Umair Chaudhry, formerly of Xmas Lights, has been very busy of late;
this marks his third release in as many months and while his music
continues to draw from the same morose well that inspires his other
bands, Abandon and Monday Morning Sun, Bicycles With No Riders
represents a marked shift away from his usual multi-layered approach in
favour of a largely acoustic set of songs. In this more intimate
context, Umair’s cyclical guitar patterns feel open and expansive where
they can occasionally sound weighty and claustrophobic in his
densely-layered Abandon guise. There is still a grey cloud hanging over
these songs, but Hold You Up To the Light is a much more accessible
listen that allows Umair’s simple arrangements to ring out in all their
downtrodden majesty, airy synths and piano occasionally lending
proceedings a cinematic splendour. Lyrically, Umair is still struggling
with inner demons and themes of regret, but stripped down to just voice
and guitar, he is able to balance the moments of dark and light with a
deft touch, his guitar playing alternately sparse (“Good and Evil”) and
dense (“Shatter”) as he finds some common ground between Red House
Painters and Jesu. This is still music to soundtrack the cold months,
but Hold You Up To the Light is more crisp December morning than bleak
midwinter.
Sound artist Lee Riley, perhaps best known for his past work as
Euhedral, has been increasingly active in recent years creating vast
swathes of sound armed with all manner of unorthodox (and often
self-made) instruments. For an artist whose recent experiments have
involved dragging a guitar through the streets of Oxford and “a piece
for bowed metal container and 16 pints of water,” the idea of a
stationary set of guitar noise might seem slightly pedestrian but Deeper
Steps Into the New Path is anything but. Recorded live at the Pegasus
Theatre in June, Deeper Steps… is – as its name suggests – an aural
journey, and, for an improvised work, an impressively well-crafted one
at that. Foreboding screeching notes that chime like exotic bird calls
give way to waves of overlapping white noise and deep, cavernous
sub-bass feedback, whilst reverberating echo and delay helps to create a
disorientating sense of pulsating rhythm throughout. A running
commentary for such an impressionistic piece of music would be fairly
pointless, suffice it to say that Lee has managed to create a soundscape
that is inviting, mysterious, and terrifying in equal measure, and one
that makes for a completely immersive experience.
One of the recurring curiosities of Oxford’s December gig listings is the annual return of Electric Six, a band who had a few hit singles in the early noughties, riding the waves of the post-millennial indie explosion, but from whom many of us have not heard much since. Hailing from the same Detroit music scene which spawned The White Stripes, you almost certainly know their debut UK single ‘Danger (High Voltage)’ (which featured a contractually-pseudonym’d Jack White on supporting vocals) and the equally catchy and playful ‘Gay Bar’, but I was curious to see how big an audience the band could command ten years after their cultural zenith.
Opening for Electric Six tonight is the student band Stroke Of Luck, whose slightly overwrought, earnest indie rock seems painfully at odds with the wilfully camp and ridiculous headliners and main support Andy D. Musically the guys seem to be fairly accomplished, if under-rehearsed, but the songs themselves are a little uninspired – imagine Coldplay with an injection of the Kooks and you’d be somewhere near. On a more like-minded bill I’m sure Stroke Of Luck could have come across far better, but as it stands they seem to have been on the rough end of some poorly-judged or cynical booking process at the O2 tonight.
If from here on out, early-noughties nostalgia is the name of the game, then Andy D is definitely the spiritual successor to Har Mar Superstar (or perhaps he’s just the bastard child of Har Mar and Peaches). Wearing a sleeveless denim jacket, pink spandex and a mullet, Andy D hits us with some straight up electro-filth, proudly proclaiming his sexual prowess, his gut flapping under the stage lights as he comically gesticulates whilst rapping about his dick. No major musical revelations to be found here – a primitive 808 providing the beat, funky synths providing the rest – but a fair amount of comedy value which perfectly lightens the mood for a set which will almost certainly be rife with sexual innuendo.
By the time Electric Six come on, the room is absolutely heaving which answers my doubts about the band being able to command a sizeable audience. While only two of the original band members still remain, frontman Dick Valentine is still a vital – if bizarre – presence on stage and is clearly enjoying himself, soaking up the abundant energy of the audience. It’s not entirely clear what percentage of the audience is here solely to hear the aforementioned singles (although I could make an educated guess), but we soon learn that the band are here promoting their ninth (!) album and as such the majority of their set appears to span all of these releases. Countering my suspicion that the band would save the real fan favourites until last, they kick into ‘Gay Bar’ almost immediately to an uproarious response which is only outdone by a faithful rendition of ‘Danger (High Voltage)’ towards the end. Strangely, other recognisable songs from their back-catalogue are missing (including ‘Dance Commander’ and their cover of Queen’s ‘Radio Ga Ga’) but they have a dedicated portion of the audience singing along through much of their set which suggests that their appeal, while possibly dwindling, is still strong with some people here. But inevitably most of their set fails to meet the highs of their best-known songs, relying mainly on pastiche and tongue-in-cheek mimicry – funk, new wave, rock n’ roll and disco all have their place in Electric Six’s discography with varying degrees of success.
I came here for the novelty factor and to satiate my curiosity, and by both counts it was a successful night, although it was not one that I will feel the need to repeat next December.
