Deathblog:
Ellie Greenwich, 1940 - 2009

I seem to be a few days late with the news of Ellie Greenwich’s passing, but I was sad to read about it this morning on Everett True’s blog.

As is often the way with songwriters, I guess I’ve gotten to know Greenwich’s name just through reading it hundreds of times in brackets after song titles on record sleeves, and I don’t really know that much re: what she was all about beyond the realm of writing great songs. Her life, personality etc largely remain a mystery to me, so I will leave thoughts on that for other, more informed writers.

I did read a little bit about her last month though, in “Out of his Head”, Richard Williams’ book about Phil Spector. From that, I learned about her pivotal contribution to Spector’s oeuvre, not only through writing the lion’s share of the most iconic songs (usually in collaboration with her husband Jeff Barry and/or Spector), but also through co-producing sessions, vocal coaching and goodness knows what else, credited or otherwise.

In addition to the Spector records, Greenwich and Barry also wrote some of the best ever Shangri-las songs for Shadow Morton, and provided material for The Dixie Cups, The Shirelles and The Four Pennies, surely earning them a preeminent place amongst the architects of the girl group sound/aesthetic.

Ellie Greenwich also wrote hits for Manfred Mann, The Monkees and Tommy James & The Shondells, and pre-empted fellow Brill Building writer Carole King by cutting several albums of her own songs in the late ‘60s. She is also often credited with ‘discovering’ Neil Diamond, and provided Elkie Brooks with her biggest hit, but let’s not hold that against her.

Obituaries for songwriters are often a depressing business, framed as “hey, looks like the guy who wrote HIT SONG X just died”, with the implied tragedy being that they probably spent their whole life writing thousands of other songs that nobody much cared about, grinding their teeth as people walked past whistling HIT SONG X at them.

No such problems for Ms. Greenwich. Looking at her catalog of songs on the Songwriters Hall of Fame website, I put together the following list of songs I know/like that she gets a writing credit for (plus I few others that I just thought had cool titles). And I’m sure you’ll agree, the pile of capital letters below makes a stronger case for her legacy than any amount of supercilious blather:

(AND) THEN HE KISSED ME
ALL GROWN UP
ANOTHER BOY LIKE MINE
BABY I LOVE YOU
BE MY BABY
CHAPEL OF LOVE
CHRISTMAS (BABY PLEASE COME HOME)
DA DOO RON RON
DO WAH DIDDY
GIRLS CAN TELL
GIVE US YOUR BLESSING
HANKY PANKY
HE AIN’T NO ANGEL
HE TELLS ME WITH HIS EYES
HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS
I CAN HEAR MUSIC
I DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT YOU
I WISH I NEVER SAW THE SUN SHINING
I WISH IT WOULD RAIN ALL SUMMER
LEADER OF THE PACK
MARVIN
MAYBE I KNOW
MY MAMA DON’T LIKE HIM
OUT IN THE STREETS
RIGHT TRACK, WRONG TRAIN
RIVER DEEP, MOUNTAIN HIGH
RUN RUN RUNAWAY
SHE HANGS OUT
SUNSHINE AFTER THE RAIN
THAT BOY IS MESSIN’ UP MY MIND
THINGS THAT YOU SAY
TODAY I MET (THE BOY I’M GONNA MARRY)
TRAIN FROM KANSAS CITY, THE
VALLEY OF DESPAIR, THE
WAIT TILL MY BOBBY GETS HOME
WALKING IN THE RAIN
WHAT'S A GIRL SUPPOSED TO DO
WHY DO LOVERS BREAK EACH OTHER’S HEARTS
WHY DON’T THEY LET US FALL IN LOVE

Goddamn, that woman could write a tune.

Mp3s:

The Crystals – Da Doo Run Run
Bob B. Sox & The Bluejeans – Why Do Lovers Break Each Others Hearts?
The Ronettes – Be My Baby
The Shangri-Las – Out in the Streets
The Shop Assistants – Train From Kansas City
The 5678s – Hanky Panky
Maureen Tucker – (And) Then He Kissed Me
The Ronettes – Walking in the Rain
The Ramones – Baby I Love You

Labels: 1960s, deathblog, Ellie Greenwich, girl groups, Phil Spector, pop, songwriters, The Shangri-Las

Cave Weddings, Again.

So I downloaded five songs by The Cave Weddings the other night. Dunno where they came from, what releases they’re sourced from – just saw a link next to the band’s name in some dark corner of some dark comment box in a dark corner of the interweb and hit ‘GO’. Two of the songs are home demos, so I don’t even know whether or not these tracks have been released into the world with the band’s consent. Either way, I will refrain from posting any mp3s or pointing the curious in the right direction.

Point is though: boy do I love The Cave Weddings! They really are just awesome piled upon awesome. Since these songs have been in my possession, I’ve listened to nothing else. I suppose grumblers and those of an anxious disposition may be apt to claim that bands like The Cave Weddings sound contrived and generic, that they’re just writing catchy pop songs to a formula, reducing lyrical/emotional signposts of unrequited (boo!) vs requited (yay!) love to a near abstract gesture. Well claim away dudes; that’s what Buddy Holly and The Ramones were doing, and when the formula is turning out a 100% hit rate to rival Buddy Holly and The Ramones, criticism is futile. These songs are SO GOOD.

How do they get it so right? Just a gallophing great rhythm guitar, a twangy, catchy lead line, some simple, enthusiastic drumming, a real likable wasn’t-made-for-singing voice straining to hit the right notes, some ba-ba-bas, tried & tested melodies of elephant-killing power…. it ain’t rocket science. But when all the elements are in alignment, when the band sound so damn happy to be here… you can’t beat it.

Drummer Nathan’s playing is pretty conventionally kick-ass, but just listen to the breakdown bit in ‘When The Lights Go Out’ where he lays down a series of fabulously WRONG fills (THUNKy THUNK-a THUNK?) that would make any drum-bore spit in despair, yet he and the rest of the band know he’s ten times more awesome than those squares are ever gonna be, and more capable of powering them through to the end of the song in style too…. man, it almost sounds like they’re laughing uproariously through that whole section – that’s rock n’ roll, right there.

It seems like other press about The Cave Weddings keeps mentioning Buddy Holly, just like I did. I dunno why really – it’s not like they really sound much like Buddy Holly. I guess it’s just…. a glimmer of the same attitude maybe? – yeah, that’s the key to it. That little, winsome Buddy Holly grin - the one he’s got in all the photos that let’s you know there’s nothing to worry about - that’s the feeling you get from The Cave Weddings. Like the way he was basically playing the most jagged, primitive, sexually charged rock n’ roll imaginable at the time, but somehow transmuting it via his own earnestness and good nature into something that sounded so wholesome and spiritually fulfilling and indisputably RIGHT that Mother Teresa probably could have tapped her toes in approval in a spare moment without thinking twice…? Same deal here, maybe.

Not that I’d ever try to score cheap points from the fact that two thirds of the band are married, or draw a lame journo-link from the fact they’ve got ‘wedding’ in their name, but The Cave Weddings really do sound like different musical elements coming together in a joyous union, spreading happiness wherever they turn through the realisation that they all fit together so damn perfectly – the garage/punk/pop equivalent of domestic bliss.

UPDATE: It turns out that the songs I downloaded make up the band’s tour EP, previously out of print but repressed this very week and now available from their myspace for $7. It’s hard to imagine $7 or nearest local equivalent better spent: http://www.myspace.com/thecaveweddings

Labels: I like, pop, punk, The Cave Weddings

Earth to Gordon Waller: WTF?


Peter and Gordon (right) stepping out, in happier times..?


Gordon Waller – Rosencrans Boulevard

A total curveball, this song unexpectedly leapt out at me from the end of side # 2 of the utterly excellent second volume of the Rubble compilation series (“Pop-Sike Pipe Dreams”), as I was hanging some pictures in my new room.

For whatever reason, I’ve never paid much attention to it on previous spins of the LP, trapped as it is sounding rather square amid a giddy wealth of fuzz guitar madness and dead-cert freakbeat gear, but... my god. What an extraordinary, inexplicable, misguided pop venture it is, carelessly splitting the difference between “audacious” and “utterly fucking insane”.

A few seconds intensive research reveals that Gordon Waller was one half of Beatles-affiliated lightweight pop duo Peter & Gordon, who disbanded in 1968. According to Wikipedia:

“Afterwards, Waller attempted a solo career with little success, releasing one record, ‘..and Gordon’. On this album Gordon used New York based group White Cloud featuring Teddy Wender on keyboards. He also appeared in a production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat as Pharaoh, a performance that he reprised on the LP.”

None of which really does a lot to prepare one for ‘Rosencrans Boulevard’.

