Author Archives: Craig Breaden
In 1968 Jimi Hendrix took the stage at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco, and as part of the set introduced a song that had worked its way into the repertoire: “Right now we’re gonna do a song by some real groovy cats, it’s too bad they are breaking up, it’s one of the heaviest groups in the world . . . it’s not sayin’ we can play the thing better than them, it’s just sayin’ we dig the cats and dig this song and we’d like to do it our own way, which will be an instrumental jam.” The song was Sunshine of Your Love, and the group Hendrix referenced was (The) Cream.
Hendrix’s powerful instrumental take on the song caps a double tribute: Cream wrote Sunshine of Your Love on the heels of seeing Jimi Hendrix perform in London, as a response to the jaw-dropping challenge he proposed as a performer and songwriter, and in its riff and melodies the song holds at once the past and future of rock and roll.
The song was penned by Jack Bruce, Cream’s bass player, chief vocalist, and lead songwriter. Bruce led the life of a musical prodigy, a force that pushed and pulled his similarly-gifted peers, to such an extent that Ginger Baker, arguably Britain’s most influential drummer and certainly one of Bruce’s few musical equals, left one band (Graham Bond Organisation) because of him and started another band (Cream) despite his presence. Guitarist Eric Clapton — another equal — insisted Bruce be a part of Cream, and Baker relented because, as he noted, both Clapton and Bruce had the same innate gift of “time.”
Since Jack Bruce died last week, I’ve thought a good deal about what Sunshine of Your Love, Cream, and this firebrand musician have meant to me through the years. Cream had hits, lots of hits, scattered across their three studio albums, but Sunshine of Your Love stands out among their work (“Crossroads,” rightfully still played on classic rock radio, being the highpoint of their live recordings). The riff is simple, as if, yes, they were taking cues from Hendrix, who disassembled the blues root of rock and roll, slowed the rhythms down, emphasized their laziness while adding blistering solos and an African funk. Separation of bass and drums and guitar became important, as if the transformation was about creating rather than filling space. In Sunshine of Your Love, Cream takes the Hendrix aesthetic and writes it large, in four minutes and ten seconds mapping Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and most Heavy music for the next half century. It’s a blues made universal, and because of Hendrix’s own reaction one doesn’t get the idea that Cream was somehow playing Elvis to Hendrix’s Little Richard but, on the contrary, like Hendrix, actually embodied a much-needed cultural embrace. This wasn’t just heavy music for white boys.
Cream chugged hard and burned hot for two years before they couldn’t stand it or each other any more. Their recorded live work is mind-blowing but not for the faint of heart, and while Clapton became the superstar, with some justification, it was Bruce and Baker that ran the engine, driving each other mad while simply driving Clapton to greater heights. Sunshine of Your Love became ten then fifteen minutes long, the jams endless, the power draining as quickly as it had mounted. Clapton left for Blind Faith, not expecting Ginger Baker to follow even though he did, and Bruce was on his own. He released a fabulous solo record, Songs for a Tailor, with very non-Cream arrangements and approaches, and then from the perspective of a Cream fan like myself kind of drifted. He landed in projects like the one where he became the bassist for a power trio that Cream inspired, Mountain, hooked up with Robin Trower in yet another power trio, rid of Cream but not rid of Cream, and played various so-so groups with the jazz rock dudes of his era. He reunited with his Cream mates in 2005 for a set mostly plagued by the adult rock smoothness Clapton’s purveyed since 1972 (the stellar Pressed Rat and Warthog, a Baker chestnut that will never die because of sheer weirdness, notwithstanding). The grit, the volume, the burn were regrettably, inevitably, flattened. As with Clapton, as with Baker, Bruce’s best work was when he was a journeyman, with Cream.
It is a catalogue every bit as thrilling as it is brief. Those core Cream records remain embedded in the rock psyche, the elephant in any rock and roll room, their centerpiece Sunshine of Your Love.
Some Favorite Jack Bruce Moments
The Coffee Song
Sunshine of Your Love
Tales of Brave Ulysses
Deserted Cities of the Heart
Never Tell Your Mother She’s Out of Tune
Tickets to Waterfalls
Theme from an Imaginary Western
Seven Impale release their new album, City of the Sun, today. Progarchy reviewed the album here: http://progarchy.com/2014/08/21/seven-impale-basking-in-the-city-of-the-sun/ , but continues to be so dazzled that in honor of the occasion thought we’d post a live performance of Extraction, which blazes with energy. City of the Sun, indeed.
