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Forgive me any factual errors in the following tirade, but it must be expected that when charting what may, however embarrassingly, very well be the most dominant single factor of one's life for the better part of a decade, there is bound to be at least a hint of selective mythology, erroneous extensions of truths, and just plain inventions of the imagination. Forgive me further for my trepidation, but it has some grounding—this will certainly be the most difficult entry I have ever cast into the forgotten annuls of The Greatest Band of All Time. For one, because I could never hope to do justice to my very personal relationship to the Smiths in the tossed-off body of a blog entry. For two, because I can whole-heartedly type sentences like "I could never hope to do justice to my very personal relationship to the Smiths" and feel positively sincere doing so. For three, because my affections for the Smiths competes with that of virtually everyone I have ever shared kinship, and is appropriately dwarfed by the continued allegiance of a worldwide army of confused, disaffected, spotty teenagers, as well as every generation that has preceded them since roughly 1983. Nothing I can say here will keep me from sounding anything less than a deluded, mouth-foaming adolescent—and that's the only way, really. Because for most people who care, the Smiths are the closest approximation pop music can muster to honest to god first love—deified, idealized, haunting, and never, ever to be repeated. The Smiths are, in total seriousness, the closest thing I have ever had to a religion—and the fact of the matter is, in most company, this fact sort of embarrasses me. In spite of their near universal acceptance socially, there is very little in this world less dignified than true, unabashed Smiths fanaticism. And while I'd never claim to be the craziest Smiths fan—one of my very best friends, who is tattooed with Morrissey lyrics, once jumped out of a moving car when she saw the man himself standing at a street corner, a friend of a friend reportedly had an affair with one of Morrissey's producers just to get closer to the Mozzer, etc., etc.—the fact remains that I am a grown man of 25 who still can't break free of his teenaged obsessions with a band that lasted merely five years, released only four proper studio albums, and broke up a month before I started the second grade. The Smiths very well may have ruined my life, and yet I've found time nearly every day for roughly ten years to listen to at least one of their songs. Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before: The Smiths are the Greatest Band Of All Time.
Mirroring Steve's now ancient tome to his Greatest Band of All Time, Guided By Voices, I hope to spend a few days reflecting upon the Smiths in what I'm stretching to call their four "periods"—a bit of misnomer, considering that in their brief existence, they have very few hints of major stylistic shift. The "periods" of observation will instead be broken down by records and related singles—also sort of a weird tactic, considering that the Smiths, arguably the last great singles band (or "group," as they preferred), have never really been defined by their albums proper. In fact, the Smiths are in a lot of ways the polar opposites of Steve's GBOAT—their discography carefully contained in a succinct four propers, a couple of compilations, a live album, and a few stray b-sides that amount to roughly 70 total songs, a negligible number of failures among them.
Born famously from the streets of industrial Manchester, the Smiths—Steven Patrick Morrissey, Johnny Maher, Mike Joyce, and Andy Rourke—were all notably descended from recent Irish immigrants, a fact of some ridiculous importance in the casual prejudice of 1960-70s England. Primarily the marriage of two very disparate, yet equally motivated egos, the Smiths officially began in 1982 as a songwriting partnership between 23-year-old pop obsessive Morrissey and 18-year-old jack of all trades Maher, who had both struggled for some years individually with other lesser projects (the Nosebleeds and White Dice respectively and most notably). A fledgling (though rather mediocre) rock journalist, Morrissey had listlessly spent his post-scholastic running a fan club for the New York Dolls, attempting (and failing) to learn a number of different instruments, writing (and occasionally publishing) a handful of pulp-y pop culture tomes of little consequence (James Dean Is Not Dead and The New York Dolls), and doing his best to stay unemployed. Morrissey's once-promising aspirations toward pop fame seemed relatively ripe for the dustbin by the time he was approached by the unlikely Maher, a talented, calculating rock kid with a similarly deep appreciation of Pop in search of a songwriting partner. Distant acquaintances, Maher had some years prior been impressed by some of the lyrics Morrissey had penned with the now-defunct Nosebleeds, and decided to arrange a meeting romantically inspired by the story of songwriting powerhouse Leiber and Stoller's first encounter—arriving on Morrissey's doorstep to insist they start a partnership. Within a few days, they had "Suffer Little Children" and "the Hand that Rocks the Cradle".
