D. Klein continues his hot streak by turning in an addition to his other series, Obscurer Than Thou, a profile of Kiwi rock stalwarts, the Verlaines. I know that technically a small by engaged swath of you might have heard of the Verlaines previously, but their early singles compilation runs about 100 bucks on Amazon, so clearly the need for this stuff outstrips the current supply. I requested the Verlaines as a public service for an out of print tragedy. Yes, You're right I am a hero. (JK)

The Rain

by David Klein

The name Verlaine is not exactly a great predictor of commercial success on the rock scene. Besides its association with the tragic French poet, Verlaine rhymes with rain, pain, and slain. Very gloom and doom stuff. Its most famous rock namesake, Tom (formerly Miller) of Television, never sold a lot of records, but at least his (and the band’s) influence extends from the punk era to current outfits like Interpol. The great, largely unsung band known as the Verlaines never achieved even that worthy measure of acclaim. You won’t be seeing a major piece on them in next month’s MOJO. But the New Zealand outfit, whose career sprawled from 1980 to ’97, with only six full-length albums to show for it, produced some of the most perfectly glorious songs that might ever be called indie, and which will continue to be cherished by certain people who swoon when they hear the Verlaines’ distinctive blend of orchestral melancholy and bracing jangle.

In the late ‘80s, New Zealand enjoyed a brief moment in the indie-rock sun. Suddenly, it seemed, all these bands on the Flying Nun label were pumping out various forms of rustic, guitar-driven post-punk, with a pronounced pop sensibility and always a certain measure of weirdness. Several of these bands got American distribution as well as tours. While the Clean featured a certain cheeky, off-kilter charm, the Chills and the Verlaines treaded in darker, more poetic territory. The early Verlaines singles managed to marry a DIY feel with baroque arrangements and instrumentation that bespoke a more studied approach, rooted in more traditional types of music. Not surprising, since Verlaines leader Graeme Downes was a classically trained musician who pursued his Ph.D. between albums. This is what we knew of him, mostly. That, and he was possessed of a glowering handsomeness, in the hollow-cheeked way of buccaneers and consumptive poet types.

the Verlaines - "Death and the Maiden"

It could easily be argued that the definitive Verlaines single is “Death and the Maiden.” With a chorus consisting of the increasingly emphatic repetition of the word Verlaine, the song served as a pretty ace calling card—certainly miles ahead of Living in a Box’s “Living in a Box.” Like any great single, it packs a miniature world within the confines of its three-minute (OK, four-minute) structure. With an irresistible opening line, “You’re just too/too obscure for me,” and a cranky, accusing vocal, the song itself revels in obscurity, referencing the poets Verlaine and Rimbaud, and the painting “Death and the Maiden” by Egon Schiele. When the song stops dead about midway and an almost roller rink-y organ starts playing rudimentary lines, it brings to mind the shut-in son of a debauched count desultorily practicing scales on his harpsichord. And just as it sounds like all is going to implode (something I always look for in a great single), the train swings back into view, snatches you up, and barrels home in an adrenaline-raising cascade of harmonized “Verlaines.”

the Verlaines - "Pyromaniac"

the Verlaines - "Doomsday"

It’s probably a good thing that not all Verlaines tracks veered as close to chaos. While the band is known for its classical touches, Downes & Co. produced some wistfully lovely, far less bizarre songs. With its furiously strummed acoustic guitars, memorable minor-key melody, and Downes’ urgent vocals, “Pyromaniac” has a bit of the flavor of Jackie DeShannon’s “Don’t Turn Your Back on Me.”* Castanets might have really lifted this one into the stratosphere. “Doomsday,” another strong early single, quotes the guitar figure from the ‘60s folk-rock classic “Needles and Pins” during the verses. With the Verlaines, it’s never going to be uncomplicated breezy summer afternoon pop, but it’s furtively catchy with refreshingly distinct notes of angst and paranoia. See if you don’t agree.