Point one is: were it not on a compilation CD of British stuff, I’d never have guessed this track had originated anywhere except from the cosmic pop wonderland of late ‘60s LA, and indeed I would be extremely surprised if it was recorded in the UK. The song opens with a swell of symphonic/mariarchi bombast worthy of a Jimmy Webb production, which is appropriate, as a swift search on AMG reveals that it is indeed a Jimmy Webb composition, although apparently not one he ever managed to turn into a hit. So, given the presence of his trademark sound, I’m assuming he arranged/produced this version of it too, although Waller's rendition doesn’t merit an entry on AMG, or in Wikipedia’s list of Webb songs.

This is a shame in a sense – I think I liked the song better back when I thought it was some absolutely bugfuck English imitation of a Jimmy Webb record, strung out as the whole thing is with an inexplicable vibe of slightly scrappy Tin Pan Alley lunacy, of some doomed pop svengali’s celestial ambitions going waaaaaay overboard, crashing like an upturned salad bowl in the midst of a record label buffet.

It’s not surprising it wasn’t a hit. The song’s various distinct sections stack up with no apparent rhyme nor reason, none of them offering much in the way of a pleasing melody, central theme or connecting framework, whilst the mood remains desperate, decadent and somewhat hysterical throughout. Even these days, you couldn’t work this one onto one of those kitsch-cool ‘60s crooner dinner party albums – it would just bum everybody the fuck out. The damn thing’s got no tune! A headscratcher for sure, ‘Rosencranz Boulevard’ seems less of an attempt to score a hit, more like some natural, unstoppable outpouring of… something.

After a few seconds of unmistakable Webbery by way of introduction, the song swiftly gives way to a kind of epic Americana travelogue reminiscent of Van Dyke Parks ‘Song Cycle’, until our protagonist finds himself drawn to Hollywood, grounded on the titular Boulevard, propelled by fate into the midst of a doomed relationship with some spectacular, yet no doubt fatally flawed and ultimately unworthy, female.

“You know I never loved her anyway, I just used her over and over”, confesses Waller in portentous, Walker-like tones, before a swift change of pace hits, stabbing strings plunging us into an arena of overwrought metaphysical hysteria worthy of ‘Scott 4’, as Gordon is wracked with guilt regarding his unsatisfactory conduct in this tempestuous liaison.

Naturally, the only thing to follow that with is a car chase, so here we go: “the girl was half crazy, the way she drove her little car”, “doing ninety in a thirty mile zone!” “And she blamed me when she got a ticket”, Gordon adds wistfully, the drama concluded.

So far, pretty fucking breathtaking actually, but it’s only then, in the song’s concluding act, that the genius/madness barricades are thoroughly breached, as Gordon recalls that “she was a stewardess, you know”, “shot down on a non-combatant mission!” For a second, I thought that might be some kind of sly Leonard Cohen-esque double entendre, but I think Jimmy & Gordon actually mean it literally, gratuitously raising the spectre of Vietnam whilst they’re about it.

Music swells to an apocalyptic crescendo, as we leave our hero, wracked with confusion, driving drunk down Rosencrans Boulevard, asking “why did I do it??”, before disappearing forever into a compressed panorama of America reduced to a chintzy recording studio funfair, never to be heard from again.

Total running time: 2 minutes 44. Take that, ‘Macarthur Park’!

Do you think perhaps if someone had just thought to approach Jimmy Webb or Gordon Waller or whoever else was at the controls here, to ask “do you want to talk about it?”, we wouldn’t have this song?

Hooray for emotional repression and it’s deranged artistic consequences.

Labels: 1960s, Gordon Waller, Jimmy Webb, pop, song reviews

A Brief Tribute to Billy Fury.

One of the best gigs I went to in the whole of 2008 (and boy did I ever go to some good ones), and one of my best memories of last summer overall, was Calvin Johnson, playing at a youth club in Finsbury Park.

I won’t talk about the show in great detail, cos that’s not the point of this post, (although if you go to the Upset The Rhythm website and refresh the banner at the top enough times, you’ll be rewarded with a shot of myself and various pals looking rapturous in the audience), but: go see him!

During one of his always entertaining digressions, Calvin started talking about how he’d always wanted to play in Liverpool when touring with the Beat Happening, but had never been able to, until now. “You see, one of my greatest musical heroes came from Liverpool”, he said. Yeah, yeah, yeah, the audience respond with psychic eye-rolling smileys. He kept going on about it though, talking about what a great, musical city Liverpool is, and how dubious UK promoters had always discouraged him from going there for one reason or another…. until finally he exploded; “I mean, BILLY FURY came from Liverpool!”

I think I was still laughing my ass of at this classic reversal-of-expectation, as Calvin – obvious a sincere and very big fan - explained that he’d gone to visit a statue of Billy Fury when in Liverpool a few days previous (and what a statue – see above), and proceeded to rhapsodise about the pure genius of the lyrical phrasing on one of Fury’s b-sides (sadly I forget which one).

If I was familiar with the name Billy Fury at all at this point, it was as one of the memorably nom-de-plumed stable of prefabricated late 50s/early 60s pre-Beatles British pop idols managed by archetypal gay Denmark St. impresario Larry Parnes (also see Johnny Gentle, Marty Wilde etc.). Runners up to Cliff Richard basically, playing watered down rock n’ roll and Tin Pin Alley standards in an ‘all round entertainer’ mould to square seaside theatre crowds.

Count the unfair assumptions in the preceding sentence and despair I guess, but nonetheless, that’s the way canonical rock history has judged these guys: look elsewhere punks, nothing to see here.

Reinforcing this impression, I next came across some references to Fury last month, whilst reading Ray Davies’ superb and bizarre autobiography/paranoid ego fantasy ‘X-Ray’ (read it, read it, read it). Early in their career, Ray relates, The Kinks were assigned a fastidious git of a tour manager, to drill the unruly teenage rockers into a shapely entertainment unit. This guy, it seems, was particularly keen on talking about how he used to work for Billy Fury, and what a consummate entertainer and gentleman Billy used to be, in contrast to the disobedient young thugs he was now forced to deal with.

Reprimanding Dave Davies for absent-mindedly pissing out of the window on one occasion, it seems this tour manager, when challenged, exclaimed that not only did the sainted Billy Fury restrict his pissing to designated toilets like a decent human being, but, IN FACT, Billy Fury was such a professional that he never remembered him going to the toilet AT ALL.

Cue hilarity from The Kinks, as the generation gap widens further, and Billy Fury’s professionalism becomes a running joke amongst them forever more as a procession of grown ups try to tell them how to behave.

But, as a slightly overenthusiastic contributor to Billy’s Wikipedia page puts it, “Fury's fans and contemporaries in music knew he was a rocker and the real thing musically”, and, curiosity suitably piqued by these contrasting references, I’ve recently been listening to ‘Billy Fury: The EP Collection’ on See For Miles records. And I’m afraid to say, I’m going to have to side with Calvin and the Wikipedia guy, because, genital-less anti-rock n’ roller or not, some of these Billy Fury tracks absolutely kick ass!

Ok, there are some lame songs (and a ‘Christmas Prayer’), but, especially compared to the morass of sloppily recorded MOR dreck that comprised much of pre-Beatles commercial British pop, most of these cuts are just extraordinary in their shining, slinky, fulsome awesomeness, comparable to the contemporary work of Sam Cooke, Buddy Holly, Phil Spector, Elvis… etc.

Check it out:

Wondrous Place
Saved
Play It Cool
Don’t Jump

If I don’t hear those gettin’ laid down at the next Upset The Rhythm noise scenester type happening I attend, something’s going wrong.

(Stereo Sanctity does not condone pissing out of windows by the way, even if you are Dave Davies.)

Labels: 1960s, Billy Fury, Calvin Johnson, pop, The Kinks

I Like Dum Dum Girls.

I like Dum Dum Girls. You might not. Taking part in the same tightrope walk between mysterioso rock n’ roll sublimity and arch, self-satisfied tedium as The Vivian Girls (who get a standing ovation for their services to the former) and Crystal Stilts (who plummet to their boring deaths whilst demonstrating the latter), I think Dum Dum Girls are going to be busy splitting audience reaction down the middle for years to come.

Currently blessed with a sense of mystery (both musical and biographical) that will likely fade once the expected hype kicks in in earnest, Dum Dum Girls would seem to be the work of one Ramones / 60s pop obsessed girl called DeeDee, recording alone in…. well, the natural cliché would be to say “in her bedroom”, only I muck about recording stuff in MY bedroom, and I’m not very good at it and don’t have much in the way of equipment or know-how, but I don’t think I could get recording quality this bad if I actively tried. So instead let’s say: Dum Dum Girls sounds like the work of one Ramones / 60s pop obsessed girl recording alone on an abandoned cargo ship in the middle of the Atlantic and broadcasting the results via WWII radio equipment to a farmer in the Shetland Isles who picks it up on short-wave and dubs it onto old C90s.

