It’s funny, if I were introduced to the music of Jeffrey Lewis for the first time today, I’d probably run a mile. His whiny, nasal voice, anxious confessional folk-punk stylings and quirky indie comic book sensibility… these are really not things I have much tolerance for in music at this point in my life. But, given that I’ve been listening to Jeffrey’s records and watching him playing consistently wonderful and engaging live shows for almost the entirety of my adult life, it’s safe to say I’m in for the long haul.

He is one of the constants, and getting a new album from him is like receiving an unexpected visit from a particularly energetic and charismatic old friend. You might get kinda frustrated as he potters about your living space, rambling on about things you have very little immediate interest in, but goddamn, it’s still nice to have him around.

As is par for the course with Jeffrey Lewis ‘solo’ LPs, ‘Manhattan’ is about 50% genius, and 50% inexplicable, head-scratching nonsense, so let’s keep things positive and concentrate on the former.

Opener ‘Scowling Crackhead Ian’ is excellent, one of the richest and most poignant songs Lewis has ever written, and as it drifts into the more abstract concerns of ‘Thunderstorm’, followed by the frantic, hollering abrasion of ‘Sad Screaming Old Man’, things are going very well indeed. The lengthy centrepiece track ‘Back to Manhattan’ is also beautifully realised and very affecting, and if much of side two rather fails to deliver (from my POV, at least), well we’ve still got a lot of great stuff to get stuck into here.

Crucially, I see the aforementioned songs as expanding the range of Jeffrey’s recorded material in two significant ways. Firstly, he is going here for a kind of ‘world building’ approach to song-writing (similar to something like, say, Lou Reed’s ‘Street Hassle’ or The Kinks ‘Muswell Hillbillies’) that I think works very well for him. By framing his autobiographical concerns within a broader picture of the people, places and memories that surround him in his New York home, he adds great depth to the material, largely managing to avoid the self-pitying solipsism that made much of 2011’s ‘A Turn In a Dream Songs’ such a chore, whilst still keeping his own observations and experiences centre-stage. Without wishing to sound too much like the pompous tutor in some song-writing masterclass, this is great work, and the best songs here are easily comparable to the level achieved by all those classic singer-songwriter LPs we love so much from the ‘70s, in spite of Lewis’s default jokey self-deprecation.

Secondly, ‘Manhattan’ also finds Jeffrey working out a rather lovely new sound around which to build his songs, with the best cuts here often bypassing his trademark assaultive strumming and/or shaky-fingered double-time picking in favour of a kind of cloudy, meditative psyhedelia, incorporating gentle organ sounds, droning reversed textures and ambient street recordings, often presented alongside some appropriately laidback Terry Callier/Jerry Garcia type noodling. Again, this suits the songs brilliantly – in fact it often sounds like Jeffrey has finally nailed the kind of approach he’s been searching for for years through his often slightly wayward psychedelic experiments, meaning that when he switches back to his conventional acoustic stylings, it often sounds quite jarring.

Clearly, we’re listening here to a guy who has little interest in reiterating the mutant nerd-punk blasts of old hits like ‘Time Machine’ or ‘..Kill the Ghoul’, and, whilst god knows he certainly doesn’t need another reminder that he’s getting a bit older these days, ‘Manhattan’s better half proves that – cough – “maturity” is beginning to suit him very well indeed. I can easily – almost inevitably, in fact – see him following in the path of those ol’ 70s 'cult' songwriter dudes [insert your preferred names here], spinning odd, frustrating, intriguing and secretly marvelous LPs out into the uncaring universe for many moons to come, whilst hopefully also continuing to rock the pants off us, in the, uh, “live arena” on a regular basis too [double checks start time for next week’s gig].

Jeffrey Lewis can be visited online here, and, being on Rough Trade and all, I’m sure ‘Manhattan’ can be located wherever discs are dealed.

Labels: best of 2015, Jeffrey Lewis

Bigger and broader in scope than Lewis & Stampfel’s first collaborative record (2010’s ‘Come On Board’), and with a full-time rhythm section in tow, ‘Hey Hey..’ is no less charming or impulsive than its predecessor, and stands as another testament to the sheer, gargantuan amount of FUN these two bozos seem to have bouncing ideas off each other.

Stampfel in particular seems entirely reenergised by his experiences with Lewis & co, boldly stating in his introduction to this set’s voluminous song-by-song sleevenotes that his current goal in life is to have as much fun as Little Richard in 1956 - an ideal whose realisation the septuagenarian further explores on the self-explanatory opener here, ‘More Fun Than Anyone’.

Buoyed up by the demands of such fevered positivity, other highlights abound, serving to sketch out a rough mind-map of the varied cultural reference points currently shared by these irrepressible nerds; ‘Hey Hey’ somehow manages to reinvent Kyari Pamyu Pamyu’s surrealist J-pop smash ‘PonPonPon’ (the video for which Stampfel describes as being “..the artistic equivalent of three Mona Lisas”) as a kind of shuffling folk-punk hoe-down, lyrics and melody hopefully sufficiently altered to save the pair from a future spent languishing in a “..Japanese copyright-enforcement prison cell”, whilst ‘Do You Know Who I Am?! I’m %$&*?in’ Snooki!’ reinvents the outbursts of the titular reality TV star (I’ll have to take their word for it on that one) as something of a celebratory cacophony of unlikely self-importance. At the other end of the emotional spectrum meanwhile, ‘Moscow Nights’ pays spine-tingling tribute to the spirit of the late Tuli Kupferberg of The Fugs, and Stampfel’s personal anthem ‘Duke of the Beatniks’ provides my personal favourite track here, whilst ‘All The Time In The World’ (not the one you’re thinking of) waxes similarly self-reflective with a further spirited rejection of the rigours of age & hassle. ‘Crazy Creek (That’s Where We’re Sending You)’ rings out with all the alarming comic book insanity of ‘Have Moicy’-era Holy Modal Rounders, and several other cuts see Stampfel digging even deeper into his songbook of lost hillbilly wonders, shining a 21st century flashlight on the rather terrific ‘Money, Marbles and Chalk’, and, for the album’s conclusion, drawing out ‘Mule Train’ (a number # 1 hit for Frankie Lane in 1949!) into a full scale psychedelic wig-out.

If one thing is lacking from this album in fact, it’s probably Jeffrey Lewis – and Stampfel’s shtick is so persuasive, I’ve been listening to it for over six months before I really clocked the fact that examples of Jeff’s song-writing are few and far between here, with his efforts more focused on keeping his errant partner on the straight & narrow. (Which is perhaps just us well to be honest – in light of his last solo record, I can only hope he’s saving up a few hits for the next one). Lewis’s two main solo contributions to ‘Hey Hey..’ are a lovely little number called 'Another Inch of Rainfall' (no particular comment, but I like it plenty), and another entitled ‘Indie Bands On Tour’ – not, as I was hoping, a ribald, satirical swipe at Pitchfork-era excess, but instead an earnest tribute to those pale-skinned kings of the road. Initially, I was faintly disgusted, but as usual, Jeff brings an honesty and charm to proceedings that swiftly wins me over, even to such potentially unsavoury subject matter… and god knows, if anyone has the right to po-facedly hymn the rigours of the touring lifestyle, it’s this guy, who seems to have come to town about a million times since I first caught up with him in (oh-my-god-was-it-really) 2001.

The more I think about it, the more remarkable it is that his visits are still unquestioned highlights of my musical calendar after all these years, especially when Stampfel’s in tow, and I can attest that the gang who recorded this record are capable of absolutely bringing the house down, in a fashion that most louder, younger performers can only dream of. God bless ‘em for it, and here’s hoping they’re over again sooner rather than later.

Listen and buy on Bandcamp.

Labels: best of 2013, Jeffrey Lewis, Peter Stampfel

Dear Stereo Sanctity reader -

Hello, I hope things are good with you! Sorry for not writing earlier, but the weather here has got nice finally, and there have been so many things to do! Where to start.... well, what seems like a long, long time ago, we went to see Endless Boogie, and that was great, I had a lovely time, although I felt kinda bad for my friend who came with me, because two hours of Endless Boogie is probably quite a lot of endless boogie for those who are not necessarily that thrilled by the concept of endless boogie. Their lead guy is really something else though – he was funny, and made me laugh. He looks like a mountain troll that just ate Johnny Ramone and took on his characteristics. You’d have loved it. I liked the rhythm guy even better though. He sticks in the background, but he’s the one gunning the engine. I bet the other guys don’t fuck with him. Some folks who are at least partially in Bo Ningen supported that night, with a side project thing I don’t remember the name of, and that was really good too. They did it as improv, but I think they knew pretty well where they were heading– Can and Harmonia and Silver Apples and High Rise and everything, all thoroughly digested and making its way back into the food chain.

Sometime after that we saw a whole weekend of stuff that mainly sounded like the ‘90s, but sometimes the ‘80s, and many faces and guitars passed before my eyes. It was nice, but the one I liked the most was The Black Tambourines, perhaps because I was drunk when they played. They have a silly name that made me think they’d be a bad fake psych band and wear sunglasses, but actually they were ok. They sounded like late ‘90s British-wanting-to-be-American indie-rock that has been left to curdle for a long, long time and got all oily and surly and stopped washing its hair. Mm-mm.

