Punk Rock Music: May 2004 Archives

If there is one thing about music writing that you can count on universally—and this is speaking from a good deal of experience with this matter—its that music journalists are, on the whole, a fundamentally lazy lot. I'm the last person to fault them for it, as even in my brief time as a paid music writer, I became uniformally bored and disaffected by the inner workings of nearly all matters musical. And with week after week of sub-mediocre CDs piling up on your desk, publicists hounding you, and nearly everyone loathing you simply on the principal of your opinion—anyones birthright—it becomes easier to simply rewrite press releases with bad analogies and (less-than-)clever devices, replicating the names of influences the P.R. firm has chosen to bold in the little piece of paper folded up with your promo.

Which is the only thing that seems to explain nearly everything ever written about Life Without Buildings, a short-lived art school four-piece from Glasgow. Its so weird—so many reviews and articles that Ive read about the band (a number which, admittedly, is pretty limited) have said EXACTLY the same thing about them, and none of it really makes any sense to me. I suppose its a lot easier to just lump the band in with the recent brand of Post Punk revival—compare them to Television, Public Image Ltd., ESG, Gang of Four, etc.than to actually listen to the record, but I hardly hear an ounce of any of those bands in LWB. Post-Punk revivalists they might be, but its a different school altogetherspecifically, (as All Music Guide [I know, and Im sorry] so eloquently puts it) Rough Trades class of 1979. Frontwoman Sue Tompkins is Mark E. Smiths lilting, rhododendron-soft antonym—hiccupping and sputtering in maddening repetition above a darting, jangly soundtrack that owes as much to the American Underground of the 80s as it does to the deified Brits.

Life Without Buildings formed out of the Glasgow School of Art in 1999, and were gone by September of 2002. In that time they released four singles and an LP, 2001s phenomenal Any Other City, and if Im not mistaken, never set foot in the states. One of the most promising debuts of the last few years, the bands break honestly effected me in way I sort of forgot such things couldpretty good for another one of those PiL rip-offs. You will be missed, Greatest Band of All Time.

Officially my favorite Portland band in the year 2001, the only year they existed (publicly), Pan Tourismos is quite an enigma. They seemed to be developing a really solid following of friends and fans at their very energetic live shows, but then it seemed as if they just dissapeared. What's the big deal, right? This happens every year in every town, right? It's just that these dudes were so good. I have consistently listened to their CD all this time (I know 3 years doesn't seem that impressive, but it really is). Brandon Clemmens (guitar/singer/songwriter) is easily one of my favorite guitar players of all time playing line after line of intricate guitar melodies that work so well with his sing/talk/rap style of delivering vocals. Clemmens' lyrics were filled with so much youthfulness but a very thoughtful youthfulness, not immature, but exuberant. The bass and drum duties were performed by brothers Demetri and George Kassapakis and like all good legends they were so tight it seemed like their DNA held them together. Somehow this all combined to make punk music that was always changing, always interesting, and always exciting. Informed by The Minutemen and Bruce Springsteen, Pan Tourismos also seemed to have a little bit of jam band in them, maybe it was just how good they were at their instruments or maybe it seemed like their parts could (but never did) jaunt off to wankery. An amazing band to watch play live, all three members seemed to be smiling their way through the entire set.

Taxing the internet's deepest resources I found out that 2 of Pan Tourismos' 3 went on to perform as the Psychological Thrillers in 2002, and that Brandon Clemmens also made some recordings under the name The Inconvincible, but nothing since 2002. And then, I met the main dude, Brandon, at this house party where my friend was playing a month or so ago. I told him how much I liked his band and inquired as to if he was still making music. He didn't have much to say about making music, but took kindly to some compliments. It turns out that amazing bassist Demetri is playing now in this great little band John Weatherproof adding his bass virtuoso to some awesome simple pop songs from two cool dudes named Brian. And then, while doing a little research for this little piece I ran across this(check out the May 26th). Could it be true?? Could The Greatest Band Of All Time really be returning? I will find out Wednesday. Here's to hoping.

I had always thought i lived in Seattle a lot longer than I did. Strange. It was less than a month after my twentieth birthday, and in those 15 or so days I had alienated most of my friends, packed all of my shit into the back of an acquaintance's VW bus (the humor of this image is not lost on me), and moved into an office-carpeted two bedroom apartment in the University District with a complete stranger. I had just finished my vanity tenure as an art department intern at Seattle's biggest record label-a position that earned me little more than a few (admittedly great) Mudhoney LPs and with no experience whatsoever, I set out to work for an independent record company.

