September 2005 Archives

The idea of things becoming cliche is pretty amazing. The ability for something just to become cliche is a testament to the power of that particular concept, right, because it must have been something that was successful enough or enjoyable enough that it was repeated to the point where a pattern was spotted and it was declared cliche. I guess my real question is this: if someone does something that seems cool at the time but later becomes cliche in retrospect does it ruin that thing, OR OR if something seems cliche at the time it happens but then that sorta thing becomes in style does the part thing gain awesomeness in the pub eye?

I think that Los Angeles psychedelic past band Beachwood Sparks was at one point or is remembered being cliche. They are a band that showed it's influences (The Byrds, Flying Burrito Bros, American Beauty era Dead) on it's sleeve, but existed in a time in between the rennaissances of alt country and the current it trend of freaky folk music, two movements they could have more than likely been associated with. Instead they existed in this period where they were seen as this cute little anomaly, and I'm not quite sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. In some ways, not being associated with these larger movements was probably good as so many of the bands associated with these movements are marginalized and written off immediately as followers and shunned to the ghetto of that subgenre movement. It just depends. If you look at the freak folk movement there are a couple acts that get all the notoriety (Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom) just because it's so easy to write about names that people are familiar with. It seems as if there is some fear in writers (and bloggers, music blog culture has a deep theme of having to write about that one hot band that everyone is writing about i.e. The Arcade Fire, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah) that if they don't write about those specific names that are written about time and again they will be seen as not having their fingers on the pulse of the industry. So many more bands are mostly dismissed quickly (in a way that seems foolish and mob mentality) by the media like Vetiver and Cocorosie. The whole hot trend (like freaky folk) business is hard because while a lot of bands names get tossed around, but only a few get really famous, and then the trend fades fairly quickly and the whole thing is looked back upon in a very dismissive light, "Remember that whole Freaky Folk thing? What was that even about? Six Organs of Admittance??? HA!!" You know, it's like remembering "grunge music" or "nu metal" or "idm" or something. It all seems very silly and the bands aren't really remembered that fondly.

In reality, the Beachwood Sparks existed in somewhat of a vacuum. They were on a big label (Sub Pop), and people sorta knew who they were, but really were mostly ignored as a bit of a novelty. The did seem to be leading their own hot genre trend, but there weren't really any other bands to go along with them. I'm sure there were bands with a somewhat similar aesthetic (most tend to have some sister of brother bands who they vibe off of and together with), but none that ever really came into the general indie rock media eye, leaving Beachwood floating out there like and unprotected island.

Before everyone starts weeping because of this very sad tale I'm weaving about the little nostalgic band that was goofed on and under-appreciated, these dudes did bring it on themselves. A number of the members of the Beachwood Sparks were in the already ordained Greatest Band of All Time, Further, which was pretty much a grunge band like sorta how Dinosaur Jr. was a grunge band, but weirder. The majority of the Sparks worked for many years at the seminal Los Angeles college radio station KXLU. I listened to "Farmer Dave" Scher's (pedal steel/keyboard) killer radio show for years. What I'm saying is, these dudes were hip to the jive. These dudes knew about the indie rock music industry, so when they started growing theire hair all long and wearing funny vintage cowboy shirts they knew what they were doing. I'm calling GIMMICK. I think the dudes were sincere in their appreciation and influences, but let's call a spade a spade. Gimmicks don't have to be bad, in fact, I think it works really well for this band. The first time I saw this band was in early '99 on the internet in some video of them playing live. It was 3 dudes playing acoustic in the shady very overgrown backyard of a house in Silverlake. It was so visually refreshing, the concept of this coming from Los Angeles. It looked nothing like the LA that I knew, and that was so attractive to me, so different than your 80s hair metal, than your punk rocks, than your weird old Beck, than your Britney and Backstreet that was so big at the time which was being recorded only miles away, but somehow these dudes have found a place that was the exact opposite.

The specifics of the Beachwood Sparks look like this: they released a couple of singles in '99 built some sweet buzz with lots of live shows in LA, signed to Sub Pop and their self titled full length debut was unleashed in early '00. The epitome of canyon music, the album was filled with great late 60s influenced melodies and dreamy instrumental passages. The more expansive and more original Once We Were Trees followed a little more than a year later. Main songwriter Chris Gunst found melodies that were more his own and less obviously influenced by those of The Byrds and helps the album attain a lovely forlorn melancholy. It should be noted that this album includes a brilliant cover of Sade's "By Your Side." In early '02, Make the Cowboy Robots Cry EP was released, and it showed the Sparks searching deeper for their own voice with great results. The EP was recorded by Jimmy Tamborello (Dntel, Figurine, The Postal Service) who also provided some instrumentation (some electronics). Having amuch more ethereal vibe that even garnered some Spiritualized references MTCRC was the band's most successful release to date, and unfortunately it has been the band's last release. Rumors of breakups followed after their tour for the EP, and the band has definitely been on hiatus with all the members working on other projects. There are some rumors of a new Beachwood Sparks album, but I wouldn't put to much faith in those.