Then we went to see King Tuff two times! What fun! The first time, he was headlining, but he played in a crappy place, where the sound was muddy and the atmosphere grim and it was hard to see. He played good, did lots of hits off “Was Dead” and a few new ones that sounded better than the bulk of the self-titled, but in stark contrast to the big fun show he did at the Shacklewell Arms last year, crowd was d-e-a-d. They finished up ready to do the whole encore routine, and everybody just stood there muttering for about five minutes before someone got the notion to clap and make sound. Bloody people, I dunno. Tell you what, tomorrow night, why don’t I charge you all £8 and herd you into a big dark hole where you can shuffle about in a confined space to yr heart’s content, without a rock band getting in the way.

Sorry! Went off the point a little there! Where were we…. oh yes – have you heard about The Dome in Tufnell Park? You should definitely pay it a visit if you’re ever over here, it’s really nice. We saw King Tuff there again the next night, and things were a lot more fun, even if it was only half past eight. Before him, these young men called Jacco Gardner or something played, and they were alright too, even if one of them did insist on wearing a really unfortunate hat (one of those “if you’re not Lee Van Cleef, don’t even think about it” jobs). They sounded a lot like the ‘60s, maybe lurking halfway between SF and LA, and made me feel like I was at a big old hippy ballroom concert. They didn’t have an electric guitar, which also strikes me as poor decision-making, but I think maybe that was just because the other groups on the bill stole all the guitars and wouldn’t give them back. Boy, there sure were a lot of guitars! For instance, this guy Mikal Cronin and his band were banging away on a total of 28 strings, making this sort of ok-ish afternoon festival rock. I couldn’t really find much in the way of tunes – I fear Mr. Cronin might be a bit of a mumblin’ Kurt Vile-esque time-waster, to be frank - but listening to all the guitars was nice, and they put some effort in, nudging the bar up to ‘good’ for their last few numbers. I gave them some big applause, which I think they earned. Hard work, boys & girls, that’s the key.

White Fence had a lot of guitars too, but oh my days, they were HATEFUL. What a bummer. I mean, maybe you heard some of their records and thought they sounded ok, but don’t be fooled! The man orchestrating this collective looks like a prune-faced, scowling ghost who escaped from Noel Gallagher’s sock drawer, and his dream of perfect music seems to consist of grinding, joyless sheets of ear-hurting guitar treble set to lolloping, sub-Brian Jonestown Massacre type ‘grooves’, playing out in indistinguishable five minute chunks for about fourteen hours. I hear they may be heading your way, so beware. Some beardy nerd guys in the crowd had an actual, nose-bloodying fight whilst they played, that’s how bad the vibes were getting. Come back Jocco Gardner or whatever, I’m sorry I laughed at your hat, please save us from this.

By the time all that was over with, a lot of people had gone off to catch their trains and stuff, which was sad, because Purling Hiss were headlining, and you’ll remember how much I like them! Cos let’s face it, White Fence could have a hundred of their stupid chimy little guitars and they wouldn’t have as much guitar as Mike Pollize is packing just in his own little hands. Everybody was tired, including him probably, but boy did they go for it! Played about the whole of the new record, and just about everything in his earlier discography that could pass for a ‘pop song’, and a wild rip through about six or seven minutes of ‘Almost Washed My Hair’ too, and gee whiz, you shoulda heard him go! The dude was wanking away so shamelessly, I almost felt embarrassed watching it with other people present – total slobbering, face-pulling guitar nonsense, hopping about on his pedals like fucking Riverdance, and I loved every minute of it.

And after all that throbbing masculinity, it was good to chill out by going to see Bleached, whom you might have read about in the free newspapers. They are actual girls, y’see, and two of them were in Mika Miko. They do a chimy, airhead summer guitar-pop thing, but with a big Wipers-y rhythmic undercurrent that knocks Best Coast on their ass, and, whilst I was worried I might find them a bit too cutesy and vacant for my liking, I gotta admit that, live at least, they were bloody great. Simple, fun, satisfying pop/rock music, and if they’re not exactly writing any sequels to ‘Double Nickels on the Dime’, well, so what. Neither are you. Thank god.

In between all that, somehow we found time to go and see Discharge, and The Melvins, which was a laugh. I think. It’s not been out-and-about time all the time though, and at home I’ve been having a nice time listening to Peaking Lights and Quiet Evenings and Black Devil Disco Club and James Brown and Otis Redding and Cheap Trick and Black Mamba Beat and The Undertones and Nancy & Lee. I bought a copy of Neil Young’s ‘Journey Through The Past’, which is a strange one, because side 4 is stuck on the back of side 1, and the second disc has sides 2 and 3, so when the second side I played opened with some hippie guy rambling, then went into a lengthy recording of Handel’s ‘Messiah’ followed by an instrumental Beach Boys song, I was even more confused than I would have been if I’d realised it was side 4. Oh Neil, will we ever fathom your mysteries. The other three sides are pretty good, if you’re keeping score.

I’ve also had a real nice time spinning The Young Fresh Fellows' 1985 album ‘Topsy Turvy’, which I wish I could find on CD or mp3, because some of the songs on it are real crackers, and I’d like to share them with you. ‘The New John Agar’ is a particular favourite of mine, and I’d love to do a cover, if only I was smart enough to transcribe piano songs by ear (as opposed to no songs by nothing).

And that’s about it I think, but oh! How could I forget! Last week we went to Brighton to see Jeffrey Lewis and Peter Stampfel, and it was one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to ever. I mean, it was at least as good as that one I went to a few months back where Brilliant Colors and LaLa Vasquez and Good Throb played on a boat, or – no, actually it was better. They are wonderful guys who play great and funny songs together with much gusto, and it really makes me happy. I think they’d already done a full and satisfying set of their own fine material by the time Jeff busted out ‘Don’t Be Upset’, which I still find really sweet, and then they played Daniel Johnston’s ‘True Love Will Find You In the End’, followed by Hawkwind’s ‘Orgone Accumulator’, and then segued ‘Surfin’ Bird’ into ‘Freebird’, and then Peter came back on and played fucking ‘Goldfinger’ on the banjo! Take note fucking White Fence and whoever, that’s the way to do business, if you want to convey some joy, express some spirit and generally show the folks a good time. Such a great show, I damn near cried.

And so that’s that. I’m sorry to write you such an obscenely long postcard, but there was so much to tell! (I hope you kept the magnifying glass and decoder ring I sent you last time.) I trust that everything’s going well in your music-brain – I know you’ve got that big suspension bridge job to finish, and your dog’s not well, and you’re scared of train stations and only listen to pre-war jazz, but if you ever feel like visiting, we’d all love to see you. Will write soon.

Love & hugs,

That guy who writes the Stereo Sanctity weblog.

Labels: Bleached, Bo Ningen, Endless Boogie, Jacco Gardner, Jeffrey Lewis, King Tuff, Mikal Cronin, Neil Young, Peter Stampfel, Purling Hiss, The Black Tambourines, The Young Fresh Fellows, White Fence

THE FORTY-TWO BEST RECORDS OF 2011:
Part # 7

So, that idea that I should start early so that I’d have time to wrap this up before the New Year…? That went well, right…?

15. Night Birds – The Other Side of Darkness (Grave Mistake)

One of those descriptors, rather like ‘erotic thriller’ or ‘acid jazz’, that inevitably fails to deliver on either of its promised components, dropping ‘surf punk’ in the opening sentence of a review is a good way to wave bye-bye to whatever tenuous engagement w/ a readership one has left. Nonetheless though, it proves unavoidable here, as New Jersey’s Night Birds are, unmistakably, a punk (PUNK) band, incorporating the conventions of the surf (SURF, or perhaps ‘INSTRO’) genre into their music, and doing so with a fearsome competence that sees the results lurking comfortably in the shadow of prime-era Dead Kennedys and (especially) Agent Orange.

At least some of the personnel here – sadly I know not how many or which ones – cross over with the phenomenal Psyched To Die (whose ‘Sterile Walls’ 7” I still like to find time to play at least once a week), and indeed, much here – the shrill, bug-eyed rage of the vocal delivery, the twitchy velocity and incongruously ‘hot licks’ of the music – has evidently come along with them. Whilst lyrical themes remain pleasantly bleak though (demonstrative song titles: ‘Failed Species’ , ‘Can’t Get Clean’), the surf element can’t help but foster a certain irascible goofiness within PTD’s straight-faced nihilism – a goofiness which some listeners may find trying, as cuts like ‘Day After Trinity’ veer about as close to Man..or Astroman? territory as you’re likely to get this side of a Man..or Astroman? tribute album, an effect bolstered by the inclusion of some choice sci-fi movie dialogue. Personally though, I’ve been listening to Man.. or Astroman? a lot this year, and sampling tons of bullshit from movies, so I think all this is just swell. (In particular, the guy toasting the end of the world with a can of beer on ‘Oblivious’ is just plain beautiful.)

As is necessary when monkeying around with surf stuff, the musicianship and recording on this record is frighteningly ‘professional’ for a punk band. Thankfully though, Night Birds (veterans of probably about a thousand other groups between them, I’m sure) are experienced enough to use such – ahem - ‘ability’ to enhance rather than diminish their overall attack, and those uneasy with the goof factor can still enjoy exemplary h/c rippers like ‘Sex Tape’ and ‘Neon Gray’ without having to crack a grin that’s anything less than evil.

Great punk music, great surf music, ‘Other Side of Darkness’ is simply a kick-ass record in every respect, the kind of welcome shock to the senses that has me flailing around for ill-judged metaphors involving whirlwinds and red hot pokers and stuff, so I should probably shut up now before I embarrass myself further.





