Zero pounds / Volume 03 / Issue 71 / the alternative music tabloid
Ho99o9
Come out to play
plus Girl Band – Deerhunter – Wand – Beat Happening – Deradoorian – An A–Z Guide to releasing a record
contents
welcome
The a-z of releasing a record – 12 Deerhunter – 16 beat happening – 18 wand – 22 deradoorian – 24 Ho99o9 – 26 girl band – 28
Zero pounds / Volume 03 / Issue 71 / the alternatIVe musIc tabloId
Ho99o9
Co ntact
Contr ib u tor s
A dve r tising
i n fo@lou dandq u ie t.com
ale x wisg ar d, Amb e r M a ho ne y, Amy Pe ttif e r , au stin l a ike , Chr is Watke ys, dav id za m m itt, Danie l Dylan- Wr ay, De r e k Rob e r tson, Elinor Jone s, Edga r Smith, hayle y scott, he nr y wilkinson, jack dohe rty, J AMES f. Thomp son, Janine Bu ll m a n, j e nna f oxton, je nnif e r Jonso n, j o e g og g ins, jang e lo molina r i, l e e b u llman, liam kone mann, G a br ie l Gr e e n, g ar e th ar r owsm ith, G e m har r is, Mandy D r ake , N a tha n We stle y, Phil Shar p , R e e f Y o unis, Sam cor nf or th, samu el ba l l a r d, S a m Walton, sop hie b ar loc , to m fe nw ick
a dve r tise @l o uda ndquie t.co m
Come out to play
plus Girl Band – Deerhunter – Wand – Beat Happening – Deradoorian – An A–Z Guide to releasing a record
c o v er ph o t o g r aph y n a t h a n i el wo o d
At the end of August, infamous Berlin techno club Berghain played host to the inaugural Pop Kultur festival – “one big productive laboratory for the most ambitious of ideas,” as the festival pitched it. “More than just a typical music festival,” was another sell, and Pop Kultur actually had a point – it was in Berghain, a disused power station renowned for its secrecy, liberal approach to nudity and sex, and a music policy that is often as progressive as it is punishing and uncompromising. Only Real was on Pop Kultur’s bill, which hardly adds up with that description, but so too were L.A. duo Ho99o9 – a new project who reflect all those things and more, whilst scaring the shit out of 50 per cent of those who go to see them. The other 50 percent ricochet around circle pits to the group’s own brand of twisted hip-hop, which is something along the lines of Death Grips’ combined with hardcore punk, metal and industrial noise. They’ve completed live shows completely naked before, like they did at Pop Kultur. Daniel Dylan Wray was at Berghain that night and witnessed the full force of what is a genuinely exciting new group, whose life expectancy is something like 5 days, at their current pace of performing. And so we promptly arrange an interview with them, and a photoshoot in an abandoned zoo in Los Angeles. As they tell Dan in this month’s cover feature, “We want to make dope, progressive music,” and while that’s along the lines of “More than just a typical music festival”, it holds up too, for Ho99o9, but also for another group that played Pop Kultur. Girl Band are a young band who defy their conventional setup by playing guitars like no one else is right now, and screwing with song structures. Their album, ‘Holding Hands With Jamie’, possesses a taut verocity and progression of its very own, formed in the furnace of a nervous breakdown. They keep their full frontal nudity in the studio, it turns out, but “dope, progressive music” – it’s that at its very least. Stuart Stubbs
Lo ud And Qu ie T PO Box 67915 Lo ndon NW1 W 8TH Ed itor - Stu ar t S tu b b s Art Dir e ctor - Le e Be lche r Sub Editor - Ale xandr a Wilshir e fi l m e ditor - Andr e w ande r son Bo ok Editor s - Le e & Janine Bu llman
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T his M o nth L &Q L o ve s a ndy m o ss, a nne tte l e e , B e n a y r e s, co l l e e n m a l o ne y, J a m ie Wo o l ga r , j o hn ho w e s, ke n l o w e r , sa r a h m a y na r d, se a n ne w sha m
The views expressed in Loud And Quiet are those of the respective contributors and do not necessari ly reflect the opinions of the magazine or its staff. All rights reserved 2015 Loud And Quiet LTD. ISSN 2049-9892 Printed by S harman & Company LTD . Distributed by loud and quiet LTD. & forte
10 Years of Loud And Quiet
10 Yea rs o f L o ud An d Quiet ma g a z in e: A Pho t o g raphy Ex hib it io n Oct 2 3 – No v 13 Oslo 1a Amhurst Rd Ha ckn ey London E8 1L L En t ry: Free Op en in g t imes: 12pm t il L a t e
10 Years of Loud And Quiet magazine: A Photography Exhibition
P ho to by na t ha na e l tu rn e r
We’ve put together a photo exhibition to celebrate a decade of printing an independent music magazine / There’s a lot I still remember about the beginning of Loud And Quiet, in January 2005. The bones of it – stealing lo-res images from Google, stealing software from Google, printing it on a desktop printer, fixing the cover ink with hairspray, writing it (badly) under seven stupid names – it’s all very clear to me. I don’t quite remember where I left those 150 copies, but I know that RoughTrade’s old Covent Garden store got their fair share, as did Selectadisc, and the clothes shop Pop Boutique, who still stock Loud And Quiet today. I could walk to all of them and back within my lunch break. There’s a lot I remember in the decade since, but what I can’t place is when others began contributing. All I know is that it happened very quickly, sometime between the first and third or fourth edition, and that it saved my arse. In my eagerness at the time, I probably wasn’t too surprised that others wanted to get involved in this
new fanzine, but the fact that anyone responded to the ‘Contributors Wanted!’ notice published in the first two issues is a miracle. The Loud And Quiet team has been a small but loyal one ever since, with writers, photographers and illustrators choosing creative freedom and independent publishing over financial reward and the ties of the mainstream press. Many of those whose work has appeared in Loud And Quiet have been recognised and commissioned by companies with more money than us since, as a direct result, but that was never a guarantee, and still it didn’t stop anyone from believing in what we were trying to achieve and getting involved. To celebrate a decade of independent publishing, and particularly the photographers that have played a massive role in making Loud And Quiet what it is today, we’re hosting 10 Years of Loud And Quiet magazine: A Photography
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Exhibition, which will be hanged at Hackney bar and venue Oslo, London, from October 23 until November 13. Featuring archive photography from Loud And Quiet’s first ten years, the exhibition showcases the talents of Andrew Kendall, Phil Sharp, Sonny McCartney, Owen Richards, Nathanael Turner, Gem Harris, Guy Eppel, Tim Cochrane, Tom Cockram, Elinor Jones, Dan Kendall, Gabriel Green, Pavla Kopecna and Andreas Ante Johansson. Images include exclusive shots of artists and groups we’ve met over the years, from David Lynch and Bat For Lashes to Erol Alkan and Grimes, fromThe Horrors andThe xx to Gold Panda and Martin Creed. I won’t list them all now – you can see the complete collection for yourself, free of charge at Oslo, from October 23rd. Stuart Stubbs
books + second life
Do You Remember? Reef Younis investigates what rock stars do next No.13: Phil Collins / metal and old bits of paper.” He might not have set eyes on the real thing until 1973 during Genesis’ first US tour but that didn’t stop Collins from buying anything and everything he could, amassing the world’s largest private Alamo collection worth millions. From reading “pretty much every book ever written about the Alamo” to procuring hundreds of relics – from muskets and rifles to buttons, notes and receipts – Collins’ fascination also extended to authoring the 416 page The Alamo and Beyond: A Collector’s Journey in 2012. After years of collecting, and conscious of giving his artefacts a more permanent home beyond his dedication, Collins donated the majority of his artefacts to the Alamo as part of a $100 million museum slated to house the ‘Phil Collins Alamo Collection’. As a reward for his generosity, Collins was made an ‘Honorary Texan’ in March. Down there, though, shifting a few 100 million records doesn’t matter as much as shifting a few guns between Switzerland and San Antonio. “I think most people are aware of it [the music], but they all seem pretty unimpressed,” he told Rolling Stone in 2012. “I’m not Phil Collins down there. I’m Phil Collins, an enthusiast.”
You’ve sold a reputed 150 million records in your solo career, had three UK number one singles, seven in the US, shifted another 100 million records with your previous band, and had more Top 40 hits on the Billboard chart during the ’80s than anyone else. Throw in the fact that, alongside Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson, you’re one of only three artists to sell over 100 million albums as a solo artist and main band member, and, well, you’re Phil Collins. With seven Grammys, six Brits, an Academy Award and two Golden Globes…(sic) Phil Collins is used to amassing a collection but ask him which one he holds dearest, and he’ll probably take you down the basement steps of his home for an excitable tour of Alamo paraphernalia. Growing up as a kid on a suburban Hounslow estate, young Phil was hooked on the Texan Revolution from the moment he watched the Walt Disney serialisation of Davy Crockett; King of the Wild Frontier. It planted the seed for a lifetime of interest and investment that’s endured longer than all of his marriages put together. Collins told History.com at the Alamo site earlier this year: “Some people would buy Ferraris, some people would buy houses. I bought old bits of
by j an i ne & Lee bu llm an
Lee, Myself and I by Wyndham Wallace
Guns ‘N’ Roses: Reckless Life by Jim McCarthy & Marc Olivent
Instrumental by James Rhodes
Jawbone Press
ombinbus
Canongate
Lee, Myself and I tells the story of the relationship that grew between the writer of this quirky take on the rock bio, and his equally quirky subject. You know Lee Hazlewood even if you don’t know him. His is the wondrous, slow, smoky voice that accompanies Nancy Sinatra through the sublime psych weirdness of ‘Some Velvet Morning’; his is the pen that helped write the iconic ‘These Boots Are Made ForWalkin’’; and his is the back catalogue covered by acts as diverse as Lydia Lunch and Primal Scream and Kate Moss. Wallace’s book picks up Hazlewood’s career in 1991, and ends with his death in 2007. A unique insight into the humanity behind one of the true rock’n’roll outsiders.
There are some bands whose stories are just crying out to be made into a comic book. The Ramones are one, (also available in this series) and someone out there somewhere is no doubt busily inking the rise of Kanye West. First, though, Guns ‘n’ Roses. The Sunset Strip guttersnipes who ruled the world from atop Drug Mountain get their tale told in vivid, well-written, fast moving frames here. Axl’s feud with Kurt Cobain is covered, along with the riots, wild excesses and Manson-mania that drove a band that, for a while, defined what rock ‘n’ fuckin’ roll looked and sounded like. McCarthy and Olivent have managed to take a familiar story and breathe new life into it .
A recent legal battle meant James Rhodes’ extraordinary, unconventional biography (funny, brave and occasionally utterly heartbreaking) almost didn’t make it into print at all. Behind all the hype and the headlines, though, is a chaotic, intimate, unflinching memoir from the musical prodigy who can memorize entire symphonies and whose first piano teacher threw phones at his head to improve his playing, and who suffered abuse as a child so severe that it almost defined the man he became. Instrumental is by no means an easy read, but if you ever wanted testament to the healing power of music, its ability to save and change lives, to utterly transform the world, then this book is it.
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GETTING TO KNOW YOU
Johnny Marr Despite Johnny Marr’s legacy, he’s never not loved playing his guitar, whether it’s in The Smiths, Electronic, Modest Mouse or The Cribs. This month he releases case in point, live solo album ‘Adrenalin Baby’. We asked him to answer our Getting To Know Your questionnaire /
The worst present you’ve received Measles.
THE FILM YOU CAN QUOTE THE MOST OF LOVE AND DEATH BY WOODY ALLEN
The worst date you’ve been on I took my girlfriend to the garden I was digging up with Andy Rourke. The thing you’d rescue from a burning building My red Gibson 355 that Seymour Stein bought me when The Smiths signed to Sire records.
Your favourite item of clothing Early ’70s Black Brutus button down shirt. The best piece of advice you’ve been given Listen up, man.
Your biggest fear Boredom.
Your favourite word Nauze.
The celebrity that most pissed you off, even though you’ve never met them Jeremy Clarkson. I know… you’re welcome.
The worst job you’ve had I dug up a fella’s muddy garden in the rain with Andy Rourke for 10 hours, on mushrooms. It turned into Apocalypse Now. If you had to eat one food forever, it would be... Thai Papaya salad.
The characteristic you most like about yourself Absurdism. Who would play you in a film of your life? David Silva. What’s your biggest turn-off? Radio One.
Your hidden talent I’m a trampoline expert.
What would you tell your 15-year-old-self? You’re right.
Your style icon Yohji Yamamoto.
Your best piece of advice for others Don’t be a dick.
The best book in the world The Perennial Philosophy by Aldous Huxley.
People’s biggest misconception of you Mod. Bloke.
Your biggest disappointment The British working class’s participation in its own decline.
The most famous person you’ve met The Dalai Lama in London. He was great – said he loved my solo stuff.
What is success to you? Still doing it after thirty years.
Favourite place in the world Driving at night after a show somewhere on the West Coast of America. Post-show serenity, work done, great place for an artist. I dreamt of it when I was a kid. I do it and I like it now.
Your first big extravagance Sunburst Gretsch Country Club guitar in 1986. I didn’t need it but I still have it, and a BMW 5 series on the same day. I just remembered that. What is the most overrated thing in the world? Television.
Your guilty pleasure Caffeine. I’m a bad man.
Your pet-hate Ignorance aka Nationalism.
How would you like to die? “Darling… it’s time… LSD... 100 micrograms, intramuscular, and read the Tibetan Book Of The Dead to me.”
THE ONE SONG YOU WISH YOU’D WRITTEN?
What talent do you wish you had? A flair for languages, that’s pretty cool. What would you change about your physical appearance? I’d get a cool scar.
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‘TIRED OF WAITING’ BY THE KINKS
A-Z Guide
How to release a record in 2015 Ian Roebuck is one half of the team behind London’s Dirty Bingo Records. He has come across at least 26 pitfalls releasing records for new bands he likes illustrator: squinty b uns
A
is for Artwork It’s a noble enterprise, putting out a record. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. I’ve done it a dozen times now with a friend of mine (we’re still friends, right?). We run a fledgling little label called Dirty Bingo Records and all our releases have been a real labour of love… passionate, unrequited love. Through Loud And Quiet I’ve been lucky enough to meet and interview an inspiring line-up of label greats, some quoted in this piece, which has fuelled my desire to work with more bands and frankly make a go of it in this increasingly daft industry. So
you’d think after all this I’d be well positioned to impart some wisdom on the process, but I’m not. Truth is every release is wildly different; you’ve got to stay on your toes and keep smiling. You’ll know as much as me after putting out one band. When all’s said and done you got into this for the music, didn’t you? So wear your heart on your sleeve, trust your instincts and don’t be afraid to fall flat on your face – the music will pick you back up again. Just remember, Simon Cowell went bankrupt at the age of 32 AFTER he’d signed The Power Rangers.
In 1983, Tony Wilson got so obsessed with the visual side of releasing records the sleeve of ‘Blue Monday’ practically bankrupted Factory Records, as they lost money on every copy sold. DON’T do that, but no, it’s not all about the music. People can love records as much for the picture on the front as the songs scratched into them. Inserts, inners, spines, holes, labels – the bits specific to physical music releases are why people haven’t just downloaded your music for free. Nine times out of ten, the bassist (and it’s always the bassist) will excel in Photoshop. That’s why they’re in the band.
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B
is for Budget Chris Lombardi of Matador Records once told me: “It’s when you have a hit, that’s when you have to really start spending.” Real responsibility, like pay-rolling staff, is something like a hundred years off. For the time being, learn how to say no because it’s a skill you’re going to need. Bands aren’t savages – most are just as broke as you are and appreciate what you’re trying to do for them. So you can’t afford that high concept video with a cameo from Emma Watson – Daniel Radcliffe will work for Libertines swaps, and it’s about time you explored the timelapse function on your phone.
C
is for Calendar Time is your most valuable asset. Releasing singles can take at least 3 months; albums 6 to 8 if you’re lucky. Don’t be a dick and let the artist dictate the timeline – you’re not going to be able to get this done in time for the Glastonbury select committee next Tuesday. When you’re emailing the lead singer at 3am saying you need that bio for the press release, forget about what they think of you, put the kettle on, and then write to the drummer as well. That’s why they’re in the band.
D
is for Distribution If you’re in this for the long haul, then a decent distribution partner is essential.There are few great indies out there made for people like you, there to alleviate you of stock so you can actually get into your room at night without tripping over 479 unsold records (and counting) by your bed. When you start out though, obviously, do everything yourself. There is no substitute to calling, mailing and walking up to the counter in record stores across the UK. You’ll be amazed how welcoming and co-operative some stores can be, right up until you go back to collect your money from them.
E
is for Expectation Pressing your music to vinyl isn’t a magic trick that catapults your artist to fame and fortune. Just because your track got posted on a big American blog that starts with the letter P it doesn’t mean you will be writing the next Bond theme.Tell yourself that, but tell the band more.
F
is for Focus I’ll defer to Johnny Brocklehurst at Because Music for the letter F, a wiser man than I, who’s worked many a campaign from start to finish, with Metronomy, Justice and Conan
A-Z Guide Mockasin. “Don’t get caught up in what I call the bells & whistles of a project,” he says. “Yes, it’s great to have crazy ideas on how you’re going to announce the record, or getting a band to perform in a cave, but you should always come back to serving the art, yourself and focusing on what matters. That’s what lasts. Plus, let’s be honest – Neil Young could have potentially written another amazing album if he didn’t focus on building a weird MP3 player that looked like a Toblerone bar.”
G
FINE. Last year, Alan McGee told me not to force the issue. “You will end up like Bono,” he said. “I don’t know what Bono was trying to achieve, but to have 478 million people fucking resenting getting that piece of shite on their phone…” You don’t want to end up like Bono.
J
is for Joke (no joke)
is for Gigs The nicest man in music is Bella Union owner Simon Raymonde. He attends every show he can for his artists and not just for nice points. He makes these gigs because the band like to feel supported, but there’s even more to it than that. Most young bands that have any kind of stage presence whatsoever sell a majority of their records immediately after they’ve played. Get down there with a box of 45s and clap between the band’s songs. An up side to this is that you get to see the band play, too, and you do like the band, right?