It's hard for a band that is so styleized to continue on, so many times these bands come to an early demise, feeling trapped by their own style decisions. Beachwood Sparks began to try to break free of their own gimmick, but it might have been too little too late. In the end, I think it was better for this band to not be associated with a hot trend, and instead to have been a bit of a lone quirky oddity and been somewhat cliche in their time, as it allows for a kinder and more open look back. They can be viewed as under appreciated, and when people find out about them and how their visual aesthetic and their musical sound both projected a beautiful hazy earthness they will realize that the Beachwood Sparks left a wonderful legacy. Sometimes even The Greatest Band of All Time is gimmicky, and a little cliche, whatever that means.

Let's just cut this one off at the pass. Steve Martin is not a band per se, BUT Steve Martin made some of the greatest albums of the 1970s, has won Grammys for comedy albums and for his banjo playing on bluegrass recordings. Steve Martin in his stand up days was more rock'n'roll than Oasis. Martin has since gone on to have a mostly brilliant film career, been a frequent contributor to the New Yorker, written acclaimed plays and novels, but this is not what we are concerned. ALBUMS. Must talk about ALBUMS to make this relevant to this blog.

Martin was raised in Southern California. He got his start as a performer at Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm doing magic, comedy, playing banjo, juggling, balloon animals, and lassoing. He broke into the "industry" via his girlfriend who was a dancer on The Smother Brothers Comedy Hour and got him a job as a writer on the show. Martin dropped out of college where he was studying philosophy(specifically logic, cause and effect, and chaos which greatly influenced his comedy material). Martin had great success as a writer including winning a few Emmys. He started doing more standup, working comedy clubs but also opened for music groups like Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. Martin became a frequent guest on The Tonight Show and hosted Saturday Night Live 8 times in the first 5 seasons.

Martin released his first album, Let's Get Small, in 1977 and it is a classic comedy album that triumphs over some of the main problems with the entire comedy album concept. It is somehow funny again and again as to where most comedy albums are really only enjoyable for a listen or two. Martin's irreverant non sequiter comedy combined with his shrewd ability to rip on stand up comedy standards made him a truly unique voice in the comedy world. He mixed cool counter culture references (read: drugs) with odd sight gags (which are inexplicable funny without the visuals) and would randomly break out into bizarre hilarious banjo virtuosity. Let's Get Small was recorded live at The Boarding House in San Francisco, and it totally translates onto the album that it was an electric atmosphere and an incredibly cool place to be.

By the late 70s Martin was doing comedy tours in stadiums. He was totally like Andrew "Dice" Clay, but awesome. His second album, A Wild and Crazy Guy, was released a year after his first album and was a huge commercial hit. It hit no. 2 on the Billboard chart. It's a combination of material recorded at smaller clubs and also in mega arena venues and it's an interesting contrast between the two. The stuff in the smaller clubs being much more intellectual and the arena stuff being simpler and goofier. These first two albums are just filled to the brim with Martin's almost overwhelming amount of energy, which is powerful and all over the place. This undeniable energy combined with Martin's very likable self deprecating style makes the Steve Martin of these first two albums maybe the funniest human of all time.

Martin released two more comedy albums, 79's Comedy Is Not Pretty, which is a bit more subdued, but still a good record even though it is a bit of a step back after the first two, and 80's The Steve Martin Brothers which is only comedy on side one and just straight banjo bluegrass jams on side two. This last album is not very funny, unfortunately. There were some very interesting aspects to these albums like the re-appearance of some previously used bits but with different punchlines, that were sometimes more funnier than the original version, but mostly it sounded like old Steve was just going through the motions of the the wild and crazy rambling man. Martin was still a huge huge draw, but wisely decided to officially retire from stand up comedy in 1980.

Dude, OK, I know it's not music, and I know that after some of my recent entries here it might seem like I'm just avoiding writing about something serious, but comedy is serious, people. I believe the same struggles exist in making a great comedy album, or live act for that matter, as exist when making a music record, or live act. The comedy album is mostly a lost art, but it should not be forgotten. Steve Martin says stuff like "electric dog polisher," and also "excuuuuse me," clearly comedy gold, clearly The Greatest Band of All Time.

A popular theory—mostly amongst people who have very little authority to devise such theories—suggests that the vast majority of people have defined their musical vocabulary by the time they've reached their early 20s. What this generally means is that your "favorite" music—that which sets the standard for what will forever be your yardstick in all future listening—has been carved out in your impressionable high school and college years, and that most people will only understand music in the constructs of that time. This is why, for example, "Classic Alternative" radio stations have any legs to stand on—because most people have no interest in hearing things that challenge them beyond what they've understood in their youth. (This may also explain the popularity of Coldplay, but I'm not entirely sure.)

Another popular theory (or one popular with me, anyway) is that when a person plays rock music throughout their formative years, those persons—as they begin to unlock the previously magical mechanics of song structures—are much more likely to become disenchanted with the confines of pop music. In their adult life, these musicians—the smart ones, anyway—have mostly given up on the practices of "pop" music altogether; finding its structures rudimentary, and tedious to play. Instead, they gravitate toward the alienating, often indulgent structures of more complicated musicianship. This is also why traditionally good musicians typically have some of the worst taste in music.

So here's what I'm getting at: if only for the sake of my record collection, I'm sort of glad that I never learned to play an instrument as a kid. Because I'm perfectly contented in my boring ol' pop music. The boring-er the better, in fact. Because in my formative years, I spent most of my time listening molasses-y, hyper-intentional slowcore bands like Bedhead.

Bedhead began in Dallas in 1991, largely as a partnership between the brothers Kadane—Matt and Bubba. After the self-release of a seven inch, Bedhead aligned with one of Texas' only other notables—releasing WhatFunLifeWas, their debut, on King Coffey's (of the Butthole Surfers) Trance Syndicate label. Like most slowcore bands—Codeine, Low, and Galaxie 500 being the most notable—Bedhead's music was more defined by what it wasn't then what it was: it wasn't complicated, wasn't a spectacle, and most obviously, wasn't fast. It was dramatic if only for its sheer lack of dynamics. It was deliberate, melancholy, stark, thoughtful—and ultimately, sort of boring. But it was also lyrically brilliant and highly personal—just the sort of navel-gazey depression soundtrack I needed as I graduated into my 20s... by which time most of the bands that defined the sound had long broken up.

The band seemed sort of doomed from the get-go—always taking a backseat to Matt's academic career, the band only toured when he occasionally returned home to Texas from his new home in New York, with other members regularly stretching all across the globe for a variety of non-band pursuit. But in the whole of their seven-year career, Bedhead managed to release three full-lengths and two EPs (plus a couple of posthumous ones)—each successively better than the last—before calling it quits in 1998.

Their final proper album—the Albini-produced Transaction De Novo—was absolutely life-altering for me; giving me some of my first tastes at a true personal musical aesthetic with a vision that still maintains a lingering impression. It's bands like Bedhead that—sort of for the first time—introduced me to a music that I would want to make, and if I hadn't had the sort of patience for simplicity that I always associate with musical naivety, I may never have had the patience for them. Not that Bedhead were novices, by any means—they were just simple by intention. The sort of simple that most anyone could probably play. Not the sort of thing that dudes who play classical guitar are typically going to want to rock. And I sort of believe that even if I did eventually become virtuosic guitar player, I now have the sort of foundation in my life where the shitty taste in music won't necessarily come with it. Because when i was in my early 20s, I had bands like the Greatest Band of All Time on my side.

Although it might be a difficult matter for some people to wrap their heads around, the idea of being both pop music-obsessed and a discerning music fan aren't always mutually exclusive. Like many other self-conscious music fans before me, I've suffered a great deal of self-flagellation over my affection for perfect, pristine pop songs--never totally comprehending the joys discerning music fans are supposed to find in tuneless walls of noise and jazz music. In recent years, however, I've sort of resolved myself to my fate--but all is not necessarily lost in my pursuit of erudite music snobbery. And I have people like Jens Lekman to thank for it.

At 23, Jens Lekman is a bonafide pop star in his homeland of Sweden--a nation that knows a thing or two about cloyingly perfect pop music--where he recently scored a number two hit on the Swedish pop charts, and picked up three Swedish Grammy nominations. Here in the States, Lekman is a slightly less familiar name--recently releasing his Stateside debut, When I Said I Wanted To Be Your Dog, on Secretly Canadian to decidedly less acclaim. Clearly a card-carrying pop music obsessive, Lekman culls his pop palette from only the finest of sources--a well that includes the likes of Bacharach, Momus, Stephen Merritt, and (a lot of) Jonathan Richman, and that's without even scratching the surface. Fusing baroque pop affectations, a syrupy AM radio baritone, and, appropriately, the occasional well-placed string sample, Lekman's music is something of an experiment in impeccable pop taste--a thoughtful, charmingly light-hearted songwriter of impressive intention. Sure, his lyrics--borrowing Richman's sense of goof, minus the loveably wide-eyed naivety--can get a little cloying, but you've really got to hand it to a guy who can make name-checking Warren G's "Regulate" sound perfectly nostalgic without so much as a hint of irony. Because that guy might just be the Great Band of All Time.