14. Circuit Des Yeux – Portrait (De Stijl)

Third time out the gate for Haley Fohr under the Circuit Des Yeux name, and in a move that very few would be ballsy enough to attempt, she opens proceedings with a crackly recording of some old time bluesman (I think it might be Son House, but could be completely wrong), discussing ‘the meaning of the blues’ and so forth. A potentially preposterous statement of intent for a young indie-ish type artist, but with the weight she hits us with on ‘Portrait’, it makes good sense.

If her previous records were essentially anonymous – opaque documents of some kind of non-specific pain and unease – then ‘Portrait’ represents an astonishing opening up on Fohr’s part – a big reveal of the voice, emotions and back story behind the music that’s almost unprecedented amongst artists of an avant/noise-type persuasion.

Taking one’s music in a more personal, song-based direction is not necessarily something to be celebrated of course, and neither is striking out at new styles on each record just for the heck of it. But to move straight from abstract basement creep-outs to fully-formed Cat Power / Neil Young guitar balladry in the space of one album is, I think, a fairly astounding progression for anyone, all the more so given that Fohr not only maintains the dread atmospherics of her earlier recordings here, but actually intensifies them, her new-found yen for song-writing simply adding form and narrative to what was previously a big, dark unknown.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the centre-piece track ‘3311’ at first – I mean, christ… it’s not like it’s confessional or sensationalist or anything, but it’s.. pretty straight-up, y’know? The kind of song whose intent you can’t question, whose details you don’t need spelt out.

Troubled times are equally evident on ‘101 Ways to Kill a Man’, where plain-spoken reportage of drug abuse, poverty and parental abandonment can’t help but cast a new light on the cathartic terrors and suburban dread of Fohr’s previous records. Some of the lyrical phrases and musical decisions in these songs might seem a bit rough, a bit overwrought, but as stated above, there is an honesty of feeling to them that bypasses criticism – the bluesman’s opening remarks taken to heart and acted upon.

There are also some holdovers from the old stuff of course – cuts like ‘Crying Chair’ and ‘Falling Out’ ooze a familiarly murky, experimental menace. But, sonically speaking at least, nothing as perverse and terrifying as the strange vistas of ‘Sirenium’ is in evidence here, and it’s clear where Fohr’s new focus lies. Suffocating depression odes like ‘Weighted Down’ and the heavily goth-damaged ‘Twenty and Dry’ could be taken straight from some long lost Nico recording, and ‘Portrait’ closes with a live deconstruction of Springsteen’s ‘I’m On Fire’, causing me yet again to wonder what it is that draws female singers to this most macho of love songs (seriously, I have, like, four covers of it in my music collection, all sung by women). For all of ‘Portrait’s unexpected embrace of the tools of classic rock though, the intent this time round is characteristically unsettling, the ritual demolition of The Boss’s mojo in a hail of formless distortion marking a fitting conclusion to a very dark and brave record.





13. Motion Sickness of Time Travel – Seeping Through the Veil of the Unconscious / Luminaries & Synastry (Digitalis)

I’ve really been dreading trying to find something pertinent to say about Rachel Evans’ (not the one from Comet Gain, obvs) recordings under the Motion Sickness of Time Travel name. Prolific to a fault, there have been at least a few splits, tapes etc this year in addition to these two mammoth LPs (‘Seeping Through..’ is from late 2010 I think, but I got it in 2011 so I’ll count it). Hours and hours of deep haunty-glazey synth-bliss that I have listened to for many, many more hours and hours. Always late at night, after watching some movies or getting back from a gig or just pissing about on a quiet week night, Motion Sickness of Time Travel is almost always on, everyday cares forgotten. The world fades out into sepia. Sleepytime!

On the surface, I suppose there’s nothing much I can quite grab on to (other than a cool name) to help distinguish Motion Sickness.. (straw poll: should I call them MSoTT? No, thought not) from any number of solo analogue-ambient cosmic drifters clogging up my iTunes (I’m always happy to have them). But we tired kosmonauts care not for the surface, right? And there’s something about Evans’ approach to this form really strikes a chord with me, rendering her an immediate big-hitter in the ever-expanding legion of twenty-first century avant-psyche ladies, slotting in nicely somewhere between Grouper and the LA Vampires/Maria Minerva Not Not Fun axis.

And beyond that… well there’s little I can say to really justify the extent to which I like this music, beyond the fact that I think it uses its palette of analogue-generated drones, spectral synth-lines and heavily-effected worldless vocalisations very well indeed, and that it allows me easy access to a wide range of thoughts, feelings and internal spaces that I very much like spending time in.

I suppose that of the two records, ‘Seeping..’ is by far the most nocturnal and potentially sinister, actually even touching on the lofty domain of Leyland Kirby/The Caretaker at some points as Evans builds a thick blanket of decaying textures, the kosmische dream slowly collapsing back into a murky past – tones wavering as the batteries run low, drifts of static as phantom blackbirds peck at the cables, cooing space-voices lurking forever on the edge of hearing, a mulch of dead leaves across the studio floor… or something like that. ‘Luminaries’ by contrast sheds a more optimistic light on the signifiers of nostalgia, the blanked out couple embracing against blinding Pacific glare on the cover providing a perfect illustration of the wistful, memory-tripping games within – faded seaside photos, kaleidoscopic patterns of light on the water, sunstroke visions… same fingers on the same machines, but I think now there’s sand on the floor of the studio. Sometimes the motion sickness is worth it, I’m thinking.





12. The Spits – The Spits V (In The Red)


Hey, a new album by the Spits! Fuck yeah, I love The Spits! They’re the greatest! This is a new album by them, and it kinda sounds like they always sound, more or less.

Well, I mean, it’s not got as many instantly catchy hits on it as IV (the one w/ the kids school photos on the front), but it still rules. It’s got a heavier guitar sound and louder drums, and more of that kinda malfunctioning retro-futurist punk-sci-fi kinda thing they like so much going on, like the sound of some perpetually drunken KBD punk band rampaging around the wastelands in some second hand Damnation Alley wagon held together with duct tape. Pretty damn cool, huh..?!? Yeah!

People say The Spits records pale in comparison to seeing them live. I dunno, I’ve never had the pleasure, but in the meantime I like their records just fine.

Song-wise, we got ‘All I want’, which is a rule-ass pop song, and ‘My Mess’ and ‘Fed Up’ which are about making a mess and being fed up. They’re great! Quite a few of the songs – ‘Tomorrow’s Children’, ‘Electric Brain’, ‘Fallout Beach’, ‘Acid Rain’ are all creeped out sci fi / post-apocalyptic doom kinda things. Alright! ‘Last Man On Earth’ might be inspired by the Vincent Price movie, or it might not, but it definitely steals the melody from some classic rock song I can’t quite put my finger on. Awesome!

And, uh, yeah, that’s it. This rules!

Whatcha looking at? Expecting me to write more or something? Show’s over! Go listen to The Spits.





11. Peter Stampfel & Jeffrey Lewis – Come On In (self-released)

When I went to see Peter Stampfel and Jeffrey Lewis play a concert in Brixton just under a year ago, I suppose I was expecting a fairly laidback affair – a folky, acoustic instruments only sorta show, Jeff maybe breaking out some of his mellower numbers in between paying homage to the septuagenarian Holy Modal rounders founder, a few hippy laff-fests, a gentle stroll through the Alan Lomax songbook and off we go. Y’know the sorta thing.

Boy, how wrong can you get! Turns out it was actually one of the most raucous shows I attended all year, both performers having the time of their lives, bashing out riotous, rough-as-a-bear’s-arse folk-punk as Stampfel pulled hit after hit out of his murky solo back catalogue – a seemingly endless barrage of hilarious, weirdo rock n’ roll songs undreamt of in the halls of man. ‘Black Leather Swamp Nazi’! ‘Duke of the Beatniks’! ‘Stick Your Ass in The Air’! That great song they did about going to bars and causing trouble! This is some mad, bad, wonderful shit going on right here; my kinda music, my kinda people.

The dynamic between these two guys was really beautiful, each seemingly realising that they’re a different generation’s version of the same person, goofing around on stage swapping endless anecdotes of comic-book shopping orgies, Victorian drug-taking practices and forgotten New York boho antics, infusing each other’s songs with new sparks of inspired oddness.

Somewhat more mannered in presentation, this self-released tour CD perhaps doesn’t quite reflect the leery enthusiasm of that live show, but it’s nonetheless a fine collection of the fruits of this particular meeting of minds. The first half showcases a handful of great new Lewis numbers, the wonderfully self-explanatory ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea’ and ‘I Spent The Night In The Wax Museum’, whilst Stampfel toasts his collection of vintage bottlecaps on ‘Bottlecaps Are Cool’ (“..if you don’t believe me you’re a fool”), and summons the aforementioned spirit of raucous abandon perfectly on his frenzied drunk-driving anthem ‘Busted’. Things mellow considerably on the second half, Stampfel’s age and experience showing through as his voice cracks on a beautifully spare rendition of ‘God, What Am I Doing Here’, a strange, simple and deeply moving song written by his long-lost wife and writing partner Antonia. The incredible early work of Stampfel’s old comrade Michael Hurley also gets a look in on a renamed version of his signature ‘No I Won’t Come Down’ and the unvanquished hippy ghosts take on full substance on the gentle stoner testimonials of ‘Little Sister in the Sky’ and the psyche-folk epic ‘On We Went’.