H
is for Hype There you go, in that smug bubble of hype, counting your Soundcloud plays as Huw Stephens spins the band you’re putting out at 3am. STOP! Here’s a bad analogy: your record is like a vote for Labour at the last election. Plenty of sales are projected through blog frothing, late night radio plays and the fact that you’ve exclusively surrounded yourself with people who think exactly the same as you, but come release day, what’s this? Who the fuck bought Years & Years (voted Conservative)!? What you need is a Corbyn of a record, something leftfield but authentic… sorry this analogy has now eaten itself.
I
is for Innovation I don’t want to hear about your unique ticketing options or your glow in the dark stickers. And for God’s sake, stop saying “limited edition” – we know you’re pressing a handful because that’s all you can afford, AND THAT IS
Why not try this useful mantra before you go to sleep at night – “this is my one true chance at escape from a normal career.” Or, alternatively, slow down and don’t take things too seriously. I’m mean, have you ever heard of anyone making a living out of this!?
K
is for Knowledge
What are you, a taxi driver? Enthusiasm for the music is all you need – that and a healthy dose of realism. Support can be found wherever you look, from the stores that stock your record to the plant that presses it. Great advice is everywhere so don’t be afraid to ask, but don’t underestimate the advantages of naivety either. Doing it yourself is all about making it up as you go along – you’ll only set your sale price at £1.50 the once. Jeanette Lee – co-head of Rough Trade Records – put it best when she said: “We just find music that we totally love and we don’t do any market research to see if people are going to buy into it, what’s the point!”
L
is for Launch Party Let’s get fucked. Orrrr, alternatively, man that merch stall, sort out the door, manage the support bands and make the night a success. Orrrr, let’s get fucked.
M
is for MP3s Huh? We’re releasing records, aren’t we? Needle to vinyl? iTunes is the enemy! Well, yes, but while the digital
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age has rather complicated matters for people revelling in outdated formats like records, it’s an idea to embrace your opponent. Most people buying what you’re selling will appreciate MP3s of your songs, too – to make their commute less cumbersome – and others might only want to have digital files of this excellent new music. Instead of denying them that, use their iTunes cash to fund your next Daniel Radcliffe video. As PIAS label boss Peter Thompson puts it: “It must have been so boring, the music business in the ’80s, when all you ever did was put records out one after the other, whereas now its just this giant picture. How did they find time to take all those drinks and drugs?” There is actually an answer to that – see C.
N
is for Networking I’m afraid it is inevitable; you will have to talk to strangers. Actual face-to-face chats, too, like they used to do in the ’90s.You might even enjoy it, the wind in your hair, the chatter of the bar, the thrill of the chase (remember, it’s not a date), the buying of the drinks, the buying of the drinks, the buying of the drinks, the spiral into debt, the bank balance check on the night bus home, the growing burden of guilt. Network!
O P
is for Organise Spreadsheets are cool. Colour coded ones are EVEN COOLER.
is for Press Release It’s time you told the press about your record. They’ll probably dismiss it without a care of how much bloody hard work it’s been, but at least give them the opportunity to lose their shit over it in a whirlwind of journo jabber. As someone who also writes about music and receives unsolicited CDRs, do yourself a favour and keep the accompanying press release you send out short and, most importantly, gimmick-free. Any writer you can bribe with a Sherbet Dib-Dab is not someone you want onside. The same goes for a balloon. And for fuck’s sake, no one likes glitter.
A-Z Guide
U
X
If you want your label to release more than two records a year (like mine) then you really need to be sorting out the upcoming release half way through the one you’re doing RIGHT NOW. So time to put on that thick skinned coat again and get fishing for more people to work with. Disclaimer: we’ll have 4 records out next year, I promise.
They don’t call it DIY for nothing, you know – at some point you’re going to need to get your hands dirty… with glue most likely. Even if you’re averse to getting down with the photocopier there WILL be nights a la Dischord Records’ ‘folding parties’ where you’re on your hands and knees counting or cutting something, and otherwise debating who to thank on the insert sleeve. This is what it’s all about – breathe in the glue (an added bonus) and relish the moment that you’ve finally done something resembling manual labour.
is for Upcoming Release
Q
is for Questions, or lack thereof You’re probably best not over thinking all of this. “I realied at the beginning I was working on gut instinct all the time and that’s what works,” said Mute Records founder Daniel Miller in Loud And Quiet 57 last March. “I didn’t know anything – nothing at all – and I didn’t know how to do things; I just knew what I thought was right and so it’s quite important to keep that naivety or innocence as much as possible.” In other words, repeat K.
R
is for Radio Plugging It turns out people still listen to the radio. Getting your record played on the wireless is something of a hidden cost, but while it can be expensive, it’s potentially lucrative, too. Radio PR is the last taboo in releasing a DIY record – or at least it was until 6Music started playing singles from micro labels like yours. The undeniable fact is that it’s a real thrill to unexpectedly hear your release played by a stranger to their listening public, and it can be a catalyst for success, too. Remember what happened when ‘wonky pop’s’ new hope Esser didn’t get enough radio air time back in 2009? Of course you don’t. Or who Esser is. And that’s the point.
V
is for Volume
S
is for Sales This your first record? Yeah, you’re going to lose some money. It’s a slow burn industry where boring stuff like longevity and market-build reap rewards. Back to Pete Thompson, who says: “Well, you lose money on new artists until you get to the second or third albums. As long as you work with them long enough, you will probably see the dividends further ahead and that’s proving more and more to be the case. There were times when you worked with an artist and they sold 100,000 copies and you wondered how you did it – well, now it feels like it’s a bloody nightmare to get the thing moving. You have to understand the artist and what they are doing and understand their long-term vision and stick with it.” S is also for soup, which is what you’ll be eating for dinner from now on.
There are four people in the band you’re releasing; they’ve got 10 close friends each; 5 can be bothered to buy the music they’ve been boring them with for years.You’re not in a band, so, naturally you only have 6 close friends; 3 close enough to humour you. Let’s say that your parents are still around and are relatively unashamed of what you’ve become. Plus 10, say, for generous nearly friends and your best mate’s new partner still eager to make a good impression. That’s a total of 34 guaranteed copies sold. Suddenly, a run of 250 doesn’t seem too small. In fact, how the hell are you going to shift all these?!
W
is for Work We’re 23 letters in, so you’ve probably worked this out – releasing a record is HARD WORK.
Y
is for YouTube Now, you don’t have to rustle up a music video, it isn’t the law. For a new band though, it’s a liberating step on the road to releasing their music for the first time. Last month I interviewed London band The Big Moon who told me that their video for debut single ‘Sucker’ “kind of felt legitimate and gave the record a backbone; the release became a reality.” That’s nice, but what’s in it for you? Put simply, all those people listening to the radio – there’s even more of them wasting their lives on YouTube.
Z
is for Zeitgeist Don’t try too hard to be in the moment. Just try.
T
is for Talent Picking the perfect artist for your label can be laborious, so when you find the magic fit it can be hard to see them bugger off. Don’t panic though. Jonathan Poneman, the guy who signed Nirvana to Sub Pop and saw them leave to make a trillion dollars for David Geffen, says: “Talent comes and talent moves on, and if you love what you do and want to have a career in it you can’t be too married to one artist for reasons of sustaining your business – there are always going to be more artists, y’know.”
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is for Xerox
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Tell Me About It
L-R: Bra dfo rd Co x , Mo ses Archul et a , Fa ul kn er t he do g , Jo sh McKa y & Lo cket t Pun dt a t Co x ’ s ho me in At l a n t a , GA.
Bradford Cox Alex Wisgard spoke with Deerhunter’s leader, and let him do the talking... mostly about Scott Walker, dogs and books Photography: Ryan Stang / writer: Alex wisgard
“You’re a pretty girl, look at you!” Bradford Cox is squealing down the phone, midway through a thought about how Scott Walker would react to the music of Deerhunter. It’s quickly apparent that Cox has been distracted, as he frequently is throughout our brief conversation. He is out with Faulkner, the canine co-star of Deerhunter’s ‘Snakeskin’ video, who he adopted last June, and looking after his four-legged friend seems to be having a positive effect on his state of mind. “All the puppies just ran over to me,” he tells me after a brief pause in our conversation. “I’m literally surrounded right now, they’re all licking me.” This image alone leads me to realise that more bands should conduct interviews from dog parks. Cox found Faulkner around the time the band finished touring ‘Monomania’, their most aggressive album in years. Since then, the outspoken frontman has kept an uncharacteristically low profile. This is primarily down to his continuing recovery from a car accident in December, which understandably tempered his usually prolific work rate. Not even a year later, though, Deerhunter are back with a world tour – supported on most of the dates by Cox’s solo project Atlas Sound – and a new album entitled ‘Fading Frontier’. The sixth Deerhunter LP, it contains their most reflective, emotionally open (and intelligible) work to date, a world away from the claustrophobic “nocturnal garage” of its predecessor. As I later find out, though, the change in sound wasn’t intended as a grand statement on Cox’s return to health, though the lyrics to ‘Carrion’ (more on which later) and ‘Breaker’ – “Jackknifed on the side street crossing / I’m still alive, and that’s something…” – suggest a certain degree of lyrical tweaking after the fact. Bradford’s concentration wavers again towards the end of the conversation; instead of switching between two calls to fob off the next journalist in line for another minute,
he accidentally merges our two calls. Trying to make the best of a bad situation, he attempts to break the ice on behalf of the two baffled British scribes on the other ends of the line. “Maybe you guys know each other. Introduce yourselves! You’re both fuckin’ British if you can’t tell!” He swiftly gives up, with the interview ending on a fittingly odd note: “It’s like I’m a whore and one of my clients runs into another one; one’s going in and one’s going out. It’s like I’m taking a little bath and saying ‘Don’t mind him, get ready! There’s loads of condoms in this side table.’” So as you can tell, the half-hour chat didn’t quite go in all of the directions I had hoped it would. Then again, expecting the unexpected is par for the course with Bradford Cox. I started by mentioning how, despite only being off tour for about a year, it felt like Deerhunter had been out of the spotlight for a lot longer. Cox’s reply started on a tangent and got further out from there. So, Bradford, why does it feel like you’ve been away for so long? “It depends on how you look at it – in dog years, it’s been a very long time.”
In dog years, I’m like Scott Walker – the musician Scott Walker. That’s just sad that you have to say that now. Every day in America, I hear some square say, y’know, “Oh did you see Scott Walker last night on TV?” and I’m like “Who was showing Scott Walker on TV?!” And then I find out it’s just some fucking cunt, y’know? Some truly abhorrent cunt creature… [the Republican Presidential candidate Scott Walker] I hear he’s a very nice guy, y’know? Very unassuming. I love that he’s got this sort of Dracula atmosphere around him. It’s something to aspire to. I’m not interested in meeting people like that [though]. What do I have to say to Scott Walker? “I really appreciate your work.” He’s heard it before. He
probably would think my band was popular and trite – like, “pop rock” y’know? He probably thinks I’m very contrived. What’s The Musician Scott Walker’s reaction to having the same name as a [now-former] Republican presidential candidate? Probably some big, weird grin, y’know? Some kinda weird, fucked up pleasure. He seems to always write lyrics about fascists – Mussolini and Ceaușescu – he probably likes the guy! I’m just joking – I love Scott Walker. Next topic. “Really, the car crash is getting a little overplayed.”
It definitely affected me, it’s true, but a lot of these songs were already written. A lot of the songs on this album are older than ‘Monomania’. I chose to go a certain direction with that album – it was a very conscious choice, I was aware of the consequences. I knew that a lot of people would not be able to embrace it as much. I was in the middle of writing ‘Living My Life’ when it happened – like, literally it was open on my computer. I was coming back to my house – I was like, oh, I’ll write the guitar line as soon as I get back from walking my dog. So if I died, it would have been the thing they discovered on my computer that I was last working on. Which, come to think of it, would be very fucked up, if after I was dead, they find my final song, and it’s called ‘Living My Life’. Scott Walker would enjoy that – he’d get a kick out of it. He’d be like [adopts Scott Walker voice] “Very interesting…” Pretty ironic. So yeah, keep the train rolling. What’s the next chess move? “I thought people would enjoy ‘Snakeskin’ more than they turned out to.”
You don’t wanna pick the defining
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song of the album as a single. It’s just not my… a lot of people would want to do that, but in my album philosophy, you pick a song that’s in the middle ground. A transitional song, y’know – OK, this is like ‘Monomania’, but the production is much better. That song was written around ‘Monomania’, if you can’t tell by the chorus. It was also written around the same time as the song ‘Parallax’. I think it has some chords in common, maybe it was written on the same day. It may even be like a disco version of ‘Parallax’. I’m not complaining about anything – I don’t wanna talk curmudgeonly. People enjoyed it, but I thought it was going to be more like, I don’t know, in the late eighties or early nineties even, when a band as weird as The Fall could have a song that people could dance to. It’s not that I want some kind of crossover – I just thought it would be interesting to say hey, y’know, check out this very, like, banging groove. We’re good at this too! I don’t know. “I first read Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus in seventh grade”
It’s been one of my favourite books ever since. [The song ‘Carrion’] is completely a reference to that book. That was how I discovered ‘I Wish I Was a Mole in the Ground’. That song could just be viewed as a very sweet little allegorical symbolism. Greil Marcus’s reading of those lyrics is so fucking dark and nihilistic. It’s not totally far from the Dennis Cooper influence on ‘Agoraphobia’ on ‘Microcastle’, where it’s about wanting to be buried alive. It’s kind of the same thing. So if that’s what you’re getting at, yeah, you discovered the hidden track. In America, nobody went on about that book. You know how I found out about that book? The library. It was just there, and I opened it – the reason I picked that book up and checked it out of the library literally was because it
had pictures and stuff in the margins. I thought, “Oh this’ll be fun to read.” I knew a little bit about the subject matter, but I didn’t seek it out knowing what I was getting into. I didn’t know who was on the cover, I didn’t know it was Sid Vicious, or care. To make a long story short I said” “Here’s a book, it looks like it was written in these kinda like cubes of information that I can digest, and it’s got a lot of weird little illustrations and pictures in the sidebars. This is interesting and this is neat.” “Maybe a few teenagers will read this article and go out and find the book like I did.”
I actually wanted to quote Greil Marcus in the liner notes. I wanted to reprint that section of the book, but it just got too complicated, graphically. I didn’t want to have a bunch of words on a page. Plus, y’know, it’s more interesting if people find it like you did. But now they’re just gonna read your article and find it. Don’t put too much of it in there, because then it’ll not make them need to go out and find the book and read it for themselves.
I don’t know Greil Marcus – I don’t have anything against him or for him – but that book was how I found out about Situationism, Dada. That book informed me of The Raincoats, post punk – it was the book that gave me the biggest information boost in my life. “Seventh grade is the most awkward year.”
In America, seventh grade is around twelve, thirteen years of age. In sixth grade, you’re kinda cute, you’re like a puppy – you’re smart enough to have your own intellect, but you’re still basically a little child. In seventh grade, your voice changes, you get bad skin. In eighth grade, you’re like a delinquent, and in ninth grade you’re the little puppy kid again, because you’re the freshman in high school. So to speak. So it’s weird that in seventh grade I was learning about [French Marxist theorist, writer and filmmaker] Guy Debord, y’know? I definitely discovered Lipstick Traces at a very awkward time of life. It’s just like what the fuck? As a seventh grader, you’re like: “Wow, these people were doing
things to… why would you want to challenge everything about society?” Especially when you’re bored with whatever’s being offered. Lord, I would say that what I was offered was really high quality stuff compared to what kids have now – I had PJ Harvey, Radiohead, The Breeders, Björk, Sonic Youth, Stereolab… and it was new. You’d go see Sonic Youth and Stereolab play together, and it would be like this transcendental show. Noise was acceptable, and even encouraged. “It’s weird to be part of a continuum.”
Stereolab went from being almost like my heroes and idols to more like friends. We talk, and we share stuff, we play on each other’s music, which is really strange, because Tim [Gane]’s been making music since the Rough Trade era. He’s like Aristotle to me. “I don’t care if you’ve never heard of me before.”