Ok, it’s not quite *that bad* - the vocals on some of the tracks are pretty bright and pristine, as are some of the sugary fuzz guitar tones, whilst the Spector-on-a-budget reverb-soaked roar of the overall sound is often beautifully realised. But the instruments, in general, are a muffled, indistinguishable mess – amplifiers turned to the wall with a cheap mic on the other side of the room, whilst the weedy electronic drums are a vague presence at best, often thudding off into a different dimension entirely never to return at around the time the first chorus kicks in.

Showcasing a brand of lo-fi that’s the polar opposite of Times New Viking’s painfully distorted practice room skree, the Dum Dum Girls take on rock n’ roll is distant, incorporeal and about 50% *quieter* than most modern recordings, making these songs seem almost ghostly, like the fading half-life of what used to be a furious punk-pop rave ups.

This seems appropriate, as Space-Rock, you see, appears to be DeeDee’s other big thing. And, unlike most of the big budget neo-‘gazers, she’s smart enough to realise that the perfection of that particular craft lies not in the pedals or the careful wooosh of overdubbed noises, but in the judicious application of Mark E. Smith’s three Rs. Combined with her sinister, minimal pop sensibility, this love of lingering, detached, slow-burn repetition comes together on songs like “Put a Sock In It” to create a previously undreamed of gateway between Shadow Morton and Spacemen 3 via ‘Beat On The Brat’.

It’s the sound though that’s initially going to see a lot of listeners turning back from said gateway with an understandable cry of “fuck this boring, can’t-be-arsed demo tape shit!” But for anyone willing to loiter around for a few minutes and let this music sink in, the whole no-fi thing is also a very effective technique, encouraging a deeper listening that lets a near heartstopping sense of classical pop beauty creep out of these hazy, introverted, simplistic songs, even more surely than it did on the 3rd/4th/5th listen to the Vivian Girls album.

Listening to the myspace was my first exposure. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first; I thought the songs sounded kick-ass, and I loved the fuzz guitar and siren-song-on-the-shortwave vocals a lot, but the wrecked sound and general sense of lethargy bothered me. Nonetheless, I simultaneously felt very, very happy and a reassured to be living in a world in which the heartfelt yet uncertain DIY outings of this lonesome Ramones/60s pop/space-rock girl could be met from all sides with praise, plaudits, encouragement and excitement, rather than with scorn and dismissal. Pat yourselves on the back, 7”-trading American lo-fi scenester types, you done good!

So in spirit I was THERE, but on a musical level, I wasn’t sure I could really hang with it. Then “Baby Don’t Go” rolled around, and…. I was sold. Utterly.

Listened to the other songs again, headspace properly adjusted, and…. beautiful. I could weep.

Maybe you’ll disagree. I mean, I can’t hide the fact – I just LIKE this sort of thing. Old fashioned girl group style songs, fuzzy, droning guitars, fast punk tempos, bursts of one note noise, slow blissed out ballads, music made by girls, music that’s weird and out-of-time and lonesome, music that remembers The Ramones and their teachings. That’s me.

If I was into 80s goth, meandering, grumpy songs, thin guitars, monotone Jim Morrison whining and music made by faux-druggy boys, I’d probably be all over Crystal Stilts instead.

I guess interpretation of this kind of distant, overtly referential music is largely a matter of aesthetic preference. Maybe these bands are just leaving us a hollowed shell of noise and second hand gesture that we can fill with whatever meaning we see fit. Maybe I just project a sense of emotional honesty and feminine pop/noise catharsis onto Dum Dum Girls and Vivian Girls because I want to, because it makes me feel better. Sometimes I might close my eyes and pretend there’s a dragon in the room. You might laugh, but the dragon’s still really cool.

I think it’s good when rock n’ roll calls for us to flex our imaginations a little and make-believe. I like Dum Dum Girls. Do you?

Mp3s:

Yours Alone

Baby Don't Go

Not a great deal of Dum Dum Girls vinyl or plastic available at present. Myspace is here.

You can order her four song 12" for $12.99 plus shipping from there, or else fire up the ol' Hype Machine and wait for some more widely distributed records.

Labels: Dum Dum Girls, I like, pop, punk

They Don't Make... well, *anything*... Like This Anymore;

A certain amount of stupidity can be a wonderful thing, as our parents' generation knew well.

A recent post on the always reliable WFMU blog featured a bunch of strange and joyful bubblegum pop videos, and, in this sad era when all varieties of popular culture seem intractably tangled in the wretched business of trying to be 'clever' and failing, it is my duty, in the name of public well-being, so pass a few of them on.

So if, as the winter drags on, you find your life sinking into a morass of darkness, headaches, hassles, entropy, poverty and procrastination, just take a few moments to enjoy some of the wonderful, wonderful mindless awesomeness below, and, seriously.... you'll find yourself feeling a whole lot better. "Bubblegum therapy", you might call it.

First here's The Gentrys, performing "Spread It On Thick" in the 1967 movie "It's A Bikini World". I refuse to be held responsible for the amount of time this song will spend stuck in your head:



Ah, "you the man?", "I'm the man!", etc, etc. Great stuff. I could happily watch that for a solid hour.

Now, most social historians will tell you that 1970 was a pretty grim year in the UK for any number of reasons, not least the fact that the big hit of the summer was Mungo Jerry, with their (his? their? - oh who cares) eternally hateful ode to drunk driving and taking advantage of girls with poor daddies, "In The Summertime". Not so in Australia, where the discerning public gave Mungo the heave-ho, and instead propelled The Mixtures, with their infinitely superior "Pushbike Song", to number 1 for six weeks. Get pedaling, brothers:

Labels: bubblegum, pop, stupidity, The Gentrys, The Mixtures, videos

TRULY, WE ARE BLESSED.

A Timeline:

Monday November 24th
Those Dancing Days play at Goldsmiths Student Union.



Tuesday November 25th
'breakfast in the ruins' posts on the Plan B forum:

"Wow, Those Dancing Days were FANTASTIC last night! One of the best live bands I’ve seen in ages…. If there’s one thing I don’t like about their records (and that’s a big IF) it’s that they’re a tad over-produced, so I’m so, so glad to have seen them totally rocking all those incredible songs live to a half empty hall of about a hundred students (and about eight people over twenty sticking out like sore thumbs) on a freezing Monday midnight. As is obvious from the records, their drummer is INCREDIBLE – she looks about twelve and rocks out like John Bonham doing session work for ’80s Madonna. And the rest of ‘em are no slouches either – not much in the way of show(wo)manship, but that’s fine with me since they’re busy playing the living hell out of their songs and looking like they’re loving every second of it. The intro to every single song, even album tracks and b-sides, got an immediate “yes! I love this song!” reaction from me and/or others in the crowd, and it’s the first gig I’ve been to for ages that had a proper, spontaneous encore. Not to mention dancing on a Monday night. Shrug ‘em off if you like, but in their own way Those Dancing Days are DIY as fuck – no gimmicks or hype bullshit or pandering to genre/gender/age-based preconceptions, just five cool, characterful girls working hard to make the biggest, best, skyscraping, optimistic pop music they can imagine. WOW. Dear Diary, I LOVE THIS BAND SO MUCH, etc.

The gig seemed to be running on East London Time, so I didn't get home on the buses until 2ish and feel like I just done got up and died on the spot this morning, but, wow, it was worth it."

Mp3> Those Dancing Days – I Know Where You Live


Friday November 28th
Shrag and The Loves play at The Buffalo Bar.

(I didn’t get a chance to write anything about this one, but rest assured both bands were really terrific, and I had a great time.)


Monday December 1st
Hotpants Romance play at The Windmill, supported by The Understudies, Horowitz and The Give It Ups.


(Headliners Cars Can Be Blue had to pull out because, appallingly, UK customs wouldn’t let them into the country and kept them detained for 48 hours. Can you believe that..? Fucking hell.)

Tuesday December 2nd
'breakfast in the ruins' posts on the Plan B forum:

"So I had a fantastic time at the gig last night.... attendance was pretty low, I guess what with the headliners having cancelled, the fact it was a freezing Monday etc., but the folks who were there brought a great atmosphere with them (talk about cliquey - I think I knew nearly everyone in the room, by sight if not necessarily by name :D ).

Hotpants Romance were an absolute inspiration! Proof positive that knowing how to play and fretting (no pun intended) about tuning and guitar sounds etc. doesn't matter a DAMN so long as you've got the energy and smarts to get on stage and just *be awesome*.

They're like Swell Maps if they were girls and didn't bother with all the arty stuff, or like early Magik Markers if they were a pop band, or..... actually, no, those are crap comparisons! They're like the Ramones is what they're like! Really, really early, pre-first album Ramones, before they got their shit together and when they used to argue between each song about what they were gonna play next. I guess that all sounds kinda patronising, but...uh... IT'S NOT; in my world at least, this makes for a totally radical band of the highest order. And their songs are amazing too - I mean, obviously they've got their whole trashy pop-punk thing down, but they've also got a really odd, sweet, kinda introspective angle on things, ala The Marine Girls - just killer, real life sentiments expressed in as few words as possible - wow.