If Lewis and Stampfel’s respective careers prove anything though, it’s that hippy and punk when properly expressed are one and the same notion, and through listening to their collaboration and hearing their rambling dialogues, I’ve come to realise just what a goshdarned inspiration Stampfel in particular is – living proof of how far following your weird dreams and obsessions can get you, still overflowing with enthusiasm for comic books and cultural detritus, still presumably penniless, still making new friends and cranking witty, weird-ass punk songs, still a thousand miles off anyone’s radar, yelling off-key like a foghorn and whacking his violin like he just picked it up for the first time yesterday, still laughing in the face of any notion of respectability. What a hero. Here’s hoping he keeps at it for a good while longer.

This song isn’t even on the CD, but it’ll kinda set the tone nicely I think:

Labels: best of 2011, Circuit Des Yeux, Jeffrey Lewis, Motion Sickness of Time Travel, Night Birds, Peter Stampfel, The Spits

THE FORTY-TWO BEST RECORDS OF 2011:
Part # 4

30. The Mountain Goats – All Eternals Deck (4AD)

That this is my least favourite Mountain Goats album since John Darnielle signed to 4AD all those years ago should be self-evident from its placement this low on the list. Deprived of a central concept to work around, it seems to find his songwriting flailing around in a number of odd and unsatisfying directions, as the band’s sound falls back on a competent but uninspiring strain of MOR acoustic indie-rock that’s getting pretty damn old, its few self-conscious attempts at experimentation (in particular, the Disney-ish dude choir on ‘High Hawk Season’) emerging as unwelcome embarrassments – the kind of thing that reinforce all the worst clichés about this band and its fans.

Nevertheless, there are many good and worthwhile songs here. ‘Estate Sale Sign’ is an immediate favourite - a breakneck sprint through ritual sacrifice, decrepit shopping malls, fading movie stills and birds of prey circling on high, it sticks around just long enough to throw up hints of a cruel and bizarre story beneath whilst remaining thrilling and elusive – a perfect Mountain Goats song really, recalling the fractured narratives of “We Shall All Be Healed”. ‘Beautiful Gas Mask’ is a similarly killer tune, threading lyrical non-sequiturs into a great bit of “no idea what it’s about, but it sure gets the blood pounding” goodness. The self-explanatory ‘For Charles Bronson’ is almost an absolute stormer, it’s momentum sapped somewhat by over-polite production and an unnecessary middle section, a fate shared by the half-great ‘Prowl Great Cain’. Perhaps tellingly, two of the best cuts here recall the more brooding, relatively low-key approach of 2009’s ‘The Life of the World to Come’ – piano-led opener ‘Damn Those Vampires’ (which fleetingly conjures the dusty desert-horror fables of movies like ‘Near Dark’) and, probably the overall highlight of this record, the richly evocative ‘Age of Kings’, which perhaps breaks interesting new ground for Darnielle, building it’s atmosphere not through any blood-curdling lyrical invention, but simply through its elegant, burnished gold string textures and stately melody.

A lot of the other songs here I don’t really ‘get’, but that’s ok, really, I mean, that’s fine – after all, a lot of the old boombox era records only mange maybe a 50% hit rate in all honesty. Darnielle has had an absolutely spectacular run since ‘Tallahassee’, and it would be churlish to expect it to last forever. What’s more worrying is that the crazy passion and fury that’s fuelled The Mountain Goats for twenty odd years seems to be dissipating here. Like many successful songwriters before him, Darnielle is starting to feel the effect of his being a guy who sits in an office all day with a piano writing songs for a living, rather than some desperate ne’erdowell trawling the highways trying to make a buck, or whatever. Basing one’s career almost entirely on compositional chops is always going to be a uneasy balance between “that’s an interesting subject, I should probably write a song about it” and “here’s something terrifying that happened when I picked up the guitar this evening, I don’t know where the fuck it came from”, and if you insist on being prolific, that balance is always gonna get a bit off-whack sometimes.

Then again though, a lot of people seemed to like this record just fine. The reviews were good. Is it weird that for some reason I think the songs on last year’s throwaway Extra Lens side-project way overshadowed even the best ones on this album? On what side of the band/listener divide is the energy really draining away here? Are The Mountain Goats changing, or just me? Something to ponder in the dark hours of the night. Whatever - # 30 dudes.

Beautiful Gas Mask




29. Maria Minerva – Tallinn at Dawn tape / Cabaret Cixous LP (Not Not Fun)

Two whole albums of laptop transcendence from the prolific Ms Minerva, rising above blog-hype and cool-label-anticipation-disorder and “TRIVIA FACT: interned at The Wire” to really make her mark on the world of…. whatever the hell you call this kind of thing.

‘Tallinn..’ is ostensibly the weaker of the two sets of recordings, but there’s a stark naivety and sketchy pop minimalism to the songs herein that I really love. It’s just awesome, untutored homemade songs really, assembled out of little more than random samples, midi synth lines, Maplins-mic vocals and cheap effects, but within this evidently limited framework, Minerva reveals a great knack for sound-assembly and an uncanny ear for a really haunting melody. All of the record’s strengths are fully in evidence on the tremendous ‘Sad Serenade (Bedroom Rock n’ Roll)’, one of my favourite tracks of the year, which fuses chunks of some long lost youtube rock star interview to bass and drum patterns that sound weirdly organic despite never claiming to have known life outside a harddrive, spinning swathes of psychedelic burble like week old memories of some euphoric nightclub moment, topped with a shivering vocal like something out of one of Marianne Faithful’s weed-inspired greenhouse dreams. Or something. I dunno. Point is, it’s great. Twenty seven iTunes plays and counting.

‘Cabaret..’ is a far more elaborate affair, often a bit too amorphous to really get an angle on, on first listen seeming like an endless blissout of disconnected, muffled-through-the-walls club music and pan-cultural East End art blather that’s engrossing without ever manifesting anything really distinct. On repeated spins though, attention is drawn once again to the strength of Minerva’s tricky vocal melodies, and their central role in organising the dubbed out clouds of this sound into something not just tangible but pretty damn magical, as heard on the superb ‘Honey Honey’ - not so much blissful as a second-hand descriptor but more, y’know… actually blissful, heavily phased vocals fading into a haze of reconstructed Indian street-singing as the track progresses. Again, it never really sticks around long enough to sign off on its beauty, but fleetingly there’s something pretty special there. Similar feels can be felt in ‘Soo High’, submerging mixing skeletal r’n’b structure under heavily processed ice-cream van chimes and reverb layers to sublime effect, and ‘Pirate’s Tale’, a fully-formed masterpiece of this nameless whatever, taking us from Spitalfields out to sea, knocking on the doors of all the adjectives I’ve thrown around in this review in the process.

Ineffable, irreducible DIY hypnogogical cosmopolitan collage-pop of the highest order, Maria Minerva’s records will inevitably sound dated as shit to our stupid ears five years down the line. All the more reason to enjoy them now then, I’d suggest.

Sad Serenade (Bedroom Rock n’ Roll) [from ‘Tallin at Dawn’]


Pirate’s Tale [from ‘Cabaret Cixous’]




28. Yeh Deadlies – The First Book of Lessons (Popical Island)

From May:

“Come on in and relax, these songs seem to say (without getting too happy-clappy about it), everybody’s welcome. Maybe life’s not perfect – in fact we are going to tell you in lyrical form about all manner of awkward situations and personal upsets - but the sun’s shining and it’s a quiet afternoon and we’re all on the same page here, so grab a pint and we’ll weave our merry tunes for ya.

And fucking merry they are too, full of great, interesting melodies and attention-grabbing little musical bits and pieces, and they tell us about a bunch of stuff that’s maybe taken from their lives or maybe just made up, and for once you actually care. As Yeh Deadlies have moved away from the more overtly folky approach of their earlier recordings and assumed the mantle of a full electric pop band, joint singers/writers Padraig and Annie have correspondingly developed a real knack for cramming odd and personal details into the songs whilst never letting them meander too far from their core function as strong, emotionally resonant pop songs. Most song lengths remain on the right side of three minutes, tempos remain upbeat, and collapses into diary entry banality are strenuously avoided, but each number still succeeds in communicating the essence of a situation, an idea, a feeling, whatever. So, uh, I’m no expert or anything, but I think that probably adds up to official Real Good Song-Writing. Well done everybody!

Although Dublin is a big city, this really sounds like a rural album to me. Or it really hit the spot when I put it on whilst barrelling through the countryside last month, at least. Maybe I’m just projecting, but the songs seem to pull together to create an agreeable picture of life in a small-ish provincial music scene, from the reflections of a DJ at a small town club night surveying the 3am carnage in “Disc Jockey Blues” to the tale of a kid growing up and joining a band in, er, “The Kid’s in the Band”, and so on.

If ‘The First Book of Lessons’ was a movie, I think it would probably be one of those ‘90s British indie movies where young people in brightly coloured clothes live amid drab, dilapidated surroundings, and they go to transport cafes, and go surfing, and sit together on the cliffs and stuff like that. Hopefully it wouldn’t be shite (because most of those kind of movies were shite), but y’know what I mean.

In a field submerged ‘neath a flood of bilious careerists and terminal hat-wearers, Yeh Deadlies sound like good people playing good music, and that’s really something to be thankful for.”

No Rock n’ Roll Dreams (in Empty Beds)




27. Jeffrey Lewis – A Turn in a Dream Songs (Rough Trade)

Jeffrey Lewis’s previous LP ‘Em Are I’ was my favourite record of.. when did it come out again? Year before last? Ok, yeah – 2009. In particular, admired the way that Jeffrey managed to take the fallout from what was obviously a pretty devastating break-up and turn it into a set of songs that was enjoyable, profound, funny, musically ambitious and generally optimistic, transcending the moansville routinely occupied by about 98% of spurned singer-songwriter types.