There’s no need to go over the Deerhunter records. It’s not like I’m
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gonna quiz you. We’re not talking about those things – we’re talking about the current thing. I don’t care if you’ve never heard anything I’ve ever done; I don’t care if you’ve ever read an interview with me or not. Honestly, sometimes I’d rather talk to somebody who knows nothing about me. It’s really easy to write an article – and I don’t mean you particularly – I mean in music journalism, everybody wants to contextualise everything against everything else. And the reality is that it’s not that easy. I think a lot of people read the last interview with me, and they say, “Well, I was reading that last interview with you, and I know that you were in a car accident, let’s talk about that.” And it’s like, well I just did fucking talk about that for like thirty minutes with the last interviewer. Let’s talk about something else, like… stained glass windows in Croatia, y’know?
retold
Inspiration Jamboree Just how confrontational Beat Happening were is almost forgotten as frequently as their influence on true indie rock. Calvin Johnson recalls a life in the shade writer: james f. t hompson
“Implicit in Beat Happening’s music was a dare: If you saw them and said, ‘Even I could do better than that,’ then the burden was on you to prove it. If you did, you had yourself a band, and if you didn’t, you had to shut up. Either way, Beat Happening had made their point.” Of all the groups profiled in Our Band Could Be Your Life, Michael Azerrad’s crucial survey of the key players in 1980s American underground rock, Calvin Johnson’s ramshackle outfit could well lay claim to being simultaneously the most influential and least-known of the lot. Crammed into the tail-end of Azerrad’s book following on from chapters about luminaries of the era like Sonic Youth and Black Flag, the presence of Beat Happening might seem generous, even entirely incongruous. Yet anybody with a working knowledge of indie music’s early years stateside will understand that the seismic impact on the fledgling scene made by Johnson, Heather Lewis and Bret Lunsford means that the trio fully deserve their place in the pantheon. Essentially starting an entire movement from Johnson’s unfashionable hometown of Olympia, Washington – where he lives to this day – Beat Happening dared to hold a mirror to punk and challenge its prevailing machismo orthodoxies, ultimately helping to pave the way for everybody from Kurt Cobain to Sleater-Kinney. This year marks the 30th anniversary of Beat Happening’s totemic self-titled debut. Even if you’ve never heard the record you’ll recognise its distinctive bright yellow cover and crude crayon drawing of a cat in a rocket ship, a fitting representation of a combination of ambition and affected innocence. In celebration of just how far that little rocket travelled, last month the album
gained an entry in Bloomsbury’s 33 1/3 series of profile books on canonical records. Considering the band could barely play their instruments when they recorded ‘Beat Happening’, could Johnson ever have conceived people writing books about it back then? “Well, it wasn’t my idea to write these books,” he says slightly defensively over the phone from his Olympia home. “On the other hand, I just assumed when we were making these records that they were classics. I didn’t see any point in making them if they weren’t going to be. I always felt that music should be timeless. I mean, I appreciate music of the moment but I also feel that what we excelled at is creating songs that just stand alone.” Testament to that fact is ‘Look Around’, a long-overdue, careerspanning double LP anthology set to be released by Domino next month, with songs hand-picked and chronologically sequenced by the group from 1984 debut single ‘Our Secret’ right up until 2000 anomaly ‘Angel Gone’, released after eight years of inactivity. Taking in influences ranging from the Cramps to Young Marble Giants, one of the most striking things about the weird and wonderful 23-track collection is the aesthetic consistency from the first track to the last. Sure, fidelity improves working through the songs in chronological order and the compositions become gradually more ambitious but the music itself remains a study in lo-fi simplicity shot through with sexual tension; a template that would be followed by Sebadoh, Pavement and any number of other Portastudio-wielding followers. Guitar lines are uniformly straightforward, drum rhythms less-than-rudimentary and bass guitar absent altogether. “I
don’t know whether it was intentional though,” says Johnson. “We just didn’t have a choice. We made music that we made – and that’s just the way it is. We were always working to the edge of our abilities.”
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alvin Johnson was born 1st November 1962 in Olympia. By the age of 15, he was already volunteering at his local community radio station, KAOS-FM, operating out of the Evergreen State College nearby. The station’s music director, John Foster, took Johnson under his wing, becoming his mentor. Foster championed independent music at KAOS, reportedly insisting that 80 percent of music for broadcast had to have been released on independent labels. He also founded an independent music magazine, Op, which was to become a key point of exposure for the
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local cassette release scene. Johnson immediately embraced Foster’s socio-political view of music and his circumvention of the mainstream. Eventually, he landed a weekly slot on air playing punk and through his show, the teen discovered UK post-punk and key Rough Trade signees like the Raincoats, Delta 5 and the Slits; female-fronted bands concerned more with making interesting music than guitar theatrics. Following on from a temporary relocation to Maryland for his senior year at high school and an introduction to the bourgeoning punk scene there – and a chance encounter with Minor Threat front man Ian MacKaye – Johnson resolved to start a label: K Records. The scene was set for Beat Happening’s arrival. Heather Lewis moved into the frame when her own band had their first cassette put out by Johnson, who was by this point already playing in a couple of groups and something of a celebrity around Olympia thanks to
but the songs were strong – an amalgamation of punk’s simplicity and ’60s surf melodies – and Beat Happening was born. In Olympia at least, Johnson and his bandmates were at the head of a scene that fetishised fey, late-fifties and early-sixties sensibilities and held adulthood in abeyance, with pyjama parties and meeting up for afternoon tea not uncommon (along with liberal behind-closed-doors sexual shenanigans). By March 1984, an allages punk club called the Tropicana had opened downtown and the scene finally had an epicentre. One show at the venue even saw Beat Happening support Black Flag. By the following year, though, after near-constant harassment from local rednecks, the venue was closed. Indeed, while Beat Happening might have been at one with a few local kindred spirits, wider America was disinterested at best or even openly hostile, Johnson says. “Teenagers in America were not interested in punk rock. They paid no attention to it whatsoever. It was only older people that were into punk. When we were getting started, mainstream America was still just starting to process punk through things from bands like Talking Heads or Blondie that became pop hit records or whatever. Overall though, America still hadn’t really absorbed the shock. So we were playing music to people who had no perspective. To them, we were just bad and they were just like, get out of our way.” Johnson has always been at pains to get this across. Interviewed in a French fanzine back in 2001, he laboured the point: “I don’t think people understand the level of animosity that Beat Happening attracted through most of
some fearless performances and a curious penchant for 1960s retrokitsch. On stage, Johnson had taken to fey theatrics like rubbing his belly, raising his hands to his shoulders and tugging on his too-tight t-shirt. He and Lewis soon started playing together in yet another outfit – Laura, Heather and Calvin – who just so happened to play a show in front of one Bret Lunsford. “That performance was so riveting,” says Lunsford in Our Band Could Be Your Life. “It was amazing how naked the band let themselves be and yet normal at the same time – as much as you can say that Calvin onstage is normal.” Influenced by the Beat movement of the 1960s – taking their name from Beatnik Happening, a student film produced by Johnson’s girlfriend Lois Maffeo – and punk in equal measure, the trio begun playing shows in kitchens and living rooms before recording a four-track tape with friend and Wipers leader Greg Sage. The playing was endearingly haphazard
Abo v e: B r et Lun s f o r d (l ef t ), H ea t h er L ew i s & C al v i n Jo h n s o n , p h o t o g ra p hed b y Ann e C u l b er t s o n
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our time performing live. This concept that we were this performing group that were some kind of – I don’t know – shy pop… Our performances were clearly confrontational.” The big challenge for Beat Happening was that by the time they started, even punk ceased to exist as a cohesive bloc against the mainstream. “Punk had become hardcore but hardcore itself was already kind of over in a way,” Johnson remembers. “I mean, it never died but the initial burst of hardcore had faded quite a bit and by you know, ’85, there were just all these terrible bands being hardcore and it was just depressing.” Meanwhile, lo-fi, sixties-stylised punk didn’t belong to any sort of recognised genre which might afford it a degree of protection or significant interest – at least at first. “I felt we were like [some other bands] in certain ways,” Johnson tells me. “Like ‘Oh, we’re kind of garage-y,’ but the garage bands just totally weren’t interested in us. And then, you know, ‘Well we’re kind of psychedelic,’ but the psychedelic bands ignored us. We weren’t ever enough of anything for any of those to notice us.” Of course, in many ways it didn’t matter. Beat Happening had never set out to be famous, other than during a comically ill-fated sojourn to Japan in 1984 (although all wasn’t lost: Johnson discovered Shonen Knife and brought their records with him back to the States). So long as K Records existed and Johnson was able to release music from his own band, others around town, and beyond, that was enough. 1988 saw the release of ‘Jamboree’, self-described as “dark and sexy” by Johnson and a record beloved of Kurt Cobain – the late legend listing the
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L ef t : B e at h a p p en i n g in t h e cal i f o r n i a n d esert . B el o w : t o g et h er i n o l y mp i a , p h o t o g ra p hed b y b r et l u n s f o r d
record in a famous list of his 50 favourite albums. So enamoured was Cobain with Johnson and the Olympia scene, in fact, that he had the K Records logo – an amateurishly-drawn “K” in a shield – tattooed on his arm. Not for nothing did Johnson once proclaim to a fanzine: “We are Beat Happening and we don’t do Nirvana covers. They do Beat Happening covers!” A breakthrough album, its standout – ‘Indian Summer’ – became an indie touchstone, covered by everybody from Dean Wareham to Ben Gibbard (who described it as “the indie Freebird,” no less). Pitchfork names the track as one of the very best of the 1980s. ‘Jamboree’ was also the first of two co-releases with Rough Trade (although by all accounts Beat Happening didn’t receive the red carpet treatment that people like the Smiths did). All the same, Beat Happening were only ever going to operate at a certain level. “Our music was still hard for people to absorb,” Johnson says. “Most people doing music on an indie level or like a small level like we were, were really trying to be much more normal, like Van Morrison or whatever. So more of the context we were seeing a lot in the early/mid-eighties was that we were playing music with people who were trying to be big rock bands, or singer-songwriters or whatever. We just weren’t seen as being that level.”
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nother album – the darkly aggressive and rougher-hewn ‘Black Candy’ – arrived the following year, though even modest success was still elusive, says Johnson. “It was only when Sub-Pop released ‘Dreamy’ in 1991 that people started be like, ‘Oh wait a minute.’ Before that it was just a few weirdos here and there.” It helped that ‘Dreamy’ represented the
beginnings of a slightly more polished approach. Ragged minimalism is still the order of the day, but the songs are gorgeous, Lewis’s wistful romanticism the perfect foil for Johnson’s tougher posturing. “A stunning return to form,” as one review raved. Around the same time, a glut of hitherto independent artists were being swallowed up by major labels. The Replacements had long since signed to Sire, then Sonic Youth made the jump to Geffen in 1990, famously followed by Nirvana in time for the release of ‘Nevermind’ the following year. “The ’80s and the ’90s are like worlds apart,” Johnson observes. “In the ’80s there was the mainstream and the underground and they had nothing to do with each other. The ’90s had the strange crossover and it was very surreal. “For us though, it wasn’t an option. We were doing our thing. You know, people always ask that question, like, ‘What if they offered you a million dollars? Then what would you do? THEN what would you do?’ And it’s like, well no major label ever did or ever would! We are just an underground pop band.” Instead, Johnson and company celebrated their roots with the inaugural International Underground Pop Convention – inspiration in part, no doubt, for Waynestock in the second Wayne’s World film. K Records had been running an ‘International Underground’ series of releases for artists from abroad and, for Johnson, a festival was the next logical step. Says Johnson: “We had been working with bands from all over the country and Canada, England and places, and I just thought, why don’t have an event? Instead of being on tour when you just pass each other in the middle of the night, why don’t we all just hang out for a week? So it was a convention for people who were interested in this kind of music.” Few expected it to succeed, as
Johnson admitted in a previous interview, stating: “It was sort of an audacious idea of doing something like that. We had hardly sold any records ever, and no one had ever cared much about anything that we did. It just seemed like if just the people who made the music showed up, that would be a success.” The line-up reads like a roll-call of early-nineties indie rock royalty: The Melvins, Jad Fair, Nation of Ulysses, Fugazi, L7 and of course Beat Happening themselves. Though the convention largely took place in and around Olympia’s Capitol Theater, its reverberations were felt far beyond the sleepy town’s perimeter. The first night of the event – a set of shows by female punk and queercore bands playfully entitled ‘Love Rock Revolution Girl Style Now’ – was fundamental in birthing the entire riot grrrl feminist punk movement. Cobain – on tour with Nirvana at the time – was reportedly deeply upset to have missed out. Spin named the whole affair “the true Woodstock of the ’90s.” Elements of the convention also felt as though they’d been pointedly differentiated from typical corporate rock equivalents. Seminars, booths and panels were eschewed, while invitations even included a disclaimer: “No lackies to the corporate ogre allowed.” Yet Johnson is adamant that the convention wasn’t meant as some sort of direct affront to major labels. “We exist in our own world. We don’t exist in a world where the majors exist,” he says, almost exasperatedly. “They’re not in our mind and we’re not even thinking about that. We’re not thinking, what can we do to piss off Warner Brothers? We exist in the world
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of K and that’s enough – that keeps us pretty busy.” Beat Happening weren’t too busy to release more music, though. 1992 brought the arrival of their seventh and final album, ‘You Turn Me On’, again in partnership with Sub-Pop. The record saw the threesome stretch beyond the template they’d established: multi-track recording was employed for the first time and one track – ‘Godsend’ – clocks in at more than nine minutes long. “Starting with making music or being involved in music, you have a million ideas and you can’t do them all at once,” Johnson says of the record. “Sometimes it takes a little while and now you know, 35 years later I’m still working through some of them. So there wasn’t a feeling like we had to escape [our previous style]. It was more like, now what can we do?” Produced by Stuart Moxham from Young Marble Giants, contemporary reviews heralded ‘You Turn Me On’ as a dream-pop masterpiece and the record stands today as a forgotten classic. Yet with the exception of a one-off single in 2000 and a retrospective box set, Beat Happening haven’t released anything else since. Officially on a kind of semi-permanent hiatus – though Johnson jokes they still practice every month – it’s hard not to wonder why the band went their separate ways at the height of their collective powers. “At the time, in ’92, Bret needed to take a break from things for a while and that’s about when I started with other projects like Dub Narcotic Sound System and the Halo Benders thing,” says Johnson. “So I was doing other things and they were doing other things and we still are. I guess there was an idea of getting back together but it just never happened. People were getting on with other things. “It wasn’t a conscious decision, you know? The conscious decision was, let’s take a break for a while. And then it just never really stopped. People have lives and things, they raise children, take pictures… Life can be so distracting.
Fourth Eye Thinking By flouting the common rules of psychedelic rock, LA trio WAND have released three albums in a little over twelve months. They’re all very good Photogr ap hy: so p hie b a rloc / w riter: s a m wa lto n
It’s hard to believe, I know, but some bands just aren’t talkers. Some bands might make electrifying albums and perform searing shows full of athletic bravado and musical vim, but also consider the idea of spending an hour sat around a Dictaphone to be one rung up the comfort ladder from autoamputation. And while it’s impossible to differentiate a sparkling personality from a monosyllabist based on performance personality alone (while also necessarily acknowledging the fact that Terry Wogan could doubtless draw 2,000 words of great copy from a trappist monk) sometimes, you know, bands just aren’t talkers.Then again, a lifetime of fannish observation suggests that a reluctance to play along is sometimes exactly what we like. With all that in mind, as we’re arranging my imminent interview with Los Angeles psychedelicists Wand, I confess to my editor via email that I’m not sure the three-piece will exactly be the Michael Jordan of loquaciousness on a muggy Tuesday night in September. Despite a terrific new album,‘1,000 Days’, that thunders through fuzzed-out, wide-eyed guitar squall with a Lennon-esque snap, I can’t shake a hunch that they might’ve given all they’ve got to the music – their record sounds like three people who have rejected the real world, and all its social interactions, for frequently thrilling expressions of themselves through music – and that, consequently, we might all be staring down the barrel of a rather long hour together. “I know exactly what you mean,” replies my editor. “In my experience, some of the best bands can sometimes get bogged down in talking about the technical or – worse – the spiritual side of making music.” We mull over the options. My editor’s suggestion, if he turns out to be right? “Ask them why Americans like guns so much.”
school (the bohemian, Walt Disneyfounded CalArts just north of LA) who won’t do art-rock; a psych act whose songs are concise and defined; and a group of musicians who release spontaneous-sounding albums yet confess to analysing every shred of their output to within an inch of its creative viability. Even the way the band look is internally incongruent, depending on which member you’re observing. Singer, guitarist and main songwriter Cory Hanson is clean-cut, squarejawed and all-American in a denim shirt and sunglasses, with the kind of posture that suggests he calls his girlfriends’ dads “Sir” paired with an arsenal of facial expressions earnest enough that you sense the dads might actually buy it. On the other hand, Lee Landey and Evan Burrows, Wand’s heroically tight rhythm section, carry themselves like extras from Wayne’s World, all oily hair, unwashed hoodies and an approach to eye-contact best left at “reluctant”. Perhaps the most unusual and exciting facet of the band, though – and something that sets them apart from almost every other current act, not just from each other or their genre peers – is the unexpected speed with which they work. In the last thirteen months, they’ve released three fulllength records and played over 200 gigs (“a conservative estimate”,
assures Landey). At a time when it’s not unusual for even the most energetic, newest bands to take two years to deliver a follow-up record, a pace as prolific as this is rather refreshing. It’s also, insists Burrows, necessary in the modern music industry: “If you work on a record really slowly you either have to find other work just to support being a person, to eat and sleep and stuff,” he says, “or you have to take money from someone to allow that process to take a long time. Staying busy is also the only way to keep doing this when you’re trying not to rely on scary funnymoney deals and weird financial traps.” Hanson agrees: “It’s a lot easier not to spend any money when you’re on tour and go day by day, so when we’re back home, we record as quickly as we can, and then get back out on the road. We’re just trying to maintain a consistent flow of touring and recording, touring and recording.” But it’s not just a practical urge that’s driving Wand. “I mean, if you play by the ‘record cycle’,” says Hanson making air quotes with his fingers, “where you take a year to make a record, wait nine months for it to come out, then tour for nine months, then repeat, it’s like your life is just slipping away – that’s so much productive time that could’ve been spent writing songs.” “I think we’re all just interested in
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n the end, the firearms reserve was never needed. Indeed, after an hour in their company, it becomes abundantly clear that Wand aren’t at all as you’d expect: this is a band formed at art
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the density of activity,” adds Burrows, warming to his bandmate’s theme. “I think we all just want to have something to work on, all the time, which comes out of the fact that we’ve all had other creative practices” – Hansom paints, Landey writes literary fiction and Burrows is a published poet – “and value the presence of that activity in life. I get restless if I’m not working on something.” “And I get depressed!” adds Hanson, slightly panicked at just the thought of it. That sense of restlessness, of desperation to create, is palpable in Wand’s music. For example, ‘1,000 Days’ eschews any kind of intro or establishing track, choosing instead just to pile straight into an ascending set of rubbery chords that run away into squiggly synth work within 30 seconds; a song that, on any other album, would be track six or seven. Even slower, grander moments aren’t immune – second track ‘Broken Sun’ starts elegantly enough, but it’s not long before a key change arrives alongside heavy-heavy sludge guitar, followed by that most prog-psych recipe for epicness, the synthetic choir. It’s a terrifically buffeting, dense experience, being in such an everchanging, almost haphazard musical space, especially given the relative brevity of Wand’s songs. But, suggests Hanson, that’s sort of the point: “If you put a load of paint in a can with a bomb and then blew it up in a room, you’d get a different effect depending on the size of the room.” It’s a pleasing way to imagine Wand’s songwriting process, all Jackson Pollock chaos and giddy free-expression. Unfortunately, though, the analogy might be a touch misleading: for all the suggested lack of imprecision, the effect is no accident at all. “Oh no. No way,” says Hanson when we come round to discussing his spontaneity. “There’s an almost obsessive level of discourse in this band. We talk, a lot” – he boggles his eyes as he says it – “about things as they’re happening, musically, socially, psychologically, philosophically. I would just work on things endlessly if I could, but usually what we do is make a bunch of decisions without
L eft : Wa n d in An g e l, Islin g t o n . L -R: L ee L a n d ey, Cory Ha n so n & Eva n b urro w s
LIVE AT ELECTROWERKZ 9th September
really thinking about them, play something based on those decisions and then have a long discussion about what just happened, and what we want to happen next.” That’ll be Wand doing the unexpected again, then. Although, on closer inspection, maybe it isn’t – as Burrow’s points out, this is precisely the environment where their art school training kicks in: “I think [the discursive approach] has to do with the fact that we’ve all been exposed to a lot of intense critical discourse,” offers the drummer. “At art school you’re going to find yourself stuck in a room with everyone discussing something you’ve worked really hard on and feel sensitive about, and you have to stay in that room and sort it out…” He trails off, awkwardly. “Or, not sort it out, but stay in that room, and not flee from a conflict. I think that we’ve all become pretty comfortable with remaining in a space together when things get hard, and trying to find a way to keep moving forward.” That level of self-reflexivity surprises me. After all, the appeal of Wand is precisely its freewheeling wooziness and sense of ready splat – do they enjoy being this analytical? Would it feel like cheating somehow not to dissect their art? “Oh of course we’d like it to just
come naturally to us, yeah,” admits Hanson, “and it can be really gruelling when we end up agonising over a song. We argue with each other, but we definitely have permission for it not to be fun all the time. “But the only way, at least for the three of us, to stay sane and keep track of what we’re doing and explain to each other how we want things to be is to keep talking, because there are so many choices at every moment of crafting each song,” he says. “There are
so many choices in every moment of playing live in front of people, and even in every moment like this,” he says, gesturing at the Dictaphone. It’s not spoken like a confession, but somehow feels like it. On record, and on stage, Wand are feral, disconnected from reality, gloriously runaway and starry-eyed; to achieve that process day to day, however, their approach is, apparently, almost the reverse. Some bands, believe it or not, talk when you least expect.