Within a year or so, the duo had secured bassist Rourke—an old school friend and former bandmate of Johnny's—and drummer Joyce. The fledgling foursome released their first seven inch on Rough Trade at the crest of the label's many years of brilliance, in the form of "Hand In Glove" b/w "Handsome Devil." The disc was clearly a less than subtle statement of purpose—with two of the most elusive, sexually complicated, and defiant songs Morrissey would ever pen for the group. "Hand In Glove," with its strong suggestions of a forbidden love where the "Sun shines out of our behinds" was a relatively unlikely debut, but a perfect first wrung of the Smiths mythology. The most explicitly carnal of all of the self-professed a-sexual Morrissey's Smiths work, "Handsome Devil" is also one of the most menacing—with casual (possible) allusions to an untamed thirst for sexual violence, as well as some possible hints of pedophilia. "All the streets are crammed with things/eager to be held/I know what hands are for/and I'd like to help myself/you ask me the time/but I sense something more/and I would like to give you what I think you're asking for... I crack the whip and you skip/but you deserve it". Additionally, it's with "Handsome Devil" that Morrissey debuts his now familiar fascination with gender confusions, referencing both a pair of "mammary glands" that he wishes to get his "hands on," which he follows with "A boy in the bush is worth two in the hand/I think I can help you get through your exams," and ultimately inquiring "When we're in your scholarly room/who will swallow whom?" atop one of Maher's (now Marr) rare bludgeoning riffs. The quiet, poetic violence of "Handsome Devil"—though largely abandoned in later work—was a theme repeated regularly throughout the songs produced in the first couple years that Morrissey and Marr were together, but never again would the seem quite so darkly mysterious as with their debut, which quietly underperformed Rough Trade's initial hopes.
A handful of popular BBC sessions followed, soon after which the Manchurians least likely found their first official controversy in a story entitled "Child Sex Song Puts the Beeb In a Spin,"—wherein The Sun questionably cobbled together some of Morrissey's more allusively suggestive lyrics—from "Reel Around the Fountain," "Handsome Devil," and "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle"—and confusingly report that the band were advocates of pedophilia. Certainly the songs weren't entirely free of troubling allusions to youth (It's time that the tale were told/of how you took a child/and you made him old," "there's sadness in your beautiful eyes/you're untouched, unsoiled, wondrous eyes... They'll be blood on the cleaver tonight") nor explorations of the flesh ("Fifteen minutes with you/well, i wouldn't say no/...you can pin and mount me like a butterfly"), but with Morrissey's evasive, intentionally ambiguous lyrical structure at the time, it's impossible throughout to really discern more than just an abstract comprehension of his suggested narrative, despite some arguable connotations. Morrissey of course firmly (though again somewhat aloofly) denied any leering intentions, and the controversy soon quelled.
The band's first serious commercial break came by way of their second single, the instantly and lastingly infectious "This Charming Man," which hit the top forty, and saw them performing on Top Of the Pops for the first time. One of Marr's shiningly melodic guitar achievements, "Charming Man" was backed in various formats by a handful of additional cuts that would prove to further expand the Smiths' thematic mythology via some of Morrissey's many cultural and personal fascinations (an aside: these fascinations are also evident in his hand selection of the "cover stars" of the Smiths' mounting releases—people like Terrance Stamp, Elvis, Joe Dallesandro, James Dean, etc.—each a pin-up from Morrissey's fame-following adolescence): the classically British kitchen sink motif of "Jeane" (Jeane/I'm not sure what happiness means/but I look in your eyes and it isn't there"), the ridiculous dark comedy of "Wonderful Woman" ("I'm starved of mirth/Let's go and trip a dwarf"), and the outsider self-analysis of "Accept Yourself" ("I once had a dream and it never came true/and time is against me now"). Next came "What Difference Does It Make?" the lead-off single from their long-awaited debut album, with a now familiar theme of an unspoken dark secret defiantly threatening a love affair—which happened to fare even better at number 12 on the charts.