Kind of sad then to hear him returning this year with a record as thoroughly down-in-the-dumps as this one, nixing the raucous punk and rock n’ roll outbursts the gave colour to his previous albums in favour of what is largely a one man acoustic trawl through different flavours of listless self-pity.

Anxiety and morbid self-examination have always been at the heart of Lewis’s songwriting of course, but in the past he’s always managed to put a good spin on it, using humour and weird, homespun wisdom to engage with a more universal sentiment – a talent that often seems to elude him here as he offers a number of dreary strumathons bemoaning the fact that girls don’t like him and he’s forced to go to restaurants on his own and aimlessly wonder the streets and stuff and DUDE, for christ’s sake, it’s sad that you feel so bummed out, but carrying on like this in public isn’t going to help matters! Pull yourself together, go play some great shows and draw some awesome comic books, you’re great at it and you’ve got loads of wonderful friends, and everybody loves you! Jeez, some people.

Thankfully though, this is still a Jeffrey Lewis album, and Jeffrey Lewis is awesome, so there’s plenty here to enjoy. For one, ‘Cult Boyfriend’, a perfect example of the kind of instant classic yeah-you-got-my-number-buddy pop culture referencin’ hits that got us loving him in the first place. For two and three, there’s ‘Krongu Green Slime’ and ‘So What If I Couldn’t Take It’ , intricate, image-packed rambles that seem like weirder tangents from some ‘60s underground comic in audio form, telling tales of primordial retail economics, cosmic entropy, hallucinogenic suicide rampages and flunked mafia executions. ‘Time Trades’ is a good one too, vaguely recalling Richard Hell’s similarly named song and stretching a dark-hours-of-the-night philosophical tangent into a convincing trail of reassuring wisdom, bypassing our cynicism in a way that only Lewis can really get away with. Opener ‘To Go And Return’ is real nice as well, a gentle, shimmery folk-psyche fingerpicker enlivened by droning, discordant brass.

In fact, who am I kidding – at least 50% of ‘A Turn In The Dream Songs’ is really great, and it’s at least 100% better than it would have been if some other bearded jerk had made it. It would be easy to pull apart the threads of depression and narcissism that underpin even the best of these songs, but why bother, they’ve always been there, they’re part of what makes Jeff Lewis the writer/performer he is, and here’s hoping he can take some inspiration from the noble sentiment of songs like ‘Time Trades’ and work up a more positive frame of mind for the next time he hits the studio.

Cult Boyfriend





26. Y Niwl – Album (Aderyn Papur)

Behold – the best Welsh language surf album of the year!

But seriously folks, even if there were dozens of Welsh language surf albums to choose from (and I sincerely wish there were), I’d like to think Y Niwl would still be riding high on the hog with this lovely effort.

I should admit that I’ve actually been listening to a lot of surf music this year. I really like it, in fact I think it’s one of the greatest musical forms around.

It’s a genre that works best I feel when completely disconnected from all the mouldering aesthetic bumpf that goes along with it. I remember once hearing an old interview with The Pixies, where they were talking about their fondness for surf music, and how when they listened to it, they weren’t thinking of hotrods and beaches and Californian dudes surfing and all that stuff, but instead of “crazy little people, running around, doing stuff!” That just about sums it up I think. It’s evocative, exciting music that deserves a wider framework of imagery to work with. Thus I really appreciate the fact that Y Niwl play great surf music without making any effort to try to harness the ‘surf’ aesthetic. No stripey shirts or tiki lounge kitsch for these guys – in the one press shot I could find of them, they’re standing in somebody’s back garden in the rain, next to a conservatory, having a cup of tea. Stubble and bobblehats and rain macs – classic SFA/Gorkys Welsh stoner guys really. Much respect to them for taking this fine music wholly on it’s own merit, and playing it so well, devoid of period goofery.

On the scale of surfitude, I suppose you might say Y Niwl are more on the relatively laidback side of things - the kind of surf band one imagines might enjoy a quick joint or two before practice. Not for them the rip-roaring fretboard theatrics of Bambi Molesters or Los Straitjackets. Largely, Y Niwl prefer to explore a woozier, more psychedelic take on surf conventions, their sound crisply recorded as the genre demands, but swathed in a heavily atmospheric undertow of beautifully cavernous reverb and echo, rolling in across the tunes like Aberystwyth sea mist, genre-defying electric organ riffs chiming in too to add a whole other layer to a beautiful sonic, uh… layered thing? By which I mean, a brilliantly recorded, imaginatively rendered, good-natured, instantly enjoyable pile of vaguely trippy instrumental rock. Nice work!

Undegpedwar

Labels: best of 2011, Jeffrey Lewis, Maria Minerva, The Mountain Goats, Y Niwl, Yeh Deadlies

Quotes of the Week.

Actually quotes of last week, but current affairs got in the way.

“We were playing a festival in Dublin the other week. There was this other group like, warming up in the next sort of chalet, and they were terrible. I said 'shut them cunts up' and they were still warming up, so I threw a bottle at them. The bands said 'that's the Sons of Mumford' or something, 'they're number five in charts!' I just thought they were a load of retarded Irish folk singers.”

- Mark E. Smith, shining a light in these days of darkness (any offense caused to actual retarded Irish folk singers notwithstanding).



“Pure Joy! I can’t be unhappy while listening to this. Here’s every crazy smile, or hilarious dance -- the whole thing bucks and twitches with delight and energy! And as for the SOUNDS, the concept of modern high-fidelity has to be called into question when you hear these old 78s on a cheap, old, valve mono amp -- through a 4-inch speaker. Wooden instruments sound wooden and varnished, the vibration in the trombone brays like brass hammered by air, and there’s a UNITY OF EAR I find hard to describe. If a microphone is an ear-analogue, perhaps it’s a relief to only have a couple.”

- Alastair Galbraith on “Tiger Rag” by Kid Ory & His Creole Jazz Band.

I’ve always liked Galbraith’s approach to sound and recording (there’s a great bit in an interview with him in the Tape Op book, where they ask him what kind of reverb he was using on a particular track, and he’s like “huh, what? I was just singing down a drainpipe..”), but anyone who does a top ten for Dusted and picks a Major Bloodnok skit from The Goon Show has my eternal admiration.

Labels: Alastair Galbraith, Jeffrey Lewis, Kid Ory and his Creole Jazz Band, Mark E Smith, quotes, The Fall

THE FIFTY BEST RECORDS OF 2009: Part #10

5. Smith Westerns - s/t (Hozac)

Smith Westerns’ debut album is a work of over-energised, over-ambitious, overblown teen genius that I appreciate more each time I spin it – an instant refutation of anyone who’d seek to dismiss the new crop of American punk/garage/whatever bands as shiftless, couldn’t-give-a-shit posers. Initially coming to my attention via “Be My Girl”, a cosmically gorgeous, instant-hit evocation of the glories of T Rex, Smith Westerns’ keep the quality running high at all times, breathlessly cramming so much STUFF into their four-track level recordings that on occasions the whole thing just collapses under it’s own weight, leaving a sparkling, blown out pile of murk, as if the tape just plain melted in the face of such sonic maximalism. Defying the back-to-basics garage set-up of most of their peers, Smith Westerns build each of these songs up from a base of crashing, reverbed drums that sound like the rhythm tracks from an old Spector single being played by a rock drummer on a full kit, and proceed to throw in keyboards, glockenspiels, bells, TONS of guitars, outboard effects, kazoo, strings – yes, I swear there are fucking STRINGS on some of these songs – all vying with each other to see who can get closet to the front of the mix, and, fuck man, looks like we’d better EQ the hell out of all the vocals just so we can hear ‘em! Incredible stuff.

Initially, I assumed Smith Westerns must be slightly older guys – like, late-20s or something at least. Y’know, old enough to have been round the block a few times and done their homework re: understanding the history and kitsch-potential of the framework of garage and ‘60s pop and glam stomp within which they are working here. So, without wishing to sound * too * vampiric and creepy, it plain BLEW MY MIND to read that they’re all currently aged between 15 and 19, or something. I mean, when 27 year old guys write songs called “Girl In Love” and “Glam Goddess”, and lock straight into ’72 Bowie to sing “c’mon, you DIAMOND! BOYS!”, it’s good fun, but it’s box-ticking. When kids still in high school are blasting it out as if this stuff’s just sprung naturally from their mad, hormone-ravaged bones, it’s… I dunno man, genuine fucking teenage rock n’ roll nirvana…? And these guys just have such an inbuilt understanding of timeless, starry-eyed, romantic rock n’ roll vision, it’s incredible - holy, bombastic, breathless odes to girls and dreams and heaven, straight from the source. I mean, they’ve still got one foot in lo-fi garage-fuzz trash, and that’s great, but man, their song on the split 7” with the band Dead Ghosts sounds more like Mott The Hoople broadcasting rabble-rousing polemics over a post-apocalyptic emergency broadcast system! It’s sad that Greg Shaw isn’t still with us to hear this band – he’d be so psyched his head would fall off. And Kim Fowley WISHES he could have bottled something this good. Smith Westerns = the sound of teenage punks tearing up all the most powerful elements of their (grand)parents pop and looking on in wonder as the scraps rain down like confetti.