This quest was, of course, essentially fruitless (sans a couple of tasks haphazardly handed to me from the city's floundering indies, all of which i relentlessly hounded), with the exception of one serendipitous meeting... one that would somehow serve as the unlikely catalyst for the next 3+ years of my life. After a month of badgering, I was "granted" a meeting over burritos with the owner of one particular label, whose business seemed to be thriving on the merits of his foresight in signing a wildly popular Christian band(editors note: Calling said band a Christian band is frowned upon by management) just before they hit. He asked me if I would be interested in laying out the LP version of his latest release, the first record by then hot-shit local band The Vogue. Pro bono. I, of course, jumped at the chance, having no idea what i was doing. He also invited me to his going away party, he was moving to New York, and unbenounced to me, about to fuck over all of the bands on his roster, at the home he had been staying for the past month, the Vogue house.

A little background: the Vogue were a five-piece of 18-20 year olds that had in about six months time become local celebrities, gracing the covers of two local alternative weeklies (and the tongues of most everyone else) on the merits of little more than a 7". Of the Pretty-Punk-Band-with-Synthesizers motif that had become so popular at the time, the Vogue were a bunch of kids from the privileged suburbs of Seattle who grew up in the "Redmond Firehouse" scene just across the lake from the big city (a scene that would later muster bands like Murder City Devils, Pretty Girls Make Graves, and the Blood Brothers). Growing up in a failed milltown-turned-failed-Navy town, the Vogue represented a sort of reality that seemed so foreign to me at the time: these kids had been in bands since middle school, these kids had toured the west coast, these kids played shows with all of my favorite bands, and, most notably, these kids had been releasing records in some form since high school (with then band Vade). As reasonable a reality as this might all seem to me now, at the time it was all sort of inconceivable.

I arrived at the party unbelievably early, and was greeted by the only person on the premises, a shaggy and brittle-boned skeleton with very prominent braces. I introduced myself, and though met with a little skepticism, was invited inside. Devin, who i had recognized from the one performance i had seen of the Vogue at that point (and who i knew to be a former Blood Brother), went immediately back into the kitchen where he prepared some vegan vegetable fair. We established a cordial rapport that progressed in the weeks that followed.

I saw the Vogue perform a handful of times before they officially broke, the first of many implosions that would greet Devin in the next few years of our friendship. Despite the dated sheen that unfortunately coats a lot of their recordings, the Vogue were good at what they did, with Devin's incredibly inventive playing and glaring discomfort with the presentation always at the forefront. The band lost a member--the timely keyboard--and soon became the (again, unfortunately monikered) Soiled Doves. Streamlined and yet less focused, the band was again mainly a showcase for Devin's presence, a ragged, scrawling tension. Soiled Doves lasted long enough for a single West Coast tour, recording a single for King of the Monsters and a full-length for GSL until their singer's obligations with his other band, the Blood Brothers, forced them to bail. GSL sat on the record for two years before releasing Soiled Life, waiting to cash in on the Blood Brothers' major label PR push. Shit-can number two.

At around this point, Devin, a man who I clearly admired, began discussing with me the possibility of co-curating a monthly arts and music showcase; something that at the time seemed completely out of my capacity. after a few months of discussion, we launched the Slender Means Society, a commitment that would come to mold much of what became my current place in life. Though Devin's presence began to dwindle as his commitments to music intensified, his initial support and vision made the series possible, and allowed me to gain the confidence in my capacity for creation.

Meanwhile, the remaining members of Soiled Doves--Adam Miller, Hannah Blillie (twin sister of Blood Brother Jordan), and Devin, reconvened with bassist Michelle Nolan to support Miller's then-side project, the Chromatics. Considerably more raw, a self-conscious reaction to their previously (self-)disappointing efforts, Chromatics were in no uncertain terms Adam's band... at least on the surface. For all of Adam's awkward Mark E. Smith-isms and desperately alienating stage persona, Chromatics once again relied for the most part (not to undermine Hannah's talents as a percussionist) on Devin's brilliance as a guitarist--spare, precise, and delicate. Chromatics' fate lay largely in the hands of a frontman's ego, however, and after a tour with the Gossip, a couple of singles, and a brilliantly inconsistent full-length (GSL's Chrome Rats Vs. Basement Ruts), Miller split briefly for Minnesota, and returned to Seattle with the decision that Chromatics would carry on without the other members. Shit-can #3.