Amazon’s got the MP3 album for a very reasonable price ($4.95 at this writing). You could do worse than head on over and get a copy: http://www.amazon.com/City-Sun-Seven-Impale/dp/B00N2GS44S/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1409922998&sr=8-3&keywords=seven+impale
Last week on Progarchy I reviewed the new Seven Impale album, City of the Sun (http://progarchy.com/2014/08/21/seven-impale-basking-in-the-city-of-the-sun/). It’s a tremendously creative record with energy to burn, worthy of the accolades it’s getting as its early September release date approaches. The band graciously granted an interview, which I am including here and in the original review.
Progarchy: City of the Sun is an impressive full-length debut, following a fairly tremendous EP in Beginning/Relieve. It feels like a leap forward. How did you get from the EP to the LP, and what kind of progress has it been for the band?
Seven Impale: We feel that we’ve come far, both as musicians and composers, in the ~4 years we’ve been playing together. Even though it has only been a year since Beginning/Relieve was released, the material was made in the space between when the band was formed and when our current line-up had just been assembled. Wind shears, the second track on the album was actually composed around that time, but it’s been revisited and rearranged many times since then. The best thing is that we feel like the process has just started when we continue working together, making music that we enjoy, which challenges both the listener and us.
Progarchy: There is a lot going on in these songs. What’s your writing process like, and how would you describe the narrative of the album?
Seven Impale: It differs a bit between the songs, but generally we start off with some guitar riffs or a rhythmic idea, and we jam for a while. Each of us gets to know the new parts and start to find our places, while we figure out what kind of musical landscape we are aiming for. And the songs take their form, one way or anther, often over the course of a few months.
Progarchy: City of the Sun makes the connection between modal jazz and heavy rock seem effortless. The spirits of both inhabit this record seamlessly, as if John Coltrane and Deep Purple are smiling down benevolently. This is what I hear, and it’s wonderful, but was this your intention?
Seven Impale: We have always enjoyed a lot of different music, but I think the progress and musical direction of Seven Impale has been more based on randomness than intentions. It has been our intention from the very start to make complex and exciting music, but the sound we have today has more to do with the individual musicians and what they bring to the table. A lot of details on the album came about through experimenting and/or “mistakes” during the recording process.
Progarchy: How did the band come together, what are your backgrounds?
Seven Impale: Fredrik and Benjamin are brothers (that’s the obvious one), and have grown up in the same area as Håkon and Tormod. The four of them have worked a lot together in various projects for a long time. Fredrik got to know Stian and Erlend through mutual friends, many years before Seven Impale, and the rest of the story is mostly random and about being at the right place at the right time, with the right instrument.
Progarchy: Is there a story behind the band’s name?
Seven Impale: Stian found the name before the band even existed. It came about kind of randomly when he was thinking about what to call the next project, and thought it has a nice feel to it. Also the number seven is often associated with religion, and the word “impale” brings more of a dark or heavy feel. And we are all somewhat critical towards religion, so it fits quite nicely.
Progarchy: What music are you listening to?
Seven Impale: We listen to a lot of different things, and we agree on most things musically. Stian has a bit more of the opera/classical music side, he is currently studying to be a classical singer. We listen to alt./prog rock like Mars Volta, King Crimson, Zappa, Motorpsycho and Porcupine Tree as well as heavier stuff like Tool, Pantera and Meshuggah. And then there’s the weird avant-garde/jazzy side of it, with Jaga Jazzist, TrioVD, Shining(NO), WSP, Ephel Duath, Nik Bartsch’s Ronin. In between there is some hip-hop: Hopsin, Side Brok, Bustah Rhymes and then there’s the electronic music like Noisia, Justice, Aphex Twin, Todd Terje and Venetian Snares.
Progarchy: Do you see yourselves as a Norwegian band, that is, do you have a sense that geography makes a difference in your music?
Seven Impale: Not really. But being from Norway means that we’re probably more exposed to and inspired by Norwegian bands, adopting what has been known to be the “Scandinavian sound”. Otherwise I don’t think it is significant, but what do we know?
Progarchy: Is there a city of the sun?
Seven Impale: There is a fictional book about a “City of the Sun”, by a 17th century Italian philosopher. In reality, I don’t think it ever will be.
Progarchy: What’s next for Seven Impale?