Reichenbach Falls are
unfortunate to have been tagged by some journalists as ‘experimental’
exponents of Americana, folk, or country, when, in reality, they
don’t stray too far from a blueprint laid out by any number of NME
darlings waving that Americana flag. What Reichenbach Falls do well,
however, is to craft songs building on a sense of emotional urgency
with jangly guitars, delicate vocals and an underlying warmth that
will appeal to a lot of people. Singer Abe Davies comes in somewhere
between Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst and, appropriately enough,
Elliott Smith who the band cover on the B-side. Going straight for
the jugular, the band re-interprets ‘Needle in the Hay’ in their
own image, softening some of the edges which made the original so
devastating. They’ve laid a solid foundation, and if they can start
to live up to their ‘experimental’ reputation then they’ll
really be on to something. (TM)
[Originally published in Oxfordshire Music Magazine, issue 26]
Self-pronounced post-prog, drone-pop collective Flight of Helios have blessed us with their debut single, a good old-fashioned double A-side which is easily one of the best singles to come out of Oxford for some time. The stuttering rhythms, sun-kissed synths, and Chris Beard’s lush vocal harmonies and evocative lyrics bring to mind the likes of Elbow and Spiritualized, but both songs here also display an unabashed pop sensibility which, refreshingly, never veers towards mainstream banality. ‘Star’ is a celestial love ode, and as irresistibly infectious as anything I have heard this year – the combined elements of airy synths, lofty vocal harmonies and the deep tone of the bass truly create a feeling of weightlessness. On the flipside, ‘Crow’ takes a similar approach but with a shot of adrenaline to give the song a pulsating, uptempo rhythm, ending with swathes of whirring electronics. Joyous stuff. File under “ones to watch.” (TM)
Back To Land, the fourth album from San Francisco-based psychedelic rock quartet Wooden Shjips is, unfortunately, a frustratingly pedestrian affair. Listening back to their 2007 Holy Mountain debut and Dos,
you can hear that the band’s formula hasn’t changed much over the
years, but where the band’s once-cool Doors-ian foundation would allow
guitarist Ripley Johnson to indulge in angular, textured solos, giving a
distinctly retrospective sound a modern twist, the band now seem
content to regurgitate watered-down, monotonous jams.
Ninety percent of the music on Back To Land
can be characterised thusly; the drums and bass lock into a steady
rhythm which never falters or varies, the keyboard player essentially
plays three notes at best, and Johnson mumbles something he was
obviously not too bothered about sharing with the world, and then
smothers his voice with an echo effect so the words become
unintelligible anyway. Then he does a bit of a guitar solo, and then the
whole cycle repeats. Generally the songs revolve around two root notes;
sometimes they’ll shift a key, or break out a cheeky three-chord
progression (“These Shadows”), but on the whole this is the way almost
all of these eight songs play out.
But it’s not the simplicity or minimalism that mars this album – some
of the greatest bands have done some of their greatest work whilst
locking into almighty repetitive grooves, or by mashing out the same
chord for 20 minutes. However, these bands did this with a sense of
energy, enthusiasm and passion – something which seems to be entirely
missing here, or at the very least, lost in translation. This is
psychedelia by numbers – metronomic, predictable, and largely vapid. One
of the few moments of respite comes in the form of closing track
“Everyone Knows” which at least attempts to strike an emotional chord
with an emotive melody and an almost wistful sense of longing. Likewise,
some of the more uptempo songs sound like Scooby Doo getaway music
which, depending on your predilection for late sixties, early seventies
children’s cartoons, could be a good or bad thing.
Granted, this is an album you can easily allow yourself to get lost
in; as background music you’re unlikely to notice much about it,
positive or negative, besides the fact that large portions of it sound
the same. You might even enjoy it in this capacity or find it pleasing.
But that’s hardly a ringing endorsement. As a live band, Wooden Shjips create a fantastic, cavernous sound full of fuzz and drone, awash with colour, and at the end of the day Back To Land just seems like an excuse to return to the live circuit with some new wares to sell.
Wooden Shjips are great at what they do, and Back To Land
isn’t necessarily a bad album, but it’s certainly guilty of being
uninspired, and even lifeless at times. No-one, except perhaps Johnson,
seems to be stretching themselves to any real degree, and even his solos
are more often than not of the meandering, bluesy, and ultimately dull
kind. Perhaps the wilfully retrospective charm of Wooden Shjips’ early output is just wearing a bit thin now. Rather than going Back To Land, perhaps it’s time for Wooden Shjips to go back to the drawing board?
The gestation period between Lumbar announcing their
existence in September and releasing their debut album in November has
been mercifully short as the anticipation level for The First And Last Days Of Unwelcome has been – as is to be expected when any ensemble of musical badasses pair up – sky high. Mike Scheidt
of Yob will probably need no introduction, suffice to say that he is
perhaps one of the most highly revered of all doom musicians currently
making music, and Tad Doyle will be a familiar name to
grunge historians whose band TAD were tour mates with Nirvana back in
the early days. H.P. Taskmaster helped me trace Aaron Edge‘s
connection to the others, having designed the Yob logo and played with
Doyle in Brothers of the Sonic Cloth as well as Roareth. But these are
all just details – the bottom line is Lumbardo not disappoint. The First And Last Days Of Unwelcome
is a powerful album that finds this titanic trio in an incredibly
creative and energised headspace, rather than resting on their
collective laurels.
The album was entirely written (and largely performed) by Edge who,
both musically and thematically, uses the platform to tackle his
struggle with multiple sclerosis. Perhaps the power of suggestion plays a
part here, but Edge and co have made a brilliant attempt at trying to
create textures and moods which evoke symptoms of the affliction. The
album flows remarkably well between tracks, and songs often dissolve
into moments of calm or erupt in anger; other sections twist and turn,
creating a suffocating, claustrophobic atmosphere. However the most
prominent characteristic of the music is its heaviness, both in sound
and tone – the guitars are weighty, the drums clatter and the vocals are
superb.