After about of half-year of silently regrouping, the remaining members of Chromatics and friend Chris Pugmire debuted their new band; one that seemed much more in celebratory of their mutual strengths and convictions. The band is a chorus of intergendered vocals, erratic, extemporaneous distortions, and throbbing, urgent rhythm. To say that Shoplifting are a progression from their previous projects undermines the true artistic leap represented in their still unripened seed--it's as if the past has been soaked in acetone, melting away all of the pomp and artifice, leaving in its place a seething, pulsing open wound. In place of sonic comparisons, it's best to enter their fray in terms of ideology, as their urgency screams (and screams, and screams) the strains of Huggy Bear's politics of personal aesthetic. Though perhaps a little weighed down in performance by their particularly narrow agendas (rock not rape, dude), the band's careful potential seems to trump that of all of their previous efforts. Shoplifting has taken the past year very slowly, self-releasing a cassette, with plans for a Kill Rock Stars release in the near future. With Devin's dumb luck let's hope they can hold it together, word is they've already whittled down to a three-piece... bad sign, and have their chance to shine as The Greatest Band of All Time.

For better or worse, you've helped to make me what I am today, Devin. and I thank you for that.

Two brothers, ages 11 and 15, from the same Los Angeles 'burb as The Beach Boys (Hawthorne) make a few visits to some of the Sunset Strips more legendary rock clubs (The Whiskey and The Roxy) in 1978. Jeff and Steve McDonald, of course, immediately decide to start a band. Two years later (1980) Red Cross releases a self titled EP that is filled with naive short blasts about celebrities ( "Annette's Got The Hits"), girls ("Clorox Girls), and school ("I Hate My School"). It's truly childish, amateur, and inspired. They become a staple of the truly awesome early 80's punk scene and one of the most influential bands for that region.

Threatened with lawsuit by the more famous Red Cross (you know, the international aid organization), the boys change their name to Redd Kross. Continuing with their brash and tacky brilliance they release a full length (Born Innocent), another EP (6 Teen Punk Anthems), and a bizarre cover album (Teen Babes from Monsanto).

The band switched gears in 1987, with the album Neurotica. The sound was decidely more accessible but also containing some of elements of their punk roots, and of some psychedelic garage music. Redd Kross seemed ready to go (somewhat) mainstream, but their label folded right after the album was released, and the album never broke through, but it laid the groundwork of inspiration for bands like Teenage Fanclub, and Nirvana.

Being caught in contract hassles with their former label they boys couldn't use the name Redd Kross, so they recorded a couple albums under the name The Tater Totz. Furthering Redd Kross' kitsch factor The Tator Totz featured The Partridge Family's Danny Bonaduce.

One they were allowed to be Redd Kross again they found a home on a major label and sorta switched gears again. Redd Kross in the 90s became a power pop juggernaut. From the jangly sugar goodness of Third Eye, to the raw driving alternative rock pop of Phaseshifter, and the Raspberries inspired pure power pop of Show World, Redd Kross made some of the best pop records of the 90s.

Now focusing on side projects and solo acts, Redd Kross is no longer a focus for the McDonald brothers. Redd Kross will also be remembered for it's ever changing pop music that was always interesting and most importantly, something that is often forgotten about in rock music, fun, and this is why Redd Kross is The Greatest Band Of All Time.

The legend goes something like this: It's the Summer of 1990, and Calvin, Bret, and Heather continue to traverse the extremely difficult terrain of the then extremely narrow underground music scenethis time on the coattails of Fugazi. The place is the (now defunct) Country Club of Los Angeles, California. The setting is extremely bleak. This is the quintessential Beat Happening moment.

Fugazi, still reaping the benefit of MacKaye's Minor Threat heyday, netted a sold out crowd of L.A.'s most meat-headed hardcore fans--an audience not quite open to a three-piece from Washington with no bass player, a girl, and, well... Calvin. as the set continued, the heckling turned violent--with audience members heaving drinks and refuse at the band. At some point, a laser-eyed lout connected with a direct hit, with Calvin taking the business end of an ashtray. He immediately launches into a word-perfect Darby Crash spiel from the Germ's What We Do Is Secret (a ref. lost on that band's home turf hardcore audience)--ignoring the evident damage to his nose. With blood streaming down his face, he finished the set as insolent as ever, taunting the audience the way that only Calvin can--then simply dropping the mic, walking Moses-like off of the front of the stage through the audience, and out the front door without a word.

And that is why the Beat Happening has always served as my most apt definition of the Punk Rock sensibility. In spite of the impossibly limited options presented by the American underground music scene of the 1980s, the Beat Happening battled alongside (and occasionally against) bands like Black Flag and the Minutemen--falling on deaf, confused ears throughout the country, and selling nary enough records to survive. They represented a noble, uncompromising alternative to the orthodoxy of what punk rock should be at a time when its definition was its narrowest, and offering a still unmatched suggestion of what punk rock could be.