I lent the guitarist the only plectrum I own, and she never gave it back, so now I'll have to take a special trip out to a guitar shop to get some more. But no matter - as a hopeless fanboy, I'm honoured to have been of service.

It was great to catch up with Horowitz too – those guys are heroes. So dedicated to what they do. That being: loud guitars, beautiful melodies, geeky references, choruses designed to make me melt. Heartfelt, homemade power-pop. Fantastic, as it always has been and always will be.

Vivian Girls tonight - what a great eight days it's been, musically speaking!"

Mp3> Hotpants Romance – Blow My Fuse
Mp3> Horowitz – I Need A Blanket


Tuesday December 2nd
The Vivian Girls play at The Windmill, supported by The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, Betty & The Werewolves and The Bridport Daggers.



Wednesday December 3rd
'breakfast in the ruins' begins typing the following into the “reply” box on the Plan B Forum, but thinks better of actually posting it:

"Vivian Girls were stunning last night. They were so loud! My ears are wrecked this morning. Every time I move my jaw distant bells start ringing. It was so incredible to stand at the front and let those amazing songs just envelop me completely. And they have *so many* amazing songs - loads of new ones that aren't on the album. They're such an incredible presence on stage too; I was kinda worried that maybe it would be a case of the real life band being crushed by the expectation that all the hype has thrown their way, but they're such a positive, relentless force, such a massive noise, so determined to smash their songs into everyone's heads, it's just... [speechless].

I love their album to death, but now it just sounds like some muffled reflection of their actual reality. Maybe it was just all the noise and excitement, but when they played "Tell The World", I got kinda religious and started thinking, ok, y’know, this actually everything I love and strife for and believe in, *happening right in front of me*. My own personal vision of God, if you will. It was probably the closest I’ve felt to heaven for many months.

Beat THAT for hype.

And they didn’t even play “Where Do You Run To”!

Obviously Betty & The Werewolves were fantastic in support too, and should not be overshadowed; bouncing around to their set was an absolute blast. They’re such a perfectly realized band – every song just an absolute femme-punk gem at hardcore tempo with radical riffs and guitar breaks, frenzied rhythm strumming, sweet harmony vocals.... wow. Also, much respect to the bass/lead vocals werewolf for her carefree pogoing. She’s quite tall, and the stage at The Windmill is pretty small, and a bass guitar is a big thing to swing around in mid-air, so it must take some serious dedication on her part to the noble art of jumping up and down. I mean, I was playing in the same spot the previous evening, and if my feet had left the ground I suspect a catastrophic pile-up of leads, band members and equipment would have been the immediate and ugly result, so that in itself is fairly awe-inspiring.


Anyway, it’s an absolute travesty that circumstances have contrived to make this only the SECOND of the many, many gigs Betty & The Werewolves have been playing this year that I’ve actually been able to witness. I’m definitely gonna have to make a more concerted effort in future. Any Londoners reading, take heed – these guys are the best band in town, and every day that passes on before you go to see them is a day wasted. Thank them in your prayers tonight.

This year’s indie-pop new big things The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart were a late addition to the bill after their support slot with The Wedding Present got cancelled, and they were pretty good too I guess. They’ve definitely got a more powerful sound going on than most other “indie pop next big things” I could mention, but, like many current Amerindie bands, it’s maybe a tad too slick for my tastes. They sound kinda like they’ve started work from a blueprint of *exactly* what they want their band to sound like – in this case, variations on MBV’s “Paint A Rainbow” with arch, Interpol-ish vocals and hypnotic spacerock basslines – then practiced like fuck and tweaked members, equipment, songs etc. until they’ve got it DOWN, then hit the road/studio and waited for the love to roll on in. Admittedly, it’s a great blueprint, so if my brief X+Y=Z above floats your particular boat, well, get on down to the harbour, cos they do it better than anyone, and their set is very enjoyable, but…. y’know. It don’t touch base with my soul. I’m probably just being unduly cynical though really – I ended up having a brief chat to the singer/guitarist afterwards, and he seems a really good guy. I’m sure they’re actually as genuine in their intentions as any other band, and I shouldn't leap to such foolish music journo-ish assumptions.

Opening act The Bridport Daggers were pretty cool too actually, if perhaps a tad out of place on this line-up (and out of place is as good a place to be as any). Chiming, overdriven guitars, twisted Scientists-esque swamp-rock racket, vicious rockabilly rhythms, two guitars and no bass - good stuff.

What a fantastic evening of deafening, joyful music."

Mp3>The Vivian Girls – Tell The World
(I’d post a tune by Betty & The Werewolves, except they’ve only put out that one 7”, and I don't have a digital version.)

….

And I just got myself a ticket to see Mika Miko headline a late-running seven band bill in Stoke Newington next Friday …. I’m psyched to have gotten a chance to finally see them! So that makes what, six amazing female-led punk and/or pop bands in the space of a fortnight…? Will my fragile heart be able to stand it?? – watch this space.

Labels: Betty And The Werewolves, gurls, Horowitz, Hotpants Romance, live reviews, pop, punk, The Bridport Daggers, The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, The Vivian Girls, Those Dancing Days

The Vivian Girls – self-titled
(Mauled By Tigers/In The Red, 2008)

I wrote this for the new issue of Beard (due soonish!), but In The Red's reissue of the album is finally in the shops, so I want to draw folks attention to it - hope nobody minds me duplicating it here. Not that the record needs any more hype, but hey, actually, it's great to see a new band I can relate to / a new band who really deserve it (delete as applicable) getting the big media buzz for once. I'll be going to see 'em play at The Windmill in December! Can't wait!

Subject of a rising tide of blog-hype that sees them mentioned in the same breath as such lo-fi chancers as Eat Skull and Times New Viking, listeners in search of the latest outsider skree may be surprised to discover that Brooklyn’s Vivian Girls are initially a dead ringer for, well… The Shop Assistants. The sing-song melodies and echoes of ‘60s girl-group pop, the frantic, stand-up drumming at hardcore tempo, gloriously messy live-to-tape recording and skin-peeling early JAMC distortion – it’s all here, though admittedly with the C86 giddiness kicked out in favour of deadpan NY cool.

That’s the formula, and as far as formulas go, you’d better believe it's a good one. But there’s more to the Vivian Girls than that. There’s something that’s hard to define creeping around the edges, something timeless that reveals scene-making hype for the sad joke it is, and that makes this record, this band, very special indeed.

The brittle love chants of “Wild Eyes” and “Tell the World” and corresponding temper tantrums “No” and “I Believe In Nothing” are almost vicious in their simplicity and emotional directness, dragged straight from the brain of any film noir teenage daughter of yesteryear, trying to make sense of a threatening, staccato black & white world. Pure, sinister, feminine rock n’ roll. But the girls wait until the stunning “Where Do You Run To” to really hit their stride, slowing down to a brooding, mid-tempo psychedelia, leaving shivering harmonies and tamed feedback hanging in the air like a frozen moment in some David Lynch directed dancehall of the soul – orange moon sinking on the horizon, sunglasses on stage, and there’s something bad waiting outside, but that’s ok, cos you’ll never have to go there.

Here is the kind of ineffable suburban teenage forever that Spector/Wilson wannabe producers sweat over their LA studio consoles for years to fleetingly recapture, reborn as a ragged punk howl and laid down raw and alive by three girls with little more than a couple of mics and a reverb unit. Such is the joy of life in 2008.

Mp3s >

Wild Eyes
No

http://www.myspace.com/viviangirlsnyc

Buy, etc: http://www.intheredrecords.com/

Labels: album reviews, pop, punk, The Vivian Girls

Arthur Russell – Love Is Overtaking Me
(Audika, 2008)

Arthur Russell’s music, as experienced via the slow but steady series of reissues produced by Audika, Rough Trade and Souljazz, has come to mean a lot to me, and countless other music fans, in the past few years. I even own an Arthur Russell t-shirt, courtesy of the latter label’s ‘Sounds Of The Universe’ shop. As such, people are sometimes inclined to ask me, so, who is this Arthur Russell guy anyway? And whilst I would dearly love to immediately fill them in on the whole sphere of Arthur Russell-ness, the sheer breadth of the man’s work and the variety of the cultural spheres in which he moved makes that a very difficult question to answer without sitting the questioner down for a brief lecture, accompanied by slides and musical extracts. For, as I’m sure other fans will acknowledge, “oh, he was just this genius cello-playing gay Buddhist avant garde disco producer experimental pop song writing echo-obsessed home recording pioneer musical genius guy” fails to really get the point across.