Lumbar open with the triumphant, defiant ‘Day One,’ Scheidt’s unmistakable holler bellowing out over a propulsive and uplifting riff that really declares Lumbar‘s intentions to completely slay everything in sight. Things take a torturous turn on the grungey, bass-led ‘Day Two’
as the riff descends in a downward spiral as Doyle and Scheidt’s voices
intangle like two souls being dragged away into a vortex. ‘Day Six’
probably goes the farthest in meeting what most people’s expectations
for this collaboration would sound like and it is little wonder that it
was the preview track chosen to give people their first glimpse of the
band. The song’s simple riff seems catered to Scheidt’s vocal delivery
but the simplicity of the riff is key to its impact – it’s a straight-up
head-nodder and one of the less showy but most instantly enjoyable
tracks on the album.
Some of the most impressive and evocative moments on the album
attempt to portray a feeling that is probably less tangible to many of
us. ‘Day Three’ is a case in point – wirey guitars shoot around
almost at random, like synapses misfiring as a creeping low-end guitar
chug hints at some impending doom and a voice cries out in desperation: “Why are you here? / Who sent you? / You have no right to be here.” On ‘Day Five’
the approach is more impressionistic, guitars echoing and whining like a
skewed and discordant orchestra warming up, while the distant vocal
line from ‘Day Two’ reverberates in the distance and an Atilla
Csihar-esque vocal whispers some almost indecipherable and menacing
words. These songs give the album a great sense of cohesion, and before
you know it the album is over.
Indeed, one of the album’s great strengths is its brevity; in fact,
at just under twenty-five minutes I’d be inclined to call this an EP
rather than an album proper. Unlike some doom releases which can tend to
push you past the point of despair, Lumbar definitely
leave you wanting more, allowing no room for filler or mindless riffing
for the sake of it – this is an intelligently crafted, and emotional,
record, executed in the spirit of camaraderie by three good friends.
Nobody asked for this album, and no-one could have predicted that it
would appear in 2013 – but here it is, one of best albums of the year.
How long we’ll be waiting for a follow up – if we get one at all –
remains to be seen, but for now this is a tantalising treat for all fans
of heavy music.
Starting up almost exactly where they left off on their debut album – 2012’s fantastic You Ruin Everything – Pigs have graced us with this stop-gap tour EP, bridging time between now and the release of their anticipated second album. Given the band’s pedigree it’s not surprising that the debut album was a) a blood-stained love letter to all things angry, spiteful and angular that came out of the nineties and b) excellent, but there’s always a hint of worry when a much-loved band, no matter how good, release something new.
One pounding kick drum and fuzzy bass note into opener “Gaffe” and all fears have been allayed that Pigs would mess with such a magical formula as was laid down on the debut. Tortured electric guitars twist and howl dissonantly over a hotbed of hard-hitting drums and restless fuzzy basslines, while Dave Curran’s vocal chords unthread before our ears. The anarchic bounce and sing-along quality to the chorus of “Elo Kiddies” betrays the sound of a band that grew up on classic Kiss and Alice Cooper records, and they seem to be having fun with the idea of “classic rock” being given a noise rock spin. The sleazy punch-drunk lurch of “If I’m in Luck” brings the EP to a close in muscular fashion – discordant guitars riding huge lumbering bass riffs and clattering drums for seven punishing minutes.
Everything about Pigs’ debut album, from the spiteful title to the Steve Albini-like production, was the epitome of late eighties, early nineties alternative/noise rock, and without being derivative, the same can be said for Gaffe. Fans of the debut will find much to love about Gaffe, but it would also serve as a great bite-sized introduction to those who are unfamiliar with Pigs’ unique brand of chaos. If you like Unsane, Killdozer and/or the Melvins, I can’t think of a better way to invest a quarter of an hour of your time.
A part of me would like to pretend that I’d been down with
Elliott Smith from the first hush tones of Roman
Candle’s eponymous opener in which Elliott sings “I want to hurt him/ I
want to give him pain/ I’m a Roman candle/ My head is full of flames,” but I
would have been a very angsty seven year old, had that been the case. Alas, as
is far too-often the case with these kinds of things, it was news of the
troubled musician’s death at the tender age of thirty-four back in 2003 that
really made me investigate his music properly.
Many people, myself included, probably first heard the
delicate intonations of Elliott Smith’s music in the soundtrack for the 1998
Academy Award winner Good Will Hunting, which featured three tracks from his
third album Either/Or, along with his
Oscar nominated OST contribution, “Miss Misery.” This nomination, along with
his surreal appearance at the ceremony, performing the song in a white tuxedo
(sandwiched between performances of schmaltzy Hollywood fodder, including Celine
Dion’s eventual winner “My Heart Will Go On”) garnered him the attention of
major label Dreamworks who issued his next two albums, XO and what would be the final album released during his lifetime, Figure 8. This major label backing
allowed Elliott to flesh-out his music from the intimate nature of the early
recordings into the multi-coloured bombast of the latter albums, taking cues
from bands he loved, such as the Beatles, and applying their experiments with
kaleidoscopic studio production to his own compositions.