Seven Impale: Get rich or die tryin’
Progarchy: Please don’t die. We like your records too much.
Ezekiel (Zeke) Graves has a new demo out under the name Gravaphone. Graves’s music, which I’ve reviewed on the pages of Progarchy before (http://progarchy.com/2013/11/15/chthonic-journey-by-ezekiel-graves/) emerges from his North Carolina upbringing but is also informed by deep soundings of electronic music, British folk, and Krautrock. I saw him perform this song live a few months ago, accompanied by a Fender Rhodes and fiddle, which gave the song a unique coloration, but I like what he’s done with it here as well, made it darker, spare, and electric.
Let’s face it, it’s hard to bottle lightning. Rock docs, whether they’re concerts or biopics or even music videos, succeed when the veil is lifted and performers face their own vulnerability. Because this is a state of being for Rush, the films about them, even non-descript concert videos, are generally quite good. This list is really a starter for myself, and I share it in hopes that in the comments below our readers will add other favorites.
1. La Villa Strangiato at PinkPop, 1979. Smoking. This is Rush live in the 1970s at their very best. Thank the prog gods someone had the presence of mind to film it. La Villa Strangiato is one of their most popular pieces, but the band attributes the complexity of it and the album from which it came, Hemispheres, to their shift toward shorter pieces as the 70s turned into the 80s. This appears to be the only clip from the show, although the entire concert is available as audio on YouTube as well.
2. Beyond the Lighted Stage. Beyond the Lighted Stage is a successful long-form band documentary, a rarity in rock, which as a performance art often fares better in conceptualized concert films. The film benefits from the full participation of its main actors, a well-selected and articulate supporting cast of fellow musicians, family and fans, and most importantly a directness and honesty that neither discounts nor over-rates Rush’s place in popular music. Of course it’s no surprise given the band’s history and its members’ personalities that such a project should work, but when Geddy Lee announces at the end of the film that he warned the production crew, “Don’t be surprised when you discover how boring we really are,” the takeaway is two-fold. First, many rock docs manage to show little beyond how mundane the rest of a rocker’s life is, as we find that most great musicians are successful by virtue of their absorption in their art and have little to say outside of it; second, that the depth of their integrity as an artistic entity and the basic good-guyness of each of the members of Rush as individuals — nothing more, nothing less, as they would tell you — sets them apart, and compared to many of their peers in the rock world makes them truly unique.
3. Classic Albums: 2112 and Moving Pictures, 2010. The Classic Albums series, first broadcast on VH1 umpteen years ago with hour-long profiles of albums by the Band, the Grateful Dead, and Fleetwood Mac, remains a marvelous program dedicated to the dissection of key albums in rock history. I never saw one that didn’t have something to add to what I knew about an album already. The series turns its eye to not one but two of Rush’s records, and runs almost two hours. Made around the same time as Beyond the Lighted Stage, it amplifies the details of Rush’s most famous albums. While much of the story of these records is known, it’s refreshing to see Rush sitting at the mixing board with producer Terry Brown, talking about how the tracks were actually laid down.
4. The Colbert Report, 2008. I think many fans value this appearance by Rush on the Colbert Report as a recognition that those of us who love Rush will not be denied. Colbert gets it, in the same way he has the measure of the rest of American culture. Although marginalized by the music press, Rush was never a cult band — their album sales and sold-out concerts put the lie to that idea. What is maddening is the casual dismissal of the band by hipster rock journalists and others who just don’t get it. Not getting it is cool — in fact, few Rush fans get into all of Rush’s records (there are, after all, many sides to this band) — but given their substantial influence there was something more than a little insidious in their barring from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for 14 years. As Colbert comments in his inimitable way, “That’s bullshit.”
5. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Acceptance Speech, 2013. Equal parts grace, joy, and humor, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better set of speeches accepting the rock and roll honor of honors. Lifeson’s now infamous, hilarious “Blah blah” performance underscores what both Peart and Lee are getting at, that for an award that wasn’t supposed to mean so much to them, it actually meant a lot.
6. Xanadu, Exit Stage Left, 1981. Rush have been documenting their live shows every few years, starting in 1976 with All the World’s a Stage. I’m including this version of Xanadu because, beyond being among my favorite Rush songs, it captures the vibe of a Rush show and was recorded for the film in a less than polished manner, so really has a live grit to it. This is full on double-neck splendor.