Thankfully, I can now point questioners in the direction of ‘Wild Combination: A Portrait Of Arthur Russell’, which I went to see at the ICA a couple of weeks ago, and found to be one of the most moving and thoughtfully assembled music documentaries I’ve had the pleasure of watching in recent years;



But anyway, back to the subject in hand, the DVD release of the above film has been scheduled to coincide with Audika’s latest archival release, ‘Love Is Overtaking Me’, a long-awaited collection of Russell’s more unadorned pop, country and folk material. And for those of us who have heard the simpler instrument & voice recordings – near unbearably beautiful fragments of pure expression – that have turned up on previous collections, this one could well carry expectations of being a veritable motherlode of Arthur’s songwriting prowess.

Going in with such expectations, I’m afraid the initial feeling here is, inevitably, disappointment. The majority of the tracks here take the form of straight-up countrified pop, often verging worryingly close to the realms of soporific post-James Taylor ‘70s MOR. Presumably drawn in part from the sessions Arthur recorded with Springsteen/Dylan producer John Hammond, these songs help add yet another odd detour to the narrative of Russell’s career-path, suggesting an interlude in which he might have been actively courting success as a cowboy hat-sporting FM balladeer.

Having said that though, this is still motherfucking *Arthur Russell* recording country-pop songs, so it goes without saying that they still carry a certain wordless emotional weight and unvanquished oddness, and that they also convey a genuine love for the comforting joy and fleeting profundity of an easy-going pop melody. But Arthur’s songwriting chops, whilst nice enough, remain underdeveloped here in view of what came later. Whilst these compositions still convey the essential purity of intent that marks out all of Russell’s music, and a couple of the better tunes (‘Close My Eyes’ and ‘Oh Fernanda Why’ are my picks) make it to within stumbling distance of the sublime, the effortless transcendence of his later work is lacking, dooming most of this collection to lurk closer to the realms of the ‘curious’ than the ‘mindblowing’ in yr music collection.

And curious is the word, as fragments of zen lyricism and sonic exploration can’t help but creep in, sabotaging any dreams of radioplay. ‘Goodbye Old Paint’, a fairly corny number about a dead horse no less, begins with an austere cello and tamboura intro, and things get full-on WEIRD on ‘What’s It Like’, a lengthy track which sees Arthur putting on a gruff hillbilly-tinged accent to recite a mystic spoken word narrative about a priest and his lover finding god amongst the Ohio cornfields, as an airport lounge-worthy backing track that keeps threatening to turn into ‘Wonderful Tonight’ by Eric Clapton plays out in the background. It’s pretty far-out in it’s own sweet way, and although I’m aware that music-should-speak-for-itself blah blah blah, I can’t help but wish I had some sleevenotes and recording details to help me make sense of all this. I probably shouldn’t really be writing this review before I’ve got hold of a proper copy with sleevenotes actually – I'm sure it's full of factual errors and dodgy assumptions, but hey.

Altogether more to my liking on ‘Love Is Overtaking Me’ are the scattered tracks taken from outside of the ‘country’ era. ‘Time Away’ is brilliant - a witty, upbeat Jonathan Richman via Talking Heads art-rock song, perhaps not sung by Arthur but definitely written by him, presumably originating with one the bands Arthur fronted in collaboration with Ernie Brooks of The Modern Lovers. I’d guess that 'Hey! How Does Everybody Know?' and 'Habit Of You', a pair of absolutely sweet, soft-touch new wave pop songs, share a similar lineage. 'Eli,' by contrast, is a brief and oddly harrowing voice & cello piece, it's harsh textures and drone-like construction sitting in stark contract to the gentle fare on the rest of this disc, perhaps highlighting the certain-elusive-something what’s missing from much of this material. And the set closes on a definite highlight with ‘Janine’, a beautiful radio-hit-that-never-was, sounding like the missing link between the earlier new wave songs and the private universe of avant-pop sartori Russell went on to craft on ‘Calling Out Of Context’ and ‘World Of Echo’.... that is, until it cuts out unexpectedly at 1:45, throwing us back down to earth like a rock slung from a motorway overpass, realising how warm and engrossing Arthur Russell’s music can be, how lucky we are to be able to spend time in its company, and how, for all the mysteries and inconsistencies of this particular collection, his songs never fail to make the world feel like a good home for a few minutes.

Mp3s>
Close My Eyes
Janine

Buy, etc: http://www.audikarecords.com/

Labels: album reviews, Arthur Russell, country, pop, reissues

Singles Round-Up Supplemental:

Those Dancing Days - Run, Run
(Wichita)

Logic dictates I should begin writing about my feelings for Sweden’s Those Dancing Days by trying to place them within the impossibly diffuse context of late ‘00s left-of-centre pop music, by trying to reflect / account for / sneer at the impressive snowball of blog/media hype they’ve managed to accumulate, or even by stomping my way straight into a typically dur-brained analysis of what I believe they’re trying to achieve with their music and the extent to which I think they succeed, but…. for whatever reason, I find myself unable to get an angle on any of that. As soon as my contemplation of this band goes beyond rote approval of the initial concept (five girls making great, pure, self-taught pop music with drums and guitar and keyboard etc.), as soon as I hear their actual * music *, they seem to become a cipher….. there’s really nothing solid I can grab onto to anchor who this band are, where they’re going, what they mean to the world – they seem almost transparent, and I don’t want to try to recklessly leap aboard their cloud and fall straight through it, if you know what I mean.

Because you see, all I’m certain of at this stage is that Those Dancing Days make me unreasonably, inexplicably HAPPY in a quite profound sense.

Not happy like, say, falling in love, or cradling a newborn baby, or headlining the Fillmore East alongside Miles Davis in 1969, or even happy like getting totally lost within a random radio play of ‘Into The Groove’ or ‘Waterloo Sunset’ or ‘Born To Run’. No, they make me happy more like…. eating a really nice sandwich. Or seeing next door’s cat doing something really funny outside the kitchen window. Or it being sunny.

All of their songs are pretty fantastic, if quite similar. All of them have different takes on pretty much the same combo of soaring chorus melodies, killer instrumental hooks and beautifully natural rockin’ feeling. I love how their singer sounds entirely unlike you’d expect the singer in a band like this to sound. She’s got a lovely, smoky, classically “good” voice that your mum & dad would probably appreciate. She manages to invest every song with a kinda intangible, wistful nostalgic feeling, without ever detracting from the group’s dedication to making big, anthemic pop. This odd synthesis renders things warm and woozy, simultaneously comforting and exciting. It’s a good feeling!

Rejecting punk/rock n’ roll’s two minute dogma, Those Dancing Days also seem to adhere strictly to the idea that a proper song should always be somewhere in the region of three minutes twenty. Which is probably what your mum & dad would feel to be classic, optimum pop song length too, should you manage to provoke an opinion out of them on the subject. But no one of their songs thus far is really THE one. Many seem to feel “Hitten” is THE ONE, but I dunno… I mean, it’s good, but it’s not substantially better than their other ones. ‘Run Run’ and ‘Home Sweet Home’ on this single, for example, are both equally brilliant. The latter in particular is great, taking the band as close to a rough, wild-eyed garage sound as they’ve ever dared go, with way-out organ, manic drumming and an absolutely delightful Swedish “1!2!3!4!” count-in… thus relegating it to b-side status apparently – ho-hum. Clearly neither song is ever going to change the course of anyone’s life, but they’d doubtless make fine soundtracks for any life-changing stuff that happened to be going on at the time, and like I say – sandwiches, cats, sunshine.

I think Those Dancing Days are a brilliant radio band, essentially. I know this because I heard them for the first and second times on the radio, and it was brilliant, like hearing Fleetwood Mac or Roxy Music is brilliant, only HOMEMADE, and thus punk, like The Raincoats, or The Gories. Super-brilliant!

Will Those Dancing Days establish themselves as the greatest pop band of our era, or will they retreat into MOR predictability and overproduced Radio 2 blanditude? Does it really matter? Is there even a difference?

At the moment, answering questions like that seems akin to fretting over whether or not next door’s cat is gonna win the cat show.

Those Dancing Days are here, and they are good. Don’t ask why.

Mp3>
Home Sweet Home

http://www.myspace.com/thosedancingdays
http://www.wichita-recordings.com/

Labels: pop, singles reviews, Those Dancing Days

FUZZBOX MELTDOWN:
Girls With Guitars (Ace Records)

As part of the ongoing collectors quest to unearth the holy grail of a single female ‘60s rock band who played their own instruments, wrote their own songs and were actually GOOD, an outfit called Romulan Records have issued at least twelve(??) volumes of their Girls In The Garage series over the years, and having heard about half of them, I’m sad to report that they are a disappointing prospect on the whole, regardless of how enticing they look in the record racks. Half decent material is obviously in short supply, and quality control is near non-existent.