Although his music always hinted at or commented on forms of
addiction, illicit or otherwise, it was during his final years in LA that his
own drug use began to raise concerns and affect his work, in the studio and on
stage. During Smith’s sporadic live appearances in 2001 and 2002 fans
occasionally had to remind Smith of the lyrics (and sometimes even the chords)
to his own songs and many people - including Flaming Lips frontman Wayne Coyne
during an infamous incident in which Smith was beaten by Police officers –
commented on how Elliott’s dishevelled appearance hinted at troubles with
addiction. Smith had been due to contribute a cover of The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” for
Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tenenbaums
but he failed to meet the deadline so a substitute was used (although Smith’s
“Needle in the Hay” was used prominently in a suicide scene), and a whole
album’s worth of recordings with producer Jon Brion were scrapped when the
latter confronted Smith on his drug addiction.
However in 2003 Smith had completed stints at rehab and
appeared to be on the path of recovery, putting the finishing touches on what
would become his posthumous album From a
Basement on the Hill. He was also working on music for the soundtrack to
indie film Thumbsucker and in August he released a limited edition vinyl
single, “Pretty (Ugly Before)” (which would later appear on the rarities
collection New Moon).
On October 21st
2003, ten years ago today, Elliott Smith died from two stab wounds to the
chest, fairly assumed to be self-inflicted. A suicide note of sorts, scribbled
on a post-it note read: "I'm so
sorry—love, Elliott. God forgive me.”
The fact that it was approaching ten years since Elliott
Smith had passed away occurred to me serendipitously quite recently (in fact,
it was a week ago today) when a conversation about music with a colleague at
work led him to inform me that his brother, music journalist Jake Kennedy, had
been one of the last European journalists to interview Elliott Smith for a UK
publication, and certainly that he was the last one to speak to him after his
last ever UK gig at The Forum in London on October 5th 2000. My
interest piqued, I asked my colleague for a link to read the review to find
that it was not available online, having previously only been available in the
printed article for Record Collector magazine. I therefore thought it would be
interesting to interview Jake about this ‘lost’ interview, before publishing
the interview in full at the end of the page. As Jake makes clear, Elliott
Smith was not in the best of moods, so he did well to coax answers out of the
man who “would
rather have been anywhere else.” I am, however, very honoured to be able to
commemorate Elliott Smith in some small way by bringing this interview
(something of an exclusive for me) to light and would like to conclude by
saying thanks to Jake for agreeing to this email interview and for allowing me
to publish his interview in full. RIP Elliott Smith – thank you for the
beautiful music.
My Interview with Jake Kennedy
Jake Kennedy and his cat Bill
Can you give me a little bit of context on the interview?
Yes – it was for a world tour for Figure 8. I was working as a
staff writer for the magazine Record Collector in London – a monthly title that
was, at that time, still printed in black and white. It was very much an ‘old
school’ magazine, used to covering articles on The Beatles and Stones. But the
editor, Andy Davis, was a friend and was amenable to my ideas - usually about
less well known artists (to our general readership) and for smaller, one- or
two-page articles in a section called Short Takes. I would suggest things, as
all the in-house editorial team would, and he would say yes or no. Thankfully,
in the case of Elliott Smith, he said yes.
In actual fact, I was initially expecting to interview Elliott that
summer when he played at ULU, but it never transpired. The PR guy at the time
was the usual “don’t worry, next time, next time,” but I really didn’t think it
would happen.
SoI forgot about it, but then he came to the UK to tour in autumn, the
last date of which was The Forum on October 5th (also his last UK
gig ever, I believe). So, by a process of elimination, that must’ve been the
day I interviewed him as I was the last person that day, and he was flying back
the next. The PR guy got back to me a week or so before and said “are you still
up for interviewing Elliott?” and I remember becoming very nervous, as his
music meant a great deal to me. I usually get nervous before interviews, I
compare them to rollercoasters – you’re glad afterwards, but beforehand you
overthink them, fear the worst and want to cancel. Luckily I didn’t.
I guess because of what transpired in Elliott’s life, that interview, of
all of the people I’ve spoken to in music, remains the most potent, the most
charged for me, rightly or wrongly.
Were you an Elliott Smith fan at the time, or was the interview just another
assignment for you?
I was a big fan yeah. I got into him when Either/Or came out, at
university, when I guess a lot of the UK did. By the time of XO I was
obsessed and had done the archaeology on him and checked out Heatmiser, older
things like that. So this probably didn’t help my nerves beforehand. I remember
thinking when the first interview opportunity was cancelled, “phew, I don’t
need to make an idiot of myself in front of one of my heroes now.”
What was the tone of the interview? (The way it reads he seems to go
between just about bearing it to occasionally opening up) Was Elliott easy to
speak to?
I got the sense, most of the time in the interview, that he would rather
have been anywhere else than there. It took place in a north London hotel –
something like a Holiday Inn maybe? And it was in the lobby, where they serve
the food. We were at a dining table. You could still smoke indoors at that time
and Elliott smoked throughout the interview. He was about an hour late and came
down from his room in the same way a teenager comes down from his bedroom when
they don’t really want to. He only had on a black tshirt, no jacket or
anything. I remember thinking he looked disheveled. But, looking back on photos
of him, he always kinda looked a little disheveled so I didn’t think anything
more of it and I wouldn’t want to read too much into that. I remember I had a
notebook with my questions in, which made me feel amateurish. We were face to
face, next to a window which he kept looking out of. There were some newspapers
on the table which had stories about the new Tate Modern which had just opened
– which is why I asked him about Rothko.
But on the whole, no, you’re right, he did not really want to engage.
And genuinely, sweetly, when I felt he was engaging, it was as if he was doing
it solely for me, to make my life easier, like “OK, let’s get through this.”
But even at the lighter moments towards the end, the tone of his voice sounded
crestfallen, like the Q&A was a bit inconvenient for him, that it was embarrassing
even.