7. Come On Children. Google around and you’ll find various clips of this Allan King documentary, released in 1972 and featuring a 17-year-old Alex Lifeson. Documenting a fabricated months-long social experiment, in which teenagers are sent out to live on a “farm” without any adults, Come On Children is certainly a product of its era, and while now more associated with Lifeson and his renown, the film very effectively provides a window into the larger environment from which Rush emerged.
8. Halo Effect, Dallas, 2012. There are worse things in rock than the modern concert video — the swoopingly overwrought crane shots, vast stages, the polished cosmeticism — but I can’t think of many. The bland emotional impact is rarely rewarding. I’m including this performance from Dallas from 2012 because even though it suffers from some of those problems, it shows what a great live band Rush still is as well as the maturity of songwriting on “Halo Effect,” from Clockwork Angels. It’s a beautiful song, full of love and regret, a personal song, and not typically Rush even though Peart is writing in a typical mode for him, through an invented first person. Hearing Geddy Lee singing in a register fitting the new songs is nice, since a lot of the older material finds him straining these days (no discredit to him, mind, those songs are age challenging). Alex Lifeson’s intro, not on the studio version, is masterful, an overture that touches on the themes in the song without being just the song, and is redolent of Jimmy Page’s live electro-drone folk outings with Led Zeppelin.
If you have occasional fond thoughts of 90s art rock bands like the Monks of Doom you may also recall, while waxing nostalgic about the dear old 1990s, that there was a golden moment, after the commercial breakthrough of punk/grunge/indie rock in America but before the advent of Napster, when bands that had been toiling in musical nether regions for years finally had their moments in the sun. The MoD were an offshoot of Camper Van Beethoven, the most palatably inventive American band of the 1980s and early 1990s, and like the great Camper Van approached American prog — delegated generally and unfortunately to the backwater of “jam” band categorization — with a firm belief that dumping every damn thing they could think of into the musical kettle and bringing it all to boil would work. And it mostly did. We’re talking about music that went deeply into the spirit of blues and other “ethnic” musics as processed through Roky Erickson, Captain Beefheart and, later, performance art bands like Butthole Surfers and the Flaming Lips, a twisted and distinctly American edge-of-the-frontier wildness that would make a great novel if Cormac McCarthy ever chose to write it. In the pages of Progarchy I’ve before referenced the spectacular Metal Flake Mother out of Chapel Hill, North Carolina, who sailed these same waters and with the same ethic in the 90s, and my notion is that regionally there were many bands following a similar path, nodding to the blues, jazz, European folk, surf guitar, 50s lounge music, Tom Waits, and punk all at the same time, as if the real guitar heroes in the room were Django Reinhardt, Marc Ribot, Dick Dale, and Sonny Sharrock. In the post-punk pre-internet age, these bands sold records, sometimes lots of records, and could sustain careers lasting, well, months.
Pillage and Plunder brought this short-lived and extremely satisfying era to life when I spun up their new record, The Show Must Go Wrong, for the first time. Mixing an eclectic take on Belew-era Crimson with an Esquivel-via-Cake loungeyness, Pillage and Plunder map a journey that’s less highway than exit ramps, and across its 35 minutes The Show Must Go Wrong takes every possible detour, sightseeing on the outskirts of modern music. The breathtakingly inventive “Beetlejuice” opens the record, with its furious and metallic nod to prime Oingo Boingo, and with “Boogeyman” the music maintains its carnival-esque darkness, backed by big riffs and chops. “How Did It Come To This?” follows, and the album turns in mood, which got me to thinking that the precocious musicianship here on display presents a problem for Pillage and Plunder, though it’s not a bad problem to have: while the songs are composed and concise (a big plus), as an album The Show Must Go Wrong comes at times dangerously close to living up to its title, as it suffers at points from a lack of curatorial will in favor of showcasing musical dexterity, favoring breadth over depth. So the promise of sideways-tilting, reach-deep, dark humor at the top of the album — and revisited in such songs as the excellent “Moocow” and “Nutcracker” — turns into an occasionally studied oddball-ness as the record unfolds. But it’s a small complaint for the kind of record this is supposed to be, not to mention that the songs have a way of turning themselves into earworms that simply will not leave the head and hum alone. Check for instance, “I Will Drink The Ocean When I Go There,” which premieres here on Progarchy:
The assured pop classicism and working of the tropes is skilled, while the power trio of guitarist/vocalist Gokul Parasuram, bassist Hsiang-Ming Wen, and drummer Noah Kess flexes its axe-wielding abandon with a kind of Les Paul meets Alex Lifeson glory in big guitars, impossible drums, and killer bass. Pillage and Plunder has the skills to create great music, and while the successes on The Show Must Go Wrong may be qualified by work that is less focused than it could be, the promise of the record suggests we should keep listening.