It’s a bad sign that the early volumes found room for outright atrocities like Althea & The Memories “The Worst Record in The World” (essentially Kim Fowley jabbering for three minutes whilst some teenagers giggle and yell in the background) and goofy, if enjoyable, trash like The Surfer Girls’ “Draggin’ Wagon” (a stolen Chuck Berry backing track with some session singers doing archetypal hotrod lyrics over the top), whilst later volumes lose the plot entirely, resorting to covering French Yé-Yé pop (which is obviously cool, but pretty damn far from the garage, and better served by other compilation series), and even ‘80s/’90s tracks by The Delmonas and Holly Golightly (which are great too of course, but c’mon). There are a fair few intriguing oddities and lost classics scattered throughout the ‘..Garage’ comps of course, and I respect the compilers for taking the time to put them together so we can hear this stuff, but the good bits are few and far between, and depessingly, nearly all of the artists featured sound like bottom drawer novelty groups and cash-in studio quickies rather than genuine bands.

The dream of a real life Carrie Nations lives on though, and hey, here come the ever-reliable Ace Records – home of enough quality 50s/60s reissues to last a life-time, including the great ‘Good Girls Gone Bad’ round-up of ‘50s female rockers – with their own Girls With Guitars. A single volume – sensible! Some of the tunes included cross over with Romulan’s comps, but still, compressed into a lean 24 tracks, could this finally be the motherlode of ‘60s girl garage that is actually worth listening to? Fingers crossed... let’s go!




1.The Girls - My Baby

Not a bad start – quite a nice, restrained bit of garage-rock with a half-decent dance-floor rhythm and a twangy lead guitar line. The vocals sound good n’ real too, kinda sweet. Could this be a genuine girl-rock-band…? I dunno, I mean what do you want me to do, google “the girls”?

2. The Tomboys - I'd Rather Fight Than Switch

Hey, this one’s pretty good too! Quite a rough, lively Beatles-y guitar pop number in which The Tomboys outline their intention to kick some ass in order to save their boyfriends from the attentions of rival chicks. Wow! I hope those young hoodlums realised what a swell bunch of gals they’d got themselves, and hey, they even play in a band too! Honestly fellas, what’s with all the fooling around?

3. The Angels - Get Away From Me

A really cheap sounding Motown-ish girl group / soul knock-off that more than gets by on charm and eccentricity I reckon, built as it is around the admirable sentiment of telling creepy, annoying boys to fuck off. The vocalists have got a great street kid snarl, making them sound a little like distant ancestors of Thee Headcoatees, plus there’s a totally weird solo played on what sounds like a fairground wurlitzer organ, and even some Standells-style back-talk at the end; “listen here buddy-boy, if you don’t back off, I’m gonna belt you in a minute!” No kidding!

4. Denise & Company - Boy, What'll You Do Then?

Great, tough bit of harmonica-driven dance party stomp with great, furious female vocals. Pretty straight-down-the-line good stuff, so I can’t think of much more to say about it. Musically robust and rockin’ enough to justify a place on any given ‘Pebbles’ or ‘Back From The Grave’ disc, which is more than can be said for a lot of the stuff on this comp.

5. Goldie & The Gingerbreads - Chew Chew Fee Fi Fum

Pretty lame-brained bit of cookie cutter teenybop junk, although it’s hard to hate music this innocent and positive, no matter how bad it is. Plus: redeemed by some awesome hand-clapping and a rockin’ sax solo!

6. The Beatle-Ettes – Only Seventeen

Obvious beatlemania cash-in, presumably intended as an answer record to the Beatles “Seventeen”. Oddly, it doesn’t sound very much like the Beatles at all, until they bust into a rip from “She Loves You” on the chorus. A fairly pleasant three chord pop readymade anyhow.

7. Sugar & The Spices - Do The Dog

Total ‘written in 10 seconds’ stoopid dance-craze song that’s not a patch on the other Sugar & The Spices tune on this album. A b-side possibly? Notable for the presence of a girl trying to imitate one of the tenor backing singers in male doo-wop groups, which is kinda sweet, and weird, ill thought-out lyrics like “c’mon and do the dog ‘till you want to die!”, which really isn’t.

8. Kathy Lynn & The Playboys - I Got a Guy

I wonder if this is the same Playboys of Gerry Lewis & The Playboys (lack of) fame? Oh, who cares frankly. Music is pretty basic Chuck Berry with some good guitar. Kathy’s got a guy who plays in a rock n’ roll band, and she’s gonna love him all she can. Can’t say fairer than that. “Take it baby!”, she says before the solo, and baby proceeds to do just that, providing the obvious highlight of this one minute and fifty-seven seconds of my life.

9. The Goodees - Double Shot (Of My Baby's Love)

Oh YEAH!! Woo-hoo! Etc! Yes, it’s a female fronted version of The Swingin’ Medallions all-time frat party classic, and though a touch less rowdy than the original (no yelling or party noise), it’s still a good job for me they don’t bottle THIS stuff. The immortal organ hook is present and correct, although this version fucks with perfection slightly by burying the last three notes under a stax horn blast, but no matter, we get the point. Great drumming and nifty lead guitar licks too. The vocalist sounds a little unsure of herself, and no wonder, as lyrics which all seemed in good fun when hollered by an all-male chorus sound positively filthy with the gender pronouns reversed and delivered by a lone lady (“He loved so long, and he loved me so hard, I finally passed out in his front yard”?). Still, this one’s going straight to the top of my hypothetical party playlist, and if there’s a better record on this comp, I’ll eat my toga.

10. The Pandoras - (I Could Write a Book) About My Baby

Ooooh, wow, this one gets pretty close! Absolutely BEAUTIFUL handclap, xylophone and horn driven Specter-esque bubblegum girl-group magic of the highest order, but way more lightweight and fancy free than Phil’s sturm-und-drang walls of sound ever allowed for. Beautiful melody, beautiful vocals, and belts along with a brilliant, shimmering groove that’s just to die for. Chorus line: “I could write a book about my baby, and it would be a book that every girl would buy!” I think I just felt my eyes turn heart-shaped and go “boi-oi-oing”. Some contemporary indie-pop group really needs to dig out this song and cover it for all the Belle & Sebastian kids to get down to, if they haven’t already.

11. Pat Powdrill & Powerdrills - They Are the Lonely

What the hell is this?? Lurching several years and whole cultural world away from most of the proceeding tracks, this is a pretty inspid faux-psychedelia quickie with a keyboard intro lifted from “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”, utterly shitty lyrics and Grace Slick type lead vocals. It is sad to reflect that this is approximately one-thousand times less rocking than a group christened “Pat Powdrill & The Powerdrills” properly should be.

12. 2 Of Clubs – Heart

I don’t know quite what the deal is with this little record; it seems to be having a bit of a mid-60s identity crisis, sounding half girl-group and half folk-rock, with a crazy, rip roaring garage / r’n’b middle section that kicks things into gear slightly. The first half is pretty blah, but it definitely picks up a bit when some punk starts busting out some Animals style organ and everybody claps their hands gospel style. Still suffers from being essentially not very good though.

13. Daughters Of Eve - Help Me Boy

Another really dreary bit of kitschy soft-psyche that steals a few bits from “Icthycoo Park” and god knows what else besides. Soul-crushingly competent, instantly forgettable.

14. Goldie & The Gingerbreads - Skinny Vinnie

Totally goofy street girl doo-wop trash with a definite whiff of Kim Fowley about it; “he’s not much thicker than a fishing pole / he’s one half rock and the other half roll!” Fun!

15. The Percells - Hully Gully Guitar

Oh man, now THIS is a bad record. An attempt at a “listen to the guitar man” song in the vein of Dick Dale’s “King of the Surf Guitar”, the guitar man here unfortunately seems to be a surly, rock n’ roll hating studio hack who reluctantly spent a few minutes learning bits off Eddie Cochran records in exchange for beer money. Correspondingly, the singer sounds like she absolutely could not give a shit. The song is utterly mindless, the production values are non-existent and the playing is so sluggish and stilted it sounds like everyone in room could have been on a ketamine comedown. And they drag it out for nearly three fucking minutes. So horrid and joyless it’s actually quite creepy. Bad vibes all round – I’m gonna skip on to the next one if that’s ok.

16. Kathy Lynn & The Playboys - Rock City

More solid rockin’ fare from Kathy and her darling on the guitar. Hang on though, I think this is actually an instrumental…. where’s Kathy?? I mean, we’ve already established that she’s the singer and the band are guys, so what’s THIS doing taking up space on ‘Girls With Guitars’?

17. Lonnie Mack & The Charmaines - Sticks and Stones

Lonnie Mack’s not a girl either! What the hell is going on here? Presumably The Charmaines are girls though, and they sing some back-up on what’s essentially a jaunty though unremarkable little instrumental rock number.

18. Goldie & The Gingerbreads - Take My Hand

As far removed from the previous Goldie & The Gingerbreads tracks as can be imagined, this starts off as an attempt at sultry, dignified a-cappella gospel harmonising, before exploding into a passable Martha & The Vandellas pastiche. For some reason, The Amazing Criswell pops up towards the end to say “one more time!”