That said, he was in no way evasive of any answers, and I think, if he’d
really wanted to, he could’ve avoided some questions, or ignored them, or even
called it all off. My guess is, as I was the last interview of the day, that
leg of the tour, that he might have been answering annoying, stupid journalist
questions all day.
You have mentioned that the interview was edited and abbreviated upon
publication. Has the interview ever been published in its entirety? Is there an
audio recording of the interview?
The interview has only ever been printed once, in Record Collector. I do
have the tape, but in this day and age, who has a tape player? I remember it
was about one whole side of the tape, and on the other is an interview from
around that time I did with Jon Spencer. But what you see here is the full
version – apart from one question where I asked, in desperation, if Elliott had
any pets (someone walked by with a dog outside). He said he didn’t but that
he’d like some, but was touring too much to look after one.
A lot has been written about Elliott Smith since he passed away,
including biographies and an XO addition to the 33 1/3 series. Have you
ever been approached to contribute to anything like that as the last European
journalist to interview Elliott?
I haven’t no. I keep a pretty low profile and Record Collector is/was a
fairly small magazine. I doubt many people read the interview. I don’t think
it’s even listed on the Sweet Adeline site [TM: Sweet Adeline is probably the
biggest Elliott Smith fansite and gets many Elliott Smith exclusives].
Has this reputation (“the last European journalist to interview
Elliott”) had any noticeable impact on your journalistic career?
Well, can I just say, this was a total fluke. And there were plenty of
interviews with foreign journalists in the preceding years – I distinctly
remember the Under The Radar magazine interview with Elliott as being
particularly great. They visited him in LA and stuff.
But you know, if I’d got the interview I was originally going to do with
Elliott a few months before, or if he had me scheduled in earlier that day, or
who knows, the day before, then pop! I would only have been “one of the
last European journalists to interview Elliott smith.” And, of course, anyone
who interviewed him after me might have been European, but just based in
the US, or wherever.
What was your response when you heard that Elliott had passed away, and
in such tragic circumstances?
Well, you know, I only met the guy once. Which in no way gives me any
sort of right to pretend I was fucked up about it or super sad – but, that
said, I do remember it feeling distinctly more close to home than say, when
Kurt Cobain died, or whoever, because I had interviewed the guy and seen first
hand how down he was.
Obviously I don’t know why he was down when I met him - maybe because
he was meeting me! – but that sadness seemed to add on to the shock of him
being dead. The way he died too, that seemed so sort of Shakespearian to me – a
knife through the heart. It’s a dark thing to say, but it seemed the perfect
fucking way for him to go, if you want to buy into the mythology of Elliott,
which I know a lot of his friends and family have gone on record as saying they
don’t.
Did you even realise that you were the last European journalist to
interview Elliott, or did someone else inform you?
Umm, well again, it was really only circumstance that made that the
case. I sort of worked it our for myself. It had a romantic feel to it. The
reality was a lot less glamourous, but that’s the print industry for you…
What do you think of Elliott Smith’s legacy in the decade since he
passed away? Can you hear his influence in new bands coming out today?
I think when you like the music of someone as much as I did/do Elliott,
then it’s hard to listen straightfaced to any band who claims that music as a
key influence. There are bands that were around when Elliott was around who
have gone on to change their sounds – Wilco, Jim O’Rourke, Beck, Cat Power even
– who I think would admit to having been influenced subsequently. Also, I read
a fair few interviews with younger female artists who consider him a key
figure, which is cool. And recently, Nicky from Manic Street Preachers has been
singing his praises, which I respected, I wouldn’t of expected that from him.
A lot of what Elliott achieved came from fusing different artists’ stuff
– obviously the Beatles, Elvis Costello, etc, etc. So when you hear someone who
sounds a bit like that, you tend to return to source, rather than saying
“ooh, so and so does The Beatles like Elliott Smith did them.”
What makes Elliott’s music so enduring?
I’m currently reading that book, Torment Saint, that’s just come
out about him, and quite a few of the references are about how Elliott always
loved the ‘change’, the passages between chords, or from verse to chorus or
back again. I think that’s a big part of it for me, and when you couple it with
the lyrics, you get that sweet spot, the perfect combo. In ‘Son Of Sam’,
there’s a big sweeping change to yet another minor chord at the end where he
sings “I may talk in my sleep tonight cos I don’t know who I am/I’m a little
like you? More like son of sam” which gets me every time. He’s comparing
himself to a serial killer in an effort to convey how little a girl really
knows him – so glorious, such enduring passive aggressive venom.
How do you feel reading the interview back today?
Ha, well, I gave it my best shot. I don’t think anyone else could’ve got
better results, given the raw material, at that time, on that day. I was young
(22), meeting a hero. I had dreams of screwing
up my notebook and taking Elliott around the Mark Rothko room at the new Tate,
or of maybe getting a pie and a pint, but the reality of it - and rock
journalism on the whole - was an hour in the dining room of a chain hotel on a
wet afternoon. Which I guess was perfect enough.
Thanks Jake. And now the interview in question:
Jake Kenney’s Interview with Elliott Smith, October 5th
2000 – “In the dining room of a chain hotel”
You released “Figure 8” followed by “Son of Sam”, shouldn’t albums
follow singles?
“I didn’t choose to do that. If I had my way I wouldn’t bother to
release a single at all. It’s the label’s decision, I didn’t ask, you know. I’m
really not very... into singles. What’s the point?”
Do you hate doing press too?