Mp3> Dreams

4. Condo Fucks - Fuckbook (Matador)

Whichever way you look at it, this album is pure self-indulgence. I mean, let’s face it, if any other three people in the world had made a one mic rehearsal tape of themselves bashing out a bunch of punk and British Invasion covers, complete with false starts and inaudible vocals, the result probably wouldn’t be getting a big-time release on Matador records. And if any other three people had made said tape, would I still have played it something like 56 times over the past nine months, grinning like a happy idiot…? Well… yes, I probably would have done, to be honest. I LOVE this crap, and I hope I always will. A friend of mine recently made a good point regarding the work of Quentin Tarantino, observing that, rather than *self* indulgent, his films are merely indulgent – eg, they indulge the audience just as much as the creator. And that’s the kind of logic that I’d like to apply in making the case for Condo Fucks as some of the most soundly unpretentious music of the modern era, because this is precisely the kind of honest, joyous, deafening, chaotic rock n’ roll that hits all my pleasure centres at once, with no unnecessary messing about to weaken the brew.

Of course, the personalities of our participants to come into play to a certain extent, and perhaps the key to the album’s success lies in the way they apply their characteristic spirit of modesty and inclusively to musical forms more frequently despoiled by glowering Rolling Stones wannabes – cutting out the dull aesthetic pretence, whilst still bringing enough wild, overdriven abandon to send said wannabes to their graves. And it helps too that our heroes are consummate record nerds, their choice of material flawless as you’d expect. Oh, what a thrill for us cult-rock bores to hear our guys launching into the Electric Eels ‘Accident’, or to hear Georgia taking the lead on heart-shivering renditions of ‘This Is Where I Belong’ (The Kinks) and ‘With A Girl Like You’ (The Troggs), the ghost of her vocal often sinking under all the magical amp blare, but that’s ok cos we can all sing along. Absolutely beautiful. Better still is when they turn their talents to realising the perfect version of ‘Kid With The Replaceable Head’ that Richard Hell never got around to recording, with Ira – sorry, ‘Kid Condo’ – taking his best shot at trying to the out-Robert Quinn Robert Quinn, and succeeding. Listening to ‘Fuckbook’ is a bit like going to see a big, headlining band and discovering that they’ve ditched their regular set-list and are just gonna play their unexpected-cover-version-that-we-worked-out-on-the-bus-for-the-encore *all night long*. Party on!

Maybe in a better world, the Condo Fucks experiment could provide a whole new way forward for struggling major-indie record labels. Got some big-name bands, cruising on their reputation, breaking up for ‘hiatuses’ or spending months in the studio making tepid, over-polite double LPs? Well fuck that noise – why not just get a few affable souls like, I dunno, say Thurston Moore, Guy Picciotto and Janet Weiss, stick ‘em in whichever local practice room does the best deal for four hours, keep the beer flowing, get ‘em talking about how great the Small Faces were, and let nature take it’s course? And if the results if even a fraction as much fun as this record, you’ll still be giving the record-buying public more bang for their buck than, ooh I dunno, the last three Yo La Tengo albums.


Mp3> With A Girl Like You

3. Nodzzz - s/t (What's Yr Rupture?)

What more to say about Nodzzz at this late stage? More than any other new band this year, their songs have been bouncing around my head pretty much endlessly and aren’t showing any sign of ceasing to do so in the new year. Great band, great guys, great sound, great songs – they’re top of the class, reducing me to clichés once again.

Here’s an edit of some stuff what I said about them back in March:

“Every song on Nodzzz self-titled 12” is a veritable education in the possibilities of Nerd-Bounce, each track throwing down in a uniquely enjoyable, off-kilter manner that fully delivers on the promise of “(I Don’t Wanna) Smoke Marijuana”.

Oft times, Nodzzz fleetingly remind me of my other “Revenge of the Nerds” heroes, The Embarrassment – one of the greatest, most frequently overlooked bands of all time, whom I’ve been meaning to write a proper post about for ages. Despite a raft of superficial similarities though, Nodzzz and The Embarrassment never manage to see eye to eye for more than a few moments. Whereas The Embarrassment always sounded as if they were being driven forward by a writhing mass of vengeful sexual frustration, even when singing about space travel or hunting dinosaurs, Nodzzz are, if not exactly *contented*, certainly a lot more…. easy-going… in their concerns. These are good natured fellas for sure, coming on witty like vintage Woody Allen, but with none of the neuroses in evidence.

In fact, Nodzzz very rarely sing about girls. You’d assume “Is She There?” might be about a girl, but the lyrics seem to be more about getting interrogated by the army. “Losing My Accent” wistfully relates how said loss took place whilst in bed with a girl “in the North-West”, but mainly it’s just sad about the accent. Nobly pencilling in the vast gulf left in pop songwriting once such concerns are removed, Nodzzz instead sing variously about their fears about moving to the city, their transport problems, getting old, being too young, and having to attend awkward social events on the great “Controlled Karaoke” (“it’s a party if you know what that means / no one wants to go and no one wants to leave”). I guess all of those themes sound like things one might moan about, and indeed Nodzzz probably ARE moaning, but you’d never know it unless you stopped to pay close attention, so darn irrepressibly upbeat and FUN do their songs seem on first exposure.

Musically, they’re absolutely spot-on too, hitting just the right balance between competence and spontaneity, just as lesser bands proceed to pointlessly tear chunks out of each other in the reviews sections in an unspoken war between over-cooked and under-cooked indie-rock records that are pretty dull in either direction. Listen to the two vocalists trying not to burst into giggles as the guitarist fluffs up just before they hit the second chorus of “I Can't Wait”, and the wonky, wood-block assisted riff-fest that follows and you’ll hear the ‘first take / best take’ philosophy of Swell Maps and the makeshift sonic anarchy of early Sun sessions at their finest. Listen elsewhere though – to the slashing, fast-strumming guitarwork on “Highway Memorial Shrine”, the intricate surfy-jangle lead lines and handbrake turn drumming – and you can (kinda, sorta) hear the spirit of The Minutemen rising in the distance, a spirit of carefully pre-studio prep work, obsessive practice and the desire to give the audience it’s musical money’s-worth that seems almost alien after extensive exposure to the trashed aesthetics that predominate amongst the rest of the currently resurgent lo-fi scene. Short, sharp, instantly likeable and packed with awesome, I hereby declare Nodzzz debut my the first out and out winner of 2009, or the last one of 2008, or whatever.”

Mp3> Highway Memorial Shrine

2. Future Of The Left - Travels With Myself And Another (4AD)

I may have somehow managed to go the whole year without publicly mentioning it to anyone, but as far as I’m concerned Future Of The Left have made the best rock album of the year. Which is a welcome surprise really, because, I’ll admit, the band’s first album, “Curses”, left me feeling distinctly underwhelmed. At the time, it seemed as if Andy Falkous just… wasn’t quite so angry anymore, and that the vicious, absurdist fury that fuelled his work with Mclusky was being diluted into a somewhat more resigned bag of quirkery, injokes and tepid man-rock jams under the FOTL banner. Well, rest assured, ‘Travels..’ sees Falco getting his rage back and then some, as he finally cashes in the ‘genius’ ticket he took out way back on ‘Mclusky Do Dallas’ and presents us with an album so flattening in it’s brutalist, bullseye-wrecking mastery, it’s hard to believe it won’t come to be seen as his all-time masterpiece, assuming there’s anyone left in future generations to care about such things.

I always find it hard to put the unique appeal of Mclusky/FOTL into words, but let’s just say that when they’re on form, Falkous and his comrades consistently give voice to, and rail against, the senseless minor frustrations and painful stupidities of trying to live a decent life in the British Isles in the 21st century with more passion and venom and wit and disgust than any other currently active musical unit. Veering closer to kind of cultural assault favoured by figures like Luke Haines or Chris Morris than to any of their contemporaries in the sphere of noisy heavy/art rock, I’m sure that Future Of The Left would rather spit teeth than align themselves with any direct political cause, but nonetheless, the seething fury and hilarious social insight of their songs serve as a more compelling argument for the existence of politicised rock music than anyone else since… well, ever, really.

Song titles like ‘Throwing Bricks At Trains’, ‘Chin Music’ and ‘The Hope That House Built’ may have tipped us off in advance that we’re dealing with a newly re-infuriated Future Of The Left here, and indeed, that proves to be the case. Over fiendishly orchestrated blasts of power trio lurch-metal, Falco proceeds to set out his current grievances and verbally beat the shit out of them, laying into everything from unscrupulous chain music venues (“without the young and the desperate / they won’t have anyone left”) to organised religion (“a justice of sorts if you listen to fools who dressed in the dark for a bet”). There’s more to Falkous though than just the rabid polemicist, and a songs like ‘Yin / Post Yin’ adopts a more oblique strategy, contrasting odd verses about dinosaurs going back to college with a baleful, rising chorus that seems to take umbrage with all the squandered potential of modernity, posing questions like “how far can you rise, on borrowed sellotape?”, with all the weight of a crushing Black Sabbath sermon. ‘You Need Satan More Than He Needs You’ meanwhile provides a grisly exclamation point mid-album, like an attempt by the band to separate the wheat from the chaff within their audience by pushing the boundaries of indie-rock good taste about as far as they can, as Kelson Mathias’ bull-seal distorted bass throbs with Melvins menace and Falkous explores the practical difficulties faced by the modern day Satanist – “what kind of orgy leaves, a sense of deeper love?” As searching, reflective and exasperated as it is plain angry/funny, ‘Travels With Myself And Another’ stands out as the work of songwriters unique in their field, and of the pre-eminent modern rock band who are capable of confronting the brain-aching failings of the contemporary world head on, rather than retreating back toward a weird dream of 1964 with added feedback.