19. Sugar & The Spices - Boys Can Be Mean

This is more like it! Lovely bit of Southern-tinged, swingin’ pop… sounds a bit like Bobbie Gentry fronting the Carrie Nations. Only not quite THAT good, obviously. Killer song too, giving girls the low-down on us boys and our wicked ways. The day’s gonna come when we’re gonna have to do some prayin’, apparently.

20. Al Casey & The K-C-Ettes - Guitars, Guitars, Guitars

Another guy who’s not a girl! Heaven’s sake! Cool little song though, with smokin’ guitar and organ making for a great Booker T kinda sound. The K-C-Ettes sing about being kept awake by “guitars, groovin’ in the alley”, but thankfully they seem to appreciate the benefits of living in such a lively neighbourhood, so that’s just fine.

21. Goldie & The Gingerbreads – V.I.P.

Yet more Gingerbreads action for yer money. This is by far the best track by them on this album; a nice, dumb, danceable bit of feel-good soul-pop with a really swinging big band and good, punchy production. Alright.

22. The Hairem – Come On Along

‘Hairem’?? Christ, what an awful name. The first time I listened to this, I thought it was so appalling I had to skip it after about 40 seconds, but having another go for the sake of writing this review, I think I was being very, very foolish, because this is actually rather wonderful, and perhaps unique. Firstly, they’re definitely playing their own instruments, as I can’t possibly imagine any session-men could play in such a weird and shaky fashion, even if they wanted to. And whilst the playing and production are appallingly sloppy by conventional ‘60s pop standards, Hairem sound way more like a genuine, self-defined teenage girl garage band than anyone else on this disc, and have a great, innocent energy about them that’s really lovely. There’s a sort of dignified wallflower shyness to the band’s performance here and a refusal to engage with macho rock band clichés that puts me in mind of The Marine Girls. Obviously this is still a heartfelt take at a rock n’ roll song though, so perhaps think The Marine Girls quietly trying to be Buddy Holly in their parents’ basement somewhere in California. Yeah, don’t worry, I swooned too. The lead vocalist actually has a pretty strong voice, but the harmonies from the other are just so hesitant and sweet…. arg! Damn, these girls sound like they’re having so much fun though. “It’s Piper’s turn now!”, the singer shouts, and Piper proceeds to play a swell, surfy Hank Marvin style riff/solo that continues through the rest of the song. By the standards of 99% of the world’s music listeners, this is probably not a great record, but I… I.. I’m speechless in the face of such beauty.

23. The Girls - My Love

More moody and dramatic than the Girls track that opened the album, this is nonetheless pretty generic post-Beatles American teen fare, but it’s also pretty raw and gutsy, and again sounds like these could well be genuine girls with guitars, so… good.

24. She - Outta Reach

Opening and closing with a bunch of saucy “uh!”s and “yeeeeah”s, ‘She’ almost sounds like a young Patti Smith in places. Her band meanwhile play total trashola organ-driven garage slop. Pretty spirited stuff and not half bad, although I fear it suffers from being conceived / written / recorded in about ten minutes.

WHAT WE’VE LEARNED:

Look, let’s just face facts: there was no female equivalent of The Chocolate Watch Band, no matter how much we might want one. Despite the teenage cultural emancipation of the ‘50s, American society in the ‘60s was still deeply sexist and conservative, and the music industry doubly so. (For one random example, just look at the way Grace Slick was sidelined in the Jefferson Airplane, only allowed a couple of tracks on each album to do her thing, despite being obviously the best singer in the band and the writer of both of their hit singles.) Even the basic idea of girls playing guitars, acoustic ones even, and writing songs only made it’s way into public consciousness thanks to the likes of Joni and Carly in the early ‘70s, despite the earlier trailblazing efforts of cult faves like Odetta or Wanda Jackson.

And chances are, even any girls who did break with cultural norms by learning to play rock n’ roll would have been given a pretty hard time in the course of trying to get a half-decent record made; ridiculed or neglected by record companies, sold as novelty / throwaway acts, forced to work with manipulative producers who’d try to push them toward a more ‘feminine’ (read: crappy) sound... all are likely possibilities.

But if we leave aside concerns about authenticity for a while and stop dreaming of the non-existent bad-ass garage chicks who didn’t play the Whisky A-Go-Go in '66, Ace have really pulled out all the stops to put together a fun-packed compilation of the best ‘60s American girl stuff that DOES exist; the vast majority of the tracks here are real enjoyable, and there are at least 4 or 5 bona fide classics included, which is more than can be boasted of by most second-division male garage comps. So well worth checking out if you appreciate a good bit of obscure, sugary teen trash jollity, with at least a few songs worthy of being checked out by everybody with a pulse, some of which below.

TOP THREE SONGS:

1. The Goodees - Double Shot (Of My Baby's Love)

2. The Pandoras - (I Could Write a Book) About My Baby

3. The Hairem – Come On Along

(To buy Girls With Guitars, clicketh here.)

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UPDATE:

Some further info on The Hairem, courtesy of All Music Guide:

One of the few all-female garage bands of their time to play their own instruments and write their own material, the Hairem did not release any recordings, though they did evolve into the more psychedelic- and hard-rock-influenced She in the late 1960s, which put out one single in 1970. The Hairem got together in the mid-1960s when guitarist and primary songwriter Nancy Ross formed a teen band (with her younger sister Sally on organ) in Sacramento, California. Originally known as the Id, they changed their name to the Hairem and did attract some label interest. The Hairem did not officially release anything in the 1960s, but five songs that they recorded did come out on the She CD compilation Wants a Piece of You (which also has 14 songs from several years later by She) in 1999. These cuts, though not as crude as the Shaggs, were nonetheless quite raw and basic, in the manner of many US garage bands of the period. Indeed they're pretty generic, or sub-generic, the chief distinction being that there were extremely few all-female groups playing such music circa 1966, especially with the raunchy attitude evident on cuts such as "Like a Snake."

I still reckon the Hairem track is way better than the She one, but such is life.

Labels: 1960s, fuzzbox meltdown, Girls With Guitars, pop, The Hairem

Deathblog:

LEE HAZLEWOOD:
9 July 1929 – 4 August 2007

Well it was pretty inevitable Lee Hazlewood would die sometime this year, so the world has had a long time to get used to the idea, but it’s still a little sad, and undoubtedly an event worth marking.

If I were to go for a full recap of Hazlewood’s career and the various roles he’s played over the years, his influence upon pop culture etc., this would be a very long post indeed. Whether you’re familiar with the guy or not, do a Wikipedia or a Google, and have some fun getting (re)acquainted with a flawlessly idiosyncratic CV that pretty much defines the notion of a “cult musician”.

Personally, I’ve always found Hazlewood’s work to be a bit of a cipher… easy to enjoy, yet difficult to fully engage with. That he was a masterful songwriter and producer with a singular creative vision and, of course, an extraordinary voice is obvious from the word go, but to try to get a solid line on where exactly he was coming from – there lies the challenge that sets him apart. His songs, and his public persona, walk a line between emotional authenticity and self conscious showbiz sleaze so fine that when you find yourself caught on the hook of one of his beautifully constructed dead-love laments, it feels like just that; being caught on a hook. Is Lee sharing his emotions with us here, or just grinning behind the studio console as he fashions a better hook for next time?

And similarly, even his goofiest pop songs manage to convey a weird fascination, a sense of something deeper and more personal going on. Despite his deep love of simple, accessible pop and country music, it seems like, whether by accident or design, Lee Hazlewood was incapable of ever making a record which was, strictly speaking, “normal”. Who else, when presented with the lucrative chance to help turn Frank Sinatra’s daughter into a star, would take a chance and hit the world with something as shockingly kick-ass as “These Boots Are Made For Walking”, and follow it up with a record as astonishingly unique, baffling, beautiful and otherworldly as “Some Velvet Morning”? And who else, in the whole of history, could have taken that risk and had it pay off in the form of huge financial / chart success and a some of the most amazing, distinctive pop records of all time? And then disappear into the shadows just when his face is on the cover of a million-selling LP?

Maybe it was this kind of ambiguity that was responsible for it as much as his much-praised refusal to play by the industry’s rules, but either way, there is something impeccably fucking COOL about the way Lee Hazlewood never became a massive star, something that I think serves as an inspiration to all musicians who choose to follow their own ideas of creative success outside of the mainstream. At different points in his career, I’m sure Lee could easily have made it big in the pop mainstream, whether as an Andy Williams style swinging crooner, an iconic country star or even, at a push, a Leonard Cohen-esque moody singer-songwriter. The fact he was an extremely smart and talented operator with proven hit-making potential and personal connections to some of the biggest people in Hollywood would probably have helped his case too, but, for whatever reason…. he chose not to. And chose instead to make records like these:



If nothing else, the man certainly deserves the respect of all lovers of great album covers.

At the risk or over-simplification, it is almost as if at some point, he decided that being genuinely cool was more important than being rich n’ famous…. and just went with it.

And, I would venture to suggest, Lee Hazlewood managed to die in a manner just as cool as that in which he lived his life. Not that a slow death from cancer is very cool in itself of course, but to return to the music scene as a slightly weird elder statesman figure, play a few final shows, record a typically perplexing and funny / dignified "reflections on death" album (‘Cake Or Death’), do a few warm and wisdom-filled interviews with fans and smaller publications, sit back as the plaudits roll in from hipsters the world over, and pass away quietly somewhere just outside Las Vegas (a VERY appropriate location). If you're gonna die, that's the way to do it.

So I guess everyone is gonna be playing ‘Some Velvet Morning’, and rightly so, but I thought I’d take the opportunity to share a few of my other favourite Hazlewood tracks with you, beginning with his own rarely heard version of his best-known song.

I’ll admit I know nothing of the context of this recording, but I get a real kick out of imagining it was done shortly after Nancy dumped Lee as a lover(??) / co-star / producer….. SUCH amazingly expressed ‘fuck you’ bitterness here – I love it. Also note how Hazlewood manages to put across a great “buncha guys rockin’ in the studio” vibe, even though it’s clearly quite a lavish big band production job – his vocal adlibs are solid gold. Definitely my favourite version of this song.

Mp3 > Lee Hazlewood – These Boots Are Made For Walking

Seems like Lee always had a couple of good slouching, drunken self-pity songs lying around, and this next one is a killer.

Mp3 > Lee Hazlewood – After Six

And just in case you’re getting the impression this Hazlewood guy was some kind of lounge lizard chucklemiester:

Mp3 > Lee Hazlewood – Your Sweet Love

One more for the road:

Mp3 > Lee Hazlewood - I Am a Part

So long Lee.

Labels: country, deathblog, Lee Hazlewood, pop

Viva 1998 # 1: CHICKS

I used to have a magic formula, probably devised around 1998, which I would use to explain / define the kind of music I liked the best. It is of course an absurd piece of reductionism given the vast range of my subsequent musical interests, but its continued relevance is evident in the fact that I am still almost certain to dig any band who follow the formula:

Simple pop tunes + loads of guitar noise + smart/funny/cool pop culture referencing lyrics = YES

Add some wide-eyed, youthful enthusiasm and it’s a combination that’s hard to beat.

And rarely has anyone embodied this formula as well as The Chicks.

I mean, yeah, Neil Young may have written a few good tunes, Ornette Coleman and his boys sure made a jolly racket when I saw them the other week, Slayer can certainly rock out a bit and John Fahey and Derek Bailey could sure play a mean guitar….. but to a certain, significant part of my brain/heart/soul, NOTHING beats The Chicks.

My copy of the band’s first 7” EP is one of my most treasured possessions, and definitely one of my most played pieces of vinyl. I’ve been dying to do a weblog post about them since forever, but it was only last month that I was given the impetus to do so by an internet forum-friend who was nice enough to send me mp3 rips of the eight songs that compose the entirety of the band’s official output. Needless to say, the records are loooong unavailable, so I shall share them with you guilt-free and leave you to spread the good word.

So, an extremely short and sketchy history:

Chicks came from Dublin and consisted of Isabel Reyes Feeney (bass / lead vox), Annie Tierney (guitar / backing vox) and Lucy Clarke (drums / backing vox).

Their debut EP “Criminales Coches Pistolas y Chicas” came out on Supremo records (REMO 001) in 1998, and is the best thing ever. I recall Steve Lamacq playing the lead track “Let Me Go” quite a bit on Radio One. The lo-fi recording quality, aided by the cheapola vinyl pressing and the youthful energy of the band, made it stand out a mile; in retrospect I think it actually has a similar sound to some great ‘60s garage obscurity. The 7” has a worryingly long gap between dropping the needle and the start of the music, and generally sounds really rough and fuzzy in a way you suspect the master tapes probably didn’t. It is luminous yellow though, so somebody's priorities were in the right place! Totally great cover art too, drawn by Isabel:


So here it is: four songs and nine minutes of everything that is brilliant about pop music. I don’t intend to explain further. If you listen and still need an explanation, maybe you should consider cultivating a different interest, like snorkelling, or Marxism.

A few things I will say though; 1) I’m not trying to sell this record on the back of any patronising Shaggs-esque amateur charm: I’d contest that these girls rock pretty damn hard in true “Rocket To Russia” style – the kick-ass drumming and vocal harmonies are particularly noteworthy. 2) If you’ve forgive me a bit of over-excited internet parlance: OMG!!! THE LYRICS!! Amazing!! – I’ve scanned the inserts from the 7” so you can see them for yourself in their original biro scrawl. For maximum impact, read them as you listen to the tunes, and marvel ye teenage geeks: Star Wars? Manga? Bladerunner? X-Men? Pinky & The Brain?? All within the same two minute pop-punk song?? Nearly a decade on, these girls are still my HEROES.

Chicks – Criminales Coches Pistolas y Chicas EP

1. Let Me Go

2. Jewels

3. This Is Gonna Be

4. A-Ok

Insert w/ Lyrics:



Chicks picked up a bit of press from the Melody Maker as part of their whole ‘brat-pop’ thing – I remember seeing a live review of them with a big photo, and even a cartoon of the band as part of feature about all-ages shows.

They released a second EP, “Little Monkeys With Lots of Money” (see below), and played a gig supporting Idlewild in Edinburgh (I think..) which was broadcast on Radio One. I recorded both sets (Idlewild still being a reasonably good band at this point) on an old C60 tape which I subsequently nearly wore out as I played it constantly through my A-level studying years.

The Chicks set is a bit shaky, with the band sounding nervous, and they do a lot of slower, quieter songs based around vocal harmonies which are….. well let’s just say that *I* like it when people who aren’t great natural singers do vocal harmonies, and the songs, some of them making their only recorded appearance, sound rather lovely. It’s a very brave performance in front of a large and potentially hostile audience, and you can hear discontent building as the set goes on.

I read in the press the next week that the band were actually booed / forced off stage, which I recall made me SO ANGRY. Those fucking rock-boy idiots! I mean, even if they didn’t like the band, or they wanted to hear more loud songs, or whatever, what kind of bastards does it take to stand there and boo these teenage girls who are singing their hearts out for half an hour, trying to make it in a band? How could people who liked the same music I did act like that?? If I was in Idlewild, I remember thinking, I’d have refused to play, or at least given the audience hell about it. Idlewild, perhaps already planning their descent into a cut price REM for dreary-souled louts, evidently thought otherwise.

Pure conjecture on my part here, but the world heard nothing more from Chicks after this point, so it would make a good ending to the story to suggest that maybe it was the disillusionment of that ugly experience that made them decide to go home and finish their own A-levels rather than becoming pop stars.

What did they do next? Did they get proper jobs? Have any of them played in any other bands? – I have no idea, but again, any shreds of info are gratefully received.

But anyway, on to “Little Monkeys With Lots Of Money”, which I don’t own in its original vinyl form and actually only acquired a few weeks ago via mp3. Sadly, it’s a slightly disappointing listen in comparison to the first EP, lacking the great lyrics and a certain amount of the cool spirit. “Daria” is quite a fun little number, and was a bit of radio hit, also appearing as the lead track on a “bands of the future!” style Melody Maker cover CD, but aside from that; “Jackie Chan” is pretty cool, but the playing is a bit unremarkable and I can’t make out the lyrics; I’m not sure precisely what point they’re trying to make on “Feminist”, but let’s be generous and assume it’s a good one; “Rocha Rocka” is pretty throwaway, and features an alarmingly ham-fisted Chuck Berry style solo which makes me suspect the interfering hand of a male session muso, cos I'm sure the girls could have come up with something better - yikes.

It’s generally pretty cool though, and worth posting for the sake of completeness:

Chicks – Little Monkeys With Lots of Money EP

1. Daria

2. Jackie Chan

3. Feminist

4. Rocha Rocka

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UPDATE:

A helpful commenter has pointed me in the direction of the Chicks Myspace, with a bunch of bizarre/fabulous new info, and four unreleased songs.

It seems that, far from calling it a day after the Idlewild gig, Chicks picked up Geoff Travis as a manager, signed a deal with super-big label Dreamworks and went to America to record an album, produced by Royal Trux!

It seems they didn't exactly see eye to eye (hey, fuck you Hagerty, I'd be positively DISAPPOINTED if The Chicks knew The 'Dead! Jeez..), and for whatever reason the album never got released and the band split up in 2000. Hopefully after squandering a whole load of record label cash on cool stuff. And hopefully without picking up a taste for the Trux favoured variety of 'stuff'.

The pro-tooling/sampling sounds rather horrible, but, by means fair or foul, that album has gotta be heard.

Labels: 1998, Chicks, pop, punk