* footnote bonus mp3: Jackie DeShannon - "Don't Turn Your Back on Me"

Previously: Retrohump Day - Kiwi Rock

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 10:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

by David Klein

When a great band breaks up, it isn’t pretty. Usually somebody dies. The Beatles fell apart in acrimony; the Stones refuse to break up, but things are often harsher when the star of your huge rock band dies suddenly and expectedly. After Jim Morrison’s final soak in a Parisian bathtub, the remaining Doors got together and in essence decided, “Hey, let’s just continue as The Doors, with our spindly keyboardist Ray Manzarek as lead singer, and hope the fans will dig our new direction.” Needless to say, the post-Jim Doors sunk into well-deserved oblivion until they reemerged years later, with some unreleased Lizard King poetry they’d set to music. Led Zeppelin knew enough to simply hang up its enormous wings after drummer John Bonham consumed his final “forty-four ‘measures’ of vodka. (I’ve always loved that genteel phraseology in the oh-so-British coroner’s report.) Zep showed uncharacteristic restraint in realizing that they would never be the same without Bonzo, so why tarnish their legacy? (Until Live Aid, of course, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves). The surviving band mates of Keith Moon, who, incidentally, gave Led Zeppelin its name, were not ready to make the hard choices. They opted to replace the insanely talented Moon with someone talented but not insane (i.e., Kenney Jones of the Faces franchise)—which makes sense on paper, but didn’t yield much (some would say anything) in the way of essential Who songs. Thank God the remaining members of Nirvana didn’t take this approach and tap, say, Chris Cornell to front Nirvana 2.0.

Which brings me to the Velvet Underground. I know, I know: Lou Reed didn’t die like the other people I just mentioned. He just went solo. But to the remaining VU members, what’s the difference? At least until that reunion thing twenty years later. And the comparison is also specious in that, unlike the Who, the Velvets were largely unsung at the time. They didn’t have the means to like, go out and sign up Nick Drake up for the job of new lead singer. And it must be said that, unlike the other bands, the Velvets had already withstood the loss of a founding member, John Cale, who left after 1968’s White Light White Heat, taking with him his overt avant-garde leanings, his back-up vocals, and his viola. Nevertheless, the Velvets actually did have some great music in them at that point. But when Lou Reed went solo in 1971, when it would have seemed so apt for the rest of the band to shuffle off into obscurity, the band, or the name of the band, at any rate, soldiered on. Doug Yule, who had joined the band around the time of Loaded, originally as the bassist and later guitarist and singer, thought he could keep things going. Crazy idea in itself, but what’s crazier is that, instead of finding some sullen, artsy-fartsy would-be Lou type, or at least someone with a New York accent, the final version of the VU was fronted by Willie “Loco” Alexander, a stalwart of the Boston rock scene. I’m sure you’ll agree that there is something very, very wrong about the idea of the Velvet Underground being led by Bostonian. Can you see “Waiting for the Man” set in Southie? “Feelin’ wicked bad/more dead than alive”? I don’t think so.

The rest of the story, Willie Alexander mp3's, and more pictures of Willie Alexander that will confuse your sexuality after the jump...

Continue reading "Obscurer Than Thou: the Velvet Understudy" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 08:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

by David Klein

“I wanna make the whole world grow/Just like Barry Man-i-low”

A thousand pardons for my long absence from MS, but I have been attending an Obscurity Summit held in…oh, you probably never heard of it, but anyway, keynote speakers included Willie Alexander (Lou Reed’s replacement in the Velvet Underground); Deerfrance, backup vocalist (on one track) on Tom Verlaine’s first solo record, and Leif Bondarenko, drummer/accordionist for the Alabama-based jangle-pop quartet The Primitons. In the midst of a fascinating presentation on Norwegian power trios of late 1966, I was reminded that I had yet to delve into what I consider the Volcano Suns ultimate bucolic, bombastic moment in the sun, so I jumped on my scooter (vintage Mattell) and raced home. And then, just as Kool Moe Dee does in a similar situation, I go to work.