A month later, the Smiths' hastily recorded, self-titled debut hit the shelves, and landed with some disappointment. Originally featuring only two of the band's powerful introductory A and B sides ("Hand In Glove" and "What Difference Does It Make?"), The Smiths remains a somewhat muddy affair—setting the pace for a career of seemingly strange ambivalence toward the album format. Still, the record introduces the band as a startling force straight out of the gate, and features, more than anything, some of Morrissey's most memorable lyrical material—even if a lot of it was arguably plagiarized. Another of Morrissey's most effective talents is his ability to devour and appropriate pop and literary sources for lyrical content, and, to appropriately paraphrase the man, claim these words as his own. (For a quick reference, check out this interesting, lengthy, and incomplete Morrissey Sources Guide.) Even where the production might fail (the band largely acknowledges that their BBC sessions are generally superior), there's scarcely a lyrical dud on The Smiths, which is certainly more than can be said for the rest of the band's records. Particularly brilliant is the afore mentioned "Reel Around the Fountain," along with the totally essential "Still Ill", and the chilling finale of "Suffer Little Children," about the serial child killing Moors Murderers that haunted much of Morrissey's Manchurian childhood. More importantly, The Smiths marked the darkest, most dangerous creative period the band would ever undertake—before fatal fame would send Morrissey's (still brilliant) vision to some points of near caricature. It was the time before the Smiths became THE SMITHS, when Moz unleashed the bulk of his most confrontational couplets, hidden behind Marr's most reserved presence.
The band rounded out the year with non-album singles "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" and "William, It Was Really Nothing"—the latter of which featuring a couple of songs written and recorded in the studio over the span of a few days, which would later become two of the band's most memorable songs: "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" and the eternal "How Soon Is Now?" Both singles, as well as all of the remaining non-album tracks and radio sessions, were soon compiled on the bargain-priced Hatful Of Hollow—which, like most of the Smiths' compilations, is arguably more essential than their albums proper. Also that year, Morrissey also persuaded one of his early idols, British pop singer Sandy Shaw, to record a version of "Hand In Glove" of her own with the band—the track finally vindicated when it reached the top 30 the second time around.
At the close of 1984, The Smiths were on an insane creative and commercial roll with scarcely two years under their belts, and were well on their way to becoming the most important British rock group of the '80s. And then after that? The Greatest Band of All Time, of course.
My tentative love affair with the Kim Deal began over ten years ago, under the sweltering August sun of George, Washington. A fairly heavy day for me: my first concert proper was to expose me to many a wonder, not the least of which would be my first Nick Cave and Smashing Pumpkins performances. I was 13 years old, and had made the mistake of wearing sandals--a slip up I came to regret the second that a then-fledgling major label band named Green Day opened the day-long crash course in alternative rock, causing the sudden disappearance of my footwear from beneath me. Kim was 33.
Sure, I'd heard that rolling radio phenomenon "Cannonball," and had just barely borrowed my friend's Bossanova cassette, but the Breeders were little more than a footnote in the spectrum of performers at alt-rock's alter--Lollapalooza 1994. That was until I saw Kim. From that moment on, we were inseparable.
The truth of the matter is, as a person who grew up largely without the careful hand of an older sibling guiding me patiently through the annuls of college rock's mystical history, it generally took me a little longer than some to fully develop my musical aesthetic--my spongy, ill-formed critical perceptions percolated on matters for a great deal longer than was often necessary, as a great deal of what I responded to didn't fully make contextual sense to me. Which is to say that Last Splash--one of the alternative rock era's true and total works of art--didn't exactly make sense to me upon first listen. Or second listen. Or for about two years. Still, there was always something there... and as the cracks began to fill in--Pixies discography, Pod, etc.--my understanding of Last Splash continued to grow, to the point now that it seems so much a part of my vernacular that it may as well be the Beatles or something. Strange that it all seemed so foreign then.
Still, Last Splash is a really weird alt-rock record, when it comes right down to it--sonically, very little else from the era sounds anything like it. Kim's beautifully layered, often totally obscured vocals singing siren songs in a style so singular and distinct that they should be patented, the stutter stopped and sludgy beauty, the crazy number of instrumentals, and one of the weirdest hit singles of any era (seriously, have you ever listened to "Cannonball"? 'Kay, first of all, shit starts out with this weird, super distorted "check, check, check," followed by multiple voices doing some kind of primal chanting, which suddenly give way to some soft rim-and-hardware hits on a drumkit. Then into the most infectious two chord pop song of all time--underneath which we hear the Deal sisters cracking their shit up for the first verse, like it's all some sort of caustic joke they've just played on us, drilling us with a melody that will never, ever leave our heads completely--then into one of the least memorable choruses of ever. Then there's the three solid seconds of silence in the middle.). No wonder it's quite possibly the most common record at every pawn shop I've ever been to (next to R.E.M.'s Monster, of course)--it's an altogether impossible sell to teenage kids who were at the time just trying to round out the Columbia House orders.
But enough about Last Splash for now--what I really want to talk about is Kim.