“I don’t hate it. The last few interviews that I’ve done were
actually fine. I’ve gotten used to certain things and I don’t get mad about
questions that irritate me. If it hits on one of those things I just...”
Like a contentious issue?
“Just things that have been thoroughly covered.”
It reminds me of when you were playing at ULU, because you were
asking the audience what they wanted, and naturally they wanted old songs. Do
you not enjoy playing them so much?
“I like playing old songs, I like playing brand new songs. If it’s
an old song that I don’t play very much then it can seem kinda cool again. I
enjoyed that show, I like playing in London.”
Is “Son Of Sam” about someone who realises their partner doesn’t
know them at all?
“It could be. That one’s particularly impressionistic and I don’t
have any particular interpretation of it.”
Do you write as yourself?
“Not usually. Or not entirely, you know? There’s a couple of songs
on the last few records that are straightforward, but most of them are more
like... they’re not unreal, but they’re not exactly a diary. I’ve
compared it to writing down a dream that you had over and over. That’s still
the closest thing I can get.”
Do you ever try and reflect that in the production?
“Yes, but only to the extent that I have any conscious desire for
the production. I play a part in it, but the last two records have been two
producers and me and we’re all pretty much equally involved, although they do
way more of the technical stuff. Choosing compressors and microphones. But the
way it’s mixed involves me.”
What about artwork?
“That’s pretty much all my decision.”
So does everyone want to talk about the Beatles to you?
“Oh, people want to talk about the Beatles anywhere. I
really like them, but I also like a lot of other things. But if you say one
thing in an interview then it seems as if that’s the only thing you ever
listened to.”
Tell me about LA then.
“I’ve been living there for almost a year. It’s alright. I don’t
live in Hollywood so it’s not that kind of LA that people think of who’ve never
lived there. It’s very unlike London. London is very central. With LA you can
be there and still not be able to see the downtown area. It’s pretty green,
there’s a lot of neighbourhoods and only two or three storey buildings. They
kind of stretch out sideways.”
You mention traffic a lot on “Figure 8”.
“I’ve moved to LA from New York, but I don’t have much stuff so it
was easy. Traffic’s just a good metaphor for lots of things. It’s noisy and it
moves so it applies to all kinds of situations.”
Are you famous?
“I don’t know, you tell me. It’s all comparative. Compared to some
of my friends who play in bands that don’t have a record deal I might seem
famous, but in comparison to I don’t know who, too many people, I’m not famous
at all.”
Do you find yourself fascinated by older musical styles, like
waltz and ragtime?
“Sometimes. I’m interested in every style. Except whatever’s
really popular, because that’s been fully covered. Whatever is selling millions
of copies automatically attracts more and more people to do that, so a bunch of
people are doing the same thing. I’m not saying that’s bad, I don’t feel the
need to dive into that teaming ocean, you know.”
Do you have contemporaries then?
“Yeah, Sam Combes from Quasi, that’s about it.”
So you get lumped with the wrong crowd then?
“Uh huh. Sometimes I just get put in with, well... anyone who’s
not in a band. Anyone who’s a singer-songwriter. Which is funny because in the
past couple of years my records sound more like a band than a
singer-songwriter. But because it has my name on the front and not the name of
a band I get put in with... well, I get a lot of people saying I’m influenced
by Simon and Garfunkel, which is far from true.”
So you’re not a solo artist?
“Yeah, but I’m in a band, and it doesn’t mean I’m trying to fly
the flag for a long tradition of singer-songwriters. I’m coming from growing up
listening to The Beatles and Stevie Wonder. He did it all on his own. But it
doesn’t sound like one person. He was a great drummer for example, that was
really inspiring to me when I was a kid. I wanted to be in a band. My band
broke up, so now I emulate one.”
Did you play out much?
“I was in a band when I was in my early twenties. We made three
records, we went on tour. It wasn’t fun though, because we didn’t really want
to play the same kind of music as each other. But they’re all doing different
things now.”
Are you multi-instrumental?
“Yeah, I play almost everything. Not like Stevie Wonder, but well
enough to do my own songs justice. If I didn’t like the sound of something I’d
do it myself.”
What sort of music don’t you like the sound of?
“I still haven’t found anything to like about jazz-fusion yet.
Other than that I think all styles of music are really good. There’s cool
examples of everything.”
Do you read much?
“Yeah, I read a lot. Lately I’ve been reading contemporary
fiction. There’s a Portugese author called Jose Saramargo, and I read some
things on Hinduism and now I’m reading a history of medieval Europe. I was
reading the Tibetan Book Of The Dead and I had to put it down for a while. It
was kind of dissolving my sense of self. It wouldn’t be bad, but since I was on
tour I needed to keep some sense of identity.”
What’s the biggest mistake people make about you?
“I just don’t like it when people don’t even listen to the record
they’re coming to interview me about and they just ask me “Why are you so sad?”
as if a record is a journal. As if there’s no fictional quality to it at all.
You wouldn’t do that with a movie.”
Do you also deny the charges of ‘folk singer’?
“Yeah, totally.”
Your records are funny.
“I think so too. And I thought there was a lot of humour in
Morrissey’s records as well. It’s not that there wasn’t any real feeling in
them, the two just co-existed. They can be moving and comical at the same time.
I thought that was great. And I remember at high school people were like, “Oh
Morrissey’s so depressing” and it’s just, you don’t fucking get it do
you?"
He never really sang in a traditional way either.
“Well, good for him.”
Have you got a hardcore album in you?
“Ha, maybe. When we recorded “Either/Or”for a time I
wanted to make it one side of acoustic songs and one side of full-on metal
versions, but I didn’t wind up doing that. My old band was kind of post-punk or
something. Or just high volume. I like playing like that.”