Hsian-Ming Wen graciously sat down with Progarchy and gave us some answers to our burning questions. I’ll say right now that name-checking Television’s “Friction” alone could sell me on the the band, and I’m impressed with the way Pillage and Plunder sees themselves and their work.
Q: Given your youth, Pillage and Plunder has a long history — what keeps you together and what inspired the new record?
A: Before the band started, we were already best of friends, so making music & being around each other all the time came pretty naturally. Our songwriting almost always stems from whatever is prevalent in our lives at the moment. So, for the new record, inspiration drew mostly from themes of personal relationships, struggles with self-worth, and existentialism. I had just graduated college when I wrote “Summer Days” and couldn’t find a job, and was just thinking, “shit, what do i do with my life?” It was me dealing with the frustration of trying to meet my personal goals, and “Moocow” deals with the idea of self-doubt when it comes to your personal talents — questioning when people pat you on the back and tell you how well you’ve done. It actually has the line, “I’m screaming at the world for tricking me into thinking I had a purpose, a gift that’s rare.” So we ask ourselves if it’s a fluke, or do we/you actually possess that talent?
Q: Who would I find next to Pillage and Plunder on Pandora? What songs would you imagine coming before and after “Beetlejuice”?
A: We’d like to imagine we could tango with the likes of Muse, Deerhoof, King Crimson, and Weezer. “Friction” by Television and “Drug Ballad” by Eminem would be a fun juxtaposition for “Beetlejuice.” We like to think that our music is universally acceptable as we draw from so many different wells, where post-punk enthusiasts, indie-rockers and the hip-hop heads could each find something enjoyable to take out of it.
Q: There are several nods to traditional pop song structures — thinking the tarantella-ish “I Will Drink the Ocean When I Go There,” the music hall of “The Last Date,” and the noir jazz of “Hit & Run” — what took you down these roads?
A: We grew up listening to a variety of music styles, Charles Mingus & Art Blakey, Green Day & Weezer, and traditional pop like Sinatra, and just like learning a language, we started out imitating what we heard until we began to understand the different structures & nuances. Then we start putting our own spin on things and developing a personal songwriting style, the fruits of said efforts being what you hear on the new record; a blend of homage and trying to carve out our own little corner in the musical world.
Q: While this is a very guitar-forward record, the drums and bass really push and pull the songs in a way that makes the musicianship of all the band members clear. What are your musical backgrounds, and how do you find a balance so all the voices are heard?
A: Gokul & Noah are both jazz-trained and listened to a lot of progressive rock & hip-hop growing up, while I was classically-trained and listened to primarily pop rock & folk. Being just a three-piece band challenges us to get creative with our parts, and I think our definition of “interesting” music is instinctively geared towards more acrobatic, spacious, and diverse parts. Like in “Moocow” the three of us play distinct poly-rhythmic time signatures with Noah keeping down the basic beat on drums, me hitting a constant up-and-down bassline, while Gokul plays a series of single note riffs on guitar. And we move together. As the guitar simplifies the bass becomes more complex and vice versa. And on “Hit & Run” we built a weird, offbeat, syncopated rhythm. It almost sounds like it’s tripping up some stairs. It’s so different from most pop-rock songs.
Q: You have a gonzo vocal approach to offbeat lyrics — how do you think about words in songs, and how would you describe the balance of words and music when writing?
A: 99% of the time the music comes first, including the vocal melody, and the lyrics come in to play last, with things like cadence, alliteration, & rhyme schemes kept in mind while we write out the lyrics. However no rules really exist with our songwriting; it changes from song to song based on the mood we take from it. For example “Keep Dreaming” and “The Last Date” are sonically like siblings, but the vocals were written in completely different ways. “Keep Dreaming’s” chord progression was worked out first. Then, the lyrics came more as a narrative without worrying too much about how it fits while keeping things simple and melodic without too many syllables or rhyming. Where on the “The Last Date” I wanted to write a short pop song that adhered to a traditional rhyme scheme.
