January 2005 Archives

The Sopwith Camel. The Yellow Balloon. Four Jacks and a Jill. Harper's Bizarre. Spanky and Our Gang. The Buckinghams. The Cherry People. Eternity's Children. The Neon Philharmonic. The Peppermint Rainbow. If you are already familiar with these names, then feel free to disregard the next few paragraphs. If these appear at all foreign to you, and I imagine at least half of them do, then pay attention, because what you don't know is that Curt Boettcher is the Greatest Band of All Time.

All of the aforementioned bands were part of the late sixties' sunshine pop movement, of which Curt Boettcher was a principle architect, through his involvement with The Association, The Millennium, and Sagittarius, and various production work for other artists. Sunshine pop, a close cousin of bubblegum, featured somewhat psychedelic production and a heavy emphasis on smooth melodic vocals, with rich harmonies. For more famous artists, think the Mamas and the Papas, The Turtles, and some Smile-era Beach Boys.

Curt Boettcher (pronounced "Betcher") first came to national attention when he produced the Association's debut album And Then Along Comes the Association, which featured the hits "Along Comes Mary" and "Cherish," two mainstays of oldies radio. At that point, a familiar story began, whereby his artistic advances were greeted with critical acclaim and public disregard.

Before his production work for the Association, Boettcher had released two folk records with the group Goldbriars. Despite being a folk group, he was even at that time using very unusual vocal arrangements, something he employed throughout his career.

After the success of the Association, Boettcher split his time between producing for others, such as Tommy Roe ("Sweet Pea") and Lee Mallory ("Take My Hand," which Brian Wilson was a big fan of), and his own studio-based bands. The first was The Ballroom, which recorded an album around 1966. It was never released, however, and some of the songs were re-recorded by the Millennium. A few years ago, the Ballroom album was finally released on CD, under the title Preparing for the Millennium.

While recording the Ballroom album, Boettcher befriended Gary Usher, who was producing the Byrds' Younger Than Yesterday in a neighboring studio. Usher was mostly a surf-rock producer, who had co-written the Beach Boys' "In My Room." Apparently when Brian Wilson, who was also at the studio, heard the sounds coming from Boettcher's session, he exclaimed, "What is that?" Boettcher and Usher's friendship led to their pet project Sagittarius. The first album, Present Tense, came out in 1968, and features the psychedelic pop gem "My World Fell Down," released as a single in 1967 and shortened substantially for the album. A technically and artistically ambitious album, it only sold 50,000 copies. A somewhat disappointing second album, mostly made by Usher, was released in 1969, titled The Blue Marble. Between the two Sagittarius records, though, Boettcher and Usher created their masterpiece, as The Millennium.

With the Millennium's debut album, Boettcher ran up the largest bill ever for Columbia. It was only the second album recorded using the new 16-track technology, and he spent a year meticulously crafting it. Essentially a producer's wet dream, Begin was, ironically, the only album the Millennium would release, mostly due to poor sales. Unable to withstand the consistent commercial failures, Boettcher quit music, and pursued a career in advertising. He came back to music now and then, releasing a solo album, There's an Innocent Face, in 1973, producing off and on for The Beach Boys, Emitt Rhodes, and others until his death in 1987 (including The Association's reportedly horrible 1982 electro-pop cover of fellow GBoAT-ers The Left Banke's classic "Walk Away Renee," but I can forgive him for that). I'm not sure what it says on his gravestone, but if you ask me, it should read, "Curt Boettcher. 1/7/1944 – 6/14/1987. The Greatest Band of All Time."

I have resisted writing about Lync, even though they are one of my beloved bands, because I'm really not sure what to say about them. They are an amazing band in a way that's hard to describe. Part of me thinks maybe you had to see them play, and watch the drummer, Dave, light his drum kit on fire while playing, like, "Two Feet in Front." But maybe that's snobbery. Anyone can like Lync.

Do we care about the requisite bio? Three boys from the suburbs of Seattle, mid-'90s, releases on K Records, only a band for a few years. You get it, right? Their album These Are Not Fall Colors is sublime. I spent so many hours listening to it during my high school years, it's not even funny. I remember seeing them play at the first Yoyo-a-Go-Go and Sam Jayne was wearing a Lone Ranger mask. He seemed like he was in on some kind of personal joke that I, at sixteen, so badly wanted to be a part of.