Beginning her career as Mrs. John Murphy (later divorced)--bassist and very occasional songwriter for that band that won't fucking stop touring these days--Deal silky, husked voice was always the butter on the Pixies' otherwise (palatably) caustic howl. I've always been a fan of the writing of Everett True, and I distinctly recall that the first piece of his that really connected deeply with me was a snarky dismissal of the Pixies catalog--which stated first that the band only had two good records, and second that "Gigantic" was by far their greatest song, and that Frank Black was an idiot for not exploiting Kim Deal's talents more often. This stupidity was set in stone with the mid-Pixies release of Pod, the Breeders' first record.
As previous stated in the annuls of GBoAT, Pod is something like the perfect counterpoint to Frank Black's self-titled solo album, together defining the two most distinct halves of the Pixies. Needless to say, Pod is totally brilliant.
Initially a collaboration with Throwing Muses' Tanya Donnelly (who went on to bore us all with Belly), the Breeders soon became largely Deal's... well, deal by the time her twin sister Kelley joined the band to record Last Splash. We've already talked about Last Splash, so let's move on to my second rendezvous with the lady Deal--this time one year later touring behind Pacer, the one and only album released by her poorly-received Breeders side-project (formed while Kelley was in one of her frequent rehab stints) called The Amps. Now 14, my love for Kim had matured a great deal of those months--enough for me to see past the awe-inspiring youthful beauty of openers Bikini Kill (who earlier that year I had learned I was supposed to like), and patiently await more womanly wiles. Like most people in 1995, I was pretty bummed on the Amps, but the ten years that have past since have really done wonders for Pacer--though it never really jumps out at you like the rest of the Deal catalog, it has a lot of subtle charms, not the least of which is the largely overlooked single "Pacer," I song which I've probably listened to more than any other in the past year, "B.Y.O.B" included.
After the Amps fiasco, the Breeders, for all intents and purposes, disappeared for the better part of eight years--living high on royalties from Prodigy's uber-hit "Firestarter," which samples a chunk of "Cannonball." In that time, Kim dropped a couple of memorable guest spots--most notably on Sonic Youth's "Little Trouble Girl," which may very well (stupidly) be my favorite Sonic Youth song.
In the mean, I secretly began harboring the fear of near-inescapable disappointment married to such high expectations.
After countless false starts trying to record a follow-up to Last Splash with a bunch of different line-ups, the band finally mustered Title TK in 2002. (TK is a shorthand copyediting placeholder for "to come"--a grinning reference to the record's long delay.) It's a little indulgent, sure, and by no means worth the years of production that went into it, but any record that can withstand eight years (!) of expectation, has got to be doing something right.
In awkward conclusion, I'd like to solidify for you, dear reader, not only my overwhelming obsession with Kim Deal's music, but also my generally inexplicable physical attraction to her to this day. This obsession is so deep, in fact, that some years ago had a rather involved make-out dream that revolving around Kelley Deal, and when I awoke, I was really disappointed with myself. And they're TWINS. So maybe she's a little manish, and, like, 20 years my senior. So what? She also the Greatest Band of All Time, and that's gotta count for something, right?
Scout Niblett plays the drums like a third seat percussionist in 7th grade drum jazz ensemble. Which is to say, pretty poorly. And for a woman in her thirties, she could pretty easily pass for a junior high student. She's small, has a penchant for ratty, little girl wigs, and bellows like a kid on the playground. But it's little Emma Niblett who might just be the one to save the floundering ovarian-angst genre.
Growing up in Staffordshire, England, Emma Niblett moved to Nottingham when she was 19 to hit art school. The years between this and her new-found career nearly a decade later are relatively unaccounted from across the worldwide webulus, but somewhere between then and now Emma began going by the name of a character in To Kill a Mockingbird, and writing songs. Songs that became a record. A very good record.
2001's sweet heart fever introduced Niblett's distinctive vision--a fittingly fevered stammer of the felt and frantic. Which sounds like a big mess of journalistic prose. What I mean is, Scout makes music that actually feels like feelings do, knotted and nonsensical and dramatic and true. With her rudimentary drumming and big muff riffage, it's nearly impossible to tear Niblett's voice away from dry and rid of me era PJ Harvey (people who deny the similarity aren't fooling anyone), but the comparison is one of spirit as much as sound. And as those records are easily among the best of the last decade, Niblett is certainly in good company. SHF was followed up by the I Conjure Series ep, and later I Am, a remarkably cohesive effort.