Is it different coming off stage with a band to just coming off
alone?
“Well I have people to talk to. Someone else will say it was fun,
or that they couldn’t hear themselves at all.”
Are you the boss?
“I don’t wanna be the boss. We’re already playing all of my songs,
that’s enough for me."
What makes you laugh?
“Interviews sometimes.”
So you’re confident about your voice and your playing?
“In some ways. I’m definitely not the shy person that some of the
press makes me out to be. I’m not like a megalomaniac who thinks he’s god’s
gift to singing or something. There’s lots of people who can sing better than
me."
Do you still get time to sing and play in your spare time?
“I still do it a lot. But it feels like people are watching me
more. That’s the only real downside to the whole thing.”
What was it that first made you pick up a guitar?
“My dad bought me one when I was 12, and I was trying to learn how
to play Angus Young, AC/DC, but it doesn’t sound the same on a nylon acoustic.”
Where do you stand on the “Good Will Hunting” is shit argument?
“I think that it depends on where you’re coming from. If you’re
going to approach pretty big budget Hollywood movies and compare them to art
films then they might not come out so favourably, but I think what he was
trying to do was play a bigger game and not get stuck in a little corner making
Gus Van Zandt movies for the rest of his life. I think it was a brave move. I
think it turned out pretty well. But soundtracking that was a one-time kinda
thing.”
Do you read your own press?
“Not any more, no. I did up until about a year ago. Most of it
seemed pretty positive, but it’s like looking at yourself in a circus mirror.
Passing by is kind of amusing but if you’re standing in front of it day in and
day out then eventually you start to believe that’s what you really look like.
I’d rather stick with my own definition of my life. Whatever that is...”
Is it getting easier?
“No it’s getting harder. But it’s not a big deal. It’s not like a
big crushing weight. It’s just something to watch out for more and more. And it
might disappear you know. Maybe next year or the year after that or five years
from now there won’t be any attention and it won’t matter. Problem solved.”
You must be learning then.
“Yeah, and it’s not, umm, it’s very positive and lucky. On most
counts.”
Do you get praise from strange places?
“Yeah, I think it’s cool when people who are seen in magazines to
be belonging to some style can show their appreciation for other styles. I
don’t know anyone who only likes one kind of music. I like lots of different
kinds of music, I think if people read music magazines they get to thinking
that everyone’s in their own corner, as if all these different styles were
competitive.”
Is this a job?
“Technically, yes. I used to work in a bakery. I did political
theory and philosophy at college, and I went to the bakery when I got out.
Eventually it closed. I started doing odd-job construction work. So this is not
the same at all. It’s far from what I thought would be going on.”
Do you feel lucky?
“Extremely.”
…
Do you like Mark Rothko?
“Yeah, he’s one of my favourites. I know some people don’t like
him, they say it’s just a field of colour, but that’s what’s so cool about it.
They just hum. It’s like this kind of static thing. It’s the same thing I like
about Nico’s records. Some people find it too static or maybe depressing, but
it doesn’t make me feel like that. It’s a vibrant, elemental thing. It’s not a
fancy thing.”
Do you feel like that?
“Well, I seem to get a lot of attention considering I haven’t had
a hit single and I probably won’t. It doesn’t really bother me though because
when I’m recording I don’t think about that. I’m still really into the long
form of albums, even though CDs make it so it’s one continuous thing.”
“I became, and the becoming became. I became by becoming the form of Khepra, god of transformations, who came into being in the First Time. Through me all transformations were enacted.”
To all of the doom bands who attempt to evoke a hazy, druggy vibe with their music with overt references to illicit substances, horror films and various other unspeakable activities, may I present you with the exquisite opium doom of Queen Elephantine’s masterpiece, Scarab. This is how you intoxicate your audience without force-feeding them played-out dopesick rhetoric and weed-puns. By some strange alchemy of simple elements, the Rhode Island band have struck upon drone gold on their fourth album, following on the heels of fellow trance masters like Om and Bong.
Formed in 2006 and having undergone several line-up changes, Queen Elephantine may be as well known for their own albums as they are for split releases with the likes of Elder, Sons of Otis, and with the UK’s own Alunah. But for this latest release core founding member Indrayudh Shome has assembled the strongest ensemble yet to deliver the band’s most focussed and inspired collection of ragas; deep, guttural bass, wily overdriven electric guitar, slide, droning tanpura and – best of all – two drumsets, all coming together to form a breathing, swaying entity to inhabit the listener with lulling rhythms and hypnotic insectoid drones.
The album’s evocative title is equalled by the music therein, and listening to these four songs, one can’t help but conjure up mental images of dusty catacombs, navigated by torch-light – the relief of everything illuminated by fire nulled by the threat of that which remains shrouded in darkness in such an ancient place. It is this sense of tension – building, and then being released – which makes Scarab such a compelling and hypnotic listen. The ebb and flow of murky notes (as in the intro of “Crone”) feel like the creeping steps of some unseen, malevolent force and the band seem to be delighting in creating this heavy atmosphere, relishing the notes that are being played as much as those that are not . This sense of claustrophobia and space, light and dark is reflected in some of the album’s few lyrics too: “the saints have been here/ But in bliss and not in shame/ Bathed in wine, and not in sand/ Glimmering, glistening, suffering.”
