's a shot of Janeane Garofalo's character at the climactic variety show and faint graffiti on the wall behind her spells out "MARISA". Clearly there was a message there.

Similarly, last winter I had a renewed love affair with "If You Leave" by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark (OMD) after hearing it in store. I told a friend I had been obsessively listening to it all week. The next day he emailed me saying that he heard the song in its entirety on the radio. That night, on The OC, what song plays while Anna tearfully returns to Pittsburgh? "If You Leave". (It should be noted that it was a kind of weak cover of the song by Nada Surf, but still.) This time the message was clear: I was to remain hermitlike in my apartment for the duration of the winter, obsessively listening to OMD. I heeded the call.

I've always felt sort of proprietary about OMD. People ask me my favorite song (okay, no one actually asks about my favorite songs, but I wish someone would.) and I start waxing on about how "If You Leave" was my first favorite song. And yet despite all the fuzzy feelings I have for their music, OMD has never been a band I've known a lot about. I've never had a crush on one of its members. Until today, I couldn't name a single dude in the band. I've never been to one of their concerts.

So let's turn to the facts, shall we? OMD is four guys from Liverpool with delightfully British names: Paul Humphreys, Andy McCluskey, Martin Cooper, and Malcolm Holmes. Apparently, Liverpool in the lates seventies was the kind of city whose music scene revolved around one club, Eric's Club, which launched Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Echo and the Bunnymen. Humphreys and McCluskey were huge fans of GBoAT alum Neu and Kraftwerk and started making experimental electronic music in homage to their Teutonic heroes. They even called themselves VCLXI, after a valve diagram found on a Kraftwerk album. "Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark" was the title of a VCLXI song, and they somewhat confusingly used that song title as the name of a side project that was to feature catchier melodies, and OMD was born.

Tony Wilson, the Factory Records impresario, was duly impressed by their live shows and released their debut single, "Electricity" in late 1979. Their self-titled first album came out in 1980 and featured "Messages" and cemented what would be their trademark mix of melodic melancholia. Sure, I guess you could call their songs synth-pop, but I'm not sure that gives them enough credit. While all their songs sound undeniably like a product of the eighties, none of them sound dated. There was a quick succession of more hits ("Enola Gay", "Maid of Orleans") and albums with awesome titles (Architecture and Morality, Dazzle Ships). Martin was added to play keyboards and Malcolm to play drums.

All of this spirals toward their biggest hit, "If You Leave", which will always be known as That Song at the End of Pretty in Pink (it was written specifically for the movie). Beyond a generation's seemingly collective love for the John Hughes oeuvre (and its impeccable soundtracks), we all remember that song because it's just so damn good. It still gives me the shivers nearly two decades after I first heard it. There's something about the phrasing, there's an urgency threaded through the song--and all OMD songs--that never lets me down, no matter how many times I listen to it. In 1989, Humphreys, Cooper, and Holmes left the band, citing constant touring as the reason for the demise. Andy continued under the OMD moniker, but the era had ended.

If I had more time, I would tell you about how all of OMD's songs sound like the perfect soundtrack for a first kiss. Or how someone will play "Electricity" at a party (and they're getting plenty of play at parties, OMD seems to be encountering a bit of a hipster renaissance here on the east coast.) and it will make you sprint to the dance floor. Or how their song "Secrets" will make you sort of wistful because you're not English and you don't have bangs, both things seeming really important late one Tuesday night in March. Instead, I will say this: Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark is the Greatest Band of All Time.

I remember once reading [ed. note: My memory for specifics is famously faulty, particularly in regard to reading retention. which is why I always seem to preface my anecdotes with the phrase "I read somewhere--"the perpetual "somewhere"--a source I couldn't name to save my life. I apologize for this very feeble crutch.] some rock journalist waxing on about Brian Jones' early roll in the Stones, a point that lead them eventually to the assertion that the true soul of the Band--what would become Mick's narrative throughout the 60s and 70s--lay squarely on his shoulders--with, of course, a little help from Keith. Something of a reasonable assessment, me thinks; I mean, sure: Mick was probably around for some harrowing shit, lived "the life" a lot harder than most anyone you or I know, but when it comes right down to it, he'd probably rather be fucking a model than meeting the smack dealer. Which, of course, is the difference. He was always more of a fly on the wall of a lifestyle that consumed the people around him. the "rock and roll lifestyle."

Though perhaps not as dramatic as the story of the Stones (I mean, what could be, really?), I've always sort of sensed a similar sort of dichotomy at work between two of the world's most under-rated junkie geniuses--Jason Pierce and Pete Kember--the duo at work behind Spacemen 3. I have no proof of this dichotomy, of course, but can only offer their disparate solo careers as evidence: Pierce (aka J. Spaceman), with his critically-acclaimed Spiritualized, gluttonously expands his track-marked image with each of his releases--with nearly every song containing a thinly-veiled drug reference--but whose work possesses a clarity and professionalism that simply doesn't mesh with the capacity of a 20-year junkie. Kember (better known perhaps as Sonic Boom), on the other hand, has actively grown less-and-less accessible with each release (both under the names Spectrum and EAR)--abandoning his pop roots for what basically amounts to lengthy, unintelligible synthetic drones. The man is obviously on drugs.

anyway.

Until Spectrum became Totally boring, Sonic Boom was on such an incredible roll following the demise of Spacemen 3. His first solo release, predating the break-up of Spacemen, was the truly stunning Spectrum, credited to Sonic Boom--a passively desperate record with titles like "help me please," "Lonely Avenue," "If I should die," and a cover of Suicide's "Rock 'n' Roll is Killing My Life," Spectrum finally sees Kember unencumbered by things like "choruses" and "changes." The "solo" record, strangely enough, also features the bulk of Spacemen 3, and a good number of the cast that would go on to make up Spiritualized. Notable not only for its beautiful expansion of his trademark American-by-way-of-England drone pop, Spectrum also introduces another very important facet of Sonic's early solo career--super rad packaging. Spectrum features this awesome plastic, spinning "trip wheel" cover (terrible description) and gatefold (Kember is first and foremost an obsessive music fan, and much like fellow record bin scourers Stereolab, he knows the value of a fancy collectible).

Produced while both parties refused to speak to one another, Spacemen 3's final album, Recurring, for all intents and purposes acts as the real debut for both Spiritualized and Spectrum proper--the record's A and B sides divided Speakerboxx style. After the break-up, Sonic took the name of his solo record and began working on a new record. The resulting debut--originally packaged in this weird plastic sleeve filled with lava-lamp-like colored oil and water (called the "squishy pak"--which now all smell pretty musty)--would be Sonic's defining solo moment, the nullifying Soul Kiss (Glide Divine). The album's beautiful formula is something like this:

Two or three synths plus farfisa organ plus soft, meandering guitar times a ton of delay times tremolo times flange, repeat. and then repeat. and again.

this record is essential. period. I can think of no greater personal influence on my specific intention in music making than the perfect semblance of Soul Kiss--its aimless, breathless delivery in constant stark consistency.

Around this time Sonic began working on his Experimental Audio Research (E.A.R.) project, with fellow wanksters like Kevin Shields, to produce freeform sonic experiments and otherwise milk his small audience of a few more dollars. While E.A.R. has its supporters, to be sure, I sort of view its "formation" as the beginning of the end for Kember, as the distinction between it and Spectrum began to become less clear. Spending the next few years releasing the last of his pop records (including a collaboration with Jessamine and his long-time obsessions the Silver Apples) Sonic took his vintage keyboard fetish to its ridiculous extreme, while slowly growing less and less inspired.

Never as commercially viable as his former bandmate, Kember continues to tour on occasion, even exploitively touring songs from the Spacemen songbook recently--despite the release of no new material ("It's so sad," Pierce recently remarked). Dude's still kicking around all rock and roll, presumably waiting for the inevitable deification of his former band, and all I can do is wish he'd put out a pop single. Then he'd be the Greatest Band of All Time.