Scout Niblett is one of the very few independent artists at present that actually seems to be cultivating a compelling persona with some staying power. Though the scope of her work is as of yet very limited, it's open-ended in such a way that keeps my eyes trained. I care about her and her work. I have an investment in it in a way I do with very few new artists. And if that don't qualify her for Greatest Band of All Time, I can't imagine what would.
I should back up.
That whole 1992 shoegazer thing? I was really in. I wore horizontal striped t-shirts and stayed up way past my bedtime to watch 120 Minutes (RIP) on Sunday nights. I bought Moose imports and had half hour conversations with my friend Sarah about which girl in Lush we'd rather be, Miki Berenyi or Emma Anderson. I went to England and tried to talk to people in record stores and got rebuffed, devastatingly. It was actually kind of an intense phase, now that I think about it.
Except that I wasn't exactly a phase. I like all of those bands still, but I really love Ride the best. I have probably listened to them an average of once a week since 1992. I have found over the years that Ride is a really good band for sitting on the couch and thinking about the foreign exchange student at school who didn't know I existed. I went through a period in college where I couldn't go to sleep, even at my most staggeringly drunk, until I listened to the B-side of Going Blank Again. Now I know that Ride is a really good band for yoga, and when I get around to making the yoga mix that actually has good music on it, I will finally make my fortune.
Ride was one of those bands all about two guys: Andy Bell and Mark Gardiner who were from Oxford. (Even though I like to consider myself a relatively composed person, I think if I were to ever meet Andy or Mark at a party, I would pee my pants with glee to bask in their hotness. Really, they're very cute boys.) So Ride started playing a lot of shows at the rather ominously named "Jericho Tavern" in Oxford. This attracted the attention of Alan McGee, who ran the Creation label, and they were signed. (The Republican National Convention is starting in a few short days in New York, which, I think will merit a lot of me avoiding the outside world and going to my happy place. My happy place, this week, consists of my Creation Records video compilation, and about which I could talk at great length.)
Ride recorded a few e.p.s and a full-length, Smile, and were deemed the great white hope by the hyperbolic British music press. These albums are all slightly psychedelic with fuzzy guitar and have a vaguely churning, droning quality. "Close My Eyes"? "Like a Daydream"? Totally good.
In February 1992 they released the first single from their second album, Leave Them All Behind. I think this might be my favorite song ever. It's super long. I love weirdly long singles, the audacity, you know? And it had this black and white video that really sealed the deal. Going Blank Again was release a month later. It had the poppy "Twisterella" and slightly more opaque "Time of Her Time". They toured the hell out of the album going to seemingly every city and college town in the country.
By 1993, Ride was tired of touring and tired of each other. I don't blame them, one of them even didn't get to see the birth of his son because he was on tour. They recorded another album, but ditched their melodic wall of sound vibe for a classic '60s and '70s rock vibe. Bad call. Also, the album was more or less split in half, with Andy's songs and Mark's songs because, naturally, they hated each other. Things got worse: critics hated them, fans ditched them, they needed to record albums but no one had written any new material. They even played with a full boy's choir. And yet no one seemed to care. They split in December 1995.
But let's remember how good they once were. If Ride were a flower, they'd be a lilac. If Ride was a color, they'd be kelly green. If Ride got its due, they would be Greatest Band of All Time.
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.
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.
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 very hard on clothing. I would say my average piece of clothing lasts only 6 to 8 months. They get lost or ripped or fall apart, like I said, I'm very hard on clothing. There is, of course, an exception to the rule, I have had one piece of clothing for 10 whole years (10 WHOLE YEARS!)! That one very special piece of clothing is a Dinosaur Jr. T-Shirt. I think it says a lot about that band and about my relationship with that band that I have somehow held onto this shirt for 10 times as long as I normally keep a piece off clothing. I mean, it's a really cool shirt. That's not to say that I have kept the shirt pristine, it has a whole in the armpit, but it's still looking pretty good. This shirt (you can see an a representation of the shirt to your left) is really cute. It features a boy unknowingly waving while a huge monster sneaks up behind. This is really cute, right?? Well, Dinosaur Jr. straddled a weird balance beam with their visual representations (album covers, T-shirt designs, etc.) throughout the years with the cute and beautiful at one end and the ugly and scary at the other end of the balance beam. While I'm not a big fan of the ugly and scary visual stuff, it is the ugly and scary where Dinosaur Jr. succeeded musically. Dinosaur Jr was a loud screeching mess that was led by the prototypical slacker with a terrible voice that made some important and powerful music.
J. Mascis is that prototypical slacker who led Dinosaur Jr. He is the man with the weird voice and the long stringy hair. He is the infamous loner who loves to shred on his guitar louder than anyone else in the world. Don't get me wrong, others were involved with Dinosaur Jr. Lou Barlow (most known as the man behind Sebadoh) was a huge presence on the first two albums, and when he left it started one of the most infamous feuds in underground rock history. Mascis also worked with a great drummer named Murph and Mike Johnson played bass on a number of albums. When it was necessary, though, Mascis did it all, including playing all the instruments and producing on a few albums.
Mascis is the man who made it okay to rip a guitar solo in underground rock. He did this in the late 80's too when heavy metal wankery was at its heights of popularity. How he did he made it okay to rip a solo, I will never know for sure, but it must have had something to do with him never putting on airs of being anything he wasn't. He always came across as this quiet weird guy who you would catch playing guitar through a tiny amp in his bedroom at 11am. In doing some research for this blog every thing I read actually spoke very negatively of Mascis actual ability on guitar. I don't know. I'm not so smart about that sort of stuff, but I was alaways impressed seeing him play (even when he played solo) and with the sounds he makes on the records. So, I'm saying that J. Mascis is an influential songwriting and one of the most important guitar players of the last 20 years.
The consensus among critics is that the 1987 album You're Living All Over Me is Dinosaur Jr.'s peak, but I personally see 88's Bug and 93's Where You Been as the best moments for Dino. Bug was the first album with Mascis as the lone song writer and it showed how his songwriting was so much better than young Lou Barlow. Bug is the sound of a free man using his voice for the first time. Where You Been is his best set of songs coupled with the best performances and the best production of the entire discography.
Dinosaur Jr. sorted just melted into J. Mascis & The Fog when Mascis felt like he needed to leave the name behind. He still makes music. Mascis is totally weird. Now his long hair is gray. Mascis made Dinosaur Jr. Dinosaur Jr. made The Greatest Band of All Time.
It is another special Sunday here at The Greatest Band Of All Time, and we are pleased to have with us guest writer, John Afryl.
It was the summer of 1992 when I first heard the band Lush. August 28 at Lollapalooza to be exact, and their opening slot didn't help them gather much of my attention. Too concerned with finding my friends somewhere in the huge crowd wilting in anticipation for Pearl Jam, I lost the beautiful harmonies and layers of guitar in the sticky St. Paul, MN air. If not for the simple circle logo found on the bottom of my souvenir t-shirt, I might have forgotten they were on the stage all together.
Three years and a new college-radio music library later I finally figured out what I had missed. Lush built their fan base as people grew to appreciate the beautifully textured, duel female songwriter force they introduced to the shoegazer scene of the early 90s. Led by Miki Berenyi and Emma Anderson, they traded-off songwriter duties and never missed an opportunity to bring some much-needed energetic gender equality to the "sad guys with guitars" landscape. Sure, My Bloody Valentine and Slowdive had talented women in their midst, but Lush WERE the ladies, and they could bring both the brash and the beauty.
Landing a deal with legendary 4AD insured them of notoriety, and they didn't disappoint, turning out quality EPs before finally releasing a proper full-length, 1992's Spooky. Two years later came my personal favorite Lush album, 1994's Split, which contains what I consider to be the most captivating opening track ever, "Light From a Dead Star." The atmospheric opening sounds give way to the cold assessment of a womanizer--a topic Lush also covered with particular aplomb on their next (and last) full-length, 1996's Lovelife with the opening track, "Ladykillers," which was an alt. radio hit(interesting note--this song was apparently inspired by Matt Sharp of Weezer and The Rentals fame). A lot of people were disappointed with the more pop-driven direction the band had moved towards, but I found it to be a natural progression of a sound they had been developing for over 8 years.
It wasn't until the spring of 1996 that I once again saw Lush play a show...this time in the much friendlier confines of Minneapolis' First Ave. However, a hastily arranged 2-hour car ride and an early-evening start time intervened and made sure that I only caught about 4 songs in their set. Oh well, I figured third time could be the charm, right? Unfortunately, lifelong drummer Chris Acland, (apparently distraught over a bad break-up) hung himself that year, bringing the group to a premature conclusion and ending all hope I had of experiencing live what I had come to love over an all-too-brief period. For an ethereal moment, Lush were The Greatest Band of All Time.
by JJA