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“We’ve just become very comfortable with fucking up,” says Hanson when asked how he copes with so much playing live, just before climbing on stage at Electrowerkz. “Because who says you can’t, you know?” This is perhaps more the flavour of Wand that you’d anticipate from their latest record: impulsive and freeform, retaining attention to detail and with some deliciously virtuoso playing, but also letting the music breathe a little more freely than that of the studio incarnation. Landey agrees: “From the get-go, with our live show there’s never been any excessive impulse to try to exactly recreate the record. It’s always been important that they stay as two separate experiences.” And it turns out that they are – in a way. By no stretch is the onstage Wand playing straight facsimiles of their recorded songs, as diversions and extensions fill out their 90-minute set, and it’s also abrasively loud: if their album is, in Hanson’s head, the results of putting “a load of paint in a can with a bomb and then blowing it up in a room”, Wand’s live show more closely resembles the detonation event itself. On the other hand, though, the untamed Wand do capture the recorded sound in spirit, if not note for note. “We all get bored very easily,” Hanson admits, “And when we feel inactive or lacking presence or just zoned out, it lacks generosity on our part – generosity to the people who are listening to the music. I mean, who wants to come to shows just to watch some zombies go “gnnn gnnn – have a good night!” And then maybe there’s an encore of “gnnnn.” “Also,” adds Landey, “it can be boring to watch a band who is totally incredibly proficient.” He has a point: giant bands with everything preplanned to the microsecond, with spontaneity surrendered for lighting synchronicity and venue curfews, are surely one of live music’s great disappointments. None of that tonight, thankfully: Wand’s show matches the scuzz of Elecroworkz’ UV-lit upstairs room: enthralling, unpredictable and wild.
B el o w & rig ht : A n g el dera do o ria n a t echo pa rk l a ke, Lo s a n g el es, CA .
Stillness Isn’t The Move Deradoorian’s spirituality caused her to walk away from Dirty Projectors and rediscover who she is Photogra phy: nathaniel woo d / writer: reef younis
“I’m sorry, my sister’s making fun of me,” Angel Deradoorian laughs down the phone. The pair are somewhere in Texas, en route to Albuquerque as part of Deradoorian’s second US tour of the year. After that, they’ll head across the Atlantic for a few shows in Europe, but for now the siblings are giggling over drive-thru coffee orders and the incessant chatter of a stubborn Sat nav. “Right now, I’m kind of just floating around because I’ve been
touring so much I don’t really live anywhere. I was in Baltimore, before that I was in New York, and I’ve been living in LA for the past few years. I’ve been moving around quite a bit.” Working from the road is something Angel has become increasingly accustomed to over recent months. After taking a break from Dirty Projectors, releasing her debut album ‘Expanding Flower Planet’, and stepping up to the fresh challenge of going solo, the transition from city
slicker to transient troubadour seems to be working well for the Californian. “It’s liberating now,” she says, “but in the process of doing it, it took a while to feel what it was going to be. A lot of this process has been reaching for something that I wasn’t totally sure of how I was going to get it. I’ve been reaching for an idea or a future self that I knew I would eventually get to but didn’t know how long it would take or how it would play out.” Predominantly known for her
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work in the Dave Longstreth-led Dirty Projectors, Deradoorian stepped back from the band in 2012 to focus on creating her own music. A change of city soon followed, and she moved to Baltimore with boyfriend Dave Portner (aka Animal Collective’s Avey Tare) to collaborate on Avey Tare’s Slasher Flicks and take the first steps towards making ‘Expanding Flower Planet’ a reality. “With Dirty Projectors, there wasn’t a lot of back and forth,” she explains. “David would write the
music and we would play, so it was essentially just working out the parts and getting really tight. Then with Slasher Flicks, Dave Portner had the foundation of the songs, and we collaborated on that together. So when I went into writing alone, it was different because I’ve never given myself time like that; I’ve always been dedicating myself to other projects. It was really challenging to know what it’s like to make those creative decisions and not just be one instrument or one player.” Armed with that understanding, away from the noise of New York, and with the time to explore and rediscover her own tastes, finding a sense of solitude was a critical factor. “I didn’t actually start writing this record in New York,” she says. “I started writing it in Baltimore. It would have been hard for me to start writing it in New York because… well, I could have done it there but the space in which you’re able to create is disrupted by city noise – there isn’t a lot of nature around you, and it’s expensive. There’s not a lot of solitude to be able to just focus and create so it was good to go to Baltimore and start writing the record and hang out in a house in the woods.” Amidst the peace, however, lay a new challenge that Deradoorian had only tentatively explored with her debut EP, 2009’s ‘Mind Raft’. Where that release only scratched the surface of what was to come, ‘Expanding Flower Planet’ tasked Angel with the responsibility and ownership that helped make the album such an engaging listen, six years after that first release.
“It was less focused, I suppose, but for this record I really wanted to buckle down, which meant spending a lot more time alone,” she starts. “Doing it this way was a new experience for me, and I liked it, but it was really hard. I realised the importance of solitude and being alone with thoughts and ideas and trying to make them a reality. I couldn’t have made an album like this on a guitar in my room; I needed to build a studio workspace and figure out what I wanted. It took a little while to transition out of working with Dirty Projectors, to revisit my own tastes and interests, and discover what I liked now.” It was a decision that proved to be a liberating one. Uninhibited and unencumbered by others’ schedules and ways of working, having the time to explore all creative avenues, and the freedom to ask herself bigger questions set the tone for the melodic spirituality that pervades ‘Expanding Flower Planet’ – an album that combines an array of styles including choral pop, ’60s psych, Eastern grooves and classical minimalism; all linked by Deradoorian’s unmistakable vocal range, sometimes multi-tracked and tangling with itself; other times alone, simple, crystalline. It’s one of the voices that played such a huge role in making ‘Bitte Orca’ [2009] Dirty Projectors’ most accomplished, accessible and interesting album to date. “I had to revisit all of my tastes and interests because you don’t really get a lot of time to deal with who you are in a group,” she says. “When I broke off from that, I had to deal with so many
other things than just making music, all these existential questions like: ‘Who am I now?’ and ‘What do I like?’ and ‘How do I want to present myself, musically?’ I wanted to take this very honest path with my music and I realise it’s hard to do that. “I kept thinking about painters and artists who make this amazing imagery and I’m like ‘How did you do that?! How is that in your head and you’ve put it on a canvas?’ It blows my mind what people can take out of their head and put into the physical world. I wanted to do the same; get it out of my head and into, um, people’s ears,” she laughs. After such an inward-looking process and level of introspection that comes with revisiting your place in the world, it’s little surprise that spirituality plays a prominent part in Angel Deradoorian’s life. It’s a theme reflected in the album’s variety of styles, and the familiar depth and breadth of Angel’s vocal as it slides and soars through the scales with beautiful clarity. She tells me: “That spirituality is important to me. I became more aware that my spirituality was going to play a part in my music because they’re synonymous, and a lot of what spirituality is to me is that I’m believing in something you don’t see that is going to push you to be as good of a person as you could be. “Music is a very personal thing, and very much coming from a part of yourself that you don’t even totally know. I didn’t think people would talk to me about it because I didn’t think it was blatant, but you never really know what people are going to take from it.”
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It’s spiritual reflection derived from almost 15 years of writing, playing, and creating music. From making her name with Dirty Projectors to working with Flying Lotus and Björk, there’s obvious satisfaction in what she’s achieved so far but armed with a renewed sense of self and a quiet resolve, you feel that delivering her debut was all about turning the page. “I think this was the most natural point for me,” she says. “I didn’t have the time and I also didn’t have that kind of awareness a few years ago. When I started playing in bands I was 16 and I just wanted to play and have fun and build experience. Now I’m at an age [29] where I can look back and see what I’ve been building, and that brings a new kind of awareness. “The transition you go through from 20 years old to 30 years old is so extreme, and to be in a very successful band for the first half of my 20s and then break away from that and be alone, and start again, has brought a whole different kind of awareness, humility, and understanding that I could be somewhat known, decide to end that, and then do it again. It’s not so much about being known, it’s about creating something and letting go.” In an age where debut albums arrive with relentlessly unchecked consistency, Angel Deradoorian’s patience feels even more virtuous, and ‘Expanding Flower Planet’ more than an album spat out during an existential break to fleetingly do her own thing. It represents a learning curve, a spiritual re-awakening, and a timely opportunity for someone so adept at adapting to finally do things her way. “The main reason I split from Dirty Projectors was because I wanted to focus on my own music, but I needed those years of experience to cultivate myself. I’m still very split in that I feel I can be part of a group but that I’m also naturally an alpha-type person that can also lead it. “You’re taking responsibility for your work and you’re representing yourself and any person putting their art into the world is taking a huge risk. You’re proud of yourself for being courageous in knowing there’ll be criticism but also that you’re living your full creative self and, hopefully, giving people a positive experience. It’s something I couldn’t take ownership of in the group and experience in the same way. It’s very powerful.”
L-R: Ea d d y & t heo g m n ea r g riffit h pa rk, Lo s An g el es, CA.
Apocalypse Now L.A. duo Ho99o9 are here to finish what Odd Future and Death Grips failed to do, unless they implode too, which they just might Photography: nathaniel wood / writer: daniel dylan wray
My first experience of seeing Ho99o9 live was in Berlin’s infamous Berghain nightclub. A place notorious for sweating, often nude, bodies to be crashing and thrashing into one another as thunderous, unforgiving music erupts from a sound system that sends earthquakes rippling through your guts. However, the only real naked flesh I saw that week (during the inaugural Pop Kultur festival) belonged to one man: Eaddy from L.A. outfit Ho99o9. Eaddy stripped to nothing except his socks and threw himself into the crowd, sweat was running down every inch of his body and with every person he crashed into he would just slide down them and crash back to the floor, where he remained until the dying moments of the set, crunched up, screeching into the microphone as sub bass throttled the room with gripping force and tension and the stunned audience absorbed the unsettling carnage that had just taken place all around them. Ho99o9 [pronounced Horror] consist of Eaddy and theOGM, a New Jersey duo now operating from Los
Angeles who are making a fusion of rap and punk the likes of which has not really been encountered before. The 9s in the name represent upside down 6s, an antidote to a celebration of the ideologies attached to the devil and evil – and also a statement that expresses their neutrality. “No masters. No fucking bosses. No gods. No Nuthin’. We don’t fuck with none of that shit.” That’s what they told the L.A Weekly earlier this year. However, whilst the duo may not answer to any one person, thing or ideology, there is enough of their approach that is constructed as a horror-show aesthetic – violent imagery including necrophilia can be found scattered throughout their songs. Horrorcore has too many cheap and nasty connotations to it, but Ho99o9 know how to push buttons, sonically and aesthetically in the same way. What makes the group really interesting, though, is not that they are a rap group with an essence of punk to them, or that they are a punk group with flavours of hip-hop, but that they
really are a complete amalgamation of the two; a group in which GG Allin and Bad Brains line up as clear cut influences as much as DMX or Bone Thugs ‘n’ Harmony do. It was the influence of rap that came first for the duo, growing up in what they describe as tough New Jersey surroundings. “We grew up in the hood, urban inner city communities,” theOGM tells me, who turns up for our shoot in an abandoned zoo with a blue ski mask covering his face. “Pretty much all black people, drug dealers, gangs, fucking fights – ‘hood shit’ as people would say. That’s where we grew up, man, we grew up in hard times.” The punk shows would come later, but growing up it was exposure to rap that attracted them to music. “Our music – as far as influences go – we grew up on rap and hip-hop, shit like that,” says theOGM. “We weren’t exposed to the sounds of rock or metal or anything like that until our later years. We were going to rap shows and ratchet-ass parties, like frat shit and college shit.”
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One spectacle you’ll not forget seeing at a Ho99o9 show is one of Eaddy’s perfect back flips, which he pulls out of the air from nowhere. It was his New Jersey upbringing that brought him those skills, too. “Just being a kid in the hood, your parents and other neighbours throw their mattresses out for the garbage to pick them up – as kids we used to take them and wrestle on them and flip on them. It just came from when I was a kid, I didn’t know gymnastics or anything.” There’s a genuine sense of ferocity and wildness to Ho99o9 that makes seeing them as exhilarating as it can be perturbing. In Berlin there were people throwing themselves into it head first, losing themselves in the blistering fusion of dark, grubby electronics with scorched-earth vocals hammering against stop start hardcore punk, and there were others who were creeping further and further towards the back. In terms of excitement, its hard not to compare them to the likes of Death Grips and Odd Future, not because they share a similar sonic template (which they do) but because there
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simply seems to be this blistering ball of anger and energy that has just erupted from nowhere and at the moment Ho99o9 could well end up being one of the biggest groups of 2016 as more people are exposed to what they do. Equally, they could easily collapse in on themselves at their next show and not make it to the end of 2015. I think the former is more likely, but there’s such an eruptive edge to their music and performances, it’s almost impossible to imagine it sustaining itself – a musical moment born from such anger, from such momentary, reactionary and instantaneous circumstances that it seems destined to either explode or implode. And yet, while for the listeners and viewers Ho99o9 may often shock, surprise and/or terrify, for the group themselves a personal sense of fun is far more important than intimidation, and behind the momentum that is fast building. “From day one we didn’t know what we wanted to do,” says theOGM. “We just wanted to have fun and make sure our friends had fun too, we weren’t meaning to instil fear or have everybody go crazy, we just did it and that’s what it has become.” He goes on to recall the group’s first ever show. “It was in somebody’s loft and I don’t think we knew what the fuck we were getting ourselves into; we just went up there and did it. We had told people we had this little project but we didn’t have any drums or a lot of stuff we have now, but we just played and it went pretty good, it got crazy actually from what I can remember as I was pretty intoxicated that night.” Eaddy recalls it too, saying: “It was good though, people moshed and I got hurt that night – that’s a good thing.”
you have people who don’t like it, which is fair enough, we don’t really care. We just go out there and perform and love having fun and having a good time – if people are having fun with us that makes it a lot better. The reactions are usually pretty good though, they usually fuck with it or they’re just really shocked.” “Then again we ain’t out here playing no fucking Lindsay Lohan, Taylor Swift soft shit man,” adds Eaddy. “This is hardcore shit and if you can’t handle it then you need to get to the back or wait for the next performer or some shit. We ain’t out here singing melodies and trying to be cool, that’s the last thing we want to do, we just do what we do and you just got to fucking roll with it.” The pair perform with drummer/ producer Ian Longwell, but despite having huge amounts of guitar, that dart from intense hardcore speedriffing to more, almost Prince-like, solo charges, they have no instruments on stage other than drums. Just the two vocalists and a sample pad that spews out some remarkably twisted noises as the two take over the stage, interacting and bouncing and feeding off one another, like demented siblings. “When we create music we’re
“This is hardcore shit and if you can’t handle it then you need to get to the back or wait for the next performer” pushing the envelope. We want to make dope, progressive music,” says theOGM. “We obviously love the classics, that’s were we’re rooted from and we learnt a lot from them, but we constantly want to push the bar and make progressive music. It’s dope shit.” Given that much of what the group project is most perfectly captured on stage, I ask them if they write material for that environment? “Some songs, when we create them we definitely think, ‘live, this shit would be fucking crazy’,” says Eaddy, “and other songs we think of them like movie scores – like a horror film or
W
hen it comes to trying to describe what the group do and what sense of feeling it gives them, theOGM references a ’90s action film, “You ever seen that movie Twister?” he asks. “That’s how I feel. When that nigger throws them transparent balls into the twister, that’s how I feel… then I’m just destroying shit. “People never really know what to expect from us,” he says. “Some reactions are happy, like a ‘oh, shit. What the fuck, I didn’t know this was going to happen, this is awesome!’ But then there are other people that are like completely shocked and don’t even really move because they weren’t expecting that type of energy that comes from rap and punk rock. Then
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some crazy ass action film with somebody getting chased and shot at. Our dynamic comes from both our live stuff and real creepy, dark shit.” The real creepy, dark shit they refer to can be found in some of their music videos, like ‘Bone Collector’ and ‘Da Blue Nigga from Hell Boy’, which utilise their love for horror movies, gross-out imagery and tense action films. The narrative structure of films, as well as the aesthetic, also plays a roll as theOGM tells me. “If you listen to our new song ‘Twisted Metal’, the lyrics are like tension building,” he says, “you can run but you can’t hide, it’s like a chase. When you hear the
be low & r igh t: h o9 9 o 9 in griffith p ar k’ s abandone d z oo . Los ange le s, CA .