On Bumper Crop (1987), the band’s third release, drummer/bandleader Peter Prescott took a firmer hold of the reins, doing most of the songwriting himself this time, and opting for a more unified sonic approach. Overall it’s several notches more melodic than the skronked-out sprawl of their previous full-length release, All Night Lotus Party, and more in line with the terse, chugging riffs of the stopgap “Sea Cruise” single (rhapsodized over in a previous column). Not that the sense of sprawl, of glorious messiness, is gone. As the liner notes indicate, the record was very much a haphazard affair, but like a bevy of ocelots in a thatched satchel, it somehow hangs together.

the Volcano Suns - “Bumper Crop”

So much to love about a song that starts off saluting a piece of farm equipment, “on a job well done.” From the all-over-the-fretboard opening salvo, “Bumper Crop” pulls over long enough to yank you into the car and takes you on a sweaty drunken joyride, and the hysteria keeps building until you almost can almost feel the amphetamines, taste the homemade firewater, smell the barn. The whole thing keeps threatening to fall apart, and eventually it does, only to get back to its crazed feet and keep charging ahead until the whole thing, piano and all, seems to run headlong off a cliff somewhere. Just like every perfect song. Why the soybean growers of America haven’t decided to make a play for public recognition, with this as their theme song, I don’t know.

the Volcano Suns - “Peel Out”

I know what you’re thinking. “Bumper Crop” lacked pep. Well, here’s a paean to speed that should appeal to the closet NASCAR fans who frequent this site. The singer doesn’t just want to be the fastest man alive, he also wants to get far, far away from his present surroundings, to a place where the scenery is always blurred. But if he can’t get there, he’ll settle for being the fastest.

“It’s not to make pedestrians look / It’s not for the record book
It’s all about a little thing I call velocity.”

the Volcano Suns - "Needles in the Camel’s Eye"
(Brian Eno cover, Boston, MA 1989)

There haven’t been too many great versions of Eno songs. Maybe they’re a bit intimidating to try to improve on. Ultravox did a nifty “Kings Lead Hat,” and I’m told Don Ho’s “Mother Whale Eyeless” was surprisingly poignant, but not many smokin’ Eno covers leap to mind. Leave it to the Volcano Suns to come through with one that can actually stand shoulder to epaulet-emblazoned shoulder with Mr E. himself. Here it is then, from 1989’s Thing of Beauty (the Suns’ penultimate release): a song that begs to be shouted, covered by the epoch’s preeminent shouting outfit. Surprisingly faithful to the original, the Suns nevertheless grab the song by the horns and remove all vestiges of glam (try to imagine a man in overalls roughly wiping away a bull’s mascara) before completely filtering it through their own sound and sensibility, and making it their own.

Previously: Obscurer Than Thous of Christmas Past...

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

While you were digging in to a big bowl of gravy, D. Klein was digging through the vaults to bring you more primal rawk. Of course his holiday included fixin's as well. Fixin's you've never heard of...

V.S. 1.0 – The Bright Orange Years
by David Klein

Nothing against Daniel Craig, but Sean Connery as James Bond cannot be improved upon. He is the best and the only one that matters. Some folks prefer Roger Moore (of course, these are the people who prefer Paul McCartney's “Live and Let Die” phase) and I’m sure if you look around, you’ll find a George Lazenby fan site out there. Similarly, (I bought this segue for $3.99 on eBay) there’s no real agreement on the definitive Volcano Suns record or incarnation. Some purists swear by the founding lineup on the band’s first two releases. Others single out the third incarnation, which put out two LPs on SST in ’88 and ‘89. I’m not just being contrarian when I say I prefer V.S. 2.0, the lineup that produced Bumper Crop (1987).

In any case, it really is all good, good, good (like Brigitte Bardot), which is why I am taking a somewhat exhaustive approach to these guys. Let’s take a look at lineup No. 1., for which Peter Prescott tapped Jeff Weigand on bass and Jon Williams on guitar, both on spirited backup vocals.

The Bright Orange Years, 1985, Homestead Records.

the Volcano Suns - “Jak”

On the first song on the debut record, the band emerges fully formed, musically and lyrically, in this sneering putdown of a dilettante:

"If you can fool yourself/ You can fool anyone"

the Volcano Suns - “Truth is Stranger Than Fishing”

Shimmering with unresolved tension before bursting into Technicolor glory about two thirds in, this could easily be taken for a great lost Mission of Burma instrumental, at least for most of it.

the Volcano Suns - “Balancing Act”

Even in a mid-tempo ballad the band has me resorting to sports metaphors, which is to say they leave it all on the field. When the trio hoarsely proclaims, “It matters, it matters, it matters to me!” in the song’s climax, they concisely enunciate the entire indie rock ethos. Oh, and Yo La Tengo has been known to cover this song.

Previously: OTT (Man Sized Action)
OTT (Volcano Suns vol. 1)

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 11:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Flush with the positive reinforcement that TWO comments can bring, our pal David Klein returns with another out of print treat for the hardcore record nerds...

Volcano Suns – Pt. 1 “You Only Get This Offer For a Limited Time”
by David Klein

When Mission of Burma called it quits in 1983 the group’s members went in vastly different directions. The tinnitus-plagued Roger Miller, forced to explore a less caustic musical path, formed the experimental, toy-piano-incorporating Birdsongs of the Mesozoic, while the freshly sober bass player, Clint Conley, produced Yo La Tengo’s debut LP, then dropped out of sight until 2002’s unlikely reunion. Only drummer Peter Prescott continued to rock in a Burma-like way, forming the Volcano Suns and cranking out six mostly excellent platters. The rock gods, it seemed, smiled on Prescott, who got to enjoy a pretty decent career, selling some records, playing in large halls and making a lot of people jump around wildly—something the other members of Mission of Burma never really experienced in their brief career. There was still a lot of Burma in there, but the music seemed to emanate from a wholly different place. Definitive M.O.B. songs like “That’s How I Escaped My Certain Fate” sound as if they were created in a badly lit room with a low ceiling. Volcano Suns sound more like, I don’t know, like if the protagonist from Stephen King’s “Lawnmower Man” started an indie band and staged an enormous jam in a cornfield, at an astounding volume. It’s a big roiling sound, not at all twitchy.

Additionally, while the hard-charging tempos and overall sense of abandon of the Volcano Suns will sound familiar to fans of Prescott’s previous band, the Suns were far more light-hearted. No songs based on Goering quotes here; instead, the leather-lunged vocals and wryly humorous lyrics that touch on consumerism, sexual politics, and bucolic life temper these sweaty rave-ups with an attitude of aggressive fun. Prescott’s distinctive shouted vocals, along with spirited harmony singing by the band, have a sort of populist appeal that evokes a debauched all-night barn dance.

Which leads me to the music. The first three Suns records are seminal and well worth tracking down. Nevertheless, the single they released between the 1985 debut The Bright Orange Years and the following year’s even-more-raucous All Night Lotus Party (note: possible masturbation reference) captures everything that’s great about the band, in an incredibly short space, serving as a fine introduction. I was reserving words like “storming” “monolithic” and “burly” to describe these tracks.

the Volcano Suns - "Sea Cruise"

In which an anonymous stowaway arrives in a new land, only to learn that:

"This country is a playground/if you know a way to play
It’s take it or be taken/that’s the American way!"

Jam packed with cool parts, like Prescott’s distinctive, sputtering drum fills in the shambolic sections between verses, the pirate shanty bit around the 1:20 point, and the fierce guitar playing throughout. You know what else was great about these guys? Unlike a lot of over-the-top bands, you can actually hear what they’re saying. Here's an obscure fact: the vocalist who chimes in on the title phrase of “Sea Cruise” comes from the band Christmas, whose bassist, James McNew, left them to join Yo La Tengo, and whose 1986 debut record had the scarily clever name, In Excelsior Dayglo.

the Volcano Suns - "Greasy Spine"

From the crisp tom-tom thuds, rumbling bass, and long shard of feedback that herald its beginning, through the last joyously off-kilter scream, this is one whomping B-side. Rapturously repetitive and rich in assonance (rarely has the short “i” sound sounded so good), this song has the chest-beating vigor of a drunken sailor on shore leave.

Testify:

"Never trust a man with a skinny tie
Never trust a girl with a greasy spine
When she says she wants to be your valentine"

Think how much better life would have been in an alternative universe, in which Mission of Burma were Nirvana and the Volcano Suns were the Foo Fighters. The Suns would still be enjoying a thriving career, while Dave Grohl, drummer in a couple of excellent, now-defunct bands, would be living off his memories. Krist Novoselic would have produced Ride the Tiger, then disappeared until the Nirvana reunion in 2002, while Clint Conley would have gone into politics and won, because he has a perfect name for politics, unlike Krist Novoselic. As for Kurt Cobain, he would have suffered from tinnitus and been forced to quit hard rocking to write non-caustic children’s music. I guess that leaves Roger Miller…who would have reached for his revolver. And then, realizing that he didn’t have tinnitus anymore, but just a really bad stomach, would have gone on to play the big, loud rock he was destined to make.

Previously: Obscurer Than Thou, part the First

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 10:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

These days, any kid with a four track can immediately put his tortured mewlings up on MySpace for the world to endure. It was not always so. In an effort to shine a light on worthwhile artists from decades past who never even cleared the "cult artist" bar, we enlist a man a bit older and wiser than we, Professor David Klein. He's not actually a professor, but he is sitting on a mountain of out of print vinyl, which I think should count for an honorary degree of some kind. He'll be dropping some science here occasionally, so listen up! -JK

Obscurer Than Thou, part the first
by David Klein

Obscure is a relative term. Decades ago, Can was obscure because your local record store didn’t carry their records, and unless you were reading the right music magazines, you wouldn’t have even heard of them. Now Starbucks has its own Krautrock compilation and you can hear New Zealand indie founding fathers the Chills in the aisles of Key Food (this really happened to me.) So the point is: the obscure music is out there; it walks among us. Anyone can stroll into Kim's Underground, find the "Out There" section and impress their wispily bearded Bohemian friends. Although that kind of obscurity does hold a certain fascination for me, I wouldn’t choose to inflict it on the public. It’s squarely between me and my wispily bearded friends. For the purposes of this column, obscure means stuff that is too far gone from the current scene to be known to the average young listener, so that even if you did hear it in Key Food, you’d miss the irony. Above all, I’m talking about music that would be a shame not to know about. And on that note…

Five Story Garage by Man Sized Action epitomizes the kind of obscure record I want to extol. It is perhaps the ultimate obscure record in my collection. (And yes, I do mean “record.”) This Minneapolis five-some recorded two records in ’83 and ’84—the first was impossible to get, and was hampered by Bob Mould’s tinny production, but the second one—an eight-song EP on Mould’s Reflex Records, had national distribution, so maybe you could find it if you looked hard enough. But the point was, you were supposed to look for it. Local music sages spoke in hushed tones about Man Sized Action, like they were Minneapolis’s secret weapon. Most of us knew of the ‘Mats and the Hüskers, and even second-wave bands like Soul Asylum, but MSA were off the radar for all but the best-informed among us. The fact that the band’s name sounded like a Johnny Wadd feature never even entered into it. To own this record was to own something rare and cool, and it’s still the case. The same cannot be said of my Sadistic Mika Band record.

When people trace the history of the ‘80s indie Minneapolis scene, Man Sized Action are just a footnote, a local post-punk band, but they were much more than that. They were on the stealth tip, a real insider band. In ’84, his highness Steve Albini wrote a glowing tribute to the band, including this lovely description of Brian Paulson's guitar part on the song "57": “A rapid-fire sequence of chiming harmonics that would make Andy Gill [of Gang of Four] hang himself in jealousy.”

Man Sized Action - "57"

Twenty-two years later, the very much not-dead Andy Gill has seen his group serve as musical touchstone for a slew of quite good bands, while Man Sized Action remains unheralded. Nevertheless, Five Story Garage still sounds as fierce and unforgiving as the Minnesota winter, undiminished by time, new production techniques, or radical improvements in the science of rock & roll. Ending with the monumental “Different Than Now,” with guitars that sound like a shower of blood, the final recorded work of this unsung outfit finishes on a fitting note of urgency, addressing the listener directly with words alternating between hope and despair:

"If we don’t look ahead to the future/ it won’t be any different than now
If we make setbacks work in our favor/ we’ll remember and next time we’ll know
So keep moving ahead never look back/ I know you can and you’ve done it before
That’s how we got to this position/ We set ourselves up for our own fall."

Man Sized Action - "Different Than Now"

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)