Mp3> Arming Eritrea

1. Jeffrey Lewis & The Junkyard - 'Em Are I

The more I think about it, the more it seems that Jeffrey Lewis has been one of the few constants in my-individual-world-of-music over the past decade. Others have come and gone and fallen by the proverbial wayside, but, from 2001 when he was strumming through “East River” on the John Peel show, through to the present day, which sees him dealing with an annual touring schedule that would send Motorhead to their graves and the same kind of heartbreak and disillusionment that caused Alex Chilton to throw his toys out of the pram forever, and delivering the best album of his career thus far in the process. Yes, he’s a guy you can rely on alright – you’ve just got to have some trust.

From its odd name and cover art on down, ‘Em Are I’ is an album that initially seemed to be setting fans and casual observers up for a fall. Lacking the broad humour of Jeff’s previous records, and without an obvious OMFG-that’s-amazing Youtube-worthy hit to file alongside “Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror” or “Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song”, it leaves us lost for a moment, wondering how best to approach a consistent, ‘serious’ and fully realised Jeffrey Lewis record from start to finish. Of course, like all great humourists, the point of Lewis’ work is that it’s ALWAYS been completely serious, with even his most goofy songs rising from a well of confusion and anxiety, the depths of which are plainly acknowledged and explored throughout. What’s REALLY disorientating about ‘Em Are I’ is the extent to which it transcends its creator’s self-doubt by succeeding at every turn, ditching the apologetic lo-fi shambling that’s become Jeff’s calling card and allowing him and his band of collaborators to truly command the various styles they’re boldly marching into here with a justified degree of confidence – no self-deprecation or sideways glance injokes either required or delivered.

Opener “Slogans” is a great literate punk rock song that Richard Hell or The Clash might have recognised as a goer, although I doubt they could have made me grin like Jeff’s observations about “shoguns and Hulk Hogans / and cavemen shouting slogans / back and forth around the fire / now connected by a fire”. In fact, if there’s one thread connecting these disparate songs, it’s Jeffrey’s rambling, ingenious wordplay – always his strong suit, but here it frequently ventures beyond the realms of narrative storytelling into lengthy metaphysical digressions and philosophical conundrums. Shaky ground for any songwriter, but Jeff’s been working this shit out in front of audiences for so long, he’s able to tilt at the windmills of his thought processes with a showmanship that helps him sidestep the potential descent into navel-gazing wank, and instead to craft his own compelling and entertaining internal dramas, leading to conclusions that sound less like teeth-grinding hippie platitudes and more like, well… yeah man, I see where yr going with that one – that’s a real good way of looking at things – thanks dude!

Now if only his contention that “it’s hard to get too bored / when you pick the right two chords” could prove true of more finger-picking open mic botherers. It helps of course that Jeffrey’s acoustic numbers are now fleshed out into gorgeous psychedelic fantasias full of drifting textures, gambolling strings and singing saws, his two chords just sitting at the centre of what’s a real old-fashioned great sounding record. It’s also no secret that Jeffrey was going through a pretty unhappy time in his personal life when this album was being written/recorded, and, given the constant temptation to lapse into ugly self-pity that presents itself when grievances are aired in public in pop/folk songwriting, it is brave and commendable that he manages to entirely avoid the diary entry narcissism of some of his peers, instead channelling his misfortunes into terrific songs like “It’s Not Impossible” (“..as long as failure’s only 99%..”) and the self-explanatory “Broken, Broken Heart”, giving voice to his feelings with a rare good grace and sense of universal relevance that any number of male guitar-jockeys could stand to learn from.

My favourite song though, and perhaps the album’s real breakthrough, is “The Upside Down Cross”, which sounds so unlike anything you’d expect to hear on a Jeffrey Lewis album, and yet succeeds so completely, it is a beautiful and righteous thing indeed. Herein, Jack Lewis’ strange tale of a radical couple trying to rekindle their relationship through engagement in revolutionary struggles is spun out into a brooding, nine minute psyche-jazz epic, full of muted trumpet, fiery noise guitar, free-form piano and lock-step octopus drumming, like Art Ensemble of Chicago’s ‘Theme De YoYo’ reinvented by a bunch of crazy Lower East Side beatniks – the kind of thing that shouldn’t work in a million years in other words, and yet it’s a fucking triumph. (In fact, I think I’ll make a point of shouting for it the next time I see them live. After all, Jeff must get sick of running through all those intricate solo acoustic songs night after night, and I’m sure they’d all enjoy an excuse to wig out on this one.) Similarly successful is the awkwardly titled closer “Mini Suite: Moocher From The Future”, which refashions Cab Calloway’s titular heroine into a time-travelling robot queen dispensing psychedelic wisdom and… well, you see what I mean: who the hell else is out there coming up with ideas for songs like that and actually making them really good, rather than just getting ignored or routinely punched?

And I think that’s where the joy of “Em Are I” lies really; almost every song here must have looked like a really bad idea on paper, rendered risky either by weird/icky/over-personal subject matter or by unlikely leaps of musical faith. But every single time, Jeff and his band-mates manage to take the risk, leap the chasm, save the day and keep the engine running, emerging with what’s simply an album of superb, uncategorisable, weird and moving songs, each capable of surprising and entertaining on each listen, of communicating handy truths and enriching the lives of listeners in some small but tangible fashion. A masterpiece, I guess you’d call it.

Mp3> The Upside Down Cross



(Phew, I don't know about you, but I'm bloody exhausted! Do you know I've published over 19,000 words on here in the past six (ok, seven) weeks? Sorry it took so long... I think I'm gonna take a week off.)

Labels: best of 2009, Condo Fucks, Future Of The Left, Jeffrey Lewis, Nodzzz, Smith Westerns

Jeffrey Lewis Runs Down the History of Punk in New York City up to 1975 for you...

...in case you were wondering about such things;

I'm not sure I share Jeffrey's admiration for the second David Peel & The Lower East Side album (it's pretty bad), but otherwise, spot on. Clinton Heylin and Griel Marcus must be kicking themselves.

I found this great video a couple of weeks ago, following some Youtube links after some nice person doing publicity for Rough Trade thought to email me a video for a song off Jeffrey's new album, which I am looking forward to venturing forth at the weekend to buy a copy of.

I realised a while back that I must have seen Jeffrey Lewis play more times than any other artist/band ever - perhaps on about 12 to 15 seperate occasions over the years? And because he kinda seems to always be around, always seems to have loads of great new songs to play, fun new stuff to do on stage etc., it's easy to start to take his overall greatness for granted.

I've recently found myself listening back to all Jeffrey's Rough Trade albums for the first time in a while though. That is, actually listening to them all the way through whilst I mooch about doing other stuff, rather than just picking out and obsessing over my favourite songs, like I usually do. And, damn me if they don't all really stand up as GREAT albums. Real satisfying, self-contained listening experiences in the classic vein, to enthral, educate and entertain in timeless notice-something-new-every-listen type fashion. For all his lo-fi self-deprecating humour and such, let us not forget that this guy is the real deal.

Labels: Jeffrey Lewis, punk, videos

End of the Road Festival, 2008

So, as expected, End Of The Road at the weekend was all manner of awesome. So many of my favourite bands and artists played in such quick succession that by the end I was getting almost blasé about it. From my own personal POV, this was almost certainly the best British festival line-up of my era. I mean, look at it;

Equally predictable in its own strange way is the fact that despite all this, I didn’t find it quite such a revelatory / enjoyable experience of last year’s fest. Last year you see, I didn’t really have high hopes for the festival experience and was prepared to just drift around and see what happened, result being that much of it was rather like a relaxed weekend in the countryside where unexpectedly amazing musicians kept pitching up and singing a bunch of songs for me, resulting in a joyous time. This year, there was obviously a lot more forward planning involved, and a lot more expectation of MIGHTY FUN. The festival seemed bigger, more crowded (though not to an unpleasant degree), there were a lot more people I knew going, a lot more social shenanigans, a lot more “I must be in THIS place at THIS time to see THIS band” kinda manoeuvring. Also, my uncomfortable tent/sleeping bag arrangements and manly disregard for such niceties as a camping mat and warm clothing sadly rendered sleep near impossible throughout the festival, encouraging me to drink more and stay up later than last year, all of which contributed to me getting a bit flustered and exhausted at times, especially given the performances from various bands whose music, emotionally-speaking, tends to hit me like a ton of bricks.

But that’s nothing new – in retrospect, I always seem to end up feeling a bit survivalist at festivals, even nice comfortable ones where I have a bed. Over-stimulation, that’s what it is. 95% of the festival was still totally unspoiled enjoyment.

I’m not gonna do a big band-by-band write-up of everything I saw, partly because I saw so much bloody stuff that that would be a massive undertaking, and partially because for the most part I was watching bands with whom I’m already familiar, and whom I’ve (hopefully) oft mentioned on this blog before, so I don’t want to repeat myself.

Unlike last year, I didn’t really make many ‘new discoveries’, but it was wonderful to see all the acts I was discovering/championing on the festival’s smaller stages last year moving up to better slots and bigger audiences this time around - Congregation opening the big top tent, David Thomas Broughton headlining one of the other tents to a massive crowd. The Wave Pictures played in blazing sunshine on the main stage on the Sunday afternoon – almost exactly the same spot/situation as Herman Dune last year – and totally OWNED the place, not that I was in any doubt re: their ability to do so. Liz Green also played one off the best sets of the weekend to rapturous response in the big top tent. She’s so much more comfortable and relaxed on stage than a year ago, it’s a great thing to see, and, now fleshed out by some well-balanced accompaniment from a small band, her music seems more purely beautiful than ever – simple, dark, honest, upfront songs about stuff that happens to people in their lives, played with an unfettered emotion that stops the breath in my throat.