lyrics you can pretty much imagine that shit as a movie.” The pair have cited both Rob Zombie and Quentin Tarantino as big cinematic influences. Ho99o9 have something of an entourage, too; a group they call the Death Kult. “Death Kult is our people, the mutants of the Death Kult are our people,” says theOGM. And the role/function of the Death Kult, I enquire? “Armed Mutants, raised to kill on any word. If we say go, they go. If we say shoot, they shoot.” Eaddy is joking, but does so with a tone that’s intentionally creepy and menacing. Whilst Ho99o9 are clearly attracted to the theatrics, gore and violent imagery of movies, and have used that to sketch out their own film in which they are living in many ways, the end result is not the hammy, manipulated outcome you may expect. Yes it’s constructed and planned in some respects but their performances have a genuine air of unpredictability and menace, and their music is ferociously brilliant at times. The last time I saw the group one of their Death Kult members took the form of a man who must have been pushing seven foot tall, was wide and dense and he strolled back and forth along the front row in a balaclava and boiler suit. His sole aim was of course to add an air of fear into the performance, like immersive theatre almost, except when Ho99o9 say go the Death Kult really do go and what erupted within seconds was a maelstrom of a circle pit as the balaclava-covered man whipped the crowd into a mass of flying bodies and beer. It’s brought a lot of unique people to their shows, too. Given the group’s fondness for studs, metal and wearing multiple sets of handcuffs, it’s not uncommon for the group to go through some probing at customs, but this even led to a new fan. “We actually met this really cool ass border officer in Ireland,” theOGM tells me, “probably the coolest border patrol officer we’ve ever met, and he actually came to our show in Ireland. He was down, front row at the show. We’ve had ups and downs in that area, I guess.” The group, despite being miles away from the Insane Clown Posse,
musically, even found themselves playing the infamous and infinitely intriguing Gathering of the Juggalos festival this year, which theOGM describes as, “Fucking bizarre, man.” “It’s one of the weirdest festivals you could go to,” he continues. “All kinds of weird shit. It’s pretty fun though – it’s an amazing experience and really cool that they’ve been doing it for 16 years, you just have to be ready to see some weird shit. ” “Before you continue on to the after life one of your main goals should be to attend the gathering of the juggalos,” says Eaddy. Ho99o9’s move to L.A has given
the band more opportunities for exposure than New Jersey, although the group say it’s still something that requires a tonne of work. “We spent most of our lives in New Jersey and New Jersey is fucking hard,” says Eaddy. “It is right under New York, so most of the dope shit and the traffic is coming out of New York, so when you’re in New Jersey you’ve got to work a lot harder. Being in L.A is good. I’m not saying it’s not hard, it’s still hard and a hustle.” The group are perfectly content to not predict or shape out the future though, as they are keen to point out, they are a band for now. “We are
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making progressive music and just styling, it’s all about now. We don’t really know what the future holds, so we’re definitely about the now.” They say they would even rather just let their music speak for what’s coming next, as it will do on October 30th, when their new EP, ‘Dead Bodies in the Lake’, comes out. Asked to describe it, Eaddy sardonically and slowly mumbles, spitting out one word at a time, “corpses in a huge body of water.” And theOGM says: “We don’t really like to explain how our music is going to sound. Expect anything and expect nothing at the same time.”
Grey Matters
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Dublin’s Girl Band might have made the most progressive debut album of the year while their lead singer and lyricist battled with mental illness. In their hometown, Dara Kiely and his group candidly discuss the severe challenge of making ‘Holding Hands With Jamie’
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t’s a grey, drizzly afternoon in Dublin and in the search for Girl Band’s rehearsal space, I find myself down a pot-holed back alley lined with just about everything but a rehearsal space: a muscle gym with its door open as huge men squat huge weights in tight vests, a discarded JCB that seems to have been abandoned mid-way through a dig amidst a mountain of upturned rubble and rubbish, a railway track hovering in the distance. As I walk into a garage and approach a man in overalls he says to us, “blue door” and points to a single blue door – home to Girl Band. It’s a suitably lowkey setting for a group that are as relaxed and jovial as Girl Band are, despite the fact that the music they create had led me to expect otherwise. The sounds emitted on their EP, ‘The Early Years’, and their justreleased LP, ‘Holding Hands with Jamie’, project a wild, gargling, blowtorch intensity that is the frantic antithesis of the laid back nature of the four young lads that soon sit in front of me cracking jokes and passing a spliff around. At their finest, Girl Band evoke all the extremities of the human physicality: their songs are disorientating, violent, paranoid, frightening and euphoric – often all within the space of a couple of minutes. They are like being stripped naked and thrown into a delousing tank one minute, only to find yourself transported and brimming with dance floor elation the next. This experience can be something of a marmite one. Either their sonic paint thinner approach will send you into a rabid
L-R: Alan Dugg an, D ar a Kie ly, Adam F aulkne r & Danie l Fox in g ir l band’s r e he ar s al s p ac e . Du blin, Ire land .
Photography: tom cockram / writer: daniel dylan wray
frenzy or it will leave you hurtling for the nearest exit or throwing whatever object lay closest to you towards your stereo in an attempt to stop the unrelenting punishment. I’ve heard people refer to Girl Band shows as both the best they’ve ever seen and quite literally the worst. “And they tell you this!” exclaims Dara Kiely, the band’s singer, clearly aware of the polarising reaction the band can instil. “I do the merch and sometimes you just get filthy looks, although I’m really happy it does that, it’s not like we intentionally do that because we think it will piss them off, it’s always just about exploring the sounds.” Adam Faulkner, the band’s drummer agrees with Kiely. “It’s a more genuine reaction,” he says. “When we did a KEXP session [for Icelandic television in Reykjavik] we did this one song that we felt was a bit more like one of our poppy songs and it was the first time we saw a real split in reaction in the YouTube comments. The first one was just like, ‘what the fuck is this?’ and we were just like, oh you’re going to fucking hate the rest of it.” Daniel Fox, bassist, jokes: “I thought that song was like our ‘Teenage Kicks’ or something.” Despite the fact that ‘Holding Hands with Jamie’ is a deeply unpredictable listen, often matching the trajection and mania of a car veering off the road and simply carrying on down the side of a vast, crumbling mountain, the record itself and the creative process that bore it, is a much more controlled, thought-out and conceived one, as Fox elaborates: “That sort of insane attention to detail is actually really enjoyable,” he says. “Even sometimes when we were doing mixes on the record – and we spent a month doing that – I think I took maybe a day and a half off from that, so I was losing my mind a little bit. I
didn’t see the sun very much. We just totally went down the rabbit hole for it. But that’s just how we are; we get totally lost in it and that’s how we are when we’re practising the arrangements, just working through it and working through it until you get it right. Time will fly sometimes and it’s like, ah we’ve been doing this for four days…” “Or ‘Fucking Butter’ for three years,” interjects Kiely, referring to a track from the album. He feels that a similar attention to lyrics is required, too. “From my point of view I really don’t like lazy lyrics,” he says. “Why put so much effort into the production and everything else and then just have ‘catch me when I fall’ lyrics? That got me, so I spent a lot of time on them and every aspect of the record is thought out. It has a meaning or a function, it’s important not to be lazy in any aspect of the band.” The end result of this whole process has culminated in an immensely powerful debut album, one that feels as embedded within the roots of techno as it does esoteric noise music, even directly nodding to the more structural, softer music of Nick Drake (in its own twisted manner, of course). For Fox it’s a powerful circle he’s reached. “It’s satisfying for your inner music geek,” he says. For me, I’ve listened to so many records over my life where I have just thought ‘God, I wish I could fucking do that’. When you’re a teenager you wish you were in every band and I think with Girl Band now, and Josh Homme said this when he was asked a similar question, is that ‘ I feel like I’m in my own favourite band.’” Girl Band are too becoming other people’s favourite band. You only have to listen to a snippet of a Tom Ravenscroft’s BBC Radio 6Music show over the last six months and chances are it features him raving about the
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group to almost obsessive levels. “A lot of people mosh at some of our gigs now,” says Kiely, “and we don’t mosh at gigs – I kind of hate it. I always thought we were more of a dance-y band. I would want to dance to us but if that’s what people want to do that’s what they want to do. It’s not for me. People tend to be pretty friendly though, we haven’t had any piss thrown at us like some hardcore punk bands… yet.” He laughs. Despite the heavy workloads in the studio, one noticeably spontaneous moment resulting from a bit of slacking off did end up on the record. “There was the day we went to the pub…” says Fox, ominously. “Yeah, we were really terribly jetlagged,” says Faulkner. “It really smacked us the second week. We’d done five days straight and then it hit us.” The day, known by the band as “the day of the nip”, was four jet-lagged people sitting drinking in a pub all day and returning to the studio at the end of it and deciding that getting Kiely to do his vocal takes entirely in the nude would be best for everybody. “I did it with the lights out and nobody could see me,” he says. “There was a white silhouette bouncing around the room,” adds Faulkner, with Fox saying: “It was like a crescent moon with a sliver of arse.” The uninhibited, and undressed, state worked for Kiely and the take found its way onto album opener ‘Umbongo’. As for what happened to the tambourine take that came from Fox hanging it on his penis is another matter. Despite these brief moments of horseplay, a great deal of what went into making this album came from a far more serious situation. Kiely had, in his own words, a breakdown. Later on we have a talk separately to the rest of the band and he opens up honestly
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and elaborately about the episode, happy to talk and promote the benefits of open discussions surrounding mental health. “I went from pure highs to crippling lows,” he tells me. “‘Lawman’ [track on the ‘Early Years’ EP] is a precursor to that. When I listen back to the lyrics I can pick up on that. Even our first single was about an anxiety attack. It was coming, it was coming for a couple of years – I needed to break down. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, it really is. I feel way, way more myself and have a lot more peace of mind.” What led to the breakdown was initially rooted in the opposite: ascension. Kiely felt joyous and was reaching new high after new high. “Everything was having this great motion to it,” he says, “I felt like I could control the room in a really strange way. I felt like I was the life of the party for a bit. I felt that people were buzzing off my enthusiasm but I was probably massively delusional. Things started to flow really well and then they started to flow really, really well in my head and then I got massive delusions of being God and stuff like that… It was all really positive stuff though, I was being overly friendly but it was too much. I was massively re-compensating for not dealing with my problems in that right way… that
and I stayed up for a week,” he says with a chuckle. A whole week? “I didn’t go to sleep for about 8 or 9 days. I just kept going, looking for any party or anything. I wasn’t on any drugs, I’ve never taken coke or pills or anything, it was just this weird eruption of elation and I felt glorious.” It almost sounds like one enormous psychedelic trip, despite no drugs of any kind being consumed. “The body just went there,” he says. “It was just amazing. It was the most unbelievable… I felt like the universe was hugging me or something. I felt like everything was going to be okay. I was just freaking people out as I was thinking they were going to love all these ideas that I had but then the crash down was horrible, going from you are your own God to literally making Christmas cards for the mentally ill in the hospital. Going from a Kanye lyric to a Smiths lyric, it was like, ah god, what the fuck’s happened?” Kiely lived in a tent in his garden for a while, experiencing a mass fluctuation of emotions whilst there. “I had a tent in the garden and I could do my own thing. I had a one-string guitar – and I was in the tent from when I was high to being really depressed – and I can’t play guitar and
I was going to learn ‘Cheapnis’ by Frank Zappa on the one string guitar and buy loop pedals and things like that. I don’t think that’s even possible for an amazing musician, let alone someone who’s just living off charm all the time. All my ideas just started bursting, all my amazing ideas were bursting because I couldn’t commit to any of them because I was distracted and in love with everything. The tent was an interesting time because my family knew where I was, my friends knew where I was, I was having some time by myself. My sister would come out and have tea in the tent and I got to know my family properly then. My
“It was a very weird year of just being empty inside and feeling dead. I couldn’t cry and I couldn’t laugh” loudandquiet.com
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mum took time off work for a couple of months and I gradually got out of the tent and I got stuck on the couch and that’s when I started writing lyrics for things like ‘Pears for Lunch’. I went from being a shy guy to being the most outgoing, uplifting, let’s go do everything now, run, run, run guy and then to being incredibly shy and depressed and people thought I was a really horrible person because I couldn’t really communicate with people because everything carried these connotations. But I gradually started to come out of that. It took a lot of work. I was in hospital for six months, at a day hospital, and I had to drop out of college. I went from having two jobs, a college course, a band and a girlfriend to literally just having a couch” Whilst being stuck on a couch with depression and visiting the hospital on a daily basis, his Mum’s insistence that he continue to write proved ultimately therapeutic. “My mum told me to write every day,” says Kiely. “I knew
G irl b a n d in wha t fel t l ike a men -o n l y pub , n ea r t heir rehea rsa l spa ce in Dub l in , Irel a n d .
that I had to keep writing in some regard and I didn’t want to, I really didn’t want to, I didn’t want my opinion to be on anything. I was completely burnt out. “My mum’s a really big Leonard Cohen fan, and so am I, and so I was just listening to that and ‘Loaded’ by the Velvet Underground and very little else because I hated music for a while – I thought I wasn’t good enough for it. She just said write something every day and she just said even if it’s writing ‘I can’t write anything’, write that and see what happens. It was therapy, my doctors told me to do that and my councillors told me to do that. So I just did that and went for jogs and tried to lose weight and get back. It was a very weird year of just being empty inside and feeling dead. I couldn’t cry and I couldn’t laugh, I was paranoid about everything. But it’s behind me. I was told ‘you don’t get over things, you get through things’ and I really think that was one of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learnt. I kind of had my midlife crisis as early as possible and it was the best thing that ever happened to me” The band stayed positive around Kiely and carried on working. “We had to pull a tour but we kept writing as a band,” explains guitarist Alan Duggan. We’d get Dara in when we could. It was just a bit of a slow build up but we still managed to get excited about it – we didn’t think Dara had gone forever.” “You could totally tell it was a thing he was going through,” confirms Fox who, in fact, stopped Kiely from giving all his personal items away whilst he was in the middle of his elated period. “Yeah, I’d be trying to give my iPod and money to people and my number
out to people in the dole office and giving books to people,” says Kiely. “Sandwiches – anything I could possibly give to people I would.”
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he lyrics to the album are both the documentation of Kiely’s experiences (“covered in Sudocream talking to myself”) and his observations whilst going through that experience (“Give it to me straight like a pear cider. Well, you’re not God mate and your mother’s scared”). It’s something he hopes he won’t have to go through again. “From my part of the album, I couldn’t do a second ‘Holding Hands with Jamie’ unless I had another breakdown,” he says, “which I’m making sure I don’t.” Stripped away from the occasionally indecipherable environment of the album, the lyrics are delightfully obtuse, often reading like the acerbic, absurd blackness of someone like Richard Brautigan, recalling his work in ‘Trout Fishing in America’. There’s a surface level disposable quality to them, something Kiely has played with, of which he says: “The lyrics can kind of mean everything and nothing for me. I love how people can hear them as throwaway or some people can be really into them. “I think [the album] is obsessed with the grey area,” he says, “at least for me. The album wasn’t designed around me, my ideas were the last thing to be thrown in. It’s 25% each way. From my point of view, I’m fascinated with the grey area. There’s
not one fuck you song or one I love you song, it’s just constantly doubting and constantly searching. Everything is a contradiction and an oxymoron when you put it all together and I obsessed with the language about it so much. It’s applicable to a lot of things in my life, in terms of setting a mood and tone. One day we can play ‘Paul’ and I’ll get really, really angry or I can play it and there’s a bit in the song that makes me feel a bit silly – although I never feel ashamed.” Kiely describes the experience as “weird but always positive” when I ask him what it’s like reliving these experiences as he performs the band’s songs live each night. “I still have to work through all the issues,” he says, “they’re never going to be gone, there are still personal issues and things that wrangle your character and shape you. Because the words are so vague I can read into them in different ways and apply them, in my own head, to stuff that’s happening now in my life, so it’s therapeutic that way. But then there is a song called ‘Witch Doctor’ which is just about literally going fully into a psychotic episode and speeding through it and all these metaphors are making less and less sense. When we play that live it has to be last because I can’t do anything afterwards; I can’t really do that half-heartedly. When we do that song I do naturally freak out a bit, sometimes after gigs I can’t talk to people for a while… It’s like primal scream therapy or something. “It’s really healthy, I think, it’s really nice. You knacker yourself out through aggression and I’m not hurting anyone by doing it and I’m not hurting myself any more. That song fucks with my
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head a little bit.” The slightly psychotic edge to the group’s music, and the manic, wired ferocious intensity that does somehow seem so perfectly aligned with Kiely’s experiences, are not based on them. The band forged this sound of their own making, and the merging of the lyrical content and the sonic experimentations so fittingly is really only mere coincidence, or perhaps fate depending on your outlook. We leave the group’s rehearsal space – with some difficultly as Kiely is currently on crutches and having to perform in a wheelchair after a fall – and retire to the pub. The initially proposed bar – a slightly hip craft beer type place – is too busy so we pick the nearest pub at random and step into a wonderfully untouched place. Brown wooden panels line the walls, still stained a slightly grubby, jaundiceyellow from years of cigarette smoke. There are only men in the pub, all above 50, all sitting alone, all drinking Guinness, nobody talks and all eyes are fixated on ether the television or a newspaper. There’s a faint, fusty, albeit indescribable, smell that hangs in the air like an opaque smog. It’s the type of pub that feels more like a living relic these days, which is a crying shame as it pulses with a no-frills charm and likeability. We settle into the snug and join the Guinness drinkers for several hours until, one by one, the band leave; although instead of returning to a studio to strip off naked and make one of the greatest albums of the year (certainly one of the most progressive guitar albums), they return home bleary-eyed and fatigued to get ready to take their colossal noise to yet another country.
Reviews / Albums
09/10
Joanna Newsom Divers Dr ag C i ty By S am Wal to n. In sto res Oc t 23
Conventionality has never been one of Joanna Newsom’s watchwords. Her last record, ‘Have One On Me’, was a triple-album song cycle and ‘Ys’, before that, was split into just five epic fairytales for the harp, the longest of which lasted 17 minutes. With that in mind, Newsom’s fourth is, at first glance, something of a surprise: ‘Divers’ is a single LP containing eleven songs, all around the five-minute mark, and preceding its release there was a lead YouTube single showing nothing more eccentric than the singer wandering around New York. Even ‘Divers’’ opening song starts with the most traditional of cadences, and for a brief moment there’s a hint that the last five years of Newsom’s life, which has taken in acting, modelling and latterly marriage, might have mellowed her idiosyncrasies. Thankfully, however,
they haven’t, and ‘Anecdotes’ quickly blooms from an elegant wartime lullaby to something far more satisfyingly knotty: Newsom introduces characters, converses with an obscure species of forest bird about the nature of remembrance, and underpins it with a handful of deliciously moreish five-note melodies as sumptuously arranged as they are compositionally simple. And from there, ‘Divers’ barely lets up, intellectually, musically and emotionally. Over the next 50 minutes, Newsom presents a series of songs as complex, delicate and intertwined as she’s ever written: ‘Sapokanikan’ cites Shelley’s ‘Ozymandias’ to frame its story of native Americans who inhabited Manhattan island before the Europeans arrived, ‘Waltz of the 101st Lightborne’ is a terrifically catchy sea shanty that mixes,
improbably, a historical voyage with the theory of relativity, and the title track is a devastatingly beautiful ballad where diving for pearls is an allegory for tragically unrequited love. On one level, ‘Divers’’ formal purity and academic ambition could seem flashy – it’s certainly frequently dazzling, and this is definitely a record that would not be harmed by being packaged with both an encyclopaedia and a dictionary. But, perhaps aware of this danger, Newsom ensures her manner is never supercilious or alienating. On the contrary, she remains almost unendingly welcoming: across the breadth of the record her confidence, conviction and tenderness becomes an open invitation to enter her allengulfing world of intricate romanticism and strangely sad, heroic music, and that warmth is
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‘Divers’’ trump card. It helps, too, that the relatively traditional album form used here is an ideal foil for the density of the content. To some, that might be a shame – it means ‘Divers’ lacks the towering element of its two predecessors in terms of dimensions and distinctiveness. Then again, just as with ‘Carrie & Lowell’ by Sufjan Stevens – another musician who seems to be operating on a different plane entirely to the rest of the pack – the stripping away of self-imposed structural grandness has the seductive effect of focussing the awe on the visceral feel of the songs rather than the feat of musical engineering. And that’s what lingers from ‘Divers’ the most: for all its bewitching scholarly accomplishment, this is a wonderfully natural-feeling album, whose heart has even more to offer than its thrillingly skilful head.
Reviews 09/10
Roots Manuva Bleeds Bi g d ada By dav id z amm itt. In st o re s Oct 30
Whether he likes it or not, Rodney Hylton Smith is gradually becoming a British institution. Unlike Doctor Who, Barbara Windsor or the NHS, however, the man who makes his art as Roots Manuva has proved himself to be an unfailingly reliable force over the last two decades. It comes as no surprise, then, that this, his ninth LP continues a rich vein of form that stretches back to 1999 and that classic agenda-setting debut, ‘Brand New Second Hand’. While the album’s title, he suggests, is a bit of a front (“It’s an egocentric jest of daring to do things in the tradition of Jesus”), you get the feeling that there’s a deep-seated truth when Roots Manuva declares that he’s
willing to, “bleed for the artform.” Having worked on the collection for almost four years, it’s clear that Smith has used the time to obsess over the details contained within. As the beam of his creative torch falls, in turn, upon hip hop, grime, house and funk, he demonstrates a sonic sleight of hand that is unparalleled in modern UK music as a whole, never mind the narrow confines of hip hop. Opener ‘Hard Bastards’ is the perfect example of Smith’s knack of scattering diamonds in the rough, juxtaposing the aesthetic with the brutal. “And most broke cunts are all true bastards / And most rich cunts are even more bastards,” he rasps – the raw, awkward poetry offset by
gentle strings and organ chords that complement rather than contradict and serve as a metaphor for Roots’s multifarious worldview. Next up, ‘Crying’ is a cold slice of Dizzeeesque UK grime as he seems to tick off his shopping list of genres, while ‘Don’t Breathe Out!’ takes the psychedelic soul of Young Fathers and polishes it even more brightly. As it settles into itself, the second half of the album – comprising a quintet of tracks that begins with ‘Stepping Hard’ – is a warmer and more overtly personal affair. There is pathos; the caustic trip hop of ‘I Know Your Face’ is a meditation on death that finds Roots laying himself bare, but there is also closer ‘Fighting
For?’, which sees the record out with an uplifting affirmation of the virtue of rebellion as Smith again showcases the spectrum of his talents and the dexterity with which he can weave between subjects both intimate and universal. So while the album is frustrated and fidgety, agitated and angry, it’s also an energised call to arms and a celebration which is peppered with a wry, macabre sense of humour that tempers its statements and lends them a more considered weight. As he moves deeper into his 40s, things bode well for a man that could still be considered British hip hop’s finest upstart, and ‘Bleeds’ might just be the best Roots Manuva album yet.
Of all the interpretations of Aristotle’s concept of agent intellect, the most apt for Protomartyr is the one that says human cognition happens through reference to shared concepts. It’s impossible to hear this third album in four years from the Detroit foursome without abstracting it through the same touchpoints as the others: early-eighties post-punk, razor-edged noise rock, etc. Certainly Joe Casey’s laconic baritone voice is still shot through with the same listless gloominess as it was on last
year’s full-length breakthrough, ‘Under Color of Official Right’, and in fact there’s a similarly monochromatic aesthetic enveloping the entire record. Where previously Casey’s dark lyrical fantasies have tended to stem from his literary proclivities though, here they sometimes emanate from a much more tangible place. On ‘Ellen’ for instance, the singer fills the part of his deceased father in waiting for his Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother in the afterlife; the middle of the track
fading into noise like lost memories. If thematically some tracks are smaller-scale, musically things have been blown up. Big, bruising codas close out ‘Pontiac 87’ and ‘Clandestine Time’ and the whole thing feels much more of an ampedup, riff-heavy affair than before. Predictably, any criticism comes down to the fact that Protomartyr are distilling existing concepts here rather than creating anything new, but hey, that’s agent intellect, right?
08/10
Protomartyr The Agent Intellect H a r dl y a r t By j ames f . th om pso n. In sto re s o ct 9
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Horsebeach Merz II Thinking Like A Mountain
06 /10
07/ 10
USA Nails No Pleasure
Jaye Bartell Loyalty
Al on e t oget her
A cc i d e nt a l
Sma l l T o wn A m e r i c a
Si n der ly n
By der ek r ober tso n. In sto re s Oct 9
B y Jo e go ggi ns . I n s to re s N o v 6
By R e e f yo u ni s . I n s to re s n o v 6
B y guia c o r t a s s a . In s t o r es O c t 3 0
Rain-soaked Manchester might not be the obvious place to look for shimmering indie pop, but Ryan Kennedy has crafted another album that dumbfounds as much as it delights. His second outing as Horsebeach is a gorgeous record; ten tracks that stretch themselves out to bask in the late afternoon haze and carry not a hint of Northern gloom. That such a delightful set of songs were crafted alone, amid suburban drudgery, makes it all the more impressive. Unlike others in thrall to C86 jangle pop (Kennedy cites Real Estate as a big influence) he’s careful not to drench everything in reverb – the guitars are crisp and light, melodies flicker through the songs like candle light at dusk, the drums are kept sharp, bright, and simple. His voice carries just a hint of Morrissey’s melancholy, but a little echo keeps it floating just above the music; the perfect, beguiling tone to deliver lines like: “She wears an oversized sweater to hide her oversized heart”. Dreamy, atmospheric, and utterly charming, then, Horsebeach deserve to reach a wider audience second time around.
If the late nineties and early noughties feel like a long time ago to you, imagine how Conrad Lambert must feel. It was back then that, after a couple of entries on the UK singles charts, he signed to a major and released a debut album that never took off quite like many predicted it would. He might well tell you, though, that it turned out to be a blessing in disguise; his career since, under the recording name Merz, has evidently been one free of commercial pressure, with shows in the unlikeliest of locations and apparently no real limit to the type of artist he’s happy to collaborate with, scored through a fascinating sixteen-year career. This fourth album was also evidently produced in an environment free of external duress; over the course of eight tracks that showcase his multiinstrumental talent to the full, he swings between the minimal electronica of twelve-minute opener ‘Shrug’ to the distorted calypso of ‘Serene’ with real verve, via barelythere, guitar-driven pieces like ‘Dear Ghost’. An accomplished – if often jarringly diffuse – effort.
USA Nails make the kind of raw, punishing racket you’d expect from a collective broken off from Oceansize, Hawk Eyes, Kong, Future of the Left, Silent Front and Dead Arms. And if their debut album, ‘Sonic Moist’, was all about taking the direct route, little has changed with the bludgeoning energy of ‘No Pleasure’. From the distant speakerphone vocal and slashing guitar of ‘Automated Cyst’ to the rampaging two-minute pummel of ‘Make Me Art’, this is the soundtrack to a bad day, amplified by manic delivery and tight, frictional guitar. Plain-speaking in style and substance, the Mclusky-esque ‘I Am In a Van’ and the circle-pit-inducing ‘Cannot Drink Enough’ hit with the straight-fisted bluntness of their titles. Elsewhere, ‘Laugh It Up’ launches into chugging hard-edged punk chords and breakneck percussion as it thrashes itself into a relentless two-minute oblivion. It makes ‘No Pleasure’’s risible sequence of short, sharp, brutal stomps almost physical. Like a backstreet kicking on the way back from a small-town pub, it’s a bruising but satisfyingly primal experience.
Jaye Bartell is a poet – someone able to mention Hieronymus Bosch and Federico Garcia Lorca as main influences in his songwriting; a writer roaming through the States, from North Carolina to the Pacific Northwest and back, to Buffalo first and then Brooklyn at last. He learned to record in 2008, and from then on his verses have melded with melody and accidental environmental noises, also thanks to a supportive group of fellow artists and musicians. That’s the way ‘Loyalty’, his debut album, was born: 300 copies only, initially released in 2013 by Headway Recordings (a small, experimental label based in Asheville, NC, like Bartell at the time) and now reprinted and distributed by Sinderlyn. It’s a rusty, dark, intense folk record, made of the songwriter’s imprecise yet extremely expressive voice and reverbed guitars, with sounds swinging from the Velvet Underground to Timber Timbre or Angel Olsen, like black and white love songs from a haunted house. It’s an intriguing introduction, too; an appetiser to keep us satisfied while waiting for his new album, due 2016.
To appreciate the work of kooky Calipunk twins Wyatt and Fletcher Shears, you need to buy into their philosophy of Vada Vada. Defined as “an idea that represents pure creative expression that disregards all previously made genres and ideals,” it’s reinforced in their biography with the assertion that “The Garden don’t care what you think.” On 2013’s ‘The Life And Times Of A Paperclip’, the duo decorated their DIY Vadaverse with surf-rock-style
bass lines and hyperactive drum fills, while Wyatt ricocheted between yelps and drawls, imagining himself “waking up in a bird’s nest” one moment, and living life as a coat hanger the next. Songs rarely grazed the minute-and-a-half mark, and their deliberate absurdity was amusingly disorientating. On ‘haha’, the joke has worn so painfully thin it’s practically threadbare. Splattered with cheap synths and often driven by – what appears to be – the keyboard’s “breakbeat” demo,
their second album sounds like the sort of tinny, junglist-flavoured, electro-punk set that Noel Fielding’s character in Nathan Barley might make. Extending songs like ‘Devour’ to the three-minute mark proves a huge error too: in the absence of any spontaneous energy, you’re forced to focus on Wyatt’s appalling wordplay, which is peppered with Des’ree-lite clangers like, “Like a ghost with flip flops / I’m not heavy.” It’s probably for the best that The Garden don’t care what I think.
03/10
The Garden Ha Ha Epi taph By Ge mma s amways. In sto re s Oct 9
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07 /10
07/ 10
Dilly Dally Sore
Larry Gus I Need New Eyes
Small Black Best Blues
Alex G Beach Music
Par t is an
DFA
J a gja g uwar
domino
By S am Cor n f or th. In sto res Oct 16
B y D avid Z ammi tt. I n s to re s O c t 2 3
By he nry wil ki ns o n. I n s t o r es o c t 1 6
B y C h r is wa t k ey s . In s t o r es O c t 9
Dilly Dally’s name is a red herring. The Toronto four-piece certainly don’t mess about when they belt out their heavy melodic songs that boast layers of swampy noise and exciting pop hooks. The two leaders of the group, Katie Monks and Liz Bell, bonded over a mutual love for the Pixies and other bands. It’s apparent on this, their debut album, which plays out like a fun game of joining the dots of the Canadian four-piece’s adored acts. There are hints of The Smashing Pumpkins during the smouldery opener, ‘Desire’, Breeders-esque riffs on ‘Purple Rage’, and ‘Ballin Chain’ showcases enthralling blasts of noise that Sonic Youth would have been proud of. Despite following the template of their heroes with quiet-loud-quiet song structures they manage to avoid sounding outdated thanks to Monks’ invigorating snarl that gives their grunge-pop everlasting energy. ‘Sore’ may not break any new ground but there are plenty of left turns and invigorating twists that make Dilly Dally’s debut album more than just a case of spotting the ’90s alt rock influences... and some of that too.
Moving away from the sample-led psychedelia of his 2013 debut album, DFA’s Larry Gus has summoned the confidence to strip things back and go up front with his own instrumentation. The classic worldbeat sounds of the likes of David Byrne and Peter Gabriel are interspersed with Notwist- and Lali Puna-esque skittering electronica and the neo-dub of Peaking Lights to construct an intimate, cavernous world as its master grapples with fatherhood, physical exile and artistic jealousy with disarming candour. Gus really succeeds when ‘I Need New Eyes’ manages to create a coherent mood of nocturnal melancholy. ‘A Set of Replies,’ ‘Belong to Love,’ and the epic ‘All Graphs Explored’ are all worthy additions to the James Murphy’s label’s lineage, while closer ‘Nazgonya’ is a piece of thumping ’80s new wave that even Arthur Russell might be proud of. At times the poetry can be clumsy (to be fair Gus, aka Panagiotis Melidis, is a native of Greece), but, overall, this is an indicator of what might yet come from an emerging talent.
The third album from synth-happy popsters Small Black was born slowly out of the chaos of hurricane Sandy. Singer Josh Hayden Kolenik returned to his family home in Long Island to find the place had flooded and spent much of his time trying to restore damaged photographs – one of which has ended up on the album cover. The struggle to preserve and maintain past memories permeates ‘Best Blues’, and appropriately submerged beneath the buzzing atmospherics and ambient guitar cascades, there’s an undeniable wistfulness. ‘Big Ideas, Pt. 2’ is both gloriously sentimental and stylish (think Chromatics/Drive soundtrack), while ‘Back at Belles’ nods towards their earliest chill wave tendencies, re-imagined six years later in white noise and shoegaze fuzz.With vocals stepping out totally from behind the reverb to reveal an earnestness and pop sensibility like never before, and a propulsive rhythm section that kicks off in opener ‘Boy’s Life’ and rarely relents until its cacophonous peak in ‘XX Century’, this is Small Blacks most accessible and immediate record.
‘Beach Music’ is Alexander Giannascoli’s seventh album release. He’s only 22 – an age that most people struggle to put together seven demos by. This impressively prolific bedroom troubadour has hit the indie big time this year, with this latest record his first for Domino. Not unexpectedly, ‘Beach Music’ gives off a strong DIY vibe; the sound of a guy holed up in his apartment, where, indeed, this album was recorded.The oft-reeledout Elliot Smith comparison seems justified on tracks like ‘Thorns’, too, with its muted melodies and fragile vocals.Yet this is a musically diverse collection of songs – on ‘Look Out’, Giannascoli conjures a shimmering, sparkling soundscape that sadly lasts less than two minutes, which segues straight into the simple melodic indie-pop of ‘Brite Boy’. There is a seam of quality that runs all the way through this record, and Alex G is a young guy whose talent does in fact match his work rate and eagerness to share his music. No doubt we can expect his eighth album by the time we’ve had breakfast.
Shopping’s 2013 debut LP, ‘Consumer Complaints’, exhibited a predilection for the more lively side of post-punk: those complicated cross rhythms created by Billy Easters’ funkinfused bass and Rachel Aggs’ erratic, chord-eschewing guitar and incisive vocals invoked an eerie likeness to Delta 5 and ESG, alongside the sporadic belligerence Shopping of Gang Of Four. Straight Lines The band’s second album is not much different, and by wearing their f at c at influences on their sleeves, you By h ay ley sc ott . In sto res Oct 2
might place them in the copyist bracket, recycling a sound that has been done to death. Shopping’s ability to retrofit a hugely popular aesthetic into something defiantly 2015 is what makes them singular, though, and nobody does it with quite as much conviction as this lot. Live, they’re a party band, which has always translated well on record, and while ‘Why Choose?’ continues in this vein, it’s a little darker in tone. There’s no ‘In Other Words’ – the prevailing spidery single from
‘Consumer Complaints’ that ultimately defined this band – but there’s a similar fierceness in songs like ‘Why Wait?’ and ‘Straight Lines’. Embellished production is once again forgone in favour of more emphasis on rugged melodies and clever song-craft, like utilising silence as an extra instrument and using sparseness and call-andresponse instead of chugging distortion found in classic punk. Shopping remain as idiosyncratic as they are addictive.
08/10
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Albums 09/10
0 6/10
09/10
08/ 10
EL VY Return To The Moon
Fuzz II
Normil Hawaiians Return of the Ranters
4ad
In t h e re d
Beach Slang The Things We Do To Find People Who Feel Like Us
By h en r y wil k inso n. In sto re s Oct 30
B y j oe go ggi ns . I n s to re s o c t 2 3
bi g s c ary mo ns t e rs
Up s e t t h e r h y t h m B y t o m fen w i c k . In s t o r e s o c t 2 3
By ale x wi s gard . I n s to re s o c t 3 0
With 2015 proving to be a pretty dark year, it’s safe to say we’re in need of a little escapism. Up step The National front man Matt Berninger and friend Brent Knopf (best known for Menomena and Ramona Falls) with new project EL VY. This debut release provides an absorbing reprieve while never breaking totally free from current pessimisms. Berninger’s storytelling struts through the occasionally unnerving terrain of American suburbia with an illumined eye and wicked tongue, and with the help of Knopf’s pristine and protean arrangements it’s never sounded so good. ‘I’m the Man To Be’ is an angular ego trip with Father John Misty’s primal poetics, while ‘Silent Ivy Hotel’ is a dark Wurlitzer ride of romance that would fit nicely on Timber Timbre’s ‘Hot Dreams’. “Beatles-mania made my mother think the way she does/She always said don’t waste your life wishing everything was, how it was,” Berninger sings on ‘Paul is Alive’. This ain’t no nostalgia trip: timeless, reflective but with its feet firmly in the now.
Ty Segall is a man of unrelenting – almost aggressive – productivity, so after putting out a solo LP in each of the past seven calendar years, it would’ve been a far bigger shock if he hadn’t released a record in 2015. Alongside his own ‘Live in San Francisco’ album, comes this second collaborative album with Charles Moothart and Chad Ubovich. The untrained ear, on first listen, might not discern too dramatic a stylistic departure from Segall’s solo work on ‘II’, but where last year’s ‘Manipulator’ was a sprawling and highly varied effort, this album is Fuzz playing it considerably straighter. It’s a rambunctious effort bursting at the seams with riff-driven jams that seldom actually go anywhere, but – on the likes of standouts ‘Red Flag’ and ‘Bringer of Light’ – are good fun all the same. Those two tracks succinctly capture both sides of ‘II’; the former’s breakneck and overblown, and the latter’s languid and almost bordering on stoner rock. The title track – the closer – runs at almost fourteen minutes. Is ‘II’ indulgent and overblown? Yes. Entertaining along the way? Definitely.
“THE NIGHT IS ALIVE, IT’S LOUD AND I’M DRUNK!” So opens ‘Noisy Heaven’, one of ten breathless anthems that make up Beach Slang’s debut. The line is as perfect a scenesetter as anything you’ll hear this year, with each track here designed for maximum adrenaline impact. The wind-tunnel production and swigging, snorting attitude mark The Replacements as Beach Slang’s totem, and song titles like ‘I Break Guitars’ and ‘Too Late to Die Young’ (the album’s token ballad) ram the ethos home. Meanwhile, frontman James Alex rasps his lyrics in a Marlboro-ravaged whisper so forceful you’d never guess he was already a punk veteran, let alone in his early forties. This puts him in the same position as Craig Finn was when the Hold Steady broke big ten years ago. But where Finn operated as the scene’s omniscient narrator, Alex provides poignant, on-location reportage right from the pit. “I BLUR ALL THIS HURT INTO SOUND,” he repeats at the album’s close. Beach Slang bring both to the extreme – noisy heaven indeed.
Cast your mind back to Britain in the grip of despair and anxiety. A time of strikes, austerity, protest, poverty and Conservative rule... no, not last week, but 1985 during the dying embers of post-punk. Normil Hawaiians have just recorded their third studio album – ‘Return of The Ranters’ – a searing state of national address, which brings to bear the full weight of their ire against a Thatcherite government… only to see the record get shelved for thirty years. Cut to 2015 and Britain has returned to a time of despair, austerity (etc….) so what better time than now to reissue and remaster this lost could-be classic? Much of the album – specifically the more experimental instrumentals such as ‘Sleibhte Macalla’ and ‘Piton De La Fronaise’ – have withstood the test of time. Of course, there are some anachronistic elements to the lyrics, but the emotive force with which many of these songs are delivered elevates tracks like ‘Battle of Stonehenge’ and ‘Slums Still Stand’ beyond the ravages of their age; ushering in a welcome revival, for the last of the lost protest collectives.
London’s Sam Shepherd has been releasing perfectly formed EPs and 12-inches as Floating Points since 2010, but quite how they’ve informed ‘Elaenia’ is unclear: where previous releases mainly contented themselves with the dancefloor, offering seductive builds, drops and swells in five-minute chunks, his debut album is a far broader affair, owing more to the ecstatic free jazz tendencies of John Coltrane, blaxploitation soundtracks and even the elegiac abstraction of
recent Radiohead. That’s not to say Shepherd’s abandoned his roots – ’Elaenia’ is still undeniably an electronic record, trading on modulations of repeated motifs and glitched textures with rich, syrupy synth playing at the fore, and he’s allowed the occasional proggy explorations from previous EPs to run far wilder here too. Crucially, though, what makes ‘Elaenia’ so moreish (and noticeably fuller than his more noodly early
work) is the atmosphere Shepherd evokes: effortlessly groove-laden live drums, hazy not-quite-melodies and a seamless flow across its 43 minutes makes for rather hypnotic listening. It ends with a monstrous build, with layers of krauty guitars and drums piled upon each other before a honking sax joins and Shepherd cuts the whole thing dead in its tracks. It’s a dizzying, virtuoso and bold act, and somewhat emblematic of the album that’s gone before.
09/10
Floating Points Elaenia Pl ut o By s am wal ton . In sto res no v 6
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Reviews 08/10
0 7/10
06 /10
08/ 10
Esmerine Lost Voices
Naytronix Mister Divine
Bill Ryder-Jones West Kirby County Primary
!!! As If
D o u ble S i x
Wa r p
By gui a c o rtas s a. I n s to r e s N o v 6
B y de r e k r o ber t s o n . I n s t o r e s N o v 6
On his 2012 debut album as Naytronix, tUnE-yArDs-bassist Nate Brenner explored the concept of “postapocalyptic robots” via the medium of Bootsy Collins-inspired funk. In keeping with rock‘n’roll tradition, this follow-up focuses on the deadtime during touring. Mercifully, it proves a self-pity-free meditation on the theme, exploring emotions of rootlessness by creating an atmosphere akin to lucid dreaming. It works particularly well on ‘The Wall’. Over the warmth of a syncopated horn sample, intricate hi-hat pattern and dancing bass runs, Brenner mourns “Never ever wanted to go,” later adding, “I’ve been feeling so confused for a while now.” The lurching bass line and pitch-shifted backing vocals on ‘Starting Over’ further illustrate that sense of disorientation, while on the joyous, William Onyeabor-esque funk of ‘Dream’, Brenner beseeches, “Tell my mother I miss home.” Brenner’s fluid approach can become meandering at points but, overall, its message and sharpened emphasis on melody make ‘Mister Divine’ a more satisfying listen than ‘Dirty Glow’.
At a certain point of his solo career, after a first instrumental, orchestral concept album inspired by Italo Calvino and a folk follow up, Bill Ryder-Jones went adrift. The inability to connect to the music he was working on for his alleged third record led him off of his regular path, to the point that the project needed to be aborted. But every cloud has a silver lining, and without that negative phase, there’s a good chance that we wouldn’t have ‘West Kirby County Primary.’ Less juvenile than its predecessor, this new album from the former Coral guitarist sees him getting back to his electric six-strings and move on from childhood stories to add a mellow rock’n’roll echo to grown-up songs. Produced by John Ford and recorded at Parr Street Studios in Liverpool, ‘West Kirby County Primary’ sounds quintessentially British, recalling Pulp and even the early Coldplay, with a hint of that ’50s mood that’s helped defined the latest Arctic Monkeys. and some crooning à la Richard Hawley. Get your parka and sunglasses on, and enjoy.
Six albums in, dance-punk pioneers !!! have refined their sound to the point that it almost always hits the bullseye. Nic Offer & band have grown so adept at welding dancefloor dynamics to a rich strain of funk and leftfield pop that excellence is pretty much expected at this point. But ‘As If’ goes even further; a warm, engrossing record that brings the beats and the smarts, it’s the group’s most enveloping collection of songs yet. Even the cover image of a monkey atop a pile of bananas is perfectly apt; ‘As If’ transports you to a daytime beach disco on a tropical island. !!!’s love of early ’90s house shines through here, and the motifs of that time – wiry guitar licks, organic synths, bouncy drums – are lovingly applied throughout. This lends the music a comforting familiarity, but it’s done with a freshness and zest that avoids the nostalgia trap. Even channelling Studio 54-esque soul-funk (‘Freedom! ’15’) sounds very of the moment, revealing a band possessing that rare ability to thrill with their own interpretation of past glories.
Back in 2011, Rival Consoles’ second album, ‘Kid Velo’ hit like a giddy mixtape straight from the midnoughties. Channelling Daft Punk’s (da) funk, Digitalism’s boundless energy, and Justice’s penchant for brash amplification, its festivalfriendly electro and sizzling, circuitblowing intent continues to feel like a happy accident set next to Ryan West’s recent, more reticent work. Where his ‘Odyssey’ and ‘Sonne’ EPs set a fresh standard of subtle, slow-building heft, ‘Howl’ is their
long-played culmination – a milestone of minimal atmospherics and pulsing, contemplative beats. Opener ‘Howl’ goes deep, shuffling with muddied bass and melody that suddenly tumble from the depths before ‘Ghosting’ slows the pace to a complex crawl of snaking, oscillating tension that breaks with goosebump deftness. ‘Low’ is similarly, exquisitely measured. Textural and tempered, it’s a third album that has more in common with Jon Hopkins and James Holden’s
droning electronica but there’s still plenty in play for ‘Howl’ to stand in the exalted ambient company of Erased Tapes labelmates like Nils Frahm and Ólafur Arnalds. So where ‘Afterglow’ spits and twitches across a restless, stopstart few minutes, ‘Morning Vox’ inverted rave groove feels like a twilight triumph – a gloriously subdued 3am bedroom set-ender you turn up even though everyone else has gone to bed. ‘Howl’ deserves nothing less than total immersion.
c on s t ell at i on By c h r i s watk eys. I n sto res o ct 16
Esmerine are a Canadian post-rock supergroup of sorts, formed by Bruce Cawdron of Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Rebecca Foon of Thee Silver Mt. Zion, back in the early years of this millennium. Their fifth studio album – following 2013’s ‘Dalmak’ – sees them and a roster of guest musicians combine to superb effect. Certainly, the stylistic hallmarks of GSY!BE and their contemporaries can be strongly felt at times; there are the suspenseful builds, the cataclysmic crescendos and the apocalyptic maelstroms of noise that are the signature sounds of this genre. But there are also strong distinctions; witness the rough edges and gypsy rhythms of ‘Funambule’, or the tense math rock and looping fractal forms to be heard on ‘19/14’. There’s something about this music that absorbs and surrounds you – the absence of vocals almost means it demands more of your attention, and a more visceral engagement with the music. At its best, ‘Lost Voices’ casts off the shackles of the ordinary and the mundane, and transports you to a world of higher feelings.
city s lang B y gemm a s am ways . In s to r e s o c t 1 6
08/10
Rival Consoles Howl
e r as ed t a pe s By reef y oun i s . In sto res o ct 16
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Albums 08/10
Deerhunter Fading Frontier 4ad By J ames F . Th ompso n. In sto res o ct 16
As you probably already know, Bradford Cox is an endearingly strange fellow. Born with Marfan syndrome, the 6’4” Deerhunter frontman has preternaturally gangly limbs not dissimilar to those of the late Joey Ramone, who also carried the genetic disorder. On stage, Cox makes the most of his condition, dolled up in make-up and flailing his stringy frame around in Victorian-era dresses, wigs or whatever else he happened to find at the thrift store that day. Off it, the 33 year-old has a personality that’s as colourful as his wardrobe. Gay but reputedly asexual and described in one recent profile as a “lightning rod for controversy,” a couple of years ago he famously
turned one Deerhunter interview into a hilarious diatribe about his intense dislike of Morrissey and the Smiths (“Morrissey’s influence is so crippling that it could even deteriorate the flower of modern creative thought. It’s like a pungent death shroud over the future and the past”). The reason all of this matters is that Deerhunter are a band in thrall to the projection of Cox’s idiosyncrasies; the intensity of their art-rock output is pegged to the ebb and flow of their mercurial bandleader’s emotions. Following on from a series of increasingly melodic releases that started with 2008’s ‘Microcastle’, the Atlanta, Georgia,
four-piece returned to the realm of abrasion with ‘Monomania’ in 2013 largely because Cox was feeling shitty at the time. Now, with this seventh full-length, Deerhunter are in a happier place – specifically, home. After cheating death in a serious car crash last December, Cox is revelling in the serene pleasures of domesticity. “I’m off the grid, I’m out of range,” he sings amidst the celebratory pop of ‘Living My Life’. “I’ve spent all of my time chasing a fading frontier / I’m living my life.” Recorded in an Atlanta studio with ‘Halcyon Digest’ producer Ben Allen, ‘Fading Frontier’ is a blend of straightforward Americana
(‘Breaker’, ‘Carrion’), ’60s-aping rock (‘Snakeskin’, ‘Duplex Planet’) and lush synth-pop (‘Ad Astra’). There are throwbacks to the warped tape loops and otherworldliness of albums like ‘Cryptograms’ with the introspective psych of ‘Leather and Wood’, while Broadcast’s James Cargill livens up excellent album centrepiece ‘Take Care’. Be under no illusions, though: ‘Fading Frontier’ represents a conscious retreat from the scuzzy claustrophobia of ‘Monomania’ and a surge towards considered, contented songcraft. To bemoan the fact that Deerhunter aren’t operating on the frontier of indie rock at the moment would be to entirely miss Cox’s point.
Soldiers of Fortune were convened over a decade ago by indie rock lifer Brad Truax with a list of rules (no writing, rehearsing, recording, touring) to ensure minimum exposure. Now on their second album, the self-proclaimed “antiband” have all but ditched their situationist jam band ethics for – gasp – properly structured songs. For a group featuring members of Oneida and Chavez, ‘Early Risers’ is an unexpectedly loose affair, full of bloozy bravado and smirking lyrics.
Still, the real draw here is likely to be the guest vocalists; Kid Millions demonstrates his secret cockrocking aspirations on opener ‘Nails’, an onslaught of dusty krautrockin’ rifferama, while Stephen Malkmus instigates (then swiftly abandons) a new dance craze on ‘Campus Swagger’. So while it’s cool to hear Matt Sweeney and co. let (what’s left of) their hair down, in between their more serious endeavours, too many tracks exhaust their one idea early,
meandering on way past the point of interest; and so ‘Early Risers’ progresses. That said, the album saves its best for last with a demented three-chord thrasher called ‘Which’, featuring the Vic Chesnutt-gone-gothic vocals of one Clark “Yeremias” Bronson. It sounds like Ween sending up the Bad Seeds, and it marks the one moment where the listener finally feels in on the joke. Let’s call it The Desert Sessions for the ATP set.
Soldiers of Fortune Early Risers Me x i c an summer By Al e x wisgard . In stores no v 6
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p h o t og r a p h y : j en n a f o xt o n
06/10
Reviews / Live
Beirut Brixton Academy London 24/ 0 9 / 20 15 wr i ter : c h r i s watke ys Ph otogr aph er : Bur ak Cing i
Two weeks after the release of a new album, the public reception of which gave him cause for considerable anxiety, Zach Condon’s wandering feet have brought him and his band to a sold-out show in south London and into an atmosphere that must feel to him hugely affirming. Beirut are one of those acts whose fans are vastly loyal and loving, and the atmosphere in Brixton tonight is almost tangibly warm and fuzzy. After almost a decade playing shows of this size, Condon and his (now relatively settled) band line-up know what they’re doing on stage.Yet his, and their, polished stagecraft doesn’t detract from the openness
and – often – the spirituality of the songs themselves. And while some of the gloriously ramshackle nature of their recorded selves may have diminished over the course of four albums, at times tonight – most expectedly in the likes of set opener ‘Scenic World’ – it is back, and in full effect. You used to get the feeling watching Beirut that Condon would play every instrument himself if only he could, and as always he switches between trumpet and ukulele and god knows what else this evening. But elsewhere on stage the brass glints in the hands of the musicians, and the music really shines for
Condon’s ability to let go. Beirut’s music is a rich, beautiful, changing tapestry.Tonight we get a taste of the spiritual, almost wordless, ramshackle wails of debut ‘Guleg Orkestar’, but much more of the concisely assembled new LP ‘No No No’, with a liberal sprinkling from the albums in between. That brass can feature so prevalently in these songs, and yet Beirut’s sound doesn’t become dependent on it, is a large part of Condon’s unique talent. Still, there’s no escaping that tonight’s trumpets and horns possess an anthemic quality, in the truest sense of the word – these are songs that could
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soundtrack the triumphant raising of a flag. Never forget though that Condon is a skilled writer of pop songs, and those are the songs which can get a crowd the size of Brixton Academy dancing; ‘Santa Fe’’s shiny melodies really fly in this cavernous space, while ‘The Rip Tide’ is swoonsome and glorious. And although he is blessed with a voice that can add a tinge of melancholy to the sweetest of tunes, there are many moments of pure, unalloyed joy. A huge roar goes up for ‘The Gulag Orkestar’ in the encore, and there is mild chaos onstage. It’s been a party at the academy.
Live
King Khan & BBQ Show Birthdays, Dalston
Outfit Electrowerkz, Islington
0 2/ 0 9 / 20 15
2 1 / 09/ 2 01 5
wr i ter : Patr i c k G le n
w r it er : j a m es f . t h o mpso n P h o t og r a p h er : T o m J a c ks o n
The paucity of press coverage for Outfit isn’t all that easy to explain away. Purveyors of sophisticated, icily-evocative synth-pop produced under the influence of Talk Talk and Prefab Sprout, the Liverpool-raised, transatlantic-living quartet are here to wrap up a European tour for marvellous second record ‘Slowness’. Up on stage, wiry front man Andrew Hunt and the band are in good spirits, though they’re jokily narked about having to wade through the sweaty crowd to get there. “This is my favourite song, it’s what we’re all about,” Hunt says, introducing new single ‘Framed’. Maybe, although it’s when the bombast notches up with ‘Happy Birthday’, ‘Swam Out’ and 2011 cut ‘Two Islands’ that Outfit really click into gear. In fact, tonight suggests the band’s LPs, marvellous or otherwise, still do them a disservice – just like the press.
King Khan and BBQ Show make sweat drip off the ceiling. They rattle through songs that have the hallmarks of neo-garage rock cratedigger knowledge warped by their part-surreal-part-brat-punk humour. There’s doo-wop full of longing and real tearjerkers from their new album, like ‘Alone Again’ and ‘Bye Buy Bhai.’ The melancholy is sandwiched between the expected house-party-friendly shuffling threechord rockers full of overdrive and attitude, and ‘Fishfight,’ a song that is unbelievably ten years old, just makes you feel good. ‘Tastebuds’ then takes puerile dirty imaginings to uncharted depravity. It’s all propulsive and snotty. Khan even snarls when he’s being sensitive , and, along with Mark Sultan, is as caustic and entertaining as ever, inspiring the mob but holding stage invading extraverts in contempt.
Sufjan Stevens Brighton Dome, Brighton
Slime Courtyard Theatre, Hoxton
DRINKS The Hope, Brighton
Joanna Gruesome The Scala, London
0 4/ 0 9 / 20 15
02/09 / 2 0 1 5
11/09/2015
2 2 / 09/ 2 01 5
wr i ter : T om f enwic k
wri te r: max mo ran
wri te r: nathan we s tl e y
w r it er : P a t r ic k G len
Sufjan Stevens’ live set is divided into two very distinct halves.The first a deftly timed performance of sound and vision, framed around his most recent opus – written in response to the death of his estranged mother – ‘Carrie and Lowell’. A sombre masterpiece on record, with a full band it transfigures into a heartbreaking evocation of love, loss and stellar musicianship. The second half of the evening – ostensibly an elongated encore – ditches grand theatrics for stage chatter and relaxed recitals of favourites like ‘Casimir Pulaski Day’, ‘InThe Devil’s Territory’ and of course, ‘Chicago’. I can only equate seeing Stevens live to what it must feel like for an ornithologist to spot a rare bird: dreamlike, fleeting and momentary; but resonating with an increased sense of awe in the days, months and perhaps even years that follow.
Slime – or Will Archer – has built a niche following for his intimate brand of woozy electronic recordings, for hot nights and sensuality. It’s hard to peg a certain genre for this music to fall into (and gently fall it does), but there are elements of RnB, jazz, found sounds and more esoteric strands of electronica, as Archer dares you to guess exactly what is it making that hum or clipped beat. Rather than use this rare show to showcase his recently released debut album, ‘Company’, in its entirety, he uses a few of the tracks as a centerpiece while embellishing the rest of the show with freshly composed material, as well as a couple of cuts from his earlier EPs. Tonight there are a few moments that lack the requisite clarity to penetrate, but the moments of real cohesion, where the band brings these rich and soulful arrangements to life, feel pretty profound.
Collaborations between two respected figures always have the potential to automatically focus people’s attention. Drinks, formed by psych folk chanteuse Cate Le Bon and Tim Presley of psych rockers White Fence, may be one that has a distinct retro feel to it, but it also sees the duo sheer away the psych tendencies that are so often prevalent in their own work. The last date of their UK tour is one that is abundantly rich in abstract pop songs, which are played charmingly in a near sold out venue to an appreciative audience. Songs such as ‘Hermits On Fire’, where Le Bon’s strong Welsh accent floats over Television style guitar riffs, and the Nico-esc ‘Split The Beans’, hurry by in an unkempt and entirely endearing manner, which help ensure the audience easily become transfixed by this duo’s sloppy, fun presence.
The politics of live performance and people getting hurt caused Joanna Gruesome’s former singer to quit. These concerns might explain the Scala’s lukewarm atmosphere tonight. The crowd seem underwhelmed by a listless band who try but struggle to muster any sustained genuine-looking enthusiasm. I hear a damming comment on exiting – ‘contrived’. That’s a harsh observation, but they look like they’re going through the motions, and there certainly is a cold feeling coming from Joanna Gruesome tonight, even if their songs are fine, as ever – C86-style pop songs imbued with regular shots of dissonance (dissonance that, more often than not, resembles the intro to My Bloody Valentine’s ‘You Made Me Realise’). Outsider observations can bite you in the rear and I hope that I am wrong, but despite their creditable new album, Joanna Gruesome 2.0 are struggling.
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10 Years of Loud And Quiet magazine: A Photography Exhibition
Oct 23 – Nov 13 Oslo 1a Amhurst Rd Hackney London E8 1LL Entry: Free Opening times: 12pm til Late. Mon – Sun
Live
Green Man Brecon Beacons, Wales 20 - 23 / 0 8/ 20 15 wr i ter s : to m f enw ick Ph oto gr aph er : Da nie l Ale xa nde r Ha rris
Wherever you look these days a new festival is popping up to distract your attention from the greyscale months of British summertime. And while it would be nice to think this influx of events marks increased diversity – in both acts and attendees – little seems to change from field to field around the country. Green Man has spent the last decade nestled in the stunning surroundings of the Brecon Beacons, shying away from homogenisation. And despite arriving at the bleary-eyed close of the season, it’s a perennial reminder of why we still love to travel far from home, for wet days, warm nights and mud up to our ankles. Of course, it’s never just about the bands, with distractions to help occupy the time in-between set breaks ranging from a Welsh ale and cider festival to comedy and cinema (Adam Buxton draws a bigger crowd than a few of the acts), to hot toddies, gardens of scientific delight and a Ferris Wheel that takes in the entire site’s dramatic vista. That might sound a bit ‘nice’, and… well… it is, but the idea of a festival-as-a-warzone to harbour any kind of authenticity doesn’t hold much weight these days, especially if you’re over the age of 20. On paper, Leftfield seem at odds with these pastoral surroundings, but the question as to whether they’ll be a hit is soon dismissed with the Far Out Tent heaving to capacity. Ravers – both old and young (no, Green Man isn’t all about 40-somethings and their families) – throwing all manner of shapes to the Bristolian legends and their unique brand of middle-aged, maximalist techno. Hot Chip and Super Furry Animals provoke a similar reaction on the main stage. And while they’re both well practised in crowd pleasing anthems, the Londoners take a slight edge, Hot Chip’s set ramping up from slender beginnings into a jubilant dance party; huge luminous balls tossed into the crowd as they encore with covers of Springsteen and LCD Soundsystem. But it’s St Vincent of the headliners who crowns the weekend in radiant style; Annie Clark’s incandescent sound elevating the crowd to an otherworldly plane. Away from those big names, 2015
seems to be the breakout year for Natalie Prass and she doesn’t disappoint with a mix of celestial vocals and endearing ‘American abroad’ stage banter. While (the band now no longer known as) Viet Cong, and Hookworms, form an electrifying double-bill of noise and intensity, which jolts awake those residual hangovers. Elsewhere, Aurora and Vök bring a mix of great haircuts and glacial Icelandic sounds to the Walled Garden stage, while Matthew E. White comes prepared with more than enough sunshine to banish away rainclouds. It’s a truism that at Green Man sometimes the most memorable acts are the ones you least expect and this year is no different. Calexico raise us up from damp weather blues with a warm breath of Tex-Mex air, LA Priest step in at the last minute with a set that owes a debt to both David Bowie and Nathan Barley, while Songhoy Blues send us headlong on a joyride ofWest African rhythms. All three acts share a common trait: they leave us exhausted, elated and wanting more, although it’s the explosively exotic sounds of Atomic Bomb, with their interpretation of reclusive Nigerian psych-pop genius William Oneybor, which perhaps prove the weekend’s
biggest highlight of all; strains of ‘Fantastic Man’ transporting the crowd momentarily from the Welsh valleys to downtown Lagos as it pisses it down. At the other end of the spectrum, Richard Dawson draws out crowds, despite the rain, only to transport them into his foreboding vision of England’s North. Equal parts sonorous troubadour, tortured savant and howling lunatic, he’s a performer in constant flux; spiralling out of control as he screams to the heavens, only to rein himself back in for whispered tales of unutterable pain. It’s a heavy set, but it’s backed up by a performance so utterly compelling, it’s hard to avert your gaze. In fact, it’s so diverting, I almost miss the enchantment of Sexwitch. A collaboration between Natasha Khan (Bat for Lashes) and Toy, it’s a surprise performance, which sends Khan down a dark, drone-y avenue she’s not walked before. Clashes are the festivalgoer’s burden, and they seem to be a recurrent theme this year. Choosing between Courtney Barnett and Father John Misty is tough, and the diminutive Australian loses out to the peacock strutting pastor. The same goes for Goat,
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Mew and Slowdive who face overwhelming competition from the headline acts, while the granddads of angular post-punk narrowly beat out the great uncle of unintelligible art-pop: Television may seem a little lost on the main stage, but they trump The Fall with their full rendition of ‘Marquee Moon’. It seems churlish to complain too much, when you have such an embarrassment of wonders on offer, but Sylvan Esso (usually a festival favourite) flub their set with unnaturally amateurish precision, while Jamie xx falls flat.The latter’s 2am start, plus a torrent of rain, doesn’t help, but he sleepwalks through an unimaginative set, all the same. Some of the crowd are clearly enraptured, but for many, walking away to dry off and watch Road House in the Cinedrome feels like the superior option, and they’re definitely right. What makes Green Man so special is the way it continues to improve year upon year, and doing so naturally, remaining true to its roots. And while there’s an undoubted sense of sadness when it’s all over, the gloom of reality is overwhelmed by anticipation of mountains, valleys and the magic that awaits us next year.
Singing Pictures
W r i te r : A n d re w A n d er s on
Help! (1965)
Name the first Beatles film that comes into your head. A Hard Day’s Night? Maybe you’re thinking of Magical Mystery Tour? Or what about Yellow Submarine? Whichever you picked, chances are your first thought wasn’t of Help!, their second cinematic sojourn circa 1965. What with the ubiquity of A Hard Day’s Night, the national children’s treasure status of ‘Submarine’ and the resurgence of interest in ‘Mystery Tour’, Help! has found itself as the forgotten middle child, underrated, overlooked and unloved. And that’s a shame, because it’s the best Beatles film – by far. Here’s why. The progression from AHDN is apparent from the first shot, which opens on a strange sacrificial ritual in an ancient temple. While this turns out to be important to the plot, what’s more important is that it’s an ancient temple in full colour. After Beatlemania bore AHDN to the top of the box office it was decided a follow up film was needed, only this time they’d have a budget. So goodbye to the cool (and cheap) black and white of AHDN, and hello to Help!’s glorious Technicolor. It captures the ’60s in all its garish glory, every scene vibrating with energy. As the opening crashes and cries of Help! kick in, it becomes apparent that the filmstock isn’t the only thing now in full colour. Whereas before the Beatles’ songs were a monochrome world of she loves you/
she maybe loves you/be nice to me or I won’t love you, now they’re using the full palette of emotions, from the existential angst of the titular track (my independence seems to vanish in the haze) to the claustrophobic sorrow of ‘Ticket To Ride’ (she could never be free when I was around). Yes, there’s still a decent sprinkling of that old innocence on numbers like ‘You’re Going to Lose That Girl’ and ‘I Need You’, but even those have a harder and more cynical edge. Before I continue dribbling endlessly over the amazing music (something I am known to do when it comes to this film) I suppose we should actually talk about the movie itself. After AHDN the Beatles and their creative cohorts had a conundrum – what kind of film should they make next? Various ideas went around (including a cowboy western), but in the end they settled on a chase film. Sounds familiar, but this time it isn’t screaming girls, but rather crazy cult leaders and scary scientists, that are after them. Ringo (for reasons unclear) has come to possess an enchanted (and oversized) ring, one which is crucial in the sacrificial ceremonies of an unidentified eastern cult. Cult leader Clang (played by Leo McKern) tracks them down to Liverpool and the house that the Beatles share (with four different doors, of course). He and his gang then try their best to liberate the ring from Ringo through a series of stunts of the type usually
employed by hapless cartoon crooks like Dick Dastardly. The cult leaders are soon joined by a duo of scientists (one of whom is played by Victor Spinetti, the oddball TV director from the first film) who the Beatles first turn to for help, only to find they too become besotted with the ring (written down, it sounds moreTolkien than it actually is…so don’t worry, there aren’t any elves). As the band seek escape they travel to London (taking in Buckingham Palace), the Alps (where they narrowly avoid being blown up by bomb disguised as a curling stone) and the Bahamas. It’s a whirlwind, worldwide tour that illustrates both the budget and the ambition of director Dick Lester. It also indicates a band that is orbiting in a different universe from our own, detached from everyday reality. No longer are they among us, being pulled apart by screaming teens – they are somewhere far away and unreachable. There’s also a subtle shift in the dialogue, which was largely off-thecuff-improv in the first film. Instead, deadpan word play and surreal silliness is the name of the game, something similar to Spike Milligan’s Goon Show and Lennon’s own A Spaniard In The Works (copies of which Lennon is seen reading in the opening sequence). Sure, Charles Wood’s script is less natural, but it’s also a lot funnier, and it’s clear how much it influenced later comedians,
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particularly Monty Python, who directly lifted the intermission/title credits gag in Holy Grail from a similar scene in Help! But it wasn’t only comedians, and David Watkins’ stylish cinematography, with its use of soft focus, colour filters and layered compositions, has inspired generations of filmmakers ever since. Help! is a film so packed with action that we’ve barely scratched the surface of their adventures here. I’ve not mentioned that they ski down a mountain (in top hats); that Paul plays a woman as though she was a bass guitar on a Bahamian beach; that they smoke endless cigarettes through a mesmerising take of ‘Lose That Girl’; that a tiger attacks Ringo only to be placated by an ensemble rendition of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony; or that we end on the revelation that the entire film is dedicated to Elias Howe (who invented the sewing machine in 1846). Whether it’s Watkins’ cinematography, Lester’s direction, Woods’ words or indeed the Beatles music, each and every element was not only innovative but also entertaining. The Beatles were the world’s biggest band and yet they made amazing art and music, something that seems inconceivable today. With the sounds, the clothes, the playfulness and the personalities, Help! is the distillation of this incredible fact – a brilliant film, and the Beatles’ best.
Party wolf stereotypes: Drinking at home, alone, is fine, but there are places you can go for that
Country pub
Wetherspoons
DIY pop-up
gastro wine bar
common names: The Red Lion. The White Hart. The Black Horse. The Wheatsheaf. The Plough. Basically, a colour and an animal, or something about farming, and you’re in a country pub.
common names: The Picture House. The Blue Note. The Last Post. The Glasswerks. The Gatehouse. Names that refer to the building’s original purpose, which wasn’t always doubling up for 3p.
common names: Errr, guys, NOT being common is the whole point, which is why you should always keep up the old shop sign you’ve built a pub in, whether it’s Hats Hats Hats or Bags Bags Bags.
common names: All Bar One. The Slug & Lettuce. Banker’s Revenge. Lloyd’s Bar. The Parrot & Shoe. We’re talking names that aim for true class and, in the Parrot & Shoe’s case, a bit of fun for dress down Fridays.
Found in: A 400-year old tavern that, ‘legend has it’, was a favourite drinking den for Dick Turpin. ALWAYS.
Found in: The best ones? Old theatres and banks. The bigger the better, so you don’t bump into mum.
Found in: Old pound shops, butchers, fish mongers, front rooms. Anywhere with a roof for your garden furniture.
Found in: The ground floor of office buildings. biggest selling drink: Bottled beer with lime blocking its neck, Echo Falls wine for the connoisseurs, Smirnoff Ice for the (weekly) leaving dos.
biggest selling drink: Cider. And not the type you add ice and elderflower to.
biggest selling drink: All of them. Sometimes in the same glass, with a free curry.
biggest selling drink: Red Stripe by the can. Although, it is the only drink on sale, to be fair.
cuisine: A roast dinner. Or, for the vegetarians out there, Steak and Kidney pie.
cuisine: All of them. Sometimes in the same glass, with a free curry.
cuisine: Eat before you come. Orrr, some flapjacks under clingfilm on a plate by the till (Scooby Doo lunchbox).
clientelle: Bearded men with rosy cheeks who all know each other and are happier than you’ll ever be. And a dog the size of a horse.
clientelle: Bearded men with rosy cheeks who don’t know anyone. And pretty much everyone else who’s discovered the true value of a large Bells here before.
clientelle: Bearded men with defined cheeks who all know each other. But are they happy? Really?
entertainment: A dartboard, and that’s about it. Not really one for the quizzers, but on the up side you don’t have to leave a deposit for the darts.
entertainment: If you’re looking for entertainment in a Spoons beyond the Deal or No Deal pokey, you’re missing its true wonder and should leave.
entertainment: ’80s quizz, hair metal karaoke, Wayne’s World fancy dress competition, Twin Peaks screenings... Dudes, you’re home!
cuisine: Homade angus steak burger and curly fries. Add monterey cheese or bacon for an extra £4.50. clientelle: Work dictates no beards allowed, which is fine – footballers don’t have them. entertainment: Sky Sports Big Screen. Didn’t you see the banner outside? It covered half of Reed next door!
What the fuck was that?!
See! It’s fun randomly chucking bottles of tomato ketchup off the roof
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Disclaimer: The representations of the persons herein are purely fictitious
Photo casebook: The unfortunate world of Ian Beale