Q: As a narrative, is The Show Must Go Wrong a novel or a collection of short stories?
A: We’d consider TSMGW more of a collection of short stories about different personal struggles. There is however an overall theme of always moving forward and trying to pick yourself back up when you get knocked down. Even if things don’t go as planned, nothing gets accomplished unless you do something about it.
Q: Do you think of Pillage and Plunder as an Atlanta band? What other bands there hold your attention?
A: We all grew up in a suburb just outside of Atlanta called Alpharetta, but Pillage & Plunder as a collective has lived in the city for years and we definitely considers ourself an Atlanta band. We love this city. Atlanta has seen a lot of exciting developments & growth in recent years, with everything from architecture & film to theatre & food, and we’re proud to be a part of it. As far as the music scene goes, you can find a little bit of everything here. Some personal favorites, in no particular order, include Slowriter, Mice in Cars, Baby Baby, Noel Stephen & The Darlings, Clibber Jones Ensemble, Hello Cobra, Places to Hide, Futo, and SEX BBQ.
Q: What’s next for you?
A: We’re going to keep writing music and try to contribute what we can to this funny thing called life.
Dodson and Fogg defies easy contextualization. While Chris Wade’s psychfolk project, now five albums deep, owes much to an alchemical mix of Syd Barrett, the British folk revival, and early English glam, the conditions under which Wade produces his music bear little resemblance to any notion of modern music industry norms. He works quickly, much as his musical heroes did in the 1960s and 70s, and contrary to the common thinking that a working band needs to tour, Dodson and Fogg is primarily a studio project, conducted by Wade and a handful of musicians whose roots go back to such luminously legendary groups like Trees, Mellow Candle, and Hawkwind. Surrounding himself with icons does little to change the flavor of his music, which collectively may constitute the most singular and consistent demo tape ever produced, and begs the questions: Where is this man’s Joe Boyd, and why not a record deal? The songs are without fail melodically rich, top out at midtempo, and possess a kind of walls-are-closing-in textured darkness that is part songwriting, part production value. Wade’s penchant for doubling or chorusing his vocal, which I’ve criticized before on Progarchy, admittedly creates a cohesion among the songs, and coupled with tasteful instrumentation and no-nonsense lyrics, makes Dodson and Fogg’s first album almost interchangeable with its fifth. I’ve struggled some with this, and recognize that the artistic development I want from Wade is keyed almost entirely on expectations Wade should have no interest in meeting. The music industry has blown up, touring behind an album presumes that the artist wants — and has the audience — to materially survive on his music (rather than just make music) and LIKES to play live, and… how often do we get to witness the kind of woodshedding a songwriter like Wade is doing with Dodson and Fogg? So while I continue to think a seasoned producer would be a positive challenge for Wade, without one he has managed to create a rather stunning catalog in a mere two years.
After the Fall continues Wade’s exploration of a mood music combining mostly acoustic backing for voice and the occasional big electric guitar. Where before this has taken his music in the direction of the Kinks and T. Rex, his passion for early Black Sabbath, of which he has written in his other gig as a rock author, takes shape here on the satisfyingly sludgy “Lord Above” and “Hiding from the Light,” with its whacked-out Scheherezade-style guitar break. The skiffle-ish “Life’s Life” is the album’s standout, a twist on Zeppelin’s folk excursions, while “Careless Man” has an Electric Warrior vibe that Wade excels at capturing while avoiding mere Bolan worship. The balance of the record shares with its predecessors that 1970-soaked British singer-songwriter drift, complete with sitar, that generally succeeds at extending rather than imitating a period where musicians of Wade’s talent were afforded greater commercial reach (despite and because of the lack of an internet). I think the question remains of where Wade’s Dodson and Fogg goes from here, if its end will continue to so closely resemble its beginning, and how Chris Wade sees himself developing as an artist. In the meantime, though, it’s hard to argue with a music that so definitively succeeds on its own terms.