Unusually for a doom release, the band also avoids falling into any generic pentatonic scale or conventional groove, even for a minute. On Scarab, the sense of the unknown or otherness (at least to these Western ears) transcends even Om’s own masterpiece Advaitic Songs which at least implemented more recognisable Indian and Middle Eastern instrumentation and melodies. Instead Queen Elephantine remain locked in an unusual, Middle Eastern or Egyptian scale which adds to the mysterious, exotic appeal of the music.
Listening through some of Queen Elephantine’s previous releases, you can hear the band falling into the traps which often befall drone bands –trying to do too much or too little, over too long or short a period of time. Scarab proves to be the perfect storm of instrumentation, musicians and sensibilities; the vision is singular, and the results are spectacular. An air of mysticism hangs heavy over Scarab, each note carefully considered, as if filtered through the millenia to reach us with a now indecipherable message. Across these four tracks, Queen Elephantine weave a majestic, downtrodden, mystical form of drone doom unlike anything I have heard for a while. In short, Scarab is the sound of Om becoming ominous.
Dead Meadow have come a long way since recording their eponymous debut album inexpensively in their practice space back in 1999; besides releasing a number of studio and live albums, they’ve toured the world, recorded a session for John Peel and gone through a few line-up changes, and yet hearing their latest album Warble Womb, their first with original drummer Mark Laughlin in twelve years, you get the sense that in all that time they’ve merely been refining the cosmic energy of that first psychedelic recording. Beneath all the Big Muff fuzz of ‘Sleepy Silver Door’ was the same sense of melody and songwriting that is at the heart of everything on Warble Womb, and it now seems that the need for extended instrumental jam passages is reserved for live performances, because Warble Womb is a startlingly to-the-point and tuneful record.
It’s an assured album too. Not that Dead Meadow have ever sounded particularly unsure of themselves, but returning to the formative trio and self-recording once again ‘on their own time and on their own dime’ seems to have suited the band, and allowed them to expand on musical ideas and textures that they had hinted at before. For example, Jason Simon continues to riff off his Eastern influences throughout the solos on the album, and particularly on the instrumental track ‘Warble Womb I’. Not surprisingly though, these are some of the less inspiring or memorable moments on Warble Womb.
Instead, the creeping prominence of acoustic guitars is what most informs Warble Womb’s sound and some of its best songs; even when a song doesn’t feature acoustic guitar you get a sense that it may well have been written on one. ‘One More Toll Taker’ is a pretty, intimate song not unlike those found on Simon’s recent solo album, but even the initial bombast of lead single ‘1000 Dreams’ gives way to a chord – rather than riff – led verse. On some songs you can hear the evolution from demos to their recorded versions more literally, as on ‘Mr Chesty’ which begins with Simon unaccompanied on acoustic guitar before fading out only to be rejoined by his band mates for a more bombastic rendition.
That’s not to say that the psychedelic exploration and interplay between guitar and bass – previously so essential to Dead Meadow’s sound – has been lost for good; far from it. ‘Rains In The Desert’ and ‘In the Thicket’ are classic Dead Meadows wig-outs and psych-outs respectively and there’s plenty of exemplary guitar work throughout. The band even express their love of dub on ‘Copper Is Restless (‘til it Turns to Gold)’ and ‘Warble Womb II’ to keep Warble Womb from becoming too predictable or one dimensional.
Comparisons could be made between Warble Womb and Baroness’ Yellow & Green, another album by a band who traded their earlier penchant for a more all-out aural assault for a more melodic and (arguably) more interesting rebirth. But this is not a rebirth in any true sense, just a consolidation of everything the band has learned and come to love about making music together. In a sense it’s a shame that this album comes to us as the seasonal changes of autumn set in because this is a summer record at heart. But if any album is going to keep us warm during the winter months, it’s this one.
[Originally published by the Sleeping Shaman, 02/10/2013]
Originally released late last year as a limited edition cassette on rising Dutch DIY tape label Tartarus Records, this single/EP from Ortega (who are themselves a rising Dutch doom band) is now being issued on vinyl, courtesy of Narshardaa Records. The band, who have made quite a name for themselves in their native Holland and across mainland Europe by regularly touring and off the back of their previous releases A Flame Never Rises on Its Own and 1634 have now released their most ambitious work yet with “The Serpent Stirs” – a 19 minute epic that brings together the slovenly pace of doom, the muddy guitars of sludge and some progressive, psychedelic lead guitar work, decorated with Richard Postma’s torturous howl.
In terms of length this would probably be classified as an EP although by virtue of the fact that “The Serpent Stirs” is one lumbering sea-monster of a tune this could also be classified as their latest “single.” Whatever it is, it’s a majestic work – progressive, elegantly constructed and ultimately Ouroboros-like in its circularity. Like the ominous serpents that grace the vinyl jacket, the twin guitars of Postma and Alex Loots intertwine and weave, alternately pensive and ferocious whilst Postma chews the scenery and spews it out in the venomous fashion we’ve come to expect from the frontman. All the while, the dynamic rhythm section, drummer Sven Jurgens’ and bass player Frank de Boer, manage to keep the track sounding grounded and hefty, whilst also creating a sense of space in a track where it feels like you might eventually suffocate by dramatically pausing or missing occasional beats. The song brings to mind the likes of Neurosis, Yob, Tool and even some of Boris’ slower, moodier compositions.
When I say that the song is Ouroboros-like, it’s not just a way of ham-fisting another snake pun into this review – I mean that the song manages to come full circle on itself, starting and ending on a similar note whilst having covered a fair amount of ground in between. With “The Serpent Stirs”, Ortega have raised their already-high standards and released their most impressive work in the process.
[Originally published by the Sleeping Shaman, 14/08/2013]
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