Knowingly innocent, sexually frustrated, perpetually teenaged, and oppressively minimal, Beat Happening put its last song to tape in 2000, after the eight year absence that followed their final LP, You Turn Me On. Survived by five full lengths, a rarities compilation, a box set, a mountain of cassettes, and 18 years of public service, Olympia's chosen sons (and daughter) deserve every accolade thats ever had lavished upon them--including this title, that of The Greatest Band of All Time.

regarding perfection: it's a quality that's difficult to place one's finger on... this idea that the stars and the seasons and the clocks and harmonies all stumble over the pavement at the same time--to form, in perfect discord, in a torn jean of providence. a skinned knee of serendipity.

excuse me for a moment. that all sounds awfully lofty. deep breath, collect.

in this vastly imperfect world, perfection in something found only in transitions--clock tectonics that rub together in some way or another (astrally, pastorally, or otherwise), and out comes a rumble. and if you blink, you've missed it. and if you blink, it was never there at all. cherry blossoms. light refractions. sweating pavement. the opening verse of "good vibrations." Perfection: It's a Feeling!

Wait, maybe not. maybe Perfection, the ultimate impossibility, is something that can only really exist internally. in the heads of the chaste. in misconceptions and projections. in forgetting.

but this is all a bit silly, isn't it? what i am so carelessly stumbling toward is something altogether different from rational understandings of perfection. rather, a skewed understanding of perfection as it relates to musics (or anything else, i suppose): that of the Perfection Principle. This is a tough one to articulate. Please bear with me.

the Perfection Principle might be best described as something of a fantasy baseball team: the succinct combination of factors that culminate to produce a teetering equilibrium--it might not be something you can verbalize, but you know it when you see it.

that's nothing like a fantasy baseball team. what's with all of these failed sports analogies, anyway?

Take for example, the Talking Heads. in my singular understanding of what composes an ideal, few bands come quite as close as David Byrne and Co. First, there's their lineage: Art-school conception and pretensions (Rhode Island School of Design, no less), immediate association with East-Coast proto punk's most important school (via Jerry Harrison's Modern Lovers term), come-upens through the early New York punk scene (CBGBs, Blank Generation, ad infinitum). Like a thoroughbred horse or something. Mixed-gendered, internally conflicted, commercially viable, artistically single-minded. This, married with the very notion of the band: a group rooted almost entirely on the urge of unease. not a single emotion perceptible but tension. perfect, right? then why aren't they my favorite band? why am I so rarely motivated to listen to them?

enter the greatest anomaly of the Perfection Principle: for whatever reason, "perfect" isn't necessarily "favorite." though it may (or may not) be a formulaic strategy, the outcome of the principle is entirely unpredictable--and rarely are my perfects also favorites.

a perfect example of this glitch (and, in my singular case, the principle itself) comes in the form of my personal definition of conceptual perfection: a band called The Birthday Party. though mythology no doubt bloats the sheer ridiculousness of the groups junk-sick vision, the Birthday Party typifies a sort of perfection of a moment that is in essence impossible recreate, to honestly document, or to comfortably listen to.

skin a translucent blue, emaciated and track-marked, angry, violent, and brilliant. Nick Cave's deadpan misogynistic obsessions--his gold blades, bleeding strings, and sprouting wings; his southern gothic trashcan jesus, free-firing hamlets. All shouted, moaned and squealed in an unintelligible rhythm. a band human spectres--death incarnate, death impending. if the stooges were the very definition of adolescent id, the birthday party were their reform school cousins--and what they lacked in tact, they made up for in pure nihilism. but unlike their Detroit brethren, the birthday party's intrinsic lunacy was matched only by their dry acumen--and if there's anything more terrifying that a dope-sick lunatic with an audience hanging on his every convulsion, its that same dope-sick lunatic with a genius streak. simply put: the Birthday Party is the Greatest Band of All Time. and for some reason, I cant bare to listen to them.

Perhaps perfection is just too overwhelming. perhaps favorite is an admission of some inherent flaw. perhaps the product just can't live up to the perception. perhaps there is such a thing as too perfect. I dont really get it, either. and it doesn't really matter, i suppose. contemplation only serves to taint majesty. and there is nothing quite as regal as the Birthday Party.

(for more information on the Birthday Party, please see the many self-congratulatory writings of Everett True on the subject.)