Order After the Fall here: http://wisdomtwinsbooks.weebly.com/dodson-and-fogg-cds.html
Free Dodson and Fogg sampler: http://wisdomtwinsbooks.weebly.com/dodson-and-fogg-vinyl.html
This bombing went on for five years. The Supreme Court never passed any judgment on it and the military speaks with pride today that five years of the bombing of Cambodia killed 16,000 of the so-called enemy. That’s 25% killed, and there’s a military ruling that says you cannot kill more than 10% of the enemy without causing irreversible, psychological damage. So, five years of bombing, a diet of bark, bugs, lizards and leaves up in the Cambodian jungles, an education in Paris environs in a strict Maoist doctrine with a touch of Rousseau, and other things that we will probably never know about in our lifetime — including, perhaps, an invisible cloud of evil that circles the Earth and lands at random in places like Iran, Beirut, Germany, Cambodia, America — set the Khymer Rouge out to carry out the worst auto-homeo genocide in modern history. Spalding Gray, Swimming to Cambodia, 1987
These papers were supposedly some sort of manuscript or document or diary. According to the story, he had been tracking a demon throughout history. If the manuscript exists or not I have no idea. That’s not the point. It got me thinking, what would this manuscript look like, what if the story was true? What happened to the guy? It was supposed to be us trying make an album of what we thought that manuscript would look like and at the same time use that opportunity to look at evil. Thomas Alexander Andersen, Gazpacho, 2014
One of the albums that is so good that after the initial listens it has to wait for me to have time and peace of mind to give it a proper listen. Michał Pawłowski, guitarist/vocalist of newspaperflyhunting, on Gazpacho’s Demon, 2014.
Gazpacho’s Demon lives in shadowy place, vector-connected to other works in my head, where history seems to open up and then close back down, leaving the created work seemingly alone amidst a sea of ordinariness. Set against the elegantly melodic, mid-tempo electric arrangements typical of Gazpacho’s other works, particularly Night and Tick Tock, and the elongated notes of Jan Henrik Ohme’s vocal, Demon is Gazpacho’s most effective demonstration yet of their approach to a music that is less concerned with genre and more interested in expression of thought. Mikael Kromer’s accordion and violin interplay lend an earthy, acoustic grounding to the mix, while the rhythm section of Kristian Torp and Lars Erik Asp continue Gazpacho’s penchant for the deep groove, revealing a jazz past more commonly prized by generations of musicians growing up in Europe than in the States. Combine these with the power brought by the electric core of the band, Thomas Alexander Andersen’s keyboards and Jon Arne Vilbo’s restrained, powerful guitar, and the heady result is a drama of sound, the actual sonic imprint furthering the narrative as voiced by Ohme.
Demon is nominally about the memory of a journal left by a man pursuing a demon across geographies and chronologies. This creates an interesting triple remove for the songwriters, as the story is less about the man or demon than the idea of the journal. The brilliancy of Gazpacho taking this tack is hard to overstate. The purity of a demon, a universal among religious or moral systems, balanced against the uncertainty principle that is humanity…and the messiness of a human chasing his devil as filtered through a diary (of a seer or a madman?). What would such writing look like? How would I perceive it and where would I locate the demon, in the memory, the journal, the man, or the malignant spirit itself? How would I express it to someone else without becoming a demon chaser or a hellhounded man? I think what is so immediate about this record and the way Gazpacho engages its subject is that the story is entirely impressionistic, the images suggestive of the mirrors within the non-narrative. I comprehend what’s going on in this album lyrically as a next-century response (or sequel) to the Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil. Yet I would venture that our evils feel perhaps more deeply woven than they did five decades ago, our inability to find our demons and our continued need for the chase leading inexorably back to ourselves.
The tendency to dark drama in European metal is present, but in the place of a gray/black is a kind of constant waning light, a colored gloaming. I’m consistently astounded by the ability of Scandinavian musicians to conjure qualities of light in the sounds they create, and Gazpacho’s talent for this on Demon is peerless. As the lengthy I’ve Been Walking begins unfolding, with its crushing guitar matching the lyrical denial of our various versions of paradise, we see internal arguments on faith and evil’s meaning within it. The Wizard of Altai Mountains follows, a radio-friendly reflection on following someone/something wearing “red pants and the ghost of a grin,” having to follow, despite a bone weariness and a sense of revulsion. The accordion-driven outro to the song, given as much space as the lyric, reinforces the feeling that Wizard could easily be a Tom Waits tarantella, but where Waits would bring irony Gazpacho goes for something else entirely, a folksong sincerity that we’ve all but lost in modern music, except in progressive rock, which is one of that genre’s key strengths. I’ve Been Walking then continues, embedding even more deeply folksong, like treasure in the buried, scratchy 78 verse:
“Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When do you think that he’ll come back?”
Not this tide.