The other day I made a list of reasons why I have loved Lync for the past decade or so and here they are, transcribed from the back of my checkbook: Sam, the singer, kind of sounds like he has a stuffed up nose. Lots of lyrics about being bored. Singing "Satellite is now!!!" while driving in my best friend's car on weekends and not knowing--and not caring--if those were the correct lyrics. Good hair. A song called "Turtle" seemingly sung from the viewpoint of one, but whose lyrics are sort of also about relationships. General sense of urgency imbuing all their songs. You can totally dance to "Lightbulb Switch." The opening noted to "B" still gives me shivers.

I think that show in Olympia was maybe the last time I saw Lync, unless you count the all-asian Lync cover band, Chync, fronted by the illustrious George Chen, who I saw play on Halloween in San Francisco one year (and I sort of do). And really, I can say how urgent and meaningful and enduring Lync's songs are, but maybe Chync was all you needed to know about. Can you think of another band who has one album and a couple singles, around only a few years, who, half a decade after their demise, inspired an asian cover band fronted by George Chen? Only Lync, the Greatest Band of All Time.

Hesitant hype consumers take heed: it took me six months to "get" Electrelane. This after seeing them play the most riveting show I saw all year. This after being inappropriately obsessed with their promo photos for a couple of months. This after they released one of the most subtle, powerfully understated records of last year.

"And they're from Britain," he whispers--the crowd gasping in astonishment. Brighton, to be specific. Debuting with a series of short-run seven inches before setting up their own (Sony-supported) Let's Rock! imprint--the band eventually released their mostly instrumental debut, Rock It To the Moon (with which I admit I am embarrassingly unacquainted), later issued in the U.S. by the now-defunct Mr. Lady Records. The band soon moved to British sub-major Too Pure! (Stereolab, McKlusky, Scout Niblett, etc.) on which they released last year's The Power Out to near-universal acclaim--and a near six-month extended yawn in my iTunes playlist. And yet for whatever reason--be it guilt of critical association (the record's consistently compared to Euro-riffic folks like Neu and Stereolab), or more probably (and shamefully) the obscenely Anglo-baiting photo above--I maintained my loose interest in the band.

One chilly September evening of last year, after months of exhaustingly disappointing shows from bands that I've long admired (nameless here, of course), I ventured with decidedly low expectations to Berbati's to see an evening of glossy magazine fare--the Ex, some wanky free-jazz drummer that was rolling with them (who I am told is hot shit by some of my more highbrow friends), and Electrelane. As Electrelane set up, I retreated to the back of the room where I expected to stay for the duration of their set. By the third song, I was up front. By the end of their set, I was convinced that I just seen the Greatest Band Of All Time--and it was all because of Mia Clarke.

Sure, Verity Susman's slurred and howled multi-lingual gymnastics were undeniable, and Emma Gaze's (the most cartoonishly faux-British name ever muttered, I might add) fanastically metronomic kit was, well, just sickening--but guitarist Clarke, androidian in expression and precision, was, to put it bluntly, fucking MAJESTIC. Searing through songs made unrecognizable by sheer dexterity and volume, Clarke crushed cock-dropping blues riffs with blank and swanlike grace--brilliantly emasculating every solo, every chord, by pinching off every ounce of swaggering rocknroll testosterone. She was, in that evening, the most compelling guitar player I have ever seen. And Electrelane was the Greatest Band. I couldn't even stay for the Ex. After that, anything would be a let down.

And with that, I just knew that I finally got it-- that I would rush home, put on the record, and every stunning facet would finally unfold. But then it didn't. The Power Out was still boring as shit. I mean, what the fuck, right? These were the same songs, yet played as if they were recorded in a nursing home during rest hours--whispered so as not to wake the neighbors. By their own admission, Electrelane is a live band, but this kind of disparity was just inexplicable.

A few months have passed since September, and in that time I have grown to love The Power Out with a fervor that grows with every listen. It's incredibly subtle, unsettling, square-pegged, and often pretty clunky--but is beautifully so on each of those counts. Not that it could ever live up to the Electrelane that I saw last September, but how could you possibly compete with the Greatest Band Of All Time?

So, it is 4:30 in the morning. It is August 11, 2001. Four alarms in the same apartment just went off simultaneously. We are living in a small just-North-of-the-49th-parallel town called Aldergrove, British Columbia. Myself and my roommates stumble into our dark, collegiate living room. Without saying much we rub our collective eyes and meander out to the station wagon. We drive on empty roads for an hour until we get deep into the city. We are used to the drive; we had done it two or three times a week previously. We arrive at the back door of the (sugar refinery) as we knew that Steve would keep the front door locked with all of the "sketchy" Granville Street fare running around at that time of night.

We are greeted as locals upon entering. Four (and sometimes five) musicians are playing spaced-out ambient ocean vibe music. Besides us, the band, and the sped-up "staff" of the (sugar refinery), the space is empty except a pile the size of a few shopping carts full of musical instruments. This is coupled with the space being thoughtfully cluttered with artifacts: chairs and benches that Steve and company find on street corners, old photo enlargers affixed to walls are used as lamps, half-built walls and extension cords are "re-purposed" as decoration, et cetera. Despite this, the vibe is relatively calm: I feel as though the company of the venue is using sleep depravity as their drug of choice for the first time. As the hours pass and the city starts to go-about its routine, the band continues to play. They play in the same key except every hour on the hour. This is when the band switch keys sometimes dramatically and other times with ease. Even though the key of the music stays the same for any particular hour that the band is playing, the vibe crescendos and retracts with beautiful ease. When this happens, it is what the band calls "being over an urban-zone." So, for each key, the band is actually transcending a time zone. When my friends and I arrive at 6:00 in the morning, they are supposedly playing music over the Atlantic Ocean in E. At nine o'clock, they have hit Reykjavik and the vibe has changed to a subtle focus on stringed instruments in F flat. It is kind of like a metaphysical band/collective floating around the globe understanding their role as communicators.

This band is called The Beans. They are from Vancouver, British Columbia. And, in this aforementioned discursive, they are playing live music for 48 hours straight, "circling" the globe twice all while being the resident band of Vancouver's the (sugar refinery). As we know, there are numerous bands called "The Beans." But, for the sake of this entry as the Greatest Band of All Time, these Beans are from Vancouver.

Even though it might be easy to understand this aforementioned exercise to be simply a test of stamina, it is not that easy to ascribe. The collective of the Beans are highly interested in the responsibility of performance and even though many who viewed the group during those 48 hours thought it to be some kind of joke, they were --and are -- incredibly serious about what they do. For them, making music is not about a jam session. They practice for months prior to any event. I wouldn't be surprised if they even pray about it. Seriousness about what they are doing is inherent to their demeanor.

However, that seriousness is not cogent: it is coupled with a cryptic and complex message. With their homemade instruments (and their stolen Yo La Tengo organ) and their continual recognition of "the vibe" one could easily think of the talented Beans as a NorthWest indierock version of Phish predating much important crescendo and White Rainbow music. Although it is possibly unlikely that the members and followers would protest to such a label as their Vermont predecessors, there is still much more going on -- as Bob and David say -- than "some 40-years-olds fucking around on guitar." I feel as though I am not in a good position to infer what exactly I think is actually going on in their music, albeit, because actually it is hard to be taken "seriously" when speaking of "vibes" and "zones" and "crucial key changes" as signifiers for meaning. However, the cryptic nature of their sessions with a primary lack of lead vocal, leaves the listener open to her own devices in decryption.

The Beans have released a handful of albums, none of which capture their "essence" (this word does not mean "style") like the 2002 outing "Inner Cosmosis" which, again recorded live at the (sugar refinery), chronicles through a breathless hour of non-stop vibe music movements miraculously seamlessly united. This lasts until the last five minutes where the listener is left with a breathtaking array of feedback. Many individuals have developed somewhat of a cult fetish for this album as it ages incredibly well within their "subjective" experiences. Moreover, I would be willing to say that this is the best live album that I have ever heard.

Besides playing for 48 hours straight, The Beans set-up delicate and highly controlled environments for listening to live music. The most recent of which was in 2003 when the band grouped itself and its listeners in a large "acoustic aquarium" playing a then new piece. Typically, as in the case of the 48-hour show, these environments include projections and olfactory devices. Yet, with the December, 2003 demise of the (sugar refinery) (which was their contact mailing address) and members often working on their own projects and families, the collective Beans have been seen very little publicly as of late.

Nevertheless, it is still my contention -- and the contention of most people interested in music in Vancouver during the first couple of years of this century -- that The Beans are easily the Greatest Band of All Time.

When teenage boys--awkward, bored, and obsessive--get cooped up in suburban bedrooms, sometimes they take to making lists. Lists about rock bands, rock records, rock shows. Bests and Worsts and I wish I was theres. And sometimes these circle jerks last beyond bedrooms all thumb-tacked with ugly rock posters. But that's another sort of story all together.

At 17, one of my favorite such games was what we'll call the "way-back-when" machine. the premise is as self-explanatory as it probably sounds: you're offered a nominal amount of chances--threes, fives and tens always work best--to travel back in time to see one show by a particular band, any band, at the peak of their game. Yes, this is indicative of my adolescent experience. My choices at the time were all pretty pedestrian--the requisite Velvet's show, Talking Heads pre-77, most certainly Nirvana (a band I somehow missed altogether despite my proximity), the Smiths in 1984, and on and on. The main point of aghast contention with most of my Rock And Roll peers always surfaced at the admission that more than most of these fairly obvious choices, I would totally kill to have seen the B-52s circa 1978. Because from 1978 to about 1983, the B-52s were the Greatest Band Of All Time.

This is the original five-piece we're talking about, of course--that being Fred Schneider, Ricky and Cindy Wilson, Kate Pierson, and Keith Strickland. Now admittedly, my obsession with this particular era of the B-52s' rocky career is in no small part aided by the band's incomparably photogenic line-up: a quintet with amazing style, sense of humor, and distinct personal character, the B-52s just took amazing fucking pictures, both on stage and in studio. Which isn't at all to marginalize the band's actual music--for the stretch of at least three and a half records (B-52s, Wild Planet, the David Byrne produced Mesopotamia, and a bit of Whammy, if you're forgiving... not to mention their self-made remix album Party Mix), the B-52s mustered some of the most undeniable, clever, interesting, and astoundingly under-appreciated music of their era.

Twenty-something Athenians with a sense of other-worldly kitsch seemingly removed from the sleaze-obsessed trappings of proponents like John Waters and the Cramps (though certainly influenced by both), the B-52s were the perfect amalgam of all that seemed perfect about '70s queer culture (and subsequent fag-hagdom)--with two of the world's most beautiful, anatomically-correct drag queens as dueling frontwomen to boot. While Fred Schneider's lisping, hyper-Georgian queerdom has always been the band's most recognizable (and probably polarizing) aspect, what's often overlooked is the brilliant, mega-influential (hello, Sleater-Kinney) guitar work of the shy, boyish Ricky Wilson--whose singular input marked the beginning and the end of the band's brilliant era.

Rounding out the original powerhouse was a carrot-topped keyboardist named Kate, and the band's secret weapon--another Wilson--singer Cindy. Cindy's vocals--a combination of caterwauls and yelps and grunts and shrieks--spat from her mouth as though her tongue were perpetually novocained... limp, lifeless, stoned, and FUCKING AMAZING. From footage and photographs of the era (for further evidence, I urge you to check out some of the archived videos from the early years), I've built the women of the B-52s up to be something of a composite of the Perfect Woman; wrapped up in the sort of stomach-knotting lust that time, space and age simultaneously mock--you know, the kind of head-ringing laughter you hear when you look at photos of a young Marlon Brando and you can't help but feel the pangs of impermanence.

anyway.

The era of perfection ended right around 1985 with the death of the band's main musical visionary--Ricky Wilson--at the hand of (you guessed it) AIDS. After Ricky's death, the band took an extended hiatus for over three years.By the time they returned, Strickland had moved from drums to guitar, and the wonderful women had moved from the objects of my ridiculous obsession to caricatures strikingly similar to Pee-Wee's Ms. Yvonne. Oh yeah, and they recording one of the most successful, annoying songs of 1989. Soon Cindy left the band, the coffin nail that assured their place in the retro dustbin. But let's forget about rusty tin roofs and painted signs by the side of the road--as truthfully, the band that recorded that song has about as little to do with the B-52s as heterosexuality. Let's remember the B-52s for what they always were at heart: the Greatest Band Of All Time.

To listen to it now must be sort of like how people talk about that first Modern Lovers record--as great as it sounds, you know it's not what it was meant to be. It's not what you heard in those living rooms and weird clubs and that practice space. It's sterile. It's too perfect. It's too stiff. It's too... something. And then I end up feeling like that guy who won't shut up about how nobody understands Black Flag unless they saw them play in his cousin's basement in the summer of 1984. But really, you just had to be there. You had to see it.

Display was a band that existed for what I'm going to estimate to be about two years (if memory serves, I'm having a difficult time distinguishing between winters all of a sudden) in the poorly insulated storage facilities of Everett, Washington--the town where I was born, raised, and educated in the subtle art of humility. It was after I left for the big city that Display took shape--the spill-over of several musical implosions (most notably, another former three piece called the Past) Display was born of three oppressively familiar faces from my teenage years: one my best friend, one the kid brother of the girl I lost my virginity to, and the third a long-time acquaintance-turned late companion just prior to my exit. Jeremy Cooper (guitar/vocals) and Danny Moore (drums/percussion) had been members of my first band, the ill-fated slowcore three-piece Gestalt (only the Krautiest, I assure you), and while Danny's patience was stretched beyond limit with that project, I somehow coerced Jeremy to be in another band with me briefly--that one a little more successful--called Swastika Girls. But Swastika Girls was merely a fling, and Jeremy's heart never once left Display.

After over a half year in seclusion, Display played their premiere show at the first Slender Means Society show. The stage was a wash of pretty blinking lights from their endless assortment of irrationally expensive effects pedals. At one point during the set, they simultaneously brushed their teeth. This was a lot cooler than it probably sounds. Display was my favorite band.

With the exception of Danny's girlfriend Emily--who diligently taped nearly every show--I may have seen Display play more than anyone in Seattle. Which is to say, any one at all. Some particularly memorable shows include, but are not limited to: a show played with Swastika Girls in the driveway of a keg party in Lynnwood, WA; the show played at the second floor bar of the Experience Music Project, wherein which Jeremy climbed atop of his amp and nearly plummeted to his death; a basement show in Portland--the only show outside of Washington--where they played a Silver Apples cover as Die Monitrr Batss set fire to their own 7"; the show at the Manor house, also with Swastika Girls, for Eric Yates' birthday party; the Pho Bang (drag cabaret) show that questioned Danny's sexuality; the Capitol Hill Block party show that I had to listen to from behind the gate; the record release show that wasn't; the many drunken evenings at Sit and Spin; etc.

Though their brief history was fraught with mis-fortune, Display existed long enough to hobble together what was theoretically a rather impressive 16 track studio, deemed People Operating (after a line in a Past song), that did little but cause the band endless headaches. After innumerable attempts to record their debut album on their own, the band decided to, somewhat tragically, throw in the self-recording towel in favor of a fancy studio production. Which became, again, something of a headache.

after months of delay, the band finally (and silently) released their one and only record--a self-titled opus cased in 4 pounds of glass, and hinged with... well, a metal hinge. the final recording, though masterfully performed, comes off a little cold on disc--Danny's drums paling their booming live performance, with both Jim Paschall and Jeremy's vocals occasionally tempered a bit from their on stage fury. but christ knows, it doesn't really matter--as no one who missed them live will probably ever hear it anyway.

the true tragedy of Display happened just over a year ago, as Jeremy abruptly curbed their trajectory at the onset a personal breakdown. Within a few months, he had moved to Portland, and Display was gone forever--no tour, no audience, no justice. As far as I know, the band still has a number of copies of their record (played without overdubs, by the way) available for purchase--and though it may pale in comparison to the moments that they were the Greatest Band of All Time, it is more than worthy of your consideration.

Upon seeing this boyish looking man, normally clad in brown slacks but sometimes wearing an elaborate costume, perform most people's reaction or at least their first question is "Is this dude for real?" It's a fair question. Dennis Driscoll performances are fairly dizzying. Dennis plays the most naive pop songs I have ever encountered. His sweet, somewhat childish voice which can at times be more than a tad unsteady singing lyrics that seem to be composed by an 8 year old. The shows are also filled with very awkward banter or lack of banter. Somehow everything I describe adds up to incredibly enjoyable and heartwarming shows.

Dennis Driscoll is from the southwestern Washington town of Ilwaco, Washington which is just over the bridge from Astoria, Oregon. Dennis has a great love for Ilwaco that finds it's way into a lot of his songs, including an amazing song about the Ilwaco High School basketball team. Dennis started playing shows at The Launchpad in Astoria and also recording songs. At some point in the lateish 90s Dennis moved to Olympia, WA and recorded his first album called Is It Love? with some different dudes including Phil Elverum (of The Microphones/Mt. Eerie). Is It Love? has a bunch of great songs of the innocent variety. I think rather than describing the vibe any more you might be able to get the picture better from some selected song titles: "O Happy Day," "If I Was A Ghost," "I Like To Sleep," "Sad Dreams," "I Like Rainbows," "Monsters," "Apple Crisp," "I Like It," and "Grape Juice." Are you feeling the vibe now?? Yeah, I thought so. The album is full of great melodies, simple but very effective recordings, and the naive lyrics feel really refreshing to listen to a lot of times. Dennis has an intense obsession with Buddy Holly which has involved multiple trips to Buddy Holly's hometown of Lubbock, Texas and suposedly friendship with some relative of Holly. On Is It Love? Dennis covers Holly's great "Everyday" and Holly's influence can be felt in the melodies quite often, which is a good thing.

Dennis released a massive 31 song album the next year called Hello, Dennis Driscoll which is filled with more great songs, but can be a little long. Dennis' next grand statement came in 2002 when he fulfilled a dream of releasing an album on K records. He recorded Voices in the Fog with K record chief Calvin Johnson. Voices in the Fog is a great record. The productions are much more flushed out than on Dennis' previous two albums and it really works for the material. This album probably includes Dennis' best songs as far as song-writing goes that he has released. Dennis covers a song by Dear Nora, and Dear Nora's Katy Davidson makes a vocal appearance on the great song "Stormy Weather." The album also features guest spots from Mirah and Khaela Maricich (of The Blow). The album is a little less naive than Dennis' previous works and the added depth is really appreciated and appropriate for the added production. This album is probably my favorite that Johnson has been the producer for and that is really saying something as he has manned the boards for many many releases.

Two more records (a full length and a split ep) by Dennis have been released since Voices in the Fog. but neither are a remarkable as Voices. The amazing thing about Dennis is that his persona as a performer of stumbling over words and insecure and mega shy and being the clown prince of effective awkwardness seems to be a bit of a put on or maybe it isn't that it seems like it is a put on, but that it HAS to be or you want it to be because that might make you feel better about Dennis. You don't want Dennis to be that shy, but it seems that he really is, because he never (well maybe very rarely) breaks from his awkwardness. Sometimes watching him play or if you have the opportunity to have a conversation with Dennis you want him to break his Andy Kaufman-esque character so badly, but it really doesn't happen and the enigma rages on. The whole package is amazing: wonderful melodies, a refreshing simplicity, a mysterious persona. Dennis is truly an enigmatic personality, and anyone who can stay in character for upwards of 7 years must be the Greatest Band of All Time.

Preface: I spent the better part of my late teenage years doing my absolute best to emulate Jarvis Cocker. An anglophile since my early double-digits, the release of Different Class in my sophomore year of high school escalated my obsession with all things bland, pasty, and arrogant to the point of consumption. I liked British bands before them, but none had so pinpointed direct relationship I had with the notion of Britain quite like Pulp did. Pulp put a name, a face, and a soundtrack to my mania. When I cut my hair--gone grey for a full year after one and a half weeks of blueness--for the first time since in utero, it was because of Jarvis Cocker. Pulp changed my life. Pulp changed everything.

First there was Arabicus Pulp: a band that began in Sheffield (sex city) in 1978 when Jarvis was 16 years old. in 1981, Pulp pass on a demo to John Peel, who invited the band on for a Peel Session. No labels called. Every member of the band quit for university. Everyone except Jarvis. Over the next two years, Jarvis reformed the band and recorded It, the band's debut full-length, in 1984. Then everybody quit. Everyone except Jarvis. Within the year, Pulp was salvaged once again (this time with one member, Time Allcard, on just to read poetry) in time to sign a contract with Fire Records in 1985. That same year, Jarvis took a 30 foot fall out of a window whilst trying to impress a girl, breaking his pelvis. He played shows in a wheelchair for two months. Then they released Freaks. Then everyone quit. Everyone except Jarvis (and another guy named Russell Senior, who had since become a full-fledged collaborator).

Two more years went by, and Jarvis decided to begin attended St. Martin's College in pursuit of a career in filmmaking. A year later, Pulp recorded the Acid House-infused (and totally awesome) Separations, a record that sat shelved for three years before its eventual release. Jarvis readied for a film career when suddenly the record's first single, "My Legendary Girlfriend," became a surprise hit. Within two years (and 16 years after the band started), the new Pulp signed to Island--and then shit got heavy.

His 'n' Hers became a huge British hit, Jarvis--perfecting his swinging London frontman persona for 16 years--became an omnipresent pop/sex/rock star (ed. note: J.C. famously rushed the stage during one of Michael Jackson's award show appearances to protest Jacko's early 90's pedophilia)... and then came "Common People."

"Common People,"--a simple sex story about a privileged art student slumming with the commoners-turned stirring rally cry for a nation perpetually haunted by class division--not only skyrocketed Pulp into crazed fame in there homeland and abroad, but was the greatest single released in 1995... and arguably the decade. And then they dropped Different Class. And then they became the Greatest Band in the World.

As the stuffy gutter sophistication of Brit-pop began to over-take my alt-rock obsessions, I spent most of my quasi-remedial sophomore English class escaping into the low class, desperate romanticism of Different Class. It was a perfect sort of escapism--a culture born of boredom, frustration, and tedium of lower middle class living--a world simultaneously of and apart from everything that I perceived my own to be. And goddamn if they can't write an anthem for the anguished.

When Pulp followed DIfferent Class with This Is Hardcore, I was already sold... and yet, it seemed at first just to solidify the Pulp image--sex, desperation, monologue, repeat. in the years since, it has revealed itself as Pulp's definitive work: Jarvis' fame fixation realized in full, yet to no further satisfaction. Now age obsessed (now a handsome 36), no longer one of the "common people," terrified of following up one of the most beloved records of the decade, and deep, deep into coke, Jarvis and Co. create one of the most paranoid, claustrophobic records of their career--bookending a lifetime of star-gazing as an unsatisfied celebrity. How could it get any better than that?!?!

Pulp finished their career with We Love Life, a Scott Walker-produced LP and an intense shift away from everything that had preceded--it was their first major flub. It flopped. they got dropped.

The band is currently on hiatus, which seems to mean that they are no longer. Jarvis briefly worked under the pseudonym Darren Spooner for a weird project with Richard Hawley called Relaxed Muscle. Trust me: don't ask. It's reported that dude's gonna be in the new Harry Potter movie. Which I will not be seeing.

I pray that someday I will still get to see Pulp live. I pray that Pulp will someday release another record. I say this with no touch of our perpetual GBoAT exaggerations: Pulp may honestly be the Greatest Band of All Time. Period.

This band really messed with me. Just screwed with my old noggin'. You see, I normally title these articles by taking a lyric that I am fond of or that I find apt for the piece and throw that up there put in a colon and then the band's name. Well, Dengue Fever just through all the rules out the window, because all of their lyrics are in the Khmer language. So, left to wits I came up with a dumb joke. I'm never listening to FOREIGN music again.

Dengue Fever is an interesting story, though. It goes something like this. Dude goes to Cambodia. Dude loves this Cambodian rock music from the 60s he finds while there. Dude contracts Dengue Fever. Dude returns to Los Angeles. Dude brings his brother some awesome tapes of this music he finds. Both dudes are now mega pumped on it and try to find all music like this they can. They make a band with some other dudes to play covers of some of these songs. The dudes then find a former Cambodian pop star (Chhom Nimol) in Long Beach (more specifically Little Phnom Penh), who is like the Cambodian version of the Jacksons (Michael, Janet, Jackson 5). The dudes talk the Cambodian pop star lady into joining their band. The band, now called Dengue Fever, plays tons of shows and dudes love it. Dengue Fever is named best new band in the LA Weekly. Post 9/11 policies of the racist variety caused Chhom Nimol to be arrested for immigration reasons. She was in jail for 3 weeks and it took a year of legal battles for her to get a legit visa. In the meantime Dengue Fever released their self titled debut album. Dengue Fever is the bands only widely available release. The album's opening track, "Lost in Laos," is so immediately exciting and attention demanding. "Lost in Laos" is probably the album's high moment, but the moment is so high that rest of the album can be not as good as the opener but still be pretty strong. The band sounds energized as it blows through a mix of covers and originals.

Dengue Fever is an odd combo. Bringing together sounds of the distinctly Khmer melodies that amble up and down the register so often it would be impossible to write down with heavy use of organ, rock drums, crazy active horns, guitars, and more Dengue Fever feels so alive. I get so pumped up every time I put it on. There are things about the music that are familiar like the surfy/spy sounding guitar lines, the subtle vibe that this music was once in some lost Quentin Tarantino film, which all sorta makes this sound a little novelty and trite, but it's not. It has sorta this timeless/hard to put your finger on it vibe because it is songs from and inspired by the 60s, but played by musicians who have the influence of the 40 years since the 60s and who are coming together a whole world away from where this music already existed. The music sounds completely authentic and loyal to the original Cambodian source, but yet somehow feels so current/futuristic because of some subtle influences that seep into the music. More and more music will start to have this amazing vibe as other cultures start to have more influence on music that is being created in America. Dengue Fever has me more excited and hopeful to see where music goes in the next years than any other current music, and nothing can make spazz out as much. I believe there is a direct correlation between ability to make this dude mega spazz out and being The Greatest Band of All Time.

In spite of (or perhaps because of) my chosen profession, I consider myself something of a nervous writer. As with anything else I do, I feel a certain weight--that of all history, I mean--with nearly everything I put to paper. And never have I felt so nervous in GBoAT as I do here, now, with Antony and the Johnsons.

I can't really explain it, I guess--it's some sloshy assortment of my absence from GBoAT, my growing excitement for the music, the volume of press dude has already received, and my generally overwhelming affection for Antony as an idea, an icon, and a mystery. Or maybe it's just 'cuz I'm getting lazy. At any rate, I'm gonna keep this light for my sake, and presumably for yours as well.

Let's see... where to begin? Biographically, I suppose. After a few years performing with ragtag experimental performance group Blacklips in the early 90s, Antony began performing songs solo at the after hours cabarets of New York's Pyramid Club--a Performance Art fellowship from N.Y.F.A. followed, along with the formation the Johnsons, and the recording of a self-titled record in 2000 (or 1998, according to Secretly Canadian--can't really find a conclusive answer) for Durtro, the label run by the dude from Current 93. The same year, Antony made an appearance in Steve Buscemi's Animal Factory, and soon became something of a name to be dropped amongst the New York elite. Within a couple of years, Antony is recording and touring with Lou (fucking) Reed (at Laurie Anderson's suggestion, one assumes)--and singing "Candy Says" in place of Doug Yule for Reed's entire European tour. Reed even interviews Antony in Index. In 2004, Secretly Canadian re-issues the Antony and the Johnsons record, the band tours Europe with CoCoRosie, hits up the Whitney Biennial (in a collaboration with Charles Atlas), and records a new record with guest spots by Reed and Boy George. For Secretly Canadian. Seriously.

"So," you ask, "what's the big deal, anyway?" This is where things get a little difficult for me to verbalize. To begin with, Antony sings like Nina Simone. Not in a David-Sedaris-does-Billy-Holiday sort of way, either. In a "holy shit, is this a man or a woman?" kind of way. In a "this is not a stout 30-something white man" kind of way. In a "what did he just say about being in love with a corpse?" kind of way.

Which leads us to part two of this pale illumination--the subject matter. the songs of Antony and the Johnsons are mainly just functional arrangements of piano, strings, and guitar--hearkening back to the Berlin-era schmaltz of Lou Reed's finest solo moments. But as Antony's trilling vibrato and twisting articulation swirls and swells--it's his mournful, masochistic portraits of love and loss that really makes the whole bit work. Ridiculously dramatic, the stories equate love with physical abuse, devotion with dismemberment, sentiment with scars--and in the mounting violence and death, one can hardly help but be moved... be it to tears on turns of stomach. "He Hit Me And It Felt Like a Kiss"? Why, yes!

Part three: Antony continues, in tribute and tradition, the inflated vision of NYC hedonism of the Warhol 60s and of 70s glam conceptualism in just the way that I've been yearning for since my early obsessions with both movements--with an artful seriousness that defies the half-assed, transparent glam/drag revivalists. it's not about making a record that sounds like some shitty Elton John club anthem, or camping your band up all Hedwig--it's about caring enough to do your idols some goddamn justice. the obsessively androgynous Antony mirrors the tragic quality of Warhol's exploited drag superstars like Candy Darling, Holly Woodlawn, and Jackie Curtis--married with Lou Reed's heady Bowie-through-Street Hassle-era brilliance (who, incidentally, talked a great deal of terrible shit about Candy Darling on that live album he recorded after she died). It's like a strangely apt summation of my super bloated obsessions with the era, all rolled into a brilliant, independent contemporary caricature.

And they just might be the Greatest Band of All Time.