In a welcome change of pace, and volume, it was great too to see Dead Meadow putting in an appearance in one of the smaller tents late on Friday evening, playing one of the best sets I’ve seen them do in years. I mean, to a – ha! - outsider it must have seemed pretty much interchangeable with any of their other sets - they’re not exactly a band that goes in for surprises - and I’m well aware by now that the vast majority of my learned fellows are sadly blind to the abundant charms of The ‘Meadow’s timeless approach to things, but they can all go whistle down a mineshaft, cos on this occasion the band, and by extension myself, were IN THE ZONE, if you will, and, as they slip inside the ‘Sleepy Silver Door’ for the millionth time, the Dead Meadow Zone is one of my all time favourite places to be. You wouldn’t fucking believe how comfortable the seats are in there, or the things they do with the lighting.

Of the main stage stuff, A Hawk And A Hacksaw and The Dirty Three both kicked it pretty thoroughly on the Friday night too, although Low’s set on the Saturday night was actually quite upsetting. I’m not gonna talk about it here, because I’m sick of retelling the same story, but if you’re a fan of the band, or an avid music media/blog follower, you’ll likely have heard the gory details by now. Aside from all that though, let it be said for the record that they played one of the best sets I’ve ever seen/heard from them. That they were followed directly by Mercury Rev’s current pageant of simpering lunacy seemed… unfortunate scheduling. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m a big ‘Rev fan, I even dig ‘All Is Dream’, but when the band is reduced to Jonathan prancing like a tit amid dry ice and Grasshopper throwing shapes and making the occasional comedy skreeeee noise over a laptop booming out their Disney OST backing tracks, what can you do but laugh? Their bombast is writ so large it’s positively surreal, but any true feeling their songs might once have carried seems lost to the ravages of time.

Most of the best stuff for me though took place in the dark realm of the big tent, and I guess it almost goes without saying that Pete & The Pirates kicked ass, that Let’s Wrestle were fantastically enjoyable - geeky good fun, like the kind of band I’d always assumed I’d probably be in. Billy Childish and the MBEs went down a storm too, of course. Jeffrey Lewis played one of the most chaotic and enjoyable sets I’ve seen him do in recent years too, despite a few guitar malfunctions. He started off with a couple of really wonderful new solo songs, went through a few raucous psych/punk numbers with the band, Jack sang a fantastic Jeff-less song about attending Neil Young’s imaginary funeral. With near sickening inevitability, David Tattersall came on to play ukulele on a couple of selections from the Crass covers album, and, somewhat more surprisingly, John Darnielle made an appearance too, bounding on grinning like the easter bunny to sing the chorus do “Do They Owe Us A Living?”, briefly creating a ‘Last Waltz’-like personal best for the number of my favourite songwriters I’ve seen on stage at one time.

One of the best things about the festival actually was the unscheduled after-hours shenanigans in the couple of smaller music tents. It’s all a bit hazy, bit it seems like I spent several whole hours watching fresh-faced classic rock revival troupe The Young Republic soldier through sets of Dylan and Chuck Berry covers. Whilst their original material is – what’s a nice way of putting it? – only intermittently inspired, they’re certainly an accomplished and joyous bunch, much taken with the idea of reconstructing a careful approximation of that hallowed Big Pink / Basement Tapes vibe, with much good-natured, ego-free chooglin’ thrown in for good measure. And above all, they’re aware that there is much to said for the simple joys of some well-lubricated musicians belting out the singalong-ready goods to a well-lubricated audience by the light of a full moon in the early hours. Good times, as they say, pretty much defined.

Speaking of which, perhaps the best moment of the whole festival goes as follows; after midnight on the Saturday, and we’re all a bit flagging energy-wise (well, I am anyway), looking for something fun to keep us going… so we’re crammed into this packed tent where apparently some kinda (clearly not very) secret musical happening is going to be a-transpiring. So, hey, apparently it’s some guys from British Sea Power and some of their pals and, with no disrespect intended to them as a band, this does not really fill me with faith in imminent good times… BUT, they take the stage, and they say, hello, we’re going to be playing a set of Jonathan Richman covers. And they do!

You know that feeling, when you’re in a situation of some kind – in this case, an unknown musical unit setting up to play - and you think ‘who knows, maybe something fun will happen here – prob’ly not, but you never know’, and then the universe knocks you flat by presenting you with something so, so, so, so, so much more fun than you could possibly have expected? Like, the absolute PERFECT thing you want to happen at that moment? – well it was a bit like that. They mostly did stuff of the first couple of post-Modern Lovers solo records – ‘New England’ and ‘Ice Cream Man’ and ‘Government Center’ and ‘The New Teller’ and ‘Important In Your Life’ and ‘Abominable Snowman In the Market’ and ‘Martian Martians’, as well as ‘Cornerstore’ and ‘The Girl Stands Up To Me Now’ from later in the great man’s career, and probably a bunch of others, I forget. ‘I’m A Little Airplane’ went down a storm too – I mean, it’s never really been a favourite of mine on record, but the appeal of getting drunk and yelling along at the top of your voice to a song that mostly goes “WANGITY-WANG!, WANGITY-WANG!” is never to be underestimated. And, moving from the ridiculous back to the sublime as only Jonathan can, they did ‘The Morning Of Our Lives’, absolutely note/word perfect to the version on ‘Modern Lovers Live’! I could have wept. I think I probably did. I think I might weep again now, just writing about it.

Go and do whatever you do, British Sea Power guys – even if you release twenty six albums of fascist speeches and reversed dog barks, I’ll love you forever for pulling this one out of the hat.

The other highlight was, of course, the privilege (and it really is a privilege for us in the UK) of getting to see The Mountain Goats on two consecutive evenings – first at the festival, then at their London show the following day. Strangely perhaps, the crowd for their festival slot seemed to be a lot more psyched (read: fanatical) about things than at their headline date, but who knows. They were both great sets, obviously. The new three-piece Mountain Goats with Jon Auger on full-time drums seems like a far more straight-up ‘rock band’ kinda proposition than when there was just the two of them, with a pretty fixed night-to-night setlist and little room for digressions. So at EOTR they gave us all the ‘hits’ from the 4AD albums in short order, no older songs or obscurities whatsoever. Which, seeing as how those albums comprise the best body of original song-writing of the century thus far, is clearly TOTALLY GOOD, however much a little bit of me might be silently yelling for ‘Going To Cleveland’ or ‘Going To Bristol’ or ‘Alpha Sun Hat’ or ‘Downtown Seoul’ or whatever else. Hearing a hushed take on ‘Have To Explode’ on both nights is beautiful, and maybe the most poignant moment for me was getting to hear ‘Hast Thou Considered The Tetrapod’ during the EOTR set – hammerblow obvious though it may be, I’ve still got no words for that song. John Darnielle seemed to get pretty worked up on both nights playing Heretic Pride’s brilliantly odd ‘Sept. 15th, 1983’, and it’s not until afterwards that it’s occurred to me – Sept. 14th/15th 2008 – 25th anniversary. Somehow, I was actually unaware up until this point that the song is actually about the death of reggae star Prince Far-I (perhaps making it a good companion piece to The Sunset Tree’s ‘Song For Dennis Brown’?), and I think maybe I actually preferred it as a completely mysterious tale of some kind of baffling secret society assassination, but no matter. Similarly, John’s spoken introduction to ‘How To Embrace A Swamp Creature’ really clicks the song into place – I’d previously been sorta quite struck by it, but unable to get an angle on it’s full meaning. Narrative context explained, the song means a hell of a lot more to me, and its live rendition scratches and pounds my heart just like it should have done the first time I heard it.

As an aside, it occurs to me that this rather oblique approach to context/meaning and heavy reliance on outside reference points has become a pretty constant motif in recent Mountain Goats material. I can’t help but wonder what, for instance, audience members unfamiliar with the song’s title, never mind the cultural significance of the ‘Halloween’ franchise, make of ‘Michael Myers Resplendent’, which opens both of these sets. Similarly, John treats us to a couple of new songs in Monday’s set, and I can well see ‘Sarcofago Live’ becoming a bit of a puzzler for those unfamiliar with the finer points of the early Brazilian metal scene. The other new tune rejoices under the name ‘Wizard Buys A Hat’, by the way.

But thankfully, the emotional half-nelson of The Mountain Goats best material transcends any such need for contextualisation or personal identification, and having drilled even the slightest of them deep into my mind via years’ worth of solitary, pavement-pounding walkman time, it was strange and unnerving and delightful to be there at End Of The Road, doggedly holding on to a good spot at the front as fellow devotees crowd around in advance, and watching apparently happy couples yelling along in tandem no ‘No Children’ and guys who probably had comfortable middle-class upbringings raising their fists and singing every word to ‘This Year’. Myself, I refute such accusations by closing my eyes and smiling and singing along to absolutely everything.

Actually, I seem to have ended up doing my whole ‘singing along’ thing quite a lot throughout this festival. I know it’s weird, and obnoxious, and almost unbearably nerdy… so I’ll end by apologising to anyone I irritated.

I was only going to do a quick festival summary, but it’s near 2,500 words already, so.. END!

If you’ve kept reading this far, you deserve some Mp3s. They are good ones, so treat them well.

The Mountain Goats – Sept. 15th 1983
The Mountain Goats – Going To Bristol
Liz Green – Hey Joe
Jonathan Richman – The Morning Of Our Lives

Labels: Dead Meadow, End Of The Road, festivals, Jeffrey Lewis, live reviews, Liz Green, The Mountain Goats