“Has any one had word of him?”
Not this tide.
“When do you think that he’ll come back?”
Not this tide.
…and in its second section, with a guitar intro suggestive of Alex Lifeson’s intro riff on Rush’s Xanadu, the song contains one of the most richly gorgeous vocal melodies I’ve heard, delivering words like disconnected pieces of a puzzle. Much is made of Ohme’s similarities with Radiohead’s Thom Yorke, but Ohme’s voice is more a bowed instrument, sustaining notes and finding variations in them as they decay. The sympathy between Ohme’s approach and the band’s is quite remarkable, and the album’s conclusion, Death Room (on the CD there is a “bonus track,” Cage, that isn’t on the LP), is where the risky length, over 18 minutes, pays off precisely because the band knows how to arrange its material with such great dynamic effect, including the most tasteful use of a gospel choir out of context I can remember.
This is a great record from a great band who remains at a summit of creativity, and leaves them to grapple with a demon of their own: what next?
Note: A beautiful and thematically rich record deserves the kind of packaging Kscope has given to Demon. For the CD version, its yellowing journal look, courier typeface, and booklet of lyrics does justice to the music. I cannot comment on the LP. I was going to pony up for it, but the bonus track Cage was not included, and unfortunately at this writing Kscope doesn’t clarify if LP buyers will receive the MP3 for free if they aren’t buying through Burning Shed, their distributor.
I wrote a scree yesterday indicting Pono for all kinds of crimes. I put it aside. Like one of Lincoln’s unsent letters, it will cast its heat alone, sitting on my google drive like a hot stone, until that too passes into ether.
Much of my anger came from frustration — in my professional life as an audiovisual archivist I have some sense of the limited capabilities of high resolution audio — and also a lack of information. I had believed Pono, the high-res audio player Neil Young is backing to rectify what he regards as decades of digital’s abuse of music, was set to use a proprietary format, and would essentially be a platform for selling new releases of old albums that could only be played on Pono. This is not the case. PonoMusic will be using FLAC, an open-source audio codec that’s been around nearly as long as folks have cried “foul” at MP3. FLAC is known as a “non-lossy” compression scheme, meaning that while it will compress the source audio file (whether that file is a high-resolution WAV or merely CD quality), the information it dumps in compression isn’t the actual audio data but rather the metadata that describes the audio and makes it work on various playback systems.
So it’s not in the music file but in the guts of the Pono player, with its advanced circuitry and digital-to-analog conversion system, where the magic happens that Young and Pono’s engineers are claiming. Which, given the range of gadgetry out there to reproduce sound, makes me shrug my shoulders. What’s nice to know, though, is that Pono will play those higher-res FLAC files that often inhabit a bandcamp page (as well as WAVs and, for those of us who are unwashed, MP3s).
While I’m no longer out for blood, Neil Young and his Pono provoked my ire in a couple of other ways. In interviews regarding Pono, Young has suggested that if you’re not listening to high-res audio, and doing so on a player like Pono, that you’re not really listening, that you have a tin ear that can’t truly enjoy the music because of the digital garbage in lower-res files. There are a ton of counter-arguments here, but I think Neil’s old man snarky-ness in itself is disappointing. Despite his reputation, he IS a part of the big music business, and has sold to dedicated fans the same record on LP, then cassette, then CD (often multiple re-masterings), then MP3. To tell them now they need fork over another $15-$25 for the new high-res release and $400 for a player compromises his integrity and smacks of money grab.
It also ignores the fact that most people treat music as a part of a larger experience, whether they’re cranking Pandora through the earbuds at work or enjoying a Sunday morning with a Zeppelin gatefold. Listening context and setting are everything. But let’s say you do want to experience what Neil’s talking about. Good luck. The real elephant in the room not being mentioned here is the playback system, and by that, I mean the amp and speakers (and listening space, for that matter) Pono might use to reproduce the audio, to actually push the air to your ears. Without good reproduction, and I mean very, very good reproduction (and in this context headphones just don’t count), Pono’s reproduction of high-res audio — and we’re talking about a sampling rate up to 4x CD quality — is no better than my iPod shuffle. Will PonoMusic sound great? Sure, if your playback system has a few thousand dollars in it. Would it hold up to a taste test against a well-mastered CD or higher-quality MP3 played back on a solid but cheaper system? That’s a shootout I’d like to see.
Further reading from the stalwarts at CNET: